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charlesoberonn · 5 years

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Ms. Mailbox - Part 1

(This one turned out long so I’m splitting it up into parts. I’ll write the rest soon)

It all started when I busted up her mailbox. This isn’t a euphamism for sex, I mean it literally. I drove by with my buddy and smashed her mailbox with an aluminium baseball box.

That turned out to be a bad idea almost immediately. The bat was bent all out of shape, and my wrist was all mangled and sprained. The mailbox was bent too, but only barely. Overall an unproductive session of vandalism.

My friend drove me to the hospital right away. I remember thinking as I was waiting in agony about how awful everyone around me in the waiting room were. How much more deserving of treatment I was. I didn’t even think about what I did to bring this on myself.

After staying home for a couple of days, my parents finally scraped me off the living room couch and got me to go back to school, injured arm and all.That morning, I walked through the hall with a sour face and an armsling. When an athlete boy does it, his friends all support him, but I didn’t have friends in this school.

Before first period I was summoned to the principal’s office. He was a stern man, yet at the same time it seemed like all the life had been drained from him and he didn’t give a single fuck anymore. He told me that he knew how I got injured like this. It wouldn’t be my first act of “hooliganism” as he said, but he couldn’t prove it. So he assigned me somebody who’ll help take notes for me.

That’s when I noticed Ms. Mailbox waiting outside. She was a year younger than me, and quite a bit shorter, somebody who could easily escape notice if it wasn’t for her beautiful golden hair and her pretty doll face.

I didn’t know she was Ms. Mailbox at the time. I had no idea whose mailbox I smashed that day. But thinking about it now, I think she did know, even back at the principal’s office.

The principal gestured her forth and she went inside, quickly and politely sitting beside me. She turned to look at me and introduced herself with a smile. But there was something weird about that smile, it clashed with poorly concealed bags under her eyes.

She went to shake my hand with her right hand. Since my right hand was currently in a sling, I shook it with my left and we had an odd and unsymmetric handshake. Afterwards, the principal unceremoniously drove us out of his office. I was happy to leave.

I didn’t need to be introduced to Ms. Mailbox, I knew who she was and she. And she knew who I was. As we exited the office, a third girl was waiting for us. Taller than me, with blue highlights in her hair and an eyebrow piercing. With no warning, Ms. Mailbox and Bluebird kissed, right in front of me. I almost gagged and looked away in second-hand embarrassment. Though I don’t think there was any first-hand embarrassment in their embrace.

It was hard being one of only 3 out lesbians in the whole school. Even worse than 3 being such a small number, it’s an odd number, and I was the one left out without a date. Not that I liked any of them. In fact, in that moment I decided I hated them. Especially Ms. Mailbox. That hate wouldn’t last til the end of the day, as I would later find out.

She kept waving her girlfriend in a flirty way as we walked to my first class of the day. I just sighed under my breath. As if I wasn’t in enough pain already.

First period was fine, I didn’t have to do anything in terms of writing, but the teacher kept eyeing me to make sure I’m listening, which was a bit awkward. My eyes darted towards Ms. Mailbox, she worked fast. I figured she would just write stuff down and then give me a copy, but she actually wrote everything twice. First in her notebook, and then while everybody was still copying off the board, she copied off her own writing in my notebook. It was crazy.

I wanted to comment on it, but the teacher’s hawkish stare made me a bit scared to even open my mouth to yawn, so I just looked. After a while, the mesmerising sight of Ms. Mailbox’s quick and neat handwriting got me in some sort of daze. My eyes drifted upward to her face, her eyes which darted about the page, and her pink painted lips, which were slightly apart as she wrote, and closed again when she looked up.

Near the end of the class, she turned suddenly to look at me. Almost gave me a heart attack. I instinctively used my hand to hold the table, not remembering that it’s injured. I winced in pain. And the bitch giggled at me.

Later after class I told her I was impressed with her. Then I clarified I meant her handwriting after she gave me a long pause. She smiled, and I sheepishly smiled back and thanked her. Blegh.

The next period was gym, where she wouldn’t be of much use, but she insisted on coming along to help me anyway. I told her it was pointless, and she should go to her own class, but she told me back that she had no use of going to class anymore. I was perplexed, but I let it slide and let her come with me.

The gym coach told me that even though my arm was injured, I could still do some leg exercises. I bullshited to her something about my wrist being too hurt to move and got a full pass, though I’ve been warned that I would have to make up whatever exercises I missed. I scoffed. To my surprise, Ms. Mailbox scoffed with me.

We sat on the bleachers and watched the other girls play. I was bored. My phone had to be placed in the box when we entered the gym. I tried leaning on my healthy arm but couldn’t find a pose that didn’t get in the way of my sling.

“Here, you can lean on me.” I heard Ms. Mailbox offer me. I gave her a weird look and declined.

“What’s up with you?” I asked her, in an admitedly very impolite way.

“What do you mean? Can’t I offer a girl in need a place to rest her head?”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Yes? What? Ew, no. Not like that. Thank you very much.” she scoffed again. “I just want to be helpful.”

“You already are helpful.” I told her.

“Thanks.”

“Wasn’t a compliment, just stating a fact.” I leaned back and rolled my eyes.

“Facts can be compliments.”

“Do you want it to be a compliment?” I raised an eyebrow at her.

She paused. “Ew.”

We sat in silence a bit, I half heartedly glanced at the girls playing volleyball. It was almost hot, looking at their bodies bouncing up and down and getting sweaty. I would’ve been hot if they didn’t all suck at volleyball. Not like I could complain, though. I couldn’t even hit a mailbox right.

I yawned and leaned back a bit too far, my butt sliding off the narrow and slippery bleacher and I stumbled. I tried to grab at the next seat with my foot but I slid right under it, I was going down. But only until I was caught by a surprisingly sturdy grip from Ms. Mailbox, who grabbed at my armpit and helped me back up.

“Thanks.” I said, my voice a bit unstable from the jump the near-fall gave me.

“Is your arm alright?”

“What? Oh yeah.” I checked on it. She went to check on it as well, but I swatted her hand away. Gently.

“May I ask how you got it?”

“You may not.”

“Okay.” she seemed a bit disappointed.

I paused, thinking for a bit. My eyes were wandering again, down her face from her pretty blue eyes and slightly puffy cheeks.

“Only if you tell me why you don’t go to class.”

“Oh!” she perked up immediately. “Well...... I do study. Just not here. I study at university level.”

I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel immediately incompetent in comparison.

“University level?”

“I finished all high school exams last year, more or less. So they let me go to uni from Monday-Wednesday.”

“But until the academic school year starts you’re stuck here with the rest of us.”

“Very observant.”

“Thank you.” I paused again. “So like, do you have university friends and stuff?”

“What? Oh yeah, I do. Wanna see some pics?” she pulled out her phone. I immdiately went to hide it.

“Wait, not here.” I pointed to a loose seat that led to under the bleachers.

She nodded, and we quietly scooted over to it and down under. Ms. Mailbox helped me down the narrow hole by supporting my slinged arm.

It was cosy in there, the only light coming from screwless screwholes and her phone screen. She showed me pictures of her friends. Most of them seemed pretty boring. Dudes and dudettes in vest and glasses sitting in study halls and buried in their books or on the computers. Even more than people, she pictures of statues there, and trees, and the buildings themselves.

“Damn girl, did you take a pic of every branch on campus?” I whispered.

She giggled in response. “Only the interesting ones.”

We made sure to get back up and sit idly in place for when the coach came back to dismiss us and give us our phones back. Then we moved on to the next period laughing among ourselves at pictures of amateur student art projects that Ms. Mailbox took.

The rest of the day went smoothly. We mostly just talked, often during class, which pissed off the teachers but I found hilarious. To my surprise, Ms. Mailbox found it funny too. I didn’t know that at the time, but I was already rubbing off on her. We tried keeping our chats down low, but by the end of the day neither of us gave any fucks and we were talking quite loudly. Needless to say we were kicked out of the class.

As we were waiting outside the classroom for the bell to ring so we could take our bags and go home, Ms. Mailbox asked a question.

“Hey, how did you sprain your wrist? You said you would tell me.”

“I did.” I shifted a bit uncomfortably, becoming suddenly aware of the little to no distance between us.

“Was it as bad as the principal said?” she elaborated.

“Pretty much.” I answered naturally, as thought I’ve known her for years. I kind of regreted being so open a moment later, but at this point it was too late, I was already mid-answer. And I did sort of promised her. So I spilled the beans.

“Yeah, it was bad, I guess.” I soft-balled. “I smashed a mailbox with a baseball bat out of a moving vehicle. Thought the mailbox would break. Turns out I broke first.” I chuckled, trying to pass it off as a no-big-deal. Just a funny anecdote.

“I see.” was all Ms. Mailbox said.

There was a silence between us, and I felt a strange uncomfortable feeling I haven’t had since I was a child. I felt like I was being judged, and more than that, that I cared about the judgement.

“You s-” I wanted to make a snarky a remark, but just at that moment the bell rang.

We both hurried back into the class before the torrent of students spilled out of it. The teacher was the last to leave before us, and gave us a stink eye as she went out the door. It was just the two of us now.

The tension from before hadn’t gone away, in fact it was heavier.

“You’re not surprised?” I turned my head down. “You had me all figured out for a Bad Girl already, huh?” I tried picking up my backpack with my healthy arm, but getting it to stay on my back was a challenge. It was kind of ruining the cool apathetic vibe I was going for.

Ms. Mailbox put on her backpack and reached up help me. She put on the straps on my shoulders with efficiency and gentleness. I could swear I felt her rub my shoulderblades a bit as she did.

“No, that’s not it. I just deduced that’s what you did.” she explained.

“Deduced?” I asked like a clueless idiot.

“Yeah.” she walked out of the classroom and looked back at me with a pair of beautiful eyes. “It was my mailbox you smashed.”

With that, Ms. Mailbox became Ms. Mailbox. And the seeds of something between us were starting to sprout.

#writing #wlw #long post

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sdpafanblogofsupremefunk · 4 years

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Season 1, Episode 1: A Different Place

Where better to begin talking about a show than the beginning? Like most shows, Sítio do Picapau Amarelo has a pilot episode.

...Okay, in this case, “pilot episode” is just a fancy way of saying “first episode”. Much like Rick & Morty and DT17, SDPA doesn’t really have a pilot episode that isn’t just the first episode (unless you count Doc and Mharti as R&M’s pilot, which I’d rather not), so to begin the series, we kinda have to jump right into the mess of things.

It’s like A Quiet Place, but not stupid.

As the episode begins, we are introduced to a two men on a horse-drawn cart. The man in the red box is a book salesman who’s a little down on his luck in terms of profits.

A little.

This guy isn’t really given a name, and I don’t want to call him “The Salesman” the whole time because that’s stupid. So I’m going to give him a name. Mr. Simmons will do nicely.

Anyways, Mr. Simmons falls out of the cart when it hits a patch in the road, and when he picks himself up, he sees a quaint little house on a farm, with an old woman knitting on the porch.

Here, we are introduced to the first of our main cast, Dona Benta, a kind elderly lady who owns this little patch of heaven known as the Yellow Woodpecker Farm. Yeah, didn’t take us long to get there, huh?

So Mr. Simmons sees this old woman in the middle of (what he believes to be) nowhere, and decides it’s the perfect opportunity to make a quick buck believing that:

Which, I dunno, man, she seems pretty comfortable just sitting in her rocking chair, knitting. Like, even as an outsider who doesn’t know a lick of what goes on in this farm, I’d say she’s content as she is, but anything to make some cold hard cash, I guess.

