#ollies late night poetry

[spotlightsontherunway]

There's a monster in my bed!

- a poem by Ollie [tw: ED mentions]

there's a monster in my bed

she sneers at me, nothing said

feasting on my worthless dreams

ripping me open at the seams

my pretty monster lives under

the bed where I hid from thunder

no-mans-land is my bedroom floor

cause neither side will win the war

my model monster calls to me

she tells me who I'm supposed to be

she keeps me wrapped around her finger

so even all these feelings linger

my weightless monster is a theif

every night she causes grief

in the kitchen, in our jars

she even seems to take the stars

my gym girl monster makes me full

she stuffs my stomach full of wool

so much so that I feel sick

she always makes my body ick

there's a monster in my head

she doesn't want me to be fed

it's cling film thighs and soiled minds

it's my love that she unwinds

[flowerprose]

writeblr intro ♡ flowerprose

hi there! call me krys. i'm a libra sun, in my late 20s, and i love to escape into writing. ultimately, my goal is to finish my novel, namesake, by the end of march, revise it throughout april, and spend the rest of 2023 querying until i land an agent.

please note that this blog is a side-blog. i follow, reply, like, and send asks from @peresephones!

greek mythology, fairy tales, science fiction, and fantasy have always burrowed closely within my heart, and really shaped the sort of writer i am now.

i chose my username because i write in what others have described as a "flowery, lyrical, or poetic” style.

a little about me: i recently started work at a new job that i love. i have two tabby cats who happen to be sisters and gorgeously precious. my fondness for flowers and plants tends to leak into my writing, more obnoxiously in namesake than anywhere else.

for me, writeblr is a sense of community and i love getting to read another person's craft and talk with them about their process. i'm less receptive to asks these days bc of how busy i am, but i do try to send out asks whenever i see games flooding my dash!

i'm also gay and will probably favour your female characters above all else.

you are always welcome to tag me in tag games or add me to a tag list of your wip if we are mutuals. (in fact, tagging me is a lifesaver bc i can't always check the dash anymore and i'm prone to missing things!) i'm not stingy about who i follow, although i personally try not to follow or engage with minors.

favourite books: lullabies for little criminals by heather o'neill, the girls by emma cline, circe and the song of achilles by madeline miller, all the ugly and wonderful things by bryn greenwood, the princess bride by william goldman, deathless by catherynne m. valente, we are okay by nina lacour, fangirl by rainbow rowell, her body and other parties by carmen maria machado, bunny and 13 ways of looking at a fat girl by mona awad, sharp objects by gillian flynn, writers & lovers by lily king, son of a trickster and dogs in winter by eden robinson, poison study trilogy by maria v. snyder, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous and night sky and exit wounds by ocean vuong, and lastly, red hood and damsel by elana k. arnold.

favourite writers: anne carson, madeline miller, heather o'neill, louise gluck, emma cline, gillian flynn, leigh bardugo, elana k. arnold, richard siken, eden robinson, mona awad, ocean vuong, and maria v. snyder.

works in progress

n a m e s a k e ⛓🏛🌷💀🌿🌾

summary: a hades and persephone myth retelling in which kore, newly dead, is taken to the underworld to rot as mortals do. when hades discovers she is the godly offspring of his older siblings, he tricks her into eating pomegranate seeds and siphons her abilities into his own domain, unleashing a curse that ultimately causes him to start to decay.

wip intro | writing | character intros

at home, with graves 🪦💀🥀🐺🌒⚰️

summary: Nearly eight years prior, Lovey and Olly were rescued from a man they called “Bishop”, a serial killer who imprisoned their mother and raised them like his own. In the present day, a documentary about Bishop and his infamous slayings starts filming in their hometown. As the twins near their eighteenth birthday, true crime enthusiasts begin to reach out, requesting intimate insight of what really happened in Bishop’s cabin. While their grandfather, their now sole guardian, slowly loses his battle to grief, Lovey starts to keep track of how much of Bishop was implanted in Olly, and how to avoid the fate of a victim.

wip intro | writing | poetry

[neonlollies]

sleepy poetry

a poem I wrote late at night/early in the morning a couple days ago

———

Often I hear of the depths of sleep,

Its hypnotic waves washing over drowsy bodies,

Rhythmic push and pull blurring the lines of consciousness.

Crashing I wake.

Ice and cold slaps my skin.

Bitter salt invades my mouth,

The way bitter images flood my brain.

The inevitable tempest of thoughts swirl in my mind.

I shake and shiver like the boats atop this raging, blue, void.

I hear,

The larks song - my light house, 

leading my thoughts away from violence.

Its music lights up my heart.

It’s hum lulls me once more,

Into that gold-warmed state.

Sleep.

-Ollie (me)

———

have a good day/night :)

[yaku-soba]

i’ve seen this film before (this is an old story)

༶•┈┈ oikawa tooru x gn!reader | angst

༶•┈┈ general m.list

tags/warnings: angst (with an okay ending), swear words, oikawa doesn’t become a pro, kinda college au, author was listening to the folklore album and also mother mother while writing this, i think that’s warning enough

word count: 1.48k

a/n: this was originally supposed to be some sort of prose poetry for my poetry sideblog but it didn’t work out so </3 also, trying out a somewhat new writing style hehe :3

“someone has to leave first. this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story.”

― richard siken, war of the foxes

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

it goes like this: you fight over something small (it's never just something small), and after a while with whom the fault lies doesn't matter anymore (a double-edged sword: the fighting and the screaming and the shouting and the mocking).

it goes like this: radio silence, no missed calls, no unopened texts. oikawa, a character study: lover becomes roommate becomes a shadow you see slipping out the door if you wake up early enough. take-out ordered for one, a bed too large and cold. blankets that swamp you. 

it ends like this: you cave first (you always cave first). oikawa is too proud to apologize and you are too tired and it is easier to brush all the broken pieces of each other under the rug (it's old, you don't remember where it came from, only that it's the colour of mold and smells like mothballs, despite your best efforts) and pretend the we are fucked up, we are fucking this up away. you hate the way this story ends, there is no other ending to this story.

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

"tooru," you say, and the click of the door as he shuts it behind him rings like a gunshot. "do you know what day it is?"

oikawa is breathtaking, as always. "no," he says, casting his eyes to the moldy rug at your feet and then away, off to the side, "what day is it?" oikawa is breathtaking, and as always, he's a bad liar.

you smile, make no effort to pull it to your eyes. "it's pasta day," you answer, and it's as hollow as the ring-pop he gave you as a promise when you were younger (when you had thought you were in love; when you were in love).

he nods. "thanks for cooking dinner." he chucks off his shoes and socks in an act of practiced nonchalance.

there is no pasta day.

"welcome home," you tell him belatedly. he hums, says nothing in return.

(stilted conversation: the second stage of a terminal relationship.)

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

once, you were young and in love.

it's been proven: youth and love makes one foolish.

the story, or the prologue - it goes like this: you meet oikawa at an impressionable age (the boy next door, the golden boy, the boy the coaches eye in a game, the boy all the girls talk about, the boy). he proceeds to make quite an impression on you (a burn from sparklers on a beach at a festival, a failed ollie that left a scar on your knee, bruised wrists from volleyball, the - invisible, but you know it’s there, just as oikawa knows - stitch over the exit wound in your chest). you grow up beside him and along the way, convince yourself that sticking with him is a natural progression (cherry blossoms bloom for only two weeks). 

you and oikawa, him and you. it has always been the two of you. this story is very old, this story always ends the same way.

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

you’re fucked up. you and oikawa, him and you - somewhere, along the way, you’d gotten fucked up. you don’t know who fucked it up first, it doesn’t matter anymore. (nothing matters but the brush of oikawa’s lips on your lips and the delicate flutter of his lashes and the rent that you cannot afford without a roommate). 

oikawa is waiting on the couch when you come home (you came home later than usual - you’d seen him talking to a girl who had batted her lashes at him prettily the way he used to do to you). you shut the door behind you like a judge’s hammer, you slip out of your shoes and socks like water through earnest, cupped palms. 

“late night?” he asks (no welcome home). 

“yeah,” you reply (no i’m home). “i wanted to finish more of my project.” 

oikawa hums, looks at you from beneath those damned lashes. “that essay?” he shifts, lifts his feet from the moldy-looking rug to sit cross-legged. 

“yeah,” you say again. (you’d submitted the essay a month ago. you’re working on a presentation due in a week now).

“i ordered pizza,” oikawa says after a pause, “it should be arriving soon.”

you nod, step over the genkan and into the one-bedroom apartment. “thanks,” you tell him, “i’ll be right out.”

the bell rings while you’re changing into loungewear. you step out of the room just in time to see oikawa take the pizza out of the delivery girl’s hands - the same girl you’d seen touch his arm and smile (there is no home).

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

oikawa’s working part-time at a local diner that keeps long hours. you’re working on a degree. 

here’s the thing: he could probably afford a one-bedroom apartment of his own if he’s smart about his money. 

here’s the thing: you can’t. 

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

“someone has to leave first,” wakatoshi tells you over lunch, “richard siken said so.”

“who?” there’s a tear right down the middle of your carrot-heart. 

“someone who left first, or someone who was left. does it really matter?” 

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

here’s the point: oikawa with his long lashes and bedhead. oikawa’s sleepy smile in the mornings (you remember more than you know), the exact dip of his smile, the map you have of the lines of his palms. 

the point is: oikawa staying out and not coming home (you stopped counting after the first month, but your heart still knows), waking up to a cold bed because oikawa started leaving earlier (to go the gym, he says). hesitancy in hands where there once was security, the subtle fall of a satellite out of orbit, the gradual fall out of the childhood familiarity of being young and in love. the point is -

the point is always oikawa. 

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

oikawa gets a new, better, actual job. he’s a volleyball coach at a high school, now. 

you find out almost a month later, through takahiro and issei. 

“oikawa’s confident they’ll make it to nationals this year,” issei says conversationally, sawing into his steak, “says his kids are promising.” 

