#haven’t posted a poem in a while

[starlit-supposedly]

Here’s a small snippet of a poem!

Within the confines of your mind,

star shards screamed

between

the folds

of

your brain;

Branded

like fingerprints

betwixt

concave moon shards

Of an eye.

[i-am-a-fan]

I never even looked in the poetry tag until i saw you liked poetry and now all i can do when i go into the tag is find angsty poetry lines that fit my characters

rip

OHHHHHH. HAHA

I love that for you! Good luck :>

[candidcondor]

You will be warm when you die

You will be held

I’ll coo soft words in your ear

And gently preen your feathers

At the end of your life, I

will keep you dry

and make sure the kids aren’t too loud

You’ll curl into the shape of my palm

I promise to sing to you

A song about soaring

And hiccup from crying between verses

But i know you won’t mind

You’re going to chirp softly and close your eyes

As I enchant with a lullaby of starry skies

And my heart will skip a beat when you stop nodding along

But I’ll keep singing your song till it is done

My father will tell me to wash my hands

And erase any trace of you

“It might have had the flu” he’ll beg

but this hour is dedicated to you

because when you die you’ll be held and warm

and your feathers will be preened and

I’ll sing you your song

because i refuse to let you die alone

[nenoname]

Parallels and contrasts between Stan and Bill in the new book and website

Aka miscellaneous thoughts that I'm too lazy to condense into something comprehensible– what you see is what you get folks! (Book stuff, DVD commentaries! The website that came out when I was trying to write this out and is now making me pull my hair out! But in like a good way? That god damn poem!)

not necessarily same coin stuff but I sure am thinking about it.

It’s been said that a large part of Ford’s relationships with Bill, Fiddleford and Dipper was him trying to fill a hole that his estrangement with Stan had left, with none of them clicking in that same way. Dipper was directly compared to Fiddleford as someone who was completely charmed by Ford but is ultimately too anxious of a person to properly deal with the life he's offering nor pull him back when he starts going too far. Meanwhile, Bill is more analogous to Stan but to the extreme with all the doubts that Ford had been fed about Stan (that he was using him, he never grew up, he betrayed him, sabotaged the machine on purpose) turning out to be exactly true with Bill.

The book has Bill saying flat out that Ford wanted the charisma Bill had and then shows that at the peak of Ford's loneliness he was being envious of Stan's charisma, social skills and hands.

[STANLEY COULD HAVE MADE HER LAUGH]

(There’s an irony that Stan always thought that Ford was the popular twin even after doing embarrassing stuff like the kissing machine – if you haven’t seen the Swine Before Time Stan commentary get going, it’s great)

Then Bill swoops in with jokes and endless encouragement and the nickname only Stan used for him, all this in a way tailored for Ford to immediately like him while also reminding him of Stan but "better."

(The show rarely used it but Bill’s use of Sixer is extremely frequent in Journal 3 alone but the comics solidify it as being a pretty personal childhood nickname that kid!Stan used as his default way to call Ford.)

And then you see all of this working because Ford straight up writes Bill’s words using Stan's handwriting (and it turns out that Ford’s capital letter ‘for emphasis/angry’ font in general is the same as Stan’s handwriting too)

(It’s important to note that this is different from all the fonts that Bill uses for himself!)

All of this leads to the deja vu of Ford getting stabbed in the back by someone he was codependent on over a machine he thought was going to change his life for the better

Other things in the book that I’ve seen others point out and noticed myself:

Bill trying to reinforce that Ford would be alone without him, and threatening to tell Stan that Ford never loved him but the first thing Stan does in his letter is tell Ford that he loves him with their childhood code

Stan also only uses ‘Sixer’ in his letter when he normally tends to use a mix of nicknames post-Weirdmaggedon (sure it’s only twice but idk I find it noticeable)

Stan ripped a dollar in half when Bill taunted the reader earlier about how they wouldn’t do that

The promo photo vs the one in the book, Ford’s face being untouched vs Stan’s. While I initially interpreted this as “Bill’s book being a way to torment Ford” and then “him ending up having a meltdown at the thought of Stan”, the new poem kinda gives off an ominous vibe of "him moving on to focus on Stan instead whether he wants to or not"

Ford writing “miss you” in the bro code soon after arriving at Backupsmore which is shown in the Fiddleford photo, then Bill taunting Ford that he misses him

Bill and Stan now have another parallel of losing everything because of a genuine mistake but only Stan was willing to work to make up for it while Bill doubled down and became far far worse

The utter hatred Bill has for Stan being able to win in the end and get back his family

Both of them being institutionalized, with Stan’s mentioned in Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun (which has references to Bill liking Mabel for her chaos, silly straws, etc. Also Dipper basically came up with the Author theory but slightly wrong from theorising about the ink blot like a year before the Ford reveal)

(saturn devouring his son perfectly depicts my emotions when reaching this part of the book)

(EDIT: I was thinking about how Bill giving Ford three days to open the portal striked me as odd for some reason... and then I remembered;

Stan gave Mabel 3 days for their bet as well. Both of them specifically say 72 hours too.)

And now for the stuff we know from the website:

Bill having severe family issues with daddy issues implied since only his mum is mentioned directly with her trying to comfort him as a kid vs Stan having severe family issues with a definite focus on his dad while his mum was the only one to ask about Stan during that meeting with the principal and her being the only one to show up to his funeral

Both of them wear their dad’s hat despite of all of this

Bill starting a billion cults and has a lawyer called Multilevel Mark, Stan having his Scientology-esque cult being shot down by irl Disney and as a kid having his “technically a pyramid scheme” comic being shot down by a publisher

(I doubt that Stanentology would’ve gotten far but also you can see that a trend that the main way Bill gathers followers is by reading minds and revealing secrets only the victim would know, so let's hope that Disney-let-him-start-a-cult AU Stan never gets mind reading abilities)

Despite how we know how Stan is traumatised as hell from losing Ford, it’s noticeably isn’t referred directly in the Wheel of Shame (like you can’t tell me that the time between pushing Ford into the portal and starting the Shack isn’t as rock bottom as it gets, Bill literally recognises Stan in the first place by thinking about his brand). This probably is because Bill knows that they managed to repair their relationship and he’s fucking pissed about it.

There's further parallels between Stanley and Bill in poem; with lies and redemption and home, and further association with fire for the both of them

“Saw his own dimension burn.

Misses home and can't return.”

“Always dragged his family down.

One mistake, disowned, denied,

Only thing to do was hide.”

“One way out: the open road.

Reinvent, retry, reload.

A girdle, eyepatch, fathers fez,

"I'm a new man!" so he says”

“One way to absolve his crime.

A different form, a different time”

“His big break, it finally came,

Redemption from a life of shame.”

“Says he's happy. He's a liar.”

“Truth is just whatever sells.

When you've lost track of your lies,”

“Lie until you aren’t lying anymore”

Bill in a rotting corpse of a snake oil salesman

This triangle can fit so much self-loathing projection while being a hater

(Also it's funny that Bill is so insistent that Ford had to be the one who came up with the plan

Like look at this

See ‘em cogs turning in Stan’s head while Ford has clearly given up hope)

“How dare he dress up fancy when his jokes suck!!”

There's a parallel of Ford projecting onto Dipper in a way that makes him feel like kindred spirits with his nephew but Stan projects on Dipper in a way that causes him to be more harsh even if he has good intentions. Meanwhile Bill projects onto Ford in a more positive light in comparison to Stan, who in this case Bill wants to rip him and himself into shreds whenever he thinks of the guy. Bill’s shared love for fun/chaos with Mabel (despite them being so different at their core) is why he likes her the most out of all the Pines but that doesn’t stop him from trying to murder her (although I think most folks don’t know about that interview where Alex was like “yeah, I think Bill would’ve burnt Ford alive the moment he got the equation, he’s done playing with his toys at that point”)

Other tidbits:

I find it interesting that the full version of the Wheel of Shame has blue sparks and fades to grey scale (which automatically reminded me of his mindscape)

Stan signing off as Stanley in the book – this ain’t anything huge to chew on I'm just very over emotional about this… but also there’s Bill being called Billy by his family/in the codes

Ford thinking of Stan as childish/someone who never grew up and then we get hit by “yeah Ford always had some part of himself stuck at 18” oof

Ford underestimating Stan’s control over the mindscape, not knowing that he’s able to hide memories in Dreamscaperers, manipulate the layout of his mindscape enough to trick Bill and memory!Stan telling Dipper how to use the mindscape which Bill was genuinely surprised by

I'm headcanoning that Stan doing so bad at that history test is due to some latent bs from what Bill knows which is all crazy conspiracy level stuff

I think it's also intensely funny that all of the Pines promise that they'll murder Bill if they ever see him again and then they immediately turn to Stan and go “now it's your turn to write a letter! :D!!”

(I feel like the main requirement that the Theraprism has for Bill before he can reincarnate is mainly acknowledging his family idk which honestly would fit even better if his soul becomes Stan’s)

EDIT: I FORGOT TO MENTION THE OUROBOROS PASSWORD (or... uh oroborous which is a typo when theres a suspicious amount on the site which may mean somethng but i digress) anyway that leads to the Shack Axolotl lore where it bluntly states that Ford released it despite it showing up 30 years later anyway

and theres....

[stealurhart]

why do i feel hollow?

pairing: college!jeongin x reader x bsf!skz

notes: reader is from busan (not significant to the plot), jeongin and reader are studying in seoul. The rest of skz are also wingmen. Oh and skz is a bunch of college students doing what they love by making music. may contain themes like being a floater friend. I believe in yearning jeongin. We also love a chalant man.

all fluff.

I aint counting these words i but theyre 7 long and dramatic scrolls across my mums old iphone 14

dividers by @hyuneskkami

sypnosis: after a week of having Jeongin as your eye candy, a semester-long project draws you and your popular member of a band project partner closer. How close is close, when your busy life as a biology-majoring student-athlete gets in the way of your friendship — and the mutual feelings still remain?

You didn’t particularly connect with your campus mates deeply.

You had friends, many actually. But you preferred to spend your lunches alone while you watched science documentaries. In lectures, you sit alone so that you can better focus on what the professor is saying.

To Jeongin, he found it impressive how you looked like a loner but much happier and at peace than being around talking to the cool seniors. An observant person, he knew you were a new student still settling into university. It’s the classic freshman lanyard that hung the gate card perpetually on your neck, and the styled outfits alongside your coordinated hairpins that no student would bother to put on after the third month.

You spun your apple pencil between your fingers, trying to seem busy even after adding the project’s deadline into your calendar. Watching the girl beside you find someone else to partner up with her for the project, waiting at your seat until nobody else could find a partner was the best option since you didn’t know anyone in the lecture hall anyways.

That was until you felt a tap on your shoulders. When your turned around, your eyes widened. Your poetry and literature class eye candy smiled at you, making your heart beat slightly faster.

“You wanna be partners?” he offered, tidying his bleached hair that contrasted his jet black roots. “name’s Jeongin, by the way.”

His voice surprised you much more than the fact that he asked you to be his project partner. You didn’t expect him to sound so… sweet.

Yet, your face doesn’t move a muscle, which you felt guilty for after seeing him wince at your lack of expression. Silently, you nodded, patting the empty seat next to you as if it was an order for him to sit.

Your professor immediately started to elaborate about the project after Jeongin sat down and scooted his chair closer to you. Instinctively, you covered the lower half of your face with a hand when you realised that you both were the last to settle on being partners. A chuckle came out of Jeongin’s mouth, which you heard over your professor’s voice.

Yet, you didn’t muster the courage to look him in the eye. He was cute, but you never intended to have a reason to talk to him, until the project that required both of you to write a poem about each other. “The more the emotion, the better the mark,” your professor explained, before the rest of it was drowned out by uncertain thoughts about your first ever project partner in college.

Upon the end of the lecture, you heard unzipping and pen clicking. The boy with glasses nudged your elbow and slid a post-it with his number on it.

