#winter lullaby

[shadowbrightshine]

Winter lullaby is so good oh my gosh I so glad I'm singing it for the Christmas show.

[captainlordauditor]

I understand the frustration with people not treating adopted family like it's real, but I do, actually, think that Damian, who met Bruce when he was about 10 and was raised from birth knowing Bruce as an absent role model, is going to have a fundamentally different relationship than

Dick, who was fostered from a culture that has a history of having their children forcibly separated from their community and assimilated into whiteness

Jason, who functionally disowned himself before Damian met Bruce

Tim, the guy who went so far as to fake a legal guardian so Bruce wouldn't adopt him right away, and whose biological father died when he was 16

Cass, who did not meet Bruce at all until she was 17

I don't, actually, think Dick or Tim would consider Bruce their father unilaterally without caveats. Even Jason's relationship is complicated by the fact that he did have Willis and Catherine for the first 10-12 years of his life, in some form. And I think it's very possible that Damian would not expect his siblings to grok his relationship with Bruce due to the fact that every one of them had another parental figure in their life at some point, in a way that Damian has not.

[hobismorning]

hobismorning.com 

[flymetosnarryland]

All I want for Christmas...

( ˘ᴗ˘) ♡ ∘˚˳°✧

... is good Snarry of course, lol. I love winter and snow, and if we combine those two with Harry and Severus... Ah! I'd say it's recipe for absolutely best evenings.

This art was inspired by sweet and heart-warming one shot friend of mine wrote. She made me laugh and sob a little, and I totally fell in love with her little story. Funny thing, she didn't even expect she will write Snarry!

I wanted to share this lovely fic with you, so I was very motivated to translate it. I really hope you can enjoy it as much as I do! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

[ashintheairlikesnow]

A Lot Like Christmas

CW: Pet whump, dehumanized whumpee, references to beatings and torture, burns, sadistic whumper

Antoni’s tag | Masterlist (scroll down)

For @amonthofwhump, day 3: Forced Celebration

-

On Christmas morning, the ashtray wakes up on his little cot in his tiny room to cold sunlight through the bars of his high, small window. His nose is so cold that it feels like it all but burns his hand when he presses a palm against it to warm it, burying himself even further under the scratchy but warm wool blankets he is given in winter.

The light makes a broken square on the floor, and he lays there watching it slowly move, bit by bit, as the quality of the light changes.

All down his back the newest burns ache and itch. They’re slathered with the heavy, healing cream that would keep him from scarring if Mr. Davies did not burn him again and again in the same places. As it is, his master is pressing new burns over old scars, and the ashtray shifts only a little as the itching grows with every second he thinks about it, gripping hands onto his collar to keep himself grounded, to feel safe.

Last night had been a night of bourbon, warm and brown in a glass, clove cigarette smoke down his throat filling up his lungs, holding perfectly still for every bright hot pain until finally he could not hold back his whimper. 

Last night had ended like so many nights end now, the smoke driven out of his throat by something he will not think about, will not remember, will simply put somewhere else in his mind. Mr. Davies, afterward, had fed him sips from the glass of bourbon and whispered, “It’s after midnight. Merry Christmas,” and sent him with a jar of the salve to his bed, to rub all the wounds he could reach and ignore, as hard as he can, the greater wounds inside.

A bird calls outside the window. 

Eventually, he hears the sound of Mr. Davies on the stairs, and he pushes himself up to seated and then to standing. His feet freeze on the chilly concrete floor, and he shivers in the loose sweats he is allowed to wear. 

It takes four steps to cross from bed to door, three if he lengthens his strides.

He opens the door, peering out into the hallway. The warmer air in the heated part of the house hits him like walking into a wall, and he comes to a sudden stop and lets his skin prickle and goosebump as it acclimates. The burns itch worse in warmth, but he ignores that and pads barefoot down the hall, walking on the heavy soft rug.

He can hear the clinking of silverware against dishes as he nears the kitchen. His own stomach twists, empty and light, at the scent of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. He enters with his eyes down, letting his gaze move to Mr. Davies’s feet in his fuzzy fur-lined slippers.

