#my favorite poem is the one from his suicide dream

[pumpkinstep]

Bojack horseman is my joker, do you understand

[thantoloveandtobe-lovedbyme]

Yeah no, Pluto definitely did not die from suicide. At least, I don’t think so.

The world of Nevermore is very, very influenced by Edgar Allen Poe. For example, Prospero. In the original Edgar Allen Poe short story “The Masque of Red Death”, he was a prince, which could explain how prim and proper he acts in Nevermore, and he died from the Red Death, which at the beginning of the story is stated to be a plague. I wonder whose spectre is a plague doctor. Also, Fortunato, Duke’s stage name, was a character in the short story The Cask of Amontillado, who dies from being trapped in a wall. Sounds familiar? Anyways, my point is, a lot of names and deaths and details are inspired directly from Edgar Allen Poe.

Now, Pluto. Our beloved British catboy. Coincidentally, the name of a cat from my favorite Edgar Allen Poe story; The Black Cat.

The Black Cat is not one of the cuter stories of Edgar Allen Poe’s works. It starts with a man; he loves animals and finds a wife who loves animals too, and they both adopt a plethora of animals together. One of them in particular takes a liking to the man: a black cat, named Pluto.

The man’s life begins to go downhill when he starts becoming an alcoholic. He begins to abuse his animals just for the perverseness of it, and he becomes a lot more mean-spirited than the person he was before. One day, he comes home, and thinks that Pluto is ignoring him. In his annoyance, he forcibly picks up the cat, causing the cat to bite him slightly on the finger. This small inconvenience causes the man to become so enraged that, in his anger, he takes a knife, and gouges out Pluto’s eye.

Obviously, after this, the cat is positively terrified of the man. He avoids him as much as possible, but after about a week, it seems his eye injury has healed and is doing him no harm.

Then, just for the pleasure that doing the wrong thing gives him, one morning, the man takes it upon himself to finish the deed and hangs the poor car in cold blood.

That’s the end of the relevant section. If you want to know the rest of the story, I would recommend reading it-just search up The Black Cat by Edgar Allen Poe online and you can easily find it for free.

Anyways, what does this have to do with our beloved Nevermore Pluto?

Well, besides from the obvious similarities that Pluto shares with the Edgar Allen Poe cat, what stood out to me the most was the nature of the man. In episode whatchamacallitimtootiredtofinditrightnow, it is revealed the Pluto’s father is an alcoholic. Not only that, but enraged that Pluto wants to leave home and see the lights, he gouges out his son’s eye. Again, very close to the story. I wonder what the man did next to Pluto in that story?

I suppose it could be implied suicide due to the fact it was awakened in Pluto when he felt relieved, but remember in the story how Pluto’s eye injury had finally healed before the man killed him? It may be a far cry, but I believe that Pluto could have finally thought he was free from his father and that he made it out of his house before his father found him again and hung him. Finally relieved before it is yanked away from him. After all, that’s what he did in the story, and when he experienced the flashback of his death, he didn’t think or feel the thoughts of a relieved suicidal person (as memories of the time seem to slightly return during those flashbacks), but rather panic and fear, which would be odd if it was a suicide that made him feel finally relieved.

Also, he died wanting to go beyond the binds of society and what humanity deems is possible. If he had such a strong dream that he absolutely wanted to make happen, even present while dying, why would he kill himself and destroy his opportunity?

Honestly, I would also find it odd at this point if that wasn’t what happened. After all, the authors have been very accurate to the poems and stories of Edgar Allen Poe for the characters ripped from them. Again, Prospero and Duke, Eulalie has lavender eyes as described in her poem, and Berenice has a very heavy teeth theme like in her story. Not only that, but after following the story of the Black Cat for so long in Pluto’s backstory, I would find it odd if they changed the one thing that both Plutos were killed by if they were so accurate with Duke.

But who knows?

Perhaps I ramble like a madwoman.

[stardewvalleybut-i-draw]

I wrote a giant description of all the characters based on what my friend and I were talking about can I have your opinion:

I am going to be starting with the first post where I mention the balectors of Stardew valley. This means the characters that you are able to date and eventually marry if you want to do that. In order to reach perfection, which is the end of the game, you need to have someone live in your house with 12 hearts in order to give you a stardrop. Hearts are friendship points you can get by giving points. That is one of the two ways to gain friendship. The other is through cut scenes you get by progressing in your relationship and by saying things that make them either like or hate you more.

Anyways, onto the characters, starting with Haley who is the first person you mention. I am married to her which is because I like how her character progresses. As you gain friendship with her, she gets more nice and is open to different things then she was before. For example, she used to throw away her clothes each year but says she donates it now. She is super cute and sweet when she is married to her and it seems as though she is in love. She is kind of like a disney princess as you mention because she likes makeup and is girly. The next you mentioned is Leah who actually lives in a cottage and lives to forage and build for you. Penny is actually the opposite of what you said as she is horrible at baking and teaches the two children in town (and eventually Leo) Jas and Vincent and she also likes to read. Her mother, Pam, is abusive. But I can talk about her in a little bit. Abigail is the most popular person to marry as people like her because she is adventurous and wants to fight in the caves and is in a band with Sam and Sebstain. There is a theory that she is actually the wizard’s daughter because her mom admits to going to his tower and her dad says they do not look similar and the wizard says he thinks he might have a daughter. Abigail is also kind of a meme because if you give her gems she will say, “How did you know that I was hungry?” Basically everyone considers her cool and a meme and she is probably the wizard’s daughter. Emily likes crystals and parrots and dances and all of her cut scenes are basically fever dreams. So she is kind of a psychopath and super excited all of the time. Her and Haley are sisters and do not get along. In earlier versions of Maru, she had really curly hair and a lot of the community, including me, thinks she looks better like that. I also consider her hair to be kind of cool. She likes robotics.

Anyways, the next up is the marriage candidates for the guys. You are totally right that it is so random. Elliot is a writer and he is very attention starved as he writes you poems and is obsessed with you when you date him and writes you a book based on what genre you say you like. Harvey IS a simple man. His favorite gift is coffee so you definitely got that done. He has anxiety and never talks to anyone and tries to be better about that if you date him. So he is chill and kind of a meme because your stuff gets taken if you get knocked out in battle and he charges a thousand gold for repairing you. You were exactly right with Sebastian as he is moody and does not like people and plays video games from 10am to 10pm. Alex is sexist to you if you are a girl and is kind of arrogant about wanting to be a professional football player. So you are completely right. You are wrong about Shane, though, he is actually really mean to you and wants you to not talk to him. Most of his events are about him being suicidal and depressed and an acholicoal. One is where he wants to roll off a cliff and is drunk. Not mafia material. I do agree about his jacket, though, it is kind of cool. Even though it has a J on it which stands for Joja which is a company he works for. Joja is basically the definition of capitalism in this game. Sam is actually friends with Sebastian and Abigail and he wants to be in a band which he is in. They like to play DND and it is a thing in the community that Sam and Sebastain should be dating.

Onto the villagers. Willy is a fisherman and kind of chill so you were sort of wrong but I would definitely want to go on an adventure with him as well so actually I agree, you win. Everyone loves Robin and a lot of people are sad you cannot date her because of Demetris. You were so wrong about Demetris but the way. Robin is actually Sebstain’s mom’s but he is it related to Demetrius. Demetris hates Sebastian but loves Maru and this makes Sebastian really angry. Demeteruis also does not care about Robin who we love. Sandy is my favorite as she is lonely in the desert and really wants to spend time with you and is super confident and sweet. You are right about Pam, also, by the way. She is super abusive and drinks too much beer every night and treats her daughter, Penny, unfairly. She also speaks like she is living in texas. The wizard is kind of weird but he is also cool because of his magic. Krobus is amazing and he is the opinion for the aromantics as you can have him move into your house and he gives you hugs instead of kisses and is amazing. The dwarf hates Krobus because of a war between the dwarfs and the shadow people so he kind of sucks. Krobus is adorable. Jas and Vincent are both kind of weird like no one cares about them. I mean Jas is more interesting because she is related to Shane and Marine and Vincent is interesting because his dad, Kent, has ptsd from fighting in the war. Kent is kind of weird and has a freakout because of popcorn because of his ptsd. Pierre is not like Harvey at all, he steals credit for your crops and only cares about money and nothing else. No one really likes him. Evelyn is the nicest person ever as she makes cookies for you and says you can call her Granny. Everyone likes her so much. Jodi is kind of boring and depressed because she has no freedom and spends her entire life taking care of her kids, Sam and Vincent. Demetris is awful. Linus and Leo go together because they both like nature and are kind of connected to it. Lewis is not. He steals money from the town and uses it to make gold statues of himself. He is dating Marine and refuses to make their relationship public even though no one would care and is toxic. Also, the others you did not mention are Caronline and Clint and George and Gus so I am just going to explain them. Caroline is Pierre’s husband and might be cheating on him so you know… kind of bad… whatever. She is fine I guess, it is weird, no one really cares about her. Clint has a crush on Emily and is super creepy about it and is kind of disgusting and tries to be like a sob story so not thank you. George is super grumpy and rude and is in a wheelchair because of a mining accident. Gus is amazing and kind of knows everything about everyone.

Onto the next section, okay? Grandpa looks blue because he is a ghost who visits you in your third year. I do not like him. It is weird. The governor is actually like you think he is, he has no clue about anything and just wants to visit once a year to literally just eat soup. (I am not kidding, look it up, promise you.) Marlon is actually like you say and he has a crush on Marnie and is a perfect opinion for her. Birdie is part of ginger island and is super sweet and gives you fairy dust and you find something for her to remind her of her husband who died in a tragic accident. It is amazing to do because you get an award and it is just wholesome and kind of sad. Gil does supply items and he is like a moment away from death basically so you are right. Gunther is awesome and yeah, kind of suspicious but great. Okay. That is all of the villagers summarized for you.

Woo boy, you gave me a whole novel!

well, here are some of my thoughts:

Penny isn't necessarily bad at cooking,(from what I know) she just shouldn't experiment. She's also shy and emotionally sensitive

Emily is what I believe people call a "Cristal girl" not necessarily a psychopath, she also seems to have her "head in the clouds" and yeah, positive most of the time.

Ermm... actually☝️🤓 Harvey takes 10% of however much gold you have.

Dang, you kept Alex one short! But yeah, same thing as Hayley but with the ego and the sexism if you're a girl. He also lives with Grany Eveiln and Granpa Jorge because his mother died and the father was presumably abusive

To be fair to ghost grandpa, he's stuck haunting the farm until you can get the perfection statue so he kinda can't move on lmao!

Marlon is also a cool adventurer who will go down in the dangerous mines to get your stuff if you pay him

I wouldn't say Demetrius hates Sebastian, he just has a huge favoritism problem. He's also a very logical thinker from what I can interpret in his dialog

And to be fair to Clint... the Farmer's also kinda a stalker...in more ways than one...

But I'm not here to argue anything, I'm just sharing some thoughts. You have a right to think whatever you want about whatever character

Overall pretty good! 👍

[vellhighbandi]

what is your favourite poem (yours or someone else's)?

also guess whoo!!!

