#joan sands

[ace-artemis-fanartist]

Joan from That Self-Same Metal by Brittany N. Williams.

This was one of my top fave books of this year! It has queer characters, monstrous fae, metal magic, sword fighting ladies, and so much more!

[somestorythoughts]

"English ladies were forbidden by law to perform themselves onstage in such 'vulgar' displays. No. More specifically, the law didn't allow women to speak lines onstage. The women of the court often danced in their own masques - elaborate spectacles of music and fantastical costumes - in the very building. And there was even a troupe of female acrobats set to perform sometimes this evening. So, while the female body was allowed space, the same couldn't be said of the female voice. And wasn't that the most unfair thing."

[beautyarchive]

Lucy Liu in the 'Sand Trap' episode of Elementary (2018).

[olegianote]

whoa... i did this? how the time flies...

[genevieveetguy]

. - Sam, I don't know what to do with you. You're a nice guy. - Oh, what a thing to say. I'm wounded, I'm bleeding.

Crossing Delancey, Joan Micklin Silver (1988)

[troublewithangels]

first the emily dickinson official insta and now not al hirschfeld too 😭 it's over

[autodidacticpoet]

Change is the language spoken

as behemoths collapse without fanfare.

Its history a speck, a moment,

a villanelle in the lines of Didion.

Not a building; a fleeting institution

as wavering as governance.

The culture created, duplicated,

riffed, surpassed, teemed obsolete.

Soon the Sands fulfilled its prophecy

and dropped through the hourglass.

The folies bankrupt and nostalgia preserves

as its walls crash into myth.

[urochishe]

Joan Baez and Bob Dylan Like Grains of Sand (1995) Hoshi and Samuel from SEVENTEEN Malcom T. Liepke - Le passage Charles-Auguste Edelmann

[yandere-wishes]

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆Doc-Ringo⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

✮ Yandere! Boothill x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: There's a slick black-clad little gal who's been messing with his bounties recently. Boothill's been dying to rustle her up and take a bite

⁀➷ Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, war trauma, Genie trying to do a cowboy accent.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺: Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

And I don't hardly know her,

But I think I can love her,

Ah, now when she comes walking over,

I've been waiting to show her,

My mind's such a sweet thing

I want to do everything

What a beautiful feeling

It's not like the movies, they fed us on little white lies.

~💜

The first time he sees you there's a tempest of bullets rattling off his chest. Metal singing metal, as shells vie for an opening. It's all very lethal,

like the center of a rabid dust storm. Kissing death and sucking in her poison. Boothill can't tell where the bullets are coming from only that there's a dozen at a time ringing over his head. He shields his face with the metal of his forearms peaking through the gap to catch a glimpse of black.

Pure black.

That's the first thing he notices as your frenzy yields, You're clad in black from head to toe, even going so far as to dawn an eerie familiar mask. He's seen this scene play out somewhere before, he just can't remember where. "Morning mister", he likes that voice, jejune and teeming with confidence. It reminds him of himself, back when the sunset used to mean something and he could still feel wheat stocks under his soft palms.

"Howdy lil'lady I reckon you're in my way. Mind stepping aside before you get yourself hurt?" Your answer comes in the form of an aimed pistol, spine straight, midnight serape caught on the wind. He thinks you look a little too much like the folks back home -back when there was a home- blood boiling over eager for a fight. His bounty is standing just over yonder, blocked partly by your stubborn shadow. Boothill doesn't think twice before firing two rounds.

He's met with four...

He's in a cheap motel on Penacony, screwing in bolts that came loose. In the end, you laid claim to his bounty. Dragging him away to the hills. He's left growling at the thought, bested by a muddle-fudging fox. Lil gal probably ain't never even been in a proper shoot-out. The screwdriver cracks under his metal fingers. Boothill ain't about to start letting some pretty little thing get in the way of him and his targets.

The TV screen flickers to a melancholy monochrome. The films are old, distorted, crippled in parts. But he keeps them around, much like everything else about him, it's a bygone thing refusing to die.

He still likes to play them from time to time, trying to elicit the tastes of home. Hearing Nick and Graey setting plates out for dinner as his siblings rush downstairs. The movies are older than the new universe in more ways than one.

They come from a simpler time.

He'd always wondered why someone would bother painting such precious things in black and white. Spilling melancholia into picture frames, leaving everything tasting of vodka and vanilla.

It doesn't matter though, not really. All that matters is the sound of hooves on sand and bullets shooting. So long as the cowboys live their stories, everything else can be forgiven.

But this time something's off. The bandit's black mask shines through, gleaming something awful making him grind his sharp teeth. That damn mask, sitting pretty over a sly smirk. it reminds him of you, little cutie with your slick attitude. What bandit goes around doing hero's work anyway? What kinda twisted little lady are you?

He's getting mighty sick of this. Do you think you own the universe or something? "Been seeing way too much of you lately." There's sand in his Synesthesia Beacon his voice coming out horse, brittle. He kicks the head of an IPC lackey trying to drive home a point. "You getting on my nerves cutie". The ground looks nothing short of a graveyard, bodies scattered some piled. The blood paints the sands in a deep maroon, reflecting the glint of the distant stars. The last soldier is cowering behind you, his whimpers singing in Boothill's ears, one more bullet, that's all it'll take. "This one's mine" you mutter, and he wonders for a moment if the dry weather is getting to you too. "Not a chance pumpkin" his gun's drawn, firing bullets before you can even feel for your holster. The smirking bullet impales your abdomen, aimed point blank at the officer's head. But before the last body can be claimed you kick the man out of the way.

"Damn it" Boothill's anger is tangible, he knows you can feel it between your teeth. He's going to kill you, tear off that star-saken mask, and riddle you with bullets. You're getting too confident.

He doesn't notice your bullets at first. Protostars trying to act all rough and mighty. There's a temporary cluster of dust, a fraction of a second where his eyes aren't pinning you down. That's all it takes and then you're off. Sinking into the darkness and swimming away, taking his target with you.

It's only after the initial anger wears off that Boothill notices a tear on his thigh. A letter scrawled on the frayed leather of his pants. So you've started leaving your own marks, ay cutie?

He almost wishes he could feel the sting of your blade on his flesh. Feel your nails scrapping along his shoulders as he pins you to the ground.

Boothill fires at the moon.

Next time.

Next time for sure....

He's been chasing you for some time now. But catching up with you isn't as easy as he first thought. Seems like you go wherever the wind takes you and he's too busy with revenge to be following your capricious whims. The IPC ain't going to kill itself you know. And Boothill damn well wishes you'd start sitting still. He's heard from a reliable source that the IPC soldiers are throwing a little get to together down in one of the bars. Just a happy birthday for a colleague, nothing fancy. The thought alone makes his mouth water, place will be crawling with pests just waiting to be gunned down. Maybe tomorrow he'll try looking for you again, but tonight? Tonight's his night.

The neons have dulled now, they never were terribly bright to begin with. Penacony may be the land of dreams but not even dreams can stop reality from seeping through. The bar's loud, some new pop singer's music blasting from every speaker. Boothill downs his drink, liking how the ice cubes chime like a bad omen. He shoots the speakers first, needing some peace to focus on what comes next. The peace corp's lackeys are drunk, they stumble over themselves trying to reach him. He shoots each one like a kid playing carnival games. It's almost too easy...

The door is stampeded over by a heard of reinforcements. Somehow even in his drunken daze one of those yella-bellied lapdogs called for help. They're swarming the place like panicked rats, pushing past tables and chairs. Firearms aimed at his head. And for the first time, in a long, long time, Boothill feels a sliver of panic run down his bionic spine.

