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whipitgod · 1 day

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I Panicked

Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham

oneshot - wc: 2.3k

summary: post fall hannigram, fits in the same universe as ‘pushed in’ but its not necessary to read that to understand this one. Hannibal gets a bit introspective as he thinks about how his life turned out, Will just really wants Hannibal to stop stabbing him

warnings: canon typical violence though non-graphic (will gets lightly stabbed), somewhat crack-ish as per usual, and a decent helping of some tooth rotting domesticity

a/n: YOU GUYS ARE ALL SO AMAZING!!! thank you for all the love on the destiel fic! this was fun to write because I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while so it was good to finally flesh it out, i hope you all enjoy it!! if you like this remember to leave a like/reblog! maybe even follow me :D! Happy reading!!

!!!!REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!!

All things considered, Hannibal had never expected his life to turn out like this; he had been, for lack of better phrasing, well and truly domesticated. They had settled into a small home in rural Argentina after pulling themselves out of the raging water Will had thrown them into, the nearest town no less than 30 minutes away; which Hannibal had initially taken issue with before seeing how at peace the younger man had been in the countryside.

Will had flourished in the new environment much to Hannibal's delight, the ex-profilers joy making it hard for Hannibal to be upset about their living situation. The home is nothing like how his home in Baltimore had been, the one they reside in now was single story and unassuming. White in color and surrounded by trees with a lake a couple hundred yards back behind the house, the home reminded him more of how Will's home had been in Wolf Trap. Hannibal found it difficult to complain about the home when it was shared with the younger man, whenever he felt the need to his mind would supply him with memories of Will walking through the back door after spending all day down by the lake fishing, the dog Hannibal had got him when they had first arrived at the home following close behind him.

Hannibal really had never pictured his life ever being anything like this, the concept of finding a shelter and choosing a dog for someone would have made him laugh a decade ago. He reasons that he had never had anyone to do it for before, because when they had arrived in Argentina almost three years ago Hannibal had barely batted an eye while he made quick work of locating a shelter about an hour away from the home to find a dog for Will.

Despite all this he still has his moments, he reminds himself sometimes that nobody is perfect; everyone has moments of weakness and lapses in judgment. Hannibal tries his best to maintain his composure and not let himself do anything too impulsive but sometimes the flood of emotions he gets in the face of the domesticity he and will now shared got the better of him; he had never been good at reacting rationally and it was apparent in how he tended to handle his emotions.

His most recent lapse in judgment had surprised even him, even now a week later he’s still a little unclear on why he had reacted to the emotions he shared with Will the way he did. He really had no reason to do what he did but Hannibal had never been a very reasonable man despite how much he tried to claim he was.

2 Weeks Ago

“Jesus Christ Hannibal, why did you stab me!?” Will’s hand presses against the wound made by the small paring knife Hannibal had been using to prepare dinner.

Hannibal, to his credit, feels at least slightly bad about the turn of events and responds with a flustered, “I'm not sure, I panicked,” the cannibal reaches to move Will's hand so he can inspect the wound, “my sincerest apologies Will.”

Will lets out a disbelieving sound akin to a laugh, “Panicked about what!” His tone is sharp, and he lets out a hiss as Hannibal prods at the wound, “We were just talking about our plans for tomorrow!”

Hannibal freezes momentarily at the words; why had he stabbed Will? The man honestly isn't quite sure, he supposes it might have something to do with the domesticity of the situation and the overwhelming rush of emotions he got whilst listening to Will talk about their plans like they were an old married couple.

“I believe I had meant to kiss you,” Hannibal meets Will's eyes briefly as he says this, “again, I sincerely apologize.”

Will just sighs at this, “It’s fine Hannibal, just help me stitch this up,” he shakes his head muttering a frustrated, “I can’t believe you stabbed me.”

“Of course, dear.” The older man pulls his hands away from where he had them still pressed against the wound, turning slightly to turn the stove off; Hannibal can’t believe he stabbed him either. Will begins walking towards their bathroom, hand clutched to his side and his gait a little uneven betraying the pain he was in; Hannibal really isn’t sure how he was going to make up for this one. The cannibal trails behind him, instructing him to remove his shirt once they had reached the somewhat small room.

“You’re unbelievable,” the words leave Will with a surprising amount of fondness, “Remind me to stop standing so close to you while you make dinner.”

Hannibal lets out a light chuckle at this, shaking his head slightly, “I will try and refrain from stabbing you going forward,” He inspects the wound on Will's lower stomach, sighing softly, “You don’t need stitches dear, but let me clean and bandage it.”

“Little victories,” it’s said with a teasing smile, “and I've heard that before Hannibal, it feels a bit hollow when you keep stabbing me.”

The older man huffs an affronted sound at this, lips curling down a bit, “I haven’t stabbed you in four months.”

“It’s fun that you keep track,” Will spots the guilty look gracing the cannibals features and sighs, he reaches up and places a hand on the man's cheek feeling the slight stubble there, “I know emotions aren’t easy for you, and for what it’s worth I'm proud of you.”

Hannibal scoffs quietly at this, shaking the man's hand off, “Don’t patronize me Will.”

“I'm not,” urged Will, “I really am proud of how well you’ve adapted to our life here; I know it wasn't easy for you.”

The cannibal offers him a small smile at this before patting the bandage that now adorned Will’s abdomen, “Good as new.”

Present day

Hannibal shakes his head at the memory, all things considered, Will had gotten over the man's slip up with a surprising ease; Of course nothing is ever truly easy with Will. The ex-profiler had a tendency to hold onto things to use them as leverage, bringing up Hannibal's misdeeds whenever the couple would argue. The most recent incident had been used to strong arm Hannibal into a fishing trip, the younger man lamenting how Hannibal never partook in the activities that he enjoyed; saying that the cannibal owed it to him to join him on the fishing trip after the older man had stabbed him.

Hannibal had decided not to argue, having learned that with Will he had to pick his battles carefully. The fallout of the cannibal denying him would be worse than a day sat on a boat under the hot sun; at least that's what he had thought up until he had seen the life jacket Will was insistent on having him wear. He thinks back on the argument the life jacket had caused with a huff of retroactive annoyance.

1 Week Ago

“Good lord, what is that?” Hannibal chokes out whilst looking at the neon orange life jacket that Will is holding out for him.

“You’ve never seen a life jacket?” Will's tone is sarcastic as he waves the life jacket in front of the cannibal's face; the older man staring at it like he’s trying to set it on fire with his mind.

“Of course I've seen a life jacket William, don't be ridiculous,” Hannibal waves a hand in its direction, “but why in god's name is it that color?”

“In case emergency search and rescue has to find your body in the lake.” The younger man says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world and Hannibal finds the statement a bit unsettling.

His brows furrowed as he finished processing what Will had said, “Do you plan on me ending up dead in the lake?”

“Depends,” Will shoves the life jacket to Hannibal's chest and the older man lets it fall to the floor without sparing it a glance, “are you gonna be this irritating all day?”

“Very funny dear.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Will, deciding the conversation is over, turns away from Hannibal to finish organizing his tackle box and assorted fishing gear, not sparing another glance to the man even when he starts grumbling quietly to himself; Will only picks up on some of it, not really paying attention.

“We’ll see who ends up in the lake,” there's rustling behind will and the sound of the life jacket being picked up off the floor, “could call it payback for the dress shoes I lost in the ocean.”

Will looks over his shoulder at the man and sends him an annoyed glare, effectively silencing the cannibal.

Present day

Hannibal hated that life jacket; he hated that Will hadn’t worn one as well even more. The fishing trip wasn’t all that bad, though he’d never admit that to the other man; he had complained too much to then turn around and say that he had had a good time. He had found fishing to be rather peaceful, the calm waves rocking the boat accompanied by a comfortable silence, well partial silence. Once Hannibal had stopped complaining there was a comfortable silence, and even though he would never admit it to Will, he knew that he had complained for quite a while.

Hannibal startles slightly at the sound of the back door banging open and the thud Will’s boots made as he entered their home, he hears the paws of the dog following shortly after, the dog never far behind will.

“Honey I’m home!”

Another thing Hannibal would never admit to was how much he enjoyed when Will would enter the house like that, finding a lot of pleasure in hearing Will call the place they resided ‘home’, the phrase always implying that it was their home; a space that they shared. The younger man enters the kitchen, setting the fish he had caught during his trip on the small island, before shifting his eyes to where Hannibal sat and sending the man a smile, eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of it.

“How was your trip dear?” Hannibal stands walking over to where Will is standing at the island starting the process of cleaning the fish. His hands reach out landing on the counter each side of Will’s waist as he peers over the man's shoulder at the fish in front of them, “By the looks of it, it went well.”

Will cranes his neck to look briefly at the man, eyes softening before he leans in and steals a chaste kiss; Their affection had become startlingly domestic compared to how it was when they had first arrived. They had behaved like touch starved teenagers for the first couple months, every kiss turning into something more. The two, now a few years into living with each other, expressed more casual intimacy than Hannibal had ever thought he was capable of. Quick kisses in greeting, or the gentle kisses Will would press to his cheek before he would rush out the door becoming a part of their routine; Hannibal frequently pressing kisses to the top of Will’s head when he would walk behind where the man was sitting, inhaling deeply as he does, taking in the smell of their shared shampoo.

The memories as well as the current position they’re in is horrifically domestic and Hannibal kind of wants to stab him again, though he stamps the thought down as quickly as it comes. Emotions swirl inside of him and he’s unable to pinpoint all of them though he’s able to pick out happiness fairly easily, the emotion had become commonplace after their years of living together; Hannibal had never thought it would be possible to feel as deeply as he does now.

“It was good,” Wills hands now working with a skill that had taken decades to acquire as he guts and cleans the fish in front of him, “how was your day? Do anything fun?”

Hannibal pauses for a moment considering, “It was good, though rather uneventful.”

Will let out a curious noise urging Hannibal to continue, “Oh yeah? Why's that?”

“The day somewhat slipped away from me; I haven’t even begun preparing for dinner.”

Will snorts at this, “Oh no, how will we ever survive,” his tone is teasing, and he laughs a bit as the words leave him, “we’ll starve before you manage to get dinner together.”

“I know, what a horrible twist of fate,” Hannibal presses a kiss to the side of Will’s head before continuing, “we managed to elude the FBI’s grasp for years only to succumb to hunger.”

Will’s shoulders shake with silent laughter before he sets the knife in his hand down, wiping the fish viscera off of his hands before turning in Hannibal’s arms, the man having yet to move them from the island, keeping Will caged. Will doesn’t attempt to touch the man, very familiar with his obsession with cleanliness, instead he leans his head forwards and rests it against Hannibal’s chest. The man's hands move from the counter then landing on the small of Will’s back, fingers toying with the waistband on the back of the younger man's pants.

Will heaves a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as the tension releases from his body now that he’s wrapped in the other man's arms. They stay like this for a few minutes, Hannibal rocking slightly, a soothing gesture that makes Will’s shoulders slump even further.

The ex-profiler starts to laugh, the sound vibrating against Hannibal's chest prompting the cannibal to pull Will back slightly to look at his face, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I'm great,” more laughter leaves him, “I was just thinking about stabbing you.”

“Excuse me?!”

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inventedfangirling · 10 months

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Episode 7 Pat : To lose or not to win that is the question

Okay I saw a post talking about how episode 7 pat "loses the bet everyday" and how in this rooftop scene...

Pat raises the stakes (asking pran to confess in public) to keep Pran from saying the words just then (knowing he won't take that option) is making me feel and think a lot of things and now my brain is all over the place and i might as well just all note it down here or i won't have peace of mind.

