#like the kind of love in the mines craft end poem. that kind

[tooies]

i am relistening to this album because its dark enough outside in the mornings now and i forgot how much i love these songs. and now you have to listen to one of them too because im telling you to. either way check this song out because i think that this is what love sounds like

#tooies favourite songs :3 #to clarify: i dont mean love as in just one type like romantic or platonic or whatever #i think this song is like. the whole thing. like if you took all the love in the universe and bundled it all up into a perfect sphere #well the shape doesnt matter. but like you get the idea #its like. what it feels like to be loved by the universe because you are part of it. you know? #like the kind of love in the mines craft end poem. that kind #^ spelling it mines craft so i dont clog up the tag with my ramblings lol #either way i think thats everything i have to say about it. if you have questions let me know and i will give more incoherent ranting #but still listen to it btw

[oraclekleo]

[Pick-A-Pile]Messages for you from the cards

Hello and welcome to a short PAC of mine.

This time I’m not asking the cards about anything in particular. I allow them to deliver the kind of message they feel like you should know now.

If you struggle picking a pile, it might be that none of the messages are supposed to reach you at this moment. If you come back in a month, maybe you pick the pile instantly because then it’s gonna be the time for you to receive the message.

If in general you struggle picking piles, it might be that as well. Sometimes you are not supposed to pick one because the message is not meant for you. Keep that in mind.

Disclaimer:

All my tarot readings are for entertainment purposes only

This is a general timeless reading - take what resonates

May include mature, NSFW, 18+ or triggering content

Minors should not engage with my blog

Tarot is self-development tool (yes, even future spouse readings are self-development tools), it’s not a life manual

Whatever the cards say, you always have a freedom of choice

Never base important life decisions in solely tarot readings

Maintain moderate consumption of tarot readings, it’s like any other addiction, it becomes unhealthy when it’s too much

Masterlist: Pick-A-Pile (PAC) Masterlist

Let's Play: Tarot Games 🎲

Messages for You from the Cards

Pile 01

Cards: 2 of Cups, 10 of Swords, Ace of Coins (Tarot of Tales), 38. The Milk of the Mother Flows, 42. She is Moonlight-Shy (The Solitary Witch Oracle), Star Anise (The Herbal Tea Magic for the Modern Witch Oracle)

There’s an end of discussion leading to important decisions - it’s time to stop analysing and debating and it’s time to start working on your goals.

Relationships are nurturing and lovely, you are rewarded with the same amount of care you have put into them.

Follow your intuition but keep your eyes open - you might have a tendency to romanticise what’s actually not that good in the merciless light of reality.

Someone in your life might present themselves well but they are actually toxic for you. It’s time to show them the door.

Your manifestations are likely to come to fruition now. Whatever you have wished and manifested for will finally materialise in your world.

Meeting your soulmate or just someone very dear to you is suggested.

Now is the time to embrace your personal magick powers. The time of waiting is over, be the best version of yourself now. Devote to your craft.

Your energy is at its peak and flowing easily, your actions now will influence your future many years ahead.

It's a time of good fortune for you - you might want to play the lottery.

Pile 02

Cards: 10 of Wands, 10 of Cups, Ace of Wands (The Light Seer’s Tarot), Cheetah, Lion (The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Oracle), Purification (Sacred Destiny Oracle)

It’s time to de-clutter, purify, clean and cleanse, sort and make space for what’s about to come. New vibrant energy can’t enter your life when it’s clogged with old, stagnant and blocking energy. Clean yourself and space around you. Eat lightly and get rid of things you don’t love anymore.

Time of abundance is ahead of you, especially if you read this in the summer season. Abundance of what you desire will come to you like a summer storm - swiftly and showering down.

Don’t waste your energy and resources. Observe and be smart with your decisions. There are battles worth fighting but there are also those you should avoid. Learn to recognize them.

Your potential and energy are endless but you need a purpose and motivation to use them well. If you are lacking any of these, take a moment to think about your ‘why’.

Your creativity is radiating and burning, you might experience an increase when it comes to brilliant ideas now.

Everything is connected. Use your intellect and imagination to see how people and situations interact. You might feel an urge to start writing a story or poem.

Finally some happiness arrived at your home’s door. You might feel blessed in the circle of your close relatives or friends, maybe celebration is at hand.

If your project or relationship becomes a tedious and tiring one, don’t lose hope and keep going. You are just about to release the burdens and reach fruition of your labour.

It might be about time for you to do something for your community. In relation to the above, you might feel called to release some content for your social media followers, or you might want to donate your old clothes to charity, or maybe you simply bake a cake for your grandma for her birthday.

Pile 03

Cards: V The Hierophant, Knight of Swords, XI Justice (The Slavic Legends Tarot), L The Ram and Dahlia, XII The Lizard and Pitcher Plant (Woodland Wardens Oracle), Hazel (The Wisdom of Trees Oracle)

Set your mental and emotional boundaries, especially when dealing with people. Some dramas have nothing to do with you, don’t waste your energy on them.

If you feel stuck or stagnant, remember the lizard's ability to let go of their tails to escape from predators. Maybe it’s time for you to drop something in order to move forward.

You are determined and focused on your goals and if you maintain like that, you can achieve whatever you want. Be headstrong and gracious at the same time and no obstacle stands a chance against you.

It’s time to establish a little more balance in your life. Which aspects take most of your attention and which ones you neglect recently?

If you are dealing with people and their dramas, remain impartial and unbiased. If you lean to any side, it will only bring more chaos to the situation. Keep a cool head.

Make meticulous plans but don’t get stuck in the planning phase. Once you are done debating, take courage and execute what you have drafted.

Ride the storm - while others hide from challenges, you should see an opportunity to shine against adversity. You have that personal power and charm to lead masses in times of crises.

You might feel the need to study, examine and evaluate rules, norms, laws or customs. Maybe you follow some traditions despite them being a burden to you. Maybe some laws are outdated and only promote injustice. It’s time to take in a bigger picture and work on improvements.

Your older friends or relatives possess wisdom. Come together at this time and learn some crucial information or skills from them. Is inflation giving a hit to your budget? Your elders might know some frugal tricks to help you. Maybe your sensitive skin doesn’t benefit from creams you buy and your grandma has some time proofed home remedy for that. Seek for long-term wisdom instead of quick hecks.

Thank you for reading!

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#tarot #tarotblr #tarot pick a pile #tarot pick a card #PAC #pac tarot #pick a pile #pick a card #pac reading #pick a pile reading #tarot community #tarot readings #love tarot free #free tarot #oracle kleo #self healing #self care

[sweetwriter]

Oh To Love

by Sweetwriter

I often feel like Hephaestus, the throwed away one; the ugly one; the crafter. People only care about the craft and never the crafter. 

I write this story, as a manifestation of a love I would like to receive. 

Hephaestus!Reiner x black reader (at certain points)

this chapter and a couple other chapters are going to be build ups to the love story of Reiner x YN

Heads up: abandonment, self hate, rejection, shame, angst, fluff, maybe smut (later) idk, happy ending :)

This story is based off the poem by Nikola Gill the story of Hephaestus 

“He is dismembered! He will bring shame to my womb” 

Hephaestus hears this conversation, ears pressed against the marble doors.  Looking down at his legs, they didn’t look different to him- I guess it should make sense that the rest of the Pantheon just chooses to completely ignore him. He thought that it was the fact that he wasn't as confident as his brother, Ares or well loved like his half brother, Heracles; nor was he wise like his half sister Athena. But, he thought that people did not mind, he is still young finding his way. 

“You know it is rude to eavesdrop, Hephaestus.” He turns around to see Aphrodite, his aphrodite. He had loved her for as long as he has known what love was. 

“They are talking about my appearance again. How come they never talk about my projects- the very crown she has on her head is a design I created.” He sighs. It has been a time where Hephaestus has conceded that he is gifted in crafts work. He often spent time mining near volcanoes to search for precious gems he will use for his next project. It is nearing his birthday, no one really remembers, so he decided to make a gift for himself.  

“Appearances are everything to an Olympian, we are perfect beings, when one is imperfect, what will that do to the Pantheon” she says softly. Hephaestus notices she often does that, she is harsh with her words and soft with her voice, it does not stop the sting, instead it prolongs it. He is use to the harsh tone. Soft tones are tattooed in his mind forever, for how can forget kindness. But as he grows, he questions whether softness is equivalent to kindness. 

“He looks like a beast because of your transgressions, whoring your love out to whatever you please but your wife. You have put shame on me, and I refuse to accept such thing as a son of mine.” Hera shouted, All Hephaestus saw was his mother storming his way with anger in his face, “mother, what are you” that was all he remembered. 

As he fell that day, all the pain and suffering settled in his chest; The humiliation of being discarded. “Who would want me if Olympus does not desire my presence?” Hephaestus questioned himself for hours as he fell. All the pain and suffering marinating into his bones, the agony wearing down his godly bones. 

He spent his 14th birthday falling from his godliness. His age progressed and his pride of being Olympian diminished.

When he hit the ground his heart rate picked up speed. Gods can not get hurt or feel pain, they say. The agony of falling must’ve weakened his goldy pride because when he fell. Everything held dearly, fell along with that: the pride of being his parent’s child, to be the sibling of all he cares for, the love of another. 

He felt as if his immortal life was over, that there was nothing that he needed to look forward to, all he had to do was aimlessly wander the earth. What he did not expect, was when Hephaestus was thrown off of Olympus and to the mortal realm, he experienced something he had never experienced, love. 