Also, I would not ever call this place a desert, even for the sake of exaggeration. There’s grass everywhere, bushes, trees, flowers, the works. If this where anything like a desert, I do not think this woman would be here, to put it simply. But, I digress. And I hydraulic press, but we won’t be seeing that.

So, Mrs. Benta goes inside to call for the kids, and here we meet 3 of our other actors:

Here, we see Pedrinho (or Little Pete, the boy in the blue overalls) and Narizinho (or Lúcia “Little Nose”, the girl in the red dress), cousins and Mrs. Benta’s grandchildren. They’re playing tag, I think, but they’re stopped in their tracks with their Grandma in the way, and-

Hang on, I feel like we’re forgetting something.

Oh, right. I almost forgot Emilia. She’s basically the reason I watch this show, no biggie.

Anyway, she’s in a race with the kids, when they’re blocked by Grandma. Emilia makes the smart move and cuts right under Mrs. Benta. It looks like this:

Another reason I like this show so much, it’s rife with smears, which I feel like any good cartoon should have. Like here, where Emilia friggin’ nyooms right under Mrs. Benta like a comet.

Emilia reaches the finish line at the bookshelf, where we see the Viscount of Sabugosa, a puppet made out of an ear of corn who’s very smart and polite. (His name is a pun, “sabugo” means corncob in Portuguese, and it’s a parody of the Count of Sabugosa, of which there were 9, the first being Vasco Fernandes César de Meneses in 1729- but everybody calls him Viscount and so will I because blah)

In this show, the Viscount is the actual size of an ear of corn, which makes sense, he is, after all, a puppet made out of one. I think it’s really funny that the cartoon is slightly more realistic than the live-action show it’s based on in this regard, because in the 2001 series, for whatever reason, the Viscount towers over everyone:

And he has a sick mustache.

Like, I don’t get it, out of all the characters, you made the guy made out of corn the tallest one in the cast? I get that the technology to make him actually small probably wasn’t all there yet, Grandpa in My Pocket was still 8 years off, but you really couldn’t find a guy that wasn’t the same height as Shaq?

Yeesh, only 2 minutes in and I’m getting sidetracked this often. Well, I guess it’s better than having nothing to talk about.

Anyway, Emilia wins the race, but the other two kids run into her, smooshing her against the bookshelf-

-and pwning her so hard she briefly grows fingers on her hand (and turning it into a left hand apparently, because the thumb is on the wrong side)

Mrs. Benta explains that Emilia and the other mystical beings must hide from the impending salesman.

Oh brother, I was wondering when we’d get to this guy. This is Marquis of Rabicó (Portuguese for Short-tail). Literally the first thing you read about him on the show’s Wikipedia is that he’s fat (which you think would be a given cuz he’s a pig), and his part of the Characters section isn’t much better, stating that he’s a “gluttonous, selfish, cowardly and lazy pig” and most of his episodes involve him getting himself and/or others into trouble by being a gluttonous, selfish, cowardly and lazy pig. He’s only ever onscreen to cause problems, either directly or by proxy. If I were to sum him up in one meme, it would be this:

Now, I don’t hate Rabicó, I’m actually quite indifferent towards him, but he does bring down a lot of the episodes that he’s a major part of. Thankfully, there aren’t too many episodes featuring him in the first 2 seasons, but from what I hear, Season 3 goes ham with that shit (pun intended) and it brings down the quality of the season as a whole, so it’s a good thing that’s as far off from now as it is. I want to enjoy the lack-of-pig while it lasts.

But hey, at least he doesn’t look like this:

Don’t do drugs, kids.

Rant over, Mrs. Benta explains that she wants things to look normal because the Yellow Woodpecker Farm is a very peculiar place, where all kinds of weird and wacky stuff goes on, and if word gets out about it, the place will be filled with tourists wanting to get a peek of the action.

Something that Mrs. Benta probably didn’t consider is that there’s a bigger threat to being exposed than just filthy tourism. That’s right, I’m talking about the GOVERNMENT.

I mean, think about it. How many movies have you seen where the government tries to hunt down an unnatural being? E.T., the Sonic Movie, a third one I can’t think of right now, etc. (Lilo & Stitch does not count) Now, I can’t speak for Brazil’s government compared to the U.S., but I know there’s gotta be a division dedicated to dealing with unnatural things that would no doubt arrest Emilia, Rabicó, Viscount, etc. and run experiments on them. Then again, maybe this cartoon takes place in a world where the government doesn’t even exist. I mean, we never really see any urban settings in the show (aside from a brief mention of “the city” in the finale), so for all I know, the world of Sítio do Picapau Amarelo is run by Vermin Supreme.

Real talk, you should all be ashamed of yourselves for not voting for this guy back in 2016.

Initially, Emilia won’t go into her box, but then she gives in and is dragged there by Aunt Nastácia, the housemaid of the farm with a knack for making dolls (so she’s essentially Emilia’s mom). She doesn’t really do much in this episode, but the Fat Bastard does even less, and I still mentioned him.

So Mrs. Benta lets Mr. Simmons into the house and he does this whole spiel about how great the books are, how they can take you to worlds you never imagined, fantasy and action, yadda yadda.

Meanwhile, the kids are off to the side and they’re all like “Well, we met the actual Hercules, get on our level scrub”. And of course, Emilia is watching with them, instead of in her box.

As Simmons keeps on rambling, Emilia is being a little peeping tom, not realizing that one turned head could lead to her being dissected like a high school frog.

Apparently, Emilia thinks she’s a regular Bart Simpson, with shit like spitballs and pulling out the man’s leg hairs. She’s really pushing her luck here, and for little reason. Sure, Simmons called the place boring, but that’s how it’s supposed to be to him.

Of course, Pedrinho and Narizinho are nice enough kids that they bail her out on this one and pretend it was them.

And before Simmons can ask what the hell is going on, Mrs. Benta gives him the money for the books and sends him out the door. And once he’s out...

I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with go.

Of course, they’re not out of the woods yet, cuz Simmons is getting a little suspicious.

Busted. The truth is revealed, all laid out for Simmons to see. A talking rag-doll? Inconceivable! And yet, there it is.

Come on, Viscount. I would expect you of all people to uphold what Mrs. Benta said and stay hidden. You’re smart enough, you should already know what’s at stake, or at least that something is at stake. I mean, I understand that the cat is already out of the bag, but you’re not helping.

Also, you’re thumb is clipping into your bowtie, you should get that checked out.

Rabicó, I hope you get turned into salami. Not out of spite or anything, but just because I like salami.

Naturally, Simmons believes he’s struck gold and found the ultimate tourist trap. But when Emilia points out that if he tells anyone, he’ll sound like a crazy person-

-he straight up Villager Neutral B’s her,

hails a horse, and books it.

Wow, Viscount. Dick move mangling Mrs. Benta’s glasses like that. And all for an impromptu magnifying glass, which is pointless-

-because we can see the horse tracks perfectly fine without them.

(The Viscount isn’t this much of a jerk in the rest of the series, I swear.)

So, the gang follow the tracks until there are no more, which leads them to a corn store.

Wait, a... corn store? As in, a store that mainly, if not exclusively, sells maize and maize accessories? Compared to vegetables in general, that’s quite a niche market, I can’t possibly imagine finding a success in building an entire business around one type of vegetable. Corn is simply not as versatile as something like chocolate or cheese.

Oh no, wait, it’s just a bar. I guess this cartoon takes place in the middle of Prohibition 2: Return of Jafar, and the whole “corn store” thing is just a set up for a speakeasy. (I mean, you could also argue that it’s a diner, but I’mma go with bar because it’s funnier.)

And I’m guessing Simmons expects the place to put all of the meals on his tab, considering he’s going to get the money later with all the tourism. But then, why doesn’t he just pay with the money he got from selling Mrs. Benta those books? So he pulls Emilia out of his bag to show everyone that he has a talking doll and...

Hm. Probably should have put some air holes in that bag.

Anyway, the gang comes in, and Mrs. Benta asks for the doll back, with Narizinho hamming up her Oscar-worthy performance:

So everybody’s giving Mr. Simmons a mean glare:

Including this gentleman who looks like someone just insulted his favorite MHA character (it’s probably Tsuyu):

So Mr. Simmons desperately tries to convince everyone that the doll indeed does talk, and that she comes from a wacky place, but Aunt Nastácia intervenes and says that it’s just a normal doll.

She just straight up roasts Emilia, who (big surprise) does not take it very well. To the point that she is very visibly angry, which you think the barflies would notice.

I mean, look at that and tell me that you wouldn’t notice anything weird.

But anyways, they get the doll back and we get this cute group hug.

D’awww.

So they leave with Emilia-

as Mr. Simmons is beaten to death offscreen for stealing from a little girl.

As the gang walks home, Viscount bends Ms. Benta’s glasses back to normal. Took you long enough, ya jerk.

Not even close, my dear. This is only the beginning.

Well, that was a very good first episode. It introduces the world and many of the main characters very well. And while there were a few issues I had with it, they’re really just nitpicks that don’t detract from the episode as a whole. Overall, a good effort, 8/10.

So, yeah, that’s the first episode down. Join me next time when we watch episode 2, and meet a very vile villain.

Very vile indeed.

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drsilverfish · 5 years

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The Riddle of the Sphinx: 14x12 Prophet and Loss

First, thanks to @verobatto-angelxhunter @gneisscastiel @magnificent-winged-beast @emblue-sparks @mrsaquaman187 for inviting me to guest this week, as part of their ongoing SPN #Metafest project @metafest

along with several other guests: @bluephoenixrises @poorreputation @agusvedder @amwritingmeta @savannadarkbaby @prairiedust and

@norahastuff

I’m going to guest meta about the Riddle of the Sphinx.

Here is creepy Tony Alvarez drowning his first victim.

Despite an opening dose of Bucklemming torture-porn (ugh - although tbf there was a narrative point, as the drowned girl was a mirror for Dean, just like the slain first-born son and the dude who almost got barbecued were - more on that later...)... So, yeah, despite that, I was thrilled to see this in the visual narrative architecture - the Sphinx Machine Shop, where Tony does his mangled prophecy induced killing.

The Sphinx, as you know, is a fearsome part-woman, part winged-lion beastie, in Greek mythology, who was famous for guarding the entrance to Thebes and asking travellers to solve the answer to a riddle in order to gain safe passage to the city. If they failed, she devoured them.

She is tied in mythology not just to puzzles and their solutions, but to fate...

Here is the Sphynx of Naxos, from the Temple of Apollo at Delphi (560 BCE)

Image from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sphinx_of_Naxos

The Temple of Delphi was the site of the Oracle of Delphi, who was the High Priestess Pythia (a transferrable role) famous for her prophesies, which came to her in trance-states, supposedly from the God Apollo.

You see the link to SPN’s own Prophet role here....

The Sphinx also, famously, appears in Sophocles’ play Oedipus Rex, which became the basis for Freud’s also famous (and relevant a bit later) “Oedipus complex”. Sophocles didn’t invent the myth, but his telling is its most famous rendition.

Despite his other misfortunes, Oedipus doesn’t get devoured by the Sphinx, because he solves her riddle, a popular rendition of which is:

“What goes on four legs, on two legs, on three, and the more legs it goes on, the weaker it be?”

The answer, is - a human (baby, adult, old person with a stick).

