#and feelz

[jalebi-weds-bluetooth]

Angsty Songs That Fit Arnav-Khushi

IPKKND Playlist #2

“Hum safar main toh hai, humsafar hai nahi” - Tune Jo Na Kaha

“Woh humsafar tha, magar usse, humnawaayi na thi...” - Woh Humsafar Tha

“Saazish main shaamil, saara jahaan hai...” - O Re Piya

“Tum hamaare jitne the, sach kaho kya utne the? Jaane do, mat kaho, kitne the...” - Ek Tukda Dhoop

“Itna toh bata, mausamo ki tarha, tu badalta gaya kyun hai?” - Tu Hi Tu

“Tera yakeen kyun, maine kiya nahi, tujhse raha kyun juda... Mujhpe yeh zindagi, karti rahi sitam, tune hi di hai panaah...” - Tera Mera Rishta Puraana

“Tu bin bataye, mujhe le chal kahi.” - Tu Bin Bataye

“Jo main jaanti ke preet mein pagal hoye, toh dhol nagada peet ke kehti preet na kariyo koyi.” - Preet

“Kitni baatein yaad aati hai, tasveerein si ban jaati hain. Main kaise inhein bhooloon? Dil ko kya samjhaun?” - Kitni Baatein

“Aashiqui baazi hai taash ki, tootte-bante vishwaas ki,” - Milne Hai Mujhse Aayi

-- -- -- -- -- --

Hope you all enjoyed this! I highly recommend everyone to make their playlists because omg it’s so damn entertaining to hear the music preferences and even see the overlaps!

Best,

- Angst JWB

[hitwiththetmnt]

Sweet Dreams P2

(P1)

@butterfilledpockets felt inspired to make the second half of this lil comic :}

I’m also going to warn you, there been some minor angsty ideas floating around in the noggin lately (;ﾟωﾟ)

[cringefail-clown]

thinking about them again (turnabout au post-scratch jakehal)

[kharmii]

It's the Subway Bosses!

She tells Ingo to smile then is moved to tears from it. Emmet quizzically asks, "What?!"

Art credit: @O_Flo_wer Twitter.

[ansonmountdaily]

So, we go public. They can't ignore your record. No. This is my life. I'm not letting my mistakes ruin yours.

STAR TREK: STRANGE NEW WORLDS 2x01 "The Broken Circle"

[platinumtimesbaby]

[iceclew]

Some Kafhoshis for u ♡( ◡‿◡ )

Sorry for the weird sizing, I kinda unsaved the version I worked on and had to stick with the jpg. version to finish this...

I kinda convinced myself to practice some kafhoshi, I really wanted to do this for a while now.. I'm still not feeling comfortable, but I guess in a way it works out... (also I gave up on the smoochies, trust me I tried and they sucked.. gonna get there..)

Just wanted to put this out of my head, since I'll be off until next Monday and I already miss them very much... (I'm mad enough to treat myself to a rock festival for nothing less than 4 days, lol, but at least imma go fancy camping this time :D I hope I don't freeze to death.)

Anyway...I should be packing up already.. have a great evening/day/morning ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡

[sinfonia-relativa]

Tal vez no tengamos muchas cosas en común, pero cariño, ¿quién ha dicho que para armar un rompecabezas se necesitan piezas iguales?

-Feelz

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask for this prompt meme. Karlach - "It is my fault, I think, that you have forgotten to fear me."

-----

“Oy, who’s the glowy bitch by the door, then?”

Karlach knows better than to bother looking up when the fresh-meat greataxe grunt starts talking, down the barracks a ways. This shit isn’t new. They always like to talk, the new arrivals to Zariel's army. And as soon as they see Karlach, no other topic will do.

Fair play enough, after all; she does kinda stick out. There's nobody else like her in the platoon, or in the whole army. In the eight years she’s been here, nobody else has ever gotten the tin can stuck into them and survived. She’s special, as Zariel likes to assure her, though special has never bought her anything but more blood and death - and the attention of every ignot who want to pick a fight.

Today’s mouthy prick is a draegloth, which explains why he’s talking a big game. A dogskull’s almost as unique as Karlach is around here; makes sense he’d pick out a target fast before anyone can pick him out for an asskicking.

