#black danish folk

[haveyoulistenedtothisalbum-poll]

Tracklist:

Capitel I: I Troldskog Faren Vild (Chapter I: Lost in the Dark Forest) • Capitel II: Soelen Gaaer Bag Aase Need (Chapter II: The Sun Goes Down Behind the Hills) • Capitel III: Braablick Blev Hun Vaer (Chapter III: Grey Eyes Watch Her Closely) • Capitel IV: Een Stemme Locker (Chapter IV: A Voice is Calling) • Capitel V: Bergtatt-Ind I Fjeldkamrene (Chapter V: Spellbound - Into the Mountain Chambers)

Spotify ♪ Bandcamp ♪ YouTube

[origami-butterfly]

Having blorbo thoughts about xkcd feels so stupid. Wdym I'm getting emotional over these stick figures.

[grungeincluded]

7 songs from Kashmir, Mando Diao, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Strokes, Frédéric Chopin, Emīls Dārziņš and Elliott Smith!

Not only does melancholic music provide feelings of social support and anxiolytic effects, but such music allows the listener to “disengage from the distressing situation and focus instead on the beauty of the music” ! Read the full post !

Grunge Included | @37fotosb | Linktree

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Myrkur - Tor i Helheim 2020

Folkesange ("folk songs") is the third studio album by Danish band Myrkur, led by singer Amalie Bruun. It was released on 20 March 2020 under Relapse Records. Folkesange diverts from the style of the band's previous black metal albums into folk music. The album consists of renditions of Scandinavian traditional music performed with period instruments such as mandola, lyre, nyckelharpa and talharpa as well as of original acoustic compositions. "Tor i Helheim" is, as the title suggests, about the Norse gods Thor and Hela. It received a total of 82,4% yes votes!

[sandsorghum]

IT'S FINALLY HERE

Thrilled to be putting up this behemoth of a fic I've been working on for two entire months at last! as part of @tsukimefuku's Spookinky event. Yes, I'm aware Halloween was also 2 months ago (sorry Fuku, and thanks so much again for helping beta read it!) Anyway, do check out the other works, they're incredible.

+18, DARK CONTENT AHEAD. You've been warned. See end of story for further author's notes.

abstract. It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be. wc. 9.4k (strap in with a beverage folks)

tags. Yandere!Nanami Kento x F!Reader | established relationship | smut | dubcon | psychological drama | manipulation |

Jim knew that he was awake and asleep at the same time, dreaming of the war and yet dreamed of by the war…

Your eyelids droop, heavier and heavier with every pass you make at the sentences. You’re fighting against the font even, dripping off the page into the pitch black pit of your mind, those once thick and bold serifs ooze into obfuscation, molten as the afternoon congealing into dusk. Your focus has been wavering for hours in this stifling summer air, the dense miasma of words shimmering into a mirage of meaning. 

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face as you let Empire of the Sun flop into your lap. You should have known; J.G. Bellard didn’t exactly stake his reputation on breezy prose. You have a suspicion the book’s about a week or two overdue, though Nanami hadn’t said anything. Well, it was his library card getting charged. You hadn’t renewed yours in years.

You rifle through your current slog; 300 pages give or take. Perhaps you should have been less ambitious, started with the short stories. Long ago, you’d read The Garden of Time. You had enjoyed it, you think. Your eyes slip shut, trying to remember how that story ended, but the details are fuzzy.

It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be. 

These days, you were living with your own Count Axel too.

You open your eyes, gaze instinctively flitting towards the clock whirring with its tick-tock mick-mockery, matching the taunting your ears had already gotten accustomed to. The second hand quivers a sliver past the hour, as exacting as an anorexic’s indulgence of a fractional slice of cake; and promising as much sustenance.

Where was Nanami? When would he come back?

Your stomach growls. The shadows have grown, black slats cast by the window grilles lengthening and slithering stark against the bleached gold of the walls. You hate this time of day the most, this inevitable boredom numbing your mind into mulch, too sluggish to tolerate even the most insipid of dating reality show reruns, which was all that was on TV. As for your once carefully curated stash of true crime podcasts, the thought of listening to them now was unbearable. 

Something burbles in your belly, a strange gastric shriek acidifying into a yowl. You shut it out, closing your eyes.

Your present circumstances might make for a pretty good biopic, a thriller perhaps. Or a psychodrama. Grim amusement filters through your mind as you imagine actors you’d cast in the lead roles…who was that Danish fellow, who had played a Bond villain? He’d had a similar sort of malevolent charisma as the titular protagonist in that show about eating people…

A little too fixated on trying to recall the actor’s name, you don’t hear the key turn in the first lock. But the second schlick sends a jolt straight to your spine, muscle memory triggering you to leap to your feet. By the time the third and fourth bolts have slotted out of the way, you’ve sprinted to the front step, your exuberant chirrup eclipsing the hinges’ creak. 

“Welcome home, Kento!” 

He grabs you mid-lunge, as usual, chuckling as you fling your arms around his neck. He’s a little off balance today, with the bags dangling off his thick forearms but they still manage to curl, boa constrictor snug around your waist, the weight of their contents pressing you further against him.

“Hello darling,” he murmurs. 

You let him bury his nose against your nape, feeling the burdens of the world slough off him as he inhales your scent, ever familiar, ever constant. Never changing. 

Staring past the summit of his shoulders, you see dust motes drifting unencumbered in the scorched-tangerine shaft of the setting sun, the pavement glowing white, the bright brilliance of its incandescence and resistance petering into the imminence of night; all this, a few tantalising inches beyond the door. 

You blink, the dark spots perform their pirouette, and the temptation passes. You put on a smile as you feel Nanami’s question rumble low along your throat, peeling you away from his chest as he carefully shuts the door behind him, zipping chains one through four back into place.  

“I said, how was your day?” 

“Oh, good. Pretty good. You’ll be proud of me.”

“Yes?”

“I got through a whole 4 pages in your absence,” you grin at Nanami, waggling the book at him. 

“Am I proving such a distraction?” His tone is bone-dry, but you catch the glimmer in his eye, polished as fragments beneath flesh desiccated by a desert.

“You mean providing?” you hum, smoothing a palm across his pectorals as Nanami shrugs out of his coat.

Nanami tuts, catching your fingers and greeting them with a kiss,“You ought to know by now, your flattery has its consequences.”

“Seems like an acceptable risk.” 

Nanami tuts and you feel his lips twitch over your knuckles at the belligerence lilting your tone.

“Well, I’m sorry sweetheart but I was picking up a few extra things for dinner.” 

Nanami finally relinquishes your hand to set the bags down on the dining table. You gape as he proceeds to carefully uncover the biggest bundle of blue hydrangeas and pale yellow daffodils you’ve ever laid eyes upon, all exquisitely wrapped with an embroidered silk ribbon. Nanami holds the flowers out to you, savouring your little gasp as the full size of his generosity blossoms into view.

“It was a bit of an impulse buy,” he confesses, to fill your stunned silence. 

“You expect me to believe this was a snap decision?”

“Well, no, I was intending to get a bouquet from the start but they’d run out of roses. The florist suggested these instead, plus they seemed particularly fresh.”

“They’re gorgeous, Ken. Thank you, and I think I like their scent much better.” You press your nose to the delicate petals for a moment before you go to fetch a vase, submerging the stems in a few inches of water.

“These make me wish I’d paid more attention to my ikebana classes in elementary school,” you comment, caressing one of the butter bright coronas. “Or maybe I could enrol in one of those community courses now.”

“Leave it to the shops’ experts, they know the optimal aesthetic arrangement.”

“Oh, of course. It’s just, it’d be fun to learn something trivial and new.”

Nanami’s smile at you is soft and relaxed. “I’ll buy you more flowers, you can learn through trial and error, Miss Independent.”

“That seems a little lavish. What if I just consult our neighbours across the road, I’ve seen them growing-“

“You can figure it out on your own I’m sure,” Nanami interjects, patting your cheek and you have to remind yourself not to flinch, letting your face go taut with a perfected smile instead. “Or with a book. It could even be a nice hobby for us both, right?”

“Sure, Kento. Sounds fun.” You sigh, separating out some of the stalks. “So this is why you were delayed by half an hour today?”

“Yes, I’m sorry dear.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

It’s quiet for a few moments as Nanami observes you carefully thumbing through the floral clusters.

“I was...just a little worried. I wish you could tell me in advance. Maybe a text?”

Nanami lifts a brow, barely perceptibly.  “And you’d receive it with what phone?”

Swiftly, you recalibrate, your tone shifting into a playful inflection. “Or we can resort to pagers. Like it’s the 1980s.”

It was one of the ironies of this living situation; a tradeoff, Nanami would have termed it. Although you dwelled under the same roof, you communicated less than ever before with him. 

Nanami shakes his head ruefully, plaintively remarking, “I didn’t think you missed doomscrolling more than me.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” you huff, setting aside the vase to place a peck on Nanami’s nose. Apparently random acts of affection usually worked to disrupt his morose musings.

You start to bustle with the groceries. “Don’t get me wrong, Bruckner’s 7th symphony on vinyl is exquisite,” you continue, “And I’ll be eternally grateful to you for making a cultured woman out of me…”

Nanami practically pouts at your exaggeration, indignation pulling the corners of his mouth down. You give a lopsided smile, pushing your luck.

“But…I’m just a little bit curious about the Top 40 stuff. Like what’s Ed Sheeran been up to?”

“That’s what the radio is for, dear. I’m not depriving you of pop hits.” 

No, just music videos. And remixes. Plus you’ll never set foot inside another club or karaoke bar. Or attend a live gig. Hell, you’d pay dearly to hear an off-key sidewalk busker. Even a drunkard caterwauling in a subway. 

Sounds from a lifetime ago. Better not to dwell on them. 

You pull out carrots, a few stalks of celery, some onions. “You’re right. I doubt Square Roots or whatever mathematical function his latest album is titled after is a seminal turning point in his discography. I’m not missing anything.” 

You survey the ingredients, feeling Nanami’s mild concern descend upon you as you ramble through your unexpectedly eloquent tirade.

You glance back up at him. “Anyway, dinner tonight involves a mirepoix?”

Nanami nods. You pass a hand hesitantly over the vegetables.

“It’s a lot of prepwork for a…a weekday, right?” 

“It’s a Thursday,” Nanami offers to your unarticulated question. “And trust me, it’s worth it.” 

This time the kiss he presses to your temple is a shade too tender. 

“You’re always worth it.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, letting Nanami’s words lodge deep between your ribs. Then, you carve a smile against his cheek. 