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A/N: HANBDJBFSB sorry it took me so long to get back to writing, I wanted to write all the parts out and then post them individually. I feel less stressed when all the parts are already saved and such. But yeah- leave notes or feedback or anything. maybe even some other mythology x anime ideas. Let me knooooowww

with love,

sweet writer

#imagine #fanfiction #black reader #my writing #attack on titan #angst #reiner x y/n #aot x black reader #anime fanfiction #anime x black!reader #reiner x reader #fluff

[dandelion-jester]

ATTENTION LOVELY FOLLOWERS!!!

I am soon launching a writing patreon!

This is very exciting for me, as it's always been a dream of mine to write full time and this will be my first proper step into making money from my writing! Currently, getting a regular job is quite difficult for me and I am living off of my student loan, so every little extra is a pleasant surprise.

If you are interested in joining, I will be reblogging this post with the link when it is up, so keep an eye on the reblogs!

More information is below the cut, I go into detail about Tiers, rewards, and my future plans!! The current most expensive tier is only £5/month so don't hesitate to have a look!!

Tiers

I am starting out with just three, very cheap tiers although depending on the patreon's success I would like to launch more tiers in the future. Currently I think that I'll be posting every wednesday, but if that day changes in the future I will post about it ahead of time. For now, here is what I am offering:

£1 - Town Cryer: The first tier costs only £1 and as well as getting my eternal gratitude, you will receive access to my writing blog where I will post weekly articles about writing, reading, and stories at large. This will include, but not be limited to: Reviews, writing thoughts and processes, tips and tricks, introspection on the craft, resources and much more. Joining this tier will give you access to four pieces of writing a month!

£3 - Wealthy Merchant: This tier is for people who would be interested in reading my creative writing. As well as blog access, you will also get access to weekly poems/short stories written by me. I mostly write fantasy, but there will likely be sci-fi and historical fiction in the midst and who knows what else. Work will come with neccessary trigger warnings and the poetry will be accompanied by a detailed analysis. Joining this tier will give you access to eight pieces of content a month!!

£5 - Court Jester: If you want to be generous and support me and my work even further, this tier is where you will find all the behind the scenes stuff for all my current WIPS! For this tier I will be posting, amongst other tidbits: draft excerpts, thought processes, character information, art (accompanied by the appropriate text), and personal updates on my writing and how it's going. Joining this tier will give you access to 12 pieces of content a month!!!

The Future

Patreon has removed the goal feature but I still have some of my own. These will be written in the about section of the patreon but will include:

A patron discord in which to build a writing community (all tiers will be eligible)

Q&As

Higher tiers with more content

I will also be doing polls on Tumblr and my Instagram (Dandelion_jester_) to see what kind of content patrons would be most interested in seeing in the future (I'll probably do these quarterly, but it may end up being every 6 months).

If you've read this far, thank you for tagging along! And if you are thinking of joining, then thank you even more!! As I said before, watch this post for the launch!!!

#writing #writeblr #writer #fantasy #patreon #patreon writer #patron #independent writer #fantasy writer #novel #author #short story #poetry #poem #dandelion-jester's patreon #blog #writing blog

[euinexoravel]

you crossed my mind today

for a second i thought why’d you been away

but then it came to me the reality of it

that i might’ve lost the chance and it’s come to an end

you appear in the back of my mind

right when i start thinking i’m doing fine

and the thing is

i’ll never be completely fine

not when you’re there for me to love

yes you’re there. it’s such a beautiful thing that i can’t even start to understand when we went wrong

or maybe, we didn’t really

i’ll hang in there even if you don’t think about me for a while

i don’t think about you 24/7 like i used to

you’ve just become natural and real

brain is a powerful thing and damn how i fell for you

the best experience i’ve come to know was the feeling of loving you

was knowing how powerful a great support can be

and what is care after all..

you might’ve taught me how to love

now i have to deal with this heavy urge

urge to give and live and be

i urge to feel things as i never did before

started with the need of having you in my arms and fuck how i’ve wanted that

someone else might be wrapped around them right now but i know whats to come and baby..

my baby..

you made me be sure of what i want

what i wish for

my desires..

goals..

and let me tell you now

you’ve been the fire inside me and i can’t wait to have what’s mine

i don’t mean this in a psychic way

i mean in the way that you’ve got me

you’ve got me so good and i need a taste of your kiss

you made me be sure that i’ll get what’s there for me

you’ve made me strong and i’m starting to see what i can do

i see my weaknesses and i respect them

you’re gonna get to know my strengths when i fly to your bedroom

this started as a romantic poem

i kind of claim it as an erotic tale now

just know that i think of you

i will work for this

i will work for us to happen

bet this baby. and i do

miss calling this name

i do miss feeling home

feeling safe when talking to you

our bubble will be crafted again

it’s gonna be better than before.

te amo pra caralho.

#original poem #art #love #amor

[arisingonmorningsinnocent]

everyone please read this natalie goldberg excerpt with me right now just because it is good:

“[W]hen I was twelve, I learned tennis in summer camp. I didn’t actually learn it. I stepped on the court and was whole. If I had to learn it, I probably would have quit. That’s what kind of kid I was--I had no perseverance--but tennis I knew. It was a song and I played it. Day after day. All day. I skipped softball, volleyball, swimming, canoeing, dramatics, arts and crafts. I played with eight-year-olds, twelve-year-olds, sixteen-year-olds, anyone who came along. I lived on the court and whoever I played entered my domain. I was happy to rally, but if we played games, I won. But mind you, I didn’t really care about winning or losing. I was outside those realms. I lusted for the sound of that fuzzy ball hitting the center of my racquet, the stretch of my young arm, the soles of my sneakers rubbed to swirls. I was never tired or hot or sweaty. I was a god. I stepped out of the realm of thought.

This was the first time I loved something all for myself. It was mine. I didn’t know this them. I just went to the courts with my sixteen-dollar wooden Slazenger tennis racquet every day.

When I was fourteen, Bruce Berkowitz, who was a camp waiter and sixteen, went home to Brooklyn at the end of August, declaring he would beat me the next summer. He practiced all winter, and when we met again at the camp bus in the Howard Johnson’s parking lot in Westchester, he had three racquets in his duffel bag. He challenged me for a game the day after we arrived at camp up in the Adirondacks.

I walked on the court like a prince, not a princess. Princesses are delicate. They can feel peas under twelve mattresses when they lie down to sleep. I was a prince in the land I owned: the tennis court. I wasn’t arrogant. I knew who I was: no one. Just an eye and a hand, a body to hold a racquet and, most important, I couldn’t have cared less whether Bruce Berkowitz beat me or not.

Of course, this attitude totally discombobulated Bruce. He fell apart. I beat him 6-0. I’m sure he did become very good over the winter, probably better than I was, especially since I never played tennis at home on Long Island. When I went home, I went back to eating Oreo cookies and watching television.

It had to do with the mind. I didn’t have a mind when I played. Bruce did. He had expectations, goals, desires. When the tennis ball was coming at him, he was thinking where he could place it to win a point. I wasn’t thinking anything. It was the only place I was free. It was a gift. Now, much older, I know that I would have had to work at it to keep being free. I would have had to practice and refine my moves. Instead, the summer I turned sixteen I had a boyfriend and never stepped on the court.

That is how writing was for me, too, when I wrote my first poem at twenty-three years of age. I felt whole and complete in myself. But, unlike tennis, with writing I continued and have come up against some miserable times when I’ve wanted to quit. I continued then, too. It’s a process. I didn’t marry writing all at once, but over time as I stayed connected to it under all circumstances, it has strengthened my resolve. Now, whether I like it or not, publish or not, it is the ground I walk on, my basic practice. And in keeping this commitment, it has taken me deep and has rooted me.

I was surprised when I first moved to Santa Fe and taught writing workshops where people came with the idea that this writing might save them. Last month they tried rolfing and this month it was writing. It is good to try different things, but eventually we must settle on one thing and commit ourselves. Otherwise we are always drifting and there is no peace. To stay with one thing gives us the opportunity to penetrate our lives and be free.”

#natalie goldberg #writeblr #op

[somediyprojects]

The Lady of Shalott stitched by Tarah Wheeler. Pattern ($6.99) designed by Teresa Wentzler.

I started this project when I was 19. I remember sitting on the lawn at Carroll College in Helena, Montana, and starting that first stitch up in the top left corner in DMC 420. The Lady of Shalott is a Teresa Wentzler pattern that came out in the late 1990s, and I’ve now finally finished it at the age of 41. The original myth is about Elaine, the Lady of Shalott, a fairy who fell in love with Lancelot and died while floating on a boat down the river to Camelot. It’s a frequently explored myth in Romantic literature, and this version is from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem.

This piece captures the moment just before she looks out to Camelot and her mirror cracks, signalling the end of her life in captivity and her doomed pursuit of Lancelot.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often thro’ the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights       And music, came from Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead Came two young lovers lately wed; ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said       The Lady of Shalott.

This was quite a quarantine finish!

I think I was so motivated to finish this during the pandemic because I thought it was beyond ironic that I was embroidering a woman who was embroidering because she wasn’t allowed to leave her home or dream of going other places.

Additional details under the cut.

After completing much of the cross stitching, I had to go through it with a forensic magnifier to check each 10×10 section for missing stitches. I basically lost a weekend doing this! Not that I noticed; we’re still in a pandemic.

I put a lot of myself into this project. Given the Victorian origins of Tennyson and the Romantic poets who loved the Chrêtien de Troyes version of the Arthurian romances, I thought it might be nice to literally put myself into this project. So, Elaine’s hair is mixed with a tiny lock of mine, like a Victorian funeral wreath.

There’s often a really big difference between doing cross stitching, and doing the finishing work of backstitching. The tininess of the stitches in this piece means the contrast isn’t as great as in some others, but it’s still pretty spectacular to see it outlined in high relief.

After 22 years, I was a little afraid that it might just fall apart in the washing solution, but it worked just fine. Probably because it’s all natural fiber. I used The Laundress natural fiber shampoo.

