#in the last three years of accepting prompts i have filled p much every single one that came my way

[megabadbunny]

some kind of AU where Rose dates her superior, The Doctor. Could be student,teacher or worker,boss or whatever you want

Hey there nonny!!! I’m sure your interest in my fill for this prompt died a long time ago and its corpse is now gently crumbling away to dust, for which I deeply apologize. The thing is, while I totally understand why folks like AUs, they’re not my thing (I tend to be a stickler for canon or canon-divergent stuff, with the exception of fem!versions of the Doctor), and after a series of former jobs with male supervisors who were, well, kinda dickbags a lot of the time, I’ll admit I had a hard time getting over that and struggled with this prompt quite a bit. (Seriously, I’ve been working on a response to this for two and a half years now!) However, because I do have stuff written, and it seems a shame for it to just languish away in my WIPs folder untouched by the light of day, Imma go ahead and post what little I did manage to get written over the last 28 months. And here’s the dilly: if someone else sees it and feels a mighty need, I’d be more than happy to send them my notes or do a bit of collab with them if they’d like to pick up the trail from here!

pygmalion’s revenge

Rose Tyler is, in no particularorder, 24 years old, British, white, female, a stage actress, a former gymnastand current runner, a connoisseur of chocolates and films starring Idris Elba andColin Firth, and, despite being a dreadful flirt, just a tad bit dense when itcomes to picking up on signs of a certain nature.

The epiphany smacks her like a handto the face, dawning on her sometime in a grey morning in her tiny London flat.Evidence of a job hunt is spread over her dinged old kitchen table, a smallmountain of newspapers and printouts with her laptop sitting pretty andvictorious at the peak, all of them hiding pockmarks and coffee-rings andsomething that looks suspiciously like a cigarette burn which Shareen swears upand down that she knows nothing about. Rose stares at it all while hersleep-lagged brain tries to decide whether her mouth wants tea or coffee. (Teais the obvious answer, and the likely victor, but sometimes a mug of foul-tastingjet fuel is just what she needs to get through the morning. “Morning person”does not number among the many things that Rose Tyler is.) And while her eyesstare and her eyelids droop and her brain pontificates, even though it’s gotnothing to do with anything, somewhere in the back room of her subconscioussome part of her just realizes.

The Doctor is totally, completelyarse-over-heels in love with her.

“Jesus, Jack,” she asks, withoutpreamble, the moment her flatmate steps into the kitchen, “Am I an idiot?”

Jack’s resounding laughter letsher know that yes, in this particular case, “idiot” ranks very high on the listof things that Rose Tyler is.

***

Rose firstmet the Doctor when she was 19 years old, neither a gymnast nor a runner norsomeone with even her A-levels, working a dead-end job at Henrik’s. She hadnabbed the position in an attempt to chip away at theseveral-thousand-pound-debt incurred by a year of irresponsible living with agood-for-nothing boyfriend. (Thanks, Jimmy.) And the day she met the Doctor, shehad just clocked out at the end of her shift and stepped into the ancient lift,so absorbed in her fashion magazine with some silly name (Belle or Metropolitanor Splendor or some such rot) that she didn’t even look up when the doorsopened and someone joined her.

She frowned.There it was again.

This time thetext was splashed in white across a model’s bright blue jumper—“Bad Wolf.”Those words kept popping up everywhere Rose looked. She saw them spray-paintedon bins, printed on takeaway menus, in big black letters outside stuffy-lookingoffice buildings, on the bottoms of pink and yellow nail polish sets. Thephrase had popped up everywhere seemingly overnight. What was this obsessionwith Bad Wolf, and more importantly, whydid no one else seem to notice it?

“I wouldn’tbuy that one,” a chipper voice informed her from somewhere to her left. “Thecolor is nice, but the lanolin acids present in such a wool-heavy blend arelikely to cause some unpleasant contact dermatitis.”

Rose openedher mouth to politely tell this gent and his posh Estuary accent to mind theirown business, but fortunately, her eyes moved faster than her lips; she foundherself staring at a bloke who, despite being so thin that a hard look mightknock him over, was pretty enough to make her heart trip on itself. Academictypes didn’t usually do it for her (there was something about their snootyvoices and prim manners and patronizing attitudes that grated on her nerves,somehow). But, looking this fellow up and down as subtly as she was able, eyescataloging everything from his spectacles to his wild hair to his freckles tothe ever-so-slightly tatty brown pinstripe suit—paired with Chucks, no less,who wears Chucks with a pinstripe suit?—Rose felt that perhaps she could makean exception this time.

“Thanks,professor. I’ll keep it in mind,” she teased as the lift lurched and lumbered upward.

“What makesyou say I’m a professor?” he asked, mouth twitching in amusement.

Sheshrugged. “S’just a joke,” she replied, but halfway through her sentence, itoccurred to her that the fellow was looking at her in a very specific way, andthat gave her pause. He wasn’t leering at her like the lads on the sidewalk, orsneering at her like gentlemen in suits were oft wont to do. Instead he waswatching her almost like—

Like she wasonto something.

Rose’s eyestracked him over. “I guess the specs look sort of professor-ish,” she offered.“Wearing a suit, too, brown and not too fancy. Nothing wrong with it, but youwouldn’t catch it at Harrods. And you’ve got a bunch of student papers stickingout of your briefcase,” she said, pointing at the worn leather case danglingfrom one hand.

“What makesyou say they’re from students?” he asked, a smile hiding in the corners of hiseyes.

She was definitely onto something.

“Well,they’ve got grades on them, don’t they?” Rose asked. “Gotta be students.”

His facesplit in a wide grin. “That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks,”Rose laughed, and she was only being a little sarcastic. “Did I pass the test,then?”

“With flyingcolors.”

Both of themsmiled at each other, and Rose felt just the tiniest twinge of regret when thelift arrived at its destination. The doors slid open, the bell chimed out aloud announcement, and neither Rose nor the professor moved away.

“Well,” theprofessor said, fidgeting a bit in his plimsolls. He tilted his head toward theexit. “Got to run. See you around, maybe?”

Not if I see you first is what Rose thought.

“Sure,” iswhat she said.

With acheeky grin, the professor stepped out of the lift and walked away. He didn’t seemto notice the paper that fluttered in his wake, drifting out of his case andfloating lazily, featherlike, to the floor.

“Wait,” Rosestarted, scooping the paper up in her hand, but the doors were closing and theprofessor didn’t turn back. Rose quickly gave the paper a once-over (it couldbe rubbish, but what if it was a student’s assignment, what if the professorhadn’t graded it yet, what if that poor sod ended up with a 0 through no faultof their own?) and was surprised by the words she found at the top.

OPEN CASTING CALL

And a littlebelow that:

For George Bernard Shaw’s

PYGMALION

At the Blue Box Theatre

Rosefrowned. Open casting? She wasn’tsure what that meant, exactly, but it was obviously something to do with aplay. Had to be a play if it was in a theatre. Right? Was it like auditions?(And if it was like auditions, why didn’t it just say that?)

The liftdoors opened at her destination and Rose balled the paper up in her hands,compressing it neatly into its own little cragged-edged world. She tossed it inthe rubbish bin without a second thought.

…but she didhave an individual thought, on its own, not two seconds later, which encouragedher to pick the paper right back up.

(No harm inchecking it out, right?)

***

A quick few minutes of Googlingshow her everything she needs to know. Jack is happy to supplement the rest.

“A bit familiar, isn’t it?” heteases, looking over her shoulder while she types. Normally she would beinclined to tell him that that’s a load of bunk, and then outline preciselyjust how much bunk that is, but the parallels seem pretty undeniable.

“Pyggies was years ago,” Rosesays in a protest that they both know is feeble. “This doesn’t mean—”

“Rose,” Jack interrupts, gently.“It means.”

Rose worries her lip while shescrolls down the screen. Jack’s right. Of course he is. But that doesn’t makethings any easier. It doesn’t make hurt feelings unhurt or apologies magicallysaid.

But.

“He’s trying,” Jack says.

“What, you his agent, now? Mostpeople get paid for a job like that.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Look, Iknow he’s an idiot. Everyone knows. Hell, even he knows. But you also know he’smore than that. And even if it’s a stupid gesture…at least it’s a gesture.”

Rose stares at the screen somemore. Open CastingCall, it says. Born Yesterday, it says. Seeking ExceptionallyTalented Woman (Character Experience Preferred), it says.

“Those American accents are goingto be dreadful,” Rose says.

***

They’ll tellyou that you should never go into an audition unprepared, but Rose didn’t knowthat yet. Besides, she never really cared much about what They tell you.

(Also, shestill wasn’t entirely sure she was going to audition at all. Or so she toldherself, standing in front of the Blue Box Theatre with a crumpled flier in herhand. Maybe she had only shown up to see what the thing was all about.Certainly she had not shown up hoping to get cast, definitely she wasn’t hopingto see the intriguing professor-bloke again.)

“The queuestarts round the back,” a Scottish voice popped up, and Rose turned to see ayoung redheaded woman leaning against the blue brick wall. Her hair fell aroundher face in curtains, her legs were impossibly long, and the casual way shedragged smoke out of her cigarette made Rose’s fingers itch.

“Sorry?”

“The queue,”the girl repeated, as if repetition would encourage understanding. “It’s roundthe back.” She gestured with the cigarette, trailing ash in its wake. “Thatway.”

***

And that’s it, folks. If you’re interesting in picking it up, let me know and I’ll send you my notes!

[starkerisendgame]

Hi! This is weird to ask but can you make a starker fic with Peter being a camboy and he doesn't know that his idol is watching his shows. Eventually when Tony figures out that Peter is Spider-Man, he goes to Peters apartment like in the movie and they chat. After the whole civil war is over, Tony proposes to be Peters Sugar daddy. P.s. Love your fics 😘❤

I hope this is what you wanted! I’m so sorry WIPs are taking me a long time, I’m working across three accounts and I’m finishing up in college for the semester. Thank you sm for such an invigorating, exciting prompt!

TW: Breathplay/Choking | Daddy kink | Online sex work/sexual cam work | Overstimulation | Age difference | Secret voyeurism

[P.2]

Struggling financially sucked in general. Being a struggling student was even worse; because supplies weren’t cheap and textbook price tags made him whimper and there was only so much ramen a guy could eat before looking at the packets made him want to headbutt a metal spork.

Arguably worse, though, was being a struggling student who spent most of his nights running around as Spiderman, using expensive chemicals for his web formula (there was only so much he could steal from the school) and constantly having to repair his suit. Not to mention the eye-watering medical bills on the very rare times he actually dragged himself to hospital.

All in all, whilst he enjoyed his life; he also spent most of it envying the people who didn’t have to choose between their water bill and a new winter coat. Or patching up their secret superhero suit and eating something other than instant noodles for the rest of the month. When he’d received a message on his Instagram account from a supposed ‘director of entertainment’, alongside a link to what had turned out to be sexual camshow website, well. He’d almost immediately marked it as spam and moved on.

Except.

Peter had always been complimented on his looks. His ‘pretty face’ and the lithe way his body had developed, trim little waist and strong arms. His plush mouth and his wide eyes. At first it was as a young child, doe-eyed and chubby-cheeked. How cute other parents would coo, prodding at his long lashes and his tight little curls.

As a young teen, there had been some negatives thrown in. Sneers at his slightly feminine looks. Though it hadn’t stopped him from brawling about on the football field or going through that horrible phase where he didn’t give two genuine fucks about his clothing. Girls had asked if he wore mascara, if he curled his hair, had giggled over how pretty he was.

As a young adult, Peter’s looks were both a bane and a privilege. He had endless compliments, advances, all the sex he could want (and didn’t accept). People bought him drinks or let him buy the last of something at a bat of his lashes. And in turn, people sneered at him and called him gay. Told him he needed to ‘man up’ and that a face like that didn’t belong on a boy. He got carded for everything and the time the delivery guy for his dildo asked him for ID would forever be the single worst moment of his life.

And the sexual remarks…Well. Peter stared at his phone, at the site address typed into the search bar but unpressed, biting nervously at his lip. He’d been told before he’d be good at porn. That he was good looking enough to do things like sell nudes, or model. And it brought in a lot of money, even for basic stuff, right?

He hit send.

And that was how Tony found SpiderTwink2001. Not very creative on Peter’s part, but then again, the boy hadn’t actually expected his profile to go anywhere. At first it was filled with meh quality shots from his phone. Awkward playing the camera and fumbled editing as he learned.

