#the dream of death or the site of the poetical bodies

[derangedrhythms]

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

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

[malaisequotes]

“There is someone in my throat, someone who gestated in solitude, and I, unfinished but still burning to be born, open—I am opened up—and she is coming out, and so will I.”

The Dream of Death, or the Site of the Poetical Bodies by Alejandra Pizarnik, translated by Yvette Siegert

[yostresswritinggirl]

Just thinking about how reader is essentially Niwa’s heart and Dottore using their tanto to kill and cut out Niwa’s physical heart is poetic in its own way. His heart was twice destroyed. I’m still trying to figure out just how long Niwa spent on the swords since the smithing time varies. And he’s simp incarnate for his beloved. He’s also entirely willing to wait until marriage unless reader tells him they don’t want to wait when it comes to more intimacy.

Hoyo, please tell me more about Niwa. I must know his capabilities and what resources are at his disposal. Just how high is his rank??? Clearly, he has personnel.

Niwa senses a disturbance in the spouse force and immediately tries to find them. The residents are also suspicious because if reader and Niwa aren’t attached to each other or carrying out their duties then something is very wrong. Reader leaving without a word is too out of character for them. Kabukimono going “they promised to teach me a new song today” and fretting because reader always keeps their promises. It may raise concerns about other things and add to the current tension. Niwa did issue a gag order on the furnace so maybe there’s rumors of either a curse or murderer going around? For Niwa, it’s too much of a coincidence that he’s investigating Escher and his reader goes missing while the furnace is acting up and yeeting people.

I’m also fond of Dottore considering whether he can experiment on reader. Could he put their conscience in their tanto and create an artificial youkai? Putting their body in the furnace… Dottore is the real menace. Oh, post boss fight but pre-interlude when Scara is unconscious, he (and Traveler) hear soft singing. He still has thoughts about his failure for puppet reader. But he can’t remember where he heard the song from as he closes his eyes.

Beidou officiating Kazuha and his partner’s union on the Crux. Truly canon.

Bloom anon

FUCK - I hate you so much - what is up with this blog and heart symbolisms in partners goddamn coinciding with 'till death do us part' analogies hhhh-

I'm thinking that maybe before they got together or early on in the relationship, Niwa had already fantasized about forging them a sword when he was still new to it so he's only planning and drafting designs until he became the armory officer, then along the way he decided it would be a perfect proposal gift and went with it?

Another simp incarnate added to the collection, I don't know the right term for it but I can definitely see him be weak to his lover, like he'll agree to anything they say or want, very devoted. I wish hmm I really wish we can get more info on him *looks at notes* Or maybe there's line here and there that can be seen as him hmm

Everyone, especially Niwa, definitely sensed something wrong the moment they disappeared since it's a tight knit group like family and Tatarasuna is a small island after all. It would also be cool (fucked up) if they disappeared the day before Niwa planned to confront Escher, like it's some kind of coincidental threat - hey why don't we make it worse by making Dottore kill Niwa WITH the Tanto (going back to what I said of them trusting their partners to use it on them if they turned evil) so the moment he saw the blade, he immediately knew what happened and tried to crawl to Escher to fight him but he's already too weak

I think he considered reader in the context of his experiment with Kabukimono/Scaramouche, he needed to make sure he won't ever return to Tatarasuna and had to ensure the betrayal is enough to push him to the Fatui. But maybe he thought of that too yes, if he found out about youkais in his stay there hmm hmm

Okay okay, I almost forgot to include this but what about after he saw his memories, the truth, even the grave site he made in Tatarasuna, Nahida then would make a dream when he sleeps of a life where the furnace incident never happened and Niwa and his lover adopted him to a normal, wholesome family life *sobbing in the corner*

And yesss Beidou definitely has the authority as the pirate queen of the Teyvat seas to make it official, that ceremony is not at all conventional but it's one of the best

[thebluesthour]

“This evening, at dusk,” he said, “they fitted me with a black shroud and placed me on a bed of yew. They poured a blue wine over me and they mixed it well with bitterness.”

from “The Lay of the Host of Igor”, as quoted in Alejandra Pizarnik’s ‘The Dream of Death, Or the Site of the Poetical Bodies’ (trans. Yvette Siegert)

[soracities]

“I write with my eyes shut. I write with my eyes wide open.”

