#it’s poetic to me
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Happy Pride, y’all! I just wanted to do an indulgent little thing for now, we’ll see where the month takes us
I was thinking while Considering a pride piece how prevalent in my early Egg & Early Trans Years the scenario was of my peers going through the “men are awful and trash universally” rigamarole was and how much that made me feel like shit and kept me from figuring my gender out- especially when people’s response to my hurt was “oh but not YOU you’re DIFFERENT you don’t count”. Didn’t help that figuring out I was gay made those conversations Much harder, either. Leave it to a Studio Killers song about something entirely different to dredge up those feelings…
But being The Bad Guy is very on brand for me so leaning into it this one time is fair, right?
To all my fellow trans folks, happy pride- and know that the way cis people talk about you doesn’t define you. Stay Safe out there!
#drawing on the walls#painting demon#sona#persona#also this is a hot take but I like the gay man flag I like that it rhymes with the lesbian one#it’s poetic to me
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the sexual tension between me and the last 3 drops of water in my water bottle
#i’m sick rn so this might not be a smart post to make but regardless#it’s such strong tension#i want them so bad but i can’t have them yet i must wait till i’m in dire need#it’s poetic to me
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ch.2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)
directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four
read until the end for an author's note.
*"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 13.
i hate everything. i hate my family. i hate my father, i hate my brothers, i hate my classmates, i hate alfred, i hate this place, i hate my mom, i hate everyone.
why can't i ever get what i wanted? what do i have to do? i tried so hard to be everything for them, but why do i only amount to nothing? it's been a year, or two, i don't know. it hurts trying to remember when was the last time i saw him. saw, not talk, because he never talks to me, bruce never even looks at me. and i hate myself for trying to get him to look at me.
is he disgusted at me? does he see my mother in me? does he hate me that much? i don't know, i don't want to know, it hurts to know. i don't know why i'm trying anymore, i don't know how longer i can last in this hell. i can feel it, the longer i stay here, the more i lose a part of myself. i don't want to be here.
i don't want to pray anymore.
so if there's any god out there watching over me, then i wish for you to burn, to suffer, to go through the same thing i have been experiencing for years— all for putting me in this place. i would've been fine living in the streets with my mother. i would've been alright providing for our small family, i would've known to never get my hopes high, but you took her away from me!—
i hate you."
"master (name), are you awake? dinner is ready."
you had to shut your diary at the sound of the knock and alfred's voice.
"alfr-"
a cough, hoarse and croaky, cuts you out from calling his name. it was accompanied by uncontrollable sniffles, mucus blocking your nose from breathing properly. your room was dark, save for the lamp that lights up your bedside, where you currently were seated on your bed to write another entry, grip on your pen unknowingly harsh. you didn't even have to look at your reflection from your phone laying beside the diary to know that hiding your tears were fruitless.
salty were the crystalline droplets that streaks your face, but bitter were the emotions that had your heart ache.
you hear a sigh from the other room. before he could muster a reply, you beat him to it.
"i'm not eating dinner, alfred," you hate hearing your voice, sounding so obviously scrathy from the hours of wailing. "at least not with them. i don't want to get out at all."
"then may i at least bring them over to you, master (name)?"
his answer was final, you have no choice on retaliating and starving yourself like you did for the past few days. but it wasn't your fault that you had forgotten your body's needs. it wasn't your fault that your mind blanks itself out on the dinner table. it wasn't your fault that bile quickly crawls up your throat at hearing their voices.
you simply lost your appetite seeing them happy without you.
alfred pennyworth would never play favorite.
it was drilled into his head ever since he had sworn to serve the wayne family and its extended members— he is to serve anyone and everyone, regardless if they respect him or they do not; as long as they do not pose any danger within the manor, then he is to attend to them.
you'd think that in his decades of service for the wayne's - with all the contrasting personalities he had to deal with - he would maintain professional standards and tell everybody in the world, "i, of course, do not favor anyone within the family, i live to serve and that is truth." when in fact, he wouldn't hesistate to admit that he does, in actuality, have a favorite.
and no, it wouldn't be the eldest child, dick grayson, as much as he is alfred's pride and joy, nor would it be the youngest, damian wayne, who had been slowly correcting his mistakes. it wouldn't even be the head of the house, master bruce.
it would be you, (name) wayne, the infamous, yet forgetten child of the wayne family.
it wouldn't be a far fetch for alfred to admit that you weren't like the others. in all of the years that he served the wayne's, you were a contrast of the family.
the first few hours that he had picked you up from the police department upon the news of bruce's secret child, he knew you were more than just a child raised by the brutal streets of gotham.
you pose secrets that speak of the underground.
he remembers your seated form on the stiff chair of the interrogation room, pose unnervingly straight, as if you had solidified yourself against the metal seat. your fingers were the only signs that showed life, twiddling with each other as if it's some form of distraction.
you stared at nothing.
not even at the police as your name was called for pick up.
it took merely a signature of confirmation to dictate the future years of your life.
what's left of your belongings were given to alfred. the police officer, a woman with a kind smile then had to walk across the interrogation table to pat your back, gesturing for you to stand up and follow her and alfred on the way outside of the station, where the car was parked.
you hadn't uttered a word nor snapped out of your dreamlike gaze. not even when you were greeted with a thousand clicks of the cameras, the buzzing crowd that drowns the police station, or the hundreds of voices that yell at you to look at them.