“what?” (you’ve seen this film before.)

“you know,” takahiro says, “the volleyball kids he’s coaching.” you did not know.

“ah,” you say anyway, fingers slipping around the fork in your hands and grasping onto the far edge of a cliff, “how could i forget.”

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

you finish your degree. you get a (relatively) stable job at a nearby design office.

here’s the thing: they pay you well for a fresh graduate. here’s the thing: you can probably afford a one-bedroom apartment of your own if you’re smart about your money.

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

“i’m moving out,” you say the moment oikawa opens the door, “thank you for everything.” (despite everything, you mean it. he’s taught you so many things.)

he smiles (it looks the same as what you imagine you’d smiled like the day of your first anniversary). “okay,” he says, and you think that that’s that.

“i’m sorry,” he says after a moment. 

“yeah,” you say, “i am too.” 

“thank you,” he continues, eyes almost the same shade as the day he’d brought you on a picnic, “i’ll always love you, you know that, right?”

you do (you feel the same, it is not the same love as when you had been fourteen and sixteen and seventeen and eighteen and nineteen, but it is still love). 

“me too,” you say because there is nothing else to say, “you’re important to me. you’ll always be important to me.” it’s true: he was your first kiss and your first love and your first best friend and the first person you’re leaving first. 

oikawa smiles, and disappears into the bathroom. 

you stare at the ugly rug at your feet. 

“is this okay?” you ask the broken pieces of you and him (curled around the jagged edges of each other, thorn to petal, bruise to open wound), “this is an okay ending, right?”

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

here’s the point: oikawa as the boy you loved, oikawa as your youth, oikawa as a part of the past you will always hold close but not be held behind by. 

a study in relationships: someone will always leave first, it is a very old story. 

introspection and a universal truth: youth and love makes one foolish, being foolish is not always a bad thing. 

the point is: someone will always leave first, sometimes people fall out of love, sometimes familiarity is not enough to hold them together. 

an old story, another universal truth: someone will always leave first, it is not always a bad ending. 

»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««

as always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! :D do drop me an ask if you’d like to be added to my general taglist :”)

p.s if you liked this, it would Be Cool if you leave me an ask / scream in the reblog tags because it would satisfy my need for validation 💔💔

[theflyingfeeling]

Maybe some sci-fi au? Spaceships, interstellar flights, all this... 🚀

I'll try my best, anon! I must admit sci-fi is a genre I'm not super familiar with and I had to do a bit of digging for inspiration...but I hope you like it! You're not opposed to a bit of Enemies to Lovers, are you? (Or..maybe more like Enemies with Benefits 🤭)

1st Engineer Joel is sent off to repair a space telescope that stopped responding days ago. It's probably just a tecnical issue, says Olli the 2nd Engineer, but better safe than sorry 🤷‍♂️

They all remember vividly what happened the last time they thought "maybe it's just the wind" when someone knocked on the door of their starship, and that's how they ended up with Aleksi, who may or may not be a time traveller or an actual alien (if one believed in stuff like that), joining the crew. He cooks a mean chili, so they let him stay for now, and so far none of them had been murdered in their sleep

Joel would be fine going by himself, but unfortunately the protocol is that no one is to embark on such a journey alone, especially so far away from the mother ship

He wouldn't mind going with Niko, who'd probably do a better job with the repairing anyway, but he's needed elsewhere. With Tommi at the wheel the journey would be done in no time, but he has his own job to do in the control room too. Hell, even Aleksi the maybe-alien, strange as he is, would be better company than Porko, of all the spacetravellers

Not to say Joonas is exactly thrilled either; the two of them have been at each others throats since their training and can barely stand being in the same room for longer than 20 minutes without starting to plot the other man's long, painful death

Spending a whole week in a teeny tiny spacecraft? What could go wrong 😑

Turns out, a whole lot: within the first few days they realise there has been a slight miscalculation on how much food they might need. Joonas curses the food supply person in the darkest black hole of the galaxy, and Joel is too ashamed to admit he was the one who did the calculation. Maybe he shouldn't have cheated in all those math tests, but he really wanted to become a spacetraveller

Even the tiniest spaceships come with a stock of energy bars and other dry edibles as standard equipment in case of an emergency, but they still need to regulate their consumption, which doesn't really bring their spirits up

The last straw is when the engine starts coughing up 😐 The mothership tells them to stay put and wait for another repair group to come and help them (and bring more food lol)

Bored out of their minds, Joonas tricks Joel into a game of "never have I ever" to kill the time. What could go wrong

"Really? You've never kissed a guy?"

"I'm telling ya, Hokka, there's nothing like your bro giving you a good old mutual *vulgar handgesture* to relieve some stress. But suit yourself, of course..."

The rescue group can feel the tension in the spacecraft when they arrive a few days later, but they say nothing, not even when they empty the rubbish bin 😳🙄

Joel and Joonas proceed with the mission, now even more anxious around each other than before

Once they arrive at the broken telescope, they realise it's definitely not just a technical issue..

Meanwhile at the mothership, Olli is trying so hard not to fall in love with the maybe-alien, because that is a whole new level of dumbassery even by his standards, but when the boy comes knocking at his door in the dead of night, covered in cold sweat and trembling all over, telling him they're after him ("who's them?"), Olli can't help but take him in his arms and promise him he won't let "them" take him, whoever "they" may be

Niko writes melancholic poetry about stars, satellites and the 16 sunsets he sees during the day and practices reciting it in his cabin late at night, uknowingly with Tommi in the next cabin as his audience. One night Tommi swears tomorrow will be the day he finally says more than just a "hi" to Niko, but just when they pass each other in the corridor and Tommi opens his mouth, something hits the ship..

[misskittysmagicportal]

i’m always up for a good feisty friday! rob’s live tonight has made me ponder which of his characters may be into reciting poetry? because honestly i find it kinda hot 🥵 i can see it all clear as day: a character, perhaps nikolai? or whoever else you may conjure for this, droning on and on with poetry. kissing him to shut him up. the rapid escalation of how sexy some godforsaken poetry reading is. 😩😩

White Russian On The Rocks

Warnings: none really, just Friday night fun

A/N: Sexy drunk Russians can't always make poetry fun

Whatever time it was Nikolai threw open the bedroom door, you knew it was late. Or early. Mourning doves had started to coo, but the sun wasn't awake. You never would've thought that a one night stand and a little arson would turn into the two of you living together. Albeit in secret for now.

“Zaaayyyyaaa,” he sang gaily in Russian. “zaayyCHOnuk.” You hid a smile with a pillow over your head.

A light on in the bathroom silhouetted his tall, shirtless frame as he raised a bottle to his lips. His short hair stood up in all directions as he staggered slightly back and forth. He staggered and hummed towards you.

“Littllleeee rabbbiittt,” his English heavily accented and deep, “I know you are awake. I saw your dark eyes look at me. Was the bed lonely while Ollie and I celebrated his engagement?” Nikolai’s voice escalated on the last word.

You grumbled and rolled over. He stood rubbing his bare chest at the foot of your bed.

“Niet, darogoy," no darling, "You take up more room than any man I've slept with despite your slender stature. Can you please get in and go to bed?” You patted the empty space on the mattress

Even though he sat, he still wouldn't lay down. Instead he emptied the contents of the bottle and bent to press his vodka lips to yours. He swayed, eyes closed and attempted another. You dodged him instead.

Nikolai chuckled with his eyes half closed. He began to untie those steel toed boots, lifting a leg high in the air. “We went to every bar in The Village. I took him to your Mama and Papa’s even, where your father and I had very nice discussion about Russian poetry. Would you like to hear some?”

“Nik, you're drunk.”

“The best time to recite it! It is just a small one,” he pinched a forefinger and thumb together. “Your Papa knows many things in many languages. I like him very much, but I don't think your Mama is fond of me.”

You sat up and crawled to your knees behind Nikolai. Your arms snaked around his body with your chin resting on his shoulder. You kissed behind his ear, suddenly turned on. “Because you are a lot like she was in her twenties. Until she got pregnant with me at least. They're hippies, Niki. They're mostly harmless. It's Sunny you have to worry about.”

"That is because we have the same name and similar faces, y/n. Also your parents, I think they have killed people.”

“Are you gonna regale me with this stupid poem or what? I won't be horny anymore if you keep talking about my family.”

Nikolai craned his neck to merge his mouth with yours once more before bellowing out in Russian then English: “Amid the blue haze of the ocean. A sail is passing, white and frail. What do you seek in a far country? What have you left at home, lone sail?”

You rolled your eyes. This wasn't new or amazing Russian poetry. Even you and your brother knew this one. Still Nikolai droned on, exaggerating his accent for effect. “The billows play, the breezes whistle, And rhythmically creaks the mast. Alas, you seek no happy future, Nor do you flee a happy past!”

“Are you finished?” you pleaded. “There's nothing sexier you could have chosen?!” Now you climbed in his lap to litter his collarbone and throat with kisses. You nipped and sucked at his Adam’s apple as it bobbed with each swallow.

“Y/N! I'm almost done!” Nik encompassed you with his arms. A soft moan escaped him just as he kept going, “Below the mirrored azure brightens, Above the golden rays increase —”

You forced your tongue between his lips to shut him up. You probed his mouth deeply with it. Nikolai held you tight and spun you on to the bed. Your body pinned beneath his. His tongue returned the favor. Every time the two of you had sex, he forgot he was Russian anyways.

@robertsheehanownsmyass @magic-multicolored-miracle @midnightseance @seanfalco @super-unpredictable98 @super-unpredictable98 @elliethesuperfruitlover @bisexualnathanyoung @slutforrobbiebro

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: Big Daddy’s Little Lady

Blanche’s father returns with a new fiancée who’s younger than his daughter. Dorothy and Rose write the world’s greatest song about Miami.

Picture It...