At the outset i want to confess that eventhough i know that the bet has been for pran's sake i still viewed at as a legitimate competition that both pat and pran were trying to win, but i'm realising more and more how (for a large part of the bet) that just wasn't the case at all.

Pat came all the way from Bangkok to the hostile architecture trip alone only and only for Pran. Pat wants to be with him. Pran knows that and Pat knows that Pran knows that. He hasn't tried to hide it at all.

Pat knows that Pran has feelings for him, Pran knows that Pat knows that. But he also isn't ready to admit what it would entail and the familiarity of competition between them allows him to explore that.

"Whoever falls in love first loses" - when both of them know that they have feelings for each other, is hilaaaarious on first watch, but once you've rewatched it countless times and reached a whole new level of brain rot where your blood cells have p cells embedded within p cells in them then it isn't funny, it isn't funny at all * screams into a pillow *

Coming back to the bet, and what it actually means which is that whoever admits it(their feelings) first, loses. And all of us including pat and pran know that pat has already lost. Him coming to the trip just to get Pran to talk and his confession that he actually didn't like Ink 'like that' is all pointing to just one very obvious thing.

So Pat has already lost and yet they're both entering into the bet as if on equal ground. Pat could (and is very much willing to) keep losing over and over again, he very clearly wants to be with Pran but he would keep the charade of the bet up if it meant Pran wasn't ready.

Which means that the entire time that they were teasing and flirting with each other, all throughout episode 7, pat keeps on losing just for Pran's sake.

Do you realise how absolutely insanely madly crazy (mature) in love Pat is???? This might be a childish bet to YEW but to him its a space for Pran (and him) to explore their feelings without the responsibility of a relationship on them, it's actually revolutionary.

Kinda like killing with kindness, which basically sums up the kinda guy Pat is when he's with Pran.

"Don't force me to" he says in response to Pran's "You're just not brave to" (confess) when all of us know Pat is very well brave enough to do that and that is exactly what Pat is reiterating here. He's saying "you very well know why i'm partaking in this charade don't act like you don't i could kiss your competitive ass right now but im not doing it cos i want you to (admit that you) want it".

The man is basically losing (coming over to play and then offering to clean pran's face cos he looked upset screams somebody who wants to win real bad right hahahah NOT *argh pat can you not be so unreally sweet people have to go back to their real lives with real men to be disappointed by*) over and over again asking Pran to "just let me love you, you dork".

Here Pat is literally doing the confession, the very thing they started the bet stating, "i'll make you beg on your knees for me", well he's almost doing the next best thing, and he's doing it willingly, in front of people, with the most genuine smile on his face.

And when he raises the stakes on the rooftop and he does it entirely for Pran again. As much as he wants to be with Pran he equally wants it to be when Pran is ready for it. Not for it to be a decision he is forced or boxed into. He doesn't want to beat Pran he wants Pran to walk into the loss like he himself did, over and over again, because that's just the kinda guy he is.

Boy basically said if me winning the bet means you losing your chance to make that choice for yourself then i don't want that kinda win.

Which is why he's been willingly giving up all the chances to win throughout the episode, but continuing to put up the charade of the bet cos 1. yeah ofc its loads of fun teasing pran and he is so grateful he gets to be close to him again but more importantly 2. he can't (but he is fully willing to) wait for Pran to mentally be ready to get into a relationship.

"As for me, when i have a lover, I always let my lover win" - And truer truths haven't been told. Man has been losing since the very beginning. And that too happily. He is only doing it to give Pran the time that he deserves to process the whole thing and accept his love.

See even here he isn't expecting Pran to confess his love and sweep the whole bet thing away.

Look at Pat pausing trying to figure out what Pran is doing here. I can almost hear the cogs in his brain turn, until the very moment that Pran extends his hand to wipe the stray piece of rice away and then gives him that look. The look that says, "I love you, i'm done making you wait, thankyou, i love you".

So to conclude, Pat like the simp he is entered the bet (and kept willfully losing) only to make Pran comfortable. And literally the first moment that he completely feels comfortable, Pran gives in.

This whole post is borne out of my thoughts after i read what was said in here.

For more of my bet era patpran brainrot :

#and then they both lean in to kiss #which is all that pat wanted in the first place so who's the real loser now?#its me. i was supposed to be prepping for an exam tomorrow #but ofc i had to process all of that and now we're here #bad buddy #patpran #pran x pat #bad buddy meta #bad buddy brain rot #pat napat #pran parakul #bad buddy the series #episode 7 #ahh i love this show and their love so much #some very valid points as to how prans need to win was linked to his feeling that he was always at a disadvantage cos of falling in love 1s #AND how each time pat tries something pran amps it up further #in the reblogs to this post which i have had such a delight reading though #i love how we are all at such wild levels of brain rot as this show deserves

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spockandawe · 8 months

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Double edit: actually, that's enough of that.

Edit: I was expecting maybe thirty notes tops. This is a surprise, and one that doesn't delight me. If I hear about any harassment stemming from this post, I'll be more pissed at the harasser than the person this is about.

God. Dammit.

I hate this, let's just out that out there! I'm unhappy that I'm talking about any of this, I'm unhappy there's an issue that's come up at the intersection of media preservation, respecting authors, and one of my favorite book series. And I'm unhappy that I've censored the names in the screenshots I'm about ti post! I'm not happy that I'm helping to slide consequences away from someone who thought this was an acceptable thing to do to a modern working author. But I'm even less happy this is something that happened in the first place, and I'm VERY unhappy the original post has been deleted without a whisper of accountability or apology.

And here's a partial screenshot of the IA page, which has since been removed. I get the excitement to share something you love with a new audience. This isn't the right way to go about it.

First, if Martha Wells' patreon is still in place, I encourage everyone in the strongest possible terms to go sign up for it. It'll charge you one dollar. I've been a member since probably 2018, and I mistakenly believed it was locked to new members (it's labeled 'Currently Closed To New Patrons') until I had reason to look it up last night, when I tripped across this reddit post from earlier this year.

Now. I was looking it up because of this sudden patreon message:

Even if the patreon goes away, I still recommend that people sign up. Explore the stories! They're very fun! Even though the patreon has been dormant for years, I've loved having that repository in place.

In fact, in the interest of full disclosure, what kept me from immediately reblogging last night is that I've felt the same archival urges! I bound a hard copy of these stories earlier this year, and let me quote my own words from that post:

I live in a state of perpetual low key stress over the impermanence of digital media and that goes extra for sites that aren’t designed to work well as archives. I hope, desperately, that someday Martha Wells publishes more raksura, maybe even including these stories! I will buy it immediately. No thoughts, wallet empty. I own all her other raksura books in literally three formats, fingers crossed that by printing this, I can actualize a formal official printing of these stories by the author 😂

So. Archiving, yes. But especially with a living, working author, I would never DREAM of posting a public free-for-all with IA and mediafire links. My most charitable interpretation is that OP thought it was fine since the stories were "free," even though the writeups acknowledge that access costs a dollar. Ao3 is also free. Reposting someone else's fic is still understood to be a dick move.

Last night i was left kind of stunned, and I was hoping to see some kind of response from op this morning taking responsibility, and was... disappointed to see that the post was just deleted. The IA listing was deleted too, and I hadn't actually looked up the mediafire post yet but I'm guessing it's also been nuked. Out of curiosity, I wanted to see if there was anything more in the comments, so I found a surviving reblog. And there was!

So I'm writing this post because I'm... frustrated. Taking down the files is a good step. Posting them publicly was a worse step, but hey. I still more than understand if Martha Wells still deletes her patreon. I don't understand what sending her files of her own stories is meant to accomplish, but whatever. Ascribing a profit-driven motive is driving me up a wall, though. She's financially stable. I read her email, and what i see is frustration that even though it only cost a dollar to access 62k of her work through her own chosen location, control of her writing is being forcibly removed from her. I'm sure that seeing copies sold by third parties wouldn't help, but I don't think that's the root issue.

This is a fandom-heavy website, I'm sure most of us have seen posts about not reposting art when you can share directly from the artist's blog. I've seen posts about stop copying your ao3 faves over to wattpad just because you like reading there better. At a fundamental level, I read the message from Martha Wells as a deep frustration at having no way to share her creative work without someone removing control of it from her hands. And I don't know if there's any way to really take back that damage.

#long post #the books of the raksura #archiving

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wangxianficrecs · 4 months

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coop d'état by wolfsan11

coop d'état

by wolfsan11 (@wolfsan11)

G, 4k, Wangxian

Summary: “Lan Zhan?!” Wei Wuxian asked in some strange smear of horror and delight. Never let it be said that he wouldn’t approve of his husband’s rule-breaking, but it wasn’t often that Lan Zhan did it so blatantly. Last he’d checked, No pets allowed in the Cloud Recesses was still a valid rule amongst the 4000 or so carved on the wall by the entrance. Lan Wangji remained silent until they were right up against the low wooden fencing that seemed to have sprung up there overnight. “I have not stolen these ones,” said Lan Wangji, which was at least a little reassuring considering the last chicken gifts, fair enough, but still did not really explain the situation! Or, Wei Wuxian finds himself the proud of owner of five chickens, while Lan Wangji defies the government (his uncle). Kay's comments: Came for a cute post-canon story where Lan Wangji got Wei Wuxian some chickens stayed when I realised that the chickens were actually therapy. This story really gets you about half-way through and I absolutely love it. Very cute and thoughtful! Also, I think Wei Wuxian should get some pets too and the chickens really fit him well and I love how they become part of making the Cloud Recesses more of a home for him Excerpt: “I was told they are an agreeable breed. Very accustomed to loud noises,” Lan Zhan said finally. Taken off guard by the teasing, Wei Wuxian burst into laughter. None of the chickens made a single sound of alarm at his cackles though, too busy in their search for bugs. Perhaps they were too used to the hustle and bustle of human life to be bothered by the Cloud Recesses’ dead silence. If anything, the silence must unsettle them more. Wei Wuxian leaned forward to appraise them, resting his chin atop his arms on the wooden fencing. “What will your shufu say, bringing pets into the Cloud Recesses?” he asked. “Are farm animals and pets the same?” Lan Zhan said, dodging his question with one of his own. Then, quieter, “Regardless, shufu will not say anything. Refusing a gift would be rude and rudeness is not allowed in the Cloud Recesses.” Wei Wuxian had to grab his husband to keep from falling over. “Lan Zhan, your uncle really has no idea what kind of rebel he’s raised,” he managed through a wheeze. Lan Wangji’s smooth jade face indicated nothing of the smugness radiating within him, but Wei Wuxian could read it all the same. Neither of them spoke on why such a gift was made at all.

pov wei wuxian, post-canon, fluff and humor, established relationship, married lan wangji/wei wuxian, mild hurt/comfort, chickens, wei wuxian gets therapy, in the form of chickens, pets, caring lan wangji, good significant other lan wangji

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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dduane · 7 months

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OH my God, that’s how I know you! So You Want to Be a Wizard!

I’m following Neil Gaiman and so have only really seen your posts when he reblog them. I caught that you’re an author, but didn’t think I’d read any of your books. But when I saw the book title and cover in that latest post Neil reblogged, about the history of the YA genre? Well, I’ll just put it this way:

So You Want to Be a Wizard traumatized me.

I picked it up when I was maybe seven or eight years old, thinking it would be along the same lines as Wizardology — a fictional non-fiction guide to magic. I quickly figured out it was an actual story, so maybe it’s like How to Train Your Dragon?