“Oh, that? That's Cliffgate,” says another voice. This one Karlach recognizes - Namtar, a cambion, one of the platoon sergeants. He and Karlach have butted heads before, because Namtar is a rotten pissant. “Zariel's little kiss-ass. No heart, just an infernal engine in her chest.”

"No way," the draegloth says. "That's the Demonsbane? A ruttin' tief? Not even hellsborn?" He laughs sharply. "Lettin' in all sorts these days, uh?"

Karlach ignores the mocking words, focusing on choking down the tasteless morsels that pass for rations around here. The bunk across from her creaks unhappily as weight hits it.

“They're talkin’ about you, Dart,” Flo says with a nasty grin, settling onto the bed and lounging back against the wall. “Gonna sit here and take it?”

Karlach sighs. She picked up the nickname around her second week in the Hells, and it's never once been meant with kindness. Even Flo says it with a nasty edge, and Flo is the closest thing she has to a friend.

Good reminder, I guess, that no one here really gives a fuck about me, no matter how much I might like to pretend. Even after eight years, she can sometimes, if she squints, convince herself that there's camaraderie here, like there was in Gortash's old crew before he sold her out. But it's vain hope, a desperate attempt to pretend this place isn't rotting her fro the inside out; the illusion never lasts long and always just leaves her feeling lonelier.

"If it's not them, it'll be somebody else," she says noncommittally. "Lemme eat my dinner in peace."

"Nawww..." Flo says, comfortably dismissive. "C'mon, Dart, give us a show. Been too long since we had a proper scrap in here besides the piece in your chest."

Karlach laughs softly in spite of herself. It's a pretty weak pun, but the jokes in Avernus are as bad as the food. "I'm wore out, Flo," she says, shaking her head. "Leave off."

She looks up to find Flo's smile has turned a shade more brittle. "C'mon, now, Dart," she says, and there's a warning note in it now. "Y'know I can't be seen bein' friends with a softy. Give us a show, I said."

The message is loud and clear, as it always is. My friendship is conditional. And you'll do as I say, 'cos you *don't* want to be my enemy. Now dance.

Karlach huffs out a weary, flame-hot breath and tosses aside the last bit of her ration pack uneaten. With a groan, she pushes herself to her feet and strides down the barracks corridor towards Namtar and the draegloth.

"Hey, there she is." Namtar looks up with a lazy grin as she approaches. He's flopped on his bunk with his boots off, his wings furled neatly under him and feet up on a stack of equipment piled at the foot of the bed. "How's tricks, Dart?" Before Karlach can respond, he shoots a conspiratorial glance at the young dogskull. "Y'know why we call her Dart, Markos?"

The draegloth -- Markos -- looks puzzled. "Why?" he asks.

"Dumb-Ass Rusty Toaster." Namtar brays with laughter so hard it shakes the bed a little. "Fits, too, cos all she's good for is throwing at things t' poke holes in them."

Markos snickers loudly. Several more of the platoon have picked up on the conversation; smelling blood in the water, they've started to circle up, leaned casually against the walls or peering over the edge of their bunks. Some of them are grinning, enjoying watching the Demonsbane get a dunking. Others - the smart ones - are eyeing Karlach warily. She hasn't said anything yet, but her eyes are smoldering. In spite of herself, the rage is building. 

She doesn't want to fight them. She never has. She's always been loyal, and even in this bitch of a place, even under Zariel's thumb, she'd have fought hard for anyone here who wanted to fight for her in return. But that's never made the slightest bit of difference, because everyone here is a fucking tosser.

Hells. Maybe, when you come right down to it, so am I.

And that, really, is what enrages her, far more than these empty little insults.

"Y'know," she says slowly, looking the draegloth up and down. "I expect this sort of crap from the fresh meat. A mouth spewing shit 'cos you haven't learned to shut the fuck up yet. But you--" She turns her gaze slowly and deliberately to the sergeant. "Eight years it's been, Namtar, and neither of us dead yet, so you'd think you'd have figured out not to mess with me." She lets a slow, feral grin curl across her lips, and there's a ripple of anticipatory mumbling from the gathering crowd around them. "My fault, I guess, that you've forgotten to be scared of me. But I can fix that."