Sophia is skimming the obituaries for recent deaths to see if there are any widowers she can pick up for a date, to Dorothy’s disapproval. Rose enters, excited about a songwriting contest. It’s for a song about Miami, and there’s a $10,000 prize pool for the winner. Rose wants to enter, saying she’s written songs before, but Dorothy swiftly realizes her lyric-writing abilities are lacking. She offers her own experience poetry-writing and they agree to write up the song together. Blanche enters the kitchen just in time to get a phone call from her father. He’s apparently got a surprise for Blanche and is coming that weekend to reveal it.

DOROTHY: We could be the next Rodgers and Hammerstein! The next Simon and Garfunkel! The next-- ROSE: Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop! DOROTHY: ...I don’t think i could get my hand that far up your dress. But I’ll tell you, for $10,000 I’d be willing to give it a shot.

Rose and Dorothy are working at a piano in the living room (how they got a piano isn’t really explained), testing to see how Dorothy’s lyrics and Rose’s tune go together. The music is good, but requires messing with the lyrics. The two quickly get into a dispute over the word “thrice” and are forced to take a break. Dorothy says there are some words, such as “intrauterine” that don’t belong in a song (not that it stops Rose from trying). Blanche enters, as her father is about to arrive.

Mr. Hollingsworth arrives and delivers yet more compliments to both his daughter and to Sophia. (Sophia: “Get out the boots. He’s back.”) He tells Blanche that he’s met a widow named Margaret Spencer and they’ve been seeing each other for some time. Blanche wants to meet her, and Big Daddy reveals his surprise: He and Margaret are getting married. Blanche shrieks in glee and offers to throw the wedding herself, to which Big Daddy agrees.

Rose and Dorothy are trying out their latest composition before Blanche, and it’s going well until Blanche points out that the lyrics “M-I-A-M-I spells Miami Beach” aren’t accurate. Rose and Dorothy bicker about it, with Dorothy challenging Rose to come up with a rhyme for “Miami,” and Rose coming up with salami, pronounced “sah-lammy.” Blanche leaves the room to go prepare for the wedding caterer to arrive. There’s a ring at the bell, and Dorothy answers to admit a beautiful redhead, in her 40s at the oldest, who introduces herself as Margaret Spencer.

Rose, Dorothy, and Blanche, who enters at that moment, are surprised that Big Daddy’s squeeze is so young and attractive. Margaret attempts to make polite conversation with Blanche, who starts making barbed remarks about how young Margaret is. Coincidentally Big Daddy arrives and Dorothy and Rose quickly usher Margaret out to the lanai before the fireworks start. Blanche tells Big Daddy that she thinks Margaret is a “gold-digging hussy” and he’s making a fool of himself. Offended, Big Daddy takes Margaret and leaves, saying he’ll cut Blanche off if she can’t respect his decisions.

ROSE: Sometimes two people who seem to have the least in common turn out to be the most in love. That was certainly the case with Ollie Nofstetlermeyer and Molly Jane Doe. BLANCHE: “Ollie and Molly?” Must we take yet another trip to Petticoat Junction?

Later that night, Dorothy and Rose are having songwriter’s block and meet with Sophia in the kitchen for cheesecake. Blanche, still stressed about the situation with her father, enters and asks for a piece. They try to tell her that it’s not that bad, and older men frequently date younger women. Rose tells a St. Olaf story to prove her point about how love has no boundaries -- and it’s not anyone’s business. Blanche protests that it’s her business and decides to go confront them at their hotel. As she leaves, she drops a line that gets Dorothy and Rose’s creative juices flowing.

Blanche arrives at the hotel and asks to talk to her father. She tells him that she understands how being older and being a widower, he must be lonely, but doesn’t understand why he wants to marry such a younger woman. Big Daddy responds that it’s very difficult to watch the person you love die, and to find love again. Blanche thinks he means her mother, but he was actually referring to Margaret, whose first husband died years earlier after a long illness.

BLANCHE: Sophia, you know people in their 70s and 80s can have great sex. SOPHIA: Yeah, with people in their 70s and 80s. Put me in a bedroom with Tom Cruise, and you’d be peeling me off the ceiling. 

Blanche, stunned at this news, apologizes for being so protective of her father. He says he and Margaret still want her blessing, and Margaret returns just then. Blanche tells Margaret that she’s glad they both want the best for Big Daddy and welcomes the other woman into her family. They hug as Big Daddy looks on with a smile. Sometime later, Blanche shows Sophia a postcard from the honeymoon, and Sophia congratulates her on handling it well.

Rose and Dorothy return from the songwriting contest looking glum. Blanche asks how they did, and they say they came in second place. But they don’t have anything to show for it, and they were treated rudely while at the contest. Blanche asks to hear their song, and they put up a token resistance before running over to the keyboard. We close out the episode with the best musical moment of the entire series.

“Rose, play or die.”

Big Daddy returns just a few episodes after he made his first appearance, played by David Wayne following the death of Murray Hamilton. His decisions continue to be a bit questionable, but his decision to marry a gorgeous redhead half his age is a bit more understandable than his decision to try and hack it as a singer. However, his story is completely eclipsed by the songwriting part of the episode. But more on that in a moment.

ROSE: [telling a St. Olaf story] A lot people don’t know this, but the family drama Hey, That’s My Tractor got its start right there. DOROTHY: Wasn’t the musical version called Hey Hey, That’s My Tractor?

Blanche learns the same lesson this episode that she did in the previous episode Big Daddy was in (and that Rose learned when her mother was visiting), which is basically, “Don’t treat your parent like a child who needs correcting just because they make choices with which you don’t agree.” It’s getting a little repetitive, but to give her the benefit of the doubt, I do think Big Daddy's behavior is a little more worrying than Alma Lindstrom’s was.

Big Daddy’s been very blithe about his lifestyle choices in both episodes, and I don’t know if it’s just the inherent privilege of being a rich, older man that he doesn’t seem to realize how unusual his actions are. Starting a country-western singing career in your 80s and selling all your property to do it is worrying no matter which way you slice it. And while marrying a beautiful younger woman isn’t as bad, the fact that he says he didn’t tell Blanche because, “I didn’t think age mattered to you,” is either extremely naïve or nakedly manipulative, with his previous behavior making me lean towards the former.

BLANCHE: Rose, Dorothy, smell me! DOROTHY: I only do that with the milk, Blanche, you know the rules.

I’m all in favor of loving whoever makes you happy, but let’s be honest: Marrying a woman younger than your adult daughter, no matter how much you might genuinely love her (the wife, I mean), is unusual and not always indicative of a healthy partnership. Not telling your daughter about it and then acting shocked when she finds out and assumes the younger woman is taking advantage is the epitome of head-in-sandedness (I used to call this “ostriching,” but fun fact: Burying their heads is not a thing ostriches actually do).

I’ve learned via my usual sources that this episode originally featured much more dialogue from Margaret Spencer. Lots of Big Daddy’s dialogue was originally hers, or at least so actress Sondra Currie tells it (her friends said the finished episode features so much of the back of her head she might as well be auditioning for a shampoo commercial). I wonder if some of the lines, such as Margaret’s backstory about her late husband or the assertion that age doesn’t matter to her and Big Daddy, would have sounded better coming from her. I suppose we’ll never know.

Unfortunately for Big Daddy, we’re now 2-for-2 on episodes featuring him where the B-plot is significantly more interesting than the A-plot in which he features. Dorothy and Rose writing a song together and performing several iterations of it throughout the episode is just the best thing. The fact that this part of the episode is so memorable is why I feel comfortable giving it five slices even when I’m not crazy about the Big Daddy storyline.

Watching Dorothy and Rose clash over the piano is just perfect writing, and even their “bad” songs are better than a lot of other songs I’ve heard. I honestly can’t come up with anything else to say about it -- if you’ve seen the episode you know why every single part of the episode as it relates to their songwriting is solid gold and needs no introduction. Everything from “intrauterine” to “salamee” is worth a laugh, and the final song is a banger and I will fight anyone who says differently.

DOROTHY: You know, Rose, I have to confess I dabbled a little in poetry-writing in high school. ROSE: Oh, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of tall girls who couldn’t get dates wrote poetry in high school. [...] ROSE: Blanche, Dorothy and I have decided to enter a songwriting contest together! BLANCHE: Oh, now that sounds like fun! You know, I always wanted to write a song, but it’s kinda like writing poetry, which I was never any good at. Only the tall girls who couldn’t get dates ever seemed to be good at poetry.

Though they should have won the contest, I’m glad they didn’t win, because apparently part of the prize was having your picture taken with Anita Bryant -- who is infamously against gay rights and has campaigned to have them either revoked or not put in place at all, so fuck her. She also berated her granddaughter, Sarah Green, when she came out as gay, saying that homosexuality is a “delusion invented by the devil.” So again, fuck her. Fuck her in particular.

I’m a little disappointed Sophia didn’t have much to do this episode. It’s always a shame when the episode doesn’t give a lot of screentime. She’s only got two minor scenes related to trying to pick up dates from recently widowed men, which is fairly banal as far as humor goes, even if it does provide a counterpoint to Big Daddy dating a much-younger widow. Kind of makes me wonder why Big Daddy didn’t try dating Sophia since he always seems so impressed with her, though Sophia’s complete lack of patience with all things Southern would have quickly put an end to that.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰🍰 (five cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

Once more, for the road:

[txtdiaries]

extra elongated tag game O.o

tagged by the main bitch @gohyuck​ thanku ray ily

tagging: @hi-mishamigos​ @sweetsoobinie​ and @bffsoobin​

O N E

tell me the first song that made you stan your current fave group and why did your faves attract you so much?

ummm I’ll go with three groups: txt, nct, and ateez. for txt the song was crown I think! nct (dream) was boom (even tho I stanned long before it was released, boom locked me in) and for ateez it was HALA HALA.

—

TWO

rule: answer the ten questions and write your own!

what’s your unrealistic goal for life?

to be a millionaire by like,,, 30.

if you had known that we would be in a global pandemic, what’s one thing that you would’ve done before things shut down (if they have for you)?