“You haven’t told me your name yet. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I saw you talking to the seniors at the student orientation. you’re new, right?” Jeongin pointed out, sounding a little softer to come off as more friendly. “If I’m going to write a poem that does you justice… then we should spend time to know each other better, shouldn’t we?”

Finally, you turned your head towards him. Taking a good look at his sharp features up close, your lips curved up slightly. “I’m y/n,” you introduced yourself. “It’s my first semester here… I haven’t found a student club yet, so I don’t really know anyone yet. If that information serves any purpose.”

When Jeongin heard your worries, he almost felt bad for you. What a poor thing, moving to a completely new and unfamiliar campus. It’s no wonder that he always saw you eating in the lunch hall with your notes out, because you haven’t found someone to talk to while eating after student orientation had ended.

“Are you not from here then? No old friends, or family?” he gasped. “I mean… your Busan accent kinda gives it away.”

“Does it?” you replied, cheeks flushing pink from embarrassment. “I grew up there, and my parents told me that Seoul was the best place to pursue higher education, that’s why I’m here.”

“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of… I’m from Busan too,” he said. “What’s your major, then?”

“Biology,” you replied, grabbing the nape of your own neck. “Poetry and literature… it’s just to keep my hobbies alive.”

“Hobbies…” Jeongin repeated. “I’m just here because it’s the closest thing to singing, actually. I’m scared now, I don’t think I’ll be able to be as poetic as your writing.”

The way he joked around even though it was your first time speaking to each other — it made you feel warm and less tense. To be honest, you already missed the turn back to your dorm, but you couldn’t help but talk to him even more. Even though you could feel some sort of awkwardness in the really unsmooth transitions of different questions that he tried hard to make relevant, you saw his persistence in trying to make you feel at home.

When you reached your dorm, you couldn’t stop thinking about that day, to the point where you couldn’t sleep. It was the way he walked you back to make sure nothing bad happened to you, the way he texted you after, checking in on you.

jeongin:

is this yn’s number? jeongin here

you said you wanna take up a sport? didn’t think such a quiet person would play sports lol

anyways, get some rest, since pal class is 8a.m tomorrow. I heard the prof lost a bet so he took the earliest slot.

my group hyungs say he walks in with a cup of coffee haha

He even gave you the contacts of student club leaders, in hopes that their interest groups would match your liking as per what you have told him. He was so caring (and handsome too), it was hard not to lay in your bed and kick your feet while updating and thanking him for his efforts to help you settle into uni life.

you:

thankss

youre cooler than my student ori seniors 😛

ill sleep well

Although a weekday, the campus cafes quickly crowded with students surprisingly. Sighing to himself, Jeongin shook his head and decided to take you to the park and have an impromptu picnic by the river.

The grass was dry, much to his relief. He didn’t want to make you ruin your little outfit that he didn’t expect you to put more effort in than your typical basic tee and pink sweatpants (the pink colours are already your way of trying). The boy himself wouldn’t want to stain his knee-length jorts and his college-branded crewneck anyways. He had some sense of fashion, a little more neat this time since you both are hanging out.

The plan was for the hangout to be casual. After eating, he would take you to the student club fair to help you choose a community. Then, he intended to take you to street stalls and recommend good food. But you were completely unaware of his plans, and it took a while to catch on that he tried to show you around and introduce you to more people. You found it strange how dedicated he was, yet everything still seemed like he took his time with you. Perhaps he showed care through acts of service, which you weren’t quite used to.

Sun rays hitting your back was a relief from how cold it’s been getting lately since summer was coming to an end.

After a few conversations, you found out that Jeongin was really damn good at singing. Apparently, he found himself comfortable in an 8-man musical interest group — and they make pretty damn good music. In fact, he was carrying a guitar around while you guys hung out. Out of curiosity, you made him sing a ballad, but he sung something written by some people called Han, Changbin and Bang Chan. You didn’t know who they were, but internally you thanked them for writing something that let Jeongin’s bright vocals shine.

“I haven’t sung this in a while, sorry if it sounds off,” he uttered after.

“Off?” you questioned. “You sound amazing — heavenly, even. This entire Stray Kids band thing should just get out of here and sign with a record label.”

“Well,” he chuckled. “I must warn you, we don’t really make ballads. It’s more noisy than you think.”

“I’d say you should earn some side cash by busking around Hongdae,” you joked, “There’s no way you guys are just making this a casual thing.”

“Oh, but we aren’t just making this a casual thing,” he said, sitting up proudly and leaned closer as he tilted his head at you. “We do perform during talent shows and earn funding money from it. You should come and watch. At some point it turns into a rave. But if you don’t like that, then you could just sit through and wait until the next act.”

“I feel like I’m going to hurt your feelings when I say I’m not into raves,” you muttered.

Of course you weren’t into big bam boom music. He could tell from the way you owned everything in pastel colours, down to the flowy and fresh clothing you had on. It made your throat burn a little, thinking that there were probably really attractive and hot girls likely being loyal fans of their music. After all, the makeup and fashion game in Seoul was insane, it was hard to compete with such beautiful women who are cool enough express themselves and turn heads.

“That’s sad. I prefer performing and being excited, because it also connects me with the audience.”

In the name of “looking for clarification”, you asked him, “then, that must mean you’re pretty popular, hm?”

Upon hearing your question, Jeongin blushed a little, then hung his head low in humility. “I’m not the most popular member… I guess our dancers and rappers are more famous,” he downplayed himself. “I get girls in my dms sometimes, but I don’t reply if I’ve never met them in real life — if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You scoffed at Jeongin’s teasing, but your face heated up when you realised it was because he completely saw through you. And he did it again — he laughed — gosh, something about the way he laughed was so charming. Your sarcasm paired with denial was cute to him, which intrigued him about you even more.

“What I’m saying is, you probably will be envied if you say “Jeongin’s a good friend of mine”, ” he subtly bragged. “You should try it out.”

The day ended after you managed to make friends with a sports club, and fighting over the dinner bill in a restaurant that he took you to since you both were craving italian food.

jeongin:

sent a recording

don’t tell me you’re asleep already haha, did i wear out your social battery?

sorry 🥲 pls listen to another ballad i sung when u wake up at least?

you:

Doing good, jeongin :)

Naturally, Jeongin became more present in your college life. Endless cafe visits, poetry and literature studies in the library, and crashing at your place whenever he just wanted to taste home-cooked food. You even gave him the keys to your dorm, so that he could just enter while waiting for you to come back from training.

And every single time, he bought you banana milk. It wasn’t something you told him you loved, but you always took no longer than 3 minutes to have it gone with the wind (in this case, your stomach), so he just kept buying more and more. At some point, he even brought clothes and kept them in your drawer for whenever he hangs around, because he just visited that often.

His excuse was that your bed was softer than his, and that the community snack fridge was something his hostel lacked. The boy was always gobbling something up whenever he stayed, so it became a regular occurrence to see him fall asleep on the communal dining table with his student laptop still on. He frequented so often, that the other students at your hostel just cook an extra serving in case he was around. The boy was always eager to entertain everyone with a guitar and his unique voice, so shortly afterwards Stray Kids’ instagram page gained more followers.

Beyond presence, was vulnerability. Late night comforting when you’re homesick, Jeongin just breaking down in front of you whenever you ask “are you okay?”. Sometimes, you both just cry together and fall asleep in each other’s arms. As funny as it sounds, things like these work better when you feel safer with someone.

But as time passed, you grew busier and busier. Your semester exams were coming up, and barging into Jeongin’s dorm was no longer an option. The fact that you were doing sports at the same time was an absolute killer combo to your schedule. You saw him much less outside of poetry and literature lectures, as you both were focusing on your own majors.

jeongin:

your lights are on again.

it’s 2 already

i dont want to bother your studies… but rest is important too

You’re so hardworking, let’s meet up again when you’re free 🙂‍↕️

you:

sorry jeonginnn

one day

And that was the last time you talked to him since a week ago. Your exams were done, but Jeongin had his own things to do too, something about having to juggle between college fair night and physics equations. The guilt for ignoring his texts for days and leaving him on delivered too many times was too much, so you told yourself you’d better come down and see him yourself.

One thing you knew was that he spends most of his time recording lines whenever college fair night was near, so when you rung the doorbell, you were met by a boy with round eyes and and a round face. His hair was long, much like someone who looked like part of a band. Behind him were a bunch of wires and some 5 or 6 men on the couch lazing around, yet all having their heads turned to someone singing into the recording mic.

With a skeptic look on his face, scanned you up and down, perhaps because he doesn’t remember any of the other members bringing a girl who looked like you into their sad-looking studio before. “Delivery girl, looking to audition, or a girlfriend? Well, clearly not the first one, and we aren’t accepting auditions due to our perfect lineup.” he ruled out, leaning against the doorframe as he raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s that, Han?” a taller man said, revealing himself in a grown-out buzzcut. His features looked just as sharp as Jeongin’s, except that Jeongin had a more chiselled look to him. It was enough to know— Hwang Hyunjin.

He noticed the way your eyes searched the apartment. Situated in front of the recording mic, Jeongin was patiently listening to Chan’s feedback, until your gaze lingered for a little too long. You don’t miss the way his breath caught and his posture straightened. “The ayen you’re looking for is being held back by bangchan to record some lines,” Hyunjin explained.

“Frankly, I think Jeongin’s being a menace on purpose today, so that he can stay longer in the recording room,” Han said, matter-of-factly. “You know, he usually just sings maybe once or twice and gets to rest.”

“We should probably let her in then, maybe it will prompt him to do it properly, haha,” Hyunjin messed around, snickering while shaking his head in disbelief. “Seems like you brought some banana milk for him?”

“Oh- this?” you held up the drink. “He always bought me banana milk during our literature study sessions, I just thought he might want some.”

When you told the boys about how Jeongin treated you so often, they let out a unified “ohh” while giving each other a mischievous look. And not in a making-fun-of-you way, but more of a he’s-up-to-something way.

“We’ll let you in, on the condition that you don’t tell anyone what the song sounds like,” Han negotiated. You nodded in acceptance.

“You’re not gonna believe me when I tell you this,” Hyunjin crouched down, keeping his voice low. “Ayen’s keeps going against Chan’s words today, and he’s really focused on the lyrics and the emotion conveyed. I think he’s yearning or something, judging by his sudden attitude towards emotion.” For a minute, hearing it felt unreal. You couldn’t tell whether Hyunjin was truthful, or just being an annoying friend.

The egoistic voice in your head wasn’t the one convincing you. It’s knowing that he grew so close to you, only for you to push him away and act cold whenever an exam comes. It was like a sledgehammer to your heart, the way his face lit up after not having heard from you for a week, or not having seen you for more.

Sighing to yourself, you kicked off your sneakers and were quickly rushed in by Hyunjin and Han, like they were so excited to hear from you what Jeongin looks like in love. His voice slipped into the microphone, rich and textured, as if he were sculpting emotion through vocal cords. You admired him so much, you knew you were screwed by how you’ve been staring intensely as he did his thing.

To your ears, he sounded like an angel. However, the ear of musicians and producers were quick to point out areas for improvement. Making music was surprisingly harder than it looked, especially for producers who needed to communicate with the singers well.

“I’ve been here for too long,” Jeongin complained. “I can’t with singing Japanese.”

As you turned back to the two on the laptop and an emotional support Han who probably gave up on the stubborn Jeongin a long time ago, you saw Chan trying not to laugh before collecting his patience back.

“One last time, ayen,” Chan cued, before playing the instrumental. “Let’s try it.”

“Yongbok- i mean — Ayen,” Changbin’s voice fell low and stern as he spun around in the office chair. “Try stressing it this way…”

“This is not the first time you’ve called me that…” he whispered under his breath.

The instrumental was intense, but what caught your attention was the fact that the lyrics were lowkey really yearning. It was different from the ballads you asked him to sing — it was no longer fluffy and soothing, the boy was putting soul into it.

“One more.”

“Don’t lose your flow again!”

“That was good, one more.”

The other seven crowded around Chan, analysing closely and hoping that 3racha would pass him. According to Minho, it’s been taking quite a few minutes, because Jeongin stumbles on his words so easily when it comes to singing in Japanese.

