#blotched-poems

[sinligh]

It’s early summer,

the hopeless romantic in me found her way to the surface when the heat melted couple of my overprotective layers.

so here i am, allowing her a moment of spotlight and myself some vulnerability.

it’s past midnight, I’m sitting in floor of my kitchen eating fruits with a knife

wondering, if it’s really safe to romanticize life?

I indulge myself anyway, and think about how fruits can be considered a love language if you’re starved enough to taste love that’s throughly stained with muted apologies. 

I trust, that when the sun rises tomorrow all my attempts to romanticize life will sublimate and create a thick fog of melancholy that I’ll have no other option but to get lost into.

even so, tonight I’m tired enough to let it be and so i write this, my own report of pathology

officially it’s untitled, but I’m thinking: the pathology of love.

i start by resecting pieces of all the habits that i define my existence based on along with some of the heartache that i held onto for too long

deep down, i know some of it belongs to my mother

At least its mature flavor says so, that, balanced with the sweet essence of an overly ripe fruit that never belonged

Young and brash and an acquired taste.

it’s a poorly fixed microscopic tissue, preserved in a high percentage of feminine rage

Low expectations stained with love and paranoia alike and the question that asks itself:

is it benign or malignant?

is it infiltrating my soul, taking away from my potential to grow ?

It stays unanswered, an unforced error

because i always carry those little versions of me that vary in the percentage of their belief in my own bone marrow

a core biopsy will always show that i still believe.

•••

•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Sylvia Plath/ Virgina Woolf/ Franz Kafka/Marcel Proust/ Simone de Beauvoir/Anne Carson/ Andrea Gibson/Anaïs Nin

•Original context:

•Art reference:

1. British School - Head of a girl, c. 1850. 2. Painting ( details) by Richard E. Miller. 3. Paintings by Jen Mazza. 4. Neil Carroll Original Oil Painting Realism Impressionism. 5. The Gross Clinic (details), by Thomas Eakins 6. Wounds of the Earth by xis.lanyx. 7.painting by Herbert James Draper.

[learningto-write]

it can't quite explain this feeling

I've heard so much about mending broken hearts, with time, with love, with the right person

but I never hear about the hearts that are so shattered they can never fit back together

I never hear about the hearts that have been betrayed and tormented countless times

I never hear about how guarded and closed off our hearts become, and how truly nothing feels as though it can break through

I never hear about how deep, whirl wind, soul tied love feels impossible - is my heart even capable anymore ?

I never hear, about hearts like mine

[cosmicmote]

The Study of People as Lovers

same painting used as previous Chill Day piece, but with slightly different editing.

does the sun repeat itself?

does the rocket to the moon?

I feel like the poem should be expanded on, in longer form

graphic and words ©spacetree 2023

[protanomaly-0c1420]

mania

If I had shouted it loud, across rooftops and valleys Proclaimed it before the world Would the world have given acknowledgement back. A more permanent form. If I pulled myself out of your embrace on that rainy day, shielded my heart from the excitement in your eyes. From the taste of your lips in your car, mixed with the cold of the rain. Pulled myself from the step in front of your apartment the night of our first kiss. Stayed in the warmth of Arizona rather than learning of the warmth of your fingers, lips, eyes, your bed. Guided my eyes away from the sunlight kissing your face in the morning. Stopped it at the start, would my heart have been spared. Kept my palm out of yours in the cold, left your cardigan in the suitcase rather than pulling it tight around me. Never learned how deeply I could love you in the winter months. Would I have kept this mania inside, undiscovered. Would it not eat me out from the inside. Devour me whole in a brand new terrifying way.

[snarky-magpie]

(Chapter 5 of Something New is live! You can read it here.) “So. Good enough for you, Potter? Or do you require something else to be more comfortable? Pillow for your knees? Maybe I should recite a poem, too? Sing you a song?” Regulus asks, slipping into his usual acerbic tone, but James has always been a quick study. Between this afternoon and the moment Regulus forced him to his knees, he decided to become a master in all things Regulus as fast as possible, so he reads his panic-stricken expression like an open book. 