My heart says miss more days of school but my brain says hang out with friends more.

what’s an unconventional thing that you carry around with you when you go out?

I always carry headphones around even if I never use them when I go out, just incase.

favourite type of plushies and why?

the long, super plush kind that mold to your touch.

favourite song right now?

selfish by madison beer (not my FAV but I’ve been listening to it a lot lately).

something that you’ve always wanted to learn?

how to not be so irritated at everyone all the time lmao.

tell a funny story about yourself (or just something that you’ve witnessed)

IM A CLOWN idk if I have any funny stories per say??? my whole life is just kinda tragic. the first story that popped into my head: once in high school my best friend and I snuck out of an assembly and hid in the bathrooms because we hated our school and everyone else in it (+ couldn't leave campus cause we couldn’t drive yet), so we stayed there for the rest of the hour just playing music and hanging out in the handicap stall. not funny but shows the kinda person I was in hs lol.

headphones or speakers? why?

headphones most of the time but speakers when I’m in my room writing at like 2 a.m.

craving any food right now? what are you craving?

at all times I am craving chicken alfredo

which music streaming platform do you prefer? why?

I use Spotify!

ten questions (by raya, answered)

1. favorite item of clothing?

I really like a lot of my long trench coat jackets I have! I think they’re rly classy and pull an outfit together.

2. if you had to smell like one scent for the rest of your life what would it be?

Lavender OR the oatmeal and shea butter body wash I use bc it smells lovely.

3. favorite painter? why?

I don’t really have one.

4. what’s your favorite horror movie (and if you don’t like horror, why not?)?

Silent Hill just bc it was the first ever like, FUCKED horror movie I ever watched without my parents.

5. iphone or android?

Iphone.

6. favorite tiktok trend (and if you don’t like tiktok, you can talk about how much influencers suck)?

I don’t have tik tok nor do I like it but I REALLY like the one trend where people play i’m just a kid by simple plan in the background and recreate their kid pictures (only bc I’m a nostalgia enthusiast lmao).

7. if you could wake up with any new ability what would it be?

I’d want the ability to time travel / teleport.

8. favorite superhero/supervillain/antihero?

Peter Parker / Spiderman has been my favorite since I was a kid (Tom Holland is v cute and amazing, but my personal fav is Andrew Garfield just bc his Peter was so SOFT and patient and dorky).

9. if you could only dress in one color for the rest of your life which color would it be?

black.

10. who’s your ult and give me five reasons why.

my ult is na jaemin (he’s the literal sun, his smile is beautiful, he’s fkn weird, he’s patient, and he’s kind).

ten questions of my own:

what is your favorite movie of all time?

describe your childhood in three words?

favorite holiday?

favorite vacation spot?

what do you think of the education system? are u a fellow slave to the gpa?

what is your hair color?

what talent do you wish you had?

what is your major + why (if you’re in hs, what do you plan on majoring in)?

do you like kids or do you merely tolerate them?

any pets?

—

THREE

rule: bold the statements that apply to you, italicize your aspirations, then tag nine people.

AIR ༉⋆͙̈

i have small hands / i love the night sky / i watch animals and birds when i pass them by / i drink herbal tea / i wake to see the dawn / the smell of dust is comforting / i’m valued for being wise / i prefer books to music / i meditate / i find joy in learning new truths from the world around me

FIRE ༉⋆͙̈

i don’t have straight hair / i like to wear ripped jeans and overalls / i play an organized sport / i love dogs / i am not afraid of adventure / i love to talk to strangers / i always try new foods / i enjoy road trips / summer is my favorite season / my radio is always playing

WATER ༉⋆͙̈

i wear bracelets on my wrists / i love the bustle of the city / i have more than one set of piercings / i read poetry / i love the sound of a thunderstorm / i want to travel the world / i sleep past midday most days / i love simply lit dinners and fluorescent signs / i rewatch kids shows out of nostalgia / i see emotions in colors not words

EARTH ༉⋆͙̈

i wear glasses or contacts / i enjoy doing the laundry / i am a vegetarian or vegan / i have an excellent sense of time / my humor is very cheerful / i am a valued advisor to my friends / i believe in true love / i love this chill of mountain air / i’m always listening to music / i am highly trusted by the people in my life

AETHER ༉⋆͙̈

i go without makeup in my daily life / i make my own artwork / i keep on track of my tasks and time / i always know true north / i see beauty in everything / i can always smell flowers / i smile at everyone i pass by / i always fear history repeating itself / i have recovered from a mental disorder / i can love unconditionally

—

FOUR

the ultimate tag: answer whichever ones you want to because there are a lot and then tag a few blogs you’d like to get to know better!

PERSONAL

name: n/a (lol)

nickname: lana

birthday: April 19 2000

zodiac: aries bitches we ride at dawn

nationality: american (gag)

languages: English, Spanish, some Korean, some French

gender: female

sexuality: idk man. straight? I guess?? (im romantically attracted to males + females but not sexually attracted to females) god. who fkn knows.

height: 5'3 ish

BLOG STUFF

inspiration for muse: idk! music I guess. it gives me lots of inspo

meaning behind my url: I wanted to represent my blog with something really intimate and chronologically laid out, and also personal. txt for Tomorrow X Together and diaries bc diaries are where you tell your deepest secrets and for me personally the first time I ever wrote stories of my own was in my diary when I was young.

blog established: may / june ish of 2019

followers: 987

FAVORITES

favourite animals: dogs, elephants

favourite books: I have a LOT idk I love a lot of the classics

favourite colour: sea foam greenish blue / sea blue / dark coral

favourite fictional characters: theodore finch (atbp), olly bright (everything, everything), four (divergent)

favourite flower: lavender 

favourite scent: lavender, shea butter + oatmeal (I have a body wash that smells like that and oof), and uhhh the smell of fresh laundry???

favourite season: autumn, winter

RANDOM

average hours of sleep: 10 on a good day, 6 on a normal day.

cats or dogs: dogs

coffee, tea or hot chocolate: coffee

current time: 9:46

dream trip: London or SK

dream job: I’d love to work with idols / entertainers in the music industry. I’d also love to be a fashion editor / designer. 

hobbies: writing, reading

hogwarts house: slytherin

last movie watched: wicker park (funny story actually, the airport scene from wicker park influenced the final airport scene in six twenty-four, aha)

last song listened to: the scientist by coldplay

no. of blankets you sleep with: one duvet and one fluffy blanket over the top of that

random fact(s): uhhh I make up the 1% of the population that has all of: the INFJ-T personality type, red hair, and green / hazel eyes.

—

F I V E

5 things i can’t stop listening to (was 10 but I can’t think or find 10 isjfsfk)

selfish - madison beer

not mine - day6

thanxx - ateez

inception - ateez

21 - gracie abrams

[letterboxd]

Satisfied?

We examine what Letterboxd reviews of Hamilton reveal about the musical’s cultural currency in 2020.

In this absolutely insane year, when our love of movies feels helpless in the face of pandemic-induced economic collapse, some extremely good decisions are being made on behalf of audiences. Studio Ghibli on streaming platforms. Virtual screenings to support art house cinemas. Free streaming of many important films about Black experience. And: Disney+ releasing the filmed version of Hamilton: An American Musical—recorded at the Richard Rodgers Theater in 2016 with most of its original Broadway cast—a year ahead of schedule, on Independence Day weekend.

“Superlative pop art,” writes Wesley of the filmed musical. “Hamilton wears its influences and themes on its sleeve, and it’s all the better for it. Lin-Manuel Miranda and his team employ an unlikely cocktail of not only hip-hop and showtunes, but also jazz (‘What’d I Miss?’), British-Invasion pop-rock (‘You’ll Be Back’), folk music (‘Dear Theodosia’) and Shakespeare (‘Take a Break’) in service of developing an impressively vast array of themes. This is a testament to the power of writing, an immigrant narrative, a cautionary tale about ambition, a tragic family drama, and a reevaluation of who decides the narrative of history.”

2016 may only be a half-decade ago, but it feels like an eon in American political years. With theaters dark and America’s long record of racism under urgent scrutiny, the complex smash-hit lands back in the spotlight at an interesting time. Is Hamilton “the most offensive cultural artefact of the last decade”, as Lee writes? Or “timeless and wholly of the moment”, as Tom suggests? The answer, according to a deep read of your Letterboxd reviews, is “all of the above”.

First things first: why now?

Sophie has a theory:

“Disney executive: Hey we’re losing a lot of money because our parks are closed. How do we start making money again?

Other Disney executive: It might be nice, it might be nice… to get Hamilton on our side.”

Sure, business. Still, it’s historically unprecedented that a Broadway show of this caliber (a record-setting sixteen Tony nominations, eleven wins, plus a Grammy and a Pulitzer) would be filmed and released to the public while it’s still, in a Covid-free universe, capable of filling theaters every night. Will people stay away when Broadway reopens because they’re all Disney+’d out?

No chance, reckons Erika. “I’d still kill to see Hamilton live with any cast… I get why producers are afraid that these videos might hurt ticket sales, but I’m fucking ready to buy a ticket and fly to NY one day just to see as many shows as I can after watching this.”

Not every musical fan has the resources to travel, often waiting years for a touring version to come near their hometown. And even if you do live in a town with Hamilton, the ticket price is beyond many; a daily lottery the only way some of us get to go. So Holly-Beth speaks for many when she writes: “I entered the Hamilton lottery every day for almost two years but I never got to be in the room where it happens… however, this 4K recording of the original cast will do very nicely for now! Finally getting to see the context and performances after obsessing over the music for years was so, so satisfying.”

“Finally” is a common theme. Sydnie writes, “I love this musical with every fiber of my body and it was an extraordinary experience finally getting to watch it in Australia”. Flogic: “To finally be able to put the intended visuals to a soundtrack that I’ve had on repeat for such a long time: goosebumps for 160 minutes.” Newt Potter: “Now I fully understand people’s love for this masterpiece of a musical!”

