#square e bear

[inifinitypink]

Hello, I have made the complete parappa friend circle chart thing. Go crazy with it.

[bear-cubs-art-things]

I love how our band can make good circle forms but fails miserably to form a decent block

[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

All the propaganda is under the cut. It's long for both of them:

Alexander I Pavlovich:

a. “Maybe not the most handsome or charismatic man in this tournament, but he has ample chaotic neutral energy that both baffles and fascinates contemporaries. In short, if you're into mysterious men, you won't find a sexier enigma than our imperator.”

b. “Look. Is this or is this not the monsterfucking website.”

c. There are lots of monuments dedicated to him. There's one in Moscow in the Alexander Garden right by the Red Square. While nowhere near as grand as the Alexander Column, I think it's still worth showcasing!

The monument is meant to celebrate his victory in the 1812 Russian invasion. He's holding a sword, proudly standing on top of his enemies' weapon.

The sculptors, however, have never seen the man in their life - all the people involved in the making are still alive and well (i think), so that should tell how new it is. The monument was opened for the public just a decade ago in 2014.

d. quote about this bust from the memoirs of Sophie de Choiseul-Gouffier: “No painter was able to properly capture the features of his face and especially his soft expression. Alexander didn’t like to pose for portraits and they were mostly done with some stealth. In this case sculpture have produced a better likeness. The famed Thorvaldsen made a bust of this sovereign worthy of a hand of such a remarkable artist.”

e. His family nickname might have been ‘our angel’ and the medal commemorating his death bears the inscription “Our angel is in heaven”, but did you know that to this day Alexander looks down on Sankt Petersburg as an actual angel, wings, cross, trampled snake and all? Alas, you cannot see it from the ground, the Alexander Column being so very tall, but the statue of the angel on top certainly seems to take after our sexy thrice-angel Emperor.

f. Apotheosis of Alexander! An eminently universal image, perfectly serviceable for his rise to the throne… of Napoleonic Sexyman Tournament.

It really looks like Peter and Catherine are instructing the Electorate. Gentlevoters, surely you wouldn’t dream of disappointing Sasha’s Grandmother and his scantily clothed giant of a Great-great-grandfather?

g. What is sexier than a man in a dress???

Thomas-Alexandre Dumas

a. “mustache”

b. “Tall! Daring! Swashbuckling! A devoted husband and father! Had a personal conflict with Napoleon! Also it was said he could, while holding onto a bar above his head, LIFT A HORSE WITH HIS THIGHS. How is he not on this list ten times already! Vote for General Dumas!”

c. “He was so hot that he inspired The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, and many more books that his son, Alexandre Dumas, wrote. He definitely looked the part of a sexyman, as he son recounts in his memoirs: "My father, as already stated, was twenty-four, and as handsome a young fellow as could be found anywhere. His complexion was dark, his eyes of a rich chestnut colour […]. His teeth were white, his lips mobile, his neck well set on his powerful shoulders, and, in spite of his height of five feet nine inches, he had the hands and feet of a woman. These feet were the envy of his mistresses, whose shoes he was very rarely able to put on." He could crush you between his thighs: "His free colonial life had developed his strength and prowess to an extraordinary degree; he was a veritable American horse-lad, a cowboy. His skill with gun or pistol was the envy of St. Georges and Junot. And his muscular strength became a proverb in the army. More than once he amused himself in the riding-school by passing under a beam, and lifting his horse between his legs." He was so badass he could beat 13 men with 4 and take all the enemy prisoner, and defend against hundreds of men on a bridge by himself. He performed these acts of valour numerous times in Italy. He was so formidable that the Austrians named him the "Schwartz Teufel", or the Black Devil, and his feat at the bridge earned him the moniker of "Horatius Cocles of Tyrol". He wasn't afraid to stand up to his morals and protest against unfair treatment. When unjust executions by the guillotine were happening outside his quarters, he closed the blinds of his curtains, earning him the nickname "Mr. Humanity". When in the Vendée, he complained about the wanton indiscipline in his troops. When in Italy, Berthier wrongly reported his actions as one of "observation" in St. Antonio. Dumas wrote to General Bonaparte that if Berthier was in the same position, he would have shit his pants. Dumas abhorred plunder, never exhorted the locals, and ordered the Directory agent who had come to persuade him otherwise be shot if he dared present himself to Dumas again. Integrity and a sense of moral justice is sexy, mark my words. For Dumas' final qualifier as a sexyman, look no further than this Tumblr heritage post (https://www.tumblr.com/petermorwood/133803437020/hortensevanuppity-elodieunderglass), with 300,000 notes and counting. And I quote: "- daddy general dumas was an immense fierce french warrior who was a 6 foot plus, stunningly gorgeous and charismatic Black gentleman - he invaded egypt - the native egyptians said “is this napoleon? this must be napoleon. we for one welcome our majestic new overlord” - then napoleon showed up - napoleon has all the presence of yesterday’s plain Tesco hummus - the native egyptians were like “… no… no, we’ve thought very hard and we’ll have General Dumas actually” - this did not make napoleon happy - in fact it made him jealous - napoleon felt so emasculated that he launched a campaign of revenge against General Dumas, including taking away his pension, that probably inspired a lot of Alexandre’s rather satisfying scenes in which fathers are nobly avenged and the money-grubbing villains are rubbed in the mud" I rest my case. Tl;dr: He was so hot he inspired multiple books, he was a stronk man who could crush you between his thighs or carry you like a sack of potatoes, and he was so badass that he could take on odds of 1 to 3. He had a foul mouth but a heart of gold and his actions were never self-serving. Posts relating to him on Tumblr have had 300,000 notes and counting. He is qualitatively and quantitatively qualified to be a sexyman.”

[youaintnothinbuta]

“Do you have to show off?” — Elvis Presley x reader

Summary: Drabble where you and Elvis are hanging out when a tickle fight breaks out and the only thing you can think of to stop him is to kiss him and so your first kiss happens

Pairing: Elvis Presley or Austin!elvis x fem!reader

Word count: 405

Warnings: none!! Drabble fluff <3

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elvis had come over to your house for dinner, and you were now in your bedroom, chatting away. You lounged on your bed, flipping through a magazine. Across the room, Elvis sat on the floor, surrounded by stacks of vinyl records, his fingers skimming over the worn covers as he searched for the perfect one to play.

You watched him from your spot on the bed, a fond smile tugging at the corners of your lips as he meticulously sorted through your collection. Finally, he plucked a record from the pile, carefully placing it on the turntable before lowering the needle onto the spinning vinyl. He soon started singing along with the record, his smooth croon making your heart beat faster. He didn’t need to know that, though.

“Do you have to show off?” You feigned irritation, rolling your eyes. Though secretly you loved whenever he’d start singing (who didn’t?).

"You know, you're lucky to have me here to serenade you," he quipped, his playful tone bringing a laugh to your lips.

You rolled your eyes in mock exasperation, reaching for the nearest teddy bear and hurling it in his direction. It hit him square in the face, eliciting a fake yelp. Elvis sprang to his feet, his eyes dancing with mischief as he ran toward you. You scrambled to get up from the bed, attempting to flee from his grasp, but he was too quick. With a swift motion, he captured you around the waist, pulling you into his embrace.

“Gotcha,” he declared triumphantly, his fingers finding the most ticklish spots on your sides. You erupted into a chorus of giggles and laughter, squirming in his arms as he mercilessly tickled you. “Elvis, Elvis, E, I can't—“ You gasped between breathless laughter, your protests falling on deaf ears as his fingertips continued to roam your skin. In an attempt to get him to let you go, your hands found their way to either side of his face, and before you could overthink it, you pressed your lips to his. He stopped, sinking into your kiss. His hands found the small of your back, pulling you into him. You broke the kiss, looking into his bright blue eyes, finding nothing but warmth and affection.

“You're perfect,” Elvis mumbled, his voice soft and sincere. You sat tangled together on the bedroom floor, he kissed you on the cheek, and you just allowed him to hold you.

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Hibernation

Set post-game. Halsin starts to feel more tired every day and knows what it means---he will need to hibernate. NSFW.

“Daddy Halsin, are you alright?” One of the tiefling children asked him. He had been showing the children how to take care of the vegetable seeds they had planted in the greenhouse when a jolt of fatigue went through him. Third time this has happened today. Is it that time again? “Daddy Halsin?”

He offered a gentle smile to the child. “Yes, Eustace. I’m well, simply tired.”

One of the other children, a human girl named Poppy, thought for a moment before suggesting, “You should take a nap with Miss Annie, Daddy Halsin. You’re always so happy after being with her!”

He could not help but laugh and ruffled the child’s hair. “You’re very right, Poppy! Miss Annie does make me happy.” He looked at one of the druids, a dragonborn from Baldur’s Gate. “Can you continue their lesson, friend? After, let them wander the square and play to their hearts’ content.”

The druid gave a nod. “Of course. Now children…”

Thankfully Halsin was able to slip away without too much crying, and soon he opened the door to his and Anais’s cottage on the edge of what was Reithwin and now known as Moonrise. He and his beloved agreed to live away from the town center (so I may easily go into the woods whenever I please) but with a kitchen of her design (higher than usual counters and a large hearth) and additions of nature throughout. It was a beautiful home. Certainly not as grand as that manor she grew up in, but thankfully her tastes are much simpler than her mother’s. He smelled something sweet as he entered the cottage. Honey cakes?

“You’re back early!” Anais looked up from her book. She was sitting at the table, her apron covered in flour.

He smiled as he bent to kiss her. She is perfect. She fills my heart with such joy. “I was feeling tired.”

“Again?” Her voice was tinged with worry.

Pulling up his chair next to hers, he sighed. “Yes, but I think I know what it is.” She offered an encouraging nod, and he continued. “Every so often, the bear needs to hibernate. It’s getting to be that time.” He watched as she put a slip of paper inside her book and closed it.

“How long?”

“It can range from a week to three months. It’s never the same, and I won’t know for long I’ve been hibernating until I wake.” She’s going to ask if she can come with me. Oh Annie, please…

As she serious as he had ever seen her, she asked, “Can I come with you?”

He sandwiched one of her hands in his as he shook his head. “No. It’s far too dangerous. Best to stay here and—” Please don’t fight me on this. It’s too dangerous. Far, far too dangerous.

Anais smiled sadly. “Carry on as best I can.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I will write to your mother, Nadia, and Astarion to see if any of them would like to be with you while I’m gone. Or perhaps Gale could make the trip from Waterdeep. Or Shadowheart and her parents?” I would also suggest Wyll and Karlach, but alas, they cannot return from Avernus, and gods know where Lae’zel is.

Her other hand now rested on the top of his. “Oh no, please. I don’t want to be a bother. Besides, I’m not alone when I have Scratch, Horace, and Obie here. And there’s also everyone in town. I’ll be okay.” She reassured him with a kiss on his cheek.

Their foreheads touched as he closed his eyes. I don’t want you to feel alone. I want you to be surrounded by love and care while I hibernate. It will make my sleep much more peaceful. “Since we have coupled, we have not spent one night apart. I worry if my hibernation lasts more than a week or two you will be lonely, my heart.” And it breaks my heart to see you sad.

She wrinkled her nose and gave him a quick peck. “Oh, I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.” Impossible, dearest one. “Is there anything else we need to do before you, I assume, go into a cave and sleep?”

Halsin chuckled heartily. “Yes! I’ll start scouting for one tomorrow. There is something else, Annie. I need to put on some weight.”

Anais raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Usually between forty to sixty pounds. Though,” he remembered a specific hibernation, soon after the Shadow Curse took hold. “There was one time I barely put on forty pounds, and it was…erm, not a pleasant experience. So please forgive me if I eat us out of house and home for the next several weeks.” Upon hearing her laugh, he shook his head. “You’re taking this remarkably well, my heart.”

She waved a dismissive hand with a grin. “To be honest, when you pass a certain point, some things are just filed under ‘strange but interesting druid things.’ This happens to be one of them.” Giving him a kiss on the cheek, she rose to check the items in the oven. “Ooh, these are all done.” Taking the honey cakes out of the oven, she placed the tray on the stovetop. “Nice and fresh, love, though if you’re going to grab one or two, just wait until they cool a bit.”

Chuckling, he rose and embraced her from behind, his large, calloused hands resting on her apron covered belly. “I was…thinking of something else, my love. As I make ready for hibernation, what if I leave you a piece of me?” We’ve spoken about this before, but why does my heart race so?

“A piece of you, hm? A lock of your hair perhaps?” She cannot be serious. “Or,” Praise Silvanus, she’s teasing. “Something else entirely?”

He huffed a breath as he tugged on her earlobe. “Does ‘something else entirely’ cover me filling you to the brim with my seed until it takes, blessing us with a child?”

