polish and prose

12:24 23 May

Honestly I just really like soft affection, fingernails and fingers just barely ghosting over skin, trembling hands that hold your ribcage like a reliquary, gentle and soft, afraid of crumbling sacred bones. The last person I tried to be intimate with was holding me and touching my skin, it was soft, but it was soft like a felt blanket, and compared to lovers I’ve loved- it was rough. And I asked, almost ready to fall for him, ready to give away my vulnerability and my pain, so close to be satisfied with letting him satisfy me, I asked if he would be softer. I told him “I’m a gentle love,” and he grinned like he knew what he was doing- a man who promised he lived to give like putty and be what his lover needed- he grinned at my ear and said “I’m not” and suddenly his hands were vices and my comfort fled like a deer in a forest on fire, my lungs screaming for fresh air. I stopped him a few minutes later, feeling awkward and unsafe telling him I just wasn’t recovered from my last big love, the one who used me. I used excuses to run and hide because I couldn’t tell him, not with his eyes so sure he was right about me, that I wasn’t rough, that my heart was glass and that I didn’t kiss people I didn’t love. I did love him for a moment, and then I didn’t. And I didn’t know how to break that to him. So I said it was great but I just couldn’t. I apologised for not meeting his expectations and when he told me my flirting was clearly a prelude to those moments. That I’d come with this express purpose in mind. I agreed. Because it was easier to lie. People underestimate the power of being soft or being gentle. Of the power of a caressing kind of love. It’s not for everyone, but the only times I’ve ever felt like I wanted to worship anyone was when my love held me with hands like soft butter and let their touches melt into my skin, running thin rivulets of sensation everywhere, baptising me with their soft affection.

Night & Day

Night came to me and said, “Let’s have an affair. Let’s have a sordid and passionate affair.”

And I gazed at her, soaking in her long streaks of shadows and dark tresses of  doubt. She gazed back at me with knowing eyes and a deceptive smile, like she had just offered me the ultimate prize and I would be a fool not to concede.

“I love Day,” I told her, looking away. 

Night scoffed. “Day? Day, who gives you shadows to drag your spirit around? Day, who sheds light upon your path that you have to hide your inner impulses within the folds of a well-pressed, immaculate pinstripe suit? Day, who forces you to pretend to be a dignified adult? To work continuously with no repreive like a peasant? How could you possibly love her?”

I thought about it. I thought long and hard, even though the generic answers were at my fingertips: Day gave me the sun and the spring in my step; Day gave me vistas of incomparable beauty at my doorstep; Day gave me laughter of children and of flowers dancing in the breeze. 

Could Night beat that? I thought long and hard about that too: Night would give me the argentine moonbeams to quench my poetic soul and a blanket of stars; Night would give me refuge from the harsh and unforgiving brightness, and her lap to rest my head. Night would wrap me up in lovers and music. Night would give me quiet to soothe my furrowed brow, or noise to silence my errant mind. 

But Night…was Night after all and Day was Day after all.

“You harbour monsters,” I finally admitted, my voice small, reticent. 

Night shook her head slowly. “No, you harbour monsters–” Night embraced me wholly  "–and I will accept them.“

Original written 11/4/12 Reworked 3/1/17

Why do I need these landscapes? The image of the sea draws me out of myself, forces all my attention to the surface so that I can cast my thought into the depths once again. As if an imaginative blow were needed for a longer, better-aimed thrust into the depths. Contemplation. The roots of my astonishment at the world cling tight to my inner life, in a tangle of memories, experiences, atavisms from both my own childhood and that of our species.
—  Anna Kamienska, In That Great River: A Notebook (Selected and translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh)
Fakiru Week Day 2: Books

Fakiru Week 2016
Books


She awoke to the press of his lips against her jaw.  Her light sigh and the flutter of her long eyelashes against her cheeks drew a low chuckle out of him.

“Hey, idiot.”

With a small hum, she rolled over and instinctively tucked her head beneath his chin.

“Hey,” he said a little louder, reaching up to stroke her neck with his fingertips.  "Come on, now.“

"Mmmno.”