“Who’s the one hoping for consequences now, mister?”

Nanami gives a light squeeze around your hips. “The meal will be ready in about 40 minutes.”

“Can I help?”

Nanami considers you for a moment, looking at your open face.

You skate your thumb across his knuckles, your voice becoming demure, saccharine in its wheedling. “I’ll just wash the vegetables? You’re welcome to do all the dicing and slicing.” 

Nanami chuckles and you feel the tension ebb from his hands at your suggestion. He fishes out his phone and taps on Spotify. “What are you in the mood to listen to, darling?”

Walking on a dream How can I explain? Talking to myself Will I see again?

The upbeat 80s inspired synths pulse through the kitchen, a backdrop to Nanami’s knife working its hypnotic rhythm against the chopping board. You run the cucumbers under the tap while he slides the last of the cubed carrots into a bowl alongside the onions and celery, also cut into similar sized pieces. 

“What are you thinking for the salad?” 

“Yuzu-wafu for the dressing?” Nanami checks his blade, noting its dulled edge. 

“Maybe some kind of vinaigrette? Would pair well since this variety is a little more tart.”

Nanami hums thoughtfully, setting down the knife. He strolls over to a drawer where the cleaver, scissors and matches are stored and after making discrete adjustments to its built-in number padlock, retrieves a whetstone.

“Good call, there’s some EVOO we need to finish up-” Nanami turns around and goes rigid, seeing the knife clasped in both your hands, poised just under your chin.

Thought I'd never see The love you found in me Now it's changing all the time Living in a rhythm where the minute's working overtime

You’re swaying back and forth to the melody, a distant look in your eyes.

“Dear?” 

His voice is gentle, even gentler than usual. Which is plenty gentle already.

Your gaze slides towards Nanami, how he’s tracking the most minute shifts of the gleaming point hovering inches away from your skin. He’s perfectly still, not a tendon twitching, not a nostril flared; the air doesn’t leave his body, you see how it’s gripped between his lungs, as if the oxygen has become cement pooling in his valves. Nanami locks eyes with you, ochre irises shimmering tourmaline, exuding perfect calm. Waiting on you for his next heartbeat.

We are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it Always pushing up the hill, searching for the thrill of it On and on and on we are calling out, out again Never looking down, I'm just in awe of what's in front of me

You grin at Nanami on the other side of the kitchen island, your captive audience as you belt out the chorus.

Is it real now? Two people become one I can feel it Two people become one

Nanami purses his lips, taking a step towards you. “Dear…why don’t you get the olive oil?”

Your grip tightens on the knife’s handle. You shut your eyes.

Is it real now? Two people become one I can feel it Two people become-

You don’t immediately feel his iron grip manacled around your pulse; instead what first alerts you to his presence back by your side are his lips brushing against your temple. And that’s worse somehow, than his touch molding over your whitened knuckles, and the sinews of your wrist gilded with their jagged deltas of silver.

“I love you,” Nanami states, one hand heavily dwarfing your fists. You release the knife into his grip without another word. He swipes a brisk kiss across your jugular and you feel the maniacal desperation bleed from you, receding into the whirlpool of your subconscious. What had come over you?

“You’re kinda pitchy, but I love you anyway.” 

With that cavalier comment, Nanami starts on the cucumbers.

A joke. He's making a joke. Had he seen right through you?

Hasn’t he always? Another voice, almost perfectly resembling your own, whispers within your mind. And he always will. You’re a glass wall to him, utterly transparent, easily shattered.

And Nanami’s the only one who’s been patient enough to put you back together, the only one who can make you whole.

He knows all your fractures, enough to refract and reframe the truth. This was your choice to live as a one-way mirror, to reflect his desires; to orient to the prism without realising it was a prison.

You watch Nanami quickly and quietly julienne the verdant oblongs, the knife’s swift staccato the only sound for a while. You pinch a slender, perfect matchstick from the mound of green, holding it between your fingers. 

“Is there a point to such precision?” 

“It’s so everything cooks evenly. It’s the standard for mise en place cooking.”

“Miso what?”

“It’s another French technique.” Nanami puts down the knife on the far side of the chopping board before plucking the sliver of cucumber from you and returning it to the pile. 

“Literally translated, it means ‘putting in place’.”

“I see, I didn’t know that before.”

You fold your empty palms in your lap, eyes downcast. 

One hand still on the blade, Nanami settles the other over your fingers, his heated grip squeezing just tightly enough for you to feel your metacarpals briefly grate against each other.

“Now you do.”

As Nanami turns back to prepping the ingredients, he tells you, “Go set the table, dear. And open up the bottle, so the wine breathes.” At least one thing in this house can, you think, walking away from him.

“Taste familiar?”

The burgundy swirls in your glass, glinting like fluid rubies as you dip your nose over the rim. 

“You know I don't have your refined palette, Ken. Just tell me already.”

Nanami shakes his head, nudging the ceramic dish towards you.

“Pair it with the cassoulet, then try again.”

You follow your spoonful of the hearty stew with a sip of the red, and this time notes of Pinot noir and brambleberries are more pronounced, as the tannins press their lingering tingle on your tongue, coaxing forth a vaguely familiar association from the recesses of your mind.

“I’ve had this before?”

“It was a fusion restaurant, Japanese-French. We had our first date there,” Nanami prompts.

“Oh! Jonquilla’s?” 

Nanami smiles as his clues finally click together for you. 

“I visited them before their evening service started, on one of my days off. Had a chat with their chef to recreate the recipe for the cassoulet, though I don’t know if the proportion of spice blends is identical-“

“Never mind accuracy, it was absolutely delicious, Ken. You’ve really outdone yourself.” You hum in satisfaction and satiation around the last mouthful of his culinary achievement.

“But what’s the occasion?”

Nanami’s brow arches, almost imperceptibly. “Today’s March 7th.”

You blink owlishly at him for an extended second, then abruptly recoil, stiffening with your realisation.

“Oh crap- I mean, sorry! I-I didn’t know.”

Nanami gestures placatingly, sliding his hand over yours. You stare sheepishly as he laces his fingers through yours. “It’s all right, love. I should have left a note in the morning.”

Timidly, you glance up at him. The mortification only churns with more turbulence seeing Nanami’s gaze brimming with affection and mild amusement.

“Umm...well, happy fourth anniversary Kento.”

For the first time this evening his smile falters.

“Fifth,” he corrects you, with the slightest suggestion of a sigh ghosting over the single syllable. 

Your gaze plummets back to your hand underneath his. “Right, fifth. Five years.”

Five entire years...everything had changed; now none of your days did. All of them spent waiting, then waiting for him. The past three years had been an eternity, dwelling with a man you’d once been keen to spend forever with. The prospect had been a privilege, a certainty back then. When you’d been free to choose it.

Now, like death, it was nothing more than an inevitability.

The redundancy of your statement lurches heavily into the air; you and Nanami sit in silence for several epochs, its weight creeping into the room like a mastodon carcass emerging from permafrost. He splinters it first.

“You didn’t check the calendar?”

What would have been the point, etching out eternity by the day as if that would stall the lobotomy of this monotony? Every flick of a page would have been another papercut embedded in your epidermis, your spine chipped away ever quicker, just one more reminder of your sinews and synapses and wits atrophying, triggering an avalanche of spiraling, depressive thoughts and an even swifter, simultaneous erosion of your sense of self, your will to survive.

You can no more resist the scalpel than the cudgel, it’s an insidious chiselling of your core, to be remade in someone else’s image. Beatific as Helen of Troy, argumentative as an effigy. 

“I forgot today and well, you know the saying, time flies.” 

You pull your hand away from Nanami’s to examine the wine bottle, brushing a thumb over the label. 

“It really is the exact same isn’t it?” you murmur, looking up at him with a wider smile. The Ice Age passes, and both Nanami’s tone and gaze thaws.

“I figured I’d speak to their sommelier at the same time, since I was there. Not many places import this so it took some convincing for them to part with one from their cellar.”

You raise a brow. “Please don’t tell me you spent more than-“

“It was complimentary in fact. Turns out the sommelier was a rather romantic fellow.”

“Sounds like he was giving someone a run for their money.” You lean forward, topping off Nanami’s glass.

With an appreciative chuckle, he responds, “He said it was the least he could do, bringing Provence to you if you couldn’t go.”

Provence, hah. If he only knew, the furthest place you’d been dreaming of was the konbini that had been a five minutes stroll from your old apartment. It was cramped, and the rent had been exorbitant despite being in a dodgy part of town - sort of a shithole if you were honest, but it’d been your shithole.

What colour had you painted the walls? Turquoise? Cerulean? No, aquamarine maybe,to match the canal you could just about glimpse from your balcony in summer-

“They really do a good job, highlighting the seasonal and regional specialties.”

You snap your attention back to the conversation, before the man opposite you can notice anything amiss. Perfunctory participation and trite observations were necessary to shield your most private thoughts from Nanami.

“Yeah, incredible menu. I loved the ambience of the place too.”

“The ambience?”

“Well, everything. The art, the lighting, that live violinist. It all adds to the dining experience, you know.” You let your gaze drift into the scarlet liquid swishing around in your glass, the garnet sparkles enticing in their reminiscence of sweeter, simpler times, when you and Nanami were just getting to know each other.

“Perhaps. I’ve never really noticed those things. That’s just decor.”

Now of course you know him all too well. 

“Oh obviously the food should be the focus. And it definitely stood out. Your tarte tatin really took me back there.” 

“Hmm, you know I suspect they used caster not muscovado after all,” Nanami remarks, scrutinizing the remnant fleck of pastry balanced delicately on a single tine.

“Sweetheart, tonight was a success,” you coo, patting his hand. “Trust me.”

Nanami relents, putting the fork down. “Even in the absence of a live violinist?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, even without that.”

Nanami raises the stem of his glass, trying to hide how pleased he is. You copy him, gaze catching his as the both of you drain your drinking vessels. It is good wine, after all.

You hum, idly letting your fingers skate up Nanami’s forearms.

“Still, there’s lots of French fusion places around Tokyo. Why’d you pick that particular one?”

Nanami shrugs. “I went there with a client once, back when I was a salary man, so I knew it was good. I’d checked the more recent reviews too. Based off those I was convinced the 4.8 average rating it retained was warranted.” 

You incline your head to the side, expectant. There were sure to be other factors, with this pinnacle of logic. Nanami pushes his spectacles up the strong bridge of his nose and sighs.

“And it was, well...equidistant from both our houses.”

