#This is more accurate backwards honestly.

[nocturnowlette]

The Dragon

The dragon walks up behind me. I'm in a nondescript white room. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all the same material: something ethereal, almost seeming to glow but only when I'm not directly looking. The light emanating from seemingly nowhere seems to infinitely reflect off every surface, making it sometimes hard to tell if the walls are even there, or how big this space really is. Though I haven't turned around, I know it's the dragon. I've seen him before, but I forget where. More importantly, I've felt him before. It feels like it's something I've always known, some part of my DNA, maybe my entire lineage. This dragon's presence is known more to my instincts than my mind. His name is - translated to something I can understand - is Sunny. Though, honestly, I don't think there is a name that can accurately represent a creature like this. He's right behind me now.

I haven't turned around, in a way it doesn't feel necessary. I've known his ears, half cones tapering off to a point at the back. I know his horns, between the two ears, bowed outwards and bending in 90 degree angles. They rise until they're just above the ear, tilting gently forward just past the ears before sharply bending straight backwards, then bending one more time downwards, ending in a sharp point. I know his tail, seemingly large and yet ever-changing in its largeness. Dulled fins, equally spaced, line the top; the bottom half, a lighter pink than his short-furred purple everywhere else, runs with slight waves along its surface. They feel like waves frozen in time. I sense waves of something wash over me. Energy? Pressure? Like a dull droning hum without any sound. It's surrounding me.

As he kneels down behind me, the presence seems to double, then triple in intensity; the air feels tough to move through, and so I don't. Cutting through the invisible waves assaulting my mind, thoughts come flooding to me; Where am I? What is this? What's going to happen to me? A sense of danger starts to creep over me, the hair standing on my back, heart rate increasing- The dragon puts his arms over my shoulders, gently, and places his head over his arm on my left. He seems almost impossibly peaceful. A moving statue. The presence seems to have disappeared entirely, giving me room to think. And yet, I'm paralyzed. All I can really do is stare.

The dragon, whose gaze was near immobile and dull moments before, seems to have the shine of the room gently reflect in his eye. He takes a deep breath in, holding for a short moment, before breathing slowly, slowly out. His breath is a light purple. Due to his snout and head position, the breath is missing me entirely: likely a good thing, perhaps he's purposefully avoiding my nose? We sit there for a while. A few minutes, maybe. He breathes in, slowly, holding it for a moment, then out, slower. I find myself starting to sync with his breaths, so steady that it feels like a gentle rhythm. As much as I don't want to admit it, it's giving some comforting solace in the middle of the confusion. That, and the slight smell of lavender.

The contrast of the artificial coldness of the room and the smell of pure nature is dizzying. Or, something is dizzying. I close my eyes, trying to take in fewer senses and get my mind sorted. He starts to purr. Can dragons purr? Apparently, they can. The rumble has a strong feeling to it, like snoring, but I adjust quickly to it. It reminds me of game controllers and earthquakes and dryers. Definitely dryers. It has that slight rumble to it, like something light is tumbling, and the warmth. I'm surrounded by warmth, like a dense blanket.

The arms around my shoulders are like a scarf, the dragon seeming to be ever closer than before. When did he move? Wait, where am I? Why am I thinking about all of this? I open my eyes. The room looks different. I swear, it does. The color is slightly different, but only in the corners of my vision. A light purple? It smells like lavender. I look to my left again, the breath still steadily pumping out. Is there no ventilation? It feels harder to breathe, like the air is dense. I need to breathe in more, but I'm only getting dizzier. I need to find a way out-

"Breathe in, deeply."

I feel my lungs work on their own, taking a breath that feels impossibly large.

"Breathe out, slowly."

My lungs empty as if there was nothing there in the first place.

My brain feels heavy, exhausted.

"I'm sure it does."

What?

"Don't think too hard."

My thoughts are like molasses.

"Isn't that such a nice feeling?"

It's hard to disagree. It's actually very, very hard.

It feels like I've always loved this feeling.

"You have."

I have?

"Yes. You ask a lot of questions for a pet."

I'm a pet?

The dragon chuckles.

"Of course. Why do you think you're here?"

Why am I here?

"To meet me, officially. You've always known me."

I have?

"You have."

I have.

"There we are. Don't you feel lovely?"

I do.

"Isn't that all that matters?"

It is.

"Good pet. Let's go home, now."

Anything you wish.

[smilingangel582]

Warning spoilers after episode 11 of wind breaker

Poker and flush

"Grrr..."

"Sakura-kun..."

Gold and black eyes glared up, almost sending chills down anyone's spine.

"What?"

Tsugeura gives a smile, holding his poker cards for implication, not shaken by that glare, "when ya play poker, you need a poker face..."

"Shut up, I know that!" He muttered now keeping the cards closed to his flustered face.

Why? Why his boring place -to play games and hang out? Honestly... these guys are weird. That's what Sakura would say though he never understood the warmth inside him.

Nirei and Suo exchanged amused glances with each other while Kiryu smirks, his cards neatly splayed with his long fingers. He displayed, "Three of a kind..." then eyes Sakura who literally winced.

"You're so bad at this Sakura-chan" his voice hints playfulness.

Sakura just grits his teeth, grumbling, "Shut it! This game sucks..."

Suo sighs, feigning exasperation though he has a teasing smile, leaning a bit closer to Sakura, "That's what you said when we played Uno and Mario kart"

"Well they all suck!"

Suo grins, letting his hands glide and neatly sprawl the cards on the floor they played on. "Full House..."

Tsugeura whistled, "wow again?"

Sakura already placed his hands down to fold his arms and everyone could see he had a terrible deck at hand... Suo laughs.

"Well I thought I'd be a royal flush... sadly not..."

"Quiet!" He blushed.

Nirei wonders now, seeing Sakura turn redder by each second, "Sakura-san, why's your face so red?"

Tsugeura laughs, his head tilted back for volume, "Haha! Suo-kun guessed it right, that is a royal flush indeed" and then added, "or a straight flush?"

He gestured to Sakura's face, who huffs, looking sideways and folding his arms more reservedly, but his flushed face getting brighter.

Such a tsundere... Nirei chuckles to himself.

"Sakura-kuuun~" Suo sang now wiggling his fingers towards him.

"Oi! Suo s-stop!" Sakura defensively slaps the sneaking hand that attempts to tickle him. Though another hand snuck from the opposite side to poke Sakura in the ribs.

"Ack -hey!" Sakura slips on his back, now stumbling backwards, embracing his ribs with a scowl. Kiryu who's behind Sakura looks interested as his eyes perked up, "Oya?"

Tsugeura looked up in a similar gesture, his cards which are three of a kind, dropped, "Oya, Oya?"

"Ehh..." Sakura noticed many stares, all interested and keen. He slowly attempts to back away but Suo grabs his ankle to pull him back, "Oopse! Almost let you get away there, Sakura-kun"

Tsugeura noticed Suo's action and swiftly joined in with a childisly excited expression, "Haha! I'm loving this, I'll grab him for you"

Sakura sputtered, legs kicking madly now when Suo tried to restrain his legs and Tsuge looming over him, "H-ha? W-w-what the -no!"

Without any difficulty, the muscular guy grabbed his wrists and easily had them above his head, "Gosh Sakura, I expected you to have more violent struggles... plus you seem smaller than i imagineu were"

"Shut up! I-I I'm nohoOHOt!" He arched his back when Suo slides a finger up his side to silence his retorts.

Kiryu looks blissfully at the display where Sakura gets mobbed by Suo and Tsuge.

"Sakura-chan looks so cute... and he's blushing like the royal flush he wishes he had -or a straighr flush at least..."

"Oh!" Nirei grinned with agreement, "yes, Sakura is the royal blush!"

"D-dohohont fuhuhucking mehehess wihihith mehehehe -ahahaha shit!" He had been fighting Suo to free his legs but Tsuge instantly scribbled his fingers under his arms to make him buck and squirm. His head pulled back, his limbs less accurate in trying to escape and cackling loud... a sight no one has ever seen.

Nirei looks with awe, "I feel like Sakura-san's laughter is actually cooler than his usual angry grunts..."

Suo grins, nodding as he gives random pokes on Sakura's stomach and even crawling under his shirt to torment the sensitive skin to make him jolt and shriek.

"Yes Nirei-kun, even if his little temper tantrums are endearing than anything, his giggling is much more amusing to me" he gently tickles his bare sides under the shirt knowing how bad it gets the guy.

"Gaahahaha shihit cohohohome ohohon!" He tries to lower his arms but failed miserable as he felt his neck being targeted, he scrunchedhis neck with a squeak. Despite his large body he's surprisingly gentle and that's not helping poor Sakura at all.

"Aww that was cute!" Tsuge cooed, still running his fingers gently on his neck.

"I wonder what will happen if I do this?" Kiryu abruptly stepped in, and wiggled his fingers teasingly over Sakura's kneecap but that made his foot jerk and nearly hitting Suo's jaw who expertly dodged.

"Whoa now we can't have that..." Suo captures his leg and gave his calf a good squeeze.

"EHHH! WAIT!" His cry got loud and he broke free from Tsuge but couldn't do anything when Kiryu continued his little torture on his knee and Suo carefully strumming his fingers over his soles now after targeting his calf.

"AHAHA SHIT NOT THEHEHEHERE!" He exclaimed with a shrilled high-pitched laugh, Tsuge laughed along as he tried to grab his shoulders for perfect restrain.

"Nice his knees are as bad as his feet... perhapshis calf muscles are more sensitive than his knees..." Nirei jotting down notes and that made Sakura snap with loud giggles, "HEHEHELL HAHA NOHOHO WAY YOU RIIHIHIGHTING THAHAHAT CRAHAHAP!"

"I sure hell am!" Nirei sticks his tongue, then watched how Sakura gets slugged with tickles.

"Ahhhh~ Sakura-chan is so cute, it's so wrong to be that adorable!" Kiryu sang.

And the teasing began...

"Yes Kiryu-kun, his poker face always falls and its too adorable!" Suo joins, sliding a finger up Sakura's arc, that made him squeak and squirm more -oh and his blush.

Tsugeura chuckled as he snapped a few pics of them on his phone. since Sakura's restrains are lowered he takes this chance to weakly tackle Kiryu to the ground. His face as bright as cherries.

"Hahha dahahamn it eehehehenough!"

"Nope not yet..." Suo teased, stepping forward to tase his hips with his finger, which made him jump a bit and crumble side away from straddling the pink haired guy.

"EE!"

"Oh wow its like a weapon" Suo mischievously began using his two fingers like guns to prod his sides and hips.

Kiryu laughs menacingly, raising his hands like gun symbols as well, "That makes four guns! Attack!"

They 'attacked' Sakura's stomach knowing how the tingly touches drives him into mad giggles. Sakura wished he was attacked by real guns tho...

Yet... he can't deny that he didn't mind these funny little games they played with him... even if they are embarassing as heck...

Its not bad...

Sakura however might consider revenge someday... he's not one to forget that easily... till then he might enjoy this...

Tsuge continued recording this messy play fight -well two against one fight at least. His cries of laughter and endless blushes continue a few more minutes.

Nirei loved to see more shades of Sakura, he's just like the cherry blossoms that bloom brightly every spring.

Hope it never ends.