Motherfudger...

Boothill hears the familiar tumult of bodies hitting the ground before he sees what's actually going on. He feels you before he actually sees you. You're pushed up against his back, guns drawn locked, and loaded. "Heard you needed some help" Even though you offer your usual bravado, Boothill still picks up the nervous lilt in your voice, despite everything he thinks he likes it. It almost tastes sweet. "Best get away before you get yourself hurt little fox." "And let you have all the fun? Never."

"Certe murmur pugnando" Boothill laughs, he remembers those very words coming from a buddy of his before a duel. 'At least we'll die fighting' Somethings never change, even if you've carved out every principle from your body with a rusted kitchen knife. You'll always have those pesky morals stuck inside. He hears you chuckle, wonders if you find it odd that a rowdy galaxy ranger such as himself knows a dead language.

Well, he knows a lot about the dead.

The shoot-out lasts longer than he'd have expected.

But the real surprise lies in how neither of you are dead. Boothill's half laid across the bar, looking at you from under his hat. You're making him a drink following his instruction like a good little wife, not contradiction dressed in ebony. Gunpowder withers on his tongue, the bullet smoke permeates the air mixing with the gleeful tang of spilled blood. "Your drinks sure are complicated" you mutter pushing him his cup before picking up a bottle and reading its labels. "What's so hard about it pumpkin? Little bit of white gem and gin. All's you need." He sips your drink slowly, savoring your flavor. He imagines he's gulping you down, holding you for ransom behind his teeth, feeling your delicate little fists pounding against him. "I don't drink" you mumble as you sit across from him, you look so damn elegant, like a little princess from a fairy tale he use to read to a certain someone. You drink deeply from your glass of ice and water. Boothill focuses on the gentle motion of your throat. He licks his lips, trying to push down the thought of ringing such a fragile thing between his palms.

"So little lady, s'about time you start answering some questions...The hell you doing? Running off with my targets?" You set your cup down, eyes locking on his, there's the deficiency he's missed all night. The trigger hair that's just waiting for the right push. "They're not your targets...not really. They're just people. People whose planet got muffed up. I've been trying to gather them all in one place." For a second Boothill thinks you're talking about his planet, his home, his people. But it only takes one more look at you to understand.

"So, how'd yours die?" There's shrapnel in his throat when he asks, open wounds bleeding once more, filling his throat with bitter memories.

You stiffen, and he knows he's thumbing a broken bone, letting his finger dig between the cracks and snapping their frail linings. "Don't know, wasn't there. All I ever got to see were a few limbs, nothing enough to make a full person." you squeeze the glass until your knuckles turn white.

There's vindication rooted in your veins.

He knows the feeling all too well.

"We ain't so different you and I, reckon we make a pretty good team." His metal fingers lace between your soft skin, tracing the lifelines like an old map.

There's a goldmine hidden behind your lips, he imagines he'll have to kiss you to find the little nuggets. Your lips part, eyes filled with an odd-looking sympathy. What he wouldn't give to feel your plump lips bleed between his jagged teeth. "So..." you ask as his mechanic heart skips a beat. "What about yours?"

You've been laughing for five whole minutes. Boothill shouldn't find the noise as ethereal as he does. His anger lays heavily on his bones, he should be even angrier, lounging a bullet through your thick skull. But he finds the noise a little too perfect to disturb its source. Even if it's only created at his expense. Instead, he has half a mind to slap you, hard enough to shut you u and another to kiss you so hard you forget to breathe. "Damn hell so funny, cutie"

You look at him with those luminous eyes. Filled with pain and riddles. Boothill never did like solving puzzles. He only likes tearing things into bits. He needs you spartan, easy to read and use, and kiss. Not something he needs to piece together first.

"Dear stars you have no freaking idea how ironic you are." You say between bursts of spiteful-rooted giggles.

Why do those words sound so haunting like a ghost kiss? they should open phantom pains, but they sure as hell don't. Why do you always leave his head spinning? Boothill rolls his eyes, then leans over to pull down your mask. You jerk back, rewarding him with a dark grimace. You're out the window before he can ask your name.

"See you next time, cowboy"

"Next time I'm drawing blood"

The moment's over.

Fiddlesticks..

That night, Boothill dreams of you. He's lying in a stiff musty bed. It's too dark, even the moon is scared of showing her face.

Boothill dreams of the old saloons back home. Of their cracked wooden floorboards and the worn-out plush of chairs. In the dreams, you're wearing a black lace gown, like the saloon girls used to. He finds it all too funny that even in his dreams you still haunt him in black. Only now you're smiling, really smiling. Not that sly smirk, or mirthless grin you gave him back in the bar on Penacony. No, this here is a genuine smile and he's damn sure he's the one who put it there. You reach out for his hand, he feels warmth.

His

Yours

The dream is thick and dense like swimming through molasses. In another scene he's dragging you through the old doors, laughing as bullets and card chips hit the floor. There's a horse waiting outside. His horse. At least he thinks it used to be his. He pulls you up roughly in front of him. He's high off the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the rugged reins. High off the steed he holds in a vice grip between his thighs.

He's riding faster than he's ever ridden before, clambering for the sunset trying to engulf the sun. You hold on tight, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heart is beating something fierce between his ribs. He feels like an Aeon watching the universe collapse under his galloping feet.

He feels alive.

With the sun's rays behind you, Boothill could almost mistake you for the star-dwelling angels Nick used to tell him about. There's something poetic in all of this. The cowboy standing off against the black fox.

Dare he call it cinematic?

Boothill creeps closer. Tilting his hat and watching you flash a nervous smile through his lashes. "Volo sentire te inter dentes meos" so you know that dead tongue too. "You will soon darling, that's what I'm hoping for" his reply only dwindles your smile.

He's missed the old duels. Missed staring into the eyes of the one who could kill you. It's all a matter of skill and luck. Whose faster, who the aeon will trust?

Somewhere in the distance, the tumble weeds begin to rattle.

"Now"

His bullet glides through the air, piercing through the dust and sand. Your bullet reverberates from your gun a fraction too late and ricochets past his cheek. Leaving a juicy trail of blood.

But his bullet was aimed at your chest.

And Boothill never misses...

You want vengeance he won't deny you it.

So long as you stay by his side.

He'll tuck you away somewhere safe.

Somewhere you won't be leaving him again.

Boothill cradles your body to his chest. "I promised you blood little fox, and Boothill never goes back on his word." His cheeks hurt from smiling as he lays his hat atop your head. He's Picking you up and walking into the sunset. He knows a good ol'doc who'll patch you right up. And then it's a happy life together.

Well for him anyway.

The end

Taglist: @hihellomy @salhanskkdbfkekfb @gasoline-eater @sp1cym0chi

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Merle Oberon (Wuthering Heights, The Scarlet Pimpernel)—She was mixed race (born in India and her mother was Sri Lankan) and still managed to make it in the British and American film industries (by passing) despite a rough start in life and industry racism. She was the first Asian person to be nominated for any Academy Award (best actress in 1935)! She also survived a car accident in 1937 and kept on acting until 1973, despite potentially career-ending facial scars. Also, she met her third husband while they were filming a movie together in 1973 (her last movie and she still looks great!). They fell in love and got married in 1975 when she was 62 and he was 36. She died 4 years later in 1979. Iconic.

