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rey-jake-therapist · 7 months

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I was reading @tickldpnk8 's excellent meta about Desire, when something they said about Dream disapproving of Destruction's relationship with Ishtar the goddess of love planted a series of questions in my mind...

First question: how their function influences the Endless' love life? Why was Destruction drawn to a goddess symbolizing Love? Why did Dream disapprove it? Why did Dream neglect Calliope after she gave birth to Orpheus and why did he really severe his connection with them both?

Was it all just..... personal?

When I read that Destruction had a romance with the goddess of Love, my first reaction was to find it.... weird. What do Destruction and Love have in commun? At first view, not much even nothing... except maybe that destruction Can happen because of deceived love?

Dream is the romantic of the family, it's Destruction himself who states it in Song of Orpheus when he tells Orpheus he's just like his father. Dreams inspire the artists and the poets, so his union with Calliope, the poet's muse, probably made sense to everyone (except her sisters, who thought in their great wisdom that Dream was an asshole 😂). But Destruction and Love? Yeah I can totally see why it raised a few eyebrows in the Endless family. I mean, we know Dream in particular disapproved the relationship but Ishtar told her friend that her romance with Destruction ended because of "his family" not just her brother in law, so my guess is that she had to deal with vehement hostility, from everyone not just Dream.

Why would be that? My headcanon's now that the Endless feared that Love would be a bad influence on Destruction, because he would be less kin to do his job right since he would start seeing things differently, about humans, the love they can have for each other and the beauty of it. And I actually suspect that his relationship with Ishtar may have had him question his function indeed, and its necessity. Maybe it's really because he knew Love (he sort of dated it!) that he walked away from the Endless family and didn't choose anyone to succeed him? He knew that love would always end up destroyed but he didn't want this responsibility anymore?

(Please notice I'm mostly talking out loud here.... these are just some random thoughts and questionings....)

Now, Dream and Calliope. In the Wake, Calliope says Dream was basically the perfect husband until she became pregnant. It's often thought that their relationship was damaged by what happened to Orpheus, but the fact is that they started drifting apart long before that. Of course as humans it's tempting to think that Dream lost interest in his wife because she became a mother and he looked at her differently: that's what men often do, right? But Dream isn't a man and Calliope is a goddess; the product of their union was Orpheus, who represented "the supreme power of poetry and music to enchant all natural things". If I look at the evolution of Dream and Calliope's marriage purely on their respective function, the fact that 1. they had separate lives even when they were in love and happy 2. They drifted apart once Orpheus was conceived, both things make perfect sense!

It's often assumed that Dream "gets tired" of his lovers once the thrills is gone aka once the seduction phase is over. But I think it's oversimplifying and again, forgetting that Dream isn't human, he doesn't think like one. My current headcanons regarding Dream and Calliope are that,

They got married first because it seemed to be the perfect union regarding their respective functions. It doesn't mean they didn't love each other, but Dream has loved others before and after Calliope... she's the only one he married, and I don't think it's a coincidence.

They didn't live at the same place, Calliope visited Dream' realm only when she wanted: doesn't it reflect perfectly what inspiration does to us? Coming and going through our dreams, being absent sometimes for months even years....

Once Orpheus was conceived, it's possible that Dream's interest in the relationship faded because... His union with Calliope had filled its purpose. Yeah, I'm aware of how bleak it sounds, but again I'm thinking strictly in terms of concepts, which Dream and Calliope are.

The fact that Dream severed his connection with both Orpheus and Calliope is of course explained within the story told in the comics, but it also can find its roots in the humans'world: the vision that humans have of art, dreams and gods HAVE changed. They don't seem as intrinsically connected as (maybe?) they used to be, at some point science took over and humans kept believing in dreams, but in gods and mythology in general? Not so much. The divorce between Dream and Calliope, I think, symbolizes this dissociation.

I can't NOT also tag @writing-for-life and @poobtato on this big subject ;)

#the sandman #dream of the endless #sandman meta #the sandman spoilers #The sandman song or Orpheus #destruction of the endless #The sandman Calliope

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blackopals-world · 5 months

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Couplets

Special Forces!Yuu x Rook Hunt

Rook falls in love with a poem

WARNING: My bad poetry.

There were few things that escaped his notice. A loose hair or a loose hare, it makes no difference.

So when he noticed a stray piece of paper left on a desk he examined it.

It was no ordinary slip of paper, it was parchment paper. Not only that the writing was no ordinary scribbling but of finely inked calligraphy. Each word clearly and deliberately crafted for beauty.

And the words.

Oh, the words!

Crisp apple blossoms floated on the breeze

Though the valleys passed the trees

I lay in the shade of a solid oak tasting the honey off bees

But when I awoke I stood on a parapet with my kin folk

Brother in arms

Broken in arms

Blood that spilled before they sounded the alarms.

Before we knew it we were surrounded, bounded, and taken to that farm.

The beauty! The passion! Très bien!

And how fortunate he was to find out that there were other pages scattered around campus. In the cafeteria, the gym, the track field, and the quad. Rook recounted the schedule of his target .

In fields of war, I once did stride, A soldier strong, with heart abide, Where bullets flew and cannons roared, I fought for rights, my country's hoard. With rifle tight, I stood my ground, Against the foe, my courage profound, Their cries and screams, I did not flinch, My duty done, my spirit unbroken. The memories still linger, though the pain, Of loss and cost, my heart doth gain, The comrades fallen, the battles won, The scars of war, forever done. But now, I've left the battlefield, To live a life of peace and heal, The armor off, my heart doth mend, The past, a story to amend. Yet in my dreams, the gunfire rings, The cries of men, the scent of things, The memories of war, they linger on, A past life, forever gone.

Beautiful! Heart wrenching!

The story of a warrior who has laid down their arms. The brilliant continuation of the last more fractured poem. But the ending while filled with solace bares a sense of melancholy. They know that even if they no longer fight the war of the mind goes on.

Truly magnificent!

The next poem was far different from the last few.

In the twilight hours, when shadows dance, I found myself in a whimsical trance, With a pet bunny, mischievous and sly, Whose nature concealed a devilish eye. Oh, this bunny, so small and serene, But beneath that fur, a mischief unseen. A playful sprite, with a wicked smile, A master of pranks, all the while. With nimble paws and a daring mind, This bunny would leave chaos behind. No vase was safe, no curtain spared, As it hopped and leapt, without a care. Its eyes, they gleamed with a fiendish glow, As it plotted its next mischievous show. No toy or treat could quench its thirst, For the thrill of chaos, it was immersed. It would nibble and chew on everything in sight, Leaving a trail of mess, a chaotic delight. The furniture, the carpet, even my shoes, All bore the marks of its playful abuse. Yet, despite all the havoc it would create, I couldn't help but find it truly great. For in its antics, there lay a charm, A reminder that life need not be so harm. For in this bunny's game, I found release, A break from the mundane, a moment of peace. To laugh and play with a creature so wild, Unleashing my spirit, like an innocent child. So, let us not judge this bunny's demeanor, For beneath its mischief lies a lesson much cleaner. To embrace the joy in life's playful spree, And find solace in chaos, wild and free.

Adorable! So cute!

Clearly they have an eye for beauty.

The adoration of something cute but rotten on the inside and finding the charm in it.

Truly they both must be of the same mind and heart. Truly they were the most perfect person for him. He didn't even know anyone who did such unique calligraphy, let alone for poetry. They have the soul of a poet, and a hand of an artist.

The last poem he found had nothing to do with the others. He had followed the trail to a certain Prefect. They had been chasing a rather mischievous rabbit that held a tattered notebook in its mouth.

"Sargent! Put that down!" They yelled trying to wrestle the fluffy beast who jumped up in down in challenge.

They rabbit sprinted off leaving a flutter of papers behind and another poem.

In the golden glow of the setting sun, I stood on a hilltop, my journey done. Silent and still, I watched the scene unfold, A beautiful blonde hunter, brave and bold. His eyes, like emeralds, pierced the twilight air, A hunter's gaze, both gentle and aware. Golden locks cascading, kissed by the breeze, A vision of strength and quiet expertise. He moved with grace through the thick undergrowth, A nimble predator, embodying both The wild and the tender, the fierce and the kind, A paradox of nature, perfectly aligned. His steps were whispers on the forest floor, As he pursued his prey, a dance of lore. I marveled at his skill, his focused might, His connection with the land, his primal sight. With every breath, his spirit seemed to soar, A symbiotic bond, forevermore. Nature's child, protector of the wild, His presence, a testament, both meek and mild. The sunlight danced upon his fair skin, A radiant glow, a halo from within. His heart beating in tune with the earth's song, A harmony of strength, where he belonged. In that fleeting moment, my soul took flight, Transfixed by his beauty, his essence of light. A hunter, yes, but so much more I saw, A guardian of nature, a lover of awe. As darkness fell and the moon took its place, I couldn't help but feel a sense of grace. For in that encounter, I glimpsed a truth, That beauty can be found in strength and youth. So, I'll forever cherish that sight I beheld, Of a beautiful blonde hunter, in the wild he dwelled. And in my heart, his memory will reside, A gentle reminder of nature's untamed stride.