Oedipus’ story is a classic story about fate, just like Appointment in Samara (re-worked in an SPN episode, 6x11, but originally an old Mesopotamian tale) which @mittensmorgul and I were talking about just recently, in relation to themes of fate vs free will in SPN (specifically in relation to the role played by Death - see here for the discussion:

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/182454009599/mittensmorgul-drsilverfish-mittensmorgul )

Oedipus’ story is a (f-d up) family drama - rather relevant to our very own Family Winchester [no, NOT because this is all about either of the boys wanting to sleep with Mary Winchester - thanks Dr. Freud - although, come to think of it, Dean did say she was hot in 4x03 In The Beginning :-)]

14x13 Lebanon promo shot

When baby Oedipus is born, his father King Laius receives a prophecy that his son will grow up to kill him, and so, he sends a shepherd to expose the baby on the mountainside to die, before that can happen. The shepherd however, not being an asshole, saves the baby, and raises him secretly as his own.

Oedipus grows up, and he eventually learns from the Oracle at Delphi herself (see above) that he is fated to kill his father and marry his mother. Believing the shepherd and his wife are his true mother and father, whom he loves, he leaves his home in the mountains for the city of Thebes, determined to defy the prophecy.

On the way, he meets a quarrelsome old man on the road, they fight, and Oedipus kills him:

When he gets to Thebes, he finds the King has been slain, by persons unknown, and the town is at the mercy of the Sphinx. Oedipus, by guessing the Sphinx’s riddle, obtains safety for the town and is, in gratitude, appointed King himself and given the widowed Queen, Jocasta’s, hand in marriage.

All is well for a bit, until a plague descends on Thebes, and Oedipus is told that to save the city, he must avenge King Laius’ death. So, he goes sleuthing, with the extremely relucant help of his seer Tiresius, and to his horror, discovers that he is the one who killed the King (that old dude on the road to Thebes all those years ago), that he is the King’s true son, and has, therefore, killed his father and, in marrying Queen Jocasta, married his mother and committed incest, fulfilling the prophecy he set out to escape from. He promptly blinds himself in horror. Poor ancient Greek dude.

The Chorus laments the power of fate

O heavy hand of fate! Who now more desolate, Whose tale more sad than thine, whose lot more dire? O Oedipus, discrowned head, Thy cradle was thy marriage bed;

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31/31-h/31-h.htm - Project Gutenberg translation of Oedipus Rex.

A reference to the story of Oedipus and the Sphinx is extremely pregnant right now in the SPN narrative, for two reasons:

1) Fate vs Free Will

2) The Ghost of John Winchester

1) Fate vs Free Will

Dean thinks his interpretation of the book Billie handed him in 14x10 Nihilism - apparently the only death of his in which AU!Michael doesn’t take over his meat-suit and burn the world - means he has to sink himself to the bottom of the ocean, in the Ma’lak (angel) box and that’s “fate”.

Like Oedipus, there is no escape.

However, 14x12 tells us two things. Firstly, by analogy - the prophecy is wrong. Alvarez thinks he is carrying out the prophetic Word of God TM by recreating a twisted version of the Plagues of Egypt sent by God in Exodus:

1) The slaughter of a first-born son

2) Drowning in the Red Sea

3) Fire out of Heaven

(all of which are mirrors for what Dean thinks is his “fate” right now: death of a first born son; being drowned forever at the bottom of the ocean in the Ma’lak box; being consumed by the AU Archangel Michael’s Heavenly grace/fire).

But it’s a garbled message, received as a result of Prophet Donatello’s comatose scramblings.

Secondly, screw prophecy - against the odds, Dr. Sexy of the Lord (yeah - you know Dean thought it) is able to revive Donatello, thus preventing further scramblings (aka wrong prophesies).

CASTIEL: “Dean - if there is a spark, a hope, then I have to try.... you taught me that!”

I loved that line, with its resonance all the way back, like a skein of blue grace, to the Apocalypse Mark One, when Dean convinced Castiel, in Zacharia’s (also due to return in 14x13 Lebanon) “green room” in 4x22 Lucifer Rising, to disobey Heaven for the sake of humanity (Yes, Dean, an angel did fall for you...).

In other words, just as the Winchesters beat their “fate” to be “angel condoms” for Michael and Lucifer last time around, by “tearing up the script” and “making it up as they go” (4x22 Lucifer Rising) thanks to the help of rebel angel Castiel, so they can do so again.

2) The Ghost of John Winchester

In the SPN world’s worst kept spoiler, we know John will return next week in 14x13 Lebanon. We’ve been meta’ing about the ghost of John Winchester haunting the SPN narrative for... forever.

Here is some meta of mine on the subject from S12:

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/158388550099/john-winchesters-ghost-and-the-haunting-of-s12

John is explicitly recalled, during the brothers’ (beautifully rendered) car conversation in 14x12:

DEAN: “You ever think about when we were kids?”

SAM: “Maybe, yeah, sure, sometimes, why?”

DEAN: “I know I wasn’t always the greatest brother to you.”

SAM: “Dean, you were the one who was always there for me. The only one. I mean, you practically raised me.”

DEAN: “I know things got dicey, you know with Dad, the way he was... and I just.... I didn’t always look out for you the way that I should of. I mean, I had my own stuff, y’know, and in order to keep the peace, it probably looked like I took his side quite a bit. Sometimes, when I was away, you know it wasn’t cos I just ran out, right? Dad would, he would send me away, when I really pissed him off. I think you knew that.”

SAM: “Man I left that behind a long time ago, I had to.”

AU!Michael, I’ve been arguing since the start of the season, is a mirror for Dean’s self-repression and for John Winchester. See:

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/179463975289/shirtlesssammy-14x03the-scar-meta-writers

John was one of the major causes of Dean’s self-repression, as illustrated in the convo above, where it’s clear Dean had to grow up too fast to become a substitute-parent to Sam, where he was often obedient to their father to “keep the peace”, and where he was also often, unreasonably, punished by his father in the process (such as, as we already know, when he was sent to Sonny’s after stealing food for Sam in 9x07 Bad Boys).

According to psychoanalysis, we always internalise psychological constructs of our parents - Freud calls them imagos. So the Riddle of the Sphinx, for Dean, is how to kill (or rather, lay to rest) the ghost of his father (whom AU! Michael is a mirror for) and with it, the self-repression which has wounded him so much, psychically, since childhood, without letting it kill him too.

Nick, of course (general shudder) also serves as a John Winchester mirror in the episode - his obsessive revenge quest for the slaughter of his wife (aka mirror Mary Winchester) by Abraxas, led to something she never wanted - damage to innocents along the way (aka mirror innocents, Sam and Dean).

To Conclude

The answer to the Sphinx’s riddle, the one that helped Oedipus avoid being devoured by her was.... humanity.

Light Sphinx, 2015-2016, Mixed media (inc. foam, hand stitched fabrics, LEDs, beads, synthetic hair), 74 x 32 x 54 cm by Tarryn Gill

https://tarryngill.com/Light-Sphinx-Shadow-Sphinx-2015-16

Dean IS the symbolic representation of humanity (which is why Amara was so fascinated by him, and let’s not forget Metatron’s words about Castiel in 9x22 Stairway to Heaven - “He’s in love with.... humanity”).

Our first-born Winchester son just has to believe what this episode showed him - prophecy can be wrong.

His “fate” - to die, to drown forever, to be consumed by holy grace/fire, to remain trapped by the ghost of his father, by his own self-repression, by AU!Michael, by the Ma’lak box (aka, in subtext, the closet) is NOT the “Word of God”.

And killing one’s father doesn’t (as it did for Oedipus) have to mean damnation, if, the way one does it, is symbolically, by laying his ghost to rest in one’s heart and mind (hello upcoming SPN 300 14x13 Lebanon).

Freud believed the resolution of the Oedipus complex (for boys) was identification with the father (and no, we don’t have to concur with Dr. Freud). Dean has actually been on an oppositve journey, to get out from under his father’s shadow.

The Jungian solution, which the S14 narrative is offering to the metaphorical Riddle of the Sphinx, is, to turn around and embrace the Shadow-self (the parts of oneself one has repressed) and in so doing, to evolve - to become more fully human.

So, a final salute to Jerry Wanek and team, and the ever wonderful SPN set dressing narrative, for The Sphinx Machine shop!

NB:

You can read my Jungian Meta series here, if you’re interested:

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/180906003584/the-shadow-14x08

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/181122764984/14x09-the-spear-jungian-decoder-ring-edition

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/182299438269/jung-and-deans-journey-towards-self-integration

And if, you want to read more of my SPN meta in general, go visit my blog and look under the “Meta” sidebar tag: http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/tagged/Meta

Plus, if you want to read lots of other people’s fabulous SPN meta, go check out the “SPN Meta” sidebar tag: http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/tagged/SPN%20Meta

Thanks for having me @metafest !

DrSphinx out.

#Supernatural #SPN meta #Metafest #14x12 #Prophet and Loss #Winchester Family Dynamics #Dean vs repression #Fate vs Free Will #Set dressing narrative #Jerry Wanek #SPN spoilers #Meta

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quickeningheart · 5 years

Text

One

When the trio rumbled up to the Last Chance Garage, they were greeted with the sight of Charley setting a box on the curb, just beside a pile of other boxes. "Hey, Sweetheart! Didja miss me?" Vinnie called with a cheeky grin.

Charley snorted. "Oh, sure. It's been a whole twelve hours since I saw you. I've been pining away for your obnoxious self ever since," she retorted, brushing off her hands.

"Ouch, babe. That cuts deep." Vinnie dramatically pressed a hand to his heart, shaking his head sadly. Charley's lips twitched as she rolled her eyes and turned to stalk back into the garage.

"Doin' a little housekeeping, Charley-girl?" Throttle dubiously eyed the teetering stack of boxes over his field specs.

"As a matter of fact, I'm cleaning out all the junk stored in the spare room. You guys are just in time to help," she replied sweetly.

Vinnie didn't even try to hide his dismayed groan, and was rewarded with a smack across the back of his head, courtesy of Modo's metal hand. He yelped and glared, rubbing his skull as he followed the big gray mouse into the garage and up to Charley's apartment.

"We'll be glad to help, Charley Ma'am," Modo rumbled. "But why the sudden clear-out?"

"I'm expecting company." Charley riffled through a shoebox, wrote something on the lid with a black Sharpie, and stacked it in a corner with a few other boxes. "She'll need a place to crash, and this is the only spare room I've got."

The mice glanced at each other. "This the part where you tell us to get lost for awhile until the coast is clear?" Throttle asked.

Charley glanced at him, surprised. "Of course not! This place is practically your home, too. I wouldn't kick you out just like that," she scolded. "Besides, she'll be staying for awhile."

"So … you'll be telling your friend about us?" The trio glanced at each other. They weren't entirely keen on the idea of yet another human knowing of their existence. Too many knew of them already in that particular area of Chicago, no thanks to Limburger. The people they'd saved kept their mouths shut about hairy alien riders protecting the slum streets of the city, and they'd managed to remain fairly inconspicuous so far, but their luck wouldn't hold out forever.

"Relax, fellas." Charley rested her crossed arms on the pile of larger boxes stacked on the floor, regarding them with a whimsical smile. "No need to get your tails in a knot. Alley's my cousin. She's moving out here from Florida to attend college. I offered her a place to stay to help save on living costs. Why pay even more money for boarding when I've got a perfectly good room going to waste?"

The trio relaxed. Any family member of Charley's automatically made her an extended member of their own. "You think she'll like us?" Vinnie asked, always anxious to make a good impression. Or any impression, really, good or otherwise.

Charley pursed her lips in thought. "Well, I'll definitely have to warn her about you three before you actually meet each other," she replied slowly. "Honestly, I have no idea how she'll react. I haven't actually seen her face-to-face for almost ten years."

"Why so long?" Modo looked troubled; probably thinking of his own family, whom he hadn't seen in a long while, either. "Don't seem right, not seein' your family for so long."

