#led pen poetry

[malakkc-poetry]

[crumbledcastle28]

Joel Miller: Stay Down

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: Joel thought he had grown accustomed to fear until he finds you covered in blood.

Excerpt: He swallowed, attempting to choose his words carefully. He had never been good with them, attributing his deficiency to a long line of likewise men before him. His brain poured for sonnets, poetry, prose that he had read in his insignificant time on this planet. Something to impress you, distract you, to take away that crestfallen look in your eye.

He couldn’t do it. He never would be. So, he used his mouth for something else.

Warnings: stitching of a wound, kissing, blood, blood loss, so much yearning, unestablished relationship, probably incorrect gun talk, Joel is scared of feelings.

A/N: This is me coping with the fact that we do not get more last of us in January. Also partially inspired by my favorite song maybe ever.

Pedro Masterlist

All my writing

Joel had found his hands becoming more and more susceptible to the cold as he got older.

They would crack and bleed, flaking dried skin within his decades-old gloves before November had even begun. This not only hurt like hell, but forced him to slow down and think about what he was doing to his body for once in his life. He had a harder time gripping the reins on a horse or fingering the trigger on a shotgun. Noticeably so. And living in a small town with a little brother foaming at the mouth to make old man jokes didn't help matters.

This is what led him to you.

He wouldn't call you a hoarder. Honestly, he would be the first to admit that you were one of the smartest people in Jackson. You had somehow become one of the most materialistically rich people in the town. You consistently managed to find the most randomly useful items on your patrols, things that people before the outbreak would never have even thought to miss.

Things like shoe insoles, ball point pens, Chapstick.

And luckily for him, lotion.

You never charged anyone for taking from what you had. Furthermore, you actively asked people if they needed anything. Even offering to scout around the area in search of specifics. Joel hadn't been around that kind of softness since...

Well, a long time.

This made him uncharacteristically nervous when he first approached your doorstep, but he knocked anyway. He had never in a million years expected to leave that house satisfied in more ways than one.

He blamed it on that stupid crinkle the skin underneath your eyes got whenever you smiled at him. He couldn't help but fall into your light.

This started a... friendship. Of sorts. He would come over when he needed you, and you would happily oblige. As time went on, the visits to yours became more and more frequent, frequent enough that the rest of the town seemed to be catching on. At least, that's what his brother had been hinting at through jabs and side comments.

"You smiled at me the other day, Joel," Tommy had said. "Actually smiled."

Joel responded with a gesture he was hoping Ellie would not pick up anytime soon.

Joel was...happy. Happy with the arrangement. He had a warm body – a fucking gorgeous warm body – to get his energy out with, and the woman inside the body seemingly had no issue with his lack of strings attached.

And yet, for some reason, this annoyed him.

There was some undetectable, bruised part of him that wanted you to…what exactly? Fight him on it? Confess your undying love for him? Pull him back into bed to cuddle?

There had to be either pheromones or crack cocaine in that honeyed floral perfume you always wore. You were beginning to drive him this insane. Unfortunately for him, the place he went when he was beginning to toe that line into insanity was always you.

Joel had checked the schedule posted in the main square, assigning every able-bodied person shifts of patrol. You had a shift earlier in the day, which usually kept you busy until noon. You would then shower, eat, and spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever the hell you wanted.

Overtime, these mental gymnastics became muscle memory to Joel.

He huffed as he lugged his aching legs up your steps, their typical milk white now coated in an ugly muddy brown. Winter had begun, apparent by the puffs of Joel’s own breaths, and the snow in Jackson was trying desperately to keep up.

Joel balled his hands into fists as he planted both feet onto your porch, blowing into them quickly, before knocking three times. Spaced out enough, but not too much. He envisioned you smiling as you heard his signature knock, but cringed at himself internally, burying the thought instantly.

It fluttered back to the surface when he heard the pads of your footsteps somewhere in the house begin but extinguished itself when they dissipated.

He waited a few more seconds, the rational part of his brain saying that you must be in the middle of something, but the man part of his brain imagining you putting on your silky red robe he loved so much, only for him to take it off you so slowly it made his own fingers shake. He breathed in deep, the laundry detergent from his nylon coat mixed with the beginnings of December filling his nose, and cracked his neck while rocking back and forth on his heels.

His eyebrows came together when he heard another rustle, then nothing.

He knocked again.

Still, nothing,

He knew you were in there – he could hear you, clear as day, and he knew you could hear him – but for some reason, you weren’t coming to the door.

His much too weathered mind began to race, thinking of three possible explanations. One, you heard him knocking, and were ignoring him. Two, you somehow were not hearing him knock on the door. Or three, you for some reason were not able to get to the door.

Meaning, there was a possibility you weren’t alone in there, and not by choice.

“Y/N?” he asked loudly. “Y/N, are you in there?”

Nothing. A bit more rustling, maybe a slight groan, but nothing.

Joel’s fingers began to tingle, and it wasn’t from the cold. He knocked again, harder.

“Y/N, I know you’re in there,” he said loudly, “just…just tell me you’re okay.”

Silence.

He gripped the doorknob and jiggled it, hard enough for the wood to groan underneath his fingertips, but it was locked from the inside. He huffed, knocking again, his hot breaths now clouding his face. He felt an ache in his wrist.

He said your name one more time, hearing the beginnings of a voice he knew better than he should have muffled by the wood, and the door was flat in front of him before he could think twice.

He stomped his way inside, coating the ground with mud and snow, and his eyes darted around the familiar living room. His vision was tunneled, scrounging for the shape of you on the floor, draped over the couch, held at gunpoint. His heart pulsed in his ears.

You weren’t in the living room.

He stomped into the kitchen, the bathroom, the basement, nothing. All that was left was the bedroom.

There was no way in hell you were still asleep.

He practically sprinted to the room, preparing himself. He had seen what men did to women, the remnants of it anyway, and despite his state of denial, he could never in a million years handle the sight of you that way. In your own bed. In your own house. Likely one of your own friends.

He pulled open the door anyway, and was met with gold.

The room was dim except for the lamps you loved so dearly, spreading their warm, glowing, honeyed light across the room in streaks. He blinked his eyes to adjust, focusing in on your body on the bed. You were facing him, skin painted with similar golden streaks, highlighting the tears culminating under your eyes. You were sat crisscrossed, upper body totally bare, back slouched tightly, your body practically folded in on itself. Your right hand was pressed against your left shoulder blade, while your other was filled with wine-colored rags.

Blood-soaked rags.

His eyes met yours quickly, and despite their dampness, they still had that fucking crinkle.

You chuckled, your shoulders dropping up and down quickly as they always do.

“You know,” you said, voice curdled and tired, “if someone doesn’t answer the door, that’s usually them saying ‘leave me the hell alone.”

You chuckled again, this time finishing it off with a wince.

His hand slid slowly from the doorknob as he took a hesitant step towards you, his body tearing itself in half. One side begging to fold your body into him, bubbling you in a cocoon. The other, itching to tear whatever did this to you apart ligament by ligament.

Your eyes slowly drooped from humor to something like shame, like a kicked dog or a broken child, and he stepped forward again.

“Don’t,” you countered weakly. “Just…just don’t.”

You scooted away from him slightly, refusing to look at him, and applied more pressure to whatever was expelling that much blood from your shoulder. Pain was suddenly present in your face.

“You want me to leave?” he quickly countered.

You said nothing.

He walked to you, removing the hand you had pressed against your wound, and sucked in a quick breath.

“Probably the first time you’ve seen a revolver bullet in about twenty years, huh Joel?” you asked, chuckling once more.

He barely heard you.

You had gotten the bullet out, but it had sunken in deep. The skin around it was red and welting, so swollen that Joel had to guess you had already been working on it for at least an hour. He winced, imagining what kind of pain you were in, and the fact that you were dealing with it all yourself.

He swallowed grimly.

“Hand me that rag,” he said. He could tell how little strength you had left to fight him by how quickly the rag flopped into his hand.

He pressed it to the wound, and you hissed.

“Fuck Joel,” you whined, squeezing the covers of your bed so tightly your knuckles went white. He held his pressure, forcing himself to think straight.

He might as well have been feeling the pain in his own shoulder.

He finally eased his pressure, wiping away as much blood from the area as he could.

“You cleaned it pretty well,” he said softly, voice thick in his throat, so thick it was hard to speak. “But…it’s gonna need a stich or two.”

“Or seven,” you said, grabbing the first aid kit sat in the middle of the bed. You opened the bag with shaking hands, taking out the needle and thread. You attempted to begin threading the needle, but with your hands quaking so fiercely you only produced frustrated grunts and sighs. He moved to the front of the bed, the front of his body facing yours, and took the needle and thread from your hands, setting them to the side. He then held your hands in his, squeezing them slightly, before using one to tilt your chin up at him.

He sighed at the storm in your eyes.

“What happened?”

“Did you kick my fucking door down?”

“What happened?”

“I was stupid, that’s what happened.”

He sighed again. “You’ve never once been stupid.”

“Today I was.”

“How?”

“It’s how I always am.” Your voice cracked. “Thought I could pick some apples for Mrs. Lawrence down the street. She always talks about how much she loved that as a kid – a freshly picked apple. Went out too far. Felt a sudden burning in my shoulder and ended up having to take out six hunters all by myself. Six.”

A single tear dripped from your left eye, the gold from the lamps turning it to sunlight.

“I could’ve died. All for a fucking apple.”

You turned away from him again, and it took everything in him not to cup your face in his hands and turn you back to him. He had never seen you like this before. So… raw. Beaten. Trampled. Doused in self-hatred. He hated it.

And yet, he didn’t want to look away. He was slowly realizing that this was the part of you he had been desperate to see. Truth. Undercarriage. Weakness.

Human.

He swallowed, attempting to choose his words carefully. He had never been good with them, attributing his deficiency to a long line of likewise men before him. His brain poured for sonnets, poetry, prose that he had read in his insignificant time on this planet. Something to impress you, distract you, to take away that crestfallen look in your eye.

He couldn’t do it. He never would be. So, he used his mouth for something else.

Slowly, gentler than he ever had in his life, he brought his mouth to your cheekbone. You exhaled a prolonged breath, the heat of it cascading down the left side of his neck. It only prompted him to kiss you more, and more, and more. His lips traveling up into your hairline, across your forehead, down your nose, and finally onto your lips. His kiss there was tongueless, rather a soft press, and yet it meant more to him than any other one you had ever shared.

He could tell by your breathing that you agreed.

He pressed his forehead against yours, swallowing thickly. “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t know…I don’t know what I would do if you did.”

Your stormy eyes turned into a sunrise, and Joel straightened his aching back to slowly remove his coat and boots. He placed them on the floor beside your bed, keeping his eyes on you the entire time. You watched him just the same, mouth propped open slightly.

He smirked as he set his things down. He then picked up the needle and thread while using his free hand to frame your face.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, his thumb stroking your chin. “I promise.”

You nodded. “I know you will.”

His lips wanted to meet yours so badly it hurt, but he needed to stitch you. Quickly. For a wound as deep as the one you had, it should have been closed up hours ago.

He wouldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t.

He walked to the edge of the bed and turned you around, leaning you into him slightly to give your pretzeled back some support, and began.  

You were surprisingly unreactive when he first inserted the needle, taking it as delicately as he possibly could. It wasn’t until he began to tug the skin together that your body showed signs of pain.

“You’re going too slow,” you mumbled softly after he finished the second stitch. “Please go faster.”

His hands began to shake at your request. He didn’t blame you. Speed would make it hurt worse, but be over with quicker. He squeezed the top of your shoulder in response, threading the needle quickly and stitching over the center of the wound.

You let out a high-pitched whine, gripping onto the comforter at your side, and he couldn’t help but kiss the back of your neck.

He let your breathing steady, then stitched again, this time kissing your shoulder blade.

Another stitch, a kiss across your shoulders.

Another stitch, a kiss down your spine.

Another stitch, a kiss on your lower back.

After every stitch, he planted one. Something in him couldn’t help it.

He made his final stitch and cut the thread quickly, sealing it with a kiss on the side of your face. He tasted a mix of salty tears and heat from your skin. He watched your throat bobble as he moved away, finishing off the wound with a final cleaning. Alcohol and blood filled the air, along with undertones of sweat.

He had a feeling that last aroma came mostly from him.

He threw the needle and thread away into the small garbage can you kept near your bed before turning back to face you. You rested on the balls of your palms, leaning back to look at him as he walked back towards you. There was pain visible behind your eyes, he could see it, but they were coated in something else. Something somehow rawer than before.

“You should rest now,” he said, scruff evident in his voice from lack of use. He cleared it quickly. “You took a hell of a hit.”

