"Compared to us—compared to you—the mountains have been here forever; they’ll be here after. Go ahead: let yourself sink. I’ll be right here after, too."
(This is totally a berserkerblancmange pastiche.)

"Compared to us—compared to you—the mountains have been here forever; they’ll be here after. Go ahead: let yourself sink. I’ll be right here after, too."

(This is totally a berserkerblancmange pastiche.)

(via bzork)

With these words Diocletian was much angry and wroth, and commanded him to be led to the field and there to be bounden to a stake for to be shot at. And the archers shot at him till he was as full of arrows as an urchin is full of pricks, and thus left him there for dead.
—The GOLDEN LEGEND or LIVES of the SAINTS. Compiled by Jacobus de Voragine, Archbishop of Genoa, 1275 First Edition Published 1470, ENGLISHED by WILLIAM CAXTON, First Edition 1483, ed. F.S. Ellis.
The new type of hero favored by this writer and recurring in a variety of his characterizations had been analyzed quite early on: a shrewd critic had explained that this protagonist was the embodiment of “an intellectual and adolescent manliness that, in proud modesty, clenches its teeth and calmly stands there while its flesh is skewered by swords and spears.” That was sharp, glorious, and exact, despite the plainly far-too-passive image. After all, confronting destiny, maintaining grace under torture—these do not betoken merely passive endurance; they are active achievement, positive triumph, and the figure of Saint Sebastian is the finest symbol, if not of art as a whole, then certainly of the art under discussion here.
—Death in Venice, Thoman Mann. Trans. Joachim Neugroschel.

With these words Diocletian was much angry and wroth, and commanded him to be led to the field and there to be bounden to a stake for to be shot at. And the archers shot at him till he was as full of arrows as an urchin is full of pricks, and thus left him there for dead.

—The GOLDEN LEGEND or LIVES of the SAINTS. Compiled by Jacobus de Voragine, Archbishop of Genoa, 1275 First Edition Published 1470, ENGLISHED by WILLIAM CAXTON, First Edition 1483, ed. F.S. Ellis.

The new type of hero favored by this writer and recurring in a variety of his characterizations had been analyzed quite early on: a shrewd critic had explained that this protagonist was the embodiment of “an intellectual and adolescent manliness that, in proud modesty, clenches its teeth and calmly stands there while its flesh is skewered by swords and spears.” That was sharp, glorious, and exact, despite the plainly far-too-passive image. After all, confronting destiny, maintaining grace under torture—these do not betoken merely passive endurance; they are active achievement, positive triumph, and the figure of Saint Sebastian is the finest symbol, if not of art as a whole, then certainly of the art under discussion here.

Death in Venice, Thoman Mann. Trans. Joachim Neugroschel.

(via indeliblyme)

My first instinct was to wonder whether or not Jamie had seen him take the picture. I could just see it, see Jamie lifting his head up and giving that dopey, lopsided grin when he saw Ian’s phone. He would have said something half-douchey, half-endearing—“Yeah, I’m gonna wanna remember this, too!”—and Ian would have shifted his expression as he looked back, put on the same smile (not at all dopey) that he’d no doubt used to get Jamie into bed. 
Or maybe not. Maybe Jamie hadn’t looked up as he’d slid inside (I never had), maybe all of his attention had been focused on that way the impossibly tight ring of bubblegum-pink muscle at Ian’s core was somehow managing to both push back against his dick and welcome it in like that was where it had always been meant to be.
So maybe Ian’s expression had never changed, and maybe he’d looked into the camera like that the whole time. Maybe this hadn’t just been some quick shot to show me how much he didn’t care that someone else was fucking him, taken furtively in that moment when Jamie first pushed his hard dick down between his cheeks. Maybe there were dozens, hundreds, all of Ian looking impassively and listlessly into the camera, waiting for it to end, making it clear that it wasn’t even a chore, wasn’t even an anything. Maybe Jamie never noticed that Ian wasn’t writhing under him, never noticed his torpor. Or maybe he did, and he got off on the passivity, assuming it was Ian somehow being demure, and not apathetic. (Even with my load slathered on his face, he’d always looked so fucking chaste.) Not Ian being just, well, dull and deadened—like the look he’d given me when I’d said for the last time that I didn’t think that what we had was healthy anymore, that I needed to stop seeing him, and that he really should stop fixating on me and try going out with other guys.
Maybe there were more pictures, then. I unzipped my pants, knowing that’s what I had been going to do as soon as I opened the attachment, and knowing that Ian had known that that’s what I’d do, too. Fuck. Maybe there was video.

