#so much kitsch it's glorious

[maxescheibechlinichacheli]

#the next prince #the next prince the series #thai bl #bl drama #bl series #upcoming bl #nunew chawarin #zee pruk #maxine gifs #this pilot was everything #I feel a new obsession coming #those gorgeous sets and costumes #so much kitsch it's glorious

[proosh]

Gilbert has a scent kink and Francis indulges him in ways Gil didn't even know possible

oh my god this took so much longer than intended I'm so so sorry. please enjoy.

(side acknowledgement: eternal thanks to @grapeautumn for letting me borrow their ideas for Fran's apartment. please go ask them for specifics because it's glorious and terrible.) Pairing: FraPru/PruFra Prompt: Scent kink Rating: Teen? 16+??? (Sensual/suggestive but nothing explicit) Length: ~1.4k words Content Warnings: Scent kink, animal comparisons, gratuitous French petnames EDITED TO ADD: LINK TO FANART AT THE BOTTOM!!!

There was no way on God’s green earth Gilbert was at all ever trusting Francis’ driving, let alone in actual streets of Paris. That’s how he ended up walking from the train station with his bag slung over his shoulder and then hiking up three goddamned flights of stairs to get to Francis’ apartment.

The next world meeting was to be held in Paris, so it really only made sense for him to stay at Francis’ apartment for the duration. Three flights of stairs aside, it was a nice place. Kind of bougie, but familiar and suitable for the… thing they had together. Certainly not a capital-R-Relationship, but their… relationship. Whatever that was.

It’s how he ended up slightly winded knocking on the apartment door – which opened far too quickly for his taste.

Francis was smiling at him, feline, resplendent, shirt half-open to the belly to reveal everything from collarbone to sternum. He was holding a glass of wine.

“Bonjour! Please, do come in, I��ve been waiting.”

Gilbert did as commanded and stepped into the apartment, bracing himself against being enveloped by the Bohemian kitsch that dominated it. He failed, in no small part thanks to Fran appearing at his side and taking his bag and catching him off-guard in the process.

The apartment was familiar to Gilbert: Centuries blended into one another and competed for sensory recognition in garish colours and bold textures and… His nose wrinkled.

Francis was babbling about one thing or another – “–ly makes sense to share a bed, it would be discourteous of me to force you to the couch–” – but Gilbert tuned him out, pursing his lips and focusing on inhaling through his nose.

The usual light, familiar scent of antiques and Francis’ usual perfumes was being undercut by something else that was bringing him up short and making a strange part of his hindbrain sit up and pay attention.

Francis had noticed his distraction and had stopped talking, regarding him with a coy smile. Gilbert eyed him suspiciously, his nostrils flaring to try and narrow in on the… Something in the air. Francis was smiling far too indulgently for this not to be a mere something.

“What… Is that,” Gilbert asked, in a way that wasn’t really a question.

“What is what, cher?” Francis said, swirling the wine in his glass and sniffing it daintily, all in that lilting way that made Gilbert want to sink his teeth into his throat and shake him like a rabbit.

Curiousity and prey drive sufficiently piqued, Gilbert tilted his head to the side and noticed that Francis was not nearly as nonchalant as he was pretending to be… he was keeping his gaze on Gilbert with a guarded, almost polite, wariness.

This was a game, then. 

He stepped closer to Francis, keeping his eyes trained on the man lest he get any ideas and try to escape somehow.

“You were waiting for me,” he stated plainly, watching the corner of Francis’ mouth twitch in confusion.

“Of course. I’ve missed you, cher.”

“You were waiting for me, so I would notice,” Gilbert said, ignoring the flutter in his chest and instead approaching with careful steps.

Francis backed up, and almost seemingly allowed himself to be hounded back against the apartment wallpaper – a floral display, much like the man himself.

Francis wet his mouth with a teasing tongue and looked much like the cat that had got the mouse. Conniving bastard was preening in his victory.

“An old thing. Don’t you remember? Back when it was the fashion to smell like an elk in rut.” He pouted, then, batting his lashes. “I found it while doing some cleaning. Do you not like it?”

Gilbert’s hand had switched from pinning him to gripping the lapel of his open shirt — silk, lovely, slippery like the man — and he made a confused noise somewhere between a growl and a whine.

“You— planned to wear it? To force me to work it out?”

The entire time something off had been in the air, a slight note ajar from the usual, familiar scentscape of Francis and his apartment: floral perfume, the smell of antiques, Francis’ own clean, natural musk, and… Then something atop that, that made Gilbert’s ears perk up and something in his hindbrain demand to be investigated.

He had him against the wall, now. They were the same height, so Gilbert pinned him with a firm hand across Francis’ collarbone and peered at him suspiciously.

Francis, to his credit, was back to giving him that coy smile. He was always a man who liked this sort of game.

Gilbert’s nose wrinkled again as he sniffed and was met with that something again, stronger now. He leaned in, thoroughly invading Francis’ personal space in the process and inhaled slower, letting the notes register on his palate — much like how Francis would be scenting his wine, almost.

He hummed blinking as he processed it, and then leaned in close enough that he could feel the prickle of excitement along the fine hairs of Francis’ throat, and the pulse of his heartbeat beneath his hand. It was richer here — whatever it was — and mingled with the natural scent of Francis’ own skin in a way that was making Gilbert’s teeth ache in a way he couldn’t quite identify.

Gilbert’s nose swung from his throat to his bared chest. Francis was hairy just about everywhere, and the golden fur of his chest might have been the prize of his pelt. He’d been showing it off, too. It was inviting and the musk was strongest here and Gilbert was pressing his nose against the soft hair—

The something clicked into his memory register like the cartridge of a rifle being loaded.

He was back to Francis’s face, nose to nose with accusation before the thought was even fully formed.

“What is that perfume,” Gilbert half-snarled with hazy recollection that was making his belly do uncertain twists of confused want.

Francis pursed his mouth in polite amusement and seemed thoroughly unbothered by the bordering on rough treatment.

“Yes, yes. My clever plan: to make you a madman of desire, hunting down your prey.”

His words had a slightly flippant tone that gave Gilbert pause.

“Am I,” he tested, lightly, “Doing something wrong?” 

Francis batted his lashes at him again.

“Mm. Marginally caught up in the details, cher. Allow me to recontextualise.” He pressed the pads of his fingers — when had he put down that wine glass? — against Gilbert’s chest lightly, and deliberately trailed them down his front. A coil of tense frisson followed.

“I am a humble elk in rut, you see,” he mused, “and you can smell. You, my sweet hound, have scented me, and now you come to hunt. How does that sound, cher?”

Gilbert did smell him. It had been a type of perfume Francis had worn extensively in centuries past, and it had been something Gilbert had chased after and it had been what was making his hindbrain react with such primitive hunting instinct: Francis was deliberately activating his prey drive. It made a growl rise unbidden in his throat. 

Francis didn’t have the opportunity to bat his eyelashes again before Gilbert was on him, pinning him fully against the wall and forcing his face into the space between his jaw and throat with hungry, savage kisses and bites and everything else in between.

He was pressing Francis back against the garish wallpaper and was forcing himself between his legs, slotting neatly against his body. Francis was hitching a leg up against Gilbert’s hip as they grinded together in a delicious slide of bodies and Gilbert attacked his neck with teeth and tongue to try and get more of that musky, rich scent.

Francis was patting him on the shoulder with some degree of urgency, which made Gilbert come up for air to check– 

He was beautiful, like this. Flushed and visibly winded, hair a mess and eyes wide and dark, mouth pulled into a crooked smile of delight. 

“–Ah, cher, would you like to relocate? I’m sure a more horizontal surface may suit our purposes bett–”

Whatever Francis had been about to propose was irrelevant, because Gilbert didn’t need a horizontal surface at all to shove his face back down into Francis’ chest to huff the collected musk and sweat there and nose against the lush blond curls.

Francis had gone through all this effort to present himself as prey to be hunted, and Gilbert was nothing if not dedicated: If Francis wanted to be mauled, then mauled he would be. 

EDITED TO ADD: thank you to kopifuran for this incredible fanart?? Please go show them some love!!

#hws prussia #hws france #frapru #prufra #mine #my writing #my fic

[cartograffiti]

April '24 reading diary

This month, I finished 9 books in a whole bunch of genres, some of which were fab!

I read a lot more nonfiction than usual this month, starting with On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes. Alexandra Horowitz recorded her conversations with a variety of experts as they walked through neighborhoods looking for examples of their interests, from bugs to typography to whatever attracted her toddler son. Like some reviewers I saw, I was disappointed that not all the walks were in the same neighborhood, which had appeared to be the premise. I also strongly recommend listening to the audiobook, as I did, because some of the conversational wording transcribed from her recordings is unnatural or repetitive written out. Anyway, a lot of the chapters are interesting, and the general theme of appreciating different things about your area by choosing to key in on a thought is great. A pleasant book.

Two great nonfiction books about clothes: Cally Blackman's 100 Years of Fashion, and Behind the Seams by Dolly Parton with Holly George-Warren and Rebecca Seaver. Both books are about fashion in the 20th century and a little bit beyond, and both are huge, heavy books full of the most glorious, well-chosen photographs. Blackman's is nicely organized around themes and not strictly by year, showing not only high fashion, but also the clothes of counterculture scenes and working women. This is a great resource. Parton's book, of course, is about her own stage costumes, and some other clothes people have made for her. It's also a memoir of her changing style and the professionals who contributed to it. Lots of fun.

The best nonfiction book I read this month (and possibly in the past year) was Africa Is Not a Country: Notes on a Bright Continent by Dipo Faloyin. His written voice is exceptionally strong, able to explain large amounts of historical context without it ever feeling dry or overwhelming. Faloyin makes powerful breakdowns of historical misconceptions and contemporary stereotypes, includes a hugely funny "how-to" guide on writing an awful movie set in Africa, and draws memorable comparisons between political corruption in Western and African nations. There is a description of young men striving not to allow anyone outside their friend group to hold the highest offices in their country, phrased so that the final punch line is that they were talking about the United Kingdom that I think is one of the most effective freeform arguments I've ever read. I very much hope other people will pick this up.

On the fiction side, Dial A for Aunties by Jesse Q. Sutanto has been on my radar since it was new. I understand why it was such a hit, but I was disappointed! The book was advertised to me as a murder mystery and romance, neither of which I'd say is true. It's a family screwball comedy! It does that very well, but I got tired of the number of plot beats that required someone to be very silly indeed, and I was never sold on Meddy's logic in multiple plot threads. I don't think I'll read the next.

The short story collection Filthy Animals by Brandon Taylor is a mixed bag, like every short story collection in the world. I think he's very skilled on a technical level at creating characters with complete lives and histories implied in a short space, and some of them have interesting things to say about how people reach out, lash out, struggle with guilt and illness, and the problem of kitsch (not in the sense of knickknacks, but of the denial of shit). I do find the stories pretty bleak, and I was very unimpressed with the interconnecting elements. The stories that link are about Lionel, a test proctor who recently survived a suicide attempt, and several dancers, two of whom he begins a poly relationship with. Except for the first, these stories neither stand alone well nor build on each other as a sequence. The relationship is written with a dangerous, taboo edge, largely because these people never properly have any conversations about it, which I found irritating. I'm glad to be familiar with Taylor's work now, but I think he gets in his own way trying to shock in all of the weaker stories.

