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A hollow, derelict body beneath me.
May the music be worth the loss.
— inspiration from The Lost Prince (by THE @thelediz )
Extra sonic sketches (these are from when I was learning how to draw Sonic)
#this poem sucks#sonic the hedgehog#art#digital art#my art#fanart#artwork#sonic#sth#illustration#fanfic
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two-headed calf by laura gilpin
#the magnus archives#tma#michael shelley#michael distortion#gertrude robinson#two-headed calf poem#god what a monster of a project this was to work on. ive never finished a comic before#im so happy its finally done#(/s) please direct any anonymous hatemail for this at my good friend @crestofcethleanns he pitched the idea i just visualised it <3#also tim (the real one not stoker) (i will never get tired of making this joke) ilysm thanks for being my emotional support#my art#2023#backgrounds#comics#mag 101#mag 101 another twist#sorry the quality sucks on mobile#i am by no means a comic artist im just a silly little illustrator#so i didnt know the best way to go about formatting this but liked the idea of scrolling through the drawings :)
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Dante Émile
#happy august blooms like a bruise on my forearm to those who celebrate#never posting this poem in its entirety cus its old & it sucks but here you go. mwah#dante émile#words
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Helsknight showing up bloody at Welsknight’s base please I need suffering 🙏
There was something to be said about the stupid things he was willing to do in the name of self preservation. Damn his fears, and the unfairness of the universe, and the uncertainty of living [and dying] and everything else. The unknown had always been his greatest weakness, his greatest betrayer. Pity it was also one of the few inescapable things about living in general.
To say Helsknight stepped into Hermitcraft would be a terrible injustice of what stepping normally, let alone gracefully, looked like. What he actually did was stagger and drag himself into Hermitcraft on unsteady and shaking limbs. There were holes in him. He hadn't really taken inventory of them yet. Admitting he had a wound [or several] was enough. The minute he admitted the wounds were bad, in certain terms his mind could comprehend, was the minute shock would steal his senses. He was on Hermitcraft for the specific reason of dodging death, and it seemed to him shock, on any level, meant dying. If he wanted to die and roll the dice of respawn, he would have died in hels, in the alley he'd been jumped in, where he could at least take comfort in familiar cobblestones and the knowledge he'd dragged all his attackers down with him. But he didn't want to die, so he was here.
It was dark. He was inside a building. He was bleeding. Wels was nearby. Those were the only things he needed to know for certain. Helsknight looked around, trying to ignore the sluggish tilt his vision offered when he moved too quickly. The double vision of trying to parse memories of a place that weren't his battled with his wounded animal double vision and together they made him feel nauseous, more so than his wounding already did. Helsknight balled a fist against his sternum, like he could hold himself together that way, and concentrated very hard on walking and nothing else.
Helsknight didn't like being this close to Wels. Not while he was this injured. He could feel the awareness of his other half like a spider on his skin. There was a reflex-like urge to shout and try to shake it off, the instinct-like certainty that if it rested on him long enough it would find a reason to bite him. And he knew, in the way only experience could teach, that if he could feel Wels, Wels could feel him. Helsknight had the sensation of walking a tightrope: his body insisted speed was the only thing that could save him, while his mind insisted he must stay unnoticed. He must balance necessity with making his thoughts and emotions small, and it was hard work to do when he was losing blood.
Helsknight blinked slowly, tiredly. He picked a direction and walked, a hand pressed to the wall, keeping himself upright. Wels's potion room was nearby, a borrowed half-memory informed him, he just had to get there. He searched his drifting thoughts for a poem to repeat in his head, to keep fear and uncertainty from rising. His heartbeat was quickening, a symptom of something; panic, or fear, or blood loss, or all three combined. He was fixing one of those things. He needed to carefully manage the other two, before Wels felt them. The only poem he could think of was in Middle English, and mostly gibberish to him, which told him it came from Wels's memories somewhere.
Why have ye no routhe on my child?
Have routhe on me ful of mourning;
Tak doun o rode my derworth child,
Or prik me o rode with my derling!
[Rhyming child with child was a lazy, but this was written back when one could convincingly spell "down" as "doun" so he supposed he shouldn't be overly critical. The real trick was figuring out if "derling" was supposed to mean "darling", or some other archaic word lost to time. He could only figure out so much from context clues. "Mourning" apparently transcended centuries, and that seemed fitting. Everyone knew mourning, in some form or another.]
An ache opened up beneath his clenched fist, or it had always been there, and his body was only just now reinforcing the fact that it was important. It felt like the mother of all cramps in his muscles, and he stubbornly pretended that's what it was. He needed more potassium in his diet or something, and the gods would forgive him the smear he left on the wall when he leaned on it, waiting on the intensity of his pain to ebb. The doorway he was walking towards seemed close, but also very, very far. Closing distance with it was going a lot slower than he thought it would, and it was only one short hallway. He was glad he'd decided to do this, instead of his other half-considered option of attempting to walk across hels to the Colosseum. He wouldn't have made it.
