#Cooking With Stanza

[jeepersdotjpeg]

i think i remember you making a hlvrai fan song at some point, is that still around? i don’t play hlvrai but i loved that song and can’t seem to find it anymore

im ngl it took me like a week to remember what you were talking about-- "We're Both Gonna Die, Aren't We"? and WOAW that's a throwback. that song was based on my edgy HLVR:AI AU askblog that i ran when i was a teenager (all traces of it have been wiped from the internet for years now because of my old short-term stalker)

my songs i made as a kid will not be made public because Reasons BUT im re-recording a lot of them, so i'll tack that one on my list for you.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

gentleman! dazai, who reads poetry to you. who shares with you all his favourite excerpts and stanzas that he’s convinced were written about you. who gifts you annotated books with all the details he refuses to miss. who calls you the sweetest nicknames- belladonna, bella, beautiful. who loves giving you forehead kisses.

gentleman! chuuya, who will give you his jacket if you even shiver slightly. who insists on paying for everything, even if its a $4 coffee. who takes you out on his motorcycle late at night, making you his number one priority. who speaks french to you, calls you chéri, and kisses you whenever he has the chance.

gentleman! ranpo, who has the cheekiest smile whenever you solve a crossword or an equation. who is uncharacteristically not a pretentious asshole whenever you need help. who loves to kiss you, and loves to share his treats with you. who loves you hen you praise him, but loves to give you just as much in return. who calls you the best.

gentleman! atsushi, who lets you sleep on his shoulder. who carries you to bed and finishes your papers for you when he sees you’re overworked. who is a blushing mess but decides to man up (grow some were-balls) when he sees how much you love him. who loves buying you little treats and trinkets. who insists on walking you home every day.

gentleman! akutagawa, who you’d never expect to he so classy. who will open every door for you without a word. who secretly protects you from anything or anyone who even thinks about hurting you. who will do everything in his power to ensure your safety and a smile on your face. who hates plants, but loves the way your eyes light up at the sight of flowers.

gentleman! kunikida, who dedicates multiple pages in his notebook to you. who puts his arm around your waist and always practices the sidewalk rule. who will shield you with his body when you need to adjust your clothes in public, respectfully looking away to give you privacy. who is so tall, he can’t resist reaching that book at the top you can’t reach.

gentleman! odasaku, who writes poems and short stories for you. who lets you fall asleep on him whenever you want. who leans down so you can whisper in his ear. who always zips up your clothes and will even tie your shoes for you if you want him to. who holds your hand everywhere. who cooks curry for you. who introduces you to his kids.

will write nsfw version soon! 🫧🐚🤍💌

[unrealcities]

So a friend shared an old classic standby of Filipino sociopolitical poetry, Amado V. Hernandez's Bayani, to our group chat for labor day. It's a great poem, and I'm always glad to be reminded of it. And I thought: I should share it to this Tumblr. Surely the English translation must be floating around the Internet somewhere. It'll take five minutes.

The definitive English translation, if such a thing exists, is by Cirilo Bautista. I have seen it once before, in our high school library. I have never read it. It is not floating around the Internet somewhere.

And then I had the stupidest idea in the world: Let's translate it, I thought. It'll be fun. It'll be an exercise.

Reader, today I have learned that I know approximately zero languages. I don't know English, and I definitely don't know Filipino. I don't know how translators don't go insane, and I don't know why anyone decides it's a good idea to translate poetry.

Like. This is the original fifth stanza of the poem:

Sambundok na ginto ang aking dinungkal, kahi't na kaputol, di binahagihan! ang aking inani'y sambukiring palay, nguni't wala akong isaing man lamang! ang buhay ng iba'y binibigyang-buhay habang nasa bingit ako ng libingan!

And this is the J Unrealcities crack at translation:

I have hewed mountains of gold from the earth, but have yet to be given a glimmer of ore. I have plowed acres on acres of rice, and yet have nothing to serve at my table. I have fed so many lives from their births, while I live not one foot from the grave.

Like. The plowed acres of rice line is pretty straightforward, acres on acres to keep the meter and for emphasis. The next line is literally "but I have no rice to cook," but just saying that misses the nuances of "saing", the word that specifically means "to cook rice": that having no rice is equivalent to having nothing to eat; that you don't cook rice for yourself, you cook it for your household. I toyed with "not a grain". I gave up on "cook" and "food". How do people do this.

The line after that is literally "I have given others life while I am one foot in the grave." But again: meter. The original poem- and most of Hernandez's poetry- follows the traditional Balagtas style: twelve-syllable lines, six-line stanas, made to be spoken. I cannot do it, but I did try. I did enjoy "live not one foot from the grave" as a convergence of a. the one foot in the grave bit, b. the echo of "buhay" (life) from the previous line, and c. a reference to the urban poor communities that live in Metro Manila's cemeteries, many of whom are the working people the poem is about.

When I see a real English translation I will feel monumentally stupid. I am translating "panginoong laging namamanginoon" as "a peer crawling at the feet of peers" and no one can stop me. I am having an absurd amount of fun.

[the-foundation-sys]

☆ACTIVITIES FOR INSYS PARTNERS!

okay i promise we'll make the new scp layout for our tumblr soon, it'll just be a while😭 anyways! we decided to make a list of things for insys partners to do when fronting (coming from two alters who've been together for over a year!)

to make things easier, i (🎩 proxy) will be writing in plain white, and my partner (🕯 proxy) will be using blue.

we have also made sure that polyamorous partners will also be capable of doing all the things in this list. whilst we are not poly ourselves, we understand others very well may be.

singing with eachother! be it by taking turns with each verse, picking songs for eachother to sing, singing different characters in songs with multiple characters, etcetera, singing is something we do a lot! (we did it a few minutes ago :D)

making a music playlist together! with us, we made a playlist together full of love songs/songs that remind us of eachother and the relationship we have

write poems for/with eachother! you could write separate poems, you could work together to make a poem, or you could write one stanza each about eachother until it's a full poem

helping eachother to get through work you have for the day. if you attend school, you could change who the main fronter is every lesson. if you have work, you could change every hour or so. overall, take fronting shifts, and when you aren't the main fronter, stay in co-front to talk to eachother. we find it makes the day pass far quicker whilst also motivating us. if you have a frontspace, you can also interact with eachother throughout the day/when you aren't the main fronter. with us, we'll occasionally share kisses, and since we have a sofa in our frontspace, we'll either sit next to eachother, or on the other's lap.

making food together! you could bake, cook, or do anything really :) a personal favorite of ours is sandwiches and soup!

watching something together. you could watch a tv show, a movie, a video, a series, anything that comes to mind. we personally enjoy watching analog horror together. and laughing when the other gets scared. that too.

playing games together is a good one! you could switch players every few minutes/hours depending on the game, or switch players every time you die. that or you can have one person play as the other talks to them/advises them on what to do (this goes for every activity!)

drawing yourselves together is a nice one aswell! you could draw yourselves together in an actual art piece, or just as doodles (we're planning on drawing ourselves as cats later so we can have matching profiles, tell us if you wanna see!) you can also draw eachother if you're fronting alone and are missing them

match profiles! if you use any logging/proxy tool, you can make your bios, layouts, banners, pfps and all that lot match :D we have matching layouts, banners, quotes, and plan on having matching profiles.

this list will grow when we think of more, have fun!