I also read a single Edith Wharton short story that I didn't realize wasn't a novel until I opened the ebook. It's the wonderful "Xingu," in which a ladies' intellectual lunch club finds themselves at a loss trying to talk to their superior and unfriendly guest, until their least popular member pipes up to ask a question about Xingu. They all follow her lead, trying all the while to infer what, exactly, Xingu is. Great little satire of how people want to look current more than they want to enjoy things.

I grabbed Heartstopper vol. 1 because I needed a banned comic for a challenge, and that's almost synonymous with being a popular LGBTQ+ comic for young people. Frustrated hand gestures. Anyway, this is very sweet, would be totally appropriate for middle schoolers as well (it's sold as YA), and I somehow hadn't realized before that Alice Oseman is the same person who did a webcomic about a band I used to read from time to time when I was younger. I would have liked this a lot more when I was a teenager myself, but it's nostalgic and happy, so I may read the rest.

I'm still reading Lymond and in early April I finished the 3rd of 6 books, The Disorderly Knights. I had a very messy response to this one! I did in fact enjoy it tremendously, and it's technically excellent, full of things that grabbed me and kept me excited to read more every night. I love my problematic bestie Francis and many of the people around him. It also most sharply of the series so far shows upsetting attitudes of Dunnett's by participating in '60s rape culture and Islamophobia that I went beyond being critical of to angry about. It simply wouldn't have been published like this now. I still gave it four stars and I may even go up to five when I have a better sense of how it fits in the long arc of the series. In a thinner or less tailored to me series, these feelings couldn't coexist, but they do, and that's very much shared by everyone else I've been talking to the books about. I'm really glad I have people to talk to them about! It's a long-standing but not very Online^tm fandom. I'm already halfway through the next book.

#reading diary #bookblr #April is the sweetest month of the year

[handgiven]

if works of clay could speak to the hands that cared for them, crafted them, molded them, soothed their edges and found beauty in the ones that survived the firing process. if bees could apologize for every sting against the hands that hold their home together, praise them for their good works with use and reward their endless labor. that is what he does when he tries to come in quietly after a drunken night, stands in the kitchen at ungodly hours checking tea to steep it just so, just right. when he argues and questions em's thoughts and plans and intentions with furrowed brow and flaring eyes but his hands are tucked in tight to his sides like if he doesn't hide his worry it will be all that he is. when the sleeping fallen wakes with phantom fingers through his hair and a blanket drawn up high and tucked in tight. when things like seashells and fridge magnets and goofy tourist kitsch accumulate on counters and plant pots and door frames. when prayers start to sound like ones to god and not to mercy, or maybe both, because there has never been a mercy like em or a faith like john's in his, and it is fragile and it is stained but he is smudging paint off a little pot he made just for the flowers that em will grow, and he is hoping it's enough, or nearly. just enough to repay it all, everything. just maybe.

make emmanuel feel loved !!🥺 / @talentforlying

if works of clay could speak to the glue that holds them together, even as ancient pressure pulls them apart, gilded seams mended with rough hands and a gentle heart. if the beekeeper could reliably convey his thanks to the bee for the way it recognises him every day, over and over, even as he's changed atom by atom into somebody else, sometimes multiple atoms at a time. if there was a way to simply speak the truth that speaks itself through wandering and finding oneself again in the other's proximity, upon his couch, underneath his blanket, with his hand in one's hair. or drinking his tea. or arguing with him over one more righteous thought. or welcoming him home after a while apart, after a while of worrying and not much else.

it's easy to feel like he doesn't do enough. it's easy to slip into that thought because it has been his home since the dawn of time, the driving force underneath all of that glorious need for kindness. g-d is away from his mind, yet the gift from him remains, and remains in emmanuel's hands and so he is still driven to do more, to be more. john can barely comprehend the reach of loyalty so divine. the reach of adoration without pedestals, without bowed heads, without mighty voices, -- and yet so great. so ethereal. yetnemmanuel does not ask him to comprehend. he asks him merely to stay and withstand it. every day, every moment he sees him. it might be too great an ask of a man who was once just human.

it's not spoken, however. none of it is ever spoken. what if one or the other should flee at words too clear? gestures and reliability is where their love resides. warmth and forgiveness. tending and being tended to. knick knacks upon the window sill. one doing his best to build off the other for the both of them to prosper, or at least survive another day. – it doesn't take long for the flowerpot to find its purpose among it all, small seedling of basil opening up more and more of its leaves over the few painted fingerprints left behind by a man too eager to try if the paint job has dried down yet (it hadn't, and so they stuck, forever).

#talentforlying #▻ 𝐺𝐸𝑁𝐸𝑅𝐴𝐿 、answered ⁽ ᵗʰᵃⁿᵏˢ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗᵘⁿᶦⁿᵍ ᶦⁿ ⁾ #I LITERALLY HAD THIS IN MY ASKBOX FOR 10 DAYS because whenever i opened it to look at it i ended up being overwhelmed w/ feeling #how dare you oxly. how dare john. how dare i. i made it WORSE. #before you go. i'd like to tell you about BASIL. #'The ancient Egyptians and ancient Greeks believed basil would open the gates of heaven for a person passing on.' #'Some orthodox churches use basil to prepare holy water and pots of basil are often placed below church altars.' #'Basil repels insects fungi bacteria and in some cultures also the devil.' #'It’s been regarded as a symbol of chastity #a safeguard in the passage of life #a declaration of love #a protection from evil #a token to ward off the devil and it often grows in the presence of either great heroism or great hate. It all depends on who’s asking.' #ITS JOHN. the basil is JOHN. AND EM. IDK IT WAS THE BEST PLANT TO PUT IN THE POT. ALSO ITS PRAGMATIC AND USEFUL. #since they both now need to eat. and maybe also cook. #HI IM SO NORMAL ABOUT THEM THANKS FOR ASKING. #▻ 𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐴𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 、emmanuel & constantine (i'll follow you into the dark)

[ukdamo]

Puerto Rico

Victor Hernández Cruz Born on a turf a medieval remnant Owned by the United States it was almost water So minute the earthen formation, barely rock, a swift of natura intention geologic lift forgot the mud load as the rising slow, eruption popped peep there it is piedra Caribe, world mapmakers save on the ink, what minuscule elaboration bays, lakes, hidden caves landscape, chains of mountains opening blue neck of sky mounted glued alongside other Hispano-Caribbean isles Santo Domingo/embracing Haiti Cuba bird snake long. Spanish-African movement. the Federation which Betances the doctor clambered for the Hispania Antilles, intellectual political Independence. Some letter bestowing Puerto Rico sovereignty from the Spanish Crown the United States no desire to open that envelope. Betances visionary mestizo Paris his doctors’ foot.

The epoch of gold when on the island with my son we made home, in the neighborhood of the tobacconists Aguas Buenas on a street called Antorcha a socialist flame of the independentistas workers barrio of chichales. My family there Generations. The mornings waking my son for school, watching him become a man, awakening sense to life, his first girl kisses that pretty brown girl primer girlfriend I spotted them once wrapped round each other, like two bacalaito fritters tangled, later my mother cooked Red beans and plantain tostones along with yellow rice sparked with corn, The island was this sofrito flavor for me, bolero music of my mother she grew sadness with the lyrics wondering of all the lost loves, memories illusions making efforts to materialize, see them almost like bridges hanging out from her eyes. Days were found her in tears lonely in her room Fragrance of Florida water circulating blue colcha, picture of her mother and father above bed, nothing was ever coming, the only future was the end.

The Caribbean is everywhere lost within us, trapped in kitsch glorious rooms of plasticity jails, so much grime ‘’tween the beauty contra-la-danza, René Marqués our writer Belched out “Condenao mar, tanta agua Y no limpia nah”

Through the bullets flying now in panoramic tropical scenarios, Mother kept singing, as esperanza, gently vibrato hope like a white Garza landing upon a cadaver.

Humming songsforever soothing. convinced she would meet everyone she knew in heaven again. Singing boleros café con leche, Pastelillos de Guayaba.

To the bad times, give a happy face, place a red amapola in your black dark hair. Revive the mummies, the dead, burst the bodies out of the coffins let’s all walk to the plaza this final time paint with silver starlight the ancient songs in night sky, Rain Again What never commenced Comes to a finale.

#poetry #victor hernandez #puerto rico #home #history #passion #pride #power #colonialism #socialism #life story #love #nature #nurture

[thewolfcatcher]

Earlier on I was meditating: how much I love the doctrine (dress code) of my church (of about five million members) CCB (Christian Congregation in Brazil).

At first, when you look at it, you think it's too strict: you must dress only skirts below your knees (or longer), wear no trousers, cover your shoulders, chest and belly. But it's so elegant!

Sometimes I am ashamed of myself during the service, thinking: these women are so stylish they look like European CEO women going to work in the office. High shoes (yes it's allowed), silk shirts, tailleurs.

Some of the women are very humble thus their style is a bit kitsch. But if they had infinite money they would look like Kate Middleton in an official event. Every day.

The concept of elegance comes from the Christian concept of modesty of the woman, taught in the biblical New Testament.

The women in my church cover their heads with a veil when they pray. Once upon a time Catholic women covered their heads with veils too.

Most of the women in my church don't cut their hair. It's the biblical nazireate vow. In the Torah it's a male vow, like the one Simson did (and Delilah cut, taking of his spiritual virtue, thus supernatural physical strength. No virtue no power). Women in my church have long hairs and huge virtue coming from their nazireate vow. I didn't do this vow. I converted after 19 years old. If I had spent the last 15 years without cutting my hair it would be below my knees right now. Some of the women of my church have hairs this long. Some think it's kitsch, only because they don't understand that to make this vow the woman abdicated of all vanity. Her vow is strengthening her virtue. She is fasting vanity for decades.

I personally think the uncut hair since birth, since childhood, is the most beautiful hair there is. It stops growing at some point. It stops at a length it's still easy to take care of: below the waist. This happen to women that never cut their hair in their whole lives.

I admire the Simson womens of my church, with Simson's hair and Simson's accumulated virtue (spiritual power).

In the country of carnival, crime funk and obscenity funk, it's very important to preach the CCB doctrine (dress code). The upper classes here in Brazil follow dress codes at work too. If you are a man and middle class, you cannot show up at work with shorts or flip flops. This happens because criminals from lower classes listen and promote crime funk through this dress code: shorts and flipflops. They promote the lifestyle of crime, robbery and criminal factions apology. I think this is a very sad feature of the culture of my country. Mostly because poor people, often black, oppressed by the white masonic elite of the government, revolt through crime funk and crime, and this is seen by most as a racial fight. They identify with crime funk as if it were a black race revolt against oppression.

Well, middle class, be it white or black, cannot show up in work with shorts or flipflops. This is the same CCB doctrine for men. You cannot wear shorts if you are a CCB man. And you must go to church in a suit.