I’ve got a small query for you.

Where’s the motherfucking swearing? Unsurprisingly, Disney+ comes with some limitations. For Hamilton, it’s the loss of a perfectly placed F-word.

“I know Disney is ‘too pure’ to let a couple of ‘fucks’ slip by,” writes Fernando, “but come on, it’s kind of distracting having the sound go out completely when they sing the very satisfying ‘Southern Motherfucking Democratic Republicans!’ line.”

Will agrees: “Disney cutting ‘motherfucking’ from ‘Washington on Your Side’ felt like sacrilege akin to Mickey Mouse taking an eyebrow pencil to the Mona Lisa.”

Nevertheless, sings Allison:

“Even tho Disney stripped the story of its f***s, Don’t think for a moment that it sucks.”

(Yes, she has a vegan alert for Hamilton.)

Does it throw away its shot?

The crew filmed two regular shows in front of live audiences, with additional audience-less sessions for a dolly, crane and Steadicam to capture specific numbers. The vast majority of you are satisfied. “It’s the most engaging and expertly crafted life filming I’ve seen since Stop Making Sense,” writes ArtPig. “The film does an incredible job of placing you right in the action. It feels like the best seat you could get in the theater. You can see the sweat and spit.”

“Translates perfectly onto the small screen,” agrees Ollie. “There’s a level of intimacy that feels hard to replicate in any other filmed production. We see those close ups, the passion and gusto behind every actor’s performance.”

“Shockingly cinematic for something filmed on such a small stage,” is Technerd’s succinct summary, while Paul praises director Thomas Kail: “He knows when to back away along with moving nearer when appropriate, and the choices always serve to govern the power and stamina of the performances.”

Though cast members’ voices were recorded on individual audio tracks, Noah had a few quibbles with the sound quality. “Some of the audio capture is off in the recording, sometimes voices being too soft or too loud. It’s not immersion breaking, but it is noticeable enough to irk me a little in pivotal moments. Some of the shot composition doesn’t fully work either. Of course nothing is going to be as good as seeing it in person.”

Robert, recalling another recent cinematic escapade of musical theater, lets his poetry do the talking:

“This will do for now until the true movie’s made, Though if Hooper directs, there’ll be an angry tirade.”

I think your pants look hot.

Hamilton fans have their cast favorites, but something about being able to see Jonathan Groff’s spittle and Leslie Odom Jr’s scowls in 4K has you losing it all over again. Several specific shout-outs we enjoyed:

“Daveed Diggs the Legend! Go watch Blindspotting (2018), it’s one of the best movies ever!” —Kyle

“It’s hard to believe anyone will ever top Leslie Odom Jr. as Aaron Burr. I already loved him from the original cast recording, but seeing his full performance in all its glory was just godly.” —Erika

“Thankful that it was made possible for me to view with such clarity the phenomenon that is Renée Elise Goldsberry and spectacular Phillipa Soo.” —Thea

“Daveed Diggs was electrifying and Jonathan Groff was absolutely hilarious. If they interacted together the stage would’ve combusted from the sheer will of their talent.” —Nick

This is not a game.

On one hand, the release of Hamilton is sweet relief for music theater nerds riding out the pandemic. A generation of kids knows every word by heart, rapping (this version of) American history like it’s no thing. On the other, the Obama-era musical already feels behind-the-times, even for many Hamilton lovers, and the filmed version has brought that into sharp focus.

“I listened to the OG cast album about 50 times when it came out, the production is about as good as I’d always hoped,” writes Josh. “Since then however there’s been a very important and broader reckoning with the failures of neoliberalism and the Obama years ([from] which this has to be the most emblematic piece of art) and for me personally a drifting further to the left that has resulted in a very different relationship with the material. So my feelings today are a bit more complicated.”

“Hamilton is extremely non-committal about its politics,” writes Sting. “It doesn’t examine much of what Hamilton dictated besides ‘he wants complete financial control of the country’ (which would sound like a fucking supervillain in any other context, including reality).”

That lack of political commitment, reckons Morgan, is what helped Hamilton as a musical become so popular: “It’s fun. It’s catchy. It interweaves trendy and socially relevant artistic tools to infer a subversive subtext, while simultaneously sanitizing and, at times, flat out fabricating the historical narrative and downplaying the brutality of the true origin story, for the sake of appeasing those in power. Classic Bill Shakespeare stuff.”

History has its eyes on you.

Much criticism lies with the fundamental storytelling decision to make a modern ruckus about America’s Founding Fathers, the men (including Alexander Hamilton) who in the late eighteenth century united the thirteen colonies and co-wrote the Constitution. Undisputed titans of history, they also have blood on their hands, and HoneyRose writes that the musical “glorifies these men, and paints them as self-sacrificing heroes, and honestly normalizes and validates slavery, as well as the behavior of slave owners.”

Stevie, who saw the Broadway production as well as the filmed version, confesses: “I’ve tried (I’ve really tried) to understand what makes people lose their minds over this but I’m still completely baffled by the hype… These were horrible men and a romanticism of them through song and dance just seems entirely misguided.”

Sean is not convinced that Hamilton is a hagiography. “I can’t imagine anyone watching all of this and thinking it paints a portrait of the Founding Fathers as anything other than childish, greedy, venal and self-aggrandizing.” Wesley agrees: “I don’t think Hamilton is trying to be a history lesson, so much as a lesson about how we think about history. It’s a compelling human story told in a revolutionary way.”

That “revolutionary way” is the musical’s central conceit: that of a cast-of-color playing the white founding fathers as they bumble towards independence. Journalist Jamelle Bouie, who regards the musical as “fun, exciting, innovative and, at points, genuinely moving,” wrestles with the “celebratory narrative in which the Framers are men to admire without reservation. Through its casting, it invites audiences of color to take ownership of that narrative, as if they should want to take ownership of a narrative that white-washes the history of the revolution under the guise of inclusion.”

It’s complicated for Matt, too: “It’s widely agreed upon that the show encapsulates the Obama era better than anything, how it coddles white liberals with a post-racial vision of history in a superficial sense, overlooking the insidious and oppressive systems that they benefit from (hearing the audience clap to ‘Immigrants, we get the job done’ unsettled me). Of course hopefully its legacy will be that it opened up more Broadway roles for POC. But I really think that the show doesn’t make Broadway more appealing and accessible to POC, it just makes hip hop more accessible to white people, a launching pad of course to listening to Watsky or something.

“No hate though to anyone that’s completely in love with this, it’s definitely worth seeing despite any hang ups.”

I wanna build something that’s gonna outlive me.

The story doesn’t end, just because the music does. Kai_Kenn has a suggestion: “I have been a part of discussions that dissect the culture that created Hamilton, as well as the culture that Hamilton created, and whether or not Hamilton appropriately addresses the modern issues [that] the cult following proposes it does.

“This is an ongoing discussion that I am trying to be an active listener in and, if you consider yourself to be a conscientious consumer of art, you should too.”

Noah is on board with that: “Reflecting on the past and focusing on the future are not two mutually exclusive actions. Both are a must, regardless of who you are or what you do. A five-star experience in a four-and-a-half-star film. I think that’s just fine.”

Related content

Want to see more of the key cast? Watch Daveed Diggs in ‘Blindspotting’; Renée Elise Goldsberry in ‘Waves’, Jonathan Groff repeat his role as Kristoff in ‘Frozen 2’, Lin-Manuel Miranda in ‘Mary Poppins Returns’, Leslie Odom Jr. in ‘Harriet’, Phillipa Soo in the forthcoming ‘Broken Hearts Gallery’, Christopher Jackson in the forthcoming ‘In The Heights’, Jasmine Cephas Jones in ‘The Photograph’, Okiereriete Onaodowan in ‘A Quiet Place II’ and Anthony Ramos in ‘Monsters and Men’ and ‘A Star is Born’.

Ways to support the Black Lives Matter movement

Official Black Lives Matter’s Resources

Teenagers that have ‘Hamilton’ stuff on their bedroom walls

Films where they mention ‘Hamilton’

[spotlightsontherunway]

I hold myself

because I am new to this cruel world

I am cold, hungry

and nobody understands who I am

I hold myself

because my feelings are too big

and my protests at loud noise

are met with more loud noise 

I hold myself

because these people are scary

I can't do what I want

and this shirt is scratchy 

I hold myself

because none of my friends like me

they all ran away from the swings

a wall of hippo noises and laughter

I hold myself

because I am too big for ballet

pink tights don't do anything for my thighs

and nobody else looks like me

I hold myself

because teenagers are worse than I thought

and I am left alone once again

with my thoughts and deep red ink

I hold myself

because I've realised I am odd

they stare at boys walking past them

mouths agape. I'm staring at the girlfriends

I hold myself

because my girlfriend of 3 months

told me I had big breasts

even though she knows I despise them the most

I hold myself

because there is nothing for me to do

except listen and wait

and sit, and wait, and wait some more

I hold myself

because it seems I've finally found them

the friends I've always wanted. but 

they always forget to invite me out?

I hold myself

because the girl I like forgets me

and I don't know if I like her

or she's just the only kind person I know 

I hold myself

because grandma had a stroke

auntie and uncle have incurable cancer

and grandad had open heart surgery 

I hold myself

because I am a puffy eyed teenager

who thinks too much and doesn't understand implications

who writes in their bedroom at night the thoughts they can never say

I hold myself

because I am the only one who will.

[perfectedingbadideas]

𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆𝒔  𝒐𝒇  𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆  :  𝒅𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒔  𝒂𝒏𝒅  𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔  𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔

bold what definitely applies to your muse. italicize what somewhat applies to your muse.

Tagged by: @monsieur-de-paris [Thanks so much for this one!]

