#< if u squint w the imagery

[coco6420]

THE HAND PRINTS!!! tell me you see it

[pondslime]

squall

bo sinclair x afab!reader

rating: explicit

word count: 5.1k

A thunderstorm rolls through Ambrose. Bo has a nightmare.

Bo POV. He sucks on some titties and is nasty about it. He really doesn’t deserve it, but he gets laid. Confusing weird dynamics. 

Crossposted on AO3 here.

Canon-typical violence and references to childhood trauma. 

Mommy and daddy kink. Stockholm syndrome. Reader isn’t here with Bo by choice. Religious imagery and symbolism but make it filthy. Shitty nasty AWFUL thoughts about women from soggy loser man. Misogynistic language and behavior. Dubious consent that actually shifts into enthusiastic consent (this is the first fic where I can kinda comfortably say that the reader might be having a little fun). However, he’s still the worst and this is still weird.

Bo Sinclair as an individual is a trigger warning. He is THE trigger warning!! He is EVERY single trigger warning!! 

this was born from an unhinged late night convo w/my partner in slime and sanitarium roommate, @raccoonspooky​. this fic has breached containment and is now coming 2 a tumblr dash near u! scary stuff!

squall (noun) 1. a sudden violent wind often with rain or snow 2. a short-lived commotion

The office window is mangled.

Bo’s eyes dance over the spiderweb of splintered glass. Vincent’s frozen in place, hands anxiously clenched around the baseball bat. This is his fault for once, and he doesn’t know what to do.

That’s how Bo gets here, standing in his father’s office, staring down at jagged pieces of broken glass. He’ll clean it up. He has to. Vincent doesn’t know how. He’s picking up the baseball when his father appears in the doorway. That’s the beginning and end of every story in this house, isn’t it?

He’s explaining himself, sputtering out a string of words—his father isn’t listening. He never does. If he did, maybe things would be different. Maybe the world wouldn’t taste like copper and vomit. But he doesn’t exist in maybe’s, does he? He exists here, and here is all there is.

“Tryin’ to blame this shit on your brother.” His father looms over him. “Look at me. Your mama’s soft on you. But you can’t pull that shit with me.”

“C’mon.” Salvation, his mother appearing over his father’s shoulder. She’s shaking her head, her forehead creasing in exhaustion. “Enough of that.”

She steps over to Bo, her heels crunching on the glass. Reaching down, she cups his face in her hands. He’s blubbering out the same excuses from before. She doesn’t listen either, but her hands are soft. So is her voice.

“No more cryin’, okay?” She sighs, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. He should bite her, he’s done it before—he wants to do it again, now, because she isn’t listening. But he doesn’t. “That’s baby stuff. You’re too old for that.”

He nods.

“You go pick all that up, now.” When she smiles at him, it doesn’t reach her eyes. “No broom. Use your hands.”

Ambrose blooms white under two jittered flashes of lightning. Thunder crashes overhead, sheets of water spilling over the eaves of the house.

Standing on the porch, Bo chews on the inside of his mouth.

A broken window. He’s not entirely sure if that ever really happened. He’d remember something like that, wouldn’t he? Lord knows, he remembers everything else.

He turns his hands over, squinting at his palms. The skin holds memories. He can’t see any scars there, but it’s hard to see in the dark. The porch light isn’t working. Come to think of it, none of the lights are. He hadn’t noticed before. It’s muscle memory now, finding his way downstairs in the dark. He’d been tugging his clothes on before he even realized that he was awake. 

He looks out at the rain, taking a drag from his cigarette.

Down the hill, his mother sleeps under the watchful eye of rows of devoted mourners. She’s developed quite the collection over the years. It’s what she always wanted. She’s something, she’s the main event. 

Where’s your father, boy?

He’s all over the state, mama. Remember that lipstick on his collar? He can’t keep his hands to himself.

Doc Sinclair is scattered down the back roads, his jaw shattered to pieces on the stoop. He’s out there—a man meant to be forgotten; teeth ground up, sifted in with the gravel. All those years of medical school sure added up to a lot, didn’t it? 

Anatomy, physiology, vivisection. Fingers in the garbage disposal, stabbed onto the end of fishhooks. All but one.

Victor’s ring finger went into a retention pond. The flesh was molted and black by that point, rotting away in Bo’s glove compartment. He held onto that one for a while. You’ll never forget a smell like that, not in the last sweltering days of the summer. It was the principle of the thing, really.

That’s respect, Pa. That’s memorial. 

The sky flashes pale, electric purple. He’d remember breaking the office window. He’s sure of it.

Separate tombs, scattered graves. After all, Bo never promised that they’d be buried together. You have to ask for what you want. Nobody will do anything for you if you keep your mouth closed.

Bo looks out into the dark, past the pelting deluge of rain. If ever there was a night for ghosts, it’s this one. He imagines his father making his way up to the church. Piecing together his limbs, eager to make room in her coffin. Honor thy father and mother, in all their rot and mildew. 

He puts the cigarette out on the wall, flicking the butt onto the stoop.

Lightning creases the sky. In the pulsing after-image, he narrows his eyes. Somewhere, at the end of the road, he can almost make out the shadowy edges of a silhouette. Another flash and it’s gone. Rain lashes his skin as he hurries down the stairs. Standing in the driveway, he peers down at the empty expanse of road. Nothing there. Just his eyes playing tricks on him.

He tenses up when he hears his name, twisting his head toward the noise. The door is open and you’re standing on the stoop, arms wrapped around yourself. How long have you been watching him? You call out to him again. The road is empty.