Mostly of these 5 million members are black. CCB is made mostly of poor people in my country (they are glorious! They have glorious testimonies of spiritual power to tell! God make so many miracles among them!)

Once I asked to my work pals from Rio de Janeiro how the Christian community of this city endured the overwhelming sin culture of non-Christian-Carnival-Capital city. They answered me the Christians, including those from CCB, separate themselves from the rest of the population. They do not mix. They live in a world apart.

Most people complain CCB is a sect, proselytist. But it's the only way to survive in the sinful country of Carnival. Almost other evangelical denominations persecute CCB too. But this happens only because CCB is the only church that doesn't allow secret societies and has no masons in the leadership. They follow no theology too. The preachers do not study theology to preach. They preach only what G-D inspires them at the moment of the service. All theology is full of masonic heresies.

I thank God I converted in CCB!

How I love the doctrine of my church! I love it every time more.

[lopezjensby58]

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[silvermanconrad5]

replica burberry scarf 18

The Way To Spot Fake Burberry Cashmere Scarves With this being said for the second step of the Burberry scarf fake vs real information, let’s proceed to the third step. In the fake vs actual Burberry scarf picture above, you probably can notice how the letter fake scarf’s “B” within the “BURBERRY” textual content appears to be improperly spaced between the “U”, as there's too much house. Should you wish to see all of our actual vs fake Burberry guides? Clicking on the highlighted text will get you to our archive of one hundred pc free eternally Burberry comparability guides. Explore the Library 1M+ words written for thousands of items in lots of of guides. Video Library of Guides Prefer to study by way of videos? I am rounding up ten of the best cheap Burberry scarf dupes, Burberry inspired scarves, and Burberry look alikes. Are you looking for that iconic Burberry design scarf without the Burberry price? The elegant and easy sample is so recognizable nearly anywhere, that everyone wants one. I googled about the site and found plenty of folks warning to stay away. So, yeah..the scammers are good at creating fake websites and no telling what they'll do along with your credit card number as quickly as they have it! You might want to get a new card with a brand new number when you haven’t already, simply to be safe. 100 percent genuine Burberry basic verify shawl in light beige, black and purple virgin wool (51%) and silk (49%). Has been worn and is in glorious situation. These items are intricately designed and can be found in different patterns, designs, and extra. The burberry scarf china yow will discover right here are best for carrying both indoors and outdoors and might fit into any type of parties, occasions, events, and so on. These burberry scarf china are eco-friendly and intensely soft to put on. 100 percent genuine Burberry classic plaid shawl in red, beige, black, off-white and grey cashmere (100%). Finally, the font- the letters on the replica label are bigger and asymmetrical, after they must be as even and somewhat paper as it is within the left image. The authentic label is wider and cuts out symmetrically; clearly, the replica factory could not care much less about this element. The letters of the replica label are smaller, written in a special font- they need to be more carved out and more beautiful. replica burberry cashmere scarf Even although in this case the replica label might sound nearer to the original look, it still failed to catch the entire details. Although the Burberry scarf is well recognisable these days, its invention was an entire accident. Now, we are going to transfer to the interior facet of the fake vs real Burberry scarves’ wash tag. Most of these Burberry scarves lookalikes are in the brand’s traditional camel examine pattern. However, there are additionally some lighter and more impartial color versions. Actually, if you check the links, you’ll see a lot more colors to choose from. This seems likes the scarves they have for sale on the Burberry outlet stores. The brand continued to realize popularity throughout the twentieth century, but by the Nineteen Nineties, it was in dire need of a refresh. By the time Christopher Bailey was named design director at Burberry in 2001, the check was so ubiquitous through rampant knockoffs that it had turn out to be a reference for kitsch rather than quality. All you have to do is ship us high-quality pictures of your Burberry scarf and we will get back to you with the outcomes within 24 to 48 hours. Here’s another good instance displaying the distinction in the red stripe on the fake scarf vs the true Burberry scarf. Also, notice how there’s little or no colour distinction between the totally different sections of the fake scarf where you could have much more color variation in the true scarf. Luckily, you will get an identical look and comfortable cashmere really feel with our high picks for one of the best Burberry different scarves, and, they’re all under $100! wikipedia scarf If you are sad with the quality of your buy, as a rule it’s dodgy copy. After recognizing the GORGEOUS giant check scarfs with lovable coronary heart design, I knew I needed to have one! It’s mainly a Romantique version of the traditional tartan scarf. The price tag of 395 GBP seemed prohibitive so I had the ingenious thought to browse Ebay and scout myself a discount. After some searching and bidding, I was thrilled to win an auction for the scarf for half of the retail price. The tag itself is also a great place to look for authenticity.

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[albrechtsenalbrechtsen88]

replica burberry scarf 13

Fake Burberry Scarf Archives The model continued to achieve reputation throughout the twentieth century, however by the Nineties, it was in dire need of a refresh. By the time Christopher Bailey was named design director at Burberry in 2001, the verify was so ubiquitous by way of rampant knockoffs that it had turn out to be a reference for kitsch quite than quality. All you must do is ship us high-quality pictures of your Burberry scarf and we will get back to you with the outcomes within 24 to forty eight hours. one hundred pc authentic Burberry basic verify shawl in mild beige, black and pink virgin wool (51%) and silk (49%). Has been worn and is in glorious situation. These gadgets are intricately designed and are available in several patterns, designs, and more. The burberry scarf china you'll find here are excellent for carrying both indoors and outdoors and can match into any type of parties, events, occasions, and so forth. These burberry scarf china are eco-friendly and extremely delicate to wear. 100 percent genuine Burberry traditional plaid shawl in pink, beige, black, off-white and grey cashmere (100%). I googled concerning the web site and found a lot of folks warning to stay away. So, yeah..the scammers are good at creating fake web sites and no telling what they'll do with your bank card number once they have it! You might wish to get a new card with a brand new quantity when you haven’t already, just to be safe. It's crafted from a light-weight and luxurious blend of mohair and silk and completed wit... This stunning and very vintage Burberry silk satin scarf is most probably from the 60's. It is a good measurement and has not been cleaned from the original owner.This is a beauty and may be... The official Burberry website has a “store locator” device which helps you to seek for approved retailers close to you. If you’re buying a shawl from a brick-and-mortar retailer, that is a straightforward method to make sure you’re getting genuine merchandise. This scarf from the House of Burberry is knit from 100 percent cashmere into a cushty size. Designed in two main colours, the headband is contrasted with the brand name in white. Building on his success, Burberry researched extra fabrics that would be suitable for these country pursuits. In 1888, he patented gabardine, a durable, breathable fabric that was ready for any British climate. I find this publish completely unusual and yet fascinating. I am befuddled as to what happened along with your transaction on eBay. So, right me if I misunderstand this but, somebody hacked received into the seller’s account to promote, and also hacked into their Paypal account to take the $, and the hacker is the one who sent the item?? And then you apparently received a message from a hacker to send the merchandise again to a bogus address?? This is SO bizarre on so many levels, above and beyond the authenticity of the headscarf itself. Here’s another good instance showing the distinction within the pink stripe on the fake scarf vs the actual Burberry scarf. Also, discover how there’s little or no colour difference between the different sections of the fake scarf the place you may have a lot more colour variation in the real scarf. Luckily, you may get an identical look and comfy cashmere feel with our prime picks for the most effective Burberry various scarves, and, they’re all underneath $100! Now, we're going to move to the interior facet of the fake vs actual Burberry scarves’ wash tag. Most of these Burberry scarves lookalikes are in the brand’s traditional camel verify sample. However, there are additionally some lighter and extra impartial colour versions. Actually, if you check the links, you’ll see much more colors to select from. This appears likes the scarves they've for sale at the Burberry outlet stores. However, not everyone can to afford one of their $300 scarves. These are only a few of the differences but they are essentially the most obtrusive ones which hopefully will help my beloved followers spot a counterfeit. My advice is to take a look at the true thing within the store, compare and listen to your intestine really feel. I am rounding up ten of the best cheap Burberry scarf dupes, Burberry inspired scarves, and Burberry look alikes. Are you looking for that iconic Burberry design scarf without the Burberry price? skel.io burberry scarf replica The stylish and easy sample is so recognizable almost wherever, that everybody needs one. wikipedia scarf

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[rosa67fenger]

replica burberry scarf 3

Burberry Scarf Alternatives They will value you a bit more compared to the remainder, however nonetheless a fraction of the true factor. Investing in a pricier version will take your winter outfit to a complete totally different level. You can wear your Burberry-inspired scarf over your favourite winter jumper or layer it over a camel coat. “They’re an accessible value level, so it’s a straightforward buy. I love how long they're and the muted tones they come in are super wearable,” says Tetangco. The official Burberry website has a “store locator” software which helps you to seek for licensed retailers close to you. If you’re buying a scarf from a brick-and-mortar retailer, that is a straightforward way to make sure you’re getting authentic products. This scarf from the House of Burberry is knit from 100% cashmere into a cushty length. Designed in two primary colours, the headscarf is contrasted with the brand name in white. Building on his success, Burberry researched more fabrics that may be suitable for these country pursuits. In 1888, he patented gabardine, a sturdy, breathable fabric that was ready for any British climate. wikipedia scarf Finally, the font- the letters on the replica label are greater and asymmetrical, when they need to be as even and slightly paper as it's in the left image. The original label is wider and cuts out symmetrically; clearly, the replica manufacturing facility could not care much less about this element. The letters of the replica label are smaller, written in a unique font- they must be extra carved out and more exquisite. Even though in this case the replica label may appear nearer to the unique look, it still did not catch all of the particulars. Although the Burberry scarf is well recognisable nowadays, its invention was a whole accident. The brand continued to achieve popularity all through the twentieth century, but by the Nineteen Nineties, it was in dire need of a refresh. By the time Christopher Bailey was named design director at Burberry in 2001, the examine was so ubiquitous by way of rampant knockoffs that it had become a reference for kitsch somewhat than high quality. All you need to do is send us high-quality pictures of your Burberry scarf and we'll get back to you with the results inside 24 to forty eight hours. Here’s one other good instance showing the distinction in the red stripe on the fake scarf vs the true Burberry scarf. Also, notice how there’s very little colour distinction between the different sections of the fake scarf where you have much more colour variation in the true scarf. Luckily, you might get a similar look and comfy cashmere feel with our high picks for one of the best Burberry different scarves, and, they’re all beneath $100! one hundred pc genuine Burberry traditional verify scarf in light beige, black and pink virgin wool (51%) and silk (49%). Has been worn and is in glorious situation. These gadgets are intricately designed and are available in several patterns, designs, and extra. The burberry scarf china you'll find here are excellent for wearing both indoors and outdoor and may match into any kind of parties, events, events, and so on. These burberry scarf china are eco-friendly and extremely soft to wear. 100 percent authentic Burberry basic plaid scarf in purple, beige, black, off-white and gray cashmere (100%). Timezone.com.pk provides Burberry Cashmere Scarf in the Best Price with free shipping in Pakistan. Including Lahore, Islamabad, Karachi, Peshawar, Rawalpindi, Sialkot, Multan, Gujranwala, Faisalabad and lots of more cities at lowest value. In the early 2000s, Burberry’s picture began to rapidly fall due to a lower cost strategy, counterfeit items and it’s affiliation with hooligan and “chav”, low class culture. The two pictures beneath have been taken from sellers on eBay. While they are each slightly out of focus, should you look closely at the tags, you can see that the Rs do not curl outwards, however as a substitute transfer outward in a straight line. Oftentimes, knockoff scarves will attempt to pass a barely-visible rendition of this emblem, so you should make sure to look at the image carefully. Since its inception in 1856, Burberry has turn out to be one of the world's most premiere style houses. Known for the basic trench coats with a plaid lining, Burberry items are made with high quality supplies and a spotlight to element. I recall studying that outlets are for imperfect objects or ones made particularly for the outlet store at better reasonably priced prices to most people. I’ve been amazed at the sites offering designer silk scarves. The Chinese copies allow you to choose what you need written on the tag. If you need them to say Made In France, then they'll. So I wouldn't suggest that you believe your scarf is unique bacause of what the tag says. I purchased a Burberry scarf at an property sale once and would have sworn it was genuine, however it wasn’t. If you would possibly be sad with the quality of your buy, as a rule it’s dodgy copy. skel.io burberry scarf replica After recognizing the GORGEOUS big check scarfs with adorable heart design, I knew I needed to have one! It’s mainly a Romantique model of the classic tartan scarf. The price tag of 395 GBP seemed prohibitive so I had the ingenious idea to browse Ebay and scout myself a discount. After some searching and bidding, I was thrilled to win an public sale for the scarf for half of the retail worth. The tag itself can also be an excellent place to look for authenticity. I thought Burberry would enjoy having it for functions of teaching their workers, or just to see what the fraudsters are as a lot as nowadays. But earlier than I contact Burberry, I thought I’d let you check out how the 2 scarves differ in case you run into an analogous state of affairs or you’re simply curious exactly how a fake Burberry scarf seems. I can see how Burberry scarves turn into heirloom pieces that get handed all the way down to a son or daughter. I’m hoping when I’m gone in the future, my son or dil will enjoy this scarf and that possibly the monogram will make it even more special to them, although I could have bought one for them by then.

