#the frank bidart poem was so perfect for it

[teddybeartoji]

aanyway this is what i did todayyy:33333

+ the "man is a moral animal" poem quote poem is by frank bidart btww!!!!!

ta– daaa!!! these are nothing big nothing special but it is really fun to make them hehehehe

[crueldesire]

bones and all (2022) dir. luca guadagnino / ‘the war of vaslav nijinsky,’ frank bidart

[ceilidho]

hi hi hi ceil! I hope you're doing well. My new year's resolution is to read more books, and I was just wondering if there were any you would rec? I really enjoy the stuff you right, and wondered where you get the inspiration from

hi hi!!!! im doing great actually, i had a nice day :))

oh i have SO many!! these are just my personal favourite and i read a lot of literary fiction and non-fiction and 'weird' lit, so hopefully something on this list sounds fun to you:

glass, irony, and god by anne carson [poetry - although i would recommend absolutely anything by anne carson]

half-light: collected poems 1965-2016 by frank bidart [poetry - honestly one of the poets you MUST read if you love poetry in my opinion - bidart, carson, dionne brand, louise gluck, paul celan, maggie nelson, adrienne rich, rainer maria rilke, t.s eliot, jan zwicky, kahlil gibran]

rings of saturn by w.g. sebald [literary fiction - unnamed narrator takes a walking tour of suffolk, england, and the book is about the encoded meaning found in everything; i love sebald so so much]

house of leaves by mark danielewski [architectural / weird horror; cult classic; spooky and eerie in the best way; high concept, a bit complicated to follow but worth it]

drive your plow over the bones of the dead by olga tokarczuk [fiction / thriller, a bit - read this last month and this book hooked me oh my god, it was so good]

severance by ling ma [apocalyptic / post-apocalyptic - possibly one of my fave books in this genre]

the overstory by richard powers [environmental fiction - multiple different narratives that sometimes converge, sometimes don't; truly had me weepy at points] (also, if you like environmental books, the golden spruce by john vaillant)

the complete cosmicomics by italo calvino [strange literary fiction, short stories - oh these are so delightfully strange and zippy and weird, they feel like eating starbursts or something!!!]

underland by robert macfarlane [non-fiction - this consumed me for days when i read oh my god. all about underground structures, catacombs, caves and caving, mines, radioactive waste disposal, etc]

the lonely city by olivia laing [non-fiction - a sad book, but still hopeful; she has such insightful commentary on art and queer history too]

the library at mount char by scott hawkins [weird fiction - so cool, SUCH a cool fun book oh my god. very interesting premise and executed to perfection]

some other names i'd recommend: eileen myles, maggie nelson, rebecca solnit, and ursula k. leguin (for your scifi/fantasy needs)

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

questions that only your mind can answer:

1. suguru as a poet. y/n? if y, who do you think his favorite poet would be?

2. what siken poem is the most sugu coded?

3. if satoru was a type of poem what kind would he be and why?

thank you for your time my ari.

WAHHHHH MY IO……… 🥺🥺🥺 you have no idea how loud i squealed when i saw this LMAO thank you sm for giving me an excuse to gush over stsg and poetry at the same time i feel so privilieged 😭😭😭 UMMM UM LET ME THINK!!!!

1/ first off. BIG yes. huge yes. he’s so poetcoded it makes me ILL. io i’m convincedddd that this man would be a literature major and i’m not just saying that bc i’m biased ok…. i just feel like he would have a fondness for the arts yk :33 particularly writing. i can picture him as a poet so easily bc everything he does and says is flowery and soft…. poet!sugu would make us swoooooon

i’m a bit sleepy rn so at first i thought you meant y/n as in like .. The Reader 😭😭 BUT THEN I STARTED THINKING ABT POET!READER TOO AND. wow. theee power couple ever !!! aaa io he’d be so perfect :((( sugu would be such a supportive bf no matter what his s/o did for a living but w any kind of writer i just think he’d be so Good. proofreads for you all the time!! he’s your most loyal reader… your biggest fan…. reads alllll your little poems when you’re away and he misses you :((( and he writes you his own !!! they’re so mushy and pretty and sweet…… hhhh. he’s just. the best!!! T_T brags abt your writing to satoru alllll the time but doesn’t let him read any of it w/o your consent (maybe even with it LMAO)… i just think he’d feel so honoured if his shy little poet!s/o only let him read their works :’3

nooo i’m not projecting at alllll… wdym…..

