#(in a week)

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about that one post that was like

"Wade and logan spending multiple life times worth together, going through absolutely everything together to the point seperating them would just be plain cruel because of how soul tagged they are with each other and this just so happens to be the universe where they alone outlive everyone theyve ever known time and time again, so here they are, alone, but in each others arms in an old canadian moutian cabin, their front lawn looking like a grave yard with how many loved ones they kept with them. Theyre both old, wades wrinkles are just the light of this white manned beasts life and yet, they put collars on one another in the most caring and adoring way, caressing one anothers cheeks as Logan gives him not only the best 10 life times but also the gift no one else could bare to give him. Death. Unseathing his claws into his chest as quick as he can. And Wade to him, a knife stabbed critically. The best gift you can give your lover who can't die is the best life, yes, but a peaceful and coddled death is the ultimate goal. To lay there, bleeding out without a care in the world as Logan memorizes those pearl like eyes, and wade imprints the small smirk he has into his memory for eternity.'

And then someone reposted with two skeletons holding each other?

To that, I pitch after the last kiss Wade will ever give him, He smiles, because he knows he's made Wade as happy as humanily possible. Laying there for years or for hours, they're unsure. But they do know one thing.

"See ya at home, bub." He tells him with his last breath, an ungodly amount of blood gushing out the side of his mouth. But he's not sad. No, no neither of them are. They're relieved. Logans last act of service was bringing Wade Home. The place he never really felt right because he knew he was supposed to be dead by now.

And they'd find them in a week.

After the buzzards get loud.

After the insecets have made their claim.

After the foxes has had their taste.

After the raven has had it's say.

Id be home with you, I'd be home wih you.

Id be home with you.

I'd be Home

with

You.

[hoziercriespower]

Hozier - In A Week ft Karen Cowley (Live at Kilkenny Castle )

❝ We lay here for years or for hours Your hand in my hand, so still and discreet ❞

[oscarisaacasimov]

Ideas maturing from debut album to Unheard

In Work Song, "no grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her." Addiction, imprisonment, crimes, death itself are no obstacle to love.

10 years later, Too Sweet acknowledges that more mundane obstacles like career, sleep schedule, and lifestyle/personality differences, can break two people apart.

In A Week is a gentle duet, full of nature descriptions, coming to the conclusion that it would be peaceful & romantic to lay down and die together.

10 years later, Wildflower & Barley is a gentle duet, full of nature descriptions, and the awareness that death is all around. But this time, the singers wish to be like the dirt, not to decompose but to work towards growing something new

[averyroundtoad]

Must I have a career? Is it not enough to scroll Pinterest while listening to Hozier?

[allthngs]

( In a Week by Hozier ft. Karen Cowley / The X-Files: Field Trip, 6x21 )

[muxshwriting]

in a week

Finnick Odair x reader

summary: nothing calms finnick like the feeling of your hand in his || summary: this is the hunger games, hunger games angst || words: 599 || masterlist

You find Finnick lying in the damp, dewy grass by the sand dunes. The wind is barely there, blowing gently across your face. His eyes are closed, arms stretched out and hands woven into the blades of grass.

You slowly sits down next to him, interlacing your fingers with his and ignoring the moisture that sticks to his skin. His breath stutters, eyes fluttering open and turning his head to face you. You simply smile, lying back to join him.

“Nightmare?”

He nods, not trusting his voice. Softly, you squeeze his hand. Even softer, he squeezes back.

His heartbeat slowed, regulating itself as you pressed your hand against his. Slowly, his arm brushed yours and you shuffled until you were pressed together, not an inch of space between you.

Dawn had not yet broken but there was no shame in lying there until dusk. The flowers could weave their way into your hair, dragonflies landing on your still legs before flying off once more. No one would bother them here. No one would even look for them.

Finnick's eyes drifted shut. He let sleep take him, exhausted from his restless night. Silently, you watched the sun rise as Finnick slept. The wind cooled your skin before the sun could warm it again. It basked his face in a golden glow that made him look like an angel. He looked peaceful. He didn't look tormented in the tranquility of this golden morning.