“Mmmyes.”  He made to pull away, but she latched her arms and legs around his shoulders and hips, pinning him to her as she snuggled back into the comfort of soft pillows and warm sheets.  "Ahiru, come on.“

"Mmmno.”

“You’re going to be late.”

“’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Fer what?”

“Class.  It’s Monday, and your students will be waiting.”

“—Eh?”

And then, with a squawk, she was up, accidentally colliding her foot with Fakir’s shin as she scrambled from their sheets.  Fakir grimaced in pain, massaging the forming bruise on his leg.

After recovering, he contented himself with watching her while she bustled back and forth between the restroom and their bedroom, clothes flying as she grumbled to herself from around her toothbrush.  "I shlept sho latesh!“

Fakir chuckled and let his eyes fall shut.  The sheets still smelled like her hair.

"Fakir?”

When he opened his eyes again, she was standing beside their bed, an oversized, pale yellow sweater covering her leotard and tights, a scarf wrapped around her neck, her hair piled up into a neat bun (well almost, considering that stubborn lock of hair that jutted straight up on every occasion).

Despite her own tardiness, she took the time to crawl back onto the mattress, leaning down to deposit a light kiss to his lips.  "Today’s the day you find out, huh?“  She reached over him for the nightstand, plucking the gold band from its usual spot beside his own larger one.

"Yeah.”

“Good luck!”

“Mm.”  He kissed her again—longer.  Deeper.  And then, “You’re late.”

“QUA—!”


Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hello! I'm fan of your writings and also your arts!!! I just want to ask about acowar. What are your thoughts abt it?? I read some the spoilers and such. And i hear some were a bit disappointed???? Also some parts were not satisfactory?? Im confused (help a friend hahaha) Were you happy after reading acowar?? Have a nice day/night! :)

Aw hi anon, I’m sorry if the #discourse about the book has been making you apprehensive about it. But yeah, I was very disappointed, and I think a lot of people were. I’ll be going into more detail in the future, but since you wanted big picture: primarily, it felt sloppy and unedited. Like a polished first draft. Weak prose, inconsistencies, loose plot threads that should have been smoothed over/ clarified and weren’t, writing shortcuts that felt lazy. Your mileage may vary, but a lot of people weren’t happy with how certain characters were handled, Mor in particular, for a lot of reasons. Personally I found the Feysand content pretty underwhelming; I really hoped this book would make me fall in love with them all over again and it really didn’t.

We got a lot of nice little character moments, and some fun concepts to play with fandom-wise (the Helion thing, the sisters’ powers, Az and Nessian got some good content) but overall my problems with the book outweigh anything making me enthusiastic about it. Of course, don’t let my opinion stop you from reading it and forming your own, but I’m…. not going to lie to you, I am Bummed.

biddle: well, time to start on my magnum opus, editing the Lewis and Clark journals for publication! So excited to read this polished piece of prose!

meriwether lewis: *spells mosquitoes 19 different ways, including mesquestors, misquestors, misquitor, misquitoes, misquitors, misqutors, misqutr, missquetors, mosquiters, mosquitors, mosquitos, muskeetor, musqueters, musquetors, musquiters, musquitoes, musquitors, musqueters, and musqutors*

biddle: *quietly closes journal, cries*

Sweet Contradiction

Dean x reader love contrasted with Sam x reader love!

This is just a writing exercise I’ve considered doing for a while! It has both Sam and Dean, and shows what’s different about the way they kiss, hug, touch, etc. I think it’s important to compare, since fanfiction authors occasionally lose the brothers’ individuality (at least the individuality that’s true to the show). Obviously this is just my opinion. People probably imagine each thing a little differently! There’s also situational variation as well, since complexity of character isn’t lacking in either Sam or Dean. This is just a few categories of many that could be compared. 

VERY sexy and fluffy! AND It’s in second person for all you “you” lovers (:

Hands

Sam’s hands are colossal. They seem to swallow up everything they touch, their sheer size stretching across every inch of skin they reach for. When he rubs his palms over your back you it feels as though he’s holding you together. There’s something nerve wracking and comforting about the way his fingers can reach around your hip with ease. He could snap you in half with that grip, but you would never have the heart to protest. His long fingers are often bent in desperation. As they slide down the length of your body they catch on your waist and hips, grasping for purchase wherever it can be found.

