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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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Our Bodies, Born To Heal

Request: No Warnings: Talk of war, but I'd rate this one pg-13 and barely Description: What you cannot speak, write. Tommy finds another way to communicate to you. Inspired by all his references to poetry. Word Count: 1412 Tag List: @stevie75 @notyour-valentine

You grow restless on your own. In the brink of dusk, you wander the manor, watch the golden light pour through windows and fail to touch the wooden floors. Meet the eyes of the portraits on the walls and smile at them, out of politeness, out of fear of the memories that live inside of them. You never feel as though you’re without eyes on you. Every second in this house is spent with those lives Tommy has taken. You hear them in the night, when they speak to him, taunt him, plead with him. You hear him answer that he wants them to stop, that he wishes he could save them.

You climb up stairs with your hand on the shockingly clean banister. You grew up with dust in every corner, with crumbs on your table and laughter around every corner. And, at night, this house grows warm. He comes home to you, and these empty halls don’t echo with the past so much, don’t murmur secrets that raise the hair on the back of your neck. During the day, though. During the day you hunt for bits and pieces of life you can find while he works.

Today, an ornate pen revealed itself to you. You clutch it in your hand, run your fingers along the smooth engravings of a waterfall cascading down the grip. In the corners of the house lie trinkets and small nothings that, when found at the right time, mean everything. Up the stairs, into a spare study, and over to the desk. Mahogany wood shiny enough for you to see your own reflection in it. Organized beyond what you feel necessary, every piece in its proper place. Tommy’s usual desk doesn’t look like this; it sits scattered with bits of the day across it.

With bored curiosity you search through the drawers, amble through taxes and his notes to self, peer at Arthur’s scribbled handwriting that you can’t truly read. Then, in a back corner, a folded piece of worn paper, soft at the edges and yellowed in the center. With careful fingers, you pull it out, stare at it a moment. Something about the feel of it in your hands, the fragile brittleness, makes it become precious, the egg of a bird, a unique, sought-after gem. You slowly unfold it, and your eyes fall over handwriting you know like the back of your hand.

Strangers to suffering, we were sent across the sea

Kids gone to fight other kids

We drew straws to see who’d die and it was never me

We went home knowing all but the horses lied

Let them go their own way

Because we never learned how to live when they died

Burn the bridges and burn the past

We believe in nothing

And nothing here was made to last

A rat in a tunnel, in a maze, digging his own grave

Our backs against a wall

You read it again, again. Struggle to focus because a tremble runs through your hands. This is the most you’ve peeked into his mind, seen pieces of the battlefield that laid there, undisturbed. But you know he dreams of it. You know he never really came home from France.

You find a blank piece of paper and uncap the pen in your hands. Place the poem on top of the desk, bright against the dark wood, and write a message on the blank page. Lay it down next to the poem, neat, so that he’ll see it when he passes, so that it’ll draw his eyes.

It takes bravery to step into your own mind. It is hard to write a poem in which you’re not a martyr or a master, hard not to create a weakness or strength when there is none. It is difficult to name pain without calling it back to you.

So you write your message and leave in silence; why didn't you finish?

Days later, you check the room again. Step in with a quiet worry to you, as though cautious of disturbing something that’s fallen asleep after hours of trying. Instead, on the desk, you find a response to your note, in his curling, neat handwriting.

I don’t have the words

You consider his response, the hopelessness and helplessness in the phrasing, the exhaustion. You can hear it in his voice, as though he speaks it to you, and you know you can’t accept it, not fully.

The pen was left in front of the blank paper. The poem sits underneath, folded and untouched. He may not have the courage to speak about this to your face. Only he has the power to bring it up outside of this sacred, safe place you’ve made for it.

But you know he’ll come back, know he’ll check again, so you reply; what if you were talking to me?