A furrow stitched itself between his brows, a small huff of air left his parted lips, a twitch of his head let you know what was happening. Slowly, you reached over with your spare hand and traced it down the side of his face. You squeezed the hand that held yours, rubbing your thumb soothingly over the back of it.

Finnick sighed but the tension left his shoulders and the crease in his eyebrows flattened once more.

In his dreams, he was back in the arena. It was always the arena. The arena is cold. The arena is lonely.

His entire body is damp from the lake he hunted in. He stalks out his prey like the apex predator he had recently become. In the days, he is constantly on edge, looking for other tributes and killing anyone who approaches him.

But at night, the air is even colder, clinging to his skin and settling on his bones. He lies completely still, staring up at the stars in the sky but too afriad to sleep. Every single night he contemplates letting someone kill him. He wonders how long it would take for a tribute to find him if he didn't move. The nagging feeling in the back of his head doesn't let the thought linger. He had to get back. He had to get home. He had to get to you. Home with you...

That's where he finds himself now. His skin is soaking in the moisture from the grass below but it doesn't settle cold on his bones. It flows through him, moving past. His hand tightens around yours unconsciously and your warmth calms him more than anything else could.

This could be his new forever. If he didn't have to perform for the Capitol and sell him body for Snow's benefit, he wouldn't move from this spot for a decade. He would sit by the sea, watching the tide rise and fall. Finnick would get out his Dad's fishing equipment and sit at the dock, waiting. It wouldn't even matter if he didn't catch anything, because it would have been anything other than his present life.

if you want a taglist, let me know. comment what kind of thing you want to see next x

[wangxianficrecs]

💙 In A Week by MimiSpearmint

💙 In A Week

by MimiSpearmint

T, 2k, Wangxian | Podfic Available by Firewitch (Keller012)

Summary: “There was this man who was always feeding me.” The kitten’s ghost looks up at him, empty eyes still imploring, “Death, can I see him one last time?” A kindly Grim Reaper watches as Lan Zhan adopts cats throughout the years Kay's comments: Filed under stories that made me weep like a little kid. Like, this made me so emotional. This hit all the right points to just destroy me, also this definitely should have been tagged "Major Character Death." If you're not ready to read a very sad stories in which cats die and human Lan Wangji ages and loses his cats over the years, skip this one. If you're in the mood to get absolutely emotionally enjoyed, please enjoy this feast. I literally have no words, I'm writing this rec with actual tears in my eyes. There's also a podfic available, if you struggle to read through the tears. Excerpt: A young family exits the cat enclosure, a small, white kitten already in a carrier. It looks docile and elegant, even for a shelter cat, not making a sound. When Lan Zhan enters the room, there is an older man already there, back to the door and wearing the weird semi-scrub uniform the shelter workers sport. “I’m sorry, old girl,” says the worker, a resigned sort of sadness in his tone as he fiddles with a cage lock, “I’m afraid your stay is over.” “I’ll take her!” blurts Lan Zhan. The worker starts and drops his keys in shock. “Please,” he adds. “Y-yes,” the other man stutters, fumbling to pick his keys back up. “She’s not a kitten though,” he warns. As the cage is unlocked, this much and more becomes apparent. The cat cowers in the back corner, fixing the worker with one – just one – large, fearful eye. A deep pink scratch extends over its nose and bisects the sewn-shut remnants of its second eye. Its fur is black, like his last kitten. When the worker steps back to let Lan Zhan have a closer look, the cat creeps forward, pressed close to the perimeter of the cage, to sniff at this new stranger that has come to gawk. It stares at Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan stares back. They come to an agreement. The cat – Bichen, he has decided – purrs as he picks her up and puts her in her carrier. She purrs on the drive home, when he sticks his fingers through the carrier’s grid door, his uncle’s voice bitching in his head about keeping both hands on the wheel. She purrs when he explains to her gently that this is her home, that she must stay indoors for safety, that he keeps her here because he loves her and does not want her hurt. “You are good,” he says when she purrs next to him in bed. “You are a kitten, no matter what they say. You are good.”

podfic available, pov lan wangji, pov wei wuxian, modern setting, modern with magic, grief/mourning, animal death, cats, major character death, soft lan wangji, pre-relationship, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, sad with a happy ending, hopeful ending, grim reaper wei wuxian

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[cryingbard]

Let's make this a Hozier profile let's go

[oh-look-at-her]

okay, but will you listen to my sins while you sharpen your knife?