But then he taught himself and used what spare money he could find doing odd-jobs and as thank yous from the people he saved as Spiderman and bought himself a pretty basic DSLR recording camera. Some mid-quality editing software and his videos became clearer. Smoother. He learned how to talk as though the camera was his partner and learned what angles worked.

By the end of the year, SpiderTwink2001 was the 55th most popular blog on the entire site, and Tony Stark was invested.

He hadn’t meant to find it. Not at first. Well. He’d been looking for porn, obviously, but he’d stumbled across Peter’s blog after searching for close up videos, full on scotch and overcome with the sudden desire to watch a cute little ass stretch open around a cock.

He was barely on page three by the time he found the video, apparently one of the guy’s most popular shoots. It begun with a shot of his lower back and the fat, round swell of his ass, sitting above one of the largest dildos Tony had seen in a while. A little bubble in the lower hand corner of the video informed him the toy was almost four inches in circumference, and almost eight inches in length. His own cock, of similar measurement, immediately made its presence known.

The boy begun to sink down in a controlled, slow movement, the camera at just the perfect angle to catch the toy’s shimmery blue body disappearing slowly, so slowly into the welcome embrace. The softest, sweetest moan Tony had ever heard drifted from the holo-screen, high and keening as the boy just kept sinking down, swallowing the toy inch by inch. The camera zoomed in as the boy then begun to lean forwards, bending the dildo and giving the camera a HD view of where it was hidden in the plush depths of his ass.

“Kid’s good” Tony grunted, digging a heel into the bulge of his cock. Knew how to perform. The kid was breathy but not the overly fake every-second-of-the-video moan/scream sounds that most porn contained. Just the odd sound at suitable intervals that had Tony sinking lower in his bed, thighs parting as he kneaded lazily at his arousal.

The boy rode the toy at a torturous pace, so much so that even Tony was impatient in his pleasure, intent on watching the video until it ended, but not wanting to cum too quickly into it. The boy’s raw little rim stretched around the toy, rosy and tight as he bounced and ground in turn. Greedily clinging to the toy on each upwards motion, swallowing it down with ease on each downward. He was a pretty thing, shaved and clean with tight, round little balls. Strong thighs when the video panned out a little.

About mid-way through Tony let his head fall back, lifted his hips to let his cock flop free of his boxers and against his hip, his own pre-cum hot on his skin as he reached down, wrapped long fingers around a longer length and squeezed just enough to stave the ache. On the screen the face-less boy had sunk deep onto the dildo and was rocking on it, no doubt grinding his prostate as just visible between his legs, he pumped his cock in time to his movements.

The boy was letting out desperate little unfs with each motion, quiet, almost like he was not home alone. Tony stroked himself firm and slow, more feeling the length than doing anything about the way it drooled over his stomach. The video still had a way to go, and he wanted to be there for the end of it.

Tony breathed out as he watched the boy, who was riding his sweet spot like he’d die if he didn’t. Tony found himself responding each time a sweet, high little moan or whimper came from his speakers, stripping his cock in time to the way the boy’s hips began to twist and grind faster.

And then the boy was slowing, staving off his pleasure, and rising to his knees. Tony was about to spit a curse - because how cruel was this? - When the camera cut, and the scene stole his breath away, fingers locking around the base of his cock.

Now, the boy’s front was to the camera, hips pushed forwards, low on his haunches so the dildo was bent backwards into his pert little body, the boy’s round, small balls resting on its base. His cock was a true thing of beauty, petite and slender, cut neatly. The tip was dusky pink and sheened with slick.

His hips rolled sensually five more times, and that pretty, pink dick jerked against a taut stomach and prominent hips, a cracked cry filling Tony’s ears and pearly globs of cum splattered against that slender stomach and began to dribble down the muscles slowly. Tony spat a curse and his hips hips lifted in response, barely managing to lift his shirt out of the way of his own cum.

It got worse from there. He followed SpiderTwink2001, and found it was his go-to blog. When he was tense and full of adrenaline after missions. When he came home from Galas in need of stress relief. When some little shit riled him up with no intentions of following through.

That pert little ass and pretty little cock almost became akin to an addiction. Tony set up a software that would send him an alert on any new videos, found that he’d more or less abandoned any and all other porn in favour of watching the boy, who never showed his face but was still the body behind all of Tony’s wet dreams.

He was in a meeting when his phone vibrated softly, just enough to draw his attention, in the specific three-beat pattern that he’d designated to SpiderTwink2001′s alerts. He sucked in a sharp breath and risked a glance across the room, making sure that Pepper was watching the slides and not him before he risked sneaking his phone from his pocket, just enough to see the top portion of the screen.

SpiderTwink2001: Face Reveal.

Tony nearly dropped his phone, leg jerking up and knee banging into the underside of the table. He spat a curse, cringing as he looked up to find the rest of the room eyeing him warily.

Except for Pepper. She eyed him like she was mentally throttling him with great sincerity.

“Lab stuff. Continue” he dismissed, waving a hand. The poor marketing employee was only three words into her sentence when he abruptly stood. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Continue, I just won’t be here”.

“Tony fucking Stark, sit down or I-”

“Will be receiving a very big gift basket very soon. Do enjoy the lunch!” Tony hastened to cut her off, darting passed before Pepper’s manicured nails could snag his arm. He could feel the irritation radiating off her, and vowed to upgrade her gift basket from ‘very big’ to ‘the biggest’.

He was barely in the safety of his own penthouse when he was waving up the holo screen, hands already unbuckling his suit pants as he moved towards the expensive couch. As an afterthought he asked JARVIS to lock down his floor, sinking onto the plush seat with a groan as he set SpiderTwink’s video to the screen.

It began with just a body shot, the boy naked save for a pair of sleek black shorts, like he’d been at the gym or in bed before deciding to make this. And then he began to talk. SpiderTwink’s voice was soft and lilted, a little higher than most men’s, but delicious to Tony’s ears. He’d heard that voice mewling out ‘Daddy, please!’ More times than he could count.

“Okay. Uh. So I mean this is kinda two things? At once. Two reveals, I guess. Firstly, I’ve decided to branch out into camming, and doing live shows. Which is kinda why I’m doing this video”.

Tony’s fingers stilled over his buckle, both invested and mildly disappointed. Clearly this wasn’t going to be a porny kind of face reveal, but it still meant getting to see the visage that belonged to every wet fantasy from the past four months. He let his hands fall away and shifted to get comfortable instead, listening intently.

“And, uh. I mean, I can’t really stop any of you trying to like, stalk me on Facebook and stuff, really. But…Please don’t? Its kinda weird, and-”

The talking continued for a little while, endless, cute rambling that bounced from topic to topic. Tony increased the volume and went to get himself a scotch, buckling his belt again as he went. He was back on the couch when the boy sucked in a sharp breath, stomach muscles flexing, and reached for the camera.

Tony brought the scotch to his lips for a slow pull, and inhaled the burning amber liquid when the single prettiest boy he’d ever seen blinked owlishly at the camera, nervous and shy.

He had a slender face, with a strong jaw and prominent cheeks. That was about as much as Tony could notice behind the blurring of his eyes, waving for the video to pause as he hacked a series of coughs, thumping at his chest.

“Sir, do you need-”

“No! No” Tony wheezed, shaking his head. Several more moments of feeling like someone had dropped a petrol bomb into his lungs, and he sank back against the couch, wiping his eyes and motioning for the video to continue. SpiderTwink gave him a sheepish, meek smile, like apologising for the incident.

“So. Uh. Hi”.

Hi indeed.

The boy had slightly mismatched eyebrows, one ticking upwards midway through, but it gave him a sweet, inquisitive look. He had a wide mouth and even wider eyes, dark brown and framed by thick lashes. He screamed pretty as much as strong, as Tony knew from his lithe, toned figure. Tony paused the video just to stare at him a little longer, transfixed.

Somehow, knowing he was so invested in someone so attractive only served to make it even better. The kid almost seemed too good to be true, such a perfect little body and a pretty face to boot. His fingers itched to type the command, to find out everything he could on the boy, but whilst he was somewhat of a pervert, he wasn’t a creep. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his whiskey tumbler.

“JARVIS. I want to be notified the instant this kid goes live. Every single time. I don’t care if I’m mid-battle or mid-meeting” Tony instructed, then he paused, and raised his free hand to rub at his jaw. “And hide any financial connections to this from Pep. And Rhodey. In fact…Make another ghost account. I don’t want another lecture”.

“Of course, Sir” JARVIS responded diplomatically, and Tony shifted, clicking off the video and onto one of his personal favourites. His cock had immediately perked up at the kid’s face, and wasn’t going anywhere soon. Besides, now that he could imagine that pretty little mouth and those gorgeous eyes while watching the kid fuck himself stupid, the videos were just so much better.

“Lock down all communications. I don’t want any interruptions for the next 60 minutes” Tony commanded as he began to open his belt buckle, tongue sliding across his lower lip in anticipation.

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

I'm sorry you've had a rotten day D:! If it's not too much to ask could you do Fireman Tony losing a bet and having to pose for a calendar set to raise money for a charity (perhaps Peter is the photographer and in charge of said charity)???

do the thing - send in all the prompts.

That’s very sweet of you, nonnie! This was the perfect way to cheer me up, so thank you for that, too! It got a little porny - I hope you don’t mind :P

warnings: NSFW blowies and firefighter Tony goodness

Around the firehouse, frat rules applied. Which meant that toilet seats were never safe and bets were ongoing and made frequently. As the Chief of the station, Tony got to be the facilitator of many of the things that went on around the firehouse. When he set up the calendar photo shoot to benefit the local children’s home, he never figured he’d be actively participating – but that’s what he got for being a hot head and betting on something he never should have.

It all started when Bucky brought UNO in during one of their lull shifts. It took a lot of convincing, because most guys hadn’t played the game in years – but once it got started, things got nasty very quickly. Give men the ability to get competitive and it’s fucking on. They were playing last man standing rules – so everyone with cards in their hands kept playing until there was an ultimate loser.

The round that Tony decided to sit in on was one of the biggest yet. They jammed together six decks of cards and let the game goes at it might. Steve had already bet Bucky that he wouldn’t give the crew a show on the pole, and Clint stood in his boxers for the rest of the night. Aside from all the laughs and the sore stomach muscles, Tony was starting to get a little worried. He’d been hit with three ‘draw four’ cards in a row, and the lack of organization of the cards in his hand made it hard to play quickly – or intelligently for that matter. He held so many cards, it was a wonder that most of them were total shit.

One by one, the guys checked out until it was Rhodey and Tony left – the two leaders of the station going head to head. There were shouts and cheers all over the place, both men starting to lose their cards quickly now that there were only two people and the deck was pretty small. “What’s the bet?” Tony heard when there were only four cards left between them. Looking up, Tony blushed when he saw the look in Rhodey’s eyes – the four years of college they spent together reminding him that his best friend could be ruthless when he wanted to.

Finally, Rhodey filled in the rest of the class – the room going quite when he lowered the deck and looked straight at Tony. “Loser poses for all twelve months of the charity calendar,” Rhodey said, a smirk on his lips. The two of them spent a couple hours planning out the poses just days ago – there were some a couple of very questionable ones that he all of the sudden regretted choosing. Sucking in a breath, Tony did the only thing he could and accepted, his head already hanging in defeat – he was sitting on two yellow 7’s.

It didn’t matter that Bucky slipped Rhodey a ‘draw four’ card in the end, Tony already figured he was doomed to his fate. The men broke into applause when Rhodey slammed down his last card – a triumphant look on his face. “I can’t wait to see this,” he exclaimed, his smile reaching the shit eating territory pretty fast.

Which is why, a week later, Tony found himself being fitted into the outfit and put into a chair that would inevitably lead to him being made up into a shiner, more glistening version of himself. Though he felt resigned to his fate, it would have been nice to be on the other side of this situation, laughing at the fool getting his picture taken – instead of being the one getting laughed at. Either way, he spent a little extra time in the gym over the last week, so he and his body were more than ready.

Walking out into the mostly cleared out station in just his suit and nothing else on underneath, Tony felt himself flush – there were less people in the room than he figured and the whole thing seemed way more natural than some of the other shoots that went down in the firehouse over the years. There weren’t any fancy lights or loud assistants bullying him into this position or that – simply a man, a camera, and the computer the images would manifest on.