OOOHH AND AND. his favorite poets!!! as much as i’d love to say siken i don’t think that’s really his style. suguru strikes me as the type to enjoy very flowery writing, a bit musical-leaning in the rhythm and structure and stuff!! also season-based…. i’m thinking verlaine and rimbaud and nakahara. french symbolist poets and anyone inspired by them!! as for a more modern example i think he lovesss mary oliver and louise glück :3 october is one of his favorites!!! these lines remind me a lot of him….

Summer after summer has ended, balm after violence: it does me no good to be good to me now; violence has changed me.

This is the present, an allegory of waste. So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate: the ideal burns in you like a fever. Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us. Surely it is a privilege to approach the end still believing in something.

hmmm….. a part of me wants to say he really enjoys frank bidart too. the war of vaslav nijinsky makes me think of him!!! :0 the themes of morality and guilt.. especially this line for some reason:

romola. diaghilev. i have eaten the world.

maybe it’s bc of his ct but . i just feel like he’d enjoy poetry abt hunger and eating in a more abstract sense… devouring…. etcetc. it’s a big contrast to the usual nature-based flowery prose he reads but sugu loves having his contrasts so. i think it makes sense!!

all in all i think he has very good taste. he’s not afraid to dip his toes into other genres either!!

2/ IO . 🥺🥺 MY SWEETHEART….. i literally cried i can’t believe you’re indulging me like this i started shaking w excitement……… i just went through crush + war of the foxes and if i had to narrow it down to just a single poem (<- extremely difficult task!! pls be proud) it’d have to be…… little beast.

if i had to sum this poem up with two words they’d be violent and tender… which is the case for all of siken’s poems tbf 😭 but that yearning for tenderness in the midst of violence is just so, so evident here. it always guts me. there are softer poems that i’d compare suguru to, but if we’re talking about canon suguru, his connection to satoru, his fate and ideals and desperate yearning for love… then i think this one is the most fitting.

obv this is tied to my own interpretation but!! at the end of the day. i see suguru as someone who craves tenderness. he craves love and intimacy and what drove him to his breaking point was the realization that he wouldn’t get it without slaughter. i think that line between violence/gentleness drives him insane but he has no choice but to tiptoe around it. and that’s what this poem makes me think of. some lines remind me of stsg and that dichotomy in their relationship, others just of suguru and his mental state…. and also his charm. that dangerous edge to him. the contrasting softness. the poem gets more violent as it goes on but the love never fades and that’s what really gets me.

the radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. it’s thinking of love. it’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster. that’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone.

someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure. i’m sure you remember, i was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

i know history. there are many names in history but none of them are ours.

you could drown in those eyes, i said. the fact of his pulse, the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire not to disturb the air around him.

you could drown in those eyes, i said, so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

more frequently i was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of lullabies.

but damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.

we pull our boots on with both hands but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.

i couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time.

…… honourable mentions to landscape with fruit rot and millipede + birds hover the trampled field + snow and dirty rain

3/ aaaand finally !!! this question was kinda tough… but soooo much fun to think abt. <33

i think satoru is the kind of poem that stays with you forever. the kind that pulls you in with a really gripping opening line, forces you to read it all in one sitting, and then you’re left wondering what the hell it was even about. flowery but with no real substance until you dig really deep, and then it’s all you can see. the kind of poem you could pick apart for hours and hours……. a real gem. but it’s comforting, above all else. he’s like a collection of poetry that makes you smile just to hold it!!! :>

now !!! some questions for you !!!!! >:3

how do you think satoru would be w a poet!s/o?

any thoughts on poet!nanami..? 👀

[jockpoetry]

20 and 22 for the end of the year book ask💜📖

20. What was your most anticipated release? Did it meet your expectations?

unironically it was murtagh by christopher paolini, eragon was one of the defining books from my childhood and murtagh was such a good read, i flew through it and it was so perfect. it was exactly what i wanted, nostalgia but new, and yeah it was perfect.

22. What’s the longest book you read?

i thought this answer was going to be the same as above, but i actually think by quite a few pages half-light: collected poems from 1965-2016 by frank bidart beats it.

