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mattslolita · 1 month

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lunchbox friends - n. sturniolo ( 001. )

in which ... they meet at a melanie martinez concert and become best friends. platonic!nick & platonic!black!fem reader

warnings ; cussings, mentions of vape, mostly fluff!

"𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓."

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰

nervousness flooded your body as you walked up towards the venue to see your favorite singer — melanie martinez.

since 2017 when you first began listening to her, she's resonated with you deeply. her lyrics which spoke poetry about real life situations, and how her song titles were innocent but the song went deeper — the cry baby album would always be your favorite and hold a special place in your heart, but when melanie dropped portals you literally had it on repeat since that day. it's safe to say nymphology was your favorite song.

unfortunately, you didn't have many friends that listened to her on the level you did, so it resulted in you not having anyone to go with. your anxiety increased due to this, because you didn't particularly like going places alone.

your hands adjusted the bands on your wrist then you smoothed your earth green long skirt from your outfit in confidence — the line was finally starting to move as you could see the arena ahead of you, causing your nerves to cease slightly as you realized you'd be breathing the same air as your favorite singer in some minutes.

when you reached the front row just behind the barricade, you found yourself next to people already — your excited nerves flowed through your veins as you looked up at the stage in anticipation.

"oh my gosh, i love your outfit!" a male's voice says from beside you, prompting you to turn to the source.

he was brunette and taller than you, a nose ring that complimented his face nicely — the kind smile on his face caused you to smile at him.

"thank you!" you said to him, your eyes traveling down to his shoes and your smile widened, "i love your shoes so much."

"thank you," he says back to you, "i really liked this whole outfit, i devoured honestly."

"period, you did that!" you giggled at him, both of you sharing another laugh with one another.

"i'm nick, by the way," he tells you, holding his hand out for you to shake.

you look at him like he's crazy before pulling him in for a hug. "i'm y/n! it's nice to meet you."

"i'm kinda nervous, this is my first concert alone," nick tells you, and you nod knowingly, "my brothers aren't really into melanie so i didn't pressure them into coming with me."

"i'm an only child, i wished i could've had siblings to come here with me," you tell nick, and he grins.

"we should definitely hang out after this, then," nick suggests, and your eyes light up and snap your fingers at him in agreeance.

"yo brothers are finna be sick of us with the way i'm gonna blast melanie all the time," you giggle, causing nick to laugh along with you.

right off the bat, you know nick matched your energy really well — he was exactly what you looked for in a friend, and it was like a breath of fresh air when all that surrounded you in the past was toxicity.

suddenly the lights dimmed, causing both you and nick to share a grin as you clamp onto his wrist excitedly — a beautiful, earthy escape came on the screen and your eyes wandered around it as you marveled at the pretty mushrooms and butterflies that littered the scenery.

"bitch oh my gosh," nick gasps quietly, tugging on your arm to capture your attention, "she's here."

"oh my fucking word."

low and behold, melanie emerges from the stage causing everyone including both you and nick to go wild upon seeing her — alot of people shamed her for the prosthetics she wore, but you thought it was one of the most creative and bravest things she'd ever pulled off. it was definitely different, but that's why you loved her so much — she never limited her creativity, always going outside of the box. and she ate every time.

"MELANIE, I LOVE YOU!" you yelled, cupping your hands around your mouth as she lets out a giggle into the microphone.

"la, how are you guys tonight?" melanie announces, and the crowd immediately whoops and hollers for her.

"girl, cause what do you mean we're breathing the same air as her right now?" nick whispers to you, causing you to laugh as he holds his phone up towards her to capture the moment.

you follow suit, also discreetly taking a few pictures of both you and nick together ( mostly of you freaking out ), before the first song comes on, her dancers coming out as well — death.

an excited squeal comes from your mouth as you and nick are now both recording each other singing along to the song silently.

"when you aren't around," you narrate with your hands, recording you and nick, "i sink into the ground. i try to pretend i'm closer to you!"

"never understand it, you're always on my mind, i cannot help it," nick sings along with you, the both of you watching as melanie and her dancers perform in front of you.

as your favorite part draws closer, you find yourself beginning to dance, feeling this song so badly as you and nick continue singing with melanie.

"BACK FROM THE DEAD, BACK FROM THE DEAD!" you both sing, holding each other's hand as you sing, "I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD, BACK FROM THE DEAD!"

you're hyping each other up at this point and you're pretty sure there's other people giving you both crazy looks, but you could care less as you're both relishing in the amazing time you're having.

pretty soon your favorite song starts playing, and you squeal at nick in excitement as you grab his shoulder. "bitch, this is my song! i'm gonna teach you to shake ass to this one!"

"bitch i'm so excited, don't fucking play with me!" nick yells back to you.

"CALL ME YOUR NYMPH, PRAISE ME FOR MARTYR, PRAISE ME FOR SIN!" you both sing to each other, "CALL ME YOUR MUSE, A SPRITE OR AN ELF THAT YOU CRY TO AND USE!"

"i will not suffer, cry under covers," melanie sings into the microphone, swaying along and you feel yourself about to get crazy, "i'm not your mother, oh oh, oh oh-"

"IT'S NYMPHOLOGY, NOT PSYCHOLOGY!" you and nick scream, and you begin throwing it back slightly, causing nick to hype you up as he records you, "BE THE MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL BITCH YOU FUCKING OUTTA BE!"

"damaged audity, bought by sotheby's!" melanie sings, dancing on the stage causing you and nick to cling onto each other, "auctioned to a selfish man who thinks that he's the prophecy!"

"you can't even spell that you're an expert in nymphology!" nick sings as he records melanie.

he remains blissfully unaware as you quickly open your small purse and duck your head to take a quick hit from your peach mango watermelon elfbar, blowing the smoke downwards so that nobody could notice you.

"girl let me hit that real quick," nick whispers to you and your eyes widen before you giggle and pass it to him, watching as he ducks down the same way you did to take a hit.

the rest of the concert was magical — you couldn't believe the energy that melanie produced and the amazing show that she performed, and the newest friendship that you made. even the smallest moments like when melanie giggled into the mic again whilst singing moon cycle, or the way nick gave you water when he noticed that you were running out of breath meant, that meant the most to you.

when the concert was over, you and nick were still attached at the hip as you both gushed nonstop about your favorite singer and her abilities to make this one of the best nights you've ever had.

when you both exited the venue, you two were so engaged in conversation that you almost didn't notice a group of three girls slowly approaching the both of you.

"hi, i don't mean to interrupt you guys," a brunette girl said shyly, messing with a bracelet on her wrist as she and her friends smiled at you both, "i love you guys' videos nick, and you're one of the most gorgeous girls ever."

"thank you!" both you and nick smiled at the same time, causing the girls to giggle.

"i was wondering if i could get a picture with you both?" she asked, looking between the both of you.

"are you okay with that, y/n?" nick asks you, and you beam at the girl with a nod.

"did you guys wanna be in it too?" you asked her friends sweetly, both of them nodding with shy smiles.

the brunette girl gets in the middle as you and nick gather around her, one friend next to nick whilst the other stands on the other side of you — you smile into the camera as the girl quickly snaps three photos, and your heart could melt at the way she gushed in admiration.

"thank you guys so much!" she said to the both of you, "have a great night!"

"you too, love!" nick tells her, and you wave to them kindly.

"videos?" you querie nick with a smile, "what kind of videos do you make?"

"me and my brothers have a youtube channel together, we do vlogs and car videos," nick explains, and you nod in intrigue. "this is actually one of the first nights where i get to relax and have fun like this, honestly."

"i love that for you, then," you tell nick, then you wriggle your eyebrows with a grin, "and i would love even more to meet these brothers of yours."

nick rolls his eyes at this playfully. "girl, they're gonna wanna steal you from me!"

"that's not finna happen, cause you were gang before they were!" you tell him.

"do you live in la by any chance?" nick asks you.

"i do!" you smile, pulling your phone out and going to contacts, "give me your number and shit so we can text each other!"

"we need to plan to hang out again, too!" nick adds, as he puts his number into your phone.

"lemme call an uber before it gets too late," you pout slightly, not yet wanting to stop talking to nick. "it was so amazing meeting you, nick!"

"girl, it was great meeting you too!" nick smiles.

you bring him in for yet another hug, then ask him various times if he had a ride home to make sure he was safe — after finally reassuring you, your uber had pulled up not long after and with one final hug to nick for the night, you hop inside, waving him goodbye.

when you got home, the first thing you did was turn on the heater since it was cold in your house.

you slipped your sandals off and put your purse on the foot of your bed, going into your bathroom to wash off your makeup. a text from nick caused you to grin as you got your makeup wipes and began with the blush on your face.

twinflame❤‍🔥💋

girl tell me why i accidentally sent one of the videos to my brother and he IMMEDIATELY asked for your instagram👀

twinn🤞💜

nick😭😭😭😭

is he cute tho ?🤣

twinflame❤‍🔥💋

🙄 y'all haven't even met yet and it's already starting

i'm disappointed.

twinn🤞💜

BYEEE

no but don't give him my gram yet, i wanna meet in person😝

twinflame❤‍🔥💋

do you wanna come over sometime next weekend ?

we can go out to eat somewhere then come back and hang out!

twinn🤞💜

absolutelyyyy !

i'm so down & i'll text you to let you know !

twinflame❤‍🔥💋

goodnight girl❤

twinn🤞💜

goodnight stinkaa😘

twinflame❤‍🔥💋 liked this message!

you exited out of your messages with a content smile, finding yourself extremely excited for the next time you both would hang out. you could tell this friendship would be a good one, and you were hoping it was better than the type of friends you had in the past.

lil 💌

cause this been in my drafts for TOO long, & i love my fav so yk i had to make a best friends series for him😝 for my twinnie @thenickgirl happy early birthday to us🤭.

@luverboychris @muwapsturniolo @prettiest-poision @mattsturniolosleftnut @mrssturnioloo @guccifrog @junnniiieee07 @astrowh0r3 @v33angel @ilovechrissturniolo1 @e1ias3 @l0akkzz @hysteria-things @eyeliketoeatpoosay @sturn777 @stasiesturn @prettypinkprincess15 @breeloveschris @summerssover @mayhem-72 @riasturns @chrissturniolossidehoe @moonk1ss3d @v33angel @h3arts4harry @stargirll567 @bitchydragonparadise @heartsforchrisandmatt @pepsienthusiasts @tillies33ssss @thenickgirl @sturnprime @summerssover @k4di333 @pinksturniolo @middlepartmatt

#nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nick sturniolo x you #nick sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo x you #nicolas sturniolo x reader #platonic #best friends #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #the sturniolos #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo fandom #sturniolo imagine #Spotify

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theyanderespecialist · 1 month

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Base Yandere Apollo Headcanons: Sunshine Muse (Greek Mythology)

[Hello My Sexy Muffins, we are back with a new chapter and in this chapter, it is Apollo as a yandere. I hope that you all enjoy this!]