Rook felt his ears turn red as he read. To think the one he had been looking for and the one he had his eye on had been looking back at him all this time.

Before he got ahead of himself he found another paper.

He strutted with confidence, his charm on display, With golden locks that shimmered like the sun's ray, But oh, how his presence grated on my nerves, Like a relentless itch that never subserves. He spoke in honeyed words, with a silver tongue, Each syllable crafted, every sentence well-spun, But beneath the surface, I sensed a shallow depth, A facade of perfection, a veiled masquerade adept. His eyes, so green, held a glimmer of deceit, A spark that hinted at a hidden conceit, He thought himself the epitome of grace, A prize to be won, a trophy to embrace. Yet, in all his glory, he failed to see, The annoyance that grew within me, For beauty alone cannot captivate the soul, It takes substance and character to make one whole. With each passing encounter, my patience wore thin, His incessant flattery, his persistent grin, I longed for authenticity, for genuine connection, Not a superficial bond built on mere affection. But he remained oblivious to my growing disdain, Blinded by his own ego, immune to my pain, And so, I resolved to escape his shallow allure, To find solace in a world where honesty was pure. For beauty fades, like petals withering away, And true worth lies in the heart, not in a face so cliché, So, I bid farewell to the blonde suitor's charm, And sought a deeper love, one that would disarm. No longer annoyed by his superficiality, I embraced the freedom of my own individuality, For a beautiful soul, devoid of pretense, Is far more captivating, far more immense.

Rook wasn't one to be sensitive but this one actually hurt. They thought he was shallow, and not genuine in his love for beauty.

He had his work cut out for him. He would correct this problem.

Perhaps with a poem.

#special forces!yuu #yuuniverse #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #rook hunt x reader #twisted wonderland rook #twst rook #rook hunt

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writingforatwistedworld · 2 years

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Okay I'm back! Please share with us the lore on what the known kingdoms and lands think about and treat the reader in the self-aware au!

Oh boy did I skim through so much already known intel about the places and desperately trying to match things so that they would still fit into the TWST universe.

Do you agree with me or do you think differently?

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, religion, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, war, violence, beheading

The different ways of admiration

Red marked places: Couldn't find any info about the place and if then only a tiny bit bc of characters (example Riddle) personality (aka cultural background.) Info will be added as soon as more is released.

Orange marked places: Some info is known but not much

Queendom of Roses

Role you occupy: Monarch/A person in a ruling position

The queendom of roses functions after the rules of the queen of hearts which were inspired by you (don't ask how)

There are many national holidays which are connected to you (or rather believed to be)

It is seen as a huge offense to break your rules and in court they swear upon your name and reign

There is actually a throne on which nobody had ever sat on. It's made for you if you ever were to appear

Is one of the most open nations towards religious believes like for example, missionaries from Briar Valley since the queendom is also very strict with their lives in you

There are eight churches in the queendom because of the import of the believes of the faes

Most do see you though as some kind of ruler instead of a god

Sunset Savanna

Role you occupy: Spokesperson for minorities/someome fighting for equality

You are often used as a symbol in protests

Especially the slums look up to you since you see them as equals

The nation is the least obsessed with you since they see you as one of them and not someone above them

The respect stems from a place of admiration

It’s a unspoken taboo to join a group which thinks religious about you

People which do think of you as a god are sneered upon

Equality is your most important trait here

That does not mean that people will see you just as another passerby

Except to be treated like a honored guest

Some go even so far to create poetry about you (look Rook)

Coral Sea

Role you occupy: Scholar/Uniter of the land and sea

The Coral Sea is strict but also not that much depending what we are talking about

If someone is thinking that they don't want to expand their knowledge and power then that's fine

But don't they dare to say that someone who claims to be inspired by you (aka Ursula) just saying this and not meaning it

It's seen as a huge offense since you inspired generation after generation which lead to the sea opening up to the land dwellers

They actually have a contract in which is written “In the name of the one that knows and sees all we shall honor the other and see them as equal as our own kin.”

They also have a fairly small population which believes that you are a God since the places that have those customs either don't seek contact or simply didn't have much to do with the merpeople

Although being separated by the water they are pretty open towards outside influences which is a mindset brought to them by saying that you were able to achieve that level of wisdom by having a open mind

Scalding Sands

Magician/Scholar of higher knowledge of the world

The residents of the Scalding Sands thank you daily since they believe they are still alive because of you

The idea of the water system is believed to invented by you, securing a better life for them

Green is seen as a colour representing you since it's the colour of nature unlike the colour of sand

The Sorcerer of the Sands was in awe when he imagined the powers you had to possess which lead to him trying to become as powerful as possible so that he could be worthy of your knowledge

Its being said that the first magic carpets had been a invention from you passed to them

About 30% is seeing you as a God due to them being a center of trade

The constant meeting of other cultures allows them to discuss you in many ways

This leads them to be the one nation knowing the most about you (small things like favorite food) but in the end you are still a mystery

Shaftlands

Role you play: Muse/Symbol of perfection

Since many cultures live there there isn't just one view on you

But they do gave things in common

There are also festivities connected to you

Most of the time they happen in spring because it's belived that with the season of blooming flowers you also rise

In fall it's said that you return to sleep until you awaken again

There is a lot of art and poetry about you

But, due to them not knowing how you look and behave, they are filled with more symbols than actual depictions

Religions about you are allowed but it's also looked down upon since you actually inspire them to reach your level instead of just cowering and praising you

This place is the most extreme nonreligious place

Saying that you might not be as perfect as said? Socially dead. Simply not being that interested in you? Shame for the entire family

You probably wouldn't want to experience that since it can get pretty lonely in a place like this

Island of woe (Spoilers for chapter 6)

Role you occupy: Overseer (God)/Inspiration for progress

If you had to pick probably the better religion

They see you, like Greek Gods, as flawed also as someone who is very similar to a human

They have temples for you but what separates them from the second religion about you is them worshipping you is a sign of respect and not absolute control loss

They also distance themselves from the cult in Briar Valley as it is too extreme for them

In their eyes you wanted them to press onward and create new things on their own

Though they are the less known religion since... let's not have too many spoilers (Japanese translations reader you know why)

It is seen as a huge offense when someone does not believe in you since it's such a fundamental part of their culture

Hades himself looked up to you whilst trying to recreate the advanced technology you had

The fact that they probably surpassed our world already is unknown to them

They will speak about their religion if you ever meet one of them though (except if you are from the Valley of Thorns)

If you are ever on the run from Briar Valleys possessive cultists probably the best place to hide

Briar Valley

Role you occupy: Overseer (God)/Ruler over everything

They are angry about other places not seeing you as they do but they are able to hide it well

Huge churches unmatched by the occasional ones in other nations are build there

In the morning, midday and evening there is a mass to which everyone attends

If you speak up against the church there can be consequences that are capable of making the life of three generations after you miserable

How dare they to question your gentle gaze which took away the loneliness of the Witch of Thorns

You are worth more than life itself and if they need to start a holy war to spread your word then so be it!

Everything being done is in your name

Laws are decided by your morals which makes the kingdom a place ruled deeply influenced by religion

That doesn't mean that religious leaders can do whatever they want

If someone is known to use your name to enrich themselves their life will be... shorter

The reason they haven't ripped the other places apart if because most allow them to talk about “you” there

There are sometimes more violent cults formed which are struck down very fast

Just don't talk bad and admire the overseer more than anything and then you should be good

#tw: yandere #tw: religion #tw: violence #tw: war #tw: obsessive behavior #tw: possessive behavior #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst x reader #self aware au

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synnthamonsugar · 5 months

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i don't know how tumblr works so forgive me if i made this prompt in the wrong place

so uhh.... a fic based on number 43 from the intimacy prompt list for mara/shaxx 👉👈

43. Falling asleep with their head in your lap Woe, my very specific headcanons for Mara/Shaxx (and by extension, Mara/Sjur) be upon thee!

Queen Mara Sov drapes against the arm of the blue silk divan, a book of ancient poetry open in her right palm, the stubbled and scarred jawline of Lord Shaxx beneath her left fingertips. He rests his head in her lap, atop the smooth leather of her cuisses, dark eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Through the high windows of the quarters, a twilit blue-purple sky, stars flickering through the vast dust and debris clouds.

In his role as liaison to the Reef in the Great Hunt, Shaxx had come to Mara to report on the lightbearers' progress across the myriad rocky bodies where the wish-dragons had roosted. Off-duty, he stayed to get caught up on the happenings in Mara's life and share his own. The conversation avoided matters of Reef or City news, which Mara appreciated; the Hunt and its attendant diplomacy with the capricious guardians and her own restless subjects wracked her nerves. To talk about the latest productions of the Ghost Community Theater Company and her recent library acquisitions was a welcome reprieve from the grim day-to-day.

"'A grave, a grave,' Lord Barnard cried," she recites from an old Earth poem telling the story of a roguish man, a married woman, and a love triangle that ends in a deadly duel. "'To put these lovers in; but lay my lady on the upper hand, for she came of the better kin.'"