A small gasp escaped her, her hands now covering his. Attempting to cover mine. Hers are smaller…and so very lovely. “What a coincidence it does! When shall we begin, Halsin love?”

He gave her a quick squeeze before releasing her and taking a honey cake. “Right after I have a few of these, my heart.”

They spent the rest of the day in bed---laughing, making love, and Halsin leaving the bed every so often for more honey cakes. How blessed am I to love a woman who is brave, brilliant, beautiful, and an excellent baker. Annie is truly one of a kind.

***

Halsin was in heaven.

Or what was as close as he would get to it.

In wildshape, he was on his back in a small clearing outside Moonrise, his belly full of fruit, milk, and honey as Anais scratched behind a soft ear. She had been reading a book her mother sent (“More bawdy romance, love” she said) after a morning filled with music lessons for the children. She has taken on the role of teacher so well. The way she lights up when they learn something new is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“I still have some more strawberries if you’re still hungry, my handsome bear.” she said sweetly. Annie always casts Speak to Animals or drinks a Potion of Animal Speaking before I go into wildshape. The sweetest and most thoughtful woman alive… “There’s still plenty of honey too.”

He huffed. “In a short while, my heart. Need things to settle first.”

She nodded, her nose wrinkling. “Alright, love.” Placing her bookmark where she left off, she closed the book and put it down. She then shifted so she was sitting closer to the bear’s middle. “Belly rub?”

Silvanus preserve me. “If…if that is something you wish to do, sweet one, then by all means.”

Anais slowly rubbed circles on his fur-covered belly, humming her favorite waltz. To Halsin, he had never seen a more beautiful sight. The way the sun is hitting her skin, it appears as if she’s glowing with radiance. Oak Father, thank you for sending her to me. Upon hearing him moan, she chuckled. “That good, huh?”

“You’ve no idea…feels so good, my heart…”

She puckered her lips a little and winked at him. Another way of giving each other kisses while I’m in wildshape. “Good. And don’t worry, my beautiful bear---I love doing things for you, big or small.” How true that is, especially anything with the children. She adores every child and acts as a mother to all. “Oh, and before I forget---the care package from Mum should be arriving tomorrow or the day after. I told her to put in lots of snacks with honey in them for you.”

Halsin groaned loudly as she continued her ministrations. “So thoughtful, lover. You’re so good…” As I hope I am to you. Perhaps I should show her how much I adore her. A golden glow surrounded him as he wildshaped back into an elf. “Come here to me…”

Smiling softly, she shifted to lay down next to him, curling into his more substantial side. Not that she minds. I could be a worm, and she would love me. Blessings be upon you, Oak Father. Thank you for her. “Always coming to you. For you. On you.” She snorted, beginning to laugh. “With you.” They laughed for a few minutes with Halsin tickling her upper arm.

He pressed several kisses to her red hair and murmured, “Come with me before you start supper. Come with me after. Come with me once more after dessert…and more…” Seeing the knowing grin tugging on her lips, he held onto her wide hips as she straddled him. And mindful of how full I am. I am blessed. “More…” She will know how much I desire her.

She rocked a little on the ever-growing bulge in his trousers and chuckled. “And you accuse me of being greedy? You’ve been wanting me more than usual, lover. I’m not complaining, mind you.” Her hands traveled down her sides and rested on top of his. “Is this how it usually is for you when preparing for hibernation?”

He furrowed his brow. “Hmm, the fire burns a little hotter some years but never like this.”

Anais thought for a moment. “Maybe because the burdens you once carried---the battle at Moonrise, the Shadow Curse, Thaniel, the responsibilities of the grove---are no longer present? You said yourself your heart feels lighter than it has in centuries.”

“Very true. It could be that. It could be something else entirely. However,” he squeezed her hips and stared at her with his most loving gaze. “I will choose to believe it is because of you.” After all, it is because of you that light shines here once more. Nature thrives here because of you. My heart is full of joy every day because of you.

Her cheeks flushed pink. Nature blessed her in so many beautiful ways. “You are quite possibly the sweetest man to ever exist,” she smiled brighter than a million suns. “And I adore you.” Untying the laces on his breeches (which are far too tight in more ways than one), she freed his aching member, earning her a groan. “Time to come with me, love.” Hiking up her dress a little, she slowly sank down his massive length and not being silent about it as is her way. Finally, be loud, my heart! “Decided against panties today…had a feeling we’d be…” Yes. Good. Very good, my love. “Gods, I’ve no idea how I get you inside me every time…you’re so bloody huge…”

“Ah, and yet, you take me so well!” He let her adjust to him for a few moments until he was fully hilted inside her. Oak Father take me. She is your most lovely creation. Thrusting slowly, Halsin bit back a moan as she rolled her soft hips. “Annie…my love…”

She clenched around him and squeezed her brown eyes shut. “W-what do you desire?”

“To stay like this…and…” He licked his lips. “The honey.”

With ease, Anais summoned a pair of mage hands that opened the jar of honey and brought it back to her and Halsin. “How should we do this?” She clenched around him and moaned softly. “Eat honey off my hand? Pour?”

“Pour…please, my heart…” He panted, his cock twitching inside her. Oak Father, fill me with your bounty, and let me fill her with my seed. “Please, I beg of you…”

Her cheeks turned redder as she smiled sweetly, tipping the jar towards his lips. “No need to beg, my handsome bear.” She cooed. “I can’t possibly tease the one who owns my heart, can I? Not when he’s been so incredibly good to me lately.” Her smile grew brighter as he swallowed the honey. How am I so blessed? It is the highest honor to hold your heart, dearest one. “That’s it, Halsin love. Jar’s almost empty, and then,” she winked. “Want to me to bounce on your cock for a bit?”

Gulping down the rest of the honey, his calloused hands squeezed her soft hips and thrusted upwards making her to moan. More. I must have more. My blood is on fire. All I want is her. All I need is her. Her. Annie. My heart. My everything.

His everything then tossed the empty jar aside as Halsin swallowed, rolling her hips slowly. “Fucking hells, you’re so bloody much, love…” She reached for his hands, grasping them in hers. “Gods…Halsin, fill me…please…”

“As if…I can ever…deny you…” He huffed, thrusting with as much frequency as he could. He could feel his own end coming quickly but hoped as always that she comes first. It is only right that my sweetest Annie experience pleasure before me. Giving one of her hands a squeeze, he let go. The hand dove under her dress to find the spot where they were joined and began to rub furiously. He reveled in her reaction---completely, openly, happily debauched. That I am the cause of her pleasure brings me so much joy…more so knowing that she feels the same for me. “And if this doesn’t take…I shall fill you again, my love.” So close. Oak Father, hear me---let me bring her bliss always. Let this be the seed that creates life.

“HALSIN!” Anais screamed as her orgasm ripped through her.

Moments later, he reached his own peak, hazel eyes glowing gold. Several grunts escaped him as he once again gripped both her hands. “Annie…” Halsin sighed, feeling not only impossibly full but entirely spent.

She rolled off him and onto her back, staring at the sky. “Yes?”

“Perhaps we may nap here a while before returning home?” He waited for her to respond before noticing she immediately fell asleep. Chuckling, he laid on his side and brushed a few strands of red hair out of her perfect face. “Rest now, sweet one, for there will be more later.”

***

Today is the day. Halsin heaved a sigh as his feet hit the bedroom floor. Today I will leave to hibernate. Today I leave Annie for who knows how long. Annie, my love… As tears began to form in his eyes, he remembered something she said the previous night that made his heart feel lighter.

“Think of it this way---you’re taking a lot of me with you.” Anais wrinkled her nose, giggled, and kissed his cheek. “About sixty pounds worth, I’d say. I’m keeping you snuggly warm until you wake and return to me.”

He was not ashamed to admit that he began to cry after hearing her say that and held her in his arms for some time, refusing to let her go. Not that she minds. She once said if she could spend eternity in my arms she would. The feeling is certainly mutual, my heart.

“I packed a few more herbs to make healing potions in your bag. And some freshly baked cinnamon rolls!” Anais said as she leaned in the doorway of their bedroom. While she was smiling, it did not reach her brown eyes. “I keep trying to think if there’s anything else you need—”

Halsin held up a hand. “You’ve done enough, my love. I am more than prepared for hibernation.” Standing, he grabbed the only pair of trousers that still fit and put them on. “All thanks to you of course.” He smiled warmly at her as he tied them. Loosely. They’ll be off as soon as I reach the cave. Then wildshape. Then sleep. And hopefully dream of her. “Your mother is still arriving tomorrow?”

“Yes. I think she might be staying longer than originally planned. Now that she knows the Ironworks can indeed function without her, she wants to see just how long it can function without her.” She giggled and walked to Halsin, giving him an adoring look over. “Gods, you’re gorgeous. Do you know that, love?”

He enveloped her in his arms and pressed a kiss to her head. “I am nothing when compared to your beauty. Nature truly outdid itself when it created you.”

She rested her head under his chin and grinned. “Flatterer.”

“It’s not flattery when it’s true, my heart.”

Normally she would banter with him further. Instead, she hummed softly and ran her hands over his back and sides. “I’m going to miss you.” She whispered after a few minutes.

Annie, please. I do not wish to cry. I want to leave you with a smile, not with any more tears. “As I will miss you, sweet one. Oak Father willing, I will return to you much sooner than we think.” He cupped her face and kissed her forehead gently. OH! “Remember that Eustace loves—”

“The lavender soap at bathtime. I know. They’ll be alright.”

He had said goodbye to the children the previous night, and while it was not easy for anyone (there were many tears shed and hugs given), he knew they were in the best hands. “Forgive me, I—”

She silenced him with a short kiss and a knowing smile. “We’ll be alright. Now,” she stepped back and sighed, hands on her hips. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

He laughed and hugged her one more time. “I love you, Annie.”

More than you will ever know.

[mister-eames]

Secret Saito 2024

Happy Secret Saito to you all, I hope you're having a great holiday season x

This is my @secretsaito gift for @motionalocean, whose prompt was lurid. I hope you enjoy this darling <3 thank you for the prompt!

Prompt: lurid Pairing: Arthur/Eames Word Count: 5.4k Warnings: Alcohol, post-break-up, make-up, miscommunication, some angst but with a happy ending, mild drunkenness and anxiety, blink-and-you'll-miss characters and references from dated 90's movies, trust me they live happily ever after.

----

Eames tugs the lapels of his jacket and squares his shoulders, projecting an air of confidence that he isn't quite sure he really feels. Knows he doesn't, in honesty, otherwise he wouldn't be trying it on.

But it doesn’t matter, really; he can fake anything for long enough to fool who counts. Eames once convinced the Prime Minister of Australia that he was raised by a red kangaroo in the red soils of the outback after being abandoned by his mother. He once convinced a travelling group of tourists that he was the next in line for the throne. No doubt about it, if he's assured of anything, it's that Eames can convince a bunch of people he doesn't even know that he is a confident, wealthy, self-made man.

Two out of three isn't bad.

He pushes the door to the ballroom open and feels his mouth stretch into the genial smile of a man with his shit together.

---

The noise around Arthur is near deafening. A live band plays a rotation of top forty hits from the last several decades and the countless surrounding conversations of too-loud family make for an incomprehensible cacophony. He’s only been here for an hour but his head is already pounding like a pick into an ice-shelf.

The venue is noisy. The decorations are showy, a riot on the senses. It's all very gauche. Very Cohen family. Very Aunt Edith, who he must lovingly admit this is very fitting.

By means of having attended here alone Arthur has found himself in the orbit of some group of people he only vaguely recognises, three drinks in already, trying to politely refrain from checking his watch for the right time to excuse himself. Although he’s long tuned out, he’s still nodding at all the right places, interjecting with the odd "Oh, really?"

Hand to god he's not normally such a drinker in social settings, especially not the bottom-shelf spirits and wine that this bar is serving, but—well. He tips his drink back, emptying the flute in a single gulp. It doesn't bear thinking about.

"And what do you do for work?" a young woman holding a full flute of champagne asks Arthur.

"I'm a freelance consultant."

"Nice," she says, eyeing him up and down with interest. "In what industry?"

The reply rolls practiced off his tongue. "Quantum technology."

Arthur doesn't even know who he's talking to anymore. His third cousin's second born partner, maybe. Could be. Aside from his immediate family Arthur couldn't name most of the people here. It’s sloppy of him, perhaps. At least from a security standpoint, maybe. But Arthur isn’t on the job anymore, and he’s grown weary of watching all the exits and having eyes in the back of his head for events like family birthdays all the damn time. His nerves are so burned out they're beyond resurrection.

"Who's that?" someone asks.

