#blotched-poems

[sinligh]

You seek approval,

my subconscious implemented in my dreams. you build up illusions of yourself

and like a bridge thread of a spider web you give them to others

silky, sticky yet somehow,

you’re smooth enough to lure them to wrap you in all that you desire,

even if it’s their own pleasure.

you’re not stuck you’re waiting, for an ending or a beginning

an unsolicited death, an indefinite life

you fear your own madness but the edge of it is what you live for.

you wait, and wait and wait for love to visit the fragile home you made for yourself in this temporary world

but it’s not what you want, is it ?

because the moment it knocks on your door you rush to the arms of another,

paranoia or melancholy? It doesn’t matter.

you writhe and hiss until you shed a skin of a past life that you held on

For acceptance alone, if nothing else…

what is it that you truly desire?

•••

• Quotes: Susan Sontag/ Edgar Allan Poe/ Emily Dickinson/ Halsey/ Sylvia Plath/ Christa Wolf.

• Original context: Sinligh

• Art reference:

1. Art by Edward Burne-Jones. 2. Art from Sedmikrasky (Daisies). 3. Dave McKean, "Sandman" graphic novel. 4. Art by Roberto Ferri. 5. Painting by William Oxer. 6. Craww's "Woven".

[learningto-write]

it can't quite explain this feeling

I've heard so much about mending broken hearts, with time, with love, with the right person

but I never hear about the hearts that are so shattered they can never fit back together

I never hear about the hearts that have been betrayed and tormented countless times

I never hear about how guarded and closed off our hearts become, and how truly nothing feels as though it can break through

I never hear about how deep, whirl wind, soul tied love feels impossible - is my heart even capable anymore ?

I never hear, about hearts like mine

[cosmicmote]

The Study of People as Lovers

same painting used as previous Chill Day piece, but with slightly different editing.

does the sun repeat itself?

does the rocket to the moon?

I feel like the poem should be expanded on, in longer form

graphic and words ©spacetree 2023

[anomaly-hivemind]

Delulu is the Solulu ☆ Gyutaro x Reader | Kinktober Day 28

Summary: He loves me... he loves me not, oh who am I kidding of course he loves me~

Word Count: 2015

Tags: voyeurism, mutual masturbation, obsession, mentions of death, rough sex, stalking, possessive, yandere x yandere,

You were reading the love letters to your secret admirer, you had been getting a lot of them and it always brought a smile to your face. The one you were currently reading a poem they had made for you. 

I want to feel your skin,

The way lovers do.

Caress your hair as If it were mine

See the world in your eyes

Smell your love from miles away so I could never forget it.

I want to feel your skin,

More than just the surface.

Taste the flavor of your bones 

Dig deep into you blood

Infiltrate your nervous system so that I could feel you like no other.l

I want to feel your skin,

Like always you would.

Trail my hands as if they were yours

Take your last breath 

Wear your life as if it's my final decision just so I could make people smile the way you do.

I need to feel your skin,

Even if you're no more.

Drink your essence until I choke

Gagging up biles of your heart

Pouring out the metallic red on my eyes so I can see nothing but you.

I need to feel your skin,

Even if I have to take it.

Peel the layers back until you squeal

Sculpt you down because only I can paint you in this light.

I'll Write you down in my blood for that would make it useful.

I need to feel you skin,

I need You.

They must really be in love with you if this is the type of thing they send to you; you let out a content sigh. You as you fall down onto your bed. You reread the letter over and over again as you think up anything that could get you going, conjuring up fantasies of what you would do if you got your hands on your secret admirer. It's been a whole month since you started to get these written notes, and a few months before that, you found a bunch of your stuff going missing, like your bras and panties. It had crossed your mind that your admirer and your clothes thief were one and the same, but it never bothered you; in fact, it brought a heat between your legs and a flutter to your heart. You didn’t even catch yourself when you fell asleep, the letter still in your hand. 

Your admirer was watching you from one of your windows, their smile growing when they noticed that you fell asleep. You hand over the letter that he had placed in your home while you weren't there. He moved to your back window, which had a faulty lock, thanks to his handiwork, and crawled inside your home. Once he was inside, he wasted no time walking into your room.  He wished that he could have gotten to see you when you had first seen the letter but he was busy getting rid of some trash you had accumulated at your workplace. It was only some guy who was flirting with you; no one would miss him anyway.

He watches you shift in your sleep, a flutter in his chest when he looks at you, thinking it is finally time for him to claim you as his. He runs a cold hand and has your skin caressing you gently and waiting for you to stir. He crawls onto your bed. Lying beside you and staring at you while sleeping. You feel a warmth covering your body, assuming that you had subconsciously put your covers around YouTube, and then you feel the faint fanning of breathing on your face. It causes you to start to wake up to see what this is. When you open your eyes, you get started wondering why; there was a man, who you didn't know, in your bed watching you sleep. You both jump back and just stare at each other. 

