#me when black and white filter and poetry

[taylorswiftstyle]

"Fortnight" music video | April 19, 2024

Vivienne Westwood 'Frill Shirt' - €590.00

I’ve thought a lot about the colour palette of the world that Taylor has created with Poets and how it’s one of the most distinguishable things about the Tortured aesthetic we’ve seen so far. Enough so that it’s usurped her beloved (and endearingly noted ‘fuckass’) Olympus yellow candid filter with a drained out world to paint all of her latest social media posts with. To me there’s a lot to wade through there when it comes to black like grief or the poetry of Dickinson-esque shades of white and subsequently all the shades of grey the album itself covers. 

But what a delight it is to see a Vivienne Westwood piece on Taylor! I know many of us briefly thought both of the white gowns she’s worn recently were by her so it’s great to see her finally in her wares. This particular long shirt is from the mens line.  

[ciderdusk]

Through Unspoken Paths

Wednesday,

Autumn,

She came back again.

The girl wore a simple white shirt, black cut-bray pants, and a pair of black-and-white Vans Old Skool sneakers. She sat at the far end of the reading room, flipping through the pages of a book. Her focus was unwavering, so much so that she seemed unaware of anyone else in the room.

I know her name, her age, and even her address. I understand how strange that sounds. But I know her story.

Bee.

Let’s call her Bee. Like a little buzzing creature. I don’t usually call her by her real name.. just Bee.

She’s always been like that. Quiet, and focused, as if she’s part of a different world entirely. Yet, there’s something magnetic about her, something that makes her hard to look away from.

As she sits there, the autumn sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting a soft glow around her. The pages of her book seem to absorb the light, becoming almost golden in her hands. She occasionally tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her movements so natural and unintentional that they feel like poetry.

I don’t think she notices me watching. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. Either way, I can’t help but wonder what’s running through her mind as she reads so intently. What secrets are hidden in the book she holds?

Bee. The name feels like a secret, I’m not supposed to whisper. But for now, I’ll keep calling her that, Bee.

I find myself at the city’s central library, quietly smiling at the people who enter or assisting others in writing their names on the book loan register.

I am nothing more than a librarian, doing my duty. Working from Monday to Saturday, while Sunday is reserved for a self-declared day of rest.

And then, there’s Bee.

She’s beautiful, in a way that lingers in your memory. I used to talk to her during my breaks last year, short yet comforting exchanges. But lately, she has chosen silence over words, and I don’t quite understand why.

I once visited her apartment. It was after just seven days of knowing each other.. she wanted to talk for longer, and I said yes. Honestly, I didn’t have any friends, so I agreed without hesitation.

Her apartment was… unforgettable. The air smelled soft and inviting, as if it carried traces of some distant comfort. The muted brown tones of her space were soothing, the kind of colors that felt like a quiet embrace. Everything was antique, beautifully delicate yet perfectly arranged, like the home of someone who held onto memories carefully, as if afraid of letting them fade away.

In that space, I began to wonder if her silence held stories I’d never hear.

I found myself sitting beside her in the cozy TV room, the dim lighting casting soft shadows as we watched Notting Hill together. It wasn’t my first time watching it, but experiencing it with her made the movie feel.. brand new.

When the credits rolled, she got up to prepare some snacks in the kitchen. My eyes wandered around the room, and that’s when I noticed it, a small photo frame perched near the table by the window. The picture captured Bee, with a man’s arm wrapped casually around her shoulders. I couldn’t help but wonder, was he.. her boyfriend? Or maybe… her ex?

That was my first glimpse into Bee’s apartment and, coincidentally, the answer to how I ended up knowing her address.

Since that day, Bee and I grew closer. She slowly peeled back the layers of herself, letting me see who she truly was. For someone like me, who struggles to keep a conversation alive, Bee was a breath of fresh air, always brimming with new topics to discuss or whimsical musings to share. Her energy had a way of filling the silence I often found myself lost in.

But that was a year ago.

Now, something has shifted. Bee feels distant… no, more like she’s retreating into herself. Still, I can’t quite call it isolation. She continues to visit the library, exchanging a polite smile with me when our eyes meet. But that’s all it is now, a smile. Fleeting, distant, and far too guarded for the Bee I used to know.

I felt a deep sense of loss.

Bee had been my first real friend, and now, it seemed like I was standing at the edge of a world where she no longer existed.

But then, my curiosity pulled me back. I saw him.. that person!

Not far from Bee’s reading desk, just four tables to the left, there he was. He sat quietly, reading a book, absorbed in its pages. His black t-shirt and matching black pants gave him a sense of quiet mystery, and his Vans Old Skool sneakers mirrored Bee’s, the same pair she used to wear. He wasn’t alone, two others sat with him, their faces unfamiliar to me.

And there, in the midst of the room, my heart skipped a beat. He was the man from the photo, the one captured in the frame at Bee’s apartment, standing close, their arms around each other.

But something about them felt distant now. Why did they seem so unfamiliar? In that picture, they were so close, so connected, but now… they felt like strangers.

I couldn’t stop thinking of Bee. I hoped she was okay, wherever she was.

More than anything, I wanted to walk up to her and say something, anything. I wished I could bridge the distance, erase the fear, and find the courage to speak now, before everything slipped further away.

But it was too late.

Bee rose from the chair where she had been reading.

She placed the book she had been reading back in its rightful spot, the one from where she had picked it up. Her gaze met mine…

Oh no, what should I do now? I should greet her, right?

Before I could say a word, Bee smiled at me first. Then, she waved her hand, and just like that, she disappeared through the door.

Not long after, the man turned his attention to the spot where Bee had exited.

I didn’t know what happened after that, because someone approached me, asking to borrow a book.

As I made my way home after a long day of work, the soft rhythm of the music in my earphones guided my steps. The path I walked took me past the library, not far from a charming little café with an old-world atmosphere. I had intended to stop by for a moment of calm, but then, something unexpected caught my eye.

I wasn’t sure what I had anticipated, perhaps a strange sight to send a shiver down my spine, but instead, I found Bee.

She was crouched on the sidewalk, her body trembling as quiet sobs escaped her.

I wanted to walk over, to offer comfort, but an overwhelming sense of fear held me back. My feet stayed rooted to the ground, uncertain.

Instead, I watched from a distance, my gaze fixed on Bee. She gasped for air between sobs, her hands shaking as she clutched something. At first, I thought it was a crumpled sheet of paper.

But as my eyes adjusted to the dimming light, I realized—it wasn’t paper.

It was a photo.

The same photo I had once seen neatly framed at her apartment, the one next to the room’s delicate air freshener. Why would Bee be tearing it?

I stood there for what felt like an eternity—seven minutes, perhaps. The world around me felt still, even as Bee continued to wipe her tears in silence. Her crying was soft, but it echoed louder in my chest than any scream.

Then, through the quiet, a shadow emerged. A figure stepped into the frame— a man. But it wasn’t the man from the photo. I froze, my heart racing, unsure of what I was witnessing.

The man before me was someone I was sure couldn’t be far from Bee’s age. He wore a simple white t-shirt and shorts, paired with sandals, looking effortlessly casual.

He handed over a fresh tissue, one that I was certain he had just bought from a nearby shop. Take it, Bee! Take it! I found myself silently urging her, wishing she could hear my thoughts. And then, just as I hoped, Bee reached for it. A quiet cheer echoed in my mind, a wave of joy that she accepted it.

Bee stood up, but what caught me off guard was the fact that the man, the one I thought would be shorter than Bee, was actually taller than her. I watched as Bee had to tilt her head upward to meet his gaze, and he smiled softly in return.

And just then, the song playing in the background wrapped its melody around the moment…

“Begin Again” by Taylor Swift.

[likhanara]

teach me how to be those things

Likhanara, March 2020

I'm afraid of sunrises, beautiful things and pop punk songs from 2000,

of aesthetic photographs you might find in your grandmother's closet,

of sharp things and voodoo dolls hidden under beds,

of angelic voices that can calm oceans and drown city noise.

of cigarettes and alcohol that taste like peace and silence.

And you laughed when I told you the things I'm afraid of,

and you stopped when I told you that I’m afraid you might find a person

that looked like sunrise and sounded like 2000 pop punk songs (balanced, beautiful, madness).

I’m afraid of aesthetic photographs in orange filters, 

of short-haired girls in skirts and baggy shirts,

Baby, I don't do aesthetic.

I do photographs in black and white with my back facing the lens.

I capture naked shoulders kissed by the sun,

apples in skinny, white legs barely hidden by white sheets.

Darling, I’m not the sharp things you use to carve my name on your wrist,

nor the voodoo dolls you kept hidden since you were six.

I am the soft pillows you hate for comforting you,

and sunsets with distorted colors of soft pink and blue.

You have always hated anything soft and pastel

but you love anything that can drown bus horns

and hundreds of feet walking in your head.

And I can't do that,

I can't do that,

I can't do that.

What I can only do

is to be jealous of cigarette butts and bottle mouths you kissed

in exchange for slow and unnoticed self-destruction.

I am jealous o the things that can save you,

and I hate myself for not being able to.

***

This is part of Withdrawal Symptoms, a collection of poetry and proses posted on my Wattpad account that you can binge-read for free. Link on pinned post.

[wilheminalibrary]

11/29/2023

At the End of the Tunnel is More Tunnel: Week 3 of the November Writing Challenge

I was spending Thanksgiving last week with my family, and, for our last meal together, we went out to a Scandinavian restaurant. For immersive ambience, the TVs in the place played footage of trains going through the Icelandic countryside. For a significant portion of the meal the train was making its way through the inside of a mountain, rolling the frightening dark of a tunnel, lit by intermittent overhead track lights. When it finally cleared the tunnel, my mom and sister and I celebrated a return of the sky. Then, my mother gestured with her beer. “Oh look another tunnel.”

That’s what it’s felt like lately. I had a whole other blog post planned, but here we are. I won’t mince words with you all. I'm making an effort here to write with no filter, with no plan beyond a simple topic: Seasonal Affective Disorder is kicking my ass. I shouldn't be surprised, since it's managed to do this every year since I was a child, but here I am. Defenseless. Worse still is that the dark seems to know it. With each passing year the winters feel longer and meaner, their ribbons of ink-black shadows forming into teeth. I'm losing energy as the black bat of Winter bites through my neck and bleeds me out. Poems are coming slower, I'm behind on this putting this blog post up, and all my efforts have the distinct musical quality of mining from a tapped vein. This blog post is a full six days late due to Thanksgiving and travel stress, and the poems are actively clotting.

This is most often where I stumble during a writing challenge like this. It's the home stretch where everything kind of slows down, like I burned too much fuel on liftoff and, without the necessary momentum when I break orbit, I just drift off completely. I can feel myself drifting. But more than that, more than the work, I can feel my body retreating into itself, conserving itself, pulling away from socializing and other activities that restore me.

But we go on, don't we? We weather this for what it is: weather. It comes and bellows and roars and blows like the lowest moment of King Lear. It singes my white head, it drenches my steeples and drowns my cocks and all its germains spill at once. But I have my small shelter. I have my small fool. I have my Tom O' Bedlam. Let me introduce them.

One thing I've been doing with my dwindling energy is reading. When the writing won't come, there is always the looming stack of books I've yet to read. Currently, I'm chipping away at Robert Doran's translation of The Lives of Simeon Stylites a collection of three different accounts of the the early Christian mystic's life and ministry. The man lived most of his life, if the accounts are to be believed, atop a sixty foot tall pillar with no shelter or support. It comforts me the way faith and frenzy twirl around each other like a binary star. With distance they appear to be the same light winking in and out. For someone who loves body horror and the flesh and Christian aesthetics, why I had never thought to look into the saints is a cosmic oversight. It took my girlfriend (who has a fucking tattoo of Simeon) telling me about him for me to chase down the accounts. It's been soothing. Atop his pillar, performing his self-imposed penance for the sin of his existence, Simeon gave counsel, offered sermons, blessed crops and warded off savage animals with the help of his god. As I trudge through this last gasp of my self-imposed writing challenge, I can only hope to capture that same grace.