Tagging: @thecursedhellblazer. @theprinceof-gothamcity, @flirtatiousdisaster, @laughter-in-white, @timedriving, @rxsurrxcted, @astralmedic. @mythsxndlegends [Ollie?], @cptncld, @civitaslupus

𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙰𝙽   »   toothy  grins,  stories  around  the  campfire,  clothes  covered  in  pet  hair,  hot  temper,  old  jeans,  heartbeat  in  head,  potatoes  and  steak, beaded  jewelry, bruises  like  galaxies,  mementos, backpack  stuffed  full,  craigslist  furniture,  spontaneous  road  trips, air  ripped  from  lungs

𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙳   »   homemade  bread,  white  lies,  easily  excited, trying  on  hats,  band  geek, pep  talks, no impulse  control,  sunsets,  vintage  fashion, long  showers,  selfies,  following  dreams,  rosy  cheeks, song  mash-ups,  pink  lemonade  with  tequila,  loves  easily, animated  storyteller,  full  of  comebacks

𝙲𝙻𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙲   »   list  of  wishes, biting  their  tongue,  band-aids  and  neosporin, shoulder  to  cry  on,  morning  sun,  necklaces, trial  and  error,  homemade  quilts, formal  clothing, astrology  fan, messages  in  bottles,  pleated  braids,  speaking  up  for  friends, feathers, motivational  quotes, vivid  dreams

𝙳𝚁𝚄𝙸𝙳   » bird  watching, shy  kid,  wind  chimes,  trying  to  whistle,  summer  camp,  apple  orchards, lost  in  their  head,  glow-in-the-dark  stars  on  the  ceiling, hoodies,  thrift  shopping, saving  worms  off  the  sidewalk,  pig  latin, bare  feet,  thunderstorms, numb  fingers, braided  hair, naming  potted  plants

𝙵𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁   »   goosebumps,  leather  jackets, adventure,  chewing  nails, cares  deeply  but  can’t  show  it,  bronze  locks,  no  sleep,  taste  of  iron,  netflix  binges, never  forgets, combat  boots,  stories  behind  scars, table  for  one,  official  soundtracks,  sore  calves, trusts  themselves  the  most

𝙼𝙾𝙽𝙺   »   always  trying  to  be  better, wanderlust,  meditation, sweat  pants, old   photographs,  yoga, sleeping  in  hammocks,  nostalgia,  minimalist  design,  a breath  of  fresh  air,  baby  animals,  volunteering,  perfectionist, doesn’t  care  about  fashion,  healthy  snacks, noticing  the  little  things

𝙿𝙰𝙻𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽   » school  uniforms,  thick  jackets,  sleeping  with  the  windows  open, logical  advice,  scrapbooking,  compasses, I  fight  for  my  friends, sculpture  gardens, cold  morning  air,  big  soul, likes  routine,  secret  romantic,  last  to  get  jokes,  sunflowers, practical  presents,  misty  weather

𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁   »   herbal  tea,  smell  of  rain, blinking  away  tears,  camping  trips,  collecting  bones, swiss  army  knives,  first  impressions, anxious  thoughts,  bobby  pins, burnt  marshmallows, too  competitive,  clothes  lines,  messenger  bags,  holding  grudges,  gets  along  better  with  animals  than  people

𝚁𝙾𝙶𝚄𝙴   » flirtatious  sarcasm,  candid  photos, lost  phone  chargers, adrenaline  rush,  picking  dirt  out  from  beneath  their  nails,  social  chameleon,  clashing  clothes,  self-deprecating  jokes, claw  machines,  sits  in  chairs  wrong,  smudged  eyeliner, has  too  many  sunglasses,  eats  nothing  or  everything

𝚂𝙾𝚁𝙲𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚁   »   infectious  laugh,  family  trees, shivers  down  their  spine,  lipstick  and  roses, mood  swings,  clumsy, believing  in  destiny,  high  expectations,  sleeping  in  darkness,  collection  of  nail  polish, passionate,  good  grades  but  never  studies, poetry  books, blowing  kisses, not  knowing  their  own  strength

𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺   »   knowing  everyone’s  secrets, backpack  covered  in  pins, envy,  being  in  walmart  late  at  night, earl  grey,  selective  memory, conspiracy  theories  and  cryptids, keysmashing,  need  to  know  basis, can’t  cook, bags  under  eyes,  experimental  art, flickering  bulbs,  black  clothing  all  year  long

𝚆𝙸𝚉𝙰𝚁𝙳   » piles  of  textbooks, cat  in  lap, keeping  a  diary,  indecision,  scented  candles, studying  alone  in  a  café,  lingering  touches,  museum  dates, unanswered  questions, taking  on  too  much  responsibility, collections, chalk  dust,  comfy  robes, unnecessary  apologies, coming  home  after  a  long  day

[sixbillicnsoulsarchive]

💍 { shock & shaun }

where they get married: probably some pretty place in the woods.

when they get married ( ie what time of day, what month and season etc. ) they have a spring wedding in the late afternoon and the party lasts all night.

what traditions they include ( do they get married under a chuppah and crush a glass, garter toss, ‘something borrowed, something blue,’ etc. ) the cheesy something borrowed, something blue. the garter toss. they get to have something normal ok so let them have traditions.

what their wedding cake looks like: here ya go. but purple flowers instead lol.

….who smashes cake into whose face: they both do.

who proposed to who first: he proposed to her officially but she probably told him to marry her in the heat of a moment.

who walks down the aisle and who waits at the altar ( or neither ): traditionally, she walks down the aisle and he’s waiting for her at the altar.

what their wedding dresses / suits / other look like: her dress / his suit.

what their wedding colour scheme is and what sort of decor they have: it’s probably black and white because it’s simple. also like this.

what flowers are in the bouquet ( if applicable. bonus: what do the flowers mean? ): pink & white roses like this. marie just loves pink & white roses.

what their vows are ( eg poetry, traditional, improvised etc. ): they say their own vows and then there’s the “do you take this person blah blah” one.

if anyone’s late to the wedding: michael was a lil late with marie but they still made it before the ceremony.

who’s in the bridal parties / groomsmen / other: his brothers were his groomsmen

what their bridal party / groomsmen / other are wearing: ladies / lads

who gives speeches at the reception ( bonus: what do they say? recount a sweet memory or two between them? tell an embarrassing story? ) the cranes and the boys give a speech.

who catches the bouquet( s ): marie.

what their wedding photos are like ( are they sweet, with the couple holding hands or kissing or ~gazing into each others eyes~? are they silly, with a snapshot of the ‘cake-smash’ moment? or are they artistic, with one of them facing the sunset or holding their bouquets? ) all of the above. they have this one in b&w and framed

what sort of food they have at the reception: tbh its a buffet for both mortals & supers.

who cries first during the ceremony: shaun. then shock.

how wild their reception gets ( who dances the best, who gets drunk first, etc. ) it’s a supernatural soiree so it’s gonna get insane.

what their rings are like: ngl y’all i picture them as simple silver band kinda people.

what sort of favours they have ( heart shaped sparklers, mini champagne bottles, personalised candy etc. ) boom.

where they go for their honeymoon: theyre telling literally nobody where they’re going. it’s probably lots of places.

something memorable that happens during the party / ceremony ( do they run out of ice and someone goes to get it in full formal wear on foot, does anyone fall asleep in the middle of the party, etc. ): lowkey i have no idea because so much shit probably.

who officiates the ceremony: ollie bc he was available.

what song their first dance is to: tbh this was hard.

who gives who away as they walk down the aisle: did i just cry about arthur giving shock away?? yes.. yes i did.

[definitioncfcursed]

💍 { adonis x cordy }

where they get married: def wherever they can have the stars.

when they get married ( ie what time of day, what month and season etc. ) super late afternoon into the night because they’re star freaks and it’s probably fall.

what traditions they include ( do they get married under a chuppah and crush a glass, garter toss, ‘something borrowed, something blue,’ etc. ) normal wedding traditions are followed with the exception of not seeing each other - they got a kid, they can’t just separate like that.

what their wedding cake looks like: it’s simple yet nature-y. like this.

….who smashes cake into whose face: they do at the same time.

who proposed to who first: he proposed to her with hope’s help.

who walks down the aisle and who waits at the altar ( or neither ): she’s walking down the isle. he’s waiting at the alter.

what their wedding dresses / suits / other look like: here we are

what their wedding colour scheme is and what sort of decor they have: the color scheme is soft green/reds & here we go.

what flowers are in the bouquet ( if applicable. bonus: what do the flowers mean? ): i picture it like this.

what their vows are ( eg poetry, traditional, improvised etc. ): improvised and traditional. it’s hella cute ok. they both end up crying. also he has vows for hope too.

if anyone’s late to the wedding: can i say ollie was late?

who’s in the bridal parties / groomsmen / other: bridesmaids: jaime, artie, caroline, nova, dove // groomsmen: ben, chad, hiver, jack, trick.

what their bridal party / groomsmen / other are wearing: ladies / gentleman

who gives speeches at the reception ( bonus: what do they say? recount a sweet memory or two between them? tell an embarrassing story? ) everyone roasts them but also tells super sweet stories. phillip cries talking about both of them.

who catches the bouquet( s ) caroline.

what their wedding photos are like ( are they sweet, with the couple holding hands or kissing or ~gazing into each others eyes~? are they silly, with a snapshot of the ‘cake-smash’ moment? or are they artistic, with one of them facing the sunset or holding their bouquets? ) a mix of all of these. this is the best one jussayin.

what sort of food they have at the reception: it’s a buffet so people can get whatever they want.

who cries first during the ceremony: they both start crying when they see each other thanks. phil was already crying.

how wild their reception gets ( who dances the best, who gets drunk first, etc. ) he’s a delacour and ollie helped arrange the whole thing, it gets pretty wild. that’s why grandpa phil dips out earlier for babysitting duty and takes lil hope with him.

what their rings are like: her ring / his ring

what sort of favours they have ( heart shaped sparklers, mini champagne bottles, personalised candy etc. ) the star theme goin hard so here.

where they go for their honeymoon: they go to somewhere beachy and relax for a week. they’re parents let them rest.

something memorable that happens during the party / ceremony ( do they run out of ice and someone goes to get it in full formal wear on foot, does anyone fall asleep in the middle of the party, etc. ) phil brought cordy out for a father daughter dance bc hers is a dick also adonis was dancing with hope too.

who officiates the ceremony: ollie of course.

what song their first dance is to: this. this. this. this.

who gives who away as they walk down the aisle: she walks down the aisle alone.