Will you sit in a barrel for me?

Will you know hunger like these insects that feast on me?

Will your hands pull me from the earth?

Will you let me hold you for a minute?

Will you give your heart and soul to charity?

Will there be a moment's silence when you put your mouth on me?

Will you be like the love that discovered the sin?

Will you put your emptiness to melody and your awful heart to song?

[deprivedmusicaljunkie]

what song from hozier (self-titled) are you?

[thedustyshehnai]

the hold this album has on me

[annelisereadsbooks]

Hozier songs being horny and tender CAN coexist with his songs having a social meaning. That is like his whole deal. Sometimes I think that most of you just use other people words when you like something.

For the individuals that say that he is no longer the same fae king hozier... My brother in christ you only listened to In a week and work song.

[alfuenza-haikus]

’In a Week’ by Hoizer (feat. Karen Cowley) = tmagp 3

[several-mice]

Two more hozier designs

[cryscabbage]

Oh my god, listening to In A Week by Hozier and Karen Cowley and all I can think about is Bagginshield.

At first I thought of if Bilbo gave up after Thorin died but after reading an analysis of the song on reddit, I think they're just horny, romantic bustards.

In case you can't tell, I just rewatched the Hobbit and am compensating for Thorin's death.

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 5

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 3.1k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! A/N: Don't be scared to click the embedded links, you might get an auditory surprise (Ai voice cloning works wonders)

Past (v) - Finnick

[17 & 18] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick sits at his desk, the end of his pencil tapping a song into the wood as he thinks. The two of you have been exchanging letters for almost a year now, but he still gets excited whenever you send a new one. Excited and nervous. Getting them mailed between districts is a slow progression involving lying to a few mayors and he's sure Snow reads each one. Still, Finnick thinks, it's worth it. In your latest letter, you explained to him how a bear snuck in from the woods, and the peacekeepers were forced to gun it down. Luckily, no one was hurt, but the mayor was "generous" enough to divide the meat among the citizens who were working. You finish with a closing of 'With love', your signature, and a shitty little drawing of a bear at the bottom with X's over its eyes. He traces it with his finger and pictures you hunched over your desk, nose scrunching in concentration as you draw it. "With love, huh?" He whispers to himself and smiles. Along with your letter, you sent a parcel full of bundled brown sticks tied together with yarn. Licorice root, you had said. Only available in the Capitol and District Eleven, best used in tea with berries. He brings it to his nose and it smells sweet, like caramelized sugar. It smells like you, but it's missing that undercurrent of earthly petrichor. He looks up when he sees Mags approaching with a knowing look in her eyes. She looks at the letter in his hands and he folds it before she can read the contents. Not that it matters. All she needed to see was the signature. It's not like she doesn't know who you are. She was so ecstatic to hear your stories, insisting he got more from you. And you gave them freely, even after Finnick ran out of ones to trade. It’s odd. You wanted nothing in return. Sometimes, he gets a little ahead of himself and wonders if it’s because you like him.

It isn’t too far-fetched to assume that, right?

Right. "What's that face for?" He laughs. She takes a loose piece of paper and a pencil to write: "When's the wedding?" He opens and closes his mouth, words escaping him. "It's not like that. We're just—” Just what? You are friends, right? Finnick has friends, but none that he likes as much as you. And the way he feels with you? He doesn't feel like that around them, not by a long shot. To just call you a friend feels like calling an ocean a pond. It's almost disrespectful to condense it into something so lacking. He can’t force you, and everything you make him feel—into such a small box, it would only overflow and drown him. You are much, much more than a pond. 