Yeah, no, it was so much darker. I couldn’t stop reading, and I enjoyed it, but when I was finished, I filed it away in the same place as A Wrinkle in Time — scary af books that I’ll never read again and I’ve since forgotten all of the plot of (besides maybe one or two scenes that stuck out to me)

You know what? I think this is a sign that I should check those books out again. Peter and the Starcatchers has been on my mind lately, which was another of those books where the terror of reading them outweighed the enjoyment that pushed me through to the end. Thank you for writing So You Want to Be a Wizard, even if my younger self would’ve run from you in fear.

P.S. Coraline is on that same list. I read it in preparation for watching the movie, and decided I didn’t want to watch the movie.

Wow.

I'm really, really sorry the book traumatized you. That would never have been my intention. Especially since I know what that feels like, though mostly when I was young I had that reaction to film rather than books. The 1956 Godzilla: King of the Monsters gave me intermittent nightmares for a long time until my monster problem was unexpectedly cured a couple of years later by accidentally viewing The Crawling Eye and laughing myself sick at the SFX.

More to the point, though: I'm absolutely delighted that you're willing to give the book(s) another chance. Let me know how things turn out.

(And do give Coraline another shot, too, if you feel like it.)

#So You Want To Be A Wizard #Young Wizards meta

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nervocat · 7 months

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Oh, hi! So, I've been stalking your profile lately, simply feeding off your posts. I loved them for sure! I don't know if your requests are open, but here's a request: reader is not exactly an intelligent person, and can easily get hurt in his work, or be deceived by people. I ask for a fluff story like this with our dear Neuvillete! Sorry if it seems strange, English is not my first language

★ 📝 — notes: I'm glad you like my works anon, and yes my requests are open, I should probably put that somewhere on my blog. And this doesn't seem strange at all, I like the idea of this :D

Also I don't know if you wanted this to be romantic or platonic, so I made it able to be read as both, and I'm assuming you wanted a m!reader since you used the pronoun 'his' in your request, and sorry this took so long to get out and that it didn't turn out so great like I personally hoped it would, didn't quite execute the idea correctly

— word count: 311 , fandom: genshin impact , cw: none — ✦

" Not a Very Intelligent Human "

You were a guy who was surprisingly naive for your age. Albeit you fell for scams which you thought were good, so you have good intentions, it's just that a handful of the people in Fontaine are opportunistic when it comes to money grabs, and you were that opportunity.

Though Neuvillette, he doesn't like how those said Fontainians take advantage of you, so sometimes if it's a hefty amount of money, he himself would put them on trial for scamming. It's a little entertaining to Furina that he would do that for you, but she doesn't like scammers either, so she let's it happen (of course). How you and Neuvillette actually met was because of this reason. You were also deceived by people in a more sensitive way, most using you to get close to Neuvillette, and that did make you less untrusting of people wanting to be friends.

You were also pretty clumsy, getting hurt in your field of work. You always had at least one or two bruises on your skin and some scratches here and there. You never actually really get severely hurt though, much to Neuvillettes delight.

More on the topic of your relationship with Neuvillette, whenever he can walk with you, he will so he can personally make sure you're OK and don't get scammed of your money. If he can't because he's busy, a Melusine would follow you around to continue what Neuvillette does without him telling them to. The Melusines enjoy being around you and talking to you about your field of work, and even if Neuvillette doesn't ask, the Melusine(s) would tell him about you. He smiles everytime.

He likes to be around a man like you and the skies are always brighter, he just has to make sure that you don't get hurt or scammed when he or the Melusines are around. ☆

🌊 ★ — © nervocat || I appreciate any reblogs made, and pls don't repost or translate my works anywhere, ty — ✦ 📖

#— ★ nervos published books #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x male reader #neuvillette x male reader #neuvillette x reader #x male reader

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kleewie · 2 years

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i knew it from the first old fashioned, we were cursed

summary: drunk nights like these always end with your mind in a drowsy numbness. but why does your heart pound like a drum in your chest—fast and hot in anticipation of something more than just friends? (in other words, a modern au about drunk nights, hand holding, and unsaid feelings).

→ pairings: childe, zhongli, & alhaitham

→ warnings: fluff, light cursing, not proofread, mentions of drinking and alcohol, gender neutral reader

→ author’s note: i had a dream about my old crushes. as much as i want to say “yikes!! stop that cringe,” i got to admit it made my heart go doki-doki! plus binge listening to taylor’s reputation + midnights albums made the idea pop into my head. slight present tense issues are present (probably) ‘cause it hasn’t been proof read ;-; anyhow, i hope you enjoy it!

credits to @a-cure-for-writers-block on tumblr for the prompts!

beware, slight lengthy post ahead!

feedback, comments, and reblogs are extremely meaningful! i’d love to hear your thoughts on my writing (*´∀｀*)

childe: the sponsor-and-instigator

seemingly, the reason why you’re almost half-dead on the floor.

childe decides it’s a great idea to sponsor a fifth round of drinks when (a majority of) the group threaten to leave.

you and the bunch don’t though,

the shiny allure of brand new drinks put up a convincing fight.

so when you’re cursing his name, slamming imaginary daggers at his back,

the actual demon stands over your tired body, as if summoned. obviously delighted by your drunken state, he sends you a cheeky grin.

you, annoyed at his antics, return his smile with one of your own.

one screaming dare me, i'll leave you to vomit your guts out.

honestly, you never know what he's thinking.

your relationship with the ginger is, in short, awkward. both of you are in the same friend group.

yet, you seem to be closer to actual strangers than with him.

a chance to bond never presented itself. hence, you're stuck in a state of wariness and longing— slightly afraid to offend the man you're trying to be friends with.

so when the opportunity arises (a night out to drink for fun's sake), you immediately agree.

now, you're stuck in this predicament.

a hand behind his back, his arm around your shoulder, your whole body carrying the weight of his, stumbling around.

figures. the reason why he'd approach your tipsy condition is that you're the only one willing to carry (drag his ass) to the sofa.

bad call.

previously, you lounged half-dead on the second floor. which means, you'll have to haul him safely down the stairs.

him climbing the stairs, instead of crawling himself into the couch, baffles you. i mean, the last time you see him is downstairs.

anyway, certain someone (a drunk kaeya, “oops!”) forgets to wipe the pool of water he spilled on the lower steps.

causing you to slip first. as you're the one pulling his body, he soon follows.

the first thing you hear is a loud smack.

and the first thing you think is: you killed him.

“oh god!” you blurt.

you're almost disappointed to hear his sudden laughter. almost.

“i fell for you,” he mumbles.

crouching over him, you furrow your brows. “don't tell me…” you hesitate. “…do you have a concussion?”

childe promptly sits up, gripping your wrist. his sober blue eyes meet yours in a silent plea, as if begging you to grasp the message he's trying to convey.

to realize he's not fooling around.

to understand he’s serious.

maybe that's why it’s so difficult, so embarrassing, so upsetting for you to begin a friendship with the man.

you never want to be friends.

you desire something else, something different, something more.

his fingers, gripping your wrist, slide up in a gentle caress, “why would i try so hard to make you stay?” you feel his thumb brush your shoulder. “why would i try so hard to catch your eye?” his hand skims your cheek. “all the jokes, the teasing, the lingering gazes— all of it.”

childe slides his hand, softly resting his thumb on your lips.

and you swallow a lump in your throat.

“don't look at me like that and then feign innocence,” he whispers. “you keep saying we're friends, but you look at me for a moment too long for that to be true.”

more under the cut!

zhongli: the low-tolerance drunk

at any given occasion (involving drinking), there are ten kinds of drunks.

apparently, zhongli’s the type to look like he can hold his liquor.

but looks can be deceiving, as he’s the first one to drop his glass and sprint to the bathroom.

why he’d rush off after one more cup? who knows.

you feel guilty though. i mean, you’re the one pestering him to chug a glass down.

your pouty lips, twinkling eyes, and soft convincing voice entice him to drink against his one-bottle agenda.

you're that persuasive.

but when he leaves, you feel the loneliness hit. ironic as you cause him to depart in the first place.

hu tao glances at your sullen form, slightly snickering.

it's obvious. extremely obvious how captivated you are by the dark haired man.

a small crush develops into something more intense. you could bask in all his greatness, yet, still be wanting more.

you sigh and wish he'd come back from his break sooner.

since it's mandatory to order additional drinks for sulking individuals. being the best companion (wingwoman) she is, hu tao drags you towards the bartender.

as she orders more glasses, a couple of intoxicated men approach you.

looking at how unsteady they are on their feet and how they stink like alcohol, you assume one had too many to drink.

“hey, cutie.” one slurs. “begging for some lovin'?”

you say, “no, thanks.” and step away. adding, “i'm with a friend.” when you see them follow you.

your eyes search for hu tao, but the amount of people piling around the bar obscure your vision of her.

the other man smirks, “playing hard to get?”

you roll your eyes.

stupid how these men don't take no as an answer. how they presume standing here is an invitation for something else.

before he's able to grab your wrist, a palm swats his hand away.

“excuse me,” zhongli drawls. “you're getting a little too comfortable.”

he wraps a protective arm around your shoulders, against your collar bone. igniting a red blush on your cheeks.

of course he's here to save you.

though, you still want to beat the douchebags up for continuing to hit on you after refusing them.

the man hisses in response, “ouch! shit hurt!”

scowling, zhongli shoots a hostile glare. “my apologies. foolish men daring to touch them puts me in a sour mood.” he gently pulls you, before adding. “be careful. try not to upset me.”

if you know what's good for you, he thinks.

and the irritated man whisks you off somewhere else. gone from the crowded room and away from the vulgar folks you go.

you sense his displeasure, as it radiates his whole body. but you're half-worried, half-giddy.

yes, he's mad. but he’s mad because of you.

“...you're upset.” you hint.

zhongli hums in agreement.

tugging his hand loosely in yours, you ask, “...so what's wrong?”

his thumb brushes your palm in soothing circles before pulling your hand to his lips for a soft kiss.

“darling,” he mumurs. “you don’t know half of the things you do to me.”

alhaitham: the designated-chauffeur

amongst a group of drunkards, there always has to be one sober person who picks up everyone else’s shit.

and unwillingly, alhaitham becomes the appointed chauffeur.

a funny circumstance really.

because: one, he never came to the party in the first place; and two, he meets up with your plastered crowd by pure chance.

and he's certainly surprised to see you.

since you told him the night before that you weren't going, at all.

your heartbeat quickens in anticipation.

i mean, why wouldn't your heart beat like it's running seventy miles an hour? your long-time crush from college (you both take the same classes) suddenly appears out of nowhere to save the group from certain despair (passing out on the sidewalk).

and upon considering he now knows you lied, your heart beats even faster.

“alhaitham, i can explain!” you sputter. “i thought i wasn't going either but—”

tighnari decides it's a great idea to intrude on your speech by gagging his life out on the pavement.

but you totally understand.

cyno succeeded at creating the nastiest concoction of juices and alcohol you've ever tasted— you heave just thinking about it.

“—but first... i think we (you, cyno, and the almost-hurling man),” you continue “need a ride home.”

as he cares about your welfare, and is the most responsible person in the group, he agrees.

but before you can get into the back of his four-seater car, he pulls front-seat car door open. “after you,” he says.

you gulp.

he's mad, alright.

after he drops off the two other intoxicated people in the car, he drives towards your apartment.

your eyes glance at his figure, trying to perceive his mood.

is he still mad? did he feel left out?

is it because you lied?

you couldn't tell.

the deafening silence is killing you. so you put on a brave face and apologize.

“i'm sorry, okay?” you mumble. “i wasn't planning to go but tighnari—don't look at me like that— you, of all people, know he can't hold his liquor.”

“oh? that's it?” he prods, steering the wheel to the right of an intersection.

you huff. “yes, that's it.”

a pause.

