#tragic love poems save me

[cowskulls]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[feelingdeath]

-I sometimes feel that love is a pity and not a necessity

-Do I love him for he loved me first or is it more deeper than that

-Do I crave him just for filling the void inside save him from me, please

-It scares me some times that I won't be able to love him enough

-What if I am not in love and this is a mere delusion of sorts

-And all these love songs make me blank simply because I don't deserve it

-If I have to, some one please teach me how to let go of love slowly

-What about the plans we made where do those lead us now that I crumble

-I still need him but I wish I fell for him first my pain knows no end

Ahhhhh I wrote 9 haikus just because I felt too much. M sorry love, m just on a low, please don't hate how she feels.

[a3therc0r3]

Boiling Blood

co-creator: @dragonspoems

summary: you wrote poetry during your time on Philos in your and Sylus’ own language; the poems found their way onto Earth and are now highly sought after, working to be decoded and being sold in auctions for billions. When Sylus learns about the poems, he immediately knows who wrote them, recognizing their language instantly. He has now made it his goal to hunt down as many of these poems as he can while simultaneously searching for you. 

content: sylus x f!reader, angst, past-relationship, pre-relationship, poetry, spoilers for sylus' myth

word count: 2,261

a/n: this is my first ever time posting on tumblr so i hope you enjoy!! i have some more fics coming in the near future(fluff, i promise-) also HUGE thank you to my amazing friend and collaborator @dragonspoems who not only wrote the poem in this fic but also gave me the idea for this fic!! go show them some love! this fic was also posted on ao3

first part is from sylus' POV

Appearances can be deceiving. For example, on the outside, one may see a violent lion, while on the inside, there is simply a shaking kitten. On the outside, one may see a calm, collected, well-kept man who sips occasionally on the venue-provided wine; swirling it around his glass in boredom. On the inside, his mind is racing, his eyes scanning the crowd and glancing back down to the list of goods. His knee bouncing as each item is sold off in a painstakingly long manner. Couldn’t they just get to what was important? What everyone was truly here for? Of course they couldn’t, you have to save the best things for last. 

Sylus watched as other guests whispered to one another, sharing rumors about the ancient writing that everyone was anticipating. They would lazily raise their paddles to pass the time, betting on a much less interesting artifact. A protocore here, a painting there, all while mumbling to their friends about the bits of this writing that had been released to the public. Hushed voices muttering about the beauty, the romance of the words. His beloved’s words. His. No one else’s. They didn’t deserve to read her literature, didn’t deserve to even attempt to translate their language. They didn’t watch from far away when she scribbled in a notebook. They didn’t know how her hands would smell of ink when she touched his face. They didn’t know anything and they never should.

Sylus’ grip on the list had tightened unconsciously to the point that his nails pierced through the paper. It had practically crumpled in on itself, his chest heaving as thoughts spun out of control. The masked twins beside him glanced at one another before leaning in slightly and whispering, 

“Boss? Are you alright?”

Sylus snapped out of his haze, clearing his throat and taking another sip of wine. The twins righted themselves and nodded, knowing to leave well enough alone. They knew better than anyone in here that hell was about to break loose the minute the poem was brought out. There was a high probability that it would end in bloodshed, considering how important this was to their boss; then again, there was always a possibility things could end in bloodshed with Sylus. 

After what felt like hours of waiting, the auctioneer finally grinned and leaned toward the microphone, 

“Now, ladies and gentlemen is the product that I have a feeling the majority of you are here to see. The antique poem is thought to have been preserved all the way from Philos,” guests leaned forward, their interests piqued, “Very few of these pages have been found, and even fewer have been translated from their original language. However, from what we can tell, these poems seem to be the story of beauty, tragic romance, the tale literally as old as time.” The man chuckled to himself, resting his weight on his hands placed on the edges of the podium, “Your faces tell me that many of you are already interested. Since these are so rare, I expect that there will be quite the competition, though we must ask that you all maintain your composure. Now, let’s start the bidding at fifteen million.”

Paddles raised instantly, calling out higher numbers on top of each other. Sylus crossed his legs and let his head rest against the back of his booth, his fingers turning the paddle over in his hand. He’d let them have their fun, wait until the cost had gone up before chiming in. 

“Fifty million from one forty-three, do I hear sixty? Sixty million anyone?” 

Guests continue to holler out their bids, waving their paddles impatiently. The auctioneer spoke a million miles a minute, pointing to each guest as he acknowledged the prices. Sylus remained silent until the bids had risen into the hundred millions. 

“One hundred and seventy million from Mr. Abrams, we are getting up there, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?”

Sylus raised his paddle, “Two hundred million.” His voice boomed above the others, a few turning to look at the unfamiliar vote. 

“Two hundred million! From Mr…” the auctioneer moved to spot him through the sea of heads, taking the microphone with him, “Mr. Sylus! Such an honor to have you here, sir! Two hundred million from Mr. Sylus, do I hear two hundred and ten? Two-ten, anyone?” 

A paddle was raised. So, they wanted to keep fighting? Bold move. The bidding continued, raising to two hundred and thirty million before Sylus spoke once more.

“Three hundred million.” The auctioneer practically laughed, “Three- three hundred million from Mr. Sylus! Another decent raise! Do I hear three-ten?”

Another paddle raised, “Three-fifty million,” the voice chimed out.

“Three hundred and fifty from this fine lady! Do I hear-”

The man didn’t get the chance to finish before Sylus cut in, “Four hundred million.” The woman who had placed the previous bet, turned from her seat to glare at Sylus, earning a smirk in response. 

“Four hundred million! The heat is cranking up here! Do I hear four hundred and fifty million?” The man strolled to the edge of the auction block, grinning as he spoke.

A paddle raised.

“Four hundred and fifty million from Mr. Abrams! Do I hear five hundred?” At this rate, it would take an hour to get the poetry. All Sylus wanted was something to remember her by, anything from his past life to cling onto while he searched for his beloved. Something to keep him sane in the meantime. He’d indulged them for long enough and now his patience was wearing thin. Sylus raised his paddle once more.

“One billion.”

More guests turned their heads, whispering to themselves as to why the leader of Onychinus would want a piece of poetry so bad. The auctioneer clapped dramatically, trying to excite the room, even though he had asked for the opposite moments prior. “One billion! Now that is an offer of the century. It’s going to be hard to top that, folks.”

“One point two billion.” The man from earlier–Mr. Abrams–raised his paddle, eyeing Sylus as he did so. 

Oh, so that’s how you want to play. Sylus held his paddle up before the auctioneer could even point to Abrams, “One point five.”

“One point seven.”

“Two billion.”

“Three.” 

The auctioneer chuckled wearily to himself, “Gentlemen, please, wait a moment for me to-”

“Ten billion.” Sylus carefully put his gun on the table, pointing the barrel in Abrams as he crossed his arms. His right eye glowed with such intensity that it made Abrams shiver on the spot as if Sylus could kill him with a mere stare. He probably could. The twins unsheathed their weapons, a silent warning, and had the man closing his mouth before he could voice another offer. It was time to shut up. Mr. Abrams turned back to face the auctioneer, placing his paddle down with a hmph! His wife muttered something bitterly to him.

The auctioneer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, “Ten billion from Mr. Sylus! Do I hear any higher offers? Anyone? Ten billion, going once, going twice? Sold to Mr. Sylus for ten billion! Congratulations, my good sir!” 

He continued moving on with the next item, but Sylus couldn't care less; he had gotten what he came here for. He rose, taking the last swig of his wine and placing his gun back into its holster. With a flick of his hand, the twins stepped back, allowing Sylus to walk towards the backstage area. A few guests stood to block his path, turning to him with pleading gazes.

“Mr. Sylus, surely I can offer you a much better deal to take the poem off your hands. I could even pay you back the ten billion you lost!” A man stepped forward, his hands clamped together as he spoke.

A woman beside him scoffed, “Please! You don’t even have half that amount,” she stepped towards Sylus, purposefully bumping her shoulder against the man’s before caressing the Onychinus leader’s arm, “I can give you money and a good time.” 

