#tastes like how red wine supernova sounds…

[theinvisiblemuseum]

i work next door to a local tea store & im slowly making my way through all of their iced teas and the one i got today….

[gubnation]

Red Wine Supernova

Once again this is written on a whim in the middle of the night and inspired by one of my favourite songs and my favourite doctor.

Season 5 Reid without the leg injury.

2k word count.

It was the middle of a sweltering heatwave in Virginia, almost record temperatures for the entire week. Every one in the bullpen was sticky with sweat and completely over it. 

You had even taken to completely drenching your long, dark sheet of hair in the bathroom sink for some type of relief. While it helped to keep the heat of your head for a while, the rest of your body was still sweating bullets. If you were wearing a bra, it would surely be completely soaked through. 

You'd think the most coveted unit in the FBI would have better airconditioning but apparently not. 

After giving up on fanning yourself with the abandoned case files strewn out on your desk, you wandered down to Penelope's office to see if she was having better luck in the heat. 

Upon entering the room you realised the only thing hotter than the sun outside was the man sitting in front of you. 

His overgrown caramel brown hair shook as he turned his head around to greet you. 

"Hey you." Spencer smiled up at you front his perch next to Penelope's desk. 

Penelope was currently in the middle of an in depth tangent about something but you couldn't focus on a word she said because of the cherry red lollipop swirling around Spencer's mouth. 

You had never been so jealous of a piece of candy. 

Despite the weather, you felt heat build between your thighs for another reason. The vulgar sounds that came from between his lips only added to your arousal.

"Hey, you okay over there." Spencer's voice showed a tinge of slight concern at my dazed state. Meanwhile I watched a massive, teasing grin appear on Penelope's face in the corner of my eye. 

She knew I had it bad for the resident boy genius and went to great lengths to force me to tell him. Despite her meddling, I never could work up the courage to tell Spencer how I really feel. 

I'd known since the very first time we met in the elevator, on my very  first day heading up to level 6 from the computer crimes unit. I was a ball of nerves and was badly failing to hide my anxiety from the tall man to my left. Not realising he was my new team member and a literal genius, I blurted out just how very nervous I was to be starting in the BAU. 

I will never forget the comforting smile and supportive words that put me at ease that morning. I was a pure stranger to him and he had treated me with such rare kindness that fully kickstarted my secret admiration for him. 

Since that moment, along with Penelope of course, we became the best of friends. Unfortunately for me, thats all we ever ended up being.  

"Anyway that's why I'm never going back there, it's so hard to find somewhere with decent karaoke songs these days." You slowly starting taking in what Penelope was ranting about and affectionately rolled your eyes in response. An undeniable truth about Miss Penelope Garcia was that she loved her karaoke. 

"What, is it too much to ask for some Lana on the catalogue?" She had you there. Despite your amusement at her passionate tyrade against the local karaoke bar, you agreed with her exquisite taste in music. 

You both pretty much loved the same artists and you tried to attend as many gigs together as possible. Well, as possible as it was in this job. 

" What is Lana?." A soft smack to Spencer's silky head from Garcia swiftly followed. 

"You deserved that pretty boy." You liked to test the waters with how much flirting you could pass off as a joke with him. The flush that hit his cheeks everytime you did was your favourite shade of red. 

"Oh my god Reid, we have to go out tonight and educate you." That send Penelope bouncing down the hall to alert the others of her plans. Your still damp hair shook as you laughed at your friend. 

"Educate?" You looked up to meet Spencer's confused expression. "I have three PhD's." 

"Yeah and a lot to learn apparently." You learned forward as you rose from the chair next to him. Probably giving him a direct view down your slightly damp shirt. 

You took his deep gulp and flustered look at your cue to exit. Nothing better than leaving things on a high note with your favourite doctor. 

Later that night, after much convincing (and promises of free drinks) the whole gang had shuffled into a new karaoke spot that Penelope had been dying to try. 

You were honestly suprised she hadn't been to them all yet. Even more surprised she hadn't been banned from any either. She had a tendency to get overzealous while performing, which may or may not include giving Morgan a lapdance to National Anthem. 

Before you had all rushed the elevators to head home and change before the big night ahead, Penelope had given specific instructions for you all to come "hot to go." 

Everyone had hit really hit the mark, including yourself. It had been a while since you had really let loose and you weren't holding back. 

Your third glass of red wine matched the tight fitted dress that clung to your body in all the right places. Chunky black heels elongated your smooth, freshly shaven legs and your hair was thrown back into wild, unkempt curls. 

You ignored the eyes that lingered on your body as you grabbed another round for the table, desperately scanning the room for your guest of honour. It wasn't like Spencer to be late, so you had a sinking feeling that he might not be coming at all. 

Before you could pout for too long, in walked Dr Spencer Reid, looking drop dead gorgeous for an entirely new reason. 

His previously long locks has been  cropped into a shorter, messier cut. Althought you loved his old hair, his new style stirred something deep inside. 

You barely noticed the bartender place the stacked tray of drinks Infront of you as your eyes followed Spencer across the room. Luckily, he didn't notice your staring as he sat down with the rest of the group.

You quickly thanked the bartender and headed back over to the table, ready to get a better look at the eye candy waiting for you. 

As you approached, you heard the playful banter that was directed at Spencer's new look. 

"What did you join a boyband?" Even the ever serious Hotch was chiming in to tease the blushing doctor. 

"Penelope did say come hot to go didn't she?" You playfully leaned foward and ruffled Spencer's hair, careful to not let yourself indulge too much. "Spencer was just following orders." 

Okay maybe you were leaning way too close to him while you said it but you could only blame the wine. 

" You like it?" The sincerity in Spencer's question gave you butterflies. He genuinely wanted to know what you thought. 

"I love it Spence." You slightly slurred the compliment as you had just polished off a fourth glass but you meant every word. "You can pull off any look, I swear you just get prettier each day." 

You bravely placed a delicate hand over his under the table that only he knew about. Despite being slightly tipsy, you commited this feeling to your memory because you knew it wouldn't last. 

Before you could say anything more, Morgan and Rossi were dragging him up to the stage to perform a cheesy Bon Jovi song that Spencer definitely didn't know the words too. 

Despite usually being the sober one, you noticed him chugging  the beer he had been nursing to ease into the embarassment. 

Your whole team cheered and clapped as they bowed to their adoring fans, you yelled extra loud for your new favourite boyband as they retreated back to the booth. 

"Wow Spence, you're a natural up there." You jokingly teased as he squished in next to you, thighs slightly touching. He replied by stealing the rest of your drink and downing the rest of it. 

A tempting red stain lingered on his  boyish smile shining back at you, proud of what he had done. It took everything you had not to lean in for a taste. 

You wish it was always like this. Spencer playfully teasing you and looking at you like you hung the moon. You knew he was a light weight but your drunken mind pondered whether there was something else there. Whether he felt anything back. 

You made the executive decision to let him know exactly how much you wanted him. 

"Pen, we're up next." You locked eyes with your go to duet partner as she registered the devilish look you had. 

A couple minutes and one more glass for good luck later, you were making your way to the stage. 

The opening beat to one of your favourite songs started and you danced around as Garcia started the first verses. You felt the wine rush to your head and let yourself go to the song. 

You acted as a very enthusiastic backup singer as Garcia ended the first chorus and you started singing. You made sure to look directly over at Spencer to make sure he heard every word. 

"Long hair, no bra." You jokingly palmed your chest as a joke while singing "that's my type." 

"You just told me, want me to fuck you."

You made sure to hold eye contact for this next line, staring intently into Spencer's blown out pupils. 

"Baby, I will 'cause I really want to." 

You twirled on the spot, breaking your intense connection with Spencer to scream along to the chorus with Penelope. 

Your lips turned up into a smirk as you anticipated your next part. You returned your gaze back to it's rightful place. 

"Well, back at my house, I got a California king. Okay, maybe it's a twin bed, and some roommates." 

"Don't worry we're cool!" Penelope was taking her supporting role very seriously and you blew her a kiss for it. 

You then turned and made a show of pointing a nail at beet red man in front of you. 

"I heard you like magic

I got a wand and a rabbit

So baby, let's get freaky, get kinky

Let's make this bed get squeaky" 

You let Penelope take the rest of song song as you screwed your eyes shut and swayed your hips to the beat. You were too turned on to feel embarrassed about your not so subtle confession. 

You finally looked up to see that your favourite face was still looking back at yours. 

A bright smile lit your face as your rushed off the stage to ask him what he thought. You made sure to get as close as possible this time, not caring about the watchful eyes around you both. 

"So Spence, what did you think?" You tried to continue your seduction but you couldn't focus as he assessed you with his eyes. 

"I think." A wide smirk appeared as he reached behind you. "you have something behind your ear." 

A torn piece of paper appeared between his fingers. You could see the start of a few numbers before the paper folded in. 

" I already have your number Casanova, we work together remember?" You teased.

" It's not my number." You slowly unfolded the rest of the message, eyes like saucers as you realised what it said. 

"It's my address, and I do actually have a California King."

[canyonroads]

100 Albums // 2024

One of my resolutions for 2024 was to sit down and listen to more albums (mostly) uninterrupted from beginning to end. Here is where I'm compiling those albums + my thoughts on them as I go.

How I'm choosing the albums: most of these are "I randomly found one song off this album, I've been meaning to listen to more". But some are just iconic, genre-defining albums that I know I'm doing myself a disservice by not listening to yet. Some are also suggestions!

How I'm rating them: this is PERSONAL TASTE ONLYYYYYY. Some albums I acknowledge will be impossible to rate this way, but for the most part I am JUST rating based on MY taste. I'm trying to be open minded to any and all genre's but I'm aware my tastes lean indie.

If you see this (which you might because Im pinning it for ease of access), you should reply or send me a message with your favorite album. I just may give it a listen! Thanks!!

‐----------------‐-------------------------------------------------

1. Self-Titled - Bon Iver (2011)

Rating: 4/10

Fav Songs: Holocene, Towers, Wash

Notes: I like a handful of Bon Iver songs but I haven't really listened to his stuff, much. I REALLY wanted this whole album to be like "Holocene" but overall it's pretty... Meh, save a few songs. The bits I enjoyed were experimental aspects that remind me of my favorite song of his off another album, "33 God". I will listen to that album at some point. I haven't given up on Bon Iver anyway.

2. Get to Heaven (Deluxe) - Everything Everything (2015)

Rating: 8/10

Fav Songs: The Wheel (is turning now), Only As Good as my God, Blast Doors

Notes: I LOVE this album. A friend of mine put "Only As Good As My God" on a playlist for me a few years ago, I've been obsessed with it ever since, and most of the album is just as good if not better. I really enjoy the religious imagery and overall messaging. Not every song totally landed, though, which is why it's only an 8/10.

3. Nearer My God - Foxing (2018)

Rating: 6/10

Fav Songs: Nearer My God, Five Cups, Lambert

Notes: I listened to this album on a rainy Sunday morning while finishing up a book, and I'd say that's the perfect way to listen to it. Solid mellow vibes and sweeping, yet gentle instrumentals- nothing that really stands out or knocked my socks off, either.

4. The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess - Chappell Roan (2023)

Rating: 9/10

Fav Songs: Pink Pony Club, HOT TO GO!, Red Wine Supernova

Notes: I love "Pink Pony Club" so much and the rest of the album does not disapoint. High points are danceable, low songs still catchy as fuck. One part Madonna, part Lemon Demon?? Its just great. However, I think the opening song 'FEMININOMENON' is awful. I couldn't even finish it. Only thing keeping this album from a 10/10.

5. Born in the U.S.A. - Bruce Springsteen (1984)

Rating: 🫡/10

Fav Songs: Downbound Train, No Surrender, Dancing in the Dark

Notes: I won't even try to rate this album because it's so classic and contextual. I really love it though- especially with an eye on the way Springsteen satirizes, critiques, yet appreciates masculinity. It's crazy to me that people really listen and take him at face value- True Patriotic Americanism- ignoring any obvious commentary on war, the working class, racism... Anyway, he's good! I already knew it but this really gave me a deeper appreciation.

6. Fine Line - Harry Styles (2019)

Rating: 4/10

Fav Songs: Cherry, Fine Line, Adore You

Notes: Another tame background listen. A few bangers but the rest is very meh. Also included my second song skip on this list so far (Canyon Moon) which is never great. I will probably not listen to any more Harry, but maybe.

7. Mystére - La Femme (2016)

Rating: 7/10

Fav Songs: Ou ve la Monde, Sphynx, Mycose

Notes: First foreign language AND rec album for an artist that I'd never listened to! Really cool stuff here, very experimental- some of it is more straightforward electronica, some of it almost 60s sounding Halloween beats, some psychedelic rock- but I enjoyed almost all of it!!

8. Put Yourself Back Together - Real Friends (2013)

Rating: 3/10

Fav Songs: Skin Deep, I've Given Up On You

Notes: Chose a short one to end January on 8 albums, but I found this album tremendously disappointing. All in a row like this, the whininess of Real Friends REALLY starts to grate after about 3 songs. And its way beyond your usual pop punk whininess, too. By the albums end I was so grateful it was over. I've Given Up On You still goes hard, though.

9. Self-Titled - Vagabon (2019)

Rating: 7/10

Fav Songs: Flood, Full Moon in Gemini, Water Me Down

Notes: This album is objectively good, but the best songs are unfortunately the ones I had already stumbled on. That isn't to say there wasn't some treasures to be found- and on continued listens I think "In A Bind" could grow higher in my tastes. Overall, pretty damn good!