Jean Seberg (Breathless, Saint Joan)— Some of us watched À bout de souffle as a lil French undergrad and had the trajectory of our lives changed by Jean Seberg. She IS French new wave!! She is the moment!! She sadly had to work with a lot of shitty directors in her career but even so, she has this magnetic energy whenever she’s on screen. In her personal life, she was also very supportive of civil rights causes, and was even targeted/harassed by the FBI for financially supporting the Black Panther Party.

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Merle Oberon:

Beautiful. Talented. Biracial. Also please refer to the following promo from the aforementioned A Night To Remember, in which she plays the writer George Sand:

Her performances always give off this perfect blend of of being composed, refined, and aloof while still being deeply passionate and I eat it up every time.

Linked gifset

A rare example of a WOC working in lead roles in this era (mostly because she worked very hard to pass as white and had to hide her south asian heritage sadly). She has this very regal vibe but also a simmering intensity—even holding her own as Cathy opposite Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff.

I need all the gothic fans to STAND UP for our cathy!!

She has such a unique face when it comes to old hollywood actresses - a lot of them start to melt together in my brain - but Merle has always stood out to me<3

Jean Seberg:

anyone who plays Joan of Arc is kind of hot by default tbh

she's gorgeous, she's cool, she has the original blond pixie cut

She donated a lot of her money to civil rights organizations such as the NAACP and the black panther party as well as Native American school groups, as a result of this the fbi ran a smear campaign against her and a surveillance campaign which is thought to have led to her suicide tragically.

idk if this is propaganda but the COINTELPRO and the FBI are widely blamed for her death. If the FBI was after her for supporting the Black Panther Party you know she was good

[itgetsdark-x]

I Wanna See You Beggin’ (Part 2)

Summary: Joel Miller is your dad’s best friend, you knew it was wrong, you knew it would only cause trouble but you couldn’t help the way you ached for the man. Disclaimers: (Title is from I Hate Myself for Loving You — Joan Jett & The Blackhearts) I do not own any of these characters / people but I did write these words, I don’t give permission for this to be copied anywhere else 😌

Characters: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni, pls), oral (m receiving)(pretty rough deep throating), face slapping (just once), mild choking, praise kink, age gap (reader mid twenties, Joel would be late 40s), use of the word ‘daddy’, minor angst / pining, no outbreak in this au. It’s just filthy smut… again lol

A/N: okay so y’all seemed to enjoy part one (read here if you haven’t done so yet!) , which by the way, I am totally blown away by, I appreciate all the likes and reblogs <3 I already have a third part near enough ready to go so if this is enjoyed again, I’ll for sure post it. Don’t forget, you can send me asks with any requests you may have for future fics / one shots 💕

You hissed under your breath as the early morning light pierced through the thin curtains and disrupted your peaceful slumber. You stretched out your limbs with a yawn and relished in the delicious ache in your thighs, it was a lasting reminder that last night actually happened and wasn’t a crazy sex dream. Your hand sleepily traced the mattress next to you and you felt cool sheets, panic rose like acid in your throat and you bolted up right in the unfamiliar bed. 

Joel. Where was Joel?

Great, he had probably gone out, wanting you to be gone by the time he was back; just wanting to avoid any further interaction with you. You got out of bed and quietly walked down the stairs, hugging Joel’s shirt around your waist for warmth. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you walked into the kitchen and saw Joel out on his patio, smoking a cigarette, a steaming mug of coffee on the table next to him. He was dressed in an old jumper, rips at the hem and loose joggers, he looked breathtaking; his hair dishevelled and messy and shoulders looking so broad as he rested against the wall. You turned and saw another mug on the countertop, maybe he did want you there after all. 

Joel took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke, his breath lingering in the cool early morning air as he did so. He went to reach for his warm mug of coffee but caught a glimpse of you inside; there you were, still you but somehow different. His shirt looked perfect on you, especially when you pulled the fabric around you; he could see your perky nipples through the thin fabric and it made his mouth water. 

No. Not now, you both needed to sit down and actually talk about what happened last night. Joel was happy to draw a line in the sand and pretend it never happened, if that is what you wanted. It would kill him, seeing you without being able to have you again but he would do it, if you wanted to. 

“Mornin’,” he said as he opened the back door and stepped into the warm house, mug still in hand. “How’d you sleep, darlin’?” He asked, his voice raspy after his first cigarette of the day, sleep still thick in the air for you both. 

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Slept like a baby for a change.” You laughed dryly. “Is that for me?” You asked awkwardly, shrugging your head towards the hot mug on the countertop. 

He nodded and that’s all you needed before you picked up the mug and brought it up to your lips. You drank some of the smooth liquid and sighed contentedly as you felt the warmth spread through your throat and body. Just what you needed. 

You shuffled awkwardly on the spot, feet not knowing how to stand still. You would normally walk into Joel’s house and swan around like it were you own home but now you couldn’t help but feel like a guest, and an awkward one at that. You opened your mouth to speak when Joel’s phone rang loudly, making you jump slightly. 

The older male fished his phone out of his trouser pockets and hit answer. 

“Hey bud, whatcha doing today? Chilly out but looks like good weather for the rest of the day, thinking we could go out fishing or something?” You heard your dad through the phone and your throat tightened, shame rose in your body and you placed your mug on the counter shakily. 

“Hey, I - I uh, I’m not feeling too good today actually. Think that Chinese was a little funky last night.” Joel lied, glancing over to you. 

“Okay no worries, Miller. Will catch ya on Monday at work.” Your dad spoke. 

Joel was about to say his goodbyes and hastily hang up the phone when your dad spoke once more. 

“Hey, did you hear from Y/N last night once she was home? I know sometimes she’ll send me a message once she’s home safe. Just a bit worried, kiddo is a woman now but I still panic. Y’know?” Your dad rambled. 

“Nope. Not heard from her.” Joel lied once more and guilt spread throughout his whole body. He felt sick. “I’ll send her a message and tell her to quit worryin’ her dad! Maybe she just fell asleep.”

“Yeah yeah, that’s true. Thanks Joel, see you soon.” And with that, your dad had hung up the phone. 

Joel gently threw his phone gently onto the countertop and you couldn’t help but smile. 

“He never lets you say bye.” You giggled. “He’ll always say ‘I love you’ but never lets me respond before he hangs up. Old men and technology.” You winked. 

“You should text your dad.” Joel stated matter of factly. 

“Oh, um. Yeah. I think my phone is still in my car.” You said quietly, Joel’s coldness stinging you. 

“I’ll get it for you. Don’t need the neighbours seeing you flashing them this early in the mornin’.” He mumbled, giving your body a once over with your eyes and then that was it, he walked past you to go to your car out front. 

“Joel -,” you called and held your hand out to touch his arm but he walked on past you. 

You wanted to cry, the sudden coldness felt like such a harsh contrast to his previous warmth. You could still hear his laugh as he teased you last night, could still feel his warmth breath on your sensitive skin. You pressed a finger into your inner thighs and shivered at the dull ache you still felt in them, it was pure, visceral proof that the previous night had happened. 

Shakily, you hopped up into the seat at the kitchen countertop, your legs swaying as they searched for the bar to rest on. You had crossed your arms onto the cold marble and pressed your head into them, were you trying to hide, shrink or simply disappear? You weren’t one hundred percent sure but what you did know was you wanted to cry. Everything suddenly felt messier, your dad’s call clearly shook you both and it was frustrating that the little bubble the two of you had created was popped with one two minute phone call. You bit your lip as tears started to fill your vision, making it all blurry, you sniffed and when you heard the front door close softly you sat up and cleared your eyes with the back of your hand. 