[candycandy00]

CANDYYY!! Congratulations on 2k followers!! You deserve every single one of them!! 💕💕

I saw the build your own fanfic adventure and you know I have to get in on this soooooooo:

Character: Dabi (what a surprise there 😂)

AU setting: Honestly I'm so stuck between Gothic Mansion and Monster Forest, I'll let you decide!!

Spice level: screw it let's go all the way, NSFW bb

Mood: I'll leave it up to you! You know me, I could go either way!

Kink: ugh I'll indulge a little today, Breeding/Daddy kink (sometimes I like being taken care of, you know?? 😂😂)

Have fun my love! 😘 Can't wait to read Choso's chapter!!

Waxwork - A Dabi x Reader Fanfic

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Dabi as a werewolf. Dabi as a vampire. Light vampire-related blood. Rough sex. Breeding. Oral sex. Heavily inspired by the 1988 horror film “Waxwork”.

This ended up a lot longer than I planned but I hope you like it, babe!

Part of CandyCandy’s 2k Followers Event! Any feedback is loved! Dividers by @benkeibear.

You’ve always loved wax museums, so when a new one opened up in town, you just had to visit on opening day. You walk through the doors, noting sadly that there isn’t a very big crowd. After looking through the “historical figures” and “celebrities” sections, you wander into the “fictional characters” area. 

There are highly detailed wax figures lovingly made to recreate various famous scenes from novels and movies. A large portion of them are horror, and so you feel a chill down your spine as you notice you’re the only visitor in this section. 

Some of the wax figures look so realistic, you find yourself staring at them to make sure they’re not moving. You walk around, looking at the displays, before stopping at one that fascinates you. 

The scene looks like the interior of a cabin in the woods. There are even fake trees outside the windows. The “room” is lit by a fireplace. Near the door, there’s a young man bent backwards in what appears to be agony, in the midst of a transformation. He has messy white hair, and half his body is covered in white fur, giving the illusion that the fur is spreading. His dark clothes are ripped, and he’s clutching his head with his hands, one of them tipped with razor sharp claws. His eyes, so bright blue that they seem to glow, are staring upwards. You imagine he’s staring at a full moon.

Also in the display is a young woman in a ragged dress, recoiling from him in horror. Strangely, she resembles you. Her build is the same as yours, as well as her hair. But with her face so twisted by fear, you can’t really tell if that resembles yours too. 

Your eyes keep being drawn back to the man, to the fine white fur that looks like crushed velvet. You want to touch it, to feel it beneath your fingertips. And his eyes… so beautiful. 

Wait… did his eyes just move? For a fraction of a second, you thought his eyes flicked down to your face. But surely you imagined it. You laugh nervously, deciding you’ve been looking at this display for too long. 

You move quickly to the next display, this one looking like the ornate dining room of a gothic castle. Sitting at the table in a beautiful Victorian style dress is a young woman who looks almost identical to the one from the previous display. Which means she looks just like you. Her hair is pinned up in an intricate style, and her dress is way too immodest to be historically accurate. It’s an off the shoulder design that is extremely low cut, exposing way more cleavage than was probably common in the Victorian era. 

The young woman is holding a steak knife in her hand, and has apparently cut her finger on it by accident, as a shiny drop of red “blood” is made to look as if it’s dripping down her hand. But the most interesting part of this display is the man standing behind her, like a predator. 

You draw in a sharp breath as you look at him, realizing with a tinge of alarm that he’s the same as the man from the werewolf display, with slight differences. This one has black hair, and is wearing a black Victorian suit with a cape. He also has scars covering the lower half of his face. But those eyes… those lovely blue eyes… they’re the same. There’s a look of hunger in them as he leans over the woman, staring at the drop of blood. You look at the blood too, trying to imagine why he finds it so compelling. 

Oh, he must be a vampire! You almost laugh at yourself for being so slow to realize it. You casually glance back up at his face, and your breath catches in your throat. 

He’s looking straight at you. Not at the drop of blood, but at you. 

Your heart pounds furiously as you stare at him, locked in his gaze. This time you’re certain. His eyes moved! You know for a fact he was looking at the woman’s hand before! So why is he looking into your eyes now? 

This must be some kind of trick or gimmick, you tell yourself, trying to calm down. Maybe the wax figure has some sort of mechanized feature that makes his eyes move, as a way to excite the visitors. Or, judging by how realistic he looks, maybe he’s an actor! The possibility makes you feel quite silly. 

You back away, suddenly eager to leave this section of the museum, but your back collides with something and your body bounces forward, causing you to stumble over the velvet rope cordoning off the display and fall directly into it. You close your eyes and brace for the impact of the floor, but instead you black out. 

When your eyes snap open, you’re sitting at the fancy table in the dining room. There’s a plate of delicious looking food in front of you and a steak knife in your hand. A single drop of blood is sliding down your index finger. You look in front of you, where the rope should be, but it’s not there. In fact, the rest of the museum is gone! You really are in a complete dining room! 

All at once you remember the other occupant of the room, and you slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder. Leaning over you is the very beautiful, very alive, vampire with the black hair and the scars. 

“Did you cut yourself? Are you okay?” he asks. You expected his voice to be more smooth and formal, given his attire, but he sounds like any random guy you go to college with. 

You’re not sure what to say, wondering if this is a dream or not. Did you hit your head when you fell? 

The man grabs your hand, firmly but not harshly, and pulls it up to his face to examine it. “Looks like a small cut,” he says, then wraps his scarred lips around your finger, his tongue lapping gently at the blood. 

You’re so transfixed that you don’t think to pull your hand away until he’s finished. His eyes move over you, and you’re suddenly very aware of how obscenely low cut your dress is. You stand up from the table and look around, still hoping to see the rest of the museum somewhere. But it’s just not there. 

“Not running off, are you?” the man asks, a hint of a grin on his face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone for dinner.” His tongue runs over his lips as he says it, making your face flush with heat. 

“Um, I’m not really sure where I am,” you say, your back against the edge of the table. 

He steps closer to you. “You’re in my home, doll, and we’re about to have dessert.”

You feel paralyzed as he gets closer and closer, until his body is pressed against yours. He’s taller than you, probably a little older, but he’s fucking gorgeous. 

Maybe this is a dream. Maybe it’s a concussion-induced hallucination. But whatever it is, you might as well enjoy it. 

You reach up and wrap your arms around him as he lifts you up and sits you on the table, the plates and silverware magically gone. His mouth is on your neck, licking along a vein before you feel a sharp pain. He’s biting you! The pain is intense for a few moments, and then disappears, replaced by a feeling of euphoria. You can feel his teeth tearing at your delicate skin, can feel his tongue gliding along the wound, but it doesn’t hurt at all now. You only feel warm and aroused, listening to the sensual sucking sounds as he devours your blood. 

He lies you back on the table and pulls away from your neck. His mouth is sticky and red. He pulls the top of your dress down, freeing your breasts, and then his hands and mouth are upon them, squeezing and licking. 

You moan, clutching his shoulders, opening your legs ever wider as his body presses to you. Eventually he reaches down and rips the skirt of your dress right up the middle, clearing himself a path to your panties and exposing your white garter belt and stockings. He tears the panties away and bends down, running his tongue along your heated, damp flesh. You arch your back, ridiculously turned on by the idea of a vampire eating you out. His tongue, still wet with your blood, circles your clit, driving you to madness. 

When you’re right on the edge of climax, he stops and pulls away, opening his pants to the sounds of your panting. “Gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks, sliding his hand up and down his hard, pleasingly large shaft. 

“Yes! I’ll be so good!” you breathe out, locking your legs around his body, pulling him closer. 

He grins as he shoves himself into you, licking your blood from his lips. His thrusts are deep, intimate, and hit your sweet spot just perfectly. “Ahh… feels so good…” you cry. 

You want to moan his name, but you have no idea what it is. 

“That’s it,” he says with a grunt, thrusting deeper, “taking me so well!”

Fuck it. Just go with the vibes. 

“Harder, Daddy!”

He looks down at you, momentarily surprised, but then he laughs and fucks you harder than you’ve ever been fucked before. 

You were already on the edge of cumming, and now you’re pushed over the edge by the way his tip hits your cervix, making you bounce off the table. You cum while clenching his cock. 

Just before he releases his seed inside you, painting your womb in his color, he leans forward and bites your neck again. There’s that brief searing pain again, contrasting so deliciously with the pleasure rippling through you as his cock pulses in your body. 

He pulls away, licking his lips again and pulling you up to your feet by your hand, like a gentleman. You’re in a daze as he leads you to the door of the room. “Thanks, doll. I haven’t had any visitors in a long time. Hopefully I’ll see you in the next one.”

“Next one?” you ask, confused as you walk through the door. 

You find yourself back in the museum, standing in front of the vampire display. But it looks different now. The woman sitting at the table doesn’t look like you anymore, instead having plain, almost blank features. And the man, the vampire, is standing up straight, looking right at you, a subtle grin on his bloody lips. 

Startled, you step back and touch your hand to your neck. You can feel the puncture wounds, the slick blood trickling out. 

Was… was that real?  

Somewhat delirious, you stagger away, and end up stumbling right into another display. This time you blink and you’re in the cabin in the woods. You’re the girl in the torn dress, cowering in fear of the white haired man who is turning into a werewolf before your very eyes. 

He looks at you through his agony as his body transforms, and you can see the recognition in his eyes. 

“Oh fuck, not this one!” he says, trying to move away from you. “Run! Get… to the edge… of the forest! Hurry!”

“What’s happening!?” you scream. “How did I even get here?”

“It’s the museum!” he shouts, clutching his head in pain. “Listen, you have to run! I can’t… control this form! I go fucking feral!”

You stand there, frozen, watching the soft white fur spread across his lean body, the claws on his hands get longer, the teeth in his much wider mouth become large and sharp. Two white furry ears even grow out of the top of his head. 

“Feral, you say?” The question rolls off your tongue. Watching him writhe in pain as his body changes is… actually kind of hot. 

He looks at you, blue eyes wild, and he seems to understand what you want. The transformation is complete. He stands before you much taller than before, covered head to toe in that lovely white fur. There’s a primal feel to the way he looks at you. Animalistic. Predatory.

Either he’s going to rip you apart or fuck your brains out. You really really hope it’s the latter. 

He lunges forward and tackles you to the floor, pushing you face down onto the rug in front of the fireplace. His movements are fast and aggressive, but not too rough. He easily could have killed you already. 

With one swipe of his powerful claws, your dress is in tatters, barely clinging to your body in tiny strips that cover nothing. Behind you, he lifts your hips and spreads your thighs, and almost immediately plunges into your slick pussy. 

You cry out, gripping the rug in your hands as he begins fucking into you, your bare chest and stomach rubbing against the rug with each thrust. Ah, his cock feels incredible! It’s long and hard, covered in a thin layer of soft velvety fur. As he takes you from behind, he uses one hand to lightly scrape his claws down your back. 

“Oh god!” you scream out when one clawed hand reaches around and finds your clit, rubbing and pinching it, making your body tremble. You don’t have to tell him to fuck you harder. You don’t think he possibly could. Your knees are wobbling, barely supporting you, your face is pressed into the rug, your tears seeping into it. You’ve never felt this good in your entire life. 