This is Monaco fabric, and I spent several days googling techniques to remove graphite when I realized a simple wash wouldn’t do it. I tried several techniques like erasing it with a craft cushion full of rubber shavings, a pencil eraser, and so forth. I found that trying to erase the graphite gently simply pilled the fabric without actually removing much of the graphite. There are several solutions out there, and they seem to be replicated from site to site, possibly without anyone actually testing them. I’m here to say: the Windex + toothbrush solution is what worked without harming any of the fabric or thread. I was concerned about applying the blue chemical to my fabric, but the soft toothbrush plus 50/50 Windex/water solution worked better than anything without pilling the fabric. Remember: don’t iron your project dry until you’re happy with the level of stain and grid mark removal, or you’ll seal those stains in with heat and steam!

I pressed it before adding the Mill Hill beads, since it’s hard to iron over those glass metallic bits.

Washing done–time for stretching: I pressed it gently dry with an iron on low heat over towels like in the video above. When about halfway dry, I started stretching it gently to get it even and shaped correctly, then ironed it fully dry.

Time to decide on framing choices. At first it seemed that something this intricate and painstaking deserved extremely elaborate gold leaf framing of some kind.

It was fun to select matting that had a linen effect, to correlate with this being stitchwork done on a piece of fabric. But that frame wood was wrong. Instead of going overly elaborate with the wood, I explored a more rustic, plain, distressed wood frame.

This didn’t steal focus from the embroidery and also serves to possibly better reflect the kind of framing that might be done long ago when tapestries hung in castles and manor houses…

I like to have the frame shop cut a piece of foam core with a square cut out of it so that I can use dressmaker’s straight pins to pin over the square, then press it down into the larger piece of foamcore.

We’re going to hang it here in the entryway of our home. I picked an accent wall color that would act as the next outward framing of the piece, and this is me painting it.

When my husband got a beat up brass lamp on eBay and restored it, and used it to light the piece and the wall, it became spectacular.

Thank you so much to my lovely spouse Deviant Ollam for the work grinding, polishing, restoring, and adding a dimmer function to this old brass lamp to light this piece perfectly!

If you’re interested in the original pattern, it’s by Teresa Wentzler.

#cross stitch #inspo #x #teresa wentzler

[autumnsvoice87]

Who am I?

Hi! I am Autumn. My legal name is different but Autumn is my preferred name.

I have been seeing many tumbler posts introducing themselves and their blog so here is mine. I am 35 year old and a parent.

I am an Autistic/adhd, Non binary, A-spec Panromantic individual who loves to write. I am also Norse pagan and an Ecelectic witch. I believe in the old gods as well as practice witchcraft.

This blog started as a pagan poetry and prayer blog, but overtime I have mostly been using it as an outlet to process emotions as well as pagan witchy crafts and artwork. Weather it be a coloring page, a drawing, a poem, or some kind of photo I took, it will be in here.

Many of the emotions I have been experiencing lately include grief and trauma. I have also been expressing love for a romantic interest that may never amount to anything other than a close friendship (which I am okay with and accept it as it is). My father died 3 years ago and my aunt died last year.

I have lost 7 other family members in the last 2-3 years and so thus grief and trauma because my grief kind of opened up a box of trauma and unresolved issues. How that happened is complicated and hard to explain so some of my work will be dark in nature.

Shadow work is part of witch craft so I guess part of processing these things is part of it. This may end up being my online callage/junk blog/journal lol.

I am also polyamorous. i have a nesting partner/husband as well as a boyfriend I care and love very much. So it is not like I am without. I am however, enjoying the new energy that comes with new romantic feelings. I just redirect that energy into my partners or express my feelings through poetry.

I love writing poetry and one day hope to get back into writing short stories. There was a novel I started awhile ago but I haven't gotten around to writing more of it. I am not that great at writing books but hopefully someday that will change.

I dreamed of becoming a well known poet someday when I was a teenager. I know I have the tallent, just need to practice and relearn the skills. I started this blog to also gain readership and to see where my writing would take me. I may make another blog for a witchy grimoir, but I have yet to decide that and what shape it will take.

so this is me :)

I do hope you enjoy this blog/journal.

Love

Autumn

#journal #introducing myself #poets and writers #poets of tumblr #poets on tumblr #poets corner #journaling #pagan #glbtqia #nonbinary #norse paganism #norse pagan #heathenry #poems on tumblr #witch tumblr #eclectic witch #pagan witch #witch blog #witch community #journal writing #introductory post #intro post #blog post #blog intro #writers on tumblr #tumblrpost #witches of tumblr #pagans of tumblr #poetry on tumblr #new poets on tumblr

[wordsofanintrovert]

For the wildest mystery I know

This one goes out to the wildest mystery I know. She grew onto me like the night sky after dusk. She always wore a black hoodie as if to hide in the shadows, as if to be a mystery unsolved. She walked like death, smiled like summer, and talked like a poet in love. She was the missing piece of my heart. She was Margo, Margo Roth Spiegelman.

Margo and I were neighbours, and since the very first time I saw her, my heart wants to beat just for her; in unison with hers. I don't even like puzzles, but she was a puzzle I didn't mind solving even if it took me all my life. She was adventure, she was danger; she was life and death all at once.

On a sunny afternoon, with sweaty palms I approached her as she was sunbathing on the roof we smoked our first pot on. She watched me sit from the corner of her eyes, and gave me one of her lazy smiles. I gave her the paper flowers I had carefully crafted for her, "These don't die" I slowly muttered. "Death is beautiful Q, it's beautiful" she said, as if reciting a poem. And in that moment, her heart was happy and it reflected in her smile. And in that very moment, I would marry her with paper rings, in this paper town, just real feelings and real memories.

Margo was the kind of person who would stay up all night, just because everyone else is asleep. She liked how it gave her a sense of power over everyone. She would write stories about this town and the secrets under it's veil, like she was the watcher and could see things others couldn't.

One such night she decided she would take me on a little death ride, made me drive around town for her little adventures. I was falling harder for her than any other nights, for she was no longer just in my head or my heart, tonight she was right here in my car. The rings in her hand slowly sparkled as the streetlights hit it in the dark, it reminded me of her, how she glowed for me, just a little light but enough to brighten up my life. She was my sun, my moon, and everything in between.

She took me to the top of a tall building at the devil's hour, to show me the city lights, and slowly started scribbling something on a yellow post-it, it read "This is a paper town, with paper houses and paper people, everything is uglier up close." with random capitalisation, because she believed that the rules were unfair to the letters in the middle. "Well, everything. Everything, but you." I replied, as I moved a little closer to her face, appreciating every inch of her skin, wanting to do nothing but kiss her till the dawn. We danced to slow jazz music till the sun came up instead.

I loved her, loved her random capitalisation, loved how she didn't care about rules, loved how she cared about being happy in the moment, loved how she made me feel alive, loved how she made my heart beat faster, and loved how she loved me; well almost.

I believe that everyone gets a miracle, atleast once in their whole lifetime. I got mine in the form of Margo. The most beautifully terrifying miracle. She was a little bit more than a miracle though, she was a mystery. Margo always loved mysteries, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one herself.

After the night we spent together, Margo had disappeared, like the stars in the day. I turned my world upside down and searched high and low, everywhere for her, but she hid well, not just from her ghosts of yesterday, but maybe from her coming tomorrows too. She seeked greatness, and greatness isn't found in the suburbs of a sham town.

It broke my heart into million pieces, but I learnt that I had to let her go. She was meant for great things, she was a mystery that she herself hadn't solved, and who am I to put together a picture I don't even understand yet. "Some mysteries are better left unsolved" she whispered in my ears, as she slipped away from my fingers. So here I am writing this story with broken parts and loose ends, for the wildest mystery I know - Margo Roth Spiegelman; my miracle.

[teamwitch2-blog]

Some poems I wrote and wanted to share with you all. Would love to hear what you all think.

Come to me, my perfect one,

the youthful night still isn’t done.

To the water’s edge I call you near.

My voice, my song will lead you here.

Upon the breeze I send this spell,

The love in your heart will never quell.

In darkness I will be your light,

Your reason to stand up and fight.

I will shield you, strong and true.

With my words and spells anew.

Hold me in your arms, my mate,

Bind our hearts together by fate.

I am the one you do desire,

The perfect mate that you require.

In this moment and from this day,

By your side I’ll forever stay.

The shadow twists in wisps and dance,

In my sight the ink entrance.

Gone the shadow and the shame,

Only light and dark reclaim.

In this moment see the song,

A simple tune deep and strong.

A heart thread bleeds but none shall see,

What you truly mean to me.

You are my world and the one I crave,

The one who I will gladly save.

Mortal bonds of life and death,

Will hold no sway as I draw breath.

In this moment song of life,

Heal wounds caused by the knife.

The pain of heart that you endure,

Will cauterize swift and sure.

Memories echo within the mind,

All the trauma that I find.

Speak no more and stay your heart,

Remove the damage they impart.

A song in rhyme that you do see,

Will lift you up and set you free.

I will fly to you on high,

And stay with you until you die.

From now until that moment, last,

My heart is yours, the spell be cast.

Chaos of the darkest kind,

Held within a shattered mind.

In the moment that I see,

Light will shine as I decree.

Gone all pain and gone the strife,

Death is vanquished in the name of Life.

To speak the words that I now crave,

Life restored and this spirit save.

In no time at all, the chaos is calm,

Soothed by words, a healing balm.

Fresh as the mint of the morning breeze,

Pain begone and ailments ease.

A single tree within the grass,

Strong and tall, time will pass.

Into darkness, the tree will descend,

Both a beginning and an end.

From the ashes of the old,

A new sapling grows, strong and bold.

Clearing the way for life anew,

Reaching for the sky of blue.