(name) (last name), now formally adopted by bruce wayne, would be (name) wayne. it wouldn't be a shock that your sudden appearance as the child of a scandalous relationship between a prostitute and a billionaire would cause immense reactions. news would be spreading left and right, most of which were negative on your side.
he had to shield you from the crowd of photographers and journalists itching their way to the crowd to get a glance on you.
yet you didn't display any discomfort. you had only sat on the car obediently, fastening your seatbelts robotically and ignoring the lenses that unsettlingly tried to poke through the car windows to take pictures of you.
you were more like batman than you were bruce.
alfred had tried to get you communicate with questions like, "how are you over there, master (name)?" yet you would only mumble unintelligible responses to his questions without any ounce of emotion. he had to look at the rear view mirror to take in your stiff form. again, your eyes were set on nothing, even if they were casted down on the carpeted floorboards of the car.
when he had first met bruce, that child was overflowing with anger and vengeance for his parent's killer, yet you, who refused to explain your mother's disappearance, are devoid of anything.
the silence was defeaning throughout the ride. the only comfort that was provided was the rain that began to patter against the glass windows.
alfred throught you would retain the same behavior the entire day.
yet it was only when you first walked up the steps of the manor did your demeanor change, fingers immediately reaching up to hold the cuffs of his sleeves, pulling it as if you were hesitant to step in.
the first emotion you had shown him was concern, like a switch had flickered you out of your trance. it was the first time in a while that alfred had to do a double take to check if what was happening was real.
"can you... hold my hand?" and it was the first time he had heard you speak, voice unnaturally scratchy from the lack of water. you stared at him with wide, doe eyes that refused to blink, waiting for answers. alfred had to gaze at your entire body to finally notice that you were covered head to toe in sloppy bandages with blood seeping through the grime-filled gauze. your shoes were worn, your clothes were ripped, and other uncovered scars littered your body.
the most conspicuous color on your shirt was crimson red.
yet you do not display pain.
a child, five years of age, had been through more than enough anguish to know how to block their pain out.
you were unlike the rest, truly, you were unwavering of the world's cruelty.
the world does not deserve someone like you.
alfred takes it in himself to always hold your hand after that.
through the mansion doors, inside the kitchen, on your way to school; whenever and wherever, as long as he had time.
even if it were filled with scars and bruises, dirt and grime, he will always hold your hand if it meant guiding you through the darkness of the manor.
you may not consider yourself bruce's child, but you will always be alfred's.
another knock on your door had you snapping out of your trance. time passed by so quickly in the manor. well, it does when you have nothing to do but stare at your diary, draw on your sketchbook or scroll through your phone. yet time would always be the quickest whenever you drown in your own misery.
"come in," you croak out, aware that it would only be alfred who would come by your room. it was long ago since you had given up on awaiting for dick's visits.
a turn of the knob, then the door swings quietly; the hinges creak, you need them oiled sooner. alfred walks in, you notice he holds a tray that contains two cupcakes and a plate of your favorite dish, but you don't notice the small box with a bow hidden skillfully from the back of the tray. from over your seat, you could already smell the aromatic herbs that flutter in the room and see the colorful frosting from both cupcakes; an already lit candle sticking in from one.
the candle at least provides just a split second of light inside your dim room; the moonlight just like your family, absent.
alfred graciously places the tray on your nightstand, on the left of your diary. your room was still too silent.
you could only hear yourself.
"master (name), are you simply going to sit there and stare? or would you rather i spoonfeed you like i had when you had broken your wrist?"
you blink it out again, oblivious to your very own hyperawareness. alfred's still here. you hope that, in the presence of darkness, he wouldn't see just how much of a mess you are. how your hands could barely grip onto anything, hair unwashed, face stained with tears, difficulty breathing through the buildup of mucus, foot tapping up and down erratically— you wished he would pretend to be blind about your suffering for just this once.
"no—" came your sudden reply, "i can- yeah, i can eat by myself."
it's harder to lie to yourself than it is to others.
he looks at you with doubt, it makes you shiver.
despite you wishing for company inside the manor, you could never be used to attention. it would never be normal for someone like you. though, you wish it was. you wish you never hesitated when someone gives you attention.
you hear your mattress creak, there's a dip on your bed. alfred sits beside you, only then did you realize just how quickly you lean into his side, craving for warmth in the solace of your empty room.
everything hurts, it truly does.
you wish you were strong enough to cease the sudden burst of tears when his one hand circles your shoulder and the other holds the cupcake with a candle near your face. and you wish that you weren't so weak in the presence of another, trying to find a semblance of your worth in their attention.
you at least try to stifle your sobs—
"happy birthday, master (name)."