You feel him twitching inside you, and just as you feel his scalding hot cum shoot directly into your womb, you feel your own orgasm wash over you. Moaning and panting, you stay there on the rug, your face buried in it, until he eventually pulls out. By the time you have the energy to roll over and look at him, he’s reverted back to human form. 

He’s standing there naked, his white hair damp and hanging in his eyes. He drops down onto the rug beside you, and you scoot closer to him, pulling your knees up to your chest. 

“What is this place?” you ask him. “Is this really still the museum?”

The fireplace is roaring behind you, and you can hear the wind blowing through the trees outside the cabin. 

“I think every display is its own pocket dimension,” he says. “But fuck if I know how it all works.”

You look at him intently. “Who are you?”

He shrugs. “Just a guy who got stuck here. I came to the museum with some friends a few years ago, stumbled into one of the displays, and got stuck. I stayed inside too long, so now I can’t leave.”

“Why not?” you ask. 

“When I finally found the border, the way back to the museum, I stuck one arm out and it instantly turned to wax. As long as I stay in the displays, I’m flesh and blood. But I can move my consciousness around the different dimensions.”

You suddenly feel panicked. “What about me?”

He grins. “You’ll be fine. You haven’t been here nearly long enough. Certain rare people get pulled in, and I always lead them out.”

You meet his gaze for a few moments, then say, “I’ll come back! I’ll visit you as often as I can!”

He gives you a somewhat sad smile. “The museum moves around to different towns. We probably won’t be here for longer than a year.”

“Then I’ll track it down!” you say forcefully, causing him to blink in surprise. “Wherever you go, I’ll find you!”

“I hope so,” he says, then he stands up and heads for the door, opening it. He tosses a blanket to you to cover yourself with and says, “You better get going. Head to the edge of the forest and you’ll be back in the museum.”

You wrap the blanket around yourself as you walk through the door. You stop and look back at him. “What’s your name?”

He smiles. “Touya.”

Minutes later, you’re back in the museum, standing in front of the werewolf display. The man who was once bent back in pain is standing calmly in the cabin now, looking at you without moving. You wave to him before turning to leave. “See you later, Touya!”

[bloodmoonmuses]

stereo 127 | johnny suh

(for @lovesuhng !!! I hope you like it!!!)

genre: johnny suh x reader, college au, teacher's assistant! johnny, friends to lovers

warnings: none!

summary: johnny is your campus crush. he also happens to be the teaching assistant in your music history class. when you (innocently) ask for help on a project, you end up learning about more than just music.

You’re a bit obsessed with this guy who skates around campus- or the concept of him, more accurately. You don’t even know his name. All you know is that last semester, you (accidentally) memorized his schedule, resulting in you walking to certain classes a few minutes earlier than necessary to catch a glimpse of him. These glimpses were merely a blur, whipping past you like an apparition. He was a ghost to you, and you enjoyed being haunted by him. 

Your friends made fun of you for having a campus crush, arguing that it’s not real since you don’t actually know him. However, you honestly preferred the distance. Then, you could fill in the gaps in your knowledge with your own imagination. Admiring him from afar worked for a while- that is, until the start of Spring semester. 

When you saunter into your music history class, a random elective you took for fun, you’re met with the elusive Skater Boy. You knew he was tall, but he’s even taller than you’d imagined in your daydreams. You glance at him briefly, before going to take a seat at a desk near the back. 

Skater Boy chats with a few of his friends at the front of the classroom, then sits next to the teacher’s desk when the professor enters. You infer that he must be the teacher’s assistant. 

This was a big problem. Surely, you’ll fail this class now. There’s simply no way you’ll be able to focus. The breathy laughs that escape him are already distracting you to the point of being almost unbearable. His smile is so breezy, like a wave catching the wind. He looks just as cool here in the classroom as he does on his skateboard.

The underlying crush that lay dormant in you begins to boil, and you know it will soon bubble over, scalding everything in its wake. You couldn’t wait for the burn. In fact, you aimed to spur it on sooner. 

You make a concerted effort to pay attention to the professor’s spiel, pulling out your notebook to take notes. It's syllabus day, sure, but you want to look studious. The first assignment of the semester is to research the history of your favorite music genre. 

Despite your efforts to focus, your eyes drift to the stickers that adorn Skater Boy’s laptop: Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, an Arctic Monkeys logo and a cartoon surfboard. You want to know everything he likes and commit the list to memory. You want to sew his idiosyncrasies into a quilt and blanket him with your loving knowledge of them.

The professor introduces him as Johnny Suh- a third year music composition major. Now the ghost has a name.

—

You look at the office hours on the bottom of your syllabus. Johnny would be in office in lieu of your professor for the majority of the semester. Would it be so bad to pop in and ask him for help on the first assignment? 

While you admittedly feel silly, walking to the Arts and Humanities building looking a bit too gussied up, you swallow the nervousness. You stand in front of the room, reading the placard:

Professor: Dr. Moon

TA: Johnny Suh 

You knock on the office door. On the third knock Johnny says, “Come on in!”

Meekly, you enter. He’s too real, too tangible, in this small space. You’ve never been within touching distance of him. The prospect makes your fingers tingle. Professor Moon has an insane book collection, two bookcases spanning the walls opposite one another. The rest of the office is cluttered with a slew of instruments.

Johnny is wearing a backwards hat and quarter sleeve sweater. Your eyes graze the expanse of his forearms, then drift upwards. There’s a pen clipped to his collar and another in between his lips. It’s the most tantalizing pen you’ve ever seen. Finally, you make eye contact. 

Introducing yourself, you say, “Hi, my name is _____. I’m in the music history course.”

“Nice to meet you.!” He takes the pen out of his mouth, and your eyes follow it forlornly. That could’ve stayed. “How can I help?” 

Johnny gathers some papers, places them in a neat stack at the center of the desk, then sits on the edge of it.

“Um, I’m a non-major. So, I’m struggling a bit with the first assignment.”

Johnny nods understandingly. “Ah, the dreaded favorite genre assignment. What’d you pick?”

“Pop punk,” you say.

“Fascinating. You don’t strike me as a punk person.”

You shrug. “Grew up on it.”

“Have you been to the record store near campus?”  

You shake your head.

“It’s called Stereo 127. I think it would be cool to listen to some records and base your research on specific albums. Then you’ll have a clearer framework for when it’s time to write the paper.”

“Thanks. Um,” you clear your throat, “Would you mind… showing me?”

“The record store? Yeah, sure. No problem. Does this weekend work for you?” Johnny asks.

“Sounds good!”

—

Stereo 127 is densely packed with all sorts of records, mimicking the state of Dr. Moon’s office. There’s a classmate of yours named Jaehyun who’s keeping watch of the store. He walks around the shop, reorganizing things as he sees fit. As you peruse the albums, you’re peeking at Johnny over the records, trying to catch his eye. Unlike you, Johnny is actually scanning the selection, genuinely trying to help you.

“Let’s get the obvious ones out the way,” he says, holding a Blink-182 record. He’s somehow managed to track down a copy of their debut album, Cheshire Cat.  

“If Cheshire Cat is an ‘obvious’ pick to you, then I’m way out of my depth,” you confess.

“A little pretentiousness never hurt anyone,” Johnny replies. 

So far, you have a copy of Green Day’s Nimrod (which you’re quite excited about) and Paramore’s newest album. As the minutes pass, you get gradually more enraptured by the thicket of albums. Before you know it, you’ve accumulated quite a few records. After a bit, you sidle up to Johnny, peering over his shoulder to check out his picks. You spot a Yellowcard compilation record.

“This is more fun than I thought it’d be,” you pipe, turning to face Johnny. His face floods with fondness when he sees the stack of albums in your arms, caramel eyes warming you from the inside out. 

“Yeah, you have a good eye,” he retorts. “I’ve been meaning to check out a few other shops around town. Y’know. To compare selections.” He’s sputtering now, having fallen into a cough fit.

“You okay buddy?” you say, chuckling. You gingerly pat his back, holding back a full blown laugh as Johnny continues to cough.

He waves you off, but you pat his back once more for good measure.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Johnny says. When he regains his composure, he continues. “I was just wondering… Are you busy on the 27th?”

—

You’re sprinting across campus, eager to meet Johnny outside of the boys’ dorm. It’s been two weeks since you’ve last seen him. He’s leaning against the building as he waits for you, clad in a page boy cap (which he’s wearing backwards again) and tank top. You allow yourself a quick glance at his arms, immediately regretting it as your face heats up. When he spots you, Johnny waves excitedly, the width of his smile making your own double in size.

After your first excursion, Johnny had asked for your number (“in case you have questions on the assignment!” he had said). Since then, the two of you have texted occasionally, mostly about school.

The record store he takes you to this time is called The Boot. It’s less trendy than Stereo 127 and less organized as well. Most of the vinyls are in bins, withering at the edges and clearly sundamaged. Johnny says he comes here to find obscure records to spin during his DJ sets, not to necessarily hunt for additions to his collection. 

“So, you’re a music composition major?” you ask as you crouch down to sift through a box.

Johnny nods. “With a minor in photography.”

“Favorite camera brand?”

“Nikon for sure, but I mostly shoot 33mm film.”

“How pretentious,” you say.

“Oh, you love it.” This is true, you do love it. 

Johnny continues. “I found another record store for us to try out after this one.”

“Yeah, just text me whenever.”

—

You had finished your paper days ago, so the subsequent record store outing was completely unnecessary to a certain extent. Johnny had no choice but to admit that he simply wanted to hang out with you- though, he’s not complaining. 

The final record store you visit with Johnny is called WAYVE. This time, he picks you up in his car to take you there- a dinky pick up truck with a shitty paint job.

“Before we head out- “ Johnny reaches over, opening the glove department in front of you. His hand brushes your leg briefly.. He pulls out a CD case and places it in your lap.

“I made a playlist for you.” He can’t look you in the eyes properly. You’ve never seen him look this sheepish.

Johnny continues. “Not vinyl, I know, but I wanted to decorate the cover.” Taped to the front of the jewel case is a polaroid of you perusing records. In the photo, your brows are furrowed in concentration.

“When did you even take this, you weirdo?”

“A few weeks ago at The Boot. The lighting was nice.”

You’re practically buzzing with excitement when you get home, racing to put the CD in your busted boombox. The first song on the playlist is Going Away to College by Blink-182.

“I haven't been this scared in a long time

And I'm so unprepared, so here's your valentine

Bouquet of clumsy words, a simple melody

This world's an ugly place, but you're so beautiful to me.”

—

You got a B minus on the paper, which is better than you would've done without Johnny’s help. However, the project is the furthest thing from your mind. 

All you can think about is the lyrics of Going Away to College. You’re trying not to read into things, but Johnny wasn’t the most subtle. 

Maybe you should make a playlist for him. Or buy him a record. According to him, Johnny’s not a true collector- that was reserved for cameras. Maybe he’d appreciate it.

Johnny spots you walking to class (though he’s sure your next one isn’t for another half hour). He skates over to you, stopping right at your feet. You shriek, almost stumbling backwards.

“What the hell, Johnny?”

