#~upon the yellowed pages {quotes}

[sunnami]

deleted draft/scene - watch me, don’t touch me, love me, don’t hurt me.

legitimately cannot write anything at the moment, so please have this for a bit T-T

“LILY, DARLING! That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Amidst the Yule Ball festivities, a crowd gathers in the corner of the icy ballroom; far beyond the ages of awkward teenage hand-holding, and an acquired taste for Firewhiskey rather than fruit punch. In the middle of it all—is you. Obnoxiously catching everyone’s attention, whether they like it or not. But even the Dementors in Azkaban would find themselves drawn to your shrilling voice and careless display of wealth; like a bee to a field of flowers. Your gown is dripping in black, hand-woven gothic lace, and drapes of ruffled, yellow satin skirts. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. A pear cut, Canary Diamond necklace sits atop your neck. The capelet around your shoulders is of black velvet and gold trimmings. 

(Always the belle of the ball, but Sirius Black wonders if there’s anything in your head at all.)

(“Bloody hell.” Marlene grabs the flask of whiskey from Sirius’s hands and pours the burning liquid down her throat. “I’m going to need more of this if I plan on surviving the night. Surely there are more important matters to discuss than French designers and our frilly dresses. It’s like I’m back in sixth-year all over again.”

Sirius shakes the now-empty container in amusement. “And you thought stealing my stash was the best idea? Do you know how hard it was to sneak this in with Minnie glaring down my shoulders? I swear that woman treats me like I’m still fourteen.”)

“We work in the same castle, Lily flower, but it’s a pity we don’t run into each other much,” You say liltingly, lipstick staining the rim of your champagne glass. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were deliberately avoiding me!”

Lily flashes you a constrained smile. “On the contrary, I’ve been rather busy these days helping Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary. My responsibility, after all, is first and foremost—the children.” She raises a brow at you contemptuously. “Not all of us have the luxury of skipping work for tea and gossip.”

You hum, lips quirked in amusement. “Oh? That’s a shame. Narcissa and I would love for you to join us one day.” 

“Perhaps when I’ve no longer important things to do,” says Lily in a saccharine-sweet tone. 

You grow bored of toying with Lily—to her relief—and decide to throw a bone at Rita Skeeter. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. You have nobles from pure-blooded families kissing at your feet for a moment of your time; entertaining a crowd like this takes no effort. (Except for the Marauders, you find. They’re the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you’re conducting.) 

“You wouldn’t believe it, Rita darling, of all the people I come upon in Rome—it’s Vittoria Zabini!” You throw your head back in laughter as Rita’s eyes grow wide as a bug’s. “On a honeymoon, no less!” You wink at Rita. “This makes her fourth one now, I believe.” 

As predicted, Rita greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page at our hands.” 

Lily hides a scoff by taking a sip of her sparkling beverage. “Surely we have more important news for the wizarding world than an innocent woman’s marriage.” 

You gasp melodramatically. “But this is Vittoria Zabini! Haven’t you ever wondered why her husbands mysteriously disappear after months of marriage?”

“Not even once!” Lily slams her glass down onto the round, draped table; nostrils flaring and chest heaving. “Sorry.” She dabs a napkin at her lips with a heavy exhale. “Please excuse me. I’ve just lost my appetite.” 

“Poor dear,” You mutter as the red-headed beauty makes for the group of Gryffindors a few feet away. She instantly collapses into James’s arms, no doubt complaining about your charming personality. There’s an odd ache in your heart as you watch the McKinnon girl pat her back comfortingly; Remus Lupin taking Lily’s hands and easing her anger. You’ve never felt a camaraderie such as theirs. Always the Gryffindors, and their flagrant displays of loyalty and whatnot. 

How repulsive. 

this was one of the first ever drafts for the fic! and no, the yule ball scene won’t be like this, it’ll be quite better, i hope. ;0

[explaining-homestuck]

can you please explain quadrents (specifically moirailegince? i see alot of people dont seem to get it and id love to have a post to link back to when i explain it instead of having to go through homestuck)

Ah, tackling the big one first.

