luerioed

[luerioed]

short-form prose- the sun & the moon

------

Do you ever feel like you’re spinning? Not literally or metaphorically- but spinning. Around and around in a way that can't be controlled. 

In a way that’s dizzying, confusing. Something that leaves a pause, a frown, on your face - dazed and slow. Is it life being a fragile loop? Thrown around like a frisbee on a finger. Casual- a forgotten gesture. Nauseatingly distracting. It makes me question, ‘where did you go?’

I imagine it’s like being thrown through space in an orbit. A sun giving warmth in bursts. Covered, and then there again- providing relief and then darkness and then relief and then-

It’s something suffocating. I’m in the middle of space. Will it always be this thrown loop? Always spiralling? It makes me sick. 

Doesn’t it make you want to run away? Anywhere else? Whatever form that might take?

Other times it’s comforting. 

It’s like a dance, and it’s because it’s uncontrolled that it’s beautiful. I can't tear my heart away from the chaos. The desire to laugh in that spin, around and around like (we’re) the moon and the sun. Forever apart but with a blink- in sight. 

It’s like a spinning hug. Tight and breathless and jaded because: too long. too long- 

It’s when the warmth of the sun hits my cheek and I can’t help but look up- keeping that spin- and think ‘where were you this whole time?’

Something that’s always been there, and always will be, no matter how many times it goes away. How many times it leaves me. A long, long love. You who makes me close my eyes and sigh through my nose as we smile and spin.

------

thank you to a friend for sharing me their own poetry - and prompting this response. I really enjoyed writing this :)

[luerioed]

Okay so I haven't been active on here for a while (woops), however, I have been super active over on ao3. Perhaps the most active I've ever been :D I've posted three works relating to Arcane and there's a high likelihood that there's going to be more now that I've finished season two. I'm pretty proud of two of them- and they've actually done the best statistically out of any work I've ever posted which is amazing.

I'll drop a link here to my account, again. Maybe some people will like it :) It's mostly CaitVi but Ekko-centric stuff, with Jinx and without is probably on it's way. Keep an eye out ;)

Will work on being more active here! Fanfiction and other stuff included :)

[luerioed]

Just thought I'd make a small post promoting my new fanfiction that came out the other day! :D

I adore Arcane to pieces - I could honestly go on and on about the characters forever and the past few days have not been healthy with my level of obsession lmaooo, but there's more on the way as well- just gotta edit and get around to finishing a few parts :3

Thank you for the support, it's been amazing reading comments and every kudo is like a dopamine hit straight through a needle fr-

you have each other - Luerio - Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) [Archive of Our Own]

cya xx

[luerioed]

One of my lectures last week explored colonialism within the creative arts- and while I've known about it for years, both in every day life and as an object of study, I've never paid it much attention.

Certainly not in a way of unfeeling, but in a way of, 'it never truly affected me'. I didn't understand the depths of colonialism, and I still don't, but I wanted to explore and put myself in the mindset of someone, long ago, that wasn't just a subject of neo-colonialism, but a victim of that vileness firsthand.

I didn't study background for this piece, nor have a specific time frame, or people in mind- take it as fiction if it eases your mind. It isn't meant to offend anyone- just give an insight.

----------

Our fathers had heard stories. 

White folk, clothes of smarting and colour.

Human in shape but deceptive:

The stories of prowling and tightened pupils,

A pilgrim predator wearing a cackling mask.

They ushered it away-

‘Run and play, children! Tell stories of the lions,’

And our mothers would weave and laugh over fire,

And we’d dance in the embers of the night, bliss,

our fathers looking to the horizon, white-knuckled.

Whispered harsh words between houses in the night,

Too scared to be our elders, (for surely they couldn’t fear-)

Mutterings of running and hiding,

‘For the children!’ 

Silences that left everything unanswered.

Descended like beasts too intelligent. Devils,

For which God would favour the pale creatures of night? 

‘Run, my children. Run!’ 

Those who had the answers to everything, mothers, fathers,

Rounded like cattle, unfeeling. No culture. No compassion.

A twisted word, sharpened and fashioned by vile hands, a weapon-

Slaves.