“Ah, the lazy little pet wakes,” Mr. Davies says, with amusement. “Say Merry Christmas, darling.”

The ashtray looks up to follow his command, only to realize it isn’t meant for him.

Next to Mr. Davies is the woman, who looks at him with blank eyes that see but don’t comprehend. She just stares at him, blinking once or twice, and then says in a soft voice, “Merry Christmas.”

The ashtray thinks she probably had a lovely way of speaking, a long time ago. She forms each word like a singer, all enunciation and melody, but it’s a harsh rasp now, a broken violin voice. 

Her hair is perfectly curled and pulled back at her nape, with tendrils framing her face. Her lower lip is busted, a burst of bright red where she was bleeding, but she doesn’t even seem aware of it. She just puts a forkful of cinnamon roll into her mouth and chews. Any awareness she had of him seems gone in an instant. 

“Very good, love.” Mr. Davies is rubbing her back with one hand. If she tenses a little at the touch, it isn’t obvious beneath the warm, fluffy robe she wears in a deep royal purple lined with gold thread embroidery. “Say Merry Christmas, ashtray.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Davies. Merry Christmas, ma'am." The ashtray’s voice is low, carefully shaping each word to make his accent as slight as possible. He almost succeeds, and it’s enough to win a rare smile from his master. He doesn’t feel warm at the sight of it - only the absence of any new fear of punishment. 

“Come and eat,” Mr. Davies says, gesturing broadly. 

The ashtray’s eyes drop to discover an empty plate and set of silverware, a mug of steaming coffee with a little carafe of cream beside it. He dares to look back at Mr. Davies, and finds him smiling. 

"... at the table?”

“Yes, at the table, you brainless thing. Sit.” 

The ashtray moves forward, jerking like a puppet moved by strings, and finds himself sitting at the table staring across at the woman, who doesn’t look at him anymore, only off to the side, as if dazed or dreaming. There are bruises layered dark over her wrists, in the shape of the ropes Mr. Davies ties her with at night. She sleepwalks, he explained once to the ashtray, who had not asked. He’d said it like testing out the story, the way you practice a speech to a wall. She’ll wander out into the street and get hit by a car, you know. I have to keep her in one place. Anything could happen if she leaves.

There’s a threat, in those words, and the ashtray heard it. He only nodded, and wondered what in his face had made Mr. Davies feel the need to explain.

Her black eye from last week has nearly healed, which he knows only means another one is coming soon.

The cook puts a cinnamon roll on his plate, and the ashtray thanks him. He receives no reply, but he didn’t expect one either. 

Warm, fluffy cinnamon-sugar sweetness bursts in his mouth when he eats, and he shivers at how unfamiliar it is to eat warm food, or to eat anything that tastes this good at all. He exhales, and takes another bite, and another. Somehow, the whole thing disappears into his mouth before he even understands that he’s eating it.

He stops when Mr. Davies starts to laugh, with cruel good humor, and looks up, briefly meeting those cold eyes. 

“... Mr. Davies, I’m sorry, I did not mean to eat so quickly-”

“Hush. Call it a gift. I’ve nothing for you under the tree, after all.” He turns to the woman, who doesn’t look at him, only stares through the window at the trees outside, as if she could will herself out there if only she could remember how to walk out. Mr. Davies leans over to give her a kiss to the side of her head, and the ashtray watches her eyes briefly close, then open again to focus back on the world just beyond the walls.

“Darling,” Mr. Davies says in a low voice, “My ashtray and I need a smoke, I think. Will you go and wait by the tree for me? I’ll open your gifts for you afterward.”

The woman looks at the ashtray.

Just for a moment, something surfaces from beneath the still pool of her mind. She knows what happens when he and Mr. Davies are alone in the office, he thinks. And for just a second, he can see that she feels all the grief for him that he tries to feel for her.