“Who the fuck are you!” You throw a pillow at his face and watch him stumble back on the bed, almost falling off of it.

“Who do you think it is?” He makes no attempt to hide the fact that he was some random person in your house. But then it clicked that this wasn't just any stranger or creep, this was your stalker. 

You looked him up and down, taking in his black hair with green highlights, his grayish skin, and the blotches on his skin. He had tired eyes, and they were staring at you. He was also taking in your body and the casual clothes that you had been wearing before you got into bed. A smile creeps its way up your face before you speak. 

“What’s your name, stalker?” You crawled back into your bed and looked up at him, holding another pillow just in case he had any negative intentions, but you doubted that, knowing that your admirer had a thing for you. You looked down at the letter you had received when you got home, which was clearly a declaration of love, just like the other ones were. 

“You really want to know, you're not scared at all?” you keep staring at him, you couldn't help but think he was attractive in his own right and you couldn't be more excited to finally see your man in person for the first time. You give him a couple of eager nods and wait for him to give you his name. 

“Please tell me, I need to know my admirer's name, you've been occupying my fantasies for months now.“ you rub your thighs together, feeling the heat you did before you fell asleep. 

“Gyutaro,” his eyes drift down to you, rubbing your legs together, and he licks his lips. You test his name on your tongue. 

“Well, I hope you came here for a specific reason, Gyutaro” you asked him while still rubbing your legs together. 

“Oh, I definitely came here for a reason.” You watched his hand go down his pants, groping his cock through his pants. It was the only confirmation you needed from him, and you knew exactly what he wanted to see.

You lay back on the bed, shimming your way out of your pants, your eyes never leaving Gyutaro. Both of you are looking at each other. As you slowly move your hands down your body and between your legs. You let out a soft sigh as you bring your hand into your pants to start to touch your pussy. You watch as Gyutaro does the same with his pants and fishes his cock out of them in order to actually stroke himself. While also giving you a show, your eyes were glowering at his cock as it swayed with his hand movement. You find it hypnotic, and it is turning you even more, you can actually feel yourself getting wetter as you finger yourself. 

You try to match his pace, imaging that he was the one fucking you as you pump your fingers inside your walls. You let out moans that you didn't try to hide and looked into his eyes with love and desire as if you had been waiting for this very moment for years. Gyutaro has been inching closer to you every once in a while as he continued to jerk himself off, his facial expression seemingly torn between watching you and trying not to bust quickly that he was in front of you for real and not between a glass or closet door watching you instead. 

“Please move closer.” You let out a whine as you fully take off your underwear and sloppily work to get naked for him. He follows suit and strips out of his clothes and then crawls onto the bed and gets between your legs before resuming his movement of jacking on, now with a much better and more intimate view of you.  Pushing your fingers back down, you tease your clit while stretching out your walls so you can take him. That is exactly what you were planning in your head for him to do. 

“Move your hand” His hips were almost flushed against yours, and his cock was right over your working hand as you both pictured was next to come. 

You do as he tells you to and move your wet hand, and he takes it and brings it to his mouth, you can feel his sharp teeth brush against your fingertips. He licked your juices off your hand before letting you push his cock inside of you. A loud collision of sound escapes your lips as he bottoms out into your welcoming entrance. All of it feels better than you could have ever imagined, which you definitely have imagined. You sit up to pull him down a bit and to hold on to him but he moves quicker to hold you in place. 

“I want to see the look on your face when you cum.” he tells you, and you nod again, a bit of panting feels like the only sound you can make as he starts to move at a fast pace. It gives you no time to get used to him being in you, and you can’t complain because you are so overcome with joy. 

You let yourself be taken away into the pleasure gates as he fucked you like there was no tomorrow and that no one else could ever matter, and that’s all you could ever ask for. You were melting, your walls clenching and unclenching around his cock that was pistoning into you roughly. He was holding you down, biting your skin, huffing, puffing, and muttering claims over you. A tear ran down your eyes, and it was from how much you were enjoying every second of this intersection. You wondered what would happen after this moment you shared. Will you both start dating? He could move in with you, hope he’s thought about marriage; is he the reason people you don't like keep going missing? All those things would pop up in your head after he would thrust into you.  

"Give me everything," I moaned, my voice low and husky with desire. "Fill me with your seed, Gyutaro. I want to feel you deep inside me, claiming me as yours.” It was the first important thing you thought about asking him. 

“I plan on it.” he gives you the reassurance that you crave, and his hip movement becomes more erratic, his groans and moans more present. You know you are about to cum and that he was the only man that could possibly make you feel the way you do right now because he knows you so well. You know that he's perfect in every way, and nothing he does could make you love him any less, he's the one, and you'll both see to it that everyone who crosses your path knows it.

