daydreamvalley

[daydreamvalley]

This made me think of the current rise in autoimmune diseases being reported amongst women because of self-silencing. We're becoming ill and slowly killing ourselves by keeping our grievances and sorrows inside. Nonchalance, avoidance, or the "let them theory" all praise people for not being vulnerable. Meanwhile, some instances call for an authentic expression of emotion. Rejecting, disagreeing and vocalizing with people are a form of self-advocacy.

Christa Wolf, from her novel titled "Cassandra," originally published in 1983

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from let July be July by Morgan Harper Nichols

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benzoyl peroxide has never looked better

😶‍🌫️

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"What are you gonna bring to our company" being on tumblr on company time

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Time to binge read all the fanfic my heart desires before I lose myself in textbooks & Gmail on Monday.

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I only updated now & this new UI is so off-looking. Why is there tiktok in my tumblr?!?!?

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Love Island JJK version but it's just Gojo being a menace on the villa. Almost getting kicked off the show every voting period because he's scared of committing. Being veryyyy loud in bed with his partners.

Sukuna being very Ace-coded & plotting to get Gojo kicked off by manipulating everyone to vote him out. Eventually getting voted out for getting into a tussle with Gojo. It started out as a childish pillow fight then it got dirty for no reason. Some unresolved resentment.

Toji hopping to any popular female contestant for the money. Using Megumi to gain sympathy. "Mommy? Mamacita?"

Geto being voted out early since he was too nonchalant & not attracted to any of the girls...

Nanami placing a pillow between him and every female contestant in the bed (except with you). Winning because...he just stands on business like that.

Yuji or Mahito being the commentator!!! lmfao can you imagine what they'd say.

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Maybe this is my unpopular headcanon but Nanami & this new Superman's personalities are similar to me.

Wholesome? Check. Good guy? Check. Living a double life? Check. Too hot for their 9 to 5? Fucking check.

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College Student Clark Kent. I imagine him having a southern accent when he arrives to the school but occasionally trying to assimilate to the city accent. Lex being his dormmate and calling him a country bumpkin (but copies his country slang like he invented it). Lois being a childhood friend who ran away from their small town. And his accent being stronger when he's around you because he feels comfortable to be himself. Ideas. Ideas. Ideas.

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I had a dream about Nanami, and it looked this. Best believe that was the best sleep of my life. I'm rejuvenated!!!

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the feminine urge to stay gone. be unseen, be unavailable, be unheard of. disappear.

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But imagine if Nanami fled Japan to seek refuge in Malaysia with you. Nothing to his name, untethered to the history and dregs of the sorcery world. What seemed like an unscripted visit from a childhood friend, turned out to be how you'd spend the rest of your days. Was it divine intervention? Your grandmother's prayers for you to finally get married one day? The daydreams you spun on the hammock, detailing a companion that just happened to resemble him? You wouldn't wish the events that brought him to you on your worst enemy, yet you were grateful for the sun shower that graced your front door on that lonesome day in October.

[daydreamvalley]

The voices in my head are telling me to rewatch LOTR.

haven // geto x reader; LOTR/Silmarillion-inspired oneshot

when you flee with your two young nieces from doriath to seek the protection of círdan, you never dreamt that the monsters you're running from would follow you there.

⋆｡°✩ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ✩°｡⋆ .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・． ｡･ﾟﾟ･　　 ･ﾟﾟ･｡

ao3 link ☾ masterlist ☾ series playlist

Rating: M Word Count: 1.5k Warnings: Mentions of implied genocide, parental abandonment, child abuse, implied Stockholm Syndrome Additional Notes: Geto and Maemags handshake about killing an entire village and then adopting twin children

I was not naive, nor was I a fool. I had heard of the Fëanorians, had known the silhouette of their unnumbered sins.

Old Yaga Masamichi, called Círdan, the Shipwright in the Eldarin tongue, had shaken his head at the names-- some old grudge, some ancient grief in his features-- having once fought alongside them, against the dread might of Sukuna, the Lord of the Iron Hells, and now turned a wary eye to the last of their numbers as they encircled the Havens with the desperation of the hungry wolf.

The High King had cursed their names when he spoke with his councilors. Kinslayers, he called them, spitting the epithet as if it were venom to his tongue. They took everything from me. From us. And now because of their folly, we are to be trapped here in this cage, orcs to the north and to the east, until we are all starved out.

The Lady of the Havens had feared them as a child feared the darkness under their bed. Wolves, she’d said, a glint in her eyes, with dripping maws. They’ll tear you apart if you get caught in their gaze, and then they’ll glut themselves on your innards even as you cry for mercy. 

I remember not the blood itself, but the siege-- the slow march of decay, the way the barriers first weakened around Doriath, and then faded wholly after the dwarves had sacked the king’s halls. And then the orcs came, and after them, the proverbial wolves-- the emissaries of the Fëanorians, with their eight-pointed star burnished upon their armor, tattered red cloaks slashing the forest in bloodred.

