katabasis but you get to the underworld via an old tube station staircase
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Claire Keane
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One Nice Bug Per Day
Peter Solarz
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noise dept.
$LAYYYTER
we're not kids anymore.

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@sieforteeardito
katabasis but you get to the underworld via an old tube station staircase
related concept:
To the stars and back (1)
Summary:
A fic so messed up I was unable to sum up.
The rating of this work is Explicit.
Notes:
For @sieforteeardito
Warnings and tags will be updated if necessary.
I was chatting with some of my pals (aka the person tagged) online when I came up with this an inspiration on this fic and whatsoever. The next night I dreamt that I was forced to write General Audiences fics for a whole long night, and, waking with no memory of any sort about what I was writing then, I decided it was enough.
I will complete this, I really will... hopefully.
Again, I don't know what I was writing, and I think there will be a few more chapters...
I'll continue once I have free time, but I reckon that'll take a month or two even, seeing as a ton of workload is coming up...
Chapter 1
A fairly lit-up night it was, and Dante was there, sitting on a random roadside bench. Or maybe not that a random one after all, considering that the bench was under a host tree of mistletoe, and the fact that it was Christmas Eve. A bit weird, sure, because you don’t normally get benches under trees that weren’t splattered with bird shit, so perhaps he just...well, perhaps he simply got lucky.
Sure, luck says a lot. For instance, if he wasn’t one favoured by Fortuna herself, it was unlikely that he could be doing what... well, what he was doing now, and the now to be as in right now. He could feel his hands against Vergil’s thigh, going underneath all the cotton and linen to touch bare skin, to have the literal flesh again flesh. Here they were close enough to feel each other’s warmth. He didn’t know how Vergil would put that, but for him, he drank thirstily from the source of warmth under his fingers and palm. Then there were the subtle flicks of his dainty fingers (well, Vergil had once said it was) over Vergil’s cock, and the flinch of the latter aroused him. Just a slight bit. He wasn’t much of a wanker, and wasn’t particularly planning on being one. No, not at all. Wankers were frequently frowned at and tutted at. For what Dante knew about himself he was no fan of being frowned upon, and nor did he intend to make Vergil one among those receiving those frowns. That just wasn’t it; then again, public hand jobs weren’t much of a great idea to do. It was the mere pleasure he’d get, the pleasure of the thought that he was capable of (yes, it wasn’t completed, but hey, at least there was a high probability of it) making Vergil come in the public, without anyone but them two knowing, that aroused him even more. He felt lightheaded and giddy under the thought, but now was not the time. Again, seeing as this was something that never could have a suitable time, Dante continued nonetheless.
He proceeded on to soothing those tiny wrinkles on the balls under his hands. He could feel Vergil’s continued weak shudders. Feeling the precum on his hands, he fervently pumped his hands, back and forth and under the small folds, enough for Vergil to scream silently with pleasure and hide himself further underneath the collars of his own coat, but not too obvious that no one nearby could spot the difference; indeed, he looked indifferent as ever, yet deep down he was desperate to prove that he was not only a match for his companion but superior even despite the age gap. The stars shone on the horizon where it belonged, and come splashed onto his hands, icy as expected, just as the night was.
Why’d the stars shine every single night whenever there was a lack of clouds, Dante had no idea-- in fact, he could remember how he’d first met Vergil under those very stars, them looming over his sins, atoned or not. But then it felt so much like a dream, with Vergil denying that they’d never met how Dante thought it, that he himself had started to doubt it, too.
That night alone was sweet, and time sweetened it even more. Dante often lost his ways, thus he retraced his ways, yet with a wrong turn somewhere in midst of the woven web of a pathway he ended up in a tiny, damp dark lane, surrounded with walls or whatever-it-was.
And there Vergil was, standing in the middle of the crossed pathways, taking a view of the celestial bodies atop them, perhaps other bodies aside those stellar lights that were reflected once again in his pupils. Dante doubted he could find any a thing. About roughly what felt like an eternity Dante gazed, too at the stars, then back to Vergil, which, judging by his position, could reveal only what was about the looks of a fair-looking side view of an eye, and the softer-looking brow that arched atop it, with what was left under the dark coloured locks of his. Still it was stunning, and somewhere underneath he could feel the burn in him, the chill from the northerly winds blowing churning under his skin, in his veins.
