#midnight poem learning

[ashstfu]

read literature. be present. make love. make tea. write a poem. cry. watch a sappy movie that makes you want to throw things at it. paint your nails. cook something. call your best friend. learn an instrument. wonder. take a bath. go for a walk. lie down on the grass. listen to the entirety of ur favorite album from 2016. take pics of sunsets. ponder. shamelessly dance in your room. curl up on your bed. make endless wishes to the stars twinkling in the midnight sky. think about nothing. think about everything. think about things so hard that you barely remember what happened moments ago and why you’re feeling the way you do

[emmth]

Guys like you know how to make a girl feel special. You say all the right things at the right time. You look like you actually think I'm extraordinary. And for a second there, I allow myself to believe in the illusion. Even if it's all a lie, for that one second I want to feel special.

But it's scary, isn't it? Too many "just a second"s, and suddenly I become a naive little girl.

Do you like having that power? Making me blush with just one stupid look? Do you enjoy making me addicted to you and your words. After all I longed for so long to be someone's special.

It's not real though. For you at least. It started as a joke for me too, you know? A bit of fun won't hurt anyone, will it now?

I never learn from my mistakes. For guys like you it stays that way, just some running joke. But my stupid mind always takes it too far.

And when the jokes are no longer funny for you, you move on. Live goes on. You probably don't even think about me

But me? I stay there for so long, rebuilding myself peace by peace. Promising to never fall for fairytales.

Will I ever learn?

Maybe... maybe this time, just this once, it's real for you too? Maybe I actually mean something to you? Maybe....? Maybe you won't forget about me like some toy you played too much with and got bored of?

No, I won't ever learn....

[miserable-individual]

INTRO TIMEE

Song im obsessed w rn

@miserable-tries studyblr

Also I like this and this I want people to see it

Divider credits in the end

About meee -

She/her

Trilingual

Been learning music since forever

17 (minor) (can male humans be normal on dms and not ask ew shit)

lesbian

What I post -

Poems

Random reblogs

B99

ARCANE

Random art I made ( just started learning how to draw digitally yay)

ALNST

Arguing about random shit with moots (usually @akira-priye)

that's about it

Causes of crisis -

i have this anon I'm blind and I can't guess who it is so if anyone does go down the loophole of the asks with Vada HELP ME.

H E L P. M E.

HELP THEY NOW HAVE AN ACCOUNT JUST FOR THIS @anonymous-of-miserable-indivdual

MOOTS

THIS IS NOT GOING TO BE ORGANISED

OKAY SO,

(disclaimer I'm bad at remembering blog names don't feel bad if I forget you i didn't forget you i forgot the @)

HERE WE GO

First moot ever @maramontwrites ( love her stories and writing check her blog out)

THE CULT MEMBERS

@whythiskolaveridiii I think our first full convo was just singing omg penne through reblogs ( FOLLOW HER SHE'S COOL)

@lesbianpoetess unhinged. I support. Whatever chaotic shit she says.

@lalenn dumbass ( yes that's all i have to say)

Jkjk really nice hooman and friend ( follow her)

@clairvoyantly-yours new cult member hehe

THE OFFLINE PEOPLE

@loch-ana @ch3rrybite created a cult and recruited minors also old and offline. old.

@kanha-ki-fangirl also old and offline and shitter upper

@soupdeewoop HAILO TRY TO BE ONLINE ON DC😭

THE OLDIES

@akira-priye old.dadi.bald. @akira-priye @akirapriye

@mona-prithey dadi's wife. way nicer. i like her dadiness unlike akira's.

@desikanya smh tells me not to eat surf excel

@talesinmyhead040122 but i wont call you old im afraid of you. But you do help me by arguing w akira. update - @talesinmyhead040122 is not scary. youre not scary akka hehehee

@preyasii ayyy im afraid of making fun of you so i wont-

honourary oldie but i don't call her that cause she's cool and has amazing music taste @anonymouse-is-here

@tum-naam-sochlo-merese-ni-hora NEW OLDIE DADI

ARCANE

@carbernet

@muskwashere

ALNST ( need more people chat)

@mona-prithey

Freaky ahh akka

@neglectedshampoobottle

NEW MOOTS/MOOTS I TALK TO YALL ARE SO COOL

@nazuk-kali ily hooman

@midnight-blues07 agrees w my insanity

@under-the-purple-starsss love the music recs

@songs-of-the-hesperides

@preposterousray @preposterous-reblogs amazing poet yall follow the blogs

@mrignaini my shayla dont deactivate again ill cry

@tehmam HARPIC CULT

@zeherili-ankhein ostrich. self proclaimed clone fucker expert ?

@tum-naam-sochlo-merese-ni-hora pigeon

@hellincarnation

@toomanyfanficsbruh nicest person ever w amazing music recs

@tinyumbrellaz

@yangthejeong

@madigankrauss

@idk-here-for-the-escapism educator. ( that's your tag now hehehe) THE SWEETEST PERSON EVER

KINKY MOOT

last but not and the least cool

@practicalromantic kinky ass child that I like to bully

ik i missed many of yall im going on a mission through my dms to remember your blog names

Divider credits :

@anitalenia

@strangergraphics

@anythingraven

[sarasade]

Since The Dragon Prince is ending (or at least the second arc is ending) in December I'll celebrate that by listing the funniest things I've witnessed in the fandom during these years:

-The Great Aaravos Thirst of 2019.

-Knowing The Thirst™ had been even greater if Tumblr wouldn't have banned porn just a year earlier.

-Aaravos' character designer being very happy with all the thirst posting.

-The Great Virst of 2019 that was balanced out by the people who thought Viren was a total troll.

-Rayla-Claudia-Callum love triangle speculations before s3.

