I Will Die On The Hill That Almost ANY Crane Wives Song Is Applicable To The Poppy War Trilogy

cemeteries aren’t creepy they’re actually devoted to memory and rest and love and humanity

Did I ever tell you, I’ve got a thing for brunettes?

FLYNN RIDER - STEVE HARRINGTON

thinking about soft!boyfriend steve. who grabs whatever inanimate object is closest to him and sings a silly little song into it whenever you’re sad just to see you break into a smile. who bundles you up in the coziest scarf he owns at the slightest inclination that you’re cold, he keeps it in the trunk of his car for you just in case. steve, who cuts off your self deprecating speech with a head spinning spearmint flavoured kiss because he adores you so incredibly much, and he knows that no words he could ever say would speak louder at that particular moment. steve, who reaches up wordlessly with a veiny hand to grab anything off the top shelf before you can even lean onto your tip toes. steve, who’s crafted from stardust, donning constellations made up of moles and freckles, scattered across his sun kissed complexion for you to trace, kiss, and memorize. steve is the act of selflessly switching ice creams or even sandwiches with you when you end up not liking yours. a rosy flush never fails to adorn his cheeks the day after, when you sweetly drop off coffee and baked goods at family video for him and robin to share as a thank you. steve is the colour of sunshine. paisley, warm and illuminating. steve is the epitome of lovesick when you laugh a bit too loud, knowing that you learned to shed your fear of doing so after you told him an ex of yours loathed it. he would give anything to hear you laugh like that every time. steve is the type of boyfriend who twirls you with his arms wrapped tightly around your waistline after spending fifteen minutes apart from you. who goes helplessly weak in the knees when you kiss him, because every time feels like the first time with you. who fiddles with the hem of your clothing, a lock of your hair, your dainty jewellery, anything to be closer to you while you speak to him. who reads with you from behind your shoulder, and quietly kisses the crook of your neck to let you know that you can turn the page. who promptly kneels onto the floor in front of you no matter where you are before fixing your shoelace or heel strap when he notices it’s come undone, much to your appreciative embarrassment. who lifts you up onto the nearest surface before he protectively bandages your wounds no matter how small, even if it was just a little scrape from when you clumsily banged into one of the cupboards, placing a tender kiss to the area after he ensures the edges of the plaster are smooth, wiping away your tears if any. steve, who feels the garden of his chest bloom with fresh wildflowers every time you say you love him, because he knows that you mean it, he can feel it, also because you’re so endearingly bad at telling even the whitest of lies. he drifts off to sleep whenever you play with his silky hair at the end of a long day, your manicured fingers gently scratching his scalp as he leans into the safety of being taken care of. steve is sticky lipgloss coated kisses on the cheek, intertwined fingers, dusky almond toned eyes brimmed with infatuation, fresh linen scented lullabies, bottled springtime, bouquets of your favourite flowers at any hour, stray flowers picked by you innocently placed behind his ears or braided through his hair. unbeknownst to the both of you, you’ve each started your own flower pressing journals, preserving every single petal that you’ve ever received from the other. steve is confidently mispronounced words that have you rolling in giggles and falling for him impossibly harder. he’s rose water scented love letters, time capsule polaroids of you in every nook of his burgundy bmw despite max saying that it looks like a shrine, slow dancing tipsily as dinner cooks on the stove, teary eyes at animal shelter commercials between bubblegum dramas, stolen kisses in broad daylight, absentmindedly humming along to the radio on the drive to lovers lake, fleeting confessions in the purple dawn. finally, steve is the schoolgirl type of love that has you twirling and daydreaming airily before opening your window for him when he sneaks into your childhood bedroom. lovestruck forever.

*soft!boyfriend stevie owns my ♡*

Kaveh Akbar, from "Wild Pear Tree"

it's fascinating how beautiful the world becomes when I'm with her, the soft flow of her hair, her crescent moon shaped lips, her eyes that could put the stars to shame, everything is beautiful, beautiful, just beautiful, she is.

The Goncharov meme is such a fun little spotlight on how people view media. Like, fake academic analysis about a movie that doesn't exist. Cool. But that's only the first level.

Next you have posts recreating a modern tumblr audience "discovering" an older piece of media and engaging with it through the lens of fan culture. Particularly tumblr-specific fan culture. Particularly in a way that feels like it got its blueprint from Dracula Daily. (Shitposts and memes, intense love for the most prominent female character, reads of complex romantic dynamics between characters, etc.)

Then you get fake discourse about the fake fan response to a fake movie that are quietly complaining about real ways real people respond to real media. I.e., America-centric readings, shallow, shipping-based readings, fans lionizing a protagonist not meant to be admired, etc.

(My personal favorite are posts that recreate the experience of being told a piece of media is so gay, you guys, only to watch it and find it isn't even remotely, that fans who wanted queer subtext wrung blood from a stone and thoroughly misled you.)

I also like the extra-meta ones about "this obscure movie being recently re-discovered," fake film history about copyright battles or the original cut being suppressed, etc. And of course, Johnny fucking Truant is here to give his editorial take on it, as he should be.

Pale Fire, House of Leaves, Goncharov. Humanity is such that every now and then we need to get really invested in fake arguments about a piece of media that doesn't exist.

you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.

who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

Banished

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason misses his girlfriend

warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)

Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.

Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes while Tim has sat atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.

Damian trudges into the room, past them and onto the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.

He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”

Jason just grunts.

He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.

But it’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He secretly wouldn’t really mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stayed behind. A lose-lose for Jason.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.

Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”

Jason keeps his head down as he blindly reaches for the spoon in his cereal and chucks it at Tim’s head.

Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.

Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”

“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.

Damian pauses.

“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.

“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.

“It was a genuine question!” Damian protests, face screwed up.

Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”

It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.

Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.

He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.

Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.

He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.

And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.

And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.

Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.

But you could.

Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.

He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.

He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.

And he watches Jason.

As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.

He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.

He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.

The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.

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