He looks to the entrance. His stomach drops to his feet.

"What the hell is he doing here," Arthur mutters under his breath, feeling his face heat up. Someone grabs his arm and shakes it.

"Eames is here," his Uncle Sandy says excitedly. "I thought you said he wasn't coming!"

"He said he couldn't make it," Arthur says through his teeth. He said he wasn't going to be here. 

He watches as Eames takes an offered glass of an amber drink, smiling widely as he is greeted by relatives and their partners, people who Arthur, still, can hardly name. He looks hale and healthy and whole, shoulders relaxed, making easy conversation like it's his own party.

By the time he's noticed, Eames has already looked up and met his gaze.

Eames raises a toast to him.

He barely refrains from raising his middle finger in return.

Arthur is going to kill him, that little fucking liar. Arthur is going to kill him in front of everyone here. There will be so many witnesses and Arthur will go to jail but it will be so worth it. That smarmy, little prick, look at him. Schmoozing and disrupting Arthur’s entire night like the little liar he is.

He tosses back his own drink, finding it somehow already empty.

Easy fix, Arthur thinks, unlike everything else. He abandons whoever is speaking to him to march over to the bar and orders a martini.

---

It takes all of five minutes for Eames to lazily wander over and side up next to Arthur, gesturing to the bartender for a second drink. He is wearing a suit Arthur has never seen him in; something so immaculately tailored and well-made that it can't be new.

"You said you weren't coming."

"Actually what I said was that I'd rather masturbate into a cheese grater than show up, but as you would know," Eames affects an air of disinterest, "changes of heart are just so common." 

“You really should have done yourself a favor and gone with the first idea.”

“Yes, well. After very little deliberation I came to the realisation that I have as much right to be here as you do."

"It's my family."

"Funny," says Eames humourlessly. "I thought I was family too."

Arthur clenches jaw, retort dying in the back of his throat. Eames isn't wrong. Eames is practically part of the furniture at his family functions, and has been for over ten years. Up until---

"Besides," says Eames. "Aunty Edith likes me best. And I have her gift."

"Whatever," Arthur pulls the lapels of his jacket, squaring his shoulders. "Just stay out of my way."

"I intend to," Eames replies.

"You better."

"I will."

"Good."

"Great."

Arthur turns his body away, his skin crawling like a horde of ants were underneath it. "You can go back to your corner of the room now."

"Ta ta," Eames says, easily plucking the olive from Arthur's martini glass. "Pleasure seeing you, Arthur.  Parting is such sweet sorrow, etcetera."

"Go find yourself that cheese grater." 

Eames leaves with a satisfied glint in his eyes. Arthur sips his oliveless martini, uncaring. He hates olives, anyway.

---

“Why aren’t you here with Arthur?”

A fabulous question, really, considering no one here is a blood relative of his, or even a friend, besides the birthday girl.

"Well," Eames tells Arthur's drunk cousin, Barry, perhaps a little drunk himself. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "But we had a falling out recently, see. We're not together anymore."

"Really?"

Eames nods. "Over post-it's, if you'd believe."

The crowd of four he's speaking with pause in unison, aghast, as they no longer pretend they're not eavesdropping. 

"Post-it's?" Someone repeats, incredulous. 

Emerging from the bathrooms, draped in a fabulous red feather boa is the birthday woman of the hour. Arthur’s Great Aunt Edith. She is resplendent amongst pomp and circumstance, a withering cigarette in one hand, wine in the other. She spots Eames and waves him over.

"Long story," Eames says, downing his drink. "Anyway, nice seeing you." He waves back to Edith and heads over.

"Eames, my dear," Edith embraces him. "So good to see you."

"And you, my lovely lady," he kisses her flushed cheeks, feeling a knot in his upper back come loose. "I hear it's your eightieth birthday," he pulls back, assessing her. "You don't look a day over fifty."

"Oh, stop," she swats him away. "Where's Arthur? I've hardly seen him all night."

"Ah...I'm sure he's about," Eames smiles mildly, immediately feeling the knot coming back. "You know how he is. Can't sit still, that one. Anyway, tell me what you've been up to."

As he eagerly anticipated, she puts on a show, eyes widening with all of her witnessed tales: The headliner: Distress, despair, drama. She clutches his arm, steering him away from the crowd.

"Oh, Eamsie, darling, where do I even begin."

---

It's been two whole hours. Arthur hasn’t stuck around a family function this long since his youngest cousin’s Bar Mitzvah in ‘02.

"I haven't seen you since you were this high," his aunt Michele exclaims, gesturing to her bra-line. "Still, you barely look a day over twenty, you Cohens and your genes. I'm so jealous. Who are you wearing, Armani?" 

"Tom Ford," he blinks. 

"And what are you doing here all by your lonesome, hmm? Where's your beau?"

"My ex, you mean" he says, a little more drunkenly than he intends to, wiping his sweaty palm down his tie. He turns around on his stool and picks Eames out by the far end of the room and points to him. Luckily, Eames doesn't notice, or doesn't acknowledge this.

"No. When did you break up?" She looks genuinely sad.

"Like, yesterday."

"Oh my god."

"Yep."

"You two were, like, so cute together. What happened?"

"Post-it's,” Arthur mutters murderously. “Post-it's happened." 

"Huh?"

"Pretty ballsy of Eames to show up here at a family function like that if you’re not together," Barry says, cutting in. “Y’know. Considering.”

"...He is family," Arthur says quietly, eyes sliding to the small crowd Eames has amassed, each lured and falling to his natural charm. He fits right in, he always has. Like a missing piece of a prevailingly incomplete puzzle; he's as much a branch of the family tree as Arthur is. "...Even if he and I are not... anyway. Leave him be."

He lets that hang in the air and slides off his stool, and heads to the bathroom. Eames seems to have wandered off elsewhere, Arthur notes. Not that he was looking or anything.

---

Eames has just received a dollop of fancy-smelling soap in the palm of his left-hand when the bathroom door swings open. He's lathering it over his fingers when he looks up at the mirror and meets Arthurs gaze.

A thunderous look overtakes Arthur's features as he stalks to the urinals at the far wall, looking pale and unsteady despite his visible agitation.

Well, whatever. Ignoring him, Eames waves his hand uselessly in front of the sensor tap, failing to elicit a stream of water, Eames can't help himself, Arthur is fucking swaying on the spot. "Had a bit much, have you?"

The reply is instant.

"Fuck off."

He fucking hates these things. By the time Arthur has finished taking the world's longest piss Eames is still wriggling his soapy fingers towards the sensor without success. 

It prompts a huff and a bitchy "Jesus christ," before Arthur is leaning over and waving his hand under the stupid handlebar structure that Eames thought was decorative, eliciting a stream of cold water.

"Stupid fucking things," Eames mutters, dipping his hands under the spray.

There's an awkward moment where they finish washing their hands at the same moment and reach for the same paper towel dispenser.

"New suit?" Arthur gruffs, wiping his hands roughly.

"It is actually," Eames mutters, heart drooping like a forsaken house plant. He'd bought it six months ago, intended for their anniversary next month. He'd been hoping to surprise Arthur with it. 

In a way, he supposes he has. Just not the way he'd envisioned.

He checks the state of his hair in the reflection. "Not up to your high standards, Arthur?"

In the mirror Arthur rolls his eyes as he bunches up his paper towel. "I just didn't take you for a bow-tie man, is all."

Arthurs hair is down; long and curly, just the way Eames likes it. Used to like it. Compliments and insults gather and tangle amongst themselves on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something between fuck you and you look unfairly lovely in that suit. He wants to say he's sorry, that he wishes more than anything he could reach his hands into time and reverse the clock, to go back and not say the things he did.

"You always did profess to know me better than you do," is what he says instead.

Ten years down the fucking drain. He turns then and, much like he did not so long ago, leaves. 

---

Arthur thinks his suit might be too tight.

Or maybe his tie is too close to his throat. Maybe someone has sucked all of the air out of the room, there's too many people. It's hot in here, too hot. In any case, Arthur is finding it harder to breathe than he did twenty minutes ago.

Trembling fingers worry with the knot of his tie for the nth time as he attempts to draw in a deep, heaving breath but finds his lungs refusing to expand to capacity. And it's as if someone has turned his hearing up to a hundred; the ballroom both quiet and deafening at once, he's sure everyone here can hear his galloping heartbeat, they all seem to be looking at him. Maybe he's making all the noise. He can't remember.

Maybe he has had too much to drink. 

Arthur has always been a bit of an outlier in his family. Never like his cousins. Too trapped in his own head. And now he's turned up to this party and everyone knows he's been unable to save his marriage, that it's back to baseline at his age when all of his cousins are having kids. Arthur is at one of these things alone again even with Eames swanning about, avoiding each other like they are strangers.

Intimacy has a fatal backlash, and this is it.

He has to get out of here.

Pasting on a smile, he finds Edith by the bar. She's graciously shared half of her feather boa with Aunt Michele as they speak.

"I'm heading out," he interrupts them, embracing Edith. "Happy Birthday, again. Thank you for inviting me."

"Oh, Arthur dearest," she says, her hands finding his shoulders, her rouged lips sloping into a frown. "So soon?"

"I have an early morning," he lies. "A work thing."

She shares a look with Michele. "Could you please do one thing for me before you leave?"

"Sure."

"I'm feeling a bit of a chill. Would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room?"

It's the least he could do dipping out early on her special day. "Of course."

"Number sixteen,” she passes him a paper ticket. “Lime leopard print, you can't miss it."

The cloak room, if he recalls correctly, was in the grand hall, out of the ballroom, towards the entrance.

So close, but so far, he thinks wryly, heading in.

---

It's quite stuffy in here, generously sized for a glorified closet, he has less room than he'd like, but it's hot work, rummaging around the large coats and jackets.

It's as he's spotted the lime leopard print monstrosity, way at the back, when he hears a tell-tale snick.

He drops the item and lunges for the door handle. It doesn't open. 

“No, no, no…” He jigs the handle, twisting it this way and that, bile rising up his throat. It's locked. He can't open it. Either this is a huge mistake or some fucker has just locked him in here. "Is anyone there?"

He calls out again, louder. No one answers him.

Then he kicks the door.

It doesn't budge. He pulls his phone out with nervous, shaking hands, desperate enough to call Eames to get him the fuck out of here. Not even Eames is petty enough to leave him in the lurch in a situation like this. He tries, but it goes to voicemail for each time Arthur tries.

No service. Of fucking course. Why would anything go right for him.

His eyes slip shut briefly and suddenly he is in an elevator; a tiny, cramped elevator that is going to descend and crash at any moment. A wave of vertigo washes over him so suddenly that his knees buckle, taking him to the floor.

The tie is loosened, and wrested from his person and thrown to the ground.

"Fuck," he says to himself. He buries his head in his hands and laughs, eyes burning, suddenly very, very sober.

---

If asked, Eames would generously say he is mostly a fan of Arthur's family. His mom, bless her memory, was a darling. Sandy, Michele, Edith, all gold star members of the Cohen clan, whether outsourced or made in-house. But some of them, however, are insufferable.

A dominant Cohen trait, it would seem.

He's been stuck speaking to some old fart who is drunkenly admitting to having a mistress while some other, older fart next to him nods and openly shares stories of sneaking gropes of the younger women who work in his office. 

"Well, that's depressing," he mutters, downing the rest of his champagne, skin feeling greasy simply by proximity. "Nice talk, chaps."

He leaves that circle of degeneracy to find someone more up to his speed. But as he turns, and turns, and turns, there doesn't seem to be anyone to fit that brief. He can't even see Arthur. Perhaps he left already. Without saying goodbye, or even a middle finger, that scoundrel. Not that Eames cares. 

He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt and considers that it is perhaps time to leave.

The birthday girl finds him before he finds her.

"Oh, Eamesie," she kisses his cheeks again. "You heading out, are you?"

"I am," he takes her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of each one. "Early morning, see."

"Worst news of the night! You'll come visit me soon, won't you?"

"Of course. We have to do happy hour."

"Of course! Can you do one thing for me before you leave?"

He smiles, fond, a happiness to indulge her blooming brightly in the cracks inside of him. "Of course."

Her shoulders shake with a theatrical shiver. "I'm feeling a bit of a chill... would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room? Number sixteen."

---

Arthur estimates that he's been sat on the floor, staring into nothingness, for at least twenty minutes when the door to the cloak room opens.

He's instantly on his feet, a thank god on his lips, when he sees that it's Eames who's come to his rescue.

Eames is staring at him, dumbly. "What are you doing in here?" he asks, the yellow light of the bulb above his head giving him a halo. “Did you pass out or something?”