You let out a mock gasp, voice fruity with an affectation of being scandalised. “Mr Nanami, I did not take you for such a schemer.”

Perhaps it’s the burgundy, but you can’t help but think the pink tinting Nanami’s cheeks is rather endearing. 

He clears his throat, sitting up straight. “That’s not what I meant. Quite the opposite in fact. We both had assignments early the next day. I wasn’t...making any assumptions.”

You purse your lips together, withholding a smirk as Nanami stumbles through more of his rationalisations.

“I mean, it could have gone poorly too, you could have wanted to cut the date short. So I considered your cab fare wouldn’t amount to more than-“

“Well, our first date didn’t end early, did it, Kento?” you interject. You don’t know why, but it delights you to see a rush of poppies blossom downwards, beneath his collar.

“I suppose not.”

You relax back into your chair with a chuckle, feeling Nanami’s significantly warmer gaze on you.

“Actually, I do have a gift for you.”

Nanami reaches into his satchel and for a moment you’re worried a velvet box will materialise from it. To your relief, he instead withdraws a simple paper envelope, too slim and understated for any expensive jewellery.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding the envelope over to you. 

“Takashimaya vouchers? Oh Kento, how romantic-“  You stop short of delivering the jibe when you see what his gift actually is - a library card. 

Your library card, to be exact.

It’s your turn to be baffled now.

“You were racking up too many fines on mine,” Nanami’s expression is strait-laced, but his gaze is affectionate .“So I renewed yours.”

“Is there, um, some kind of new demerit system?”

“No, the length of the penalty period is the same as the overdue one. Basically I was barred from loaning out more books till you were done, Miss four pages per day.”

“It’s not my fault if the plot drags on,” you protest.

“Pick a more compelling read then,” Nanami smirks, “Or know when to give up.”

You examine the laminated rectangle, and the photo of yourself from five years ago stares back at you, her expression bright and clear-eyed, the set of her jaw resolute. Virtually unrecognisable.

“I can...pick up my own books?” you mumble, eyes still locked on your picture. 

Nanami’s sigh is heavy and you hear him remove his lenses, setting them down on the table. You look up when he addresses you, and his gaze is tinged with the same slight weariness wrung from your name.

“Your residence needed to be updated, that’s all.” Nanami speaks patiently - no, patronisingly. “You can continue to give me the list of titles you want to check out.”

So, you wouldn’t be able to borrow the books in person, let alone browse the shelves in a public space, without him.

“I should...probably pay my late fees myself though, right?”

Nanami shrugs, “They don’t add up to that much. I usually take care of it with the petty cash.”

Money he wouldn’t miss. Transactions without a bank statement. Untraceable.

You’d never have to pay for anything ever again. And it had only cost you your freedom.

You slip the card carefully back into the envelope, face down. 

Some unthinking machine would scan its barcode, would log your details, your preferences in novels and fiction, the imaginations you escaped into. On some arbitrary database, you’d exist.

Somewhere outside these four walls, you’d live.

“Thank you, Ken. It’s a lovely...gesture.”

You don’t think Nanami registers the pause, neutrally watching you empty the wine bottle equally into his glass and yours. 

“Shame that’s the last of it,” you sigh, setting the bottle down. Nanami hums contemplatively as you drink up.

“It was... a nice restaurant. Would you want to visit it again?”

You stare at Nanami, not quite believing your ears at the sentimentality that has seeped into his tone, let alone his offer.

“Visit it?”

That would involve going back into the world. Strangers would see you. Might even interact with you. That would be too much, surely?

Nanami takes a long sip of wine before continuing.

“I could get candles and cushions and white linen tablecloths, or put a Poulenc record on...but I know it’s not the same.The environment does make a difference.” 

You nod slowly, twisting the stem of your glass between your fingers. He reaches for your hand and you let him hold it.

“You could do your hair, nails, get dolled up and all, just like old times. There’s this dress in a corner boutique I go past every day, that I think you’ll like-“

“That I’ll like or you’ll like?” 

He chuckles, “My dear, if you want to wear a burlap sack there you’re welcome to. I’ll insist to the maître d’ I have the most beautiful woman in the world on my arm, regardless.”

A blush unfurls across your face, looking into Nanami’s eyes and seeing the absolute sincerity and conviction there. 

“I just want you to feel as special as you are to me, when we go.”

Nanami brings your hand to his mouth, eyes closed, taking his time to plant a kiss on each of your knuckles. Something constricts in your chest, watching the reverence and regret of his lips each time they have to lift a tiny fraction away from your rapidly warming skin.

“It’s where we started to make so many memories.” Nanami says softly, opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours. You sink into the rich russet warmth of those irises, mesmerised by the familiar tawny flecks shining bronze with pure adoration for you. 

“If we were going to celebrate, it would be worth commemorating it there, yes?”

He almost whispers the question, with both his hands now clasping yours. Nanami brushes a thumb across your hand and you barely notice how it strokes slow, tender circles on your fourth finger.

Barely.

You know what he is truly asking. What he’s really after.

Would it be a celebration or a sentencing?

Even after all this time, it isn’t clear if there’s just the one answer.

You shut your eyes, taking a breath. You lean forward in the darkness, finding and anchoring your lips to Nanami’s, parting them to reel his soft exhalation into your mouth, feeling the tidal surge of his ache in his tongue tracing the very edges of your mouth, desperation lapping at your own control.

You haven’t permitted him this little in so long. You haven’t permitted yourself this much for even longer.

You break away just as his canines start to graze your trembling lower lip, whispering the truth through your teeth. “I’ve been utterly smitten by you, Nanami Kento. Too often, you know me better than I do myself. But I know you too.”

“And?” 

You let the panted word hang in the air, savouring the way his anticipation swells through his button-up shirt, his chest rising and falling with each second that passes, that you hold out on.

You imbibe a heavy gulp of composure, some of the burgundy spilling past your lips.

Your glass chimes against the table with a definitive clink as you reply, “And I know how much of a hassle you find washing cast iron skillets to be. Restaurants would take care of that, right?”

Nanami’s face crumples into confusion, his consternation finding physical manifestations in the crease of his brows and down turned lips.

Maybe you’d gone too far, even if it wasn’t an outright rejection. He might interpret it as a stalling tactic.

“That was a joke, Kento. Of course I’d love to revisit Jonquilla’s with you. Or even a Mcdonalds drive-thru.” 

“My dear, you deserve so much better than that sodium saturated crap.”

Your laugh quivers, rippling with the pronounced vehemence with which Nanami had spat the expletive. He pins you with a stern glare, but you will mischief to glaze over your face, like a visor.

“Y’know, I’ve kinda been craving their fries.”

Nanami wrinkles his nose, and you breathe a little easier. “How your standards haven’t improved, after years of living together with home cooked meals, is beyond me.”

“You’re such a snob sometimes,” you dismiss his disdain with a giggle, “You gotta realise there are just some things you can’t exert influence over.”

Nanami’s eyes narrow. “I’m not going to give up.”

“Suit yourself,” you lick the last traces of a sauce off the back of a spoon with deliberation, feeling his gaze track your movements. “I see no downsides for me, if that means more yummy replications.”

Nanami’s exhale through his nose is short and sharp; what passes for a laugh these days. He regards you silently for a minute, exasperation mingling and melting into fondness, ever so gradually.

It seems you’re out of the woods. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep him in a good mood.

You reach out to caress Nanami’s cheek lightly, and his eyes drift close against your touch. “You can take me anywhere you want.” 

Everywhere and nowhere. 

“How about we start with the shower?”

Nanami stands a few feet away from you as vines of steam coil around his granite cheekbones, wilting his collar, leaching translucence into the whites of his Oxford top. You see the fibres strain with every rise and fall of his chest, the vapours of his mouth melding with the swelling humidity of the bath, amidst fluctuations of hunger and hesitation.

“Are you sure about this?” Nanami murmurs, he braces his arms behind him, pressing his back against the tiles, breath expanding underneath his shirt. You gaze upon Nanami, a centurion sculpted by Rodin, a cornered animal. 

You take a step towards him, feeling his heart hammer as you enclose your palm over it.

“It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” you whisper, reaching for his first button.

It wasn’t quite the same of course, as on the other nights. Usually your positions were reversed; Nanami, fully clothed, would strip you and usher you into the shower, only a sponge between you and him as he cleansed every inch of your skin. His own bath would be brisk, but he’d thank you for your patience every evening as you shuddered in the corner, eyes tightly shut. He didn’t seem to care if you stared at him with revulsion or resignation, the way a leopard would disregard a sparrow.

That was all your bodies had been to each other for the longest time, mere objects co-existing in space, empty vessels requiring maintenance.

It’s hard to remember that now, as a more carnal need pumps through your veins, as the fabric peels away from his skin, sleeves rippling slow in their remorse of being parted from his swollen biceps. You replace them with your palms, gliding over arms corded with sinews like steel cables. All this strength he’s never used on you, keeping you in his grasp by some other power.

No, it was exactly this restraint that restrained you; shackled to the myth that it couldn’t get worse, torture earning your tolerance, tolerance reaping your torture.

You thread your fingers through Nanami’s locks, barley sheaves darkening into rye beneath the spray and the circular motion of your hands, massaging shampoo into his silken roots. The cascade of water catches his lashes just right, fronds fluttering like the gold-gilded ruffled edges of ginkgo leaves at the terminus of autumn; yet, as you sink your fingers into the joints where Nanami’s nape connects to the base of his cranium, you doubt it’s the scattered droplets which are responsible for his eyes closing, or the guttural groan dragged from his throat, the octaves dripping much lower than you’ve heard in months, sending simultaneous sensations of heat dribbling down your spine and a lush insistence of warmth tugging through your gut.

Suds slip their foamy trail over the corded tendons in his neck, iridescence slathering over his chest and arms. Your fingers follow them, naturally. Nanami holds himself very still as you scratch your nails lightly over his pectorals and abdominals, tracing a path of your own design and desires, forgotten yet familiar. The terrain prickles beneath your wandering palms, goosebumps sprouting at your touch. But then, you reach a swathe of blue mottling into violet, and your hand hovers over it, a sickle sized smudge wrapped around his upper ribs. You can’t control the flood that suddenly surges to your waterline, blurring your vision.

All the violence, and all the silence. The endless chaos. This was the truth out there, and here was the evidence he kept from you. 

The bruise spreads beneath your fingers, wider than your hand.

And what was the truth in here? Where was the danger? Long ago you’d confronted that same savagery, the senseless cruelty, those injustices he used to justify keeping you safe now.