She moves suddenly, with no windup, her fists and feet all shifting at once. Her left fist crashes into Markos's jaw, knocking him back into the steel frame of the bed behind him; his skull ricochets off it with a metallic whingggg as his skull ricochets off the metal. With her left foot, she kicks behind his knee while he's unbalanced and fully flips him sideways. As he bounces back from the bedframe, he goes careening onto his front, his nose crunching into the stone floor.

Meanwhile, her other hand grabs Namtar by the collar and drags him out of his bunk. He has almost two inches on her, but she lifts him with ease one-armed, the engine roaring in her chest and sending energy coursing through her bicep. Spinning out of the kick at Markos, she slams Namtar into the wall, then releases her grip for a split second, only to refix it tightly around his throat before he can fall.

All of the cambion's bravado has vanished. His eyes are wide and brilliant white in the dark red of his face and he squirms ineffectually against Karlach's implacable grip. His wings, crunched between his back and the wall, struggle feebly. "Oy! Let me go!" he bleats, gripping her hand with both of his and trying to pull it away.

She glares at him. "Maybe. If you want to grovel a bit. Otherwise I'll finally just kill you. Maybe everyone else would finally get it through their thick skulls that you don't mess with me."

He sneers in an attempt at disdain, though it's considerably weakened by the fact that he's now struggling to breathe. "You wouldn't dare."

She laughs humorlessly and leans forward until her nose is nearly touching his, so he can feel the heat radiating off her body and see nothing but the exhausted fury in her eyes. "That really a chance you wanna take, sergeant?"

He hesitates, balanced between his anger and his fear. But something he sees in her eyes must convince him, because the fear wins. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What was that?" she asks coolly. "Didn't hear you."

"I'm sorry," he snaps. "Now let me go."

She could drag it out further, but the whole situation feels sticky as hot tar on her skin, burning down into her bones. Gods, I hate this. I hate all of it. I don’t want to be this thing they’ve made me, but I don’t know how to stop.

She releases his throat with a jerk, letting him slide down the wall to the floor, where he sits clutching at his neck and wheezing. Markos, nearby, is out cold where he hit the floor.

"Good," she mutters. "Just... stay there and shut the fuck up." She doesn't wait to hear what the other gathered soldiers might have to say, but turns and stalks away back down the row of beds towards the other end of the barracks. 

Flo gives her a slow clap as she returns to her bunk, grinning unpleasantly from ear to ear. "Nice one. Damn good show, Dart, just as I asked."

"Shut up," Karlach answers, tossing herself facedown onto her mattress. The engine is still running hot, surging pain through her chest and her head and her arms with the slow letdown of adrenaline; she can smell it searing a scorched mark into the bedsheets. "You too - just... just shut up and leave me alone.”

[tenochconamor]

Namor's trauma started before he was born.

Namor was born a king without a kingdom. Because of colonialism, slavery and disease his mother was coerced into ingesting a potentially dangerous substance to keep them safe.

He was born different, revered and worshipped yes, but also restricted by the burden of the responsibility of leading his people from a young age.

Namor's people called him K'uk'ulkan but his mother called him something else. When she taught him the language of her ancestors, she called his name, when she taught him their history, she called his name. When she taught him how to care for himself and his people after she was gone, she called his name.

Namor watching his mother grow old and die was not his first encounter with trauma but it was the first time he was aware of it. How helpless did he feel, worshipped as a god to his people but powerless to slow the effects of aging on his mother. His mother would have been the only person alive to keep him grounded, the person he could share his very human worries with, the first person he loved, the only person who knew his name.

Namor only wanted to bury his mother and honor her wishes but, nothing goes as planned for Namor, nothing ever does. If Namor had any sort of childhood innocence left after his mother died, the anger he felt watching people like him tied up, whipped and enslaved, set it ablaze. He lost his mother, devised a way to breath on land to honor her wishes and killed a man in cold blood for the first time all in a short amount of time.

El nino sin amor ~ a child without love.

Namor wears his trauma like an amour. Holding on to the dying words of the Spanish priest he killed, Namor sees the world that could produce such unnecessary suffering as his enemy.

So he creates a divide. There are only his people and his enemies. His people he would protect, provide and care for with every resource available to him because they're his connection to the first and only person that really saw him as human, the only one that ever spoke his name. Namor would move mountains for the people he loves. He would bring down the sun for them. He would fight everlasting wars for them.

