#he even admits that on night island he loved the luxury everywhere they went

[apoptoses]

“In Venice, he’d looked out of his room at the Danieli, to see Armand staring from a window across the way.“

The hotel Daniel checks into early in his and Armand’s relationship, the Danieli, is fascinating.

The original structure was built in the 14th century by the wealthy Dandolo family, and then later in the 16th century was divided into three separate sections for different members of the family. It was turned into a hotel in 1822, and joined with two other grand buildings: Palazzo Casa Nuova (previously the site of the Venetian treasury) and the Palazzo Danieli Excelsior (a building erected in 1948 when a structure separating the Palazzo Dandolo and Palazzo delle Prigioni was torn down to make way for the expansion of the hotel).

It’s situated near the entrance of the grand canal, the same canal Marius and Armand lived on together, and overlooks the lagoon.

When you walk inside it looks like this:

The grand steps into the palace, which were once outdoors, are now inside, protected by a great 19th century glass ceiling.

The front desk is made of beautifully carved, renaissance style linenfold paneling, retaining the original design of the hotel from 1822.

Every common area in the hotel is pure luxury, filled with antique furniture and artwork. And the rooms themselves?

Decorated in a baroque-meets-victorian style, every single one is to die for.

Even the simpler rooms are beautifully attired.

In the book, however, it says that Daniel sees Armand in a window across the canal. I did some digging to figure out exactly which canal it would have been talking about and which rooms have that view (and thus exactly how much luxury Daniel would have been treating himself to)

The canal view rooms are some of the more expensive rooms. While not as ostentatious as the suites with their mural ceilings, they’re still listed just a tier below the suites. Through the balcony door there you can see the windows Armand might have been in. Across the canal is a more budget friendly hotel, the Venice Ca’Rosy.

The canal Daniel’s room overlooked is a lovely place all on its own. In this photo the Danieli is on the left, the Ca Rosy is on the right.

Current prices for rooms at the Danieli start at $700/night. Unfortunately the Danieli has changed ownership and will temporarily close in January, and undergo ‘extensive renovations’ over the next two years. What that means for the decor it’s hard to say.

I think it says something interesting about Daniel that he stayed here. When he had the money from his advance for Interview in his pocket he ate at the Copley (within another luxury hotel that he possibly was staying at) and then chose a hotel that’s amongst the priciest in Venice and paid for one of their finest rooms. It makes you question whether Armand introduced him to an expensive lifestyle or if he always had a taste for fine things, just sometimes when his life was falling apart he couldn’t afford them.

(There’s also the fun question of did Armand not speak to him in Venice because this is a building he has memories in but that’s a whole other meta post)

[chubbology]

Overindulged

prompt: feeder boyfriend quits his job and balloons as fat as his feedee/feeder girlfriend

He drove his sleek BMW up his driveway and into the middle garage just as dusk settled into night. He’d stayed overtime at work again, and to make it up to his girlfriend, three dozen fresh assorted donuts sat in the passenger seat.

Sure enough, immediately upon opening the back door with his stack of boxes, he heard her voice: “Late.”

“It’s the end of the month,” he said. “What do you expect? Brought you something though, so don’t be mad. Come in here.”

He set the boxes down on the granite island, then waited, sucking in a breath. His pupils dilated as his favorite person in the world waddled through the wide archway leading into the kitchen. After giving him a pout, she pulled the boxes toward her with arms that hung, at their heaviest, over half a foot with fat.

She was a beautiful, enormous woman. He had met her on a plane three years ago on a business trip to Paris. She’d pulled him into conversation like a warm whirlpool, and he’d listened in awe to her life story: miserable wife of a banker to a happily divorced entrepreneur, flying first class on her own dime.

With a smug, knowing smile, she talked about how she used to be skinny for her ex’s sake and now was free. He couldn’t help but let his gaze roam over her blatantly overweight body. Thighs pressing firm on either armrest of the wide seat, bust prominent and heavy, belly button deep and visible through her dress.

Bad news is, she’d concluded, I just settled a messy lawsuit that lost me my career and nearly bankrupted me. But she shrugged, as if such was life. I’m taking my last-hurrah vacation until I have no choice but to eat tiny, unsatisfying meals again.

He decided that couldn’t come to pass, so he spent as much time with her outside his business obligations as he could, taking her to meal after meal, falling in love as she ate to her heart’s content and shamelessly talked about how she’d rather fallen in love with gaining weight. It titillated and empowered her. By the end of their two week stay in Paris, she was twelve pounds bigger and he had invited her to live with him for a while as she looked for a new career path. She accepted.

Three years later, she’d found her calling without having to leave his luxurious, spacious home. Doing what she loved.

She was almost four hundred and fifty pounds now, last he was updated. She always wore leggings that clung to every lump and bulge of cellulite, and she liked to tease him by wearing crop tops, letting her massive belly and side rolls hang out and wobble as they pleased.

He watched with soft eyes as she stuffed herself with four jelly-filled doughnuts. Between bites she said, “These long hours at your soulless job are no good. My fans want to see more of you.” More eating. “The last time you fed me on camera was weeks ago!”

She gave him an imploring look as she ate a fifth doughnut. Boston creme. Her face, once conventionally pretty, now had a sexy overindulged look. She’d lost her jawline to additional chins and neck fat, and her round, fatty cheeks quivered as she chewed. Even before she finished the fifth doughnut, she picked up a sixth. “And don’t think they haven’t noticed that little tummy you have now.”

“What?” He looked down at himself, blushing at how his tie sat out a bit on slightly stretched white buttons.

Before he could say anything, she pushed a chocolate doughnut in his hand. “I know people willing to pay a pretty petty to see you chunk out.” She smirked. “Pop a couple of those buttons.”

He laughed dismissively, but as he ate the doughnut, he contemplated the press of his new chub against his shirt. His pants felt a little tight in the ass, too, now that he thought about it. What if? he thought.

Suddenly, he found himself admitting: “I’ve been thinking of quitting.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I want to spend more time with you,” he explained. He hadn’t meant to talk about it now, but here he was. Out of nervousness, he pulled one of the boxes toward himself and picked another doughnut, this one caving in under its sprinkles. He took a heavenly bite. “I have plenty of money saved and invested to take care of both of us for a long time. I just don’t see why I…”

She waddled over to his side of the island and took his free hand. “You know I’d support you.” Then she pulled him closer, into a smiling kiss. “I’ll support you real good.”

*

Before his two week notice even ended, he was eight pounds heavier, and he relished how his coworkers’ eyes lingered on his burgeoning waistline. Soon, his tummy was pushing over his pants. His chest felt thicker. He felt his ass spread wider when he sat down. He ate desserts all the time, and his girlfriend lavished him with attention (food) at every opportunity when he was home, encouraging him to eat in amounts he’d never let himself eat before. She started filming - with his consent, as always - the development of his chubbing up. Her fans loved him even more than they already did, compliments coming in faster than he could read them.

One month into being an unemployed man, she stuffed him on camera until one of his shirt buttons popped off. The experience was more of a revelation for him than even becoming officially overweight; that night, after she went to sleep, he got out of bed, squeezed into an old pair of slacks that barely fit him, then gorged himself in the kitchen until he gasped at the relief of his ass seam tearing open, unable to accommodate his butt, which everyone online said was growing gorgeously fat. His heart fluttered just thinking about it, and he hoped his ass kept growing.

It did.

“I admit, I never thought you’d be this much of a pear,” his girlfriend told him, six months into his steady ballooning. They were admiring his progress in the large bathroom mirror. He may have looked small relative to his partner’s morbid obesity, but somehow, they were both more fascinated with his growth at the moment. She outlined his bottom heavy figure with her hands. Fat had indeed stored most eagerly in his ass, thighs, and hips. His belly drooped soft and wide.

“I love it,” she said. “Love everything about you.” But then something else came into her expression. “Except how you’ve stopped picking up after yourself.”

He swallowed, and said honestly, “Sorry. I know I’m getting lazier.”

“We’ll have to hire a maid.” She grinned wickedly. “Or do two pigs deserve to roll in their sty?”

*

A year into living on his passive income and her subscribers, the couple had not yet hired any cleaning services, and his country club house was...well. Not trashed, but messy and disorganized. She blamed the five pounds she’d lost over the past month on having to constantly throw his trash away. She punished him by making him stand while drinking a whole liter of full-sugar soda. Since he’d developed a strong distaste for any physical effort as he sunk deeper into obesity, he grumbled the whole time. When he finally fell back on the couch, she sat too. Together, they took up most of it. But while she looked perfectly composed, he was panting raggedly, slightly sweaty, a food stain on his pants.