-🎩 & 🕯

[bloodmoonmary]

MEGALOMANIAC, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ better than the best and ⠀⠀⠀harder than the hardest . . . 𓉳

. . . she had always been their dove — white, untouched, luminous with something otherworldly that no one could name, only follow. there were children in the family with sharp tongues and biting laughter, boys who broke windows with stones and girls who vanished into their own anger. but mary dove molloy — no, she was different. her hair always tied with silk ribbons, her voice a soft call at dusk. even when she stole, and she did — chocolates wrapped in gold foil, roses still wet with dew from the corner florist — she did it as if it were poetry, a stanza in motion.

during the school months, she lived inside books. not just read them — lived them. a girl among pages, her fingertips smudged with graphite, her mind trailing sentences as if they were stars behind a curtain. the library was more than a building. it was a sanctuary, a cathedral without gods. she learned the smell of dust and ink, she memorized the quiet pattern of turning pages. and when the seasons shifted and the air grew warm, she vanished into gardens. there were summer houses in provence, lemon groves in sicily, vineyards whose silence wrapped around her like a shawl. it was there her stepfather cooked — not simply meals, but memories. risottos that smelled of childhood, sauces that made her feel safe, full, beloved.

she was the perfect little girl — the family’s favorite, though no one dared to say it aloud. even when she and her cousins tiptoed into trouble, into candy shops and perfume counters and whispered chaos, she somehow remained untouched by blame. mary could lie with the grace of saints. she had eyes that made people forgive.

and then school ended. her handwriting grew neater, her skirts longer. she was not a girl anymore but something finer, quieter — a swan gliding into herself. they moved to rome for her — the whole family, like a small parade of devotion. her father said, we want to be near you for this part. and so for four years she painted shadows, studied frescoes, recited sappho beside fountains where lovers quarreled and children dropped coins. she lived in an apartment where the walls smelled of lavender and old smoke, where her notebooks were stacked like prayers.

because it was always the writing — that was the truth of her. from the beginning, from the moment she first held a pen and saw that it obeyed her. she wrote in the early mornings, half-awake, still in the silk of her dreams. she wrote in lectures, in gardens, in trains, on napkins. and what she wrote was not light. it was heavy, gold-tipped, full of sorrow that did not belong to her, yet pulsed in her veins. sonnets, poems, phrases that looped back like waves.

and so, when the book came — it came like a sigh, or a prayer answered before it was asked. she did not expect success. she expected only to be heard. but her words bloomed across the continent. europe first — france, where critics called her a voice of tragic purity; italy, where her face was printed beside her poems like a saint; and then the americas, where booksellers kept her volume in the window with candles around it, as though she were holy. she was not holy. she was just... mary.

in some far place — new york, or perhaps lisbon — her uncle daniel molloy read her book and wept. he had been a reporter once. now he was something less certain, a man whose past had cracked open and shown its teeth. he had daughters who no longer spoke to him. regrets piled like dead leaves. but mary dove, his niece, his goddaughter — she was the thread that had not broken. she reminded him of something before the ruin, before the fire. and in her success, he found the tremor of his own voice again.

he wrote his own book — the book, some would call it. the confession. the revelation. the fracture line between shadow and light. he told the world about louis de pointe du lac, about blood and memory and the immortal ache of being. and mary — who had grown used to fame, but not numb to it — read his story not with fear but a strange heat in her chest: pride, yes, and also curiosity. there was something calling her back, back to the place she had once stolen chocolate, back to new orleans, back to the garden where her life had first unfolded.

she did not pack much. she did not tell many. she returned almost silently, like a ghost slipping through the veil.

and there — waiting, furious, wounded beyond words — was arun, amadeo, armand. the broken devil.

the vampire who had made her uncle, against will or reason. armand, whose beauty was a blade, whose eyes held centuries of hunger and disdain. he saw her not as mary, not as dove, not as anything she had ever been — but as a symbol. a threat. a spark that should not have been lit. and so, with all the calm of a god bored with mortals, he did to her what he had done to daniel.

he took her life. gave her eternity.

but eternity, as mary would learn, was not a cathedral. it was not a garden. it was not a book.

eternity was a scream held behind the teeth. it was thirst. it was the ache of memory when there is no longer a heart to remember. and yet — even still — there was poetry in her. even undead. even cursed. in the hours before dawn, she still wrote. and her voice, once delicate, now sounded like silver shattered on marble.

she would meet louis, later. soft-eyed, tragic. he would look at her with knowing. he had suffered enough to recognize what she had lost. and lestat, of course — wild, magnetic, full of laughter that could slice you open. he would dance with her before he tried to destroy her. he would kiss her hand and then bite it. armand, her maker, would never quite look at her directly again. their bond too complex to name — was it punishment? protection? a twisted kind of love?

mary dove molloy, once the girl of gardens and libraries, became something else. something not quite monstrous, but quite divine. and still, within her, the ink pulsed. still, she wrote. in the ache of each line, in the hush of each stanza — the world might still remember her, not as a vampire, but as a girl who once lived among roses and wrote the truth as if it could save her. it didn’t, but killed her and sooner or later she would discover that being a vampire was much more being her destiny than ever be human.

inspired by @tvangelique and @girlberrie <3

[dramatiquechipmunk]

WIP Sunday

Thank you for the tag @roguishcat! Loved seeing what you're cooking there.

My WIP snippet is from an upcoming work, part of a group project with some friends from the OnlyFangs discord server. The prompt was Ascended Astarion desecrates every room of the Crimson Palace. I chose the throne room and decided to play with it and do smut narrative poetry. I don't have a title for it yet, but anyway, here's the most recent stanzas

Tag you're it @nocryptographer, @strixamans, @shandoratheexplorer, @deadly-diminuendo, @alwaysmauria, @vividiana, @nw39 @arzen9

Sorry if some y'all already did this; I'm jet-lagged af and extra slow.

[nycterisg]

“Once, Celebrimbor got it into his head to fly to the stars. He said he wanted to steal one and give it to his mother,” he recounts, gazing distantly at an imaginary horizon. Maglor often has that far-off look—whether he is introducing them to the secret arts of the ancient world or merely reminding them to brush their teeth after eating. Perhaps he thinks it lends him an air of gravitas, as if to emphasize the overseas origins of his pearls of wisdom. Normally, and despite his age, Elros would whip around and demand, What? What? What’s behind us? But as it happens, the matter of stars and how to reach them is one that deeply interests him.

“Is it possible?”

“Of course not,” Maglor scoffs, stroking the strings of the lyre cradled in his arms. “He did come up with quite the contraption, though. Built himself some kind of wings, even a platform, and obviously—”

“How? How did he build them?”

“That’s not important,” he hisses irritably. “Lists in stories bore everyone. And they ruin the narrative.”

The narrative is everything to a minstrel. Many things are done, said, or entirely ignored for the sake of the narrative. Sometimes, Elros likes to joke that Maglor stopped his brother from disposing of them once and for all because it would have ruined the narrative. Elrond never finds these jokes funny and glares sternly to make him stop.

“Obviously the Ambarussa lent a hand,” Maglor continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And even the neighbor’s cat got involved. Imagine, it claimed to know Varda personally and boasted that she had, in full confidence, revealed to it a secret passage leading straight to her finest stars. Bah! A terrible liar.”

The twins exchange puzzled glances.

In truth, Maglor oversees their education with dedicated precision: there is no book in the library they haven’t read, no song they haven’t learned to play on at least one or two instruments.

It’s either that he thinks the addition of a cat was a suggestion from the narrative, or he still sees them as little children.