My first instinct was to wonder whether or not Jamie had seen him take the picture. I could just see it, see Jamie lifting his head up and giving that dopey, lopsided grin when he saw Ian’s phone. He would have said something half-douchey, half-endearing—“Yeah, I’m gonna wanna remember this, too!”—and Ian would have shifted his expression as he looked back, put on the same smile (not at all dopey) that he’d no doubt used to get Jamie into bed. 

Or maybe not. Maybe Jamie hadn’t looked up as he’d slid inside (I never had), maybe all of his attention had been focused on that way the impossibly tight ring of bubblegum-pink muscle at Ian’s core was somehow managing to both push back against his dick and welcome it in like that was where it had always been meant to be.

So maybe Ian’s expression had never changed, and maybe he’d looked into the camera like that the whole time. Maybe this hadn’t just been some quick shot to show me how much he didn’t care that someone else was fucking him, taken furtively in that moment when Jamie first pushed his hard dick down between his cheeks. Maybe there were dozens, hundreds, all of Ian looking impassively and listlessly into the camera, waiting for it to end, making it clear that it wasn’t even a chore, wasn’t even an anything. Maybe Jamie never noticed that Ian wasn’t writhing under him, never noticed his torpor. Or maybe he did, and he got off on the passivity, assuming it was Ian somehow being demure, and not apathetic. (Even with my load slathered on his face, he’d always looked so fucking chaste.) Not Ian being just, well, dull and deadened—like the look he’d given me when I’d said for the last time that I didn’t think that what we had was healthy anymore, that I needed to stop seeing him, and that he really should stop fixating on me and try going out with other guys.

Maybe there were more pictures, then. I unzipped my pants, knowing that’s what I had been going to do as soon as I opened the attachment, and knowing that Ian had known that that’s what I’d do, too. Fuck. Maybe there was video.

(via indeliblyd)

asker

Anonymous asked: I just have to say that you're a fucking brilliant writer. Even compared to non-erotic prose. Fucking. Brilliant. How do you manage it? Also, what are you suggestions for fellow writers? I'd love to hear them.

Thanks for the delightful praise, and for such a truly excellent ask! I’m sorry to be so late in getting back to it, but I was vacationing—I have a bunch of other messages to get to, too, and I beg everyone’s patience.

I’m so, so pleased to hear that you think that what I do is good enough to be something that I “manage” to do—it often feels like I’m barely treading water here (and I suspect this fall will be no different), and so that’s a pleasure to read! Note: the advice that follows (below a cut—I’m not cruel) comes with absolutely zero authority other than that it’s what I tell myself.

Read More

It’s a cliche, but willows bend.
The wind comes, and their lithe, slender bodies move with each blow, absorbing them with the familiarity that comes from growing somewhere where they’re constantly being battered, being buffeted. Willows are constantly challenged; they aren’t admired, they don’t stand tall and proud and haughty. No one expects a willow to be strong to begin with, and so when it holds up under the pressure of the harshest gales it’s almost as surprising as it is when other trees, trees everyone else assumes are solid and weathered and above all robust, crack under the same force. There’s never a moment when a willow snaps, when it just breaks clean in two, shattering and splintering and showing you each and every one of its rings at once.
I’ve always preferred oaks, myself.

It’s a cliche, but willows bend.

The wind comes, and their lithe, slender bodies move with each blow, absorbing them with the familiarity that comes from growing somewhere where they’re constantly being battered, being buffeted. Willows are constantly challenged; they aren’t admired, they don’t stand tall and proud and haughty. No one expects a willow to be strong to begin with, and so when it holds up under the pressure of the harshest gales it’s almost as surprising as it is when other trees, trees everyone else assumes are solid and weathered and above all robust, crack under the same force. There’s never a moment when a willow snaps, when it just breaks clean in two, shattering and splintering and showing you each and every one of its rings at once.

I’ve always preferred oaks, myself.