“Good.” the only word that the rest of Stray Kids needed to hear in order for them to rejoice and jump around for Jeongin.

Among all the chaos of 5 happy men and relieved Changbin and Chan, you saw Jeongin wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead and take off his headphones. The next thing you knew was that he started walking over to the table you were leaning on, grinning sheepishly as he took the bottle of banana milk from your hands, not realizing how much tension he’d been carrying until it melted in that one moment.

“You coming to college fair night or nah?” he asked, the tone in his voice still showing that he was unsure of whether to be casual. He suddenly became aware of how sweaty his palms were. You watched as the room fell silent, all eyes were on you.

“There’s no way I’d miss the chance to see you on stage,” you giggled.

Success. All the guys started elbowing each other in the ribs.

The air reeked of grass and barbeque. The college fair night was one decibel away from getting complaints from nearby residents, due to everyone hollering their lungs out as if the outdoor showcase segment was a rave in a stadium.

It was the first time you dared to step out of the house wearing platform shoes given your fashion taste, but you needed to be taller than the crowd if you wanted to see something. When Stray Kids went on stage, the crowd grew absolutely wild. Your friends were shaking you crazily, knowing your little crush on one of the members. The atmosphere grew hyped — After all, who wouldn’t be excited to see eight handsome men dancing and singing to high-energy music?

Throughout their act, they played 3 songs, last one being none other than ‘Hollow’— which you saw being made in real-time for Jeongin’s part at least. The song started out slow, until the electric guitar was introduced, then had just the perfect buildup to the first verse which Jeongin had to sing. Before all of that though, there was a longer pause before the song started, even after the emcees managed to hype the crowd up when mentioning that ‘Hollow’ was a new song of theirs. The lights dimmed, relieving the sky momentarily from the immense light pollution.

…except for the spotlight that was right on the one who rewrote his poetry project again and again, getting frustrated with himself for not describing you well enough. He wondered what you were up to whenever you took longer than two days to reply. Same man that loved and cared so shamelessly, that he could just declare out into a crowd of hundreds, just how much he related to the song’s lyrics by showing it through the strain in his voice, and the gasps that came after from using a lot of strength to deliver those lines.

The lights faded back in. You could’ve sworn that the crowd was much louder than the backtrack and live vocals on speakers. Mid-way into singing his first few lines, Jeongin found you pressed onto the metal of the front barriers, and you were so glad you pushed everyone away for your spot, because you got to see his dimples that formed when you waved to him. Being up close, it felt so intimate, like Jeongin was speaking every lyric to you.

“One thing that makes the live different from the studio,” he repeated in a flashback. “Is that you can hear how much heart we have for our music

seungmin:

have you left already?

ayen’s a nervous wreck, he had to tell me to get you to come here so that you guys can talk.

we’re in the backstage tents, i think he suffered death by surprising himself.

Your friends grabbed your wrist just as you were about to enter the tents, insisting that they should help retouch your makeup and neaten your hair. After taking a good look in your friend’s pocket mirror, you took a deep breath and slowly drew back the ‘curtain doors’. There they were, the eight handsome men that can sing, dance, and rap; though, only one that mattered talking to that day.

“AYENN~” the group said in unison, pushing him towards the entrance after he fumbled through a paper bag to hand you a boquet of flowers that you didn’t think he’d remember were your favourites.

It surprised you how much he was trembling as he placed it in your hands for you — like he intended for you to give the flowers a specific first impression — considering that your bond started out with him being the one initiating quite literally almost everything. His grip on your wrist grew stronger (but not more forceful) when he realised that you purposely refused to move your remaining arm. Examining your glossy eyes that almost disappeared when you laughed cheekily, he stepped closer in a one-upping manner.

“What’s that you’ve got there, hm? I clearly remember saying that as long as you’re around me, your card balance doesn’t change.” he hummed, contesting you. “You’ve always left me hanging online, don’t tell me you want to do this now, yn. I can smell those flowers even before you entered.”

“You’re making it up,” you lied sarcastically. “It’s just my detergent.”

“Nice try, yn. I know your detergent is mint and not floral,” he rolled his eyes. “Whatever, let’s go home and talk. Those losers have been relying on Changbin for a ride.”

Dry air started to hurt your nose a little, but you’d take it overnbeing in standing pens where everyone around you was sweating like crazy any day. The leaves on the ground looked shrivelled up, and overall, the parade square was left much more peaceful and calm after everyone had gone back to keep up with their college lives. Nightly walks with Jeongin hadn’t been a thing for almost a month when fitness training ate into past dinner time, and Jeongin had places to be. That night, he became content being able to share the sidewalk with you, brushing your fingers ‘on accident’. You both tried to act casual when in reality it sent sparks and almost rewired yall’s brains.

The silence hung heavy. After all, it was your first proper conversation after burying yourself in textbooks to the point of isolation.

“I missed you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious.

“I missed you,” he continued. “Not like a quick ‘hey, how are you?’ but really missed you. The talks, the walks. Back when I could get responses from you…”

It stopped you dead in your tracks. Initially, you planned to say “me too” but that would just be beating around the bush and avoiding the obvious. You loved him. Everything feels right when you’re with him. There was never a time where he left you to drift around like the floater friend you’ve been. You don’t even know why you constantly check your phone for his texts.

By impulse, words tumbled out smoother than you could control, “Yeah. The distance made me realise I love you.”

The words landed like a dropped glass—sharp, clear, impossible to ignore. You froze — eyes wide, breath caught. You had meant to say those words, but not in that moment. You mentally prepared yourself for the few seconds-long battle that came with waiting for Jeongin’s response.

“I love you too, jagiya.”

When he entwined his fingers from one free hand with yours, the warmth of his hands was comforting like hot milk to an ill person. The word jagiya wasn’t a throwaway. He gifted it to you, endearingly.

Within milliseconds, he cupped your face and leaned forward, closing the distance by kissing you. You felt him smirking against your oh-so kissable lips he had been thinking of the entire conversation, you could tell he had waited an agonising amount of time trying to see you.

I used to hide behind similes,

dress you up in metaphor—

a rhyme here,

power of three there.

But none of it said what I really meant.

You’re not a line I can perfect.

You’re not a passionate fire or a sky or a storm that sounds correct.

You’re you.

And not just a project.

“Wow, jagiya,” Jeongin nodded in approval. “Flirting and submitting it for— okay, okay! I like it. I expected really wild metaphors, but I like this too… you’re amazing, yn.”

Tucked under a tree, you released him from your pinch, you sipped on your banana milk and placed your chin on his shoulder, patting his arm as a cue to share his poem. Shyly, he grabbed the notebook on his lap, long pause before he could bring himself to read it to you.

“darkness is the absence of light.

and cold is the absence of heat.

but in the absence of you,

my world turns dark and cold

because you’re the light and warmth.”

A/n: i have a ten pic limit… i wanted to put one last divider but it can’t happen.

do not reupload, translate or copy my work



[whisperedmeg]

MEG’S SOFT ANIMAL MANIFESTO 𓅮

so. the last chapter of my series, soft animal, has officially been posted. all 13 snapshots into this little world I created in my mind are yours now.

starting soft animal made me fall in love with creative writing again for the first time in years and I will forever be so beyond grateful to any of you who took the time to read all 50,000 (!!!) words of it. even if you only read a chapter or two, thank you. thank you thank you thank you. I love youuu.

now that the series is officially over, I wanted to do a little bonus post — a very chaotic, rambling “manifesto” with my thoughts, headcanons, general insights, etc. if that sounds like something you’re interested in, keep reading!

SPOILERS AHEAD — if you haven’t finished the series yet, stop now! you’ve been warned!! part 13 can be found here if you haven’t read it yet!!

this is obvious in the series masterlist, but in case you haven’t seen that, the title “soft animal,” as well as the final chapter’s plot structure, was inspired by the poem wild geese by mary oliver. some background on how I was inspired by the poem can be found here!

I started writing soft animal back in March, but the idea first came to me during a rewatch of s12/13 a few weeks before that. I’d been reading a lot of fanfiction around that time as well, and I kept finding myself imagining post-prison Spencer so differently than what I was seeing in the fanfic world. post-prison Spencer is so often written as this dominate, unfeeling, nearly robotic shell-of-a-human (or other end of the spectrum — he’s reduced down to solely his trauma and never given a chance to recover from it) and it just felt… I dunno, unrealistic to me, I guess? my brain started spinning with ideas on how to paint him in a different, more human light. i thought through a bunch of different scenarios for how he could possibly meet someone and fall in love during/after the prison arc, and my first few rough drafts tried out a bunch of different readers (there was a librarian, a bartender, and his temporary BAU replacement, to name a few). finally, I came up with the idea of a prison nurse, and thus, soft animal was born.

this story was always going to have a happy ending. i debated having them breakup for real and get back together down the line (what happened in pt 12 wasn’t a true breakup y’all lol just a fight and a few days of space), but I thought it might feel forced and it wasn’t really what I truly wanted to write about, so I trashed that idea pretty swiftly. but at no point did I even consider for a second that they wouldn’t end up together in the end.

I did, however, go back and forth on how far into their relationship I wanted the series to go, and ended up deciding that I wanted the final chapter to feel soft and cushy and somewhat open-ended while also giving readers the satisfaction of knowing they’re in a good place and planning for their future — hence that final moment (💍🎁). I almost wrote the actual proposal itself in, but I couldn’t get it right, so I left it as it was — and tbh, I like it way better that way. you know it’s happening, you feel the same hope she feels, and the same comfort she feels, too, because she doesn’t have any question in her mind over their future together. tldr, in case it isn’t obvious — the ring is in his pocket because he’s going to propose that same night, it just happens off-page.

if anyone feels like reader forgave spencer too easily for leaving, I get that. I realllly get that. but in my mind, the fight and his leaving is heavily contextualized by his trauma, and reader’s response is heavily informed by her background as a prison nurse. she knows he wasn’t himself when he did any of that, and she’s an excellent judge of character. she forgave him and took him back because she loves the version of him that came back, and she knows that’s the real spencer. but if you feel differently, that’s super valid. he said some awful things and abandoning her for days was notttt cool!! but again, context is key, and I think her choice to forgive him and take him back is super valid as well.

I started writing this series when I was going through a lot in my personal life. it’d been ages since I’d written something just for me, especially not something creative, and starting this series really helped me find myself again. I almost forgot how much I love writing — how cathartic it is, how exciting and frustrating and calming and wonderful it can be — and I’m so grateful to soft animal, and to all of you, for that. when I posted fluorescent mercy, I think I had, like, 7 followers. I expected it to get maaaaybe like 50 notes max if I got lucky with the tags. now there’s over 500 (?!!) of you here hanging out with me — I can’t even wrap my head around that.