Then her expression goes blank again and she nods, standing and drifting into the grand living room where the 12-foot-tall Christmas tree glistens with perfectly coordinated ornaments, tinsel, and a star on top.

The last the ashtray sees of her is how she sits on the couch with her hands in her lap, and turns her eyes back to the window.

Then Mr. Davies’s hand is on the back of his neck, and the ashtray’s stomach flips. Suddenly that perfect warm soft sweet bread sits like a brick in his stomach, and he wonders if he’ll keep anything down after they’re done. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes after-

But it’s not happening.

It doesn’t happen to him.

Not if he doesn’t let himself think about it.

Nothing happens in the office.

Mr. Davies is already lighting a cigarette, the scent of cloves is settling against his skin and soaking into his hair, his sweatshirt and sweatpants, burying itself so far down in his lungs that he will never escape the way it steals his breath.

The burns from last night itch.

The older ones do, too, as the ashtray follows Mr. Davies to the office and wonders where the new ones will go now.

His master’s hand rests at the base of the ashtray’s spine, stealing up under his sweatshirt to press like a brand against his skin. 

The ashtray burns long before the embers ever touch him.

Mr. Davies hums as he walks.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlinthesnep @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @emdeighamae @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[youareunbearable]

I was listening to Blood Upon The Snow by Hozier and GOD what a Himring theme like imagine???

Maedhros is newly "healed" from his 30 years or torture, just gave up his throne and crown to his uncle and is determined to travel east to build his strong hold against Morgoth. Everyone is worried, like yes he's technically healed but Maedhros has a… violence to him now. He is colder, both at the touch and personality wise. There is a glint in his eyes and his brothers (and cousins, and his aunt and uncle) all look at each other with worry behind his back as he now prowls as he walks.

Maglor is the most worried. He's more in tune with the world and the Music around them, and while Maedhros' song isn't twisted like the thralls they've met, it's brassy now. Before, back in Valinor, Maitimo used to sound like a string quartet, complex and intricate, like a beautiful glass mosaic that told a whole story without words and still let light shine through upon everyone in a splash of rainbow beams. Now, there is a thrumming undertone that's deeper, richer, that makes the almost word filled song of the strings become shrill, like they're crying out. The bass undertone sounds like the marching of an army and the strings sound like a death wail of the doomed. It makes Maglor's skin crawl as he watches his brother, not knowing what to make of the change in Song.

He listens, and he follows Maedhros. Climbs with him up the tallest, coldest peak he finds in the east. The mountain is cold, the wind is biting, and the snow is deep-- not that that is a hindrance for the Elves, but the horses have to trudge through snow that is basically up to their chests. The music here is also cold, sharp woodwinds nipping at the ears and shrill strings that rattles his bones. Maglor opens his mouth to complain, to urge his brother to turn back down this damned mountain when he finally breaks through the cacophony and hears his brother's song.

For the first time since the darkness engulfed Valinor, Maedhros' Song was steady, quiet, finding peace and blending into the rush of Music wiping around them. Maedhros himself looks at peace, eyes closed and face upturned to the weak sun. Between the rich red of his hair, regrown down to his shoulders since they had to shave it after his rescue, and the deep scarlet of his Feanorian robes, Maedhros looks like a spot of blood upon the snow. Maglor shivers, suddenly overcome by a vision of his brother drenched in blood, mouth curled into a snarl like a feral animal, surrounded by endless white and red all around him.

Maedhros begins to hum, a low tune that does nothing but send shivers up and down Maglor's spin.

"Brother, please, let us leave. There is nothing for us here, maybe if we keep travelling east there will be a better place to set up camp." Maglor begs, walking closer to Maedhros.

"No." Maglor freezes at the word. There was an undercurrent of command, of steel. "This place speaks to me, I will make our stronghold here."

Maglor gapes, he looks around at the barren mountain. Nothing but rocks, and snow, and sparse shrubs. "Here? Really?"