For the first time, Tony noticed the younger man – and he was obviously younger, the shine of youth still diligently clinging to molten brown eyes. He was a bit on the shorter side and very lean – though he could immediately recognize the bulge of a bicep when he raised his hand in greeting.

His hands were big – like they were made to be wrapped around the priceless piece of equipment he was holding (or other things – but now wasn’t the time for those sorts of thoughts.) The most important thing for Tony was his smile, though – when it broke, his lips spread until they were practically touching his ears – and his cheeks colored, that fire engine red so beautiful; a swift reminder of the thing he loved the most.

“Hey, Chief Stark,” the photographer started, long legs carrying him over until they were standing face to face. “I’m Peter Parker – I’ll be doing your photos today.” He stuck a hand out between them, that smile on his face spreading a little bit more when Tony finally caught his eye. He carried an air of confidence that not a lot of people his age could even think to achieve, let alone project.

Taking his hand, Tony felt himself smile, too – his customary resting bitch face slipping for just a second. “Nice to meet you, Pete – I hope you’re planning on making me look pretty,” Tony replied, his brow quirking, the smile on his face shifting from soft to playful. He even let himself chuckle when Peter’s blush deepened – the red taking on more of a maroon tint to it now.

“I don’t think you need any help from me,” Peter remarked without thought, his own eyebrows raising in challenge. And who was he to fight with such a thought like that? Especially when it was being delivered from that of an beautiful individual. Nodding in answer, Tony let his thumbs slip under the suspenders of the fire suit, his eyes wide.

“Good answer, Peter Parker – good answer.” He shook his head, turning it after a second to give himself a visual break. It was going to be hard to focus on looking at the camera with anything other than hunger, this kid was too gorgeous for his own good. “So, where do you want me?”

The next hour flew by without Tony noticing much of anything other than the softly spoken cues and explanations of the poses that Peter wanted him to go through. He wet himself with the hose and leaned against the 141 engine, he climbed the ladder with one of the suspenders slid off his shoulder and his suit dragging down until it was almost too obscene – he even let Rhodey throw a bucket of sudsy water on him. Despite some of the humiliating catcalls he got from some of the guys, Tony enjoyed every single second of it.

At the end of it all, Peter finally came up for air, his eyes no longer seemingly like a secondary attachment to the camera in his hand. The kid was talented – there was no doubt about that. Tony didn’t need to see the photos to know just how good they were going to turn out. The natural way he took in the light and allowed Tony to be himself spoke of experience and understanding.

He caught a smile from the young photographer and saw his hand beckoning him over – the kid’s eyes wide with what seemed liked excitement. “You’ve got to check a couple of these out,” Peter proclaimed, his fingers already clicking through the digital roll on the computer. Tony watched them all pass across the screen in hyper speed – the poses moving from one to the next like a flip book. He settled on one and turned the computer so Tony could see it more fully.

Tony immediately recognized the moment – the water was just splashed on his face and he raised a hand to get it out of his eyes – his fingers were tangled in his hair and the water was flinging back off the strands, his face completely lit up from the shock and excitement of the moment. His jaw dropped a little – in all of his time participating in something like this, he never encountered a picture of himself he liked so much. His instincts were absolutely correct – Peter Parker was immensely talented.

“Damn, I look amazing,” Tony couldn’t stop himself from mumbling. Peter’s answering giggle had him turning his head, his cheeks on fire. Peter was looking at him funnily, a hand over his mouth to stop the further chuckles from falling out, probably.

“You’re the hottest person I’ve ever taken photos of, Chief,” Peter whispered. His hand moved from his mouth into his hair, the strands standing on their end after fingers were dragged through them. His bright eyes were mostly pupil and if Tony were reading the room right – it appeared that Peter Parker did in fact like what he saw.

Looking around, Tony noticed that most of the guys were occupied – half of the crew out on a call and the other outside in the gym or playing pick up on the court. He wet his lips and went for it – what could it hurt? “You’re smooth, I’ll give you that, Parker. Want to see the rest of the station? I can show you where the five-time fire station chili cooking championship winning chili was cooked, if you’re interested.”

Peter took the offer for what it was and followed Tony further into the station – the older man pointing out the couple things of interest on his way through the bunks into his office. There was no time for Tony to formulate his next move because his back was hitting the door – the force of impact closing it the rest of the way. Tony smirked when fingers gripped the still wet suspenders, Peter’s eyes totally taken over by the blown pupil now – the invitingly warm brown completely gone. He managed to drag in a chocked off breath before lips were descending upon his own.

How Tony ended up pressed against his office door with the photographer on his knees in front of him, he never would have guessed. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he didn’t spend too much time worrying about it, either. His fingers were tangled in the thick curls of Peter’s hair, his hips doing their best not to give in and thrust into the delicious suction. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the moans from slipping from his lips – Peter’s attention on him too damn good.

The younger man’s hand was wrapped around the base of his cock, his fingers tight in their grip. His mouth slid down until his lips were bumping against the fingers there, his cheeks hollowing out to smoothly suck as Peter pulled his head back up and lavished the tip of his cock with his tongue. He would pull off every couple of passes and let the flat of his tongue run from root to tip, Peter careful to spend several agonizing seconds lapping at the ridge right at the head.

There was drool dripping from his chin onto the floor below them – the whole sight absolutely indecent. Tony let his head rest against the heavy oak of the door, his eyes squeezing shut tightly. “Pete – you have the dirtiest little mouth,” Tony babbled, his hips finally giving in to the temptation to press forward into the last couple inches of Peter’s throat. The slight gag had a bead of precum dripping from his length – the feeling a glorious prelude to the lewd pulse of orgasm. Peter moaned around him, the vibrations adding to the deliciousness.

“You were meant to choke on a cock, weren’t you? You look pretty doing it – your eyes a little watery, drool dribbling down your chin. It’s fucking filthy – wonderfully salacious. And you like that, don’t you? Dropping to your knees like this, letting me gag you with my cock.” Tony emphasized the words with a change in the grip of Peter’s hair and a sharp thrust of his hips.

At that point, Tony could do nothing other than hold on for the ride, his body moving on autopilot – mind so strung out from the suddenness of having his brain sucked out through his cock and the severely pornographic sight of Peter unzipping his pants and fisting his own raging erection. A part of him wanted to draw away and spend a little time watching the scene – but he was too far gone, his balls already drawing up with his impending orgasm.

“Fuck, Pete- I’m close. So close,” Tony panted out, his hips coming to a stuttering stop when Peter took him all the way down his throat and swallowed around him. Pulse after pulse of warm cum slide down the boy’s throat – the tension of Peter’s constricting throat muscles pulling even more from him.

Through the haze of his afterglow, Tony watched Peter pull back and gasp, his hand flying over his cock. Watching him cum all over himself and the floor had Tony’s belly clenching with renewed arousal – everything about what was in front of him absolute perfection. Leaning heavily against the door, Tony loosened the grip of his hand in Peter’s hair – his fingers moving until they were resting lightly against the back of his head, instead. “Fuck,” he muttered again, his entire body on the verge of falling over from too much stimulus and a whole lot of fatigue.

After a few minutes, Peter looked up at him, eyes shining – “Will you fuck me against the truck next?”

Suddenly, thoughts of sleep were the furthest from his mind.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Chapter One

Notes: Hey hey hey hey! For those who don’t know, this is a celebration of ya girl hitting 1.5k followers! You all spoke, and I listened, so buckle up, pals, and come get ya’ll’s juice. 

The air of the ship is remarkably sterile, every breath of it almost flushes your lungs free of living cells, and a bleach-like taste has long settled on the back of your tongue, one you haven’t been able to wash out. A water bottle sits on the polished table in front of you, one that boasts its source is an underground spring on a relatively untouched planet, definitely something far out of your price range and would never accept unless given for free. The ship rattles briefly as the inertial dampeners compensate for a sudden source of gravity, though so subtle that the water in the biodegradable plastic trembles only slightly.

“That means we’ve hit Lolth’s atmosphere.” A Starward Matchmakers™ representative smiles, her teeth too white and her mouth too wide. Her tone somehow converges on every single nerve you have in your body.

“Oh, of course, how could I forget.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But you should maybe put a damper on that attitude of yours, the royal family isn’t known for putting up with sass.”

Oh, you want to punch her in that perfectly crafted nose. Biting your lip down, you try to focus on the shift of gravity, the artificial pull slowly dying as a planet’s natural force takes hold. The slow descent feels like forever, the lack of windows in your cabin only torturing you further. You wish you could be up in the cockpit, strapped into the captain’s chair, completely in control, but no. It wouldn’t be proper. Finally, another attendant pokes their head through the open door, announcing the finished landing.

Before you stand, the representative grabs your hand in an ironlike grip. “Remember; grace, poise, elegance. Not someone of your reputation.” She is far stronger than someone of her skinny frame can manage without modifications. Even when you nod, she doesn’t immediately let go, most likely in the hopes that prolonging this threat might actually put some fear into your soul.

You pull away, eyeing her in a challenge, and after a moment too long, she relents. Calmly, you pick up the personal bag you were allowed to bring and leave the cabin, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative on your heels. The unmistakable scent of ‘natural’ air hits your nostrils, like a balming relief against a day-old burn, and you try to pick up your pace down the thin row of cabins and out into the open. It’s hot, far hotter than you are used to, a dry breeze doing nothing to relieve your already sweating skin. A dull hum permeates the cavernous space, the engines of your ship still in the process of a complete shut-down. At the very foot of the stairway is a tall humanoid, gray in complexion, silky white hair blowing out like thin spider webs.

“Mistress,” he says, bowing first to you, then to the representative. “Allow me to welcome you and your entourage to our lovely planet. The keias is beside himself with excitement to finally meet his soulmate.”

“Thank you!” Manners matter, you think, eyes flickering overhead to where two slabs of metal slowly shut a dangerous atmosphere away from the underground’s inhabitants. The Starward Matchmaker™ representative pinches your arm in a location no one beneath you would see in the way of a prompt. “And- it will be my honor to meet them, sir.”

“Of course, please, follow me. Your things will be taken to an apartment while a more, er, permanent solution will be found.”

“I understand, thank you.” You take one step down on the polished, faux marble steps of the ship, then take a pause. Perhaps it goes unnoticeable by others since it only lasts a fraction of a moment. Am I really doing this, you wonder in that second, looking at the hard stone floor of the hangar, is this who I am, really? It passes, and you continue downwards, the question left unanswered. You fold your hands, nails digging against knuckles, and follow the Drow escort through the unbearably warm cavern.

There’s a warbling pattern in the stone, one that holds your attention for a minute too long and has the Starward Matchmaker™ representative gently kick at your heel. Head up, you can almost hear her voice in your head, and so you do, obediently, and try focusing on some other things noticeable at this position. For example, while there are other ships in the hangar, not too many, but the quality of each is unquestionable. All of them are sleek, shining, and shaped in the typical ornamental fashion that Abraxas Corporations has long since patented, each number that you see painted on the sides showing that the oldest model is only a single year out of the factory. A fantastical waste of money, in your humble opinion, but you don’t dare verbalize it right now.

The drow attendant leads you to a tunnel, one dimly lit by hazy blue lights lining the floor, and the temperature becomes just slightly more bearable. While the stone you walk on is smoother than those fancy ships outside, the walls and ceiling are rawer, bumps and crevices creating a sort of texture that at least gives you something fascinating to look at until the drow attendant opens a metallic door embedded into the rock. It’s a station, you think, with a train or trolley of some kind waiting against the wall. The doors part the moment you are within range, and finally- finally, a blast of cooler air soothes your skin, your entire body relaxing under the blissful relief of air conditioning.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like, my lady.”

Oh! The attendant is talking to you. With a small mutter of thanks, you take one of the cushioned benches by the window, staring at the glass, trying to see past your reflection and back into the tunnel. The ride isn’t that long, at least, in comparison to the time it took to get from a deep-space station to planetside, but the nervous anticipation makes it seem like another eternity. You are already standing up to get out, though you step to the side for your guide to go first.

You wouldn’t call this place bustling, unlike some of the previous stops your ‘entourage’ has ended up at. The people who do occupy the area aren’t in any kind of hurry, either, but are merely wandering to their destination at a leisurely pace. And, unfortunately, the moment you are seen, all eyes seem to fall on you like a bug beneath a microscope. Which, you suppose, is a funny kind of metaphor to use given the species and circumstances, but even so, you walk through the hub with your head held high and your posture perfectly straight, just as practiced only a few days before. A far cry from the slinking and prowling that you are used to, that’s for sure.