Especially since you're all on the same planet was left unspoken, but Charley understood, and she offered him a sympathetic smile. "Can't be helped. I moved out here to Chi-town, and not too long after that, her parents relocated to Florida so her dad could start his own garage. Our dads are brothers, and they shared the family business, but…" She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"Something happened?" Throttle asked gently. Charley didn't often talk about her family, and they never pressed the issue, although they were curious about what her life had been like before Chicago. They knew bits and pieces, minor things she'd shared over the years, but they understood all too well that some things just couldn't be spoken of. They all had skeletons in their closets, as the human saying went.

Charley ran a hand through her mussed hair. "They had … differences of opinion on how the place should be run," she replied slowly.

"Ah. A family falling-out?"

She sighed. "Something like that. My dad and uncle … they're both pretty strong-willed. And they both had their own ideas on how to make the garage successful. It … got pretty nasty toward the end, before they decided it was best to just sort of go their own ways. Alley's mom got sick, not too long after that. A pretty strong infection in the lungs, I think. The doctors recommended she be moved to warmer climates, so in order to save the family, and Aunt Viv, they decided it was best to move south. Uncle Chuck found a garage that was in danger of going under, bought it out, and completely turned it around. It's a pretty successful bodywork and detailing shop now. I think some of the cars he repainted even appeared in magazines. He specializes in the antiques and classics."

"What about your aunt?" Vinnie asked. "She get any better?"

Charley smiled. "Yeah, the infection cleared up within a few months. Last I heard, she's co-manager of a popular cafe. Let me tell you, the woman can bake. Her cakes and pastries are to die for." She sighed wistfully. "I haven't had one of her homemade whoopie pies in … forever."

"And the brothers?" Modo asked quietly. "They still on the outs?"

"No." She flashed him a small grin. "Since they don't actually have to work together or see each other every day, they get along pretty well. They take turns visiting over holidays, but they're all so busy, it doesn't happen a lot. Oh, my mom said they were kinda stubborn, giving each other the silent treatment and all that. Neither one of 'em wanted to apologize first, but Mom and Viv can be pretty persuasive when their men are bein' stupid." She chuckled. "The family is fine now. Don't worry, fellas."

"So how come you don't go see 'em?" Vinnie asked. "You haven't left this city since we've known you!"

"Oh, I haven't left it way before that," she snorted. "In case you lunkheads haven't noticed, I've pretty much got my hands full, runnin' the Last Chance. Throw in everything that's been happening with Limburger, and, well…" She shrugged. "It ain't like I never talk to them or anything! There's email, and we call each other on occasion. Alley writes me actual letters, too. Says traditional letter writing is becoming a lost art form. Sometimes I even write back, though I'm not quite as eloquent about it." She chuckled. "Anyway, when she told me she'd decided to attend college in Chicago, and asked if she could stop to visit, I offered her the guest room to live in, and here we are."

"So when's she arrivin'?" Modo asked.

"She's on her way as we speak, actually. But she's driving cross-country, so it'll take her a few days to get to Illinois. She thinks she'll be here by Saturday. So do me a favor and hide out at the scoreboard over the weekend, 'til I get her settled in and have a chance to talk to her."

"Will do, Charley-girl."

"Thanks, guys." Charley hefted a box and plopped it into Vinnie's arms. "In the meantime, there's plenty of stuff to shift around. How about you three work on clearing out this room? I've already marked where everything needs to go, either the hall closet or the curb for trash pickup."

"And what will you be doing while we're up here doing the manual labor?" Vinnie grumbled as Charley descended staircase into the garage.

"What else? Earning a living by fixing busted engines! This place doesn't run itself, ya know!"

~*~*~*~*~

Saturday rolled around, and Charley spent most of it working on a sleek black Mustang that had met the wrong end of a truck, due to the careless driving of the Mustang's owner, who had miraculously walked away mostly unscathed. The car hadn't been so lucky.

She'd already managed to put the mangled insides of the Mustang back together, which had felt more like assembling a jigsaw puzzle than a car. It had taken her nearly two weeks to finish, but finally she was done. When she turned the ignition key, she couldn't hold back the triumphant whoop when the engine turned over and started purring like a contented cat. She might complain about her job, but nothing beat the heady rush of pride and satisfaction she always felt over a job spectacularly done.

Well, for the most part. The engine was finished, but now she needed to put the mangled body back together and then have it towed to a detail shop across town for a new paint job. She'd have to enlist the guys' help for the heavy lifting, but at least all the parts she'd ordered had come in. Their boxes were currently piled carefully against the wall, waiting to be unpacked. She'd start on that tomorrow.

The purr of an approaching engine caught her attention. Well, it wasn't a purr so much as a sick-sounding rumble. Somebody seemed to be having car trouble. She glanced at the clock on the wall over the service desk. It was nine forty-five, long past closing-time. And long past due for her cousin to show up. She frowned and rose from her seat, stretching the kinks out of her back as she walked to the door. Then she stood and stared with her mouth slightly agape as a huge green, pink, and yellow flowered … monstrosity of a classic Volkswagen Bus pulled up, coughing and grinding to a halt. There was a sputter, as of the beast giving up its last, wheezing breath; a hiss of smoke and steam rose from its backside, and then the front door opened and a young woman climbed awkwardly out of the driver's seat, hopping to the ground with a triumphant "Made it!"

Charley blinked in astonishment at the blond-haired woman, who was nearly as colorful as her ride with her mid-length hair liberally streaked in rainbow hues, and a flowing white peasant top and stonewashed jeans embroidered with flowers and butterflies. "A-Alley Cat?" she stammered.

The girl grinned. "Well, look at you! Aren't you the regular grease monkey," she teased, eyeballing Charley's filthy coveralls.

Charley relaxed and grinned back. "I almost didn't recognize you for a moment. Boy, you sure grew up, huh?" Alley stood almost as tall as she did, and in no way resembled the little grass-stained tomboy who had followed her everywhere and constantly tackled her into wrestling matches when they were growing up.

"You sure you didn't just shrink?" Alley shot back, and Charley snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes. "I see your smart mouth didn't change, though."

"Never! It's my most attractive feature."

"C'mere, you." Before Alley could protest, Charley pulled her into a brief hug, careful not to get grease on the younger woman's clothes. "It's so good to see you! How're things in Florida? How're Chuck and Viv doing?"

"Florida is … Florida. Hot. Sticky. Lots of old people driving around who really shouldn't be allowed to. My parents are great, though. Dad's shop is as popular as ever. You know, he refinished a Rolls Royce for some celebrity or something, and got invited to this swanky party as a thank you. He took Mom with him. They were rubbing elbows with all these movies stars and such. Mom loved it. She can't stop bragging about how she got to meet Johnny Depp," Alley laughed. "Dad's pretty pleased with himself. Mom hasn't nagged him for anything for the past two weeks!" She poked Charley in the arm. "Anyway, what about you? Ya never call, ya never write. Glad I didn't show up to find your decomposing body being eaten by wild dogs or something."

"Yeah, yeah. I told you, it's been sorta crazy around here for the last few years." Charley chuckled nervously, scratching her arm and wondering when would actually be a good time to tell her cousin about the consistent alien invasion happening right under the government's nose, not to mention her alien house guests. She decided to change the topic for the moment, turning to the smoking bus. "So. From what hellhole did you manage to dig this thing up? You didn't pay actual money for it, did you?"

"Shhhh! She'll hear you!" Alley lovingly stroked a stylized flower on the bus's door. "Priscilla is very sensitive, you know."

"Priscilla?" Charley couldn't keep the bark of laughter down.

"What? It's not like you've never named any of your cars."

"Well, yeah … but Priscilla?"

"It's a classic name for a classic lady," Alley sniffed.

"Just how classic are we talkin' here?" Charley eyed the bus. "Early seventies model?"

"Late sixties, actually. Sixty-seven, I think? I found it and Dad repainted it for me as my sixteenth birthday present."

"Uh-huh. And how old are you now?"

"Just turned twenty!" Alley announced proudly.

Charley circled the bus, shaking her head. "What happened? When did the trouble start?"

"It was doing great the first three days, but today I was driving only a few hours and it started acting up. Had to stop a few times to let it cool down. I didn't think I was actually gonna make it today, but we managed to push through. Priscilla is very good like that."

"You probably should've taken it to an auto shop instead of going on. You might've just killed Priscilla," Charley scolded. "That smoke there? Generally not a good thing to see coming from any engine, especially an antique like this."

"Uh, hello. I did take it to an auto shop." Alley raised an eyebrow pointedly, and Charley rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean!"

"Look, classes start soon. I just wanted to get here and get settled so I can prepare for them. Besides, I know you won't try and rip me off and tell me there's more work that needs done on the bus than actually does."

"I'm not so sure they'd actually be ripping you off," Charley sighed. "Well, I'll take a look at it, but it'll have to wait awhile. I've got my hands full at the moment. In the meantime, grab a couple of suitcases and I'll help carry 'em up. I've got a room ready for you. It's pretty basic, but you can fill it out with what you need. We can unpack the rest of the van tomorrow."

"Will it be safe, sitting here overnight? This doesn't exactly look like the classier side of town."

"It isn't, but Priscilla will be safe enough. She's not going anywhere in her condition. Unless you want to help me push her into the garage…?"

"Right. Tomorrow it is. Can you grab Mercedes from the front seat for me?"

"And who's Mercedes?" Charley teased as she opened the passenger door. "Your comput-Jiminy Christmas, Ally! What the hell is that?"

Alley blinked at her cousin, who had jumped back from the bus as if she'd been yanked. "That's Mercedes. I did tell you I'm bringing a pet with me, didn't I?"

Charley pressed a hand to her heart, releasing a deep breath. "I do seem to recall something about that," she muttered. "But I thought you were talkin' about a goldfish or hamster or something. I wasn't expecting a rat!"

"Sorry, I didn't realize she'd bother you." Alley opened the door of the carry cage and scooped the cream-and-brown rodent into her hand. "I used to have pet mice and gerbils when I was a kid, and you never minded those. A rat isn't that much different."

"There are some people who would disagree with that assessment," Charley replied around a dry chuckle. "Just … keep her in your room, okay?"

"Sure, I wasn't planning on letting her run loose in the building or anything. Want to hold her? She doesn't bite," Alley offered, and added a teasing, "You're not squeamish, are you?" when her cousin hesitated.

"Don't be silly," Charley snorted as she accepted the squirming bundle of fur, who proceeded to scramble up her arm and crawl across her shoulders. She squeaked and hunched when she felt cold little paws and twitching whiskers tickle the back of her neck, before Alley reached out to pluck Mercedes from her opposite shoulder. "It's just I know some guys who … really don't like rats. Guess I grew a bit biased without even realizing it."

"Awww, who could not like this adorable little face?" Alley cooed as she leaned in and nuzzled her nose against Mercedes's muzzle. She got a lick in response, and Charley chuckled. "Okay, I admit she's cute. Now come on in and let me show you the place. Hope you don't mind crashing on the couch for a day or two. Still haven't gotten a bed into the spare room yet."

"Hey, after three nights of cheap roadside motel rooms, I'd be willing to sleep on the floor at this point. It's probably cleaner than any of those beds were."

