#i am sticking with the second pronunciation

[my-burnt-city]

tired: saying "laocoön" like "raccoon" because there's a double O in it

wired: saying "laocoön" like "now go on" because the diaeresis over the last O means it should be pronounced separately from the previous letter like in naïve or brontë

inspired: saying "laocoön" like "raccoon" because the accenting issue pales in importance next to the fact that he is a grubby little vermin man who likes to hang out near the tenement trash cans and has horrible little hands

[steddieas-shegoes]

i have another hc for you if you like! this is one of my faves ever since i saw someone call wayne "tio shaped" 😆: Eddie being at least partially hispanic/latinx (i lean toward hispanic) and being fluent in spanish; i LOVE the idea of him either sweet talking or just saying the absolute filthiest stuff to steve in spanish and steve gets robin to help him learn spanish in secret (just for a bit at least) so he can know what eddie’s been saying to him

(i wrote a little drabble of this idea before here, but i would love to see your take on it too!!!!)

OKAY SO FIRST OF ALL GO READ NOELLE'S POST BECAUSE IT'S GREAT WORK 10/10.

Second of all, I don't know more than the most basic Spanish. I am relying on Google Translate, which we all know is not reliable. If something sticks out as being completely wrong, please let me know.

----------------------

"Okay, that's good!"

"Robin, you don't have to talk to me like I'm a kid," Steve said, but hid the blush on his cheeks at the praise.

"Eddie estará tan impresionado," she said with a knowing smirk.

"Eso espero."

------------------------

Robin left him with some study cards to practice being less formal with his Spanish, told him that Eddie and Wayne were used to conversational and familiar vocabulary and grammar. The last thing she wanted was for him to sound like he was reading from a textbook.

So he sat on his couch, studying, probably more than he ever studied for anything else in his life.

He needed to do this right.

He jumped when the front door opened unexpectedly, shoving his study cards between the cushions and hoping whoever it was wouldn't notice the corner of one sticking out.

"Dios, cómo te ves tan bien sentado ahí?" Eddie said mostly under his breath.

But Steve heard it.

He didn't just hear it, he mostly understood it.

"Sólo estoy usando sudaderas," Steve replied, much easier than he expected to.

Eddie's eyes got impossibly wider, his mouth opening in shock.

"Did you just speak Spanish?" Eddie asked.

"Sí."

"How-" Eddie cleared his throat. "How long have you known Spanish?"

"Not long. Robin's been teaching me," Steve shrugged.

"But like...how long?" Eddie seemed nervous, avoiding eye contact completely.

"If you're worried about things you've been saying, I still don't know enough to figure most of what I can kind of remember out," Steve said.

That was true, too. He barely remembered most of what Eddie had been saying over the last few months, definitely couldn't get the pronunciation right anyway to ask Robin and only some of the words had come up in their lessons.

But what he said today, at least a lot of it, was clear to Steve and that made him feel pretty confident that he'd been reading Eddie's feelings correctly.

"Lo decias en serio?" Steve asked, stuttering a bit with nerves.

"Por supuesto."

"Um. Beso?" Steve knew that wasn't right, but his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders.

"Claro, puedo besarte, cariño."

Steve let out a whimper when Eddie pulled him to his feet, cupped the back of his neck in his hand, and licked into his mouth like he'd been waiting years for this moment.

"You've been learning Spanish for me?" Eddie asked breathlessly when he finally managed to pull away.

"I'm trying. For you and Wayne."

Translations: Eddie estará tan impresionado - Eddie will be so impressed Eso espero - I hope so Dios, cómo te ves tan bien sentado ahí? - God, how do you look so good just sitting there? Sólo estoy usando sudaderas. - I'm just wearing sweats Lo decias en serio? - Did you mean it? Por supuesto. - Of course Beso - Kiss Claro, puedo besarte, cariño. - Sure, I can kiss you, sweetheart

[five-rivers]

Iewuukaubweenz

AO3

@jaybirdscall

.

Footnotes at the bottom!

.

“Iewuukaubweenz,” said Danny, smiling toothily at the tour guide.  

“What was that?” she asked.  “I wasn’t quite able to make it out.”

“Iewuukaubweenz(1),” repeated Danny.  

“Ignore my brother,” said Jazz.  “It means good morning in one of the languages he’s studying.”

“Oh,” said the guide, smiling, “that’s wonderful.  Preparing for college?”

“It’s just a hobby,” said Danny.  

“What language is it?”

“Oiwawu uno Yinis(2).”

“Well, it’s lovely.  Ah, I think that must be everyone…”  The guide stepped away and started to do a headcount.  

“Don’t make me regret bringing you,” said Jazz.  

“Oh, you should have done that long ago, nu(3).”

“Nuuhuueiwee, uu iiuuni yinis, uzue(4)!” snapped Jazz. 

“Your pronunciation is a little off, there.  ‘Don’t forget’ should be ‘nuuheiwee,’ since ‘eiwee’ starts with a vowel.”

“You’re insufferable.”  

“Wibli i iiuuni eulmau noo iitsetu(5)!”

Jazz groaned.  “Please, just don’t scare off any of my potential future classmates.”

“I make no promises.”

“Danny.”

“I won’t do anything on purpose,” said Danny.  As annoyed as he was to be here, he didn’t want to tank Jazz’s social life from the start.  “But you know how things are.”

“Yeah, I know.  Uu iiuuni(6).  But you could be helpful, too.”

“That sounds like a jinx, honestly.”

“Danny.”

“If you look at it from a certain perspective, it’s like I’m helping them.”  And Jazz, too, because most people would run for the hills upon being presented with the elder Fentons.  Crummy friend material, if you asked him.  Which people usually didn’t.  

Jazz gave him a look.  It was a remarkably effective look.  He crumbled.  

“Fine.  What do you want me to do?”

“Well,” said Jazz, “when people ask why you’re here, I want you to let me explain that you speak over a dozen languages fluently and that I brought you here so you can look at the language, anthropology, and archaeology options.”

“But,” said Danny, “that is why you… Oh.”

“Honesty is sometimes the best policy.”

Danny squinted at her.

“Look, you’re the one going around showing off ghost speak.  At least stick to Latin or something?”

“Ihi Yinis nyoobli wutish(7)!”

“And maybe stick to English unless someone asks?  Maybe?  Like, it’s kind of weird when someone who isn’t, you know, Spanish or Mexican or something starts a conversation off with hola, right?”

“I guess.  But I am a native speaker of Yinis.”

“Danny.  You have a utwueeeweustee(8).”

“Your pronunciation is still off.”

“Give me a break, here, I’m not sure if you can pronounce things in Yinis correctly unless you’re a native speaker.”

“Native speaker?” asked a young man behind who had crept up behind them.  “What are you a native speaker of, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, it’s Danny that’s the native speaker,” said Jazz, spots of color high in her cheeks.  “My little brother.  I’m hoping he’ll be interested in some of the language programs here at the university, if he gets to see them.”

“The language is super rare, though.  Not very many people speak it at all.”  Well, all of the dead, but that didn’t count.  

“Mind saying a few words to me?  I’m a bit of a language buff myself.  Maybe I can guess it.”

“Noo iileihush hii u ib eunti aawee(9).”

“Yinis!  Noo ieku iiiwoo, noo u hib euwi einu ihwuu muueu(10).”

Danny’s mouth fell open.  A sideling look at Jazz revealed that she, too, was slack-jawed.  

“Hii huuyeu yihi, iim.  Wuicheuu(11).”

“Ur hii(12)!” exclaimed Danny.

The tour guide clapped her hands together.  “Now that you’ve all got a moment to get to know one another, let’s start!”

.

Danny and Jazz kept an eye on the young man all through the tour.  Neither of them were quite sure what to do with the fact that a… Ghost?  Human?  Someone who knew how to speak ghost was here, at the college with them.  

“All right!” said the guide, “here’s the student union and our food court!  Let’s meet back here for the second half of the tour in one hour!  Okay!”

Everyone nodded, murmured, or cheered their assent, and scattered.  Danny and Jazz made a beeline for the maybe-ghost.  He had staked out a lonely table in the corner, as if waiting for them.  

… Actually, that was probably accurate.

Jazz slid into the seat right in front of the maybe-ghost.  “Before you two start talking, I want you to know I’m not fluent.”

“Of course not,” said the young man, “I wouldn’t expect a winoo(13) to be.”

“So you are…?” Jazz said.  

“You can call me Roman,” he said.  “But, for what you were actually trying to ask, yes, I am a ghost.”

“Your disguise is really good,” muttered Danny.  

“Yet not, I think, better than yours.  It’s practice.  I’ve been in academia for a while.”

Jazz sharpened.  “As a student?  Isn’t that a bit unethical, considering that there are a limited number of admissions every year?”

Roman laughed.  “Not really.  I’m a ghost student, so to speak.  I don’t really show up anywhere officially, people just remember that I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

So, unethical but in an entirely different way.  “You just… go to school?” asked Danny.  “That’s what you do with your… life?”

“What’s better than learning forever?” asked Roman with a shrug.  “They say you’re not really dead until you stop doing that, and intend to demonstrate that idiom.  I do move around, though.  This is my first time at this university.  But speaking of that…  You must be a lover of knowledge as well, to scout out this place for your afterlife.”

“It’s not like that.  I’m just here because of Jazz.”

“You really should think about what you want to do when you graduate, though.”

Roman cleared his throat.  “As presumptuous as it may be… If you do determine to further your education, I will be here for the next several years.”  He reached into his vest-pocket and pulled out a small, pale green business card.  “I can show you the tricks of the trade.  How to blend in, even if you look, and feel, out of place.”

“Go ahead and take it, Danny,” said Jazz, nudging him.  

“I don’t know,” said Danny.  “It’s not really…”

“You can always throw it away later,” said Roman.  

“Alright,” said Danny, plucking it out of the ghost’s hand.  

“Excellent.  Now that we have that out of the way, what major are you taking, Miss…?”

Jazz blushed.  “I’m Jazz.  Psychology and pre-med.”

“Hm.  I was planning on sociology this year, but that’s not set in stone.”

Danny stood up.  “I’m going to go buy lunch.”

He did not need to watch Jazz flirt with a ghost.  Another ghost.  Jazz… seemed to only flirt with ghosts.  And guys like Spike.  

Oh, ew, Danny did not need to know about his sister’s preferences.  

Did Mountain Dew work as brain bleach?  Yuck.  

Or, as ghosts would say it, nuekawuhuu(14).

1 - Good morning.

2 - The language of Yinis (also called Old High Spirit)

3 - Sister

4 - Don’t forget, I know Old High Spirit, too!

5 - Now you know how I feel!

6 - I know.

7 - But Old High Spirit is fun!

8 - Secret identity

9 - I doubt you have heard this one

10 - Old High Spirit!  I must say, I have not heard that in many years.

11 - You don’t look dead, though.  Very impressive.

12 - Neither do you!

13 - Human

14 - Gross

[gemsofgreece]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGejUxD5k/

The comment of making a song in Ancient greek just to piss of Greeks what's the purpose of it? As a Greek i wouldn't mind someone foreigner trying to learn Greek, so just making this comment a video provokes a negative behaviour.

My problem with this is that I am so annoyed at the person who made the request like this ("make the Greek mad") but it gets worse because there are Greeks getting mad at the comments in a wrong way so that person is proven right :////// That person makes a reference to the long standing animosity between modern Greek speakers and western classicists obsessed with the Erasmian pronunciation. Or the reconstructed one. The TikToker has had beef with Modern Greek speakers in an older video. That's what was referenced there.