Dread pooled in his stomach. Dread, and other more physical things, like blood, probably, but he pretended the dread bit was more important. He could feel Wels pricking on his skin again, an insistent spider twitching at a breath on his web. Helsknight breathed out the steadiest breath he could manage.
More pine ne may me ben y-don
Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;
As love me bindëth to my sone,
So let us deyen bothe y-same.
[Sorwe. What medieval idiot thought "sorrow" was spelled like "sorwe"? Maybe it had something to do with inflection. Poetry was half words, half rhythm. Maybe "sorwe" was supposed to indicate they wanted the reader to pronounce "sorrow" as a single syllable, so it sounded more like "sore". That's also probably why "bothe y-same" was sitting there like word vomit. They meant "both the same", but wanted it read without a pause between the first two words. It was really the method for the madness that mattered with poetry.]
Helsknight blinked. He was in the potion room. He couldn't fully remember the walk down the hallway, but that didn't matter. What mattered was there should be health potions in here somewhere, his salvation. Relief edged his vision in stars, and he once again felt Wels's attention cant in his direction, confused and curious. Wels didn't associate feelings of relief with Helsknight. It wasn't an emotion they felt in each other's presence, and it was far too strong to be muffled by the distance to hels.
[He knows I'm here.]
Helsknight opened a chest and rifled through it. His vision was protesting. Stars and tilting that would turn to spinning soon made a clutter of his eyes. It got hard to distinguish the colors of the stoppered bottles. He picked up one that felt overly warm to his cold and shaking fingers. He was pretty sure it was a health potion. It felt too hot, but he reminded himself he was cold from losing blood, so it should feel hot. Hesitantly removed his fist from where it was balled in front of his sternum, and let his eyes unfocus when he grasped the bottle's stopper. His hands were so unsteady, it took a couple tries just to grab it, and when he pulled on the cork, his fingers slipped off weakly. He tried again, eyes closed with concentration, pouring every ounce of his strength into the act of pulling a stopper out of a bottle, only for his hand to slip right off again.
Frustrated, nearing desperate, he looked down at himself for a clean place to wipe his hand on his tunic. It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he did it. His eyes were inexorably drawn from the fabric to the poke-holes in it, to the wine-dark stain that flowed down his front and still dripped tak-tak-tak slow and inexorable onto the floor. It was a woeful amount of blood. He was honestly surprised he wasn't dead yet. Chalk it up to fortitude, and ignorance, and size. He had more blood to lose than some people did.
Helsknight's world suddenly gave an awful twist, vertigo and the crescendoing, cramping agony of his wounds, only staved off by how his now shattered ignorance, kicking him off his feet just as surely as a horse could. He slumped against the wall, and then to the floor, and the awful jarring of it hurt him worse. Half a dozen other wounds on him aired their grievances, and the big one near his sternum pushed blood onto his fist when he clutched it. Helsknight sat pinned, unable to breathe for many long seconds, feeling a bit like he'd been struck by lightning. The pain was blinding and numbing and overwhelming all at once.
Why-- have no-- have ye no-- something something...
[Words. Breathe. Think of words.]
[Gods... But it hurts......]
Why have ye no routhe on my child?
Have routhe on me ful of mourning;
[And what the hels did "routhe" mean, anyway? He knew the word "route". He knew the name "Ruth". Neither of them fit, unless his bloodless brain was missing something. There was a chance "routhe" was supposed to be read like "bothe", as a double word slurred together, but that still left "routhe the" which made less sense in context than "routhe" did.]
Right. He was supposed to be doing something other than bleeding to death on the floor. Helsknight blinked, looked down at his hand and realized the health potion he'd grabbed was gone. He must have dropped it when he slumped over. Looking around, he spotted it just to the side of his left boot, unbroken, thankfully, but it might as well be a lifetime away for all the good it did him. Helsknight knew without a shadow of a doubt he couldn't reach it. The idea of tensing his muscles and dragging himself forward to reach was exhausting, and he hurt so much he knew the movement would feel like tearing himself in half, and there were just some things a mind couldn't power through. Helsknight laughed dismally and let his head fall onto his chest. Both motions were white hot agonies, but all his pains were starting to blur together into a smear of overwhelming sensation that took thought away. It occurred to him he was breathing too fast, like he'd run too far too fast, and his fluttering heartbeat agreed.
[... It hurts...]
[Gods and saints it hurts.]
[I'm dying.]