Homestuck itself has its own explanation of quadrants, which starts on Page 2392. However, I'll take a stab at simplifying the explanation here, although I may take direct quotes from the comic.

Humans have only one form of romance. And though we consider it a complicated subject, [...] it is ultimately a superficial slice of what trolls consider the full body of romantic experience. Our concept of romance [...] is still just [...] a single, linear concept.

(I guess I will be taking direct quotes from the comics.)

This concept of human love is generally represented with the symbol <3, or ❤️. However, trolls, in keeping with the Midnight Crew's full set of playing card theming, have four different types of romance, to fit the four suits.

<3/♥️, Hearts; <3</♠️, Spades; c3</♣️, Clubs; and <>/♦️, Diamonds.

This creates 4 Quadrants of romance, a term that is often used to refer to love and romantic entanglement.

Here, Nepeta's helpful diagram shows how these quadrants are related.

Hearts, the Flushed Quadrant, and Diamonds, the Pale Quadrant, are grouped as "Red Romance". These are the quadrants more associated with what we would possibly call positive feelings.

Meanwhile, Spades the Caliginous Quadrant (often called "Pitch"), and Clubs, the Ashen quadrant, are grouped as "Black Romance", more associated with negative feelings (to a degree, the divide isn't as simple as that.)

Furthermore, Hearts and Spades are Concupiscent Quadrants, and Diamonds and Clubs are Conciliatory Quadrants. These terms relate to the purpose of these quadrants within troll society: Concupiscent (which has meanings of sexual desire) Quadrants are related directly to the reproductive cycle of the troll species. Meanwhile, Conciliatory (meaning to placate of pacify) Quadrants, quote:

"would be more closely likened to platonic relationships by human standards"

Note: this does not make them necessarily platonic relationships in troll society. Pale and Ashen relationships remain romantic, and there may possibly also be sexual elements (not that these are shown or implied in the comic, nor will they be theorised upon here).

The comic makes it clear that while many parallels can be drawn between troll romance and certain human relationships (for example, "frenemies" or "QPRs"), these relationships are different from troll ones, as trolls are driven by primal forces to engage in their 4 types of romance, in the same way we do with our one (This is, of course, a gross oversimplification of the vast spectrum of the human experience of attraction and possible lack thereof, but it's a fair rough analogy.)

Let us now move on to the first and easiest to understand quadrant:

♥️: The Flushed Quadrant

The Flushed Quadrant is (almost) exactly the same as human romantic and/or sexual attraction. For our purposes, ♥️=❤️.

While the trolls have no concept of marriage, and don't generally use the terms boyfriend/girlfriend, the term for a partner in the Flushed Quadrant is a Matesprit, meaning the two trolls have formed a Matespritship.

The given example within Homestuck canon at the time of a Matespritship was Dad Egbert and Mom Lalonde. Several other well known examples are Rose Lalonde and Kanaya Maryam, Latula Pyrope and Mituna Captor, and Jade Harley and Davesprite (during the Yellow Yard trip, before John's 15th birthday). Many others exist, as well as flushed crushes (Kanaya Maryam for Vriska Serket, Nepeta Leijon for Karkat Vantas, etc.)

Note: Humans can take part in Quadrant relationships outside of the Flushed Quadrant, though some trolls thought this impossible.

Next, we explain

♠️: The Pitch (Caliginous) Quadrant

The simplest explanation of Pitch is always "romance, but with hate instead of love". People often find that hard to understand, but it's a trope that appears throughout media. One of the best examples I've found is LEGO Batman and LEGO Joker in the LEGO Batman Movie.

However, it's much more than simply "hate love". A Kisemesistude is more akin to a fierce arch-rivalry, with a troll competing against their Kismesis to outfox, outsmart, or simply defeat them.

The given example for a Kismesistude is Jack Noir and the Black Queen. Another example is Vriska Serket and Eridan Ampora's black romance, which fell apart before they started the game, Marquise Spinerette Mindfang and Orphaner Dualscar's Kismesistude, which they were mimicking, or Terezi Pyrope and Gamzee Makara's relationship in the pre-retcon timeline.