(Disclaimer: To my knowledge, Apollo is not canon to be a yandere in greek mythology does not make him a great person though. Most gods from many mythologies played by different rules. They were Gods and were in the past and the past was a freaked place. Simping for greek gods and fictional yanderes is fine as long as you separate fiction from reality! Greek Gods and yanderes are not ideal partners to have, in real life.)

-Base Yandere Headcanons With Apollo-

.Apollo is the god of divine distance—the god who made mortals aware of their own guilt and purified them of it, who presided over religious law and the constitutions of cities, and who communicated with mortals his knowledge of the future and the will of his father.

.He was also a god of crops and herds and the sun.

.He loved music, poetry, and dance.

.He would watch the herds and play sweet music.

.It was a simple life.

.Though just like most gods Apollo was a frisky thing.

.Chasing women around some transforming themselves into trees and such to just get away from him.

.He also was an oracle seeing the future.

.Now in the modern day he has a still love for music, mainly rock music.

.He wakes up at sunrise every single morning and plays rock music.

.You can see him in a leather jacket sunglasses and a smirk on his face.

.He is a ladies' man and a player.

.He knows he will never settle down.

.Well that is at least what he thought he would not do.

.That was until he met you a mortal who was at the same rock concert you were at.

.You may have chosen to be there or dragged there by a friend either way you bump into the greek god in his human form.

.He has smitten with you right away, trying to flirt with you and hit on you.

.At the time you were not impressed by him.

.He of course did would not take no for an answer.

.He let it go though but you would consume his thoughts he could not stop thinking about you.

.He used his powers to see into the future to see your future.

.At the first time he did it you ended up with your partner happy and it made him so angry.

.Who was this person that they thought they were worthy of you?

.He could not stand it.

.So he made it so he would change the future.

.First, he worms his way into your life making him have a friendship with you.

.Then he is the type of yandere that would not kill his rival, your partner right away.

.No he is going to manipulate the situation so you start to not trust him and you and your partner start to resent each other.

.He is a crafty yandere and has an advantage with seeing how things will play out.

.When he finally gets your partner to break up with you he is the one there to help you back up and to make you feel loved.

.He has manipulated all of this to make it so you accept his love.

.He would deal with other rivals by making them commit unalive he is not taking any chance of any more rivals.

.He would make music for you, as you are his muse.

.He will also see you as his sunshine and the light of his life.

.He is also a persistent yandere.

.So it does not matter how long he has to pursue you, he will wear you down until you can no longer resist him and then you will be his and his alone.

.So it does not matter if you say yes or no he will wear you down and chase you like the sun chases the moon.

.You are his sunshine after all. His muse.

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS another chapter done, I hope you all enjoyed and stay sexy all of my sexy muffins!]

#yandere #yandere greek gods #yandere greek mythology #yandere apollo #yandere headcanons #headcanons #greek gods #greek mythology #greek mythology apollo #apollo #apollo x reader #reader

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im-his-druidess · 5 months

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Hi!

I've had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while, but I'm not the best at writing.

How would Vincent or Bo react to an S/O that came into town and was just a complete southern belle ? Maybe a bit ditsy but overall well meaning patient and kind. Like grew up pretty rural as well but maybe ended up moving to the city for college and finding out it wasn't really for her, so she's on a road trip back home and maybe gets lost. Some accident happens and she ends up in ambrose. Kinda similar to what happens to Allison in Tucker and Dale vs Evil if you've ever seen that movie? Without her friends of course 😅.

I always thought it would be interesting to put them next to someone who just completely contrasts there personally. They do say opposites attract!

Can be ABO of you'd like ! I have no preference

(Ps. Sorry for how long and hyper specific this is I've just had this thought for a while)

Good question!

I always liked the "Opposites Attract" idea so I always think about stuff like this. I even made my main OC due to these type of thoughts 😌

I think Bo would get the most amusement out of this situation. As much as he abuses women and forces them to be with him (Like tying Carly up in his murderfuck dungeon) he would absolutely love to have someone come to him willingly. Would feed his fantasy of having a normal life with a normal lover that wants him and treats him like a person.

He would absolutely dial up the charm and get you flustered and would flirt outrageously. Soak in you helplessness and sweetness before the real horrors begin.

Vincent would still be extremely cautious. Learning from a young age that wolves hide in sheep clothing. that just because someone smiles sweetly at him doesn't mean they want to be his friend. Would absolutely wait for the other shoe to drop and will sometimes, if worked up enough, strike before you even get a chance to prove or disprove his expectations. Forcing you to be his muse and greet him with that same sweetness or else face his displeasure.

If he's in a better mood then he might even try to sway you with pictures he's painted or sketched, scripts of poetry scrawled neatly on the bottom, and wildflowers appearing on the hood of your car where you're sleeping or outside the door of the room in their house that was so graciously offered to you.

When Vincent falls, he falls hard, and nothing will change his mind about making you his in every single way he knows how. Almost taking advantage of your ditsy behavior and sweet demeanor to make you stay with him.

#house of wax #house of wax headcanon #bo sinclair #bo sinclair headcanons #vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair headcanon #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #house of wax x reader #slashers #slasher x reader #slasher headcanons #slasher fandom #the cryptid answers

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brucesterling · 1 month

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Utopian Realism, a speech by Bruce Sterling

*I never posted any lecture of mine on Tumblr, even though Tumblr would seem to have plenty of elbow-room for hour-long, learned, European public lectures (with many lecture slides).

*Might as well give that a try and see what happens.

From the Technology Biennial in Turin, Italy, April 02024.

Thanks for coming to see me. As Loredana Lipperini just pointed out, I am Bruce Sterling, here to deliver my speech on the theme of “realistic Utopia” — the public Utopia, and the private Utopia.

This first slide would be the hero of my remarks today, because he’s the world’s biggest expert on Utopia. He’s called “Raphael Hythlodaeus.” In the Italian editions of the book “Utopia,” he’s “Raffaello Itlodeo.”

Here’s a picture of Raffaello personally meeting Sir Thomas More, and Sir Thomas More’s friend and host, Peter Gillis, in the year 1515.

The book was published 500 years ago in the Latin language. The author was Sir Thomas More — but Thomas More was a lawyer. He didn’t plan to be a novelist. In the book, he claims that he’s simply writing down the testimony of Raphael Hythlodaeus. The source for the book is allegedly Raphael (according to Thomas).

So, the novel “Utopia” was a kind of a hoax or a joke that Thomas More invented — while he was on vacation.

This book project happened because More had to leave England on official business. He had to leave his private home, and his beloved family, and take part in public life, as a diplomat in the service of the king of England. So, Thomas More had to travel, and go meet some Spanish officials in the city of Bruges on the European continent. So he left England, and he dutifully journeyed to Bruges. But — after some weeks of diplomatic struggle — he realized that the negotiations were going nowhere. His negotiations were a hoax and a joke, because the king of England and the king of Spain were quarreling. They had no intention of ever reaching an agreement.

So Thomas More had to spend six long months of his life in Europe pretending to be a diplomat and a lawyer, to satisfy reasons of state. He could not achieve anything useful or practical on that mission.

So, More was a bit upset by this situation. He left the city of Bruges, where nothing was happening. He went to Antwerp instead, because he had a friend there. His friend was a fellow scholar named Peter Gillis. Peter Gillis was an Antwerp city official. He was in government, and he was quite well-to-do, a very well-connected guy. So, he could play host to Sir Thomas More. Thomas More was welcome to stay in his private house for no money, and to eat the family’s food at no charge, and just relax as an honored house guest, for several months.

So, Thomas More and Peter Gillis are in this private home, avoiding actual work. They enjoy many free-wheeling, private, intellectual discussions, which are all about law, and justice, and business, and economics, and politics, and the general state of the world.

These two intellectuals agree that the state of the world is pretty terrible. Clearly the real world is quite bad, it’s not a Utopia at all. In fact the first part of the book “Utopia” is pretty much all dystopia. It’s about how bad things are in Europe, and it’s rather realistic too — these are grim assessments.

So, Thomas More and Peter Gillis, while discussing the world together, decide to invent this wandering scholar named Raphael Hythlodaeus. The wise and learned Raphael can speak Latin and Greek, just like they do — but Raphael has been to a country where everything works.

Peter Gillis even invents a Utopian alphabet, and he writes some poetry in the language of Utopia — just to demonstrate that he can play this fun Utopian game with his guest Thomas More.

Peter Gillis is willing to cooperate. He even pretends to personally introduce Thomas More to Raphael Hythlodaeus.

In the book, Raphael appears, and he starts talking. He recites the entire story of Utopia. Raphael speaks the book “Utopia,” aloud. It’s 30,000 words of text, so Raphael recites this book in one long afternoon. It’s a three and a half hour lecture, and Thomas More writes it all down.

However, it’s somehow not boring. It’s a brilliant, world-class lecture, because Raphael Hythlodaeus is quite an amazing guy. Raphael doesn’t look rich or famous. Basically, he looks like a sailor. He’s got a long beard, and he’s kind of weatherbeaten. He’s a long-haired wanderer in beat-up old clothes.

He says that he’s from Portugal — he’s a native of Portugal — but somehow he’s been to Persia, and Ceylon, and spent rather a lot of time in Belgium. He’s been to Brazil. He knows England very well. Raphael Hythlodaeus knows the Archbishop of Canterbury personally.

If you read the book carefully, it turns out that Raphael Hythlodaeus left Portugal — he went to Brazil to explore the new world — and he crossed South America, somehow. Then Raphael crossed the Pacific Ocean, discovering several new countries that nobody else ever heard of. Somehow, after visiting Ceylon, he returned back to Portugal.

So Raphael Hythlodaeus has circled the entire world — several years before Ferdinand Magellan and his fleet tried to do the same thing. Raphael is the first guy to ever travel around the world.

Why?

Why did he do it?

Well, basically, it’s because he’s a tourist.

He derives no political or economic benefit from all this wandering. He just wanders — he tours. He says that he had a lot of money once, but he gave all the money away — to members of his family, and to friends. He refuses to ever serve in any government. He understands law. He understands economics. He’s a super knowledgeable guy. But he never takes part in public politics, because he says that it’s slavery. There’s no reason for him to stop travelling and ever do that work.

Raphael Hythlodaeus is basically a dropout hippie backpacker. He’s a refusenik. He despises power. He despises wealth. He’s rigorously anti-materialistic. He’s an intellectual dissident.

He’s not a pilgrim of any religious faction. He doesn’t engage in any trade while he travels. He has no career. He’s not a lawyer. He’s not a banker. He’s not a patriot — he’s never going back to Portugal. He cut his ties with the homeland. He’s cosmopolitan.