Sylus grimaced in disgust, pulling his arm away as another guest behind him chimed in, “I’ll give you my first-born daughter! A-and any valuables you want!” 

“I’ll give you my daughter and my wife!” a voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd, quickly followed by a slap and a woman yelling in a foreign language. 

The first woman tugged at his sleeve again, “Mr. Sylus, please! Just reconsider and I’ll make it worth your time!” 

Sylus pulled his arm away for a second time and glared at the crowd surrounding him, a red mist pushed through the mob, forcing them to make a path for him. “You’re all pathetic, you sit here and let people piss on you without even the courtesy of calling it rain,” he strode through the swarm of guests that were still whispering offers to him, the twins following close behind him. The auctioneer seemed to be frozen in awe, unsure of how to proceed with the event. When Sylus reached the curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the room, he turned to his henchmen, “Make sure they don’t disturb us,” and with that, he disappeared behind the fabric. 

The auctioneer let out a nervous chuckle, “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats so we may continue with our schedule,” disappointed mumbles filling the silence as they complied. 

Behind the curtain, Sylus had been led to a private sitting room, where he awaited for the staff member to bring him his winnings. The flickering glow from the chandelier cast warmth through the room, hugging him in a mellow embrace. He crossed his legs, tapping his foot impatiently against the carpet. He could be wrong, the poem may not be what he thought they were. It could all be just a coincidence, every ounce of his past life was truly lost to a wind he would never feel again. Sylus grit his teeth and glared down at the rug, thoughts racing. 

A knock on the door interrupted his pondering, the woman that had escorted him stepped back into the room with a smile, “Your purchase, sir.” She handed him a leather binder with gloved hands and stepped back against the wall. 

He waved a dismissive hand at her. She bowed, seemingly disappointed, “We thank you for your appearance,” and with that, he was left alone. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, opening the binder with a shaky hand. A yellowed and faintly crinkled paper sat in a sheet protector. With careful fingers, Sylus pulled the paper from its film, rubbing his thumb over the familiar texture. He had recognized the handwriting immediately–it had been ingrained in his memory for as long as he could remember–the poem was exactly what he had hoped it was: one written by his beloved. Biting his lower lip, he read her scrawls, 

It’s been years, and yet I still couldn’t explain the ache, from what I was, my very essence. It was painful to contain it. 

It hurts so damn much, going through days knowing what fools I am surrounded by. They don’t know anything yet, born with silver spoons in their mouths, not a gem in their eyes. 

I wished to be like them. Ignorance is bliss to the things I’ve seen, letting them take more–all they think they need. 

Yet his voice, a devil’s call, to grow back my claws, to be the one he fell in love with, to be the one I am, the one I unforgivably was.

I knew that call. I knew that need–the need that claws inside of mine–to let the world be filled with traitors’ screams.

Killing what was mine, forcing my hands into the fire of unbeknownst burning in his chest. 

I hated him, loathed him for it, for he knew who I was–a beast, a creature within that wanted their blood, wanted to dance on their graves for all the wrongs they have done. 

Something in my mind telling me he was, he is mine, and mine alone. He belongs. I belong to no one but us, and the spirits of our own, souls of the same kind.

They banished and looked away, laughed and smiled, celebrated the unbecoming of something that was mine and mine alone. 

Soon enough they will know. They will find what they have done, through my everlasting boiling blood. 

I cannot blame him for what he did, for it is as well the doing of mine.

Sylus stared at the paper, biting his lip harder, blinking rapidly to banish the tears threatening to spill. He took another breath, cleared his throat, and looked down at the initials that sat at the bottom of the page. Your initials. Because it was always you, and it will only ever be. The only one he would spend billions on to read a few lines of poetry. 

Sylus gripped the paper tighter as if it would disintegrate in his very fingers, the same way he once had, lifetimes ago on another world. He gazed up into the flickering light of the chandelier; his mind had been made up the moment the fragments of his soul had blown through that breeze so long ago. He was going to find you, no matter how long it took. He would wait centuries, traverse hellscapes, die as many times as he needed to, to find his way back into the arms of his beloved.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it

[superkooku]

Favorite character from Greek mythology + favorite myth from Greek mythology?

Favorite characters

I'll turn this into a tag game : @margaretkart @dootznbootz @sarafangirlart @aliciavance4228 @katerinaaqu @hermesmoly @go-rocksquadsfan @sanska @vint-knight .

And @anon (you can give your answer in another ask 😉).

So, I have a loooooooot of faves. This list is long.

Here are mine :

Nobody. Yeah, in reality, I hate mythology and just pretend I like it. Or I just love making puns about my favorite lying war criminal. Who didn't cheat btw.

Penelope. These two are soulmates, no ifs or buts. I always found her underrated and @dootznbootz 's ramblings on her confirm that. Cunning and sassy half-naiad queen.

"The delian twins", as I like to call them. Idk I really love their multifaceted natures of protectors and deadly huntress/inflictor of illnesses (with an affinity towards plague). And their familial bond is precious. And I like them both equally, even though I talk about Apollo a bit more ig.

Leto. She's precious. They're always ready to defend each other. Like when Apollo and Artemis killed Niobe's kids because she was disrespectful to Leto. Or when Leto came in to save her son from being thrown in Tartarus by Zeus. Or when baby Artemis helped her mother deliver her brother. She fought for her children and now they fight for her.

Hestia. Too bad there isn't more about her because I relate a lot to the concept of chilling at home and staying away from drama.

Ariadne. Because of her family's tragic history, her healing from it with Dionysus (in most versions) and overall, she's great. Also, it's funny how Theseus wanted to marry a child of Zeus but his ex girlfriend actually succeeded 😂. Speaking of her family tragedy...

Asterius. I bet most adaptation authors don't know who I am referring to 🤣. He's a man-eating monster, yes, but he grew up isolated, trapped and unloved. I feel so bad for him.

Perseus. The GOAT. Partly thanks to @sarafangirlart. I already liked him since I always knew he wanted to save his mother, but he genuinely grew on me since I read her posts. That and when I learned of his war against Dionysus. Extremely underrated story.

Athena. Idk I don't think I need to elaborate on why she's cool.

Hades. In retellings, I often hate him because he's either woobified or made into "Greek Satan" (at least in Disney he's fun), but he's genuinely cool in mythology. Morally gray Hades save me.

Hermes. From birth, he was always a little trickster. I love how many functions he has (messenger of the gods, god of merchants, thieves, communication, also a psychopomp btw). A very energetic and helpful god.

Asclepius. I think I should make a post explaining why he's great because, yeah, I don't talk much about him even though there are things to say (yeah it's because I did a lot of research on him).

And... finally... Dionysus 🤣. Of course he made it in this list. I dedicated a whole essay series about this god, come on !

Honorable mentions : Hector, Andromache, Menelaus, Demeter, Telemachus, Hephaestus, Hippolytus, Danae, Ares and many others.

Favorite myths/plays/poems

I already answered that but can't find the post. So I'll do it again, with some new answers in mind. Basically "the myths with the characters on the list".

It's either because they're that compelling or just hilarious.

The homeric cycle. Ok, an easy one.

The Bacchae by Euripides (mandatory reading if you want to understand Dionysus imo. No excuses).

The frogs by Aristophanes. Because it's funny.

Asclepius' story. Seriously I'll elaborate on it one day.

Hermes' birth story. Him stealing Apollo's cows and Apollo getting mad at his scallywag of a brother 🤣🤣. And then just him winning Apollo over with the lyre.

Pirithous and Theseus getting their asses stuck on a chair (yes this is my title for this story). I love to mock these two, especially Pirithous because... give this man a Darwin award please. No thoughts and no survival instincts in his brain 😂.

Orpheus and Eurydice. Simple but powerful.

The Argonautica. Aka a huge crossover. Seeing more interactions between all these heroes would be awesome (especially if we take every version into account 👀. So many faces...). It's funny how I love the Argonautica but never talk about Jason himself 🤣🤣. The embodiment of the protagonist who's less interesting than the other characters.