When he stomps back up the steps, you hurry to the side of the doorway, watching him with wide eyes.

“Power’s out.” You murmur.

“No shit.” His mouth feels gummy. “Lock that door.”

You’re quick to follow him into the kitchen, fluttering anxiously at his side. The room is bathed in flickering yellow light as you light candles, peering at him over your shoulder. The worry on your face sends a fresh wave of irritation washing through him. You’re always underfoot, at his heels like a fucking dog.

He tries the tap. Nothing happens. He huffs out an exasperated sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Power shoulda kicked on by now.” He curses under his breath, crouching down to fish in the cupboard under the sink. Grabbing a gallon jug of water, he unscrews the cap and raises it to his lips. “Generator’s fuckin’ busted.”

Tipping his head back, he gulps down a mouthful of water. Satiated, he shoves the jug back under the sink, getting to his feet.

"You can't go out in the rain like that!" You exclaim, your eyebrows knit together in concern. "You're gonna get sick."

"The fuck do you care, woman?” He grunts at you, scowling. Rainwater trickles off his forehead and hits the linoleum. “Always up in my goddamn business.”

“You’re dripping everywhere.” You state.

“Am I?” He sneers.

“Hold on.” Turning on your heel, you disappear out the door.

A resounding crash of thunder rumbles above and the window rattles on its hinges. Rain batters at the glass, obscuring his view outside.

He can’t shake the feeling that something’s out past all that gloom, lurching towards the church. It’s scratching under his skin, biting into his blood. He turns his hands over. No scars, no broken window. That’s the truth. There’s nothing out there anyway—nothing living at least. But what about everything else? He worries with his ring. The metal feels heavier tonight.

Dreams are just that—dreams. You told him that once, standing here in this kitchen. He’d like to believe that tonight. You’re a liar, but you’re a pretty one.  

On the third day, Christ rose from the dead. A hell of a lot more time than that has already passed. If it was going to happen, it would’ve already.

The sound of the kitchen door swinging open disrupts his train of thought. He welcomes the interruption, even if it is from you.

You look up at him expectantly, a towel in your arms. Grudgingly, he allows you to approach him. His wet clothes stick to him as you reach up to wrap the towel around his shoulders.

“Whose house is this anyway, huh?" He grumbles as you wipe the edge of the towel against his forehead.

"Yours." A quick response. He catches your wrist, fixing you with a glare. Too quick. Tugging the towel out of your hands roughly, he rubs it over his hair. You want something done right, you do it yourself.

"That's what I fuckin' thought."

You're going through the motions tonight, he can tell. He glances down at you, his eyes darting down your frame. His mouth tightens into a flat line. What the hell are you up to? Prettied yourself up, ran a brush through your hair when he left. Who are you trying to impress? Under the faded print of his old t-shirt, he can see the outline of your nipples through the cotton.

Jesus, girl. What if his brother walked in?

“The fuck is this?”

“What?” Your eyes are wide. You’re always looking at him with that same stupid expression, as if you need him to tell you how you’re supposed to feel. You’re always putting that shit on him.

As if I ever fuckin’ asked for that.

“We ain’t alone in this house.” He snarls at you, tossing the towel onto the ground. “You’d show all that off to him too?”

“What? I don’t—”

“Bet you’d like that.” He cuts you off before you can stutter out a string of mindless excuses. “Fuckin’ tramp.”

“No, I wouldn’t, I—” You’re stuck on defense, and you don’t even know how to play the damn game.

“Tell ya’ what, girl.” He pinches your nipple through your shirt, tugging it forward. Your face screws up in pain and you squeak out a yelp. “You wanna walk ‘round here like a whore? Be my guest. Maybe he’ll fuck ya’. Give me a break from your shit.”

He twists his fingers. It hurts, he can tell, but despite your shuddering throat, you don’t move. He feels a flash of satisfaction at your stillness.

He felt sorry for you once. Back when you still had a little bit of fight left in you, your teeth biting down on his hand. You were pitiful then, dragging your nails over his arm, spitting on his face. When you thought you were going to die, you became something else, something more primal.

You were going to kill him, remember?

He plucks cruelly at your nipple, flicking at it with his thumb. With a shuddering exhale, you release your hands from the tight balls you’ve curled them into.

That’s a girl. He had to wrench this version of you out. The real girl under the threats, peeking through the flame in your eyes. You were always waiting to come out, but no one had ever really let you. 

Thank me for this, girl. Thank me. Tell me how this hurts. I showed you how to take it without cryin’. There’s power in that.

“Tryin’ to screw my goddamn brother. Never any fuckin’ shame with you.”

“That’s not true.” You wince. “I’m all yours. You know that.”

“Do I?” He spits out, finally dropping his hand. “I don’t know ‘bout that, baby. I really don’t.”

"Will you come back to bed?” Your hand brushes his arm, and he smacks it away. Another boom of thunder rumbles above.

“I gotta get the power up.”

“It’s late.” Your tone is gentle, a plodding rhythm that reminds him of the bed upstairs. “There’s nothing in the fridge that’ll spoil anyway. You’re tired.”

“Can’t get into bed like this.” He gestures down at himself. 

“I’ll get you a dry shirt.”

“Sure ya’ will.” He jabs his chin towards you. “The one you got on.”

You glance around the kitchen, peering out into the dark living room. Your hands worry with the bottom of the shirt. It’s downright hilarious watching how your mind works. You always get fixated by the strangest things.

So now you’re going to act all shy.