----------

Thank you for reading, x

[luerioed]

Another one of my seminar prompts this week was to write a piece of prose / poetry that associated itself with folktales. To expand on this, I decided to come up with an explanation of 'holloways', which are sunken lanes and paths through woods which are significantly lower than the surrounding foliage. While they can be explained as being created through the passage of traffic aging all the way back to the Iron Age - I liked the idea of adding a slightly whimsical spin to it :)

----------

A girl used to bless these woods. 

Bare-footed. A gait that left no wonder as to how she leisured. Slow and even. Each step holding a purpose. Blades of grass and crumbs of soil filtering between each toe like nature’s colander. It was something so natural it held the beating heart of the earth. 

She liked the quiet she said. The sounds of twigs breaking and birds singing. Her breath through her nose her only companion. Maybe the swishes of her dress in the wind or the rustling of bushes as an elk leaped and bound. 

It was a symphony by itself and there was always a twinkle in her eyes as she explained it. A warm, soft laugh. Passion so bright it could light a fire. ‘It brings peace,’ she’d say, hiding beneath a woven sun hat. ‘I can imagine twisting and rooting like a tree. If I could be one- I would.’ 

They couldn’t understand. 

Drawing hands up and down bark. Through plants. Picking and weaving baskets that smelt of and breathed the forest. They’d watch as she laughed and smile at the trees. Hugging and talking like a friend. Foraged goods that could be used for stews and seasoning. 

No urgency in life- there was only confusion. She’d patiently explain by a fire- a crackling wood. Smiling softly and speaking words like a prophet, but always too humble. She didn’t care for praise or judgement. If anyone spoke she always listened. If anyone judged she always smiled and moved on. 

Rebounding. Echoing. Straight through. Words that made no sense - not to them. And they knew everything. And what they didn’t? It burned, burned, burned- because it wasn’t possible. It didn’t exist. They made sure of it.

Hellish. Impossible. It was the crouching devil weaving his fingers from hell- sprouting them from the ground like icicles of malevolent treachery. One had struck her, they yelled, when she was a child. 

If anyone had loved the girl’s smiles, her warm brown eyes, her laughter and joy echoing from the woods- they didn’t speak up. They broke instead- watching a pyre. Splintering and piercing and nothing like the stories told over campfires. 

It was only muttered sentences of those who knew her that kept her breathing. Those who would look back and gaze fondly at the blooming flowers in spring. 

They’d speak of how wherever she walked there seemed to be a path. A holloway - like the woods adored her as one of their own, and parted, with sweeping trees and curling roots, for only her. -and how there would always be a path- an escape- for those that followed. For those of like-mind and earthen hearts. Those who had wide eyes and a smile for the sun, a hand for the trees, and a laugh for life-

----------

Thank you for reading x

[luerioed]

One of my seminar prompts this week was to write an autoethnographic piece of literature (which I inferred as prose) which was associated with an image that you liked (or chose for any other reason I suppose!). I liked this prompt purely because it let me have some degree of choice over what I want to write about lmaoo (it's always gonna have a gloomy nature to it I'm afraid).

I still struggle with autobiographical work: I find it easier to associate and channel personal messages through a vague narrator (which I sort of do here) or through entirely unique characters. But I liked this enough to throw it out there :)

Associated image (Pinterest).

----------

There’s a certain tone of colour, a certain mood. Associated colours and twisting petrichor - rich in the nose. Deep soil and bark musk that roots through your body- down, down, through the ground. Penetrative and reassuring like a full body wash: in a way that cannot be replicated artificially. 

Fog and musk and rain. A light drizzle that leaves your skin moist and your laugh brighter. I can reach out and spindle vines in my hands and watch as droplets sink down. You can feel it like a cascade as you adjust headphones on your head, falling through my hair. Never an inconvenience, only a cold refresher, something to treasure. Something baser and more primal that goes back and back and you can’t help but look up and wonder. 

You can touch anything you want. Brush hands over trees, scrunch fallen leaves. Autumn. October. 

Passing wildlife is divine approval: you’re going right.

