Desire. The most important thing in the world and here it was lying quietly by my side while you were breaking into day. I thought how I also wanted coffee, and that had me rising from the floor away from you and into the kitchen where I boiled the kettle and, hidden behind it’s hissing, began to quietly hum. There were your feet. I could see them through the hatch separating the kitchen from the living room behind the table where you lay, makeshift bed. Bony feet. Like all of your limbs, clumsy movements made elegant by them and totalling a sort of brattish ease. Exaggerated when tired, at your best when at your worst. I wonder what dreams had occupied you through the night, you wouldn’t remember them. Didn’t that make you feel like you’d been missing something? I was missing something, somewhere within you that I could not touch and so it was the very thing I wanted.
I left to shower in my own house walking slowly with my face upturned to the sky, the sun warming the back of my top. I had nothing on underneath and every time the breeze lifted it up I blushed. I peeled the film back from the packet of pomegranate seeds I’d stolen from the fridge, popping individual jewels between my lips that stained my fingers in pricks of blood. When I walked through my bedroom door I stood still staring out through the window at the tops of the houses, their patchwork tiles each laid with human hands, and at the bluing sky offsetting them. It reminded me of that desert postcard I bought in Oslo that disappeared. I stood quite still in a sort of trance thinking of almost nothing at all, just watching the sky shifting its way around the globe.
Often when I left you I went in to a state of perpetual shock, it was so much and then nothing at all. I felt like I did not need anybody else in the world. I couldn’t think so I set about cleaning my room for the first time in that frantic way all the women I loved do. I even bought a headband. I copy these small things but would never admit to doing so and with defiance say, “I’ve always worn one.”
The wooden floorboards underneath me were separated by cracks and I noticed how each time I tried to sweep, the dust would fall straight down. Crouched down with a pencil, I stuck it between the cracks to test the depth below. The tip touched nothing and the pencil fell through my fingers and into the abyss. Years and years of things swept and lost. I would write a letter and fold it into the crack beside the pencil (would it still be there, do things disappear?) But then I felt a sort of fear at not knowing what lay below me; similar to the feeling i got while standing street level at Oxford Circus, aware of all the frantic heads directly under my feet and how I’d just been one of them. I wrote a few words to nobody about the love I felt that day on the back of a Egon Shiele postcard and posted it through the crack in my floorboard for the next girl with her head in the sky to find or think about and felt suddenly, quietly good.
One of our fandom’s most
original and imaginative writers is @sunshineoptimismandangels. I love her
stories. She can take an age-old trope and completely turn it upside down and
inside out. I love her take on Kurt and Blaine, and she writes Cooper so well,
too. The fic of hers I’m going to rec is Missing
Pieces. I’m not going to spoil the plot for you.
All I’ll say is that I’ve read and re-read this story countless times, and it
never fails to move me. Absolute must-read!
did those men think we were gross?” he asked. “What did we do
Kurt said, turning in his seat to face B. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Some people just
don’t like to see two men together.”
“But… They were all men and together.”
but they thought we were on a date, and they don’t like gay people.”
don’t like people just because they are gay?”
He hated that this was something B had to learn about the world.
are scared of things they don’t understand,” B said, remembering the words
Kurt had told him before.
and sometimes people don’t want to understand.”
B was quiet
for a moment and Kurt watched him closely, trying to determine what he was
thinking. Slowly, a smile grew on B’s lips.
thought we were on a date?”
his eyes and laughed. “That’s what you got from what just happened?”
and smiled. “I don’t mind people thinking we were on a date.”
2. I’m a fluff writer, and I also love to read fluff. Nothing brings me
more joy than waking up to a new story by @hazelandglasz, @whatstheproblembaby,
@a-simple-rainbow, @chatterboxrose, @sir-pyllero, @notthetoothfairy,
@skivvysupreme or @fablewriter . They never fail to make me smile and they
improve my mood a thousand-fold. If you’re fever feeling blue, I encourage you
to look up these authors on AO3 and read some of their offerings – it will make
you feel happier in no time.
The piece of fluff I’m
going to rec here, though, is a wonderful cross-over between Glee and Enchanted
How You Know, and written by the lovely
@afterthenovels . It’s still a WIP, but there’s more than enough of it to
capture your attention, and there’s no cliffhanger that will make you count the
days until we get the next chapter. And oh, I love this story SO much. Kurt and
Blaine are so sweet and shy and oblivious, and they complement each other so
well. *Happy sigh* Read it, you’ll LOVE it, that’s a guarantee.
Blaine steps closer as quietly as he can, but Kurt
doesn’t even stir, his eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks as he sleeps. He
looks… younger. Less like a prince and more like a regular man.
