#and then when he dies it is very much Smile by Nat King Cole | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ineffablyrandom · 2 years

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Munch

Took me a while to compose and post this. I'm still heartbroken. I still can't believe that you're really gone.

Hindi ako nag salita sa wake mo kase ayoko na humagulgol sa harap ng madaming tao, at the back of my mind I just thought you already knew kung ano ano mga sasabihin ko.

We don't really have many pictures together na latest.

Remember I told you I wrote you something? Poetry or I don't know just a message for our friendship. Sabi ko tatapusin ko muna, tapos saka ko ibibigay sayo. I can't believe na hindi mo na siya mababasa.

This guy. I met him when I was in college, naging classmates kami, and I owed him so much. Ang laki ng utang na loob ko dito sa taong to. From then I realized that maging malas man ako sa takbo ng buhay, maging malas man ako sa ngalan ng pag-ibig, sobrang swerte ko naman kase binigyan ako ni Lord ng kaibigan na tulad ni Dave, at palagi kong sinasabi sa kaniya yon.

I regret deleting our chats and messages now. (Kase may mga pinag uusapan kami na hindi pwedeng mabasa ng kung sino man kaya sometimes nagbubura talaga ako. Siya din nagbubura siya ng messages.) Ayan tuloy, di ko na mababasa yung mga motivational messages mo, kapag pinapaalala mo sakin kung gano ako kamahal, mo at ng ibang tao, yung mga I love yous and I miss yous. But I stored it inside my heart and inside my head, even yung boses mo kapag binabanggit mo yung mga katagang "Muuuuuunch! GAGA KA. Labyuuuu. Miss youuuu."

Pano nga ba nag start ang friendship namin? Bakit ang laki ng utang na loob ko kay Dave?

When I was in college, I was having a rough time, financially. Palagi ko na yan sinasabi dito sa tumblr. I don't remember now the exact time and date, I don't remember kung bakit nga ba ako malungkot that time or kung bakit sobrang bigat ng nararamdaman ko, I don't remember kung san specifically ako nakaupo, kung sa pathway ba or sa canteen, or sa loob ng classroom. But I remember this guy, Dave, sitting beside me, asking me what's wrong, or kamusta, I don't even remember now specifically kung ano pinag usapan namin, but I remember that was the gist of it. I think that was the very first time that we talked ng sobrang tagal. Classmates kami pero hindi kami close and I think that was the moment that our friendship grew into a meaningful one.

He opens up about the song 'Smile' by Nat King Cole. And at that moment I smiled, and thank him. Dahil pinagaan niya yung loob ko.

Smile though your heart is aching Smile even though it's breaking When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by If you smile through your fear and sorrow Smile and maybe tomorrow You'll see the sun come shining through for you

Remembering this song now really hurts and at the same time, is very timely. Because I know whenever I feel like giving up and crying, his voice will always tell me to endure, and I will always hear him singing this song.

I survived college kase he's one of my constants. Nung dapat titigil ako sa pag aaral, isa siya sa mga nag ambag para lang makapag enroll ako ulit. Tumigil ako ng isang sem, hindi ko na sila nakasabay sa graduation, but we still keep in touch. Once in a while magcha-chat kami, and it always felt like right where we left off. No awkward silence, no hesitancy.

He's one of my friends na ganun. Hindi man kami madalas mag usap, hindi man madalas magkita. Pero once na mag chat or magsabi na I need help or mag catch up lang, palaging andiyan para sa isa't isa.

Sinasama niya ko kapag may gala siya with his co-workers. Lahat sinasabi niya saken. EVERYTHING. Ako unang nakaalam ng gender identity niya. Ako unang nakaalam na may boyfriend na siya. Ako unang nakaalam nung umalis siya ng bansa, pumunta sa Macau para makipagsapalaran, at ayaw niya ipaalam pa muna sa iba kung asan siya.

When I studied IT, I was a working student. Ako lahat. Ako lang mag isa dito sa manila kase yung family ko nasa province. Kapag kinakapos ako. Kapag wala na kong makain, nahihiya man akong lumalapit sa kaniya para mangutang pambili ng pagkain, hindi siya nag aatubili na bigyan ako. Palagi niyang sinasabi "Makakabawi ka din. Bayaran mo ko kung kelan kaya mo na. Kahit 5 years from now pa yan." Nung ga-graduate ako at wala akong pang bayad ng graduation fee, sa kaniya ako lumapit. Dali dali siyang nagpadala ng pera from Macau to Philippines para makapag bayad ako ng graduation. Ganun din ang sinabi niya saken.

"Kapag kaya mo na. Bayaran mo ko. wag mong isipin na minamadali kita. Kung kelan mo bayaran sige lang."

And I did. Binayaran ko lahat ng utang ko kay Dave ilang years pagtapos ko maka graduate. Nung makahanap ako ng magandang trabaho. And hindi lang pera ang binayad ko sa kaniya, 'cause money is not always the important thing. And hindi lang naman yun yung nagta-tie ng friendship namin. Palagi kong sinasabi kay Dave, na sobrang thankful ako sa kaniya, even nung hindi pa siya nagkakasakit. Palagi kong pinapaalala, na kung hindi dahil sa kaniya siguro hindi ko na kinaya. The support, the love, the friendship. Everything. I always told him that he is one of my constants. And that will never change.

Kapag may problema kami, family man yan, love life, financial, sa isa't isa ang takbuhan naming dalawa.

Sabi ko nga sa kaniya noon, pa-joke na may halong pagka seryoso.

"Kapag di ako nakapag asawa pag tungtong ko ng 35, pwede bang kupkopin niyo na lang ako ni thabs (boypren niya)? Kahit ako na lang maging surrogate mother ng magiging anak niyong dalawa."

He laughed. But he said, okay! Sabi niya, "Kapag nagkabahay kaming dalawa, mag papagawa ako ng kwarto dun na isa para sayo, para kung kelan mo gusto dun ka samin." Sabi ko sa kaniya, "Same, ganun din gagawin ko. Know that you always have a home sakin."

Si dave yung taga judge ng mga i-swipe right or left ko sa dating apps.

It was the best friendship. I am forever grateful.

Sabi nila diba, may dadating sa buhay mo. Who will leave an imprint and big impact in your life, that will change how you see the world. And for me, munch was one of them. Sabi ko nga sakniya before, I don't know how to exist in this world if I'm not your friend.

Nung nagkasakit siya palagi kong sinasabi sa kaniya na laban lang. Kaya yan. Pag nagsasabi siya na pagod na siya, sinasabi ko na, okay lang mapagod, pahinga ka tapos laban ulit.

Alam ko, na gusto pang lumaban ni Dave pero hindi na kinaya ng katawan niya.

When he died. I told him. Life is much more tolerable with him around, and my world is not complete without him in it. Him, being gone changed my world.

Muuuuuuunch. This is my message for you. My thought will always wander about you. Time will pass, maging busy man ako sa buhay ko, you will always be at the back of my mind. Kase you know naman, kapag may something sa buhay ko, pangit man o maganda, isa ka sa mga taong gusto ko sinasabihan ko. Mami-miss ko yung mga rants mo, sa work, sa bahay, sa jowa mo. Etc. Mamimiss ko kapag nag chat ako sayo ng "MUUUUUUUUUUNCH" ilang oras man ang itagal alam at alam kong magrereply ka. Yung out of the blue na "IMISSYOU MUNCH". Hindi ko pa din matanggap, na wala ka na, siguro eventually, pero ngayon hindi pa. Mami-miss ko tawagan ka, ichat ka, kitain ka. Nung nalaman kong wala ka na, hindi nag sink in agad saken, mga ilang oras bago nag sink in saken, umiyak ako ng umiyak, tapos sabi ko sa sarili ko, iisipin ko na lang, nag ibang bansa ka ulit. Pero iba eh. Iba munch eh. Hindi na kita makakausap ulit. Hindi na kita mayayakap ulit. Hindi na kita makikita ulit. But I will always find time para magkwento sayo. I don't even know how to end this message munch. Ayokong tapusin, gusto lang kita daldalin. Katulad ng dati. At ang hirap. Kase alam kong di na kita madadaldal. Paulit ulit kong sinasabi sayo, at hinding hindi ako magsasawa. Thank you munch sobra. Sobrang grateful, sobrang thankful ako sayo. Mahal na mahal kita. I will forever miss you munch. Till we see each other again! I love you so much munch.

(8 years into a friendship I wonder how we brave it Remember the song we referenced? I forgot now who initiate the talk Is it me or you? All I remember now? The song, the lyrics, and the text message Smile though your heart is aching Smile even though it's breaking How is it possible? That even after all these years We will still need that song And our friendship will be much stronger Because of that connection, we choose to strengthen it over time

We've been through a lot, haven't we? Somehow, some setbacks and heartbreaks Somehow finding our way alone, wandering And somehow still finding our way to each other's comforts Even if we don't talk about for how long We still pick up where we left off

Did I say this enough to you already? You are one of my anchors My one solid rock The one who I can count on Never judging Never leaving my side One of my constants

We were a teenager and somewhere along the way of life we grew up And still all the plans I'm making All the things I wanted to do All of that includes you You're my best friend The one who smacks my head when I get so stupid The one who encourages me to do stupid shits and still loves me the same The one who understands and offers a way out when I enter myself to some stupid random shits The one who encouraged me to love myself more and do more and be more

Did I say this enough to you already? I wouldn't want anything any other way I would never find another soul like you Never would have thought of myself looking thru dating apps without your opinion Never would have the courage to be courageous and live the life to the fullest

Oh, how we enjoyed every conversation How we manage to laugh our way through the sentiments and sadness How we manage to be each other’s support system when all else fails How we let our anger out when we need to How we always find a way to celebrate us, this friendship

I'm always fascinated by how this works When I call you, you always answer When I need you, you always come I can't even imagine not being friends with you I told you multiple times, I owe you so, so much

And I love you so much I am one lucky person to be in this world coexisting with you)

Kwentuhan ulit next time munch!