The next day, the blank sheet is gone, your communication ended. Your heart sinks and you stare at the windows behind the desk, out at the green yard where the wind brushes the tall grass and grain in waves. Hope springs eternal, so you return, day in and day out, to watch for a change. His poem still lays on the desk, folded, invulnerable to the whims of the world around it, a portal to memories and pain.

A week later, you find it open on the desk. You sit down, run your eyes over it. Your heart jolts.

A rat in a tunnel, in a maze, digging his own grave

Our backs against a wall

But I promised my family I’d be brave

Our bodies, born to heal, become predisposed to die

You must forgive me for what I did

I came out of the smoke a sleepy eyed kid

Regards from the front

Tommy

You find another blank page, heart in your throat. The last four lines play in your head over and over again, like a second heartbeat. A strange mixture of pride and pity warms your chest. It becomes a different kind of love, one given to dark, strange things, kept in the shadows because the light it gives off is far too bright.

Your response is scrawled with an unsteady hand. Thank you. For the record, I forgive you, and I love you.

You don’t want to wait for his response. You want to let him take his time, let him come around on his own. Let him accept that you’re there, that you’ve read these words he cannot speak without tearing a hole in himself.

On second thought, you add a sentence. I’m proud of you.

You’re not sure he’s ever heard that before.

Days pass. Neither of you speak of the poem in the spare room, acknowledge the hanging presence of it in your life. At times, though, there is a softness to him you’re unaccustomed to, and other times, harshness, like he needs you away from him, like you’ve suddenly overwhelmed him.

Another paper appears on the desk. On it, in his steady hand, words crawl across, as sure and stark as he is.

You ask me what I want for breakfast and I’m wanting to tell you about the worst that happens. You’re talking to Frances and I’m hoping you won’t notice that I’ve drifted somewhere else and won’t come back. Not forever. I’ll come back when I’m better, that’s all.

You’re humming a song about horses and I’m thinking about a bundle of letters blown to pieces underground that I wrote asking a god I didn’t believe in to save my life.

These are the pieces of me and they are mostly sad.

These are the bits of muck and smog left in my head and they make me not me.

This life is in my bones and they hurt me when I move.

But you’re talking to me and smiling and I get some color back.

But your hand is touching mine and you’ve stayed with me all these years and I’m almost me again.

But I give you fragile truth and you do not break it.

Here you are and you will not hurt me.

Here you are, and at least the war is over, and now it’s starting again.

I am trying to be happy and that is a battle by itself.

You know your response before you’re done reading.

I love you, too, Tommy. And I’m not going anywhere. I will be here whenever you need me.

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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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Beauty's servant

aot god au because why the hell not; I actually love this a lot and I hope you do as well; I have a few more ideas for this fic (expansions on these characters, a separate piece for the vets/warriors,) so if you enjoyed this let me know. :) These can be read all together, or on their own. Asks and requests are always open and welcome. <33

gn! reader; meant to portrayed as Hedone, the embodiment of joy.

Your glory was never meant to be so great as it became; you were content with your long youth, your quiet step, the slight elevation of yourself above men. You never sought more than was your place among the gods; and yet it was this humility that sent them after you. Perhaps no more than a grace, a being born of such beauties as love and laughter, the bubbling blessings of allure; jewel bright eyes and faces that were perfect even in their slight 'imperfections.' You'd race, bare, through the trees, miraculous and fleet, skimming the ground below you as petals sprung from under your soles and the wind chased the ends of your hair, laurel crowns laying across your brow as you served your mistress, the dome of stars growing bright just above you.

You were never meant to be such a bright star in a pantheon so full; but you shone within yourself, with a light so bewitching it sent the eyes of gods after you. Not a plaything of the gods by any means: you taught them all your ways of loving and night songs, your choruses of sighs and laughter that rippled through you like light;

you gave each one reason to remember you; to make sure your name never left their lips. You sought love; you wanted to feel it, have it guide you and teach you, straight and sure as a true arrow. And among the gods, you found no shortage of either.

