#body poetics

[wroteonedad]

Body Poetics Review

Writing about art is difficult. Especially when you live in a town that doesn't have much art, you work full time and you also can't drive. It makes me feel as though I am restricted to the amount of inspiration around me I can find, unfortunately Bournemouth pier just really isn't doing it for me anymore. I love to be on the move, I love to see new places, but I feel as though I am never going to find the place that I want to be settled into forever. Or the place I want to go to is going to be too expensive and that I may as well just flush that dream down the toilet. And did I mention that the cost of living crisis is also making it even harder to be able to go out and explore anymore, that is on the odd occasion that the trains are even running at the moment.

It feels as though I wait for the one gallery to open up their new exhibition before I wander in and end up reviewing every show that they do, except for Martin Parr. I really don't think there was much to say about his work other than it's pretty and they're of beaches. This show, also presented by the wonderful Giant gallery, is called Body Poetics. I was reluctant to go to this show at first, and you want to know the real reason why I wasn't sure if I wanted to see it? It was because I hated the main piece that is advertised on all of the posters of the show, at first glance it essentially just looks like a furry wearing a winter outfit, I hate it. I'm not judging people who say it's their thing, but it really just isn't for me. I decided to give the show a chance anyway, though I had no idea what I was going to ultimately end up saying about it.

The show has been curated by a group of 9 different female artists from across the world. Most of the deeper meaning behind these works is feminist theory from the 70s and 80s and all of these works available to feast your eyes on are made from the 70s and onwards. The works also feature many contemporary values to what it means to be a feminist.

Upon general entry into the gallery, one of the first things I saw was Carolee Schneemann's Eye Body works. It features the idea of the social construction of the female / femme or queer body. The selection of works on the wall all featured different positionings of the body surrounded by materials; all of which discussed pain, suffering, political protest as well as joy and sexual expression. I for one was a huge fan of the collection of images on the wall, there are 4 different images. This one in particular is my favourite because it reminds me of a still you would see from a horror movie in the 60s. The way in which to see an image like this in the 60s would be terrifying, enough to make the film only available for an adult audience. I think it's visually fantastic and perhaps one of the stronger pieces from the show in my eyes, this is purely based around the fact there is little to no photography featured in the show and although I love art from every medium, I still feel as though I am drawn to photography the most.

This piece is Rite of Spring by Florence Peake. Her collection of works also feature the same themes as Schneemann when it comes to female / femme and queer attitudes of representation. I loved this piece from all of the colours it contained as well as the texture of it. I am obsessed with textures that have been edited as the piece has been curated overtime and think it really adds an extra depth of field to it. However, and this is not down to the artist, but rather the gallery. When I posted an image of this on my Instagram story a few days ago, I actually managed to tag the wrong artist in the post. This is due to the signs of the works being very unclear in the work. The list talks about two artists body of works, one being hers, but the sign simply named the work and wrote (opposite) on it while also displaying another list of works near the piece itself. It made the show very difficult to navigate and I apologise to Peake for giving another artist credit for the work.

The work above is Untitled (Hands Waving) by Kiki Smith. I feel like this work stuck out to me in the gallery space because it feels very simple in comparison to a lot of the complex works I saw in there; and sometimes it makes me feel bad because I don't look at everything in the space and immediately know what the deeper meaning behind the work is. This is a piece that I feel like I could stand there and look at for quite some time, it stuck out on the back wall full of eccentric colours and deep meanings, but this piece made me just want to wave back at her. I want to feel what she feels here. I love the focus on the hands, I think people can forget how expressive hands can be. How important they are, I don't want to sound fake deep and be like we take them for granted, but I do feel as though we forget how much we actually can do with them.

I think that Kiki Smith's work was some of my favourite pieces on show in the gallery. The other piece is a ceiling to floor length tapestry with star constellations and crescent moons titled Visitor (Stars, multiple crescent moons). In a way, I feel as though both pieces of work she displayed in the gallery really interlink with each other in opposing ways. The pieces all feel simple, with their matching colour schemes and dainty details all visible to the eye from afar. This piece in particular feels very feminine, the glitter, the stars in general, and like I said before the dainty details. It adds a whole new level of feminism to a piece of work without being an in your face piece of 'this is feminism'

TW: the pieces I hated the most in the gallery.

