#ryverthoughts

[ryverofthenight]

It's been forty years since the world's worst nuclear event happened.

How do we feel?

[ryverofthenight]

Ryver of the Night

☆ She/Her ☆

"Somewhere between confession and disappearance"

somewhere between nowhere and never

I bloom in decay

teeth in the wallpaper

static between stars

resident of the in-between

I have no mouth and I must scream

Child of Saturn.

Time eats all his children in the end.

Maybe Cupid wont miss.

I let you know me.

Hello, It's Ryver of the Night.

I have admired Tumblr and AO3 from afar, knowing how much my friends love it.

I am eighteen and prefer that minors I don't know not interact with me. I also prefer that if you're 30+ and I don't know you, you don't interact.

I am a hyperglot, currently at sixteen languages. So if you send an ask and tell me what language you'd like it in, I can do that for you.

Please do not ask me to do strange, out-there kinks. I will not answer to homophobic, transphobic, ableist, misandrist, misogynistic, racist, incestuous, rape-related, minor-involved, or non-consensual things. You will be removed and reported.

I love to Dance, Sing, and write.

Soon, I'll get my Notion working so you guys can have my stories. 🫶 I'll add more to this when I get all of it fixed.

Don't be afraid to ask, I want asks, I love to see people out there that have silly little questions.

[ryverofthenight]

I am in the shower.

With hands on

scars where breasts used to be.

Scars that now allow me to take off my shirt when I am hot.

However when I do sit down to enjoy the shower.

I think about when I was nine, in the bath, when my mom first noticed the dark specks showing up in my pelvic area.

And that meant I had to shave my legs and under my pits and down there. But I was always bad with a blade and sometimes, I feel sick that I would rather flay the skin, than deal with the world.

And I think… When did this become my body?

Why haven’t I thought about how big my legs are now, in the tub.

When did I have blue hair? And start hating my natural color?

When did these scars and bruises become my identity?

Before I knew anything was wrong with me. Before I knew I was in a community so hated.

When I had a mom and dad. That is the last time I paid attention to my body in the shower.

And now my body is so big. And I will never be that small again. And the curtain seems too close to me now. And the bathroom walls and ceiling are closing in. Cramping me in place, because I’m not ten anymore.

And I can’t play with barbies in the shower, now I have to have those thoughts in my head.

Now, I have to think about everything I did wrong.

Because I’m not eleven anymore, and it’s not okay to be oblivious. Because little boys will stare now. Because boys will want to touch you, now.

And when you’re twelve you still think about cartoons, and not about your friend's father who likes your bright two piece swim suit, before you learned how to move with breast and thighs and ass.

Because when you’re thirteen and you go to middle school, boys will want to know if they can dance with you.

Because boys like girls who kiss them, and girls who have bright blue eyes and bright blonde hair, and shave without giving scars.

And when you’re fourteen, young men like to talk about you in clubs and say her hair was so pretty long. But they don't tell you they’ll grab that pony tail. So the mother is forced to cut it off, and encourage it. Because mothers like young ladies who look mature, not confused ladyboys.

And when you’re fifteen, you have scars that cover your thighs like maggots cover decaying flesh.

And doctors ask you if you're a young lady or a young man, and you say young lady, remember that time you had blue hair, because you loved blue more than pink?

Because pink isn’t even a color you think about at sweet sixteen, and the men only want perky breasts on pretty redheads and that's it.

And in the shower once the red looks like blood going down the drain, and that man's favorite shade fades to a pale pink. You realize it was never about the color pink.

And seventeen all the boys go away, and all the men don’t want you. The boys like women, not ladyboys with buzzed hair.

And eighteen that hair becomes blue.

And I can't remember the last time I paid attention in the shower. I just remember I hated what I had.

And now I wish it all back as I touch the scars where my breasts used to be. Because it’s harder to be a man than it ever was as a young tomboy.

And maybe that’s all I was. A tomboy. . And now I pay attention in the shower because I can't feel my lips and I can’t look down at the body I created.

[ryverofthenight]

Trigger Discipline

I don't want to teach Corvid how to shoot a gun.

Yet I find it a necessity she’s never held a weapon.

Not that she would admit if she ever did.

My hands slide against her arms, my chest against her back.

As if I wanted to wear her skin, or crawl inside and forget the man I am.

I breathe her in, fitting my body against hers.

Raise her arms, my fingers over the barrel.

“You always want to practice trigger safety. So you don't shoot yourself, or shoot somewhere you didn’t want on them.”

Her shoulders stiffen under my hands—just barely, something most people would miss.

Not fear. Not quite.

Something quieter.

“I don’t like this,” she murmurs, though she doesn’t pull away.

My grip falters for half a second. Not enough to release her—just enough to betray me.

“You don’t have to like it,” I say, lower now. Closer to her ear. “You just have to know it.”