(via trashy-white-cock)

When I came back into the barn, into where I’d left him to finish washing up while I continued sloppin’ the hogs (you don’t wanna know), he was just sitting there, just kinda poking at his skin with the brush. I chuckled.
"They don’t do that, where you’re from? Here."
I squatted down next to the tub, took the brush out of his hands, and started running it over his body, trying not to look at the way it ran over his body. He squirmed at the bristles and gave me a smile. It was his usual smile—the goofy one that was too wide, too happy considering what he was smiling about. Like it was uncalibrated.
"Pa says you can stay. Don’t expect an apology, or nothin’, but you can stay. And don’t mind him. He just doesn’t much care for people who are foreign. Or different." I snorted. "You can trust me on that one." He just kept smiling; it’d only been a few days, but I’d already found I liked talking to him, liked the quiet way he just accepted me, and what I said. Maybe it was ‘cause he didn’t have a damn clue what I was saying, sure, but I liked that when I talked to him he didn’t furrow his brow or purse his lips or nothing, like everybody else in my life did when I opened my mouth. He smiled.
So I was so lost in my own rambling that it took me a few ticks to notice that he wasn’t smiling anymore. I trailed off as I noticed he was looking down, confused-like, at where his dick was rising out of the sudsy patch at his crotch. And then I was looking at it in a different way entirely; it stood up perfect, and straight, and pristine, and golden. And not skin-mag-I-kept-under-the-floorboards perfect, either—mine was bigger—but just plain perfect, really perfect, like the rest of him. 
Yeah, somebody up above had done a damn good job with him.
I hesitated, and then I decided I was done hesitating, for good; when my hand made first contact, when I wrapped my shaking fingers around his warm shaft, he jerked in the tub, but I held on. I felt soapy water splash onto my boots, but I didn’t care. I stroked him, and he keened, and I stroked him some more, and he grabbed onto the sleeve of my Carhartt and tugged as I tugged on him, burying his face in my arm to prevent himself from crying out more loudly. Afterwards I left him panting, happy (maybe I liked him ‘cause he was always just so damn happy?) and smiling again, so I could get back to my chores.
I walked out of the barn. Ma would have dinner ready soon; she was making her famous chicken (I could smell it frying from way down there), and had baked not one but two pies for the occasion. Pa might not’ve been pleased to have him around, but underneath all her mutterin’ about the extra work I knew she was taking special pride in having someone at the table who was able to put away as much of her cooking as three extra farmhands put together—if he hadn’t been asking (well, gesturing) for fourths anyway, I think she would’ve strapped him down and force fed him the rest. I looked up over past the crick, to the ragged gash of dark earth on the hillside where he’d landed, the one that Pa was expecting me to fill in (we’d already buried the ship) if he was gonna stay. It was just one of the jobs that Pa’d set as conditions for keeping him around; the biggest one was making him useful on the farm, but I didn’t mind that, since it meant he was gonna have to follow me around all summer. And he’d have to stay in the barn overnight, too, at least at first—but I’m pretty sure that’d change once I taught him some words, and stopped him from just opening his mouth and screeching and shattering all the glass in a room. Then Pa’d probably have to let him back into the house (it was already busting every one of Ma’s rules to keep a visitor in the barn) and maybe we’d even share a room, and maybe—I’d walked over to the side of the barn and grabbed the shovel, and it wasn’t until I felt the wood of the handle against my skin that I realized my hand was still wet, right where my thumb met my palm.
Yeah, keeping him around was gonna be a lot of work. But it was gonna be worth it.

When I came back into the barn, into where I’d left him to finish washing up while I continued sloppin’ the hogs (you don’t wanna know), he was just sitting there, just kinda poking at his skin with the brush. I chuckled.

"They don’t do that, where you’re from? Here."

I squatted down next to the tub, took the brush out of his hands, and started running it over his body, trying not to look at the way it ran over his body. He squirmed at the bristles and gave me a smile. It was his usual smile—the goofy one that was too wide, too happy considering what he was smiling about. Like it was uncalibrated.

"Pa says you can stay. Don’t expect an apology, or nothin’, but you can stay. And don’t mind him. He just doesn’t much care for people who are foreign. Or different." I snorted. "You can trust me on that one." He just kept smiling; it’d only been a few days, but I’d already found I liked talking to him, liked the quiet way he just accepted me, and what I said. Maybe it was ‘cause he didn’t have a damn clue what I was saying, sure, but I liked that when I talked to him he didn’t furrow his brow or purse his lips or nothing, like everybody else in my life did when I opened my mouth. He smiled.

