#a poem for small things post series

[soracities]

what are your suggestions for starter poetry for people who dont have strong reading/analysis backgrounds

I've answered this a few times so I'm going to compile and expand them all into one post here.

I think if you haven't read much poetry before or aren't sure of your own tastes yet, then poetry anthologies are a great place to start: many of them will have a unifying theme so you can hone in based on a subject that interests you, or pick your way through something more general. I haven't read all of the ones below, but I have read most of them; the rest I came across in my own readings and added to my list either because I like the concept or am familiar with the editor(s) / their work:

Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times (ed. Nick Astley) & Being Alive: The Sequel to Staying Alive (there's two more books in this series, but I'm recommending these two just because it's where I started)

The Rattlebag (ed. Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes)

The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (ed. Ilya Kaminsky & Susan Harris)

The Essential Haiku, Versions of Basho, Buson and Issa (ed. Robert Hass)

A Book of Luminous Things (ed. Czesław Miłosz )

Now and Then: The Poet's Choice Columns by Robert Hass (this may be a good place to start if you're also looking for commentary on the poems themselves)

Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World(ed. Pádraig Ó'Tuama)

African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle and Song (ed. Kevin Young)

The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing (ed. Kevin Young)

Lifelines: Letters from Famous People about their Favourite Poems

The following lists are authors I love in one regard or another and is a small mix of different styles / time periods which I think are still fairly accessible regardless of what your reading background is! It's be no means exhaustice but hopefully it gives you even just a small glimpse of the range that's available so you can branch off and explore for yourself if any particular work speaks to you.

But in any case, for individual collections, I would try:

anything by Sara Teasdale

Devotions / Wild Geese / Felicity by Mary Oliver

Selected Poems and Prose by Christina Rossetti

Collected Poems by Langston Hughes

Where the Sidewalk Endsby Shel Silverstein

Morning Haiku by Sonia Sanchez

Revolutionary Letters, Diane di Prima

Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved by Gregory Orr

Rose: Poems by Li-Young Lee

A Red Cherry on a White-Tiled Floor / Barefoot Souls by Maram al-Masri

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

Tell Me: Poems / What is This Thing Called Love? by Kim Addonizio

The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins (Billy Collins is THE go-to for accessible / beginner poetry in my view so I think any of his collections would probably do)

Crush by Richard Siken

Rapture / The World's Wife by Carol Ann Duffy

The War Works Hard by Dunya Mikhail

Selected Poems by Walt Whitman

View with a Grain of Sand by Wislawa Szymborska

Collected Poems by Vasko Popa

Under Milkwood by Dylan Thomas (this is a play, but Thomas is a poet and the language & structure is definitely poetic to me)

Bright Dead Things: Poems by Ada Limón

Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire,

Nostalgia, My Enemy: Selected Poems by Saadi Youssef

As for individual poems:

“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

[Dear The Vatican] erasure poem by Pádraig Ó'Tuama // "The Pedagogy of Conflict"

"Good Bones" by Maggie Smith

"The Author Writes the First Draft of His Weddings Vows (An erasure of Virginia Woolf's suicide letter to her husband, Leonard)" by Hanif Abdurraqib

"I Can Tell You a Story" by Chuck Carlise

"The Sciences Sing a Lullabye" by Albert Goldbarth

"One Last Poem for Richard" by Sandra Cisneros

"We Lived Happily During the War" by Ilya Kaminsky

“I’m Explaining a Few Things”by Pablo Neruda

"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" //"Nothing Gold Can Stay"//"Out, Out--" by Robert Frost

"Tablets: I // II // III"by Dunya Mikhail

"What Were They Like?" by Denise Levertov

"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden,

"The Patience of Ordinary Things" by Pat Schneider

“I, too” // "The Negro Speaks of Rivers” // "Harlem” // “Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes

“The Mower” // "The Trees" // "High Windows" by Philip Larkin

“The Leash” // “Love Poem with Apologies for My Appearance” // "Downhearted" by Ada Limón

“The Flea” by John Donne

"The Last Rose of Summer" by Thomas Moore

"Beauty" // "Please don't" // "How it Adds Up" by Tony Hoagland

“My Friend Yeshi” by Alice Walker

"De Humanis Corporis Fabrica"byJohn Burnside

“What Do Women Want?” // “For Desire” // "Stolen Moments" // "The Numbers" by Kim Addonizio

“Hummingbird” // "For Tess" by Raymond Carver

"The Two-Headed Calf" by Laura Gilpin

“Bleecker Street, Summer” by Derek Walcott

“Dirge Without Music” // "What Lips My Lips Have Kissed" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Digging” // “Mid-Term Break” // “The Rain Stick” // "Blackberry Picking" // "Twice Shy" by Seamus Heaney

“Dulce Et Decorum Est”by Wilfred Owen

“Notes from a Nonexistent Himalayan Expedition”by Wislawa Szymborska

"Hour" //"Medusa" byCarol Ann Duffy

“The More Loving One” // “Musée des Beaux Arts” by W.H. Auden

“Small Kindnesses” // "Feeding the Worms" by Danusha Laméris

"Down by the Salley Gardens” // “The Stolen Child” by W.B. Yeats

"The Thing Is" by Ellen Bass

"The Last Love Letter from an Entymologist" by Jared Singer

"[i like my body when it is with your]" by e.e. cummings

"Try to Praise the Mutilated World" by Adam Zagajewski

"The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje

"Last Night I Dreamed I Made Myself" by Paige Lewis

"A Dream Within a Dream" // "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe (highly recommend reading the last one out loud or listening to it recited)

"Ars Poetica?" // "Encounter" // "A Song on the End of the World"by Czeslaw Milosz

"Wandering Around an Albequerque Airport Terminal” // "Two Countries” // "Kindness” by Naoimi Shihab Nye

"Slow Dance” by Matthew Dickman

"The Archipelago of Kisses" // "The Quiet World" by Jeffrey McDaniel

"Mimesis" by Fady Joudah

"The Great Fires" // "The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart" // "Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert

"The Mermaid" // "Virtuosi" by Lisel Mueller

"Macrophobia (Fear of Waiting)" by Jamaal May

"Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong" by Ocean Vuong

"Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou

I would also recommend spending some times with essays, interviews, or other non-fiction, creative or otherwise (especially by other poets) if you want to broaden and improve how you read poetry; they can help give you a wider idea of the landscape behind and beyond the actual poems themselves, or even just let you acquaint yourself with how particular writers see and describe things in the world around them. The following are some of my favourites:

Upstream: Essays by Mary Oliver

"Theory and Play of the Duende" by Federico García Lorca

"The White Bird" and "Some Notes on Song" by John Berger

In That Great River: A Notebook by Anna Kamienska

A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance by Hanif Abdurraqib

The Book of Delights by Ross Gay

"Of Strangeness That Wakes Us" and "Still Dancing: An Interview with Ilya Kaminsky" by Ilya Kaminsky

"The Sentence is a Lonely Place" by Garielle Lutz

Still Life with Oysters and Lemon by Mark Doty

Paris, When It's Naked by Etel Adnan

#ask #anonymous #beginner guides

[reiding-writing]

erotomania [ s.r ]

01 - exhortations

Summary:

You’d found yourself with a stalker, one who seemingly had a romantic obsession with you, and you had no idea what to do, except maybe confide in one of your team members.

WARNINGS: Signs of stalking, mentions of break-ins, fears of violence, mentions of panic attacks

pairing: spencer reid x gn!bau!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, mild fluff

wc: 6.8k

main masterlist!!

a/n: so… i decided to start a series- considering chapter length it’ll probably only be three parts and i hope to have them out once a week but knowing my college schedule i’m not sure about that 😭

<poem used - ‘my fire, my flame’ by ariana alonso>

thank you guys for all the love on my other uploads <33

series masterlist!!

01-exhortations, 02-avoidance, 03-revelations, 04-confession

It started with a rose.

A single white rose left haphazardly on your doorstep.

You didn’t really think much of it, your neighbours had a white rose bush they regularly pruned, and you figured the wind must have blown one of the loose roses cut from it over to your porch.

You’d often find scattered petals and wilting rose heads on your lawn, blown over by the wind to no fault of the old couple living next door. Although you did have to admit that a full rose was something that had never blown over before.

But hey, sometimes these things happen right?

That was the same rhetorical question you asked yourself two weeks later when a blank envelope was posted through your letter box alongside your regular mail. It looked like a birthday card, the envelope a pale yellow and closed shut with a small white sticker in the shape of a rose. Curious.

You debated on whether to open it at first, not wanting to accidentally intrude on somebody else’s private business, but after a few days of deliberating you came to the conclusion that reading what’s inside might help you find the intended recipient.

You didn’t find anything of note in the envelope, just a folded piece of white paper with a typed out romantic poem imprinted on its inner side. It was odd for sure, but it wasn’t anything to worry about.

You ended up throwing the envelope away. As much as you would’ve liked to have delivered it to its rightful recipient there just wasn’t enough information for you to do so. You just guessed that it was a teenager trying to romance one of their classmates and had posted their efforts through the wrong door.

It was harder to brush off the new succulent lining your kitchen windowsill.

You’d come home to your house after four days spend in Iowa on a case, absolutely exhausted. So much so it took you three separate trips in and out of your kitchen to realise that the three succulents usually lining your window had now been increased to four.

At first you just thought it was your exhaustion getting to you, but you knew for a fact that you’d only bought three. Garcia had made you pick them out specifically. And this new fourth one didn’t fit in.

You examined the new succulent closely, trying to figure out where it came from. It was a vibrant green colour, with small, round leaves that formed a rosette shape. Unlike your other succulents, this one had delicate white flowers blooming from its centre. It was a beautiful addition to your collection, but you couldn't help but wonder who had put it there and why.

You carefully examined the plant for any clues. There were no tags or labels indicating its origin, and it seemed to blend in seamlessly with the rest of your succulents, as if it had always been there. The thought of someone entering your home while you were away sent a shiver down your spine, but there were no signs of forced entry or any other evidence to suggest foul play.

You unfortunately didn’t have much time to mull over this new addition to your plant collection as the team were whisked away on another case, less than 24 hours after your last case finished.

Still, you couldn’t seem to get the small white flowers of the plant sat upon your windowsill out of your mind, and you were starting to question your sanity a little. Were you sure that you hadn’t bought four? Maybe you had. Maybe it’d been there the whole time.

“If it isn’t my favourite profiler, don’t tell Derek that,” Garcia almost immediately backtracked as she picked up the phone. “What can I do you for my sweet?”

“Hey Penny, just a random question, you remember when we went plant shopping a while back?” You held the phone up to your ear with your left hand, using your right to continue jotting down notes on the portable whiteboard the Montanna Police Department had provided your team with for the case you were working on.

“Oh of course I do my love. Why, Looking for a professional suggestion for your next addition?” You could practically hear Garcia’s smile through the phone as she spoke.

“No Pen, I just wanted to check something,” You let out a small chuckle at her exaggerated confidence in her knowledge of plants. ”Did I end up buying three succulents or four?”

“Three my love, two Chinese Jades and one Opalina I believe. Why’s that?”