He had known well from his fellow neighbours, that who else lived in this very city, under the heavy fortress. They’d warned him of the outrageous--well, thoughts-- that some of which radiated, lest he falls into the lures of any of them he’d have to leave, into the dark woods or such, and let nature take its course. He hadn’t anticipated love to hit him hard with some random stargazer. Yet said stargazer felt familiar to him, almost like how he’d feel towards a long lost kin, one that shared blood with him. No, that was not to happen, lest an irresistible force pushed him upon raising his hand for a friendly “hi”, which he offered to Vergil.
That pretty much summed up their first meeting, of the reunion of those halves of a soul, of Dante and Vergil. Ever. Dante disliked recalling those thoughts, for it showed how he was lesser to the latter, what he thought might’ve been what Vergil considered child’s play. Yet the companion felt better than ever, better than any single day he had back then, date or not. He jotted down the route he took, until he returned to his home, and in pajamas under thin sheets and air-conditioners he rethought and rethought, about the way he took and even spared a thought or two towards his own word choice.
No, Dante, you’re not to compare it with a date--
--Was it better or was it worse? Suppose it was better, what could possibly be better than a date, with Vergil? Remarkable, every single one of us here knew you couldn’t turn him down. So why bother? Date isn’t that holy a word, isn’t it?
“Dante, the winter’s long, there is no need to rush it--”
W rong line.
Dante snapped back to reality, “Ah. Sorry. You were saying?”
Then there was a long sigh replacing the reply, and he heard nothing else from the Vergil sitting besides him on the clean bench.
Well, he’d have to take it as a never mind.
No, nobody prefers breaking up in winter. Not Dante, at least. It was freezing cold, and to have your other accompany you under your sheet was a temptation too hard to resist, but to comply and come up with a pact or whatever of the sort, anything but breaking up and those heartbreaking --uh, screeches of love-- that could be heard from streets apart. With those few subconscious cuddles, the warm kisses with coffee or chocolate milk underlying, the competition over blankets and the pillow fights, only to apt for soft nestling under those comfy sheets, it simply wasn’t the right time to, say, voice out for a new round of being single. It didn’t need advocates of any kind.
Now nothing were to stop Dante. Under those thick sheets and far-apart houses he was certain that no one heard anything from them, and, if some trespasser were to overhear, they wouldn’t give a fuck about it. It was, after all, Christmas eve. Many others who weren’t single get laid too. Oh, maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be assuming that everyone screwed with everyone. Let it be then, nobody could hear his thoughts anyways.
“Yuletide,” Vergil spoke with a tinge of anticipation, “Not much shall be left for the year now; it shall be the previous a couple days later.”
“Yes. No. Maybe,” Dante groaned deliriously from denied rest, “Who gives a fuck about Christmas?”
What if Vergil said he does ?
Come on, it ’ s midnight, stop thinking about fuck and cocks--
What happened to the pact you two came up with moments ago?
Dante groaned once more, covering his own face with his hands, clean of the come on his hands a few ten minutes ago. He could almost smell it, laced somewhere under all that scent the handwash had offered--
--And he turned to face Vergil.
ti amo
i' credo ben ch'al mio duca piacesse
esser basciato da cotanto amante
con sì contenta labbia sempre attese
la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante
#ilverotestodelladivinacommedia
Purgatory [Pt. 1]
I don’t know if I posted this already, but it’s something I’ve had on hand in case I wanted to use it.
——————-
“Virgil?”
“Hm?”
“Did you see?”
“See..?”
He pointed. “The stars.”
Virgil hummed. “Yes, I saw,” he sighed.