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preciouspeterbparker · 4 years

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the warmest bed i’ve ever known

finally got this bitch finished!

based on “tis the damn season” by taylor swift. i was also listening to the phoebe bridgers cover of “christmas song”, “last christmas” cover by pale waves (recorded @ spotify), and “home alone, too” by the staves

also this is only my 2nd time writing starker so lmk what you think plz?

happy holidays! - bloo

word count: 6.07k. this was intended to basically be a porny blurb...instead there’s so much fucking plot it’s probably overwhelming and minimal porn. i’m sorry

warnings: angst, depression & anxiety, drug use (that good kush ft some hotboxing & shotgunning), smut, character death (not tony or peter), tony’s kind of country lmao. despite all the aforementioned things, there is in fact a happy ending!

summary: peter makes the trip back home for christmas and once again finds himself caught up in deep brown eyes and a charming smile. tis the damn season.

Peter had forgotten how cold New York winters were. He’d grown used to the year-long warmth of Los Angeles. He supposed the cold was appropriate- it was as if the weather was in cahoots with the solid, frigid thing that was sitting in the pit of his stomach. The last time he’d spent Christmas in Aurora, the last time he’d seen him… Tony.

Just thinking the other man’s name made Peter flex his hands anxiously as he slid out of the driver’s seat of his black Mercedes AMG GT into the amber glow of the streetlight, gently shutting the door closed behind him, still in the overly cautious period of owning the new car. He wondered what Tony would think of it. Last time Peter had come home, he was still driving May’s old Subaru. It’d been almost 2 years to the day, now, which felt like both a century and no time at all. He wished it wasn’t so hard. He wished they hadn’t been caught in this song & dance for so long. It seemed like no matter how good Peter’s intentions, it always came down to one thing: he was so damn scared. He always ran away, no matter how badly he wanted to stay.

Scuffing a boot through the slush in the street, the brunette straightened his shoulders and made his way toward the brick building, a quick smile quirking half his mouth up as he read the neon red sign above the closed garage door. Stark’s. Memories came flooding back, the countless nights he spent cooped up in the little shop during high school, sketching elaborate ensembles and daydreaming about having his very first collection while surrounded by the smell of motor oil and the sounds of tinkering. The bell above the door jingled merrily as Peter stepped through and wiped his feet on the mat. The pleasant sound of Frank Sinatra crooning the words of “The Christmas Waltz” met his ears. Another small smile flitted over Peter’s face. That was something that tended to happen when he was around Tony.

“Just a second,” came the slightly muffled voice, a little strained. The man in question was bent over, headfirst in the engine of his old 1979 Chevy C10, the one he’d gotten senior year of highschool. The collar of a heather grey henley peeked out from under a deep red and green plaid flannel stretched over his shoulders as he leaned a little further under the hood, using a wrench to tighten what looked to be a lugnut to Peter from his spot by the door, too nervous to go further inside.

“I can wait,” Peter replied softly, trying not to stare at Tony’s jean-clad ass and anxious of the older boy man’s reaction. (It looked like Tony had done a lot of growing up over the past two years, no longer the boy he remembered. Peter supposed the same could be said about himself in a way, though he wasn’t sure if it was for better or worse.)

And apparently he was right to be cautious.

Tony promptly smacked his head on the underside of the hood as he jerked upright at the sound of Peter’s voice. “Fuck.” Moving more carefully, Tony stood upright and turned around, his dark eyes wide. “Peter,” he said, visibly and audibly surprised. To be honest, it hurt Peter a little bit, how surprised he sounded. Maybe coming here was a mistake. Did they not do this nearly every year over the past seven? Had- Oh god, had something changed? Fuck, did Tony finally get tired of- Had he found-

Peter resolutely cut that train of thought off before he could panic. “Hi, Tony.” He swallowed drily, making eye contact for a moment, before casting his eyes away only for them to make their way back to the open face in front of him. “Think you have time for a quick bite to eat?” He slipped his left hand into the pocket of the new, warm wool coat he bought expressly for this trip. “It’s almost dinner time. And I have a treat,” he intoned, tapping his right pointer and middle fingers against his lips.

Tony beamed and immediately reached for a shop rag to wipe his hands, the black grease and oil smearing on the probably-used-to-be-white-at-some-point fabric. One of those hands came up to scratch at his facial hair, a new addition that made something simmer deep in Peter’s gut. The older man's brown eyes twinkled as he paused to glance at Peter. “You had me at ‘hi, Tony.’” He then proceeded to move about the shop, swiping his phone from atop a chest of metal drawers, Sinatra’s voice coming to an abrupt stop. He pulled on his old lined jean jacket (the one Peter was constantly mending in high school; now it just had small tears in some places, and what appeared to be Tony’s d-i-y patchwork in others). The sign on the front door was flipped to ‘closed’ and Tony pulled a keyring from his belt loop, locking it and flicking off the lights. The streetlights outside the building and the colorful holiday lights strung along the edge of the roof provided just enough light for them to be able to clearly see each other, the sun having set early, around four o’clock. Peter had forgotten about that as well.

He moved to grab his car keys from a pocket but Tony spoke up, patting the dark green paint of his truck’s hood and walking over to the garage door. His hand hovered over the button that would open it. “Actually, I just finished giving Delilah a tuneup, mind if we take ‘er for a spin?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed without hesitation, still feeling relieved (and grateful) that his invitation was accepted.

Tony pushed his palm against the button and paused to do a double-take after the metal door lifted completely. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Peter’s car parked in the small lot beside the shop. “Damn, L.A.. Not worried about your fancy new car?” His tone was slightly teasing, but there was a bit of shock mixed with something else as well, and it caused Peter to go hot, feeling insecure. (What if Tony didn’t like who Peter was, now? Peter didn’t exactly like who he was now.) Tony must’ve noticed his discomfort, because he cracked a grin and bumped his shoulder against Peter’s as he made his way to the driver’s side, yanking the door open. “C’mon, Parker, ‘m just fuckin’ with you. Hop in - how’da some burgers from Delmar’s an’ a trip out to the field sound?”

***

They grabbed food from the hole-in-the-wall diner down the road (the one where sixteen year-old Peter burned the shit out of his hand on his first day and promptly quit) and once they were bundled back in the truck with their burgers, fries and one banana milkshake (“yeah, but these are your favorite,” Tony had said in response to Peter’s exclamation that it was too cold out), Tony drove them out to the field behind the old high school. He parked the car under the lamppost, leaving it running in order to keep the heat on. His thick mechanic’s fingers began to fiddle with the temperature controls. Nat King Cole was playing quietly on the radio.

Peter shifted the paper bag of food in his lap, searching for words but not knowing what to say, and plucked the joint and lighter from his coat. The paper-covered filter found its way between his lips and he inhaled softly as he lit the tip. Satisfied with the light, he french inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. The first hit was always the best. Peter loved the way he could feel it all the way in his bones. He didn’t know how to describe it other than deep. When he opened them, he made eye contact with Tony in the dim light, and immediately cut his gaze away as he felt the heat rush to his face. He could feel when Tony looked away a moment later.

The lull continued and Peter gingerly held the joint between his fingertips as he exhaled, hand outstretched.

Worn fingers plucked it away, and Peter’s eyes were immediately drawn to the slightly chapped lips that wrapped themselves around the filter. “You stayin’ at um, at May's...old place?” Tony faltered as he inhaled, as if he wasn't sure what the most sensitive way to talk about it was.

“Yeah," Peter said softly as he looked down at his lap. Spending his first night in the house alone last night had made him feel the loneliest he'd ever been in his life, and that was saying something because he’d been feeling pretty miserable lately. Peter saw May everywhere he looked, waiting to hear her call for him to come taste some new-fangled recipe from the kitchen, or to please, for the hundredth time, rinse the dishes before he put them in the sink. He missed her more than he thought possible, her death earth-shattering after having already lost Ben when he was 17, back when this mess all started. When he left for the first time. When he started running away. “It’s- It’s weird but I’m...adjusting. It’s honestly not that different to when she was alive, though. Y’know- recently.” He cut himself off, not sure if he wanted Tony to know the full reality of his existence, now.

Because it was true. It killed Peter to admit it, but his relationship with Aunt May started going downhill around the time of Ben’s death, too. By the time she had her heart attack a little more than two years ago, he hadn’t seen her in over a year, or talked to her in nearly as long. It was the biggest regret of his life, pushing May away; the second was the way he essentially did the same thing to Tony, however drawn-out it had been.

Peter reached out for the joint and his fingers brushed against Tony’s, sending a jolt up his spine. “How,” Peter started, swallowing as he twiddled the lighter between his fingers not holding the joint. “How’ve you been, Tony?” He was scared to ask what he really wanted to know. Have you finally had enough? Did you stop waiting on me? Am I too late? To distract himself a bit, he cracked the window so he could ash the joint before taking another drag.

"Same ol’, same ol’,” came Tony’s reply, his voice weary. “I mean, you already know this, but nothin’ really changes here." The quiet way he said it was slightly self-deprecating and the younger man hated it, hated that he had something to do with it. (Peter remembered the way he spat the words at Tony in the wee hours of the morning oh so long ago. "I've gotta get out of this fucking town- I can’t stay here, Tony! You might be okay dying here, a nobody with nothing, but I'm not!")

That’s why I had to leave, he thought, chest tightening. I was trapped in this town. It was never you, Tony. You were perfect. You’re perfect.