Too offset this onslaught of occasionally dry religious text, I've got a healthy arsenal of poetry to catch up on, beginning with Sean Patrick Mulroy's fearless collection Hated for the Gods. Equal parts a queer oral history and an intimate crawling tour of intimacy. Mulroy's work is a constant subversion of expectation. In deftly switching from the current to the primordial to more recent history, the book seems to assert that queerness and the rage that ripples off the page like heat waves are eternal. We have always been here. While still figuring out my gender and for my adolescence, I identified as a bisexual man, but quietly. While the mainstream perception of queer media is loud, brazen, and unapologetic, Mulroy's work leaves room for quieter moments and voices too. It's a fascinating book that demonstrates the depth and scope of a topic that a lot of culture tries to reduce to one note.

And, because I simply cannot be stopped, I'm reading Natalie Tatou's new collection S.M.D.H. Tatou writes like the the orderlies are on their way. Every story in the collection scrambles and scrapes together its contraband and crams them onto the page. Incest, violence, sexual taboos, and more all come to abject life in Tatou's writing, their radioactivity tempered by an attentive hunger to be understood. The book howls for connection and understanding, clawing at the my eyes so that I may better see its truths. I'm not very far into the book, weighed as it is against my mystic and Mulroy's poetry, but I can't help but feel grateful that such an electrifying book won't be over too quickly.

I'm still keeping more or less apace with my work, maybe a day or two behind at the time of writing, and I can feel the ugly dark behind me like a narcotic tentacle, but I'll do my best to finish what I've begun.

Until then, I'm reading. Until then, I'm writing. Until then, I am always doing my exhausted and darkening best. I can see the end of the tunnel…I can look forward to seeing the sky, at least until the next one.

Yours with an open mouth,

-B

[smuttyaf]

Brooklyn Baby

𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰; 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟑, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

wc: 5.3k

age gap & mention of drug use | inspired by this song

They say I’m too young to love you

They say I’m too dumb to see

They judge me like a picture book

By the colours, like they forgot to read

You wrap your hands around the microphone string, letting the lyrics slip out in the sweetest way. Eyes roam amongst dizzy faces as your hips sway to the strumming of the guitars filtering through the speakers.

Drunk patrons litter the crowd with lonesome waitresses wandering around putting careless effort into their jobs. Even with cloudy smoke and damp aroma filling the air you get lost in the gentle tune. The fleeting memories of the song being created when sitting with your band mates each playing around with different notes and keys until finding the melodic beat.

Cherry stain lips part releasing your seductive voice, hips continuing to move in rhythm making your way towards the curly hair guitarist as the chorus rolls in.

Well, my boyfriend’s in a band

He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed

The cord from the mic wraps around Harry’s boots, his gaze on your swaying waist and devilish smokey eyes.

I’ve got feathers in my hair

I get down to beat poetry

And my jazz collection’s rare

I can play most anything

Body passing in front of him as eyes flicker to the gentleman in the back raising his beer bottle to your actions with a whistle.

I’m a Brooklyn baby

I’m a Brooklyn baby

The song pans into the bridge, the beat slowing and your unraveling yourself around him continuing to walk along the stage.

The trailing eyes from strangers didn’t faze you unlike the ones burning in the back of your head. Those forest eyes are the reason why your heart would quicken in pace and stomach tie in knots, not the people filling this dirty bar on Thursday night.

It was those same green eyes that caught your attention in the library just a couple months ago; Flared black jeans with matching band tee towering over you, the zippers on his leather jacket clashing with the wooden table as he leaned in dropping a poorly made flyer: lead singer audition, written with faded ink and sloppy music notes for decoration.

Teeth nibbling down on candy wax while pencil was nestled between your almond nails. Your gaze tore away from the wrinkled paper that fell amongst your algebra homework, to the man who place it in front of you.

And you remember that moment so clearly; the curls that fell amongst his collarbones to the tug at the end of his lips with amusement written all over his face from the satisfaction of catching your wondering eyes. Harry remembers it all too, your face buried in your textbook with pin straight hair pulled behind your ears, plucked brows brought together in confusion. He remembered everything.

“Free tomorrow afternoon?” Were the first words to break the silence. White teeth peeking through the cracks of his lips. You shrug your shoulders, gaze caught on the dimple etching into his cheek. “My band is hosting auditions, you should come.” He suggests, his fingers moving from the paper and flicking his gaze to your questioning eyes.

“I think I’m good…” You mumble, hand reaching out and brushing it off your homework.

That made the smile on the man’s face disappear. His turn now for his expression to resemble confusion, leaning his knuckles onto the table, the smell of cigarettes radiates off his jacket as his head dips down.

“What, why?” He asks, watching you look down at the italic equation in your textbook.

His question made you chew down on your flesh. You already were busy with academics and choir, even with the hounding responsibilities on your back from your strict parents, being in a band was far from what you need to involve yourself with right now.

“Busy with school,” You reveal, meeting back with his gaze that glimmers with thought.

“Oh come on…” He sighed, hand leaving the wood and rolling his eyes playfully, he straightens up, eyes roaming amongst your features. “How old are ‘ya anyways?”

You bite down on your tongue, the warmth in your cheeks burning even brighter when you divert your gaze. “Eighteen.” You murmur, nails digging into your pencil so roughly it’s leaving faint lines in the orange paint.

Whistle draws from his lips at the reveal, his free hand leaving the table to run along his jaw, gaze still lock on your flustered expression.

“You’re young… but you’re also in your final year.” He shrugs, making you look away from the text and at him once more. “I asked around telling everyone our lead kicked rocks, bailed on us before our gig next week and… well, everyone directed us to you.”

You? Everyone he spoke to directed him to you? Shock is an understatement about how you’re feeling, because you weren’t someone who you thought people acknowledged, especially since you barely spoke to anyone, and the fact that you were referred to for this stranger to audition for only peeked your interest even more.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Why?”

That made him laugh, deep hearty chuckle ringing your ear drums and rattling your heart strings. The sound so contagious you were softly smiling at the cheer.

“Told me you’re in the choir, have a beautiful voice on ‘ya,” He confesses, inked hands burrowing into his elbows as he crosses his arms over his chest. “So, here I am.” Smile spreading further, the burning in your cheeks tingle to your ears.

You clear your throat, the feeling of your hands glaze with sweat as your heart beat pounds in your ears. Straightening your back, you look towards the scribbled sheet.

“Tomorrow afternoon?” You ask, teeth biting into your bottom lip as you read over the address on the paper.

Harry chews on the inside of his cheek to suppress the happiness coursing through his body — he didn’t know how his other band mates recruitment was going but he believes he was ahead — smiling at you he shrugs with his body leaning off the table.

“Tomorrow for three,” He informs, fingers placing the sheet back onto the textbook.

“Oh… three won’t work, I finish school at two-thirty.” You say quietly, the tangle of nerves bubbling together in your stomach at the sudden realization you might miss this opportunity that you declined only a few seconds ago.

“Love, come anytime you want, we’ll be there.” He states, voice laced with reassure that you smile nervously at the tone.

“T —Thank you sir,” You utter, eyes never leaving the green ones that bore into you.

“Oh baby, no need to call me that, Harry will do just fine.” The term of endearment most likely not meaning anything to him, but everything to you as your thighs squeeze together to contain your nerves.

“Okay… Harry.” You say, relaxed expression now coating your features. Drawing in deep breath he smiles leaning off the table. Bidding you farewell, the events that transpired before you just seconds ago begin to strike.

How are you going to explain this to your parents, you’re auditioning to be in a band amongst people you don’t even know? But, maybe you didn’t need to overwhelm your thoughts, it was just an audition, who’s to say you’re going to get the part.

So, the next day once you heard the chime of the school bell ring to the rough exchange of trains passing through the tracks you were in front of your destination. Red bricked apartment with large peace sign graffiti on the entrance. You retrieved the door open before making your way up the stairs and letting your fingers drum against the apartment door from the flyer.

Curly hair and bright smile greet you again, swinging the door open he immediately lets you in. Your eyes falling amongst two men lying sloppily over a bean bag chair and couch, the smell in the apartment mix between the breeze outside and smoke. You smile shyly at the rest of the band mates, Harry takes his seat down next to the one with shaven head and gestures to the middle of the living room.

“So what song will you be singing?” He ask once you stood by the television.

Clearing your throat your lips pinch together in a straight line, trying to rack your brain of your favourite songs to sing.

“Elvis, always on my mind,” You say, rocking on your heels. Harry turns towards his friend holding the guitar with black nails.

“You got it?” He nods towards him who only smirks back in response.

“Do you know who you’re asking?” Sarcasm evident as he begins to strum the chords.

Swallowing once more before letting the lyrics spill, fingers fumble with the ends of your coat as you try to stare everywhere but those green eyes, however each time you would fail miserably. That didn’t matter though, you never let your voice waver or crack, keeping your head held high as you sing the song like it’s the back of your hand.

With the first vocal out of your plush lips Harry was captivated; your voice like satin mixed with sweetness, the girl next door type of voice you hear singing in the shower… it was everything. He knew by the end of the first verse that you had the spot, the four other tryouts could not top the presence in front of him.

He shared a glance between his friends, fingers skimming across his chin as they all shared the same look.

Twisting your fingers together you finished the song, the strumming of the guitar panning out as Harry clears his voice. The friend sitting in the bean bag chair begins to clap, a smug grin written all over his face.

“Where have you been hidin’ a voice like that?” The man you later find out to be, Johnny questions with laughter.

“I’m in St. Michaels choir,” You say, letting your eyes skim over faces before graciously falling on the curly brunette. “Should I leave my number for a call back?”

It makes the group erupt in laughter, heat raising to your face at the joke you weren’t apart of. Mouth parting slightly about to speak broken apologies, Harry raises off the couch, his fingers lacing together as he looks at you happily.

“No need, you got the part,” Only making the nerves that erupted once you stepped in the room turn into excitement.

Happy smile beaming on your lips as the group erupts in cheers, the guitar strumming a few cords with thrill as they all get on their feet.

Johnny and Ralph introduce themselves; both overjoyed that not only did they find a lead singer in the knick of time but, that you were amazing. From voice to looks, everything about you was mesmerizing.

So, from that moment after school you would either be on your way to choir practice or band. The conflicting schedules of both activities draining you as you still had to focus on school and keep up with your grades but, this was the most fun you’ve ever had. Moving from Ohio to New York you barely made any friends from the 3 months you’ve been in the city. This was the most exciting thing you’ve ever experienced; writing songs in Harry’s apartment on the peeling sofa, going to the diner off Fifth Avenue for lunch, to creeping out the window of your bedroom to attend your gigs knowing you had school tomorrow morning.

It was exhilarating this other part of your life. Actually being in a band and performing, though it wasn’t always pleasing seeing drunk men stumble by the stage or barely book any gigs. It was better then staying at home and going over your notes for the hundredth time.

The drumming draws you out of the memories and you find yourself back in the moment singing the final chorus of the song. Your feet carry you back to Harry as you both lean into the microphone, voices linking together to expel the smoothest conclusion to your gig.

Yeah, my boyfriend’s pretty cool

But he’s not as cool as me

Your heart beat flutters looking at his relax expression with playful smile painting his lips. He was so handsome shining under the stage lights.

‘Cause I’m a Brooklyn Baby

I’m a Brooklyn Baby

Thick mascara lashes look up at him as he stares back, fingers stumming his guitar and hips swaying to the same beat while you both lilt the end of the song gazing into each others eyes.

You knew your cheeks were glowing from your presence next to him when the rattle of the drums drift to conclude the show. Ralph bids the crowd a farewell before you all follow off stage. Crowd sluggishly clapping while everyone retrieved with their belongings into the dressing room.

Just like any other gig each member was handed thirty dollar bills for their performance behind the back of the establishment. You let yours crumble in the pocket of your denim jacket while the three men roll their eyes at the cheap pay.