10. The Slow Rush - Tame Impala (2020)

Rating: 9/10

Fav Songs: Borderline, Breathe Deeper, On Track

Notes: GREAT album. I used to really not understand the draw of Tame Impala, then one day I heard Eventually and it clicked. This album does not disapoint. Even the songs that don't stand out are so fucking funky, it's impossible to not vibe. I listened to this while cleaning the kitchen at work and I was half-dancing through parts of it. Great stuff. I'll listen to Currents at some point, too.

11. Pin-Up Daddy - Rett Madison (2021)

Rating: 10/10

Fav Songs: Pin-Up Daddy, God is a Woman, Emily

Notes: Finally... a 10/10 album. Pin-Up Daddy is a song that impacted me very deeply upon first listen, and the rest of this is just as emotionally gutting. First album of this list to bring me to tears. Definately not a listen-in-the-background album, Rett demands involvement in the stories she is painting you.

12. You Are All I See - Active Child (2011)

Rating: 7.5/10

Fav Songs: Hanging On, High Priestess, You Are All I See

Notes: A friend recommended 'Hanging On' to me an eternity ago and it's been a go-to "in my feels" song since. This album is really good- mixing R&B flawlessly with 80s synth, and add this mans beautiful, Bon Iver-esque falsetto, its a dream. However, the worst bits of this album are definately where he's trying to... *Sound* more black than he is. Lol. There's really no nice way to say it. Also! This album led me to Ellie Gouldings cover of "Hanging On", and this next bomb of an album...

13. Halcyon - Ellie Goulding (2012)

Rating: 1/10

Fav Songs: Hanging On

Notes: think I've avoided this album subconsciously. "Lights" is a 10/10 album for me, but this albums single track "Anything Can Happen" is probably one of my most hated songs of the 2010s. Its awful. And I'm sorry to report that the rest of this album is just as bad- giving "overproduced" a new standard, in the meantime losing every appealing and unique thing about Ellie Gouldings ARTISTRY in "Lights". The dubstep beat running through the background of every GD song is SO grating and was actually starting to piss me off. "Joy" is my third skip of this list, it's so intolerably corny. The gem keeping this album from a total 0 is her cover of "Hanging On", which is very different from the original but seems to be the only song that she put even an OUNCE of Pussy into.

14. Miss Universe - Nilüfer Yanya (2019)

Rating: 7.5/10

Fav Songs: Heavyweight Champion of the Year, Baby Blu, Safety Net

Notes: Great album that I listened to while deep-cleaning at work. Its high energy makes it good for cleaning, and I really enjoyed the pacing/content of the album breaks. Really atmospheric. Her vocal range is just INSANE too and you can really feel the impact of Turkish music on her sound.

15. Self-Titled - Elliott Smith (1995)

Rating: 7/10

Fav Songs: Good to Go, Needle in the Hay, The Biggest Lie

Notes: Another great album for Doing Tasks at work! I've been meaning to get to some Elliott Smith forever- he is, after all, SO influential and an iconic Portland figure. I was really vibing to his stuff- but nothing on this album really jumped to stand out to me. That said- it's amazing how you can feel his influence on many other artists- Phoebe Bridgers, Frank Ocean, Bright Eyes... I especially felt that he was similar in tone to Sufjan, whom I just adore. Another great rec!

16. Self-Titled - Tracy Chapman (1988)

Rating: 💧/10

Fav Songs: Fast Car, Mountain O' Things, Talkin' Bout a Revolution

Notes: I LOVE Fast Car, so I gave this album a listen and I was not disapointed. I don't know why I wasn't expecting it to be SO political when, in my opinion, Fast Car is VERY political. But Tracy has a lot to say about being black, being poor, being a woman- not even to mention being gay! In the 80s!! This was trangressive and inspiring stuff then, and I can't possibly rate it now- except to say that this album is excellent, worth a listen, and contains so much more than just Fast Car can offer.

17. Fantastic Planet - Failure (1996)

Rating: 5/10

Fav Songs: Dirty Blue Balloons, Saturday Savior

Notes: This was another blind suggestion for a band I've never even heard of! Overall, it was very cool and super different from my usual stuff. As it is, I'm a bit more into softer grunge/shoegaze, myself- but that said, this album has a lot to offer musically, and I even watched a biographical video on Failure afterwards, because I was so interested in their production process. This album also REALLY made me want to listen to a full Tool album, so...

18. Lateralus- TOOL (2001)

Rating: 8/10

Fav Songs: Schism, The Grudge, Reflection

Notes: This album rules. I got stoned as hell and listened to it while doing a mindless task (filling my queue) and it feels like I really heard all the instruments and vocal depth of Tool for the first time. Not every song captured me, but considering Tool is known for their LONG songs, I'm surprised it's as engaging as it is.

19. Crimes of Passion - Pat Benetar (1980)

Rating: 4/10

Fav Songs: Wuthering Heights, Hit Me With Your Best Shot, I'm Gonna Follow You

Notes: This album is certified mid. Her cover of Wuthering Heights is inspired and obviously HMWYBS is iconic, but this album offers little else besides a few decent guitar riffs. Any given song had really clunky lyrics and this is just not as refined as I know Pat Benetar can be.

20. Caught in Still Life - VAULTS (2016)

Rating: 8.5/10

Fav Songs: One Last Night, Cry No More, Hurricane

Notes: Ive been really enjoying 'One Last Night' for years now, so I was more than happy to give this a listen and it didn't disappoint. Vaults basically encapsulates my favorite musical themes; electronic percussion mixed with some pure instrumentals like strings, piano, harps, or chimes, plus clear, lovely vocals... It's just excellent. 8 just because not every song totally landed.

21. Currents - Tame Impala (2015)

Rating: 9/10

Fav Songs: Eventually, Disciples, The Less I Know the Better

Notes: Told you I'd listen to Currents too! I liked this album a tiny bit more than The Slow Rush, I just feel like it was better put together and the flow between songs is perfect. It's just really good.

22. Modus Vivendi - 070 Shake (2020)

Rating: 7/10

Fav Songs: Morrow, Rocketship, The Pines

Notes: I think this is my first hiphop album of this project, which is insane because I love a good hiphop album. This album is a good example of how the flow between songs can really make or break it. I didn't love too many specific, individual songs off this album, but I loved the album structure as a whole which can carry a lot. I also just teally enjoy 070 Shake. Her voice is so pleasant, like bubble wrap to the brain.

23. Proof of Life - Joy Oladokun (2023)

Rating: 8/10

Fav Songs: Changes, Somehow, Friends

Notes: Another album from someone I'd never heard of, and it's great! Joy was recommended to me as someone who likes Taylor Swifts 'Folklore' album. I would not say it's very much like Folklore, but it was still wonderful. She has a voice like velvet and a folky way with words. 'Changes' could have been my pandemic anthem.

24. 3.15.20 - Childish Gambino (2020)

Rating: 2/10

Fav Songs: 42.26, 35.31

Notes: Upon lamenting that I needed more hiphop, my partner reminded me of this album. Starting it, I wondered to myself "this has been out for 4 years. Why haven't I heard any songs from it out in the wild??" And the answer is; because they're bad. Like, really bad and not even in a fun way. Songs listed are listenable but I don't forsee myself revisiting them. I like experimental stuff but this one is not for me!

25. Strange Trails - Lord Huron (2015)

Rating: 7.5/10

Fav Songs: Meet Me In The Woods, The Night We Met, Fool for Love

Notes: After that last one, I wanted an album I knew would be decent at LEAST, so I went with Strange Trails as I'm already familiar with a handful of songs. It's great! I feel that Johnny Cash would really appreciate Lord Huron, and I like the way he tells stories. Redacted points for putting both 'Love Like Ghosts' and 'Meet Me In The Woods' on there, though. In theory, the idea of the same instrumentals with different lyrics is interesting, but in practice just feels like LLG is the rough, first draft of MMITW and shouldnt have been included? That's a very small beef.

26. Unheard - Hozier (2024) (EP)

Rating: 8/10

Fav Songs: Empire Now, Too Sweet

Notes: Trying to avoid EPs for this project, but I really wanted to listen to this and I didn't want to discount it either. And it's great! 'Fare Well' is a bit of a weak ender, but oh well.

27. Saved - Now, Now (2018)

Rating: 8/10

Fav Songs: SGL, Powder, MJ

Notes: This album is one of the original that inspired this project, so I'm not sure why it took me so long to get to it. Now, Now has a truly unique sound that I struggle to classify, and I simply just love it. Catchy, yet complex and dreamy. Not every song landed but I'll be coming back to this one for sure.

28. Sahar - Tamino (2022)

Rating: 7/10

Fav songs: The First Disciple, The Longing, Fascination

Notes: Gave this album a listen at my partners bequest, and she totally loves it, so... Pressure! Overall, I think I like his album Amir a bit more. This ones still great, though, especially to throw on in the background while you're doing stuff. His music is so layered and rich, truly unique sounding. That said, I REALLY don't like "Sunflower". I've heard it a few times now and I like it less every time. Something about it feels... Off, for a Tamino song.

29. Spirituals - Santigold (2022)

Rating: 6/10

Fav Songs: No Paradise, Fall First, Ain't Ready

Notes: This one was a coworker recommendation (and my coworkers have officially heard about this project so I imagine I'll be good on recommendations for a while). Its just okay! I appreciate how unique and difficult to genre-fy Santigold is, but I prefer some of her older stuff. This album still has some great flow and a few total gems, though.

30. Beauty Pagent - The Bobby Lees (2018)

Rating: 9/10

Fav Songs: Radiator, Mad Moth, Bobby Lee

Notes: Another coworker rec and I LOVE this album. The old-punk feel is so visceral, you could close your eyes and be in an 80s basement show. I couldn't BELIEVE how new this is. Not a casual listen for sure (I mean- it's punk), but worth a quick dive if you feel like going hard.

31. Чёрный альбом - Kino (1990)

Rating: 🎸/10

Fav Songs: N/A

Notes: This was a bestie-rec but I've listened to enough Kino in the past to know it probably... Wasn't gonna be my vibe! And sure enough, it wasn't really. I enjoyed it well enough, though most of the songs just blended together for me, and I spent a good chunk of time reading about Kino afterwards. They were so influential to Russian rock that I dont feel its fair to give them a number rating, but I don't see myself returning to Kinos black album!

32. Older - Lizzy McAlpine (2024)

Rating: 8/10

Fav Songs: Drunk Running, Staying, Broken Glass

Notes: Lizzy's album before this, 'ten seconds flat', isn't just a 10/10 album for me- it CONSUMED my entire Spotify wrapped last year. I was cautious about this album and I'm glad for it, because it's VERY different. I still enjoyed it a lot, but to compare the two would be weird. This is a melancholy album with very few highs, a jazz-feel throughout, and features Lizzys voice on full display. A few songs bored me to tears musically, though- so just an 8/10. Not a bad follow up at all, Lizzy!

33. Apocalypse Whenever (deluxe version) - Bad Suns - 2022

Rating: 3/10

Fav Songs: Maybe You Saved Me, When the World was Mine

Notes: This was my first truly disappointing album listen :^( I love the Bad Suns, and 'Disapear Here' is an album I just absolutely BLEED for. This album lacks in comparison, and the culprit is obvious. I'm not sure if the singer is trying to do it more healthily or something, but his voice just totally lacks that indescribable *thing* he does. The special sauce, if you will. As a result every song sounds really low-energy? A few years ago a Bad Suns/PVRIS collab would have slayed me but I'm so underwhelmed now.

34. Fade to Bluegrass (a Bluegrass tribute to Metallica) - Iron Horse (2003)

Rating: 7/10

Fav Songs: Nothing Else Matters, Unforgiven, Wherever I May Roam

Notes: Another coworker recommendation, but I pushed it to the top of my list because the concept intrigued me. I don't even like Metallica but I am familiar enough with them to admit these songs went hard. A few of these songs I even feel like lend themselves better to the Bluegrass genre?? A really interesting listen!

35. The Tortured Poets Department (ANTHOLOGY) - Taylor Swift (2024)

Rating: 4/10

Fav Songs: I Look in People's Windows, Down Bad, The Black Dog

Notes: Certifiably mid. Does not justify being 31 songs long. Most sound indistinguishable from one another and one is such an offensive dupe of 'Cardigan' I think it should have been cut completely. Every song is so densely packed with lyrics I wish she would just write a fucking novel or something. And this low energy 'talk-singing' thing she does now sounds awful and bores you to tears by the end. But because you can't throw 31 rocks without hitting SOMETHING, I found some enjoyable songs. Hilarious that the best song is also the shortest. World's most long winded pop star /neg.

36. The Secret to Life - FIZZ

[sweet-prince-marth]

Have you heard Red Wine Supernova by Chappell Roan or My Love Mine All Mine by Mitski?

I have not! These two songs are unknown territory to me. Let's see...

"Red Wine Supernova" by Chapell Roan. First listen gave me the flavor of the song. It's upbeat and playful, it seems to peak at the second chorus. What's this genre? Is it just pop, or is it a more specific thing? At my second listen I pulled out the lyrics. Hehe, lesbainsn. The lyrics are cheesy but it doesn't have to be too deep, it's a fun beat with fun lyrics. Chapell must have had a great time making this song, the feeling is all over it. I think my favorite lyric has to be "I heard you like magic, I got a wand and a rabbit". Hehe, sex toy. She is singing this to a weed smoker girl who sounds like a good time... I wonder how old these two women are. In pop-like songs, the singer is doing the heavy lifting, but I also quite enjoyed paying attention to the other instruments heard accompanying her on my third listen. Sounds like it's mostly digital, but if I could see her live maybe I'd discover that the guitar is real, maybe. Also, is this song 3 months old?!