You sink your thumb against the wound, dragging your anguish through it. You feel the breath juddering through Nanami, as he winces. But he doesn’t stop you.

You can hurt him too.

“It’s all right,” he whispers, leaning into your touch.

Monsters creating monsters, curses birthing more curses. Perhaps misery didn’t love company, as much as it feared and loathed enduring its own misanthropy alone.

There were worse things to lose than freedom.

You lift your hand away, to cup Nanami’s face instead.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, pressing the apology over his closed eyes. You feel them flickering beneath your lips.

“I’m sorry for all of this.” His gaze, when it returns to you, wavers wearily between guilt and grief. It’s dimmed and misty, there are no calculations, no charting these choppy waters; he sways towards you, a man (as before, as ever) seeking safe harbour, adrift in your arms.

You coax his calloused hands around your hips, and you’re uncertain for a few moments if the trembling from his fingertips has summoned the same across your skin, or if it’s your own nerves rippling outwards to his touch, all too tentative.

“Do you…not want to-”

You feel the answer in his immediate indentations upon your waist, squeezing your doubts into silence. But his gaze remains obscured behind his fringe, plastered to his forehead. You brace against the silence by sliding your arms over his, thumb circling the taut knot at the crease of his elbow. Gently you lay your cheek against his chest, savouring the solidness that has been so absent, and its underlying thump-thump-thump, far less steady. 

You feel the breath rising through his lungs as he tilts your chin up towards him, voice rasping with frayed restraint.

“I want to. Of course I want you.”

Nanami drags his thumb from the corner of your lips to its plush centre, feeling it furl and yield without very much pressure.

“What if I want too much?”

For him to ask this now is a kindness you can’t afford. You don’t owe him this, he has reassured you of that much, tonight and many other nights. Perhaps it’s time that has taken its toll instead, so that with your last shred of autonomy, you choose to give, or at least give in.

“Just let me be selfish, this once.”

You angle your face towards him, lips parted and watch the light in his eyes shrink to pinpricks; firelight flickering out as bipedal silhouettes slink and morph back into the shadows of beasts - 

coherence, logic, caution all consumed by more primal instincts.

And so, you anticipate his devouring, his half-snarl, his clash of teeth when he claims your mouth again for the first time in ages but it’s worse, so much worse. And divine. 

His kiss is slow but no less forceful, the pressure gradually mounting, lapping at your lips then teasingly receding so you have to push up into him, deepening the kiss so quickly without you realising, only vaguely aware of your shortness of breath, of the most mild discomfort; the same dissonance of someone witnessing a revealed shore and wading further and further onto it, clueless that the waves are pulling back because of the tsunami surging towards them.

It’s too late by then, caught in Nanami’s undertow when your head rolls to the side, hardly far enough before it’s cradled by one of his large hands. The warmth from his palms pools across your nape, dripping down down down your spinal column, an erosion of stalactites as your weight melts against Nanami when he pulls your waist flush to his. He drinks in your whimpered surprise as you feel a smear, thick and wet, between your legs and prodding at your gusset. 

Nanami finally lets you part for air but you cling to him, limpet-limbed. Your gaze and hand drifts down to where he’s stiff, scarlet and sobbing from his slit, globs of fat white pearls that remind you of the dryness in your mouth.

“So much…you’ve been holding back this much?”

Nanami had never responded this way when conducting your evening rituals of hygiene, had swept his eyes over your breasts and buttocks as efficiently as he’d inspected your scalp, elbows, knees. His touch had been mechanical, clinical to the point of brusque. You came to the conclusion then, over the years, that he was inoculated against arousal, that the sight of your bare flesh no longer titillated him, that on some level even, he was completely apathetic to your nudity. It’s impossible to argue such a stance now with the copious amount of evidence painting your thighs, the head bobbing heavily as it brushes against your skin.

“Sometimes at work…” Nanami croaks and you finally tear your stare away from his glistening length, to be sucked into the brine-dark whirlpools of lust churning in his eyes. “I’d…I’d take the edge off.”

“How?” you whisper. The crimson rush crests high on his cheeks and you reach out to caress his face, residual heat sweeping from your fingers down your wrist. 

“J-just in a cubicle,” he confesses, averting his eyes. “Not often.”

During lunch breaks. In between meetings. Just before commuting. You hadn’t been able to keep your hands off each other, in those early days. So many late nights, and later mornings. Beds were irrelevant. Desks, couches, corridors, stairwells - the two of you didn’t need much to improvise intimacy, the sparse surroundings testimony to the inspiration you found endlessly in each other. 

It must have been difficult, to forget and forego all that. It was, for you.

“Made it worse…I tried to stop.”

Nanami Kento, with his crisp collars, perfectly ironed jackets, shiny brogues - in a sterile bathroom hunched over fisting his cock with frantic, feverish tugs, struggling to sputter to a paltry climax, the spit in his palms a poor substitute for what he refused himself every evening, 

so close, so easily within reach that he couldn’t take it.

Temporarily vanquishing his visceral ache for you, while heightening his hankering, compounding his cravings, haunted by his half-measures for months and months. 

Diminishing returns, returning with a vengeance. 

“Why not here, at home?” 

You see the anguish flash across his face, feel the tremor in his hands as he clutches at your waist. 

“I…didn’t want you to ever - ever - remotely consider that risk, with m-”

You crush your mouth to Nanami’s, pillow-soft lips pummeling his doubts into nothing more than the air that escapes with his choked grunt of surprise, tongue spearing deep past his lips to wrestle with his, an excavation of the remnants of his uncertainty.

“Kento…” And he hears his name panted, twisted through with such longing he has no choice but to look at you. 

“You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”

Coals glow in Nanami’s irises, you witness in an instant the incineration of his final vestiges of control. But even if you hadn’t caught the change, you feel it as your body is engulfed in flames for the remainder of the night. 

Nanami grabs you, pins you to the wall as he nips kisses all across your nape, sucks bruises down the column of your throat, carnality swelling carnelian across your clavicle, as you claw ruby rivulets down his spine. He buries his pleasured growls between your breasts, stuffing his mouth with your mounds and moans and the stiffened peaks of your nubs, while his hands waste no time, grasping at every inch of you, your curves, the plush of your thighs, the fat of your bum, years of denial striking the flint of desperation, skin singeing against each other, ragged sighs breathing life into him, coaxing the inferno higher and higher.

And then his knuckles graze the lake of slick between your legs and when did he get on his knees and Nanami hisses your name, whiskey-smoked gaze drilling into yours, demanding not your permission, but your focus when he finally sinks his tongue into you, and the sob rips from your throat at his impatience, his insistence, lapping ravenously at your folds, retracing every crease and crevasse of you, tip curving into spots you forgot you had to chase and catch every drop drooling from your niche, greed driving him deeper to get closer to the mouth of the river, your lust already streaming down his face. He grinds your weight further on his face, disregarding your garbled protests, you cry out as the high bridge of his nose brushes your clit and almost immediately you regret it as he switches his attentions and abuse there, to that tiny bundle of nerves, tongue now stroking ruthlessly fast, alternating between flicking and wrapping tight circles around it. 

A particularly vicious suck has your climax shattering over you, your wails of his name bouncing off the tiles and to your fascinated horror, falling on deaf ears. It takes you a few moments, with every synapse scorched beyond function, to realise that your jerking and spasms aren’t from your first orgasm, but an impending second. Because Nanami hasn’t slowed down for a fraction of a moment, your cunt still sealed around the cavern of his mouth, the beast within writhing its way back into its reclaimed burrow; you squeal and whine and squirm, but it’s no use, Nanami slaps a hand against your thigh, angling it to hook high over his broad shoulders to keep you splayed, the iridescence you’re spraying across his cheeks no match for the gleam in his eyes as he feasts and slurps and sucks. 

His moans reverberating through your pussy seem to crawl their way up through your own throat, writhing into your garbled pleas for amnesty, for release. You’re convinced your pleasure is mere collateral, not the priority, to Nanami now, that he’s punishing you in some sadistic, delightful way - until you feel the swipes of his tongue soften and his smirk stretching you, in time with the tips of his fingers spreading across your swollen lips.

“One more darling,” he promises, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. You brace against the wall, whimpers tapering into relieved little mewls of his name as Nanami’s index glides inside you, pussy readily receiving every ridge and joint, liquid-smooth, as your resistance dribbles down his wrist.

“Gotta prep you, it’s been a while mmh?” he mumbles against your sodden core, starting to pump his digits in and out of you steadily, before he latches back onto your clit like an addict, picking up his pace and pressing into the soft spongy spots that have you erupting into your next climax.

But Nanami’s far from finished. 

He withdraws his fingers, luminescent with your essence and sucks them…clean hardly seemed an appropriate word, but it had to suffice in your severely diminished mental state, as the aftershocks scoured every nerve ending south of your tummy, satiation severing any attempt by your neurons to connect.

Brain mushy and muscles gelatinous, you slump forward into Nanami’s solid embrace, his baritone rumbling sweet nothings to reinforce the trembling in your knees. In a single fluid motion, he sweeps you into his arms, bundling you up bridal style out of the bathroom, not bothering with a towel.

“Ken! I’ll get the bed soaked,” you complain, clutching at his biceps.

“That’s the plan, dearest,” he rasps, the menace in his voice somehow simultaneously melodious. Nanami tosses you down on the mattress, lips chasing the blush rushing down your bosom, mouth puckering around the pertness of your buds, alternating between his tongue’s gentle flicks and how he rolls them roughly between his fingers. 

But Nanami’s only got one hand occupied by your tits. With the other you distantly hear him rummaging through the nightstand, sounding increasingly agitated. He cusses against your cleavage, and you hear a hollow cardboard box clatter off in the corner as he hurls it across the room.

Of course, neither of you had considered replenishing contraceptives in a long time. 

Nanami sits back on his haunches, hands clenched on his knees. His erection juts tantalisingly between them, in a proud upwards sweep of roseate to vermillion, milky droplets already beading again from the heavy head. 

Later, you’ll blame the flowers, the wine. Even that damned library card, for the next words that spill from your mouth.

But something possesses you, and you whisper in a voice you barely recognise as your own, “I don’t care, Nanami.” You feel his gaze snap from the offending emptiness of the bedside drawer to your hooded eyes, which are decidedly not directed at his face.

Your statement sinks into the silence taut between your bodies, and you feel the bed dip, as Nanami cautiously (but eagerly) shuffles forward on one knee, the hard silhouette of his length brushing against his belly. Errant pearls drip wastefully into the sheets, and you have to hold back a sob.