Note: no successful Kismesistudes exist within the main body of Homestuck: Vriska broke things off with Eridan and likewise Mindfang with Dualscar, and Gamzee was physically and mentally abusing Terezi. All canon kismesistudes have either not budded, or ended with one of the two Kismesis dumping the other, or attempting to kill them. (John and Terezi doesn't count in this case, as its continuation only exists in the Epilogues, a dubiously canon source.) This does not, however, mean all Kismesistudes are doomed to fail.

There are also numerous Pitch crushes, such as Eridan Ampora on Rose Lalonde, Gamzee Makara on Dave Strider (or possibly the Insane Clown Posse, it's unclear) and the aforementioned John Egbert for Terezi Pyrope and vice versa.

Now, it wouldn't be a Homestuck post without an Intermission (possibly the first of several!)

🪣: The Bucket Intermission

I'll keep this short.

Flushed and Pitch pairings can, through undescribed processes, produce a combination of genetic material, which is then collected in a Filial Pail (bucket) by Imperial Drones to be fed to the Mother Grub, who then makes all the baby trolls from the gametes, probably.

Hussie also wrote a short paragraph about dominant and recessive genes which makes me think they know less about dominant and recessive genes than the writers of Metal Gear Solid, but that's not that important right now.

If a troll is unable to provide suitable generic materials, they will be culled by the drone, meaning finding concupiscent quadrantmates is a key goal for a troll's survival.

Anyway, back to romance, with

♣️: The Ashen Quadrant

The clubs symbol notably has 3 circles, which relates to the way this relationship (the most misunderstood one, in my experience) works.

Clubs relationships, or Auspisticisms, are formed when a third troll sees a pair involved in a feud, and decides to step in to mediate, becoming their Auspistice. The purpose of an Auspistice is not the mediate and grow a Pitch relationship, as it's often portrayed, but in fact prevent it from developing.

This is because trolls often feud with each other, causing possible Kismesistudes, but (conventionally) troll romance is monogamous in-quadrant, and having two or more Kismesis would be considered infidelity in conventional troll society, as well as that too many Kismesistudes can increase danger in troll society, and mis-matched rivalries can cause trolls to be stuck in relationships they do not like.

An Auspisticism is often defined by the attraction specifically of the Auspistice *toward* the rival pair, and their wish to mediate them. This is known as an Ashen Crush, much like above Pitch and Flushed Crushes.

Examples of known Auspisticisms within canon Homestuck are Kanaya Maryam between Vriska Serket and Tavros Nitram, Doc Scratch between Spades Slick and Snowman (though Scratch's intervention was more driven by accomplishing his own goal of having Slick kill Snowman), and Jade Harley between Bec Noir and the Peregrine Mendicant in [S] Collide, though this ended in failure.

Next, let's move onto

♥️🔁♠️: Quadrant Vacillation

Another known occurrence within troll society and its romantic framework is the Vacillation of two trolls between multiple quadrants. While canon only gives examples of Flushed/Pitch Vacillation, it's stated that this is but the most common type of Vacillation.

This occurs because troll relationships are incredibly malleable. To quote from the comic again:

In many cases, one party will have red feelings while the other has black. But it will often be the case that one party's feelings will swap to match the other's, since there is no quadrant which naturally accommodates such a disparity. But thereafter, it's not uncommon for the two to toggle between red and black in unison now and then. These scenarios naturally result in both red and black infidelities.

This is stated to be a key reason for the existence of the Ashen and Pale quadrants, to prevent such infidelities. Auspistices are intended to be able to stabilise these turbulent relationships, but failure to uphold this role can lead to more instability and chaos within the mixed relationship.

