#allusions to grief

[snarkivistfic]

New fic: The Visits

Rated: General

Relationship: XiYao

Lan Xichen and Meng Yao take each other to where their mother's are buried to introduce the other to their mom

[mayasaura]

your post about Harrow thinking it’s only been 3 days since Gideon died….you know someone else famously resurrected after 3 days too…

Omg who???

Jk! I know it's ya boy Jesus. Our best girl is walking around now with her death wounds out too, just like a certain gentleman was said to do.

[jomiddlemarch]

That it alone is high fantastical

“Oh, Mother, you’ll never guess! You’ll never guess in century of guessing!” Rilla cried out, sounding so much as she had as a little girl, for a moment, Anne could convince herself the War had never happened and that somewhere in Rainbow Valley, Walter sat writing a crown of sonnets in his leather-bound journal, his face dappled by the light, back braced against the bole of a birch tree, his grey eyes unfocused as he searched for his next word.

There was still a white stone in the graveyard. Shirley was in Toronto, having refused (albeit politely) to return to Glen St. Mary, much to Susan’s dismay, and Jem walked with a pronounced limp, his uneven gait announcing him as much as Mary’s voice.

There was a mystery there, Jem and Mary Vance, but Anne couldn’t see any way through it and Gilbert, lying beside her in bed, both of them tired but sleepless, told her not to try. Jem had seemed less removed, less falsely cheerful lately, and had begun talking about the medical course again, perhaps a specialty in obstetrics, a hospital practice. As far away from men dying in battle as he can get, Gilbert had observed and Anne had recalled Joyce’s little face, white as a mayflower blossom, and held her tongue.

Rilla, remarkably, given her exuberant entrance, had done the same in the absence of Anne’s response. Miss Oliver had left Ingleside some weeks ago, so there was no one to suggest Rilla either elaborate or calm herself, as her likeness to a whistling copper tea-kettle was increasingly pronounced.

“If I’ll never guess, dear, you must tell me,” Anne said. It was a relief that Rilla could still be the young girl she ought to be, for all that she wore Ken Ford’s diamond ring on her finger and was capable of a brisk, warm matronliness when it came to raising Jims, now reserved for the writing of letters to his new British stepmother and clucking over the missives she received.

“Faith Meredith has eloped!”

Anne did admit to herself she would never have guessed that, because for all her imagination, she wouldn’t have guessed something impossible.

“But, Rilla, Jem is with your father today, doing the Lowbridge rounds. Susan and I packed a lunch with plenty of pie for Dad and some of that flapjack Jem took to after being in England,” Anne said. He’d been in hospital in England, recovering from the injuries he’d sustained at the Front, in the prison camp, during his escape, none of which was spoken of. Only flapjack and stewed tea and how no cook in England was a patch on Susan and that you may tie to, uttered with some semblance of his old roguish humor.

“I didn’t say she married Jem, Mother!” Rilla exclaimed. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright. She had a look of Gilbert at his most delighted about him, an expression Anne remembered from their childhood. Anne opened her mouth to speak but Rilla interrupted.

“It’s Bertie Shakespeare Drew! Faith Meredith is Mrs. Bertie Shakespeare!” Rilla said.

If Anne hadn’t already been sitting down, she would have, suddenly and gracelessly. As it was, the shirt she’d been mending fell from her lap.

“That’s—why, Rilla, are you sure?”

“I heard it directly from Mary Vance,” Rilla said, lifting a hand to stop Anne from speaking. “And Miss Cornelia Bryant. You know Miss Cornelia has no taste for gossip. Miss Cornelia’d heard it from Mrs. Meredith—”

“Poor Rosemary,” Anne said, before she could stop herself.

“Why poor Rosemary? I suppose they thought Faith and Jem would make a go of it, at least, perhaps Reverend Meredith and Mrs. Meredith did, but the War’s done funny things to people and Faith and Jem, they just didn’t fit any longer,” Rilla said. Sometimes, Anne felt Rilla reminded her of someone she couldn’t name and realized her youngest daughter spoke with the wisdom Anne’s own mother might have had. Plenty of folks in the Glen would find such a thought eerie, but Anne was comforted, for all that she ought to be the one offering a thoughtful explanation rather than receiving it.

“I suppose I meant the surprise, an elopement—”

“They must not have wanted to wait. Or were afraid someone would try to talk them out of it. Bertie’s mother maybe,” Rilla said.

Rosemary or her father, Anne thought. Jem, if he’d been given the chance, perhaps. Perhaps not, if Rilla was correct.

“Bertie Shakespeare Drew,” Anne said. “I remember when he was born. He’s just Jem’s age.”

“He’s not much like you remember him, Mother. He’s all tall and stalwart now and they say he’s going in for engineering, that he learned quite a bit in France, found he had a talent for that sort of thing. And his ears don’t stick out quite so much anymore,” Rilla said.

“There’re more things on heav’n and earth,” Anne said, mangling the quote a bit, fairly certain Rilla would not correct her. “D’you suppose Faith calls him Bertie? Or his full name—it’s quite a mouthful.”

Queenly Faith Meredith, the undisputed beauty of Glen St. Mary, who had a sense of humor but also a sense of herself as beyond any teasing, now to be Mrs. Bertie Shakespeare Drew. Anne smiled to herself and thought how Mary Vance would find a way to make Jem grin over it all. She’s lucky to get him, Mary would say, reversing the order the Glen would have assumed, and Mary, canny and unexpectedly kind, would have the right of it, perhaps.

Susan would be quite outraged and the pastry of her next pie might suffer for it, but Gilbert had always taken an unchristian glee in Susan’s outrage and wouldn’t mind the pastry being a bit heavier. It was still the best piecrust on Prince Edward Island, now that Mrs. Rachel Lynde was no longer living to give Susan a run for her money.

“Miss Cornelia said Faith was heard to call him Will, when she spoke to her parents. It’s after Shakespeare of course, and because he was so determined they marry,” Rilla said. 