You didn’t move. Joel moved to the first aid kit still sitting in the middle of the bed and used the (what had to be decades old) wet wipes on his hands. He tossed those as well, but you still hadn’t moved.

“There somethin’ on my face?”

You cracked a small smile. “Thank you, Joel,” you said quietly.

He hummed. “Don’t mention it.” He then leaned forward and scooped your body into his arms. You involuntarily rested against him, eyes fluttering already, but he set you down beneath your sheets and swiftly pulled them over you.

He laughed at your fight against your own exhaustion, pushing stray hairs away from your forehead. He pulled away from you, beginning to walk out of the room. A fierce grip pulled him backwards.

“Stay,” you mumbled weakly. “Please stay.”

He inhaled deeply. The sweet cocktail of your voice mixed with those words fucking inebriating him, so much so he was surprised he was still standing up straight. He felt physically winded.

He squeezed your hand. “I’ll be right back. Stay down.”

You smiled, loosening your grip, letting your hand fall back into the bed.

Joel walked quietly out of the room but would be the last to admit how he practically sprinted to your kitchen and scoured your cabinets like a man being chased. He found your pain meds, pouring two into his hand, and filling up a small glass of water. He gave a slow, silent jog back to your room.

He felt equally as winded when he caught the view of the setting sun between your windows, glazing over you like a statue in Rome he had once seen on a traveling magazine. The streaks of leftover tears were highlighted in the light, as well as a small crease in your brow.

That is what told him you were not quite yet out cold.

He brought the meds and water to you, tucking your hair behind your ear to alert you of his presence. You opened your eyes and practically inhaled the medicine before laying back down on your side.

Joel removed his shirt in a blink and tucked himself in behind you, ensuring your stitches were not firmly pressed against him, but pressed just enough to ease soreness. You curved into him perfectly, as he did to you. He wrapped his arm around your frame, taking your hands in his and massaging them gently.

You hummed. “Promise you’ll stay?”

He knew your voice like that better than any man in the world.

He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder. “I’m stayin.’”

Tag List: (if you would like to be added please let me know!)

@untitledarea @avengersfan25 @lexloon @daphne-turner @leeeesahhh

[99pansy]

ss/mayo blogspot lore + frerard theory

hi I'm about to drop some insane lore that I don't think a lot of mcr fans/frerard theorists know about. this isn't discussed often so I figured I should write about it here before all the evidence is lost to time.

this is probably gonna be a long one so buckle in! i have gathered as much evidence here as possible but there's no way to be certain about anything. i'm trying to maintain as much journalistic integrity as i can throughout this post (also trying super hard not to insert my opinion too much) because i think a lot of this speaks for itself.

so i have a pretty significant frerard theory but i have to give a lot of backstory and documentation for it to fully make sense. this will not be in chronological order (to best suit the narrative) but i hope it makes sense

many people know about frank's F.T. Willz endeavors which have been proven as him in recent years. however, "ss" or "shitsubou shita" was another blog he had before this which is not widely known

around 2007, there was a major theory in the fandom that gerard and frank were running secret blogspot accounts where they'd post journals, poetry, etc. frank's account was iamthemodernprometheus.blogspot.com and gerard's supposed account was its-mayonaise.blogspot.com. both accounts are still up, though i'm not sure if any posts have since been deleted. this probably sounds crazy so i'll explain everything!

evidence for frank as SS/shitsubou-shita/iamthemodernprometheus

i strongly believe this was frank's personal blog, but you can come to your own conclusions based on this info

frank's supposed original blogspot handle was "shitsubou-shita." once fans realized this was his account, he deleted it pretty much immediately. you can read some fan discussion about the fall out from this in a comment thread here. this comment thread will be linked a few times in this post because most of the screenshots on this post originate from there.

apparently *frank* was posting some very personal thoughts/feelings on this blog that he did not want to be discovered. i'll go over some of the deleted posts in a minute, but first i need to give more a little more context.

at the same time the blog is found, someone comments "your fired" on a recent post. apparently some fans thought the comment looked strangely out of place, and it was one of the last comments left before the account's deletion, on one of the final posts made.

this will be relevant later on, and we'll get into the account's posts soon.

my theory is that someone on the "inside" could have found his personal blog and tried spooking him, which could have been the final straw for him. or, the account being deleted could be completely unrelated to the weird comment. all of this can be found here (same link i posted previously)

months after deleting their blog, shitsubou shita begins posting under a new url "iamthemodernprometheus" (but still under the pen name "shitsubou shita" or "ss" as fans called him)

in his new blog, and similarly to F.T. Willz years later, he still leaves plenty of crumbs for fans to figure out it's him. screenshot sources are below

latin heading: his page had a latin heading that when translated, reads "keep the faith"

bio on blogspot: "industry - chemicals", and "you dont stop playing cos you get old…you get old cos you stop playing" both sound suspiciously personal to frank

his url choice: "the modern prometheus" is the full title of mary shelley's frankenstein. frankenstein is a character that frank has always deeply resonated with due to his namesake, love of horror, and being born on halloween

spelling of wierd: SS and frank both spell "weird" as "wierd"

i think he enjoyed the mystery of having a secret online persona, which eventually led to the creation of F.T. Willz in 2008. it seems like wanted to leave just enough evidence for people to suspect it was him, but not enough to prove it.

here are some snippets of 2007 era discourse about the identity of "ss" and their deleted blog. you can find all of these comments and more context here. this was around the time gerard got married and fans felt like the dynamic on stage was different, and they were concerned about the future of the band. it's a LOT to go over so i would advise reading the comments if you want more perspective

on the next page, an anonymous comment is posted which fans immediately begin to speculate is SS (frank). again, if you click the link you can get way more context than i'm able to provide here.

this insinuates that SS frequented the comments on mayo's blog, which i don't think he would have done without believing/knowing mayo is gerard

there was a lot discussed in this thread including pretty solid evidence that frank/ss wrote the ancient and historic "eliza post"

if you are not aware of the eliza cuts drama, that's a totally different and equally as insane rabbit hole you'll have to research on your own

tldr; she is gerard's mentally unstable ex-fiance who he was engaged to very shortly before lindsey

gerard and eliza got engaged on may 22, 2007 (the last show of the black parade tour) according to this reddit comment.

the "eliza post" went up on june 4, 2007. here is the post in its entirety:

"Hi I felt I had to write to you guys to allay some of your fears regarding the rumours and speculation surrounding Gerard and Eliza and the future of the band. This is the only time I will ever post. I will not be able to respond to your comments or enter into discussion or debate on what I'm about to say. We are aware that this is one of the most popular message boards for MCR fans and we know you guys are the most dedicated and loyal fans in the world. It saddens me to see such division amongst the fans over one woman. If it's any consolation, you guys are not the only ones affected. She is merely tolerated by both band and crew. Believe me, nothing anyone can say will change his mind. She's been the cause of numerous conflicts and while we dont have to like it, we have to accept it, at least for the forseeable future. From day one this woman has had a hidden agenda - her manipulation knows no bounds. Some of you may find this difficult to believe but I assure you I have personally witnessed the two sides of this woman. Her so-called 'good deeds' are nothing more than PR exercises for his benefit. But he does not see what goes on behind closed doors. We have tried to draw his attention to her blatant self-promotion and diva demands. This is a prime example of love being blind. His feelings for her do run very deep. Her feelings for him, however, are questionable at best. Many people believe, including myself, that he is being used as nothing more than a stepping stone. It's disheartening to see someone you care about and have worked with for a very long time change as a person, becoming more detached and causing the group dynamic to change as a result. There have been conflicts and differences of opinions and compromises have had to be made She does not accompany the band on the European legs of the tour. Since being on this current European leg, he seems much happier which suggest she doesnt make him as happy as he thinks. Despite being asked more than once to remain discreet, she blatantly disregards his wish to keep his personal life private by continually fuelling the internet hype. The band has always been about the music and the fans. This will not change. MCR have never endorsed any type of clique as it encourages and promotes the kind of high school mentality that MCR have always fought against. Your continued support is appreciated and rest assured this woman will have no adverse affect on the band and the music. For obvious reasons I am remaining anonymous. Eliza, we know you trawl these message boards and you probably know who I am - but I'd like to see you try and prove it!!!"

it's clear that whoever wrote this had a very strong distaste for eliza and was deeply troubled by the idea of gerard marrying her. based on the language used and style of writing, i strongly believe frank wrote this post. i'll be circling back to this in a minute, because i have a little more to go over.

for more evidence that SS is frank, we can reference this reddit comment made just 9 months ago by someone heavily involved in the blogspot community at the time, kapunua. their username on this post is "ReallyKapu."

if you read through the comment links I provided earlier, you may see their name pop up. they are also mentioned by name on the "iamthemodernprometheus" blog. if you also search "kapunua mcr" on google, you can verify their involvement in the blogspot community at the time.

kapunua is also mentioned in its-mayonaise's post here (no screenshot provided for this one, its just a small mention)

there's also a screenshot of a different comment kapunua made about 9 years ago with similar information. i found the screenshot here.

evidence that "mayo" is gerard

as mentioned in the post above, mayo often used british english syntax in his posts. he also posted about some pretty juicy stuff including a blowjob poem (you can seek that out yourself)

using british english isn't out of the ordinary for gerard. he often used an accent on stage during this time. moreover, he is a writer who has written multiple characters with this type of accent, showing he has a certain appeciation for it. i think his persona for the "mayo" account could been a sort of character he put on to disguise his idenity.

if you decide to view mayo's blog, you'll see each post has nothing but comments from mcr fans exclusively. i find it very interesting that the writer of its-mayonaise never bothered to make a post saying "hey, btw, i'm not gerard" in the 4 years this blog was run for

we have somewhat less definitive evidence that gerard is mayo. however, it is clear that at the very least, they had to have been someone involved with MCR or their crew at the time.

mayo makes a post alluding to their identity here, which you can find in the first screenshot below. this section sounds a lot like something gerard would write:

"I have been asked to reveal myself to you. You all know me. I am whoever you want me to be, I am an artist, a poet, a singer, a motherfucker, and a contradiction, a mouthpiece, a friend, and an enemy, a brother, an informant, a whipping boy, a basket case, a queen, and a criminal...(credit to John Hughes.)"

there are THOUSANDS of comments, many of which speculate the identity of mayo on each of his blogspot posts. you should definitely do your own detective work and see what you think, because there is far too much info to go through here.

a frerard theory

as i previously mentioned, frank had deleted his original blog for shitsubou-shita in late september. however, prior to this, he made and then deleted some particularly turbulent and questionable posts

for context, the frerard fight happened on august 22, 2007, and gerard and lindsey got married on september 3, 2007 (just four months after gerard was engaged to eliza)

gerard and lindsey are married on the last night of the projekt revolution tour.

mcr takes a break for one month after this, where we can probably safely assume that freshly-married gerard and frank did not plan on seeing one another.

i think this was very troubling for frank for many different reasons. gerard had just freed himself of the eliza situation and here he was making the same mistake again. he was on the verge of losing his dearest friend yet again, and i believe that despite his best efforts, he could not get through to gerard.

obviously, gerard and lindsey are still married to this day. however, many fans might be aware of what happened between her and mikey. there's also a lot of other questionable information about lindsey circling the web, but that's a different story for another time.

weeks later, similarly to the eliza situation, shitsubou-shita makes and deletes the following posts on his original blog (this was prior to the creation of iamthemodernprometheus):

Friday, September 21, 2007 Abandon hope, all who enter here... What the fuck happened? Why didn't I see this coming? I made a point to keep out of it this time, but at what cost? I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place, it's a lose/lose situation. I've always been honest with you, shouldn't that work both ways? What's with the double standards? People are starting to notice. I'm not talking about kids, I'm talking about people in their mid 20's and 30's. People with life experience who can see the cracks starting to show. What am I supposed to say? I just dont have the answers. How can I reassure them when I need reassurance myself?

he says "i made a point to keep out of it this time" which seems like a reference to the situation with eliza i mentioned previously. he alludes to the idea that fans are beginning to notice the band's dynamic is not the same anymore. this was specifically around the time when "frerard" moments came to a pretty abrupt end.

he says "i've always been honest with you, shouldn't that work both ways?" which can be interpreted in a few different ways. he may feel deceived due to his best friend's sudden marriage. however, the intensity of the language used in this post shows he probably had some very intense feelings toward the situation.

it seems like the writer was having a considerably difficult time coping with these feelings. a day later, this post is made:

Saturday, September 22, 2007 Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Bullshit. I've always been a smart ass, even as a child, although my mom would prefer to use the term precocious. I've always had trouble keeping my mouth shut, I'm an open book, completely ingenuous - secrecy and circumvention are not my style. But then I've never experienced extreme paranoia. So I'm writing this blog. I know you will never read it, I wouldn't want you to. Not everything is about you. This blog is for ME, a perverse catharsis, I need this right now to preserve the small amount of sanity I have left. A blog fuelled by disappointment, frustration, confusion and dejection. I am not laying the blame at your door. The burden of blame is mine. I didn't speak up soon enough. I didn't want to rock the boat, I've been there before. I didn't want to fight or endure days of being given the silent treatment. Its not fair on the others. Why do you always make everyone feel like they have to take sides? If I had been a better friend, I would have stepped in regardless of the consequences. I acted selfishly because I didn't want to lose you, but ironically, I may have lost you anyway. I meant every word I said at the diner and although I didnt show it, your smirk and glib response hurt me more than you will ever know. I don't know who you are anymore. I cant seem to find the right words. Nothing I say seems to reach you. You are wrong. I DO care. I love you. I refuse to give up on you and I refuse to let you push me away. I am going to fight for our friendship, you aren't the only one with a stubborn streak. We are in this together, for the long haul, I promise. I want my friend back. I miss him.

it seems like whatever the writer is feeling toward the subject of this post goes beyond the boundaries of a typical friendship. the final paragraph says everything we need to know.

we can assume that based on this post's mention of meeting a diner, that frank and gerard likely met up during their month-long break to talk about the way things went down

lastly, i know there's at least one interview floating or blog post around where frank says he was a difficult teen and a pain in the ass as a kid, but i can't find it right now. if anyone has the link to that i would love to add it here, because i remember it sounding pretty similar to that first paragraph.