#biker mice from mars #bikermice #bmfm #fanfiction #Vinnie #Throttle #Modo #Stoker #Charley #original characters

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orthographewrites · 6 years

Note

🎅 (trash sons gift wrapping a present for sofia or pia, surprise me idkkdk)

🎅 HELP MY MUSE WRAP A PRESENT:

“C’mon, it will take basically no time at all and it will be lots of fun styling the paper – they’re going to love it!” An innocent sentence shared between boyfriends, one far above the other with his pleading tone that stated his need for help. Marius’ “sure” came with suspicion, knowing nothing was plain and forward with Robin, but as he found it hard to ignore the multitude of outcomes that could follow leaving Robin alone with scissors and paper, he found himself with a little to no choice. Robin, on the other hand, was nothing but ecstatic as he pulled Marius into his half-naked living room (although somewhat livelier with a Christmas tree decorating the corner near the TV) and pointed at a crafting station he had prepared in the middle.

“So, I kind of haven’t wrapped a present since I was like… fifteen or something, because you know I mostly stuff it into an envelope and send it on its way – thus I kind of didn’t really know what to get but… I think we can figure it out.” And that was a statement that held true, as there was no shortage of wrapping paper with anything from shimmering hues to classic Christmas motives of snowflakes, Santa and Rudolph. On top of that, there also happened to be a massive stack of bows and ribbon in a similar fashion, cards in all sizes, glitter and stamps that all laid bundled together next to the paper. If one had glanced over at Marius in that exact moment in time, a shift among his facial features would have said it all and rang of a much familiar “oh hell no” that filled the room with a sense of dread. However, it was short-lived as Robin spoke up again. “I thought we could maybe do one each? I’ll do Sofia’s and you’ll do Pia’s because that’ll be a hundred times faster than doing them one by one. Just grab for whatever you think she’ll like!” ( @alicemorganwrites )

Robin placed a loving pat on Marius’ shoulder, nudging him forward before he went to shuffle the two presents into the middle and the smile on his face was no late to match his excitement to finally be wrapping gifts again. He had quite often felt cheap and boring in comparison to his family during Christmas and birthdays, all having their share neatly boxed in with love and care – whilst Robin barely had time to get home and settle himself in before the holiday took over. This was a change of pace, much like the rest of his usual routines and he wasn’t about to half-ass it. To him, the coming steps came easy. Sofia was a classic and clean person, she preferred when things seemed in order and therefore Robin went for the classic wrapping paper – the first step. The second step threw him at a halt, instantly turning to Marius who was already busy cutting his, having gone for a gold shimmer. “Um… how much are you supposed to cut? Like do you just fit it around the box or do you need to cut the corners in a specific way?”

“Are you seriously telling me you don’t even know how to actually cut the paper?” Marius arched a brow, staring over in confusion. “How would you have done this if you’d been on your own? Holy – never mind, you make sure it can wrap one and a half times around the package, start with that and then I’ll show you the second step.” This turned to be a process and a half, which Marius constantly needing to stop Robin from placing an excessive amount of tape around the edges, as Robin came concerned they’ll be able to peak through the wrapping if he didn’t secure it enough. There was nothing magic with the ability to steal a first viewing, he argued, and Marius quickly gave up and let him have his way.

The next step was the ribbon to be placed around the package, something that made it pop and stand out – quite important. Finding the right color to match became the hard part. Did he want a purple? A red? A mix? Maybe some silver? “Ugh! Why is this so hard! Should I just try them all and see which look the best?” Robin knitted his eyebrows as he unrolled a chunk of the ribbon and placed the package on top, quick to second guess and reach out for another one – repeating the process without rolling the ribbon back again, something that soon came to unfold on Marius’ side of the floor. Upon hearing a quick “keep it on your side” Robin looked up, soon to gasp in chock and shuffle himself upwards as he realized what Marius’ was doing with the wrapping for Pia. “No! You can’t just slap a bow on top like that, it looks super boring! This is Pia we are talking about, and considering you’ve known her longer than I have you should know she likes it with pizazz!”

“And?” Marius lowered the package for a minute but kept it secure within his hands to avoid Robin taking over his work. “She’s just going to rip it off and throw it onto the trash anyway, why bother.”

“Because it will look good and make it seem like you really care about them, maybe?” Robin’s voice was filled with disbelief, yet somewhat used to Marius’ typical dismissal of cute gestures – hardly the type to put in an obvious effort that made him seem like he cared. Today, however, was not a day for short-cuts and he darn made sure to make a statement of it as he suddenly reached forward to grab for one of the glitter boxes and held it forward. “At least use some of this to make it pop or something, don’t go bland.”

Marius, on the other hand, gave it one glance before he shook his head. “No, I’m fine with this.”

“Pia deserves better!”

“And?”

“You’re so boring, I can’t believe it – I’ll do it for you then. Hold on, I’ll just op – “, Robin’s sentence never reached the finish as his nails cut through the tape of the glitter box and tried (at first) open it gently, something that proved impossible and thus force him to pry at the edge until it gave in. And out. As Robin had mentioned, he wanted the gift to “pop” and as a massive cloud of holographic glitter got tossed out and into the air (landing everywhere from the floor to the package and not least all over Marius face and shirt) it was safe to say the bow was no longer the main attraction. His eyes stared wide at the scene in front of him, shifting between Marius and the floor. “Um… well…”, he paused and exhaled, building himself up for the next part. “At least you look pretty adorable in glitter, I’ll give you that much.”

Marius sat silent, his fingers yet gripping the gift as his eyes glared in front of himself, barely capable of staring anywhere else around him. All he could feel was the light tingle from the glitter around his nose, almost as if someone was holding a dust boa to his face, making him wrinkle the area around to keep himself from sneezing right out. “And what else would you suggest I ad?” There was a hint of a sigh hidden between his words, biting his tongue in an attempt to stay civil.

“Else? Oh boy… how about a card? We should definitely be making rhymes and stuff, you can’t have a classic present without making people guess what’s in it.” And just like that, Robin had already moved on from his glitter disaster, instead pointing at the stack of cards he had picked up.

“What? No! I was thinking more in terms of decorations not – “

“It’s a decoration, you string it to the ribbon!” It was a closing statement, not opening any room for further arguments about what should and shouldn’t go on a present. This was Christmas they were talking about, a holiday filled with wonders and delight – Marius was not allowed to downplay it or skip over it for once. Robin merely gained a muffled answer, words mangled and not for his ears to hear as the two continued on their separate accords. The room eventually filled up with the sound of a scribbling pen, as well as Robin’s voice humming along to a Christmas song he recalled from memory – .lost in his work that slowly started to wrap up to completion.

Once he was done with his own rhyme, he decided to break the silence to declare victory. “It doesn’t look half bad!” Sofia’s present had, sort of, stuck to the tidy section of ideas – having gone with a silver and green ribbon combo, alongside some of the stamps to hold it all in place. The small card dangled from the side, inviting and with Sofia’s name on the front. Marius’ was… as good as it could get, having forced himself to place a few odds and bits around the already glowing paper to avoid getting stuck again. The spilled glitter was the highlight of it all, glimmering and falling off the paper whenever Marius tried to shift the box around.

“Good enough?” Marius placed it closer to Sofia’s present, his fingers grabbing for the fabric of his short to remind himself of the disaster about to take place the second he removed himself from the floor.

“Definitely on the better side, I’ll give it a pass.” Robin nodded to show his agreement, right before he hunched closer to Marius, quickly dipping his hand in the glitter spread around them and ruffling it into Marius’ dark locks. “You can borrow one of my shirts for now, because I’m kind of getting into this so we might as well do my dads’ presents as well.”

Marius’ didn’t gain an opportunity to protest as Robin was quicker up on his feet, placing a loving peck on his cheek that made him swallow his words. “Ugh, fine…”, he sighed in defeat. “Do you have something to drink though? I have a feeling we are going to need it.”

#ship: perhaps what you crave has been with you all along #drabble #:'')

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shinelikethunder · 7 years

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disconnected thoughts on fandom and the indieweb

Recently I discovered the IndieWeb project, and I... think I am a lot more intrigued by it than by other Better Social Media Platform pipe dreams and decentralization projects I’ve seen? Because it’s not a monolithic platform that has to be all things to all people, or even one that has to gain a critical mass of userbase before it’s useful for anything. It’s just a bunch of people, making sites that work for them, and banging out protocols so their sites can talk to each other and hook up to the social-media hangouts du jour.

The basic idea:

- Have a personal website, preferably a personal domain name, that is the hub for your online identity and stuff. Posts, tweets, pictures, links, reading list, events, whatever you’d normally be posting to social media. You host it, you control it, you own it. You tweak it to fit your needs, no Xkit required.

- Once the original archival copy is up on your personal site, cross-post it to whatever social media sites it belongs on. You don’t have to quit your Tumblr habit, or convince your friends to quit theirs, or give up the audience you can reach on a large site.

- Use a pingbacks-on-steroids tool to collect all the responses (likes, reblogs, comments, etc) from the various sites you’ve cross-posted to. Ideally, display them at the bottom of the post back on your website.

As an idea, I like it a lot. In practice, a lot depends on what tools are already available, how useable they are, how capable you are of coding/templating/configuring to fill in the gaps, and how difficult large sites make it to push/pull from them automatically. That’s pretty much what I’m interested in exploring in the near future, for my own use if nothing else. I already have most of my Tumblr content backed up to a Wordpress install on my own shared hosting account, so I’m kinda curious see how much IndieWeb compatibility I can manage using plugins and template tweaks.

Indieweb and fandom:

As a potential tool for fandom to wean ourselves off the various hellsites we’ve inhabited over the years... okay, it’s an interesting thought. One with lots of unanswered questions, but interesting.

Lots of unanswered questions, so the rest of this is going under a cut.

- Upside: I know a lot of older fans are still nostalgic about the early blogosphere and even--heaven forfend--the Geocities days. Many things about them were shit, but the archipelago of personal fan shrines, indie blogs, having a personal site with a personal archive of your work, etc. was awesome. And the “own your own creations” ethos fits in nicely with AO3′s “we have to own the servers” philosophy.

- Enabling factor: Fandom builds and customizes stuff like crazy. Yes, including the younger generations who weren’t around for the “build it yourself” days and seem to think AO3 burst fully formed out of the forehead of a long-lost deity. What, you haven’t noticed that even on a hobbled hellsite like Tumblr, teenagers are using the relative freedom of the theme system to spontaneously rediscover all the sins of Geocities web design? (I rib with affection, as someone who definitely had a page with flaming torch gifs and a sparklecursor back in 2001.) Full, out-of-the-box, point-and-click setup is necessary to get fandom to adopt something in any decent numbers. But once we’re there, a disproportionate number of us start tinkering with anything that’s customizable, and when someone with actual coding skills comes out with a useful tool to supplement missing capabilities, it spreads like wildfire.

- Gaps and directions to expand: Indieweb principles include “scratch your own itches,” so here are my itches, which I’m going to shamelessly project onto fandom at large.

Import--needs rock solid LiveJournal-clone and Tumblr support if your site is to serve as an archive. I don’t know if there even is a working Wordpress plugin to import from LJ or Dreamwidth. The best-supported Tumblr->Wordpress importer is actually better than most standalone Tumblr backup tools, but it still mangles video posts/embeds. It’d also be cool to have import tools for AO3, Deviantart, and other major fanwork repositories.

Once your Tumblr posts are in, there's no way to automate the very first thing I’d want to do upon liberating my data from the vise-like jaws of What Tumblr Wants You To Do With Its Site: separate out posts I created, posts I added comments to, and posts I just shared via reblog. A nice addition would be the ability to copy Tumblr tags to a metadata field that’s separate from Wordpress tags--WP tags tend to be organizational, whereas on Tumblr, tags are often a sidechannel for comments that don’t propagate on reblog, thus filled with all sorts of crap.

On that note, Itch #3 is mass-organization tools. Select all posts that fit certain criteria and do a mass edit on their tags, categories, post types, or other taxonomy data. Lots of fandom folks have years or decades worth of content from various sites, making organizational tasks highly impractical to do manually. I’ve dicked around with a few Wordpress mass-edit plugins, but none of them seemed to work that well.