Like how am I supposed to choose one from these awesomely amazing poems I have read over time... Maybe if I hadn't come on Tumblr and my world was confined to books and irl friends I might have a had a favourite. But like. Nikamma Bhai ke baare me to hum bol hi nhi rhe vo alag league me hai apni. And Lilac, Nyx aur Simran sabdo ka kya trishul chala ke ghayal kar jaati mere paas sabd hi nhi bachte. Aur humare kavishab bhaiiiii have you read something from her. Agar inna kaafi nhi tha, to randomly koi aur mutual kuch Aisa likh jayega ki phir chaar din Tak dimaag me kuch sujhe hi na. Favorite kaise chunu yaar main. Okay so there's this child. Like adorable baby (almost 17) that wrote a poem about me. Like she wrote it on my shirt (last da jo shirt pe likhate hai) and it's bloody emotional. Like I know it is not a literary masterpiece, but emotionally that broke me. She barely.knows anything about me outside of school but that girl wrote such a beautiful journey of my school life. Imma have to give it her that poem has to be one of my favourites.

And then one of mine, me konsa mera favourite. Bhai mere saare poems meri zindagi ke kisi na kisi part se inspired hote hai. Like till now all of them have a part of me in them. Slight exaggeration, thora change in story telling but the fact of matter is everything in these poems is me. Like I wrote उमीदें when even with 98% no one in my house was happy. I wrote Lost Soul about the time in 2019 where I honestly was so lost that nothing felt right. किलकारियां was about leaving friends behind andthe friends I had made a long the way. There are like pieces I wrote about when I was suicidal and didn't see a way out, but had to persevere cause I couldn't justify my selfishness in quitting. Ghastly Men was written about an experience almost every female goes through unfortunately. Pain My Partner is a pretty self explanatory title. The Single Leaf was the story of how everyone actually goes through a similar life told in metaphor. Destiny is about my childhood dream of being an adventuring protagonist. Beautiful Right was just me simping over the idea of love. My heart shattered glass was about realising I might never be loved again. And then there was two pieces I wrote about a friend being in a toxic relationship forgetting and worth and finding it all over again. (I'm proud of that one, she cries reading that) Perfect Child is just he Burnt out kid in me venting wishing for something I'd never have. Scars are beautiful is again about scars physical or metaphorical changing how everyone perceives you as. अपना पाओगे the pessimistic in me revealing itself. Kubool ho was a collection of couplets I wrote on demand. Choices is about friendship and the worth of relationships in a world where the concept of it is foreign again a metaphors representation of a part of my life. My Beloved Moon is just be thanking all my people for inspiring me everyday in ways they didn't even know... And Crimson Mistake and The Lunar Loon was all thanks to these two kiddoes I have sort of adopted on here. So all my poems have something about them and I can't exactly choose from them all. Although I gink the first ones I wrote will always be special in some way.

(PS I'm a dunderhead at guessing. Please tell me who are you enough though I wrote a whole damn novel in lieu of a simple question)

[woundgallery]

Hunter Deely Extant Writing

I was thrilled when @wintercorrybriea messaged me to request more writing by my dear friend Hunter Deely. This post contains links to PDFs of his extant writing, as well as a reflection on his work. 

Hunter was a Texan-born poet, musician and activist who died of a heroin overdose in New Orleans in 2012. He was barely twenty-two years old when he left this world but was already one of the most fully realized, remarkable poets and souls I have ever encountered. Hunter and I met as teenagers in San Antonio, Texas where we were part of a small, fiercely devoted group of friends who bonded through art and through a feeling, suffused with the zealotry of youth, that we alone saw through the hypocrisy and banality of South Texas suburbia. For the two years we all spent together in San Antonio, we felt we held the key to a mysterious, vibrant world-beneath-the-world. Our friendships and the insights they provoked felt consecrated, shot through with passion and truth. It was a holy ground. We reveled in this hidden world, and in each other, even as the same contrarian spirit that forged our devoted kinship drew us, careening, closer and closer to the edge. In 2009, Hunter, in the full-throes of heroin addiction, left for college at Tulane. In December of that year, our beloved friend Luther Maddox committed suicide three weeks before his eighteenth birthday. Luther’s death fundamentally changed the way all of us understand the universe and our positions within it. This first, intimate encounter with death shattered the invulnerability and ecstasy of our co-authored, insular world.  Within three weeks of Luther’s death, Hunter and two of Luther’s other closest friends left for rehab. 

The bulk of Hunter’s extant poems were written after he returned to college at Tulane following a year at rehab and a sober-living transitional setting in Irving, Texas. Luther’s death, as well as Hunter’s recognition of his addiction and how closely it brought him to his own end, drew him into a more intimate communion with the world, with the kingdom of nature, with generation and decomposition, the place where the disintegration of our individual egos and selves brings us into harmony with the always-there of the essential, material universe. A year after Luther’s death, Hunter wrote in a letter to our friend Kat, “I don't get sad about [his death] anymore, though. Because fundamentally, I have changed the way I view the world. I still consider myself an atheist. But I think Luther knew, and I now know, that there is more to life than our waking existence.” The spiritual sense that Hunter developed in the few years before his death was firmly rooted in the physical world; a celebration of the dissolution of the little ego under the resonant knowledge that we are all connected, through matter in a united, harmonious whole. “I believe that for something to "exist" is must be a part of nature,” Hunter wrote in a letter from Irving, “I do not believe that anything exists outside of nature, because anything outside of nature would be incomprehensible to the human mind, and therefore cannot "exist." That said, I think there is a lot to the universe we don't understand….there are forces at play we simply cannot see, to be sure, and other forces we see only fleetingly, in dreams. I think dreams are just as real as waking life. “I believe people are the masters of their own destinies. I also believe everything happens the way it was meant to happen. And I don't care if those two ideas contradict each other.”

Much of Hunter’s writing is an intellectual and spiritual working-through of these ideas. Assertions of individual will are interrupted by surrender to numinous whole. In a journal entry written in 2010, Hunter reflects on an atheistic spirituality—a belief that one’s spirit is not bound to the individual self and needn’t be seen as existing outside of the natural, the material. Hunter writes, “A favorite division among recovery groups is physical, emotional, spiritual. Ultimately, all of these things are physical, that is, there is no immaterial aspect to them…I do believe that the  spirit” far extends our understanding—and in the sense that time is fundamentally illusory, and that aspect of our psyche which is the spirit is an aspect which connects with the timeless aspects of existence, might even agree that it exists before we are born and is eternal. But it is only our spirit while we are living.” Hunter grew to understand death as a return to oneness with the always-there of the interconnected the universe, a mingling of basic elements which overtakes individuality and integrates us with the eternal-all. His poems map his growing belief in the mysterious connections between all matter, the awed conviction that “you are me/the ash is not the log, no,/but the heat diffuses like clouds/the filaments never leave the center”, that everything we have touched has existed from the beginning of time. The spirit radiating through Hunter’s work is the assertion that, as Wendell Berry writes, “I claim, and act, and am mingled in the fate of the world. Hunter found solace and meaning in the knowledge that everything we are, and touch, and experience was once joined  in a single dense point of energy, that “each tree in this forest/rises from a single system of roots that never/dies,” and that, linked in this way, we “only appear separate”, and “there is no such thing as being alone” (“The Idea of Order at No Place in Particular”). 

I miss Hunter profoundly, but I am eternally grateful that his work reminds me that we are never truly separated from each other. The links below contain the bulk of Hunter’s extant writing, sadly only a small portion of his entire body of work. I hope you enjoy visiting with him through his words. 

Links to Hunter’s Work

Hunter Deely Poems: Main Group 

Hunter Poems: Other Group

Hunter Prose

Peace and love to you, 

Linnea

[saltyroxs]

A Dream Within a Dream

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow ��

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone? 

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe, "A Dream Within a Dream" from The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, ed. R. W. Griswold. New York: J. S. Redfield, 1850. Public Domain.

I used the word Edgar Allen Poe for my keyword to look through the Poetry Foundation site. His poem Dream within a Dream was a poem that I was not familiar with despite reading many of his works and owning his books. I owned his collection of work when I was twelve years old, and it came with gold lining on the pages and leather cover. It was my first serious book that I collected and still have. He is one of my favorite authors that led a very tormented life that ended with alcoholism and suicide, but managed to create beautiful work that still exists centuries later.

The poem symbolizes the author saying goodbye and mourning a dream while living in a dream like state. He is unable to relinquish it in his head. It feels as if he doesn't want to believe that all hope is gone, and they are weeping over their loss of all their hope and dreams. The image of the sand sifting through their hand is metaphor for the dream slipping away from them and being swept away with the waves of water. They are weeping with grief and despair that if they had tried to grasp their dream tighter or worked harder, would they have lost their dream. It represents the dark emotion of regret that they will never get it back. The aesthetic of the poem is the imagery or beauty of using the ocean and sands symbolizing time sifting through their hand as they weep in pain.

I feel the author is the narrator. Edgar was prone to pain, loneliness, and dark depths of alcoholism to escape his depression. I can visualize him letting his dreams go in pain by the waterside seeing the sands sifting through his hand as the waves sweep it away. The poem ends the sentences with consonances every two sentences such as

"In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone?"

throughout the poem, except in the middle of the second part of the poem. It dramatically states, "While I weep-while I weep." that rhymes with the two verses before it. It adds emphasis to it using the words creep, deep, weep. You feel their pain even more that makes you internalize it with your own pain and despair of lost dreams.

This poem is timeless in its construct and imagery. It flows in an easy and relaxed manner that makes it even easier to feel the poet's pain of a lost dream. His broken dreams being sent in flotsam of a new world without hope.

[honeyblockm]

Part 4 might have some of my favorite poems I'm quite fond of the stuff here :) here is some commentary about these poems

Cw discussion of suicide (in fundy's part), maggots in the eggpire part, and self harm (for entertainment purposes) in quackity's part. Also death but like. *Gestures at the title of the megapoem.*

• Ranboo's poem is definitely one of my favorite poems I've written for this project :D although as always with ranboo I don't know what to do with his whole .. thing until I'm backed into a corner. So this was one of the last or probably the last poem to be written. Ended up drafting a lot of it in my head during fencing practice? the pov switches from cranboo to cghostboo in this line:

the water for. Some things pull this sheet tight over my head, over the open viscera.

And then it's just ghostboo hanging out in an empty snowchester! I'm especially proud of the imagery of ghostboo watching snow pile up and being unable to brush it off, giving the appearance of nobody occupying the space even though, as he says, he's "still here." I also like this line. It just sounds nice:

Have I not always / been every piece of me emerging from the bisected half, impossible / to look in the eye?

My little vwoop vwoop is multifaceted. Crack him open like a glowstick and watch a ghostboo come out. The last three sentences are directed mostly at Tubbo I think. At least in my head they are.

• the "you" in Sam's poem is Dream. Their dynamic is saur fucked up. Shout out to the time Sam got trapped in the egg and ate his arm!:

not for this growing lack inside my gut staved off by the disappearing muscle of my forearms and how no one is coming for me but him.

I think I was a little delirious in writing this poem bc it spawned the Pandoras box murder baby matriphagy joke. Uh. This thing. The places metaphors will lead you.

Anyways isn't it crazy how cdream broke out of the prison and went hmmm I'll go back and make that my base

in the black belly of our collective wanting both of us have come back home for no one else has ever thought to live here and no one else has learned to count the ticking towards nothing. but for you.

"I know only absolutes". He sure does!