The three of you walk all the way to the other side of this terminal, towards a gilded set of elevators, all of which are guarded by another drow. Your own drow attendant slips a key card from his pocket, sliding it through a reader, and the machine beeps in confirmation. The ground rises rapidly, as the tube you stand in lowers, going down, deep into the depths of the planet, rocks surrounding the glass until the tunnel empties into a cavern more massive than the city you hail from, buildings built into what is left of a long-extinct forest from the planet’s distant past. Flickering lights of homes and offices could almost fool you into thinking them to be stars, but you know better. Still, it might be nice to look at something and pretend you aren’t buried under a couple of kilometers of rock.

The elevator zooms past and beneath the central part of the city, moving further down into the natural lava tunnels of a long-inactive violent core. The royalty of the world lives deeper from the surface, probably for the better air conditioning, you’d gander, or some sort of reigning mythology about how they’re closer to their planet/god(s) this way. You hadn’t really had the time to pour over every little detail of this world’s history and lore, since literally four days ago, the royalty of Lolth was the last thing on your mind.

Eventually, the flawless glass doors open, and you are let out into a garden of sorts. There is grass, at least, you think it’s grass, lining either side of the stone pathway, flowers sprouting in areas that are easy to listlessly meander around. Bioluminescent mushrooms and moss grow along the cavern walls and pathway, though rustic-looking lampposts help to light your way every couple of meters. There, up ahead, you realize as you try to document just how far the lanterns go, someone is already walking towards you. Could it be him? Your body fills with anxiety, your fight instincts gearing up to, you don’t know, pretend to cower?

“Is this it?” A voice asks, and you are already confident that you hate this person. ‘Overbearing’Condescending would be a nice way to describe their tone, but you would take it a step further and maybe say it’s condescending and maybe even bastardly for good flavor.

“Yes, Vice Martial,” the drow attendant bows deeply. “As much as I am certain the two of you would appreciate introductions, I’m afraid the keias was very specific about the immediate transportation she would take to his presence. I’m afraid we are already running short on time.”

“Be silent, I gave you no permission to speak.” The Vice Martial’s eight legs click, click, click against the ground as he approaches, eyes narrowing. “I was against this ridiculous farse from the start, and to have something so small, so pitiful, dare enter our home and live off of our land like a parasite?” He leans in closer, so close you can smell alcohol on his breath. “Unacceptable.”

Show no fear, have no weakness.

“Of course, you have your apprehensions!” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative pulls a glossy brochure out of seemingly nowhere, her grin vast and terrifying, her voice the epitome of perfectly perky customer service. “Anyone daring to make such a big decision should be terrified! But at Starward Matchmakers™, our focus is to bring a harmonious connection between two destined souls is something we take so very seriously. If our experts have matched the two together, then our girl here is perfect for your prince, excuse me, keias, in every way!”

“I don’t care about what welp that little bastard sleeps with,” the vice marshal snaps, at least now directing his drunken anger to the Starward Matchmaker™ representative, “I care about whether it’s right for Lolth.”

“And those are some very valid fears!” She somehow smiles even wider. “But allow me to put everything to ease. Our satisfaction rate is one-hundred percent, which is nothing less of perfect. The people I represent have no intention of sullying our records now, with this. Do you understand? Of course, you do! Now if you would be so kind as to _excuse us,” _ she grips your arm and shoves her way forward, _ “we have some magic to make!™” _

The vice marshal doesn’t even have a chance to say anything else, because you are suddenly shoved into the entrance of an… apartment? House? The drow attendant and the Starward Matchmaker™ representative stand in front of the closed doors, either to block anyone’s entry or deter you from exiting, you don’t know. Probably both.

“Remember,” the Starward Matchmaker™ representative says, smoothing one of your sleeves of nonexistent wrinkles, “no attitude. No spunky quips. I don’t care how funny you think whatever joke you’re making is, you will be quiet as a dandelion. Show him not the respect you think he deserves, but the respect he thinks he deserves.”

This is all a reiteration of things you have been told over and over and over again, so you resist rolling your eyes. Though, whatever exasperation you feel is quickly gone the moment you see someone beginning to descend from the long, marble stairway. His appearance is the same as the photographs you were shown when they first sat you down, hangover pounding in your bloodstream. His hair is so dark it looks almost black, skin a deep gray with touches of blue. You immediately stand taller, mouth squeezed shut, eyes watching his every move as if he will burst forward and rip you to pieces.

He has a reputation for doing worse.

The clicking of his steps stop as he stands, full height, right in front of you, and you have to tilt your chin upwards just to meet his gaze head-on. Even with the Starward Matchmaker™ representative right in the room, she can’t see your face, so she can’t police your reaction. You don’t give him anything demure, nor submissive. There is no shyness in your eyes, you don’t allow yourself to feel small, and you most certainly refuse to show a smidgen of fear.

“Hello,” you say, and you can practically hear the Starward Matchmaker™ representative’s face hit her palm for speaking out of turn.

“Hello,” he responds, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, his pure black seeing-eyes blinking only once, his motion sensors staying blank and still as though dead. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

“I- it is an honor to finally meet you as well.” You wince at the formality of this meeting, wishing that the Starward Matchmaker™ representative and drow attendant would just leave the two of you alone, but you know that you will not receive that… how did the Starward Matchmaker™ representative put it… privilege, at least until she can see the relationship is blossoming the way it needs to.

The way they need it to.

“Your planet is beautiful,” compliments always work, and you genuinely mean this one, “I mean, well, I haven’t seen a whole lot of it, but just from the little that I’ve been through, it’s... “you shrug, “really nice.”

“Oh.” He cocks his head the other way, now, a lock of hair the color of the blue-gray stones falling into his face. “I remember, your profile says that you weren’t born on a planet.”

“No,” you shake your head, “but I’ve been planetside a- um, a few times. Humans need real gravity every now and then.”

“Real gravity is good for any ground-species.”

The conversation is going nowhere, clearly, so the Starward Matchmaker™ representative decides that this moment where she cuts in. “If I may, _keias?” _

His face looks over at her in an instant, the movement of his neck so quick it would have cracked if he was human. The prince’s gaze hardens, perhaps unnoticeable by someone of his own species, but easy to note by both you and the Starward Matchmaker™ representative. After a lone, nerve-wracking moment where he observes her like a bug beneath his feet, he offers single, clipped, nod.

“It’s been a very long journey, very much worth it, I am sure, but,” she lays a hand on your arm, and you immediately tense up, “she’s quite tired, and I’m afraid I have to get her squared away for the night. I hope you understand! I’m just here for her wellbeing in such a foreign situation.”

The prince looks at you.

You don’t say anything.

“Of course,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “Elias will bring you to your suite. May I expect you over for an evening meal?”

“We’ll see how she feels.” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative pets your arm. “This is all so overwhelming for her, I’m sure you understand.”

The prince places both hands behind his back and looks over you, not with the same chilling observation he gave the Starward Matchmaker™, but something... else. Something softer. “I’m sure I will.”

“What in god’s name was _that?” _

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative folds her hands together, looking at you over them with narrowed eyes. “You went off script.”

You offer a listless shrug, looking her in the eye. The lights here, at least, are bright enough for you to see comfortably without needing to strain your eyes. “I just don’t think you can make a decent connection with someone when every permutation has been desperately thought out.”

The Starward Matchmaker™ representative huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “You aren’t here to be yourself, you’re here to do a gosh-darn job. This isn’t all rainbows and puppies, I thought you understood how serious this business is.”

“I do.”

“It doesn’t look like it, honey! What made you think that acting like some bland little twat was a good idea?”

You sit down on one of the plush, oddly misshapen chair, glaring at the wall while the Starward Matchmaker™ representative goes on a tirade. The room is large, the ceiling far higher than most places you’ve ended up in, and this isn’t even the full extent of your suite. You get a room, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative gets a room, a personal servant the royal family is providing gets a room, and for whatever reason, a whole extra bedroom, wholly unused, just down the hall from yours. For any guests, the drow attendant had said, but there is no one you can think of hosting at the moment.

Oh, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative looks like she’s tiring herself out. Better start nodding in agreement to whatever else she says.

“Good,” she, at least, seems satisfied. “I’m glad we’ve had this little chat, then. Hurry and wash up, then, we want you to look presentable tonight.”

So you are going to dinner. You sit up a little straighter, then bounce off the chair and into your room. There’s an adjacent bathroom, with a dress already hanging up by the mirror, a gray, fluttery thing that will ripple easily with movement. Color doesn’t really matter down here, you remember, poking at all the dull jewelry and makeup, driders and drows can’t process the light spectrum as well as humans. What they can sense, though, is movement, so clothes that shift and float with the slightest gesture are the ones that are worn to show off. Still, putting something on that’s basically the equivalent of neon orange feels like putting a target on your back.

Shower first. Think later. It’s real water, too, and not those sonic frequencies that knock dirt from pores or those sanisaunas ™ that disinfect the day’s grit away with nothing more than hazy steam. Today, though, you can’t take your time, and you are too hyped up to stay under the water’s stream for too long, no matter how blissful it feels. The soap has some kind of deep earthy scent, not one that you might select for yourself, but one you aren’t abhorrent towards. It works a nice lather against your skin, though the bar slips from your clumsy fingers since you aren’t exactly used to scrubbing the good old fashioned way.

There’s a towel waiting for you, hanging up against the rack. It’s the first thing in this place you’ve seen that’s white, even the glossy marble and metalwork of the whole suite, including the bathroom, are various shades of gray and black. Which isn’t to say that it looks terrible, because this is sincerely the most beautiful place you’ve ever managed to score, it’s just… odd, you think, that the towels are white, as though they were purchased and placed here with you in mind. You wrap it around your body, stepping out, and taking a moment to stand in front of a mirror. There are dark circles beneath your eyes, crescents of exhaustion that beg you to take a moment or two just to sleep.

You get dressed, instead. The gown is at least designed to look more complicated than it really is, and you manage to get it on by yourself. The zipper slides up your back with a bit of ease, then you smooth down the tight bodice, noticing only now how badly your hands are shaking. Your mouth tastes dry, and perhaps the unnatural ashy paleness of your skin truly brings out the grayness around your eyes. The wall is cool against your back as you lean back, sliding down to sit on the hard floor, placing your forehead against your knees.

Breathe.

It’s hard, thinking about having to eat dinner with him later. It’s hard to think about him in general, and to have him matched as your soulmate? You’ve always known these things are farces, of political or corporate gain, and now you dig your heels into the ground of that belief and hold it closer.

The door knocks with a volume and efficiency only the last person you wish to see at the moment possesses. “Time to go, sugar! We can’t have the prince waiting, can we?”

It takes a wobbling moment for you to stand, hand braced up against the wall, but you somehow manage it. Throwing up a facade of calmness that you haven’t felt since you were hauled into that interrogation room five days ago, you open the door. The Starward Matchmaker™ representative holds out a box, the lid already off to reveal a glittering pair of shoes. Not high heels, thank the gods, you don’t know how you would pull together the energy to fight her on that. It’s pair of flats, a pattern of shattered glass decorating the outside, the inside surprisingly comfortable to what anyone would assume by looking them over.

You put them on, holding on one of the chairs for balance, and take a few experimental steps. It’s decent enough, but even with thousands of years to perfect the art of shoes, it still takes a couple of good hours to break even the best of pairs in. With a small sigh, you shift the weight between your toes and heels, already feeling where those blisters are going to end up forming, but there isn’t really anything you can do about it. The Starward Matchmaker™ representative isn’t going to let you wear your old but comfy combat boots if she can help it, you’ve had to smuggle them in the very bottom of your luggage and bribe an inspector to keep quiet about it.

After a moment of watching your movements with a fixated grace that you’ve long since gotten used to, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative sighs, tucking a piece of perfectly blond hair behind her hair. “Not what we all wanted, I’m sure, but it will do.”

Pressing your lips together, you don’t risk rolling your eyes lest she suddenly decides that you are far too tired to dine with the prince tonight. You don’t wish to be stuck in the suite with her for another night, you’ll go crazy, and you can’t have the prince catching wind of any violence on your part.