With light that shines upon it’s leaves,

To nature’s law, the sapling cleaves.

Till the moment that it dies,

The sapling, the tree, from the ashes arise.

Words of wisdom flow like gold,

Water and light now unfold.

In shadow, the glimmer of hope you see,

I stand beside you as a friend should be.

I hold in hand the tools of my craft,

Paper and pen, the world to draft.

A simple stroke will protect you well,

Sealed in this sacred spell.

A web of light and magic unbidden,

Reveals emotions that are hidden.

To stand beside you in peace and war,

Warms me up down to my core.

Into the fray we enter with rage,

Fighting the demons that hold keys to the cage.

We fight for our hearts and what we believe,

To each other we will now cleave.

Cling to me and I to you,

Speaking the words strong and true.

At the end of the day,

You are mine either way.

The orange glow of golden light,

Filled the room and entered my sight.

As I sat at the table and wrote,

The words I wove seemed to float.

In the darkness that was the page,

The solid reminder that I was a mage.

The words of white glowed and sang,

In my heart, their chorus rang.

So sweet and strong with resounding voice,

To follow them was not a choice.

I danced along the page of black,

As words of white flew forth and back.

Every line a single thread,

A simple tapestry to be read.

Holding firm the threads of speech,

Healing hearts and minds in reach.

Waves of cool entreated by spell,

Words of power, anxiety quell.

Eclipsing darkness where it hid,

Finding truth behind the lies that slid.

Into shadow the words did seep,

Tears of joy to my mind did leap.

Enclosed within the poem I made,

Healing found and pain to fade.

#magick #witchcraft #writing magick #poem

[healinghoneybee]

Summer apricots and peaches

Have you ever wanted to craft a beautiful ending? Mold a story into its sad but beautiful hallucination. The periwinkle silvery tinsel castle-great-hall promise it holds. Re-make it into something healing to keep and hold, but it just wouldn’t budge?

I want to honor our time with a caring and considerate departure, but over the course of this little life of mine, since I woke up in a bed with a small stain of blood in my lap, I’ve been wide awake gathering the crumbs of self-respect, and it’s finally added up to enough. Every time I try to ignore the missing recognition of my heart’s losses and let downs, I sense the story’s beauty unfulfilled. In order to make beautiful, please just give me a whisper if you can? Will you read my poem or attend a little ritual of mine, to honor my soul’s capacity for grief and therefore love? It would mean more to me if you came.

I know that I am worth even more than shimmery heartbreak orgasm crying release room moment. I see the magic and I will dance with you and hold your hand if you first whisper to me,

“You can be sad – I know you deserve more than this. I am sorry if I sang the loveliest of songs and put coloured crayon dreams in your precious notebooks that sounded like I will want more of this for some time. More of ants biting beach bums and warm lake swims where I want to stay in for a while. Maybe, I should have told you I might be uncertain and I care about you so I wish you to know the possibility that a man is not his summer song. I wish you to join me and hold these things but only like a summer sunset or starry meteor flash, if that is what you want, too. I don’t want you to give that up (please don’t) but I want to respect that you can. I want you to be free if you know that more bruises will hurt and rot your peach heart just a little too much in the fall. Once I heard about your pretty bruises in a boat left just for us and how you’ve been collecting crumbs to make a crumble, and oh, wow. How I admire that time and space you’ve taken to recover and craft yourself. I want to give you more but I am starting to love your peach heart. So I will apologize if from the beginning I never said, “Careful, darling. I’ll give you what I can and I feel like it’s a lot of love to give but it may fall short of all your capacities. I don’t want your hope to bruise deep in a sudden ladder fall from harvest trees. Please don’t climb too high, love, and take only a basket. Your heights are beautiful and for that reason, I won’t pretend to meet you all the way there. I want you to be brave and enjoy, but don’t forget your homemade crumble that allows you to wait. I know I pull you towards magic but you are also so sweet and full that given the choice, you do not need to open the door to anyone, including me. You say your favourite is ripe apricots like the ones from your grandparents orchards in Stoney Creek. I’m kind of in awe and I kind of don’t believe you. Who doesn’t want to Lady-and-the-Tramp a peach and laugh as the nectar dribbles down our chins and wrists and feeds our stomach gut pals with sweetness? Who can survive off apricots alone, with companions that are kind but don’t set our hearts ablaze? I think you deserve both and all the fruits of your labour. I want that for you, but my darling, maybe not from me or right now. One of these days.”

I’ve been wishing for you to acknowledge my sad silent broken brave hope. Hope for more days of just us and some music and silent tandem reading, more days to hold your curly-haired head in my lap, or walk through old forgotten mountain cities with weed footstep reverberations where I let myself feel the ground so solidly. My body was waking up and I was starting to feel safe and powerful and like a goddess feeling my body reverberations. I think you could not see the possibilities of my grounded awakening. I did not speak it – did you notice? If you looked far enough and see plainly what is in front of you, you could see my awakening born from blood in my lap and summer apricots and peaches and see the gifts that such life mysteries bring. If you truly saw me, you would not think that sharing our paths would stunt your growth and introspection. I bow to introspection, I’ve spent years in it. I believe our lives can be spacious, and you can have your sweet independence and eat your peaches too. I know solidly that it is not possible for me to lose the individuality that I’ve been marinating in and building alone for my whole damn life. I am not stopping you from growth, so tell me the truth. That you just do not love me as much as you painted in your offering of words and plans and songs and intimate nights.

If I can be totally honest, it was only just a handful of years ago that I shared peaches with someone else and we faced each other in a boat because we had to keep admiring each other and then I had a nasty fall. Has your heart ever bruised through your thin and fuzzy and sacred skin? It might be healing if you saw my bruises and showed yours and understood and felt it just for a moment with me. Recently, the person who gave me the blood in my lap sat with me. He read my bruise poems and I felt cared for. I saw the ending I knew we both had the potential for, and we wrapped it with a bow.

You only just laughed and blew me a kiss. I think you might have shed a tear once beside me but I didn’t know if it was for me. I wasn’t ready for it. You deflected and hung it up there, as I was asking you to sit with me in my disappointment and reflect back to me the worth of my peach and apricot crumble. And then my anger grew and baked until it burnt the sweetness I wanted to give to you or keep.

You said you wanted to be my mirror and reflect. In the ending, can you reflect my awakening you were a part of? I’m left with a peach and apricot crumble in the fall and no one to eat it with me. I was left a silent space where I had been carving out room to build our trust. Where I made space to learn and practice and live out and grow my capacity for love and share the rich inner life I’ve built inside. Can you apologize for the songs you sung to coax me higher up the tree and left me for a nasty fall? Even though I agree the songs were nice and you are not bad. I hold it gently now. I am able to bruise like peaches and still be the most fuzzy, juicy, farmers market friendly faces special treat.

I am capable, but I desire more. I want informed consent and choice. I am awake to the pulling reassurances and too-early in its excitement romance plans that tell me to enjoy! trust! open! love! what may only be another sunburn summer love. I want to approach love in my way, that honors my experience. I am relying on myself to recognize the signs when others are not reliable. To make curious space and respect your ways that I cannot love up close, out of respect for myself. And now that I’ve seen it as possible, I trust how it feels right and look for those who are trying to engage with and practice accountability, apology, repair and being with uncomfortable feelings.

Can you acknowledge that you sang a crisp and enticing tune that sounded a little deceiving, a little more than just summer? Can you please whisper sorry and ice my bruisey knees one last time, at least for a moment after the ferry when the larches are out? After I’ve recovered from shock and came down from Slovenian alpine planina villages and “I’ll be okays” to the frigid Canadian winter for which we cannot bypass when our heart has loved as mine does. I am worth a plain conversation after purple alleyway rooms. Read my poem and whisper something to me. And I will wrap this up in lavender tinsel bow and call you my summer peach friend.

[espinosaurusrexex]

Words Cannot Express

In which Y/N and Sherlock have a forever crush on each other.

HenryCavill!Sherlock x female!reader

a/n: I haven't watched any Sherlock except Enola Holmes so bear with me here. I feel like this Sherlock would totally fall for a woman that is so much like Enola and his mom. Like she would be all over the place and bubbly and rebellious. She would be like a second mother for Enola, and she would make Sherlock spend more time with his sister. Like very much Queenie Goldberg vibes: pure sweetness. She would be free and nice and just so happy, and Sherlock would be so supportive of everything she does. Like she wants to try and write or paint, and he would caress her shoulder and tell her how proud he is of her... Either that or he's gay through and through, you cannot change my mind about that.

Based off of this thought process, I wrote this little something.

I know it's been a long time and I can't really promise that I will be posting a whole lot, but feedback is greatly appreciated!

word count: 2.2k

warnings: none, just pure fluff and wholesomeness

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

! The poem in this story is not mine. It is out of "The Morlas." by Caroline Clive, but for the sake of this story we're going to pretend that the reader wrote it. Okay? Cool.

I would recommend listening to Für Elise - Reimagined by Alexander Joseph while reading. I was listening to it while writing, too!

"Sherlock, Sherlock!"

A whirlwind of blue floral-pattern fabric and lose hair dipped in the scent of honey zoomed down the meadow that was slightly slanted. Hands waving in the air frantically, clasping a piece of stationary that was blotted with scribbled ink.

"Sherlock!"

Y/N tripped a couple of times on her way down the green slope. Tall grass grazed her dress as she struggled to hold herself up while still gripping the paper she was so desperate to bring to him: Sherlock. A man of knowledge and integrity. Witty and smart with the ability to solve every case he ever accepted. And yet, even though he was radiating authority and power, he always managed to be gentle and kind, loving and warm to the very woman that was now stumbling down towards him. It was the only case he had not solved. Because it was not based on any logical affair as to why, whenever that woman was near him, his heart began to race and his hands became sweaty. Just looking at her smile made him all warm and fuzzy inside. A feeling that he, undoubtedly not admitting to anybody but her, enjoyed because it was different, and it felt new even though it had happened for what felt like ages now.