Dante reclined himself again against the stony wall that had flanked them on one side during their ascent. Now, it was at their backs holding them upright as long as sleep evaded their eyes. Their eyes, however-at least one pair-was locked upon the celestial bodies that glowed so brightly in the coming darkness of night. The moon had only just begun to rise, the sun was withdrawing her colors, and the evening was flushing in the coolness in which it was accustomed to. Dante watched all these customary things take place with a renewed sense of awe. To return to the natural world; it was refreshing. It reminded him of the life that he still carried-and of his mortality. However, for a moment, mortality didn’t seem all that frightening as did death. Now that most of the afterlife had been revealed to him, the Italian then realized that there was nothing much to fear. And should a soul fear anything, it was the punishments that awaited those who strayed from the path.
Dante’s expression dropped at the thought, and almost immediately, a chill shook his small frame. That path he had once traveled, and still traveled. At least, traveled in order to return to it. He had nearly forgotten what this journey was all about, what it started out to be. A correction, a curvature to the right path. Dante’s dark eyes dropped from the expanding purple and blues of the night and focused on the cold stone below them. His journey seemed all but lost. Given the most recent circumstances which he dared not mention. To meet the face of Beatrice, which was once what he dreamed of, he now dreaded. Would she have seen all that he had done? Could even his worse sins be forgiven? Certainly. Hopefully. Love was forgiving, and Beatrice was love itself. Certainly, he would be forgiven.
Despite these reassurances, Dante still feared what was to come. A breeze sighed, sending a chill to meet the poets where they reclined for the evening. Suddenly, everything became lesser then it was to the Florentine. The breeze was no longer refreshing, but a chilly bite. The night was no longer a comforting cloak, but a gate opening to release dreaded dreams. Why it had all turned sour, he could not say. Perhaps it was his nervousness, his childish fear that turned dreams into nightmares. There were no angels, no songs, no praises heard in the distance, seen upon the horizon. Just the wind, the sea, and Dante’s own breathing. He glanced beside him hurriedly to make sure his guide was still present. He was, only, he seemed asleep. Though it was hard to believe that he was. Dante knew him well enough to know that he refused to sleep. Not like he needed to anyway. Virgil insisted on keeping vigil, looking out for whatever was to come. His constant restlessness made Dante nervous, especially now that the world around him seemed less welcoming that before.
With hardly a thought, Dante moved closer to his guide who was accustomed by now to the Italian’s prods and cowering behind his cloak. He pressed up against him until the other moved his arm to welcome him, which he did reluctantly. The ancient poet had been rather snappy since their arrival into Purgatory-Dante reasoned it was due to Virgil being away from what he was used to. True, he was unable to guide him as he had done before and perhaps it was simply that which set him on edge. The fact that his job was being slowly taken out of his hands.
Dante made himself comfortable with Virgil’s arm about him. He expected a coddling warmth-like that of a mother-but there was none. The great author was dead, therefore, he was cold and held no heat that would lull the trembling Italian to sleep. Dante raised his eyes in an attempt to catch his guide’s. When he had failed, they dropped to stare past the other at the distant sea. For several heartbeats, Dante allowed the waves to hypnotize him. The sound of the crashing sea reminded him of many a thing from home-however, most unpleasant.
“Master,” Dante called, hoping to break his chain of sour memories.
“Yes?”
Dante paused. For a while, he had no idea what to say. He wished to spark a conversation, seeing as they never carried on a true session of chatter-most consisted of identifying who and what. He hoped, for a moment, that Virgil would catch on and carry on about whatever resided in that unpredictable mind of his.
“What is it, Dante?” the poet repeated. Virgil lifted his head to meet Dante’s glazed stare.
Dark chestnut met a steely blue. Dante’s lips were parted in speech, but nothing came out. His mind reeled, conjuring many irrelevant sentences and statements. Like a child’s game, he withdrew one randomly from the clutter and uttered it with little intent.
“What of this journey’s end?” he stuttered. “What will happen when I meet Beatrice?”
Virgil stared at him for a while, processing his inquiry. A brow raised in slight interest and curiosity. Whatever made Dante ask such questions, whatever made this man worry so much about what was to come, what the end was like; Virgil was curious to get inside his head and find what thought it was that drove him. However, such a feat was impossible when the mortal was vigilant.