Equius Zahhak and Aradiabot are shown as the key example of Vacillation, caused by Aradia's distain of the former for his rudeness and the fact he planted a chip inside her robot body that would make her love him, and Equius's attraction to the latter paired with his somewhat fetishisation of the caste system (a story for another time). Vriska Serket and Tavros Nitram's relationship is also mentioned, with Vriska's continued mimicking of Mindfang pushing her to meld Tavros into a fitting Matesprit, while at the same time expressing distain for his unwillingness to broach a relationship, and his wimpish behaviour. This is also further complicated by Tavros genuinely being attracted to Vriska, but too scared of her to commit to a relationship, and their Auspistice Kanaya Maryam's flushed crush on Vriska also, leading to her slacking her duties so to speak.

And now, we move onto the final quadrant, the specifically requested one:

♦️: The Pale Quadrant

Pale relationships are called a Moirallegiance, in which two trolls are Moirails. This quadrant can be liked to soulmates, but with a more platonic (yet still romantic) lean.

Moirails, also called Palemates, exist with the purpose to calm down and pacify their Pale partner. Trolls are (said to be) inherently an angry, violent species, with some being dangerous to themselves or society if left alone. Pale attraction exists for a troll of such tendencies to find a partner who can pacify them (positively), and for even-tempered trolls to seek out those who would benefit from their assistance.

A perfect Moirallegiance is said to consist of two trolls who mutually pacify and assist each other, whose emotional profiles fit together well, helping them to form other relationships in different quadrants with ease.

Moirallegiance is often confused by trolls for platonic friendship, and vice versa, and furthermore, Flushed attraction may be confused for Pale. The Flushed quadrant is said to be "more red" than the Pale one by Eridan Ampora, and likewise the Pitch quadrant "blacker" than the Ashen one, as one might expect from their describing colours.

The most well known Moirallegiance in Homestuck would of course be Meowrails, Nepeta Leijon and Equius Zahhak. Others include the Draconian Dignitary and Bec Noir, Karkat Vantas and Gamzee Makara, and Feferi Peixes and Eridan Ampora (although Eridan held a Flushed crush for Feferi, similar to the one Kanaya held for Vriska during her Moirallegiance with her).

Finally, the an important thing that Moirail can do for their partner, in cases of both dire need of calming down, and a lighter gesture of aid, is the Shoosh Pap, performed by Karkat Vantas to Gamzee Makara to calm him down from his murderous rampage at the end of Act 5 Act 2. Karkat says:

IT'S JUST A TROLL THING, HUMANS WOULDN'T GET IT. 

You would think this is everything, and it almost is, but Hussie's explanation forgoes one particular part of troll romance that is only later elaborated on by Karkat:

♥️♠️♥️♠️: Group Vacillation

Um.

You see.

Do you get it?

I think the diagram is clear enough.

Ok, we're done here.

Edit: it is worth noting that this system of quadrants is actually quite limited, both in terms of actual occurrences in the comic, and how it is often portrayed in fanfiction and fanworks, as (due to its time of writing) does not take into account polyamory in the same quadrant.

Edit 2: Redrom also has nothing canonically related to "pity". Saying "I pity you" to a Moirail or Matesprit in place of "I love you" is not a normal thing for trolls; it's based in a model that exclusively Karkat Vantas came up with and talks about, because of his repressed emotional state; he believes there can only be two emotions, hate and pity, and all other emotions are derived from the two. It's not an accurate representation of the workings of troll romance, only a reflection of his state within the comic.

If you want to know *all* about *all* canon examples of *all* four quadrants, or explanation of the other species's versions of romance, those will have to come at a later date. I could also probably make diagrams. But that will have to do for now, I'm afraid. If you find any inaccuracies that aren't about the spelling of Moirallegiance, (trust me, even the comic doesn't know how to spell it), please let me know! I can also probably answer any questions or clarifications in any reblogs, asks, or replies, but they won't necessarily be this extensive.

(Oh and also if anyone wants me to explain that one gif from the section, I can do that too. You know the one.)

[tossawary]

Ming Fan is never the head disciple, just the most senior of his age group, quickly supplanted by Luo Binghe within 3 years. But I understand the impression / decision to interpret him that way in fics, given that we never see any older / more senior disciples. (Or even senior Qing Jing cultivators, I think? I can't remember if Shen Qingqiu's contemporaries appear at all in the canon era and they're definitely not named if they do appear in passing.)

