#verse undecided fuck it. we ball.

[thyunalloyed]

@apexulansis - on love.

❝ BECAUSE YOU ARE FASCINATING, and ne'er have I seen a creature such as you. Like a beast upon two legs. ❞

Tigras. Beasts with orange pelts and white bellies from the Land of Reeds. Tigers, in the common language. This one bears teeth to match, yet his fur is whiter than Miquella's own vestments.

No, not to match, Miquella thinks, But to exceed. Whatever this stranger is, the Empyrean is alight with questions whitherward.

❝ You are so tall. From where do you hail? Have you kin? Do you come somewhither far away? ❞

The cricket creaks its song in Miquella's pale hands. He closes his fingers around it, like a cage of porcelain, and moves to stand. Tall. More prominent than one would expect. His legs wish to move forward - Miquella forbids it. Let any embrace of his invitation be upon the creature's own will.

❝ Let's meet as wise men, and share as wise men do. ❞

[crisishauntline]

After she begged me to stay and I said yes, again

What I wrote a couple days ago, about her hurt breaking like dawn and constricting the sky, reminds me now of a Ghalib couplet I once shared with her:

kyā tang ham sitam-zadagāñ kā jahān hai jis meñ kih ek baiẓah-e mor āsmān hai*

Yesterday she woke up sobbing, and I woke up to the sound. She told me she even thought of leaving me for the first time this past weekend, before she took a long walk. We cried together in bed for a while, then I asked if we could go to Land's End, and get cinnamon rolls from the bakery where I used to work on the way. She asked if I was taking her there to give her bad news. I said we were going to go on a long walk.

We sat on the beach—we decided on Ocean Beach instead, I think because Land's End felt too on-the-nose—and cried some more while throwing the ball for Harpo. I told her that being with her felt like being on a sailboat on a beautiful sunny day. She is sitting on the edge of the boat, her legs dangling in the water. I watch the sun dance in the gentle lapping waves and illuminate her skin with refracted silver. She sees me seeing her, and smiles like the open sky. And then we feel a rock scrape the bottom of the boat.

As I run to check for damage and adjust the sails to correct course, she stands up on the edge of the boat and asks why I hit the rock, and why I'm not looking at her as much anymore—why am I doing this to her? Clouds begin to gather, and the wind picks up. I say to her that it's only a scrape, we're not going down, and can she please help me with the sails? She asks, "How could you ask me that when you know I'm standing on the edge and holding on just for you? Don't you care that I'm in danger?"

We cried and cried and cried. Like the past few crises before this, she seemed to suddenly understand, she apologized and promised and begged. I told her I couldn’t keep breaking the promise I’ve made to myself after each crisis—that whichever one we’ve just survived is my last one, that the next time the storm comes, I will know that it’s time to end it and feel capable of doing so. I asked her to promise that the next time, if there is one, she will let me go—no more begging. My heart cannot fucking bear the grief of being begged to stay.

She said yes. A promise like an ant’s egg, like the whole sky. How could I call this love narrow? But how narrow and fragile it is!

*From Fran Pritchett's blog:

Translation(s): 1a) how narrow is the world of us oppressed ones! 1b) is the world of us oppressed ones narrow? 1c) what-- as if the world of us oppressed ones is narrow!

2a) in which a single/particular/unique/excellent ant's egg is the sky 2b) in which the sky is a single/particular/unique/excellent ant's egg

Analysis: In its richness of possibilities and undecideability of tone, this verse is one of the true 'meaning-machine' gems of the divan. It's the kind you could take to a desert island with you, and savor its every possible interpretive nuance. We know by now the excellently multivalent uses of a phrase like this one in the first line that is introduced by kyā : it can be an exclamation, the way the commentators insist on taking it ('How narrow this world is!'); it can be a yes-or-no question ('Is this world narrow, or isn't it?'); or it can be a scornfully negative exclamation ('What-- as if this world is narrow!'). Right away we have a sufficiently intriguing set of possibilities to energize the whole verse; after the first line we are eager to hear (after the usual mushairah-performance delay) the evidence for the narrowness (or non-narrowness) of the world.

Then the second line opens up for us an even more undecideable and enjoyable display of 'symmetry': since Urdu is much less dependent on word order than English, to say 'A is B' is also to say that 'B is A'. As so often with Ghalib, both possibilities work intriguingly with the various permutations of the first line. And, as Faruqi points out, the tone too can vary: the possibilities include not only sarcasm but also wonder, despair, perplexity, indignation, and ruefulness.

Compare {165,2}, which offers a similar range of possibilities through exactly the same sequence of devices ( kyā in the first line, symmetry in the second).