“Well,” he began slowly, clearly uncertain with what answer to produce. “All I can tell you is that you’ll meet one more worthy than I that will guide you to the end. I myself have never seen-and never will see-what the holy Beatrice will reveal to you.”
“I know,” Dante grumbled, rising from his resting position with angst. His brow was furrowed with a kind of agitation that rarely lead to anger. “I meant…what will happen?” he puffed, staring at his guide more directly.
Virgil met his gaze calmly. “I don’t know.” he stated bluntly. It was likely the first time he had ever admitted to such a loss for words. Hopefully this lack of knowledge would not banish the will that his companion possessed to carry on.
The Florentine frowned. He held his tongue not to inquire any further. His pent up frustration, anxieties, fears; he feared should he press the matter, they would spill forth and spark an unnecessary argument. Still, Dante wished for a way to release this frustration. He certainly couldn’t expel it all with an act of wrath, violence-no. And there was nothing but stone and air that surrounded them momentarily. His hands ached at the thought of punching at the stone, and his stomach churned with embarrassment at what he may look like flailing, attacking air. Against what forces drove him to do one or the other, Dante settled back against his guide as he was before, and closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep. His eyes, however, were trapped, staring off in whatever direction and refused to remained closed. What a trouble this was! It only infuriated him more that despite his oncoming exhaustion, his body refused to succumb and rest. Was it the conquering of his sins that urged him forward, that motivated him to carry on? Dante could hardly believe that it was, for he had not felt the need within to push forward. They had been climbing all day, and although Virgil could not feel fatigue, his pupil certainly could, for his legs ached with the exercise and his lungs longed to rest; to breathe without effort.
“Virgil?” he piped again, hoping not to arouse any settled agitation between them.
“Yes, Dante?” replied the other after a lengthy pause.
“How long?”
“Til..?”
“We reach the top.”
“I don’t know, Dante,” Virgil hissed, his temper forcefully reserved. “Just go to sleep.”
“Why don’t you?” the Italian retorted dryly.
Virgil lifted his head again and stared at the smaller man. His silver eyes, however piercing, were not angrily fixed on him, only in a way to question his persistence. “Because I don’t have to,” said Virgil, “you do. And I ask that you do so.”
The elder poet adjusted himself, only reclining more than he already was. He removed his toga and draped it about Dante’s shoulders, hoping to make him cozy enough to be lulled to sleep. With a firm hand about Dante’s smaller frame, Virgil moved him to lie down. His lap served as a temporary pillow until they were to rise again. He removed the laurel crown from the other man’s head and set it beside him. As Dante settled reluctantly into his lap, his guide coaxed him to sleep. With a gentle hand he flattened any stray hair upon Dante’s head, stroking it as a mother would to comfort her distressed child. The familiar touch was welcomed, and it did it’s job in relaxing the ever-tense mind and body of the Italian poet, however, Dante refused still to allow sleep to tempt him. He dreaded dreams. Dreams of failure, like those he had had before. The siren, and many like her haunted his memory; he dreaded to see the likes again.
Upon noticing such a reluctance and a little jolt of energy in specific intervals, Virgil opened his eyes again. With the sternness of a parent and aggravation of his pent up frustrations, the poet spoke in a firm tone, “Dante. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t.” the Florentine replied weakly.
“Why can’t you?”
“Dreams.” Dante started, “they-”
Virgil interrupted him harshly. “They come and go, Dante. None of it’s real, and if it were, you would not be here at this moment. Dispel these childish fears of yours and go to sleep. I need not coddle you any longer.” With that, Virgil withdrew his hand from Dante’s head and tucked it within his robe. The chill of the night had no affect on him, however, it had become a habit to curl up in whatever he covered himself with when sleep was needed.