You wrap your legs around his hips and try to meet his thrust; he tightens his grip on your hips, his fingernails digging into your skin, causing you to let out a whimper, even if you don't want him to stop, in your face, you want what he can give you and then some. You grip his hair with a force that causes him to let out a moan, and you move in haste to eat up, bringing his lips against yours. Gyutaro was basically sucking your face, and you were doing the same back to him, you kissed messy and aggressively, and it was sure to leave your lips swollen. You bite his tongue, drawing a bit of blood, he lets out a hiss before pulling back, and being able to taste him that way causes a bright smile on your face as you savor the faint taste.

You both fall into the fiery depth of orgasms, and your bodies move flush together; Gyutaro makes sure to watch your face contort as he causes you pleasure and fills you with his essence. You were all his, and he would kill for you just to prove it.

[snarky-magpie]

(Chapter 5 of Something New is live! You can read it here.) “So. Good enough for you, Potter? Or do you require something else to be more comfortable? Pillow for your knees? Maybe I should recite a poem, too? Sing you a song?” Regulus asks, slipping into his usual acerbic tone, but James has always been a quick study. Between this afternoon and the moment Regulus forced him to his knees, he decided to become a master in all things Regulus as fast as possible, so he reads his panic-stricken expression like an open book. 

Regulus appears terrified at revealing the cards he usually holds close to the vest. Scared that James will throw them back in his face. Of course, their past antagonism doesn’t give him any reason to believe otherwise, but James would never entertain such an idea. Not for a second. He’s determined to cherish these glimpses at the real Regulus, commit every moment of openness to his memory, and revisit them when this night has long faded from view. 

“Yes. You’re good enough for me, Reggie. Better than good. Better than I deserve.” 

“That’s not—damn you—not what I meant, and you know it, you prat,” Regulus stammers out a denial. His thigh muscles tense under James’ hands, and when James looks up, he notices red blotches covering his cheeks. So. Praise flusters him. James tucks away the knowledge for future reference, ignoring how it infuses his belly with heat. There’s something heady about the impact his words have on the younger Black, but he can’t pinpoint what.

[followcb]

Like a lovable friend, this poem has come back around life's bend..... and how it's tale continues to transcend. ❤️ 😍 💖.

Her Favorite Chair

she unlocks secrets

parlays rainy days

plays hide and seek

with clouds and sun

perhaps an unexpected, overcast past

taught her how to interpret

shadows and storms

and how moods intersect

today, she now finds

a sense of contentedness

inner bliss and happiness

home peering out her windows

watching gray skies arrive

she grabs a book, pops open a beer

excited about inclement weather

reclined and relaxed, she's ready

to watch tv and watch it rain

as she settles into her favorite chair

(c) @followcb | October 26, 2019

[dabisair]

toska

Dabi x gn!reader

Warnings: soft Dabi, reader is a bit rude to Dabi in the beginning, discussions of love and how it's supposed to feel (both explanations are negative), indecisive reader, unambitious reader, talk of body hatred, and oh my god if you feel the way this reader feels I am so so so SO sorry and I hope that one day you and I can heal ; _ ; (I tried to keep Reader's body type unspecified)

toska - (roughly) a dul ache of the soul, a sick pining, a spiritual anguish; also, "Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness".

Unbeta'd I ride at dawn--- this started somewhere and then ended somewhere else entirely and I'm sorry.

A flame-bitten finger traces along imperfect skin - skin that shivers beneath the touch, goosebumps pebbling in the wake.

The sensation worsens when that burning hand plucks petals from a nearby flower, all blues and purples with a splash of white, and traps the supple material between a hot palm and a cool arm.

Blue eyes flicker with interest, a flash of white heat singing the petals and the near invisible hairs on your forearm. A stream of smoke rises up from beneath his palm, long fingers wrapping around your arm when you try to jerk the appendage away on reflex.

Dabi thinks your scowl is funny - he must, given that he chuckles when you narrow your eyes at him. You don’t waste your time trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You’ve come to know that it is better for you to accept whatever new burn you’re going to have when he finally decides to let you go than fight with him and have him tighten his grasp.

“Just because you have dead pain receptors doesn't mean I do.”

The small smile on his face is whisked away by a neutral line, his grip on your arm loosening enough for you to yank it back to your person. All that meets your gaze when you inspect your skin is a red blotch, earning Dabi a sigh. You brace your hand against the stone beneath where you sit, staring listlessly toward the city below. He’d insisted that you come up to this roof with him nearly an hour ago.