“One of these day Lotus you’re gonna have to appreciate us,” Johnny said, leaning against the brick wall with drum sticks between his fingers.

“Yeah whatever… we might have some agents come in tomorrow. Some fashion week bullshit going on, maybe it will be your guys lucky day,” He huffs, turning around and letting the door slam shut not waiting for Johnny response.

“Sure,” Ralph remarks, the group beginning to tug their way from the bar heading to the subway.

“Want to break the bill and head to Joey’s?” Ralph questions the group. Johnny beams with a happy smile while you let a frown spread amongst your features.

Everyone in the band knew you were in school, and yes, sometimes you would head with them to their after concerts endeavours but, that still was cutting it close. Shaking your head you let a faint smile spread while the team steps into the cart and take seats along the moving vehicle.

“Sorry guys,” You hush, red nails digging into the polyester of your skirt.

“Don’t think about it Y/N,” Johnny reassures smiling your way. You nod at his acknowledgment before looking towards Harry.

He hasn’t said his response yet and you were dying to know, because even though sometimes you would go out with your band mates during casual settings, Harry was the one band mate you would see more then casually.

It started when he dropped you home late after one gig, then him calling you because he wanted to hear your voice. Soon, he was beginning to catch you after choir practice, having dates at the arcade or spending time at the park watching the ducks roam the pond. Those moments gradually turning to him beginning to sneak in through your bedroom window, or some nights after gigs you would spend a couple hours at his place.

Which is why you’re wondering what his decision is tonight.

The conversation leads to Ralph questioning if everyone saw the waitress spill the beer on the customer, group falling into laughter as the subway rattled with each stop being alerted.

The feeling of shifting feet pushing into you has you turn your gaze away from Ralph’s feathery hair and on Harry who smirks at you, sending a wink your way, making you blush and shift your attention. It was always shy smiles and coy looks with him. Even after spending so much time together you were always so nervous, his compliments still making you glow or the touch of his fingers causing you to shudder at the feel.

You never understood what he saw in you. Always catching him during band practice looking at you or cuddling up next to you on the couch when writing songs. It didn’t matter how many times he reminded you of your beauty or how many nights he reassures with his kisses, you always second guessed your place in his life. Twenty-one, he was three years older than you and had more experience with life, more than you and your sheltered one.

But still you want him, ever since you saw standing in front of you, you wanted him. And even when he told you that you were his, you couldn’t help but overthink.

Franklin Avenue

The two men stand as the cart begins to slow, smiling up at them you say your goodbyes but it grows slightly brighter when you still feel Harry’s presence.

He leans back on the seat, hand drifting to rest along your inner thigh as you turn to look at him. Suppressing the happiness on your face you bite down on your lip, eyes looking amongst his features drinking him in.

“Going home?” You ask, eyebrows rising as he smirks at you, his head leaning in as the heat of him radiates down your thigh.

“Yeah… with you.”

Just like always warmth spreads to your cheeks, your lashes blinking up at him with teeth tearing away from your stained lips, head turning slightly so he doesn’t see your face but he halts your movements. His back straightens, hand going to your chin as he scans your features.

“Stop hiding your pretty face.” Harry comments, voice low yet strong. His finger holds your jaw like that for a moment, just looking at you till it roams amongst your cheek to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You were a blushing mess under his gaze, his steady look on you as he drew against your skin. All you could do was look at him, so stuck in his beauty just as he was with yours. Green eyes alluring under the lamps of the cart, his hair is now cut short compared to when you first met, it was curling gently around his ears looking so soft that you just wanted to reach out in feel.

Eighth Avenue

His hand slides from your thigh and laces with yours resting on the bench, following his movements you stand and let him lead you to his home. With fingers intertwined together and head resting on his arm, you listen to the sound of your heels against the pavement and car horns blare distances away.

It was a comfortable silence entering into the apartment, feet kicking off your platform heels as you crept your way into his messy bedroom. T-shirts and pants are thrown around as if he was looking for an outfit, band posters hanging off the walls while his bedsheets are ruffled against the mattress, yet you couldn’t help but fall into them.

Face nestling into the material and drinking in the sweet smell of Harry. His smell cocooning all over you as you make your way up the bed, hand going to the magazine on his nightstand.

Picking up the Playboy issue you flip through the pages while chewing down on your nails, feet tangling together in the air as you hear shuffling from the bathroom. Humming along to the song you just perform you try not think about how these beautiful women in this magazine can shine so bravely. Thoughts about how they probably walk with such resilience compared to your timid ones.

God, you hate when you get like this, comparing yourself even when it didn’t matter… but you couldn’t help it. The magazines are sprawled amongst his home as if it was the local newspaper, it always made you question your appearance to him no matter what.

“If you stare any longer I might think different of you,” Harry says once entering the room. A shy smile spreads on your lips as you feel his body lie down next you, hand running over your lower back as he leans his head in.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” You hush, fingers closing the book and placing it back on the table. A chuckle escapes Harry as the warmth of him radiates on your skin that you couldn’t help but relax into his touch.

“Shh!” Harry quiets you with a smile. The gesture making you look up at him, happy to be back in your bubble even if it’s just for a few moments.

But you catch it, the haziness in his gaze to the blown pupils. The joy immediately dying at the look in his eyes. You bite down on your lip, hand lightly touching his chest as he stares at you, his palms continuing to move along your hips listening to your shallow breathing.

“Harry…” You whisper, hand brushing against the burgundy material of his button up.

His fingers trail up your back, curling the ends of your hair around his fingers as he clears his throat. The room still remaining silent as he can see the look in your eye itching to ask him to stop, but don’t. Blinking up at him, your lips run over each other, deep sigh leaving as you swallow hesitantly.

“Do you think there might really be an agent tomorrow?”

Still you’re met with silence, his eyes just running over your features with hands playing in your hair. The quietness and stare making you flush and bite down on your lip, palms beginning to crease with sweat at the shift in his demeanour.

“I always thought you were the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Hand gliding up the expanse of your hair running past your ears and nestling into your neck, his comment with the feeling of his skin brushing against yours only making you smile faintly at him.

The fluster expression resting along your face has him applying pressure to your neck pulling you into his lips. There is a lingering taste of beer as you let him search you, tongues linking together when he envelops your buds making you moan. Your fingers curl into the material of his shirt and pull him even deeper to embrace.

His warm hands wrap around you in the gentlest of ways you can’t help the way your heart flutters. Digits drag along the curve of your neck as he drapes himself over you, his other hand running down the expense of your turtle neck, fingers seeping under the material feeling over your skin as he lets it trail up your side.

Purring under his touch you let your fingers run up his back and into his hair, ruffling his locks while pressing himself into you. Everything he did made you so vulnerable, so helpless, always held captive by his presence. Frankly, you didn’t care if it’s the drugs influencing him to confess his thoughts, you relish in the moment of him having his way with you.

The atmosphere is rush breathing and ruffling clothes, hands shredding every piece as limbs and lips tangle together in the mess. Heart pumping with nerves as stomach quakes in excitement you can’t help the smile that tugs along your lips letting your back nestle into the sheets.

“C’mere,” Harry mutters, hands going to your hips and pulling you down the bed. “Feel what you do to me.”

The grip he his on your waist forcing you to rub over his erection, eyes looking into yours darkly, teeth biting down on his lip as he lets his hands wander. They slip down your waist as his head dips to press kisses down your neck to your stomach.

Trembling fingers run into Harry’s curls tussling them, quiet moans escaping when you feel his breath against your heat, nails curling into his scalp while his palms push your thighs apart, legs wrapping around his head as his mouth leans forward, tongue leaving to glide up your folds.

He hums from the way you taste, continuing to lick generous strokes, fingers curling into your skin as he lies his tongue flat against your pussy, head shaking lazily sending a flutter of arousal up your spine. Hips quivering slightly you let one hand trail to Harry’s jaw, feeling the flex of his mouth as he sucks on your bundle of nerves, a muffled moan electing from him loving the sweetness on his tongue.

Your mind was in a daze, the scene before you as if it were a soft dream with the moonlight shining in; Harry’s hair nestle so pleasantly between your legs, your hands following his motions as his nails leave marks in their wake from the grip he has on you.

With each moan flowing out of your mouth it made him runt his hips into the sheets, your voice dripping in arousal that it only turns Harry on even more. It didn’t matter what you did, everything about you enticed him; from the hairs on the nape of your neck to the beautiful way you sound around him. He was in love.

He knew you questioned your place in his life, he knew you overthought every interaction and every little thing he said; he tries to reassure you, whether it was sweet kisses or genuine words. He tried to program it in your mind that it was you for him, even when your cheeks would tint in shade and teeth bite into flesh he would reassure, especially if it was between your legs.

His hands spread against your hips, green eyes opening to look up at you. He watches your bruised lips part and eyes screw shut. The feeling of your fingers running against his jaw and hips rocking timidly against his movements, it made him groan against your pussy at the sight. Hair framing your face graciously in tangles as your chest heaves in rush breaths, reminding him you were close to coming undone.

“Baby,” You cry, almond nails digging into his skin as you quiver away from his tongue. The spark of your climax trembles through your nerves, the lapping of Harry’s tongue switching from dragging down your folds to thrusting in.

Adoring the term of endearment falling from your lips, his hand draws from your hip and rest along your pelvic bone as he lets his thumb dip between his nose and rub against your clit. Your backside digs into the bedsheets, long drawn out moan escaping your throat as you release all over him.

The friction of his mouth and hand sending satisfying pleasure through you that you go slick around him, nails digging into into his skin while drawing down his neck, hips jerking lazily as he begins to hum only sending vibrations of pleasure through your core.

“Oh my… Harry,” You whimper brokenly trying to catch your breath as he continues to lap up your juices.

The grip he has on you relaxing with sloppy wet kisses lead to gentle pecks as he trails them from your inner thigh to hips, hands running up your body with his lips following. Mouths link together and he immediately moans once they lock, your palms venturing down his sides as you link them into his boxers. Pulling the material down you let your feet tangle with his, waist align with each other.

“You drive me crazy,” Harry mutters breaking away from the kiss.

You take him in your hand, stroking him as he nuzzles into your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he continues roaming his touch down you skin, his hips lean down to let himself brush against your heat. The motion you have on him now running his cock up and down your folds. Harry’s breath against your neck goes shallow at the wetness that meets him.

“You’re so sweet,” He rasps against you as he lets his hips sink in your dripping pussy. Your lungs fill with air as you inhale heavily, the steady feeling of him brushing in as he slides through.

Your head burrows deeper into the sheets once his hips meets yours, palms brushing against his happy trail and link to wrap around his back as his hips draw out to sink back in. His thrusts start out slow and lingering, filling you up making you feel every inch that drags down your walls till they brush up to dive back in. The wetness you expel coating his member with each draw till he begins to pick up paste.

Moans, whimpers, and grunts are shared between you both. Your neck wet with red bruises beginning to swell under the skin. Hot breath drawing against you as it shines with sweat, bodies sticking together with each press of his hips while he rocks inside.

You can’t contain the nerves that rake up your spine; the fact that you just came over his tongue to him filling you up, you’re not even sure you’re registering the moments correctly. But, with the way your mouth is parted open to the feeling of your walls expanding, you didn’t care what haze your mind was in because it was a beautiful one. Harry’s smell completely covering you as his love blooms on your skin, you were filled with happiness.

“So fucking tight,” He grumbles into your skin, his hips continue to drum into you.

This feeling was making you delirious; the way you stretch around him, the juices flowing out with the pleasurable feeling of him pulsing inside you, you weren’t even surprised you felt your second wave of your climax come barreling down. The pillow seeps even deeper as you sink into the bedsheets, Harry nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck as he drives his thrust roughly into you with your walls tighting around him.

“Harry,” You moan, nails tearing his skin as they drag down his back. His fingers twist in your hair with a satisfying groan slipping out.

“Fuck… I love when you say my name,”Vulnerability dripping in his moan making your eyes flutter with satisfaction. Your legs go limb around him as you whimper beneath him.