“I guess you really were tired,” Blaine says
unfolds the blanket in his arms and spreads it carefully over Kurt’s body,
making sure it covers him from neck to toe. Kurt shifts in his sleep, huddling
closer to the warmth and letting out a pleased hum, his lips curling into a
small smile, and Blaine can’t help the smile that spreads over his own face.
His hair is a mess, he has no idea where his
boyfriend is or why he missed their date tonight, his best friend is worried
about his love life, and there’s a strange man sleeping on his couch, looking
surprisingly at home for someone who’s clearly very far away from home.
Yeah. Maybe he can deal with all of this tomorrow.
Much as I hate scary
movies, I love to read scary stories once in a while. Ghosts and vampires and
djinns and the like stirring up no end of trouble. I’m reading a delightfully
eerie nail-biter right now called Callaway Place (also by
@sunshineoptimismandangels), but the story I’m going to recommend here is All the
Beautiful Pieces by @lady-divine-writes.
Once again, it’s a WIP, but I hope you won’t let that scare you off, because
this story has everything to keep you spell-bound: a house with a dark past,
voodoo magic, a protagonist with second sight, and a sweet love story between
Kurt and Blaine, because of course they find each other and fall in love in
spite of all the craziness surrounding them.
a hand beneath the puppet’s shoulder and another behind his head, lifting him
ever so gently and relocating him the final distance.
“Just a few
more inches,” Blaine says in a soothing voice, “and we’ll wrap you up and put
you in the box.” Blaine gazes at the puppet’s face, into his single good eye.
He smiles wider as he lays the puppet on the blanket, but his hand beneath the
puppet’s head starts to feel warm. It begins at a spot in the center of
Blaine’s palm and radiates like a single ray of golden sunshine. It’s liquid
heat, pouring into his veins, shooting out to his fingers, filling his body up
like a cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s day.
His eyes are
open, his mind awake, but the haze returns. It obscures his vision in a veil of
white mist. It drifts in front of his eyes. He can only peek through in random
spots where it thins, revealing shimmering images that disappear like the
dreams you hold on to in those seconds right before you wake.
“Can you feel that?” Blaine hears his own voice
whispering inside his head.
“I do,” another voice replies. It’s high and lilting, pure as silk and
singing in his ears.
“What does it feel like?”
“It feels like…like summer all over my body…”
laughs, pressing his lips to cool skin. “And what else?”
answers him in that same musical voice. “It feels like…”
gasps, and Blaine feels his body tighten.
“It feels like you,” the voice whimpers
breathlessly. “Everything is you…all around me…it’s you…”
closes his eyes as the world collapses in on him. Behind his eyelids he can see
another set of eyes gazing back at him – perfect blue eyes, patient blue eyes,
loving blue eyes that shift to grey and glimmer like rare jewels. Quivering
pink lips smile at him, part, and then whisper a single, blissfully choked-off
I much admire writers who
can make their readers laugh their heads off. So the fourth fic I’m going to
recommend is a very funny one. In this category, honourable mentions go to
@skivvysupreme’s Drunk Kurt fics, Sexy101 by Sweet Emii, Seduction &
Straight For A Week by @Crazy4Klaine and When you read my mind by @alexwishington. But the story I’m choosing to spotlight is called Teenage dreams and movie scenes, and
it’s written by @saraklaine100. Both Kurt and Blaine are famous in this fic, and
Kurt has a huge crush on Blaine, so his best friends corner Blaine until he
agrees to meet Kurt. Cue a very embarrassed Kurt, and an instantly smitten
Blaine. This story is amazing. Guaranteed to cheer you up however blue you’re
working on autopilot. He had no conscious decision to outstretch his hand or
the time to process it. He just stared at those hazel eyes he found so
fascinating one moment and the next he could feel Blaine’s warm hand squeezing
his own. He felt prickles all over his skin. Well, up until the moment James
and Oliver clasped their hands and all but yelled “We now pronounce you
Kurt Hummel and his teenage dream” and Kurt facepalmed at this, ripping
his hand away from Blaine’s hold.
the fuck out” Kurt hissed at his friends and they knew better than to
stay. They patted Blaine’s shoulder like he’s an old friend, still smiling and
he could swear he heard Sean say “Condoms are under the sink” before
still craning his face in his hands. “Please just leave” he said.