"..Yeah," is what came out instead. Peter took another hit before he handed the joint back to Tony and began rifling through the grease-splotched bag, passing the older man his burger before unwrapping his own. He took the top bun off in order to lay down a handful of fries from the bag, smooshing the top back on afterwards. A moan left Peter’s mouth at the first bite, and he heard a chuckle bubble up from Tony’s chest. (He would never admit it, especially not to anyone back in L.A., anyone who didn’t know him before, but this was his favorite meal in the world.)

“Funny that you still do that. So, um,” Tony began again, stuffing a few fries in his mouth and chewing as he spoke out the side of his mouth. “I saw your new collection. It looked nice.” He licked a bit of salt off his thumb.

Peter’s ears burned as he swallowed his bite and raised an eyebrow at the man across from him. “You pay attention to fashion, now?” He fought off a smile at the thought of Tony delicately flipping through the pages of a high-fashion magazine.

“Not like- I’ve tried to keep up with your work,” Tony mumbled, swallowing, his own face taking on a bit of a rosy-hue. “Like to know what you're up to all the way out there.” The joint touched his lips for a few seconds before it made its way back to Peter’s fingers. “I do know how Google works.”

Peter shivered as he felt something flutter in the pit of his stomach at the salt grains that touched his tongue when he took his next pull. “Tastes like salt,” he breathed on the exhale, locking eyes with Tony through the smoke that had accumulated in the car.

Something flashed in the older man’s eyes as he stole the weed back and took a large hit, crooking his salt-sprinkled fingers to beckon Peter closer.

Peter’s own reddened eyes widened when he caught on to what Tony wanted, his heart picking up speed. They hadn’t done that in years. Still clutching his burger in his left hand, he used the right to support himself as he leaned over the console to press his mouth against Tony’s. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, fighting the urge to slip his tongue somewhere it didn’t belong. One of Tony’s hands came up to pull his head closer for a moment, his tongue having the same idea as Peter’s, causing him to whine into Tony’s mouth. His pants were getting tight as he licked right back in response, feeling a slight burn from exhaling through his nose. He missed this. Nobody kissed him like Tony did-

“Shit!” Tony pulled away sharply, and Peter’s heart stopped for a second. But when he realized what was happening, he couldn’t contain the surprised cackle that erupted as he saw the joint land in the other man’s lap. “Quit it,” was Tony’s reply, though he was grinning as he said it. He grabbed what was left of the joint off his jeans and stubbed it out the rest of the way on the dashboard. “It burned my fuckin’ finger.”

“Oh poor baby,” Peter shot back, shifting in his seat and taking another bite of his burger. He willed the slight chub to go away, but knew it was a lost cause. He pretty much signed up for it; he was always turned on when he was high around Tony (and most of the time when he was sober, too). Some kind of conditioning or something, he thought deliriously.

“Ya better hush up, Parker,” Tony snarked and dipped some fries into Peter’s banana shake. He rolled his neck a bit, reaching for his burger. “So, kid. Tell me ‘bout L.A..”

***

Peter was basking peacefully in his high, humming along to whatever was playing through the speakers. He and Tony had both finished their food, chatting about this and that, but nothing of real substance, their earlier stilted conversation far from their minds. Shooting the shit, as Tony called it, over some weed and a meal was their normal routine when they were younger, and it came as naturally as breathing. Peter had never met anyone else he could simply coexist with on this level, simply enjoying the other’s presence for what it was. I love you, he thought as he looked at Tony, who was leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and nodding his head along with the beat. I’m so in love with you and it scares the shit out of me.

The younger man’s eyes roved over Tony’s face as his mind raced. What was he doing? Would something be different this time? He wasn’t that angry seventeen year old anymore- now he was twenty-four, clinically depressed, and living someone else’s life. Would it be so bad to finally leave that all behind, to finally let himself have what he’s denied himself for so long? Didn’t he deserve to be happy, after all this pain? And even if it wasn’t in the cards for them, if Peter was destined to be alone, wouldn’t even the most miniscule amount of time with Tony be worth it?

Tony’s gravelly voice startled him back to the present. “I should probably be gettin’ you home, huh, Peter?” The bearded man opened his eyes and began sitting up, turning to look at him. The expression on his face was unreadable, and Peter didn’t know if he should agree or protest, so he merely lifted a shoulder in faux indifference, shooting Tony a half-smile.

Please, call me Pete… Just Pete, Peter begged in his head. Tony calling him by his full name made the ugly thing in his chest wriggle uncomfortably. Last time he was home, before he said those awful things, Tony hadn’t called him Peter in years. Yet another beautiful thing that he’d taken for granted and ruined for himself.

“Could also drive around for a bit if you wanted, see some lights.” Damn Tony and his ability to read Peter so well. The suggestion was soft, and he looked down as he said it, almost as if he was feeling shy.

Peter shook his head minutely and shifted a little in his seat, gently biting his lip. “I’m getting a little tired, haven’t smoked in a while,” he lied through his teeth, but the smile on his face was real this time.

Tony grinned right back at him.

(“What would we even do on a date? There’s nothing to do here, Tony,” Peter said with a laugh. “I dunno,” Tony replied, snuggling the lighter-haired teenager closer into his chest as they snuggled on the couch. “We could go look at the Christmas lights, get some hot chocolate… I could tie some mistletoe to the mirror in the truck. There’d be sum kissin’ involved….” He trailed off as Peter’s lips found his own. “Or we could do the kissin’ right here,” he murmured, sinking into the kiss.)

***

The drive back to May’s house was spent with Tony catching Peter up on everyone in town as they passed various houses. (“Remember Happy Hogan, the butcher?? Him an’ that pretty florist, Ms. Potts, got married last year. Think they’re havin’ a baby,last I heard.” “Rhodey’s mama died this spring, she got cancer, but he an’ Mr. Rhodes still live out here now that Rhodey’s moved home. Honorable discharge last fall. Done got himself a new girlfriend now too, Carol; he met ‘er in the Air Force. She’s a sweet one, I think you’d like ‘er.”)

When they pulled into the driveway, Tony cut the engine and hopped out. Peter did the same, grabbing the bag with their trash and patting his pocket, double-checking for his keys and lighter. He stepped around Tony, who had stopped at the bottom of the front steps, and walked up to the door, fumbling for a minute with his keys under the porch light to find the right one (it had robin’s egg blue polka-dots of May’s favorite nail polish). Tony’s footsteps followed him up the stairs.

Peter stuck the key in the lock and opened the door a crack before turning to face the taller man. “So.”

Tony’s eyes searched his own as they gazed at one another. “So,” he parroted back. His index finger went up to rub at his nose as he took a hard sniff in. There was a beat of silence. “Thanks for the joint, and uh, the company. It was good seein’ you,” he said at last, a hint of his signature lopsided grin curving his lips.

Peter felt the goodbye that was coming before it even left Tony’s mouth, and something in him broke. “Don’t leave me here alone.” The words came out of Peter’s mouth in a mumble, and suddenly he couldn’t make eye contact with Tony, losing focus and staring at his own feet instead. He felt the harsh burning of tears as it hit him again just how alone he was about to be when he walked inside, how alone he already was. He was always so fucking alone.

Even in L.A., so much bigger than fucking Aurora, New York, surrounded by thousands of people, Peter still felt invisible, insignificant. He had no friends. Sure, he had a publicist, and connections, and celebrity acquaintances & clientele. But without his money and his clothes, what would he have? What did he have when he was just Peter Parker, rather than Peter Benjamin, semi-famous designer? Nothing. (When he got the call about May, and he’d broken down in the bathroom during a business meeting with representatives for Tom Ford, he realized he had no one to call. No one to comfort him or tell him it would be okay. He’d sobbed into his pillow that night, screaming his throat raw with Tony’s number punched into his phone, ready to be dialed. He never called.) He had nothing and no one, and it was all his fault because he was so stupid, and maybe this is just what he deserved. If he hadn’t pushed everyone-

“Hey- Hey, Peter, no. Never,” Tony was saying gently, cautiously pulling Peter into his strong arms and out of his anxiety attack. “‘m not goin’ anywhere if y’don’t want me to, baby.” He tucked Peter’s head under his chin, a chill running down his spine due to the chilly evening air. “S’okay, everythin’s okay.”

Peter sucked in a deep breath through his mouth, trying to calm himself. His forehead dug into Tony’s shoulder painfully but it helped to ground him. The soothing sensation of Tony’s fingers tracing circles on his back helped, too. Peter’s breath was still hitching every so often, so he shut his eyes and tried to synch his breathing with Tony’s. It felt so nice to just be this close to someone- Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held. Tony had probably been the last one to do it, though. (He’d had sex in L.A. of course, but it was all superficial. Nothing real. Nothing like what he had with Tony- not even close.) Shifting slightly, he buried his nose in the crook of Tony’s neck, searching unconsciously for the smell he loved so much; a mix of gasoline, teakwood, and something smoky. The scent sent a shiver down Peter’s spine, and that hot feeling simmered in his stomach again. He’d always joked that he would bottle Tony’s smell if he could. Tony would just laugh and jokingly tease Peter for always having his nose in his neck or armpit.

Now Tony just hummed lightly in response, tightening his hold for a moment before relaxing. “‘Yer’okay,” he whispered, once he could feel that Peter’s breathing had evened out for the most part.

Peter pulled back a bit and stared at a spot in the middle of Tony’s chest, thinking. He decided to go for it. Worst that could happen was Tony saying no, and leaving Peter here alone, but he knew he’d end up alone eventually. But he’d delay the inevitable as long as he could. “Kiss me, T,” he said quietly, leaning in before he could change his mind. His lips brushed Tony’s and he pulled back, trying not to go cross eyed looking into the other’s eyes. “I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Tony stared at him for a moment before their mouths met again, and Peter nipped gently at his lip before clumsily walking backwards through the cracked front door, pulling Tony with him with their mouths still connected. Tony’s foot kicked it closed behind them, bathing them in darkness, and he tripped a bit when Peter clutched at the lapels of his jacket a little too hard. Cursing under his breath, he leaned back against the door and tugged Peter along, using the support behind him to balance as he toed his boots off. They disconnected momentarily as the shorter man did the same, hands still gripping the denim.