Best friend, then? While true, it feels too juvenile. He considers it and he doesn't particularly like the idea of just being your friend anyway. He imagines you introducing him as such.

“Oh, and this is Finnick. My friend. Only my friend.”

No. No, he doesn’t like that at all. 

If he can't be honest with you, he can at least be honest with Mags. "—I guess it is something like that." She hums excitedly and pinches his warm cheeks. "She says she hopes you're doing well." Mags perks up at that, gesturing between herself and the blank paper. He grins at her enthusiasm, "I'll tell her you said hi. Promise." She nods and pats his hand with a smile. As she walks to sit on the couch behind him, he thinks about what to send you. He can't just send a letter. Especially after you went out of your way to send licorice roots after he offhandedly mentioned he'd like to try some. He wracks his brain but comes up empty. Other than rope, hooks, and seashells, there's nothing else he can give you. His eyes drift around the room, landing on his bare wrist.

There is something he can make you. 

Mags sits amused as he jumps up and rushes around the house to collect supplies. Technically, he doesn’t live here—she does. But this place has been more of a home to him than any other, past and present.

He grabs a spool of thin purple and blue rope, along with a few cowrie shells and little charms Mags has lying around. He sets up shop on the desk, cutting the blue rope to the length he wants it and folding it in half. He puts a shell in the middle, tying a knot on either side of it. He slides two little, silver charms on the left and right of the shell, a starfish and a turtle. He makes three basic Macrame knots with separate pieces of string. The two longest ones are slid on beside the charms and the smallest one is used as a closure.

Mags comes to stand beside him as he leans back to admire his work. 

"Do you think she'll like it?" He asks her. He wants to bite at his nails as she looks over what he made, but refrains. 

'She'll love it. :)". She writes and he hopes she’s right.

He repeats the process with the purple rope but uses a fish charm instead of a turtle and writes his letter.

Dear Star, Earlier today, I sat in the sand watching the sun rise over the ocean, and I imagined you were beside me. If I were a painter, I would capture the image for you. For now, I hope my words will suffice. The clouds shift from a dark blue to a ghostly white, parting and making way for the rising sun. The sky is a canvas of assorted colors. Navy blue, baby blue, and burnt orange chase each other in a swirl reflected across the water. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, a clear blue takes over the backdrop. Words can only take us so far. I really want to show you. Snow will only let us do so much, but maybe one day he'll let you come to Four and we can watch it together. Side by side, me and you in the sand. There's something else. I'm sure you noticed I sent you more than just the letter. There should be an intricate rope bracelet with a shell in the middle. I made us matching pairs, yours blue and mine purple—I remember you saying it's your favorite color. In hindsight, it would've made more sense to give you the bracelet with your favorite color instead of mine, but, it's kind of like having a piece of each other, you know?  The jewelry has a bit of significance, too. The starfish is obvious, but the turtle is from Mags’s story. I even found a little fish charm to put on mine. You don't have to wear it, of course. It's kind of childish in retrospect. I just hope you don't laugh at me too much. Regardless, I'll be wearing mine. I know you didn't make it, but, somehow, it makes me feel closer to you. When I glance down at it, I'm reminded that I'm not alone. That there's someone out there whose life was made at least a little bit better by my being in it. I hope it'll give you that same comfort. -Fondly yours, Finnick O. P.S. Mags says hi. She's quite taken with you. You've somehow managed to charm her without ever meeting. Not that I'm surprised. :) P.P.S. I can't wait to see you again. 

Present (V) - Finnick 

[23 & 24] - TRAINING CENTER; FOURTH FLOOR

Finnick rewinds the video and pauses. His eyes absorb your features greedily, taking you in like a man starved. And, honestly, he is. It's the first time he's seen you, outside of your picture, in two years, but it's felt like a lifetime. Initially, he watched your reaping in hopes of you proving him wrong. 

You didn't.

