#poem at the end is night dances by sylvia plath | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lpvncnt · 1 year ago

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* ◟ : 〔 TAMINO , CIS-MALE + HE / HIM 〕 PHILIP GOFFIN-VINCENT , some say you’re a TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both DOGGED and DEPRAVED, one can’t help but think of STRUGGLIN' by TRICKY, MARTINA TOPLEY-BIRD when you walk by. are you still a CLEANER, ACTIVE ASSASSIN at THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, RED EYE even with your reputation as THE GARGOYLE? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and STUPID SHOW-PONY HIGH ROLLER, PATIENT LIKE THE HYENA WAITS, GET IN YOUR CAR AND RUN ME OVER INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR OTHERS TO DO IT FOR YOU, YOU LAZY FOOL, although we can’t help but think of JONATHAN CRANE (DC COMICS) + ERIC DRAVEN (THE CROW) + JASON DEAN (HEATHERS) + ANTON CHIGURH (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

FILE: LIP VINCENT

STATUS: ACTIVE. HEIGHT: 6'2". SEXUALITY: PANSEXUAL, AROMANTIC. DATE OF BIRTH: 12/25/1995 HOMETOWN: MALMEDY, BELGIUM. RESIDING: BROOKLYN, NY. ROOMMATE WITH [TBD WANTED CONNECTION].

Instead of the usual biography, I felt like the following poem captured the energy of the past a bit better than I could ever express:

INSOMNIAC

THE night is only a sort of carbon paper,

Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --

A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus

He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness

Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie

Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days

Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,

Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,

A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.

His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.

Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --

How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!

Those sugary planets whose influence won for him

A life baptized in no-life for a while,

And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.

Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.

Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.

Each gesture flees immediately down an alley

Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance

Drains like water out the hole at the far end.

He lives without privacy in a lidless room,

The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats

Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.

Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.

The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,

And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

— Sylvia Plath

AESTHETICS

Repugnant amount of weed smoke filling a suspension-lacking 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, that only a 100% masochist would drive in New York. You were not born to cry. Leopard print BB belts stacked on the waist. A soul, emptied. No pride, no pleasure, no desire. Life is just like a Wong Kar-Wai movie. You've got two fists comically full of metal, the weight shifts you off your feet when that punch is thrown, your poorly welded home-made 'rings' -- made from a chunk of all the old silver jewelry you've collected from the bodies over time, all these precious keepsakes melted onto a fork -- made to hurt -- should be illegal. Lots of little projects like that scatter what you call 'home'. An angel dies every time a shitty fuckboy like you flashes his mid-section in local Bodega for no reason. Recently adopted a Belgian Malinois, Osiris, who is still in training and needs a muzzle (an excuse for enabling bad behavior, could be symbolic). Egregiously loud mumble-rap. When stressed, likes watching ballroom dancing while chainsmoking cigarettes.

Hi, I'm Samuel, 24, PDT, a sweet little Californian baby boy who will do tricks for treats, gee whiz am I glad to be here. All of this is a bit vague but will be fleshed out with time -- if you've got any questions on specifics I'd be super happy to clarify. Huzzah !

#lawlessintro

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years ago

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five: the ballad of the goose-girl

once upon a time there was a goose who wanted to become a man. or there was a man who wanted to become a goose. or there were both, or there were none, or there were many of the same spell. once upon a time there were ten thousand geese and they wanted to go south. why? because it was too cold up here, they said. too far from the equator. too lonely.

one of the geese was called jorge. jorge had been assigned the role of miserable family caretaker with an inferiority complex from birth but a brief spell of rebellion in their teenage years led to their official disengagement from the role and subsequently, the adopting of a new one. jorge was a philosopher. their favorite philosopher was kant. they had never read any kant because geese can't read.

dimitri could read. dimitri was a goose but there was, how do you put it, something a little off about her. sometimes dimitri woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, her blankets kicked to the other end of the room, babbling about microeconomics and the supply-demand curve for cross-continental flying gear. dimitri was in a mad, one-sided love that consumed her body and soul, but this wasn't that bad in the broader scheme of things because this gave jorge, who couldn't read, something to do.

sometimes dimitri would read jorge poetry. dimitri had memorized every book of poetry in the main branch of the national library when she made a stopover there in her youth and could now be called upon to recite almost any poem from memory, as long as she didn't hate the poet. for example, dimitri hated sylvia plath. no matter how much jorge begged and pleaded with her as they flew over the skyscrapers of new york, the masses of writhing trees and open fields dotted with cows and sheep and death, she would not change her mind. 'please,' jorge would say while they stopped to rest on the fender of some college student's beat-up honda civic. 'read me a poem. any poem.' 'you mean,' dimitri would say, taking a drag from her cigarette. 'read me a plath poem.' 'that's not what i said,' jorge would respond defensively, because jorge was the kind of goose that assumes the world is out to get them no matter what and sticks their head in the gift-horse's mouth and then screams down its gullet for five minutes. finally, dimitri would laugh. 'that's what you mean.' then the conversation would end.

one day dimitri and jorge got separated from the flock. this was not unprecedented, as dimitri had been lagging behind for a few days now and jorge, being her designated attendant, had stayed with her. but it was just as frightening for jorge as it had been the first time, fifteen years ago when dimitri had pitched out of the sky halfway across philadelphia like an anvil and jorge had found her sprawled on the fender of some sad person's fucked-up lamborghini, looking like an angel in a bad insurance advertisement. it was always the fenders. dimitri had a thing for fenders.

dimitri also had a thing for letting her long, healthy history of communication problems fuck up her relationships with other geese, a habit she had picked up in her youth alongside smoking, lying, and reciting poetry. she was doing all three of the latter as they circled around the deserted shopping complex a fifth time, the sun a blurry white spot a few feet beneath their heads. 'did you know,' said dimitri, a cigarette clamped in her beak.

'no, i don't know,' said jorge.

'asshole. i haven't started speaking yet.'

jorge observed the setting sun with a detached kind of panic. 'yes you have.' they brushed something out of their eye with their wing. the smoke from dimitri's cigarette kept getting into their eyes. it was making it hard to concentrate on not being sad. 'you said 'did you know.''

'that's not the important part.'

'then what is the important part?'

'the important part is-'

south meant many things to many creatures. depending on who you asked and what time of the day it was when you did, you might get anything ranging from 'the southern tip of malaysia' to 'nineteen-seventy-five'. right now, in this particular snapshot of time, south meant the following things. for jorge, it meant freedom. for dimitri, it meant-

'-is that every shopping mall is a little haunted.'

jorge was unimpressed. most things were haunted to some degree or another. it was a very old world and the people that lived in it were all very broken, but that didn't stop the broken things from wanting to hang around, even after their ribs had cracked open and their lungs were smeared with soot. they told dimitri as much.

dimitri cleared her throat, which was hard to do while lying and smoking and flying in a circle around a deserted haunted shopping complex but otherwise feasible for a geese as competent as her. she turned to look at jorge, the trickle of her gaze sliding over their white, wind-tossed body like a cool hand over a flame.

'what i'm saying is let's spend the night there.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose named dimitri who was in a mad, requited love that consumed her body and soul. her partner was a poet, of course, because all geese want to fall in love with a poet, but here's the catch. jie ting never told dimitri which poems were about her. dimitri spent years trying to coax the confessions out of her, making her breakfasts in bed, bringing home cute little mice with their tails tied up in butterfly knots, kissing the spot where her wing met the curve of her body with the kind of reverence worshipers reserve for the day they meet their creator, but jie ting was stubborn and beautiful and kind and dimitri could never bring herself to do the truly horrible thing, to walk into her study and crack open the journals she kept those intimacies in. in spite of this, well, this thing between them, they were happy. they puttered around making cups and plates out of wet clay. they told stories about their cousins who had gotten lost in rain forests in the amazon and streets in taipei. every year they made the long journey down south, and then flew back up in the spring. and then jie ting died, and then there was no one left to coax anything out of.

the doctors said there was nothing dimitri could have done for her. for every million perfectly preventable deaths there are two to three freak accidents, faultless failures, broken vessels. and for every broken body on the pavement, trampled by cars bigger than the both of them combined, there was a broken heart.

dimitri closed up their old haunt in the woods. she broke all the mugs and gave all the bones back to their grieving micey relatives, who were horrified, and then angry, and then sad. then she flew all the way down to singapore and learned every poem in every poetry book they had in the national library, a looming glass building in the heart of the business district, and dragged her battered body all the way back up north, through miles and miles of snow-kissed nothing, and then jorge returned home in the spring with the rest of the good ones, the ones who weren't fucked in the head, who still had hope to speak of.

she can teach me poetry, thought jorge.

they definitely went to a liberal arts college, thought dimitri.

neither of these things are true. but neither are the stories that led them to each other. a lie canceled out a lie and after the dust had settled and dimitri had recovered from the ghost of death on her shoulder, they found each other standing right where they had started out, on opposite ends of the same crooked street.

;

the perfume store smelled like sixteen layers of hell distilled into a single bottle of wine that had been left to ferment for a few millennia and then smashed in a pool of vomit but it was the only place that wasn't so overgrown with vines that jorge could clear out a place for dimitri to lie down. they did so with an efficiency that startled even themselves, brushing dust and old receipts aside with one wing and spritzing the whole place clean with the other. dimitri was then coerced into the little sacred spot, though she was deeply reluctant and jorge was deeply embarrassed about the whole thing. desperate times call for desperate measures. when there are two geese and one perfume store and nineteen shades of bergamot and lavender, one learns to quieten their demons.

the funny thing about geese is that they are about sixty-percent neck and forty-percent everything else and yet a goose lying sideways occupies two hundred percent of the previous amount because geese are conceited like that. dimitri took up more than enough space on the shelf in the perfume store from hell, but with a little maneuvering she was able to make enough space to pull jorge down beside her. the funny thing about geese is they have very big egos, and very small dreams.

'imagine i am your mother,' said dimitri, waving one wing idly in the dark. 'singing you a lullaby as you drift off, packing your lunchbox for school, turning out the light in your bedroom.'

jorge's eye twitched. 'huh? i will not,' they said. 'that's disgusting.'

'oh. you think i'm disgusting?'

'no, that's not what i mean-'

'-but that's what you said.'

'-i said the idea of you as my mother is disgusting.' jorge hid their face in their feathers but their beak was too long and stuck out in a highly noticeable manner, therefore ruining the effect altogether. they grumbled to themselves, then spent a few minutes contemplating the fifteen feet of nothing that lay before them. a field of snow, ash, or flowers. darkness could be whatever you wanted it to be. that was part of the appeal of closing your eyes.

'hey,' they said.

'mm?'

'why won't you recite a plath poem?'

the sound of something soft against the wall. dimitri was brushing the flat of her wing along the wall behind her, over the faded labels and the peeling tiffany blue paint. 'because i can't.'

'but you know them, don't you,' jorge pressed.

'i do.'

'then?'

'how old are you this year, jorge?'

'old enough to read depressing poetry.'

'but not old enough to have fallen in love.' she withdrew her wing from the wall. it came away caked in dust and old memories. rich, gold-kissed families with kids in little bow-ties, babies forgotten in well-lit dressing rooms, the occasional stabbing. 'am i wrong?'

jorge bristled behind her. 'what does love have to do with this?'

'because,' dimitri mused, and jorge felt every sound that she made in their chest, where the heart was working furiously to keep blood circulating without end. 'all poems are love poems.'

'you know,' said jorge.

'i don't know.'

'good. you shouldn't.' jorge curled themselves tighter, so the two hundred percent became a hundred and ninety-five. 'i'm going to sleep. good night.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose who would do anything for her lover and then that lover died. once upon a time there was a goose who was really good at literary analysis, so good she could have taught at harvard if she hadn't wanted to be closer to her lover, who worked in non-profit and spent most of her time abroad, and then her lover died. once upon a time there was a goose. and she knew a lot of poetry. it was the last thing she did for jie ting, with the gray-dusted coat and the heather eyes. do geese have heather eyes? fuck it. this one did.

once upon a time there was a goose who really wanted to go to a liberal arts college, but their dad gambled all their savings away on a business venture which went bust moments before the big cash-out and so the college fund became a college black hole, a college financial aid form which procured miserably few sympathies from the financial aid office, a college nothing. this goose was really quite smart, though they couldn't prove it to save their life. but the other goose knew. the other goose wasn't as smart. she'd just had more money. and worse luck.

this isn't a love story. in this story there are no love stories because in some languages every story is a love story, and if everything is something then there is really nothing, no takeaway at the end of the parable, no shard of glass in the sand. imagine you're walking along the coastline in a white dress made from diamonds and you step on that shard of glass. there goes your foot. what will you do? the world is ending.

in the morning dimitri wakes up first. she touches jorge's forehead with the tip of one wing, then the flat of it, then the side. there's a bar of sunlight coming in through a gap in the moth-bitten blinds and it falls across jorge's face in rivulets of gold-leaf, liquid wonder. she watches them sleep for a few minutes, their chest rising and falling and trembling with all that infallible youth, with the faithless determination of someone whose body has grown older but whose soul has stayed as faultless, as clueless, as divine. if god were a goose it would be jorge. says who? says dimitri, who has god's number saved on her phone.

once, a few months ago, she wrote a poem. this she read out to jorge, while they were flying over the rooftops of san diego, each word falling out of her mouth like stars, like things she should have really kept to herself and in the safety of untouchable darkness and yet jorge was looking at her. she was reading this poem and jorge was looking at her and it wasn't the kind of look you gave someone you found by the side of the road, someone who had helped you with your college apps and tied your tie on prom night. it was the kind of look you gave an angel you wanted to pin to the sheets.