[coochiequeens]

“Why should our girls be made to feel scared and have to move to other parts of the bus on their daily journey to and from school. The police say no crime is committed which is true technically – but by saying no risk – this tells people that police think its okay to alarm and distress young girls in this manner.” Female socialization

A man in Essex county, England is causing concern amongst locals, especially parents, after being spotted loitering near children’s schools while wearing a schoolgirl uniform. In response to complaints, Essex Police is insisting the man “does not pose a risk,” and has warned the public against sharing photos of him on social media. 

Throughout the week, the unnamed man has been wearing the uniform of a young schoolgirl while wandering in proximity of two schools, one primary and one secondary. In the United Kingdom, primary school ages range from 5 to 11, while secondary school aged youth can be as young as 11. 

It has been noted that the uniforms of the man reflect that of Belfairs Academy, which is in the vicinity of the Highlands Boulevard School and Milton Hall Primary School in Southend-on-Sea. He has been seen near both of the schools this past week, as well as on the public bus when children would be taking it home after classes.

On January 19, official school uniform supplier Paul’s School and Workwear addressed the fiasco in a Facebook post, revealing that the man had been purchasing some uniform items from their shop.

The post explained to the public that “the full Belfairs uniform did not come from us,” but went on to confirm that the man had been in the store this week purchasing “a Grey box pleat skirt that he said was for his granddaughter.” The supplier announced they had banned the man from their store, and encouraged members of the public to call police if they see him. 

“This is to be taken seriously as he needs help and no-one would know his mind set. Reports say he dresses in Belfairs & Milton Hall uniform. If you see him – STAY AWAY and call 101 to report where he is.” 

Some in the community were appreciative of the uniform supplier’s firm stance on the matter, while others insisted that the man is free to dress as he pleases. One woman responded to the supplier’s post on Facebook, thanking the store for warning members of the public.

“Thank you Paul’s School and Work Wear for taking this seriously. A grown man hanging around multiple schools and staring at young women and girls on a bus used by school children is premeditated for sexual gratification – no matter what the mental health diagnosis is. I agree this man needs help…”

The commenter continued by invoking the memory of Sarah Everard, a 33-year-old woman who was kidnapped, raped, and murdered by a serving London Metropolitan police officer who used his status to handcuff and kidnap her. 

“Why should our girls be made to feel scared and have to move to other parts of the bus on their daily journey to and from school. The police say no crime is committed which is true technically – but by saying no risk – this tells people that police think its okay to alarm and distress young girls in this manner. This is not okay I do NOT want my children exposed to this.”

Another comment under the post from Paul’s reads: “We keep pushing the boundaries of acceptability. Grown men in children’s clothes hanging around schools is not acceptable and yet again police do nothing.”

Paul’s School and Workwear even addressed those who were defending the man’s behavior and added a comment to their own post.

As reported by Echo, the Essex police have identified “the person dressed in an inappropriate outfit in the vicinity of a school in Leigh,” and “have discussed the incident with the person,” saying they understand the community’s concerns but reiterating “this individual does not pose a risk.”

This was paired with Essex police’s urgent request to stop sharing photos of the man on social media citing that they “could have a detrimental personal impact on those concerned.” 

Essex Police did not refer to the man with any gendered language like “man” or “he,” but worded their statement in carefully-chosen neutral terms. 

As photos of the individual began to circulate on social media, many began to express disappointment with Essex Police’s seemingly relaxed attitude on the matter, with many taking it as a failure to protect young children and, in particular, young girls. 

One mother posting under an alias on motherhood forum Mumsnet said, “He’s been seen around schools – both primary and secondary – dressed as a schoolgirl (in their uniform). I am fucking outraged that the police don’t seem to think that’s an issue. God forbid we offend men or shame their fetishes.” 

Popular UK-based Twitter account @ripx4nutmeg has also called attention to the fact that Essex Police are trained by Stonewall, an LGBTQ activist organization which heavily focuses on trans rights. 

On their official website, the force states “Essex Police believes in dignity for all and are on a journey of incremental improvements, including how we can better include and enable the aspirations of people who are LGBTQ.” 

As noted by some women keeping an eye on the situation, the lack of apparent concern for safeguarding women and girls seems to be a pervasive problem amongst UK police.