Who are the 'oppressed ones'? They are us, but who are we? We suffering lovers, no doubt; and more widely, we who are victims of injustice and tyranny. And ultimately, we human beings, living our cramped, oppressed, and all-too-limited lives under an ant's-egg sky. But then, maybe it's just the opposite, maybe our lives are not limited at all. It could be that our wide-ranging minds find ample freedom even in such a tiny ant's-egg space; or maybe the sky itself is a mere ant's egg to us in our boundless mental (and spiritual?) inner spaces (as in the similarly dismissive treatment of Rizvan's garden in {10,1}). We oppressed ones, we readers, end up being allowed-- or required-- to invent the verse's tone and meaning for ourselves.

For another verse in which the sky is compared to an egg, see {217,4}. For another verse in which the ant provides a limit case of smallness, see {123,3}. Another enjoyable verse for comparison is the irresistible {68,5}, in which the round dome of heaven becomes not an ant's egg but-- even more dismissively-- a mere wastebasket. And what else is as small as an ant's egg? Why, an inner chamber of the heart of the Moth: {81,3}.

Compare Mir's own striking 'ant' verse: M{733,2}; and another verse in which Mir's sarcasm (or is it?) is as tempting as Ghalib's: M{1056,2}. Here's one in which Mir uses kyā kam as cleverly as Ghalib uses kyā tang : M{775,4}.

And of course there's Hamlet: 'O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams'.

[cellard0ors]

Fic: Santa Baby

Rating: Adult

Notes: Because I'm induniated with Christmas music at work...(Set in Divide verse, but you don't have to have read that to get the gist of this). Forgive mistakes - mostly written from mobile. Happy Holidays to all my followers, I wish you well and this is my gift to you! :)

"Stanley, this is never going to work."

"Oh ye of little faith," Stan says from the other room. Ford can't see him, but he knows what his brother is up to and it's ridiculous, "I don't know why I agreed to this in the first place..."

"Face it, Sixer - your husband is a gamblin' man. I'm rubbing off on you."

While Ford feels the pleasant of hum of Stan referring to him as his husband, he still can't help but let out an exasperated sigh, "Perhaps, but taking this bet? Ludicrous. There's no way I won't win," he sniffs with some self assured arrogance, "I almost feel sorry for you."

"You just wait," Stan's voice holds its own note of pride, "You won't be able to contain yourself when you see me in this get-up."

"You are correct. I won't be able to contain my laughter."

"Or your dick," Stan boasts and that gets a stuttering giggle out of Ford, as well as cheeks burning with embarrassment, "Stanley! Honestly, such language..."

"You love it," Stan returns easily, " Albeit you're more one for action than anything. That being said..."

He finally emerges from the other room and, just as Ford thought, he can't keep himself from laughing. Stan is dressed as Santa Claus. The full ensemble - red suit, shiny black boots, beard (his own, in point of fact) - and all so he can try and win a bet.

The bet being that he can get Ford in the mood to want to 'fuck' Santa. Ford wasn't particularly happy with that particular descriptor, but that's how Stan put it.

It all started with them noticing that a lot of the Christmas songs on the radio they had playing at the Shack were...questionable at best.

Santa Baby, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Santa Claus Is Back In Town, and more. Some even seem to suggest hooking up with Rudolph! As such, Ford made an off handed comment that he would never want to have sex with Santa and Stan took this as a challenge - thus the bet.

The prize?

Currently undecided, but that wasn't the point - the point was just the fun of the competition, the thrill of the gamble and yes, Ford supposed that Stan is right about his brother rubbing off on him in that regard.

But seeing this...

Ford rolls his eyes, but rises to his feet, moving to do what Stan asks, After all, what could it hurt? There's no way his twin is winning this bet.

"Well, this was a blast. I'll decide on my reward later..." Ford moves to leave his seat only for Stan to wave that away with one gloved hand, "Nah, nah - you haven't given me my proper shot yet, Sixer. This outfit's only part of the deal - now..."

He moves over to one of the big armchairs in the room and takes a seat, patting his right knee, "How's about you take a seat on Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas this year?"

Stan is playfully slapping both knees now, even as Ford turns his back to him and prepares to sit. His ass gingerly touches his new seat, only for one of Stan's big arms wrapping around his middle and tugging him down insistently.

And the moment Ford is settled he knows why. He lets out a squawk, alarmed and stunned at the feel of Stan's very prominent erection digging into him.

"Stanley!" Ford cries, scandalized, and - unfortunately - immediately aroused. How did he not notice Stan's, ah, excitement when he first came out? The feel of Stan's rather substantial bulge makes his loins twist, a throbbing pulse starting deep in his balls.

Stanley, the scoundrel, sounds beyond pleased as he returns gruffly, "How's about we get you settled properly, little boy?"