'is this poem about someone?' asked jorge, who was for all their cluelessness and cruelty, quite terribly perceptive when one wanted them least to be.

panicking, dimitry dropped her cigarette. she shook her head. 'no.' she shook her head again, for emphasis.

once, dimitri had a fit of coughs so bad she passed out right there in the lobby of that high school. the doctors said it was her lungs. her friends said it was the cigarettes. jie ting, who was long dead by then, said it was the heartbreak. put it back together, said the ghost of her dead lover. you can put yourself back together. maybe i don't want to, dimitri said, a sheaf of papers falling out of the pocket of her coat.

once, she didn't go south. she went up north in search of forgiveness, and when jorge arrived in the spring, they were as lovely as she remembered them being while she had gotten nowhere. still stuck in place, spinning in slow circles, watching god die on a white-gold stage. still mourning.

'i'll write you a poem,' jorge said the other day. 'to thank you.' for being the first person. for being the first person ever.

'don't bother,' she told them.

'i'll do it anyway.'

'i won't read it.'

'you will.'

once there was a goose and another goose and they were all lovely and sad with long, elegant necks and hard, sharp beaks for cracking things open but all they ever did was crack themselves open, like if you hurt yourself enough times you could make the world give you back what it had taken away. but that's not how it works. you know this. you know this, don't you? dimitri? dimitri?

dimitri's still in that old perfume store. she's leaning closer and closer to sleeping beauty, with the lanky limbs and the merry-go-round smile, and she's whispering something, though she'll never tell you what and you'll never get the chance to ask, she's breathing like the air's made of glass. sea-glass. have you ever seen the ocean? she'll take you one day. your name is jorge and you're asleep. you're being kissed on the mouth by a very beautiful person. she's going to die.

but all living things die eventually, you counter. you don't get it. you are missing the point.

that's fine. miss the point. keep sleeping. the moon pulls away from you the way some people pull knives out of bodies, like she can feel every inch of distance she puts between yourselves in her chest, where the heart is working furiously to keep life alive. she pulls away and it hurts her, you know. did you know? you can fall in love twice. you can fuck yourself up twice. there's always room in the cupboard for more ceramic mugs. she made you one. she'll never give it to you. you never asked.

that's your first kiss. and your second, and your third, and as you grow older the kisses will meld together into this looming memory of touch, sensation, heat, softness, girls, girls, girl. girl with the cigarette between her teeth. girl with the sharpshooter eyes, the gunmetal laugh. girl walking you home, girl flying you across the starless city, girl singing you a lullaby when you're eighteen and the world hates people like you who give life everything you've got and have the audacity to think it'll listen.

girl walking out of the perfume store. girl stepping into the half-light. girl leaving you behind.

or maybe it's the other way around. this way you will be able to catch up to the rest of the flock, this way you will make it to the other side of the world before winter gets its hands around your ankles. she's giving you an opportunity. take it. i said take it.

south means a lot of things depending on who you ask. for jorge, it's freedom, new skies, sunsets drenched in whiskey. for jorge it's the second best thing about being alive. for dimitri, it's death.

once upon a time there was a goose and their name was jorge. once upon a time there was a goose and her name was dimitri. in another version of this story they meet each other before the accident and the hospitals and the house in the woods, the financial crash, the long, cruel winter. in another version they kiss with their eyes open, their hearts unspooling around the confession, the truth, the sacred thing that lets people be happy with each other. in another version of this story jorge says read me a poem and dimitri says i'll read you something sweeter, and then she reads them a love poem.

in this one, one goose dies, and the other keeps flying.

A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable! And how will your night dances Lose themselves. In mathematics? Such pure leaps and spirals - Surely they travel The world forever, I shall not entirely Sit emptied of beauties, the gift Of your small breath, the drenched grass Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies. Their flesh bears no relation. Cold folds of ego, the calla, And the tiger, embellishing itself - Spots, and a spread of hot petals. The comets Have such a space to cross, Such coldness, forgetfulness. So your gestures flake off - Warm and human, then their pink light Bleeding and peeling Through the black amnesias of heaven. Why am I given These lamps, these planets Falling like blessings, like flakes Six sided, white On my eyes, my lips, my hair Touching and melting. Nowhere.

05.25.21

#poem at the end is night dances by sylvia plath #did you know geese. grab their neck. this is a mistake you can always count on

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mooncrvmbs · 3 years ago

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random desi chaotic academia things I've done:

spent the entire evening reading topics totally unrelated to my studies instead of studying and then panicking about how i hadn't learnt anything for the exam the next day.

wrapped my mother's saree haphazardly around myself and danced to my desi academia playlist at 3am and then collapsed due to the blood rush to my head.

spent an entire night reading my mother's Rabindranath-er Golpogucchho (A Collection of Stories by Rabindranath Tagore) instead of doing my homework due the very next day and ended up not submitting it.

sent random quotes of sylvia plath and f scott fitzgerald to my best friend at 2 in the morning and then talked all night about it.

danced to rabindra sangeet in my room while reciting his poetry

exhausted my 4 months worth of pocket money on books by indian authors and still not finishing even half of them.

stopped on my way back home from tuitions to buy jhumkas from a roadside stall and got yelled at for coming home late.

scattered all my books on the bed because i couldn't find the right book to feed to my emotional state.

added more and more accessories to my already unorganized jewellery box, some of them i wore once and some i have never worn till today.

had an unhealthy obsession with greek, roman and egyptian mythology for years and spent countless nights reading articles on them over a cup of masala chai.

intentionally tried to get my dupatta stuck in a guy's watch to get my very own om shanti om moment.

been overconfident in myself for an exam, spent the whole time reading articles about random topics that i will never require, thought i screwed it over and then topped the entire class.

filled up my notes app with poems at 3 am when i had an exam at 8 the following day.

fell asleep while reading a book on the floor, and woke up alarmingly early the next morning with smudged kajal, puffy eyes and a runny nose.

dried flowers from my backyard in between the pages of old books and used them as bookmarks.

had an unhealthy amount of chai to stay awake but fell asleep on my books halfway through and still passed.

#desiblr #desi tumblr #desi girl #desi #desi academia #indian academia #indian dark academia #indian chaotic academia #chaotic academia #desi chaotic academia #bengali culture #books

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bigassnocash · 3 years ago

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Hopeless Romantics

HiHo friends! I mostly wrote this piece for @iaminlovetomhollandmarvel because she's like my one consistent reader. Once again, I'm still fairly new to writing so please be kind, and send in requests for any characters and actors/actresses you want and I'll write for you! I also used writing prompt 707 from @creativepromptsforwriting and its highlighted in bold, there is also a Sylvia Plath poem in here!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey Y/N, what're ya doin?" Arvin asked as he walked up to you as you sat reading on the steps outside of the school.

"Not much, just sittin' here enjoyin the warm weather. What are you doin' Arvin?"

"Well you looked pretty lonely over here, so I was thinkin I could keep you company but I can go if you want."

"I don't mind, come sit down I promise I won't bite."

As he sat down next to you he linked his arm with yours to see how you'd react. When you didn't pull away he scooted closer to you, to the point of being able to see over your shoulder.

"Y/N L/N what on Gods green Earth are you reading?" he laughed at the content you were consuming.

"If you must know, nosey josey its a romance book," your cheeks started turning red with embarrassment as he laughed.

"I don't know much but I do know one thing; people do not talk like that on dates."

"I wouldn't know, I've never been out on a date before," you turned your head away feeling shame. 17 years old, and never been out on a date while some girls in your class were out here getting married.

Arvin felt bad, he did know that you didn't go out much but he figured that the most beautiful girl he's ever seen would've been asked out at some point.

"Thats about to change. C'mon Y/N get up, I'm taking you out on a proper date," he offered his hand to help pull you to your feet.

"Arvin are you insane, what would even do?"

"Anything you want. We could go to dinner, a movie, we could go to the library, I could get a picnic together really fast and go to the lake, we can go skinny dipping," he winked at you.

"Skinny dipping is a third date activity young man, I think you know this," you shot back at him matching his cheeky smile, "I wouldn't mind a picnic by the lake, I just need to stop by my house and tell my momma where I'm goin."

"Your carriage awaits m'lady," he help open the car door for you and helped you in.

"Before we do this I need to know, why are you doing this Arvin?" you asked him, very worried about getting hurt.

"Cause its Friday night and I'd rather spend it with the prettiest girl in school than at Church with Lenora."

An hour later after you dropped your stuff off at home and got a picnic and blanket you and Arvin were sitting by the lake looking out over the water.

"Y/N will you please read your book to me? 'ts just I've heard you read in English and I really like your voice. Please?" he was so kind and quiet that there was no way you could deny him of this.

"I won't read you my book but I'll read you a poem, how's that?" he nodded happy with the trade off. As you pulled your poem book out of the small bag you packed, he laid down in your lap looking up at the sky.

"This one is called Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Arvin stared at you in awe. He had never felt feelings like this before. In the moments that you were reading to him everything felt right, as if you wrote the poem for him.

"Y/N that was absolutely beautiful," he gushed to you.

"Aww you don't mean that, now c'mon enough with all this gushy stuff. Its hot and i want to cool down with a swim."

"But we dont have our swimsuits and I thought skinny dippin was a third date activity miss," he was getting real cheeky now.

"Thats very true, but I wear undergarments, and those cover the same amount skin that a swimming suit do. Arvin, do you wear undergarments?" you asked as you started to unzip your skirt.

"You sure about this?" he wanted to go swimming with you more than anything but he didn't want you to feel uncomfortable.

"I've never been more sure about anything in my life Arvin." you were completely undressed, except the matching bra and panty set you were wearing. Arvin was awestricken with you. "Hurry up, I want to swim and your taking forever."

In record speed he took off his jeans and shirt, grabbing your hand and running into the water with you. You guys splashed in the water for a long time, well into the night. At some point you guys just floated, side by side holding hands. No one had ever made you feel the way Arvin did, like you mattered.

"Y/N your shivering, let get you dried off," he helped you onto the shore and wrapped a towel around and rubbed your shouders. "Heres the keys to the truck, you can changed in there. 'm gonna go into the woods to give you some privacy." he truly was the sweetest boy.

Once you both got changed and were sitting in the car, he asked you something you never thought he'd ask. "Will you dance with me? I can turn up the radio and we can dance outside." you nodded your head and lept out.

He took your right hand, in his left and wrapped your left arm around his waist. He placed his right hand low on your back yet high enough to still be respectful.

"Arvin, real talk and I want a real answer from you this time. Why did you ask me out tonight?"

"I asked you out because I've been infatuated with you, but i was never sure to liked me back so I started to flirt with you."

"What? We barely even spoke before today, how did you flirt with me?"

"I mean, I looked at you... sometimes you looked back."

"Arvin I don't know what to say, you could've talked to me."

"I wanted to, so badly Y/N its just that... I didn't want people to get the wrong idea about you because you deserve the whole world and I cant give it to you and people say I'm dangerous and I swear I'm not I just don't wan-"

you cut him off with a kiss. An earth shattering, mind blowing kiss. his lips were so soft and molded perfectly to yours, and he could taste the cherry chapstick you always wore. It lasted forever it felt like. When you both eventually pulled apart he rested his head against yours. "Woman if you keep doing that you're gonna kill me."

"I hate to ruin this absolutely perfect first date but, its past my curfew and I have to be home," disappointment clear in your voice. "All good things must come to an end eventually I suppose."

The whole way home, you didn't leave his side. He even walked you to your door and kissed you goodnight. "Can we go out again tomorrow, ya think?" he asked so hopeful you'd say yes.

"I would absolutely love to Mr. Russell but I don't know if my mom will let me after gettin in so late after I was supposed to be home. Give me your number and Ill call you tomorrow if I can."

He gave you his number and you two parted ways. He sat by the phone all weekend waiting for you to call, disappointment shattering his heart when you didn't. He found you by your locker first thing Monday morning at school.

"Hey, I figured that Id come say hi to you. Ya know, just make sure everythings still good between us?" He had never been this nervous in all his life.

"Yes of course everythings good between us why wouldnt it be?"

"Well you never called, and I got really worried. Why didnt you call?"

"My mom said I wasnt allowed to use the phone because I broke curfew. I promise you I would've called Arvin, I had the best time of my life on Friday. I would do it again in a heartbeat."

"Really, you want to go out with me again?"

"Well, yeah. Of course I do. There's still a second date we have to go on, before we get to the third." you winked at him as you shut your locker and turned around and walking in the opposite direction. Leaving him there, wondering what on Earth he just got himself into.

#arvin russel fic #arvin russel x y/n #arvin russel fluff #arvin russel imagine #arvin eugene russell #arvin russel x reader

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m4tthewmurd0ck · 3 years ago

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100 poems for 100 followers!