So I was so lost in my own rambling that it took me a few ticks to notice that he wasn’t smiling anymore. I trailed off as I noticed he was looking down, confused-like, at where his dick was rising out of the sudsy patch at his crotch. And then I was looking at it in a different way entirely; it stood up perfect, and straight, and pristine, and golden. And not skin-mag-I-kept-under-the-floorboards perfect, either—mine was bigger—but just plain perfect, really perfect, like the rest of him.

Yeah, somebody up above had done a damn good job with him.

I hesitated, and then I decided I was done hesitating, for good; when my hand made first contact, when I wrapped my shaking fingers around his warm shaft, he jerked in the tub, but I held on. I felt soapy water splash onto my boots, but I didn’t care. I stroked him, and he keened, and I stroked him some more, and he grabbed onto the sleeve of my Carhartt and tugged as I tugged on him, burying his face in my arm to prevent himself from crying out more loudly. Afterwards I left him panting, happy (maybe I liked him ‘cause he was always just so damn happy?) and smiling again, so I could get back to my chores.

I walked out of the barn. Ma would have dinner ready soon; she was making her famous chicken (I could smell it frying from way down there), and had baked not one but two pies for the occasion. Pa might not’ve been pleased to have him around, but underneath all her mutterin’ about the extra work I knew she was taking special pride in having someone at the table who was able to put away as much of her cooking as three extra farmhands put together—if he hadn’t been asking (well, gesturing) for fourths anyway, I think she would’ve strapped him down and force fed him the rest. I looked up over past the crick, to the ragged gash of dark earth on the hillside where he’d landed, the one that Pa was expecting me to fill in (we’d already buried the ship) if he was gonna stay. It was just one of the jobs that Pa’d set as conditions for keeping him around; the biggest one was making him useful on the farm, but I didn’t mind that, since it meant he was gonna have to follow me around all summer. And he’d have to stay in the barn overnight, too, at least at first—but I’m pretty sure that’d change once I taught him some words, and stopped him from just opening his mouth and screeching and shattering all the glass in a room. Then Pa’d probably have to let him back into the house (it was already busting every one of Ma’s rules to keep a visitor in the barn) and maybe we’d even share a room, and maybe—I’d walked over to the side of the barn and grabbed the shovel, and it wasn’t until I felt the wood of the handle against my skin that I realized my hand was still wet, right where my thumb met my palm.

Yeah, keeping him around was gonna be a lot of work. But it was gonna be worth it.

(via bzork)

bzork:

'But who are these boys?  How do you know them?'
'From school!  They're just these guys, OK?'
'In your year?'
'No, seniors.  
'Hmm.'
'I thought you said I should spend more time with a maturer crowd!'
'Well, I'm not sure that's what I meant.  You've never mentioned them before.'
'We only just started hanging out, OK?  Can't I make new friends?'
'Of course, sweetie, of course.  I just worry.  Maybe I should call their parents just to —'
'Mom!  Stop!  It's just going to be me sleeping over with the guys.  Nothing bad's going to happen.  We're just going to do the same old shi— stuff that we normally do.  Just at night.  Please.  Please, just be cool.’
A long, searching look.  Could she tell?  Could she see right through me?  Could she hear the need in my voice?
She exhaled.  ’No alcohol.  No drugs.  No girls.’
I broke into an easy grin, my heart pounding in my chest.  ’Promise.’
'These seniors better take good care of my baby.'
'They always do, Mom.  They always do.'

bzork:

'But who are these boys?  How do you know them?'

'From school!  They're just these guys, OK?'

'In your year?'

'No, seniors.  

'Hmm.'

'I thought you said I should spend more time with a maturer crowd!'

'Well, I'm not sure that's what I meant.  You've never mentioned them before.'

'We only just started hanging out, OK?  Can't I make new friends?'

'Of course, sweetie, of course.  I just worry.  Maybe I should call their parents just to —'

'Mom!  Stop!  It's just going to be me sleeping over with the guys.  Nothing bad's going to happen.  We're just going to do the same old shi— stuff that we normally do.  Just at night.  Please.  Please, just be cool.’

A long, searching look.  Could she tell?  Could she see right through me?  Could she hear the need in my voice?

She exhaled.  ’No alcohol.  No drugs.  No girls.’

I broke into an easy grin, my heart pounding in my chest.  ’Promise.’

'These seniors better take good care of my baby.'

'They always do, Mom.  They always do.'