“you're a terrible liar.”

you grumble in frustration.

yes, he can see right through your lies. the point is, you've never been a good deceiver. so you curse the alcohol for making your inability to lie more obvious than usual.

thus, you explain the reason why you came to the party: a secret surprise planning session for alhaitham's birthday.

not so surprising now, is it? you remark. his fault for persuading you to spill the beans.

now, you feel guilty. and because you’re guilty, you get grumpy.

and because you’re grumpy, your eyes tear up in frustration.

alhaitham hears your sniffling and sends quick side-glances at you. “are you crying?” he asks.

“no,” you lie.

you blame your weakened emotional state on your weak alcohol tolerance. if you would’ve known he’d show up, you’d be as sober as a judge.

god, you’re absolutely going to embarrassed in the morning.

yet, something pulls on the breaks in your mind.

alhaitham parks the car in front of your garage, and you see the colors of your apartment through glossy eyes.

“please don't lie,” he reaches for your face and places his thumbs below your eyes. sighing, he wipes the fallen tears from your cheeks. “forgive me. i'm not mad, and i didn't mean to ruin the surprise.”

you choke a sob in response.

but, you're too busy tearing up to see how tenderly he looks at you.

with eyes full of longing, eagerness, and want.

“i hate seeing you so upset,” alhaitham cooes. “take a deep breath, sweetheart. you'll be okay.”

thank you so much for reading! ♡

feedback, comments, and reblogs are extremely meaningful!

i’d love to hear your thoughts on my writing ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

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cieloclercs · 7 months

Text

𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞 , cl16 — chapter five

pairing. charles leclerc x senna!oc part. 5/? warnings. basically just pure angst 🫠 yeah it’s gonna be like that for a while 😭 swearing, arthur is such an icon in this icl word count. 5.7k

SAUDADE. in which childhood rivals turned best friends realise they were always meant to be something more

05. everything changes (nothing changes)

author’s note. so i’ve had this chapter written for about 2 months. no i don’t have an excuse as to why i haven’t posted it yet 🫠 but i figured i’m going through a bit of a dry spell in my writing at the moment so i may as well post it 😭 hope you guys enjoy, and as always, please leave a comment or reblog if you did !! <3

read it on wattpad!

previous: chapter four next ➜ chapter six

Nice Côte d'Azur Airport 8 February 2021

NOA DOESN’T SEE Charles for another two weeks. She doesn’t hear from him either, not including his brief message confirming her flight’s arrival time. He’s giving her space, just as promised, and she finds herself grateful for that. The time in between their meeting at the café and the looming date of her temporary move to Monaco is for setting the record straight. When Noa breaks the news to her parents, they immediately assume the best of the situation – they’ve patched things up, got over themselves and finally rekindled their friendship. She flushes bright red when she has to cut off her mother’s delighted cheers, and her heart aches to see the grin on her face fall. We’re not friends, she tells them firmly, despite the pain it causes her. Noa is doing this for her career, not for some distant, nostalgic memory of the boy she’d once thought the world of. No. It’s her turn to be selfish for once.

Flávia is understandably upset. Just as Pascale considers Noa to be like her daughter, she has always viewed Charles as a second son. Even though she tries to deny it on several occasions over the weeks before Noa’s flight to Monaco, she isn’t stupid. The first few months after she and Charles stopped speaking to each other, Flávia had been fairly vocal about what she thought of the whole situation. She understood the hurt that they were both feeling, but as far as she was concerned, they still needed each other. Her greatest fear was that they would both continue to grow into the cut-throat world of racing without the person they trusted most at their side. As someone who experienced how difficult life could be at the pinnacle of motorsports, even as only a family member of one of the racers, Flávia worries for them. She had Gabriel to lean on after Ayrton’s death – her best friend and the love of her life. Noa and Charles, as long as they’re apart, don’t have that.

Speaking of her father, he seems to understand her reasoning a little more. Gabriel Borges is ambitious if nothing else. He fought tooth and nail to win his championships and solidify his place in the Formula 1 hall of fame. It’s a trait he’s passed on to his daughter. Sponsorships like this are important now, with racing becoming more and more lucrative with each passing season. In order to succeed, a driver needs the backing of some of the most influential brands in the world. For a rookie, it simply doesn’t get bigger than Chanel. Both Noa and Gabriel know that this is an opportunity she can’t pass up, no matter how difficult it may be for her with Charles there. They need to make it work.

He may not necessarily agree with her ‘keep him at arm’s length’ approach, but if that’s what she thinks is going to work for her, then Gabriel will support her through it.

With Luiz and Eloísa settling into their apartment in Italy, it’s only her parents who wave her goodbye at the airport. Noa has never been a fan of flying. The seats are too cramped and the people too noisy – she can never find a position comfortable enough to fall asleep. Sometimes it can be peaceful simply watching the world pass by beneath her from the window, but eventually, miles upon miles of ocean gets a little boring. So Noa spends the first thirteen hours of her flight wide awake, silently begging the couple in front of her to do something about their screaming baby. Stopping off at Heathrow for the change over feels like a slice of heaven. Just to be able to get up and stretch her legs for a little while is pure bliss. But within an hour she’s back on a different plane, looking down over the English Channel, over Normandy and eventually, the south of France. The nerves begin to set in then. There’s no going back once this plane lands – she’ll be stuck in Monaco with the person she most wants to avoid in the world for the next three weeks. Granted, she’ll have her second family there with her too, but Noa doubts she’ll be able to shake the awkward feeling even when they’re around.

Jetlag’s a bitch, is all she can think when she steps off the plane and into the harsh winter sunlight. It makes her skull ache, beating down on her, yet offering little to no warmth – typical Europe. If only it was summer here like back home. She’s grown accustomed to heat in the high twenties and sleeping with all the windows open. Checking the weather app on her phone, she sees that right now the temperature is barely breaking ten degrees. Lovely. On top of that, Noa hasn’t slept for practically an entire day. She can already imagine the headlines if she gets photographed – Gabriel Borges’ daughter spotted wandering airport sleep-deprived and wearing no makeup! The press would have a field day with that one.

She just about manages to haul her suitcase through security before collapsing on one of the lobby benches. It’s her own fault for overpacking, really. She’s never been one to prioritise well when it comes to clothes. Noa pulls her phone out of her pocket, quickly refreshing it to see if Charles has messaged her yet – sure enough, sent seven minutes ago: I’m outside. Do you want me to come in and help with your bags? Despite the contempt she still feels towards him, Noa could have cried with pure joy. She sends back a brief yes before struggling up off the bench, all but dragging her luggage through the lobby now. She can only hope he gets here quickly, because her arms are surely about to come out of their sockets if she has to carry these any further.

When his figure appears in the distance, the nerves return. He’s dressed like he doesn’t want to be spotted, in a grey hoodie and shorts, large enough that he can practically hide the entirety of his face in the collar. No one seems to notice him. For the moment anyway. When Charles eventually spots her, he seems to hesitate for a moment – like she’d seen him do at the café, arms hanging uselessly by his side as if he wants to outstretch them towards her, but remembers at the last minute that he can’t do that anymore. Noa’s eyes are glued to the ground as she walks towards him. They meet in the middle. He murmurs a brief hello, and when she doesn’t reply, takes her bags without another word.

They walk out to his car in silence. It’s a black Mercedes G63 – inconspicuous by his standards, and perhaps those of the travellers milling around them (many of them are en route to Monaco, after all). It has black tinted windows, she notices. Charles tells her to climb into the passenger seat while he loads her bags into the back. She hasn’t the energy left to complain. It takes everything in her not to fall asleep as soon as she’s sat down, eyes drooping in the dimmed light, a hazy warmth taking over her body. She jumps slightly as Charles opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine. Before Noa can really process what’s going on around her, they’ve already left the airport.

"How was your flight?" Charles asks after a few minutes, soft spoken and hesitant. An absentminded hum is what greets him.

"It was alright." she murmurs back, fighting off the sudden urge to yawn. There's an edge of discontentedness in her voice, an air of frustration and annoyance about her. Noa has always hated flying, he thinks. Even as children all those years ago, she'd kick up the biggest fuss possible before so much as stepping foot on a plane. His mother always joked about it being because she can't sit still for more than a few hours, which, he supposes, had a fair amount of truth. Charles knows it's because the whole thing made her anxious. He's held her hand at takeoff enough times to have realised it, even if she never spoke the words to him out loud. The memory almost makes him smile. Then he remembers where he is, and his jaw clenches shut.

“Just to let you know, Maman, Arthur and Lorenzo will all be home when we arrive.” Charles is, once again, the one to speak up when they lapse into silence, “They’ve planned a, uh, sort of welcome home – welcome back meal.” He relays, glancing at Noa anxiously out of the corner of his eye. She’s slumped in her seat. The only sign she’s even listening to him is the tiny hum she lets out. “I can tell them you’re too tired to do it today, though, if you’d like. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind pushing it back to tomorrow –“

“No, it’s fine.” Noa cuts across him quickly. “That’s really sweet of them.”

Charles nods. He thinks back to that morning; helping Lorenzo pin up the ‘welcome home’ banner above the archway leading from the kitchen to the living room; watching with a wistful smile as his mother set out a tray of paçoca, the little cylinders of peanut butter Noa used to love when they were younger, on the kitchen table. Where she managed to get hold of them Charles doesn’t know, considering they’re a sweet pretty much exclusive to Brazil. He tries not to think about how Noa will react to it all. The thought digs up old memories he'd rather stayed buried, for the sake of his heart.

“If you want you can get some sleep now. I know you’re probably jetlagged.” He speaks up again after a beat of silence, quieter this time, “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Noa doesn’t reply for a moment. She’s still turned away from him ever so slightly, but as he glances to the side, he can see her expression reflected in the window. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, biting down hard from the looks of it. He doesn’t know if it’s his imagination, but her eyes appear glossy, brimming with unshed tears. There’s an ache in his heart that he’s not sure how to properly describe. Cathartic might be the only word close enough. It hurts, but at the same time, it’s almost freeing.

“If that’s ok with you.” She finally speaks, after what feels like an age. Her head turns to the side until she’s looking at him. Charles keeps his gaze on the road, but he can see her in his periphery.

“Of course.” He mumbles, a little hoarse. His heart is screaming at his head to turn, to smile at her, to show a little of the warmth they used to share for each other, in the wildest, most fanciful hope she may be reminded of it and find it in herself to forgive him there and then. In the end, he doesn’t turn. Instead, he hears the faint rustling of fabric on skin as Noa curls up a little to the side, leaning her head against the window. It falls silent again. Now Charles is the one with glossed over eyes, battling himself.

“Thank you.” Her voice, melodic as ever, cuts through the quiet. This time he does turn – but she’s not looking at him, already half asleep, eyes closed and fluttering ever so slightly underneath their lids. He watches her until he runs the risk of coming off the road. Charles knows she’s already asleep before he has the chance to say anything in reply.

Noa tends to have very vivid dreams. She remembers many a time closing her eyes and being greeted with an explosion of colour, scarlet race cars screaming down asphalt tracks, her flag: emerald, gold, deep blue, waving her across the finish line. A glinting trophy is thrust into her hands, and she lifts it high into the air, watching the crowd raise up their arms with her – a sea of red and yellow. But today, Noa closes her eyes and sees nothing but darkness. Charles is nudging her gently awake, it seems, less than a split second after falling into her slumber. Bleary-eyed, she sits up. The Leclerc house, her second home, sits gleaming in the frosty winter sunlight like a beacon. A thrill of excitement grips her heart. It’s been so long since she’s seen Pascale and Lorenzo – far, far too long. Her head turns, a half-smile on her face, to find Charles watching her. It falls. The sky seems to darken.