“Look.” She reached out and held his chubby wrist. “I can tell that the fatter you get, the more your natural inclination is to be a pig.” She spoke with total matter-of-factness. As if the emergence of his inner pig was unsurprising and inevitable. “It’s not uncommon in men - that urge to oink and eat as a way of life. But we share this space. I help pay off this house. Please throw away your take out containers.”

Then she added, at his long-suffering sigh, “I’ll reward you.”

He met her gaze. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

*

This time, there were no cameras. There was just her, sitting on one side of their king bed and him on the other, breathing heavy, taking her reward one bite at a time.

Everywhere in their bed were containers and packages and napkins and soda bottles. He had eaten mexican and noodles and burgers and fries. He’d eaten candy bars and sundaes and milkshakes and chunky cookies. He was so full he could feel the skin of his belly stretching. He could practically feel the skin of his thighs stretching, as if they were filling up heavier with fat right then, as he was determinedly overfed. He swallowed another bite of greasy cheeseburger.

“Keep going. I can tell you're slowing down, but I’ll have none of that yet. I want to see progress from you.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you want to feel the ecstasy of squeezing through a doorframe or are you going to plateau at being just fat?”

He let out a breathy moan as he ate another bite of the cheeseburger. His girlfriend knew him too well. She knew he liked the new challenges being big was causing him. She knew it turned him on that he sat so much fatter in his own car, belly pressing against everything, ass barely fitting at all. She knew his hands had begun cupping his hips as a half-unconscious habit, admiring his own width.

He liked how his thighs had to push past each other, jiggling every time. He even liked when he accidentally bumped into things, because it was a hot reminder that he wasn’t the same. He was like her now. He was fat. He was a pig. He wanted to eat and get so big he could barely even waddle. He wanted to squeeze through doorways. He wanted to get stuck.

“I want everything,” he said. And she smiled, temporarily pleased.

*

Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

I'd love to write more. Check me out <3 etsy.com/shop/Chubbology

[twokinkybeans]

Jar Of Dirt Chapter 9: Cinnamon Orange [Starker Fanfiction NFSW/18+]

Kink/Sexual Warnings: Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Thigh Rubbing, Sauna Sex, Teasing, Only Peter gets off Other Warnings: Tony's having emotional struggles

All Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10 ... Masterpost (More to come!)

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Chapter 9: Cinnamon Orange “What’s this?” Tony says accusingly as he holds up the Swissy in front of Peter’s face. The boy is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, studying for the midterm he has in two hours. After that, Tony said he would take Peter on a fun little trip abroad, refusing to say where exactly. Peter had packed his bags earlier this morning, and now they’re here. “Well, since we’re going on a mystery vacation, I figured that’d spice things up?” He looks up at the billionaire innocently. He knows damn well what he’s done. Tony sucks at his teeth and shakes his head with a scoff. “No. No, we’re not bringing the Swissy, we’re not bringing the jar. We’re gonna relax for a week, okay?” Peter frowns. “Having sex doesn’t relax you?” Tony groans loudly and puts the Swissy on the coffee table, sitting down next to it. “Pete, we discussed this. I’m scared. Okay? I want to be a hundred percent sure you’re not going to lose yourself like that again before I even try anything.” Peter pulls in his legs and looks away. “It’s been three weeks, Mr. Stark. I’m fine again! Been swinging through New York and helping old ladies cross the street just like I always did. I’m back!” “Well, I’m not.” Tony stands up again, taking the Swissy with him. “No sex, Pete. Not yet.”

Peter’s frustrated. Obviously. After a few days of numbness, everything went back to normal, but Tony can’t help himself. He’s scared he’ll break the boy like he did before and he doesn’t want Peter to experience it ever again. It doesn’t matter how many times Peter said it was the best sex he’s ever had. It frightened Tony. And the guilt was still there. He knows Peter gets himself off in the shower every night now. He can literally hear it, the boy isn’t exactly quiet. And Tony’s pretty sure the cheeky bastard is not holding back his moans to entice Tony to join him in the shower and fuck him hard. Like they both want to. But Tony can’t. He just can’t.

Tony has spent many hours in the gym, lifting weights, running laps, taking the coldest showers. But fuck, he can’t stop being hard for Peter. He won’t allow himself to get off. He’s saving himself for when he’s ready again, but both his mind and his body are working together to eat at his willpower. Not to mention Peter’s working very hard for it too. Leaning over counters, sticking out his butt just a little more than necessary. When they watch a film together, Peter constantly “accidentally” lets his hands roam a little too low. Heck, Tony even caught the boy pretending to be asleep while being the big spoon, rubbing himself against Tony’s ass. But he’s got this. He’s going to get through this. All he needs is for his subconscious to stop being scared and then both he and Peter can experience all the pleasure they want. Tony wishes with all his heart that his feelings are set straight soon. Not just so that Peter can get what he wants. No. He wants to rail his little slut.

-

Peter’s mouth hasn’t shut since they’ve arrived at the exclusive Italian spa. He’s in awe of the place and can’t help but stare open-mouthed at the stunning design. It’s in the middle of nowhere, on an otherwise deserted island, and only the richest moneybags can afford the luxury of this place. Tony is one of those rich moneybags. Peter feels like a commoner in the VIP lounge of the most exclusive club he can think of. In essence, he kind of is. And it makes him only slightly uncomfortable. The place is beyond imagination. A gigantic building, no- a temple, with marble and chandeliers and fountains and lush greenery everywhere. The island is covered in smaller temples, each containing their own baths, saunas and treatment rooms. Massive Corinthian pillars hold up the structures and the marble floors are broken up by the most intricate, symmetrical mosaics. The gardens are never ending, filled with statues, and from what Peter could gather, the number of guests that are there can’t be more than thirty. This place is really only for the richest people. Everything about it screams abundant luxury. And everything is delicate. Expensive.  

Peter’s worn sneakers tap the floor awkwardly as he waits for Tony to finish up at the front desk. Peter tends to forget how much Tony is in his element in these kinds of situations. He’s rich. He knows it. He flaunts it. Tony knows exactly how all of this works and Peter can’t help but admit that, fuck. He’s hot like this. Sunglasses, mysteriously hiding his eyes as he nonchalantly leans on the counter, using his large, rough hands to enunciate the words he speaks. Peter’s not even listening anymore. He’s just hearing Tony’s deep, low voice as he arranges all kinds of massages and- Peter caught Tony’s words and his interest peaks. A private sauna? Peter presses his lips on top of each other and shifts, hoping no one notices his hard-on. A private sauna… Peter smiles mischievously at his feet, conjuring up his evil plan.

That evening, Tony smiles at Peter on the other side of the fancy dinner table. The boy looks absolutely adorable in the tux. It’s the same one he wore at Tony’s party three weeks ago. The same bow tie to go along with it. “So, how did the exam go? I completely forgot to ask.” “Oh, I think I did okay!” Peter starts. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly sure about the question where we had to estimate how much energy would be deposited into the Earth if it is hit by a one-tonne meteor traveling on an orbit around the Sun with a semi-major axis of 20.0A.U, but I tried and I think I nailed all the other questions!” “Was it moving in the same or opposite direction as the Earth’s orbit?” “Opposite.” Tony quickly grabs his phone to calculate the answer. “Alright, so if this... is the velocity, then it should be… 2.59 ×10^12 Joules?” Peter’s face lights up and Tony can’t help but smile along with that contagious little grin. “That was my answer! I nailed the test!” Peter exclaims happily, sitting back in his chair smirking. He realizes that there are people looking at them, so Peter giggles and tones his voice down a bit. “If I’m correct about the other questions too, then… I got a perfect score.”

Tony puts his phone away again and raises his crystal wine glass high in the air, looking at Peter. “To the smartest man I know.” “That’s you,” Peter laughs, his eyebrow raised. “No, Peter. You. I’m smart, but I’m only keeping up with you because I’ve had all these years to study. If you go on like this, you’ll be a thousand times smarter than I’ve ever been. You’re so intelligent it’s almost scary.” Peter feels his cheeks flush and he lowers his gaze to his glass of wine, raising it as well, clinking it against Tony’s. He knows he’s smart. Hearing it come from Tony’s mouth adds a different layer to it though. He can’t imagine ever knowing more than him. But then, Tony usually knows stuff like this.

Being in a fancy restaurant once again reminds Peter of the last time they were at one. He’s already having a hard time keeping to his new self-made rule. No teasing Tony until the sauna. It’ll be hard. Very hard. But waiting these three little days are going to be worth all of it. Besides, he gets to enjoy all these massages and whatever Tony booked for them. It’s not like he’ll be bored. Not teasing Tony has proved to him just how much he actually teases his boyfriend throughout the day, and he has to consciously stop himself from doing so. No jokes about tiramisu. Sadly.