[g0dr0t]

Genuinely more of you web weaving people have got to read frank bidart like okay part of me hates when poets get distilled down to one or two quotable bits but god hes just so perfect for so many of the themes those posts focus on and theres So Much material to work w. 50 yrs worth of his poems are published

[clickingandscrolling]

Thoughts and feelings on the first day of November

His new girlfriend posts a photo where his hand is cupping her breast

My ocd is at an all-time high

I am unable to keep my hands at rest

Plucking, picking, scratching, digging into my flesh

I spend hours staring at my skin. The pores blur together and my eyes cannot focus enough to operate tweezers

I recently bought a vape

Now I can smoke in the comfort of my childhood bedroom

I spend my days getting high and plucking ingrown pubic hairs

When I was 15 I carved "never forget" into the flesh of my bikini line

A decade later the same spot is patterned with scabs

I reread the poem I wrote on this day two years ago

It oozes angst and hurt

Just weeks before, I ended my very serious 7 year relationship via text

My life purged itself and I was forced to dust the surfaces of my soul

I wrote of my feelings about being an empty sex vessel to men. A manic pixie dream girl

Two years later and I no longer feel like a manic pixie dream girl. I have stopped trying

If you want to fuck me, you'll have to ignore the peppa pig bandaid plastered over a picking spot on my ass

I suppose this still makes me a quirky-yet-lovable bitch

Two years later and I wonder if my entire life has been a lie

Compulsory

And compensatory

I have lingering feelings of being in love with my best friend

Two night ago I dreamt I held her hand as we walked through a store

Months ago we vacationed in an empty cabin

We spent hours watching movies and getting high

At one point she said something along the lines of "this is why we're good with each other"

As always, we shared a bed

And I debated whether to inch my leg to the right to graze hers

I find myself unable to make eye contact with her

I do not want to ruin anything

As always, I doubt these feelings

Are these real feelings or am I just comfortable in our 20 years of friendship?

Years ago I established my attraction to women

"I am mostly attracted to men but women are hot and I'd be into a threesome", I told men

Now I wonder if this is true

I have spent my entire life thinking the way I feel is normal

Every woman has to muster the energy to pretend to be interested in sex with a man

Every woman jacks off to lesbian porn

Every woman searches "busty lesbian strap-on"

Every girl feels this way. This is normal

It makes sense to me. Countless love and relationship books talk of the excuses women make to avoid sex. "I have a headache", "I'm too tired", "I'm on my period"

I have never fantasized about men

Since I was a child, all my sexual fantasises have been about women

At 12 I remember drawing pictures of a womanly body on my whiteboard and then masturbating to it

Grinding against a pillow and envisioning myself above a woman

I thought all girls experienced this

In 8th grade I remember trying to make myself think of a male classmate while I masturbated

It felt wrong. "It's disrespectful to think of them this way", I told myself.

I was being noble. Honorable. A good christian girl

I scroll through my lifelong rolodex of crushes

I think of my pattern

Obsessively list qualities I desire in a man

Find someone who fits neatly in that box

Get bored/annoyed/disgusted

My ex boyfriend of 7 years once told me it felt like I liked the idea of him more than I truly liked him

At the time I denied it vehemently yet felt a twinge of guilt

9 years later, I wonder if that was an honest assessment of my relationship with men

I like the idea of them. I like the idea of being desired and fantasized about. I like knowing they think about me. I like knowing I make them hard. I like knowing I can make them cum.

I like the idea of being a wife

But do I really like them?

I flip through my adolescent diaries

At 15 I received my first kiss

Diary entries note the excitement of the entire romantic experience

My first boyfriend. The first time I was (almost) allowed to be alone with a boy

A month or so into the relationship I wrote of how I felt nothing when he kissed me

How when he grabbed my breast it felt like it was my own hand touching myself

All girls experience this

I think of my friendships with women

Always comfortable and always intimate

I remember writing letters to my adolescent playmates

"I love you more than the air I breathe", I wrote

Even now I tell myself these relationships feel more organic and comfortable because of the lack of sexual expectations

Still, there is nothing I enjoy more than running errands with my best friend

We walk through neighborhoods looking for cats

We discuss the various architectural designs and paint choices

We discuss moving in and adopting cats together

It all sounds like a dream to me

For years I refused to acknowledge this part of myself

My therapist encouraged me to explore

I refused

If I think about it, I will have to come to terms with it

Which means abandoning every dream I've had

Years ago I read a Frank Bidart poem which contained the line

"Lie to yourself about this and you will

forever lie about everything"

I am almost ready to stop lying

I am currently engaged in my typical cycle

Maybe if I find the perfect man, these feelings will go away

Maybe I just haven't found the perfect fit

Maybe maybe maybe

I am not ready yet but someday soon I will be

[ifseenoendinis]