He sets his hand on your thigh, ripped up flower petals fluttering around as he repeats the action, this time with the petals, and the fabric as a barrier between the brutal flash of his quirk and your flesh. You poke gently at the skin between his knuckles, tentatively touching the staples. Your fingers twitch away from the metal, scorching hot just from the small puffs of flame he let out from his palms.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like running through the snow and jumping in a hot tub.”

Dabi snorts, shaking his head while he rubs his hand slowly up and down your thigh, “right.”

“So hot that it feels cold, like leaving my hand in cold water and then putting it in a bowl of hot water. It stings and makes me think my skin is melting off my bones, at the same time as it feels like my skin is freezing and becoming brittle.”

He nods his head, his hand lifting from your thigh to touch your chest, “that’s not what I’m askin’. What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like, fire boy?”

“Being in love.”

You peer at him closely, trying to gauge why he’s asking - or, furthermore, why he thinks that you’re in love. You’ve always wondered if you say ‘I love you’ to people because you mean it, or because they said it to you first.

But, at the same time, you can’t be sure that you don’t feel love. You don’t know what it really feels like - at least, not in the way that it's been shown in television or movies or described in books and poems.

“It feels empty.”

Dabi’s stare is weighted, resting heavily on your body.

“It feels like a dull ache, like there’s a hole in my chest that nothing will fill. It feels like losing someone important, wishing you could have them back but knowing that it’s not possible. There’s an anguish there, so deep that I can’t do anything about it, so yeah. It feels empty. It doesn’t feel real. It’s painful.”

Part of you is not surprised when Dabi pulls his hand away from you, but it dawns on you, as your heart sinks into your stomach, that he must have been asking because he thought you were in love with him.

“... what does it feel like to you?”

“Like I wanna’ hurt you. I don’t understand it, can’t comprehend it, and I want to hurt you. It’s an itch I can’t get rid of, a disgusting insect in the back of my head gnawing away at my thoughts and I despise it, and I want it to stop,” his hand returns to your thigh, and he scoots closer, one leg dangling over the edge you’re both sitting on, “can I hurt you?”

“No.”

His huff is so incredulous it causes a puff of laughter to escape you.

“That was so fuckin’ instantaneous.”

“I don’t enjoy pain.”

“What if I let you hurt me too?”

“But you can’t really feel pain anymore, D, and that means that I could potentially really hurt you and neither of us would be aware.”

“But it would be fair. I get to hurt you because I loathe how you make me feel, and you get to fill your emptiness with pain.”

“I don’t follow your logic, but I appreciate that you’re trying.”

“Unless you wanna’ fill your emptiness with somethin’ less painful?” he mutters, leaning toward you.

You go rigid, shoulders bunching up. His lips - uneven and unnatural - scrape along your neck, sending a violent shiver down your spine as your body jumps beneath the affection. He sighs through his nose, the rush of warm air eliciting a similar reaction.

“Do you like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” he scoffs, moving closer despite his indignation. You have half a mind to slap his hand off your thigh.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to react,” you turn your head to the side when Dabi decides to bury his face in your neck, tongue and teeth moving over your skin. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes you anxious. You can’t be sure the butterflies are actually a good thing as they flutter their wings throughout your stomach and chest.

It feels foreign and unnatural and you’re not sure why he insists on kissing your neck the way he is.

At the same time, you don’t do anything to stop him. Part of you hopes you can just breathe through it. Maybe…

Your anxiety grows when his strong fingers dig into your thigh, pulling at your flesh.

It takes a moment for you to work up the courage to discourage Dabi from continuing, his curious mouth moving up your neck toward your cheek. He leans back, expression unreadable save for the irritated twitch in his lip.

“You know I’m impatient,” his voice is low. Dejected. His frustration digs bruises into your thigh, and despite the pain, and the fact that you told him you don’t enjoy pain, you let him. It is better than reminding him that he’s a villain and if he’s going to be so impatient, then he should just take what he wants from you.

Dabi has always seemed to want you to be willing, rather than despondent.

“Nothing to say to that?”

You shrug, your leg jerking under his hand when he digs his fingers into it again. Words escape you until Dabi moves his hand off your leg and sighs heavily.

“This is never gonna’ go anywhere, is it?”

“No.”

“And I thought I was the villain.”

“In label only, D. You also deserve someone who knows what they want - both in life and a relationship. I can’t give you either of those things,” you shrug, the lights of the city blurring together, “unlike you, I have no ambitions. I have no purpose. I simply exist. I don’t know what I want, and haven’t known for years.”

He fishes his cigarettes out of the pocket of your sweatshirt and lights one up with a blue flicker, his movements harsh.

“So you used to know.”

“Yeah. I used to think I wanted a relationship. I used to be pretty enough to be in one.”

Dabi grumbles something under his breath, glaring at you. You tilt your head to the side, sighing through your nose, “you’re prettier than me, D.”