Maedhros nods. "Here. Her name shall be Himring, and she will withstand any siege." He hums again, the notes low and easily swallowed up by the wind. Maglor with his keen ears could pair the simple tune and worried at his lip when he noticed that it was actually a very basic version of the Song that screamed around them.

If he listened closer, he could almost hear the words in the Song. His heart clenched as he watched Maedhros turn and begin ordering their men, getting the wheels of creation of their base set into motion.

Maglor looked around the mountain side again. He could feel the glee of the mountain, at how the rocks thrummed beneath their feet and snow. It felt vicious, like hunting dogs straining at their leashes, an eager glee that felt almost bloodthirsty. Maglor just hoped that it just would be directed towards helping their cause, and not be their downfall.

To all things housed in her silence Nature offers a violence

[aoitakumi8148]

...Born of death, hiding just beneath the flesh ~ desolate, this heart yearns for a reprieve...

𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓹, 𝓘𝓽 𝓜𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓼 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓦𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓣𝓸 𝓓𝓲𝓮.

[v.1-v.6] Some gaps left to fill ✏/✏ ❛The truest three-letter-word... for 𝓟❜ ﴾summary﴿.

The nature of Ergo x Ego is not fully comprehended by humans. ✒ The Creator knows that the memories of the Dead can be regained through puppets... ✒ But their separate awakened individuality is a mystery to him: 𝟙.𝟙 Sometimes, a certain amount of irritation with puppets... 𝟙.𝟚 & the Master’s estrangement from them can be heard in the intonation. 𝟙.𝟛 ‘Just a puppet’ x ‘useless puppet’ x the ‘greatest puppet’ x etc. ↬ clearly indicate: ☑ The Creator has this *conditional boundary in his mind from the outset. 𝒫.𝒮. ‘Humans-puppets’ ↬ ‘Carlo-my puppet that looks almost like Carlo’. ☑ He is driven by a few irresistible, genuine, even unconscious urges: 𝟙.𝟛.𝟙 To convey his unspoken fatherly feelings. 𝟙.𝟛.𝟚 To ‘eliminate the inconsistencies’. 𝒫.𝒮. A matter not so much of obedience... 𝟙.𝟛.𝟛 To bring his puppet closer to humanity. 𝒫.𝒮. As of emotions x their ‘truthful manifestation’ by the creations [...]. This whole idea of returning Carlo has always been critical. The fervent mind is clouded by it, the die is cast... And the man’s ‹fatal trinity key› to understanding is hidden beneath his fixation.

The Creator is in no condition to admit the ‘family reunion’ is a misleading utopia: 𝟚.𝟙 The fellow is positively a lifeform with something individual inside... 𝟚.𝟚 But he cannot be the exact reflection of what he is de-facto not. 𝟚.𝟛 To say nothing of the Carlo’s grievances x the KOP situation... It is not the gone flesh & blood’s smile. There is a moment when the Achilles Heel x the ‹intoxicating› pursuit of phantoms overcome the Genius, but...

Geppetto grows to love 𝓟 as well. ✒ Some especial innocence x relaxation take over when he is with the Ergo-eyed child. ✒ ‘Carlo’s organ beats long before 𝓟’s, but 𝓟’s Ꮼ starts beating anew, dissimilarly. ✒ ‘True Ending’ is principally dedicated to the boy & his Ego: 𝟛.𝟙 There is no objective point to zoom in on Carlo when ‘RB: TALHEA’ exists. 𝟛.𝟚 Geppetto already apologizes to the gone child once in it. 𝒫.𝒮. I do not see a valid reason for him to: ✒ Redo this act and, on top of that ☑ rephrase the apology, change the tone, express other emotions. 𝟛.𝟛 The *contrast of Geppetto’s countenance ↬ ‘RO𝓟’ & ‘RB: TALHEA’ ↫ is also symbolic. ☐

What is 𝓟's Ego? Where are its roots? Currently, I depict it as... «the ‹conflict› of the Carlo's Ergo and the environment from which the 𝓟uppet's independent notion about human feelings-interactions-habits-etc is absorbed, his systematic ways to ‹deal› with them are formed».