“And because Faith wanted to,” Anne said. She wasn’t sure if she meant the elopement or the name, but it was all of a piece.

“Miss Cornelia said they’d gone to New York for their honeymoon and she hoped Faith didn’t come back with a bunch of silly Yankee airs but Mary and I didn’t think that was likely,” Rilla said, sitting down beside Anne, picking up the shirt and starting to sew.

“She didn’t come back from England any different, after all,” Rilla said.

“Except that she didn’t marry your brother,” Anne replied.

“D’you know, Mother, even without the War, I don’t think they’d ever have gone through with it, Faith and Jem,” Rilla said. “It was, how shall I put it, like a childhood fairy tale, the honorable knight and the maiden fair, all sorts of adventures they had in Rainbow Valley. They were always going to grow up. We all were.”

Not Walter, Anne’s heart said. Not Joyce.

“I’m glad of Ken’s name, anyway. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t elope for anything. I want our families around us, as many as we can get, even if we have to wait. We’re rather good at that,” Rilla said. She’d finished the one shirt and picked up another. She peered at it, frowned. “I can’t think what Dad does to his clothes—”

“I’ve made up a thousand stories to try to explain that and I still don’t think I’ve figured it out,” Anne said. “Some things, my darling girl, are beyond explanation.”

This one's for @freyafrida because I didn't manage to squeeze Faith/Bertie Shakespeare into my Jem/Mary fic...

[pinkberrypocky]

pmmm rewatch live notes: ep 4

madoka's convo w homura in this ep literally destroyed me. when she asks homura if she's seen people die before i made a noise akin to a wounded animal and my friends looked at me like i was insane. just wait until they understand. then they will be in pain like we are.

The nurse’s in kyosuke’s hospital say that they hope sayaka will be able to be the hope he needs to recover emotionally, which is silly considering she uses her life to restore his use of his hands

Sayaka is in such denial that she wants something out of kyosuke and healing his hands

Blue balls of light fall around madoka in the opening scene in the opening

End of the opening is red 

Madoka looks at her fried egg at breakfast while dissociating sadly which looks like mami’s soul gem and then starts to cry

Sayaka asks madoka to talk about what happened the day before later when madoka tries to bring it up

Sayaka is always trying to shove down and avoid the uglier parts of being a magical girl that don’t fit in her image of what it should be

Madoka isn’t sure about being a magical girl anymore after seeing mami die which shows how much she values life (for herself and for others) 

Sayaka says that mami took them into the fights to show them the resolve required before they became magical girls, but in reality mami was hiding the weight of the burden she was carrying for her secret selfish hope to not be fighting alone

Kyubey tells sayaka about how the other magical girls are going to react now that mami died knowing it will upset her and then says that only other magical girls have a right to judge them

Another instance of him pushing them to be magical girls at every opportunity

Manipulative bastard

When madoka visits mami’s empty apartment it’s sunset and the lighting is red/orange/yellow

Madoka calls homura “homura-chan” even though she doesn’t know her 

She knows her on a subconscious level and that’s why she never second guesses it

Or its because she wants to do what others want without a regard for what she wants

“It seems like you’re a veteran, though in a different way than mami… it seems like you’ve seen a lot of people die… how many?” woof madoka asking these things to homura is brutal 

Imagine you go through hell cycle for years and watch the one you love die countless times only for her to ask you if you’ve seen people die before

Madoka cries when she hears about how no one will know how hard mami fought to project people 

Which is so ouch when you think about how madoka does that to the extreme when she turns herself into a god that saves magical girls from becoming witches and erases herself

Madoka telling homura how she’ll never forget her is SO PAINFUL

Because she has forgotten homura over and over and over 

Yellow light from the window when sayaka is with kyosuke 

Red light coming from the floor

Sayaka tries to lighten the mood with kyosuke just like how she tries to brush off magical girl horrors

As sayaka realizes that the only way kyosuke can have his hand healed and play again is through a miracle, kyubey appears again to manipulate her in her weakest moment

He is a shadow backlit by bright yellow light

When madoka runs into hitomi who is affected by a witch’s kiss the lighting is very dim while the two of them converse and the people are almost entirely in shadow

Madoka follows them even though she knows that she can’t do anything to help them

She is always passive, following and worrying and yet unable to do anything both because of fear and because she isn’t a magical girl

The first active action from madoka in one of these situations is when she throws the chemicals out the window so that the people under the witch’s curse can’t use them to kill themselves

When she does this the broken glass cast a disturbing shadow on her face

And it only causes the masses to begin to attack her and renders her even more helpless as the labyrinth opens around her

This is the first time madoka is in a labyrinth alone and she very quickly succumbs to fear and despair

Madoka’s strength is her care and love for others so as soon as she’s alone she is powerless

When they talk after sayaka saves madoka from the labyrinth sayaka laughs and brushes off the fact that she became a magical girl

While madoka is clearly distressed and tries to argue with her (which is interrupted by homura arriving)

Kyosuke’s room is lit with blue when he realizes that his hand is blue

We meet kyoko when she talks w kyubey about how there’s a new magical girl in mami’s territory and 

Kyubey eggs her on in her anger and says “what are you going to do”

Kyoko calls sayaka a hatchling

[catilinas]

we’re doing Catullus 11 in my Latin class and my prof said “you could argue that by using the sapphic meter, sappho lives inside this poem!” and I immediately went YESSSS tumblr user tate catilinas would LOVE this