Any town in the world is good enough for him. Antwerp is just fine. He’s happy to be in Antwerp, although he has no reason to be there. He’s just in Antwerp while talking to Sir Thomas More. He has no wife. He has no mistress. He has no children, no grandchildren. He has no duties. He never has to change clothes.

Every day — he says — he just does whatever he likes.

He just does whatever he likes!

Raphael Hythlodaeus is the most utopian figure in the book “Utopia.” He’s a one-man Utopia. He’s a personal Utopia — because he makes a utopia all by himself, just for himself.

This struggle between the private, personal Utopia, and the political, public Utopia, is present from the beginning of the book “Utopia.”

In the book, Raphael says that he lived with the Utopians for five years. He knows everything there is to know about them. He studied them very closely. He knows the Utopian language, he knows their alphabet, their history, their military, their judiciary, their economic system, their justice system. He knows how they educate the youth. How they raise crops, what they eat, how they dress, the transportation system. Everything.

He just comprehensively knows everything about that society — every driving force that matters, every aspect that makes a country a country.

So Thomas More and Peter Gillis, they make lunch for him. They just invite this world traveller over to the private house they share. They offer him something to eat.

After they eat together, Raphael is quite happy to tell them everything there is to know about the Utopian system. For no pay — no reward. He doesn’t want any credit in the book, either. He just delivers Utopia to them, in one comprehensive talk.

Then Raphael Hythlodaeus just disappears. He has complete existential freedom. He just drifts around the planet like the wind. He’s a Utopian tourist. He’s a traveling one-man show. He’s like an exile on planet Earth.

He’s a fictional character and the book “Utopia” is a fictional book, but Thomas More was a very real person. More was inventing this Utopia game, and making it up in detail, mostly to amuse his host Peter Gillis, who was feeding him, and sheltering him.

But Thomas More ran out of vacation time. He was on vacation in Antwerp, but he had to go back to England. He had to return to his private house, and to resume his public career as a working lawyer.

He had no more time ever to write any fiction. Thomas More never wrote fiction again. He wrote a lot of government tracts. He wrote sermons and legal opinions. No more fiction, though.

After about a year in England, More bundled up all his Utopia papers. He put the game aside, and he sent all the paperwork to Peter Gillis. He said: you know, Peter, I have no leisure time to mess with this game anymore. Why don’t you see if you can do something with it? You participated, so just do anything you want with this Utopia project. Maybe Erasmus can help you.

That would be Desiderio Erasmus of Rotterdam, the very famous European scholar. Erasmus did help — he helped Peter Gillis, and together they published the world’s first edition of Utopia.

That’s the book. You can see that Erasmus is the editor. Erasmus has added plenty of his own witty epigrams to the text. Erasmus knows this book is innovative and strange, and he’s trying to increase sales by including some Erasmus content.

The book was a private joke for Thomas More — because it was only published in Europe. This is him, by the way.

This is the author of Utopia, when he had achieved high rank in the English government. Thomas More doesn’t care about novelists — there was no such profession, there were no copyrights. He’s an intellectual scholar who became a public politician. He works for the English government — the royal court in London. He’s prosperous. He builds a grand private mansion for himself and his family. This is the house:

His book Utopia is not published in England — not while More was alive. The English knew practically nothing about this novel, written in Latin, in Europe, by their Lord Chancellor, rather discreetly.

Here’s Thomas More in his private life.

This a sketch of a portrait that he’s working on, together with a hired artist. More has a gold chain around his neck because he’s become the Chancellor of England. However, his private family life is of great concern to him. Thomas More is writing many careful hand notes on this sketch, so that the artist can paint it properly.

This is a portrait of Thomas More’s entire household. Not just himself — all his relatives, and also his household retainers, everyone under his roof. They’re all gathered in his house, to be recorded for posterity.

It’s really quite a nice private house. It’s got a very high-tech clock on the wall. If you look at it: flower bouquets, vases, curtains….

All the women in this portrait have books. Because they’re all literate. Thomas More has educated every woman in his house. They understand Latin. They can write Greek. They know astronomy, music, mathematics. They’re some of the most highly educated women in the world. He educated them privately. Inside the house. Women could not go to school, but he pulled in the best scholars and he had them give lessons to his wife and his daughters. And retainers. And anybody who’s listening.

More’s private house is a kind of Utopian University.

This is the eventual painting which was made from the sketch.

The fellow in red, that’s Thomas More’s father.

Dad was also a lawyer, and he was also involved in politics. But, he got involved in a serious controversy. He was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

That was dad’s experience. He had to go inside the Tower of London for a month. A terrible place. A dungeon. Political opponents of the English regime, they’re tortured and sometimes murdered in the Tower of London. A very sinister place.

One month of that Tower of London prison experience was plenty for dad. He retired from public life immediately. He never sought political power again. He just went back to the house with Thomas More and the very educated girls. There was plenty to do in there. It’s a private house, but look at it, it’s nice. There are carpets. Dogs. Nice clothes. They have some messengers, like a scholar in the back, writing some mail. It’s so civilized that it’s like a different world.

Things go well for a while — but then the author of “Utopia” himself gets into some very serious and realistic political trouble. Because the king of England is divorcing his wife, who is a Spanish princess. He’s removing the Kingdom on England from the Catholic church. It’s basically a Brexit situation.

He’s seceding from Christendom, and declaring himself the spiritual head of the Church of England.

Thomas More does not approve of this. He’s very pro-European, he’s a diplomat. He knows the idea is terrible. There will be nothing but trouble from it.

He tries to be diplomatic with the King. He gets into all kinds of legal arguments. This is no use. King Henry the Eighth, he’s determined to marry six different women. It’s realpolitik. It’s a political crisis. The king will not back down. More leaves power, he tries to escape the dismal mess and go on vacation. He just goes back to his private house. Like his dad.

I’m not in the government, he declares. I want nothing to do with government. I don’t seek power. I don’t want wealth.

But his private life cannot protect him. The regime insists that he has to sign a public declaration that the King has moral authority over the Pope. He’s just required to sign this — to collaborate. He refuses. It’s a very long, painful controversy. He doesn’t want to sign. He’s fighting on ethical principle. I’m a private citizen. I’m in my own house. I want nothing to do with politics. You can’t make me sign public documents against my will.

That struggle doesn’t end well. Here is a painting of the author of Utopia getting arrested for treason against the state.

In the foreground of the painting, his daughter is clinging to him. Don’t take Dad from our house! Then in the background of the painting, Thomas More is getting publicly executed. His head is chopped off with an axe on a block.

The details here are interesting. The realism of what really happened to this utopian author. They cut his head off his body in public.

Then, one of the daughters managed to collect his body. She didn’t get the head. The head was boiled in a pot, in order to preserve it. Then it was painted with tar. His head was painted with pitch as a kind of preservative.

Then the head of the author of “Utopia” got stuck on a long spike on the London Bridge.

This was customary justice in England at the time. This definitely happened to Thomas More. In historical fact, his head was placed on one of those spikes on the top of the arched bridge, in much the same way that you can see here in this everyday London woodcut.

After a month of public exposure, of the author’s head on a spike, the legend says that one of his other daughters somehow managed to collect his head. Somehow, she retrieved the head off the spike, even though the boiled, tarred head was supposed to be thrown into the river Thames. That was the custom with the heads of traitors.

She had no house, because her father was a traitor and the house had been confiscated. So she’s homeless, but she’s clever and well educated. She speaks Greek, speaks Latin, she understands astronomy, music, mathematics. She’s a cosmopolitan woman from a private house, and somehow she manages to persuade the “Keeper of the Heads” to convey her father’s severed head.

She carries it away from the public shame of the London Bridge. It’s not clear what happened to the head. There are a number of various stories about what she did with it afterwards.

To my mind, this is the ultimate “realist utopian” image. If somebody says the word “Utopia” to you, you should think of an adult woman smuggling the severed head of her father away from an execution.

That’s what it’s like. You write “Utopia” and your grieving daughter somehow steals your chopped-off head, and smuggles your head away in a bag.

Now we forget about Thomas More for the rest of the presentation — because he’s dead. Meanwhile, there’s Italy. Yes, Italy!

In Italy, nobody much cares about More’s head being cut off, but they are reading his book “Utopia.” Because Italians — it turns out they love Utopia. The book’s editor, Erasmus, is very popular in Italy — the University of Torino gives Erasmus a degree in theology. So Italians eagerly read Thomas More’s book in Latin, and they understand that this is speculative political fiction. It’s quite an interesting thing to do.

There’s even a kind of fantascienza genre of utopian writing — not in England, but in Italy.

There’s a whole set of utopias written by various authors.

Most of those authors aren’t English — English people know your head comes off, you don’t want to mess with it — but there are all these other guys writing Utopias.

There’s Tommaso Campanella — his book is still in print. You could go buy it today. It’s kind of interesting.

There’s Ludovivo Agostini. He still has some interest to scholars. The Imaginary Republic.

What a good idea.

This is Anton Francesco Doni.

He’s probably the weirdest author of historic Utopias.

He wrote one that’s rather like science fiction, a weird book meant to be funny and entertaining. Doni’s quite an odd character.

Here’s an Italian political anthology where many Italian political writers are describing the real politics of real places. In the end, they just throw in Thomas More’s Utopia. Why not? Does it even matter if it’s an ‘imaginary country’? It’s about the principles of understanding countries. How do you describe them? How do you explain how they work?

That’s what matters about utopias. That’s the realistic reason to do it.

Now we come to a realist political writer who understands Thomas More. He likes to quote Thomas More. He’s Catholic like Thomas More. He’s a Latin scholar — although he writes in Italian.

Unlike Thomas More, he’s extremely realistic. This is Giovanni Botero.

Or, rather, a well-deserved statue of him. Botero wrote a book which was a utopian manifesto, but for the city of Torino.

Yes, Torino was a planned project with a political theory. Here’s his street here in town — it’s over in the Quadrilatero — the oldest part of the city. The “Via Giovanni Botero.”

Here’s his book, which is all about politics, and it has an afterword. It’s a political book about government, including a work of analysis about cities.

How do you build a grand and magnificent city?

There are a lot of cities all around the world — how do you make one grand and magnificent? What if Torino was magnificent and grand?

How would you make a small town in Piedmont magnificent and grand? What policy would you pursue? How could rulers take policy steps to achieve “grand magnificence”?

Clearly this seems like a utopian idea. Why would Torino ever be grand? This is what Torino looked like when Botero was writing about it.

He is urging the Dukes of Savoy to make this little village magnificent and grand, but it’s not grand, it’s not magnificent. It’s just a small, typical Piedmontese town with a huge fort in the upper left-hand corner.

As Botero points out in his manifesto, no city in Piedmont has ever been grand. Torino is a modest city, like Asti, like Bra, like Cherasco. Botero himself is from Piedmont. He knows the history of the region. He is frank and honest about it, he’s a realist. There’s just never been a big city in Piedmont. No grand city like Genoa, Venice, Rome… This region of Italy had never had any grand magnificent town.

