#mirthful renaissance

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Sleep tight, sweet delight”

Request by @sakura-chan-25

Alrighty! Let's go: You cannot tell me Lady Lesso doesn't have a sweet spot for her partner. What if her partner/the reader was sleepy, but doesn't want to leave Leonora's side? So Lady Lesso does her paperwork with reader on her lap and reader tries not to fall asleep, so Leonora starts bouncing her leg (the one where reader sits on) and tells reader to sleep. Just some fluff for her.

I hope you find this satisfactory 👀

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“Come on, Leo!” You whine, tugging at the blankets that your girlfriend is currently cocooned in. “The early bird gets the worm.”

No matter how hard you try to pry the duvet off her body, your attempts boil down to futility, for she does not budge a millimetre. Still, you know for a fact that she is awake as soon as your ears pick up on a soft, sleepy sigh.

“And what happens to the worm that is early?”

Her voice especially in the early mornings, thick and heavy with sleep, is one of the things that you find most deliciously charming about her. It has the potency of making your body react in the most extreme and inexplicable of ways. She has effortlessly held that power over you since day one, and you truly doubt the increasing amount of time spent together with her can ever change that.

Perhaps it is your lack of response that prompts her to finally emerge from beneath the sheets, and my god, how ridiculously dazzlingly beautiful she is even with wisps of wild, untamed fiery curls scattered to the four winds. It really is no surprise that you are perpetually in awe of this charismatic creature.

When your eyes refocus, she is resting on her elbow, head in her hand. Complimented by the fabric cascading around her waist, your lover looks every bit the epitome of a Greek Goddess sculpted by the most gifted of renaissance artists.

“Cat got your tongue, darling?”

That sweet, sultry lilt of her voice effectively carries your attention back to the conversation at hand.

You clear your throat, stare into those arresting eyes that remind you of a fox.

“A cheeky naughty fox got my tongue actually.”

“Oh?” Voice laced with mirth, she sweetly calls out to you. “Come, darling, lie with me for a while.”

“Leo, you promise to go apple picking with me today.”

“And I will. But can you really blame me for wanting to feel my sweet little lover in my arms?”

Contrary to what you state, your feet are already on the verge of carrying you towards the bed. After all, not only does sinking into her arms to be pressed against her barely clothed body sound like a tantalising idea, you are also not immune to those puppy eyes that seldom make their appearance.

“Well? Is my darling going to keep her woman waiting?”

And well, when they do make an appearance, you can never resist.

“Fine. Five minutes. Five minutes, and then, you’re getting out of bed and we’re getting ready. Alright?”

“I will, honest.”

As soon as you slip under the covers, arms, like moon-kissed ivy, are twining round your waist. Your lover rests her head under your chin, and all too happily, you sink your fingers into a forest of maroon mane.

The both of you collectively release a content sigh once you apply gentle scratches to her scalp, and her face nuzzles your chest, nosing the tender skin under your jaw.

Right at this moment, you are understanding that getting up awfully early in the morning after going to bed at an ungodly hour the previous night is a terrible idea as you doze off on the couch opposite your lover’s desk.

The fork betwixt your digits falls to the floor with a clatter, and you jolt awake. Roaming your eyes around the room reveals to you that your girlfriend is looking at you with an amused expression on her annoyingly handsome face.

“Why don’t you rest early, Princess? You’ve had quite a productive day today after all.”

“I’m not tire-“

Funnily enough, a yawn interrupts you.

“You were saying?”

Quite frankly, you are bone-tired, but not fancying the idea of sleeping alone aside, you do not wish to leave her side. Then again, there is a part of you that harbours an irrational fear that if you honestly say your reason out loud, she will find you annoyingly needy.

“Come here.”

Without hesitation, you answer when she calls, pulled towards her like an ocean is pulled by the moon.

A thumb finds the corner of your mouth, wipes away the little stain of apple sauce that must have stayed there after your indulgence of apple pie.

Although you no longer blush like a schoolgirl at her salacious display, you feel significantly warm all over as she proceeds to taste the sweet sauce on her thumb, all the while maintaining eye contact with you.

Then, your girlfriend smirks, very reminiscent of a sly fox, cradles your hips between her thighs before you are gingerly coaxed onto them, carefully perched atop her lap.

“Is this comfortable for you?”

“Mmhm.” You hum your affirmation as you rest your head against her shoulder. “Very.”

“Good.” One of her arms holds you across your waist, all the while her other hand busies itself with shuffling and scoring papers.

You, on the other hand, busy yourself with studying the spectacularly sculpted features of the face that you have already committed to memory, your eyes amidst a tug of war between succumbing to sleep, and admiring the vision right in front of them.

The urge for the former is nowhere near the latter, but you are so very tired that you seem to be slowly losing control over your own body. And when green eyes catch you resisting the much needed sleep instead of embracing it, a “tsk” spills forth lips so tempting that you become engrossed in the way they move.

“Silly girl, I’ll be here always and forever for you to watch as much as you like, so let go.”

Her lips fall atop your forehead, sweetly kiss the words into your skin. “Sleep, dearest.”

You do not have to be told twice.

Accompanied by the rhythmic rocking of her lap and the strangely soothing sounds of pen scribbling onto paper, contrapuntal with the serene melody of her heartbeat, it has been too easy for you to finally surrender to the sweet, sweet slumber that has been all too eager to pull you in.

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[but-thats-idiocy]

Crowley and Dionysus

I was reading Aleister Crowley's poem 'Dionysus' (the real A. Crowley) and I wanted to do some research on the god Dionysus. The similarities are interesting:

The snake was closely associated with Dionysus; one of his forms was a snake.

God of Wine

With the intervention of Zeus, Dionysus had to turn into a goat to save himself.

The name of Dionysus in Roman mythology is "Bacchus", the god of plant growth.

Dionysus rides a wild beast. The ancient Greeks believed the panther was one of the favored mounts of the god Dionysus, which emphasizes his wild, carefree nature.

In his other works, Aleister Crowley talks about the creation of Jesus of Nazareth through Dionysus. Dionysus came first, he is the "True Christ" and Jesus was derived from the corruption of myths. Both Jesus and Dionysus have stories associated with miraculous or divine births. Jesus turned water into wine, which is exactly what Dionysus does. Both figures are associated with miracles and transformations. Both Jesus and Dionysus have narratives involving suffering and death followed by some form of resurrection or return. Both figures are associated with the symbolism of sacrifice. Therefore, during the Second Coming, we might expect Dionysus to come forward. *wink*

Dionysus is called "twice-born"

Dionysus is the son of Zeus, a wielder of lightning.

Dionysus is the grandchild of the Titan Cronus. Since the Renaissance, Titan Cronus has been consciously identified with another character, Chronos, the primordial God of Time, due to the similarity in names. The fact that this identification became more widespread during the Renaissance gave rise to the iconography of 'Father Time,' aka. the bearded and winged Time deity, who carries an hourglass and a timekeeping device, similar to Crowley's watch.

Dionysus is known as an earth god who has the grace of a woman.

Ampelos, a pretty satyr boy, also the personification of the grapevine, is the lover of Dionysus…and he dies. We can ignore the last part eh.. It's a bad omen not a good one.

Excerpts from Aleister Crowley's poem Dionysus, decorated with cosmos and fire:

I bring ye wine from above, From the vats of the storied sun; For every one of yer love, And life for every one.

…

I kindle a flame like a torrent To rush from star to star; Your hair as a comet’s horrent, Ye shall see things as they are!

...

Your loves shall lap up slaughter, And dabbled with roses of blood Each desperate darling daughter Shall swim in the fervid flood.

…

My life is bitter and sterile, Its flame is a wandering star.

Ye shall pass in pleasure and peril Across the mystic bar That is set for wrath and weeping Against the children of earth;

But ye in singing and sleeping Shall pass in measure and mirth! I lift my wand and wave you Through hill to hill of delight :

… I lead you, lord of the maze, In the darkness free of the sun; In spite of the spite that is day’s We are wed, we are wild, we are one.

PS: I am not implying here that Crowley is actually Dionysus. I made a comparison with a character that I think is Crowley's mythological counterpart.

[startanewdream]

(found this lying on my tumblr drafts; have no idea what month those prompts for Jily Microfics were — and frankly I'm embarrassed to even tag them, at this point)

#22 - Album and #25 - Photograph (I'm cheating, I know)

It was the first morning back; over the sound of people chatting in the Great Hall and Sirius’ barking laugh as he commented on some dirty joke with Peter, James heard Evans’ happy voice.

