#riverpoint writing

[theriverpointace]

so i have an ant problem in my bedroom and i am handling it Fine. which means it’s time to torture jordan kennedy.

[theriverpointace]

man. i miss archeren :(

[theriverpointace]

i think too much about jake dillinger. jake dillinger and his criminal, money-laundering parents. jake dillinger and his peers. jake dillinger and a house nobody lives in.

i have this weird headcanon? that there's neon green in the dining room. it's part of a larger, also weird headcanon, in which jake goes through cycles of angrily, resentfully demolishing the house, throwing parties—they're never coming back what does he care—and frantically, hopefully, fixing everything, replacing everything—they're coming back they're just around the corner god he's gonna be so grounded when they see this—and rinse and repeat.

so the hc goes: in one of these cycles, jake bought three gallons of neon green paint. he lugged it into the dining room. (the dining room is dark and suffocating. there's a chandelier that hangs down over a table that is just too long for three people.) he opened the paint. he mixed it a bit, then sloppily flung the paint on the walls with a brush. the paint was erratic and messy and neon green and bright, bright, bright on the dark walls.

you can't get from the living room to the kitchen without passing through the dining room. jake sees the green every day. it's impossible to miss, bright neon green in the corner of his eye. at first he's satisfied. good. it's bright it's ugly it's not the same and he shouldn't have to keep things the same for people who would care more about the dining room walls than their own son.

then he sees it every day. it's impossible to miss. it's bright. it's ugly. it's not the same how could he why isn't it the same what had he done he has to keep everything the same exactly the same his parents could come home any day now and it won't be the same!

so he paints over the neon green in the dining room. the dining room is dark and suffocating again. there is a chandelier that hangs down over a table that is much too big for one lonely teenager, so he eats in his bedroom.

(but he missed a spot. he missed a spot and there's still neon green in the dining room.)

or something idk but i think about jake a lot.

[theriverpointace]

Jake wasn’t, like, homophobic. He hadn’t been lying when he said that Rich being bi was cool.

He just thought it was a little unfair that Rich got to like guys, and Jake didn’t. That’s all.

‘Cause Rich… well, lately, Jake was seeing Rich in a whole new light.

Rich-without-a-SQUIP was a lot like Rich-with-a-SQUIP, except… more, somehow. Every trait seemed to be accentuated and unique. He was still boisterous and loud, but Jake saw how now it hid his self-deprecation. He was still funny, but now his jokes were kinder, more light-hearted. He was still whip-smart, but now he was a lot nerdier, too.

He was more… authentic, Jake decided.

Rich-with-a-SQUIP had a wide friend group, but no close friends. He was impossible to get to know.

Jake was getting to know Rich-without-a-SQUIP. And Rich-without-a-SQUIP was the kind of person Jake had always loved to be around.

But Rich was a guy, and Jake wasn’t gay. So that was that.

Except for some nights, when Jake kind of wished that wasn’t that.

[thanks to @theabyssgazesalsointoyou for getting me hyped about richjake again. did not mean to but here we are anyway.]

[theriverpointace]

working on a fic where i project onto troy about a bad day i had last week. but like. a monumentally bad day. (cried six times, which is part of the reason i'm projecting onto troy lol.)

anyway i think it's gonna be part of a series that i have tentatively titled 'post-geothermal escapism speculation.' i want to write about troy and his globe-trotting adventures, yk? but also about the study group.

if anybody would like to beta it, that would be cool and also a new experience i'm totally unfamiliar with.

thanks <3

[theriverpointace]

i've been turning over this potential concept of writing patroclus' story, as a figure independent of achilles. cause i think he's cool. and i think its rly interesting how he really ISN'T independent of achilles. idk. but last night i came up with this little snippet of a battle with aeneas. so here haha

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Aeneas’s sword clattered against my own. I bared my teeth at him.

His eyes were strange: one dark, one light. It was unnerving.

… Actually, perhaps that was the rage on his face. We leaned into each other, each trying to gain the upper hand.

I growled and shoved him away. Stabbing my sword into the sand, I picked up a rock.

The anger dissipated from Aeneas’ face. Fear took its place. It would seem that this demigod was less foolhardy than mine.

Not that that would save him.

I threw the stone. I expected it to make contact with his chest. He should have been dead.

I did not see precisely what happened—divine intervention. Did Aeneas dodge? Did his goddess-mother move him out of the way? Or did she misguide my throw? As Aeneas darted away, I grit my teeth and retrieved my sword.

A foe for another day.

[theriverpointace]

I love too easily. I toss the word about like it’s nothing. “I love you.” “I love you.” I love you. I care about your well-being. I want to see you smile, laugh, be happy. You make my life better. I love you! I love most people.

I love so much. (So easily) (Someday, I think, this will backfire.)

I love so much. I am rich with it, and what a wonderful thing to be rich with! If love was treasure, I’d be a billionaire. I would hoard it like a dragon. I seek it out in a parody of Indiana Jones. Love shines splendidly all around me. What do you expect one to do with such treasure, except to share it?

But my wealth is worthless. My love is scraps of paper in a world where the only currency is gold. My love is cheap. It hardly skims the surface. What good are piles of paper, next to a single gold nugget? All I can ever hope for is pyrite.

—That, at least, is what I’m told. But I disagree. Who gets to say that my wealth means nothing? Who gets to define its worth besides myself, the one to whom it belongs? It is meaningful because I say that it is. Those who accept my wealth understand what it means. Paper love is not any more or less deep than gold. Paper may wrinkle and tear, but gold also will tarnish and dent. Pyrite is called “fool’s gold” because it shines in the same way. Foolish indeed is the one who tells me that means nothing!

I may not have golden love. I may not have some fantastical “happily-ever-after.” I may not have a romance that sweeps me off my feet, that everyone craves. But I have paper and pyrite. I have love that is endless in both width and depth. I have friends whom I love and who love me in return. I have so much love, I couldn’t fathom ever reaching the end of it.

I love too easily. And isn’t that the most wonderful thing you’ve heard?

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found this in my notes app. aromantic poem be upon ye.

[theriverpointace]

huh. what was i on about on september 3 2025 at 10:44 in the morning.