He can't help but find joy in the fact that he still knows you well enough to predict what you'll do. And he'll get to see you again. Really see you. He shouldn't be happy about that under these circumstances, but Finnick is under no illusion of being a good person. The camera focuses on you right as you're about to raise your hand to volunteer. He can see the conviction in your eyes and wonders why. Why did he ever think he could survive being away from you? "God, it feels like I've been watching you rewind for hours." Finnick freezes. There are five other people here, all women, and only four of them can talk. This voice is distinctly male. He looks over his shoulder and sighs. He should've guessed. "Haymitch. How did you—” He cuts himself off when he spots Mags standing a little behind him. That solves how he got in. He didn't hear him knock or notice him approaching, too focused on you to use his other senses. "Kid, I don't wanna say this is sad, but it's not, not sad." Finnick rolls his eyes at Haymitch's unwelcome opinion. Should he be embarrassed to be caught in this position? Maybe. Probably. Yeah, he definitely should be. But he gave up his shame a long time ago. He's honestly just annoyed at being interrupted.

"What do you want?" He turns back around to face you. "Why do I have to want something, huh?" Haymitch walks around the couch, Mags close behind him. "Can't I just show up to check in on you guys?" Finnick levels him with a deadpan stare. Haymitch purses his lips. "Alright, I'll cut to the chase," he starts before pausing, "is your prep team still here?" "No. They're off doing," he gestures vaguely towards the door, "whatever the hell it is they do." Something he considers a blessing. He already sees them more than he sees his own reflection. The less he's around them, the better. "Why?" "Because they're the last people we need to hear this conversation," he sits on the chair to the left of the couch. "Allies. Have you thought of any besides Mags?" "Can't say I have." He lies. Of course, he has. He's going into the arena with people he's known for a decade. Johanna comes to mind, but it's unlikely she'd team up with anyone. And you. He doubts you'd want him as an ally, but he'll help you regardless. And if it came down to him and you, well.

He’ll make sure you make it home. "You sure?" He leans his head on the hand that's propped up on the arm of the chair. "Not even a certain someone from Eleven? What was that nickname you gave her—Star, right?" He asks with that same tone he always used to take on when teasing Finnick about you. He bites down on the defensive response bubbling up, the snide comment on the tip of his tongue. He thumbs at the shell in the middle of his bracelet. He doesn't know, Finnick reminds himself, he doesn't know what I had to do to you. He isn't making fun of me. It's not like he told anyone other than Mags and Annie what happened between you and him—what Snow made him do. It's not like he ever could. Though he’s sure he, correctly, assumes that it’s Finnick’s fault. He takes a breath. "What is this about, Haymitch?" The older man sits for a moment, deliberating, before speaking. "When you get in the arena, I need you to protect Katniss and Peeta." 

"...Are you drunk?" Finnick looks him over top to bottom. Maybe he’s gotten better at acting like he’s sober. "Not yet, sadly. I'm serious, Finnick." "And why the hell would I do that?" Haymitch goes on to explain the impending revolution. How District Thirteen didn't become a nuclear wasteland, and, instead, was forced into hiding. And how, with the help of Plutarch Heavensbee, the rebels started planning a coup as soon as the Quarter Quell was announced. "You don't seem surprised." "I'm not. People talk. Especially when they feel guilty." When he started turning away his clients' money, they were desperate to pay him atonement so their consciences wouldn't be weighed down by their sins. You came up with the idea. Money wasn't worth its salt to a victor. But secrets? Secrets were cashed in gold. With everything he was told, it wasn't hard to connect the dots. What he is surprised by is Heavensbee's hand in all of this. He's in a position of power, one directly under the president. What did he stand to gain from throwing all that away? He's wary and he tells Haymitch as much. "I know this is hard to believe, for you in particular, but there are good Capitols." He tries to cross his ankle over his knee but fails—clearly not sober. "Or, at least people who wanna do the right thing who just so happen to be Capitol." He tacks on at Finnick's unconvinced scoff. 