 ( @thieveskingdom​ | WEDDING HEADCANONS )

[ifyoureoverme]

Stories from Palo Santo [1/?]

Life as a human in the wild ruins has left Olly hungry for something new, something dangerous. 

So, I finally found the courage to post my Palo Santo fanfiction... This story works on its own, but I do plan on continuing it. Feedback, suggestions or thoughts welcomed. Thank you to the anon who encouraged me before!

Stories from Palo Santo Characters: Olly Alexander, the Showman (Version 10) Word count: 2,400 Rating: Gen Disclaimer: This story is not based on the real Olly Alexander but the character he plays in the Palo Santo music videos. The concept of Palo Santo and the characters in the music videos are copyright to the creators. I’m writing this for fun and do not claim ownership of anything. 

NOTE: I apologise if my theme’s font size is too small. You can try pressing ‘Ctrl’ and ‘+’ to increase the size. 

-----

No one smiles. The fire crackles in crisp, damp air, offering barely enough heat to warm the pairs of hands reaching out around it. There’s food in their bellies, and that’s something to be grateful for, but it’s a cold night—too cold even for stories.

 Since before the revolution, the weather has been unpredictable. Even the oracle hadn’t foreseen this miserable cold’s approach; she’d mentioned something on the horizon in that ambiguous way of hers, her prophecy half-riddle, half-poetry. Olly knows it isn’t a storm or some other natural disaster to shake the ruin’s foundations, mere stacks of rubble these days. Her eyes said it all when she’d wrapped one gnarled hand around both of his: the something approaching was for him.

 He leaves the fireside, sneaking light-footed through the tall trees framing the clearing. The others wouldn’t notice his absence until next headcount, where they’ll make sure no one’s gone missing since last sunrise, spirited away by an android or lost in the expanse of green Olly was now traversing by moonlight.

 Striding through the jungle’s thick undergrowth, he feels for tree trunks he knows by touch. Their bark guides him, almost blind in the darkness but trusting the textures against his palms. Tangled roots compress underfoot; clusters of wet fern part as he passes through. The air feels thinner the further he ventures. Colder somehow, too.

 Crickets chirp, their shrill sound echoing through the mist clinging to the trees. There’s one sound he follows, though, and that’s the gentle flow of the streamlet at his side, its fluid melody trickling down the incline, leading him to his destination.

 The trees and vegetation thin out, opening into a clearing surrounding a natural pond. In the moon’s glow, the water is an oval mirror upon the soil, glowing, and as beautiful as the reflected heavens above. This isn’t a secret place—the pack fetches fresh water here daily—but Olly likes visiting alone. It’s always serene at night, the thick cover of trees and foliage on the neighbouring valley deadening all sound; it even seems to halt the breeze whispering through the leaves.

 He sits cross-legged at the water’s edge. Closing his eyes, he inhales deep, the scent of wild water and uncontaminated air filling his lungs; he tastes it. The scene’s tranquillity seeps into his restless muscles, softens the tension in his shoulders. His hands relax against his thighs, fingers loose, palms bare to the stars. There’s something about this place that soothes his body and soul, reminds him he’s alive.

 Humans aren’t supposed to leave their packs, especially at night—even the hunters go out in pairs, and never without arrows—but Olly feels safe amongst the trees, hidden away in an idyllic pocket of silence south of the loud, bright city.

 After checking no one followed, he retrieves a square of paper from his pocket. Unfolding it against the soil, he flattens it with a palm, wincing at the tattered edges—he must take better care of it. The print is worn, but he can still make it out in the twilight. Once, this precious paper was mere litter, blown into the ruins from the android city where it may have adorned a wall. Olly doesn’t know its provenance. All he knows is it contains the android’s language, so he treats it with the utmost care, sharing it only with the stars above and this secret, almost holy place.

 The pack are superstitious and consider Palo Santo’s runic symbols bad omens. It’s best they don’t know one of their own kind is attempting to learn the enemy’s language. They’d never consider this innocent fascination anything but reckless.

 Around the fire, tales of androids consist of two categories, one: androids harm humans, torture them, kill them; and two: androids make humans like them—lifeless. Could there be a third category? It’s doubtful any member of his pack has ever held a conversation with an android. Even the elders have spent their lives running, passing down stories of death and destruction from the revolution, of the city of human slaves masquerading as paradise.

 In the moon’s cool light, he studies the crumpled page. These are symbols he knows by heart, but there’s something hypnotic about them, something magic. Perhaps the elders were right—his secret attraction to these mysterious runes could be dangerous, bringing with it a curse of bad luck, bad weather, sickness, hunger, and all the evil things one could imagine. Tracing them onto the cold ground with a fingertip doesn’t feel dangerous, though. It’s so familiar a practise it’s almost therapeutic.

 Without a clue to what he writes, he copies three of the symbols into the soil, one beside the other. They’re beautiful. He doesn’t need to understand.

 The water mirrors the sky, a luminous dark blue stretched over the ground, studded with another set of blinking stars, a second waning moon in the centre; it’s almost a portal to some distant place. Olly wonders if another version of himself exists on the other side, a parallel soul, but in a world without the revolution, where humans saw the error of their clever meddling before it was too late. His palm skims the water and he dips a fingertip into that second sky. A ring of ripples spread to the edges. The reflection warps, shuddering. In that other universe, his touch might have an effect. It might become waves in another ocean, lapping at a sandy shore scattered with shells, far from a rubbish-strewn jungle at the edge of a robotic city.

 A white bloom falls from above, breaking Olly from his trance with a jolt—a gardenia. It hits the water and glides towards him, disrupting the sky’s mirrored image. He watches it sail through the blue like a great ship, cutting a path through a vast ocean, waves crashing in its wake. Reaching out to grab it, he notices his own rippling reflection in the water. It’s surprising. He sees his own image so rarely. A bit thin, he thinks. Lost. The water settles after a while. Olly distracts himself by pulling the flower petals off one by one as his mind wanders.

 He realises he’s shivering. Time to return to the fireside, then.

 As he pulls the final petal from the gardenia, he casts one last look up to the stars. Hopefully, whoever might be up there, farther than the dark side of the moon, will notice his loneliness.

 A shooting star paints a brief streak through the sky as he stands. He smiles, smudging the symbols in the soil with his foot, and throws the loose petals into the water.

 *

 Hands shake him from a dreamless sleep. Panic is thick in the air, almost palpable, lodged at the front of his senses and pulled taut across his chest. The fire’s been extinguished, water thrown over it. Everyone is scattering, collecting their meagre belongings in a frantic rush.

 An android wanders the ruins, they say. There could be more than one. They could be surrounding the pack now, waiting to pounce and take whatever they pleased.

 The youngest are crying, their mothers trying desperately to pacify them. There must be no emotion in this situation.

 Olly follows the others through the undergrowth. They hurry him silently, coaxing and pointing which way to turn. The hunters know the paths to take, how to confuse the older models. The whole pack had climbed trees to escape before, waited the androids out until it was safe to return to terra firma, exhausted and hungry but free. There are dug-outs closer to the city, hidden beneath nets made from vines and mud, but there’s no time to reach them. Instead, they must disguise themselves in nature. Most importantly, they must remain detached, for that’s how the androids discover them: emotion. Any will do. In these moments, they’d sense terror in the air, track it the way a predator stalks the scent of its prey.

 They all know how to adopt the vacancy, a technique taught from birth in the ruins. The vacancy makes them invisible. Making themselves void of emotion, they become of no interest to the synthetic, soulless beings desperately seeking the only thing humans have that they don’t.

 Branches crack nearby. Everyone freezes.

 It’s time.

 The pack members back up against the closest trees, lowering their heads to stare at the ground. Olly echoes their movements, swallowing down his fear, clasping his hands together so they don’t tremble, remembering the mantra.

 Don’t be afraid.

Think only of nothing.

Breathe shallow and slow.

Ignore and be ignored.  

 The vacancy takes time to perfect. There are weaker pack members, those more likely to be taken because they’re unable to control a natural anxiety. As a child, Olly was one of those weaklings. He’d experienced the cold glare of an android straight in front of him, when he was too young to truly understand the danger. Miraculously, he’d managed to stand his ground, stare back with breath held, eyes wide and body shuddering. It took another that day, but Olly had always wondered how different his life would’ve been if it hadn’t.

 As he looks up from his feet, Olly notices a narrow pathway between nearby trees, beyond his camouflage of crawling vines and lofty shrubbery. It runs parallel to his hiding place, undergrowth flattened by frequent footfall, its edges littered with the same white flowers he’d seen the night before. Movement at the end of the path distracts him: the android.

 Hypnotised, Olly watches the figure walk the path. His heart slams hard against his breastbone, blood pumping loud in his ears. It’s hard to breathe. A dizzying sensation washes over him, like being pulled underwater. The android keeps walking at its steady pace, closer and closer.

 It’s almost like someone else controls Olly now. Invisible hands usher him forwards, pushing his back from the tree with warm, comforting fingers. Without resistance, he takes a step forward, letting them guide him.

 Glancing at the others, their expressions alone tell him this is pure stupidity. They remain still, warning with only their eyes: do not do this. But it’s a wild compulsion that carries him now, lifting his feet as he takes instinctive yet trembling steps towards the path of flowers. He recalls how it felt as a child to come face to face with what he was told should be his greatest fear, how long he’s been wondering about the direction his life could’ve taken.

 He must do this now or he never will.

 Inhaling deeply, he walks into the android’s path and turns to face it.