“Repeat it.”

“I…I don’t care, I j-just want…” your voice falters as Nanami looms over you, caging you in beneath his arms. His broad mushroom head glides along your slit, rivulets of your slick running from his tip down the rest of his cock. In all your years together, you’ve never felt him this way, with such intimacy, such bristling urgency.

“What do you want, love?”

“You, all of you.” The conviction crackles from your lungs at last and something snaps when Nanami suddenly sinks partially inside you, hips stuttering at your confession, gasps eclipsing each other’s at the sudden surge and squelch of wet and heat and clinging.

It’s too much and not enough all at once and it has your hips jerking up involuntarily, your body remembering there was more, that it was made for much more - but Nanami clamps down on them, shushing your indignant whines even as you try to draw more of him in.

“There’ll be time for you to regret your greed later, my girl,” Nanami chuckles his hoarse assurance, and there’s something about the specific blend of his tone; the sardonicism, the delirium, the absolute warmth under it all that is completely familiar to you. You slip into surrender, relaxing entirely into the kiss you drag him down for. 

Nanami is slow to sleeve himself fully within you, savouring how your expressions flicker between frustration and pleasure, a reticence resonant with the way your pussy flutters around his girth, beguiling in its struggle as Nanami feeds you his meat, inch by throbbing inch. You feel him wrestle with the dilemma too in the aberrant twitches of his cockhead, leaking pre-cum, as if your passage weren’t satin-slick enough already and arduous with your ardour. 

It’s a surreptitious, viscous cycle; you get more sodden and sensitive with every incremental shimmy Nanami presses into you, the teasingly measured secretion of his slimy trail inside you mingles with your own wet wantonness, the excesses of this elixir dribbling down the remainder of his length and coating your already considerably saturated walls, making it harder and harder for him to resist slamming the rest of his way inside you.

He knows you could take it, that you crave such treatment even, but he wants even more to commit this eternity to memory, not simply the glorious, torturous novel sensation of fucking you raw but the way your face shifts from arousal to adoration, back and forth, again and again, as he seeds a new addiction inside you, gradually stretching you past your former limits; physical, emotional, moral.

Nanami presses a stilted groan into your nape when he bottoms out inside you at last, laving his tongue over the film of perspiration clinging to your collarbones, as if there were some secret adhesive he could absorb to keep himself together, to prevent himself from falling apart with every rippling contraction of your cunt, as your being is molded once more around his pulsing length. 

“Ke~nnnhg…” you moan, and he twitches hard inside your gluey, velvet-vice to hear his name so stretched out, like gum, like rubber, like the dearth thereof, of any barrier between your bodies when you squeeze around him, deliberately this time. There’s an abundance of obviousness that it’s your action, not a reaction, by how your voice tremors with the effort.

“Already told ya,” you huff, “You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”

And perhaps it’s your petulance, how you’re pouting this reminder of your mutual needs to be devastated, that sets Nanami off, that has his hips snapping forward, callous and careless at last, his thrusts initially sharp and shallow building quickly into an erratic rhythm that you can barely keep up with, letting yourself be jostled and pounded and shaken like a ragdoll, like Nanami’s exclusive fucktoy for him to drain his desires into. 

“Fuck, angel, so fucking perfect. Gonna fill you up, make you so swollen with me, mmh?” 

Your keen peels from your ribs, pitching high into the air, as Nanami continues to whisper filth and praise and promises you can’t quite comprehend, the only sounds, barely intelligible, is his slurring of your name, the syllables stringing stickily together like the messy ropes of cum swaying with every plunge of his cock back into your cunt, relentlessly bruising those spots that make meteors flash across your screwed shut eyes.

“Ken, K-Kento! Ah, ah- missed this so much, m-missed you!”

It’s your last attempt at coherence before your climax crashes over you and you clench around Nanami’s spurting cock, his broken bellows echoing through your bones and veins as he cums shortly after, flooding you, tethering you. You arch into him, receiving each pump, pulses blending with tongues tangling, till there is no distinction between tributaries and alluvium, between river and ravine, only the abundance of silt from his slit, nestled snugly against your cervix.

Nanami shifts to settle you in his arms, some of his spend seeping from the apex of your thighs.Will there be a price to pay? The potential of a gynecologist’s scrutiny, doula appointments, consultations and consolations,  complications and consequences, another presence at last in this house…you push these questions far from your mind.

Because the night doesn’t end there of course, you don’t recall if it ends at all. It’s a haze of hormonal hedonism, hours lost in the fog of damp breaths and senses swamped by desire. It is as if you dreamed it all, drifting off with Nanami inside you, waking to find his hunger unabated. Any concerns the morning might bring are cloudy, what is crystalline instead - what you choose to curate - are the sparse intermissions of his syrupy kisses over the words you exchange, that he demands to hear with your will languishing, effervescent as the vow he pulls from you, but will hold you to, lingering in the long shadows of your subconscious: I’m yours and you are mine, I need nothing else.

Seraphim, succubus, sorceress...all these accusations and adorations Kento lays at your feet, worshipping at the altar of your thighs, whether you were astride or under him. Calling you his cornerstone, a becoming like cinder blocks around your ankles.

Drunk off of him, kisses spilling kerosene and casks of Amontillado, your kindness your kindling, immolated by indulgence. You’d yearned for this too, his hunger feeding yours, an Ouroborous of obsession wrapping around your arms, chest, eyes so you couldn’t see how symbiosis ceded to the parasitic, the pleasure paralytic, ambrosia abused into anaesthetic until it cemented your ruin. Your comfort and his catharsis was a drug, yet you do not stop to wonder if this love had never been medicinal, if it had been narcotics lavished against necrosis.

It was too late for either of you to realise he’d never healed, amidst the eternity of nights spent with your lips sealed to Nanami’s like an oath. He never cared or dared to question destiny, yet never been so sure he’s meant to share his with anyone except you. But Fate has always been cruel to the best people he’s known and known too late just how much he needed in his life. 

And he couldn’t possibly be crueler than Fate, could he, if it meant protecting you?

Sworn and bound to this, but it unleashed an ancient anguish that had festered for far too long in his heart, aches that should have stayed buried, instincts that should have gone extinct; His salvation now only in the mutation of satiation into starvation. Every love bite and bruise stacking upon each other’s skin like bricks in a citadel for two. You were his fortress, his hearth. 

You didn’t know he was building you a pedestal, a pyre, a pyramid.

All to serve a goddess in name, in invention not intervention. Does it matter? Nanami strips you of your mortality, your humanity. You are a being of infinite benevolence and eternal beauty, a deity who deigned to age alongside him. He would grow old with you. Even if it meant dooming you to dwell within a sarcophagus.

Nanami looks upon you, you are enshrined, entombed. He engulfs you in amber; Your life preserved, your love petrified.

thanks for reading!

a/n:also wanted to say I owe a debt of inspiration to @saintshigaraki's fic which has one of the most realistic, seductive portrayals of a Yandere Nanami I've read. Mise En Place would not exist without it.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[ashmouthbooks]

2023 in books

better late than never, right?

2023 was a relatively slow year for me in bookbinding, but I still made 30+ books. (ask me how much time I spent on my other hobbies and it becomes clear why books were fewer.)

A5 books

the first A5 of the year was an entry for a bookbinding competition (which I didn't win), where the theme was climate change. I had a lot of fun putting it together and it was the first time I made an A5 tête-bêche book - I usually do these A6 or A7 size.

this was also the year I decided to start a collection of menocchio fics, which also led to experiments with printing directly onto bookcloth to get titles on the spine

what's fun about bookbinding is that you can Just Make A Book, but you can also Get Ideas And Run With Them with it. which is how I wound up with this black on black book. destiel necromancy fic, because of course it is

going back to something more colourful...Ulysses. not the James Joyce one, the slowburn 00Q one. named for a Tennyson poem.

final A5 book of the year is my Renegade Exchange book, which I bound for Silent Sun Press - a Crowley-centric genfic with outsider POV, so naturally I went for TV!Gomens colour schemes

A6 and A7 books

I started the year ambitiously - in addition to entering a competition, I started my urchin specials project. thus far I've still only bound these first three books for the project, but I plan to do more. first dustjackets as well!

I continued with the no-glue pamphlets and did three

I joined the Tiny Books Exchange, and as a proof of concept - before I typeset an A7 sized tête-bêche - I did a little tête-bêche of the two Temeraire fics I wrote for yuletide once upon a time

then followed of course the Tiny Book I bound for the exchange - my copy (test & proof of concept, bottom), the giftee copy (green, top right), and the author copy (blue, top left)

I typeset a lot more than I bind - I have plans to bind so and so, so I typeset it, but don't always have the time to bind it right away. so I have folders full of typesets ready to go at a moment's notice. this one was typeset a whole year before I bound it

are these paperbacks or just very slim hardbacks? I call them paperbacks as I used 0.5mm boards and they have no spine, but ymmv

this one definitely is a hardback - with slightly thicker boards, a spine, and two fics in one book. I do love those tête-bêches

at my work we have a lot of deliveries wrapped in this nice recycled brown paper that was just going into the recycling bin, and I thought: why not make books out of it? so I played around with it (and my printer) and came up with a neat aesthetic for paperbacks with breakaway spines (using 0.5mm boards)

will I ever stop with the tête-bêches? no. also this one has endpapers made from SEAWEED. how cool is that?

the last A6 of the year is this little collection of my own stories for a tiny Danish fandom. detectives and trauma, but make it about food? yes. food and cooking themed endpapers and cover papers, and the dustjacket has fake coffee stains on it. perfect

and that is all, folks. I did a lot of different styles and types of binding this year, I had fun with it, I learned a lot, and I'm happy with what I've created.

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Nis Puk

Nis Puk (in Sylt Frisian Nes Pük, in Danish also Nis Pug and Nis Puge) is a character from the area of folk tales. The name combines the names Nisse and Puk. The legendary figure is mainly known in the Schleswig area on both sides of the German-Danish border (also Sønderjylland ≈ Southern Jutland) in the German-Danish borderland.

Nis Puk shows the following characteristics:

Nis Puk is supposed to take care of the house, yard and animals if the residents are treating their own children and pets well, and to be a counterpoise within the house and the village.

Nis Puk is said to live in the attic or in a barn. Apparently, adults can no longer see him.

Once a year, at Christmas, a bowl of grits (with butter) must be brought to Nis Puk. If this doesn't happen, Nis Puk moves to another village. The house and farm would then be exposed unprotected to greed and decay.

