poetic-sinema

[poetic-sinema]

HI TUMBLR FRIENDS! In the spirit of turning 27, I’m sharing a pet project I’ve been working on with a friend of mine. We’ve been wanting to start a podcast like every other millennial since college (which was a good decade ago, how am I this fucking old), so what better way to explore it than in the year of the pandemic. Digressions Include is a conversational podcast by two Singaporean women in their late 20s which explores topics like grief, adoption and sibling dynamics. But we also play dumb shit like Would You Rather and discuss the movies we’ve been watching since we’re all locked inside (tbh most times I just fangirl over Pedro Pascal while Dina tries to not cuss me out). We also invite friends, siblings, cousins, literally anyone who wants to be on with us so that we can have a fun conversation and ultimately digress from the topic at hand.

We know it has been a hard period for everyone in the current climate, so if you wanna just listen in on a conversation, we have 8 episodes of dumbassery ready for you. You can also let us know if you wanna be part of it, because honestly, I just wanna live through 2021 with no ragrats.

Digressions Include is also available on Apple and Google podcast.

[poetic-sinema]

[poetic-sinema]

Kahlil Gibran, “On Joy and Sorrow”

[poetic-sinema]

when Lemony Snicket wrote “I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you everyday” that hurt me

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 7 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can’t tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC

“The dough takes on a life of its own, it has its own way of reacting - sometimes massive, sometimes unhinged. It’s almost like taming a beast.”

Running. Cycling. Living. 

Cinnamon roll. Coffee, black - no sugar.

Plastic lighter. Warming up his worn out soul. 

Inhale. 

He no longer has eyes on him. 

The ring, the one he had worn for years after his wife had turned to ashes, sits inside the drawer of his bedside table. The window of this lived in apartment remains ajar. It collects the noise of people escaping their nests - into watering holes to start their mornings; running, cycling, living. 

He no longer concerns himself with the churning underbelly of the city. 

No longer an agent of its sewers. 

He wipes the sleep from his eyes, rises.

You know I dreamed about you

For twenty-nine years before I saw you

There is fresh bread on the kitchen table. Coffee, black - still piping. 

He now has a tacky mug, no longer takeaway cups, that has an A sprawled across it.

There is blueberry jam in the fridge.  

He didn’t wake up this morning hoping a white shirt would undo the atrocities he’d committed. It is linen, and he asks her that morning, before she departs for the bakery, why she wanted to spend her waking days and her nights asleep next to an old, fractured man. 

You know I dreamed about you I missed you for, for twenty-nine years

She tells him he is the only person she wants to come home to. 

-

A/N: Thas all folks yeehaw

#alejandro gillick #Alejandro gillick x oc #alejandro gillick x reader #benicio del toro #benicio del toro x reader #sicario #fic #the magnetism of being fractured

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 6 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can’t tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC

Alejandro allows her to grow into him. Into his spaces. Into the empty crevasse of his worn out heart, and of his aching mind. He allows her to take root. Place her thoughts, her interests, her love - all amassed in his chest. A little at a time. 

She is kind to him. Puts up with his evasiveness - sometimes unintentional, other times out of necessity. Touches him the way he yearns to be touched. Accompanies him the way he yearns for company. Exist in tandem for as long as he allows her to. 

He sees it in her dark eyes - she knows that there is no permanence to him. 

Once, when she had welcomed him into her kitchen, where he observes that she is truly at home surrounded by her appliances and away from the brimming crowd, she tells him about her love for the craft of making bread.

“The dough takes on a life of its own, it has its own way of reacting - sometimes massive, sometimes unhinged,” She describes, “It’s almost like taming a beast.” 

So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain God, I'm very, very frightened, I'll overdo it

“There are things about me I need to tell you.” 

He had bought a bottle of her favourite red that night. Welcomed her into his space, now more lived in. A record player to the side, a copy of a vinyl by The National - hers, one that spun the very song he has now long regarded as theirs. The shelves, once empty and only storing terrors, have been uncharacteristically replaced with science fiction - replicating, almost, the life he is leading now.

On the bedside table, next to the bed he has finally rested in, his ring.

He has eyes on him.

She doesn’t ask him, What is it? 

Instead she settles into the leather sofa, to the left of where Graver had once sat, and taps for him to come to her. She doesn’t hold her breath. She doesn’t flinch. 