Peter licked his lip as they stood in the dark entryway. Looking up at Tony, he shrugged his coat off, letting it fall to the hardwood floor beneath them. He reached out and gently pushed the denim jacket off the taller man’s shoulders too before leaning in, stopping just before their lips made contact. “Come upstairs with me,” he whispered.

Tony’s mocha eyes flitted around for a minute, searching his face for something. Peter couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw, but Tony kissed him again before taking his hand. “Your room,” he questioned, taking hold of the banister and leading Peter up the stairs.

***

“Fuck, Tony. Right there, right there, ohhhhh.” Peter was on his back with one leg thrown over Tony’s shoulder and the other bent off to the side, the ball of his foot pushing into the mattress. The mechanic’s uncut cock was stretching his lubed hole. Tony was leaning over him and one of his hands was clutching at Peter’s hip, the other at the leg up by his face. His facial hair scratched deliciously against the pale skin on the inside of Peter’s knee as he pressed a kiss there.

(Tony had kissed and licked and sucked praises into the skin of his neck, chest, stomach and thighs as he’d fingered him open at a torturously slow pace. “So good fer me, Pete. Look at you. You’re so goddamn beautiful.” Peter had whimpered and whined the whole time as he tried to fuck himself on the thick digits whose pads were caressing his prostate.)

A moan left the older man’s lips as he looked into Peter’s eyes. “You feel so good, baby. Always feel so- fuckin’- good,” he grunted, thrusting further in the tight, wet heat. “Love fuckin’ your ass.” He dug his fingers tighter into Peter’s skin, sure to leave bruises.

Gasping, Peter arched his hips up, toes curling, cock bobbing against his stomach with every thrust. He could feel Tony deep inside him, in that place that only he had ever been able to reach. Fuck, why had he ever let this go? Never letting you go again, Tony. You can’t leave me alone. I need you. I love you. He whined, baring his neck in a silent plea and bringing his leg down so that both were wrapped around the man’s thick waist. Tony reacted accordingly; his hands moved up to clutch at Peter’s near the headboard and his mouth latched onto the column of Peter’s neck, sucking. A wounded noise escaped Peter, his hole clenching, and Tony bit down harshly at the sensation. Peter keened again, going limp on the mattress as his legs fell open to the side. “Shit, Tony, god!”

Hot, wet breath tickled Peter’s neck with every ragged exhale that left Tony’s mouth, causing the smaller to whine lewdly, squirming. “Yeah? Are you- mine? Y’gon be mine- huh, Pete?” Peter heard the unspoken question, the twinge of desperation in Tony’s voice. Will you finally be mine? He sounded tired, that deep-in-your-bones type weariness, Peter noticed as he felt his own chest start to get tight. He’d really done a number on the person who deserved it the least. And for what? To come crawling back years later, expecting to be forgiven?

Yes, he thought in response to Tony’s question, hating himself for it. One of his hands tangled itself in the crown of Tony’s head, fingers pulling the strands at the root possessively as teeth sunk into his neck again. Yours. Always yours. He let out another moan, rolling his hips in an attempt to get some friction on his neglected cock that was weeping precum as Tony continued to thrust in and out of him. “Please, please- Tony, please.” If Peter had any shame left, he’d probably be blushing at how needy and wrecked he sounded. Instead it just turned him on, knowing just how gone he was for the other man.

With a grunt, Tony redistributed his weight and brought two fingers to Peter’s lips. “Open up fer a minute, baby,” he requested softly, slipping the digits inside. Peter laved them with his tongue, coating them with thick saliva and Tony groaned at the feeling, dick twitching in Peter’s ass. Once they were sufficiently wet, he pulled his fingers away, a thin string of drool stretching to connect them to Peter’s slick lips. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, Pete, Christ.” His calloused hand wrapped loosely around the hot, rosy cock between them. “Fuck my hand, baby.”

Peter complied without hesitation, rocking his hips and pressing his shaft in and out of the slick tunnel that was Tony’s hand. He cried out when Tony’s thumb caressed the underside of the head as the cock inside of him nailed directly into his prostate. The pressure had already been a lot, but the pleasure was suddenly overwhelming in a new way. He was so close and Tony hadn’t even been touching him for thirty seconds. “F-fuck, Tony, I’m gonna- Ahhhhh-”

“Yeah, cum for me, Pete,” Tony’s warm breath heaved into his ear, tongue sneaking out to lick the outer shell and dip inside briefly at the same time he tightened his grip on Peter’s sensitive member. “Fuck, cum for me, baby, cum on my- Cum on my cock- God-.”

And with a cry, Peter did just that, biting into Tony’s shoulder as the tension in his gut snapped, hole twitch relentlessly around the hard cock inside him as his own shot spurt after spurt of hot cum on his chest; some reached the hollow of his throat and his chin. “God, Tony, shit, shit, shit.”

“Yesssss, Pete, holy fuck.” Tony buried himself inside one last time, his mouth latching onto the column of Peter’s neck as he reached his orgasm, shoving himself inside as deep as possible. His dick twitched, painting Peter’s insides with his spend and making him groan.

They stayed that way for a moment before Tony pulled back to look into Peter’s eyes. “Lemme clean’ya up,” he offered gently as he carefully pulled his softening cock out of the heat of the younger man’s ass. There was a slight burbling sound, and he brushed his lips against Peter’s when he saw the embarrassment flash across his face. “Hol’ on.” Climbing out of the bed, he made his way to the bathroom that was adjoined to Peter’s room.

Peter’s heart was beating uncomfortably in his chest as he lay among the sheets, bringing his hands up to his chest to fiddle with each other anxiously. It couldn’t be over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to be alone again.

When Tony walked back in, he got back on the bed, gently wiping the cum off Peter’s chest with a warm rag, smirking at the full-body shivers that ran through the young man in response to the cloth being swiped lightly over his nipples. Once his chest was clean, Tony moved down to run the fabric between Peter’s ass cheeks, collecting the milky-white substance that was leaking out of the hole.

“Stay,” Peter whispered, once Tony had thrown the washcloth in the hamper and climbed back into bed at Peter’s invitation of patting the spot beside himself in bed. He wiggled so that his back was pressed up against Tony’s front. His fingers tangled themselves with those on a slightly larger hand and as he let his eyes slip shut, he felt Tony’s lips press a kiss into the sweaty curls at the back of his head.

***

When Peter woke up, it was well past noon. The bed was so warm that the heat from his and Tony’s bodies trapped up under the fluffy comforter would be sweltering if he didn’t crave it so much.

Peter swallowed drily as he looked at Tony’s face in the afternoon light, peaceful in sleep. At some point during their sleep, they had shifted to where they were facing each other. He wanted to trace his fingers along the strong facial features in front of him, but he refrained, not wanting to wake the older man. He knew he needed to talk to Tony. He knew that Tony deserved better. But maybe Peter could be selfish just this once... It was Christmas after all. Tis the damn season and all that.

Leaning forward, with a hand pressed gently against Tony’s chest, Peter pecked his lips against the sleeping man’s in a kiss. He got no response, so he did it again, adding a little more pressure. Tony began to stir; his arm wrapped lazily around Peter’s naked waist, pulling their bottom halves together.

“G’mornin’,” Tony mumbled sleepily as he blinked a few times before his gaze focused on Peter. His voice was scratchy and rough, and Peter’s hips jerked slightly in response as he whispered back his own greeting, partially because Tony had begun to get hard. The mechanic brought up a hand and took hold of Peter’s chin, pulling their mouths together as he ground their burgeoning erections together.

Peter wrapped a leg around Tony’s waist as they lay there on their sides and began to gently rock his hips. “Tony,” he mewled, eyes screwed shut. The words were bubbling up inside him, just like the arousal was blooming in his gut. One of his arms wrapped around Tony’s neck, pulling their bodies together as close as they could get.

“Yeah,” came Tony’s breathy reply. His eyes were roving over Peter’s flushed face as he undulated his own hips, thumb coming up to press against the younger’s spit-slick bottom lip. “Whadisit?”

Peter took the digit into his mouth for a moment and they made eye contact as he swirled his tongue around the tip, fellating it. He released it from his mouth with a pop, biting his own lip. “Am I too late,” he asked quietly, burying his face in the muscled chest before him, pecking tender kisses on the heated flesh. “Do you still love me?” His voice shook as he continued, breath faltering as well as the sensations built up. He squeezed his eyes shut even though Tony couldn’t see the tears building in his eyes as he chased his pleasure, preparing for the inevitable pain that was sure to follow.

“Pete.” The way Tony said his name was reverent, like he didn’t see Peter for the walking mistake that he was. He was breathing heavier now, too, with the exertion of frotting their hard cocks together. “How could I ever stop, baby?” He craned his neck in order to meet Peter’s eyes. “Was just waitin’ on ya t’come home.” He pressed their lips together as Peter’s leg tightened around his waist. “Was always just waitin’ on ya t’come home,” he repeated. A particularly hard thrust had them both groaning, clutching desperately at each other as they chased that euphoric feeling. “’Course I love you, Peter. Now cum for me.”

Peter couldn’t help but obey as a sob burst from his lips, Tony following him over the edge. “I love you,” he cried, as their bodies shook together. “I’m s-sorry Tony, I love you- Don’t go, don’t ever leave me. I won’t- I promise I won’t go again. I can’t go again, I can’t leave you again. I won’t.” Tony’s thumbs came up to wipe the tears from under his eyes, and a kiss was pressed to his temple as he felt himself be pulled into those strong arms.