-"Viren actually killed everyone, including Sarai and his ex-wife", speculations during s1-3.

-Aaravos Is A Good Person and a cinnamon roll -speculations.

-Fandom calling Ethari "The Tinker" before his name was revealed and also correctly predicting him and Runaan being a couple long before it got confirmed.

-Jason Simpson (Viren's VA) being grumpy about people shipping Aaravos and Viren while Todd Erik Dellums (Aaravos's VA) egged the fans on and seemed to find the ship pretty funny.

-After the Midnight Star poem's full English translation got released some fans concluded that Elarion was a human girl Aaravos once was in love with and thus Elavos was born. You can still search the ship name on Tumblr to experience the time campsule of 2019 era of the fandom. Yes, people shipped Aaravos with a literal city and I think that's beautiful.

-The drought period of 2019-2022 hiatus where it was just a couple really weird terminally online fans posting their harmless headcanons, including a small fandom of a. ten people forming around Viren's ex-wife Lissa.

-Unhinged TDP fan theories like "Aaravos is Callum's Dad" and "Callum will learn every primal source" aka wanting TDP to be Avatar 2.0 but with elves.

-The fan response that parodied these theories including "Everyone is a Startouch elf, especially Bait"

-The Great FartGate of 2022 aka all of TDP Twitter collectively complaining about the fart jokes in s4.

-These 2024 Valentine's Day posts most likely done by the lead writer Devon Giehl.

-If you search Aaravos on Google the most frequently asked question is about his gender.

-TDP wiki gleefully listing Aaravos and Viren as Sir Sparklepuff's parents after s5.

-The fandom never letting go of the "Viren imprisoned Harrow in Pip" theory.

-Which Primal Source Are You -Quiz from 2018 foreshadowing events of the show like "where would you hide a dangerous magical object" and one of the answers being "in the bottom of the sea" possibly referring to Aaravos' pearl.

-A tweet fans thought was a mistake actually foreshadowed Aaravos being a giant.

I'll add more later if I feel like it.

edit:

ok one more: behold, one of the most popular TDP posts on Tumblr

[candiedspit]

Smear Frame (1992)

The night I got home from the hospital, we had peas and squash and good chicken. Nobody spoke. The radio spoke for us; vitamin deficiencies, lights spotted across Vegas, another building demolition. The first couple of days, I stayed in my room throwing a ball against the wall, doing long division in my head. The television playing a documentary about squid brains. On the third night, mama asked what I was planning to do.

You can be a thing in the world, she told me.

We were in the kitchen, the evening light staining the windows above the sink.

You do have a choice, she continued. But you choose to suffer like an idiot. Even the rabbit knows better than to follow the wolf.

Learn something, Jane.

And she left the room. I held her words in the belly of my chest, going over them again and again. That night, I got dressed in my trench coat and went out to the middle of town. The lights were buoyant and fresh, amazing slashes, amazing range. The moon was pinned against the skies like a cop’s badge. I stepped into Lousy’s which was a bar I had been to before. I liked it because it was dark and cold. I often pretended I was in a cave or in some sort of comet, minutes away from approaching the quiet tendrils of earth.

I ordered a Shirley temple and sat at the bar watching the bartender spin and shake and serve drinks.

What’s the drink with the longest name? I asked.

A terrible, unearthed bitter and lame dirt tonic, he said.

I mused on this for a while and eventually someone spoke to me. An older woman wearing red and large earrings asked me what time it was. I shrugged.

Maybe sometime around midnight, I said.

Don’t you have a watch? She asked. What kinda man doesn’t have a watch?

The question of my masculinity continues to come under fire, I laughed.

So, what’s your problem? She asked. Why are you here at maybe sometime around midnight?

I got out of the loony bin last weekend, I said. I’m trying to map out the world again.

How long were you in there for?

Six weeks, I said.

Do they zap your brain? She asked. I had a cousin like that, always in and out of those places.

How is he doing? I asked.

On the side of the road, she said. Begging for cash, not hiding the bad time he’s having.

That’s admirable. But no, they didn’t zap my brain.

Did they strangle you with Valium?

I was never sedated, I said.

Who put you there?

My parents, I said, I was seeing the holes in the plot, could see the failing strings in the fabric of the universe, the whole picture. I stoped eating, stopped sleeping. All I did was play chess with spirits and paint my nails over and over again. I showed the woman my hands. See? They’re clean.

The woman was quiet, sipped on her drink. I continued.

It was sorta nice, I admitted, not speaking to anyone but sounding out the idea.

Being taken care of like an infant who can’t speak. You get medication in the morning and you moan about the news. Someone starts screaming. Someone stops screaming. You go into a dreamless, milky sleep. And your roommate mumbles in his sleep, sweet robotic poems. And you don’t have a pencil so you commit them to memory; a fog roars, abstain, chapel, chapel, chapel. And you disappear from the world. Headlines float around every day and you wander around the unit making funny faces to entertain yourself and someone calls you and they ask how you are and you tell them you can’t wait to go home. And then you get home and the world is indifferent.

Cheers, the woman said.

And we clinked our glasses. Around three, the woman stood up and gave me her number and shook my hand and left. I kept the slip of paper in my coat pocket. I went out to walk by the river-end, watching the rising of the waters, the night reflected on the surface, dark rivulets. A sort of vile peace.

A couple of months afterward, I found work at a fish market. Slicing trout in half and packaging swordfish into white papers. The work was mindless, bleeding work. Nobody spoke to me. I smoked cigarettes. When I got home, the house smelled of blood.