I’ve gotten a few asks for soft animal headcanons — you can find those posts here and here, and below are a few more! I would absolutely LOVE to hear if any of you have soft animal headcanons yourselves as well, so pls share in the comments or send me an ask if you do 🥹

spencer has a thing for seeing her wear his glasses. it turns him on beyond belief. she discovered it by accident (she put them on as a joke one night when he misplaced them and she found them first) and she has absolutely weaponized it ever since.

she cuts his hair. not always — he goes to a barbershop sometimes. but when he’s been too busy to care for himself, he’ll sit on a stool in the kitchen and let her trim it.

spencer reads aloud to her in bed, sometimes nonfiction, sometimes poetry, sometimes just to hear her say, “Keep going,” in that sleep-heavy voice she uses when she’s halfway under.

they text like total weirdos. spencer sends her long rambly facts and screenshots of online crossword puzzles with exact timestamps of how long they take him. she sends him chaotic messages at unpredictable intervals that say things like today’s lunch is ✨sad✨ and guess which inmate bit me today. they never have actual conversations via text — spencer could never — it’s always just random one-off messages when they’re thinking of each other.

he got her a new stethoscope for Christmas. it’s her favorite color and engraved with her initials. generally, every gift he gives her is incredibly thoughtful (and she tears up almost every time). spencer reid, king of thoughtful gifts.

he has a favorite sound she makes in bed. he’s never told her that, but every time she lets it out — a breathy little gasp that breaks into a whimper — he groans low in his throat and starts moving a little deeper.

they have an unspoken agreement to undress each other slowly. every button, every inch of skin revealed, is an opportunity to touch, to look, to pause. they savor the undressing almost as much as the sex.

and here are some final trivia/tidbits/notes I’ll leave you with:

my personal favorite chapters overall are: fluorescent mercy, synodic curve, convergence zone, dark matter, and soft animal (ch13). but my favorite chapters to write were definitely verbal impulse and synodic curve. plz feel free to shout out your fave chapters in the comments! I’m dying to know!

the hardest chapters to write were fluorescent mercy (writing something bottled inside the prison infirmary was so hard plus it needed to set up the entire story and at least semi-accurately portray prison!reid so it took me forever) and long division (I hate angst with no happy ending so even though I knew it was just for 1 chapter, i still struggled baaadly. originally the make up scene at the beginning of the final chapter was at the end of long division because I couldn’t stand to keep them apart, but I forced myself to let the angst simmer a little longer so that the final chapter would feel more satisfying). I also spent a lot of time writing the final chapter, trying to make it perfect and figuring out just how deep into the story I should go.

the juicing oranges thing from convergence zone comes from a real-life experience I had with my grandmother once. honestly, reader’s parents’ general attitude towards her job and her relationship was heavily inspired by my real life grandparents (my parents rock, but my dad’s parents… oof. they can be tough to please. and they do random shit like show up at your house unannounced with fresh fruit for juicing as if that was something you’d literally ever expressed interest in doing before (it was not)

the sex scene in blind contour was originally SO much longer than it ended up being and was a lotttt smuttier lol. when I went back and reread it a few days after finishing the initial draft, I was like goddamn was i ovulating when I wrote this??? wtf. it just didn’t fit that moment, if that makes sense. so I toned it down to what it is now. but I’m saving some of the original ideas from that first draft for future (non-soft animal related) one shots lollll bc it was 🥵

I deadass cried when I woke up the morning after posting fluorescent mercy and seeing it had over 100 notes in less than 12 hours (granted I had like 7 followers when I posted it so I had extremely low expectations lol)

I will forever be mad at myself for using first person instead of second person. when I wrote the first couple chapters it was my first time writing anything creative in a while (and my first time writing fanfiction since like 2015) so I was veryyyy rusty and just used what came naturally to me, but I’m still mad about it to this day lol. major regret tbh but oh well, it is what it is!

fyi, everything I’ve ever posted related to soft animal is tagged #soft animal s.r. x reader. all chapters, asks, other posts, etc can be found under that tag in case you want to scroll thru!

the series is over, but that’s not to say I’ll never write about this pairing again. i love them entirely too much to abandon them completely, so you might see the occasional one shot/blurb/headcanon about these two in the future. stay tuned 🫶🏼 and even though the series is over, i am always, always happy to talk soft animal, anytime. send me an ask anytime you want!

from the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who read soft animal. I can’t put into words how much it means to me. sending lots & lots of love your way.

[writingwithfolklore]

How to expand a one-shot into a full-length novel

I get this question in my inbox a lot, and I haven’t answered it yet because I think my answer is a bit more difficult than maybe people are hoping.

My first instinct is to say: you can’t.

Okay, I don’t mean like, give up here, do not pass go. But it’s important to note that a one-shot isn’t just a chapter of a novel, it’s an entirely different form of writing. It’d be like asking how to turn a two-sentence poem into a novel. There’s going to be a lot of things that need to change before we’re able to achieve that goal. Not impossible—but not an easy 5-step guide.

A one-shot has a beginning, middle and end, wrapped up in stakes and a breadth of story that is only meant to be written in this shorter form. To turn it into the novel, the least we need to do is up the stakes, but we’d probably end up changing the entire premise to fit the breadth of a novel. A story you can tell in 1500 words just can’t be the same story you’d need to tell in 50,000—there’s not enough substance to fill that many extra words.

So what we’ll do is we’re going to take inspiration from your one-shot to turn it into a novel. I would start with your protagonist. If the one-shot is about, say, them getting through opening day of their bakery, we can delve into that concept to learn more about them.

What background led them to this place, why did they want to achieve this, what does it mean to them to achieve this, where do they want to go next, and what’s holding them back from what they want? These are all good starting points to start thinking about how this character will fit into a larger narrative. See my post, “Character is Plot” for a more in-depth discussion on character development.

Once you have a goal and something keeping your character from their goal, and what they really need to realize, we have the beginnings of arc. This is where we start thinking about the A to B, or plot—where do they want to go, what conflict is keeping them from it (both internal and external), what they need to learn. You’ll probably want to create an antagonist here, or if you already have one, do the same thing with them as we just did with your protagonist.

Your antagonist (again, both internal and external) should have stakes worthy of a full-length novel. That means, the conflict and consequences are high enough to sustain multiple encounters, and these conflicts will drive your character towards their B.

You will likely find as you start writing that your one-shot won’t fit into your novel. That’s because the illusion of story before and after in a one-shot isn’t the same as how a novel needs to fit together—when putting the before and after on the page, it becomes clearer what demands the narrative have.

And to be very clear, one-shots are not a “lesser” form of writing, and novels are not superior in any way. Do not feel like you need to expand your one-shot, unless you just genuinely want to write a novel. Just be prepared that it’s going to look a lot different, as different forms require different things.

Make sense?

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[moshuka]

Hey!! I'd like to request hcs or maybe an imagine of KK Arnold with an introverted and lowkey awkward reader 😭😭 maybe reader is the type to express her feelings through writing music, im thinking something like house song by searows

introverted- k. arnold

!! - hi! i’m so so so sorry i haven’t been active, a lot is going on and i’m planning on moving to America, which is taking up a lot of my free time

!! - it’s short i’m so sorry

!! - you just stand there silently every time she does something embarrassing

!! - when her and paige are fooling around in public you just stand behind them acting like you don’t know them

!! - you post the cutest stories of her

!! - like the ones that are pinterest themed that take 10 minutes to edit with cute music

!! - you have a journal of poems dedicated to her

!! - you’re embarrassed of them so you don’t let her read them

!! - always listens to you no matter what

!! - you’re like her babysitter tbh

!! - “hey do u wanna game tonight?”

!! - “can’t, y/n says i’m too loud and i’m grounded for the weekend :(“

!! - this turned into golden retriever x black cat but i love that trope so i’m not mad

!! - has a random chill playlist in her spotify that’s just “y/n’s tunes”

!! - will take a nap in between your legs while you’re reading

!! - makes you read to her while she falls asleep, even if it’s in a language she doesn’t know

!! - “i just love the sound of your voice”

———————————————ʚɞ———————————————

hi! once again, i’m so sorry i’ve been inactive. i’m working on chapter 2 of blackout and some other requests right now (as well as a pert 2 to ‘caught’ with smut!), but feel free to send in asks just to talk!

love, moka

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Anthology

Anthology - a collection of literary pieces by various different authors.

It can sometimes refer to the collected output of a single author (for instance, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare), but it generally refers to a compilation presenting many different writers.

Tips for Creating an Anthology

Here are three tips that could be helpful if you aspire to edit—in other words, assemble and publish—an anthology of multiple writers’ works:

Decide on a theme. While some anthologies are freeform, most gather together literary works around a theme. All the writers can be from the same locale, each story can share the same genre, every poem could be about love—the choices are limitless, but it will be to your advantage to narrow down what you want your anthology to be about thematically.

Make sure you have permission. Unless you’re trying to put together an anthology of works in the public domain, you’ll need to be sure you have permission to publish all the stories and poems you’d like. Get in touch with up-and-coming writers you appreciate and see if they’d be willing to contribute to one of your collections.

Solicit entries. You need to generate publicity in order to get writers to contribute to your anthology—when you’re starting out, that can mean just reaching out to them directly. Consider going on writers’ forums and websites and posting a call for submissions.

Tips for Contributing to an Anthology

Check out these three tips on how to contribute to an anthology if your goal is to see your written work published in a collection:

Find the right fit. There are more anthologies than you could count out there in the world, so it’s important to narrow down which ones you want to submit to. Maybe you’ve already been working on a story or poem that perfectly fits the mood, theme, and requirements of an anthology. If you haven’t, check out the guidelines for submissions at several anthologies and consider writing something especially for each of them.

Stand out. Reading widely—that is, exposing yourself to a variety of authors and types of writing—can be helpful when it comes time to craft a piece that will stand out compared to the other writers published in a given anthology. You should strive to write something that both fits and feels fresh for every anthology to which you hope to contribute.

Pitch to multiple places. It helps to cast a wide net when you’re submitting pieces, as there are probably a lot more than just one anthology that publishes the type of writing you’ve produced. Keep writing and scouring the internet and in-person literary circles to find places you can write for and submit to plenty of them.

The term anthology is derivative from the Greek words “anthos”—meaning “flower”—and the synonyms “legein” or “logia”—meaning “gather” or “collect.”

In other words, an anthology literally means “a gathering/collection of flowers.”

The term metaphorically referred to a collection of literary works even in the world of the Ancient Greeks, as evidenced by the early anthological work Anthologia Graeca.

This conception of compiling various literature as “flower gathering” extended to the medieval period when it was referred to by monks of the era by the Latin term “florilegium.”

Writing for an anthology allows you the opportunity to have your work published alongside like-minded writers and be exposed to a wider audience.

Some anthologies, like the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, are perennial bestsellers.

No matter what type of writing you specialize in—young adult, nonfiction, fairy tales, or something else entirely—odds are there is an existing anthology that publishes work in your genre.

Examples of Anthologies

Anthologies stretch across themes, types of literary output, and storytelling mediums. Here are four notable anthologies:

Anthologia Graeca: This Ancient Greek collection of writings is an early example of the propensity to gather together the work of various authors. This collection of literary works brings together an assortment of things: poems, epigrams (or sayings), satire, and more. It’s a compilation that allows you to glimpse into the mind of the Hellenistic world.

The Norton Anthology of World Literature: This anthology pulls together material stretching back centuries and across continents. Chinese, Arabic, Spanish, Portuguese, American, Egyptian, and West African writers can all be found here, as well as writers from many other countries and backgrounds. As with other esteemed anthologies, new editions are issued occasionally.

The Best American Short Stories series: Each year, this anthology series puts out a new story collection of American short fiction. Various authors from the United States—from Amy Tan to Roxane Gay—have served as anthologists (editors) for this yearly miscellany of shorter works.

The Best Poems of the English Language: This poetry anthology, a compendium selected by literary critic and compiler Harold Bloom, is annotated with his thoughts on the collection of poems included. The anthology features everyone from Geoffrey Chaucer to T.S. Eliot, and it provides a panoramic view of British and American poetry.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[nevergonnaloveagain-hey]

Please write another dating Hozier headcannon!

a/n: OMG i did not expect the first one to get so much love, thank you SO MUCH! Sorry this one is a bit shorter but I hope you like it either way :) 

Here’s part 1 in case you missed it btw

I feel like your relationship would be private but not secret

Like he probably puts a picture of you in some of his concert posts on instagram or brings you along to some festivals or events as his date

Maybe even small and casual mentions of you during interviews, like “yeah, me and my partner did this the other day” or “my partner really likes that…” He’s obsessed with you i fear

You would be spotted pretty often at his shows just singing along and having a good time with your/his friends. He would for sure be looking at you the whole show just so happy to have you there and would occasionally wave or blow you kisses

I don't know why but I love the idea of him teaching you about bees and giving you small updates about his hives and any new additions he’s made. 