— but you were always weak, yet alfred never seems to mind, patting your back to console you from your wailing.
you blow the fire out with a single promise to yourself, crying a bit more when alfred had given you a gift box, laced with a ribbon of your favorite color.
it was one of the few gifts you would cherish, fondness seeping into the cracks of your heart.
though it wouldn't erase the bitterness that fills your being either way, knowing your family is still downstairs, unaware of the anguish the torment that they have put you through— it's still enough to let you hate alfred a little less.
"alfred?"
it was your meek voice, one that was always drowned out by the sound of the dishes clanking.
"yes, master (name)?" yet alfred could always strain out the sound of anything just to hear your talk. after all, you were a silent kid throughout your childhood.
"—if i move out of this place; would promise you wouldn't forget about me?"
... (name) wayne was full of surpises.
even at the ripe age of seventeen, and in the near fourteen years of raising you, alfred could never predict your words nor your actions.
you had always said things spontaneously, carrying an aura of awkwardness in your tone, reminiscent of someone who had their personal growth (moreover their social life) stunted.
but now, with the way you had said your resolve so confidently, it felt like he was looking at a different version of you; all the more confident and resilient.
except... you were behind him when you had said that - so he wasn't really looking at you - eating the first batch of his cookies whilst he was polishing the dishes with a cloth.
when he had turned around to look at you, though, you were still the socially inept child he knows and love, sitting on the breakfast bar and twirling around the stool as you attempt to not get crumbs everywhere. you were still so young in his eyes.
it's just, the way you had looked at him expectedly like you needed his approval that shocked him. it was always your eyes that had expressed the most emotions, glazing with anticipation for his response.
he knows it when you lie, and right now, you were dead serious in your resolve.
alfred had to relax the crease on his brows before he ages faster than he already is.
"well, master (name)," he continues, turning back to wiping the dishes clean before he could fully face you. "i would fully support you in your... journey, but what warranted you to be suddenly motivated on moving out?"
alfred had finished setting aside the dishes, but he still doesn't look back.
"i mean, i thought i already told you? i have a scholarship for college but it's on the other side of gotham and...
— i kind of don't want to be chauffeured by a limo around the campus everyday, you know? so the next best thing is to get a dorm."
alfred knows it when you lie. and right now, your hesitance tells him everything he needs to know.
you may have proved a point, but that point was an entire lie. with a person name wayne flaunting across a city whilst riding a limousine, you might find yourself into more trouble than anything else.
but he had always been the one to pick you up and drop you off from elementary and halfway through your highschool life— and you never seemed to mind until now.
it doesn't take a genius to know that you had already deviced a full plan of moving out and taken it into action; all you had to do was confront the only man in the manor who had cared about you enough to raise you about your worries.
it wasn't enough to convince him to let you go, though, especially not right after an incident that had occured prior to you highschool life. if he allows you to gain independence in gotham, he wouldn't know how long you would last.
but when he looks back at you again, he couldn't bring it in himself to oppose to your whims. you need a new environment; one that provides you a way to gain independence and, most preferably, social skills. staying cooped up in a manor with barely anybody talking to you does more harm than good.
and being ignored by your own family for almost fourteen years wouldn't be a great way to celebrate your already nearing eighteenth birthday.
alfred doesn't want to admit it, but if he keeps you here any longer, you would never grow up. one person could only do so much.
he whips out a sigh, looking at you with resignation in his eyes. but you know it in yourself that he swears his life on the promise.
"master (name)," he walks over to you, eyes darting at the cookie crumbs that litter around your mouth making a note to scold you on your manner later. he sits directly in front of you, hand patting your head as you merely stare at him expectedly.
"i have raised you for almost fourteen years, it's like you are my very own child. i would never forget you." he takes your hands in his. "but you have to also promise me to stay safe out there, master (name). call me once you're there."
alfred would find a way to get you to come back eventually, even if it meant utilizing your family's neglect, which was primarily the reason why you had moved out on the first place.
he just hopes you wouldn't connect the dots and pin the blame on him once you're back and safe in the manor.
and now, it had only been months since you had gotten away from the manor. he was proud of your development, of your choice and overall, you, but he wouldn't lie and say he doesn't miss you.
he misses hearing your voice directly, the line on the phone being too blotchy to properly hear you. he misses it when he would sit on your bed as your only audience whilst he watches you paint on your canvases, drawling on and on about highschool's latest drama. he misses it when you would always be the first to taste his dishes, face lighting up whenever the food was seasoned up; now he has to constantly remind you to eat a nutritious diet, even offering to send you money whenever you mention you were short on it.
in the good of your heart, you would always decline, even going as far to deny him of any liberty to track you down and bring you a meal himself.
alfred misses you.
does he regret allowing you your freedom? not really, no. but he knows it in himself that a greedy part of him prefers it if you were would visit the manor occasionally during your vacations, at least to bond with him. but you simply chose not to, even going as far to legally change your name once you had become eighteen so you wouldn't be associated with your father's last name.
but that wouldn't erase the past you had tried to meticulously cover.