A feeling of belonging: home. This is where you exist, where you breathe- a full acknowledgement that this is what makes you soul and flesh. It’s as much a part of you as any limb, as any organ, as your pumping heart. 

This person is me. 

Every glance at a swaying tree; an incoming fog; is a flash of memories and resolve - a feeling of content. I think back to friends, a love, but I make it as much mine as I can. I etch it into my skin and reel it back in because I cannot let this be taken. I only think of the good it has brought me. 

It isn’t singular- I see it in every place I crave. A rolling hill or a twisting holloway. As eerily quiet by myself as it is comforting. I find myself slowing and touching grass and there’s a quiet voice- 

As much as it feels like home, who will it be? That treads in tandem with my steps and finds that same twinkle in their eyes and that same soft smile (and will understand).

----------

Thank you for reading :)

[luerioed]

Another one of my modules at uni is 'Brighton Writes'. If it isn't obvious from the title, I'm studying at Brighton Uni :) In this module we explore ideas of place and purpose, and how place is written in different pieces of literature, often with themes of romanticism.

In this prompt we were asked to write a short five hundred word essay on our first impressions of the city. I might have explored feelings a lot more vague and meaningful than a material impression: but that's my speciality, and I've always believed prompts to be a push for the brain to express itself rather than a list of limitations.

----------

There was music, a soft melody - and we drove in. 

I remember cresting a hill - farm animals and trails spiralling over fields. Adventures. And in the distance, past the flashing images of trees, between the gaps of ferns, the ocean. I could almost smell the salt from there. I could hear the wash of the waves, silent and commanding. 

I remember making my room home. Adjusting the positions of plants. Taping decorations. Creating a collage of heart and soul on a pinboard, intertwining vines and roots. Books and burning scents. Strawberries and coconut. Pine and soil. I remember throwing my blankets across the bed and looking out the window - making sure the sun shaded it all - and smiling. 

I remember seeing the city that night. Loud and exuberant and smiling. Laughing and wild. It wasn’t me, but I smiled, watching and observing, just to see the joy it brought others. Those who I would live with and strangers. Showing a flicker of their life in their eyes - (at least, sharing a brief moment of happiness, in a moment, (an optimistic thought)).   

I enjoyed the fields more- those that I’d spied. Seemingly endless planes of grass. Paths where you found hares, birds, dogs, and could smile and laugh. Pictures, a mutual understanding. A view from the top - past the golf course - the entire city spanning before you. The sunset to the far east. Worthing and Shoreham and the promised countryside. 

When I think of ‘new home’, I think of the woods. Low in the valleys and twisting, hidden from the cities. I think of the streets winding, the pavilion, the parks. Cigarette smoke by the exit door, blacks and lights. 

I remember when ‘new home’ felt like ‘old home’. Sitting on the beach in the sun, smiling, laughing with friends - visiting. Taking pictures like we used to, hugging like we used to. Chasing down the shingle and picking at shells. I wasn’t ready to lose it, and I won’t. It felt like ‘true home’, it always will. But it’s as temporary as an unknown visitor. I relish that it makes it sweeter. 

I can imagine home here. The forests are already mine, the rolling hills, my room. The peace of a book cosy in the covers. The scents and lamps. 

But my heart is still elsewhere, in another place, in another people. Never a location, always a feeling, and that won’t ever change.

----------

[luerioed]

Wrote this of my own volition :) incredibly angsty and very personal but my friend encouraged me to post it as a short poem / story. I hope it resonates with some people - it might be a small target demographic but I just hope if it's this personal to me it might be to someone else.

----------

Home is one to five. 

I spend it curled around cushions, the lights low and fading from lamps - candles. Incenses and posters and music and you can almost taste the strawberry. Soft and wafting. 

Fingers clicking at a keyboard. Maybe a warm drink? It’s always my best ideas at one to five. Brewed from a day of dreaming. Of resting your chin on an arm and looking out the bus window. Head rocking, a soft melody in your ear once again, thinking - dissociating. Imagining and fantasising and pressing your fingers against that window. It comes from the heart when you're tired.

I spend it looking at the ceiling. Not because there’s anything interesting. Not because I love my posters, love my plants, love the smell and love the blankets - cosy. But because I think, imagine, contemplate. 