As of 2021, there were hundreds of allegations of sex-based violence perpetrated by police officers in the country being recorded every year. Following the Sarah Everard tragedy, the Femicide Census revealed that they did not feel tackling such violence was a ���police priority.” Since 2013, there have been at least 16 women in the United Kingdom killed by a serving or retired police officer.

In the past year, there have been multiple cases of police officers in the Metropolitan force serving the Greater London area were convicted of rape.

In the past week alone, a long-serving Met police officer has made international headlines for a campaign of rape he committed against vulnerable women.

David Carrick, who worked with the Metropolitan Police for almost two decades, carried out “a relentless campaign” of violence over 17 years against 12 women. On January 16, Carrick admitted to 49 counts of rape and other sexual offenses. Just weeks prior, Met constable Rupert Edwards was charged with raping two women in two different communities.

By Yuliah Alma Yuliah is a junior researcher and journalist at Reduxx. She is a passionate advocate for women's rights and child safeguarding. Yuliah lives on the American east coast, and is an avid reader and book collector.

[jalebi-weds-bluetooth]

Saheb, Bibi aur Ghulaam

#2 Monta Re

For the lovelies who are celebrating IPK to its finest @arshifiesta

Character. Gentility. Obedience.

These were the jewels of being an honourable woman and Khushi Dasgupta had none of those.

Her character, a question ever since she was born out of a wedlock between a British soldier who never returned and a Bengali singer who never sang again. The only thing she had left was her extended family who reluctantly gave their name to her and her father’s hazel eyes.

Her gentility was nowhere to be found for she was to be often found at pro independence speeches or singing revolutionary songs. Her mother’s talent was the last thing she inherited. It is said she had driven off at least seven suitors with impeccable terrible grace, off key singing and barely controlled tongue.

Obedience was what her family tried beating into her. But perhaps it was her aunt’s gentility and selfless, guiding hand that Khushi obeyed her family as a debt owed to to the kind woman.

She took the effort to recount the love story the city never saw.

Shashikala never approved her sister’s decision of singing. Yet when Ganga Devi Burman took the stage by storm, she had no option but to smile. Especially when she fell right off the stage and landed into the arms of a British soldier - Lt. Kennedy Watson.

If it hadn’t been for the summer tan, Ganga would have never found him appealing. Definitely not for his hazel eyes nor for his flawless understanding of Bangla and its literature.

After all, he was born in the same city as her.

At first Kennedy fought with the feelings he felt for Ganga for she pushed him to unlearn the imperial love for his country if he wished to love her. Then he fought for the land he was raised in as opposed to land he was taught to worship.

The first day Kennedy returned bloody, with a rebellion in his eyes that Ganga saw in her revolutionary brothers eyes - she gave her heart, soul and a kiss-

This is the part of the story of the story where Khushi always giggled, making Shashikala shush her before continuing, continuing to stroke Khushi’s head on her lap.

And then, Kennedy did propose to Ganga. They had planned a long wedding. One Christian to honour his God. One Hindu to honour hers.

This is where Shashikala would end the story for the wedding never happened.

It was tale as old as time. Just when everything good was about to happen, the opposite occurred. The imperialists were not happy to find one of their own defect. He disappeared without a trace, leaving Ganga, their child and love without a name.

Khushi hugged her Mashi (aunt) even closer. Despite the tragic tale being her favorite lullaby, even as an adult, she could only hope for a love as strong as her parents.

And hoped to be a human as kind as her Mashi.

— — —

Things changed dramatically as Shashikala Mashi passed away due to an early sudden heart attack.

The house grew colder, the perceptions of her more apparent, and her burden on the financially strife family heavier.

Khushi had to be sent off. There were three other sons to marry and two daughters to be married off.

The man who arrived with gifts at her doorstep to relieve the Dasguptas of their burden neither promised a love story like her parents, nor kindness like her aunt.

Sharp eyed, broad framed, wealthy and the heir of the Mullick family - Shyam Mullick was here to find a second wife in Khushi.

Dread settled in her stomach as her relatives seemed pleased with the money in front, even though the man seemed at least twenty years older than Khushi.

Or that he was already married to the Anjali Rani Tagore. The finest lineage, and a pool of infinite wealth, wisdom and beauty.