“They were all so young! They couldn’t have been more than twenty, maybe a little older.”

Perhaps those words bring him back to the present because, suddenly, he widens his eyes at the two youths before him, evidently surprised to find them there. The twins are in that delicate phase every half-elf goes through, where it’s unclear whether they’ve finished losing their baby teeth or if it’s time to put swords in their hands and send them on their way. Elros has started drawing a firm line through his name and these days prefers to be called Ros, the only part that sets him apart from his twin and where he can carve out a story of his own.

Maglor still expects to find them clinging to his legs (likely because their sudden growth ruins the rhythm of some stanza), and Maedhros has developed an abrupt interest in them, pushing—or forcing—himself to teach them what he knows: an immense amount about the art of war.

(Elros enjoys these lessons immensely, though no matter how tall he grows, he still fears that beneath Maedhros’ cruelly scarred lips lie virulent fangs.)

“Someone’s birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it? Twenty-five!”

It would be an impressive number if they were mortal. Most of them, at that age, are already married with at least two brats to feed. The cook’s sons are only slightly younger but have been working in the forges for ten years, their hands hard and nearly impossible to clean of the dirt caked under their nails.

The eldest, Balgrer, claims to be “seeing” the milkmaid who delivers cheese to the fortress every first day of the week. Only, the twins hadn’t understood what “seeing” meant in that context, so they discreetly asked Maglor—hoping to keep what seemed like a secret—for an explanation. Staying true to their paternal legacy, the brothers rarely scruple over what avenues of knowledge to open for their wards; of course, there are exceptions: the star in the sky, the trembling earth—such things remain unspoken. Judging by Maglor’s hiss, seeing someone is one of these exceptions, and he hastily removes an entire collection of scrolls from the library, the contents of which the twins still don’t know.

“This year, I’ll have to work hard to find a suitable gift.”

“Oh, Maglor. We don’t need gifts,” Elrond protests calmly. This is no metaphor: what little Maglor has left, he has offered to them with a moving generosity, anticipating every need before they even realize it themselves.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elrond. It would be improper not to celebrate the birthday of not one but two princes. I’ll think of something—and now, up, up! Let’s continue with our lessons,” he declares as the ecstatic glaze falls over his eyes again.

(In truth, much of what happens within the fortress walls is improper. It’s improper for the twins to have grown up in the arms of the monsters who destroyed their home. It’s improper for them to learn healing from someone whose hands are so steeped in blood they’re no longer capable of it. But much is overlooked—for, evidently, it’s not good for the narrative.)

[tropicalscream]

im a fucking artist

i just

I once got told that the way I view the world, the why i experience the world, the way I think is poetic

that to me i view so much as forms of poetry. between my photography, my cooking, my fencing, the sensations of life and is all art and poetry

i got to fencing and learn the sword as one goes to learn the strokes of a painter's brush. not as a sport but as another stanza another bleed of color every act of Cutting & too cut being not just a beautiful cold logic but a bombastic spray of life

chaos is such a wonderful repitore

eating, fucking, drinking, playing, fighting, cooking, everything is another sensation everything is another brush stroke

i put myself into everything I do bc every part of my actions from what i say or not how i look how i interpret how i touch how I taste is another expression of art from my soul imposing my will on reality

life is such a wonderful canvas

[elluqien710]

day 12: scones 🥐

"We made some scones!”

Káno, who had been in the middle of playing a dramatic nocturne on the piano, turned to see the Ambarussa behind him—holding a plate of exquisite pastries.

Káno’s mouth watered. He snatched a few scones and stuffed them in his mouth. They were both sweet and soft. He savored every bite.

“Pityo, Telvo, your cooking will never fail to impress me,” Káno exclaimed, licking the crumbs off his fingers. “It surpasses even Ammë’s!”

Pityo grinned. “Thank you, hanno!”

Telvo frowned, glancing at the piano. “When was the last time you ate?”

Káno didn’t answer that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We made some scones!”

Maglor, who had been in the middle of composing another depressing stanza of the Nolodantë, turned to see Elrond and Elros behind him—holding a plate of exquisite pastries.

“These look wonderful, you two!” Maglor said. His eyes narrowed. “We’re on rations. Where did you get sugar?”

“Atto took care of it,” Elros said impatiently. “Come on, just try one!” he exclaimed.

Maglor laughed and took one.

He ate it.

The twins looked at him eagerly.

“Pityo, Telvo, this tastes wonderful!” Káno exclaimed.

Elrond cocked his head. “Who?”

Maglor blinked.

“Sorry, I—…just lost in thought.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"hanno" - "brother", informal

"ammë" - "mother", informal

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<- day 11: credit ⛔️ | day 13: abundance 🌾 ->

all drabbles

[love-little-lotte]

So, everyone's obsessed with Next to Normal Original London Cast, right?

I first discovered this musical way back in high school because I was in love with Aaron Tveit (still am). That should've only been a thirst-watch, but what do you know, I fell in love with the musical, its heartbreaking story, complex characters, and hopeful music and lyrics. The way this story handles grief and mental health was something I haven't encountered before, and it opened my mind to so many realizations. Even now, years after my first listen, I'm still learning a lot.

A new cast recording has been released today. I haven't watched the pro-shot yet (not available in my country, but I've seen bootlegs!), so this was my first introduction to the West End's take on one of my beloved musicals. I stayed up late last night to listen to this recording, and I ended up sobbing my eyes out, as if it was my first time listening to it. This recording is absolutely perfect. It tore my heart to shreds, and while nothing could really beat the OBC recording for me, this one came close. I loved that they included some of the dialogues, plus the emotions from the cast were so crisp and clear. It definitely elevated my listening experience, and I honestly couldn't stop listening to it.

This particular song—"Maybe (Next to Normal)"—is my favorite song in the musical. Diana and Natalie's relationship is the one that struck me the most in the musical, and this song encapsulates their worst and best moments. This version is actually missing some lyrics (but when life needs a change and the one devil won't, you fly to the devil you don't), but apart from that, it's able to hit the right emotional tone. Caissie Levy and Eleanor Worthington-Cox were able to emulate what I loved about Alice Ripley and Jennifer Damiano from the original cast while also bringing something new to the table.

This particular stanza from Natalie also makes me tear up all the time:

It's so lovely that you're sharing No, really, I'm all ears But where has all this caring been For sixteen years? For all those years, I'd prayed that you'd go away for good Half the time afraid that you really would When I thought you might be dying I cried for all we'd never be

The anger, desperation, and sadness in Natalie's delivery in this scene strike me so much because for me, this is the first time she shows real vulnerability in front of Diana. This is where she conveys how she felt abandoned all her life and how all she wanted was her mother's love and attention. And how, even though she wanted her mother to leave, especially during the worst times, she couldn't give up on her. At the same time, this is also Diana's first time connecting with her daughter. It's her first time seeing Natalie's broken self and how her sickness has affected her life. She's not the "Invisible Girl" anymore. And in this song, she apologizes for not being there for her and tells her that all she wanted was to give her a normal life.

Which makes the title reveal in the last part even more impactful:

I don't need a life that's normal, that's way too far away But something next to normal would be okay Yeah, something next to normal, that's the thing I'd like to try Close enough to normal to get by

Because, really, what's the definition of "normal," anyway? A complete family with a dad with a job, a stable mom who cooks, and their happy, satisfied children? Beneath that, everyone has their own demons. Even the most normal people you see in your neighborhood have troubles of their own, and I guarantee you—no one's life is "normal." All we can do is try to survive each day, live as best as we can, and just get by. This is emphasized in the last song, "Light," where Diana sings, "But some hurts never heal, some ghosts are never gone, but we go on, we still go on."