“You hear me?” Your eyes snap back on his face and his lips twist into a smirk. “Take it off, girl.”

You’re not moving fast enough. You’ve always got to misbehave—he’s not sure if you think you’re cute for that, but it’s getting old. He wrenches your arms up, tugging the shirt over your head. You let out a muffled noise.

You make a move to cover yourself up before dropping your arms ineffectually at your side. Balling the shirt up in his hand, he glances down at you.

“Look at that, huh?” He boxes you into the counter, bracketing you against the wood. “What? You ain’t have no problem showin’ all that off before! You wanna give him a show, honey? Do it proper.”

In the bedroom, he peels of his wet clothes, throwing them in a heap by the door. The shirt that he tugs on smells like you, warm skin and soap. You watch him from the bed, knees pulled up to your chin.

“Whatchu waitin’ for? Get to bed.”

He’s saying it more to himself than to you.

Bo’s back in his father’s office, glass slicing into his hand.

His mother is at the door. She makes her way into the room, stepping over shards of glass. His father blurs, fading out around the edges. He almost looks like someone Bo recognizes, but the features are in all the wrong places. Strange. He squints. Mama looks wrong too, but he can’t place why. The pain is distracting him, blossoming red and angry through his palm.

Vincent’s playing piano down the hallway. Fuckin’ freak. Can’t he come in here and help clean up? He made the mess. Goddammit. His mother presses a kiss onto his father’s neck, resting her chin on his shoulder. Pa doesn’t react. How can you ignore someone so beautiful? She’s kissing you and you’re glaring at the ground.

Don’t you understand, Pa? You’ve made her sad, you’ve disappointed her, and now you’re coating your hands in glass. It’s what she wanted. Give her what she wants, boy. You love her, right?

Wrong eyes. That’s it. There’s blood dripping onto Bo’s jeans.

You love her this much?

That’s not his mother at all. Whose eyes are those?

“Hey. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Lightning streaks the sky. There’s no glass biting into his palms.

You’re sitting up against the headboard, pulling him into your arms. He growls a bit in frustration. This is your fault. You just had to ask him to go back to bed. You can’t be alone, not for a single second. You need him here, pressed up beside you. Wrapping your arms around him, resting his head against your chest.

“You’ve been through so much, baby.”

It’s pathetic. As if you could really help him, as if he needs that from you. He almost hates you for it, but you can’t hate something so desperate. You have to have pity for those lesser than you.

Women hunger for strength. They have to. They’re twisted, imperfect copies of men, always trying to steal strength from the people they wish they could be.

You’re the same. How could you be any different? You’re all soft, warm skin. Bowing his head, he rounds his lips around your nipple. He’s lapping his tongue around more of that softness, feeling it harden against his tongue. Trying to fortify yourself against him, prove that you’re more than a collection of malleable flesh. He sees through you, girl.

“Do you like that, baby?”

He groans against your skin, nuzzling his nose into your breast. He reaches over and cups your other breast, letting it fill his palm. Pawing at you, he traps your nipple, pinching it between his knuckles. Your chest flutters a bit and the nipple in his mouth nudges forward against his tongue. 

He closes his eyes.

Oh, the flesh is weak. Every day you give him something new to have to be forgiven for. You can’t be good; you can’t be dead. You stay here because you want him on his knees, muttering apologies to God.

“You’re always working so hard.” Your nipple is firm in his mouth, and he can hear your breathing hitch as he teases his teeth around it. “I couldn’t do that. I’m not strong enough.”

You aren’t. You never were. His strength, your hands in his hair. Your fingers run over the scar at the back of his head and the slight pressure makes him groan. It’s an electric buzz of a feeling, making his hand stutter on your breast.

“Is that good, baby?”

Your thumb strokes down his scar again and his eyes flash open. You’ve peeled his skin apart, dragging your fingers along an exposed nerve. A crack of lightning paints the room white. He blinks. Dark again, thunder booming overhead. It feels like the storm has rumbled its way into him through your fingertips. Who gave you the right?

You want to hurt him.

“You’re so brave, baby. My poor baby, my strong man.”

Your voice is a warm hum of noise above him. Your hand strokes down his neck, sliding onto his shoulder. Cooing, you rub gentle circles into his skin with your thumb. Casting fucking spells in his bedroom. You probably brought the storm. He wouldn’t be surprised.

“I need you. I’d fall apart without you. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Proud. The word curls into his mind, wrapping white-hot and insistent around his cock. His mouth goes slack and he turns his head up to look at you, letting your nipple fall out of his mouth. The lightning illuminates your face for a moment. There you are, sitting in the middle of a storm, smiling down at him.

“Mama.” He chokes the word out. It’s been sitting in his mouth this whole time, clawing away at his throat.

“Shh, baby. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He pushes against you, hiking his leg over yours. 

“Did I make you hard, baby?” He feels your lips against his hair. “That’s all my fault, yeah? I’m sorry.”

“Stop doin’ shit you have to be sorry for.” He grunts into your skin. You whimper a bit, and he rocks against your leg with a groan. “Just be good. I’m always tellin’ you that.” 

“I know, baby.”

“Man has to have the patience of a fuckin’ saint—” He bites into the side of your breast. You flinch, the hand on his shoulder twitching. “—bein’ ‘round you.”

He ruts furiously against you, digging his fingers into your hip. He’s painfully hard, rubbing at your leg through his boxers. You’ve got him. You’ve tied your bonds around him, cut his hair. He’s blind and you’re laughing. He growls against your breast, sucking your nipple back into his mouth.

You lie down with dogs and you’ll get fleas, boy.