Tbh kind of rlly embarrassed by my obsession with Frank Bidart bc I think it was an easy thing for 17 y/o me to take in and it was and remains incredibly relatable and highly aphoristic. Idk what I did in life to find in his syntax and obsessions particularly the perfect articulation of what I had intuited the world to be like. I just know that in any anymber of his poems something happens where being free isn’t the question. I say it and want to believe it. There are other people who went down their own paths to become poets and I can’t follow and every thing I write feels really contrived. Criticism seems pointless to me as well so like what do I do now. I don’t want a career. I want to be a poet but I think it works out where you need to read a lot more than I am. I think anxiety about all that makes it easier to just not write. And I think it’s pretty heartbreaking but the fact that I feel little urgency means I should probably keep it to my google docs and notebook and leave it at that :( lol mess

[lifeinpoetry]

do you have any favourite poems or poem excerpts about mental illness? i find it so hard to get my hands on things that describe my experiences. thanks.

I have so, so many though I’m not sure what you’re looking for in specific. 

I’ve also included poetry books that I’ve read or am looking forward to that have a mental illness theme.

General tw for suicide, self harm, blood, abuse, eating disorders, etc.

Books

The Easy Body by Tati Luboviski-Acosta (to read)

blud by Rachel McKibbens (to read)

Said the Manic to the Muse by Jeanann Verlee

Sunshine by Melissa Lee-Houghton

Hatred of Women by Cassandra Troyan

My Ariel by Sina Queyras (to read)

Please Bury Me In This by Allison Benis White

Instinct to Ruin by L Mathis (to read)

Madness by Sam Sax (to read)

Juliet (I) by Sarah Xerta

Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 by Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. Yvette Siegert

How the End Begins by Cynthia Cruz

PDF by Tati Luboviski-Acosta

Kill Manual by Cassandra Troyan

Poems

Self-Portrait as Kindling Model of Hypomanic Symptoms (Ellis Review) by torrin a. greathouse

Panic Attack as 4 Part Word Problem Rust + Moth) by torrin a. greathouse

Ode to Lithium #419: Perfect (The Baffler) by Shira Erlichman

Ode to Lithium #9 (The Offing) by Shira Erlichman

Ode to Lithium #-18: Postscript to Mania (Apogee) by Shira Erlichman

Ode to Lithium #107; Ode to Lithium #188; Ode to Lithium #600 (Psychology Tomorrow) (audio for Ode to Lithium #600) by Shira Erlichman

Stillness in Four Movements; What to do with my hands (Drunk in a Midnight Choir) by Shira Erlichman

Ode to Lithium #147: Conversation with K.; Ode to Lithium #19: Excuse (Apogee) by Shira Erlichman

Poetry Suite (Nailed Magazine) by Shira Erlichman

Ode to Lithium #75: Mind Over Matter (BOAAT) by Shira Erlichman

Manic from Said the Manic to the Muse by Jeanann Verlee

The Session from Said the Manic to the Muse by Jeanann Verlee

Good Girl from Said the Manic to the Muse by Jeanann Verlee

At the junction; In the Years After the Psych Ward (The Offing) by Jeanann Verlee

The Mania Speaks (Muzzle) by Jeanann Verlee

The Blood Barn (DREGINALD) by Carrie Lorig

One (In Two Parts) (Winter Tangerine) by Lydia Havens

Oath (Blud Litany) Rachel McKibbens

The River’s Lure (Winter Tangerine) by Jeanann Verlee

Irrational Musings on Suicide (Winter Tangerine) by Jeanann Verlee

untitled (?) poem from Survive Like Water by Lydia Havens

Therapy Talk from Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines by Natalie Wee

Suicide Letter in Parts, 2010 from Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines by Natalie Wee

The Other from Winter Trees by Sylvia Plath

untitled poem by Scherezade Siobhan

Elm by Sylvia Plath

Tulips by Sylvia Plath

Wanting to Die by Anne Sexton

Survival Kit by Scherezade Siobhan

Cobra from Sunshine by Melissa Lee-Houghton

What’s Wrong With You (Electric Cereal) by Nicola Maye Goldberg

Confessions From A Mad Girl’s Diary from What We Left Behind by Venetta Octavia

#Godbot (Thistle Magazine) by Scherezade Siobhan

The Art of Disappearing Is Hard to Master from Marys of the Sea by Joanna C. Valente

idle (Peach Mag) by Akirah Williams

VIRGINIA WOOLF WALKS INTO MY APARTMENT (The Rising Phoenix Review) by Linette Reeman