• at some point in writing this project I had no idea what the fuck to do and it was driving me up the walls so I read some poems in the Kenyon review and then went on a walk and wrote two poems on said walk and the Tubbo and Aimsey one was one of them, the other was the skephalo piece from I think part 3. This poem is also my attempt at synthesizing that particular piece of lore. Isn't it crazy how the people Aimsey and Tubbo love are dead lol. I tried playing with the idea of creating a hospitable and safe space 4 the people that you love, and how Tubbo has been on the server long enough to have each one wrecked to the point where this line exists:

it's never safe enough

• fundy's poem is addressed to Wilbur! Something something killing yourself temporarily and thinking about the time your dad did that for real, right in front of you. Something about how you ask your parents everything about the world as a kid and they do not always have the best answers, esp when the question is "why did you blow up our home and kill yourself"

One of life's many questions that / I never stop asking

Hmm. Jumping in the lmancrater is, in fact, the fastest way to get out of a conversation with your dad!

In terms of going, this we know it to / be faster than walking;

This is where the narration slips into the memory of nov 16, where the situation is flipped, where Fundy is the one looking up and watching:

or letting your feet carry / you down the treacherous steps from a stiff ledge to / who is waiting at the bottom / craning their neck against / the day’s unflinching

• Connors death was so unexpected, so quick, and it was played off relatively lightly without much fanfare. There and gone and I tried to give his poem the same effect

• this was one of the earliest poems I wrote for this project! I bet I could even find the date bc I showed quackblr discord.

And yes I did end up counting it doubly for purpled. I'm sorry purpled I'll write you a better poem sometime

I like using semicolons. Semicolons in poetry my beloved. This might have been shortly after I wrote good art which is an original poem of mine that heavily uses semicolons, thus putting me in the mood. I am quite fond of this one also. I think flight is only metaphor for falling is the first line i thought of.

Quackity is kill your past selfing it up, trying to become sturdier iterations of himself. Meaner iterations.

if you could remake yourself a better man; what / would you do?

How much heart is a reference to a pro wrestling article about blading, aka the practice of purposefully cutting yourself on the forehead to appear bloodier and make your matches seem more violent to the audience:

how much heart / makes me a target; how much more makes me / good again

It's also like. How much can he afford care about something, and how it culminates in quackity putting everything into las Nevadas. Ough. Sorry my cquackity demons. every attempt to kill his past self has still ended up in disaster for quackity, though. Such are the cycles of violence or smth. The most use he got out of that skyscraper was when he and purpled died falling from it.

• FORM POEM FORM POEM FORM POEM. Is that the term for it. Idk. It's in a circle bc the uhhh. Twisted fucking cycles n stuff. For the egg there's no end and no beginning and no getting out. It's a labyrinth with no exit:

and if you thought you could / stick your hand to the / wall and follow it out

I had a lot of fun with the eggpire poems bc I got to go yippee! Time to describe the visceral! Other things with no end: maggots, which is life appearing after an animal dies. Maggots and other worms in general, which look about the same on either end:

maggots pouring from / the carcass like pearl strings / no distinction made on either flank

Poem ends on another cycle. This time the egg comes before the chicken bc it was the egg in its embryonic state that caused all these. Eggpire shenanigans

the end of all things is the embryo

• okay these last two poems from the server finale are short and vague bc they're from the server finale streams, which I did not watch and did not look up the details of, because I think they were stupid and did not believe they were a good use of my time. So instead I worked with the vague outlines of the stream that I had learned from hearing my dash and my friends talk about it. These were written relatively early on bc I had some ideas and wanted to get them out of the way lol

In spite of everything I quite like the Tubbo kills Dream poem. The narrator is Tubbo, who is addressing and referring to Tommy.

I will not lose you too.

#Clingyduo sweep

The first line of Jack sets off a nuke is a reference to the mountain goats song "the coroner's gambit"! Last line is a bible reference. Why not. I am a lot more excited about the TMG reference than the Genesis one.

The Death Poem, Part Four: Legacy

Masterpost | Part One: L'Manberg | Part Two: New L'Manberg | Part Three: Empowerment

Text:

11/28/2021: Ranboo is cut down escaping

Some things I love. Some things I love more 

than that. Some things keep me sitting in this cell. Some things 

I stay on my solitary perch rising out of 

the water for.  Some things pull this sheet tight over my head, over the open viscera.

Some things shred the muslin. 

Some things leave ghosts. Some things leave me 

waiting out here. Some things watch the snow 

knit its heavy blankets over all of the roofs and windowsills and 

the rims of the flowerpots of frozen soil and still my hands 

slip through like vapor when I try to brush it off. I am still here. Have I not always

been every piece of me emerging from the bisected half, impossible

to look in the eye? There are still things left inside, bundled in cloth,

for you to take home. There are still things worth

mourning. I am still half a husband yet.

2/4/2022: Awesamdude dies in Pandora’s Vault

I am exceptional at waiting. down under this ticking absence of clocks and water gone still I sit and stare and count the cracks of obsidian shedding its dim tears not for me and not for this growing lack inside my gut staved off by the disappearing muscle of my forearms and how no one is coming for me but him. ambivalent to which one of us looks at the other afraid and angry because in the black belly of our collective wanting both of us have come back home for no one else has ever thought to live here and no one else has learned to count the ticking towards nothing. but for you. nothing is ever too good to be true except for everything as I know only absolutes and the ultimate one is if either of us thought we’d let the other would walk out of here or die then I may as well have built you a cobblestone box instead.

3/20/2022: Tubbo punches Aimsey off the Prime Path

ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE THAT YOU LOVED ARE SHOWING THEIR AWFUL FACES TODAY

their mouths are forming consonant and vowels forgetting they are vacuums 

and they are asking if it's safe enough yet 

it's never safe enough 

for both our sakes 

I hope it never will be 

5/22/2022: Fundy jumps into the L’Mancrater

It was effortless.

Did I expect that? The fluid grace of my exit, 

the speed, simple execution

of it all? I used to wonder and still

do but now that I’ve tasted air I think

I know the ease by which you 

left. One of life's many questions that

I never stop asking and now you

are finally answering.

In terms of going, this we know it to

be faster than walking; faster than rowboats 

or waiting or letting your feet carry 

you down the treacherous steps from a stiff ledge to 

who is waiting at the bottom

craning their neck against 

the day’s unflinching

8/10/2022: Connor seeks out the wrath of God

Death is the late morning; 

a languid prank. I blinked, and 

I was there. Not much to it. 

Nothing killed me, only God 

waving a hand; a break 

in the lazy breeze. 

Through the window, 

light bent. Voices, lamb cries, 

but it no longer mattered 

to me. 

9/10/2022: Quackity and Purpled take a dive off the top floor

like everything here flight is only metaphor 

for falling; these futile wings, this blooming sky;

if you could remake yourself a better man; what

would you do?; Most people make themselves kind but

that I was; before; my plans lay thus; First I grew pointed teeth, then; 

harder eyes; Failing those I built a city; measuring; how much heart

makes me a target; how much more makes me

good again; which here we can also call untouchable or

maybe; safe; once again I am wrong; I sport canines only 

to be torn out; citizens only to die; skyscrapers only for pushing

off.

10/29/2022: The Egg hosts a party

[Originally the lines are spaced to form half an ellipse, a shape you cannot do on Tumblr given the constraints of the post.]

Here again because life 

is a circle, 

after all and

there is no perfection 

without reconciliation 

and if you thought you could 

stick your hand to the 

wall and follow it out 

well 

it doesn't get much better than this

I am retribution, hunger, 

lovely misery on a dinner plate 

maggots pouring from 

the carcass like pearl strings 

no distinction made on either flank

the end of all things is the embryo 

the beginning the bird 

between them is the egg hatching 

11/11/2022: Tubbo kills Dream

Everything between our first meeting

to now:

I have lost even the snow on my fence posts

I will not lose you too. 

11/13/2022: Jack sets off a nuke

death came calling

today

it carried with it baskets, wicker

its soft feet spilled sand down the dunes

its eyes sparkled like two suns

and there was light

[sharkfish]

"WEAKNESS FOR WRITERS"

once i wrote that some days are like climbing the savage  mountain with bitter sharps for bones. i didn’t say that some  walks are long and some walks are longer. i didn’t say that  some nights are dark and some nights are darker. 

once someone wrote nights like these, they tear me  apart. and he wrote, i was never that good with the words  anyways. i always had a weakness for writers. it’s why i  memorize poems so i can count down the moments when  i’m afraid. it’s our favorite thing for other people to notice,  our smiles, i recite like an incantation to protect me against all the angry ghosts. it’s all either one of us have to offer. it’s  why i always smile as i step off the trail for someone to pass.  i’ve brought you an offering, i say without saying at all.  please accept me.

some walks transport me liminal. i have been on this path my whole life, back to the first burst of light into nothingness. i will always be on this path, up until the  final midnight. some days i stand tall, gravity overlooking  the weight on my shoulders, striding fast and strong. other  days i hunch and other days i cry. the birds just watch and  wait, even in the vivid hush of sunrise.

i just keep marching towards there and then turning to  trudge and back, where everything ends in a gravel parking  lot. there’s the grind of disappointment in my knees, in my  hips. the line seems trite now but once someone wrote and  miles to go before i sleep and when i was young and sad it was  a comfort that someone else knew what it was like to come  down the mountain. when frost could finally rest, did he dream  of the people who couldn’t see the bite in his blued fingertips?  were they tired of his excuses? did they blame him for not shrinking  the mountain so he could make it home a little faster, the way they  always seem to blame me? 

once someone wrote tell me what you know about dreams and he  wrote tell me what you know about the night terrors. once someone  wrote he has dreams where he dies, dreams where we all die. once  someone wrote i’ve just been too scared for too long. 

my mountain keeps rising. once someone wrote he was still on top  like he’s scared to drop and i was envious that he’d seen the height  of his peak while mine still reaches giant into the fog. i was envious  he wasn't ready for the fall when i’ve stood at the edge of cliffs  for years, trying to trade pennies for courage. i wish, i wish.

once i wrote that i’d be all right when my hands get warm, or maybe  that was someone else, it was so many miles ago. once i wrote i feel  stupid when i cry. once i wrote that i’ve been redacted, black bars  covering my name and my face. once i wrote help me. once i wrote  that i’d never forgive you for making me endure, and endure, and  endure, and i never have. 

no matter how many trekking poles you put in my hands, i’m still  thousands of feet into the ever-violent atmosphere, and there’s  no rest in sight. 

“nights like these” - lucero “convenience stores” - buddy wakefield “stopping by woods on a snowy evening” - robert frost “hit the switch” - bright eyes “pursuit of happiness” - kid cudi “14 lines from love letters or suicide notes” - doc luben “money in the grave” - drake

[loneberry]

death and desiccated leaves

I know what Susan Howe means when she describes how, when the intensity of your reading life reaches a fever pitch, you can experience a profound telepathy between all things. Scraps of language are brought into spontaneous relation by a compulsively constellating mind. I described such experiences to my new analyst, who replied that these thoughts were "psychotic"--yet, as though he wanted to soften the blow of using such a loaded word to describe the way I make meaning out of the dross of life--he added that they also seemed somehow "real." (To be fair, the part he probably thought was psychotic was the way I turn these intuitions into prophecies, that the signs seem to be gesturing towards some hidden design that one could call fate.)

Case study. One night, not long after C's suicide, when the air was still vibrating with her absence, I heard a leaf outside my window slowly being dragged across the pavement by the wind. And the sound it made, like a shrill hiss, was her voice, the voice of the dead no longer capable of making their utterances cohere into semantic meaning--all she can do is cry and groan (as she was wont to do when alive and in despair). She is that dead leaf, I thought.