Why not? Well, Giovanni Botero is very keen on studying history, and geography, and law, and economics, and demographics, industrial policy and geopolitics, and other disciplines that did not have names in his own time. However, he somehow absorbed the political lesson of Utopia about how to imagine the town as a whole, functional place. How to get it to exist, how to get it to work.

Botero has learned to think in a utopian way that is realistic. He tells his readers that determined people can really do it. He doesn’t merely preach that Torino will somehow be grand. Instead, he says: what are the general principles of cities becoming grand?

This realistic map is Torino as a kind of Cherasco. It’s charming, in Cherasco. I’ve been to the historic town of Cherasco here in Piedmont, and it’s very nice, actually. I always enjoy it there in Cherasco.

Cherasco is the “world capital of snails.” If you’ve ever been to Cherasco, you would know the “Festa della Lumaca.” The Lumache… they’re great. They’re Slow Food, those snails. If you like “slow food” those snails are really, really slow.

It’s fabulous, I love them, and that is Torino without Giovanni Botero. Without the grand plans of Giovanno Botero, Torino is basically Cherasco.

Unfortunately I don’t have time here to discuss Botero’s ideas in detail, but I promise you, if you read his book, you will understand Torino much, much better.

He makes a very practical case for grandeur and magnificence. You don’t do it on a whim. There are political reasons to do it.

Botero says, to maintain a living city, you need three things. First, you need cheap bread. Not just bread, but enough that it’s cheap economically. Plenty to eat, always there.

Second, you need peace, because if the city is under siege all the time, and people are getting killed, and it’s some mere struggle for survival, that won’t allow the town to function. It just won’t be able to work.

Third, you need justice — so that the population doesn’t cut each other’s throats. There’s no civil war in the streets. People can get on with their productive business.

So, Botero says that peace, bread and justice are the basic necessities. But — they’re very difficult to maintain. Often, they will fail. Then the city will suffer a setback.

But — if the city is grand and magnificent — people will return. You will attract people with a spirited imagination who can appreciate the grandeur and the magnificence. That is the quality of urban people that you actually want. That’s why you do it.

So that was Botero’s realistic utopian plan. Unlike Thomas More, Botero did not get killed. He could have been killed, because life in the Ducal Court of Savoy was very dangerous, but he was allowed to retire with dignity here in Torino. When he died in Torino, he had the pleasure of seeing that indeed the town was becoming quite grand rather quickly.

So, that’s what a realistic Utopia can look like as a political success on an urban scale. The public utopia — but what about the private Utopia?

Botero shows us how to do it as a politician — and kind of get away with your grand plans — but what about our friend Raphael Hythlodaeus?

Raphael doesn’t want to do any public politics. He just wants to do as he himself pleases, every day. Does he also have a possible victory condition?

I actually think he does — the homemade private Utopia. Just one fellow. Like him. One wandering sailor with no great wealth and rather modest resources.

If he has determination, he can lead a surprisingly different life on private principles. Even in the 20th century.

So, this is the American artist Alexander Calder. A very inventive fellow. He spent a lot of time in Europe. Alexander Calder was a sailor for quite a while, much like Raphael Hythlodaeus. Kind of dressed in rags, not much money, a wandering dropout guy with one pair of shoes. A Paris bohemian artist who spent some time in Montparnasse.

In this picture, Alexander Calder decides to build his private Dream Home.

Out of this wreckage here. A big dead building.

Luckily he has Mrs Calder to help him, so he’s not completely alone. Mrs. Calder here — “Louisa James Calder” — she happens to be a cultured Boston aristocrat who speaks excellent French and has a lot of elite social contacts.

Her family said that she was “looking for a different way of life,” and when she married him, boy did she ever get one.

So here she is, making some French bread while Calder’s reading some art book. If you’re a design critic you would notice this is a very peculiar kitchen. Very peculiar indeed.

Here’s a photograph of his other house in France.

Calder probably made at least half the furniture in this room. His wife made the rugs. She was helping out, she liked to make carpets.

This is his studio. People said it looked like an airplane had crashed into the building. Calder had some unique personal filing system. He did not regard this as as a disturbed environment. This was his idea of efficiency. He was a very efficient and effective artist. He made 20,000 artworks in these studios over a 50-year career.

There are eyewitness accounts of him, grabbing his tools, grabbing pieces of stuff, and never misplacing anything. Nothing ever got lost in there. It’s otherworldly, very private, very weird and very personal.

This is a Calder handmade bread toaster. Why? Why would you need to make a personal toaster? You could just buy a toaster — and this one’s obviously dangerous. It’s not even made of industrial components — it’s made from scrap of no commercial value, made of bits of wood, leftover pieces of stone, and wire.

I’ve looked at it a lot. I’ve tried to figure out why Calder would do it. He built at least five of these. Five completely different self-invented unique toasters.

Why?

Why not just go buy the toaster at a store? Well — he very much wants to hand-make a toaster. He wants his toaster as a radically different toaster, the one that belongs to him. This is a “utopian device” in the sense of something that seems visionary, farfetched and silly.

It’s just not practical, not realistic — but it’s practical and realistic for him. Calder tended to make art out of objects that the world had abandoned. Like the Turinese “Arte Povera” method — find junk, and dress it up, and re-format it.

He had a different value system. To him this is is not junk. To him, this is a struggle for understanding.

Here he’s making forks. Why?

Why would anyone go to the trouble to make forks? Especially out of cheap wire, because these are wire forks that he hammered flat. So that wire would behave more like forks.

I think what happened here — Calder liked hand tools. People called him a machine artist, because he made sculptures that moved, and sometimes had motors. But he only had two machines in his studio — a drill and a grinder.

He had no other machines. He preferred making personal things with his hands. Expressive tools — in his own hands.

So he’s sitting and he’s eating with a fork — and he realizes this is a tool in my hand. This fork is a tool in my hand. Why isn’t it my personal fork? Why doesn’t this fork have more of my own values?

Right? It’s a Utopian Fork! It’s my personal very different Fork. I don’t care how long it takes me to make it. I want it to express! I want to hold it in my hand and eat with it.

It’s not for sale. These are not commodities. They are what they are — artifacts from a very different value system.

He was a successful artist — at the end of his life, very successful. Calder was quite a wealthy man, and after he died, then his heirs were very wealthy indeed — by artistic standards.

His home in France is an art center now. You can go there and make art in his studio.

These may not quite look like utopian objects, because they’re so personal. But it’s probably what a handmade personal Utopia actually has to look like. You have to dig down to the original basic principles.

It has the freedom of Raphael Hythlodaeus. It’s intelligent. It’s erudite. It’s well traveled, cosmopolitan. But the rules of the world do not apply to it. They just don’t. It’s “Utopia fai-da-te.” It’s a house as Utopia, it’s private, it’s homemade.

You could you do this yourself, personally, after you left the hall of the speech here. Great — I go back to the house, I make my own Fork. Right? You could, it’s not impossible. You could do it. He did it. He’s proving to himself that he can do it. It’s just — that it’s very rare.

Why? Why do you need a personal Utopia? Why does that matter to you? Where is the benefit? Why not just buy the same toaster that the guy has next door?

Raphael Hythlodaeus could go back to Portugal. He could get a job. He could get married. He could work for the Duke. The private Utopia — it’s like one man trying to to do everything that the world can do for him.

Also, Calder’s alone in the countryside. He’s not in the city. He doesn’t have any critics watching him, as he makes unrealistic forks.

What about the city, the public utopia, the City full of other people? What about — for instance — the Utopian city of Torino? The grand, magnificent Turinese realistic utopia?

What can be said about it, here and now?

Well, I have some passing ideas on that subject — mostly because I have read Giovanni Botero.

Botero wants to use grand magnificence to attract people into the town. His strategy is about a town that can survive. Not because it’s a town that is really good at snails, but because it is a grand city with glamour and charisma. That’s why why you want to do it.

Also, it’s pretty clear that to me that this — realistically — is what Torino has been doing for much of my lifetime. Torino was a city that suffered economic setbacks in the 1970s, and was having some basic Botero-style trouble with the food and the justice system and so forth.

But — when the heavy manufacturing failed — it has been slowly trending toward art, design and especially tourism. Heritage tourism. The Baroque architecture in Turin has not been this sexy in 300 years. Botero’s grandeur is an international tourist draw. It’s becoming like a Turinese Florence.

You might have to visit it over a long period to see this urban transformation, but it’s realistically happening. It doesn’t look or feel like a utopian project — because it’s basically about attracting tourists.

However, tourists have utopian aspects. Mostly because they’re struggling to escape from their real lives. They’re dying from too much realism — the harsh reality of their crushing lives. They want to experience something that feels different and refreshing, if only for two weeks.

A basic Turinese problem here is that Torino is progressive, but a heritage tourist industry, which is very attractive to tourists, has no avant-garde. Their stifling interest in your past holds you back. You can’t do “futuristic heritage industry.” Why? Because you can’t move forward into the past.

Supposedly.

Supposedly, you can’t show anybody any “new past.” You can only show them old, decayed remnants from the past that have always been here, and have somehow survived to the present day. You can’t show them an exciting, innovative past that no one has ever seen before.

However — if you wanted to be realistic and utopian — you might actually do this.

While Giovanni Botero was alive and writing about how to build Torino, this was Torino’s most grand and magnificent building.

Everybody in Torino knew this building. It was the Mole Antonelliana of medieval Turin. This is the “Tower of St Gregory,” the tallest tower in Turin.

Giovanni Botero saw this Tower every day. Everybody in Torino saw this Tower every day. If he was alive, among us in this room, he’d be horrified to realize it was gone. It would be a tragic loss. A Torino with no “Civic Tower”? A dystopian disaster! Scarcely a real Torino at all.

If the Civic Tower was still actually here, it would attract endless tourists. It happened to be demolished in the year 1801, because Napoleon knocked it down. There were efforts to rebuild it, but these efforts failed due to lack of economic realism.

However, if you did restore the Tower of Saint Gregory from utopian impulse, you could offer it to tourists as an exciting new heritage building. You could do that, because the city of Torino has excellent archives, and there are all kinds of records about exactly what this Tower looked like during the 500 years that it towered over Torino.

The Turinese are very skilled at restoring partially damaged buildings. They do that all the time. So why not just restore the entire building? Why not be bold and inventive, and utopian and realistic, and make a completely vanished building come back to life?

This grand and magnificent Tower has been gone since 1801, but now it’s back again. It was history, but now it exists again. It’s not illegal to restore vanished buildings. Physically, it wouldn’t even be that expensive to do it — certainly not by the standards of many other ambitious Turinese urban projects.

It’s mere custom, and the habit of mind, that makes you think that old buildings can’t suddenly spring back to life out of the records. Of course they can.