Not sure how well the existing backfeed tools support Tumblr notes, but for fandom to bite, the Tumblr support oughta be pretty damn slick. And the cross-posting should ideally support all the features of a native Tumblr post, because by god, we will use them, and we will notice if an expected one is missing. I can spot IFTTT cross-posts from AO3 without even reading text, and tbh my eyes usually skip right over them, unfair as that may be.

If this project extends to feed readers/aggregators, the embrace of multi-site cross-posting implies a need for deduplication. Preferably getting rid of Tumblr’s charming “barf the full post back out onto your dashboard every time someone you’re following shares/responds to it” behavior in the process. For fandom use, it’ll need a blacklist feature. And I’d love some more heavy-duty filtering, selective subscriptions (like to just one tag of a blog), creating multiple feeds based on topic or on how much firehose you want...

This may be a personal itch, but at least for personal archiving needs, I’m sick, sick, sick of the recency bias that’s eaten the internet since the first stirrings of Web 2.0. Wikis are practically the only sites that have escaped chronological organization. It would be cool to have easily-manipulated collections with non-kludgey support for series ordering, order-by-popularity, order-by-popularity with a manual bump for posts you want to highlight, hell even alphabetical ordering. None of these things are remotely unsolved problems, but they’re poorly supported on the social-media silos most people’s content lives on these days. Fandom’s suffered from this since at least the days of LiveJournal, which had the ominous beginnings of what’s since become the Tumblr Memory Hole. Relentless chronological ordering + the signal-to-noise ratio of any space with regular social interaction = greatest hits falling down the memory hole unless a community practices extensive manual cataloguing. Hell, LJ fandom did practice extensive manual cataloguing, but even within that silo, there was so much decentralization that content discovery was shit if you didn’t know the right accounts to search through. Like, fuck, at least forums bump threads to the top if they’re still active--LJ and blogs have the same "best conversation evar falls inexorably off the map as new posts are added, no matter how active it is” problem that InsideTheWeb forums did in 1999. (Anyone else remember InsideTheWeb? AKA 13-year-old me’s first experience with platform shutdown, frantic archiving attempts, and massive data loss. Fun times.) Tumblr and Twitter, meanwhile, spam you with duplicates of the original post every time someone you’re following replies to/shares it, a key component of the endless firehose of noise drowning out any attempt to hang on to the signal.

All those itches are things I could probably code myself if I got a stubborn enough bee in my bonnet, which might well happen. On the other hand, I have some deeper doubts, ones that aren’t going to get addressed by Wordpress plugins or shiny backfeed support:

The whole concept of IndieWeb fails to address (and might even worsen) what I suspect is the core dysfunction of social media. Which is the degradation of community spaces, and their replacement with a hopeless snarl where all content lives in individual accounts. There are a lot of weird effects that arise when the “social” sphere is built entirely upon the one-on-one connections created when someone subscribes to another account or gives someone else permission to view their restricted posts. Echo chambers, shame mobs, out-of-context remarks going viral, popular accounts setting off harassment storms whenever they disagree with someone, the difficulty of debunking hoaxes once they’re out in the wild... all of those are either created or made much, much worse by the lack of any reasonable, stable, shared expectation of who a post’s audience is.

Basically, if “own your content and host it on your site” also applies to your comments, interactions, etc, it starts running counter to one of the strengths of the Old Web. Which was community contexts where you explicitly weren’t posting to your own space or addressing everyone who might be looking at the main clearinghouse of all your different stuff. You were posting to the commons shared by a particular group with a particular culture and interests, not all of whom were people you’d necessarily want to follow outside that limited context, some of whom you might disagree with or dislike, but in any case you knew what audience you were broadcasting to. You knew what the conversation was, how similar conversations had gone in the past, and the reputations of all the main participants--not just the ones you yourself would subscribe to and the ones attention-grabbing enough to get shared by the people on your subscription list. And you weren’t spamming all your other acquaintances with chatter on a topic they weren’t interested in.

Shared spaces can also establish whatever social norms they need and moderate accordingly. (Plus, plurality of spaces = plurality of norms for different needs, which would solve a LOT of what’s currently ailing fandom.) Peaceable enforcement of a code of conduct, beyond the “minimum viable standard” sitewide abuse policy, is fundamentally impossible on social media, where individual muting is the closest thing you can get to moderation. That + unstable audience = any social norms that exist are so unenforceable it turns people into frothing shame-mob zealots, ratcheting up the coercive pressure on everyone the more it fails to work on the handful of unrepentant assholes who would’ve been permabanned from any self-respecting forum within a week. Moving onto personal sites with beefed up syndication/backfeed capabilities ain’t gonna fix that. Meanwhile the truly heinous dickweeds who’d ordinarily run afoul of the sitewide abuse policy will have the same capabilities, minus any risk of getting banned.

If there haven’t already been epic drama meltdowns caused by the “reply in your own space by making your own post, which includes a copy of the original post for context” model... it’s only a matter of time. You don’t even need malicious actors, just a human conflict where one party has overprotective subscribers. Or information turns out to be faulty and in need of correction. Or an argumentative type stumbles on the permalink of an acrimonious reply post that was actually resolved amicably several replies downthread. Or someone edits an apology into their controversial post and someone who’s been attacking it refuses to update their copy because tilting at strawmen is more fun. Or someone tries to make an embarrassing post go away by deletion and their co-conversationists don’t cooperate. Tumblr’s “reply by reposting in your own space and adding commentary” system already spawns endless floods of drama and misunderstanding, and that’s a system with some��limits on the participants’ control, and relatively disposable accounts/identities if the shit hits the fan.

Basically, I’m all for personal websites as archives of your creations, but seriously dubious of them as archives of your interactions. Especially if the interactions aren’t well-segregated from the regular content feed that goes out to everyone who follows you. Yes, abuses of moderator power when interaction is all taking place on a site the mod controls are a thing. But if those sites are an archipelago of indie spaces rather than a monolithic platform, shitty mods don’t thwart the development of a healthy social ecosystem, they just drive everyone away to a competing space whose mod sucks less.

(Private/access-restricted archives of your interactions might be a compromise? You still have your stuff in case the other site goes down, but it’s not out there replicating the ill effects of the Tumblr reblog-to-respond model.)

Leaving aside all that, the IndieAuth component--using personal sites as stable identities you can log in with--is just as workable for community platforms as it is for cross-blog commenting. Proliferation of unlinkable accounts was one of the downfalls of forums, after all. That said, one potential point of friction is that fandom is far more pseudonym-centric than the devs and tech hobbyists who’ve coalesced around IndieWeb so far. But stable pseuds with years of reputation behind them have social effects that resemble real names more than anything else, so as potential culture clashes go, I’d hope that’s fairly surmountable.

As noted in the musings on LiveJournal archiving above: CONTENT DISCOVERY IS A BITCH IN DECENTRALIZED COMMUNITIES and that’s a major stumbling block for fandom. OTOH, platform-agnostic protocols with customization potential = room for experimentation with independently-run discovery/search/tagging layers. (Life goals: stay uncool enough that my “Like Uber, but for ___” elevator pitch ends up being “It’s like Technorati, but for fanfiction of Kirk drilling Spock.”)

Okay, that’s it, jesus christ it’s time for me to go to bed.

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jjbaconsumedmysoul · 7 years

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Oh wow awesome I didn't know you were taking requests? May I please request something with Formaggio or if he's too difficult then Melone? Thank you so much and have a fantastic week! Also don't forget to pace yourself I know if I have a lot of stuff to do for other people I can push myself and get sick and I don't want that happening to you. Remember to rest and be kind to yourself!

Formaggio x Reader: “Present”

You sighed as you laid on the couch, waving a mangled strand of yarn in front of the cat. She seemed to be enjoying it as you teasingly held her prey out of her reach, whipping it back and forths as she jumped desperately. But you were bored out of your mind.

In general, your boyfriend treated you pretty well when you two weren’t off on work business. The rest of La Squadra teased you sometimes about how hard you had fallen for him of all people, but you never really understood why. Sure, his stand wasn’t immensely powerful, but your own abilities complimented his quite nicely. You two worked well together in the field, and you wouldn’t dare trade the time you spent with him for an afternoon with any of the other boys.

That said, you did spend time with all of them together quite often. And things didn’t always go as planned. Your last night with the gang had left him in a sour mood.

Risotto had briefed you all on the next mission, asking Formaggio and Illuso to come and help him pack up the weapons for him. You had a long day, and you were actually beginning to fall asleep right there on the couch. Melone and Ghiaccio were both resting by your side, the former laying his head on your shoulder and the latter laying his head in your lap. You sighed as you laid back, melting into their warmth. You didn’t mind them touching you, in fact it was quite comforting sometimes. Formaggio, however…

“Dammit you little fu–”

“Formaggio,” You whined as he stormed into the room, gripping you by the wrist and pulling you from the sofa. You were so tired at this point that all you could do was hug him and rub your face into his neck as a tirade of insults came cascading from his mouth. But you groggily held your fingers to his lips to quiet him.

“Shhhhhh. I’m just really tired.” You softly kissed his cheek, “Maybe we can go home now?”

He gritted his teeth as he eyed Melone and Ghiaccio suspiciously. You couldn’t see them, but you hoped they weren’t making any rude or obscene gestures to Formaggio behind your back. They poked fun at the both of you an awful lot, and although you understood they were just playing, lately your boyfriend had a tendency to snap back.

You had awoken the next morning upset not to find his warm body lying next to yours. It was drizzling and grey outside, and you sighed as you poured your morning coffee, fed the cat, grabbed a small breakfast.

And now you were laying on the couch and playing with her. Formaggio was sitting at his desk, staring at the blank computer screen, and you pouted slightly as you noticed the greasy uneaten pastry next to him.

You just wanted to know what was wrong. Was it about the mission or La Squadra or Risotto? Was it Ghiaccio and Melone? Was it you?

You took a deep breath as you sprung from the couch, dropping the yarn into the cat’s claws as she mewled in excitement. Maybe you could lighten the mood a bit with a present: You had been saving it for him for a while now. It was something you bought when he was off on a mission alone. It was a bit nerve wracking as you crept to the closet in your room and pulled out the sparkling pink box from where you had hidden it. You had never really done something like this for him before but hopefully he was the kind of guy to enjoy it.

As soon as you had pulled the sheer fabric up over your hips and fastened the hook of the bra, you turned to look in the mirror. You actually looked kinda nice. You admired the delicate lace, the shimmering silk. Maybe, just maybe, this would put him in a better mood. You slipped your normal bathrobe on over the lingerie set, wanting to surprise him as tiptoed over out of the bedroom. Once you made it to the living room, you sneaked over to his desk grabbing the neglected pastry from the plate, and thank heavens that at least he hadn’t opened up another bottle of… something. You slid shyly onto his lap, and he gasped, finally noticing your appearance. You extended the pastry towards his mouth.

“Eat.” Your voice was gentle but still commanding as you brought the sweet treat to his lips. He whined and struggled a bit at first, but eventually he took a bite, somewhat begrudgingly at how you were force feeding him. Nonetheless, he accepted your offer of affection, wrapping one arm around your hip, resting the other hand in your hair as he held you close.

It was so nice just to sit there in silence, his fingers gently stroking across your scalp and your lower back as you offered him several more bites of the food. Soon he had eaten the entire thing, and you shuddered as he licked the gooey sugary syrup from your fingers.