(name) wayne may have been a name forcefully deleted off of the face of the internet, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its conspiracies of its own. nobody knows who you are beyond the blurry, unsolicited pictures of you. it may have been a photograph of your back, or articles published in unknown websites and buried at the far end about a kid leaving a police station and entering through the fancy gates of the wayne manor.
and most importantly, you are a product of a one-night-stand.
but they don't know who the mother is, don't know your age, or where you come from, and what business bruce has with the woman to guarantee your adoption at the instance she had disappeared without warning.
your existence was a mystery most would like to solve. after all, it was your picture that was plastered all over the newspapers and articles, it was your name that journalists whisper and it was a silhouette of your face that the underground knows by heart. every known information about you was shared discretely yet efficiently like some sort of virus.
you were a target for interest, a large sum of money if they will. and alfred had taken it in his hands to make sure there would never be a repeat of what had happened before.
it was a clumsy mistake, one that cost you your memories, and one he swears on his life he'll never make again.
the first course of action he needs to arrange, which may seem difficult for most; he needs to confront bruce.
after all, your freedom is your doom.
the wayne manor, in all its glory, could only be described as this palace overflowing his its abundant history and fame.
it was a castle that houses a boy who had lost his parents and became gotham's very own vigilante who stalks through the night to lessen the very evil that devours its citizens. it was the training grounds where the robins, sidekicks dressed in colorful attire, opposite to batman, were raised to be worthy enough to stand by the dark knight's side. but most importantly, it was a home for troubled children who were in their journey of their very own personal struggles.
yet even in its exterior splendour, it would always be innately overcome with loneliness.
for someone like bruce wayne, he embraces this desolation just as he embraces his alter-ego, batman, who wears a suit of black and dons an aura that demanded fear.
even if he carries the persona of 'brucie wayne' a ditsy, playboy who enjoys galas and sleeping with women every other night, he prefers solitude over the sea of interviewers who throng around him like he was a piece of meat.
it would be the only time he could focus on his countless of stacked paperworks to sign and his plans to ransack another criminal's master plan.
before winter could cover gotham in its sheet of pure, white coldness, rain would always terrorize the skies. he finds this the perfect atmosphere; dark grey clouds prevent the sun from peaking through, droplets of rain would pelt against the vast windows that surrounds his study, and there was enough background noise to block out any sounds that would pass through the door.
bruce wayne was focused on his work, and that meant disturbance wasn't allowed inside the manor. thankfully, it was a quiet, uneventful afternoon today.
in fact, it was all too abnormally quiet.
his scarred hands work through signing papers effiently and effortlessly, practiced fingers signing papers after he would meticulously scan over the paragraphs of texts that scale from business deals to partnerships to buying a piece of land. then later, once the moon rises, he would have to patrol with damian and disrupt another drug trade that had been recently dealing with children on the alleys of gotham.
that means he has to sign or reject at least half of the papers before evening falls through, so he could have alfred send them over through the post office tomorrow morning.
he was at least a quarter way through his work, though, when his flow was disrupted by a courteous knock by the mahogany doors.
he didn't have to look up or ask who it was, knowing it was alfred, his butler.
"master bruce, i have your tea ready, along with news to bare," bruce could hear the tone of urgency and a tinge of sullenness in alfred's voice. it was rare for alfred to be emotionally distressed, as he was typically the most composed out of everyone in the family.
"come on in, alfred," bruce's vocal chords were gruff, raspy whenever he's too engrossed in whatever he was doing.
but he was piqued at the news alfred was eager to share, the butler expertly turning the knob and entering with a tray that holds a hot serving of tea.
bruce stopped signing the papers, putting down his pen as he watches alfred, composed as always, place the tray down on his desk, not a single clank that was produced from the metal sheets. he watches as alfred reflexively pours him a cup of tea.
it was only after that action that the two share eye contact, alfred stationing himself to the right of bruce's desk.
if he wasn't a detective, he wouldn't have noticed the furrow of alfred's brows, which was uncharacteristic of the composed butler.
he reckons he should address the elephant in the room.
"what is it that you want to tell me, alfred?" bruce swivels his chair to face alfred, fingers tapping the mahogany desk rhythmically.
"master bruce, i figured you should have known this for quite a long time ago, but your third child had moved out on their own and now lives at the opposite side of gotham. right now, they may have been struggling to make ends meet."
huh?
"what do you mean, alfred? you're aware that tim is currently living in the manor—"
"no, master, i am talking about your third, not fourth child; master (name)."
... (name)?
ah, his... other child.
alfred looks at his seated form, expecting the befuddled reaction from bruce.
it doesn't take long for bruce to recover from his thoughts, eyebrows furrowed the same way as alfred as he leans against his chair.