"Is this your way of issuing a warning, Queen Mara?" he asks with good-natured incredulity.

She huffs stiffly. "Unless one of us is a disguised ahamkara, we needn't fear the wrath of the Tempest."

Mara pictures herself and Sjur as two planets circling a star in slightly irregular orbits. Sometimes, celestial mechanics draw them to blissful conjunction, and other times they drift into peaceful divergence. They will always reunite, so there is no sorrow in the matter, no more than Terra mourns Mars when he surpasses her. With the awareness that others may track in and out of their lives like passing comets, there is no jealousy. And no sense of possession over that which cannot be owned.

"I cannot speak for you, but the twinkle in my eyes is merely joy at spending time with you," he assures, right hand idly stroking her bony knuckles. She flips her hand palm-up to lace with his. "Still, I wouldn't decline a rematch. In all my days as warlord and crucible-master, I've never before encountered a fighter of such skilled ferocity. You are fortunate to have her, and the ahamkara are unfortunate to stand in her way."

She trusts Sjur will stand strong against the dragons; she has conquered foes more fearsome and less familiar. Still, Mara anxiously awaits transmission for confirmation that the Queen's Wrath has endured another day unharmed.

"I do not think another living soul would volunteer to stand opposite Sjur's bow," Mara smirks.

He smiles. "We guardians are an odd sort. You know that."

"I do," she says, not finishing her thought: but you aren't, and that's why I like you so.

In a world of reckless children afire with the power of gods, Shaxx is measured, empathetic, diplomatic. Worthy of the trust she so carefully meters out. The lightbearers would do well to be more like him.

She almost says so, but finds his eyes closed, breath slow and steady. Setting the book on the arm of the lounge, she shifts so that her arm tucks around him, and her head rests on his chest, accompanying him in slumber.

#destiny #mara/shaxx #synnth fic #saturnalia 2023

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sunflowersandmirage · 2 years

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what your favorite proseka ship says about you

ichisaki: you will fight everyone who says leo/need is boring. JUST LOOK AT THESE TWO? THE POTENTIAL FOR DRAMA AND FLUFF? UNRIVALLED

shihonami: you melt everytime shiho compliments honami’s abilities. you know when you have them together in lives and shiho says something and honami squeals? you do, too

polyneed: you’re very smart you love these girls and think they deserve to be happy (and also three girlfriends) also you probably think going from a four-way divorce to all dating is really funny

minoharu: your favorite kind of dynamic is goddess x mess of a lesbian. also ships where they both admire one another but one of them thinks they’re unworthy and/or the other doesn’t think as highly of them but in reality they adore them as much, if not more >>>>>>>>

shizuai: your favorite dynamic is boke x tsukkomi with a healthy dose of drama

minoshizu: you think the lack of braincells is what makes this ship so good. also the one who felt like she had to lie to be liked and the one who does her best but no one seems to support her? mwah

polyjump: SCANDALOUS! these four idol girls are IN LOVE AND THRIVING!

anhane: you want a relationship like theirs SO BAD, you’re so ready to hype the hell out of your potential s/o SO BAD!!! that or you just like galpals who are actually girlfriends

akitoya: you either hate when people call toya “blue todoroki” or you not only keep doing it, but also cackle everytime anyone does it. the romantic “bro” “bro...” exchange is where love peaked, actually

akian/toyahane/akikoha/antoya: holy shit you have a ton of willpower good luck going on tiktok dude

ruikasa: hee hee they make the nb flag- you think there’s an inherent romantic aspect of blowing stuff together (even though that “stuff” tends to be one of you...)

emunene: opposites attract and funky hair colors are your SHIT you probably also fall asleep reading fluff

emurui: you firmly believe there’s an inherent romantic aspect in causing chaos and the downfall of all human beings... probably

ruinene: say it with me, folks! CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS! CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS! also, you never fail to notice that voice rui uses when talking to her

polyshow: you saw all these candy coloured idiots and went “you know what’s the best outcome to this? all of them kissing each other”

sakurako/literally anyone in wxs: you think sakurako deserves a banner. and you’re right. special mention to sakunene (they sing love songs together claiming its “practice”) and sakukasa (they scream each other’s names and then kiss)

kanamafu: you kin mafuyu. i have not seen a person who loves kanamafu and doesn’t kin mafuyu. what’s up with you guys. are you okay (no you aren’t you kin mafuyu. my best wishes)

mizuena: WHY DOESN’T MIZUKI TELL HER THEIR SECRET WHY DOESN’T MIZUKI TELL HER THEIR SECRET WHY DOE-

kanaena: remember what i said at shihonami with the lives? you, but when ena uses The Kanade Voice. also, like anhane, you’re ready to support your s/o, if you want one!

mizumafu: just think of it for a minute... the one who’s ostracized because they stick to their real self and the one who’s praised for a fake and doesn’t know who she is... IT’S POETRY! ROMANCE!

kanamizu: kinda like kanaena, you love how supportive they are of one another. carnation recollection is most likely your favorite event as well.

mafuena: you like rivals to lovers but in the sense that one of them wants to rip the other’s throat and said other is just chilling, busy with their own problems (and then they come to understand one another and kiss)

mizurui: you’re SO SAD for middle school them. they were IN LOVE damn IT they’re so PRECIOUS LOOK AT HOW MUCH THEY’VE GROWN...!

mizuruikasa: why should mizurui and ruikasa fight, when they can all kiss each other?

anharu: you saw that one 1koma that was like “friends and rivals!” and you went oh. oh i can make something out of this HEHEHEHEHE

kohamino: you believe in the inherent romanticism of taking care of little animals together

anhaneminoharu: listen. they go on double dates a lot, that is canon, we’re all sure, but what if... what if they took the double out of double dates?

mafukasa: have they met? no. does it matter? also no. you will whip out the analysis-es or type an entire essay yourself LOOK AT THEM, EVEN THEIR PALETTES ARE OPPOSITES? WHY ISN’T COLOPALE LETTING THEM ME-

kanahona: you believe in the inherent romanticism of being married before even dating

akikasa: you think the key to a good ship is making sure one of the parts is suffering every second because WHY THIS IDIOT I’M GONNA CRY IT COULD BE ANYONE, LITERALLY ANYONE ELSE, BUT NOOOO... and the other part is just. existing

mizumino: you think minoharu’s invalanced because minori is... minori, so maybe she’d be better off with a fan who’s as excited as she is that she has a fan like that

aisakiemu: well, they got the valentine’s event! must’ve been for a reason! also they’re so pink and so cute and so precious... they would be so adorable together, listen!

mizuakikasa: well, they got the white day event! must’ve been for a reason! you hate akito shinonome. (you say this in the most loving way possible)

polyleader: you don’t care anymore, you just want them to interact again, like, i swear, they interact once IN A YEAR, you’ll take ANYTHING. PLEASE

ichinene: their little singing lessons are so cute. when ichika compliments nene and she blushes! and when nene compliments ichika and she blushes!

kanaichi: they’re soulmates. yes, just because they both like miku and each other’s hair. that “i’ve heard that voice before...!” thing they have going on is so soulmatey, woah

mafushizu: you think shizuku would love mafuyu even after revealing who she really is to her. and she would. she understands her struggle and sympatizes with her. and then they kiss

kanamino: “she’s shining...!” and that’s all you needed to want them to kiss. kanade’s been trying to save people for too long. minori’s been trying to spread hope for too long. they can let the other rest. they can be the help they need

mizusaki: they’re both interested in fashion and they’d dress each other up in their styles! they’re soft pink gfs (gender neutral (?) and that’s what true love looks like. also, you’ve probably read that one akikasa fanfiction

toyakasa/sakitoya: ... good luck.

enairi: there’s something really beautiful in watching your friend grow into someone important, and being so proud, but noticing they don’t like what they’re doing, supporting them through it, and seeing them rise and do what they love again

shizukasa: you have colopale on a STRONGHOLD why don’t they interact more often they’re childhood friends they go to their sisters’ concerts together everytime they hang out and someone comes to bother shizuku tsukasa acts as if they’re looking for him until they leave them alone and then-

polypicnic: Mizuki’s Many Many Beautiful Girlfriends. it’s what they deserve, honestly!

polyfantasista: iranai, subete wa iranai ojike (ojike) dzuita yabo no try manzoku nante soko ni nai menimieru awarena miraiomoidori ni dekiru life-te ni dekiru ka wa anata shidai kakushi tari nanka wa shinai dare yori mo hokorashige ni dekiru maindohora kono sakai no naka hoka ni wanai tashikana mono jibun igai wa kaimu

#proseka #ruikasa #akitoya #anhane #project sekai #colorful stage #prsk #ughgughgughghguhgh #i am missing SO MANY ships but i think these are the most popular ones #maybe a part two? it's late and i'm sleepy #sorry for my absence i forgot i existed for a sec #trying to replicate my onehit wonder with proseka and realizing how wordy i've become lmao #anyway #i usually gloss over ships i don't like but there's a ship i LOATHE with a passion you won't guess which one it is #if you do i'll... idk. write an entire fic for you i guess! yeah. yeah i'll do that

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minaturefics · 2 years

Text

Breathless

Request: hi hello i am desperate for more faramir content 😩😩 i dont have much of a prompt other than maybe the reader is skilled in combat and most think thats improper but faramir is supportive and that makes the reader fall for him ? i love the idea of a very capable but perhaps jaded reader going soft for faramir 🥺 hope u have a great day!!