“Does it hurt? I’m sorry, baby.” You murmur. “Can I kiss it better? Please?”

He shudders out a breath.

“Just lay back, baby. It’s okay. Let me.”

You’re clamoring over him, scooting down the bed to kneel between his legs. Your hand wraps around his cock. You’ve got a lot of nerve. He reaches down and tangles his hand into your hair. 

You splay your hands out on his thighs, pressing kisses up his cock. He swallows, huffing out a tight exhale of breath. His hand tightens in your hair as he palms at himself and you open your mouth obediently, blinking up at him. He slaps his cock against your tongue, watching your half-lidded eyes flutter.

“—’M not lettin’ you have this.” His voice is ragged. “Fuckin’ whore.”

“You shouldn’t.” You press desperate, sloppy kisses on the head of his cock. Dragging your tongue along it, you lick up a beaded trickle of precum. He holds you off, just enough so that he can watch you struggle forward trying to take him into your mouth. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Ya’ don’t.”

“I don’t deserve anything.” You pant, craning your neck closer. He feels your tongue on the underside of his cock, licking a hot stripe up his skin. “But you give me so much. You’re such a good man.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He forces your head down roughly, feeling you wretch wetly around his cock. Your throat constricts wildly, and he hisses through his teeth. With a sharp tug, he wrenches your head back. You cough, your hands twitching on his thighs. A line of spit hangs off your bottom lip, sticking to your chin.

You hate him, he knows that. He’s not stupid.

A caged lion is still a lion, no matter how many tricks you teach it. Look at it. It can take the meat you dangle over its cage so pretty. No teeth, just an open mouth. But it paces when you leave, boy. Watches you when you turn your back, biding its time. Stands in your kitchen with sad eyes, waiting for you to return.

“I’m here for you.” You whisper. “Only for you.”

“That true?” His hand tightens around the shaft of his cock, and he drags it over your open lips.

Come back to bed, come crawl into its cage. It looked lonely in there, didn’t it? And it loves you—in the way that you love the things you have to. Stupid fucker. Eventually you’ll make a mistake and it’ll realize that you like having it close more than you like keeping it in the cage.

You want him like this, swallowed down your throat. Disposable, rinsed out and spit down the sink. The thought burns behind his eyes, splattered red and angry. Of course you want that—it absolves you, leaves him weak.

“On your back. Now.”

He tugs your panties off, tossing them somewhere beside the bed. He’s surprised that you kept them on this long—you’re funny like that. As if you didn’t always want to end up back here, like you expected anything less. He pulls your legs apart, tugging you to the edge of the bed.

When he teases the head of his cock against your clit, you gasp.  

You’re always so wet for him. It’s how it’s always been with you—even at the beginning, when you couldn’t hide your hatred. You were wet then, wet now. The parts of you that fought him dissolved down between your legs, melting into nothing more than wetness around his cock. It was all still there, that anger, wrapped helplessly around him. You always want more.

His pretty, stupid little hole.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust to him before he rocks his hips to fill you completely. Why should he? It’s not like you need it. You get what you get. You let out a strangled moan, squeaking out a breath. 

He holds you in place and your legs shake. If you’re nothing else, you’re such a pretty little fucktoy. Just waiting for him to wake up and play with you. You tell him as much, with the way you clench desperately around him. How was he ever supposed to let you go when this is what you were made for? He’d be denying you this, and with the way you buck up around his cock, he knows that it’d kill you. 

“I—” You whine, squirming underneath him. “—miss you. When you’re gone. I miss this.”

“Yeah?” Slowly, he angles himself back, pulling out of you.

“You’re so good to me. S-so good.” He thrusts forward again, burying himself back into your core. You squeal, gaping up at him.

“This is mine, girl. Don’t you be forgettin’.”

You hum your assent, wriggling your hips down to fuck yourself on his cock.

“You’re nothin’ but a hole, mama. Don’t that feel good?”

“Daddy.” You clench around him, hiccupping out a strangled moan. He groans, gritting his teeth. You’re trembling something fierce. He reaches down to cup at where both of you are joined, your pussy swallowing around the base of his cock. 

“Always gotta be filled up, huh? Don’t know what to do with yourself if ya’ ain’t gettin’ fucked?”

“Yes. Yes, please—please.” 

“You think ‘bout me? You think ‘bout this?”

“Yes.” Your hand stutters up to clench at your breast, your nails digging into your flesh. “I can’t even cum on my own anymore. I need you.”

“Ya’ shouldn’t be touchin’ yourself when I’m not here.” He snaps, glaring down at you. “This pussy ain’t yours, bitch.”

You nod weakly up at him, your mouth hanging open. With a snap of his hips, he thrusts roughly into you. The room flickers white.

“Don’t touch that fuckin’ pussy.” He orders sharply, pulling your legs further apart. “You’re cummin’ like this or you ain’t cummin’ at all.”

He knows that if he’d let you, your fingers would already be there, rubbing at your clit. You know better, though. He’s not giving you that tonight. You don’t get to choose. Gritting his teeth, he fucks into you violently; cruel, uncaring thrusts that slam his balls against your thighs.  

That’s what you get tonight. This ain’t up to you.

Wide eyes again, always those wide eyes. A window to the soul, and yours is all fucked out, blasted out into a thousand squirming bits. Everything that keeps you alive is right here, wrapped around his cock. Pink sodden meat, a hole in the middle of a rotten peach. You can’t hide what you are here in the dark. He doesn’t have to solve any of your problems. You don’t have the chance to lie. There aren’t any words to put into your mouth, no pretty platitudes to distract him.