Anyway, this is your sign to listen to the new recording. It's really that good!

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Hi Lindir! May I just say you are a lovely elf? Seriously. I love your hairstyle. 😁

I have a few quick questions for you. You’re Elrond’s aide, right? So you probably know him pretty well.

How does he deal with…ah, ✨trauma✨ associated with the War(s)? Is he a “pretend everything is fine until I collapse” kind of person, or is he more the “vent to plants” kind of guy, or is he something else?

Also, does he have any funny quirks or traits from his upbringing with Maglor and Maedhros? If so, ho do you as his aide deal with that?

Sorry, this turned into a full-blown interview without my consent, I hope I’m not intruding.

(Also, I love your music. It’s beautiful! 😊)

Ah! A Person of Excellent Taste! 🎻✨

First and foremost, let me say—you are clearly a being of remarkable discernment and wisdom. To recognize both my loveliness and my impeccable musical talents? A rare gift indeed! I shall allow you to stay in my good graces. 😌

Now, to your questions!

Elrond and His… Coping Methods (Extended Edition).

Oh, my dear friend. You ask how Lord Elrond deals with trauma? The answer is simple: he doesn’t. Or rather, he does, but only in the deeply concerning way that is common to all elves of his particular… let’s call it heritage. You see, he is not merely a “pretend everything is fine until I collapse” type. Nor is he quite a “vent to plants” sort of elf (though I have caught him speaking to his garden before—he denies this, but I have witnesses). No, no. Lord Elrond is of the “I shall work myself into an early grave and if anyone asks how I am, I shall simply say, ‘Do not concern yourself’ in a tone that makes everyone more concerned” persuasion.

Truly, it is an art form. I have seen him go three full days without rest because he was “perfectly fine” only to suddenly remember that sleep exists, disappear into his chambers, and not reemerge until someone (me) starts leaving food outside his door like some kind of domestic animal we are attempting to befriend. 😒 And you would think this would be enough—this tragic pattern of overworking, collapsing, and being forcibly fed—but no! He does not stop there!

Elrond’s secondary method of not coping is getting stuck in endless conversations as a highly advanced method of avoidance. Let me explain. Imagine you are in Imladris, and you see Lord Elrond standing in the Hall of Fire, listening to someone speak about, let us say, the intricate textile patterns of the Second Age. You might think, Ah, how kind of him to entertain such a topic! But NO. NO, MY FRIEND. THIS IS A TRAP OF HIS OWN MAKING. Because you see, Elrond knows that if he stands still long enough, being his usual grave and wise self, people will just… keep talking at him. And this, this endless cycle of listening to other people's woes and research and philosophical debates about river currents, is his preferred way of avoiding his own emotions.

And sometimes, sometimes, I have had to take matters into my own hands. There was one particular incident—one which shall haunt me forever—where I found him locked in an excruciatingly detailed conversation about the migratory habits of birds in Beleriand (which do not exist anymore, might I add, because Beleriand sank). The scholar had been speaking for what I later learned was four hours. FOUR HOURS. And Elrond, instead of making his usual graceful escape, was simply nodding and humming thoughtfully as though he was not actively perishing inside.

So I did what any sane elf would do. I called for reinforcements.

And not just any reinforcements. I, Lindir, long-suffering aide of Imladris, made the decision to summon Haldir.

Now, you must understand something. Haldir of Lórien is not merely competent—he is a walking, talking example of what happens when an elf is both absurdly skilled and absurdly pretty. Painfully pretty. Distractingly pretty. His hair has been described in full poetic stanzas. He walks through a room, and people forget why they were speaking. He has, and I say this with all the professionalism of my station, Presence™. Glorfindel WISHES he had Haldir's presence.

Anyway.

So naturally, I turned to him in my moment of desperation and said, “Haldir, please, if you could possibly bring the Lady of Light herself, it might be our only hope.”

And do you know what he did? Do you know what he did?

He smirked. He smirked in a way that made me deeply uneasy, nodded, and within the hour, I kid you not, Galadriel herself was stepping into the hall.

And only then did Elrond snap out of it.

Only then, as the actual Lady of Light entered with all the quiet authority of someone who can read your soul, did he remember that he was meant to be resting and eating and not standing in the same spot for hours contemplating extinct birds.

So you see, dear friend, this is the plight of those who serve Elrond. It is not simply a matter of logistics and diplomacy—it is a full-time job of interventions. And I? I am simply doing my duty. 😤

His Feanorian Upbringing (Oh No).

Ah, yes. You see, Imladris is a refined and well-ordered place. It is a haven of wisdom, learning, and restraint. And yet—yet—every once in a while, like a curse written into the very marrow of his being, the Fëanorian in Lord Elrond emerges. He does not mean for it to happen. He does not plan for it to happen. And yet, like a badly placed dramatic monologue in the middle of a tense diplomatic gathering, it happens.

For example:

The Cooking Incident. 🍳🔥

Elrond does not cook. He thinks he can, but I assure you, he cannot. Every once in a while, the spirit of Maedhros, the “I can make my own meals, thank you very much” energy, takes hold of him, and he ventures into the kitchens to create what I can only describe as culinary disasters.

The staff still speaks in hushed voices about The Bread That Was Also A Weapon.

It started as a seemingly innocent evening—Elrond, in one of his rare attempts to relax, declared that he would make something himself. This was mistake number one. Mistake number two was letting him attempt it unsupervised. I do not know how or why, but by the end of the night, the kitchen was filled with a smoke so thick that I feared Imladris itself was under siege. The resulting loaf of bread? Hard enough to be classified as a blunt weapon. It was tested. (By Glorfindel, who insisted on using it in a sparring match. I still hear the echo of the clang when it struck his shield.)

To this day, the head cook has forbidden Elrond from stepping foot in the kitchens unless it is to drink tea or observe from a safe distance.

Hoarding Sentimentality. 🏺📜

Maglor was many things—musician, war criminal, dramatic nuisance—but above all, he was an elven mother hen. I suspect Lord Elrond picked up some of his habits.

I once tried to reorganize a cabinet of historically significant objects and was met with a sudden, dramatic “LINDIR, THAT IS FROM WHEN I WAS A CHILD” over what I can only describe as a very unimpressive rock.

A rock.

Not a jewel. Not a relic. Not a piece of fine dwarven craftsmanship. A rock. Apparently, it was gifted to him by someone Fëanorian (he would not say who, which narrows it down to approximately eight deeply traumatized options), and therefore it was deeply meaningful. He then held it for several long moments, staring at it like it contained the wisdom of ages, before very carefully putting it back in its exact place. I have not touched it since.

And this is not an isolated incident. Elrond has scrolls from when he was learning to write, which he keeps as if they were sacred texts. He once spent half an hour gently dusting a cracked cup because it was from a meal Maglor made centuries ago. The man hoards emotions.

That One Time He Sang a Fëanorian Battle Song in the Middle of a Diplomatic Gathering. 🎶⚔️

Oh yes. It happened. I watched.

It was a very polite gathering—dignitaries from Lórien and Mirkwood, ambassadors from the Dúnedain, discussions of alliances, trade, the usual. And somewhere, in the midst of it, Elrond, deep in thought, hummed.