Eren

The first of such loves was young and foolish as it was so full of youthful passions: Eren, god of just and unjust wars, lord of shifting goodness, the blood of mortals, friends and enemies, sent up as prayers on pyres glowing red in the night. He found you captivating in your opposition; in the way your warfares were so unlike his own: battles won of beauty and bedroom eyes against his world of blades and battalions. Your era was bright, one of eclipses and steam rising from gentle rains flinging themselves upon embers and flames. His kiss would sear through you to the bones, cutting through you with an arrow's sharpened sting, poised to kill and to destroy you while he drew you closer, nearer to him. You ached to feel all of it; every burning, red hot second.

None had felt his gaze the way you had; he had never looked upon a soul, mortal or otherwise, the way he had done to you. His green eyes grew brighter upon the sight of your lovely face, the soft gracing of your hand on his skin, soothing and igniting him as you pressed your kisses to his flesh. It was unpracticed and messy and beautiful, burning and burning away to ashes swept away by the winds of time that plagued all the world.

You're unlike anything I know, he'd say; you knew what he meant.

His world had changed somehow, by knowing you.

Mikasa

Later, later, was the the grey eyed one: the lady of justice and victories, tempted by your sweet wiles when she first found you praying at her altar. Mikasa was coaxed into your love, tentative and wary as she felt herself falling open to your charms. This time, you took your place at the head of love; guiding her hands to press against your own under sweet summers and silver-leaved trees. And when you kissed her, soft and kind and warmer than spring, she could feel the way the world responded to your joys: the dulcet exhale of wind in the groves around you; slipping through your silk curtains as she rested beside your sleeping form, simply admiring you while the constellations passed and she felt herself lulled by the simple curves of your face as it lost the burdens of your days. All the world walked in tandem with beauty; this was your subtle power.

She'd find you, still within those trees, eyes closed and birds perched on the branches, bright eyes and twittering voices surrounding you, your eyes fluttering open to see hers when she lifted your chin up, her hand firm but sweet against your jaw; the lines of your neck so prettily cast in the light, your mouth curled into a gentle smile as she let you pull her into a kiss. Giving and taking, rolling to and fro, you seizes and relinquished control as easily as rainfall; your years came and went much the same way.

She'd tell you, don't make me regret loosing to you.

The look in her eyes then had you vowing you never would.

Armin

A gentle god would follow: one of medicine and music, of the sunrise and of poets. His eyes, blue and inviting as river currents, would find your across the feasting halls of the gods, picking you out from your siblings as you would return his gentle stare. He was curious; you refused to lie and say he did not cast the same spell upon you.

You would meet him in miraculous places; palaces of clouds soft as a doves wing rolling under your feet as he took you to watched the dawn, summer green forests in far off lands bursting with color and life; he took you among mortals, disguised and joyful as he led you by your hand through the world of men. Armin taught you the ways of the string and lyre; you taught him dance. He gave you stories of the world beyond your reach; you entranced and beguiled him when your voice spilled from your mouth like honey, shadows flying on the walls of your chambers as you laughed and loved through the night. It was soft, and sure it it's sweetness, your love. It was fragile and lovely as a butterfly's wing, opening itself to the world and causing hurricanes with every beat. It was learned and evolved, growing, shifting, like tides, a thousand sapphire hues sifting through your fingers.

I'll find a thousand horizons by your side, he whispered once.

I've seen all but one and found each in you.

Sasha

You found yourself a companion of the huntress, your adventures in love far from over; each one had been a lesson, and it seemed the goddess of wild places, of moon and guidance through child bearing would be the same. Sasha introduced you to the wildest places of her world, the copses and groves of trees where men had never set foot, the rivers and streams so clear running with water so pure it stung your throat down to your stomach. She found the quiet places inside you, coaxing out the cunning of a fox and the warble of songbirds from your lips, reminding you of your place as something wild.