“You ready to go?” he asks. Noa nods solemnly, waiting for him to open the car door and climb out before sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. When she too steps out onto the pavement, her expression is steeled.

Charles is holding her bags in either of his hands. He gives her a look that, after years of knowing each other, she can interpret in an instant – Don’t even try it, I’m taking them in for you. She feels a small surge of gratefulness, but every positive emotion seems to be drowned out by her crushing nerves right now. Noa’s not exactly sure why she feels so nervous. These people are her second family, after all. Maybe it’s the nagging fear in the back of her mind that too much has changed; that things will never go back to the happy, perfect way they used to be.

The doorbell ringing brings her back the present. They’re stood on the front porch now, shoulder to shoulder, tense and stiff. Noa pulls at a loose thread on her joggers, focussing with absolute resolve on the door in front of her – paint peeling away ever so slightly at the edge. She knows if she brushed her fingers over it, they would come away dusted with white paint flakes. A second, maybe two passes. The door swings open.

All her nerves simply melt away as soon as she sees Pascale; arms already held out wide and motherly, eyes glistening with soon-to-be-shed tears, and the most genuine smile Noa has ever seen anyone wear. She looks only slightly older than she remembers. A few more wrinkles perhaps, a couple more grey hairs, but in essence, exactly the same. Constant. At least this much hasn’t changed.

“Ma fille!” My girl. Pascale gasps loudly. She’s rushing forwards, pulling Noa inside and engulfing her in a hug before she even knows what is happening – but the familiarity of it is so easy to melt into. The young woman rests her forehead briefly against her shoulder, suddenly unable to stop smiling, when before she’d been wondering how she would manage to fake one. Of course, she’s known all along how much she’s missed Pascale. The woman has been like a second mother to her for practically a decade. But being here now makes her realise the full force of the emotion. It feels like returning home after a long vacation, when all you want to do is sleep in the comfort of your own bed and relish in the sensation of being utterly safe. That’s how Pascale feels to Noa. Safe.

“Oh, look at you!” she gasps again, pulling away to place her hands on either of Noa’s cheeks. “You’ve grown so beautiful!”

In the two years it’s been since she last saw the Leclercs, Noa has blossomed. From a scrawny eighteen-year-old with skinny elbows and seemingly untameable curls, she’s truly grown into herself. Thanks to training, she’s attained the ‘athlete’s build’ she always craved as a teenager. Days spent soaking up the Brazilian sun on Ipanema beach have bronzed her skin, giving it an almost golden hue. Perhaps it’s the salt air, but even Noa’s unruly curls seem to have matured – instead of going frizzy in the heat and falling messily over her eyes, they now frame her tanned face perfectly. Honeyed streaks of blonde run all the way through to the ends. She looks different, she knows that. But it never hits her until she meets people again who have been absent from her life for years.

“Thank you.” Noa can’t help but giggle. Pascale merely holds her tighter, seemingly inspecting every inch of her face for anything else that may have changed. She can see the surprise and the elation in her eyes – but there’s sadness too, an odd mixture, as if she’s battling with regret. Noa supposes it’s to be expected. They went from seeing each other at least every month to all but no contact for two years. Pascale is as affected by it as she is.

As soon as Noa is released from her grip, she turns to face the other Leclerc brothers, who have been watching the whole time with fond smiles and wide eyes. She goes to Lorenzo first, since Arthur has already seen her fairly recently. The eldest of the brothers opens him arms to her gladly, and she steps straight into them. Lorenzo has always been like her protector. As the boys got older and, as boys tended to do, teased her or played too rough (case in point Arthur almost drowning her at the beach one time), he was always the one to give her a hug and scold them afterwards. With only little brothers (Charles didn’t count, as her best friend), Lorenzo was to her the older brother she never had but always found herself wishing for.

“Woah, how much have you grown? A foot?” he says, pulling away only slightly so her arms are still clasped around his back, and his come to rest on her shoulders. Noa giggles softly. It was a long standing joke that, even at eighteen, she barely rose to the height of Charles or Lorenzo’s shoulder. Miraculously, her long-awaited growth spurt arrived once most girls her age stopped growing entirely. Now she stands at a fairly respectable five foot six – though still short enough for Lorenzo to use her head as an arm rest, he quickly realises. Noa waves him away with a playful glare.

“Did he talk to you in the car? Or was it deathly silent?” he asks, not even needed to use Charles’ name for her to know exactly who he is talking about. His eyebrows raise as if he’s joking, but Noa can sense the hard edge of frustration in his voice. She smiles at him sheepishly.

“I wouldn’t know. I fell asleep.”

Lorenzo snorts. That’s all they say on the matter, because Arthur is soon weaselling his way in between them to give her a welcome hug. Apparently, a minute is far too long for his brother to spend with her whilst he’s stuck waiting on the sidelines.

Charles’ feet padding on the carpeted staircase draw Noa’s eyes unwillingly to him. She hadn’t even noticed him exit the room, too caught up in reunions and holding back tears to pay much attention to her surroundings. He’s taken her bags up to her room, he tells her. She merely nods in reply. The tension doesn’t remain for long – Pascale doesn’t let it. Soon enough, everyone is gathering in the kitchen, all proud, knowing smiles from the Leclercs and gasps from Noa as she catches sight of the ‘welcome home’ banner strung up across the archway. She’d known, of course, that they were planning something, thanks to Charles’ warning, but she didn’t expect something like this. They’ve brought another long, wooden table from God knows where into the room, placing it end to end with the main kitchen table to make more room for the spread set out across it. A white floral tablecloth covers the wood, and on top of it, tiered stands of seemingly all the food she could ever eat – fresh strawberries, watermelon, French cheese (which Noa had been introduced to by the Leclercs, and was shocked to find she actually loved), pineapple, even some chocolate and cupcakes (something she’ll later say is just a one off to her nutritionist), and finally, in the very centre, a bowl full of paçoca, her favourite childhood sweet. She remembers Charles calling her strange for essentially eating peanut butter on its own – but even today, it really is her one weakness.

“Oh, meu Deus.” Oh my God. She whispers. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, holding back the half-sob she can feel bubbling up in her throat. “This – this is too much. You really didn’t have to –“

“Noa.” It’s Arthur that cuts her off, rolling his eyes fondly, “Just let us do something nice for you. Call it a late birthday gift.” He adds with a smirk. Noa scoffs. A part of her had thought maybe they wouldn’t remember her birthday – of course, she was wrong about that.

“This is amazing.” She speaks up softly after a moment, “Thank you so much.” Her throat closes around the words ever-so-slightly, vision blurring, heart aching in the best way possible. Pascale moves forward to pull her body into hers, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

“We missed you so much, petit ange.” She murmurs, “We’re just glad to have you back with us.”

I’m glad too, Noa thinks. She’s not naïve enough to believe it will all be smooth sailing from here; not as long as the pair of sad green eyes burning into her back remain. But this, she believes fully, this she can deal with. Reuniting with her second family has been a long time coming.

They eat like it’s the old times, bar Noa and Charles’ playful bickering (fallen flat, almost dead now). Pascale insists on piling her plate as high as possible, mumbling something about athlete’s diets being too sparse (or at least, that’s what she could make out with her questionable French vocabulary). Arthur doesn’t spare a thought before diving straight into the cupcake and chocolate stand, ignoring his mother’s protests about him letting their ‘guest’ choose first. Lorenzo opts for the fresh fruit more than the confectionary. Charles tries to resist the pull of sugar, better than Arthur admittedly, but his attempts are short lived. By any right, that amount of food should never disappear as quickly as it does – but before they know it, every last morsel is gone. Noa sits back in her seat, deep in conversation with Pascale about latest goings on in her family life, finding her eyes growing heavier with each passing second. Everything around her feels pleasantly hazy; comfortable. It’s the same way she feels sat at home with her parents and her brother after a good meal, lounged on the living room sofas watching cheesy Brazilian telenovelas. Like she’s safe to just be herself.

Pascale tells Lorenzo, Charles and Arthur to collect all the dirty plates and begin the washing up. They know that refusing isn’t an option, so it isn’t long before she and Noa are alone. It must be mid-afternoon by now, the Brazilian woman thinks, but her limbs are as heavy as if she’s stayed up all night and well into the morning – which, she supposes, technically she has. Pascale is observant enough to have already noticed, luckily for her. They’ve spent all of five minutes talking in the living room when she tells her to go up to her room and sleep off the jet lag.

“Oh, but –“ Noa is quick to interject, “I haven’t even asked how things are going for you yet.” She says guiltily. Pascale has been so fixated on catching up with every single moment of the last two years she has missed, that there hasn’t even been time to cover anything else. Noa is acutely aware that the last time they saw each other, it had only been a year since Hervé passed away. She knows as well as anybody that sometimes the people that look the most put-together are the ones who are struggling the most. She just wants to make certain that Pascale is doing ok – truly ok.

“I’ll still be here tomorrow.” The woman reassures her with a gentle chuckle. Noa’s concerned expression falls into a tired, but content smile. That’s the beauty of it – right now, they really do have all the time in the world to catch up. Until of course the new season begins. But three weeks before her soon-to-be packed schedule feels like a lifetime.

Noa retreats slowly upstairs, not so much as sparing a glance towards her unpacked bags, or even attempting to change out of her airport clothes before she collapses onto the bed, and almost immediately falls straight to sleep. The ease with which she already seems to have slipped back into life in the Leclerc house (which almost feels like home) is unexpected, but by no means unwelcome. She just hopes she’ll be able to carry that feeling of safety with her into the coming weeks, when undoubtedly, some difficult conversations will need to be had.

By the time the Leclerc brothers have finished the washing up – a difficult task, what with Charles and Arthur squabbling over who gets to dry the plates and who has to do the unpleasant job of actually washing them, whilst Lorenzo, serene as ever, allocates himself the task of sorting the various items of crockery away – Pascale is sat alone in the living room. She looks calm, quietly assured, but at the same time, they can sense a level of disappointment that wasn’t there before. Charles fears, before his mother’s gaze even turns in his direction, that that disappointment is meant for him.

“Où est allée Noa?” Where did Noa go? Lorenzo asks, taking the seat next to Pascale and looping his arm fondly around her shoulders. Arthur, not so delicately, throws himself face down on the long sofa facing the television, leaving Charles to occupy the lone arm chair on the other side of the room. It’s ironic, that he’s separated from his family that way, when he’s been feeling separated emotionally for far longer.

“A l'étage. Pour dormir.” Upstairs. To sleep. Pascale answers, soft-spoken as ever. Lorenzo nods, as Arthur flips his body around on the sofa so he’s no longer lying face down, but rather looking up towards the ceiling.

“Ah. Le décalage horaire?” Ah. Jet lag?

“Oui.”

Charles stays quiet. He knows full well his family are waiting for him to say something – maybe they’re not sure what, but then again, he isn’t either. Noa hasn’t spoken a single word to him. All of her attention has been directed towards his mum and her questions, or to his brothers and their playful teasing about how much she’s grown. That still doesn’t take away from the fact that he knows she’s doing it on purpose. Most of him doesn’t blame her, but there’s a small part in the back of his mind that feels almost…betrayed. It takes two to end a friendship, after all. Noa didn’t exactly attempt to salvage the wreck they’d made.

“Well I think that went pretty well.” Arthur speaks up first in French, staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his stomach. Charles looks over, trying to catch his eye. He must sense it, but his gaze remains turned away. Another beat of silence passes.

“She’s quieter.” Lorenzo says thoughtfully. He’s right too. It’s not just in the way that she doesn’t talk half as much as she used to, it’s something in her demeanour as well. There used to be a spark in Noa’s eye that Charles would look towards whenever he needed cheering up. Now when he searches for it, there’s layers upon layers shrouding the once happy memory. Like he’s peering through thick fog, trying to make out a landscape he’s long since forgotten.