Sunday, September 23, 2007 Is the pen really mightier than the sword? And so you continue to blog, as do I. The difference is, I am not hurting anyone. I'm just trying to gain some perspective while you are publicly making a fool of yourself. Your words are hungrily devoured and dissected by the masses, you seem to revel in the chaos and controversy. At the moment your identity is pure speculation, but have you thought about the consequences if anyone was able to prove your identity? Not just for you, but for all of us? Have you lost your mind? How can you be so selfish? You have become a self obsessed megalomaniac. I know what I get out of writing my blogs - but what do you get out of writing yours? Do you even bother to read the comments? Some of those comments break my heart. These aren't just nameless, faceless strangers, these are real people with real lives and real feelings. These are the people that allowed us to bring our music into their lives. These are the people that we see on tour, the people that wait outside for hours in the cold and rain just to meet us, the people that write us letters and make us scrapbooks, the people who care enough to bake us cookies and brownies, the people that send us birthday cards and bizarre, crazy ass gifts, the people that have given us their love and support, the people that cheer us on, the people that made us. Why are you so hellbent on destroying not only yourself, but everyone who loves you? You wanna see how far down I can sink? Your mom called last night - and I lied to her. After everything she has done for us, I lied to her. How do you think that made me feel? Do you even care?

this last post, for me, solidifies the identities behind each blog. it is so clear through the details in this post. to me, it seems like frank was hurting so bad, and in such a vulnerable place, that he completely let his guard down and made this post.

the mcr lyric included "You wanna see how far down I can sink?" is undoubtedly mind-boggling and speaks volumes to how carelessly obvious frank was (maybe intentionally?) willing to be

there's so much to unpack in this post and i honestly can't even begin to wrap my head around it. i would love to hear anyone's opinion!

later in the post, it seems clear that he is referencing the iam-mayonaise blog and gerard's seemingly wreckless posting. but mostly, i think he was lashing out due to pain of betrayal after losing the closest person to him and someone he deeply loves not once, but twice.

again, it's hard to believe how obvious he was being here, but i really think it was a result of the pain/suffering he felt

if you scroll back up to the first screenshot of this post, you can circle back around to when he removed his entire profile after making this final post, eventually rebranding to "iamthemodernprometheus"

the its-mayonaise account makes this post on september 30, seemingly as a response. the title could apply to frank, who as we all know, was gerard's best friend and right-hand man. the rest of this post can be interpreted in many different ways, so you can make whatever you want out of it:

however, the last paragraph does give me pause... i would love to see/create a full analysis of this post, but i'm trying to stick to facts here so you can form your own judgement

after gerard's wedding and mcr's month long break, they play two shows in mexico (oct 4 & 7, 2007) and then the hoboken show takes place, where frank yells "lie to me" during i'm not okay and seems very low energy and unlike himself

i believe things gradually improved between them after this point, but i'm not sure if their connection was ever completely the same.

conclusion/my opinion

coupled with all of the other available evidence about gerard/frank's tumultuous friendship/relationship/situationship, i think this information strongly alludes to the idea that at the very least, frank had some very intense feelings for gerard that were not fully reciprocated. i would love to hear what anyone else's opinion is on this topic, because it definitely isn't discussed often

i think it's completely heartbreaking (especially with everything else we know) but i do think their incredible connection is a massive contributing factor to mcr's legacy

if you notice any inconsistencies in this post or have any questions, please send me a message! i want to keep this as consistent, comprehensible, and well-sourced as i can!

lastly please follow me if you liked this! i spent months researching and compiling sources for this post and i would so appreciate it <3

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Don't you see that Spare Me Your Mercy was all about love from beginning to end? The only question was what kind of love.

Dr. Kan introduced a love that was wild, indigenous, communal, and, most importantly to the plot, extralegal. Here I discussed my observation about the rural-specific parallels between acceptance of death and acceptance of queerness, and now finished with the series I stand by it firmly. Tew had assimilated into an upstanding individualistic perspective as he left his rural upbringing for the metropolitan world to find acceptance for himself, the kind his mother had for him but few others amongst the male leadership in his hometown. Kan tries to offer him a perspective about connection to the world that would allow him to live in his hometown and withstand the grief and suffering of a queer life.

It struck me watching the finale, and hopefully struck many other viewers, that much of what Kan said about euthanasia's legality in his confession to Tew applies equally to the state of queer love historically: "Is the law wrong?;" "It's legal in other places," "The law never understands the inequality, the lack of resources, the suffering." Its an ethical view that puts others humanity first before society's rules.

The question looming over the series was how Tew would process his mother's death. As your local queer tragedian, I love the artistry with which the show answers the question (without killing off our gay lovers). Tew confesses his love as he drives his paramour to jail in handcuffs. That is the essence of Tew's love. His love is a prison for people to suffer in for his own pride. He's deeply selfish @respectthepetty pointed out in a conversation with @poetry-protest-pornography, and so is his style of love--or style of cathexis, as bell hooks (my rural buddhist scholar crush) might label it, adapting from psychologist M. Scott Peck. Cathexis is the investment of feelings or emotions into someone often confused with love, what's been translated in Buddhist literature as attachment. Acted upon, cathexis is obsessive, controlling, and possessive. Those tendencies might serve an emotional purpose in establishing the early stages of a relationship (puppy love is fun!), but left unchecked they can also lead to things like, you know, tapping your lovers' car and following them. Right, Tew?

That's what intrigued me about the development of the pair's relationship. It integrated the layers of paranoia inflecting Tew's character. His police investigation, his reticence about his own queer expression back in his hometown, and his egotistical approach to relationships all braided together. Kan loses the pen Tew gifted him, for example, and it ignites suspicions for Tew of murder, being outed, and Kan's fidelity all at once. Meanwhile, the doctor, whose demeanor and open flirtation mark him as out and comfortable with his sexuality, knowingly accepts Tew's double-dealings hoping while he's doing it the detective will discover the kind of love and acceptance (of queerness and euthanasia) that Dr. Kan has found.

The genre of BL that SMYM skirts made Kan's perspective seem especially possible, and I, for one, felt riveted by the real mystery of where the show would land between its bleak murder-mystery and romance genres. Personally, I think we BL fans need to become more comfortable with the breadth romance can truly cover rather than simply getting mad at tragic love and ambiguities. Shows like SMYM and Only Friends are delivering masterfully executed series, but our aversions to difficult characters, duplicitous writing, and tragic plot structures have people failing to recognize their skill or purpose, entirely. Let me tell you that having gay tragedies that aren't about people dying because of homophobia is JUST AS RADICAL as gays with happy endings.

SMYM depicts a variety of queer men's lives. They come from different backgrounds in different generations. They've faced different obstacles and led imperfect lives. They've hurt some people and helped others. And they've committed to different approaches to understanding how people are meant to help with the experience of suffering based on their queer experiences but not solely. This is the story of how their views come to a head. It's tragic and an exceptionally well-done detective series that provokes incredible questions if you're willing to let go of the idea that series are here to make you, personally, happy rather than something to engage with.

*Unrelated note to all this, but I'm also appreciating how the song used, Northern Breeze (thanks @thaisongsengsub for translating here), has a lot of relevance about the fleeting nature of love and life, but it's also the same tune as Daisy Bell (A Bicycle Built for Two) which was FAMOUSLY sung by the robot HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey when they euthanize it shut it down.

[literary-motif]

Sunflower (NSFW)

Zaros Atha'lin x Reader

Your first time, with Zaros.

Warnings: (brief) slut shaming

Despite the annoyance you initially felt at having Zaros around in your home, you eventually grew to like having company in the library. It was your favorite place in the entire palace. The high-reaching bookshelves filled to the brim with ancient knowledge and hidden gems gave it the soothing air of your personal paradise. 

You had always excelled at theoretics, partly because you spend the majority of your time leafing through these books, reading the wisdom penned on their pages. Perhaps it was a privilege of your upbringing that you were so free in exploring these treasures of great minds while the world around you was stuck in the daily grind, hurrying through the day with scarcely enough time to even look up at the sky and appreciate the stars. 

It was no wonder that the library was empty most of the time. Nobody besides you had the time to study its contents leisurely, but now that Zaros was here — adamant to catch up on the years he, too, had neglected the complicated world of theory to focus on the reality around him — you had found a companion who shared your passion for knowledge. 

In a mockery of your usually elaborate debates, he liked to bounce ideas off of you, asking your opinion on the subject he had just read about or simply anything that it had prompted him to think about — foreign policy, tradition and modernism, art movements, poetry, Serullian values, the social system, the noble families — which in turn, caused you to examine your beliefs more closely when you defended them against Zaros’ naturally differing ones.

The constant bickering and teasing did not annoy you as much anymore. It had been years since you had last seen Zaros, so it took time to get used to being constantly challenged once more. Still, there were instances where he got your blood boiling with just a casual comment or a particular tone of voice. 

He knew you well. That was the problem. 

He knew what to say to get you to scowl. He knew what got you to react in a certain way, and although you tried desperately not to lose yourself to the person he brought out in you — it had been years, after all. You had changed; you had grown despite him still looking at you as if barely a day had gone past — some things never changed, and Zaros latched onto those, riling you up until you became who he saw you to be.

Your teases had brought you closer together again. The preparation for the trials, the debates, the endless hours spent together in the library — it had all accumulated to a tension none of you could ignore anymore. It felt as if the air between you was laden, the tension rising and rising. You had read in one of the books on natural science that it discharged through a spark, and you felt it break through when you crashed your lips to his. 

Zaros reciprocated the kiss immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer. You could feel his smirk, the fondness in his caresses as he ran his hands over your back and shoulders before cupping your face and deepening the kiss. It left you breathless. You melted under his touch as he cradled your head and kissed you senseless. 

Distantly, you realized the swaying steps you both were making. Zaros led you backward until your back hit the lavish wooden door to your chambers. He made no move to open it, instead raising his hand to the back of your head and kissing you against the door. You grasped his sherwani as he deepened the kiss, your trapped position giving him all the advantages as he took his time exploring your mouth. 

“Zaros,” you murmured when he pulled away, tilting your head upward to have better access to your neck, “not in the hallway. Someone could see.”

“Let them look,” he answered calmly, latching his lips to your neck and nibbling gently. 

You stifled a moan, your thought process momentarily lost as the feeling of Zaros’ lips on the tender flesh of your neck had you shivering. The reaction he could elicit from you made him smile against your skin. He loved watching you unravel. He could not wait to see you fall apart in his arms. 

Using the moment of brief respite, your hand shot out to grab the door handle, making both of you stubble into your chambers as the door at your back moved inward. 

You dragged Zaros inside fully, shutting the door again, this time trapping him against the wood with a passionate kiss. He hummed in surprise at the unexpected fire in it, wrapping his arms around your neck a moment later as you swiftly turned the key. You moved your hands to grasp his shoulders, pressing him against the surface, the breathy chuckle escaping him telling you how much he enjoyed it. 

“I’ve been dreaming of this,” he breathed genuinely, gaze never wavering from yours as he brushed a hand through your hair. Your lips parted in a silent gasp. Reality was catching up with you. 

The vulnerability of his admission had you shifting on the spot, suddenly entirely out of your depth. You had never done this before, and having Zaros here, so close to you, anticipating something you did not entirely know how to give him, made you nervous. 