Anyway, the tiktoker himself is not wrong in his recitement when it comes to the technical aspects of it. The problem with it is that - who knows how - even though he employs the prosody in the recitation, he still sounds incredibly monotonous. And incredibly English lol. If I had to listen to all that by a rhapsodos as an Ancient Greek I'd rather kill myself. Imagine 15,693 lines of verse like that. Listen to it and tell me I am wrong.

And not to be that person, but the TikToker kinda looks like he's torn between being the most English person ever and the descendant of Brad Pitt's Achilles.

I am so mad at Greeks because the radical western classicists (new term I just invented!) lack so much self-awareness that it would be easy for Greeks to argue, and yet Greeks are divided between "GREEK PRONUNCIATION SAME ALL THE WAY BACK TO 1000000000 BC" and "a blondie said it therefore it is the unquestionable truth and I dare not develop an insight on it by myself". There's no in between. I hate us.

And I say they lack self-awareness because even though they obsess so much over the textbook, (which is western theories mixed with western interpretations of scarce ancient Greek sources, without questioning even for a second the accuracy of said interpretations and even the ability of the ancient texts to convey in script the sound and the oral delivery of the language accurately and easily enough for foreign people to understand it perfectly many centuries later and with no exposure whatsoever to said language), they fail so much at removing the inherent elements of their own language.

Like, when Ancient Greek was said to be a very beautiful and unique sounding language, and you end up sounding like the blandest English gibberish poem ever, something must not be quite right. This is not evident just in Greek. He speaks a lot of languages (and kudos to him) but he said Mahabharata and it was like "Muh- hub- arr - atttah... and a cup of tea, please". Come on. I was petty enough to pronounce Mahabharata loudly and then went to GoogleTranslate and listened to the pronunciation in Hindi (no pronunciation option available for Sanskrit). I am closer to it than he is. (3,2,1 until some wild Brit classicist claims the English version is closer to Sanskrit than Hindi is XD). But okay it was petty and not all that scientific on my part, I admit.

Whoever wants a GOOD recitation of Ancient Greek, try Ioannis Stratakis - Podium Arts on YouTube. He sticks to the "textbook" and so far he is the best I have heard.

P.S. I saw somewhere in the comments under his posts the explanation / excuse that some words have to be pitched / stressed incorrectly in prosody because otherwise they won't fit in the hexameter.... while this indeed has to happen sometimes, if it happens too often you are doing something wrong, Greek is one of the best languages to modify and switch the placements of words in order to fit in the meter or rhyme just right and if memory serves me, “having to be incorrect” not as a frequent occurence as stated.

PS2: the more I listen to it the more need for such excuses I notice….

[kiiyunz]

kyuniiz⠀is⠀live!⠀⠀⸻⠀⠀00:21 AM

“Czennies!” Kihyun greeted the number of viewers steadily growing, his grin wide and taking up most of the screen with how close his phone was to his face. He moved the device back a little to wave overenthusiastically, and then further still to prop it up against something and reveal two things: the living-room looking setting he was in, light of a large television screen illuminating him a bright white in contrast to how dark the rest of the room was, and the sight of Niko sat on the sofa behind him, eyes on his own phone rather than the audience watching on. Two microphones sat idle on the cushion next to him.

“I’m with NCT’s one and only Juno tonight, Czennies. It’s such an honour!” He gestured at Niko with a shocked look on his face, as if he himself was surprised the elder had agreed to being there, but then gave up the act and collapsed onto him; eliciting a groan from the older dancer when he did so, and then a muffled swear when the sudden attack made him drop his phone onto the floor. 

“Yah! If my screen’s cracked, you’re paying for it,” the 127 member admonished, shoving Kihyun off of him and onto the floor before waving a hand aimlessly around on the floor in an attempt to retrieve the device. Kihyun only snickered, handing the (unharmed) phone back to its owner before turning back to where his was propped up before them.

“Suni-hyung and I, if you couldn’t tell, are gonna be doing—” he paused to flail around behind him before finally gripping onto the pair of mics, waving them around in grand & wide arcs for everyone to see. “—karaoke! For all our favourite songs. And maybe some of your suggestions too, if they don’t suck.”

“Which I’ll be the judge of,” was Niko’s first contribution to those watching, eyes narrowing for a quick second before returning to normal as he shoved his phone in his pocket and pushed his hair out of his eyes, reaching for one of the microphones in Kihyun’s hands before pointing it towards the screen. “So don’t give us really shit requests.”

“Hyung!” It was the younger’s turn to scold the older, although from the way he was biting his lips it was clear he was holding back a grin. “It’s barely been five minutes, hold off on the swearing.”

Niko rolled his eyes, a smile on his own face, and then gestured at the still-white screen in front of the both of them. “Hurry up and set it up, then. I still don’t know why we couldn’t have just gone to an actual noraebang for this.”

Kihyun paused from where he was reaching over for the TV remote, and began to list off the reasons on his fingers: “Couldn’t be bothered, I wanted to order food in, Lele said he might be coming over to see Jisung so I wanted to catch him when he came in, and I like our sofa better than those gross cracked-and-probably-sweaty leather ones in all the noraebangs closest to us.”

The dancer made to protest before stopping in his tracks, nodding at the younger member’s reasoning.

“Ordering in sounds good. What were you thinking?”

Kihyun’s nose scrunched up in thought as he fiddled with the remote until he’d found what he wanted and set it down again, before his answer seemed to come to him all of a sudden and he snapped his fingers with a yell of: “Italian! I want Italian! That place down the street does really good.. How do you say it in English? Mozzarella sticks!” He then turned to look at Niko a little hesitantly, as if to check his pronunciation was correct.

When he received an encouraging nod in return he let out a cheer and shot a grin back to the camera, before making another grab for his microphone and carrying on with what he was saying. “But they’re open all night, and I’m not really hungry right now, so I’ll just do it later. Singing always makes me work up an appetite!”

Niko huffed a laugh, flicking the switch of his mic on and off and on again idly as he sat up in his seat. “I’ll let you pick the first couple songs, then.” 

Kihyun did a small fist-pump and grabbed the remote again, the previously white screen of the television turning black and plunging the already-dark living room into even further darkness, the pair’s faces only just visible. The 127 member scoffed and turned to their audience, pointing at the younger dancer and rolling his eyes. “Our Kyunnie’s so cheap. Using YouTube instead of all the actual karaoke games he has on his console. Maybe he’s scared of losing.”

“That’s not it!” Kihyun also turned to those watching to try and defend himself, pout pulling at his lips. “Jisungie unplugged it to use the socket for the new lamp, and I just.. Haven’t gotten around to setting it up again.”

“Ah,” Niko nodded sagely, smirk already on his face. “So the real issue is your laziness.”

“Hyung!” The Dream member’s whine was loud, but all Niko did was burst into laughter, shoving at Kihyun’s shoulder to get him to stop pouting.

“Yah, alright, I’m sorry. Just hurry up and put your song on, or I’ll really leave.”

Despite the put-out expression still being present, Kihyun complied and pressed a final button before abandoning the remote on the sofa again and rising to his feet as the familiar drumsticks that counted in Locked out of Heaven began to play. Niko shook his head, but there was a smile on his face as he stood up to join the younger singer.

“I could’ve bet money on you putting this on, I swear.”

His words went half unheard, Kihyun already having started, and the 127 member didn’t miss a beat when he jumped in to provide the appropriate backing vocals. They took turns with the lines showing on the large television screen, harmonised when the choruses came around, Niko even indulging Kihyun in a small routine that mostly consisted of bounces and side-steps, and on Kihyun’s phone screen the comments were flooding in far faster than they had been previously—joined by a person that only made them multiply in number

haechanahceah  나 없는 Bruno Mars? 기현아, 가고 싶어..

The younger member let Niko take the second verse in full to lean over his phone and focus on Donghyuck’s comment, eyebrows scrunching as he read it but then relaxing when he let out a laugh soon after.

“You can come over if you want, Haechanie-hyung, I’m definitely not stopping you. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

He didn’t get long to stand and chat, as Niko was soon pulling him back by his hoodie so he could join in with the chorus again, and then they were back to their singing and dancing; their volume gradually growing louder and louder until it reached a crescendo at the bridge and then slowly came back down until it had faded out completely. Kihyun didn’t give his older companion a look in before he was making a grab for the remote again and mashing at buttons, pulling up the second song he wanted while Niko watched on, a smile gradually growing on his face when he saw the next number on the roster.

The electronic intro of Glitch Mode was next to play, quickly interrupted by Kihyun’s stubborn “I want all of Mark-hyungie’s lines!” and Niko’s short laugh before they were launching straight into it. The former was also insistent on performing the choreo that he knew off by heart by that point, nearly sending his flailing elbows and legs right into where Niko was simply standing. His enthusiasm, although somewhat infectious, was enough to deter the 127 member into swapping spaces with him so he could stand back and let the younger take the reins for a while, sticking to reading the comments that were again flooding in—and, again, joined by a familiar username.

onyourm__ark  juni-hyung!!! 그리고 나의 KD!!!! onyourm__ark  wow.. 키코 듀오는 정말 미쳤습니다 ㅋㅋ

“Hey, Markles,” Niko smiled, waving his mic in form of a greeting. His face then turned into something vaguely wary, eyebrows drawing together. “You’re not gonna ask if you can come over too, are you? Chenle’s apparently coming later, and Hyuck’s just been saying he wants in on it too.”

onyourm__ark  i wish onyourm__ark  maybe next time ㅠㅠ onyourm__ark  tell KD 사랑해요 애기~~

Niko granted the younger member a nod and mock-salute before bidding him goodbye, just as Kihyun collapsed backwards onto the sofa while the final notes of Glitch Mode petered out, microphone almost slipping out of his loosened grip if it wasn’t for him grabbing back onto it at the last second.

“Your turn to choose, Hyung. This one and the next one too.” he heaved from his nearly-starfished position, one hand coming to brush his bangs out of his eyes before he heaved himself into a sitting position again.

“I know, silly. What do you think I’m doing?” Was the older man’s retort from his place standing before the television with the retrieved remote in his hand, mic shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie for the time being. “Something a little more chill, maybe? Seeing as it looks like you’ve tired yourself out.”

He sniggered to himself a little at his own comment, expertly dodging the half-hearted kick Kihyun aimed at the back of his knee for it. The piano intro of Everything is Everything that filled the room had Niko tapping along to the beat with his foot and slumping down on the sofa next to the Dream member, nudging him in the side to jolt him into action; Kihyun complying and singing the opening lyrics not a moment later.

They swayed as they sang, swapping lines and riffing off of one another with an almost practised ease. Kihyun let Niko take the lead for the most part, making all sorts of excited gestures and faces of surprise towards where his phone was propped up as if prompting those watching to react the same way (which, of course most were more than happy to do, and would’ve done so even without encouragement).

Niko received a standing ovation once he’d sung the final notes, Kihyun even going as far as to bounce up and down a little, microphone forgotten in place of clapping so hard it looked as if it hurt a little.

“Hyung! You’re so cool!”

The 127 member tried and failed to bite back a smile, waving the younger man off and reaching for the TV remote to choose his next song. “You flatter me. Go talk to your viewers while I find the next one, leave me alone.”

