#[whats song writing if not sung poetry]

[a-wild-things-rambles]

hometown hypocrisy

and the bloods beating down in the city tonight and no-one will ever sympathize with our plight try to get up, but we just fall down trying to escape this damn hometown

and we got fires burning in our souls and the scars to prove it, what do you know but the rains putting us out drowning our sparks and our shouts

and the fogs setting in rain against my skin and the sky's beating me down wandering my hometown and the roads gotten twisted the old life's gone, i missed it guess it is true, you can never go home again

and the bloods beating down in the city tonight and no-one will ever sympathize with our plight try to get up, but we just fall down trying to escape this damn hometown

and blood seeping through our clothes violence begets violence, don't ya know but these fists are my hometown pride gritted teeth and bloodshot eyes

and the fogs setting in rain against my skin and the sky's beating me down wandering my hometown and the roads gotten twisted the old life's gone, i missed it guess it is true, you can never go home again

'and the bloods beating down' is the 2nd chorus/prechorus [look i changed the structure but im not editing my analysis i dont want it to get longer]

'and the fogs setting in' is the [main]chorus [planned to use a diffrent tone to musicaly distinguish it from teh verses and pre/2nd chorus][is in italics]

and 'we got fires' is teh 1st verse and 'blood seeping thru our clothes' is the second

NOTE: should be spoken or sung for optimal beat with contractions, but for readability has been mostly uncontracted. also idk how to spell what do you know contracted right.

the chorus is much later in the singers life than the pre chorus & the two verses, the hypocrisy is that the singer wants to both escape and go back to his hometown.

the younger singer always uses plural, to symbolize community, until 'these fists are my hometown pride' almost at the end. he refutes the cycle of violence by owning his violence as part of himself- his link to his hometown.

in addition, he has become the active perpetrator of violence, [previous references were 'we all fall down' [something else to him] and 'we got the scars to prove it' which is implied to be violence perpetrated unknowingly to each other because of 'fires burning in our souls'- when they get close, they hurt each other unintentionally] he now links his sense of self to violence, and thus when he loses his ability to do violence, he loses his self, and his link to his hometown, becoming the older singer

but by doing this he also will inevitably refute his hometown, by linking it intrinsically to violence, becoming the older singer who sings the chorus when he can no longer have that link to his self or his hometown because he can no longer do violence [his inability shown by him being 'beaten down' by the rain/oppressive atmosphere], i did want to expand on this, writing more verses to show the fall and how he ended up as the chorus person but it didnt work. heres the scrapped third verse

but soon those fists turned weak what do you know? you aint at your peak stress and violence aint good for your heart and you find that your bodys now falling apart

it can also be seen as by growing up to become a perpetrator and someone with power, he is now distant from his people and community, the solidarity is formed from their shared victimhood so when he steps out of that/rejects it, he loses the community [also becoming part of the violent cycle means getting rejected] [also the chorus says 'twisted road' we dont know what happened to make him fall, thats up to the readers interpretation] [transmasc journey of realizing your masculinity then becoming ostracised][or disability]

"guess its true, you can never go home again" is the only exception to the rhyming scheme, and it gives it emphasis, it was more noticeable before the chorus was squished together [previously each half line was its own line until 'guess its true'] fuck it it can take up space on yalls dashboards its getting split again

'bloodshot eyes' can be interpreted many different ways, from crying to injury to rage, each suggesting different meanings and affecting the text in diffrent ways

[knighted-princess]

I just wrote this poem! Enjoy!

Remember Me

When I was young

I held back my tongue

Scared of the words I sung

Bells beckoned to be rung

But what if I was wrong

And the words were never meant for a song?

But I said the words

And fought the fear head-on.

I sang on, fears melted and gone,

I faced the darkness and moved on

Not for you, but for me

Not for love, but to be free

Not for tears, or my peers

Just me and my sanity

So as you read this

I hope you see this

To encourage thee

As you remember me

[leighsartworks216]

request if you feel like it:

i've been thinking a lot about astarion coming up with some unique pet name(unique as in not on his usual list of what he calls everyone) for tav and their brain just short-circuiting a little when they first hear it

“another (again no pressure): tav writing a song about astarion? or them absent-mindedly playing something that was inspired by him? and his reaction to that”

I assume these were both by you, anon lol I combined them because I felt like they worked really well off each other

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Warnings: references to sex, anxiety

Word Count: 989

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

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As a bard, you were no stranger to performing for audiences and putting on a good show. Smiling and going on with the show in spite of the stage fright. You’d rubbed elbows with nobles and sung ballads to their wives - you shouldn’t be as anxious as you are.

And yet, as you sit Astarion down on a pillow within your tent and pick up your lute, your fingers shake and you feel short of breath. Even when you sit down across from him, you cannot seem to settle down. You performed this a hundred times by now to make sure it was absolutely perfect, but it felt like your fingers had never held an instrument before, and like your voice was entirely gone.

Cold fingers brush your knee. He looks worried. “Are you alright, darling?”

You nod despite the forced smile you put on. “Yup! Never better! I just, uhm,” you reach over for your journal and hurriedly flip through the pages, “need to make sure I’ve got this right.”

Your eyes read the notes and lyrics over and over and over, but process none of it. You try to jumpstart your brain by placing your fingers over the frets, but your nail catches a string and makes a rather terrible noise. You both wince. Astarion leans forward and takes your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Darling, breathe. Imagine I’m just another drunk tavern patron.”

You huff a nervous laugh. “It’s hard when all I see is the man I love.”

He smirks, but the softness of his eyes ruin the illusion. He pulls you forward and meets you halfway to place a kiss on your forehead. “Breathe. I won’t laugh if you mess up.”

“Liar.”

“I won’t laugh excessively if you mess up.”

He pulls away, stroking your cheek with his thumb before he pulls away and leans back on his arms. He’s so open and inviting like this. You want to toss your lute aside and crawl into his lap, bombarding him with hugs. But, you need to share this with him first.

You close your eyes. You imagine you’re just in some dingy inn, playing for scraps and discounted rooms. This song is just like any other you’ve written. The notes are at your fingertips, ready to be released. You breathe in, imagine the song in your mind, and breathe out. You’ve got this.

You avoid looking at him as you close your journal and set it aside - you fear doing so would ruin the illusion you’ve painted for yourself. Your fingers glide smoothly along the strings, as familiar as a lover’s caress, and settle on the first chord. The words climb up your throat, lining up, ready to leap out. You try not to choke on them. You close your eyes again and start to play.

You spent countless nights composing it. Ever since you chanced upon him looking in the mirror and he’d called your descriptions of him “poetry”. To you, poetry was one in the same with the flattery he so desired. Maybe he understood that now, now that you were together. And that is exactly what this song was for.

You sang about his eyes, his hair, his smile, his hands - preening him and his apparent beauty. But you sang about his heart, too. The tenderness he shared in quiet moments, the way he sought your hand out by hesitantly brushing his pinky against yours, the delicate way he peppered your neck with kisses before he bit down as gently as possible. You poured your heart into every note, into every word. You meant every single one.

The last note fluttered into the air, and in the void it left behind came your anxiety. You were scared to open your eyes. To lose this moment would destroy you. If he hated it… Gods, you didn’t know what you’d do.

Cold hands hold your face again, but before you can open your eyes, his lips are on yours. He kisses you with a burning passion. Gratitude and love and a million more emotions, all vying to be expressed in this one act, like he can’t leave them to fester in his chest any longer. When the kiss slows, when he can bear the weight of the remaining feelings, he pulls away so gently. You pant to catch your breath, and you can feel it fanning against his skin and back at you from his proximity.

“My wonderful little song bird,” he hums. Your eyes shoot open to stare at him. He can feel your pulse as your heart skips a beat, soaring with the new pet name. He pecks your lips again briefly. “Only you would take my words and turn them against me in song.”

You chuckle breathlessly. Your mind is still trying to catch up. “You wanted flattery, and I excel in poetry - it only made sense to combine them for my favorite muse.”

He smiles wide, fangs peeking out beneath his lips. “I think I can make an exception,” he teases. “As long as you only sing about my good features.”

You cup his cheek and guide him down until you can kiss his forehead. “All of your features are good features, my star.” You lift his head again to press your forehead to his. “I can’t admire a bow and ignore its arrows - you’re not you without all of your qualities, good and bad and middling.”

“Fine,” he sighs, “but I’m to be your first audience with each one.”

“And if I write something truly scandalous?”

He smirks devilishly. “Then I’m to be your only audience, and,” he leans forward to whisper in your ear, “I intend to act out each phrase.”

