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

*soft!boyfriend stevie owns my ♡*

steve who pulls the hem of your skirt down when it rises up for you when your hands are busy. steve who pulls the strap of your top up your shoulder when it falls. steve who delicately pushes your glasses up your nose when they slide down. steve who insists on tying your shoelaces for you. steve who tucks your hair behind your ears while you talk. steve who wipes chocolate with his thumb from the corner of your mouth. steve who bops your nose when he teases you. steve who adjusts the beanie you wear when you’re cold to make sure you’re covered properly. steve who drags the clasp and pendant of your necklaces to the right places. steve who plays with the rings on your fingers while he talks. steve who puts small flowers he picks on the streets behind your ears to see you blush. steve who brings you closer to him by the loops in your jeans.

steve who’s obsessed with and devoted to you and isn’t afraid of showing even when you’re not together yet.

reading My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry and there is no other way to describe that book than healing (and maybe crushing) but mostly healing

dear fredrik blackman please please never stop writing

reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead

people yearn for the brutal murder of leaders

steve harrington likes to kiss you. on the forehead, on your nose, on your cheek. he does it absentmindedly when you’re lying against his chest at night , lips on your hairline while he’s thinking about what to have for breakfast tomorrow; purposefully when he’s driving and he brings your hand to his mouth to fix your knuckles with affection. he likes how you smile when he does it: sometimes wide and vibrant, with the corners of your eyes crinkling, laugh bright and blooming past your teeth; other times soft and bashful, timid and gentle, like a petal of silk , as if you’re still shy of his touch. there’s an intimacy that simply speaking his mind doesn’t give him— but moving his lips tenderly between the wings of your shoulder blades after you’ve stepped out of the shower, against your knee after he’s just tied your shoelaces; at the edge of your wrist when you reach across him to grab something, he can tell you things his words couldn’t. taking your face in his hands and being in awe of how you make his heart squeeze each time, planting himself firmly against your mouth and melting into you, content to stay like this for an eternity.

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

A Day of Fallen Night mild spoilers:

I want to talk about Wulf and his pov + Old English Literature.

What we know:

The Kingdom of Hroth is largely a Scandinavian/Nordic inspired country.

In Priory, Inys is roughly equivalent to the English Elizabethan/Tudor era (the 1450s- 1500s). Fallen Night takes place 500 years prior. What era was England in in the early 1000s? The (end of) the Anglo-Saxon era.

While Inys during Fallen Night is definitely not set in an Anglo-Saxon era, I feel like there are definite motifs and similarities. The Hrothi used to raid Inys, but stopped after the marriage of Sabran and Barholdt. Wulf uses a saxe knife. The fens and monsters resemble those of Old English epics.

Aside the Anglo-Saxon & Scandinavian influences, I want to talk about the references to Old English literature:

Firstly, Samatha Shannon introduces Part 3 with a quote from the Old English (fragmented) poem, Wulf and Eadwacer.

it is:

wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre. / fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen… / Ungelice is us

This roughly translates to: Wulf is on one island. I am on another. Fast is that island set among the fens....We are apart.

Now, Wulf and Eadwacer is a notoriously difficult poem to translate and make sense of, for those of us who have studied Old English. It appears to be from the pov of a woman lamenting over the separation of a male person she loves (typically interpreted as a husband/lover, but it doesn't have to be) referencing an on-going violent event in the background. And! there a line about a child being left in the woods with a wolf.

But I think Shannon does something so neat here and she changes the meaning to fit for Tunuva and Wulf, and bases so much of Tunuva and Wulf's relationship/story on this small poem fragment!!

Secondly, during a titular scene with Wulf washing up on a beach, Wulf is called the seafarer. "By dawn, the lights had disappeared, and the seafarer was still alive" (pg 396). This is obviously a direct call to the Old English poem, The Seafarer. It's a melancholic, elegiac poem concerned with life and death, about a seafarer on a cold, wintery beach mourning the loss of his comrades. Sound familiar?

I just love this little attention to detail concerning Wulf and Fallen Night. Samantha Shannon is a brilliant, brilliant woman

Kaveh Akbar, from "Wild Pear Tree"

being called "my love" is probably the cutest thing, like yes that's me. im the one you love. im the only one you love. im your love. say it again