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[wordynerdygurl]

Sweetness and Light

Author’s Note:  Hi everyone!  This is the last of my 500 Followers Request stories and I’m so happy to be sharing it with you!  As I was working on it, I saw a challenge from @peterman-spideyparker​ and took on one of the quote prompts, “I am in love with you and I’m terrified.”  It just flowed into this story so well!   Thank you @brokenthelovely for the amazing request!  Enjoy! Summary/ Request:  I’d like to request a Loki fic.  The reader and him have feelings for each other but he won’t make a move because he thinks everyone will be against it and he isn’t good for her.  She starts dating some guy and he tries to let her go but everyone eventually calls him out for letting her go and of course he realizes he was an idiot and then wins her back and they all live smuttily ever after! Pairing:  Loki x Female Reader Warnings:  Some fluffy smut at the end, a little angsty and Loki being mischievous!

Why did you always have to look so good?  That was the thought crossing Loki's mind as you flitted past, one arm wrapped around Bucky, the other around Natasha.  Laughing, your scarlet lips a daring contrast to the emerald dress caressing you in ways that made Loki jealous of satin.

He was always so aware of you.  Without conscious thought, Loki would, inevitably seek out your soft figure.  Relaxing only once he knew you were in his line of sight.  

His ear, normally attuned to classical music or epic poetry, could pick up your sugarcane sighs across a crowded room.  The lilt of your voice, dropping to a whisper in order to tell a bawdy joke, seemed to float above the hollow ringing guffaws of everyone else.  To Loki you were a songbird, glorious of plumage, spellbinding in sound.

It was a nightmare for the fallen prince.

A being as lovely as you lived in the light.  Sunkissed and radiant, you had this annoying habit of drawing everyone into your orbit.  Even the historically stoic, your Bucky Barnes or Bruce Banners, found their withered roots spreading in the enchanting glow of your attention.

Natasha Romanoff wasn't immune either.  Just yesterday she had smiled at Loki.  A genuine  smile, something he had never experienced before, which set off a chain of events leaving the young God spooked.  

“What?  You're smiling at me… It’s eerie, quite frankly.”  Snarky sarcasm laced each syllable as Loki sipped from his espresso's miniature cup, Natasha's ever watchful eyes on him. “Come on, Loki.  You know…"  Waiting for his response, impatient and searching, she cocked her head.  "He has to know right?  Right?”  Turning to Captain America, his nose in a book, Natasha shook her head in disbelief.  

Searching through the assorted granola bars, desperately looking for a dark chocolate almond wrapper but coming up empty, Loki was only half listening.  "Damn, all out."  Meeting Natasha's glare, "I have to know what, exactly?" "I… I can't.  Not today.  Not with you, Loki"  Spinning on her heel, steaming tea in hand, Natasha left with a wide eyed glance at Steve.

"Not that I truly care, but what exactly is her problem?"  Biting into an overripe pear, juice running over his fingers, Loki spared a look at the doorway before The Captain could answer.

You again.

Coasting into the room, bubbling and bright, whistling to yourself, "Hiya Stevie!  How's the book?  You like it?"

Smiling at you in a way that made Loki's blood boil, Steve sighed, "It's so good.  Like, speaks to my soul, good."

Shooting a wink his way, "I told you!  The part where she goes to the farm?"

"And she sees the truck!"

Scooting into the seat next to Steve, your hand resting on his bicep so casually, "I know!  Oh, it's so good!  Wait until you read the ending!"

Wishing he was sightless, Loki really didn't want to see anymore.  Watching Steve grin at you, your easy connection with the super soldier visible to everyone, turned Loki's stomach sour. The wholesome display of you and the Captain, discussing some novel, made Loki nauseous.

As it was, you were practically perfect, Steve was actually perfect.  Together you were All American, teeth crackling, sweetness.  It was blinding, the beautiful brilliance of the pair of you.  Sunshine and pretty teeth, foreheads nearly pressed together, seemingly lost in a private world.

"Have you ever read it, Loki?"  Your voice changes.  He notices because it's not as warm or friendly as before.  It cools just a bit, freezing your intentions, confusing the hell out of Loki.  

You haven't looked at him once, a thing Loki wishes he didn't notice.  Even now you're focused on the cover of this wonderful book and not the God of Mischief.  Turning to the sink, Loki answers you over his shoulder.

"Drivel, I suspect.  Midgardian garbage.  Melodrama and kitsch… no thank you."  Focusing on washing the pear from his hands, lest he get sticky, Loki's features are unreadable.  His voice though, that oozed disdain.

"I like it… so far."  Steve defended, trying to correct the conversation.

Your mysterious voice went soft, "Well, can't win 'em all I guess.  Thanks for teaching me about your literary tastes now, Loki, rather than after the wedding!"  

He stiffened at your teasing comment.  His back was to you, gripping a paper towel, drying his hands.  Wedded to you?  What a ludicrous thought.

Tossing his towel into the trash, Loki sees you rifling through the snack bin, "Dang!  No dark chocolate almond granola bars?  That's why I come down here!"  Plastering on a pretend pout, you pass behind Loki and suddenly you are that bobbing band of gold again.  "Drink some water, Loki!  It's good for you!  See you later, Steve!"

A hurricane was less destructive.  In a matter of minutes you had blown in and out, leaving Loki in the wreckage of your touchdown.  Even Steve was different after your visit.

"Man.  Natasha is right.  I never noticed it before… but, holy moley."  Chuckling as he returned to the much adored story, Steve looked at Loki over the pages, "You're crazy in love with that girl."

"What?  How dare you!"  Feeling the hot flash of anger flood his face, Loki instinctively went for his daggers, ready to silence the impertinent Avenger in front of him.

Lifting his hands in a sign of surrender, Steve was still laughing, "I take it back.  I take it back.  I won't tell her that you like her."

"I don't know what you're talking about.  Like her.  Like her?  What's to like?"

Steve closed his book and crossed his arms over his chest, "Everything.  Loki, she's just a great person.  And for some reason she likes you.  A lot."

"No.  Not me.  You maybe, but not me."

"Wrong.  It's you, buddy.  And… I think you like her too."

Those words had taken root in Loki's head.  Sprouting branches of thought that he would have never considered possible even hours ago, Loki tested the strengths of Steve's accusation, the validity of his claims.  Could it possibly be true?

Loki denied it.  What a silly idea, really.  To think that some little earthling might tempt the rightful King of Jotunheim, Prince of Asgard, son of Odin and God of Mischief.  Hardly.

And yet… He couldn't help the niggling feeling that there was something about you that deserved his attention.  

Was it in the way you seemed surrounded by music everywhere you went?  Either singing or humming, whistling a tune or blaring your playlist, it was rarely quiet in your presence.  Annoying.  But also, rather charming.

Or perhaps it was your turn of phrase.  "Yes, sir Drill Sergeant!" was a favorite whenever someone asked for your help.  "Put some pep in your step, a little glide in your stride, a little dip in your hip!"  With quips and quotes for all occasions, it seemed to Loki that you had a ready answer for everything.  No situation ever caught you off guard.  You were funny, unflappable and light.

Then there was your physical form.  Curvy.  Soft.  Deliciously feminine and daringly female.  

You wore short skirts with canvas tennis shoes.  Vintage band t-shirts with wide legged trousers and suit jackets.  You rolled up your jeans and sloughed around in ancient wooly cardigans.

Patterns got crossed, like plaids with polka dots.  Colors collided.  But you always pulled it off, an avant garde runway model for a post-modern haute couture design house.  

In short, you were the essence of cool.  Effortless.  Easy.  

"Oh gods… I do.  I like her."

It was that thought that kept Loki awake all night.  When sleep tried to claim him after an hours long workout with Thor, your voice pulled him back to wakefulness, the message relayed through the compounds AI.  "Hi everyone!  Don't forget!  Tonight is the annual scholarship fundraiser hosted by our favorite philanthropist, Tony Stark.  Tuxedos and gowns kiddos!  See you there!"  Even recorded you sound chipper and cheerful.  It delighted and disgusted Loki in equal measure.

At the fundraiser, tucking himself into a shadowed corner, Loki pretended not to watch you and your emerald gown.  Nursing a cocktail, chatting only when absolutely necessary, his plan was to forget his wayward thoughts and yesterday's conversation with Steve.  If you kept away, he might get through the night.

An hour in and Loki's restless with need.  What he wants to do is march over to you, take you in his arms and press that pliant body of yours to his.  Feel your crimson lips, taste your singing mouth and discover if it's as warm as he imagines.  

His tumbler hits the bar with a heavy thunk.  Running his hands through his dark hair, tightening the knot of his tie, Loki exhales once.  With renewed purpose, crossing the floor, he’s stalking towards you.  Nothing will distract him now.  He is a man of action going after the thing he wants most.  You.

Just a few steps more, Loki thinks.  Your profile is illuminated in the dim lights of the hall.  You're laughing.  You are always laughing, it seems.