“Now, remember; healthy appetite.” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative comes up behind you, playing with your still-damp hair, twisting it into something you’re sure is attractive to the driders. “There is no such thing as ‘ladylike’ here, but you must prove that you’ll be able to produce good and healthy heirs.”

You wrinkle your nose, but don’t respond.

The Starward Matchmaker™ representative tugs at your roots, causing your eyes to tear up. “And whatever you do,” her voice is low, threatening, “I will be watching. Every movement, every breath, every bite of food you dare to take. If you so much as twitch in a way I don’t like,” she pushes a pin through whatever she sculpted, taking no care to be wary of your scalp, “you will be terminated. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Her voice turns back to that sickening cheerfulness that makes you want to wring her neck. “Turn around.”

You obey, hands flat at your sides.

“Oh,” Starward Matchmaker™ representative holds a hand over her mouth, “you look beautiful, honey! Just so,” she fans herself with her fingers, “marvelous. You’ve come such a long way in such a short time!”

You say nothing.

Read Chapter Two Here

[starkerdayss]

Gang AU where Peter is part of Tony's rival gang and Pete is kind of like their prize twink if u know what I mean, so Tony just takes him into an alley and fucks the actual b r a i ns out of him as a symbol of his dominance over the other gang?? U can change the prompt to make it better too bc. I'm not the best at this sjdhsksjud

(Peter is exactly 19 in this, warning for slight gun play and well, exhibitionism. My work is meant for adults and its written by an adult)

Peter knew that being the youngest in the gang wasn’t good. Was he proud of himself for getting his own little ass into that situation? No. But there was nothing he could do now. 

The small, brown leather jacket adorned his back with a phrase and a symbol of a cut off head that was hard to forget. ‘Shadows’

Peter barely knew how to ride a bike, like a regular bike, and now he was riding a motorcycle, hanging onto the handles for dear life, his too-strong-for-a-teenager cologne abusing his nostrils to the point he felt sick. Sick and late. Every single gang member was ahead of him, and Peter was just trying not to break any more laws than necessary, stopping at the stop signs and trying not to look around at the people he knew were staring. 

When he finally got there, the other gang members were visibly annoyed, waiting for him with their arms crossed. Peter only walked fast, thanking whatever was in the sky not to have gotten there after the other gang. 

Before one of his camrades could say anything, the all too familiar roar of a motocycle filled the air. They were here. The Phalanx. 

When the oppostie gang got out of their bikes and walked towards them, Peter gulped. He knew what was happening, but not everything that awaited for him.

Tony, the gang leader, walked like he owned the place, a cigarette hanging loosely on his mouth, his entire figure looking like he just fell from heaven. He was glorious and Peter was in awe. The only reason he allowed himself to be this awestruck by that man’s power, was that nobody was paying attention to him. Steve, the leader of the Shadows was standing in front of them, smug look on his face that nobody could see but everyone knew it was there. 

“So we meet again, Tony” exclaimed Steve, something bording a laugh coming out of his mouth. Peter gulped again when Tony took one last pull from the cigarette and threw it on the floor, stepping over it and then exhaling. 

The two gangs had been fighting since Tony’s dad and Steve’s dad created them. Both too powerful to coexist in the same city. Peter knew this because it was public knowledge, because everyone was scared of them. 

“So we do” replied Tony, sending shivers down Peter’s spine. His voice was buff and exhausted, like he had been screaming for the past forty years. Peter had to physically restrain himself from walking towards the man. 

“I hear that you want peace” muttered Steve, looking back at his fellow gang members and smiling. “We’re willing to arrange something if you’re willing”. Peter’s camrades laughed, Peter knew he was suppossed to laugh as well. He didn’t. 

Tony nodded and turned around, flashing the black leather jacket with an axe and the name of the gang displayed on it. He looked at his camrades and smirked, every single one of them giving the smile back. “It’s time we collide and rule this city”. He turned around again, taking a look at Peter, who lowered his head, feeling so overpowered.

“What makes you think I didn’t already rule this town?” 

Tony laughed and looked down. His pants were black and dirty, making him look really buff and sexy. “Let’s not fight, Stevie” and then he ran his tongue over his lower lip just as Peter had the brilliant idea to lift his head. He had to lower it again, blushing. “Let’s make peace and we can each stay at their side of town and rule. Any problems and we meet”

Steve nodded, smirking, gloating in glory. “Pick your prize” he mumbled and moved aside when Tony stepped further. “I’ll pick mine” and then he disappeared between the lines of Tony’s men, looking for god knows what. 

Tony wandered around Steve’s men, all of them giving him a nasty look, the women willing to move forward if they had to. That’s what gang life was all about. But Tony never even looked at them, he just slowly directed himself towards Peter, the only one that wasn’t giving him a nasty look. 

“What’s your name, sweetie?” asked Tony, getting dangerously close to him. 

Peter swallowed thickly and looked up at Tony. “P-Peter, sir” he answered, his camrades laughing at him for calling the enemy ‘sir’. 

“Are you new?” 

Peter nodded, images flashing through his mind, all of Steve’s man and women passing him around, doing whatever they pleased with the boy, but not enough to wreck him, just enough to rough him up a little bit. 

Tony nodded and then whispered, making sure nobody heard him: “Did they hurt you?” 

Peter shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have said anything. He knew he was hanging by a thread. He was new, he didn’t have Steve’s trust just yet and he whined so much at the ‘rough up’ that everyone considered him a weak ass bitch. Peter didn’t have any other way to mantain his sick aunt. He needed the money. 

“No” he said, this time no ‘sir’. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. Tony nodded and pulled a box of cigarettesm, offering one to Peter, which he rejected. His aunt was dying of cancer, he wasn’t smoking. Ever. 

Steve re-emerged from Tony’s lines with a girl following him, she didn’t look scared, she didn’t care, really. Tony saw him and smirked. “I see you’ve chosen Peggy. Be careful” he said. 

Steve scoffed. “I’m always careful with the ladies” and everyone on his lines laughed. Tony laughed as well and looked at Peggy. 

“I wasn’t talking to you. Don’t rough him up too much, Peggy. He has a pack of stray dogs ro run”. She laughed and grabbed Steve by the arm, yanking him closer and walking towards his lines. Steve looked upset. 

“Did you chose your lady yet?” he asked. 

“I chose, yes, but not a lady. I want the boy” 

Peter ears perked up like a little dog, his head yanking up at the name. He wanted what? Who? What for? Where they switching sides?

Steve frowned, then looked at Peter, who looked awfully worried. This was going to be the final test before fully accepting Peter into the gang. Steve nodded. “Take him, then. She’ll be back by midnight. I expect him back at midnight as well” 

Tony didn’t even answer, just took Peter by the arm and got him on top of the motorcycle as all of his men got on theirs too, then turned to Peter as the shadows left. “Hold tight, baby boy, it’s gonna be a long ride” 

When they got to their destination, it was almost eight pm, and he was shaking so much he was more trembles than person. Tony got off the motorcycle and waited for his men (and three women without Peggy) to go inside before turning to Peter. 

“Did they hurt you?” he asked again, taking Peter by the waist. Peter knew what was happening already and he didn’t know what to do. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “I already said no” 

Tony apparently didn’t consider that an answer, so he backed Peter up until he hit the wall of the building, putting a leg between his thighs, pressing at his crotch as the denim light of the street light made them both glow with a pink shine. 

Peter moaned slightly at the sensation. It didn’t really matter how much he wanted to appear strong, Tony was every single one of his dirty dreams personified. 

“Don’t sass me, boy, I’m the leader of this thing. You’re barely even nothing” he hissed, licking a stripe up the boy’s cheek, licking his prize, licking every part of sensitive skin he could find, wanting to mark him like a dog. 

Peter didn’t mean to give in so easily, but he loved it. He nodded, spreading his legs further, wanting to get more friction from him. Tony undid Peter’s pants so fast the boy had barely any time to register it, before his pants were on the floor alongside his boxers. 

Tony looked down and smirked, a small laugh leaving his throat. “You’re rock hard, you fucking slut. I haven’t even touched you” whispered Tony right into Peter’s ears. Peter let one tear fall from his eyes. He couldn’t believe how humilliated he felt, specially being almost complitely naked in the middle of an alley. 

The man unzipped his pants, revealing himself to Peter, who swallowed again, the mere sight exciting him more than he thought was possible. 

“I’m not gonna be gentle” he warned, his eyes turning a very dark shade of black. 

“Then don’t” whispered Peter, his voice cracking slowly as he felt the thick fabric of Tony’s pants rouch his bare skin. Tony just smiled. 

It was almost midnight when Tony was going back to Steve’s side of town, Peter was in his back, drooling all over his jacket while Tony made his motorcycle roar. 

“You okay there, darling?” 

Peter only produced a sound, his body giving up, hugging Tony from behind, his limbs numb, and images of Tony fucking into him until Peter’s eyes rolled back and not only tears but drool were all over him crossing his mind. 

He didn’t even realize when they got back of the house Steve and all of them shared. Tony got off the bike and helped Peter back up on his feet, holding him by the arms. The boy was practically falling asleep on him, not being able to feel his own legs. 

Tony let him in the door and before knocking, he looked at Peter, putting his face close and kissing him slow and sensually. Peter only could kiss back. 

“Call me if you wanna switch sides” and after winking and slapping his ass, Tony disappeared on his motorcycle. 

Peter only stood there. 

Holy fuck. 

[snowbellewells]

Fanfic Meme

I was tagged by @spartanguard @let-it-raines @hollyethecurious @thisonesatellite   (Let me just say I’m flattered that all four of them included me in their list of writers to tag! :)

Username: @snowbellewells (It’s my handle on both Tumblr and AO3; I have been on ff.net a lot longer and so it’s a holdover from a previous fandom: TutorGirlml)  Anyway, I love Belle. She’s my favorite princess, and there’s also those flowers snowbells used on ouat in a couple different episodes, and it had a nice rhyming sound with my last name, so I went with that.

Fandoms you write for: Pretty much just OuaT at present. If you were to scroll all the way through the 98 stories I have on ff.net, you would find many others I no longer write much for: Moonlight, Castle, Criminal Minds... But currently it’s just OuaT and largely Captain Swan.

Where you post: Usually all three, since Krystal and the CSSNS finally got me to start an AO3 account as well.

Most popular one-shot:  The response I had for my CSSNS 18 one shot “Tasting Forever” blew anything else I had ever written right out of the water! I couldn’t believe the feedback on it - maybe it’s because it tied in other people that missed the show Moonlight as well.

Most popular multi-chapter story: That is absolutely my Witness Protection/FBI modern AU “I’d Know You Anywhere”.  I still get really excited when new people find it and start reading, even though it is over three years old now!

Favorite story you’ve written: That might well be the little holiday one shot I wrote way back when I was first getting obsessed with OuaT called “Ghost of Christmases Past”.  I love Christmas fics, I loved being able to tie Graham into it as well, and I’m always partial to a sappily happy ending (and in this case, I gave myself one! ;p )  The other one I’m really fond of is short MC spec for 3b fic I wrote called “Villain’s Happy Ending”.

Story you were nervous to post: I’m pretty much always nervous to post anything, but especially when I am trying something new. I always struggle if I try to skirt the line close to smut, because I really don’t know what I’m doing and feel like it might be silly instead of sexy. I also was really nervous when I posted a fic for OuaT Winter Whump last year. I was afraid it might seem like I was being too violent to Killian for those who had read other things I had written, but that it might not be “whump-y” enough for those who knew what they were doing in that genre.

How do you choose titles: Oh man! I don’t know really - title choosing is a struggle EVERY SINGLE TIME! Occasionally it’s a bit of a song lyric or something from within the story, other times I just agonize and mash words around in my head until brain spits something out and I just take it and move on. If I could pay someone to title my fics for me, I probably would!

Do you outline: Not for one or two shots; I might jot down the story idea itself so I don’t lose it and remember to actually write it, but I don’t really outline those. On multi-chaps I have more of a plot flowchart than a traditional outline, but I do have some sort of plan, at least for the scenes I know I want and the order they’ll happen in.

How many of your stories are complete: Right now, all but two of my posted stories are complete. I hope to post the second - and concluding - part of my @csseptembersunshine fic in the next day or so. And I hope to get back to finishing up my @cssns sequel in much more regular installments.  (I have several other stories started but not complete in various notebooks, but they haven’t been posted at all.)