A feeling he could only describe as doom fell on his shoulders, a cold grasp of fear that wrapped stony hands around his heart and squeezed. He'd heard of this. Never felt it himself. The utter sureness that if he didn't do something now, he would die. All the unconscious bits in his body in charge of keeping him working all unanimously agreeing they needed divine intervention, preferably right now, before they started shutting down. It wasn't something he often had occasion to feel, though he had heard people tell of it after particularly grizzly matches and bloody tournaments. Death was normally too quick in the Colosseum, or else he'd won his match, and even if he was falling to pieces there was a health potion too close to hand to let him dwell on his harms. This was so terribly different. Death stalked toward him unhurried and unbothered, waiting on him to finish drowning in blood. He might panic, if he wasn't already so cold and scared.
"Ah. This makes some sense, anyway."
Helsknight, who had stopped seeing the world in front of himself without really closing his eyes, refocused his vision on the open doorway. Wels stood there, an angel of death in azure and silver, his sword in his hand. His eyes were the ruthless blue of hels freezing over and lifeless corpses, and Helsknight thought there was no one else in the world he would rather not watch him die. But the universe hated him, so here Wels was, just as surely as if he was fated.
"I didn't think all that fear could possibly be for me."
Helsknight tried to reply, but all he managed was a dying-animal noise that strangled itself out when he tried to breathe a little steadier. He tried again, and this time managed a very weak, but vaguely defiant, "Fuck off."
"Rude," Wels said chastisingly. A glow of something like smug satisfaction prickled Helsknight's skin. The feeling came from Wels. "Especially given I'm the only person who can save you."
Helsknight chuckled, and then stopped when his body seized painfully around the motion. "We both know you don't want to save me."
"No," Wels admitted. "But I don't want to do a lot of unpleasant things I agree to do anyway."
"How... charitable."
"It is a virtue."
"Sure."
Wels didn't move. Well, he did move, but only to sheath his sword. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, the image of patience, as though they had all the time in the world.
[Hungry spider. Waiting on a web for something to struggle.]
"If you're waiting on me to beg," Helsknight informed him through staggering breaths, "I won't."
"Too prideful?"
Helsknight searched himself momentarily for pride, and came up short. Pride would've dictated he die in the alley, instead of here where Wels could lord it over him. This was something different than pride.
"No."
"Then why not?" Wels asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's easy. Just say, 'Welsknight, please give me a health potion'. Or if you're feeling monosyllabic, just 'please' will work."
Helsknight managed a smirk. "Why not help me out of the kindness of your heart?"
"I don't have any kindness for people like you."
[People like you. What a loaded phrase.]
Have ye no routhe on my child?
There was an entire philosophical debate that could happen in the phrase 'people like you' that Helsknight had neither the time or the energy to bother with. Besides, it was all words Wels knew. Wels pretended to be a chivalric knight. Chivalric knights helped the weak. Chivalric knights saved the defenseless. Helsknight, for all the grievances of his existence, was both right now. Then again, the chivalric knights were also supposed to make war against their enemies mercilessly, so he supposed Wels would be in his rights, as a chivalric knight, to walk away and let him die slowly and painfully on the ground.
As if sensing his thoughts, and likely because he could actually sense his thoughts a bit, Wels said, "You are always going on about how I need to be a better knight. There's something ironic here. No matter what I decide, I think you'll owe me an apology regardless."
The feeling of doom, of bone-deep, agonizing dying mantled over Helsknight again and Wels stopped existing to him. His sense of urgency, of desperation to live clawed its way up his throat. He tried to move his arm, his leg. He got his fingers to twitch. He tried to lean forward, to drag himself with willpower alone towards that stupid potion just out of reach. The potion he wasn't even strong enough to open. His vision collapsed in quickly, and he only knew he'd cried out because he was breathless. But he hadn't moved, besides managing to lull his head forward onto his chest again. Cold fear crawled around in his empty guts, a relentless, caged animal that refused to stop squirming.
[I'm dying.]
[Breathe.]
[I'm dying.]
A shadow fell over him, a presence freighted with hate, and deserving, and dissonant guilt. Wels had come forward, only to stop short when Helsknight's terror swept over him like a wave, and he stood baffled by it, and guilty for it. The fool knight probably thought Helsknight was scared of him. If only. Helsknight thought he would prefer that. At least then he could manage to die gracefully. Wels's fortitude bricked itself up against him then, a bitter soul trying to will itself to be cold and cruel, and Helsknight was thankful for it. It staved off his fear, if only a little.
"What did you do to bring this on, anyway?" Wels asked breathlessly, trying to recover his resolve. Looking for a reason to hate him.
"I was... walking home."
"That's it?" He sounded so skeptical, it was almost funny.
"I committed the terrible sin..." Helsknight laughed out a breath, "... of being fearless when I should have been cautious."
"Hubris."
"Habit."
"Yeah right."
"If I got stabbed like this every day, I wouldn't have come crawling here."