You averted your gaze, loosening his arms around your neck as you backed away slightly, fiddling with your garments as you anxiously wondered how to proceed. 

Zaros chuckled, your nerves drowning out the fondness of his laugh, your shifting eyes shying away from him, hiding the expression of patient adoration in his eyes. To you, he sounded mocking, condescendingly ridiculing you as he said, “I suppose you’ve not had much practice. Don’t worry, I will take care—” 

“I can’t afford to be the slut of Serulla now, can I?” you spat at him, angry and embarrassed at the fat that Zaros could see through you so effortlessly. 

Your deepest insecurities were laid bare for him because he knew you inside out, and you loathed that it was so easy for him to find the chips in your armor and leave you barren and defenseless. Lashing out was your default reaction, a defense mechanism that you had never managed to learn how to suppress, and you knew just as well where to strike to make him hurt, although he had more tact in hiding it. 

Zaros’ smile dropped, hurt shining in his eyes as his gaze searched yours, trying to understand what he had done wrong to turn your gentle affection back into burning acid.

“I have an image to uphold, after all. Unlike you, you Leech!” you finished, relishing Zaros’ flinch at the spiteful nickname. 

He cleared his throat, taking a deep breath to collect himself before tightening his jaw and swallowing his bitter disappointment. He should have known. You would always look down on him, seeing him as nothing but a pawn in your game, a tool to use to further yourself. 

It hurt, having the person he loved most in the world — ironic since you despised him so — look at him as if he were worth less than the dust accumulating on your precious books.

Still, if this is what you wanted for your own gain, if this was what you needed — the reason you had kissed him in the hallway, the purpose behind drawing him into your chambers — if you wanted to take advantage of him being at your disposal, willing to give you pleasure as the slut you saw him as, he would indulge both you and himself just this once. 

He had imagined it often enough, making you moan and writhe in ways you never had as he applied all his superior experience to take you apart before piecing you back together again. In his fantasies, you had looked at him with a gaze drenched in love, and Zaros silently steeled his heart against the disdain he expected to see instead. 

Your eyes widened when you saw Zaros fall to his knees, looking up at you with a muted smirk. “If you wanted me on my knees, Earis,” he said, hands reaching up to caress your thighs, “all you had to do was ask.” You took a step back in shock. His hands fell back to his sides as he narrowed his eyes at you quizzically. 

“What are you doing?” you asked shakily, scoffing at him kneeling before you. “Get up, who do you think I am?” You reached out a hand. Zaros eyed it wearily for a moment before accepting it, allowing you to pull him to his feet again. 

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” he said quietly, staring at your joined hands. You sighed, interlocking your fingers as you followed his gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, squeezing his hand, “I— I never meant to insult you, it just— I can’t stand it when you mock me— I can’t change my circumstances! What do you expect? Do you think I’ve ever found someone I trust enough to be completely vulnerable around? How could I?”

Zaros sighed, pulling you into a hug. He could feel your thundering heartbeat against his chest. “I wasn’t mocking you,” he said, “I was simply stating facts. I would never hold this against you.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, burying your face in his neck and wrapping your free arm around him to pull him closer, “I— there’s nothing wrong with— uh—”

“Being a slut?” he asked, drawing back to raise an eyebrow at you. “Or would you prefer to call me a whore instead? How about a leech?” 

“Zaros—”

“I’ve been called worse, you know,” he said, brushing some wayward strands of hair out of your face, “but it still hurts when you say that to me.” 

You gaped at him, slowly understanding how deep Zaros’ affection for you ran. You opened your mouth, but the words were stuck in your throat as you gazed at him. Could it be—?

“I will only ask this once—” Zaros began, needing to know what game you were playing with him, needing to understand what it was you wanted from him.

Your choked muttering caught him off an instant later, “Do you love me?”

He inhaled sharply, your hand on his back keeping him from backing away. You looked at him intensely. Zaros bit his lip, avoiding your gaze. “Technically, you should answer my question first,” he said. You tilted his head up, forcing him to look into your eyes. They were pleading with him, and despite everything, he never had the power to deny you. “Yes,” he whispered, quietly enough that you could have imagined it. 

It only took a heartbeat for you to kiss him again, pouring all the desperation and yearning of your heart into it, willing him to understand that you felt the same, that you always had — that he was the only person in this kingdom you trusted enough to see all of you. 

He hesitated when you began pulling him towards the bed. The cozy blankets and puffed-up pillows adorning it looked inviting to sink into. “Are you sure?” he asked, remembering your previous nervousness. “We don’t have to. Not right now, not ever, if you don’t want to. There is no pressure.”

“Yes,” you answered, tugging him forward again. This time, he complied, following you to the bed until you stood at the edge of the mattress, Zaros in front of you. “I— uh,” you stuttered, feeling your cheeks burning from embarrassment, “I don’t know how to— what to— um—”

He smiled at you, careful not to betray how cute you were right now, bashfully flickering your eyes to him before averting your gaze again. You were adorable. “There is no right way to do this,” he said, caressing your cheek to put you more at ease, “we can do what we want, how we want it. There are no guidelines. Anything you’re comfortable with, or what you would like to try, what you would like me to do to you” — he added, leaning closer to your ear to tease you some more — “we can do.”

“What would you like to do?” you asked instead, easing into the situation and fighting your nervousness by running your hands up and down his chest. Zaros sighed contently, reassuring you enough to free the top buttons of his sherwani.

“I’m open for anything,” he said, taking your hand and pressing a tender kiss against your palm, “but I suggest going slow. How about you get comfortable on the bed, hm? I’ll take care of you.”

You scrambled to obey, sinking into the soft mattress of your bed and looking up at Zaros, his chest now bare as he discarded his clothes to the side of the bed before joining you. He took his time, patiently adding your clothes to his on the floor, stripping you naked with kisses and caresses that had you melting under him, entirely forgetting about your anxieties as Zaros occupied every thought in your head.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, stopping his trail of kisses down your stomach to look up at you. The softness in his eyes made your heart stutter for a moment, and you realized that Zaros — dashing, humorous, intelligent, kind Zaros — was the gentlest lover anyone could ask for. “Earis? Do you want to stop?”

You shook your head, not trusting your voice enough to keep steady when he looked at you like that. 

He chuckled, pressing his lips to your lower stomach. “Use your words, my heart.” His hands brushed over your hips, angling your legs as he knelt between them. “Do you want to continue?” he asked, propping himself up to look down at you, his face only a few inches from yours. 

“Yes,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. You could feel him smile against your lips, a soft moan escaping him as you tangled your hand in his hair.

You felt his cock brush your entrance as he moved against you, making you gasp. “I’ll go slow,” he reassured you, waiting for your mutter of compliance before beginning to ease himself into you with languid thrusts. 

Your arms around him tightened at the stretch, the feeling of being filled a new sensation that had your head spinning with how good it felt. “Zaros—” you choked, sinking your nails into his back when he stopped moving, having entered you fully. “Don’t stop, keep going.”

“Relax,” he murmured, panting as you gripped his cock so tightly, he worried he would come undone in an instant. 

Honoring your wish, he started slowly thrusting again, patiently dragging his cock in and out of you, making sure you felt every movement, every minuscule throb, to the fullest. 

He wanted to build your pleasure up slowly, making sure you felt content and loved as he took his time to get you to the brink, only quickening his thrusts when you urged him on, telling him to go faster as you scratched his back, kissing him to muffle the moans tumbling from your lips. 

“I—” you gasped, holding onto him tighter as you clenched around him. 

The feeling had him hissing in pleasure, snapping his eyes up to look at you and memorize the blissed out expression on your face. A moan escaped him at the sight of your glazed-over eyes and heaving chest, clearly about to come. “Let go. I’ve got you,” he reassured you, feeling his own pleasure intensifying as your eyes rolled back, falling apart under him with a shudder. 

He came a moment later, kissing you sweetly as he prolonged your pleasure for as long as he could until you were shaking from overstimulation. 

“That was—” you began after Zaros laid down beside you with a breathless sigh of contentment. “Wow,” you finished lamely, feeling his arms snake around your waist before pulling you into his side. 

He chuckled, angling his head to place a kiss on your forehead. “Eloquently put,” he teased, kissing you to stifle the retaliation already at the tip of your tongue. “And I agree,” he continued before you had a chance to interrupt him, “I enjoyed this very much. Is there anything you need? I’d like to feel you close for a moment longer.”

You shifted your head to lay on his chest, looking up at Zaros with an expression of pure love and infinite appreciation. “Thank you,” you mumbled, giving him a sleepy smile. He felt his heartbeat picking up, cheeks reddening at your lovestruck expression. It was so much better than he could have ever dreamed of. 

[pillow-anime-talk]

I meant nsfw 41 and hades with fem plz

Sry about that

# tags: scenario; current marriage relationship; romance; smut; goddess!reader; a bit of ooc!hades; nsfw

warnings: mention of sex, vanilla sex, sex on deck, in clothes, praise kink, body worship, wet kisses, pet names

includes: female reader ft. hades {ror}

author’s note: hades, my beloved

41. “Of course. I am yours. Only yours.”

You were in the middle of reading the fifth volume of novels written by Erato – the Greek Muse who specialized in romantic poetry. Her books were some of the best you’ve ever read; they always had the same strong effect on your mind, soul and body, causing tons of blushes, smiles, and sometimes tears of various emotions. But after a few more minutes, you put the tome down on the table next to your huge chair covered with sheepskin, then stretched your muscles with a quiet grunt. You decided to leave the enormous bedroom smelling of roses and silk, and then walked a dozen more steps to finally find yourself in your husband’s office.

The room was dim, and the only light that fell on the wall was there thanks to several candles placed on special, high metal stands. The room smelled of clean paper, pen ink and perfume your partner had used for hundreds of years. With a smile and love in your eyes, you looked at the tall god sitting in the middle of the room by the desk and then said ‘Hello’ to him. Hades just nodded with a soft smirk, and after a short second he invited you closer. You took pride of place on his massive thighs.

“What’s wrong, my Queen? Are you feeling unwell or hungry?” He asked, bringing his face closer to you, then leaned against your shoulder, inhaling the pleasant scent of floral perfume. Your presence gave the Underworld many colors, sounds and smells.

“I just missed you.” You answered honestly, pushing your back tighter into the man’s warm chest. “Is it wrong or indecent? My Lord?” You asked, turning slightly to face him. Your cheeks were rosy and your voice sounded like birds singing in the morning. There was an amused glint in your eyes, and your hands were warm and smooth. The pen that had been in the dominant hand of the King of Death hit the oak wood, and its owner brought your body much closer to his; this time Hades’s hands didn’t touch the papers but your hips. “Oh?”

You were the Goddess of Lust, Fertility and Family Harmony. So it was obvious that your dear husband always warmly received your not so obvious gestures or requests. You were extremely beautiful and incredibly intelligent; your person could easily compete in beauty with Aphrodite, Apollo or Eros.

“You always show up when I miss you the most and want you the most...” He whispered again, gently kissing your earlobe. “Are you doing this on purpose, my dearest?” He asked lightly amused, and you merely twisted your body so that you could look at the face of the God of the Netherworld in his full glory.

“I just feel your thoughts, Hades.” You replied, allowing the two of you to kiss after a short while. The touch of his hands was gentle, peaceful. Yours, on the other hand, is a bit more greedy and self-confident, so you decided to undo the buttons on his maroon shirt. Visible abdominal muscles caused another pretty blush on your nose, and you only brought your hips closer to the massive crotch. “Can we do it here?” You asked, looking out of the corner of your eye at the dark desk.

Hades would never refuse his Queen. He quickly pushed aside the documents that are worth nothing to him at the moment, and then tenderly placed your body in the middle. He pushed your legs apart in one move, placing himself between your soft thighs. Another kiss – a little harder and longer – led to your underwear being pushed to the side. After a short second, between the next dozen of kisses, your husband lowered his pants and underwear, and his wet cock touched your pussy.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” He asked softly, touching his forehead to yours. You nodded confidently.

“Of course. I am yours. Only yours.” You replied, sighing a bit as you felt a pleasant warmth between your legs. “H-Hades.” A meek moan escaped your lips as his hips moved for the first time. Soft, yet strong and deep.

“You are perfect.” He said, catching your hips in a tight grasp one more time. “The most beautiful, the sweetest. I love your body and lips. My precious Queen.”

A lovely smile appeared on your face as Hades sped up and you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist. Light bites, firm grips on your body, deep breaths.

This moment could last forever for the two of you.

[shhh-secret-time]

We need more of that Soulmate stuff! Can we get one with Stan??? I've such a weakness for our goth boy!

Oh and thank you for writing gn! It's such a small thing but it makes me feel good to read! 🫶

Of course you can! I love Stan and soulmate shit so literally any excuse! I'm glad my writing makes you feel good darling!