“What?” Arthur pauses. "What are you doing here? Then it occurs to him exactly what Eames is doing in here. The blood rushes out of his upper body. Then he says, "Fuck."

Snick.

“Did—?”

Hysteria wells up where hope has vacated as he watches Eames whirl around and re-enact the same thing that Arthur had done earlier in trying to get the door open.

"It's locked," Arthur informs him.

"It's locked," Eames exclaims as if he hasn't heard him, roughly shaking the door handle. "Arthur, it's fucking locked. We're locked in." He pounds on the door and calls out, but no one comes, even when Eames resorts to bellowing for help.

Arthur sighs, head pounding.

Eames whirls around, anger writ over his face. "Are you going to fucking help or what, Arthur?" He takes his phone out of pocket, "Useless. I'll just fucking---" he taps the screen roughly. "No service? How is there no fucking service?"

"I've already tried that."

Eames rummages through the racks of coats, trying to look for something. "Surely there is something to jimmy that fucking door open." He pats himself down in a panic. "I don't have my fucking kit with me. The one day I don't have my goddamn kit."

Arthur knows. He left his lockpicking kit at their house, along with all of his other possessions.

"Did Edith ask you to get her coat?"

Pausing his assault on the door Eames sends a suspicious, caged look. "How did you know? Did you fucking plan this?"

"What the fuck?" Arthur blinks, taken aback. "Why would I plan this? Do you think I want to be stuck here with you?"

"I don't know, do you?"

"I don't want to be anywhere fucking near you," he snaps. Unbelievable. “This is the last place I want to be in." He punctuates this by pressing himself to the furthest wall, a whole four feet away from Eames. "Edith asked me the same thing," he swears. "What did you tell her?"

"I didn't fucking tell her anything, just that we split up."

"And what else?"

"I didn't tell her to lock me in a fucking closet with you if that's what you're asking," Eames snaps. "No doubt this is her idea of a joke."

More like her idea of a daytime soap. "I'm not laughing," Arthur mutters darkly.

"I suppose you wouldn't be," Eames says, mouth twisted in a facsimile of amusement. "Can't run away when someone's got you locked in."

Arthur strips his jacket off in angry motions, suddenly very warm, and drops it to the floor beside his tie. Beads of sweat roll down his back as the walls seem to close in with every verbal jab. 

"Rich coming from you. I'm not the one who ran away."

"I left after you left me." Eames adds.

"I didn't fucking leave you!" Arthur snaps, wishing he were anywhere else, that the floor would open and swallow him whole. He's so sick of talking about this. "God, you're so self-absorbed! You can't ever be wrong, can you?"

“Oh, are we doing this now?” Eames' arms cross over his chest. "What part am I wrong about—"

"—All of it—"

"—was it the note you left on the PASV that said 'I can't do this anymore'? Or was it the second that said 'I'm leaving?'".

"Leaving for a job for fucks' sake!" Arthur frustratedly wipes his hands down his face. "You weren't back from Berlin yet!"

"You'd been ignoring my calls for an entire week," Eames says. “If that’s not precisely what you meant, what was I supposed to think? That you’d announced your departure for milk and eggs down the shops?"

"You were supposed to ask me! Like, 'Hey, Arthur, what's this about?'"

"So you could break up with me to my face?"

Arthur shakes his head. "You always do this. You always cut the goddamn cord when you think someone is going to let the other end go first. I wasn't breaking up with you, asshole. You misunderstood."

"Yes, well," Eames huffs defensively, "it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? It was always going to end this way. It always does."

Arthur doesn't think so, but is too angry to bother refuting him. His fingers, slippery with sweat, struggle to unbutton his cuffs. He gets there and pushes his sleeves up messily, then works on the first few buttons of his shirt. He takes hold of the fabric and pulls it away from his chest, using it to fan himself.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm--" he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's too hot. I can't breathe." The room is too small. The room is too fucking small, there isn’t enough air—the elevator is falling—

"...sit down." Eames voice is muffled. "...sit down, Arthur."

His legs abruptly collapse beneath him at the command, knees buckling like a puppet that had its strings cut. Curling in on himself Arthur buries his head in his shaking hands again so he doesn't have to see.

Several long, quiet moments pass before he hears Eames shuffle and sit in front of him, clothes shifting noisily before him.

"Do you remember when we broke up over stamps that one time?" Arthur says into his hands when it feels like he’s not going to fall anymore, when there is a little more oxygen in the room. 

“Yeah.”

"I thought that was the dumbest reason for anyone to break up and nothing could ever top it.” He huffs darkly, laughing a little. “I was wrong."

"To be fair, they were my Uncle Micks' stamps."

"Your Uncle Mick was an asshole."

"Yeah but his collection was worth a mint. Until you threw them out."

"I didn't realize what it was,” he says sadly. “I thought it was trash."

"You misunderstood."

He presses his fingernails into his hairline until it hurts. "Yeah, I guess I did."

---

Every second that it takes for Arthur’s breathing to even out Eames counts out. Each of those seconds he wishes the closet door would magically open and give them both what he can’t, a solution to everything wrong between them.

"You're never going to forgive me about following Dom, are you?" Arthur says after a long time. 

"It's not that I haven't forgiven..." Eames swallows, tracing a line over the curve of his thumbnail. "There was never... I've forgiven you. Long ago."

“Then why did you say—? Yesterday. Why did you...”

Maybe Arthur was right, that it was Eames looking for an out this entire time. Maybe he wants some benevolent force to open that door so Eames can flee for good, unable to stand this peeling back of his skin, the under surface exploration that has never become easier, even after all this time.

Finding the right words is like digging for gold in a bargain bin at a discount store. In all of the white noise he tries to find the words; but they come out clumsy; insufficient. "When you left that time. It was...it felt..." He feels stupid even saying it, "...it hurt so tremendously that I think it took out a part of me."

"Eames."

"And the only way I could cope with that was to shut off that part of myself that cares with the same ferocity. To just turn it all off. I think I never put myself back together quite right. And every time I start thinking you're going to leave again..."

"You do what you think you need to to protect yourself. "

He shrugs, profound shame heating his face. "I do it before I know I've done it. I can't feel left behind if I convince myself I don't love you anymore."

"And you don't?"

"I only convince myself long enough to get out the door," Eames admits for the first time out loud. "It's pride that he keeps me from walking back in. I don't know if I can fix it."

"I wasn't going to leave."

It’s been forty hours of the same argument. Eames is beyond tired of this. "Then what the fuck does 'I can't do this anymore' and 'I'm leaving' mean, Arthur?"

Out of the corner of his eye Arthur looks awful, more awful than he did when Eames walked in. Ten years older and barren of any human vitality; smaller. "I was leaving for another job. It was going to be my last because I'm quitting."

Eames blinks. "You are not."

"I'm done. No more dreaming, no more consulting. None of it."

"You wouldn't last five minutes without it."

"I knew that's what you would say," Arthur fiddles with his hands, not meeting his eyes. "But I am. I mean, aren't you tired of it?"

"I was tired of it five years ago, Arthur. Remember, before you pulled me back in for the Fischer job?"

"I wish I'd quit then. Right after Mal." He laughs, darkly. "I wasted so much time. I fucking regret it. We could have had more time; now look at us."

"I can't believe you wrote that on fucking post-its," Eames wipes a hand down his face. "Why didn't you write 'let's quit dreamshare', you stupid idiot."

"It was only a first draft. You were home earlier than I expected. You weren’t meant to find them."

A long silence passes between them, taking up all of the available space in the tiny cloak room.

"You're right," Eames nudges their knees together, heart breaking a little. "This is way more stupid than the stamps break-up. Or the time with the bagel."

"I hadn't eaten in three days," Arthur says, ire momentarily flaring like a stoked fire as Eames knew it would, bringing a bit of life back to him. "Fuck. I was so mad when you ate that. I was so hungry."

"It was a stale bagel, for what it's worth."

"...I'm sorry you found the notes like that. I didn't think-- I didn't think. I was just trying to plan what to say. I was scared it was going to be a deal breaker."

"I suppose it was, in a way."

"Yeah."

An uncomfortable silence passes between them. In the far distance the can hear echoes of the ballroom music, but no voices, or footsteps.

"Eames?"

"Mm?"

"I..." Arthur visibly appears to take a moment to measure his words. "When you said yesterday that I was a flake looking for the next out... I'm not a flake."

Regret slides down Eames throat in a hard, solid lump. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you're not."

"And I shouldn't have said that you weren't in this to begin with."

"I was, you know," he says.

"Yeah."

"But this up and down thing," Eames says, finally loosening his bow-tie, the old aches in his knees and the small of his back making themselves known. "I had it wrong, but I had it right. We can't keep doing this.” 

“No.”

An air of sadness and finality permeates the room so thickly that Eames can't take it. He isn't going to let post-its of all damn things be their end. So he does what he does best, and takes a gamble.

“...We'd need to do something different."

The dividends are paid out in Arthur blinking at him in surprise, the ghost of a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. 

"Yeah,” he agrees. “Like... not working in an industry we resent?"

"Or not getting mad over stamps."

"Or bagels."

"Or not seeing family you like often enough."

"Not explaining things clearly," Arthur concedes, inching closer. "I was wrong, Eames. I messed up, big time. I am an idiot."

"Will you write that on a post-it?"

"A hundred times over."

"I do love you, very much, for what it's worth." Eames tells him. "I can't unlove you. I've tried. It doesn't stick."

Eames did try. But in a rush of blinding colour Eames can see at once the worth of the immaterial; the cost of his own self-preservation, or the risk of further turbulence with Arthur. A lifetime of missing the shape of him, of waking up beside him. Of being known by him. No part of Eames has known or longed for another since Arthur; and he feels it still, at this moment, pressed thigh to thigh, alone together, two inches and two thousand miles apart. Eames would be okay without Arthur, but he's so much better with him.

"Me too." Fingers thread through his. Arthur’s palm is slick and his fingers faintly tremble with lingering adrenaline.

Despite all of it, this simple point of contact threads some part of Eames back together. 

"Fourth time has to be the charm, don't you think?"

"I'll do it as many times as needed," Arthur says, his other hand coming up to cup Eames cheek. 

A chaste kiss is pressed to his mouth.

"Which coat is the best to shag on, do you think?" he mumbles against Arthur's lips after a moment, dirtying up the kiss with a swipe of his tongue.

"There should be some genuine mink in here, I think," Arthur tugs on Eames' bow-tie. "It's a shame we're going to crumple this suit. It's gorgeous."

Eames doesn't think it's a shame at all. It was the purpose of him buying it in the first place, after all. It was always intended to end up in a rumpled, crinkled pile on the floor.

And it does.

---

One year later.

"Oh, don't you two look cute," is the first thing his Aunt Michele says at Edith's 81st birthday party.

"I'd prefer devastatingly handsome," says Eames, linking his arm with Arthurs.

Michele blinks. "Okay. Nice seeing you!" Then she's off, chasing another woman calling her name.

"I prefer dapper," says Arthur, looking at Eames, seemingly somewhat offended. He gestures to their suits. "This is not cute."

"Au contraire, my dear," Eames begins walking them forward, waving across the room to some of Arthur's cousins, "we are the cutest. I could pinch our cheeks."

Arthur fixes him a look that halts a hand wandering downwards that intends to do just so. Recovering, Eames only smiles placidly at him as they approach the bar, where Edith is already flirting with the bartender. This year she's in a studded leather jacket and a red sequinned dress with a dramatic, sultry slit up the side. It’s tacky. It’s as lurid as the rest of the venue. It’s perfect.

"Didn't think either of you would show up," Barry mutters into his drink, face scrunching up as if he'd just tasted something sour.

"Oh honestly, how many times must we apologise for that little incident," Eames waves him off, referring to the previous room when Barry was the one to find them in the cloak room, post-coitus, having thoroughly defiled the gaudiest of outerwear.

"You haven't even apologized once."

"Well, if we're honest, nothing about that incident was little," says Arthur.

"Right you are," says Eames.

"I'm leaving," says Barry.

"Oh, how I missed you two," Edith smiles brightly welcoming them into her embrace as Barry departs. She kisses both of their cheeks. “Tell me, darlings, what’s news?”

Arthur shares a look with Eames.

It hasn’t been a year without setbacks; to be expected, of course, when quitting dreamshare and recharting the trajectory of their lives. Not without quibbles and slammed doors, sneers and snarls and fucking spectacular make-up sex. But it’s been the best year of Eames’ life, so far, he would put good money on saying, full of making up things as they go and plain old making up and out, over and over. Growing up and older together, more stable than they’ve ever been before. 

Arthur squeezes his fingers.

Eames slips his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the folded up piece of paper he knows is in there. A post-it that simply reads I love you.

“We’re thinking of relocating nearby,” he announces. “A change of pace.”

