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bewered · 2 years

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Spain by Frederik Schindler

#aesthetic

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bewered · 2 years

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#face

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bewered · 2 years

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From the Ashes (YoonGi)

BTS Universe Elemental Series : Fire

“On the third day after my hospitalization, the doctor took off the gauze and revealed the marks left behind by the fire. The flesh of my left arm, so dark the red was almost black. It was my body. But it didn’t seem like my body. It was unfamiliar when I had dropped the lighter.

… ‘This will hurt a little.’ When he started to change the dressing, blood seeped from my wound. The blood soaking the white gauze seemed just like a flame. Like the scarlet flames of that day. Roaring like they meant to swallow me. I tried to hold it back. But the groan escaped. The doctor said that the blood was a good sign. That it was proof of new skin growing underneath the dead skin. Even though it hurt, I couldn’t help but laugh. Why are new things only possible after death? What would it have been like if I had died then? Could that have been the only way to start things over anew?

I looked down at my arm. Blood oozed through the new gauze. I called that blood stain a fire, and the doctor called it regeneration. Whose words were right?”

— YoonGi, 2 May Year 22. The Notes: Persona. Translation cr. @origamifirefly tw.

Commentary under the cut. CW: contains references to death and suicide/attempted suicide

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#face #family: jaewoo

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bewered · 2 years

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THE SCENT OF GREEN PAPAYA (1993) dir. Tran Anh Hung

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bewered · 2 years

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Bordeaux

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bewered · 2 years

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instagram | permillion44

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Vietnamese countryside. Credit to caplocchanvu (Instagram).

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bewered · 2 years

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Sunny Hanoi by nangusan (Instagram).

#home

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bewered · 2 years

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You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I had scarcely allowed myself before. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE 2005 | dir. Joe Wright

#lover: kieu

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bewered · 2 years

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Indigo Night. The hour for melancholy.

Cường stares.

‘What did I do wrong?’

The stars fall.

Nour doesn’t cry, but the moonlight catches in the curled webbing of his lashes, a hazy echoing of teary. He’s folded tighter than he’s ever seen him, made smaller like an ill-kept memory, and hides where the potted plants veil his hovel. Thoughtfully. Somberly. His gold eyes stay low. Cường thinks of a gold like the color of a sunset, those deep, painful dusks where lovers say goodbye…

Melancholy. Agony. Everything that’s happened – was it my fault?

No. Please, no. Cường, no longer drowsy, draws to his lover, seating himself on the night-chilled tiles. I found you, he thinks, with all this poor company. With strange and weird thoughts when there’s star here. There’s me. He flushes warm against Nour’s side, and the bobbing of orchids saunters in, too.

“What did you do wrong?” he starts. “You didn’t wait for me.”

Cường speaks. His voice is dragged with sleep, a wonderful dream-deep rumble, and it’s tidal, seeping in the room. Nour’s cold. He grabs those hands, hair sweeping to the breeze at the window, and he rubs each knuckle with his calloused thumbs.

“You didn’t wait for me to kiss you before you left the bed tonight. You’d stopped believing that any man could want to.”

Stopped hoping for more. Anything. No, no. Cường bows his head respectfully, reverently, and speaks against the crook of those knuckles. These hands dirtied with your anger! The cold of them… Your death you’d been dealt! It wasn’t you. He holds firmly to Nour, kissing, rose-water at his skin, and he’s calm, an anchor in the sea.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You were you. What a wonderful thing to be.”

#writing #lover: nour

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bewered · 2 years

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Citrus. not explicit nsfw.

cuong peels himself an orange

it dribbles, plucked fat from the orchards grown full in the summertime, and it scents the living room charming and sweet. he sucks his thumb as he works. the juice collects down his wristbone. he watches them, gaze away and mind afar, the candle sat beside them licking them gold. he wonders where they are. he asks them, deep with wonder. they look away, enraptured by the deluge, and he tongues the drip of that orange across his gums.

‘right here,’ they mutter.

he gets up from his seat, all his footsteps slow.

‘really?’

uh huh.

cuong hums. he sinks into the sofa beside them, quiet, listening, and as always, infinitely curious. he kisses their jaw, nose bumped against their cheekbone. they smile, just a warm, familiar grin, and they let him melt and lean their bodies.

‘i dont believe you,’ he says.

‘no?’

‘no.’

‘then where am i?’

‘not here. not yet.’

cuong drags lower down their jaw. they let him, and he kisses tidal slow, deep and romantic like – like dinner with roses full in blossom. or indigo nights. or keats and shakespeares. who knows? he’s not a poet. but he kisses like he is one, dragging words to creep hot up their belly as his mouth flutters hot and sweet as sin. he kisses where their neck thumps. he sucks a little number. his hand meets their knees, and he parts them just a tad.

he sinks, still. they watch, rain and thunder and blood-flow in their skull. cuong’s a threat. he fingers the worn band of their pants, and it’s suddenly breaths stoppered in their throat, want, and their heartbeat fluttering to a roar like wasps. he knows it. he, the torturer, bet on it. he drags their pants down, the room filled with its whisper, and he follows in, closes up, parts their knees even further and mouths a heat like fire.

they keen. work. their tummy flutters, contracts, and his rough hands – orange-scented, juice sunk beneath the nails – rakes slowly up their hipbones. he maps their tremors. he hums aloud.

they pull at his hair. yank. he groans, sucking slow and languid, and they, rather suddenly, are violently here.

the taste of orange fills his mouth.

he rakes summer in their skin.

the rain falls. they grow hot.

#writing #nsfw

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bewered · 2 years

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How do I love you? Oh, this way and that way. Oh, happily. Perhaps

I may elaborate by demonstration? Like this, and like this and

no more words now

—Mary Oliver, “How Do I Love You?”, in Felicity