Regulus appears terrified at revealing the cards he usually holds close to the vest. Scared that James will throw them back in his face. Of course, their past antagonism doesn’t give him any reason to believe otherwise, but James would never entertain such an idea. Not for a second. He’s determined to cherish these glimpses at the real Regulus, commit every moment of openness to his memory, and revisit them when this night has long faded from view. 

“Yes. You’re good enough for me, Reggie. Better than good. Better than I deserve.” 

“That’s not—damn you—not what I meant, and you know it, you prat,” Regulus stammers out a denial. His thigh muscles tense under James’ hands, and when James looks up, he notices red blotches covering his cheeks. So. Praise flusters him. James tucks away the knowledge for future reference, ignoring how it infuses his belly with heat. There’s something heady about the impact his words have on the younger Black, but he can’t pinpoint what.

[dabisair]

toska

Dabi x gn!reader

Warnings: soft Dabi, reader is a bit rude to Dabi in the beginning, discussions of love and how it's supposed to feel (both explanations are negative), indecisive reader, unambitious reader, talk of body hatred, and oh my god if you feel the way this reader feels I am so so so SO sorry and I hope that one day you and I can heal ; _ ; (I tried to keep Reader's body type unspecified)

toska - (roughly) a dul ache of the soul, a sick pining, a spiritual anguish; also, "Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness".

Unbeta'd I ride at dawn--- this started somewhere and then ended somewhere else entirely and I'm sorry.

A flame-bitten finger traces along imperfect skin - skin that shivers beneath the touch, goosebumps pebbling in the wake.

The sensation worsens when that burning hand plucks petals from a nearby flower, all blues and purples with a splash of white, and traps the supple material between a hot palm and a cool arm.

Blue eyes flicker with interest, a flash of white heat singing the petals and the near invisible hairs on your forearm. A stream of smoke rises up from beneath his palm, long fingers wrapping around your arm when you try to jerk the appendage away on reflex.

Dabi thinks your scowl is funny - he must, given that he chuckles when you narrow your eyes at him. You don’t waste your time trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You’ve come to know that it is better for you to accept whatever new burn you’re going to have when he finally decides to let you go than fight with him and have him tighten his grasp.

“Just because you have dead pain receptors doesn't mean I do.”

The small smile on his face is whisked away by a neutral line, his grip on your arm loosening enough for you to yank it back to your person. All that meets your gaze when you inspect your skin is a red blotch, earning Dabi a sigh. You brace your hand against the stone beneath where you sit, staring listlessly toward the city below. He’d insisted that you come up to this roof with him nearly an hour ago.

He sets his hand on your thigh, ripped up flower petals fluttering around as he repeats the action, this time with the petals, and the fabric as a barrier between the brutal flash of his quirk and your flesh. You poke gently at the skin between his knuckles, tentatively touching the staples. Your fingers twitch away from the metal, scorching hot just from the small puffs of flame he let out from his palms.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like running through the snow and jumping in a hot tub.”

Dabi snorts, shaking his head while he rubs his hand slowly up and down your thigh, “right.”

“So hot that it feels cold, like leaving my hand in cold water and then putting it in a bowl of hot water. It stings and makes me think my skin is melting off my bones, at the same time as it feels like my skin is freezing and becoming brittle.”

He nods his head, his hand lifting from your thigh to touch your chest, “that’s not what I’m askin’. What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like, fire boy?”

“Being in love.”

You peer at him closely, trying to gauge why he’s asking - or, furthermore, why he thinks that you’re in love. You’ve always wondered if you say ‘I love you’ to people because you mean it, or because they said it to you first.

But, at the same time, you can’t be sure that you don’t feel love. You don’t know what it really feels like - at least, not in the way that it's been shown in television or movies or described in books and poems.

“It feels empty.”

Dabi’s stare is weighted, resting heavily on your body.

“It feels like a dull ache, like there’s a hole in my chest that nothing will fill. It feels like losing someone important, wishing you could have them back but knowing that it’s not possible. There’s an anguish there, so deep that I can’t do anything about it, so yeah. It feels empty. It doesn’t feel real. It’s painful.”