Wels glowered, parsing this statement for truth. Helsknight might have mustered some hate in him for it, if he wasn't so scared. His vision had taken on a permanent blur, and he was getting cold. He hadn't gone numb yet, which was something he found profoundly cruel. He wanted to be numb. To stop hurting. To stop fearing.
[Breathe.]
Why have ye no routhe on my child?
Have routhe on me ful of mourning;
Tak doun o rode my derworth child,
Or prik me o rode with my derling!
[Derworth... "Dearworth", probably. Beloved. So "derling" was probably "dearling", which turned into "darling". Middle English was strange. Just slightly to the left of normal. He didn't think "tak" was a word anymore, except where it existed as pieces of words. "Tak" to "take", to take hold, maintain, maybe. "Tak" to "tack" like a nail. "Prik" also, like "pricking" flesh, like a point digging.]
"Hold down the road, my dearworth child," Helsknight muttered. "Or pick me a road with my darling."
"What?"
"Stupid poem."
"How much blood have you lost?"
Helsknight laughed, and his whole body flinched, and for a moment he couldn't breathe because his pain was so alive and electric it almost stopped being pain. The concern from Wels was laughable. He wished Wels would make up his mind about whether or not he cared. Then he could get on with dying, and the terror would stop, and the universe would take him or it wouldn't, and if it didn't, he would respawn and sleep for a week. He felt Wels's hand on his wrist, which was its own kind of hilarious.
"Trying to figure out how many heartbeats I have left?" Helsknight asked.
It would be nice to know. If Wels figured it out, he hoped he would share the information. Then Helsknight could keep count.
"Your heart's too fast."
"That happens."
Wels stood up and paced, all nervous energy, back and forth across the room.
"You don't deserve my help," Wels told him scathingly, angry for how conflicted he felt. "You don't. You've been nothing but cruel ever since we met."
More pine ne may me ben y-don
Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;
["Pine", like pining. Or pain. More pain? Punishment maybe. "Don" to done. Something like: More pain to me could not be done than to let me live in sorrow and shame.]
Helsknight decided whoever wrote this poem had never been stabbed. He'd felt both sorrow and shame, and neither of them packed quite this amount of punch, in his opinion.
"It probably goes against my tenets anyway," Wels continued, still pacing. "And yours too. Aren't you the one who follows some crazy death god?"
"... Saint... of Blood and Steel."
"He probably thinks dying in a puddle on my floor is glorious."
"... they."
As love me bindëth to my sone,
So let us deyen bothe y-same.
[Maybe he was just getting better at this, or maybe this part was just easy. "As love I'm bound to my son, so let us die, both the same." It didn't flow very neatly when it was simpler. Maybe Middle English wasn't that stupid.]
"I can't help but think you did this on purpose to... I don't know. Test me somehow. Prove you're better. Weak again, Welsknight! For helping your enemy when you should have let him die, or speed him along. Don't you know knights are supposed to be cruel?"
Helsknight tried to call up his own tenets, or Wels's tenets, or anything to do with knights and their duties. He got a little lost on his way, his thoughts meandering and dying, and gasping back to life again when they remembered they were supposed to be searching for something. Something he was scared of. Dying. A wave of fear crashing over him that made Wels flinch, and bid Helsknight keep breathing, because any agony was worth not confronting that one, great, crippling unknown.
"What would you do in my place?" Wels asked him suddenly. "Answer me that, perfect knight. What would you do if the person you hated most showed up one day bleeding on your floor?"
That... was an excellent question. Helsknight searched briefly for the answer, and found it wasn't very hard to find.
"I would help."
"You're lying," Wels said guardedly.
"I... can't lie."
"Then you're dodging the truth. What would you do?"
"I would heal you if I could. Or I would kill you if I couldn't." With strength he didn't know he even still had, Helsknight leaned his head back against the wall. It was easier to breathe that way. To talk.
"Why?"
"No creature is deserving of dishonor or pain."
"That's not a tenet."
"It's not a chivalric tenet." Helsknight shrugged one shoulder weakly. "Chivalry states you can hang my guts from the ceiling if I'm your enemy."
"It does not."
"It might as well."
Wels didn't seem to have a ready reply for that.
"What is routhe?"
Wels blinked down at him, guarded and confused. "Routhe?"
"Routhe." Helsknight repeated, as though it were helpful. "Middle English."
"As in?"
"Poetry."
"Use it in a sentence."
"Why have ye no routhe on my child?"
"Ruth." Wels said, a bit too quickly, like he'd known what Helsknight was asking and was trying to avoid the answer. "We don't use it as ruth anymore. It shows up in rue, like regret, or sorrow. And... ruthless."
"Merciless."
"Yes."
Why have you no mercy on my child?
"Why are you asking about Middle English while you're bleeding to death on my floor?"