“Yeah? Tell me how that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” you mutter, surprised that he’s stayed as close to you as he has. He’s been surprisingly patient with you, “but I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it, y’know? It’s all fine and dandy until I remember I’m part of the equation. Everything about me is ugly, especially my body. I wouldn’t like it even if I was thinner - or bigger. It’s me, so it’s ugly.”

“But you think other people who share your attributes are beautiful, doll,” Dabi leans his forehead against your shoulder, “why can’t you think that about yourself?”

You suck in your cheeks, looking at him sheepishly when he raises his head.

“... you were gonna’ say that phrase, weren’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because I think I’ve said it enough for one night, and you’re probably sick of hearing it. So. Um. Reasons.”

“Mm-hm. Reasons?”

“Yeah. The best. Logical. Make perfect sense reasons - definitely not illogical, or contradictory reasons!”

And to your surprise, Dabi chuckles, shaking his head as he inclines it to your shoulder again. Maybe it is nice for him to hear you try to be funny about something that is objectively not funny - or maybe he appreciates that you are already aware that your reasoning is illogical.

“Next time we should talk about something else.”

“But what if talking to me about how much you hate yourself makes y���feel better?” he counters softly, lifting his head from your shoulder to toss his cigarette away. You glance at his lips only to quickly look away when you realize he caught you.

“Isn’t that too much weight for you?” you ask just as softly. Thankfully, he knows what you mean: by comparison, your body is fine. Your body is normal.

His no longer is.

“But I understand - don’t argue with me.”

“Okay.”

“Saw you lookin’.”

You hum.

“So do it.”

You glance at him again, brows narrowing back, and your stare drifts to his lips, then back up to his eyes. He nods his head a little in encouragement.

All you can muster is to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. You let it linger, let yourself feel it, and then you pull away. Dabi brings your head to his collar, though, making you lean against him

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You laugh airily, closing your eyes.

“It wasn’t.”

[think-through-pen]

To My Love (5)

Dear Love,

The wind blows me away like a boat without its oars. I care not where it takes me but would like to be taken to you, drifting into your arms.

As I write this letter, I deceive my heart. Tricking my mind into thinking that you read the letters in my dreams, I stain my page with tears the way a piece of newspaper lies on the cold earth, being trampled to tears. But what can I do if the love I dream to see in your eyes for me is never realised? Am I to dream on, or stop at once?

My fingers are peppered with blue ink, for I didn't realise that I had already completed the poem. I wrote and wrote and wrote 'til I filled the page and emptied my heart. The red ink of love is refilled and I write again endlessly about you. Do not read the blotched pages, for there you'll find my imperfections. I can show them to you, but you'll find them so sad that you won't be able to stop your sobs.

Here, I lull my pen to sleep, while I stare at the open sky finding your face among the stars.

Yours Lonely Love,

M

(PS: Please support me on Ko-fi as I want to pay for my college fees. https://ko-fi.com/writer_moin )

Taglist: @most-ment @jordynhaiku @a-moonlit-poet @vixen1012 @hauntedandwholesome @twisted0limbs @distilledmelancholies @sweetwarmcookies16 @sunlovemoon @somebodyssongbird @aaronawbra

[bdslab]

INSTEAD OF GIVING THE GIFT OF A GRIP TOP SOCK THEY SHOULDVE GONE WITH DADAISTS DO DADS dadaist dads do dadaist doodads

[in reference to this gaston gag & its english translation which just used a poem by Seuuss]

Couldn't find the panels quick enough but the tongue twister they used in english was this:

Give me the gift of a grip-top sock, A clip drape shipshape tip top sock. Not your spinslick slapstick slip slop stock; But a plastic, elastic, grip-top sock. None of your fantastic slack swap slop From a slap-dash, flash-cash, haberdash shop. Not a knick knack, knitlock knockkneed, knickerbocker sock With a mock-shot blob-mottled trick-ticker top clock. Not a supersheet seersucker ruck sack sock, Not a spot-speckled frog-freckled cheap sheik's sock Off a hodge-podge moss-blotched scotch-botched block. Nothing slipshod drip drop flip flop or glip glop Tip me to a tip top grip top sock.

[sinligh]

It’s early summer,

the hopeless romantic in me found her way to the surface when the heat melted couple of my overprotective layers.

so here i am, allowing her a moment of spotlight and myself some vulnerability.

it’s past midnight, I’m sitting in floor of my kitchen eating fruits with a knife

wondering, if it’s really safe to romanticize life?

I indulge myself anyway, and think about how fruits can be considered a love language if you’re starved enough to taste love that’s throughly stained with muted apologies. 