YESSSSSS I DO LOVE THIS!!! literally cat11 and cat51 are holding hands! the only catullus in sapphic meter! i also read something a few years ago about the fucked up and evil elision in nullum amans uere, sed identidem omnium / ilia rumpens as like. an intentional desecration of sapphic poetics? like if cat51 is The sappho translation, where lesbia is called yknow. lesbia. as in lesbos as in sappho. then it is definitely Something if cat11 is like. the lesbia breakup letter, still in sapphic metre but never Naming lesbia, + to me it’s weird about genre? like why is there the language of roman territorial expansion and then also invective in sapphic metre. that’s not what sapphic metre is For. and then that line’s elisions just squelch all the words together (Are The Words Fucking???) like the Massive Scary Cyclops line in the aeneid. like it’s rejecting the values associated with the form By fucking things up on the level of the form! so like. if sappho lives in it she is probably having a bad time

[padfootastic]

Ahaha thank you for the nice comments in tags <3 i love Remus but he seems bit like a spineless people pleaser and after dating somebody who would rather lie about their feelings than have people be mildly upset with them..... I chose violence 🗡

no but ur so right because!!! i’ve been sleeping on this for a while but let’s talk about remus’ personality traits and how they have the potential to make him a bad/absent partner, at best, and an abusive one, at worst. everyone wants to turn him into this image of perfection just bc he’s such an ‘uwu victim’ figure in fanon but that’s SO far from the truth omg

(i am…just gonna put this remus character analysis under a cut bc it got unnecessarily long and i wouldn’t want u to read it if u didn’t want to lol)

so, for one, he’s manipulative. he has no combinations in twisting the truth or dodging it entirely for his own benefit. like, the man could stand in front of his dead best friend’s orphaned son & not even allude to the fact that he knew his dad. he had no problem bringing james & lily up in the most twisted ways possible to guilt/emotionally influence harry. so remus in a relationship would have the capacity to either knowingly or unknowingly manipulate his partner. the definition of gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss except more sinister.

next, his spinelessness. either as a defensive measure to deal w anti-werewolf hostility or as an innate personality trait, remus has the habit of just—not standing up for things. he looks away when his friends act like assholes, even when he’s in a position of authority (which yes, u can argue that he’s afraid of losing them but atp they’ve literally risked life & magic & azkaban for him so either way, he comes off badly—either he doesn’t mind himself, or he doesn’t fully trust their friendship, or it’s just easier to look away). in a relationship, this can manifest as bottling everything inside u until it makes u bitter or u violently unload on the other person in an entirely disproportionate manner. the dynamic would also be a bit skewed. the people pleasing u mentioned is also such a big thing that people usually overlook. when ur constantly trying to make the other person happy and don’t want to rock the boat, that is a cocktail for miscommunication and breakdown of relationships. ur also constantly putting the emotional burden of constructively dealing w issues on ur partner instead of doing it urself.

connected to his cowardice is his habit of running away when things get tough. remus is conflict avoidant; he does not like to put himself in a position where he has to take a decisive stance, especially if it’s against what others around him believe in. he runs away when things get tough, and tbh, for me, this comes from a constant spiral of self hatred & self victimisation, both of which stem from his experience as a werewolf. in every difficult situation, he centres himself & his discomfort and instead of dealing with it and moving forward for a constructive solution, he decides that stepping back from it altogether is better. which, yeah, works well for him bc he can temporarily put a pin in it but it’s kinda terrible for everyone’s who’s left behind. so i also think that remus is a profoundly selfish character who doesn’t look beyond the end of his own nose. u can imagine how those traits might manifest themselves in a relationship.

and his people pleasing!! so this might be verging on fanon but his gratitude and/or devotion to dumbledore sets an…interesting tone. it’s also another example of how he cannot conceive himself in any other term except as a victimised werewolf. the marauders did a lot for him, arguably even more than dumbledore’s token representation formula, but he never felt indebted to them the way he did for D. dumbledore also kind of makes him feel needed? validates his feelings? and that just speaks to a very twisted sense of self for me. which, again, won’t bode well for his other interpersonal relations.

also, on a very hc note, i also feel like remus just…does not have any significant capacity to love. he takes and takes and takes but doesn’t give much in return. this doesn’t even have to be an actively malicious decision, tbh, just a very self-centred one. he doesn’t realise how much he’s taking bc he’s only thinking about his own circumstances.

all of these are also just why i can’t see r/s working out in any healthy manner. remus is exactly antithetical to everything sirius is/believes in, and not even in the fun ‘opposites attract’ way. but that’s another rant no one asked for lmao

[moe-broey]

Also something that's fucking me up actually. Nothing of huge note is said in Tana/Peony duo's bio, but the associated characters...... they're all either someone's brother or in Eirika's case, someone whose brother is extremely significant to her esp as her twin

And. That paralogue dialogue again.

I am. So. I'm. This HAS to be intentional WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Treading Water

Whumptober 2022: 18. Treading Water Fandom: Top Gun, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Carole Bradshaw Word Count: 800 TW: Angst, PTSD, Grief, Allusions to Canon Death Notes: This takes place two years after the original Top Gun (1986) and Maverick has become a parental figure for Bradley. It is in the POV of a 6-year-old Bradley Bradshaw.

Bradley didn’t understand why Uncle Mav was so upset. After all, it had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to tip over the small canoe they had been riding in but he wanted to grab a stick he saw floating in the water. However, he had leaned over just a little bit too far….

At six years old, Bradley knew how to swim well enough to stay afloat and it didn’t even really matter since both he and Uncle Mav had been wearing life preservers. So, Bradley had just rolled onto his back and begun floating around. 

But then, Uncle Mav had grabbed him and pulled him tightly against his chest, so tightly that Bradley could barely breathe. He tried to squirm out of Uncle Mav’s arms as he cried for him to let him go, but Uncle Mav didn’t listen. He just clung tighter to Bradley as he muttered something about a goose. Bradley had never seen any geese in this pond so he didn’t know what he was worried about. 

Instead of swimming them to shore like Bradley expected him to do, Uncle Mav just kept them floating in the same spot in the middle of the pond. Turning his head slightly, Bradley could see Uncle Mav’s eyes were tightly closed and he couldn’t tell if there was just water on his face or if he was crying. It almost seemed like he was scared, but they had gone to the beach a hundred times before and the water had never bothered Uncle Mav before.