~ a collection of my favorite poems for writing inspiration~

this is such a huge achievement to me and i’m so thankful to anyone that has checked out my page, liked / re-blogged / commented on any of my writing, and asdfasdfasdg i’m so happy! on to the point of this post, i have a board on pinterest dedicated to lyrics / quotes / poems that i’d love to write something based on. i know i’ll never get to all of them (the board is currently up to 2.2k pins). i wanted to do something to celebrate, so i thought i’d share some of my favorites for anyone who might need the inspiration or just likes reading poetry. i’ll use the #tags for some of my favorite characters to read for, but these can all be used for anyone / any fandom!

this is by no means a challenge but if anyone writes based off of or using any of these please put me in the tag list as i’d love to read!

i’ll put them below the cut because it’s quite a lot :)

one day, whether you are 14, / 28 / or 65 / you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire within you that cannot die. / however, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find— / is they are not always with whom we spend our lives. | ~ beau taplin

i will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. / i will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. / if our demons cannot dance, neither can we. | ~ nikita gill

and so it seems i must always write you letters that i can never send | ~ sylvia plath

i wish you could feel what i feel when i look at you. / and maybe then, you could have an understanding of why i can’t look at anyone else. | ~ jmstorm

his arms are strong enough to hold every fear, every beautiful broken piece of me. this man doesn’t just make me feel complete, he completes me. | ~ s. marie

part of her mystery is how she is calm in the storm and anxious in the quiet. | ~ jmstorm

i have tried loving less / but that hurts just the same | ~ gemma troy

this is my confession. / as dark as i am, i will always find enough light to adore you to pieces, with all of my pieces. | ~ johnny nguyen

sometimes you have to stop being scared and go for it. / either it will work or it won’t. / that’s life.

the most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.

tell me the story about how the sun loved the moon so much / he died every night to let her breathe

my darling, / you will never be unloved by me / you are too well tangled in my soul.

i loved you as icarus loved the sun - / too close, too much. | ~ d.j.

read to me a page from your soul, one night at a time | ~ jonny ox

he is the thought behind the feeling, / the swelling in my chest; / the starlight in the evening, / the yearning when I undress. // he is the sound behind the sighing, / the song of every bird; / the tears in all my crying— / the ache in every word. | ~ lang leav

the heart was made to be broken. | ~ oscar wilde

he gave me wings when i wanted fire. / ‘rise, not burn,’ he whispered. | ~ saru

when thinking about life, remember this: / no amount of guilt can change the past / and no amount of anxiety can change the future.

you flood my thoughts / and wide awake dreams / i adore you to depths / beyond the eye can see. | ~ perry

we never started as strangers / we saved that for the end

your hands are scarred from murder and yet i trust them completely

i crave touch, yet i flinch every time someone is close enough.

for a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. / so collapse. crumble. this is not your destruction. / this is your birth. | ~ n.t.

i knew i was playing with fire when we met, so i couldn’t blame you when i got burned. | ~ bridgett devoue

her salty eyes told me stories, / that made my heart weep. / i wanted to wrap her in a blanket, / and tell her she was safe forever— / and so i did. | ~ atticus

even though we never said it to each other / we knew

how can i love someone new, when every night i dream of you? | ~ d.j.

some memories never leave your bones. like salt in the sea; they become part of you. / — and you carry them | ~ paper wings

at least our paths have crossed / ~ j.b.

i exist too much: i feel too much. / think too much. / reality is crushing the life out of me. | ~ d.j.

we weren’t soulmates but we were something pretty damn close to that | ~ j.b.

there were magnets in my bones / for that iron in her blood. | ~ atticus

do not pour your sunshine into someone who does not think of you as their sky | ~ gemma troy

you watch her walk away / and it hits you / that she is an entire ocean / and you were wrong, / so very wrong, / because you let her go / thinking she was just a girl. | ~ nikita gill

meeting you will never be my regret / tolerating the ways you hurt me always will be | ~ j.b.

in a world where everyone wears a mask, it’s a privilege to see a soul.

i don’t regret a single moment spent believing you were right for me. | ~ f a r a w a y

i want you. / so badly. / but i do not want this. | ~ l.e. bowman

stop trying to breathe life into something that has already died. | ~ r.h. sin

your heart isn’t made to settle… / you must choose the greatest love, / and you have to chase the greatest life | ~ butterflies rising

too much of anything could destroy you. too much darkness could kill you, but too much light could blind you.

he looked at her the way she needed to be looked at / like the whole world could crumble and he wouldn’t blink | ~ atticus

you wandered off too far, / you’ve forgotten who you are; / you’ve let down the ones you love, / you’ve given up too much. / you once made a deal with time, / now it’s slipping by too fast— / you can’t borrow from the future, / to make up for the past. / you forsake all that you hold dear, / for a dream that is not your own; / you would rather live a lie— / than live your life alone. | ~ lang leav

we’re a mess you and i, / but the truth is, / you captivate me in ways no soul ever will. | ~ perry poetry

now i have to remember you for longer than i have known you. | ~ c.c. aurel

“you make me feel… you make me feel,” he said quietly, fiercely, “and i don’t like it. i want it to stop. now.”

the most beautiful part is, i wasn’t even looking when i found you. | ~ a u t u m n

i’m not used to being loved / i wouldn’t know what to do | ~ f. scott fitzgerald

in the end, only three things matter: / how much you loved, / how gently you lived, / and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you | ~ buddha

there are plenty of ways to die, but only love can kill you and keep you alive to feel it. | ~ leo christopher

i was already complete when i met him / he just filled my life with so much color / to go on without him seemed absurd | ~ b. diaz

your scars are not your shame / he said / they are your story, and i love stories | ~ atticus

don’t set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm

you are my love story, and i write you into everything i do, everything i see, everything i touch, and everything i dream, you are the words that fill my pages. | ~ a.r. asher

fight for those who keep you, even on your worst days. | ~ perry poetry

i miss you but i know you will fix nothing. / so strangers we will stay. | ~ s e e k e r

i will look for you in every lifetime, until we finally stay | ~ butterflies rising

“you.�� / and just like that, the greatest poem was written, / in one word. | ~ clinton

and if love be madness, may i never find sanity again. | ~ john mark green

maybe one day we’ll find that place where you and i could be together. / and we’ll catch our dreams within the waves of change. / so smile for me one last time and believe that we’ll meet again. / until then, i’ll be missing you. | ~ r.m. drake

cause you never think that the last time is the last time. / you think there will be more. / you think you have forever, but you don’t.

i let her go because i knew she could do better / and now she’s gone / i wonder if i should’ve just been better. | ~ atticus

don’t forget: / somewhere between hello and goodbye, / there was love, so much love. | ~ f a r a w a y

i might be the writer / it you’ll always be the words | ~ ben mayfield

can’t you see that i’m lost in a sea of you. / i’d rather drown in your shadows / than swim in someone else’s light. | ~ perry poetry

who were you before they broke your heart?

the stars twinkled in his eyes, / and the sun itself warmed his smile. / i knew i might burn. / but i just had to inch a little closer. | ~ the dreamer

but i must admit i miss you quite terribly. the world is too quiet without you nearby. | ~ lemony snicket

when i can’t sleep at night— / i stare at my empty side of the bed, / and wonder about the things i would tell you, / if you were laying next to me. | ~ a.s.

there was never going to be an us / because you wanted to be missed / more than you wanted to be loved. | ~ beau taplin

i told her i was lost in this world / and she smiled / because she was too / we were all lost somehow / but we didn’t care / we had in each other’s chaos / found each other. | ~ atticus

there was a look in his eyes i had never seen before. and it took me a few moments to recognize it for what it was. remorse. / i don’t deserve you, he said, half-defeated, half-hopeful. / it was the most honest thing he had ever said to me. / and he was right. he didn’t deserve me. not by a long shot. / but he had me nonetheless. | ~ lang leav

you’re important to me. i think if there’s anything that will last forever, it’s that. / whether we separate, stay in touch or rarely speak again, you will always be that little something i really do care for, / that i would sacrifice everything for to protect and keep safe. | ~ beau taplin

how beautiful it feels / when they want to know / all about the worlds you hold / inside of you | ~ butterflies rising

there is my heart, and then there is you, / and i’m not sure there is a difference. | ~ a.r. asher

but we were something, don’t you think so?

fall in love with someone / who feels like the warmth of the sun / on a cold january morning, / but soothes your heart/ like the cool waters of the sea / on the hottest day of june. | ~ nikita gill

one day / someone will walk into your life. / and the sublimity of their presence, will pour upon you, like an antidote. / because— / in light, you’ll find splatters of darkness / in darkness, there are layers of light. / some people will do you wrong; / but this one, will make it right. | ~ clairel estevez

collapse into me. just once. i promise you’ll never have to fall again. | ~ perry poetry

when i’m upset. / i shut myself down. i have no motivation for anything. / i tell myself that nobody cares, even though i know some do. / i think about all of the negative things i could possibly think of. / i give myself all the pain, thinking i deserve it. / i’m not sure why i do that, but that’s just how i am. | ~ sameer pradhan

maybe we are meant to be / but just not at this time | ~ j.b.

tomorrow i’ll cry for all the world, / for all the things gone wrong; / i will cry for every tethered bird, / who has lost her joyful song. / tomorrow i’ll cry for every heart, / that is broken, like boughs, in two; / but today, my love, you have my tears— / today i will cry for you. | ~ lang leav

you / my fairytale / my book to never finish / let me in linger in your pages / a little ever longer | ~ atticus

i miss you all the time. so much, that it’s turned into a dull kind of miss and i start to think i’m used to it. then i’ll be out and i’ll see something funny and i wonder if you’d laugh about it too. and suddenly i’m thinking of your sarcasm, then your smile, then how your voice cracks when you’re trying to talk and laugh at the same time. and all that pain of missing you comes rushing back, and i realize i haven’t gotten used to it at all.

to know that i miss you so much when you leave; / to know that i need you like the air that i breathe. / to know that i want you with a passion so blind, / is to know that i love you— / with no doubt in my mind. | ~ lang leav

what if, you and i were meant to part ways, / only so that we could find each other again

and in the end i will seek you out amongst the stars. / the space dust of me will whisper “ i love you” / into the infinity of the universe. | ~ d.j.

i have faith that i held purpose in your life; / that we both impacted one another for the better / even if we couldn’t stay together | ~ ntm

i know it hurts, but i promise you this: / you will breathe again, and you will breathe more deeply than you ever have before. | ~ f a r a w a y

the saddest word in the whole wide world is the word almost. / he was almost in love. / she was almost good for him. / he almost stopped her. / she almost waited. / he almost lived. / they almost made it. | ~ nikita gill

constantly, consistently, continually, you. | ~ perry poetry

you’re somewhere in this world, / and i’m somewhere else in this world, / and there’s this feeling in my soul, / and i hope it gets to you | ~ butterflies rising

you said it was a great love / one for the ages / but if the story’s over, / why am i still writing pages?

on my silent days, i miss you a little louder | ~ c.c. aurel

i think some souls have a way of connecting without our knowledge. / that’s why you can meet someone for the first time, but inside you just know. / you know it is not the first time you’ve felt them. | ~ jmstorm

if you love something, love it completely, cherish it, say it, but most importantly, show it. / life is finite and fragile, and just because something is there one day, it might not be the next. / never take that for granted. / say what you need to say, then say a little more. / say too much. show too much. love too much. / everything is temporary but love. / love outlives us all. | ~ r. queen

i was loved in my dreams last night. it echoed through me like thunder— i felt it thought and through. / when i woke up, i couldn’t shake the feeling. his arms around me and his voice, already half forgotten. / the loss was indescribable. and i couldn’t help feeling that i have felt this way before, the certainty stemming from somewhere deep below. / somewhere in time, throughout the ages, it as loved— i was loved and my eyes were wide open. | ~ lang leav

today i decided to forgive you. not because you apologized or because you acknowledged the pain you caused me, but because my soul deserves peace. | ~ najwa zebian

if you came to me with a face i have not seen, with a voice i have never heard, i would still know you. / even if centuries separated us, i would still feel you. / somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and i. / when we leave this world, we give up all our possessions and our memories. / love is the only thing we take with us. / it is all we carry from one life to the next. | ~ lang leav

i am not the first person you loved. you are not the first person i looked at with a mouthful of forevers. / we have both known loss like the edge of a knife. we have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin. / our love came unannounced in the middle of the night. our love cam when we’d given up on asking love to come. / i think that has to be part of its miracle. this is how we heal. / i will kiss you like forgiveness. you will hold me like i’m hope. / our arms will bandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book. / i will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. i will write novels to the scar of your nose. / i will write a dictionary of all the words i have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you. / and i will not be afraid of your scars. / i know sometimes it’s still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection, but please know: / whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sun or the nights you collapse into my lap / your body broken into a thousand questions / you are the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen. / i will love you when you are still a day. / i will love you when you are a hurricane. | ~ clementine von radics

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jadelynlace · 3 years ago

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A Dead Woman Tells No Tales⎮Vikings Fiction [Ivar x F!Reader]

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

chapter eight / 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. Inspiration works in odd ways, does it not? I never thought I would work on this series again, history is not my favorite or my strong suit but I have great mutuals who have helped me to understand it. Looking directly at you @xbellaxcarolinax I do plan to finish this series slowly, now that more detailing has been set. And yes, I am aware with how out of character everyone is written and that only makes me happier because canon sucked. So shout out to all canon divergent AU’s. Divider is by @firefly-graphics & gifs are by @therealcalicali

specific chapter content warning(s): Mentions of suicide below the cut; for that I’m placing a trigger warning on this chapter. My inbox and messages are always open. Mentions of broken hearts, Ivar’s emotions and secret planning. Anything written in italics indicates a flash back.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

word count: 2500+ words

You hear the words play through pearly teeth, opening lines on your skin as if they had been carved with the sharp end of the blade. His eyes refused to meet yours on such terms as Ivar went on about how he is still a cripple—as if you did not know this feat prior, or if it hinders him now versus then life he has lived up to this moment. Passing whispers had infiltrated his mind once more, how you could be in love with a creature like him; the crippled boy turned crippled man and the king to rule the land his brothers had left for him. Ivar had spent so long trying to silence the doubts but they were never truly vanished, they were stuck watching him. His heart gripped slow movements after the speech he gave you on the dock. How he would not blame you for leaving him now because no amount of love could change who he is. You wonder then why you are not enough for him—why after all of this time together and apart from that you have still proven to not be enough.