Some quotes about Ming Fan during the Skinner Demon mission:

"To tell the truth, Shen Qingqiu was extremely satisfied with Ming Fan as a disciple. Even though he was a rich young master and spoiled rotten, he was never even a little arrogant in front of his teacher. Instead, he was absolutely obedient and incredibly respectful. A man could never dislike being worshipped like a god.

Ming Fan had also single-handedly handled the travel preparations, from arrangements of food to lodging. If his IQ hadn't inevitably plummeted whenever he laid eyes on the protagonist, transforming him into a schoolyard bully capable of any misdeed, he would also be a promising young sprout!"

Volume 1, Chapter 2, page 66.

" "This disciple has closely examined the corpse," said Ming Fan. With a solemn expression, he presented the items in his hand. 

Shen Qingqiu took a closer look. They were two stacks of yellow talismans, written upon with cinnabar ink. The paper had blackened to a shade akin to necrosis. 

"You used these talismans to assess the corpses for demonic energy?" he asked. 

"Shizun's eyes see all. This disciple used these talismans in two locations. The first at the soil near the grave of a victim who'd been buried, the second beside a yet unburied corpse still at the coroner's." 

If even the grave soil was this saturated with demonic energy, then that confirmed that the Skinner Demon was undoubtedly of the demon race. Finally, Shen Qingqiu knew what they faced."

Volume 1, Chapter 2, page 65.

Ming Fan might be forcing Luo Binghe to do all the grueling chores, but he is actually doing work. I do think it would be funny if Shen Qingqiu (Yuan) had actually taken the head disciple away from Ming Fan and given it to Luo Binghe - that is what appears to have happened unofficially - but I doubt Shen Jiu had any actual respect for Ming Fan, enough to make it official. Shen Yuan certainly doesn't seem to have all that much respect for him.

[sgiandubh]

Ad hominem

Alright, BIF. I let you shine your yellow light all night long on your blog. You specifically call me out as, at best, uninformed and at worst, a liar. It is my (legal, ethical, etc) right to answer.

You quote me and you add a long list of shippers who sent you comments and Anons, just to prove me wrong. It is your strictest right, of course:

This is exactly what I did write. But let's see a bit closer your 10 entries list. Curious people can check it here: https://www.tumblr.com/brian-in-finance/751660983126294528/kudos-for-saving-all-these-comments-and-anons-bif?source=share:

Out of those 10 entries, 7 are made before I entered the fray - unless you think I am a maniac, I had no clue about it. Out of those 7, #4 at least was written by a person I blocked myself. And #7 is anything but hateful (SHW does not need another lawyer, of course, but it stroke me as very representative of what you people do ALL THE TIME) - it is simply a decent, but firm answer:

If a different opinion is 'sowing hate or spreading doubt', kudos to you, lady, indeed. But let's continue, shall we?

Entry #8 is an Anon. God only knows who wrote it. Perhaps a shipper. Perhaps one of your people. Perhaps yourself. It's not unheard of, after all. I never did anything remotely like that on my own page. Sending myself Anons is simply idiotic (hell, I never sent any Anon after starting my own blog, for that matter). I have no idea who dunnit. Anons are Anons. And it is a nasty one. Unnecessarily so. Entry #10 is also an Anon, so same modus operandi by you, here: you include something impossible to prove conclusively. And you know it. Entry #9 is by someone I have no way or wish to identify (typical sock account avatar, so probably one of those) and who called you 'dumb' on your own page. She shouldn't have. It is naive at best and disingenuous at worst. It's poor taste, indeed and it brings absolutely nothing to the table. That person should have written a post about it on her own blog - but I am not that person, BIF, so 🤷‍♀️.

That being said, let's see how your ever serviceable friend, Miss Marple, does in the calumny department. Before anything else, it is absolutely correct she NEVER leaves comments on adverse pages. She just loses her temper, from time to time, on her own page - don't we all?