This is his house. You said it yourself. You might show yourself off to his brother, but it’s his bed that you end your days in. Stretched open and drooling, begging him to plug you full of cock. This is what you think about, this is what you need. Touching yourself when he leaves, thoughtlessly delving your hands between your legs. Proud enough of it that you told him.

Fuckin’ filthy. He sure knows how to pick ‘em, huh?

Wind howls outside the windows, a shrill scream of sound that whips wildly around the house. The storm rumbles incessantly overhead. He can’t get a handle on his thoughts.

Delilah knew what she was doing. So do you. Samson loved her and he told her, he told her all the time. You give something evil all of that and what do you expect it to do with it? C’mon, boy. It’s the oldest story in the fuckin’ book. She’ll ply it out of you with soft lips and the curve of her hips and suddenly you’re kneeling on the floor, your hair shorn and holes in your skull where your eyes had been. And they’ll be laughing at you, because how couldn’t you have known?

He leans down to capture your mouth in a bruising kiss, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth. When he pulls back, you reach up to cradle his face in your hands. Your fingers graze lightly over his chin.  

“You’re perfect.” You whisper against his lips. “You’re so perfect.”

He hisses out a breath. You yelp as he slams back into you, your fingers quivering on his jaw. You’re making a hell of a fuckin’ racket, girl. They’ll be able to hear you all over town. Is that what you want? Course it is. 

You can’t have his strength.

You don’t have anywhere to put it, with all this softness. The void of space between your legs, the wet clutch of your mouth—those are the only places that can hold strength like that. And even then, you can only take it for short fragments of time. Eventually, you’ll always end up crying, sputtering around all of him, desperately trying to sink into everything that he is. But you can’t, because you hold yourself back. 

He thrusts forward frantically, swallowing down a moan. You’re close, desperately so, your hands slipping down to brace yourself against his chest.

It isn’t enough to have strength inside you, filling you up. No, you need to take it. You need to hold him in the dark, drag nightmares out of him of your mouth on his father’s neck.

With a cry, you gush around him, clenching helplessly around his cock. Good girl. Twisting uncontrollably underneath him, you toss your head back.  You had to work for that one. He wraps his hand around your throat, marveling at the uneven jump of your pulse. When he squeezes, you choke out a wet gurgle.

“Oh, mama. You love me, huh?” He murmurs. You make a desperate little noise, squirming underneath him. “Love your boy?”

Another quick snap of his hips draws a sob from your lips. You’re still throbbing around him, hot and wet and needy. Always taking, never satisfied.

“Yes.” You gasp. “I do.”

“Tell me.”

“I love you. Oh, god. Please.” The moan that trembles out of your lips is weak, a plaintive mewl of sound. “Mama loves you. Mama loves you so much.”

His orgasm surges through him, a violent thrum of feeling that makes him bite down on his bottom lip. The coppery tang of blood fills his mouth, but he hardly registers it. You’re milking out every spurt of his cum, flooding yourself full of him. Pulling it out of him and taking it deep, your legs shaking with the effort. He rocks unthinkingly into you, riding out the rolling tremors that rack his body. The feeling dizzies him, striking into the sides of his skull. 

He feels distant, bloodless—everything inside him spilling out into you, coating your insides. This is no surrender, this is absolution. The storm is inside his skin. He was the only one out on the road. Nothing else could stand it. Nothing else belongs.

“What’dya say, mama?” He mutters against your neck. 

“Thank you, baby.”

When he pulls out of you, you whine. You’d like to keep him there, wouldn’t you? Greedy little thing. He rolls off of you and closes his eyes, the exhaustion settling heavily around him. He’s drifting off when he feels you move beside him, clearing your throat.

“I—” He hears you exhale, your mouth hanging over the impression of words. He huffs out an irritated breath, flipping you onto your side and pulling you flush against him. Grumbling, he wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin.

You’re not going to ruin this, not with that witchcraft in your tongue. Keep your hunger out of his dreams and let him sleep through the storm. You can give him that, can’t you?

He doesn’t ask for much.

“I’m tired, girl. Leave it be.”

[omophagias]

What makes the 14th century alliterative revival interesting to you? If I can ask?

(i’m going to do the best i can to answer this while every piece of premodern lit i own is taped up in a box somewhere. this post is also going to be very long because it’s my blog and i do what i want.)

first of all i just like alliteration in any form of poetry—i think it makes it more fun to read out loud and helps to accentuate and drive along the meter. it’s also the primary ornamental device in old english poetry—i think the ruin provides a pretty good ongoing example although the translation they’re using on wikipedia is a bit lackluster imo. the ruin is also interesting in itself for a variety of reasons but i’m personally a fan of the way the alliteration seems to ebb and flow in intensity throughout the poem as the poet moves between the city as it once was and the ruins that it is now. it’s also got a bit of internal rhyme near the start with the repetition of -orene words—gehrorene, scorene, gedrorene, forweorone, geleorene (undereotone if you squint)—that i love. this is largely beside the point. anyway it looks like this—

glædmod ond goldbeorht  ||  gleoma gefrætwed, wlonc ond wingal  ||  wighyrstum scan; seah on sinc, on sylfor,  ||  on searogimmas, on ead, on æht,  ||  on eorcanstan, on þas beorhtan burg  ||  bradan rices. (the ruin, lines 33-37) 

broadly, the rule is: four stresses per line, at least three of which alliterate (wlonc ond wingal  ||  wighyrstum scan; or, more widely known and a bit looser, hwæt! we gar-dena  ||  in gear-dagum...)