An example of a folk tale is the legend of Nis Puk from the Lindewitt farm near Flensburg:

Nis Puk from the Lindewitt farm is said to have once sat on top of the dog house and used his legs to annoy the dogs underneath. Howling and barking, they are said to have tried to grab little Nis. The farm servant saw this, wanted to have fun and pushed the puk down from the hut. Nis Puk screamed loudly and vowed to take revenge. One day, Nis Puk untied the two black horses and chased them in the direction of the inn where the servant was carousing. He immediately noticed the commotion outside, rushed out, grabbed the two horses and wanted to take them back to the stable. He got on one of the horses and rode off. But, drunk as he was, on the way he fell asleep. The next morning he woke up, puzzled, on two black peat heaps in the Oxlund fen (near Großenwiehe).

[th3-0bjectivist]

Dear listener, on the incredibly rare occasions when I crave some old-fashioned rock n’ roll that also appeals to the very darkest shades of human nature, I immediately turn to The Raveonettes for elucidation and insight. This Danish duo manages to give me the exact audial drug I need when I’m in a mood, whether it be an upper or a downer, to put my troubled spirit back to a delicate balance. This isn’t music that I enjoy in a traditional sense. More like I can’t help but LOVE it because it’s just that damn good! Above this paragraph, you can smash play on Love In a Trashcan from their 2005 album Pretty in Black. And if you happen to find yourself in an uncontrollable full tilt boogie, join me down below for a little more on these feathered friends.

These birds create a lot of retro-rock which is a big throwback to an American 50’s and 60’s style, all while touching upon some very dark themes like murder, lust, crime and betrayal. Hailing from Copenhagen, Denmark, this dynamic duo’s tracks are often tied to the past instrumentally and given a facelift through synth, distortion, and occasional hip-hop inspired beats. This is indie noise pop with a refreshing darksome lyrical twist. These corvids don’t just play well together, they sing well together as well, giving them a slight edge over the standard guy/girl, one is on instruments the other is on vocals model that I’m used to seeing everywhere in modern music. When you mash all of that up with some skilled guitar work and a clear fascination with vintage Americana, what you’re left with is a sound that somehow feels old school and new school simultaneously. Musically groovy, lyrically edgy and boasting a catalog that spans over two decades, these songbirds manage to consistently bang out tunes that are fun AND forlorn. Often combining catchy vocal harmonies with shoegaze stylishness, their work will keep you feeling as bipolar as Kayne West… only without the inflated ego and narcissistic God-complex as part of the total package. If you’re old enough or know enough about 60’s music to have heard of groups like The Velvet Underground, these winged wonders will provide you with a walk-down-memory-lane experience with their spicy topics, high-quality poetry and avant-garde approach to rock. A few years ago, I posted my very favorite song by these nutcrackers which either Soundcloud or Tumblr deleted for God-knows what reason, so now I’m posting it again. Click just below for Lust from their 2007 album Lust Lust Lust, its one hell of a melodic banger! Lots more music to come in 2024, folks. Thanks so much for tuning in to my personal radio station on Tumblr!

I don’t necessarily recommend a lot of bands that reach for a retro style, so I implore you to enjoy this week’s entry as it’s something of a rarity. And HEY, @t-underneaththeradardancing, as far as I’m concerned this one’s just for you my bird-lovin’ buddy. Image source: https://music.newcity.com/2024/06/06/harmonic-noise-is-real-explosive-and-fun-a-preview-of-the-raveonettes-at-the-bottom-lounge/

[hayleysayshay]

I rly just saw someone suggest Eurovision enforce Ireland singing in Irish… I’d love for an Irish Gaelic song but it’s a minority language, Irish ppl aren’t more or less Irish for being able to speak Gaelic or not so it would be batshit to enforce this.

I’ve seen a couple dodgy comments from racist trolls about Ukraine sending a black man singing in English as he’s not ‘really Ukrainian’ and it’s just Ukraine trying to look ‘woke’ compared to last year’s ‘very ukranian’ song when like, what does it matter where he was originally from or what language he’s singing, he’s representing Ukraine. This is who Ukraine want to represent them, it’s a ukranian song stfu.

I agree with the homogenous English language is a detriment and I want National languages to have a presence and I want to have a variety of musical style. But I don’t think ppl realise how enforcing language rules is a slippery slope to yikes town. A song representing a country is Swiss/Latvian/Ukranian/Danish etc, no matter the language or musical styling. Like people listen to electronic dance pop, big shock that a lot of countries send electronic dance pop, if a country sent a song in national folk stylings every year it would get repetitive and honestly this has never been a part of Eurovision culture, in the past we got a lot of Shlaeger style ballads and pop songs, basically the same genre, so pretending that really represented the country’s culture just because it was sung in its national language is ludicrious. This may blow peoples mind but Eurovision has always been a pop music show and countries send pop music and pop music is popular music and dance pop is what people are going to send in the current day.

[iwantoseeafrigatebird]

So, regarding my cycling/camping/wild-camping trip to Orkney. I'm currently drafting this in Brown's Hostel, Stromness... going to catch the 6:30 ferry tomorrow morning and back to bleak reality.

gonna be breaking the trip's brief account into parts due to the restraint of number of pictures i can put into each post. will post it as i write it so i can assemble a master post...

I got the idea of cycling/wild camping from a lady who did this in the hebrides in her youth which was in the 70s, 80s. Got the idea of going to Orkney from well, the lost Franklin expedition, another lady who's been going to Orkney almost every year for the past few decades or so, and being handed a card abt the orkney storytelling centre. So handed in my dissertation, moved, bought a second hand bike, strapped my gear onto it, was terrified for a bit there and didn't research much until the last minute, but thought if I didn't go then I ain't never going.

part 1

day 1

my poor bike at waverly.

I was doing a bit of an experiment, so instead of my summer sleeping bag I brought a heavy army surplus wool blanket instead. I wanted to see what it feels like to sleep in blankets. The conclusion is it's fine as long as the temperature is above 9 degrees celsius. But my insulation mattress is leaky so had to get up every three hours to reinflate it. Apart from that, with a bit of help from the sudden balmy weather that graced this part of Scotland, I was mostly warm enough.

So off I went, arriving at Thurso at 11 pm. Cycling 13 miles in the dark towards Dunnet head to see the lighthouse in action (it marks the most northerly point of mainland scotland). Exploring an abandoned seaside house on the way and seeing a dead rabbit (the next morning I saw it again, with its bowels exposed, a crow was pecking at it, which made me feel better as the energy of that rabbit is not going to be wasted). If I was a braver man and brought a better knife I would've strapped it to my bike and skinned it, but I'm too frightened of catching something from eating it.

Dunnet head lighthouse in action.

It was a surreal experience, sitting next to the lighthouse looking into its heart of diamond (the beautiful beautiful fresnel lens) projecting a slowly rotating crown composed of columns of light in total darkness. It was raining and the wind was picking up. I scrambed a bit to try and find a spot to set up camp, almost ended up in a loch (the loch, is black; the unilluminated field, is black; the night, is black; I could't see shit but the falling rain in front of the light mounted on my bike, they fell like silver needles). Camped on heather between three lochs and the sea. At least its a well drained area.

-

day 2

Before catching the ferry to st Margaret's Hope, went up to see the lighthouse in daylight. And all the beautiful cliffs & sea view that I missed in the dark.

Sheltered in a pub in St. Margaret's Hope for a few hours, then went to camp in a wilding hotspot, the Hoxa beach.

The rain just abated but the wind was 37km/hr, got some help from a couple (John and his Danish wife) so after a bit of a struggle finally set up the tent. Wonderful folks, gave me eggs and toast (and extra tent pegs for windy weather). They are from southeast Scotland, somewhere called "Gales Bay" if you translate the name into English.

(tbc)

[pavlovsbimbo]

The Meeting

An experiment in 2nd person writing.

Ugh! You slept in. And today's the all day meeting about process improvements or whatever. I mean at least it's not really important, but it wasn't going to look good to be late, for sure. An all day meeting, hosted by your new manager, with drop in attendance from his boss and his boss's boss, and you're running at least 30 minutes late. Fuck.

After a rush to get ready, and out the door, almost forgetting your badge and computer, you make it - but even later and with no caffeine. You get to the meeting room, excuse yourself and sheepishly grab coffee from the carafe and one of the mini danishes. Breakfast of champions...

You settle in and try to focus. "How can we improve the culture?" Is up on the screen, black text on a dull grey background. 'The vaguest possible question', you think, but thankfully your lead takes the queue and manages to speak about the importance of teamwork and being open as you drift off. ... You have a dream, almost too brief to remember, something about helping your team and how happy you are to do so.

You awake with a start, and hope you didn't snore. You down the rest of your coffee and whatever is left of your danish, hoping either the calories or the caffeine will kick in and you'll make it to lunch time.

Focus! The screen says, "how can we improve quality?". 'Is the whole day like this?' You think to yourself, the questions so broad as to give no indication of even where to start. One of the senior folks on your team starts in on the question though, "well, happy, focused employees get more into their work and produce higher quality results.". You nod along, that makes sense, you're positive you read something similar somewhere, and your manager asks the group, "okay so how can we make our employees happier and more focused?". People around the room chime in with ideas for rewards or how to focus on the fun. Your lead is in the middle of a detailed rant about how it's your responsibility to make their coworkers happy as you're starting to drift off again. He means, it's the whole team, right? But you're losing the thread again, slipping into a dream where your coworkers are all around you, and so much taller than you, telling you what a good job you're doing. It feels good, really good, like you could just rub to this moment and...

You wake up, flushed, hot, - how did that happen? You're a bit embarrassed but you try to act casual and can only hope that you didn't moan in your sleep. The team meeting has apparently been droning on and when you feel that it's safe you sneak a glance at the rest of the team, did anyone else doze off? Nope, just you apparently, your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you hope it's not too obvious. Your coworker makes eye contact with you and smiles - a wave of pleasure rolls over you as you find yourself sort of melting out of your chair and onto your knees. You look up at the team, searching for words. The presenter laughs and smiles, "Oh it's okay! We were just talking about how that's the best place for you to make the team more productive!" Everything else blurs away as your mind fills with images of what that means, the person across the table from you spreads their legs a bit and gives you a look. Warmth fills you as you crawl towards them underneath it and realize this is exactly what you've always wanted.

[legend-collection]

Erlking

In European folklore and myth, the Erlking is a sinister elf who lingers in the woods. He stalks children who stay in the woods for too long, and kills them by a single touch.