A/N: I am desperate for more Faramir content too 😢 He's my favourite but he's not as popular as the other men in lotr. I loved writing this piece, probs cause I too, am jaded and tired lol. It's not super fluffy but I do think it is quite romantic. I hope you like it!!!

Faramir x Reader

Gender-neutral reader

No content warnings

3.7k words

---

You swiped at the bead of sweat rolling down your temple and let out a long breath. The straw dummy slumped against the wooden pole, its head bent at an awkward angle. The sun was warm on the back of your neck and the breeze cool on your cheeks. The training courtyard was filled with the shouts and grunts of exertion and, above that, the clash and clatter of steel and wood.

You felt someone’s eyes on you and you turned, eyes hard and mouth set in a tight line. The small group of guards watching you looked away, their voices falling to an even quieter murmur. Something coiled in your stomach, hot and angry, and your grip tightened on the hilt of your sword. You turned back to your inanimate opponent and lifted your arm. You swung at it again and again, feet shifting on the dirt, steel cutting through the air.

Their tongues could wag all they wanted. It did not matter.

You sliced the dummy, the thin muslin splitting to spill straw on the ground, and gave it another vicious stab. You wished you had another person to spar with, a partner, but none of the guards were willing. Half of them were too afraid to bruise a high-born noble, and the other half did not believe you were capable of an equal fight.

Your kin were not known for being skilled with a blade or bow. A family of scholars. They were all too willing to keep to their cool libraries and delicate poetry, to their sprawling maps and cosy studies. If you had not cajoled one of the older guards stationed at your family’s home to teach you, there was no doubt you would have been unable to handle even a little dagger. Your days had been filled with reams of paper and dusty tomes, and the nights spent in a quiet courtyard mimicking his movements.

Your family kept their sharp words to themselves, but could not hide the disdain and disapproval in their stares. It was too common, too rough, to wield something as crude as a weapon. They had barred you from joining the march to Mordor, had near barricaded you in your room until the army was too far away to catch up with.

You took another swing at the dummy and it’s head ripped off, tumbling away to somewhere behind you. The guards chuckled and one of the bolder ones spoke up.

“Perhaps enough of that. Wouldn’t want to damage your pretty hands, eh?”

You whirled around, scathing words ready to leap off your tongue, when another voice came from behind the group of guards.

“I do not employ you to stand around gossiping like errant school children.”

They bowed their heads, muttering apologies, and parted for the man.

Faramir.

You had seen him at dinners and banquets before, but the only words you had exchanged with him were rehearsed pleasantries. He stood tall, his broad shoulders pulled back and his grey eyes stern and cold. He jerked his head and the guards scuttled off. Faramir offered you a small smile and you stiffened. Did he expect some sort of thanks? Some sort of gratitude for standing up for you? These great titled men always expected something, and he was the steward, a prince.

“That was not necessary, my Lord,” you said, sliding your sword into its sheath. “I am more than capable of fending for myself.”

He blinked at you, jaw slack, before a rueful smile spread across his face. “I do not doubt that. I have seen you train, you are a most skilled fighter.”

You arched your eyebrow at him. There was no mockery in his eyes, no snide twisting of his lips. “Perhaps, but I lack practice with a moving partner. Many of your guards are unwilling to spar with me. And I doubt even you will be able to compel them to.”

You turned away, ready to leave.

“I can spar with you.”

You stared at him from over your shoulder. That soft smile was back on his face again and there was a mirth in his eyes. Was he being serious? You swallowed. There might not be another chance to spar with a real person. It would be foolish to let it slip away. “When?”

He glanced at the sun. “Perhaps in a few hours. I have some duties to finish and I’m certain you would like to rest before another practice session.”

You rolled your sore shoulder and nodded. “Where?”

“If you do not feel too ill at ease, the Steward’s House has its own training courtyard. We shall not be disturbed there.”

Your eyes flickered to the guards lingering by the arches and pillars, eyes trailed on you and Faramir. “I shall come by just before the sixth bell.”

His smile grew wider and he bid you good day before you left for your rooms.

What did he mean by inviting you to spar? You did not know Faramir well, but he and his brother have never been known to be cruel. It was probably not some prank or joke. So why then? Was it truly possible that was genuinely interested in sparring with you? You shook your head. There was little point speculating; you would simply have to see what awaited you.

You stood in the middle of the courtyard, stretching your arms. Faramir had left to change into more casual clothes, apologising for his tardiness, stating that some meeting had run over. The sky was streaked orange and pink, the setting sun’s rays gilding the grey roof of the Steward’s House orange. The clamour of the Citadel was muffled by the high walls and the flutter and cry of roosting birds was the only thing you could hear.

The training courtyard was well kept. The grass was soft and shorn, the dummies stuffed and upright. You wandered over to them, circling the straw figures. One of the wooden poles was chipped and splintered, and much older than its counterparts. You ran your fingers over the aged wood. Did they forget to replace this pole? The pads of your fingers ghosted over something, close to the back of the dummy, and you bent to inspect it.

Boromir, carved into the wood, and under it in neater writing, Faramir.

Your chest tightened. You remembered seeing them together at a banquet, Boromir’s arm slung around Faramir’s neck, laughing about something. Denethor had been particularly scathing to Faramir that night, choosing to introduce only Boromir to the eligible members of the court. Faramir had stood at the edges of the crowd, a strained smile on his face, until Boromir had pulled him along and sang praises about his younger brother to whoever would listen.

You had not been one of them, but your eyes had lingered on Faramir the whole evening. On the way his hair fell in soft waves, on the gentleness of his smile. There was something about him. Something disarming, something tender.

“I see you’ve found our little secret.”

You whirled around, jerking your hand back. Faramir was leaning against a pillar with an amused smile tugging at his lips. He was in a loose tunic and plain linen trousers. How long had he been watching you? You straightened and cleared your throat. What could you say to him after being so intrusive?

You turned away and strode to the middle of the courtyard. “Shall we start?”

“You didn’t bring your weapon. Should I get —”

You turned around to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “You are better with a bow, and I am better with a sword. It would be an unequal fight. We can spar with our hands.”

His brows were raised in mild surprise and your words echoed in your mind. You swallowed and glared at a pillar. It was no secret within the court that Faramir was skilled with a bow; he would always win the archery tournaments they held every year.

He joined you in the middle of the courtyard and you raised your fists. “Do not go easy on me, my lord.”

He chuckled and you swung at him. He jerked back, your fist just grazing his nose, and ducked as you took another swing. He dodged easily and kicked at you. His foot brushed your trousers, but it didn’t connect with your shin. Faramir was a good fighter, better than you even. His arms were steady, his footwork clean. All it took was a misstep on your part, a foot placed just off balance, and you stumbled into him.

His arms came around you, large and strong. His skin was hot through the thin pieces of fabric separating your bodies. He smelled like clean linen and musk, and the lingering earthy scent of patchouli. Your fingers curled on his firm chest before you tore yourself away from him.

Your heart thumped against your ribs and your breaths came out ragged. You turned away and brushed some imaginary dirt off your arms. “Apologies,” you muttered, face flushed. “It seems I still have to practice.”

You looked over your shoulder at him. The high points of his cheeks were pink, and his lips were parted. He nodded, a smile growing on his face. “You are better than some of my captains.”

You eyed him. “You truly believe that?”

“I would not have said it otherwise.”

He believed that you could fight. That you were more skilled than the guards that heckled you and the nobles who turned their noses up at you. That you were better than their snide stares and insults.

Your chest tightened and your stomach swooped.

What was that feeling? How could his simple words affect you so?

You had to leave, leave before anymore… feelings rose in you. You muttered a quiet thanks and made excuses to leave.

“Shall I see you out?”

“No, you do not have to trouble yourself.”

“It is no trouble, I—”

“Good evening, my lord,” you muttered and strode away from the courtyard, your heart beating faster than it did when you were training.

Faramir stared at you from across the room, wondering if he should go speak to you. The small hall was drenched in a mellow orange light from the lanterns and torches. The modest quartet played a merry tune, the flute running trills alongside the strumming harp, and couples were gathering in the centre. The doors to the large balcony were thrown open and the heady scent of jasmine floated in on the summer breeze.

You lingered by the wall with a feebly disguised scowl on your face. You were out of your training clothes, and instead were dressed in fine silk. Your eyes were bright beneath your frown, alight with the same fire he saw that day in his courtyard.

You had moved with a grace that he rarely saw in other soldiers. There had been a fluidity, an ease in your movements, a lightness in your step. He supposed it was because of your noble upbringing, that somehow the posture and etiquette lessons had bled into the way you fought as well.

He would rarely describe fighting or battle as beautiful, but there was no other word he could use to describe you when he first saw you attacking the dummy. He had watched you from the upper balconies of the training grounds for a week before he steeled himself to speak to you. And when you had tripped and stumbled into his arms…

Heat rose to his face and he glanced away.