Alejandro has known her for a while now, but he has never found himself stuttering. 

He tells her first about his wife. Then his daughter. There are things about Mexico that he ghosts over - like Kate, he is bound beneath the secrecy of a broken bureaucracy. He dismantles the pieces kept on his shelves - the ones he can still tell - one by broken one. Tells her that he is built from atrocities. A gravitational whirlpool of death, a wolf amongst wolves. 

But now a ghost. 

Alejandro Gillick, hardened by the ways of the world around him is morally bankrupt - there are no longer tears that can absolve him. So when his story ends, when he closes his chapter, all he does is stare at her. And she stares back. 

She doesn’t realise the breath she has been holding on to. Doesn’t flinch, until he reaches out and ghosts a touch above her fingers.

He suddenly becomes hyper aware of the way she is looking at him. 

His apartment reverts to a ghost of its past.

Dark eyes. Stuffy air. Claustrophobia. 

“I’m sorry.”

He almost doesn’t know what he’s apologising for. Almost doesn’t know if she still recognises the man that sits before her. The one she has fed with her own two hands, the order of coffee she has memorised, the worn out soul that she has allowed to ghost over her. 

But she reaches out, grazes her thumb over the scar of where the exit wound would have been. She kisses over the dent in the middle of his lips, wipes a gentle finger over it.

She doesn’t stay with him that night. Excuses herself for home, for him to allow her to digest the tragedy that had become him - the blood that his fingers had come to know so well, try to make sense of the anguish,  the pain, and the terror that he carries inside him. 

There is no permanence for Alejandro Gillick.  

#Alejandro gillick #alejandro gillick x reader #Alejandro gillick x oc #sicario #sicario imagines #benicio del toro #benicio del toro x reader #fic #the magnetism of being fractured

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 5 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can’t tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC

There is a break in his routine. 

No cinnamon roll. No coffee, black - no sugar. 

He has stocked up his fridge, though. There is butter. Lager. Stale bread. 

Blueberry jam.

But he finds himself humming to the chorus of the song she enjoys. You don’t even know her name, his insides mock. He thinks he is matching the baritone of its singer. Matching its rhythm. Matching a scene in his head of a lonely man, in a lonely kitchen, stale bread in the toaster and blueberry jam as company. 

I wanna hurry home to you Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up

Does it render him weak to crave to come home, he wonders. To have some sort of certainty. Develop a taste for a favourite meal. A good place for coffee. Be able to remember the tune of a song stuck in his head. 

For a long time, Alejandro Gillick, a man painted by his anguish, deserved none of these things. No semblance of normalcy. No cradle for comfort. Nothing, before he extinguishes the burning of his  raging fury.

Multiple bullets buried with Alarcon. A couple more, he is sure, has been buried with Reyes. 

The thirst of his vengeance only unfurls, he realises, but will never be quenched.

So when he gets into a routine - cinnamon roll, coffee, black - no sugar. People running, cycling, living - he finds his rage quietly dissipate.

It doesn’t disappear - never as a whole. Only muted, much like the song she enjoys in the middle of a bustling bakery, for every day that it plays quiet in the background - memorised. 

But it is her voice - sweet, sticky, thick as honey - that melts through the agony of his memories.

His toaster dings, the stale bread is ready. His jam is on the table. He spreads it, for a moment losing himself to the voice of a good man preparing breakfast for his daughter - the voice that informs his wife that he has to travel for a little while, “Two, maybe three nights in Bogota.”

She smiles. Like honey. Like wine. “Just come home to me,” She says, and he knows she is being kind, “Come home to us.” She kisses the dent in the middle of his lips, wipes a gentle finger over it.

He isn’t sure if he’d conjured that memory just so it could provide a semblance of comfort. 

The futility of aching to have someone who wants to come home to him. 

//

There are eyes on him.

He clicks the plastic lighter twice, finding a flame to warm his worn out soul. It is late again, just like the last time. Only now, it is intentional. 

Inhale.

The bell chimes.

She looks up, smiles, acts as if she hadn’t seen him through the window that stares out into the cobbled street. Approaches him with apprehension, “I thought I’d scared you off.”

He shakes his head, chuckles warmly, much like the good man preparing breakfast for his daughter. 

Her voice is sweet, and thick, and honey to his night. 