When I started this speech, I said that Raphael Hythlodaeus was a tourist. He went to see Utopia. He took a lot of notes. He never settled in Utopia. He never married a Utopian woman. He never emigrated to Utopia. He didn’t ask for Utopian citizenship.

He just witnessed Utopia and then he lectured about it.

But there is no “Utopia for tourists.”

If you’ve ever been a tourist, you know it’s actually a rather dystopian user experience. The experience is more or less horrible.

Maybe you want to go to another country — because you’re a tourist. You want to experience a different way of life. You want refreshment, you want escape from your reality.

Well, first you go to the airport — where you’re treated as a terrorist. They literally go through your luggage, your shoes.

Then you reach the border and there you’re treated as a clandestino, or maybe a smuggler. They’re extremely suspicious and hostile. Those are not even realistic efforts. They don’t really serve the cause of law enforcement or of civil order. They’re actually systems which are built for intimidation. They’re there to make you feel worse and to be sorry that you ever decided to travel. They’re in place to hurt your feelings and discourage you.

Then, as a tourist — when you’re a tourist in a foreign city — everyone hates you. Attempts are made to tell you to enjoy yourself, to eat the expensive food and spend your money on nice clothes, but there’s very little there that’s for your actual benefit.

That’s all just basically advertisements. That’s the business model. The local people want nothing you might offer as a human being, they simply want your cash. They don’t want you around. And for good reasons. When masses of tourists arrive in your city — when you’re a really successful tourist city — it’s like the city dies wherever they step.

There doesn’t seem to be any civilized way to deal with them. Even if you’re a tourist, you hate the other tourists.

These people — tourists — are the people within your city who realistically need a Utopia. You don’t need a Utopia. They need the Utopia.

If you’re a native of the city, you’re used to the city. You cherish the city. You’re a patriot. You want to live in the city with your memories, your urban experiences, that make it your place, your city.

You don’t want your City to be a Utopia — not even your own backyard! Here in Turin, if someone said, “Make the San Donato district a Utopia” — Everyone in San Donato would immediately say: “Make Campidoglio do it!”

“Make Cit Turin do it! Not us!” Then they would force San Salvario to become the Utopia, because San Salvario is full of foreigners and they never know what to say.

So if you want to build a utopia -- realistically -- you should build one for tourists.

I’m not sure what that would look like. I could speculate about it a little. I think it would be mostly psychological.

It would be like a a wellness retreat. Some kind of spa. I’m thinking some large Turinese building like a derelict factory. Empty — like the Cavallerizza. Or the former “OGR,” the dead train repair yard. Some derelict space turned into a big utopian box.

It should be soundproofed. It should be airtight — like a gambling casino, where no clocks are visible. There are no windows. The air should be filtered because the air in Torino is terrible. There are hundreds of tourists inside this utopian box. Maybe thousands of tourists in there.

It costs nothing to get into the box. It’s a free public amenity in Turin — built just for them, entirely for them.

But to get into this Utopia they have to remove their phones. They have to remove their clothing. They have no wallets, no purses, no purchasing power.

No money. No identity. No passports. They have to remove themselves, that’s the key to it. They’re free — free not to be who they are.

What’s in there? Nothing. There’s nothing to buy. There are no thrill rides, no multilingual experiences.

I think the tourists themselves should probably disappear. They should be wearing special effect suits, like this.

Special tourist holiday suits that cause people to vanish. They blend into whatever is projected on the walls. I think that projection is probably Torino — dream-like utopian images of Torino.

Not the realistic Torino, with Turinese people in it, but a tourist utopian Torino, grand, magnificent, unearthly — and there’s no plot. Nothing happens there. Nothing bothers you. Everything is under gentle surveillance. You’re a utopian tourist. You’re just peacefully drifting around through this foreign space, and you’re also foreign. You could sleep in there if you want.

Most tourists, they don’t really want thrills or excitement. They are tourists to escape the everyday trauma of their miserable lives. They’re not moving toward the attractions. They’re running away from their dystopian suffering. So they should be in a utopia, and they should vanish. Nobody has to look at them. They’re engrossed in Utopia. Eventually they come out then maybe they spend some money before they go back to their private lives elsewhere.

Okay, now I’ll close with a few personal words. I’ve spent a lot of time in Torino myself — sometimes on a tourist visa. But I have never once been “on vacation” in Torino.

Never. I never had a job here. I don’t labor here. I’m not a voter. I don’t participate politically. I don’t stare at the tourist attractions. I don’t even eat the tourist food.

For my wife and myself, Torino is our city of romance. We had known about one other for rather a long time, but Torino is where we first met.

It seemed utopian to think that we might ever be together. Because there were all kinds of good, sensible reasons why people from Texas and Serbia should never get married. For the two of us to be a husband and wife, it seemed farfetched and absurd, and yet, there was something realistic about it. Because it was Torino. We were really together there. It was true, it was real life.

A romance is a remote possibility — like mere wishful thinking, an empty dream — that can suddenly spring into real life. You can never plan for that to happen. But when it does happen, you become very aware of it.

It’s not that I went to Torino, or that she went to Torino — rather that we went to Torino. We do participate in the life of the city, but we’re just not Turinese. I can’t claim that we have any conventional purpose here at all. Nothing political, nothing economic, nothing diplomatic. Nothing that fits into a business plan or a government form.

Mostly we’re in Torino because in Torino we are us. In Torino we became us. A rather mysterious and utopian quality for a city to have. So Torino is not Utopia, but we do appreciate your kindness and your hospitality. So, thank you for that, and that concludes my speech.

Thank you for your attention.

#bruce sterling #italy #Turin #utopia

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peacephotography · 9 months

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Four Lessons for the Long Haul - What Long Covid has taught me on resilience

When the paramedics came for me in the sweltering days of May 2020 it didn’t feel real. I had just passed out in the heat and collapsed headfirst into a radiator. I’d seen paramedics attend to friends and relatives, but in my feverish state, it didn’t sink in that they would come for me. My youthful sense of invincibility quickly faded. I found myself unable to lift my limbs or produce full sentences, and interminable headaches left me in despair. The after-effects are still with me today, in the form of Long Covid.

Now that I have regained some energy, I would like to share some of the lessons that illness has taught me about enduring difficulty in the climate and ecological crisis.

Lesson One: We need courage, not hope

Let the pain be your fuel. Let your total rejection of the status quo give you the courage to transform your life, to stand out from the crowd, and demand transformative action.

Margaret Klein Salamon, Facing the Climate Emergency

For the first few months of my illness, I woke up every morning hoping that I would suddenly recover and have “my life back”. Rather than letting go of what I could no longer do, I kept trying to live as before. But this detachment from the reality of my situation only brought me more pain.

Once I had the courage to face the uncertainty of illness, I let go of anxiously awaiting a miraculous recovery, and relaxed into my situation. In facing my pain and isolation I was able to accept them. They are a state of exile and vulnerability that can be a source of strength for navigating our bittersweet world.

The same is true for facing the climate emergency. If we hope that technology will save us or that criminally negligent governments will suddenly act responsibly, we are recklessly gambling our future on very poor odds. This can only bring pain. Once we start to tell ourselves the truth about the situation, we can find pride in our honesty and compassion in our grief. It’s from here that the resolve to take action will emerge.

Lesson Two: Follow your bliss

Joseph Campbell’s saying, “Follow your bliss,” is not an irresponsible phrase that ignores the pain of life but a reminder to receive pleasure and contentment, even in the depths of suffering.

Toko-pa Turner, Belonging

In illness, every day feels like a struggle. When it shows no sign of improving, or worsens, I lose my morale to keep going. It's an exhausting and depressing limbo. In the darkest and weakest hours, I saw my life flash before my eyes and began to dream of people and places I hadn’t seen for a decade. I saw the highs and lows that had shaped me into the man I am today. This gave me some space and perspective to see things from a different angle. From each challenge, there was a learning on how to face hardship. From each joy, an inspiration to live to the full.

Holding on to these feelings helps bring balance to life. In activism, we follow a true passion and through it find our fullest potential. But even this has its limits. Every step along the way we need to find that balance of difficulty and joy for our own wellbeing. Our struggle for climate and ecological action brings many challenges that can lead us to despairing inertia. In my sickness, a joy was as simple as the view from my bedroom window: a falling blossom, a scudding cloud, a wandering snail.

Such joys became my music, my dance, my poetry, my comedy and my sport: ways to relax into whatever challenge chronic pain brought.

Everyday joys can give us the resilience to keep facing what we must face. So as we rebel with all our might against the existential threat posed by the climate and ecological emergency, let’s also cherish what makes our existence so precious. From that reflective space we can find the courage to keep going.

Lesson Three: Words Matter

“The merest schoolgirl, when she falls in love, has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry.”

Virginia Woolfe, On Being Ill

As I slowly regained my speech, I struggled to find the words to describe what I was going through. It struck me that there is a serious lack of language on both chronic illness and climate chaos. If you are unable to express a feeling, you are unlikely to find any solace for it.

For our society to be able to come to terms with the emergency we need a language to relate to in films, literature and TV. Some of the best I think we have so far are Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, a piercing portrayal of the rise of sexism and racism in an uninhabitable America; The Road by Cormac McCarthy, for its portrayal of the gritty end-point of mass extinction; and early Studio Ghibli films such as Princess Monoke/Nausicaa, whose heroines champion coexistence with the natural world.

However, the vast majority of current work focuses too much on apocalypse scenarios, produced to scare the shit out of us, instead of relatable everyday stories. How about a climate drama set in water scarce Somalia? Or a northern woman’s heroic adventure to save her hometown from flooding? We need more romances that argue over whether having kids is responsible and comedies that mock the insanity of our toxic system like The Yes Men or Simon Amstell’s Carnage.

Stories are key for an emotional connection to the challenges humanity faces. Our stories of rebellion can be cathartic for climate anxiety and stir a generation of heroes ready to speak out for their futures. Let’s start writing them.

Lesson Four: Belonging

“By reviving a community, built around the places in which we live, and by anchoring ourselves, our politics and parts of our economy in the life of this community, we can recover the best aspects of humanity. We can mobilise our remarkable nature for our own good and the good of our neighbours.”

George Monbiot, Out of the Wreckage

Being housebound and unable to hold conversations without paralysing headaches is extremely isolating. Yet even in the depths of my pain I was able to appreciate the love of our community. Rebels gave me cards, voice-notes, medical advice, paintings and - best of all – cakes, cookies and biscuits fresh from the oven. The feeling of belonging to and being supported by a community of kindhearted and extraordinary people gave me strength every step of the way.

Together we are building a community that can hold us through the dark days with pride, friendship and joy. We are showing not only the best aspects of humanity but also the solid foundations of a successful social movement. The climate and ecological emergency will shape the rest of our lives. So take every opportunity you can to nourish and prepare yourself for the long journey ahead. You’ll not only be more resilient, but you’ll find more joy.

-- Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this or can think of someone who could benefit from these words please do share it. If you'd like to read more, subscribe to my blog :) Peace, Robin

Photograph: Franck Fife

#spilled ink #writing #long covid #disability #covid #climate crisis #robin boardman

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fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic · 21 days

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Good Omens Fic Rec: creature of mine

"Dunno why, but s'not working this time. M'not resssponding to it." Crowley's eyes flickered with something entirely unreadable. "I need a warm body." "I see." "Can't even use my fingers properly with these bloody claws. Still, feels better to have something warm, something moving." Aziraphale attempted to make sense of Crowley's words, his head pounding viciously. A warm body. "Would you like me to... hold you again?" Crowley smiled, open-mouthed and beastly. His fangs glistened in the darkness. "Need you to fuck me, angel." Or: Aziraphale buys Crowley a snake plant, hoping to please Crowley with the appealing smell of its flowers. Its effects on Crowley are far more extreme than Aziraphale anticipated, and it’s down to him to face them head-on.

Length: 21,253 Words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Best for: After Dark, Canon AU

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy, omens_for_ophelia

*Minor Spoilers* Buckle in, it's long post time. I admit to bias in the length of this post because I love this author, but above all, my enjoyment of this story is so genuine and I am so proud to recommend that you all read it too. This was written for the sex pollen event that has been going on recently (so many more for me to read!) and it's one I knew was coming but didn't know too many details about. So when I woke up to the email that it was posted, I knew I was going to have such a good morning, and oooh boy did I.

Caught outside in the rain, Aziraphale steps briefly into an exotic plant shop to stay dry. When he spots a beautiful flowering snake plant, well, he's free from Heaven now and free to buy his friend a gift. And what a gift it will be when they realize that the plant's pollen contains the exact pheromones that trigger Crowley's snake desires. Even though I knew exactly where this was going, the actual journey was so intoxicating. When the effects first take hold, neither of them knows exactly what to do. Both are locked into shame and embarrassment over the situation, but the trust and protection they have for each other is sturdy. Crowley struggles with losing control and the pain of vulnerability, while Aziraphale tries desperately to deny his own wants and desires. He represses it all to protect Crowley. And isn't this just the most beautiful metaphor for their entire relationship? As always, they get there in the end. It's as heartwarming as it is sensual. I will never tire of them completely surrendering to each other.

The thing I always love most about this narrative style is how it blends poetry and smut. It will paint with gorgeous prose and then snap our attention back with its explicit language. It's thrilling to me and a shining example of how rich smut stories can be. I'm awed and horny! And I have to say, this was such a clever and interesting take on Crowley's snake body! Naga/Monster fuckers, this one needs to be made a priority for you. It was described in excellent detail but also depicted gorgeously by the included art! I've still got goosebumps over the third piece of included art! The color palette! The bodies!! The emotion! I'm in love. Both author and artist have a talent for making me feel so at home in my own body with their works. I just trust them implicitly, and they make it so easy to imagine how everything would feel to my own skin.

This is an at-home, after-dark read. It will have you sweating and squirming, but also in awe of their closeness and the trust they have in each other. How endless their devotion is. How beautiful this story is. But let's be real, I'm also thinking about how fun their next round with this plant could be now that they're on the same page. Next time, with the walls completely down, they are going to have the most pleasurable night of their life for the rest of their lives.

Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy, omens_for_ophelia

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #fanfic rec #aziracrow #good omens fic rec #aziraphale x crowley #creature of mine #ineffabildaddy #omens_for_ophelia #medium #five flames #sex pollen #canon au #snake crowley #naga crowley

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harlowhockeystick · 1 month

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Hello! For the poetry prompts, could you please write 28 for Brock Boeser? ❤️

"i thought it was just goodbye for now" | poetic prompts | warnings: situationship, cuss words, may or may not be based on a real life situation involving someone named j, maybe idk

you swear, the next time he rolls his eyes you were going to throw your phone into the wall. he was so good at making you mad and pushing your buttons, over and over. he knew just exactly how to get you pissed off and he loved to do it.

"brock you know that we were never exclusive, and we were never going to go anywhere." he sits with his arms crossed and his lips pursed together.

he came to you, thirty minutes ago now, pissed off that you were talking with another man. he claimed that he thought you guys were going somewhere and that you were going to have a relationship at some point.

at some point.

"but-"

"no! i gave you plenty of chances. we hung out more than enough times- i even helped decorate your house, brock! that's what couples do." taking a sip of your drink you held onto, watching as his muscles stayed tense and your palms began to sweat. he wasn't going to back down any time soon.

"i just don't think it's fair. you do all this shit with me, the whole time you're talking to someone else? thought you liked me." his voice stayed low in tone, he didn't want the whole bar to hear your conversation, he still had some dignity and respect for you.

"brock you're not hearing me. i gave you chances to make it up to me, i gave you more than enough. i wanted so badly for you to ask me to go out with you, to go on a date, to do boyfriend and girlfriend stuff. but i told you goodbye weeks ago, so you don't have any reason to be mad at me."

"i thought it was just goodbye for now, not forever." he was too ashamed to make eye contact now. he finished his cocktail and tapped the table, staring at the glossy finish on the wood.

"grow up brock. then maybe, maybe, i'll reconsider."

#j's writing #brock boeser #brock boeser imagine #brock boeser x reader #brock boeser blurb #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #hockey imagine #hockey x reader

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meret118 · 1 year

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In 1976, when prolific writer, activist and self-described Black lesbian mother warrior poet Audre Lorde published her seminal poetry collection, Coal, the world wide web was still 17 years away from becoming a public-facing invention, and the platform of podcasting hadn’t even been dreamt up yet. The volume established her as a champion for women, Blackness, queerness and equity in the explosive 1970s Black Arts Movement—other works to come, like Sister Outsider, positioned Lorde as a justice-demanding mouthpiece for people who’d been shoved into the crosshairs of marginalization.

She was highly quotable and, in recent years as discussions about mental health and the prioritization of personal peace have become more frequent and fervent, one of her most notable lines of writing has become its own celebrity: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” From that sentence, knit into the reflective context of A Burst of Light, Lorde’s award-winning contemplation on the healthcare system and the cancer that had invaded her body, the concept of “self-care” was popularized and made real.

“We noticed that in the public discourse, particularly in media and social media, there are several Black feminist terms, ideas and practices floating around,” says Klingenberg, a curator of Black music and entertainment in the museum’s division of cultural and community life, in an interview after the series debuted earlier this year. “But they’re always disconnected from the Black feminist thinkers who created them, the context in which they were created, and in some instances, from the very meaning that the original creators were thinking of when they created them.”

Like many terms that originate in the canon of Black art and thought, self-care has been swallowed into a vortex of mainstream overuse and lack of attribution.

. . .

In 1977, the women of the Combahee River Collective released a groundbreaking statement “defining and clarifying” the politics of Black feminism. It was also arguably the first time that the phrase “identity politics” would appear, and Smith is credited with coining the term.“We were not saying that we were superior to any other groups of oppressed people,” says Smith in the podcast. “We were not being a vanguard. We did not think that we were the only people on Earth who were oppressed. We just wanted to assert that unlike the women’s movement and unlike the Black liberation movement at that time, that there was a particular set of situations, circumstances and experiences and oppressions that Black women experienced, and that we needed to deal with those. And that’s what we meant by identity politics.”

More at the link, including the podcasts.

#Feminism #Black #Poc

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onewholivesinloops · 11 months

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one of my favorite aspects of rika is the way her main coping mechanism is really just dissociation, trying to disconnect herself from her feelings and surroundings (she stops being an actress on the stage in the play that is real life and becomes a witch, so to speak), indulging in alcohol, and laughing at every tragedy bc at this point it's so comical how tragic her life is it's kinda funny, and her pain is something she doesn't want to show to anyone, which is why she hides it all behind the pretty and perfect mask of the silly mii nipah faito oh nanodesu girl despite her bitterness and apathy for a world that has constantly failed and traumatized her so her grief, pain and frustrations are things she only ever expresses through her poems (gay ass nerd) and her true self is something she only ever reveals in poetry (though her mask does fall off in many other situations bc she’s just a mentally ill child at the end of the day), distancing herself further from her reality, which is an aspect explored even further with beatrice in umineko

#higurashi

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comic-sans-chan · 1 year

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doomsday garashir scenario where andy's old episode idea about garak writing passionate love poetry about julian was actually a real thing that happened in the show and one day one of garak's enemies manages to find it deep in his encrypted computer and is like ''lmfao ok not what i was hoping for, but this'll do'' and releases it onto the public servers so every padd and screen on the station is broadcasting the poetry and garak's whole reaction is just... ''i have to kill every cardassian i have ever met''

meanwhile julian is getting Stares and Pointed Fingers and Laughter and does not know how to handle the situation At All, but finally he manages to find a quiet part of the station to hide out and shuffle through all the beautiful poems about him and process everything, and comes to the profound, life-shaking realization that he has to fuck that old man until he can't walk.

so julian goes chasing garak all over the station while garak is on a single-minded lizard murder mission and it's some looney toons ass shit with julian popping out of corridors like "HA I FOUND YOU" and garak is like "NO DOCTOR I CAN'T BE REJECTED RIGHT NOW, I HAVE TO KILL PEOPLE" and runs away and this goes on for just. days.

#my posts #garashir shitposting

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mangledmouth · 3 months

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SEVEN YEARS OF POETRY IN A BOOK

HELLO ALL! I've been working on this project for a while; copying a lot of poems from my blog that had broken formatting from the old days, collecting the ones that I was the proudest of, adding in a number of poems from the archives that never saw the light before; and the result is this, DETRANSFORMATION, an extremely transgender anthology of forty-nine poems, which is 7x7, which I literally only realized now. What can I say, I went for quality over quantity over the years.

Do you like horror movies? Fairy tales? Complicated feelings about Lovecraft? Do you have familial trauma? Depression? Long slow years of regaining life? Do you like it when poems are about a specific ass situation? Do I ever have the loosely grouped into five sections that create an arc that's about 7x as clear in real life poetry ebook for you!

Gumroad was the easiest platform to upload to, and set a 'pay what you want' price of $1 and up; I wanted to prioritize people being able to read it if they want, with room to be more generous if you feel like it and can afford it. If you don't/don't want to use Gumroad, or want me to get the money without Gumroad fees, I've done my best to make the thank-you email for my Ko-fi a link to download the epub; the base price of a 'coffee' is 1$, so you can set your own price from there on up. This is my first attempt at both making and distributing an epub, so if anything is broken or inaccessible you can get in touch with me on here. If all else fails I will literally email it to you. I will convert it as needed. We will make this work.

that's it! I wrote a lot of poems and put them together (and made the cover! look at it it turned out so good!) and I hope you check them out. 🪦💚

#poetry #poets on tumblr #I feel a bit bad for putting poems in a book when they're still broken on here #but tumblr's formatting has been so frustrating for posting stuff #i didn't have the energy to tackle fixing them all yet #and I did make the book cost basically nothing lol #I will try and get back and start fixing formatting on the old broken ones sometime #but for the moment if you wanna support me/get some old and new poems I appreciate it!!