“I’d never leave you, Pete.”

***

The bed was cold when Peter woke again. He lay there, watching the sunset through his bedroom window. Gentle creaks could be heard as the house groaned under pressure from the falling snow. He rolled over, grimacing at the pain in his lower half and pulling a pillow to his chest. It still smelled of teakwood, smoke, and gasoline. He smiled, burying his face further into the intoxicating scent. “I love you,” he whispered to the empty house, feeling lighter than he had in years.

(Yes, the bed was cold, now. But Tony would be back to warm it up. And he’d have burgers, fries, and a banana milkshake when he returned. Maybe even a joint. Peter was glad he didn’t have to wait long. They’d had just about enough of that over the past seven years.)

#starker #hey it might be a week later than i intended to finish but at least it's out by christmas #bloo writes bad things (tm)#enjoy!

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gayrett-hawke · 4 years

Text

Getting to Know Hawke

Basics

Name: Garrett Hawke

Age at the start of their game: 27 (born 30 Firstfall, 9:03 Dragon)

Gender: Male

Sexual orientation: Gay

Race: Human

Class: Mage

Height: 6'4"

Weight: 227 lbs

Eyes: Brown

Hair color/texture: Black; Wavy (not that you can tell with how short it normally is)

Skin tone: Ivory

Do they tan or freckle?: He definitely tans, and he gets some freckles too, but they're so faint, it's hardly noticeable

Any distinctive physical characteristics?: Other than being a big, beefy boy with a fabulous beard? Just some scars here and there, most notably the one across his nose that he usually covers with war paint

Personality

Personality type: ESFP-T

Optimist, pessimist, or realist?: Realist

Best traits:

Charming

Friendly

Outgoing

Compassionate

Loyal

Worst flaws:

Self-Deprecating

Foolhardy

Soft-Hearted

Audacious

Evasive

Tropes that apply to them:

All-Loving Hero

Almighty Janitor

Aloof Big Brother

Badass Unintentional

Because Destiny Says So

Benevolent Boss

Beware the Silly Ones

Big Brother Instinct

Bullying a Dragon

The Caretaker

Casual Danger Dialogue

The Charmer

Cosmic Plaything

Deadpan Snarker

The Dutiful Son

Failure Hero

Fight Magnet

Friend to All Children

Heroic Self-Deprecation

Hurting Hero

It's All My Fault

Let's Get Dangerous!

Living Emotional Crutch

Magic Knight

Magnetic Hero

Modest Royalty

Must Make Amends

Nay-Theist

Nice Job Breaking It, Hero!

Non-Idle Rich

Obfuscating Stupidity

One-Man Army

Properly Paranoid

Rage Breaking Point

Reluctant Warrior

Right Man in the Wrong Place

Royals Who Actually Do Something

Sad Clown

Seen It All

The Snark Knight

Warrior Therapist

You Are Better Than You Think You Are

Are there any songs that particularly suit them?:

Forever Young by Youth Group

Don't Stop Me Now by Queen

Warriors by Imagine Dragons

Smile by Nat King Cole

For You I Will by Tata Young

If yes, would they agree with your selections?: Yeah, probably, but he might prefer I leave out the 4th one

Preferences

Favorite color: Red

Favorite animal: DRAGONS!

Taste in clothing: Casual. Anything that's comfortable, sturdy, and at least somewhat decent-looking

How do they feel about mage rights?: Would like some, thank you

How do they feel about the other races of Thedas?: As long as the personality is decent, he gets along with them. Also, Qunari are big and strong, and he admires them from an aesthetic point of view

Are they religious?: Not especially, but he technically was raised Andrastian

If they were to find themselves in a modern AU

Favorite food: Burgers

Drink order: Dark and Stormy, Old-Fashioned, or Whiskey Sour

What would they wear for a night out?: An obnoxiously-tight black t-shirt, a red flannel with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of jeans, and some black Doc Martens

Song(s) that would be sure to get them on the dance floor:

Take on Me by a-ha

Tubthumping by Chumbawamba

All Star by Smash Mouth

Blue (Da Ba Dee) by Eiffel 65

Ma Ya Hi (Dragostea Din Tei) by Dan Balan and Lucas Prata

What Is Love by Haddaway

Careless Whisper by George Michael

Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley

YMCA by Village People

Rasputin by Boney M

U Can't Touch This by MC Hammer

Let's Get It On by Marvin Gaye

September by Earth, Wind, and Fire

College major: Kinesiology or Paleontology, maybe

Ideal date: Amusement Park

Favorite movie and/or film genre: Shrek 2; Comedy

Family/Friends/Love Life

Relationship with their parents: Garrett was very close to Malcolm. As the firstborn and a fellow mage, he had plenty of time to bond with his father and follow in his footsteps. His relationship with Leandra wasn't as solid, though. He always wanted to make her proud, but she put a lot on him after his father died, and he mostly just accepted that she needed someone to take her pain out on

Siblings (outside of canon): Surprising or no, Hawke really loves Carver. He's not great at being serious and all that, but he does actually care and would do anything for his younger brother. He also realizes how much Carver has had to deal with and is willing to be an emotional punching bag whenever he needs it. His relationship with Bethany was a lot better, since they spent a lot of time learning magic together, and she was more willing to let loose than Carver. She was his rock, and the rest of the family's too, and her loss affected him deeply

Best friend(s): Varric, Isabella, Anders (initially), and Inquisitor Adaar (if she is able to exist in the RP)

Companion(s) they get along best with: Fenris, Isabella, Varric, Merrill, and Anders (initially)

Companion(s) they get along worst with: Carver (one-sided), Sebastian, and Anders (eventually)

Companion(s) from other games in the series you wish they could meet, and why: Alistair back when he was a Grey Warden, just because of the sheer amount of goofy himbo energy they both have

Age of sexual debut: Probably around 16 or 17 (but please don't be creepy about it; mun is ace and is only basing this age on what they heard about from their peers in high school)

Romanced: Fenris (RPs will not go beyond flirting with anyone he met after this man who stole his heart)

Relationship status as of the end of Inquisition: Partners

Are there any songs that particularly suit their romance?:

All On Me by Devin Dawson (with altered gender terms)

Did I Mention by Jeff Lewis and Mitchell Hope (again, altering gendered vocabulary)

Arms by Christina Perri

Latch by Sam Smith

What are they like as a romantic partner?: Snarky and playful, but ultimately putty in his partner's hands. He's a bit of a hopeless romantic and will turn his whole life upside down to please the one he loves. Also prone to grand romantic gestures and spontaneous displays of affection

Do they enjoy cuddling?: Absolutely!

Do they want children?: Not particularly

Do they (now or eventually) have children?: No

Skills

Can they cook?: A bit

Can they sing/play an instrument?: Sing? Sure. Play an instrument? No

Are they a good dancer? If not, do they do it anyway?: He can be, but it's much more fun to goof off and entertain the people around him

Do they have any creative hobbies?: Not really

Any martial training beyond their main weapon?: Malcolm trained him in swordfighting before his magic kicked in

Languages spoken: The common tongue and a bit of Tevene he picked up from Fenris

Any other unique skills they'd like us to know about?: He's pretty talented at drinking, but anything else he'd like you to know probably wouldn't be appropriate to repeat

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mynachopaper · 4 years

Note

Heyo...I’d like you to answer all of the weird questions that say a lot please...😇🖤

That’s very naughty of you. I expect payment when I’m done...

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Wine glasses. I love their shape

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?

Chocolate

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?

Bubble gum, I like the oral fixation

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you?

Wierd, creepy, creative. “He needs to find an outlet or have a beating”- My arabic teacher

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

Glass bottles

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?

Tomboy

7. earbuds or headphones?

Headphones

8. movies or tv shows?

Both

9. favorite smell in the summer?

river in the cedar forest

10. game you were best at in p.e.?

Fencing

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

Nothing (sometimes fruit if I need to)

12. name of your favorite playlist?

SHmood

13. lanyard or key ring?

key ring

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?

Turkish delights

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

Simon versus the Homosapien agenda

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

Legs to my chest on a chair

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

My trainers

18. ideal weather?

Thunder and rain

19. sleeping position?

Curled up on my side

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

Notebook but laptops are great for convenience

21. obsession from childhood?

Horror stories and or occult (Yes I cringe too)

22. role model?

Don’t have one

23. strange habits?

I like to practice voices and movements (mostly for DnD) anywhere. Shopping, cooking, with the cat. normally I’m on my own but I’ve been caught a few times.

24. favorite crystal?

Obsidian

25. first song you remember hearing?

Wide, wide as the ocean- My dad sang it to me as a kid

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?

Swimming

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?

Bonfire jumping (used to do it with the scout kids)

28. five songs to describe you?

Fall into me- Alev Lenz

Rush- I am waiting for you last summer

Smile- Nat King Cole

Limb to limb- Fatal

Kiss breakdown- Micheal Brook (Perks of being a wallflower soundtrack)

29. best way to bond with you?

Discuss your passions and your fears. Other than that, play silly games with me.

30. places that you find sacred?

Anywhere that is deemed so.

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?

My pajamas (honestly no idea)

32. top five favorite vines?

Don’t have favourites.

33. most used phrase in your phone?

I love you to the moon and back.

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

I have adblock so I don’t hear enough for them to get stuck. Maybe the old spice commercial.

35. average time you fall asleep?

12-1am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?

The orly owl

37. suitcase or duffel bag?

Duffel bag

38. lemonade or tea?

lemonade

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?

Lemon meringue pie (obviously)

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

Nothing too weird. We did have a slew of dead birds that were killed and placed in weird positions. They were claimed to be omens.