Joel walked into the kitchen and slid your phone onto the countertop, avoiding eye contact with you. You sniffed and said a small ‘thanks’ with a shaky breath and he then looked at you with furrowed brows. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, a hand going to touch your arm comfortingly which was such a stark contrast to the coldness in his voice.

You pulled your arm away and stood down from the stool. You looked up at Joel and smiled weakly, in all truth, you wanted to be held by him. You wanted him to kiss you softly and promise that everything would work out fine but you didn’t quite believe that would be the case. 

“Oh, uh, nothing. I should, um, I should text dad and get going. Don’t wanna hang around like a bad rash or nothin’.” You spoke hurriedly and looked down at your phone. 

‘Miller said you were worried, sorry, pops. Was a long night. I love you :) xxx’ you punched the message into your phone and hit send, hoping with everything that your dad wouldn’t ring you, you weren’t ready to face him yet. He had no clue how you and Joel had potentially ruined the ten year friend that was shared. 

“Peach,” he whispered and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. The nickname sent warmth through you once again, it caused butterflies to erupt and for a quick throb to ripple through your core as you remembered your antics from last night. The way Joel had moaned your nickname as he tasted you on his fingers for the first time. “I mean,” he sighed again, searching for the right words. 

“Y/N,” he said dryly. There is was again. Hot, cold, hot, cold… He turned to face you and looked directly at your face, he could see the sadness settled in your very features, he hated it and he wanted to beat himself up for causing it. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t but his legs were moving without him even thinking and he was there, placing a kiss to your lips without another word. Hot.

You placed a hand on his broad chest and gently pushed away, you didn’t want to break the kiss. Of course you didn’t, why would you but you had been pulled pillar to post this morning already and you felt dizzy. 

“W-what do you want from me?” You hissed. “First it’s all darlin’ and how’d you sleep?” You mocked his Southern drawl as you spoke. “Then it’s all, your old man is worried. I’m gonna be a dick and ignore you. Then it’s _Peach_… Then my name, which by the way, you’ve not said seriously like that in years and now a kiss? You’re making me crazy here.” You ranted, your arms dramatically flailing as you spoke. “I said I was gonna go, get out of your hair. We don’t have to speak about this,” you gestured between the two of you. “Again. Don’t worry, Miller.” You spat and sure, maybe it was a little dramatic but he had pissed you off already and you had barely been awake for an hour. 

“Watch your tone.” Joel spoke calmly as he watched you huff and fold your arms. “Weren’t being such a brat last night darlin’, maybe you just need to be filled with my cock again. Get you all happy and drunk on my cock. Hm? That was you need, baby?” Somewhere during your rant, you had taken a step or two back but Joel had just closed that distance between you again. 

He hooked his finger and thumb under your chin so he could tilt your face up to look at him. You pouted and huffed once more, before re-folding your arms over your chest. 

“Fuck off, Joel.” You growled, your voice sharp and confident.

“I said.” Joel hissed out, his grip tightening on your chin to hold your stare. “Watch. Your. Tone.” His other hand went to the nape of your neck and grabbed a handful of hair at the base of your skull. He tugged it harshly causing your head to be held back roughly and you moaned, so pathetically and loud you actually felt ashamed. 

“Not so big and confident now, are you, little girl?” Joel chuckled sadistically. “Now. Are you gonna quit acting like a brat and let me cook you some food, I think we should talk over breakfast.” He said, releasing your hair and chin from his hands with a smirk. 

“I don’t have panties on,” you whined. “You’re warm and cosy and I don’t even have panties on. Where are mine, anyway?” You asked innocently, knowing full well that he had stuffed them into his jeans pocket last night. 

“Oh, those little black ones?” Joel smirked, looking in his fridge for ingredient for breakfast. “Yeah, I’ll be keeping hold of that for you. It was a mess.” Joel laughed as he grabbed eggs and bacon from the large fridge. “Top drawer in my bedroom.”

“Huh?” You asked, head cocked in confusion. 

“Clothes. Grab what you want, you can take a pair of my boxers, seems only fair. Tit for tat.” He said nonchalantly like it was all natural. 

You rolled your eyes and ran upstairs to grab yourself one of Joel’s old hoodies and a pair of his boxers to at least cover your modesty. You slipped into the boxers and hoodie you smiled, bringing the fabric of the hoodie up to your face to take a deep inhale of Joel’s scent. You wandered into the bathroom to take a look at your appearance and you looked a hot mess, your hair was still up from yesterday but it was knotted and messy. Your makeup, for the most part was still intact besides some black smudges under your eyes. 

You found a hairbrush, let your hair fall down and cleaned up your general appearance. You by no means looked perfect, but you looked better than before. You walked down the stairs, humming to yourself and you smiled as the smell of bacon filled your nostrils and you could hear Joel singing to himself in the kitchen. 

“You’ve got a nice voice, Miller.” You announced as you walked into the kitchen and took your previous spot in the stall at the countertop. His voice was smooth, it was deep and smokey. 

“Thanks, darlin’.” He chuckled, suddenly feeling insecure. “You happy with bacon, eggs and some pancakes?” He asked and poured you a fresh cup of coffee. He handed it to you and kissed your cheek before going back to cooking. 

“Thanks.” You whispered and sipped at your coffee, your stomach was full to the brim with butterflies. 

“I -“ you both speak at the same time, you both laugh  and just like that, some of the tension felt eased between you both again. It felt slightly normal. 

“After you, sweet.” Joel said and dished up you both some breakfast. He placed the plate in front of you alongside some cutlery and he smiled as he sat just beside you on the stool at the corner of the counter. 

“Thanks.” You said quietly, picking up your cutlery. “I, I was just going to say… if you wanna pretend this never happened, I’ll go along with it, I mean sure it’ll hurt for a bit but like, I guess what I mean is… I’ve pined after you for some years now, I can do it again. I know you care about my dad and wouldn’t want anything to upset him and of course, neither do I! I mean… god, I don’t know what I mean but. I’m sorry about last night, I hope you don’t regret it.” Your voice trailed off at the end and you didn’t dare to look him in the eyes as you spoke, you knew if you did you would have been a goner.

“Sweet girl,” he spoke, his voice was breathy and quiet and did you detect a hint of sadness? “I don’t regret last night, not even a little bit. I’m real sorry if I crossed any lines, I know I’m a lot older than you and I know I’ve known you for years.” He mumbled, he was looking at you endearingly and just the sight of you here, in his hoodie, eating breakfast with him like you’ve always belonged there. “I loved last night… Was something I thought about for a while.” He admitted sheepishly. 

“Wait. No — you?” You peered up at him through your lashes and you blushed, a light flush settled high on your soft cheeks. You tried to bite back the smile but you couldn’t. “Y-you wanted me like that too?” You asked and grinned as you pushed some food into your mouth. 

Joel laughed lowly and ate his breakfast with a fond shake of his head. “Yeah, and why exactly is that so unbelievable to you?” He asked. 

“Just. Thought you were too gentlemanly to corrupt your best friend’s daughter.” You smirked. 

“We both know you were corrupt long before I had my way with you last night.” He smirked right back, cocking an eyebrow at you as he took a long sip from his mug. 

“So…” you said quietly. “What happens now? We going into my pop’s house and say hey dad, guess what!? Old man Miller and I are fucking! He makes my toes curl and eyes roll back into my skull. Aren’t ya happy for us?” Your voice was laced with sarcasm and faux-pep. 