He’d only gotten a moment into his aforementioned song-finding before he was snapping his fingers and speaking again, his free hand reaching up to move his hair out of his eyes once more. “Oh! Mark was here for a second. Told me to say he loves you.”

Kihyun was back to pouring over the comments rolling in on his screen almost immediately, eyes narrowed as if he was trying to mentally scroll back up to where Mark had come and gone.

“So you mean I missed him?! You couldn’t have told me earlier?!”

His complaint was paired with yet another pout, but Niko just rolled his eyes again.

“You were a little caught up, in case you can’t remember, like, ten minutes ago. You wouldn’t have stopped singing ‘Trouble trouble like a miscode’ even if I’d thrown a rock at your head.”

Kihyun’s would’ve-been-indignant response of ‘it’s a good song!’ was drowned out by the familiar opening notes of 2PM’s Again & Again, and as soon as he’d heard it he was jumping right back up again to join the older member. They dropped the banter to harmonise instead, Niko even again indulging the younger man and dancing a little as they did.

Their already-minimal dance routine slowed down even further as they eventually came to the end, Kihyun leaning into the older dancer’s side and intentionally knocking their hips together until Niko relented and slung his free arm around his shoulder; although he did pointedly ignore the soulful eyes his dongsaeng was aiming at him as he sang, dramatically acting out every word, the older ending up forgetting the closing adlibs in place of pushing Kihyun away again. The younger singer overplayed his fall back onto the sofa for the second time that night, groaning even if he landed perfectly onto the soft cushions below, and curled onto his side to watch as the 127 member set his mic down in front of the television still displaying the finished video and made to sit down in front of Kihyun’s phone instead, granting the viewers with a small wave before turning to face the younger singer.

“Should we take those suggestions now?” A smirk slowly grew on his face as he took in the position Kihyun was lying in. “Or have you finally worked up that appetite?”

Shrugging proved to be a little more of a difficult feat than usual while lying sideways, but Kihyun managed it well enough. “Depends on what you pick, Nini-hyung. Maybe just one more song. Lele’s gonna be here soon, I think.”

Niko nodded in understanding and turned back to the phone, moving his hands in a sort of get on with it gesture and watching the requests flood in not long afterwards, in twos and threes and tens at a time, all from different artists and of varying genres. He pulled faces at some and simply levelled judging looks at others, letting his eyes do all the talking for him. It wasn’t until he saw one song in particular that caught his eye that he nodded somewhat approvingly, a small smile on his lips.

“I think you’ll like this one, Kyunnie. Smooth Operator, GSoul?”

Kihyun was up like a shot, eyes wide and excited as he made a frantic grab for the remote, all of his energy seemingly restored by the three words. “I love that one! It’s been on my repeat playlist lately, actually.. How do they know me so well?”

He continued to wonder while scouring for his desired song, while Niko watched on quietly, his gaze flicking from the younger dancer to the screen and then back again until he’d set everything up and the music began to play. The duo managed to channel some of Kihyun’s vigour from his earlier performance of Glitch Mode, and were getting into it fully, those watching enjoying it just as much. They seemed to be treating it as something of a grand finale, adding far more riffs and adlibs than the original ever contained, the matching grins on their faces so wide it looked like they hurt a little. Their perfectly matched energies served as a reminder of the reason most loved the pair of them together in the first place.

The joint show continued until, near the end of the bridge, the faint sound of the door opening could be heard, and from there it only took a few moments for Kihyun to look over to see who had entered, yell out a vaguely happy sound, drop his microphone to the ground, and rush off out of frame, leaving Niko to only shake his head and finish the song on his own despite it being the former that was initially most excited for it.

After it had ended, the 127 member set about collecting the pair of microphones and returning them to wherever Kihyun had found them, and turning the TV off, once again plunging the room into mostly darkness. The Dream member was still nowhere to be seen—that was, until Chenle came stumbling into frame with the singer hanging off of his back. He attempted to shrug the slightly-older 01 liner off of him, but to no avail, Kihyun staying right where he was and waving at all of the viewers instead.

“Chenle-yah’s here! And he said Haechanie-hyung’s on the way! And I actually do feel pretty hungry now..”

All three burst into laughter at the sheepish admittance, before Kihyun finally relented and released Chenle from his hold to bound over to his phone and fill the frame with his face; reminiscent of how he’d started the live. 

“Czennies, I’ll come on Bubble later and tell you what I got from the Italian place! Promise!”

He then brought it back and handed the device to Niko, who just waved in lieu of goodbye.

“It was a little bit fun, I guess. Don’t expect me to be doing that again for a while, though, I feel like my lungs have gone hoarse.”

There was a snicker offscreen, a barely-hidden whisper of ‘maybe it’s because you’re old’ that clearly came from Kihyun, and Niko’s face morphed into something a mix of shocked and annoyed, passing the phone once again to a very confused Chenle so he could chase the younger dancer around the apartment, yelling curse words and insults as he went.

The Chinese vocalist stared at the scene unfolding before him for a few moments, grin tugging at his lips, before remembering there was an audience also listening in, and turned his attention back to the viewers.

“I think this is goodbye, Czennies, I wouldn’t want you to hear Niko-hyung beating KD black and blue. I hope you had fun! Love you! Bye!”

And just like that, the screen went dark, and the live—or maybe fever dream was something of a more accurate description—was over.

나 없는 Bruno Mars? 기현아, 가고 싶어.. ➔ bruno mars without me? kihyun-ah, i want to come over.. 그리고 나의 KD!!!! ➔ and my KD!!!! 키코 듀오는 정말 미쳤습니다 ㅋㅋ ➔ the kiko duo is really crazy lol 사랑해요 애기~~ ➔ i love you baby~~

includes⠀@northstarco

[draculasstrawhat]

Cos I reblogged the accent post, I sort of want to write a bit about British accents and class based on my (admittedly brief) study of linguistics, and a sort of lifelong interest in the matter, if anyone fancies it.

It goes in to a bit of a rant, but hopefully explains why we’re such pedants about why a “British” accent being considered stick-up-the-arse posh is a misunderstanding, and why we might be a bit touchy about the bo’ul of wor’uh thing.

So, first up: accents in the UK are very much a class marker. I know that’s true everywhere, but it is really pronounced here. Because of our linguistic history, we’ve historically had enormous regional variation in accents for such a small landmass, as well as a second accent spoken by landowners regardless of geographical location. Historically, therefore, your social class could be discerned by where you were on the scale of ‘regional accent’ to ‘posh person accent’.

To an extent, this applies/applied to Scottish and Welsh accents, too. Really posh Scottish people do not have, or have a very slight Scottish accent. This is not an accident, nor something people were unaware of - I was reading a book from the 1930s recently where someone was discussing her child’s education and bemoaning his accent, saying “a touch of Perthshire is charming,” but that he’d been spending too much time with shepherds and gamekeepers, and was being essentially ‘too Scottish’.

So, because the vast majority of the Very Posh and Very Wealthy were educated at about three schools, two universities, and inhabited once social sphere, they all spoke - and were taught to speak - in the same way. The name for this accent, as I’m sure a lot of you know, is “Received Pronunciation,” or RP, and we all know what it sounds like, right?

Or do we?

What Maggie Smith (and most of the other actors there) are speaking *is* RP, but it’s not a particularly thick RP accent. Smith - because she’s a great actor and knows what she’s about - is speaking thicker RP than the others, and that’s doing the work of letting you know she’s posher and more old fashioned than anyone else she’s talking to - but still, her vowels are mostly soft and broad, her consonants clearly articulated. It is stage RP, schoolroom RP - but not from an Eton/Harrow/Westminster schoolroom. It’s the sort of accent you were taught at grammar schools, or small private schools to rid you of your regional accent.

Now, of course, if you speak like that in any normal place in in the UK, people *are* going to assume you’re posh. But it is upper middle class posh, working in the Professions posh, rather than “owns half of Buckinghamshire” posh. It’s designed for clarity - which is what people think RP is all about. But it isn’t.

RP is a shibboleth. It’s actually not a particularly clear accent, and it is designed to mark the people who know it apart from those who do not.

Here is a much thicker RP accent: https://youtu.be/mBRP-o6Q85s

(apologies for the national anthem at the start)

If you see, the vowels are a lot higher and tighter, the consonants less clearly pronounced. But it’s still fairly intelligible - Liz is public speaking here and the majority of her audience will not be RP speakers, so she’s speaking slowly and clearly, and she still wishes to be accessible and comprehensible. If you want to hear a seriously thick RP accent, it’s worth looking up some early 20th century radio broadcasts.

The difference is in the emphasis given to vowels over consonants, as well as how much you move your lips. I’m not good at writing IPA as I’ve only done a bit of linguistics, but to give an example - if you wanted to say “I am speaking clearly,” stage RP might pronounce the word “clearly” as KLEER-lee, two distinct syllables, with a clear but simple vowel sound. A sort of mid level RP might say something more like KLE-ahr-lee, giving more vocalisation to the a and the r, making it almost three syllables, although one without emphasis. Really thick RP almost pronounces it as klAR-le, with almost even emphasis between the syllables, and the stress on the ar, rather than the kl.

But although plenty of people still use it, that very thick RP accent has become almost invisible over the course of the 20th century, as part of (if I put my paranoid socialist hat on) a campaign to render invisible the hereditary privilege and enormous wealth disparity which affects pretty much every aspect of British life. Which is to say, the very small number of people who can speak with and identify each other by a thick RP accent still literally own most of the country.

Even if I’m to be a little less red, the fact is during the 20th century, it became expedient for the accepted voice of radio and television to become less that of landowners and hereditary authority, and more like that of the middle classes. Even ‘The Queen’s English’ changed, as the Queen and several politicians took elocution lessons to sound “warmer and more approachable.” At the same time, Britain had a period of unprecedented social mobility in the post-War period and - much like the American conception of “temporarily embarrassed millionaires” - there gradually emerged this cultural idea that everyone was, or perhaps could be, “middle class.”

Even as this was starting to happen, and markers of “middle class respectability” spread (especially in the South East of England) the countercultural movements of the 60s and 70s rejected this very move and identified itself with everything their parents found ‘low’ or ‘shocking’. One of the markers of this was that middle class boys from the Home Counties adopted a kind of ‘mockney’ accent, which along with the success of a handful actually working class artists meant that having a vaguely working-class, vaguely South-Eastern accent became a sign of counter cultural validity and authenticity. (All of this is, ofc, a vast oversimplification - but it’s a general trend.)

From here we have the rise of the Estuary accent. Estuary English is a vague conglomeration of RP and the accents found around the Thames Estuary. It’s neither Essex, nor London, nor Kent, but a broad mingling of the three. It is easily learned and adopted, and - as a composite accent - has none of the shibboleths of real cockney, or Essex, or RP. To speak cynically, it is an accent uniquely suited to code switching. If you have access to RP, then estuary is an accent where you can ‘choose’ how thickly you speak it, or whether you intersperse it with another accent. (An example my mum always points out, although this is a bit pre-Estuary, is in Mother’s Little Helper, Mick Jagger pronounces all his “th” as “v” - but doesn’t use a single glottle stop.)

Beyond the “clear, warm, and authoritative” idea of a mild RP accent, estuary offered a “relatable” and, more importantly, “authentic” feel. Its use as a political tool further closed the gap between people’s perception of their class (and promoted the idea of the UK as a ‘classless society, which, lol) and their actual circumstances. The wildest example of this is perhaps Victoria Beckham describing being driven to school on a Rolls Royce while claiming her family was “very working class.”