Edith's gasp is genuine in its delight. “Oh, that is the best news of the night!”

Arthur’s voice is soft. “Yeah,” he catches Eames gaze, smiles fondly. “We’re pretty damn happy.”

They are.

[janmisali]

a naming scheme for polyominoes

polyominoes are shapes made out of orthogonally connected unit squares (like in tetris). I think they're really fun, but one problem is that there really isn't any established method for referring to them. lower-order polyominoes are generally referred to by letters that they resemble, but that doesn't scale well. there are more polyominoes than letters.

so, here's my system! full description under the cut, but here's a spreadsheet with the names for all the polyominoes with up to nine squares, if all you want is the names of these shapes.

in this system, polyominoes are described extremely thoroughly according to several defining properties.

number of squares

this is the part that's already well-established. a monomino has one square, a domino has two, a tromino has three, a tetromino has four, and so on. the numeral prefixes I'm using to generalize these established names are the same as in my base-naming system, so for example a twelve-square polyomino is a "dozomino".

for a monomino or a domino, the number of squares alone is enough to uniquely describe the polyomino. for any higher order, you need a little more information.

symmetry group

this is one of my favorite parts of this system.

after the numeral prefix, there's a suffix that indicates what symmetries the polyomino has. this suffix is broken into three parts.

starting from the right, the ending of the suffix indicates rotational symmetry. -o (polyomino) is the generic form, leaving rotational symmetry unspecified. -e (polyomine) means no rotational symmetry, -us (polyominus) means twofold rotational symmetry, and -on (polyominon) means fourfold rotational symmetry.

before that, the middle part of the suffix indicates reflectional symmetry. -min- (polyomino) is the generic unspecified form, -m- (polyomo) means no reflectional symmetry, -mil- (polyomilo) means one axis of mirror symmetry, -mic- (polyomico) means two axes of mirror symmetry, and -dr- (polyodro) means four axes of mirror symmetry.

and finally (or I guess initially), the vowel at the start of the suffix indicates the alignment of the axis or axes of mirror symmetry, when relevant. -o- (polyomino) is generic, -a- (polyamino) means orthogonal axes, and -i- (polyimino) means diagonal axes.

in total, there are eight distinct symmetry groups a polyomino can belong to:

asymmetric (polyome)

one orthogonal line of mirror symmetry (polyamile)

one diagonal line of mirror symmetry (polyimile)

chiral twofold rotational symmetry (polyomus)

two orthogonal lines of mirror symmetry (polyamicus)

two diagonal lines of mirror symmetry (polyimicus)

chiral fourfold rotational symmetry (polyomon)

four lines of mirror symmetry (polyodron)

in some cases, the numeral prefix for the number of squares and this suffix for the symmetry group is sufficient to uniquely describe a polyomino. (for example, there is only one pentodron: the five-square polyomino shaped like a plus sign) however, most of the time you need more information than that.

stability

the stability of a polyomino is, in simple terms, the number of "non-load-bearing" squares in the pattern. how many of the squares could individually be removed while keeping the polyomino connected? this turns out to be a very useful thing to be able to refer to.

as an example, here are two pentamiles. they both have five squares, and one orthogonal line of mirror symmetry. the one on the left has two non-load-bearing squares (the two on the left side), and the one on the right has three (the one on the left, the one on the top, and the one on the bottom). you can check for yourself to verify that removing any other square from either of these will result in the remaining squares no longer being orthogonally connected.

so, the two pentamiles can be distinguished from each other by calling the one on the left the diadic pentamile, and the one on the right the triadic pentamile. in general, a polyomino with n non-load-bearing squares is n-adic, using the same kinda silly numeral prefix system as everything else.

but what about when this isn't enough information either?

sides

here are the two pentimiles, both of which are diadic. they can be distinguished by counting how many sides they have: the one on the left is hexagonal, and the one on the right is decagonal. so, their names are the hexagonal pentimile and the decagonal pentimile.

counting how many sides a polyomino has isn't as straightforward as you might expect due to some literal edge cases like this one:

this is a heptomino with a hole in it. how many sides does it have? I think most people would say it has ten sides, but you could also say it has six (ignore the hole), nine (there are nine vertices), or what I did and say it has eight sides.

I think this particular method of counting sides is more elegant mathematically (and computationally), which is why it's what I'm using. also it's fun!

holes

these are the two tesseragonal (sixteen sided) tetradic ennimiles. the one on the right has a hole in it, and the one on the left doesn't, so the left one can be called the solid tesseragonal tetradic ennimile and the right one can be called the hollow tesseragonal tetradic ennimile.

for polyominoes with more than one hole, you add a numeral prefix to "hollow", eg. bihollow, trihollow, tetrahollow, etc.

longest line

these are the two polyominoes that can be called an octagonal diadic hexomus. (they're also both solid, but that's not necessary to specify in this case because there isn't a hollow octagonal diadic hexomus.)

these are distinguished by the lengths of their longest line of squares. unlike previously described parts of these names, this is relative, not absolute; all that matters is that the one on the left's longest line is shorter than the one on the right. in this case, these are called the minor octagonal diadic hexomus and the major octagonal diadic hexomus.

there are naturally cases where you need to distinguish between more than two longest-line lengths, so these two words can be supplemented with additional words as necessary:

minor, major

minor, medial, major

subminor, minor, major, supermajor

subminor, minor, medial, major, supermajor

subminor, minor, superminor, submajor, major, supermajor

subminor, minor, superminor, medial, submajor, major, supermajor

subminor, minor, superminor, submedial, supermedial, submajor, major, supermajor

subminor, minor, superminor, submedial, medial, supermedial, submajor, major, supermajor

bisubminor, subminor, minor, (…) major, supermajor, bisupermajor

trisubminor, bisubminor, minor, (…) major, supermajor, bisupermajor, trisupermajor

and so on from there, including "medial" only when there's an odd number of different longest-line lengths that need to be distinguished.

bounding area

these are the three octagonal diadic hexomes. the one on the right has a longer longest line than the other two, so it's the major octagonal diadic hexome, but the other two (which are both minor) can be further disambiguated using their bounding area.

the one on the left fills a three-by-three rectangle, and the one in the middle fills a three-by-four rectangle. in this sense, the left one is smaller than the middle one, so they are respectively named the small minor octagonal diadic hexome and the great minor octagonal diadic hexome.

just like minor and major, small and great are part of a larger set of relative terms, and which ones are used depends on how many distinct bounding areas are being compared.

small, great

small, middle, great

smaller, small, great, greater

smaller, small, middle, great, greater

smallest, smaller, small, great, greater, greatest

smallest, smaller, small, middle, great, greater, greatest

smallest, smaller, small, smallish, greatish, great, greater, greatest

smallest, smaller, small, smallish, middle, greatish, greater, greatest

bismallest, smallest, smaller, small, smallish, (...) greatish, great, greater, greatest, bigreatest

trismallest, bismallest, (...) bigreatest, trigreatest

and so on, using "middle" when there's an odd number of areas being compared.

aspect ratio

these are the two smaller minor dozagonal diadic octomes. their bounding rectangles have the same area (twelve square units), but the one on the left is three-by-four and the one on the right is two-by-six. to convey this, they're called the broad smaller minor dozagonal diadic octome and the narrow smaller minor dozagonal diadic octome.

specifically, "broad" means closer to a square, and "narrow" means more elongated. these terms are further extended in the same way as small and great, with "intermediary" as the equivalent of "middle".

last resort

if two polyominoes have all of these things in common, they're pretty dang similar shapes.

these are the two great decagonal diadic hexomes. they're basically the same shape, but they're still distinct. what I've decided to do when this happens is to just number them, semi-arbitrarily. the one on the left is the primary great decagonal diadic hexome, and the one on the right is the secondary great decagonal diadic hexome.

but of course, what order should they go in? I think the most natural thing to do is to convert the polyomino into a binary number, then sort numerically. since in order to get to the point where this step is necessary polyominoes are guaranteed to have the same bounding box, there's no need to indicate where the different rows start and end; you can just read off all the squares one after the other.

in this example, these two polyominoes are 001 001 011 110 and 001 011 010 110, reading from the bottom row up (with the "origin" placed at the bottom left corner).

one minor issue with this is that a single polyomino can have up to eight distinct orientations. so, to convert it into a number, you first need to pick which orientation is "canonical". the solution I went with is to use whichever orientation of the ones where the shorter side of the bounding box is the width corresponds to the lowest number in binary.

a more significant issue with this, which I haven't really solved, is that there are still so many dang polyominoes.

these are the thirty-seven distinct greatish minor solid dozagonal triadic ennomes. while the vibes of these shapes are indeed very similar, it would be nice to be able to distinguish between them in some way other than just numbering them one through thirty-seven (as fun as using my base-naming system to generate words like "bikery" for the 26th one may be).

closing thoughts

the names this system generates are by no means practical or convenient, but they are highly descriptive, which was my main goal. regardless, for practical purposes just inserting an image inline with text is almost always a better way to refer to higher-order polyominoes than any naming scheme.

there are many important things that this naming system does not describe which could hypothetically be incorporated into a derivative system. one worth noting is whether or not a given polyomino can tile the plane. as it turns out, figuring out if an arbitrary polyomino can tile the plane is computationally really hard, so it would be unsuitable for something like this.

this system only describes "free" polyominoes, where mirror images count as the same shape. following tetris rules, however, those chiral pairs (such as the "S" and "Z" tetrominoes, both of which are called a "tetromus" by my system) should count separately. my recommended solution to this is to refer to the canonical orientation as the "left-handed" one and its mirror image as "right-handed".

[lonniemachin]

Omar reached out to me to help spread his fundraiser. He is a Palestinian in Rafah urgently trying to raise money for necessities of survival and to evacuate his 9-person family. He has only raised €4,893 out of his €50,000 goal so far! Please share and donate, and if you can't donate, please still share!

From Omar's GFM:

Hello, I am Mohammed, a Palestinian student in Germany, I am trying to forward the message of a good friend in Gaza, please support him !!!

Hello to everyone with humanity in this world. I'm speaking to you from Gaza, and I don't know if we will survive in the coming days from this death that draws nearer with each passing day. God spared me from the previous four wars on Gaza, but this war is entirely different. Perhaps in the coming days, I won't be among you anymore. Maybe death will take me as it took my friends and relatives from me.

I am Omar Hamad from Gaza Strip, Beit Hanoun city. I graduated from the College of Pharmacy in 2019. I worked hard in pharmacies and pharmaceutical companies to save up enough money to open my own pharmacy. Because I am very interested in the field of cosmetics and skincare, I didn't open a pharmacy. Instead, I opened my own skincare and hair care store, "Cosmatics," and it cost me around $45,000.

In the last few months before the war, I prepared my apartment and, literally, "poured my heart's blood" into furnishing it. It cost me a hefty amount, around $20,000, and I was ready to get married. But the war did not allow that. It did not grant us even a simple life, which is the right of every human in this world. This world has become desolate, where we see death every day and it cannot even save our children.

I belong to a beautiful, loving, and kind family. My father, mother, brothers Ahmed, Abdullah, Sameh, and Mohamed, and my sisters Faten, Ward, and Reem. My elder brother Ahmed is deaf and mute, suffering in the war from the intensity of the bombing and the concussion in his ear, where he never sleeps at night. My sisters Faten and Ward are also deaf and mute, and their suffering is more difficult because they are females and their physical structure is weaker, as those vibrations and concussions in their ears reverberate heavily. Meanwhile, my sister Reem's fiancé was killed in the war. She couldn't look at life with a hopeful gaze. Our sorrows could fill the whole world and overwhelm it. Oh God, why does all of this happen!

My mother also lost her three brothers, her mother, her brother's wife, and her brother's daughter during the war, all brutally killed. Despite all the sorrow that fills our hearts, we still have a positive outlook towards the future.

After being forced to evacuate from the northern Gaza Strip to its south, we went to the Palestinian Red Crescent in Khan Yunis. The bombing and scenes of killing and destruction were numerous. One day, while my friends and I were eating in our tent, the house next to us was bombed, and shrapnel fell into our food, miraculously sparing us. On another day, a group of people in the street next to us was bombed, and I saw before me 17 bodies, all torn apart, scattered flesh. I couldn't stand from the horror of the scene.

Then we moved to Rafah, on a barren sandy land, if found, on an area of 8 square meters. Twenty meters of expensive nylon and some ropes, that's how a scar is made on the ground bearing the name "tent," assigned to shelter an entire family that meets all its needs within its walls. Living inside it without a bathroom, without a kitchen, without flooring, without pillars, without covers, without warmth, without anything except a heavy heart, a wandering mind, an empty stomach, dense fog, and a very long night, accompanied by sadness, loss of loved ones, wind, rain, and bone-chilling cold. And thus, we await death.