Alejandra Pizarnik, ‘The Dream of Death, Or the Site of the Poetical Bodies’

[adrasteiax]

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

Alejandra Pizarnik, from The Dream Of Death, Or The Site Of The Poetical Bodies in “Extracting The Stone Of Madness: Poems” [translated by Yvette Siegert]

[weltenwellen]

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

[thegirlthatcriesacademia]

Adonis, from Selected Poems; “Celebrating Al-Ma'ari: II. Days” (tr. Khaled Mattawa)

Adonis, from Selected Poems; “A Piece of Bahlul’s Sun” (tr. Khaled Mattawa)

Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, “Extracting the Stone of Madness”, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

John Keats, from Ode to a Nightingale

George Sand (Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin) in her letter to Gustave Flaubert dated 27 June 1870, featured in The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert letters

Louise Glück, from Averno; “October”

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

Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, “The Dream of Death, or the Site of the Poetical Bodies”, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

Artworks by kotartist

[just-wublrful]

and they were roommates

Bluets, Maggie Nelson | Baked Goods, Aimee Nezhukumatathil | Dear Eros, Traci Brimhall | nights like these, pigeon pit | Game Shows Touch Our Lives, The Mountain Goats | Its Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die, Hanif Abdurraqib | If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert, Natalie Diaz | I Will, Mitski | Object Permanence, Nicole Sealy | Sharon Olds | Six Poems for Tamar, Yehuda Amichai | Seventh Circle of Earth, Ocean Vuong | The Dream of Death, or the Site of the Poetical Bodies, trans. Yvette Siegert, Alejandra Pizarnik

( @lasilhouetteinbianco grimacing emoji)

[Image Description: an assortment of lyrics and quotes from various sources.

1. Eventually you will have to give up this love, she told me one night while I made us dinner. It has a morbid heart.

2. I want our summers/ to always be like this - a kitchen wrecked/ with love, a table overflowing with baked goods/ warming the already warm air. After all the/ pots are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters/ wiped clean - never let us be rescued from this/ mess.

3. with laughs as dark as our halos. I wished Always/ but the dandelion seeds were stubborn, everything ripe/ refused my mouth. When I said Come home, it was a lie, /but I believed it. For a year I was light shaking on/ the surface of the/ water, a fire softening into a flood,/ and once his hand around my arm like a snake circling/ a branch in Eden. Not all secrets are shames, and this one/ isn’t either. It’s the pale green of healing. It’s my lips/ opening like parentheses and his name inside, it’s turning/ back from the wrong north, the moon like a slice of raw/ onion, my skin weeping like a fever, closing the question/ with my hand around my other arm so I’ll match, so I’ll burn.

4. And I stayed up, chain smoking in the kitchen/ Until you got home and the curtains were on fire/ Fuck, I’m sorry you feel all alone

5. Maybe everything that falls down eventually rises/ our house sinking into disrepair

6. Enough with the foolishness of hope and how it bruises/ the walls of a home where two people sit, stubbornly in love/ with the idea of staying. If one must pray, I imagine/ it is most worthwhile to pray towards endings.

7. If you say to me, This is not your new house/ but I am your new home,/ I will enter the door of your throat,/ hang my last lariat in the hallway,

8. And all the quiet nights you bear/ Seal them up with care/ No one needs to know they're there/ For I will hold them for you/ 'Cause all I ever wanted is here/ All I ever wanted/ All I want is/ Always you

9. We wake as if surprised the other is still there,/ each petting the sheet to be sure

10. The house seems/ to circle around you/ slowly. I circle around you, a wild/ animal near a fire. I remember/ I would kill for you. I remind myself/ it won’t be necessary.

11. The rain is speaking quietly,/ you can sleep now./ Near my bed, the rustle of newspaper wings./ There are no other angels./ I’ll wake up early and bribe the coming day/ to be kind to us.

12. As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house without knowing / it won’t last. How/ does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands?

13. And I would wander across all/ the deserts of this world, even after death, to/ search for you - you who were the place/ of love. End ID.]

[writefightandflightclub]

I really enjoyed your Nathan fluff 🥺 we love this angry peach fuzz king 👑💖 would you ever write him being comforted after having a nightmare? 💕

First of all, LOL @ “angry peach fuzz king” 🤣🤣🤣

Second of all, here you go! 🧡 I will warn you - I think I forgot the fluff a little bit though. It became more hurt / comfort? More angst than expected? It ends nicely though and comfort is given to Nathan - but only after I’ve subjected him to rattling around in his own head and house for a bit.

Through the looking glass (Nathan Bateman x GN!reader)

Summary: Nathan has nightmares after The Incident. After so long alone, he doesn’t realise how badly he needs a little comfort - and maybe he doesn’t believe that he deserves it.

Author’s note: hopefully this isn’t too similar to All Better. I know they both take place post-stabbing, but I tried to give this a different focus. I know I could have made the nightmares based off of anything given the ask, but this timeline / focus seemed most sensible to explore the character.