-

Peter’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom closest to their bed - yes, the hotel room has more than one bathroom - while Tony gets comfortable in the large king bed. They’ve had two full days of extreme relaxation and Peter’s pretty sure he can’t feel half his muscles anymore. In a good way, this time. He walks out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from his mouth as he pulls up his cotton pajama pants. Tony’s scrolling through his phone, the lower half of his body covered by the thin sheets. His chest is bare. Toned. His arc reactor glows dimly. Peter loves the little faces Tony pulls when he’s reading, but Tony soon looks up, raising an eyebrow, silently wondering why Peter’s looking at him. “So, what are we doing tomorrow?” Peter asks innocently as he takes the toothbrush out of his mouth. He knows what they’re doing tomorrow. Oh, he knows. “Not much, to be honest.” Tony puts his phone on the nightstand and crosses his arms. “I was hoping we could have a nice sleep in, dive into one of those mint baths and then head to the private sauna.” “Oh, yeah, the sauna! Forgot about that.” He didn’t. “What time was that again?” “The appointment’s at four. We got loads of time.” “Cool!” Hot. Peter rushes back to the bathroom to hide his excitement. He needs his dick to calm the fuck down. Only one more day of no touching. No teasing. No nothing. Tony must have noticed his behavior. There’s no other way. He hasn’t commented on it, though. Which makes Peter slightly worried whether or not Tony will agree with Peter’s plan.

When he feels like his cock has softened up enough, he puts away his toothbrush and takes a breath before walking back into the bedroom. The size of it is insane. It’s not just a bedroom. It’s a whole apartment. Multiple rooms, sitting areas. Four bathrooms, excluding the two extra baths that are in the living spaces. There’s a gigantic, solid mahogany dinner table that could fit at least fifteen people. No idea why they would need it, but it’s awesome nonetheless. Peter flops onto the bed face down, limbs spread outward, making Tony laugh. “I wish I could still do that,” he jokes. “Tones, you’re not that old, you should try it.” Peter turns and curls up into himself, staring at Tony from his side of the bed. He’s a safe distance away from the other man. No chance to lose composure. “The masseurs are gonna have a tough time tomorrow if I did that, Pete, I’m good where I am, thank you.” “Such a superhero,” Peter quips, tugging at the sheets. He sits up straight again and looks around the room for the umpteenth time. The frescos on the wall are intricate and the sheer detail of the woodworks on the bed posts could keep someone entertained for hours. “Just look at this place, mister Stark!” “I have. More often than you’d think.” Tony cocks an eyebrow. “I’ve been here with my parents, so I’ve seen every corner of this island.”

Peter turns his head to look at Tony, who’s suddenly evading Peter’s stare. “That… Must’ve been a while back,” Peter says quietly. Tony takes a breath and nods. “Yeah, I know. I’m old.” “No, I didn’t-” “I know what you meant, kid.” He sucks at his teeth and sighs before opening his arms to Peter. “Come cuddle, please? Bedtime.” Tony’s great at avoiding topics he doesn’t want to talk about. They’ve discussed Tony’s parents often enough for Peter to know the whole story and as Tony respects Peter doesn’t like to talk about his own parents, Peter opts to do the same.

There’s a new issue at hand, however. Cuddling. Peter sucks at cuddling. Well, right now, at least. Why? Because he loves cuddling. And being as touch starved for Tony as he is, this is gonna get really hard really soon. And with this, he means he. Peter complies, though, not liking the sad, nostalgic look on Tony’s face. He shuffles closer and gets under the sheets, next to Tony. Like a key finding its lock, they embrace each other. Peter rests his head on Tony’s chest after they scoot down further under the blankets and he closes his eyes, breathing softly and listening to Tony’s gentle heartbeat. It’s weird, but Peter loves feeling the glow of Tony’s arc reactor on his face.

One of Tony’s hands rests on Peter’s head, his thumb rubbing slow circles in the boy’s hair. His other arm is curled around Peter’s waist and… Shit. Peter wriggles slightly in an attempt to push the lower half of his body away from Tony, who’s trying to tangle their legs together. The slight awkward situation causes Tony to laugh softly. “Where’d your legs go?” He chuckles. Peter sticks them out the bed on the other side, his wheel of excuses turning fast. “Feet are hot. Not nice. Out of bed,” he says quickly. Tony scoffs a single laugh and pulls the boy’s upper body closer. “Alright then.” Peter knows Tony knows he’s lying, but he’s grateful the man doesn’t ask any questions. Both of them could probably hold a contest for who has the bluest balls right now. Neither want the physical contact to lead to anything more than cuddling and he wants to give Tony a chance at the space he’s been asking for, so this is an odd compromise. It feels silly. Probably looks silly too, Peter thinks. But hey, tomorrow’s the big day.

-

Tony groans content as he and Peter set foot in the hot sauna. The heat immediately attacking them both inside and out. Peter has been in a sauna with Tony a few times before, as Tony has one at home, but the ones in this spa have all kinds of herbal infusions to stimulate the senses. Upon Peter’s request, the spa arranged for some dried oranges and cinnamon to give the sauna a sweet and spicy feel. Ha. Spicy. Tony sits down at the lowest level first, aiming to work his way up. Peter immediately goes to level two, to sit behind Tony. Drops of sweat are already forming on their skin and when he sees Tony relax, he goes in. He leans forward, pressing his hands on Tony’s back. He slowly works his way up, squeezing the skin and massaging gently. He smirks when Tony lets out a stifled moan as Peter reaches his neck. He rubs gentle shapes onto the man’s skin, before pushing his hands even further up, into Tony’s slight curls. Tony’s head nearly falls back under the attention, so completely relaxed he seems unaware of Peter’s wicked scheme. The boy massages Tony’s scalp and leans even further forward, until his mouth is right next to Tony’s ear. “S’hot in here, isn’t it, Mr. Stark?” he mumbles. The man lets out a low hum in response. A hum that goes straight to Peter’s dick. “Wanna come up to level two?” Tony huffs, not really wanting to move under the boy’s attention, but he nods and gets up, stepping up the bench to sit next to Peter.

They sit there for a little bit. The strong scent of the orange and cinnamon filling their lungs as they become damp with their own sweat. Tony has his eyes closed, smiling, knowing his boyfriend is right next to him. He’s been so sweet to Tony, giving him the time and space to get his mind cleared up from all the overstimulation stuff. Maybe he’ll finally give Peter what he wants tonight, Tony decides. The boy’s been too good for him. However, what Tony hadn’t noticed, was Peter standing up from his seat, turning himself so he’s right in front of Tony. The man has his legs slightly spread and his eyes open wide when he suddenly feels Peter sitting down on top of his left leg. “Hello, there,” Tony quips, clearing his throat. Peter leans in to press a wet kiss on the corner of Tony’s mouth. The man doesn’t move. “Hi, daddy,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering. “I thought we discussed this, Pete.” Tony cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t move Peter off of him, like he did all the other times Peter tried. Peter smiles innocently, taking it as an invitation to start moving. Slowly, he grinds himself into Tony’s leg. He’s already achingly hard after not doing anything for three days. Tony simply leans back, letting the boy do his work. The kid’s jacked himself off for weeks now. It’s not like getting off on Tony’s thigh will get him that deep into subspace again. Especially since Tony won’t actually be touching him. Peter’s just getting himself off.

This is fine.

Tony’s mouth turns dry when Peter starts whimpering. His hips roll effortlessly over Tony’s sweaty thigh. The older man is almost embarrassed at how fast his dick turns hard, watching his good boy trying to find his release. Tony shouldn’t enable this. But fuck. He wants to. “Peter, please, you’re not making this any easier for me,” Tony breathes out as he fights his urges to touch himself. Or Peter. Or both. Peter leans in, sucking on the skin just below Tony’s ear. “I don’t want you to hold back, daddy, I want to make this…” His hand creeps to Tony’s shaft, cupping it for a second before moving up to flick one of Tony’s nipples. “...hard, for you.” The boy continues to rub himself on Tony and he leans back to show himself off as he starts playing with his own nipples, using his sweat to glide over the buds. “Besides,” he moans. “If you won’t touch me... “ His hips move fast and his pants are quick. “I’m just gonna touch you.”

Tony swallows. He’s pretty sure he’ll come untouched if Peter really decides to get off right then and there, in a technically public but for now private sauna. Peter moans obscenely as his hands roam over his own body, touching all the places that make his cock throb. “Aren’t I pretty for you, daddy?” He sighs with his eyes closed. His mouth hangs open and his rolls speed up even further. Tony can’t help but moan himself and he closes his eyes in the hopes of blocking out what’s happening. Peter notices and smirks as he stops holding back altogether, moaning and whimpering loudly with every roll of his hips. “I know you’re so hard, daddy, I can see it, I can feel your cock throbbing from here, I can feel it, daddy-”

Shit.