“Oh no nothing, I was just checking which ones I’d bought with you and which ones I’d bought myself, thanks Pen,” You didn’t know why you felt the impulse to lie. Maybe it was your subconscious telling you that it was in fact you who had put the plant there. That you’d just been so busy that you’d forgotten about it. Either way you didn’t want to stir up the pot if you couldn’t prove anything was actually wrong.

But you also couldn’t rid of that feeling in the pit of your stomach that rose when Garcia confirmed you hadn’t bought the plant when out with her.

“Alrighty, anything else you need from her majesty of all knowledge?”

You give another small laugh at Garcia’s manner of speech. “No Pen, thank you.”

”Well then my dear, this lady’s got other fish you fry, I’ll catch you later,”

You hear the end dial through your phone before you can respond, a usual end to a phone call with Garcia, and whilst her little quips and jokes left you with a small smile on your face, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

A pale yellow envelope.

You feel a sense of deja vu when you pick it up from the floor on the inside of your front door, seemingly slotted through your letterbox just like the former had been, white rose sticker holding it closed and all.

The difference this time however, was that when you turned the envelope in your hand it had your name inked on the front, scrawled out in a messy cursive that stained parts of coloured paper black, the ink having bled as the name was written from the sheer amount of pressure used.

That’s the moment that you started to panic.

You could put the signs together by now. A perfectly de-thorned rose on your doorstep. Messages posted through your door. A new succulent left in your kitchen after you’d expressed interest in them. It wasn’t just a series of coincidences, they were signs. Signs of something you didn’t particularly want to think about.

The last one was the worst. It meant that whoever had taken it upon themselves to form a fascination with you had somehow managed to get inside of your house whilst you weren’t there.

You triple checked the locks on your doors that night, leaving the new envelope unopened on your kitchen counter.

You ended up taking it to work the next day, tucked away in your messenger bag and left under your desk as you tried to distract yourself through with your files.

You tried to convince yourself that you were just overthinking. Maybe the indented recipient of the letter just happened to have the same name as you. Maybe this was just the last two weeks of continuous stress was just taking it’s toll on you and making you paranoid. You tried to convince yourself. But you knew.

“Excuse me,”

Your internal monologue was cut off by a soft voice, and your mind was momentarily wiped of your dilemma as you looked up towards the source of the noise, the small receptionist from the front of your floor.

“This was dropped off last night, I believe it was for you.”

In her hand was a small rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper, and she held it out to you with a small smile.

“Oh, thank you,” You return her smile with one of your own, taking the package from her hand and watching her retreat back to her desk. You weren’t expecting anything delivered, were you?

Unwrapping the package only left you more confused. It was a leather bound copy of Romeo and Juliet, the cover a deep red and embossed with with gold roses and an intricate border, the book’s name embossed in a similar fashion in the cover’s centre, although flaking in some areas from the wear of the book.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned the book over in your hands, but as you opened the front cover that expression fell straight back into concern. A small rose, etched into the inside over in a black ink pen, fit with a single letter, ‘R.’

“Hey Spencer, uh- can I- borrow you for a sec?” You stand from your desk, walking around the cluster in the bullpen to stand behind Spencer’s, head buried in the files he was working on.

“Of course, what’s up?” Spencer took a second to look up, folding the folder closed and leaving his pen inside to mark the page. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah uh- I uh- Were you expecting a book delivery?”

You held the book out towards him, eyes silently pleading for him to say yes. A part of your brain still denied the inevitable, that it wasn’t some outside person who had been leaving things around for you to find. That there wasn’t someone who knew where you lived, and now where you worked, sending you eerily creepy ‘gifts’.

Spencer inspected the book in his hands, examining it closely with narrowed eyes.

“Not that I know of...” He looked up at you, eyebrow slightly raised as he handed the book back to you. “I already have this copy at home,”

Your stomach dropped a little when he confirmed it wasn’t his.

“Right, sorry,” You take the book back from him with a pursed smile, holding it in both of your hands and tapping your nails against the back cover.

You logically knew it wasn’t for him, Spencer was all for buying things second hand, but he would never pick up a book with this much wear and tear unless was a first edition owned by some prolific scholar, the spine damaged and the pages folded and scrawled with annotations that you weren’t sure you wanted to read, but hearing the confirmation just made it sink in a little further.

“Are you alright? You seem a little tense.” Spencer’s voice cut you out of another internal spiral, and you gave him a quick nod.

“Hm? Oh yeah i’m alright, thanks anyway Spence,” You give him a small smile and a half wave as you retreat back to your own desk with the book in hand.

Spencer stared at you for a moment longer, watching as you sat back down at your desk, discarding the book behind your stack of files as if you couldn’t bare to look at it any longer.

Something seemed very off with you.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

My fire, my flame,

My one and the same.

Swiftly swinging from life to end,

Through the times, we meet again.

My lover, my friend,

My mirror, my mend.

My fire, my flame,

No darkness can tame.

Ochre to blue, two as one.

Never unbroken, never undone.

Healing the hurt, flame dims down.

Fire prevails, doubt it drowns.

Forever and true, I am your blue,

The one you felt, the one you knew.

Drunken to sober, you are my ochre,

The one who inspires all my desires.

Over and over, we dance again,

Swiftly swinging from life to end.

It was nearly midnight, and yet you felt wide awake.

A part of you wanted to sleep, lay in bed and pretend that nothing was happening, but you knew that your mind wasn’t going to let you.

You’d sucked up the resolve to open the envelope you’d stored away in your bag, another poem left inside. Except this time instead of being typed out and printed, it was written in the same ink that had adorned its sleeve.

Some of it was barely legible, but you found the words ingrained in your mind almost as soon as you read them. They were sweet from a surface level, a message of true and eternal love, but under your circumstances the only emotions that it evoked from you was a mix of dread and fear.

Your mind soon flickered over to the book you’d left on your nightstand, and you soon found yourself curled up under your duvet with the book in hand, lamp left on both to aid your reading and provide you with a small sense of security in the warm light it cast over the walls of your bedroom.

The narrative of the story was what you’d expect, the traditional tale of Romeo and Juliet, but that wasn’t what you were interested in, it was the annotations, written in the same handwriting as the poem left discarded on your coffee table.

It seemed like a lot of references to love, mainly to the female protagonist in Romeo and Juliet, and you noticed that your initials and “R.” were written a lot.

It seemed that whoever had taken a liking to you really liked you... a little too much.

There were references to your personality, how much you loved things like animals, reading books and eating dark chocolate. They had even written that your favourite colour was burgundy.

You were starting to find this rather unnerving.

The part that really sent you over the edge into a panic was one line in particular, underlined so many times that there was a small rip in the page.

These violent delights have violent ends.

The book in your hand was soon replaced with your phone, held up to your ear as took in slow breaths through your nose.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You heard Spencer’s voice ring through your phone.

“Hey uh, I’m so sorry to call you so late but uh- Can I ask you for a favour?” The tone of your voice wavered slightly as you spoke, not at all aided by the small tremble of your hand.

“Yeah of course, anything for you, what is it?”

“Can I uh,” You hesitate for a second. “Can I come over?”

“Yeah, of course,” Spencer responded quickly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah I just, don’t want to be on my own right now,” It wasn’t exactly a revelation. There had been a few instances where tough cases left the team feeling more comfortable spending the time after in the company of someone else.

Most of them had family or lovers as their comfort, but in the case of Spencer, not having any contact with his father and his mother institutionalised, and your parents living across the country, you often found comfort in each other instead.

“Thank you,”

It seemed like you wouldn’t get any sleep tonight.

“It’s no problem at all, I’ll see you soon?” Spencer’s voice was soft and understanding, and you found yourself increasingly grateful for his insomniatic nature.

“Yeah, see you soon…”

You let out a small breath of relief as you hang up the phone, piling some things into a backpack, tattered book included, before locking up the house and driving to Spencer’s apartment

The drive there seemed to be one of the longest drives of your life, constantly deliberating with yourself on whether to confide in Spencer about your theory. Part of you wanted to tell him, you knew with an outside objective view alongside his intelligence that he’d be able to find you a solution, but you also didn’t want to burden him.

When you reach his apartment, you knock on the door twice. “Spence?”

The door unlocked almost before you’re finished knocking, and Spencer stands on the other side, dressed in tardis pyjama pants and a black t-shirt, his brown hair a little flattened, presumably from tossing around in bed trying to get comfortable.

“Hey,” He stepped aside to let you in, adjusting the crooked glasses sat over his nose.

“I’m so sorry for bothering you so late, thank you for letting me come over-“ You blurt out a hasty apology for your intrusion as you take your shoes off at the door and slump down on Spencer’s couch, dropping your bag on the floor next to you.

Spencer followed you with his eyes as he closed and locked the door behind you. “It’s totally fine, it doesn’t matter if it’s 2pm or 2am, you’re always welcome, you know that,”

Spencer smiles at you before asking, “So, what’s going on?”

“I think I’m being stalked-"

The words almost melded together with how fast you spoke them, and it’s only after the whole sentence leaves your mouth you realise that you’d blurted out the thing you’d been mentally fighting over telling him or not.

Well, so much for dealing with it on your own.

Spencer’s smile immediately disappears, being replaced with a look of concern. “Stalked? What do you mean? What’s been happening?”

You sigh softly at Spencer’s expression. There was no backtracking from this now. So you start right from the beginning.

“Well, a few weeks ago I found this perfectly pruned rose on my doorstep,"

Spencer listens to your explanation with a small nod. “Right…”

“But I wasn’t like concerned or anything because my neighbours have a rose bush, and I figured it was just the wind or something. You know, sometimes that kind of stuff happens right? But then over the last few weeks things keep turning up and I know that it’s not normal you know?”

Spencer’s look of concern only grows as you begin explaining, and he took a seat next to you on the couch. “What kind of things have been showing up? Apart from the rose?”

“Like two-ish weeks after the rose thing, there was an envelope posted through my door alongside the rest of my mail, and I ended up opening it because it didn’t have a name on the front and I wanted to to figure out who it was for right?”

Spencer gives you a small nod as a gesture for you to continue.

“I thought it was a birthday card at first, but I’m pretty sure it was a poem, it was just typed out and stuck in the envelope, no names or addresses or anything. So I just threw it out and moved on. I figured it was some teenager who’d posted a love note through the wrong door.”

You use your hands to gesture your explanation, your right leg bouncing absentmindedly as the nervous tension builds up in your body.

“And then after the case we had in Iowa I came home and instead of three plants on my kitchen windowsill there was four. And that was when I was like ‘okay something’s not right here’, and I even rang Penny to check and she confirmed that I’d only bought three,”

Spencer raises a brow, his expression furrowing further if that was possible. “Wait, it turned up in your house?”

You give him a small nod. “I checked all the doors and windows and everything but there was no evidence that anyone had broken in, and by this point I’m like genuinely questioning my sanity over whether I’d actually just bought this stupid plant myself and was freaking myself out over it, but then yesterday evening after I got home from the Airport I found another envelope by my front door, same colour, shape and everything, they even both had the same sticker keeping them closed, but this one had my name written on the front of it,”

By this point, your explanation had turned into more of a ramble, and by the time you had reached a comfortable place to stop, you were feeling short on breath.