“It’ll take a lot more to scare me.”

#alejandro gillick #alejandro gillick x reader #Alejandro gillick x oc #sicario #sicario fic #sicario imagines #fic #benicio del toro #benicio del toro x reader #the magnetism of being fractured

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 4 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can’t tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC

It is in his code to never linger in the same place for too long. 

He doesn’t have a favourite meal. 

Nor a preferred place for coffee.

You’re here again, the voice echoes at the back of his head. He has come to terms with his inability to drown it out. Perhaps it’s his subconscious missing taking orders from Graver. 

“They’ve just released a new record, ye know.”

She tells him, in her voice, honeyed like the night - like sugar, and cinnamon, like cream in this  ominous humidity. It is late when he comes in - when the bell chimes, and all that is left on the trays are stale bread. The patrons, once littering the tables like he’s used to early in the morning - their company encasing his existence - have retired for the night.

Only he remains. With a cinnamon roll. Coffee, black - no sugar.

And her. 

“Do you enjoy their new record?” He asks. 

She is over the counter now, wiping down the surface with a disinfectant. Her shoulders roll as she stretches to reach a corner. A wild curl tumbles forward, distracts her vision for a second before she wipes it back behind her ear.

“Hmm,” She considers for a moment, paints her gaze on him again, “It’ll probably need a couple more listens.”

He nods. Eyes dropping down onto the rim of his coffee cup, then to the gold band that encircles his finger.

She has an aloofness about his presence that makes him envious of her. If she only knew the terror he has inflicted by as little as a gaze. But here she was. For every day he is in here - a warm smile, and her honeyed voice - knowing by heart how he likes his coffee, how he accompanies it with a cinnamon bun, and how he stays within himself in his own company, to be distracted only by the same song he has come to regard as theirs. 

There is an intimacy there that he hasn’t shared with anyone in a long time.

“I don’t mean to chase you out,” She speaks from behind him, still over the counter.

His gaze averts from the dimly lit streets, over to her when she treads across the concrete. She has a doggy bag with her, hands it to him.

“What’s this?” His tone is unintentionally wary. 

“Ground coffee.” 

She explains that Santiago - her help behind the counter that takes off before closing - had grounded an excess this morning. There is something in her tone that suggests this was an excuse. 

“And there’s a baguette too.” His grin is teasing as he looks up from examining the contents of the manilla bag. 

“The cinnamon roll’s gonna kill you one of these days.” 

He laughs - with no bitterness, no sarcasm, unlike how he laughs at one of Graver’s jokes. 

Already dead.

“Pop it in the toaster in the morning, it goes well with blueberry jam.”

His daughter loved blueberry jam. He smiles. 

I want to start over, I want to be winning Way out of sync from the beginning

She cuts the music right before it reaches the chorus he has come to memorise. She is somewhere in the back, somewhere out of his periphery. He takes it as cue for his departure. 

“Thank you.” He calls. 

The bell chimes. 

The door shuts. 

Alejandro doesn’t allow her the chance to see him off. 

Unlike how Kate had seen him off with trembling fingers short of pulling the trigger. Unlike how Isabel - Carina - had seen him off with eyes glossed over at the loss of hope. Unlike the gentle, sweet kiss of his wife, and embrace of his daughter that had seen him off before he returned to their bodies, defiled. 

There are eyes on him, but his feet has already taken him onto the cobbled streets, crossing over to the other side.

#Alejandro gillick #Alejandro gillick x oc #alejandro gillick x reader #fic #sicario #benicio del toro #benicio del toro x reader #the magnetism of being fractured

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 3 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can’t tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC

He has his shades drawn over his eyes. The metallic sheen of the frame catching the afternoon sun. It is unusually balmy in this cloudy city today.

A warm smile, and a, What can I get you?

A warm smile, and a, What can I get you?

A warm smile, and a, What can I get you?

When he reaches the front of the line, he discovers that there hadn’t been a need to rehearse what he wants in his head.

“Cinnamon roll. Coffee, black - no sugar.”

She has it prepared - a warm smile, and a, Here ya go.

Her voice is honeyed, like the morning. Sticky, like sugar - like blood - dripping in his memory. A meal prepared, ready for him to take to his table - the very one that overlooks the cobbled street. The one where he observes people running, cycling, living.