We all need at least medical and psychological care to alleviate some of this pain, also due to the prevalence of diseases and the lack of clean drinking water and the scarcity of food.

We deserve a dignified life like any human in this world. We don't want to live just to survive; we don't want to live like animals only thinking about drinking and eating. We want to live with dignity, with freedom. I am full of hope and optimism that you will support us and help us. If you find that we deserve a better life, please help us in this campaign, which is $50,000.

• The permits and fees necessary to leave the Gaza Strip through the Egyptian Rafah are $5,000 per person (9 people, which is $45,000), in addition to $5,000 to secure the lives of 9 people for rent, buying clean clothes, and securing food and drink at least in the first few days.

Thank you very much for being interested in reading and hearing my story. You are not obliged to help, but we all hope that you will help us and that we will live a dignified life free from bombing, death, blood, and destruction, and also free from continuous hunger and thirst, a life full of cleanliness and hope.

Omar.

[talonabraxas]

How to Transmute Human Consciousness into Buddhas Wisdom

1. The Ten Mysterious Gates

There are ten gates of wonderful manifestations as taught by the Hwa Yen School. I have omitted four of them which duplicate other ones. One may meditate on the six gates of mystic manifestations as follows:

(a) The mysterious gate of perfect yoga of the co-relation and co-existence of all things both in space and in time. As the nature of all Dharmas are Sunyata, every condition of every Dharma relates freely, moves freely, is united freely and plays freely. It is just like a great plain which does not belong to any ego-centered individual, and every person may play there. Hence the mystic circus brings their lions, elephants, horses, monkeys, bears and dogs with their girl and boy members to play there freely. So in the great Dharmadhatu which is of the great Sunyata, all Dharmas may play together and the space of four or ten directions and the time of the three periods may be united or separated, interlocked or interwoven at the meditators will since his mind has been sublimated by the Sunyata.

(b) The mysterious gate of sovereign power in connection with all the Dharmas. As oneself is Sunyata so are those other than self; as a being lacks self so does a thing lack self. Whenever the self is void where the power of the mysterious gate or rooms are opened, one is in all and all may be in one, too; one behind all, all may be behind one, too; small in great, great may be in small; low in high, high may be in low also. Thus all elements of beings and things are mutually identified. A universal identification forms an unlimited and ultimate freedom. Those American hippies who ask for more freedom by laziness onlybeard may be unshaven, clothes may be unwashed, girls may be sexually enjoyed without being married, drugs to enhance sex may be taken often, school lessons may be left but picnics should be frequently takensuch freedom is only a kind of suicide. One who really wants the great freedom should lay more stress on this meditation.

(c) The mysterious gate of performance of manifestations of either appearance or disappearance. When something appears, it appears in the Sunyata; when it disappears, it disappears into the same Sunyata. When the atom was only a potential, scientists treated it as superstition but Buddhists knew it could be broken up, 3000 years before the scientists. When the atom was made up into the atomic bomb it was not a new thing to the Buddhists. The atom and atomic bomb are one thing, but the former holds the potentiality of its disappearance, while the latter its appearance. Both form the complement of the whole entity of truth.

(d) The mysterious gate of sovereign power in different and opposite formswide or narrow (2nd gate), one or many (3rd gate), subtle or gross (6th gate). These pairs may interpenetrate one another commutably, freely, and uninterruptedly. Is not the finger narrower than a mountain but sometimes when held in front of ones eye it may hide a mountain in the distance. Is not the atomic bomb powerful and can destroy gross or great matter but it is invisible, as subtle as a spirit, when it is not split. Buddhists found out this truth approximately 3000 years earlier than the scientists. Are not the lungs 600 square feet larger than the body when they are extended; but they occupy only one small part of the body! Are not there 200 billion nerve cells in only one small brain? These examples are common things. If by the power of Sunyata, the mysterious and supernatural maya becomes much more inconceivable, yet it may actually be realized through this meditation.

(e) The mysterious gate of the various performances of separated Dharmas in the ten periods. Each of the past, present, and future also contains three periods. To the whole one, if these nine are added, it will make up the ten periods. By the speed of gnostic light, Buddha sees the things of the future and remembers things of the past. Time seems to go in reverse which is known by the theory of Einstein in these days, only Buddha knew it 3000 years earlier. Such a vertical connection completes the interconnection and interlocking of the separate beings along the nine periods. The precious five gates are mutually penetrated in the horizontal plane. When their vertical connection of time is added, it becomes four dimensions, which was known to Buddhists almost 30 centuries earlier than Einstein. Two dimensions may be symbolized by a plane. Three dimensions by a cube. Four should be symbolized by a ball fully encircling a cross. But there is the fifth dimension when it is added causes a mysterious penetration, and this may be symbolized by this signcrossed vajra non-limitation of time and of space. Things only occur with length and width in mathematics, materials adding height are solid geometrical materials. Adding time again are durable materials, yet they are physical. With the addition of the Sunyata mystic emergence it then becomes metaphysical. Hence philosophically length, width, height, duration and Sunyata emanation form a fifth dimension, as I newly make this term.

(f) The mysterious gate of completion of virtues of the master and family working together harmoniously and brightly. If any one of the Dharmas or persons is taken as the chief one, all other Dharmas or persons might work agreeable as his retinue. For instance when the practitioner is practicing Ahimsa, all his neighbors follow his good example and out of great compassion send birds to their natural state from their cages, fishes to the ocean from their tanks, doves to the sky from their prisons. Remote neighbors follow their close neighbors, the village follows the remote neighbor, the town follows the village, the city and the whole nation and whole globe will follow one by one and the third world war will not happen. No matter how the facts really appear, one should meditate like this as if it is so fortunately becoming true. By the addition of the time dimension, the three periods may unite as one whole, so here and there, all persons of the whole world will eventually become kind, merciful and peaceful once and for all.

As Sunyata has no ego, it enables oneself to be united with all others. When one practitioner, Mr. A., takes one person as the master, all other persons of the ten Dharmadhatus, may be his family. At the same time, another practitioner, Mr. B., C., D. or so on may take someone in the family of Mr. A as his master and all other persons other than that master may be his family. Thus, master yet family, family yet master, they all have the philosophic emanation. Wonderful and inconceivable incarnations would happen without limitation. Again one master has his inner family and outer family, small family and big family, appeared family and disappeared family, small family in the big family, big family in the small family. Their transformations are at the will of the master without any confinement.

Alas! Very few persons know that Sunyata is not negativism. A philosophic, mysterious positive potentiality is within it. Still very, very few practitioners or scholars know the discriminations between the ten goodnesses and six paramitas which I am going to deal with below.

2. To Distinguish the Six Paramitas from Ten Good Conducts and Diligently Practice the Former Ones

(a) The liberatable way of charity. To give alms to the poor even frequently in an amount more than the whole world can contain is goodness which may get one a good rebirth in heaven, but to be liberated from heaven or earth one should give alms with the Sunyata which has no giver, non-giving, and non-objects of giving. In doing this liberatable charity, one is able to approach the liberation of Buddhahood. Buddha taught it in the Dragon Palace with the following stanza:

"Give all things till the ego remains, Give the ego till others remain, Give the others till Dharmas remain, Give Dharmas till Buddha to attain."

(b) The liberatable way of holding the precepts. All silas, vinayas or commandments should be kept with wisdom, as Buddha taught on some occasion:

Holding the Silas not depend upon Body, speech and mind, or depend upon Three periods, two sides, or depend upon Delusions, or awareness but by none Dependence is precepts holding the precepts on.

(c) The liberatable way of patience. To be patient on the occasion of misery or to the harmful person or at difficult work does good which is not sufficient to be liberated by the paramita. He who practices this should follow the main meaning of the stanza taught by Buddha on the same occasion:

Patience never knows there is I or you Neither keep the idea of mine and yours All men, things and views should be purified When all Dharmas become pure its patience.

(d) The liberatable way of diligence. To exert ones energies to do good and to leave no stone unturned to forbid evil, these are profane merits by which alone one does not reach the thither shore of Nirvana, but following the teaching below one does:

As men are in their nature so am I As Dharmas are in nature so is my Lord, knowing there is no thing to gain It is the real diligence so high

(e) The liberatable way of concentration. Sitting straight, thinking of nothing, neither sleepy nor disturbed in ones mind, this is a common attitude of a religious person. One does not abide in the truth unless one can follow the stanza taught by Buddha Gautama correctly:

Mind is not inside Nor outside nor bide Holds nothing but a void Dhyana can not hide

(f) The liberatable way of wisdom. Even one who is wise as a serpent or as Solomon and can see as far through a brick wall as anybody but sees no Sunyata, gets no realization thereof. One would not be liberated at all. Hence the ultimate Prajnaparamita should be practiced under the guidance of the following stanza:

All Dharmas are so plain Has neither goal nor vain There is view without sight But not view it as light No request no volition Pity on fools is real wit.

3. To Distinguish the Sunyata Identification with Bodhicitta from that Dry Sunyata without Bodhicitta

The wise one does know that the Sunyata does not stand alone. The ancients called those persons who had little recognition of Sunyata and mistook it as a thing of voidness separate from everything else as men of dry wisdom. Hence one should develop five kinds of Bodhicitta.

a. Bodhicitta of Will

When one is still in the Course of Hinayana, one finds out that he is in transmigration and suffers many kinds of pain and one then has pity on those who are suffering with the same pains. A strong sympathy arises in his mind. He might think that if I were a Buddha I might save them. So he keeps such a good will to become a Buddha for the sake of saving mankind and every sentient being trapped within the same transmigration. Every day he should frequently think like this. He might write down his special good wills in some ten provisions or more. Every day he should repeat them and practice every good Dharma for their accomplishment and ask his Protector to help him until this aim is reached.

b. Bodhicitta of Conducts

When the above mentioned wills are developed, one must perform with the six paramitas many myriad conducts of goodness to carry on all the good wills and actually benefit all sentient beings. Thus all the eight right paths of Hinayana and the six paramitas of Mahayana and all the Vajrayana precepts thereof under this guide or basis will be fulfilled.

c. Bodhicitta of Victorious Signification

To get rid of the volition of Bodhicitta, to flee from the demon of compassion, one has to develop the victorious signification which is thoroughly fixed with the Sunyata of nature. One of my stanzas on Bodhicitta may be introduced below:

The best significant Bodhicitta Is without any kind of work or data There is no real mind to arise it Nor is there volition to hold it.

There is neither pleasure nor pain, neither sufferer nor enjoyer, neither agreement nor sympathy, neither I nor he. One may know this well but one has to have some Bodhicitta to pity them who do not know that the Bodhicitta and the person who has been pitied are both of Sunyata. One is still in the Sunyata.

d. Bodhicitta of Samadhi

When one has passed the study of exoteric doctrines and starts to learn Vajrayana, ones Bodhicitta is no longer confined to mentalization but always keeps ones mind identified with the materiality. Thus Bodhicitta is symbolized by the moon. One must visualize ones Bodhicitta as a bright moon which is situated in ones heart and on a lotus in the middle of the heart. From the moon many rays of great compassion are emitted to sentient beings through all of transmigration.

e. Bodhicitta of Kunda

When one has studied Tantra and gets progress in the Anuttarayoga, one is enabled to practice the vajra love. One then has to develop this kind of Bodhicitta of Kunda which is the gnostic semen containing both the Sunyata of nature and the great compassion and great pleasure. Through the good karmas held in the lotus of the Dakini, the ultimate salvation may be fulfilled. This is the final and highest, deepest Bodhicitta.

The first three Bodhicittas are known to every scholar of exoteric doctrines but the next two are only known to the students of the Tantra and they are never systematically emphasized as I do.

Under the first two kinds of Bodhicitta, adding thoughts of impermanence and the pains of transmigration, one may practice again great compassion toward sentient beings and things or Dharmas. Adding the Sunyata meditations, through the third Bodhicitta of Victorious Signification, one practices the great compassion of the same entity with all sentient beings and things and that of non-condition. That is, without any particular connection with others, one should have great compassion towards every being and every thing.

Thus the human mind which was acting in a self-centered psychical sphere now is sublimated by the Bodhicitta and great compassion and becomes the mind of a Bodhisattva who is the prince of Buddhas and acting in the accumulation of Holy Karmas.

[zerogate]

Music and wild dancing phenomena recur in all shapes and forms throughout history. In the history of European Christianity, music in service to spiritual dance and ceremony has been a constant, periodically erupting into irrepressible movements. In many European dance epidemics, participants vied with the old Greeks in wildness, for example in the Festival of Fools, in which people donned costumes of animals, often disguising themselves as the other gender, happily doing and saying things out of character, all of which was outrageous to Christian piety.