“And you opened it?”

You respond to Spencer’s question with a nod, brushing a piece of hair from your eye. “I opened it an hour ago maybe?”

“And it was another poem?”

You give Spencer another small nod in affirmation at his prediction.

“Okay, what else? Did anything else happen?” Spencer’s hand reaches out towards the curve of your knee, effectively halting the nervous tic you’re using to release your tension.

“Well, I showed you this earlier-”

You bend forward to pull your backpack up onto your lap, rifling through it to pull out the worn copy of Romeo and Juliet to present him with it once more.

“it was left at the office’s front desk which half makes me want to believe that it’s not related, but I was reading the annotations earlier and they’re really specific and I freaked myself out which is why I called you in the first place-“

Spencer’s brows crease under the rims of his glasses as his eyes pour over the book’s cover again. “Who left it for you?“

“I don’t know Spencer that’s my issue," You sigh softly as you turn the book over in my hands. “Can you just read through this for me please? I didn’t finish it because I freaked myself out and then immediately came over here so-“

You over-explain your reasoning for wanting him to read through the book for you, figuring that if you could give him a valid reason then you would feel less guilty about asking him to do it in the first place.

Spencer takes the book from you hands whilst you’re still explaining yourself, beginning to flick through the pages one by one, pulling his middle and ring fingers down the page as he scans over the writing.

It’s times like these you’re thankful that Spencer’s reading speed is 85 times faster than the average person’s, and you find your eyes following his fingers as he traces them over the pages, taking note of how he bends his middle finger ever so slightly so that his fingertips are level with each other and how he keeps his index finger raised away from the paper’s surface. It was oddly distracting to watch.

It takes him little more than five minutes to have read through the whole thing, with him stopping a few times along the way to make a couple of comments as he does.

“Well he makes reference to your favourite colour, and your birthday...”

“....your job...”

“...and of course your name.”

“Jesus, the guy’s really obsessed with you isn’t he.”

You furrow your face as Spencer confirms your concerns, rubbing your hands over your legs as a self-soothing technique.

Spencer thinks again for a moment as he shuts the book in his lap. “I think you should spend the night here.”

You can see his gears are turning, the same cogs turning when he’s deep in a profile. He’s gone from being concerned to calculated. “No way in hell am I leaving you alone tonight.”

“I don’t wanna burden you this is a me problem-“ You immediately shut down his suggestion despite you having stayed at his apartment on multiple occasions in the past.

You’d gotten an objective opinion on the situation. That was all you wanted. You didn’t need to drag him any further into your personal issues.

“Hey no,” Spencer shakes his head as he places the book down on the small oak coffee table in front of you. “You’re not burdening me, okay? You don’t have to be alone tonight, you can sleep here.”

“I’m not letting you leave now,” Spencer adds with finality. “You’re clearly anxious, and you look like you need to get some proper sleep.”

You bit the inside of your cheek at Spencer’s insistence, flickering your eyes over to the book on the table, its embossing glinting slightly under the warm overhead light.

He might not exercise it often, but Spencer definitely knew how to put his foot down when he needed to.

“Thank you…”

“Hey, look at me?” Spencer waits until you look at him, then he offers you a soft, reassuring smile. “...Everything’s gonna be okay. Okay?”

You give him a short nod with a pursed smile, not entirely convinced of his assurance but wanting to go along with it anyway for the sake of being able to calm down enough to at least get some sleep. “Okay,“

“Let’s get you set up for the night. We’ll talk this through in the morning.”

Spencer stands up, pushing himself up from the sofa with his hands and leaving into the bedroom. “Get as comfy as you’d like okay? I’ll be back.”

He turns to leave then stops at the door and looks at you one more time. “Oh, and... do you want to borrow one of my T-shirts?”

The invitation was obvious. “Uh yeah if you don’t mind…”

He gives you a small nod as he retreats into his bedroom, re-emerging a few minutes later with a fleece blanket, one of the pillows from his bed, and a black T-Shirt identical to the one he was wearing. “Here, my couch probably isn’t the comfiest place to sleep but-”

He hands the T-shirt over to you with a small smile, stacking the blanket and the pillow on the end of the sofa.

“Don’t be silly Spencer, I’m grateful for you even letting me in let alone letting me stay over on such short notice,” You return his smile with one of your own as you take the shirt from him, retreating into the bathroom to change into it.

You feel the soft cotton against your bare skin as you pull the fabric over your head, noticing that it’s been washed recently, and it still has a slight smell of Spencer’s cologne. It falls quite low, Spencer having to have bought a bigger size than he realistically needed due to the length of his torso.

Your mind continues to run rampant as you exit the bathroom, a mix of the overwhelming stress of your situation and the conflicting feeling of serenity from the solicitude radiating from Spencer.

It was a lot to process for it to be just 1am.

You basically collapse onto Spencer’s couch, burying your head into his pillow with a groan and unfolding the blanket to throw it over yourself.

“If you need anything, anything at all just wake me up okay?” Spencer continued to express that kind compassion that made your chest tingle a little, definitely not helped by the faint scent of his cologne radiating from his pillow, joined by a trace of lavender, most likely an essential oil he’d been using in the hope it would help him sleep better.

“Yeah, thank you again Spencer, it really means a lot.” Your voice is half muffled by the angle of your head against the pillow as you crane your neck to look at him.

“It’s really no problem. You’re always welcome,” He switched off the small lamp keeping the living room, dimly lit, allowing it to fall into a comfortable darkness. “Get some sleep okay?”

“Yeah, thank you Spence…” Spencer gives you one last smile, joined by a half wave that you found more endearing than awkward, before leaving for his bedroom and clicking the door shut behind him.

For the next half hour or so you lie awake on his couch, trying in vain to sleep despite the rampaging thoughts running through your head. It was only when you heard Spencer open the door and quietly enter the room that you finally turned your head to look at him.

The surprise on his face told you that he hadn’t expected you to be still awake. “Why are you still up?”

“My mind’s running a million miles a minute, why are you up?” Your voice is partially hoarse from tiredness, and you shift around on the couch until you are lying facing in his direction.

“Just wanted to get a glass of water…” Spencer purses his lips slightly as his eyes trail over the position you’re lying in, clearly feeling a sad-sympathy at your mind’s insistence at you staying awake. “Hey, can I try something?”

Spencer slowly makes his way over to where you’re lying, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of you.

“Sure?” You raise an eyebrow slightly, rubbing one of your knuckles over your eyelid. Spencer smiles at your reaction, extending his hand palm-up.. “Alright... can I have your hand please?”

“Should I sit up?” You extend your right hand towards him, using your left to prop yourself up onto your elbow.

Spencer shakes his head. “No, no, keep being comfortable... I think I know how to fix your problem.”

Spencer then reaches out and takes your hand firmly in his, holding it between both of his hands with your palm facing the ceiling. “Ready?”

You give him a short nod in expectancy, eyes flickering between the way his hands hold yours and his eyes as you lie on your back.

His hands were frigidly cold compared to the warmth of his apartment, but you couldn’t say that it was uncomfortable, it was actually quite soothing, a nice contrast from the small cocoon of warmth under the blanket.

Spencer slowly rubs his fingers on the inside of your palm, adding a gentle pressure first to the bases of your fingers and working his way down slowly, pressing the pads of his fingertips into your skin in small circles. “Close your eyes and breathe deeply.”

You follow his guidance with no hesitation, relaxing back into the pillow beneath your head and closing your eyes as you focus on the feeling of Spencer’s fingers dancing over the palm of your hand.

“Just breathe in and out....” You can hear the confidence in his voice as he continues to move the pressure downwards, pressing his thumb against your wrist and gently massaging it.

“A lack of sleep is usually the cause of delayed melatonin production, and studies have shown that certain pressure points on our bodies can help speed up the process.” Spencer begins to explain the reasoning and process behind the gentle hand massage he’s giving you, his voice soft and quiet.

“It was traditionally used in China as a part of acupressure, with six identified pressure points on our bodies that encouraged the production of serotonin and melatonin to help with relaxation and reduce chronic pain, but in the present day it’s been adapted into a massaging technique to help people fall asleep.”

The softness of his voice paired with the gentle massaging of his fingers on your wrist quickly left you feeling more relaxed.

“There are two pressure points on different points of your ankles, one point on each foot, one between your eyebrows, one behind each of your ears, and one on each of your wrists.” You find yourself nodding along to his explanation absentmindedly as you enjoy the gentle pressure of his fingers.

“Although, the only pressure points that have been reliably linked to melatonin production are those on your wrists and behind your ears, here, lie on your side for me.” Spencer gives your wrist a gentle pull to encourage you to turn over, which you very gladly oblige to, humming a soft agreement as you turn to lie of your side facing him with your eyes still closed.

He gently slides his hand up the side of your neck, the coldness of his fingers sending a small shudder up your back, and he presses his thumb into the small gap between your jaw and the rest of your skull, rubbing it in slow circles.

You let out a small, almost inaudible sigh at the gentle pressure he’s applying, and Spencer can tell that you’re quickly falling into full relaxation. “The best results from acupressure occur after 3 - 5 minutes of continuous pressure and…”

His voice trails off slowly as he feels the tension in your jaw release, and he glances down towards your face, a small smile adorning his features at your relaxed expression. “…is best done in a comfortable environment…”

He continues to rub gentle circles into your skin for the next few minutes before gently removing his hand from you, standing up from where he was sat on the coffee table with a soft smile still gracing his features.

“Sleep well..” He whispers the words under his breath as he slowly retreats back to his bedroom, the glass of water he originally sought after completely forgotten about.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It’d been a few days since you’d confided in Spencer about the stalking situation and stayed the night with him, and fit with a new set of locks on your doors, you’d gone back home to stay on your own.

You walk into the BAU office expecting to see Spencer at his desk like always, ready to talk through your next steps forward with him, except he wasn’t there. You check the watch on your wrist. 7:45. He should’ve arrived by now. Why wasn’t he here?

"Hey uh, do you know where Spencer is?" You approach Morgan over at the kitchenette, leaning against the counter top with your elbow.

“Good morning to you too lover.” Morgan gives a half-laugh at your lack of your usual greetings, making sure to throw in a tease about how the first thing you talk about is Spencer’s whereabouts, not something entirely unfounded considering how close you and Spencer had been getting over the last week or so.

“Ha ha very funny, do you know where he is?” You respond to his quip with a slight roll of your eyes.

Morgan shrugs his shoulder slightly, taking a sip of his freshly made coffee. “Maybe he slept in,”

“Spencer Reid? The man with four wake up alarms?” You furrow your expression slightly. Something about Spencer not already being in the office didn’t sit right with you.

“Okay okay, maybe that was a bad guess, but I don’t know, who knows what he might be doing,” Morgan remains nonchalant if not a little heedless. “Maybe he stumbled on an antique Russian novel collection on the way to work or something,”

“He’s never late for work-“ You mutter to yourself under your breath, half-ignoring Morgan’s attempts at explaining Spencer’s lateness, and you pull your phone out of your pocket, dialling Spencer’s number and holding up the phone to your ear, the consecutive rings echoing out of your phone’s speaker.