I remember the chaos of cries ringing out through the caverns-- and running-- and it seemed I had not stopped till I could taste the salt-spray of the havens of Falas on my tongue-- two little bundles in my arms, too silent for the infants they were even then, as if they knew that to cry was to perish, and so they had kept to their oaths of silence till we reached the shores.

I knew the men who followed us were the monsters, after a fashion, wrought not from the Iron Hells, but from their own inner ones. They were cruel, they were pitiless, they tempered their blades in elven blood and gorged themselves on the suffering.

But when I saw Geto Suguru for the first time, all I could think about was how sad he looked.

Make no mistake about it, he was cruel and monstrous still. Still wore the bloodstained armor of the accursed Exiles from the land of Blessed Realm, dark hair loose about his shoulders, a flame blazing in his eyes-- but there was a kind of tragedy wrought in every motion he made, from the way his mouth fell open in startlement, to the way his eyes flickered between me and Mimiko and Nanako as I gathered them behind me protectively, how he sheathed his blade as if realizing I held none, and the way he reached out his hands.

“It’s all right,” he’d cooed, and his voice was so achingly lovely that I felt my arms go limp around the twins as they emerged from behind me.

The clatter of armored feet march up the stairs. And then he turns to them, waving his arms. “There’s nothing here,” he says coolly. “Take them.”

And so began the inglorious life as a captive of Geto Suguru, one of the last remaining generals of the Fëanorians-- and one of the most fearsome as well. Oathtakers, exiles, monsters, and yet… he was oddly ordinary.

Not in his sharp, uncanny beauty-- nor the blazing eyes which had once gazed upon the Light of Valinor, but in the way he’d pat Nanako on the head sometimes, or produce a doll for Mimiko to play with-- 

It took me a few months more to realize all of this was calculated in a way not all too differently from how I myself would have affected a headache to avoid my tutors when I was younger, or Nanako would plead a full stomach when faced with eating turnips.

Suguru, as he’d asked me to call him-- informal, familiar, nearly intimate-- could be beatific or kind, but his mind was set as a stage, and they were merely new cast to be introduced into the play, The Redemption of Geto Suguru of the Exiled Noldorin, as if by obsessively retreading the tableaux, he could scourge the sins from his person.

I should have hated him.

And I did-- but not enough.

Because I should have never forgiven him for what he had done. For the oaths that he swore, the blood that he’d shed, the kingdoms he’d brought to their knees.

For the way I still woke at night sometimes with the smell of blood and a forest fire all around me.

But it is hard to hate someone who obligingly scoops your nieces into his embrace and lets them swing from his arms like little monkeys.

Hard to hate a man who does not flinch when I claw and shout at him, raging, grieving. After a nightmare, after a hard day, after he returns from days afield reeking of sweat and blood, after he tries to braid Nanako’s hair with his Noldorin hairpieces.

Hard to hate a man who keeps watch outside my door, half sentry, half captor, when the nightmares stir me awake to screaming.

My mind keeps up the everlasting chant-- shame flooding my ever pore when I warm in his grasp, when he holds me down from thrashing from particularly bad dreams-- blood, oath, Doriath, Silmarils, Havens. A perpetual reminder of what I had lost, and what he had done.

But he was so lovely-- so patient to me. To us. To Mimiko and Nanako.

How could I blame them for reaching toward him, when their own father had cast them out under the superstition of the curse of twinhood?

How could I deny them the shadow of a father, when the man before us strove so hard to prove himself to the role?

How could I hear his voice, the low murmur harmonizing with the crackle of fire as he tells me of the land of light he’d forsaken to seek vengeance for grief, of the beauty of the glow of Laurelin and Telperion, a dozen times more brilliant than the sun and moon, and how the last vestiges of that illumination now sits on Sukuna’s brow like a taunt and a challenge.

Slowly, haltingly, I talk. Not about myself, not at first-- about the girls, because he’d seemed content enough to ask after them. About the superstitions we of Doriath believed in-- of the curse of twins. Of their favourite foods, of their usual haunts and their fondness for beach walks.

And in that way, it became like a ritual. In the quiet hour before the descent of true night, after the twins had curled into each other in our tent, I would linger by the campfire while Suguru sits across from me, both of us pretending it was chance and not choice that led to this crossing of paths.

And I let it happen.

I let it happen because my nieces stopped looking over their shoulders and jumping at the metallic clanking of swords and shields. Because Suguru would disappear for days at a time, but always ensured his armor was stripped off, the stink of the battlefield washed off him before they could greet him. Because when they looked at him, it was without fear.