Toes twisting together with long drawn out moan companying the euphoric warmth of your climax rushing through you. Your body twitches while he keeps his thundering paste, cock diving into your sweet nectar as he fits just in all the right places. The obscure squelching noise mixing with rush breathing and moans as you empty yourself around him.

With the feeling of your pussy coating him to your walls quivering, it had him pulling his hips out, groaning into your neck you feel the warmth of his seed spill down your folds, his body sticking to you as he lets himself completely lie over you, snuggling into your skin.

Both trying to regain yourselves with beating hearts, your fingers relax drawing against each other skin descending down from the high.

Harry body shifts, hips pulling away as he leans back on his thighs. It causes your hands to trail away from him and let them run up your body to cover your breasts. A smirk projects on his lips while you roll your eyes and smile annoyingly.

“Shy?” He remarks, body twisting to reach over grabbing a shirt before letting it wipe between your legs.

“You know how you make me feel,” Rising up on your elbows, you let your foot playfully kick his hip.

“Oh please say that again,” Harry sighs, throwing the shirt across the room and letting himself lie next to you. Fingers run up your side and rest on your shoulders, his head leaning in swiftly to place a kiss on your nose.

“You know how you make me feel.”

Gently laughing you lean in letting your hands roam amongst the expanse of his arm, head digging into the pillows as you feel yourself begin to grow tired, eyes fluttering every few seconds.

“What time should I bring you home,” He whispers, fingers drawing circles on your skin.

“Give me an hour,” You say, letting your eyes close as a chuckle rumbles over you. Head resting along yours he drinks you in, the light from the moon causing you to shine beautifully with the way it casts shadows over your features.

It makes him lean forward and let himself press his lips against yours, kissing you to sleep with the sound of cars blaring on the other side of the wall. This was your favourite moment, nuzzled next to Harry in bed slipping into serenity for just a few hours, not caring about getting home on time or fearful of your parents finding your bedroom empty, you were just happy to be there next to him.

[slenderpinkbook]

soft filter 16.07.11

My employer, Soft Filter Calligraphic Coffee, was est. in 2008 and became famous for this one simple trick: latté art resembling traditional calligraphy. Each coffee is considered to be a “poem.” Using an antique-looking calligraphy brush, espresso is swirled through the milk in the shape of characters that you pick from a fifty-word menu: “love,” “hope,” “flower,” etc. 

When you hand a customer their drink you are supposed to say “a poem, from me to you” or “a poem in the morning keeps inspiration flowing” or just “here is your poem.” Each barista is encouraged to create a facial expression to go with these phrases. Most of them do “gentle, with eyes lowered.” I was given positive feedback on my face in the first week of training.

Beginning in 2010, due to increasing competition, SFCC began branching out into flavored drinks decorated by, in addition to or sometimes replacing the words, more imagistic latté art. These flavored drinks are assigned specific default images. A Surprising Spice Latté is topped by three abstract, elegant swirls. A Rose Lavender Romance Latté has “Romance” above large centered rose (tricky to master). Beginning two months before I started at SFCC, customers must now modify their order with “Special” (+2 RMB) in order to get a custom word. There is also an option “Surprising” (+3RMB) where the barista chooses it for you.

The poached egg of the Lovely Litchi Poached Egg Latté is one of the most popular but also complex to make. Basically you make an egg in the cup and each coffee takes twice as long as a normal poem, and three times longer than poaching an egg. While not requiring manual dexterity like the RLRL, LLPEL does use two different types of foam—white (coconut milk) and yellow (with turmeric powder)—plus sticking freeze-dried red litchi petals on the rim of the cup with litchi syrup that you paint on beforehand with the calligraphy brush. There’s cinnamon on top and syrup inside it too.

Once I asked manager Fanny about the thematic connection between litchi flavor and the egg visual. She dried her hands on her apron slowly/thoughtfully and then said “the red litchi petals symbolize hot sauce on eggs.” I was like “Wow,” then told her I’m vegan, which isn’t true, either.

By the third hour of my shift I enjoy giving one girl a perfect artwork, and the other* a shitty one. 

*Usually the girls and lattés come in pairs. I’m good at guessing whether two girl friends will order the same thing: after the first girl’s order, sometimes you can see these small calculations being sketched in the second girl’s face, like whether to differentiate herself, or present a twin-like dynamic… With the more cultured/stylish girls I am also fairly accurate at guessing which specific drink they will get—it is some combination of the adjectives in the name of the drink and whether the shape/colors in the art will match their outfit. It’s more unpredictable if it’s a woman above age forty. These customers are basically choosing randomly, maybe based on a personal flavor profile preference related to a chidhood memory. Erratic. This is frustrating because the way the ordering works, when there’s a long line, sometimes I can shave whole minutes off the process by correctly guessing what’s coming in advance (making double the amount of turmeric foam in foresight, etc). 

Today I made twelve traditional Poetry Lattés, two Surprising Spice Lattés, six Rose Lavender Romance Latté, two Mystical Black Galaxy Coffees, and seventeen Litchi Poached Egg Lattes. 

[the-wytch-is-back]

The Origin of Magic

[[ Short story from 5.4.2018 that I was thinking of expanding on at some point. Maybe I still will, the concept is still really special to me. ]]

There always has been and there always will be only two true types of magic. Magic that borrows, and magic that takes. Some choose to call magic that borrows white magic, while some call magic that takes dark or black magic. They are far simpler, and far more dangerous than people choose to believe. 

Dark magic takes, and dark magic leaves a bloody stain wherever it sets its hand. Yet, the first user of dark magic remained more beautiful and lovely than any other woman in the land of Heln. One could take more easily if they appeared kind and beautiful. 

Dark magic took forcefully from the lives of others, and that often meant getting one’s hand dirty. Dark magic, like white magic, is temporary. There was a rumor of a stone that might amplify the effects of one’s magic, allowing one to thrive off the lives of others and gain immortality. The stone was said to be held by the family that bore twins who were so different, yet in such a harmonious state that they would never leave the other’s side. If the twins had been royal princesses or brave knights fighting together on the battlefield the quest would have been easier, but when was fate known to make things easy? Instead, fate set the twins down where she thought they might be safe, but fate underestimated how selfish and resilient dark magic could be. 

There were two sisters, Alayne and Selena. The eldest sister Alayne woke early with the sun and thrived in its morning light, her golden hair silhouetting her face in a halo as she embraced the outside world. The younger of the sisters, Selena stayed up late into the dark night, writing and reading until she fell asleep at her desk. Her raven hair was often pulled up and away from her face, her eyebrows always furrowed in a look of deep concentration. The sisters existed beside one another in harmony. Alayne and Selena shone differently, but brightly all the same. 

Their parents were not noble, but they did not want what they did not have. They ate when they were hungry, and they had a warm bed to lay their heads down when they were tired. Their home was simple, yet comfortable. Their only wealth was the small treasures and heirlooms that had been passed down from each generation to the next. The family knew not the worth of the treasures they held, and the greed of others would be their downfall.  

*** 

“Selena… it’s time to wake up.” Came a soft voice as the young woman sat up at her desk. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and turned to look towards her sister with a playful scowl. She loved to sleep, especially when the sleep came during the early hours of the morning. The sun filtering through her shudders made her groan as she stood from her chair. Her sleeping gown brushed softly against her ankles, as she attempted to ease the stiffness from her back. It was a bad habit to fall asleep at her desk, but she couldn’t help being drawn to her writing desk in the comfort of the night. 

Selena often did not know where her ideas came from; only that they came to her at night. The full moon aided her hand, and let her ideas flow freely. Their family did not have much to read, but her mother and father brought her back what books they could afford. The ideas that spilled from her quill hardly seemed inspired by the books that she devoured. They were random and full of things she had never seen and never heard of, yet they presented themselves in the form of poetry and stories.  

“Oh, come now, Alayne. Just a few more moments of sleep would not have ended the world.” Said, Selena, as she shook her head at her sister. She stepped over to her to their shared dresser and retrieved a pale blue frock. She changed quickly since Alayne was already dressed, and judging by the state of her bare feet already out and about. 

“Sister, you cannot just sleep the day away.” Said, Alayne, as she shook her head and looked towards Selena with a more serious expression. “I know I was a bit quick to wake you up… but there’s a woman here, and she’s saying that Mama and Papa are to be away for a few weeks selling their goods in the capital.” She said, her hands wringing together before they went to brush through her golden hair. The look in her eyes showed her twin how suspicious she was… it was too early in autumn for their parents to be selling anything. Their mother and father often traveled north to sell crops' yield, which mostly consisted of pumpkins, carrots, and turnips. One would hardly guess it from looking at their fields, since the pumpkins were still small and green which made them blend into their vines. No crops had grown large enough to harvest, and while their mother did have some fur clothing she had made before the end of winter, it was not something that would bring in much money on its own. 

“A woman?” asked Selena, her dark eyes widening. “Mother and father said nothing of going to the capital… that’s a few days ride north, why would they not have told us?” she asked, her lips pursing as she opened the shutters and glanced at her reflection in the small window beside their bed. She took the dark green ribbon from her hair and held it between her lips as she brushed her hair out and tied her hair back into a tight ponytail. 

“I do not know! It seems so strange… it’s not the right season, and Mama and Papa seldom act so rashly.” Said, Alayne, as she let out a sigh. She glanced towards the door of their room which was slightly ajar, a voice rang out calling her name from downstairs. 

“So… you just left the strange woman in our kitchen, then?” asked Selena, cocking an eyebrow as she shook her head. She started towards the door, beckoning her older sister to come along after her. Despite being born a few minutes earlier, it always seemed that Selena was acting the role of an older sister. Alayne was far too carefree and forgetful, but the same might be said about Selena’s seriousness and biting attitude.  

As they approached the small kitchen a woman came into view. She sat beside their hearth, and they did not think they’d ever seen somebody who looked more outlandish in their small home. The style of her clothes was not strange… but the materials they were made of were lavish and looked soft to the touch. The green of her gown was more vibrant and shiny than anything either of the sisters owned. Her perfect curves hinted at a corset, finery that the sisters only wore on special occasions. A farmer’s daughters would be too confined in a corset if they were trying to work fields.  If a princess was ever to play the part of a peasant in jest, they were sure this is what she would wear. Her hair fell loose around her face in dark brown waves and her eyes were a piercing emerald green. Her face was especially odd, it seemed young and old all at the same time. There was only the slightest hint of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, yet her skin was smooth and unmarred. Her eyes seemed wise, but her body was too delicate and well-manicured to hint at old age. 

“Oh, my darling nieces. How good it is to see you out of the cradle and standing tall and beautiful.” Said the strange woman as she rose up to her feet and rushed over to embrace them both. Her eyes flashed to both of their necks for a moment before she moved back to retake her seat. They both stood, dumbfounded and unmoving. Their shared glances spoke volumes to one another, and it left the stranger in uncomfortable silence. 

“Of course, you two would not remember me… you were only wee babes when I last saw you.” She said, shaking her head. “It is I, your aunt Layla. I am sure your mother mentioned me, we are dear sisters just like yourself, after all.” She said.  

“Yes, of course! Aunt Layla, Mother speaks of you so fondly.” Said, Selena, as her eyes seemed to haze over for a moment. Alayne looked at her in disbelief before she looked back at the woman. People were always mentioning how she forgot things… perhaps this was just another of those things. 

“Yes, most fondly.” Said Alayne, her bright smile lighting up the room as it finally graced her face. This seemed to cause their aunt to smile in return and eased some of the uneasiness from the room. Layla looked towards them with a similar smile, although it seemed… different from Alayne’s. It did not hold the same kindness that the younger woman’s smile did and was so easily wiped from her face after a few moments. 