He dismounts his skateboard, holding it under his arm nonchalantly.  “Do you wanna hang out somewhere other than a record store?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

—

The skatepark is overstimulating in the best way. After trying (and failing) to teach you how to do an ollie for an hour, the two of you set up a picnic off to the side of the halfpipe. You eat kimbap off Johnny’s skateboard, using it as a little table.

“Sorry you got a B on your paper, by the way. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t grade it.” 

“It’s okay. I’d rather earn a B from Professor Moon than have your biased ass give me a higher grade than I deserve.”

Johnny places a hand on his chest, gasping dramatically.

“Um, what about academic integrity? I would do nothing of the sort!” he insists.

“Oh come on, you’re obsessed with me,” you say, half-joking. To your surprise, Johnny nods to himself, agreeing with you.

“Only a healthy amount though.”

When you and Johnny finish the kimbap, he scooches next to you. The sun is setting, oranges slowly darkening into a wash of deep indigo. You shiver as the sun dips beneath the horizon. Johnny places his jacket across your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you say.

“No problem.”

You place your head on Johnny’s shoulder.

“Um, and thanks for the playlist too. It’s really good.”

“Yeah?”

“It sorta had… a theme to it.”

Johnny suddenly pulls out from under you, leaving you to stumble around for a bit as you catch yourself. When he turns to you, he stares, caramel eyes pouring into your own. You feel warm in spite of the chilly breeze.

“I’ve never really been good with words,” Johnny confesses. “I figured I’d let the music do the talking.”

With that, he takes your face into his hands. He traces your features with the pads of his fingers- running them over your eyebrows, the lids of your closed eyes, your nose and, finally, your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he places a faint kiss upon your lips. 

He pulls back, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m so glad my pretentious bullshit doesn’t give you the ick,” Johnny says.

“Only a healthy amount,” you say through a smile. 

Suddenly, you initiate another kiss, your lips crashing into his fervently. When Johnny recovers from the initial shock, you deepen the kiss further. He’s a patient kisser, never demanding too much or taking more than he’s given. This only heightens your hunger for him, throwing your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. When the two of you come up for air, you linger with Johnny still in your embrace, his eyes crinkling at the edges with pure joy.

a/n: currently unedited + feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading!

[ryin-silverfish]

Hello ryin! I saw in a recent post of yours that you dislike the "class warfare" reading of the Havoc in Heaven arc in JTTW and would honestly love to hear more about your thoughts on that! Your takes have been really interesting.

Thank you!

My biggest problem with the "class warfare" reading is, first and foremost, what it has been historically used for.

Like, after the Havoc in Heaven opera and movie came out, the propagandists absolutely ate it up; SWK was associated with Mao Zedong and used to promote Mao's personality cult, and soon after, the White Bone Spirit story would be interpreted as this fable for the Sino-Soviet split.

Whereas Havoc in Heaven was intended and viewed as a metaphor and love letter to the victory of Chinese revolution, the White Bone Spirit story was interpreted in the context of the horrific fuck-up that is the Great Leap Forward, where the party were starting to doubt its leadership, and the path to the future seemed an uncertain and arduous one——much like the pilgrimage.

So, in the new twist on the "class warfare" narrative, Tripitaka and Pigsy became the poster-boy for "party members who were easily captivated by revisionist ideas" and needed to see how wrong they were, the WBS became the personification of Khruschev, imperialism, capitalism, revisionism...you name it, and SWK the Mao expy who could do no wrong yet was unfairly blamed by everyone.

Came the Cultural Revolution era, SWK would then become a sort of hero and role model for the Red Guards, smashing down all that was considered archaic and backwards, tearing down older authority figures and perceived "class enemies" alike, all the while emboldened by Mao's saying that "To rebel is justified" (造反有理).

Yeah, no, fuck that shit.

Terrible historical baggages aside, it is also a reading that reeks of presentism, and Lin Geng, a renowned professor of literature, had done a thorough takedown of the "SWK as peasant rebel" idea in his 西游记漫话.

Namely, it neither fits the circumstances of Havoc in Heaven, nor SWK's backstory and motivation. He's not rebelling because his monkeys are oppressed by the Celestial Realm, he's doing it because he feels personally slighted.

His mindset is also not that of a traditional peasant; compare and contrast that with Zhu Bajie, whom the author argues is very much peasant-coded in terms of his obsession with going back to Gao Laozhuang, his rake, and his comedic ignorance that stems from urban stereotypes of rural farmers.

To paraphrase Lin Geng, "Not all rebellions and rebel narratives in Chinese history are peasant ones, and we shouldn't just cry 'peasant rebellion metaphor!' the moment we saw a rebellion in fiction."

Lastly and more personally? This reading also tends to remove SWK's depth as a character. The representation of the Mind can be both heroic and flawed, capable of great feats and fuck-ups alike, but the representation of The Revolution has to be heroic and his opponents, whether celestial or demonic, must be evil oppressors and political boogeymen.

Like, the demons in the novel are representations of the mental obstacles a person will face on the path to Enlightenment, but they are also capable of being funny and very human characters, and not all of them wanted to eat Tripitaka.

The Celestial Realm is a satire of the imperial bureaucracy, sure, but the novel is also a product of its time and cannot magically promote 20th century ideas of revolutions and political reforms 500 years before they were a thing. Besides, SWK can still get help from them on the Journey and their relationship is more complicated than "oppressed rebel and oppressors".

And that's exactly why I dislike the "class warfare" reading: it creates a simplistic opposition of good and evil, and tries to squeeze the work into a narrow political framework that is neither nuanced nor accurate.

[thatswhatsushesaid]

more salty commentary about.... salty fandom commentary, but for a fandom i'm not really involved with

ftr this is about the gay-ass (affectionate) vampire show

squinting at some of super vitriolic anti-armand commentary that tumblr's algorithm keeps throwing at me like 'this? you want this one bestie? no? what about this one instead?' when in fact i want none of these takes, actually. "i don't believe a word that comes out of that lying liar's mouth!!" "of course he could have stopped claudia and madeleine's murders, he's the most powerful vampire in the world!!" (uh, i'll come back to that one later. maybe. if i feel like it) "he was onboard the 'let's murder claudia!' train from the very beginning!!!" etc. if you're even peripherally keeping your finger on the pulse of this fandom's discourse, you've probably seen some of this, too.

and... okay. bearing in mind two things:

it's been about 20+ years since i read the original novels, and

the show's relationship to the original novels, as well as the 1994 movie, is both conversational and subversive,

two seasons into this delicious mess, how are we still collectively failing to recognize that the central conceit of amc's retelling is that, intentional or not, all recollection of louis' past is both catharsis (for louis) and performance (for ???)? that all of louis' recollection of his own actions, as well as the actions of the other vampires in his orbit, is filtered through the lens of his own feelings about those vampires in that moment? like this isn't a subtle storytelling device, this is something the show is repeatedly bashing us over the head with again and again and again: louis' reliability as a narrator of his own experiences can't be trusted even when he isn't so consumed with rage that he tries to drain twenty year old daniel molloy dry for the unforgivable crime of /checks my notes, mouthing off at him like a dumbass, or goes into vulgar detail describing to lestat precisely how he is going to kill him, cut his head off, and then feed his decapitated head to lions at the zoo. which, it bears mentioning, is not the version of events that we were presented with during s1, but it is the version of events that louis himself comes to reluctantly believe is the more accurate recollection of the past.

does that make lestat into The Real Victim™️ who did nothing wrong to louis or claudia, ever? please tell me you're not actually asking me this question. be serious.

the point is that louis is right in the thick of feeling his intensely passionate vampire feelings about armand in real time, in the present day, while looking backwards through time at the 77 years they have spent together, and he is questioning everything. justifiably so, for the record! why wouldn't he question the actions and motivations of the supposed love of his life after discovering that such an important memory from his and daniel molloy's shared past was erased from his mind? but seriously, if you have reached this point in the story and your takeaway from the last episode boils down to "THIS TIME louis' recollection of the past is definitely 100% accurate! the rose-tinted glasses are OFF and we can see the TRUTH about you now armand!!!" then i just. i don't know what to say to you. lmfao.

anyway rather than getting into the weeds with anyone actually in the fandom about which of these diva vampire daddies is right, actually, find me hanging out with claudia and madeleine's ashes giving all of them the proverbial finger. because honestly, fuck all these vampires (affectionate).

[farahsamboolents]

stranger things major dates:

(this is actually part of a much larger post i plan on making, with a loooot of background bullshit that nobody cares about, but this is just the dates :P please note that it took me a while to get the hang of this note taking thing so it’ll get more accurate as the seasons progress, feel free to fact check me)

(other thing to notes: I'm assuming that all of these dates are one after the other or even simultaneously, but according to wikis online, the timeline is much more stretched out, implying that there are other days we don't see.)

S1

Will went missing on November 6th, 1983. There were search parties November 6th and 7th; on November 7th there was the big storm and it was called off.

Steve’s party was on a Tuesday . Steve broke Jonathan’s camera the next day, which was the day of the funeral, as well as the day Will was rescued .

[UPDATE: i missed a day in here, because Steve breaking the camera was a catalyst for Nancy seeing the photos, which led to Nancy and Jonathan going monster hunting, and they spent the night together before Will was rescued. Sorry for the goof!]

Other dates mentioned:

Joyce has worked at Melvalds for ten years

According to Hop, the last missing person was summer of 23, last suicide in 61.

Seven years prior (1976) there was a drowning in the quarry

S2

The season starts on October 30th

Mike says into the walkie that it’s day 352

el tells hop on November 1st that it’s day 326 (since she moved in with Hop). She runs away on day 327.

Wills birthday is March 22nd.

The time skip is implied to be late November/early December (okay honestly i don’t remember how i came to this conclusion, it’s just in my notes. I think the title card must’ve said “one month later” or something.)

^ this is when Hawkins lab gets raided by govt vehicles with Murray watching, as well as Hop getting El’s forged birth certificate. The Snow Ball is around this time as well.

Other dates mentioned:

“Last month a coworker of Ted Wheeler’s” discussed El. Not sure how he blabbed after almost an entire year.

Steve was aiming for early application into college, which was closing soon.

Steve and Nancy were working on their Halloween costumes for “a stupid amount of time”.

At some point between S1 & 2, they took Will to a doctor in Chicago.

Nancy says she waited. Jonathan says only a month.

S3

The only actual date on the timeline I noted was the fourth of July. Sorry. I'd have to count backwards for the rest of the plot points and I guarantee I will count wrong.

There is a time skip for three months later, which would now be October 1985.

Other dates mentioned:

El watches Miami Vice on Fridays. It starts at 10.

The Hawkins Post tagline says "Courage in Journalism since 1947".

The Journal Tribune publishes an article headlined "SCANDAL ROCKS SMALL TOWN" about Starcourt on July 11th, 1985

The Indianapolis Gazette publishes an article headlined "THIRTY DEAD", and the subheader reads "Hero Chief Dies in Fire" on July 15th, 1985

The Journal Tribune publishes an article headlined "MAYOR UNDER FIRE", and above it there is text that reads "Hawkins makes headlines around the nation" on July 12th, 1985

After the three month time skip, a news special on Channel 4 WCPK-TV links Satanism and D&D for the first time within the show

The Byers are packing up after the time skip. Jonathan says, "Seventeen years of my life. Packed up in one day." (kind of impressive tbh)

Mike initially planned on visiting the Byers for Thanksgiving, and El is supposed to come back for Christmas (this obviously does not happen).

