venus in pisces What I want transcends the bounds of human flesh; it defies language, another barrier. I crave a connection that leaves me speaking in tongues. I crave the all-consuming infinity. I crave God. And when I drown in endless love, shapeless love, I want its rushing waters filling my lungs. Should love become still, not a single ripple in its perfect mirror, you'll see yourself sleeping soundly in linen sheets on the moon. I'll make you my north star, I'll seek you out across the sea in the shrouded black. What I want is not kiss, nor caress; neither kill, nor carcass, or carrion. I crave what lies beyond death itself. I crave the promise of divinity, the love that came before me and the love that will come thereafter. I crave all.

vent turned into poem; personifying Venus in Pisces #dogwrites

#dogwrites

I remember years ago when I was very young, I had a dream that I was traveling on an empty road in the middle of a desert and I came upon a lion in my path. In one hand, I led a zebra by a lead.

At first I was scared of this huge beast in my way, but I exchanged the zebra for the lion.

"las primeras flores" I take my vow of silence, withholding the words I would never dare say; swallowing them whole, letter by damned letter, chunks of them sinking like stones in my throat. And they sit in me, a lion pacing in a cage too small; it’s my burden to carry—but I do it for you. I can never say it: “I love you”. Those words leave a foul taste in my mouth; neon pink frosting that’s way too sweet. A poison—bile that slowly builds with no release, something my body can never purge. It’s an illness; it’s visceral, it’s in my veins. It’s no use, I already tried to vomit it all out to no avail. And so I'll take these words to my grave if I must; my body will rot with them, six feet deep in soil—we’ll decompose together, this love and I. Don't look for me, don't unearth me. Pay no heed to the roots that have taken hold inside of me. Let summer's warmth fade and give way to the coming cold, and let the snows of winter cover all that remains of me in the quiet whites and greys. And by April, I come bearing flowers and fruit. I cough; petals fall from my mouth. A flower falls to the ground at your feet, first of many. Of different colors, different varieties—before we know it, we stand in the midst of a garden we never intended to grow. My words fail me; they suffocate me. I choke when I try to speak. Instead, I pick a flower and offer it to you, and a small part of me hopes you'll put it in your hair.

a poem from the perspective of a character who never intended to fall in love #dogwrites

A drabble I started to write about Wólfram during my month of solitude. This takes place days before his execution; he is left only with his thoughts in an empty cell, and the voices of regret echoing in his mind as he recalls the entirety of his life #WIPSnips #dogwrites #ocposting

What he thinks of doing and then what is done are like a melody over a bassline. He should tell her to stop, push her away, tell her that this is wrong—and yet his body continues, like a beat, never stopping. It trembles when she puts her mouth on him, gleaming with sweat; and quiet moans reverberate like the baritone tune of taut horsehair rubbing against the strings of a cello. Between every half-finished sentence was a fuck, followed by shit, and whatever sense left in him he tried to speak was soon interrupted by much of the same. So, the machinations of his body were involuntary. Autonomous, more than his actual prosthetic arm. And if his moans were the strings, then his heart set the pace—a metronome encased in a bone. His lungs soon followed the tempo at half-time: the rise and fall of his chest quickened as his breaths labored in their light crescendo and decrescendo of this overture.

i snapped with this (it's porn) #dogwrites

Odysseus tenses. The words which flowed readily from his lips remain stuck in his throat; the arrow is drawn, but he cannot find it in him to release it—and so the bow remains his grip, knuckles white. All the while the younger of the two, cocksure with cup in hand and back arched as the weight of her body rested against her arm behind her once more, waits for him to make his move. She swirls her cup, eyes fixed on Odysseus who sits across her. Like this, she was a little girl trailing his heels no longer, but a woman full-grown. Wolf-skin blanket like the seat she’d take as sovereign, like her father did, or like her brother would have. If he closed his eyes he could envision it: his bed for the seat of Hades, his tent for the realm of the dead, and she looks on over the sea of shades passing through here and there while the newly deceased arrive from the river Styx in boats. Odysseus, but one of the many faces in the crowd. Nameless. Nobody. Here in the present, he traces the small curve of her breast, careful not to find himself stuck to it. He blames the wine for the seconds he lingers there before moving elsewhere, finally. Melinoë notices, and allows it, instead bringing the brim of her cup to her lips.

new wip for my upcoming hades 2 fic. almost onto act 3, finally LOL #dogwrites

#dogwrites

Fight, Little Bird, Fight (minecraft oc drabble)

text version on my tumblr; mind the cws

www.tumblr.com/oceansatedog...