The “dancing” was not square or genteel but explosive, spastic, jerky, and hopping. There were dances meant to promote the fertility of crops, as well as of women, or to celebrate a saint or a holy day. The hungry, the sick, and the miserable danced for relief, for healing, for companionship. There were dances of the dead meant to help the dead but also to ward off the dangers that might issue from the insulted dead. J. G. Frazer, distinguished British folklorist and anthropologist, has documented the curious fact that early humanity lived in extreme fear of the dead, even dead folks who in life were friends and loved ones....

There is a strange side to music that is dark. You’ve probably heard of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. An odd little fellow comes strolling through town blowing tunes on his pipe and the children spontaneously break free and follow the Piper out of town and never come back. It’s a true story, and 147 children were never seen again. All kinds of historical documentation bears this out. All we know is that the piping had the power to lure the children into whatever made them disappear...

As for the Dionysian frenzy, E. Lewis Backman, a professor of pharmacology from the University of Upsala, has tracked dance epidemics in Western history.

An epidemic erupted in a region near the Rhine in 1374. That year was a time of unprecedented floods; the water of the Rhine was twenty-six feet higher than normal from the biggest snowfalls in hundreds of years. In the midst of this chaos arrived the choreomaniacs, victims of a mysterious disease called choreomania, dance mania, which became a big epidemic sweeping across Europe. According to one French historian, “the dancers were seized by some crazy madness, a frenzy hitherto unknown. They took off their clothes and went about naked; they put wreathes of flowers on their heads; they held each other hand in hand, and so they danced through the streets.”

Was this a disease or a Dionysian explosion of ecstatic consciousness—an unconscious rebellion against boredom, poverty, and oppression? However bizarre and frightening their behavior, very few died; in the end, they all recovered and were restored to their normal selves.

-- Michael Grosso, Yoga of Sound: the Life and Teachings of the Celestial Songman, Swami Nada Brahmananda

[siryouarebeingmocked]

i gotta say i agree that exposing children to algorithmic content feeds is going to make them grow up with one billion new kinds of mental illnesses and it's a serious societal problem that urgently needs addressing but it makes me v. v. v. uneasy when i see posts going around that identify this issue and come to the conclusion 'this is why it's important for parents to know what their kid is doing online' and uh girls there are a lot of kids out there who would be dead if their parents knew what they were doing online

"yeah this aspect of capitalism is extremely alienating and traumatizing" and im nodding and smiling and then they add "which is why we must retreat to the safety of the family" and i start abruptly high-pitched screaming like a fire alarm

It's really amazing how txttletale almost comes to the right conclusion, and then veers off at the last second.

And is basically asking for validation about their irrational, highly emotional knee-jerk reaction. 

Also, how exactly can one tell that a lot of kids would be dead if their parents knew what they were doing? Hypotheticals aren't proof. 

Even if I assume this is hyperbole, maybe the kid is doing something that's actually harmful, and parents need to keep them from doing that. That;s literally the job.

Why are you just completely ignoring that idea? How can you go "social media is harmful for kids" and then immediately go "parents should have no control over their kids online lives"? 

>capitalism Oh, yeah, clearly it's the algo and capitalism that are the problem, not what people are actually doing with social media. Individuals bear no responsibility at all. 

Couldn't possibly be TX trying to WD-40 a square peg into a round hole. 

Also, notice the lack of any specific measures, just vague "this needs to be addressed". Given her prior leftist leanings, five bucks says most of her ideal solutions involve government regulations. 

You know, the ones that often come from people who are even more out of touch with the internet than your average modern parent. 

Also, it's kind of hilarious that someone who blocks over the slightest disagreement and unironically spouts the "Tolkein's orcs are racist" argument thinks they're opposed to bigotry and know how to deal with massive Internet problems. 

We know that both traditional and social media work closely with the government to shape public opinion, so blaming the harm of social media entirely on capitalism is stupid. 

PPS: , this is coming from someone whose claim to e-fame is being a smug, toxic, insular jerk even by the standards of this infamously toxic social media site. No wonder she wants to blame the algo and capitalism. 

[inifinitypink]

forgotten characters

[abbythewritor]

Winter is coming..

Prologue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Description:

Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author: HELLO welcome to my new one piece fan fiction! First of all, I just want to point out, I'm a One Piece fan, and a game of thrones fan, so, why not put them together!!! This story out of warning from my heart, IS NOT FOR CHILDREN OR PEOPLR UNDER THE AGE OF 18!! Game of thrones is a violent show, and combining it with One Piece, it's going to have a lot of graphic scenes like violence, a lot of nudity, love making scenes, and just, game of thrones stuff. BUT! DONT worry, there will be One Piece stuff included too, as it is a story about both shows, put together. Y/n in this story, which is you all! Is a plus size, over weight woman. I wanted to make this book to show women no matter what size you are YOU ARE STRONG! As it is exactly what this Y/n I created to be!!!!

Things to point out: One, I do not own game of thrones or One Piece, they are separate shows and owned by their creators! Y/n means your name. Y/e/c means your eye color. Y/s/c is your skin color, and Y/H/L means your hair length, and Y/H/C means your hair color!!!

Another quick update, if the text is small, I wrote this on Chat GTP for spelling and grammar, so the story would be extra good!

Alright! Without further a do! Enjoy the prologue of my newest book!

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The wind keened through the streets of Loguetown, a mournful howl carried on the salt-laden air. The execution square trembled under the weight of thousands, every voice rising, every body pressing forward as if proximity to the moment might grant them a piece of eternity.

At the center of it all stood him.

Gol D. Roger.

The Pirate King.

The platform beneath his feet was rough-hewn wood, darkened by age and the spit of rain from earlier that morning. Bound in thick iron chains, Roger stood tall, his massive chest bared to the wind. The man exuded something no noose could choke—something no death could claim. He was smiling. Not the smile of a defeated man, but one of triumph, as though he had already conquered death itself.

Beside him, Vice Admiral Garp stood like a stone monolith. His fists clenched at his sides, his expression unreadable save for the tautness around his mouth. He had begged, argued, threatened, all in hopes that Roger might leave this world quietly, without stirring the embers he knew were ready to ignite. But he should have known better.

From the crowd, a cry shattered the air.

“Where’s the treasure, Roger?”

Another voice joined it, shrill with desperation: “Tell us where it is!”

“The Seven Nations! Did you find them?” someone else screamed.

The Seven Nations—the distant lands across the seas, rumored in drunken tales among pirates and whispered over maps held together with wishful thinking. Westeros, they called it, a place where kings warred over a throne forged in fire and death. The Iron Throne—an icon, a myth—rumored to control the very earth and seas. To men who ruled the waves, such a place was an obsession. But if anyone had known its secrets, it would have been him.

The crowd swelled and surged, hands raised as if reaching for salvation. “The Iron Throne, Roger! Does it exist?”

Gol D. Roger tilted his head back, the dying sun catching the edges of his face. He turned, just slightly, to where Garp stood rigid at his side. “You’ll see,” Roger said, his voice low but carrying a weight that made Garp flinch. “This world’s far from over.”

Then he turned to the crowd, his voice booming across the square, silencing even the wails of the wind.

“You want my treasure?” he roared, his words carrying as far as the sea itself. “You can have it!”

A gasp swept through the crowd like a ripple across water, jaws slack, hands frozen mid-air.

“I left everything I own in one place!” Roger bellowed, his grin widening into something maniacal, something eternal. “Find it! The throne, the gold, all of it!”

For a moment, the crowd froze as if the world itself had stopped spinning. And then chaos erupted. Shouts and screams rang out as men pushed and shoved, their eyes wild with greed, their minds already chasing dreams they had yet to form.

Garp closed his eyes briefly, his face twisting with something too heavy for words. Damn you, Roger.

The executioner’s blade gleamed in the dying light. Roger stood tall, his chains rattling like the echoes of thunder. His grin remained. His eyes burned. And as the blade came down, the Pirate King died—but his words lived, spreading like wildfire, from the seas to the kingdoms, from the Grand Line to Westeros.

The age of pirates had begun.

The cool hands of the housewives moved over Y/N’s body, their touch efficient and dispassionate. The air in the chamber was heavy with the scent of oils and perfumes, the richness cloying against her skin. She sat on a low stool, her weight pressing into the cushioned seat, as they fastened the fabric of her gown around her.

It was Alabasta’s finest silk—a deep crimson with golden embroidery that traced the outline of dragons curling around the hem. It clung to her form as it was tied and pinned, the heavy fabric made heavier still by the way it was meant to accentuate her figure.

Y/N said nothing as the women whispered to one another. She had learned long ago that silence was her armor.

“Sit straighter,” one of them barked, nudging her spine as if she were made of clay.

She complied, but only barely. Her gaze remained fixed on the tall mirror before her. The face staring back was her own, though she barely recognized it beneath the powders and oils smeared across her cheeks, the kohl darkening her eyes. She was presentable. She was worthy. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it?

The doors creaked open behind her. The women fell silent, their heads bowing as if to a god. She didn’t need to turn to know who had entered.

“Leave us,” her brother said, his tone clipped but soft—like silk pulled tight over a knife’s edge.

The housewives scurried from the chamber, their bare feet slapping softly against the marble. The door clicked shut, and the room fell into silence, broken only by the faint hiss of the wind outside.

Her brother stepped forward, his reflection appearing behind her in the mirror. He was tall and lean, his pale hair falling in soft waves over his shoulders. His face, angular and sharp, bore a cruel sort of beauty—a beauty that masked the rot beneath.

“You clean up well, sister,” he said softly, his tone almost kind, but Y/N had learned long ago that there was no kindness in him. Only control.

He stepped closer, his hands coming to rest lightly on her shoulders. She tensed beneath his touch, her stomach curling in on itself. He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

His fingers traced along the silk straps of her gown, tugging at them gently, one after the other. They slid from her shoulders without resistance, and the heavy gown pooled at her waist. The chill of the chamber kissed her bare skin, her full, heavy form now exposed beneath his gaze.

He didn’t speak. Instead, his fingers moved—tracing the curve of her neck, dragging softly across her collarbone, then lower, grazing the top of her breast.

“You are a Targaryen,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “Blood of dragons. Fire incarnate. To think....that this body..." his hands traced lower, caressing her plush, and pudgy waist, stopping at her hips.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She kept her gaze fixed on the mirror, refusing to look away. Her brother’s hands were cold, the touch possessive, but she would not let him see her flinch. That would be a victory, and he did not deserve victories.

He smiled faintly, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer before withdrawing. He stepped back, leaving the air colder in his absence.

“Crocodile will arrive soon,” he said, his voice returning to its clipped, businesslike tone. “And I hope that he sees you as of I, a way back home. But." His eyes darken with seriousness and evil. " You will not embarrass me. Do you understand?”

She nodded once, her expression unreadable.

“Good.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door to glance over his shoulder. “Remember, sister—you are nothing without me.”

The door creaked shut behind him, and Y/N sat alone, her gown still pooled at her waist. She exhaled slowly, the sound breaking the silence like a shattering mirror.

For now, she was a pawn. A bargaining chip. A daughter sold to the highest bidder. But the blood in her veins whispered of dragons. And dragons, no matter how long they sleep, always rise

All she has to do.....is survive.

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[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

Propaganda under the cut because it's long:

Alexander I Pavlovich

a. “Maybe not the most handsome or charismatic man in this tournament, but he has ample chaotic neutral energy that both baffles and fascinates contemporaries. In short, if you're into mysterious men, you won't find a sexier enigma than our imperator.”

b. “Look. Is this or is this not the monsterfucking website.”

c. There are lots of monuments dedicated to him. There's one in Moscow in the Alexander Garden right by the Red Square. While nowhere near as grand as the Alexander Column, I think it's still worth showcasing!

The monument is meant to celebrate his victory in the 1812 Russian invasion. He's holding a sword, proudly standing on top of his enemies' weapon.

The sculptors, however, have never seen the man in their life - all the people involved in the making are still alive and well (i think), so that should tell how new it is. The monument was opened for the public just a decade ago in 2014.

d. quote about this bust from the memoirs of Sophie de Choiseul-Gouffier: “No painter was able to properly capture the features of his face and especially his soft expression. Alexander didn’t like to pose for portraits and they were mostly done with some stealth. In this case sculpture have produced a better likeness. The famed Thorvaldsen made a bust of this sovereign worthy of a hand of such a remarkable artist.”

e. His family nickname might have been ‘our angel’ and the medal commemorating his death bears the inscription “Our angel is in heaven”, but did you know that to this day Alexander looks down on Sankt Petersburg as an actual angel, wings, cross, trampled snake and all? Alas, you cannot see it from the ground, the Alexander Column being so very tall, but the statue of the angel on top certainly seems to take after our sexy thrice-angel Emperor.

f. Apotheosis of Alexander! An eminently universal image, perfectly serviceable for his rise to the throne… of Napoleonic Sexyman Tournament.