[Here is a link to the first song in YouTube]

Next we have "My love mine all mine" by Mitsiki. I am always biased to misjudge a popular artist as lame, but then I catch the negative thought by the tail and try to listen to these artists without it. But let's see... On my first listen, I feel like I'm at an empty bar alone thinking about the one that got away. It's WILDLY opposite as the first suggestion, you caught me off guard, anon. It gave me a sad taste. But on the second listen, reading the lyrics as the music plays, I am surprised to see that the lyrics are quite sweet and tender, not sad at all. My favorite lyric part has to be the whole third paragraph with "My baby, here on earth. Showed me what my heart was worth. So, when it comes to be my turn. Could you shine it down for her." I also noticed how each pair of sentences rhyme (Except in the chorus). Which is a sweet little detail. On the third listen, I am hearing only the instruments. The piano is the secret protagonist of this song.

[Link to this second song]

Well, I liked both of them. Not places I visit, but these are perfectly fine songs I could listen to every now and then :-) Thanks!

[venusxxlangdon]

Dance With The Devil. Part One. Invitation

summary: Michael is in hell, his Father is deeply disappointed in him, but instead of demolishing his son to ashes he lets him become a keeper of the 7th, 8th, and 9th Circles with a couple hundred demons in his service. Michael spends his days in boredom and taking his anger out on his subjects until one day Purson, a demon of all secret things of Earth, appears before him and makes an intriguing offer. Once upon a time, a woman made a deal with Satan, but did not pay her debt, passing the burden of it to her granddaughter. Before taking what is his, Michael gives a ball, and makes sure that the reader attends it in the first place.

warnings: for this chapter — a graphic description of hell and demons + there’s a nasty scene of Michael sending the reader a pie with worms, outpost!Michael, fem!reader

Smut is for desert aka the 2nd part

A/N: special thank you to @langdons-rep for discussing Dante with me

Words: 4550

The sound of boots clicking on the marble floor echoed in the corridor where the only source of light was the touchers hanging on the stone walls. A tall man dressed in a burgundy velvet jacket and black slacks was on his way to a big wooden door decorated with ornate monograms. At first glance, one might have thought they were made of the fine metal, hammered by the most skillful blacksmith, but in fact, it was the live cobras, slowly crawling up and down the door and curving into the shapes of spirals and waves. They stopped moving, as the man approached them and confidently wrapped his ring-clad fingers around the gold door handle. The blood-red rubies on his rings blinked dangerously in the dim light.

“So everyone is here?” his voice roared through the Great Hall immediately drawing the attention of the present. They stopped talking and fell silent, cautiously looking at him. “Brilliant. May I wonder why, my dear friends? Why are you all here doing nothing instead of outraging the humanity?”

A deafening silence followed his question. He put his hands behind his back and slowly, as if he was a predator on a hunt, made his way to an empty throne in the center of the room. It was sat atop an elevated marble platform and covered in textured and layered designs. There was a gold skull next to its right leg, and a green snake was wrapped around the left one. It lifted up its head and hissed at her master when he approached the throne, greeting him. The man did not pay any attention to it and took his seat on a thick pillow adorned with the intricate needlework, crossing his legs. He placed his hands on the arms of the throne and skimmed the room with a pretentious glare.

“What? Have my Father finally cut your tongues off?” his full lips were pursed in disgust.

Everyone bent their knees before their master, and only one demon dared to answer:

“My Lord, why are we suddenly fell out of your favor?” Furfur, a Great Earl of Hell stood up straight, facing the man. His usually rough voice sounded fawningly in attempt to sneak leniency from his master. But everyone knew he was a liar unless compelled to enter a magic triangle where he gave true answers to every question, so none of his words should have ever be taken seriously.

The man on the throne snarled.

“You should be the last one to raise your voice, Furfur”, he twisted his wrist, and the snake beneath the throne started making its way up his leg, to his thigh, and then higher to his chest to finally settle on his shoulders. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out about the debauch you and Naberius...”, he paused, moving his gaze to a three-headed monster who immediately bowed his head as his name slipped off the man’s tongue. “Had made?

Furfur clapped his raven wigs behind his back and submissively shook his disproportionately big head, having nothing to reply with.

“Do you know that because of your imprudent behavior we had to completely demolish a couple thousand souls?” the man started stroking the head of the snake with the tips of his fingers.

Noberius, being cunning in all arts by his demonic nature, clearly had something to add, but preferred to bite his tongue and remain silent for his own good. However, one could tell that he was angry by the way he clenched his metal claws around the silver rod that he was holding in his hands. He knew that it wasn’t the matter of him or any of the demons in the Hall who somehow had managed to disappoint the man on the throne. Michael Langdon, their master and the spawn of Satan himself, was simply bored. Nothing “entertaining”, as Michael referred to it, had been happening for months, so the young man started taking his anger out on his servants.

Even his morning strolls to the Ninth Circle didn’t bring him the usual satisfaction. A large frozen lake named Cocytus had always been his favorite. Those who were guilty of treachery against those with whom they trusted, in other words traitors, were trapped in the ice, each according to his guilt. Michael especially loved the temperature. It was 60 times lower than the temperature in Antarctica, and it felt like with every breath he took, his lungs were getting covered with a thin layer of ice. Fascinating. Although, the other day he got extremely annoyed by his servants, tiny demons of the lowest arcana with grey wrinkled skin and two gaping holes instead of their eyes, that his head seriously started hurting him.

“Leave me alone and shut the hell up!” he screamed out throwing his hands up in the air. With his movements, a ricocheting wave pushed the exasperating servants back several feet away from him. Whimpering and groveling on their knees they backed off without lifting their gaze up at their furious master. The harrowing screams from the concentric rings of the lake were no longer to be heard as well.

Michael sighed tiredly and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence, but the relief didn’t last for too long. The pain in his temples intensified, and the inhuman growl was drown from his throat. He swished and flicked his wrists once again, this time more delicately, and the ice in the lake started to crack. His anger washed over his body in hot, flushed waves making him clench his jaw. The feeling of pure frustration was creeping under his skin.

He could not forgive himself for failing his Father’s will. After the witches defeated him, Michael found himself home before his Father’s throne. The look on Satan’s face was unreadable, but the way he talked to Michael made it clear that Langdon had disappointed him. Michael clenched his fists so tight, his knuckles turned white at the memory of him sprawled out on the floor before the throne made of bones and metal. The only good thing was that the Demonic Quorum felt genuinely sorry for him and convinced his Father to send Michael to the castle not far from the lake of ice and let him become a peace guardian of the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Circles instead of demolishing him to ashes. Naberius and Furfur followed along. Ever since that day, Michael was trying to do something remarkable so his Farther could forgive him.

His anger was like a supernova exploding deep inside him. The grand wave of ice and dust from the lake rose into the hellish sky. He wanted to ruin everything, every suffering soul that wasn’t even able to scream anymore. Only after there was nothing left from Cocytus, and the new lake started to regenerate, he felt like his work was done there. He turned around on his heels and without looking back went to the Eighth circle, blond shoulder length hair, styled in soft curls, bounced with every step.

“So”, he beckoned a creature carrying a bottle of wine and a cabernet glass on its back. It almost stumbled on its way to Michael, but, fortunately, managed not to spill a single drop of the drink. He wrapped his slender fingers around the tall glass, brought it to his nose, and slowly inhaled the smell of wine. “Who wants to tell me their pathetic excuse? Who wants to be the fir-....?” he cocked his eyebrow, looking unamused.

But before Michael could finish his sentence and continue humiliating his servants, he got interrupted by the sound of trumpets in the distance.

“Damn, why now?” as Michael expressed his discontent, a man with a lion’s head and a Viper in his hand appeared before him.

Purson, a Great King of Hell who was served by twenty-two legions of demons, didn’t feel the need to bend the knee. In his opinion, Michael was some sort of a misfit who had managed to seek his Farther’s mercy and somehow hadn’t got completely destroyed. He ran his bony fingers through his messy mane and gave Michael a discreet nod. Purson wasn’t a frequent guest at Langdon’s castle, and he never notified about his visits in advance, as he preferred to come unexpectedly, catching Michael off-guard. He stuck his red, inflammatory tongue out and licked his bottom lip.

 “What a tremendous surprise”, Michael stood up and spread his arms as if he was going to hug the guest. The corners of his lips twitched, but the look in his eyes remained suspicious. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Still trying to figure out how to please your Daddy?” the demon shamelessly ignored Michael’s attempt to seem courteous.

Michael rolled his eyes. Other demons were watching the two of them amusingly, thirsty for bread and circuses.

“What does it have to do with you?” he took his seat on the throne. Michael never understood how the demon even dared to come to his place and start making fun of him. What for? Was it on his weekly bucket list?

Purson shrugged and curiously looked around, unconsciously admiring the floating candles in the air. Damn kid had taste indeed.

“I was thinking that I might’ve been really tiresome to bear the burden of Satan’s disappointment”

“Cut the bullshit”, Michael quickly forgot about formalities. It was always difficult to keep his cool around Purson because the demon was a good empath even when it came to the feelings of the former Antichrist. He could read him like a picture book. “What do you want from me this time?”

Purson smiled carnivorously and clapped his hands excitedly.

“As the one in charge of all secret and divine things of Earth”, a self-satisfied smug spread across his scarred face, as he spoke, “I came to offer you a deal, my Lord”, Michael winced at the mockery.

He made another sip of wine.

“If you are implying that you’ve been fishing for somebody else’s dirty secrets and came to sell them to me, I must say that the answer is no”.

Purson’s red eyes widened. Who was this piece of scam to degrade him like that? Michael basically called him a quidnunc. The demon’s nostrils flared with anger. Most of the time he wished the Quorum sentenced Michael to demolition.

“I came to inform you that the time has come”, he retorted spitefully, “the time for a Limbo bitch to pay her debt to your Father”.

Everyone in the room started whispering frantically, even the tiny creatures dared to crawl a bit closer to Michael’s throne in order to overhear what the demon was talking about. Everyone, but Michael, seemed to be aware of what was going on. He raised his index finger up in the air, shushing his subjects.

“What do you mean?” he genuinely had no idea, and it was surprising to see Purson nearly bounce with exhilaration.

The demon covered his eyes with his palm in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?” he shook his head, but as the look on Michael’s face remained stern, snapped his fingers. An ancient scroll appeared in his hands. Purson unfolded it and cleared his throat ready to read it out loud. “I’d like to enlighten you, my Lord”, he glared at Michael, “if I may?”

Michael nodded and leaned on the back of the throne, crossing his arms. He wished Purson could stop saying that stupid “My Lord” all the time.

“A long time ago one of our fellow believers had an unrequited love for a man she went to church with, but no matter how hard she was trying to get his attention he had his eyes on a different woman. Therefore, she made a deal with Our Highness: the man would marry her and they would live happily until death did them apart, but in return, she would sacrifice her soul. Our Lord, being a generous master that he is...”, Purson’s hoarse voice was loud and clear, “did everything she begged him for, but when it was time for her to join other sinners in hell, she sought the help of some witch who performed a very powerful ritual which helped the woman avoid the blessing of burning in Gehenna.”

He took a pause and looked up at Michael. The blank expression on his face made Purson shrug his shoulders disappointingly. To be honest, he wanted to make quite a show with his speech. Michael looked deeply unamused.

“Okay, where’s she now?” he finally asked.

“In Limbo”, answered Naberius from the corner of the chamber. Purson nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, she’s forever trapped in Limbo, and we are unable to get her out of there. However...”, he smiled, “we could have taken her daughter...”

“But she had a fucking son”, barked Bifrons, interrupting the demon. The string of salvia was dripping down his fangs on the thick carpet.

“I would really appreciate if I weren’t interrupted all the time”, Purson demanded, looking really annoyed. “Yes, she had a son indeed. That’s why I said that we could have taken her”, his eyes glistened mischievously, “but her son has a daughter, and now she’s old enough to pay her precious grandma’s debt”.

The Great Hall exploded with applauses and triumphal whistling. The demons were excited about an act of good revenge. Sinners came in packs to hell every day, but those who fell the victims of their relatives’ karma were quite rare.

“Silence!” Michael shouted at them. He did not like the fact that Purson managed to steal his subjects’ attention. “And what does it have to do with me?”

“Here’s the deal: you bring the girl here and win the trust of your Father. Besides, my resources notified me that you’d been bored lately? Well, that’s going be fun.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Trust nobody” had been his motto on Earth, and since he got back to hell it pretty much stayed the same.

“You do realize that I’m not going buy the idea of you helping me to get along with my Father without anything in return? What are the stakes?”

Purson looked pleased. If Michael started asking questions, it meant that he got his interest even though the young man was trying to look unimpressed.

“I want to use her soul”, he made a dramatic pause, “for my own pleasure, but I can’t bring her to hell myself, that’s why I need your help.”

“Why so? I don’t want to do the dirty work for you”, Michael frowned.

“Because her grandmother had tricked no priest, for she fooled Satan himself. We would have placed her in the Ninth Circle with other traitors if she hadn’t been so sneaky. You are the keeper of this circle thus her daughter is technically yours ”, the demon stepped closer, and the snake on Michael’s shoulder threateningly hissed at him. “You don’t have to do it yourself. Just send your outcasts”, he nodded at the tiny monsters, “to her house. They’ll do the work…”

Michael listened carefully, and he had to admit to himself that the deal seemed very intriguing. From the corner of his eye he noticed that Furfur leaned forward to Naberius and started whispering something in his ear.

“And I’d be perfectly fine with visiting her once in a while by Cocytus”, Purson finished his speech.