She wandered with you, through these quiet places, hours meaning nothing by her side while she lead you by a gentle hand. She called fauns out to meet you, marveled at your smile, your joy, when the springtime flowers began to appear and the air was thick with the smell of life once more. She thought of you like spring: loveliness emerging from winter's cloaks, the ferocity and wonder of life following in your wake with every breath, every beat of your heart under the splendor of your skin.

Never had she seen a creature such as you before.

Connie

The messenger sought you out next; bright eyes and wide smile, mischief promised on every word he spoke as he pressed his playful mouth to your hand upon your meeting. He was as much a friend as he was a lover; lighthearted as he was caring. Connie would ride the horses of the wind, you by his side with your head high in the currents. He liked to see you that way; laughing playfully where your duties held you in check. He liked to make you laugh; he loved your smile, the brightness in it, the life that burst from you when the restraints of the world fell away. With him, you lazed about in the trees and the roadsides, two nameless nomads wandering along with dreamy smiles. Like the huntress, he preferred the wild places; both in the world and in you. He celebrated your chaos when it came through, your rising voice; he celebrated your anger. Every rolling emotion was one he cherished, the joy and the sadness, fury and a million shades of love.

He wanted every color, every variation and shade there was to you; he yearned to see the facets of your mirrored being reflected back to him, the ghosts and mirages you could conjure with those lips.

Tell me your stories, love; I'll make you legend.

Jean

Next, there fell upon you the rush of wine stained lips, of hands open to the sky in insane bliss; flashes of gold and violet in your eyes and a love so heady it made your head spin with it's weight. The god of wine, of pleasure, of worship in different forms. He took your hand and led you through his sacred places; places that would make a priestess blush scarlet. When he was with you, however, you could see the beauty in touch, in the human ache to feel another. Beside him, you began to understand the prayer that love could be; the vows that fell of lips so stolen and bitten by lust, sacred sensuality burning away as an offering. He was sweet to you, admiring and warm; Jean crowned you with ivy, kissed the places you so longed to hide, sang with you under the moon with the voices of night birds.

You became a muse, art in his eyes; he touched you as though you were everything good in the world, in the universe, like the stars had fallen into your eyes and the sun itself burned away in your chest. And though you were art, he was never distant; never cold, leaving you as something pretty and alone. He made you feel every bit as lovely as he assured you you were; hands in yours, the soft whisper of your clothes when they fell to the floor, his gaze full of adoration when you slept in his arms.

This next moment, they seemed to say. This moment is all we know; all I know is you, here with me.

And every moment was more beautiful than the last.

In this way, by your perfected art of touch and love, you taught the gods of the world. You, who were sweeter than spring and strong as oak; who was passion and soothing combined in a being so divine they transcended the simple words of god and man. You were energy, vibrant and warm, in all its forms, and you were ever present: in the simple moments during which love bloomed. You were no god; but you didn't need to be. Your power was the loyalty of a friend; the comfort of a mother; the wisdom of an old lover and the joy of a new one. So yes, you kept yourself in their minds; the union of soul and passion creating someone miraculous enough to entrance a pantheon. They promised you time and riches to rival even them, kingdoms and crowns; godhood was yours to ask for. And each time they would ask, as you departed from them back to the halls you called yours, you'd smile a sad, sweet smile that had each and every god following you further into love.

Allow me to love, you'd say. That is enough for me.

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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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First draft for a class but also of how im feeliinnngg right now

The End was Fine With Her.

Was this her life now? Over and over again, the same day passed. The warmth of her bedroom slowly dispersed, and the smoke that filled her lungs kept the chills away. It also kept away the disappointing truth that, she. Was. alone. But that was fine with her. Being awake was a chore, the only love she felt was in her dreams.

Sleep never came though, as the moon whispered in her ear. The moon was alone like her. Thy shared secrets in the dark of night, meeting after sundown at the baseball field. As coyotes howled, she realized how she hasn’t seen another person in weeks. But that was fine with her. She never cared for crowds unless poison was in her lungs and blood (the one bad habit she couldn’t drop even after the world ended).