After that experience, the desiccated leaf appeared to me everywhere. I was reading the correspondence between the poets Ingeborg Bachmann and Paul Celan, which led me to revisit Bachmann's Malina. When Bachmann and Celan first met in Vienna, Celan gave her a leaf. In one letter, he accused her of losing the leaf. The gifted leaf became a motif in their writings. In Bachmann's poem "The Storm of Roses" she writes, “a leaf that met us drifts after us on the waves.” 

Toward the end of the novel Malina, there is a fevered dream sequence in which Bachmann writes, I’m still deathly afraid since it’s starting once again, since I’m going crazy, he says: Just stay calm, think about the Stadtpark, think about the leaf, think about the garden in Vienna, about our tree, the princess tree is blooming.

It's quite unfortunate that Philip Boehm chose to translate "die Paulownia" as "the princess tree" (as Paulownia's are sometimes called), for English readers would completely miss that the desiccated leaf of the Paulownia tree contains the dead lover’s name: Paul [Celan]. The Paulownia was one of Celan's favorite trees; it grew in the Place de la Contrescarpe in the Fifth Arrondissement of Paris, were Celan lived. The Paulownia was even memorialized in Jean Daive's memoir of his walks with Celan, Under the Dome. As Robert Kaufman and Philip Gerard note in the intro to the book: The “dome” of the book’s title refers in the first place to the shade-shelter formed by the trees’ foliage, the “foliage” that, in French and German, among other languages, yields terms that can signify “leaf” or “page”: feuille; Blatt.

Back to Malina. Soon after the protagonist is told to stay calm by thinking about the leaf, the death of her first love is announced: May I speak with you, madam, for a moment? asks a gentleman, I have some news for you. … I snap at him: Do not pronounce this name, ever. Don’t tell me a thing! But he shows me a desiccated leaf, and I know he has spoken the truth. My life is over, for during the transport he has drowned in the river, he was my life. I loved him more than my life.

[How terribly I wept, pondering those last two sentences, for they seemed to describe exactly how I felt in that moment.]

In Sites of the Uncanny, Eric Kligerman writes: the Blatt [leaf] returns at the end of the dream as a “vertrocknetes Blatt” (desiccated leaf/piece of paper) pulled from a river. A messenger, a Hermes-like figure, arrives from the “Totenreich” (realm of the dead) with the Blatt for the narrator. The message informs her of the stranger’s death by drowning, and thus Bachmann links the events of the Holocaust to the poet’s suicide. 

Now you see where the invisible skein of my reading had taken me. Gossamer threads seemed to link everything. Like Paul Celan, the person, C.,--whose soul I imagined was contained in the leaf--died by jumping into a river.

I re-read Virginia Woolf's The Waves, perhaps unconscious to the fact that Woolf was another river suicide--some part of me must want to understand that fatal call of water. C--she's the character Rhoda, isn't she? The principle of watery being, without defense against dissolution. Re-reading the book enables me to appreciate the exquisite structure of Woolf's text: the six friends as a hexagonal flower, but also the mirroring of the lives of the friends reflected in the italicized nature interludes.

I am gobsmacked, for the leaf appears again, this time, to foreshadow the suicide of Rhoda:

Some petals had fallen in the garden. They lay shell-shaped on the earth. The dead leaf no longer stood upon its edge, but had been blown, now running, now pausing, against some stalk.

Then, in the last interlude before Bernard's heartbreaking soliloquy, leaves appear to foreshadow the death of all the characters:

The tree shook its branches and a scattering of leaves fell to the ground. There they settled with perfect composure on the precise spot where they would await dissolution.

Every person has a phantom that lives in the world of metaphors. What is it about the desiccated leaf that makes us think of the dead? The leaf-page develops a peculiar translucency. We see beyond its surface into the frailty of human life, how we pass, how we are discarded, with the same cold anonymity of the leaves that are blown from the tree.

This morning, when I was reading Geoffrey Brock's translation of Giuseppe Ungaretti's Allegria, I noticed that Ungaretti used the image of falling leaves to describe those who perish in war.

I was reminded of one of my favorite stanza's from Alice Oswald's Memorial, which also uses the image of desiccated leaves to index dead soldiers; in her case, the war-dead of Homer's Iliad:

We are no more than leaves.

[sybilius]

12, 30, 40 for the writing asks!

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules. 

I thought about this one a lot actually! Here are my wishes:

To consistently have someone remark on the special part™ of the latest thing I posted. Now let me clarify this: I think it’s very good practice to remind yourself what you love about your writing. So for every chapter I post, or one-shot or whatever, I make a point of really treasuring a few moments that are special to me. Now what I love about getting comments is the myriad of other things people love. But that said, if this is a genie-wish thing, obviously I love having someone highlight that they loved [favorite part]! It’s very gratifying and it gives me a chance to ramble about it. 

To know about people I’ve influenced to write fic. You know how there are some people who like dancing so much that they encourage everyone in the room to Get Into It just by projecting love of the thing so much? I like to think I’m that way about fanfiction! There are treasured friends in my life (hi Jaime) that have let me know that my fannishness has helped them take the leap and make their own outsider art! Critically, this doesn’t necessarily mean they have to love my fic or I have to love theirs– but I love the thought of someone having the courage to Make Something because of something I made :) 

Free fic finish – I think a lot of writers would just ask for all their WIPS to be finished, kazam. I’ve definitely made my peace with a lot of stories that I needed to let go of for a variety of reasons. That said if I could just wave a wand and turn an outline into a fully realized fic that I could read– it would probably be Distant Stations, whose story I still treasure :) 

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

Almost none, I’m afraid. My dreams are too weird to really count for writing! 

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

This one has made the favourites list these days! (suicidal ideation mention but it is very cheery)

[dellinah]

Hey remember when Bojack Horseman - the furry show where humans can have babies with horse people - tackled suicide better than literally any other show could ever hope to and did it perfectly?

The View From Halfway Down 

it’s all okay, it would be. were you not now halfway down.

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Hayloft p.3

Pairing: Arvin Russell x F!Reader

Summary: Your dad brings home his new coworker, Arvin Russell, telling you that he’ll be living with the two of you for a while. While attempting to keep Arvin from seeing the disfunction of your relationship with your father, the two of you grow closer than you thought. (Inspired by “Hayloft” by Mother Mother, though that’ll really only be one chapter later on so I don’t know if it really counts…)

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, death, abuse, and sexual assault (depictions of none, though)

Word Count: 5.0k

A/N: I am so sorry for how long this took to publish! Work and school have been CRAZY!

Citation: (This is absolutely cited incorrectly but the poem included was found at this link!) https://rememberingthesixties.wordpress.com/2014/11/15/love-poems

Read the Previous Chapters!

Part 1  Part 2

_________________________________

“No! No! No! I ain’t got time for this today!” You groaned, twisting your key in the ignition only to hear the engine struggle to turn over. You were already running late to work, thanks to you misplacing your shoes, purse, and keys all on the same morning. When it was really only just you, your dad, and Arvin living in your home, it was ridiculous to be losing things as often as you did. It’s not like they were touching them. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think there was some gremlin that lived in the linen closet and hid your things to make life more difficult.

Of course, your car wouldn’t work either. What a fantastic beginning to the day.

You weren’t even sure what could be wrong with the car. It had worked just fine yesterday. There was no reason for it to suddenly fall apart on you. But alas, after several minutes of trying to start the car and checking what basic things you knew about under the hood to no avail, you gave out a groan of anger, “Damnit!”

With an angry kick of your old tire, you stomped back into the house. “Everythin' okay?” Arvin asked from the dining room table, where he sat eating a plate of toast and eggs.

“I was already running late this morning and now my stupid car won’t start,” you grumbled, throwing your purse onto the open chair and taking the phone off the receiver on the wall with more aggression than you intended. You were spinning the dial and putting in the phone number to the diner you worked at.

Arvin leaned forward in his seat, “I can take a look at it for you, if you’d like.”

“That would be great if you’re willing to but-” You began to answer but you stopped abruptly and held up a finger to him when a voice answered on the phone.

“Molly’s Diner. How can I help ya?” A woman’s voice that you recognized as your coworker Charlene asked from the other side.

“Hey, Charlene?” You asked, shooting Arvin an apologetic look for the sudden interruption. She sounded surprised to hear your greeting on the other end.

“Where you at, girl?” She questioned, the ambient wound of the busy diner in the background.

You leaned against the wall, gripping the phone with both hands, “I know I’m late! I’m sorry! My car broke down and I don’t think I can make it-”

“I can give you a ride if you need.” Arvin offered quiet enough for Charlene to not hear him on the other end but you perked up.

“Wait, hang on-” You interrupted Charlene just as she began to respond, “I can actually get a ride in.” You mouthed a sincere thank you to Arvin while holding onto the phone with both hands, feeling a slight glimmer of hope in your otherwise crappy day.

“You know what? Don’t even worry about it. You’re already so late just take the day off and get your car fixed. Just be here tomorrow, alright?” You could almost hear the way Charlene’s hand was waving dismissively from the other end of the phone.

You sighed in relief, “Thank you so much. I’ll make it up to you!” After a few brief goodbyes, you hung the phone up on the receiver.

Arvin stood up and placed his plate in the sink, “So are you needin’ a ride to work?”

You shook your head, “No, Charlene said to just take the day off ‘n get the car fixed. Thank you, though. It really is sweet of you to offer.”

Arvin only shrugged, “C’mon, after all you done for me, givin’ you a ride into town really ain’t much at all. I’d still be more than happy to take a look under your hood if you’d like.”

You blushed and tried to suppress the immature giggles that threatened to slip out at the way he worded his offer. His face visibly paled and began to stumble over his words, “‘m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to come out like that! I didn’t mean take a look under your… erm. I ain’t too good with my words sometimes. Forgive me.”

You laughed outright now, stepping forward and trying to pull his nervously fidgeting arms down, “It’s okay! You’re fine! You’re fine! I would love it if you looked under my hood.” You teased, overexaggerating the way you emphasized his words, throwing them back at him.

He rolled his eyes at you, an embarrassed smile pulling the corner of his lips upwards, before looking back down at you. It was then that you realized just how close you and Arvin were, your fingers still loosely touching his forearms where they had fallen. You looked up into his eyes - those soulful brown eyes - and found yourself wanting to know everything that they’d seen.

That familiar heat rose to your cheeks and you pulled your hands back, running them up and down the white apron you wore over teal uniform, “Well, um, I’m gonna go get changed outta this if I ain’t gotta wear it for work and then I can help you out with the car?”

Arvin’s hands found their way to his pockets and he nodded in understanding.

You had changed into a pair of jeans with a buttoned up blouse before jogging out front to find Arvin already bent over the exposed inner workings of your car. “How’s it lookin’?” You asked, slowing to a pace until you reached the car. You landed beside him, hands falling on the dirty metal as you leaned over to see the mechanics. He fiddled with a few things here and there, things that you didn’t quite understand. You were good with the basics of fixing your car. You could change the oil and fix a flat but when it came to the more complicated stuff, you were a little less well-versed.

He leaned back and wiped his greasy hands on each other, “I think I have the problem pinpointed. ‘M gonna need to head into town and get a part but it’s not a hard fix at all.”

“Thank you so much for doin’ this. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You took a few steps back as Arvin lowered the hood, letting it fall the last few inches with a heavy thud.

“Yeah, well I’m happy I can finally be some help ‘round here to you.”