Another boat pulled up beside them and a lady offered to help them get to shore. Bradley tried to reach out to her, but the hold on his chest just grew tighter as Uncle Mav began to shake and mutter, “No. I won’t lose you again.” over and over. 

They floated around the pond like that for almost ten minutes before someone was able to track down Bradley’s mom and row her out to the middle of the pond. It was only when he saw her face that Bradley started crying. 

She leaned over, running her hand over his hair and cupping his cheek gently, as she whispered, “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s okay.” Then she jumped off the boat into the water. 

Swimming behind Uncle Mav, his mom ran her hand over his face just as she had to calm Bradley. “It’s not him, Mav. You’re not back there. It’s just you, me, and Bradley at the park. And you saved Bradley. He’s safe. But you can let him go now. It’s okay. I promise, he’s okay. It’s not like last time.”

Her voice trembled and this time there was no doubt that those were tears streaming down her face. But ever so slowly, Uncle Mav loosened his grip on Bradley until he was able to swim away. The nice lady from before helped him into her boat and Bradley watched as mom held Uncle Mav and they both floated in the water for a long time.

Uncle Mav hadn’t said a word the entire drive home and when they arrived, his mom had given him a bath and sent him to bed. Since then, his mom and Uncle Mav had been talking in the living room, and Bradley thought he heard more crying. 

Now he was sitting in his room, his ear pressed up against his door, still wondering what he did wrong or if he was in trouble. The noises had faded from the other room, but he hadn’t heard Uncle Mav leave. 

Suddenly, Bradley heard footsteps coming down the hall towards his room and he dove into bed, pulling the covers over his head. A few seconds later, his door opened and someone sat on the edge of his bed.

“Bradley, are you awake?” his mom asked softly.

Peeking his head out from beneath the blanket, he saw both his mom and Uncle Mav looking back at him. Neither looked angry, just sad. Sitting up, Bradley asked, “I’m sorry I tipped the boat over. I didn’t mean to, it was an accident.”

His mom smiled gently, rubbing his back. “We know, sweetheart. You’re not in trouble and I’m sorry if you thought you were. It was just–” 

She glanced at Uncle Mav who sighed and sat down next to her. “It just reminded me of something bad that happened and I got scared something was going to happen to you, too. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“It’s okay,” Bradley said, climbing over to give Uncle Mav a hug. “I don’t want you to be sad or scared, but why were you?”

Uncle Mav looked over at Bradley’s mom and she nodded. Pulling Bradley carefully into her lap, she said, “Baby, I think it’s time we told you what happened to your dad…”

Taglist: @valoraxxx-blog, @m3laniehearts, @autumnleaves1991-blog, @rule107, @vintageleather, @impossiblebagelcowboyfreak, @sugarcoated-lame, @slutforadambanks, @americaarse, @reneki, @ynbutbetter, @imagineadream, @sadpetalsstuff, @salty-thembo, @rachelizabethgraham, @duckandrobin, @queenbbarnes, @grincheveryday, @uselesslyromantic, @chouricojr, @king-of-milf-lovers, @high-fidelities, @shaded-echoes-recs, @dempy, @nik2blog, @dumb-fawkin-bitch, @uselesslyromantic, @choochoo284, @littlebadariell, @blue-aconite, @thescarletknight2014, @starlite41

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Treading Water

Whumptober 2022: 18. Treading Water Fandom: Top Gun, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Carole Bradshaw Word Count: 800 TW: Angst, PTSD, Grief, Allusions to Canon Death Notes: This takes place two years after the original Top Gun (1986) and Maverick has become a parental figure for Bradley. It is in the POV of a 6-year-old Bradley Bradshaw.

Bradley didn’t understand why Uncle Mav was so upset. After all, it had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to tip over the small canoe they had been riding in but he wanted to grab a stick he saw floating in the water. However, he had leaned over just a little bit too far….

At six years old, Bradley knew how to swim well enough to stay afloat and it didn’t even really matter since both he and Uncle Mav had been wearing life preservers. So, Bradley had just rolled onto his back and begun floating around. 

But then, Uncle Mav had grabbed him and pulled him tightly against his chest, so tightly that Bradley could barely breathe. He tried to squirm out of Uncle Mav’s arms as he cried for him to let him go, but Uncle Mav didn’t listen. He just clung tighter to Bradley as he muttered something about a goose. Bradley had never seen any geese in this pond so he didn’t know what he was worried about. 

Instead of swimming them to shore like Bradley expected him to do, Uncle Mav just kept them floating in the same spot in the middle of the pond. Turning his head slightly, Bradley could see Uncle Mav’s eyes were tightly closed and he couldn’t tell if there was just water on his face or if he was crying. It almost seemed like he was scared, but they had gone to the beach a hundred times before and the water had never bothered Uncle Mav before.

Another boat pulled up beside them and a lady offered to help them get to shore. Bradley tried to reach out to her, but the hold on his chest just grew tighter as Uncle Mav began to shake and mutter, “No. I won’t lose you again.” over and over. 

They floated around the pond like that for almost ten minutes before someone was able to track down Bradley’s mom and row her out to the middle of the pond. It was only when he saw her face that Bradley started crying. 

She leaned over, running her hand over his hair and cupping his cheek gently, as she whispered, “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s okay.” Then she jumped off the boat into the water. 

Swimming behind Uncle Mav, his mom ran her hand over his face just as she had to calm Bradley. “It’s not him, Mav. You’re not back there. It’s just you, me, and Bradley at the park. And you saved Bradley. He’s safe. But you can let him go now. It’s okay. I promise, he’s okay. It’s not like last time.”

Her voice trembled and this time there was no doubt that those were tears streaming down her face. But ever so slowly, Uncle Mav loosened his grip on Bradley until he was able to swim away. The nice lady from before helped him into her boat and Bradley watched as mom held Uncle Mav and they both floated in the water for a long time.