Perseus' war against Dionysus. A potential retelling about this myth would go so hard !! Especially since we could get a scary Dionysus. Hopefully it doesn't get ruined :(

Edit : some English mistakes I had to correct.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

You got me simping for Vaegon…

First of all thank you so much for reading it and omg yes Vaegon is just so cute and his decision to become Archmaster has saved him such an icon in his family…even though you didn't ask for it anon I thought this might do another simp some good enjoy reading ;)

Prince/Achmaster Vaegon Targaryen in a relationship SFW/NSFW

°You met him when he still held the title of prince of the realm. One of many princes and princesses but a young man who had already suffered losses of his own blood. The deaths of his siblings and yet this did not seem to bother him, he attended the funerals and mourning ceremonies and kept to the prescribed time of mourning and yet. She had never seen a single tear in his violet eyes or a look of distress. On the contrary, the more deaths that happened, the more everyone mourned, the more often his gaze seemed to settle on her. Since those times of mourning, they seemed to be more and more united. He gave her his cloth handkerchief and even sent her a cup of tea to lift her spirits, ,,With best wishes from Prince Vaegon," her servant had told her.

°The paths of the two often crossed in the castle, a courtesy always towards her, and she thought she saw something like true joy in him when she was with him in the library, they met there almost every day, she kept him company more and more. She turned away from her friend and princess Alyssa to spend her free time with Vaegon. ,,You can go to the hunt, the others will be waiting," he had once said when she had preferred to read and study with him in the castle garden instead of attending the royal hunt. It was the first time she put her hand on his and saw the smile on his fine lips and it was the first time he came closer and gave her a kiss.

°It was the first time he neglected his duty and gave in to his feelings as his sisters did. ,,By the Great Citadel, I've wanted to taste you for so long," he confessed as his delicate hands held her, not roughly but gently, yet she sensed a power slumbering in him, his violet eyes always watching her. That this beginning was a time of love, trust and secrets. When she was with him, he laughed a hearty laugh, an honest laugh, something that made her heart beat faster. When he was with her, he allowed himself physical contact with her, cuddled with her in his chambers and read her the most beautiful poems he had composed.

°He was the only one who allowed her to ride out with him, telling her everything he knew about the animals and plants with a curious gleam in his eyes as she rode beside him, a sweet smile curling her lips. ,,Your knowledge is your beauty, Vaegon," she had said and giggled as she saw his pale blue cheeks turn pink and he looked away. But when she tried to give him a kiss, he returned the favor and kissed her faster. A day that ended in even deeper love in the forest. A day that had started with blood when he was cut with a sword by his older brother during training and angrily left the yard only to be slowly helped by her when he understood that she cared, that she had always seen him, that he was not overlooked as he had been by his parents. ,,I always take your concerns seriously, my prince," she confessed and finally pulled the fresh bandage around the wound and was about to turn away when he took her hand and squeezed it gratefully, ,,And for that I am bound to you my dear love".

°But as love blossomed, it also became clear that with the royal couple becoming parents and the death of his siblings, it was more tragic than ever that he was eligible for the Thorn. A fact that involved power and danger, ,,I don't want a throne if it increases the likelihood of losing you, my love," he had made clear one night as they sat together in front of the fireplace, the books set aside and his hand resting on hers. Her uncertainty about this, however, was extinguished when she saw the stubborn glow in the violet when he had to fight his enemies in the castle courtyard. When they humiliated him and he withdrew, he knew no, she knew just as he knew that he would never want to be king…but they both knew that a prince cannot shirk his responsibilities. Even if she came from a noble house, she was no Tyrell, Hightower or Lannister, it would not be enough for a marriage.

°But his decision and his father's permission brought new sides of love and soon she found Vaegon in front of the Citadel again knowing that it was actually a farewell, that he would lose his status, that he could pursue his destiny forever, ,,I will find a way…I will find a way to love you forever…even if it means breaking duties". A promise which he sealed with a kiss and deeds because as prince he arranged for him to have his personal servant and septa, a woman who would take care of his everyday affairs without notice. A matter that was settled when she put on the white robe and pinned the dragon's brooch to it almost with pride. ,,So everyone will see that you belong to me and are mine," she heard his whispered words as she was with him in his private room and thought she saw the madness, the madness of dragons, in his violet eyes for a moment in the semi-darkness …. but it was surely her imagination as he engaged her in another kiss.

NSFW

°The days at the citadel were long and exhausting, the knowledge had to be transferred and learned, chains had to be forged and the camp had to be managed. Rules, duty and order and a single woman among hundreds of men. But there was pride in her gaze, she did not duck away, she seemed to become like him, dutiful and yet with a hint of haughtiness that she knew, no actually everyone knew, what she was doing behind closed doors, what sounds came from the prince's room as his fingers slipped under the white dress. Peeling the fabric from her body, he almost greedily took what was rightfully his, his own dragoness nien better than what his shiwsters had ever had. ,,You are the precious treasure of House Targaryen, not the throne or the crown," he murmured to her as he kissed his way along her skin until he could finally touch her again.

°He marked her, trailing his kisses along her skin that was otherwise protected by the fabric, biting spurs over which he ran his fingers throughout the day. ,,Your beauty is indescribable gods," he sighed as his fingers massaged her breasts, gripping the flesh of her thighs, praising her, longing for her praise as she clung to him as he penetrated her, moaning her name, keeping the sounds of lust through the corridors at night in the darkness of the sacred place.

°He turned to painting with various fabrics and colors in the course of his studies, ,,You as my muse are the only thing beautiful in these halls," he had said as she sat down on the armchair, his demands animated with lust, his violet eyes seeming to turn a dark purple as she gradually released the fabric from her crown and spread her legs. He saw her swallowing, humming something to himself, and he had to restrain himself from throwing the painting away and taking her. He came up to her hungry for her sweetness for more of her when he knelt down in front of her his way up her leg trailing kisses on it to finally let his tongue wrap over her center. Studying his body from her beautiful example and learning to receive her praise.

°But even during the day in the citadel, she felt the other's gaze on her, felt his touch on her body like a gentle breeze. But she also helped him when she "helped" with all the things, pulling her hand onto his, pulling him into chambers. This time it was his lascivious noises that echoed through the corridors. Vaegon tried to suppress them, a shaking hand on his mouth or hiding his head in the books, but his redness was clearly visible to her when she looked up at him. His fingers tangled almost gently and needily in her hair, praising her. The hours of their love always took place in the free time and then until late at night but most of all their time together was safe from the throne and the battles outside the citadel where their love and lust could blossom.

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

masterlist

[suzannahnatters]

I blazed through the first 25% of my FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING audiobook reread in 3 days whoops

nb this is like the 9th or possibly 10th time lets go wheeee

FOREWORD

it's SO iconic of JRRT to come out swinging with "some people are wrong about my book and I have chosen to make it everyone's problem"

PROLOGUE - CONCERNING HOBBITS

"after the book is over Celeborn is going to go and live at Rivendell, and Sam is going to preserve Bilbo's and Frodo's literary legacy, and Merry Brandybuck is going to become a loremaster in herbology and history and linguistics, and Pippin Took - well, Pippin doesn't do diddleysquat"

CH 1 - A LONG EXPECTED PARTY

Gandalf is the personal emissary of the gods wielding a ring of power crafted thousands of years ago by the legendary elven-smith Celebrimbor under the tutelage of Sauron, Dark Enemy of the World. he uses this artefact, among other things, to create fireworks for children.