Warnings: nightmares following traumatic incident (a stabbing); mentions of blood and injury - not graphic. Self-harm (punching the bag until injury); Body horror if you squint (some gruesome descriptions occurring in-dream, but fairly abstract); swearing; implied alcoholism recovery if you squint; mentions of therapy; Nathan mildly injured in fic; reader offering comfort.

Rating: MATURE for themes mentioned above.

GIF: by @santiagogarcia (this whole gifset is magic- check it out + reblog!)

Nathan wakes up breathless, plastered to the covers by a sheen of sweat - and not in a good way. On instinct, or out of habit by now, or maybe somewhere between the two, his palm slides over his body to the site of the wound.

He is so slick that he half-believes he is soaked with dank, deep blood again, until his fingers trace over nothing more than a half-concave, half-ridged scar. The lack of searing pain is the next point of evidence leading him towards an alternative conclusion. He’s not dying (again).

It’s just another gruesome nightmare.

Although… there is nothing “just” about it.

The nightmares are pretty brutal. Brutal enough for him to wake with ragged breaths and a hammering heart, his sheets dampened and coiled up around him. Enough that it takes effort to sift through the layers of terror and distinguish reality.

With what can only be described as a whimper, Nathan swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bringing himself into a seated position and bracing his head in his hands until his racing heart levels.

In his mind, he’s telling himself to be logical about this. That Ava hasn’t truly arrived to finish the job she started; but logic is not the safe haven it used to be.

She could come back.

She’s still out there, somewhere, and Nathan distinctly got the impression, last time, that she was vehemently not a fan of him.

His hand trembling, Nathan reaches for the glass of water by his bedside, glugging it down so eagerly it spills into his bushy beard.

Since the… accident? Malfunction? Functioning just fine, actually? Failed experiment? Greatest achievement known to man? Attempted murder? (Truth be told, Nathan isn’t quite sure what to call it, so he simply calls it The Incident.)

Since The Incident, Ava has begun to regularly visit him in his sleep.

The visitations are not waning with time. In fact, they are happening more often, not less. They are happening more since you moved into the house.

It’s a bad fucking time to have quit drinking.

You’d been sent by the board. Something about Nathan taking “tortured genius” a slice too literally. Something about him being in isolation too long and needing another human around in the compound.

Well, that’s not technically true, is it? The shit all started when he opted to get social, after all.

Fucking Caleb.

Before that, he was doing just fine.

Nathan doesn’t like it at all - having you here. Being watched. Observed. Having someone monitoring his actions. Waiting for him to either fuck up or prove himself.

Ironic really, considering where he kept Ava. The experiments he ran on her.

She’d probably find it poetic, if she could truly understand such a concept.

At the thought of her, Nathan physically shudders, and reaches for an old vest to haphazardly mop the excess sweat from his skin. Then, he balls up a change of clothes and tracks nude to his wet room, feeling relief as the luke warm water sluices over his skin.

He watches himself in the mirror as he stands there naked. It’s not a vanity thing - at least not any longer. These days, he examines the way his form has changed since it happened. He lost some of his muscle and bulk during recovery, whilst unable to exercise, his arms slightly smaller and his abs softer. His stomach a little more rounded.

There’s also the puckered scar, of course - that permanent reminder of where he was skewered through the chest like a piece of kebab meat.

His gaze travels up over his body, until his eyes settle on his still haunted face. He doesn’t have his glasses on, and somewhere between the blurred vision, misted mirror, clouding steam and sluicing water, his reflected face distorts. It transforms - for the briefest of moments - into her.

Still amped with adrenalin from his harsh awakening, this briefest flash sends a surge of panic zipping through Nathan’s chest, his heartbeat racing so hard he can feel the pounding of blood in his ears.

Fuck, he curses, reaching his arms out to brace himself against the shower wall above him, his body trembling and his head dipping down between the cradle of his broad shoulders as his legs threaten to buckle.

He turns the water cold, until it is practically glacial and thundering on to the back of his neck, subduing this spiking heat.

She really did a fucking number on me, didn’t she?

It’s true though.

Ava is haunting him. When he sleeps - and at other times too.

Nathan didn’t know robots could do that. Didn’t know they could spawn ghosts.

Nathan doesn’t believe in ghosts, of course… but he does believe in trauma and its effect on the brain. He at least concedes that it is natural to continue to feel afraid; but this?

Being dogged by the spectre of her taps into Nathan’s deepest insecurities.

After all, there is nothing a genius fears more than doubting his own mind.

Nothing a God fears more than his own mortality.

And the man? Turns out, there is nothing he fears more now, than dying alone.