You wanted to ask him what was wrong, why he had been sulking so much lately, but you knew he wasn’t really one to talk. So you wrapped your arm around his shoulder, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“Sweetie,” You began. His face flushed red whenever you called him that, but you knew he secretly enjoyed it as he pulled you closer. “I know you probably don’t wanna talk about it,” He groaned and stiffened as soon as the words escaped your mouth. He made to stand up and set you on the ground, but you firmly held his chest back to the seat “Wait, wait–” his strength was too much for you and he removed you from his lap.

“Babe, it’s nothing. I just, I…” He was never very good at words anyway, so you blocked him before he could leave.

“I just want you to know,” He paused as you looked into his steely grey eyes. You slowly took his hands in yours. “if it’s the others making you jealous,” he whipped his gaze from you, gritting his teeth pulling his hands away as the curled into fists. “Formaggio, I love you. Only you. And, umm… If you need any proof…” You shyly began to untie the knotted belt of your bathrobe. His looked back at you, preparing to say something when he noticed your actions.

A slight blush came to your face as you began to open the robe, nervously avoiding his eye contact. You heard a small gasp as you drew the soft fabric off your shoulders, rubbing your legs together bashfully as you dropped it to the floor. Your arms automatically hugged your chest, though you tried not to obscure the elegant lace from his view. You took a deep breath.

“Do you,” Your voice was soft and hesitant at first. “Do you like it?” Your eyes slowly connected with his again, and your heart pounded as you saw his shocked expression. He took a step towards you and squeezed your thighs together as his eyes darted towards your crotch. But he quickly hid the surprise from his face as his lips curled into a smirk.

He began to circle around you slowly, as you stood, shivering under his scrutinising gaze. You gasped as his fingers trailed slowly around your waist, your lower back, sliding down to rest on your rear. You couldn’t help but smile as his face appeared before you again, his devilish smirk burning into your very heart and causing it to beat faster than ever before. A squeak escaped your lips as his other hand slipped up to grab your breast, squeezing it firmly through the sheer fabric as you melted into his embrace. You leaned in for a kiss, but he teasingly placed his finger to your lips.

“You said you were gonna prove it, right?”

You giggled as he picked you up into his arms, almost tripping over the cat as he hurriedly rushed you to the bedroom. Your pulse raced in your ears as you thought of what was in store. You knew he wanted to taunt you, to toy with you, and you would let him do whatever he pleased, so long as he knew that you loved him.

He threw you down on the bed before him and you panted with the shock of collapsing into the mattress while he stared you with longing. He didn’t pounce yet, however. He walked to the side of the bed, his fingers slowly inspecting the lace, the silk. You shivered as his hand tickled you stomach slightly, but he commanded you to stay still, arms and legs outstretched, as he studied his prey. He tugged lightly at the straps of the bra, just slipping it off the edge of your shoulder.

“Hmm…” he mused. His fingers ghosted down into your cleavage. “Where to begin first,” you sighed as he tugged back a bit of the lace stroking small circles on the top of your breast as you smiled up at him. He crept onto the bed next to you.

Slowly, he began to plant small kisses on your jawline. You giggled as his fingers slid down your stomach, tickling you just slightly as you squirmed. He trailed his lips down your neck, sucking hard until he found that one sensitive spot that made you moan in pleasure. You heard an appreciative grunt on his behalf at your adorable reactions. He toyed with the slippery fabric as he bit down on the flesh just above your collarbone. Your eyes squeezed shut as your breath hitched, fingers clawing at the blankets before he began to nibble more gently. You panted his name through incomplete breaths as he chuckled against your skin:

“We haven’t even gotten to the fun part,”

At this point, he removed his lips, much to your dismay, and he crawled behind your so that your head rest just between his legs, as didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of grinding his prominence into your pelvis just yet. Instead, he slid his fingers teasingly down your chest, right up until they entered the cup of your bra.

“Please,” You squirmed and begged him, knowing full well that that was what he wanted. However, he didn’t give you the satisfaction of anything other than soft touches.

“But babe, you look so pretty in this. And you got it just for me? It would be a shame to cast it off so carelessly.” He rubbed circles around the most sensitive areas, causing you to bite your lip in frustration as you whispered.

“But don’t I look just as pretty without it?” He paused.

“You got me there,” He quickly popped the hook of the front-fastening bra as your breasts bounced out. You smirked at his expression of awe and wonder as he cupped one hand around he slowly kneaded and squeezed them. He pinched the tips as you gasped in excitement, your eyes fluttering shut in expectation.

But then he was gone again.

“Formaggio,” You whined, your eyes still shut as you lay there, exposed. But you felt him shift on the bed.

Suddenly, you felt a slight pressure in between your legs. You gasped as he began to gently toy with your clit, rubbing small circles, kneading it back and forth. He chuckled as you back arched just slightly, and began to go at it even harder. You wanted more. You needed more. You could feel the sheer silk fabric beginning to grow wet with your desperation. Your chest heaved, your heart raced, your face was flushed a deep red as you glared down at him eyeing your soaked satin panties. Dammit, what else did he need?

“Damn, I guess it doesn’t take a lot to get you going.” You sighed in exasperation at his words. You would have snapped back at him if you weren’t so squeamish right now, so hungry for his touch. You had to play along if you were going to get anywhere.

“Please, Formaggio?” Your voice sounded desperate, probably because you were desperate, as he slowly climbed over you.

“I think I’ll give you little reward for playing so nicely.” His lips crashed onto yours as you gave out a satisfied moan. They were always so soft, so warm, so comforting against you as he ran his fingers through your hair. You were frustrated that he hadn’t even stripped off any of his clothes as the firm leather rubbed against your bare torso, but you knew he would cave eventually.

His kisses were already becoming ravenous, hungry. You could see the crotch of his pants growing tighter as his mind flooded with fantasies of you. He finally threw off his jacket as he trailed kisses down your neck, latching his hands onto your breasts as you cried out in delight. His tongue licked along your collarbone, down your sternum, along the outside of the breast, slowly circling our nipple until he caught the tip in between his teeth. Damn he was good at this. The hand that had left your breast slipped down between your legs and you squealed as he pinched everything simultaneously. He laughed against your flesh, and your heart fluttered in your chest as his kisses descended down your stomach, his hands holding you firmly by the waist.

He ravished just below your navel with kisses, sucking and nipping at the soft flesh as you begged for more. His fingers toyed with the lace of the panties, pulling them down just slightly below your hip line, but not as far down as you desired.

“Formaggio, I want you.” You whined, wriggling as he continued to tickle you with kisses along your stomach.

“Impatient, aren’t we today?” he teased as he tugged the silk ever so slowly over your hips. You gasped for breath as your slickened entrance hit the cool air, feeling the soft fabric being pulled down your legs, off your feet, onto the floor. He spread your legs wide as you bit your lip in the agonizing anticipation. His fingers gently traced along your opening, sliding in shallowly as you moaned and clutched the sheets. He enjoyed playing in between your legs, and often became so preoccupied with it that he forgot you were dying over here!

Your entire body tingled with warmth as you finally felt his lips hit between your thighs. You couldn’t help but squirm a bit as he kissed your swollen lips, dragged his tongue across the soft flesh, slowly lapped at your core. Your hands grabbed desperately at his head, pulling him closer as you cried out “Yes!” and “Please!”. He chuckled, but continued to slide his tongue in and out, his fingers still caressing your clit, gripping your hips, touching any part of your body within reach.

You gasped in the momentary lull as he stepped away from your shaken figure. You heard the zipper, the belt buckle, the muffled crumpling of pants onto the floor. You sat up slightly to behold him as he slid his boxers down his legs. His length stood almost upright, swollen larger than almost any time you had seen it before.

“So I take it you liked my little present?” He smirked wickedly as he leapt to pin you back down to the bed.

“No, babe, that stuff was only the wrapping. You’re my real present.” You couldn’t help but laugh as it seemed he had finally perked up with that stupid sense of humor.

“It’s so cute, when you’re cheesy, Formaggio.” You giggled as he smiled

“What can I say? Cheesy is my middle name,”

“No, silly, it’s your first name.”

“Do you want me to enjoy my present or not?” You laughed as you nodded and took a deep breath. Slowly, sensuously, you whispered:

“Take me.”

You gasped as his massive length slid slowly into your core. Each time it was different, but wonderful all the same. Your walls tightened, not wanting to accommodate such a girth, but he pounded into you until he was settled. You both grunted as it felt like something had locked into place. Those icy grey eyes shot down towards you.

“Ready?”

You nodded.

He began to draw his shaft in and out, slowly at first, as you got into the rhythm of things. You groaned as he latched onto your breasts for support, each thrust into you firmer and harder than the last. You thighs squeezed around his hips tightly as your breaths became short. He filled each and every corner, every last crevice. There was nothing in your body but love for him.

He moaned loudly as you gripped him harshly, and began to cry out your name as his thrusts grew faster. Your hands flew to his shoulders to steady yourself, to feel his movements, to let him know you were right there beside him. Your insides burned and your stomach clenched as your walls began to contract. Every fiber of your being tensed as you began to feel that blissful agony that he always awoke inside you. You called out his name as he ground in deeper and deeper.

Then everything released. Your walls clenched him hard in your grasp as a rush of warmth filled your core. Your muscles relaxed as he whispered your name a final time. You lay, panting, spilling out onto the bed. But Formaggio…

He was peppering your face with kisses as he whispered out your name. He planted his lips firmly on yours as you giggled in surprise. His arm wrapped around your waist as he held you close, breathing into your hair.

“Thanks for the present, babe. Can’t wait for the next one.”

So this is a bit of a different one, it took me a while to come up with the idea, but I’m excited that i’m (kind of) branching out into new-ish stuff for me. It’s late so I don’t have much time for… umm… anything… but yeah! Kak up next!

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cabiba · 7 years

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If you ask most people with only a passing knowledge of Christianity to explain the differences between Roman Catholicism and Protestantism, they’ll probably mention communion. Catholics believe the bread and wine literally turn into the body and blood of Jesus Christ, while for Protestants the ritual is merely symbolic. Something like that? Martin Luther would have been horrified.The man credited with kickstarting the Protestant Reformation 500 years ago this month very much believed in the ‘real presence’ of Christ’s body and blood when Christians take communion. Among other things, Luther took issue with the Catholic church’s particular doctrine of transubstantiation, an attempt to square the miracle with Aristotelian metaphysics, but he certainly did not question the miracle itself. The Swiss reformer Ulrich Zwingli did suggest communion was more commemorative than ‘effective’, an idea that rubbed off on the hot-and-cold English Reformation. But even John Calvin, the most intellectually thorough reformer, maintained that the bread and wine were visible signs of Christ’s spiritual presence, not props in an empty ritual.To modern ears, of course, ‘spiritually present’ sounds a lot like ‘not really present’. Something that is not literally true is just not true. For the reformers, however, the spiritual was very real – and Christ’s spiritual presence was therefore no less miraculous than the gorier Catholic version. But the details mattered, because religion was not only a matter of life and death; it was more important than that. It was about eternity.As a young monk visiting Rome, Luther had been shocked at the worldliness of his fellow Catholics. There were smirky rumours that Roman priests mumbled under their breath as they celebrated Mass, ‘Panis es, panis manebis, vinum es, vinum manebis’ – you are bread and wine and will stay that way. At least that’s Latin. Luther’s direct experience was of priests who didn’t even know the mother tongue of the Church, rushing congregants along as they went through the motions carelessly and making a mockery of the whole thing (1).