There is an order barking at the back of his head, tugging him by the collar, trying to drag him away. Further. Too close, he hears the growl of his own command, you are not a creature worth knowing. 

But his feet stand rooted. There is a yearning - for the cinnamon roll, rich, sweet, delicate, to wash it down with his coffee, black, no sugar - for the gentle voice, honeyed like the rich, afternoon sun. He collects what has been prepared for him, allows her a nod - gratitude in silence, and moves into his familiar cove. Overlooking the cobbled street. 

Running. Cycling. 

Living.

He is like a gravity well. Everything that comes to him gets sucked in. The body of his wife. The terror of his daughter. Kate’s eyes. Isabel’s cries. All thrown - smothered - in the pool of his catastrophe. 

I made a mistake in my life today Everything I love gets lost in the drawers

“You like this song.” His voice startles her.

She looks up from wiping down the table next to his. 

The whirl of the ceiling fan becomes distant. The chatter of this worn down bakery drowns out. The clanking of plates, of metal, of glass suddenly silent. Suddenly it feels too humid. Suddenly it feels claustrophobic.

She blinks. She has dark eyes.

The noise returns.

“Y-yes?” It is unintentional that her response comes out as a question. 

She doesn’t know where to put her hands, nor where to avert her eyes. There is something about looking at the man before her - she has memorised the deep hazel that caves beneath his heavy brow bone, learned the lines beneath his tired eyes. Something like steel. Unwavering. 

There is amusement that plays on his lips. His gaze drops to the rim of his coffee cup, tracing a gentle thumb across the dark stain the brew has created, “I hear it every time I’m here.”

Her eyes fall onto the ring around his finger. 

She nods, “The National.”

His brows furrow. They are thick, untrimmed - like the fur of a wolf, she notes.

“The band.”

Alejandro nods, “Never heard.” 

He allows a small smile to play on the edges of his lips, then turns his attention back to observing the streets. 

He has eyes on him. 

#Alejandro gillick #Alejandro gillick x oc #Alejandro gillick imagines #sicario fic #sicario #sicario imagines #benicio del toro #benicio del toro x reader #the magnetism of being fractured #fanfiction

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 2 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can’t tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC

He doesn’t wake from a cold sweat this morning. There is no urgency of his heart pounding through his chest. No cracking of phantom gun shots, like fireworks, in his head. Instead he wakes to the breeze from a window he’d left ajar. How bold, he scoffs at himself, to think that you are invincible now. 

He strolls over to the window, eyes streaming over the old city. He takes in the early figures escaping their nests and into watering holes, running, cycling - living. He can’t help but find the tranquility of it all just a little jarring. It almost seems as if the underbelly isn’t churning. As if he wasn’t an agent from the sewers where chaos brews.

Not anymore.  

He pulls the window shut. The apartment becomes claustrophobic. The silence that pierces through these empty passages, the very halls he calls home, becomes deafening. Ghosts dislike the silence. It is like an acid - eats away at you.

The last of his coffee grounds had been used on Graver. Matt doesn’t drink from the mug he offered, he remembers. No, Matt was too cautious for that. Matt was cautious enough to have had stuck a sticky note alerting Alejandro of his arrival. Don’t fucking shoot me. Matt has a sense of humour he enjoyed. 

His coffee grounds hadn’t been replenished since - like most things in this empty apartment. He reminds himself to do it - has been reminding himself for months now. 

Alejandro does not have a favourite meal. But he ends up with a cinnamon roll. The sugar sticks to his teeth. In the same seat with a view of the street becoming busy from the morning. 

Running, cycling, living. 

Running, cycling, living. 

Running, cycling, living.

He has wondered often about Kate. The coffee that pools within his cup is black, no sugar. He plays with the gold band around his finger. He wonders if she still smokes Indian Creek, if she still smokes at all. He wonders if her routine had been turned on its head. Just like her morality.  

Funny. There had never been guilt over the countless he has strapped to a seat, stripped off their dignity. No guilt over broken bones, fractured skulls, lacerated lungs. The difference is that they deserved what was coming for them, he convinces himself, Kate did not. 

He wonders if her eyes - cold, magnetic, gray - still possess the same fright for the wolf that has ceased to exist. The crystals that brim, the very ones he wipes away with his gun cocked beneath her chin as he coaxes her arm down, will they still be warm. 