You rolled your eyes, following Arvin back to the house, “Please, you are plenty of help ‘round here. More help than I’ve gotten in years.”

Arvin gave you a knowing tight-lipped smile and nodded once the two of you made it through the front door. He didn’t say anything for a moment but there was a silent understanding. “You need anything while I’m out?” He asked, changing the subject.

You shook your head, “No, I’m alright. Thank you though.”

It was rare that you actually had time to yourself. While Arvin was gone, you found yourself wandering around confused for a short while until the buzzing silence wore on your ears. You sat on the couch and pulled the radio over closer to you on the coffee table, looking over your shoulder as if someone would catch you at any moment.

This was one of your secrets that you held close to you, knowing your father would make fun of you if he ever found out. Moon River had been a favorite radio program of yours since you discovered it while tuning through the stations a year back. It was full of romantic poetry and slow beautiful music. Everything you dreamt about but knew you could never have, not while you were stuck here at least. But a girl could dream.

“Tonight’s love poem is written by Betty Hayes Albright. We hope you enjoy.

They tell me not to write of love

but what else can I write –

when love is in my heart and soul

and mind both day and night?

“You’re just too young and you can’t know

of love,” (does anyone?)

“you can’t profess such knowledge –

stick to verse and pun.”

.

They tell me that, and say love poems

are worn out through and through

but I can’t agree with them,

for me love is brand new.

Feelings in me can’t stay down,

my love for him I can’t ignore,

somehow it’s got to be expressed,

“I’ve got no lock upon my door.”

.

To those who stick to subjects

of the sky and stars, of joy and pain

I write my poems of love because

my heart’s love-blood shall never drain.

Perhaps they too shall love again.”

You sighed as it came to an end and you couldn’t help but see Arvin’s face in your mind’s eye. Love had always felt like something you could only dream of. It was a “one day when I get out of here” thought, not something you saw yourself obtaining for a long time, if ever. Now with Arvin… well you weren’t sure if you could call it love but it sure as hell was the closest thing to it you’d experienced.

Since the words were spoken, they kept swirling around your head: “When love is in my heart and soul; and mind both day and night.” Since his arrival two months ago, Arvin had been that very subject on your mind almost constantly. He was the first face you hoped to see every morning and the last one you wanted to see before bed. Your entire mood lit up every time he walked into the room, even when you were stressed from work or your father. It hadn’t been hard for you to realize that he became the lighthouse in the rocky ocean, promising solace and providing light in the storm that could be your life at times. It was hard to not fall for that.

"Never heard that one before." You whipped around in a panicked start to see Arvin standing in the foyer. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

You shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ears, "No, no, you're fine. You read a lot of poetry?" You watched Arvin shake his head and walk into the room. He stopped on the other side of the couch and you climbed up, placing your knees on the cushions and leaning over the back of the couch to look up at him.

"I don't like poetry all that much, at least the ones we read in high school… but I like that one." He looked down at where his hand gripped the back of the couch and his weight shifted on his feet.

Your eyes fell to his hands in an attempt to hide the blush that crept up on your cheeks that really had no place being there. "Yeah… me too. It reminds me that there is real love out there in the world."

A silence settled over the room as your eyes anxiously dragged up Arvin’s body till they settled on his eyes but you found yourself unable to hold his gaze. "I, erm, I got the part I need for your car." He took a step back and lifted the hand that wasn't on the couch, tossing the metal mechanism in his hand.

"Oh," you pressed yourself away from the couch and moved back to stand, "thank you for runnin’ all the way out into town."

He gave you a small smile and a nod, “It’s my pleasure. I’m gonna go see if this fixes the problem.”

***

"That should be it," Arvin slammed the hood back down and wiped his hands on his jeans. "We should take her for a drive to see if she's runnin' alright now."

You nodded, "Alright. Hop in." You took the keys from your pocket and gestured to the passenger seat. Arvin climbed in and you slid into the driver's seat, turning the key. This time, the engine started up without a problem. A big smile spread across your face, "You're a miracle worker, you know that?"

Arvin shook his head, "I ain't no miracle worker. Just good with fixin' things I s'pose."

Your feet were on the brake and the clutch when you shifted into first gear and began to peel out down the long dirt driveway. You stopped at the road and looked both ways, trying to decide which way to go. You looked to your right, the road into town, and then to the left, the way to that field that was oh so special to you. You began to gnaw at your lower lip.

Did you want to show Arvin? That little clearing by the creek had been your secret getaway since you’d discovered it three years ago. You never told anybody about it and you’d never seen anyone else there when you went so, as far as you were concerned, it was yours. Your special hide away, your paradise, your escape. But since his arrival, Arvin had become just that as well.

“You alright?” He questioned, looking over at you with a vaguely concerned expression.

You looked over at him, a nervous twist to your lips, “Can I show you somewhere special?” Perhaps it was an odd question to ask, though you hadn’t thought it was until you saw the curious and somewhat confused look dawn on Arvin’s face. Nevertheless, he nodded and, with a smile, you turned left towards the field.

It was a short but otherwise successful, trouble-free drive. You slowed down and pulled off to the side of the road into the dirt shoulder. “Where are we?” Arvin asked, looking around and seeing nothing but tall grass and trees.

With an impish smile, you turned off the ignition and looked towards him, “You’ll see. C’mon!” You threw your door open and walked around the front of the car towards the passenger’s side, hanging on the passenger door when Arvin finally opened the door to exit the vehicle.

He followed you to the edge of the brush where you walked as if you knew it like home. With minimal effort, you found the overgrown path and pulled him along behind you. The road disappeared behind the two of you as you wandered beyond the tree line, tall birch trees creating a maze that you knew by heart. The path was short and you navigated it with a sixth sense until you led Arvin to a small field. There was an imperfect circle of wild grasses beside a stream that seemingly appeared from nowhere but you knew it was that time of year when the snow started melting off the mountains. Bundles of wildflowers grew mixed in the grass. Just along the bank of the crystal clear creek water was a large dogwood tree with vibrant white flowers.

“Wow…” Arvin breathed out in amazement as he tried to take in the beauty of the place.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” You asked with a smile, the wonder in his brown eyes warming your heart. You were glad that he seemed to appreciate it as much as you did.

You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as your heart welled with happiness at his stunned reaction. He stepped in a slow circle, taking in the beautiful scenery. “It’s beautiful.”

“This is sorta my… escape from reality, I guess you could call it. I come here and I’m suddenly in a different world away from all the bullshit of life.” You reached down to run your fingers through the soft blades of grass. Arvin smirked and you looked up at him with a short breathy laugh, “What?”

He shook his head and looked down, hands buried in his pockets as always, “I think that’s the first time I ever heard you curse.”

You rolled your eyes, “I don’t do it very often. My daddy would always yell at me tellin’ me how un-ladylike it was to say bad words. Told me it made me sound ugly. I think his exact words were ‘a dirty mouth makes a dirty woman.’” Your voice dropped to mock your father.

Arvin spoke plainly, “Your pa needs to treat you better.”

You gave him a sad knowing smile and looked down at the ground, “It wasn’t always like this, y’know? I think that’s the saddest part.”

“What you mean?” Arvin asked.

You sat down on the grass, feeling the soft blades press against your skin as you sat back on your hands. Arvin followed suit, finding a comfortable spot beside you and waiting for you to continue. “When my momma was alive, he hardly ever drank. Wasn’t nothing like he is now. I think that’s the only reason I’ve put up with as much as I have. I hate seeing this miserable shell of the man I once knew but I also know that a real father wouldn’t have let himself fall into this pit - or at least stay down there long enough to practically leave his daughter to fend for herself. I just always hoped that maybe one day he’d pull through and… y’know… be my dad again.”

You laid back on the ground and stared up at the sky. The clouds passed by, white and weightless, pure and unaffected by the troubles of this world. You envied them. The way they floated along, either bringing shade and beauty to the sky or raging unapologetic storms, with no constraints as to where they could float and how they could behave… it made you wish you could be a cloud.

Arvin was silent, unsure of how to respond. He wanted to offer words of support and encouragement but he never had been too good with words. He hadn’t really been taught to talk about problems. His daddy had taught him to finish them with his fists. Finally, he sighed, looking out across the field, “I understand. I felt the same way ‘bout my daddy.”

You perched up on your elbows, “Really?”

He nodded and looked down at his leg, which he was slowly rolling side to side just to keep fidgeting in some way, “Yeah… he, uh, he changed into a totally different man after my mama died.”

You looked up at him but you could see he was trying to avoid your eyes. You rested a gentle hand on his knee, “‘M sorry, Arvin. I had no idea.”

He shook his head, “Nah, don’t be. It’s been a long time.”

“D-do you mind if I ask what happened?” You cautiously inquired but quickly added, “Of course, it’s fine if not. You just… you don’t talk much ‘bout yourself.”

Arvin took a deep breath in, “My mama died when I was ‘bout ten. Cancer took her. My daddy tried everythin’ to keep her alive but when it didn’t work… he killed ‘imself too.”

This time you were unsure of how to respond, stunned by the new information you’d just learned. “I-I’m so sorry,” you breathed out in disbelief. For some reason, you had never thought that perhaps Arvin could have had a similar childhood experience to you, like losing your mothers, but your heart went out to him.

“It took a long time for me to understand why he did what he did but I finally realized that he just loved my mama so much that he couldn’t bear to be away from her.”

“He should’ve loved you enough to stay for you.” Before you could stop yourself, the stunning but honest words slipped from your lips. You damn near stopped breathing when you realized what you said, “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s alright.” Arvin had been stunned by the words that came out of your mouth but he knew damn well they were only a vocalization of a thought he had had almost every day since the day his father put a bullet in his head. “I’d be lyin’ if I said I hadn’t thought the same thing before.”

A heavy silence weighed over the two of you that was only relieved by a cool breeze. “So what happened to your mama?” Arvin asked.

Your face twisted, “Labor complications. She was pregnant with my little sister. When she went into labor, things just went really wrong. She lost too much blood ‘n died. The baby died too. I think it was just too much loss at once for my daddy to handle.”

“That’s too much loss to make a child deal with on her own,” Arvin commented the same way you had earlier.

You shrugged, wavering your head from side to side. Like he’d said, you would be lying if you said you hadn’t had the same thought. “Looks like we got a lot in common.” You chuckled sadly, “I feel like I lost everyone who ever loved me. My mom, my sister, my grandparents, my dad...” Another silence settled and you waved the thought away, pushing yourself to sit up, “‘M sorry. I didn’t mean to make this all sad.”

Arvin shook his head, “You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.” He paused, hesitant to continue. He hadn’t talked to anybody about what happened back in Coal Creek and Knockemstiff but something was strongly compelling him to. Maybe it was a bad idea to continue but he did, “I had a sister once too.”

Your mouth fell slightly in surprise and you let out a heavy breath, “You did?” The use of the words had and did instead are have and do were not lost on you and you couldn’t help but wonder what had happened.

Arvin swallowed hard and nodded, “Yeah… she, uh, she got into some trouble with this no good preacher that came into town. She was just so lonely, reminds me a lot o' you, but when he saw that and he took advantage of her. Took everythin’ he wanted and when she got into trouble he just told her she was crazy.” He paused for a moment, the memories of his sister flowing through his head, “Found her hangin’ in the shed.”