“Je ne suis pas surpris.” I’m not surprised. Arthur muses. All eyes turn to him, Lorenzo frowning, Pascale already prepared to question what exactly he means by that. Charles thinks he knows. “Oh, come on. It’s obvious isn’t it?” the youngest of the Leclercs scoffs, sitting up from his relaxed position on the sofa. His eyes are dark, frustrated, perhaps even angry. “First he takes her chance at being offered a Formula 1 seat – with Ferrari, her dream team.” Arthur begins, jabbing a harsh finger in Charles’ direction. He winces, “Then her mother almost dies, and she has to give up her career just to be with her. She’s a Senna Borges. Racing is in her blood. And we all know how hard she worked, just to fall short at the final hurdle – not even through her own fault.” He takes a pause to breathe, eyes now blazing. Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale sit watching in some kind of fascinated horror. It’s rare to see Arthur so worked up. He’s always been the kind of person that can make light of any situation, no matter how grim. But there’s something about Noa and the cruel hand she’s been dealt in life lately that makes his blood boil.

“Now she’s finally made it to Formula 1, where she deserves to be, but she’s also stuck with the person who ruined that dream for her the first time around.” He goes on, turning now to Charles, “Look, I don’t care about what happened between you two. There’s nothing you can do to change it now. But Noa is like a sister to me, and as long as you both refuse to talk to each other, we’re never going to feel like a family to her again. Like we used to.” Arthur speaks, almost alarmingly softly, his jaw clenched hard, “For once just stop being so selfish and look at this from someone else’s perspective. Preferably hers. You know you owe it to her after –“

“Arthur!” Pascale’s voice cuts through the tense atmosphere like a knife, silencing her youngest son immediately, “Do not call your brother selfish. You don’t understand the full story – none of us do.”

That seems to bring him back to his senses. Everything falls silent, but also on the brink of chaos, teetering on a knife edge. Nobody except Lorenzo notices the faint tremor in Pascale’s hand, which he tries to quell by rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. Charles is sat, rigid back, white knuckles, in the arm chair, glaring at Arthur from across the room. Meanwhile the aforementioned blinks as if he’s just awakened from a trance.

"Je suis désolé." I’m sorry. He murmurs, “I don’t know what –“

“Maman’s right.” Charles cuts him off tersely, “You don’t know the full story. You don’t know the things I said to her that night, or the things she said to me…” he trails off, breathing shakily even at the memory of it, “But you’re also right. I took the opportunity of a lifetime from her. She has every right to be angry at me, every right to hate me. That’s why I’m trying to make this right – and believe me, Arthur, I am trying. It’s just…it’s hard.” Charles’ gaze drops to the ground, almost shamefully, “So much has changed.”

Guilt is the most overwhelming part of this whole mess. Even though much of the misfortune that Noa has endured in the past two years has been entirely unrelated to him, he still can’t help but feel partly responsible. Perhaps it was his actions, something at the time he considered to be a mercy, that began the snowball effect. Perhaps if he’d never accepted Ferrari’s call, even though he so desperately wanted it, everything would be as perfect as he remembers. There’s so much uncertainty it’s impossible to predict. But Charles knows, at least from his side of the story, ever since the moment Noa walked out of his life, it’s gradually been growing duller and duller and duller. In a sick sort of way, he half hopes it has been the same for her.

“You do know she could never hate you, right?” Arthur speaks up softly. Charles’ gaze lifts from the ground, eyebrows furrowing inquisitively, “Mon dieu you’re both so stubborn.” He laughs humourlessly, shaking his head, “Noa may act like she can’t even look at you right now, but I know her just as well as you do. Maybe even better now, if you can’t see it.” He arches an eyebrow, “She’s hurting, Charles. You know what she does when she’s hurting? She pushes the people she cares about the most away.”

Winter break, 2014, Charles thinks. Of course. How could he forget?

“I’m just saying,” Arthur goes on, “If you mess this up any more than you already have, then she will end up hating you. But I can see it. Right now, she doesn’t. Not even close.”

Later, Pascale says something to him of the same effect. Hurt can fester. There are only two ways that things can go from here, with them both being kept so close to each other for the first time in so long. Either it brings them closer together – they work through their differences, overcome the mountains that stand in their way, and emerge on the other side even stronger because of it. Or, they’ll push each other away.

“I know what I would do if I were you.” Pascale tells him solemnly, “But you two need to figure this out on your own.”

It’s easy to say that, Charles thinks, when you haven’t made the mistakes they’ve both made. It’s so easy to imagine himself explaining how he thought he’d be protecting her by not telling her Ferrari had approached him. In his mind, she’ll listen and understand, and everything will go back to the way it used to be. But every time he runs the words he might say to her through his mind, he draws a blank. What mere words can salvage the ruins of a near decade-long friendship? What words can do justice the longing he feels to have her back in his life, not just as a distant memory, a relative stranger, but as his best friend. And even if he could find the words, there’s no guarantee Noa will even listen to them. Despite everything, she seems set on keeping her distance. Maybe Charles doesn’t blame her. Or maybe he wishes she’d fight a little harder.

taglist: @harrysdimple05 @ricciardosheart @azxulaa @cxcewg @dakotali @hopingforpeace @flowerchild-69 @destourtereaux @wordsthatwaterflowersinyoursoul @luckyladycreator2 @roseamongthorns13 @chasing-liberosis @laneyspaulding19 @lordperceval-16 @sainzluvrr

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desultory-novice · 11 months

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I love Elfilin but I also love reading people critiquing Elfy?! ...Is that weird? Anyway, this thought was brought to you by @camachine‘s Hottest Take Elfilin Rant you can find here. (Which also contains lovely breakdowns of several other characters I love!) I was going to reblog but I didn’t want to speak over the original post!

So, my own take on Elfy being bland:

The reason I love reading Elfy critique is that I generally agree with all of it. Now, this is very HC on my part, but I’m very fond of the interpretation that Elfilin's "missing personality" can be attributed to "Elfilin is fundamentally broken as a person because they are (the very small amount) that was good that had been ejected from Elfilis's soul so they only know how to be generically good."

In that sense, I find them a delightful little Stepford Smiler.

Something scary going on? Sorry, Elfilis kept all the fear. People I should probably be upset at? Elfilis has all the anger too. Elfilin's reactions are frozen at the surface level because Elfilin is only 10%~ish percent of the whole. They were ejected right as things were going from bad to indescribable.

The one time Elfilin shows anger and then sadness (angrily helping to ram the Kirby-truck into Elfilis and crying a tearful goodbye before sealing the rift) is after they've been absorbed in the Fecto-goo for a while. They got to remember what it was like to be whole with Elfilis again...and I get the feeling, based on that anger, Elfy didn’t like it very much. (Which is itself FASCINATING. The “good twin” gets a taste of their other-half’s cauldron of negative emotions and decides they don’t like the incarnation of everything they’re missing? Ohoho...)

I like to imagine that, post-canon Elfy and especially post-True Arena Elfy is going to have a lot of not-very-fun-things to process in the aftermath. Not just on account of inheriting Elfilis's m-M-m-M-maSsiVe T-t-T-t-T-trAuMa but dealing with slowly becoming whole with the everything else they rejected previously. That being the rest of them.

"...Oh, huh. I don't find this fun for some reason."

"Why am I getting upset? This never upset me before..."

So, yes. I adore Elfilin but because they’re one half of a whole, I think they are kind of shallow if you don’t take Elfilis and what Elfilin is in regard to Elfilis into account. (They are super cute though and I am not immune to that.) Elfilin is the unpainted part of a watercolor picture. They are nothing alone and informed by what their removal tells you about the picture.

I suppose in that sense, my own Elfilin Hot Take is that I think it’s a little unfair when people overwoobify Elfilis as if they can be like, talked down (1) or made into a friend separate from Elfilin. Elfilin IS the friend part of Elfilis. I like it when Elfilis’ character is as informed by the loss of Elfilin as Elfilin is by the loss of Elfilis.

(1) I think losing the boss fight and THEN deciding their next step would be to obliterate two different planets and all life on both just because they wanted to destroy Kirby (and this is ignoring things like brainwashing a person for years and deceiving and manipulating their whole family, then fragmenting their soul out of anger and also enslaving hundreds of Waddle Dees without batting an eye) made it pretty clear that Elfilis planned to destroy everything around them just to win. It’s worse than fighting till their last breath, like Sectonia did. It’s putting countless other people in their path on the way out. Though I suppose it’s possible if Elfy regained anger and sadness from being absorbed into Elfilis, Elfilis might potentially have some drip-off from Elfy’s pure, unsaturated goodness?

#Kirby #Elfilin #Elfilis #Fecto Elfilis #Kirby and the Forgotten Land #Not a debate btw #I support everyone's feelings on the geminis (lol)#My love of them is mostly HC anyway!#Dess Text Post

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l-e-morgan-author · 4 months

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All twelve chapters of The Patience of Hope have now been released! I ended it a day later than planned because I had to take one of the days off, but with the last chapter having just been posted, that wraps up this story, which clocks in at 18,280 words and tips into novella land. If you like explicitly autistic characters, hopeful themes and surety of Christian love, you might like this story.

A couple of acknowledgements - thanks to both @graycedelfin and @stealingmyplaceinthesun, who helped me with betareading. Thanks also to the @inklings-challenge; I wouldn't have written this story without the Christmas challenge it's for.

I love this story so much, and I'm delighted to share it with y'all, even though it's far from its best, having had perhaps not enough time to marinate before I shared it. I hope to edit it in future.

Each chapter was set one day after the previous one. Don't squint too hard at the worldbuilding, either, because it was sort of set in the present time but also sort of not really.

Chapter one: Nativity was for Christmas day itself. Chapter two: Stephen introduced a character and plotline that featured heavily in the rest of the story. In chapter three: John, there was a somewhat difficult conversation, and a kind-of-sort-of cliffhanger. Chapter four: Innocents looked more at how the results of that conversation were going to affect Patience. Next up, chapter five: Shepherds brought a surprising situation into the mix. Chapter six: Joseph had a spot of conflict, as well as much-needed reassurance for Patience. Chapter seven: Magi brought more fluff, as well as a necessary conversation. Chapter eight: David showed one of Patience's favourite things, knitting for people. Chapter nine: Baptism was shorter than I would have liked, and I intend to revise to add another scene at a later date, but it's okay as it is. Chapter ten: James briefly brought back a character sidelined in an earlier chapter. In chapter eleven: Mysteries, her father returned to take care of Patience and try to clarify the situation she was in. Finally, the chapter that just released (chapter twelve: Epiphany) contained a hard conversation, surrounded by discussions of Bible verses and wordplay, and closed the story on a hopeful note.

Thanks for reading, and please reblog this post, and please tell me what you think of the story! Also see the most recent story on this post (or one of my most recent tumblr posts), for a short story from Rhona's POV during the events of Patience, Changing, "Patience in Recovery"!

#the patience of hope #free stories #free novella #christianity #patience #rhona #nathan #marcia #jude #james #patience changing

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asecretvice · 6 months

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hi 👋 fully and deeply entranced by “and this, your living kiss,” i’ve read it a few times at this point. i was curious about the dennis brutus poem that dean quotes in cas’ office. do you know where one can read the whole thing? my scouring of his work online has turned up nothing! it’s the untitled [the sand wet and cool] one

Actual footage of me reading this ask:

Like, you have asked me about Dennis Brutus! Thank you!! Feel free to ask more!