Now, Estuary English has a really complicated place in the UK especially in the way it has homogenised regional accents, but one good thing about it is that it normalises and even valorises patterns of speech that have been historically mocked, excluded, and treated as markers of poverty, criminality, and stupidity. Double negatives, the glottal stop, using a hard “ff” for “v” sounds, and a “v” for “th”, and where someone the ‘drops’ and vocalises ‘h’. I said earlier that RP was a shibboleth, and these were some of the most commonly observed tells that someone didn’t belong. Given that the vast majority of social power in England rested in the same area that the estuary accent drew its sources from, it bears a lot of similarities to the accent of the working classes in those areas - the ones most often mocked, parodied, or disparaged by those in power.

And the thing is, people still have those accents - or they have adopted the similar estuary in place of those accents - but unlike BBC talk show hosts, or politicians trying to convince you they’re a “man of the people,” these people *cannot* code switch. They have no access to RP, and their accent - despite being mainstreamed and in some ways privileged - is still used a shorthand for vulgarity and stupidity. It remains a punchline, a joke. They are still constrained by it - they can’t put it aside or mitigate it in formal situations, they can’t leverage RP to their advantage when it suits, and thereby use their actual accent as proof of “authenticity”. For them, the shibboleths remain - just (like thick RP) hidden now.

I don’t want to call it cultural appropriation, because that’s not quite the right term, but there is something very cruel in that way that - in one of the most classist and economically unequal countries in Europe - an accent which apes several working class accents has become enormously culturally privileged, but only when it is NOT used by somebody working class. And although that isn’t apparent to the casual observer - not even the people being totally shafted here - there is, I think, this broad cultural sense that we’ve been had. That we’ve been played for fools on some level it’s really difficult to quantify.

We have been told that class and accent no longer matter - but every day in our lives, they transparently *do*. So anyone hearing my “middle class vowels” will assume I’m posh, and have endless contacts and support - despite the fact I lived a lot of my adult life below the poverty line - but in any situation where being perceived as posh would get me contacts and support, it’s immediately apparent I’m not part of the Old School Tie, because I don’t talk quite right.

Or how a poor kid with an Essex accent will be told they couldn’t *possibly* be discriminated against because of their class, because that’s how all the presenters on Radio 1 talk, meanwhile whole comedy sketches are still written about how ‘ugly’ and ‘stupid’ the Essex accent sounds.

Or how an accent that is somehow globally understood to be one of power and privilege (be it RP or estuary) and can therefore be ‘punched up’ against is - at home - only ever used to punch down on us. How people who want to ‘do well’ have had regional accents beaten out of them (in some cases literally) and were granted conditional acceptance for it, while the same people who’ve owned the country since the Middle Ages got to slum it down with us, without surrendering any of their money or privilege.

It’s… complicated, okay?

[edited for typos, for there were many.]

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

you be my fire and I’ll be your gasoline, Ch.7

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After three and a half years of being unable to touch this, all there is to say is: ah shit, here we go again But in all honestly, I am so sorry that it took this long. Life has been all over the place, and since the last update I have managed to get a university degree, find a new best friend, decide that I am willing to risk it all and pursue writing as a career, and gain a whole new understanding of love. For those of you who'd been with me over the years -- I hope with all my heart that you will enjoy the very much delayed continuation of this story, and I thank you a thousand times over for sticking with me through it all. For the new people -- I promise the next chapter won't take three years for me to write.

The first couple of days on the road go by almost unnoticed, the weather kind to the world, blooming more and more with what seems like every passing hour. They travel through the endless meadows and forests, keeping to the shade during the hottest hours, and the further South they get, the more the air fills with a sweet, heady scent of flowers and early fruit. Every now and then, they find themselves beneath the lush canopies of apple trees, and Jaskier reaches up from the saddle to pluck a couple of plump, crisp fruit from the branches, feeding them to Cerbin and Roach. The apples are still a bit too tangy for his taste, but the horses love them, and so, it seems, does Geralt, because he eats them with just as much appetite. Jaskier makes a face at him every time, but that doesn’t deter the witcher from his snacks. 

They fall into the rhythm of each other easily, setting up camp at night like they’ve done it a thousand times before. While Jaskier tends to the horses and lays out the bedrolls, Geralt disappears into the woods to find something to eat, the fire already lit by a snap of his fingers, Igni working its tricks every time. It’s something that Jaskier very much misses when he travels alone — no matter how many times he’d started a fire in his life, he never became much of a fan of the process. Tending to the fire was just fine by him, just not the igniting part. Geralt didn’t mind, though, never rolling his eyes or huffing with displeasure, like the other Geralt loved doing on the days when he was unhappy with whatever it was that he was unhappy with. 

And Jaskier— Jaskier loved him, he did. He’d loved him for years, and it wasn’t something that he could just will to go away — he’d tried, gods know he tried, — but that love, painful from the very beginning, twisted the knife in his heart with a new sort of cruelty now, when he saw just how different Geralt could be. For it was Geralt, other version or not — with every passing day, Jaskier could see more and more familiar gestures and habits, caught the all too familiar pronunciations of certain words.

It caught him off guard, sometimes. 

On their second evening on the Path, when they’ve already had their fill of dinner and were warming their hands and bellies on rosehip tea, Geralt was telling the bard one of his endless stories, and the way he said “The ship’s captain knew fuck all about the waters he was sailing” sounded so much like the Geralt that Jaskier was used to, down to the little huff of amusement, that for a moment, he just froze in place before shaking his shoulders, like he could physically make the sudden ache lift. If the witcher noticed — and Jaskier knew that he probably did, — he didn’t say anything, continuing with his story without pause. It was something that Jaskier had noticed about him even before they set out on their way to Cintra — Geralt didn’t pry. It was impossible to hide anything from him, at the very least because he was a witcher, and witchers could tell emotions apart by scent, but despite that, Geralt let him be time after time, not asking questions that Jaskier wasn’t ready to answer. 

Jaskier wondered, sometimes. when they were riding in comfortable silence, the only sounds between them the soft knocking of their horses’ hooves, if Geralt knew. If he knew of the feelings that Jaskier carried in his heart for his other version, the feelings that he hid so expertly in the furthest corners of his heart, afraid that the slightest ray of sunshine would bring ruin if it was to ever touch them. And though they hurt, though they made Jaskier feel like he’s going to choke on his own blood one day, his heart finally giving out and ripping itself apart in his chest, he couldn’t give them up. He carried all that love, all that deeply-rooted, aching longing in his heart like a glass shard, but a shard of something dear to him, something that he protected like a precious stone. It didn’t matter that the sharp edges were leaving cut after cut on his heart, that one day he would shift something in his chest with not enough caution, and the shard would finally cut too deep for him to survive the blood loss. 

It meant too much to him; it made him whole, in a way that he couldn’t explain even to himself, let alone someone else. The pain was part of him, had been for so long that he could barely remember a time without it, and in Jaskier’s mind, it was almost a sign of him being alive, something vital, like the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the blood in his veins. It is what it is, he would tell himself over and over again, If this is how the gods will it, then it is how it’s supposed to be, no matter to what end. 

He didn’t really believe in the gods before he met Geralt eight years ago, but then, as time went on and the only warmth the witcher would ever show him would be a reluctant parting embrace, Jaskier found some solace, some consolation in the thought that it was all happening to him because it was meant to be happening. That it wasn't his own poor choice of loved ones, that it wasn’t some sort of cruel fate but was, instead, simply what it had to be. It was easier that way, it was a means to protect himself, and the recent years of hunting taught him that when it came to protecting yourself, you were to use any and all possible ways to do it. What mattered was that you shielded yourself from pain and death, how you did it had no role to play in the equation. 

None of that he talked about with Geralt, though he knew that the easy, near-instant trust that grew between them had space enough to allow for it. And he doubted that it would’ve been any different even if the topic of the conversation was someone that Geralt had never even heard about.

They did, however, talk about Coën. 

Jaskier confessed to Geralt — after some persuasion — that he wasn’t completely honest with the Wolf before, and that when he said that he’d spent a couple of weeks with Coën, he only meant that he’d spent a few weeks with him the first time they’d met. After that, over the years, their paths have crossed again and again, and each time was as sweet as the ones before. With a part of his heart that was still his own to do with as he pleased, Jaskier loved him, of course, because Coën was impossible not to love. 

That , Jaskier didn’t tell Geralt, but he could tell that he knew. 

That was an easy love, though. The kind of love that Jaskier was used to from his years in the Academy, intoxicating and heady, but also gentle, kind to his jaded heart and his restless mind. There was, of course, the ache of missing him when he was gone, but Jaskier had Coën’s sword on his back as a reminder of the witcher, a part of him that linked them together. Coën, in turn, carried with him a necklace that Jaskier had worn for years before giving it to the witcher. 

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Geralt asks, his golden eyes shifting to an rich amber, reflecting the campfire burning between him and the bard.

Jaskier can tell that there isn’t the slightest trace of jealousy in the witcher’s voice, that he’s genuinely interested to know. Coën, Jaskier reminds himself, is dear to Geralt in the other realm, the closest thing to a brother that a witcher can have, second only to the other Wolves. 

“Seven months ago now,” Jaskier says, at length. “Almost twice as long as it usually takes us to find each other again. But then again, he is quite preoccupied with the Poviss court.”

Geralt lifts a brow in surprise, taking a swig of wine from a bottle they’d bought in a town they passed by in the morning. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and passes the bottle over to Jaskier. 

“The court?” he asks.

The bard nods. “He’s with the Intelligence.”

Geralt’s surprise at the information becomes so apparent that Jaskier snorts, nearly choking on his wine. He’s never really had the chance to tell anyone that one of his lovers is part of a grand spiderweb of Intelligence here in the Northern Kingdoms, and it feels a little too good to finally see a reaction to take it all back, claiming it was a joke. 

“That is, I imagine, how he always knows where to find me,” Jaskier goes, as a way of explaining. “I like to think that he looks out for me in the months that we’re in different kingdoms.Though he would never admit to it, naturally.”

Jaskier falls silent for a while, looking into the fire with the slightest of smiles curing his lips. Geralt doesn’t break that silence, though the bard can feel the witcher’s gaze resting on him. He wonders, distantly, if he’d be able to listen if it was Geralt that was telling him about someone that, in one way or another, had claim to his heart. If he was being completely honest with himself, he knew that the answer was “no”. Whether that made him the lesser man, he didn’t know, but Geralt wasn’t forcing him into finding out. After he’d mentioned Ciri — the daughter of a woman he loves , — on Belleteyn, he never spoke of either one again. It is yet to happen in this realm, and I’ve got no right to tell you the future , he said, allowing Jaskier to believe that that was if not his only, then his main reason, at least. 

“I take it, Coën that you know is not the same?” Jaskier teases, passing the wine back.

“That, or he’s damn good at keeping secrets,” Geralt huffs. “Which is, I suppose, one of the main requirements to being a spy.”

Jaskier laughs, casting a glance sideways, where he can hear Cerbin rusting in the bushes. Roach is grazing somewhere nearby, flicking her ears at the stallion, too young and too impatient to stay in one place for long. 

“What’s he like?” Jaskier asks, finally, after days of keeping his interest at bay. “ Your Coën?”