anyway post-conquest a lot of things change; partially because english isn’t the prestige language for a couple-three centuries afterwards so prestige poetry is in latin or norman french (or anglo-norman), partially because english itself is obviously changing through absorbing a lot of norman & otherwise-french influence, partially it is the nature of poetic form to adapt. i’ve seen some arguments that end-rhyme was introduced into french-etc. poetry through diffusion of arabic poetry out of al-andalus; i’m not qualified to comment but it sounds plausible. either way, at and after the time of conquest, french verse was generally octosyllabic, and rhyming or at least assonant—

Bels fut li vespres e li soleilz fut clers. Les dis mulez fait Carles establer. El’ grant vergier fait li reis tendre un tref; Les dis messages ad fait enz hosteler; Duze serjant les unt bien cunreez. (la chanson de roland, att. turold, c. 1040–1115, lines 157-161; assonant)

Quant des lais faire m’entremet, ne vueil ubliër Bisclavret. Bisclavret a nun en Bretan, Garulf l’apelent li Norman. (bisclavret, marie de france, c. 1160–1215, lines 1-4; aabb rhyming)

alliterative verse didn’t entirely disappear, probably, but we don’t have evidence for it after the composition of layamon’s brut in 1190. the verse compositions in identifiable english that we have, like of arthour and of merlin or richard coer de lyon, tend to take after anglo-norman and french antecedents—

Merlin seyd to þe king “Al y knowe þi glosing, Y wot þou louest par amour Ygerne þat swete flour. What wiltow ȝeue me, ar tomorwe Y schal þe lese out of þi sorwe?” (of arthour and of merlin, c. 1250–1300, lines 2477-2482)

He answeryd wiþ herte ffree, “Þeron j moot avyse me. Ȝe weten weel, it is no lawe, A kynge to hange and to drawe…” (richard coer de lyon, c. 1300, lines 997-1000)

the above two are fairly representative of earlier (like, pre-chaucerian) middle english poetic literature. speaking broadly: short, metrical rhymed couplets. i should also mention, probably, that people at the time were fairly inconsistent about the scribal difference between u and v or y/i/j, that þ goes “th”, and that ȝ makes a variety of “g” or “g”-“y” cusp or “gh” or “ch” sounds and can also stand in scribally for a z or hard s.

anyway, the 14th century alliterative revival is what it sounds like: around 1350, primarily in the north and west of england, a lot of alliterative verse began to be written down. it’s…very different from the examples given above:

And þat þe myriest in his muckel þat myȝt ride; For of bak and of brest al were his bodi sturne, Both his wombe and his wast were worthily smale, And alle his fetures folȝande, in forme þat he hade, ful clene;      For wonder of his hwe men hade,      Set in his semblaunt sene;      He ferde as freke were fade,      And oueral enker-grene. (sir gawain and the green knight, “gawain poet”, c. 1370–1390, lines 142-150)

middle english alliterative verse by and large rejects end-rhyming (however, the exceptions to that rule are absolutely my favorites—more later), and brings back the four-stress line (both his wombe and his wast  ||  were worthily smale) although in a longer and looser form than was common in old english, probably because of linguistic shifts and because of evolution of the medium. it is so fun to read out loud. sir gawain and the alliterative morte arthure are probably your most accessible examples—they’re both available in facing-page translation by simon armitage, who isn’t my favorite translator of sir gawain but does a good job of retaining the stresses. piers plowman is also representative, but reading it, to me, is a little like being trapped in the donut shop my grandpa hangs out at with a bunch of other old guys, except without donuts—it’s very old-man-yells-at-cloud. but really my interest with them is less with translation than with the way that the language sits in my mouth, and the way that i think alliterative verse sort of pulls the lines forward in a way that end-rhyme doesn’t necessarily—it feels more propulsive, more churning. it’s like a water-wheel, if that makes sense? it plays off the natural stresses of the english language in a really engaging way, and differently from iambic pentameter, which tends to get most of the spotlight when it comes to naturalistic rhythm in english poetry. and there’s a playfulness to a lot of it (especially the rhymed poems), or at least a sense of the ability to play with language, that i love and that i think a lot of people don’t really realize existed in medieval literature (or think only chaucer was capable of it.)

however! the works from the alliterative revival that combine alliteration and end-rhyme are some of my favorite poems in the english language (for a permissive definition of “english”), because they tend to develop these incredible complex, elaborate structures of rhyme and meter. so there are two poems in this category that i’m going to talk about, and i can go for…a long time on the second one. i’m not really going to bring up sir gawain on its own much more because, no room, but it’s really one of my favorite arthurian works, in part because of the alliterative verse, in part because i just love the figure of the green knight and the awful castle hautdesert threesome setup; it’s also one of the more accessible examples of the core of the genre (at least to me—i bounced really hard off of malory, the mabinogion is fun but deeply weird in a way that might put off beginners, and i think chrétien de troyes really depends on how you’re introduced—english translations of french arthuriana tend to be prose translations, which is a whole different post but suffice it to say i don’t think they work.)

first is the three dead kings, which is an expansion on the “as you are so i once was / as i am so shall you be” type of memento mori motif that was pretty common at the time; three kings on a boar hunt run into three corpses who identify themselves as their ancestors and tell them to stop fucking around and take death seriously. so, thematically—i think memento mori art and literature is a lot of fun, in general; the combination of the focus on life’s transience with macabre and often enthusiastically ghoulish imagery—