Then he muttered a line.

And before I could intervene, before I could stop the tragedy unfolding, he was singing.

A full-blooded, deeply emotional, Fëanorian battle song.

In the middle of a diplomatic gathering.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Fëanorian battle songs, let me explain: they are not gentle. They are not pleasant background music. They are aggressive, deeply dramatic, and usually involve some combination of oaths, fire, vengeance, and doom.

The look on Glorfindel’s face was priceless. Somewhere between deep, painful secondhand embarrassment and abject horror. Lord Celeborn simply sighed as if this was a burden he had carried for centuries. The room fell silent as everyone realized what they were hearing.

And then—then—Elrond realized.

He froze. He blinked as if waking from a trance. And then, in true diplomatic fashion, he cleared his throat and said, “My apologies. I seem to have… recalled an old tune.”

As if he had not just invoked the spirits of his very, very cursed ancestors in the middle of a political meeting.

Other Incidents That Have Occurred Because Elrond Was Raised By Fëanorians:

Once instinctively caught a falling knife by the blade and did not react until he saw the horror on my face. “Oh, I suppose that was dangerous,” he said. Sir.

Drinks tea like he is brooding over a dark and terrible fate. Even when it is just chamomile.

Can play the harp beautifully. Can also tune it with unsettling speed and accuracy, which implies past experience in repairing harps under extreme stress.

Once absentmindedly braided his hair in a very distinct Fëanorian pattern. I commented on it. He immediately undid it and did not respond.

Listens to music like he expects it to betray him.

Absolutely terrifying when angry. He does not yell. He simply goes quiet in a way that makes even Glorfindel rethink his life choices.

“We do not speak of the Silmarils in this house” has been said out loud.

And there you have it. Lord Elrond Peredhel, the refined and noble Lord of Rivendell, is one inconvenient memory away from dramatically throwing his cloak over his shoulder and riding off to avenge something. And it is my job—my sacred duty—to keep that from happening. 😤

Ah, my dear and inquisitive friend, you ask how I, Lindir, the long-suffering and ever-dutiful aide to Lord Elrond, cope with the Fëanorian madness that occasionally seeps into his otherwise dignified existence?

The answer is simple: I manage him.

Oh, do not mistake me—I do not control him. One does not control Lord Elrond, any more than one controls the rise of the sun or the passage of time (though I do suspect he sometimes believes he can bend time itself in order to finish just one more document before sleeping). No, no. I guide him. I act as the silent, invisible force preventing him from accidentally invoking the spirit of his forefathers at diplomatic banquets. It is an art, a science, and—let’s be honest—a thankless job.

The Art of Managing Lord Elrond (A Tragedy in Several Acts)

🎭 Act I: The Kitchen Disaster Prevention Initiative – My first and most sacred duty is ensuring that Lord Elrond does not, under any circumstances, enter the kitchen with intent to cook. If he so much as glances at an apron, I materialize out of nowhere like a vengeful spirit and ask, ever so politely, if he wouldn’t rather rest. Or read. Or lead a council of great import. Or literally anything else that does not result in another Bread Incident. (The kitchen staff still eyes him with fear. One nearly fled when he attempted to chop vegetables last year. I do not blame them.)

📜 Act II: Nodding Sagely At Questionable Sentimentalism – I have perfected the art of the Neutral Yet Understanding Nod. It is my greatest weapon against Elrond’s utterly ridiculous tendency to hoard objects of Deep And Mysterious Significance. I have nodded gravely at twigs, feathers, rocks, and a spoon of unknown origin because they were somehow, inexplicably, tied to an important memory from his childhood. Do I question it? No. I simply nod, exhale through my nose, and move on. Because the moment I say “My lord… it is just a rock.” is the moment I will be subjected to a dramatic and impassioned monologue about its historical and emotional significance. I do not have time for that.

😑 Act III: The Preemptive Sigh – If you have ever seen a caregiver of small, energetic children sense disaster before it happens, then you understand the depth of my suffering. The moment I see That Look™ in Elrond’s eye—that faraway, brooding stare that suggests he is about to do something concerning, I sigh. I sigh preemptively. This does not stop the inevitable nonsense from occurring, but it does allow me to prepare myself emotionally. If I am lucky, my sigh is loud enough that he hears it, realizes I have already anticipated his foolishness, and begrudgingly rethinks his life choices.

✨ Act IV: The Haldir Gambit – There have been occasions (more than I care to admit) when the situation was beyond my abilities and required higher intervention. Such as The Time Elrond Refused To Rest For Four Days And Started Reciting Ancient Texts That Didn’t Exist. My solution? Summon Haldir.

Now, Haldir is a very capable, respectable, and mildly terrifying individual, and I have found that he is one of the few people whom Elrond cannot easily brush off. When I see that my efforts are failing, I find Haldir, compliment him profusely (he thrives on it, honestly), and then very casually mention that Lord Elrond is, perhaps, in need of… persuasion. If I am truly desperate, I escalate matters.

Yes, that’s right.

I summon the Lady of Light herself.

Do you think Elrond Peredhel, the Lord of Rivendell, the great loremaster and master of diplomacy, can withstand the utterly disappointed gaze of Lady Galadriel?

He cannot.

And that, my dear, is how you win.

Your Reward for Surviving This Tirade: One (1) Additional Compliment

Now! You have endured my words most bravely. For this, I grant you one (1) additional compliment. You have excellent curiosity. Truly, it is a marvel. Lord Elrond himself would approve—nay, he would admire such a trait. (Or, at the very least, he would pretend not to notice how much he enjoyed answering these exact questions over tea later.)

Well done. I shall compose a song in your honor. (It may or may not be about the dangers of elven kitchen disasters. We shall see.)

[cross-crye]

ROMANIAN LILIA!!

no thoughts just romanian lilia (national pride rlly shinin thru rn)

translations at the end

wc 0.4k w/out translations

romanian lilia who can’t help but try cook traditional dishes only to fuck up even the most basic mămăligă

romanian lilia who read silver stuff like ‘Sarea în bucate’ and ‘Fata babei și fata moșului’ as bedtime stories

romanian lilia who is just a smidge superstition (as most balkans are) and constantly knocks on wood

romanian lilia who says the most outlandish things under his breath cuz who tf at NRC knows what “du-te dracu” means

romanian lilia who tries to get the light music club to play romanian songs (on the very few occasions when they actually play rather than gossip)

romanian lilia who drives idia mad when they’re gaming together bcs he doesn’t understand any of his references

romanian lilia who instead of watching the expected k-drama or spanish soap opera is an avid fan of ‘lecții de viață’

romanian lilia who watches all the classics, from 'te cunosc de undeva' all the way to 'ce spun românii' and 'chefi la cuțite' (chef scărlătescu motivated him to join the culinary cruciable srry i don't make the rules)

romanian lilia who showed vil 'Bravo ai stil' (idc how unrealistic this seems its canon in my head)

romanian lilia who makes all of diasomnia watch eurovision with him (sebek ends up screaming at the TV when the jury votes get announced bcs he’s invested even though he won’t admit it)

romanian lilia who has always attempted, but not necessarily succeeded in starting a horă at kalim’s parties

romanian lilia who has played manele at said parties

romanian lilia who taught malleus the language (i can just picture mal as the nr 1 Eminescu fan, he recites all 98 stanzas of Luceafărul to the gargoyles in the abandoned ruins he visits)

romanian lilia who has at least once left a message permanently ingrained in the desk

romanian lilia who tells cater abt romanian trends

romanian lilia who sooo teaches his friends how to curse (they struggle sm with the pronounciation of some stuff that they give up)

just, romanian lilia man

TRANSLATIONS:

mămăligă -> polenta sarea în bucate & fata babei și fata moșului -> two kinda fable-like stories ig? du-te dracu -> swear; literally mean go to the devil, contextually its either go to hell or fuck you lecții de viață & te cunosc de undeva & ce spun românii & chefi la cuțite & bravo, ai stil -> various romanian TV programmes (reality/drama; 2 game/competition shows; a cooking show and fashion show respectively) horă -> type of traditional dance Luceafărul -> The evening star; a famous poem by Eminescu

cross-crye © 2024.

no reposting, stealing, copying, translating my works or feeding them to AI

reblogs, comments and likes are all highly appreciated

[vikings-til-valhalla]

Heyoo I'm Jay and I'm non-binary and follow Loki, Freya and Thor. Not quite great at it but still. One thing I'd like to know is.. is Valhalla pretty much a Ragnarok training camp? I'm hoping I go to be with Hel.