"and what of (name)? why was i not updated about them?"
alfred had to stifle a groan as he then glares at bruce with what he could suppose was exasperation.
"i had already told you about their leave months ago, master bruce. you had simply waved me off whenever the topic is of master (name)." the butler's glare hardened, reminiscent of the times where bruce was scolded as a child. and like a child, he doesn't know what he had done wrong.
"i feel it is time for you to take it into your hands to deal with master (name)'s situation right now. i do not have access to their location and just like you, they are stubborn and refuse to accept any financial aid that comes to them in any form—"
to make matters worse, alfred had the gall to stop midway into his explanation, sighing and blinking unnervingly which catches more than bruce's attention.
"they would rather not admit it, but if they were to fail to pay for this month's rent of their apartment, they would get evicted from their very own living space."
at pretty much the last sentence, bruce's gaze hardened. not at alfred, no, but at the thought of you; his... forgotten child. if it was money that you need, why had you not ask for any allowance in the first place? bruce would admit that, well, it had been too long since he had last seen your face, nor even... remember it—
but you were still a child of his and he wouldn't deny you of an allowance if it meant persuing your... highschool or college dreams...?
shit, what grade are you in?
why didn't he know you moved out in the first place? wait—
"alfred, how long has it been since they had last moved out?"
"roughly six or seven months ago, master."
"ah, but having a place of your own as a minor would be prohibited by law."
"master bruce, they're eighteen. they're old enough to live in their own apartment."
eighteen years old...? how long had it been since he had last seen or heard of you? if what alfred had said was true, that the butler had attempted to reach out to him about you, then why had he not remember in the first place? you were a quiet kid, sure, but for someone like bruce, people would always not be overlooked.
it wasn't in him to easily forget, but he hates how he couldn't muster up a single memory of your face— not even your hair color nor your eyes. did you even... exist in his eyes? there was not a single memory of you that he could come up in his head.
his child was eighteen now, how could he not have known in the first place? how could he not recollect a single birthday of yours? or any celebration or gala that had you in it?
alfred's sigh snapped him out of his trance once more.
bruce looked up, seeing resignation upon alfred's face. he simply stood there, posture straight as always, but bruce couldn't wash away the shame that cages his heart when there was not a single image of you that pops up in his mind— alfred's disappointment merely worsened
the tea in his desk had long since gone untouched, but bruce couldn't bring it in himself to drink a single drop of it, even if his lips were dried and his throat was begging for even a single droplet of water.
he denies himself of any relief.
"i figure i should leave you in your own, master bruce, to at least compose yourself before nightfall. please do take your child into consideration, though, enough time has passed since you have last seen them." alfred states, as if it was a matter of fact. and it was, bruce should've known about your leave, as your father and as the man who took you in, he should've.
so before the butler could even take a step, bruce hastily stands up from his seat, pen long since discarded on his desk and a quarter of the papers are now messily stacked upon each other, but bruce pays them no mind.
"take me to (name)'s room right now, i need to see things for myself."
if bruce couldn't even remember a single instance of you, then maybe a trip to your room would be enough for him to remember.
but if that doesn't work then... bruce would a find a way, he always would.
and as your father, he needs to at least support you, even financial no matter your stubbornness? even if the shame he feels right now is so immensely disturbing, and the migraine is quickly finding its way into his head— he needs to know more about you, his actual third child.
bruce wayne needs to see your face just once.
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
a/n: 5k+ words. no beta, we die like jason todd with a crowbar. my least favorite part of writing the chapter is literally starting it. i had at least 5 drafts all lined up and it took me an hour in the bed to think about how should i start it. i literally hope you guys enjoy the chapter hehe, and start to yk, notice the patterns and the parallels between your perspective and bruce's perspective bec ur literally his child, u guys share some habits even if u never once talked to him lmao. the most emotionally draining scene was writing the birthday scene, i had to take breaks from typing it out hehe. bruce's descent to yandere-ism isn't as quick as dick's but it would be worst in the next chapter.
also, i hope you guys are able to notice the bad habits that the reader eventually collects because it's important for the next chapters. it would be better if anyone of u could... point them out in my asks or comments, i love rambling about it yk, and a lot of you are absolutely brilliant in making theories that are absolutely right. anyways, i hope u enjoy this chapter because this was one hell of a ride for me and i appreciate all the reblogs and comments despite me not replying to a lot of yall but u guys truly are my motivation so thank u lots :(((<33!
taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku, @okaybutfullhomo, @trasshy-artist, @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa, @maicenitas, @ilovvmyhusband, @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony, @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts, @darling006, @starringyau, @rosecentury, @jaythes1mp, @pi1nkl0ver, @i-thirsty-boi, @sharks-r-cool-l, @silverklaus, @samanthathanes, @traumaramacenter, @maddimoon, @anxrq, @thedarknesslord, @h0rr0r-10ver-69, @lazy-idate, @googeecat44, @simpingfor-wakasa, @zvghfgn, @0patito0 (if i had forgotten to put any of u in a taglist please forgive me, it's hard to keep track !!)