How many of your stories are in progress: Without digging through numerous bags and notebooks to double check, I can think of at least seven!

Coming soon: Hopefully before Heartstrings appears on Netflix so it doesn’t seem like I just stole the cowboy Colin idea from that, a Western AU (somewhat based on the classic Western Rio Bravo);  a musician! Killian and EMT Emma MC; a fic (or two) for @cspupstravaganza, someday finishing up the CS as dancers au long ago promised to @revanmeetra87, and there are a couple different Enchanted Forest set AUs floating around in my head that have two or three pages jotted down for them...

Do you accept prompts: I absolutely accept prompts - I don’t know that I have gotten that many, but I have tried to fulfill those I have been given if I can gather the inspiration to fill them. I don’t promise to be swift, or that I can find a way to do every one I would ever get, but I also don’t mind giving it a whirl.

Upcoming story you’re most excited to write: Probably the previously mentioned Western, or one of the two Enchanted Forest AUs I have in mind

(Sheesh! I apologize for getting so wordy...)  If there’s anyone left who hasn’t done this, consider yourself tagged and join the fun; I”m going to try @blowmiakisscolin @thislassishooked @drowned-dreamer  @whimsicallyenchantedrose  (but please ignore this if you have already done it or would rather not!)

[vedantaboston]

Thoughts on Service

"From highest Brahman to the yonder worm, And to the very minutest atom, Everywhere is the same God, the All-Love, Friend, offer mind, soul, body, at their feet. These are His manifold forms before thee, Rejecting them, where seekest thou for God ? Who loves all beings without distinction, He indeed is worshiping best his God."  -- Swami Vivekananda

There were two brothers, one was married and other was a bachelor. They owned a farm and shared its produce fifty-fifty. The soil was fertile and they reaped a rich harvest every year. All went well for a few years. Then something extraordinary happened.

The married brother began to wake up with a start from his sleep at night and think, “It is not fair. My brother isn’t married. He needs to save more for the future than me. I am a married man with a wife and five kids. I have all the security in the world. But what security has my poor brother? Who will look after him in his old age? My kids will care for me when I am old. My brother’s need is greater than mine.” With that the married man would leave his bed, steal over to his brother’s granary and pour there a sackful of his own share of grain.

Now the other brother too began to get these nightly attacks. He would wake up from his sleep and think, “It’s too bad that I should accept an equal share of the farm’s produce as my brother who has a family to maintain. I am single and my needs are minimal. He has got to support his wife and children. He deserves a larger share.” So this brother would get up, take a sackful of grain from his stock and empty it stealthily into his married brother’s granary.

Once it so happened that they got out of the bed at the same time and ran into each other, each carrying a grain-filled sack on his back! Years later, when the town wanted to build a temple (the story of the two brothers, who had passed away, had leaked out by then), the people there chose the spot where the two brothers had met that night. “This is the holiest of all places in this town,” the elders said, and a temple was constructed there.

Service (sevā) is indeed a sacred activity and the place where service is done is a holy place. Above all, only a holy person can give true service. Why true service? Is there such a thing as false service? There is, but of course it is not called by that name. That complicates matters. So we must begin by identifying the distinction between the two kinds of service.

One kind of service we are all familiar with. It is something good done for others prompted by the feelings of duty, pity or guilt, or with the desire for name and fame, or for happiness here and hereafter, or just as a part of social ritual. Service is a misnomer really for such an act. It is probably right to call it “good work,” because it does help the person served to some extent and may bring a feeling of satisfaction to the one who offers the service. 

But that’s about all it does and nothing more. It brings lasting fulfillment neither to the one who is served nor to the one who serves. Nor does it bring the joy of freedom. It is possible to do such good work and yet remain selfish, arrogant, frustrated, even immoral. Spiritually speaking, this variety of so-called service perpetuates ignorance and, in the long run, helps neither the person nor society. It is clear that there is nothing particularly sacred about this work. If we must call it “service,” then we had better qualify the term with the adjective “false.”

But there is the other variety of service which elevates the person and benefits society. This service is not the result of pity, duty or guilt. It is the result of the perception of solidarity, of oneness, of identity, with the person served. There is no hesitation or calculation before doing this kind of service. It is a spontaneous act which comes to a person as naturally as breathing. It is free even from the idea “I am doing this service.” It is a free offering with no strings attached. Both the giver and the receiver feel blessed and uplifted. 

This is service, and to distinguish it from the much-too-common variety described earlier, let us call this “true” service. This is the kind of service saints and genuinely holy men and women offer. What this means really is that if you and I are able to extend this kind of service to everyone and everything around us, we too shall become genuinely holy.

Perception of Oneness

Perception of oneness is the mother of true service. But how many of us actually perceive oneness? We only see diversity everywhere. No two things are exactly identical. Even twins are not identical in every respect. The basic distinction we experience in life is between this person who is me and everything else that is not me—the distinction between the “I” and the “not-I.” I am different from the rest and the rest differ among themselves. If there is some being called God, God too is different from me, just as God is different from everyone and everything else. Differences galore everywhere. 

I can perceive oneness only if there is oneness. If it is true that oneness exists, the question is, why do I not perceive it? Vedanta teachers tend to answer it in this way: “We don’t perceive oneness because we don’t want to perceive it. If we close our eyes and deny the sun because we don’t perceive it, does that mean the sun doesn’t exist?”

This can be countered, of course, by saying that everyone sees the sun and the denial by any person would be clearly invalid and unacceptable. But such is not the case with oneness. The fact is, no one sees oneness, though quite a number of people talk or write about it. The perception of the many is a universal experience and cannot be wished away by simply saying that it is the result of ignorance.

This may not be true, however. It is quite all right to say, “I do not perceive oneness,” but what right have I to claim that no one perceives oneness? If something is true in my case, must it be true for others also? I am not the standard by which the world ought to be judged. The claim “no one perceives oneness” is an overreach. We can concede, however, that the number of people who perceive oneness is in all likelihood extremely small, almost microscopic, as compared to the billions who perceive the many.

It is natural to wonder why these handful of people who see oneness could be right and the legions who see the many could be wrong. Apart from the fact that the truth of oneness is validated by the scriptures (see, for instance, Chāndogya Upaniṣad, 3.14.1 and Kaṭhopaniṣad, 2.1.10-11) and is also being admitted by scientists and scholars (read, for instance, writings of Ken Wilber, Abraham Maslow, David Bohm, and Fritzof Capra), the experience of oneness is known to have brought total, irrevocable fulfillment, joy and freedom to those who perceived oneness. How can this be the result of a false experience?

Experiencing the many, on the other hand, is not known to have brought total fulfillment, bliss and freedom to anyone. On the contrary, as we know from our own life, it perpetuates the sense of incompleteness, bondage, imperfection, and the alternating experience of fleeting happiness and sorrow. These are the very things every one of us is struggling to overcome. If the experience of oneness can help us overcome these—and we know it has helped a few brave and determined souls in every generation—then it seems reasonable to assume that there must be something wrong with our present experience of seeing the many. That “something wrong,” according to the Gītā (5.15, 7.25), is ignorance.

When did this ignorance come upon us? Every kind of ignorance seems like it never had a beginning. If I am ignorant of the speed of light and ask, “When did my ignorance start?” I’ll probably end up saying that it’s always been there. But my ignorance can vanish the moment someone tells me what the speed of light is. It’s futile to worry about when my ignorance started. I’m never going to know the answer. All I need to do is to recognize the presence of ignorance and focus on how I can get rid of it.

The method is simple enough. Here are Sri Ramakrishna’s words:

“If one thing is placed upon another, you must remove the one to get the other. Can you get the second thing without removing the first?” (Gospel, p. 944)

And here are Holy Mother’s:

“You have rolled different threads on a reel—red, black and white. While unrolling you will see them all exactly in the same way.” (Teachings of Sri Sarada Devi, p. 32)

The knowledge of my true self is covered by ignorance. To get knowledge, ignorance has to be removed first. This is what Sri Ramakrishna’s words signify. Holy Mother’s words deal with the steps that separate knowledge from ignorance. She says that I have to go back the same way I came. From the experience of oneness I have somehow arrived at the experience of the many. If I know the steps that brought me down from the heights of oneness to the depths of multiplicity, I can go upward by tracing the same steps in the reverse direction. 

From the One to the Many

In the beginning there was only the self. There was no one else. The self was all that existed. It was complete (pūrṇa), eternal (nitya), infinite (ananta), indivisible (akhaṇḍa), pure (śuddha), conscious (buddha), and free (mukta). (See Chāndogya Upaniṣad, 6.2.1,  Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, 1.4.10, Taittirīyopaniṣad, 2.1.1, Kaṭhopaniṣad, 1.2.18,  Gitā, 2. 23-25). 

Then something mysterious seems to have happened. A kind of division suddenly took place in what was really indivisible. The self, the one and only reality, somehow became fragmented into three apparently different entities: God (also called paramātman, the supreme self), the world (sometimes called anātman, the non-self), and me (called jīvātman, the individual self). When cracks appear, they have a tendency to spread. So a further fragmentation of these entities was inevitable. The world got divided and subdivided into countless number of objects and creatures of all sizes, shapes, colors, and characteristics. The extent of these divisions and the variety in the universe are mind-boggling.

Divisions took place in the individual self too. To begin with, there was the obvious division into body and mind, and the not-so-obvious estrangement of the two from the inner self (pratyagātman). The mind was subdivided into the unconscious (called id) and the conscious (called ego) fragments. These divisions were strange. They divided the personality without taking apart the individual fragments. It was like a broken marriage but the unfortunate couple continuing to live under the same roof. Naturally this gave rise to stress and strain. The body and mind were separate but they continued to influence each other. The unconscious and the conscious parts of the mind were divided but they continued to pull and drag the person, often in mutually opposite directions.

The net result of all these multiple fragmentations was that the self became limited and localized. The self (ātman), the real me, became identified with a body and a mind, and alienated from everything else. My identification with the body and mind too was not stable. Sometimes I identified with the body, sometimes with the mind, sometimes with both, and sometimes with neither (as in deep sleep). I became alienated from the spiritual essence of my being and, worse, did not even know that I was so alienated. 

The conscious part of my mind became alienated from the unconscious as well as from the world around. In this way the self became even more narrowed down as it got identified not with the whole personality but only with a fragment of it at any given time. The other fragments thus remained alienated, and it is these fragments that destroyed my peace, upset my harmony, and robbed me of the sense of fulfillment and wholeness. Thus I became, so to speak, alienated from myself.

Much has been written about self-alienation. Some of the best minds in the fields of philosophy, psychology and sociology have pored over the problem of alienation. Their interpretations varied because their ideas of the self varied and also because their perspectives and approaches were different. Nevertheless, they have come up with valuable insights and have enriched our understanding of this central problem of human existence.

We have seen how we descended from the state of oneness to the state of mutually conflicting many. From the one to the many the descent is complete. The fall—allegorized in the story of Adam and Eve—was from the state of oneness. From one have emerged the many, and the many must merge back into the one. The fallen me must rise again. The upward march toward unity must begin. The broken fragments constituting “the many” must be joined, the divisions must be removed. It is here that service comes into the picture.

From the Many to the One

There are two approaches to the problem of overcoming the many. First the popular approach. When pieces have to be joined together, we use an adhesive. Love is the adhesive that joins the many into one whole. Love grows in an unselfish person and expresses itself through service. So first and foremost we must all become unselfish and force ourselves to sacrifice for others and to do good to others.

In this approach, the self is objectified and certain moral rules are thrust upon it. We are expected to become unselfish, loving and charitable. The aim is to become someone different from what we are. This involves needless struggle and usually produces inner conflicts. Moreover, we seldom succeed fully in the struggle to become this and that. People go on trying to become unselfish and, to prove the point, doing good to others, but in the process create a lot of unhappiness for themselves and often for others as well.

Most of the efforts at social service in modern times show this phenomenon. In developed countries, social service is more organized and, in a sense, it comes naturally to the people there as a result of years of social discipline and upbringing. Thousands of small and big institutions and millions of men and women, young and old, are engaged in volunteer services of every kind. One would expect that, with so many unselfish people around, modern societies would be ideal. Would to God it was so! But we see that crime, violence, rape, drug addiction, neurosis etc are steadily increasing and the social fabric is crumbling in many parts of the world.