Michael hummed. What was so enchanting about the girl’s soul that even one of the kings wanted it? He looked at the demon, thinking that if he helped him with something like that, Purson would owe him forever. The demon probably understood it himself; otherwise, he would not have come to Michael.

“Show me the soul”, he ordered.

Purson snickered and in one swift motion threw his hands up in the air. A strong wind immediately blew off the candles, etching the Great Hall in charcoal. It was so quiet — Michael could even hear the dust storm outside of the castle. But then a sudden burst of light erupted from the tips of the demon’s fingers, making the others growl disapprovingly. It was the kind of brightness that seared into the retinas of the ones, who possessed a pair of eyes, making them cover their faces with either their hands or their wings (that is what Furfur did). Michael watched it reach out to him, but once it touched his hand he hurried to get it off the armrests of the throne. He carefully examined the burn. His pale skin turned pink for a second, and then quickly healed itself. He couldn’t explain the vibe he felt from this light — it reminded him of something. Something he had experienced on Earth, but he did not remember what exactly was that feeling. Something long-forgotten.

“What was that?” he asked as soon as Purson finished his performance. The shock on Michael’s face was speaking louder than words. The demon smiled, satisfied with the drawn reaction.

“This is what I’m looking forward to getting if you help me”

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat thinking if he really wanted to do it. The bastard before him was right: how many more days he was going to handle this insufferable state of being rejected by his own Father? His life on Earth was one hell of a service to others: warlocks, Satanists, whoever wanted to use and manipulate him, and he expected it to be different in hell. It was his home after all, so why was he settling only for some mansion and a couple of legions of demons under control when he could rule all nine circles and be his Father's right hand?

“If I help you”, he said, and Purson’s face immediately lit up, “promise me to never appear in my castle again.”

Purson chuckled.

“As you wish”, he bowed his head mockingly and snapped his fingers, evaporating as unexpectedly as he had appeared earlier. The scent of burned flesh and Michael’s devastated mood were the only things the demon left behind.

Bifronos, a demon of science, the virtues of the gems and woods, who was silent all this time spoke first:

“My Lord, I think you should have discussed the decision with...” his lipless mouth barely moved, making it hard to understand what the demon was trying to say.

“With you?” Michael growled lowly, cutting him off. He turned his head to Furfur and Naberius who were still talking quietly. They noticed his gaze and slavishly bowed their heads.

Michael stood up, and the demons kneeled before him. His words vociferously roared in the Great Hall, as he proclaimed:

“Let every dead and living soul know that their Master will be giving a ball, and I expect all of them to attend it. May every pathetic creature in the farthest corners of hell witness what a splendid soul will soon be trapped under the ice of Lake Cocytus.”

xxx

She didn’t know when exactly all these weird things started happening to her, but something was definitely wrong with her mental state. First of all, she had never had any trouble with sleep, but lately, insufferable insomnia took over her mind and she could lay in bed for hours at night without sleep. In the morning she felt wrecked and drained out, but still had to go to classes and somehow manage to concentrate on the lectures. By the end of the day she felt dizzy, it seemed like her head was about to explode and none of the meds she had taken really helped her. She even bought some sleeping pills, but they made the situation even worse: as she drifted off to sleep, a horrible nightmare woke her up, and after that, she was wide awake on purpose in order not to go back to a surreal world of horror.

From time to time, she could sense a very unusual smell. The smell of burned hair and rotten eggs. It was so weird because the first time she sensed it, she was in a flower shop where it was impossible for something to smell that bad. She figured that she was imagining things because of lack of sleep.

Then sleep deprivation started causing her hallucinations. It was a normal Friday: she woke up tired (this condition had already become a part of her regular routine), took a shower, disappointingly examined her face in the mirror noticing that dark circles under her eyes looked even worse, and tried to cover them with makeup. The lilac color couldn’t be hidden under any concealer.

She made her way to a small kitchen and opened the fridge, thinking that she wasn’t even hungry. But she remembered her grandmother (“May she rest In peace”, she thought to herself) always telling her that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, so with a deep sigh she decided that maybe a piece of blueberry pie she had bought yesterday from a small bakery by her apartment building wasn’t such a bad idea. She opened the fridge once again, took the plate with the pie and dragged her feet to a comfortable armchair in front of the TV. She turned it on for the sake of background noise and closed her eyes tiredly. Maybe she needed to see a therapist. She looked at the digital clock on the shelf.

8:08 am

Interesting. For the past two months, she kept seeing the same numbers. Whenever she glanced at the clock or her phone display, the time was either 11:11 or 9:09 and so on. Even when she took the train to see her friend in the neighboring city her ticket said “platform 11. Train #7766”.

She forgot a fork for the pie, but figured since nobody was watching her, she could eat it with her hands. Bite by bite she started savoring the blueberry pie, absentmindedly staring at the TV screen. And that’s when it happened.... When she was about to take another bite she looked at the plate and rapidly knocked it off. Her favorite dessert was stuffed with worms. They were crawling out of the berry stuffing, wiggling their boneless bodies.

“What the fuck?” she shouted and rushed to the sink to throw up. At the thought of what she just saw her insides quivered as she kept vomiting.

After a while she wiped off her mouth, shaking violently. With her hands on both sides of the sink, she tried to calm down and took a deep breath. The smell of vomit filled her nostrils making her nauseous. She rinsed her mouth and slowly turned around on wobbly legs. Cautiously approaching the mess she had made, the girl looked at the broken plate.

There were no worms. Only the unfortunate blueberry pie crashed on the floor. She stepped closer not being able to believe her own eyes.

That Friday she called a therapist.

xxx

Her own scream woke her up in the middle of the night. She dreamed that she was running from someone, but she couldn’t understand who it was. The only thing she knew was that every cell of her body was shaking with terror at the thought of the man getting his hands on her. She opened her eyes panting heavily. It was so hot in her room! She ran her tongue along her dry bottom lip, trying to calm down. Her hair clang to her sweaty forehead and she brushed the damp strands off, disgusted by the overall feeling of exhaustion that flushed over her. She sat up in her bed and looked at the clock.

6:06 am

Well, at least it was not midnight. The alarm was set for 8am and she growled tiredly because she could have had at least an hour of sleep more!

The air in the room was extremely humid, almost suffocating. She kicked off the blanket and stretched her left arm trying to reach the AC remote control, but as she started pressing the buttons, it didn’t work.

“Goddamn”, she cursed, crushing back on the pillows. She covered her face with her palms and groaned in frustration.

Strange noise from the corner of her room suddenly drew her attention. She pressed the button on the lamp on her nightstand, but nothing happened. Confused, she tried once again, but the room remained dark. And then she sensed that familiar stench, this time it was more intense. A shiver ran down her spine, as the sound of rustling became louder. She grabbed her phone and turned on the flash hoping to see what was causing the noise.

Her eyes widened at the sight of six creatures crawling up onto her bead. She wanted to scream, but no audible sound came out. They were of the size of a small cat, completely naked with bones sticking out of their deformed bodies.

“What are you?” she gasped in shock, trying to cover up her bare legs with her nightgown. The creatures growled at the sound of her voice, showing their brown crooked teeth.

Tears started streaming down her flushed cheeks, as she helplessly grabbed the lamp off her nightstand and tried to hit the monsters with it.

“Get away from me!” her animalistic scream ringed through the dark room. They were getting closer, stretching their anorexic arms to her trying to grab her by the ankles.

She didn’t know if it was another hallucination, but she could swear that they were whispering something like “Master wants to see you, Master wants to see you”. She cried in pain when one of them managed to reach her feet and pierced her skin with its claws. The girl tried to kick it off, but the monster was holding on tight, smearing the stains of her blood on the white sheets.

It was a lost battle. They clang to her body like monkeys, wrapping their arms around her waist and arms making it impossible for her to move. She felt nauseous when one of the creatures crawled atop her chest and pinned her to the mattress. They possessed the inhuman power for the tiny complexion of theirs. She wished it had been just another nightmare, but as the creature grabbed her face and forced her to look at it, she knew it was a terrifying reality. It was staring at her with its lifeless, jet black eyes.

“Please, don’t....” she whispered barely moving her lips. Her body was shaking with fear. She tried to move at least one muscle of her body, but it was paralyzed. She shut her eyes in order not to look at the monster in front of her face, but it slapped her cheeks forcing to oblige. As she stared at the dark abysses, she felt a weird sensation, making her tense muscle go numb. The thought that these weird creatures were draining the life out of her rushed through her mind.

“Master wants to see you” were the last words that she heard before darkness possessed her subconsciousness, and she blacked out.

Taglist: @langdons-rep @lovelykhaleesiii @babypinkstyles94 @sammythankyou @sojournmichael @kaigitana @ms-mead @sebastianshoe @langdonsdemon @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @kahhlo @coloursunlimited @storminmytwistedmind

People who might like it @wroteclassicaly @langdonsoceaneyes @divinelangdon

[izaswritings]

Title: the cruel, unbreaking

Synopsis: Some meetings are fated to happen; some pasts are too great to outrun. Bren Aldric Ermendrud knows that better than most.

Sixteen years after the fire, Astrid and Eodwulf hunt down the Mighty Nein.

Warnings: This chapter deals with a majority of Caleb’s backstory during the early days of the asylum. In general, there is a pretty poor handling of mental health issues all around, because Ikithon is a terrible person and, unfortunately, a lot of his thinking has been taken up by Astrid as well. (For a similar reason, there is also the dehumanization and the usual disgust people tend to direct towards Nott/goblins in general, as this is in Astrid’s pov.) So please, watch out for that!

-

AO3 Link is here!

Part I and Part II are here!

-

It’s a slap to the face, a shock of icy water doused over her head. Astrid opens her mouth to speak and finds herself voiceless. 

Bren is not moving. His eyes are cold, blank and dead and numbly determined. He waits for her answer, and when she doesn’t give it, he shakes. His lips peel back from his teeth in a snarl. “No? Come on, Astrid! Answer me!”

His shout makes her flinch— snaps her out of memories, out of echoes, of the distant screaming rising in the back of her mind. The taste of poisoned wine sits heavy on her tongue, nevermind that she never drank it. “What do you want from me?” she manages, at last. She’s not shouting, but she’s close: unbalanced, thrown off track, a tremor in her voice. “What does that even mean?” 

“They were your parents!” Bren snaps. “Didn’t you love them? Didn’t you care?”

She stutters and chokes, losing words in the blind fury. Her vision goes red. “Of course I did!”

“Then why did you kill them!”

“Because they were—”

“You sat there!” Bren shouts. “Gods, we all just fucking sat there, and watched you do it, just watched, and then we went to my house and I—I—but you!” His fingers curl like claws in the air. “You didn’t even—even flinch. You didn’t even cry. You just walked away. And I thought you were strong for it.” She goes to speak and he shakes his head. “I know what you will say.” He sounds bitter, and the words are tense and tight. His eyes lift and catch on hers. Bright and broken like glass. “It was right. We all thought it was right. But I have changed my mind, Astrid, even if you haven’t.” 

“Whether I cared or not doesn’t matter,” Astrid says, and struggles to keep her voice even. “Emotion has— has no place in— in doing what needs to be done.” She meets his eyes, trying to read his expression. He had believed this once. He’d lived and breathed this lesson the same as her. “Mercy, emotion, hesitation— it is weakness, all of it, and in the face of what we achieve it is nothing.”

That brief, searing anger has faded from his face. Bren’s eyes are glassy and calm. He rocks back on his heels and his head drops forward in a nod. “I see,” he says, soft, ashy. “I see. So your parents are nothing to you. And in that case, neither am I. I see.” 

“Bren—” she starts, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“Take heart,” Bren whispers. He looks up. His tone is low, even and calm, but something in his voice silences Astrid regardless. “Old friend.”

His hand lifts towards her face. Fire curls around his hand. Bright and golden, ruby red. It dances on his fingertips and the heat washes over her face. Her eyes go wide. She pulls, ineffectively, at the chains.

Because Bren is shaking, yes. But his eyes, when he looks at her, are cold and resigned. And Astrid knows, with sudden and stone-cold certainty, that he will not miss.

“I am doing this,” Bren tells her, “because it is right, too.”

.

She spends the first three days after the fire in a fitful daze, jittery and impatient. She paces up and down the halls, opens books and does not read them, sits with Eodwulf in silence as their Master works. They had returned to find him waiting for them, somehow aware of their parents’ betrayal and their reactions to it, smiling proud at their loyalty—and watched that smile flicker and fade. Astrid and Eodwulf have succeeded. They have done what they must, and stayed strong through it all. But Bren—

Bren, who has broken. Bren, who has gone silent and unresponsive in their hold. Bren, who has turned what should have been a reluctant yet necessary triumph into something ashy and tense.

The only reason Astrid still can't hear him screaming is because Master Ikithon has spelled the room silent.

So Astrid waits. She walks and frets and seethes, quiet, guilt and frustration alike a lump in her throat. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for Bren to recover. Waiting for him to suck it up. She walks relentlessly up and down the hall, and thinks: goddamn it, Bren, goddamn you. The sense of shame, heavy on her tongue. The sting of betrayal, sharp in her chest. Weren’t you supposed to be better? Dear Bren, prideful Bren. Weren’t you supposed to be strong?

.

There is fire sparking at Bren’s hand and magic on his tongue, and around them, the group is shouting. Calling Bren a name Astrid doesn’t recognize, snapping their fingers in his face, but he is unresponsive and the fire is bright, bright, burning—  

The monk woman grabs Bren’s arm and wrenches it back just as the spell completes.