How did Tony never realize that? Peter can feel the wind outside high rises, he feels when Tony stands behind him, simply through a shift of air. He can feel Tony’s cock without touching it. The realization hits Tony with a wave of pleasure and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t hold back anymore. He knew Peter was planning something, why else would he be so physically distant the past few days? Tony didn’t know it would lead to semi-public sex in a cinnamon-orange sauna on a deserted island in Italy, but he’s done complaining. Peter gets his wish. Tony’s groan turns into a pained chuckle. “You planned this, didn't you?" He growls as he opens his eyes to watch his slut ride his thigh, desperately searching for release. "Made me miss you so bad that I would have no choice but to throw you on your stomach in this sauna and fuck you deep and hard?" "Y-yes, daddy, want you to fuck me so badly," Peter gasps, realizing Tony finally gave in. "Well, too bad now, boy... I'm not going to touch you. Not unless you come rubbing your cock on me. Go on then, keep grinding, show daddy your cum, get off on my thigh like the desperate little slut you are."

Peter sucks in a hot breath, Tony’s words shooting through him like a missile. He increases the speed of his movement, his moans becoming more and more desperate. “Can- Can I hold you?” Peter asks suddenly. Tony’s taken aback by the innocent question, but realizes how touch starved the boy is. They haven’t done anything like this for weeks and shit, the boy has been holding back for three days now. Tony would love to remain the composed dom in this, but it would be too cruel to deny Peter this now. “Yeah, kid, wrap your arms around me, use me, baby.” Peter immediately envelopes Tony, not even kissing him, just pressing the man against his chest. They’re both sweating, panting messes, heating each other up even further.

“Daddy’s got you.” Peter whimpers, angling himself a bit differently to get more friction. He gasps, digging his fingers into Tony’s sweaty skin. “M-Missed this,” the boy chokes out. Tony groans at Peter’s nails clawing into his skin as he realizes that fuck, yes, he’s missed this as well. “Missed you too, sweetness. Oh, you’ve been such a good boy for daddy, haven’t you?” “Y-yeah!” “My sweet boy, so hot, you should see yourself, baby,” Tony growls. He can feel how Peter’s rhythm is slowly falling apart, how he’s just rutting down, chasing his high. “I-I need you, daddy, need to cum, I can’t hold it off one more day.” “You can, honey, you can come all over me. Show me how much you want this, I want to see you fall apart.” Tony’s struggling. He wants to just flip them over, wrap his fingers around that pretty little cock and watch how the moans would increase with every flick of his wrist. He wants to push Peter down on his knees, fuck, fuck. “You’re fucking with my head, baby-” he growls, “-do you feel how hard I am baby, you already thinking about tonight, when we’re in bed together? I’m gonna fuck you, sweetie, I promise. Gonna give you what you’ve been waiting for.”

Tony wants it so bad, he can’t help himself. He reaches for Peter’s pretty ass, gripping it tightly and helping the boy set a solid rhythm again, taking over. Peter surrenders to his guidance within seconds and it has Tony gasping. The hot, cinnamon orange air stings his lungs in the best possible way. “Peter, you close baby?” “Y-Yes, Tony, so c-close! Don’t let go of me, please, please.” “Never again, I promise.” “I’m gonna hold that a- Oh fuck, daddy, I can’t- ” Peter closes his eyes, falling into Tony’s chest as he cries out in pleasure. Tony groans as he feels how Peter comes all over his thigh, his entire body shaking within Tony’s safe embrace. Tony stares at him, his pupils blown wide.

Peter’s perfect. His hips riding him through his orgasm, his cock twitching against Tony’s skin. Peter’s eyes are still closed, brows furrowed together. The boy leans down, panting heavily as his forehead rests against Tony’s arc reactor. “Yes, that’s it , aren’t you my pretty, sweet, little boy, Peter?” Tony feels his eyes sting with tears. Peter looks so fragile, so sweet and angelic against the soft, shiny, blue light. “I-I am…” Peter whispers. “Yes, you are. You’re so good for me, being a little brat to help me overcome my fears.” Tony kisses the top of Peter’s hair, and the boy then looks up at him, a playful sparkle in his eye. “I’m only obedient if it’s in my best interest,” Peter says, gauging Tony’s reaction. When he sees Tony’s eyes light up at the joke he giggles. “You sneaky little thing.” “Hmmm, don’t pretend you didn’t like it.” “Never.”

Tony cuddles Peter for as long as he can still manage to take the heat of the sauna. Whispering sweet praise into his ear, how much he loves him, how grateful he is for Peter trying his best to give him space. How he’s going to ruin him tonight. Because fuck he will. Peter’s not escaping that one. He’s drying himself off with a big fluffy towel after taking the cold shower that Peter talked him into. Yes, he knows he’s supposed to take the cold shower but he usually just sits outside the sauna for a bit. He couldn’t ignore the hopeful, playful look on his boyfriend’s face, however. Peter laughed out loud at all the faces Tony pulled when the freezing stream of water hit his skin. He barely lasted three seconds before jumping away from it and wrapping the towel around his shoulders.

“Pete, come on out, you’ll get ice burns.” “It’s not that cold, Tony.” “Yes, it is. Come here, I want to wrap you in this fluffy thing,” Tony says, referring to Peter’s towel, “-then carry you to our room for cuddles. And food. And more sex.” Peter chuckles and turns the shower off, running his way into Tony’s arms. Tony gasps when Peter’s icy-cold body wraps around him. “Peter!” “It’s for your own good!” “Honey, please, a heart attack isn’t good for my health,” he laughs, trying to push the boy off him. Only to realize how much he missed this as well. Not having sex, meant not being as close. As playful. As goofy. He smiles. He’s past that now. “Hush it, I can hear your heartbeat. You’re doing just fine.”

Tony snorts, lifting Peter’s chin up and kissing him slowly. Their soft lips melting together. The older man closes his eyes, trailing his fingers across Peter’s cheeks as he keeps on kissing him. His lips slightly parting, Peter taking the invitation and their tongues meeting in the middle. It’s so warm and gentle that it has Tony’s heartbeat speed up. Peter sighs against his lips, his hands walking up towards Tony’s shoulder blades to hold him tight. They just stay like that for a while, making out soft and gently, their bodies locked into their embrace.

--- More: Chapter 10 Masterpost

[cutegirlmayra]

Sonic is gone on a mission for a lot of years that when he comes back, everyone is now adults. He tries to reconnect with everyone and it's mostly the same except with Amy because of how much her attitude has matured. Because of this, he finds its easy to hang out with her and easily finds himself falling for her but since he was gone for so many years, Amy is no longer pursuing him and now just sees him as an old friend, so Sonic does his best to reignite the old flame in her.

(Preview image is used with permission from the amazing Sonic Artist @masked-bixch! Please support her and her amazing talents! x 

I’ve done quite a few of these before, but I’m always down for Older Sonamy~

Prompt:

“It really was a whirlwind,” Sonic’s now lanky arms and legs draped over the tree’s branches, closing his eyes after looping an arm around it and jumping up. He was much older now, his quills were so long that they arched from his head and drooped down towards the ground.

He placed his arm behind his head, a cushion of sorts, looking up at the stars.

“But enough about me, Tails. How are all of you doing?” He smiled as he looked over to Tails, who happily obliged to the question.

“Well, Knuckles finally took my advice and used technology to protect the island more. He even convinced G.U.N to make it a sanctuary. It’s heavily guarded now and Knuckles even has a small living making it a tourist site.”

Sonic’s eyebrows raised, amazed to hear so much had changed.

“And the others?”

“Cream is happily married. Vanilla loves her new grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Yeah. I mean… they’re bunnies, Sonic.” Tails kinda gave him a funny look and Sonic just scratched his nose, embarrassed.

Tails poked some figurative fun at him before sighing, “And me? Well…” He looked up at the sky. “I’m getting married too.”

“What!?” Sonic bolted upward, turning to him before seeming to sulk back to being unexpressive again. “…You really have all changed…”

“Not really. Not in here.” Tails pointed to his heart, looking up at Sonic. But then his smile changed to concern, worrying his friend hadn’t changed, and what the future held for him. “You know… it’s rather peaceful these few years… We’ve been defeating our home pretty well. What… What do you think you’ll do?”

Sonic remained silent, looking down at the waters below him, a stream babbling over Tails’s matured voice.

He closed his eyes, “Don’t know.”

Tails once again seemed worried, “…Sonic…”

“Everyone’s moved on. I know.” Sonic sighed and hopped down from the tree. “But there’s still someone you haven’t told me about.” He dusted off his back from the tree’s bark and twigs.

“Huh? Who’s that?” Tails tilted his head.