“That’s Firenze,” she was telling Mary. The foreign word sounded exquisite in her voice; it made wings flutter inside him, even though James had promised himself he would get over Lily Evans. “And this was in Pisa. The Leaning Tower was incredible, I cannot believe there is no magic sustaining it still.”

“Pisa?” In front of James, Remus turned to the girls. “Have you been to Italy this summer?”

Evans nodded, excited. It did seem as if she had enjoyed the summer, James thought; her skin was shining, not tanned but with freckles, and her hair had some faded strands, almost blond. If he was not over his feelings for Evans, James would say she had come back from summer vacation more gorgeous than ever; due to his new life philosophies, he thought the summer had done her good in a healthy way.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” Remus said.

Evans giggled. “To Rome, I guess. Here,” and she handed Remus the mini-album she had been showing to Mary. “Don’t mind me, but I took some nice pictures.”

James glanced at her. “Can I see it too?” He asked before he could control himself.

Remus had the album opened in front of him, so James could look at it anyway; Evans seemed to be realising the same thing — she threw him a funny look — but all she said was, “The photos don’t move.”

“And?”

Evans looked as if she wanted to say something, but she shrugged and nodded towards the album, then turned to Mary.

James leaned on the table to watch as Remus turned the pages. The photographs were nice indeed, showing old Renaissance cities, Classic buildings he had only heard of, and paintings and sculptures that did not move, but captivated his gaze all the same, entranced by the way the artist had made his art look so alive.

"These are amazing," he breathed, and he didn't think anyone had heard, until Evans sighed, approvingly. James fought back a blush, leaning down, and it didn't help that Remus had paused at a page that showed Evans in front of a large painting with a naked woman.

A red-haired naked woman.

"That's The Birth of Venus, by Botticelli," Evans explained helpfully. "Venus was—"

"The Goddess of Love," completed James, raising his eyes to meet Evans' green ones. His heart skipped a beat that had nothing to do with any foreign goddess. "Love and beauty."

"Yes." She placed a strand of her hair behind her ear; her cheeks were pink. "It was a marvelous painting."

He was about to ask her, rather abruptly, if she couldn't show more about Muggle's paintings, when Remus turned to the next page; and then Evans' face was positively red as she grabbed her album suddenly—but not before James glanced at the last photo. There was a guy sharing ice cream with Evans.

"That's all," she said, fidgeting with her hands, and ignoring how her friend Mary was giggling now. "Nice trip. You should go some time."

James forced himself to smile. "Sure."

"Should we get ice cream too?" Mary asked, not hiding her mirth.

Evans rolled her eyes. "It's called gelato." She stood up. "Let's go, we will be late for class."

They departed; Remus watched them go for a moment before turning to James.

"Are you ok?"

James blinked away the images that had formed in his mind, where, instead of that Italian guy who he had barely glanced at—but now assumed the shape and face of an unpleasant handsome guy with an annoying nice accent—he was sharing gelato with Evans in front of The Birth of Venus.

"Yes," he lied.

[jokeringcutio]

Arthur Harrow x Amnesia Reader Wife

Fandom: Moon Knight Rating: Teen Summary: You wake up with Amnesia to find your doting husband Arthur Harrow by your bedside. Tags: Amnesia, hospital, sweet love, memory loss, husband and wife. Written for @nicktremblaywayfu AN: Look, I wrote something sweet and gentle for once 8')

You woke up to the beeping of machinery. Eyes blinked open to a white chamber. You couldn’t remember your room being this bright. Then again, you couldn’t remember much of anything.

“Finally,” a male voice sounded, near to you, and you did your best to turn your head – which seemed hard. It felt as if you’d bumped it and moving it made you all dizzy. Your neck felt stiff, as did your spine. But you managed. “You’re awake.”

Your eyes found the shape of a man, only several feet away from the side of your bed. When he saw your eyes had opened and were lain upon him, he took a careful step closer. The corner of his lips trembled as if emotions pulled at the smile he held. Why? You should have wondered. Why did he seem so shaken by seeing you awake?

But instead, you were in awe at the sight of him. This man, with his pristine suit and his bright eyes that seemed to bore into you. This man whose hair framed his face like some kind of renaissance painting. He enraptured you. “Do I know you?” you managed to bring out, happy to even find the right words.

There was a flash of pain in his eyes, but it was gone before you could fully notice it. You studied his clothes. They weren’t like those you could remember of your peers. Your friends wore comfy clothes, or stylish brand clothes if they had the money to. But this man, he looked older than your friends. And his hair, which reached his shoulders, was longer than you recalled to be fashionable.

“You’re weird,” you concluded out loud. And you saw how the man’s eyes crinkled, how a spark of delight shone within them as he halted next to your bed and carefully placed a hand on top of the covers. He leaned over you, not too close but not far away, making it easier for you to study his features. By God, he was… “Beautiful,” you whispered, finishing your sentence out loud.

The man’s smile became even broader. It seemed as if it was hard for him to school his expression. Either that, or he didn’t want to.

“I think you’re confused, sweetheart. You are the beautiful one here,” the man said, his voice low and gentle. You thought you liked the sound of it. It sent a tingle right down your tummy and between your legs. Yes, you definitely liked this man.

Carefully, you reached out a hand. It worked. Your fingers moved, until you brushed a knuckle against his cheek. He felt soft and familiar. “You’re cute,” you murmured. It was as if there was no filter to your words. Anything that came up in your brain came gushing out.

The man smiled again, but he let you study him without interfering. Your fingertips traced the shake of his chin, down to his neck. Your thumb brushed past his lips. Kissable, you thought. And then, when you looked up at his eyes, you saw such passion within them. Emotions running deep. Love, you wondered. Could it be love?

“You’re really cute,” you said while your fingers traced the outline of his face before your hand fell down again. Why was it this hard to think or to remember anything? You had trouble remembering what had happened that brought you into the hospital like this. It must have been something bad, you assumed, for why else would you be this confused?

Amnesia, the doctor had told you. You’d remember again, soon.  But for now, everything was hazy.

“Shall I tell you a secret?” the man in front of you said, eyes glinting with mischief and mirth. You were curious to hear what his secret would be, and you wished you could lean in closer. But your neck was stiff, so you remained as you were and just gazed up at him.

The strange man leaned over you, his hair falling down his face like a curtain. But you could still see his emotions as he lowered himself down upon you. His lips sought out yours, brushing past them in a not-so-chaste kiss. His eyes closed and his long lashes fell against his cheeks while he deepened the kiss.

It felt good. Heavenly even. But still, this man was a stranger to you. Your eyes had flown open wide and you gaped at him as he broke the kiss, lips parted wide. You could not believe that this had happened to you. The cute guy had kissed you? “You kissed me?” you cried out, not believing what had just occurred. The man grinned down at you and nodded, then dove in to kiss you again.

This time, the kiss was slower, gentler. You felt his tongue brush past your lips, then slip in between until it brushed against yours. The taste of him was familiar and nice. You wished you could have more of him, taste more. He ignited a hunger you hadn’t known you could possess.

You wished you could bring your hands up and around his neck, and pull him even closer. You wished you could make it so that he could not turn away and then you never would let him go.

But as he broke the kiss and you whimpered sadly, you felt a pang of regret deep within your chest. You wanted to hold him close, but now the kiss was done. And he still hadn’t told you his secret yet.

“So, what was it?” you slurred. You sounded like you were drunk. Must be the medicine, you thought. Or the hit on your head – or whatever had happened to you.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. One of gentle joy. “Just that your cute and beautiful husband has missed you,” he whispered, and it felt as if your heart was ready to pound out of its cage. Because did that man just say husband? Him? Your husband?

You gaped at him, gasped, and then looked some more, before he, smiling, leaned in again and captured your lips in another kiss. You wished you could deepen it and kissed him back with all you had.

The sweet kiss ended way too soon to your liking. And the man leaned back and smiled down at you. Pure mirth was in his eyes while he traced his thumb past your forehead. It was a caress of skillful hands. And it felt homely and comforting. Familiar as well.

You gazed up at him and smiled. “My husband?” you whispered, not quite sure if you fully understood what he had just said. Was this another dream?