A while later on, I called the woman. I was on my way home from work. I had not spoken to another human being in ten hours. I had forgotten what my voice sounded like. I could see myself getting slower by the minute. Words died in my head like vermin. The woman answered within four rings. I explained who I was. The boy in the trench coat. It was nighttime and we spoke for a while. You were drinking a tall martini and every so often would dive into your purse to fix your lipstick.

You sound different, she said.

I feel different, I said. I feel like an aspirin. I feel like a headache that won’t resolve.

Where are you? She asked.

By the river, I said. I like seeing the water enunciate. Where are you?

She told me she was making tea for her husband.

He’s not feeling well, she said. I’m doing what people say to do; ginger and saltines and warm baths. But he’s persistent with his pain.

Some people are, I said.

The clouds are fragrant tonight, I continued.

It’s getting late. I can see my mother checking the time, fidgeting in the kitchen then checking again. It’s something I relish. Getting home late. The worry she must feel. The worst things happen in your brain. Perhaps I fell down a flight of stairs. Perhaps I cut my hand open on a knife and I’m in the hospital bleeding out beneath the fluorescent lights. She has a feeling but doesn’t want to endorse the feeling in case it becomes a truth. And when I arrive at last, the feeling subsides and instead is replaced with a mute disappointment. I am the one she loves but not the one she missed.

I began to call the woman—whose name I never bothered to ask for, I wanted to name her myself—often. When I was on my lunch break barely eating a tuna sandwich. When I was smoking cigarettes. When I was in my room reading the newspaper and playing with myself. When I was half asleep.

Once, I was naked in bed with the radio on, and there was a sullen exasperation in my stomach. I felt as though I knew when I was going to die and if I focused long enough the date would come to me, would emerge from the foggy brain matter and I would be freed. I had been thinking of death for weeks. Death was my babe, my habit. I had visions of my own death. Dying struck by a moving car and being stuck in the tire. An aneurysm so I’m alive one moment and exploding the next. Being stunned by a bullet and feeling my cells gasp in unison.

Death is an orgasm, I told the woman one night. Death is a great, wondrous love. You go into the light. You feel peace for the first time in your pathetic silly little life.

You sound twisted, the woman said. Death is what you avoid, everything you do, you do to put death out. Your bravado is not going to protect you from what will happen or what has happened.

That winter I was sleepless. I slept for thirty minutes at a time, watched the sunrise slur into my windows, made tea for my parents and gutted samurai fish and wrapped tuna and walked around town, dreaming of poisonous gas. Sometimes, I choked on my visions.

One afternoon, I felt a pop in the back of my head and walked out of work during my lunch break. And walked straight home. When my mother saw me, she placed me on the couch and pointed a flashlight in my eyes and placed a cold towel on my forehead. I mumbled for the angels.

I had been in the hospital for two weeks when I called the woman, I had been blotted out and cast into a week of sleep. I was feeling alright.

What kind of dreams have you been having? The woman asked,

I don’t dream, I told her. I stumble in and out of sleep like a newly born calf. I feel like I’m full of milk, a white calmness in my arteries, a saline stillness.

Come see me, I said. Come see my blue scrubs and bandaged fingers and dirty acne and limp, sedated gait.

I will, she said.

It was New Year’s Eve when she came. The nurses had hung up garlands and the television played the ball drop in New York City; that mirage a thousand light years away.

We were given virgin champagne and the nurses counted down with us and the woman was there, her hand on my back.

Focus on living one breath at a time, she said. Count the breaths until you forget you’re even counting.

The year turned over onto her stomach. That night, I laid down and recounted the poem again.

Chapel. Chapel. Chapel.

[aaknopf]

The little poem that can punch above its weight has a long tradition in The New Yorker. No poem is too short to matter—as in Louise Bogan’s couplet below, with a title longer than the poem itself. With this sampling, we also offer up their excellent versions from the audiobook of the magazine’s poetry anthology, performed by a diverse community of professional narrators, who delighted in the chance to give voice to a vast array of poets and their work.

"Solitary Observation Brought Back From a Short Sojourn in Hell" by Louise Bogan

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

"Wake" by Langston Hughes

Tell all my mourners To mourn in red— ’Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.

"Superfluous Advice" by Dorothy Parker

Should they whisper false of you,      Never trouble to deny; Should the words they speak be true,      Weep and storm and swear they lie.

"My Father Was a Snowman" by Sparrow

My father was a snowman, but he melted.

All that’s left is his eyes—two pieces of coal— that sit on my kitchen table and watch me as I walk around the room.

I ate his nose a long time ago.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker and browse the companion centennial anthology, A Century of Fiction in The New Yorker.

Hear Kevin Young, poetry editor at The New Yorker and editor of A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, speak to Knopf editor Deborah Garrison about the poetry anthology in a special New Yorker Poetry Podcast episode.  

Celebrate The New Yorker’s centenary with additional events throughout 2025 including special exhibitions from the New York Public Library (A Century of The New Yorker, running from Feb. 22, 2025 – Feb. 21, 2026 and available online here) and the Society of Illustrators (Drawn From The New Yorker, running from Jan 8, 2025 – May 3, 2025).

Visit our Tumblr to share this poem and peruse other poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[myangelhaven]

These are my recommendations of HYUNJIN fics! It will be updated once in a while for new stories I have read. Hopefully the links work (lemme know if it doesn't)

Credits to the authors!! All information written is taken from the authors' post and has not been modified. Reminder that some fics are NOT for minors, so please read the key and avoid 18+ contents.

HAPPY READING!!