I trust, that when the sun rises tomorrow all my attempts to romanticize life will sublimate and create a thick fog of melancholy that I’ll have no other option but to get lost into.

even so, tonight I’m tired enough to let it be and so i write this, my own report of pathology

officially it’s untitled, but I’m thinking: the pathology of love.

i start by resecting pieces of all the habits that i define my existence based on along with some of the heartache that i held onto for too long

deep down, i know some of it belongs to my mother

At least its mature flavor says so, that, balanced with the sweet essence of an overly ripe fruit that never belonged

Young and brash and an acquired taste.

it’s a poorly fixed microscopic tissue, preserved in a high percentage of feminine rage

Low expectations stained with love and paranoia alike and the question that asks itself:

is it benign or malignant?

is it infiltrating my soul, taking away from my potential to grow ?

It stays unanswered, an unforced error

because i always carry those little versions of me that vary in the percentage of their belief in my own bone marrow

a core biopsy will always show that i still believe.

•••

•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Sylvia Plath/ Virgina Woolf/ Franz Kafka/Marcel Proust/ Simone de Beauvoir/Anne Carson/ Andrea Gibson/Anaïs Nin

•Original context:

•Art reference:

1. British School - Head of a girl, c. 1850. 2. Painting ( details) by Richard E. Miller. 3. Paintings by Jen Mazza. 4. Neil Carroll Original Oil Painting Realism Impressionism. 5. The Gross Clinic (details), by Thomas Eakins 6. Wounds of the Earth by xis.lanyx. 7.painting by Herbert James Draper.

[thewalkingcigarette]

I write suicide notes in the silent gaps of daylight. With no pen to paper, I envision small, imperceivable lines of blue light weaving around black curves of the alphabet, I imagine blotches of eventually smeared, ever-wet blue ink scrawled across college ruled notebook pages, but truly as I compose these notes, more so poems than notes, for notes invoke “be back soon” stickies and “essay due Friday” sharpie reminders on the backs of hands, they appear in my minds eye as living documentation of what they realize.

I write to you as the most affectioned burden in my heart, the section of valves and blood running canals weighed down and slogged by fond feelings. I begin with you always, and when I lose stamina to continue directing goodbyes and I love you’s, I write more letters to you than anyone else. I detach myself from formality and succumb to pure love, not sexual nor violent, pure and innocent, delicate in its buttery glow of dawn-like brush strokes illuminating hazy edges of youthful naivety. Nervous fingers and first kisses, long curly hair, cashmere sweaters in July, bleach blond yet nearly platinum, does crossing our path, ramen noodles in your grandparents empty kitchen, cold marble counter tops, hiding from your brother, skateboard wheels on the deep dark tar of the bike path, bus schedules, long phone calls, endless time afforded by shallow, feeble lies tossed in our parents’ direction. What comes to mind is none of the crashing waves of the storm post clear bay, not the frothing white foam of anger and heart break, nor the plunging blues of sun-deprived depths in an endless scene with no edge, no end, no beginning besides the quickly flooding rims of a rickety boat. No. I feel nothing but that still water logged love, weighty, hefty, I consume it as it swallows me, irreversible and beautiful, insurmountable, monstrous, terrifying, but real and honest and most importantly over. Wrapped nicely, pressed lip to lip, baked treats and curious glances, the occasional phone call seven years later. How are you? Where are you these days? I hope you’re well. Forever gratifying hope.

[draigonboother]

It rained today. Outside the window, the rush of cars and wind and people running across streets yelling, the translucent darkness of the night seeping past the sliver of curtains. During the day, the air cold and crisp and gray: rain-slick pavement, rustling trees with darkened bark, wet leaves half-decomposed, mottled, pressed flat against the concrete. Strikingly beautiful, almost startling so. Has it always been this way, the groups of people laughing, their faces flushed with cold, the blooming flowers, the air fresh and languid and clean. Boots with shiny leather. Cold hands. Shoes soaked, hems damp, numb feet. Has it always been this way — the beauty of it all, of this, of everything. Red lights at dusk. Silvery puddles reflecting iridescent fragments of sky. During the day, the windows clear, misted over with raindrops: the pale light, the washed-out buildings, the dark outline of trees. The white sky, sunless. The glutinous wisps of skinny clouds. The sound of rain against glass. On the streets: girls in short leather skirts, their legs long and delicate and bare. Old women in puffy jackets. Children splashing in puddles. Don’t run, you’ll slip. Then: I told you to be careful! Blades of grass, thin, translucent like jade, bent and speckled with dew. Plastic cups of coffee half-drank, stippled with condensation. Labels completely soaked through, grayish with water, soft, the corners half-peeled and bunched into knots. How have I never noticed this before, the dark leaves like lace doilies, the coarse bark, the birds with glossy round eyes. Fluorescent lighting of the subway. Hard plastic seats. People hunched over their phones, screens smeared with fingerprints, jackets blotched with raindrops. Quick tapping fingers. Faces colorless in the light, pallid, some impassive, some laughing: eyes flickering, cheeks bunched up, teeth yellow and bared. Doors open: rush of wind, fading conversation, clouds of perfume. There’s no way he — I swear! Where do you want to get dinner? There’s a new place that just opened up down the street, I’ve always wanted to try —