Geralt considers it, shifting to lie down next to the fire, one arm behind his head. With the other, he pats the space next to him, and Jaskier doesn’t need much more persuasion — putting his lute, that he’d kept on his knees before that, — aside to come lie next to the witcher, the evening warm and heady with the scent of jasmine. 

As he lies down, Geralt wraps an arm around his shoulders, turns his head to press a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s hair, effortless with his affections. Jaskier shines with it, moving even closer and letting out a content breath, his eyelashes fluttering closed. He doesn’t think about the days slowly but surely creeping up on them, about how every new stretch of road brings them closer to the moment when they will inevitably have to part — he allows himself to be in the present, basking in the attention and the warmth. 

“Well, he’s certainly not a Poviss spy,” Geralt begins, with a chuckle. “He’s a prime example of a Griffin, really, which is to say that if he wasn’t like a brother to me, I would’ve called him a knightly know-it-all. More than anything, he loves to talk about his principles, and it’s those that let him to—”

Abruptly, Geralt cuts himself off, and Jaskier can feel his body tense before relaxing again. But before he can ask, before the sharp pang of alarm in his chest transforms into words, Geralt goes on, not allowing him enough time to speak:

“It’s those that have led him into trouble more than they’ve ever led him to anything good. But, of course, trying to change his mind or convincing him of something that doesn’t align with how he sees it is about as fruitful as trying to convince a fucking foglet to stop ripping people to shreds.”

Jaskier laughs, quietly. 

“Sounds like him,” he says. “He’s got his ideals that he protects vehemently, and if he decides on something, no amount of pleading, reasoning or threats will ever change his mind. Not to mention that he, naturally, has to know all there is to know about everything and everyone. Pretty sure that that’s the main reason why he’d joined the Intelligence. They need people like him there.”

“True,” Geralt agrees. “But I don’t think that the Coën that I know would turn your head nearly as much. I don’t want to call him a bore, and he isn’t, but he’s certainly not the one to take a human to a hunt or sleep with someone he’d just met. I cannot imagine Coën flirting with anyone, though he’s got his charms.”

Jaskier mostly ignores the second half of the sentence, because the Coën he knows definitely knows how to get just about anyone into his bed. but he does say:

 “Coën doesn’t really think I’m human.”

At that, Geralt’s surprise becomes palpable. He props himself up on one elbow, making Jaskier shift with a displeased little sound. He’d been so comfortable with his head on the witcher’s shoulder, after all. But he understands the reaction, of course. And he remembers them leaving the inn five days ago, the sudden surge of energy that washed over him like a wave when Geralt placed his medallion on the bard’s neck. Jaskier remembers the world around him coming into such sharp focus that it almost hurt, his fingers tingling with a feeling he couldn’t begin to describe despite his talent with words. Over the days, he kept coming back to that in his thoughts. 

Geralt looks at him without words, but his quizzical gaze speaks volumes regardless. Jaskier sits up, runs his hand through his hair, takes in a breath. 

“The more he trained me, the more he told me that it’s pretty much impossible for someone with just human blood in their veins to take up hunting the way I have,” he says. “That I move too fast for a human, that silver daggers lie too lightly in my hands. That wounds heal on me a little too quickly, and there are fewer scars than he’d expect a human to have after.”

He shrugs, a move of his shoulders that isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be. The topic had never really bothered him, but in the past days, he thought about it too much to now be able to brush it off with nonchalance.

“Elven blood, then?” Geralt says, after a while.

“That’s what he told me,” Jaskier agrees, but he can’t stop thinking about the fact that witcher medallions shouldn’t react to elves, let alone quarter- or even half-elves. “He even told me, once, of Hen Ichaer , Elder Blood. But that I absolutely do not have.”

Jaskier laughs, and in his merriment, he fails to catch the glimpse of a shadow that passes over Geralt's features. By the time Jaskier looks at him again, the witcher also has a smile on his lips, a glimpse of sharp canine showing.  

“Yes,” he nods. “I suppose, you would’ve known if you had in you some of the most powerful magic known to the Continent.”

The conversation trails off after that, shifting to other topics. They talk about the road ahead, about the towns that they could stop at, with Jaskier obviously insisting on Oxenfurt. Novigrad, on the other hand, as they collectively agree, is not a place that’s worth paying a visit to. 

“Is it as bad in a few decades from now as it is currently?” Jaskier asks, back in the warmth of Geralt’s arms. “With all my love for busy streets and the bubbling life, I much prefer the torch-lit cobble streets of Oxenfurt, full of students and professors. I might’ve grown too old to enjoy Novigrad.”

Geralt snorts. 

“You’re twenty-six.

Jaskier shoves him in the side.

“Yes, and the last time we visited, I was twenty-five, which is already too old to find any delight in that gods forsaken city. Life on the road has made me way too fond of peace and quiet.”

He lets the “we” slip before he can catch himself, and Geralt, naturally, picks up on it. Jaskier knows what he’s going to ask before the question is spoken:

“You and your Geralt?”

“He’s not mine,” Jaskier replies, automatically. “And, regardless, I wasn’t with him. If I hate Novigrad, then he’s deadly allergic to it.”

“Coën, then?” 

The memories, warm and brilliantly-clear, like the waters of a river in the heat of summer, wash over Jaskier as he nods, a smile playing on his lips. He’s half-asleep already, the burning fire warm on his skin, Geralt’s presence a steady, now-familiar security at his side. The visions of the past come to him as saturated and full of life as if he was still there, at an inn on the outskirts of Novigrad. 

“I’ve told you before, and I will tell you again — you’re insane, Jask,” Coën laughs, closing the door behind them and setting the logs in the fireplace aflame with a wave of his wrist. “The next time you decide that you’re in dire need of slicing the heads off a few drowners, can we please find some place that is not the Novigrad docks to do it.”

Jaskier is still high on the adrenaline from the hunt. His every sense is still sharpened, the tips of his fingers tingling with the taste of victory. It was by no means effortless, but the struggle made it all the sweeter. Coën didn’t interfere, watching from the flanks with pride burning in his eyes, and all the spoils of victory were for Jaskier alone to collect. 

It wasn’t even a contract — they went out to hunt for practice, as without Coën, Jaskier was still reluctant, most of the time, to get himself into trouble willingly.

“As much as I hate this city, I have to give credit where credit is due — it’s perfect hunting ground,” Jaskier says, putting his sword aside and undoing the buckles of his armor before falling onto the bed, reveling in the feeling of the covers under him. The night air is filled with the scent of wild flowers. “Where we killed five drowners tonight, there will be ten tomorrow.”

Coën shakes his head with an indulgent smile, comes closer, sitting down on the bed next to the bard. His green eyes catch the reflection of the flames, and shine brighter with the familiar gold. He pushes his black hair from his face only for it to fall back a second later, and leans down, brushing his lips over Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“ You , not we.”

Jaskier opens one eye to look at him.

“Hm?”

“ You killed them, Jask, not we,” Coën repeats, tugging his boots off and getting onto the bed properly to pull Jaskier to his chest, where the bard rests his head with familiar ease. “You impress me more and more every time we meet. Though sometimes I do wonder if I’ve made a horrible mistake when I’ve decided to teach you to hunt.”

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier snorts. “You know I’ll be safe.”

Coën brushes his fingers over Jaskier’s cheek, drawing his attention and leaning in closer to his lips, his own upturned in a grin.

“Who’s talking about your safety? I’m starting to worry you’ll take all the contracts from me.”

The memory fades slowly, leaving behind a pleasant warmth. With it, though, it brings another one, one that Jaskier hadn’t had the time to think about, caught up in the sudden passion that bloomed between him and Geralt. The memory of their first night together, and the witcher calling Jaskier his. No matter how many lovers you’ve had or are going to have, you’re mine , he said. And Jaskier knows that he asked for it himself, knows that back then, he longed for it, ached for it — the feeling of belonging to someone. But when he really thought of it, when he thought of this realm’s Geralt, thought of Coën, he couldn’t quite find that same feeling in his chest anymore. 

Shifting again, Jaskier just barely holds himself back from cursing under his breath. 

Feelings were a complicated thing, he knew, but he still, from time to time, forgot about it, even though they’ve always, inevitably, caught up to him. Back at the inn in the middle of nowhere, it was all too easy to completely lose himself in the sudden, heady attraction, in the feeling of being desired, needed. And he didn’t regret it, not for a moment, but he also saw now, in clear view, that the three months ahead weren’t going to be the same. He wanted to be honest with Geralt — as much as he could bear to be, — and that meant facing his own heart first. 

The bond between them was undeniable, like they’ve known each other for years, but now, when his head cleared slightly, Jaskier thought about it a little more soberly. A week ago, if Geralt had told him that he’s got the means to go back to his realm that same evening and asked if Jaskier wanted to go with him, he would’ve said yes. Now, as some time has passed, he wasn’t sure that that was the decision that he could make so easily, if at all. 

This realm was everything that he’d ever known. His friends and colleagues were his, his hard-earned career and reputation were here. Coën was here. Geralt was here. 

No matter how harsh the witcher that he’d known for eight years now was, no matter how much pain he caused him, both intentional and not, Jaskier couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. And no more than that could he bear the idea of never seeing Coën again, his beloved Griffin, the only creature in the entire world that had always seen Jaskier for more than just his colourful silk and velvet, the lute in his hands. They were never in what Jaskier would necessarily call a relationship, but every time they met, it was like they never parted. 

The last time they saw each other, after Coën had, as always, found him through his spiderweb, Jaskier ran into his arms right in the middle of the dusty country road, paying no mind to the farmers working in the field that looked up at them with what was disapproval at the very least. And Coën paid them all even less mind, pulling Jaskier so close that the bard could feel something in his shoulder crack, before kissing him with everyone watching. That was one of the things that never failed to mesmerise Jaskier about Coën — the way he simply did not give a fuck, ready to challenge the entire world, his sharp canine shining brighter and more deadly than his daggers. Jaskier never felt more alive and more safe than when he was with him. 

Could he really give it all up, even if it was so easy to think it to be Destiny?

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice pulls Jaskier abruptly from his thoughts and memories. “You still with me?”

Jaskier almost laughs at the double meaning that the question has to him. Instead, he clears his throat, a blush creeping up his cheeks. 

“Sorry, I must have drifted off a bit,” he lies, trying to will his pulse to remain steady. “What were you saying?”

Geralt gives him a look that lets Jaskier know that the witcher can tell he’s lying, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t press. Would Jaskier have done the same, if the roles were reversed? Would he be able to just let it go if he saw that Geralt was so blatantly dishonest with him? That, as Jaskier realised with a sharp twist of something in his chest, was one more question to add to the list of thighs that demanded answers. 

“I asked if you were with Coën,” Geralt repeats, finally, and Jaskier thanks all the gods when the witcher relaxes again, readjusting the blanket that he’d thrown over them both earlier in the night. Jaskier really could’ve drifted off like this, the lie was almost believable. “In Novigrad.”

Jaskier makes himself more comfortable, rearranging their position into one that will allow him to actually fall asleep. It’s past midnight, and his worries are starting to get too much for him to keep them at bay, so going to sleep and ignoring them all together seems like the best option he’s got. It’s not necessarily the best decision, but it’s one currently available to him. He was used to baring his heart to everyone that would and would not listen, his songs filled with the bitter sting of heartbreak as much as heroics, but doing it before a crowd of patrons felt somehow… distant. Like he was saying it all with a mask on, or in another language. That veil of impersonality, thin as it was, kept him from feeling too vulnerable. But speaking about his feelings and his hears like this, one on one? Jaskier wasn’t sure he had it in him, not after everything. 