“Heh,” Sonic chuckled, never figuring he’d be asking something like this about… her. 

“Ever since I chose to leave on that mission… Amy said she’d never forgive me.” He looked to Tails now, carefully hiding with a sturdy mask his real intention in asking this. “Where is she now?”

Tails held his breath a second, his tails wavering in their usual bending behind him and situated themselves low to the ground.

“Amy’s…” Tails’s hesitance was clearly not for Amy’s benefit… and Sonic picked up on that.

The hurt was apparent in Sonic’s eyes, thinking the worst, as the shine of the water’s moonlight hit and sparked a deeper emotion that Sonic usually never revealed upon his face.

He still didn’t.

He turned around and folded his arms, “Figures. I guess that’s how it goes though, huh?” He took a deep breath, turning his head slightly to address Tails over his shoulder, “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“No guy.” Tails walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, a light smile, “There never was.”

Sonic’s surprise was covered by the darkness of the night.

He lowered his head and smiled, “Really..?”

Tails nodded, “But I wouldn’t let that glimmer of hope sink in too deep, Sonic. She’s changed. She’s not the little girl you used to know. She’s really grown up quite a bit.” he emphasized that change, but Sonic seemed to let it pass through one ear and out the other.

In a greater spirit, Sonic strutted away, waving back to Tails. “Thanks, buddy.” He barely heard him, only thinking about how much fun it would be to surprise her by showing up again. Maybe a playful tease here and there. At least that wouldn’t change.

“Sonic! I’m serious! She’s-!” Tails finally quit. He gave up trying to shout out when Sonic took off, “He’s gonna get himself hurt… And there’s nothing I can do about it.” he sighed, flying off into the night to return to his now luxury cruiser plane, massive and expensive.

Time went by and Sonic did end up meeting Amy, however, Tails was absolutely right. She had a fine job, a great set of new friends, and was living a very independent life.

A bit too independent for Sonic’s liking…

It was like she was just polite and sweet to him, but nothing more. She would joke about the old days, and her humor bothered Sonic when she used self-depreciative jokes about how she used to act around him.

“It wasn’t that bad…”

“Haha! You were my whole world! How was that not bad?”

She wore heels and long draping dresses. Her hair was slightly up and styled. She was a high-class lady. Purses and accessories, a real uptown girl.

It made Sonic uncomfortable.

However, though that was the case, it was suddenly easy to talk with Amy and get the real scoop on everyone and how their lives had changed. Amy held no secrets, and she told Sonic everything about Eggman and the gang. The battles they had to fight while he was gone. The great successes…

“It was hard at first,” Amy admitted, nodding to the beat of a song she was listening to over the speakers of the carnival they had stopped by. “We all realized we depended on you so much… We had to really fight and push past all our insecurities. We learned to rely on each other instead of just you. That was a huge turning point for me too… It wasn’t one man who could save the world, it was all of us.” She took a bite out of her ice cream and Sonic just held the cone in front of him, looking deep in thought at the ground as he heard how much his friends suffered without him, but also picked themselves up and overcame everything after him.

“Guess I didn’t realize how much I was limiting you all.” It was a spitfire comment and Sonic’s hot-tempered ego was shown just a bit. He took a bite of the ice cream and flinched at a brain freeze.

“Ohhh, don’t be so gloomy!” Amy patted his back, having him cough and swallow the pain back as he turned back to her, pouting. “You’re so much like your old self. I can’t lie, I was hoping you’d change a little bit…” She took another lick of her ice cream, “Emm~ So yummy~”

He just watched her… She had grown so much, but she was still as kind and trusting as ever.

“…Would it be so bad?” He suddenly said, jumping down the raised parking lot where they were sitting and looking over the carnival. “If everyone started trusting me again?”

Amy paused and lowered her ice cream. “…We did miss you, Sonic… but… Heroes are everywhere now. It’s not as rare as when you were with us.”

He felt his fist tighten.

“So… No looking up to me like I’m the greatest thing in the world?” He faked a smile to her, trying to keep everything light.

She noticed this time, something he wasn’t used too. “Sonic…” She jumped down and walked up to him, placing a hand on his cheek. “You’ll always be the famous Sonic The Hedgehog. History will count you as the fastest hedgehog in the world… The one who lead the revolution towards heroes saving the world. But that doesn’t have to be all you are.”

He had never felt her touch like this before. It startled him. His heartbeat… what was wrong with it? His hands flexed like a twitch at how calming and comforting the sensation was. It was like he wanted to come closer to it, and that spooked him.

She smiled a sorrowful look, which also upset him.

She removed her hand and placed it back by her ice cream. “You know… I think love is kinda awesome. It probably…” She began to turn away from him, and he felt the urge to reach out and grab the twisting end of her dress, just to hold her there… a little bit… longer…

“Only happens once… and never comes around again.”

If eyes are the windows of the soul, then words were the breeze and sunlight that escaped into the room within.

Sonic’s eyes were deeply plagued with having seen the room, knowing it was beautiful and lavishing in wonderful, homely comfort. And yet, he also noticed he didn’t hold the key to that home anymore…

“Only comes once?” He tried to act as though he didn’t understand, faking a false comprehension.

“…That’s not what I meant.” Amy took the bait but didn’t turn around. She took another small bite of her ice cream. “I should go, it’s been fun to catch up. But I do have work tomorrow…”

“…Tomorrow…” Sonic looked down. What would await him tomorrow?

Everyone had moved on and was living their lives… No one had time for a has-been.

“…Will you be okay, Sonic? Finding a place in this world… who has itself covered?” She finally did look back at him but was jolted back at how serious his expression had turned.

“S…Sonic?”

He narrowed his eyes to the ground, then looked up at her. “So… The world doesn’t need me anymore… Heroes are abundant… and I’m just a name drifting on the wind?”

She shook her head, immediately regretting her words. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it like that! Sonic! You’re still so important!” she came forward but that desire for someone had slipped out of Sonic.

He stepped back and turned his head away. “Alright… so the world doesn’t need me.” He closed his eyes, shutting her out. “But then…”

“…Do you?”

Amy’s eyes flinched back, her heart felt like a string had been pricked and dust sprayed off of it. She hadn’t felt this melody in a long time… She had forgotten so much about it.

“Sonic…” her eyes watered. “I… I have to go!” she wouldn’t cry in front of him. She had hardened herself too much for that. She bolted at lightning speeds, the ice cream dropped and abandoned in her rush to escape the past she loathed so much.

But… did she really hate that time? When she was so lovestruck and ditzy? Not a care in the world?

He bent down with a much tender look towards the fallen ice cream.

He let his own fall next to it and walked towards the side of the edge.

He scaled the rooftops and darted around the world that had no need of him… but waited. Patiently. For the time that maybe Amy’s world would.

And like usual, he didn’t have to wait long.

A car had almost hit Amy, but something blue and speedy had caught her and brought her to the other side of the street. That was the first occurrence.

Another time, someone stole Amy’s wallet. She summoned her hammer and raced behind him till he turned a corner. When she got there, he was already beaten down and the wallet left with a flower beside it. She had gripped her heart.

This kept happening… over and over again… and as it did, her heart pained to be beside him again… She couldn’t fight it. The loneliness of not being in love… The strain of taking on life without someone beside you.

When she finally did catch him, he had slowed down and turned his head back to her, wondering what she wanted…

The news had talked about a blue bullet, going around and saving people from ordinary inconveniences. But even those reports were so thankful for a guardian angel with blue light that surrounded him, saving them from a rainy day.

“Where do you think you’re going.” she stepped forward, heart pounding as she dropped her bags and charged him. “Without one of my infamous Amy Rose hugs!!!”

He smiled, having waited quite a while to hear that greeting again.

He held her close upon impact. She rubbed her head deeper into his chest and gripped him closer to her. She didn’t want to have a life without him again. It was too much to not be with the man she loved…

And Sonic?

Evil always rises when there’s greater Good to combat it.

But the Good is always better and conquers all its scheming.

Amy and Sonic were a power couple, alright. Villains rose that normal, present heroes didn’t have the skill to handle. But Tails and Knuckles would happily join in the ‘old times-sake’ fun, finding Amy and Sonic and taking them all on once again… as not a couple of snot-nose kids trying to save the world…

But as a family that would save the world, one act of love at a time.

[stony-eyed-and-marvel-minded]

Mondays

Read on AO3 here

Summary:  Natasha is late for work again like she usually is on Mondays and James Buchanan Barnes is feeling the brunt of her wrath. But what can he expect? That's how their Mondays go.