It was nearing the end of a nice summer's day and the quiet chirping of crickets and all sorts of bugs were surrounding the man that was lazily propped on an oak at the treeline. His lips stretched into a bright smile once he heard the sweet sound of her voice. Smooth and calming and tainted with a very special kind of love that was only reserved for him. And he loved that about her. Y/N had different kinds of love for different kinds of people. All of those kinds were genuine, and she put just as much of herself into them as she put in everything else. And he adored it. God, Sherlock adored everything she did, because it was always crafted with as much passion as possible. And even though she was warm and kind to everyone she encountered, Sherlock could not believe that someone as amazing as Y/N had created something within herself that was designed for him only. A feeling that seeped through every touch she shared with him, a comfort that radiated into his body whenever they were together, and a warmth that shook him from the inside out until his lips could not help but smile, releasing his painful longing for a woman that was already his.

It had taken him a couple of months to "solve" this riddle Y/N presented herself with. And after hours of late nights spent hunched over his desk, hair slightly disheveled and fire lazily puffing in the chimney, he came to the conclusion that maybe whatever he felt was beyond all rationality:

Sherlock Holmes was in love. Hopelessly and painfully in love. And the best part was that this love was reciprocated - in the best of ways. It was given back to him through silent nights by the fireplace and subtle handholding during fast-paced walks through the rain. It was squeezed within tight hugs and flying through feather-light kisses. It was mutual, and it was real but most importantly, it was from her and that was what mattered. He would take it in any shape or form if it meant that she was willing to spend the rest of her life with him just as much as he wanted to do so with her.

And that was the reason why he decided to accept it. It was good and it was real and it brought some stability in his life, which was frequently questioned in his line of work more so than often. He not only accepted it, hell, he embraced it with open arms and tried to give it back as best has he could.

He tried, he really did, to return the joy and love she gave to him with everything he had in him. Anything he could give her to show her just how much she meant to him. Even though he tried that, he still did not feel as though that was enough in return for the peace and quiet Y/N managed to squeeze inside his mind, no matter the circumstance.

Sherlock could not help but chuckle once Y/N finally came to a stop in front of him. Beaming up at her with a bright smile and squinting, he sought out her silhouette as the sun shone behind her frame. She looked like an angel, with that orange glow of the slowly setting sun surrounding her figure like a halo. Sherlock was sure that this must be what angels looked like, and it amazed him how easily she could take his breath away, every day anew.

"What is it, sweetheart?" He gently tapped the grass next to him, signaling for her to sit down. Y/N plopped down beside him, her dress covering his knee as she leaned towards him to peck him on the cheek. Sherlock's face turned pink at the touch of her lips, his smile stretched even wider, not thinking that it was possible.

"I wrote something... for you. I- I wrote a poem for you." Her face scrunched up in an adorable way, making her nose crinkle and lips pursed as if she was embarrassed. Sherlock lifted his hand to her cheeks, smoothing out the lines with his thumb until Y/N was a giggling mess, and nestled her face deeper into his touch.

"Can I read it?" He asked with a shimmer in his eyes as he briefly looked toward the sheet in Y/N's hands. He got lost in her eyes then. Taking in the beautiful y/e/c that reminded him of home. His heartbeat quickened as he tried to take the poem, and Y/N gently pulled the hand that held it away.

"No, I-" She pushed out and Sherlock laughed. His eyes surrounded by faint lines that softened his gaze on the woman before him.

"You wrote me a poem, but you don't want me to read it?" There was amusement in his gaze, but it faltered as soon as he saw the shock in her eyes.

"Yes- No. I..." Y/N pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she averted her eyes from him, feeling a little foolish now. She took a deep breath and pulled her eyes back to Sherlock's face, smiling slightly. "I want to read it to you."

He had a look of pure adoration on his face. Smile etching to the corner of his face, lifting his eyes and pulling on her heart with a reassuring tug.

"That would be wonderful." He trailed off, leaning back in the tree and closing his eyes to prepare for Y/N's honey-like voice again. Ready to be hit by yet another wave of bliss, as he was sure that his heart would explode with the rate it was already beating at.

He heard her shuffle and about three second later, he felt her head dip down onto his lap. Opening his eyes again, Sherlock lifted his head from the oak, hands shooting forward to smooth out her hair on his leg like an instinct. When he was sure that she was comfortable, he laid his head back and closed his eyes again, smiling faintly. Y/N's hair was soft and with every hand he raked over it, he was hit by a slight whiff of honey and something floral. Something so distinctly her that it almost scared him at how familiar it was. But he did not need to be scared, because it was her and Sherlock knew that if there was one thing he could always be certain about, it was Y/N. Because if it was Y/N then it was quite impossible to be bad or something to be even remotely scared of.

Y/N cleared her throat as she rustled with the paper, adjusting so that it was held above her head.

"A thousand forms before me stray,

Ere one shall tempt me as to‐day,

To mix as now I do with thine,

The current of his thoughts and mine.

When virtue comes, I sit to trace

With spirit rous’d its godlike face;

When sorrow wanders here alone,

Unmov’d I keep my mossy stone,

And with a still observance see

A passion never known to me.

But thou, I know not why, hast wrought

My thought to commune with thy thought;

And feelings which o’er all flow free,

Have grown to words when turned to thee.

I love thy melancholy eye,

The portal of a musing mind,

The lip where the long stifled sigh

Turns to a smile for human kind.

I love thy wandering mood which long

Dwells on some lonely hue or shape;

While answ’ring words of broken song"

Warmth. A tingle that pumped life into his veins and made him feel all hot and flustered. Not the kind of heat one would expect from a nice summer's evening like this, but one that lasted past the sunset and was not as draining as humid air. Sherlock opened his eyes again, smiling down at Y/N, who was looking at him expectantly. The poem was not Shakespeare - not even he could have written something so powerful and perfect. It evoked feelings that Sherlock held in the depth of his heart and that he allowed to seep through his exterior ever since Y/N was around. Sure, she would not go down in history amongst the greatest poets of her time, but for him, it was more than enough. It was absolute and wholesome, just like her.

"It's beautiful, my love." He gently cupped her cheek with his left hand as the other plugged a flower from the ground and stuck it in her hair behind her ear. And because he felt like his words did not do the things he wanted to express any justice, he leaned down slowly. Sherlock captured Y/N's lips in a chaste kiss that was meant to convey the adoration and love he felt for her not only at this moment, but every time she was just as much as in the same room as him.

"You're not lying, are you?" Her right eyebrow slightly raised, Y/N challenged the man hovering above her lips.

Sherlock's nose crinkled as he tried to suppress a smile. "I might be a little biased... but I would never let my feelings cloud my judgement" He winked, and a chuckle escaped Y/N's lips at that. A deep sigh eluded his lips when the man took the paper from her hands gently, looking at it with awe and letting the smile on his face show with a deep and heartfelt laugh.

"Well, i suppose one could call it lying, but that is just because words cannot express how special this is to me..." He held the paper higher to the sun, letting the light shine through the flimsy material and appreciated the way her words curved on the object. Words that were written for him. He adored the way Y/N was the only person to come close to putting his emotions into words. Even if it was not explicitly written on the piece of paper, it held a weight that was strong enough to drive more love into his heart than thought possible. "...how special you are to me." He whispered as he looked down at her face again, a reassuring hand still stroking her head resting on his leg, carefully avoiding the flower he had placed there so gently.

Her right hand reached up to his face. Thumb caressing his skin softly until she reached higher, her hand wandering to the back of his neck. With a weak tug, she pulles Sherlock's head down to her face again. Y/N pressed her lips to his with a passion only she could convey. Her fingers dug into the back of his head delicately and Sherlock smiled into the kiss, savoring the faint shiver she sent up his spine with her touch. Their foreheads pressed against one another as they broke apart, leaving just a minimal distance between their lips. Eyes still closed and the corners of their mouth's tugged into a content smile, the pair relished in the presence of one another.

A couple seconds passed until Sherlock began to whisper tenderly. "Thank you." He nudged her nose with his. The air of his exhale tickling her face in the process.

"For what?" Y/N answered softly, careful not to distub the moment they shared.

"For everything." A kiss was pressed to her nose. "For the poem." Another kiss to her left cheek. "For being by my side." One more to her right cheek. "For letting me love you." A kiss to her forehead. "For making me the happiest man alive." And one long, passionate kiss to her lips - desperate to urge everything he could not put in words into the action.

"It's my pleasure." Another smile streched across their faces. They drowned in echothers eyes for what felt like hours. Letting the sun set gently behind the horizon and dip the sky in a wild collision of oranges and reds spilled across the azure canvas of the atmosphere. The air was warm and comforting - filled with love and adoration, matching the lovers as they cherished this perfect moment with each other.

a/n: I really hope you liked it. I know my stories are not super long or hold a lot of plot but that is just how my brain works. I see a movie and a scene plants itself into my brain and I can’t get it out until I wrote it down or imagined it at least 50 times. So please be Patient with me until I master the art of crafting a well thought through plot that might end up here in the few posts I publish over time. All I want is for people to take a little break from life for the couple minutes it takes to read my stories. I hope I archived that with you. Until next time x

#megs imagines #mywritings #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #enola holmes #henry cavill #sherlock x reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #sherlock holmes fluff #henry cavill sherlock #imagine #x reader #fanfic #enola holmes fanfic #enola holmes imagine #sherlock holmes fanfic #sherlock imagine #sherlock holmes imagine #henry!sherlock #henry!holmes #henry cavill sherlock holmes #henry cavill sherlock imagine #henry cavill sherlock holmes fanfic

[lipstickstainz]

true lies - s. r. (7/15)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Series Summary: Spencer is furious, when you rejoin the team after a year and after you left him, when he got arrested. Little does he know, that you leaving him was the only option to ever get him out of prison

Chapter Summary: Girls night - and Spencer and you accidentally meet each other the day after.