You hum. “I should get to writing, then.”

Fangs tease at your lobe. “Allow me to provide you some inspiration, my precious song bird. It’s only fair, as your favorite muse.”

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnloveslokiredacted @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog

[cillianhead]

hii! your work is amazing from what i’ve seen. so so amazing. i know you do a lot of smut but i was just wondering if you would do fluff headcanons of cillian with a fem reader who absolutely adores music? also maybe what would he do if you like dragged him to a music festival? would he enjoy it? thank you so much!!

Oh my gosh! Thank you. I'm glad you enjoy what I've written so far :)

Thank you so much for your request and I will happily write a fluffy fic just for you <3

Put The Beatles On, Light The Candles, Go Back To Bed || Cillian Murphy x Reader

warnings: None really, fluffy <3, mentions of an unspecified age gap between reader and Cillian, reader and Cillian aren't married.

You and Cillian had a very harmonious relationship. You showed him how to get out of his comfort zone more and he showed you the finer quieter things of life. Like books, new music, poetry, and films.

You've always loved music, obsessing over it since you were little, not being able to go anywhere without your headphones and something with some sort of music that could play through it. Without it you're an irritated mess. And when you met Cillian, he introduced you to new music you'd never heard before, it's what you bonded over when getting to know each other.

Before you lived together, you'd stay up all night, listening to records he'd recommend you or calling all night long, talking about whatever together, talking about music. And when you moved in, it was just perfect. His record collection was large and full of rare finds, when he was away for work, you'd play the same Beatles album over and over again, falling asleep to it. It was comforting to you, in the presence of music, you felt Cillian there, even in his absence. You couldn't listen to one song without thinking of him.

Swaying in his living room with him, his arms wrapped around you as he sung along softly to the words. He was the perfect man for you, you both had a shared love and passion for music. You'd stay up writing songs together, playing various instruments, and making up melodies to gentle love songs dedicated to one another. It was cheesy but it was also so beautiful.

One time, Cillian wrote a short sappy love song on his guitar for you, the words were simple but meaningful, you sat cross legged, watching him play his guitar with that shy smile on his face and rosy cheeks and when the song was over, he'd look at you to see your reaction to find you sitting there crying quietly.

"Oh no, Y/N, what's wrong, baby love?" He gently placed his guitar to the side, kneeling on the ground in front of you, cupping your face in his hands. "Why are you crying?"

"That... that was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, Cillian," You sobbed, whimpering as happy tears streamed down your face. That was the moment he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with you. "I love you so much, I love you, Cillian... thank you for writing that for me." You cried softly.

"Oh you sweet girl," He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips in the hopes to calm you down. Even though he knew you were happy crying, it still pained him to see your tears. "I love you more than anything, that song was only a small example of it, please don't cry or I'll start crying too..." He pulled you into his lap, tears starting to well in his own eyes, cradling you in his arms, on the floor of his living room. He hummed into your hair. You were both so incredibly in love. Two souls perfectly intertwined, your love was a slow gentle waltz and life was the music that let you dance.

Though you weren't the most extraverted person, you were definitely more outgoing than Cillian himself. He was quiet and reserved, though around you he would open up a bit more, he couldn't help being quiet when the two of you went out in public, for whatever reason it was. So when you got tickets to a one day music festival with some artists that you liked and you thought Cillian may like too, he was very hesitant to go with you. Not because he didn't want to but because he knew there would be thousands of people there, probably a lot younger than him, he'd definitely feel out of place. But he couldn't deny you something that seemed like it made you so happy.

So on the day of the festival, Cillian kept a tight arm around your waist both for his own comfort and to protect you, even if you didn't need protecting. You were so excited, raving on about how excited you were to see Lana Del Rey and all the other artists that were performing. He smiled at how happy you were. You had a glow around you when you were smiling, one that made him give you big heart eyes.

"You're so cute, love," He muttered into your hair as he placed a loving kiss on your temple. "Gonna make you m'wife, love how you love music, love you."

"Oh shut up!" You teased, nudging him softly as you shook your head bashfully. You stood more towards the back of the mosh pit, so you guys had a little more room to dance and privacy to yourselves. The event was quite colorful, people covered in glitter and nothing else walked by and tight revealing clothes, you could see Cillian's flushed face, he wore one of his cardigans and dress pants, a very modest outfit, one he usually wore everyday. You thought he was so cute. You could tell he was nervous. "I love you, Cillian, we can always leave if you don't feel up to it... I won't be upset. I just want you to feel okay." You kissed him reassuringly, he just smiled at you in response. That's all you needed to see to know he was telling you he was alright.

Your relationship was like that. You didn't need to speak to understand each other, you could give each other a glance and you would know how the other was feeling. Your hearts were connected, after all.

When the performer came on stage, Cillian took a step back, leaning against one of the barricades and watching you with a grin on his pretty face, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You danced and swayed to the music, singing your heart out to the words. You were the most beautiful thing to him, so carefree and free spirited, an angel in human form. Occasionally you'd look back at him with that big dopey smile of pure bliss, your eyes full of love and Cillian didn't know how he could love you more in that moment. He'd never met anyone like you, anyone that he could spend days and days on end with and never get sick of.

Though big crowds and festivals weren't his thing, the sight of you dancing to the music and laughing at how much fun you were having was the most lovely thing. It made his heart swell and a sense of calmness floated over him. You were all he ever wanted. As long as you were happy, he was happy.

As one of the slower songs began to play, you walked over to him, leaning against him and swaying softly, his arms wrapped around you from behind as he placed gentle kisses on your neck and collarbones. Your skin was like a drug to him, the high washing over him in waves. "My lovely girl," He'd whisper. "Love of my life."

"I love you, Cillian." You felt like the luckiest person in the world. As long as you had Cillian's love and music, you knew you'd be okay.

-

Oh to be in Cillian's arms and swaying softly to music :(

[i984]

A Letter to the Yearning Moon

|Pairing|: Wednesday Addams x gender neutral reader

|Warnings|: HURT HURT HURT, Stupid! Wednesday Addams, falls too late! Wednesday Addams, hates proper communication! Wednesday Addams, a rejection letter for a confession letter, this isn't even a fic, you guys will just sit there reading from first person, improper use of Greek mythology, author was sick when writing this.

|Summary|: Wednesday Addams receives a love letter.

|A/n|: I used @tundra1029 's prompt very very loosely. This goes to all of you who fell in love at the wrong time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

An envelope.

Wednesday snatched the object from her beloved Thing.

Inside is a paper filled with letters that form words and thus string sentences together snugly beside each other. Carefully opening the folds, the ravenette's eyes trace your handwriting, your voice playing inside her mind.

My dear Selene,

Countless words have been poured on papers, yet none truly holds the power to speak my sentiments whole. Man's invention has failed me; poetry and portraits defeated by my thoughts and feelings for you. Like others before me, I'll still try to convey myself to you, and I hope by the end of this letter, we'll still be able to face each other and nod in tandem.

I loved the way you smiled. It was rare, of course, and when it finally happened, I saw before my eyes the most beautiful angel grace the earth with sweet honey and green meadows; light rain washes the world from its wrongs, and suddenly everything was so vibrant, so you.

I loved the way you laughed. It resembles the little bells adorning the bracelet I gifted you last year. In what people will deem maniacal, I find comfort and warmth, genuine glee and freedom. The things I would do to go back and listen to it again for the first time, I wouldn't regret it one bit.

I loved the way you walked. Our shoulders would brush, and my pinkie would tremble because I wanted to link it with yours. Every time, I would worry that you'll flinch and step away, or even worse; you'll tell me off, and we'll never walk together again. That never happened, and instead, I was the one who pulled away and disappeared.

I loved the way you let me into your life. To become a friend, a companion, and to let me cling to my hope of us ever becoming more. I watch you tolerate my obnoxious laughter and incessant chatter, my tasteless love poems, and the squiggly drawing of us—holding hands with our foreheads pressed together.

I loved how you hurt me gently, with no remorse or regret. When your countless 'no's proved fruitless, you just stood there and gave me less and less. I was doing the loving for the both of us, even though there wasn't an 'us' to begin with.

I loved you too much; it killed me every time I saw you, felt you, touched you, heard you, and it ruined me. The mere idea of you burns my husk with an eternal flame of suffering. Eros was laughing at me, and I hated passion and everything it stands for.

Your raven hair and pale, cold skin haunt my sleepless nights and daydreams. Your typewriter stared me down atop your desk, and I could clearly picture the image of your back and hear the clacks your fingers produced with each move.