#🌷... yael's works#series: again & again#yandere dc#yandere batfam#soft yandere#yandere batman#yandere bruce wayne#yandere alfred pennyworth#yandere batboys#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere x y/n#yandere x gn reader#yandere x male reader#platonic yandere#yandere angst#i appreciate all ur comments and reblogs and asks and i heavily encourage it for faster updates !!#imagine crying at you own writing lmao#im so poetic core u totally did not see me rhyme like one paragraph
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[ID: Two screenshots from Queering the Map, taken in Kottayam, Kerala. In the first screenshot there is a map pin that says “Surely, I can’t be the only one!”. In the second screenshot, a second map pin, very close to the first one, says, “No you are not.” The screenshots are from the Tiktok account @/ahecksis. End ID]
#queering the map#this literally has me on yhe verge of tears#like I know I'm incredibly sleep deprived and I'm just generaly going insane but this is...#It's the most poetic shit I've ever seen#it's the whole thing#'Surely I can't be the only one' Surely I can't be alone 'No you are not' you are not alone#it's what being a person is#mmmm :(((#words are so much sometimes /pos
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i love when words fit right. seize was always supposed to be that word, and so was jester. tuesday isn't quite right but thursday should be thursday, that's a good word for it. daisy has the perfect shape to it, almost like you're laughing when you say it; and tulip is correct most of the time. while keynote is fun to say, it's super wrong - i think they have to change the label for that one. but fox is spot-on.
most words are just, like, good enough, even if what they are describing is lovely. the night sky is a fine term for it but it isn't perfect the way november is the correct term for that month.
it's not just in english because in spanish the phrase eso si que es is correct, it should be that. sometimes other languages are also better than the english words, like how blue is sloped too far downwards but azul is perfect and hangs in the air like glitter. while butterfly is sweet, i think probably papillion is more correct, although for some butterflies féileacán is much better. year is fine but bliain is better. sometimes multiple languages got it right though, like how jueves and Πέμπτη are also the right names for thursday. maybe we as a species are just really good at naming thursdays.
and if we were really bored and had a moment and a picnic to split we could all sit down for a moment and sort out all the words that exist and find all the perfect words in every language. i would show you that while i like the word tree (it makes you smile to say it), i think arbor is correct. you could teach me from your language what words fit the right way, and that would be very exciting (exciting is not correct, it's just fine).
i think probably this is what was happening at the tower of babel, before the languages all got shifted across the world and smudged by the hand of god. by the way, hand isn't quite right, but i do like that the word god is only 3 letters, and that it is shaped like it is reflecting into itself, and that it kind of makes your mouth move into an echoing chapel when you cluck it. but the word god could also fit really well with a coathanger, and i can't explain that. i think donut has (weirdly) the same shape as a toothbrush, but we really got bagel right and i am really grateful for that.
grateful is close, but not like thunder. hopefully one day i am going to figure out how to shape the way i love my friends into a little ceramic (ceramic is very good, almost perfect) pot and when they hold it they can feel the weight of my care for them. they can put a plant in there. maybe a daisy.
#warm up#writeblr.#i am not going to personally comment on the pineapple debate#some things are too big for me.#maybe we could have everything on earth choose their own names.#wouldn't that be fun#it is a creative writing exercise. okay. ily#''why only these languages?'' ..... bc i dont know every language#sorry :(#PLEASE leave me comments about what words u think are correct. i love learning them#btw! this isn't saying these are the most BEAUTIFUL words for it... just the words that are the most CORRECT#like i quite like the word ''keynote'' as mentioned. it's got a lot of fun sounds in it.#but it is not CORRECT.#''gloaming''' is interesting and fun and poetic but it is NOT correct . evening is MORE correct#but less beautiful.#does that make sense?
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You have 90 minutes to complete. (original poem: r.a.)
In participation of the MCYT Recursive Exchange 2024 hosted by @mcytrecursive!
Inspired by know that all my love will be your breath (i will save you when your lights go out)
[text under cut]
1. Have you ever been in love? (Please circle your answer.) a. It's me and him b. Our hearts beat in sync c. Our lives intertwined
2. Do you understand what you’ve done? (Please circle your answer.) a. I couldn't do anything b. I lost my balance c. I doomed us both
3. It's been god knows how long since you felt phantom hands on your neck and there is no one in sight. If you were soul-bound to him and both of you died at the same time then why are you still waiting in the void? Please answer clearly, in full sentences. (Not a correct answer:I just wanted to see him one more time).