But then he confirmed it with a nod and a soft growled ‘yes’. “You got hurt, sweetheart. I know you forgot what happened to you. But some evil man has hit your head.”

You blinked at him. “He hit my head?” Why would anyone do that?

The man hummed. “Deliberately.” Why would anyone do that to you? You had never made any enemies, or had you?

“Why?” you asked innocently. “And what’s your name, husband? Or should I keep calling you husband?”

The man chuckled and shook his head, brown and grey hairs tangling as if the motion made them dance. “No matter how much I like it when you call me your husband, I will refresh your mind. Does the name Arthur ring any bells?”

“Arthur?” you murmured, tasting the name on your tongue. It felt familiar, so it must be a name you had said many times before.

“Yes, Mrs. Harrow. Well done,” he praised you, and you felt your cheeks burn a healthy red color.

But then Arthur’s face fell again when he remembered the other question you had just asked. “That man,” he started, his smile now entirely gone. It was as if he had lost himself in thought – or memory – for he glanced away from you. You saw how he pressed his fingertips against each other, a pensive gesture, while his tongue pressed against his lower teeth. He was thinking. Whatever he was going to say befell him hard.

“That man,” he said, more firmly now. His lucid blue eyes darted back to your face and you could see the emotions swirl within them. “He was after me. You got hurt because he knew how much you meant to me.”

You grew quiet. A silent ‘o’ formed on your lips as you tried to digest that information.

Then you looked up again. You felt little, small. And you saw by the way his eyes softened when he met yours that he understood how you felt. It was as if he could read your mind, you thought. But could he read that too? Or that? Or -?

“Do you have many enemies?” you carefully asked. Your hand slipped out of the blankets again and your fingers twitched. You could not read him, but the gesture had been clear enough. Arthur, your Arthur, reached out to take your hand in his own and gently squeezed your palm as a sign of comfort. It worked. You started to feel calm again. Calm, warm, and not as little as you had before.

“Sweetheart,” the pet name came out as a breathless whisper, but you had heard it nonetheless. “If I had known the danger you’d be in, I’d never had taken the risk of bringing you along.”

A sudden flash of sand was before your eyes. It was short, and lasted only a second or two, but it was enough for you to have seen it. A memory, you knew.  High sand hills, not dunes like the ones you’d seen before. These were higher. The sand was like gold. The sun upon you hot and humid.

A man and a woman stood in front of you. Their clothes were like costumes, not the daily wear you’d expect people to wear. The man was in a white suit that encased him fully. The woman with her black curly hair had wings like a scarab. She looked at you with pure concentration, but her arms were being raised as if she were a predator ready to pounce.

And then the memory was gone again.

“Are you all right, love?” Arthur was looking worriedly at you. His right hand was behind your head, his left on your collarbone, the pressure light. He was studying you with such intensity that you felt you had to apologize. “Yes,” you said, forcing a small smile. “Yes, Arthur, I am all right.”

A spark of doubt appeared in his eyes, but when your smile didn’t waver, you saw that he started to relax again. His own smile returned, ever so wide, while he wrapped his arms around you. You felt his chin press on your shoulder and felt his hot breath on your neck before he placed a delicate kiss there. His arms squeezed you slightly as if he was afraid to let go.

“You are the light of my life,” you heard him whisper. “My own sun. My moonbeam. A little goddess in her own right. The only one I could not bear to lose.”

Another memory flashed before your eyes. Of Arthur standing tall, cane in his hand, on the tall sand dunes. An angry expression on his face. Agony, you thought. Sadness, hatred, and agony. The ugly sight of pain. And that same man in the white suit emerged and raised a sword to strike him down. Your husband had made enemies all right. But just before the image faded you saw Arthur spin around and block the sword that swung at him. His retaliation was swift, the hit hard. Blood spurted, and sprayed like a fountain. He had hit his mark with the expertise of a trained and skillful killer.

You blinked and the memory was gone again. In its stead, there was only the feeling of Arthur’s strong arms around you, holding you lovingly and with care. And as he embraced you, the warmth of his arms comfortingly around your frame, you could hear him whisper softly in your ear.

“I love you. One day, you will remember how much."

He just didn't know yet that without having all your memories, there was one thing you could never forget. And that was how much you loved him in turn.

~*~ AN: I know the prompt you send me was slightly different, but this came out and I decided to post it as well. The Dr. Harrow one will be online somewhere soon as well ;D And I am working on another little Harrow x Reader treat that er.. might take a bit longer. Anyway, hope you enjoyed <3 As always, not beta read. Will fix mistakes later on.

[mangoshorthand]

No Hard Feelings- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch3

SUMMARY: You're Five's latest assassination target, but things don't go to plan and now he wants you as his fuckbuddy. Funny how what we want and what we need are rarely in line. (Five's physically aged up). Obvious smut warning but there's plot too, I swear!

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five- Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

In this chapter, it's negotiation time. Then Five pays a visit to a certain sex trafficker.

Smut below. Proceed at your own risk.

Chapter Three: Cookie Dough

When you arrive at the diner on Sunday afternoon, he's waiting for you. You're not late, but he looks impatient, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. A milkshake waits on the other side of the booth. His is half drunk, a black coffee sits ready beside it.

“Hi,” he stands. With one hand in his pocket, he shakes your hand before returning to his seat, “thanks for coming.”

He sounds like a speaker at a conference welcoming you to his talk on synergistic management solutions. He looks a bit like one too - an arrogant prodigy straight out of Harvard. 

The diner is quiet but busy enough that your conversation won’t be overheard. You congratulate yourself on the perfect choice of venue.

“Do you mind if I get right to it?”

You nod, taking a sip of the milkshake. Clearly, he is not one for small-talk. No, ‘how are you doing?’, no ‘any more nightmares about the time I nearly shot you in the head?’

“Ok," he pats both hands on the table, "Well, first of all, I’m glad you suggested this. Waiting wasn’t easy but it’s better to make sure everything between us is above board and all expectations are in place.”

You smirk. He seems almost ready to pull up a set of slides and take you through this financial quarter’s return on investment.

Not noticing, he continues, “After the way we…met, I think the clearer and more open we can be about consent, the better.”

“I agree.”

“So, I think we start with ground rules for everything sex adjacent and then move into sexual preferences and boundaries. Do you agree?”

“Yeah.”

Again, you stifle laughter. If any residual fear remained, it’s gone now. Sure, this is a sensible idea, but his abrupt way of navigating this conversation is unintentionally funny. You continue to swallow your mirth, already knowing him well enough to be sure he doesn’t like being laughed at.

“Ok. My ground rules:” he lowers his voice a fraction, “first, this is just sex for me. I’m not getting embroiled in your life and I expect you to stay out of mine.”

“I can go along with that”, you reply, taking a slurp of milkshake. It’s weird enough to be fucking this guy, let alone dating him or whatever.

“Great,” he rushes on, “I’m also not going to be able to contact you. I know that’s not ideal. For the sake of ease, I’d suggest you leave two or three weekdays of your choosing when I can have a standing invitation, perhaps arriving after eight pm?”

“How about Tuesdays, Thursdays and alternate Mondays?”

If he caught your irony, then he chooses not to dignify it with an acknowledgment.

“Sounds good to me. I obviously won’t come every time and there’s a chance I could go incommunicado for a few weeks at a time. With that in mind, I don’t expect you to wait for me every single time. That’s all I can think of right now."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why might you go incommunicado? And why can't you just...message me when you're coming over?"

One corner of his mouth turns down.

"You know what I do."

His eyes meet yours- that sweet, intermediate green.

"It shouldn’t be a problem, but it would be better to have as few connections to me as possible. Do you understand?"

You nod. You know you should be running a mile, but something about him keeps you sitting there, rooted in his gaze. Your eyes sweep what little of him you can see: the pale skin, the jaw that might have been sculpted in the renaissance...the throat you find yourself itching to kiss.

"Do you have any?" he says

You mentally shake yourself.

"Any what?"

"Ground rules," he replies, slightly impatiently. 

You consider.

“No appearing directly into my apartment. I know you can.”

“That’s fair” he nods, “I’ll only make an exception to that rule in an emergency.”

“Like what?”

“If you’re somehow at risk.”

You shrug, oddly touched by this small consideration. Jesus, you really are dumpster-diving for appreciation here. Looking away, you say the next thing that comes into your head.