And so, pretending like none of it existed, even for a couple of hours, was all he could do. 

“I was, yes,” he says, finally, tucking himself closer to Geralt’s chest. The witcher’s medallion hums softly from his proximity, and that’s yet another thing that Jaskier can’t allow himself to think too hard about right now. “He tends to like Novigrad, actually. And, surprisingly, he knows how to make it bearable for his companions. That was probably the only time I visited that I didn’t want to leave immediately after stepping foot beyond the city walls.”

Geralt chuckles, a genuinely amused little sound in his throat, and noses at Jaskier’s hair, clearly also ready to drift off. After they’d left the inn, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for two more nights, but after that, they did settle into something more gentle, the precious hours of darkness, which were now only getting shorter with the summer heat, were dedicated to sleep rather than heady passion. As fun as it was, the Path demanded it’s due, and they were both experienced enough to know that being well-rested is more important than having fun. 

That, however, in no way meant that they’ve had enough of each other. Sleeping through the night left them with more than enough energy to spend it during the day, be it on a bank of a river, while the horses were enjoying the cool waters, or hidden somewhere in an apple grove, aways from the prying eyes of passers by.  

“If the Coën that I know heard that, he probably would’ve claimed this realm’s version of him either out of his mind or possessed by a demon,” Geralt says, with a soft laugh. “For as long as I’ve known him, he’d always hated Novigrad with a burning passion. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that there is nothing on the entire Continent that irritates him more than the Free City. He doesn’t even like to talk about it, let alone visit it.”

Jaskier echoes Geralt’s laughter, trying to imagine the man that he’d never seen but, in some way, knows. Geralt had told him that Coën’s counterpart from the other realm also has black hair and green eyes, that he’s also tall and never dresses in anything other than black. He does, however, have a beard that Geralt had confessed to being jealous of, and that is not something that Jaskier can imagine.

“I don’t think I would’ve recognised him if I were to run into him in a tavern, like I did with you,” he finally says, and Geralt hums, like it’s a question that they’ve both been trying to settle for a while. “But then again, you are more recognisable. With the hair and all.”

“I’m quite surprised, actually,” Geralt says, shifting again and making Jaskier groan with frustration. He’d already learned that the witcher loves tossing and turning before finally falling asleep. “At how quickly you believed me. You know, with your Geralt being—”

“Not mine,” Jaskier corrects him, without even thinking anymore.

Geralt barely stops to acknowledge his words.

“Yes, yes, not yours,” he says dismissively. “With him being the famed White Wolf and everything. I could’ve been an imposter or a mage disguised behind an illusion, for all you knew.”

Jaskier’s already half-asleep, and he’s not willing to think about the what’s, if’s and maybe’s of the whole situation. So in response he just grumbles:

“I’ve asked you questions that only Geralt could know the answers to, and you knew the answers.”

The witcher, it seems, is in no mood to sleep, for he goes on, and Jaskier has no idea where he’d gained that sudden burst of energy right before going to bed. The fire warms him, makes his body feel pleasantly heavy, and Jaskier allows himself to drift further and further off, without really listening to Geralt and his lectures about how the bard should be more careful with trusting strangers. 

After a while, the length of which Jaskier would not be able to determine even if he wanted to, he realises that there’s been a stretch of silence, indicating that Geralt is waiting for some sort of an answer from him. Having missed most of what’s been said, the bard just waves his wrist, pulling the covers closer to his chest.

“Alright,” he says, the words slightly slurred by sleep. “If I ever meet yet another version of you, I promise not to trust him no matter what he tells me.”

Behind him, Geralt makes a sound of approval, like Jaskier had passed a test that the bard wasn’t even aware he was taking. 

“And what of Coën?” he asks, after a few more seconds, jerking Jaskier out of his sleep once again. The bard frowns, having lost the thread of conversation. 

“What of Coën?” he repeats, willing himself to stay awake long enough to finally answer all the questions that Geralt has decided to ask him instead of keeping them to himself until the morning.

“Say that you were to recognize him, somehow,” Geralt goes on, and it sounds like he’d either explained it thrice over already or it’s simply the most obvious thing one can think of. Jaskier doesn’t have the willpower to figure out which one it is. “Would you have approached him, slept with him? That is, if we pretend that the Coën that I know is a bit more easy-going. That is to say — would you have done with him all that you have done with me?”

Whether Geralt is trying to figure something out for himself or simply has nothing better to do, Jaskier does not know, and he’s way too tired to try and figure it out. But, regardless, he replies:

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m too—”

“You’re too used to your Coën,” Geralt says, before Jaskier can finish. Despite the stress on the possessive pronoun, he doesn’t sound jealous, rather wistful, like he’d found another part of an equation that he’s trying to solve.

This time, Jaskier doesn’t correct him, finally falling deep into the dreamless darkness of sleep.

[read it on ao3]

[meilas]

Socks' Ultimate Phantoms list

Phantoms

Franc D'Ambrosio - Yes. Brings all the sad noises and I am here for it. Nice voice. Excellent acting and facial expressions. Very expressive eyes. Is a cinnamon roll irl. Gary Mauer - Best voice ever. 10/10 would believe this man was an angel. Greg Mills - Looks like a cinnamon roll, will kill you. I never thought tongue action could be sexy but here we are. Ted Keegan - Looks like a cinnamon roll, is a cinnamon roll. Surprisingly sexy. Killian Donnelly - Looks like a cinnamon roll. I can't explain why I like him, but I do. Christopher Carl - I've only heard audio of him but I like him based on how he sobbed on the golden angel. Jeremy Stolle - Nice voice. Acting is too subtle. Peter Karrie - I love how he takes certain notes up a step, just to show that he can. Slightly nasally, but tolerable. Davis Gaines - tbh all I remember really is him slowly rocking his hips while he was sprawled on the portcullis and I now judge all phantoms on a metric of how good their pants look. 9/10 his pants. Peter Joback - I absolutely hated him when he sang in English. I liked him a little better when he did the show in Swedish. James Hume - Unmemorable. Michael Nicholson - Excellent acting choices. Was thinking about him for two weeks after watching. I just really like the production in German, okay? Earl Carpenter - Better in his earlier runs. Good acting choices. Simon Pryce - Very deep voice. Stands nicely. Scott Davies - He looked like fun and I wanted to like him. Noped out of that one pretty quick. Too much vibrato. Anthony Crivello - From the Vegas boot! I actually don't remember too much about him. But I know I liked the boot! Ben Crawford - Tended to have really weird pronunciation toward the end of his run. He was decent when I saw him right after the Broadway reopening. The most remarkable thing he did was to belly slide all the way across the stage during STYDI. Other than that, I recall nothing specific. Thiago Arancam - Remarkable only in the fact that he is boring. Uwe Kroger - The boob-stroking guy. I remember nothing else. Cooper Grodin - Entertaining in the fact that his acting is so wooden. Nice voice when he's not doing blocking at the same time. Good pants. It helps that he never skips leg day. Laird Mackintosh - I think he was good? I honestly don't remember. Geronimo Rauch - I remember I liked him! Norm Lewis - Nice voice, a little boring. Sorry Norm. John Owen-Jones - Hands. Michael Crawford - Absolutely not. I do not understand what anyone sees in him. His voice sounds like it's about to snap any second, and he is very unsexy. David Shannon - Yes. Absolutely yes. Excellent acting choices and nice voice. Does sad very well. Deserved better. Saulo Vasconcelos - All I can recall is @wheel-of-fish spamming the chat with "hands" all night and that's all anyone really needs to know about his Phantom. Ethan Freeman - Looks like a goddamn stick insect during Final Lair and I am here for it. Looks like Tony Shaloub. Bronson Norris Murphy - Technically only was the Phantom in Love Never Dies. RIP. He deserved better. Anyway. His voice is a little deeper than Franc's or Gary's. I wish he had gotten a chance to play the Phantom in POTO proper. I am very curious as to how he would have played it. Looks like a cinnamon roll, is a burnt cinnamon roll. Ramin Karimloo - He was my intro to POTO on stage. I liked his performance enough that I went looking for more clips of the musical, and found the Saturday Streams. Eiji Akutagawa - Ah yes. The self-groping Phantom. That's all I can remember about him. Josh Piterman - Does sad very well. Gerard Butler - My first-first Phantom. I still like him. There's something about his voice that I do actually like, and it annoys me very much when people go "he can't sing" yes he can, everyone has the ability to sing. Just shut up and let me enjoy what I like in peace. Hugh Panaro - Great voice, excellent acting. Funny. Fun to watch. Reminds me of Franc, in that they're both innocent/childish. Hugh is more childish and angry. Looks like he could kill you, and he might, it depends on his mood.

PART TWO

[siljaspence]

silja spence intro

— CHARACTER STATS

FULL NAME: silja odessa spence

PRONUNCIATION: sil-yah

AGE, BIRTHDAY: 20, february 14

PRONOUNS: she/her

SEXUALITY: a mystery!

HOMETOWN: new york city, new york

+ adaptable, creative, intuitive

- enigmatic, fickle, deceitful

— CHARACTER AESTHETICS

evening art gallery shows, a dangerous amount of lit candlesticks for a dinner table setting, penrose steps, black sand beaches, a scatter plot graph where Y = “how mysterious i am” and X = “# of times not shutting the fuck up,” low lamplight, handwritten notes on cocktail napkins, art history books, poolside lounge chairs

— FAMILY

MOTHER: filipina, always away for classified financial work

FATHER: euro mutt, always away for classified financial work

SIBLINGS: N/A, only child

— OGDEN STATS

YEAR: junior; new student as of the 2024 spring semester (but arrived in town early, on thanksgiving)

MAJOR OF STUDY: architecture, art history (on scholarship)

EXTRACURRICULARS: swimming & diving

— TROPE: THE RACONTEUSE

silja is an incredible storyteller. fictional tales, last weekend’s night out—she has a rapturous way of regaling people. this might lend itself to exaggerations and, at times, complete lies, but she’d never admit to as much. especially when her twisted tales and way with words can greatly work to her benefit.

— RELATIONSHIP TO GREER

if anyone ever cared enough to pay attention, they might have noted that silja and greer were acquaintances for a time. the two would bump into one-another at the same rooftop parties, underground DJ sets, and events around the city when greer was visiting home. however, while everyone seemed to desire to keep tabs on the blonde, no one really felt the same about her occasional companion. not that silja minded.

— ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

5'8" brunette with big doe eyes

a reader, always toting around something like "my body" or "the white album"

tends to stick to a sleek, chic, and neutral wardrobe

great eye-contact

always smells great in a sort of clean, sandalwood, inoffensive way

can dissect a painting down to the most minute detail after a quick second study

hangouts either need to be planned 2 weeks in advance or happen spontaneously at 1am

doesn't say much about her parents, except that they're constantly traveling for work; can't get into their jobs too much, only that they're in high-level finance and work with a lot of big-name companies

on scholarship, but doesn't tell anyone, because she knows how that'll go over and a girl just wants to be smart

on the swim and dive team, baby got back (muscles)

????

that's it for now x

— ADDITIONAL LINKS

pinterest

[annonniiiiieeeee]

hey, would it be ok/possible to give writing tips cus i recently started a fanfic and i want it to be as good as yours. Any suggestions?

I am super flatter. I’m I also have no clue what to say.