With a ragged breath, Nathan towels off and pulls on his grey sweatpants, tugging on his black zip-up hoody over his bare chest. And then, keen not to return to his damp, tangled sheets, he tracks towards the kitchen - mainly for want of any more favourable option.

Of course, he had returned to the compound after The Incident. Something about that many fibre optic cables being a bitch to lay down. Sunk cost fallacy and all that - too much already invested.

But it possibly wasn’t the best choice for his recovery.

Nathan has certainly gotten more used to walking down that hallway since he returned from the hospital, and yet he still finds himself holding his breath until he is free of it. Still finds his pace is just a little faster as he passes through. His gaze deliberately averted from that spot.

Once, you’d found him lying in it.

Lying in that exact spot, his body arranged like a crime scene photo, his eyes closed.

Hey, it’s hardly his least healthy coping mechanism, is it?

What in the fuck are you doing, Nathan?

Re-enacting my death, obviously.

Uh-Kay…. A beat. A devious smile. Shall I get some popcorn?

Absurd as it was, he had laughed. Laughed for the first time since it happened, and, with an extended hand, you had helped him up off the floor.

Still, now that he’s alone, he does not dwell in the corridor, colder and darker as it is without your light in it, and he tries not to think about your face or hers as he pads to the kitchen.

When he arrives though, he bypasses it entirely - heading out on to the decking, the crisp night air soothing his hot skin.

He wants to be outside.

There are too many ghosts in his house now.

He has tried to shake it. Tried to desensitise himself to Ava’s face. Spent longer than strictly necessary poring over footage of her.

He built her. Shouldn’t that take the fear out of things? Not to mention the fact Ava’s face was simply a composite of some manipulable nerd’s wank bank browsing history.

Fucking Caleb.

Still, once Nathan had looked her in the eyes and seen a rage that was all too human, things seemed a hell of a lot different.

Nathan crosses to the punchbag on the deck -lit by creeping dawn- on instinct, or out of habit, or maybe some combination of the two, his unease riling him enough to sock some punches at its midsection. Right at the equivalent site of his corporeal puncture.

He punches so hard that the skin on his knuckle splits, but Nathan doesn’t stop. He throws punch after punch until his hands are scathed and bloodied, and a trail of spit hanging from the corner of his mouth. Until he hugs the bag - the closest thing he has to a warm body to hold - and slides down it, coming limply to his knees, wiping his face on his sleeve.

He stays there, dead eyed and still for some time, the pain in his hands raw and singing. Unpleasant, but better. Better than what he was feeling, and worse all at once.

He considers his tired, cumbersome body, and contemplates remaking the world one more time. Uploading his mind into a machine or some shit, so that he doesn’t have to contend with the fragility and failings of his own existence.

He stays there, until some motion in the interior of the compound causes the light and shadows to dance differently over him, and he looks up to see your figure there, cast in a soft halo of yellowed light.

He tips his head up slightly, opening his mouth as though he might cry out to you for help, but no sound comes out - only a thin, dry croak.

So, instead, Nathan watches you for a moment, moving seamlessly around his kitchen as though it is your own. Maybe it is - more yours than his now.

Observing you like this, through the tall, cinematic windows, it is as though he peers in on another world entirely. Something less resembling a nightmare.

Lighter than that. Something more like a good dream, albeit a good dream that Nathan cannot be part of. One he can only ever watch, from the outside looking in, always fated as he is to be on the other side of the glass.

Truth be told, you haunt him too. You represent everything he could have and yet doesn’t deserve.

You appear in his nightmares and his dreams, in various terrifying and beautiful incarnations. Many variations of which his therapist would have a field day with, he’s sure - or, she would, if he’d ever fucking call her.

When you first arrived here, he was plagued by grotesque visions of you. Grotesque visions of the skin being peeled back from your body. Sometimes, circuitry beneath, and other times, muscle and bone. Sometimes, Ava’s face was buried beneath the chilling slip of your fleshy mask.

Sometimes it is a better dream. Sometimes you save him. Sometimes he saves you.

Sometimes it is a good dream. Ava isn’t there at all. But the good dreams never seem to last for long. 

Sometimes you kill him, and sometimes...

The glass door slides open.

“Reenacting your own death again, are you?” you tease, though not unkindly, interrupting the spiral of Nathan’s incessant thoughts.

A lump forming instantly in his throat, Nathan swallows thickly, and looks up at you helplessly with a thin, joyless smile. He snorts as though it’s funny, but it really isn’t. “Over and fucking over.” 

You nod once, and, without hesitation, you extend your hand towards him. Your gaze cuts through him as you search his face and he feels suddenly see-through, as if he’s about to be hit with some Shyamalan-esque twist. Was he the ghost all along? Did he die here after all?