KEY

[❀]: fluff [𖦹]: humour [𖤓]: angst [☄]: sad [☾]:smut [⟡]:smau [✮]: my favs

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------HYUNJIN-------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

DRABBLES & SHORT FICS

ten things hwang hyunjin says when he thinks you’re asleep by @soobnny [❀]

Photobooth kisses by @neos127 [❀]

you're in the wind, i'm in the water by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓][✮][f2l][unrequited but not]

The Kisses You Left (Marked My Soul) by @seo--changbin [❀][✮][soulmateau]

a drabble inspired by hyunjin's mole

Love potion by @ppiri-bahng [❀]

you try to slip Hyunjin a love potion thinking that he could never love you back

Waiting for us by @ppiri-bahng [𖤓][☄][happy ending][suggestive]

you’re afraid to let hyunjin love you, but he’d wait forever for you

Say yes to heaven by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓]

seven minutes in heaven except you're heartbroken and hyunjin has a huge crush on you. angst and slightly suggestive in the end.

Say yes to me: after your seven minutes in heaven, hyunjin wants to plan out how he'll finally confess to you. except you come knocking on the door of his rented cabin unannounced. at 10:53 pm. the perfect time for love, he comes to learn.

Somebody else by @astraystayyh [𖤓][☄][ex2l][happy ending]

You and Hyunjin have broken up, guilt and blame simmering between you both. He doesn't care anymore, or so he thought. Then why does it hurt him to see you with someone else?

Untitled by @hwanghyunjinenthusiast [❀][𖤓][☾][e2l?]

Hwang Hyunjin is insufferable. You can't stand him despite the treacherous thoughts that cross your mind. Hyunjin decides to really call into question just how much you seemingly can't stand him.

Erubescent by @cle1024 [❀][𖤓][e2l]

why are my cheeks erubescent? i shouldn’t be feeling this way about you; i’m not supposed to trust you.  

Spilled tea by @quokkawritesarchive[☾][roommatesau]

Request: maybe like a hot roomate smut,? y/n and hyunjin are roomates for a while now but they barely interact and talk. one day late at night while y/n is drinking water in their shared kitchen (in just panties and a oversized shirt) hyunjin barges in for a midnight snack too (shirtless as he was sleeping) they both awkwardly bump into eachother seeing each other in such less clothing but they finally suck it up and have a good deep convo for the 1st time as roomates and they get to know a lot abt eachother. just to mention y/n is sitting on the kitchen counter while hyun is standing and the sexual tension arises mid convo. can this smut be limited to dry humping and tons of marking lolol

Honey's by @cbini [☾][sexshopowner]

Places, places! By @forlix [❀][𖤓][fwb?][idolhyunjin][suggestive] 1.3K

you’re just trying to do your job; your client has other ideas.

Straykids soulmate aus by @sweetkpopmusings [❀][soulmate au] 1.3k

each soulmate has half a quote that is important to their relationship tattooed on their body.

Pretty cute by @scxrlettwxtches [❀] 1.6k

The moment Hwang Hyunjin snatched the unofficial confession from your desk (which he was definitely not supposed to read), you knew you were royally screwed.

It's a scream, baby! by @luvyeni [❀][☾][ghostfaceau][knifeplay] 1.7k

you can’t help but tease the man in the mask, that’s until he catches you

Mistletoe by @iinnie [❀][bff2l][mutual pining] 1.8k

pushing your feelings for him aside, you’re determined to get hyunjin under the mistletoe with his crush. what you’re not aware of, though, is that he’s crushing on you, his long-time best friend.

I didn't actually love you by @amelee23 [❀][✮] 3.1k

Your friends forced you to become part of a poetry club, and when you receive a task to write a poem about sadness, you realize you accidentally write it about Hyunjin, the guy you had a crush on and tried to forget about. And he finds out.

Gleam and glitter by @jishyucks [❀][f2l][richkidau] 3.4k

You’ve quickly established that no one at this damn charity gala cares about the event’s purpose. They were just there to party. And you wanted nothing else but to leave; alternatively, in which Hyunjin saves you from your misery to see the city’s Christmas lights.

Just like you by @milkandhyunnie [𖤓][☾][exes] 3.7k

you’re trying to move on from your toxic ex boyfriend when you run into him at the club—only to find out that he has a brand new girlfriend that looks just like you

Third wheel by @cb97percent [☾☾][3some] w/ bangchan 4.1k

It would be wrong if you were attracted to one of your best friends since they are in a relationship, but you don't know what the protocol is when you have the hots for both of them.

Boy next door by @strayed-quokka [❀][𖤓][☾][✮][chf2l][brother's bff2l] 4.9k

you’d known hyunjin for most of your life, introduced as a friend of your brothers and quickly someone who cared for you. he was there as you grew up, driving you home from parties, getting you out of lectures from your parents, or checking on you when your brother couldn’t. 

so when you’d asked the favor of renting his extra room for a year whilst you adjusted living in a new city for university, your brother didn’t even blink or question it. 

maybe he should’ve. 

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄more to come!⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

☆-------Hyunjin's masterlist || skz masterlist--------☆

[forestdeath1]

Poet

@prongsfoot-microfic

January 23, 1977

James lies with his eyes closed on the dusty bed in the Shrieking Shack, his nose buried in Sirius's waist. His left hand casually rests on his friend's thigh. Sirius, leaning against the headboard, is flipping through the pages of some yellowed book, faintly illuminated by the dying light of sunset seeping through the cracks of the old windows.

"What's that you're reading?" James mumbles sleepily into his friend's shirt.

"Some muggle poetry. Lily gave it to me," Sirius responds.

"Why does Lily give you books?" James lifts his head slightly.

"Because, unlike you, I'm not a toerag. I can actually talk to her without making a fool of myself, you know?"

"Oh, shut it," James exhales, lightly hitting Sirius's book with his hand before rolling onto his back. "She likes me."

"Of course, she does," Sirius agrees, without looking up from his book. "Everyone does."