4. Define two (2): Fate | The feeling of his forehead against yours Curse | The moment you realise he isn't linked to you anymore
5. True or False: i. It was your fault. ii. You wish you had met him under different circumstances. iii. You can’t regret a single moment that you had him. iv. You would do it all over again if you could. v. It ended long before either of you said anything.
thumbnails:
sketch cover thing for imgur link:
#team ranchers#team rancher#rancher duo#jimmy solidarity#tangotek#trafficshipping#mcyt recursive exchange#events#fic fanart#my art#“canary has butterfly-shaped wings it cant do a dramatic spread like that” watch me. (draws dramatic wings) (sorry)#“you have 90 minutes” have been rattling in my brain for so long ever since i suddenly remembering a web weave using it (yes the beeduo one#very glad i can release it (using it in art) from its confines (my mind)#hm i suppose the title would be more in theme if its abt limited life ranchers#← havnt watched limlife yet#but! happy with what i come up with. lil bit proud even#had so much trouble with the panelling and layers in p2 cause it looks too busy (explodes)#also punching the floor bc i only noticed the “yes-no” pair(?) in the original poem when im already half-done w/ the comic#me when making silly comic makes you do poem analysis#i dont even go there ← does not have enough poetic braincells
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First art of the new year is all about re-structuring your internal monologue.
In my early 20s I was working full time in London with many social commitments and a variety of hustles and side projects.
In my later mid 20s I cater to many sensory and social drain needs I have and indulge in special interests while respecting my lower energy reserves and celebrating my different way of processing the world.
Did I get more autistic? Nah. I got less fake.
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[Art description: Three panels showing figures on a black background. Long descriptions follow.
1. A drawing of OP as a person with hip-length hair and a dress standing sadly with her hands clapsed together in front of her. She is coloured a muted rainbow gradient. Behind her, two pairs of nondescript figures chat while smiling. White text says, ‘I’m getting more and more autistic the older I get.’ 2. OP’s colours are brighter, and her expression looks happier. Crayon-like scribbles have crossed out the text from the previous panel. 3. OP’s colours are vibrant, and she balances on one leg and throws her arms out as she dances. The text above has changed to say, ‘I’m becoming more and more myself the older I get.’ \End descriptions]
#urchin art#autism#autistic#neurodivergent#neurodiversity#actually autistic#autistic things#autistic adult#autistic artist#autistic community#listen- the process of unmasking every fiber of your fabricated being is difficult#figuring out who you are behind the mask is scary#but continuing to act in a play where only you got no script is officially cringe#(this is me waxing poetic I am very aware of the safety needs of masking but that's not the point)#the point is ask yourself#are you getting MORE xyz?#Or are you becoming MORE of you?
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Symbrock's "The Kiss" by Gustav Klimt
I tried🤷
#art#fanart#symbrock#venom#nex#tom hardy#veddie#eddie brock#marvel#nex art#venom the last dance#kiss gustav klimt#hes goob#me drawing like the most tender and poetic analogies for symbrock#symbrock in actuality two insane gremlin creature who jusz shout most of the time and dont do labels
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transfem wirt truthers wya
#my friend said he loves wirt being so distressed and greg being so chill#me and my friends call her wirtina as a joke but i’m starting to do it unironically if i don’t find a better name for her soon#guys does anyone have any ideas of what wirt would call herself#i also like the idea she stays as wirt#or we’ve come up with whitney or willow#and in the same breath ranted about chosen names always being similar to their deadname lol#sorry i have so many things to yap about#art#over the garden wall#otgw fanart#otgw#wirt otgw#trans wirt#transfem wirt#greg otgw#sara otgw#poetic bee#if ya squint idk
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i just watched scott's session 7 and noticed a pattern: every single person forgot about grian.
grian hasn't been caught yet, cleo and scott establish. barely a minute later, scott is leading cleo and bigb by the hands to his secret spot and saying "i think we're the last three." like the name has slipped right out of his hands.
as etho tells the other zombies that no, actually, he doesn't want to kill cleo, it occurs to him suddenly. "actually, i kind of want grian to succeed on this, don't i? he's my teammate," he says, not like he doesn't care for grian, but like he's shocked he even forgot in the first place. (seconds later, he lifts his gaze to the sky, and he sees where grian is hiding. he's the only one who sees. he carries this secret with him as he watches grian run, an apology of sorts; sorry I forgot. I hope this makes it better.)
but it got me thinking: this is what grian does, isn't it? even since 3rd life, where he hid in the shadow of scar, whose face was always, always in the light, as he burrowed under doorways, covered in redstone and days-old blood. no one thinks of him as scar sells them the coffins grian will put them in.
grian has mastered the art of becoming nothing. he's so nothing, in fact, that his presence glances off the skin of even his friends. his name slips away from them. he disappears time and time again, falling through their fingers like sand. there are brief moments: "where's grian?" someone asks, but their blood is boiling and their fingers are itching. the image is a mirage and the sand crumbles at their fingertips. it's gone as soon as it comes; back to cleo, green cleo, uninfected cleo.
a reminder, perhaps from the universe itself. he is nothing but a ghost of a memory, a whisper of a promise. this is by design. the universe is telling him this, as it strings grian up limb by limb: you were only ever meant to watch.