“I want to exchange clean sexual health tests before we do anything penetrative, and a promise to do the same if we’re going to sleep with other people. I’m on the pill, so if you agree to that, I’m happy to do it without a condom.”

He nods, clearly made happy by more than your sensible stance on sexual health.

“I’m unlikely to be with anyone else, but of course.”

“Great,” you say “Lastly, when you talk to me, can you try to be a bit more respectful? I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, but you've got a major superiority complex. I won't accept you being rude and dismissive.”

He nods, thoughtfully, apparently unfazed by your criticism of his attitude.

“Yeah that’s…I mean yes but that sorta brings me neatly onto preferences. Do you mind, if you’re done with ground rules?”

“For now, yes.”

He nods sagely, “Sure. I understand the importance of keeping renegotiation on the table as we go along. My preferences…I’m quite…they’re not too crazy, but they’re also a little more than lights off missionary. I lean dominant. I like to be submitted to.”

For the first time, you think you see a twinge of self-consciousness pass across his face as he reads your expression. Written there, as if on a billboard is a sarcastic: ‘Oh really? I never would have guessed’.

He loosens his tie as he looks down into his coffee and continues, “I will always respect you outside of sexual situations, but name-calling is a big turn-on for me.”

“As long as you never call me Anastasia, I’ll be ok.”

He raises one eyebrow but otherwise makes no response to the witticism that would have been hip in 2013.

“When all is said and done, I’m mostly vanilla. I just have a few bits and pieces thrown in.”

“A bit like Cookie Dough then?”

This extorts a polite smile but no other acknowledgment. You try to cool it with nervous jokes.

“How about we use a stoplight system?" he suggests, "Green for yes, red for a hard boundary and orange for unsure or uneasy.”

“Name-calling in the bedroom is green.”

You lean back slightly in your seat, your body elongating. You feel his leg brush yours. He doesn’t remove it.

“Anal?”

“Orange.”

Again, his eyebrows creep up in the way that already gives you butterflies.

“How experienced are you?”

“I’m not.”

“Mind if we explore? I’d like to turn that into a green if I can.”

“I’m open to it.”

His leg creeps further towards yours, your knee on his lower thigh.

“For my part, it’s a firm orange. I enjoy tongue and a finger but no more than that. And that’s based on long experience.”

For a moment, you’re lost in this intriguing view of things to come…and you’re sitting in public, talking like this? You don’t register him shifting his thigh so your knee brushes higher up.

“Do you like it rough?”, he says, quietly. 

Some combination of his voice as he says it and his touch on your leg makes you squeeze your thighs together. He feels your leg twitch and suppresses a smirk.

“Yes,” you whisper, unable to look at him. 

But then common sense catches up to you:

“How do you define rough?” 

“Nothing extreme, but perhaps going into specifics will help us come to a shared standard.”

He opens his mouth and draws breath to begin, but you interrupt him. 

“Yes, but hold on,” you say, suddenly uncomfortable, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of me: I might like stuff like that in the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean I support patriarchal gender roles.”

His lips twitch: not at the substance of this, but the delivery.

“Understood. And ditto, actually.”

“We’re equals in this, okay?”

He looks up at you. Your eyes are very vivid, very ardent.

“Of course,” he nods, “equals.” 

You hold out your hand, elbow bent, for him to clasp in a burlesque of camaraderie. 

He smiles genuinely and obliges. As you give your joined hands an ardent shake to seal the bond, he looks at you with amusement and an edge of warmth before composing his face and returning to the conversation at hand.

As the negotiations go on, you only have one mismatch. He likes to spank; you like to be spanked. He likes to bite; you enjoy being bitten. He likes to slap faces, but that’s a no for you. You hold similar, neutral to positive views on restraints and you’re both comfortable playing with power dynamics. He likes to be called Daddy and has no compunction in telling you so.

“We don’t need to discuss harder fetish stuff. Suffice it to say that any bodily fluid beside saliva and…the obvious, are a firm red for me. I’ve shed enough blood to want to get off to it.”

Ignoring this disquieting statement, you agree.

He seems to be ready to end this conversation, sitting back in his booth with the air of a man putting to bed a particularly challenging piece of admin: as if this is all done. You surprise yourself, however, with what comes out of your mouth.

“You messed me up, you know that?”

He looks back up at you and briefly and then back down into the depths of his coffee. His hand comes to his collar and he undoes his top button. 

“I’d be surprised if I didn’t.”

“You know how it feels? To be that scared?”

He sweeps his hair out of his eyes, “I do, actually.”

Your legs are still touching. You draw his eyes to yours, humanity now their main expression. He holds your gaze meaningfully, searching your eyes for doubt as he asks:

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good.” he says, smiling slightly. “So…can we go back to your place?”

You look at him. This man tortured you, it only seems fair to return the favor.

“But it’s Sunday.”

He looks pained and irritated, “You’re not going to make me wait until tomorrow evening?”

“Of course not,” you say, haughtily, abruptly breaking contact with his thigh, “you only have an invitation for alternate Mondays and that obviously starts next week. I’ll see you Tuesday at eight PM.”

As you edge out the booth, he stares, disbelieving: “You’ll make me wait that long?”

“If we’re going to honor our agreement then let’s start as we mean to go on.”

The corners of his mouth twitch again. He knows he’s beaten.

 “I can think of a few ways to make you regret this on Tuesday.”

“I very much hope you do.”

With that, you turn and leave.

He watches you, enjoying the view from the back quite as much as the front.

“Fucking tease.” he chuckles darkly.

With the rest of Sunday, Monday and most of Tuesday stretching out before him, Five almost considers risking a jump, but he was never a man to put off important business and perhaps a little more anticipation is good for him. He may as well take advantage of the time he has. It was time to take out the target he'd switched out for you.

He knows from his research where Chet Monroe spends most of his time. Tonight, he’d be at the ‘motel’ owned by his Uncle- a thin cover for a brothel. For the women working there, it’s a miserable experience. Targeting very young women, mostly recent migrants, Chet first seduces, then manipulates them into thinking they owe him and his Uncle a ‘debt’, which they must pay off by working in the motel as ‘maids’.

Five also knows that this uncle, Michael Monroe, is away tonight (attending his youngest daughter’s dance recital, of all things). This leaves the motel relatively unguarded. Not that this particularly matters. Five could take out far worse than the Monroes in his sleep and still wake up with enough energy to make a balanced breakfast.

Before you met him today, you explained and intellectualized it all the ways you could. When you arrived, you had yourself convinced that you’d almost certainly leave the diner having broken it off before it began. When you arrive back at the apartment, you sit down heavily on the couch. Though your eyes are fixed out of the window and the apartment building directly across from yours, you’re not really seeing it.

This is absurd. Within a couple of days, you’re going to fuck Five. Even now, when you’re thinking about it critically, it sends a little rush of fire through you. Not for the first time, you wonder what the fuck’s wrong with you. Since yesterday, you’re no longer threatened by him and, honestly, no longer traumatized by his home invasion, but anybody would be hard pushed to describe this situation as normal. 

Part of you hoped that, when you saw him again today, part of the attraction would abate. You’d rationalized it to yourself as some odd, evolutionary survival mechanism: in prehistoric times, women who could make dangerous men their mates probably managed to pass on their genes by a) not being murdered and b) having their offspring protected by a strong partner. If not, then perhaps this was patriarchal brainwashing: the media glamorized and sexualized violent men, so maybe some part of you had absorbed those messages. 

You reasoned that having this conversation with him in a neutral space might remove some of his mystique and bring him down to the level of an ordinary man. About this, you were correct, but in thinking that it would make you less attracted to him, you were entirely incorrect.

If anything, his little mannerisms combined with his strange mix of arrogant nonchalance and hidden self consciousness only made it worse. As you looked into his eyes again, sometimes holding and sometimes avoiding your own, you couldn’t help but decide that they were the most perfect you’d ever seen, not least for the intelligence and wit you could sense behind them. It was a humiliating discovery, but there it was.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Ellie. You check your watch and realize you’re thirty minutes late calling her. Since you stayed with her, you and she have been talking at the same time each night: it was one of the conditions she made when she agreed to take you home. For her peace of mind, you promised her you’d call her every night for the first week. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I lost track of time.”

“No worries,” she says, although sounding relieved, “all okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine thanks.”