Inside, hot water, yellow lights, mirror clouded over with steam. Silky soap swirling down the drain. Soft towel. Skin smooth, hot, dry. Clean clothes. Damp hair on cool sheets. Cold, filtered water dripping down my chin. The broad, almost plastic-looking leaves of my house plant, shiny and dark green. Streetlights outside, slightly blurred, softly shining red, orange, yellow. On my tablet: pictures of forests, knotted trees, sprawling fields of moss, everything bluish-green. Quiet, still. Books with thin, inky fonts, the g’s and d’s written just the way I like. Somehow gratifying everything is, this moment, perfect. Poems: tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother, if the dog were alive he would be drowning, in the spring the rabbits will find it and build their nest inside. The living go on living, and the dead go on living with them. The rain seeps in the cracks, and the trunk falls to the ground, and the moss covers it. Nothing is wasted in nature or in love. Opened windows. Whirring of cars outside. Soon, the lights will be off and blankets will be drawn in and tomorrow will begin. Tomorrow: what it will bring, no one can say for sure. But today was beautiful, it was. It was.

[ofluckandmagic]

Alixandre Dumont Headcanons

——————

He was born in Baldur’s Gate’s Lower City, and studied through the College of Lore. He never knew his biological parents.

Wanting to prove to himself that he wasn’t a ‘holed up’ scholar, he opted to explore the Entertainer background, and frequented parties in both the Upper City and Outer City with performances.

His father is a Guild Artisan, who primarily fashioned weaponry, but often sold to dealers in the Underground for a profit.

He’s fascinated by magic and mythology, but also had a habit of going against his Adoptive parent’s wishes. They had both hoped he would be an Artisan like them.

Alix is transmasc. He is mostly a guy, but also is not a guy. He uses He/Him and They/Them pronouns, but tends to prefer the former.

His Father wasn’t entirely thrilled about this revelation, despite wanting a son to begin with, and cut Alix out of the family when he went to college and discovered this about himself.

The Tadpole incident, and subsequent adventure was the first time Alix felt like he did not have to put on a performance about who he was, due to finally finding people who saw him as an equal in all ways.

He is Bisexual, Polyam and most certainly some flavor of Acespec. His preferences lean more masculine, but he also equally has found himself attracted to most people.

Alix is autistic and has severe anxiety. He manages the latter with a combination of his music and different herbs.

Despite his severe social anxiety, Alix is fantastic at using his bardic skills to perform songs or poems, showcasing a much more confident version of himself around his companions.

Charismatic but a smidge awkward when attempting to flirt, often blurting out his intentions without thinking only to overthink those interactions later.

Note: the next few headcanons deal primarily with the Startouched God AU

Alix was gifted godhood by being the son of a Tiefling and the star God, Celestian often referred to as the Star Wanderer, a title Alix upholds to this day.

He has tattoos all over his shoulders and back that are blotches of various purples, pinks and blues, which all actively display whatever constellations are in the night sky in all the realms depending on the season.

He spent his summers in the emerald environs, studying the tombs and scrolls there. In turn living among the refugees after his adoptive family disowned him.

The day he was taken by the Nautiloid, he was planning to leave to scout ahead for the refugees to have safe passage to leave the Emerald Grove.

Alix’s magic was partially sealed away and weakened by both the Tadpole as well as what he believes is Celestian abandoning him for a second time.

It is unclear whether this is the truth, or something Alix tells himself to deal with his trauma. Though, he does seem to have less of a grasp on his magic after the Tadpole.

Some minor deity-influenced powers include:

Foresight for weather based on star alignments and wind patterns (astronomy stuff)

The ability to draw magic from the stars themselves.

Minor medicinal/healing magic, often attributed to his bard skills

Mild wildshape-ing. He can take the form of a dark purple, black, and silver antlered stag after a like an attempt to become a Ceryneian Deer. It looks as though this its fur is made of constellations.

He can create small balls of light that resemble stars, which acts as using the ‘Light’ spell without a spell slot.

[ambermaitrejean]

your kiss is a poem each word delivered with a caress of your tongue tracing my lips rhyming with my soul searching my heart for one more word of love

dip your pen in the well of my desire spattering blotches of passion across the white expanse where you write your intentions slow and sensual a declaration of your wild heart captured yet free to love

Poem by Amber Maitrejean 

[keikakudori]

❝ Happy birthday, cap'n Aizen, ❞ Gin spoke with a smile, and to their peers this was merely an interaction between coworkers -- not uncommon to see a freshly-promoted captain still mingle with his previous superior, after all. Gin slowly produced from the depths of his lengthy black sleeves a book, not wrapped to obscure its identity, but at the very least fashioned with a neatly tied ribbon made into a bow. Leather, with fastenings to keep it shut. ❝ I gotcha this -- it's for your poetry. I noticed y'were runnin' low on pages for your typical diary escapades. ❞ A subtle tease, though Gin knew Aizen didn't write anything of actual substance into any sort of paper trail. Rather, maybe on occasion some erotic poems... but nothing so odd for a man of his tastes, surely.