Uncle Mav hadn’t said a word the entire drive home and when they arrived, his mom had given him a bath and sent him to bed. Since then, his mom and Uncle Mav had been talking in the living room, and Bradley thought he heard more crying. 

Now he was sitting in his room, his ear pressed up against his door, still wondering what he did wrong or if he was in trouble. The noises had faded from the other room, but he hadn’t heard Uncle Mav leave. 

Suddenly, Bradley heard footsteps coming down the hall towards his room and he dove into bed, pulling the covers over his head. A few seconds later, his door opened and someone sat on the edge of his bed.

“Bradley, are you awake?” his mom asked softly.

Peeking his head out from beneath the blanket, he saw both his mom and Uncle Mav looking back at him. Neither looked angry, just sad. Sitting up, Bradley asked, “I’m sorry I tipped the boat over. I didn’t mean to, it was an accident.”

His mom smiled gently, rubbing his back. “We know, sweetheart. You’re not in trouble and I’m sorry if you thought you were. It was just–” 

She glanced at Uncle Mav who sighed and sat down next to her. “It just reminded me of something bad that happened and I got scared something was going to happen to you, too. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“It’s okay,” Bradley said, climbing over to give Uncle Mav a hug. “I don’t want you to be sad or scared, but why were you?”

Uncle Mav looked over at Bradley’s mom and she nodded. Pulling Bradley carefully into her lap, she said, “Baby, I think it’s time we told you what happened to your dad…”

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @lorecraft, @green-socks, @mayhem24-7forever,@11thstreetvigilante,@the-untamed-soul, @inglourious-imagines, @airhogger, @straightforwardly, @bonnieelizabethparker, @srry-itshockeyszn, @flyinlove, @fandomhopped, @sweetheartlizzie07, @yjwnoot, @wanderdreamer, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @fangirlinc, @sparrows-corner, @mads-weasley, @trencher4lyfe, @merlehs, @sunshineflowerchild789, @imjess-themess, @callsign-phoenix, @maggie8002sq, @je-suis-prest-rachel, @tellrock35, @shanimallina87, @mak-32

[void-kissed]

maeror viventi

Following the relinquishing of the Geo Archon’s Gnosis per the terms of his ultimate contract, Signora and Alectra are set to return to Snezhnaya in order to present their acquisition to the Tsaritsa. However, Alectra is unwilling to leave without checking on someone she had somehow grown attached to in Liyue - namely, of all people, the archon himself.  Takes place shortly after the third objective of The Fond Farewell. (1389 words) This piece focuses on my familial selfship with Zhongli. Content warning for discussion of death and grief.

A piece written to commemorate this date, and make concrete the solace brought to me by this character on this day, both last year and this year. This piece of writing is of great significance to me because of what it represents, but I still wanted to share it after having written it out, if that's alright.

Comments on and reblogs of my work are always okay, and appreciated, but they are never required.

(Tag list and document transcript under the readmore:)

Tag list: @sol-rbs | @dragonsmooch | @sunlight-ships | @bugsband | @z0raprince | @detective-with-one-arm | @deepsea-loves | @thatslikesometaldude (If you would like to be on the tag list, please see this post)

Document transcript:

The silver light of the moon shone down over the harbour, reflecting a dozen times in the lazily-lapping waves of the ocean. In the city of commerce itself, however, the lights that glowed were golden, softly shining outside buildings to illuminate the work of the evening. The night was somewhat livelier than usual, owing to the aftermath of the recent troubles afflicting Liyue that still needed to be fully sorted out, and the imminent Rite of Parting that was on the horizon and in many people’s thoughts. However, there were always serene spaces of quiet to be found if you knew where to look, even at times like these.

On one of the paved paths that wound up towards Yujing Terrace, a lone man was staring out over the sea and the city, arms crossed and resting on the barrier.

“Ah, so this is where you went, Mr. Zhongli.”

The voice caused the man to turn his head, looking down at the young woman standing before him. She normally gave off a threatening aura despite her small stature, with her once-corrupting sword in her hand and the blood-red feathers adorning her shoulders and the butterfly-wing mask that covered the left side of her face in ornate gold details - but on this quiet harbourside evening, she appeared decidedly subdued despite all this. Pearlescent teal-green eyes stared up towards his amber ones with an expression that was altogether both soft and sharp; he couldn’t help but feel that she was trying to hold something back.

“Miss Alectra?” he asked her, turning his body to address her with his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “I must say, I would have expected you to have been on your way out of Liyue already.”

“There are still a few preparations that need to be made before the ship can set sail. And, even if there aren’t- they will wait for me.” she explained.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Most courteous of your fellows.” Then he stopped. “In that case, then.. what brings you here, to have sought me out at this moment?”

She trailed off and looked away somewhat, as if she felt her reason was too trivial. Saying it out loud did not alleviate this feeling, either.

“I just.. wanted to make sure you were alright.” she finally admitted.

“Oh?” 

“It’s just-“ She repeated herself, and then stopped, regaining some of her usual even composure to continue with. “For an archon to give up their Gnosis is.. almost inconceivable to most onlookers. After all, as the oldest of the Seven, you have borne its weight for thousands of years. Regardless of what you are, to lose anything that had been so integral would surely be felt by anyone with such an item.”

At her words, the man now known as Zhongli paused - his previous light demeanour had shifted into something more contemplative as he considered her words. Thankfully, both he and Alectra were confident that no other individual was in their vicinity, and so despite the open space, they could both speak freely of their identities; both had known neither was an ordinary human since their first few encounters, after all.

“..You are correct that it was not a decision I made lightly.” he said finally. “However, having witnessed all that has befallen Liyue in recent days.. I am confident that both the Qixing and the adepti will adroitly continue to carry the nation into its new age, in their own individual ways.”

“That.. isn’t what I was concerned for.” Alectra responded, carefully studying his expression. “Although, it is good that you can have faith in this nation’s future. What I meant was - on a personal level - how will you fare in yourself?”