The long pause between the words, the never before seen shock, the comprehension. What is far more natural and illustrative in the eyes of the Creator: his puppet's rejection to do something, or its ability to cry? Why would his mind relentlessly insist that it is Carlo's response if the canonical purpose of the ending is doting the i's & crossing the t's? Why would the grown-up 𝓟uppet purse his lips ruefully if he is ‹never recognized› as a real boy by the technician?

In these unknown refined surroundings, the one representing your world has to disappear so that only at death's door, through the portion of further pure suffering ~ he could see, distinguish the you. The price is destined to be fierce...

Several chances to hear the ‹son› word addressed to others, the Dead or the Nameless... & only 𝟙 is the most truthful... because it is yours... Because in this concrete intimate bit, there are no ‹heats of the moment› behind it anymore, no ‹intoxication›, no ‹clouds›. Only you, your Father, and the dying light of the rosiest life you should have had together...

It is impossible to earnestly love a human who, both literally/metaphorically, has not inevitably filled you with the part of the being you would willingly aspire to ‹crack open› your own best self for. It is impossible to cleave to mere nothingness, an absolute illusion. Why live if you do not love, do not feel, do not have faith in anything? Pain... is a precious gift, too.

[as-spring-came-in-october]

Summer has passed

The winter has paused, trapped in fallen pine cones

The night is alone, the moon whispers,

Lullabies to the broken hearted,

City lights shine like lost stars, hidden in the deepened valleys,

The clouds embrace the wailing trees, shivering in this cold breeze,

The wind caresses the closed doors

Windows peeking through the shattered glass panes

into the fog-covered hilltops

The dawn of the new day, brings blood to the sky,

The scars on the mountains shine scarlet,

The rooftops adorned in a golden crown,

Bestowed by the newly born Daystar,

Yet the hopes are destroyed in a grey overcast,

The pain runs down like tears from the sky,

And you and I drench, alone in different worlds, but the same hurt.

By @its-ener

[infernio696]

HE SMILED

[septembergold]

Once Upon a Northern Night: A Loving Illustrated Lullaby of Winter’s Whimsy.

By writer Jean E. Pendziwol and illustrator Isabelle Arsenault

[dracolunae]

There’s a poll going around about people’s favourite holidays and I was tempted to say Sankt Martin (which I don’t think is celebrated much outside of Germany tbh) because of all the silly spoof songs there are about it.

This made me realise that I don’t think I know spoof songs for ANY other holiday so I guess there’s just something uniquely mockable about a holiday where they make little kids parade through town in the cold while singing a specific set of songs. And also there’s fire involved

[hobismorning]

hobismorning.com 

[betweenthetimeandsound]

His lips spoke in poems, but he whispers them in another’s ear. I wait for the sun to set in onyx ink, so, I may never hear them again. Yet when the crisp wind sings his name, I only long for another dream to sedate me. The wheat sways like a ship, but refuses to give way.

Only saltwater flows from my eyes; for I’m barely alive to purify my sorrow. Only frost emerges from my hands, for another oro would smolder my feet-- I only danced this with him, as the first snow sprinkled down-- but the storm split us up, like the ice when spring arrives.

Lull me asleep, leave me to the wheat, just let him remember my face, dotted with those stray grains.

Lull me asleep, let the stars pass my feet-- just leave him with traces of rosewater and pomegranate, so that he will wake up to my ghost...

for I regret not for passing into the mist, my breasts sending me down like anchors. I will never know spring kissing me again. --Elda Mengisto

Author's Note: I was listening to Oro quite a bit recently, and remembered how the images in the song really caught to me. This poem was sort of supposed to be English-language lyrics to the song, but I figured I might just write my own poem inspired by it. Enjoy! :)

Also here's my write-up for Oro for my top 250.

[darthagustd]

This song takes me back to 2000s winters when I was in middle school, listening to songs like this at the bus stop

[reverecord]

달빛 고양이(Moonlight Cat)

[ithisatanytime]

(‎caponeti)