Helsknight let out a breath. It hurt, but everything did. "Stupid poem."
"Can I hear it?"
"I'm busy bleeding to death on your floor."
"Tell me and I'll heal you."
There it was again, asking for an excuse. That was Wels's real cowardice, his failing as a knight. He was scared of making decisions. Scared of dealing with the consequences of his actions. Paralyzed by indecision. He wanted to hate Helsknight because it was justified. He wanted to watch him suffer, because hatred allows suffering. He didn't want to label himself cruel, nor be accused of weakness, or softheartedness, if he showed mercy. And he didn't want to pick up his sword and kill, if it meant killing someone defenseless. He wanted Helsknight to give him a reason to act, so he could blame it on him later if it turned out wrong. Given it would likely be Helsknight rubbing his nose in it later if it was wrong, he couldn't really blame him for that.
Helsknight closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats, and pretended he wasn't scared.
"Do what you will."
An hour long minute ticked by. Helsknight felt the time moving like it was physical, like he was falling through it and he couldn't catch himself, and he was nearing his limits. He thought the only thing stopping him from begging for it all to stop was the crushing weight of his fatigue, the exponential strength it took to take his next breath, and that stupid poem, skipping in a circle in his head. It kept his thoughts away from his fear, from bearing the weight of the unknown that came next. It was still there, a nameless, formless anxiety that formed the undercurrent of his thoughts. But he didn't have to think about it when he was busy being annoyed about a poem stuck in his head.
Wels moved. He stooped to pick up the potion Helsknight had dropped and unstoppered it deftly. He was surprisingly gentle as he helped him drink, aware that every movement could cause pain. Helsknight could feel Wels's caution in the air like wings, like a bird hovering before it lands. The first potion wasn't enough to heal him completely, so he got a second from his chests and helped him with that as well, one hand hovering over Helsknight's wounds, waiting on the skin to knit back together. Helsknight got to his feet, shaky, and feeling like he'd been wrung dry of all vitality. There was no pain to speak of, but he was thirsty, and hungry, and exhausted.
"You should rest before you go anywhere," Wels said, words of pragmatic care that sounded stilted coming from him. "I can get you some water."
"I'll be fine," Helsknight told him, allowing himself some hesitant pride now that the smothering pain was gone. Even exhausted, he could think so much more clearly now -- think at all, really. And he thought the longer he stayed here, the higher the chance Wels would come to regret his decision to heal him. They were not made to like each other. They didn't even respect each other as enemies. And Helsknight knew if they fought now, he would lose, and he might lose very badly, if Wels decided to leave him to bleed out again. It was something Wels had never done before, but if he could convince himself Helsknight deserved it, he would.
"Do what you will, then," Wels said, bitterness creeping into his tone. He probably thought he was being coy and ironic. Helsknight mostly thought it was annoying.
"The poem isn't mine," Helsknight said. "It's one you've read before. Middle English. Why have ye no routhe on my child. I don't know the title. It might just be the first line. I think it's a lament."
"... I see."
"Next time you find yourself bleeding out on someone's floor," Helsknight snorted, "Pick something stupid like that. It makes things... manageable."
"Right... manageable."
Helsknight gave a helpless sort of shrug, as though what he'd just said were perfectly normal.
Wels mustered an enviable facsimile of concern when he said, "I've never felt terror like that before."
Helsknight felt his already parched mouth somehow go drier. The sympathy he felt rolling off of Welsknight was sickening. Literally. He could feel himself becoming nauseous.
"What are you so scared of?"
Shame, red hot and searing, clawed at the inside of Helsknight's ribs. He wished so badly he could hide it. Distract himself from it. At least turn it into anger. But he was tired, and he didn't know how to bring his emotions back to heel, and Welsknight was already giving him an open, piteous look like maybe they'd stumbled onto something significant. He could feel hope there, like maybe there was a reason they hated each other like they did, and if Wels could figure out where that fear came from, they could find common ground -- or at least the leverage Wels needed to make Helsknight relent.
"I don't need your pity, white knight," Helsknight snarled. "Go sate your savior complex somewhere else."
Wels scowled. A cold wall of loathing, resigned and inevitable, closed itself around anything else he could possibly feel.
[As it should be.]
Hours later, home and safe, Helsknight cracked open his journal and wrote:
Why have you no mercy on my child?
Have mercy on me, so full of mourning;
Take down the road my dearworth child,
O give me a road with my darling!
More pain to me could not be done
Than to let me live in sorrow and shame
As with love I am bound to my son,
So let us die then, both the same.