The last couple of weeks had been a torment. He could not stop himself from sending you invitations to spar, and to his surprise, you had accepted every one of them. Each time he touched you to correct your stance, his hand on your elbow, his foot against your calf, he could feel the echo of your presence for hours afterwards. And the smiles you flashed him, tentative and unsure, made his heart stutter.

He blinked the memories away. There was little chance you would return what feelings he had for you.

He remembered the time when he saw you at one of the banquets, the one where Boromir had introduced him to all the eligible nobles. He had been stealing glances at you the whole night, eyes tracing the line of your figure, lingering on the soft pink of your lips. He had watched you turn down anyone who asked you to dance, and when Boromir made his way towards you he stilled his brother’s feet. You clearly did not wish to be disturbed, so why should they be intrusive?

He sighed and wished that he had let his brother drag him to you. The crowd between you and him seemed like an ocean now, and it seemed with each passing moment his resolve faltered. You had rejected every suitor who had approached you, why should he be different?

His eyes wandered to you again, and he found you looking at him. A smile pulled at his lips and you offered one back. Your gaze drifted to the balcony and your feet shifted, body angled towards the beckoning night. After a moment, you pushed yourself off the wall and started weaving your way through the crowd towards the doors.

He silently asked Boromir for strength and followed you out.

The night was clear and balmy, and the stars twinkled overhead. You were leaning against the bannister, staring out at the circles and the plains beyond. The moon cast you in a soft light, diffused and glowing, and all at once it felt as though he had wandered into a dream.

He cleared his throat and you turned. “My lord, are you not enjoying the party?”

“It can be a bit much sometimes. May I join you?”

You nodded and he rested his arms next to yours. He could feel the warmth coming off you, could smell the faint rosemary oil from your hair. He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it close. Did you even wish to converse?

You sighed and tilted your head up to the stars. Your eyes were distant and wistful, longing, almost. A look he saw sometimes when you thought no one was watching you.

You reminded him of some verse he had read in some forgotten book in the library, and the words tumbled from his tongue before he could stop them.

“Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars

Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.”

You turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. A shy smile formed on your lips, and you continued.

“Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.”

Poetry? You could recite poetry? Something blossomed in his heart and a smile spread across his face. Was there nothing that you couldn’t do? He cleared his throat and said, louder.

“The painful warrior famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foiled,

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.”

Your lips parted, ready to form the final couplet, but then you shook your head and turned away, chuckling.

Were the words too tender for you to speak? Too heavy with the promise of something that would undoubtedly shake whatever tenuous friendship between the both of you?

“Did I stun you into silence, my lord?” You laughed. “Did you think me uncultured? That I only knew the ways of combat?”

“I thought no such thing. But I will admit to some surprise; there are few who know that verse.”

“My family are scholars, and my tutors had a penchant for poetry. It has been some time since I had spoken those words aloud.”

“You have a wonderful voice.”

“You would be the first to think so, my lord. My tutors have always said I do not recite with enough flair.”

“Flair is for those who have weak articulation and an unsteady cadence. Those whose voice and tone are strong enough can make even the most simple of verses beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you muttered before straightening and clearing your throat. “Please excuse me, I am in need of a drink.”

He nodded, holding his tongue from asking you to stay. You did not seem the type who responded well to such things.

He watched your retreating form and wondered when he would see you again.

You paused in the middle of the corridor to Faramir’s office, fingers curling around the envelope in your hand. Faramir’s name was written in your best hand on the front of the prettiest paper you could source.

Ever since that night on the balcony, you had known no peace in your thoughts. His voice, low and gentle, echoed in your ears. His grey eyes, shimmering in the starlight, flashed into your mind. So many times you had caught yourself halfway to his office, feet wandering to where your heart tried so hard to avoid.

How was it that Faramir, of all people, had wormed his way into your heart? Perhaps it was no great surprise in the end. Was it not him, who your eyes always wandered to across halls and dinner tables? Was it not him, who treated you as an equal, who saw you as you were?

Indeed, the great surprise would be if he felt the same.

But how were you to compare to the other nobles? To those with smooth hands and unblemished skin, to those who walked with grace and conversed with ease?

Your hands tightened around the letter, creasing the edges and corners. You took a few steps forward and paused again. Perhaps it would be best to simply turn around and walk away. To save yourself from more embarrassment.

You shifted on your feet, but his door swung open and he stepped out. You whipped your hands behind your back, letter crumpled in your fist.

“I thought I heard someone out here,” he said, an easy smile slipping onto his face. “So it has been you who has been haunting my corridor.”

You stiffened. “I do not know what you mean.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and your heart sped up. “The last few days I would hear footsteps approaching, but no knock ever came.”

“Perhaps they were simply making their way to the other end of the corridor.”

He glanced at the oak door in question and arched his eyebrow at you. “To raid my personal stores of parchment and ink?”

“… Perhaps not.”

“I was half convinced it might have been some spectre, though you are certainly a much better surprise.” Heat crept up your neck and you looked away. “Please, come in. I have something for you. A gift.”

You followed him into his office, eyes drifting around the room. His desk, set by one of the windows, was littered with papers. Bookshelves lined one of the walls, and the other, with the fireplace, had two plush chairs placed in front of it. He strode to his desk and pulled a thin book out from under the papers.

“Here,” he said, voice low and hesitant. “I chanced upon it the other day and thought perhaps you might find some enjoyment in it.”

You took the volume from him and ran your fingers over the gilded title. The leather was soft and buttery, the lettering fading and flaking. It was certainly well-loved, and not something you suspected he had found by sheer chance. You flipped it open and you froze at the words.

Poems.

Love poems.

Faramir cleared his throat and you slammed the book shut. His smile had morphed into a shy one and his eyes were filled with tenderness. Was it possible that he felt the same? Could you dare to hope for such a thing?

“Thank you, I… I will treasure it.” You offered him a smile. “Unfortunately, I do not have anything to give in return.”

His smile grew wider and a playfulness sprang in his eyes. “Hmm. Perhaps that letter you have clutched so tightly in your hands?”

“It is not for you.”

“Is it not? For I have spied my name on it. If you were looking for a pageboy I can spare you the effort.” He reached out, palm up.

There was no insistence in his gaze, no impatience in his stance.

You swallowed. Could you afford to give him the letter? To risk your heart with the words you had so carefully penned? You looked down at the book in your hands. He had been brave, had he not? There is no one in Middle-Earth who could mistake the implication of such a gift.

You brought the letter out from under the book and ran your fingers over the creased envelope. “The paper I… It is damaged.”

He placed a tentative hand over yours. His skin was warm and rough, his fingers inkstained and callused. “The words within are not affected.”

You glanced up at him, heart racing, and paused at the look in his eyes. Faramir was never one to hide how he felt, and his eyes shone with an affection that even you could not deny. You nodded and he slid the envelope out from under your hand. He opened it with care, and his smile grew when he saw your words.

“Then happy I,” he read, stepping closer to you, voice no more than a whisper, “That love and am beloved.”

“Where I may not remove nor be removed,” you finished.

He let out a shaky laugh and searched for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours and you sighed, bowing your head. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft. You inhaled his scent of leather and paper, patchouli and soap. He nestled his nose between your hair and exhaled, muttering half-formed words. You leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut.

Never to remove, you thought, and never to be removed.

---

The poem is Shakespeare's Sonnet 25 Lowkey feel like this might need a part 2 lol lmk if you guys want one

#faramir x reader #faramir x you #faramir x y/n #faramir #lotr #lotr fic #lotr fanfic #request

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batrachised · 9 months

Note

just reread the curious case of walter blythe................ i trust you with my blorboy. any other thoughts on him?

(referring to this post - highly recommend digging into the reblogs as well because there was a lot of interesting discussion!)

Thoughts on Walter Blythe? Do I have thoughts on Walter Blythe? My home-boy, my rotten soldier, my sweet cheese, my good-time boy? He's hard to analyze because the tears make it difficult to see the screen to type, but I will assuredly try my best.

Gah, it's hard to know even where to begin with Walter. Walter is difficult to poke at it in one sense, because (as I read somewhere once), he's more of an emblem than an actual character. He repeatedly represents WWI in the text, and WWI's impact on his generation. Like Emily, he seems to have a connection to a "second sight" of sorts, but unlike Emily, this isn't in your local neighborhood witch way - it's in a 'terminal and aware of it' way (to borrow the phrase from gogandmagog). Both Rainbow Valley and Ingleside mark him for death; a rather abrupt shift from the sunny childhood tone of the novels. What's more, this sometimes comes from Walter himself. In Rainbow Valley, he's the one to say they'll follow the Pied Piper, while also being the one to sense the horror flickering underneath the idea. In Ingleside, we have the shadow of his cross over his bed, breaking the placement of the story for a moment; it pops forward to a future Anne, looking back and wondering if that were an omen in her grief (a chilling vignette in an otherwise idyllic, literal 'tucking children into bed' scene). Then, of course, there's this poppy passage I'll never stop thinking about:

"Look at that wave of poppies breaking against the garden wall, Miss Cornelia. Susan and I are very proud of our poppies this year, though we hadn't a single thing to do with them. Walter spilt a packet of seed there by accident in the spring and this is the result. Every year we have some delightful surprise like that." "I'm partial to poppies," said Miss Cornelia, "though they don't last long." "They have only a day to live," admitted Anne, "but how imperially, how gorgeous they live it! Isn't that better than being a stiff horrible zinnia that lasts practically for ever?"