Interlude (Yes, Poetry) by Lauren Milici

The Hunger Essay (Gulf Coast) by Claudia Cortese

Ellen West by Frank Bidart

from Killing Manual by Cassandra Troyan

Dedication to Hunger from Poems: 1962-2012 by Louise Glück

Inferno from Poems: 1962-2012 by Louise Glück

Anorexic by Eavan Boland

Poetry Suite by Stevie Edwards

[3one3]

The Sequel - 881

Lying To Yourself

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Can I read your selections now or do I have to wait until you’re not here?”

“Definitely wait. Should I do your butt too?”

“No, my butt is okay.”

“Good.” Christina concluded Juan’s back massage with a fond pat of his shoulder blade and then collapsed forward to lay on his back with her face next to his. He flipped through the collection of poems while she sat on his behind and did an amateur effort to relax some tension in his back. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Do you feel like you have a parrot on your shoulder?” she questioned, ear to ear with him.

“No, not exactly. You would be so annoying in parrot form.”

“Heeeey.”

“You would! I love you, cariña, but not as a repetitive bird on my shoulder all the time.”

“Fine.”

“When are you going to do the pictures?”

“Tomorrow,” the rider yawned. She then smooched his right cheek and did a push up with her hands on either side of him on the bed before rolling clumsily over onto her back. Juan left the book on the bench, which was really perfect for a book if one were determined to read it while lying the wrong direction in bed, on one’s stomach, and sat up on his knees.

“When are you going to Box Hill?”

“Not until the afternoon, when the kids get out of school. You should get a ride with Alvi in the morning and then you and Eden should come watch the boys after training and then we can come home together since I’ll be taking the DB9 to the barn...”

“Who says?”

“Me.”

“You have your own Aston Martin. With the same engine.”

“Yours is more luxurious.”

“Uhhuh.”

“Do you know what I haven’t done since I last saw you?”

“Eaten a deep fried egg yolk?”

“Yes,” Christina grimaced. The zepole-like fried egg was one of the most difficult courses for her to swallow, literally and figuratively, during their Sunday night dinner in Barcelona when she decided to let Juan pick all the food. “Besides that.”

“Eaten any food without vomiting or diarrhea?” He lay back down again, but on his side so that he could still see her.

“No. Stop being gross!”

“I don’t know. What?” The player gave up without much honest effort, and shrugged his left shoulder. His friend poked at his chest for no particular reason, and ran her fingertip along the inside of the trim around the collar of his t-shirt. Her eyes were on that too, until she answered. Then she blinked up toward his face.

“I haven’t had any sex. Because I was sick. And so now I’m like, suuuuuper horny. Sooooo horny, Juanin.” She turned her lip over and tried to look like the saddest, most deprived, ill-treated girl in all of London. While her face sold that idea, her right hand subtly squeezed and lifted her breast from inside her cotton tank.

“I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Me, who only has sex with you, and never sleeps with anyone since the last time I see you?” The Spaniard cast a frank frown her way, ignoring her hand under her shirt. She persisted with the “poor me” thing for about three more seconds, and then dropped it, rolled her eyes, and returned the half-frown.

“Apparently everyone thinks you have a secret girlfriend. Are you suuuuure you’re not fucking anyone else?”

“Everyone who?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Everyone who?”

“Nat, Eden, the team.”

“You’re my secret girlfriend.”

“I’m wearing very sexy undies.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. They’re very expensive too.”

“How expensive?” Juan stole a peek in the direction of Christina’s underwear, and seeing him do so turned the corners of her mouth up in a knowing smirk. It was brief, no pun intended. She extricated her hand from her extra-long black tank top to slowly drag the fabric up and begin to reveal some of her panties. What the player could see was pale pink satin.

“Like over a hundred bucks. Want to see?” She waited for him to nod before pulling her shirt the rest of the way up to reveal the whole thing, and she kept her eyes on his face when she did so.

“Is that...a banana?” He turned his head to the side to get a better look. Her pale pink satin brief was trimmed in hot pink, and featured a hot pink and yellow half-peeled banana right in the middle, made of crystal embroidery.