Warning: Strong Language, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, over use of the word skin and flesh, and a single shit excuse for poetry

Pairings: Stan x GN!Reader

The most annoying habit Stan had was chewing his bottom lip, so many things of lip balm used to try and repair his lips. Little discarded tubes of flavors that were the foulest thing he'd ever tasted, it was Kyle's idea, if it tasted bad maybe he could trick his brain into stopping the habit.

The second annoying habit was drumming his fingers on his desk, he was especially bad about it when he was younger. That was before the little marking on his skin started popping up. Little words and doodles on his forearm dancing on his skin. At first it freaked him out, he was fourteen and these weird little tattoos were popping up on his skin and then disappearing.

The third annoying habit was never learning to not go to his father when he didn't understand something. One would think after it backfiring so many times Stan would learn to go to his mother when he had questions. To his credit Randy did give him an answer. It just led to a whole ordeal of him telling the entire fucking town that his son has a soulmate and that his son was just like him when he was fourteen. It was embarrassing and he hoped that whoever his soulmate was didn't hear it.

Apparently, the little doodles and grocery shopping lists on his forearm was his soulmate’s handwriting and boy did they love to draw on their arm. Stan would be out in the football field practicing his throws when he'd feel the light brush of the pen across his arm. Which always lead to him fumbling a pass. Maybe he had to thank his coach for all the times he yelled at him because it was after one practice that he finally started marking on his arm back.

At first it was just to try and get whoever his soulmate was back. Taking a sharpie to the underside of his forearm, the big blocky letters spelled S-T-O-P. He remembers tugging down his sleeve with a grumble, thinking he would be free from the torment. Little did he know this was a declaration of war.

You were sitting in the science lab when it happened, working on your assignment when the letters appeared. Up until then you never saw something like that happen, so when it did you nearly dropped the beaker. Soulmate or not, who did they think they were to send such a passive aggressive message?! You excused yourself and hurried to the bathroom, ignoring the look of your partner. You pulled up your sleeve and glared down at bright silver words.

Stan furrowed his brows as his eyes scanned over the new message.

"Who uses a silver sharpie?! Are you kidding me?!" You hissed.

Well, you couldn't take that sitting down, could you? Your hands dug into the pockets of your pants to pull out the pen you always kept on you. Dragging the tip of the cheap pen across your skin, you wrote your little soulmate a loving note.

"Eat shit."

The font lit a fire in him as his eyes narrowed. Stan took the lid off the sharpie and drew a crude middle finger on his palm. Once he was satisfied with it, he pulled his gloves back on, maybe his soulmate didn't have gloves and would have to deal with that.

From then on Stan carried that damn sharpie everywhere. He would be in the middle of talking with his friends about something when he'd feel your words sketch onto his skin again. He would stop even if he was in the middle of something just to read whatever rude thing you'd come up with. It was Kyle who finally approached him about it.

"Dude you're gonna get ink poisoning." Stan almost missed the way Kyle scolded him, to focused on writing.

"I don't care Kyle! They're insulting the Broncos!" Stan hissed back.

"How did you even get on that topic?" Kyle rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I-...I don't know but I'm not going to just let them shit on my favorite team!" He looked up towards his best friend, Kyle could see the fire behind those blue eyes and almost chuckled.

"This person is supposed to be your soulmate, ya know? Like your forever partner."

"I know that! But it's like they know exactly what to say to get under my skin!" Stan groans as he caps the sharpie and slumps back against the park bench. "I mean...was it like this for you? You found yours recently."

The red head raised a brow at his friend, the question catching him off guard. "Hm...no? We got along pretty much instantly. Guess it helped they found me before I found them?"

Stan watches as Kyle presses a thumb into his palm. A warm smile plays across his lips as he rubs the golden letters. Rumors of Kyle and his soulmate spread quick, they were the talk around campus for a while much to Kyle’s dismay.

"But I get what you're feeling."

"You fight with your partner like this?"

"What? No! Not yet at least...I mean it's bound to happen eventually, but I mean the thing you said about their words getting under your skin." Kyle shook his head making the green straps on his head swing back and forth. Before Stan could respond Kyle held up his hand and continued. "They'll text me or say something to me and it just...feels like my heart is going to explode. The first time we kissed it felt like my skin was on fire, it felt intense. So... I think that might just be a side effect of having a soulmate. Everything is kinda turned up to eleven."

Stan just sat there and listened to him. He pushed his hands in his coat pocket and squeezed the sharpie, letting the words sink in. Leave it to Kyle to make him think about it more. Stan responds with a long sigh.

"... Maybe."

"Hey at least you can talk to yours. We had to go based off each other's thoughts...it's hard keeping my thoughts in control."

"Yeah, I don't know if I could live with that, probably end up cutting my hand off." Stan chuckles and looks down at his forearm.

Maybe he could swallow his pride a little and just take it easy. It certainly made sense now why your words were having such an effect on him. If everything was turned up to eleven like Kyle said, then maybe he needed to take a step back and try something else.

It wasn't until he was sitting in class bored again that he got the idea. He even went out of his way to use a different marker, one with a smaller point. Pressing the tip to his arm, he watched the bright blue ink bleed into his skin. Stan didn't really know what to write, it was hard to go from writing stupid insults and drawing crude things to something just mundane. He pressed his lips together and stared hard at the little blue dot until his hand started moving. Stan wrote best when it was in song lyrics or his poems.

Watercolor running down my skin.

It's supposed to feel cool but all it does is make my head spin.

You get under my skin like fire.

The tip of your pen bleeds me like sharp wire.

He pulls back and looks down at it with narrowed eyes. Stan can already feel the warm embarrassment spreading over his face and up to the tip of his ears. Quickly pulling down his sleeve again, he tried to push it out of his mind for the rest of the day. An hour went by before he felt that all too familiar feeling, it was something he was getting used to at this point. He looked down and his eyes widened in awe.

"Did you write that? It's good."

No smart-ass comment about his poetry. You didn't make fun of him for putting his words in a silly simple format. You just complimented it. Stan could feel his heart speeding up as he re-read the small sentence under his poetry over and over again.

"Yeah. I'm not good at communicating normally."

"Poetry is just easier for ya huh?"

"That or music."

"Really? You play?"

Stan grinned down as he started running out of room on his forearm, having to move to the surface of his arm now. His face getting closer to his skin as he hunches over his desk to keep writing.

"Yeah, guitar and a little bass. They're kinda similar."

"That's cool!"

"Do you play any?"

And soon his entire arm was covered in back and forths. Talking about music to whatever else the two of you could come up with. He learned about all your hobbies just as you learned his. You started keeping a little journal of all the poems he wrote you, all the little songs he'd write down across his. It was when you'd wake up to a poem, first thing in the early mornings. The sunlight caressing your entire body, wrapping you up like a hug.

The poems spoke of things like how he was excited to talk to you throughout the day. Asking you if blue was starting to become your favorite color. Did you think of him when you saw it? Things like how he was so happy to see you respond and that he thinks of you every time he strums on his guitar. You were just thankful he couldn't hear your heartbeat or see the way he made your face flush.

But there was that longing to finally see this person. You learned your partner was a he but the thought of asking him his name didn't seem to matter. It was like you'd known him your whole life, and because of him blue was starting to become your favorite color. So one night as you sat at your desk, you decided to just go for it.

"Hey. I just thought about how I don't know your name!" You had to move to writing with your non-dominate hand which made your handwriting a little shaky.

You giggled at the little doodle that came up next to your statement. It was a horrible drawing of Kirby pointing at the writing, but his face was scrunched up in disgust.

"I dunno. Didn't think about it."

You waited after reading his sentence, thinking he was going to continue. Nope. Nothing.

"Well, what is it??" You asked as you doodled next to the Kirby, a little frog wearing a hat joining the fray.

"It's Stan."

"What?! No way!"

You circled Stan's name with your pen and drew a bunch of exclamation marks. You knew a Stan; he was the quarterback at your university! He had three little friends that always seemed to follow him! He was the kid who brought a guitar to-

He brought a guitar to class sometimes.

He wrote in his notebook when he thought no one was watching.

He made your heart beat and the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

He was your soulmate.

Did he even notice you like you did him? Did he know you sat across the room from him in history? Or that you were his soulmate? Of course he didn't! He doesn't even know your name.

You break out of your spiraling thoughts when you see the blue ink across your skin again. "Pretty sure way. That's the name my mom gave me."

"You know what I mean dick! I know you! You're Stan Marsh! You live on that farm that's like an hour away from here in South Park!"

There was nothing for a while. Maybe you shouldn't have said all that, but the faster your heart sped the faster you wrote. You didn't think to slow down until you looked back at how hastily everything was written.

"You go to my university, don't you?" He asked.

"South Park college. Go cows." You doodled a little cow next to the response hoping to relief a little tension.

"Go to Stark Pond in an hour."

"What?! Dude it's like 6:30! I can't just leave this late!"

"I wanna meet you and I don't wanna wait. I'm already in my truck."

You could tell from the way the letters were spaced out and slanted. It was almost gibberish, gibberish that had your blood pumping. In a manner of seconds, you learned the name of your soulmate and you were actually considering going out. It would be around seven thirty before he actually showed up. You bit your lip and looked over at your car keys but only for a moment. When the thoughts of how he wanted to meet you were so bad he was willing to drive out again to see you. To see who you were. The fear of disappointing him did cross your mind, what if he hyped you up too much.

You knew Stan Marsh. You knew how pretty he was and how he could make a group of people follow him. You knew he had those beautiful baby blue eyes that seemed to go forever.

God you loved the color blue.

With a huff you grabbed your keys and put on some decent clothes. You waited at Starks Pond for that hour, you could have stayed home to wait but your anxiety wouldn't let you. Not the way your heart was still pounding, every minute that passed felt like agony. Pulling your jacket closer to your body, you almost leapt out of your skin each time a car would pull up; only to be disappointed when anyone that wasn't Stan got out or drove off.

When finally, a beat up brown truck pulled up next to yours. Your breath hitched when you saw movement, breathing out when you saw a familiar pair of red shoes. A blue hat that looked well-loved over shaggy black hair.

He was standing by the water looking around, he looked as nervous as you felt. Just when he thinks you're not coming do you finally find the strength, the feeling, in your legs to step out of the car. The cold air nipping at your skin, it felt like ice right now from the way your skin set ablaze. The sounds of your footsteps crunching against the snow makes him look back and his jaw drop.

"It's you."

"It's me." You respond with a little smile, your voice barely above a whisper.

Stan takes the initiative and meets you halfway, the two of you meeting on the worn out walking trail. It isn't until he steps into the moonlight that you realize he's not wearing his jacket, but you notice the ink going up and down his arms.

"You actually came. I didn't think you would."

"I almost didn't...it's cold you know." You shoot him a little smirk, changing the tone in your voice to a lighthearted tease.

Stan let's out a breathy chuckle, you can see the little puff of air that escapes his lips. He takes a step closer towards you. You can feel the heat coming off him, radiating around your body. "Yeah guess it is. Forgot my jacket."

"Were you that excited?"

"Are you kidding? Yeah! It's not fair you knew what I looked like!"

And when you giggled Stan felt himself walking on air. The way you made his heart soar from that alone. He'd never write something funny on his arm again, if he had something funny to say you'd hear it just so he could hear that laugh.

"Then I hope you're not disappointed."

"Wh... what? Of course I'm not disappoint- You have no idea how much I'm trying not to throw up right now."

"What?!"

"No! Hold on! That came out worse than I meant! I mean I'm nervous because- because you're so beautiful and-....and I'm fucking this up, aren't I?" You watch the panic in Stan's eyes as he scrambled to try and find the right words.

You broke his mind when you laughed again. If your hands didn't come out to take his he would have bolted, ran off to find hole to crawl into. Instead, your hands anchor him to that spot, your smile brings him back down just for him to get lost in your eyes.

"You do suck at communicating." You whisper and press a kiss into his cheek.

"Uh...yeah well...you're the one kissing me. So ...I must be doing something right." Stan mentally kicks himself for that comment, but he can't help that little competitiveness in him.

Stan doesn't let you get whatever you're about to say out, his lips meet yours eagerly. He knows whatever you're about to say is only going to make his face turn a deeper shade of red. When he pulls away and sees your eyes are shut and your lips still slightly parted from the kiss, he knows he's already in deep. Especially when you cupped his face and brought him in for another.

Everything felt like being turned up to eleven. Everything felt right. You felt right being in his arms like this. He never wanted to come down from this feeling and he was sure you felt the same.