I can see our hands accidentally touching atop that damned bookshelf every time I walk past the library. Your eyes were sunken, and your braids were messy. You looked lifeless, more than ever. And I've never hated anything more in my entire life.

It's funny—or tragic, depending on who's talking—how you, a person so impassive and emotionless, make me experience all the feelings poets and writers have sung and poured on paper. I adored love songs and loathe them now. I screamed, and I laughed, in despair and in delight.

You made me love, then hate, and I didn't understand you, me, and us.

I hated my arms that longed to hold you. I hated my fingers that wished to brush your hair loose. I hated my lips for wanting to press them onto your perfect skin. I hated my mind for yearning to understand you. I hated myself for desiring such a creature of perfection and bliss—God's gift for dirty and wretched humanity—a blade that lodges, twists, and turns the heart, and you wouldn't pull it out.

So I freed myself from your chains and whips, from the ruins and the broken pieces that were us, from the shards of glass that slit my neck and arms, and from the three words I wish to hear you repeat after.

Love was deeply tangled in hatred, and if I loved you more, I might kill you out of resentment. Instead, I killed my muse, freedom, and your half-finished portrait. And I figured that maybe that way, I could kill love, kill you.

I loved you, and in some ways, I still do. You're a great friend and a patient confidante. You're my hero and the moon I sought to glow above my bleak and numbing nights. But I've learned to love me more than you, and to love me means destroying your temple and building my own from the collapsed rock. It means painting over your mural with my favorite colors and drawing hearts on love poetries to myself.

I sprouted wings, and they blazed golden. Claiming heaven for myself, I left you down on treasured mother earth. If cruelness grew in me, I would ask you to stop feeling for me. But to fall for someone, and for you, is the greatest blessing in life, and I wish for you to experience the same.

Your words finally mirrored mine, and I pray in another life, we can love and live without fear, regret, or guilt. Until that day comes and sets us free from human prison, do settle as my fallen angel, my harbinger of death.

And maybe then, Chronos will let us meet and fall for each other together, and our story will be complete; a happy end for you and me.

I loved you, Wednesday Addams, and I am eternally grateful to have you feel the same for me now.

Sincerely,

Your foolish sun.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A/n2: Did that make any sense? No. So I'll clear a few things out for you. This is a letter for someone who fell for you late. You fell so deep in love, it drives you mad, and you've confessed countless times to this person. Yet, the person doesn't reciprocate your feeling, and so you gave up. You moved on in life, and learnt to love yourself like you did this person. As Fate has it, this damned person falls in love with you after your feelings are gone, and this letter conveys that it's too late because you can't love them again, and you wish for them to figure out what one-sided love feels like, and what does it mean to love themselves in the end.

Tag list is in this post! Please interact with it accordingly if you wish to be added into it :)

[odinsblog]

ALICE RANDALL, on how she became a country music writer at the age of 23

Well, I decided to become a Black country songwriter and publisher. I was founding Midsummer Music because I was born in Detroit City in 1959, at the same year as Motown Records, and my father did not read books to me. He told me stories, and one of the stories he told me over and over was the founding of Anna Records that Barry Gordy's sisters had founded a year before Motown.

So he talked to me about women being song publishers and record company executives and songwriters, and I heard those stories and followed in Anna's footsteps.

On writing country melodies

I teasingly say that my melodies are so simple that when the ones I come up with, if I can sing them, the whole world can sing them, so it goes well for having hit sometimes. But I came to Nashville via Harvard in Washington, DC so I sort of took the skills that I learned analyzing the Harlem Renaissance poets and Shakespeare and Jane Austen, and I applied them to country lyrics. I love British metaphysical poetry and American metaphysical poetry, and it was alive and it was alive and hiding in country and western music, and I found it.

On race in the country music industry

The racial fault line in country is all around that theme of the past is better than the present. In much of white country, the past that is better than the present is a mythologized Dixie. In much of Black Country, the past that is better than the present, is a time in childhood where your parents were able, against all odds, to protect you, or a lost Africa before colonization that's manifest by nature.

On what makes a country song, country

Well, the equation is Celtic, that's English, Irish, Scottish ballot forms, plus African influences, plus evangelical Christianity equals country music. Don't have the Black influences, and you probably got folk music. Don't have the evangelical Christianity, and you may have blues.

It's emotional, and they're themes, the big themes of country, as far as I see it. Life is hard, God is real, the road, family, and liquor are significant compensations, and the past is better than the present.

On metaphors

Well, these lyrics, these really complicated lyrics such as, ‘Drop kick me, Jesus, through the goalpost of life,’ that's an extended metaphysical conceit. And you know what? On Beyoncé’s new album, Cowboy Carter, Bodyguard is another one of those extended, complex metaphors that we see all through country.

On Black women in country music

I feel actually a Juneteenth, which is good news at long last. Because I will be 65 May 4th, and I have been in country and western music for 41 years professionally.

When I arrived here in 1983, Charlie Pride had been to the number one spot 29 times. It was about to go up for another time. So many Black men have gotten to the number one spot.

I can't remember all their names, but literally not one Black woman performer had gotten there. There's a phrase I want to say, cultural redlining. Black women have been culturally redlined out of that.

They had not been given the economic resources to make the campaign to get there. And Beyoncé eclipsed all of that. And I can retire now with a joy that all three of the things I wanted to see, they got done.

One came in right at the last moment, wouldn't have gotten there without Queen B.

On representation and the first time she heard one of her songs performed by Adia Victoria, a Black woman

I cried. I cried. Just thinking back on it right now almost makes me cry again.

It changed the whole beginning of my book, because I knew I had to start with that moment. Over the years, I've been honored, and I tell the story. Glenn Campbell, Moe Bandy, Radney Foster, Tricia Yearwood, so many extraordinary stars had sung my songs.

But no one had ever looked like me had sung one of my songs. And more significantly, listeners thought all the heroes and sheroes in my songs were white, because the singers were white. And some of those heroes and sheroes, I had imagined them, all of them I had imagined as Black.

And I was willing and embraced people projecting their identities onto them, but I resisted the identities I had originally imagined and created being erased. And Adia Victoria added the color back to that cowboy. And 20 to 30% of all cowboys in the American West were Black and Brown, and they deserve to be remembered.

And if we don't remember them, we cannot properly encounter Cowboy Carter.

[aemondsbeloved]

hi!! I was wondering your take on aemond/aegon falling for someone with selective mutism/who goes nonverbal? <3

Words Unsaid

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x nonverbal!reader

notes: wasn’t feeling any inspo for Aegon so I just did Aemond for these headcanons, hope that’s okay!

The opposite of his elder brother, Aemond has been an observer of the court. Aegon had loved the attention being a prince brought him but even more the loss of his eye, the children of the court circling around Aemond had unnerved him. Then, he had not understood what it appeared like when the daughters and sons of lords said honeyed words to him in hopes of the privileges that came with the friendship of a Targaryen prince, but still, he could find some distaste in their actions. Aegon might have loved it but Aemond wanted to be left alone than be surrounded by insincere people.

When he lost his eye he grew bitter. Gone was the soft spoken and intelligent, perhaps a little arrogant prince. He was a boy who trusted no one save his mother, the only one who defended him. He focused on other things, training with Ser Criston and studying with a maester in the library when he could. There would be some days where he realized he had not spoken to someone in hours. Surprisingly he did not mind the solitude nor the silence

He had never had interest in the ladies of the court nor did he seek to woo any girls. Courting was out of the question. If it were not for his pride of his heritage, his mother might have suggested becoming a maester himself.

Aemond knew he would have to court a lady eventually but he regarded it as duty, something he must do. He would be respectful towards his lady wife no matter what, but she would not receive warmth from him nor would she be sung songs or read poetry by his lips. His mother and father got on well enough to his eye was Aemond's reasoning to himself. There was no love but his mother cared for his father and his father would take no slight against his mother. He would do the same for whomever he married.

These were the things Aemond told himself, at least, but somewhere deep within himself even he wished for love. He had been able to suppress this wish for long until a young lady had arrived to court along with her father, a new member of his father's court.

He did not notice it at first, truth be told. You held yourself highly and walked about the castle as you belonged there just as any of the other ladies did. But you did not linger near the other ladies. Once or twice he saw you near Helaena but from where you sat with her he could see you writing something in a notepad. Helaena was talking away as she tended to do, though he could not discern what, but he assumed that you were writing as you listened to her. He mused you could have been a writer and were simply enjoying his sister's company.