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rosewaterandivy · 9 months

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10. a kiss is not enough

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

W.C.: 4.5K

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, sexual situations - SMUT & idolatry (my usual bullshit), real-talk with Nancy Wheeler, idiots still being idiots, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.

A/N: Holy shit, I can't believe we've come to the end (or is it 👀) of this series! When I started this, I had no clue how many people would respond to Trouble and Steve's idiots-to-lovers story - but I'm so glad that they did! This series will always be near and dear to my heart, for a variety of reasons, but primarily for the people it brought into my life (here's lookin' at you, babe!). This isn't a goodbye from Trouble and Steve so much as a see you later - don't hate me too much! Poetry excerpt from John Keats. 18+ mature content (minors dni). Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, please let me know what you thought; enjoy & thanks for reading! 💜

series masterlist | playlist - newly updated!

Trouble’s playlist from Steve: trouble will find me

Steve's playlist from Trouble: rebel without a clue

previous || epilogue

Now, May, Finals Week

“Just think about it, kid,” Hopper says on his way out your classroom door. He’d requested a meeting during your conference block, when normally he’d amble in under some pretense just to shoot the shit.

You nod, at a loss for words. It’s not like you needed yet another thing on your plate— waiting to hear back from admissions and not spilling to Steve or the gang was bad enough.

Yeah, you’d applied for grad school (even though grad students were the worst) and Hop had been contacted as a reference, which prompted his little visit today. Apparently, the district had approved a stipend and sabbatical for faculty furthering their education in graduate school.

“I’d like to recommend you,” Hop said matter of factly, sitting in a desk across from yours. “Maybe not for the sabbatical until you’re further along in the program, writing your thesis and whatnot.”

“I, uh–” you stumbled to find the words. “Cart, horse. I haven’t been accepted yet.”

He leveled you with a look, “Are you shittin’ me? Of course you’re getting in.”

You swallowed audibly and busied yourself emptying your desk for the summer, “Well, time will tell I suppose.”

“This isn’t—” Hopper paused in thought. “This isn’t about Harrington, is it?”

“Huh,” you nearly yelled, clutching the cardboard box for dear life. You had been so careful too.

He cracks a smile, “I saw the pair of you at graduation, you think you’re so slick.”

That brings a smile to your face, good ol’ Hop sussing out the goings on like he’d never left the force.

“It’s nothing.” You assure him, “We haven’t— We’re professionals, okay?”

“I know,” he nods, voice lowering as if he could spook you. “I’m happy for you, really.”

A small smile breaks across your face, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

Finals done and grades posted, you’d never been so happy to get home. Had plans to pour yourself onto the couch and not move for 72 hours.

But life (and Steve) had other plans.

He was sorting through the mail, chucking envelopes into various piles on the countertop. The loft was quiet that afternoon— Eddie had a gig in Indy that evening and Robin was crashing at Vickie’s for the night. Steve hummed a tune to himself, the occasional slap of paper hitting the granite punctuating it.

“Oh hey,” Steve turns with a large envelope in hand, “This looks important.” Tosses it with freakish accuracy, the white paper landing with a thwack where your shorts had ridden up against your thigh.

Distracted by whatever drama was unfolding on TV— something about a crew working on chartered private boats— you mindlessly slip your thumb beneath the lip of the envelope and tear it open.

It’s only once you’ve pulled the papers from it that you glance to see what’s what. The university’s crest shines like a beacon, your thumb worrying over the topmost letter. Steve, the bastard, has stopped his mail sorting and turned toward you.

He leans lazily against the counter, a knowing smirk fixed on his lips. You scramble up from the couch with the papers, too nervous to see for yourself. “Here,” you say, thrusting the envelope and documents to his chest. “Can you—”

Pulling you to his chest with an arm, he brushes his lips against the crown of your head. “Sure, honey.” You wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest— warm and familiar.

“You know,” he drawls, “The big envelope generally means something good, right?”

“I know,” muffled against his shirt.

He chuckles, hand coming up to cradle your head. Steve clears his throat, reads the opening of the letter in his best announcer voice. “Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that…”

The rest is drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears, the tears pooling in your eyes breaking free to cascade down your cheeks. He squeezes you tight abandoning the acceptance letter and letting it flutter to the floor in favor of drawing you closer. Steve kisses you, licking your own tears into your mouth, your taste onto your tongue. And it’s so weirdly hot that your heart starts fluttering again, like you’re seeing him for the first time.

Because of course, just as things were going right something had to come and throw a wrench into things.

Plans for lazing in the early summer forgotten, the next few days saw you coming and going from the university campus for orientation, meetings with faculty, so on and so forth. As you were leaving the grad student mixer, a professor peeled off from a group of faculty to flag you down with a call of your name.

You turn, not recognizing them from the English department. She’s an older woman, has maybe a few years on your mother, and is swathed in a lovely linen dress— the cool elegance of minimalist style.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Holland,” she says shaking your hand. “I’m on the admissions committee and was very impressed with your work on Dante Alighieri.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“And you studied Italian as an undergrad?”

“Certo.”

That brings a smile to her face. “Perfetto,” she says with a perfect Italian accent and waves over another faculty member. “I only ask because there’s a summer intensive in Italy beginning next week that I think you’d be perfect for.”

Your mind reels. The new professor introduces himself and echoes Dr. Holland’s sentiments— a summer session of classes in Italy, in partnership with Università di Bologna, the oldest university in operation in the world. Scholarships that would cover the cost of tuition, travel, and accommodations for you to peruse.

What the fuck.

Vision swimming, you somehow come back to the conversation at hand. Dr. Holland presses a folder to your hand, “I know you were planning on taking the introductory grad school courses over the summer, but I hope you’ll consider joining us in Italy instead.”

You nod, gobsmacked and make your way to the car. Settling into the sweltering seat, you start the car and call Nancy. If anyone would know what to say in this situation, it would be her.

“That’s the thing,” you sigh, wine glass in hand as you slump on Nancy’s couch. “We’re not anything, haven’t discussed it. I mean, sure, we fuck like rabbits, but aside from that?”

She blows a raspberry and sips from her glass. “He’s in love with you, get over it.”

You jerk up, “Okay, maybe,” you allow. “But he hasn’t said anything.”

“And you won’t pony up to do it yourself?”

A scoff as you drain your glass. “I’m sorry, have you met me?”

Nancy laughs at that, loud and bright. “Unfortunately, yes!” She refills your glass before continuing, “Let’s be honest, you’re both hopeless when it comes to eachother.” She raises her brow before you can balk, “Full offense intended.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She hums at that, head cocked to the side in thought. Her nail taps against the glass with a soft clink. A bite to her lips before she heaves a sigh, “Sometimes he just needs a push.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I am absolutely not telling him he’s bullshit, if that’s what you’re after.”

Nancy, to her credit, winces uncomfortably at the memory. “No, no,” a shake of her head. “Absolutely not, you would never.” She sets her glass down carefully, giving you her full attention. “What I’m getting at is this: do you want to be something with Steve?”

She lets the question hang in the air between you.

“Because if you don’t know Trouble, you should back away now.” A low warning tone. “You’re it for him, have been since he laid eyes on you, but you’re both too scared to do anything about it.”

You drain your glass to the dregs and hastily take your leave. At the sound of the door closing, Nancy grabs her phone and brings it to her ear, “Hey Harrington, I need a favor…”

Returning from a less than helpful hang session at Nancy’s, you find a post-it note left on your bedroom, door that reads ‘meet me at our spot on lover’s lake. - s.’

Prizing it from the wood grain, you make your way back to the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat, in an effort to soak up the remnants of wine in your system. Opening the fridge you spy another post-it stuck to the topmost shelf: ‘get your ass down here, i’ll feed you soon enough. - s.’

With a laugh, you let the fridge door fall shut and grab your keys.

He can see you now, just barley, even in the indigo dark. Wonders to himself, how are you even real? How is it that you’re mine? An explanation that won’t ever come.

You slip into the cool water of Lover’s Lake like a dream, with nary a sound. Steve stumbles after you on the piles of clothing you’d left behind—bunched up denim shorts here, a threadbare tank-top over there, the silk of your thong musky and damp.

Fisting his shirt to pull it up and over his head, it falls to the forest floor behind him, jeans shucked off and tossed elsewhere, boxers joining your lingerie by the shore. His patience is wearing thin as you wade further and further from him out into the lake.

Little minx, he smiles and takes a breath before diving beneath the waves. Arms cutting through the placid water at a quick pace until he’s occupying the space between your bare legs, and coming up for air.

One arm drags you near, lazily pressing you close, tight around the small of your back as the tide breaks around your waist, minute movements almost imperceptible— the slow roll of your hips against his.

Water shallow enough to tread and keep you buoyant. Steve kisses you slow and sweet, pulling you flush against his chest while you writhe under the water’s surface. Body slick and wanton and arching into his own.

His dick jumps when you lift yourself to drape your arms around his shoulders. A sharp breath replaced with a shaky exhale as he brings his forehead to rest on yours, dark eyes taking in the exhilarated flush of your body.

And Steve knows, under his skin and tucked into the cage of his ribs, near the beating of his anguished heart, that you’re the only thing left in this world worth worshipping. To keep you, and render you a flightless bird, to clip your wings, would be all for naught.

He has to let you go again, and so soon after you found him. From perihelion to aphelion before the moon’s full turning. The soft curve of your throat drawn taut as you glance upward, marvelling at the stars and planets in the northern sky.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Your voice is a husk, low and hoarse, in the dark. “Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness.” Your eyes, once fixed on the sea of stars above, shift to him once more.

Closer to the shoreline now, and unbeknownst to you, Steve had gently waded you both inshore, until he could draw you toward the dock.

You let him walk you back until you’re flush against a mooring pole, wood rough against your moon-bathed skin. Body yielding to him as both his hands slide beneath your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass before he pulls you forward by the hips.

“S’okay, honey,” He mutters—right into your panting mouth with a sultry pull of his lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Steve,” You gasp, “This is unfair.” Your body jerks with every teasing kiss from his lips that he laves and sucks to the column of your throat.

He ignores you, crawling his hands onto your hips to keep you from squirming. Works his thigh in between your legs for good measure. Once you’re settled, he moves one hand to your center a finger trailing up and down your slippery folds. His mouth latches onto the spot that makes you keen, just behind your ear. You fist his hair in both hands at the same time he slips a digit inside.