Sign it.

She is no longer his to wonder about.

A little more stupid, a little more scared Every minute, more unprepared

He drags his chair back. Steps out onto the pavement. Clicks his plastic lighter to warm his worn out soul. Inhales.

There are eyes on him. 

He glances back up towards the bakery.

#Alejandro gillick x oc #original character #alejandro gillick x reader #sicario #Kate macer #sicario fic #fanfiction #benicio del toro x reader #benicio del toro #the magnetism of being fractured

[poetic-sinema]

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured | 1 of 7

Summary: You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can't tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still reside within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

Pairing: Alejandro Gillick (Sicario) x OC 

He didn’t wake up this morning hoping a white shirt would undo the atrocities he’d committed. It was linen, draped over his aging body like a shroud. Death had always been an elusive neighbour. Always looming, lumbering between his periphery, but never inviting him in.  

The street lights create shadows in the wake of his stride. It is in his code to never linger in the same place for too long. He doesn’t have a favourite meal. Nor a preferred place for coffee, or a watering hole to drown in his poison. He’d be easy to shop for at Christmas.

Standing at the punch table, swallowing punch Can't pay attention to the sound of anyone

The bell chimes, denoting his entrance. The music decorating the background of the bakery continues in a low timbre. For such a low baritone, it is uncharacteristically upbeat. This place is two blocks from his apartment. He’d come in once, maybe twice, for coffee. He heads to the counter, greeted by a warm smile and a What can I get you? 

There are eyes that follow him.

He has gotten used to looking over his shoulder. It was Death teasing him, he has come to reconcile. Sometimes in mere hints, but other times elaborate. He’d come close once at coming to greet his enigmatic neighbour. A collection of sand and dust encroaching his lungs, and the beauty of darkness surrounding him. His bones had been shattered beneath his sagging skin. Penance for his deeds.

He remembers banging violently at Death’s door - thumping, begging, crying. Take me in, there is a desperation in the howl of this broken man, there is nothing left for me here. He weeps, first beneath the cold of the desert winds, and then through its scorching heat - in, and out, and in again into consciousness.

But Death wasn’t kind, nor was he forgiving. Death looks down on the beggar’s worn hands, sees the blood of his wife, his child, and his rage. Fingers, ones that had once held the gentle hands of his daughter’s, that welcomed the loving embrace of his wife - are only stained by the residue of the dead. Too dark, Death said from the other side, too dirty.

Consciousness, although unwelcomed, drove him from death’s door to a town, and then the city.  Patched up, restored. Back where he came from. 

He doesn’t stay in a place for too long, but he returns anyway. Where the dust has collected in the barren apartment. Where the shelves have been decorated with a collection of sorrows - a fresh instalment for the remainder of his nights. He takes his sleep on the leather couch that night - the very one Graver had sat on to unleash the beast. He has never used the bed.

Despite the eyes, he sits in the window that stares out onto the street. Wolves down his cinnamon roll in under a second. The juxtaposition of a killer and his bun. He drowns the sweet that is sticking to his teeth with coffee. Black. No sugar.

The night is suddenly cold when he steps out. The sheen of his wedding band catches the light of the street lamp. He clicks the plastic lighter to warm his worn out soul. Inhales. 

The chatter begins to dim as he strolls back to his apartment.

What he’s got is half a wish granted. That even though he is not dead, it has become a fact to the world that he is. Erased. Cleaned. There were people high up in the arrogance of this broken bureaucracy that could validate this. The confirmation of his departure.

Alejandro Gillick does not need a different face. He does not need a different name. A man, once a wolf in the land of wolves is now a ghost. Merely lingering in the periphery of the living. 

He takes his sleep on the leather couch again. 

-

*The song accompanying this series is The National’s Slow Show from their album Boxer

#alejandro gillick #matt graver #sicario #sicario day of the soldado #benicio del toro #alejandro gillick x reader #benicio del toro x reader #sicario imagines #sicario scenarios #josh brolin #Alejandro gillick x oc #Alejandro gillick imagines #fic #fanfiction #the magnetism of being fractured

[poetic-sinema]

my grandma embroidered little flowers on her clothes like i do and she taught me how to cook asparagus so it actually tasted good and she wrote about grief so simply that i could make sense of it when i was a child that had just lost a grandfather and sometimes i wonder how much of me is made of her and how much of me is my uncle and how much is my best friend and how much is my little sister. i wonder how much of them is me.