#Situations Asks#rns asks#anonymous#tw wounds#tw blood#tw dying#tw fear#welsknight#helsknight#[jazzhands] mind the tags she's an intense one!#And also very long#4k words woooo#The poem in Middle English is Why Have Ye No Routhe On My Child#it is supposedly from the 14th century#but i had a very very hard time finding sources for it#so take that with a heavy grain of salt#i will say the middle english -> modern english translation is mine#done using the Chaucer Dictionary from the University of Cambridge#As well as the Oxford Middle English Compendium#take the translation with a grain of salt its one of maybe twice i've done something like this#but i think it stayed decently faithful to the source material#as faithful as someone who sucks at reading Middle English can make a translation anyway#rns ficlet
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“poetry” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 288 words
It’s the end of the school day and Regulus has just made it to his locker. He enters his combination and as soon as he opens it, a folded piece of paper falls to the floor. He bends down to pick it up and when he unfolds it, his jaw drops at what he sees.
~
Roses are red, your eyes are blue,
You make me see things as if they’re brand new.
I can’t think straight when you’re around,
Your laughter is my favorite sound.
And I know you think I’m an idiot,
But I think you’re magnificent.
So even though I’m really bad at poetry,
Will you still go out with me?
~
It’s not signed, but there’s only one idiot who would have slipped this in his locker. He schools his features before he looks around, and just as he thought, James is lurking at the other end of the hall.
Regulus raises an eyebrow at James and James purses his lips and shrugs back at him. Regulus rolls his eyes fondly and looks back down at the poem.
It is simultaneously the best and worst poem he has ever read and he smiles to himself as he tucks it between the pages of one of his books. He rips off a piece of notebook paper, scribbles something down and folds it in half. He gathers his things and makes his way to the end of the hall. He barely slows down as he drops the piece of paper in James’ hand and keeps walking without saying a word.
——————
James’ hands are shaking as he opens the piece of paper Regulus gave him.
~
Your poem was shit, that much is true,
But yes, I’ll still go out with you.
~
#idiots in love#bad poetry#james sucks at writing poems#reg saves every bad poem#james is smitten#regulus is smitten#james loves regulus#regulus loves james#jegulus#jegulus microfic#james potter#regulus black#jegulus fanfiction#marauders#marauders fanfiction#james x regulus#regulus x james#marauders era#harry potter marauders#harry potter#marauders fic#dead gay wizards from the 70s#dead gay wizards#jeggyverse microfic
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poet!finnick odair who can’t stop writing about you. ever since his eyes laid on yours at a mutual friend's party, he has been completely mesmerized by you, his mind utterly enthralled by your existence. since then, you have become his muse. the protagonist in his sonnets. he spends days and weeks searching his mind for the perfect words to describe your captivating eyes that have held him prisoner since the day you met.
when you finally get together, he feels he doesn't deserve the sacred privilege of knowing you, of memorizing every part of your body, and learning every reaction and gesture you make. there are moments when you are spending time together, existing side by side in your own world, yet he simply stares at you, totally consumed in his thoughts, admiring every feature of your face. and you just know he will be writing about you later that night.
he has written many poems about you, some of which will never meet your eyes. yet, he likes reading some of them to you, blushing intensely as he recites the words so inspired by you. his feelings are so raw and pure that having another person listening would feel like an invasion of privacy.
#tried to write a little poem as what he wouldve written for you#but i suck at poetry lol#finnick odair x reader#finnick odair#thg
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theyre married :3
#its been 2 hours since i got dragged outside i just came across a poem about sucking dick i think im losign my mind#my neck hurts but now i have gay demons to look at so ig its worth it#six more minuit...... Pleasbe hurry im gough to die here#🌗 art tag#radiostatic#vox hazbin hotel#hazbin vox#hazbin alastor#alastor hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel
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Q.A.B.
a poem i wrote about my biological dad. ive never posted something this personal online before haha so im very nervous to share it! the title is our initials lol
I don't know your birthday
I don't know your age
I don't know anything
Yet we share a name
I'm so mad at you I can't breathe
Your incompetence bequeathed
My tree forsook its only apple
And then left for NYC
Abandonment isn't an accident
Fatherhood isn't optional
It took you nearly a decade to try
How much of that was spent forgetting?
Your return hurts more than your absence
Our divide somehow grows farther
And if blood is thicker than water
Why weren't you there for your daughter?
Questioning and begging for answers from a brick wall
So much wasted breath on your name
My love for you feels like utter sin
Forever and always, Q.
the last line sounds a little better when i don't have to censor the name lol but this is a very emotional poem and mostly just me pouring my emotions so sorry if it's a little incohesive or inconsistent! criticism is always appreciated ^_^
#poem#original poem#poetry#poems and poetry#daddy issues#trauma#beginner writer#beginner poetry#art#writing#my dad sucks#lol
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Hellaverse Tumblr Simulator part 1
Part 2 here
TW: unreality, mentions of death, mentions of sex
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🎞️ dancingqueen117 Follow
Extermination canceled, everyone go home I guess?