There’s a short pause, “You sound odd. You sure you’re okay? ”

“I am. Sorry,” you reply, refocusing your attention on the call, “I’m just preoccupied.”

“You were yesterday too,” she said, voice gently probing, “is something wrong?”

You sigh affectionately and regretfully. Yesterday, with his second appearance in your apartment so fresh in your head, you didn’t know how to begin to explain. You had to tell her you were tired and end the call quickly. You know this must have worried her. Today, you think your head’s screwed on enough to put her mind at ease. You decide on a half truth.

“I made a new friend the other day.”

“Okay?” said Ellie, suspiciously.

“A guy friend…with benefits,” you say, awkwardly.

“Oh.”

That’s all she has to say for the second, apparently surprised into silence. 

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how to continue yourself. After a few moments, she recovers.

“Tell me about him.”

“It’s casual.” you say, playing for time, “it doesn’t really matter. I’m just trying something out, you know?”

Another silence. Ellie knows this isn’t really your style. You know exactly what she’s thinking. 

“It’s fine,” you say, hurriedly.

“Is he just a random guy?” she says, shocked.

“No, no,” you say, hurriedly, “not a random guy-”

“- Do you even know if he’s a murderer or not?”

You hesitate here. You know telling you that you have absolute certainty on this matter, (that he is a murderer) won’t help. Instead, you invent wildly.

“I know him through work.”

You feel bad lying to her, but it’s necessary. There’s another silence. You can tell she’s reassured, but not entirely. 

“Okay…I guess that’s better. But…honey, this isn’t like you. Since when have you had ‘friends with benefits?’

“Since this morning,” you say, trying to joke her out of her concern. It’s ineffective.

“It seems out of character. Are you okay?”

Sudden annoyance rises.

“Of course I am. I’m fine.” you say, with more bite than necessary. 

“You think that maybe what happened the other week might have something to do with this?” she replies, voice strained with the containment of her own irritation “it’s not like it’s an inherently bad thing but it seems reckless straight after-” “I know what I’m doing,” you say, shortly, “I'm a grown woman.” 

Why you’re so angry with her, you don’t know, but you end the call not long after. You didn’t fight exactly, and you promised to call her tomorrow before you hung up, but the call left you with a lingering sense of irritation and unease.

Chet’s got another on the hook: Piper. She says she’s eighteen but he seriously doubts it. She falls nice and neatly into his demographic: a teenage runaway from foster care with very little between the ears. If she finished her middle-school education, he'd be surprised. She might have nice tits when she finishes growing into them, but for now she’s a little bony. There’s a certain subset of his clientele who’ll be very pleased with the new addition to the motel’s 'janitorial' staff.

She says she’s from West Virginia, hopped on a greyhound bus and got off in New York city. Here, she’s sure her dreams to become the next Beyonce will come true. If she could sing for shit, perhaps she would have a snowball’s chance in hell but, as Chet can confirm, she cannot. He had pretended to be enchanted by her weak, short-ranged voice but privately thought that a career in his uncle’s motel is probably the best she can hope for.

A single meal had been all it took to get her to drop her panties for him. He had told her many times how kind his Uncle Mike was, first paying for this meal and then a luxurious hotel room for them. Chet had told him all about Piper, of course: how beautiful and talented she was, how she might be ‘the one’ and his uncle had responded with his usual generosity.

Now they were in the text-based portion of their relationship, Uncle Mike having kindly bought her a phone. Sat behind the motel’s check-in desk, Chet was texting her the occasional endearment befitting their budding romantic relationship. Soon, he would start to tell her how hard it was for him to know that his ‘girlfriend’ was sleeping on the street and beg her to work for his uncle so that they could be together.

With most girls, it took a couple of weeks to realize they’d been conned but by then it was too late. Chet and Mike had a bet on about Piper: Mike thought she’d cotton on within the month, Chet guessed she’d be mooning after him even longer.

Still looking down at Piper’s latest (badly spelled) message, Chet doesn’t look up as a john walks in.

Five strolls into the motel reception, compulsively straightening his tie and pasting on his most charming smile. Here's Chet: six foot, square-jawed and classically handsome in that ‘all-American bland as shit’ sort of way. Five notes the mirror propped up on the desk, facing away from customers; presumably there so Chet can admire himself.

“Good evening,” says Five. He can at least be polite before spilling his blood.

Chet didn’t look up from his phone. “Wanting a room? Which...package?”

Five doesn't respond. He can honestly say he has only enjoyed killing once in his life...but he has to admit that it makes it so much easier when they're a real piece of shit and this is a piece of shit who fucks kids, no less.

He snatches the mirror and slams it down on the counter. Chet jumps as it shatters. When Five first thrusts the jagged piece of glass into his throat, Chet doesn’t seem to notice. It’s only when he twists the shard that his eyes bug out of his head. Five wrenches, hearing the squelch of tearing, bloodied flesh. Blood rushes in spurts and gushes down Chet’s torso, reddening Five’s shirt cuff.

He pushes Monroe backwards, vaults the service desk and presses his foot into his windpipe. As much as this fucker deserves it, there’s no point in drawing it out. When the gurgling, panicked breaths subside, Five lifts his foot and  wipes his shoe on the carpet.

He turns. A terrified female face stands in an open doorway.

“Your passport’s probably in the safe, dear,” he strolls back around the desk, adjusting his jacket sleeve to hide his dripping shirt sleeve. He pretends not to notice the girl’s fear as she retreats a few steps backwards and away from him, “the code is 2612. There should also be a few thousand dollars in there, if I remember right. Share it out and run home, if you can.”

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03.  Here is a link to the whole series

[starfall-spirit]

Renaissance Masterlist

Words: 1035

Summary: A marriage façade leads to a destination honeymoon in Florence, Italy. Vacationing in the Tuscan hills shows Feyre there's more to Rhys than meets the eye—maybe even a man she could come to love.

Chapter 2: Wine and Dine

“You look like a nervous wreck.”

Feyre sighed, refraining from telling him she had spent more than an hour getting free of paint and sweat—generally trying to look like a suitable date. As best she could, living out of someone else’s apartment.

There had indeed been an unexpected visitor at her apartment complex. A photo Rhysand’s eyes there sent back revealed Tamlin staked out just across the street. Were she the type to be careless about open curtains, he could have been watching her dine until he lost his patience and came knocking.

So, she had taken Rhys’ offer, accepting his guest room and taking the time their friends were elsewhere to get to know him well enough to survive this lunch. And she did. Whether his family withheld their nosiness today or thoroughly grilled her, she had learned all Rhys had deemed important for his wife to know.

Still, she was nervous.

Though he was right to comment on it, her displeasure must have been apparent, because he was quick to amend his statement. “You look lovely. Now you just need a bit of confidence. We’ve got a story, now it’s a matter of selling it to two hopeless romantics and my father.”

“I’ll be fine.” He nodded, leading her out to his car and opening the passenger door. “What should I be most worried about?”

“My mother and sister will adore you as a person. My father…” His father wanted Rhys to do better than a no name artist. Fake or not, that stung a bit. “Don’t let him get under your skin, darling.”

Feyre stilled both at the tone of his voice and his proximity, having stooped down to eye level. She couldn’t help but mark the new note to the endearment now. She supposed things should sound more advanced than flirting, if she was to play his wife.

“I won’t.”

Nodding, he shut the door, running around the front of the car and sliding in to turn the ignition. The downtown restaurant the Stern family had selected was small, classy, and far from the fast food places she and Mor frequented during and after college. Rhys cut the ignition. “Shall we?”

Joining him in front of the car, Feyre took his offered arm and let him escort her through the doors and up to the hostess. “Good afternoon,” a young woman greeted us. “Your name?”

“Stern. Josiah Stern.” The girl’s brows rose slightly and she rushed us through. “My father has been a regular customer for years,” Rhys murmured, hunched down so his mouth was at her ear. “He can be… demanding, as I’ve expressed.”

“He owns the place, doesn’t he?”

Rhys smirked, usurprised I’d seen the reality. “And expects his staff to be punctual and flawless.”

“Hosting us here?”