I spend it wandering the streets. They’re home at one to five. There is no one to judge as you reach for spindly branches and fallen leaves. Trekking up hills to watch the cities. Away from the buzz. There is no expectation. There is no need to fit in. 

I spend it in the woods. The birds are quiet and you can hear the wood crack underfoot. The leaves crunch. You can seep into the soil and close your eyes.

It gets lonely. It gets terribly lonely. Lonely enough to bring tears. To tear at your heart. To make you mouth wordlessly in anguish- haunting and indescribable. Searching for words that aren’t there. 

But it brings peace. Because this is it - who you are. 

And some nights, when I’m lucky, I spend it talking, and that translates. I’m myself, and I smile, because while being myself might not bring the faked joy of fitting in, of laughing and acting and being loud and exuberant-

It’s you. It’s that person who you catch eyes with in the mirror - with no expression. Because why fake your smile to yourself? You know it’s fake. You know you’re lying. You can see it in your eyes. You know it isn’t the one remembered by others. 

And while that may be haunting. Terrifyingly vulnerable- It’s one to five and you're yourself- and that can’t be removed. And there is no shame because there’s a tiredness that speaks- ‘if they see this and run, I still have the cushions, the lamps, the candles and the incenses; the keyboard and the ceiling and the plants and the streets; the hills and the sunsets and the woods and, once again, the loneliness, and I’ve lived with it for so long- maybe I can again-?’

----------

Thank you for reading <3

[luerioed]

One of my modules at uni is 'Narratives of (Un)belonging'. It's definitely my favourite so far :D It's extremely vague and abstract and explores feelings of both unfamiliarity and familiarity simultaneously. Somewhat of an uncanny acknowledgment - feeling that you both belong and the opposite. I wrote this little piece when given the prompt '-the night I transformed into-'. I adored the freedom we were given and I was able to tap into my love for the abstract. I could analyse this piece and prompt forever lmao but I just thought it was worth posting :)

----------

I like to imagine flying. Soaring through the sky, above the clouds, above the world, above problems. Alone and content, with only the moisture to worry about, with only sight through a busy cloud. 

Soaring low, clipping kernels of wheat with my wings, flying over expanses of lakes and seeing everywhere at will. Countries, continents, and I wouldn’t even know their name. I’d be a bird, incapable of knowing, but knowing that it’s all one world, all connected, all nature and all within my grasp. 

Would I cross oceans? Would I make nest high? In the alcoves of mountains, snow-capped but with twisting trees to hide and make home. Would I pick somewhere warmer? Flatter ground, rolling meadows, flowers and the sun and little cottage homes where I would see people, humans, but be filled with curiosity - wondering, watching. 

I wonder. Do birds make friends? Would there be a quiet solace, a mutual understanding. Sharing a branch with another, watching from rooftops and flying up mountains just to find another had done it before you. Would it provide comfort? Would there be a solace?

I’d like to imagine there would be. 

----------

[luerioed]

So shit, I don't really know how to post fanfiction here or if I even should lmaoo but I've actually completed the first prompt of whumptober! Please go and check it out! It's rough around the edges but I love the AU I made hehe.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59374522

(fyi I'm familiar with the fact that there is a set way to do the Whumptober challenge, tags and what not included, but I'm not taking it too seriously. I'm still gonna use some of the tags tho- seen as I'm completing the challenge on my own accord even if it isn't recognised by the archive)

(pssp thank you for reading :D)

[luerioed]

Hi! I'm Dylan, he/him, writer :) Hopefully this will be my blog for all things writing + stuff I find interesting. I tend to fixate on a lot of different things so it may be a little bit random.

My work is all on AO3 under the penname Luerio. I mostly specialise in writing Naruto fanfiction, but I absolutely adore JJK :D I've also wrote in the Harry Potter and Hunger Games fandoms, and have included crossovers with Greek Mythology so honestly just expect anything lmao.

I work best with prompts and shorter stories though I've explored all forms of writing: so drabble prompts and requests are encouraged! As long as it interests me and relates to fics / fandoms I've already written in chances are I'll probably go for it.

Thank you for reading!