Dean’s hand’s are heavily calloused. They feel work worn and experienced, yet there’s a hint of hesitation in the way he touches you. You can tell he’s holding back when he slides rough palms down the soft skin at your ribs. The contrast of coarse on delicate is maddening. His fingers love to play across hidden places, just barely grazing curves and edges. He traces the pathways of your structure like one would admire a marble statue. Sometimes his touch is so light that it seems to fade away in the flurry between the two of you. You lose track of his fingers, till they suddenly reappear on your hip with new found strength. The variation of gentle and sharp sensation leaves your heart pounding with nervousness.

Kisses

Dean’s mouth alone could reduce a woman to being utterly mute. The slower his kiss, the more you can feel every inch of his full lips on yours. He works at his own pace, sometimes to your despair. Very rarely can you rush him from the sensual speed at which he drags his lips over the skin of your shoulder. He loves to savor every little taste on the way to your mouth. The sheer suspense of his leisurely passion is maddening, but he refuses to let you shorten his enjoyment. He prides himself in the way you begin to shake before he’s even placed his mouth on yours. When he finally nips at your open lips you can feel the curve of his satisfied smile. 

Like his hands, Sam’s mouth is hungry. It devours your lips with fervor and urgency. But his lips aren’t where his kisses start. They start in his darting eyes and deepened breathing. They start in twitching fingers and pacing legs. He eagerly anticipates what he’s about to do to you, his mind racing at the thought of your mouth open to his. When the time comes there’s no other warning. His hands are holding your cheeks still as he practically cannibalizes the source of your gasps. There’s a sense of danger in the his lack of restraint. You have to push back the fleeting fear of suffocation when he refuses to pause his frenzy. After he senses the way your lungs are burning for oxygen he pulls away with panting frustration. But even then he’s too busy, too worked up. While you try to control your breathing, his lips pour fervent attention over your jaw and neck. What’s been started can’t be stopped. 

PDA

In public Dean’s hands never leave you. He never passes up on opportunity to touch your shoulder, or pull you in for a quick kiss. Whether it be on the creaking stools of a bar or on a park bench, Dean is absolutely needy. Maybe it’s because he knows how other men look at you, or because he wants to display that you’re undoubtedly his. On occasion he takes your lips strictly with the purpose of deterring a gawking onlooker. You can taste the tinge of jealously in the way he kisses you in front of strangers. Regardless, his touch is utter affection. You never feel like pushing his hands away, not when they shower you with tender love. There’s not possessiveness in his caress, only blind admiration. The innocent way he curls the hair on the nape of your neck around his finger is a constant distraction. Every little brush of his skin on yours is a reminder of his undivided-devotion. But the moment he thinks you’ve forgotten about him, he won’t hesitate to jog your memory with a playful and well placed squeeze.

Around other people, Sam’s affection is completely different than in private. His caresses are brief and utilitarian. He slides his fingers across your arm with gentlemanly delicacy, never pausing longer than necessary. He guides you down hallways and through open doors with a well-placed hand on your back. The static in his touch reminds you of previous encounters, but his palm remains un-moving and well above your hips. His self control is maddening. It’s like he’s become another person. You urge him on with your own advances, but he can only stare back with dilated pupils and a tongue that edges out over his bottom lip. He seems content to watch you fidget impatiently, but the muscles flickering in his jaw betray hidden yearning. The arm cast around your shoulders feels like an insult compared to the way he was embracing you just hours ago. It’s not till he rests his hand on your leg for a long moment that you can feel that same fire burning in his touch. He gazes into your wide eyes a little longer we than necessary, reassuring you that he’s not simply ignoring your hunger for attention. His fingers running over your hair may seem innocent to everyone else in the room, but to you, it’s a promise made for more private moments.

백치 (Fool)
Thornapple
백치 (Fool)

Thornapple - 백치 (Fool) (“이상기후 (Abnormal Climate)”, 2014)

Whatever I feel is so fleeting, but it comes back every once in a while, like a leak in the roof, migratory birds, memories of a broken promise.