Joel spluttered as he choked on his mouthful of food. “Fuck,” he cursed as he laughed. “I think that would be enough to kill your dad off, sweetheart.” He continued laughing and you gently smacked at his bicep. He waved a hand in front of his face dismissively before clearing his throat to continue. “And uh, for what it’s worth… I would very much like to see you, uh, outside of the bedroom as well.” He looked at you, trying to gauge your reaction. 

“Wait you mean… like date me? You wanna date me?” You asked, staring at Joel as if he had grown another head. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“Again, why is that so hard to believe?” He questioned, finishing off his breakfast. 

“I guess most guys have one night of sex with me and decide either they’re done altogether or that’s all they want from me.” You shrugged, a pang of sadness striking you.

“I don’t know how to make it any clearer than I already have, peach. I want you. Completely. I want you to be mine and no one else’s.” His voice was soft but it was matter of factly. 

“God,” you sighed happily and pushed your plate away from you as you stepped down from your stool. “I’ve wanted to hear that from you for so long.” You whispered and closed the distance between you both so you could place a soft kiss to his lips. 

His lips tasted sweet from the maple syrup, the faint rich flavour of coffee lingered on his breath and his previous cigarettes still clung to him. It was just Joel still and it made you feel drunk. You reached up on your tiptoes to kiss him deeper, your hands on either side of his face as you did so. 

His hands sat on the small of your back and he smiled into the kiss. “So, is that a yes?” He asked, barely breaking the kiss to speak. 

You laughed and gave him an eager nod. “Yes. I’m yours. Completely. You’ve got me hooked.” You sighed contentedly. 

“That’s my girl.” He smiled, hand slipping down to cup your ass. “We will cross the messy bridge of your pops when it’s necessary, yeah?” He asked and peppered soft kisses down your neck after he moved the strands of hair out of the way. You nodded softly before you tilted your neck to expose more of your skin. “Good girl. For now, we’ll see how it goes. Wanna take you out on a real date. Real fancy restaurant and parade you around on my arm.” He said proudly, his hand placing a quick smack to your ass. 

You held onto Joel’s shoulders as he kissed your neck and you let out a small moan, barely there and all breath. “How about I thank you for breakfast, daddy?” You smirked, knowing how he had reacted to the nickname the night before. 

“Hmm, whatcha got in mind?” He asked, sinking his teeth into your clavicle, just under the fabric of his hoodie. 

You looked at him and took a step back, a devilish smile spread across your lips and you grabbed the hair tie from your wrist before pulling your hair up into a rough ponytail. 

“Wanna taste you, Miller.” You all but purred into his ear and your hand trailed up his thigh to cup his heavy balls through his joggers. He was already half-hard and you felt his cock twitch. You giggled and looked down to his joggers. “Excited already?” You teased with a new found power in you. 

“Shut up,” he growled, rolling his eyes. 

You laughed again and dragged him from his stool, you pushed him back with your arm so that the small of his back was flush with the counter. You pulled his joggers down, not wanting to waste a second more. Your mouth was watering, you couldn’t wait to taste him properly, to feel his heavy cock hitting the back of your throat. Admittedly, you were a little nervous as he was big and you hadn’t given head to someone who was so well-endowed but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t be willing to die trying. 

Joel hissed as the cool air pricked at the damp tip of his cock. His length bobbed gently as it was removed from the restraints of his trousers and Joel stepped out of the joggers. He wasted no time in pulling his old jumper over his head and you felt arousal pool in the pits of your stomach; in this light you could see every freckle, every hair and every tiny scar that peppered Joel’s body. It made your mouth water. You looked Joel in the eyes, a playful smirk sat on your lips and you spat into your hand, the filthy noise echoed that echoed in the kitchen. You wrapped your hand around the shaft of Joel’s large cock and stroked him until he was fully hard and leaking from the slit. He bit into his bottom lip and watched your small hand stroke him, you barely covered half his length as you stroked him and it made each pass more torturous. 

“Never gonna get used to how big you are, daddy.” You purred into his ear, leaning up to speak to him all whilst your hand stroked him. “You think I’m gonna be able to take you into my mouth fully?” You asked with a moan, really ramping up the sexiness, just anything to drive the older man wild. 

He groaned, it was working. His voice caught in his throat as he went to speak. “Gonna have to try really hard for me, little girl.” 

You sank to your knees and looked up at Joel through your long lashes. You stuck your tongue out and licked a long, fat stripe from the base to tip of his cock. You immediately moaned, a vague salty tang spreading over your tongue and you felt an insatiable hunger build inside of you. 

Joel looked down at you and stroked a soft hand over your cheek, encouraging you to take him into your mouth. You were more than happy to oblige, you opened your mouth wider and allowed yourself to sink your mouth onto his tip and down, down, down. You halted, your lips were tightly wrapped around his cock and you breathed through your nose shakily. He was so big, you weren’t convinced you would be able to take him further. You looked up at Joel and repeated that process; drawing your mouth up and then back down to the same spot. 

“That’s it, my good girl. Taking daddy’s cock so well.” He cooed, his voice somehow soothing yet so condescending. It sent shockwaves through your body and you wanted more from him; you wanted him to praise you more, you wanted him to humiliate you more. Just more. 

You moaned around his length and your eyes fluttered shut as you managed to take him deeper until your nose was pressed into the thatch of dark pubic hair. You breathed through your nose again, trying to relax your throat deeper for Joel to use. You breathed in deep and whined from the back of your throat, his musk was heady and thick. 

“Oh fuck,” Joel groaned gruffly. Your noises sent vibrations through the tip of his cock and it had him letting his head fall back in defeat. “Good girl, good girl, good girl.” He chanted as you raised your mouth, you fully removed his length from your mouth and let your tongue swirl around his tip before you dipped it into his leaking slit. 

“Tastes so good.” You moaned, sticking your tongue out, taking his cock you slapped it onto the flat of your tongue. Spittle ran down your chin and onto his hoodie as you did so and it was the perfect picture of sin. Joel wanted to take a photo and keep with him forever. 

“Naughty girl,” he smirked, looking back down at you hand, his hand was still gently rested on your face and he swiped his thumb across your bottom lip. “How about we take that hoodie off you so I can see those perfect tits.” He said, holding your chin and urging you to stand up. 

You obeyed, of course you did, you were completely at Joel’s will. You smiled at him, wiping your mouth and chin with the back of your hand. It was filthy and made his cock twitch knowing he was the one making a mess of someone who always seemed so put-together and perfect. You held the hem of the hoodie you were wearing and you pulled it over your head, removing your shirt at the same time, in one swift movement. Your tits bounced as they caught on the fabric of the hoodie and Joel watched with fervour. 

He didn’t say a single word instead, he ducked his head down and latched messily onto one of your nipples. You whimpered, ignoring the dampness in your underwear and absently, you cursed that you had ruined a pair of Joel’s boxers. 

“J-Joel,” you whined and tugged your fingers into his hair. “Wanna finish what I started.” You huffed and it was true, you wanted Joel to feel as good as he had made you feel the night before. “I’m trying to say thank you for breakfast, remember.” You laughed breathlessly. 

He finally released your nipple after feeling somewhat satisfied with its effect on you. You took a breath before resuming your previous position on your knees, your hands holding onto his thighs for stability and you wasted no time in sinking your mouth back onto Joel’s cock, he groaned once more and ran his fingers through his hair as he watched. 

