flashing and beeping in forty different colours...
For one moment/I wish you'd hold your stage/With no feelings at all/Open-minded/I'm sure I used to be so free...
His white and matchless nudity gleams against a background of dusk. His muscular arms...accustomed to the wielding of a sword, are raised at a graceful angle, and his bound wrists are crossed over his head. His face is turned slightly upward and his eyes are open wide, gazing with profound tranquilty upon the glory of heaven. It is not pain that hovers about his straining chest, his slightly contorted hips, but some flicker of melancholy pleasure like music. Were it not for the arrows with their shafts deeply sunk into his left armpit and right side, he would seem more like a Roman athlete resting from fatigue, resting against a dusky tree in a garden.
These autumn beasts crouch in a hush, each to each, their long golden fur radiant in the sunset. Unmoving, like statues set in place, they wait with lifted heads until the last rays of the day sink into the apple trees. When finally the sun is gone and the gloom of night draws over them, the beasts lower their heads, laying their one white horn to earth, and close their eyes.
So comes to an end one day in the Town.
There wasn't a speck of mail in the mailbox. Nor any message on the answer machine. No one had any business with me, it seemed. Fine. I had no business with anyone else either. I took some ice out of the freezer, poured myself a large quantity of whiskey, and added a splash of soda. Then I got undressed and crawled under the covers, sat up in bed and sipped my drink. I felt like I was going to fade out any second, but I had to allow myself this luxury. A ritual interlude I like so much between the time I get into bed and the time I fall asleep. Having a drink in bed whilst listening to music and reading a book. As precious to me as a beautiful sunset or good clean air.
I am one thing, my writings are another. - Here, before I speak of these writings themselves, I shall touch on the question of their being understood or not understood. My time has not yet come, some are born posthumously. - One day or other institutions will be needed in which people live and teach as I understand living and teaching: perhaps even chairs for the interpretation of Zarathustra will be established. But it would be a complete contradiction of myself if I expected ears and hands for my truths already today: that I am not heard today, that no one today knows how to take from me, is not only comprehensible; it even seems to me right.
Renti threw his head up and whinnied, as if the excitement was catching. He broke into an uneven trot beside Ludo, and they both ran across the grass in the track of the chariot's wheels. As they ran Ludo caught a glimpse of the great Ram, in the midst of a flock of white and golden lambs, busily playing King-of-the-Castle. He was poised on top of a flowery knoll, with the lambs bouncing and frisking all round him. Then a very small lamb jumped up beside him and gave him a push easily strong enough to dislodge a butterfly from a flower, and golden Chrysomallion leaped down, to be overwhelmed by the crowd of lambs skipping and jostling like boiling soapsuds.
"So what do I have to do?"
"Dance," said the Sheep Man. "Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Don'teventhinkwhy. Starttothink, yourfeetstop. yourfeetstop, wegetstuck.Wegetstuck, you'restuck. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Youggottaloseallyougot. Weknowyou'retired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon'tletyourfeetstop."
I looked up and gazed again at the shadow on the wall.
"Dancingiseverything," continued the Sheep Man. "Danceintip-topform. Dancesoitallkeepsspinning. Ifyoudothat, wemightbeabletodosomethingforyou. Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays."
Muse - Citizen Erased
Yukio Mishima - Confessions of a Mask
Haruki Murakami - Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World
Friedrich Nietzsche - Ecce Homo
Mary Stewart - Ludo and the Star Horse
Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance
ART: Sherlock Holmes, in Benedict Cumberbatch form
The girl has now finished her Sherlock painting. Here is a picture of it that does not do it justice. Also she literally just finished it which is why the black paint is still shiny in places on the right. It's in oils, so it won't be properly dry for months, but hey. LOOK AT IT <3
( A world of amaze...Collapse )
As ever you can find the girl at The Mymble's Daughter, should you ever want to XD
Oh, not-that-interesting, First Class 'deleted scene'...copy of call sheet for filming, I has it, it has details of an extra scene with Erik arriving at the airport in Argentina, and some odds and ends at the end, including shooting locations etc for pick-up "Hank rips his trouser leg". All good fun. I happen to love these things in a "I wonder how many people with fire extinguishers they had on set" kind of way, so, for the sharing:
( 2 pages, my very crap scansCollapse )
FIC: Don't Show, Don't Tell, 1/1 NC-17 Charles/Erik
Word Count: 7,800
Warnings: Sex and violence and a lot, lot of talking. BDSM, blood, lashing, the works. And smoking.
Summary: Erik is too nice in bed, Charles wishes he would embody his rougher, darker fantasies, whilst somewhere nondescript on the mutant-collecting world tour he goes entirely the wrong way about trying to get him to do so, everything comes out in the wash and there's a happy ending.
Disclaimer: I stole these characters to fuck with. I'm not sorry. But they're not mine.
A/N: Started out with this prompt at the kink meme, went on from there. It's a lot of kerfuffle for a short payoff, and, despite the warnings, it is very much meant to be quite nice actually. This is like my very best nice!Erik. Honest.
( Don't Show, Don't Tell 1/1Collapse )