You were dumbfounded by the story you’d just been told. Anger and sadness were clear in Arvin’s voice despite his attempt to hold on, though you had a feeling that just the way he had been telling you about it meant that he had shared more of himself than he ever intended to . You struggled to wrap your brain around the tragedy he had just shared. “What’s her name?” You finally asked after a few moments of silence.

Arvin looked out across the field again and then back at you, “Lenora.”

“Lenora,” you repeated, “That’s a pretty name.” Arvin only nodded wordlessly. Again, another pause before you continued, “You said it was some preacher that got her in trouble? What happened with that? I mean, you knew? Didn’t anyone else? Is he in jail or somethin’?”

The man tensed up next to you and shot a look towards you that was sharper than one he’d ever given you before. You shrank back ever so slightly, taken off guard by his response to your seemingly simple question. “‘M sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to-”

“Ain’t nobody woulda believed my Lenora if she told ‘em. You know how people see women who got babies ‘n no husband. Especially since he was the preacher…” he trailed off and you were desperate to see the memories that played behind his big brown eyes, “He ain’t gonna hurt nobody no more.”

Your brows knitted together, trying to decipher what that meant. Did he go to jail? Was he fired? Was his reputation ruined? You prayed whatever justice he got was fit for something so atrocious.

"I'm sorry you lost your sister."

"I'm sorry you lost yours too."

After a long silence, Arvin laid back beside you, his body grazing your arm as he lowered himself. The two of you rested beside each other in this new understanding of each other. As you struggled to keep your attention on the sky, your eyes frequently straying from the vast blue expanse overhead to the beautiful man to your right, you couldn't help but wonder if by some insane fantasy maybe he'd be struggling to keep his eyes off of you in the same way.

"Let's talk about somethin' less depressing," you prompted, "How 'bout girlfriends? You ever had one of those?"

Arvin’s chest rose and fell heavily as he sighed, "I ain't never had much time for a girlfriend. Didn't much like anybody in my hometown anyways. Don't think nobody liked me much neither."

You rolled your eyes and audibly scoffed, "I find it hard to believe you didn't have girls bangin' down your door for a date. You're tellin' me you ain't never went out on a single date?"

He shook his head, "Nope. I mean I kissed a girl or two back when I was younger but I never had no time for datin'. Always workin' or helpin' my grandma or keepin' Lenora safe."

You rolled over onto your side and looked down at him curiously, "Where you from anyways?"

Arvin was hesitant to answer, you could see it plain as day, though you couldn't figure why. Finally, he answered, "Lived with my mama and daddy in Knockemstiff but moved to Coal Creek with my grandma after they died."

Mentally, you wracked your mental map for any memory of those towns but found none. "I don't think I ever heard of those," you commented, lying back down.

Arvin stretched his arm up and readjusted his cap, "Not many people have unless you're from near there. Just some small towns you'd drive right through and never even notice. Knockemstiff is near Meade, Ohio."

"Oh!" You exclaimed in realization, "I heard of that one!" You giggled. You didn't live anywhere near there but you'd heard the name at least from a friend whose family was from Meade.

"What about you?" He asked.

You began tracing light patterns on your stomach with your finger, "What about me? You know where I'm from."

"You ever had a boyfriend?"

You kept your eyes staring straight up. “I tried datin’ a few boys back in high school but nothing too serious. They didn’t seem to like me much,” you admitted with a shrug. At the time, it had bothered you a little that you seemed to have a hard time finding a boyfriend but now you saw that it was better this way. Younger you had spent night after night praying for a knight in shining armor that would come and whisk you away to some beautiful new life. All they had done was run for the hills because they didn’t want to deal with your daddy… not that you could blame them. You’d learned not to depend on anybody for anything, certainly not some boy to make your life better. You’d have to do that yourself.

“I think it would be impossible for somebody not to like you.” Arvin said quietly but with no ounce of dishonesty.

You rolled your eyes and rolled over to look at him, “Your just sayin’ that.” Despite the fact you swore to yourself he was only joking, blood rushed to your cheeks.

Arvin’s head turned in the crook of his arm to make eye contact with you, “I like you.”

The sweetly joking smile you had on your face fell in shock. “W-what?” You stuttered less than gracefully.

“I mean it. I like you… a lot.” After your pause, his heart fell but he didn’t need you knowing that, “You ain’t gotta say it back.”

“I like you too,” you admitted quickly before Arvin could continue to doubt himself anymore but when you looked over at him, you could see that momentary flash of doubt in his eyes. You could almost hear his thoughts behind those big brown orbs: Nah, you’re just sayin’ that. So you decided to beat him to it, “I really do.”

A warm breeze couldn’t dispel the thickness that had been created in the air between you two as you both looked at each other, trying to decipher what the other was thinking and what on Earth you were supposed to do next. Neither of you were well experienced when it came to love or romance or whatnot but experience wasn’t needed to feel some higher power, call it God or the universe, pulling the two of you together.

You weren’t quite sure when you and Arvin had started to inch your lips closer to each others’ but when they finally met in a gentle experimental kiss, it was as if fireworks had gone off. Your heart swelled with an emotion that could only be described as longing. Breathing stopped as if the feather-light touch of his lips on yours had knocked the air out of your lungs and you found yourself unable to catch it.

Both you and Arvin were hesitant to pull back and neither of you did until there was no air left in your lungs. It was one of those kisses that left you less. Breathless, speechless, thoughtless. Just less. And yet somehow more. A part of you that you had denied being empty for so long felt like it was now filled by Arvin and, perhaps that was too much credit to give for simply saying he liked you and sharing a mindblowing kiss with you, but damn.

“I-I-I uh…” You tried to stammer out something that would be fitting but there were no words.

“You ain’t gotta say nothin’.” Arvin reached over and gently brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen into your face, “But I’ll be damned if I let you go without tellin’ you you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

You reached up and covered his large hand with your own, twisting your wrist so that your fingers would interlock with his, “Who ever said you gotta let me go?

__________________

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[penhive]

August 26th 2022

I am writing this for the love of writing. It’s a passion that proceeds from the welling of my heart. The heart is a flower of music. It’s an orchard of poetry. Feelings run like a river in my soul. I am feeling so contented and happy. What must I write, I know not! I imagine my body to be pen, a narcissistic blush. I am very much happy with my fictional self. It is a self of the women I have loved, the poems that I have written, and the cigarettes that I have smoked, the philosophers that I have loved. Yes I would like to transcend all what I have read and epitomize it into an art. Beauty is the soul of love. It is a forest of blossoms. It’s a soul of rhythm. A writer has to defy death. Words have to flow like an ocean. Desires become the tapestry of art. Yes, I have done poetry with her, poetry of songs and rhythms, and a soul of beauty. Beauty to me is a passionate flower. Sometimes my writing is Kafkaesque. Like Kafka I have had a dominating father. Why do I think that I have to accomplish great things as writer? I am not egoistic. I write for the love of writing. Writing is a song of the body. Yes, Nietzsche’s theory of art is so poignant to me. My pen has the harmony of Apollo and the rhythms and beats of Dionysus. My pen is an aesthetic phallus. Yes, the meaning in life is to become a perfect art. Writing is the tapestry to overcome the nihilism of death and suicide. Camus and Sartre were right, we have to authenticate our existence.  We have to become the muse of inspiration. Beauty, you are my lover and companion. Time flows with the rhythm of streams of consciousness. Joyce lived the life of streams of consciousness. Yes, I am closer to Joyce and Wolf. Yes, I am a Ms. Dalloway of consciousness. Yes, why am I writing, I wonder why? I keep asking the question again and again. Writing is muse-music of a work-out. Yes, I long to do poetry with her. Yes, I long to feel the bed of ecstasy. Another one of my favorite authors is Maurice Blanchot a French novelist and philosopher. Yes through writing one has to become a death of defying death. One has to reincarnate with a life of a muse. Writing has to defy the self. It’s grandiose to live the life of a fictional self. Writing is a therapy of existentialism. The Philosopher Sartre has said: ‘man is condemned to be free as he is responsible for the choices he makes’. Yes, responsibility is monster beast of hell. Responsibility is an awesome shmuck. Yes, I live life as a poetic soul. Beauty is congruous with harmony. Writing accomplishes the dream of the body. Writing is a futuristic opera. Yes, I love the beatniks and the ways in which they have lived their life, experiencing life with drugs, alcohol and permissiveness. Ginsberg’s howl is an allegory of cathartic Buddhism. How can we describe the minuteness of life?  I love reading Van Gogh’s letters written to his brother. It is ironic that in his life time he was able to sell only a few of his paintings. But today, he is acclaimed as a famous painter.  It’s wonder to me why he cut his ear for the sake of a prostitute? Yes, I love to watch Van Gogh’s Sower. Van Gog’s painting sower shows a man casting seeds on to a yellowish field.  The Sower can be taken as an allegory of the Messiah Jesus and the seeds his Words. I also like Van Gogh’s Sunflower. The Still Life is a vista of visual poetry. Yes, I also love Salvador Dali very much and his painting: the persistence of memory. The frozen embryo and the melting clocks reflect the inner time of living moments and it also show the mystery of space and time. It could also be a reflection of narcissism of an oedipal conflict. Yes, words are beautiful reflections of poetry. Yes, with words, I melt into a becoming of nothingness. Again I ask why I should write. Writing is an art of poetry and the prose of rhythm. To fall in love with oneself is an aesthetic scandal. Yes, I’m falling in love with the orgy of writing. Writing is actualizing dreams into reality. Writing is a narcissistic mania. Writing is the muse of the pen. I want to live the life of a bard. I want to make love to the paper with my pen.

[jadelynlace]

a dead woman tells no tales / vikings fiction

series based on Lady Lazarus, a poem by Sylvia Plath.

chapter four / catch up here

synopsis: He left you for dead and now you’re back.

author’s note: the one small detail the reader has, is that she is a red head. 

specific chapter content warning(s): mentions of blood, torture (aftermath), suicide and sexual content below the cut (female receiving oral, during her cycle). also note that I included a favorite quote of mine per their characterization and dynamic.

pairing: Ivar x Reader

✄

Noticing the blue sky, it stung in your mind the same shade Ivar’s eyes had been the last night you saw him. Preoccupation with the thoughts of torture—wine red blood slipping between your fingers as shone to Ivar while his absurd laughter overtakes the vicinity—you keep a fair distance from him as he spun the tales back from his own memory. You had no prior knowledge of the day you two were in the field, overcome with sudden whispers in your ears that the visions you saw so clearly dancing on your closed eyelids were no longer there. That they were not real. Stumbled together in a stew of colliding past details, but you two always went to that forest, you two always snuck away, you two always took swords and daggers to each other for practice, you always kissed his cheek when you were to head back and he would always grab you face to plant your lips on his instead. Your mind knew up to that, then your head spoke of the rocks, how your spine felt along their backing, leaves at your feet with Ivar looking over you—but he was standing as he gazed—he could not stand long enough, even then, to examine your injuries to gather if he should carry you back or bring back the aid.

What Ivar told you was a far fetched tale of haggard details, how he told you then of his plans to follow where he was destined, how he would not let you raid, battle alongside him. How you were to wait, or pass time with others who were better than the crippled boy you so loved. How you stopped meeting him in the forest to practice and how when he went days without word from you, sight of you, he went to that spot in the forest once more. Your legs swinging from the ledge as he could see the sunshine in your hair lighting it like a fire, a brief turn back to him with the softest smile he remembers, and then you fell forwards. Dropping his swords and crawling across the ground to see you on the rocks below, eyes dead yet still stuck on him. By the time he made haste back, few in his wake there was a shadow of crimson on the slate but you were gone. Ivar went on with his troops so plainly disturbed by what he watched he had spent every night since locked in a dream of its repetition.