Aemond assumed wrong. He heard whispers of you near the throne room when he passed a group of ladies. "It matters little how comely she is," a lady said snidely. "No lord would want a wife who cannot speak!" "I hear she is a simpleton," another remarked, sounding sage. "If her house was not as proud they would have sent her away long ago, not walk about the Keep for all to see."

Surprisingly himself, Aemond felt anger. His anger had been uncontrollable in the past but now he could tame it, yet hearing this slight he knew could only be about you sent him seething from where the ladies stood. To feel the need to defend someone who was at best a stranger was not something he was used to feeling.

Days that followed felt like quick sand to Aemond, slow and tedious, where he felt his eye roving wherever he was to catch a glimpse at you. It might have been days or week, maybe even months when he saw you that day in the garden, sitting down on a bench.

You say nothing but look up at him from your notebook and smile. He thinks that gesture might be worth a thousand words. When he sits next to you he says nothing for a time. He watches you as you lift your head and watch the people that walk about. Smiling he says more to himself than you, "You are an observer are you not?"

Maybe it was the way he said it, almost softly and thoughtfully that made the simple sentence sound more profound. Without pausing you pull out your leather bound notebooks and write your reply. You hand the open notebook with the words I did not have any other option but to observe written on the blank page. He hums and you seem to appreciate the reply, as silent as it was. To his surprise, you seem to not mind in the slightest as he thumbs through the pages, conversations on your part to situations just like these as well as conversations you overheard that must have intrigued you.

"I too did not have a choice," he admits quietly and you nod at him in understanding. He gestures to the side of his face covered in his eyepatch and the jagged scar. "When people see this they turn away in disgust and find me most grotesque." He laughs bitterly. The wound of the court's reaction felt terrible even now and Aemond had not been able to let slights go. "I would rather stay by myself and let them cower in fear."

He does not mean the words completely as he enjoys the way you treat him as any other person, and Aemond thinks that you know that. The space between you seems smaller when you place your hand on top of his on the bench for a minute before you take the notebook back. Writing again you show him after a minute you next words. They find me a simpleton because I cannot speak but many forget my ears are in fine condition and I hear the idiocy they often speak. We should not worry about the opinions of people of that sort.

Aemond laughs, actually laughs, because he finds you amusing. His laughter and smile at his action seem to please you as he leans back in the bench.

In the weeks that follow there is one person that notes the change in Aemond. Queen Alicent. Her son, once brooding and lonely, perhaps content in his misery, seemed to find pleasure in activities other than reading by himself and training with Ser Criston. It reaches her ear that he has been spending time with a lord's daughter who came to the court a few months prior.

comments and reblogs is always appreciated and encouraged!

[sucantslay]

Meiyuu Deshi Kairou analysis. I'm losing my sanity...

Hello @hypn0sssss, just wanna let you know, I've been working off my ass to research this song like...more than 30 minutes but then in turn into a whole week long.

It was fun though ( I really need a rest but my brain said just do it! )

BUT, ANYWAY, here are some important information you should know before getting into this song analysis.

If you don't know, this is an event song, it connects with an event story about a VR game, yes, a VR game. It was introduced to Mika by Makoto and Sora. And later on, became the inspiration for Mika's song.

This is related to Mika's character, so if you know nothing about him, you can learn more from some sources out there or have a quick check at my post

3 . I'll mostly put the lyrics in word form. I really want to put all the translation pictures here but since Tumblr stop me from having more than 10 pics in a post...I can only put some.

4 . Most of this is my personal analysis. Pls tell me or put on the sources if you want to put it somewhere. Also, since it is a PERSONAL thing, the lyrics might not mean like that to you, but it is to me. You are free to have your own idea of this song however you like.

Alright! Let's get started!!!

For the theme of the song, Mika is using the VR game as his base, so it understandable that some words might be a little lead into the mechanical aspect.

The story for this song is about a mechanical god who ends the story/ the world abruptly. It very interesting when the song did not only successfully portray the theme of mechanical but also the theme and story of Valkyrie itself.

Oh my dear Mika, you are really something of an artist, aren't ya?! It the time when Mika finally step up and going his own art more then waiting for Shu order!

The name of the song "Meikyuu Deshi Kairou" which means "Labyrinth Electronic Corridor"

With some lines mention classic songs

(this line got repeated 2 times)

"Ode to Joy" or in other words "An die Freude"

You must have known it as Beethoven's most significant work, Symphony No.9, a choral symphony.

Since the name isn't being written in another name until you start digging deeper, you'll find something eles, lies in these words they had chosen.

It was origin from a poem written by a German named Friedrich Schiller and was used by Beethoven in his Ninth Symphony.

But the version that Beethoven used is the revision of the poem. Yet Friedrich himself didn't like that version at all, he viewed it as a failure.

Why? Because Friedrich made that poem for his dear beloved ( longtime friend and partner ) Christian Gottfried Körner, who inspired him to write the poem.

He stayed "of value maybe for us two, but not for the world, nor for the art of poetry"

I SWEAR TO GOD, WHEN I READED THOUGH WORD, NO THING APPEAR IN MY MIND AS FAST AS MIKA AND SHU DID.

His performance and his dear partner in art. Did I mention that Friedrich made a whole verse for Christian on his birthday.

( uhm, ok, that's enough! Let's move to the next one for now before I can't keep this mouth shut. )

Some lines in the poem go like this:

"Rescue from the chains of tyrants, Magnanimity to the villain too, Hope on the deathbed, Mercy in the high (law) court, Even the dead shall live! Brothers, drink and agree (with me) That all sinners shall be forgiven And hell shall be no more."

The "Ode to Joy" old name was "Ode to Freedom" / "An die Freiheit"

Then there came "Libera me" ( "Deliver me" )

Which also has an interesting background related to the Catholic Church. "Libera me" originated from a song named "Office of the Dead" which had been sung as a service prayer for the death.

The text asks God to have mercy upon the deceased person at the Last Judgment.

And it fits the theme of the song well! Because as I said before, the song is about a god who wants to destroy the world in sudden.

So "Ode to Joy", "Libera me" can be seen as the voices of humans who denying the god choice, the choice to turn the world back to dust.

( Note: The line in the song is not being sung by Mika or Shu, but by voices in the background. It becomes more noticeable when considering the fact that none other Valkyrie songs have these "background voices" at all )

The next two lines both sing an indirectly about the old Valkyrie.

"Ah, the melody sinks into overwritten myths"

The old Valkyrie had been sunk down to the deep by the play of Fine.

"Come, it is the time to open the floating corridor that full of electrons"

But it was the story from a long time ago, now, we taking a different path, to the new corridor, a new path to the future yet we're still unable to predict. Accidentally we lead ourselves to the door of destruction. ( It can also be seen as the god in this play had opened the door of doom, ending the world in sudden )

Ah, yes, once again this song mentions the use of the classic poem.

This "Song of the Bell" had nothing to do with song or symphony, which gives us more clues and confirms the truth about "Ode to Joy".

Surprisingly, "Song of the Bell" is also been written by Friedrich Schiller.

"Ode to Joy" was written in 1785, while "Song of the Bell" was written in 1798.

The poem talks about the bell, how was the bell made, by what, and with what tools and techniques they used to make it.

I have a belief that the "love and punishment" part of the song lyrics has other means than taking from the "Song of the Bell". Yes, the poem did mention "love" as a part of the story where a couple has known each other since they were kid.

Wedding bell and allocation of roles is the part when the bell acts as a wedding bell.

To later on, mention death: Death knell upon the decease of the woman where the bell has an earnest purpose and tolls in accompaniment to a funeral

But there is no mention of crime or punishment.

So go back to the lyrics where they sing: "Reflect the song"

Reflect...which means there is a connection but not really is about the poem. It was more about Valkyris, the love had turned its back on them. Their art, their joy, their peaceful life as 3 small people in an unpopular Unit was now a punishment, pulling them down to the ground.

Nazuna left, Valkyrie broke, Shu is no longer himself.

To Mika, if not a punishment then what could this horrifying scene had been?

We can also see this in the human's eyes. If "Ode to Joy", "Libera me" was all human ( in the theme ) talking about, then this line is the begging for the god to rethink his decision:

"Please, don't you see, this beautiful planet is our everything. Is our beginning and our ending. We may suffer, but we are happy, and that makes living a meaningful thing."

noticed how Mika uses "Each other" not just "Other" which points to both Shu and Mika.

In their era of being a "not so happy" unit since the war ended.

They have gone so far and now look back at themself. Such action of shame, the days when we are still nothing but a nameless Valkyrie.

You can also look at it in the MV theme way: ''I wish this world would disappear.'' As the god of mechanical no longer feels the need of humans exiting.