“So beautiful. So perfect. No one has sucked my cock this good before, Peach. No one has made me feel this good. Such a good girl for me, doing such a good job.” He moaned, his words falling out of his parted lips as a helpless ramble. “A-are you happy for me to be rougher?” He asked you, and you pulled off him again with a slightly cocked head in confusion. 

“Rougher?” You asked, innocence completely shrouding your voice.

“Yeah, I would love to be able to fuck into your mouth, into that good little throat of yours. Feel you gag around me.” Joel’s cock twitched heavily in your hand, his own words clearly exciting him and you couldn’t deny the way your arousal pooled deep inside of you. “If it gets too much darlin’, you tell me and I’ll stop immediately. Alright. Don’t wanna hurt you.” He cooed, there it was again; that somewhat comforting yet entirely condescending tone of voice. 

You nodded dumbly up at him, unsure of how he wanted you to continue. It was as if he read your mind in that moment. “Open your mouth real wide for me, baby girl.” His voice was commanding and you followed his instructions obediently. “That’s it, atta girl. Now, put your hands flat on your thighs and let daddy fuck that filthy mouth of yours.” 

A whine escaped your mouth and again, you followed his instructions perfectly. Joel took his cock and pushed it into the wet of your mouth with a gruff moan. He bottomed out harshly and you couldn’t help the gag that built up and escaped. You screwed your eyes shut, just trying to will yourself and your throat to relax and accommodate him. 

“Shh, that’s it. Take it.” He growled and pulled his hips back before pushing his cock back into your mouth once again, he kept one hand roughly placed at the back of your head, gripping your ponytail just so he had some leverage to get himself deeper into your mouth. He started a rough pace from the get-go and you allowed it to happen; tears fell from your eyes and stained your cheeks as he continued his attack on your throat. “Look at me.” He commanded harshly, his voice was a low growl. 

You tried opening your eyes to look up at him but with each thrust into your mouth they squeezed shut, spit was spilling from all around your lips as Joel fucked into you. You were helpless and you loved it, you felt like you were doing something good and making him feel good, it’s all you wanted. 

“I said,” Joel hissed and brought his hand down to slap across your face abruptly. “Fuckin’ look up at me.” He growled once again and your eyes shot open, panic filling them at the slap. It should have hurt but it didn’t, it just made you wetter than before. A vague sting lingered on your delicate face but it made you hungry to do better for Joel, you wanted to impress him more. “That’s it. Good little slut for daddy, aren’t you?” He hissed, his free hand resting on your throat, with each thrust Joel could feel you try and swallow his tip, he squeezed your neck and he could feel it through your throat. With each thrust he felt the fat head of his cock bump against the back of your throat and hit near his hand.

Your eyes fluttered shut again at his filthy words, them having just the effect on you he desired, this time Joel allowed it. You felt lightheaded as you tried to suck in air through your mouth but instead spit bubbles gathered at your lips. It was obscene and filthy, only something you had seen in hardcore pornos before. 

Your hands gripped helplessly at your own thighs, still doing as you you were told. Every so often, when Joel’s cock hit the back of your throat and you weren’t able to catch your breath or swallow you gagged harshly around Joel but that only seemed to egg him on further. 

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, his hips stuttering slightly. “G-gonna cum.” He groaned, his hands releasing the vice on your neck and hair which caused you to gasp around his cock. “Where do you want it, little girl? Wanna swallow it all down? Or do you want it all over your pretty face and tits?” He asked, admiring your wrecked face. 

Joel pulled his cock roughly from your mouth and you swallowed down air like it was going out of fashion, your eyes were leaking and a thick, long line of spit joined his cock to your lips still. 

“M-mouth.” You managed to stutter out.

He smirked down at you and drank in the filth before him. Your cheeks were flushed pink, one side of your face pinker than the other where we had slapped you previously. Your eyes were wet, your mascara only having been smudged further as your tears stained your cheeks and your lips were puffy and swollen from the bruising force of Joel’s cock. 

“Wanna taste me, huh? Wanna drink down what daddy gives?” He asked using that tone once again. 

You nodded dumbly and stuck your tongue out for Joel to finish on. He smiled and took his length, he gave your cheek a slap with it and you moaned weakly at him, your thighs were shaking from holding your body up at this angle for so long. As you moaned, Joel laughed breathily and slapped his cock onto your tongue; your curled it upwards, ready to catch every drop of cum he would give you. 

“Please,” you breathed, your eyes batting and heavy lidded. 

“As you wish, princess.” He groaned and stroked himself quickly, his cock plenty lubed from your excessive spit. He locked eyes with you and you felt your body nearly crumble under his heavy gaze. You were near panting as you waited with anticipation, with Joel’s dark eyes boring into you. His once warm, puppy brown eyes seemed almost black as he released himself onto your tongue. 

As the first drops hit your tongue you felt Joel’s cock head twitch as he came, hard. You whimpered at the taste, waiting for him to stroke himself through his orgasm. You weakly reached a hand up to stroke him and help milk him of every drop and he winced at the overstimulation. Once you were sure Joel had finished, you curled your tongue into your mouth and swallowed down the salty taste with a moan. You were never usually a fan of guy’s finishing in your mouth but with Joel, how could you say no. Everything about him drove you wild, right down to how his cum tasted. 

Joel helped you off the floor and placed a chaste kiss to your lips. “So beautiful,” he whispered and you smiled. “Did such a good job, peach.” He praised and pressed a kiss to your forehead; you loved the way pride blossomed through your chest and it only made you want to try again, and do better that time. 

“Tastes so good.” You moaned against Joel’s lips softly and it caused him to smile. “Thanks again for breakfast.” You giggled. 

“I uh, I hope I didn’t go too far or hurt you? I’m really sorry if I did, I got carried away.” He mumbled sheepishly, and this time it was his turn for his cheeks to flush red. 

“Joel,” you warned softly. “It was perfect and I, well, I think you unlocked a new kink for me.” You laughed, stroking the male’s face gently to encourage him to make eye contact. “I mean, I always kinda knew I had a praise kink but you’ve confirmed that and well, uh, the roughness kinda drove me crazy. I think I’m gonna need to borrow a new pair of boxers to drive home in.” You chuckled lowly and Joel smiled back at you with a boyish grin. 

“Good, never wanna hurt you, my good girl.” He praised and kissed your temple. “You… You don’t have to go home today, if you don’t wanna, I mean. You can go and get some clothes and come and stay over again, if you want?” Joel spoke softly and you can tell he felt nervous offering that to you. 

“I should probably stay at home tonight, I’m seeing pops tomorrow and I don’t think I’ll be able to function if we have sex or anything again. I swear your cock is making me dumber by the second.” You jested. “But uh, maybe we could go on that date next week? If you still wanna, of course.”

“I’m free Tuesday.” Joel confirmed without missing a beat. 

“Tuesday it is then, I’ll be expecting your call, Miller.” You kissed him quickly before running off upstairs to get you changed. You grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from Joel’s drawer and also took the liberty of stealing back his hoodie and a pair of grey joggers. 

You bundled your clothes together in your arms and headed back downstairs; you so desperately needed a long hot shower, some more food and a long nap. 

“I’ll see you Tuesday?” You asked softly as you stood by Joel’s front door. 

“Tuesday.” He repeated. “I see you’ve acquired more of my clothes then.” He chuckled, raising a brow at you as he held your hip in his large hand. 