There’s a short scream, sharp and surprised and angry, and the world dissolves into a mess of light and sound and fire crackling by Astrid’s head. The aim of the spell goes wild— the earth by her head exploding into dust and heated shrapnel, the heat washing dry and merciless across her face. Her ears ring, her eyes blinking fast, momentarily blinded by the supernova flash. Still, despite it all: Bren’s voice rings loud and clear in her aching ears.

“Let me go, Beauregard!”

The backlash of the spell slams Astrid back against the sword pinning her down, and she can feel the blade shift in the dirt. The chains are tight on her wrists—the sword, however, is not. There is fire lapping at her hair and a buzz rising in her mind, and she turns around and tears, vicious, at the sword, dragging manacled arms up against the edge with an awful screech.

She gets one loop of chain unlatched before a hand grips the sword hilt and shoves it back down into the ground. A man—a half-orc—looking harried and distracted but with a grim slant to his mouth as he looks at her, as if determined to keep her here. He reaches for the chains.

The world goes dim, broken down to the details. There is fire around her, and Bren is shouting, yelling, swearing. Echoes of memory and echoes of something else. The way her head still pounds, pain sharp through her skull. Eodwulf’s absence, his unconscious and wounded body waiting for her at the safehouse. Her missing spellbooks. A certainty, a knowledge that sits bitter on her tongue: Bren is going to kill her. 

(A whisper in the back of her mind. Bren, her once-friend—a traitor, now; lost, now; a coward. If she faces him here, or even if she escapes from here, one day she will have to kill him too.)

She takes it all in with seconds to spare, and then she grips the blade of the sword, throws herself up, and drives the heel of her boot towards the half-orc’s skull.

.

A week passes. Then two. Master Ikithon leaves the house, and takes Bren with him. He returns alone, and when he steps through the door to see their worried faces, all he does is shake his head. His expression dark. The line of his mouth grim and disappointed.

And as she watches Master Ikithon walk up the stairs, back bent and eyes gone cold, Astrid realizes she was wrong. This isn’t what she thought it was. This isn’t something small. This isn’t a tantrum. Bren isn’t getting over this. Bren isn’t getting better. Bren is—

Bren has been put in an asylum. Bren has been put away.

Bren is gone.

And she realizes, for the first time, that she might not be getting Bren back after all.

.

She is not going to die here today, Astrid thinks. The taste of blood is cloying on her tongue. The buzz of her thoughts has gone quiet, focused. She is not going to die here, but someone else might.

She doesn’t get the half-orc in the temple like she intends—he pulls away just in time, and her kick catches him across the face instead. There’s a crack as his nose breaks, as the sole of her boot catches the flesh of his jaw, and he falls away from her with a shout.

It’s enough.

Astrid pries her hands away from the biting edge of the sword and grips the hilt instead. Blood drips down her fingers, coating the leather straps of the sword an ugly red-brown. She wrenches the blade up from the earth and swings—

The half-orc yells, wordless, and the sword vanishes from existence, her hands empty. Astrid screams down at him, furious at the trick, and lashes out with her fists instead.

She can hear Bren distantly, just behind her, speaking in a language that is neither Zemnian nor Common. The air blisters and sparks. Magic.

She throws herself down and heat washes over her neck, so hot that her skin cracks and bleeds. She spits out dirt and pushes to her feet—sees the tiefling rushing for the half-orc—watches as the firbolg pins Bren down, looking frazzled—

—turns on her heel, and runs.

.

She visits him as soon as she is able, as soon as Master Ikithon lets her. Marches through the asylum’s dimly lit halls with her heart in her throat and her hands clenched tight into fists. Hearing the screams, seeing the other patients weep, catching the pitying glances and knowing sneers on the healers’ faces. Bren doesn’t belong here, she thinks. Bren is better than this place.

When she opens the door, the skin on her hand is crawling.

It is the first time she has seen Bren since the night of the fire, but it won’t be the last. Day after day, visit after visit, Astrid will walk these halls and open this door and sit there by his side. Talking, yelling, pleading— and getting nothing in return, no matter how hard she tries.

She hates it. She hates every part of it. Most of all she hates how—how useless she feels, reduced to sitting in a chair by his bedside and speaking softly in the hopes he will answer her. It makes her feel weak, makes him look weak, and—and why now, what does Bren think he’s doing, doing this to them only days away from their greatest goal? What does he think he’s doing, leaving them behind?

“Bren,” she says, over and over. “Bren, look at me. Bren, talk to me. What is this? Wake up and come back. Master Ikithon will understand. He’ll forgive you. Come back, Bren, you don’t get to—to leave us now, we’re so close, you asshole, what do you think you’re—”

He never answers. Just stares, blank, at the ceiling, his eyes empty and his expression vacant. Some days, when he’s present enough to react, he hisses under his breath, mumbled nonsense. On the worst days, he covers his face and shakes.

Once, this enrages her. Once, she slams her hand by his bedside and snaps, “Stop acting like a child! You were the one who said we had to do it! You were the first to suggest it! You didn’t even hesitate!” Her voice cracks. She grabs his shoulders and shakes him, hard, resisting the urge to hit him across the face. “So why are you breaking now, Bren?”

His hand comes up, covers her wrist. His fingers are thin, shaking. His hand, cold.

Astrid stills.

“Let go,” Bren whispers, then. The first time he ever speaks to her. “Let go, let me go, don’t touch me—”

There is fear in his eyes, but there is something else, too. Something worse. Something dark and angry and hateful, that looks at her and finds her wanting.

She drops him like she’s been burned, steps back. “I— I didn’t mean—”

But whatever that flash of clarity, it is gone as quick as it came. Bren doesn’t reply. Just reaches up and covers his ears and grits his teeth. Shakes, small, on the bed, and his eyes stare right through her.

“Bren,” Astrid says. “Bren,” she snaps. “Bren!” she shouts, but he doesn’t look at her, and he never answers again. Day after day after day, mute and vacant staring, as if seeing a ghost.

She doesn’t see him again for a long time, after that. She doesn’t really want to.

.

Astrid runs.

Her heart is pounding, her head aching, the world transformed into a mess of swirling colors and sound—but logic is cool and cold in the back of her mind, rational despite the chaos. Astrid is on the defensive here. Her spellbooks have been taken or destroyed, her hands chained, her head wounded. Eodwulf is still injured, and still waiting on her. There are six of them and one of her, and in this moment, in this battle, she is outnumbered. She cannot fight them. If she fights them here and now, she will die, and she is too valuable an asset to die during a paltry side mission such as this.

And so: Astrid tries to run.

Tries, because her head still aches and the world is spinning. Tries, because despite her best efforts, she can still hear him screaming— Bren, his voice high and hysterical, almost pleading but mostly angry, crying out, “Please, let me go, I need to—I have to, Nott, I must, we can’t take her prisoner and if we can’t take her prisoner then she’ll kill us, I have to—I have to—let me do this—”

Pathetic, some part of her whispers, and Astrid doesn’t look back. Her heart has seized in her chest. Her throat, closed up. In the back of her mind, the knowledge beats like a mantra. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. Dearest Bren, her first friend, once so proud and now brought so low.

(A whispering in her ears. A voice worn away to nothing, but never forgotten, not really. Bren’s laughter, high and soft. But Azzy, he says, that ghost from her memories, isn’t that why you’re running? Because if you stay that means you’ll have to try and kill me too.)

“Shut up,” Astrid whispers. “Shut up. Shut up.” She ducks another blast of fire and stumbles. Her feet catch on the rocks. She goes down. “No—!”

A hand latches around her middle and hoists her up. Blue cloth, dark skin. A voice, gruff and furious, says from above her head: “For fuck’s sake, Caleb, goddamn, fuck! Fjord, keep him busy!”

The monk.

Astrid struggles at once, and the arm tightens around her waist. Her chained hands swing uselessly before her. “Screw you, calm down,” says the monk, to Astrid, and the venom in her voice is unmistakable. “Attacking us at five-fucking-am, gods, you’re exactly what I thought you’d be like. Better be fucking grateful about this.”

And then—impossibly, bizarrely, incomprehensibly— the monk runs off.

Away from the campground. Away from the fire, and smoke, and yelling. Away from Bren.

She runs away, and drags Astrid with her.

.

Eodwulf corners her one day, a flush to his cheeks and anger in his eyes. His hands twist on the fringe of his new uniform. He says, “You haven’t been visiting him.”

There is no need to ask who he means. The words make her still. “Did—did he tell—”

“No,” Eodwulf snaps. His voice is thin, shaky. “I asked the healers.”

“Oh.” Disappointment weighs in her gut, sits bitter on her tongue. She swallows it back and scowls. “I’m busy,” she says, but even as she says it she can feel shame bloom hot and tight in her chest. She is not too busy to visit Bren. She simply doesn’t want to.

Eodwulf’s face tightens, and she knows he has read the truth in-between the lines. “I hate this,” he whispers. “You—and everyone—e-even Master Ikithon—”

“Eodwulf!”

His face is red. “You all act like he’s— He’s not gone. He’s not dead.”

Her jaw tightens, but the anger outweighs her guilt. “He might as well be.” The way he stares, the way he flinches from her, the fury in his voice when he told her to go away. “Maybe it’d be better that way, because no, instead he’s just weak and he left us and—”

“Shut up,” Eodwulf says. The flush has faded from his face; he’s gone white. “Don’t you dare—”

“We both heard Master Ikithon.” She grits her teeth. “He’s weak. Was weak.”

“He’s Bren,” Eodwulf hisses back. There is a brightness to his eyes and she hates it, hates it, hates it. Hasn’t he already learned what tears will get them? Where weakness and hesitation lead? “He’s our friend, and now you’re talking like he’s already dead!”

“He’s weak,” Astrid repeats, coldly. There is no give in her voice, there is no argument against it. Master Ikithon had said so himself.

Eodwulf flinches. “Maybe,” he admits, at last, in a whisper. “But we must have… We missed something. That night. We missed something. We must have.” Eodwulf swallows hard. “He’s Bren.”

Unspoken between them: this is Bren. Proud, confident, unfaltering Bren.

Once upon a time, she had thought them unbreakable.

To this, Astrid has nothing to say. She curls her hands into fists and looks at the ground until Eodwulf leaves, and wonders why, even now, it still hurts.

.

When they finally stop running, Astrid is breathless and the monk is wheezing faintly. The sun has risen fully, by now, and light dapples golden through the trees. The woods are silent. Everything is silent. She cannot smell smoke, or taste the flames, but the echo of heat still sears against her skin.

More pressing, however, is this. “Why?” Astrid asks, and it’s almost a shout. She is furious, confused, wrung raw and thin. “Why did you—?”

“Shut up,” says the monk. She yanks on the chains at Astrid’s wrists and binds them tight to a tree, ignoring the way Astrid fights her grip. When Astrid yanks hard at the manacles, the metal holds fast.

She bites back a snarl and pulls herself tall. “You don’t get to—”

“Shut up,” says the monk, and her tone is ice. “Shut the fuck up. I didn’t do it for you. World would probably be better off without you, if I’m guessing everything right.” She kicks at a log and the wood shatters under the force of the blow. “Fuck!”

The show of power, however unintentional, only makes Astrid falter for a second. Then she firms. “Then why—”

“Fuck off,” says the monk, cutting her off again. “You’re a trash person. I’m telling you this, because I’m pretty sure you’re under the delusion that you’re, like, not? And from one trash person to another: you are the worst.” Her voice is heated, her hands clenched. She is staring off into the trees, not even bothering to meet Astrid’s eyes. “The absolute worst, but he was fucking right, we can’t take or keep you prisoner. Don’t have the resources, and your buddy can probably track us—bad idea all around.”

Astrid has been reading between the lines, in writing and in words, for over sixteen years. The pieces come together. “You took me—because—because Bren would have killed me?” She doesn’t understand.

The monk turns to look at her. Her eyes are blue, Astrid realizes— as blue as the flowers that used to grow by her hometown, bright and burning. She’s a slim fighter, this monk, violence in her hands and not much else, but something in the way she stares Astrid down almost makes Astrid forget the sheer difference of power between them. How easily Astrid could strike this woman down, if she still had her spellbooks. How easily she could break her. 

But here, in this forest, with ash on her skin and her hands still shaking—with the monk’s steady, hateful gaze, and the silence around them, the sunlight through thin leaves—in this moment, the monk seems utterly in control.

“I don’t give a shit about what happens to you,” she says, blunt and cold like a blade. “You getting away is gonna bite us bad, but if I let that fucking idiot force himself to kill you, it’s gonna be a goddamn shitshow. So.” Her eyes flicker away, back to the trees.

Astrid tries to parse through that. Her eyes narrow. “So… you will kill me.”

“What?” The monk scowls back at her. “No. Not yet, anyway. Are you joking? That’s almost worse, can you imagine? The fucking fallout from that, ugh, I’m not dealing with that. God, just shut up already.”

Astrid grits her teeth. Her head is spinning. The chains drag down at her arms. “Then what—”

But the monk isn’t looking at her anymore. She steps forward, close to the trees, and says, “Nott. There you are. What’s happening?”

Astrid’s head whips around. From the shadows, the goblin steps forward.

.

Time passes. She gets her first assignment, and the job completes with little mishap. Her heart soars, but the victory is sour. Bren’s absence is like a hole. After, she goes to visit him, driven by guilt and Eodwulf’s glare boring into her back.

This time, when she sits by Bren’s side, she ignores the stare and speaks anyway. Speaks of the mission, of her success, trying to detail it in vivid and exciting description. Remember this? she wants to say. Remember how proud you were? To serve, to fight, to do the things no one else could? I am doing these things now, Bren. You can do them too. Come back.