Watching as you swing your head his way, Loki's certain that you've spotted him and his intentions.  Wanda taps your shoulder, directing your focus back to her as she points into the crowd, giggling in your ear.  A man, broad and strong, strides into your circle.

Loki's step falters as his excellent hearing picks up your joyful squeal of delight.  This person, this interloper, puts his hands around your waist.  Swinging you into a possessive bear hug, kissing you at the same time, he makes a show of literally sweeping you off your feet in front of everyone at Tony’s gala.  

You’re a blur, the motion of it making Loki dizzy.  He is also frozen in place.  Questions buzz like angry bees at the familiar way this person is handling you.  It's not right.  It's not proper.  And it's all because those are not Loki’s hands on you.

"Loki!  Hi!  I want you to meet my boyfriend Marcus!  Marc, this is Loki!"  

A beefy hand extends your way, attached to an equally beefy person, with an overeager smile.  "Loki!  I've heard so much about you.  You're good with knives, right?  Maybe we can train together sometime?"

Loki, noticing how Marc's hand rested possessively on the swell of your hip, thinks, Yes.  I would love to throw daggers at you, Marc.  Instead, with a charming chuckle Loki answers, "Well, our girl is too kind.  It was nice to meet you, Matt."

"It… it's Marc."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!  Marc.  Right.  Apologies!  Please, enjoy your evening!"  Plastering his smile on permanently, pride stinging, Loki slunk away to nurse his wounds in the solace of his room. 

You were with Marc now.  He was too late.  And there was no good excuse beyond pride for Loki's inability to see the plain truth.  You were pretty wonderful, something Loki had always known, deep down.  Now, you were someone else's.

In truth, it took Loki two days to square with the fact that you were with a lesser man.  You were beautiful and clever and a constant delight, but you were with Marc.  There was no changing that fact, right?

Wrong.  The reason Loki didn't surface during waking hours for the next week was because he had a plan.  He would win you, do the work, make you realize that you belonged with him. 

Yet, each plan failed in one way or another.  

When Loki accidentally on purpose cancelled your dinner plans at a trendy new hot spot, Tony had called in a favor.  You and Marcus had dined in the private wine cellar, met the chef, and walked back into the compound holding hands.  Loki stormed away before you could tell him all about your wonderful night. Overhearing Marcus brag about a weekend away, bathing suits and a boat, Loki asked Thor for help.  “It’s the weather.  You see, I need it to rain.  I need thunder and lightning.  And all those wonderful things that you control.” “Brother, I am the God of Thunder, not the God of Weather.” “Can you please, just… do this one thing for me?  Please?” Whether it was Loki‘s manic sincerity or his desperation that convinced Thor, Loki would never know.  What he did know was that your seaside sailing excursion had been cancelled due to unprecedented storms.  However, Wanda had helped Marcus with booking a hotel room for two nights instead.  You had a couples’ massage and drank champagne.  Loki sulked. Feeling like a cartoon coyote, Loki knew the surrender was near.  Always pragmatic, and resourceful, he had realized that as much as he might want to woo you, it was possible that you did not want to be wooed.  At least, not by Loki.   So, the handsome prince, with a gloomy face, once again strayed from the others.  Not content to make small talk when his heart knew such hurt, Loki slept during the day and moped around at night.  He avoided everyone as much as possible.  When interaction was inevitable, it was brief and direct.  Loki had no energy for games.  He was played out. He was also hungry. Which is how he found himself in the kitchen at 3:00 am, spooning cherry jell-o into his face, thinking about you.  He was so wrapped up in the idea of you that he could swear your voice was playing in his head.

“But, I don’t understand.  Marc?  That… that’s not fair.  I told you.  I told you how the job was… what I had to do… how it might be hard sometimes… But I thought?  Oh.  Oh…”  

Pausing, Loki realized that you weren’t an illusion.  You were at the compound, and tonight you weren’t laughing.  In fact, Loki was fairly certain that he heard a sniff, something that you did when you were crying.  He remembered hearing it when the gang watched Old Yeller.  You had sobbed over the fictional pup.  It was adorable then, now, not so much. “Well… if that’s what you really think… Wow.  Ok, Marcus.  You made your point. Goodbye, I guess.”  Loki had heard you cry before.  Over the old yellow dog in that movie, because of a missing classified document and once due to Clint's awful singing.  Tonight though, there was silence.  Expecting to hear your sobs, Loki, surprised by the quiet, risked a peek around the corner to check on you. Probably, because you thought you were entirely alone at the inhumane hour of three in the morning, you let yourself sink down to the floor.  Bathed in the blue light of the Avengers “A”, resting your head against the textured wall with your phone still cradled in your palm, one fat tear rolled down your cheek.

Later on, Loki would tell you that everything that followed was because of that tear.  Something about that shiny track of sadness had hit the jokester right in his heart, watering the shriveled seed of his love for you.  It made him want to hold you, to keep the hurts of life away, protect you from the kind of sadness that had forced your happiness into hiding. Unhappy didn't do your current mental state justice.  More silent tears joined the first.  Another failed relationship, and if you were honest the water works weren't for Marcus.  They were for you.  

He was a handsome distraction, for sure.  And his reasons for dumping you?  Valid.  True.  

Canceled dates, long nights at work, the constantly ringing phone.  All things that you found more important than Marcus.  He was absolutely correct when laying the blame for this failure at your feet.  You did not want your partnership with Marcus to thrive, survive.  You had been killing time with him and that wasn't fair.

Not when there was someone else on your mind all the time.  

Marcus had been a paltry replacement for the man you really wanted.  Even though you had tried to deny it, fight against it, every time he touched you, you ached for the nimble fingers of a demigod.  Each kiss from Marc made you hungry for the flavor of Loki's mouth.  You hated yourself for it but stopping those thoughts had proven too difficult to manage.  In response, avoiding your boyfriend had become an easy habit to cultivate.

Which was worse, you sat on the floor wondering.  Having the wrong man or having no man?  Lusting after one while leading on the other?  Being desired by Marcus but faking your interest in him?  Wanting Loki but not being wanted by him in return?

You closed your eyes, breathing deeply, mad at yourself.  There was no way to know Loki was watching you fall apart from the safety of the kitchenette.  Awash in self anger, almost alone, you struggled to pull yourself together.

Instead of second guessing himself, taking a deep breath, Loki swiftly rounded the corner and slipped down next to you.  His bony knee brushed against your own, "Some might give you a penny for your thoughts… but I'm afraid I only have a dark chocolate almond bar."  "Loki…"  Sighing with a small chuckle, barely surprised at his presence, you grabbed the offered snack, "My thoughts aren't worth this much."

"That's where you are wrong, dove.  I would pay this and more to have a better understanding of you."

Snorting derisively, "Really?  Most days you can barely be civil to me."

Loki's fierce gaze locked on your watery one, "Yes… well.  For that, I apologize.  You… You are a very nice person.  I, unfortunately, am not."

Swiping at your wet cheeks, smiling, "You are too!  Or, you can be… if you want to be."

"No, I leave chivalry to my brother.  Kindness to Captain Rogers… Sweetness to, well, you."

Turning toward him, your leg folded under you, "You're here now, and with my favorite snack, no less!  That's pretty nice, Loki."

Shyly smiling, "About that… I know you like them.  I keep a small stash in my room, in case Stark runs out."

"What?  Really?"  It's hard to believe that Loki would be so secretly thoughtful.  Playing with the wrapper in your hand, you raised a glance to the studious prince beside you, "That's… that maybe the sweetest thing anyone has done for me."

"I doubt that.  I'm sure your friend, Marcus, has done kind things for you."  Just saying the name made Loki's heart leap, worried that it might spook you.  Or, and this was worse, that you'd defend him because Marcus was the one you wanted.

"Don't play coy, Loki.  You know he just dumped me.  It's over… it's been over almost since it began."  Resting your warm hand on Loki's arm, the zing of your touch scorching his cool skin, distracted and disoriented him for a moment.

Whispering, almost timid with wanting to know, "Did you love him?  Do you?"

Slumping forward, your shaggy hair covering your face, "Nope.  Not even a little bit."

"Really?"  Loki fought against the swelling of glee that surged through him at your admission.

Snapping your head up, searching his face, "You sound surprised.  You shouldn't be… See, Loki,  I'm not as nice as you think I am."

"Oh yes you are… even now you feel bad about all this.  You wish you could have loved Marcus, eased his hurt, regardless of your own unhappiness. "  

Shaking your head gently, shrugging, "It would be easier, I think.  Less painful.  And I wouldn't be alone… again."

Loki betrayed nothing in his voice, but his mind was in a tailspin.  In a husky hum, he asked you, "Is that all you want, dove?  Not to be alone?"

Flashing your floormate a small smile, it faltered when you realized just how close you and Loki were.  He hadn't moved.  You had.  Near enough that you felt his body's heat melt into yours.  

"No… but it's a good start, don't you think?"

Instinctively, Loki reached out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.  "I think I am in love with you and I'm terrified."  

Hanging in the air between you, Loki's words, uttered so casually, expanded to fill the following silence.  Raising his hope filled eyes to yours, Loki offered a half smile, "Come on dove, if I have even half a chance, then for Odin's sake, tell me."

First your body went cold, shocked at Loki's revelation.  Next, a flush of heat rolled over you, flaming your cheeks.  It settled into your lower belly as a throbbing ache, an unscratched itch, needy and raw.

Murmuring, stunned, "You like me?"

Tossing his dark hair, "No… no, little one.  I love you.  And I am truly scared that you don’t feel the same way."  Loki shifted, mirroring your posture, your folded knees grazing against each other.  Leaning into your space, Loki's hands cupped your face.  Brushing his lips across your forehead, he kissed down the bridge of your nose and over your heated cheeks.  

His thumbs stroked along your jaw, tilting your chin up, as your lips parted.  Wasting no time, Loki pressed his firm mouth to yours, kissing you sweetly.  You felt his fingers tangle in your hair, drawing you deeper into Loki's arms, his tongue licking into your warm mouth.

Happily swallowing your sweet sigh, Loki's lips asked for more of you and you obliged.  Your hands gripped his shoulders, enjoying the firm muscled man beneath your hands, savoring the taste of Loki's tongue.  He pulled away first, groaning, "I have wanted to do that for a long time."

"Me too."

Picking up your hand, threading his digits through yours, "But… my leg is falling asleep sitting here on the floor."

Laughing out loud, "Me too!"  You moved to stand, but Loki tugged you back down again.

"Before we go… I wanted to ask you out for a proper date.  Dinner, a movie… dancing, drinks… whatever.  You name it!  I want to do this right, you see."

Nodding, you bit into your bottom lip, "I will let you wine and dine me, Loki.  I promise.  But… if I'm honest with you, I have been thinking about kissing you for months now… and I don't want to stop."

Loki stood taking you with him.  Once you were on your feet, your tall god wrapped his arm around your waist, snuggling you into his chest.  "I was afraid I had missed my chance.  That someone else had taken your heart."

"It's always been yours, Loki.  I’m in love with you too."

Your body melded to his.  Those lips were on your neck, making you gasp in rapture, as Loki's hands cupped your bottom.  Draping your arms over his broad shoulders, feeling the tensing muscles underneath the fabric of his dark tee, had you panting.