“Yeah I didn’t really feel like putting the skirt and tank top back on, I just wanna be comfy. Plus, these smell like you so win-win.” You laughed and with a sigh you took your car keys and phone from Joel’s hand and placed a kiss to his lips. 

He sighed softly into the kiss and pulled you a little closer; the kiss was different to before, not as hungry and desperate but it was sensual and passionate, you could feel all the unspoken words in it. All the times you had both clearly pined for one another’s touch and lips. 

“Joel,” you sighed, resting your head onto his chest. “I really don’t wanna go and if you keep kissing me like that, I’ll stay forever and then we will both be in trouble.” You laughed. 

“Fine,” Joel pouted. “Go, go live your young person’s life and have fun, I’ll be here. Withering away, my back’s posture similar to a stale chip. Fine.” He closed his eyes and pressed the back of his hand up to forehead, feigning betrayal and hurt. He peeped at you with one of his eyes and laughed as you rolled yours at him. 

“So damned dramatic, Miller. You’ll see me in a couple days. You’ve gone years without me, I’m sure you’ll cope.” You laughed and just as you turned to leave, your hand already on the door handle, Joel’s body was pressed behind you and he placed sweet kisses to your cheek and neck. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve tasted you now and I know how good you taste. I don’t wanna wait days to see you again.” His breath fanned over your neck and you shivered. 

It was now or never, if you allowed Joel to pull you in again you would be stuck in his house forever, the two of you glued to one another. 

“Goodbye, Joel.” You finalised and opened the front door and you knew that would have him taking a step or two back, especially with how nosey his neighbours could be.

 “See ya later, peach.” He sighed and waved you off before he closed the door and rest his back against it with a groan. It was going to be a long few days without seeing you again.

“Fuck.” He cursed aloud and he knew it was going to be a long few days without you.

“See ya later, peach.” He sighed and waved you off before he closed the door and rest his back against it with a groan. “Fuck.” He cursed and he knew it was going to be a long few days without you.

“See ya later, peach.” He sighed and waved you off before he closed the door and rest his back against it with a groan. “Fuck.” He cursed and he knew it was going to be a long few days without you.

“See ya later, peach.” He sighed and waved you off before he closed the door and rested his back against it with a groan. “Fuck.” He cursed and he knew it was going to be a long few days without you. 

[realsafari]

ATTENTION TO ALL USERS OF THE HELLSITE!

MY FRIEND DOREEN (SHE/HER) LIVES IN KAKUMA KENYA, WHICH HAS A RELATIVELY LARGE LGBTQ+ POPULATION. RECENTLY, THERE HAVE BEEN CRACKDOWNS FROM MILITARY AND POLICE TARGETING LGBTQ+ INDIVIDUALS, USUALLY BY TORTURE, SEXUAL ASSAULT, AND/OR EXECUTION.

—————————————————————

She has asked me to share her story on my blog, since it has more outreach than her own. For direct questions, first person accounts, and interaction with her, please visit her blog @transdoreen !

THE FOLLOWING TEXT MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

The following is copied exactly from a message she sent me, with some minor edits for spelling and grammar as English is not her first language.

“We have been surviving on fundraisers, but recently we haven’t been doing so well.

Our situation has become worse. We can’t be treated in the public hospital that is around. Sometimes, they chase us away, sometimes they even do worse. One of our LGBTQ+ comrades here, a lesbian named Joan, was raped and murdered by a doctor who said he will turn her straight. She was one of the biggest advocates for our freedom.

So we face alot of challenges. We have to seek private medication which is expensive. We cannot do anything here, as we are attacked on sight.

We get small food portions. Sometimes we are attacked, and the food is taken away.

LGBTQ+ women have no access to sanitary pads, and they use dirty clothes and sand during that period.

Anytime we sleep without others staying awake to lookout, our shelters get attacked and burnt down.

The challenges are so many.”

I know for a fact that most of us can’t even fathom these horrors that Doreen and her friends + family are experiencing.

I wish I could help more than simply making a Tumblr post.

————————————————————————————

HERE IS A LINK TO DOREEN’S GOFUNDME, WHICH IS HER ONLY SOURCE OF INCOME TO SURVIVE. PLEASE DONATE AS MUCH AS YOU CAN.

EVEN IF YOU CAN’T DONATE, PLEASE SEND THIS POST TO AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE. EVERY REBLOG HELPS.

PLEASE TALK TO DOREEN HERSELF, @transdoreen , FOR MORE INFORMATION.

Nakupenda Doreen, na natumai hii inasaidia. 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈

[shanastoryteller]

Happy birthday! FMA is possible or dealers choice

Annie grew up with so many things being good but not quite good enough.

She hated it and swore to live a life of too much, to indulge in excess, to gain fluency in not one new language, but four, to travel and eat and fuck until she was sick from overindulgence.

Loving like that hadn’t been her intention, but pattern recognition can be a bitch that way.

Of course she was the first to jump out of the plane during training at the Farm.

She loves the sensation of falling.

~

Ben had been like being struck by lightning.

She’d been sand, shifting and impossible to grasp and disappearing with the next tide. Then with a single strike, she was glass. Changed forever, with no choice but to adapt or break.

Annie had thought that for Ben, she could refocus her heart, if not shrink it. He was a feast, surely enough to sustain even her greed, so there’d be no need for hunger to draw her elsewhere.

In the end, she hadn’t had time to find out. He was there, then gone.

Even when she gets him back, when there are a glorious few months when she thinks that just maybe –

But, well. Pattern recognition is a bitch.

In the end, Ben can only be an indulgence. It’s sweet, when she can, but she learns not to rely on it, to rely on him.

~

Jai isn’t someone she sinks into. She wants to, thinks that he could, but that pattern recognition gets in her way. Something about him never feels quite right to her, but so few things feel right to her.

Still. He’s dependable. He looks out for her. Even when things sour, when he turns angry and biting while jockeying for power with Joan and Arthur, he’s still there for her. He protects Eyal because she wants him protected. He goes back onto the field to help her.

When he discovers something terrible, and believes he can trust no one, he trusts her.

He dies in fire right in front of her and her glass heart shatters.

He was her friend, he cared about her, she trusted him despite all the reasons not to, and now he’s gone.

Why does this keep happening? It’s hard not to focus on the common factor here.

Herself.

~

She should know better when it comes to Eyal, but it’s hard. He’s a foreign operative for a competing agency and he’s an ass but every single time she’s needed him, he has been there.

Pattern recognition is a bitch.

Annie is so desperate to be right about someone, to hand someone her heart and have them treat it gently. Eyal is always sweet to her, always has her back, but she’s learned her lesson. She lets herself like him, because she should like him, and that’s safe.

Then Russia happens. Then he goes off book to break her out of a Russian prison and smuggle her out of the country when what should have happened was her dead on those filthy stone floors.

She knows how it will end, because it’s how it always ends.

When he betrays her, it’s almost a relief.

Except as he confesses, it feels like he’s lying to her – but what does she know, anyway? Her blind spot is always the men she thinks she can trust.

~

Then there’s Auggie.

He’s not an indulgence. She doesn’t fall in love with him so much as step into it, head held high and eyes wide.

She hopes that mean it can last.

[theworldofwars]

Sergeant Major Flora Sandes chats to a Serbian officer on a street corner, Salonika, Greece. Sergeant Major Sandes fought with the Serbian army during the campaign which resulted in the fall of Monastir. She was wounded by a Bulgarian hand grenade and was subsequently decorated with the Cross of Kara-George. She was known as "Our Joan of Arc" by the Serbians. WWI

[christophernolan]

Fantasy books by female authors that deserve more praise and recognition and are so SO MUCH better than whatever SJM writes.