“Ivar?” You start. Your words bounce from the ripples of the water, dancing back to the silver light of the moon’s reflection over the liquid plain. “Am I not enough for you?” The question hangs heavily between you two, swirling through the night sky and you think that there is a sound in your head that must be his heartbreaking before you. Ivar does not answer your question and you can’t recall if you want to yell at him, knock him from the dock and into the water to watch him ebb and flow, and try to move useless legs to have him reach safety. “If my love for you is not enough, you can say that. I will leave if you think it is not something I should continue.” It pains you that you have to talk to Ivar in such a manner as if the bargaining for your affections are unnoticed, unappreciated. “Ivar this is where you answer me.”

“You are enough for me,” Ivar says. “I think at times you are too much for me when I can not be the same for you.” His words almost make you laugh as if the two of you are ancient winds barking and battling.

“Must you think so lowly of yourself Ivar? You are Ivar the Boneless.” You tell him as your figure turns towards his.

“I have spent my life being rejected—being told there are things I cannot do because of who I am. Everything leaves, everything leaves me because of what I am. And if you decide that one day you wish to do such....” But his words end as he finally speaks them into existence.

“Ivar I am not leaving unless you kill me yourself.”

“And even then I do not think you will truly be gone,” Ivar speaks and he cracks a grainy smile to match the sand that lingers around you.

“I will haunt you in this life, and in the next, and what comes after that. Even if you never do believe me when I tell you how I love you, there will never be a time when I doubt you. Or when I want to leave you.” Ivar feels your hand tangle with his and he stays still, waiting for the next line to hurt him. “Please stop thinking like an idiot, Ivar, because you are not. You are a smart man and you know this.” The deep pettiness of how he holds himself aches at your hearts shattering what remains and you know how dark he has fallen. The black blood takes up his heart because he has been left with nothing, and it hurts him even when he tries to tell himself it does not. “What became of Bjorn?” You asked, simply to change the topic.

“He rules where the land we have claimed in York. Ubbe is there with him, taking the army farther.”

“And Sigurd?”

“Sigurd is dead,” Ivar states back and it is blunt, there lacks emotion and you recall the squandering the two would embark in. The matches of yelling and screaming and small physical fights. Without having to ask Ivar for the details of his older brother's passing, you know how Sigurd was killed. You wonder if it was an ax or the plunge of a knife that took him out.

“And what do you wish to do, Ivar, with your kingdom?” You feel the cherry stain of the smile on his mouth as you ask him, feeding his deflating ego to puff it back to the height you know.

“There is much I wish to do with my kingdom,” Ivar says back and there is a shy smile as he speaks, and it spreads to widen, to become devious as the possibilities filter through his mind. “I want to conquer—land, not by boat.”

“Seasickness?” You’re quick to remind him.

“I do not suffer from such.” Ivar scoffs and even he can tell his words do not sound anything close to truthful. You turn to him, taking a leg that moves from how it sinks along the sand to toss across Ivar’s hip, chimes from his weaponry clashing through the night, swallowed up by the ocean’s waves. Your hand comes next, sprinklings of sand over Ivar’s covered chest.

“Do you see all the grains of sand here?” You ask the man before you and he nods without moving his eyes. “Ivar the Boneless, I love you for as many grains of sand are in this world, and for as many lights that are in our skies.” He stays silent as you confess, his arm curling around your back, lacing along the amber strands even though he can’t believe the words are for him.

“There is no red in the forest, you would stick out like a dumb woman,” Ivar's voice says as he cocks his head to the side, smiling an insidious grin that makes you want to pull his lips from his face. “Save the fight, Y/N, because you would be caught, and you would be captured, and you would be beaten and raped. You are not meant to raid,” Ivar adds with another laugh, the sound growing when Ubbe snickers alongside him.

You wanted to pull your mouth apart and tell his brothers how Ivar spends his afternoons now, deep between your spread legs versus training, but you know he will not see to your eyes when you do such. You want to tell him how those words hurt and carve you to part, releasing blackbirds from within you to fly through the branches. You want to tell him that you know you are worthless, and you do not need him to remind you.

“And that is different than being a cripple, how?” You find yourself saying back as Ivar’s jaw tightens. “At least I have the ability to walk from spot to spot,” You add with a smile, grabbing your belongings and starting on the journey back. Hvitserk has bitten his tongue to stop the roar of laughter he wants to let loose at how Ivar looks with the sudden backlash. Ubbe has struck his own hand over his mouth to save his jaw from hitting the brown ground, Sigurd almost copying such.

“Y/N,” Ivar growls turning his head, “Get back here,” But you ignore him.

“When you can spread your legs and walk, do tell me,” You call back, but you halt yourself and turn. “Because I am done spreading mine for you,” and you toss your weapons along the brush and keep walking.

You are not meant to raid. That lone sentence calls you, taunts you with laughter, danced around the room with a creep of blackness as it spends more time on the forefront of your thoughts. Ivar had claimed land; you were there when the white cloth rose, you were there through victory. He learned quickly the fate of the open seas, spending the time on the waves in a hunch through an upchucked meal and stomach bile. He went with his army and they took what they coveted, in the name of his father and in the name of the Gods. In the cover of armor, muddled red hair caked with dirt, you were there, and you had raided. The thought of you haunted Ivar, choking on his own words and spitting them from his teeth like rotten meat. You were meant to raid. He knew it. And you could prove it.

“And what is wrong with the thought to sail to England? You have York, you can have Wessex,” A voice says next to Ivar.

“Sailing would be pointless, we would lose too many on the water to have a decent army—we have to think clearly in regards to where we are to invade,” Ivar said back.

“Seasickness,” You say simply, leaning in the doorway with a muddled container sloshing with mead. “Too many suffer from seasickness—it would make them unable to fight. Right, Ivar?” You smile, eyes catching the brief click his jaw holds again at the mere mention of what plagues him while on the boats.

“She is correct—we invade the land near,” He says, trying to redirect said focus.

“Hedeby,” You suggest and your words have piqued his interest.

“Continue…” Ivar says as his back takes to leaning some in the chair, slouching and you watch him relax for the first time in many days. “Tell me how you think we should invade,” The cup of mead meets his lips alike with the one that meets yours, challenging one another as his men watch the silent battle between the two of you.

“Fire,” You suggest. “You can control such, you can burn how you like with the ways of the Gods. We could poison, sneak mixtures into their supplies and watch them choke,” You hum, watching how Ivar in taking your ideas through his ears, turning them over into petty battle plans as he calculates great things. “Send me to try their men. Drink their blood, and eat their hearts in the marketplace,” You finally add, the mead now speaking mostly for you as you watch how Ivar takes to curl his lips. To snort some in disbelief as you stroll back out through the hall.

“She is insane,” A man next to Ivar speaks.

“Yes, she is,” Ivar starts. “And it is glorious,”

It was a rain of heavy downpour as Ivar limped back into his quarters, ready to be settled for the evening, ready to see you, ready to forget for a moment how his legs had hurt and how his eyes had hazed into cerulean shades once more. Ready to have you heal his mind to restart a sensation he used to hold in the forest when he would hold you. It was the sound of a wounded animal, that was what Hvitserk must have figured, or a slave trying to free herself before she was caught. But a wounded animal would not thrash, and a slave would not have access to ceramics to shatter. Only Ivar did. He is on the floor when Hvitserk finds him, a mess of a man around your torn dress, the hair that has been tossed like waste along the furs he made love with you on that same morning.

“What happened?” Hvitserk is quick to ask.

“She is gone,” Ivar answered. “She has left,” He is sure of it, the way he had begged of your staying was simply not enough. It never was—he never was. Hvitserk’s eye catches something, a drip as if the water is being rung from a rag as he looks to the table side.

“Ivar, she did not leave,” Hvitserk says suddenly around the collection of blood. “She was taken,” Ivar straightens completely from how he has hunched himself over his stents, still with tears in his vision as the realization settles in his stomach of the terror, the mess of whom snuck in and grabbed you. How you spoke of no evil, called for no help, put up a fight which may have cost you the life you were to live alongside him. Hvitserk peeks around the room again, trying to trace his eyes over everything, to see if there was a tale you left in your wake because he could not understand why you went so willingly. The mess Ivar had turned the area into in his emotionally induced anger was no help. There was a grip across Hvitserk’s wrist and he feared Ivar may have snapped it suddenly, in his route to reach for your dress, to prove to Ivar that you did not simply leave him.

“Do not touch it,” Ivar growls.

“It may help us figure this out,” Hvitserk tries.

“It still smells of her, leave it to stay that way,” Ivar whimpers.

There is excitement through his limp, though he is trying to make his body move to such quickness that his limbs know nothing of. He knows where you have slipped away to, and he knows that you have no left him like he had terrorized so many nights thinking of such. The darkness of losing you once more because of himself. His eyes are locked on those at the table, and even Hvitserk seems intrigued and perhaps Ivar now has understood that you have simply left, on to better things, better people, a life so not filled with the darkness. A life that is not revolving around Ivar and how he has faulted you.

“I know where she is,” Ivar says plainly and Hvitserk rolls his eyes at the sudden tone. The sudden misunderstanding and he is not going to march with his brother to find you.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk tries to start but Ivar’s hand quiets him in petty refusal. And then he slams the small trinket on the table. The same one you had gifted him, even after his cruel words of how you were unfit for the life of raiding.

“Ivar,” You say softly, and your hand grazes his knee. You can feel the flinch, the harsh words that you have spoken in the separation but right now your anger for him does not outweigh how you love him. “Take this with you, please,” You say to him. There is no movement from him and you proceed yourself, taking the palm of his hand and setting the lone figure inside of it. “Whether or not you come back, Ivar the Boneless, I will always remember you,” You whisper against his ear. “May the Gods keep you safe, I am sorry my love was not enough,” Sculpted cheekbones finally turn to you, eyes still cast towards the ground and he nods once. “Show them no mercy,” And you turn, stepping away.

“Hedeby,” Ivar spits to his men. “Because she is meant to raid.”

A Dead Woman Tells No Tales Tags:

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literarypilgrim · 4 years ago

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Read Like a Gilmore

All 339 Books Referenced In “Gilmore Girls”

Not my original list, but thought it’d be fun to go through and see which one’s I’ve actually read :P If it’s in bold, I’ve got it, and if it’s struck through, I’ve read it. I’ve put a ‘read more’ because it ended up being an insanely long post, and I’m now very sad at how many of these I haven’t read. (I’ve spaced them into groups of ten to make it easier to read)

1. 1984 by George Orwell 2. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain 3. Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll 4. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon 5. An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser 6. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt 7. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy 8. The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank 9. The Archidamian War by Donald Kagan 10. The Art of Fiction by Henry James

11. The Art of War by Sun Tzu 12. As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner 13. Atonement by Ian McEwan 14. Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy 15. The Awakening by Kate Chopin 16. Babe by Dick King-Smith 17. Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women by Susan Faludi 18. Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie 19. Bel Canto by Ann Patchett 20. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath 21. Beloved by Toni Morrison 22. Beowulf: A New Verse Translation by Seamus Heaney 23. The Bhagava Gita 24. The Bielski Brothers: The True Story of Three Men Who Defied the Nazis, Built a Village in the Forest, and Saved 1,200 Jews by Peter Duffy 25. Bitch in Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel 26. A Bolt from the Blue and Other Essays by Mary McCarthy 27. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley 28. Brick Lane by Monica Ali 29. Bridgadoon by Alan Jay Lerner 30. Candide by Voltaire 31. The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer 32. Carrie by Stephen King 33. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller 34. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger 35. Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White 36. The Children’s Hour by Lillian Hellman 37. Christine by Stephen King 38. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens 39. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess 40. The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse 41. The Collected Stories by Eudora Welty 42. A Comedy of Errors by William Shakespeare 43. Complete Novels by Dawn Powell 44. The Complete Poems by Anne Sexton 45. Complete Stories by Dorothy Parker 46. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole 47. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas 48. Cousin Bette by Honore de Balzac 49. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky 50. The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber 51. The Crucible by Arthur Miller 52. Cujo by Stephen King 53. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon 54. Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende 55. David and Lisa by Dr Theodore Issac Rubin M.D 56. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens 57. The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown 58. Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol 59. Demons by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 60. Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller 61. Deenie by Judy Blume 62. The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America by Erik Larson 63. The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band by Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, Mick Mars and Nikki Sixx 64. The Divine Comedy by Dante 65. The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells 66. Don Quixote by Cervantes 67. Driving Miss Daisy by Alfred Uhrv 68. Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson 69. Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Tales & Poems by Edgar Allan Poe 70. Eleanor Roosevelt by Blanche Wiesen Cook 71. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe 72. Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel in Letters by Mark Dunn 73. Eloise by Kay Thompson 74. Emily the Strange by Roger Reger 75. Emma by Jane Austen 76. Empire Falls by Richard Russo 77. Encyclopedia Brown: Boy Detective by Donald J. Sobol 78. Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton 79. Ethics by Spinoza 80. Europe through the Back Door, 2003 by Rick Steves

81. Eva Luna by Isabel Allende 82. Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer 83. Extravagance by Gary Krist 84. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury 85. Fahrenheit 9/11 by Michael Moore 86. The Fall of the Athenian Empire by Donald Kagan 87. Fat Land: How Americans Became the Fattest People in the World by Greg Critser 88. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson 89. The Fellowship of the Ring by J. R. R. Tolkien 90. Fiddler on the Roof by Joseph Stein 91. The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom 92. Finnegan’s Wake by James Joyce 93. Fletch by Gregory McDonald 94. Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes 95. The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem 96. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand 97. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley 98. Franny and Zooey by J. D. Salinger 99. Freaky Friday by Mary Rodgers 100. Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut 101. Gender Trouble by Judith Butler 102. George W. Bushism: The Slate Book of the Accidental Wit and Wisdom of our 43rd President by Jacob Weisberg 103. Gidget by Fredrick Kohner 104. Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen 105. The Gnostic Gospels by Elaine Pagels 106. The Godfather: Book 1 by Mario Puzo 107. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy 108. Goldilocks and the Three Bears by Alvin Granowsky 109. Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell 110. The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford

111. The Gospel According to Judy Bloom 112. The Graduate by Charles Webb 113. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck 114. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald 115. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens 116. The Group by Mary McCarthy 117. Hamlet by William Shakespeare 118. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling 119. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling 120. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers 121. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad 122. Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry 123. Henry IV, part I by William Shakespeare 124. Henry IV, part II by William Shakespeare 125. Henry V by William Shakespeare 126. High Fidelity by Nick Hornby 127. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon 128. Holidays on Ice: Stories by David Sedaris 129. The Holy Barbarians by Lawrence Lipton 130. House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III 131. The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende 132. How to Breathe Underwater by Julie Orringer 133. How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss 134. How the Light Gets In by M. J. Hyland 135. Howl by Allen Ginsberg 136. The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo 137. The Iliad by Homer 138. I’m With the Band by Pamela des Barres 139. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote 140. Inferno by Dante

141. Inherit the Wind by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee 142. Iron Weed by William J. Kennedy 143. It Takes a Village by Hillary Rodham Clinton 144. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte 145. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan 146. Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare 147. The Jumping Frog by Mark Twain 148. The Jungle by Upton Sinclair 149. Just a Couple of Days by Tony Vigorito 150. The Kitchen Boy: A Novel of the Last Tsar by Robert Alexander 151. Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain 152. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini 153. Lady Chatterleys’ Lover by D. H. Lawrence 154. The Last Empire: Essays 1992-2000 by Gore Vidal 155. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman 156. The Legend of Bagger Vance by Steven Pressfield 157. Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis 158. Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke 159. Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken 160. Life of Pi by Yann Martel

161. Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens 162. The Little Locksmith by Katharine Butler Hathaway 163. The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen 164. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott 165. Living History by Hillary Rodham Clinton 166. Lord of the Flies by William Golding 167. The Lottery: And Other Stories by Shirley Jackson 168. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold 169. The Love Story by Erich Segal 170. Macbeth by William Shakespeare 171. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert 172. The Manticore by Robertson Davies 173. Marathon Man by William Goldman 174. The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov 175. Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter by Simone de Beauvoir 176. Memoirs of General W. T. Sherman by William Tecumseh Sherman 177. Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris 178. The Meaning of Consuelo by Judith Ortiz Cofer 179. Mencken’s Chrestomathy by H. R. Mencken 180. The Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare 181. The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka 182. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides 183. The Miracle Worker by William Gibson 184. Moby Dick by Herman Melville 185. The Mojo Collection: The Ultimate Music Companion by Jim Irvin 186. Moliere: A Biography by Hobart Chatfield Taylor 187. A Monetary History of the United States by Milton Friedman 188. Monsieur Proust by Celeste Albaret 189. A Month Of Sundays: Searching For The Spirit And My Sister by Julie Mars 190. A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

191. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf 192. Mutiny on the Bounty by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall 193. My Lai 4: A Report on the Massacre and It’s Aftermath by Seymour M. Hersh 194. My Life as Author and Editor by H. R. Mencken 195. My Life in Orange: Growing Up with the Guru by Tim Guest 196. Myra Waldo’s Travel and Motoring Guide to Europe, 1978 by Myra Waldo 197. My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult 198. The Naked and the Dead by Norman Mailer 199. The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco 200. The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri 201. The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin 202. Nervous System: Or, Losing My Mind in Literature by Jan Lars Jensen 203. New Poems of Emily Dickinson by Emily Dickinson 204. The New Way Things Work by David Macaulay 205. Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich 206. Night by Elie Wiesel 207. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen 208. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism by William E. Cain, Laurie A. Finke, Barbara E. Johnson, John P. McGowan 209. Novels 1930-1942: Dance Night/Come Back to Sorrento, Turn, Magic Wheel/Angels on Toast/A Time to be Born by Dawn Powell 210. Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski

211. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck (will NEVER read again) 212. Old School by Tobias Wolff 213. On the Road by Jack Kerouac 214. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey 215. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 216. The Opposite of Fate: Memories of a Writing Life by Amy Tan 217. Oracle Night by Paul Auster 218. Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood 219. Othello by Shakespeare 220. Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens 221. The Outbreak of the Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan 222. Out of Africa by Isac Dineson 223. The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton 224. A Passage to India by E.M. Forster 225. The Peace of Nicias and the Sicilian Expedition by Donald Kagan 226. The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky 227. Peyton Place by Grace Metalious 228. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde 229. Pigs at the Trough by Arianna Huffington 230. Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi 231. Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain 232. The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby 233. The Portable Dorothy Parker by Dorothy Parker 234. The Portable Nietzche by Fredrich Nietzche 235. The Price of Loyalty: George W. Bush, the White House, and the Education of Paul O’Neill by Ron Suskind 236. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen 237. Property by Valerie Martin 238. Pushkin: A Biography by T. J. Binyon 239. Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw 240. Quattrocento by James Mckean

241. A Quiet Storm by Rachel Howzell Hall 242. Rapunzel by Grimm Brothers 243. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 244. The Razor’s Edge by W. Somerset Maugham 245. Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi 246. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier 247. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin 248. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant 249. Rescuing Patty Hearst: Memories From a Decade Gone Mad by Virginia Holman 250. The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien 251. R Is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton 252. Rita Hayworth by Stephen King 253. Robert’s Rules of Order by Henry Robert 254. Roman Holiday by Edith Wharton 255. Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare 256. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf 257. A Room with a View by E. M. Forster 258. Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin 259. The Rough Guide to Europe, 2003 Edition 260. Sacred Time by Ursula Hegi 261. Sanctuary by William Faulkner 262. Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Nancy Milford 263. Say Goodbye to Daisy Miller by Henry James 264. The Scarecrow of Oz by Frank L. Baum 265. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne 266. Seabiscuit: An American Legend by Laura Hillenbrand 267. The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir 268. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd 269. Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette by Judith Thurman 270. Selected Hotels of Europe

271. Selected Letters of Dawn Powell: 1913-1965 by Dawn Powell 272. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen 273. A Separate Peace by John Knowles 274. Several Biographies of Winston Churchill 275. Sexus by Henry Miller 276. The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon 277. Shane by Jack Shaefer 278. The Shining by Stephen King 279. Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse 280. S Is for Silence by Sue Grafton 281. Slaughter-house Five by Kurt Vonnegut 282. Small Island by Andrea Levy 283. Snows of Kilimanjaro by Ernest Hemingway 284. Snow White and Rose Red by Grimm Brothers 285. Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy: Lord and Peasant in the Making of the Modern World by Barrington Moore 286. The Song of Names by Norman Lebrecht 287. Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos by Julia de Burgos 288. The Song Reader by Lisa Tucker 289. Songbook by Nick Hornby 290. The Sonnets by William Shakespeare 291. Sonnets from the Portuegese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 292. Sophie’s Choice by William Styron 293. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner 294. Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov 295. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach 296. The Story of My Life by Helen Keller 297. A Streetcar Named Desiree by Tennessee Williams 298. Stuart Little by E. B. White 299. Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway 300. Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust

301. Swimming with Giants: My Encounters with Whales, Dolphins and Seals by Anne Collett 302. Sybil by Flora Rheta Schreiber 303. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens 304. Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald 305. Term of Endearment by Larry McMurtry 306. Time and Again by Jack Finney 307. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger 308. To Have and Have Not by Ernest Hemingway 309. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee 310. The Tragedy of Richard III by William Shakespeare 311. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith 312. The Trial by Franz Kafka 313. The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elisabeth Robinson 314. Truth & Beauty: A Friendship by Ann Patchett 315. Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom 316. Ulysses by James Joyce 317. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath 1950-1962 by Sylvia Plath 318. Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe 319. Unless by Carol Shields 320. Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann

321. The Vanishing Newspaper by Philip Meyers 322. Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray 323. Velvet Underground’s The Velvet Underground and Nico (Thirty Three and a Third series) by Joe Harvard 324. The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides 325. Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett 326. Walden by Henry David Thoreau 327. Walt Disney’s Bambi by Felix Salten 328. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy 329. We Owe You Nothing – Punk Planet: The Collected Interviews edited by Daniel Sinker 330. What Colour is Your Parachute? 2005 by Richard Nelson Bolles 331. What Happened to Baby Jane by Henry Farrell 332. When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka 333. Who Moved My Cheese? by Spencer Johnson 334. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee 335. Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire 336. The Wizard of Oz by Frank L. Baum 337. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte 338. The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings 339. The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

#books in Gilmore Girls #reading list #booklr #have you read?

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jobean12-blog · 4 years ago

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Something Found

Pairing: Loki x reader

Word Count: 620

Summary: You and Loki have a proper date.

Author’s Note: This is for the TH HBC’s @the-th-horniest-book-club character appreciation day and LOKI! This is actually a second part to a drabble I wrote called Brewed Awakening that you can read here You don’t have to read it but it might help to make things more clear. I love writing sweet and soft Loki! I hope you enjoy and thank you all for reading! Much love always!❤❤❤ (Text messages are in italics :D)

Warnings: soft and sweet romantic fluff!

‘He wants to cook me dinner at his place! I’m so not used to this romantic stuff…eeeeee!’ Your friend immediately replies with several emoji’s and lots of ‘yay.’ Throwing your phone down on the bed you try to figure out what to wear even though the date isn’t for another two days. Deciding on a chic and comfortable red dress you hang it on the back of your door, a daily reminder of what you have to look forward to.

Saturday night rolls around and you have your music on loud while you get ready, opting for light make up and easy hair. Loki offered to pick you up or send a car, but you decide to drive yourself, wanting to have a quick getaway just in case. Who knew you would never want the night to end…?

He opens the door with a wide smile, his eyes roving over your form but not in a way that made you uncomfortable. “You look simply ravishing darling, please come in.” You giggle and walk through the doorway; the delicious smell of whatever Loki has cooking making you sigh in satisfaction. “Wow that smells so good and thank you.” The last part comes out quieter than you expected, and you dip your chin to hide your heated cheeks.

“I think I will have to compliment you more often, so you get used to it. To think all this time no one was telling you how lovely and beautiful you are every day.” At a complete loss for words you just stare at him and his hand reaches out and to take yours. His smile is soft, “here, let me take this for you.” He turns you around and gently takes your jacket from your shoulders, hanging it on the coat rack by the door. “Come in, make yourself comfortable.”

You slowly walk around his apartment, taking note of all the books that line the floor to ceiling bookshelves and the neatly folded blankets along the couch and chairs. It all looks so cozy. You stop at one shelf and scan the spines, looking for something that stands out and make a small squeal when you spot ‘Sylvia Plath-The Collected Poems.’ “What has got you so excited my sweet?” You turn with the book held close to your heart and smile, “I love her work!”

He comes closer, plucking it from your hands and fanning through the pages, “an excellent choice indeed. May I?” You nod and wait with bated breath until he lands on page and opens the book wider, smiling at you before he starts to read. The words fall from his mouth as beautifully as they were written, his eloquence and the silvery sound of his voice drawing you in from every angle.

He finishes the poem and you realize you’ve been tentatively taking steps forward, now at his side and looking up into the bright green of his eyes. “That was…just wonderful.” He closes the book and sets it down. “Would you like me to read more after dinner?” He draws you closer with his palm splayed at your back, closing his other hand around yours and lightly swaying around the living room. “That sounds lovely.”

With a quick command to Alexa, he fills the room with some soft classical music, kissing your knuckles before asking, “a dance first, if I may?” The moment is almost too much, and you feel yourself slipping into a dizzy haze, but his strong arms hold you firm and you find yourself at ease with his touch. “Yes, I would love to dance.” He twirls you around the room with skill and you can feel yourself falling for him with each passing second.

@book-dragon-13 @bugsbucky @breezy1415 @eurynome827 @hiddles-rose @jhangelface0523 @jewels2876 @loricameback @lorilane33 @lokilvrr @marvelgirl7 @nano--raptor @pinkdiamond1016 @randomfandompenguin @sallycanwait68 @survivor-reborn @twhiddlestonsstuff

#loki x reader #loki x reader fluff #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x reader fluff #loki drabble #loki laufeyson drabble #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine #loki fanfiction #loki x you #loki laufeyson x you #tom hiddleston #th hbc character appreciation days #loki

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artemidian · 4 years ago

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vivian bae i saw you talking about poetry and i wanna start getting into it more. do you have any recs hehe👐

oh my goodness isa i’ve been looking forward to answering this since i got it,,, but i had homework and then dance and then more homework of course i have recs!! i love poetry so much

what i started with when i first got into poetry was “a children’s garden of verses” by robert l. stevenson but honestly i have no idea where you’d be able to find it— i have a very old hand me down copy lol

okay so. below the cut i left a ton of recs from poetry that i’ve read recently because i love talking about poetry but here’s a place to start:

poets: elisabeth hewer, seamus heaney, amy king, bhanu kapil

poems: “at the student poetry reading” by kim stafford “calling the dead” by jennifer wong “and these are lips” by thabile makue “the oracle was stoned” by chester wilson iii

here’s the poems i mentioned with liane!