"Right," James pretends not to hear the irony in Sirius's voice. Or maybe he genuinely doesn't.

"Muggles can write beautifully, did you know?" Sirius asks a few minutes later.

"Nah," James answers lazily, yawning and stretching. Today he had to get up even earlier than usual – Stone had set a penalty training for their team for "improper conduct on the field."

"Listen to this," Sirius starts reading, sliding his left hand into James's hair.

Sirius twirls a lock of James's hair around his finger while his voice fills the room with the dramas of human lives, clothed in rhymed lines. James looks at the log ceiling, studying the patterns of darkened grooves and scratches, listening. 

Sirius has a beautiful voice. He even makes poetry sound interesting. Poetry? Since when did James care about poetry? But with Sirius, even poetry seems fascinating.

Well, it's not like he's genuinely into poetry, but he likes how Sirius reads them – like he's the hero of these stories, not just a bystander.  If any of them has a refined soul, it's definitely Sirius, though he'd never admit it. 

This boy has a knack for finding the hidden poetry in the prose of life – something James has always lacked. Sirius – a lyrical child of the night. Daunting, dark, and dangerous, but only to those who haven't yet learned to understand it, who haven't seen that he is a reflection of the most dazzling white light.

"Do you like it?" Sirius asks after a while.

"Yeah," James whispers, turning back towards Sirius and pressing his face against his side, slipping his hand under the shirt to rest it on Sirius's chest. "Write me a poem," James looks up, smiling slightly.

Sirius laughs softly and clears his throat dramatically.

"Oh, James the Magnificent, greatest of the great, brightest of the bright..." he begins theatrically, extending his hand in a caricature of a gesture.

"And who's making a fool of themselves now?" James sighs, suppressing a chuckle, and lowers his head back to Sirius's waist. Sirius flicks him on the head in response.

They lie like that for a while. James hears the rustle of turning pages and the howling of the winter wind. He feels the warmth of Sirius's body under his palm. They're always warm, both of them. Moony often jokes that they can use them instead of warming charms for their dorm.

"Actually, I found a poem here," Sirius suddenly says, "just needs a little tweaking..."

"Tell me."

Sirius pauses for a moment, then flips through the pages and stops at the right one. James raises his gaze to him, looking up – Sirius has always dubbed this particular expression as 'the deer look'.

Sirius thoughtfully shifts his gaze from the book to James, smiles with one corner of his mouth, ruffles James's hair, and, returning his grey eyes to the book, quietly says:

"He is my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I think this love will last forever: am I not wrong?"

"What did you change?"

"Just the last line. It's originally about loss. 'I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.' But I like my version better. You?"

"Me too," James lifts himself on his elbows, presses against Sirius's ear, and whispers, "I think this love will last forever," then kisses him, moving lower down his neck and deeper, sliding his hand under the shirt. "You are not wrong."

___

October 31, 1981

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden

[julesofnature]

A Poem on Hope by Wendell Berry It is hard to have hope. It is harder as you grow old, for hope must not depend on feeling good and there is the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight. You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality of the future, which surely will surprise us, and hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction any more than by wishing. But stop dithering. The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them? Tell them at least what you say to yourself. Because we have not made our lives to fit our places, the forests are ruined, the fields eroded, the streams polluted, the mountains overturned. Hope then to belong to your place by your own knowledge of what it is that no other place is, and by your caring for it as you care for no other place, this place that you belong to though it is not yours, for it was from the beginning and will be to the end. Belong to your place by knowledge of the others who are your neighbors in it: the old man, sick and poor, who comes like a heron to fish in the creek, and the fish in the creek, and the heron who manlike fishes for the fish in the creek, and the birds who sing in the trees in the silence of the fisherman and the heron, and the trees that keep the land they stand upon as we too must keep it, or die. This knowledge cannot be taken from you by power or by wealth. It will stop your ears to the powerful when they ask for your faith, and to the wealthy when they ask for your land and your work. Answer with knowledge of the others who are here and how to be here with them. By this knowledge make the sense you need to make. By it stand in the dignity of good sense, whatever may follow. Speak to your fellow humans as your place has taught you to speak, as it has spoken to you. Speak its dialect as your old compatriots spoke it before they had heard a radio. Speak publicly what cannot be taught or learned in public. Listen privately, silently to the voices that rise up from the pages of books and from your own heart. Be still and listen to the voices that belong to the streambanks and the trees and the open fields. There are songs and sayings that belong to this place, by which it speaks for itself and no other. Found your hope, then, on the ground under your feet. Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground underfoot. Be it lighted by the light that falls freely upon it after the darkness of the nights and the darkness of our ignorance and madness. Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you, which is the light of imagination. By it you see the likeness of people in other places to yourself in your place. It lights invariably the need for care toward other people, other creatures, in other places as you would ask them for care toward your place and you. No place at last is better than the world. The world is no better than its places. Its places at last are no better than their people while their people continue in them. When the people make dark the light within them, the world darkens.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Heyy! If you're comfortable enough , I was wondering if you could do something similar to one of your stories for wade; courting death but with nightcrawler?

Maybe something like death is nocturnal and walks xaviers schools hallways at night and reader(death) and nightcrawler bump into each other ?

(Ps. I want to watch your writing its so good!!!!!!)

Whispers of moonlight

The halls of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters were eerily quiet at night, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The moonlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long, soft shadows that danced across the floor. The students were all asleep, their dreams untroubled for once, thanks to the vigilant protection of their mentors and friends. But in the stillness of the night, a figure moved, silent and unseen, as if it were part of the darkness itself.