Her story gains her nothing but silence, a shudder behind Bren’s eyes. No words. No response. Just his breathing, pale and hoarse, and his face turned away, as if trying to escape her.

She leaves with her heart in her throat, the victory gone cold in her memory.

.

“What is that,” Astrid says, and the goblin looks at her with cold yellow eyes and sneers. It is small, hunched, with stringy dark hair and a cloak pulled low over its head. A crossbow is hooked on its belt. It doesn’t answer her—just turns, dismissively, to look at the monk instead.

“Fjord’s got him,” it says, quiet and seething. “Didn’t go over well. Caduceus put him to sleep.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” The goblin’s eyes flicker to Astrid. Its mouth twists, sharp teeth bared like a threat. “So. You’re Astrid?”

She glares right back, refusing to show her discomfort. This thing, this creature—the way it looks down at her, despite being so much smaller, so much less, makes her skin crawl. She says nothing.

For the goblin, it seems her silence is confirmation enough. It grimaces, and looks away, as if to compose itself. It takes a deep breath, and then looks up and meets her eyes with a stare as cold as ice. “You’re leaving.”

She does not take orders from anyone but the King and her teacher, and for a moment Astrid forgets herself. Her lip curls. “I—”

“You’re leaving,” says the goblin. Its voice is high, thin and reedy—and flat, blank with certainty, with a threat. It reaches down and unlatches the crossbow from its belt, checks the dart. It’s yellow eyes track Astrid’s every movement. “You’re leaving, or I’m killing you.” 

Even the monk startles at this. “Nott—”

“Go away,” the goblin tells Astrid, ignoring the other. “Go away. Don’t come back. If you come back, if you hurt us—him—again, you’ll regret it. I’ll make you regret it.” There is a crossbow clenched in one hand, and conviction in its eyes. A stone-cold certainty. A promise with all the weight and presence of a prophecy. 

“Go on, Astrid,” says the goblin, and points the crossbow at her chest. “It’s time for you to start running.”

It is a goblin, nothing more, and yet—she feels pinned. She feels cold. She doesn’t move.

A moment of hesitation, and then the monk walks over, tugs at the chains. They unravel limp from the tree, left to dangle loose and heavy from Astrid’s wrists. She watches, silent, as the monk moves away to guard the goblin’s back. Stares mutely at the goblin’s unwavering threat.

It doesn’t matter, suddenly, that this has been Astrid’s intention all along—to run away and grab Eodwulf and recover until she knows what to do. It doesn’t matter that this is the perfect opportunity, the best result, a stroke of luck. It doesn’t matter that she gets away alive, because Astrid can taste ashes in her mouth and knows that this is not a victory. This is a loss. This is mercy, from traitors, and she is—she is—!

(A whisper, in the back of her mind. A voice she has never quite forgotten. Her first friend. Astrid, he whispers. Azzy. Do you want to kill me, my friend?

The taste of poisoned wine, filling her mouth like bile.)

She swallows hard and straightens up. Her vision swims. Her head aches. She has never felt so hollow.

She says nothing. Just stands, as tall as the chains allow her, and walks away. Back to the woods. Back to Eodwulf. Back to her life.

Behind her, the goblin and her crossbow. The monk and her heated words, the hate in her eyes. The smoke, and the ash—and Bren.

Astrid does not look back.

.

She goes back to visit him. Nothing ever changes. On her last and final visit, she runs back breathless, trembling from head to toe. Master Ikithon looks down at her, and says nothing at all.

Three days later, she asks if she can visit again. It is three months after everything, three months from the day Astrid stepped up into her destiny and Bren broke under the weight, and Master Ikithon looks her in the eyes and tells her no.

No, my student. You cannot see him.

And Astrid steps away. Her hands shaking, her eyes tight with tears. Her throat closed up. She does not ask about Bren again—

— and pretends, desperately, that this feeling in her chest is not relief.

.

By the time she reaches the safehouse, Eodwulf is awake. She finds him halfway out the door, and takes his hands and sinks to the ground with him, near-deaf to his babbling. “Bren—” he is saying, rushed and fearful, his eyes wide. “Bren—he was—Astrid, was he, did you—”

“It wasn’t him,” she whispers. The words feel like ash. Her head feels stuffed full of cotton. “Wulf, it wasn’t him.”

“He—but I, I saw him, I—”

His panic is familiar to her, but her own has long since died, beaten down and turned cold by the truth. She shakes her head. “No,” she says. She thinks of Bren’s blank eyes, blue and cold. The way his hands shook, the way his shoulders hunched. The goblin and the monk and all the others, the Mighty Nein, the way they clustered around him. Not like followers around a leader, but like friends. As if he was one of them—the Mighty Nein, a nuisance, traitors to the Empire.

Eodwulf’s eyes are bright and frantic, and Astrid touches his face.

“It wasn’t him,” she says. He tries to speak and she shushes him. “It wasn’t him. Just a trick of the light. A nasty, cruel trick. It wasn’t him. Come on, Wulf. Let’s go home.”

She can afford to fail one mission. She can afford to think about this. And as she takes Eodwulf’s limp hand in hers, and leads him back through the safe house, back through the teleportation circle, back through to Rexxentrum—

“It wasn’t him,” she says, and wonders why it still hurts.

    .

      .

     .

       She doesn’t know, when she arrives, that this will be her final visit. That this will be the last time she sees him. She doesn’t know, when she closes the door, that after she leaves this room, it will be sixteen long years before she ever says his name again.

What she does know is that she is angry. When she sees his blank, staring eyes, she is furious. “Bren,” she says that day. “Bren, killing them was the right thing to do.”

He doesn’t respond. She takes his hand. “Talk to me,” she says, and it’s not so much a plea as it is an order, a snarl. “Talk to me! Wulf says—he says we missed something, that there must be a reason—Bren, please, just tell me what it is!” She grips his limp hand and squeezes so hard his bones creak. “Tell me so I can fix it. So I can fix you. I’ve always been so good at fixing things, remember? Let me fix this.”

He doesn’t answer. Her face twists.

“Fine,” she says, but when she turns to leave, a hand grips her wrist.

She nearly jumps. Bren. It is Bren. His hand, tight around her arm, bruising force. His eyes, blank and staring right through her. Paler than he should be, and shaking under his skin.

“Bren?”

Bren stares at her. It is not awareness in his eyes, not really—not understanding, or warmth. His hand tightens around her wrist, and it hurts.

“Bren!” She ignores the pain, and forces a smile. Please, let this time be different. Please, let him hear her. “Are you—”

“Why didn’t you break?”

The smile drops from her face. “…What?”

“Why didn’t you break?” Bren repeats. He stutters on the words, falters, starts and stops. He sways on the bed. “Why… why didn’t you…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His nails dig into her skin. His eyes fix on her, and for the first time, there is clarity there. Clarity, and knowing, and a hatred that stuns her silent.

“Didn’t they matter?” Bren asks, and his voice is soft and his eyes are empty. “Didn’t you love them? So why not? Why didn’t you break? Why didn’t—why didn’t—why—”

She rips away from his grip, short and sharp and violent. She is breathing hard, her blood pounding in her ears. She tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Why not?” Bren asks, and Astrid— she can’t stay here. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t stay here and listen to this—  she can’t—  

Astrid turns and runs.

She feels light-headed, heavy. Her tongue, weighed down by stone. Her stomach, filled with rocks, sharp and ragged edges. The taste of the last meal she made them, mealy meat and baked potatoes, red wine worth more than their lives, spiked by a poison they couldn’t taste.

Astrid runs, but even then, she can hear Bren muttering behind her, dazed and empty, mounting horror, asking the air over and over. “Why didn’t she break? Why didn’t they break? Why didn’t it matter?”

She slams the asylum door shut behind her, and Bren’s voice cuts off.

For years, these words will chase at her heels. The echo rising in her ears. Over and over, Bren’s whispered plea kept alive in her memories. Why not? he asks, as she eats, as she sleeps, as she sets traitors and their families alight. Why not you? Why didn’t you break? Didn’t they matter, Astrid? Didn’t you love them?

Why not?

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: IV (I / II / III / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI / XII / XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Church | Alpha, David Church | Agent Washington | Recovery One, Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210 Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

Church stared at the wall, stared at the dragged marks in the cement, raised the jagged piece of metal in one hand, and drags. It let out an unholy screech as he scored another mark into the cement, and then let the metal drop to the floor with a clang. They lined the wall in short, neat marks perfectly uniform and evenly spaced to count the days. It’d been precisely eighteen groups of five since he’d last spoken with Agent Nevada. Before that it was eight groups of five with two left over since he’d been dropped into High Ground. In total twenty-six groups of five with two left over, or one hundred and thirty-two days in High Ground.

His heels ached from where he leaned on them. Church gnawed his lip. Almost five months since he’d been left here. A little over three since Agent Nevada ceased communication. February fifteenth to June twenty-eighth. Friday when it started, to Wednesday now. The numbers ran through his mind in a continuous loop for a while. Church rocked on his heels, and then he pushed away from the wall and got to his feet. He turned away from the wall in a decaying hallway and returned to his self-made haven.

As the days grew shorter and shorter and the temperature began to drop with the planet’s winter-cycle, the more Church began to debate on whether High Ground was in fact safe for him to stay in. He missed the walls of his box canyon, the fact that the Vegas quadrant wasn’t too far and that he could convince Grif to head over and get him some alcohol for which he paid handsomely. He missed his most tangible memories that often wanted to overwhelm him with sensations he didn’t even realize he’d felt back then.

(every sound)

(every scent)

(every touch)

(every taste)

(every sight)

(clarity sharp and bright in a way a memory shouldn’t be)

Being alone made those memories sharper. The sting in them that Church felt, the terror and the heartache burned within his mind like a supernova, only to peter out with grit teeth. These days Church spoke little, and coming from a normal chatterbox of cuss words and vitriolic banter that meant something. He still hadn’t touched the boxes of gifts from the Director, nor had he bothered to send in a request for supplies even though he found himself slowly running low on lubricant.

Church didn’t want to bother. He focused on expanding his safe area, on fortifying walls and building up a small home in a space that didn’t’ feel safe, a space that wasn’t his. He wanted his canyon, his boxed walls and constant summer heat; his little deserted wasteland filled with his reds and his blues. He wanted Tex and Junior and even Wyoming. He wanted Gamma and Omega and Doc. He wanted Florida.

wantwantwantwantwantwantwant

Church could barely remember Project Freelancer. It felt more like a dream, less real, than living in Blood Gulch ever did. He didn’t want to be tied to Project Freelancer, to be indebted, to be protected like this. So what if he wasn’t safe in Blood Gulch in the way the Director wanted? He was just as unsafe here—at least there he had a sense of normalcy. At least there he didn’t have to worry if Sarge, Grif, Simmons, or Donut would really, truly try to kill him.

They got to blow shit up for fun why would they honestly try to ruin that? Sure there was an inherent risk of death but it was far more entertaining in the end to make them near misses and close calls. The rush of adrenaline those at Blood Gulch felt—and the true lack of the fear that the Great War inspired, as if the Sangheili couldn’t touch them in their little box canyon—was absolutely addicting. They could laze about, create, and destroy to their hearts content all the while getting paid to do so. It was dangerous, but oh so very fun.

Church paused mid setup of the defenses he’d finally gotten parts to jerry-rig into place as the realization struck suddenly home. He missed them. He missed his crazy Grif siblings, his stupid, idiotic Tucker so far in the closet that he could see Narnia, his destructive Caboose—Sarge who would spit curses back at him and create fascinating combat strategies with gleeful violence, Lopez who didn’t speak a lick of English and still came across as the snarkiest in the room; he missed Donut and the ‘wine and cheese’ hour they’d sometimes share in the caves when shit became too much at their respective bases. He missed Simmons, the way he’d spout random facts when nervous, the way he’d rant and rave and bemoan all that was Grif. He missed their ridiculous unresolved sexual tension. He even missed Shiela, the “dumb” AI who was quickly evolving in ways that shouldn’t be possible with Caboose’s weird technopathy.

Church stared down at his hands. He stared at the way they trembled—the way they’ve trembled since being aboard the Father of Intuition—and silently went back to work. He missed his assholes, his jerkfaces, and his cockbites. He’d probably never see them again.

(ain’t that a bitch)

It took work, finesse, and finally owning up to the fact that if he didn’t ask for things, then Church would never succeed in making his small little fortress secure enough. It needed to be secure, to be safe, to be sound. He didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability here; the walls he’d fixed up and supported to create his rather meager living space weren’t enough of a defense. The munitions supplied to him weren’t enough. He’d already jerry-rigged several other defenses toward the gate—tripwires attached to detonators attached to bombs and grenades. They’d at least prevent some people from getting too far past the gaping hole in the wall.

Church had also stuck a couple of traffic cones out there if only to make it seem like the space wasn’t as dangerous as he’d made it into. Beyond that though there wasn’t much in the way of protection, so Church began to word requests as careful as he could. He needed computers, motherboards, hard drives—anything that was technological that he could modify in some form to do what he needed. Circuits and wires and conduits to make an alarm system. A small short range radio tuned to a specific frequency attached to the alarm so that the intruders weren’t aware. Something better than simple tripwires.

It took months. Church’s wall now had fifty-one groups of five scratched into the wall. It came out to be almost nine months since his arrival in High Ground. Seven months since Agent Nevada was gone. Church breathed a sigh as he relaxed back into the couch, lips pressed thin. He wondered what the Director’s letters said. He had ten of them now. The gifts came in much smaller boxes than the first three, too. They were easier to handle, and as the months trailed on Church found himself drifting in thought.

He wondered about the Director. He wondered about why the man put him into small hidey holes and tried to make him feel safe.