➥ “we” “idle” “reflect” (all by william forchion)

here are two poetry collections i adore

➥ “if not, winter” (fragments of sappho, tr. anne carson)

➥ “devotions” (selected poems of Mary Oliver)

and some more recommendations!

➥ “beacons at bealtaine” and “digging” by seamus heaney

➥ “do not stand at my grave and weep” by mary e. frye

➥ “the waste land” by t. s. elliot

➥ “aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven” by w.b. yeats

➥ “siren song” and “corpse song” by margaret atwood

➥ “anthem for doomed youth” by wilfred owen

➥ “the aim was song” by robert frost

➥ “that night when joy began” by w.h. auden

➥ “the sun rising” by john donne

➥ “the world is too much with us” by william wordsworth

➥ “mirror” by sylvia plath

➥ “pour toi mon amour” by jaques prévert

➥ “the prophet” by alexandr pushkin

➥ “out in the dark” by edward thomas

➥ “i think it’s brave” by lana rafaela

➥ “i wish i wrote the way i thought” by benedict smith

➥ “after the beginning, before the end” by deborah brown

➥ “i am here because someone survived” by cornelius eady

#isa’s an angel🌟#poetry!!#do i sound like a pretentious english student— ?#imagine if i was like. read my poetry. instead of giving actual recs #jokes on all of you i’ll never share my poems with you guys!!!#sorry!!!

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dreamhimcloser · 7 years ago

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Mad Girl’s Love Song

Namjoon x Reader. pg13. 1034 words. Angst. Trigger warning: mentions of suicidal thoughts, depression, mental illness and hospitalization. Note: The poem Mad Girl’s Love Song by Sylvia Plath appeared in the poetry exam I took today and look at me, insanely having inspiration in the middle of a test. Yup. That’s me. Making the most out of the academia.

“I fancied you’d return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)” –Sylvia Plath

For a reason unknown, you were overly fond of fairy tales your entire life. You watched your friends grow out of that phase, leaving the magical words behind for more realistic dreams and aspirations.

You held onto them.

Something about the implied magic of this world left you star-struck, and even the harsh reality that this world raises you in failed to take it away from you. You went through hardships – a lot of them – and no magic saved you from feeling a terrible hurt inside your chest.

Something cannot be fixed with a spell of fortune.

You combined this view with the world, somehow, you managed. Something inside you kept screaming, this isn’t over, the words will have a re-lived meaning in the future. The future is probably the most mysterious figure in your life’s story, even magic can’t tamper with it.

Sometimes you wished it could.

When you thought of him you wished it could.

He came one summer day, out of nowhere, but somehow managed to arrive at the right place, at the right time. You were confused at first – he really did show up from nowhere. One moment you were alone and the next he was just there.

He seemed confused too, you always strain your concentration to remember the exact pull his features took as he took the sight of you in. The fairy tales in your mind screamed at you – this is something you can only explain by magic. You looked at him, a man perfect in every single way, and you didn’t find the reason for you to argue.

You took him into your house against any sound reason. He accepted the offer and a breath later he made sure you’re aware of the dangers. You laughed, waving away his worry because honestly, you didn’t share it.

Maybe it was the magic inside you that kept you from using the realistic side of your worldview.

You found how right you were fast. He really was magic, there was very little he knew of this world and his opinions, oh they made perfect sense in the chaos kind of way. You listened, taking every bit of magical spell he let out of his lips like it’s nothing but true. He tried lying to you once, just to test out the feeling against his tongue – it looked funny, but you kept a straight face through it in fear of upsetting him.

He never tried again.

That’s the sad point, you could tell when he’s lying. You can always tell, his face was an open book written in language that your heart always knew – you know him.

Even now, when there is no trace of him, you know him. Even as everyone around you tells you you’re insane, even if you start believing it too, you know him. These moment swimming in your head, whole days filled with joy and love and sex – you couldn’t have made them up. You’re not a good enough story-teller for that.

But the realistic side received the power when he disappeared, and you had to admit it.

His touch, kisses, affection – maybe it made you a little bit insane.

You gave in and allowed your parents to enlist you into an institute that was supposed to help you. You lived halved once again in a whole new way. By day the doctors tried to ease you into the idea that you were alone, in that moment that he appeared and until he went away. Alone with the company in your mind. By night, he came by your dreams, his touches warming your skin and leaving butterflies long after the dream ends. Sometimes you could even find bruises the morning after. The doctors say it’s you, but he touched you right there, how could it be?

In the dreams, he’s always asking for your forgiveness. He looks guilty, as if he did something wrong. You always tell him it’s okay, he’s here and you’re whole again – until the dream ends and you can’t wait to go back to his arms. You trace your bruises, every single second you can until they’re gone, and in the dream, you ask him to mark you again.

He does.

Your body is marked.

It makes things somewhat worse, your mind racing to fill in gaps to maybe help you understand. Princesses in fairy tales are usually not this confused, are they? You start thinking about another option since living in the mental hospital is really not a peach and being with him is too good to be true.

You want to ask him how could you stay there forever, but you never can. It’s like the dream finally starts being one and your mouth won’t open even if commanded to – or is it your nerves that get the best of you.

You want to sleep forever to be with him.

He smiles again and takes your hand. You wonder where he’s from and if he wants his physical world to be as dead as you want yours to be. The starts seem closer in his world, dancing around you as if helping his seduction – they don’t need to, really. You were his since the moment you saw him.

The pills start soon, maybe you were too obvious in your wishes. They take the dreams of him away, the bruises heal and now, now there really isn’t anything left for you to grasp. He’s gone, even though he said he’d be back, even though he kept you company at night, even if he asked for forgiveness thousands of times and whispered he loves you every single chance he got.

He’s gone.

The only thing you have that reminds you of him now is the endless row of notes filling your room, each and every one of them holding his name, forever engraved with ink on paper.

Namjoon.

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head).” –Sylvia Plath

#bts scenarios #rm scenarios #btswriters #bangtan bookclub #namjoon #mgls #angst #I honestly don't know what came over me wow #don't look at me

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billdecker · 7 years ago

Text

2018.

Here we are with the films list again. Bold = watched first time.

Films.

The English Patient

The BFG

Anna Karenina [1967]

King Kong [2005]

Henry VIII and his Six Wives [1972]

The Disaster Artist

Napoleon Dynamite

The Addams Family

Kong: Skull Island

Justice League

The Addams Family Values

Johnny English

Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle

Wayne’s World

Lady Bird

Westworld

Carol

Green Lantern

England is Mine

Rush Hour

Pride and Prejudice [2005]

Call Me By Your Name

The Greatest Showman

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Dante’s Peak

Only Lovers Left Alive

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Blade Runner

Moonrise Kingdom

Clue

Get Smart

Darkest Hour

Blade Runner 2049

Lost in Translation

The Talented Mr. Ripley

The Lego Movie

Anchorman

The Shape of Water

Get Out

San Andreas

The Beguiled

Lady Chatterley’s Lover [1981]

Interview With a Vampire

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Song to Song

Atonement

La La Land

Drop Dead Fred

Attack the Block

Another Mother’s Son

I, Tonya

The Sense of an Ending

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Cold Mountain

Step Up

The Founder

The Fugitive

The Promise

Papadopoulos and Sons

Rob Roy

The Florida Project

Professor Marston and the Wonder Women

Head in the Clouds

Crooked House

Miami Vice [2006]

Miss Sloane

Molly’s Game

Battle of the Sexes

Half of a Yellow Sun

A Quiet Passion

Lady Jane

Anne of a Thousand Days

Mars Attacks!

Zoolander

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Nina

Pele: Birth of a Legend

2001: A Space Odyssey

A Futile and Stupid Gesture

The Mask

Phantom Thread

Black Panther

Eyes Wide Shut

The Death of Stalin

Baywatch

Paddington 2

Wonder Woman

Star Trek [2009]

Star Trek Into Darkness

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Star Trek Beyond

Denial

Chariots of Fire

Captain America: The First Avenger

Iron Man

The Incredible Hulk

Borg vs McEnroe

Iron Man 2

Thor

Avengers Assemble

Iron Man 3

Thor: The Dark World

Captain America: The Winter Soldier

Avengers: Age of Ultron

Guardians of the Galaxy

Guardians of the Galaxy: Volume 2

Ant-Man

Captain America: Civil War

Doctor Strange

Spider-Man: Homecoming

Thor: Ragnarok

War Horse

God’s Own Country

In Bruges

The Big Sick

The Towering Inferno

Magnolia

Our Souls at Night

Dog Day Afternoon

Willow

Roman Holiday

Sabrina

Annihilation

North by Northwest

The Emoji Movie

Coco

Grease

Dirty Dancing

Captain Fantastic

The Wicker Man

This is Spinal Tap

Magic Mike XXL

Come Sunday

The Dark Tower

Bill

Avengers: Infinity War

Loving Vincent

Mansfield Park

Three Men and a Little Lady

Oliver!

Rough Night

Avatar

One Last Dance

Girls Trip

Alex and the List

The Dambusters

The Mummy [2017]

London

The Damned United

The Wedding Video

Deadpool

Enter the Dragon

Atomic Blonde

The Red Shoes

The Great Gatsby [2013]

Bram Stoker’s Dracula

South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut

Morris: A Life With Bells On

Boss Baby

Solo: A Star Wars Story

Kenny

All About Eve

Lethal Weapon

Lethal Weapon 2

Final Portrait

The Little Mermaid

The Huntsman: Winter’s War

Men in Black 3

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider

Lara Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life

Tomb Raider [2018]

Crocodile Dundee

Jabberwocky

Legend

Lethal Weapon 3

The Witches

Down With Love

Clash of the Titans [1981]

Clash of the Titans [2010]

I Give it a Year

Terminal

Where the Wild Things Are

The Handmaiden

The Muppet Movie [1979]

Brakes

Ready Player One

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom

A Wrinkle in Time

Breathe

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

Eagle vs Shark

Farenheit 451 [2018]

Picnic at Hanging Rock

Mission Impossible

Mission Impossible II

Mission Impossible III

The Saint [2017]

JFK

Ocean’s 8

Deadpool 2

Falling Down

Duck Butter

Peter Rabbit

44 Inch Chest

You Instead

The Deep Blue Sea

Not Another Happy Ending

Punch Drunk Love

The Fast and The Furious

2 Fast 2 Furious

The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift

Fast & Furious

Fast Five

Fast & Furious 6

Furious 7

The Fate of the Furious

Geostorm

Ant-Man and the Wasp

Escape to Victory

Porcupine Lake

The Snowman

The Incredibles

Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again

Daphne

Ingrid Goes West

One Day

My Neighbor Totoro

There Will Be Blood

Rampage

Goodbye Christopher Robin

Incredibles 2

To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before

Belle de Jour

Mission Impossible - Fallout

The Spy Who Dumped Me

The Meg

Little Ashes

Meet Joe Black

The King of Comedy

Jason and the Argonauts

Flash Gordon

Odette

Strictly Ballroom

Into the Woods

Cars 3

The Book of Life

Murder on the Orient Express [2017]

Kath & Kimderella

Madame Bovary

X-Men: First Class

X-Men: Days of Future Past

X-Men: Apocalypse

All the Money in the World

Quincy

The Post

Becoming Bond

Early Man

Little Women [1994]

Dangerous Liaisons

The Party

Operation Finale

Nappily Ever After

What’s New Pussycat?

Saved!

A Star is Born [1976]

Modern Life is Rubbish

Jaws

The Mercy

Swept from the Sea

Permission

Venom

A Star is Born [2018]

Far and Away

Heat

Jane Eyre

Braveheart

Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool

Juliet, Naked

First Man

Christopher Robin

Vincent and Theo

Pollock

Bohemian Rhapsody

One More Time With Feeling

Interlude in Prague

The Mask of Zorro

The Legend of Zorro

You, Me, and Him

The Nutcracker and the Four Realms

Crazy Rich Asians

Bobby [2016]

Outlaw King

Space Jam

They Shall Not Grow Old

The Grinch [2018]

The Big Lebowski

Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald

Mulan

The Battle of the River Plate

They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead

My Generation

Batman Begins

Being John Malkovich

Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone

Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets

Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban

Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire

Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix

Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince

Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows - Part One

Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows - Part Two

Widows

Immortal Beloved

Basquiat

Goya’s Ghosts

The Madness of King George

Charade

Star Wars: A New Hope

Stars Wars: The Empire Strikes Back

Star Wars: Return of the Jedi

Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

Stars Wars: Attack of the Clones

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith

Star Wars: The Force Awakens

Star Wars: The Last Jedi

Star Wars: Rogue One

The Polar Express

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

Dr. No

From Russia With Love

Goldfinger

Thunderball

You Only Live Twice

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service

Diamonds Are Forever

Live and Let Die

The Man With the Golden Gun

The Spy Who Loved Me

Moonraker

For Your Eyes Only

Octopussy

A View to a Kill

The Living Daylights

Licence to Kill

Goldeneye

Tomorrow Never Dies

The World is Not Enough

Die Another Day

Casino Royale

Quantum of Solace

Skyfall

Spectre

Superbob

Greenfingers

Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle

A Christmas Prince

Aquaman

Love, Cecil

A Christmas Prince: The Royal Wedding

The Man Who Invented Christmas

Copying Beethoven

The Party’s Just Beginning

Point Break

Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa

The Sound of Music

The Muppet Christmas Carol

The Muppets

Cars 2

The Holiday

A Bad Moms Christmas

The Holiday Calendar

The Christmas Chronicles

Nativity

Nativity 2: Danger in the Manger

Arthur Christmas

Bobby Robson: More Than a Manager

Zootropolis

Mary Poppins

The Good Dinosaur

Trolls

Rise of the Guardians

Bros: After the Screaming Stops

The Beatles: Eight Days a Week - The Touring Years

Get Carter [1971]

Bottle Rocket

Turbo

Closer

Nothing Like a Dame

Bolt

Make Us Dream

Die Hard

How to Train Your Dragon 2

Porridge

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Books.