CH 2 - THE SHADOW OF THE PAST

this is THE chapter to me. I cracked open LOTR for the first time when I was 10 and noped out somewhere around chapter 3 because it was SO SCARY HELP but chapter 2 had got me, I HAD to find out whether Frodo ever found the Cracks of Doom

instead of One Chosen Hero who Saves the World JRRT gives us the One Dreaded Artefact which Must Be Destroyed, doesn't matter by whom though ideally it'll be a complete nobody - nobody is doing it like him. this might possibly explain why I've always wanted to read fantasy books about the one person in the world with NO magical abilities at all

the way that Gollum gets so humanised in this chapter drives home how this book plays with notions of heroism/protagonism. Aragorn is the classic fantasy hero, the promised king whose main function is to run distraction while the hobbits get the job done. Frodo is the protagonist through whose eyes we see the story but in the end he fails his job. Sam is the true protagonist because in the end he is the one with agency. Gollum is the tragic hero whose fall becomes a vehicle of grace in bringing about the Ring's destruction. and right from the start he's honoured that way by the book bringing us into his perspective.

it's always DELIGHTED me that on a re-read you can track more or less when Sam starts listening in by the fact that his shears stop snicking in the background

our boy Frodo is so relatable for how he reacts to the news that the dark lord of Mordor has probably heard his name and knows where he lives, it's like he's become twitter's main character for the day...but I think the main reason this chapter terrified me so much as a child is because of how strongly as a child you identify with Frodo, being so aware that one is only a small hobbit in the grand scheme of things. it's something I think that as a kid you identify with.

huge drama going down in the sitting room as Gandalf recoils halfway to Gondor at the thought of being asked to take care of the Ring himself. smash cut to Sam outside pretending to be bustling around the garden whistling to disguise the fact that he's been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

love the way that Gandalf is coded as wise and prophetic in this chapter. he takes on a sort of old testament prophetic role, not in terms of being able to look into the future but in terms of being able to look at the present with heightened vision to perceive the workings of divine providence

"THEY'RE MIGHT SUS DOWN IN BUCKLAND" says Gaffer Gamgee to a several thousand year old incorporeal nightmare fuel phantom

CH 3 - THREE IS COMPANY

it will never not be utterly delightful to me that given the strength and terror they later achieve the ringwraiths come into the story getting sassed by hobbits and later, falling off things

never not losing it when Frodo, on leaving the shire, suddenly recites the same poem Bilbo spoke when returning to it. cept that when Bilbo spoke of "wandering" feet Frodo speaks of "weary" feet 😭😭😭 MY BOY

"cannot imagine what information could be more terrifying than your hints and warnings" MOOD, I think that Gildor's vague alarms are part of the reason I DNF'd the book age 10, I simply could not handle that

a bit difference between the SILMARILLION versus HOBBIT and LOTR is that in the latter we get a look at the elves from an outsider perspective and it's so fun, the Mirkwood Sindar come across as tricksy folklore elves but Gildor's Noldor are coded quite differently, as fair back-of-the-north-wind elves

CH 4 - A SHORT CUT TO MUSHROOMS

we're getting so much character development for the hobbits already - Frodo already isolated by his burden emotionally in a way that foreshadows the severe physical isolation he'll undergo later; Sam manifesting prophetic wisdom and foresight under the Elves' influence; Pippin just being a happy-go-lucky boyy and we even get a strong sense of Merry as the practical, capable one handling logistics in the background (am I still sore at the movies for making them both comic relief? yea verily)

"short cuts make long delays but inns make longer ones" spoken like a man who tried to go on multiple walking tours with CS Lewis

the vibe of these chapters is impeccable, it's like cosycosycosy SPINE MELTING PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR cosycosycosy

but it's also actually super reminiscent of Stevenson and Buchan - this whole sense of being hunted relentlessly through an otherwise beautiful peaceful landscape.

[justjudethoughts]

I think my favorite thing Stroud did is introduce Jessica into the narrative, and it's a bit complex to explain why. So I thought I'd start by sharing an unfinished poem written by myself as a bit of a framing "vibe":

There is a very specific, seldom explored, type of grief that accompanies there being more about the person that you don't remember than what you do. Of course, with Lockwood being 9 when Jess dies, he remembers a lot more about her than about his parents. But he was still pretty small, and the older he gets the less he is going to remember, especially considering that the bulk of his memories with Jess would have been before he even turned 9. In the context of Anthony's life, Jess is a historical figure, not a contemporary. And that is a different type of grief than the grief that comes from losing someone when both parties are significantly older.

The type of grief that Jess causes truly is a "ghostly" form. It's the "haunting the narrative" form. And it's a very real thing. It's the type of grief that comes from having a grandparent you never met, but their picture and stories being everywhere around the house and your heart always being aware that something is missing. It's the grief that comes from a tragic, untimely death that leaves the distinct feeling that the person "should still be here."

Our dining room table seats six people, but there are only five of us, so there is always one empty seat that happens to be the seat next to my older brother's spot. My eldest brother was still born, and growing up, sometimes I would look at the empty chair and mentally dub it "Patrick's" chair, where he was supposed to be.

A friend once told me she didn't like the idea of naming a kid after a deceased relative, because it makes the kid "a walking tombstone." That smacked some string in my heart really hard, because if I am honest, that's what I want to be. I want to be a living memorial of the people who have loved me into existence. I want people to know me, and in turn, know the people who my heart aches for. I'm named after my grandmother, who died in her 40s. She didn't meet any of her grandchildren. I also happen to look extremely similar to her. And it is my greatest honor to be recognized because of that. Because everyone loved her. Everyone has beautiful stories to tell. Her funeral was standing room only. If my name and face can be a reason she isn't forgotten, then make me a walking gravestone. I can think of no higher honor.

And I think, in some way (albeit an unhealthy way at first), this is what Anthony is trying to do. He goes by "Lockwood" so the family name always rings out on the lips of the public. He carries on a similar line of work to his parents, and a line of work that could have saved his sister. He doesn't change a single thing in the house. Despite his refusal to talk about them, he organizes his life in such a way that he is a testament to the fact that they are gone.

And then he reads his parents last lecture. Then he puts the pieces together. And something changes in him.

He no longer lives to be a testament to their absence. He lives to be a testament to the fact that they were here. And that it mattered. That everything they were and did mattered. That his parents were close to solving the Problem, and that he is close to finishing their work. That Jessica's death glow never went away so she could save her baby brother. That no matter how short a person's time on earth is, they leave a mark. His family is his reason to keep going. To show the world, over and over again, that they mattered.

And I love Stroud for that.

[mommysmistake]

Yugotalia characters as Bosniak poets and writers + explanations (a mutual of mine did this with Russian writers and I wanted to do something similar, btw @zhanechka is her account so check it out)

Dražen - Alija Nametak; he wrote some tragic and intense stories with a touch of drama, he was even sentenced to 15 years in prison for one of his stories called "Za obraz" (I can see this happening with Dražen)

Ilija - Zija Dizdarević; he was a young writer who came from a small village near Ljubuški and studied in Belgrade. In WW2 he was an illegal in Bosnia and Herzegovina until he was sent to a concentration camp where he died. He wrote melancholic stories about society and different themes like death and love. I could imagine Ilija going through a similar fate and writing in the same kind of style.

Šćepan - Musa Ćazim Ćatić; a poet who wrote many stories about love and longing. his poems "Sjećaš li se?" makes me think of his relationship with Idriza, when they were separated and he thought she stopped loving him and asked himself if her love withered like a flower. He also has a great poem describing the Neretva river and I think Šćepan would write something similar, comparing his love's beauty to the one of the river and it's surroundings.

Idriza - Umihana Čuvidina; she was a poet who started writing after her fiancé's death, she was very heartbroken and didn't want to marry anyone else after it happened. This could either be her with Enis or Šćepan, but I think it could rather be the case of MonteHerze and after they had to be separated she didn't want to marry Enis, but had to.

Enis - Abdulah Sidran; even though he's not like the others I mentioned as he wrote more recently, his stories are amazing. With a touch of humor at times, they manage to teach great morals and lessons. I can see Enis as a person who uses humor to cope and tell others a deeper message. Sidran was also an empath who loved animals dearly, and sadly, he passed away last year.

Vuk - Mula Mustafa Bašeskija; a chronicle writer from Sarajevo who wrote down all important events which have happened there while he was living. He claims "everything that is written down remains, and everything that is remembered disappears". I imagine Vuk to be a more "evil" version of him, writing a chronicle in an usual way, misusing this quote in a way and writing down only the good things that happened and his actions that make him look good, not talking about the bad ones. I mostly thought he fits him because on the Yugotalia website he has a sort of diary where he answers all his asks and I think he'd have another one where he writes down everything happening around him along with his commentary on it. He would often look at it and think of how great everything was back then because he didn't want to speak of the misfortunes, unless they happened to him and he could use them to victimize himself.