As posted before, it's a subtle foreshadowing of Walter's short life, while also referencing his fate - poppies are its enduring symbol of WWI.

So, in the midst of this repeated foreshadowings, we have actual child Walter. Extremely sensitive, bullied, a misfit, a misfit to the point that he doesn't even look like his family (a hop out of kin, as the book says), and someone who is ruled by fear yet has a iron moral backbone. He hates violence in all forms, and yet can savagely beat another child when called for. He's implied to have a gift for poetry that's exceptional, the same gift that leads to derision and confusion from everyone around him. He's asexual in the text, as the article I cite in the original post would say, never displaying an interest in women (besides one person suspecting he liked Faith) in a way unlike every other LM Montgomery hero. He's very earnest - see this passage from Ingleside, which is probably one of my favorites from LM Montgomery, just look at our helpful boy:

"Did you hear what happened to Big Jim MacAllister last Saturday night in Milt Cooper's store at the Harbour Head?" asked Mrs. Simon, thinking it time somebody introduced a more cheerful topic than ghosts and jiltings. "He had got into the habit of setting on the stove all summer. But Saturday night was cold and Milt had lit a fire. So when poor Big Jim sat down...well, he scorched his..." Mrs. Simon would not say what he had scorched but she patted a portion of her anatomy silently. "His bottom," said Walter gravely, poking his head through the creeper screen. He honestly thought that Mrs. Simon could not remember the right word. An appalled silence descended on the quilters. Had Walter Blythe been there all the time?

Then we have adult Walter, whose character focus has been tightened to the war entirely. Walter's arc as an adult is facing his fear of violence, but also, of himself - of not being good enough. Walter has been looked down his entire life for who he is, including by his loved ones (both Gilbert and Susan imply or explicitly state disapproval of Walter at different points, although Gilbert's is very understandable in context). Wrapped into this has to be the self-knowledge of what he was like fighting Dan Reese, and knowing that he'll be expected-encouraged-required to tap into that part of himself. It's a pressure cooker situation, with societal pressure, moral pressure, moral censure, and self-censure all thudding down on him at once.

And Walter goes, and Walter dies. His arc as the "other" is complete; his poem and letter to Rilla speak to a hope for the future; he even sees his death as a mercy, because he couldn't have lived after the things that he'd seen. Jem will come back to work as a surgeon and marry Nan; Nan will wed Jerry; Rilla be a mother and wife to Ken -- Walter will forever be "Somewhere in France."

A grim ending, but LM Montgomery is deliberate in highlighting its hope. Walter writes of the poets of the future, and his death is understood to be both a pointless tragedy and a necessary, noble sacrifice.

What interests me is how this changes in the TBAQ. This book...it's raw. It's just raw. There are notably moments when the importance of Walter's death is emphasized, and this importance is intertwined with a steady hope - see the following line from Gilbert...

...but repeatedly, it's raw grief. Walter's siblings rarely refer to him dying; instead, they describe it unsteadily as "when he went away." Anne especially - the main character of the series, a cultural cornerstone synonymous with optimism and joy - is a far cry from how we've seen her before. It's repeatedly mentioned that Anne has not been the same since Walter's death, and whenever we hear Anne speak after the war in this book, it's almost always--if not always--something downcast and hopeless. It's her children and her husband who are the ones trying to comfort and find meaning; Anne herself is broken. The book reflects the themes of Walter's arc in Rilla - his noble sacrifice, the violence of his passing, its inevitability as deemed by the text - but it is also a blunt, uncushioned statement that Walter's death left a wound that will never be healed. Unlike with other major character deaths in the Anne series - Matthew, Joyce, eventually Marilla - there is no acceptance here. Anne of Ingleside mentions how Anne still mourns Joyce, but that's one beat of many in her life filled with babies and laughter. Here, Anne's grief is the only one. Everything we learn about her in this book indicates that Anne is not okay, and will never be okay again. It's a picture of a woman so deeply sunken in her grief it becomes her primary characteristic. She finishes Walter's unfinished poems, she reads them aloud to her family, she is disconsolate in every paragraph, and the book ends with her finding a poem of Walter's he wrote on the front where he imagines viciously bayonetting a teen soldier to death, resulting in her saying she was happy Walter had never come back.

I'm getting offtrack from the subject of Walter here, but the point of these very rambling paragraphs is that Walter's inherent textual purpose is to illustrate the horrors of WWI. Normally, LM Montgomery's strength lies in the slice of life approach that deftly handles the reality of life's bittersweetness. With Walter's fate, it's just bitter. There's no uplifting message, or character growth--the characters are crushed (at least in TBAQ, vs in Rilla, where its tied to the defeat of evil and Rilla's arc as mentioned above).

This inherent purpose is impossible to separate from Walter, or at least very difficult [trust me, as someone who is writing a fanfic on a no wwi walter]. What would a Walter who survived WWI been like? Would he have been transformed into a darker version of Dean Priest? What about a Walter who never went to war at all? Would he have married Una? Would he have married at all? Was part of his tragedy realizing the reality of romance (ala Anne in Anne of Avonlea) too late, quite literally the night of his death? How would that play out if he had survived? If WWI had never happened at all? Would he have been a famous poet? Or was this only achievable through war and his Piper poem? WWI is the fabric of Walter's character, and so answering these questions - while definitely possible and reasonable - can turn into a bit of a guessing game. The implication in Walter's tragedy - in this sense, tragedy meaning what he himself lost with his death - is that he never achieved his dream of being a poet, and he never married Una/didn't see her until it was too late. This provides us with the implication of what his life would have been like if he had survived, but the war also serves as his mechanism for achieving them. Walter becomes a famous poet because of the war, and realizes his [??????] for Una only once he realizes his death is inevitable.

Then, as seen in the post you brought up, Walter's intended character arc inadvertently doubles as an unintended character arc of his sexuality. A lot of Walter's "terminal and aware of it" characteristics double as signals for the potential truth of his sexual identity. I think this is seen most sharply in the short story from TBAQ where Patrick, also unlike other boys, also censured by society, says he loves Walter with all his heart - meant to pair them due to their brushes with death, but the secondary reading here is inescapable. [i recognize they're related, but this was the time of cousin marriages so]

This post has become a sprawling behemoth, but it visually demonstrates my overall point: I think Walter Blythe is one of the richest and most complex characters LM Montgomery wrote. It's fun to tease out the other characters' beliefs and habits and depth, but Walter is a universe of implication and tragedy. There are endless questions to be asked here: what did Gilbert think of Walter, as almost polar opposites? How did their relationship change as Walter grew into a man? What about Walter's nephew, who is said to also love poetry? What sort of relationship would they have had if Walter had survived? How do you grow up dealing with censure from all sides? How do you grow up dealing with censure from all sides, and with a popular and well-liked older brother who is everything you are not? The war serves as a christening of Walter's courage and therefore his masculinity - how would Walter's struggles with his perceived masculinity have played out had the war never happened? Would it have taken international success for him to gain respect? What if he never did? How would Walter's capacity for savage violence have played a role in his life, if it all? Why is Walter so capable of savage violence compared to his siblings? If Walter had survived, would this part of him become more prominent? On the flip side, Walter is extremely sensitive to ugliness and violence - how would this impact his life if the war had never happened, because life inevitably brings this everyone's way?

Most importantly of all, can Walter as an emblem be separated from the thing he is the emblem of? What do you do with a symbol that loses its meaning?

In the end, Walter's character has the unavoidable tension of a tragic figure for the reader. His story compels us because of its end, and yet wanting to change the end is what compels us. Separating Walter Blythe from his death in the text is nearly impossible- but also irresistible.

#walter blythe #lm montgomery #this is very train of thought so apologies if you wanted something cohesive friend #and yes I did tear up #“somewhere in France” just GETS me

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lovedtogekiss · 9 months

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pronouns dot page / carrd

^ my kin and headmate lists are here

auagahhhh tags guide

dreamstag : dreamcore/"liminal"/other surreal types of images, mainly there for filtering rather than searching.

[character]posting : kinnie/headmate tags. i have a lot of kins and thus a lot of tags so i wont list each one. most important one is #addiposting, which i use so often that its the first tag tumblr suggests to me

is this anything : original jokes that i made myself with my own two hands

gender envy tag : i cant describe my gender in words so heres a collection of tumblr posts that fit

life skills tag : shit that might be helpful to know for life and shit

art skills tag : drawing advice. early tag is full of references that i need to filter out

ref tag : art references

bookmark tag : things i want to see later

SUPER bookmark tag : things i want to see later that i dont want to get lost in the bookmark tag

sfsh tag : pictures of my f/os and various kin lovers. NEW !!