The metal feels colder than it should. Or maybe that’s just her. Corvid always carried that chill, like she belonged somewhere the sun didn’t reach.

I adjusted her stance, slower this time. Careful. Like I’m afraid she’ll vanish if I move too quickly.

“You hold it steady,” I continue, though my voice has lost its edge. “You decide before you ever—”

I stop.

Because this isn’t about safety. Not really.

My forehead dips toward her shoulder, just brushing. A mistake. A confession.

“This isn’t you,” I say, quieter now. Almost to myself.

Corvid tilts her head slightly, just enough that I can see the corner of her expression, something unreadable, something sharp.

“No,” she says. “It’s you.”

“I don’t like how calm you are about this.”

A faint pause slips in between us. The kind that makes a room feel smaller.

“I’m not calm,” I answer.

It’s honest enough that she doesn’t argue.

Her stance shifts slightly under my guidance. Feet set. Shoulders aligned. The kind of posture that looks simple until you try to hold it for too long.

“Now,” I say, softer, “don’t rush it. Just bring it up. Slow.”

She does.

Her arms are steady, but I can feel the hesitation in them. Like she expects the moment to bite back.

“Good,” I say before I can stop myself.

The word sits wrong in my mouth. Corvid notices.

She always notices. And damn her for it.

“Aim.” I murmur. A flash of my Captain in front of me. Aim, you stupid Commie. The American way.

“Aim like your life depends on it, then cock your firearm.”

I whisper. —one day it might depend on it.

And I take her recoil when she fires. My chest against her back, my head next to hers, my groin against her ass.

Like I wanted to crawl inside her and hide from the man I am, as if I could wear her skin.

[ryverofthenight]

How would Mikhail and Castiel get along fans?

[ryverofthenight]

Will I have the flesh the maggots adore? Will I too be able to be enjoyed? A bite of misery. Sorrow within the marrow. Will they struggle with the scars, tough flesh, and will the maggots feel the poison of too many pills in their stomachs? Will the maggots that eat dead flesh come to save me when I am buried in a grave too shallow on the side of the road? When I ask not for a funeral, for nothing special, and invite no one. I want to know the bugs will treat me no better than a skunk that got hit in ninety-degree weather, and may the autopsy men and women share the same disgust as the man scraping said skunk off the highway. Treat me no better. I was no one special; I wasn't important. May the vile worms get a buzz off of the medication in my intestines meant to put me to sleep. The mushrooms grow with a wicked tint from the impure remains. I will not be in the back of anyone's mind for too long, a fleeting memory. I can only hope. I don't deserve more than a pang in the chest of familiarity. I got what I needed in life; I was well off. I may have been poor, but I was fed every night. My teeth rotted from the sweets I stress ate. I was warm. I was content until bothered. I am who I am. And I wish not to have any quote on my tomb; no words are good enough to be engraved. Besides, it'd cost more anyhow.

[ryverofthenight]

Freak.

I am a control freak.

I yell at you like my mother would me.

I am the worst of them put together.

I am made of two people, both with rage.

Different triggers I would hit all the time like buttons being pressed.

I yell at you for the same thing I would be yelled at for, and then some.

I’m afraid all at once, of my mom and dad yelling.

What we do right now, as I stare into your eyes.

You have no idea what my issue is.

Why a pen in the wrong place can set me off, because when I was little that would get me in trouble.

I get loud because I don’t want to get hurt.

You’re a man, and men have always put hands on me.

Don’t blame me for being afraid, you’re bigger than me.

What if I say something I can’t take back?

Why can’t I just shut up and say you're right?

I’m sorry. I’m scared.

I was born and raised to be incredibly afraid and I don’t want to sound innocent but in a world full of wolves I’m a sheep, in a world full of coyotes I’m a doe.

I’m just trying to survive, as a minnow in shark infested waters.

I have nothing good to show, and my yellowing teeth are bared.

I would never hurt you, and if I knew how to love you, and accept what you have to offer I would.

I don’t want to carry on the hurt and pain from my mom and dad to our relationship.

I’m not an evil person, I don’t want to say vile things.

And I tend to throw other people’s things away because that’s how my things were treated.

It didn’t matter the value.

Like that one time—that time my mom threw one of my cat stuffies in the trash because I was playing with it during naptime and I ran and dug in the trash to go get my cat stuffie.

I will never forget it. The pain I felt.

I don’t play with anything during bedtime, during work. Not anymore. Sometimes you have to be vile and disgusting to get what you need.

Sometimes letting out those words help you heal inside.

And I'm sorry I made you a victim to my wounds.

Next time listen to me, and put the pen where it belongs.

[ryverofthenight]

Fine, I'm doing great. I miss your writings; I liked the one about perfectionism! 🫂

I miss you guys too.