I was complaining on my story when I saw the show that I was so upset that they chose to use this model as the poster image for the show because every piece of work I saw in the gallery was so much better than this. Perhaps it's harsh to say this, but I feel as though this set of work felt like a whole waste of space, but I just hate it. I really hate it. The work is by Ad Minoliti who is all about the use of abstract forms of art to explore social aspects of the body and gendered experience. I see it I really do, I just hate that they chose to display a full blown furry. Perhaps that was the point, for it to hold a discussion, to use something so bold on the poster to advertise the show that it made people feel something. Enough to come to the show to see what it looked like up close. Maybe I'm being closed minded when I look at this, but I will simply just be walking straight past it next time I come to the show. On the other hand, some of the canvas works submitted by the artists were bright, bold and super eye catching. These were works I enjoyed to look at a lot more.

This piece was the one I enjoyed the most by the artist. This is Queer Modulor and it slayed.

I gotta say though, this is the bad boy that stole the entire show for me. This sculpture slowly rotates in circles and is literally full of surprises. Not only do we get the sculpture, but there's also a fun accompanying drawing of it in the gallery (I'm really sorry I don't want to post every detail of this show, but I urge everyone to go to this). This piece is by Rae-Yen Song and is called happy little leaf.

Next up is Guerilla Girls with Birth of Feminism. The group are very well known for their loud and outspoken media to discuss issues with being a woman and so it only made sense for them to be apart of the show. The poster adds an extra level of overall comedy to the end project.

Holly Steveson

Overall, I think the show is really fun. There's a bunch of outstanding forms of media and installation works and it's so nice to see a big artist collaboration in the space, a space that works really well for the works they are exhibiting. The only thing is I feel there is not much discussion to have with all of the works, rather they are good pieces by good artists and that is all that is left to say on the matter.

Body Poetics is on at Giant Gallery until 8 May 2023.

[looserslore]

Sometimes I look at my own photos and feel like a stranger.

[kenobers]

tremble & shake | jason todd x sionis!reader

but first free palestine !! Jason doesn't show up for your hook-up. You don't think much of it until he comes barreling through his window in a distressed state. He's desperately in need of your comfort and you don't have a clue why, but you can't stand to see Jason Todd hurting. tw: angst, hurt/comfort, could be read as a panic attack, mental breakdown, slightly dubious attempts to initiate sex, non-sexual intimacy, uhh fear, self deprecating thoughts (i swear, one day i'll write something where neither you nor jason have anything bad to say about yourselves). jason todd needs a hug, reader was previously not very good with emotions. or empathy. fem!reader. a/n: happy batman day! here's jason crying <3 this comes after magic hands & is this love?

Slam.

You jolt awake from your sleep, immediately reaching for a blunt object. Blinking hard, you squint at the door. Jason's door.

That's right, you're in Jason's apartment for one of your regularly scheduled hook-ups. He hadn't shown up, his phone abandoned on his bedside table. You figured he must've had to patrol tonight and forgot to give you a heads up. However, it's been pouring rain all night, so you decided to stay. You must've fallen asleep waiting for him.

"Jason?-"

No sooner does the man's name leave your lips than he practically tackles you on the bed. He's still in his costume, the red bat on his chest heaving heavily. His red mouthpiece hides the bottom half of his face as he looks down at you from behind the white of his domino mask. He's absolutely drenched. Cold clings to him and sends a shiver down your spine.

You furrow your brow. Something's wrong.

"I thought you weren't patrolling tonight," you whisper. He says nothing.

Pursing your lips, you ran your hands along his bare forearms. He's shaking. He'd gone out without his jacket. Jason's tough, almost inhumanely so, but if he'd gone out without his jacket in this rain...he must've been in a hurry.

"Did something happen?" Your eyes search his unbroken skin for injuries. Still, he says nothing and the empty whites of his mask are starting to freak you out.

You push his wet hood back and comb your fingers through his soaked hair until they find the buckle of his mask. You undo it and pull the mask from his face, peeling the domino along with it. His expression underneath is just as blank, like his mind is somewhere else.

Before you can say anything, he's kissing you hard. Almost violently. A shaky hand grips your shoulder with a ferocity Jason hasn't previously had with you, even when you've really gone at it.

"Hey," you say between harsh, wet kisses. "Jason, stop."

As if he doesn't hear you, Jason moves to your neck. The hand on your shoulder drops to your hip.

"Jason."

It starts to paw underneath your satin hem.

"Jay!"

The fear in your voice makes his head snap up. He stares at you with wide eyes, like a deer in the headlights. You shake your head, "I don't want this. I don't think you want this."