He’d love to teach you how to play the guitar (if you can’t already) and just sits behind you while guiding your fingers in the correct places to play one of his songs or one of your favourite songs

And he would definitely get so excited for you if you manage to learn even just two chords and play them without his help

If you already know how to play the guitar, he would ask you to play him so many songs and just admire you the entire time you do but completely deny the fact that his loving stare is distracting you

He truly values cozying up together in bed or on the couch and having deep and meaningful conversations about anything and everything that is on your mind that day whether it is something that is bothering you and you need to vent to him about or if it is just about a new tv show you just watched

This man loves cuddling you and will never pass one up, even if he is in the middle of doing something he will either stop and snuggle up with you for a while or continue what he is doing if it’s important but hold you close to his chest while he tries to finish up faster

He would get so excited after reading a new book or poem and would immediately want to show it to you or talk to you about it, especially if it reminds him of you or your relationship. He would not hesitate to read to you if you wanted, even at night if you ever have trouble sleeping and just want to hear his voice

He does not shy away from showering you with compliments, for example, if you are trying out some new clothes for an event, party or a date, he would be endlessly telling you how good you look and would not be able to take his eyes off of you the whole time

He loves to call you pet names like darling or honey at all times even if you are arguing and especially if you haven’t seen each other in a long time

Speaking of arguments, they would get resolved so quickly. He just can’t stay mad at you and would feel terrible even after you two have made up, so expect a lot of kisses to make it up to you

He would also never yell at you during these arguments and would keep calm throughout it, knowing that shouting doesn't fix things any quicker

Since he is so tall, he would love to kiss the top of your head or your forehead on a daily basis

Especially at night, like this man will not go to sleep unless he gives you a soft peck on your forehead

[fr33time]

the subaru hcs are so adorable and your writing style is rly sweet!!! may I ask for a haku or a zenji bf hc too please?

A/N: heeheee yes of course, thank you for enjoying the last set! I honestly love Haku and Zenji so much. Also sorry for disappearing for a couple months, I haven’t been interested in writing but I wanted to finish these headcanons so I think I’ll be posting here a bit more now! Enjoy your night, smooches! ♡

BF headcanons with Zenji Kotodama and Haku Kusanagi ♥︎

Divider credits: @thecutestgrotto

genre: Headcanons, fluff

requesting rules here!

Zenji Kotodama

♥︎ Having a ghost as your boyfriend is definitely an interesting experience. Both of you really liked each other, and started a relationship but there are some hurdles you two have to jump over to be together. For example, going out places together, people think it’s a bit weird you’re talking to an anomaly all the time so you have to be a bit discreet so people think you aren’t going crazy.

♥︎ Zenji is very forward about his feelings, his confession took 7 minutes altogether. A 5 minute ode to you accompanied by his biwa, and then another 2 minute poem dedicated to his feelings. You have to be a bit patient but he’s so sweet about it that you don’t mind. He spills out his love through words and he tries his best to articulate those feelings.

♥︎ Occasionally likes to watch you sleep, he tells you about it in the mornings and makes sure that it’s fine. He wants to make sure you’re alright, since he can’t sleep he just wanders around and checks up on you.

♥︎ Both of you love to have sleepovers, his version of the sleepover is to just lay beside you the whole night. He makes sure that he stays so that you won’t feel lonely in the morning, he doesn’t sleep but he’s learned to shut off his mind for a bit to pass time. Even though he passes through you when you make physical contact with him, he lays his hand “on” yours to make it seem like he’s holding your hand while you sleep. He adores that you look so peaceful.

♥︎ He tries to get his younger brother used to you, he seemingly reacts hostile to anyone that tries to get close to Zenji, so he tries to give exposure therapy. You hang around Zenji so much that his brother doesn’t react anymore. Whenever someone is slightly mean to you and he’s nearby, the dolls eyes turn red and end up scaring away the person.

♥︎ Writes poems and songs for you all the time, he just has so much love for you that he can’t help it. You know the confession he performed for you? He tries to get Haku to help him put on an entire show for you, at some point Haku has to tell him to slow it down just a tad cause he’s afraid that it may be too much for you to handle. Unless you’re totally into it, you’d have to tell Haku directly that you don’t mind it, cause he knows that Zenji can get really excited.

♥︎ When you’re down, Zenji is very quick to notice. If you have your head tilted downwards, he’ll kneel down and look at you in the eyes and ask “What’s wrong my dear?” He shares your sadness with you, and he shows it. How can he be cheerful when someone he deeply cares about isn’t? Encourages you to cry and let it all out. If you’re not into sharing, you’d have to tell him what exactly you want because he won’t know what to do otherwise. When he’s so open about how he feels, he’s not sure how to comfort someone that would rather stay silent, especially when he can’t hug you. It breaks his heart to see you upset, and desperately tries to put the sweet smile back on your face.

Haku Kusanagi

♥︎ He loves to see you flustered, it’s one of the small joys in life for him. It amuses him and he’s just naturally flirty, so he finds that he doesn’t need to try that hard. If you flirted back he would be a little surprised but he loves to see you try.

♥︎ When it comes to PDA he prefers a nice, sweet handhold. He likes to make you feel loved and feeling close to you is part of that. In the winter he likes to share his scarf with you, and stuff your hands in his pockets so you’re warm… but it’s really just to get close to you, obviously he wants you to be warm as well, but he has his alternative motives that he’s free to share with you.

♥︎ Haku doesn’t play his flute that much since it’s mainly for spirits, but if you enjoy it then he can come up with a couple lovely melodies for you. While doing so, he accidentally calls tiny spirits and without your knowing, they gather around… whoops.

♥︎ Haku is usually busy around Hotarubi, so he can’t come visit you that often. Once in a while he’ll call you to tell you how much he misses you, and to save himself some time and energy, he asks you to come over and sit with him.

♥︎ Tries to find new ways to scare you, most of his tactics involve his expertise with spirits though. Hotarubi is a mysterious place and some of the things he says can be believable if he wants to convince you hard enough, he doesn’t try very hard though. He immediately says “just kidding” to put you at ease. It’s when he doesn’t say “just kidding” that you need to take what he says seriously.

♥︎ He isn’t one to be very open about his feelings, at some times he gets distant but when he notices you worrying he tries to tell you that everything is fine, he just needs to think for a bit. He’ll let some things slip but he changes the subject immediately, the one time he tells you about the deeper parts of himself it’s when it’s at night and you two are alone.

♥︎ At times when you cry, he feels like he doesn’t know what to do but he tries to handle it with his own experiences. He tries and gives practical advice, but he realizes that it may be ineffective at some points so he sticks to rubbing your back and validating how you feel. He goes with the flow so he goes along with what you need.

♥︎ When you two are alone in his room, he likes to look up at the ceiling with you. He supports your head with his arm and enjoys the silence. He won’t protest to what you want, it probably isn’t that great to be lying around on the floor all night anyways…

[hazymoonlinh]

Art.

Logos x Reader

(Reader can be doctor if you want)

Why am I cooking this at 2AM 💀🤟

…

___

“Who should you love?”

It was a title of a post that y/n saw one day. It was a boring night after all, so she didn’t scroll down, instead, she keeps reading it.

You should love a poet, a musician, a painter.

An artist.

Because when they love you, they will create masterpieces of you.

Y/n thinks this is something that only happened in stories, so she just let out a silent chuckle.

But oh now how wrong that is.

Unknowingly to her, she’s now the muse of one.

That man, that artist was Aefanyl.

And you too, are an artist of love.

___

Logos will not admit it to anyone, but you've become his muse. The way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you smile.

Everything about you is a masterpiece to him, one that he wants to commit to memory, to write poems, to immortalize it with words...

But most importantly, to hold you close to his chest, to feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his, the feel of your breathing, the sound of his name...

His name, on your lips.

He feels... inspired... to write. For the first time in a while, Logos feels the inspiration hit him. He knows what he wants to write. That spark of inspiration he hadn't felt in quite awhile.

His pen moved with new found vigor, his words flowing...

It's you.

Logos use a bone pen to elegantly cast incantation, a bone flute to let the banshee's music echo.

Being a Sarkaz means using even those things to fight, to accept the blood flowing in his veins, to fight for eternity without rest.

The talented young Banshee has known it since he has awareness of his surroundings.

But now,

He finds himself writing poems with that pen, instead of casting spells or incantation.

Or playing a tune for you to hear, this time the song doesn’t burn his blood anymore.

_____

You haven’t touch the brush for a very long time, it has become dusty under a pile of old documents. But now, you saw yourself painting him, the brushstrokes are a bit different.

He has the most beautiful appearance that you have ever seen. Even prettier than a lot of woman.

Delicate features as if crafted by the gods themselves, long eye lashes, soft lips, smooth skin.

His red iris-a red iris is truly mesmerizing, almost otherworldly in its intensity. Its vivid hue is captivating, exuding a sense of mystery and rare beauty.

The deep, rich color draws you in like a gemstone glowing with an inner fire, making it impossible to look away. It’s a bold and stunning feature that leaves a lasting impression, hinting at stories untold behind those eyes.

After finishing the painting, you feel a pride in your chest. But what do you do with it now? Whatever, let’s just hang it in your room.

You know you're bright as the morning, as soft as the rain

Pretty as a vine, as sweet as a grape

________

Logos once wish that his mother would sing him the elegy if he dies in the battlefield, that way he would be in the arms of his kind until the end.

But now, with you here, he wishes to live a bit longer, praying to himself.

“Please, let me stay with her until the very end.”

He wants you to also sing the elegy. Logos's mind is filled with the thought of you. That was his new wish, with the thought that if he's to die one day, he'll die at least knowing you'll be singing for him...

Love still bloom in this doomed world, like how he still finds his way back to you after every battle he faced. In your arms, he’s not the lord of the Banshee, nor Logos, just Aefanyl.

He loves all of it. The way you laugh, the way you smile, the way you hold him. He loves it all. He loves *you.*

The way you kiss him, the sounds you make, the way you hold him close, the way you wrap your legs around him. The way he gets to hold you close, to feel your breathing and your heart next to his.

He can't seem to get enough of it.

_____

He finishes writing, quietly setting his pen and paper aside before gently holding you close against his chest, his lips pressing gently against your forehead.

(It’s 3:30 now bye 💀)

[witchyintention]

🌸 Offerings, Altars, and Accessibility: Yes, Your E-Offering Counts

Short Description: Offerings in witchcraft and paganism are all about intention, connection, and respect — not gatekeeping or aesthetic.

Let’s get one thing out of the way: You don’t need a Pinterest-worthy altar, 17 hand-foraged herbs, and a live goat to honor your gods or ancestors. (Please don’t sacrifice a goat. The gods are tired.)

Offerings — whether given to deities, spirits, ancestors, or nature itself — are about building relationship and showing respect. And in the modern world, where not all witches are able-bodied, financially secure, or living in open pagan households, that looks a lot different than it did centuries ago.

And that’s not just okay — it’s powerful.

💐 What Is an Offering, Anyway?

An offering is anything given in reverence, gratitude, or connection to a spiritual being. It’s a “hello,” a “thank you,” a “please help,” or a “you’re still on my mind.” Just like you’d bring a friend coffee or light a candle for someone you miss, offerings are acts of love and intention.

They can be:

Physical (candles, food, herbs, art)

Emotional (songs, stories, tears)

Devotional (ritual, prayer, dance)

Digital (yes, really — we’ll get there)

🍞 Traditional Offerings (and Why They Matter)

In many cultures, offerings are central to the practice. Think bread and milk for the Fae, wine and incense for Dionysus, apples for Idunn, or coins for the dead. These were physical items with deep symbolic meaning — food, wealth, time, beauty.

But here’s the thing: not everyone today can safely or ethically leave out food, burn incense, or pour wine in the backyard. Let’s talk about that.

🏳️‍🌈 Paganism Is (and Should Be) Inclusive

Some of us live with disabilities that make gathering or placing physical offerings difficult.

Some of us are mentally ill and don’t always have the spoons to do full ritual setups.

Some of us are queer and closeted and can’t risk being outed by a visible altar.

Some of us are poor, houseless, or surviving — and a $10 candle isn’t an option right now.

And if your gods are any kind of decent? They know that. They see that. Spirits, ancestors, and deities aren’t asking for you to suffer. They’re asking for sincerity.