[poetic-sinema]

no. 5 | insta: @poetic.sinema 

#love #poetry #poetry community #writer #writing #writerlife #yearning #quotes #longing #feelings #brokenhearts #creativewriting #soulmatequotes #prose #soulmate #soulmates #lovers

[poetic-sinema]

[poetic-sinema]

no. 2 | insta: @poetic.sinema

#poetry #poet's society #prose #original prose #writing #love #feelings #darkness #wriiting community

[poetic-sinema]

Poetic Sinema’s Masterlist

This is where everything falls into chronology. Anything tagged with * has a warning, and most of the time (if not always) the warning is smut, so 18+ and proceed with caution my good dudes.

It’s a long list, so everything is under the cut. 

Drabbles:

Unrattle

Blue Eyed and Babbling*

Breathe In Your Dust

Warm Arms

Demons

Figures

Series:

The Magnetism Of Being Fractured (Completed) You don’t see Alejandro live his life. You can't tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still resides within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

A Sicario fic I wrote and completed in the middle of a depressive episode thinking I’d get better if I explored the anatomy of an assassin. 

01. A favourite meal 02. Beneath the stoicism 03. The ferocity of memories 04. Dissect and arrest 05. Songs that become broken when we are broken  06. A dimension beyond his silences 07. The end of the world

Silk Tea Silk Tea is a series of oneshots written across the central theme of a couple falling in love through the course of an arranged marriage. All characters are original. This series can be read separately, or in chronology (which can be found in the masterlist). B.C. Timeline. Silk Tea is separated into 2 timeliness; B.C. which looks into the relationship blossoming, and A.D. which occurs after the relationship has been established. A.D. will remain unchaptered as they exist more as individual anecdotes (an also just an excuse for me to write smut for these characters hA).

B.C.:

1.1 Rise 1.2 Seeker 1.3 Tide 1.4 Quiver 1.5. Craters

A.D.:

Breathe*  Real Love* Chisel Lights In The Morning

Today, We Dance A lot has to do with yearning. Today, We Dance is taken from the last line in this story. It discusses the purpose of companionship, and how, especially in quiet desperation, we tend to seek aspects of people that we think completes us. It deals with the rejection of circumstantial love, if it is love to begin with.

Many angst. Each chapter contains flashbacks. Written after watching A Man And A Woman in hopes of being able to capture the same level of intensity - an impossible task. Had a really hard time chaptering this because I wrote it in one huge chunk lmao played myself.

One Two Three Four Five

Getaran Getaran, which means quiver in Malay, follows the vein of reconnection. An artist travels to see his old friend get married a second time. He falls into conversation with his younger sister, and finds that he is quite taken by her. Chronicles an anxious man falling into an anxious love.

Getaran was written right after Semblance. It follows the same story arc, and encounters the same settings. Wrote this while listening to a lot of Radiohead and Massive Attack. Incomplete.

One Two Three Four Five* Six

Semblance It is a number of years later when Lou Taenaka encounters her former guitar instructor. He is still as calm and collected, but the semblance of attraction is undeniable.  

Semblance was written as a Myles Kennedy student/teacher fanfic in the middle of uni. If you don’t know who Myles Kennedy is, it’s okay because I too want to crawl into a hole and die having just written this. This is the earliest work I am posting on this platform and it’s essentially leans more towards a character study. This story was never completed, and will never be completed (thank you lort).

Plot: trash/10, Characters: not bad just reread it, trash/10, Writing style: trash/10

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The Internet Lives Forever (Older Work):

Mibba So. There are older work I’ve written from 10-12 years ago that have been on Mibba for that duration of time. These were all fanfiction. Very. Bad. Fanfiction. But if you’re interested in seeing from which depth of hell my writing has evolved from, you can find it here. This is the earliest record anything I’ve written surviving on any platform.

Tumblr In the same vein, I had also opened a Tumblr called Sophrosxnne in 2016 when I was in the KHH fandom. This is closer to my writing style now, although they’re all still cringey as fuqq. 10/10 would burn at the stake, but you really just live and learn. You can find my work here.

#masterlist #writing #fiction #imagines #fanfiction

[poetic-sinema]