[whencyclopedia]

Marie de France

Marie de France (wrote c. 1160-1215 CE) was a multilingual poet and translator, the first female poet of France, and a highly influential literary voice of 12th-century CE Europe. She is credited with establishing the literary genre of chivalric literature (though this is contested), contributing to the development of the Arthurian Legend, and developing the Breton lais (a short poem) as an art form. Marie's published works include:

Lais (including the Arthurian works Chevrefueil and Lanval)

Aesop's Fables (a translation from Middle English to French) and other fables

St. Patrick's Purgatory (also known as The Legend of the Purgatory of St. Patrick)

She was trilingual, writing in the Francien (Parisian) dialect with a command of Latin and Middle English. Her lais were developed from the earlier Breton lais poetic form and so she must have also known Celtic Breton and been acquainted with Brittany. Her works influenced later poets, notably Geoffrey Chaucer, and her imagery in St. Patrick's Purgatory would be used by later writers in depictions of the Christian afterlife.

Marie's works were popular in aristocratic circles but frequently featured lower-class characters as more worthy and noble than their supposed social superiors and always cast women as strong central characters. Her vision of female equality has led to her designation as a proto-feminist in the modern day, and her works remain as popular as they were in her lifetime.

Identity

Her actual name is unknown – `Marie de France' is a pen name given her only in the 16th century CE. All that is known of her comes from her work in which she identifies herself as Marie from France. Based on details in her work including knowledge of place names and geography, and the sources she drew from, scholars have determined that Marie spent a significant amount of time in England at the court of Henry II (r. 1154-1189 CE) and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine (l. c. 1122-1204 CE).

Scholars suggest Marie may have been Henry's half-sister who perhaps followed him from Normandy to England when he was crowned king in 1154 CE. The Lais of Marie de France are dedicated to “a noble king” who is most likely Henry II but precisely how Marie meant this dedication is unclear. Marie's poetry often features women imprisoned or otherwise poorly treated by men and this theme mirrors Henry's relationship with Eleanor.

Throughout their marriage, Henry was unfaithful to his wife numerous times and carried on an open affair with the noblewoman Rosamund Clifford. When Henry's sons rebelled in 1173-1174 CE with Eleanor's support, the king had her imprisoned for the next 16 years. This same sort of relationship, often with similar details, appears in a number of Marie's works. Further, Henry does not seem to have been as fond of poetry and poets as his wife was and so an interpretation of Marie's dedication as sarcastic is probable.

In modern-day scholarship, Marie is almost always credited with establishing the genre of chivalric literature, but this seems unlikely as her works clearly draw on a pre-existing tradition of courtly love literature whose central motifs she inverts. In courtly love poetry, the knight is seen rescuing the damsel in distress; in Marie's works, the knight is often the one who has imprisoned her in the first place or, sometimes, the one in need of rescue.

Continue reading...

[elsewhereuniversity]

They Gentry call her Magpie.

A wordsmith with a love of poetry, a crafter of trinkets, a clever bird with a glittering hoard and too many wits for her own good. She was an easy mark, once, easily lured by shiny baubles and flowery words, a prize songbird fit for slaughter. But, like all corvids, she was both smart and loud; she knew when she was being tricked, and fled into the Library squawking bloody murder, a clarion call for whatever aid could be spared. Her emergence was a storm of reflected light and righteous fury, the grudge of a corvid whose flock had been pestered for far too long. She took back what was hers and then some; her new boundaries clearly drawn in salt and spilled blood. She is a thief, the Gentry say, and she wears her namesake well.

To her fellow students she is Rook, Jackdaw, Raven, Bluejay, Crow - any number of avian names, so long as they are Corvidae in nature. She is an English major with Forbidden friends, a charmsmith of feathers and iron, a poet with a silver tongue, a friend to the crows. In her early days at Elsewhere she was a wanderer lost, pale pink stars on a denim jacket winking out far too fast. A memory lost was found and repurchased, an act of open rebellion which caught the Gentry’s ire. A damascene knife made quick work of the shadows, but that wasn’t the only darkness she faced. Seasonal depression followed her Elsewhere, and a month without a sky takes a toll on the mind. A golden pin now adorns a jacket sewn with stars, and the miniature sun which lights her steps has led many out of the Gentry’s clutches. Webcutter may be her primary weapon, but a phoenix-feather quill or a blown-glass pen are just as deadly in a poet’s hands.

The Gentry call her Magpie. Thief. Enemy.

The students call her Murder.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

The poetry that inspired Jeff Buckley

Aimee Ferrier

Sun 1 October 2023 21:15, UK

Voices as incredible as the one belonging to Jeff Buckley don’t come around too often. Unfortunately, after releasing one record, Grace, Buckley, with all his potential, was taken away too soon. At the age of 30, the singer went for a swim from which he never returned, drowning in the Mississippi River.

Yet, his legacy lives on as one of the most influential artists to emerge from the 1990s, and his music is widely celebrated today for its emotional and lyrical complexity. Not only did Buckley possess an otherworldly voice, but he was also an extremely gifted guitar player and writer, with all his talents combining to create a masterful body of work.

Even when Buckley was covering other artists’ songs, such as ‘Lilac Wine’, ‘The Other Woman’ and ‘Hallelujah’, he imbued the pieces with his own distinctive style. Yet, his penchant for covers wasn’t a reflection of an aversion to writing. Buckley knew how to pen a stunningly poetic track, with songs like ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ and ‘Morning Theft’ suggesting that even if Buckley didn’t have the vocal pipes he was gifted with, he’d get by just fine as a writer.

Buckley took inspiration from many different writers and musicians when writing his own songs. Musically, Buckley looked back to folk artists like Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan and, of course, his own father, Tim Buckley, from whom he was estranged. Elsewhere, he loved the work of Pakistani singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the rich tones of Nina Simone, and Led Zeppelin, calling Robert Plant “my man”.

However, when it came to his literary inspirations, Buckley had an extensive book collection, which he no doubt looked to for ideas when writing his lyrics. He owned a lot of poetry, with Rainer Maria Rilke proving to be a particular favourite. Not only did Buckley own Dunio Elegies, Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties: Translations and Considerations Poems from the Book of Hours, but he also owned his epistolary collection Letters to a Young Poet.

Buckley was also a fan of the classic American poet Walt Whitman, owning Leaves of Grass and From the Soil. Of course, no poetry collection is complete without copies of Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell and Illuminations, alongside some Charles Baudelaire – Buckley-owned Paris Spleen. The singer also owned the Selected Poems of confessional poet Anne Sexton and modernist writer T.S Eliot.

Check out Buckley’s complete poetry collection below.

The poetry that inspired Jeff Buckley:

Dunio Elegies – Rainer Maria Rilke

Poems from the Book of Hours – Rilke

Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties: Translations and Considerations – Rilke

Leaves of Grass – Walt Whitman

From This Soil – Whitman

The Odyssey – Homer

Early Work, 1970-1979 – Patti Smith

You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense – Charles Bukowski

Selected Poems of Ezra Pound

The Complete Lyrics – Hank Williams

A Haiku Journey: Basho’s Narrow Road to a Far Province – Matsuo Basho

Paris Spleen – Charles Baudelaire

The Captain’s Verses – Pablo Neruda

Selected Poems – T.S. Eliot

A Season in Hell and Illuminations – Arthur Rimbaud

Writing and Drawings – Bob Dylan

Ode to Walt Whitman – Federico Garcia Lorca

New Poems: 1962 – Robert Graves

Fear of Dreaming: The Selected Poems – Jim Carroll

Selected Poems of Anne Sexton – Anne Sexton

Selected Poems – John Shaw Neilson

Selected Poems: Summer Knowledge – Demore Schwartz

The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara – Frank O’Hara

Poems – Pier Paolo Pasolini

Space: And Other Poems – Eliot Katz

Tim Buckley Lyrics

[buffetlicious]

The Dragon Boat Festival or Duan Wu Jie (端午节), is also known as Duan Yang Jie (端阳节), which means “Upright Sun” or “Double Fifth” (重午/重五). Falling on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month around the summer solstice which happened to be 10th June 2024 this year. The festival is also commonly referred to as the Fifth Month Festival amongst the Chinese. Its origins can be traced to southern China, and festivities include boat races and eating rice dumplings. The festival had evolved from the practice of revering the river dragon, to the commemoration of Qu Yuan (屈原), a third-century poet and political figure of the state of Chu in ancient China.

Legends and Myths - River Dragon (蛟龙)

The dragon was initially viewed as the benevolent spirit of the waters. It exemplified the masculine principle or yang in the Chinese ideology of harmony. Among common folk, it was believed that the River Dragon (蛟龙) controlled the rain and was thus worshipped during the summer solstice. Requests would be made for a balanced rainfall – sufficient to ensure a good harvest, without over-abundance that would cause destructive flooding.

Legends and Myths - Qu Yuan (屈原)

Primitive worship of the river dragon was often practised during the summer solstice. The Dragon Boat Festival was associated with Qu Yuan’s story only in the second century. Qu Yuan (屈原) was a poet and a statesman for the Chu kingdom (楚国) during the Warring States Period (战国时代). He served in high office and he advocated a policy of aligning with other kingdoms against the dominant Qin. However, political intrigue led Lord Huai to banish Qu Yuan instead. The ministry was left in the hands of corrupt statesmen and Qu Yuan helplessly watched his motherland decline. Depressed, he penned beautiful, patriotic poetry such as Li Sao (离骚) which means Encountering Sorrow, an allegorical poem stating his political aspirations and Jiu Ge (九歌) or Nine Songs, which gained Qu Yuan great renown.

With his top adviser gone, the king fell for the trickery of the Qin and his kingdom was eventually conquered. Upon hearing that his kingdom’s capital had been overtaken by the Qin, Qu Yuan committed suicide by drowning himself in the Mi Luo River (汨罗江). As he was adored by people everywhere, the local people did everything in their power to try to either save Qu Yuan, or at the very least, to protect him in the afterlife.

Hereupon the legend varies. Some suggest that fishermen at the scene attempted to save their minister. Having failed, they sought to appease his spirit by throwing rice stuffed in bamboo stems into the river to prevent the fish from eating Qu Yuan’s body. Others say that the rice offerings were snatched by a river dragon and the rice had to be bundled in chinaberry leaves instead and tied with five different coloured silk threads in order to be effective. The triangular Rice Dumplings (粽子) thus became entwined with the festivities. Another version tells of farmers rowing out in dragon boats in their attempt to save Qu Yuan. Hence, Dragon Boat Racing (赛龙舟) has been held annually on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, in honour of the memory of Qu Yuan.

Or if reading through a wall of texts is not your cup of tea, here is a pictorial guide to summarize on the history of Qu Yuan (屈原) and how we ended up celebrating Dragon Boat Festival (端午节) with dragon boat racing and rice dumplings on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month.

All images are from the internet. Selected text info from here.

[valentiyne]

𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗆𝖾 ☆ 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗎𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽

Calum Hood x Fem!Reader Summary: Inspired by Right Where You Left Me by T.S, angst angst angst Warnings: Swearing Word Count: 2k Copyright © 2023 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

*Italics refer to a flashback sequence & listen to voicemail after

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻

May 2014

"What do you mean you're leaving?", I grab onto his upper arm, pulling him to turn and face me.

Calum's chocolate eyes were filled to the brim with tears now, avoiding my gaze for as long as possible. I'm sure he was wondering how I found out- it's not like any of his friends were great at keeping their mouths shut.

"Cal, answer me", I plead now, my grip tightening around his forearm. He didn't meet my eyes for what felt like an entire hour. I stood in front of him, my chest rising and falling as quick as it could without fail.

The rest of the group sat inside, wrapped around a table as they shared good memories with their closest friends. It didn't take long for me to catch up on what was really going on. The last-minute dinner reservation with everyone, Luke's apologetic eyes, and Michael's sympathetic look painted the picture for me- They took the world tour offer.

"Calum please," His name was unfamiliar to me now.

His eyes finally meet mine and my breath gets caught in my throat. They were darker than usual, his cheap cherry-scented cologne filled my nose and I wanted nothing more than to embrace him.

"I don't know what you want me to say", He finally speaks, his ring clasped hand reaching up to push his hood forward on his head.

"When are you leaving?"

"We leave tomorrow"

"For how long"

He hesitates, looking down at me with a deadpan. "I don't know"

May 2020

I look down at the stack of papers on my desk, my head rushing with thoughts that I couldn't bring myself to write down. I click the pen vigorously, my eyes squeezed shut as I try and forget everything.

In my head, I was still there in that restaurant. Even 6 years later.

"Y/n?", My assistant, Kat, calls from the other side of the door and I groan to myself, sliding out of my chair and closer to the door. My hand rests on the metal handle, retracting quickly as it reminds me of a familiar metal clasped hand.

"Yes?", My voice is weak, barely above a whisper and I mentally curse myself as soon as It slips past my lips.

I could hear her shift between two legs, her shy voice peppering up a little louder, "You asked me to remind you to take your dinner break."