💻 E-Offerings & Digital Devotion: The Modern Witch’s Gift

Yes, you can give offerings digitally. Yes, it still counts. No, you are not “less of a witch” for doing so.

Examples of meaningful e-offerings:

Creating digital art for a deity or ancestor

Writing a poem or short story and dedicating it to them

Making a playlist in their honor

Sharing an educational post or quote that uplifts their values

Lighting a virtual candle (yes, even that)

Donating to a cause that aligns with the deity's energy or history

Simply speaking their name and gratitude aloud while looking at their symbol or image on your phone

Some folks build full digital altars with moodboards, digital sigils, and file folders of devotionals. You know what that is? Magic.

🪞What Really Makes an Offering Work?

✨ Intention. If you’re giving it from the heart, it’s real.

🫶 Respect. Don’t offer something your spirit has asked not to receive. Listen.

⏳ Consistency. Not frequency — but relationship. Offerings are part of an ongoing dialogue.

🪷 Relevance. Match your offering to the spirit’s energy. Don’t give chocolate to a spirit allergic to sugar, metaphorically speaking.

🧼 Context. Is your space safe? Is your body cared for? Is your mind open to connection?

😬 What Not to Do

Let’s talk faux pas:

Don’t leave meat offerings outside where they’ll rot and attract raccoons (unless that’s the vibe).

Don’t give offerings you can’t afford or that will harm your wellbeing.

Don’t offer to spirits you haven’t researched. (Respect matters.)

Don’t treat offerings like vending machines. This isn’t DoorDash for blessings.

Don’t shame others for how they give. Period.

🛐 Offerings Aren’t One-Size-Fits-All

Some deities love lavish displays.

Some ancestors want you to call your mom.

Some spirits love tea, flowers, and gossip.

Others want you to go to therapy, clean your room, and do the work.

Offerings are relational, not performative. It’s not about looking “witchy.” It’s about being in sacred dialogue.

💬 Final Thoughts: Honor Comes in Many Forms

If you only take one thing from this post, let it be this: You are not a bad witch because your altar is digital, your spoons are low, or your space is shared.

Your heart is sacred. Your words are spells. Your art, your advocacy, your care — all of it is holy.

So give what you can, how you can, when you can. Even a whispered “thank you” in the quiet of your heart? It counts.

And if someone tells you otherwise? You have our full blessing to give them the offering of silence.

╔══ ∙∘𓆩⟡𓆪∘∙ ════════╗ --- Support Us --- ╚════════ ∙∘𓆩⟡𓆪∘∙ ══╝ Love the blog? I offer readings and spells on my Ko-fi shop! Subs on Ko-fi and Patreon (18+) get to see posts before they go live on Tumblr. I also do free divination and Q&A's lives on Twitch TikTok and YouTube

[lovedbysolaris]

Unsigned Feelings.

Isabela Merced x Reader

Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her. Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to. But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Honestly I dont think so- oh! Anxiety lol.

I aso have a soundtrack for chapters. yes. im smooth like that.

"Criminal" – Fiona Apple

"Say It Right" – Nelly Furtado

"Dreams" – Fleetwood Mac

"False Confidence" – Noah Kahan

"Eventually" – Tame Impala

I said I was gonna post some of her. You're welcome.

----------------------------------------------------------

You wake up before the sun, same as always. There’s a certain kind of silence before the world starts making noise again—before traffic hums, neighbors argue through walls, and someone’s kid starts kicking a soccer ball against the hallway. That silence? It’s yours. Sacred. Like the half-second before a song drops.

The alarm never goes off. You beat it. 4:42 AM. Muscle memory guides your hand across the nightstand to silence the buzzing it never gets to complete. The bedroom is dim, painted in navy shadows. A single strand of light from the streetlamp slips through the blinds, cutting across the floor like a sword. You sit up and roll your shoulders. Your body creaks like it’s lived more than twenty-two years.

First thought? Coffee. Second? What day is it. Third? You should probably take Hades out before he pisses on your new rug again.

The apartment’s not big, but it’s clean. Minimalist, but lived in. One wall is all windows. A worn leather couch. A record player on a reclaimed wood shelf. A giant canvas with muted reds and golds leans half-finished against the wall—one of the rare times you tried painting your feelings and just ended up angry at the brush. There’s a guitar case leaning under the window you haven’t opened in months.

The Spotify speaker starts playing without asking. You set it up that way. Shuffle playlist: Wake the Hell Up. First song? "Criminal" by Fiona Apple. Then maybe Mac Miller. You never know.

You stretch, your Greek mythology sleeve flexing with the movement—Achilles' heel bleeding into Hermes' wings, Medusa's eyes threading up to your shoulder. It took four years and more pain than you'd admit out loud, but it's your story. Or the parts you let people see.

Your hair is still flattened on one side as you tug on a pair of boxers and gray sweats. Sports bra. Loose tank. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: tired eyes, messy mullet, and that treble clef behind your ear that only shows when your hair is up.

You touch it sometimes without thinking. A melody without a home.

Hades scratches the door. You open it before he can bark. He’s big—obsidian-black doberman, ears cropped, eyes smarter than most people. You swear he’s part therapist. He waits while you leash him, nudging your thigh with his head like he already knows you didn’t sleep well.

Out on the pavement, it’s still dark. You jog beside him, earbuds in, letting Nelly Furtado’s "Say It Right" set the tempo. A mile. Two. You don’t track distance anymore—you track how many songs it takes to get your head quiet.

Back home, it’s protein shake, then a hot shower. The steam makes your hidden tattoos sting a little—the one on your ribs you got the night your mom stopped calling, and the one on your thigh you’ve never shown anyone, not even your ex. It’s a line from a Sappho poem, but no one would guess from how often you wear jeans.

You dress in something loose but intentional: dark jeans, open flannel, boots. A single gold chain. The class ring catches in the mirror, the way the sapphire shines against your skin. You hate it and love it. 2021. A year you earned but barely survived.

You check your email. Nothing exciting. An old professor inviting you to a Zoom panel. A royalty statement from the poetry book you ghostwrote last fall. A Spotify payment from some girl in Brooklyn who sang your lyrics like she wrote them herself.

Then your phone rings.

Unknown number, LA area code.

You hesitate, thumb hovering. Then:

“Yeah?”

They say your entire name.

You lean on the counter. “Depends who’s asking.”

“This is Vanessa. I’m calling on behalf of Isabela Merced. She’s looking for a writing partner for her next album—someone to help shape the narrative. We heard about your work through a mutual contact.”

You blink. “Merced as in...?”

“Yes. That Isabela.”

A pause. Hades lets out a low growl, like even he doesn’t trust what’s coming.

Vanessa continues, professional and clipped. “She’s been writing on her own, but she’s hit a wall. She’s asking for someone who doesn’t treat her like a product. You come highly recommended. She’s read your ghost work.”

You cross your arms. “Okay. But why me?”

There’s a pause. Then:

“She liked your writing. Said it felt... honest.”

A beat. That word doesn’t sit easily on your shoulders.

“She wants to meet. She’s in town for a few weeks. Can you be at Hollow Sun Cafe by four?”

You glance at the clock. 9:23 AM.

“I’ll be there.”

As the call ends, you stare out the window. You weren’t supposed to fall into music again. You were supposed to write from the shadows. But now?

Now the light’s creeping in.

You stand in front of your closet like it’s the final boss.

The first thing you pull out is your favorite fit: oversized graphic tee—vintage Nirvana print, cracked like it’s been through hell—cargo pants with a dozen pockets you don’t use, and the Jordan 3 Retros you waited four months to cop. You toss on your fitted Rangers cap and gold jewelry: a class ring with your birthstone, chain glinting low on your collarbone, watch she saved up for before she passed.

You look good.

But then you remember—it’s your first impression. And not at a cipher or a bar. This is business. Big business.

You sigh, swap the tee for a fitted cream shirt that still matches the Retros. Swap cargos for black jeans. Keep the jewelry—your mom would’ve cursed you if you didn’t. The cap stays. That’s non-negotiable.

As you check the mirror, something settles in your stomach. You’re not nervous. But you’re not ready either. You haven’t written for anyone big since… since before. Since the funeral.

Your mom was the only one who ever heard your demos and cried like they meant something. The only one who called your voice a gift instead of a gimmick. She would’ve told you to go, to stand tall. But still—this feels like a quiet war inside your chest, and no one else will understand why.

Hades nudges your leg. You ruffle his ears.

“Let’s go, monster.”

Your 2014 Nissan Altima waits in the lot like an old friend. Dusty, sure, but she runs smooth. You crank the ignition and let the playlist roll. Noah Kahan’s "False Confidence" plays. It’s too on the nose.

You cruise through your part of Dallas—old neighborhoods trying to be new. Coffee shops with unfinished murals. Cracked sidewalks and boutique gyms. It’s home in a strange, half-gentrified kind of way.

You swing by your sister’s apartment. Michelle answers in a hoodie and socks, her curls tied up, mug in hand.

“You’re late.”

You smirk. “You’re dramatic.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles when she sees Hades. He darts in like he owns the place.

“You look nice,” she says, half surprised.

“Big meeting.”

“Someone cute?”

“Professional.”

Michelle raises a brow. “You didn’t say no.”

You toss her his blanket. “Be nice to him. He’s in a judgmental mood.”

“He gets that from you.”

You head back out before the conversation can get too real.

Hollow Sun Cafe is tucked behind a row of glass buildings in Uptown, Dallas. Big steel door, exposed brick, subtle signage like they know you should already know where to go.

Inside, it smells like incense and ambition. A wall of platinum records. A quiet receptionist who buzzes you in without looking up.

You step into the studio lounge. Vanessa, you assume, is sitting by the console in a navy blazer, tablet in hand. She doesn’t smile.

Then—Isabela.

She’s smaller than you expected. Compact, radiant. Wearing a hoodie like she’s hiding, but her face is pure sun. Hair up. No makeup. And yet, there’s something about her that stings your vision like you looked straight at a star.

She glances up at you. Stops mid-sentence.

Her eyes catch yours and still there. Not because you’re famous. Not because you said anything clever. Just… your eyes. You know the look. You’ve gotten it before. Gray eyes. That shade that looks like a storm’s thinking.

Vanessa speaks first. Introducing you.

Isabela’s voice is softer than you thought. “You don’t look like a ghostwriter.”

You grin. “Good. Ghosts don’t pay rent.”

A pause. A small smile from her.

Vanessa sets the contract on the table. “This is standard. NDA. Creative credit waiver. Scope of work. We’re looking for eight tracks, possibly more if the chemistry’s right.”

Chemistry.

You meet Isabela’s eyes again. She’s watching you like she already wrote a song about this moment.

Vanessa talks on, but the room’s gotten smaller. Isabela’s knee bounces. Your fingers tap a rhythm against your ring.

You sign the contract without a word.

Let the music speak first.

Vanessa’s phone buzzed once. She didn’t even flinch. Buzzed again. This time she sighed.

"I'm sorry, this is- it's about a venue drop." She stood, pressing her palms into the edge of the booth as if grounding herself. “Just talk music. I’ll be five, ten minutes, max.”

You give her a small nod, watching her sleek black heels disappear around the corner of the dimly lit lounge. The booth you're in has navy cushions and gold-rimmed coasters. A candle flickers lazily between you and Isabela. Her silhouette glows like it belongs in a painting- chin in her hand, fingers half-hiding her lips, eyes unreadable.

Your throat feels a little tight. Not the kind of tight that makes you choke, just the kind that makes you remember you’re alive. And maybe a little bit nervous.

You tap the table twice and say, “Henny and Coke.”

Isabela raises a brow. “That bad already?”

You flash her a deadpan stare. “Look, either I drink or I start pacing, and this booth doesn’t come with a panic room.”

She lets out a small chuckle—genuine, even a little surprised. It’s the kind of laugh that doesn't get recorded often.

A server appears. Young, maybe college-aged. Way too invested in the moment.

You nod at him. “Make it two.”

You don’t even look at him.

He glances awkwardly between you both, clearly waiting for some sort of confirmation from the actress-slash-pop-sensation. But she shrugs.