“Just…Look, I’m gonna keep my face covered and you can just run away and
you can pretend this never happened. Send me the bill from therapy. ”
And of course my fic rec
list wouldn’t be complete without a smutty fic rec. It’s so difficult to narrow
this down to just one fic. Some authors you should definitely check out in this
category are @dualwielding, @stellata, icedwhitemochas, flyblckbirdfly and
rayychel infinity, but the fic I’m going to recommend is by
@caramelcoffeeaddict. It’s called Desperate Times… and it’s absolutely
smut-a-licious, but definitely more than just PWP. It’s a wonderful story, and
I promise you that you will love it.
Devon takes a
few steps back, so he’s now standing in front of Angel, and starts teasing the
removal of his pants; all while dancing seductively to the music. His fingers
twist in the waistband of his pants and then he yanks hard, pulling the breakaway
pants off, and throwing them at the wall behind Angel. He’s left in just a
tight red thong that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Devon straddles Angel, hovering just above his lap. He stretches his arms above
his head, crossing them at the wrists, and rolls his hips down, teasing Angel.
Devon turns himself around, bending at the waist, showing off his ass. He
cranes his head around to see Angel licking and biting his lips as he stares at
Devon’s ass. Devon smirks, and then smacks his own ass once, before righting
himself and winking at Angel.
to face Angel, Devon starts to play with the straps of his thong, giving Angel
tiny glimpses of his cock. He straddles him once again, gyrating to the music.
“Would you like to touch me, Angel?” Devon asks in a low, sultry voice.
gulps, lets out a shaky breath, and slowly nods his head.
Medieval Irish Literature: The Táin - Fedelm, The Woman Poet of Connacht.
Dia duit, a cairde,
I would like to share you all a story from Ireland, passed down to us from within the Táin. It is not a story in its own right, but it is a short tale of a girl named Fedelm. I tell of her story with more attention than there was meant to be, but you will all find delight in it nonetheless. Although a minor character within the Táin, she tells of the doom that lies ahead for a great army ready to march. Here is her tale:
The charioteer turned the chariot around and made to set off. But they saw a young grown girl in front of them. She had yellow hair. She wore a speckled cloak fastened around her with a gold pin, a red-embroidered hooded tunic and sandals with gold clasps. Her brow was broad, her jaw narrow, her two eyebrows pitch black, with delicate dark lashes casting shadows half down her cheeks. You would think her lips were inset with Parthian scarlet. Her teeth were like an array of jewels between the lips. She had hair in three tresses: two wound upward on her head and the third hanging down her back, brushing her calves. She held a light gold weaving-rod in her hand, with gold inlay. Her eyes had triple irises. Two black horses drew her chariot, and she was armed.
“What is your name?” Medb said to the girl.
“I am Fedelm, and I am a woman poet of Connacht.”
“Where have you come from?” Medb said.
“From learning verse and vision in Alba (Scotland),” the girl said.
“Have you the imbas forasnai, the Light of Foresight?” Medb said.
“Yes I have,” the girl said.
“Then look for me and see what will become of my army.”
So the girl looked.
Medb said, “Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou the host?”
Fedelm said in reply:
“I see it crimson, I see it red.”
“It can’t be true,” Medb said. “Conchobor is suffering his pangs in Emain with all the rest of the Ulster warriors. My messengers have come from there and told me. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?” Medb said.
“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.
“That is false,” Medb said. “Celtchar mac Uthidir is still in Dún Lethglaise with a third of Ulster’s forces, and Fergus son of Roach mach Echdach and his troop of three thousand are here with us in exile. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?” Medb said.
“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.
“It doesn’t matter,” Medb said. “Wrath and rage and red wounds are common the armies and large forces gather. So look once more and tell us the truth. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?”
“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.
“I see battle: a blond man with much blood about his belt and a hero-halo round his head. His brow is full of victories.
Seven hard heroic jewels are set in the iris of his eye. His jaws are settled in a snarl. He wears a lopped, red tunic.
A noble countenance I see, working effect on womenfolk; a young man of sweet coloring; a form dragons in the fray.
His great valor brings to mind Cúchulainn of Murtheimne, the hound of Culann, full of fame. Who he is I cannot tell but I see, now, the whole host colored crimson by his hand.
A giant on the plain I see, doing battle with the host, holding in each of his two hands four short quick swords.
I see him hurling against that host two gae bolga and a spear and an ivory-hilted sword, each weapon to its separate task.
He towers on the battlefield in breastplate and red cloak. Across the sinister chariot-wheel the Warped Man deals death - that fair from I first beheld melted to a mis-shape.
I see him moving to the fray: take warning, watch him well, Cúchulainn, Sualdam’s son! Now I see him in pursuit.
Whole hosts he will destroy, making dense massacre. In thousands you will yield your heads. I am Fedelm. I hide nothing.