“Ah, so that’s what you were trying to say.” he said with a nod. “Well, I can certainly tell you that things have felt adequate for me thus far. Although it may only have been a short while, I don’t feel as though there’s anything worrying occurring.”

“That’s a relief.” Her words came quickly and loudly, and she visibly seemed to have some tension dissolve from her at his statement. “You.. deserve to get to see what happens next, even if you’ve taken yourself out of the equation. You should get to live your life the way that you want to now.”

“Why, that’s most kind of you to say, my dear.” he replied, understanding the kindness in her words despite the words themselves perhaps not sounding too affectionate. A smile had crept its way onto his face by now, holding both tiredness and gratitude.

She smiled in thanks in return. “I mean it. Besides, if I may touch on this..”

A short silence fell, but she sensed that he was content for her to continue; when she did so, her voice was quiet once again.

“You’re twelve times older than I am, and I am already six times older than what most humans reach. I.. can only imagine the number of friends you must have lost in the time that you have spent here, although I don’t suppose that that alone makes the experience any easier each time. And yet.. well, it must be somewhat surreal for you, to see your city mourning you while you still walk through it freely.”

Then, as she turned her body away to lean over the balcony as he had been doing, he heard another admission that was even quieter still. 

“..It’s an awful feeling, being mourned.”

There was a long silence, but then a hand came down onto her shoulder, firmly yet gently.

“If mourning is the expression of one’s grief.. Surely, it would not be wrong to say that such grief is an expression of the love held for those who have passed on. Though no part of this world can truly last for all of time.. This.. is the reason we must treasure the time spent with those that we care for. Even after many years have run their course, it is normal for the feelings to retain the same intensity as they had when the event first occurred. So, for as sad as it may be.. There is nothing wrong with expresssing that sadness, whenever it should happen to rise."

Something in her softened, like a feather melting into snow - and that single feather’s fall was enough to cause a rush of bursting tears from behind the crumbling dam she had tried to maintain since before she had even approached him on this lonely evening.

For all-too-bitter words exchanged between a brother weak from battle and a sister sharp with worry..

For the blameless lives so often torn apart and thrown aside, like pieces on a game board, at the whims of the divine..

For even that original pain, not of death, but of sorrow and anguish screamed through the flames as the nightingale sang to never leave her feeling this way ever again..

Despite how many years it had been, she had never before let herself mourn her own death, and that grief was now swallowing her whole.

Everything was wailing.

And yet, despite it all, he stayed there, as steadfast as stone. In fact, he did more than be some mere unmoving statue - he brought her forwards into a hug, placing his left hand on top of her head.

“This- isn’t right,” she tried to say through her tears, turning her head so that her mask would not dig into his suit as she returned the hold. “I came out here to offer you some solace, not the other way around-“

“That doesn’t mean I cannot be here for you, young nightingale.”

Despite what status he had held as a deity, despite whatever care he may have held or never had for the humans and the smaller little creatures of his own nation - let alone any other ones - the fact remained unchanged that Zhongli was someone Alectra had come to view as something like a father figure, even through the relatively short time they had spent together. 

..She held her tongue before the words admitting such could leave it, but the sentiment carried across to him nevertheless.

His eyes glittered as he grieved, and hers flooded as she mourned, and they spent what felt even to them like an eternity holding each other.

[d3mon-ology]

𝙰 𝙻𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙿𝚂 + 𝙿𝙰𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙼𝙾𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁 𖤐 ࿐ྀུ  a drabbily wip

A small wip centering around themes of dropped friendships, jealously, depression, and missed opportunities. An expression of grief, in a sense. 

Something written on a whim with the fuel found in autumn’s melancholy. I don’t know how to feel about it, other than it comes from a genuine place. My hope with posting this isn’t to, necessarily, post something of particular polish, but rather to simply write and paste it up somewhere so it is set free, much like a dove. Plus, the motivation, the ease of coming back to it, etc. 

Neil Perry's chest is laid barren in a hot-swill of blood, trickle-down - trickle-down. The gun safe unlocks itself with ease. I wonder if I will meet him, if he will find me as Christmas Future.

Instagram is haunting, as much as it feeds. I miss everyone dearly. An isolated leaf, flowing with the wind, who starts with loneliness as though the reprieve from it were just a dream. Was it?

Halloween is floundering near, blowing up like a sex-doll I don't have a particular urge to order off Amazon, much less fuck, but it offers old comfort, like I am innocent once more in an act so foreign to me. Irony. The real act, just like friendship, causes me pain, and both are alike in the amount of self-enthusiastic debauchery and clumsy greenery. The melancholy that warms my chloro-phallic underbelly. I miss you all dearly.

You all are dressed in costumes, drinking cheap beer and frying the egg-brain off synthetic wax pens at shows I would never attend unless asked. I miss you all dearly, but you will never inquire about me as I've burned the bridge you blocked off eons ago. You live in the Anthropocene, but I hum-drum along in the sepia-toned finality of aged film, frying myself on fiction. It is easier to find friends in actors and writers. 

So Neil Perry is dying. Todd Anderson is crying. I am bed-ridden. And you are all still babies, still children, but so am I. I cry as Neil Perry dies, unsure who I am in this Fischer-Price play.

A chloric, rheumatic swill, metaphorical or real, consumes my lungs and my temperate. On Monday, Halloween, I will rise from my chambers, dress in a mildly inappropriate cloth for my big-girl job, choke down a cup of coffee, and face my 56-year-old coworker who hates me in place of her similarly-aged children and similarly-tempered husband. She knows that same weakness in me that my mother knew, that you supposedly saved from until you exploited it. Why did I stop you? Call me overdramatic, batty, build that cage again until the metal bites my cheeks and cellulite, and let us be friends again!