Ford scowls at that even as his nerves spark with excitement. Then Stan has the gall to place his hands under Ford's knees, spreading his thighs wide, opening them until his legs fall to either side of Stanley's.

The position makes him feel wide open, vulnerable, exposed. More so when Stan runs a gentle hand along his inner thigh, the heat of his palm making his now stirring cock grow fuller.

The feeling of it all, of everything, makes Ford arch his back, a shuddering sob of air escaping him. The insidious pressure of Stan's dick brushing against his ass, his lower spine...

He feels...empty. His mind is suddenly flooded with heated images of Stan throwing him over the nearest object and filling him, taking him, pounding in so hard and so deep...

... Christ, he really is the little slut Stan always claims he is. A logical, brilliant mind like his...reduced to a slobbering, heaving mass of hormones, of wants and desires. And all thanks to sex.

No.

All thanks to Stanley.

And that's the name that escapes him again in a whining whimper as he squirms, his body pulsating with lust. Stan just huffs a laugh, his breath hot against one of Ford's ears, "Now, now - my name is Santa, remember?"

"I-I truly despise you..." Ford chokes out, just adding to Stan's amusement as he asks dryly, "And what's your name?"

"It's-ah!" The cry comes out sharp and quick, Ford unprepared for Stan's hips doing a single, strong upwards thrust. Bastard. He says his name, but it comes out in a wanton moan, "Stanford..."

"And have you been naughty or nice this year, Stanford?"

"I-I-I..." Ford stutters, trying to concentrate. Jesus, the fact Stan can get him so worked up so quickly should be illegal. It just adds more validity to Stan's 'off switch' theory. He certainly feels dumb as a stump as he grumbles, "Jewish... shouldn't even..."

"Santa can visit any girl or boy he wishes. So, Stanford," he rolls his hips up sensually again, making Ford mewl even as he husks, "I asked you a question - naughty or nice?"

The sound Ford makes isn't much of an answer, but Stan seems to take it as one, chuckling darkly, "How's about we see what's in your stocking..."

Stan's gloved hands are somehow damp, slick and Ford has no idea what kind of witchcraft the man did to make that possible, but he's so thankful for it. He thrusts wildly, gratefully, into the cool, slick cradle of Stan's grip, keening with pleasure.

He smoothly eases down the zipper of Ford's straining fly and while normally Ford would abhor the horrible indeundo about his 'stocking', but right now he's so eager to be free, to be touched, he practically lurches into Stan's grip, panting a desperate 'yes' as Stan reaches past the elastic of his underwear, drawing him out into the open air.

"Oh my, you are a naughty little boy, aren't you?"

Honestly, Ford wishes from the very deep depths of his soul that he didn't respond so much to this comment - to Stan's...whole thing right now.

But he finds himself already on the precipe of cumming, Stan's deft fingers playing perfectly along his rigid length - the plump, weeping tip of his dick - and, really, a man of his age should have more endurance.

Hell, it should be impossible for him to be so near his climax so quickly and yet here he is, rocking on Stan's lap, nothing but noise leaving him.

"What do you say, Stanford? You want to try and be a good boy for Santa? Be a good, nice boy who cums for him?"

"Stanley..." It's breathed in-between feverish moans, shudders rippling throughout his entire body. Teeth and tongue play along the shell of Ford's left ear, "Not my name..."

Stan's strokes pick up speed, his hips move up again, his bulge pushing just right between Ford's ass cheeks as he growls, "Say it."

"Santa!" Ford wails as he loses control, stars clouding his vision as his orgasm reverberates out from his very core. His body clenches and unclenches, waves of bliss washing warmly over him even as his release does the same to Stan's gloves, staining them with his spunk.

When he manages to breathe easy again, to be, again. Stan puffs, "Well, well, well. Looks like I won and I'll decide my prize later..."

Ford mutters some very colorful curses under his breath even as Stan gloats, "Don't be a spoiled sport, sweetheart. You got off on Santa. Literally."

"I got off on you, you asshole..."

"It wasn't my name you shouted just now."

Ford colors, sputtering, "You goaded me into it!"

"Eh, whatever you say, honey. We both know the truth," Stan snuggles one side of Ford's face, offering him a consoling kiss, "How's about we take a shower, huh? Santa's suit's a little...ah...sticky."

Ford's eyebrows rise at that. Did Stan get off too? The thought makes him grin a little, happy to know he has a similar effect on his twin. They slowly rise, a combo of sex and old age making getting to their feet something of a chore.

As they head to the restroom Stan leers at Ford, his eyebrows waggling playfully, "Next time we'll try the Easter Bunny."

Ford sighs, "Did I mention how much I despise you?"

Stan laughs, " I love you too, Ford. I love you too."