"Alright, say I believe he's genuine, which I don’t. If this has been brewing for so long, why hasn't anyone acted until now?" "Every good revolution needs a spark and a flame." "And that's…Katniss?" "It's the romance! What it represents to Snow, but, more importantly, to the districts. The first act of public rebellion in over seventy-five years. But, the face of it is, more or less, Katniss." The Girl on Fire igniting a wildfire in the districts. He chuckles. "And where does Peeta fall in this metaphor?" "You can't have fire without air, right?" He asks rhetorically. "Well, we won't have Katniss without Peeta. She won't help us without him." Finnick rolls his eyes and sets the remote down beside him. The farce the two of them are pushing forward with this whole 'tragic romance' act will definitely keep them in the public's favor, but to let that get in the way of something this important is the kind of selfishness that can only be associated with a child. "She can't possibly care about him that much." "Yeah, well, you'd be surprised. Regardless, I need you—both of you to be a part of this. The Movement needs you. You're clever and a capable fighter. And you're one of the few who's experienced Snow's special brand of torture." He shouldn't flinch, but he does. It's an open secret among the victors, but to talk about it with anyone other than you is disquieting. He knows his face closes off and he's thankful for the fact that Haymitch knows when to stop while he’s ahead. Finnick looks to Mags. Her brows are furrowed resolutely, nowhere near as stricken as he is. She was alive during the first rebellion, but only a child. She must've been dreaming about this for years. 

Haymitch goes to talk, but Finnick raises his hand to stop him before he can speak. “No need.”

Nothing Haymitch can say now will sway him to the cause, he’s almost certain of it. Better to save his breath while Finnick thinks. Because, rest assured, there is plenty for him to think about.

"God, you too are so alike it's eerie—down to the mannerisms. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it still throws me." Haymitch shakes his head in disbelief. "Who?" "Your better half. It took me a minute to convince her to join the Movement too, but only because she's so stubborn. You both are." And just like that, whatever illusion of choice Finnick thought he had is stripped away with the mention of you. Every path he takes leads back to you. What a heartening thought. "Alright. I'll be their ally. I'll," he takes a steadying breath. "I'll join the rebellion." "That's all it took? I would have brought her up earlier if I knew that, save myself some time." He sighs. "As a plus, the guys in charge agreed to rescue any rebels from the arena as long as you get Katniss and Peeta to the pickup point." Rescue? They'll make it out? Mags. Johanna. You. Abruptly, he gets a faint whiff of your scent caught in his head like a flashback. Hovering in his nostrils as faint as a memory. It is a memory. But if he goes through with this, maybe it doesn't have to stay one. "The pickup point?" "Is something you don't have to worry about right now. Everyone will be getting different parts of the plan that’ll need their full attention." If there really are as many people a part of this rebellion as Haymitch says there are, then, realistically, there's no way they'll all be making it out. Finnick's sure a decent amount of them will be trapped there in the arena after all hell breaks loose. And that's if they don't die beforehand. "Finnick, if we do this, and we do it right, that's it." "That's it?" "That's it. We're free. What does freedom look like to you, Finnick? I mean, I know what it looks like to me," Haymitch leans forward, elbows on his knees. He speaks about this with so much confidence, that Finnick is finding it hard to be pessimistic. "It looks like the citizens living without the weight of oppression and Snow losing any power he has over Panem. It looks like the Hunger Games ending permanently." Freedom. Now, that's an idea he's never even flirted with before. Something so completely out of his reach, he never dared to dream of it because it would hurt too much to wake up. He contemplates it. What does freedom look like to him? It looks like the generations following them never feeling the hopelessness they do now. It looks like the Hunger Games only being experienced through textbooks and the name Coriolanus Snow becoming a ghost story. Freedom looks like being by your side, loving you fearlessly. Finnick's never felt true freedom before—the closest he's ever gotten to it was when you touched him. He doubts it can feel much better than that. 

Even without knowing the full plan, Finnick can tell there are a lot of moving pieces involved. All it'll take is one misstep, one fuck up, and it all collapses. The cards are stacked against them higher than he'd like to think about. Finnick's not a gambling man, but this? This is something he's willing to bet on. 

Either they succeed or die trying.

Finnick runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots for a second. "Alright. What do I have to do?" 

Haymitch smiles, more genuine than it usually is. "Just get them there. We'll handle the rest."