Part of you is not surprised when Dabi pulls his hand away from you, but it dawns on you, as your heart sinks into your stomach, that he must have been asking because he thought you were in love with him.

“... what does it feel like to you?”

“Like I wanna’ hurt you. I don’t understand it, can’t comprehend it, and I want to hurt you. It’s an itch I can’t get rid of, a disgusting insect in the back of my head gnawing away at my thoughts and I despise it, and I want it to stop,” his hand returns to your thigh, and he scoots closer, one leg dangling over the edge you’re both sitting on, “can I hurt you?”

“No.”

His huff is so incredulous it causes a puff of laughter to escape you.

“That was so fuckin’ instantaneous.”

“I don’t enjoy pain.”

“What if I let you hurt me too?”

“But you can’t really feel pain anymore, D, and that means that I could potentially really hurt you and neither of us would be aware.”

“But it would be fair. I get to hurt you because I loathe how you make me feel, and you get to fill your emptiness with pain.”

“I don’t follow your logic, but I appreciate that you’re trying.”

“Unless you wanna’ fill your emptiness with somethin’ less painful?” he mutters, leaning toward you.

You go rigid, shoulders bunching up. His lips - uneven and unnatural - scrape along your neck, sending a violent shiver down your spine as your body jumps beneath the affection. He sighs through his nose, the rush of warm air eliciting a similar reaction.

“Do you like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” he scoffs, moving closer despite his indignation. You have half a mind to slap his hand off your thigh.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to react,” you turn your head to the side when Dabi decides to bury his face in your neck, tongue and teeth moving over your skin. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes you anxious. You can’t be sure the butterflies are actually a good thing as they flutter their wings throughout your stomach and chest.

It feels foreign and unnatural and you’re not sure why he insists on kissing your neck the way he is.

At the same time, you don’t do anything to stop him. Part of you hopes you can just breathe through it. Maybe…

Your anxiety grows when his strong fingers dig into your thigh, pulling at your flesh.

It takes a moment for you to work up the courage to discourage Dabi from continuing, his curious mouth moving up your neck toward your cheek. He leans back, expression unreadable save for the irritated twitch in his lip.

“You know I’m impatient,” his voice is low. Dejected. His frustration digs bruises into your thigh, and despite the pain, and the fact that you told him you don’t enjoy pain, you let him. It is better than reminding him that he’s a villain and if he’s going to be so impatient, then he should just take what he wants from you.

Dabi has always seemed to want you to be willing, rather than despondent.

“Nothing to say to that?”

You shrug, your leg jerking under his hand when he digs his fingers into it again. Words escape you until Dabi moves his hand off your leg and sighs heavily.

“This is never gonna’ go anywhere, is it?”

“No.”

“And I thought I was the villain.”

“In label only, D. You also deserve someone who knows what they want - both in life and a relationship. I can’t give you either of those things,” you shrug, the lights of the city blurring together, “unlike you, I have no ambitions. I have no purpose. I simply exist. I don’t know what I want, and haven’t known for years.”

He fishes his cigarettes out of the pocket of your sweatshirt and lights one up with a blue flicker, his movements harsh.

“So you used to know.”

“Yeah. I used to think I wanted a relationship. I used to be pretty enough to be in one.”

Dabi grumbles something under his breath, glaring at you. You tilt your head to the side, sighing through your nose, “you’re prettier than me, D.”

“Yeah? Tell me how that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” you mutter, surprised that he’s stayed as close to you as he has. He’s been surprisingly patient with you, “but I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it, y’know? It’s all fine and dandy until I remember I’m part of the equation. Everything about me is ugly, especially my body. I wouldn’t like it even if I was thinner - or bigger. It’s me, so it’s ugly.”

“But you think other people who share your attributes are beautiful, doll,” Dabi leans his forehead against your shoulder, “why can’t you think that about yourself?”

You suck in your cheeks, looking at him sheepishly when he raises his head.

“... you were gonna’ say that phrase, weren’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because I think I’ve said it enough for one night, and you’re probably sick of hearing it. So. Um. Reasons.”