I thank her kindly and turn my back to the door, sliding down on to the floor and hitting the soft carpet with a thud. I could hear my phone vibrating on my desk, mentally rolling my eyes to the fourth scam call of the day. I was stuck, I had no idea what I was going to do with myself anymore. Hung up on the one who got away with no explanation of any sort.

I tried for six years to get it out of my head: numerous therapy sessions, taking on poetry and even going on walks.

But everything led me back to that restaurant at the same time every night.

It was a family-owned Italian restaurant that we had found one afternoon after school, Calum begging me to try it with him. It had become a routine of going there any chance we could, even if it meant in between his band rehearsals.

I walk down the familiar rode, looking at every painful memory that surrounds me. From the tree that we carved our initials in to the bench he threw up next to because he stupidly convinced the bartender to serve underage us.

I push past the familiar door, smiling at the hostess at the door. They all knew the routine, coming in every day at 7:41 p.m. and sitting at the booth up until 8:39- the exact moment he walked out those doors for the last time.

The restaurant was busy tonight, multiple people packed at the door complaining about the long waitlist. I strode past them nevertheless, keeping my head down as I made my way to the tiny table in the corner.

I look up, expecting to be met with the collection of dust and cobwebs welcoming themselves in my- our spot. I didn't realize I wasn't breathing until my chest began to feel like it was erupting in flames. I exhale heavily and pull my eyes away from his, turning on my heel to dart back out through the maze of people.

"Y/n", His voice is breathless, standing up quickly causing the silverware to clatter on the plate and the wooden chair to fall backward. I halted in place, his voice was deeper now and it still danced around my head.

Everything felt like it was in slow motion as I turned around and faced him. His hair was longer now, curling all around his face and down the crook of his neck where my head used to lay. I blink once, then twice before my mouth opens.

"Calum." I give him a nod, my hands shaking as I stare at him. It felt like looking at a stranger, someone I used to know all about and yet none at the same time.

He's the first to make a move, walking one step forward.

"I didn't think you'd show up," his voice was quiet now as he stared at me across the resturaunt at me. I adjust my purse on my shoulder, staring back at his doe-eyed boy in front of me.

"This is my spot", I murmur under my breath with a nervous laugh. I take the next step, noticing his arms widen to pull me into a hug which I politely declined. I brushed past him, my shoulders rubbing his chest as I set my purse down on the floor and scooted into the wooden chair. He turns to face me again before slowly walking to the other side and placing his chair upright, his eyes glued to me. He sits down in the chair and folds his arms on top of the table. In front of me was a large bottle of red wine, something Calum knew better than anyone else I hated.

"What are you doing here, Calum?", I whisper, my breath making the vanilla-scented candle in the middle of us wiggle.

He stirs his water with his straw, looking down now, "I wanted to see you."

He was admitting the very words I begged to hear for 6 years

I stare up at him, my eyes lowering into a squint.

"You have some nerve," I spit out, my eyes beginning to water as my throat burns. "I waited for you for over six years, in the very seat you're in now. And what? You show back up after 6 years of zero contact?"

He rolls his sleeves up, showing off the various ink that stained his arms. Brown eyes looked back at me in confusion, earning a scoff from me before he could speak, "Zero contact? I- Y/n what are you talking about?" His voice was lowered now as numerous people were walking past.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." I never thought this day would come- the day I could tell him everything without repercussions. The worst that could happen is him staying gone this time.

"No, Y/n. I called you every single day for the past six years", he pulls his phone out and begins scrolling. I sit in silence, not wanting to feed into his lie.

"Look", he shows me his screen, all the call logs, and voicemails overflowed the screen. I stared at him for as long as possible, my eye twitching slightly at the sight.

"I called three times a day for over 6 years- you were the one not answering"

I grab my purse from the floor, digging through it rapidly to find my phone. I meet the cold metal with my fingertips and rip it out, scrolling through it frantically before finding his contact name.

"CalPal" is read and I smiled to myself slightly, scrolling down to the bottom of the contact card to see the very words I wish I hadn't.

Unblock Caller

I stared in disbelief, looking up quickly to meet his eyes slowly with my mouth hung agape.

"What? I never-"

"I did."

I look at him in shock, my eyes widened as I try and form a sentence. I wasn't quite sure what to even say.

"Wh-"

He cuts me off now, his hand raising up to speak, "I blocked myself off your phone all those years ago, I couldn't bear the thought knowing I left" He pauses, looking between both of my watery eyes before continuing, "It was selfish of me, but I knew in my heart....I .. I couldn't imagine not coming home to you every night." His voice wavered towards the end of the sentence

"How could you...?", I start with a meek sob, my hand clasping over my mouth to silence myself slightly. "Why would you do that?" My voice is louder now.

"Because I was scared- Knowing I'd be leaving you here and not knowing when I'd return" He was disappointed in himself, his voice barely audible as he looked back down at his phone.

"I sat here for years, Calum, scrolling through every single fucking concert video or update account until my fingers were numb- all for what? To save yourself from facing the guilt?"

He cleared his throat and kept his eyes glued on the vanilla-scented candle in front of us that was almost out. I couldn't make out the expression that was plastered on his face: guilt? sadness?

"I'm sorry, Y/n. I had no choice", He stands up now and I match his movements, snapping my hand up to his forearm as I had last time we were in this exact position.

"Don't..Don't leave me here again Calum- I don't think I can survive this heartbreak again."

He looks down at his forearm with a deadpan, looking back up at me.

"Calum, Please. Answer me." My voice was wavering as I tightened my grip on his tattooed arm. His pupils were enlarged as he stared down at me, his chest rising and falling as though he was mentally battling with himself inside his head.

"CalPalll!", I hear a squeal from behind us. His eyes widen for a brief moment before he tears his arm from my reach, whirling around to where the voice is coming from. He was met with a tight embrace and a sloppy kiss on the lips by a brunette with kind eyes. It all happened so fast, that I wasn't even sure what I was looking at until he pulled away with guilt written all over his face.

My nickname. Different girl.

I nodded a few times, reaching down to grab my purse slowly all while keeping my eyes on the doe eyes looking back at me. I looked over my shoulder at the table set for two behind me, suddenly understanding everything.

He invited her here- to our spot. He didn't expect me to show up

"Y/n...", He starts and I raise a finger in response, adjusting my purse onto my shoulder before pushing past him with a harsh shoulder check.

My heels clicked on the pavement, throat closed up as I passed by the bench and tree one last time. I look down at my phone, noticing the time with watery eyes.

8:39 p.m

New voicemail in your inbox: 2 hours ago from CalPal

[simslegacy5083]

Today's (12/3/2024) Episode: Career Day

“You got 2 minutes kid, then I’m dragging you off by your little camera bag!” Gretchen called when career day rolled around. Skye was lagging behind as he tried to talk Elyse into attending. Unfortunately, despite it officially being “mandatory” she was having none of it.

“I already know what I’m going to do when I age up. I want to be a famous writer, penning fantastically popular poetry.” Elyse said as she refused to budge from the student lounge sofa. “Maybe I’ll even have my own star on the Del Sol Vally walk of fame someday, just like your dad!”

“That’ll be awesome!” Skye enthused, “but maybe you could come along just to see what author or publisher contacts might help with that?”

“I’m good.” she waved her hand as if to shoo away his concerns “Now go get some photos before your partner over there spontaneously combusts!”

Skye turned away, shooting one last worried look over his shoulder at his best friend before following Gretchen out the main doors of the school and down the short path that led to the auditorium.

The pair entered to find the space transformed, with many tables highlighting different careers setup in a semi-circle around the floor. Gretchen made a beeline for the booth directly in front of them, which was staffed by a portly sim wearing a big bright smile.

“Hey old man!” she grinned “Glad you could make it. This here…” she gestured his direction “is Skye. He and I have been tasked with trying to make this whole shindig look and sound interesting for the next edition of the school newspaper.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Skye” Theo stuck out a hand in greeting. “Gretchen knows more than she wants to about my day job, but if you’re going to be writing this up for the paper, I feel obligated to give you the official spiel.”

Theo’s description of the business behind entertainment convinced Skye that he would never want to follow in Gretchen’s fathers' footsteps. Theo seemed to love what he did, but it sounded boring and stressful to Skye. All those meetings, all those difficult personalities, all those deadlines…!

In an effort to come up with something nice to say he told the other sim “That sounds fascinating. My Grandpa Peachy actually worked with your studio to film a mini-series shortly before he passed. They still air reruns of it on the comedy channel sometimes.”

Skye didn’t think Theo’s practiced smile could get any wider, but at the mention of his grandfather the other sim practically beamed “So you’re the “little blue baby” my favorite elder comedian couldn’t stop talking about! If it wasn’t for him my sweet pea Gretchen here might never have been born you know.” 

“Dad!” Gretchen groaned “No nicknames today, you promised!” “Sorry, sorry, I forgot” Theo replied, not looking sorry in the least. “Well Skye, can you take an official photo of me with our “intrepid interviewer” for her article before you move on?” Skye nodded, quickly snapping a pic of the pair.

At the next booth Skye discovered a career that sounded way to dangerous for him to ever consider, as well as another family connection. This sim seemed much less excited to learn that Skye was related to an old work colleague than Theo had been.

“Oh yes young lady, I remember your Grandpa Jack.” Geoffrey stammered, suddenly nervous. “He was a good agent and an all-around good sim. You be sure to tell anyone who asks that I haven’t forgotten the deal I made with him and his husband. You can count on me!”

Gretchen looked at Skye, waiting to see if he’d correct Geffrey’s incorrect gender assumption, but Skye didn’t seem to notice. In truth, Skye had noticed but quickly decided he wasn’t bothered by it. Instead of correcting the strange S.I.M.S agent he simply nodded and thanked Geoffrey for his time, grabbing another picture before following Gretchen to the next booth.

At the end of the afternoon the duo made their way to the very last table, which was staffed by a physician working with T. Pose Medical associates.

Gretchen had just started her interview when Skye felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning he was surprised to see Elyse. “Hey, bud!” she said with a glum smile. “Principal Early stalked the halls and forced even those of us with our careers firmly settled to show up.” She sighed. “What a waste of time.”

Reading the sign on the table in front of them she groaned again “Ugh, I hate doctors. They are SO unnecessary. I read that vampires never get sick, and witches can brew up all sorts of potions that can cure just about anything.” Skye nodded even though that didn’t seem right.

After all, Great Grandpa Don was an ancient immortal mage and he had asthma just like Skye, but he didn’t want to argue about it with his friend.

Skye just had time to grab one final snapshot of the young doctor before the last bell rang signaling the end of the fair and the school day.

“OK kid, you ready to go put this article to bed?” Gretchen asked him once they’d made their way back across campus to the main building. “Sure, let’s do it. Come on Elyse.” Before she could respond Bruce came walking up behind them.

“Our lady of darkness will catch up with you later; she and I have a detention date.” Skye frowned at them “Did something happen to you guys?”

“Nothing to worry about” Elyse grinned ruefully “Just Principal Early throwing her weight around at the kids who didn’t waste the whole afternoon gabbing with office drones!” Waving goodbye, she headed down the hall with Bruce while the others made their way upstairs.

“….annnd that’s a wrap!” Gretchen said a couple hours later “You took some great pictures; I think dad is going to love the one you got of the two of us. You know, he’s got charisma to spare but he doesn’t really take to many sims the way he did you. Maybe you’d like to…” 

She stopped mid sentence when Skye suddenly jumped up, phone in hand, a big smile on his face “That was Elyse. She’s done with detention and asked me to meet her by the front doors. We always teleport home together. I think we’re done, right?”

“Yeah, we’re done kid, good night.” Gretchen replied, her own smile now replaced with an unreadable expression.

“You sure? It sounded like you had a …” Skye said, but she cut him off. “I’m sure. Go get your girl.” “Oh, she’s not… I mean we’re just … do you think she might…” Skye stammered “I think you need to get going. Shoo!” Gretchen waved him away before turning back to the computer.

“What, are you too good to be seen with me now?” Bruce asked, failing to hide his hurt when Elyse told him to get lost before Skye showed up.

“Of course not, but I want to talk to Skye about what I missed at newspaper club today, since I was stuck in detention with you, and I don’t need you interrupting us every 5 seconds with your snide remarks.” she replied, giving him an apologetic smile. “I’ll stop by and hang with you later tonight.”

“Fine, I’ll go, but one of these days you’re going to realize that I’m a much better match for you than little boy blue will ever be” Bruce barked, turning on his heel and storming out the door only a minute or two before Skye appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

He excitedly told her all about his day, although he made sure not to mention being mistaken for a girl at the S.I.M.S booth, or the odd way Gretchen had said goodbye. He felt like he was getting the hang of keeping Elyse happy, and if that meant holding back a few thoughts and feelings that bothered her, he could handle that. She was worth it.