The culprit was never caught. But I did have an old journal where I kept notes on them. I lost it in the move though..

41. last person you texted?

My online friend in the uk

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?

Jacket pockets

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

Hoodie, I need the soft

44. favorite scent for soap?

sandalwood

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?

Fantasy, DnD for life

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?

Shirt and underwear

47. favorite type of cheese?

Brie

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?

Orange

49. what saying or quote do you live by?

Already answered

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?

When my friend and I got stuck in traffic so we listened to the John Mulaney story about the salt and pepper diner. Afterward we actually made the playlist and listened to it. We died, the song got to us and we lost our minds.

51. current stresses?

My Father being ok back home. Me not finishing uni. Breaking my promise to my friends back home of making something of myself.

52. favorite font?

Bree Serif

53. what is the current state of your hands?

Their ok, quite dexterous. My nails have grown out too

54. what did you learn from your first job?

People take production for granted. The public opinion of a show means little. The entertainment industry is weaker than everyone treats it.

55. favorite fairy tale?

The Bloody Chamber

Book by Angela Carter

56. favorite tradition?

Our family does breakfast in bed for the birthday person

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?

Self harm, the invasion of my country, getting out of my old life.

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

I improvise well, I remain calm in an emergency, and am often the first to act. I have good emotional skills. I will always find a way, though it often comes at great cost.

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

After someone tells me I can’t do something “HAVE YOU MET ME?!”

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?

Probably Shonen. Love me some JoJoBA

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

Yeah, I stayed. I stayed, because every time you threw a brick at my head, or said I smelled, it *hurt*; but it could never hurt more than every day of my life just being *me*! I *stayed* because I thought, if anyone can change me, can make me... *not* me, it was you! - Kung Fu Panda

62. seven characters you relate to?

Tarzan-Stich-Quisimodo-Ginger (From Chicken run)- Po (Kung fu Panda)- Mulan (Yes really)- Charlie (Perks of being a wallflower)

63. five songs that would play in your club?

Shut up and dance with me- Walk the moon

Suzy- Caravan Palace

Rocket Fuel feat. De La Soul - DJ Shadow

Come with me now - KONGOS

Dance with me tonight - Olly Murs

64. favorite website from your childhood?

Miniclip

65. any permanent scars?

Some on my arms and a large one on my forearm

66. favorite flower(s)?

I’m a cliche, I love roses

67. good luck charms?

My Celtic ring and my pride pin

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

It was chocolate shrimp in Sanfrancisco. Fad food with an abhorrent mixture.

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

Spiders don’t kill every prey that falls into their web. Sometimes they just wrap them up and let them squirm helpessly.

70. left or right handed?

Right, unless eating

71. least favorite pattern?

Uh... not sure

72. worst subject?

Maths

73. favorite weird flavor combo?

Fries and Icecream

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?

75. when did you lose your first tooth?

I was 5

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

Baked potatoes, especially with Sour cream and garlic

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?

A succulent?

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?

Sushi from grocery

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo?

School Id (not by much though)

80. earth tones or jewel tones?

Jewel tones

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?

Fireflies

82. pc or console?

83. writing or drawing?

Writing, though I wish I could draw

84. podcasts or talk radio?

Podcasts

84. barbie or polly pocket?

Neither

85. fairy tales or mythology?

Mythology

86. cookies or cupcakes?

87. your greatest fear?

That I had no impact on anything

88. your greatest wish?

To gain the power to change the world

89. who would you put before everyone else?

The one I love. A partner (If we had a child then it falls to them)

90. luckiest mistake?

When I had an accident at work over my selfharm wounds. Some metal staging scraped against my arm.

91. boxes or bags?

Bags

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

Fairylights

93. nicknames?

Teddy, Monster, Quis

94. favorite season?

Winter

95. favorite app on your phone?

Reddit is fun

96. desktop background?

My current Pfp

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?

2 My parents

98. favorite historical era?

Don’t really have a favourite

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josephsciuto2 · 5 years

Text

THE KINDNESS OF THE HANGMAN

Many years ago, over forty years ago, on Christmas night, I gathered with my friends from Parkchester at our favorite bar, “The Golden Note.”

We drank and celebrated as we listened to Nat “King” Cole sing “The Christmas Song” for the hundredth time before his voice would fade away, once again, into the oncoming New Year. The Yule theme wouldn’t be heard again until the following year. Yes, back then in the stone ages, the Christmas season began on the day after Thanksgiving instead of Labor Day (or earlier) as it does now.

Jimmy was the bartender at the Golden Note that night. He was young. Before that night, I assumed that he was in his early twenties.

Exceptionally good-looking with straight blond hair parted on the side, Jimmy’s hair barely touched his shoulders and fell down slightly passed his ears. He was a soft-spoken, amiable guy and everyone liked him.

At times, I used to think how great it would be to be Jimmy, especially since I was such an ugly little teenager. How nice it would be to have girls look at you and say, “Wow! He’s a good-looking guy. I wonder if he has a girlfriend?”

The Golden Note, for all practical purposes was an old man’s bar. It was dark, with the stench of stale beer buried so deep inside the stainless wooden bar that it would take a nuclear explosion to rid the place of the smell.

Across from the bar, there were booths with torn, green leather cushions. At any giving time, you might find a regular patron comfortably asleep across the bottom cushion of one of the booths with his head resting on a folded jacket that was used as a pillow.

We were all teenagers at the time, and even though most of my friends were eighteen at the time, which was the legal drinking age back then, I was still a couple of years below the legal age, but that was of little consequence back then in the Bronx.

At about 3 in the morning, we decided it was time to go home. The group decided to leave Jimmy an extra big tip, which at that time was probably thirty-five dollars split among six of us. He was exceptionally grateful, and he bought us all one last drink.

We were the only ones left in the place, and Jimmy joined us at the end of the bar with a drink of his own.

Someone asked him, if he had done anything special on Christmas Eve. Jimmy replied, “No, I just stayed home and watched TV. I like it that way.”

“So, nothing at all?”

“Yeah, just stayed home, watched TV, and had a few beers. Ever since returning from Vietnam, I prefer the quiet and uneventful.”

The war in Vietnam had ended just a couple of years previously and none of my friends, who were all too young to be drafted, had gone to Vietnam. We got our news about the war from the newspapers and the TV coverage. Jimmy’s confession came as a shock to us. He didn’t look much older than most of us.

“No, I’m plenty old to have been drafted. Just turned twenty-seven.”

“And what was it like?”

“Scary,” he replied as his eyes drifted to another time.

He transformed his arms and hands into a makeshift automatic rifle, which he pointed toward the floor.

“During one firefight, I remember shooting a dead Vietcong soldier over and over again. It wasn’t until my sergeant pulled me away that I realized that I just shot like forty rounds into a corpse.”

Jimmy unwound his arms and hands, looked up, shook his head and smiled a haunted smile.

Ten years later, sitting at one of my favorite bars, Mirabelle, on the Sunset Strip, I drank a cold, refreshing beer. I occasionally looked up from the newspaper I was reading and glanced admiringly at Ava, the barmaid, a Czechoslovakian beauty who, at 41, made the young, aspiring starlets walking along the Strip and sitting at the tables at Mirabelle look positively plain.

The gentleman sitting next to me asked me if there was any “new news” he should know about. I simply shook my head and replied, “The same old shit.” He was in his mid-thirties, with long straight hair coming down past his shoulders and sported a bushy mustache.

The man was soft spoken and drinking a coffee, which I assumed he brought with him from the table where he probably ate dinner. Ava put a fresh beer in front of me, and I asked the gentleman if I could buy him a drink to go with the coffee.

“No,” He replied as Ava refilled his cup of coffee. “ I haven’t had a drink in nearly ten years, since I went on a five year binge after coming back from Vietnam. I was there for about a year and a half and saw virtually no action, even though I went on routine patrols throughout my whole time there.”

He paused as he took a sip of his coffee and looked straight up and into the mirror behind the bar.

“Just before I was going to leave Nam, we were out on just another routine patrol and we were suddenly ambushed by the Vietcong. For what was probably no more than five minutes, we were in a firefight.

All I remember was shooting wildly into the jungle straight ahead of me during the entire time. When it was all over, there were dead and wounded soldiers from my company spread out all around me.

“I didn’t have so much as a scratch… just the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and the cries of my wounded comrades,” he continued.

He took another sip of his coffee and repeated, “And that was all the action I saw over there.”

Ten years later, sitting at table #27 at the Palm Restaurant in West Hollywood I listened to Hal Goodman tell me some fabulous stories about the entertainment business.

Hal was short, maybe 5 feet, 5 inches tall with broad shoulders and short, gray hair. He had worked in the industry close to fifty years and, for most of that time, Hal worked as a comedy writer for Johnny Carlson.

Like me, Hal was also from the Bronx. He told me when he was about eleven-years-old, his mother forced him to take violin lessons. He said he never felt so embarrassed as when he had to walk through the neighborhood holding that stupid violin case. But his mother meant well, he said, and he still loved her.

Hal was soft-spoken, extremely gracious, and I don’t know if there was a mean bone in his body.

After a few minutes, we got off the subject of the entertainment business and discussed the upcoming Presidential election between President Clinton and Senator Bob Dole. We both agreed that it would be very difficult to beat President Clinton, especially with the economy so strong.

I felt that the only advantage I saw Senator Dole had was his war record. Hal reminded me that it didn’t matter much when Clinton beat President Bush, a war hero, and that most people of voting age today were not even born when World War II ended.

Hal, to my surprise, told me he served in the army during World War II. The army and Hal just didn’t seem to go together.

Hal was so easygoing and kind that it was hard for me to picture him holding a rifle, nevertheless aiming and shooting at another human being. He told me that during one fierce battle with the Germans everything suddenly went dark and he was knocked unconscious.