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🧨 imthebombau Follow
There’s this guy I kinda knew and he was NOT CUTE LMAO but he was kinda cool in a kicked dingo kinda way and earlier he kissed me confessed that he loved me and then I just found out he fucking DIED?????????
💝 whoreofsilk Follow
BITCH WHAT?!?!?!?
🧨 imthebombau Follow
Yeah it sucks I woulda let him hit 😔
💝 whoreofsilk Follow
Man died before getting some ass, saddest post I’ve ever seen
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🐎 sluttykiller829 Follow
my fuck buddy/business partner/childhood friend just almost died i didnt even know he could do that and i dont know what to do about it lmao
🧨 imthebombau Follow
IM DEAD WHAT IS THIS RELATIONSHIP?!? 🤣🤣🤣
🎶 musicalslaughter029 Follow
Maybe go visit him? Make sure he’s okay?!
🐎 sluttykiller829 Follow
respectfully i am unable to do that
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🍾 drinksonme79 Follow
So my boss’ boss’ girlfriend just told us she was an exorcist and it was all dramatic and shit, and I didn’t want to say that I already knew but kept quiet, it was awkward as hell. LOL
❌ descendedlesbian Follow
Hey thanks for not telling man I appreciate it
🍾 drinksonme79 Follow
????????
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📺 tuninginfordrama Follow
Princess Charlie the typa cunt to go “snork mimimimimi” while sleeping and say “oh great heavens!” when surprised
❌ descendedlesbian Follow
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU CURSE OF 1000 ANGELS ON YOU
🎟️ princesscharlieafterdark Follow
Haha that’s funny! I would do that! 😆
📲 digitalbitch1337 Follow
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💝 whoreofsilk Follow
So the extermination ended literally 2 hours ago and my boss is already asking when I’m coming in fuck this shit can someone kill him for me please?
🐍 itwasjustanapple666 Follow
On it.
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🐎 sluttykiller829 Follow
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📖 agonizedhoot Follow
I yearn to hold you close
But our love is forbidden, society says
I’ll love you in secret, in the shadows
Hoping that one day, we can break free from this maze
🏩 houseoflust Follow
Major L can’t relate grow some balls man
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🦾 clownofass Follow
Everybody forced to watch a hopeless gay pining romance play out in front of them that could be easily resolved deserves financial compensation
🔪 kountrykillin Follow
Agreed
📻 smilingdemon Follow
AGREED.
#I feel like this lowkey sucks sorry#poem by Sebastian Watts on 1lovepoems.com#hazbin hotel#angel dust#hazbin hotel husk#charlie morningstar#vaggie#hellaverse#helluva boss#blitzo#blitzø#vox#fizzarolli#helluva boss ozzie#lucifer morningstar#mimsy#alastor#cherri bomb#stolas#hazbin hotel velvette#velvette#unreality#tw unreality#unreality tw#polls#the radio demon#tumblr simulator#sir pentious#moxie helluva boss#millie helluva boss
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hey. i love an epic. i love intensity. however. i get this feeling sometimes like people need every poem to be masterful and incredible and profound and—they don’t. poems can be corny and sweet and simple. sentimental and small. novels can range from tolstoy to a flimsy beach read. poems are also allowed to do that. that’s all.
#i see this more on twitter of people being like This Shit Sucks about a simple or silly poem#and you know what? tired of it.#i revere poetry but sometimes reverence can turn to disgust#if you aren’t willing to see the vagaries of a form#its highs and lows#and accept them all as contributions to the genre#anyway#soapbox#mine#poetry
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sir john what
#hehe i think i’m funny#who wants to go on a picnic and read love poems to each other#+ then suck on some tiddies#i def read most of the poems in this book i promise it’s not just a prop and ya girl can read#did u guys know i love green#i feel like it’s almost fall vibes + i’m v v excited#curly + curvy#i would wear a bra but i don’t want to#if u read the tags this far u have a crush on me sorry we have to be lovers now#😘😘#biblically accurate asteroid
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a poem about pining —by eddie diaz
for @alyxmastershipper happy birthday, love. you are awesome and ily (wish i could've posted the exes to lovers fic for you but didn't have the time or beans, so i hope this is enough for now 💗)
#this is kinda long#and im sorry if it sucks kshsjsh#evan buckley#evan buck buckley#eddie diaz#buck x eddie#buddie#911 edit#buddie edit#my edits#911 abc#911 on abc#my poetry#original poem#poetry#april writes
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The Maximal Prophecy
A TFP AU comic (sorta?) focusing on Maximal lore. I also just realized I never posted the Maximal backstory on here so TLDR: they were the Autobots that were on Earth when the Predacon clones invaded. They are all presumed dead.