“Mm-hm. Reasons?”

“Yeah. The best. Logical. Make perfect sense reasons - definitely not illogical, or contradictory reasons!”

And to your surprise, Dabi chuckles, shaking his head as he inclines it to your shoulder again. Maybe it is nice for him to hear you try to be funny about something that is objectively not funny - or maybe he appreciates that you are already aware that your reasoning is illogical.

“Next time we should talk about something else.”

“But what if talking to me about how much you hate yourself makes y’feel better?” he counters softly, lifting his head from your shoulder to toss his cigarette away. You glance at his lips only to quickly look away when you realize he caught you.

“Isn’t that too much weight for you?” you ask just as softly. Thankfully, he knows what you mean: by comparison, your body is fine. Your body is normal.

His no longer is.

“But I understand - don’t argue with me.”

“Okay.”

“Saw you lookin’.”

You hum.

“So do it.”

You glance at him again, brows narrowing back, and your stare drifts to his lips, then back up to his eyes. He nods his head a little in encouragement.

All you can muster is to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. You let it linger, let yourself feel it, and then you pull away. Dabi brings your head to his collar, though, making you lean against him

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You laugh airily, closing your eyes.

“It wasn’t.”

[think-through-pen]

To My Love (5)

Dear Love,

The wind blows me away like a boat without its oars. I care not where it takes me but would like to be taken to you, drifting into your arms.

As I write this letter, I deceive my heart. Tricking my mind into thinking that you read the letters in my dreams, I stain my page with tears the way a piece of newspaper lies on the cold earth, being trampled to tears. But what can I do if the love I dream to see in your eyes for me is never realised? Am I to dream on, or stop at once?

My fingers are peppered with blue ink, for I didn't realise that I had already completed the poem. I wrote and wrote and wrote 'til I filled the page and emptied my heart. The red ink of love is refilled and I write again endlessly about you. Do not read the blotched pages, for there you'll find my imperfections. I can show them to you, but you'll find them so sad that you won't be able to stop your sobs.

Here, I lull my pen to sleep, while I stare at the open sky finding your face among the stars.

Yours Lonely Love,

M

(PS: Please support me on Ko-fi as I want to pay for my college fees. https://ko-fi.com/writer_moin )

Taglist: @most-ment @jordynhaiku @a-moonlit-poet @vixen1012 @hauntedandwholesome @twisted0limbs @distilledmelancholies @sweetwarmcookies16 @sunlovemoon @somebodyssongbird @aaronawbra

[azulsluver]

If youre still up to write requests,,,may i request for yandere rook that writes letters to his darling? The letter contents, does he spray his cologne in it? What type of paper, how did it end up in your hands etc. Tq^^

tw. yandere, stalking, nasty rook being rook.

rook stans fr/j this seems more like a sort of headcanon than actually making a whole story about it.

Letters were a usual way of contacting old-styled people like Malleus and Crowley. But lately, you've been receiving letters from a particular admirer. Rook Hunt, a man you would see on certain days as you make trips downtown.

You would recognize the letter because of the signature and the smell. I wouldn't say he would spray any sort of cologne, more like his natural musky smell would latch onto the paper for how much he tends to kiss and rub on. And you definitely know it's him, you're not sure if you should be agitated or brush it off as an "It's a Rook Hunt thing, it wouldn't hurt anybody as long as you don't interfere." You would say as he describes how when you rubbed your eye too hard an eyelash fell. P.S he doesn’t stop even if you ignore it, he loves the chase.

Sometimes he sends you letters explaining deeper into your beauty and how he'd love to have you locked up and away. Small blotches of blood would appear in those certain letters. You really don’t wanna know if it’s his or something else dead. You recalled a time you wore an outfit really tight for a day and you got a letter on your bed when you came back from work. Nothing in your room was missing so you went ahead to see what he wrote you this time, although you might need to change your locks now…

The letter was wet. And sticky. God forbid the things he wrote in that certain letter, it was like reading off a 1700’s porn fic. Anyways.