When he woke up, the dismembered bodies of his friends were scattered all around him. The Germans had dropped a bomb on them and he had no idea how he survived. He was wounded, and airlifted to an army hospital, which would become famous in the following days when General Patton visited wounded soldiers. The mercurial general went on his famous tirade against a soldier suffering from post trauma stress.

Hal reiterated that he did not see Senator Dole getting any boost in the polls for his military service, and he went on to tell me a very funny story about Red Skelton.

A few years later, while sitting in a chair in the backyard of a friend’s parents’ home in Beverly Hills, Lisa’s stepfather, Henry, picked up a copy of one of Goethe’s books and started reading it in very fluent German. He remarked, “When you read it in its original German it sounds so much better.”

Having Goethe read to you in German during a yard sale is a rather surreal. And to answer your next question…yes, they do have yard sales in Beverly Hills. But I cannot imagine you getting the best deals.

Henry was an optometrist and, on a few occasions, I accompanied my wife to see him for her annual checkups. He was quite enthusiastic about his profession, and there was never a time I went in which I didn’t learn some fascinating facts and stories about the eye. For instance, he had recently seen a patient suffering from an eye infection and, after a number of failed attempts to get rid of the infection, he did further tests and discovered the patient’s infection was actually syphilis. Syphilis of the eye…now that is something I never even knew existed.

I tried not to imagine where that individual’s eyes had been, or more likely where his hands had been when he unknowingly spread the virus from his hands and into his eyes. Thankfully, he was cured and hopefully learned not trek too deeply into dirty places.

Henry was thin, with gray, bushy hair and was occasionally frazzled from too many patients. He wore glasses and without knowing anything about him, you would assume that he was a doctor, a researcher, a scholar, or a professor.

In fact, he was all of the above. He was born in Cologne, Germany, and at five-years-old, he witnessed the rise to power in 1933 of Adolf Hitler (Talk about a deranged and syphilitic mind).

Henry unfortunately was born Jewish, and he and his family were uprooted from their home in the lovely city of Cologne and relocated to a ghetto at Lodz, Poland. Shortly after the forced relocation, he received a one-way, fourth-class train ticket to Auschwitz where he was separated from his family and would never see them again…

Amazingly, Henry found the strength to survive while almost everyone around him succumbed to the gas chambers, starvation, experiments, hangings, a bullet to the head, and disease. Henry was one of only 19 German-speaking Jewish boys to survive the concentration camps.

Henry Oster died two weeks ago. He lived to 90-years-old, and most people would agree that is a nice long life.

I can’t help thinking how many years is “just” compensation for the torturous childhood he was forced to live: The stench of death and disease that surrounded and engulfed his youth.

Ignorance will argue that at least he made it, whereas six million others died.

Henry made the most of that time. He donated his time to the Thalians, a charity to help people with mental problems. He spoke at conferences around the world about the Holocaust at many venues ranging from local Los Angeles schools to the Holocaust museum to events in Europe.

This man, who had arrived in the United States with no money, no education, and unable to speak English, let nothing hold him back.

After all, he survived the Nazis. Every day of his life was a victory…a slap in the face to the brutality and inhumane culture that this syphilitic ideology produced.

In 2014, Henry Oster published a book titled, “The Kindness of the Hangman” that was a harrowing retelling of his very early childhood in Germany, his re-location in Poland, and finally his long-term internment in the hotel Auschwitz where many checked in and only a few rare cases were allowed to checkout.

After reading the book, I had the pleasure to carry on a lively correspondence with Henry about the book. We talked about his torturous experiences as a child and as a young teenager.

He was a treasure trove of information and insights. There have been many books written on the Holocaust by survivors and historians. By 2014, however, very few living survivors of the Holocaust remained.

Henry answered all my questions truthfully; even though with each answer, I could still feel the pain and isolation he felt some 70 years after. The suffering, torture, and pain went to bed with him each night and woke up with him each morning. I suspect that it gave him no relief during his sleep, either.

In our last correspondence, Henry emailed me to congratulate me on a book I just had published. We talked about the current world situation, and I asked if he saw any parallels between the current world situation and what he went through some 70 years ago.

He said he was disgusted by what was going on in Syria and Yemen, but what was most troubling for him was what was going on in the United States.

The anger, bigotry, and racism right here in his adopted and beloved country was more like what he heard back in Germany as Hitler consolidated power. It saddened him greatly, and he wondered what would become of this moment in time in ten or twenty years from now.

A few nights ago, I was asleep when my son, Bogie, a handsome, debonair feline decided to jump on me and use me as a trampoline. I woke up, desperately trying to catch my breath as the big fur-child feigned his innocence.

I patted his head and looked across at the TV, which my wife had left on. A young girl, maybe 4 or 5, came toward me from the screen. She was dirty, her clothes torn, and her hands pressed against her tiny ears.

She was screaming as the Syrian army bombarded a village of innocent civilians. I had seen images similar to this over the last decade and I thought to myself, “Well, maybe if she is lucky enough to survive, she might not remember any of this.”

Then, I thought about Jimmy, the stranger at Mirabelle, my friend Hal, and my friend Henry.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the stupidity of my hope that the little girl could escape the terror of her life.

If she is lucky enough to survive, that moment in time always will be with her, buried deep inside her soul. One day, it finally will emerge, screaming and shrieking, before it goes quiet and voiceless…if she lives that long.

The terror will haunt her for the rest of her life, whether she lives to be 90 or only for another day.

Yet, somehow, I’m sure that Henry Oster is watching over her, telling her that she is not alone.

REST IN PEACE, my dear friend, Dr. Henry Oster. Your courage, your generosity and your kindness have left the world a better place.

A CURIOUS VIEW: “THE KINDNESS OF THE HANGMAN” THE KINDNESS OF THE HANGMAN Many years ago, over forty years ago, on Christmas night, I gathered with my friends from Parkchester at our favorite bar, “The Golden Note.”

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chocobroness · 8 years

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Do you do angst? If so… Reader has had a crush on Noctis for a while now, but accepts that he's only ever loved Luna. Now it's the night before he has to sacrifice himself, and they decide to ask him for one last dance…

I don’t like angst because it makes me cry! Why anon?!

(Listen to Love Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow by Nat King Cole. It suits the story.)

Reblog if you liked it!

It….wasn’t that it had gotten easier they would say.

But that they were simply used to feeling the way they did.

Since the day they realized their feelings for him. They had known they would suffer heartbreak before they ever had a chance.

It…wasn’t fine…but….

If it meant that he was happy, why should they stand in the way?

He only had a heart for one and she was everything they weren’t.

Lady Lunafreya was filled with limitless kindness, was beautiful, and was loved by all, yet they couldn’t help but be jealous, even though she didn’t deserve it.

Because she had his love. She always had it. Maybe even before they both realized.

But that didn’t stop the love they felt for him.

Noctis was sweet, was adorably awkward when talking to strangers, yet had a huge heart and was always willing to help, even when he didn’t always understand why they needed help.

He was a fishing fanatic, he hated vegetables with a passion, and loved sleep more then anyone would consider healthy.

And tomorrow would be the last day of his life.

It….scared them. To know that…come tomorrow, daylight will return….but at the cost of someone precious to them.

They couldn’t imagine how his closest friends must feel…waiting so long for his return, only to lose him again so fast and so soon.

They wanted to burst into tears, to cry and shout about how unfair this was.

But then….the gods were never fair.

People died to make sure he lived.

So why must he die when he deserved to live?

They didn’t know the answer, and they probably never will.

When they had heard from Noctis that he was to walk to his death, they would admit to simply turning and walking away, not wanting to hear more.

Their heart clenched tightly and it took so much will to not look at him when he called out.

They had returned to the room Ms. Cindy gave them and simply sat there, listening to the songs coming from the radio.

They tried to ignore the pain they felt, trying to distract their minds from the knowledge they received.

But it wasn’t easy.

It never was.

“Hey….”

They looked up and saw the one on their mind stand in their doorway.

Nether one said anything, simply looking at one another before they looked away from Noctis and stared down at their hands.

He took that as a sign to walk into the room, sitting next to them on the bed.

For a few minutes, music was the only thing that was heard, each gathering their only thoughts, trying to say something.

“Listen…” Noctis finally said, breaking the strange calm that surrounded them. “I know-”

“You don’t.” They said immediately, still staring at their hands.

“You don’t know, you probably never really did.” They said with a bitter smile.

“I..”

“I loved you.” They said to him, making him close his mouth.

“Always have,I still do, probably always will.” They took a shaky breath. “Even when it’s several years down the line and someone manages to get close to me, I’ll still love you. ” They turned to look at him.

“Even when your heart belongs to someone else. I will always still love you.” They closed their eyes at their admission.

“Even when I know I’ll never have a chance. Even then.” They whispered. “Especially then.”

“….why didn’t you tell me…” He finally asked and they couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at him.

“Because I didn’t want you to.” They smirked sardonically. “Because even a blind, deaf dog could see you only loved me as a friend? I never wanted you to know, to be honest. I don’t even know why I told you now.”

But they did, they wanted him to know before it was too late, before he was lost forever.

Music surrounded them again. Just a voiceless melody that drifted into the air.

It gave them time to settle the lump in their throat.

But it didn’t prepare them for when a hand grabbed their own.

“I’m so sorry.” They looked up and saw grief filled in their friend’s face.

“I’m sorry for…” He looked down, trying to come up with the words he needed to say, they couldn’t help but smile at his attempt, knowing words were never his strong point.

“Why are you apologizing stupid?” They reached up and tugged on a lock of his hair.

“It’s not your fault that I fell in love.”