The Sun Sword series | Michelle West

A hundred thousand kingdoms | NK Jemisin

The killing Moon | NK Jemisin

An ember in the Ashes | Sabaa Tahir

Shatter Me | Taherah Mafi

Furyborn | Claire Legrand

The bone season | Samantha Shannon

Darker shade of Magic | VE Schwab

The invisible life of Addie LaRue | VE Schwab

Realm of the Elderlings | Robin Hobbs

Sands of Arawiya | Hafsah Faizal

The Daevabad Trilogy | SA Chakraborty

Year of the Reaper | Makiia Lucier

The bear and the Nightingale | Katherine Arden

The Night Circus | Erin Morgenstern

Descendent of the Crane | Joan He

The bridge Kingdom | Danielle Jensen

Dark Shores | Danielle Jensen

Falling Kingdoms | Morgan Rhodes

Range of Ghosts | Elizabeth Bear

Children of blood and Bone | Tomi Adeyemi

The Wrath and the Dawn | Renee Ahdieh

Lumatere Chronicles | Melina Marchetta

The Alchemists of Loom | Elise Kova

[aaknopf]

Martyr!, the poet Kaveh Akbar’s propulsive debut novel, tells the tale of Cyrus Shams, the son of a lost mother (victim of a 1988 U. S. Naval snafu in the Persian Gulf that killed 290 people on a commercial airliner) and the long-suffering father who emigrated to Fort Wayne, IN with his baby boy. We meet Cyrus as a student of poetry at Keady University and a reformed addict. In this excerpt, he’s at the local open mic with his friends; we also share one of the poems from Cyrus’s bookofmartyrs.docx, helpfully supplied by Akbar, the poet behind the fictional poet.

. .

The Naples Tuesday night open mic had become a mainstay of Cyrus and Zee’s friendship. It was a small affair, not much to distinguish it from the myriad other open mics happening elsewhere in the country—except this was their open mic, their organic community of beautiful weirdos—old hippies singing Pete Seeger, trans kids rapping about liberation, passionate spoken-word performances by nurses and teenagers and teachers and cooks. As with any campus open mic, there was the occasional frat dude coming to play sets of smirky acoustic rap covers and overearnest breakup narratives. But even they were welcome, and mostly it felt like a safe little oasis of amongness in the relative desert of their Indiana college town, a healthy way to spend the time they were no longer using to get drunk or high.   Naturally, Naples didn’t have its own sound equipment, so Zee would usually show up fifteen minutes early with his beat-up Yamaha PA to set up for Sad James, who hosted every week. Sad James was called this to distinguish him from DJ James, a guy who cycled nightly through the campus bars. DJ James was not a particularly interesting artist, but he was well-known enough in the campus community to warrant Sad James’s nominative prefix, which began as a joke but somehow stuck, and to which Sad James had grown accustomed with good humor, even occasionally doing small shows under the name. Sad James was a quiet white guy, long blond hair framing his lightly stubbled face, who played intensely solemn electronic songs, punctuated by sparse circuit-bent blips and bloops, and over time at Keady, he had become one of Zee and Cyrus’s most resilient and trusted friends.   On this night, Cyrus had read a poem early, an older experimental piece from a series where he’d been assigning words to each digit 0–9, then using an Excel document to generate a lyric out of those words as the digits appeared in the Fibonacci sequence: “lips sweat teeth lips spread teeth lips drip deep deep sweat skin,” etc. It was bad, but he loved reading them out loud, the rhythms and repeti­tions and weird little riffs that emerged. Sad James did an older piece where the lyrics “burning with the human stain / she dries up, dust in the rain” were repeated and modulated over molten beeps from an old circuit-bent Game Boy. Zee—a drummer in his free time who idolized J Dilla and John Bonham and Max Roach and Zach Hill in equal measure—hadn’t brought anything of his own to perform that evening, but did have a little bongo to help accompany any acoustic acts who wanted it.   On the patio listening to Cyrus talk about his new project, Zee said, “I could see it being a bunch of different poems in the voices of all your different historical martyr obsessions?” Then to Sad James, Zee added, “Cyrus has been plastering our apartment with these big black-and-white printouts of all their terrifying faces. Bobby Sands in our kitchen, Joan of Arc in our hallway.”   Sad James made his eyes get big.   “I just like having them present,” Cyrus said, slumping into his chair. He didn’t add that he’d been reading about them in the library, his mystic martyrs, that he’d taped a great grid of their grayscale printed faces above his bed, half believing it would work like those tapes that promised to teach you Spanish while you slept, that some­how their lived wisdoms would pass into him as he dreamt. Among the Tank Man, Bobby Sands, Falconetti as Joan of Arc, Cyrus had a picture of his parents’ wedding day. His mother, seated in a sleeved white dress, smiling tightly at the camera while his father, in a tacky gray tux, sat grinning next to her holding her hand. Above their heads, a group of attendees held an ornate white sheet. It was the only picture of his mother he had. Next to his mother, his father beamed, bright in a way that made it seem he was radiating the light himself.   Zee went on: “So you could write a poem where Joan of Arc is like, ‘Wow, this fire is so hot’ or whatever. And then a poem where Hussain is like, ‘Wow, sucks that I wouldn’t kneel.’ You know what I mean?”   Cyrus laughed.   “I tried some of that! But see, that’s where it gets corny. What could I possibly say about the martyrdom of Hussain or Joan of Arc or whoever that hasn’t already been said? Or that’s worth saying?”   Sad James asked who Hussain was and Zee quickly explained the trial in the desert, Hussain’s refusing to kneel and being killed for it.   “You know, Hussain’s head is supposedly still buried in Cairo?” Zee said, smiling. “Cairo, which is in which country again?”   Cyrus rolled his eyes at his friend, who was, as Cyrus liked to remind him when he got too greatest-ancient-civilization-on-earth about things, only half Egyptian.   “Damn,” Sad James said. “I would’ve just kneeled and crossed my fingers behind my back. Who am I trying to impress? Later I could call take-backsies. I’d just say I tripped and landed on my knees or something.”   The three friends laughed. Justine, an open mic regular whose Blonde on Blonde–era pea-coat-and-harmonica-rack Bob Dylan act was a mainstay of the open mic, came outside to ask Zee for a cigarette. He obliged her with an American Spirit Yellow, which she lit around the corner as she began speaking into her cell phone.   In moments like these Cyrus still sometimes felt like asking to bum one too—he’d been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker before he got sober, and continued his habit even after he’d kicked everything else. “Quit things in the order they’re killing you,” his sponsor, Gabe, told him once. After a year clean he turned his attention to cigarettes, which he finally managed to kick completely by tapering: from one and a half packs a day to a pack to half a pack to five cigarettes and so on until he was just smoking a single cigarette every few days and then, none at all. He could probably get away with bumming the occasional cigarette now and again, but in his mind he was saving that for something momentous: his final moments lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound, or walking in slow motion away from a burning building.   “So what are you thinking then? A novel? Or like . . . a poetic mar­tyr field guide?” asked Zee.   “I’m really not sure yet. But my whole life I’ve thought about my mom on that flight, how meaningless her death was. Truly literally like, meaningless. Without meaning. The difference between 290 dead and 289. It’s actuarial. Not even tragic, you know? So was she a martyr? There has to be a definition of the word that can accom­modate her. That’s what I’m after.”

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