Rook would use a tanned sheet and black ink, all written nicely in cursive. It gives off a nice style if he just wasn't him. Because you'd be randomly receiving your letters, anywhere you go will somehow end up in your hands. At first you would receive them by near death experiences. An arrow shot throw the air that’ll leave those around you cower in fear. You would get use to it at some point, the letter or poem is attached to the arrow with a royal purple ribbon. If Rook felt more creative he would use a white dove as a sign of love, trained to find you. The bird would land near a surface or in your hands if you noticed quickly enough, a ribbon tied around its back to hold the letter.

[bdslab]

INSTEAD OF GIVING THE GIFT OF A GRIP TOP SOCK THEY SHOULDVE GONE WITH DADAISTS DO DADS dadaist dads do dadaist doodads

[in reference to this gaston gag & its english translation which just used a poem by Seuuss]

Couldn't find the panels quick enough but the tongue twister they used in english was this:

Give me the gift of a grip-top sock, A clip drape shipshape tip top sock. Not your spinslick slapstick slip slop stock; But a plastic, elastic, grip-top sock. None of your fantastic slack swap slop From a slap-dash, flash-cash, haberdash shop. Not a knick knack, knitlock knockkneed, knickerbocker sock With a mock-shot blob-mottled trick-ticker top clock. Not a supersheet seersucker ruck sack sock, Not a spot-speckled frog-freckled cheap sheik's sock Off a hodge-podge moss-blotched scotch-botched block. Nothing slipshod drip drop flip flop or glip glop Tip me to a tip top grip top sock.

[ofluckandmagic]

Alixandre Dumont Headcanons

——————

He was born in Baldur’s Gate’s Lower City, and studied through the College of Lore. He never knew his biological parents.

Wanting to prove to himself that he wasn’t a ‘holed up’ scholar, he opted to explore the Entertainer background, and frequented parties in both the Upper City and Outer City with performances.

His father is a Guild Artisan, who primarily fashioned weaponry, but often sold to dealers in the Underground for a profit.

He’s fascinated by magic and mythology, but also had a habit of going against his Adoptive parent’s wishes. They had both hoped he would be an Artisan like them.

Alix is transmasc. He is mostly a guy, but also is not a guy. He uses He/Him and They/Them pronouns, but tends to prefer the former.

His Father wasn’t entirely thrilled about this revelation, despite wanting a son to begin with, and cut Alix out of the family when he went to college and discovered this about himself.

The Tadpole incident, and subsequent adventure was the first time Alix felt like he did not have to put on a performance about who he was, due to finally finding people who saw him as an equal in all ways.

He is Bisexual, Polyam and most certainly some flavor of Acespec. His preferences lean more masculine, but he also equally has found himself attracted to most people.

Alix is autistic and has severe anxiety. He manages the latter with a combination of his music and different herbs.

Despite his severe social anxiety, Alix is fantastic at using his bardic skills to perform songs or poems, showcasing a much more confident version of himself around his companions.

Charismatic but a smidge awkward when attempting to flirt, often blurting out his intentions without thinking only to overthink those interactions later.

Note: the next few headcanons deal primarily with the Startouched God AU

Alix was gifted godhood by being the son of a Tiefling and the star God, Celestian often referred to as the Star Wanderer, a title Alix upholds to this day.

He has tattoos all over his shoulders and back that are blotches of various purples, pinks and blues, which all actively display whatever constellations are in the night sky in all the realms depending on the season.

He spent his summers in the emerald environs, studying the tombs and scrolls there. In turn living among the refugees after his adoptive family disowned him.

The day he was taken by the Nautiloid, he was planning to leave to scout ahead for the refugees to have safe passage to leave the Emerald Grove.

Alix’s magic was partially sealed away and weakened by both the Tadpole as well as what he believes is Celestian abandoning him for a second time.

It is unclear whether this is the truth, or something Alix tells himself to deal with his trauma. Though, he does seem to have less of a grasp on his magic after the Tadpole.

Some minor deity-influenced powers include:

Foresight for weather based on star alignments and wind patterns (astronomy stuff)

The ability to draw magic from the stars themselves.