Rating: T+, WC: 1054, CH: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Quarantine Quick Writes

Notes:

I hope y'all enjoy this sweet lil one-shot. My roommate and I decided to do a 45 minute writing game, and this is what I came up with. I'm honestly really happy with what I came up with. My prompt was: "Have a good day." ... "Don't tell me what to do." It was a lot of fun, and exactly what I needed during this excruciating quarantine.

Pop!

The sound of the toaster joins the many noises filling Bucky and Natasha’s quaint apartment. They had a late start to their morning due to Bucky’s lazy wandering hands and Nat’s slight hangover from last night’s endeavors with Steve and Tony. Thankfully living together for the past two years and having insane assassin training allows Bucky and Nat’s routines to flow together like a dance — even with the sluggish effects of a hangover.

“Babe, where did you see me throw my bag last night?” Nat’s question floats out from the hallway seconds before she follows. “I can’t find it, and I feel like I’ve looked everywhere.”

Bucky looks up from the breakfast he’s working on — he starts work later than Nat does, so he has the luxury of enjoying a decent breakfast. His face scrunches up in thought before admitting, “I think I saw it in the freezer. I was confused, but wasn’t sure if you did it on purpose or not.” He pauses, “Now looking back, I think I remember you going into the freezer for vodka before we went to bed.”

Nat stops and stares, “Why would I purposefully put my purse in the freezer? I know you’re a man from the 1500’s, but come on babe.” Bucky scoffs with fake indignation as she makes her way over to retrieve her purse that is definitely squished underneath their bottle of vodka. She grumbles with annoyance, dusting off the frost that lines the corners of her bag.

“What was that doll? I couldn’t hear you?” Bucky teases, it’s a risky move, he knows how grumpy Nat can be when she’s hungover and late for work.

She proves just how grumpy she is when she turns and glares at him, jabbing her finger into his chest. Bucky feigns pain at her poking, which just makes her scowl more.

“I said that my purse is now going to be wet. So now I have to deal with a wet bag, one slice of toast for breakfast, and traffic that will make me even more late because my clingy popsicle of a boyfriend couldn’t keep it in his pants!” He cringes with every word she emphasizes — she is definitely grumpy today. Before Bucky can say anything, Nat whirls back around to slam her purse on the counter and grab her work essentials. “Tupaya grebanaya ovtsa,” she mutters, making Bucky’s eyes shoot up.

“Every Sunday, I let you convince me that going out with Steve and Tony will not end with me massively drunk, and that I will start my week out feeling great! And every time, you let me get plastered, knowing full well that I will have your ass the next morning for making me late. Where the fuck is my left shoe!?”

“Under the blue armchair.” Bucky’s met with silence for a moment, before a bit more grumbling and another tirade begins again.

“I swear to god if you come to me with those puppy dog eyes next week begging me to join you on a night out I will send your ass back to Wakanda!” At this point, Bucky has finished making his breakfast and is now settling himself on the island. His eyes follow Nat around the apartment, who is now adorned in her heels, suit jacket, purse, and briefcase as she makes her way back into the kitchen. When her eyes lift to meet Bucky, he raises his eyebrows in question, slowly chewing on his bite of pancake.

She huffs and throws a napkin at his face. “I mean it this time Barnes, I’m not having it! Now wipe your face, you’re dribbling syrup all over my counter.”

“Yes ma'am,” Bucky chuckles. Nat shoots him a look before going to the fridge to grab a coffee.

This is their routine every Monday morning, and every Monday evening Natasha comes back beat and begs for a nice foot rub and cuddles. Bucky loves every minute of it, knowing that he can be rowdy and soft with her, and that she can be the same with him. He never thought this reality could be possible for him when he was saved from Hydra.

Natasha stands back up, coffee in hand and her face scrunching in confusion at her phone. She must have gotten some kind of work alert that she’s now preparing to face when she goes in.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks.

Nat looks up briefly, “Huh? Oh yeah, just a doozy of a day it’s going to be, thanks to you.” She looks back at Bucky innocently before winking. She closes the fridge door with her hip, grabs her toast and makes her way towards the door.

“I gotta go babe, I’ll see you tonight for Italian?”

“Sounds good doll. Have a good day!”

“Don’t tell me what to do Barnes, I haven’t forgiven you just yet.” He simply blows her a kiss as the door closes behind her.

These next few moments will define how the evening goes for him. Bucky rinses his plate off and gets ready for the day, making his regular Monday morning calls with the biggest grin plastering his face.

***

“Hello Ms. Romanoff, there’s a delivery at the front desk for you.” One of Stark’s newest interns awkwardly shuffles in front of Natasha. It’s halfway through her work day, and it has been as hectic as she expected.

“Thank you so much, I’m heading over there now.” As Natasha leaves, the corners of her lips tug upwards into the slightest smile. “Barnes you son of a bitch,” she mutters.

When the elevator doors open, Nat is assaulted with the gaudiest bouquet of flowers she has seen yet, and she has seen quite a few as this is what James sends her every Monday morning. She swears he tries to top the ridiculousness of the bouquets each week. She’s laughing by the time she gets to Janet at the front.

“He really outdid himself this time Nat, that bad of a morning huh?” Janet is chuckling herself.

“Oh I would say so. I did kick him off the bed this morning, but I think this redeems him.” The women both laugh, and really Nat knows that’s all James wants, is for her to be happy. She has to admit, he definitely succeeds in making her happy.

Notes:

Okay so what did y'all think??? I promise I will be back with more fics like this and I also want to make an effort to post my long time coming fic. Drop a comment below! I want to hear from y'all! Also hmu on AO3. Stay safe, stay healthy! And wash your damn hands!!<3

P.S. If you haven't already, you should definitely look up that Russian phrase Nat muttered

[ancientbrit]

Natter #1   05/31/2020

Subject: MI MG Natter #1 2020 (another off topic) I suppose that I have always had an interest in mechanical objects As a kid, my folks bought me things that went around when you did certain things, such as light a flame under a boiler, pour sand into a hopper or pour water into a hole. Either that or I could take items from a box to build things (Meccano and Arkerecto). When I was starting at Grammar school in 1944, bikes were the big thing and I wanted to build my own - just couldn't see anything I liked that was pre-built at a price I thought I could (eventually) afford. I took on two paper routes (rounds in the UK) one in the early morning and one in the afternoon to raise the funds, but it was taking a long time. I was therefore delighted when our next-door neighbor, Walter Woodward asked me if I would be interested in helping him on Saturdays at the small engineering company he and his cousin owned This was something I had been angling for for ages and truth be told I would have worked with him for nothing, but I had to admit that the additional funds would move the bike project right along.The company specialty was a giant blow lamp that was used by the railways and was also exported to Russia where the huge soft flame was directed at rail lines to thaw frozen points.

I loved these Saturdays and learned something about gas welding, turning and threading on a lathe, forming steel tube into coils and on. All very much pleasurable to me.

Eventually, when I had amassed sufficient funds, I had the frame custom built to my specs  at “Claude Butler” and it was a thing of beauty, it really was. The ancillaries came along bit by bit over time, but the wait was worth it and it finally hit the road in 1948, the year of the first Olympics following WW2. I went everywhere on that beautiful machine, visiting Youth Hostels all over the country, cycling to school, training runs most nights and weekends and just cycling for the pure pleasure of it.

My first job after school was disappointing. I had interviewed for two jobs in London. One was with an engineering company (interview went well) The other was with an Insurance company which I knew I didn't want nor need as the first interview had been so great. I remember seeming to be a bit flippant during the interview with the insurance manager. A ten-day wait brought two letters, one from each company. I opened the engineering company's letter first, preparing to luxuriate in the good news. I was therefore gutted to see that although they were impressed they really couldn't see their way clear to taking me on, when I would be in the army, navy, or air force for my National Service stint within the year. They just couldn't afford to train me when there was a good chance that I wouldn't return to them after my discharge in three years' time. I accepted the Insurance job with regret, but it did pay - sort of - and with my first month's salary I bought my first wristwatch - an Oris from Watches of Switzerland which served me well. I still have it.

It was only a basic mechanical watch and not an automatic - they were way too expensive, but I was fascinated with their designs. All those tiny, intricate parts working together and adopting your body movements to keep the mainspring at an almost constant pressure hands-off - wonderful, especially if it was a skeleton watch with much of the face and/or back pared away so that all the working parts could be observed - working. The Oris and I moved all over Great Britain and the Middle East from Gibralter, Egypt , Iran, The Persian Gulf to Sharjah and Dubai (this was before oil was discovered) and Amman in Jordan with no problems. Following my discharge three years later I went into engineering school, following which a variety of jobs were undertaken, mostly in research which fascinated the heck out of me. Eventually, all these experiences took me to London again working on the wing design of the Lockheed C5-A, which then led me to the Lockheed plant outside Atlanta.This was a short contract to marry our wing design to the fuselage designed at Lockheed itself. When this ended Jean and I sailed home on the original Queen Elizabeth from New York.