For days now, you wanted no sight of him, no word, no touch. You begged the Gods for silence, to answer you and gift upon you the details you did not remember. You wanted the great wings of the overhead birds to carry you back in time to re-watch the story, to see where Ivar had pushed you, but the longer you harped on such instances, the clearer his story unraveled in your mind.

The stars were powerful above you as your feet carried you to the overgrown area you had spent too long trying to stray from. How the sky gathered out before you as you looked up through cracklings of branches while simply laying among the brush. How the darkness spoke to you of your sadness, your directory of losing Ivar to consume you into a guilt that you were not good enough for him. Enough to fight with him. For him and his crippled legs, that you were not enough. The moon was vacant from the sky, the slithers of a blanket of blackness coated the woods and you alike as you could suddenly hear the whimpers of a woman. Sitting up slowly, your dagger in your grip your mind told you that you were seeing the young girl you remembered to be, stuck on the cold stone crying to the immortals above to set Ivar’s mind in the right path, to make you stronger, or to just keep him safe on the voyage. You hear bitter sarcasm spoken back, an evil spirit answering your voice in deep pity, and then as you try to look away from your own body sitting perched, everything lightens. Your head is on a swivel as the unclear figure looms in the distance and you know that crooked stance to belong to Ivar. You watch how he approaches you. You watch yourself smile back so gently. You watch him with his eyes on you. You watch yourself fall forwards. You watch Ivar drop, hastily maneuvering himself to the ledge and you watch him scream. Your body shoots up in the forest as if it was pulled back like an arrow, your chest heaving as the night terror passes back through your vision and you know now Ivar was telling the truth.

*

You had met cunning women before, serpents of lies who leech, return to the grounds like the nine lives of a feline, but Freydis holds a spot in your mind that fits not of that. There is a vileness about her, the way her blonde hair curls across her breasts, how her hips have widened from bringing forth a child Ivar was so hopeful to teach as his own. As she sees you in Ivar quarters, a brief wave of confusion passes down the bridge of her nose before she raises it up towards the structure’s ceiling.

“Has he wed you?” She asks but you scoff in reply. “Has he promised you the ends of our world? His devotion? Has he promised to change from the monster that he is?” Your head tips slightly in interest, longing to see how far this woman may crawl to spite the name of the man she hurt. “Has he promised to stop the terrible things he does?” But her mouth closes too soon for your liking.

“I am not here to wed Ivar the Boneless,” You answer.

“Then why are you here before me?” Freydis asks as you finally smile.

“To watch you bleed,”

*

You peeled Freydis’ skin like a cloth. The pits where her eyes once lived housed the curve of your dagger, you carved holes where out leapt her organs and pooled red paste along the floor. The height of her lungs through her chest, how the hair on her head could make wigs to barter, the bones could be gathered for handles on your wardrobe. While Freydis had been untangled like a scrunched ball of yarn, you remain of skin and bones, unchanged. It was art, how Freydis’ perished. It was art how you held the red soaked blade to Ivar’s tongue as he lapped the blood away from the forged metal. It was art how the soak of the wet fabrics took the day of torture from your hands as Ivar washed you in the river.

“You have gifted me love, despite the horror,” Ivar says out of nowhere during the silence of the water across your bodies. “I thought I would not want your love unless you really knew how repulsive I am. But you still love me even as you know of it,”

“I jumped, Ivar,” You then whisper. “I remember now,”

“I know,”

“I jumped because I was confused; how you spoke of my skills but would not let me raid alongside you. How you wanted me to find happiness with another man who was not you; but if it was not you, then who else was going to love me?” You’re unsure of the wetness across your face to be from the droplets of wet hair, or the tears from your lashes, Ivar’s arms heavily around you.

“Tell me every terrible thing you have done since that jump, Y/N. And I let me love you still,”

Sunlight dries both of you, heated skin tickled across the grass as you two are there to lay far longer than deemed appropriate. Wisps of flowers along your thighs as the wind become the only noise in your ears before the beat from within Ivar’s chest comes next. You covet the time alone with Ivar, how you two would spend the afternoons in search of creatures in the clouds, how he has changed to become a man of tough steel. Your monthly blood came not soon after Freydis was drained of hers, still streaking your inner thighs despite how long you spend changing your linens. Another wave of pressure nudges just top of your womanhood and you hiss slightly, maneuvering off of the fur to stand level and hope it will drain more. Your nudity along the bed catches Ivar first when he enters, across a plain of fabric still cleaning the crimson from your skin.

“I assumed I got it all in the water,” Ivar states when he is on the furs.

“It is my blood, Ivar,” You whisper back, his head turning to catch your gaze. “My monthly blood, I am not hurt,” You assure him. He pulls a fur to cover your shoulders, taking his time to unlatch the beginning parts of the casts, watchful to see if your eyes linger on how he works. “I will take them off if you would like,” You say softly but he snaps his disapproval of your quick idea. You compensate the moment of silence by tending back to yourself, ready to toss the rag for another one and pray the bleeding does not last longer than it should. There’s a new cloth next to your knee before you’re able to rise for another one. As you lay back, Ivar still sits, swinging the tied limbs over the bed as you cast eyes up to the ceiling. The first stroke of the wet cloth on your skin at the end of Ivar’s hand jolts you, curling your knees together and away from him.

“I can not work if you do not stay open,” Ivar says to you, a raise of his brow in challenge.

“You do not clean me,” You say back, climbing forwards to grab the cloth but Ivar holds it too high for your reach at your angle. “Ivar do not be childish,”

“I will clean you,” He states. “How is cleaning you now different than in the river?”

“Because that was blood of another—blood from a battle, this blood is mine, and mine only. I will clean it,” You say back but he still keeps his arm stuck though the air.

“I will clean my queen,” Ivar then says. “Let me,”

“I am not your queen,” You huff back, you arms dropping to bring you back to your position of laying. It would be tale of lies if his words did not catch you with your guard down. You did not plan, not now, to wed Ivar. But the first few breaths after his statement makes those thoughts fade like the sunset. “As you wish,” You finally say, rolling your eyes to take in the vicinity and turning your head away from him. He provides no movements, transfixed on the slight color change that takes over the lips of your cunt with the leeched moon cycle. How it had caressed your legs’ inner flesh, over the scar he had asked of and how it sticks against you. He remembers how Freydis’ blood tasted on your blade, and Ivar wonders how much sweeter yours must be flavored. The next brush against your skin is warm, and you remember the cloth to have gone frigid. Your head cranes quickly to see Ivar between your legs, looking back to you as his tongue drags closer to your middle. His chest heaves as his arms curl around your bent legs, rolling himself to lay between them as his tongue moves the same. A quick rush of air enters your mouth before his lips are against your cunt, slowly tasting the crimson that has stained you. His moan comes low from in his chest, eyes since closed as his hands pull at you further to spread, tingling a peeking pleasure against you as he laps. You don’t notice right away how your nails dig against the furs, how they move to dance over your own chest or how the old pulse in your abdomen has been overruled by bliss. His tongue is warm still as his mouth studies you, drinking you, and as you moan back Ivar replies with his own. His name is hot against your mouth when your spine arches, but he shows no hints of stopping, trying to grip roughly against your thighs as they shake, twist and turn with your hips as a creep of your release moves closer. He does not pull back until you have screamed his name as a chant as you come, raking your nails against your breasts in attempts to quiet yourself but it pitiful how unsuccessful you are. He only looks up at you as your breathing slows, his mouth stained with your blood and release as he cleans it with the back of his own hand. His eyes now almost as dark as the night sky as he crawls back over you and he is all you feel.

Tagged:

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[passivenovember]

🌕 fic tag game!

think about your 3 (or more!) favorite fics you've written and tell us:

🌖 that thing you've always wished somebody would ask you about them.

🌗 how you would've continued those stories.

🌒 one curious detail about them.

🌑 their working title.

🌘 why did you write them.

tag as many fellow authors as you wish to spread the curiosity!

ooh I'm so honored that you tagged me!!

hmm, do i answer all the questions for each one? I guess I'll do that.

Wedding Goggles: Steve gets a call on valentines day. Billy, who's meant to be with his fiance, is stranded with a flat tire, 90 miles outside the city.

1. It's not anything I wish people would ask, but this work is based loosely on an episode of How I Met Your Mother, and I wish more folks in this loved that show as much as I do because I feel like Steve and Billy are at their best when they're in a close friend group trying to figure out the intricacies of love, friendship, and healing.

2. If I were to continue this story, I'd focus on how everyone in their lives reacted to the ending. So often great love stories don't talk about the repercussions of these big life decisions, and I think it could be interesting, if not heartbreaking.

3. An interesting fact is this fic was originally supposed to be based on the episode "Drumroll," wherein Ted goes to a wedding and meets the perfect woman, deciding not to continue their relationship beyond that one night.

4. The working title comes from "Drumroll," where Victoria says, "I'm not perfect, it just happens when you go to a wedding. You meet someone and you think they're perfect because you've got rose-colored glasses on. Wedding goggles."

5. I wrote it because I wanted to do something soft and heartbreaking for Valentine's day.

Everything I See I Swallow: Steve struggles with suicidal thoughts and, after the overdose of a friend, meets a mysterious boy who holds the key to life and death.

1. I wish people would ask me why I'm writing this, as opposed to assuming that I'm "glorifying drug use and suicide." I've had very intimate experiences with both of these topics in my life, and it's been cathartic to write through those emotions.

2. I've hit something of a wall with this one, but I plan to make it a bit of a thriller.

3. An interesting fact is that I love making Barb and Steve friends in my fic.

4. The title comes from a devised theatre piece I saw at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2019 that changed my life.

5. I wrote it to honor a friend that was lost to suicide. He had a very dark sense of humor and he loved fanfic.

(as always) Super Dark Times: Steve starts having dreams about Billy, who's stuck in purgatory.

1. No questions, I'm just happy when people go back and read this one.

2. I've got a whole arch planned but this one, as the title suggests, is hard to write. It's dark and heavy, so I'm taking my time, but there's a third part on the way as soon as I wrap up part two.

3. An interesting fact is that the poems included in the notes of this fic belong to Richard Siken, but I headcanon that Billy wrote them when he was alive.

4. The name is just indicative of what's happening in the fic lol

5. I wrote it because, after watching season three, I was unsatisfied with billy's ending.

Thanks so much for asking!

[bentforkent]

to the moon and to saturn - chapter one

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary 

word count: 2753

no content warnings 

next chapter

seven

“you’re boring.”

“no, i’m not, y/n!”