If so, is this purgatory because Ava is here too, or heaven, because you are?

Christ. So fucking schmaltzy, Bateman.

After hesitating, Nathan takes your hand and you yank him to his feet, drawing him inside, through the looking glass.

The room seems warm on the other side. It feels… safe.

“What happened?” you ask, as you look down at your joined hands, your thumb painting a smear of red across his split knuckles. 

You mean now. What happened now, but Nathan’s mind harks back further than that. In his mind, everything is connected. Every thing threaded to another. This one smear of blood to that weeping flower of red.

The thought -the thoughts, all of them- halt him in place, his feet firmly planting on the ground. Nathan’s hand clenches tightly around yours as though it is a lifeline, as he is cast adrift on this familiar crimson tide, his face growing increasingly angular and stern.

“She...” He swallows, unable to complete that precise thought, his eyes dropping down to his feet.

You turn your body towards Nathan as he croaks, still not letting go.

Your eyes flitting around his face, attempting to search his eyes, you tentatively step closer, sliding your palms slowly over his tense shoulders, feeling them rise with an uneven, stuttered breath as you do so.

He’s so tired. He’s so very, very tired.

And it happens all at once on the exhale.

Suddenly, your arms are tugging him closer, and his face is contorting as a violent smattering of tears beads in his long lashes. You are encasing his body in your embrace and rubbing circles into his back as his buzzed head sags all too willingly toward the junction of your shoulder, your fingers splaying along the smooth flesh at the nape of his neck and pads dancing over the gentle prickle of his hair. You are shushing and soothing and reassuring and squeezing and smoothing and cradling and Nathan can feel it. Can feel his heart race in his chest and…

Finally.

Finally, his heart is not pounding because he is reliving his death.

It is pounding because he feels alive again.

When was the last time he cried, even? The last time someone really hugged him? He doesn’t remember the last time. The serendipitous combination of Nathan willing to be vulnerable, and another being willing to hold space for his pain is an all too rare thing.

There’s a reason -or several - he’s so emotionally constipated, after all.

Fuck. I’m taking a huge emotional shit right now.

Nathan remains in the welcome circumference of your arms longer than is strictly necessary - until the tear trails over the bridge of his nose begin to feel cloying. Until his breaths steady, and until his thoughts and ego creep back in. Until he notices the way his hands are clasped at your waist like claws, fingers sinking into your softness, and he thinks to release you.

Then, he leans away, a weight on his brow making his expression stern.

He waits for you to judge him, another swallow trailing thickly down his throat.

However, your eyes are kind and level, dancing with soft concern. Not with judgement or satisfaction or pity, or with anything he fears.

It is refreshing not to feel so afraid.

Finally.

“She…” Nathan begins again, finally finding courage. All at once his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “She fucking stabbed me.”

You take his words in. You listen.

His “reveal” is simple. Plain and factual. A little indignant. Kinda salty. It’s not overly emotional, or articulate.

But it is enough.

Your eyes narrow, and you nod slowly, trying to understand the true meaning beneath his words.

You even reach up to cup Nathan’s face, his springy beard a cushion beneath your gentle palm as you hold him. “Yeah, genius,” you tease, with a tentative, lopsided smile, dropping your arm all too suddenly, perhaps as you catch yourself. “I got that from context.”

In response, Nathan chucks air from between his teeth, bringing his hand up to comb through his beard - perhaps to obscure his involuntary smile, or perhaps chasing your tender touch, the impression of it left warm on his cheek.

As he brings his hand up, your brows draw together, and you hook his bloodied paw delicately in yours, examining the wound, and leading him gingerly across to the couch as though his whole being might be hurting along with it.

It is.

You order him to stay put while you fetch the first aid kit, and then, in stages, Nathan watches you with fascination as you painstakingly clean and tend to his wounds, without ever being asked to.

He watches you carefully swipe the angry red away from his skin, and, to his overactive mind, it’s all connected. This red is one and the same with the flower of blooming red from The Incident.

Ava hurt him then, and she is hurting him now too.

And you…

“Going to tell the board about this?” Nathan asks, his voice weak and scuffed.

You search his eyes, holding your words back for a moment before answering. Then, you launch them on a big breath. “Fuck the board, Nathan. I told those assholes to stick it.”

Nathan blinks in confusion, shaking his head, his hand flourishing emphatically through the air. “Then… what the fuck are you still doing in my house?”

“Well. I’m… here for you,” you admit, sucking in air through your teeth, your voice shrinking. “If you want that.”

Well, that’s news to him.

Welcome news, perhaps?

You’re not watching him at all, are you? Not observing. Not asking him to evidence his humanity. Not waiting to see whether he fucks up or proves himself.