I was able to get additional booths at career day by using the career day overhaul mod by Ilkavelle

Theo and Geoffrey just happened to spawn randomly for their respective booths, which was a nice little stroke of luck! Theo was there for the Public Relations branch of Social Media, the same career I put Brad (the Gen 1 spouse who was a Get Famous NPC Producer when my Gen 1 Heir, Willow, met him) in once I brought him into my household. I use that since Get Famous didn’t come with a career for the business side of things; only acting.

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[justforbooks]

Paul Auster

Author of The New York Trilogy who conjured up a world of wonder and happenstance, miracle and catastrophe

The American writer Paul Auster, who has died aged 77 from complications of lung cancer, once described the novel as “the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy”. His own 18 works of fiction, along with a shelf of poems, translations, memoirs, essays and screenplays written over 50 years, often evoke eerie states of solitude and isolation. Yet they won him not just admirers but distant friends who felt that his peculiar domain of chance and mystery, wonder and happenstance, spoke to them alone. Frequently bizarre or uncanny, the world of Auster’s work aimed to present “things as they really happen, not as they’re supposed to happen”.

To the readers who loved it, his writing felt not like avant-garde experimentalism but truth-telling with a mesmerising force. He liked to quote the philosopher Pascal, who said that “it is not possible to have a reasonable belief against miracles”. Auster restored the realm of miracles – and its flip-side of fateful catastrophe – to American literature. Meanwhile, the “postmodern” sorcerer who conjured alternate or multiple selves in chiselled prose led (aptly enough) a double life as sociable pillar of the New York literary scene, a warm raconteur whose agile wit belied the brooding raptor-like image of his photoshoots. For four decades he lived in Brooklyn with his second wife, the writer Siri Hustvedt.

The fortune that drives his stories played a part in his own career. City of Glass (1985), the philosophical mystery that launched his New York Trilogy and his ascent to fame, appeared from a small imprint after 17 rejections. Though the novel helped build his misleading reputation as a cool cult author, a moody Parisian existentialist marooned in noir New York, it had a pseudonymous forerunner that shows another Auster face.

Squeeze Play, published under the pen-name “Paul Benjamin” in 1982, is a baseball-based crime caper. Its disconsolate gumshoe, Max Klein, muses that “I had come to the limit of myself, and there was nothing left.” If that plight sounds typically Auster-ish, then even more so was the baseball setting. Auster adored the sport and played it well: “I had quick reflexes and a strong arm – but my throws were often wild.” In a much-repeated tale, he failed aged eight to get an autograph from his idol Willie Mays, of the New York Giants, because he had not brought a pencil. Auster “cried all the way home”.

Auster’s work is more deeply embedded in the mid-century national culture that fuelled the novels of his elders, such as Philip Roth and John Updike, than some advocates appreciated. His fables of identity-loss and alienation have emotional roots in the mean, lonely city streets he knew when young. He once insisted, to fans and scoffers who labelled him an esoteric “French” or European coterie author, that “all of my books have been about America”.

He was born in Newark, New Jersey (also Roth’s hometown). His parents, Queenie (nee Bogat) and Samuel Auster, children of Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe, set him on a classic American path of upward mobility through education while remaining, to their son, opaque. The Invention of Solitude (1982) was Auster’s haunting attempt to imagine the life of his impenetrable father. Ghostly fathers would pervade his work. As would sudden calamity. When, aged 14, he witnessed a fellow summer-camper struck dead by lightning, the event became a paradigm for the savage contingency of life, “the bewildering instability of things”. His later novel 4321 (2017), which revisits this formative trauma, cites the composer John Cage: “The world is teeming: anything can happen.” In Auster’s work, it does.

At Columbia University in New York, he studied literature, and took part in the student protests of 1968, before moving to Paris to scrape a living as a translator of French poetry (a surrealist anthology was his first published work). He lived – literally in a garret – with the writer Lydia Davis, and returned in 1974 with nine dollars to his name. Back in New York, they married, but were divorced in 1978, a year after the birth of their son, Daniel. Poetry collections followed, but Auster’s thwarted efforts to secure a decent livelihood meant that he gave his ruefully funny 1997 memoir Hand to Mouth the subtitle “a chronicle of early failure”.

In 1982, he married the novelist and essayist Hustvedt (who recalled their courtship as “a really fast bit of business”). She became his first reader and trusted guide; they had a daughter, Sophie. Husband and wife would work during the day on different floors of their Park Slope brownstone, and watch classic movies together in the evening. Auster wrote first in longhand, then edited on his cherished Olympia typewriter.

The New York Trilogy (Ghosts and The Locked Room followed a year after City of Glass) made his stock soar, and attracted both celebrity and opportunity.

Auster wrote gnomic screenplays for arthouse films (Smoke, Blue in the Face, both 1995), even directed one (The Inner Life of Martin Frost, 2007). But it was the enigmatic, hallucinatory aura of his fiction – in 1990s novels such as The Music of Chance, Leviathan and Mr Vertigo – that defined his sensibility. Sometimes this trademark style could veer into whimsy or self-parody (as in Timbuktu, 1999, with its canine hero) although stronger novels – such as The Brooklyn Follies (2005) – always pay heed to the pulse, and voice, of contemporary America. Keenly engaged in current affairs, Auster held office in the writers’ body PEN, deplored the rise of Donald Trump, and spoke of his country’s core schism between ruthless individualism and “people who believe we’re responsible for one another”.

Auster the exacting aesthete was also a yarn-hungry storyteller. If he edited a centenary edition of Samuel Beckett – a literary touchstone, along with Hawthorne, Proust, Kafka and Joyce – he also compiled a selection of unlikely true tales submitted by National Public Radio listeners. They revealed the strange “unknowable forces” at work in everyday life. In his epic novel 4321, the formal spellbinder and social chronicler meet. It sends a boy born in New Jersey in 1947 down four separate paths in life: an Auster encyclopedia, ingenious but heartfelt too. Bulk and heart also characterised his mammoth 2021 biography of the Newark-born literary prodigy Stephen Crane, Burning Boy.

The ferocity of fate that scars his work gouged wounds into Auster’s life as well. Daniel succumbed to addiction, accidentally killed his infant daughter with drugs, and died of an overdose in 2022. Auster’s cancer diagnosis came in 2023. Prolific and versatile as ever, in that year he still published both an impassioned essay on America’s firearms fixation (Bloodbath Nation) and his farewell novel, Baumgartner. Its narrative hi-jinks dance smartly over a bass chord of grief.

Auster populated a literary planet all his own, where the strange music, and magic, of chance and contingency coexist with love, dream and wonder. In Burning Boy, he wonders why Crane’s output now goes largely unread, although “the prose still crackles, the eye still cuts, the work still stings”. After 34 books, so does his own.

Auster is survived by his wife and daughter, and a grandson, and by his sister, Janet.

🔔 Paul Benjamin Auster, writer, born 3 February 1947; died 30 April 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[denimbex1986]

'Writer and poet Benjamin Zephaniah has died aged 65, after being diagnosed with a brain tumour eight weeks ago.

A statement posted on his Instagram account confirmed he died in the early hours of Thursday.

The statement said Zephaniah's wife "was with him throughout and was by his side when he passed".

"We shared him with the world and we know many will be shocked and saddened by this news," it added.

Zephaniah was born and raised in Handsworth, Birmingham, the son of a Barbadian postman and a Jamaican nurse. He was dyslexic and left school aged 13, unable to read or write.

He moved to London aged 22 and published his first book, Pen Rhythm.

His early work used dub poetry, a Jamaican style of work that has evolved into the music genre of the same name, and he would also perform with the group The Benjamin Zephaniah Band.

As Zephaniah's profile grew, he became a familiar face on television and was credited with bringing Dub Poetry into British living rooms.

He also wrote five novels as well as poetry for children, and his first book for younger readers, Talking Turkeys, was a huge success upon its publication in 1994.

On top of his writing work, Zephaniah was an actor and appeared in the BBC drama series Peaky Blinders between 2013 and 2022.

He played Jeremiah "Jimmy" Jesus, appearing in 14 episodes across the six series.

Zephaniah famously rejected an OBE in 2003 due to the association of such an honour with the British Empire and its history of slavery.

"I've been fighting against empire all my life, fighting against slavery and colonialism all my life," he told The Big Narstie Show in 2020.

"I've been writing to connect with people, not to impress governments and monarchy. So I could I then accept an honour that puts the word Empire on to my name? That would be hypocritical.

He often spoke out about issues such as racial abuse and education.

When he was younger, Zephaniah served a prison sentence for burglary and received a criminal record.

In 1982, Zephaniah released an album called Rasta, which featured the Wailers' first recording since the death of Bob Marley.

It also included a tribute to the then-political prisoner Nelson Mandela, who would later become South African president.

In an interview in 2005, Zephaniah said growing up in a violent household led to him assuming that was the norm.

He recalled: "I once asked a friend of mine, 'What do you do when your dad beats your mum?' And he went: 'He doesn't.'

"I said, 'Ah, you come from one of those, like, feminist houses. So, what do you do when your mum beats your dad?'"

In 2012, he was chosen to guest edit an edition of BBC Radio 4's Today programme.

Zephaniah was nominated for autobiography of the year at the National Book Awards for his work, The Life And Rhymes Of Benjamin Zephaniah, which was also shortlisted for the Costa Book Award in 2018.

During a Covid-19 lockdown, Zephaniah recited one of his poems in a video for the Hay Festival.

"Benjamin was a true pioneer and innovator. He gave the world so much," the statement announcing his death said.

"Through an amazing career including a huge body of poems, literature, music, television and radio, Benjamin leaves us with a joyful and fantastic legacy."

A statement from the Black Writers' guild, which Zephaniah helped establish, said: "Our family of writers is in mourning at the loss of a deeply valued friend and a titan of British literature. Benjamin was a man of integrity and an example of how to live your values."

Others paying tribute included author Michael Rosen, who said: "I'm devastated. I admired him, respected him, learnt from him, loved him. Love and condolences to the family and to all who loved him too."

Actress Adjoa Andoh posted: "We have lost a Titan today. Benjamin Zephaniah. Beautiful Poet, Professor, Advocate for love and humanity in all things. Heartbroken. Rest In Your Power - our brother."

Peaky Blinders actor Cillian Murphy said in a statement: "Benjamin was a truly gifted and beautiful human being.

"A generational poet, writer, musician and activist. A proud Brummie and a Peaky Blinder. I'm so saddened by this news."

Broadcaster Trevor Nelson said: "So sad to hear about the passing of Benjamin Zephaniah. Too young, too soon, he had a lot more to give. He was a unique talent."

Singer-songwriter and musician Billy Bragg added: "Very sorry to hear this news. Benjamin Zephaniah was our radical poet laureate. Rest in power, my friend."

Comedian, actor and writer Lenny Henry said: "I was saddened to learn of the passing of my friend Benjamin Zephaniah. His passion for poetry, his advocacy for education for all was tireless."

Writer Nels Abbey said: "To call this crushing news is a massive understatement. He was far too young, far too brilliant and still had so much to offer. A loss we'll never recover from."

The X/Twitter account for Premier League football club Aston Villa, whom Zephaniah supported said everyone at the club was "deeply saddened" by the news.

"Named as one of Britain's top 50 post-war writers in 2008, Benjamin was a lifelong Aston Villa fan and had served as an ambassador for the AVFCFoundation. Our thoughts are with his family and friends at this time."'

[homesicktadpoles]

My Works in Progress

A little bit of background. a novel writer is what i had set on being the day i found a pen most likely, and two years ago, i fell in love with literary fiction after discovering writeblr. right now, i am left with two incomplete litfic projects that are very dear to me and fifty pages of another incomplete project. the pattern here is the word incomplete. during the full period, i felt doubtful and anxious and stuck and so impossibly caged. for the first time, i felt like i was chasing the words, not the other way around.

this year, there was a big shift within me that led me to the entrance of the poetry lands, and my heart has never been as full as it is now.

Lick the Orange Bloodbath on My Chin is a poetry collection that delves into my strangest, most profound feelings and thoughts, as well as my observations and perceptions of loved ones and living beings.

Augustina is a poetry collection that reads like you're dreaming or walking on one foot. In it, you will crawl into Coraline's little door and find on the other side not your other mother but girlhood, nature, disorientation, delusion, time, love and other things that will make you dizzy.

I am planning to share excerpts from my writings every now and then, so look forward to it.

if you are interested in being added to a taglist for these projects, please let me know, and if my page sparked something within you, please do interact. i dream to make this place a little land of its own and connect with people from anywhere, everywhere.

thank you for your dear time.

with all love and soul,

august 2, 2024