He moves off of you, staring at his lap.

You sit up slowly, mirroring his position on his knees. Panic chews at your insides as you try to assess him. He needs help, needs comfort, maybe. You have no experience with comfort, no clue what to do. You can't do this, you're not the person he needs, this-

This isn't about you. The man that has been at your every beck and call for the past several months looks like he's fighting for his Goddamn life. You don't hate the possibility of making a fool of yourself as much as you hate the sight of seeing Jason Todd in pain.

Somewhere, in the very back of your mind, there's a vague memory of a hand cupping your cheek, wiping away your tears. You copy it, reaching out to him hesitantly, terrified of making things worse.

Your fingertips brush his cheek with an almost non-existent touch, just heavy enough to wipe away the remnants of rain. He leans into your touch and you take this as permission to hold his face in your trembling hands.

His own hands find your hips again, drawing you between his thighs as his head comes to rest in the crook of your shoulder.

"'just wanna feel you," he mumbles against your skin, making your shoulder vibrate.

"I'm not gonna fuck you like this," you card your other hand through his damp hair. "You're going to wake up and realize it wasn't what you needed."

He says nothing, but clutches you as close as he possibly can. You tense as he presses against you. His armor digs into you uncomfortably, the buckle of his holster poking at your thigh. Water from his soggy clothes seeps through your satin nightgown. The hand on his face begins to cramp at this bent angle.

You've never seen him like this. Neither of you ever really come to one another for comfort, sans the time he brought you pads. Or the other time he calmed you down from a fight with your father. Or came to your rescue when your friends got you greened out on some fucked up weed. Okay, so you come to him for comfort, but he is...much more reclusive about his emotions. Complaining to you, sure. He often pulls to your sessions pissed and fucks you until he felt better. Sometimes he's so hungry for your body that he doesn't speak, except to check in with you. This was neither of these things. But this would mark the first real emotional emergency of whatever this relationship is. This was sad, desperate. Fearful.

"Please," he breathes in a broken voice. You...relax.

Without thinking about it, you hug him. You run your hand between his shoulder blades, supporting the back of his head. You cradle him like he might break. The same way he holds you when he sleeps.

"Nothing's gonna hurt you. I'm not gonna let 'em," the memory in the back of your head says.

"It's okay," you soothe, pressing your lips to his wet curls, feeling them tickle your cheek. "I'm not gonna let anything hurt you. Nothing's gonna touch you here, Jaybird."

There's a slight shake of his head as he clings to fistfuls of your dress. Your stomach clenches at the thought of whatever was bad enough to puncture his mind like this. You pull back just enough to look at him. Only the bottom half of his face was visible. His lips quivered, silently forming "no" over and over again.

You momentarily retracted your hand from his back to rest your palm to his cheek.

"Baby, I don't know where your brain is telling you or what it's telling you is happening, but I swear to you, you're safe with me in your apartment. Nothing is coming for us, I won't let anything happen."

His breath shutters and he buries his face completely into your shoulder. You squeeze your arms around him, rocking the giant man back and forth. He defeatedly sags against you with a single sob. Your heart drops even further at the sound. You shush him gently, resting your chin on his head.

"It's okay, you're okay. You're here with me. I've got you, baby. I've got you."

The next however many minutes go on like this. You cradle him, praying he doesn't shatter in your lap. You coo any sweets words you can think of until the tension in his muscles eases at your touch. His weight grows heavier in your embrace. For a moment, you think he fell asleep.

"Jay?" You call out softly. He lifts his head and rests it against your forehead. His gaze is still lost in space, but at least they look exhausted. That's better than nothing.

His skin burns against icy hot yours. Sweat starts to replace the rain. He needs to sleep, but he needs to properly warm up first.

You frown, "Jay, you should take a shower. You'll catch a cold."

He tightens his grip on you, not eager to let you go. You tuck your hand under his jaw, "I'll come with you."

This is a good enough promise to sway him. He nods, reluctantly pulling away from you. You slip off the bed, then shyly grab his hand. He intertwines his fingers with your own and follows you into the bathroom. It hits you that this is the first time you've held hands. Under better circumstances, it would feel nice.

You eye him up and down, taking in the damage under the bright bathroom fluorescents. His cheeks are flushed and newly decorated with tear streaks, but otherwise, he really doesn't look hurt. Just incredibly lost. Like he's not quite sure where he is. Green irises burn holes in you, golden flecks incinerating your skin, as if he's trying to figure out if you're real. The gaze is so intense, you have to look away for a minute. You conveniently make note of how funny of his scuffed up black boots look compared to your pedicured toes, bare against the checkered tiles.