(he wasn’t safe)

(he was safe)

(which is it?)

He wondered quite a few things about the Director, but never for long. They passed through his mind like the deaths he could count. Each death that was his fault—or not. Each loss that stung at him, tore at his entire being in a way that was indiscernible—and there were many. So many people had been hurt because of Church, hurt by the Director and by Church’s own failings.

“Only right I be alone,” Church mumbled. “Can’t get anyone killed that way, can I?”

He hated it. Church hated the fuzzy twisted memories of Freelancer. He hated the disoriented feeling that came with them, he hated how his body felt off and how things always processed wrong. He hated how sometimes he didn’t feel even human. Church pressed his hand over his eyes and tried to stop the thoughts that swirled in his head without end.

“Can’t do this anymore,” Church mumbled. “Won’t do this anymore. Don’t want to.”

Tex had been the last straw, Church thought. The way she’d so starkly said Goodbye just for him to hear—after everything she’d done for him, everything she’d done to him, after everything—cut deeper than anything Church could ever realize. It was a finality he didn’t want, that some part of him refused to accept.

He needed to see her—he needed to—

(allison)

(where are you?)

—he needed to confirm it, with his own eyes. Church lowered his eyes and his brow furrowed. He never got the chance before.

(when?)

(was that me?)

Church pressed his lips together. When this mess was done, when he could finally wash his hands of Freelancer and its pile of shit, then he’d seek out Tex’s remains. They had to be somewhere.

(distance from the planets gravitational pull)

(count for rotation)

(explosion would have caused wind)

(debris field how far?)

(too far)

(potential amount of damage)

(engine trouble?)

Church wouldn’t stop until he found her. Until he could bury her once and for all. That final goodbye that he could never provide, that she gave him—he’d make it right; he’d make it complete.

Church scribbled messily on a piece of paper and pinned it up to the map of Rhodam, the planet where Blood Gulch resided. The map was covered in pins and lines and half-thought scribbles. There were notes of mathematics that Church didn’t even recall how he knew them, but that he just did. Everything he’d worked to make some sort of semblance on where to find the pelican that Tex had taken.

He needed to be prepared. Church could read the subtle signs in the delays in receiving his supplies, in how supplies now included food he couldn’t even eat and was left to rot and be burned. Church could see how Project Freelancer began to tear at the seams. He wondered if the Director noticed it, or if he even cared. He never quite seemed to care about the Freelancer Agents, after all. The only thing the Director seemed to ever notice was Tex, and Church wanted to punch him for that.

(she’s mine)

(my beta)

(what?)

His obsession on finding Tex wasn’t helped by being alone. Church’s thoughts twisted around each other—little distractions aside from securing this facility and his box, from seeking out Tex, and making a livable space drove him to think. Church never noticed how completely discordant his thoughts were. Nothing made sense, little things bothered him and he couldn’t figure out why. Church started questioning why more often.

whywhywhywywhy

(who am I?)

The fuzzy memories of Freelancer versus the sharp clarity of Blood Gulch made his head hurt. He felt like he was forgetting something, but what? What had he lost in the head trauma that came with his arrival to Blood Gulch? What was he missing? The thought, the realization was just out of reach. Church wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. Would it change things?

(would it break him?)

(he’s been broken so much)

Church sighed and leaned back to stare at the wall with a contemplative frown. Twisting, confusing thoughts brought on by loneliness aside, there was little to wonder about just where Tex might’ve crashed. The spots on Rhodam were limited, the planet’s ecology so strange and varied that it didn’t make sense some days. From what Church gathered Tex either landed near one of the new installations, or she landed in the facility that the weird Sangheili cult had close ties to, and Gamma chose to hide out in. Church couldn’t recall the name, but that didn’t matter. His options were further deserted wasteland fairly close to Blood Gulch that one just had to pass through a few caves in the mountain and cliffs, or the mountainous region across the sea.

“But which?” Church mumbled. If he chose wrong, it’d take weeks of travel to get to the second location. He frowned, contemplating, when the small ping of the early alarm went off from his helmet. With a curse Church scrambled over to his armor and began to put it on as hastily as he could. There’d been no one before and he expected no one now and just—

“Shit fucking dammit clasp on you piece of shit!”

With a huff Church finished pulling on the armor and clasping it in place when a second ping went off. He cursed again and raced out of the small room filled with maps and notes and obsessive thoughts. He raced toward his ‘armory’ and grabbed his sniper riffle. He headed to the armaments as quickly as he could. If he could just scare off the intruder then everything would be fine. Then he could go back to his work on finding Tex.

Church got up top, above the gate and the hole in the wall, into the snipers nest in time to catch sight of regulation blue armor.

(caboose?)

Beside the soldier another stood in more customized pieces, painted grey and yellow, and Church grit his teeth. Couldn’t be Caboose because that wasn’t a set of armor that any Sim Trooper wore. They had set colors, set patterns, and none of it was customizable from the start. Church pulled up the sniper, looked through the scope, and fired.

Grey and yellow at least had the decency to duck for cover. Regulation blue however—

(tall SPARTAN friendly)

(who are you?)

—Church cursed and took closer aim. Fine, if this one wouldn’t accept his warning shot—

(familiar)

(an ache)

(home)

—Church said words that he didn’t even pay attention to as he lined up the shot. His chest ached, he felt like he couldn’t breath—

(he can’t)

(he’s dead)

—grey and yellow spoke in a familiar voice, a little aged, a little more rough and Church’s hands shook. They’d always shook but this was worse, this was familiar—fear—

(washington?)

(no)

(that’s not)

—Regulation blue spoke up, contemplative, familiar.

“Wait a minute—”

Church grit his teeth.

(can’t be)

(he’s safe)

Church settled down, squared his shoulders despite his trembling, and shouted—

(caboose—)

—and missed. His hands shook too much and the shot went wide.

“Aw c’mon, what the fuck!?” Church screamed, his voice hit that pitch. He couldn’t—he didn’t—they needed to go they were messing with his head too much—a dead voice and armor that shouldn’t be here—and then grey and yellow yelled a familiar name and Church froze solid.

“Caboose!”

(no)

nononononononononononono

(he’s safe)

(he can’t be here)

(I’ll just…)

“Church! Church! It’s me! Your all time best friend!”

Church felt like chocking as he shrieked out, “Caboose?!”

[twistednuns]

December 2018

Iglo Veggie love with broccoli, buckwheat and black beans. Quick and easy.

The TEDxTUM event was pretty inspiring. I loved how they organised it and some of the speakers were amazing. Seeing all the cool stuff other people are working on actually motivated me to try and achieve great things myself. I'd like to learn about something new, start a project or volunteer.

Pick Up Limes videos.

The way Cher sings the word Memphis in her cover song.

Seeing Frank for the first time in four months. Having a good time at the Uncle Acid concert, getting a beer at Flex. Even though meeting him always causes some kind of emotional turmoil it might actually help to solve a few things I've been stressing over this time, for example that whole deal with Claudia.

Spending two hours in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. Preparing a summer and a winter curry. Pre-cutting salad. Listening to Tai Chi music. Baking these divine buckwheat chocolate cookies - absolutely delicious even though I forgot to add salt. Kinda healthy, too! It's grain-free (I even used groats) and I substituted part of the sugar with honey.

Gift ideas for rock collectors and mycophiles.

A spotted woodpecker in our backyard.

Dalmatian Jasper. Such a pretty stone.

Blinded by the Light. And a trip down musical memory lane. Making a nostalgia mixtape. Singing, enjoying the sound of my voice (as long as I hit the right vocal range).

Drawing owls. For hours. Using my Polychromos coloured pencils. I'm currerntly working on two owl-related projects, designing a logo for coffee roasters and making my friends' wedding invitation. Drawing owls like lovebirds is such a satisfying thing to do. Also: making my students come up with new ideas! Some actually drew some owl logos, too!

Tetris.

Reading books I don't understand. By people who are smarter than me. A very humbling experience. There is so much more to learn, experience and achieve.

Franzi's elegant coat and her ice crystal earrings. She's pregnant but she is skinnier than before and looks great. We cuddled up on a rooftop and had Kinderpunsch.

Practising The Pogues' Fairytale of New York for for karaoke night. I never hit the NYPD choir note quite right. My neighbours must hate me.

Taking a mental health day. Starting the day with baking cookies, making vegan sushi rolls. Reading, taking a nap. Yoga in the evening. Feeling really happy and relaxed. One of those rare inspired days when everything just falls into place. I kept revisiting beautiful places and memories during Shavasana. And I LOVE my yoga teacher more and more each week. So sad she is leaving the studio.

Taming your temper - tips for anger management.

Another coincidence. I wondered when the next Bilderbuch record will be released when I was looking at Mavi Phoenix at her concert - that girl is the female version of Maurice Ernst. A few hours later I found out that Bilderbuch actually had released a new album one day ago. WHAT.

Mirror tape.

Being a fluffy little red cat's human of choice. We sat in a cat café, no animals in sight. After a while a cat walked up straight towards me, sat down on my yellow scarf and kneaded it. Later she demanded attention and purred while I scratched her jaw. Apparently this was quite a rare occurence because she is said to be really shy and hard to handle. Weirdos unite!

Making Bhindi Masala, a vegan okra curry. Spicy and intense - delicious! Oh, and sushi rolls filled with avocado, veggies and fancy tofu/tempeh. Now I have a whole container waiting for me in the fridge.

Practising yoga for 20min on a gloomy Monday morning. Lighting a candle, drinking a cup of Ayurvedic Kapha tea with honey and lemon.

Tom, who inspired me to learn more about Ayurveda. And to rewatch The Darjeeling Limited because let's face it - Wes Anderson really knows how to make one of the poorest countries in the world look gorgeous.

We become what we think about. It's impossible to be successful without having a destination.

Quotations from Siri Hustvedt's The Blazing World: 1 / 2

"Smelling you almost makes me cum."

Running around with a fake septum piercing. I kinda like the look. I'm actually considering getting a real one but so far I'm fine with the clip-ons. The good thing is that you can't see the ring's ends anyway in that kind of piercing.

Spending time with the old friends. The best ones. The ones you don't have to speak to and it's still not uncomfortable. The ones you can be super weird around and they embrace it. The ones you can tell your strangest ideas and stories.

There is a new Turkish supermarket right around the corner! Fresh cilantro whenever I want! YES!!!

Heavy snowfall. It does look kinda pretty, I admit.

Many questions, not enough answers at the ESO Supernova exhibition/planetarium. / Making another cat friend over breakfast. / Seeing my foxy ginger lady Anika again after such a long time! / Orange marzipan lebkuchen and roasted coconut almonds (they taste like Raffaello). / Finding the perfect earrings and a beautiful head band at EDITED - The Label. / Performing Fairytale of New York live on stage with Manu. Being able to curse at somebody through song is perfect, I had a lot of fun. Also, he promised me his art teacher sweater as a Christmas present.

A knitting project with rainbow wool.

Making a clay sculpture for my mum. Taking it out of the oven at 80 degrees, wrapped in a dish towel like a baby.

The honey marzipan nougat bar from dm bio.

Meeting Manu at his office. Receiving the most awesome paint palette sweater as a Christmas present! And he let me spend a full hour in virtual reality! He has such an amazing programme which lets you draw in 3D and float around in space (with VR goggles). I'm absolutely fascinated and intrigued. Gotta visit him more often.

Meeting Tobi, Maike, Lena and Christian at Märchenbasar. Being drunk after some Feuerzangenbowle with rum (Pfeffi in Manu's case) and white mulled wine. Taking the long way home.

Buying Paulaner Spezi for my class. Supermarket trips with the kids before 8am. Schrottwichteln. Watching random goat videos and intros to children's series.

Having a drink at Goldene Bar in Haus der Kunst. Such a gorgeous place. I'm trying to get into a workshop on the museum's architecture at the end of January.

Making random people want to kiss me. Having no desire whatsoever to actually kiss them.

The Harry Potter round (on special request) at the pub quiz.

Reading Stephen Hawking's short answers to some of the big questions. I have to admit, I know nothing about physics or cosmology and at times his explanations were super hard to understand (fine, I probably didn't understand most of it) but I love creating a need to use my brain in uncommon ways.

Vivid dreams. About  dangerous skyscrapers (just different floors stacked loosely on top of each other), a kidnapping in a futuristic car by very glamorous gangsters, lesbians on a scooter trying to save me, travelling through Asia and the US with Sash, a sinking ship (but all the passengers swam back to the surface after a short period of unconsciousness), ATMs, fancy drinks, meeting strangers with beautiful eyelashes at a restaurant.

Discovering the Trouvelot astronomical drawings (1882) on the darkest day of the year, winter solstice. Watching the night fade away ever so slowly in the morning from the kitchen window, squeezing fresh oranges to make juice for breakfast. Bright orange and midnight blue is a great colour combination.

ASMRctica.

An article about a dear friend of mine appeared in Süddeutsche Zeitung! So happy for him.

Spending time with very old friends right before Christmas. Tobi, Sash, Michi, Yanic, Fischi and his wife... Playing MarioKart on SNES with Peter and taking weird selfies together. I had a very nice evening.

Managing to get a look at downtown Chicago during my layover. I uber-ed into the city centre (watching the skyscrapers getting larger and larger), walked around Millenium Park and along Lake Michigan. I spent quite a bit of time at Blick, an amazing art store, before I took the train back to the airport.

Arriving in Mexico in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Seeing the city sparkling from above. Watching a bunch of kids beating a pinata well after midnight. Arriving in a beautiful artist's apartment in Condesa.