When we arrived home, Jean presented me with a beautiful Omega Seamaster DeVille day/date watch in stainless steel, which I had seen on board and drooled over.  But the price seemed too much, bearing in mind that going through Customs at Southampton would elevate the price heavily, to a point which I couldn't afford. Jean has never given me the merest inkling of what she had paid for it, although I had a fair idea. She would also not tell me how she had spirited it through Customs either. We went through Customs together and there was never a mention of the watch. Naturally I was over the moon. This watch in stainless was ideal. I have no interest in gold watches, after all a watch is designed to tell the time and the huge extra cost for the gold is a total waste - to me anyway. My London company (CDI) had no further work in England for us, but they did have a contract to work on the Boeing 747 and so back we came. But we had only been back for a couple of months when tragedy struck!I had been to Safeway to do a weekly shop, but when I returned home my Omega hadn't made it with me. I roared back to Safeway but of course, my watch had not been handed in and I never saw it again. Even the insurers robbed me. When I sent in the claim form they came up with some cock and bull story which I accepted like an idiot. I certainly wouldn't let it go today. And so started a long period with el cheapo watches as a form of self-flagellation for allowing myself to be so taken.There were a few electronic watches and finally Jean bought me a great Seico electronic, which allowed me to split-time races, to a gnats whisker, and all whilst sitting on the bottom of the ocean had I so desired. I have worn it every day; every day that is until two days ago when the battery ran out!. Even if I could have removed the back (which I couldn't) I am sure that I wouldn't have a suitable battery. It was driving me nuts, still wearing the watch and glancing at it several times a day and seeing that it was still 10:20! So what to do? I started to look through drawers and any place I could think of that might hold another watch. These did surface but they were all electronic and of course, all their batteries were shot too.  Somewhere my old, original mechanical Oris was resting, but just where I had no idea and wasting more time didn't bring it to light. But what I did discover quite by chance was my Dad's old watch that his friends at work had given him on his 60th birthday in 1960. I know the date is correct as the back was engraved:- "To Joe from the boys of the GWTPO 19-6-60" I don't know where the Joe name came from as he was Gilbert Leonard, but then again I had collected a few myself when I was in the RAF, such as Guss and Zeke - both explainable - but some time later! The GWTPO is short for the Great West Traveling Post Office which was a special train that ran from Paddington station in London to Plymouth in the West Country, leaving London around 9 pm and arriving in Plymouth by breakfast time. Dad had run this train and others ever since he got out of the Royal Navy in 1947. This train comprised a great steam locomotive which Dad had taken me to see years earlier when I was young and impressionable - and I was. Seeing that beautiful piece of mechanical equipment with the paintwork smartly gleaming and the brass and copper all burnished, sitting there panting with a slow mist of steam emanating from various ports and oh that smell of hot oil and steam  - what more could you want? So very evocative. The engine driver so confidentally leaning out from the cab , backlit from the yellow/orange flames from the open firebox made him look other wordly as he smiled at all the mere mortals below. So evocative. The loco pulled a collection of special coaches which were set up to allow the crews to sort mail on the move. At certain stations, there would be a sort of gallows at trackside from which would be hung a sack of mail. On the side of one of the coaches would be a special net and as the train sped through the night the net would pick up the mail sack without slowing down. This system worked beautifully for years, with others running to all the different areas of the country from Lands End to John O'Groats The mail was sorted on the run and was all ready for distribution on arrival. The system was started in the Post Office's glory days when they could guarantee that a letter posted before midday would be delivered anywhere in the country by first delivery (9 am) the following day. I said first delivery as there were three deliveries every day back then. The only exceptions were deliveries to outlying Islands or places way out in the back of beyond where deliveries were by horseback frequently.

Admittedly I now have to exercise like mad once a day to wind the watch, but It started right off the bat and it hadn't run since Dad passed away at 94 in 1989. The TPO system was shut down only a few years ago when it was found to be simpler to truck mail everywhere, but to get to this stage, mailings had to be cut to a single daily delivery  and with no guaranteed delivery by first post following posting before midday the previous day either.- progress will out I suppose!

The very last run was quite an emotional affair and Dad would have loved to have been there as would I. It had massive coverage in the press and I still have newspapers of the day with the reports and pictures. Another one of those old familiar and loved functions that have gone forever. Stay safe - perhaps we will meet again in the not too distant future. YFLGordon

[ilya-t]

Living in the Transit Lounge by PICO IYER (1998)

By the time I was nine, I was already used to going to school by trans-Atlantic plane, to sleeping in airports, to shuttling back and forth, three times a year, between my parents’ (Indian) home in California and my boarding-school in England. Throughout the time I was growing up, I was never within 6,000 miles of the nearest relative—and came, therefore, to learn how to define relations in non-familial ways. From the time I was a teenager, I took it for granted that I could take my budget vacations (as I did) in Bolivia and Tibet, China and Morocco. It never seemed strange to me that a girlfriend might be half a world (or ten hours flying-time) away, that my closest friends might be on the other side of a continent or sea.

It was only recently that I realised that all these habits of mind and life would scarcely have been imaginable in my parents' youth; that the very facts and facilities that shape my world are all distinctly new developments, and mark me as a modern type.

It was only recently, in fact, that I realised that I am an example, perhaps, of an entirely new breed of people, a trans-continental tribe of wanderers that is multiplying as fast as international phone lines and Frequent Flyer programmes. We are the Transit Loungers, forever heading to the Departure Gate, forever orbiting the world. We buy our interests duty-free, we eat our food on plastic plates, we watch the world through borrowed headphones. We pass through countries as through revolving doors, resident aliens of the world, impermanent residents of nowhere. Nothing is strange to us, and nowhere is foreign. We are visitors even in our own homes.

This is not, I think, a function of affluence so much as of simple circumstance. I am not, that is, a jet-setter pursuing vacations from Marbella to Phuket; I am simply a fairly typical produce of a movable sensibility, living and working in a world that is itself increasingly small and increasingly mongrel. I am a multinational soul on a multicultural globe where more and more countries are as polyglot and restless as airports. Taking planes seems as natural to me as picking up the phone, or going to school; I fold up my self and carry it round with me as if were an overnight case.

The modern world seems increasingly made for people like me. I can plop myself down anywhere and find myself in the same relation of familiarity strangeness: Lusaka, after all, is scarcely more strange to me than the foreigners' England in which I was born, the America where I am registered as an ‘alien’, and the almost unvisited India that people tell me is my home. I can fly from London to San Francisco to Osaka and feel myself no more a foreigner in one place than another; all of them are just locations—pavilions in some intercontintental Expo—and I can work or live or love in any one of them. All have Holiday Inns, direct-dial phones, CNN and DHL. All have sushi and Thai restaurants, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Coke. My office is as close as the nearest FAX machine or modem. Roppongi is West Hollywood is Leblon.

This kind of life offers an unprecedented sense of freedom and mobility: tied down to nowhere, we can pick and choose among locations. Ours is the first generation that can go off to visit Tibet for a week, or meet Tibetans down the street; ours is the first generation to be able to go to Nigeria for a holiday to find our roots—or to find they are not there. At the lowest level, this new internationalism also means that I can get on a plane in Los Angeles, get off a few hours later in Jakarta, and check into a Hilton, and order a cheeseburger in English, and pay for it all with an American Express card. At the next level, it means that I can meet, in the Hilton coffee-shop an Indonesian businessman who is as conversant as I am with Michael Kinsley and Magic Johnson and Madonna. At a deeper level, it means that I need never feel estranged. If all the world is alien to us, all the world is home.

I have learned, in fact, to love foreignness. In any place I visit, I have the privileges of an outsider: I am an object of interest, and even fascination; I am a person set apart, able to enjoy the benefits of the place without paying the taxes. And the places themselves seem glamorous to me—romantic—as seen through foreign eyes: distance on both sides lends enchantment. Policemen let me off speeding tickets, girls want to hear the stories of my life, pedestrians will gladly point me to the nearest Golden Arches. Perpetual foreigners in the transit lounge, we enjoy a kind of diplomatic immunity; and, living off room service in our hotel rooms, we are never obliged to grow up, or even, really, to be ourselves.

Thus many of us learn to exult in the blessings of belonging to what feels like a whole new race. It is a race, as Salman Rushdie says, of ‘people who root themselves in ideas rather than places, in memories as much as in material things; people who have been obliged to define themselves—because they are so defined by others—by their otherness; people in whose deepest selves strange fusions occur, unprecedented unions between what they were and where they find themselves.’ And when people argue that our very notion of wonder is eroded, that alienness itself is as seriously endangered as the wilderness, that more and more of the world is turning into a single synthetic monoculture, I am not worried: a Japanese version of a French fashion is something new, I say, not quite Japanese and not truly French. Comme des Garçons hybrids are the art-form of the time.