“We shall be spending most of the autumn together, it seems. Your parents are gone to the capital since your father is interested in some new business venture there.” She said, acting as if this was common knowledge. Her expression turned to a slight frown as she looked over the two young women, “Oh… did he not tell you?” she asked, “He probably just wasn’t sure it would work out… don’t blame the man, I’m sure he’ll write in a matter of days. Perhaps you’ll receive a letter by nightfall tomorrow.” She suggested. The way she spoke made it seem as if everything she said she was sure of, and the sisters didn’t doubt they’d have a letter in their father’s hand by the end of the day tomorrow. 

Layla stood and walked to the window, “I am a dressmaker… so if my appearance surprises you, that is why.” She said, “Sometimes I come across strange and beautiful fabrics and cannot help but make them into something beautiful.” She suggested. “This also means my clients will visit your home… I hope you do not mind.” She said, turning back to the sisters, her hands clasped politely in front of her.  

“Oh… that will be no problem at all!” said Alayne, seeming rather excited at the idea of having a dressmaker stay in their home. It might mean all sorts of interesting characters stop by, and maybe she’d even get to meet a princess or a prince… but they had people to go and fetch their dresses for them, didn’t they? 

Layla clapped her hands in excitement, “Oh, this is going to be wonderful! I do hope we might become the best of friends.” She said, stepping to her two nieces and clasping their hands in her own. 

[lothews-a]

LOTHEWS.‎‏‏TUMBLR.COM ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ by ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎lux.

[illuminiscentboba]

FIND YOU (keiji x fem!reader)

genre: fluff, angst, implication of dea1h

a/n: what if I were to write a part two and this was the prologue- if I did would anyone want to join the taglist?

"Mr. Keiji, where have you put the trays?" 

A young girl waddled up to the young man, trying to get a peek at the canvas on the tabletop. To him, there was nothing much to see, a dabble of blue and green, some peach, and dark blue, the easy part was out of the way. 

"It is Sir Akaashi to you," he offered the young lady a tired smile, ruffling her white and black locks as she oo'd and aah'ed at the art piece, clearly having forgotten about the trays. 

Even in his young adulthood, fine lines etched across his cheeks and there was certain fatigue he experienced that made some days harder than others.  

"But you aren't Sir Akaashi right now!" He began to protest but alas, she was correct.

On the battlefield or as a guard at nightfall, he was known as sir akaashi but sitting in the kitchen, parchment, and canvases across the clean counter as the rays of the afternoon sun filtered from the window by the sink, he was just keiji. 

"Ok then call me Keiji then." He rose from his spot, making his way over to the golden tinted drawers and cupboard, taking out a few of the prettier trays for his friend's daughter whom he expected was a step behind. 

She wasn't, still hovering over the portrait, a forlorn gaze as she stares down at the empty spot on the canvas. 

"Are you still drawing pictures of lady y/n?" His heart squeezed at the mention of your name, and he placed the trays on the counter. "Of course, but why do you look so sad, hana?"

There were many paintings of you in his home, goofy ones that capture your smile and the expressions you'd shoot at him across the counter he sat at right now, the paintings with less strokes, the memories you too shared though there wasn't as many with him in it. 

There was the painting of you standing in the doorway, so happy to see him after his knight shift when you promised you'd go to sleep but decided to wait for him how he wished you would again. 

The painting of you pouting, surrounded by paint as he tried to teach you how to paint, the expression you'd have as you recited poetry and as you excitedly told him about what you were writing about, the time you both looked after Bokuto's newborn and even though it was a nightmare, he couldn't capture the glow of your face or the feeling in his heart when you said, "maybe it would be nice if we had a child together." 

"She's gone, isn't she?" The young girl's whisper knocked him out of his reverie as she told the truth that her parents had told her. She handed him a handkerchief. 

You always had his handkerchiefs on you. Collecting them like it was a game.  

He took it, willing a smile onto his face. 

"No, she's out there. I'm just not allowed to see her yet. She...has some issues she has to resolve before I can and so it's my job as her lover and best friend to wait. And I'm really good at waiting, so don't worry." 

But that didn't mean that he didn't miss you..

He fended off the thought and emotions it accompanied, crouching to boop the child's nose, and she rubbed at her tiny nose, looking a little skeptical but it was understandable.

 A lot of things didn't make sense without hearing the one hard-to-believe truth. 

But he couldn't give away your family secret after all. 

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

do you have any queer reading recommendations I could pass along to my 13 year old sibling? they're in a middle school GSA that, as a collective, has some very uhhhhhh interesting ideas about how a lesbian needs to "look like a lesbian" and I want to give them exposure to the wider queer world

lmao yikes! I don't know if you're looking for lesbian-specific books or if that was just an example, but this article has some solid options that seem age appropriate and would be a good starting place, as well as offering a diversity of genres, covering a lot of different identities, and including more than just white authors

some other cool books that I think I would have enjoyed in middle school:

The House You Pass on the Way (Jacqueline Woodson) - Woodson is a Black lesbian who includes queer characters in almost all of her work, and - even better - has a prose style that routinely leaves me breathless. I'd recommend pretty much any of her work (After Tupac and D Foster is also incredible), but I have a special soft spot in my heart for this short novel about a young girl dealing with tender feelings for a female friend as well as the legacy of her family's involvement in the American civil rights movement. I'd also highly recommend Woodson's memoir-in-poetry about growing up between the south and New York City, Brown Girl Dreaming.

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (Benjamin Alire Sáenz) - one of the cornerstones of modern queer YA, and it deserves the hype! this story follows two young Latino boys through the 80s as they first become best friends and then struggle through the confusion of becoming something more, while also figuring out their own identities and their complicated families. a much-delayed sequel is finally coming out, so now's a great time to read to get acquainted with Ari and Dante!

Juliet Takes A Breath (Gabby Rivera) - fair warning that this book has some references to sex that are pretty non-descriptive but might not be every middle schooler's cup of tea! having said that, this book fucks and I think I would have really benefitted from having it when I was younger. it follows Latina teenager Juliet as she deals with accidentally coming out to her family, managing her first breakup, and realizing that her feminist role model isn't exactly who Juliet hoped she was. minor spoilers, but it ends with Juliet attending a party where she gets to really meet and mingle with other queer people for the first time, which could be a very helpful for, hypothetically, some kiddos still trying to figure out what gay people are supposed to be like.

you may also find it helpful to hook up these young readers with LGBTQ Reads, where they can filter for middle readers or young adult books (middle school is a tricky age where I think either could realistically be accessible and enjoyable, depending on the maturity of the book) but also things like type of romantic pairings in the book, tropes present, types of representation other than queer, and so on.

[potteresque-ire]

Commentary ~ Little Red Little Green Episode 18, “Fruits & Found Family”

Link to original post in Chinese, posted 2021/05/23. Link to official English translation.

(Disclaimer / Notes + Commentary under the cut!) (TW: possible eating disorder)

Disclaimer / Notes:

While the posts by Little Red Little Green (LRLG) are among my most favourite candies, I’d like to remind everyone that they are fake rumours, and should be read and enjoyed as such. ie, all CPN below!

The English translation linked above is the only one authorised by the Fake Rumour House; therefore, please treat all content below as a very casual, very *unofficial* convo between fellow turtle friends! ❤️💛💚

With Chinese being a highly region-specific language, my reactions to it is necessarily filtered through my background, which is, admittedly, somewhat removed from Gg’s, Dd’s and LRLG’s. However, it is not uncommon for even c-turtles (and several times, LRLG themselves) to be lost with what they read / heard due to regional differences ~ which reflects the reality of communicating in the Sinosphere. In fact, the regionality of the dialects used by different “characters” in LRLG’s dialogues is among the most critical elements that make these posts so authentic-sounding, and so difficult to replicate. A fun activity of following LRLG is to watch c-turtles patch their regional knowledge together, from local slangs to food choices, to make sense of what’s going on. 

Okay, with that all said *phew* ... onto the commentary! “p. X” refers to the panel number in the official English translation (there are 7 total in the Twitter post). 

p1. “Fairy”

Likely referring to the similarity between Gg’s current role for 玉骨遥 (The Longest Promise) and LWJ. Dd was praising Gg for being “fairy-like”; Chinese “fairies” (仙) have a certain style especially in visual media, similar to ... LWJ’s ~ otherworldly, white robes that billow in the wind, peaceful to the point of distant, scholarly, delicate. In between the lines, Gg likely said he was simply playing LWJ (hence, the ”act another me” in the translation), which Dd protested... and said Gg was simply playing himself. Whether that means DD IS NOT LWJ!!!!! 😡😡😡 or something else, we’ll know what we get to watch the show!

p1-p2. “Heat”

Yes about the Chang’e 嫦娥 reference!! Despite Houyi 后羿 shooting down 9/10 suns and saving the day, his wife is, indeed, more famous (and therefore the star, the more powerful one), because she’s frequently featured in Mid-Autumn festival art, along with her pet rabbit 玉兔 (”Jade Rabbit”),:

(Chang’e with her bunny, traditional Chinese painting. Source.)

Below is Gg’s rendition of Chang’e / Jade Bunny pair ~ Chang’e being the superman in the drawing while Jade Bunny is crouching on the planet!! 

Guess of the missing convo from Gg’s side: Gg had wanted to bring something to Hengdian (where the filming of The Longest Promise was taking place) to cool himself down, and Dd had said it wasn’t necessarily. Hence Dd’s “My bad my bad” and the promise to send that something to Gg.

The loveliest line in this segment for me—and for many c-turtles— is the one about white hair. Turning grey a common, but very old-fashioned way of expressing worry and poor Dd, who hasn’t even turned 24, is claiming he was turning white because he got so worried every time Gg complained about the heat (Aww). 

Turning grey with worry isn’t limited to romantic situations — it may happen to doting parents with wayward children, for example, or to ancient patriots over their crumbling kingdom. However, it’s also one of the more (very!) dramatic ways to communicate tragic love in Chinese fiction before Western influence allows “love”, as a term / word / character, to be used explicitly in writing romance. 

Here’s a little example, a little diversion that may be of interest. Those who are familiar with the Wuxia classic Return of the Condor Heroes 神雕俠侶 by Jin Yong 金庸, whether it’s the book or its numerous visual adaptations, may remember how the hero, Yang Guo 楊過, went white at his temples overnight after his Shifu and lover, Xiao Long Nv (小龍女), didn’t show up at the cliff at the end of his 16-year wait for her.  

Set photo from a TV adaption of Return of the Condor Heroes, 1995. Turtles may find the actress playing the perenially white-wearing, calm-to-the point-of-aloof Xiao Long Nv, Carmen Li 李若彤, familiar ~ she also played Lan Yi in The Untamed. 

The 16-year wait, the invitation to Carmen to play Lan Zhan’s ancestor (when the two shared similarities in aesthetics and personality), were two of the three references from Return of the Condor Heroes I picked up from The Untamed (the last one was more specific—WWX mentioned Yang Guo’s master 獨孤求敗). This tribute is unconfirmed, but MXTX did say before that Jin Yong’s works were her inspiration. I also read a (small) discussion on whether LWJ’s hair carried a few pieces of white in the final episode, or if the lighter strands in it were a trick of the sunlight. (Here’s a screenshot of the approximate place to look!!) 

While I lean towards the latter (the sunlight), turning white with worry, with love, is a tradition in Chinese storytelling. Here’s a little something I’ve noticed too, on this note ~ both in the actual interviews and in these fake rumours, Dd’s word choices, the way he conveys emotions are sometimes surprisingly traditional. It can be because of his background (which would require a study of how Luo Yang people and Koreans talk); it can be because the traditional way of talking allows for fewer words to be said, fewer things to have to be explicitly explained (example: LWJ), but the effect is that Dd has supplied the most romantic lines in LRLG’s posts because of that ~ romantic because it harks back to the rhythm, the themes of old poetry, of ancient stories that, as were true everywhere in the world, were about love. 

Okay, back to the rumour (and hoping Dd won’t look like Bad Wig Yang Guo in a few more summers!) ....