"Gods, you are incredible!"  

Like a purring cat, you rubbed your cheek into Loki's chest, "I could say the same about you."

Swallowing hard, still keeping you close, Loki studied your expression.  "Come on, dove.  Let's go."

Confusion crowded your features, "Go where?"

"I'm taking you to bed!"  Loki scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, as if you were a distressed damsel.  Squealing his name, you threw your head back, happy in Loki's capable hands.

In his apartment, naked on Loki's bed, you let his mouth devour you.  Starting with your full, round breasts, Loki licked and sucked your nipples under they were painfully taut.  Then his fingers found your peaks, pulling and tugging, until you were mewling for more.

Loki's tongue traced a line down the center of your body.  When he reached your glistening core, Loki used his thumbs to part your lower lips, blowing gently over your aroused flesh.  "Stop wiggling, dove!"

"But Loki!  I need you!"  As the words left your mouth, Loki's tongue licked through your silky skin, circling your clustered nerves.  You cried out when he sucked the sensitive nub between his lips while still licking against your sex.

With shaking thighs, your body released hard while Loki drank down your nectar.  Kissing back up your body, you tasted yourself when his mouth met yours, your tongues colliding.  Reaching down between your bodies, your fingers found Loki's significant size and you smiled wickedly.

"Easy kitten!"

"Oh no, I want you, Loki.  Hard and fast.  Please?"  When he tipped his head, agreeing, you gave his length a gentle squeeze.  Loki rested his forehead to yours as your lovely little hand directed him to your velvet core.

Once there, Loki's mouth found yours, tenderly kissing you as he gently burrowed into your slick satin skin.  Taking more and more of you, claiming your body with his deep thrusts, Loki's hips rocked into you.  Each plunge pushed you closer to completion.  

Your walls tightening, gripping Loki, had him moaning your name.  "I'm close, dove… so close."  

"Me too, Loki!"

His clever fingers dropped to your cleft, rubbing your engorged button, as Loki drove into you once more.  In a flash of supreme pleasure your bliss roared through you, stealing Loki's climax at the same time, as you clung to your man.  Shivering from the intensity of your passion, you refused to let Loki go, keeping your arms firmly around him as your body moved mindlessly in delight.

Loki kissed away the happy tears that spotted your cheeks.  Brushing the hair back from your face, he whispered tender words like "love" and "beautiful" and "darling girl" until slowly your tense muscles relaxed.  Loki gently withdrew from you, rolling you to your side to face him, wrapping a protective arm over you.

Satisfied beyond reason, you looked at your raven haired lover, eyes heavy.  "You should sleep, dove." "Hmm… yes.  But you'll stay with me, right, Loki?"

"Of course.  You're my sweet girl."

Scrunching into his side, snuggling under his quilt, you smiled.  “That’s me!"

The next morning Loki stirred some sugar into his tiny espresso cup, a secret smile turning up the corners of his mouth.  Steve sat at the counter, a newspaper spread out in front of him, mug of coffee nearby.  From down the hall, your whistling reaches the room before you do.

"Hiya Stevie!  Any good news in there today?"

Tearing himself away, "Not that I've seen.  How are you?  You seem… happy.  Happier than usual."

You lock eyes with Loki, grinning from ear to ear, "I am.  Things are good… great even."

Hopping up on the island, looking through the bin of snack bars, Loki steps between your knees.  "Looking for this?"  

"Yes!  My favorite treat!  And my favorite you!"  Throwing your arms around his neck, you draw Loki into a deep kiss, his hands running up your sides.

Understanding lit up Steve’s face, "Whoa!  Wait!  Is this real?  Did it finally happen?"    

"Yup!  So, uh… tell Tony we're taking the morning off, ok?"

"Actually, Steve, please tell Stark that we are taking the rest of the day off.  Don't call.  My sweet girl and I will be too busy to answer."  With that Loki grabbed you by the hips, wrapping your legs around him as he marched you out of the room.

Sweetness and Light, that’s what you were and that’s just what Loki needed.   ----

Tags:  @brokenthelovely​ @iamverity​ @just-random-obsessions​ @jamielea81​ @archy3001​ @jessiejunebug​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​ @mizfit2​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @procrastinatinglikeabitch​ @lots-of-loki​

#peterman-spideyparker #kristen2020 #peterman-spideyparker2020 #hot loki #loki smut #loki x reader #loki x you #500 followers #mcu smut #marvel smut #loki

[the-knights-who-say-book]

Yentl (the Yeshiva Boy)

For those who don’t know, Yentl the Yeshiva Boy is a 1962 short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer. It follows Yentl, a Jewish girl from a Polish shtetl who loves Torah study, as she disguises herself as a man named Anshel in order to study at a yeshiva. Yentl (1983) is the movie-musical adaptation of the story, directed by and starring Barbara Streisand.

Yeshiva Boy moves fluidly between referring to the main character as Yentl or Anshel depending on context, which is a great detail. The movie, not having third person narration, is a different beast. I take my cue from the story and use both names, depending on the context of what I’m talking about—for example, if Yentl is definitely seen as Yentl by the story in that moment, or as Anshel, or ambiguously as both.

I've seen Yentl the movie-musical several times, and of course there's so much gender play to unpack there, you could watch it a hundred times and have something new to talk about each time—whether it’s in the vein of despairing over the unnecessary heterosexuality of it all, or reveling in its grudging gayness.

But reading the story is a whole new area to analyze. It's so much less detailed in many areas (the movie has to flesh it out a lot to get it to two hours), but in other places it has glorious details that were totally excised from the movie (all the women in town have crushes on Anshel!) or completely changed in the movie. Notably, in Yeshiva Boy, Anshel finds a way to have some kind of un-described sex with Hadass, while the movie cowardly has Yentl entirely evade the situation. Yentl also has a happy ending for everyone, while in Yeshiva Boy Avigdor and Hadass are not entirely happy in their marriage, as both of them, you could argue, are still in love with Anshel/Yentl.

It's interesting and frustrating to see the ways in which the film worked to cis-normalize the story, and yet in other ways preserved the queerness of the story and allowed new ways for it to do queer readings. For example, the film takes Yeshiva Boy's ending, in which Anshel intends to continue dressing as a man to study in yeshivas, and turns it into Yentl heading to America to study as a woman. That’s an ending that throws out some of the story's ambiguity and unapologetic queerness in favor of, one might charitably say, a feminist ending, or one might say uncharitably and truthfully, a cisnormative ending.

Isaac Bashevis Singer was not a fan of the movie. He said about its ending,

“Miss Streisand [made] Yentl, whose greatest passion was the Torah, go on a ship to America, singing at the top of her lungs. Why would she decide to go to America? Weren't there enough yeshivas in Poland or in Lithuania where she could continue to study? Was going to America Miss Streisand's idea of a happy ending for Yentl? What would Yentl have done in America? Worked in a sweatshop 12 hours a day where there is no time for learning? Would she try to marry a salesman in New York, move to the Bronx or to Brooklyn and rent an apartment with an ice box and a dumbwaiter? This kitsch ending summarizes all the faults of the adaptation. It was done without any kinship to Yentl's character, her ideals, her sacrifice, her great passion for spiritual achievement. As it is, the whole splashy production has nothing but a commercial value.”

Now, here Singer is not mad at Yentl the film for cisnormifying his gender-ambiguous, interestingly queer Yentl, but rather for making the ending optimistic kitsch that ignored the reality of what America was for Jewish immigrants, especially for Jewish women. And in some ways I feel like rolling my eyes at him for that. Aside from the fact that it offends his artistic vision, why shouldn’t Jewish women get a film where—suspension of disbelief!—a Jew will study Torah, loudly and proudly, as a woman?

But then, as a queer Jewish woman, I agree that the ending of Yentl is supremely disappointing, especially compared to the unapologetic ending of Yeshiva Boy. “I’ll live out my time as I am,” Anshel says—and Anshel is the name she is referred to in this passage, even while also referred to as a woman and with she/her pronouns. (Yeshiva Boy often engages in this mixing of gender signifiers.) This is how Anshel is. A woman with a man’s soul, a man with she/her pronouns, a person with two names. It’s not couched in easily understandable modern terms, but no one who has heard of these modern terms would read Yentl as a cis woman playing dress up. It’s different than that. Queerer than that.

This genderqueerness is the simple fact of Yentl’s character in Yeshiva Boy, but totally painted over in Yentl.

Yet in other ways, because of the nature of telling a story through actors' subjective body language and voice rather than objective words on a page, I think Yentl the movie is possible to read as Yentl genuinely being in love with Hadass, rather than Yentl the Yeshiva Boy, which is more insistent that Anshel does not have those feelings. And that’s a lot of fun.

I'm not of Singer's opinion that the movie has no merit. I love Yentl's music and emotionality (the short story is more distant), and I think I'll always love it. But I do prefer Yeshiva Boy's ambivalence and ambiguity to the movie's heterosexual Hollywood polish.

#yentl the yeshiva boy #book review #Abi's Book Reviews

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1974

Under the cut.

Steve Miller Band – “The Joker” -- January 12, 1974

It always throws me when I remember how old this song is. Two years older than me, and yet I associate it with my own mid-20s partying. Okay, my "partying" was pretty mild. One of the things my friends and I often did was go to a dueling piano (really keyboard) bar, and they always played this song. I can taste the rum and Coke now. We had tipsy discussions about what "pompatus" meant. A guy tried to pick one of my friends up with "really love your peaches." Anyway, I love this song, but it's also so embedded into my life that I can't judge it fairly.

Al Wilson – “Show And Tell” -- January 19, 1974

1970s Philly R&B is great music. This is a pretty typical example of the genre; lots of strings, lots of horns, an adult with a voice he uses like an instrument to impart strong emotions. It's a love song, and the lyrics aren't anything spectacular, but they do the job. Very good.

Ringo Starr – “You’re Sixteen” -- January 26, 1974

GAH. Next!

Barbra Streisand – “The Way We Were” -- February 2, 1974

I was tempted to write, "GAH. Next!" here too, but I'm determined to save that kind of thing for songs that have elements to them that I don't want to discuss because of moral issues. That's not this. The problem is: I hate Barbra Streisand. Or I should say I hate her singing; though from what I've seen of her personality, I don't like that either. Every song she sings, she sounds like she's singing to the glory of the greatness of the only person who matters to her in the world: Barbra Streisand. I once read an article that called her singing "masturbatory," but that's not strong enough. It's full-on self-worship. I hate it.

The Love Unlimited Orchestra – “Love’s Theme” -- February 9, 1974

This is Barry White's orchestra, but sadly it's an instrumental, without his glorious voice. It reminds me so much of the Love Boat theme that now I'm wanting to watch it. Absolute kitsch, but as kitsch goes, there's worse.

Terry Jacks – “Seasons In The Sun” -- March 2, 1974

The singer is dying and saying goodbye to everyone. That kind of sentiment may be made to work in pop, I suppose, but I've never heard it done. It belongs in opera. This is schmaltz.