Was the moon this alone? Was the moon afraid? Because as much as she tried to let herself go… she was afraid. For herself (which never happened). Her ticking time bomb had been diffused. Was the moon speaking to her? The voices she heard were becoming hard to distinguish and her mask made it hard to breathe. Was she dying? The stench of death reeked everywhere, was it coming from her (the mask made it hard to breathe)? But that was fine with her.

What was not fine with her? Death cleared the pollution, cleared the sky. This made it easier to listen to the moon. She enjoyed its company, it kept the scary thought away. Made her wonder where her mother went, if her best friend survived. She wondered out loud to the moon… should she try to cremate, or bury? Both took too much work. Should she just leave them?

The moon agreed with her, leaving them. Join me. Become stardust. Become eternal with me. She’s not meant for this world. She was a supernova, a stellar explosion. A star reborn And that was fine with her. The itchy mask made it hard to breathe, she’d rather be high up with the moon.

The lighter was left in the baseball field. Her mask too. Her skin was stardust and her eyes were galaxies in the sky. She was not meant for this world, which is why she survived. But now… she came home to the stars. The end of the world was only her beginning. That was fine with her.

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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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House of Dreams

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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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Random writng sesh LOVE

I be making dandalion HONEYYYY and im trying to do homework while i cook but its no good here and i mm tried yes here is this thing i wrote its got lowkey daddy issues in it so forewarning but its not alot

The wind tickles my skin, sweeping the hairs of my forehead. I look around and wonder, when did it all go wrong? Love was fickle, I know. It’s slippery, and an endless fight to get a grip of reality. The sun kisses my cheeks, but I’m not the first nor last it has loved. Today feels different. I feel normal again. I know I’m not though, today is just an exception. What is love? How could the sunlight give love to the world, and still have more to offer? Why can’t i?

I lay down on my front porch. My lungs are hurting again but I stay still. Letting my chest expand and collapse over and over again. It’s tiring, I’m tired. The wind feels nice though, it leaves my skin cool under the sun’s heat. Oh. Maybe my love is like wind. Refreshing love, so strong it can knock over a steady home. So light it slips between the freshly mowed lawn.

I only begin to move once my calves start cramping up. I don’t want to go inside, but i have to. I wonder, is my mother like the sun or the wind? No, her love definitely likes the wind. My sister is like the sun, so steady, so dense. I hate it. I hate love. I don’t want to love, I only want to be loved. My dad is pretty shitty at giving it though. I don’t know why I never felt his love. I guess that’s why I crave it so much now. But not from him. Never from him. I’ll let the sun kiss my tears away, and the wind caress my hand.

I never needed love anyway.

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bzn01 · 3 years ago

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the end was fine with her -final-

Sleep never came though, as the moon whispered in her ear. The moon was alone like her. They shared secrets in the dark of night, meeting after sundown at the baseball field. As coyotes howled, she realized how she hasn’t seen another person in weeks. But that was fine with her. She never cared for crowds unless poison was in her lungs and running through her veins (the one bad habit she couldn’t drop even after the world ended).

What was not fine with her? Death cleared the pollution, cleared the sky. This made it easier to listen to the moon. She enjoyed its company, it kept the scary thought away. Made her wonder where her father went, if her best friend survived. She wondered out loud to the moon… should she try to cremate, or bury? Her siblings and mother’s rements drove her out of her home for the nth time that night. Both took too much work. Her body was sore from grieving. Should she just leave them?

The moon agreed with her, leaving them. Join me. Become stardust. Become eternal with me.

She’s not meant for this world. She was a supernova, a stellar explosion. A star reborn And that was fine with her. Her lungs hurt, The itchy mask made it hard to breathe, she’d rather be high up with the moon.

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