The line after the one about white hair ... the way I understand the original Chinese sentence is “Heat is The Reason”: ie, anything Dd wants Gg to do and Gg disagrees, Gg would use heat as The Reason (R) to not do it. This anything may be eating, for example, which also has a strong possibility as conventional Chinese wisdom says that heat causes people to lose appetite. Dd’s worry would therefore be: Gg refusing to eat because he claims it’s too hot to do so.

“Corny joke” ~ the Chinese for this is, literally, “cold 冷 joke 笑話”, which becomes a pun as the gzry (team members)’s joke was about the (cold) winter and black hair. So... Dd threw a corny joke to combat a corny joke :D .

p3. “Apple”

The first half I also had to rely on c-turtles to help me interpret what it meant! Regional dialects aside, LRLG has captured dls’s very quick wit, the way his ideas freely hop from one concept to the next and this hopping carries traditional + popular cultural references that I know only a fraction of, not being a local after all. 

I’ve read an additional interpretation of this segment: “big fruit” 大果兒 (as in dls: “Those are all big fruits, all big fruits”) is a Northern Chinese, traditional slang for women—dls might have connected that with the previous line in the convo about being Guowang, as explained in the translation, and “big and juicy” + “touch to feel” being suggestive phrases. Then, given the rare usage of the big fruit = women slang, dls expressed surprise that Dd understood what he meant, went on to say he expected Gg to know it (implying Gg could’ve taught Dd the meaning) ... 

Which led to the entertaining part of this segment. Dd was like “You guys (= Gg + dls) talked?” Dls appeared to have thought of the scenario customarily inviting this question (scenario: someone on the verge of catching their spouse cheating) and began playacting that scenario, started to stammer ... as if he had just been got caught trying to chat up someone’s spouse  ~  ”I-I-I....how to say it ...”. Dd caught on dls’s playacting and went along, continued with the “accusation”: “You’re stammering”. Dls then noted that Dd’s accusation was scary and Dd smiled, ending the playact ~ so, ah, readers, never mess with Dd’s spouse!! Dd gets scary!! 

(BTW: ”nijia na kouzi” 你家那口子 was explained in the translation for a reason ~ It’s a warm, friendly term for a dear friend’s spouse. 😊)

p4. Lychees

Lychees. Has everyone tried them? It’s important not to over-eat them though...

In which the “Feeding Gg” saga continues! This segment is one of those that are wonderful for fic writers who wish to capture Gg and Dd in words. Gg, like many brought up in traditional families, has trouble saying “no” outright, which is often considered rude. As such, he resorted to delay tactics, something he had also done with the fried noodles in The Makeup Room BTS. 

In the BTS, his delay tactics had been to argue that Dd hadn’t eaten his box of noodles and therefore, he couldn’t start (~2:35 mark)—as proper manners indeed dictated. In this dialogue, his delay tactics was to say he’d eat the lychees later, that the lychees would make him too full for the proper meal (rice). 

A cute thing about this convo is that rather than pouting and grumbling his only being LWJ’s replacement (as he had hilariously done in the BTS), Dd had, apparently over the last three years, become an expert on countering such delay tactics. He peeled the lychees, which not only removed a major obstacle for eating, but also set a timer as peeled lychees get dry quickly (and Gg, despite being a picky eater, didn’t seem to like to waste food). He said the fruit could make appetiser. He got the help of their team members, who assured Gg that two lychees would be all right.

Gg’s response to the assurance... takes a little time to explain. 

The original Chinese line for “Great, great, you’re so awesome” was 絕了絕了你們絕了。 “絕了”, a popular phrase used by Chinese netizens, was repeated three times.

絕, literally, means the extreme, the absolute, the end. 絕了 means pretty much the same ~ a thing that is 絕了 is standing en pointe at the edge of the cliff that is The Absolute End of a spectrum. It is the Ultimate. It can't be surpassed. It’s unbeatable. 

絕了 is usually used in a positive sense, as in the English translation, with the positive being implied. If I say the LWJ photo above is 絕了, for example, I don’t need to specify that the extreme in 絕 stands on the good end. It’s understood given the audience of this post are mostly turtles (HELLO *waves*). We’re all heart-eyes here. We agree, without saying, that this photo is The Top, The Pinnacle; it can’t be better. 絕了 is higher praise than Excellent; it’s so good that there are no adjectives for it. Its own presence defines How Good It Is. 

But 絕了 doesn’t have to be positive. If my audience is Su She ... he’s likely to take the same “This LWJ photo is 絕了” to mean the Mariana Trench kind of Absolute—the bottom of the bottom, the Unbeatable, Adjective-Defying Worst. 

絕了 allows for that understanding too.

In this scenario, I interpret Gg’s 絕了 as taking the meaning of both extremes (which make it a fantastic phrase choice!): that Gg thought Dd and the team members were being both the Absolute Best (for thinking of Gg, caring for him) AND the Absolute Worst (for going against his wish to not eat!) Gg’s 絕了 also signals defeat; if Dd and his team members were The Absolute ... Whatever, then poor Gg had no choice but to yield to their wishes. I can already imagine his “I can’t believe I lose this way” Look (see: every rock-paper-scissors he lost, which was ... pretty much all of them), mixed with, perhaps, a healthy amount of bunny tooth warning (how dare Dd et al banded up against him)...

Those bunny teeth had to be taken care of, right? And so Dd went on to say lychees being good omen that ensure things would go smoothly for the eater... targeting Gg’s being a, as c-turtles call it, 小迷信 (literally, “Little Superstitious”, a young + adorable + superstitious person). Dd said that to help Gg justify the choice to eat, to make Gg feel better about his defeat. 

(Of note: I had actually never heard of lychees being associated with good luck before, and a quick search online also didn’t yield any result. This could be a relatively rare association Google failed to catch ... or something Dd made up on the fly to make Gg happy.) 

(Lychees have, however, been associated with romance. If Emperor’s Smile 天子笑 was The Love Drink in The Untamed, then what is Concubine’s Smile 妃子笑? Answer: it’s the RL name of a type of lychees, lychees being the fruit very much adored by Yang Yuhuan 楊玉環, the consort of the Emperor Xuanzong (685-762 BCE) of the Tang Dynasty and one of the four most beautiful woman in Chinese history. Since lychees had only been grown in southern China, the emperor had had the fruit couriered, in express mode involving many horses, to the palace up north to please his favourite wife. Lychees had become a symbol of love from that historical tale.)

Did Gg get Dd’s message then, the love and care packaged in those peeled, sweet fruit awaiting his bite? Yes, but not without a little more fight! “Eat eat eat, (I’ll eat) until you go bankrupt” is a literal translation of his final line. Tonally, I can see the following as being an alternative translation: 

“Fine fine fine. I’ll eat, it’s not like I can bankrupt you by eating anyway!”

If it sounded a little sulky, that’s because it did ... a little sulky AND fiery. As expected from our favourite Chongqing Big Pepper 😂😂😂 (Poor Gg).

Dd smiled at that, needless to say. He won!!! He got Gg to eat!! The world shall rejoice!! 

p5. “Showtime”

There’s a show coming up for Dd (the YH concert maybe?), and Gg offered suggestions. 

The sweet point of this segment is about half-way down the conversation, in the piece of paper 📄 Gg gave to Dd (after “This is for you.”). Dd took the paper, noted the many words on it, and started saying 我把我整個靈魂, translated as “I bring my entire soul”.

c-Turtles have, based on these words, hypothesised that Dd was about to read out a quote that Gg had written on the paper, with the list of items Gg thought Dd should take, before Gg stopped him with a call of his name (“WYB”). The quote was included on the translation (”I give you my entire soul...only, a little good, love you.”) I have also talked about the same quote, in more detail, here.

I’m equally stumped on the final line of this segment. (Sorry!!)

p6. “Found Family”

It’s a heartwarming segment. While LRLG had previously noted that the TTXS bros had communicated with Gg, this segment made clear that they care for him like they do for Dd ~ as family.

* dls mailed Gg a lot of fruit for sharing with the film crew. “Family member needs to be impressive” is a rough translation, but this line does defy simple translation because 排面 a highly cultural concept that has much to do with the equally complex, Chinese concept of face (which this article explains... somewhat adequately). The message to take home is that dls cared enough about Gg that he wanted to make sure Gg wouldn’t lose face in front of the film crew; that, by having enough gifts (fruits) for everyone, Gg wouldn’t be viewed as cheap or inadequate or stingy, or whatever adjective that wouldn’t befit his top idol status. Because dls saw Gg as a member of his family. 

* The prescription from hg had been mentioned in a previous LRLG rumour. 方子 is a Chinese medicine prescription, which, unlike Western formulations, is individualised both to the discomfort / ailment and to the “body constitution” of the person who'll take it, the latter deciding the kind of ailments the person is susceptible to, and which ingredients are expected to be more effective. Chinese medicine also places a strong emphasises on long-term conditioning, whether it’s for recovery from a certain condition or for general good health. A good 方子 is therefore a far more complex and personal thing than, say, a scribble of “paracetamol” / “acetaminophen” on a piece of paper. :D

* fg’s gift for Gg (xx) is something for the waist. A brace support, maybe? For example?

My favourite line in this segment is when hg asked what will Gg and Dd do when they reach hg’s age. Given that the last two items (the prescription and xx) were health-related, I interpreted it as hg worrying about Gg and Dd’s health when they grow old... with all the health problems they already have. It’s the kind of thing a worried parent say to their children ~ my mom has said the same thing to me as well. 😢

p6. “The Cat Paw”

Not quite sure what’s happening here ... not sure what the cat paw is. (Sorry!!) But that é in the translation is Dd’s signature laugh (collection here), which is written as 鵝 (”Goose”) in Chinese 😂.

p7. “The Cat Toy”

Dd appeared to be shopping for a cat’s toy (something that can “hook the cat” in the translation, such that the cat can entertain itself and not rely on human companionship as much). Gg had already bought the toy though and sounded quite proud of it, told Dd to return the toy. The implied cat was, of course, Nut (堅果 Jianguo)... which had been repeatedly referred to in LRLG’s posts as Gg’s daughter.

p7. “Cool vs Cute”

Gg is often viewed as cute, and Dd as cool. Did Dd dislike Gg taking cute pictures for public consumption? Were they scheming an exchange of image? :D

And that’s it for this issue! Ooh, this took unexpectedly long ... I apologise for the ridiculous delay between the original post and this commentary! 

(I wrote half of it, then RL struck and I forgot about it.) (I’m hopeless.) (I need a 方子 for poor memory!!)