Cher – “Dark Lady” -- March 23, 1974

As one of only a couple dark-haired dark-eyed girls in my quite blonde high school graduating class, people used to call me "exotic." Apparently my high cheekbones had something to do with it too. I was asked where my family was from pretty regularly. I wasn't offended --  more bemused. The answer is "Europe," though I guess the dark hair and eyes are probably by way of France. It's rather tough to say, considering my mother's side of the family has been here since the 16th century (indentured servants), and were not the rich types who stuck to their own ethnicity. Anyway, this is to say that I feel some kinship with Cher, and how drawn she was to songs like "Dark Lady." Though in this case, the "dark lady" is someone Cher's character murders for cheating with her boyfriend. She kills the boyfriend too.

This song is dated ("gypsy music") Las Vegas cheese, and yet I like it. It's wildly melodramatic and fun.

John Denver – “Sunshine On My Shoulders” -- March 30, 1974

Bleeeeeh. I like big melodramatic songs. This is the opposite. Now, I do like small, sweet songs often too. But I just can't with this one. It's too slow, too simple, and feels aggressively, shallowly cheery.

Blue Swede – “Hooked On A Feeling” -- April 6, 1974

I learned from the Todd in the Shadows video about this song that its stupid "ooga chaka" thing was inspired by 1960's "Running Bear." Now I hate it even more! The original of this song is a nice, simple love song. Blue Swede made it shouty and dumb.

Elton John – “Bennie And The Jets” -- April 13, 1974

It's Elton John. Therefore I don't like it. I feel like it's too slow maybe? I feel like most of Elton John's songs are too slow maybe. I don't know. I'm bored.

MFSB & The Three Degrees’ “TSOP (The Sound Of Philadelphia)” -- April 20, 1974

An instrumental disco track. It is one I find danceable, so there's that. Not bad.

Grand Funk – “The Loco-Motion” -- May 4, 1974

A rock cover of The Loco-Motion. Sure, why not. Though this version is not very good. It feels like they slowed it down, and they definitely made it extremely loud. I don't really see a reason for this song to exist.

Ray Stevens – “The Streak” -- May 18, 1974

Streaking was a fad in 1974. This is a comedy song about it. I had never heard it before this, and I hope never to again. It's deeply dumb.

Paul McCartney & Wings – “Band On The Run” -- June 8, 1974

The wee-oo-wee-oo-wee-oo thing at the beginning of the song sounds neat, but then it goes on too long. That's my feeling about this entire song: It goes on too long. It does change up substantially multiple times throughout, but it's no Bohemian Rhapsody. Bohemian Rhapsody is, imo, perfect. The pacing of "Band on the Run," otoh, is a mess. The second section needs to be a lot longer and the final section needs to be a lot shorter. Paul McCartney needed an editor for this.

Bo Donaldson And The Heywoods – “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero” -- June 15, 1974

A young woman tells her boyfriend to not "be a hero" when he goes off to war (probably the Civil War.) Because she wants him to come home alive. As anyone who knows this kind of song can predict, he decides to be a hero and dies. Cliche and weirdly bouncy for the subject matter. Still, at least songs were acknowledging that dying in war was not a great thing. Unlike the putrescent "Ballad of the Green Berets."

Gordon Lightfoot – “Sundown” -- June 29, 1974

The singer is jealously obsessed with a woman. He knows this isn't a good thing, but he doesn't seem able to -- or be trying to -- move past it. This is about something real; Gordon Lightfoot was obsessively, violently jealous over Cathy Smith, the woman who was later convicted for injecting John Belushi with the heroin that killed him. The lyrics are mean, but the music doesn't go hard at all. Except, compared to the rest of the stuff I've looked at for 1974 so far, the music does sound a lot harder -- it's minor key and there's a distinct bassline. It still feels like a mismatch.

The Hues Corporation – “Rock The Boat” -- July 6, 1974

A disco song I can dance to some. Not entirely. It's a song asking you not to "rock the boat" of your perfect love with the singer. It's incredibly schmaltzy -- schmaltzy disco. Ugh.

George McCrae – “Rock Your Baby” -- July 13, 1974

The singer is telling you, "woman," to take him in your arms and rock him. I.e. fuck him. I have perfect pitch. George McCrae is no Ella Fitzgerald. When he goes to the high note, he does not hit it right, and it's like nails on a chalkboard. I can't listen to this song all the way through.

John Denver – “Annie’s Song” -- July 27, 1974

Ugh, 1974. This is a simplistic love song to John Denver's wife. Not just simple, which is fine, but simplistic, which is not. They divorced years later, and Denver became violent during it. (Denver's the one who brought that to light and he obviously felt terrible about it.) The Stereogum guy was shocked by this. I'm not. For one, celebrity is horrible for people. For another, I can't think of any of Denver's songs that have depth or complexity. Trying to live at the surface is also horrible for people. I do like a lot of simple love songs, but John Denver's songs have always made me go "ick," even when I was a child. I feel like there's nothing in them.

Roberta Flack – “Feel Like Makin’ Love” -- August 10, 1974

The music to this song, with the calm but interesting percussion and romantic guitar, combined with Roberta Flack's whispery vocals, is lovely. It gives me asmr feels and makes me want to lie down and drift off to sleep. So, uh. Not exactly what I consider a sexy song. I do like listening to it, as it's nice and calming, but I don't think that was the intent.

Paper Lace – “The Night Chicago Died” -- August 17, 1974

And I will definitely need some relaxation after this garbage. Okay so, this travesty was by Brits who: 1) Thought there was an East Side of Chicago. That's Lake Michigan. 2) Thought it would be cute to write a song in which Al Capone tried to literally take over Chicago by killing all the cops (he bribed cops, he didn't kill them, and he was a criminal, not an insurrectionary.) 3) Sing "glory be" because they obviously think that's a super American thing to do. "In the land of the dollar bill." WHAT? This song makes me want to punt Paper Lace into the East Side of Chicago.

Paul Anka – “(You’re) Having My Baby” -- August 24, 1974

Notoriously one of the worst pop songs ever. The singer thinks "you" (that makes it worse) are having his baby solely and only because you love him. Monumental narcissism, just completely heinous, plus it's musical glop.

Eric Clapton – “I Shot The Sheriff” -- September 14, 1974

This is not Bob Marley's version. Bob Marley's version is so much better, and it's the one I've heard a lot, so when I turned this one on I was confused for a second.

Barry White – “Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe” -- September 21, 1974

Oh thank god. Barry White is one of my favorite singers, and this is one of my favorite songs. This is a sexy love song by a great artist.

Andy Kim – “Rock Me Gently” -- September 28, 1974

Andy Kim's voice sounds incredibly mid-70s. What's with men asking their lovers to rock them this year? The chorus is pretty good, and has a real beat. He's asking his lover to be gentle, and "I have never been loved like this before." That's nice. It's cheese, but it's fine.

Olivia Newton-John – “I Honestly Love You” -- October 5, 1974

A lot of the time when someone says they "honestly" something without prompting, they're lying. So this song sounds weird to me. "I love you/ I honestly love you" -- um, you sure about that? Though the singer has no reason to pretend she loves the person she's singing to, and every reason not to, since they're both with someone else. She just wants to tell you she loves you and leave it at that. Yeah, that's likely. Olivia Newton-John is a good singer, and she's especially good at acting a song. I feel she should have been on Broadway. In any case, while this is a slow soft song in an era with way too many of those, it's one of the better ones. It's not overly slow or particularly goopy.

Billy Preston – “Nothing From Nothing” -- October 19, 1974

If there's such a thing as vaudeville rock, this is it. He doesn't want to be your hero or your highness, so it sounds like he wants an equal relationship. He also says "I'm a soldier in the war on poverty," which makes it sounds like he's saying you have to have money if you want to get with him, but maybe not. He sings "you gotta bring a little something, girl, if you want to be with me," which may or may not be monetary. It's bouncy and all, but Billy Preston's done better.

Dionne Warwick & The Spinners – “Then Came You” -- October 26, 1974

A song about finally finding love. Plenty of good orchestration, a good beat, and of course Dionne Warwick's voice. I like it.

Stevie Wonder – “You Haven’t Done Nothin'” -- November 2, 1974

The "you" in this song is Richard Nixon. Stevie Wonder is one of the most love everyone, let's all come together artists in existence. But here, he was angry. "We would not care to wake up to the nightmare/ That's becoming real life/ But when misled who knows a person's mind/ Can turn as cold as ice." The Republican Party is still Nixon's party -- they love him almost as much as they do Reagan. This song is funky and good and the only reason I don't feel it more is that it's not angry enough.

Bachman-Turner Overdrive – “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” -- November 9, 1974

They were goofing around in the studio, and lead singer Randy Bachman wanted to make fun of his brother's stutter. When this song became a hit, Randy was mortified. But even with nasty, juvenile intentions behind it, this song is good. It also sounds happy and not mean at all. It's a rather silly song about first experiencing sex, and it's fun.

John Lennon – “Whatever Gets You Thru The Night” -- November 16, 1974

John Lennon's voice was always kinda nasal, but it's really nasal on this song. Anyway, this song may as well be called "you do you." It's a song that in theory I should not find boring, but in practice I do. I have finally found out why: Elton John helped him with it. It sounds very Elton John-ish. Which means I don't really have anything else to say.

Billy Swan – “I Can Help” -- November 23, 1974

Some old-fashioned rockability is a nice change. The singer sees that the woman needs some help, so "let me help." "I got two strong arms/ Let me help." I immediately think of a romance between a farmhand and a widow woman. "It would sure do me good to do you good." That's a pretty concise description of love. Billy Swain's voice is kinda thin; Elvis did a cover of this, and it's a lot better. Billy Swain's version is sweet and all, but Elvis' is irresistible.

Carl Douglas – “Kung Fu Fighting” -- December 7, 1974

This isn't a song about actual kung fu; it's about kung fu movies. It's a fanboy telling you all about the cool movie he just saw, though not telling you a thing about the plot. Just the "expert timing" and stuff. Trying to analyze "Kung Fu Fighting" feels really silly. It's a rare enjoyable novelty song by an actual musician.

Harry Chapin – “Cat’s In The Cradle” -- December 21, 1974

A cover of this song by Ugly Kid Joe became a hit in 1992. And it was massively overplayed, so I hate this song. This father/son stuff bores me anyway, speaking of overplayed.

Helen Reddy – “Angie Baby” -- December 28, 1974

This song is deeply strange, which is a mark in its favor. It's a story song about a girl who has no friends and had to be taken out of school because she's "a little touched." She lives in a world of make-believe, listening to the radio all the time. A neighbor boy comes along to rape her. But as soon as he walks into her room... "Toward the radio he's bound/ Never to be found." He becomes her "secret lover," trapped in the radio. "It's so nice to be insane/ No one asks you to explain." Is Angie really "insane," or is she a sorceress whose rock n' roll powers everyone looks away from? Both? I'm not sure what I think of this song, but it is interesting, and that's always good.