Pick up Spencer.

If anyone on the BAU team would know Spencer’s whereabouts, it should be the two of you. And yet neither of you had any clue where he was.

The phone continues to ring until it reaches his voicemail. there’s no answer.

Something was wrong.

You try to call him again. Nothing. This was not like Spencer at all.

Your anxiety spikes as your subconscious links his lack of answering back to your stalking situation, What if Spencer was in danger? What if this stalker had followed you to Spencer’s apartment that night you stayed with him and now knew where he lived?

The minute your brain made the connection you were turning on your heels to exit the office, grabbing your car keys from your desk as you did so.

“Hey-” Morgan follows you over to your desk, putting an arm out as you try to walk past him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Spencer’s apartment.” You try to push Morgan’s arm out of the way, only for him to block you with his entire body instead.

“Slow your roll there turbo, everyone is late every now and again, that doesn’t mean we have to turn up to their house out of nowhere.” Morgan’s explanation would be logical under normal circumstances, but he didn’t know that you were being stalked. Nor did he know that this stalker had possibly found Spencer’s address due to your own stupidity leaving him in potential danger.

“Listen Morgan I appreciate your apprehension but I do not have time for this right now.” You manage to swerve your way around Morgan and push your way out of the glass doors of the BAU office, bee-lining it down the stairwell instead of waiting for the elevator.

“Hey! Wait up!” Morgan’s voice echoes down the stairwell as he runs out of the office after you, only managing to catch up to you as you stop to unlock your car, and he blocks the door from opening with his hand. “What is going on?”

“Morgan, if you want to ask me questions, get in the car.” The tone of your voice leaves no room for argument, and Morgan can tell be this point taht you’re not alright, so he gives you a short nod and goes around the front of the car to get in the passenger’s side.

Please be okay, please be okay...

That’s what’s going through your mind as you leave the BAU building, running the speed limit as you drive towards Spencer’s apartment with an awful feeling in your stomach.

“So are you going to tell me what’s going on or what?” Morgan begins his questioning as soon as you hit the main road.

“I think Spencer is in danger.” You keep your eyes trained on the road, both hands braced against the steering wheel as you turn a roundabout.

“Okay, listen.... I’m with you in the fact that this is very out of character for Spencer... but there’s no use in jumping to conclusions, okay?” He puts a hand on your shoulder, clearly concerned at how fast your mind linked Spencer being late with him being in danger. “Let’s just approach this calmly and rationally.”

“I am being rational.”

“No you’re not, you’re panicking,” Morgan gives your shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand fall back into his lap. “Just take a deep breath and a second to think.” Morgan’s voice was full of a calm, soothing reassurance even as you were clearly anxious. “You’re gonna give yourself a panic attack if you don’t.”

“I know I know I’m fine-“

You open your palms against the steering wheel as if to emphasise your point, exhaling heavily through your nose as you pull into the parking lot of Spencer’s Apartment building, leaving your car parked at an angle across two parking spaces.

You’re thankful in this moment that Spencer lives so close to the office building, and you shut off the car quickly, exiting it with the same haste.

Morgan follows closely behind you as you jog across the concrete towards the entrance of the building, locking your car remotely as you pushed the outside door open and started your ascent of the stairs.

“Come on, calm down you don’t need to run-” Morgan called after you as he followed you up the stairs, continuing to try in vein to get you to take a step back and just calm down a little.

You didn’t listen of course, and you only come to a halt once you’ve reached Spencer’s apartment door.

You reach out your right hand to knock as Morgan reaches your side, but as your knuckles come into contact with the wood of the door it creaks open, the hinge pin of the door not fully closed.

Oh no.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid angst #erotomania

[bemyvalentinechallenge]

The Be My Valentine Challenge 2024

An event from @timecanalwayshealyou

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The Be My Valentine Challenge is a challenge for writers, artists, and just any kind of creator, from the first of February to the 14th!

The idea is to create thirteen smaller, lead-up pieces based on the prompts; for example, ficlets/drabbles/one-shots, couplets, small artworks, individual gifs, et. cetera - and finish the challenge with a larger work; a fic, a full poem, a gifset, a big artwork, whatever sparks for you!

They can be a series or separate, and you're free to change mediums or fandoms for different days. If you'd rather create fourteen small works, or all large ones, or a combination of both, that's completely up to you! Prompts can be used after the event, combined, just do whatever! Only "properly" used prompts will be reblogged to this page, however.

The catch; it's all romance prompts, in the spirit of Valentine's Day and because everyone on this site is single and lonely.

Each day has a quote from an iconic or relevant romance film (The Notebook, Red, White and Royal Blue, The Fault In Our Stars, Pride And Prejudice, etc.), an iconic love song, and a romantic cliché, act, or item.

This account will be reblogging a few works (art, drabbles, ficposts, etc.) from the event tag (bemyvalentine2024) each day. Full tagging rules, the transcribed prompt list, and other event details are under the cut. If you're unsure about anything, send in an ask! Happy Creating!

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There will be an ao3 collection open from the first of February to the fourteenth for submission. Artworks, gifsets, etc. posted to tumblr should be tagged appropriately to be seen as part of the event.

The official spotify playlist for the event can be found here.

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Anyone who completes this event is considered a Valentine, and anyone who participates is a Lover. At the end of the event, a form will be put out, so if you wish to be tagged in a masterpost, keep an eye out! I won't be fact-checking, it's an honour system, so please be honest.

There will be completion and participation badges, too! They're in the works as we speak!

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Tagging System:

event tag - #bemyvalentine2024

prompt tag - #bemyvalentineno1, #bemyvalentineno2, etc.

(Or #bemyvalentinealt1, #bemyvalentinealt2, if you use alt promtps)

the theme or specific prompt/s you chose - #love poems, #quote, etc.

fandom or oc - #stranger things, #original content, etc.

any trigger warnings/nsfw tags if needed

and then your own tags!

Only works tagged correctly will be reblogged to this page, so please take note!

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Transcribed Prompt List:

Day 1: "But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." Because You Loved Me, Celine Dion | Love Poems

Day 2: "I want all of you, forever. You and me. Every day." A Thousand Years, Christina Perri | Growing Old Together

Day 3: "I fell in love with a world through her eyes." Ocean Eyes, Billie Eilish | Love at First Sight

Day 4: "I'd rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you." Marry Me, Train | Wedding Vows

Day 5: "My love will keep me from being a lonely spirit." When I Look At You, Miley Cyrus | Long Distance

Day 6: "People do belong to each other, because that's the only chance that anyone's got for true happiness." Home, Edward Sharpe | First Love

Day 7: "It's so nice when you can sit with someone and not have to talk." Sweater Weather, The Neighbourhood | Snowed In

Day 8: "I never wish to be parted from you from this day on." Say You Won't Let Go, James Arthur | Love Letter

Day 9: "You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I'm grateful." Lay Me Down, Sam Smith | Widowed

Day 10: "Hold on, are you writing a song?" I Want To Write You A Song, One Direction | Love Songs

Day 11: "To me, you are perfect." Perfect, Ed Sheeran | Kissing in the Rain

Day 12: "History, huh? Bet we could make some." Love Story, Taylor Swift | Historical Romance

Day 13: "I wish I knew how to quit you." All of Me, John Legend | Making Up

Day 14: "You don't step in love, you fall in. Head over heels." I Will Always Love You, Whitney Houston | Valentine's Day

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#bemyvalentine2024 #valentine's day #writing #fanfiction #art #art challenge #gifs #poems #poetry #writeblr #poetblr #artblr #please reblog #boost

[thehallstara]

hi hello it's both itch creator day AND my birthday so this is a perfect excuse for me to do a master post of my games and zines!!!

Collabs:

Agami Village: Created with Weiwei Xu as part of last year's HES SUPERFestival, supported by Hand Eye Society and Canadian Council for the Arts. It's a short visual novel about fishing and time loops!

ghost story: A short prototype of a first person murder mystery where you're a ghost trying to solve your own murder. Done as a final project for Code Coven's Intro to Game Making course back in the winter.

(neither of these are purchasable but if you try them and like them you can always send a kofi!!)

Bitsy:

on nights we dream of stars: a semi-autobiographical story about stars. mostly just me figuring out how bitsy works.

on the nature of ghosts: small vignette about ghosts made for the february 2022 bitsy jam.

the end is near: a soliloquy about the end of the world, done for both the july 2022 bitsy jam and crabjam 2022. inspired by s24 for of blaseball but wholly independent to it.

lungs to burn: a short poem game about wildfires, grief, and queer connection done for the may 2023 bitsy jam. featured in indiepocalypse #43

no postage required: a somewhat-sequel to the end is near; or a letter to a lost love. done for the 2023 trans game dev server jam.

Twines:

cards fall where they may: anthology of interactive blaseball stories told through a tarot reading. some of the most impressive css i've done to this day, and i honestly think it's worth checking out just for that.

ablaze with the people you've been: another interactive story, this one a story about edric tosser told in four acts. still worth checking out even if you know jack shit about blaseball imo and still one of my favourite things i've ever made.

run from me or rip me open: the thing that started it all, the first game i ever made. yet another blaseball story; it's a little rough around the edges but it's got heart.

Zines:

Kriah: A personal zine about my experiences with antisemitism over the years. a heavy read but one i would implore gentiles to take a look at regardless.

square roots: made with @tigerquoii for the 2022 blaseball zine jam. a series of conversations.

and that's it!!! all of them (besides the collabs) are pay what you can, forever and always. if you've ever enjoyed something i've made, consider supporting me and my projects! and if you can't, rating and comments are always equally appreciated mwah

#s.txt #stara makes stuff #indie games #indiedev #gamedev #zines #zine #jumblr #interactive fiction #long post #sorry this thing is massive but hey!! that just means i've done a bunch of stuff

[three-red-horns]

Why three-red-horns or 3RH?

Carpe diem (or noctem). Seize the moment. "Seize what you can." Very much relatable, hence I write to my heart and to my dirty mind desires.

My blog name and the picture of 3 Red Horns (3RH) has a carpe diem kind of story attached to it. I saw those red horns in Italy (Naples, methinks) in abundance on every corner, on keychains, necklaces, big, small, you name it. Locals told us the phallic shaped horns are a symbol of virility and fertility, worn for protection and luck. I didn't buy any. Bam! Guess what, in the next city, there were none.

Fast forward few years, saw these earrings in Costa Rica, with three red horns and tiny evil eyes on each, made by a local artist. Bought them on the spot.

3 Red Horns, a daily reminder to seize the moment.

With this photo I start the new series #3RHcameraroll. I have over seven thousand pictures on my phone, some good, some great, some too personal. And I never post any, only reblog.

It's so easy to reblog, it's so hard to post your own content. Content creators, I salute you. Those in the beginning of their journey, with nowhere to hide the miniscule number of likes and reblogs. So brave! Today I join you.

Seize the moment. Life is too short not to do what you like, what you crave, what you want.

PS If you follow me, I'm pretty sure, we have a similar taste, and my likes are sincere.

PPS My main writing blog is Sore is More on Blogger with over a hundred of stories. I write stories, poems, and musings, about all things D/s.