Lo, here the wormus in my wome — thai wallon and wyndon! Lo, here the wrase of the wede || that I was in wondon! (the three dead kings, att. john audelay, c. 1426, lines 98–99)

—and the vision of life still continuing after death and among the dead, not necessarily solely in the sense of the resurrection but in a community of the dead on earth who speak to and concern themselves with the living, it’s just very fun. (afterlives by nancy mandeville caciola is an absolute blast on that front, by the way.) the three dead kings is also structurally complex in a really enjoyable way: it’s not bob-and-wheel (which you see very famously in sir gawain, the little two-word bob and four-line abab wheel at the end of each verse), but the five-line cdccd bit that i’d call a sort of wheel; and then the main body of each stanza has this very fun abababab scheme where the a- and b-words still half-rhyme with each other. from the stanza i quoted above, you get “fynden — fondon — lynden — Londen — byndon — bondon — wyndon — wondon”. i think it plays very well with the meter.

aside from that, i love the imagery of it; it ranges from, like i said, almost comically grotesque—the dead king whose legs are like leeks wrapped in linen, the worms wallowing and winding in the womb (interesting word choice, also)—to this very sere, wintry atmosphere; the last stanza has a half-line about the “red rowys of the day,” the red daylight, that i just love. and i’m a big fan of the way that, kind of like sir gawain in miniature, the three dead kings opens with this celebration of chivalric performance that’s suddenly pulled askew by the intrusion of supernatural—or, like, really, the most natural; what’s more normal than death, or than cyclical renewal?���forces.

the second poem is pearl. (the linked translation is not my favorite; simon armitage has a facing-page one that’s pretty good, but my favorite overall is marie borroff’s (rip), who also did my favorite sir gawain.) i’m going to do my best not to just go on and on about pearl for ages, because this post is already very long, but it’s also, i think, one of my favorite poems, period. its structure is very hard to talk about briefly, because the way that it’s built is integral to its subject. in brief: 101 stanzas, each of 12 lines in abababab-bcbc rhyme, divided into 20 cantos (the 14th canto has 6 stanzas, the rest 5), for a total of 1212 lines. within each canto, the first and last line of each stanza repeat these linking words and phrases (except the first line of each canto, which does so to the final line of the canto preceding, and the final line of the poem, which paraphrases the opening line.) this is all because pearl is in part about heavenly geometry, the square/cube of the heavenly city (12 furlongs on a side, filled with 144,000 maidens) and the circle/sphere of the pearl, and the way that those two shapes are interposed on each other—there’s a lot of structural/behind-the-scenes numerology and geometry to talk about, but like…i won’t right now. it’s also, in the poem itself, something that can’t fully be talked about—

An-under mone so great merwayle No fleschly hert ne myȝt endeure, As quen I blusched upon þat bayle, So ferly þerof watȝ þe fasure. I stod as stylle as dased quayle For ferly of þat frelich fygure, Þat felde I nawþer reste ne trauayle, So watȝ I rauyste wyth glymme pure. For I dar say wyth conciens sure, Hade bodyly burne abiden þat bone, Þaȝ alle clerkeȝ hym hade in cure, His lyf were loste an-under mone. (pearl, “gawain poet,” c. 1370–1390, lines 1081–1092)

briefly—the narrator sees the heavenly city and nearly dies on the spot, only protected by the fact that this is all taking place in a dream-vision. borroff translates a bit of that as:

As a quail that couches, dumb and dazed, I stared on that great symmetry Nor rest nor travail my soul could taste, Pure radiance so had ravished me.

like…i love that. so much of pearl is about mortal and divine perception, about the unknowability of death and the depth of grief and the final breakdown of the consolatio as a literary-philosophical genre, and about the way that the dead who have transcended death and come out the other side are residing because of that transcendence in a fundamentally alien sphere of cognition, marked out by the impossible-to-withstand radiance of the heavenly city.

but what pearl is about-about, it’s generally agreed, is the death of the narrator’s young daughter. she is the pearl who he lost; grieving her, he falls asleep in a garden and has a dream. in this dream, he wakes up in a fantastical garden or forest, divided by a river, and on the other side of that river is a beautiful young woman who identifies herself, and who the narrator identifies, as the “pearl”. the rest of the poem is a back-and-forth between the narrator and the pearl-maiden, which is largely him asking questions and her explaining biblical parables to him. but describing the conversation as that really does it an incalculable disservice, because what it is is, on the one hand, a grieving parent asking these very human, tender questions of his lost child—are you really her? why did you have to go? where are you? are you happy where you are?—while the child offers only these very stern, cold rebukes—þou most abyde þat He schal deme—and abstruse explanations of the parable of the vineyard; and on the other hand, someone who has been made greedy and grasping and willfully uncomprehending in his grief, refusing to understand that the child he lost is happier where she is now, and that she can be happier there, and that he cannot join her before his decreed time. and he’s not at fault for being that way, but he’s thinking in ways that are fundamentally limited by the mortal realm that he can’t yet exit and she’s thinking in ways that are incomprehensible to people who haven’t also undergone the same apocalyptic, in the word’s sense of “unveiling” (but also, i mean, she’s in the heavenly city), reorientation of thought and being. it’s a very tender poem that i think also manages to prefigure some of the staples of eldritch horror.