“Yes,” she giggled back. “I happen to think there is something weirdly erotic about a crystal banana on my crotch. And look-“ she added, flipping over onto her stomach and her elbows. “There’s a keyhole on my butt.” Her behind wiggled around to show off the round hole in the silk, and she flipped her hair over against her part. There was a cute pink bow at the top that matched the trim, and the panties fit snugly and did wonderful things for her butt. Juan traced the seam up the middle with his fingertip, and dipped it into the hole to gently poke each butt cheek. “Do you like?”

“Show me the banana again.”

Rather than simply turning over again, the rider got up and pushed his shoulder down so that she could straddle his chest and give him a close up look at her crystal crotch fruit. The forwardness of her rearrangement surprised him at first, but then he put his hands on her thighs and pressed his thumbs into the hollow parts between muscles, very close to the pale pink panties. Christina sat up a little as she removed her shirt, giving him an even closer view, so he moved his hands low on her hips to hold her there where he could kiss her tummy when he lifted his head off the khaki comforter. Then as she settled back down, she felt his pointer push at the banana motif to see what it felt like, and to follow the outline of the whole shape. His touch was light, and teetered on the line between teasing and tickling. I want to take his shorts off and rub my banana on his banana, she thought absently. I wonder how fragile the embroidery is? If I vigorously rub it on something, will the crystals start coming out? Her friend moved his fingertip down beneath the banana, to a warmer bit of satin.

“Did you wear these all night or just put them on?” he inquired curiously.

“I just put them on. Do you feel like playing with me, or nah?”

“How do you want to play, baby girl?” A sleepy smile gave her butterflies. He’s so cuuuuuute sometimes, she said to herself in her “awww!” voice. I’m glad he’s not in some serious sexy mood, or a really romantic one. He looks as chilled as I feel. Though I also feel like...hurry up because I need this. But mostly he’s adorable. He was so handsome all night. I love how suave and put together and sophisticated and smart he can look when he goes out, and then he comes home and puts shorts and a cheeseburger t-shirt on and he’s like sweet cuddly boyfriend guy again, and if he wants, he could put on another outfit and a watch and work some product in his hair and he’d be like sexy rich charming hot guy. Christina scooted toward his waist, and bent down until her elbows were on the tops of his shoulders and she could cradle his head in her forearms, and touch his hair because she knew he liked that. Her knees stayed right next to his hips instead of sliding down so she could lie flat, instead making her arch her back in a way that felt good both in terms of stretching and in that it felt like a sexy position. The Spanish star rubbed her lower back where it was most curved, and squeezed a handful of her butt, fingertips just inside her underwear. He got a sweet, careful kiss before he got an answer.

“I want to play with all my favorite parts of your body, and make you smile at me because you’re having fun and I make you happy, and I kiiiiinda want you to spank me because I’m a naughty angel or something.” Her eyes shifted all the way to the left as part of her “eeps” face, and when they refocused on the beautiful blues under her chin, his were full of the same happiness and reflecting the same light as when they watched her hurry out of the arrivals terminal at the airport. She kissed him again.

“Do you want to know what would make me very happy?”

“Tell me.”

“If you let me read the poems.”

“Baaaaabe.” Christina sat up, slumped, and frowned. I’m practically naked and I’m sitting on his pelvis with a bedazzled banana covering part of my vagina. How can he be thinking about poetry, she whined to herself.

“I’ll let you play after. I just can’t get it off my mind now,” the Blues midfielder assured with an unworried little smile. “Let me read them- just one, at least- and then I’ll be able to focus fully on you, cariña.”

“Ugh, fine.” The rider moved from disappointed to annoyed, and crawled off of the source of irritation. She put her tank top back on too, and picked a spot by the pillows in which to sit. They were set up for reclining, and sinking into them felt nice enough to threaten her sourpuss body language. She pulled the comforter up to her chest and fixed her hair so it stayed in front of just one shoulder. Juan collected the Frank Bidart book and tucked himself into the fluffy comforter too, shoulder to shoulder with her. They argued over which one he could read. Some of them were things she just didn’t want to be present for, because she was a little bit embarrassed, or expected an ensuing atmosphere so charged that she couldn’t handle it. He wanted the freedom to choose which of her flagged pages he could read immediately, and Christina wanted to pick one for him. Her brain was going a mile a minute trying to recall every part of each one and get prepared for what might happen after he read it. The collection was in his hands, and there was nothing to stop him from doing whatever he wanted with it, short of her tackling him, successfully evading the resulting pursuit, and throwing it off the balcony into the Thames so he couldn’t just read it while she was asleep.