As the next lyrics go:

"Behind this veil of anonymity" (Shu line)

"The ghosts of the dead-" (Mika line)

"Are dancing in the underground till the end of the trial" (Shu line)

There are two things I need to point out in detail here:

Firstly: The meaning of these lines seems to me as if they're talking about their trauma. Behind this veil is the old time, the old ghosts, look, they are all here, never left until we start open up with them. Until we learn how to heal ourselves from the brutal injury of war did we be able to make them leave

Secondly: Mika once again mentions death. It was Mika's own thing, if you don't know, death kinda became a thing that fond with Mika's style. Lots of times, we can see Mika associated with death ( mostly in the old song. )

In his 'In the Shadow' outfit, which had a deep connection with butterflies.

Butterflies are a symbol of the representative soul of a deceased person. In that outfit, Mika is represented by a blue butterfly, what was the meaning of that symbol?

A symbol of the soul who passed is nearby!

So, by now you would be questioning: "Why are there so many signs about death from Mika?" Well, glad you asked.

This all came down to the fact that Mika was being a doll in Valkyrie. Nazuna was also a doll himself, but he break free and Mika didn't.

Mika is dying from the inside, becoming the soulless, as he loses what support to belong to him. He sells it away, sacrifice it for the wish of making Valkyrie great again.

"Surrounded by faceless choirs, there's stand the lonely soloist So, let's sing out loud to those who have no place to go, here's the truth."

Sung by both Mika and Shu.

In my belief, these lines are dedicated to them, the Valkyrie that got injured after the war. They got no hope, not thing to relied on.

Shu got a bad representation, lost his mind.

Mika also had to suffer from the event but he's trying his very best not to become a burden to Shu after Nazuna left.

That was the moment when Mika became more doll-like than how he was before.

We stood together, yet loneliness filled inside our souls. Becoming the "soloist" singer without notice.

"Sing to those who have no place"

They're telling themself, their pitiful past self that the daunting world is now no more.

We now have a place to stay, a home to be in, we've got our back.

Ok, ok, here it comes, MY FAVORITE LINE!

LIKE, THERE ARE SO MUCH TO TALK ABOUT, I CAN'TTTTT

Ok, I can actually do that now ( since this analysis is already long as hell )

This line makes a connection to another line, which is:

"Here's the truth" - "Audience, please come"

"To the New World"

Isn't simply just about the god and the humans, it carries two meanings.

One is the literal, a sore thumb that sticks out the most to me: IT ABOUT THE VALKYRIE NEW ERAAAAA.

They maybe not yet healed, not yet prepared themself for the world outside, but they're now more happy than ever.

Shu is trying his best to understand Mika.

Mika is trying his best to become something of his own, escape from the realm of a soulless doll.

"Dancing with full bloom"

Like, uhm *raises eyebrows*, full bloom, full bloom you said?

The last time ( the first time Shu appeared in the game main story ), Shu said: "I am counting the days until we bring our blossoms together to make "Valkyrie" the most beautiful bouquet in the world."

And now ya said that you're FULL BLOOM? That can only mean one thing, they have finally found their meaning of art.

They may not "bloom" to the world but "bloom" to themself. Becoming different. They changing, they learning, and they are growing.

"where 0 and 1 dancing"

Yeh, you already know what I'm going to say. 0 and 1 are binary code or we usually call it "computer language" / bits.

0 and 1, is what this theme song is about. The mechanical god, the new world of mechanics. "0 and 1 dancing" is "The god is speaking".

Like, 0 1 then 1 0, 0 1 then 1 0, where 0 and 1 will change their place to make a byte, a string of bits, representing the god language.

And, it is just me or do I get the feeling that this goddess who wants to destroy a world in rust has his reason, he has a feeling that leaving the world like this, isn't a good idea.

Even if the humans are begging him to stop, he did not listen.

Because, in some of the next lines, we got this:

"A play that crueler than dream" (Shu line)

"With everyone's prayers" (Mika line)

"Everyone will remember it" (Shu line).

"Above the Surface world that full of selfishness and egoism" (Mika line)

The god see human as this selfish and only care for what they want most then how others feel.

"This lost child of the era, is confused by the fragile waves" (Mika line)

"So let's come and come into a new world trapped in 0 and 1" (Shu & Mika line)

Is about Valkyrie, IT ABOUT VALKYRIE. *Gone crazy at this point*

If you didn't know, Valkyris wasn't that used to the new system after the war. The DreamFes system made by Eichi, yeah, that one.

They skip school and most of the time do their show outside of school until Eichi himself steps in and threatens them to rejoin the school and accept the DreamFess system.

They were lost. Lost of the modern world, and still stay in the old era. Shu never wants to go back and join the DreamFes for once because how much he hated Eichi, and how much the war hurted him, yet, they return, make a change that not even Eichi can imagine of.

"Lost in their own tears, and still..." (Shu line)

"Falling away..." (Mika line)

They did, however, losing against Fine, and still...this was not the end.

THIS WAS A MARK FOR THE NEW BEGINNING.

That they're now known to DreamFes, open their mind and continue their journey.

That why the next line of the song came with a stronger beat. Bam! We are now reborn, we are now continue to blooming up on this world of hidden beauty. We'll find it and make art out of it!

"Scrutinize, lament, and let your own foolish schemes drive you crazy" (Shu line, it kinda fit Shu too)

"And now, ask yourself here and now." (Mika line)

"Is there an omnipotent being to be ruled?" (Both)

"And do you believe it?" (Shu line)

"Do you believe it?" (Mika line)

"Do you believe it?" (Both)

I think these lines are pointing to Shu and how he've been since the end of the war.

Scrutinize mean: examine or inspect closely and thoroughly.

While lament mean: a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.

After the war, Shu was cave for perfection even more than he was before, he wish to not made all that mistake again or else he might lose Mika too.

He drive himself crazy, then look back what happened, he started to ask questions.

He was so into perfection, he loses the meaning of art it self. He put himself into a jail, said that, this was all for the work of art, but it wasn't.

People are being harm for his actions, Mika wasn't getting any better if he keeps acting like this. Reckless and madness drive him away from the actual beauty in art that the old Shu was fond of.

So, he ask himself. If art is freedom, why so gaol...

"Is there an omnipotent being to be ruled?"

And realizing that, will he continue to be like this. Do you believe in such form of art that not bring happiness and joy?

For the bloom of Valkyrie, must we sacrifice our little life for the victory Shu wanted.

Also important element needed to be mention: Last Lament.

Meiyuu Deshi Kairou was released in 2023, and Last Lament which is also a Valkyrie song was released in 2017.

And in the song, there was this line: "It fine if we reach the brink of our dreams and rot forgotten."

"We'll use the flames of passion on us, to show them that we can melt even despair."

But, but! In their newest song ( from the Trip albums)

Shukufuku no Library

We can see, Shu is now accepting the future and wish for joy to Valkyrie then only to successfully reach their dream as soon as possible:

"Is it only success stories that are now illuminated by the love that shines down from the heavens?"

"No! An unfinished adventure stories is also a foolish memoir that's also precious."

"Come on, let's play the lovely poems of our lives and gently store them in the library of blessings."

Return, return, let's us get to the next line:

Ok, Ok, I love that they put both Friedrich Schiller work into one line!

"A play that's crueler than a dream" (Mika line)

"Everyone inside this veil wishing for something" (Shu line)

The god talk about everyone wishes, seeing their foolish little small wishes yet never to be turn into reality because the god already had their own plan for them.

It also Shu, talking to himself that even if life is cruel, everyone has their little dream.

"In the face of the myth of the Perfect world" (Shu line)

But Shu dream was too far from reality, can that Perfection he wished for really have a way to get?

From here on, the line repeat itself:

"confused by the fragile waves" (Shu line)

"This lost child of the era" (Mika line)

"So let's come and come into a new world trapped in 0 and 1" (Shu & Mika line)

But this time, Shu has become different, Valkyrie has changed! The lost child had found their way out of that jail!

"The labyrinth corridor, love is a Perfect world" (The back choir?)

And yes, he did be able to found out, love is the best way to a world he's wish for, no more madness from now on, only love and joy.

And maybe, just maybe, the goddess in this song also did.

Thank you for your time! Reading this.

It late now, and my ears...oh god...it had been listen to Meiyuu Deshi Kairou non-stop ( I remember like 8/10 of the goddam lyrics *cry and laughed at the same time* )

Also, one last thing...

In the 3D MV, noticed how Mika move, yes, he still keep that flexibility of him, but that not just a represent for a doll, Mika now turning it in to his own style of dance.