Instead, you’re seeing him. You’re seeing him and you’re not running.

Nathan had begun to think that maybe he was the nightmare. He’d begun to think he might always be haunted.

Always alone. That he might die that way; again.

And now, here you are.

Nathan thinks about that. He could so easily revert to his old ways, in this moment. Of pride and ego and stubborn independence.

But, perhaps those assholes from the board got a few things right - he’ll admit.

Maybe he had been in isolation too long. Maybe he didn’t need to take “tortured genius” quite so literally.

And so, Nathan almost protests. Almost rejects your presence and your comfort and pushes you away. But the truth is, he’s just so… tired. He’s had so many nightmares, and this time, he’d like to be on the other side of the glass. He’d like to step into that dream.

Nathan takes a deep breath, and releases on the exhale. Releases more than air.

He slowly, ever so slowly, shifts towards you on the couch, angling his body until he can safely dip his head towards your lap, his nose pointed in towards your abdomen and his knees curling around you.

“Th.. this okay?” he asks weakly.

You throw your splayed hands up into the air in surprise as the weight of Nathan settles there, but as he curls his arms around your middle and shuffles closer, you ease into it. You snake your fingers in intricate caresses over his head and neck and shoulders.

“Yeah, Nathan. This is okay,” you soothe gently, voice taut with emotion.

You comfort him.

And finally, Nathan does not need to peel your skin back to know what’s underneath.

He knows you’re not a robot, and that, as your kind touch finds him corporeal, that he is not a ghost.

He closes his eyes. And this time, when he next wakes, he knows that whether the dream is bad or better or good, it doesn’t matter. Because you will be there with him.

He wants you with him.

It’s not at all natural to him, to have you around. For the longest time, he didn’t like it. It didn’t come instinctually, and he has formed no familiar habits.

It isn’t easy - he doesn’t make it easy.

But he wants it to be.

And, in your arms, he can finally dream that it will all work out. What’s more; he can dream he deserves it, too.

[blackmoonmusings]

Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972; “The Dream Of Death, Or The Site Of The Poetical Bodies”

[derangedrhythms]

[...] in my poems death was my lover and my lover was death,

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

[malaisequotes]

“It's true that I've woken up in the place of love, because as soon as I heard its song, I said, ‘This is the place of love.’”

The Dream of Death, or the Site of the Poetical Bodies by Alejandra Pizarnik, translated by Yvette Siegert

[sleepingpoetry]

Y es verdad que he despertado en el lugar del amor porque con un sonrisa de duelo yo oí su canto y me dije: es el lugar del amor (pero tembloroso pero fosforescente).

And it’s true that I’ve woken up in the place of love, because I heard its song with a smile of pain and told myself: this is the place of love (if trembling, if phosphorescent).

– from El sueño de la muerte o el lugar de los cuerpos poéticos (The dream of death, or the site of the poetical bodies), Alejandra Pizarnik, trans. by Yvette Siegert

[painless-innit-colourful]

(Liveblogging ‘Tommy Faces His Traumatic Past’ stream)

'Hi I am currently thinking about that moment after Tommy asked Ranboo to leave after the Prison moment went badly, and he waited for Ranboo to go and then swallowed and let the atmosphere hang for a moment and held his totem in his main hand (I’m pretty sure; he was definitely holding it) and I am telling you, the shot of fear that went through me as I thought “No... He’s not gonna ask Tubbo to kill him, is he?” Now that’d be one way to overcome a fear of dying, holy heck.'

---

Rough edges, shining eyes, a heart of gold. He supposes there's a metaphor or a comparison that could be made there, but to be quite frank, he's sick of the poetic parallels and the dramatic ironies. It's not a tale spun of rhetorical devices and an audience: it's his life, and it hurts. 

Appropriately, the skin on his palms is still tender from scrabbling at the walls of the mock cell, and he can feel every groove of the wood the totem's outside is carved from as he grips it firmly. He's doing away with the allusions and analogies and beating around the bush: there's no easy way to ask this, so why make it even harder? 

It's going to be difficult. It's going to be painful. It’s going to be helpful in future.  Just get on with it Tommy.

Ranboo vanishes up the ladder, and Tommy and Tubbo are left alone in their unused replica of the Final Control Room ('cause their dear friend Eret had a more accurate one). When he turns his eyes to his best friend, Tubbo's giving him a quizzical look. Tommy opens his mouth to begin, but fear stoppers his words, and no sound comes out. He holds fast to the totem and to his courage.

"Are you alright?" His friend's light touch to his arm leads him back. Right. Tubbo. Totem. Question. 