Her sticky note tabs were ribbon-cut and from a collection of color tones, like paint samples. She had several color families- reds and pinks, blues, greens, tans, and yellows. The blues were her favorite. There were 5 shades, or as she thought of them, one for each of her favorite eye colors. The darkest was cerulean, like her husband’s uniquely deep hue. Then there was the pretty, early morning sky blue she saw in Juan’s when he was in bright light. Next was the washed out cornflower shade her own set of eyes adopted when she wore black, the warmer, lighter powder blue that happened when she wore red, and a pale baby blue that reminded her of Lukas’ first blanket. The gift recipient chose to read the poem marked by the darkest tab, based on his guess that it was her favorite of the colors.

“Queer,” he read, a slight pinching together of his eyebrows showing his apparent confusion, or that he was taken aback. Christina’s eyes- in that grayish color thanks to her black shirt- grew large with panic as she remembered what he was about to read, and she rushed to issue pretenses and qualifiers.

“That one- Only the first stanza is relevant. Some of them are like that. I just like a few lines, or one section. The writer is gay so that one is about that, but the first part is-“

“Lie to yourself about this and you will/forever lie about everything.” Her friend paused, lips pulled between his teeth, and didn’t look up from the page. She watched his profile. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m really not trying to start anything. I’m really not. I’m not trying to say anything at all. It’s just...really true. And he said it first. “Everybody already knows everything/so you can/lie to them. That’s what they want./But lie to yourself, what you will/lose is yourself. Then you/turn into them.” He felt the page next to the words. The paper wasn’t remarkable. It wasn’t a special volume deserving of heavy paper or expensive binding. It was just a simple paperback. The words were not simple. Christina felt the need to explain them, in case he somehow missed their significance.

“You said that night on the beach in France that your worst sin was lying to yourself, and then in the hotel you said you lied to yourself about your interest in me, and-“

“I remember. I didn’t know you remember.”

“How could I forget?” She shook her head and squinted at him, though he still wasn’t looking up from the book. “”So I lied to myself about how I felt and what I wanted, and I’ve paid for it ever since.” That’s what you said. That’s why we slept together for the first time that night. That’s how I knew like the poem says that everything from the beginning was a lie- Sam, Lex, you trying to tell me you just had a physical crush on me, you just being the best damn friend a girl could have, Italian cookies, late night drives, the smiles- all of it, lies. That was how I knew you really loved me and everything I knew before couldn’t contradict it anymore because it was all lies. Taylor, a lie. Coming back to Chelsea, a lie. Now you’re lying every day to everyone else, instead of yourself. Now that we have this relationship, you’re lying when you hide it, but you’re honest to yourself about it, and I can physically see how much happier you are. I see the work you do now, on the pitch, with the charity, things just for you. Like we told Sid, right? Mind has to be clear to let your great instincts come through. You even just said it now. You needed the book off your mind before we could-“ The Spaniard butted into the evening’s second bout of rambling, insecure verbal diarrhea.

“I love you,” he declared on his way to holding the left side of her face and landing a savoring kiss on her very busy lips.

“I was doing it too,” Christina whispered back afterward. “Everything from the day we broke up until...I don’t know...some time at the end of last winter. Everything was a lie. I’m so glad we don’t have to lie to ourselves anymore, Juanin.” Except I might still be doing it, she admitted unhappily, in silence, where it could remain a lie. I might still be lying about who I want to be with. I just don’t know if I am or not. Maybe it’s not a lie if I acknowledge that I don’t know.

“Me too,” Juan smiled back- casual, calm, largely unaffected from the looks of it. His thumb stroked back and forth at her cheek for a moment and then he let go and looked back at the book. “I don’t know this guy but I’m looking forward to reading more of these. Thank you, cariña.”

“Welcome.”

“Can I do another?”

“No!”

“All right. You can use me for your plaything now.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“I’m actually just tired,” the footballer yawned. “The first guys were back from their national teams today so we had full training, first time in about 10 days.”

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Come here. Sit here.” He pushed the comforter down to make a space on his thighs, and Christina quickly occupied it. She flung her shirt off again, and he squeezed her upper body tight to his, and kissed her neck. That went on for a couple of minutes, and she realized she didn’t really still feel like treating him like a playground either. Sharing the poem changed her mood, and being squeezed and kissed was nice. It was calm, and relaxing, and good. The desire to devour him, and let him “get back” at her for it with a casual smack of her ass, or bite at her shoulder, just kind of faded out. Instead, she felt like staying in his lap and making out for a while, and then maybe making love the same way- him sitting up, and her on top, his arms around her body and her arms around his neck. The slow and considered way he kissed her back made her think he’d be fine with that plan too. At no point during their time together that night did he seem interested in being totally ravaged.