The Anthropology Museum in CDMX made it on the list of my favourite museums ever. I could have spent days there. I kept sketching some of the funny masks and Maya figurines. There were plenty of creepy tombs and skeletons, depictions of weird Gods, handicrafts and woodcarvings. It was just so interesting, probably because I had never seen a lot of South American / Aztec culture before and I love learning and exploring new things.

Christmas day in CDMX: sunshine, tacky glitter decorations, pointy balloons and spiky pinatas. Dancing, ancient smoke rituals performed by a Mayan community.

Mexican street food, especially the vegetarian street food tour with David. Meeting the Blue Corn Lady (her quesadillas are with cactus and beans and they're incredibly delicious). Flatbread, corn, fruit with chili and lime. Pulque and Mezcal. Finding out that the green salsa is actually worse than the red one. Tacos, Enchiladas, Tamales. If you go to Mexico just for the food you'll still have plenty to explore.

That evening with the pink sunset. Walking through the old used book store in Roma. Reading an interesting take on Lars von Trier's Melancholia. Meeting the resident cat.

Lucha Libre! Watching the luchadores, especially the small people in the second round. Laughing about the Mexican boy next to me swearing at the top of his lungs. Getting a mask as a souvenir.

Climbing the sun and moon pyramid at Teotihuacán. Getting a sunburn. Enjoying the atmosphere. It's a very impressive site.

Diving in Cozumel with Brooke-Anne (a librarian from Las Vegas who was raised by Mormons), Cynthia from Quebec and Lucie from Toulouse. Entering some coral formations underwater. Eating cantaloupe melon and chocolate cookies after the dive. Spending the evening with another Canadian, Jussi from Finland and that other dude from Puerto Rico. And some Indio beers.

What I loved most about Tulum were the ruins (right next to a gorgeous beach) and the health food restaurants (La Hoja Verde and Co.Conamor).

And this year I don't really have a good New Year's Eve story because I fell asleep at quarter past eleven in a little village west of Tulum. All alone. Could be worse though, I had an amazing year.

[changingbirdpoems]

poems about greg going forward in time

My father’s pouring wine down the sink As though if he pours faster he won’t need the drink And the look on his face is the furthest from grace While my mother’s warm breath murmurs slowly to rest

The world’s on a chain round my wrist I fall to my bed with a radio kiss And if you can hear through the static veneer I’ll come to your home But from there I will roam

-

summer faded into fall and we laid in the grass hidden by the tall trees                 but illuminated by street lights. on the edge of the woods but at the beginning of a vast asphalt parking lot.            marginally placed            residing in our own purgatory. on the verge of a new beginning a new life           we were alone            but together.                   nothing else mattered.            i was broken.               damaged.                   destroyed. but for the first time             in what felt like a lifetime,                                  i felt some flicker of hope. in reality i knew nothing of you but small superficial pieces strung together hastily in those            two                              months from when we first met

but in my heart i already felt like i was a part of you. i had spent every moment aching to just know a little more about you.            i was completely consumed. you                                                            captivated me. and when we laid there together …i felt whole.  i was safe. we talked of nothing, we talked of everything i sat there and     listened just appreciating the sound of your voice and how comforting it was i looked at you and wanted to remember            every curve and freckle. in that moment

in that beautiful consuming agonizing moment

i saw a glimmering spark of      love        

                                                           for the very first time.

-

First

Searing pain, piercing, invigorating, soaring, pain pain pain,  oh

Yes, I’m sure

Quiet eyesight, pupil in pupil, irises strewn like light across arched spine

Pain, yes, pain, yes, I’m sure. I can’t breathe, but I promise you I like it

I like it

Ah ah ah Ah you, you, you are the gentlest. Are those hands? Deep, soft, hard, searching, they are sparrows You are flying inside me

Love, an inadequate word for this honeyed everything.  Velvet daggers across my internal organs, evaporating through my skin

You are the gentlest, you are the gentlest, I’ve never been so scared in my life

I’ve never felt so free, I’ve never been so safe. Let me relax

I am ready to receive, I have always been waiting to receive you, I have always I have always been here

Yes. I’m sure. I like you inside me. Even if it never stops hurting, we are flying. 

-

You are moving velvet inside of me. You are blue shirts and parting mouth. If I find my wings I have to breathe them into something fused to bone and outstretched. Shake them out. Remember the shaky, emanating movement and the devastating pleasure-sky of leaves and light and absolute resting, flying Oneness. There was no time, just rock podiums, crying into leather jackets that think on themselves, blending film and yellow holy trees. Deer that run and joggers that don’t care. Velvet body and crawling, carpeted stairs. Laughing cartwheels, tangled limbs, unbuttoned contact, eyes like a deer I will trace the length of. I brought you to the tree that made me a woman, or whatever you have felt me be. Let your tongue roam, let my body sink into soil and rise into something you can see move when it’s supposed to be STILL. Move time.

-

Moth-wing eyes draped somewhere between waterfalls and sunflowers; you where nothing else exists. Dragonfly whisperer

Some sort of inside never imagined. Involuntary movement, eyes ubiquitous. Hands made of quietest flesh, taut, a leap of doubt and faith. Perfect lusting fire as everything

If I take your hands, from them I will make boats and cities.

A body of incomprehensible presence. How you are here. How my hands become the perfect, rustling shape for searching. Trees, balconies, honey, pistachio, Italy, blue sheets, water, nothing dark, everything purposefully broken, a grin like sugar tea. This time, only poets on cars, palms on my spine, breathable air.

-

Fire

you seep

tree-wise, soft delicate flesh stretched over bird hips, nectar tongue

every color, sound, scent follows your hand in a shaky ripple as you move

I am how you will

graft into tree bark, run for fields, tear branches, like we planted

your fingertips and the energy streaming out of them together

-

WWT

If I strapped you to the garden soil with music like wild animals, where do you propose we go next?

If I planted morning seeds and waited til sunset I’d have lost a world of germination in my dirt-tipped fingers, tapping rhythms into the mint plants.

This is how it works. Don’t let the silence.

Miles from where you are, trees still grow like pilgrimages, flowers are still a hajj to sunlight. But the question is how anything operates with sunlight without your skin.

Supernova eyes, kayak heart, bicycle feet rollercoaster hands

-

WWT

Outpouring of thought because there is something that has been hovering over me and I’m not sure if it’s loneliness or a silence or anything else that has to do with exhaustion and not knowing where to put the snow that has entered the fields here and red buckets sit gently on wooden planks like a william carlos williams poem, simple but not knowing anything but knowing everything, and I have grown to like any part of you that I never expected to like before but what about when I reach and there is nothing to touch and the piano man plays to the screaming women who need to hear of distant love to prove that even the beautiful feel pain. examine what you believe and what you fear and see if they are the same and if there is love there for black holes and nebulas, star clusters and come home to me. a man who wanted to love me is picking up the cocaine and growing plants in his room and stealing pool cues from stores and I am never going to be with my father, who is thoughtful in many ways but helplessly self-destructive, and his eyes were beautiful but he was my father so I had to let go. but it’s okay it is all right it is okay and all right because I have found the one who doesn’t make me silent in bunk beds and turn away from a kiss, he is all gentleness and understands the things I am trying to say, understands I am not human, but his body loves the chemicals and I cannot end up in that position, I am not going to be with my grandfather, I am not going to be with my father, I am not going to go through that process of being helpless in the face of addiction, not with my lover, not when I can help it, but can I help it, but can I help it, I can’t help it, ah

-

3D

There’s the part that loves, and the part that still loves

There’s the line folded, twisted, the möbius strip, the breath

Color flowing with shape, sound, taste interchangeable guitar strings, warming air, pain unacknowledged, and being pulled by my center to all the things I would like to be a part of.

There’s whom we love, and whom we still love

One the heart, one the hand

-

WWT

There will always be silence because love is for everyone. I have been in love with you for what feels like years and months and decades and centuries and seconds and loves of my life, but it has been trees and plantlife. no not a but a silence a love a word a cord a dance of silent butterfly children living in a dark tree branch that sways in every thunderstorm and shakes the children down like stars into the moss where they grow into the underbrush and become a different species, a quieter, gentler, softer species, until they eventually soak into the soil and become everything. in about two hours it will have been 365 days since we first kissed and I feel like I loved you then as much as I love you now but what has been growing inside me has not been the love for you, it’s been the ability to recognize and understand and know that love for you. it has been there all along, but you We have been teaching me to hear it from a thousand miles. you are flannel bedsheets, you are an orange by the lake, you are an ice cream cone by the water fountain, you are a green woven blanket in a private property field, you are the far away city lights, you are the gentle, the tender, the quiet, the love. you say you can’t play the guitar but I am a guitar and you write sonnets with me like shakespeare on the wall in a used book place with a wheelbarrow in the center and you pick up a book on the silly couch and fall down beside me and sink in even further into the folds of the cushions and I tell you my pin number and you get money for me from across the street so I can buy you a present and you buy me a donovan album and you read kant while I make mixes and rub your back and we kiss every kiss like it is our last one and our first one and I love you greg you are the one true love, the one who has cared for me as much as I have cared for you, you are the one who taught me what love can be and how it doesn’t always cut my flesh like the eyes of those before. your eyes mend. milk-eyed mender. I love you, greg. I am forever your blueyellow bird and wildflower of the field. happy anniversary, saint francis.

-

I got two sets of headphones, I miss you like hell. Won’t you come here and stay with me?

The peace that the cigarettes gave her was the closest she could come to how she used to feel when he held her. They burned ominously at the end of her life, eight minutes of old age lost per stick of tobacco. Each drag was a conscious choice; her health traded in for thirty minutes of not missing him.

It was exactly a month since they had kissed and she was driven away, a month of him being happier without her. Happier without her–it felt as though every pure moment between them was being pushed through the shredder even as she cried out. At her job she was all smiles; she had a nickname and bantered with coworkers. Every evening she took her ten-minute break at sunset and went outside. She lived in the sky, but her wings had been clipped. Maybe if she spent enough time looking up, something would happen.

Sitting naked on her bed, music swooned across her skin and her breath took in nothing but the notes. She wore her headphones like a chinstrap and drew with colored pencils an abstract story of loss. Across the room, on the floor, lay her second pair of headphones.

At the beginning of their love, he had always corrected her pronouns to “we.” We will travel the world. We will find ourselves. Together. They were traveling partners on individual journeys. She was in love, and she was happy to be loved.

They made each other feel more free than either of them had in a long time. Until four months into their relationship, when he drank so much alcohol he blacked out and put his tongue in the mouth of a girl he knew. He sucked on her neck and left a mark. This was when their relationship truly ended. She cried and she changed. The absolute trust she had naturally given him from the moment they first kissed was gone. Alcohol in his system made her sad, and he resented her for this. Nine months later he was happier without her.

In the past, she had longed desperately for people. She had ached, she had cried, she had kissed, she had touched. She had never been loved back.

As a child she wanted to be an astronaut, then an astronomer.

Now she wanted to be a farmer. She was realizing who she wanted to be. She wanted to work with the earth, she wanted to live close to nature, she wanted her own home, she wanted to live self-sustainably, she wanted to take care of animals, she wanted to make art, she wanted to have a lover, she wanted to have a child. Once, thinking about him, she had started to cry with happiness at the idea of bearing his child. It felt like the ultimate expression of love, to make a person out of their bodies.

His love had propelled her blood cells. Now they felt like malnourished Japanese soldiers pitted against Soviet tanks in the desert wasteland of Manchuria.

A large box of the debris of their relationship sat on the top shelf of her closet, save two items she couldn’t bear to remove from her room. A photograph of their shadows against the earth from one of the most honeyed days of her life, and a model of a red airplane that he had made for her with popsicle sticks, construction paper, and cardboard. They had agreed that they would get married when they could afford to rent a little red airplane for flying to their mountain wedding. She proposed to him in crayon on a children’s menu. He said yes.

He had been with her when the only house she had ever thought of as Home burned down. He had cut her hair when the cat she had loved her whole life died a terrible and painful death. He had held her as she cried after bullies at a summer camp raided her. She had loved him close when he was angry and disappointed with his sexual performance. She had rubbed his back when it was hit by splitting pain. She had held him when he cried on a dark street in Philadelphia because his cousin was dying. She went to the funeral and fought back her desire to hold him the entire time, and tried to give him room to mourn. They gave each other the best orgasms either one of them had ever had before. They ate the best meal either one had ever eaten in a small town in Vermont together. They both said, I will always love you. They both said, You’re the One.

They started replacing new words and phrases for “love” when they told each other how they felt. The simple word just wasn’t enough anymore.

Turning up the music, she pulled the covers over herself and looked at her extra headphones. They looked lonely without ears to rest on. One of the first things she had said to him was that she wanted to kiss his mind. This mind was happier without her now, unburdened by headphones, by love. She had two sets of headphones and she missed him like hell. He hadn’t stayed with her.

She turned it up louder. I was in a train under a river when I remembered what What I wanted to tell you, man What I wanted to tell you, man I got two sets of headphones, I miss you like hell Won’t you come here and stay with me? Why don’t you come here and stay with me?

-

Maybe

“I’m so attracted to you right now.”

He undid the buttons on her shirt, biting her nipples, pulsating his hips rhythmically against hers with deathly sensuality

“I love you,” she said, eyes holding his

He lifted her up and they moved together like heat waves

She took off his shirt. Her hand reached below and touched his velvet skin “I love you,” she said again. He looked at her fondly.

They launched at each other, she slid down his chest, his pants came off, he moaned

Grimacing in pleasure

He gasped out as she swallowed “I love you,” she said again. Something would change now Something had to change now

“I love you too,” he said.

Nothing changed.