A Book For Her - Bridget Christie

Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie

Bright Star - John Keats

The Oberon Book of Comic Monologues for Women - Katy Wix

The Oberon Book of Comic Monologues for Women: Volume 2 - Katy Wix

Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut

Division Street - Helen Mort

The Victorian Guide to Sex - Fern Riddell

A Woman’s Work - Harriet Harman

Help - Simon Amstell

The Princess Diarist - Carrie Fisher

Selected Poems - Sylvia Plath

Ariel - Sylvia Plath

The ‘If You Prefer a Milder Comedian Please Ask For One’ EP - Stewart Lee

The Rachel Papers - Martin Amis

Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie

Bone - Yrsa Daley-Ward

Pages For You - Sylvia Brownrigg

The Sun and Her Flowers - Rupi Kaur

Different for Girls: A Girl’s Own True-Life Adventures in Pop - Louise Wener

A Single Man - Christopher Isherwood

A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf

Repeal the 8th - Una Mullally

Why Not Socialism? - G.A. Cohen

The Chaos of Longing - K.Y. Robinson

High-Rise - J.G. Ballard

Animal Farm - George Orwell

Fully Coherent Plan - David Shrigley

The Lesser Bohemians - Eimear McBride

The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 3/4 - Sue Townsend

Hera Lindsay Bird - Hera Lindsay Bird

Submarine - Joe Dunthorne

In the Penal Colony - Franz Kafka

Babette’s Feast - Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen)

The Expelled - Samuel Beckett

Youth - Joseph Conrad

The Life of Rylan - Rylan Clark-Neal

Autumn - Ali Smith

The Cornet-Player Who Betrayed Ireland - Frank O’Connor

Two Gallants - James Joyce

Teaching my Mother How to Give Birth - Warsan Shire

Selected Poems - Edgar Allan Poe

Casino Royale - Ian Fleming

Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

The Door in the Wall - H.G Wells

Terra Incognita - Vladimir Nabokov

Dirty Pretty Things - Michael Faudet

Women & Power: A Manifesto - Mary Beard

Dear Illusion - Kingsley Amis

Bitter Sweet Love - Michael Faudet

Smoke & Mirrors - Michael Faudet

Girl Meets Boy - Ali Smith

Pre-Raphaelites - Heather Birchall

Conspiracy - Charlotte Greig

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams

Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray

Sex and Rage - Eve Babitz

Scoop - Evelyn Waugh

The Letters of Vincent Van Gogh - edited by Mark Roskill

Role Models - John Waters

The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald

How Not To Be a Boy - Robert Webb

Animal - Sara Pascoe

Absolute Pandemonium - Brian Blessed

Eileen - Ottessa Moshfegh

A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness

A Handful of Dust - Evelyn Waugh

Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters - Jane Austen and Ben H. Winters

Normal People - Sally Rooney

Feminists Don’t Wear Pink - Scarlet Curtis and Others.

Parsnips, Buttered - Joe Lycett

The Humans - Matt Haig

The Machine Stops - E.M. Forster

Ivanhoe - Sir Walter Scott

Poems for a World Gone to Shit - Various

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macbetha · 8 years ago

Note

What are some of your favorite books of all time?

sorry this took a bit to answer, i took this question prettyseriously because books mean so much to me haha. so, i made a list! thesearen’t all specifically books; there are plays and poems as well, just becausethose have a tendency to have as much of an impact me as novels and such.

D R A M A / P L A Y S

Tennessee Williams: A Streetcar Named Desire- On a streetcar named Desire, Blanche DuBois travels from the railroad station in New Orleans to a street named Elysian Fields, where her sister, Stella, pregnant and married to Stanley Kowalski, lives in a run-down apartment building in the old French Quarter. Having lost her husband, parents, teaching position, and old family home—Belle Reve in Laurel, Mississippi—Blanche has nowhere to turn but to her one remaining close relative.

William Shakespeare: Macbeth- Macbeth is thought to have been first performed in 1606. It dramatizes the damaging physical and psychological effects of political ambition on those who seek power for its own sake.

G R E E K D R A M A ( C OM E D Y & T R A G E D Y )

Aristophanes: Lysistrata- Originally performed in classical Athens in 411 BCE, it is a comic account of a woman’s extraordinary mission to end the Peloponnesian War by denying all the men sex - and it works.

Sophocles: Oedipus Rex- Oedipus was a mythical Greek king of Thebes. A tragic hero in Greek mythology, Oedipus accidentally fulfilled a prophecy that he would end up killing his father and marrying his mother, thereby bringing disaster to his city and family.

C L A S S I C S : G R E E K L I T E R A T U R E

Homer: The Iliad- Set during the Trojan War, the ten-year siege of the city of Troy by a coalition of Greek states. The Iliad mentions or alludes to many of the Greek legends about the siege; the earlier events, such as the gathering of warriors for the siege, the cause of the war, and related concerns tend to appear near the beginning. Then the epic narrative takes up events prophesied for the future, such as Achilles’ looming death and the sack of Troy, although the narrative ends before these events take place. However, as these events are prefigured and alluded to more and more vividly, when it reaches an end the poem has told a more or less complete tale of the Trojan War.

The Poetry of Sappho- She was one of the few women mentioned in ancient Greek literature and doesnot frequent the topics of other writers of her time, such as politics and war. She writes about compassion and love; her work is really beautiful andheartfelt.

C L A S S I C S : E N G L I S H/ A M E R I C A N L I T E R A T U R E

Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”This first sentence filled with irony and playfulness. The novel revolves around the necessity of marrying for love, not simply for mercenary reasons despite the social pressures to make a wealthy match.

Emily Brontë: Wuthering HeightsAlthough Wuthering Heights is now widely regarded as a classic of English literature, contemporary reviews for the novel were deeply polarised; it was considered controversial because its depiction of mental and physical cruelty was unusually stark, and it challenged strict Victorian ideals of the day regarding religious hypocrisy, morality, social classes and gender inequality.

F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby- The best third-wheel story of all time.

P O E T R Y / S H O R T ST O R I E S

Sylvia Plath: “Lady Lazarus”Out of the ashes / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath: “Poem for a Birthday”“Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth.”

Lucille Clifton: “Homage To My Hips”these hips are mighty hips. these hips are magic hips. i have known them to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top! Maya Angelou: “Phenomenal Woman”It’s the fire in my eyes / And the flash of my teeth, / The swing in my waist,/ And the joy in my feet.

Warsan Shire:Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth- “later that night / i held an atlas in my lap / ran my fingers across the whole world / and whispered / where does it hurt? / it answered / everywhere / everywhere / everywhere.” - “give your daughters difficult names. give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. my name makes you want to tell me the truth. my name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.” - “every mouth you’ve ever kissed / was just practice / all the bodies you’ve ever undressed / and ploughed in to / were preparing you for me. / was it a long journey? / did it take you long to find me? / you’re here now, / welcome home.” -“I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are still together.” -“I want to make love but my hair smells of war and running and running.”

Maya Angelou: “Still I Rise”Does my sexiness upset you? / Does it come as a surprise / That I dance likeI’ve got diamonds / At the meeting of my thighs?

Maya Angelou: “Chicken Licken”When she saw a bed / locksclicked / in her brain

Edgar Allan Poe: Murders In The Rue Morgue- i read this in eighth grade and it is a mystery that stuck with me for therest of my life. it is fascinating in the way that poe always is, i so recommend it.

Edgar Allan Poe: “Evening Star”- “I gazed awhile / On her cold smile /Too cold - too cold for me.”

M E M O I R S / B I O G R A P H I E S

Christine Wiltz: The Last Madam: A Life In the New Orleans Underworld- In 1916, at age fifteen, Norma Wallace arrived in New Orleans. Sexy and shrewd, she quickly went from streetwalker to madam and by 1920 had opened what became a legendary house of prostitution. There she entertained a steady stream of governors, gangsters, and movie stars.

Stephen King: On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft - Shares the experiences, habits, and convictions that have shaped King and his work.

Y O U N G A D U L T / C H I L D R E N ‘ S

Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments- so, i didn’t finish this series but it’s the memories of reading these books that makes me put it on this list. i remember reading them on the bus rides home from school, in my eighth grade history class, running to the store on their release date and begging my dad for the newest addition. it is a very fascinating universe; i haven’t watched the show shadowhunters, which is based on this series, but the books were good.

Lemony Snicket: A Series of Unfortunate Events- i read ALL OF THESE BOOKS THEY WERE MY LIFE. they were so depressing but i loved these three siblings so much that i refused to leave them alone in that horrible world. haven’t watched the netflix series!

Rick Riordan: Percy Jackson Series- for me, as a bored thirteen year old, this was one of the things that opened the door to greek mythology, which is now one of my favorite topics to study.

S O U T H E R N G O T H I C

Flannery O’Connor: “Good Country People”- Southern Gothic literature is a genre of southern USA writing. While it may include supernatural elements, it mainly focuses on damaged, even delusional, characters. The humor is strange and even when it is finally realized, it might not be all that funny, because humor in Southern Gothic stories is twisted, and usually quite vile. There are consistent grotesque themes of decay, desolation, and supernatural forces that are often credited to lost family honor, ghosts, witches, faeries, or god - but the shit all takes place on an isolated corn farm. It is a very fascinating genre and “good country people” is a prime example of this. (personal note: most of ewoatt chapter one was inspired by the southern gothic genre).

R E F E R E N C E

Thomas C. Foster: How to Read Literature Like a Professor: A Lively and Entertaining Guide to Reading Between the Lines- THIS IS THE BOOK I REFERENCE MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE WHILE WRITING. It’s an introduction to literature and literary basics, including symbols, themes and contexts, that shows you how to make your everyday reading experience more rewarding and enjoyable.

Joseph Bates: The Nighttime Novelist:Finish Your Novel in Your Spare Time - Franz Kafka was an insurance agent. William Faulkner was a postmaster. Stephen King taught high school English, John Grisham was an attorney, and Toni Morrison worked in publishing. Though romantic fantasies of the writing life don’t often include a day job, the fact is that most writers have one. Yo, if you’re wanting to write a book or just a big fanfic, please get this book. I give it so much credit.

Barbara & Allan Pease: The Definitive Book of Body Language: The Hidden Meaning Behind People’s Gestures and Expressions- It is a scientific fact that people’s gestures give away their true intentions. Yet most of us don’t know how to read body language–and don’t realize how our own physical movements speak to others. Now the world’s foremost experts on the subject share their techniques for reading body language signals to achieve success in every area of life. Great writing reference.

Natalie Goldberg: Writing Down the Bones- This text offers encouragement and advice on many aspects of the writer’s craft, from first thoughts to the use and misuse of adverbs, from where the best places are to write - both public and private.

#ask macbetha #recommended #recommendations #book recommendations #references #ref #writing #writing references

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kevingau-blog · 7 years ago

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Notes (9/8/17)

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Notes on Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven

Astride

Â· The first thing I noticed about this poem, besides it being one word per line, is the use of sound imagery. That seems to be the emphasis of the poem.

Â· The way it is written it is very hard to get into any rhythm reading it. I wonder if that was intentional.

Â· If I read the poem correctly, the order of events seems to be a rider mounting his horse, riding during the nighttime going smoothly enough for a while, running into some kind of swamp or bog, the rider gets hit in the groin, and the horse crashes into thickets around the water. If this is right, Iâ€™m not entirely sure what to make of it. Perhaps it has something to do with the night imagery reminding the reader of darkness leads to some kind of accident.

Â· Why does it turn into nonsense words when someone (presumably the rider) speaks? Does this signify the rider crashing?

Â· The first couple of reads I couldnâ€™t really gather anything from this poem, but when you really start to get the order of events it just kind of creates an image in your mind. Itâ€™s pretty interesting how we can take apparently a bunch of nonsense and piece it together in a meaningful way. Maybe that was the purpose of the poem, but I could be way off about that.

Aphrodite to Mars

Â· On first read I could only gather that Mars and Aphrodite had sex and there may have been some sort of fight

Â· I was curious why the author repeated the word â€œSystemsâ€ towards the beginning and talked about an octopus towards the end. Could the octopus be some sort of weird innuendo?

Â· She uses the word â€œfitâ€ when talking about Mars in the second stanza and wondered what it meant. At first I thought it could mean Mars is fit or it could mean that Mars and Aphrodite would be a good fit for each other or perhaps itâ€™s more sexual innuendo. It clued me in to the fact that these poems are written so loosely that each individual line can mean almost anything and is completely open to interpretation even though the broader view of the story is relatively more coherent.

Â· The last stanza, which appears to me do be a description of Aphroditeâ€™s vagina after sleeping with Mars, ends with â€œBy:â€ followed by a list of adjectives. I wonder what that could mean.

Â· In the 3rd stanza it gets into a rhythm of 2 words on one line followed by one word on the next line repeated a few times, then many iterations of 1 word per line causing you to start reading the stanza slowly then read through it much quicker. It stops and goes at points, then towards the end says â€œIncreases!â€ as the only italicized word in the text. I could be wrong, but I interpreted this all as a part of the same sexual metaphor.

Hellâ€™s Wisdom

Â· The speaker begins by talking about derangement which she first says in quotes but later discusses without. She starts off more or less coherent with close to full sentences and many words, then as she goes on becomes less coherent and uses less words. Towards the end she even begins speaking in mathematical terms that donâ€™t actually make sense. I have a couple of ideas about what this could mean. Perhaps she is discussing slipping into insanity, perhaps she discusses the shedding of emotion to create an almost mechanical personality, et cetera.