> shaplin tag : a derivative of #sfsh tag that i created before i had that one. pictures of shaplin deltarune my beloved cringefail

> spamton tag : same as #shaplin tag but for spamton

[fandom] tag : fandom-specific tags. currently used for rhythm heaven (rh tag), kingdom hearts (kh tag), parappa the rapper (parappa tag), pikmin (pikmin tag), sky: children of the light (sky tag), subnautica (subnautica tag), flight rising (fr tag), and no straight roads (nsr tag)

something something predatory wasp of the palisades : tag for things that make me think "oh humanity is good after all"

[tumblr] tag : tumblr poetry

gordon, i feel normal : 😳

robot fuckery : deprecated. legacy tag for obj posts, now replaced by @cybersexisholy . i need to go back and clear this one out

for the adgroup : posts targeted towarda viddy and cakesy

posts about charaty : targeted things towards my girlfriend

mecore : posts that make up a key part of my worldview, whether theyve influenced it or just put it into words. used to be something else but i forgot what it was and tumblr recently stopped suggesting old tags to me again.

the cube, the angel of aperture (chell) : very cool, very important-looking pictures of chell portalgun.

the artist, the visionary, the prophet (dr rattmann) : very cool, very important looking pictures of dr rattmann

the fool, the hanged man (wheatley) : very cool, very important looking pictures of wheatley

the right man in the wrong place (dr freeman) : very cool, very important-looking pictures of gordon freeman

me abt pao : things relevant to my experience writing pinkaddiofficial that i didn't feel like reblogging to it

doing that thing i do : peer-reviewed tags

more will be added as i remember them

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asimplearchivist · 10 months

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𝓒𝓗. 𝓥 — [𓂧𓁷𓏏] (‘𝓭𝓗𝓻𝓽’ | 𝓫𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼)

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ khonshu knows, logically, that your shared arrangement will not last forever—it cannot. such is the nature of humanity, to change on a whim. he realizes, however, that it is difficult to face. ⤏ an unexpected boon granted from the child he’d blessed makes that concept complicated still. pairing ☽ khonshu/singlemom!avatar!reader word count ☾ 11.0k a/n ☽ [header credit] ⤏ this is one of those chapters that I struggled with greatly, if the length of time between updates is any indication. the first scene spilled forth effortlessly. the rest of it? like prying teeth. i am not one to utilize time skips to help with progressing plot because i feel it is over (and so often poorly) done, but due to the nature of this fic and its (admittedly loose) timeline in my mind, i will have to work out of my comfort zone and let it slide more than keep it rigid. hopefully the end result is halfway smooth. my apologies that it took so long—y’all’s comments really kept poking my conscience to get me going again. please enjoy! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

Human courtship rituals had never made sense in ancient history, and they certainly didn't in the present day—even less so, perhaps.

What one culture might have found offensive, another regarded it as a necessity. Taboos and essentials abounded without any sense of rationality, nor any modicum of moderation. Such social constructs appeared difficult enough to navigate without accounting for the fickle natures of mortals with their own individual preferences. Everyone had a 'type', and everyone expected a certain list of behaviors to be demonstrated by suitors of that type—often without communicating such needs to their partner, expecting them to intrinsically know what to do, and when or how to do it.

The entire ordeal always seemed pointless to Khonshu. At the end of the process, no matter how varied, the result was the same: the humans copulated, and most produced children as a result of the union. Many realized that their partner was not as appealing as once anticipated or chose to deceive them, so splits in family units were common—though so much more in the past couple of centuries than ever before. Children were always torn in the tumult that such division wrought despite its necessity at times.

Khonshu had observed it time and again, this so-called "love" about which humans waxed so wistfully in endless records of poetry and songs and art, frequently the perpetrator of heartache and sorrow and war. It blinded and leached and crumbled anyone and anything it touched. Once he was called upon by new couples for assistance in starting families, to heal their loved ones or children, or to protect a traveling husband and father while journeying back to his home throughout the night. That alone wearied him, dealing with the outer echelons of matrimony and the like—he had never understood how his kin could deal so intimately in the very heart of those matters, as messy and complicated as such feelings grew to be, without feeling exhausted at all times.

Love wasn't simple. Love had layers and contexts and depths that Khonshu didn't care to traverse. It had no concrete definition, no factual basis. It was not his specialty by any means. The judgment and execution of justice had been his closest companion for over a millenia, and it was all he needed.

His proximity to the greatest folly of humanity had narrowed significantly, once he'd reduced his influence. Even still, countless avatars under his auspices had been inflicted by romantic inclination, often resulting in him having to turn them loose to pursue it to its fullest. A mortal with no one for whom to live was a useful implement, lacking attachment—a mortal devoted to another, and to those they may create, was always harder to hone and utilize. Past experience dictated that it was better to cut ties and seek out another mortal more suited to the role he would give them.

He knew it would be better to leave you now, before the turmoil of conflicting interests set in...but he couldn't quite fathom bringing himself to do so.

Khonshu sat wordlessly within a tall windowsill of a bleak, gray brick office building across the street from the multi-level, upper-class restaurant to which your unannounced courter had brought you, arms coiled around his folded knees with his staff gripped tightly in his hands against his shins. The cold winds, acquiescent to his dour mood, whipped through the street below, snarling and biting with frigid teeth at the tails of his tattered cloak. The humans milling about hunkered into their coats and scarves to stave off their shivers, but Khonshu remained deathly still as he peered through the broad glass windows spilling sultry golden light onto the glistening pavement. The gentleman had chosen a small booth flush with the view into the narrow stone garden lining the sidewalk, sitting across from you and leaning attentively forward as you chattered on with a smile. He had driven his vehicle with caution and had opened the doors of both his car and the building for you. You were clearly charmed, fingers coiled around the stem of your glass of wine, eyelashes cast low over your eyes, heart fluttering incessantly against the inside of your ribs—he could feel it as acutely as the odd, foreign tightness within his own chest.

Khonshu had followed from lamppost to banister to rooftop the entire drive into uptown London, withholding himself from your field of vision—you'd grown attuned to his presence while he remained in the astral realm (much to his chagrin), looking over your shoulder like a tense prey animal every time you sensed him near, but if he maintained a certain distance from you he seemed to be able to avoid your detection. He kept his magic as close as possible, folded carefully around himself in a shroud that would (hopefully) conceal him from your view.

Your "date" was a good-looking man, obviously wealthy, with a sincere interest in you—Khonshu could discern no evident wrongdoing in him, no lingering malice. You found him attractive, too, if your subconscious behaviors were any indication. Your clear apprehension had evaporated almost instantly with his disarming, genteel mannerisms. He would likely care for you, with ample room to spare for your child, given his experience with his own—he would unquestionably be able to see to your needs. After that man had ruined your marriage, you'd remained mostly independent, other than your reliance on Elizabeth—but Khonshu hadn't considered that you would potentially, eventually seek out another partner with whom to share your burdens.

Khonshu had no say in the matter. He knew, logically, that he should start seeking out another candidate to be his avatar. It was difficult enough for you to care for your son, maintain your occupation, and serve himself well into the wee hours of morning, all while maintaining your secret from your closest friend—entering a new relationship would be next to impossible to manage. He had favored you for far longer and had devoted more time and power to you than he had to any of his avatars in decades—the reason he'd chosen you to begin with was an unusual one, unconventional by the Ennead's standards. It was bound to unravel at some point. The sands of time would shift, and he would yet again be moving on to another human destined to dwindle away.

And yet...

Khonshu watched you head tilt with laughter, your hand rising to cover your mouth to stifle the noise. The gentleman's eyes shone as he watched, grinning from ear to ear. His fingertips brushed yours to the side of the small appetizer plate, ginger and shy. The boiling inferno brewing within the lunar god caused the ancient wood of his staff to creak dangerously under his unforgiving grip.

Khonshu hated getting involved in humans' personal affairs. He had given too much of himself away in the days of old attempting to garner dedication from his followers—oftentimes his efforts had been shortly forgotten, their faith and worship lost once their needs had been met. He owed them nothing, even if he relied upon them for what scant sustenance he gleaned from day to day—there was a reason that his kindred had all but abandoned humanity thousands of years ago. He ultimately owed you nothing, despite the unusual circumstances of him becoming intertwined into your life.

...And yet.

Khonshu continued to observe (to make sure you were truly safe, of course—it still was his job to protect you for the time being, after all, even if that time may have been unexpectedly cut shorter due to newly developing events). He watched the waitress bring out your entrees and refills for your drinks, watched you eat far more primly than you ever did in the comfort of your own home. The gentleman continued to prove himself responsible, at least—he opted for water after his first alcoholic beverage, since he was your chauffeur for the night. You did the same, for the sake of exercising caution.

Khonshu studied (not for the first time, though he wouldn't dare admit it to himself nor another soul) your features in the borderline otherworldly lighting: the glossy sheen of your hair framing your face, the curve of your cheek, the confident jut of your chin, the feathered, gossamer shadows cast by your lashes—all accented with a brazen splash from the interior of the restaurant against the heathery gloom seeping in through the window. Khonshu hadn't seen you dress in raiment any finer than your work uniforms or your loungewear, much less the soft pigments applied to your face, but you appeared rather fetching to the eye. The gentleman had definitely taken notice, if the frequent tugging at his buttoned collar was any indication.