S4

The massacre at Hawkins Lab was September 8th, 1979.

(apparently I neglected to take note of any actual Date Dates after this)

The season starts on the Friday before Spring break.

Mike arrives in Lenora on Saturday morning.

El is arrested on Sunday.

Joyce and Murray are told to meet Yuri in two days on a Saturday, which means that episode takes place on a Monday.

The original Creel murders happened in 1959.

When Erica yells at Jason, she says she's been covering for Lucas for two days.

The faux reference latter that Nancy has for Director Hatch is dated March 29th, 1986

Lucas and Max agree to a movie date the following Friday

The death toll two days later is 22

Other dates mentioned:

Max sees Miss Kelly on Thursdays

The Indianapolis Gazette published an article headlined "3 Dead as Police Probe Grisly Scene" about Creel on Thursday, March 18, 1959 (the text on the date is super blurry, I'm mostly confident I got Thursday and March right but I can only mostly tell the date is two digits, and the first digit is a 1)

Victor Creel was back from war for 14 years when he bought the house in Hawkins

Billy was born March 29, 1967

The Nina Project was named after the opera Nina by Nicolas Dalayrac in 1786

Dustin's birthday is in two months, three days, and five hours (from when they reach Suzie)

The dates on Brenner's tapes:

Dustin's shirt says "Craftsbury Banjo Contest" with the year 1986 on it

The Hawkins Presbyterian Church was constructed in 1897

[qqueenofhades]

As much as I love hearing trump getting more charges and would love nothing more than him to get sent to prison, I fear that when he eventually goes to trial, they’re will be some crazy maga nut who could watch him kill their mother and would still claim he’s innocent.

Honestly, I am... not totally sure what y'all want me to say here? I get the fear, believe me, but also, after every Trump indictment, just like clockwork, a lot of Gloomy the Doom Men pop up to pre-emptively insist that it doesn't mean anything, it won't go anywhere, he won't actually be punished, etc. I'm not saying this is that, but it does happen every time, and I just... don't know what I'm supposed to do about it? Is this part of the whole "The System Doesn't Work and Therefore We Are Justified in Not Participating" thing that the online leftists habitually do, or what? Honest question. First it was he'll get re-elected, then it was he will never leave power, then it was the Republicans will win in 2022, then it was he will never get indicted, etc. The goalposts keep shifting so any progress we do make on holding him to account (which is far more than has ever happened to any other American president, including actual war criminal George W. Bush) somehow is "meaningless" and I just?? Don't get it??

First of all, jury selection is a thing, and aims to weed out those who, in this case, are either too vehemently against Trump or too vehemently for him. They want the exact sort of mushy middle voter of which there are far too many in this country, who can be persuaded one way or the other but doesn't have ironclad previous biases. Also, they must have done a good job selecting jurors so far, given that all the grand juries have returned indictments, and at least one of them (the one in NY) had someone who was a fan of conservative talk radio/right wing politics. So if by this you mean one rogue juror will preclude a guilty conviction, that is something that can actually be planned for and prepared, and as I said, all the grand juries seated to hear evidence against Trump so far have returned indictments.

Also, this case has been assigned to U.S. District Judge Tanya Chutkan, who is an Obama appointee and has been willing to sentence J6 defendants harshly in the past. She is widely regarded as competent, fair, and firm, and will not grant any of the bullshit delays that Aileen Cannon the Trump-stooge judge will bend over backward to find for him in the Mar-a-Lago docs case in Florida. So there's a strong possibility this one goes to trial before May 2024, and the judge in this case is neither a Trump judge or a slobbering Trump partisan: indeed, quite the opposite. So I don't think we can assume that she will be so incompetent as to not manage her own trial and/or jury.

Anyway, yes. We don't know what will happen, but similar to the Espionage Act charges he got hit with last time (themselves meriting of a stiff prison sentence) Trump is facing yet more high-level felony charges that come with serious jail time. So how about for now, we don't automatically assume that what will be the most watched and covered trial in a generation will fall apart because of a simple and easily avoidable mistake that even I, a non-lawyer, know how to fix, much less a team of extremely experienced prosecutors who know this has to be absolutely fucking watertight and then some? It will be better on your mental health for the long run and arguably also much more accurate.

[horizon-verizon]

Note after writing: so I poke my head up into Tumblr now that I've finished my cross-country move and can soon again indulge in essays and all the replies/drafts I've been putting off. I innocently engage in some passive scrolling until your Dany-Westeros comment tempts me into a quick ask comment, and THIS comes out? On my phone where I hate to edit/cut asks for later? Oops. Let this be an example of how for some reason you're very good at steering my rant interests. (And to think I started this one because I thought I didn't have time for the twilight one. We'll get there ;)

Thank-you for pointing out that Westeros needs Dany far more than she needs Westeros. I'm so tired of people acting like Westeros is the centre of that world when not even Dany sees it that way. Honestly, I don't think she's compatible with Westeros because I don't even really think the Targaryens (or general human health and happiness) were. We're hit over and over again with how Westeros will continually ostracize and blame the Other for their own problems (Rego Draz, Larra Rogare, Lady Serala who loves to prove that team smallfolk don't actually pay attention to the riverlands chapters or twoiaf over the wiki otherwise they'd question how F&B presents Mysaria and Rhaenyra. Actually all examples make a point about how F&B and team small folk treat Rhaenyra, that's why she's my current obsession). We're hit with all the other ways in how (ironically) "backwards" and xenophobic Westeros is. Not just in a "period accurate" way, but also in a way that seems excessive compared to the realms that surround them. Omens aside, I don't think that the Valyrians and pre-Conquest Targs having little interest aside from possibly wanting a certain kind of imperial influence via trade is supposed to mean nothing. (And i find it interesting how those "Westeros is the beacon of civilization and enlightment - no don't ask me how the Enlightment happened" stans are so quick to claim that the very slow-moving Freehold would have uber-colonized Westeros if not for their superstitions or possible knowledge and wariness of the weird magic of Westeros like the Others, BUT of course Aegon was definitely not motivated to conquer Westeros for that reason and definitely didnt believe that deeply in the forces that apparently were the one thing that kept the uber-dragon-reich from immediately invading...) because the Targaryen's biggest failure is their lack of connection to historic Valyria unless we're talking about how singularly evil they are in which case they are a direct continuation of all the bad parts and only the bad parts of the institution they only SEEMED alienated from. Also this is a trait that skips over certain good men to bad women and has concentrated in Dany because 1. These traits actually get stronger over time as they're passed like how pesticides build up more in owls than in their prey and 2. because men DO culture but women EMBODY culture and bad woman embody the bad parts.

Right. Westeros's relative irrelevance outside of the Long Night. GRRM himself has pointed out how the Freehold resembled the EARLY Roman Republic and their contract system. Valyrians tended to conquer preexisting power structures, leave it relatively intact, and extract tribute, rather than (with exceptions of course) going full Andal (Or Rome to Celtic Europe) settler-colonial assimilation mode. Because I won't stop pointing out that the Valyria/Essos parallels to Rome are limited to the early days and then solely to the "Oriental" half and subsequent conquests by other empires like the Ottomans - especially the Ottomans you can't change my mind - and that any parallel to later Occidental Rome and the Western Roman settler-colonialism-to-slave-plantation-to-feudalism pipeline belongs to Westeros. Especially since the one "off" part of this division, Valyrian fuctioning like Latin across Essos, can be explained by GRRM outright admitting that linguistics is a weak spot of his and he didn't give it much thought.

That the Conquerors took Westeros with three dragons while the Freehold showed no interest for millennia should say something about Westeros's relevance and desirability. That the snooty blood-purist Valyrians (whose far flung survivors' ideologies around their blood and current attitudes towards it were definitely not altered by the destruction of their mother civilization and decimation of population, nor was there any possible practical or pragmatic aspect relating to magic because all civilizations are like whi- Andals but in ways that are recognizably worse than whi- Andals who embody those traits in healthy and/or invisible forms) apparently were willing enough to form bonds with other powerful realms/empires without the (overwhelming) desire to conquer (eg a dragonrider wedding an emperor of YiTi, the fact that Sarnor was right there yet never taken, and fell so soon to Dothraki after Valyria suggesting they were entwined enough that the Doom destabilized them) yet did not do so with Westeros... should also mean something.

What would the Ottomans, or any of the powers around them, want with a giant England that's also way over there? With North-west Europe in general? One that exists in a nasty middle where the diverse cultures and knowledge have already been colonized and replaced with a single knowledge/culture system that makes the Latinized sliver of Roman utilitarianism look downright sophisticated, BUT it also doesn't come along with all that wealth stolen from other lands? Especially without an equivalent to Islam/Christianity to add an ideological, competitive motivation?

Not much.

Problem is... as much as i would love if it could be framed in a way that makes Westeros's relative irrelevance clear, I also don't like the message it sends that you should just let xenophobes be xenophobes, that Dany should come in, fix all of Westeros's problems and then leave (or worse, die) because she nor her family ever really belonged there and yet all those generations of women suffered through all misogyny just so Dany can save the root of that misogyny while also probably being subjected to it. But I also don't like a lot of the alternatives. She can't rule Westeros without dramatically restructuring it and getting called a "tyrant," because I'll maintain that while it's both problematic and bad writing to thematically link Dany+House Targaryen to Valyria as a whole TOO MUCH, I do think the one "parallel" that the Targs and Valyria share, that Dany BREAKS on the third round, is that joining, maintaining and assimilating into preexisting exploitative systems according to THEIR rules, even if war and violence ARE the rules but only if used in a way that follows the rules, isn't just a bad idea when magic is the source of your power, but it's also not a more "ethical" choice than using your magic advantage to break said system. A stance I'm sure the "anti-colonial" irl maesters would LOVE.

But... I've always been convinced that much like Rhaenyra, Dany's story is very much a sociological story, even compared to the other characters around her. She's very much a product of the world around her and the state of that world, and more importantly, the way the world responds to her and her actions is a statement about the world around her.

I'll die on the hill that, because we never get her pov, because GRRM hammers it in that anything relating to her is the most ambiguous part of F&B, Rhaenyra simply cannot be judged for the choices she makes (and all the ones she possibly makes) as an individual. Because aside from kind of forming a dual warning with Nettles for Dany (that raw power from dragons alone leaves her a target and incredibly vulnerable, which Dany learns herself pretty quickly, but that working with a system that won't work with her will never work, that it will ultimately rob you of even the raw power you bring in to it, which she takes a bit longer to learn) Rhaenyra's not meant to function as an individual who is tested. Because she IS the test. A test (most) the men of House Targaryen fail as they chose "The Realm". Because the Realm fails, Gyldayn fails, Stannis (Mr. "The Law" & "Right makes Right") fails... HotD and a good portion of the internet fail...

Which is why however Dany's Westeros arc is resolved is going to be more of a statement on Westeros and the charcters established there (and on GRRM, because I'll also maintain that the themes around Rhaenyra and Dany, that link Rhaenyra and Dany, make them the most "meta") than it is on her. In fact, even GoT fell into this by accident, in that anything even tangential to Dany in those last seasons is incredibly revealing - of the ugly underbelly of the Westeros they had adapted, of the writers, of the "ideal audience" they were appealing to, and the actual audience that still managed to swallow it and was only uncomfortable with how the clumsy writing made it... that much more revealing - of THEM.