Luther saw priests who didn’t even know the mother tongue of the Church, rushing congregants along as they went through the motions, making a mockery of the service

This is not to say ordinary Catholics were not pious, but to Luther and other reformers, the Church itself seemed far too at home in the world, with little apparent need for or interest in a supernatural God, except as an idea useful for wringing money out of the gullible masses, rich and poor. At the risk of stating the obvious, the Reformation was all about God.

Looking back on how the Reformation had swept from Wittenberg and thrown all Christendom into turmoil, Luther downplayed his own agency: ‘I simply taught, preached, and wrote God’s Word; otherwise I did nothing. And while I slept, or drank Wittenberg beer with my friends Philip and Amsdorf, the Word so greatly weakened the papacy that no prince or emperor ever inflicted such losses upon it. I did nothing; the Word did everything’. (2)

So the Reformation is best understood as a religious revival rather than a mere reform movement. It was emphatically not about bringing Christianity up to date. Calvin wrote to his Catholic antagonist Cardinal Sadoleto, ‘our agreement with antiquity is far closer than yours’. The Reformation was an attempt to ‘renew that ancient form of the church’ that had been ‘distorted by illiterate men’ and ‘was afterwards flagitiously mangled and almost destroyed by the Roman Pontiff and his faction’ (3).

It was not only a revival in the sense of a return to orthodoxy, however, but also in the sense of a popular religious movement. And it was not intellectual hair-splitting or indeed umbrage at flagitious mangling that inspired thousands and then millions of Christians to embrace religious reform: it began as a powerful appeal to individual believers as persons. While the role of the printing press in driving the Reformation is rightly celebrated, arguably an even greater vehicle of reform was the sermon. The sermon was not a staple part of a medieval Catholic church service for ordinary Christians. For the most part, people showed up, heard priests mumble in Latin, swallowed their communion bread (the wine was just for priests, so the plebs wouldn’t spill it) and left. In contrast, the reformers preached to them, talking in their own language about things they had perhaps never thought about before. Some people, at least, seem to have loved it.

It is an oft-noted irony that the Reformation in many ways paved the way for secular modernity – individualism, capitalism, even atheism – but the irony may be deeper than is often appreciated. Jean Delumeau, the French historian of the Catholic Church, sees both the Reformation and the Catholic counter-Reformation (through which the Church cleaned up its act in various ways) as aspects of Christianisation, moving away from a popular medieval religiosity that was not far from paganism (4).

What if it were not simply a case of a religious movement unwittingly speeding the demise of religion, but of Christianity properly establishing itself in Europe for the first time? The seeds of secularism would then be less an accidental consequence of a disruption of the established order than something essential to Christianity itself. Something like this is argued by Theo Hobson in his recent book God Created Humanism (5). In any case, the essence of Christianity was very much at stake in the debates surrounding the Reformation.

In Why the Reformation Still Matters, Christian authors Tim Chester and Michael Reeves emphasise that the issue was not simply the corruption and worldliness of the Roman Catholic Church: ‘The problem was not a moral issue – the Reformers accepted that on Earth and in history the church would always have elements of corruption. The issue was theological. Luther had described justification by faith as “the article by which the church stands or falls”. Since the medieval Catholic Church was denying justification by faith through its teaching and practice, it was fallen.’ (6)

But perhaps morality and theology cannot be so easily separated. Luther’s theology arose from an intense psychological struggle, and it was that struggle that led him to the issue of ‘justification by faith’. Karl Marx famously described religion as ‘the opium of the masses’, and less famously as ‘the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world’. The point was not that religion dupes people, so much as that it comforts them in their misery. But the young Luther’s faith was anything but comforting. He felt deeply, personally convicted of sin – not in a trivial sense of guilt about particular transgressions, but in a more existential sense.

When Jesus was asked which commandment was the most important of all, he answered, ‘you shall love the lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength’, and ‘you shall love your neighbour as yourself’. What would that mean in practice? And when you think about it, how can anyone possibly live up to it? How do you make yourself love a distant, mysterious entity you can never be completely sure even exists? And how can you care about every Tom, Dick and Harriet you bump into as much as you care about yourself? Never mind. Christianity is a religion for sinners, not saints. And Jesus died for our sins. So, nothing to worry about?

The Catholic Church taught that Jesus saves sinners’ souls, but it also asked the sinners to do their bit. One Our Father, 10 Hail Marys, something for the collection box. That stuff about love, too, sure. And it wasn’t shy about suggesting their salvation depended on it. As Patrick Collinson puts it in describing Luther’s early years in the monastery, ‘The sermons Luther heard and the theology he was taught made salvation a matter of God’s grace, not something that could be bought with a virtuous life. But for grace to work it was necessary for a man to do what he could from his side of the equation: facere quod in se est [do what you can]. How could Luther know that he had ever tried enough?’ (7)

We might say that Christian faith in God is like a child’s response to its parents’ love, its recognition not of their existence but of their status as parents

Relief finally came when Luther decided there was no Biblical warrant for that nasty bit of Latin. The Scriptures, and in particular Paul’s letter to the Romans, taught that Christians are justified by faith alone. They are imputed with the righteousness of Christ, regardless of their own sin. It is an entirely external thing and it comes first, before they are expected to do good works in loving response, and with the help of the Holy Spirit. For Luther, this was the best news since the gospel itself.

The best secular analogy might be the difference between a parent telling his or her child, ‘I love you. Now do your best,’ and saying, ‘Do your best. And then I’ll decide if you’re worthy of my love’. According to a certain ‘economic’ logic, the latter approach should incentivise better behaviour, but if you know anything about human beings, you know the opposite is true.

But what about justification ‘by faith’? Is this not just another kind of qualification, requiring something of the sinner in return for justification? One of Luther’s early adversaries was Cardinal Cajetan, sent by the Pope to confront him at the Diet of Augsburg in 1518, where the question of faith was pivotal. Lyndal Roper explains: ‘Luther argued that the sacraments [such as communion] were ineffective without faith, while Cajetan insisted that they were valid in and of themselves; indeed, as the cardinal argued, since one could never be entirely sure of one’s faith, it was vitally important that the sacraments did not depend on it.’ (8)

This brings us to an important clarification about the meaning of faith in the Protestant tradition. In his book Calvin and the Christian Life, Michael Horton notes: ‘Calvin recognises that “unbelief is… always mixed with faith” in every Christian. He frequently reminds us that it is not the quality of faith, but the object of faith, that justifies. “Our faith is never perfect… we are partly unbelievers.”’ (9). It is the object of faith, God, who bears the burden.

Returning to the parent-child analogy, we might say that Christian faith in God is like a child’s response to his or her parents’ love, his or her recognition not of their existence but of their status as parents. A child’s dinner is ‘effective’ regardless of how he or she feels about it. But the love of a parent, which is sometimes manifested in the form of dinner, steadily elicits something else in the child. Trust, gratitude, reciprocal love, even – the things that make Christmas more than a transfer of expensive objects from parent to child. But a loving parent does not test the child’s feelings for authenticity. Most reformers were content to accept the fact that some congregants would not be faithful: in the spirit of Jesus’ parable of the tares, they would allow the weeds to grow along with the wheat till harvest time.

In this respect, there is an important distinction between the mainstream, so-called magisterial Reformation and the ostensibly more radical, Anabaptist tradition. Anabaptist means ‘rebaptised’ – because they believed Christians should be baptised as adults, making a conscious decision to embrace Christianity rather than simply being born into it as babies. There were various Anabaptist sects, including some socially radical ones that were later claimed as harbingers of the age of political revolution, though it is the pacifist, separatist wing of that tradition that survives in the likes of the Mennonites today.

Far from bringing about the ‘disenchantment’ of Europe, the Reformation imbued everyday life for Christians with new meaning

In world historical terms, the magisterial Reformation was far more important. The name comes from the fact that the Lutherans and Calvinists sought the support of the secular powers, whether princes or magistrates. That was how they were able to ‘turn’ whole cities, provinces and even countries Protestant without unleashing anarchy. Luther argued that princes had the right to act as ‘emergency bishops’, reforming the faith and society in line with reformed teaching (10). Separation of church and state it was not, but it did affirm the legitimacy of territorial, secular authority, beginning the process that would lead to the development of the modern nation state, whose people are citizens by default and not by choice.

Observing that the Anabaptists sought a ‘pure church’, Luther once commented: ‘But I neither can nor may as yet set up such a congregation; for I do not as yet have the people for it.’ (11) He was unwittingly anticipating his countryman Bertolt Brecht, who four centuries later suggested ironically that the East German Communist government should dissolve its unsatisfactory people and elect another. The Reformation was about preparing for the Kingdom of God, not establishing it.

And arguably it was the reformers confidence in the Kingdom of God that allowed them to affirm the value of the mundane, material world, and the validity of secular ‘callings’. Anticipating Adam Smith this time: ‘When we pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” Luther says, God answers it “not directly as when he gave manna to the Israelites, but through the work of farmers and bakers”. They are God’s “masks”.’ (12) In attending to their own work as businessmen, tradesmen and labourers, or indeed mothers, cleaners and servants, ordinary Christians were no less holy than priests and monks.

Arguably then, far from bringing about the ‘disenchantment’ of Europe, the Reformation imbued everyday life for Christians with new meaning. Of course, it would have been experienced very differently by its leaders and their enthusiastic followers, for whom it was a kind of personal awakening and psychological liberation, and those simply carried along in its wake, for many of whom it would have meant unwelcome disruption to no obvious purpose. Of course, the Reformation also led to vicious wars that lasted generations, but then Catholic Europe before that had hardly been noted for its Christian peace and harmony. The Reformation also imbued bloody power struggles with new meaning.

Ultimately it is impossible to say what would have happened had the Reformation never happened, or had it happened very differently. Looking back on what was significant about it at the time, however, it is possible to see it less as a bridge between the medieval and modern worlds than as reminder that the human story is more complicated than that. It was an historical process that involved both deep personal introspection and engagement with interwoven traditions of human thought going back millennia (partly made possible by the earlier Renaissance).

It also reflected both a persistent human intuition that there is more to life than animal existence and a yearning to transcend the merely human. Given the persistence of religion across much of the world, it remains to be seen whether those things will ever be fully secularised. In any case, anyone willing to take seriously the various debates and controversies thrown up over the course of the Reformation will find that in perhaps surprising ways they remain deeply relevant to the question of what it is to be human and how we ought to live.

Dolan Cummings is a writer based in London. He is the author of That Existential Leap: A Crime Story is published by Zero Books. (Buy this book from Amazon(UK).)

Picture published under a creative commons license.

(1) Young Man Luther, by Erik Erikson, WW Norton, 1993.

(2) Calvin on the Christian Life: Glorifying and Enjoying God Forever, by Michael Horton, Crossway, 2014.

(3) Calvin on the Christian Life: Glorifying and Enjoying God Forever, by Michael Horton, Crossway, 2014.

(4) The Reformation: a history, by Patrick Collinson, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2003.

(5) God Created Humanism, by Theo Hobson, SPCK, 2017.

(6) Why the Reformation Still Matters, by Tim Chester and Michael Reeves, Crossway, 2016.

(7) The Reformation: a history, by Patrick Collinson, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2003.

(8) Martin Luther: Renegade and Prophet, by Lyndal Roper, Bodley Head, 2016.

(9) Calvin on the Christian Life: Glorifying and Enjoying God Forever, by Michael Horton, Crossway, 2014.

(10) Martin Luther: Renegade and Prophet, by Lyndal Roper, Bodley Head, 2016.

(11) Calvin on the Christian Life: Glorifying and Enjoying God Forever, by Michael Horton, Crossway, 2014.

(12) Calvin on the Christian Life: Glorifying and Enjoying God Forever, by Michael Horton, Crossway, 2014.

#luther #calvinism #reformation

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