And yet, sometimes, I stop myself and think. What kind of heart is being produced by these new changes? And must I always be a None of the Above? When the stewardess comes down the aisle with disembarkation forms, what do I fill in? My passport says one thing, may face another; my accent contradicts my eyes. Place of Residence, Final Destination, even Marital Status are not much easier to fill in; usually I just tick ‘Other’.

And beneath all the boxes, where do we place ourselves? How does one fix a moving object on a map? I am not an exile, really, not an immigrant; not deracinated, I think, any more than I am rooted. I have not fled the oppression of war, nor found ostracism in the places where I do alight; I scarcely feel severed from a home I have scarcely known. Yet is ‘citizen of the world’ enough to comfort me? And does taking my home as every place make it easier to sleep at night?

Alienation, we are taught from kindergarten, is the condition of the time. This is the century of exiles and refugees, of boat people and statelessness; the time when traditions have been abolished, and men become closer to machines. This is the century of estrangement: more than a third of all Afghans live outside Afghanistan; the second city of the Khmers is a refugee camp; the second tongue of Beverly Hills is Farsi. The very notion of nation-states is outdated; many of us are as cross-hatched within as Beirut.

To understand the modern state; we are often told, we must read V.S. Naipaul, and see how people estranged from their cultures mimic people estranged from their roots. Naipaul is the definitive modern traveler in part because he is the definitive symbol of modern rootlessness; his singular qualification for his wanderings is not his stamina, nor his bravado, nor his love of exploration—it is, quite simply, his congenital displacement. Here is a man who was a foreigner at birth, a citizen of an exiled community set down on a colonised island. Here is a man for whom every arrival is enigmatic, a man without a home—except for an India to which he stubbornly returns, only to be reminded of his distance from it. The strength of Naipaul is the poignancy of Naipaul: the poignancy of a wanderer who tries to go home, but is not taken in, and is accepted by another home only so long as he admits that he's a lodger there.

There is, however, another way of apprehending foreignness, and that is the way of Nabokov. In him we see an avid cultivation of the novel: he collects foreign worlds with a connoisseur's delight, he sees foreign words as toys to play with, and exile as the state of kings. This touring aristocrat can even relish the pleasures of Lo culture precisely because they are the things that his own high culture lacks: the motel and the summer camp, the roadside attraction and the hot fudge sundae. I recognise in Nabokov a European's love for America rooted in America's very youthfulness and heedlessness; I recognise in him the sense that the newcomer's viewpoint may be the one most conducive to bright ardour. Unfamiliarity, in any form, breeds content.

Nabokov shows us that if nowhere is home, everywhere is. That instead of taking alienation as our natural state, we can feel partially adjusted everywhere. That the outsider at the feast does not have to sit in the corner alone, taking notes; he can plunge into the pleasures of his new home with abandon.

We airport-hoppers can, in fact, go through the world as through a house of wonders, picking up something at every stop, and taking the whole globe as our playpen, or our supermarket (and even if we don't go to the world, the world will increasingly come to us: just down the street, almost wherever we are, are nori and salsa, tiramisu and naan). We don't have a home, we have a hundred homes. And we can mix and match as the situation demands. ‘Nobody's history is my history,’ Kazuo Ishiguro, a great spokesman for the privileged homeless, once said to me, and then went on, ‘Whenever it was convenient for me to become very Japanese, I could become very Japanese, and then, when I wanted to drop it, I would just become this ordinary Englishman.’ Instantly, I felt a shock of recognition: I have a wardrobe of selves from which to choose. And I savour the luxury of being able to be an Indian in Cuba (where people are starving for yoga and Tagore), or an American in Thailand; to be an Englishman in New York.

And so we go on circling the world, six miles above the ground, displaced from Time, above the clouds, with all our needs attended to. We listen to announcements given in three languages. We confirm our reservations at every stop. We disembark at airports that are self-sufficient communities, with hotels, gymnasia and places of worship. At customs we have nothing to declare but ourselves.

But what is the price we pay for all of this? I sometimes think that this mobile way of life is as novel high-rises, or the video monitors that are re-wiring our consciousness. And even as we fret about the changes our progress wreaks in the air and on the airwaves, in forests and on streets, we hardly worry about the changes it is working in ourselves, the new kind of soul that is being born out of a new kind of life. Yet this could be the most dangerous development of all, and not only because it is the least examined.

For us in the Transit Lounge, disorientation is as alien as affiliation. We become professional observers, able to see the merits and deficiencies of anywhere, to balance our parents' viewpoints with their enemies' position. Yes, we say, of course it's terrible, but look at the situation from Saddam's point of view. I understand how you feel, but the Chinese had their own cultural reasons for Tiananmen Square. Fervour comes to seem to us the most foreign place of all.

Seasoned experts at dispassion, we are less good at involvement, or suspensions of disbelief; at, in fact, the abolition of distance. We are masters of the aerial perspective, but touching down becomes more difficult. Unable to get stirred by the raising of a flag, we are sometimes unable to see how anyone could be stirred. I sometimes think that this is how Rushdie, the great analyst of this condition, somehow became its victim. He had juggled homes for so long, so adroitly, that he forgot how the world looks to someone who is rooted—in country or belief. He had chosen to live so far from affiliation that he could no longer see why people choose affiliation in the first place. Besides, being part of no society means one is accountable to no one, and need respect no laws outside one's own. If single-nation people can be fanatical as terrorists, we can end up ineffectual as peace-keepers.

We become, in fact, strangers to belief itself, unable to comprehend many of the rages and dogmas that animate (and unite) people. Conflict itself seems inexplicable to us sometimes, simply because partisanship is; we have the agnostic's inability to retrace the steps of faith. I could not begin to fathom why some Moslems would think of murder after hearing about The Satanic Verses: yet sometimes I force myself to recall that it is we, in our floating skepticism, who are the exceptions, that in China or Iran, in Korea or Peru, it is not so strange to give up one's life for a cause.

We end up, then, a little like non-aligned nations, confirming our reservations at every step. We tell ourselves, self-servingly, that nationalism breeds monsters and choose to ignore the fact that internationalism breeds them too. Ours is the culpability not of the assassin, but of the bystander who takes a snapshot of the murder. Or, when the revolution catches fire, hops on the next plane out.

In any case, the issues, in the Transit Lounge, are passing; a few hours from now, they'll be a thousand miles away. Besides, this is a foreign country, we have no interests here. The only thing we have to fear are hijackers—passionate people with beliefs.

Sometimes, though, just sometimes, I am brought up short by symptoms of my condition. They are not major things, but they are peculiar ones and ones that would not have been common fifty year ago. I have never bought a house of any kind, any my ideal domestic environment, I sometimes tell my friends, is a hotel room. I have never voted, or ever wanted to vote, and I eat I restaurants three times a day. I have never supported a nation (in the Olympic Games, say), or represented ‘my country’ in anything. Even my name is weirdly international, because my ‘real name’ is one that makes sense only in the home where I have never lived.

I choose to live in America in part, I think, because it feels more alien the longer I stay there. I love being in Japan because it reminds me, at every turn, of my foreignness. When I want to see if any place is home, I must subject the candidates to a battery of tests. Home is the place of which one has memories but no expectations.

If I have any deeper home, it is, I suppose, in English. My language is the house I carry around with me as a snail his shell; and in my lesser moments I try to forget that mine is not the language spoken in America, or even, really, by any member of my family.

Yet even here, I find, I cannot place my accent, or reproduce it as I can the tones of others. And I am so used to modifying my English inflections according to whom I am talking to—an American, an Englishman, a villager in Nepal, a receptionist in Paris—that I scarcely know what kind of voice I have.

I wonder, sometimes, if this new kind of non-affiliation may not be alien to something fundamental in the human state. The refugee at least harbours passionate feelings about the world he has left—and generally seeks to return there; the exile at least is propelled by some kind of strong emotion away from the old country and towards the new—indifference is not an exile emotion. But what does the Transit Lounger feel? What are the issues that we would die for? What are the passions that we would live for?

Airports are among the only sites in public life where emotions are hugely sanctioned, in block capitals. We see people weep, shout, kiss in airports; we see them at the furthest edges of excitement and exhaustion. Airports are privileged spaces where we can see the primal states writ large—fear, recognition, hope. But there are some of us, perhaps, sitting at the Departure Gate, boarding-passes in hand, watching the destinations ticking over, who feel neither the pain of separation nor the exultation of wonder; who alight with the same emotions with which we embarked; who go down to the baggage carousel and watch our lives circling, circling, circling, waiting to be claimed.