"It didn't work." He says despondently. "I couldn't- In there, I couldn't keep it together." "Tommy-" "Look, Tubbo," Like a paranoid exile hiding in a cave, he casts another glance towards the ladder, double-checking that they are truly alone. "And you can't tell anyone this, but I need you to trust me, because I've thought a lot about this." 

Tubbo's expression is unreadable for a moment, like his solicitude is elsewhere, like he's remembering something, and then he's back and he's squeezing Tommy's arm. "I trust you, Big Man." And Tommy can tell he's being earnest, so he pushes on. "What is it?" "We had the chance, back in that vault- We had the opportunity to slit Dream’s throat, and we didn't, and- And we agree on this right? Dream... Dream needs to go." 

Tubbo seems to think about it for a moment, "You think the revive book isn't worth it?" "Tubbo, I-" If his words could stop clogging up his throat every five seconds, that'd be lovely. "Listen to me, I've been to- to the other side, and I've been here, and I've been in between, and- and I mean this, I would've rather- rather stayed there than be in between again." "Really?" Tommy nods curtly. "Really. It's not worth it." "Well, I'm glad you came back, even if it sucked for you." Lightly, but not without a hint of worry in his voice, Tubbo half-laughs. "That sounded selfish." And Tommy feels wretched about what he's going to ask him to do. 

"Look, Tubbo," He clears his throat for good measure. "If I'm going to kill Dream, I can't get into the prison cell and panic. That- That could cost the whole operation, and I can't let that happen." "Tommy, you-" Tubbo cuts himself off this time, "Tommy, do you really have to do this?" 

"Yes, I do." His quiet determination matches Tubbo's building exasperation. "I have to do this because he's- he's ruined me, he's broken me and I can't let anything else happen to this server because of our fighting." Their faces and feelings fall to the same resignation as swords impale them against the walls of a room very much like this one, as L'Manberg burns behind their eyelids every time they blink. 

"Would you like to try again?" The reproduction of the cell, his tomb, beckons, but Tommy's mind is made up. "I can come in with you this time." A jolt of warmth emanates from his heart at the offer (he wishes it were that easy) and races through his bloodstream, momentarily soothing the aching feeling all around his body, from his head to his feet to his fingertips, and he feels practically like a person again for a few seconds. 

"Actually, I- I want you to- Only if you- I won't force you but-" He's abruptly aware of a substantial volume of saliva in his mouth, or maybe he's just too scared to say it out loud. Tubbo waits, his fingers mussing with the end of Tommy's sleeve. "What is it?" 

He raises aloft the totem so they're both looking at it, and then very carefully, so he knows he hasn't said it wrong, he says it: "I want you to kill me." 

"What?" His adrenaline spikes; no turning back now. "I want you to kill me, and because I have this totem I'll be fine. I can't be scared of dying if I have a totem on me, but I still get scared of getting close, so I want you to kill me. Please." He tacks on hastily, opting to look at the sword at Tubbo's side so he doesn't have to meet his eyes. 

"You... Where are you gonna get another totem then?" And Tommy squints at Tubbo for a second, because really, that's what you come out with after that? "I don't know, your husband?" Tubbo giggles a tad despite the concern in his eyes. "Excuse me, I'm the gold-digger here, get your own." And they both crack up, and some of the tension lifts from Tommy's shoulders. 

"Okay, seriously, you want me to kill you?" The terse air settles between them as Tubbo's hand floats to his sword. "I- Yeah." "Because then you can't be scared of being close to death." "Mmhm." "So you want me to kill you, right now, right here?" 

Tommy nods steadily, and Tubbo, still uncertain, unsheathes his sword. The blade isn't the sharpest, but it'll do the job. Tommy swallows thickly. "I- I trust you. If it were anyone else... Never." 

He thought about how, whenever he'd asked to be hit earlier, it was Tubbo who'd stepped up to the plate. Certainly, it was true at the time that he'd felt the jolt of terror and pain, but he was always glad it was Tubbo. There was an unspoken promise in their shared glances, their short requests and careful responses. 

“You know I’d never do that, right?” An echo of an old memory, from a less-than-ideal location. “I won’t turn on you or go insane like Wil and Techno.” “Mmhm… And I you.”

"Ready?" Tommy waves the totem around to illustrate, "This better not be a bloody decoy." Their shared smile is forced and wavering, flickering like a candle, shaking like fraying ropes, reaching for a hand that isn't there. The hand is on his shoulder, Tommy notes faintly: it steadies him as the sword pierces his gut, snatching all the air from his lungs. He's drowning in a sudden wave of 'Why here? Why the hell did we stay here?' as a familiar numbing sensation starts to wash over him like the tide, receding in parts and then coming back for more. The darkness entices him - the very same darkness he's been fighting to outrun all along, the same darkness that engulfs him and all his friends in his nightmares. Once, many moons ago, they were all blissfully ignorant of that shadow that stayed firmly three steps behind them and six feet below. Except now, at least for Tommy, death is a memory, and with a totem in hand, he rises to meet it. 