#poeticism is lost to me im half asleep is this nonsensical#i dont care let me sum this up#watcher grian#thats all#grian#secret life#secret life spoilers#desert duo#trafficblr#ethoslab#zombiecleo#scott smajor#roomies#watchers#scarian#kinda?#3rd life#third life#watercolor words
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I've been thinking a lot about dancing as a form of possession and keeping, when they dance, to us, it's a physical melody of two, an abstract form of intimacy, to them it's also a way to get a message across.
Dancing in the way that HyunA's is Luka's and only Luka's to have, dancing in the way that Till is Ivan's to want and keep close, dancing in the way that Sua and her memory is Mizi's to keep and hold for her eternity
#alien stage#alien stage till#alien stage ivan#alien stage sua#alien stage mizi#alien stage hyuna#alien stage luka#alnst#yk how dominance is literally the whole pretense of the tango (correct me if im wrong)#i love...love love love seeing people dance...especially when its tragic. and viole *dies on spot*#ivantill#hyuluka#mizisua#i might add more to this later because i relally liekeeeee#hehehee poetic dancing 🤤#“But your life belongs to me?” Inspired this post btw
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“Dead ahead. Don’t miss.”
((aka me realizing i’m still down bad for revalink at 3am : ^ ) when you call revali’s gale in the dark beast ganon fight so you can take the final shot together 👌 close up under cut!))
Edit: @ginneke wrote an amazing fic inspired by this piece here!
#breath of the wild#botw#link#revali#revalink#ace draws#totk comes out next month and i can't stop thinking about tHEM#revali can't be hylia's chosen one but he can be her knight's 😌#i WILL wax poetic abt these 2 idiots forever and you CAN'T stop me
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When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
#animorphs#tobias animorphs#rachel animorphs#fanart#my art#book 33 made me a little insane#the podcast/audiobook i listened to played a few bars of iris during the dance scene.... poetic cinema......#everyone listen to audiomorphs#daniel is doing a great job
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Izumi of Jang Hui died young. She was sixteen and unwed. A kind child, protective and lonely—thus unfit for this world.
Izumi of Jang Hui was murdered. The Painted Lady was born out of hatred and grief. Her skin is painted red with the patterns of her scars. Her home is the river where the Dark Water Spirit dwells—he who found her, drowned and beautiful.
Build shrines by the river and pray for her good will. Harm her land or people and pray for mercy.
#atla#avatar the last airbender#the painted lady#atla izumi#the blue spirit#zutara#painted lady#dark water spirit#Izumi#blue spirit and the painted lady#blue spirit#new gods au#Spirit Touched! Zuko#zuko#katara#zutara au#fire nation#New Gods AU lore#Listen. LISTEN.#I have SO MUCH LORE FOR THE PAINTED LADY AND THE BLUE SPIRIT#THE LITERAL SPIRITS#kyoshi warriors au#Jian Li#Jian Li aka the original Blue Spirit found Izumi right after she died. He saved her. Made her transition into a spirit possible and smooth#The patterns of her war paint follow her scars'#Mainly so I can throw Through the Eyes of a Child's lyrics around because they'll always fit. “Scars we cover up with paint” and all#Anyways. Izumi is my child and she must be protected. I have SO many ideas for her.#I wanted her story (and Jian Li's but I'll talk about that one later) to be poetic in a sense. Especially when seen through the lense of her#story and what it means to Zuko. There's a reason it's her war paint he wears in the Kyoshi Warriors AU.#And don't get me started on the New Gods AU!
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I love sewing
I love making things
I love having made things
I love seeing where a garment is not, where I want one to be, and being able to say "let's make that happen"
I love inspiring people to say "wait, you can just do that? time permitting, you don't have to be bound by what massive, wasteful corporations tell you to wear or how long they say you're allowed to keep wearing it?" obviously there are other barriers to entry, but I find that so many people regard sewing as this impossible alchemy they couldn't even begin to touch- and the fact that I can make it real and less intimidating for them is huge to me
I wanted to learn to sew for as long as I can remember, with no real idea why. and even though I didn't learn until I was 19 or start in earnest until I was 23, I'm proud of the progress I've made in the last eight years
I bought a mantle that my friend was retiring from her historical wardrobe, and it arrived in the mail today. it's soft and warm and gorgeous to look at, but it's also something my friend made herself. I can wear my friend's skill and talent and careful creation as I move through the world
I can wear things born entirely in my own mind, made three-dimensional and real
god, it's the best feeling
#sewing#crafting#okay remind me of this next time I have to work with lightweight silk won't you?#('have to' she said as if it wasn't entirely her own hobby that she selected independently)#in less poetic terms 'look at this shit! I MADE THIS SHIT!'
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i've caved yall... the way i am so normal about laezel and shadowheart (stay tuned....)
#bg3#baldurs gate 3#laezel#lae'zel#the way her character arc is so beautiful to me#the way she becomes softer and softer and her words more and more poetic#you have taken the whole of me. i could never accept just a piece of you in return#IM BROKEN IM BROKEN IM BROKEN#shoutout to devora wilde for acting the shit out of this role like her Voice is Lae'zel's Voice
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