Khushi ran up the stairs. She had to run. Run as far as her two legs could take her. Where did she make a mistake? When did that man see her and fancy her? Was her relatives so eager to dust her off their hands?

“Oh Maa, bachao amake,” Khushi prayed to her Goddess and ran through multiple roofs.

Except one gave away and she fell straight into someone’s arms.

She opened her eyes and stared into the strangers face. Brown eyes, clenched jaws, perfectly shaped lips and a gaze that set her heart fluttering.

Was he a prince?

But since when did princes dress up like an English babu?

The sound of hurried footsteps broke them apart. Khushi turned red, her skin flaming up at where his fingers touched her skin.

Gently, as if she weighed a feather, he set her down. Worry returned to his face and he seemed to have aged in an instant.

“Arnob-da…” a man panted.

“Ei boka, kotobar bolbo Arnav-da doesn’t like to be called Arnob” another said.

Arnav glared at the two men - probably his househelp?

“I know where he went.”

Rage filled Arnav’s eyes. And without another word he stormed out.

— — —

The monsoon storm died out overnight, leaving Khushi to enjoy one of the last things she could - a small ride on a ferry across Hooghly.

Her protests against the marriage fell on deaf ears. If anything, her ears still rang from the slap Pishimoni gave her.

Shyam Babu offered to assist in Payal’s marriage. Why was he so intent on marrying Khushi? What did Khushi even do? How did he even get to meet her?

“O Maa,” this time Khushi touched the holy Hooghly river, “please help me,”

The ferry bumped into the shore and Khushi collected herself to step out when,

“Tumi?”

“Aapni?”

Khushi blinked at Arnav. Standing tall, this time in not his entirety of a tailored piece suit, just in his full length shirt, suspenders and pant - he took a keen look at her.

Khushi touched her cheek. Did the slap leave a mark? She fixed the edge of her saree. After a moment alone, she spoke.

“Sorry, you must want this boat alone,”

“Are you going to the other side?” Arnav asked. Khushi couldn’t help but feel that she was being studied. She nodded.

“OI, TARATARI-” the ferryman swallowed his hollering as Arnav shot a glare at him.

Khushi didn’t know what happened when he boarded the ferry. Except that the ferryman must have taken his anger out on by moving it away before Arnav could fully stand.

Leading him to fall right on Khushi.

Khushi prayed her eyes didn’t reveal her secrets and desires. And prayed that he would be unable to read anything at all.

She scrambled to sit up and sat horrified at the red on Arnav’s chest.

Did she kill him?

“Oh this bloody pen!” Khushi sighed in relief at his curse and his discomfort over a broken red pen. The ferry rocked out of nowhere, splashing him with water.

Khushi could spy a devious smile on the ferryman’s paan stained lips.

Arnav let out a colourful string of words as he attempted to wipe himself, leading to the ink to spread more viciously on him.

Khushi burst into laughter as he got completely worked up.

Oh it had been years since she laughed this hard.

— — —

“Laughing suits you,”

Khushi laid awake all night. The depression of her impending wedding not settling in for the three words he said.

And the thousand he didn’t.

He saw the slap. And she saw the tick in his jaw. The questions he refrained himself from asking. The stories she refrained herself from telling.

Khushi tried sleeping, these days of Durga Pujo were peace. She could try running away for real.

But with whom?

Khushi’s heart twisted into knots as a face became clear.

Without a full name and more than twenty words exchanged, Khushi saw more hope in a stranger than a suitor.

Oh dear, none had a more foolish mind than of Khushi Dasgupta.

— — —

A/N: omg thank you for all the love before! Let me know how you liked this chapter 💕 (also sorry not proofread!)

Tagging some lovelies here @chutkiandchotte @barshifan @laadgovernorandsankadevi @laad-governess @shiyaravi @msbhagirathi @phuljari @hand-picked-star @aye-masakalii @featheredclover

[peepnis02]

"Ky, I'm not telling you to grow up." Such a simple yet powerful line from daryl. it makes me tear up each time

[kharmii]

Art credit: き@Emiya_izumi Twitter.

[whoresvs]

i love you to the summer and back

[pennielane]

There’s something

So very

Soft

About pictures

Like this