Pic by Sammycat17 on deviantart

The name "Erlking" is a name used in German Romanticism for the figure of a spirit or "king of the fairies". It is usually assumed that the name is a derivation from the ellekonge (older elverkonge, i.e. "Elf-king") in Danish folklore. The name is first used by Johann Gottfried Herder in his ballad "Erlkönigs Tochter" (1778), an adaptation of the Danish Hr. Oluf han rider (1739), and was taken up by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in his poem "Erlkönig" (1782), which was set to music by Schubert, among others. Goethe added a new meaning, as "Erl" does not mean "elf", but "black alder" - the poem about the Erlenkönig is set in the area of an alder quarry in the Saale valley in Thuringia. In English translations of Goethe's poem, the name is sometimes rendered as Erl-king.

According to Jacob Grimm, the term originates with a Scandinavian (Danish) word, ellekonge "king of the elves", or for a female spirit elverkongens datter "the elven king's daughter", who is responsible for ensnaring human beings to satisfy her desire, jealousy or lust for revenge. The New Oxford American Dictionary follows this explanation, describing the Erlking as "a bearded giant or goblin who lures little children to the land of death", mistranslated by Herder as Erlkönig in the late 18th century from ellerkonge. The correct German word would have been Elbkönig or Elbenkönig, afterwards used under the modified form of Elfenkönig by Christoph Martin Wieland in his 1780 poem Oberon.

Alternative suggestions have also been made; in 1836, Halling suggested a connection with a Turkic and Mongolian god of death or psychopomp, known as Erlik Chan.

Johann Gottfried von Herder introduced this character into German literature in "Erlkönigs Tochter", a ballad published in his 1778 volume Stimmen der Völker in Liedern. It was based on the Danish folk ballad "Hr. Oluf han rider" "Sir Oluf he rides" published in the 1739 Danske Kæmpeviser. Herder undertook a free translation where he translated the Danish elvermø ("elf maid") as Erlkönigs Tochter; according to Danish legend old burial mounds are the residence of the elverkonge, dialectically elle(r)konge, the latter has later been misunderstood in Denmark by some antiquarians as "alder king", cf Danish elletræ "alder tree". It has generally been assumed that the mistranslation was the result of error, but it has also been suggested (Herder does actually also refer to elves in his translation) that he was imaginatively trying to identify the malevolent sprite of the original tale with a woodland old man (hence the alder king).

The story portrays Sir Oluf riding to his marriage but being entranced by the music of the elves. An elf maiden, in Herder's translation the Elverkonge's daughter, appears and invites him to dance with her. He refuses and spurns her offers of gifts and gold. Angered, she strikes him and sends him on his way, deathly pale. The following morning, on the day of his wedding, his bride finds him lying dead under his scarlet cloak.

Although inspired by Herder's ballad, Goethe departed significantly from both Herder's rendering of the Erlking and the Scandinavian original. The antagonist in Goethe's "Der Erlkönig" is the Erlking himself rather than his daughter. The Erlkönig appears to a young boy in a feverish delirium - his father, however, identifies the apparition as a simple streak of fog. Goethe's Erlking differs in other ways as well: his version preys on children, rather than adults of the opposite sex, and the Erlking's motives are never made clear. Goethe's Erlking is much more akin to the Germanic portrayal of elves and valkyries – a force of death rather than simply a magical spirit.

In Angela Carter's short story "The Erl-King", contained within the 1979 collection The Bloody Chamber, the female protagonist encounters a male forest spirit. Though she becomes aware of his malicious intentions, she is torn between her desire for him and her desire for freedom. In the end, she forms a plan to kill him in order to escape his power.

Charles Kinbote, the narrator of Vladimir Nabokov's 1962 novel, Pale Fire, alludes to "alderkings". One allusion is in his commentary to line 275 of fellow character John Shade's eponymous poem. In the case of this commentary, the word invokes homosexual ancestors of the last king of Zembla, Kinbote's ostensible homeland. The novel contains at least one other reference by Kinbote to alderkings.

In Jim Butcher's The Dresden Files, there is a character called the Erlking, modeled after the leader of the Wild Hunt, Herne the Hunter.

In the author John Connolly's short story collection Nocturnes (2004), there is a character known as the Erlking who attempts to abduct the protagonist.

The New Yorker's "20 Under 40" issue of July 5, 2010 included the short story "The Erlking" by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum.

A version of the Erl-King is mentioned in Zoe Gilbert's Mischief Acts, implied to be a figure related to Herne the Hunter.

In Andrzej Sapkowski's The Witcher saga, the highest leader of the Folk of the Alder elves, Auberon Muircetach, is also known as the Alder King. In the story, he maintains thematic ties to kidnapping: the Wild Hunt, known for abducting humans, is subordinate to him, and he orchestrates the imprisonment of Cirilla.

[dear-indies]

heya do you know of any fcs who have played a role or just generally look more punk/alt and who have resources? (big bonus if they are tattooed) thank you

Benjamin Bratt (1963) Peruvian of Quechua descent, German (including Sudeten German), and English - DMZ.

Clemens Schick (1972) - Barcelona-Krimi: Blutiger Beton.

Chris Messina (1974) - Harley Quinn: Birds of Prey.

Lesley-Ann Brandt (1981) English, East Indian, German, Spanish, Dutch, Khoisan, Ashkenazi Jewish - Lucifer.

Miyavi (1981) Japanese / Korean-Japanese.

Nyla Rose (1982) Oneida / African-American - is a trans woman.

Riz Ahmed (1982) Pakistani - Sound of Metal.

Levy Tran (1983) Vietnamese.

Richard Cabral (1984) Mexican.

Asia Kate Dillon (1984) Ashkenazi Jewish / Unspecified - non-binary and pansexual (they/them).

Jaimie Alexander (1984) - Blindspot.

Clayton Cardenas (1985) Mexican and Filipino.

Deepika Padukone (1986) Konkani Indian - XXX: Return of Xander Cage.

Maika Harper (1986) Inuit - Mohawk Girls.

Kali Reis (1986) Wampanoag, Nipmuc, Cherokee, and Cape Verdean - is Two-Spirit (she/her) and queer.

Diane Guerrero (1986) Colombian - Doom Patrol.

Jurnee Smollett (1986) African-American, possibly other / Ashkenazi Jewish - in Harley Quinn: Birds of Prey, The Twilight Zone.

Uraz Kaygılaroğlu (1987) Turkish - Üç Kurus.

Ritu Arya (1988) Indian - The Umbrella Academy, Humans.

Macarena García (1988) - Pesar De Todo.

Nico Tortorella (1988) - is non-binary (any pronouns), poly and demisexual.

Mae Whitman (1988) - pansexual - Jack.

FKA twigs (1988) African-Jamaican / English, Spanish.

Tóc Tiên (1989) Vietnamese - Furies.

Rob Raco (1989) - Riverdale.

Hannah John-Kamen (1989) Nigerian / Norwegian - Killjoys.

Úrsula Corberó (1989) - Money Heist, Snake Eyes.

Tom Maden (1989) French, Belgian [Walloon], Portuguese, Afro Caribbean, African-American, English, German - Lifeline.

Chang Ryul / Yull Jang (1989) Korean - My Name.

Yamada Yuki (1990) Japanese - Tokyo Revengers.

Eric Graise (1990) African-American - is a bilateral amputee - Queer as Folk.

Oliver Stark (1991) - MindGamers.

Ryan Sitkowski (1991)

Vico Ortiz (1991) Puerto Rican - non-binary (they/them) and poly.

Tyler Posey (1991) Mexican / English, Scottish, Irish, German, distant French - is queer and sexually fluid.

Avan Jogia (1992) Gujarati Indian / English, Welsh, some German, Irish, French - Johnny, Now Apocalypse.

Jessica Henwick (1992) Chinese Singaporean / English - The Matrix Resurrections.

Kiana Madeira (1992) Irish, Unspecified First Nations, Black Canadian / Portuguese - Fear Street.

Simone Susinna (1993) - 365 Days: This Day.

Bia Arantes (1993) Brazilian - Órfãos da Terra.

Park Gyu Young (1993) Korean - Sweet Home.

Joseph Quinn (1993) - Stranger Things.

Yves Mathieu East (1994) Afro Asian - is queer.

Emma Dumont (1994) - The Gifted.

Remington Leith (1994) Unspecified Indigenous Brazilian and White.

Keshi / Casey Luong (1994) Vietnamese.

Lyrica Okano (1994) Japanese - The Runaways.

Lily Sullivan (1994) - Romper Stomper, Evil Dead Rise.

Natasha Liu Bordizzo (1994) Chinese / Italian - Ahsoka.

Lina Ahn (1994) Korean.

Sasha Lane (1995) African-American, Māori, English, Scottish, Sorbian, French, Cornish, distant German, Italian, Belgian Flemish, Russian, and Northern Irish - is gay and has schizoaffective disorder.

Sophia Taylor Ali (1995) Pakistani / Sicilian Italian, Danish, Norwegian, German - Uncharted.

Ryan Potter (1995) Japanese / Ashkenazi Jewish, Swedish, English, German - is bisexual - Titans.

Adeline Rudolph (1995) Korean / German - Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Resident Evil.

Rish Shah (1995) Indian - Do Revenge.

Brandon Perea (1995) Filipino and Puerto Rican - Nope.

Ashton Sanders (1995) African-American - Native Son.

Kehlani (1995) African-American, French, Blackfoot, Cherokee, Spanish, Mexican, Filipino, Scottish, English, German, Scots-Irish/Northern Irish, and Welsh, as well as distant Cornish, Irish, and possibly Choctaw - non-binary womxn (she/they) and is a lesbian.

Emma Mackey (1996) - Sex Education.

Leah Lewis (1996) Chinese - Nancy Drew.

Rhea Ripley (1996)

Tati Gabrielle (1996) Korean, African-American / African-American - Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Uncharted.

Hero Fiennes Tiffin (1997) - After.

Do Han-se (1997) Korean.

Evan Mock (1997) Bisaya Filipino / White.

Lizeth Selene (1997) Mexican [Black, White, and Unspecified Indigenous]- is genderfluid and queer (she/they).

Archie Renaux (1997) English, Punjabi Indian - Gold Digger.

Murakami Nijiro (1997) Japanese - Alice in Borderland.

Bahar Sahin (1997) Turkish - Duran.

Chella Man (1998) Hongkonger and Jewish - is deaf, genderqueer and pansexual (he/they) - Titans.

Brianne Tju (1998) Chinese, Indonesian - High School.