and i love how the structure plays into that; the alliteration is looser than the three dead kings—there’s basically no caesura (the || that shows up sometimes in three dead kings and is more or less mandatory in old english verse), and sometimes there’s only 2 alliterations to a line, because the lines are shorter, or none at all—but it’s still got these wonderful repetitions of sound across the stanzas, tied into the repetition of the key words at the beginning and end. the whole thing builds up and up and then collapses back onto the beginning, as the narrator gradually believes he’s understanding more and more and then, in his attempt to ford the river before his time, is thrown back into the mortal world; the poem’s like an impossible staircase. it’s this massive crystalline structure enclosing a deeply human core. there is, to my knowledge, nothing else like it. it—and the other works, including sir gawain, attributed to the “gawain poet” on the basis of stylistic similarities—survives in a single manuscript, cotton nero a.x, which fortunately survived the ashburnham house fire in 1731.

to close off on the alliterative revival at large, it fell out of fashion over the 1400s; in england, the chaucerian tradition—end-rhymed iambic pentameter—dominated, and while alliterative-meter poetry still had some currency in the scottish court that ended with james vi/i stuart’s ascent to the english throne and transfer of his court to london. in modern usage, alliteration as its own technique does crop up in poetry—and i’m always happy to see it—but alliterative meter (as in, four-stress lines, or even the looser form of sir gawain or the three dead kings) is much less common and most people encounter it either through translations of beowulf or through some of the poetry in the lord of the rings (from dark dunharrow  ||  in the dim of morning…)

[delabor]

☄☄☄

{ ☠ } { @godforsakenthing }

T A T T O O S 

THREE tattoos mar his vessel;  o n e  he had done within the last couple days. First came the LARGEST        ;  m a s s i v e  spans of needle drawn feathers that cascade from shoulders; down back of arms to ELBOWS; across muscled back; ending at hips        ; elegant vanes dipping below  w a i s t b a n d .SECOND came the small scrawl of Enochian on his  i n n e r  right ankle; that has similar but varying meanings depending on who asks          ;                                                          stay true to HIMSELF;                                           he would not be caged;                                 freedom in  e v e r y t h i n g .Third and most RECENT sits two inches wide just under the bend on his left arm        ;                                             an  h o u r g l a s s ; curves fashioned from a skeletal ribcage.                            More Enochian; this time more easily read;                                                                              unto dust shalt thou return.

W A R D R O B E

Samael isn’t PICKY about clothing; but he has developed  p r e f e r e n c e s. His fashion is MUCH symbolic in nature; something he finds meaning; humor in others might not understand. A good deal features SKULLS in some shape or form      ; he was tickled  p i n k  to rise only to find humans wore imagery of their own MORTALITY; or of him. He sees a skull or grim  r e a p e r  on a shirt    ; hey, it’s me.                                                             The item finds itself in his keeping.Shirts with satanic representation is much the  s a m e      ; it reminds him of LUCIFER.

Chains on jackets; as belts; his BROKEN tethers.     Studded; spiked jackets; the demonic; angelics  t r u e  forms he spent so much time with.                                          Wings            ; that one’s obvious.Gravitates towards dark colours        ; been doing so since the beginning.            Hoods when he’s feeling his DARK self; going out a-killing.      He’d worn a hood when riding Heaven’s  m i s s i o n s ;                      the task was easier to complete when you weren’t RECOGNIZED; start up a panic before you could accomplish anything.                   Perhaps where the humans got their grim reaper impressions.Every JACKET he owns is black         ; as are most of his  p a n t s .   He likes leather; he finds it appropriate to be wearing deceased SKINS of animals. Leather jackets mostly             ; a pair or two of leather pants ARE in his keeping; however; tight as every pair. He likes the almost worshipful attention he gets by wearing them.                  His shirts aren’t all alike; some FITTED; some looser. B o o t s  are his chosen footwear         ; his favorites have buckles; little skull studs in the leather; MOSTLY because he once heard them referred to as skullcrushers          ;                                                                                   & decided all other footwear inadequate.                          Yes, but can they crush skulls?There are times he DEVIATES; a novelty shirt with a joke he  a c  t u a l l y  gets; if it’s from somewhere he likes; shares a MEMORY. A shirt with a  u n i c o r n       ; such a deviation he likes the double-takes & quizzical looks.

F O O D    C H A L L E N G E S

This hobby was an  a c c i d e n t . Before he puddle jumped centuries he’d been BENT on finding a meal that’d wedge past angelic numbness into flavor. Molecules. Tried hard; he’d find the FAINT colours of taste      ; squinting far across a distance. Theory was to SAMPLE increasingly spicy foods      ; until he hit an intensity he could eat; enjoy. Crusade led to an establishment that boasted the SPICIEST dish in the city            ; didn’t  r e a l l y  understand why everyone watched him; shocked when he ate it like he ate EVERYTHING                        ; without breaking a sweat; under the time limit. Also didn’t know why there was a time limit;                                   he assumed it was a GIMMICK;               or they were CHEAP; cramming as many customers into a day as possible.He got handshakes when he finished; a CERTIFICATE; picture on the wall of fame. There was a sense of  p r i d e ; no matter the food wasn’t a challenge.   He liked being celebrated; though brief; & he didn’t feel much more than the FAINTEST;        easily  m i s s e d press against his back when anyone looked upon his picture in AWE.A couple years have passed since the FIRST; now nearly  e v e r y  restaurant that claimed challenge has gotten a visit        ; usually only the ones that offered a photo were COMPLETED.                      Why bother if you weren’t going to get a prize?UNSUSPECTING restaurant visitors could search each wall; eventually find his grinning; unruffled face beside empty  p l a t e ; with arm slung around waitress; waiter; owner; chef.Challenge COMPETITORS likely spot him everywhere & wonder who this smug asshole is.