“I’m getting up now,” she announced following a last smooch at the middle of his mouth.

“Why?”

“So you can take off your shorts and undies, and so I can take off my banana briefs. I actually have no idea how to wash satin panties with crystal embroidery, and I know I’ll have to if I wear them much longer.” The rider winked and got up to do what she said. Juan yawned and rubbed his face. “Babe.” Hers tilted sympathetically to the right. Sleepyhead. “You’re about to fall asleep.”

“I’m fine!”

“Let’s just go to bed. I’m not going anywhere for another day and a half. We can do this tomorrow.”

“You wanted to-“

“I want to be close to you. You’re a good place to be these days.” She picked different underwear from her backpack, put her tank top on for the third time, and was then welcomed into a kind of spooning bear hug, where her legs were pushed up, and one of her hands was held hostage. Someone very obviously wanted her to be close to him as well.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

HII im new here and i LOVE the way u write 😭😭🫶🫶 trust me when I say that when I stumbled upon ur prince!gojo fic i fell to my knees. The way u wrote about his devotion and feelings for the knight 🥹🥹🥹🥹 ITS SO GOOD i read some of Ur other fics and the way u write suguru is so perfect like i don't usually read suguru fics cause ppl usually tend to mischaracterize him but U WROTE HIM SO PERFECTLY and im here to just appreciate ur writing and ask if there are any books or films that inspired the way u write? Genuinely curious 🙏🙏

ANON 🥺🥺🥺���😭 u r the absolute SWEETEST welcome to my silly lil blog!!!!! i cant tell u how much it means to get messages like this and knowing that ppl enjoy my writing T_T thank u so so much!! <333

and wahh!! the fact that u like how i characterize sugu is also such an honour to me…. ive said this before but i rly do think hes so complex and multifaceted so it means a lot to know ppl enjoy my version of him 🥺🥺

AND AND AND…… we are so linked anon. i was literally JUST thinking abt different writing sources that inspire me (bc there are a Lot psjdjs)……. 

i think that just in general i try to emulate the kind of writing that i like the most!! so my writing style is probably like… just one big patchwork of every book/movie/game ive ever loved LMAO. but here are a couple of the most prominent!! 

first off all… poetry!!! :D a lot of books have probably inspired me too but i think poetry especially!!! since its usually so full of imagery its just become a super big inspo source…. :’3 some of my absolute fave poets are frank bidart, clementine von radics, AAAAAAND richard siken <333 hes my favorite ever and inspires me sm. my fave poetry collection of his is war of the foxes literally every single poem in it is so jjk coded ……

aaaa but also…. poetry aside!! i love kurt vonnegut a lot. his writing is so nice!!!!!! i recommend him a ton!!!!!!!! 

AAAAND honestly anon…….. my biggest inspiration source ever ever ever when it comes to writing is disco elysium!!!!!!! its my fave game and honestly probably just my favorite writing source in general? if u havent played it or watched someone play it pls do urself a favor and do so….. the writing is so earth-shatteringly good and pretty it makes me jealous. it’s such a genuinely funny game too (but also so so heartfelt!!!)…. gosh. i love disco elysium like i love nothing else in this universe.

if u play it and then read my fics its GLARINGLY obvious how much its affected my writing i think psjdjd 😭😭 here r some quotes from it for reference!! they’re so good it makes me cryyy

the last dream will be total annihilation. cinders peeling off the fuselage.

a white mourning. a modern death. divorce, or something similar. all you can do is put more distance between you and him, make him smaller. make him less *you*.

”every combination of words has been played out. the atoms don't form us anymore: us, our love, our unborn daughters…”

”where *are* we, lieutenant kitsuragi?” ”in elysium,” he replies, “behind our eyes. like all human beings, detective. (…) the world is what it is. i’m glad to see you’re stable. keep it that way.”

SORRY im just. so genuinely obsessed w this game psjfjdj i seriously could not recommend it enough!!!!

aaaa but what abt u anon??? do u have any sources that inspire u? or general recommendations? 👀👀 i would love to hear em if so!!! <33