Food consumed and water downed, the pair of you settled in over a dessert—two separate spoons delved into the same dish. Khonshu turned his attention to the man with a far more critical gaze, noting the tension in his shoulders paired with the tightness in the corner of his mouth. Where minutes before he'd been entirely invested in your company, now he tapped his foot incessantly against the tile beneath the table. Anxiety? Or anticipation?

Mid-bite, the gentleman stopped. He dropped his eyes to the tablecloth, set his spoon to the side, and murmured something that caused your expression to morph faintly into concern. You responded, offering him a small smile, and watched him as he folded the cloth napkin laid over his lap, set it to the side, and stood to make a bee-line deeper into the establishment and out of Khonshus' sight.

Ideas raced through Khonshu's mind. He'd seen such behavior numerous times: of predators growing excited to latch onto their prey. The mere thought that the man could have the audacity to bring you any harm nearly blinded him with boiling rage.

Before he could even form another comprehensible thought, Khonshu had already dropped into the booth across from you in the gentleman's place, throwing down his invisibility with a snap that made you jump and curse out loud. Several other patrons near your table cast sidelong glances of incredulity, murmuring amongst themselves.

You stared at him for a beat, eyes rounded and lips parted, before snatching your phone out of your purse and pressing it to your ear—though your heated gaze never faltered from his.

"You could've given me a little warning," you hissed, and the lingering scrutiny from the other humans was dismissed for the acceptance of your simply taking an unexpected call. "What are you doing?"

He is acting suspiciously, Khonshu growled, leaning over the table. He was comically large compared to it; the tops of his thighs would be pressing into its underside if he were corporeal. I suggest that you leave while he's distracted.

"What do you mean?" you questioned, frowning.

He has grown nervous. He may be preparing to act upon his deceit. I have seen such behavior before in individuals new to malfeasance or working as a front for others.

Your brows wrinkled in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Khonshu squeezed the grip of his staff, propped to the side of the plush leather seat. Despite the lack of moonlight, I can take you back—

"Have you been spying on me?" you interrupted sharply.

Khonshu stopped, taken aback by your anger. I—

"Oh my god, you were," you continued, voice pitching. You pressed your face into your free hand, propping an elbow on the edge of the table. "You were actually—" You let out a harsh sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. "I cannot believe you."

I am trying to keep you out of danger, Khonshu began, voice hardening, and that man—

"Is as harmless as a dove." You lifted your gaze back to him, blazing like wildfire. "I've never tried prying into your personal matters when you're not hanging around me. This is the one night a month I don't have to run around the city for you, and you still can't let me have any damned privacy."

Rarity of rarities, Khonshu was rendered speechless by your audacity. He let out a low rumble, his free fist curling atop the tablecloth. The glasses shivered where they stood, their melting ice cubes rattling. You forget exactly to whom you speak.

"My damned chaperone, apparently," you growled right back. "I am a grown-ass adult and I can handle myself—"

Sodjem eni, Sri mewt—Ianuk mktyek*! the god of the moon boomed from the depths of his chest, rattling the cutlery and porcelain. A couple having exited the restaurant inadvertently let in a violent gust of frigid wind through the door that nearly blew the host at the front off his feet. The other patrons shivered and eyed their table settings warily. You would do well to heed my warning—

"You've taught me how to defend myself, and I'd be able to get away if I had to," you retorted. "But for god's sake, Khonshu, it's just a date—"

A soft, uncertain clearing of one's throat caused you to jump again, turning and placing your phone face-down on the tabletop. The gentleman was back, face wan and eyes reddened, looking rather downtrodden compared to his earlier assured demeanor.

"Gideon, what's wrong?" you asked immediately, concern flooding over you in place of your ire. Khonshu leaned back, eyeing him skeptically. "Are you okay?"

"I am all right, choupinette." He offered you a small, thin smile. "I have already taken care of the bill." You opened your mouth to protest, but he waved you off gently. "Please, it is the least I could do for troubling you." He picked up his coat from the back of the seat, shrugging it on and extended an open hand to help you stand. "I need to discuss something personal with you, however."

You frowned, glancing towards Khonshu, but accepted the man's assistance—he held your coat for you as you threaded your arms through, cradled your purse as you buttoned up and readjusted your scarf, and offered you his elbow as he walked you back out into the cold night air. Khonshu followed closely behind, looming just within arm's reach of you.

"I have thoroughly enjoyed your company tonight," Gideon told you quietly, tucking you into his side to block off the wind blustering by and tugging at the ends of your hair. "You are a delightfully intellectual woman, and I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I did," you confessed. You were watching his face, gauging—and you'd occasionally peek over your shoulder at your brooding shadow. "Thank you for taking me out, it was really nice. I appreciate your time—and you didn't have to foot the ticket."

"You are welcome." Gideon's gaze was fixated upon the street. "But please do not rob me of my courtesy—I was raised to have chivalry." He lightly squeezed your gloved hand with his own, taking a steadying breath. "...I was not entirely forthcoming with you, I am afraid."

You tensed slightly. Khonshu observed the flash of several emotions over your face—surprise, suspicion, distrust, namely—in time with your racing thoughts. Is he secretly remarried? Was he just after sex? Did he chicken out because you had repulsed him somehow? "I'd really rather you be transparent with me," you finally said, low and tight.

"It is what you are owed for your earnesty and patience with me." He finally met your beseeching stare, gray eyes glimmering. A fine, misty drizzle began to descend from the mantle of clouds hanging low overhead, catching on your eyelashes. "I...please, do not take this as any lack of interest on my part. You are truly a fine woman whom any man of sense and repute should pursue. Neither did I mean to deceive you in any way."

Your brow rose, just so, and you became a little more guarded. "Alright...?"

"...It's...difficult to express in a manner that wouldn't cause you any offense nor hurt." His expression wrinkled with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. "But I suppose I should just be plain, instead. I...truthfully, I thought that I might be ready to seek out another relationship, after…one that is long-term, preferably, as I would like to have stability for Abielle's sake. You have always been kind to me, and I have long admired you for your talents and capabilities since you were hired. You are dependable and steadfast, and you are not frivolous nor capricious as many other women are. You are one of the sincerest people that I have met here in England, and I..." He sighed and shook his head, voice thickening with every word. He attempted to clear his throat. "I apologize if it seems that I have led you on, but I suspect I will be unable to continue any future dates for...a while yet."

"Oh," you murmured, expression softening instantly. "No, Gideon, that's—entirely understandable. Did you think I'd be angry with you?"

He opened his mouth, debated on a response, then finally nodded remorsefully.

You stopped walking, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and placed your hands on his arms. He could scarcely meet your eyes. "It's entirely normal to grieve a loved one for a long time," you told him patiently. "If you've had anybody telling you that you should be over it by now, they are entirely in the wrong. Everyone processes things a little differently. You'll know when you're ready to take on any changes in your life before anyone else does, so don't feel pressured to do anything that makes you uncomfortable because it's 'normal' or whatever."

He bit his lip, gratitude bleeding from him in waves. "I...thank you."

You offered him a small, wry grin. "Want to hug it out, Doc?"

Your attempt to lighten the mood worked like magic. Gideon laughed softly, wetly, and pulled you in close for a long moment. You did not release him until he drew back, patting his arm again. He dipped his head, cheeks darkening. "I...suppose I got overwhelmed. I did not know how you would react."

"Believe me, I understand more than you might think." You offered him your elbow this time, instead, and the pair of you continued to walk towards the parking garage on the other side of the block. Khonshu allowed a bit more distance between himself and you, continuing to observe. "I don't think I'm over my ex quite yet, either."

To his credit, Gideon's expression darkened for the first time that evening at the mere mention of that man. "I am sorry for what he did to you, choupinette. No one deserves that, and you least of all."

You shrugged a shoulder, dismissing it before you could dwell on it for too long. "I'm fine with just having Ru for right now. I think I've realized that I don't want to have to worry about a relationship for a long time." You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "Maybe tonight was good for the both of us."

"Perhaps," Gideon agreed. "...No hard feelings?"

"None," you chirped. You winked at him. "Now I just get bragging rights in the ward."

His low laughter tapered as you both rounded the corner. "You know it will infuriate the lot of them..."

Khonshu's stride slowed to a stop, the winds all but gone as the drizzle grew into a right and proper rain. The rigidity of his shoulders had fallen, and where once his fury had seethed in the pit of his belly, an unyielding lump remained lodged deep within his chest instead. He heard your laughter over the slosh of tires cutting through the water running into the gutters, almost out of earshot.

Khonshu's fingers tightened, and he slammed the end of his staff into the wet pavement as he punched himself back through the veil into the astral realm.

Read the rest of the chapter here! :)

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #moon knight #khonshu #reader insert #khonshu/reader #khonshu x reader #khonshu x you #mine #original character(s)#original female character(s)#original male character(s)

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