PPPS Please follow my backup blog @3rhwriting, just in case. Or those of you who prefer to read my smart and smutty stories and musings, they will be all there, without the endless pictures. 😂

Most of my writing is tagged. My longer original stories are #3RHwriting, thoughts and anecdotes are #3RHmusings, photos are #3RHcameraroll, polls are #3RHcurious. When times call for it, I am #3RHnaughty or #3RHfunny. Pictures of food are obviously #3RHyummy.

#3RH #3RHwriting #3RHmusings #3RHcurious #3RHnaughty #3RHfunny #yes please #always reblog #other writers #3RHyummy #3RHcameraroll #pinned post

[iwtvfanevents]

Rewind the Tape —Episode 6

Art of the episode

Just like we did for the pilot and for episodes two, three, four, and five, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the 6th episode while we rewatched it.

Love's Coming-Of-Age: a series of papers on the relations of the sexes

Edward Carpenter, 1896

Carpenter was an English writer and philosopher, and an early activist for gay rights and prison reform. In the opening of the episode, Louis is shown to be reading his essay "Marriage, a retrospective" you can read this essay, as well as the rest of the book, in the Internet Archive, here.

The Poems of Emily Dickinson

First collected and published in 1890

Dickinson was an American poet who published only ten of her approximate 1800 poems during her life. Before her passing, Dickinson had asked her sister to burn her writings, and you can read more about how her sister Lavinia came to publish them instead, with major editions, in this LitHub piece.

Pelléas et Mélisande

Claude Debussy & Maurice Maeterlinck, 1902

Referenced in Lestat's lyrics, this is an opera in five acts about a love triangle, which ends in tragedy for both its titular heroes, the mysterious Mélisande and her husband's younger brother, Pélleas. An interesting detail: after Pelléas and Mélisande's demise, they are survived by their daughter.

Three Peaches on a Stone Plinth

Adriaen Coorte, 1705

Coorte was a Dutch Golden Age painter of mostly small, intimate still lifes, and little is known of his life.

Still Life with Blue Vase and Mushrooms

Otto Scholderer, 1891

Scholderer was a German painter of portraits and still lifes, and was acquainted with another painter we've seen already, Manet.

Cumulus Clouds, East River

Robert Henri, 1901-1902

Henri was an American painter, first featured in episode one.

[All three identified by @diasdelfuego.]

After Lestat moves back into the house, new furniture, new decorations and new art appear all over, leaving little trace of the previous domestic violence (that is, except for the "reminders" that Claudia insists on keeping).

La Nausée

Jean-Paul Sartre, 1938

A recent release at the time of this scene, this novel by French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre deals with an isolated and melancholy protagonist. [Identified by @saintarmand, here.]

Baby Strange

T. Rex, 1972

The song playing during Louis and Daniel's first meeting is by an English band, an early example of the glam rock genre.

If you spot or put a name to any other references, share via DM or in the reblogs, and let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!

Starting tonight, we will be rewatching and discussing the finale, ...The Thing Lay Still. We hope to see you there! And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

#louis de pointe du lac #the vampire claudia #claudia iwtv #the titular vampire #spark in the dark #vampterview #interview with the vampire #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #amc iwtv #iwtv amc #IWTVfanevents #rewind the tape #like angels put in hell by god #analysis and meta #art of the episode

[comicaurora]

What do you think might be fun urban fantasy elements to use in worldbuilding?

That's up to the individual, I think!

For me, the appeal of urban fantasy is that it adds a layer of supernatural weirdness to otherwise completely familiar environments. Because of this, "familiarity" becomes kind of a limiting factor on the specific worldbuilding. The setting of The Unsleeping City works as well as it does because it was created by dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker Brennan Lee Mulligan, who clearly looked over the city he was so familiar with and went "what parts of this could easily be hiding something else?" The public library, the train line at night, Santacon, the poem on the statue of liberty, the angel of bethesda fountain, noted historical shithead Robert Moses and his habit of bulldozing minority neighborhoods to build highways, etc etc. These work because they're ingrained into the familiar aspects of the setting, and the real aspects are integrated with a lot of love and affection.

For me, at least, the question "what urban fantasy elements do I want to use" starts with "what things do I think would be cool if they were real?" and continues into "what things in the real world already have additional meaning that could easily be extended into a supernatural force if such things were real?" There's a bookstore I went to a lot as a kid that's mostly underground and a bit of a maze; in my head it made perfect sense that this cozy labyrinthine environment could be a doorway to something bigger, like a wizard sanctum or an infinite library dimension. Planetariums and museums set out to transport you to other worlds and other times - what if we push that just a little and make them gateways or places of power? The one really quiet street that's overshadowed by trees and maybe bends just slightly so you can never see one end from the other feels like it should lead somewhere else if you find the right way to walk down it. Maybe in this story it does.

I think urban fantasy as a genre incorporates a form of yearning that most people feel as kids, before they've quite learned the axioms of how the real world works. When you're a kid, before you've learned that something doesn't work, it feels like anything can work. There could be a monster in the dark corner of the hallway, these construction paper wings could let you fly, that pendant necklace could give you magic powers, that puddle could be a portal, that door could open to another world if you just open it right, that one teacher could be a werewolf. If you have a love for the fantastical, the process of growing up involves a lot of small disappointments as you gradually process that certain things just aren't part of our reality and can't happen. And no matter how logically we can reason that such a reality would be objectively nightmarish, there's still a bit of heartbreak that comes with accepting the rules of the world we live in.

Urban Fantasy as a genre gives writers an outlet for that. They can construct a world where those childhood suspicions and more grown-up "wouldn't it be fuckin sweet if"s can be real. From that approach, I think the specifics are really dependent on the wishes of the individual writer. "If monsters were real I would love to study them" produces settings like those Dragonology books and Seanan McGuire's InCrypted series. "If magic was real it would definitely hide in secret double-meanings in these locations" makes things like The Unsleeping City. "If there were vampires I would want to be one and also make out with one" is how we got the post-Twilight supernatural romance craze. "If there's a magical world, there would be secret portals that would let normal people go there" gives us things like Narnia. "What if there was magic literally anywhere and it just randomly turned up and caused adventures" gives us Edward Eager's Tales of Magic. "Ancient myths and legendary wars are still being fought in secret today" gives us Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising Sequence.

Urban Fantasy draws so strongly on the supernatural what-ifs that specifically fascinate the writer that I don't think there's any way to make a masterlist of All The Cool Things To Put In There. It's a fantastical extension of reality - of course it's going to involve a little personal wish fulfillment.

#asks #not aurora #urban fantasy thing

[shadowkat678]

Hopepunk: A Thing Of Teeth And Claws

Hope is a thing with feathers, says a famous poem by Emily Dickinson.

But what happens to that small thing of feathers once it's caught? When the horror around it crashes down, and the song is drowned out in pain and anger and apathy at a world that doesn’t seem to be capable of, and doesn’t want, to change?

I’m tired. I’m angry. I'm afraid. I don’t remember the last time those things weren’t true about me. I don’t have control over what is happening to the world, or to the people I care about. I don’t know if I have a future.

I’m tired.

I know it isn’t just me. I’ve seen it. I’ve been in activism spaces for years now, where that same anger is everywhere. The push to want to do something. To enact some sort of meaningful change in a world that seems hellbent on turning people into nothing but variables and numbers towards goals we are not calculated into otherwise. Where those with the best of intentions burn themselves out in their rage because they feel like there’s nothing else left to be driven by. I feel it in me. It’s not unjustified. But it is exhausting.

Once you’ve gone long enough shoveling coal on the fire you’ll run out, and you can’t burn ashes. Something is close to giving.

I’m tired.

Even more than being tired at the state of the world, I’m tired of what it does to me. I’m tired of my inability to have these feelings result in something good. I’m tired of not being able to have control over my life. I’m tired of seeing the people around me being crushed under circumstances far above our ability to affect. I’m not just tired. I’m exhausted.

But Hopepunk. This term came out a few years ago, coined by Alexandria Rowland. They're the author of the Taste of Gold and Iron series, as well as the duology A Conspiracy of Truths and A Choir of Lies, among others. In 2017, they coined the term Hopepunk, positing it as the opposite of Grimdark. In the post original post on the subject Alexandra says,

“Hopepunk says that kindness and softness doesn’t equal weakness, and that in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion. Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn’t ever about submission or acceptance: It’s about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It’s about standing up for other people. It’s about DEMANDING a better, kinder world.”

The ideology of Hopepunk was based on the time of the article’s current political landscape. Protests, civil unrest, and feelings of anger that were (still are, I’d argue) spreading like wildfire. And in a small circle, this caught on. There wasn’t much to go off of, and the ideas that spread from this post didn’t have a uniformity to it as much as other Punk genres of political and literary analysis. There were, and are, a lot of critics believing the term to be yet another line of fluffy optimism and half empty words.

A year later, Alexandria would publish an article on the subject, expanded upon additional reflection, called One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives on the blog Optimistic Indie Roleplaying. This is when I first heard of Hopepunk.

Alexandria writes in their opening:

“In July of 2017, I coined the word “Hopepunk,” initially defined very simply in a Tumblr post. I believe the purpose of this article’s commission was to have me write something uplifting. I don’t know if I can. I think it would be (I’m afraid it would be) nice. (…) Nice is an illusion, and so is the suddenness of realizing the lie.”

Alexandria goes on:

“I’m afraid. I’m losing my story, my belief in an atom of justice. I watch it happen, a little more every day, unraveling from my hands—and I’m a professional storyteller. (…) I’m afraid of who I’ll be when the last threads slip out of my fingers. I’m afraid of settling into complacency, of something in me breaking, of retreating into niceness as the last-ditch sanctuary before complete despair.

“Hopepunk says [about human nature], ‘The glass is half full,’” wrote the me who lived in mid-2017. Seems naïve now, doesn’t it? Those are the words of a person cloaked in a story that hasn’t yet been worn threadbare and ragged; a person who thinks they have a sword in their hands, a person who thinks that they as an individual can make a difference, that there is some fundamental goodness in humanity.

What do we do when our hands are empty, when our warm cloaks are gone, when we look around and see how big the world is? When we see how helpless and insignificant we are, how the rest of the world isn’t even particularly cruel or evil, just . . . mediocre? Complacent?

What’s the point?”

And as I read this now, years later in 2023, I feel this sentiment burrowing deeper inside me than ever before. This is what I see in myself. In the people around me. In the world, spinning away into what seems to be never ending disasters and war and pain.

What's the point?

It seems that day by day the hole is dug deeper. The world feels as if it’s ending. But then again, to someone, somewhere, the world has always felt as if it was on the verge of ending, hasn’t it?

I also am a storyteller. I have always believed there is power in it. In how you can create something that becomes real around you. That reflects our own reality in new ways. Things that connect us. Empower us. That’s what art is for me. That’s what it always has been, when the night is long and I need something, anything, to grab onto.

Like Alexandria, I feel my grip on the story around me slipping. The threads are frayed. And I am so tired.

I feel like a child pretending. Hoping that this will make things feel less terrifying when the lights go out and I’m alone in the dark and the day is so impossibly far away. I’m afraid. I'm terrified.