"Don’t worry. Just look at the camera—I’m getting some nice shots already.
"You shouldn’t let worry stop you. I mean, think of all the things you were worried about doing that turned out great! You were worried before your first college game, yeah? Worried when you first asked a dude out? Worried when he said yes? I know you aren’t feeling it now, know you’re thinking that there’s no way in hell this is going to end well for you, much less ‘great.’ But you never know, right?
"So you can’t let worrying like that keep you from doing what you want—well, what you need, I guess—to do. You won’t, will you? Won’t let a little worry get between you and and what has to happen? Between you and your big break? Nah—I know you won’t. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I know you can’t.
"Nope, worry’s not gonna hold you back. Worry’s not gonna stand in your way. No, it’s not worry; the only thing between you and your future is that fuckin’ towel."

"Don’t worry. Just look at the camera—I’m getting some nice shots already.

"You shouldn’t let worry stop you. I mean, think of all the things you were worried about doing that turned out great! You were worried before your first college game, yeah? Worried when you first asked a dude out? Worried when he said yes? I know you aren’t feeling it now, know you’re thinking that there’s no way in hell this is going to end well for you, much less ‘great.’ But you never know, right?

"So you can’t let worrying like that keep you from doing what you want—well, what you need, I guess—to do. You won’t, will you? Won’t let a little worry get between you and and what has to happen? Between you and your big break? Nah—I know you won’t. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I know you can’t.

"Nope, worry’s not gonna hold you back. Worry’s not gonna stand in your way. No, it’s not worry; the only thing between you and your future is that fuckin’ towel."

(via brentwalker092)

He probably doesn’t think about it. But then again, he doesn’t think about much of anything he wears; looking sharp—as opposed to looking up worshipfully as he laps at a man’s balls—was never his strong suit. So I’ve helped him with that. I’ve chosen outfits for him, helped him select suits, shirts, his all-important ties. And suspenders.
Like I say, he doesn’t really think about them, I’m sure. And that’s fine; he doesn’t need to; they’re not for him. It’s like having a particularly dashing lining on the inside of a coat, or contrasting stitching on a hidden interior pocket—it’s one of those little touches that no one else sees, that no one else knows about but you. And so when I look at him across the room at a party, and I can see just a hint of his suspenders under his jacket as he twists to reach for a glass of champagne from a tray in the middle of the crowd, it’s like I can catch a flash of my monogram—“M,” for “Mine.”

He probably doesn’t think about it. But then again, he doesn’t think about much of anything he wears; looking sharp—as opposed to looking up worshipfully as he laps at a man’s balls—was never his strong suit. So I’ve helped him with that. I’ve chosen outfits for him, helped him select suits, shirts, his all-important ties. And suspenders.

Like I say, he doesn’t really think about them, I’m sure. And that’s fine; he doesn’t need to; they’re not for him. It’s like having a particularly dashing lining on the inside of a coat, or contrasting stitching on a hidden interior pocket—it’s one of those little touches that no one else sees, that no one else knows about but you. And so when I look at him across the room at a party, and I can see just a hint of his suspenders under his jacket as he twists to reach for a glass of champagne from a tray in the middle of the crowd, it’s like I can catch a flash of my monogram—“M,” for “Mine.”

(via sherlockifyer)

He crawls up out of the tub, catlike (if there were some cat that loved water), slinky and sudsy and seductive. The mirror’s right there, and I know he’s admiring himself, but—well, let’s just say that I have the better view.
I clear my throat, going along with the fiction that he doesn’t yet know I’m there as he preens. “I’d be careful, climbing around all wet like that. You might slip, or fall, and break something.”
"Or I might slip, or fall, and impale my tight ass on your bare dick over and over and over again, until you groan that you can’t resist it anymore and unload your nut in me."
"Well," I say, untying my robe, "93% of accidents do happen in the home."

He crawls up out of the tub, catlike (if there were some cat that loved water), slinky and sudsy and seductive. The mirror’s right there, and I know he’s admiring himself, but—well, let’s just say that I have the better view.

I clear my throat, going along with the fiction that he doesn’t yet know I’m there as he preens. “I’d be careful, climbing around all wet like that. You might slip, or fall, and break something.”

"Or I might slip, or fall, and impale my tight ass on your bare dick over and over and over again, until you groan that you can’t resist it anymore and unload your nut in me."

"Well," I say, untying my robe, "93% of accidents do happen in the home."

(via queer-as-a-clockwork-orange)