I think I started with a conclusion and question about Dany inevitably losing certain forms of agency while becoming a bit of a mirror, on multiple levels, the moment she sets foot in Westeros and meets other pov characters from the "normal" culture, and how I do wonder if/how GRRM struggles with that... and the urge i worry he has and hopefully fights to pull an hbo by (hbo)Targaryen Woman-ing her and essentially withdrawing from her pov or from directing reader empathy and identification towards her, the outsider, and away from the "normies." I like to hope he's a better writer than that. But he's also a white liberal. But... good writing, especially set in a world that the author doesn't live in, often is more "progressive" than the author themselves. For reasons I'm cutting off here before an essay emerges.

Oh wow I really did that to you 😂, you brave warrior of ask culture.

Rhaenin, there is a special hell just for you, just you wait. (THIS is the ask rhaenin-time talks abt when they say "your Dany-Westeros comment" and "Thank-you for pointing out that Westeros needs Dany far more than she needs Westeros").

I think that there would be some confusion over why one wouldn't look at the Targs landing in Westeros through Daenys as them not trying to establish an outpost for future conquest from other Valyrians. But Daenys' father had no intention of settling on Dragonstone before the vision of the Doom and thr other dragonslords sincerely thought he was running away scared, showing us that they may not have been really "interested" in colonizing Westeros. A bit weird to think about Westeros' "desireability" for conquest.

As for GRRM, I can only say we just will have to hope for how he's going to have Dany after the destruction of the Others. As for her meeting others before then, I imagine it will be a very mixed reception and she'd grow a sense of resentment due to how they'd treat her, but nothing "mad" wise like some people say.

But... I've always been convinced that much like Rhaenyra, Dany's story is very much a sociological story, even compared to the other characters around her. She's very much a product of the world around her and the state of that world, and more importantly, the way the world responds to her and her actions is a statement about the world around her. I'll die on the hill that, because we never get her pov, because GRRM hammers it in that anything relating to her is the most ambiguous part of F&B, Rhaenyra simply cannot be judged for the choices she makes (and all the ones she possibly makes) as an individual. Because aside from kind of forming a dual warning with Nettles for Dany (that raw power from dragons alone leaves her a target and incredibly vulnerable, which Dany learns herself pretty quickly, but that working with a system that won't work with her will never work, that it will ultimately rob you of even the raw power you bring in to it, which she takes a bit longer to learn) Rhaenyra's not meant to function as an individual who is tested. Because she IS the test. A test (most) the men of House Targaryen fail as they chose "The Realm". Because the Realm fails, Gyldayn fails, Stannis (Mr. "The Law" & "Right makes Right") fails... HotD and a good portion of the internet fail... Which is why however Dany's Westeros arc is resolved is going to be more of a statement on Westeros and the charcters established there (and on GRRM, because I'll also maintain that the themes around Rhaenyra and Dany, that link Rhaenyra and Dany, make them the most "meta") than it is on her. In fact, even GoT fell into this by accident, in that anything even tangential to Dany in those last seasons is incredibly revealing - of the ugly underbelly of the Westeros they had adapted, of the writers, of the "ideal audience" they were appealing to, and the actual audience that still managed to swallow it and was only uncomfortable with how the clumsy writing made it... that much more revealing - of THEM.

So I pretty much agree here, but perhaps you could also explain more about Rhaenyra's ambiguity. I get more of the sense that she is a test, but not so much here aside from her not being given as much independent words like Otto/Daemon. And i understand that her "silence" is meant to make others (in world and reading) form their own conclusions based on how they percieve what she is, should be, etc. as well as those biases that come forth when they do so.

[mangoshorthand]

Arrow of Time: Chapter 4 [Five Hargreeves/ F Reader]

(Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there?

On to Chapter 5 >> << Back to Chapter 3

Five makes plans to rescue you, but it's been far longer for you than for him.

Chapter 4: At Home With Reginald Hargreeves

Five chose a Glock 19 and filled his jacket pockets with as many spare pre-loaded magazines as he could carry. At 33 rounds each, he prepared to leave sitting on a respectable level of firepower; he just hoped he wouldn’t need it .With any luck, he thought, he’d arrive in something like the early 2000s and she’d be there waiting for him. He hoped for the best but prepared for the worst.

The heavy coat was a just-in-case choice. He knew from bitter experience: a decent coat was worth its weight in gold if you were stuck in some wasteland away from people. On the off-chance that Five wouldn’t be stuck in some wasteland away from people, some of Reginald’s gold antiques could be easily sold to help him get by. While Five was in the armory, Diego had searched him out a spyglass, what looked like a snuff-box and a pocket watch, all in gold or gold and enamel. 

“That should keep you going, hermano,” he said, giving Five’s shoulder a squeeze. Apparently, he’d chosen to forget Five’s meanness earlier. Despite Five’s favourite taunt, Diego wasn’t dumb: just then, he could see past his brother’s bluster of confident action to the just-veiled panic within. 

“You’ll find her.” he said, reassuringly, “she’ll probably be standing right on a street corner in 1970 or somewhere yelling about how Nixon’s a fascist.”

Five had cracked a smile at this before looking down again at his shoes.

“Diego…I don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. And…”, he’d sighed fitfully, indecisively,  “what the hell am I doing? If I go, she could be losing both parents.”

Diego squeezed the hand still on his shoulder. 

“If you don’t go, she could die. We all could. You know it, Five.”

Green eyes met brown as Five looked up.

“If we don’t come back, then-” he couldn’t finish the request, voice squalling as he choked on the words. 

Diego shook his head, laughing softly at the fact Five thought he even had to ask. 

“Like she’s our own. Tu hija es mi hija .”

Five nodded, some of his worry removed and, in a move as rare as it was heartfelt, hugged Diego. They broke apart after much throat-clearing and back-slapping. 

“Come on, Number Two,” Five said then, throwing off gravity with as much irony as he could muster.

Back in the study, Lila was trying her best to extort a smile from Aoife- to keep her relaxed despite Uncle Luther’s grave expression.   

“Honestly, sweetie, that’s got to be the most epic teenage meltdown in history. Whacking your Mum through a rip in time? That’s genius : that’s the stuff of teenage dreams. I just wish I’d thought of it when I was your age.”

As Five and Diego walked in, her father dressed to leave, Aoife began to leak from the eyes again.

The others tactfully averted their eyes as Five beckoned her to him for one final hug, giving them a little privacy .Aoife whispered unintelligible apologies and Five loving reassurance. Though it was mostly in Italian, the tenderness in Five’s voice was enough to let them know that this was for his daughter’s ears alone.

Five tried to put as much as he could into that hug: years of love, guidance and comfort that he might now never be able to give her. 

“ Ti voglio bene. Tua madre ti ama.”

“Dad, I’m sorry!”

“Stai sempre al sicuro, sappi che ti amiamo e comportati bene. Sono orgoglioso e non smetterò mai di esserlo, ok?” 

He held her tight for a few more precious moments before letting her go and stepping backwards. He was nervous or, more accurately, terrified. He hadn’t wanted to suggest that Aoife may not be able to replicate what she did; he didn’t want to plant even a shred of doubt in her mind. He knew it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t be able to send him after his wife but he had to go on pretending: for himself as well as for their daughter.

“Go on, cara,” he said, mustering a grin as if this was just a game of soccer and she was preparing to take a penalty against him, “send me wherever you sent Mom. Just do exactly the same thing.”

“Okay.”

She took a couple of deep breaths and shook out her limbs, bracing herself against the floor.

“That’s my girl.”

She rubbed her hands together and he felt her power up. This was a good start. 

“Come on now,” he encouraged, buoyed himself, “just a big push and we’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded, fervently, eyes still sparkling with tears. Did she believe him or was she nodding with the force of how much she wanted it to be true? She closed her eyes and sprang at him.

He breached the film-like seal easily. She’d done it: he spiralled into senseless static storm. He fell (or maybe falls?) through time, screwing up his eyes against the turmoil. 

And he lands, amazingly, on his feet. His knees buckle only slightly. Straightening his back, he looks over his shoulder at the tear, watching it disappear in a sag-like collapse. No problem: it’s still there, only invisible.

He hurries out of the alleyway, brain much cooler than he’d imagined it would be, and scans the crowded street for a glimpse of his wife. Nothing. A setback, but only a slight one. He calls her name experimentally. Nothing but a few haughty looks from passers-by. Okay: reconnaissance time.

It’s old-timey times, that much is clear. He doesn’t know much about fashion but if that woman’s hat is anything to go by, it’s certainly pre-20th century. Carriages on the road: definitely 19th century. There’s a chill in the air: so winter, maybe early spring? He’d be thankful for the warm coat were it not attracting so many stares. So where is he? 

He strolls into the street, still scanning the pedestrians for a glimpse of your face. The accents of the passers-by certainly sound American and this is clearly a city, so he decides to work on the assumption that he’s traveled further through time than he has space. Those accents weren’t precisely what he’d expect from local New Yorkers, but he knows enough about linguistic change to know that accents shift over centuries. If these people sound a little more Irish or English or Italian or whatever, it’s to be expected.

He takes off the coat and drapes it over his arm. In exposing his suit, he hopes to look slightly less out of place than he does in the coat with its obviously modern fabrics. At least a suit will be a recognizable garment to these people, even if he’s wearing one that looks completely bizarre to them.

Though Five doesn’t know it, his next move mirrors yours when you arrived here, although he has less care for being polite. Across the street, a man slightly more down-at-heel than the relatively affluent people around him carries a newspaper under his arm. Five blinks across to him, appearing directly in his eyeline and causing him and several others to call out in shock.

“Is that today’s newspaper?” Five says, abruptly. He’s unwilling to tread softly: he wants to find you and get the hell out of here.

The man nods and Five holds out his hand expectantly. He thrusts it towards him and hurries away. Five knows he and the others will already be trying to rationalize what he saw: of course that strangely dressed man didn’t appear out of nowhere, he just stepped out from behind that carriage extremely quickly.

Five shakes out the front page. It’s a copy of the New-York Evening Post, dated March 6th 1831. That answers two questions: yes, he is in the nineteenth century and yes, he is still in New York. But none of this answers the more important question of where the hell his wife is.

Stuffing the newspaper into his back pocket, he blinks back to the alleyway, checking the walls for the hope of some sign: some calling card you might have left. Nothing. 

Hell, is he in the right place? Did Aoife somehow send him somewhere else? He didn’t think it was possible but he would have expected to have seen something by now if you were here. You knew how things went down in Dallas: you knew how he’d had to find his siblings like a trail of more-or-less idiotic breadcrumbs. You’d leave him some way of finding you again, he knew it.

Tracking people down was never a huge part of his skill-set, either when Dad was training them or when working for the Commission. Indeed, the job that had made his name in the Commission, (Paris: 1938) had been notable because he’d had to improvise after being unable to track the target down in time. Nevertheless, he’d had enough experience with it to know how to begin in a situation like this. 

He walks back to the alley where he arrived and puts himself squarely in your shoes. Knowing you almost as well as he knows himself by now, he’s at an advantage: it’s time to reconstruct your first moments here.