Tatjana - Habiba Stočević-Rizvanbegović; a poet from Stolac who was the daughter of Ali-Paša Rizvanbegović. After her father's death, her family moved to Sarajevo and then to Turkey. There, she wrote poems about love, but only one of them was saved, a poem about her hard love life called "Kad od tvoga oštroga pogleda". In it, she turns to the man who has hurt her and calls him unfaithful. Tatjana has been surrounded by men who have preyed on her all her life and they have never showed her love, only lust, which hurt her. They would have no problem leaving her when their desires have been fulfilled.

Janez - Derviš Sušić; he was in the Partisans and wrote a book about uprisings against class divisions. I think Janez would've also fought as a Partisan in WW2 and he'd write about such themes as he wrote, which is ironic, since Janez is shown to be greedy and well off, always being begged by others to borrow them money.

[im-goofball]

rubs hands together. do the gorosei have families in your lore? if so I'd like to see their parents [or hear about them], what did they look like in their youth? Do they have devil fruits or are they yokai? PLEASE 🙏

OMG IT'S CHRISTMAS!!

The Gorosei during the Void century, art by my co-lore creator @genri-o

Warcury-Born in the Year of Sun 595 AF

(48 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as a middle-class noble, but family died in a tragic shipwreck when he was just a baby

-Was took into the Saint Vlad's Orphanage when he was just one year old by an unknown person

-After leaving the Orphanage at 16, he started studying law in the prestige Royal Law Academy that he has been saving for his whole life

-At twenty he graduated with honours and became a judge, aspiring himself to climb the hierarchy to get the highest position in Slaviugia Kingdom

-He became the Supreme Judge of Slaviugia at 35, recorded in the Year of Sun 630 AF, the second youngest person to get this job in history

-Was elected as the Chief of Royal Court in the Year of Sun 633 AF and became one of Tsar's advisor's year after

Ethan-Born in the Year of Sun 596 AF

(47 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as an orphan in the land of Wano

-At 5, he was found starving in the streets by shogun Kozuki Saisho and his men, who then took him in as his son.

-For the next twelve years he was trained by the greatest blade master in that time, Lunarian named Andaiell Daerlion, with his younger brother Sutara (who he greatly envied due to the fact that he was Saisho's biological son, and therefore was shown more love then Ethan recieved)

-At age 18, he became one of the Moon Guards, elite group of twenty samurai directly operating under Shogun and protecting his and his family's life.

-Ethan had medicore education, despite being adopted into the royal family he never recieved any royal title nor any proper education as he should have (Wano still had strict rules when it came in their 4 Classes: 1. Royal family, 2. The Church of Moon, 3. Nobles, 4. Commoners) and so he is terrible at math and had to hone his reading skills by reading many books and poems. He was naturaly skilled in caligraphy though

-He adopted the name Ethanbaron after the creation of the WG, and he still mostly responds if people call him Nusjuro since he lived with that name most of his life

Saturn-Born in the Year of Sun 598 AF

(45 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as the only child of royal Jay Garcia bloodline, son of king Methone and queen Anthea of the Greecion Kingdom

-Lost his mother at the early age of four as she died of miscarriage and then his father at the age of twelve after he died of an unknown illness

-Became the king month after, recorded in the Royal Cronicles: Year of Sun 610 AF

-He was spoiled a lot when he was a child, especially by his father who taught him a lot about politics. Most nobles and members of Grecion Royal Court tried to manipulate him and treated him like a snobby child, which of course he was, but he was much more dangerous and smarter then they thought and quickly got rid of oposition whilst he grew in power

-When he grew older, the passion he and his mother had for science grew larger and at the age of fourteen he atended the Academy of Sciences and graduated at the age of seventeen with honourifics

-In the Year of Sun 620 he was wedded to princess Tethys Saerlios, who was still eighteen at the time

-He was opposed to this at first, he had never met her after all, and had no idea what she was like

-The first time they met was in a lab Saturn thought belonged to one of the Royal physicians, but was surprised to find a young woman fixing a star-ship's motor. Not realizing it was Tethys , since she was dressed in an engineer's clothes stained with oil and lab glasses he came closer

-The first thing Tethys said to him and she was still with her back turned to him was: "Could you hand me that screwdriver over there?"

-Saturn was dead set on marrying that woman

-At the dinner table Saturn realized that the princess he was supposed to marry and that messy engineer from the lab before were the same person

-They married after a year, recorded in tue Royal Cronicles: Year of Sun 621 AF

-After 6 years, they had their first child and heir to the Greecion Kingdom, Jay Garcia Dione and 3 years later they had daughter, princess Jay Garcia Rhea

-Saturn and Tethys became one of the most influencial people of their time with their inventionsa and scientifical/engineering knowledge aslo the fourth wealthiest in the All Blue

Mars-Born in the Year of Sun 589

(54 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as the third son of the royal Mars bloodline of Aurelion Kingdom, son of King Deimos III. and queen Aurelia

-His older brothers, Feobos and Sandos died in hunting "accident" in 598 AF and his mother, Aurelia commited suicide three months after

-Mars became king at the age of eighteen after his father, who grew mad with grief died in Trail of Sun by Mars' hand as he was unfit to rule and almost brough Aurelion to ruin, recorded in Sun's Cronicles of Aurelion; the Year of Sun 607 AF

-At the age of 35 he went to war with the ruler of Themisto Isles, the King of Storms, Shepherd Ju Krono, after the man invaded one of Mars' allied kingdoms for the goal of conquest

-The war was known as The Falcon War and took three years till Mars defeated Krono on battlefield, killing him with his own sword the Stormfeather. The end of the war was recorded to be established in 627 AF

-Since Krono died, Mars was debating on the peace treaty with Krono's only son and the Crown Prince, Shepherd Ju Peter who became the new king of Themisto islands at the young age of 13

-He took the boy as his son two years after, since it was discovered Mars was unable to have children so his bloodline would die there. (And he seemed rather fond of the sassy child)

Peter-Born on the Year of Sun 614 AF

(29 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as a child out of wedlock of king Shepherd Ju Krono and unknown woman, theorised to have been a commoner

-Since Krono had no other child and never married due to his how shall I say... flirty personality, he had no other choice but to legitimize Peter and name him his heir and Crown Prince

-Whilst growing up, Peter was mostly looked down upon due to his "stained blood-status" and never had any great relationship with his father, but he still loved him nonetheless

-He became king after his father Krono died at the age of 47 by the hand of an enemy, king Marcus Mars

-He became fondof the man after meeting him, as he was the only person who took him seriously despite his young age an little of experience as a ruler

-They became rather close for the next two years and Peter was not really surprised when Mars offered an allience and then proposed the Rite of Two (a ritual with sake cups, bur much mire complicated then the one origanting from Wano)

-Despite The Falcon War and the tragic death of his biological father, Peter never felt any hate or negative emotion towards Mars, as he understood that it was Krono who was the agressor

-Peter even offered to adopt Mars' name, but the king refused.

They are not eaxctly devil fruit users, because they never eaten the fruits containing their yokai powers, rather they were given to it by Mu (details for later asks).

I will show you Jay Garcia family, also @genri-o 's artworks, later on in the ask (if you ask for them of course)

[noctivagant-corvid]

this war will be fought up and down

this is a poem about nothing in particular. do not read into it.

i ask my mother why this can  happen and she says people  are confused. she says people  are scared. she says he lies to  them, makes them feel safe. okay, i say, can he lie to me too? 

i am younger than you and i would  like to be loved. i am younger than  you and i would like to live. define  democracy. please don’t draw your  weapon in the process.

i live in the ocean but that doesn’t  mean i have faith. here is the house  you live in. here is the house that kills  you. in the end, they’re both painted red. 

i’ve asked my mother how people can be so filled with hate and she doesn’t  have an answer. to be honest, i’m worried  about you all. all that poison you keep in  your mouth, spitting at anyone that isn’t  exactly like you- it can’t be good for you.  how do you go about life with that much  hate for everyone around you?

my mother says it has something  to do with the fear. i am scared all  the time, and i have yet to kill anyone.  i am full of hate, though. hate curdles  on my tongue like day old milk, sharp  and cruel and tragic. i think we mirror  each other.

at the core of it we’re just two groups of  scared people full of hate. the key  difference is this: you are scared of  the future. we are scared of the present. 

the liars feed on fear. listen. together we  can save ourselves and they know this.  this is why they keep blame in the stories.  together we can save ourselves. turn your  weapons upwards. safety lies ahead, if  only we turn our sights.