Because now, I knew he had once believed in something-- something that, for all the ruin it had wrought us all, came not from hatred, but from pure love-- the grief at watching the other half of your heart die in a deathless land, and the gods only shrugging, as if it were not the unnatural invention of murder itself.

I join him in the mornings now, where he finds himself upon the knoll overlooking the camp, the sun rising over the sea to our front and a war to our backs.

“Does it remind you of Valinor?” I ask one day, as the glow redoubles in his eyes as the winking eye of the sun, borne by Arien, climbs its way out of the ocean.

Suguru gazes up at me-- as if surprised I’d deign to speak at all to him first. “No,” he replied, voice soft. “It’s not bright enough.” A pause. “But it’s still beautiful.”

We sit like that for a while, until the pale violet bleeds into golden, and the mist began to rise from the waves below.

“I remember the way the light looked when it fell upon your hair that first day.” He glances over at me, carefully. “You were so afraid of me.”

“I still am,” I reply, and I’m not sure if it’s a lie anymore.

A rough, strong hand covers mine-- and I’m surprised for a moment at the forwardness, at the way that despite his cruel deeds, his palm still feels warm.

Suguru sighs-- wry, sad, with the weight of a man facing his own execution.

“You should be,” he says instead, with all the gentleness of a pillow over the face. “Because I intend to finish this war one way or another and face my Oath.”

My mind still sings in protest-- blood, oath, Doriath, Silmarils, Havens.

My body reacts with the upturning of my hand, till my own callouses meet his, till his fingers thread through mine.

taglist:

@anti-heroism @ciciley97 @sturkillerbase @daydreamvalley

[daydreamvalley]

nanami being so deeply, stupidly in love with you that the idea of anyone else flirting with him just… doesn’t register. at all. like. it slides off him like rain on glass.

he’s polite. that’s the problem.

he says thank you when the barista calls him handsome and slips him her number on the receipt. he holds the elevator door open when your neighbor bats her lashes at him in a low-cut top. he helps shoko carry boxes to her office while she teases him, like she always does, calling him “kento-chan” and sighing about how she’s so lonely lately, just to see that oblivious look on his face.

and he doesn’t notice. not really.

he comes home with the receipt tucked into his wallet and forgets it’s there. the woman in the elevator? he tells you she seemed cold, so he let her go in first. shoko? he mentions she’s been working late lately and asks if you think she’s doing okay.

you’re the only one he hears.

you lean in close, your fingers hooking into his belt loops as you murmur, “hey, handsome.”

and he flushes to his ears, already succumbing to the insistent pull of your hands and voice, “don’t start.”

you tell him his tie looks good on him, all smug, knowing he’s going to wear it again tomorrow.

“it’s just a tie,” he says, but you catch the small smile he hides behind his coffee mug.

you touch his chest and call him yours and he stares at you like you’ve parted the sea.

like he still doesn’t quite believe it.

like the sun is caught between your teeth and he’s never wanted anything more than to be kissed by you.

“you really don’t notice when people flirt with you, huh?” you tease, one evening, while he’s folding laundry and humming under his breath.

he blinks. “people flirt with me?”

you laugh. you laugh so hard you cry.

and nanami—sweet, serious, impossibly earnest—just watches you with that soft, lovesick look on his face.

“well,” he says, brushing your hair back from your forehead, “i wouldn’t know. i only ever look at you.”

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“Whats 9+10?”

“21”🗣️

Today I’m officially old enough for Eren to consider me a cougar. It’s okay, I still have Nanami😉

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@ssaraexposs said this is what Toji took from us just because he was poor & I will never let that go lmao

“THEY’RE ALL ALIVE!!” i scream as they drag me into the white room.

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˙⋆✮ Thanks for the tag @mierins

Here’s some of my villian origin lore😈jk

currently reading: the poppy war by r.f kuang & crime and punishment by dostoyevsky

last song: don’t touch the glass by tyler the creator

last film: kpop demon hunters

last series: when life gives you tangerines (still crying)

sweet/savory/salty: im a sweet tooth. and i had braces for 7 years & still ate candy then hehe

tea or coffee: coffee but i haaate black coffee. So cappuccino lol

working on: my poetry for a local competition. They pay alot for each poem if you win so fingers crossed

˙⋆✮ No pressure tags: @tojisbutterfly @lmskitty @dianaaazzzz @callme-naomi @moonstonejpg

TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE ❤︎ !

ᰔ . . thank you @fear-is-truth for the tag <3 !

currently reading: unfortunately nothing atm last song: deeper — partynextdoor last film: trolls band together last series: the residence (rewatch) sweet/savory/salty?: savoury tea or coffee: lattes all the way! working on: studying japanese, getting uni applications completed with, getting back in shape

tags (no pressure!) ୨୧ : @bluukive @ttojisdoll @fayerie @elswhore @meowrimo @sluturu @nanamisweetgirl @all-with-angel