It really looks like Peter and Catherine are instructing the Electorate. Gentlevoters, surely you wouldn’t dream of disappointing Sasha’s Grandmother and his scantily clothed giant of a Great-great-grandfather?

g. What is sexier than a man in a dress???

Mikhail Miloradovich:

Miloradovich had a short episode as Catherine the Great's favourite at just eighteen. Alas, usually he's not included on the official list except by Barskov. That is because he was one of several concurrent boytoys candidates in 1789, before Zubov won the contest. But I believe that being to Catherine's taste adds to M's sexyman cred.

He never married, but according to his legend, he kept an entire trunk of love letters (from many, many ladies) in his palace, which was discovered after his death.

Miloradovich possessed the kind of cavalier fantasy that made him a hero among soldiers (and one of Suvorov's favourites). Hence these three popular stories:

Once, while on campaign, his soldiers decided to give M their best wishes on his name day. He was very gracious about it and told them with his best roguish smile that in thanks for their wishes he'd give them a present... that present being the nearest pretty-as-a-picture enemy column (French).

On one occasion Joachim Murat came out, sat down and demonstratively drank coffee during an active fire exchange. Miloradovich naturally couldn't be worse and asked for a table to be set for him. Also under the fire, because where else. "He's drinking coffee? I'm eating dinner here!" And it wasn't a singular event: more than once he and Murat conducted a peculiar gallant flirtation on the field. And yes, Miloradovich also had a weakness for very blingy bling.

Alas, M didn't get to carry a ladder (that we know of), but he didn't shy motivating his soldiers in similar ways. It just so happened that his scouting party came to a stop at a steep slope and froze. Miloradovich came forward, got on the ground and slid down the slope on his spine, laughing and generally having (or pretending to have) lots of fun.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

TMAGP 16 Thoughts: Aave Maria

This was an interesting one. I don't think I loved it but I do think there is a surprising amount to dig into. I also think this is showing more of the form of TMP. A bigger focus on a rogue's gallery and unlike TMA is more more in the thick of it to start with. We're not piecing together an unseen world, we're in the world and getting our bearings.

Spoilers for episode 16 below the cut.

It's really great to see some immediate follow up on Alice's run in with Drowning Victim. I was a little worried it'd be something she pushes down and ignores like everything else in the job. Because she didn't I think there might be a change in her perspective. Previous she's been very uninvested in the specifics of the cases and now she's basically been in one I do wonder if it'll effect her work. We definitely saw more of a reaction from her from this incident than we've ever seen before. So I'm wondering where that will lead her. I'll also be interested to see how this ties back into the Institute. The Drowning Victim is obviously connected but it makes me think Connor Dyer (found in CHBD, see master sheet below) might not be her dead name. I wasn't a fan of the idea of both main protagonists having the same backstory but the way she alluded to the death of her parents here makes me think the Institute might have had something to do with it. Not that I think she knows that but that the narrative placement of it might be laying the groundwork for that connection to be revealed.

For the incident itself I don't have a load to get into I don't think. I thought it was pretty effective in showing Madame E to be kind of a tool but then giving us more and more reason to be sympathetic towards them. Ink5oul's first voiced appearance was remarkably understated too. I was expecting them to feature more here but I think I'm glad they didn't. As I mentioned there is more of a rouge's gallery here and with a couple of really loud characters already it's quite nice to see one more understated than that. They've got a bit of an M.O. forming here too. Part ironic "punishment", part graverobbing plagiarist. DIG. Which does lead me to wonder about how they'll end up kicking the bucket. It feels like a set up waiting for a punchline. The way they give the "clients" what they're after in a twisted sense has a lot of room for interesting stories so I'm interesting to see where that goes. It's also interesting just how similar this was to Daria's incident. Very similar incidents overall but to different ends. What I think is a more interesting concept in those is how it totally differs from the tattoo that showed up in Marked. The tattoo in both of Ink5oul's works have been afflictions on the tattooed but Marked's tattoo was something that affected those that viewed it. Whether that's a consequence of they're plagiarism or a different "school" of tattoo technique remains to be seen.

Also fun fact: from.vision.ruled really is a location in Highgate Cemetery. There is a map app called what3words that is a grid of 3 metre squares over the globe and then each square gets a three word code. It's so you can give a more precise location than something like an address or broad location. So in this case you don't need to say "Meet me outside the Circle of Lebanon in Highgate East" you can say "Meet me at from.vision.ruled" and get a more accurate location. It's great if you want to meet people where there isn't much or any signage, point people towards the entrances to places when it's not obvious from a address, and stuff like that.

Post-incident was really great too. It's lovely to see Lena be so clearly angry and lose her typical collected nature. Not only because it shows she's got range but because it really hammers home just how scary a character like Lady M. is going to be. Gwen not taking her shit for it is also great. I think bringing Lady M. to the OIAR as a power play was pushing it hard but I also think Lena treats Gwen like shit and needs a lesson or two as well. This power struggle they've got going is always captivating to see and I can't wait to see more of it.

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Incident/CAT#R#DPHW Master Sheet (Now with terminology/theory cheat sheet)

DPHW Theory: 1565 is about where I was expecting this would end up. 1 in Death in an episode where someone died already seems to be a sticking point for people. I personally don't understand that particular framing. Every Power in TMA had a massive body count but only one of them was the Power about death, and not all of them focused on stuff that'd outright kill you. So while a person did die this episode it's not an episode about Death as a concept/theme/subject.

CAT# Theory: CAT1 is very interesting given how the other tattoos have been placed thus far. But I'm going to leave that for the time being. I've got an essay in the works about the current more common CAT# theory. Should be out over the weekend.

R# Theory: B seems about right for this. It's weird and publicised but, ostensibly, medically explainable. So it happened and we can agree it happened but it's just an unfortunate illness in the eyes of most.

Header talk: Tattoo (Influencer) -/- Cardiac is interesting in the same way the CAT# is so I'll leave some of that for later. What I do want to talk about in that subsection. Influencer as a subsection is intriguing because it's very unlike Smirke's methodology. That was fairly rigid but Influencer in this context is such a modern term that it implies this methodology is reacting to how things change and express more rapidly, or it's not as old as I think has been implied so far.

[eptodaytommorowforever]

Events In The History And Of The Life Of Elvis Presley Today On The 12th Of November In 1972

Elvis Presley Tour And Show Comes To San Bernardino CA.

A look back at Elvis Presley's 1972 outstanding concert at swing auditorium in San Bernardino CA

Sunday night, Nov. 12, 1972. The Santa Ana winds were howling, so typical of San Bernardino in November. And it was cold. But a sold-out crowd stood patiently to have an audience with The Legend . Elvis Presley was in the Swing Auditorium.

The Swing was the place east of L.A.'s Fabulous Forum to see virtually every top name act in the rock world, circa 1964 through 1981. Located on E Street, the auditorium was built in 1949 on the grounds of the National Orange Show and was named for Senator Ralph E. Swing, a San Bernardino legislator. What a glorious barn it was and what history played out on that stage. The Rolling Stones did their first American concert there in June 1964. The place rocked until a small plane crashed into it on Sept. 11, 1981 and the auditorium had to be demolished. One of the last shows played there featured Iron Maiden.

In between, rock royalty were regulars. Fleetwood Mac played more than five times. The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, Jefferson Airplane, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Cream, Jimi Hendrix Experience, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Black Sabbath, Ramones (as opening act), Chicago, Jethro Tull, Alice Cooper, the Grateful Dead (multiple times), Faces with Rod Stewart (also multiple times), Santana, the Kinks, Janis Joplin, Eric Clapton, the Beach Boys, and more. Look up how many of these acts are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Just about everybody but the Beatles made it to the Swing.

Prior to the modern rock era, Bob Hope was almost an annual fixture at the Swing during the National Orange Show Fair. Other notables who performed there in the '50s and '60s included Sammy Davis Jr., Jack Benny, Judy Garland, Jerry Lewis, and George Burns. But never had a King played there before that night.

Yet, it wasn't as if Elvis Presley had never been to the IE. He did own a house for several of the Priscilla years in Palm Springs and was known to do some boating in Big Bear Lake. Many scenes of the totally forgettable remake movie 'Kid Galahad' were shot in Idyllwild. And, some of the outdoor footage in 1964's 'Kissin' Cousins' was shot in the San Bernardino Mountains. Still, this was different.

Elvis Presley's nationwide tour began at Madison Square Garden in New York, a city he had never before performed live in. The four concerts there were sold out and got rave reviews. At 37, he was 'lean, tanned and greasily handsome, his coal-black hair glistening with an oily 1950s sheen', as the New York Times' Grace Lichtenstein put it. At a press conference before the Madison Square Garden appearance, he was asked about the secret of his longevity on the pop music scene. 'I take Vitamin E', he told reporters.

From New York, the tour moved west, passing through cities like Milwaukee, Chicago, Wichita and Tulsa before continuing on to Las Vegas. Elvis stayed there for most of October before continuing the tour, which took him to Texas, Arizona, and into California. He hit Oakland, then San Bernardino, where he performed two sold-out shows - one on Nov. 12 and another on Nov. 13. rom there, he headed to the Long Beach Arena for two shows, the last stop before catching a plane for Honolulu where the tour would wrap up. Originally, the Honolulu show was planned to be broadcast worldwide by satellite, but the broadcast date was changed to early 1973 so it wouldn't conflict with the release of MGM's musical documentary Elvis on Tour. No matter. The show (actually four of them) went on. And in Honolulu, as well as in other cities on the tour, fans of all ages crowded concert venues to get a live view of the King.

So it was in San Bernardino. The Swing could hold about 10,000 people with a concert take of around $60,000. On that cold November night, fans crammed into the sold-out auditorium. With reserved seating, there was none of the festival seating chaos that marked the Swing rock shows - kids pushing and shoving and fighting to get to the stage area. This crowd was real diferent. I was way too young at 21. For the usual Swing rock show, most of the concertgoers were my age or younger. The guys had long hair, wore boots, Levis and denim work shirts (think the cover of a Creedence album.) The girls went braless, wore tight jeans or peasant dresses. There were always more guys than girls.

For Elvis Presley though, these fans had jobs, mortgages, and kids. The women clearly outnumbered the guys. They wore bright yellow or orange dresses, lots of makeup. Hairspray was huge. And, there were more than a few suicide blondes with hot pants and go-go boots. (I would never have sat on anything in the Swing in hot pants.) Jean Naté was locked in mortal combat with Charlie in a fragrance war. My Sin perfume held its own. Smoke from the bathrooms came from real Marlboro men (and women.)

My seat was in the cheap section - off to the side and high up, close to the glued-on tinsel that was a prominent feature of the Swing. The place always had a peculiar smell. Close to show time, greedy Colonel Tom's minions were at the stage hawking T-shirts, photos, and other assorted gee-gaws. I wonder just how much of that cash Elvis Presley received.

Finally, the lights lowered. The band started playing the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Then, there he was - The King. He was resplendent in a black and red concert suit.

Though his show was typical of his Vegas show that he performed at the International Hotel (later known as the Las Vegas Hilton and now called the Westgate Las Vegas Resort & Casino), it didn't matter to his loyal subjects. He was live in San Berdoo! Old ladies screamed. It was hard to tell from my cheap seat, but I believe there were a few panties thrown at him.

His voice and physique were in A-plus form. He ripped through concert standards such as 'Polk Salad Annie', crooned to crowd favorite 'Can't Help Falling In Love', and did a couple of religious numbers with the gospel group J.D. Sumner and The Stamps.

No Elvis Presley show would be complete without the hits 'Hound Dog', 'All Shook Up', 'Jailhouse Rock', and 'American Trilogy'.

His band and entourage - the Sweet Inspirations, legendary guitar hero James Burton - provided a full sound that could not be duplicated by the typical four-man rock act. It was a show truly becoming of a King. The crowd responded as if seeing him for the first time. Bedlam broke out among the thousands of fans.

After about 90 minutes, despite fans calling for more, Elvis Presley left the auditorium for the San Bernardino Hilton, about $60,000 richer. I was a poor college kid. I went to Del Taco. What a Sunday night! rare candid photo's one captured of elvis presley leaving Oakland CA captured here by a female ep fan boarding is executive chartered jet heading to San Bernardino CA and performing here at this show wearing the white pinwheel jumpsuit and the white cape and the lions head belt captured by a fan audience member who was at this show concert.