Minor medicinal/healing magic, often attributed to his bard skills

Mild wildshape-ing. He can take the form of a dark purple, black, and silver antlered stag after a like an attempt to become a Ceryneian Deer. It looks as though this its fur is made of constellations.

He can create small balls of light that resemble stars, which acts as using the ‘Light’ spell without a spell slot.

[sinligh]

You seek approval,

my subconscious implemented in my dreams. you build up illusions of yourself

and like a bridge thread of a spider web you give them to others

silky, sticky yet somehow,

you’re smooth enough to lure them to wrap you in all that you desire,

even if it’s their own pleasure.

you’re not stuck you’re waiting, for an ending or a beginning

an unsolicited death, an indefinite life

you fear your own madness but the edge of it is what you live for.

you wait, and wait and wait for love to visit the fragile home you made for yourself in this temporary world

but it’s not what you want, is it ?

because the moment it knocks on your door you rush to the arms of another,

paranoia or melancholy? It doesn’t matter.

you writhe and hiss until you shed a skin of a past life that you held on

For acceptance alone, if nothing else…

what is it that you truly desire?

•••

• Quotes: Susan Sontag/ Edgar Allan Poe/ Emily Dickinson/ Halsey/ Sylvia Plath/ Christa Wolf.

• Original context: Sinligh

• Art reference:

1. Art by Edward Burne-Jones. 2. Art from Sedmikrasky (Daisies). 3. Dave McKean, "Sandman" graphic novel. 4. Art by Roberto Ferri. 5. Painting by William Oxer. 6. Craww's "Woven".

[ambermaitrejean]

your kiss is a poem each word delivered with a caress of your tongue tracing my lips rhyming with my soul searching my heart for one more word of love

dip your pen in the well of my desire spattering blotches of passion across the white expanse where you write your intentions slow and sensual a declaration of your wild heart captured yet free to love

Poem by Amber Maitrejean 

[protanomaly-0c1420]

always in my head; forever present

and I said I love you, chanted it alongside your name like a prayer in my head. over and over as if it was beyond my control it repeated. as if it were the breath in my lungs that kept me alive, the blood in my veins was the love that pounded in my heart and in my head, filled me as if I was a cup, and poured over the edges

[keikakudori]

❝ Happy birthday, cap'n Aizen, ❞ Gin spoke with a smile, and to their peers this was merely an interaction between coworkers -- not uncommon to see a freshly-promoted captain still mingle with his previous superior, after all. Gin slowly produced from the depths of his lengthy black sleeves a book, not wrapped to obscure its identity, but at the very least fashioned with a neatly tied ribbon made into a bow. Leather, with fastenings to keep it shut. ❝ I gotcha this -- it's for your poetry. I noticed y'were runnin' low on pages for your typical diary escapades. ❞ A subtle tease, though Gin knew Aizen didn't write anything of actual substance into any sort of paper trail. Rather, maybe on occasion some erotic poems... but nothing so odd for a man of his tastes, surely.

❝ Ah, Gin --- thank you. ❞

Yes, there was nothing strange about witnessing a newly minted captain still fresh in his haori lingering about their former superior; but what a pleasant surprise this was. He'd gotten few gifts from Gin over the years and that meant that this had his attention in full. How his eyes gleamed as he looked down upon that book before large hands stretched out to take it in his own. The leather was soft as butter against his skin and his eyes moved over to the fastenings, the bow that it was wrapped in, before they rose again.

❝ What a thoughtful gift, ❞ he murmured in a fashion which fell underneath the umbrella term of mild. Yet there was something wickedly hot in his eyes for a second, a flash akin to the way a fish's scales would flicker with the gleam of sunlight before it vanished beneath the water once more. It wasn't anything that lingered, no -- but he was certain the younger man would catch sight of it.

His fingers brushed over the surface of that book again, studying it, before that touch went to the ribbon and lingered, thumb and forefinger rubbing languidly, even sensually, over the material as he studied it. Then Aizen's gaze rose towards Gin with something almost analytical in his gaze, as if something had energized his thoughts and mood both, mouth slanting into a measured smile as he tipped his head to one side momentarily, nothing more than a trifle or two of motion. It was a motion of thought.