“Another display of control, of course. If you think I preen, Feyre, just you wait.”

~~~~~

Rhys watched Feyre taking in the fine details of the restaurant with that keen artist’s eye. Though she may be a painter before all else, the intrigue he saw in his date was understandable. Small as the place may be, it was extravagant in design. Balancing sleek and modern glass and steel with a classy layout brought a unique appeal to the place.

Just as he saw Feyre part her lips to remark on something, a squeal rather improper to the upscale setting was heard. The hostess had hardly cleared the space in front of them when his sister came barreling towards them. Rather than throwing herself into his arms as usual–since they saw each other so rarely–Avyanna’s focus was entirely on his alleged bride.

“You must be Feyre,” she said, the excitement in her voice hardly tempered by her respectful volume. An attempt to lessen their father’s scolding, no doubt. “My God, you’re even more gorgeous in person. How did my brother manage that?”

Rhys scoffed, watching Feyre’s lips pinch as she surprised a laugh, its mirth lingering in her eyes as she glanced in his direction.

“Avyanna,” their father finally barked, jaw tight. “You’ve made enough of a scene, haven’t you?”

Rhys watched the teen reign in a huff, dropping his hold on Feyre as Avy pulled her to the chair to her right, leaving the one to Feyre’s other side open to him. She smiled in thanks as he pulled the chair. The basic courtesies of a gentleman were one of the few lessons of his youth Rhys did value.

Perhaps because his mother had been the one to take the time to show him how to treat a woman.

He let his family note the featherlight brush of his thumb at the back of Feyre’s neck before he took his own seat, squeezing his mother’s hand softly. “Feyre, my sister, Avyanna. My parents, Victorie and Josiah.”

“If we’re finished with that spectacle.” Feyre stiffened slightly, perhaps only now realizing how serious Rhys had been when it came to his no nonsense raising. It was a blessing Avy was flying the nest with her high school graduation around the corner. Eight years ago he had done the same thing, regretting only the isolation from his mother and sister. “Feyre,” his father purred, "tell us about yourself.”

And she did, accepting his not-so-subtle challenge to meet or surpass the bar set. And she tried, chin high and rarely flagging as she told her story from her father’s highs and lows in the world of trade to her breaking from her family to forge her path as an artist.

“Mor and I have been friends since freshman year and she thought Rhys and I would hit things off from the start. It took a little work to woo me, but here we are.

“In hindsight, not projecting our relationship early on was a mistake, but…”

“There isn’t much to be done about that,” Rhys finished, trying his best to look apologetic.

“We can always plan a ceremony of our own in a few months' time,” his mother offered.

“Well, I—”

He squeezed Feyre’s thigh and she paused. “That sounds lovely, Mom.”

As they sat around the table, partaking in the interrogation and gossip, he could help but smile. This might not be so difficult after all.

Now he just had to win Feyre’s heart for real.

~~~~~

Tag List: Comment/ask/message me if you’d like to be added or removed.

@faeriequeensuriel // @reverie-tales // @pandavelaris

[cybergoth-damsel]

how about Jojo from the children's show Jojo's Circus? I was trying really hard to think of girlclowns and suddenly remembered her...

HOW COULD I FORGET HER!!!

Mirth & Merriment: 7/10 - She may not be much of a trickster but she's dedicated to learning and sharing the art of the clown and that's what counts.

Circus Chic: 9/10 - Absolutely adore the tapering of the shapes in her design. Everything from her baggy shirt to her pants to her big ol' clown shoes. Her shirt's "paint splatter" appearance is a great way to mesh her vocation with her introspective mind.

Feel Old Yet?: She's probably the third most influential clown in my early development. Seems I really grew up in a renaissance of clowns.

[writerwolfofficial]

Starting Over.

I started using Tumblr a million years ago when I had no idea how to use social media or build a brand or a following or anything.

I eventually jumped ship, and now I can't get back into my old one, so here we are.

Clean slate.

It's appropriate. My sister passed recently and that radical, awful, painful change has transformed my relationship with my art & writing, media, work, life...

So I build again.

The next few months I will work on getting the extant Wolfeater X HawkStar stuff up.

I've been doing a page-a-day (weekdays only) since Dec 25 2021, and while a few setbacks, hospitalization, my sisters death, and the like, have broken the cycle a few times, I have generated a ton of pages.

The next step is to compile and edit for a digital release to make them properly readable. My current audience is all over on FaceMetaDumpsterFire and I am ready to walk away. I know at least a few of my fav people over there are ready to rejoin the Tumblr Renaissance as well, so hopefully this won't be too lonely for too long.

So stick around.

Stories both true and ridiculous are forthcoming. Often with pretty pictures. Probably more often with strange and uncanny pictures. As is my vibe.

The fiction is my mirror dream realm. The Memoir my waking hell. (and of late bountiful purgatory, though I have not yet written those chapters. Perhaps here I shall.)

It's all connected.

I am the World Walker.

I can belong anywhere but I am of no place.

I am the 🧙👑🤣 (Witch King of Mirth).

It's up to you to decide whether I am a clown or a bender of reality.

Art credits to myself, Kateryna Paramonova and Dasha Paramonova

[irishfederalreconnaissance]

A Brief Explanation of Jewish Cultural Epochs (Slave Labor)

Kazakh: The Japanese Hanjo, Neanderthals, have taken Tengri, their language for currency and hotel, and reversed it, so it merges; hence, the speaking of Tengri backwards, Hebrew, is entrapment in a hostel.

Babylon: The concept of the deity, the cuneiform picture, and the cuneiform drawing of letters, available if refusing swine, is the empathy removed from the enemy, the refusal to regard enemy force as son or daughter; the mating game, without raising the past paramour.

Titus: The Jew, is the common stage, the cavorting with children and animals, as gay men, the stage as beyond war, and instead, play; the literature, as the improper ideal, that being beyond nature, as viewed through ideal to nature instead; the platonic.

Jesus: The blues and rhythm, as the band of those destroying a culture, through traveling nomad, the institute; the teaching of children, to dance and play, instead of bear war and tidings, the unserious objective of the Israelite.

Lodge: The poor man, as the militia, outnumbering the rich man, the gladiator; the print of the head of the coin, as the leader, with the back marked in currency of the past leader; a Celtic culture, however with coin upon bust, as the authorization to provoke an act, considered criminal unless in bearing of heraldry.

China: The countries of the world, as in prefecture, the university; therefore the clergy, as the leaders, through the Rabbinical, the Muhammadan, the homosexual; the netting and knighting of the world, as having luxury, without pay; the option removed, to the common feed, without pork, the aphrodesiac, hence been born slave, the tithe.

Renaissance: The shaved head, as slave soldier, having been born to act by labor of common mirth, the cooperative, a commune upon insured debt; the others, as having supported the self, the colony of state, from Europe to Asia, and inside Africa and up into Russia, the engineered project; the Hebrew tongue, as out of Latin, with a proper script of Kiev, the engineered project upon labor.

Colony: The New World, as having those implacing and implicit in creative, as slave, having held such as Protestant, hence the individual insisting upon compliance to medicine, as the slave, and those otherwise, having imbibed liquor and marijuana outside of care of common facility; the creation of paperwork, to bind the slave, and the common police, as differentiating prison and hospice, the combination to be the corrections, the separation upon statement to be the clearing of suit.

Holocaust: The calculation of wages labor, outside of performed family of difference of workshop; hence any of those performing wage to pay police in product, to acquire trade, and any of those otherwise, to be the Catechism; therefore the Jew, be working in common labor, to become the police officer, the minister of government.

Progressivism: The state of speech, as the spy, hence any raised by grooming, selected by felony, placed by patriotism, or otherwise bred by union, or any combination thereof, having found embassy, in the community, the more laws the poorer production, but the more powerful the leader; the dominance of America, under African laws imposed, the taken blacks as the heralds of the United States imperium and its resulting dominance over the voice of the people.   

[omenindia]

Gaming and Social Media Fusion with OMEN: The Digital Realm's Dynamic Duo

In the swirling nexus of the digital epoch, two titans harmoniously intertwine: Gaming and Social Media. Far from being disparate entities, these behemoths meld, crafting a mosaic of engagement, content, and unmatched communal resonance. OMEN, perpetually attuned to the heartbeat of gaming's metamorphosis, unravels this symbiotic fusion and its transformative repercussions on the gaming cosmos.

Beyond Gameplay: A Stage Awaits

Gaming has vaulted past its traditional confines. Today, each triumphant raid, meticulous strategy, and even the most comical blunders are spectacles broadcasted, analyzed, and lauded across platforms like Twitch, YouTube, and TikTok. Gamers have evolved; they're not merely participants but showrunners, influencers, and architects of communities.