 The android stops. Their eyes meet, gazes locked for what feels like minutes. Fear chains Olly to his spot, body stock-still besides the accelerating pulse of his heart thrumming through him.

 The android’s appearance is human—modelled on a male. It wears a suit, pristine from head to toe, and carries a briefcase. Its overcoat is littered with the same runes Olly has collected in his mind for as long as he can remember. Finally, it—or he, he supposes—bows its head a small degree, almost in greeting. Olly swallows. He’s too scared to do anything in return.

 The android’s eyes move, jerking in small increments to regard Olly from his feet to his crown and back again. Seemingly satisfied, he lowers his dark briefcase to the ground in one smooth motion, leaving the flowers on the pathway undisturbed. Keeping his eyes on Olly, he squats slowly, moves slowly, as though the human might spook like a frightened deer if he moves any faster. The case clicks open. Olly’s pushes his toes into the dirt, lifting himself a little to peer inside. Illuminated by the morning’s sunlight, he sees a band of gold glisten within the case’s blood-red interior—a collar.

 The android lifts it from the case with that same deliberately slow speed until he’s standing once more. When he takes a small step, Olly sets his jaw, breathing hard through his nose. The android moves closer, studying him throughout his approach.

 Twitching with nervous energy, Olly lowers his head in submission, eyes on the ground, making no attempt to block his emotions this time. He’s terrified. But allowing himself to feel it is electrifying, intoxicating. Sweat prickles under his arms when the android’s polished shoes stop on the ground before his bare feet. He brings the collar to Olly’s neck with the same steady cautiousness as a human trying to catch a butterfly. Unlike a butterfly, though, Olly knows it’s likely he won’t be released after he’s been captured.

 The first touch of cold metal against his skin forces him to look up. The android still stares, watching his every movement with curiosity. In such proximity, the glass spheres of his eyes look inhuman, as void as the vacancy. Olly sees his own reflection within them, a vision of himself submitting, allowing his capture. It startles him, makes him jerk back. Surprisingly, the android makes no attempt to grab him. So, this was his decision, then? If he fled, would the android not give chase? He’s not sure he wants to find out.

 The collar’s clasp clicks into place, locking around Olly’s neck. It’s heavy but not uncomfortable as it settles on his collar bones. His reflection in the android’s eyes has changed now: it’s strong, almost proud. He feels light-headed again, but that might just be the relief, for this is the first time in his life he’s felt like he has a destiny, that he isn’t wandering the jungles merely surviving.

 This android might take him to Palo Santo, a city he’s been warned about for as long as he can remember. Then again, he might not. He might kill him. He might suck all the emotion from him and leave him craving death. Then again, he might not. It’s a risk he’ll have to take.

 He turns to the others. Their eyes remain down, chests rising and falling as they keep hidden in the greenery. A few of them look up, worry painting their features. Olly hopes they’ll understand from his expression alone: this is his choice, not a surrender.

 The android says nothing. Turning on the path, he collects his suitcase and begins to walk back from the direction he came. Olly follows.

[jupiterreed]

song recs

slow, dreamy tunes that invoke something crucial & beautiful within. (music to dream, drift off or write poetry to). 

apocalypse - cigarettes after sex dreaming of you - cigarettes after sex if it hurts - gallant  i lost you - the wldlfe  tonight i feel like kafka - jealous of the birds lava lamp - cuco leon - the japanese house  pools to bathe in - the japanese house night drive (deconstructed) - twiceyoung cinnamon - jome evening blue - ollie MN planets and stars - pavvla st. patrick (empty room session) - paris 1899-12-31 - beach house drift - daughter emotional anorexic - svavar knutur sweetheart, what have you done to us - keaton henson le drugs - birthday dream state... - lucy dacus  final - wilsen veil - lists hide my face - acid ghost white sun - dawn golden first love / late spring - mitski  dreamer, stripped down - captain, mokita stargazing - gnash, vancouver sleep clinic  rebirth - vancouver sleep clinic  motion picture soundtrack - radiohead dead deer - evening hymns act one: the queen of fiji - crywolf

[collecting-stories]

Little Things | Alfie Solomons

hello!! I love your writing!! do you think you could do one where Alfie and the reader/an oc are just sorta chilling at home like they're taking warm baths together or the reader is teaching him how to knit.... like cute domestic things basically. thank you!! 

Little Things | Alfie Solomons

Alfie was not a man of routine. Except every night after he finished dressing for bed he laid down with his head in your lap as you sat against the headboard, reading in the dim candlelight. Sometimes you read to him and you always brushed through his hair while you read. He would lay like that, eyes closed as he enjoyed the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair and he listened to you recite poetry until he felt himself begin to fade.

Only then would he sit up, readjusting himself on the bed so that he could sleep. He would lay his arm across your back, an open invitation for you to come to bed with him. You always did. Laying your book on the nightstand and blowing out the candle before snuggling into the bed, tucking your head against his chest and listening to his heartbeat.  

Alfie was not a quiet man. Except when he was home. He would always look for you first. He would stand in the hall and listen to see where in the old creaky house you were. Usually he'd find you in the kitchen, making dinner and sneaking scraps of meat to the dog. If he was lucky and you didn't catch the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall he would stand in the doorway and watch you. He'd steady himself against the doorframe and listen to you humming as you moved about the kitchen.  

"Why don't you just say hello when you come in?" You'd tease, giving him a kiss.  

The first kiss was always quick. Just a gentle hello. You would lay your hand on his forearm, holding yourself steady as you leaned in and kissed his cheeks and then his lips. You would squeeze his arm gently and pull away, the biggest smile on your face. Like you were always happy to see him.  

Alfie never cried. Except once, in the early hours of the morning. He sat on the stairs of his home because he was reluctant to go any further away from your bedroom. He kept a bottle of whiskey at his side but he'd yet to drink it. Instead he just continued to clench and unclench his fists, waiting for the doctor to come out. He'd been waiting there since early evening of the day before. Ollie had come and gone twice but Alfie hardly remembered what they had talked about.  

"Mr. Solomons," the doctor's voice moved him to his feet. He turned hastily on the stairs and caught the banister to retain his balance.  

"Is she alright?" He must've looked scared because the doctor took a step back.

"Everyone is fine sir. You've a healthy baby girl, congratulations."  

He wasn't sure when he stopped crying. He just knew that from the time the doctor announced the news to later that day, as he held the smallest human he'd ever laid eyes on, he could feel tears in his eyes. You had slept on and off that day, exhausted from labor, and every time you woke you found Alfie holding your daughter in his arms.  

Alfie was not forgiving. Except to the dog. The family dog, as Alfie had affectionately referred to him, was rather fond of chewing things. Sofa cushions, pillows, chair legs, shoes. The dog's puppy phase had last two years and in those two years you witnessed more patience and forgiveness from Alfie than you'd thought possible. The man had come home to countless chewed shoes or papers. The dog had taken a bite out of Alfie's favorite hat after knocking it down from the rack in one morning.  

He'd simply picked up the hat and proceeded smother the dog in hugs. "Gonna have to get you something new to chew on eh?" He'd commented, scratching the pup's ears and giving him a kiss on the head.  

Alfie was not a family man. Except when he would carry your daughter around on his shoulder's, despite his back. He'd hoist her up and fly her around the house until she was laughing and wheezing. Her little hands would cling to his and she would plant kisses to the top of his head as she sat there.  

"Daddy, take me in to see momma." She'd insist and he would.  

You would be in the living room nearly every time and Alfie would back up to the sofa, dropping your daughter onto your lap. "Oh my goodness!" You would laugh.  

He would flop down beside you, throwing an arm across the back of the sofa, and lean in to kiss you. Your daughter would climb across your lap to get to Alfie, wrapping her arms around his neck and snuggling into him.  

Alfie was not patient. Except when he sat beside you, watching you knit or mend clothing. By the end of the week you would always have a small pile of clothes sitting in the basket by the sofa, waiting to be mended. And on Sundays, after breakfast, you would spend the day sewing. Alfie would spend the day sitting beside you, sometimes pretending to read but other times not bothering with the guise. He loved watching you work. It bothered you far less than you thought that it would.  

"I should teach you to sew, give you something to do while you sit there." You would always tease.

"My hands are no good for that sort of work." Alfie's reply was always the same, "but you're welcome to try."

He was willing to do anything you asked, so long as it meant more time spent with you.  

Alfie was fearless. Except when your daughter fell ill the first time. It was late in the winter season and she began sneezing and coughing uncontrollably. He had taken her up to bed and tucked her in, sitting with her while you prepared some home remedies. That night he couldn't sleep, laying in bed listening for any sound from his daughter's room. He had never been so scared before. Not as a young man joining the army or as a businessman facing an adversary. You did your best to reassure him that everything was alright. The cold would pass and your daughter would be alright.  

Alfie could take care of himself. Except late at night, when he arrived home well passed dinner, covered in bruises. He would hang up his hat and coat as he greeted the dog before pulling himself up the stairs. Once you saw him come in to the bedroom you would be out of bed in an instant. You would kiss him gently, careful of places that hurt and then go to the bathroom to run him a bath.  

"Someday when I die I want this to be what heaven is," Alfie murmured, leaning forward as you massaged the muscles in his neck and shoulders.  

You sat on the edge of the tub, helping him bathe. In the morning when he was feeling better you would share a bath with him but right now you were too concerned with his discomfort to consider anything passed taking care of him.  

"You'll be a very prune-y ghost." You admonished. He would only smile and lean his head back as if to offer himself to you for a kiss. You always responded.  

Alfie was not a very loving man. Except when he crossed the threshold into his house. Though it was just his coat and hat that he hung up it seemed that he left all the bad things from the day there at the door as well. The further into the house he walked the less tension he felt. All the work and stress seemed to melt away as he made it to the kitchen to find you there, his daughter sitting up on the counter and the dog waiting expectantly at your side.

I wanted to try something a little different.