❝ I will have to find reason to fill the pages up, won't I? ❞ Even as he spoke, his eyes were moving once more, visiting in brief glances to the marks which were apparent upon that pale skin, fading slowly into paler blotches as they healed. Strange, wasn't it, how those marks looked as if Gin had been bitten - and rather recently at that. Of course, this was nothing more than a display of mere solicitude upon Aizen's behalf as some might say. After all, Gin had plenty of reason to know otherwise.

Slowly, even deliberately, his hand stretched out and he was letting his fingers brush over a bruise. Nothing strange around their peers, no; his touch was given the way someone might touch such a spot with concern for what had happened. The brunet was something of a rather consummate actor, wasn't he? Nothing overt. Just a touch, nothing more. Then that hand pulled back, his gaze seeking out that hidden once with something gleaming in those pools of dark amber.

❝ I'm sure that I'll have the pages filled up soon enough. A most thoughtful gift; thank you, Gin - I genuinely appreciate this. I rather think I might have some inspiration to draw on later. ❞

And if his works included a few erotic poems that were inspired by someone, then that could be taken as a statement on its own. Yes, he had gotten few gifts from Gin over the years, but each of them held its own place of significance for him in his own life. Simple, useful gifts --- but his fingers were twitching, nearly, with the desire to find his calligraphy brushes and begin filling the paper within up, to bestow it with his thoughts. And as for the ribbon... well, if he could convey thoughts of how pretty it'd look around those wrists later ...

[snarky-magpie]

Well, ao3 is still down, I don't like this, here's a snippet from the next chapter of Something New (and yes, the line about reciting poems and singing songs is totally me poking fun at PS. but I like to amuse myself with stuff like that). “So. Good enough for you, Potter? Or do you require something else to be more comfortable? Pillow for your knees? Maybe I should recite a poem, too? Sing you a song?” Regulus asks, slipping into his usual acerbic tone, but James has always been a quick study. Between this afternoon and the moment Regulus forced him to his knees, he decided to become a master in all things Regulus as fast as possible, so he reads his panic-stricken expression like an open book. 

Regulus appears terrified at revealing the cards he usually holds close to the vest. Scared that James will throw them back in his face. Of course, their past antagonism doesn’t give him any reason to believe otherwise, but James would never entertain such an idea. Not for a second. He’s determined to cherish these glimpses at the real Regulus, commit every moment of openness to his memory, and revisit them when this night has long faded from view. 

“Yes. You’re good enough for me, Reggie. Better than good. Better than I deserve.” 

“That’s not—damn you—not what I meant, and you know it, you prat,” Regulus stammers out a denial. His thigh muscles tense under James’ hands, and when James looks up, he notices red blotches covering his cheeks. So. Praise flusters him. James tucks away the knowledge for future reference, ignoring how it infuses his belly with heat. There’s something heady about the impact his words have on the younger Black, but he can’t pinpoint what.

“Hmmm.” For a beat, James doesn’t expand on his response, transfixed by his hands coasting higher and higher. “It’s the truth, though.”

[versey21]

4th March

Holi by Christine Gittins

Holi is is the “Festival of Colours”, a Hindu celebration to welcome in the spring. To mark the triumph of the lighter part of the year over that of the dark, the celebrants colour each other with paints and dyes. Gittins’ poem seeks to capture the exuberance of the festival.

Source: People.com

Holi

A splodge of purple on your neck

and you can feel the temperature rising.

A rub of brown on your cheek

and your friend is your friend forever.

A cloud above your head

and your feet start itching to dance.

A scatter of yellow on your shirt

and your enemy is now your friend.

A blotch of blue on your nose

and the winter is soon forgotten.

A bucket of black down your back

and you are ready to beat the drum.

A stream of orange in the air

and your heart begins to surge.

A smear of ink on your forehead

and your misdeeds fade away.

A dusting of green on your eyelashes -

spring is surely on its way.

Holi is a spring festival that celebrates the victory of the supreme god Vishnu over the demon god Hiranyakashipu. Why the celebrants cover each other with dye is not fully explained.