The Renaissance of Real-Time Engagement

Live streaming emerges as the amphitheater of contemporary gaming. Venues such as Twitch and YouTube Live empower gamers to beam their escapades, disseminate insights, and intimately interact with aficionados instantaneously. It's a realm where the gamer ascends to stardom and enthusiasts immerse in the narrative.

Dissemination, Enlightenment, Interaction

Spanning succinct TikTok stratagems and grandiose YouTube chronicles to the vibrant gaming memes on Twitter and Instagram, gaming narratives have suffused every social conduit. It transcends mere amusement; it's an odyssey of enlightenment, as countless seek these platforms for guidance, elucidations, and masterclasses.

The Meme Phenomenon: Gaming's Cultural Footprint

Who remains untouched by the infectious allure of gaming memes? Pivotal instances, amusing aberrations, and indelible in-game utterances undergo rebirth on social platforms, evoking mirth and binding the gaming fraternity in communal nostalgia.

OMEN at the Confluence of Gaming and Social

To OMEN, the amalgamation of gaming and social media isn't a fleeting phenomenon; it epitomizes gaming's burgeoning cultural influence. Our mission transcends crafting elite gaming machinery; we envision nurturing a tribe, magnifying narratives, and exalting every shade of the gamer's odyssey.

Whether you're a broadcaster chronicling riveting tales, a maestro curating insight, or an aficionado weaving into the global tapestry, OMEN is your stalwart ally. We ensure you're fortified, interlinked, and primed to etch your legacy in this intertwined digital expanse.

Engage, broadcast, resonate. With OMEN, every keystroke narrates a legend, every broadcast weaves lore, and every interaction bridges hearts in the digital realm's most pulsating congregation.

[abellinthecupboard]

The Death of Allegory

I am wondering what became of all those tall abstractions that used to pose, robed and statuesque, in paintings and parade about on the pages of the Renaissance displaying their capital letters like license plates. Truth cantering on a powerful horse, Chastity, eyes downcast, fluttering with veils. Each one was marble come to life, a thought in a coat, Courtesy bowing with one hand always extended, Villainy sharpening an instrument behind a wall, Reason with her crown and Constancy alert behind a helm. They are all retired now, consigned to a Florida for tropes. Justice is there standing by an open refrigerator. Valor lies in bed listening to the rain. Even Death has nothing to do but mend his cloak and hood, and all their props are locked away in a warehouse, hourglasses, globes, blindfolds and shackles. Even if you called them back, there are no places left for them to go, no Garden of Mirth or Bower of Bliss. The Valley of Forgiveness is lined with condominiums and chain saws are howling in the Forest of Despair. Here on the table near the window is a vase of peonies and next to it black binoculars and a money clip, exactly the kind of thing we now prefer, objects that sit quietly on a line in lower case, themselves and nothing more, a wheelbarrow, an empty mailbox, a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray. As for the others, the great ideas on horseback and the long-haired virtues in embroidered gowns, it looks as though they have traveled down that road you see on the final page of storybooks, the one that winds up a green hillside and disappears into an unseen valley where everyone must be fast asleep.

— Billy Collins, Questions About Angels (1991)

[wallacephotobiz]

40 Days to Learn Film from Hopscotch Films on Vimeo.

40 Days to Learn Film - By Mark Cousins

TIMESTAMPS: 05:27 DAY 1 - COLOUR 12:24 DAY 2 - EYELINE 16:58 DAY 3 - WEDDING FILMS 19:03 DAY 4 - DRAWING 22:44 DAY 5 - FOCUS 25:27 DAY 6 - DEPTH/Z AXIS 29:43 DAY 7 - DAY OFF! 30:28 DAY 8 - OBSESSIVE MOTIFS 35:00 DAY 9 - NATURE 40:04 DAY 10 - THOUGHT 45:54 DAY 11 - STORYTELLING BEFORE THE RENAISSANCE 50:02 DAY 12 - WALKABOUT 54:06 DAY 13 - STORY ECONOMY 55:40 DAY 14 - KICK OUT THE TRUTH? 1:00:51 DAY 15 - SUBLIME 1:06:42 DAY 16 - DAY OFF! 1:07:50 DAY 17 - REBELLION 1:12:38 DAY 18 - TENSION 1:18:28 DAY 19 - POETICS 1:23:09 DAY 20 - THE MIRTH OF NATIONS 1:25:48 DAY 21 - COMMENTARY 1:28:59 DAY 22 - MOVEMENT & BLOCKING 1:32:17 DAY 23 - SOUND POETICS 1:34:32 DAY 24 - MUSIC 1:40:42 DAY 25 - SHOW WHAT HASN'T BEEN SHOWN BEFORE 1:43:05 DAY 26 - DISTINCTIVE VOICE 1:45:12 DAY 27 - ENDINGS 1:47:42 DAY 28 - INTERVIEWING 1:52:36 DAY 29 - MEDIA PORTRAYAL 1:53:15 DAY 30 - DAY OFF! 1:53:33 DAY 31 - LESBOS REFUGEE CAMP 1:54:44 DAY 32 - LONG FORM 1:57:26 DAY 33 - MEMORY 2:00:40 DAY 34 - SELF 2:03:45 DAY 35 - AVOID BANALITIES 2:06:47 DAY 36 - BEGINNINGS 2:08:31 DAY 37 - RECUT 2:10:39 DAY 38 - LIFE 2:11:33 DAY 39 - LOVE 2:14:51 DAY 40 - FREEDOM

[honeydaleprivatelimited]

A Sweet Symphony of Flavors: Embarking on an Epicurean Adventure through the International Honey Scene 

In a world where tastes and traditions intertwine, honey emerges as the golden thread that unites cultures across the globe. Join us on a mouthwatering expedition as we traverse the enchanting landscapes of honey production, unraveling a tapestry of flavors and customs that ignite the senses and captivate the soul.

Famous Honey-Producing Regions:

Mediterranean Marvels: Journey to the sun-kissed Mediterranean region, where honey is as diverse as the tapestry of vibrant cultures. Savor the delicate essence of Provence lavender honey, indulge in the citrusy embrace of Greek thyme honey, and experience the velvety sweetness of Italian acacia honey.

New Zealand's Nectar Symphony: Immerse yourself in the symphony of flavors from the land of the long white cloud. Explore the enchanting world of New Zealand's manuka honey, where the rich earthiness intertwines with hints of caramel and floral notes, leaving a lingering impression that awakens the palate.

Brazil's Tropical Temptations: Venture deep into the Amazon rainforest and discover a treasure trove of honey varieties. Allow your taste buds to dance with the exotic flavors of Brazilian wildflower honey, while the rich, nutty undertones of Brazilian almond honey transport you to the heart of the lush Amazonian wilderness.

China's Honey Extravaganza: Uncover the buzzing world of China's honey industry, where ancient traditions meet modern techniques. Delight in the diverse honey offerings, from the delicate sweetness of litchi honey to the robust richness of jujube honey, each capturing the essence of China's vibrant landscapes.

Unique Honey Traditions from Different Countries:

Germany's Mead Renaissance: Immerse yourself in the revival of ancient traditions as Germany's Mead Renaissance takes center stage. Engage in medieval-inspired feasts where honey wine flows freely, and the air is filled with mirth and merriment.

Ethiopia's Honey Ceremonies: Unearth the secrets of Ethiopia's honey-harvesting rituals, where ancient techniques are intertwined with spiritual beliefs. Witness the rhythmic dance of honey gatherers and partake in the age-old ceremonies that celebrate nature's sweetest gift.

Turkey's Honey Delights: Step into the tantalizing world of Turkish cuisine, where honey takes center stage in a symphony of flavors. Sample the flaky layers of baklava drenched in golden honey, indulge in the rich sweetness of Turkish delight, and sip on revitalizing sherbet infused with the nectar of blossoms.

India's Honey Tapestry: Embark on a sensory voyage through India's apiculture traditions, where honey holds a sacred place. Discover the vibrant hues and aromatic flavors of honey-infused Ayurvedic remedies, while witnessing the divine rituals where honey symbolizes purity and abundance.

Cultural Significance of Honey:

Gastronomic Poetry: Explore how honey transcends borders and tantalizes taste buds across the culinary world. From the enchanting sweetness in French pastries to the delicate balance of flavors in Middle Eastern cuisine, honey paints gastronomic poetry that delights food lovers worldwide.