He needs to get out of his wet clothes.

Sliding your hands under the shoulders of his sleeveless hoodie, you ask, "Can I undress you?"

He blinks. You hold your breath, praying you didn't just trigger something else. Then, wordlessly, he nods. You let out the breath as inconspicuous as you can and make quick work of the damp hoodie. His shirt follows. All scars, bruises and beauty marks look present and accounted for. Nothing new in the inventory. 

It's when you tug his gloves off that you finally locate any kind of laceration. Pebble-like imprints litter his palms; he must've been clutching something concrete like a stress ball for hours. He hadn't bothered with his usual red wrist wraps either, another sign he'd left in a hurry.

You don't pry, however. Instead, you kiss his reddened palms. Then, as your father taught you to do, you turn his still trembling hands over in your steady ones and kiss each knuckle gently. Unlike his forehead, his skin here is frozen until warmed by your loving lips.

Something about this interaction seems to ground the man a little more. You kneel to untie a beat-up boot, reminiscing about how your father used to let you take his loafers off for him when you were little. However, you've only managed to undo the other knot when Jason stops you.

"I can get the rest."

You're thrilled to hear him speak and nearly pop a kiss on his lips like it's a gold star before thinking better of it. You leave him to it, redirecting your focus on turning the shower on and picking out two fresh towels.

When at last he's naked, you make to shed your own minimal clothing. However, Jason stops you yet again, with time with an unsure hand on your bicep. He takes a moment to simply examine you once more in the good lighting, this time letting his eyes wander from your face. A hint of adoration crosses his drained features as his gaze combs your body, lingering on the curves and swells highlighted in baby pink.

Jason's index hooks around the thin strap of your slip. His thumb skims along the satin material before caressing your collarbone. It's a classic Jason move, but now it feels more akin to the way a child might grip a blanket.

"...Can I?" It's the shyest you've ever heard him speak. You nod and he brushes either strap off your shoulders, watching as the item pools at your feet. You give him a moment to admire the matching pink thong underneath before it joins the fabric puddle on the floor.

The shower is quiet, save for the dulcet sound of the running faucet. Jason winces when the hot water stings his frigid skin, however you can physically see the tension in his muscles melt away. His shoulders are much more relaxed beneath your washcloth, the rise and fall of his chest is becoming less stagnant. You take turns washing each other, like it's some kind of game. You touch him tenderly, still gauging for any kind of pain. He touches you with an intent that doesn't meet his drained eyes, still just gauging you.

When the silence is broken after who knows how long, it's by Jason.

"I don't deserve you."

His voice cracks like a 15-year-old.

"Don't talk like that," you chastise. He doesn't elaborate as his hand continues to rub body scrub along your back. You turn to him, both of your hands finding his face and holding it in place, the way he loves to do to you. "Don't talk like that."

You don't know what else to say. Neither of you are wordsmiths. You're afraid if you try to keep him talking, he'll just be self-effacing. You don't think you could handle hearing him talk about himself that way, not with him being as stubborn as he is. So you press a soft kiss to his lips. It isn't long, it doesn't invite more, but when you pull away, there's more green in his eyes. He envelopes you into his chest and holds you there. You return the embrace without hesitation, arms sliding around his waist while water taps the tops of your heads. You think you could stay like this forever; wrapped in each other's arms under the sanctuary of warm water, as the sound of his heart beat lulls you somewhere far away from the world outside the fogged up glass.

You do stay like that until the shower runs treacherously cold. Until one of you has to shut the faucet off, until the other is swathing each of you in fluffy wine colored towels. It's just a series of tasks you wordlessly complete so you can earn the reward of collapsing into bed, just dry enough to avoid waking up to a still damp pillow. You're both too tired to be bothered with pajamas. You aren't sure you're so wiped. Maybe you're just desperate to hold your lover again. He seems to feel the same way as he wastes no time reaching for your waist once the comforter is pulled up.

He slides down to kiss your shoulder and appreciate the warm scent of your body scrub. Much to your surprise, his head stays there. Even more to your surprise, you find it's because his eyes have fluttered shut. Jason never beats you to sleep, even at his most tired. But the relaxed weight of his body on your tells you he's winning this round.