❝ Ah, Gin --- thank you. ❞

Yes, there was nothing strange about witnessing a newly minted captain still fresh in his haori lingering about their former superior; but what a pleasant surprise this was. He'd gotten few gifts from Gin over the years and that meant that this had his attention in full. How his eyes gleamed as he looked down upon that book before large hands stretched out to take it in his own. The leather was soft as butter against his skin and his eyes moved over to the fastenings, the bow that it was wrapped in, before they rose again.

❝ What a thoughtful gift, ❞ he murmured in a fashion which fell underneath the umbrella term of mild. Yet there was something wickedly hot in his eyes for a second, a flash akin to the way a fish's scales would flicker with the gleam of sunlight before it vanished beneath the water once more. It wasn't anything that lingered, no -- but he was certain the younger man would catch sight of it.

His fingers brushed over the surface of that book again, studying it, before that touch went to the ribbon and lingered, thumb and forefinger rubbing languidly, even sensually, over the material as he studied it. Then Aizen's gaze rose towards Gin with something almost analytical in his gaze, as if something had energized his thoughts and mood both, mouth slanting into a measured smile as he tipped his head to one side momentarily, nothing more than a trifle or two of motion. It was a motion of thought.

❝ I will have to find reason to fill the pages up, won't I? ❞ Even as he spoke, his eyes were moving once more, visiting in brief glances to the marks which were apparent upon that pale skin, fading slowly into paler blotches as they healed. Strange, wasn't it, how those marks looked as if Gin had been bitten - and rather recently at that. Of course, this was nothing more than a display of mere solicitude upon Aizen's behalf as some might say. After all, Gin had plenty of reason to know otherwise.

Slowly, even deliberately, his hand stretched out and he was letting his fingers brush over a bruise. Nothing strange around their peers, no; his touch was given the way someone might touch such a spot with concern for what had happened. The brunet was something of a rather consummate actor, wasn't he? Nothing overt. Just a touch, nothing more. Then that hand pulled back, his gaze seeking out that hidden once with something gleaming in those pools of dark amber.

❝ I'm sure that I'll have the pages filled up soon enough. A most thoughtful gift; thank you, Gin - I genuinely appreciate this. I rather think I might have some inspiration to draw on later. ❞

And if his works included a few erotic poems that were inspired by someone, then that could be taken as a statement on its own. Yes, he had gotten few gifts from Gin over the years, but each of them held its own place of significance for him in his own life. Simple, useful gifts --- but his fingers were twitching, nearly, with the desire to find his calligraphy brushes and begin filling the paper within up, to bestow it with his thoughts. And as for the ribbon... well, if he could convey thoughts of how pretty it'd look around those wrists later ...

[snarky-magpie]

Well, ao3 is still down, I don't like this, here's a snippet from the next chapter of Something New (and yes, the line about reciting poems and singing songs is totally me poking fun at PS. but I like to amuse myself with stuff like that). “So. Good enough for you, Potter? Or do you require something else to be more comfortable? Pillow for your knees? Maybe I should recite a poem, too? Sing you a song?” Regulus asks, slipping into his usual acerbic tone, but James has always been a quick study. Between this afternoon and the moment Regulus forced him to his knees, he decided to become a master in all things Regulus as fast as possible, so he reads his panic-stricken expression like an open book. 

Regulus appears terrified at revealing the cards he usually holds close to the vest. Scared that James will throw them back in his face. Of course, their past antagonism doesn’t give him any reason to believe otherwise, but James would never entertain such an idea. Not for a second. He’s determined to cherish these glimpses at the real Regulus, commit every moment of openness to his memory, and revisit them when this night has long faded from view. 

“Yes. You’re good enough for me, Reggie. Better than good. Better than I deserve.” 

“That’s not—damn you—not what I meant, and you know it, you prat,” Regulus stammers out a denial. His thigh muscles tense under James’ hands, and when James looks up, he notices red blotches covering his cheeks. So. Praise flusters him. James tucks away the knowledge for future reference, ignoring how it infuses his belly with heat. There’s something heady about the impact his words have on the younger Black, but he can’t pinpoint what.

“Hmmm.” For a beat, James doesn’t expand on his response, transfixed by his hands coasting higher and higher. “It’s the truth, though.”