How do we explain this strange phenomenon? When self-alienated people do social service, they only increase their self-alienation and, consequently, their selfishness.  This is what the Gītā (6.6) says:

बन्धुरात्मात्मनस्तस्य येनात्मैवात्मना जित: । अनात्मनस्तु शत्रुत्वे वर्तेतात्मैव शत्रुवत् ॥

bandhur-ātmā ātmanas-tasya yena ātmaiva ātmanā jitaḥ;

anātmanas-tu śatrutve varteta ātmaiva śatruvat.

“To the (self-possessed) person who has conquered the self by the self, the self is a friend. But in the (self-alienated) person whose self has become inimical, the self behaves like an enemy.” 

Those portions of my personality from which I am alienated act like enemies and I develop a kind of hatred for them. But they are all parts of my own self and my hatred is really a subtle kind of self-hatred. This produces inner insecurity and the fear of facing myself.

Self-hatred can manifest itself in two ways. (1) I may project my self-hatred outward upon other people and thus attempt to cover up my inner hatred, fear and distrust by accumulating everything for myself and refusing to share it with others. They will naturally conclude that I am a selfish person. (2) It is also possible that my self-hatred may get projected inward and I may try to escape from myself through “service.” I’ll decide to become unselfish by trying to solve others’ problems—the underlying, undeclared (and often unacknowledged) reason being my fear of being left alone to confront my own problems. Others may praise my “unselfishness” without realizing that I am spending all my time and energy for others not out of a sense of duty, compassion, sympathy, or love for them (though these may be the ostensible reasons) but to avoid the horror and pain of confronting myself in the silence of my heart.

Indeed, it is not too unusual to see this happening even in the lives of those who turn to spiritual life. Well-meaning but self-alienated people busy themselves with so-called service, imagining they are seeing God in others, and end up after some time filled with disillusion, frustration and, in a few cases, even naked apathy. Many organizations launch service projects with much fanfare and enthusiasm, but are gradually reduced to petty politicking and to being controlled by power-hungry people. Why all this happens should not surprise us. For, service rendered by self-alienated people is no service at all in the true sense of the term. It is only a form of escape, and escapism has nothing to do with spiritual life.

A better approach to service is the existential approach. Here I am not expected to become anyone or anything; I simply have to be my true self. Unselfishness is my true nature. Love is only the dynamic aspect of the all-pervading unity of existence and this also is my true nature. I don’t have to move heaven and earth to become unselfish or try to fill myself with love. I only need to recognize that I am unselfish already. I have all the love in the world already within me. 

If that is so, why do I not feel it? Evidently, some negative mechanism—“alienation”—is operating within me and acting as a hurdle to the manifestation of these spontaneous traits of my personality. All I have to do is remove the hurdles—or eliminate alienation—and my inherent selflessness and love will shine forth in a most natural way.

We have seen that as a result of alienation, my awareness gets localized and identified with a fragment rather than the whole of my personality. The remaining fragments are left in the dark, out of the field of my awareness. To remove alienation, I must expand my awareness and focus its light in every nook and corner of my personality. Through the practice of deep, healthy self-introspection or self-analysis and the help of an illumined spiritual teacher, the alienation of the conscious mind from the unconscious can be removed. Absolute purity of life, intense prayer and other devotional practices eliminate the alienation of the psyche from the true inner self. The alienation of the inner self from the supreme Self is overcome through higher knowledge and the grace of God. This is the final stage and, of course, I can be nowhere near it until the earlier stages are crossed.

But where does service come into the picture? Is it a means to de-alienation or only a result of it? It is both a means and a result. As a means, service not only helps to eliminate the alienation of the person from the world but is also an important aid to remove the alienation within one’s personality. Service as a means demands uncompromising conviction, great application, and extraordinary grit, and is understandably less than perfect. Service as a result is natural, spontaneous, and perfect.

Service as a Means

Service should not be undertaken in a big way until at least a certain amount of expansion of awareness has taken place. Learners are advised not to go toward the deep-end of the swimming pool until they have mastered at least the preliminaries of swimming. In the field of service too a similar rule applies. If we want to do true service, we must have at least the preliminary qualifications necessary to be a true server. When the process of de-alienation is set in motion to some extent, service comes in as a catalytic agent to speed up the process.

I mentioned the necessity of uncompromising conviction. What conviction? The conviction that oneness exists. Though I may not have yet “perceived” oneness, I must be convinced to the core that it exists nevertheless. Not only that; mere conviction is not enough. I must be prepared to make an all out effort to live—in thought, word and action—with the awareness of the undivided existence.

“Learn to make the world your own. No one is a stranger, my child; the whole world is your own.” When Sarada Devi told this to a disciple she was referring to the underlying oneness of all creation. Mother’s words seem to be suggest not “oneness” but “belonging.” “The world is my own” is clearly different from “I am the world.” But when put into practice, Mother’s teaching leads not to the experience of “belonging” to the world but to the experience of identity with it. 

Just as I am no stranger to myself, nothing in the world should be a stranger to me. The love, care and attention that I bestow on myself must be offered to the whole world too, because the world is my own self in a different form. To serve with this idea obviously requires great application, inner strength and dogged perseverance—particularly because the immediate fallout of this practice may not always be pleasant and endearing.

Three questions arise: (1) The act of service needs at least two, the server and the served; how is service possible when there is only oneness? (2) Is it possible to live and serve with the idea of oneness without actually perceiving it? (3) Is it easy to cultivate this approach to service?

All the three questions are easily answered. Let us begin with the first: How is service possible when there is only oneness?  Service can take place even when there is oneness. When my toe is stubbed, do I not tend it with all care and do everything to heal it? Granted, the hands that tend the toe are different from it, but the fact remains that they belong to one body animated by one conscious being. In the same way, service is possible in this universe which is, as it were, the gross body of the one, conscious, Supreme Being. (Gitā, 13. 13-15)

The second question, Is it possible to live with the idea of oneness without actually perceiving it? To live with the idea of something without perceiving it, is not as difficult as we imagine it to be. We have no difficulty accepting that the protective ozone layer around the earth is steadily depleting and the gaping hole in the layer is threatening some populated areas of our planet. With the exception of a few scientists, none of us has perceived all this, have we? Don’t we accept it as true and try to do something to avert the disaster? Similar is the case with oneness. If we can take the word of the scientists about the ozone layer, there is no reason why we cannot take the word of the spiritually enlightened about oneness.

The words of the spiritually enlightened are far more trustworthy than the words of those who deal with physical sciences. It doesn’t take long for one scientific theory to be contradicted by another and one technology to be superseded by another. The scientists are right only so long as they are not proved wrong, and history shows us that it is never long enough. On the other hand, the words of the spiritually enlightened have stood the test of time for the last God-knows-how-many centuries. The truth of oneness was proclaimed centuries ago and is enshrined in the Vedas, the oldest literature known to us today. It was true then and it is true today, because there were people who perceived it then and there are people who perceive it today. 

Let it not be imagined, therefore, that this discussion is theoretical or only an intellectual exercise. In every generation there are people who have lived with the unshakeable conviction that oneness exists. They have moulded their lives on this conviction, and eventually experienced oneness. This realization brought them total freedom, absolute perfection, and ineffable bliss. If this was possible for some, it is possible for you and me as well. If it was possible in the past, it is certainly possible at present and in future too.

Now the third question: Is it easy to cultivate this kind of nondualistic approach to service? The truth is that “easy” and “difficult” are relative terms. What is easy for one may be difficult for another and what usually makes the difference is the intensity of faith in oneself, a firm determination to succeed, and dogged perseverance. With these in good measure, nothing is difficult; without these, nothing is easy.

Two methods are recommended for those who find it difficult to serve continually with the idea of oneness of all creation. One method is to maintain the constant awareness of one’s true nature as the spiritual self (ātman), distinct from body and mind. All activity is “outside”—merely forces of nature (prakṛti) acting and interacting upon one another. I am only their witness, unaffected and untouched (Gitā, 3. 27-28). All work is done only for work’s sake, not out of any other consideration or hope (Gitā, 18. 9).

The second method is suited particularly to those with a predominantly devotional temperament. Here all actions are done for the sake of God. The results of actions are offered to God. All work is God’s work. As a devotee, I am only a servant of God carrying out my master’s orders. Or, I can looks upon myself as a child of God, and all other beings as God’s children, and I can serve them with that idea in mind. (CW, 3. 83–84)

In his lectures on karma yoga, Swami Vivekananda has described both these methods for overcoming attachments and freeing oneself from the binding nature of karma (see CW, 1. 32, 56-60, 87-90, 98-107). Whichever of these methods I adopt, sooner or later I’ll discover that they lead me to the awareness of unity underlying the endless diversity in the universe. I may not still “perceive” oneness, but I can no longer doubt it. I begin to have a somewhat vague but persistent feeling that the whole universe is a cosmic, multidimensional conscious being (virāt puruṣa), and I joyfully serve this cosmic being as well as I can.

This is service as means at its best. As said earlier, this accelerates the process of de-alienation or reintegration. When this process reaches its logical conclusion, service as means has fulfilled its purpose. Whatever service I do thenceforth is spontaneous and perfect. It is service not as a means to de-alienation but as a wholesome result of it.

Service as a Result

When my awareness expands, it not only removes the alienation within my personality but also transcends at some stage the barrier of the body, and gradually engulfs more and more of the world around. When I am completely de-alienated, all frontiers vanish. Nothing limits me. I perceive the one, infinite, conscious being within and without. My every little act becomes a worship, every word a benediction. I discover that my true self is not different from the true self in each and every creature around. I perceive consciousness pulsating even in objects that are normally considered inanimate (Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, 3.8.11, Muṇḍakopaniṣad, 2.2.11, Chāndogya Upaniṣad, 7.25.1-2,  Gītā, 4. 24, 10. 20). I find that there is only one self appearing in countless forms (Kaṭhopaniṣad, 2.2.2, 2.2.9-10,  Chāndogya Upaniṣad, 6.3.2). My love for my true self does not conflict with my love for others, because I see my own self in all, and I see all in my own self (Īśāvāsyopaniṣad, 6-7 and Gitā, 6. 29-32). I become immersed in the bliss of my self. I perceive oneness everywhere. I become free from all duties, responsibilities, obligations. Nothing binds me (Gitā, 3. 17-18). Yet I don’t stop working. Out of the fullness of my heart, out of the spontaneous love that gushes forth from my being for the whole of creation, I continue to serve (Gitā, 3. 25). This is true service.

When I am spiritually illumined, my service need not always take the form of external activity. I will do good to the world by just being who I am. My mere presence will do wonders and I’ll radiate peace, harmony, bliss all around. Whoever comes within the orbit of my influence will become blessed and get the strength, hope and faith necessary to pursue higher life. 

Often we may know nothing about those who are spiritually illumined. “The highest men,” said Swami Vivekananda, 

“are calm, silent, and unknown. They are the men who really know the power of thought; they are sure that, even if they go into a cave and close the door and simply think five truer thoughts and then pass away, these five thoughts of theirs will live through eternity. Indeed, such thoughts will penetrate through the mountains, cross the oceans, and travel through the world. They will enter deep into human hearts and brains, and raise up men and women who will give them practical expression in the workings of human life.” (CW, 1. 106)

Such illumined ones appear in every generation: a few among them become known; most pass away unknown. Known or unknown, they are the greatest benefactors of humanity. Through their lives we learn what this life is all about; through the kind of service they do we understand what true service means.

Summary

We have seen that true service is an act of holiness and it has its origin in the perception of the unity of all existence. Through some mysterious quirk this unity was disturbed. The one, undivided existence became fragmented into many seemingly different existences. This produced alienation, stress, conflicts—and, inevitably, sorrow.

To overcome this, the many have to be resolved back into the one. In other words, alienation must be removed. Since the breaking up into the many is essentially the apparent fragmentation and localization of the all-pervading consciousness, the resolving into the one calls for a progressive transformation and expansion of consciousness.

Several factors play important roles in the de-alienation process. Service is one of them. It acts as a catalyst to the process, provided it is done with the firm conviction (at this stage, there is no actual perception) in the oneness of all that exists. This purifies the heart and helps obliterate the various boundaries that stand as hurdles to the broadening of awareness. When the process of de-alienation is complete and I return to being a fully reintegrated being, I become perfect and am able to perceive “the one” behind the apparent and illusory “many.” Then, and only then, can I offer true service, which does lasting good to the world. (CW 5. 285)

If everything is ultimately one, who serves whom? The answer is, I serve myself, because there is no one else to be served. How the one, indivisible reality got divided into the many is, really speaking, a nonsensical question. If the indivisible could really get divided, it only means it was never indivisible to start with. On the other hand, if it really was indivisible, then absolutely nothing can divide it. Then what was all this discussion about the descent of the one to become the many and the ascent of the many to become the one? If it is impossible for the one to become the many, how did the impossible become possible? 