#dogwrites #ocposting

ON THE MEASURE OF MY OWN WORTH:

We were created equal;

Those who were destined for greatness and those who are destitute, both the same.

You are no different from your fellow man. These are your kin

#dogwrites

With the voice of an angel, soft and sweet and soprano (when he willed it), and yet rich all the while and dark like moonless night—it was beautiful, the way he sang. The girls began to swoon as the music swelled while their jealous partners scorned the singing man with various swears. And Polynya, well, she wasn’t exactly convinced; neither to fall wholly and shamelessly in love with a stranger (like he’s seemed to have managed with everyone else in this room), nor to have him removed from the floor. She’d rather him be the center of her ire this evening. Surely, it was his fault that the wine was finally getting to her, and that her face was flushed. The sweat trailing from her brow, the stickiness of her silks—it was all his doing. And he seemed so smug about it, too. As if he was taunting her, specifically. [Wólfram’s musical number ends and he releases the random girl he danced with. Polynya somehow winds up on the floor after the performance when it’s time for the couples’ circle dance. Wólfram and Polynya formally meet for the first time and exchange quips; Polynya challenges Wólfram to meet her at the center of the circle, where they talk a little more. The two of them disappear for a little while, to the bafflement of the matriarchs and other guests- they’re in a dark stony outer corridor overlooking the atrium. They do not get a chance to exchange names yet before they’re interrupted and the scene closes with Wólfram vanishing. Polynya is left dazed before she is rushed back to the main hall for her closing speech for the night.]

It was later that evening that sleep called for every servant and guest and novice, or other, summoning each to different halls and different rooms where they’d have their slumber. They all took to their beds, in good spirits, with the knowledge that the festivities would continue on the morrow. There would be a great hunt in the groves to the east, led by dozens of hunters with their hounds, and then jousting in the glades to the north—Illustris’ best and most noble knights came bearing their banners, of gold and red and green and purple and many other colors from beyond valleys and vales, from beyond mounds and moors and mountains, and from beyond much more than that. From even the capital they came, from that crater they call the most important of all cities in the country. Covered by thin silk sheets of continuous rain, it was where the first star fell—or perhaps a piece of the moon? Who’s to say. Though all can agree, it was a gift from the Mother of all Magic—and speaking thereof, there’ll also be tournaments where the temple’s finest witches test their strength against one another in the art of spellcasting. Curious onlookers watching from their stands would be warned by commentators to be wary of getting splashed from secondhand crossfire; though, damp clothes wouldn’t dampen their enthusiasm—in fact, it only roused them further as the crowd roared with all manners of frenzy and fanaticism. Presently, the two witches sparring were actually colleagues of Polynya’s. The three had shared a couple of classes before; like Polynya, both girls were full of promise and set their sights on priestesshood—and here, on the shallow pool which serves as their playing field, they readily prove themselves. With small dark clouds formed above the arena pouring sudden torrential rains, with the water at their feet summoned from its resting place coming to life, becoming like crystal-clear cutlasses and glass-like animals with claws and teeth—yes, animals! (ALT text limit)

Each feat of magic more exciting and powerful than the last, a true testament to their prowess. An impressive display it all was, yet Polynya was not fully present in that moment, in the back-and-forth of the girls’ sparring. Her mind instead meandered off towards the man she had met the night before, and of the monstrous shadow she dreamt of in the hours that followed. Those depthless blue eyes burned into the back of her mind. What was his name, she wondered? From what lands did he hail from, from which family? Nothing about him made sense; from his clothes, to his accent, and to his music and mannerisms and other things failed to mention here—they all pointed towards here and there, north and south and east and west; there were more contradictions and even more confusion the more she queried to herself. It was hard to come to a satisfactory and single conclusion. Was he a prince or a pauper? His face, though she’d only admit this to herself, suggested to her a prince; he was pleasing to look at, from head to toe, with every edge and angle of his face and his arms and his hands, no one could deny that. He seemed well-made, lovingly put-together by some god (whether her’s or foreign), and he had a way with words—he knew exactly how to manipulate and mince them to attain what he sought after and nothing less. If he were a prince, then he surely possessed the tongue of one. And yet he was as much of a pauper as he was princely, impoverished on the subject of principles, so to speak. Though this man knew how to dress his words with pretty trinkets and baubles, and even strum a little tune to them all the while, the actual things spoken were vulgar. Obscenity hanging from his every word. It is said that patience is a virtue, but so was modesty—something that man clearly lacked when it came to women, even the High Priestess herself. Polynya grimaced to herself, causing cousin Irina to ask what was wrong.