[nolabballgirl]

Eid 2022: Muslim Books Wrap-up and Review Part ii

so in part i here, i focused on recently published contemporary literature/poetry, fantasy, and graphic novels (2017 to present) with muslim main characters i've read over the year. now i'm going to turn to young adult and lgbtq muslim fiction. frankly i was impressed by how many books have come out in the last few years alone in these categories. now i wish the quality of the writing was just as amazing (but that’s another story 🌙)

these books represent a wide spectrum of the muslim experience. from practicing, non-practicing, or questioning one's faith, to spanning cultures, nationalities, and ethnic origins from across the globe. and we're only scratching the surface. without further ado:

ya:

all my rage (2022/sabaa tahir *tw: abuse, addiction) - this book fully wrecked me. it's so heartbreaking and yet hopeful at the same time. a lovely friends to lovers story of two pakistani american kids living in the mojave desert in california, whose respective families are just trying to live out "the american dream." p.s. tahir's "an ember in the ashes" is an awesome fantasy series!

salaam with love (2022/sara sharaf beg*tw: gun violence) - good post ramadan read as it follows a pakistani american teen from a small town who visits relatives in nyc for the entire month of ramadan. it's a coming of age story but also about the main learning more about the religion and ramadan in general. there's an unnecessary subplot involving gun violence that took away from the tone mid-story, and the ending was slightly unbelievable, but otherwise a fun read.

misfits in love (2021/s.k. ali) - this is a sequel to saints and misfits but you don't really need to have read the first one to read this. we follow our egyptian-indian hijabi protagonist at her brother's wedding and like all weddings, there's lots of drama (especially boy drama!) this was light-hearted and fun, but also did a good job in addressing intra-muslim racism (especially anti-black racism) and how to cope when it occurs amongst family members.

all american muslim girl (2019/nadine jolie courtney) - despite the cheesy title, i thought this was a fresh take on the muslim teen experience. it's a coming of age story of a white passing Circassian girl from a non-religious muslim family near atlanta, georgia. in exploring her heritage, racism, and fitting in, she comes to islam and decides to be muslim. so it's all about her finding her faith and making sense of it all, with some really layered intra-faith explorations amongst her friend group too.

love, hate, and other filters (2018/samira ahmed*tw: terrorism) - okay, this book was a mess. ostensibly a coming of age story about an indian muslim girl living in the midwest us. but it was full of cliches (brown girl pining for the white crush; oppressive indian parents, etc.) structurally, the author drops a mass casualty/terrorism event in the middle of the book, but then picks up with the "romance" like nothing happened. very little grappling with the main's cultural and religious identity. and the ending is incomprehensible given the 200 pages that came before it.

a very large expanse of sea (2018/tahereh mafi) - a coming of age story set in 2002 (right after 9/11) of a hijabi persian breakdancing teen. i enjoyed the subversion of stereotypes and the realistic depiction of racism and double standards in that time. i could have done with a little less romance but overall the main's conflicting emotions felt very real.

lgbtq lit (mostly wlw):

note: there aren't too many books with practicing queer muslim rep yet. most have mains that fall into the category of culturally muslim/raised in a muslim household but marginally practicing or not at all. for practicing rep, in addition to one book below, i would highly recommend watching "we are lady parts" on peacock (wlw hijabi who regularly prays!)

the henna wars (2020/adiba jaigirdar) - wlw high school rivals romance between a bengali girl and brazilian irish classmate in ireland (not exactly enemies to lovers but eh, close enough). so this isn't the most well-written book, but it was cute. props to an interracial woc couple and complicated sibling dynamics.

hani and ishu's guide to fake dating (2021/adiba jaigirdar) - fake dating and grumpy/sunshine tropes galore between muslim and hindu (?) bengali high school girls in ireland. kudos for a practicing muslim bisexual co-main! a nice exploration of culture and religion overall with both girls, who are quite well-developed on their own. i just wish we got more of their relationship together which felt the most underdeveloped of the whole novel so i wasn’t as invested in their relationship as i was in them separately. but overall, cute.

the love and lies of rukhsana ali (2019/sabina khan *tw: intense homophobia; sexual assault; death) - okay, i really disliked this book. setting aside the writing style which i did not care for, this book verged on trauma porn for me by taking the kitchen sink of homophobia, misogyny, racism, etc. and throwing it all at this poor bengali girl. yes, life is not all sunshine and roses but this was bleak. and don't get me started on the ending! the book would have benefitted from sticking with 2-3 topics and exploring them well.

zara hossain is here (2021/sabina khan *tw:islamophobia) - so i liked this better than her first book (love lies of rukhsana ali). but this author still has the propensity of putting her queer characters through harrowing situations so be warned. this novel is about a bisexual pakistani teenager in texas and the racism and islamophobia she and her family face. again i think focusing on a few major themes would have helped focus the storyline.

you exist too much (2020/zaina arafat *tw: addiction) this was a hard book, not only for the subject matter but because the main, a bisexual palestinian woman, is pretty unlikeable. but the writing is honest and there's something to be said for rooting for a woman to overcome her addictions, tackle her mental health issues, and stop her self-destructive behavior. i also enjoyed the vignettes of self-discovery from her childhood in palestine/jordan.

honorable mention: darius the great is not okay (2018/adib khorram) - this is cheating because the main isn't muslim; he's a persian, zoroastrian boy. but this book is so good and really deftly tackles the subject of mental illness, loneliness, family pressures and trying to fit in. it mostly takes place in iran with some gorgeous descriptions of the architecture/mosques in yazd too.

[jovialtorchlight]

I should start taking score. I should keep a catalog of everyone I know who has died. Everyone I’ve written a post-mortem poem about. Everyone I’ve drowned in a cold glass or stumbled home weeping about.

I can laminate the pages, stick them in a big black binder, color code each of the deceased by age and relation. When I want to know something — how they smelled, their inflections, sayings, accents, what style of clothing they wore — I can flip open the book and know again.

I can cancel my paper subscription.

When I’m sitting at a kitchen counter and the morning sun filters down through the open window I can read about my pap’s cancer instead of budget cuts and car accidents. I can read about my cousin and his ripped up Ramones t-shirt and his dog Spike who died in the fire with him. I can read about my father in-law and where he hid the bottles.

Funerals are always cold. It doesn’t matter the season; if I’m in a pea-coat or sweating through my white shirt’s collar, I can see my breath materialize in front of me like a quick fading apparition. Hello, God, are you here? Nice of you to show up. We need to stop meeting like this.

I can keep track of my warmth as well. Entry 7, 12/2/2014. Cold December day. Funeral home, open doors, cold snow breeze sliding in. Toes stiff under black socks. Entry 3, 6/4/2015. Sweating through a dress shirt, still freezing.

I can use the results of the data to dress optimally for each funeral season dependent. So many uses. I can study the trends; I can see the waves of grief peak and come down and jump up again.

Keep track of the manic desperate thoughts. Likewise I can use the rest of the data to automate poetry.

ENTRY LOG:

Was a vigil kept? y/n. Did the spirit leave the body? y/n Are you drunk? y/n Are you going to drink more? y/n?

How many ghosts do you know by name? Do they come to you? Do they howl inside of you and rattle your chains and shift around boxes in your attic and when you dream can you see them rise up from their sickbed and lift somewhere barely out of reach and sight?

[writingforfunsies]

Obey Me! Aesthetics

Lucifer: confident smirks. cursive letters. the scratching of pen on paper. deep chuckles. an old record player. a coffee pot filled to the top. chessboards. chin tilted up. falling feathers. healed scars. the burden of secrets. fingers dancing across piano keys. running a knuckle down someone’s cheek. a quiet kind of love.

Mammon: bubbling enthusiasm. laughing until your stomach hurts. camera flashing. leather jacket. the clinking of coins against each other. loud caws of a flock of black crows. late night drives. a favorite song playing on repeat. hands running tenderly through soft hair. tight hugs. the warm feeling of knowing your love is returned in full.

Leviathan: inside jokes. the bright glow of a screen. sharing headphones while laying in bed. pinky promises. falling asleep to a movie. fingers dipping into freezing water. waves that swallow quick and deep. smooth scales. neon lights. shy touches. sitting together shoulder to shoulder. the comfortable silence between best friends. acceptance.

Satan: scribbled poetry. oxford shoes and cable-knit sweaters. stacked books beside the bed. the satisfaction of finally completing a puzzle. a camera shutter sound. love letters. going to museum exhibits alone. the purring of a cat. cold evening air. scorching anger. raging storms. gazing at the moon. slowly discovering yourself.

Asmodeus: cherry lip gloss. sweet cupcake frosting. a pair of red eyes and the pull of magic. musical beds. scented candles. pink and purple roses. swooning statues. saccharine sweetness. staring at the reflection in the mirror for hours. brushing noses. a scary epiphany. trembling voice whispering adorations. the frightening euphoria of falling in love.

Beelzebub: snacking in the middle of the night. oversized jackets. caramel candies. muscle burn from working out. silent conversations between siblings. the buzzing of wings. gnawing guilt. nightmares. hands reaching out for someone long gone. picking someone up while hugging them. dancing in the kitchen. learning to forgive yourself.

Belphegor: soft whispers in the dark. stargazing. tired eyes. hair spread out on a pillow. the scent of lavender. fresh bedclothes from a dryer. rain pattering against the roof. sleeping on someone’s chest and hearing their heartbeat. crushed bones. closed eyes. hummed lullabies. large hands intertwining with smaller ones. a second chance.

Diavolo: royal red and gold. pranks. full belly laughter. open arms. ballroom dances. glittering chandeliers. glass chalices. red wax seals. stacks of paper on a wooden desk. a heavy crown. moonlight shining through the windows. loneliness. tall pillars and empty palace halls. cobblestones roads. an unexpected friendship.

Barbatos: a warm cup of tea. pastries crumbling onto the counter. a gentle kiss on the knuckles. walking through a garden. sarcasm spoken with a smile. empty streets at night. déjà vu. silent footsteps. rows of doors that never ends. the fleeting, delicate, crucial moment when you know it’s the right time to do something.

Simeon: honeyed glow of the sunset. warm blue eyes. scrawled stories on leather-bound journals. ink stains on fingers. golden ichor. the echoes of a choir. reconnecting with a childhood friend. feeling nostalgic from hearing an old song. staying up late talking. pressed flowers. tranquility. the warm embrace of invisible wings. a silent guardian.

Luke: bright grins. sweet frosting on freshly baked cakes. the soft tinkle of a wind chime. blowing a pinwheel. white puffy sleeves. stubbornness. the urge to pinch something cute. sunlight filtering through trees. daisies and morning glories. serendipity. small fingers strumming a harp. a kind of honesty that only children possess.

Solomon: dry wit. dancing shadows and blue flames. long, dark capes. hailstorms. illegible handwriting. secretive smiles. half-ruined castle walls. melted candles. thick books with yellowing papers. the pursuit for knowledge and power. twilight. muted saffron. the low rumble of distant thunder. a special hiding place. a friend in the dark.

Lilith: soft laughter. running between tall grasses. pink lilies floating on calm waters. the excitement of exploring a new place. heart beating fast. star-crossed lovers. a stolen fruit. the sound of an arrow zipping through the air. falling, falling. a stone effigy. the love that remains even after someone is gone. longing for a distant place. a soul losing their way home.

Bonus:

MC: ivy growing across the wall. lantern lights hanging from a tree. feeling lost. dark skies. brisk walks through the academy halls. eyes widened in wonder. dangerous secrets. heart beating fast. kindness. glowing sigils on soft skin. cold fingers. missing the warmth of the sun. dying light. surviving. bravery and forgiveness and being so, so human.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

He Was a Sk8r Boi

Happiest of Birthdays and best wishes to one of my most beloved and darling friends on this earth, the fantastical @hailhailsatan ! May your sass never cease.

modern au - college student Jaskier - the Kaer Morons are all skater punks

tw: mild injury (scraped arm)

---

Jaskier took a seat on what remained of a crumbling stone bench and pulled his black-and-white composition notebook onto his lap, opening it to the closest blank page. He tugged his favorite pen out from its place of honor behind his ear and waited for inspiration to strike.

And waited.

And waited.

After half an hour of staring into space and getting absolutely nothing written, the frustrated college student stood from his seat and jammed his headphones into his ears. If nature wasn’t going to help finish this stupid poetry assignment then maybe he could find a person or two to observe for inspiration instead. Glancing around the otherwise empty benches and pathways of the public park, Jaskier sighed and shook his head. “Fuck this, I’ll try the other side.”

He pulled his MP3 player out from the pocket of his light autumn jacket and painstakingly scrolled through every song available until finally giving up and pressing the “Shuffle” button. As a heavy, angry guitar riff began to filter through his headphones and lighten the load of the world from his shoulders, Jaskier found himself approaching a half-hearted attempt at a skatepark.

There was one cement half-pipe to his left and a few rails and quarter-pipes scattered around the vicinity, bolted into the ground in a seemingly random pattern. Several oddly shaped cement bowls were sunk into the earth, obviously made to work like ramps but with a larger and less predictable surface area.

There were only three skaters enjoying the park on this particularly grey afternoon, zipping back and forth from one piece of equipment to the next like emo hummingbirds. Jaskier took out his headphones again as he made his way to a nearby bench - wood this time - and casually sat himself down. The skater dudes were yelling back and forth to each other as they swanned over and around the equipment on their boards, mostly insults from what the student could hear.