I am all alone on a Saturday night, having seen no one who makes me feel alive in months (besides the boyfriend, but does he count, when he is the life I have? It is like comparing the nomadic, infantile, and freezing breath when you walk out to heat up the car to the necessary inhale). Tick off the list, try to write, fuck around on the computer and talk to the Internet friends who live too far away, and open that god-forsaken app.

Instagram. An icon of colors that remind me of our friendships, back when they bloomed into technicolor tulip fields any Dutch painter would be twitterpated to capture. I gave up high school to you, yielded it all in favor of the love I though waited on the other side. No such Fate, and now I am scorned. By It or you, I cannot tell, but one of you is culpable for turning me Black with Death. In the coffin, I scroll through a kaleidoscope of your new life, but does that make me dead? Friends found in types of people you hated before, made fun of me for finding appealing. Are we really that different? So grown past our infancy that there is no use in trying to mend tears formed in adolescent mutiny? 

That First Breath, screaming because you are now miserably breathing — I found it with you all. This app, it is the pillow drenched in chloroform. Would you attend my funeral if I offered it as a pyre, just for you to dance around, read from Kant and Whitman, and film Reels to? Protest me, protest me, but please, do not forget me. I miss you all dearly.

Running around Walmart, hollering in the car above the din of some hand-crushed cush in a song written by some wack-job nu metal worker one of you enjoy so much. Next to our ear’s Murder Scene — Gerard Way, still holding my heart in his palm, and yours too. I thought I had a hand on that too, had it in my mouth, pressed pert between my teeth, but it was you who feasted upon me. Rocky Horror fiction, Meatloaf all-cooked and coked up with your eyes, all eight of them, wild over the mahogany table. When I protested, when I asked you to stop, you feigned unfamiliarity with the poltergeists of Hamtramck. You laughed, even, and turned the radio up louder. You toked another bowl while I tried not to cry in the rat-dropping'ed corner of the party. I wanted you to love me, to let me in on your Chloe Sevingy debauchery, the casual-cool mean-girlness coupled with the twang of midwest Redditor to you all. I wanted to be among the baby-doll-burning, confirmation-bible-paper-joint-rolling, Kiwi-Farms-trolling, dirty-secrecy-found-only-in-Limp-Biskit-and-Kimya-Dawson, Gigi's-on-the-weekend-with-x's-on-the-hand-like-gay-Jesus club that you all formed.

Now it's all Harry-Styles, gender-queer, light-hearted cheer, and Monster High — things I enjoyed, too, but felt we would never share. You've boiled down what you were, perhaps grown a bit, I'd hope. Yet, none of you drop a line, invite me out. I shouldn't be surprised; I cut you all out first. I was on the cross, I had my hand on the gun-safe. You all left me behind, left me in the desert to die, and I wanted to. God! I wanted to! Yet, I ran along side the Honda Civic. 'Take me to the drug deal! Take me!' I begged, I begged, but it was soundless compared to what played in the car and your voices overtop. The Strokes, since when? Tumblr 2014, back in full swing, and I am that penchant, needy middle schooler all over again. I'm tugging at your sleeves, asking you to please be my friend. Tears streaming down my face, Virgin Mary, as you all liked to remind me. Too much of a kid for you.

"Lynz?" We were roommates, once, behind the Polish Film Theatre. Cigarette against the windowsill, and not even this I can find aesthetic in. The mice scurried about the kitchen, with the cat sleeping lazily on the weed-puffed couch. He stirred, tried to catch one of the butterflies on the cushion, before rolling over to show his belly. One of you giggled. 

"Yeah?" I rose from my crypt (your mattress, your duvet), wishing you would ask me out, ask me round to whatever y’all are up to. I wished you would ask me why, all those months ago, I unfollowed you on Instagram, and you'd actually listen. 

Months later, Halloweentown on the telly in a fabulously 50′s flat, tucked in bed like a constipated English woman. House coat, pink-plush. But instead, it's just a girl, mourning the marrow meal of Neil Perry, in a smelly pair sweatpants stolen from you and a haircut that reminds me of when one of you fried your hair off with bleach.

image: Bacchante With an Ape by Hendrick ter Brugghen in 1627 (Dutch). Read more here. 

[quality-on-a-patch-of-awesome]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: William Pierson/Joseph Turner, Ronald "Red" Daniels & William Pierson Characters: William Pierson, Ronald "Red" Daniels, Joseph Turner (Call of Duty) Additional Tags: goodbye letters, Grief/Mourning, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing, Guilt, Goodbyes, Crying, Canonical Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up Summary:

He went to tuck the page back inside the journal, intending to find its proper place later, when he noticed that it wasn’t a page at all. What had fallen to the floor was an envelope and his name was on the front of it.

Turner kept a journal and Red ensures that it finds its way back to Pierson

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 345

Adjective: Helpless

Noun: Poppy

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Helpless: unable to defend oneself or to act without help; uncontrollable

Poppy: a herbaceous plant with showy flowers, milky sap, and rounded seed capsules, and many poppies contain alkaloids and are a source of drugs such as morphine and codeine

[asherisawkward]

This is a brief story scene that’s been stuck in my head, and I need to get out. It’s unrelated to my usual TOH content, so feel free to ignore it. If you’re okay with random writing scenes with no context, interested in the Wheel of Time books/series, and have no issue with OCs, then this might be your jam.

He sat in the grass, dried reeds prickling at his legs through his canvas pants. The breeze that grazed his face and tousled his hair was cold, but he had no desire to feel warmth right now. His face feels particularly frigid where tear tracks still line his face.

“It was necessary, you know.”

Moiraine’s voice was quiet as she approached him, and he hadn’t even noticed it happening. He manages to prevent himself from flinching only with great effort. All his senses have felt frayed since…

“I know.”

His voice is weak and hollow, like the sound of wind whispering through reeds. It isn’t him. He doesn’t recognize it.

