#never strop dear writers

[invye]

I love when (fan)fiction does this thing when a non-magic character first hooks up with a magic character and they kinda expect all this weird kinky magic stuff to happen and they're equal amounts nervous and excited.

And then it just doesn't. Oh sure, there is magic in bed, actual magic, but its the most mundane and unsexy quality of life type of magic ever.

Examples, MCU edition:

Doctor Stephen Strange, world renowned surgeon turned world renowned sorcerer: uses just enough magic to steady his shaking hands so he can feel more confident about touching back.

Wong, the Sorcerer Supreme, highest ranking person in the entire magic society: summons any kind of required supplies with the same casual countenance as if it was a sleight of hand card production trick instead of actual magic.

Wanda Maximoff, fearsome Scarlett Witch, master of the most volitile Chaos Magic: uses telekinesis to pick up the pillow that fell to the floor during the initial shuffle to make herself more comfortable.

Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief, shapeshifter, alive long enough to have tried everything the Nine Realms have to offer (and some things they don't): only uses his magic to clean up after. Because he's Royalty and cleaning is Beneath Him.

They all know the weird kinky magic stuff is something that has to be properly negotiated first. So non-magic character better be ready for next time---

[konmarkimageswords]

What Is Our Life

WHAT is our life? The play of passion. Our mirth? The music of division: Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be, Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy. The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is, Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss. The graves which hide us from the scorching sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus playing post we to our latest rest, And then we die in earnest, not in jest.

The Conclusion

Even such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.

My Last Will

When I am safely laid away, Out of work and out of play, Sheltered by the kindly ground From the world of sight and sound, One or two of those I leave Will remember me and grieve, Thinking how I made them gay By the things I used to say; -- But the crown of their distress Will be my untidiness. What a nuisance then will be All that shall remain of me! Shelves of books I never read, Piles of bills, undocketed, Shaving-brushes, razors, strops, Bottles that have lost their tops, Boxes full of odds and ends, Letters from departed friends, Faded ties and broken braces Tucked away in secret places, Baggy trousers, ragged coats, Stacks of ancient lecture-notes, And that ghostliest of shows, Boots and shoes in horrid rows. Though they are of cheerful mind, My lovers, whom I leave behind, When they find these in my stead, Will be sorry I am dead. They will grieve; but you, my dear, Who have never tasted fear, Brave companion of my youth, Free as air and true as truth, Do not let these weary things Rob you of your junketings. Burn the papers; sell the books; Clear out all the pestered nooks; Make a mighty funeral pyre For the corpse of old desire, Till there shall remain of it Naught but ashes in a pit: And when you have done away All that is of yesterday, If you feel a thrill of pain, Master it, and start again. This, at least, you have never done Since you first beheld the sun: If you came upon your own Blind to light and deaf to tone, Basking in the great release Of unconsciousness and peace, You would never, while you live, Shatter what you cannot give; -- Faithful to the watch you keep, You would never break their sleep. Clouds will sail and winds will blow As they did an age ago O'er us who lived in little towns Underneath the Berkshire downs. When at heart you shall be sad, Pondering the joys we had, Listen and keep very still. If the lowing from the hill Or the tolling of a bell Do not serve to break the spell, Listen; you may be allowed To hear my laughter from a cloud. Take the good that life can give For the time you have to live. Friends of yours and friends of mine Surely will not let you pine. Sons and daughters will not spare More than friendly love and care. If the Fates are kind to you, Some will stay to see you through; And the time will not be long Till the silence ends the song. Sleep is God's own gift; and man, Snatching all the joys he can, Would not dare to give his voice To reverse his Maker's choice. Brief delight, eternal quiet, How change these for endless riot Broken by a single rest? Well you know that sleep is best. We that have been heart to heart Fall asleep, and drift apart. Will that overwhelming tide Reunite us, or divide? Whence we come and whither go None can tell us, but I know Passion's self is often marred By a kind of self-regard, And the torture of the cry "You are you, and I am I." While we live, the waking sense Feeds upon our difference, In our passion and our pride Not united, but allied. We are severed by the sun, And by darkness are made one.

(Sir Walter Raleigh)

Sir Walter Raleigh (1554-1618) was an English aristocrat, writer, poet, soldier, courtier, spy, and explorer. He is also well known for popularising tobacco in England.

Raleigh was born to a Protestant family in Devon, the son of Walter Raleigh and Catherine Champernowne. Little is known for certain of his early life, though he spent some time in Ireland, in Killua Castle, Clonmellon, County Westmeath, taking part in the suppression of rebellions and participating in the Siege of Smerwick. Later he became a landlord of properties confiscated from the Irish rebels. He rose rapidly in the favour of Queen Elizabeth I, and was knighted in 1585. He was involved in the early English colonisation of Virginia under a royal patent. In 1591 he secretly married Elizabeth Throckmorton, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, without the Queen's permission, for which he and his wife were sent to the Tower of London. After his release, they retired to his estate at Sherborne, Dorset.

 In 1594 Raleigh heard of a "City of Gold" in South America and sailed to find it, publishing an exaggerated account of his experiences in a book that contributed to the legend of "El Dorado". After Queen Elizabeth died in 1603 Raleigh was again imprisoned in the Tower, this time for allegedly being involved in the Main Plot against King James I, who was not favourably disposed toward him. In 1616 he was released to lead a second expedition in search of El Dorado. This was unsuccessful and men under his command ransacked a Spanish outpost. He returned to England and, to appease the Spanish, was arrested and executed in 1618.

Raleigh was beheaded in the Old Palace Yard at the Palace of Westminster on 29 October 1618. "Let us dispatch", he said to his executioner. "At this hour my ague comes upon me. I would not have my enemies think I quaked from fear." After he was allowed to see the axe that would behead him, he mused: "This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all diseases and miseries." According to many biographers -Raleigh Trevelyan in his book Sir Walter Raleigh (2002) for instance- Sir Walter's final words (as he lay ready for the axe to fall) were: "Strike, man, strike".