“Guess we’re drinking then.”

He scurries off.

“She likes control,” you note, mostly to yourself.

Isabela tilts her head. “Who?”

“Vanessa.”

She leans back a little, tracing the rim of her water glass with her finger. “She has to. It’s the job.”

“And what’s your job?” you ask.

“To let her.”

You pause at that. You weren't ready for her to match your depth that quickly.

The drinks come. You clink yours to hers without fanfare. No toast, no bullshit. Just the universal language of cheers to existing.

It’s quiet again for a second. The kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable. Just hanging there, like an unopened letter.

“So,” you say finally, “concepts.”

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Her eyes flicker- not to you, but somewhere far off.

“Don’t tell me I lost you already,” you say. “That’d be a new record.”

She blinks, coming back. “Sorry. You didn’t.”

“Then what was that look?”

She shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Everything I write lately feels like a goodbye letter. I want this album to be about… something more.”

You nod slowly, leaning forward a bit. “What kind of more?”

Isabela crosses one leg over the other. “Heartbreak, sure. That’s the easy part. But also… recovery. Growth. The loneliness that comes after healing. The way love shifts when you’re alone long enough to love yourself. That kind of more.”

You take a slow sip, letting her words settle. There’s something heavy behind them. Not rehearsed. Not press-junket deep. Actual gravity.

“That’s a lot,” you say finally. “But I think we can find the skeleton.”

She raises a brow. “Skeleton?”

“Yeah. Every album has one. A spine. Even the messy ones. We just gotta figure out where the bones are.”

She smirks, genuinely entertained. “Okay, that’s… poetic. In a vaguely forensic way.”

You shrug. “I’ve been worse.”

A few more beats pass. Your anxiety’s softened, replaced by a slow curiosity. There’s something familiar about this moment, even if you’ve never lived it before. Maybe it’s the candlelight. Maybe it’s the way her hair falls just a little into her eyes. Maybe it’s the way you’ve both been trying not to look too long.

“Your tattoos,” she says suddenly.

You stiffen a little, but not enough for her to notice.

“What about them?”

She gestures vaguely. “They’re… detailed. Mythology?”

You nod. “Greek. My whole arm’s a sleeve of gods nobody prays to anymore.”

“Why?”

You swirl the drink once. “Because stories outlive people.”

That answer hangs heavy. She watches you differently now—like she’s tracing lines that haven’t been written yet.

“And the one behind your ear?”

You hesitate. “Treble clef. For my mom.”

That one comes out quieter.

Isabela sits forward, resting her chin on her fist again. “She the reason you got into music?”

“More like the only one who didn’t laugh when I said I could do it.”

Her voice softens. “She passed?”

You nod. “Couple years ago.”

There’s no pity in her face. Just understanding. That’s worse, somehow.

“Sorry,” she says.

You don’t say it’s okay. It isn’t.

She shifts gears, maybe sensing the heat under your collar. “So… ghostwriter who doesn’t ghost. What’s your story?”

You grin. “That was awful.”

She smiles. “I try.”

You rest your glass down. “My story’s not really out there.”

“I noticed. I googled you.”

“Stalker vibes.”

She shrugs. “Curious vibes.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Let’s see. Raised in Dallas. Little sister. Doberman named Hades. Used to write songs under a fake alias online until one of them blew up. Got offered a label deal, turned it down. Started ghostwriting. Pay’s good. Fame’s not.”

“That’s a tagline.”

“You’re welcome to use it. Just credit me.”

She grins. “What was the alias?”

You pause. “Nice try.”

Her eyes glint. “So you’re still lowkey?”

“Like, embarrassingly lowkey. I’m probably in more playlists than pictures.”

“I like that,” she says. “Keeps you human.”

You tilt your head. “And you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Over-exposed. Managed since I was fifteen. Told to smile even when I hated what I was singing. Everyone assumes they know me. They don’t.”

“That’s gotta suck.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It does.”

You both sit with that for a moment. Two people on opposite sides of a camera flash. One hiding. One trapped.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been sitting like this—talking like this—until Vanessa’s heels click back into earshot.

She slides into the booth with a sigh and a power-suit apology. “Crisis averted.”

Isabela leans back like nothing happened. You sit up straighter, reaching into your bag for your notebook.

Vanessa claps her hands once. “Alright, let’s get back to work.”

But when you glance at Isabela again, something’s changed. Just a flicker. The way she looks at you now—it’s like she’s storing your face in a song.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t want to disappear.

[storiesoflilies]

hello everyone!

welcome to my commission page! i’ve decided to open up a few slots for the summer to try and make some extra money while i try to find a big girl job :3

PLEASE READ THE RULES BELOW!

SLOTS – OPEN — [ 1/3 ]

• you can read my previous customer reviews here!

• all payment transactions are done through my ko-fi account.

• you can speak with me on tumblr (preferable) or on ko-fi to discuss the nature of your commission. please do this BEFORE paying for a commission! this is to make sure that both me and you are comfy and understanding of what it is that you want.

• once we agree on what you would like, i will take half the payment upfront and the rest after the commission is complete. you can split your payments by simply tipping me on ko-fi, or alternatively, you can pay me the full amount upfront :)

• during the writing process, you may message me with small changes to the story, and i may message you as well just to check if you are happy with certain things :3

• any major changes will be rejected, and this is because we will have already agreed on a outline for your story before you paid!!!

• there will be no refunds once the commission has been sent to you!

• IMPORTANT – you are only allowed to use your commission for personal use! under no circumstances are you allowed to use your commission for commercial use.

• additionally, you are not allowed to repost your commission on any website under your own username. this is plagiarism, and i will seek action against anybody who does this!

• there will be no changes after the commission has been sent, except for spelling/grammar mistakes.

• estimated wait times for commissions are about 1-2 weeks. i will work on each commission in the order i receive them.

• rates are charged in great british pounds (gbp/£).

• my special rates are higher than my standard rates due to the fact that writing 6000+ words is significantly more work for me than 5k or less.

• WHO I WRITE FOR: my account is mainly jujutsu kaisen centered, so i’ll write best for those characters. i don’t mind writing for other characters outside of jjk, but if it’s for a character that i have no idea about, then i will require you to tell me a little bit about who they are, so that i don’t write them too out of character.

• original characters (ocs) are welcome here too! i will obviously require information regarding their lore, personality, and physical descriptions.

• WHAT I WILL DO ✅: alternate/canon universe, angst, fluff, smut (refer to rules below).

• WHAT I WON’T DO 🚫: smut for underage or aged-up characters, incest/step-cest, bestiality/zoophilia, necrophilia, heavily kinky stuff, super rough/degradative sex, gangbangs, nsfw male reader, rape/non-con, poly relationship, abuse, childbirth, extreme dark content, childhood trauma.

• you can always message me before ordering to check if i am comfortable with anything i haven’t mentioned on the above list, or to see if we can reach a compromise with something! i am open to discussions <3

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[rtfics]

Let’s Talk About the Irish Music in Sinners.

It's a rocky road to Clarksdale, Mississippi.

By Leah Schnelbach

Sinners opens with a monologue that’s as ominous as it is stirring. A voice, which we later learn belongs to Annie, a root worker and Smoke Moore’s partner, tells us that in some cultures “[t]here are legends of people, with the gift of making music so true it can conjure spirits from the past and the future. This gift can bring fame and fortune, but it also can pierce the veil between life and death.” The three groups of such people she mentions are the ones she’s familiar with: ancient Irish filídh, Indigenous American Fire Keepers, and West African griots.

Now, Sinners is primarily love song to the blues, the resilience of Black culture, and the Black South. While I love and admire all of those things, and have been fortunate enough to be a guest of Black Southern culture occasionally, that is not my dusty sun-baked red dirt lane. For more on the blues in the film, here are three excellent interviews with Ryan Coogler and Ludwig Göransson, and here’s an interview with a musician who makes a special appearance in the film—but the interview is full of spoilers, so don’t read that one if you haven’t seen the movie yet!

Which is why I’m going to talk to you about Irish vampires and the songs they sing. Ryan Coogler spoke with the Filmmaker Toolkit podcast about the importance of Irish music in Sinners, and I wanted to look at the way he uses the Irish vampire Remmick and his three songs (two of which are Irish standards, and one of which very much is not) to shape the film’s plot.

Be warned: This is a full-spoiler post! Flee if you must! Flee to a theater to see Sinners, in fact!

The opening of the film is set to a song called “Filídh, Fire Keepers and Griots”. The “filídh” are represented by musician and sean-nós singer named Iarla Ó Lionáird, whose work we’ll talk about in a moment, but first I need to take us back about 2,000 years to explain what “filídh” means.

In ancient Ireland, filídh were among the most important members of society. A combination of poet, singer, and seer, they divined the future, advised the kings, told the stories that were also histories, and, if they were mistreated, satirized the shit out of the offending party with a poem called an áer, or lampoon, to ruin that person’s reputation. (Supposedly it was believed that a really good áer could kill a man.) Since ancient Ireland maintained an oral tradition rather than a written one, filídh who could hold story cycles in their heads were extremely important, and it took years of study to work your way up the ranks and be considered a master poet. The role of filídh changed as Ireland became increasingly Christian, and while they still had high status, they became more like what we’d think of as bards. A related term you may have heard is seanchaí—the seanchaithe were, or I suppose are, keepers of legend, who pass stories down in a particular way so each new generation will be be able to remember them and retell them. They’re why the early monks were able to transcribe stories like The Ulster Cycle, which tell us most of what we know about the values of pre-Catholic Irish society. And to the monks credit, they seem to have written the stories down fairly accurately, without tacking Christian morals on. (And even more to the monks credit, sometimes you get an absolute banger like “Pangur Bán,” a poem about a monk’s faithful cat.)

Now you might be asking: What is a “sean-nós singer” and why is it important? Sean-nós (pronounced shann-nos, like Thanos) means “old style.” It’s usually a cappella, usually sung in Irish, and it’s the root of the music that the vampires attempt to weaponize in Sinners. Sean-nós was a way for poor people to create art, even when the system they lived under wouldn’t allow them to buy what they needed to make it—which is also how you end up with “lilting,” a thing that maybe sounds odd to modern ears, but is essentially using the human voice to mimic the sounds of different instruments.

The idea with sean-nós is that when you sing the song, or “say the song”, you get the story right—the emotion of it, the cadence, the tone—rather than worrying about having perfect pitch. A famous song from the genre is “Roisin Dubh” (“Black Rose”), initially written in the early 17th Century about a high-born woman who was divorced (and thus terribly shamed) by her husband, but actually, in the rewrites, kind of became about how the English are bastards and Ireland shall endure. (Popular subgenre, that one.) The love song became a way for people to sing about political grievances without getting caught by their oppressors.

With this song you can see a pure version of a sean-nós—this version by Joe Heaney, regarded as one of the great modern musicians in the tradition, is a man quietly singing a mournful song with no accompaniment, and here’s Sinead O’Connor’s take, if you want to need to lie down for a while. (Neither of these is my favorite version, we’ll come to that one in a second.)

It’s important to remember that the songs can be about anything. Plenty of people know rebel songs, murder ballads, slow mournful dirges about the land being taken away or women being exploited or children dying. (And, given the country’s history, fair!) But there are also songs like “Eileanóir a Rún”, a sweet love song with a lot of mythology woven into it, “Neili an fuacht” (more or less “Nelly, it’s freezing out here”) in which an intoxicated man begs his wife to let him come in out of the cold, and promises to do all sorts of fun stuff with her if she does. Here’s a polka-fied version of that one. Or “Dá bhFaighfinn Mo Rogha de Thriúr Acu,” a song about a young woman weighing the merits of the three different men who are wooing her. Here’s a version sung by Julie Fowlis and Muireann Nic Amhlaoibh.