But Steve doesn’t move. Other than his tongue’s soft licks on your neck and into your kiss-bitten mouth, he doesn’t move at all. He happily lets his finger rest inside of you, gathering your juices all over his hand.

You whimper, trying to shimmy against them, anything to create more contact. Its intrusion lights a terrible match inside of your body, and goddamn it, you want to a forest fire.

Calming breaths in and out. Steady head, steady heart. When you’re able to meet his gaze again, you take a moment to see him as he truly is: dappled in moonlight, forelock hanging in front of his eyes, his entire focus trained on you.

It feels like an eternity passes before he finally lets you have another—adding one more thick finger inside, stretching you as he moves them both around, curling them, scissoring them, pumping them in and out.

Steve sucks enthusiastically on your sensitive skin and lips, fucks you with two fingers almost wildly, and your body responds with fervor. You gasp and moan, arching back into his hand, goosebumps blooming all over your shoulders and down your arms and legs.

You shake like a leaf in his arms, not knowing if it’s from the cool night air or due to the man before you.

Instead of increasing his pace, Steve continues to stroke you with his fingers, slowly prodding at your entrance with a third. Your eyes roll back and get lost in your head as you lean back with a whimper.

“Just trying to get you ready.” He murmurs, so soft and low that your heart stills.

Your legs wrap around his back loosely as he holds you still, his previous two fingers pushing inside gently. The third finger meets resistance as you tense up. “S-sorry,” You whisper, “I’m…”

Your head knocks back against the wooden pier. But you move his hand back and try again. He’s so tender and sweet with you as he turns his head to place kisses on your cheek and ear.

You blink owlishly, trying desperately to weave your threads of thought together. A shake of your head to rattle them loose. A sweet smile up to Steve, a barely there kiss to his lips.

Your eyelids are heavy, breaths heaving from your chest. Steve commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you.

You gasp and moan, arching your chest into his and pulled as taut as a bow sting—back forming a crescent-shaped arc, a sliver of the moon radiant in the inky blue reflection of the water.

“C’mon, that’s it, honey. You’re so close. Almost there… Good girl… Good girl.”

With a cry, you come undone, rolling your hips every which way as you reach orgasm on Steve’s hand. His voice continues to praise you, lips kissing your sweat-slicked collar, bristles on his cheek and jaw tickling your sensitive skin.

Coming back to yourself, you shiver bodily. And Steve looks at you as if you hold infinities in the palms your hands.

You reach for him reverently, desperate for his shape of beauty and noble nature. A dream realized, a wish granted, gentle and true. You feel brave enough to shift and stroke him with determination.

You whisper, "Missed you," eliciting a shudder from him as your palm grips him tenderly.

Relishing in the temperature of his body, you sigh. Spreading the beaded precome at the tip of his cock up and down his shaft. Steve groans, head falling to yours.

“Missed you more,” He hums, eyes heavy-lidded and lustful.

Gasping as Steve guides your hips with one hand, and grips himself with the other. Slowly and without haste, he fills you inch by inch until he’s so deep inside you think he could burst from your throat.

You whimper. There aren’t enough words to describe it— the gratifying sting, an all-encompassing and chilling burn, a mystifying and utter fullness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. You’re fearful to move, to lose this sensation, and afraid to feel what comes next. But you know that you want it.

Steve kisses your lips tenderly, babbling praise, whispering affirmations, soothing the shock that surges up your spine with his warm palm. Slowly, he rocks you back, as water lapping against your thighs, holds onto your body with one hand, smoothing the hair that falls over your face with the other.

You’re gripping him so tightly it takes some effort to slide even an inch of him out— and there’s many inches of him. Sweat collects on your brow as you grind, dragging against his length, forcing shudders to course all over both your bodies. “Is this okay?” you cry, delirious, “Steve? You feel so good.”

He moves in you, like a prayer.

A groan escapes him as his hand squeezes your back just a little too hard. He’s holding back, trying to prolong your pleasure, but his own is chasing him down, only a few steps away from pouncing.

You coax it towards him with faster snapping of your hips against his, clawing at his back, nibbling on his ear. “Come on, lover… just a little more.”

With a grunt and a shudder, and a hard kiss to your lips that makes your teeth clack against each other, Steve thrusts one last time as deeply as possible, riding out his orgasm as he pulls your hips against his.

The two of you feel rooted together, sticky with sweat and so tightly flushed that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. Your body slumps as you drape your arms over his neck. Steve turns his head to kiss your shoulder before making the effort to pull away, your shaky legs held in his secure grasp.

The black slik of night gives way to the earth’s rotation, stars and moon bending to the will of gravity. Splashes in its silent, dark depths as you broach the shore. A little shaky on your feet, but he’s close behind, sultry and brilliant like the summer morning quickly approaching.

Whispers and murmurs tucked between fervent kisses as you dress. Fabric sticking to damp skin as his hands roam. Frenetic movements as he backs you up against the car, the coolness of it causing you to shiver.

“You should do it,” he rasps against your lips. “The Italy thing, you always loved it there.”

“How did you–” you sputter.

You can’t see him roll his eyes, but you just know. “Nance, who else?”

The warmth of Steve’s body burns against you, a hand threading through your hair half-convinced the moon is hiding there, hanging like a jewel in the night. And you’re a mess when you kiss him. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive.

In that moment, you love him but can’t tell him, not yet. You decide the sun that will kiss freckles to his face will do it for you.

The song of summer sings out as you load your suitcase into Nancy’s car a few days later. The trunk slams closed and your back is pressed against his chest, his arm hanging casually around your collar. It is the end of May, the first bloom of summer balmy on your skin.

Steve had not taken the news of Nancy driving you to the airport well.

At all.

A sponged necklace of kisses to your throat as the light creeps in. Sheets kicked to the edge of the bed so you’re tangled up in him. Skin already glinting gold in the summer sun. Twisting in his hold, desperate to glance at the time. “Steve,” muffled against the heft of his shoulder, “I gotta go, Nance will be here soon.”

The turn of his weight bearing down, trapping your body under his. A cruel circle of his hips has you shuddering. His breath ghosts along your skin, “Baby, baby please.” Nose trailing down from your sternum to the swell of your stomach. Pausing there for lips to lave kisses on the curves that trailed to your hips.

Eyes dark and heady with promise, “Just a taste.” Lips and mouth delving lower now, fingers parting the cleave of your cunt with a squelch. He hooks them back into his mouth with a groan. “Mmm,” he slurs, drunk off your arousal. “You taste good, sweetheart,” His nose bumps against your clit, “Like honey.”

Breath stuttering in the cage of your ribs, you fist his hair in one hand and tug. Steve moans overtly, pupils blown wide while he’s face deep in pussy. “Steve,” Your voice trembles. He glances up, smoldering and glorious, drinking you up. “Ah—fuck,” before you’re overtaken again.

You’re desperate, and he can hear it in your voice. A quiver in your throat, you swallow thickly mouth falling open in a pant. His fingers work into you easily, dragging exquisitely along your channel—warm and wet, only growing more so with every thrust of his hand. You mewl, hips bucking up as he sucks your swollen clit.

Legs thrown over his shoulders, as he cants your pelvis forward, arm heavy against your stomach to bully you in place. “Sweet girl,” He coos, lips ruddy and wet with your slick. “Doin’ so well for me.” You shiver in his hold, sunbeams hazy with orange glow, the refracting light makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then you feel something pulled taut in your belly. A chord stretching like a rubber band before it snaps. The wind up is excruciating, Steve’s litany of devotions falling in hushed murmurs from his lips. His fingers plunging up into the chasm between your legs, pulling away wetter each time.

He bends back down, tongue circling your clit at a dizzying pace. A third finger slides in impossibly, a keen igniting from your throat—high and whimpering. God, you’re so close. You babble, hands scrambling purchase against his dewy skin.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

“Oh my god,” you thrash on the bed, hair sticking to the sheen of your face, hanging on by a thread as his fingers drive into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Steve promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your lust-addled brain, the telltale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of your cunt— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time.

“Stevie,” you mewl, “Steve.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

You drily sob out something broken, a tiny echo of affirmation as he keeps fucking into you like he could break through. He’s really abused your pussy this morning, maybe gone too far, but every time you come like this, it’s like he’s seeing something holy.

“Oh my god…!” It’s a small shout as you shatter, and it makes Steve’s spine light up as you rub your face further into the pillow.

“Praying to me, sweetheart?” but doesn’t stop those tiny, hard circles, doesn’t stop melting into your body, his dick pulsing as he ruts against the sheets. “You can keep doing that,” he urges, “I like that.”

So, you’re not surprised when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished breakfast, as predicted, in a terrible disarray, and Robin crosses herself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”

On the couch, Eddie clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his ring-clad fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.”

As much as you tried to tell yourself that this wasn’t goodbye but instead see you soon, it didn’t stick. But the ache in your gut did—low and menacing, growling like an animal.

Eddie and Robin were easy, promises to stay in touch and bring back the best candy. Your parents were less so, tight hugs and dried tears on cheeks.

Steve, however, you needed to brace yourself for. Short of chaining yourself to Nancy’s car, you weren’t sure how you’d escape with your dignity intact. He was already kissing on you, soft and sweet, as Nancy slid into the driver’s seat while Eddie and Robin waved goodbye walking back inside.

You slip from his grasp in a flash, pulling him by the belt loops to knock hips. “Stevie, lover mine,” you sing, his palms cupping your ass as his hands slide into your back pockets.

Lover.

What a word.

You think about it every waking second—the way he stretches in the morning, how he sings in the shower, dances in the kitchen, smiles and beams at anyone who passes by—how good he is.

How you love him.

“Mm—” raspy, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Feet walking you closer and closer and you’re pressed against him. Nosing along the column of his neck, nipping at the delicate skin there, watching as his throat bobs when he swallows.

Hands free themselves from denim confines, a thumb caresses the small of your back. Steve pries your hand from his chest, and brings it to his mouth, placing a tender kiss against your palm.

You hum as his lips brush your skin, observing as he meanders to the thin flesh of your wrist. Hazel eyes near golden in the morning sun as Steve looks to you, face open and fond. Lips featherlight when they kiss your thundering pulse.

Only then do you start to break.

You thought you were prepared. But it steals the breath from your lungs, levelling you to ruin, a creeping sense of hopelessness in its wake.

He’s quick to notice, crushing you to his chest and hand cradling your head. Soothing murmurs of “S’okay honey, we’ll be alright,” and the rasp of your name. Fingers brushing hair from your face with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And it is hard to leave him, but you can do difficult things.

Forehead bent to yours, back warm in the sun’s decorous rays, a searing tear-laden kiss and you’re off. Turned back in your seat to see him recede in the distance until he’s a mere speck on the horizon as Nancy tugs you forward.

All the goodbyes had all been said, save one thing lodged in the depths of your throat.

I love you.

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