BEST OF 1974 -- "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe" by Barry White WORST OF 1974 -- "(You're) Having My Baby" by Paul Anka

#billboard number ones

[thecorteztwins]

Squirrel Girl Fashion Fanfiction

Milan, one of the most famous fashion capitals of the world...and it was Fashion Week, when all the hottest haute looks by top designers and their houses would be on display for the first time this season. As was typical in Fashion Week, the shows were not simply in studios, but also took advantage of Milan’s wondrous historical architecture through outdoor venues. In this case, the courtyard of the Castello Sforzesco, a 15th-century castle, draped in pure white curtains to create a canvas-like canopy on which to display the wearable works of art that were about to be unveiled to the public...well, not the public as a whole, just the reporters and buyers for the most high-end of publications and retailers. The public would have to wait much, much longer. The show, however, was starting now, as evident by the chipper young girl’s voice that suddenly revelled over the venue through the strategically placed speakers around the courtyard, “Hey everybody, welcome to Fashion Week! I’m so happy to be here! It’s my first time in Milan, it’s so cool, I’m totally loving it! Oh, by the way, I’m your host Doreen Green! Sorry I don’t speak Italian, but the usual announcer is a little tied up right now, along with the models! Don’t worry though everyone, we’ve got a super duper extra special treat for you tonight!” The lights over the crowd went down. The lights over the catwalk went up. The outline of a model could be seen behind the thin white curtains at the end of the long illuminated platform. The shape was... Odd. What was odder was how the shape kept getting smaller...and smaller...and smaller... Until the model emerged. “First up, we have Tippy Toe, looking like an avant-garde Audrey Hepburn!” Doreen crowed as the squirrel strutted down the runway on her hind legs with as much of a model’s long strides as her chubby fluffy haunches could reasonably mimic. The audience stared, silent, and looked at each other. A joke? A charity stunt? A deep and controversial artistic statement about modern fashion and society? “Next, Lil Miss Cuppycakes is sporting a fluid silhouette in filmy sea gray silks!” Another squirrel, this one smaller, with eyes so large and a face so cute that she seemed to have stepped out of a Disney animation studio. The mutters in the crowd began. “Nutasha is all about natural fibers, natty checks, and utilitarian chic, while Lady Acorn-A-Lot is bringing Renaissance romanticism for the modern era.” There were more than mutters now. There were claps. And by the time Tippy Toe re-emerged in a new outfit for the final walk-- a glorious glittering lame ensemble that Doreen declared as ”Serving authentic authentic 80s kitsch glamor”-- the claps had become pure applause. People were standing on chairs, shouting, waving their cameras, trying to capture every squirrel from every angle. It was declared a triumph of the ages, a new age for art as fashion, the pinnacle of inspiration. The squirrels and their designs became famous overnight, a worldwide sensation. They did ads for Dolce & Gabbanna, Gucci, Chanel. They sprawled across tree limbs in designer duds for Vogue, nommed nuts in sartorial splendor on the pages of Harper’s Bazarr, and, in the case of Gamma Squirrel, flexed their way on to the cover of GQ as the new face of menswear. And this fame was no flash in the pan! The squirrel-style craze, or “sciuromania” as it came to be dubbed by pop culture analysts, continued to sweep the globe for DECADES to come! And that is how Doreen Green founded the fashion house of Sciurini, specializing in squirrel styles by squirrels, for squirrels, and for those who love them.

#squirrel girl #fanfic #squirrel girl fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfic #out of cortez

[ukdamo]

Puerto Rico

Victor Hernandez Cruz

Born on a turf a medieval remnant Owned by the United States it was almost water So minute the earthen formation, barely rock, a swift of natura intention geologic lift forgot the mud load as the rising slow, eruption popped peep there it is piedra Caribe, world mapmakers save on the ink, what minuscule elaboration bays, lakes, hidden caves landscape, chains of mountains opening blue neck of sky mounted glued alongside other Hispano-Caribbean isles Santo Domingo/embracing Haiti Cuba bird snake long. Spanish-African movement. the Federation which Betances the doctor clambered for the Hispania Antilles, intellectual political Independence. Some letter bestowing Puerto Rico sovereignty from the Spanish Crown the United States no desire to open that envelope. Betances visionary mestizo Paris his doctors’ foot.

The epoch of gold when on the island with my son we made home, in the neighborhood of the tobacconists Aguas Buenas on a street called Antorcha a socialist flame of the independentistas workers barrio of chichales. My family there Generations. The mornings waking my son for school, watching him become a man, awakening sense to life, his first girl kisses that pretty brown girl primer girlfriend I spotted them once wrapped round each other, like two bacalaito fritters tangled, later my mother cooked Red beans and plantain tostones along with yellow rice sparked with corn, The island was this sofrito flavor for me, bolero music of my mother she grew sadness with the lyrics wondering of all the lost loves, memories illusions making efforts to materialize, see them almost like bridges hanging out from her eyes. Days were found her in tears lonely in her room Fragrance of Florida water circulating blue colcha, picture of her mother and father above bed, nothing was ever coming, the only future was the end.

The Caribbean is everywhere lost within us, trapped in kitsch glorious rooms of plasticity jails, so much grime ‘’tween the beauty contra-la-danza, René Marqués our writer Belched out “Condenao mar, tanta agua Y no limpia nah”

Through the bullets flying now in panoramic tropical scenarios, Mother kept singing, as esperanza, gently vibrato hope like a white Garza landing upon a cadaver.

Humming songsforever soothing. convinced she would meet everyone she knew in heaven again. Singing boleros café con leche, Pastelillos de Guayaba.

To the bad times, give a happy face, place a red amapola in your black dark hair. Revive the mummies, the dead, burst the bodies out of the coffins let’s all walk to the plaza this final time paint with silver starlight the ancient songs in night sky, Rain Again What never commenced Comes to a finale.

#puerto rico #victor hernandez cruz #home #landscape #love #patriotism #legacy #hope

[pirates-yeah]

in my dream, which was a dream about school, originally - the usual stuff, mostly, I think, strange girls and strange corridors - eventually, I ran away into Brighton. we’d been at a restaurant where I couldn’t eat anything, so I’d left to try to find somewhere that would sell me a sandwich or something at eight o’clock at night, down on the front where there isn’t much life in the evenings - outside of the bars, anyway. but we were far from those, even. closer to my school, like usual in my dreams.

I turned up a street I thought would lead me somewhere more central, but before I could go much further I saw what looked like a covered market - a place that might have something. walking in under the entry arch, I saw nothing but a vast wall of fabrics - some cheap and kitsch but mostly beautiful, lovely things, deep velvets and brocades, fake furs in glorious colours. I can’t make clothes, so I was going to ignore it, but I had to at least take a look.

the woman behind the desk glanced up in surprise and smiled when I walked into her shop, and said something about it being late to shop for dressmaking, but when the inspiration bites you, you have to follow it, don’t you? I explained that I can’t make anything at all - but that I’m weak for beautiful fabrics, and I had to come and get a closer look. she laughed, and pulled out a roll of one of the furs so I could see it better. 

while we talked, an old man came into the shop and sat down at what were, I suppose, once restaurant booths; he had a sheaf of papers and began to mutter to himself, making notes on them, occasionally pausing to stare at the wall of material. the woman running the shop gave him an affectionate greeting and then left him to it, so I kept talking with her, and didn’t pay him any mind (I too have spent time making lists and talking to myself in shops in Brighton). soon after that, a girl joined us - nineteen or so; she pushed her way through the hanging velvets and did a double-take at the old man. what are you letting him do that for? she asked the owner, it’s weird. he’s not doing any harm, the owner said, still smiling, but steely this time; she wasn’t pleased. he comes in all the time. what can I do for you? nothing, if you won’t make him leave. it’s creepy.

she shoved her way past me, too, to leave, and I remembered I was supposed to be somewhere else - and the brief awkwardness of the conversation was clinging to me, too, so I said I’d leave, try and find a bus that would take me somewhere with food. I thanked the owner for being so kind since she knew I wouldn’t buy anything but had spent time showing me things anyway, and headed out into the street. I watched the sulky little nineteen year old ahead of me get on a bus I wasn’t going to make it to, and watched it leave without me.

if you’d wait just a moment, a voice behind me said, and it was the shop owner, who had followed me down the street. outside the shop I could see she was - something extraordinary, as tall as me if not taller, strange and spidery in a dress more suited to 1891 than 2019. you didn’t mind him, did you? she gestured behind herself, in the general direction, I assumed, of the old man in her shop - still there, presumably. you didn’t seem to mind at all. like you said, he wasn’t doing any harm, I said, confused. I like to just let people do their weird thing. she nodded, as though pleased, as though I’d passed a test of some sort. come with me, she said, with a key or something in her hand -  I’ll find you something to eat. I followed her. it was a dream, so there was no question of my doing anything else, but I would probably have followed her anyway.

we stopped close by, outside an old door painted a lovely grey; the house was Victorian, like so much of Brighton, but it felt - significant, somehow. it will do me good to have some company again, she was saying, amused at herself, it’s good for the soul. which is all I have, according to him. she laughed, a private joke. he does like to say it’s all I ever talk about. in my dream, it only took me seconds to make the connection, though awake I might never have done. but her clothes, and the strangeness of this door, which felt like it led all places at once - I knew her almost immediately for a woman out of time. your soul? I said, as in - the Souls? are you one of the Souls?

she turned her gaze on me, startled and a little alarmed, and then amused again. why - yes, she said, and opened her hand; instead of a key, I realised she held a little knife, an oddly-shaped thing with a triangular blade. yes, I am. will you come with me? I nodded, fascinated. instead of a keyhole, the handle of the door had a thin slot running down it, into which she slipped the blade of the knife; she turned the handle with it, opened the door, took my hand and pulled me with her into London in the 1890s. I knew where and when I was at once, though I couldn’t tell you how - dream logic.

I was staring all around me, but she was asking me something. how do you know about us? I assumed she meant the Souls, though I suppose at this point she could have meant this secret time-travelling society she was apparently part of. but I told her what I would tell anyone awake; I know this isn’t really true, because he died in 1987 and I was born in 84, but I’m the reincarnation of Stephen Tennant. she laughed, but only in pleasure. now I see, she said. well. then you are one of us, aren’t you?

and I was like, yes? I hope so? as we walked past the gas lamps, the horses, the sound of wheels on the road, the sound of London as I have only sometimes heard it, the lines of trees that made it look more like Paris. she had an evening bag with her, black beads on red velvet, and from it she took out another little knife and pressed it into my hand. this is for you.

the dream blurs here; we spent more time there, and then I told her I had to go back. we left through another door, back onto the streets in Brighton, close to the sea, out there in the dark. I’d been gripping the knife hard enough to leave an impression in my hand; after a moment, I realised - with no surprise, since I know how things work, or don’t work - that it was gone altogether. you know the knife you gave me didn’t stay with me, I said a little sadly, right? I didn’t think it would. she touched me on the shoulder. it will come back to you, she promised. when you need it. when there is a door.

then she went back to her shop. and I went back to school, where the dream took a sharp left into a lesbian murder mystery, as these things do. and it was like - a silly dream, I suppose, but real all the same. I believed her. I was younger in the dream than I am now, and Brighton was a lot like that for me, for a while. I have been wondering what else I can unearth. I like that the key was a knife. I can still feel the shape of it in my hand.