Warnings: a little bit of angst, and fluff

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: I'm sorry it took me song long, but I was really busy. I hope you like it! gif not mine.

Series Masterlist

previous part

"Will you please pass me the can of glitter?", Penelope asks. Everyone gives her confused looks, except you. Your gaze is fixed on the pictures in front of you.

"What do you need glitter for?", JJ asks, taking a sip of her wine.

"This is supposed to be a vision board", she grins, grabbing the reddish can Emily holds out to her. She twists off the cap and sprinkles a little glitter on her hand before letting it trickle onto the glue-covered cardboard. "In my vision, my future is full of glitter. With the cruel things we have to see every day, everything should be full of glitter."

Emily has to grin, but raises her wine glass. The others do the same. "Here's to a future full of glitter." As the others toast and glasses clink together, you silently slide the pictures back and forth on your drab piece of cardboard.

It's been Penelope's idea for you girls to get together on a Saturday night to create vision boards together. It's been a week since Spencer and you spoke, and Penelope couldn't take your suffering anymore. She had tried so many times to cheer you up, but nothing had worked. Your heart was broken, your world was shattered, but Penelope can't take it. Ridiculous.

At first you were against it. In the last days you were just vegging out, your emotions as if erased, repressed and burned out. If you allowed your true feelings, you would break. You got up, went to work and went to bed at night. You weren't capable of doing more than that, because even every breath was far too exhausting.

And then, all of a sudden, the girls had shown up at your door. Their bags were filled with craft supplies, sleeping stuff, and alcohol. Penelope, not knowing what had even happened, had rounded everyone up and decided you needed cheering up. You wanted to slam the door in her face, but there was so much pain in her gaze and only then did you realize that you weren't the only one to suffer. Your friends were suffering with you and their visit was a kind attempt to get you back on track. And it started with them forcing you to shower and put on a sweater that didn't have a coffee stain on it.

"Y/N?", Tara addresses you and it takes a moment for your eyes to focus back on the piece of cardboard in front of you and you realize that you haven't put a single picture, saying, anything on it yet, while everyone else's hands are covered in glue. In your friends' faces you see confusion and pity. You look away. "You haven't picked out anything for your vision board yet."

Because I don't know what my future will look like without Spencer by my side, you reply in your mind. You don't want to pretend you can imagine a future without him when he's been a big part of it for years. And most of all, you don't want to admit it.

"What do you think of this one?", JJ asks, pushing toward you the snippet she's cut out of one of the countless magazines Penelope has brought. The words are written in thick letters. "Trust the timing of your life." Funny.

"Do you want to tell us what happened?", Penelope asks quietly, sipping her cocktail. There's already red glitter on the glass. "We can see how bad you are."

She only means well and she's also a good friend and actually you want to tell, but then it would come true. As long as you keep your conversation to yourself, you can pretend it didn't happen. You could go on as before and hope that everything will work out. But it wouldn't be the truth.

The truth is that Spencer and you would never get back together.

As you begin to tell it, all the dams break. Tears are streaming down your cheeks and you have to gasp in between as the words get stuck in your throat. No one interrupts you, they just stare at you, amazed that you are actually talking. And you don't leave out a single detail. You tell them that you were standing outside his room at night and he slammed the door in your face.That he wanted you off the team and insulted the crap out of you at Rossi's party, only to cuddle with you on JJ's couch afterwards and then call it a mistake. You tell them about the angry kiss, about your fights and reconciliations, and finally you tell them about your last night together and your conversation.

When you're done, you reach for your glass, which you haven't touched yet, and drink the wine down to the last drop.Only when the glass is empty and you put it down do you look at the others again.  Uncertainly, you look around and recognize an infinite number of questions in their faces, which they don't ask - to be honest, you wouldn't have the answers either - and mixed feelings, which you can't interpret despite your good profiling skills. But there's one thing you can recognize in every look you meet: pain. And even though they look at you with a lot of pity, you don't regret telling them about it.

If you break from it, you know the girls will put you back together.

"That's ... a lot”, Tara says first, taking a sip of her cocktail. You nod mutely.

"We always hoped you'd find each other after all”, Penelope confesses, twisting the glitter jar shut.Apparently, she's lost the desire to put more on her cardboard.

"Even though you left Spencer, we always thought it was for a reason other than you didn't love him anymore. You were the perfect couple and we just couldn't imagine it." Up until this point, JJ had been suspiciously quiet. She looks up from her cardboard. "And now you're back, and the way you're suffering right now, we can imagine it even less. So why would you say that to him? If it's not true after all?"

"That's enough, guys. We should change the subject”, Emily interjects pouring wine into your empty glass. You're infinitely grateful to her. Talking has drained you, and just thinking about Spencer hurts. Talking about it doesn't exactly make it easier to deal with it all, but the weight on your shoulders doesn't feel quite so crushing anymore.

"You still love him, don't you?" Penelope sounds hopeful. And you don't want to take away her hope, and especially you don't want to lie to your friends, but it has to be done. You promised, even swore, that the deal would stay secret, and it was already too dangerous to have told Emily then. You wouldn't risk your friends' lives.

"No, Penelope." The glimmer of hope in her eyes goes out. It's a feeling you know all too well.

"I don't want to get too close to you, Y/N”, Tara begins. "But then why do you feel so bad? If you didn't love him anymore, then you wouldn't be so heartbroken, would you?"

And you don't have an answer to that anymore.

The topic is over and will not be brought up again. At the end of the evening, your cardboard is still empty, but you feel a little better and you mentally make a note to yourself that you owe them. When the girls say goodbye the next morning after breakfast - Penelope hugs you a little longer than the others - you head out as well. Thanks to your friends, you've realized that there's nothing you can do about the situation, that you're going to have to deal with it - and definitely not alone - and that sitting lonely in your apartment waiting for a miracle to happen is not an option.

The warm sun on your skin feels good, like a hug, and you reach out to it as you walk to your favorite bookstore. There are many people out and about, walking or shopping. Countless people are sitting in the small cafes, eating and drinking and talking. You've only been back in D.C. for a few weeks and it feels like you've never been away.

Over the past year, you've been on the road a lot, not only in the States but also in Europe. In addition to work that has sent you nearly halfway around the world, you've sat in the Hamburg State Opera, eaten in the cute cafes in Bucharest, and admired the medieval old town in Lund, Sweden. You've seen and experienced so much, met new people, but nothing resembles home. And not being able to be here for a year had been incredibly difficult.

As you enter your favorite bookstore, the smell of old books rises to your nose and goosebumps spread across your warmed skin. How much you missed it. You may have been to other bookstores, but you know this one like the back of your hand. How you've missed this. You walk down the aisles, running your fingers over the various spines before stopping at a book. The cover is a faded red and somewhat damaged, with white writing that makes you want to pull it off the shelf and open it.

You are so engrossed that you don't notice how someone comes up to you and stops next to you.

"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair," the person begins to quote and you wince, but don't turn around. "Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt fort he liquid measure of your steps."

You have to swallow, put a finger between the pages to find the poem again before closing the book and turning around. "Hi."

Spencer smiles at you. "I didn't think I'd run into you here."

You pucker your lips into a thin line. "Yeah, um, I haven't been here since I got back. Wanted to see if it's changed."

Oddly enough, it doesn't feel strange to be standing in this bookstore with him, considering you'd been here almost every day before and this moment is the first time you've seen each other outside of work since you had your clarifying conversation. Nervous, though, you are. You suppress the urge to tap from one foot to the other.

"So, has it changed?" Spencer tilts his head, but doesn't avert his gaze from you.

You shake your head. "Not really. But I guess the salesgirl who had the hots for you back then doesn't work here anymore." You try to lighten the slightly tense mood with the joke, and it seems to work. Spencer laughs out loud.

"I still don't think she had a crush on me." His smile widens, and it's so infectious that you have to smile, too.

"One hundred percent”, you return, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. "It was pretty funny watching her flirt with you all the time, but you didn't go for it."

The bookstore is completely empty except for you and the clerk at the entrance. Silence surrounds you, but it is not uncomfortable despite the circumstances and the new situation. You just stand there smiling at each other until Spencer takes the book from your hand.

"Neruda writes beautifully." He flips through the book once before handing it back to you. As your fingers graze, a flash goes through you, but you try not to let it show. "Very nice poems."

You nod. "I know. Only know him through you”, you answer truthfully.

Spencer has to grin. "True." He runs a hand through his tousled hair. "He's in that book I gave you once."

"Right." You don't want your conversation to end, and you don't want to leave, but it would be best for both of you. You're not ready to be friends yet, and while your meeting doesn't feel awkward, you're not sure how to handle it. You tap the book and look at him.

"I'll go pay for that." You walk past him, but turn back to him. "It's good to see you, Reid." You use his last name on purpose, knowing full well that his first name is reserved for friends. And in your opinion, you're not ready yet.

"It's good to see you, too."

You nod to him again before leaving without turning around again. You feel his gaze on you anyway.

When you get to work the next day, there's a gift on your desk. It's wrapped in brown wrapping paper and a cord is tied around it and tied into a bow. Simple and beautiful. You set your bag down, confused, before sitting down and inspecting it.

"Who's this from?", Luke asks, walking past you to his desk. You shrug ignorantly.

"I don't know."