While Shu do art in a perfect and nicely organizing way.

Mika go for a chaos way that both resemble the old him and use it to make the new him.

In the last moment of the MV, Mika...I don't know if he forget or that is simply how the MV plays out, but there was a moment like this:

Mika when: Look at my Oshi-san!!!

Shu: Mika! Back up! You're supposed to be standing next to me.

Mika: Can i?

Shu: Yes. Yes you can. You're no longer a doll, but a human, a partner who place is staying next to me and performing art together.

Mika: Oh...I'm not fulling understand that, but ok! I'll try to stay next to you from now on!

( this is me, writing that out of thin air, the conversation may not be real, but the meaning are. Mika may be a little confused for suddenly got set free from being a soulless doll, he need his little time )

Thank...for reading...my dear ValkyrieP... I need a rest and a cup of coffee I guess *die*

[archaiclumina]

The moon a boon in heaven high As sky belie the clouds so dark monsoon of shades and evil’s spark but hark the arc of debts repaid. No blades, mermaids, offer tune; song. Saw duang, made strong with whale-carved bone, and magic wines from mermaid’s home, they roam on foam to face death’s ship. — The Sea Cats and the Saw duang, a stanza from the Legend of Phra Malee and the Temple Cat, as traditionally sung by Nagxian bards.

not really lol c': but, we're finally allowed to share a little of what we've been working on for the ffxiv fauxlore mini bang! (For those still on the bird app, you can connect with them on twitter too!)

I've been hard at work since September learning a lot about the Klon, a form of Thai poetry, so I could write some Klon of my own for the folk tale I'm contributing spawned from the Nagxian Cat minion tool tip! The above is one such little sneak peak preview. So far, I've created three in total, but I'm aiming for a total of six, to be scattered throughout the stories regular prose.

I'm also very lucky to have been paired with the amazingly talented and sweet artist @mythiclings! Who I am super excited to be working with on this little lorebending project! Definitely check their blog out, they're amazing! On top of that, during my research I was blessed to discover the work of @izakaya-jinh on their lore blog, who was kind enough to allow me to reference some of the fantastic work they've done, to help bring a bit more richness to the travels of the protagonist of this folk tale! A million thank yous!

That's it for my fauxlore bending adventure update for now! I'm really looking forward to being able to share the finished project next year!

[ladybugkisses]

I have no idea why but why do I feel like Rocky would definitely make a song he made about Ari. Bonus, he might sing it to her on her birthday (I am mentally insane)

Also, happy bday to Rocky 😋

i mean, he definitely writes poems about her, and what are songs if not sung poetry lmao

i just hope he knows not to sing it to her in public :'^)

[hlficlibrary]

✤ Pet Cat Fics ✤

A series of posts with the top five fics of each category by kudos plus five more hidden gems from that category! Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find our other recs here.

- Top 5 H/L Fics -

1️⃣ The One Where Harry Really Doesn't Have Ten Cats by LoadedGunn (T, 10k)

"Mate, you can dress him up in a tutu and upload it to YouTube, I don't care as long as he's alive when I come back."

Harry gasps. "How did you know I have three tiny cat tutus?"

"You sound like the crazy type."

Or, the AU where Harry is a pet-sitter for the rich and famous, and Louis is rich and famous.

2️⃣ Emperor's New Clothes by sunsetmog / @magicalrocketships (E, 92k)

The fact that Louis’s most precious belonging was a cat with a face like thunder and an uncanny ability to cover every single inch of Louis’s clothing with cat hair was something that Louis chose not to think about too much.

or: Harry’s a pop star and Louis isn’t, and there’s a non-disclosure agreement where there used to be a relationship.

3️⃣ Thought The Song Was Sung by @100percentsassy (E, 12k)

Louis never auditioned for the X-Factor. Years later, Harry's just another gay ex-boybander who lives alone with his cat... until Niall decides to take matters into his own hands and set up a profile for Harry on a dating website.

4️⃣ I hear you calling in the dead of night by Thelonelycoast (M, 72k)

No one really notices Marcel Styles. In fact, Marcel’s so invisible that if his teachers don’t call on him in lessons - and they rarely do - Marcel can go whole days without speaking to anyone other than his mum, his sister, Gemma, his cat, Dusty and the school librarian, Alma. And if he just so happens to have a tiny, miniscule crush on the footie captain, Louis Tomlinson, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. Until Louis notices him back...

5️⃣ knock knock, i love you by beautlouis / @thelovejandles (E, 86k)

“Well,” Louis says, searching for something to relieve this tension. “I think if a bloke gets kicked out of his stats exam for a knock knock joke, he deserves to hear the punchline, yeah?”

“Oh!” Harry says, beaming. “I forgot where we left off, what was it again?” He looks overjoyed to be exchanging a shit joke.

“Ah, you said knock knock, then I said who’s there, and then you said Noah,” Louis supplies helpfully. He hates that he's actually curious about the rest of the joke. “So, Noah who?”

“Oh,” says Harry, in a much different tone, dragging out the syllable. He looks bashful now. Louis cannot keep up with this boy, it's going to kill him. “Right, well.” He shuffles his feet. Fuck, what kind of knock knock joke gets a boy nervous? “Noah a good place we could get something to eat?”

[Harry and Louis get kicked out of a statistics exam for passing a knock knock joke note, and subsequently fall in love. Harry's a virgin, there's a cat, a hot cocoa date, a lot of sex, even more knock knock jokes, and everything is lovely and happy.]

HIDDEN GEMS:

💎 The Changer and the Changed by @homosociallyyours (M, 59k)

It’s the spring of 1977 and Harry Styles has just moved to New York City after graduating college. She knows she’s a lesbian. She just needs to figure out how to meet other lesbians.

Louis Tomlinson works at a popular women’s bookstore in the Lower East Side, Womon’s Direction, where she spends her days reading feminist literature, writing poetry, exchanging friendly barbs with her boss Niall, and dreaming of finding someone to love.

When Harry and Louis meet, their connection is instantaneous. Slowly but surely, Louis welcomes Harry into her community of women. Stonewall veteran and old school butch Niall; Liam, a land dyke who’s moved to the city for love; and Zayn, a lesbian musician who’s been ostracized by a vocal part of women’s community for being trans, welcome Harry with open arms, ready to help her find her place in New York City’s bustling lesbian scene.

It’s a time of growth for everyone involved.

💎 Treat Mothman With Kindness by flowercrownfemme (T, 16k)

“Does anyone else ever think mothman is... Kinda hot?” “No?” Zayn squinted, frowning. “Louis? The fuck?”

In which Louis, Liam, Niall and Zayn are amateur cryptozoologists and Harry is the creature they find in the woods of a small north-western town. ft. lots of glitter and shrieking and a whole shed full of lesbian cats.

💎 Forever You'll Be There by my Side by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup (G, 4k)

If asked, Harry would say that he doesn't live alone; he lives with his lovely and intelligent cat Starberry. He lives on a street full of witches and wizards that he sees briefly before they apparate off their front steps, and his sister floos by unannounced quite often. If asked, Harry would say he lives a rather content life.

If asked, Harry would not say being practically run over by his new neighbour the first time they meet is a positive thing. He may even say that he wishes that new neighbour would stop following him around and let him do his produce shopping in peace.

💎 meow or never by velvetnoodle / @femslashy (T, 3k)

Harry is having a terrible, no good, very bad day.

He’s holed himself up in the back of the university library, stealing an entire sofa for himself. The fact that no one has said anything to him about it just goes to show how much his feelings must be on display. That’s nothing new; Harry’s always worn his heart on his sleeve. And cried easily. Not that he’s crying yet, but he’s close. It’s been a right shit day, and Harry just wants to go back to his room and bury his face in Evie’s soft fur. Unfortunately, he no longer has that luxury.

When Harry is forced to choose between getting kicked out of student housing or giving up his cat, a moment of self-pity leads to the discovery of a third, and much more appealing, option

💎 Zoey by @wabadabadaba (G, 2k)

Harry knew his first name, but he liked the way Dr. Tomlinson sounded more. Harry watched as Louis unclasped her harness and set it aside and pet her back and under her chin. Louis kissed the top of her head and murmured sweet nothings to her- mostly about how pretty she is and how well behaved she is. Harry wished it was him.

or Harry has a huge crush on his cat's veterinarian and finally decides to do something about it.

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 26

twn jaskier pov of lotl ft. yennskier

After everything, Jaskier knows there are some stories that evade being written into song.

content warning for lotl spoilers so. mcd.