If you want to hear some really old versions of sean-nós, we have recordings that were made on wax cylinders in 1905, and because sometimes humans are good, actually, you can listen to them here. A couple decades later, Alan Lomax recorded Elizabeth Cronin singing “Siúil a Rúin” (“Go, My Love”), a macaronic song with English verses interspersed with an Irish chorus. And here’s a current take on the song from Irish language group Seo Linn. Sean-nós traditions were adapted for the “serious” realm of classical composition by the Irish composer Seán Ó Riada, who did for Irish folk music what Béla Bartók did for Hungarian and Antonín Dvořák did for Czech. Ó Riada also co-founded a men’s choral group that allowed people to sing in their own language, Cór Chúil Aodha, and composed the first Mass in Irish, Ceol an Aifrinn. I mention all of this because Iarla Ó Lionáird, who as I mentioned acts as the voice of the filí in Ludwig Göransson’s opening track, is the great-grand-nephew of Elizabeth Cronin, and sang in Ó Riada’s Cór Chúil Aodhaas a young man. (Like, it’s almost like the past isn’t past?)

I think this is important to talk about all of this because here we have a grand folk tradition, one that Remmick, the film’s vampiric antagonist, should have firsthand knowledge of, yet the first time the vampire uses music to try to charm with his prey, he appropriates a song from the Black tradition.

When we meet Remmick (Jack O’Connell) he’s fleeing two lethal enemies—the sun, which is singeing him as he runs, and a truck full of Choctaw vampire hunters. (Whom I, and I think everyone else on the internet, want a spin-off about RIGHT NOW.) The Choctaw are presumably chasing him because he came to them hunting a Fire Keeper and they recognized him for what he was, but we never learn that for sure. He entreats the white couple (Joan, played by Lola Kirke, and Bert, played by July Talk’s Peter Dreimanis) he meets for shelter, telling them that Choctaw are chasing him. Only after he notices the Klan hood sitting in full view of the front door does he offer them money and refer to those Choctaw by saying “dirty Injuns,” exaggerating the words to appeal to their racism, which of course works when an appeal to their empathy does not.

At this point in the film, he has a Southern accent. But over the second half of the film, as he leads his two new vampire followers to Smoke and Stack’s juke, that Southern accent is dotted with an ever-stronger Irish one.

Remmick has been drawn to the juke by Sammie’s singing. He wants the young man’s gift, he wants to join the party, he wants everyone to join together in “fellowship”—and, as becomes clear, he doesn’t align himself with the sheet-loving whites he’s turned into vampires. It’s strongly implied that he’s ancient. (I’m not sure how ancient, given that he references people bringing Christianity to Ireland almost as though he remembers the time before—but that happened around 400 C.E., and that seems extremely ancient.) Nevertheless, in his mind, after watching centuries of exploitation, he’s offering the folks inside the juke a chance to step outside the bounds of Jim Crow and capitalism in exchange for some blood. But… as I mentioned in my initial review, what he sees as an offer looks a hell of a lot more like an imposition. While vampirism seems to cure the white folks in the film of their racism, it is also just another colonization that’s being forced on people who don’t want it.

And he has an ulterior motive—but that motive is to reconnect with his own ancient heritage that he lost to oppressive invaders.

But he still isn’t asking politely.

Theoretically, if he simply asked Sammie to play as a gift, and Sammie was willing to give that gift, he could have that connection with his past just the same. There could have been a version of this story that ended with Remmick lurking in the juke, out of the sun’s reach, to help Smoke, Stack, and their still-alive, non-vampire friends and family stomp the shit out of the KKK at the end. Instead he turns out to be just as rapacious as the whites he sees as beneath him.

Don’t come to the man who turned Erik Kilmonger into an icon for a cardboard cutout villain.

(But also, I’m pretty stoked to add “I’d rather be a vampire than a racist” to “I’d rather be a pig than a fascist” in my personal pop cultural lexicon.)

The way he tries to get the folks in the juke to trust him is through music.

Throughout Sinners, there are a few great examples of the way Remnick tries to get the folks in the juke to trust him through music. The first one of these is “Pick Poor Robin Clean.” The song has which has a few potential interpretations: Is it a gambling song? A song about being poor? A song about taking another person’s clothes off for them? What it definitely isn’t is the corny reel Remmick, Joan, and Bert turn it into:

The way Remmick uses the song, he’s not inviting the people inside the juke to join him in a sean-nós session, and he’s not adapting the song to personalize it. (He’s also not lilting—these white people can afford musical instruments.) He Pat Boones the shit out of the song, until it can only sound like mockery… until it starts to sound like a threat.

Compare with the version a lot of people think is the oldest recording of the song, by Luke Jordan in 1927, or with Geeshie Wiley and L.V. Thomas’ version that was recorded right around the time Sinners takes place. Daphne A. Brooks picks Wiley & Thomas’ “Pick Poor Robin Clean” clean in an excellent 2016 essay, and finds the two women using the song as a subversive dig at the system that jailed both of them at different points in their lives.

[…] the lyrics suggest instead that the heroines of this tale have slyly turned the tables on an obtuse and unsuspecting dupe, one who is robbed “clean” while the “jaybird” laughs. She is the witness who bridges the song to the carceral world lurking at the edges of their respective lives. Freighted with symbolism, “jaybird” or “j-bird” in 1920s and ’30s slang also stands for “jailbird.” Thus, she who laughs does so while looking out from behind bars at the ones who got away with mischief.

Later in the essay, Brooks pushes back on the idea that the song was a minstrel circuit staple, suggesting:

By calling Geeshie and [L.V.]’s “Pick Poor Robin Clean” a blackface tune, we risk missing, among other things, an important legacy of black women’s vernacular exchange, improvisation, and internal critique in their performance, an internal dialogue between two genius artists playing out the “folk knowledge” that Ralph Ellison’s 1952 Invisible Man protagonist slowly, painfully recollects in a moment of danger […]

Remmick may have done jailtime under the British before he was turned, but given who Joan and Bert are in their white supremacist society, and who they’re related to, they’ve only been in positions of relative power—especially when compared with anyone in that juke. I also love the detail that they claim to be traveling musicians down from North Carolina, when Luke Jordan’s recording of the song was made in North Carolina, and I LOVE that Smoke cuts them off right before they would have hit some language that a trio of white musicians should under no circumstances use in a cover, and that Remmick protests that they were getting to the best part.

Especially when compared with Geeshie Wiley and L.V. Thomas, who spent years on the road together only to be forgotten by history for decades. On top of “Pick Poor Robin Clean,” they recorded the all-time classics “Last Kind Word Blues” and “Motherless Child Blues”, respectively, and if you’d like an in-depth longread/excavation of history, I’ll direct you to John Jeremiah Sullivan’s profile of the two women’s work together. I find it telling that Coogler and Ludwig Göransson give the last word back to those two trailblazing women, as it’s their version of “Pick Poor Robin Clean” that closes the Sinners soundtrack album:

The vampires second musical overture is much more successful, possibly because it’s more authentic. After the Twins reject Remmick and his two followers, Mary goes after them in the hopes of sussing them out and seeing if it’s at least safe enough to let them spend their money at the juke, if nothing else. (She volunteers because she figures they’ll be more honest about their intentions to someone they think is white.) The trio lure Mary closer with a really nice version of “Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?”, also sometimes titled “Wild Mountain Thyme”—a song with Scottish roots that was adapted by a family of Belfast musicians, and has since become a standard of Irish traditional music.

It’s a sweet, innocuous song about gathering flowers and making a bed out of them by a spring to spend some quality time with one’s true love… unless she turns him down, in which case he’ll find someone else.

Ouch.

But, just as with “Pick Poor Robin Clean”, they stop the song before they get to that lyrical turn. They use this song to seduce Mary, drawing her in with their harmonies until she sits with them, to lull her into imagining a world where she gathers heather with an interracial vampire polycule. It almost works—but again, even after she explicitly says no and walks away, Remmick chases her, feeds on her, and turns her. Much like the man in the song, he isn’t as trustworthy as the sweet song initially implies.

If you want a more modern take, here’s Bob Dylan with The Band at the 1969 Isle of Wight Festival.

And remember when I said my favorite version of “Roisin Dubh” was still to come? Well, here it is, in the Thin Lizzy version that weaves it into “Wild Mountain Thyme” and becomes “Roisin Dubh (Black Rose): A Rock Legend”—objectively the greatest rock song ever recorded.

The final song the vampires sing is, finally, totally, fully IRISH. Like OIRISH Irish. It’s “The Rocky Road From Dublin,” which they sing as a round with all the vampirized people from the juke, with Remmick even breaking into a jig (or, excuse me, a whimsical skedaddle) in the center of the circle.

“The Rocky Road From Dublin” is a newer song, adapted from a poem written by D. K. Gavan in the 19th Century and popularized on the English music hall circuit by Londoner Harry Clifton. It’s a song about a person from Connacht who leaves home and travels across Ireland to Dublin to look for work, only to get rolled by ruffians once he gets there, and mocked for his rural accent when he asks the cops for help. He boards a ship to England, only to get thrown in with the pigs because he’s Irish, gets super sea sick but tries to sing and jig his way through it, and finally reaches Liverpool, only to get rolled by ruffians AGAIN—when a band of people from Galway come and assist him and his trusty shillelagh in battle.

Here’s a traditional sing of the song from Peter Lennon and Raoul Coutard’s documentary Rocky Road to Dublin, an exploration of life in the Republic after the Rising and Revolution which was actually not-quite-banned in Ireland for a while for being critical of the Catholic Church. Here’s a version by modern folk gymnasts Lankum, a version from The Dubliners, because, come on, I have to, and finally the Pogues’, cause, come on, it’s the fucking Pogues—but also because Shane MacGowan was the visual basis for that OTHER famous Irish vampire, Preacher’s Proinsias Cassidy.

This is where Remmick really tries to capture the spirit of a session, and gets the closest to the sean-nós he’s chasing. Remmick the wannabe filí stands in the center of a circle, leading everyone in a song that they can all share, now that they’re part of a collective vampiric consciousness. It’s a song about being the mistreated other, about trying to create a party against impossible odds, working for people who hate you, and finding people who will have your back. It’s about immigration and poverty. It’s about using a big blackthorn stick to fend off supernatural threats. And it’s great. It’s raucous and fun and all the voices come together to make the song more than it would be with just Remmick singing it.

Imagine how much better this circle will be once Remmick gets his teeth into Sammie?

But of course it’s a lie. This song can be a lament for leaving home, it can be a rousing battle song, it can be a fuck you to the British. The vampire wants to use it as a foundation for a new family—but what kind of a family is this, where he controls what’s supposed to be a collective? You can feel how much Remmick wants the musical power in this scene. He wants to feel like he’s created a new family. It’s such a clear dark mirror to Sammie’s absolute barnburner of an original blues song, “I Lied To You”. But this isn’t allyship, and it isn’t solidarity, and it sure as shit isn’t “equality” or “freedom.” It’s another form of coercion. The people in that circle probably would have loved seeing him perform, and maybe they would have even joined in, on another night, on neutral ground, by choice. Instead, Remmick has made himself the invader and the colonizer just as much as the men who stole his homeland from him. Remmick can’t reach the real magic; whether it’s because he lost his soul to vampirism, or whether he never had that gift to begin with, the movie never tells us.

When Remmick finally catches Sammie, the young man tries to fend him off with the Lord’s Prayer, and the vampire responds by saying that those words were brought to his people by the men who took his father’s land, but that they still bring him comfort—and then he and his whole vampire crew recite the words together because I guess Ryan Coogler loves me, personally? But my point is, Remmick’s either being extremely poetic, or he’s saying that he’s many centuries old. I love the idea of a truly ancient Irish vampire, with first-hand knowledge of The-Great-Hunger-that-was-actually-a-genocide, a strong connection to the Choctaw who hunt him, and even a real memory of the time when filídh were among the most respected people in his society.

But if he is that ancient, he’s had centuries to observe exploitation, and to decide how to wield his supernatural power.

Finally Sammie turns to his guitar to fend the vampire off—the power of music works better than prayer—and buys just enough time for Smoke to reach them with a stake. When Remmick finally goes up in flames, it’s not because of music. It’s because he’s burning in the light of the sun.

An Irishman to the end.