Moiraine sits down besides him, and he cannot bring himself to look at her. She did what she had to. She followed the code of the Aes Sedai. But he may as well have been thrown out into the wilderness with his senses halved and his skin ripped off for how vulnerable he feels.

“The madness was already taking you. You would only have fallen worse.”

She explains. He’s already heard the stories. He knew. Vaguely, he wonders if she feels guilty.

A part of him hopes she does.

“‘Every man who ever touched the One Power goes so mad he kills everyone he ever loved.’”

He parrots her words, the words that have been truth since the last Dragon broke the world.

“We should have known what would happen once you realized. I’m sorry.”

She means it; he can tell. Moiraine has had her own experiences with inability to touch the One Power. She knows the distress it causes. That should have meant she wouldn’t do it. Not when she knows the gaping hole in his chest will never be filled.

His body moves without his permission, turning to look at her. Even now, she’s elegant and otherworldly; dressed in a midnight blue. His skin feels numb to the wind and the chill of winter around him. (Is it even still his body anymore?)

“I wish you’d never taught me to channel.”

He whispers it hoarsely, voice breaking.

“I wish I’d never touched the Power in the first place.”

Her expression changes to one he hasn’t seen before. Surprise, maybe? He can recognize the horror from the things that have come in the recent times. They’ve all borne witness to monstrosities that should have stayed buried. This is the first time that something has ever seemed beyond her comprehension.

“How can you say that?”

It’s no accusation, but his eyes narrow all the same. Moiraine sends a look to him that says, ‘wait, let me finish;’ so he does.

“I was at my best when in contact with the One Power. It was only then that I could be whole. Every moment, the world sang with the connection and everything…”

She trails off, but he understands what she means. Only a Channeler, and maybe their Warder could know.

“Even with the pain of being separated, I wasn’t living before I made contact. How could you—”

He decides to interrupt.

“Life before may have been hollow, a pale shadow in comparison to what it could be, but at least I didn’t know any better.”

He explains it feebly.

“I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t know what I would lose.”

Moiraine kindly ignores the way he turns away to swipe at the tears streaming down his face. It doesn’t help, and he just feels colder. Everything is cold now. She contimplates what he says for another moment before replying.

“It’s the worst pain one can experience, being separated from the One Power. It’s…There are no words. But don’t the moments when you connected make it all worth it?”

He ponders her words, staring at the sea crashing against the cliff-side. It used to…. He can find words. When he channeled, he could hear the sky sing and the way the world bent and mixed together. The world was deeper and more alive than anything he had ever experienced. He can remember the thrill, the way every hair stood up and he screamed ecstatically when he first called lightening down from the heavens. His blood gums in his veins when he recalls sending fire burning through his enemies and the way it’s life echoed his own.

Before was like holding his breath in between each inhale. Now, his lungs have been ripped out, and he’s left choking on what remains. There’s a reason so many of the Gentled do what they do. It could never be the same. He will forever be a ghost occupying an empty shell of a body. His world is going dark.

He wishes Moiraine was surprised when he tells her so.

[taiey]

The curtains were blue because everything in the room was carefully colour coordinated, reinforcing the character's stylish and controlled characterisation. The curtains were blue because everything in the room was a different colour, reinforcing the character's eclectic and globe-trotting personality. The curtains were blue because the character is elsewhere established to hate the colour blue, subtextually implying that their deceased spouse was responsible for that decoration choice.

The curtains were blue because throughout their filmography the director consistently uses cool tones to mark moments of distance between characters. The curtains were blue to tie the events in that room into the broader oceanic motif of this particular novel. The curtains were blue because the assonance evoked a contrast with the following stanza of the poem.

Even the curtains looked expensive: floor to ceiling velvet drapes, in a flawless royal blue. She tucked the saucer up on the windowsill and tied back faded blue curtains with a loop of string. The narrow blinds were the same navy blue as the pinstripe suit of the man who served eviction notice that sent them to this office.

The curtains were blue because the author's childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of comfort in that place. The curtains were blue because the author's childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of grief in that place.

The curtains were blue as an allusion to the contemporary joke about literary criticism, an extension of the author's autocritical approach that will be further discussed in section seven.

The curtains were red, as a pun on;

The curtains were read.

[rusedrabbles]

I have been thinking a dangerous thing to do before morning coffee and the sarcophagus of forvever sleep sounds like it had to be a collaboration between Clockwork and Nocturne. So I thought Time/Sleep/War polycule with halfa son.

The grief of losing their ghostling had driven Pariah mad, and in his blinding rage, the halfa population was massacred. To stop the Observants from attempting regicide, Clockwork and Nocturne created a sacrophagus to keep their husband.

As it so often does, the passing time faded memories of why the Ghost King had gone mad, painting him a senseless tyrant instead of a despondent father.

A ripple across screens, a shift in time's progression, and a new halfa. Time carefully pulling strings, Sleep keeping watch to ensure a restful nap (for that's all they ever seemed to amount to, his poor son always rushing, always busy with something)

An arrogance unchecked rousing the slumbering king, a desperate child forcing him back into his prison, but the magic doesn't take hold. Now awake, having seen what his husbands saw, Pariah would not sleep through his lost son's new life.

Phantom was a new hero, one who seemed to wander a fair bit. Batman had already tried to find anything about Phantom, to very little success. Historical records of a teenager appearing to help before vanishing, allusions to a child of Kronos grumbling about timestreams, whispers of a young man whose rage was like a glacier, slow and unstoppable once it starts to move. The Lanterns had records of entire ships frozen solid, Phantom having been the last sighted individual before they became glacial space debris. Constantine and Raven both vouched for Phantom, which was why he was a part of the team, but there were still too many questions without answers...

The Justice League was heavily outnumbered, and while they could win, it would not be without heavy civilian cost. At least, that was their original thought, until Phantom Wailed for his father (?) and a massive Lazarus green rift ripped open above him, allowing a ghostly warlord with a Crown of Fire through, a skeletal army marching silently in the warlord's wake.