The ethereal fog hushed the sound of his footfalls. Distantly, he recalled admiring how the heels of his new boots had clacked on the uneven cobbles as he strode into town, but now, Jaskier heard nothing. Not even the wind.

When he bent, the creak of his knees surely echoed in the silence, but the little crowd huddled on the street did not seem to hear. 

He was getting old. He'd had a lot of time lately to be glad for that and a similar measure of guilt that so many had died so young. The recent war's list of the dead went on for pages and pages of yellowed parchment and those names were only the conscripted soldiers, not the slaughtered peasant men or farmer's wives or scores of non-humans in towns like this one. 

Or the small number dead in a battle whose outcome had had no consequence in a fortress that no longer existed, forgotten.

Jaskier had not yet written that story into song and may never. He would hate to hear his own verse warbled by some drunk in a tavern who could never know the little details that evaded preservation. Milva's wheezing laugh. Cahir's snoring at night. The clove scent of the vampire. The girl's colorful curse words. 

He hated his part in that story. That his being alive to tell the tale meant his cowardice had prevailed, and he had let them go on without him. 

Jaskier knew he would not write the story of what had happened here for a very long time. 

For a moment, he crouched on the quiet street and reached to brush the fall of dark hair out of the pale face. He tried hard not to look at the blood-stained cobbles. He almost wept then, once would have been a weepy, useless mess from the start, but there would be time for weeping later. 

He could do this now at least. This small thing. He stooped further to crook his arms under legs and shoulders, lifting past the strain of his back.

He was getting old. 

Jaskier had foolishly feared that those he loved would outlive him. That he would retire as an aging poet to the coast somewhere, and the little family would visit from time to time and reminisce together. 

And maybe that they would be there when he finally croaked, his weathered hands cupping their soft faces. Older, yes, not immortal, but long-lived enough to have a lifetime without him. Maybe to think of him fondly in quiet moments and remember those nights fumbling together and visit to lay flowers on his grave.

She felt small in his arms. Impossibly light. It seemed terribly wrong, that weightlessness. 

To him, the very thought of her was the heaviest thing in the world.

He lay his lips against her brow and held there. He whispered the things he had never told her. How those few nights they had spent lying in one another's arms, even knowing that neither was destined wholly for the other, had meant more than he could ever shape into poetry. 

If all of those details vanished into forgotten history, unsung, then so be it. Only he would remember the fond derision of her affectionate mockery, the softness of her wild hair, his thrill when her voice whispered low to speak with hushed sincerity against his skin. 

Even when this song was sung, he would let who they were together be lost to history. 

His role in the story had only ever been outside of it. 

Drawing a shuddering breath that was loud in the quiet, Jaskier hitched the body higher in his arms and carried Yennefer to the water.

[mikasimaginairyworld]

The Crows: What they're secretly really good at

I think Matthias is really good at dancing

I'm not sure if the book mentions anything like that

but like

I am convinced Fjerdans have a really thorough education on courtship and things like that

so I am certain that he absolutely slays on the dance floor

like it doesn't matter what

slow dances where he can lead Nina (which she is annoyed about. but he loves it)

fast Zemeni dances with tricks and stuff

gracious and happy Suli folk dances

I imagine him as a kid discovering his love for dance

(I also think it's pretty acceptable in Fjerda to like dance as a guy)

besides being insanely good with guns Jesper can mend nearly anything

like I imagine him as the DIY husband

Wylan wants a bed in a very particular style but it's only available in Ravka? No problem, Jesper will build it

Wylan want a desk with thousands of departments but can't find one anywhere? Jesper is at his service

you get it

Inej can write

I am convinced she writes poems in any language she knows

Suli, Kerch... anything really

I also think she writes songs (even though she can't sing)

she writes stories, poems and even books

if she ever has kids I think she would write them a story for each birthday describing her feelings for them and how much she loves them

and she would turn those into a book and give it to them once they are adults

I also think she was the officiant at Jesper and Wylan's wedding and did the whole ceremony in poetry

Nina is great with animals

I think she is the most skilled person when it comes to training any kind of pet

like I'm sure Trass would have loved her

whenever one of the crows has a pet they give it to Nina for her to train it

and the crazy thing is

the animals actually listen

it's like she has some kind of power over them

they absolutely love her

Wylan cooks like a pro

which makes him Nina's favourite person

although he has a cook he often comes to the kitchen and helps out just because he likes to do it

he always comes up with new recipes and measurements

since he can't read the recipes he measures everything with his heart

(Nina likes this especially when he's making chocolate chip cookies)

even Kaz enjoys this

Kaz loves Wylan's version of Kerch potato soup

(he smiled the first time he tried it)

Kaz can sing

I kid you not he can

he doesn't know that many songs but when I tell you his voice is phenomenal...

at first he only sings the lullaby Jordie sung to him

but soon he learns some Suli songs

he first sung to Inej when she had nightmares about the menagerie and had woken up screaming

he didn't touch her but just sat as close as he could and sang a Suli lullaby which he had heard Inej sing once

[katriniac]

Merry Christmas 💝

This post is about one of my favorite Christmas carols and poems, written by the amazing Christina Rossetti -

In The Bleak Midwinter

Here is a version sung by Julie Andrews recorded in 1973:

The full poem:

(In the public domain)

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him

Nor earth sustain,

Heaven and earth shall flee away

When He comes to reign:

In the bleak mid-winter

A stable-place sufficed

The Lord God Almighty —

Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim

Worship night and day,

A breastful of milk

And a mangerful of hay;

Enough for Him, whom Angels

Fall down before,

The ox and ass and camel

Which adore.

Angels and Archangels

May have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim

Thronged the air;

But only His Mother

In her maiden bliss

Worshipped the Beloved

With a kiss.

What can I give Him,

Poor as I am? —

If I were a Shepherd

I would bring a lamb;

If I were a Wise Man

I would do my part, —

Yet what I can I give Him, —

Give my heart.

Oof. That last line, regardless of the musician who sings it, always makes my throat catch. 💓🥹

The poem was originallly published under the title "A Christmas Carol" in January 1872 in a magazine, but wasn't printed in book-form until 1875 along with Rossetti's best-known poem, Goblin Market.

In 1906, the composer Gustav Holst composed a setting of Rossetti's words (titled "Cranham") in The English Hymnal, which is the most commonly sung version of the song.

I admire her poetry a great deal. The Romantic period gave us many remarkable female authors and poets (my favorite being Jane Austen), however Rossetti was right at the tail-end of that era. The years her works were published straddle the dreamy idealistic Romantic period and the grainy gritty Realism movement. Her styles and themes follow this growth of artistic feeling as she continued to write.

Christina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894) was born in London to Italian parents, was home-schooled by her mother, and grew up among artists, writers, and poets. I can't help but imagine that living among creative family of political exiles, often hosting a bohemian assortment of traveling artists from across Europe, would be anything but boring.

The amount of genius under that one roof!

Anyways, happy holidays to all, even though this current midwinter is anything but bleak and we have no snow.

Yesterday, we hit the record for the warmest Christmas Eve in Minnesota: 55 degrees. Not a single flake on the ground. But there's been plenty of rain! So weird.

[anamelessfool]

Lil WIP of Chapter 15 because I guess each plot arc starts with a flashback

Primo [Irving] returns to the Ministry to follow through on his mother's final wish. He decides to stay for just a few days. Until he figures things out. Tags: Young Primo, Satanic Panic, 1970s Horror, Mystery Noir

Chapter 15: I Wanna Be Your Dog Comes Out Soon (Full Fic Here)

1972

They told Irving to wait, so he did. He watched the nun with pretty eyes and a firm walk sway down the hallway and out of sight, her heels echoing across the wide expanse of marble. He hadn't been to the Ministry since he was around ten, and even a decade on it felt just as huge as it was in his memory.

“Only for a few days,” he muttered to no one. Well, it wasn't no one, exactly. He adjusted the urn on his hip. Sister Nance, or at least what remained of her earthly vessel, had been there this entire time. When he packed up his car with items from the apartment he was certain he'd get evicted from. When he parked behind the diner. She was there, and he talked to her. “I'm leaving you here, then I'll be gone. But I'll stay just a few days.”

Nance had not spoken much about the Ministry with any enthusiasm until she got sick. Then it felt like that was all she could remember. She spoke about the grounds, the chores and how much she loved the garden there. She pulled memories from Primo that had long been buried by time. She said when she was there the words of her poetry poured out of her. The Void provided that, she said. It moved underfoot across the hallowed land, flowing deep below the Earth, eternal currents of limitless potential.