So the short answer: it is that exactly, but also so much more.

Long answer is:

Valhalla is the land of honored dead who fell in combat. Yes, a majority of the depictions is explaining how the halls are full of battle and preparation for Ragnarok, and that Odin chooses the valiant slain during combat for the reason that they are powerful fighters and therefore worthy. But it's also about comradery and kinship, merriment, and celebration.

Other depictions of Valhalla portray it just as much a place of endless celebration where one who is chosen goes to revel with others in eternal glory and joy for the heroic warring deeds they did while alive. Everyone is together in these celebrations, and the sense of unity is immense. It's the place where legends never die, and tales are told eternally.

It's true that Valhalla is the place of battle and preparation for the ultimate fight, namely because those who died fighting are the chosen. But just as any warrior would do with their bands of siblings in arms, it's a place to celebrate your victories because, in the days of pre-Christian Scandinavia, death was seen more as a victory not a defeat. It was valor to die fighting for your clan and kin.

Hence you get things like the Havamal stanza 75 (pitt.edu translation): "Cattle die and kinsmen die, / thyself too soon must die, / but one thing never, I ween, will die, -- / fair fame of one who has earned."

Overall to understand the true purpose of Valhalla, you have to have an understanding of the life and facts of life that were during this time period. Much of the gods' tales across all accounts are about the inevitably of death and embracing it because nothing is eternal, and death is a given. Everything ends. Death is an end. But endings are a new beginning, and that new beginning can be beautiful. It's a chance for something better and greater to take the place of what was. And Valhalla as a concept shows us that we must revel in the glory of what was, and celebrate those who've done great things. And when the time comes for things to end, so be it. Joy and prosperity had their time and place, and a new life for other joy and prosperity will be born.

That isn't to say that Helheim and other lands are dishonorable and valor-less, though.

Just the same as Valhalla, it's often depicted that Helheim is a place where all others ascend who are not dishonored, and who Odin does not choose. This, therefore, includes the musicians, poets, artists, ethicists, scholars, anyone and everyone at all who simply lived an honorable life and died without being in combat. Legend lives elsewhere as much as it does in Valhalla, it's just simply in another form that isn't war and physical might.

I don't recall which sources I'd read from for this. But some folks choose to believe that the artistic people of Hel's realm are the ones who write songs and draw portraits of the legendary warriors of Valhalla. And others choose to imagine it holds the most intelligent of debates!

Whereas battle and merriment are the place of Valhalla, Helheim is the place of peace and honor. It was Christian depictions specifically which put Helheim in a poor light and made it seem like a desolate, torturous place akin to their land of hell, which, from what I understand, experienced a similar thing as a result of the crusaders, though I'm not Christian so I truly can't confirm or deny that.

But in the end, it's honorable to be chosen by either Odin or Hel, and if you have no desire to be a fighter in the end days, you have no obligation to be. Just as the skalds carried forth the legends, and scholars taught the wisdom sought by many, and crafters made the tools and clothes for survival, and cooks made the food and drink needed for sustenance, Hel understands everyone has a purpose and that this purpose isn't always living and dying to fight. She provides a place to keep those people after death where they, too, can be honored and together just as Valhalla, only without the violence.

So to sum it up: Valhalla is a place of celebration with combat. Helheim is a place for all non-warriors, and without combat and war.

I'm sorry this was so long, but I hope I answered your question well enough at least!

[twisting-echo]

𝐺𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑦𝑙𝑒𝑠 & 𝐹𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑦 𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠: 𝐴 𝐽𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑀𝑦 𝑆ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝑃𝑜𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑦

With this post, you all are about to truly witness the depths of my Gargoyles and Disney Princess obsession—I’m talking fanatic level. I wrote these poems for some Gargoyles crossover ships my friend @19molly97 created, which inspired me to ship my kin character, Snow White, with my sweet baby boy, Lexington. And let me tell you, she cooked up a fanfiction idea so good it could start its own fandom. Honestly, I might have to start aggressively hyping it up until everyone is on board. (inhales deeply) Soooo, that's why these poems exist!

Brooklyn x Cinderella:

𝐻𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝐴 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑎 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝐴 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑢𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚, 𝐴 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑚. 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑝.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑎 𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑤. 𝐻𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙—𝑎 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒, 𝐴 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.

Notes:

For this poem I wanted to capture that Brooklyn is searching—he’s always chasing something that feels just out of reach, whether it’s adventure, love, or a sense of belonging. He’s a romantic at heart but love always seems to slip through his fingers. (This was a recurring theme for him in the show.)

Cinderella, on the other hand, isn’t chasing love in the same way—she’s waiting, believing, enduring. She doesn’t actively seek a romance like Brooklyn does, but when love finds her, it feels like a dream she never thought would come true.

This contrast is what makes them work together for me. Brooklyn represents motion and passion, a fire that refuses to be tamed, while Cinderella embodies patience, quiet strength, and the beauty of a love that arrives when least expected—almost like a ‘So This Is Love?’ moment~

I think the third stanza in my poem is what ties them together beautifully. Brooklyn hears her song, and in it, he recognizes a kindred longing. He's drawn to her voice, but deeper than that, he understands what it’s truly saying—that she, too, has felt alone, that she, too, has dreamed of something beyond her world.

So while he runs toward love, and she waits for it to come, their connection is built on the fact that neither of them have truly had it before—but now, in each other, they find it.

Lexington x Snow White:

𝑂𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙. 𝑆𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑤𝑛, ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝐴 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑒𝑟’𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠. 𝑂𝑛𝑐𝑒, ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡.

𝑌𝑒𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒— 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤.

Notes:

For this poem, I was very much inspired by Snow White's Wishing Well, focusing on her wish. Snow White’s verses reflect her pure faith in love—a belief that, despite obstacles, fate will lead her to something beautiful. She never stops wishing, never lets go of hope, and her kindness shines without hesitation. Her heart has never been alone, not because she hasn’t faced challenges, but because she continues to trust in the goodness of the world.

The second stanza is directly inspired by one of my favorite quotes from Lexington in The Thrill of the Hunt: "We can't hide from the whole world up here. There are kindred spirits out there for us, but we've got to look for them and we've got to give them the chance. Or else, we'll always be alone." I love that quote because it not only becomes tragically ironic after The Pack's betrayal—making Lexington's longing for connection more jaded—but also because it mirrors Snow White's ideology!