“But still….I should hav-”

“Should have what? Known? Said something? Face it, you never were good at words and you know it.” They managed to get a small laugh out of him, both of them knowing how true it was.

“Still.” He said, looking at them.

“If there’s anything you want within my power, here and now.” They stared at him. “It’s the least I can do for a friend.”

“Then stay here and don’t go tomorrow.”

“….you know I can’t…” They smiled sadly at him.

“Yeah…figured you couldn’t…” they stood up and moved to stand in front of him, holding a hand out, he looked at them in confusion.

“Wha-”

“Dance with me.”

“Huh?”

“You may not remember but I was always a sucker for dancing.” They blinked away tears at the memories that came to the front of their mind.

“I believe I was your dance partner in ballroom class at school.” He looked at them before taking their hand, allowing them to pull him up.

“So you were.” Was all he said.

The music had changed to a slow song, a man singing softly. It was strangely fitting.

They got into position and slowly started swaying to the music. They didn’t say a single word. Not once.

Yet some many things were said.

It was strange, honestly strange, they had danced with him so many times before in class, to many different songs, even when they realized how much they loved him.

But here…..now….in this very moment, in this tiny dirtied room, with nothing but a beat up radio and memories swirling in both their hearts.

It was so much more painful then they realized.

They rested their head on his shoulder, eyes closed, trying to hard to make this moment last longer then it should.

And if he tightened his hold on them, well, they didn’t say.

Before they both knew it, the song ended, and no other song came up. Filling this room with silence.

They pulled apart, still holding hands, neither wanting to speak, nether wanting to let go, neither wanting to break the spell the dance placed on them.

Yet they knew it would hurt the longer they continued, they slowly let go of his hands, their hands shaking as they did so.

They didn’t move, they couldn’t. They kept their eyes closed, not wanting to see the truth before them.

It was at that moment, Noctis placed his hands on their cheeks and pulled them forward.

It was only for a moment, a moment so quick they didn’t realize it until it was over, and by then Noctis had pulled away.

They were shaking, they knew they were shaking, but they couldn’t help it, it was something they had longed for, something they dreamt of for so longer.

Yet it was something they would have never asked for if it meant that it would be a final good bye.

They heard him slowly walk away. But they didn’t stop him.

Because they knew it would be so much harder if they did.

They heard him stop for a brief moment, as if hesitating, before taking the final steps and closing the door behind him.

It was only then that they opened their eyes.

They fought to keep silent, but every now and then a sob would escape them.

They pressed their fingers to their lips, trying to recall how it felt.

They slowly sat down on their bed, knowing that they would not see him off tomorrow.

They knew that he knew that as well.

It would just be more painful.

So they would stay awake until they were too exhausted to keep their eyes open, and when they fall asleep, he will be in Insomnia, and when they wake…..

Light will be restored…

And a part of them will die alongside him.

So they sat there, listening as the same song they had danced to replayed on the radio.

They listened silently, unmoving, and if they felt tears spill down their face.

Well…..

…no one was there to see them fall.

#ffxv blog #final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfic #ffxv headcanons #angst #noctis lucis caelum

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maneatingbadger · 7 years

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Its axiomatic famousness is essentially a modern phenomenon. Early commentators enthused, but they did not seem to consider the painting particularly extraordinary or unique. The elevation of the Mona Lisa to iconic status happened in the mid nineteenth century; it was born out of northern Europe’s fascination with the Italian Renaissance in general, and Leonardo in particular, and it was given a particular Gallic, or indeed Parisian, twist by the presence of the painting in the Louvre. Her image became bound up with the morbid Romantic fantasy of the femme fatale: that idea of an ensnaring, exotic belle dame sans merci which so exercised the male imagination at that time. An important figure in the Gioconda’s elevation to fatal status was the novelist, art-critic and hashish-smoker Théophile Gautier. For him she was ‘this sphinx of beauty who smiles so mysteriously’; her ‘divinely ironic’ gaze intimates ‘unknown pleasures’; she ‘seems to pose a yet unsolved riddle to the admiring centuries’; and so on. In a telling aside during one of his rhapsodies, he remarks, ‘She makes you feel like a schoolboy before a duchess.’ Another who quaked in her presence was the historian and Renaissance-enthusiast Jules Michelet. Looking at her, he wrote, ‘you are fascinated and troubled as if by a strange magnetism’; she ‘attracts me, revolts me, consumes me; I go to her in spite of myself, as the bird to the snake’. Similarly, in the Goncourt brothers’ journal for 1860, a famous beauty of the day is described as ‘like a sixteenth-century courtesan’ who wears ‘the smile full of night of the Gioconda’. Thus the Mona Lisa was co-opted into a chorus-line of dangerous beauties alongside such luminaries as Zola’s Nana, Wedekind’s Lulu, and Baudelaire’s Creole belle Jeanne Duval. The famous description of the painting by the Victorian aesthete Walter Pater, first published in 1869, was certainly influenced by this extended bout of Gallic swooning. Yeats later paid Pater’s flagrantly purple prose the compliment of chopping it up into free verse, in which form it sits more happily: She is older than the rocks among which she sits; Like the vampire, She has been dead many times, And learned the secrets of the grave; And has been a diver in deep seas, And keeps their fallen day about her… Oscar Wilde comments perceptively on this seductive Pateresque blarney, ‘The picture becomes more wonderful to us than it really is, and reveals to us a secret of which, in truth, it knows nothing.’ But the idea of the Mona Lisa’s ‘secret’ continued to reverberate. In E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View (1908), Lucy Honeychurch’s sojourn in Tuscany gives her a touch of the Gioconda mystery – ‘He detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things she will not tell us.’ Others reacted more sceptically, as in Somerset Maugham’s novel Christmas Holiday (1939), where a quartet of art-lovers ‘gazed at the insipid smile of that prim and sex-starved young woman’. Iconoclastic young critics like Roberto Longhi poured scorn on the painting, and even Bernard Berenson – though hardly daring to question ‘a shaman so potent’ as Pater – confessed to his covert dislike of this revered work: ‘She had simply become an incubus.’ When T. S. Eliot called Hamlet ‘the Mona Lisa of literature’ he meant it in a negative sense: that the play was no longer seen for what it was, but had become, like the painting, a receptacle for subjective interpretations and second-rate theories. The other life-changing event in the career of the Mona Lisa was her abduction from the Louvre on the morning of Monday 21 August 1911. The thief was a thirty-year-old Italian painter-decorator and petty criminal, Vincenzo Perugia. Born in the village of Dumenza, near Lake Como, he had been in Paris since 1908, one of thousands of Italian immigrants in the city – the macaroni, as the French dubbed them. He had worked briefly at the Louvre, which was why he was able to get into the building unchallenged – and out again, carrying the Mona Lisa stuffed under his workman’s smock. A police hunt ensued, but despite his criminal record, and despite his having left a large thumb-print on the frame, Perugia’s name never came up. Among those suspected of involvement were Picasso and Apollinaire; the latter was imprisoned briefly, and wrote a poem about it. Perugia kept the painting in his lodgings, hidden under a stove, for more than two years. Then, in late November 1913, he sent a letter to an antique-dealer in Florence, Alfredo Geri, offering to ‘return’ the Mona Lisa to Italy. He demanded 500,000 lire. The letter was signed ‘Leonardo Vincenzo’. On 12 December, Perugia arrived in Florence, by train, with the Mona Lisa in a wooden trunk, ‘a sort of seaman’s locker’; he checked into a low-rent hotel, the Albergo Tripoli-Italia on Via Panzani (still in business, though now called – what else? – the Hotel La Gioconda). Here, in the presence of Alfredo Geri and Giovanni Poggi, the director of the Uffizi, Perugia opened the trunk, revealing some old shoes and woollen underclothes; then – as Geri relates – ‘after taking out these not very appetizing objects [he] lifted up the false bottom of the trunk, under which we saw the picture… We were filled with a strong emotion. Vincenzo looked at us with a kind of fixed stare, smiling complacently, as if he had painted it himself.’ He was arrested later that day. Efforts were made to turn Perugia into a cultural hero, but at his trial he proved a disappointment. He said he had first intended to steal Mantegna’s Mars and Venus, but had decided on the Mona Lisa instead because it was smaller. He was imprisoned for twelve months; he died in 1947. The theft and recovery of the Mona Lisa were the clinching of her international celebrity. Both unleashed a swarm of newspaper features, commemorative postcards, cartoons, ballads, cabaret-revues and comic silent films. These are the heralds of the painting’s modern existence as global pop-icon. Marcel Duchamp’s defaced Gioconda of 1919, saucily entitled L.H.O.O.Q (i.e. ‘Elle a chaud au cul’, or ‘She’s hot in the arse’) is the most famous of the send-ups, though it is pre-dated by more than twenty years by the pipe-smoking Mona Lisa drawn by the illustrator Sapeck (Eugene Battaile). And so the way was open for Warhol’s multiple Gioconda (Thirty are Better than One); for Terry Gilliam’s animated Gioconda in the Monty Python title sequence; for William Gibson’s ‘sprawl novel’ Mona Lisa Overdrive; for the classic citations in Cole Porter’s ‘You’re the Top’, Nat King Cole’s ‘Mona Lisa’ and Bob Dylan’s ‘Vision of Johanna’; for the joint-smoking poster and the novelty mouse-pad. Personally I suspect that I first became aware of the Mona Lisa through the Jimmy Clanton hit of 1962, which began: She’s Venus in blue jeans, Mona Lisa with a pony tail… I’m not sure the ponytail would suit her, but the song’s wonderful bubble-gum blandness illustrates well enough the fate that has befallen this mysterious and beautiful painting.

Charles Nicholl, Leonardo Da Vinci: The Flights of the Mind

#book quotes #the flights of the mind #charles nicholl #la gioconda #la joconde #mona lisa

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