Ever since she left she said it was a struggle to write. Or, at least in her fading months, she felt that that was the case. She wanted to be there, after death, in the perpetual tides of creativity that ebbed and flowed from the Void itself.

He stood there for a few minutes more, debating how obedient he was going to be today. Perhaps if he walked just a few feet down the hallway, he would at least see if anyone was on their way and hurry back. He had a vague memory of the kitchen garden, of the cell he'd share with his father on his extended summer stays. Maybe a quick wander was in order, if only to see how the place had changed.

Irving strode a few feet down the hallway, admiring the sweep of stone archways overhead, the fifty year old hanging iron lamps fashioned to resemble globes nestled in batwings and claws. Through the walls he heard a bell ring from a distant tower, calling the congregation to what, he was unsure. He remembered a television program he saw, about some sort of convent or orphanage or someplace equally gothic and ecclesiastical. An orderly line of nuns in severe headwear processed while a bell rang. He thought back to his memories of his beatnik mother and wondered why on earth she ever thought that life to be appealing.

“L'amour est un oiseau rebelle, Que nul ne peut apprivoiser….”

A woman’s voice drifted down the hall. It was a familiar tune, from some origin unknown to Irving. It was one of those classical refrains, something that hinted at refinement and high art. He himself had the most crude understanding of both of those things, and yet the sound lured him forward.

“Et c'est l'autre que je préfère…Il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît…”

Like a dutiful beast he moved towards the sound, stopping in front of a closed set of doors. Should he…open it? Couldn't hurt, he reasoned as he teased the door open. Worst case he could pretend to be lost.

A figure stood silhouetted against the crown glass panes of the choir room. It was a tall woman nestled in a luxurious red silk cape, her blonde hair thick and long down her back. As she sung to herself her hands were outstretched, longing. The gloves were tipped with bronze claws, flashing as the fingers beckoned an imaginary lover.

“Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime…Si je t'aime prends garde à toi…Prends garde à toi!”

She finished her song, chuckling to herself. Her voice was deep, low. It had a timbre to it that made Irving draw closer. She must have felt his approach, for as he stepped into the room she turned to face him.

He saw her skull.

He took a step back, jarred by the stark white on black. For an instant he thought it was her true face, but then after a few stunned blinks he realized it was a visage painted on her skin.

The eye was real though.

The whitened eye with the pinhole iris, staring. Dead but living, a step away from reality.

The Eye Knew more about him than he did himself.

The woman had an air of surprise that settled into a conspiratorial smirk. The eye burned. “Are you lost?”

“I think so. Sorry to disturb—”

“You did not disturb me at all,” she said. “I'm always available for my flock.”

“I'm not…actually…”

“Interloper then?” She stepped towards him with small movements of her feet that gave the impression of her gliding across the floor like a phantom. “Even better.”

She peered into him and seemed to drink up his silence, privately entertained by his puzzled expression. By the fact that even as horror flashed across his face, his feet moved him towards her. “I…am Mater Emerita Jocasta. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh.” Irving felt his face burning, and he knew from this point forward anything he said would sound stupid. “Is that…important?”

“What, the fact that I am the spiritual leader of this Church, Provider of our UnHoly Relic of the Void, Queen of Hell herself or the idea that I am pleased to meet you?”

“…both?”

She tilted her head with elegance. “I am more pleased to meet you.”

“I've come to…well…” he gestured to the urn under his arm. “My mother loved her time here.”

The Papessa’s brow furrowed, realizing with a soft frown. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“It's okay.” He smiled crookedly. “At least we got the ‘Meeting the family’ part out of the way.”

Jocasta paused. Her eyes widened, then she smiled broadly, her teeth almost bared. “You! Fiend!”

They shared a gentle laugh together. “What else can I do,” Irving said. “I'm Irving. Irving Olson.”

“I was certain your name was Primo,” she said. “You are Nihil's son are you not? You stoop like him. Pretending you aren't tall.”

“You were expecting me?”

Jocasta scoffed. “Nihil has done nothing but talk about you lately! You've come here to stay?”

“No…” Irving looked down, feeling a small smile on his face. “Are you and Nihil…”

“Close? Friends, yes. He is my mentor,” Jocasta said. Her face dropped into a smirk. She brought her hand up to the side of his head, drawing across his jaw with a single bronze nail. Irving felt the electricity shoot down his nerves through the touch of the cold metal across his face. “I prefer younger men,” she purred.

“I'm a musician too,” Irving blurted out for reasons beyond his own understanding. “Guitar. I sing…a little.”

“Oh? Runs in the family,” Jocasta said. “Your father inspired me to join. My first night in New York City, I see him play at a bar…” She sighed, wistful. “Haunting. Thrilling. I got off of one bus and onto another, bound for here.”

“But you did opera previously.” Primo found himself stepping closer to her, now nearly in her arms, growing in confidence.

“I was raised in it,” she said. “Throw a rock in Vienna and you will find an opera singer. It’s not that remarkable.”

The door opened and four figures stepped into the choir room. They were uniformed in black, their faces concealed by ominous metal masks. They didn’t settle on their feet like a human did, rather they simply stood there, hands lowered, their eyes shaded in shadow. “Yes, of course,” Jocasta said, as if replying to an unheard voice.

Primo held the urn a bit more tightly. “Who are they?”

“Oh them? Demons.” Her eyes narrowed in amusement. “Mass is shortly. You…and your mother are invited, of course. You get to see what I’m capable of. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I guess it would,” he replied. “I'm not staying here long.”

Irving thought he saw the smallest gesture of a lip bite. Of a seductive peek of the tip of her tongue across her painted lips. “Of course you're not. What is a few days anyway?”

He felt a sudden reluctance to leave.

[mywifeleftme]

361: bill bissett & The Mandan Massacre // Awake in Th Red Desert

Awake in Th Red Desert bill bissett & Th Mandan Massacre 1968, See/Hear Productions (Bandcamp)

(From “mor memoreez uv marvara reel konversaysyun,” scars on the seehors, Talonbooks 1999)

That’s a sample of how poet bill bissett’s writing looks on the page, phonetic and arbitrary, intuitive and free, while also checking the reader from taking any word for granted. The poems are frequently conversational in tone, but the way you have to sound out his writing to understand it means the reader's cadence ends up replicating the idiosyncratic singsong way bissett speaks. The 84-year-old remains a one-of-a-kind live performer, doodling all over the line between spoken poetry and song. He croons nonsense lullabies and pastiche ragas, shakes a maraca, intones mantras until their familiar words lose all their sense, even dances a little. It’s funny—I wouldn’t recommend his writing to someone unfamiliar with the avant-garde, but I would confidently take just about any open-minded person to see one of his shows. He has the affect of a holy fool or a joyful monk, and basically anything he does makes more sense in the context of his corporeal presence.

Back in 1968 though, bill was a wild young man, and Awake In Th Red Desert, his LP with backing “band” Th Mandan Massacre, is full of noisy freakouts and some patience-testing explorations. The Massacre includes four percussionists, some trained (jazz drummer Gregg Simpson) and some not (poet Martina Clinton, bill’s then-partner); electric guitar; two flutes (one a toy); and cutting edge Buchla Box synthesizer by the otherwise unknown Wayne Carr. Response to Red Desert has been pretty mixed—one of its Bandcamp uploads even warns, “Please preview the tracks before downloading. There are no refunds.” I suspect many listeners don’t make it past the first side of the record, which often sounds like what it is: clattering free improvisations around bissett’s sung or shouted recitations. On the flip though, things mellow out for some fascinating minimal synth explorations, bissett doing his visionary thing on a haunting electronic field (see “fires in the tempul”). “she, still and curling” is particularly freaky, Carr making sinister cricket noises with his Buchla, tape of bissett’s voice chopped up into hypnotic loops, layered and manipulated till it sounds like a collage of short wave radio transmissions. The ramshackle noise of the early tracks eventually returns on the awesome “now according to paragraph ‘c’”: bissett reads what (initially) seems like a found text that gets weirder and bolder as the poet works himself into a lather, the Buchla’s bleak tones tattered by the percussion squad’s stiff beat.

I snagged this off Montrealer Alex Moskos, who oversaw the reissue for Massachusetts-based avant-garde label Feeding Tube, and getting this thing back out there has clearly been a labour of love for him (the production quality is impeccable; great explanatory liner notes too). Are there 500 people who want this record? I’m not sure. But for fans of bissett, sound poetry, freaky music, and early electronic, this’ll be of interest. One idea: tell people Awake was the work of a solar death cult leader from the Pacific Northwest who disappeared during an eclipse and they won’t be able to keep the damn thing in stock.

361/365