You were used to the quiet, to the feeling of the world at rest. The night was your domain, a time when your presence as Death felt less like a burden and more like a natural part of existence. You didn’t choose this mutation, this role that tied you so closely to the end of all things. But you’d learned to embrace it, to find beauty in the moments others feared. The night was when you felt most at peace, when you could walk the halls without the weight of expectation pressing down on you.

It was during one of these walks that you first saw him.

Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler—was a familiar face around the mansion. His blue skin, glowing yellow eyes, and tail set him apart, even among mutants. But it wasn’t his appearance that caught your attention that night. It was the way he moved, graceful and fluid, as if the darkness welcomed him just as much as it did you.

You turned a corner and nearly collided with him. His eyes widened in surprise, but there was no fear in them, only curiosity. “Ah, guten Abend,” he greeted, his voice warm and soft, as if he didn’t want to disturb the stillness around you both.

“Good evening, Kurt,” you replied, your voice a whisper in the quiet. Most people shied away from you, sensing the weight of your mutation, but not him. He looked at you like you were just another person, not the embodiment of something as final as death.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his expression inviting, not prying.

“Something like that,” you answered, a small smile playing on your lips. “What about you? Why are you wandering the halls so late?”

He chuckled softly, his tail swaying lazily behind him. “I’ve always loved the night,” he admitted. “It reminds me of the circus. We used to perform under the stars, with lights so bright you could almost forget it was dark. The cheers of the crowd, the thrill of the performance... it was magical.”

You listened intently, picturing the scenes he described, the vivid colors and sounds of the circus coming to life in your mind. “It sounds wonderful,” you said, genuinely touched by the joy in his voice.

Kurt’s eyes softened as he looked at you. “And what about you? What brings you out into the night?”

You hesitated for a moment before answering. “I’ve always found peace in the quiet of the night. It’s when I feel most... myself. The moon, the stars—they’re like old friends. I like to walk and think, sometimes I even recite poetry to them.”

His curiosity deepened, and he moved a little closer, his presence comforting. “Poetry?”

You nodded, glancing out the window at the glowing moon. “There’s something about the night that brings out the poet in me. The way the world changes when the sun sets, how everything seems softer, quieter... It’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe.”

Kurt’s gaze followed yours to the moon, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Would you share one with me? A poem, I mean.”

You paused, searching your mind for the right words, then began softly, your voice blending with the silence around you:

“The moon hangs low in the midnight sky, A silver thread in a tapestry of black. Her light is gentle, her whispers shy, Guiding the lost souls on their track. In her glow, the world is still, A breath held tight, a heart at peace. She watches over, calm and chill,Until the dawn, when all shall cease.”

Kurt listened, enraptured by the calm in your voice, the way your words seemed to carry the very essence of the night. When you finished, he was quiet for a moment, as if he didn’t want to break the spell your poem had cast.

“That was... beautiful,” he said finally, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. “You have a gift.”

You looked at him, surprised by the warmth in his words. “Thank you, Kurt.”

From that night on, things changed. Kurt made it a point to stay awake, to meet you in the quiet halls when the rest of the world was asleep. The two of you would walk together, exchanging stories—his of the circus, of the bright lights and cheering crowds that made him feel alive; yours of the moon and the stars, and the peaceful beauty you found in the night.

He told you of his daring acts, of the joy he felt soaring through the air, the thrill of the audience’s adoration. You shared more poems with him, painting pictures with your words of the serene, nocturnal world you loved.

As the nights passed, Kurt began to understand you in a way few others did. He saw the beauty in your quiet strength, in the way you carried the weight of your mutation with grace. And you, in turn, found comfort in his presence, in the way he brought light to the darkest hours.

The mansion’s halls no longer felt lonely. They were filled with whispered stories and shared smiles, with the soft sound of your laughter and Kurt’s joyful energy. The night became something to look forward to, a time when you could be yourself, not just Death, but a person with hopes, dreams, and a deep appreciation for the world’s quiet moments.

And as the two of you stood together under the moonlight, you couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, you had found something just as magical as Kurt’s circus—companionship, understanding, and a connection that transcended the boundaries of day and night.

[cryptidcr3ature]

Wolf and Dog

He was never a father

he just had a son.

A son to pawn

when the well ran dry.

A boy to abandon

when the going got hard.

A little heart to break

when interest is lost.

The son must learn

that not all fathers are good.

A father who takes

without any give.

A father who screams

with nothing to say.

A wolf who bites

when his prey is weak.

After the father’s gone

the son remains.

A boy that reaped

the sins of the father.

A boy that breaks

once the pressure builds.

A dog that snaps

to remember the wolf.

Wrote a little poem I wrote based of red dead. It might not be perfect, it’s midnight, but I won’t chicken out of posting. Let me know if you think this is something you all would want more of

[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

February Promptlist + Questions - Ship Oriented

February Promptlist

Feel free to write/draw/create as many or as few of these as you like! There's one for every day of the month.

A Quiet Show of Affection

Favourite Place to Kiss/Be Kissed

Inside Joke

Dream Date

"My ideal person is "__"

First Kiss Last Kiss

Patching each other/one of them up

Sharing Food

Meeting the Parents (Letter to their partners Parents?)

"Do you think we're together in every universe?"

Falling Asleep Together/ On Their Shoulder (Bonus Points if it's some place unexpected)

Sharing a Hobby For the First Time

"Let Me Spoil You"

Decompressing Together

Studying

The First "I Love You"

"Would you still love me if I was a worm"

Favourite Memory Together

A Tradition They Start

Pet Peeves / Mini Arguments (/lh)

Favourite AU They're In

Sharing Secrets

Midnight Rendezvous

(Theoretically) Going Home Without Saying Goodbye

How Others See Them (intentionally Vague lmfao)

"I Keep Falling In Love With You, Over and Over Again."