The gift is slightly larger than your hand, but not particularly heavy. After opening it and putting the paper in the trash can under the desk, you take a closer look at the book. It's black, and the cover features a plain white flower, with the word "poetry" engraved underneath. As you open the first section, you come across something written. You recognize Spencer's handwriting.

"And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud, was more painful than the risk it took to blossom - Anais Nin."

Your heart skips a beat and you block out the feeling spreading through you. You flip through the book and realize it is completely blank except for this poem. The pages are lined and practically screaming to be filled.

"Do you like it?", Spencer asks, sitting down across from you at his own desk. He sets his fresh cup of coffee down in front of him and you give him a friendly smile.

"It's wonderful." You blink away the tears forming in your eyes. "Thank you."

"I found it in the bookstore after you left. And I know you like to read poetry, and I thought you could write down your favorite poems in it." He takes a sip of his coffee.

"That's very sweet of you. Really, thank you, Reid."

"Spencer." A thin smile spreads across his face and you warm. "My friends call me Spencer."

next part

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#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid true lies #spencer reid one shot #Emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #luke alvez #Jennifer jareau #Penelope garcia #Matt simmons #tara lewis #derek morgan

[asublimehimbo]

okay okay okay thinking about this constantly now. Reagan’s trauma is so much like my own it’s really crazy. uhh big big big spoilers of inside job from the next paragraph onwards!!

one - reagan’s memory looks a lot like mine. presumably my dad didn’t literally get in my brain and delete memories (my paranoia is having a rave rn so who really knows but. not likely). but I have forgotten whole people before. someone’ll come up to me on the street, acting like we’re best buddies and I know I should know them. their face tickles my brain. their name starts with an E, maybe. but I couldn’t tell them who they are or why i know them or anything about them. i cannot properly explain how large and unsettling these lapses are.

the visual representation of reagan’s memory (which is absolutely genius imo) is a lot how i imagine mine to be: a mess of connections, a disorganized project of attached events. the scrapbook of a conspiracy theorist. i loved the way her repressed memories were treated. the flickery, dim lighting, the sludge that pulled her from one to the next no matter how hard she tried to stay where she was. That’s how it feels to be surfing through my brain, a lot of the time. my mother asks me when my next therapy session is and i close my eyes and plunge into the depths, bringing myself back to the appointment i last had, skating helplessly from the color of her shirt to my first grade teacher who told me i couldn’t draw, to the way that my only friend moved at the end of the year and gave me her phone number, to the guilt from being too scared to call her -- it goes on forever.

my own memories of my father are buried so deep i’m not sure i’ll ever get to them for real. everything i can access now feels strange, off-putting... like it’s been altered. like it’s not mine. i don’t have the tank and fluid and technology to go inside my head. all i can really do is therapy and hope. i don’t know why the dvd player instills otherworldly fear in me. i don’t remember something bad happening near it... then again, i don’t remember my own birthday or how tall i am, i don’t remember when i first learned how to craft a poem, i don’t remember i just don’t remember.

two - her dad’s misguided attempts to get her to love him. my dad did this a lot. maybe this is it’s own kind of abuse: not knowing how to love and doing it violently. he called me by the right name even when the rest of my family hadn’t adjusted yet. we loved the same book series, and we talked about it for hours. he played me his music. i liked some of it. i ache for the ability to tell him about a memoir i read that i know he would love. i’m not sure if any of that was genuine though, and like reagan, I’m not backing down. i’m never going to talk to him again if i can help it (if he doesn’t become the ceo of my shadow government, metaphorically). i believe some of it came from the place in him that wanted love, like i think rand’s abuse did. maybe this is abusive behavior in general -- treating you like shit, then treating you nice, and flipping back and forth. in my case, the shit part was ignoring and scapegoating me. i still feel evil sometimes because of what he did. reagan’s dream wasn’t to become ruler of the world... i can’t remember what it was, exactly. i waited a little too long to write this (2 hours is too long, apparently), and the details of the episode are already flickering away from me, getting fuzzy and burning up. my point is, she didn’t want to be the at best morally ambiguous person she is now. her dad admitted that he engineered her for this purpose. he did all he could to make sure he turned out the way she did.

I’m not the omniscient viewer of a tv show of my life. i can’t tell you whether my dad did that or not. but i can tell you he did enough. enough to craft me into someone who’s probably going to be convincing vampself that vamp’s not the literal worst person ever until the day vam dies. enough to make me question if i’m a bad friend/boyfriend/child/sibling/general human being every time i say something that produces anything other than laughter.

three - the slowly faltering conviction that she can do everything herself. like reagan, I’m really smart. I’m a gifted kid (derogatory). i can do most subjects really well (i take american standardized tests like a queen. i want to shoot myself.). i pulled a 100% for most of the first semester of my physics class. but where i’ve really focused my talents over the years is the arts. and like reagan, i cannot stand working with others. i’m the kid who actually preferred when all the other group members where arguing over how to divy up work (because none of them wanted to do anything), so i could just finished the project myself. i always used to write alone, do art alone, keep it secret and special and sacred. it was my shelter away from humanity. i’d share it when it was done, but the process was all my own. insomniac nights. you know the drill.

Like Reagan, all of that changed for me recently thanks to ✨true friendship✨ (i mean recently in pandemic time. it’s been three years). i met a guitarist, a musician like me. they changed me for good. they loved me, unconditionally, somehow. even though i’m like this. even though i’m me. i watched them closely, because i watch people closely. i think it’s the trauma, you know, how i always used to be on the lookout for days when it would be bad and no one would fall asleep happy (assuming i fell asleep at all). so i watched them love me, and i think when they did it so up close, so genuinely, something in my head clicked and i learned how to do it myself. i learned from them how to love me. during this whole time i kept up my lone wolf act, and i don’t know. i guess i figured that if they could love me, see my art, and still love me, then i was good enough for one person. and that’s all i’ve ever really wanted. so i started, slowly, to work with them. i gave it my all, and did not end up resenting them for anything we did together. somehow, it made our friendship stronger. so i auditioned for a poetry club. i took an art class and bathed in the joy of having other friends who were artists. i shared freely, with my safe group of humans. i got up on stage, with them and two other musicians, and made joyous noise in front of crowds.

somehow, it just felt good. i expected a sting. i flinched after every band meeting for days on end, but the blow never came. like reagan’s dad did to her, my dad convinced me through his behavior that my art was silly, not worth attention, not good enough for attention. Maybe if i sang as strong as rick springfield, I’d have a case for wanting his love and pride. Reagan shared that passion for invention and science with another kid, but Rand took it away, then convinced that other people aren’t worth it. then, that she wasn’t worth it.

four - the house reagan and rand used to share. i noticed that throughout the show it was pretty messy. I figured it was just part of Reagan’s deal, you know. Like she’s just kind of a messy person, mad scientist, whatever. And then I watched the finale, and when she kicked Rand out, and cleaned up his stuff, her house was actually... kinda clean? She must actually be a neat person. Not like, overwhelmingly so, but thinking about how organized her lab is: even though it looks messy, she never has trouble finding things and everyone seems to be able to navigate it easily. A lot of the clutter when Rand was sharing her house was literally just garbage... it must’ve been Rand who was so messy. and, as weird as it might sound, i think this is a common sign of abuse going on. To be clear, I’m not saying “a person who is messy in their living space is bound to be abusive to loved ones”. Cleanliness has be associated with moral superiority for far too long for my disabled ass. But, I can say from my own experience, abusive people do try to make things as hard as possible for you, especially if you don’t do what they want you to. And part of this could be being messy, dirty, not fixing things in the house because it takes a lot of work to clean up after a whole other person in addition to yourself. It makes everything twice as difficult. Someone who is already prone to or has mental illnesses will take this difficulty twice as hard, and eventually the garbage is going to pile up... much like it did in my house when my father was around, and like it did in Reagan’s.

i thought that was an interesting detail, whether i’m right or not. maybe it was even a metaphor, for how rand junks up reagan’s mental space.

i think that’s the entirety of what i noticed! this has been sitting in my drafts unpolished for like a week lol. hard to get up the nerve to share such a thing as was unspeakable for so long.

#inside job #long post #inside job netflix #reagan ridley #rand ridley #brett hand #childhood truama #emotional abuse #tw abuse #spoilers for inside job s1

[midearthwritings]

Farewell

Your goodbye letter to Thranduil.

Words Count : 533

Pairing : Thranduil x Human!Reader

Warning : Angst

Author's Note : Yes it's a very short one and my brain said angsty Thranduil fic. Also, I love writing letters so I thought why not try writing an epistolary fic? Idk, tell me if you like it or not.

Meleth Nín,

when the Sun rises tomorrow morning, I shall be gone. My love for you is of the purest and deepest, but I no longer desire to stay between those walls. Years pass fast, my treasure, and if your beauty remains unchanged, I grow old. When each of my hair has finally turned gray and my eyes are tired, your strength and health will not be diminished. Time has no mercy for those of my kind. Never would I forgive myself to have you suffer my fate. Therefore, I have decided to be selfish, to disappear. And before the cold hand of Death slides into mine to take me away, I wish to see the world.

I crave to walk through the greenest lands, inhabited by people who enjoy the little things of life. It is said that they are very short and walk barefoot at all times. I, too, wish to take off my shoes and feel the soft grass tickling my feet. The cities built and ruled by men, how come I have never visited them when it is where I come from? I heard of mountains so high they caress the sky. In there live the most talented blacksmiths. I wish to know what a forge looks like, see how swords are crafted. And the elves, my dearest, I have never seen the other elven realms.

Do not take me wrong, Meleth Nín, for the home you gave me filled my heart with happiness. With you, I feel at peace, and I will miss the warmth of your embrace greatly. At night, when grief keeps me awake, I will think of you. When I travel at sea, I will remember those blue eyes of yours and how they so often looked at me in the most tender way. It is your silver mane that I will see when the Moon shines high and proud in the sky. Each leaf I come across, dancing lazily in the wind, will remind me of the realm I left, and its King whose heart I broke. What punishment should one suffer for leaving invisible scars on a monarch?