The impossible can become possible only through ignorance. Which is to say, only ignorance can make the impossible appear as possible. Nothing but the ignorance of a coiled rope in a semlit room can turn it into a snake. Obviously, the rope’s transformation is only illusory. The awareness that it’s only a rope, not a snake, drives away the ignorance and the snake vanishes. In precisely the same way, ignorance divides the indivisible, absolute Being, Consciousness and Bliss (sat-cit-ānanda) into countless fragments. The divisions, obviously illusory, vanish when overrun by the expanding awareness that reveals the undivided nature of all that exists.

Why should I serve myself? No reason why I should, really. But when I discover ignorance having its sway over me, the only way I can kill it off is through knowledge, and service done in the proper spirit is an indispensable aid to the acquisition of knowledge. Once the floodlight of supreme knowledge dispels the gloomy darkness of ignorance, I become free. The service I do thenceforth is a free, spontaneous, perfect offering—not for the sake of knowledge, which I already have—but for the good of the world which I clearly see as my own self in another form.

[netherwar-rpg-blog]

Welcome to the Wardens, Nikki! Your application for a THE SEEKER has been accepted with a Caitlin Stasey FC.

The application can be found under the cut. You have 48 hours to create a roleplay account (cannot be a sideblog) for your character and we will be updating our opening date soon!

O O C - I N F O

Name: Nikki

Age: 20

Timezone: PT (Soon to change, will be traveling during the summer but this is my ‘main’ one!)

Activity Level: In the coming week or two, things will be a bit hectic because I’ll be traveling to visit relatives overseas but I will most likely be on every few days. If any longer absences come up, I will definitely notify the masterlist or the OOC chat.

Extra: – (Sorry if the app is a mess, I got excited when I started thinking of things and now here we are.)

S K E L E T O N - I N F O

T H E - B A S I C S

Skeleton Title: THE SEEKER

Name: Tuilelaith Rinne

Gender: Female

Age: 25

Class: Ranger

Faceclaim: Caitlin Stasey

C H A R A C T E R - D E T A I L S

Nationality: Crywrenian

Appearance: Her brown hair falls in thick waves to her mid-back. Often, it is let down, allowed to spill over her shoulders, though sometimes it is pulled back or adorned with a simple band of flowers. With a height of 5'1" and features, star-touched eyes and restless lips, hinting at naivety and youthfulness, Tuilelaith is often brushed aside. She is summed up as a pretty thing of pleasant presence. Riling at her unearned dismissal, she tries to command attention by emulating a confidence and courage that she does not feel she possesses. She may stand as a tree or a rock, noble and immovable, but on occasion she may waver. The times she wilts are not too apparent. One may notice a flash of uncertainty, a shameful timidness before she excuses herself or squares her shoulders and lifts her head again.

Personality:

(-) Single-Minded;; With the pained cries of the Balance sounding so clear to her, Tuilelaith can not help but doggedly chase after any hint of a cure. Her inability to fix it pains her. There are spans of time when all she does is hunt for a solution, disappearing from others and submerging herself in research. She can only work on one problem at a time, or rather this problem has haunted her for far too long that she can no longer ignore it.

(-) Stubborn;; Tuilelaith feels as if she must prove herself. She needs others to believe that she is capable and strong. To do this, she stays her ground on things and in competitions that she would be better of letting go. Once she has made up her mind, it is nearly impossible to get her to change it.

(-) Judgmental;; She is wary of others and this wariness causes her to draw quick conclusions about the people around her. She has strong feelings about both crooks and people who show off their fortune. Having history with both, however, her opinions are rather muddled. Depending on her judgement of someone’s character, she may try to avoid them.

(+) Appreciative;; Though cautious of others, Tuilelaith can be won over by shows of sincerity. She is grateful to any act of kindness and isn’t one to let herself stay indebted to someone. She remembers what others have done to and for her.

(+) Brave;; She has learned how to wear confidence through imitation and so courage almost seems easy. Tuilelaith can be shaken. She is not one for fights but feels a duty to aid in combat. She is aware of death and of how quickly her mission could end if she falls. She is scared but her mother urged her to be brave. It is a command that echoes during times of weakness.

(+) Earnest;; There is too much happening, too much chaos, to worry about someone else’s feelings about her. Her words will be sincere, perhaps not too blunt, but should she dislike someone it’ll show. She will not hide her feelings and, if she can help it, her thoughts.

C H A R A C T E R - B A C K G R O U N D

History:

   Tuilelaith had lived, for a short time, in a town. At most, she can recall the looming mountains and the shadows of surrounding woods but that is all. The only faces she can remember are those of the shopkeeps her mother and her visited but their names escape her. Most of her childhood was spent in a cottage in a small valley hugged by the mountains of the Fydheim Highlands. Her mother, Muirgen, and her older brother, Fintan, would hunt for their meals and for hides and furs to sell. Her father, after they had gathered and prepared enough for a cart, would journey for days to a distant town to sell them. Tuilelaith, being only five then, did not think of their living as anything other than normal. It was lonely. There were days when she would only have herself to fill the silence. She would go out to walk among the flowers, raise her voice in song or hold imaginary conversations with the animals around her. Fintan later told her, when their mother had gone to gather wood, that their father had been run out of town.

    Lachtna, Tuilelaith’s father, did not know how to fight but he knew how to talk. He knew how to weedle his way to higher profit and he knew how to cheat customers for small amounts of money. When one of his regular customers found out, the word spread. He was to be brought to trial and then to justice. Muirgen, having known some of her husband’s tendencies, had prepared an old family cottage of hers for them to run to, to live in. They became a family that not only cheated but refused to face justice. Theirs was a family without honor. She did not know what to think of this.

    When she was seven, she dreamt of a tree. And it sang to her.

   Tuilelaith woke to the murmurs of life. She could feel the nature around her, the Balance, singing. It was a song that she could not replicate but she tried. When her family left her alone and she could walk out into the valley, she tried to join the singing. She would talk to flowers, ask if she was doing her part correctly, then listen to see if they would reply. They did not answer her, not directly, but she did learn from them. Coming across a flower stem broken in half, Tuilelaith felt the weakening hum of it, and willed it to get better. Putting her hands gently around the stem, the two halves connected once again. She ran to tell her family.

    Becoming a Ranger was a difficult task. As she grew, Tuilelaith experimented with her gift to the best of her ability but she lacked experience and training. She needed knowledge. The Balance was like an ever-present friend to her, a guardian, and, over the years, she could hear it weakening. She did not know what to do but she knew that something had to be done. She needed to leave and to learn. Her family would not let her.

    Lachtna warned her of his enemies and told her how dangerous others were. He, himself, was a person who lied and cheated and those who weren’t called for blood far too eagerly for his liking. Stay where you are safe, he said because they would not follow her. Their home was here and if she was leaving the nest she would be doing it on her own. He was angry, not so much at her, but of the people outside and of his own mistakes. He had lost his fortune and lost the home he had claimed for himself. The Rifting will come, Lachtna knew that, but he was a bitter man that did not want to see his family raise a hand to help those that didn’t deserve it.

    What can you do? He asked her, telling her to leave adventures and fighting to people who were more capable and more suited to die.

   Fintan raged then sulked. He was a fire that would blaze then cool to ash. He was older by six years and, still, he hadn’t left their family for any longer than a journey to town. You don’t do anything. He had been the one to care for their mother when she had gotten sick. He had been the one hunting for their family, travelling and trading for their family. She was young and he was burdened. And their family was something to be held above all because of how they lived and how they had run. They only had each other and she was leaving. It was a betrayal.

    You know nothing but your own needs. He said nothing else.

   Muirgen was quiet and still. After Tuilelaith announced her decision to leave, Muirgen had simply turned to silence. This lasted for days and broke only when Lachtna and Fintan left to sell their goods and to escape the tension. She packed Tuilelaith’s things and spoke to her softly about how to be brave. She told her of how stars are small but burning things and of how she, too, could be that. How she, too, must be that.

    And, love, pursue good and believe you are strong enough to grasp it.

Reason for joining the Wardens:

 After arriving in Siften, Tuilelaith searched for the Druids of the Fenarious Faith to learn from them. There was a rising urgency in her development as a Ranger. Everyday, she took notice of the dwindling magic, the disturbances in the Balance’s song. But she did not know how else to help. She could help nurture plants and animals back to health but the progress was slow and the effect unnoticeable. Her efforts did nothing. When she heard of the Wardens, Tuilelaith found that she could finally breathe. This was something. They had to be something.

    For all her will and fire, she knew nothing. The Wardens, however, might.

R O L E P L A Y - S A M P L E

(Please provide a sample of your writing to one of the prompts below or use another setting which fits with your character’s background and story.)

   Three hours down the Spine Mountains, the chilling winds cut less at one’s skin in favor of taking ice-brushed nibbles. The path through the mountains and into the Targun Forest was marked with rocks frosted over white from dropped temperatures and storms turned to cold. Tuilelaith strode in expert silence, shoulders dusted with snow, in a thick fur-lined dress that seemed warm enough but unusual wear for a mountain traveler. She had no horse or any weapons that one could see. If it were not for the backpack she carried, almost bursting with its burden, she would have seemed to be a ghost, a lady of the mountain that was all but a dream.

    But she was real and her dress seemed a fine thing and she, herself, appeared as if a doll. To the shadows around her, the grinning squinting gloom, she was a target of opportunity. A lady alone, seemingly rich. It was luck.

    Tuilelaith walked to the side of the road and rested her hand on a tree trunk. To the bandits laying in wait, she seemed nothing more than tired. But, she had heard them. They were clumsy fellows, loud fellows. Their footfalls, rushed in their hunger and carelessness, had been like distant thunderclaps beneath the nipping winds. As she concentrated on the nature around her, the tree roots in her mind extending in pulsating green, she caught glimpses of where the bandits were. She pressed her forehead to the bark and whispered her thanks.

    Turning, she put her back to the tree and lifted her dress by a few inches. Tuilelaith bent down and took off her slippers, placing them neatly beside her. After shrugging off her pack, she stretched her hands in front of her. She stood still, relaxed. Closed her eyes. Felt the sharp air frost over her lungs. Then she lifted her chin, eyes open and challenging.

    "You’ll be given five seconds to leave. After that, I will try not to kill you but I will also be trying not to die. Please consider this, I do not like fighting.“

    Four cloaked figures broke from their cover. One, a lanky fellow that seemed all elongated bones beneath a darkened face, grinned. His eyes were the black beads of crows but without the bird’s innate wisdom, only the glazed brightness of malice. "Tell ya what, lass,” The voice that came from him was the scratching of stone against stone.He shrugged, the movement traveling up his spine to his shoulders. “we like gifts. Leave yer gold-”

    With one quick stamp of her foot, four tree roots shot out of the earth to knock the bandits down. The man, surprised at the interruption, was shoved prone to the ground, the root then snaked over him and dug back into the earth. One root clamped around one bandit’s leg while another wrapped around one’s torso. There was a single bandit that managed to leap back. With a flick of his hands, two knives sliced towards her.

    Tuilelaith moved with a nimble grace that appeared almost as if she were dancing. The knives hit the tree behind her, embedding themselves deep into the wood. As Tuile finished her spin towards the bandit, she traced the tips of her toes in an arc on the earth. Dirt kicked up as another root broke the surface, jetting towards the bandit in a smooth curve. It curled around the bandit’s chest, immobilizing him.

    Without a glance towards any of the other bandits, she hurried to dig out the daggers from the tree’s bark. “Thank you for the aid.” With a pat, Tuile healed the tree’s wounds. “As for all of you…” She turned to the bandits and looked over the one who had spoken to her. “Fighting is a mess and I do hope you stop this because if I do see you a next time attempting thievery I will have to hurt you.” Then, with a hefty kick (sometimes multiple), she knocked each of the bandits out.

    She left them with their clothes and their rations, hiding away all their weapons save for a single knife they could use to hunt. The roots sank back into the earth when she walked off carrying, still, her pack, her gold, and her shoes.