Guess some basics.

Keep your words varied.

Instead of “he said” “she said”

Try “he asked” “she responded”

It helps the writing run smoothly and also gives you more characterization as you can describe both the mood of conversation and the attitude of characters

Apply this overall. Not just for conversations but fight scenes and movement as well.

Merriam-webster site is great for this. Put it on thesaurus mode and it will give you a bunch of synonyms. They also help with characterization as well.

Words have power and the ones you pick are important. Some words carry different emotions with them. If you want to describe some one as caring you can used the words compassionate or the word benevolent. While both mean caring they symbolize a difference in character. (Again the thesaurus is super helpful for this.

Next conversation

Read back through your conversations. Not the actions or movement but just the quotations. See if the conversation actually flows.

Add movement to the conversation. What are the characters doing while they talk. Are the pacing are hug what is it.

Fight sequences.

These are hard to write. Know that going in. It’s okay to struggle here.

I use YouTube a lot here. There are experts there that break down fighting moves in video games, movies, shows ext. use it.

I watch one three second clip over and over until I write down the movements of the body, weapon, whatever it is.

Research.

This is really important. If you are using something that isn’t from your personal background research.

We have a vibrant community here and people love to share.

I have made plenty of mistakes. But people have been kind enough to point them out and help me fix them. I don’t know Spanish and I accidentally misspelled several words and many people reach out and helped me fix them.

Be open to positive feedback. There are a tone of creative minds here. I encourage people to theorize in my comments and then if I see a really good idea I will sometimes work it into the plot.

Set your characters

I knew my ending from the beginning. This allowed me to know where I wanted my characters to be at the end and create plot points that got them there.

Set some character traits and stick to them.

When in doubt go back to the original material. Donnie has a unique way of speaking he replaces common words with scientific all the time ie phalange sandwich instead of knuckle sandwich. Use that characterization to your advantage.

The video below is a great example of how to write a character and set their character traits. Yes it’s specifically about the scooby dip gang but you can take the criticism given and apply it to all modern media. It breaks down the characters to their core and describes what makes a good character of that archetype and how they fit together as a team. There’s also a good couple segment when he talks about Fred and Daphne. (This came out before Velma and it defiantly highlights how those writes fail without even trying)

Really great resource if you want to write a group together

Conflict

It’s okay to have simple conflicts or more then one. And it is okay to make a character grow. No character should be perfect.

Usagi had a mini arch. He is a protective person. When Leo was healing he was protecting him and saw him as someone who needed protection. He had a whole little fantasy about how they could live at the Tenshu with Leo’s family. I remember people being a little upset with him because he didn’t understand that Leo was a warrior to. But that was the point. He didn’t know. As soon as he did he could grow and change as well.

It’s okay to have little conflicts like that. But be carful how you handle miscommunication conflicts. If the problem can be solved by the characters sitting down and talking it probably shouldn’t be the main conflict. They are great for side conflicts but can be frustrating if it’s the main conflict of a long fic (short fics are fine)

Remember this is for fun. At the end of the day your here because you enjoy it. This is a creative outlet for people who enjoy creating. Don’t lose sight of that in the pursuit of perfection.

If I think of anything else I will add it here.

[pompadourpink]

Hey! This is a very specific and hard to answer question but I thought I’d give it a shot anyway.

I have this guy that I’m talking to and he says he’s from Ontario, Canada and that his first language was French. With that background, that’s obviously possible, but something feels off about it.

Now, I’m a native English speaker and I don’t live anywhere where I hear a lot of different accents or languages at all but the way he pronounces things and the way he seems to have to stop and think about the translation (as if he’s checking google) when I ask what something is in French, it just puts me off.

I have no reason not to believe him, but I also have no reason to believe him. Obviously there’s a ton of different accents in every language but he pronounces things in French the same way I’ve heard Americans learning it do. Annunciating every letter, ignores basic pronunciation “rules”. It’s just weird.

And every time I get curious and ask how to say something in French he has to pause a moment or keeps me talking a moment as if he’s looking up the answer.

Anyway, my question is: is there any way to tell a native speaker from a non native speak? Specifically as a non native speaker? Am I overthinking this? Or should I listen to my gut and call his bluff?

Hello,

I am not too familiar with Canadian French but this indeed seems to be the case of a silly boy trying to impress if he's not even able to apply the basic rules of French. When I studied linguistics at uni I learned that the languages you hear before the age of 6 or 7 will stick magically but be forgotten after that if you stop being exposed to them. Google just told me that although the official language in Ontario is English, there are French-speaking communities; but if he's been struggling to talk, he might have been to one of those schools and then left never to be back.

It is probably worth it to call his bluff, at least so you don't waste your time with a liar, but rather than getting mad I would suggest asking him the difference between words like la langue and le langage (which a native would be able to figure out although it might take a second), or the translation for a butterfly, or inventing the French friend of a relative who's coming to Ontario and would like a phone call with him to see his body language evolve.

Take a look at the video and see if you recognize the accent. Hope this helps! x

[minseologs]

Cigarettes and favors

Minseo’s gaze matched the subtle disgust of Ryunosuke. The two had a staring match with each other before it softens when an understanding had been felt. In the most polished way, a facade known to people of power just to appear—

“She doesn’t like me very much, doesn’t she?”

-

Minseo eyes her family speaking to one another, the fathers spoke well to each other. Even Hyeseo and Ryunosuke’s mother spoke to each other well. Ryunosuke was a quiet one like Minseo. The two only looking around the ballroom of rich families mingling and trying to catch any connection they can.

“Well— Hyeseo has quite a background in the finer things— perhaps you’re off too look for someone to spend it with—“ his mother’s face eyes him with intent and it entertained her quietly. “Our Chanwook has quite a bit of free time nowadays.” The man chokes on his drink with the sudden proposal, everyone chuckles so blandly.

“Yes, auntie that maybe the case—“ her older sister clears her throat to ease the pressure of marrying strangers. “If I’m being honest I do have ventures that I want to finish first, if all goes well, maybe he can join me.” The sisters look at him as if he shared the same interest, but the younger didn’t place an emotion anywhere.

-

“Let’s make one thing clear;” Hyeseo darts at the younger one, himself oddly confused why there seems to be a dictatorship. “I am not interested and I am sorry but I’m just doing this to honor our businesses in the future.”

“So am I.” He was blunt and honest, but a hint of annoyance was there. “Do you need me for anything else because this is kind of weird.”

“This—“ she scoffs, feeling as if her ego had been striked. Ryunosuke mumbles something under his breath that she couldn’t quite catch but another sigh stops her. “Just cooperate and maybe this will be over at once. This isn’t weird, this just temporary— who would want to get married with you—?”

“And who would — with you?”

The regressed stances almost seem as if they’re about to escalate the argument, but Minseo enters the room just in time. Her innocent face takes a pause. Her older sister only looks back to the teenage boy before cutting off with a theatrical sigh.

“It’s a shame, but I hope you two get along, so I don’t have to deal with you.” She prods away with the most obnoxious walk. The other two were left staring at one another awkwardly but it softens when they felt hatred towards her.

“She doesn’t like me much, does she?” Ryunosuke takes a sharp breath, looking out the window and begins to fish out a pack of cigarettes and lighter. A stick is on his lips, beginning to light it. He began to speak Japanese, hoping Minseo didn’t catch all his side comments throughout the night. “You’re all fucking weird.”

“Japanese is my second language, you know.” She speaks out of the blue, perfect pronunciation and one could even hear an accent from the north. Walking with careful steps while she opens a window for the smoke to be left out. “And you can’t smoke here.”

Ryunosuke was stunned to say the least, fumbling with his pack a little too much that it made her smile in amusement.

“Don’t worry, I don’t really think Hyeseo likes anyone.” She purses her lips, keeping a distance so she doesn’t smell the burning scent. “I’m sorry they’re forcing you to that.”

“I feel like you’re the only one coherent enough to understand my feelings there. It’s not fair is it?”

“No, not at all.”

Silence brews between the two and somehow it was amicable. Nothing was to be said except watching over the city lights. Minseo, in particular, looked up at the small speck of stars. Ryunosuke was curious of what it was but didn’t ask.

“I’m not interested in marrying you by the way.” She cuts through the silence. “Apparently, they’re trying to get me close to someone else. I can only handle one fake interaction at a time.”

He chuckles. “Don’t worry,” a huff of smoke passes through the window. “I’m sure your sister and I won’t either.”

“Maybe we can be friends. Friends are always good don’t you think?”

“The way you say that sounds so threatening—“

His words were disrupted with a click by the door, he scrambled to throw the unfinished cigarette and wave the remaining traces away. Unfortunately for him, the pack drops by his feet as his father opens it, and calling out to his son until he sees the other heir— heiress— next to him. A suspicious eye was given seeing the cigarettes on the floor.

“Ah— I guess I’ve been a bad influence to Ryunosuke,” she smiles confidently, picking up the box and taps her forehead with it as if to reprimand herself. “Forgive me, uncle. I was testing if he might have some funny business so to not hinder Hyeseo’s chance.” There was a pause, and she chuckles. Almost wholeheartedly. It caused his father to chuckle too.

“Well— I assure you he is not to be influenced that easily.” Looking at his son, he seemed embarrassed. Minseo finds traces of his father on his own. “It was a lovely night meeting you all.”

Minseo bows, as do the pair. Her eyes left a glint of mischief when she goes.

-

“If you’re looking for the other one, she won’t be here.” His father fixes a collar, patting his chest with threat. “Focus on Hyeseo, it’s the easiest in our hands at the moment.”

Ryunosuke frowns, though his curiosity was more on why the elder sister was focused on while it appeared as though Minseo was almost forcefully outcast. Even in a room full of powerful people— not once she even mentioned by name. Like a fly that roams around and only seen when it became bothersome.

He was broken of his thought as a server bumps in to him and he felt something in his breast pocket. Before he could say anything, the familiar shape of a cigarette box was at his fingertips. There was a piece of paper he takes out, unfamiliar handwriting— but he took a correct guess.

You owe me. -M

[nitesh567]

How to learn Hindi:

From Namaste to Nibbling Samosas

Have you ever dreamt of getting lost in the vibrant culture of India, where the air hums with Bollywood tunes and the aroma of spices fills your senses? Well, the key to unlocking this incredible world is through the magic of Hindi, the language that binds its people together. But fear not, language learning doesn't have to be a bland textbook slog. Get ready for a delightful adventure as we explore fun and flavorful ways to master Hindi!

First Course: The Alphabet Appetizer

Hindi uses a beautiful script called Devanagari. Don't be intimidated by the unfamiliar curves! Think of it as learning a new artistic style. There are plenty of apps and websites that gamify the process, transforming Devanagari characters into enchanting puzzles. Imagine yourself deciphering ancient scrolls and unlocking secret messages – Devanagari suddenly becomes an exciting quest!

Second Course: Conversational Samosas

Who says grammar has to be dry? Let's ditch the stuffy textbooks and head straight to the streets! Find online conversation groups or language exchange partners. Imagine yourself grabbing virtual samosas with a friendly native speaker, peppering them with questions and learning everyday phrases in a relaxed and enjoyable way.

Third Course: Bollywood Binge-Learning

Bollywood isn't just about catchy tunes and dazzling dance sequences. Those movies are treasure troves of spoken Hindi! Watch them with subtitles, mimicking pronunciations and absorbing common phrases. You'll be surprised at how quickly you start picking things up. Imagine yourself understanding those hilarious movie dialogues and feeling a part of the on-screen action!