Protectiveness (Either of each other, a belonging, etc. etc.)

Marriage Vows / Wedding Planning / Promise Ring

The People Want To Know:

When did they realize they had fallen in love?

Who was their biggest hypeman/wingman?

What was something they were surprised to learn about each other after dating?

How often do they celebrate "anniversaries"? (month-iversaries? etc.)

Who asked who out, and how/where?

How soon did other people find out?

If they could dress up their s/o in anything, what would it be? (bonus points if it's a thrift store fit)

What's a date they could go on over and over again and never get tired of?

Who knows who better? Could they prove it?

What are their hopes for the future?

What's something they haven't told each other yet?

Have they ever written a poem/song, etc. about each other? Does the other know?

If they could take a vacation together, where would they go and how would they spend it?

What's a small sacrifice they make for each other?

What is their favourite part about each other? How do they get on each others nerves?

And any other question you might want to ask!!

As I mentioned on my last ask game, if you reblog an ask game from someone send one into them. This is just general tumblr etiquette for those of us who might be newer to this site ^^ (you do not need to send any into me /gen/lh just because I will likely answer things on my own time!)

Anyways, Enjoy!!

(no taglist bc I made this on DC and a bunch of folks already saw it lmao)

[cedarmoonzz]

quiet, the winter harbor

ship: mentioned kurapika x reader

warnings: none. just angst and pain and more pain.

summary: in york new, the snow is harsh and unpredictable. kurapika thinks of what once was and what can be.

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Winter is a dream and I love you, Kurapika.

His mother used to say that.

Always in the same breath, a run-on sentence that drifted on chill winds, rendering them almost poetic. Fragmented whispers intertwined, swirling like the storm outside, seeping into your clothes, your nose, your chest, and residing there forever. This ritualistic chant kept the cold at bay; that's what his mother taught him, repeating the phrase until the boy could murmur it in his sleep.

In his dreams, the syllables rose and fell like points of a star folded into a circle, endlessly repeating. Perpetually.

WinterisadreamandIlove

Learning it this way, reciting it so, turned the season gentle no matter how bitter the air bit.

Now that he is older, Kurapika has discovered that the blizzard-rhyme mantra doesn’t always work. But it helps.

He repeats the words to himself now, watching the weather unfold, years and a lifetime away from the home where he first heard the incantation. Night deepens, from sunset into a realm beyond indigo. It's dark, almost black, and when he lifts his hands to the sky, Kurapika’s fingernails merge with the bleakness. His knuckles become pale night-clouds, obscuring the few stars that dare to appear.

A poem of exhalation whispers from his mouth, unfurling from his throat, fogging the air. The freeze of winter invades within. The warmth of his breath escapes without.

It’s beginning to snow.

The first flakes arrive quietly, like early visitors hoping to go unnoticed as they settle. A few land on Kurapika’s upturned palms, and by the time he lowers his hands, they have already melted away. In York New, the snow is harsh and unpredictable, its gentleness stripped away. Without a layer to insulate yourself from it—fabric or nen, glass or glove—you destroy what you seek to touch, ruin it with your very existence. Snowflakes require time to study. They are like people.

No two alike.

At times, the quest for closeness seems as elusive as a mirage in the desert. Kurapika reminisces about the moments spent with Y/n, where the intimacy was as delicate and ephemeral as the snowflakes he yearns to capture. The closeness he sought felt akin to grasping at snow before it vanished—intense, yet fleeting. Similarly, Y/n’s presence was a paradox of familiarity and enigma, their bond a beautiful tapestry that remained vulnerable to the caprices of fate. Much like snow, their connection was governed by forces beyond their control, and though they reached for each other with heartfelt desire, instances of genuine closeness were as rare and precious as capturing a snowflake on the tip of a finger.

Kurapika was enchanted by that mystery early on, while his mother brewed hot teas to keep him safe from the flu, and his father laughed, bringing extra blankets. The windows of their ramshackle home were heavy with frost that year. His parents insulated the cracks and panes with Kurtan tapestries, leaving only a tiny slice of view for Kurapika to part the curtains and peer out at the storm.

Winter is a dream, his mother sighed, song-like, touching her slender hand to the windowpane, dwarfing his own stubby child-fingers. And I love you, Kurapika.

His father joined them, tucking the blanket around his wife’s shoulders, dropping a fold on his child’s head. The coarse weave rubbed against Kurapika’s cheek as he leaned into it. The knobbiness of his father’s knee pressed against his back, assembling his limbs on the bed where they all sat. With his arms wrapped around his family, the man bent his head to kiss Kurapika’s hair, watching the evening unravel into midnight.

His mother understood the delicate way snow fell. Kurapika could see it in her eyes. The reverence for nature’s fragility, the awareness of how easily it could be destroyed; she knew that what once existed could never be revived, only remade at best. Refrozen.

Flakes descended by the thousands, never individually noticed, buried beneath the shrouds of their companions, but Kurapika’s mother seemed intent on memorizing every single one as they fell.

Even when the boy was fighting sleep, lids heavy and head resting against his father’s chest, Kurapika’s mother was still touching the windowpane.

Understanding.

You couldn’t piece people together the way you made ice, pouring water into molds and sliding the tray into the freezer, timing the process with a watch. When snowflakes melted, you could never freeze them back into the same shape.

But you could try.

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

[azmodeusjay]

Hello Jon,

Just as i had hoped, you are alone,

Reading my letter on the floor.

This feeling compares to none.

Now it finally has begun.

Ending the world is no small work,

But let me show you what its worth.

A peak behind the curtain is well deserved.

You may just be my tool, but this much you've earned.

As time flew by, i have remained,

With hunger for knowledge I've yet to attain.