You were a first time time-traveler without the aid of a briefcase and his supportive arm…you’d be disorientated. You’d have fallen onto the cobbles. He crouches down, trying to get to the level you’d be at. You’d be scared, obviously. He looks into the sky behind him, where the portal would have just disappeared: you’d be looking for help, looking for him… but clearly he wasn’t there.

Still immersed in your headspace, Five looks around into the street. You’d probably panic, maybe run into the street and cause a stir. People would stare at you like they’d stared at him…except you were in your pajamas and robe: braless and exposed…you probably wouldn’t get much help from people on the street. They’d think you were mad.

His stomach lurches at this. If there’s one thing he knows about the 1830s, it’s that mentally-ill people were not treated well. So that puts asylums firmly on his list, unless he can find a better lead. Shit, a woman on her own in 1831? 

The realization makes him pause, blood running cold; if you’re here, then you’re probably in serious danger. He needs to find you, and quickly. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if you’re here alone for even a few days. He bats away the thoughts for now and returns to his process. 

Vulnerable, unsure where (or when), you were and attracting stares from people dressed like a period drama. He crosses his arms over his chest as you would likely have done, to hide prominent nipples. Inside…you’d want to go inside and get off the street.

He hurries into all the establishments on the street: he blinks from church to pawnbroker and bookstore to butcher: neither the preacher nor the store’s clerks can recall a woman of your description. 

In the pawnbroker, he makes his first mistake. He’s so distracted by first enquiring after you and then selling the antique spyglass that he doesn’t notice something in the window: something that could lead him to you much more quickly. As it is, he walks straight past that item, folding the two hundred and ten dollars he got for the spyglass and placing the notes in his jacket pocket with two of the Glok’s spare clips.

If Five hadn’t been concerned with concealing the ammunition, he might have caught the sparkle of rubies and spotted your engagement ring in the window for sale. 

He’d initially overlooked the Milliner’s shop right beside the alley entrance. When he blinks inside unexpectedly, the two women comparing the shade of ribbon on two bonnets give little screams of surprise.

Ignoring them, Five focuses his attention purely on the shop’s startled proprietor:

“Did a woman come in here? She’d be dressed strangely. In a pair of pajamas and a robe?”

“Pajamas?” said the clerk, clearly not understanding the word.

Five tries to keep his frustration under the surface, “Like a cotton shirt and pants? With a floral pattern and a white robe on top? Probably panicking.”

There’s a spark of something like recognition in her eyes. Her disposition towards him, (already chilly), seems to cool even further on learning of his association with her.

“Yes sir, though it was a long time since.”

“How long?” 

“About a year now, I’d say.”

A year? Five rubs a hand down his face. A year? While he collects himself, the clerk looks him up and down.

“You wouldn’t be her husband, would you?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, heart leaping,

“Yes. What did she say?”

“As I say, it was a long while ago now and I’m afraid I shooed her out right quick. I can’t say I can remember all she said.”

Five leans threateningly over the counter.

“Well, think.”

The shop’s customers behind him whisper among themselves. He ignores them, eyes boring into the clerk’s. She stammers slightly as she responds,

“I didn’t set much store by it. She seemed mad to me, I’m sorry to say. She was raving about being separated from her husband.”

Five tries extremely hard not to snap, “She was separated from her husband. What else?”

She quails under his look, backing up towards the door to the back of the store. 

“S-she said to tell you where she was staying if you came enquiring for her.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. Why this woman can’t just get to the point , he has no idea.

“Yes, and where was she staying?”

“At the tavern,” the clerk said, as if this was evidence in itself of his wife’s ill-repute. “The Bull’s Head. It’s a block away and it’s got one or two rooms overhead.”

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit. 

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit. 

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

AT HOME WITH SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES Newcomer to the Manhattan set, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, will be entertaining to a select group of Ladies and Gentlemen on March 9 at his home in LeRoy Place. Though one of the latest of an increasing number of British arriviste, Sir Reginald has made quite the impact on Manhattan society, and is already acquainted with the finest people. The evening will be devoted to music, dancing and social chat and promises to be a most fashionable occasion...

It makes him double-take. He can practically feel the blood draining from his face and into his extremities. Dad? Here? Throwing a party!? It just seems too much of a coincidence to not be significant. And how? How old was he? He knew he’d been around in the 20s, but to be here nearly a century earlier? 

He knows time’s in a fragile state right now, and if there’s one place he shouldn't go, then it’s that party, (the last thing he needs is to kick off another Sparrow Academy scenario), but he also can’t not go to this party. His Dad and his wife, appearing in a timeframe where neither of them had any business being? This wasn’t a coincidence: it simply couldn’t be.

…but he couldn’t just burst in and scream: ‘Hey Dad, where’s my wife and what are you doing here?’ It was essential to travel under Hargreeves’ radar and if he was going to do that, he had to be disciplined. No blinking, no yelling, nothing that could make him stick out. He hoped this ‘select group of ladies and gentlemen’ wasn’t too small so he had half a chance of blending in.

And if he were even to have a quarter of a chance of blending in, he needs to look the part. 

Then, Number Five makes his second mistake: He tears the society page out of the newspaper, folds it and hurries to the bar to ask for the nearest tailors or gentleman’s outfitters.  When he hurries out of the door, he leaves the rest of the newspaper on the table. If he'd kept reading to the personals section, he would have seen something even more useful than the piece about Reginald.

NUMBER FIVE - If a certain gentleman wishes to correspond with an old acquaintance, then he might apply to the editor of this newspaper.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88, @nevillescomslut (sorry for double tag Nev this is just to aid with my creation of the next post!)

On to Chapter 5 >> Masterpost

[pruneunfair]

Tried to start reading For My Derelict Favorite for Diana on this list, I can't y'all, I fucking can't, the protagonist is just so viscerally unbearable that I quit really fast. I don't even remember how many chapters I lasted. Terrible. Horrible. Shallow politics and worldbuilding that make no sense (WHY WOULDN'T TAILORS BE COMMONERS?!), the story bending over backwards to glorify the MC who just thirsts over this man without any genuine connection, I can't fucking take it it's terrible. I guess I'm too aroace for this but c'mon. People thirst for fictional characters. Whatever. But the moment you live in that fictional world with the knowledge that those characters are human people???? Girl why do you keep treating him like a walking thirst trap stop it. I guess I take issue with this for similar reasons as I dislike When The Villainess Loves (for that one it was: tonal dissonance/whiplash between other characters angsting about the MC's terminal illness while both the MC and the audience know she's not actually in any danger of dying, MC treats the men like they're just made to be thirsted over, the OG villainess was much more interesting than the reincarnator, etc etc) and also super didn't like how suicidality is utilized in this manhwa. His suicidality is... severely unserious I don't know if it's just me or what but I feel like it's being used as a cheap plot device to make him “sympathetic” and give the protagonist a reason to... do anything... All the while he's being treated like a thirst object by the narrative and protagonist. A bereaved man who's suicidal. It felt so gross.

I tried so hard to stick around for Diana but... y'all. I can't do it.

I can't blame you for dropping it, when the only character worth sticking around for is treated like shit by the characters you are supposed to like. I honestly can't tell if my derelict favorite was written by an Incel who got rejected and Hestia is just his dream girl or if it was written by a pick me girl who gets upset when girls dont have the same taste in men as her.

The suicide thing too was handled in a way that always felt so iffy to me, I used to be suicidal myself so I'm glad I wasn't the only one who felt that it was a cheap excuse for Cael to murder 2 people for Diana and it's solved with the power of pussy. It makes it out as if all forms of depression and suicidal thoughts can be fixed with the power of love from a romantic partner.

Just thinking about the lost potential of Diana being an accurate version of a saint sent by God and Hestia growing as a person instead of being a total sham of a girls girl forever makes me sad.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

The crew mess is noisy this morning. It’s almost always loud. If she closed her eyes, Shadowheart could reach backward into her hazy memories of the barracks beneath the House of Grief in Baldur’s Gate, listening to the Sharrans eating and squabbling and shouting to each other. There wasn’t much difference when it came down to it. Whether crew or cult, any group of rough people in a small space tended to behave the same.

Shadowheart had joined this crew not long before the captain, Ancunín his name was, had returned from a peculiar absence. According to the first mate, Ancunín had been gone for three years. How he maintained control over this motley bunch during that time was a mystery to her. She’d seen very little of the handsome elvish Captain since he returned with a pretty little slip of a girl with dark hair and wide eyes hanging off his hip like a babe on apron strings.

Or was it the other way around? This little lighthouse keeper, this Doe, seemed to hypnotize anyone who spoke to her for more than a minute. Anyone, except for Lae’zel, that was. No surprise there. The gith among the crew kept to themselves, letting their general resting bitch face do the talking for them. Lae’zel, however, seemed to lack Voss’ good sense and let her mouth get carried away with her. She’d end up in the drink if she wasn’t careful. Not that it mattered to Shadowheart. The idea of seeing that frog-like woman soaking wet and spluttering as she receded into the distance behind the ship brought a smile to Shadowheart’s face.

Still, Shadowheart had to agree with Lae’zel’s misgivings about the captain’s pet. She’d watched Doe on her first day, working away like it was a competition, singing the whole time. Then, somehow, Lae’zel ended up being told to take a powder while the songbird got her own room. It seemed Lae’zel’s assessment that their captain used the little brain more than the big one when it came to Doe was pretty accurate.

Speaking of the devil, there she was – the captain’s little songbird come skulking into the mess, late to breakfast again. From the second night of caterwauling in a row, the captain and, if her sharp ears didn’t deceive her, the navigator as well, had been keeping her up late the night before. Although seeing her half-hearted wave at Dekarios as she entered the mess, Doe looked about as glum as a person could look. Perhaps they weren’t as incredible lovers as all the racket suggested.

Shadowheart watches Doe collect her bowl of fish stew and coarse bread from the galley and shuffle over to an unoccupied corner, a little black rain cloud hovering over her head the entire time. Seeing Doe push her stew around in her bowl, Shadowheart almost felt bad for her. Almost. It couldn’t be easy, knowing half the crew thought of her as nothing more than the captain’s new toy while the other half resented her for it. What Doe needed was a friend who didn’t want to fuck her. Well, not yet, anyway. And being friends with someone all the senior officers seemed so smitten with might be useful.

Grabbing her own half-eaten bowl of stew, Shadowheart threads her way through the rows of long tables and plops herself down across from a very droopy-looking Doe.

“I know why I’m such a sad fucker all the time,” Shadowheart began. She spooned a non-descript lump of her rapidly cooling stew into her mouth. “But you, little songbird, don’t seem to have much of a reason to be so dour if last night’s noise level was any indication.”  She grins around her mouthful of stew, trying to communicate “playful” and “friendly,” though Shadowheart can’t honestly say either of those have ever been accurate descriptions of her. She sighs when Doe’s expression is unchanged. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this ‘making friends’ thing, alright? But you looked like you could use one just now, and I’m not busy.” She sighs and holds her hand out across the table to Doe. “I’m Shadowheart. Lookout and former religious nut job.”

~ Shadowheart

Doe's eyes widen. She takes the proferred hand, shakes it firmly, and then smiles for the first time this morning.