But to answer your question, I know several years ago I was able to finagle it on google books when I didn't have access to Poetry & Protest: A Dennis Brutus Reader. But why fuss with that when I can just copy it out here for you myself straight from that book? I highly, HIGHLY recommend reading it out loud, as the sonic qualities are top-notch! Forewarning of dark themes. Without further ado:

The sand wet and cool darkening from yellow to where it was damp, from a lioness-yellow to darkness, like ash or the shadowy underside of a mushroom

and to lounge in such sand, by the sea, uncaring scuffing bare heels in the seasand with the hard ridge of the heel, half-calloused, half-feeling the cold cool in warmgold folds, over silkchill skeins

and here to thrust out the legs to feel the jar in thighflesh and flanks and through this breakthrough of thighs to find true fuller freedom of loins and thews a great freedom of the groin— an unfolding upflowering of the flesh—

hair uncaring of sand, of shellpowder broken twigs and dirt; and to feel the keening of the cold the ghost of the spray, the spume, the salt— a cold glitter as of crystals and knives in the brightness and vagrant warmth of the day:

one assents to the brightness of the day, its perfection and warmth acquiescing in the cold in its essence sharp as a shell-blade and menacing while the shadows grow long and gray and cold, one accepts the voluptuous splendor of that day

of an imaginary day and of an untrue innocent idyll that never happened and a perfection of sensuality we never knew but which they created by report by alleging this was our act and our guilt:

and straightway by the evocation of their charge it was real and true; and we entered into that sensual idyll that sunlit sensuous voluptuousness of luxurious indulgence in lush-ripe flesh:

we were guilty then accepting the untrue as the real; so our pursuers, our enemies became our donors, generous friends: one perfect sunlit day was ours: the forbidden idyll became the real: we had our beach, our sea, our sun, the stolen sensuous carnal delight and the spray-bright, spume-chill, bladed air.

[Dated January 19, 1970; published 1973.]

Though you didn't ask, I will copy out the other Dennis Brutus poem mentioned, in case people are curious about that one as well:

Milkblue—tender the moonlit midnight sky; receive me now my sleeping love. Lovelaughter—gentle, a luminous glow arches from circling horizoning hills to this plain your tremulous breast exposes:

So, gentle and tender I brood and bow over your scent, your hid springs of mirth and know here in this dusk, secret and still I can bend and kiss you now, my earth.

[1970]

I will stop there since this fulfills your brief, but seriously...if anyone wants to actually talk about this stuff, or have me go off on a related subject...my inbox is open. (people like and/or reblog the post with all the footnotes and sources and whatnot, but no one ever asks about anything in it...please...)

PS—Absolutely thrilled you enjoy my fic! To hear you've read it multiple times is just incredible. Thank you <3 I hope you enjoy the poetry!

#opal replies #living kiss #dennis brutus #poetry

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nametakensff · 1 year

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Dusty Paperwork (g/olden k/amuy, K/oito x T/sukishima)

Hey guys, I have decided after a long time of lurking snzblr to actually make a blog and start sharing content here - especially given how dead the forum has been in recent years 😅

@kawaii-kushami inspired this fic with all of their amazing g/olden k/amuy posting and gorgeous art and I basically typed this out in a maddened frenzy LOL

PLEASE go and give their blog some love - they've also drawn AMAZING art of this fic here and here 😭❤️

Please note: this is an extremely NSFW fetish fic - very self-indulgent and very horny - please do not interact if you are under 18! And if you stumble across this as a poor soul without this strange kink, my condolences lmao but please don't reblog to a non-fetish blog