I’m not a hero, and I don’t know if I have the tools to fight monsters like this. These are not problems that can be solved with spells or swords or pretty words. The world around me is burning.

I’m burning.

So, what do we do when we find ourselves here? When hope, the thing of wings and feathers, has been shot down in front of us? When softness is not enough? When nice is just platitudes? What can I do when the world and its problems are so big and I’m so small?

“What is the point?” Alexandra asks. “How do you do it? How do you manage when the task before you is enormous and impossible? (…) How do you go on?”

Hopepunk isn’t just about the Hope part of the word. What is Punk? Not just the music. The ideology. The movement. The message? We all have a thought about what Hope is. What defines Punk?

I listen to the music, and have for a while. I have a lot of friends who are punks. I’d like to think I’m a bit of a punk myself, though I haven’t had the energy or means of connecting with the scene in person. There’s a variety to it. Subgenres of music. Differences in ideas. But let me tell you one thing I’ve noticed about all punks:

They’re goddamn stubborn bastards. And at least for the vast majority, they’re passionate goddamn stubborn bastards.

I’ve been interested in the punk movement for years. Two of my favorite books on the subject of the punk movement are “Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk” by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain, and “Punk Rock, An Oral History” by John Robb.

There’s a long running joke in punk circles about a young punk asking an older punk that very question of what punk is. The older punk smiles, strides up to a trash can, and kicks it over before turning around, pointing, and saying “That’s punk”.

The younger punk thinks on this, then sees another trash can before going over and copying the move, turning around after punting the second can and asking, “That’s punk?”

Before the older punk shakes his head and replies, “No! You poser!”

Point of the story? What is punk? Fuck if I or anyone else actually knows! It’s not about following directions, or going down a checklist. Certainly not just copying everyone else before you. But you know it when you feel it.

Recently, Punk has been idealized a lot. People forget that Punk isn’t just about insolent people lashing out against authority and sticking it to the man. It isn’t just about individualism and loud songs.

Despite not knowing exactly WHAT punk is, never having one clear cut uniform answer, we can see it when it's in front of us. There’s a sound to it. A spirit. A vibe. And there are commonalities that run as a throughline.

In the intro to Punk Rock, and Oral History, Henry Rowlins was invited to share some of his thoughts in the volume. He says,

“Everyone had their own version of punk. Everyone decided what punk was for them. There were endless arguments about what we were fighting for, what we should be wearing (…), what we should listen to and how we were going to change the world.

Punk terrified the establishment. Punk made me get onstage and make music. Punk made me change my world. Punk…punk saved my life.”

Punk has long been considered one of the more nihilistic musical genres, having a thriving subsect of Political Punk dedicated to pointing out and raging at the wrongs of the world the artists see around them. Punk is angry. Punk is passionate. Punk is loud, and messy, and sometimes even ugly, and moreover, there’s room for all of it.

But its stereotypical image perhaps isn't one most people would default to when thinking about the mainstream idea of Hope. Hope is supposed to be something soft, isn't it?

Back to the article, Alexandria gives their answer to what they think the point is, and it is one that feels much more connected to the punk part of Hopepunk.

“Sheer, simple, bloody-minded obstinacy. That’s how you count the stars, build the Library of Alexandria, and go to the North Pole. That’s how you hold the story even when it’s unraveling in your hands. You grit your teeth, and bear the pain, and keep going: One star at a time, one brick at a time, one step at a time.

You can do a lot when you decide to be a stubborn motherfucker who refuses to die.(…) Ask it of Hopepunk, then: “What’s the point?”

And the answer is, of course, that the fight itself is the point.

I am not just tired. I am afraid. I am angry. I am furious. The idea of rage is generally thought of as very punk.

But Hope. Let’s go back to hope. Where does hope come in, that fragile thing made of feathers and song? I am not soft. Not really. I feel myself shattering, jagged edges that will cut me if I let them. That will cut others. Even those I want to help. Even those who don’t deserve it. That the anger will bleed out and burn everything around me. How does that fit with hope?

I believe in stories. That we can learn from them. Moreover, in the end, I believe that everything is a story. History is a story. People are stories. The future is a story we simply haven’t seen the ending to yet, and so can still shape the path of. And like stories, all these elements tie together. Stings whose threads make up a tapestry.

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. About certain ones that have heavily impacted my own. About ones I’ve made, either by myself or with others, both real and imaginary. In Alexandria’s first post, they mentioned a certain scene from the Two Towers.

As Frodo falls to his lowest point, burdened by the influence of the One Ring, not knowing if his other friends are even still alive, carrying a burden bigger than any one person should ever have to shoulder, Sam gives his speech.

Sam: “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”

And as he says this, Frodo asks what I find myself asking. What many people ask, I think. What are we holding onto? And the answer: “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.”

In my anger, in this darkness around us, it can be hard to see anything else. But that has not been all my story is. That said, anger is important. Anger, placed properly, and aimed towards a purpose, can be righteous. It can be a driving motivation towards change. It glows in you...but it can’t be all I have. A fire on its own will eventually burn itself out. What is anger without something the anger is driving you to do in a real, meaningful, way?

“It’s about being kind merely for the sake of kindness, and because you have the means to be, and giving a fuck because the world is (somehow, mysteriously, against all evidence) worth it and we don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.

It’s about digging in your heels and believing that one single atom of justice, one molecule of mercy does exist somewhere in the mindboggling vastness of the universe—believing in that, even if for no other reason than fuck you, buddy; fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I do what I want and this, this is what I want; this is the world I want to live in:

One where the atom of justice exists, even if I’ve never seen it myself, even if I’ll never see it.

It’s about doing the one little thing you can do, even if it’s useless: planting seeds in the midst of the apocalypse, spitting on a wildfire, bailing out the ocean with a bucket. Individual action is almost always pointless.

Hope and strength comes from our bonds with each other, from the actions we take as a community, holding hands in the dark.

What if hope isn’t just a thing of feathers and wings and song? What if punk isn’t just about anger and insolence and lashing out against the world around you? What if the world, people, and stories aren’t so simple?

I can’t answer what Hope is, what Punk is, or what Hopepunk is as an idea binding these two words together to anyone but me. I do know what my story has been. And I know the stories I’ve been told. The stories I’ve witnessed. The stories I’ve touched.

I’m tired. I’m angry. I can’t not be anymore. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s part of me. Perhaps something even greater would be wrong if they weren’t.

But I also remember the people who’ve come into my life in ways that seem so small in comparison, yet somehow, inexplicably, still changed me to the point I continue to think about them years later. The woman who approached me, sitting outside and crying after being almost fired from my first job and, with no possibility of reconciliation, bought me a sandwich and sat with me while I waited to be picked up. Friends that stayed with me during some of the worst times of my life. Strangers that turned into those friends.

In spite of it all, I’ve also seen so much love.

I have always hated false dichotomies. These truths can coexist, and like the tapestry of stories, wind together into something bigger. The softness of hope does not feel like it can survive the type of anger and force and sometimes nihilism of punk. The good in the world feels like it should be shattered under the darkness.

Maybe it all morphs into something new.

Maybe hope becomes a thing of teeth and claws, bared in defense of life’s small everyday acts of love. Friendship. Community. Of myself, and proof that the world is brighter than my own frustration makes it feel. Of all the things that exist in contrast that make these very injustices sting so very much.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be fragile. Maybe hope can be bloody and messy and stubborn and defiant, even in the face of my fear and exhaustion and pain. Maybe it can make something more balanced. Something stronger, as all these contrasting elements come together and inform each other with new perspectives.

Maybe it can be what saves me.

Near the end of the article, Alexandria says this:

Hopepunk isn’t pristine and spotless. Hopepunk is grubby, because that’s what happens when you fight. It’s hard. It’s filthy, sweaty, backbreaking work that never ends. It isn’t pretty, and it isn’t noble, and it isn’t nice, though I expect the natural inclination (and even my own instinctive inclination) is to make it so—to forget the word “radical” in the phrase “radical kindness,” to forget the “punk” part of “hopepunk,” which is really the operative half of the word. To forget the anger of it and let it soften, because softness is what we’re aching for. We want the world to be better—kinder, more just, more merciful. We still yearn toward noblebright, toward an honest and desperate belief that love conquers all.

But we forget, sometimes, that we have knives too in this empire. That we can unsheathe them, that we can turn our blades to the defense of an atom of justice and a molecule of mercy that might not even exist—except . . . except for where we make them exist, in the hands we hold out to each other, and in the shelter we offer even when we ourselves are exhausted, footsore, and filthy, with the wolves at our doors.

Maybe this doesn’t even have to be big acts. It’s something I’ve grappled with often. The feeling that where I am now is not enough. That what I do cannot change the course of the tale I find myself part of. That I can only be a passive observer as things happen around and to me. That I am so helplessly unable to make any meaningful difference in my own story.

And I want to, so desperately. But maybe those first steps can lead to more. The shelter and small words said earnestly in a time of need is just as much a part of this as life altering choices I want to be able to wield.

I've always dreamed of enacting change. Of being someone who could somehow inspire another person the way the stories of others had inspired and saved me. The books I clutched in my hands when the world was too big, and I was far too small. But it's good to remember that even the imposing might of mountains eventually wears under the passing of water.

I still feel like that child more often than not, and that everything I do in spite of it is just a mask dangerously close to slipping. But just as much as those stories, everyday people did the same in touching me, and shaping me. The right word spoken after tragedy. Encouragement from those who bothered to pay attention to things I did not speak aloud.

Maybe I should also reconsider the worth of myself in being the hand that stretches out to other people. Maybe that kindness is just as much a part of this as my anger and fear.

I’m tired of being only angry. Of being only sharp edges and fire and fear and burning myself to ashes in a way that harms none of the people doing this to us. I’m tired of missing the joy while I can have it based on the actions of a few hollow, spiteful, greedy, and selfish bastards that only care about themselves, damn the rest.

So, I will be a thing of teeth and claws when needed. And I will grow fur to keep those close to me warm. Because despite my anger, and fear, and exhaustion, the world is still, somehow, worth it. People are worth it. I am worth it. My story can impact others, and the story of humanity is not yet fully penned.

I have to believe that. If it is not so, then I have to make it so, even out of pure, stubborn, spiteful obstinance. That people are not evil at base, because I am not, and I am not special in the grand scheme of things.

I am just a person. We are all just people, grasping for things to drive and carry us day to day. And people are both kind and horrible. Messy tapestries of different things tying us together into something unique and terrifying and amazing and horrible and full of wonder and joy and anger and fear and beauty.

All of us, each and every one, desperately trying to keep hold of our stories before someone else twists them out of our hands.

Another common example of Hopepunk is a scene in Terry Pratchett's "The Hogfather", spoken by Death. A scene Alexandria discusses and also references in the name of their own original article. Here, Death explains that humanity must first learn to believe the small lies, such as Hogfathers and tooth fairies, so eventually they can come to believe the big ones.

Justice. Mercy. Duty.

Hope.

As is true of many concepts in Diskworld, when asked by the character Susan "Well we have to believe in that, or else what is the point?", Death answers back, "My point exactly. You need to believe in things that are not true. How else can they become?"