You stroke the nape of his neck, grazing your fingernails through the tapered patch of hair. You'd been so focused on everything else that hadn't even noticed he'd gotten the haircut you'd asked him to. The request had been a joke really, something snarky to remark when he'd said something too nice about your appearance. It looked good, even from this angle. He must've just gotten it today. He must've gotten it for you.

Not everything's about you.

You try to push the thought out of your head as you admire the way Jason's cheek is smushed against your chest. If you lingered on it, you'd just started ragging on yourself, making it even more about. Earlier tonight had been the first time may be ever that someone with the last name Sionis had dared to consider something might not be about them. But what, did you want a cookie or something? A key to the city for your basic empathy?

Jason's earth rattling snore yanks you from your tailspin. You giggle quietly, no wonder he waits to fall asleep second. Your fingers resume wandering their course through his hair and a tremor runs down his back. He lets out a satisfied snort, his red lips parting. With a deep breath, he nuzzles into you. His usually hardened face is the softest you've ever seen it. Even the scars seem to fade. It's the complete opposite of the stony picture you woke up to. Despite the circumstances, you wouldn't trade the world for the sight before you.

You smile drowsily, ready to follow his lead and doze off when your phone vibrates rudely on the bed stand. You swear mentally, first at yourself for jerking so suddenly, then at whoever the fuck just had to send you a notification right this very second. A string of potential threats crosses your mind as you clumsily reach for the phone, gritting your teeth at the awkward way you bend your arm. It isn't easy to reach when a 225 pound man is slumbering (thankfully) unperturbed on top of you.

It takes you a few seconds to recall how to read as you glare blearily at the too bright screen. Your eyebrows knit when a message from an unknown number at last comes into view.

'Is he okay?'

You inwardly rescind your threats. It doesn't take a genius detective to deduce the identity of the sender.

'He's okay. He's sleeping now.'

The reply is instant.

'That's good. Moderate case of fear toxin, it should wear off all together by the morning.'

Ah, that will do it. You frown at Jason. A sick feeling creeps in at the thought of how terrified he must've been. That's why he seemed so unsure of you; you weren't the only thing he was seeing. Your poor baby.

When you glance back at your phone, there's another text.

'Are you okay?'

You blink.

'Yes, thank you. We're all fine here.'

There is one more response before you shut off the phone.

'I'll check in in the morning. I'm glad he's with you. Get some sleep.'

You're glad he's with you too. You're glad he came to find you. You're glad he wanted your comfort.

You're glad you would do anything for this stupid boy.

Jason sighs into your now dry skin. For just this moment, he knows nothing but peace. You'll fight off anything else.

Finally, you succumb to your exhaustion, knowing better than to disobey the Bat. The last thought you have is how warm Jason is wrapped safely in your arms before dreams of his shit eating grin take over. 

[midnigtartist]

Dotty doesn’t like to talk about her failed engagement because it still makes her terribly sad, and it’s part of the reason she ended up in Baulders Gate. Gale can certainly relate to a messy break up

Putting the image txt below bc I know tumblr is going to kill the image quality

Gale is so fun to write he has such a good Voice

Gale: You’ve quite a skilled hand for constructs such as these. A fascinating skill- and even more fascinating to watch you work.

Dotty: I used to be a lot better at it when i was younger. I sort dropped the hobby after my um my engagement….

Gale: Judging by your tone I suspect its not a happy affair. I apologize if I’ve dredged up any unpleasant memories.

Dotty: Oh no it’s alright, it was a while ago so… I was engaged to a man, Luca, a member of the zhentarim but i didn’t know that at the time. I thought just he was charming, flattering, kind, and he- thought I was a perfect first rung in his social climb

Dotty: He was able to rub elbows with all sorts of important people while on my arm and eventually he found a match that was more - beneficial to his rising statues.

Dotty: He didnt even do me the decency of ending things in person.

Dotty: Oh not that I hold any ill will of course! This sort of thing happens all the time in high society. Everything is quid pro quo and it’s not like i have much to offer other than my name…

Gale: Perhaps I risk overstepping commenting on personal matters such as these but,, this man is a damnable fool if hes so quick to squander your affections.

Gale: In the short time Ive spent with you ive known you to be endless kind, incredibly generous, caring, resourceful, and quick witted. Whatever soul manages to catch your attention should consider themselves very lucky indeed.

Gale: You are as vast and as wondrous as the night sky itself.

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘my body is a slaughterhouse’.