YOU CAN ALSO READ THIS POEM ON MY ALLPOETRY!

PLEASE REBLOG, BUT DO NOT REPOST.

[rougehira]

Guillotine

Afterword :

**Spoiler Warning**

This is a poem inspired by my partner's fan fiction on Bruno and Abbacchio's tragic relationship, doomed by the narrative. Two souls, one dying and the other dead, and the despair of not being able to save someone in his group and the person who is his loved one must have eaten Bruno inside out. His lament, his pain, his feeling of failing his group as he is the leader, and I wanted to put that into words in a far simpler way as I could. The fact that he was living on limited time makes it even more tragic that Buccarati was a man doomed who just tried to help the other.

"What's important isn't the end result, it's how you get there,"

"Join my team. Don't die bound by your past."

It should've eaten him up that joining the team was the reason he died, but he did die free of his past, so in a way Abbacchio had reached the salvation he wanted. I wonder if Buccarati ever found solace in the thought that soon he would die and find his way to his loved one too.

The title of the poem is a direct reference to the title of the fan fic she wrote and also the song Guillotine which was one of the inspirations behind the fiction, so I heard it again and again just so I could figure out how to write this poem as I didn't want it to in any way be inaccurate or incompetent compared to the fan fic. If you're going to read this poem then I highly recommend you to read my partner's fan fiction on Bruno and Abbachio as it was my main inspiration for this poem and I cannot stress how simple yet beautiful it is to me, so give it a try.

Thank you for reading, Goodbye...

[bhaal-battle-beer-bard]

ℜ𝔢𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔏𝔬𝔰𝔱

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2

𝓐𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔫

Astarion x Dark Urge Aristen poetry · commission for @aristenfromwarsaw

“Redemption Lost” song listening while reading – Aristen's song · Part 1 Astarion

✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️

My love that goes by the name of Astarion Will our love survive the night? The day, the light? Or was it just an illusion born from the darkness? Will you see me for what I am in the morning light and run? Created in an abyss of dark urgings I was not made good enough, to be loved What is a tree, with roots of evil? Bears only crimson buds of suffering Rise to the sky My soul cry out at night A flower, rotting and decaying without light Screaming for blood Touched by your gentle hands, bonding us with a red tie My darkness ignites by your stars’ light I try to be good, but the dark drags me down Blood and emptiness devour my hands Teeth ripping out my flesh The light nowhere to be seen Doomed to rot Or the mercy of fate? Deserved in all eternity Cut me out, run away Monsters of mine should eat me form inside, but never ever touch you Creatures, the monster with my face looking at me every day Clawing, screaming, drowning my head I should be banned and dead and not held in your lover’s arms Twisted mirror Deadly reflection I see a face myself unlovable, not worth your acceptance But your pale hand reaching out for me You never judge, forgive what I did How could I deserve someone not looking at me in disgust, but with compassion? You have seen my darkest nightmares and loved me anyway You feel it too, you see it too Smile without joy Death within life A crack in the empty mirror Burning in blood, drowning on air Hurting you is hurting me So my tears do pray and my heart will ask Screaming at the night’s sky I want to crawl inside your chest and die I want to be the secret inside your heart, maybe than my demons cannot find us Our story will be a love song and not a blood-stained ballad Astarion, the name of my love forevermore You’ve seen troubles and blue like me Your heart beating, making mine racing fast You survived torture, bigger, stronger men and kings would fall to Still able to love, still able to hope For me your heart and soul are dauntless With you the night is an endless dream If I go, If I die I would die with your name on my lips Your past carved into your soul like mine Compare our scars Erase them forever Overwrite them with the poem of our love psalm Sins and heart open – devotion fears nothing to hide Your hand on my cheek, keeps my head up high Above the bloody water You saved me from my darkness Let us make it out alive Escape the circles of damnation Can we be more, we were made to be? More than what we were condemned to be

✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️🥀✨️

a/n: second part of my commission for @aristenfromwarsaw

Astarion x Dark Urge Aristen poetry

She wanted a poem about how Astarion feels not good enough to be with her Durge Aristen, not worthy of her love. While Aristen sees Astarion as her true savior, despite she is desperate about her crimes as bhaal spawn and struggling with her past, that should forbid her being happy with a wonderful elf like Astarion, the only one that seem to understand her truly. All the more the irony of their thoughts and doubts. All your wonderful stories about your Aristen and Astarion, inspired me. And you know me, I love a dramatic, angsty, tragic love story the most. I hope I made it not to dramatic – but believe me, the first draft was even way more drama. For two weeks now I've been working on it and I have to say I'm very happy with it and I really like it. I hope you enjoy it, that it inspires you too and that it meets your expectations and gets the message across well. (If the song to this did not get stuck in your head, I'll be offended 😉😆😂) Maybe someone else will take a liking to it too as well. I would be delighted. I wish I could be so focused on working on things for my OCs. I've been writing a short fanfic about Astarion and Saulus since September and well...a stagnating WIP it is since then. This time it really should be like a conversation between Astarion and the Bhaalspawn. Or more like writing letters to each other. I got inspired to this writing style, of a music album from a band, where the first song on the CD was sung by a woman and told of a love story. The last song on the album was sung by a man and was the exact answer to her song. (Or the other way around) I thought that was great at the time. Unfortunately, I can't remember what kind of band it was. Not at all. I can't seem to remember anything these days. Maybe someone knows better than me which album I mean and can enlighten me. (I've noticed that I write differently when I'm composing on a laptop or starting in my bard/poetry book (obviously). Do you prefer the shorter stuff, poems/ballads with fewer/shorter lines? What do you say?)

[chairofchaos]

Evening friend!

You bring chaos to my life so here is a little chaos for you

2, 3, 5, 8, 19, 26

And just for fun because I know it will probably hurt me 40

Feel free to answer what you want and ignore the rest 🤍

GOOD EVENING.

Thank you for letting me bring chaos to your life, and for bringing me some in return. In your honor, I will answer all. Seemed like the most chaotic thing to do. I considered making separate posts for each question but then again that was a lot of work so just... bear with me. This is a long read, but hopefully, you will find it worth it.

2. Anything that you'd like to write but feel like you're unable to?

Yes. I am currently bouncing around multiple Greek/Roman tragedy adaptations of our beloved ACOTAR and TOG characters. I do not feel prepared to write these yet. I want to do them justice. That semester of studying tragic plays of the ancients has stuck with me.

3. How would you describe your writing style?

I don't even know how to answer this, but my best shot is this:

The vibe must be chaotic.

It must be written as fast as possible.

It should be entirely unplanned.

If it is planned, it should be entirely overwhelming and likely a bigger project than I should ever take on *cough cough* LETTERS *cough cough*

It's not a style as much as it is entirely based on my whims. And that's not always great. In fact, it's something I don't really enjoy about myself (comment on this and I will edit it out of this post so fast I SWEAR).

But I enjoy the product. I think there are at least a couple of you that do, too, so hopefully we can all enjoy that little piece of chaos together. If not, I'll just enjoy the pain I create on my own like a good little fanfic writer.

5. What's a tag you never want to use for your works even when it applies?

I don't think such a thing exists. I don't like surprises? Idk, this doesn't really make sense to me. Clearly I have no problem tagging things Dead Dove so we all know what I'm up to lol

8. How slow is a slow burn?

Somewhere between 100 and 100k words. I genuinely do not care. Depends on the medium? The pacing? A slow burn described in a poem is going to look very different than a slow burn in a fic the length of The Iliad and the Odyssey. Or Wheel of Time (that's a long series, right?). I don't care. It's all great. I love slow burns. Haven't written one because I think those characters should be enjoying each other romantically on page 1, but I LOVE reading them.