#transformers#maccadam#tfp au#sketch#fan comic#tfp airazor#tfp depth charge#tfp nyx#tfp rhinox#tfp rattrap#tfp tigatron#tfp cheetor#i tried writing a poem again and whoop de doo i still suck
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I can see Prowl getting back into poetry after Bee got resurrected.
In the time Bee was gone, Prowl has fallen into a very dark place and had little life in him. He neglected anything that wasn't a nessecity for survival- hobbies, relations and his garden.
After Bee came back he made sure to reintroduce Prowl to things he liked so he could become his old self again. One of the things he liked doing was poetry.
Writing poems was something he didn't pick up for a long time; each idea he tried to use turned into sorrowful flashbacks to that dark chapter he tried to escape. He just could do anything that wouldn't end up in him silently crying on the floor, replaying all the events in his mind.
One day Bee had to assist with something and Prowl couldn't join him, Bee knew that he'll be sad so he gave him few of his stuff to keep him occupied; a console, some toys to fidget with and few comics and books he liked.
Prowl found something poetic in the way the comics described its characters, it gave him a sparkle to try poetry once more. He tried writing in his usual style but it just wasn't working, he feared it will end up like every other time he tried. But then an idea struck him and he tried a different approach; he would try to describe something instead.
Something happy, cheerishable and hopeful... something that brought joy instead of sadness. Somethign like.... Bumblebee.
Every little thing he knew about the yellow scout he poured onto paper. Multiple pages were just bits and pieces of Bee; his smile, his optics, his character and behavior- even something as silly as his preferences in hobbies.
Each and every poem he wrote was about Bumblebee. He never told Bee about it; he feared that if Bee ever found them he'd think Prowl was being creepy.
I think Bee would find one of those poems after they start dating. He'd read it and ask Prowl about it and Prowl would have no other choice but to tell him about those. Of course Bee would push that Prowl reads them to him.
They ended up cuddled in Prowl's room, Bee listening to Prowl's works praising him and he'd be so impressed Prowl managed to put his somewhat humble being in such a beautiful way.
His favorite so far was this one;
My Hope, My Haven, My Happiness, My Sun. World's Beauty is endless, wild and free, From Colorful Skies to Deepest Waters, Birds with Song and freedom. Saharas and Deserts, glowing with their golden sand. Lush Forests and Jungles, holding many wonders of life. Streams quietly trickling, looking and finding their way to the unknown of the Ocean. Skies, unbound and untamed, forever changing each day of life. World's Beauty cannot be contained, and yet I can see it each day right in front of Myself. Your Eyes reflecting the Skies, the Lakes and Oceans. The prettiest of Songs heard from Your Voice. Mesmerising colors of hottest Sands and Praires woven with strings of Night, for it is a Veil You wear each day. No travel or flight can give more, Each and Every aspect of Beauty known is with Me. It wanders and plays, sings and runs away as I try to chase it. World's Beauty is right here, just barely in reach. And in patience I'll wait until one day I may call it My.
#maccadam#tfa#prowlbee#revival!prowlbee#tfa au#hope you enjoyed the poem#no idea how to write poetry qwq hope it doesn't suck to fellow poetry enjoyers#it was fuckin HARD to do
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Troubles Follow
Troubles Follow
I find myself seldom happier than during times I am writing a poem of beings ethereal and occult
heart skipping down a flowered path in a cottage garden in the South of England
the dead remember and sins are forgotten as tears blossom into flowers of hope
but a cottage near the sea cannot shelter from every storm as rain falls over all
our troubles will follow us wherever we go some will pass while others take root
what can we do then but turn to those faithful and trusted faces
call out for a friend and hold strong together as we uproot the weeds
I feel like this year has been tempestuous for many, including myself. I have mainly found emotional refuge in a certain imaginary cottage. Many strangers join me in this cottage, either taking refuge or simply enjoying the space and the company. I don't know everyone in this cottage, and it would be foolish to blindly trust everyone just because they take refuge in this same space. But it's okay to give a little trust to one another while we weather the storms; breaking off little pieces of trust that are easily retrieved.
But we cannot forget that many people we love will not shelter here. They may never even visit, and that's alright. Don't be afraid to venture out into the storms to find those trusted faces. The faces which we know will remain elsewhere while we have sheltered in our imagination, alongside the imaginations of others. If we return to this cottage after traveling through other storms, after seeking shelter in the corporeal arms of loved ones who care deeply, those who remained during that absence will maintain the garden as well as possible.
There will be many new flowers, along with many new weeds, that we can all continue to maintain together.
Read the short fic Storm Break by @gaiaseyes451 prompted by an excerpt from this poem.
Read more of my work here.
#poem#poetry#fandom meta#good omens#personal post#hard times#comfort#sometimes life sucks#escapism in moderation#let's tend the garden together#why is 2024 like this#y'all I have no idea what tags to put here#it's just been a tough year in so many ways#goodomens
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