Fin Argus (1998) - genderqueer (they/them).

Beabadoobee (2000) Ilonggo Filipino - is bisexual.

Quannah Chasinghorse (2002) Hän, Gwich’in, Sicangu Oyate Lakota Sioux, and Oglala Lakota Sioux.

CG (?) Black - non-binary (they/them) - Queer as Folk.

MEMO FOR ME TO WORK ON MOVING MY ALTERNATIVE FACECLAIM MASTERLIST TO GOOGLE DOCS SO I CAN ADD MORE PEOPLE BC THE TUMBLR MASTERLIST HAS A LIMIT!

All of these have resources, anon!

[harrison-abbott]

[Copenhagen - Travels.]

Flying across the North Sea yon come across these knife-like islands

Ragged against the water; blustery and cold looking: and they make you

Think of those men violent men who bustled in boats a thousand years

Back, seeking new land on new coasts and determined for spoils.

Much of the language you speak is down to them, and now you’re coming

Here a thousand years later, all numbed-eared from aerodynamics, all

Spoiled with the sights of clouds from such a height as the Vikings could

Never see … And so, let’s explore this new country and see what happens.

It’s an early flight and so the airport is super quiet upon arrival. Doesn’t

Seem like an airport, only an airy space with folks wandering around.

But, when you get to the Border gates, and meet a woman with black hair

Through the strong window glass, she goes, “Why are you in Denmark?”

In quite a blunt manner. But you play the civilian: “I’m just a tourist.

Back on Wednesday.” She asks you if you’re with somebody and you say

No it’s only me.

You get the metro into the city. There is always something profound

About entering another nation when you walk up from the concrete

Metro steps and into the light, width and wind of a novel town.

You come out onto a square 500 yards in breadth and pockmarked with

Pigeons and layered with cobblestones and centred with a fountain brimming

In blue and white. You sit on one of the benches for a while. The winds really

Are quite nippy and they flap your hood.

There are five hours until your hotel opens for reception and so you fancy

A wander to kill some time. Off you go walking to see what’s what.

Starlings explode from the rooftops in shotgun fodder ballet, soundlessly,

And then disappear again overhead. There are lots of gulls, too, keen on

The fish fodder from the restaurants; that acidic biting smell of fried fish

From the restaurant tables outside – with the tent plastic flapping overhead.

You go into a shop and buy some things and it’s super expensive from what

You were expensive and a young woman serves you and she giggles a little

At your locational ignorance over how to make the payment, how to handle

These bizarre coins.

You head south. Towards the canal district.

The sun expands the green water and it alights the housing from the eighteenth

Century along the straights of the esplanade in pink blue yellow green & gold.

Like walking alongside postcard vanity in real time. The boats, too, hang above

The half fairy / half murky water. They don’t quite have a purpose aside from to

Float there in touch maritime vibe: with the wrist-thick brown ropes tied to the

Steel rings by the sidewalk. And their names in RAINBOW CAPITAL LETTERS,

Gleaned across their fronts and sides. You don’t see anybody in their hulls and

The seagulls perch above their masts and twitch and observe the humans fluttering by.

You head out of the tourist district and into the south of the city, going along these

Skinny spans of sea, and you wonder what it would be like to fall in the water.

There are no fences or walls above the drop, and you ponder how many folks have

Fallen in the past – how many stories there are about that …

You look across the watery spans and in the distance you see the industrial area of

Copenhagen, with these tall tunnels erect against the sky, churning hard smoke.

And, before those, a quarter mile away, are the navy boats. These Goliath military

Ships, proper war material. Except, ironically, when you see them for the first time

They look like they’re coloured in those Airfix paints that you used to colour in

Plastic soldiers when you were a boy: they have that same toyish tinge of grey,

That seems to distract from their size and power …

Stopping by another bench nearby, you sit there for a bit.

Some man in his fifties or so comes up to a bike which is stationed close to the bench.

He says something in Danish that you don’t understand, but you

Figure if he’s asking if this is your bike? So you respond, no, politely.

Bikes.

You’d heard Copenhagen was a ‘Bicycle City’. But, Jeepers.

The bikes clog up the roads in a clunky manner and yet they glitter effortlessly

In the sun in their metallic paint; and they suffocate each street you meet

And yet they keep breathing at the same time: and the cyclists aren’t fast or

Manic or aggressive like they are in other places: they’re just always flowing.

Young women on bikes; boys wearing headphones, biking; older women without

Helmets gliding along: older men with cigarettes from their lips, pedalling.

[Makes you want to hire a bike as well to enjoy the experience and get with the

Programme, but, you have a few bad memories with cycling and kinda retired

Half a decade ago.]

Your hotel should be opening soon.

So you head back north towards the location.

As you go you pass lots of jogging folks as well. Most of them are female.

And you watch the shapes of their bodies, of their faces, in ripe milliseconds.

… When you do get to the hotel, the reception lady is Spanish. Brown hair, eyes,

Skin: she was speaking in that elastic language with somebody else when you

Entered. She gives you the keys to your door. At this point you’ve been awake for

Way over a day. An absence of sleep distorts your thinking. When you get into your

Room, a great tiredness goes over you. And you eat a little bread and humous

Before heading onward. And down the corridor of the hotel room you can hear the

Voices of the other residents, too. There are further Spanish girls. And some of them

Are Polish. Some Danish and some from England. A whole mix of nationalities.

Shall get some sleep in for now. And explore further tomorrow.

[granvarones]

The first time I heard the euro-pop sensation Aqua’s Barbie Girl was in the summer of 1997, at a party We The People organized in Clementon Park, New Jersey. The DJ was mixing bona fide house hits with contemporary jams. I remember this so vividly because I watched someone do “hand performance” to the song that was a newly minted hit. This was also one of those moments that I definitely knew I was gay because I felt like Barbie Girl was composed for LGBTQ folks; not sure how I came to that conclusion, but it just felt gay. I was 13 years old, journeying through puberty and trying to understand myself, but I recognized the subtle ways queer culture could be found in pop music. And now, more than 25 years since I first heard Barbie Girl, it remains a song that resonates and reminds me of what is remembered, who has gone, and the richness of their lives.

We The People was an AIDS service organization in Philadelphia, serving the most vulnerable HIV positive community, and my mother Melody E. Beverly worked there. Most of the organization’s service population was Black and brown people, people who inject drugs, and housing-insecure people with an AIDS diagnosis. It had a brick-and-mortar building at the corner of Broad and Lombard Street. Now a Taqueria with its own controversial history, at the end of the 1990s, it held precious work of caring for the community, with housing units atop, with an industrial-style kitchen. I remember this because I loved volunteering with building residents, preparing and cooking meals. I also had a thing for the biscuits that were often there.

On a hot day in the summer of ‘97, my mother and I arrived to begin boarding a bus to head over to the party at Clementon Park, which also included barbeque. While waiting to board the bus, I overheard Curtis speaking to a Black man who seemed exhausted if he had been taking AZT. This was a year after HAART was established as a standard for HIV care, and people were taking what we now know to be toxic medicine to manage their HIV. The introduction of highly active antiretroviral therapy, or combination therapy, would mean that people who had been living with HIV could live longer lives. I always think about that moment of Curtis checking in with a community member about his health when navigating my own care. I still appreciate the way it was normalized as a communal approach to medicine adherence. Curtis was my mother’s supervisor. He was a charismatic Black gay man with a bald head. Curtis was the sweetest and most sincere person. He was also a drag performer, I had seen him perform for a holiday party and was in awe of him.

Aqua, a Danish musical group, released their single Barbie Girl in April 1997, from their debut album Aquarium that was released in March of the same year. The track has a synth-pop-house vibe to it, with bubblegum vocals from lead singer Lene, who plays Barbie in the music video for the song. René, another band member, plays Ken, in a campy and hilarious capture of a Barbie world; it does a beautiful job of both bringing humanity to a plastic doll and making the cringey nature of American consumerism visible in a funny way. This is ironic, because during a 2017 interview for Nylon Lene disclaims its politics and sexist overtones by stating that “it was kind of making fun of the Pamela Anderson kind-of girl” and says the song is “super-innocent.” To me, Barbie Girl now appears to be making a statement about bodily autonomy and misogyny. With the incessant lyric, “I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world.” This song makes me think about people who lived with HIV, like Curtis, who were living full and flourishing lives at a tender and promising point in the ongoing AIDS crisis.

Barbie Girl topped global charts and was part of a musical era that included the resurgence of unapologetic bubblegum pop music, led in part by the Spice Girls’ Wannabe, a year earlier. Barbie Girl peaked at number 7 on the US Billboard Hot 100.

Now the song has a new life in the context of Barbie, the anticipated movie featuring Margot Robbie as the title character original Barbie. Barbie World, a rap track by Nicki Minaj & Ice Spice for the Barbie soundtrack, samples Barbie Girl in a perfect way. I’m most certain Barbie Girl will have a second life on TikTok and a new generation will be embraced by the gummy-gayness of late nineties music, and remember that there were people who existed then, plagued by an epidemic that rendered their stories untold. They too are Barbie Girls, even in their afterworlds, they paved the way for us to live fantastically in the skin we’re in.

Signed, a Barbie Girl from the nineties.

I’m always yours Xx

Abdul-Aily Muhammad ( @mxabdulaliy )

They/Them/Thiers

gran varones Mentor

Philadelphia, PA

[lunewell]

Got bored, and translated one of the most popular Danish versions of the folk song "The Two Sisters" into English, trying to keep the rhythm and rhyming scheme and trying to make it sound good without losing the general meaning

Also here's a link to one of the many covers of this specific version on spotify, if you want to give it a listen (:

There lives a farmer on quiet isle Who fathered two pretty girls One was bright and milky white The other was black as earth And the man they both loved most in life Wanted the youngest as his wife — No one shall forget my fate when they hear the harp sing its song — The youngest hair flowed in the wind The oldest was biding her time: “Let us to the ocean go,” “To wash off the dirt and grime,” The youngest stood freely on stones so wide And with a single push fell towards the tide — No one shall forget my fate when they hear the harp sing its song — There were two fiddlers by the shore Though they quickly stopped their stroll When they saw the sisters corpse Washed up and still on shoal From her bones and golden hair They made a harp just as fair — No one shall forget my fate when they hear the harp sing its song — The harp is brought into the farm And everyone knows its song “My sister took my life so young But never shall she take my man Tonight she’ll have her wedding day But tomorrow the flames will burn her away — No one shall forget my fate when they hear the harp sing its song —”