Legends and Lore: Unveil the mythical allure of honey as it weaves its way through legends and folklore. Discover ancient tales of honey's connection to immortality, romance, and the divine, forging a bond between humanity and the natural world.

Nature's Healing Touch: Delve into the therapeutic properties of honey, celebrated for its healing touch in traditional medicine systems worldwide. From soothing sore throats to nourishing the skin, honey's natural remedies continue to be treasured by cultures throughout history.

Sustainable Beekeeping and Conservation:

Embark on a journey towards sustainable beekeeping practices that honor the delicate balance between humans and bees. Witness the tireless efforts of beekeepers and conservation organizations as they champion the preservation of bee populations and their habitats, ensuring a future where honey remains a sustainable and cherished resource.

The Global Honey Market:

Dive into the buzzing world of the global honey market, where flavors, traditions, and economics converge. Uncover the latest trends, from the growing demand for artisanal and organic honey to the emergence of honey connoisseurs who seek the rarest and most exquisite flavors from around the world.

Summary:

As we conclude our epicurean adventure through the international honey scene, let us savor the kaleidoscope of flavors and immerse ourselves in the rich cultural tapestry that honey unveils. From the tantalizing tales of ancient rituals to the delicate nuances of honey's terroir, let us embrace this nectarous journey with open hearts and grateful palates. In doing so, we not only discover the remarkable diversity of the international honey scene but also foster a deeper appreciation for the timeless connection between humans, nature, and the sweet elixir that unites us all.

[sasorikigai]

kiss+pull ( modern!hanzo please <3 )

‘ via the system of touch ’ || @mamoriitai || accepting

kiss.  for your muse to kiss my muse.

pull.  for your muse to pull my muse close to them.

💥 || They were the same, Hanzo Hasashi and Sayuri Iwasaki; for in their chests, they each carry a broken heart and a will of iron. They hold their heads high, because they know what they are worth. The wretched world’s flavor of love may strangle him, burn him from the inside out, but how it had birthed his own renaissance; reborn, because Hanzo refused to stay broken, and he was made to expand his viewpoint, lest his heart-wrenching, unrealized love was synonymous with agony, gutting him from the inside out. 

How could he ever do this to his own flesh and blood? Words still couldn’t describe the unfathomable pain he felt, can’t describe how Harumi and Satoshi’s deaths robbed him of his innocence and natural mirth he used to exude through the spark beneath his eyes. Perhaps all these irreversible memories could be summated to a homesickness for a home to which he cannot ever return, a home which maybe never was and never meant to be his; the nostalgia, the yearning, the deep, abysmal grief for the lost places of his past. And yet, his eyes could never wilt beyond the desiccated ash and dust - for each small resilience and resolve he would summon would bring a resplendent sunrise, as tongues of longing transformed him to speak unbreakable motivation and toughness. Commander Hasashi kept making the choices and he let the shift towards halcyon happiness flow over his life. 

And the moon tonight had risen - red, blood red, as if signifying Hanzo Hasashi’s mortal sins that were about to unfold in the entangled, barbed subconscious of his wrath-filled resolve. Now, thunderous butterflies softly flutter in his heart, a symphony of destruction manifesting as reconstructive catharsis as each beat roars against his well-developed pectorals. How Sayuri had opened up his heart, ceaselessly quenching Hanzo in sorrow’s flames, even as he writhed like melting wax beneath the impervious austerity of his somber intensity. She had been the one who also operated from a place of hurt, yet she was patient with him, allowing him the time to get through it. He could be made to write silently through an eventual rapture, as his love towards her and vice versa materialized to become something that couldn’t ever be captured with words and gestures alone.

With such conviction and purpose, his rugged and yet refined hands meet tender hips of his beloved, as his pronounced profile tilts to meet her lips. Such vicious professionalism of a Tactical Force Commander significantly mellows beneath the oozing tenderness, as Hanzo begins his gradual descent into exquisite bliss. The scintillating twinkle of numerous stars above them kiss his heart, and embeds themselves in the honed intensity of his eyes. How his entirety vibrates with resplendent life; causing love to float in the intense red and black of his mangled soul. From deep down to high up, how Hanzo Hasashi reaches in and inward for light. For her flesh drowns and focuses him to listen to the solar flare of the sun as his lips move to kiss, magnetically drawn, speaking words never said, but otherwise transferred through their carnal entanglement. 

How it leaves him delectably fed, yet starving; as profiles twist in both strange and beautiful way; contorting them, changing them, enveloping them, until they become some creature of the night in the moment of tenebrous darkness. Hanzo wishes to bestow an ocean of bliss, a sensuous kiss of which there are no likes, an affection that would soon rain from the skies, both literally and metaphorically. 💥 ||

[pinerwars]

Renaine circulation

Skelton, singing in the bawdy prosody of the alehouse and the vulgar profanity of the bedchamber. Skelton, nostalgically pining for Merry Old England while anticipating a coming golden age. Laity and clergy alike didn’t care for the literary pretensions of this self-styled “British Catullus.” Perhaps it was clear that ordination was not Skelton’s calling, for what could the parishioners expect from sacraments administered by a man who once wrote that “To live under law it is captivity: / Where dread leadeth the dance there is no joy nor pride.”Ī failure of imagination on the villager’s part, for Skelton was no mere parish priest who scribbled “trifles of honest mirth.” He was, in the words of the critic Michael Schmidt, a bard in Calliope green who “stands like Janus at the threshold of the English Renaissance.” A poet of a gloaming period gesturing back to the verse of Chaucer and forward to that of Shakespeare. Across these works, he developed an innovative rhythm known appropriately enough as “Skeltonics.” But that sort of thing was of no sway with the bishop. The priest penned inspired lyrics like “Speke, Parrot,” “Phillip Sparrow,” and the immaculate doggerel “The Tunning of Elynour Rummyng,” of which the five-hundredth anniversary is this year. Skelton may have claimed that (when it came to poetry at least) he’d imparted “drink of the sugared well / Of Helicon’s waters crystalline,” but his congregation was less than impressed. Despite his Cambridge education, his humanist credentials, the fact that he’d once been tutor to Prince Henry, and the immaculate poetry he’d penned, the good Christians of Diss, Norfolk, had complained to their bishop about the priest’s behavior. He faced his angry congregation and tried to explain the bastard child born to his mistress. Sometime early in the sixteenth century, a frequently hungover, perennially in trouble, and womanizing priest named John Skelton took to the lectern at his church. “What could be dafter / Than John Skelton’s laughter?”

[judyconda]

The Pearl Poem Poem by George Herbert The Kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls; who, when he had found one, sold all that he had and bought it.—Matthew 13.45 I know the ways of Learning; both the head And pipes that feed the press, and make it run; What reason hath from nature borrowed, Or of itself, like a good huswife, spun In laws and policy; what the stars conspire, What willing nature speaks, what forced by fire; Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas, The stock and surplus, cause and history: All these stand open, or I have the keys: Yet I love thee. I know the ways of Honour, what maintains The quick returns of courtesy and wit: In vies of favours whether party gains, When glory swells the heart, and moldeth it To all expressions both of hand and eye, Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie, And bear the bundle, wheresoe'er it goes: How many drams of spirit there must be To sell my life unto my friends or foes: Yet I love thee. I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains, The lullings and the relishes of it; The propositions of hot blood and brains; What mirth and music mean; what love and wit Have done these twenty hundred years, and more: I know the projects of unbridled store: My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live, And grumble oft, that they have more in me Than he that curbs them, being but one to five: Yet I love thee. I know all these, and have them in my hand: Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes I fly to thee, and fully understand Both the main sale, and the commodities; And at what rate and price I have thy love; With all the circumstances that may move: Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit, But thy silk twist let down from heav'n to me, Did both conduct and teach me, how by it To climb to thee. #folklorethursday #folkloreflash #poems #poem #poetic #poet #poetry #poems #poetryofinstagram #pearl #pearlnecklace #pearlbeads #greek #greekmythology #greekaesthetics #Spiritique #mindfulness #Spiritual #Spirituality #mystical #mystique #mystic #mysticisim #renaissance #renaissanceart #folk #folklore #folkspirits #folkmystic #fantasy https://www.instagram.com/p/CjYIs5opvFC/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=