[kingroan]

not to ramble about iwtv but i think a lot of people who balk at the unsavory parts of gothic fiction are people who have either 1) never truly had to face an onslaught of the macabre in their own life 2) have not actually sat with the discomfort of the darker parts of existence or simply not learned or had to learn how to process truly twisted emotions within themselves. and i bring this up in relation to iwtv because i see a lot of people pointing out 'problematic' parts of the book or bemoaning which ships are more or less toxic. and it's like it's a cow farm there's gonna be cows on the cow farm.

yeah anne rice wrote some weird shit and some of it is definitely unnecessary, most of those elements were corrected in the show. but a lot of it is just gothic fiction. you don't get to have sexy vampires, romanticism and tortured yearning without the inappropriate attachments, the true face of grief and the blurred lines between violence and eroticism which has evoked great interest in humans for centuries.

[pikkissis]

What Didn't Kill Me Just Got Stronger

This song inspired me to draw this little fight with the Ancient Sirehound!

God Bless!

Alt. version of colors that I thought looked more like the Conversation Piece Deluxe A lot like Birds album art...

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Disco Elysium AU part 2 - Psyche Skills

Part 1 - Part 3

[cherryinterlude]

more photos of owen being ethereal and cunty... the world is healing

[derangedrhythms]

All night long I hear the call of death, all night long I hear the song of death down by the river, all night long I hear the voice of death calling out to me. 

Alejandra Pizarnik, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972: Extracting the Stone of Madness; from ‘The Dream of Death, or The Site of the Poetical Bodies’, tr. Yvette Siegert

[fallenandrogyne]

agatha all along 1x08 follow me my friend / to glory at the end

"blow away like smoke in air. how can you die carelessly? our love is six feet under I can't help but wonder if our grave was watered by the rain would roses bloom?"

[looserslore]

I cannot look people in the eyes because of how ugly I feel.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

"There are people who appear to think only with the brain, while others think with all the body and all the soul, with the blood, with the marrow of the bones, with the heart, with the lungs, with the belly, with the life."

—Miguel de Unamuno

[Poetic Outlaws]

[petorahs]

persona 3 is as ocean themed as it is moon themed.

[setmeatopthepyre]

Bulwark

Push. Pull. Breathe.

One.

The ache would fade, he knew, told himself. It always did. Eventually. Even if it didn't go down without a fight. Especially then. Tommy had survived every heartbreak. Every loss. Every injury. Every siege. Until now. This one felt different, now, but it wouldn't be.

The ache would fade. It always did.

Push. Pull. Breathe.

Two.

He knew the steps. Breathe through it. Pull the air into his lungs. Deeper. Deeper. Pray for enough oxygen to sweep across his shores, erode the sharp edges of his feeling. Reach the brackish water inland and flood the sunken place inside of him. Push it back out, hope the floodwater spilling back out to sea took the rubble inside of him with it. Breathe. Deeper. Deeper. Never deep enough. Remind himself that he wasn't built to be washed clean, to gather sentiment like sediment. To feel. He was built to be a bulwark, a fortress. A wall against the tide. Strength carefully constructed to serve as protection. To withstand storms. Built for waves to crash against before they circled back to sea.

Push. Pull. Breathe.

Three.

He didn't need to do anything but breathe. Breathe through the shaking of his muscles, breathe, breathe, count breaths like reps. Out, in.

Push. Pull. Breathe.

Four.

Push. Pull. Feel.

Five.

Fuck.

The clang of iron on iron. Another stone in the fortification of his body. Another stone in the pit of his stomach. He just needed to breathe. He didn't need to feel. That's not what he was built for. That's not what they built him for. That's not - it's not what he built himself for. It might have been. It should have been. It isn't.

Chest heaving.

Breathe.

He was built to be up on the ramparts. Eyes in the sky. The lone watcher on the wall. Scanning for danger, always, always scanning for fucking danger. Don't feel, just breathe. Feelings cloud your judgment. It's not your job to feel.

From above, his job was to assess threats. From below, to be the last line of defense. Hold the line.

Always keep your head on a swivel. Eyes open.

He had. He did.

Breathe. Deeper.

Not too deep.

Hold the line. No matter what.

Hold the line.

Don't feel. Don't listen.

Don't listen to the snide voice in the back of his head, asking,

Alright, you perfect fucking soldier. What is there left to defend now?

--

bul·wark (bo͝ol′wərk, -wôrk′, bŭl′-) n.

1. A wall or embankment raised as a defensive fortification; a rampart. 2. Something serving as a defense or safeguard. 3. A breakwater.

[lostmf]