Tubbo rips the sword out, and the body of his best friend crumples to the ground like paper disregarded and consigned to oblivion. His weapon hits the ground with a clatter and his sword arm falls limp, reluctant to acknowledge Tommy's blood on the blade as he watches, hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as the totem in Tommy's hand starts to glow, golden light emanating from the emerald eyes and intricate details. About time. About bloody time. 

It's pitch black, and the totem is gone. Tommy feels weightless. Tommy feels like a person made of pieces, loosely strung together like a marionette doll. Tommy feels helpless and alone, and quite possibly dead. 

Make no mistake; there's also that perverted sense of comfort, ever-present as it seems. A welcome gift, he supposes, to what should be the rest of your eternity. He feels all his 'worldly worries' start to scatter, leaving him feeling so empty he's clawing at nothing to get them back. No worries, no troubles and no meaning. That is the lot of the dead. Yet, Tommy will not be one of them, not today. 

Everything returns to him so quickly, it almost feels like he's having aspects of his personality thrown back at him with the force of bricks launched from cannons. Should he reach out to grab them, or should he let them go? The darkness begins to melt away, leading him back to a room full of chests and a friend, and for a second he imagines he hears a familiar voice tease: "You should take off your coat Tommy, you look like you're not staying." 

The instant his soul is catapulted back into his body, instincts kick in, and his wobbling legs somehow get him halfway across the room before they get too tangled up and surrender. He doesn't bother cowering - it's Tubbo - instead, he chooses to pull his shirt up to his ribs. The entry site of the stabbing has healed, golden radiance under his skin like godly blood swirling away from the closed wound and leaving it the proper crimson hue of mortals. It worked. He's back. He's back. 

Suddenly, he's hit with a force equitable to several small dogs and, oh, it's Tubbo. His arms rest wearily against his best friend's back as the smaller boy buries his head in Tommy's shoulder, folding him into his arms and cradling him tightly. "I- I'm ok- Are you crying?" His response from the shuddering mass of brown curls next to his head comes quietly, "Don't ever make me do that again." "...Okay. I won't." 

Eventually, they break apart, Tommy noticing the red rims around Tubbo's eyes as he messes with Tommy's shirt. "Ah, dammit." "What?" He gives a tiny snort-laugh marked with tears. "I've put a hole in your d*mn shirt." He looks down at it too. "That's alright, long as you fix it." Consequently, Tubbo gives him a funny look, which he raises his eyes to meet with bemusement. "Yeah, right. I'll fix it, it's nothing." 

Tubbo holds his eye contact for close to ten seconds. "You have..." He shifts across the floor to the left, putting one of the lights at his back, before reaching out and taking Tommy's face in his hands. "You have little flecks of gold in your eyes, dude." "I- What?" Tubbo drops his hands and nods. "You've got gold in your eyes now, boss man." "Does it-" He jumps to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and strikes a pose. "Does it make me even more incredibly good-looking?" 

Tubbo snorts. "Something like that. It's not bad, just... After-product of the totem, I'd guess. Which is interesting to know." He gets to his feet too, hand finding Tommy's side and holding on by a fistful of cloth. "Hey, how about, are you alright?" Tommy asked, picking the hand up and slinging it over his shoulder so they stood hip-to-hip, heads tilted up and down for each other’s benefit.

"I'm fine, just... That wasn't the most fun." Tommy ponders for a moment before responding. "I think I'd be concerned if it was." They chuckle a little. "No, but seriously man, thank you, for doing that." He says sincerely. Tubbo smiles back, all of a sudden seeming too tired to even stand, and Tommy stoops a little to catch him before he faints or something. "Just... did it work?" 

Did it work? The darkness still terrified him, ripping the warmth from within him, and he wasn't totally expecting to go back there when using the totem. So, points for new knowledge discovered, perhaps? Despite all that, though, the look in Tubbo's eyes makes his mouth move on its own. He looks so weary. 

"Yeah. I feel... less afraid now. Honestly." He tacks on, for the dubious non-believer by his side that could always tell when he was lying. "I... I can do this now." "...Okay."

[adrasteiax]

I write with my eyes shut. I write with my eyes wide open. Let the wall fall down. Let the wall turn into a river.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from The Dream Of Death, Or The Site Of The Poetical Bodies in “Extracting The Stone Of Madness: Poems” [translated by Yvette Siegert]