Â· The end of the poem, where the reader transitions from saying nonsense mathematical terms to certain emotional, contextual, sophisticated, etc. words used in literature gives me the idea that it could be about literature being almost mass produced in terms of unoriginality, it could be about a shift from a world that values art to one that values science, it is really hard to discern.

Â· Author begins by talking about loneliness, maybe that is causing insanity?

Â· This poem has the most coherent lines of the three of her poems and it is the most difficult to understand.

Sylvia Plath Notes

Daddy

Â· Very well written, very emotional. I was not expecting this to start talking about the Holocaust from the beginning.

Â· Seems to me the girl came from a gypsy family and the Nazis killed her father.

Â· â€œMight as well be a Jewâ€, maybe she was saying the oppressed were all in the same situation, maybe that people shouldnâ€™t care what race anyone is.

Â· I was really interested how she talked about her father being the monster (a â€œvampireâ€) that the town scapegoated then they danced around his body after driving a stake through his heart, then after that even the daughter gave up on him. Maybe that has something to do with the power of conformity and her being taught to hate.

Â· Whatâ€™s the idea with the black shoe? Is that supposed to be something like a hiding place the minorities in Nazi occupied territories?

Â· â€œI never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ichâ€. Seemed to be talking about her trying to learn German

Â· Later in the poem it becomes clear that the narrator repeats the â€œooâ€ sound at the ends of most lines. Why is that?

Â· Why does she mention feet so much?

Lady Lazarus

Â· Reading the two poems actually gives some idea of Plathâ€™s life story. If I interpreted what I read correctly, Plath was a Jew in Nazi occupied Poland, her father was killed when she was 10 and she tried to kill herself when she was 20.

Â· Did Plath write this poem thinking about her 30th birthday, realizing that for her first 20 years one terrible thing has happened at the end of each of those 10 years?

Â· I found it interesting how she described different parts of her body (skin, foot, face) as a sort of a tool for the Nazis (lampshade, paperweight, linen), as if she was being sold for parts.

Â· In the literal, this poem talks about crowds gathering to watch her come die and come back to life. She wouldnâ€™t call it a miracle, she keeps saying â€œthere is a chargeâ€ for this dying. Her capacity for happiness?

Â· Then she talks about people taking pieces of her for a charge, really interesting how she goes back to this idea of being sold for parts.

0 notes

jadelynlace · 4 years ago

Text

a dead woman tells no tales / vikings fiction

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

chapter two / read chapter one 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. smut below the cut.

pairing: Ivar x Reader

✄

There was an ache your feet contained, moving out of memory down the path but you could not recall why this one seemed to be so long. It was childish, your torment and exhaustion, heavy and foul in your heart but you moved forward, incurable search looming across your eyelids. “I will get help,” were the last words Ivar had spoke to you, the last time you were both in the realm of relishing in a life ahead. You spent many nights in those rocks, the moon looming over you and help never came. The tale that churned through the village at the time was how you wandered off into the woods and never returned back out. A victim of the elements, or hungered animals, perhaps gone to another establishment. You wondered who believed the petty story, especially since you knew of the best routes to take through all forests and hillsides from your upbringing. You ached to know why Ivar never brought back help.

The center of how the flowers bloom always caught your eye—spreading for their destiny to be taken away in the brisk spring wind when it would roll through. Your invisible business helped the sun stretch a bit higher, the sky lighting with the same passion that drove back your arrow; the relished sight of her reflection in the puddle of blood. Perhaps you could splash in it before the beasts had gone to lap it dry.

“You have been quiet for a woman of your beauty,” A sudden voice drew your immediate attention, your spot close to the woods that held your secrets as you watched the display of celebration before you.

“I have been watching,” You answered.

“And what is it you are watching for? How to enjoy a moment of celebration?”

“I am watching,” You repeated.

“When you have finished watching, perhaps you would care to come to my quarters,” The man finally spoke, curling the tone of his speech to lace your hair, intertwining the strands of amber.

“I would care not,” But your simplistic spite fell on ears that had long since been drowned with the mead, the man grabbing the neck line of your garment and lifting you.

“I am tired of chasing you to no avail. You are a fighter as I have seen, fight back,” He demanded, pushing you to lay across the ground, clad of covered feet stomping towards how you are positioned for him. “I would like to see the fight you speak of,”

“I watch and I learn,” You hissed, brushing the soot from the fabric of your clothing.

“You do not learn to fight by observing,” He laughed as you stood.

“You learn weakness,” You answered, still not backing from how his eyes watched you: how the silk of the dress hung to your breasts, how your fingers were long and nimble, neat and clean nails and he imagined what else your body could offer.

“Just like how everyone is weak to the end of a blade?” He snickered, the flash of the metal dancing daintily in his grasp.

“Yes, just like how everyone is weak to the poison in their mead,” You promised, a simple smile adorning your face as you crept back into the darkness of the night; only tossing a final look as the man began to gasp, his organs curdling as his body crawled towards his grave.

You visit Ivar’s quarters at night, dawned down the great hall as you creep along the floor. Ivar seated around an assortment of furs as you press the door open to catch him.

“You haunt me,” He say lowly, a gaze torched through the blue eyes he owns as he has his head tipped towards where you stand.

“An evil spirit would haunt you, Ivar,” You state, “A spirit that wants revenge...have you done something you regret?” You ask, your feet taking you to the ledge of the place he sleeps, but his hiss simply stops you.

“I regret nothing in the path to greatness,”

“Do you regret not getting me help?” You finally ask. His shoulders sag briefly before he straightens himself up, a thin line of artwork catching the faint glow in the orange cast of the lingering fire. “Do you regret not speaking the truth about what happened?” Ivar only swallows thickly.

“Is that why have you come all this way to me? For revenge? Or for a different ending? I will kill you myself if that is what you are seeking,” Ivar growls as he raises. You notice the weight on the pillar he holds, how the legs he held so much hatred for are covered with iron as he clunks towards where you stand.

“I would like that Ivar,” You whisper as you watch Ivar’s face contort: his brow creasing to a sudden look of sadness as he catches the flames that crackle behind you. “You will do great things, Ivar the Boneless, but I have seen the gates of Valhalla, and they offer nothing that I can not get for myself now. I want you to remember one thing Ivar: everything always returns,” You hand moves on its own accord towards the chiseled cheekbone, streaked with petty battle scars but he flinches quickly from your touch.

“What have you done with the woman I once knew?” Ivar asked when his eyes finally catch yours. “I am a cripple and you…” His voice trails off as it dances between you two, soaked up completely by the moonlight. “You are back,”

“You need to rest Ivar. I will be gone in the mornings, and you can go forth,” You answer watching Ivar cast a look to where his body should be stationed: gorged in the warmth of the fur as the nightmares swamp through his mind for another night, but instead his hand catches yours as it retreats back towards your hips.

“You are back,” He repeats as the tone softens to such an extent you consider perhaps, someone else in the room is speaking for him. “Would you lay with me?” Ivar requests. “And give me that to remember on my voyage back?”

The room wafts against your nose the smell of him, you cannot explain the scent that has always reminded you of the man you knew, but your search for it came with no promises until you had moved to be next to him. Another couple of logs placed along the amber flames before you hear Ivar groan softly as the limp limbs he carries finally halt their torture to have their rest. The shine of his blue eyes are on you as your feet carry you back, a quick clicking from his tongue halting you in your attempts to pass him. Leveling to his gaze, he taps his own shoulder as your mind catches clue of his poem regarding the fabrics you wear. You carry on the next few moments untying how your dress has been formed, pulling the ends before it drops to your feet. Ivar’s eyes do nothing other than widen at the sight of your body bare for him, the clean, close shave of your mound and the lone traces of the injuries undetectable in the low light.

There’s a scream in your mind to climb over him, smother his body with yours and bloom pleasure between the two of you. There’s an even fainter call to struggle with him, stuffing the furs into his mouth to suffocate the voice that had been calling in your dreams since the nights you spent in the field. You body can do neither as his eyes fixate on you, a soft turn of his head as you find him studying you in beauty, your body written in a language for him to decode.

“What caused that scar?” He asked suddenly, finger outstretched to the crease across your hip bone as it slithered across the supple flesh on your inner thigh.

“A blade,” You response as you hear the man before you chuckle.

“A blade from whom?”

“A man who tried to have his own way with me,” You replied. “More than once,”

“Is he dead?” Ivar asked lowly.

“I poisoned him,” There’s a sick grin that claims Ivar’s mouth as you speak before him, a tick in the bones of his jaw as you spin the tale on to him of your efforts to harm anyone who has tried to harm you. Ivar must wonder why you have gone so long and spared him.

“Lay with me,” Ivar finally repeats, pushing back the mounds of fabric across the bed. As you round the structure, folding your dress neatly to rest across the far table, you still feel the climbing sting of Ivar’s gaze over your bare back. Trickling down the swell of your behind and over your legs, catching your chest in the light as another low hum slips on account of his studying. It does not take too much more of his wordless expressions to send the faint glint of arousal to slide through your womanhood, slipping across the plains of your thighs as you settle near his body. Ivar makes no motions to touch you, sliding down as one arm rests behind his head, the other caught in a line over his chest.

“This does not seem of something that would be memorable, Ivar,” Your voice catches his brows to raise as you too rise onto your forearms. “May I?” You ask as the pads of your fingers come to trace along the hardened length of his arm. He hums in compliance as you turn the limb from your path and gather yourself to rest along his chest, his arm coming back to circle you as half of a halo. His other arm wastes no time to complete the path as you sigh, breath fanning across chiseled muscles and lingering ink. He seemed stuck on how to continue, his arms still resisting to trace your body before you peak up to look at him. “I am not fragile, Ivar,” You whisper. Ivar turns his head slightly to catch your eyes, the faint pooling of the ink across the blue oceans as he watches you rise again, a throw of the blankets back before you’re across his hips.

“You misbehave,” He says to you.

“You bring it out in me. Do you not wish to lay with me like that Ivar?” You ask. But you get no immediate answer.

“You know that answer. But...there are many things you have missed in the time you have been away,” Ivar starts. “I—” But his words die against his mouth as you press your lips along his, sinking a quick pressure of your teeth into his bottom lip as you pull away. Room is limited as Ivar’s arms stabilize you against his chest, holding you there as if he fears you will simply float from his grasp before his mouth is hot against yours. The faint rocking from your hips catches him as his lips falter, his hands not ceasing as they explore every trace of your skin. “You will be disappointed,” Ivar whispers softly enough you almost miss his sentence.

“Can you not feel it? How my body responds for you Ivar?” You ask puzzled the lone pressing of his prick takes your notice from where you have your body spread. Ivar’s mouth parts as you grind your cunt where he grows, his head sinking back across the furs with a simple low moan of your name. You want to peel away the rest of what covers him, but the closer you drew to his lower legs the further Ivar went from you. His eyes situated with lust as your finger danced by his knees quickly dissipates until you pull your hands back to his chest. “Let me pleasure you, Ivar,” You say sweetly. “I will not undress you any further,”

Before you can sink down across him, Ivar stills you, watching how your breasts pebble to his touch, slipping his hands between your legs as your wetness collects along his digits. Your moan is matched with his alike, impatient to continue with his thumb still circling your clit, his own way with you tingling the sensation to bloom at your tailbone as your thighs start to shake. Ivar’s name falls from your lips in a moan as he studies you while you come, the simplest pressure from him still causing such a delicious outpour. You can feel his cock twitching, aching to be touched with the fluid pebbling from its head. Through still pleasure drunk thighs you sink across him, the sting of your walls spreading catching you to halt before he’s fully inside of you. A watchful face of concern as you hiss briefly at his size, finally sheeting him fully inside of you. Your tightness stills Ivar completely, a low moan dribbling from his lips as his chest heaves, tensing through his abdomen as your fingers dance over him. As the pain fizzles to spread a hum of glorious pleasure through you, your hips move on their own, Ivar’s hands gripping your breasts as they bounce slightly, your head tipping backwards. Still stuck watching you before you lean closer to him, his mouth hungrily taking yours as you feel him move his own hips towards you.

No words are exchanged, soft noises from both of yours mouths to be eaten back up again as you feel another wave roll towards you. Ivar’s arm lock around you and your climax hits you, his own pulling a release from his shaft as he fills your walls with his lips still stuck to yours. Breathing each other’s scent in as the final flames go out with the smell of sex through the air. Ivar makes no hurry to have you leave him, his cock softening as you nuzzle his cheek.

“Why must you leave?” You find yourself asking.

“I have a kingdom to return to, my people and my queen,” Ivar suddenly admits.

“You have wed?”

“Yes,” Ivar answers as you slowly pull back. “I told you that you would be disappointed. Freydis is with my child,”

“Freydis?”

“Yes,” His answer pierces your heart, not out of the sorrow of having then lost him to another woman, but of the battles you know he has no knowledge of. You laugh suddenly, a joyous giggle, trying to move away but he stops you. “Please stay, Y/N,” Ivar whispers.

“She is not with your child Ivar,” You find yourself suddenly spitting from your lips, wishful that you could stop them as your laughing dies to an end. “She has been laying with the baker’s son, and she is with his,”

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#vikings #vikings fiction #vikings au #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok fanfiction #ivar lothbrok #ivar au #ivar lothbrok x reader #ivar ragnarsson #ivar ragnarsson fanfiction #ivar ragnarsson smut #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar x reader #— i am i am i am. ( my writings & creations )#a dead woman tells no tales

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jadelynlace · 4 years ago

Text

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.

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