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

UNANSWERED STARS YOU BEAUTIFUL HUMAN. Is this what you expect to hurt (I haven't looked ahead at the other questions I'm doing this straight through, no edits, no takebacks. Welcome to Chaos- you get two.).

Eris was no saint, either. Cauldron knew he kept his mate up some nights. But the Cauldron also knew Azriel would get out of bed in the middle of the night and take off into flight, not returning until he knew Eris would also be awake. After the first time, they would rarely talk about where Azriel went or what he did. Instead, Eris would press a mug of overly sweet coffee into his hands and they would sit together in silence on the front porch, Azriel’s head on Eris’ shoulder and their hands clasped together. - {Working Title is Coffee and Psychotherapy. THIS ONE IS ACTUALLY FLUFF YOU CAN THANK DUSK-MUSE AND NINTHCIRCLEOFPRYTHIAN}

And maybe more along the lines of what you were expecting:

Azriel found the most enjoyment in the training and teaching of others. In his time as spymaster, he regularly found time to work with young soldiers, for which many have since thanked him, crediting him with saving their lives by instructing them in his limited spare time. In the years since the war, Azriel enjoyed collecting books from all over the world. The collection he amassed was the instigator for a library to honor his mate. - Death, and All That Follows (This may or may not be a sort of extended epilogue to something I wrote recently.)

26. What would you describe as OOC?

This is possibly a wild take: I don't think I care what is out of character for characters I write. It depends on the fic, sure. But I think perspective forms our understanding of characters, and seeing them in a new light can often bring a different, even "OOC" type attitude to fics which I often enjoy. I am very much an advocate for "Don't Like, Don't Read" not only for plot points but for characterization as well. If you don't enjoy the way someone writes your favorite (or your least-favorite!) character, don't read it. The beautiful thing about being a part of a fandom is the diversity of experiences within it.

I did not read Nesta's journey the same way you did, or the way your friend did, or the way my best friend did. I brought my own perspectives, my own experiences, to my interpretation of her actions, words, and thoughts. I came out of the other side loving her, and loving the way she loves. I recognize myself in her. I know I'm not alone in that. I know that there are a great many who do not like her in the slightest.

ACOSF Nesta was presented very differently to ACOTAR Nesta. (For the purposes of this argument, we are removing the debate about The Author Herself because I simply don't care at the moment and that's a much larger topic.) I don't think that anyone's interpretation of Nesta is "wrong" or "bad" because we all bring a pair of glasses to reading, and that glass is made of our experiences. That's the filter through which you consume the work. My glasses are different from yours. That's okay.

Little tangent while we're on the topic: I don't care if your glasses are different. But if you break those glasses to use the shards of glass for the purpose of hurting other people, that's a problem. I have a problem now, and so do you. Because of the inclusion of the argument above, it needed to be said, and so here it is: Don't hurt others because of your glasses. Theirs are different. Please learn to recognize that, and that it is okay to view pieces of media differently. Tangent over.

So TLDR on OOC: I don't care. If you want to write a piece where character canonically named Bubblegum Sunshine Princess because of her (in-canon) overwhelming joy and love of the outdoors and her kingdom's candy trees is a murderous assassin filled with rage and the destructive flame of a thousand suns, go right ahead. There's a very good chance I would love to read it.

40. Write a 9-word fic.

Title: This is a Thing [REDACTED] Learned. The title will be longer than the fic itself, and that's the beauty of The Thing [REDACTED] Learned. Thanks.

A/N: (Stars. My dearest friend. You expect pain here? Now I want to prove you wrong...)

Pairing: Your OTP. Or my OCs. Or is this about my life? Or yours? Who knows. I'm not currently well lol

...........................................

Knowledge came with no promises, no love, no you.

...........................................

All the love, Stars. You're the best. <3<3<3<3<3

[eyra]

winning arguments without crying

Three years ago I liked you and now I think you’re hideous That’s really all it is. Crumbling stone above your sink in a houseshare bathroom that feels like an aeroplane toilet. A corona of snakes that couldn’t be saved by a beautiful tragedy. You have to train them, you see To bite beautifully and in a tragic sort of way A literary way You can’t just wash your red hair and let it dry like that. I would know. Mine are revered and I think people are afraid of them but in a beautiful sort of way.

That’s another story that I’m trying to write and I wish I could block you from the pages like I’ll block you on Instagram.

I think you’re hideous A gradual  and then very sudden descent into a cramping hatred like the way you think hot weather is just fantastic and I think the sun is fucking obnoxious Like you A loudly epic microcosm  A study in how to learn to hate a stranger measured by unprecedented times and a handful of afternoons eating  blue cheese and crackers on London grass waiting for the time to pass If nobody likes you and everybody likes me then does that make me awful too? or does it just mean I’m right

You glittered like a mirror for a morning our sisterly reflections in mourning A summer snapshot from the lens I’m still in charge of Now you’re a black hole or something worse probably an empty shell pretending to be a whole person. Boring boring boring Everything about you is boring I’m bored with how boring I find you This poem is boring. It’s boring to talk about you but I can’t stop none of us can stop we’re all awful. You were a mirror and isn’t that funny considering how much you fucking love looking at yourself now Is this fucking play about us? as long as it’s all focused on you Tell us to knock the f-stop back as far as we can until it’s just The You Show again but you’ll say you hate the lens I’m standing behind. Apparently it’s all so condescending of me but I think you just don’t understand what that word means and what you actually mean is I’m older than you and know how to win arguments? What you actually mean is I can fight without shaking and my face doesn’t turn red when I’m angry? and I’ve always thought that a very lucky trait to have I think I probably got that from my dad although he doesn’t really get angry. I think you should write a poem about what you got from your dad But you’ll never do that even if  it’s the easy pick to the door you say someone else bolted you behind screaming. I unpicked mine when I was twenty and I’ll always shoot if someone slags off my closet And you think you’re the gunmaster here

But that’s a totally separate conversation and I can’t be bothered having it with you so can we just move on because you’re too narrow to get that.

The most caring person in the world until empathy starts unearthing your enemies As if you don’t already have a thousand. And none of it feels important anymore so I’m embarrassed that I even care but it’s not a caring sort of caring. If you’re compelled by right and wrong I’m compelled by love and hate I think that’s my coin and one day soon I’ll stop spending it on you But for now I’m solvent Even if I’m letting you steal from me and your steel city state is richer than my ancient woodland but your vaults are beneath iron girders of fantastic and thanks so much and so it becomes a girlish and quietly-biting sort of coin that burns lips and makes everything taste like copper mine is just a mist and then you accuse me of being non-confrontational when actually I’ve always quite liked confrontation.

It’s something I’m good at

and yet you keep trying and honestly I find that mortifying But you’re a child so I don’t even care. Maybe I should swaddle you but you said you're wise beyond your years so I guess let’s go with that? And if everyone hates you and nobody hates me then maybe you should go back to your mirror and look there instead of at your front-facing camera because that’s mortifying too  and you should’ve gone to university because you would’ve met other mirrors there And at least I know I’m a bitch

I met my mirrors ages ago.

But you run from reflection and choose your front-facing camera instead because it does that thing where it flips the image and you get to pretend that you’re the opposite thing to the thing you actually are and you get to tell yourself that you’re so tiny and the world is the Big Bad pecking at your nest. But you’re the awful thing And everything is backwards And everything is mirrored to you And if I saw myself in you then send me the invoice and finish your email with  thanks so much  for teaching me how to be something else because honestly if I became what you already are I think I’d just die  I can see you rolling your eyes on the playground because someone else was enjoying the swings but in a stupid way and the tarmac was hotter in Germany but that doesn’t make you more interesting. God I wish I could tell you that.

I told you once that sometimes I pretend I’m on Graham Norton when I’m in the car I thought everyone did that but apparently they don’t But that’s fine I think and you didn’t need to laugh about it with your fiancée But she's left you too and I found that funny So let’s call it even.