My kindness will be worth it, because it made me and those around me a little happier. Even if it hurts me in the end. I am not naive to the world around me. I am angry. I am tired. I am scared. I am just one person. And maybe in the end it's how Alexandria says:

There are no heroes and no villains. There are just people. That’s Hopepunk: Whether the glass is half full or half empty, what matters is that there’s water in that glass. And that’s something worth defending.

Stand with each other, and never let the person beside you forget that to move forward we need something to hold onto, whether knife or outstretched hand. There is still good in this world. Even if we have to fight to create it ourselves with every step we take.

No story is over until the final word has been penned…and even with all the horrors and uncertainty of the journey, we don’t have to travel through ours alone.

#hopepunk #essay

[inbabylontheywept]

Master Post of Writings and Series

HFY Science Fiction That Isn't a Ship, It's a Cannon with FTL! Military fiction revolving around space pirates and a railgun someone strapped an FTL drive to. There are three parts, the link above should let you scroll through the whole series. Like Sharks A short fic based on the prompt "Humans are the only ones to actually develop FTL. Everyone else just uses wormholes." The Scattering Experimental piece. I normally do prose, but I tried a poem. Inspired by the Dark Forest Theory. "So...What's the biggest gun you've ever made?" First installment starring Earl, a weapons designer. In this episode he explains the basics of fission-based fusion weapons, their applications in throwing things into orbit. Also stars a horny lobsterman. "R&D? More like R&Deez Nuts" Second installment starring Earl. This is a laser tag fight starring the R&D division, accounting, and sales. There will be male bonding. Or else. "Yeah, sure, and I shit thermite. Be serious." Earl drinks until he pukes. Aliens learn that humans produce hydrochloric acid for digestion. The Vengabus is Coming! A pinned down group of soldiers has to call in a human tank for backup. Shock and awe does not begin to describe it. Hold Your Breath and Burn The bad news is that he's gonna die in space. The good news is that he can make it count. "I will solve you if I must." The last tool of diplomacy is threats. Burning Bridges You don't have to kill a soldier to keep them from being a combatant. "I think we underestimated the scale of the human species by eight or nine orders of magnitude." In which humans turn out to be the swarm. Party Favors Humanity solved mortality. It did not solve boredom. Now it's everyone's problem. Starring my creepiest humans, a lot of drugs, and the leasy sexy descriptions of sex I could make.

HFY Fantasy Small, Fragile, and Destined to Die There's something to be said for spitting in the face of death. Sometimes, literally. "Healing+Lightning=Wizard Launcher" Unconventional spell uses let a wizard punch above his weight. And bite. And kick. Human wizards make a lot of ruckus. An Honorary Troll A wizard fights a troll. It is not a very wizardly fight. I considered it a very loose sequel to the story above it, but both can absolutely be read separately. Dale of the Dales A two part series about a human protecting a town of halflings from an army of gnomes with the power of hospitality, and also being comparatively massive. Why Human's Can't Cast On the properties of superconductors and golden gods. The Thunder God of Honnillee A human is adopted by a halfling. What Talon and What Dreadful Claw Tragedy with a man and a spynx.

Unsorted Fictions Leviathan A necromancer scours the depths of hell for a soul worthy of his creation. He finds more than he bargained for. Odysseus in Space (It's very, very good) Biographical Pieces The Kitchen Labyrinth of Missile Science Why does a classified facility with 30 people at it have 7 kitchens? What would you do if I told you it has seven of every kind of room? The Fridges. Oh my God, the Fridges. It also has 20 fridges in it. Obviously. Kevin vs. Intro to Quantum You would be surprised at the kind of intellectual challenges random bystanders can take. I certainly was. Layman walks in and becomes the class mascot. The Condom Bomber In which I fuck up. Videos None of these are narrated by me, but I thought I'd list them here for anyone that prefers listening to reading. Like Sharks, read by Grey Voice. He focuses on smooth reading. Like Sharks, read by Aggro Squirrel. He has a theatrical voice. Like Sharks, read by NetNarrator. He has a fast, clipped style. The Vengabus is Coming & Burning Bridges 2 for 1 by Aggro Squirrel. "Yeah, and I shit thermite. Be serious." by Net Narrator. "So, what's the biggest gun you've ever made?" by Aggro Squirrel.

#InBabylonTheyWept

[writingseaslugs]

Pomefiore: Reader Who's Scared of Storms

I really had fun writing Rook's part; I'm not going to lie; I simp hardcore for the man.

Disclaimer: All characters in this series are aged up. For more information about my version of this world and the type of reader you can expect, please do a quick read of THIS post.

Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore (You're Here) | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

Reader Who’s Scared of Storms

Vil Schoenheit

Vil discovers this small fact when he has to film a movie scene, and it calls for a storm. He invites you to it, and he realizes when you find out exactly what was going on and how you refused. He’s going to calmly ask if you are scared of storms, and once he gets confirmation, he’ll make a mental note to not ask that of you. He’ll even offer to be with you whenever there’s a storm if you call for him and keep that in mind.

Everyone has fears, and he won’t ever make you feel bad for this one. He’ll also offer up a spa day to keep you distracted from the storm raging on outside. He’ll be doing facials and running a warm bath to soak in with some essential oils in there and soothing candles. He just makes the atmosphere very calming, talks to you about his latest projects, and encourages you to tell him about things going on in your life.

Vil keeps his phone off at night so he doesn’t get woken up, so he’ll, of course, be making sure to keep track of storms. You’ll be coming over to his dorms, though, since he refuses to stay at Ramshackle again. The smells of an oil diffuser will be in the air, and he’ll offer you some specially made tea that helps aid sleep. Once you’re basically dozing off, he’ll take you over to the bed and lay down with you, arms around you, and tell you that you’re rather cute when you’re all sedated like this.

Rook Hunt

Rook knew from the moment the first storm of the year hit, and he noticed you off in the distance. He still hadn’t approached you for conversation back then, but he did store it in his mental database. Once you two are familiar with one another and there’s a storm, he’ll inform you and offer for you to stay at Pomefiore during it. If you’re confused, he’ll retell the amazing tale of how he noticed you one fateful day as you screamed like a banshee when a bolt of lightning hit too close and how you dropped all you were carrying and ran to the nearest building without gathering it up. It now made sense to you why all your stuff was sitting at your next-period class that day.

Rook finds this absolutely adorable and isn’t afraid to tell you how cute you look when you’re all jumpy and scared. He tells you how you remind him of a small rabbit right now, ready to bolt at the sound of a branch breaking. Of course, he’ll be grabbing you to hang out with him away from all the noise and maybe telling you some poems he has written as of late. Some of them are comically bad, and he knows it, even looking over to see if you were willing to laugh or try to be polite and encouraging. It’s fine to laugh; he wrote them so you would laugh after all.

He’s your personal storm radar, being able to tell one is brewing the morning of. When you hear a knock at your window and see him there, waiting to be let in, you know shit is about to go down. He is holding a lovely-looking novel, though, and will be reading you to sleep while playing with your hand or anything else he can touch respectfully. If you have hair long enough for him to play with, you bet he’s twirling it around his finger as he watches you slowly grow more drowsy.

Epel Felmier

Epel is pretty oblivious as you two are working on some potions homework. The storm had barely begun, and he hadn’t heard the thunder or seen the lightning. He was far too used to storms rolling around, so he didn’t think anything of it. Until he looked over to ask you a question and saw how frightened you looked. At this point, he still hadn't noticed the storm and will be asking what’s going on, and once you explain, it clicks. He doesn’t understand the fear, but he knows he dislikes seeing you like this.

He’ll reassure you that there’s nothing to fear, and he’ll stay with you until it blows over. If you want, you guys can continue working on your homework, and anytime there’s a crack of thunder, he’ll place his hand over your thigh and tell you it’s alright. If you need something more distracting, then he’ll grab an apple and offer to show you easy carvings to keep your attention elsewhere. He’s a pretty good teacher too, and before you know it, the storm has subsided, and you’ve picked up a new skill.

He enjoys staying up late, no matter what Vil says, so it’s no surprise when he’s still awake to see your message. He has to sneak out of the dorm to head over, but when he does, he has a cold bottle of apple juice and some headphones for you. He’ll sit and talk with you until you’re growing tired enough to fall asleep. Then he’ll curl up with you in bed and run his hand over your thigh as he waits for you to sleep, admiring you as you finally doze off.

#Twisted Wonderland #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #TWST #TWST x Reader #TWST Wonderland #Twisted Wonderland Disney #TWST Disney #Vil Schoenheit #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #Rook Hunt #Rook Hunt x Reader #Rook x Reader #Epel Felmier #Epel Felmier x Reader #Epel x Reader

[somnambulic-thing]

A wee game I thought would be fun: choose an excerpt from one of your posted fics, 600 words or less, that will make people curious for more. Share it with the title of your fic and little to no context. I thought this would be a way to let people have a "taste" of one of your longer fics or series, and hopefully they will want to investigate further. Tagging some people, but it's open to anyone. I'd love to see snippets of your stuff.

@bettyfrommars thank you for tagging me and starting this fun thing. I<3u

I am nothing but not annoying and so I'm going to share 294 words of Smoke and Cherry Pop Rocks

----

You spot his van first.

And then you spot him. Stretching out on his back on the floor of the small deck in front of the trailer. One arm under his head, his feet bopping to a tune in his mind, tendrils of smoke rising up from his face like ephemeral poems. Golden hour was only minutes away and already the sun tinted everything in this light that had the color of bittersweet memories.

You place your feet carefully, eager to stay unnoticed as long as you can, not ready to leave this limbo yet. He was just beautiful like this; even in inertia, Eddie was a wild thing.

He turns his head at last; you don’t stop, don’t falter even though inside of you everything screams Don’t.

You see him squint, the low and glaring sun behind you shrouding you just a little longer giving you a few more precious seconds to clear your mind, to prepare your words.

Except it doesn’t. He recognizes you anyway.

Over the distance, you hear your name spoken in that voice that had made you jump on your first day in High School; he’d been running late and barged into the wrong classroom. His hair had been shorter, sticking out in every direction like he was electric, made of storm. The voice is deeper now, rougher, but you would recognize it underwater. You hear it in your dreams.

“Hi, Eddie,” says your mouth while your mind says Don’t.

“You, uh, got lost or something?

“No,” you say and come to a halt. With you, you bring your shadow and you cast it over his face. His features relax, the squint disappears and you look down into pitch-black eyes. “I was looking for you.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

---

I am soft-no-pressure-tagging: @jo-harrington @writinginthetwilight @powderblueblood @songforeddiemunson @storiesbyrhi @ghost-proofbaby @the-unforgivenn

#tag games

[lulu2992]

Decoding the scripts and secret messages in Rebel Moon

Part 2: Solving the riddle of Noble’s Bone Staff

On December 23, 2023, Zack Snyder posted this:

The idea of uncovering yet another secret got me very excited, so I looked for the Bone Staff in the guide. Here is the image as it appears on the website:

I slightly cropped it, but yes, it really is this small and you can barely see anything... Still, if you look closely, you will notice a series of little vertical lines all along the handle. Well, they’re not just lines; they’re letters, and they form the “secret inscription” fans were challenged to decode!