Fellow snzfuckers, I truly hope you enjoy! ❤️ You can also read this over on the forum

~~~~~~~~~~~

Content:

K/oito and T/sukishima are working through some boring paperwork in a dusty archive room when T/sukishima's allergies prove too much for K/oito to bear

M/M, dust allergies, snzing during sex, verbal teasing, humiliation, implied exhibitionism, masturbation, stifling, not really MESSY messy but lots of spray

3.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~

If there was one thing that may have deterred Koito even slightly once he’d decided to take up a position in the army, it had to be this. All of the damned paperwork. Stacks and stacks of it. He let out an indignant huff as he leafed through the nearest pile, cross-legged on the archive room floor. It was pathetic, he thought, given his rank and talent that he should be so very condescended towards. But unfortunately, it had been quiet the past week and there really was very little to do otherwise. Besides, Lieutenant Tsurumi had requested it personally – he couldn’t very well say no to him. He supposed it could be worse – after all, he hated above all else being idle – even more than this DAMN PAPERWORK. He childishly batted at the stack to his left, not caring that he would have to painstakingly gather together each sheet as they scattered across the floor. That alone would be less mind-numbing than skimming the documents for vital information on nearby Ainu settlements.

As he reached forward to grab the nearest sheet, he heard a small sound from over his shoulder. And another…and another? He peered behind him and over at Sergeant Tsukishima – also banished to the same tedious task as Koito, though he had almost completely forgotten the shorter man was there. He was quiet and stern, which had unnerved Koito upon first meeting him, but had become over time somewhat comforting to him.

Said man in question now knelt rigidly, a curious expression overtaking his otherwise permanent scowl. Koito watched as Tsukishima raised a forefinger and pressed it under his diminutive nose, moving it gently back and forth. Moments later, his expression cringed, brows drawing up and eyes closing tight. His mouth fell open, pink tongue slightly sticking outwards, and pulled in a silent breath, every muscle in his body drawing tight before –

“nngtxsh!!”

Ahhh, Koito thought. Sneezes. Those little sounds had been sneezes. The realisation spread through his body and filled him with a giddiness he couldn’t quite control, limbs almost tingling. A grin split his face as he watched Tsukishima unwind from the full body contraction the powerfully suppressed sneeze had forced him into. He seemed all at once to feel eyes upon him and turned to face Koito, his regular, somewhat placid frown replacing the desperate contortion of his features from moments earlier. Koito was delighted to see that he had not yet removed his finger from its position under his nostrils, which continued to flare gently.

“What is it, Second Lieutenant Koito?”

His voice had taken on a somewhat husky resonance, congestion evident. Koito felt the warmth steadily gathering below his belt. He cleared his throat.

“Something bothering you, Sergeant Tsukishima?” His voice sounded thick with arousal even to his own ears – no doubt Tsukishima could hear it himself. As he suspected, Tsukishima raised an eyebrow and let his eyes settle on the growing bulge at the front of Koito’s trousers. He smiled devilishly, peering back upwards to meet his younger companion’s gaze, and Koito felt his face heat in response.

“I’m allergic to dust, Second Lieutenant. Apologies for the interruption.” As he spoke, his index finger sawed back and forth under his ever-pinkening nose, his eyes never leaving their intense mutual stare.

Koito swallowed, head swimming with sudden overstimulation. He had been obsessed with sneezing for as long as he could remember, and brought himself to orgasm thinking about it more often than he would care to admit. He really didn’t discriminate between men and women when it came to a good sneeze, and he would simultaneously long for and dread spring so that he might be driven mad listening to as much sneezing as he could take. He was lucky that there were several men he worked with amongst the 7th Division that had the most wretched hayfever, especially lucky that some of them had very pleasing sneezes. He was conflicted sometimes by this peculiar interest – particularly when it came to the likes of Usami, a man that absolutely repulsed him but had the most toe-curling, desperate sneezes Koito had ever heard. It didn’t help that he unabashedly relished in the release, which filled Koito with an overpowering combination of disgust and desire. He supposed he wasn’t too conflicted when on warm spring nights he coaxed himself to trembling orgasms replaying the sound and sight of that vile man over and over in his mind.

So Koito was accustomed to hearing many of his fellow soldiers suffering through the cherry blossoms blooming, and couldn’t particularly say that he was deprived of the pleasure his secret enjoyment brought him. But, to his immense disappointment, he had never heard Sergeant Tsukishima sneeze. Not once. Not when they had just been colleagues introduced to each other by Tsurumi, not when they had suddenly and abruptly become lovers, and never since. Koito had even initiated sex up against a cherry tree just in the hope that the air heavy with that tickly substance would coax a few sneezes out of the quiet man, but with no such luck.

(Incidentally, it had made Koito himself sneeze several times, which to his pleasure Tsukishima had blessed politely even as he panted and moaned under Koito’s ministrations).

He had all but given up hope that the Sergeant would EVER sneeze in his presence, and sometimes wondered to himself if the man’s small, stubbed nose was even capable of such a thing. Ridiculous, of course, but he had never so much as seen the man sniffle. He felt guilty about wishing Tsukishima to come down with a cold, but he could see no other way that he could finally see that which almost kept him up at night in feverish longing. To his chagrin, Tsukishima’s immune system appeared as sturdy and stalwart as the rest of his short, muscular self, and he was yet to catch a cold in their time together.

And so, Koito had buried his disappointment and jumped headfirst into enjoying Tsukishima in every other way. Their sex, when they were able to find time and privacy to engage in it, was so entirely satisfying in itself that he no longer entertained the thought of Tsukishima sneezing for him. It simply never happened, and so he had never brought up his interest to the Sergeant. It was totally and utterly okay that he go without.

Or so he had thought. Until this present moment, when the room’s temperature seemed to skyrocket as he watched Tsukishima gear up for another delicious paroxysm, all the while fighting to keep their eye contact unbroken. It quickly became too much for the allergic man, and his eyes squeezed shut under the pressure of another stifled sneeze.

“nnngxt!!”

It overpowered him entirely, his shoulders curling forward and his finger pressed up against those wildly flaring nostrils. He stubbornly clamped his mouth shut and swallowed down the sound as much as he could – which seemed to Koito to be almost hardly at all. The shorter man let out a shaky exhale and blinked owlishly as he recovered. Biting down on this most recent sneeze seemed to have sapped him of all of his energy, and he appeared to wilt slightly. Koito could only imagine how powerful the sneeze would have been if it hadn’t so forcefully been stifled into submission.

Regarding his lover’s charmingly pink nose and utter exhaustion under the power of his sneezes that seemed to belong to a man twice his size, Koito felt his previously quashed desires overwhelm him. Fuck it. He HAD to have more, and he had to embrace Tsukishima right now.

Stumbling to his feet with less grace than he would have liked, Koito strode towards the door, feeling Tsukishima’s gaze follow him across the room. Securing the lock with a resounding click of confirmation, he made his way over to kneel beside his lover, who was otherwise preoccupied with rubbing his itchy nose an even deeper shade of pink and blinking back allergic tears. Shaking with anxious excitement, he wrapped his arms around the Sergeant in an all-encompassing hug – finally allowing himself to relax when he felt the small man twist in his arms and return his embrace, resting his forehead against the younger’s broad shoulder.

“Damned dust is really getting to me. I’ll need to have a word with the men about neglecting their cleaning duties.” He all but sighs into Koito’s frame, eliciting a tiny shiver from him as he rubbed his irritated nose against the fabric of his jacket.

“You poor thing.” Koito crooned against the side of his buzz cut. “I suppose I’ll have to look after you.” He licked the shell of Tsukishima’s ear, returning the shiver of pleasure inflicted upon him.

He would have been surprised by the sudden lurch of Tsukishima pushing him onto his back as the shorter man captured his lips in a kiss, had he not become well accustomed with the voracious appetite for sex that simmered under the Sergeant’s somewhat stony composure. It was Tsukishima who had been the first to approach him and push him up against the wall of an empty corridor and make Koito come with his name on his lips. He had gone along with him so readily and with such ease that it had felt natural that he should take Tsukishima’s cock into his mouth the next day behind the Izakaya, as the other men filtered drunkenly back to their quarters.

He returned the kiss passionately, feeling his cock jump in his pants as Tsukishima’s own erection pushed against him, even moreso when he felt the congestion from his companion’s stuffy nose begin to run out onto his cheek. He pulled back from the kiss to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a pristine white handkerchief. He held it up for the other man but was met with a blank stare. It seemed he had no intention of cleaning himself up. The younger man scoffed, before reaching up with a handkerchief-clad hand to gently wipe away the pooling mess himself, his heart skipping a beat as the Sergeant rubbed the small appendage into his palm and sniffled slightly.

With a final swipe under those pink nostrils, Koito replaced the kerchief in his pocket and pulled himself up on his elbows, scanning the room for a more comfortable location to continue. He could feel pages of overturned paper stacks crinkling under him, and as much as he would love to desecrate the boring, antiquated documents, it wouldn’t make for the most enjoyable fuck. His eyes locked onto a chaise longue set beside a distant bookcase, and he pulled himself and Tsukishima to their feet, pacing frantically over to the lone piece of furniture. He reached out to touch the dull, ancient looking fabric, and to his utter delight saw a sudden cloud of dust particles shimmering in the air. Yes, this would do nicely.

He settled himself against the cushions and encouraged the shorter man to straddle his lap. It wasn’t long before both men had rid themselves of their jackets and shirts and were working their way down to their trousers. The movement, however, had caused more and more dust to be disturbed, and as it settled around them in small clouds, Tsukishima’s eyes grew watery and red-rimmed, his nostrils flaring wide in anticipation. Paralysed by the mounting sensation of the building tickle, he could do nothing more than gasp gently and wait in agonising limbo for those inhales to usher in the sneeze to come. Koito took in the sight of the helpless man hovering above him and just about growled, working his hands into Tsukishima’s trousers and pulling his stiff cock out of his fundoshi. The shorter man’s gasps reached their peak with a sharp inhale, and-

“ih-nggxt! Nggxt!! HEH-NGGXT!!”

Koito watched through unblinking eyes as his lover trembled above him, impressed that he had managed to hold back his sneezes without the help of his finger, instead curling forward with his hands on Koito’s shoulders and biting down with sheer willpower alone. Watching the Sergeant’s expression twist into a mask of ticklish desperation was painfully arousing, leaving Koito almost panting. Those must have ticked unbearably.

He lunged upwards and sucked along the exposed column of the older man’s neck, humming in appreciation as he took in the reciprocating gasp his ministrations earned him. Emboldened, he decided he would at last in words let the other man know just how much he was enjoying his allergies. Tsukishima wasn’t a fool – Koito was sure he had known the second he caught him staring him down with a tent in his pants all but 10 minutes ago, but it would be better to establish out loud his proclivity for what he hoped would be many more indulgences to come.

“You know, Tsukishima, in all the time I’ve known you, this is the first time I’ve heard you sneeze?” He kissed a trail from the shorter man’s neck up and over his strong jaw.

“Mm. You liked it, did you?” Koito continued kissing along the Sergeant’s cheek, feeling the skin shift under his lips at the smile forming on Tsukishima’s own.

“Very, very much.” He guided one of Tsukishima’s hands from his shoulder to his throbbing erection. “This much, in fact.”

Tsukishima began to squeeze and pull at him almost immediately, a stuttering moan catching in Koito’s throat at the attention. Tsukishima was just so fucking good, good at everything, knew just how to get him off. Letting his eyes roll back into his head, he honestly couldn’t imagine heaven could be sweeter.

“HEH-NGGXT-shooh!”

The sudden sneeze had him bucking uncontrollably in Tsukishima’s grip, which had tightened almost painfully in tandem with contraction. This time, the Sergeant hadn’t been able to maintain control, and a small burst of spray had showered Koito’s chest in a fittish explosion. The younger man’s eyes flew open and he moaned anew. His lover had the audacity to snicker at him, and finally pulled Koito’s cock free from his trousers and fundoshi.

“Sorry about that.” Tsukishima continued pumping his cock, evidently not sorry in the slightest.

Fairly embarrassed by his own responsivity, Koito occupied himself in ridding them both of their remaining clothes before pushing Tsukishima down against the dusty cushions, taking over his position above him. He reached down and gently grasped the shorter man by the chin, coaxing him to look up at him. Tsukishima merely grinned and settled his left hand on Koito’s muscular thigh, returning his right hand to the task of teasingly massaging Koito’s length.

“Mm….bless you many times over.” Koito murmured. “But surely…you’d feel much better if you let them out?”

“Hm? I’m not quite sure what you mean, Second Lieutenant Koito.” Tsukishima feigned innocence, not once faltering in his pulling at Koito with deep, long strokes. The sensation of that strong grip on his sensitive cock was maddening, and it took all of Koito’s willpower to hold back from coming right then and there.

“Y-you know – hah! – exactly what I mean, Sergeant Tsukishima.” With that said, Koito batted at the cushion right next to the shorter man’s face, uprooting even more dust in a small grey puff of particles. Tsukishima must have gotten a fair face full of it as he coughed suddenly. Koito almost panicked but was relieved to see that after a few gentle coughs, Tsukishima’s nostrils flared wide and his mouth dropped open in a preparatory grimace. He lifted the hand that was occupying Koito’s thigh to his face, fully intending to push his extended index finger against his itchy appendage, but Koito would have none of it. He quickly grasped his arm by the wrist and lowered it back to his thigh.

“No, Tsukishima. You mustn’t suppress them like that.” Tsukishima gasped in response, tongue pushing down against the bottom row of his teeth as all remaining ability to hold the sneeze back vanished in an instant. His chest expanded as his lungs filled to capacity with a shaking inhale, and –

“HEH-EIIIISHHHHHHhhoooh!”

Koito gasped with a heady combination of shock and arousal as the sneeze hit him full force against his face and neck, forcing his eyes to reflexively shut momentarily. It was an intense sensation, that rush of air and the accompanying spray; the feeling of Tsukishima clenching and bucking forward and upwards between his thighs. But more than anything, he couldn’t believe how loud the sneeze had been, practically echoing in his ears. It was a desperate, vocally rich sound that betrayed just how irritated Tsukishima’s nose had become, how much his body urgently wanted to rid him of the tickle of all that pesky dust taking residence in the depth of his twitching sinuses. And god, it was so wet. In all, it was everything Koito could have asked for. His cock jumped in Tsukishima’s grasp, dripping precum down his fist.

He was so close to coming now – Tsukishima’s unrelenting attention had made sure of that - and he only needed a few more sneezes to send him over the edge of what he was sure would be an earth-shattering orgasm.

“Ohh, fuck…Bless you, Tsukishima!” Koito sighed, reaching up to wipe at some of the mess Tsukishima’s most impressive sneeze had left on his love’s top lip. He didn’t stop there, instead worrying at the edge of the Sergeant’s pinkened right nostril and watching in delight as it twitched and flared uncontrollably. He gripped the side of the chaise longue firmly with his left hand, feeling his thighs begin to twitch as the man beneath him jerked him at an increasing speed, all the while building to another ticklish explosion.

“Ahh, S-sehhcond Lieutenant Khh-oito, I need t-to-!“ Tsukishima gasped, his voice unsteady and rising in pitch. Koito felt himself become increasingly hotter, if that was even possible, as the older man hitched and moaned beneath him.

“Need to sneeze, Sergeant? Shall I help you hold it back? We certainly don’t want any soldiers passing by to hear you losing control of your tickly little nose and come in to investigate, now, do we?”

He knew Tsukishima would probably be mortified if such an event were to transpire in reality, but he also knew very well that the thing that made the shorter man harder than he had ever seen him before was the suggestion that they would be discovered in their sexual antics. They had once been fucking up against an office door when the very sound of passing footsteps outside the room had Tsukishima shooting feverishly against the polished surface, pulling Koito over the edge with him as he contracted rhythmically around him. That such an uptight, composed man could come so wonderfully undone at the thought of his own exhibitionistic humiliation had lit a fire in Koito to make sure he could bring his lover to that point as often as he possibly could.

As he predicted, Tsukishima’s neglected cock twitched against his stomach, and pearlescent liquid gathered at the tip. To Koito’s further pleasure, he then took in a ragged gasp and sneezed most violently, as if inviting the scenario of discovery even closer.

“HEEEEIIISHHHH’oooh!!”

Unbelievably, it was even louder than before and so, so wet as it sprayed up over Koito’s face, neck and exposed chest, even fanning down his stomach, peaking his nipples and leaving goosebumps in its wake. And it was evident that Tsukishima was gearing up for even more, chest heaving. Koito shuddered, his entire body breaking out in a sweat, and prepared himself for the rest of the fit, which came quickly and just as violently as the initial explosion.

“HEH-EEEIISHHH!! EEEEEISHHH’oooh!! Heh-HEH-EEEEEISHHH’OOOH!!!”

And with that last, monstrous explosion, thoroughly drenched and completely at his limit, Koito’s orgasm engulfed him, spreading from his throbbing penis in waves throughout his extremities, so strong at first that he silently shuddered, eyes squeezing shut and mouth agape in the throes of paralytic euphoria. He found his voice at last, whimpering Tsukishima’s name over and over as he felt the grip on his cock slowly and expertly guide him through the final tremors of his pleasure, until he felt it loosen and release him. Feeling himself twitch helplessly a few more times into the empty air, completely gratified, he opened his eyes to take in the sight beneath him.

His passion had erupted in long ropes all over Tsukishima’s torso, even up to the shorter man’s right cheek, which the man in question now swiped at with already sticky fingers and sucked off, knowing Koito was watching. His own cock lay stiff and heavy over his stomach, flushed an angry shade of red looking all the more pronounced against the smattering of Koito’s semen from base to tip. He looked incredibly pleased with himself, throbbing erection aside, glancing up at Koito with a mix of arousal and smug satisfaction.

“Why, Second Lieutenant Koito, if I’d known something as simple as my sneezing at dust was enough to ruin you so thoroughly in half the time I’m usually able to, I would have suggested we fuck on this absolute dust trap a long time ago.”

His voice was now heavily congested, and Koito felt a twinge of endearment at the pitiful nature of it. Taking a grounding breath and revelling in the afterglow that flowed through his limbs, he leaned forward and pressed their bodies together, not caring about the semen that lay sticky between their skin. He kissed Tsukishima gently until the older man had to break away to take a breath, completely unable to inhale through his stuffy nose. Koito tutted in slight concern and pulled back, bringing Tsukishima to a seated position as he knelt down on the floor in front of him. He reached over to his jacket and retrieved his handkerchief, handing it to the Sergeant, who took it without hesitation this time and relieved his sinuses with a long, crackling blow.

“Thank you for indulging me, Sergeant. Really. That was just…incredible. Are you feeling alright?” Koito rubbed his thigh tenderly. Tsukishima chuckled softly behind the dampening fabric, before suddenly gasping and muffling a sneeze from the lingering allergic tickle into the folds.

“heHH-EMMPSHH!!-ooh…Ah…I’ll feel much better once you touch me, Koito. Please. I need you.”

Koito didn’t need to be told twice. Replaying the sound of his love’s sneezes in his head over and over, he took his needy cock into his mouth and worked him for all he was worth, hardly able to come to terms with the fact that his sexual prayers had been answered by some (not so) divine god of perversion. Tsukishima was everything he never even knew he wanted or needed, and as he felt the older man finally jerk in his mouth and come all over his tongue, he let his mind run wild with all the ways he would make this momentous occasion up to him, and all the ways he would beg Tsukishima to make him come – hopefully many, many times – in the future.

#g/olden k/amuy #nametakenfic #snz kink #sneeze kink #snzfucker #snzblr #sneezefic #snz fet

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batrachised · 9 months

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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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