I dive headfirst into the oil when it comes to you because it feels so hotly delicious  To nestle in the anonymous ranks of whatever armies you think you did nothing to provoke You’ve got spears for crutches but your armour is accountancy note paper With lecture notes too boring to comprehend I don’t think you’re actually interested in investment risk and taxation or fraud analytics Is anyone? It’s just something else to put on your brown sash and on your HER profile. Tell them about how you’re on every battlefield and I’m just softly at home writing a stupid poem about you And if you’re reading this now because you keep tabs on everyone and everything and if you were waiting for me Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about you. Because I already don’t remember how old you are but I think you get a notification when I post an Instagram story of myself as a child.

I have a pitchy black well of everything that you don’t have and I throw myself into it and you screw your face up lime-sour when actually I think you’d love to build one for yourself  but you can’t stop looking at your Instagram followers for long enough to work out  How to cast bricks or divine water or whatever else you need to build a well

You don’t even have the land for it yet.

I’d rather write a stupid poem than be your blank piece of paper I’d rather write myself as a villain than play your antagonist  Write me out of your boring story I’m begging you. It’s been a year and you’re still looking up how to spell my name  Between notes about investment management and derivatives And I don’t even know what that means Thank God. God it’s so boring But I’m laughing at the idea of one day forgetting your name.

I can be rotten but I think the thing that saves you from Hell is the welcoming of the rot and if I can be this but also sleep with my friends and love my American cereal and the little squares of sun my mirrorballs cast to my blue walls Then what does it matter I don’t think it matters. But you can’t be told about any of that Because you’re too busy romancing your front-facing camera and  one-hundred-and-thirty-three people in fluorescent ceiling panels who won’t ever clap at a volume that fills you So I’ll leave you waiting for your lean applause And I’ll just be lighter.

I watched a video today of my niece on a ride-on lawnmower Grinning with my dad in the field behind our house and that was me twenty-two years ago. God I love that I can love.

[baiwu-jinji]

I'm so very late to the party but finally finished listening to TGCF audio drama season 1, love how intense the last two episodes are :3 Here are some incoherent thoughts about some of the episodes I haven't talked about:

Episode 12: It occurred to me when I'm listening to this episode that the ghosts of Ghost City are always so lively and bubbly, always laughing and flirting and teasing, when most of them must've had a tragic life story with unresolved misfortunes that caused them to turn into ghosts in the first place. Their high spirits feels incongruous with their tragic past, but maybe it's because they're happier as ghosts than as humans?

There's a ghost called 红粉骷髅 (literally "skeleton of beautiful woman") in this episode that finds afterlife much more liberating and satisfying than life itself, as she recites the following poem when she's dancing: "I danced for others in life, nobody buried my bones when I died; I sing for myself after death, my beauty moves the netherworld."

(The name 红粉骷髅 actually comes from a Buddhist story where the Bodhisattva Guanyin turns into a beautiful woman to make love to men but would suddenly turn into a skeleton in the process, scaring the men into realising that the most alluring beauty in the world is but ashes and bones and ghastly in death, and that they shouldn't give in to temptations.)

Episode 13: Hua Cheng tells Xie Lian that he doesn't look at the wishes of his believers and just throws them away because he doesn't care about being worshipped. This just shows the difference between Hua Cheng and Jun Wu: although they both desire power, Hua Cheng only wants power in himself and over his own fate, while Jun Wu wants power over others. The conversation between HC and XL is as follows:

HC: It's better to help yourself than ask the help of others. If you want to climb out of the abyss, what use is it to look to others? Others won't come to save you every time.

XL: That's why you need gods.

HC: But if everyone counts on the god, what about the god? Wouldn't the god get tired?

XL: But you must have many believers. If you turn a blind eye to their prayers, won't they consider you to be ineffectual?

HC: I didn't ask them to worship me, they kneeled before me without my permission. Besides, only those who happen to have their wishes granted would dare to talk about it - those who don't wouldn't dare to complain.

Episode 17: Xie Lian tells Lang Qianqiu that he named his sword technique which he uses to break up a clash by diverting all the harm to himself "wuming" (meaning "nameless") - a fitting name because the technique is about the negation of the self, and sacrificing oneself to endure it all. "Wuming" is also the name Hua Cheng took when he followed Xie Lian after the fall of Xianle and eventually sacrificed himself to protect Xie Lian.

Episode 18: When Xie Lian worries that telling Lang Qianqiu the truth would make Lang Qianqiu question everything XL taught him and cease to be the courageous and honourable person that he is, Hua Cheng asks XL to trust in LQQ's innate moral strength. I like what HC said to XL about LQQ:

"If you value him so much, then why can't you trust him? Trust that since he's the one you chose, he won't lose himself in hatred and will eventually do what he should do, even though he once wanted to destroy the whole world out of hate."

HC is asking XL to have faith in LQQ the same way that HC has always had faith in XL.

There's also something I wonder about the situation between Xie Lian and Lang Qianqiu. LQQ's parents were murdered by the resentful ghosts of the people of Xianle, and XL took the blame for the Gilded Banquet massacre because he didn't want LQQ to think that he tried to save those resentful ghosts in vain, that LQQ's good will towards the resentful ghosts was met with hatred and revenge. But has it occurred to XL that his own supposed "betrayal" would've hurt LQQ equally much? Would LQQ really feel better if instead of the resentful ghosts, it's his teacher whom he admired and respected so much that had betrayed him?

[jarmes]

There’s a link that keeps going around for a website

You can click a button once a day

And give a fraction of a penny to the victims of a genocide

I do my daily clicks

I go to work

On my lunch break, I read articles

1,000 dead

2,000

10,000

30,000 now

Tomorrow more

I do my daily clicks

I see a photo of a murdered child

They starved him to death

He doesn’t even look like a human being anymore

Like an alien, the way his eyes bulge

The way his skin clings to his bones like saran wrap

I see him when I close my eyes

I do my daily clicks

I read the news again

They gunned down a crowd begging for food

The next day, the news has moved on

The day after, another massacre

No one cares this time

I do my daily clicks

A soldier burns himself to death

He screams for freedom as his skin turns to ash

He gives everything he can

I do my daily clicks

They call it self-defense

But I see their politicians call for extermination

I see ours call for the same

I see soldiers stealing the underwear of the women they murder

As their commanders talk about feminism

I see the burned remnants of ambulances

Soldiers dressed as doctors murdering surgeons

Churches turned to rubble

Burning white phosphorous

I do my daily clicks

I talk about the genocide online

A dozen people I’ve never spoken to flock to the post

They try to explain why the murder of children is righteous

I block them, but they come back again and again

I get an anonymous message calling me a Nazi

I do my daily clicks

I donate $50

I do it more to feel like I’ve done something

I know it isn’t enough, know it won’t matter

But at least I’m able to sleep now

I do my daily clicks

I confront a politician

I ask him about the slaughter

I want him to be hateful

I want him to talk about the glory of the white race with a smile on his face

He doesn’t

He’s articulate and solemn

He calls the loss of life tragic

Then says we must accept it

Says it is for the good of those slain

Says that this is what happens in war

I know he would not say the same if Americans were dying

I do my daily clicks

Before he died

The soldier asked a question

What would you do during the holocaust?

During slavery?

I know the truth

He gave everything he could

I gave $50

I do my daily clicks

They cut funding for aid

They increase funding for bombs

I go to work

I pay my taxes

I contribute to the slaughter, in some small way

I do my daily clicks

I go to church

They talk about forgiveness

About mercy

About loving your enemy

The same people who cheer the deaths of children

The same people who smile at piles of corpses

Who tell me we must go on a holy war

They tell me their god was loving

That’s why they are permitted to be cruel

I say nothing

I do my daily clicks

I fantasize about violence more and more

Of killing the people responsible

Of saving lives

I know I’ll never do anything

I know that I’m a coward

I do my daily clicks

I act like I’m the victim

Write a poem about my pain

It’s laughable

To think that I am suffering

I am so very very lucky

I do my daily clicks

They say that evil triumphs

When good men do nothing

But I am not a good man

None of us are

A good man would do more than click a fucking button once a day

I’m sorry I didn’t do more