Many alleys lost to trial.

Emotional attachment is not my style.

I have built this tower of sight

To extand the time of my prime.

It's granted me powers, overseeing it all.

I may be sat here, but i'm as free as a dove.

Jon, can't you see?

It's all for power and immortality!

Don't shame me for pursuing simple pleasures.

Many others would choose no better.

Don't fear the fate that is near.

Your words must not be unclear.

For this moment i have prayed, you'll like it here,

In this world that we've made, repeat after me:

You who watch and know and understand none.

You who's power shall block out the sun.

You who take all that's not yours by right.

You who drink the true moments of fright.

Come to us in your perfection!

Bring all that is fear with said action!

So bring forth all that crawls and chokes and blinds

And falls and twists and leaves and weaves and hides

And hunts and burns and rips and bleeds and dies!

For all the pain they're not ready for

I open the door!

It's midnight and i suddenly felt the need to write Mag 160 into a little poem. I'm not a poet, im not good at this. I never learned learned anything about how to write poems in english. (My first lanuage isn't english.)

Its bad, and im sorry

[strangelittlestories]

Before the curse, Joaquin had never considered that pain had a sound.

It was like the sky before a storm, the air taut and stretched like a violin string. It wailed as if clawed hands tore wire strands to tinnitus unraveling.

But there was a pattern in it. Like someone playing the saw on your bones. A bass drum beat vibrating through your brain meat.

Joaquin heard it when the demon of the north star struck him with soul sickness and wind howled through the cracks of him. He heard it when he and his coven argued and came to blows; it was like Sam’s black eye sang. He heard it when Andros broke his heart, then his flayed affections began to whisper in the dark.

He tried to shrug it off. He tried to ignore the strange sense the curse had awoken in him. He tried to believe that it was in his head, just a fae illusion.

But he found himself looking for the sound. Longing for it. In the chaos of a fight, he hunted for it. When he made sacrifice to the Midnight Teachers, he ached for it. When he danced around the bonfire and the flames kissed his cheek, he would hear it and he would sigh.

Because it had begun to make sense. He could hear … not quite words, but *meaning* in the pain-song.

“Go here.”

“Help them.”

“Sorrow.”

Simple things. Strange things. Worrying things. And usually deciphered too late to do any good.

Joaquin began to hope that maybe, just maybe, that if he could only learn to listen better, then maybe he could make a difference. Maybe he could discern a pattern in the meaning. Maybe it would not always end in sorrow. He became reckless. After all, if he got hurt (or if he hurt someone else), that was just an opportunity for more half-heard prophecy…

The fairy who cursed him visited Joaquin in hospital.

“Do you understand now?” they asked, in their voice that crackled like old modems.

“I don’t know.” Joaquin’s throat was raw from old screams. “I only have the edges, not the middle. I feel like everything is edges now.”

“Everything was always edges. Sharp as yearning. Bitter as boundaries.”

“Is it real? The poem in the ache. The omen in the agony. Or do you just want me dead?”

“I want you to learn to understand.” The fairy tutted and the hospital lights cracked. “But I don’t much mind if the lesson kills you…”

“Understand what? The noise in the pain … where does it come from?”

“The world, of course. Pain is just a signal. And you, witches, you are the earth’s nerve endings. Just conduits, usually. But if I turn up the volume! Then we can eavesdrop on the worldbrain.”

“Why?”

“Because something is wrong. Very wrong. Its usual confidante, um, let’s say: ‘ghosted’ it.”

“Why me?”

“You were around. You wronged me. This will probably still kill you.” The fairy smiled its oil-slick smile. “But won’t it be nice for you to die *useful*?”

[apricitys-things]

INTRODUCTION -`♡´-

I'm Apricity (or Ang), I plan on posting thoughts, art maybe, poems, anything, I guess. I use any pronouns they/she/he. I'm an INFP-T. I'm a little awkward so bear with me pls. (ᵕŏᴗŏ) I'm a huge art fan, I pretty much love all things creative. I like to draw, paint, sculpt, make music (still learning), photography, though I don't dance, unfortunately. I really love lilies and tulips, other flowers as well but I’d say those are my top two. I love pandas and capybaras. My favorite Sanrio character is Pompompurin. If you can't already tell, I love the color pink, - an old obsession resurfacing- but I also really love the color blue. (I make many art pieces based solely on blue hues.) If I were a color, I think I'd be a mix of the two, like Garnet's first form where she looks like cotton candy and is very curious, that'd be me. I could go on and on, but I'll save that for a later post.

I suppose I should talk more in depth about my interests, so here's a list.

Music: Cigarettes After Sex (BIG fan), Mitski, Ichiko Aoba, Mac Demarco, My Little Airport, BUBBLE TEA AND CIGARETTES, Chet Baker, Alice Pheobe Lou, Paramore, Café Tacuba, and so much more.

Movies/Shows: (I'm a big anime nerd) A Silent Voice, MFKZ, Spider-Man (Multiverse vers), Pigtails, The Midnight Gospel, Saiki K, Stars Align, Steven Universe, My Hero Academia, Banana Fish, BoJack Horseman, Haikyuu, Mononoke, all Ghibli movies, Princess Jellyfish, and so on.

Books: Girl in Pieces, The Song of Achilles, Heaven, What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours. (I am starting to get back into reading, so I'd appreciate any recommendations ^-^)

Video games: Animal Crossing, Minecraft, PJSK, Roblox lol. Pretty small amount but I think it's worth mentioning.

I'm not sure what else to put, but I'll definitely update it whenever there's anything new to add. Anyways, definitely interact if you feel like it, I'm hoping to make friends or moots. ˶‘ ᵕ ‘˶