Fourth Course: Musical Masala

Music is a universal language, and Hindi music is no exception. Turn up the volume on those Bollywood playlists or discover the soulful melodies of Indian classical music. Pay attention to the lyrics – many popular songs use simple, everyday language. Sing along (even if it's a bit off-key!), and those catchy tunes will have you memorizing vocabulary effortlessly.

Spice Up Your Studies

Here are some additional tidbits to add some extra flavor to your Hindi learning journey:

Flashcard Feasts: Ditch the boring flashcards and create your own visually appealing ones. Use pictures, funny doodles, or even incorporate those delicious Indian spices to represent different vocabulary words.

Label Your World: Turn your surroundings into a Hindi classroom! Stick labels on everyday objects in your house with their Hindi names. It'll be a constant reminder and a fun way to practice.

Think in Hindi: Challenge yourself to think in short Hindi phrases throughout the day. Start with simple things like "I am going to..." or "I like...". This will prime your brain for Hindi and make speaking it more natural.

Hindi Holidays: Celebrate Indian festivals like Diwali or Holi and learn the associated vocabulary and traditions. It's a fantastic way to immerse yourself in the culture and make your learning more meaningful.

Dessert: A Celebration of Flavors

Food is the heart and soul of Indian culture, and learning Hindi goes hand-in-hand with appreciating its delicious cuisine. As you explore recipes for curries, biryanis, and sweets, learn the names of the ingredients and dishes in Hindi. Imagine yourself ordering food with confidence at an Indian restaurant, impressing your friends with your newfound knowledge (and maybe getting a few pronunciation laughs along the way).

Remember, the key to language learning is to make it fun and engaging. So, ditch the rote memorization and embrace the delicious world of Hindi. With a little creativity and a dash of spice, you'll be surprised at how quickly you'll be saying "Namaste" to fluency!

[callmesumi]

This was way too much work for just incorrect quotes, especially when I’m on break

Etymologies [These are all just pronunciations of the words!]

Kōgō/Kogo - Empress in Japanese

Ten'nō/Tenno - Emperor in Japanese

Roiyaritī/Roiyariti - Royalty in Japanese

Seifuku-sha - Conqueror in Japanese Kuraun - Crown in Japanese

Meisei - Fame in Japanese

Denka - Highness in Japanese Characters: Yasuho Hirose - Belongs to Hirohiko Araki, the second youngest of the Hirose siblings. Kogo Hirose - The oldest of the Hirose siblings, married to Meisei and mother of Seifuku and Kuraun, 30. Tenno - The second-oldest of the Hirose siblings, is known for having multiple girlfriends back in high school, 28. Roiyariti Hirose - the youngest of the Hirose siblings, surprisingly smart for her age, 3, product of Denka and a woman he met after Suzuyo. [The relationship did NOT go well but Denka kept Roi.]

Meisei Hirose - The husband of Kogo, father of Seifuku and Kuraun, known for being a ladies’ man back in high school and before he met Kogo.

Denka Hirose - The father of the Hirose siblings, ex-husband of Suzuyo, came from an extremely wealthy family where he was the only child. Explanation: I submitted an ask to @jojosbizzarewife [follow them they do super cool writing] and I really liked what they did so this is how this came about. NEVER leave me unattended /j, also I had to age down the oldests because otherwise um… 2011-34=1977, Suzuyo was born in 1967 so—

Denka: Would you guys be there for me if I was going through some stuff?

Roi: No.

Tenno: Nope.

Yasuho: Absolutely not.

Roi: I hope it sucks, whatever you’re going through.

Tenno, laughing: “I hope it sucks”!?!

Roi: Hope it emotionally scars you for the rest of your life.

Yasuho: I hope you reach out to me so I can ignore you. I can’t wait to go to your funeral, knowing I could’ve changed that outcome.

Denka: What the hell! I just asked if you’d be there for me!

Denka: We have to tell Yasuho the dog died!

Kogo: No! Yasuho, the dog ran away.

Yasuho: Why?

Kogo: He didn’t want you to see him die!

Denka: K O G O !

Meisei: you can’t hold a dog when your hands are covered in glue!

Roi: correction, you can’t DROP a dog when your hands are covered in glue.

Denka: You make me so angry so quickly. It’s remarkable.

Gappy: I literally only said 6 words.

Denka: Yet here I am, boiling with hate. Now go AWAY.

Tenno: god the LAG on this game is SO BAD

Yasuho: I think you just suck 

Tenno: I’ll fucking kill you

Roi: I’ve got an appetite for destruction.

Denka: If you cut out our cookies to spell “DESTRUCTION,” I’m kicking you out of the house into the orchard for an hour.

Roi: *nibbles on a crudely-cut “R”-shaped cookie*

Gappy: *spits out food*

Denka: Hey! We don’t spit here. If it’s in your mouth, you swallow it.

Meisei: *raises eyebrow*

Denka: Shut the fuck up.

Tenno: So, what’s it like dating Yasuho?

Gappy: Once, I asked her for water while she were pissed at me, and Yasuho brought me a glass full of ice and said “wait”. 

Tenno: this push pop bangin yo

Yasuho and Roi: that’s a glue stick

Roi: In my defense, I was left unsupervised.

Kogo: Wasn’t Yasuho with you?

Yasuho: In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.

[meditationsbyalma]

The malicious Ego

I've always had an interest in the topic of the Ego. In late December 2022, I was blessed with the chance to read "Solve For Happy" by Mo Gawdat (arguably one of the best nonfiction books I have read in my life). The 4th chapter of the book goes deep into the creation of the ego and how it resembles an illusion for what we consider an identity for ourselves (many of the ideas on this blog are inspired by that chapter).

After reading the book, I had a debate with a member of my family about this topic. Half an hour into the debate, the conversation switched from "how can I convince them that the source of their happiness, meaning, and value are distorted by the false impression they hold on their true selves" to "what if my sense of value, meaning, and happiness were derived from my ego? What if my ego is standing between who I think I am and who I truly am as a person?". 

After reading more about spirituality, I have noticed that almost everyone with a spiritual message talks about the death of the "I" in the early stages of their spiritual awakening. That's where my effort has been focused for the past 4 months.

1. The creation of the ego:

Let's pick a baby's name. Say Luke! Baby Luke is brought into the world with a peaceful, calm attitude. He may cry occasionally, but as soon as his mother comes back into the room and breastfeeds him, he is back to his default nature: a happy, loving, and giggly baby. Months go by, and baby Luke tries to mumble words until one day it works and the first proper word comes out of his mouth: "mommy!" His mother goes nuts and calls everyone into the room while holding a camera to record the magical memory. Baby Luke starts to pick up on the fact that some actions, such as pronouncing certain words, could get him attention and praise from his environment. Interesting, no?

Few months later, and baby Luke's pronunciation of more words is still attached to constant encouragement and a boost of love. But on the other hand, mommy, the same lady that he loves the most out of anyone, is the one that could give him a bad reaction if he eats something that fell on the floor or if he pulls Dada's hair when he is sleeping. Luke learns that some actions are frowned upon, so he sticks to mumbling words and tests the reaction of his environment to decide whether he should repeat his actions or not. Baby Luke's future actions are determined by how his environment feels about them.

Finally, the day comes, and little Luke says the word that will later shape his entire perspective on the world: "Luke!". Baby Luke realises that he is separate from the rest of the world, That he has an identity and a separate physical form that make him who he is. Later, after that incident, our little baby learns that his name comes with a second package of words such as "I", "mine" and "have". The guy called "Dada" buys Luke little colourful toys to play with, but when they get broken, he cries hysterically, and Dada does not know why. The reason for that is that a baby learns to identify with their belongings at that early age in order to make sense of their identity. When the toy gets broken, the baby's entire picture of themselves gets broken.

At this stage, The ego has already been created. He learned to associate an image with himself and attribute some qualities to it! He does what he does not because he likes it, but because this is what he has been told is accepted by social conditioning. He associated himself with what he has and what his environment could offer him so that he could differentiate himself from others and create a more specific and different image of them. The problem with that approach is that:

He does not know what he genuinely wants in the first place because he has built his own early judgements on what he has been told is true and acceptable.

He lives his entire life extracting his sense of meaning and value from those choices without realising that they are simply illusions. The image and the attributions associated with it are merely an illusion of who he truly is. He learns to define himself by what he likes and what he owns, but that's not who he truly is!

2. The repercussions of living under the ego's shadow:

"Dada" gets Luke another toy, but his cousin "Luka" has a bigger one with flashy lights. Somehow Luke feels less about himself, and he wants Luka's toy, so he cries and causes a scene. He wants his identity to be flashier and bigger because that looks better and gives him an unconscious sense of value and meaning. He grows to realise that some possessions are more precious than others. Fast cars (real ones) are cooler than a plastic gun. It gives him the status and respect that he wants to believe he deserves.

He learns to attach meaning to whatever society perceives as hard to get, and he falls under the illusion that expensive is meaningful or cheap is meaningless. He wants more of what he thinks he deserves; he navigates this reality with what the "I" could get, whether that is more love from a relationship or more status from a certain position. He feeds the image. He thinks he is adding more value to his true, authentic self, but he lives his life ignorant about who he truly is and what he genuinely wants.

He lives his life as a victim of his EGO.

He later dies without making a genuine connection with himself, and thus without making a genuine connection with reality. He realises on his death bed that he did not live; the image that he has constructed might have created the illusion that he lived, but he did not.

To what extent can you relate to little Luke's experience?

Yassine Said.

[wetbloodworm]

googling how you’re supposed to pronounce the name ‘sergey’ because i say it ‘SEHR-gay’ when talking about my boy but idk if that’s technically right and a few things

the second syllable is supposed to be the one that’s stressed??? sehr-GAY??? why did i think it was the first syllable??

i thought maybe it was just ‘SIR-gay’ not switching up the syllables entirely, i’ve been preparing to adjust to something different entirely, i wasn’t expecting this

it’s the second?????????????????

like i know english-speakers emphasize the first syllable but he’s russian  and would likely be going off the russian pronunciations when picking his name. do i have to change where the stress goes??????

i’m very particular about saying anastasiya with the emphasis in the correct place i feel like i should do the same with sergey but it feels like such a big change to me

i absolutely would’ve researched this before, did i know this at one point? i had to have known. i research everything.

i can not understate how riled up i am about this on account of my brain being busted

i can’t cope with this right now we’ll decide on that another time

anyway

when writing it out people keep spelling it ‘sir-gay’ but that is. that’s a different sound. that’s a different sound!!

okay some of the pronunciations sound more like ‘sir’ maybe? but also the sounds are starting to blend together for me when i’m listening to other people so i can’t quite tell the difference any more

this one’s written out with the sehr sound but it’s for the bulgarian name

okay this one native russian speaker broke down that it’s sehr specificity that it’s not sir. someone else described it as sir but crisper? which means nothing to me. more people specifying that it’s not sir but disagreeing on exactly how the vowel sounds.

i’m remembering that dialects are a thing. so maybe it genuinely varies. which is hard for my brain to accept because i need things to be very clearly defined

okay okay okay okay fine. i’m sticking with the sehr sound. i’m hearing it enough with native russian speakers that it’s at least sometimes correct.

but what the FUCK am i doing with the syllables

AAAAAAAA

feeling extremely normal about this