The way I see their relationship starting, Lexington wasn’t always distrustful, but after the betrayal, he grew wary—learning that not everyone who appears to be an ally truly is. His skepticism and guarded nature contrasted with Snow White’s unwavering kindness. He’s suspicious, unable to believe that someone as kind and open as her could be real. In his head, he's thinking, "Why is she being so nice to me? Is this some kind of trick?" But as he watches her, something in her sweet, trusting innocence makes him wonder, "Did I used to be like that? And if I did… what happened to me?"

So when he meets Snow White, he struggles—not because he sees trust as inherently bad, but because he knows what happens when it’s given too freely. To him, trust has become something earned, not assumed, and Snow White seems to offer it without hesitation. That unnerves him, makes him question her sincerity, even as he finds himself drawn to her openness.

Through her patience, she helps him see that trust isn’t foolish—that it isn’t about being naïve, but about choosing to believe in the right people. She doesn’t demand he lower his walls; she just gently shows him, time and time again, that she is exactly who she seems to be. And in that, he begins to believe again.

Hudson x Fairy Godmother:

𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒-𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒’𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛, 𝐴 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑚.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒, 𝐴 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑇𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.

𝑇𝑤𝑜 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑀𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐 𝑚𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡’𝑠 𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑚, 𝐴 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑡—𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙—𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒.

Notes:

This poem was actually the easiest one to write and unlike the other three, gets a fourth stanza because that's how much I love Hudson and this ship!

I have a deep love for Hudson as a character and his history, so I really wanted to convey that Hudson is a mentor and protector, shaped by the challenges he has faced over centuries. His heart remains soft despite the hardships and losses he has endured. He does not wish for miracles, but rather, he accepts life for what it is—a cycle of battles and fleeting moments of peace.

The Fairy Godmother, on the other hand, exists in a world of wishes and transformation—where hope is never truly lost, and where a single spell can change the course of fate. While Hudson carries the weight of history and reality, she creates possibilities in places where others see only endings.

Hudson has long believed his story was already told—that his days of seeking love had passed, replaced by duty, wisdom, and the quiet acceptance of time’s weight. Yet, the Fairy Godmother reminds him that even for souls who thought they had seen everything, deserve a second dream. She does not rewrite his past nor change who he is—she simply offers possibility, a gentle reminder that some wishes are meant not for the youth, but for those who never thought to make them. Proving that love, when chosen, is never too late.

Griff x Aurora:

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑛 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝐴 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑢𝑡𝑦’𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑. 𝐼𝑛 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝐴 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑛, 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.

𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦𝑡ℎ, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑, 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑟, 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐴 𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝐴 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡.

𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑤, 𝑇𝑤𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒. 𝑁𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒— 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑦.

Notes:

Aurora and Griff's stories are shaped by forces beyond their control, each abruptly thrust into lives they never asked for. Aurora is told she is a princess, a future queen, already betrothed to a fate she never chose. The weight of prophecy binds her, forcing her into a destiny decided long before she could dream of anything else. She is cursed—her life dictated by a spindle’s touch, a fate sealed before she even understood love.

Griff, too, is marked by fate—not by royalty, but by war. He was meant to die, a freedom fighter lost to time, yet instead, he is pulled forward into the future, saved yet displaced, left in a world where everything familiar has vanished. The purpose that once anchored him has shifted, leaving him to redefine his place in a world that wasn’t meant for him. That displacement could make his survival feel less like a triumph and more like fate uprooting him, pulling him from where he was supposed to be.

Though Griff and Aurora's burdens differ, they recognize the same weight in each other—the loss of choice, the struggle against destinies they never wanted. But their love is a defiance, a break in the cycle. They are not bound by prophecy or war—they are bound by a decision only they can make. In each other, they find not just understanding, but the freedom to write their own story.

[asfaltics]

a sudden rush, which words could never speak

  a sudden rush, a something of sound behind me     ₁ as though a something of the past     ₂   a something of some few dimensions, a span-long     ₃ literature or something of that kind     ₄   a something of familiar sound     ₅ a something of which running water     ₆   as fluidity resides in water; a something of nothing     ₇ a something of that restlessness, which     ₈   curative agency is resolvable into a something of change     ₉ a something of life, a speck only; this somewhat about     ₁₀   still a something of the day     ₁₁ a something of light heart     ₁₂   A something of the heaven’s own light,       Which words could never speak.     ₁₃  

—

sources (their respective details at the more’s)

1 conclusion of Gordon Young his four-part story “Sourcery and Everhard,” in Adventure (First August, 1921) / more 2 J. St. Clement [Eliza Cook?], “My Walk to ‘The Office’” (No. vi. and last), in Eliza Cook’s Journal No. 100 (Saturday, March 29, 1851) / more 3 ex The Royall Passing-Bell : Or Davids Summons to the Grave. A Sermon preached (lately) in the Parish-Church of Orchard-Portman in Sommerset. At the Funerall of the most hopefull, and truly-noble, Sr. Hugh Portman, Baronet; the great losse and sorrow both of his name and countrie. By Humphrey Sydenham... (London, 1630) / more 4 Anthony Hope, The Dolly Dialogues (Chicago; ca 1894?; 1890) / more 5 Jane Austen, Persuasion (1818) / more 6 chapter 4, on “Roads,” in The rural economy of the Midland counties; including the management of livestock, in Leicestershire and its environs: together with minutes on agriculture and planting in the district of the Midland Station. By Mr. Marshall. v. 1 (of 2) (London, 1796) / more 7 from Chapter 55 “The Spiritual Sense of the World,” in The Yoga-vásishtha-mahárámáyana of Válmiki, translated from the original Sanskrit by Vihári-lála Mitra; Containing The Nirvána-Prakarana, Uttarádha (Calcutta, 1899) / more 8 “Passages from the Life of Mary Stuart,” The American Monthly Magazine (August 1, 1834) / more 9 David Uwins, A Treatise on those Diseases which Are Either Directly or Indirectly Connected with Indigestion : Comprising a Commentary on the Principal Ailments of Children (London, 1827) / more 10 a ( fortuitous ? ) OCR misread across columns two and three (near top) of page, at “Inaugural Address of the President, Thomas R. Huxley, LL.D., F.R.S., etc., before the British Association for the Advancement of Science,” in Scientific American> (October 8, 1870) / more 11 ex Canto IV, 102-103 of “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” in The Works of the Right Hon. Lord Byron, vol. 2 (of 2); (London, 1815) / more 12 ex “The Foundling of Liverpool,” by the author [likely Felix M’Donogh (1768?-1836)] of the Hermit in London, in The Ladies’ Museum “New and improved series” (London; January 1831) / more 13 ex stanza 2 (of 15) in the poem “The Ruin” by “Linus,” in The American Monthly Magazine (August 1, 1834) / more

all a something of’s  

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c2. 'The urgency.'

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs, eating disorders, depression.

song to listen to when reading this: The Chain, Fleetwood Mac.

abstract: this is Jude, this is a little bit of information about me since you care so much, I don't even know you… anyway yes, I really like being mysterious, what you gonna do about it, punch me in the face? I'm not even real, grow the fuck up. see ya.