Promise me, Thranduil, as you read my words, that you will not let my actions be the end of you. You must not let despair and sorrow reap your soul. Else, my departure will be vain. Partly. Please, you must stay, for your people, for your son. They need you, all of them. Do not let a mere mortal take you away from them. Do not let a mere mortal take life away from you.

I must apologize, Meleth Nín, for I will be selfish one more time. Do not try and find me, I beg of you. If you love me as I love you, when you are done reading, fold this letter and keep it as your most precious treasure. Cherish the memory of me, of the passion and stolen kisses. Keep me alive through the poems I read to you, and through the music you played for me. But leave me wandering the world.

I must go now. Remember that my heart is yours until the end of times.

Farewell, dearest love.

#the hobbit #the hobbit reader insert #the hobbit imagine #thranduil oropherion #thranduil #thranduil x you #thranduil x reader #thranduil x y/n #thranduil imagine

[redrobin-detective]

Starlit Vigil

Dannymay Day 4: Stars _____________________________

Everything has a story to it, a tale interwoven into it’s very being from it’s birth to it’s death. Sometimes the mystery of the story is as much a story in and of itself. 

Scientists and researchers can’t say when the constellation first appeared in the night sky. It could be seen above Antarctica, near where the edge of the continent meets the Indian Ocean. It confounded a great many people as stars simply didn’t appear out of nowhere. But these did, slowly over the course of several decades sometimes years apart but two appeared within hours of each other. Each new star, eight in total, had a glistening, almost unnatural twinkle to them. The constellation was named Mnemosyne after the Grecian goddess of memory and the stars eight of her nine daughters, better known as the Muses. 

You’ve always had your eyes turned towards the stars and Mnemosyne in particular had always captured your attention. You can’t really explain what it is about those stars that speak to you. Maybe it’s sheer impossibility of their existence. Perhaps it’s the particular beauty of these stars, sometimes appearing to shift in shape and change colors. Or it could be the story behind the stars, the mystery that couldn’t be solved and so imagination filled in the holes left behind.

They say there was a great king, hundreds of years ago. A king who was powerful and kind and helped create the world as we know it. The land of the dead exists and certain people can interact with those beyond it. Technology and understanding have advanced dramatically and, while no life would ever be perfect, there was a general sense of peace that could felt in this world and the next. This king loved our world so much it’s said he plucked the greatest jewels he could find and placed them in the stars where he could watch over and cherish them forever. It’s a sentiment you can understand. 

You study astronomy in school and when you’re given a chance to travel to the Antarctic Circle to study Mnemosyne, you can’t say yes fast enough. The bitter cold and isolation is a small price to pay to see your favorite constellation up close. Maybe when you see it with your own eyes, you can unravel some of the questions people have been asking over the years. Why the goddess of Memory? Why are the stars named after the Muses but missing the muse of astronomy, Urania? What is the true story behind the supernaturally bright stars that appeared out of nowhere?

It’s hard to sleep during the day, partially because it goes against your normal circadian rhythm but you’re also too excited for night to come. For the stars to come out. You bundle up in the warmest clothes, pack your cameras and notebooks and throw the highest quality telescope you can carry over your shoulder. Arriving at the best site for star gazing, you are so delighted by the clear skies and sparkling stars that it takes you an extra moment to realize that you’re not alone.

At first, you think it’s one of the many researchers conducting studies at the pole but it’s soon apparent that this is someone new. Their hair is stark white, almost appearing one with the blustering wind as it’s blown around. You can’t see what they’re wearing because a thick white cape covers them entirely; it has the consistency of freshly fallen snow. Atop their head floats a crown made of pure, crystalline ice. Your eyes widen behind your protective goggles. The existence of ghosts was common knowledge by now but it’s another thing to see one up close. You turn to leave, before the spirit notices you.

“Don’t leave,” he says quietly but despite the roaring of the wind, you can hear him perfectly clear. “You came to watch the stars too, I don’t mind. Mnemosyne is my favorite.”

“Mine too,” you say back without even thinking. “I would love to know their stories.” The ghost turns to smile at you and his eyes are a bright, glowing green without any pupils or sclera. 

“Come, I’ll tell you about them.” You know you shouldn’t. While most spirits aren’t malicious, this one exudes a power you can’t even imagine. But you find yourself stepping closer anyway. You want to hear the stories of the stars and his smile is the warmest thing you’ll find for miles. Somehow you know this ghost won’t harm you. He points up at Mnemosyne and your twin gazes stare up in wonder. 

“They say souls and stars are made of the same ingredients. When I was a boy, I loved this thought. There was something comforting in knowing that, no matter where I went, that I could carry the stars within me,” the ghost explains, looking at you joyfully. 

“But unlike stars, souls are mortal, impermanent,” he says, his smile turning sad. “So I thought, why not put a soul into a star? Then it could last for eons.” He turns back to the stars with a melancholic expression. “Danielle was the first, my little sister. She was always fragile and after only a decade of life, one day she just broke. Her core was too damaged to become a full ghost so I offered her another way to live on. I took the brightness of her smile and made it into a star, into Euterpe. She was the muse of lyrics and poetry, they say she was the ‘bringer of delight’. It suited Danielle.”

“My enemy died next,” the ghost continues. “He hurt me and, moreover, hurt the ones I loved. But he was the only one who truly understood me. His existence comforted me no matter how much bad blood existed between us. His life was full of misfortune, most of it self-inflicted but his fear of death pulled on my heart. My last move in our battle was to make him a star as well, Melpomene, the muse of tragedy. I put him far away from Danielle, I think he’d hurt her.”

“My parents passed a few decades later,” the ghost whispers. “Mom went first, in her sleep. Dad always followed her example so it wasn’t a surprise when Dad followed her in death before the day was done. They were scientists, I think but they loved me very much. Things were tense, I remember being afraid for some reason but their deaths pained me. They were too fulfilled to become ghosts. I grabbed bits of their essence before it dissipated and made the stars Polyhymnia and Terpsichore, the muses of hymns and dance respectively. They were a perfect couple, partners in everything. A song and a dance, always in time with each other.”

The wind rustles the ghost’s cape, he clutches it as if he is cold. You cannot tear your eyes from the the soft grief on his face. 

“Valerie went next, some sort of illness; I can’t remember the details,” the ghost frowned. “She had no desire to become a ghost, no matter how much I asked her to stay. I am King of All Ghosts and yet I got on my knees and begged for some part of her to keep with me. In the end, I stole a bit of her fading spirit and crafted Calliope, the assertive muse, the author of epic poetry. She shines so brightly up there like she had in life.”

“Jasmine died peacefully in her sleep like our mother. She was always protecting me, even in death. Her devotion to knowledge and my wellbeing kept her by my side for many years but it wasn’t enough to last forever. When her spirit was nothing more than wisps, I took her core and placed Clio with the rest of our family. The muse of history, the proclaimer of great deeds fit my older sister well.”

“Tucker and Sam stayed with me the longest. Tucker went first, a quick death from an aged body followed by years as the playful spirit I always knew him as. Sam, my life and my love, passed the same and was my queen in death as she’d been in life. But love can delay death but not deny it and their spirits needed to move on. I kissed them both, my soulmates and made them into stars. Thalia, the muse of comedy and idyllic poems for the light Tucker brought to me. Erato for Sam, muse of love and its poetry for all that she inspired and gave me.”

You see glowing tears running down his face, he holds his hands out to the night sky. His fingers are curved as if wanting to reach and tenderly brush the faces of people long gone. Only they’re not gone completely. You look at the stars with a newfound appreciation. They are no longer pinpricks of long dead light but people who lived and died and yet still lived on in such beauty. If you look closely, you can almost see them. Brushes of red hair, dark rugged skin, the glint of glasses, a flash of amethyst eyes. 

“There’s no Urania,” you say quietly, the wind tossing them. 

“Not yet,” he says longingly, “but soon. The Zone and the Earth are at peace, they won’t need my protection for much longer. When that happens, my spirit will leave this world and join my loved ones in the stars as Urania.” This ghost has been dead for longer than you’ve been alive, longer than many of your most recent ancestors. But his love can still be felt, still burns high above in the sky for everyone to see. What better eternity is there?

“May I tell their story?” You ask and he only nods in response, not taking his eyes off Mnemosyne. You get the feeling he has forgotten about you, caught up in the light of his loved ones shining down on him, waiting. All at once, you realize how late it is, how cold. You leave to return to the research shelter, to write the history of the miracle constellation. 

The stars made out of souls, crafted by love.

Twelve years later, you are not surprised when you look up and see a ninth star in the constellation of Mnemosyne. It glows brightly, twinkling with the other muses as if in conversation. You can only smile through your tears, so profoundly happy that Urania’s lonely vigil is finally over and they have assumed their rightful place among the stars. 

#dannymay2021 #danny phantom #i'm not crying you're crying #this came to me last night in the bath #the idea that Danny takes pieces of his loved ones soul and made them into stars #so that they can stay with him while he finishes his duty as Ghost King #I want to stress they all DID move on #these are just pieces of them #stars are echoes of light long gone and same for these stars #they're the memory of friends and family and enemies #people who meant so much to Danny that he blazed their souls across the sky so they could watch over him #while he finished he duty and waited to join them #Danny Fenton never went to the stars #but because of Phantom he was able to finally walk among them #arm and arm with the family of his soul #thats not a bad afterlife shining in the sky softly watching over the earth you spent so long protecting #dont fucking touch me #wanted to play with second person pov lmk if it sux #its danny fucking may now open up and eat your soft tender angst