'You want to be my friend?' Her tone suggests that this is absurd, but she lives in hope. 'I... I'd like that. Nice to meet you, Shadowheart. It's a fitting name for someone aboard the Sanguine Shadow. I'm Doe.' She eats quietly for a moment, then looks up at the pretty half-elf. 'You too, huh?' she says, gesturing to her ears. 'Mine was my mother. I'm told I look like her, though nobody's really seen me in the past 13 years.' She shrugs. 'Always a beacon for others, never found in my own right. 'Til now, I suppose.' She gives Shadowheart a warm smile. 'You have such pretty green eyes. Like seaglass.'

The silence grows oddly comfortable for these two strangers, as they finish their breakfast. 'If you want to chat later, I can meet you after work is over? We can drink, or something. Might be fun. And I suppose I should apologise. For the noise. Though, I won't have it said it was my idea. You can blame the captain and the navigator for that one.' She winks, the first genuinely carefree thing she's done since walking on deck.

'See you around, Shadowheart. Keep those eyes sharp.'

With that, she leaves the mess hall, ready for a day acquiring callouses.

[sotwk]

I had a fun Silvan Elf question for you!

A fic I'm writing takes place primarily in Mirkwood, with a heavy focus on the Silvan Elves - and one aspect of their speech that I kind of want some advice on is this: do the Silvan Elves have any slang words or phrases?

Oh gosh, I'm gonna answer this one quickly cause I honestly don't have anything particularly brilliant to say. XD

I confess I'm not much of a linguist, and apart from coming up with translations for Elvish names, nicknames and titles as needed for the story or worldbuilding, I'm not the sort of Tolkien writer who injects Elvish phrases in fics.

Since Silvan wasn't developed thoroughly by Tolkien, there are very few resources out there to work with in constructing a fan version of the language. My own method is to just sorta twist Sindarin around and hope no Tolkien linguist nails me for it. XD

I view Silvans in Middle-earth as the rough cultural equivalent of Southerners in the United States, and I mean that in a good way. They're a bit rough around the edges and enjoy a simpler lifestyle, but they are very good with the land, strong in their communities, and proud of their heritage.

Southerners are known for their slang terms and colloquialisms, and a lot of them connect to food and nature--very Silvan-like! Here are some examples:

"Enough money to burn a wet mule"

"Madder than a wet hen"

"Happy as a dead pig in the sunshine"

"I could just sop you up with a biscuit"

"Full as a tick"

"As easy as sliding off a greasy log backward"

"Fish or cut bait"

I think you get the point. XD Like I said, I wouldn't translate these English phrases into Silvan, but I think the truly native Silvans use expressions like these. Thranduil with his Sindar upbringing probably doesn't use them in everyday speech, but I can see him slipping into some of it when engaging with his people. (More so on the rare occasions that he gets tipsy.) Legolas, on the other hand, probably has a TON of fun with it.

I remember fondly an LOTR shitpost somewhere about Frodo trying to chat up Legolas in his formal, book-learned Sindarin/Elvish and Legolas being "what the hell are you talking about, mate??". Even though in my mind, Legolas is learned enough to recognize a variety of dialects, I just think that situation is so hilarious and super accurate at the same time.

This response probably wasn't much help, but I hope it inspires your Mirkwood Silvan writings! :)

[noforkingclue]

New Friends?

Summary: you always felt that the hotel you worked at was slightly creepy but you passed it off due to it being an old building. However, a chance encounter one night changes everthing.

Author's note: I was inspired by this after seeing the last ever Ghosts episode, so spoilers for that if you haven't seen it. I honestly can't believe the series is over and I'm definitely going to need to re-watch it at some point!

Hope you like it :)

BBC Ghosts tag list: @violetlucreziastuff,  @mxacegrey

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

Why did all the creepy things happen at night?

Why didn’t horror films happen during the daytime when it was bright and there were lots of people about? Why was it had to be you who was working the night shift?

Why did you have to have all these fucking questions?

A couple had decided to leave in the middle of the night and of course you had to draw the short straw to make it presentable. Ok, so you wouldn’t be doing a full clean but your manager wanted it to at least look presentable in case there were any late night guests. You let out a huff as you let the door swing open as you inspected the room. Your old line manager wouldn’t be making anyone do this. This new one was a bit of a stickler to the rules and almost seemed to have it out for you.

You fluffed up the pillows and pulled back the duvet. There were no suspicious stains on the sheets so they’d do in a pinch. You made a note to change them in the morning as you made your way to the bathroom. Best to check that as well in case your guest were vicious serial killers who killed their latest victim in your room.

At first you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. You let out a sigh of relief as you turned around and froze. Ok, maybe you theory about them being serial killers was more accurate than you initially thought. You slowly crept forward and narrowed your eyes. There wasn’t a lot of blood for a decapitated head. In films there was always gushing blood but this-

“Hello.”

“Ahh!”

You cried out and jumped backwards, scuttling away. Your eyes widened in shock and you raised a shaking hand.

“What the… you spoke…”

“Well, yeah! Wait,” the head frowned, “you can see me?”

“I’m imagining this,” you stood up and ran a hand over your face, “I’m imagining this. I’m… sleep deprived, that’s it!”

You staggered back ignoring the cried from the head. This was all in your mind. You hadn’t been sleeping too well lately and that was why you’re seeing random talking heads.

Right?

*

“I know you can hear us.”

“Come on, just one word.”

“It is incredibly rude to ignore people when they are talking to you. Did your parents not teach you any manners?”

You put your hands over your ears as you continued to walk quickly down the corridor. For the past week you had been followed around by what you assumed (but didn’t want to believe) to be ghosts. You were just about keeping it together but you could see your colleagues becoming concerned. Your new line manager was becoming harsher, not just with you, but with everyone and that added pressure wasn’t helping.

“My dear if you would just-“

You slammed the door of the room you were meant to be cleaning in one of the ghosts (you think one of them called him Thomas?) face. You knew you were going to get in trouble for that later but you could always pass it off as the wind slamming it or it slipping out of your grip.

“I think she wants to be left alone,” said one of them (possibly Pat?), “you remember how Alison was when she first saw us. Give her time.”

You let out a sigh of relief and picked up your cleaning supplies. You headed into the bathroom and paused when you saw a familiar head in the bath. You sagged and sat down on the floor, back resting against the tub.

“So I’m not going insane?” you asked

“That rather depends on what you class as insane.”

You closed your eyes and leant back. Maybe you should just give in?

“I’m Humphrey by the way.”

“Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you, well, meet you again and as much as I can while I’m in here.”

You leant over the bath and smiled at him.

“Better?” you asked

“Yeah.” Humphrey frowned, “You alright?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You look a bit stressed.”

“Just my manager being a dick. Giving me too much work that I can’t always complete on time. Throwing her weight around and acting like a jerk. God, sometimes I really just want to-“

You let out a frustrated noise and sat back down.

“Sounds like you want a bit of revenge.”

“Revenge? I just want some breathing space.”

“Well if there’s one person who would be good at that.”

“Who?”

“Julian.”

“Julian?”

You jumped when a ghost stuck his head through the wall. You had been getting used to that happening but you could never get used to that happening. You didn’t need to see Humphrey to know that he was rolling his eyes.

“I heard my name,” Julian said, giving you what he thought was a charming smile, “in what way do you need my expertise?”

As you glanced up at the disgraced politician all you could think of was,

‘Well, what’s the worst that could happen?’

[deusvervewrites]

On media in MHA:

I like to think Quirks have permeated all other settings of fiction, even in the works that purport to be historically accurate.

Witches in Middle Ages? Quirks

Urban and indigenous legends of all kinds? Quirks

The Wild fucking West? At least half the gunslingers have quirks that make them more precise or draw faster. The remainder has infinite ammo.

It's a mix of the idea that Quirks are somehow older than they actually are and that, as time goes on, the big panic around their public appearance becomes such a far away concept that common sense pushes it further backwards in the collective unconscious.

That makes a disturbing amount of sense honestly

[cherrytoru]

WHATS A GUY GOTTA DO?!

or zoro tries (and fails) to swoon the person of his dreams (multiple times)

warnings: joking angst (zoro is just bad with emotions), love-drunk zoro agenda, simp zoro agenda, zoro agenda :), zoro gets advice from the wrong people (sanji, frankie, brook), chopper wing man arc, i probably didn’t capitalize names cause ugh, these tags aren’t fully accurate i just can’t be bothered lmao

“Sanji. You cannot say anything to anyone about this.” Sanji looked up from the plates in front of him, side-eyeing the swordsman.

“Say anything about what?” He fully turned to Zoro, who was standing in the doorway holding what looked to be a box of chocolates and flowers. “And just who are those for?” He half-laughed, racking his brain for who Zoro would go as far as buying sweets for.

Zoro cleared his throat before speaking, “They’re, uh, for Y/N.” His face flushed as he looked away from the blonde.

“And who convinced you to get those?”

Still looking away he answered, “Chopper.” That was it for Sanji, he couldn’t hold back his laughter anymore.

“You need far more than that to woo the true beauty that is Y/N. Let me help.” Zoro cringed, he know this was going to be a bad idea. 

But alas, he didn’t have any other options so he nodded.

“What are you two doing?” A voice rang from bellow where the two stood.

“Zoro is wants to get with Y/N!” Sanji called back, peering over the edge, “I’m helping him set up an uber romantic dinner venue.”

Brook let out a laugh, “Dinner is never complete without entertainment! Oh I know I’ll write a song to perform just for the pair of you!” He danced around joyously “Oh but first let me help you set up!”

Brook hopped up to be met by an eccentric Sanji and equally embarrassed Zoro. “Now, do you think a cream or vanilla table cloth goes better?”

Zoro stood awkwardly to the side as the two gushed over things that he thought were honestly just trivial. Flower placement, which side the salad fork goes, where to perfect put each chair so the lighting was right. If made his head hurt, so he quietly moved off to the side where he found Frankie looking confused at the antics.

“What’s all that about?”

“I made the mistake of agreeing to have Sanji help with asking Y/N out.”

“If it’s a date you want then you just gotta impress them with your sick moves and body!” He struck a pose and Zoro looked down at himself for a second.

He couldn’t really fathom what was special. Sure he’s a good swordsman, and his body isn’t all that bad. But the longer he looked the more scars of failure he noticed and the more he noticed the more in his head he became.

So engrossed in his insecurities, Zoro failed to notice the person walking towards him. He also failed to notice the shouting of his name until two hands were placed on his shoulder.

“Huh?” He finally looked up, Frankie was gone. In the distance he could see Brook and Sanji waiting for an all clear. His cheeks flushed again.

“I said, do you know what they’re up too?” a thumb jutted backwards, he didn’t need to look to see what they were pointing at.

“It’s um. They helped me. Uh.” He stuttered before cursing under his breath, “They were helping me set up dinner. I was hoping you’d join me? As a date?”

“Hmm, Sanji’s cooking, Brook’s singing, and you,” a finger was pointed at his chest, “as my date? How could I say no.”

Zoro smiled taking Y/N by the hand, “Then by all accounts,” he gestured to the table.

“Y’know, if you wanted to ask me out you could have just gotten me chocolates.” Zoro blushed for the nth time that day, he’d have to tell Chopper that he was right all along.