The loudest of the three had springy orange hair that he wore pulled back into a small, messy half-bun at the top of his head. The rest fell down against the back of his neck in an equally messy sheet, reaching nearly all the way to his shoulders but not quite touching them. He was wearing a bright red t-shirt with a catchphrase that Jaskier couldn’t read and plain denim jeans.

“What the fuck are you doing, Eskel?” he laughed, pointing to the tallest of the group and pulling a face.

“Shut up, Bert,” the brunette shouted back at the redhead, doing a quick kick-flip over the far end of a metal railing. “You can’t skate for shit.”

“I’m better than you!”

The third member of their little gang was the quietest so far and, in Jaskier’s personal opinion, also the prettiest. He had a mass of long white hair that fell all the way to the bottom of his shoulder blades, pointed and stiff in a way that meant it had been straightened and sprayed into submission. The silvery strands were being held out of the stranger’s eyes by a baggy black beanie and Jaskier desperately wanted to know whether or not that hair color was natural (though he heavily suspected that it was not).

The white-haired guy was also the most talented of the three gathered skaters, flying from one end of the half-pipe to the other and landing a few flips in between as if risking his life was as simple as breathing. He wore no knee pads over his ripped black skinny jeans and no elbow pads either; Jaskier noted with a little zing through his nervous system that the skater’s arms were muscled like a Greek statue’s and equally pale.

He was fucking hot.

“Geralt, do a three-sixty!” the redhead jeered, chucking something at the pretty one.

“I can’t land one yet and you know it,” the white-haired guy, Geralt apparently, replied. His voice was low and sonorous and Jaskier nearly fell off his bench in surprise. The student hadn’t realized how far forward he had been leaning in order to listen to their conversation and he scooted back again with a self-conscious little blush. In the distance, Geralt continued. “Why don’t you get up here and try it yourself, asshole?”

“I just fucking might, White Wolf,” Lambert huffed, turning his board back toward the half-pipe and picking up speed. The dark-haired one, Eskel, caught Jaskier’s eye from across the park; the student blushed an even darker shade of red and looked down at his lap to avoid any sort of confrontation. If any of these guys wanted to start a fight with him, Jaskier would surely lose.

By the time the anxious student worked up the nerve to look at them again, Lambert had already climbed to the top of the half-pipe and taken a defensive stance. His eyebrows were furrowed and his arms were crossed over his chest in a projection of almost childish anger. As Geralt came up the cement incline, Lambert lashed out with his foot and kicked the other man’s board out from beneath his feet.

Eskel gave a wordless cry of alarm.

Geralt wavered in the air for a moment - cartoonishly, Jaskier thought, almost like Wile E. Coyote - before plunging to the pavement and rolling limply down the inside of the half-pipe. Eskel chucked a rock at the redhead and started screaming, “Fuck off, dude! You could have cracked his fucking skull! You could have killed Geralt, you absolute cock-toboggan!”

“Fuck! Shit, I didn't-,” Lambert fell on his butt and slid down the ramp to Geralt’s side, kneeling over him with concern written all over his face. “Are you alright, man!?”

Jaskier couldn’t hear if Geralt replied or not, but he suddenly remembered the first-aid kit sitting right there in his bag. Jaskier was a total klutz and tried to keep a handful of bandages and a tube of disinfectant on him at all times just in case he ever needed them. Thank goodness they would be able to come in handy, and for a far nobler purpose than patching up yet another one of his table-smacked knees.

Without thinking any further ahead, Jaskier grabbed the strap of his bag and took off running towards the site of the accident.

“Hey!” he shouted, coming to a stop a few feet away. “I have - uh, I have a first-aid kit if you want to use it.”

“Cool, thanks,” Eskel said, glancing over his shoulder with a curt nod. “Come on over, we don’t bite. Well, I don’t.”

“Dude, I’m so sorry,” Lambert apologized to Geralt once again. When Jaskier glanced over at him, the redhead looked legitimately upset and guilty. Geralt looked up at the newcomer from the pavement, his silver hair spread out around him in mimicry of a halo - the black beanie was lying a few feet away, forgotten or ignored.

Up close like this, the stranger stole the breath out of Jaskier’s very lungs. The man's eyes… His fucking eyes were a gorgeous molten gold in the late afternoon sun, sparking and shining like gemstones. Holding Geralt’s gaze made Jaskier feel as if his very soul was catching fire.

“Do you need a band-aid?” Jaskier asked rather stupidly, holding out the little cardboard box. Geralt nodded stoically.

“I think I scraped my arm.”

“Let me help,” Jaskier said. The student knelt beside Geralt and set the box of band-aids down. He flung open the kit and retrieved some ‘pain-free’ disinfectant, then returned to the box of bandages in search of one without a Disney princess on it. “Do you guys always do this without wearing any protective gear?”

“I’ve got a helmet,” Geralt said. He pointed towards three mismatched backpacks piled near the edge of the pavement; a bright red helmet with several semi-familiar logos stuck to it sat atop one of them.

“It’s very useful over there, keeping your backpack from cracking its skull open,” Jaskier chastised lightly, trying to keep his nerves in check. He was feeling oddly protective of a guy he’d never even met before and it was very fucking weird.

“Sorry,” Geralt shrugged. He was still laying on his back, his topaz eyes flickering between Jaskier’s hands and face. The student applied a thin layer of medical cream to the shallow scrape with shaking fingers and then wiped the remaining goo on his shirt, uncaring of the damage it may have done. He bandaged the minor wound quickly and leaned back, glancing between Lambert and Eskel as if just noticing their presence on either side of Geralt's head.

“Thanks,” Eskel grinned, holding out his hand. “I’m Eskel.”

“Jaskier,” Jaskier replied shyly. “And the loud one is Lambert, right?”

Geralt chuckled from his place on the ground and Jaskier’s heart seized painfully in his chest. What a laugh, ye gods. “Yeah, that’s Lambert. I’m Geralt.”

“Nice to meet you, Geralt,” Jaskier could practically taste the name as it melted across his tongue. “Well, not the nicest way to meet you, but I’m glad I met you all the same. Anyway.”

He stood up with a little grimace and took a step back.

“Where are you going?” Eskel asked. “You came to Geralt’s rescue so I think that means he owes you like, at least an ice cream, or something.”

“Yeah,” Lambert piped up. He smirked at the man on the ground and then turned back to Jaskier, mischief clear in his expression, “Let him take you to get an ice cream.”

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Jaskier squeaked. Then he realized he’d sounded rude and held up his hands as if offering surrender (surrender for what, he wasn't exactly sure), “Not that I wouldn’t like to hang out with you more but I’ve got an assignment due and I’m sure you’re very busy doing skater things and I-”

“Am I not good enough for you?” Geralt asked, finally sitting up. He straightened his arms out behind him and rested there, reclined comfortable, a god in his temple.

Jaskier shot the older man a half-annoyed look, beating back his anxiety with a stick. “I listen to Avril Lavigne. I know not to underestimate pretty skater punks.”

“Pretty?” Geralt raised his eyebrows. Jaskier hid his face behind his hands and turned on his heel.

“Anyway, nice meeting you!” Jaskier shouted, hoping they could hear even if he was facing the opposite direction. He took off toward the edge of the park at a brisk walk, verging on a jog. He needed to go hide behind a tree and cry. What the fuck!? He was terrible at flirting and now he’d gone and ruined his chances with the guy he’d… literally just met. Chill out, he told himself - just before a strong hand clamped down over his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks.

“So not ice cream,” Geralt said. Jaskier slowly turned back to face the mostly-stranger. His lip was caught fast between his teeth and Geralt lifted one large hand to gently thumb it free again. “Maybe a boarding lesson, instead? It would give me an excuse to put my hands around your waist and you could put yours on my shoulders.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Jaskier asked. He fluttered his eyelashes and took half a step into Geralt's space.

The broad-shouldered punk smiled down at the Little Mermaid band-aid on his arm and then turned that smile to Jaskier. “Yeah.”

[helahades]

Flesh with Frank! 🖤

Flesh

Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

warnings: vaguely sexual touches, mentions of trauma, quick and vague allusion to sexual assault

Soft, soft, soft.

His curtains are… old. The problem with them is, they weren’t bought. They were found. Frank suspects that when they were new, they were white.

She beams at them when he first brings her to the apartment, now a home. Says she always wanted to live in a place with curtains. He loves them a little bit more as the sun filters through their not so white tinge in the midday and paints actually white walls sepia like book pages.

He can’t stop looking at you. Hair done in rolling curls and pulled together at the top like a pinup, you’re very proud of the look you painted from the curls to red lips, silky robe, down to squeaky shine scarlet heels. It’s lasted since this morning, and despite the smoothed over frayed ends details of hours long wear, he gazes up at you like you’re brand new.

You’re a vision, and he can’t believe he has you here in such stark contrast to the muted tones of his unfurnished flat. Between the sepia page walls, you sit straddling him like a princess in a story book, soft skin of bare thighs opened up over him so pretty.

The pads of his fingers are calloused and they brush up your thighs like he could commit their perfumed tenderness to memory if you’d only let him trace the whole of you.

He laughs at the quirk of your eyebrows, the pout of your blurred cherry lips.

“C’mooooon pretty girl. I upset you. I see that look on your face. Just tell me.”

Hurt. Betrayal. Trauma. Loss.

At first it was all you had in common. Your rickety emotional standings and obscenely perfect bedroom chemistry was the only thing that kept you returning to him. That was then.

The familiarity of someone familiar… when trauma is mutual some things don’t need to be explained.

He doesn’t question why you shy from certain touches. He just changes his path. You don’t question why he won’t walk down certain streets. You just hold his hand and find new ones.

Growth. Imperfect, but it’s there. Today you’re being stubborn. You want him to make time, but to regard his own boundaries. And because the choice is new, you don’t know how to ask.

His hands draw up your thighs, index fingers coming under the narrower string of your pretty panties stretched across your hips.

You feel like stinging. You lean over him, take some freshly showered just under stubble flesh of his neck between your teeth, meaning to press until he resists you.

But he doesn’t. A little grooooaaaan of pleasure and you release him in a smile.

Breath. “Transparency. Ain’t that what you always say?”

Sigh. No jokes. “...I just…”

He waits for you.

“I missed you today. I wanted you there and you didn’t come.

Imperceptible nod. A man of black and white. He knows when he’s wrong.

Softer this time:

“Thats…more transparent, I guess. It’s… grey,” he nods on a chuckle.

Dig deeper, you almost hear him say.

Pout in full swing, like you on a dance floor without him, it takes much of your restraint to not throw your head back and full on wail.

He can’t be everywhere. Can’t make every dream come true. You know who he is and you don’t force him onto romance. But still, both of you try to find moments, and you wanted today. He chose to follow a dead trail on the promise he’d make it up to you.

One time he said—and you don’t know why you remember it now—that you need to say what you want to get it.

Studying the hard lines of his face, it’s incredible to watch how they soften for you. He is your raven haired soldier, eyes dark with the tragedy of a thousand lifetimes, but also the way he likes his coffee, his favorite time of day. Black like night’s stillness and his favorite pajama pants from last Christmas.

So, looking at him, you budge.

“You hurt my feelings…—okay? I wanted to dance with you. But thats it.”

Rolling your tongue over the blooming pink mark, you give it a soft kiss.

He thinks about pressing it further, or just letting you rest—You sit up, and concentrate very hard on not letting your voice break.

“I love you,” and your heart jumps with each word off your lips, “and it scares me. I don’t want to need you… but I do.”

Clouds roll, the sun comes through brighter, and you look...nervous in the halo of your honesty.

Fingers sliding over his bare chest and fixing along the junctures of definition, you blink like you can fan away doubt.

“How was that for transparent?”

You say it like it’s funny. Your eyes shut at the tune of your voice wavering.

He sits up, and you remember you’re in his lap when he pulls you closer. Hands cupping your jaw, he kisses you deep. Kisses I love you’s and poetry all over your flesh.

You don’t think you’ve seen him smile like this. You try to ignore when his voice wavers.

“Crystal fucking clear.”

reblogs appreciated! // request a drabble