Dante’s face hardened at the intensity of his words. He did not feel a sad humiliation. He was but a sinner, and he had no right to defend his shortcomings; they were apparent. But Virgil was a sinner too. He most obviously was, and yet and authority still rested upon the elder poet’s shoulders that Dante could not take from him. At times-such as that moment-he wished he could. At times, Dante wanted nothing more than to revel in his thoughts, analyze them, turn them over in his head in an attempt to understand them. But he could not. Not with Virgil pushing them away. He did not resent his dead guide for this, he understood he only met the best, however, his thoughts were his own and he liked to be left with them when needed.
He huffed like an upset child, however, he did not move from his place. It was dark, and he had no idea where he would go. Besides, the feeling of Virgil’s stern gaze held him in place.
Dead Romans Society Fancast: Louis Garrel as DANTE
Collaboration with the lovely chelidon, who gave the idea, the palette and gave me the chance to make some graphic!
Beginning with the Poeta, Romans following! And for whomever didn’t know this fancomic: I suggest you to go and read it (HERE!), it’s really marvellous! *^*
Catullus | Horatius | Vergilius | Lucretius | Petronius | Seneca | Ovidius | Cicero
(the graphic is mine, the photographs were found on Google Images. None of them belong to me: if the owner is reading, contact me and I’ll credit you! :) )
when you try to open up to your friends but your issues are way too over the top for them
I’m screaming
Dante, 1882 by Henry John Stock (English, 1853–1930)
he is so beautiful i love him
Sometimes I consider that there is no autograph manuscript of the Divine Comedy. Nothing written by Dante’s own hand that survived until now.
…Why do you hurt me so.
I love Dante and I love butts
Today is the second day of Dante Week. I’m sure a lot of people are already busying themselves with posting interesting, insightful reflections, so I decided instead to post about that time Dante wrote about a demon farting. I remember in high school one of my favourite things about middle age and renaissance writers was when they got suddenly trivial and funny. It made me feel like they were closer to me, and, you know, real people instead of literary icons. So there you go.
Inferno, canto XXI, last few verses. Barbariccia is A DEMON! He is the guide of derpy demons troup Malebranche, and he FARTS to rally them. If this is not awesome then I don’t know what is.
Per l’argine sinistro volta dienno; ma prima avea ciascun la lingua stretta coi denti, verso lor duca, per cenno; ed elli avea del cul fatto trombetta.
Along the left-hand dike they wheeled about; But first had each one thrust his tongue between His teeth towards their leader for a signal; And he had made a trumpet of his rump.
If you really want to be all serious about it, this verse is kind of useful for those who are into musicology, as it defines the trumpet (trombetta) as the privileged instrument for assembling military troups (or DEMONS. Keep that in mind the next time you want to evoke some). Also, in the words of italian thespian Vittorio Gassman, it’s just a very good verse.
What’s even better is that this is not the first time a butt is mentioned in this canto. As early as verse 102, a demon had proposed to pinch Dante’s rear with his rake.
Ei chinavan li raffi e “Vuo’ che ’l tocchi”, diceva l’un con l’altro, “in sul groppone?”. E rispondien: “Sì, fa che gliel’accocchi”.
They lowered their rakes, and “Wilt thou have me hit him, “ They said to one another, "on the rump ? ” And answered: “Yes; see that thou nick him with it.”
I don’t know about you, but I find it deliciously filthy.
This canto features bonus Dante huddling close to senpai Virgil in fright. GO READ IT FOLKS! It’s here in english and here in italian.
I swear Canto XXI and XXII are two of the most hilarious in the whole cantica.
reblog if you think dante is cute
I actually think he’s damn attractive.
amore mio
Let’s play a game called “How many acts of romantic relationship between Dante and Virgil can you find in the Divine Comedy”.
I, for one, would like to read a compilation.
The Sexual Body in Dante and the Medieval Context, Regina Psaki
i was just gonna leave this as a joke about classical literature but then i realized that there was an obvious part 2:
and that's called epic tradition
if you havent read dante’s inferno as a manga ur missing out on some incredible DanteFaces™
please
Kinkshaming Dante.
*DOLCISSIMO PATRE
And then, to my relief, my Master’s anger turned to loving care, his arm around me as he kissed my cheek. “Disdainful one,” he said, “blessed was the womb that held you.” (trans. Clive James)