The blood starts from warrior’s wounds - total ruin - at his touch: your warriors dead, the warriors of Deda mac Sin prowling loose; torn corpses, women wailing, because of him - the Forge-Hound.”
Source: Thomas Kinsella trans., The Táin - From the Irish epic Táin Bó Cuailnge. (Oxford University Press, 1969), 60-64.
Horrible piece of
trash I quickly wrote because I miss you all! (in the tags I explain
why in these days I’m not here very often! But don’t worry, it’s
a temporary thing due to a busy time in my life!)
The accidents started
as soon as the ball at the Winter Palace ended. The nobles were still
walking around, their glasses full of expensive wine and venomuos gossip.
Behind golden masks and jewelled hands, lips were whispering about
the mighty Inquisitor who saved the Empire from its very own
end. Duchesse Henriette Laurelle Dorlaine,+ the favorite
daughter of a man with an empty brain and a woman with more ambition
than good sense, was particularly chatty with her ladies in waiting.
And not just because she had assisted to an epic event, but also
because she was one of the few people who had actually spoke with the
gorgeus Commander of the Inquisition Army. And she hadn’t just speak
to him. She had actually touched him. Oh, sure, the fierce Ferldan
had seemed totally surprised by her bold action, but sure he was
happy. Men loved to be approached in such a way, she was quite sure
of that. Grinning like a cat, she already started to write her letter
to the Commander about a possible bethrotal between them. Sure, his
origins weren’t noble, but the duchesse knew that gold and persuasion
could buy him a title. And, of course, before having the honor to
marry her, he would need a proper training. She didn’t want to be
embarassed during the wedding or their life together, after all! And
once he woul become a perfect Orlesian, her life would be perfect.
Days – and nights – spent being worshipped by that beautiful,
mighty man. Oh, she had heard the gossip about a relationship between
him and the Inquisitor. But that woman, a woman cursed with an unholy
sparkling hand, couldn’t certanly compare to her, the daughter of a
famous, pureblood Orlesian family. The Duchesse didn’t realize what
was happening, until she put her foot on the first step of her
carriage. With a squeak, the wood broke, making her fallen face first
on the floor of her carriage. Her shrieks of pain and humilation,
mixed with the laughters of the ones who had assisted, were heard
also by a figure in the shadow. A figure who had watched hersince she
left the ballroom and that now was walking away smiling satisfied
Comte Belisieux blew
a kiss in the direction of Commander Cullen, who was escorting the
Inquisitor outside the ballroom, after the empress had ended
officially the party. “You’re wasting your time, Leònard.” a
voice chuckled. Turning his face, the comte shrugged “You’re just
jealous, Philìppe dear.” “Jealous? Non, non.” the
other man smiled “Just pragmatic. I know that once this little
crush for that man will end, you’ll come back to me. You always
do.” “Wouldn’t you be happier if I’ll return with an
interesting guest in our bed?” he teased, drinking a sip of wine.
Disgusting. If only Gaspard had made better offers, the comte woud
have gladly fought for him. A woman like their empress, who picked
such an horrible wine for an important party, didn’t deserve any
loyalty. He could have forgave her to have a bloody elven woman in
her bed, if she hadn’t such a terrifying taste in wines. “The
Commander made you understand pretty clearly he wasn’t interested. He
said he was taken, if I’m right.” “Taken!” the other man
scoffed, a lewd grin on his masked face “A petite liason with a
woman that’s famous just because of her hand it means hardly “taken”.
And it doesn’t matter, in any case. I want him and I’ll have him. I’m
Leònard Jacques Belisieux De Montfort and nobody dares tell me
no.” The comte was already planning his arrival in Skyhold –
sure he was going to have an invitation soon enough – and the time
he would spend with the Commander Cullen. Oh, for a dirty Fereldan
dog he was such a fine conquer to add in his collection. Lost in his
thoughts, the noble didn’t realize that his wine had truly a terrible
taste. And then, the first cramp hit his stomach. And then another.
And another. Until he had to run out of the living room, searching
for a bathroom, for avoiding to relieve himself in one of the plants
along the main hall. The hidden figure looked at him with a
satisfied grin “Minus two.” “What are you doing here,
Jim?!” The man jumped from his spot, while another guard arrived
“We have the first watch outside the Inquisitor’s room, did you
forget?” “Uh… no, not at all.” Following his companion,
Jim sighed. He didn’t have time to punish all the others that during
the night had bothered Commander Cullen, but at least the two major
characters had had their lesson. Well, joining that Red Jenny group
while he was drunk that night in the tavern hadn’t been a bad idea,