Contrary to what the post said, though, it seemed to me this script didn’t look like the New Imperium font. Instead, it reminded me a lot of the symbols I had seen elsewhere in the guide, on the Priests and Scribes’ outfits (more on this later), and on Kora’s gun:

I learned from AurekFonts, who worked on several typefaces for the film (along with Louie Mantia, Jr.), that this other font was most likely “designed primarily by the Speculative Civilization Advisor, Adam Forman” and called “Old Imperium”. This is the name I’m going to use from now on.

The guide says the message on the Guardian Gun means “My life for hers”, so I now had 10 letters to work with. On the bone staff, I also noticed the “brackets”, which I concluded served as spaces/word separators in Old Imperium, were upside-down compared to the ones on the gun, so I deduced that, to read the message, I first had to rotate the image by 180 degrees.

But even after doing all that, decoding the inscription remained difficult because of the image’s fairly low resolution... After a lot of squinting, I still managed to count the words and determine how many letters they contained. The message is a 38-word sentence that looks something like this:

---[-------(7th letter is grey)[-----[-----(puntuation mark)---[---[-[----[----[------[---------[--[-----[----(3rd letter is grey)[----[-----[--[---------[--[-[-------[------[---[----[-----[-----[---[----[----[-----[--[----[--------[-------[---------[--[--[----(puntuation mark)

I tried to find the 10 letters I knew... but I was struggling. Then, suddenly, I remembered this:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

The poem... it had to be a clue! I looked at “The Second Coming” again, and my eyes were drawn to the last verses:

The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

38 words, a punctuation mark between the 4th and 5th words, another one at the end... As for the grey letters on the staff? They correspond to double letters in the poem (“darkneSS” and “slEEp”). Everything works perfectly!

The secret inscription on Atticus Noble’s Bone Staff is the final sentence of the 1919 poem “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats.

December 24, 2023, around 7 pm CEST; challenge completed!

And now that I had been introduced to the Old Imperium font, why not try to decode it too?

#rebel moon #rebel moon part one a child of fire #a child of fire #zack snyder #old imperium #old imperium font #atticus noble #kora #the second coming #william butler yeats #I made a mistake in my tweet noooo #I wrote ‘4th letter’ and it’s the third #ah never mind no one noticed #by the way people are still very nice

[astranne]

CHERISHED GIFTS !genshin snippet

note // ahahaha… finally writing again :D very sorry for the delay, the network was a bit more work than i thought. ty for my beta-readers ^^ ( @venexus ; @k-zu ) for reading trough my first yae miko writing and editing/commenting it. coming back from such a long (unplanned) hiatus is kinda hard. this is one of the works that is part of the network’s first writing event! i will link the masterlist here as soon it’s posted, check it out for more awesome works!!

network writing event; ice & snow

Yae Miko isn’t the biggest christmas partier in Inazuma. But she organizes a celebration with her shrine maidens, one that is well-known and well sought after. Of course she knows this, yet she keeps the celebration relatively small. She could use this event to expand her influence, or make it purely business. Most would think this Christmas party to be a wasted opportunity; too often the managers of the Publishing House begged her to expand it. She never listens to it and continues to celebrate Christmas in a small circle.

How could she not? Not when you always come to her party, one of the few non-shrine maiden attendants, bringing small gifts for everyone. Yet her gift is always the best one, the most thoughtful one. A rare book, a handwritten poem on the most expensive paper, dried sakura petals and so much more.

Every year you bring her the best gifts, one better than the other and of course she takes care of them. All your gifts are displayed in her room, taken care of and never touched by anyone else but her.

Miko knows Christmas is not about the gifts, but the time spent together. Yet, when she rarely sees you, she will take any gift of yours and treasure it– just as she treasures every moment with you together. It makes your gifts special, unique and her little gems.

Of course, she doesn’t hesitate to spoil you either. But, unlike your gifts, which have an emotional connection to the both of you, she gifts you the most lavish things she can get her hands on. Be it a rare collection of the first printed book series, a bottle of the best wine one can find in Teyvat or one of her many talismans, which are crafted with the best materials and clearly of higher quality than those she normally gives to other visitors of the Narukami Shrine.

Many years this has been going on, and for many years Yae Miko celebrates Christmas with her shrine maidens, all the workers of her Publishing House and a few selected guests. And, since the first year, you have been part of the celebration. A special something, a special guest, someone dear to her. This will continue for many more years, with many more gifts exchanged and more treasures for Miko to admire.

ASTRANNE 2022

#yaepublishinghouse #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin x gn reader #yae miko #yae miko x reader #yae miko x gn reader #yae x reader #genshin imagines #yae miko imagines #genshin scenarios #yae miko scenarios #🪐 galaxy milky way

[disgruntledexplainer]

another thing that comes to my mind a lot is Van Kleiss. I've already mentioned before that he represents trans-humanism, or perhaps more accurately post-humanism. but the way that the writers and animators get the idea across is so interesting.

his very existence seems to cause the world to go mad.

I made this AMV a couple years ago about good ol' VK, and a lot of it's scenes demonstrate what I'm talking about:

but especially the scene where he's fighting White Knight and turns a nearby tree into an EVO.

Van Kleiss represents a new age, one in which the human race as we know it has no place or role. the changes he brings about reflect this alien new world.

my comparison is not without basis. the comic series Generator Rex was based off of was called Machinima Rex (or M Rex for short), which was about the world evolving around mankind to the point where it no longer dominant.

honestly the best comparison I can give for his coming is the arrival of an Outer God, specifically Nyarlethotep. I know this sounds like a stretch, but hear me out:

There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown. [...] Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare.

-HP Lovecraft's poem, Nyarlethotep

Yet Van Kleiss is a man. A man who, through technology, cruelty, and force of will, made himself immortal, unkillable, master of nature, space, and time, even if only for a brief moment were all those aspects united.

this is post-humanism. this is the promise of a world without man; a world populating by things that used to be human but are more, or perhaps less, than human.

"Are you a man, or a god?"

"I find both labels rather... limiting. [...] You may call me Van Kleiss."

#van kleiss #generator rex #nyarlethotep #hp lovecraft #m rex #machinima rex #image comics #Youtube

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

I've been vaguely interested in Welsh language and culture since I read a fantasy series in middle school that had some really cool Welsh characters. But recently, I started teaching myself Japanese, and I've found that I really love learning a new language. Reading the poem you posted about the Aberfan disaster (and then reading the history of the disaster) made something click in my head, and I've decided that once I get Japanese under my belt, Welsh is up next.

I really admire y'all's fight to protect and grow your language, culture, and history, and I'm really excited to contribute to it in a small way.

(Now that I think about it that way, maybe after that I'll make a thing out of learning the basics of various native American languages and sharing their history with my friends. Hmmm...)

Anyway, thanks for sparking this new excitement for me

This is so lovely! Thank you for wanting to learn. That's the nice thing about endangered languages - every little bit helps, so you are genuinely helping even if all you learn to say is "I think walruses should stay in the Arctic." Good luck with it! HMU with any questions

#linguistics #WALES! #closed for cleaning on mondays #asks

[brian-in-finance]

Twitter

Twitter

Sinead O'Connor at her home in County Wicklow, Republic of Ireland in 2012. David Corio/Redferns/Getty Images

Caitríona Balfe, Michael Stipe and more pay tribute to Sinéad O’Connor

On Wednesday, as the news of Sinéad O’Connor’s death broke, many celebrities took to social media to pay tribute to the music icon.

As reported by Irish broadcaster RTE earlier in the day, O’Connor’s death was confirmed by a family statement. No cause of death was immediately available.

“I hope you are at peace,” actor Caitríona Balfe wrote on her Instagram page, adding “and with your baby boy. Thank you for sharing your soul with us and soothing us with your incredible voice beautiful Sinéad.”

O’Connor contributed her vocals to the opening credits of Season 7 of acclaimed series “Outlander,” in which Balfe stars. The actor’s mention of O’Connor’s “baby boy” was in reference to the singer’s son Shane, who died by suicide at age 17 in 2022.

Michael Stipe, famed REM singer-songwriter, simply wrote on Instagram aongside a photo of him with O’Connor that “there are no words.” Stipe has spoken about how much he was influenced by O’Connor, telling the Washington Post in a 2020 interview that “so many people have lifted from her, from me to Miley Cyrus. She’s one of our great, living icons.”

Belinda Carlisle, lead vocalist of the all-girls 80s rock band The Go-Gos, wrote “may she find peace now. Forever loved,” on her Twitter page on Wednesday, while singer-songwriter Melissa Etheridge wrote on her page that news of O’Connor’s death “is such a tragedy.”

“What a loss. She was haunted all her life. What a talent,” Etheridge continued. “I remember my first Grammy show meeting this small shy Irish girl.”

The Cranberries – who lost their lead singer, the Irishwoman Dolores O’Riordan, in 2018 – shared a tribute on their official Instagram account, writing that they “are shocked and saddened to hear of Sinead’s sudden passing. We have all been big fans for many years. Our thoughts are with her family.”

Shirley Manson, lead singer of Garbage, posted in honor of O’Connor to the band’s Instagram page, writing, “I’m heartbroken.”

“This disgusting world broke her and kept on breaking her. Godspeed dear fragile dove,” the post continued. “Thank you for all the beauty and all the wise teachings you offered up to us. I wish you nothing but peace and I will love you for all of time.”

O’Connor’s contemporary Annie Lennox shared a poem in the late singer’s memory on her Instagram, beginning it with, “You bared your soul… | Shared your brilliance | Through exquisite artistry”.

Oscar-winner Jamie Lee Curtis penned a lengthy tribute to O’Connor on her Instagram page, saying, “I once heard Sìnead (sic) sing acapella in an empty chapel in Ireland. It was under construction at the private home of our host. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I loved her. Her music. Her life,” Curtis added, going on to reminisce about the time she spent with O’Connor at a music festival.

“Sixth Sense” actor Toni Collette also shared a personal memory with O’Connor, writing on Instagram, “I was lucky enough to hang out with her a few times in my twenties. On one occasion we all sang in the hills of Wicklow in Eire. I sang a Jane Siberry song and Sinead then asked/encouraged me to sing one of my own. Can you imagine the terror? The intimidation? The thrill?!”

“She was so talented, so generous, humble, resilient, courageous and true,” Collette continued. “What a voice. What a force. My heart breaks.”

Beyond those in the arts, O’Connor’s impact was felt in her home country of Ireland.

“What Ireland has lost at such a relatively young age is one of our greatest and most gifted composers, songwriters and performers of recent decades, one who had a unique talent and extraordinary connection with her audience, all of whom held such love and warmth for her,” Irish president Michael D. Higgins said in a statement sent to CNN.

“May her spirit find the peace she sought in so many different ways,” his statement concluded.

CNN

Remember… you bared your soul… shared your brilliance through exquisite artistry. — Annie Lennox

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #Sinéad O’Connor #A Gathering For Sinéad #London Irish Centre #27 July 2023 #London #CNN #26 July 2023 #Twitter