Sometimes, she just fucking hated her life. She supposed it was normal like that, it happened to everyone to absolutely fucking despise their lives, no? She wakes at the same hour everyday, does her makeup. Not too much, not too little to show she was sleep deprived and got high last night. Her identity was concealed under eyeliner and blush. She looks like a doll. She likes her makeup, she's quite good at it. She plays with her hairstyles, sometimes a bun, sometimes braids, sometimes loose with a headband, depending on the mood. She walks her dog and cleans his poop. Jinx, a 5 month old Belgian Malinois she adopted when she moved. She found him at a shelter for abused puppies, he was the last one to get adopted. She decided to take him, she planned to move to the countryside soon anyways. Gaining his trust was one of her biggest accomplishments, now the dog had a bit of an attachment issue, but they were working on getting better together. She drives to work with the same 4 playlists playing in her car. Old rock, Frank Ocean, some Italian songs here and there.

She always comes in dressed in dark colours, dark red, dark blue or black. She has 10 male patients and 8 female soldiers. Some of them are combat medics, some snipers. Demolition experts. She works 'till lunch time, eats alone, sometimes skips lunch just to make her body feel something and indulge in disordered eating, then goes outside to smoke and comes back in. After the afternoon sessions, she sometimes has groups together for some group therapy. Then she usually goes home and smokes weed while she cooks her dinner, she acts like she's in MasterChef, puts on music and pours herself a glass of wine 'Quando sei qui con me' she sings to her dog, 'Questa stanza non ha più pareti, ma alberi'. Jinx doesn't even know Italian. Two times a week, she teaches ballet at a local dance school. 13 year old is not old enough to be on point shoes. It's her favourite time of the week though. She gets to finally have control of a situation, she gets some respect. 13 year olds, a fucking nightmare… She gets to tell them what to do and correct their arms, their feet, their posture and they listen! They do, and they like her, they say thank you Alba, see you next week! They learn her choreographies, they follow her lead when she explains a new variation. They even like the songs she chooses for warm up. Mostly Abba.

Alba is not her real name, but they don't know that. A gift from Laswell, when she started working for her. A sparkly new identity, English ID and nice documents that prove she's an English citizen, born in Southampton. She's not. Kept a little bit of Italian in the fake name. She hasn't been in Italy in close to five years. She went on vacation alone in Tuscany once, just to feel her country again for a second. She is not in contact with her family, last message from her sister was three years ago, it went 'I hope you're alive.' Her mother taught her violence. To be in power. To be beautiful and kind. To never ever trust someone who wouldn't give their life for you. Her mother taught her loyalty, respect. She used to never cry as a child. She loved to know stuff, to read about planets. She would kill lizards in the backyard with her little brother, who died young. She saw her first gun at 13. Now, her name is not Alba and it sure isn't Jude. Or Judy, as some patients call her. They know it's a callsign, a code name, everyone has one, especially in the task forces. Hers is Jude. 'Jude looks like an angel, but her words have thorns'. That's what Billy Lunette had to say about her. Billy had been her favourite patient for the whole of 2021. He had PTSD, he had night terrors and was in a mental hospital for schizophrenia symptoms for a while. He wouldn't take his medication, he would smoke, he was a mess. He listened to her though. She was the only one who visited him in the hospital. She showed him he could trust her and he completely lost himself in her. He would call her at 3 in the morning, drop by her office too many times per day, developed a bit of a codependency, but she was able to help him through his pain. He would do research about the treatments, the medicine, cognitive behavioural therapy. Billy was happy now. He was grateful to have had her and she was grateful that Billy had been a great patient. Big challenge. Billy was her biggest accomplishment, and proof of the fact she wasn't completely useless in the army.

She didn't work for the entirety of 2022. She had an accident with one of the patients, classified information. She survived, but man was it hard to live after that day... Spent time with her dog, visited a friend in San Francisco, taught ballet. Price and Laswell felt so guilty they continued to pay her even if she wasn't working. Why she decided to come back she really didn't know. She thinks the truth is she likes helping people, makes her feel good. She likes the crazy stories and that she had a reputation at the base, she was starting to be respected. She craved that. And it really started to bore her, the routine. Until Arash. Seeing Arash so frighted and tense was new, he was a calm and polite gentlemen. She saw an invisible string tying his story and his damned pilgrimage book to the mission she knew had failed in the Middle East. Now, it was a little bit of a stretch. So she did her little research, put her Sherlock hat on, lit a cigarette and started digging.

She had fun, until things really started clocking. He was missing his doctor appointments on purpose on specific dates, to go do what? Call someone? She couldn't steal his phone. Send letters? She tried the post office but found out nothing. The bank really did give her his statements, which was pure luck. He had set his personal security questions as his birthday and his mother's name, which she knew, because he told her. She knew everything about him, even his social security number. Arash really trusted her and she had an incredible memory for unnecessary details. Also, he left his wallet on the couch in her office countless times, it’s not that she looked, it was just there and she remembered. When she saw him stressed and fidgety she knew he was hiding something. She kept a straight face, 'Arash, we can really talk about whatever you want, you know' and he would interrupt her 'You don't understand. The urgency!', he continued to say. She really didn't want to tell Price herself, she would have preferred for Laswell to do it. She took extra time in the morning to get ready that day. She was going in a separate area she knew very little about, and nobody knew who she was. Sometimes people mistook her for someone's wife, or daughter. She chose her outfit accordingly, she wanted to seem professional. She wore a sports bra. There was nothing to look at anyways. She didn't put on lipstick, not even the nude one. She was used to being underestimated, and being looked down at. She was also used to raising her voice and presenting herself as stoic and cold. She knew perfectly how to be violence. She noticed a familiar face once she opened the door of the briefing room. A familiar face mask. The skull guy, she had seen him before. Was he the guy…

She could't get distracted. Her little mission went smoothly. She always knew Price liked her and feared her at the same time, and when it came to his little soldier boys, she really didn't care what they thought. The guy from the day of her accident even spoke to her. Poor thing. She was really amused no one told him about the reason why she didn't want to go home alone. He did really good that night, she remembers him well. He didn't try to speak too much, he sounded gentle. A gentle giant. Unfortunately for him, no one was gonna tell him about that day. When she left the room, she went straight home. She doubted someone would ever contact her again about the situation, they would handle it themselves, and probably very badly. She was driving to her ballet lesson, still thinking they all looked so confused by her words. They were probably gonna do a stupid interrogation, or rather do nothing and wait for the next mission to be a shit show. Imbecilli.

'Alright girls, one more time please!' At least she had her little ballerinas to cheer her up. She had them warm up, she usually did the warm up routine with them. She walked between the four rows of kids at the barre, delivering her corrections. Jennifer usually had stiff hands, and she was tense in her shoulders. Kyla had a beautiful turnout but she often confused her arms positions. The jetes routine, they always forgot that one. 'It's three in front and switch… guys I'm not gonna repeat myself'. She thought she sounded rude sometimes, but 13 year old American girls were a nightmare to work with. Last month, she even had to deal with poor Gemma being bullied in the changing rooms. 'I'm gonna say this just once, three in the front, switch to the back.' she liked demonstrating, felt like she was taking lessons herself. 'Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-da. And we're gonna hold here' she lifted herself on her toes and attached her right pointed foot to her knee. She let go of the barre, holding her balance on one foot. 'Passè.' she said. The girls groaned. 'The more you complain the more I'm gonna make you stay like this girls. We're gonna do one minute.' She went to the side of the room, to play the music 'From the top.'

notes: translation of the song: 'Quando sei qui con me' when you're with me, 'Questa stanza non ha più pareti, ma alberi', this room doesn't have walls no more, it has trees.

notes: Alba means something specific!

translation: imbecilli, means imbeciles.

notes: let me know what you think !! <3

love, mare.

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