forcing myself to write more oc stuff (still on chapter 1..)
#dogwrites #ocposting

Guy who loves the inherent humiliation of a female ruler and her loyal vassal #dogwrites

they are soooo irritating i love them #dogwrites

"i made an oc channel in case u wanted to rp sometime😇😇"

me at 5 o'clock In The Morning
#dogwrites

the full thing is now up on ao3! maybe one day i'll come back with another makiden drabble from the vault :) and sorry for not using alt text earlier, i forgot #dogwrites

archiveofourown.org/works/62642281

i can see every bird in the trees above and every leaf that falls from their branches, every drop of dew, every gossamer thread of spider silk, every spec of dust. nothing hides from me #dogwrites

Screenshot of a google docs file: she's too good at this. “denji,” makima places her hand on denji’s wrist, while she leans her weight onto the other, which rests on the back of his chair. “i think—naughty things feel better the more you get to know your partner.” she moves closer to him. denji finds himself ensnared in a trap of that woman’s making: her touch and his chair. she has him; he's cornered, and he can't escape her—nor does he want to. “...so first, study her hands,” her fingers dig through every space between denji’s own, making themselves fit as if even this part of him was made for her. “how long are her fingers? does she feel warm or cold?” his hands tremble. she has him like a fox with a rat in its maw, limp and lifeless. yet there’s love in even the fox's bloodstained jaws that makima simply can never give nor have, not even as her fingers dance along his flushed and sweaty skin. some part of denji knew this, but his body does not resist her push and pull, the working of her hands as she has him caress her ear; he doesn’t shy away nor move forward. and so the predator claims its prey. this can never be love, but they try anyway. “have you ever had your finger bitten?” the fox asks as she moves closer to the rat, her voice sweet and her movements never too sudden, for fear her prey may flee and burrow into the ground. “bi…” he could barely speak. “memorize it.” she says."

Almost done fixing up snd polishing that drabble I've had since forever of the makiden bite scene #dogwrites

Makiden

My sweet demise, kiss my eyelids, kiss me goodnight. Take me by the hand, take me away, far away from here. She tells me to "close my eyes, and don't you dare peek", and I do exactly that. And from the light we both stray... (unfinished train of thought) #dogwrites

Excerpt from a Chainsaw Man fic directly following Denji's victory against Makima in the final volume. "Suffocating silence burdened the surrounding atmosphere, and feelings like nostalgia and regret swelled within him like the air in his lungs. There was a moment of uninterrupted reflection on what could have been and what was. He wanted a life of love filled with laughter and hearty meals and quiet nights on Makima’s couch, with his head resting on her lap while her manicured fingers combed through his hair. He wanted his family—Aki, Power. He wanted one more warm evening back at their shitty apartment, where the trio would sit around the table with bellies full of cheap beer and Aki’s cooking. He wanted love and good food, he wanted a family, he wanted intimacy, he wanted to want. And yet, there lingered the murky, knee-deep trench of utter shit his leftover feelings made of his head. There was also the knowledge that none of his choices or the consequences that followed were even his to begin with. And the weakest, most victimized part of himself was okay with all of this, because he owed every ounce of his life to Makima. It was her who both built and destroyed him, then held his broken body tenderly in her arms afterwards. Miss Makima saved him. Miss Makima ruined him. In the end, when everyone’s recited their lines, and the curtains closed as the scene came to an end, and the credits began to roll, Denji cried. It began in heavy sighs, and then suppressed whimpers. He laid beside Makima’s corpse in a fetal position. Tears began to roll, his breathing gradually became more erratic—then came panicked gasps for air between violent sobs; he could only hug himself tighter."

Speaking of chainsaws, today I remembered this one excerpt I wrote way back when. Looking back, it's still pretty okay #dogwrites

I just so happened to have posted this the other day, now with additional edits!
#dogwrites #WIPsnips #ocposting #medievalfantasy

Slowly but surely chipping away at the party scene where Polynya meets Wólfram for the first time

All things considered I feel like I hit a sweet spot in tone for a medieval setting since my other work is very lyrical in a modern sense
#dogwrites #ocposting #wolfram #polynya

Your stump quivers when pet like a well-loved snare drum, harried & taut for the ungentle. I think you feign sleep

forfeit a quick body for a snare mind so I try

to affect regulation & stroke in prosody
forgetting,
I am no poet

#vss365 #dogwrites