“you never want to play pirates with me!”

spencer’s hair is long and his glasses are sliding down his nose. the light seeping into y/n’s room from her large bay window is muted by the white sheet covering it. the sheet rests precariously over a chair, forming a blanket fort carefully engineered by spencer, and haphazardly constructed by y/n. there are throw pillows tossed throughout the fort, and spencer makes an attempt to straighten them whenever he gets the chance.  whenever he comes to y/n’s house, ringing her doorbell with a backpack full of books, they work together to add on to their secret hideaway. the white sheet is the newest addition, especially designed to let more natural light into the blanket burg. this follows a poor mishap where a lamp y/n had left on too long burnt a hole through her carpet.

previously, the pair had constructed a stuffed animal room, a reading corner, a designated snack area. y/n’s starting to run out of linens. the fort has been standing for weeks now, y/n’s parents very rarely involved enough to enter her room, giving her and spencer free reign to create their own imaginary worlds to play in undisturbed.

except spencer, with all his practicality, isn’t particularly adept at the “playing in imaginary worlds” part. y/n can’t comprehend that. it’s simple for her to slip into a different universe, enjoyable, even. she’s begged spencer to play mermaids, bank robbers, fbi agents, firefighters, princesses---you name it. spencer indulges her for the most part, but y/n can always tell that he’s not that into it. he’s much fonder of tucking into some obscure poetry book, reading aloud when y/n requests. she never comprehends much of what he’s saying, but he reads so confidently that it fills her with glee anyways.  

for seven year olds, it’s clear to outsiders that they both don’t quite act their age. y/n, with her big doe eyes, dreams too much, her escapism both her greatest asset and most fatal flaw. spencer’s a stickler to the realistic, his pragmatic nature an unconscious choice that gives him a beautiful worldview but will make him grow up too fast. for now, though, the children don’t worry about that. they worry solely about balancing each other out and the purity that comes with being in youth.

y/n is splayed on her back on the floor of the fort, where her scratchy carpet is covered with a fluffy pink blanket. her hair fans out around her head in a halo. spencer’s physics book is closed and set gently in the corner, and he’s attempting to braid a small chunk of y/n’s hair. “pirates is my least favorite game,” he says.

“what about knights?” y/n angles herself to look back at him. she’s far too young to execute a soul searching gaze, but the way her eyes strain to scan his face comes close. she takes note of his facial expression giving away his inner thoughts. the way his lip quirks up indicates that he definitely does not want to play knights with the girl in front of him, but the softness in his eyes tells y/n that she’s won.

without another word, they crawl out from their blanket fort and jump onto the bed. “my armor is blue,” y/n says, unsheathing an imaginary sword and holding it up in joust. “knight armor was typically made of iron or steel, and there was no way to make it blue in the late 15th century,” spencer piped up, mirroring her actions. he likes playing at y/n’s house. his parents would never let him jump on the bed. y/n’s parents let the two of them do a lot of things, spencer thinks, and he’s never heard them fight like his parents do either.

“cool, spencer!” y/n says enthusiastically. she’s always enthusiastic when he tells her a fact, even though she rarely really understands him. she knows people are terrible to spencer because of his intellect, and had made a pact with herself when they first became friends that she would never ever ever be mean to spencer for being smart. “we can pretend, though. yours can be blue too!”

“okay,” he replies, and y/n begins to coach him through the game, attempting to loosen him up a bit. they play, bouncing around on the bed and wielding fake medieval weapons until the sun begins to go down and spencer remarks that he needs to go home before dark or his mom will be upset.

y/n reluctantly lets him leave, knowing that he has a lot less fun at his house, but finding comfort in the fact that he’ll come back the next day.

spencer and y/n spend every day together, without fail. they’re young, and they don’t know much about life, but they know that they’re the only people for each other. they’ve been inseparable since y/n had toddled into spencer’s first grade class and heard him reciting a john lyngate poem. her favorite book at that time was a brightly colored picture book, so she was both fascinated and confused by the boy in glasses in front of her. that day, they’d sat together on the bus and chatted the whole way home. the pure elation that occurred when the children realized they shared the same bus stop was unmatched. y/n, who’d just moved to las vegas, was relieved she’d met a friend in her new hometown.

she didn’t really meet any other friends after associating herself with spencer. he’d warned her that being his best friend was basically social suicide, but y/n was already attached to him like superglue. once, a girl in their class had tried to invite y/n to sit with her at lunch. the girl not-so-subtly made it clear that spencer was not invited to the table, and y/n had shut that down quickly with a swift spoonful of red jell-o down her shirt. spencer decided then that red jell-o was his favorite.

to sum it all up, in super simple terms, y/n and spencer were close. and everyone in their town knew it, including their parents, although both sets of adults were generally nonplussed about what their children were involved in as long as they were alive and surviving.

y/n’s parents aren’t neglectful, per se. she’d just had to learn how to fend for herself very early on. y/n’s existence had been an accident, and although she didn’t know that in explicit terms, it wasn’t hard to figure out based on the lack of maternal instincts from her mother. y/n’s mother sat on the back porch of their house a lot, looking out at their tiny, barren backyard with a cigarette in hand. her father went away on many business trips, coming back to greet the family only with a pat on y/n’s head before he padded up to the bedroom to slip into bed. one day, y/n would realize the intensity of the mental health problems both of her parents were suffering from, but as a child, the adults in her life just felt far away.

spencer’s parents were similar in a sense that they weren’t the best. rather than the silence that settled over y/n’s house, his home filled with argument. it’s why he found solace with y/n, with their blanket fort. y/n’d offered to let him live with them constantly, but spencer couldn’t leave his mother. his father? he couldn’t care less. but his mother...as much as spencer longs to spend his days curled up in y/n’s bed, reading, he knows above anything else, he’s got to protect his mother.

after closing the door behind spencer, y/n skips to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. her and spencer had made fresh lemonade the day before, squeezing lemons y/n had stolen from her neighbor’s tree. spencer had been in charge of the sugar, and he’d added way too much. the pair tried it, though, and liked the super sweet taste.

y/n fills her glass with ice, having to stand on her tippy toes to reach it in the freezer. after the cup is filled with the sugary beverage, she takes a second to peer out of the window and check on her mom outside. y/n expected to find her in her usual plastic chair, cloud of smoke encircling her. but she wasn’t there. this was odd. she sets her sweating glass down on the table, and wanders upstairs to get a location on her mother.

loud moans float down from the top of the stairs, and y/n, ever naive, follows the sound to its source. the stairs creak under her feet, her house old and probably close to crumbling. y/n pushes the door to her parents’ room open with both hands, and is immediately sick at the sight. at seven years old, she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but she knows that whatever she is seeing is wrong.

william reid, spencer’s father, is laid naked next to her mother, also fully exposed. they’re startled by the door opening, shocked to see young y/n standing there, witnessing their adultery. the three of them are in a trance, suspended in surprise. y/n’s brain is moving a mile a minute, she knows, but she can’t seem to form any cohesive thoughts except “this is not right.”  it feels like forever that y/n is holding eye contact with william before her mother speaks. “y/n,” she starts, but y/n doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence. she’s out of the bedroom and out of the house in 30 seconds flat.

as she runs down the suburban street, she’s barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks or the pain in her feet. she’d forgotten shoes. she runs, runs, runs, hair flowing behind her. she runs until her thoughts catch up to her. where can she go? she realizes that her body had been taking her straight to spencer’s house, but she couldn’t. how could she look him in the eye? how could she tell him that her own mother is responsible for his family falling apart? how could she ever even be near him again? stopping in the middle of the road, y/n lets out an anguished scream. a ferocious scream. a scream that claws its way out of her chest. and then, sufficiently exhausted by both her physical activity and her emotional despair, she turns back the way she came and begins to trek back towards her house.

- - - - - -

“penny, i have no clue how you do your job,” y/n says, handing the blonde woman before her a hot macchiato in a to-go cup.

her hair is longer now, her eyes more weary. the wonder she felt as a child is long gone, sucked out of her on that fateful night. y/n hardly thinks about it anymore, but that night after she had gone home, her mother made her pack her bags and took her as far away from vegas as possible. as far away from spencer as possible. she never saw him again. it’s been almost twenty years since she’d last seen the geeky boy. the loss of her childhood best friend was a dull wound now, one tucked safely in the back of her subconscious. sometimes she wonders how he turned out, but their time together feels more like a dream than a memory.

y/n moved away from her parents as soon as she turned 18, straight to washington d.c.. with no money, no degree, no friends or family, y/n turned to her work. she got a job in a tiny coffee shop, and the elderly lady who owned it took her under her wing. her name was janice, and she was an old, childless widow. y/n’s kind disposition filled a void janice had given up on trying to fill, and the two became a fierce pair. janice provided y/n with the apartment above the shop, higher-than-minimum wage, and when janice passed five years later, y/n inherited the coffee shop itself. she’d been owning and running it ever since.

it was at this shop that she met penelope garcia. penelope frequented the kitschy coffee place before work, and had gained quite the soft spot for the raven-haired owner. the two of them chatted every morning as y/n flitted around behind the counter, making whatever caffeine-filled concoction penelope had ordered. eventually, their friendship progressed past casual small talk at y/n’s work into wine-filled sleepover nights at their apartments.

“my job is hard, my friend,” penelope replies, shuddering. “some of the stuff i see gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“yeah, like dead bodies.” y/n turns and begins making her own personal coffee to start the day, penelope leaning on the counter in front of her. “heebie jeebies is an understatement!” y/n faces penelope again and grins, pouring copious amounts of sugar into a mug that janice had used while running the café.

“you know, y/n, i only know one other person in the world that takes that much sugar in their coffee,” penelope remarks while she watches the barista stir her obscenely sweet coffee with a wooden stirrer.

“hmm, they must be my soulmate, then,” y/n says. penelope’s ears perk up at that. she makes her way to the door, and y/n raises her mug in lieu of a wave. “have fun at work, pen! see you at your place tonight! i’ll bring wine!” penelope responds with a witty goodbye and heads to work, just the jingle of the bells on the door to signify she was ever there.

-----

penelope saunters into the behavioral analysis unit office 30 minutes later, cup of coffee long empty. “good morning, babygirl,” derek says.

“i’ll show you a good morning, hot stuff,” penelope deadpans, walking through the bullpen to greet all of her coworkers. penelope’s so bright that she immediately lights up the dreary BAU.

“spencer!” she calls, prompting the shaggy haired doctor to look up from his desk.

“good morning, garcia,” he says with a small wave.

“this morning, i got coffee at my favorite place,” penelope begins to gush, “and the barista puts just as much sugar in her coffee as you do!”

spencer doesn't understand why garcia is telling him this until she continues.

“this particular barista happens to be super cute and also one of my closest friends.”

spencer shakes his head with a laugh. “no, garcia, i’m not letting you set me up again.”

“okay, the first one was not good, i’ll admit.” she perches on the edge of his desk.

“but i actually know this girl! and i love her!”

spencer shakes his head again, giving penelope a light, joking push off of her seat. “no,” he emphasizes, and garcia gives him a dramatic sigh.

“okay,” she says, dragging out the word. “i’m going to go to my lair now to give you time to

think about it.” she presses a kiss to the top of his head, and with a ruffle of his hair, she floats to her office.

i’ll convince him, she thinks. i mean, how could i not? coffee aside, the kids are perfect for each other. she doesn’t know how she missed the blatant similarities between them. penelope’s usually very perceptive, and that makes her really good at setting people up. i might as well be cupid, she thinks, except for that one date i’d sent spencer on. she chooses to ignore that one. a minor lapse in judgement.

penelope pulls out her phone to text y/n.

penelope (7:56): y/n, my love, my light, i have found the most perfect guy for you

y/n (7:57): no penny, not again

y/n (7:57): remember the last date you set me up on?

oh yeah, penelope remembers. she’d sent both of her friends on two completely separate, shitty dates. maybe cupid wasn’t the best nickname for her.

penelope (7:59): you’re right. ugh. ix-nay on that idea then

she attaches a lot of sad emojis, then tucks her phone away. there goes that. penelope tucks that idea away, into the depths of her brain, and forgets about it.