She writes in her long reblog of your post (FYI, the correct term is 'beliefs', not the one being used):

Guess what? I also have a list, BIF. A list of personal attacks by this user. Directed at me. Maybe it's not as long as yours, but it is there, alright. I have often thought of compiling it, but somehow never got around to it. I am not going to post it, because I do not want you people to cannibalize my time. From calling me a nut case, to comparing me to Emily White, to accusing me of insulting her deceased mother, to belittling me, to publicly denouncing me towards a third party, I have seen it all from that woman.

One more time - what she thought to be a personal insult to her mother, is in fact an idiom:

I used it to mean she would do just about anything to achieve clicks and traffic. But hey, for sure, victimization is a way better strategy.

Your problem with me is a personal one. That goes for both of you. But it just goes to show how intolerant you are towards different opinions, how irritated you are when you are called out for being wrong about things and ultimately, how terribly useless this whole thing is.

Below is something to reflect upon, BIF. Not about your reliable friend, but about another troll. Her Opinions Only, of course 🐮:

That is all. You do you, all of you, by all means. But whenever you mention me, you should expect an answer. For the time being, this is my response to you.

[jungle-angel]

Spectacularly Spooky Stories (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: It's an absolutely shitty day while you and Bob are on vacation from work, but that doesn't mean there's no room for spooky stories to be told

Tagging: @bobfloydsbabe Helena my love, I can't appreciate enough whenever you answer an ask I've sent in, consider this my little gift to you my friend (lol).

"Prepare yourselves, or be overwhelmed. The horseman descends upon this realm! The skies grow dark. The flames burn bright! None shall escape the horseman's sight!" you read from the battered old book with the weakening spine and yellowing pages.

"Harken, cur! 'Tis you I spurn! Listen well, and feel the burn!" Bob quoted with a mouthful of cider donut.

You laughed a little, the chills running down your back as a low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky above your street and the old Victorian where you and Bob had taken to living now that he was teaching at your school.

"You enjoying that donut?" you chuckled.

"Always baby," Bob answered before he was finally able to swallow. "Love this time of year."

"Spooky stories, cider donuts and a whole two weeks at home with you," you told him. "Though I think your copy of Sleepy Hollow has seen better days."

"That's nothing," Bob insisted. "You should've seen a copy of the Scottish Play that Kelsey and Kayleigh Perrault were carrying around the other day. That thing was beat to shit."

"You should've told me Bob, I would've given them mine," you told him.

"Hey, the bookshelf in your classroom is thin enough as is," Bob informed you. "If history's taught us anything, it's never deplete your resources. Now the librarian on the other hand......"

"Is a pretentious, annoying bitch who's on her way to getting fired?" you chuckled.

Bob had opened his mouth to say something, but you had quickly taken the words right out of his mouth. "Good point," was all he was able to get out.

"I know," you told him. "I saw her griping at Mona's fourth graders when they were going down the stairs to the library and heard all about it when we were in the break room for lunch."

Bob rolled his eyes. If anything that rang true throughout the school, it was never, in the history of ever, mess with Mona Reyes, one of the grades teachers in the lower half of the school. She was a tiny little thing who ran her class with military precision and hated nitpicky people more than anything, especially the beaked nose librarian who thought it her job to nitpick everyone and everything in the school, more so when Bob brought his students down for research projects.

He leaned in and kissed you, the taste of the apple cider donut still on his lips and sweeter than ever as he drew a quiet little moan from your throat. "What do you say I make the both of us a hazelnut coffee?" he murmured. "I think it's that kind of a day."

You kissed him right back. "I would love that very much sweetheart," you said to your husband.

Bob scurried away to the kitchen and put two of the k-cups into the coffee maker, taking care to add extra milk into the mugs. He lit a fire in the fireplace and crawled under the thick, fuzzy throw blanket with you, the two of you reading over Sleepy Hollow in the hopes that you could get some new ideas for your main lesson when you got back from vacation. The rain continued to batter the windows, the skies outside dark as ever but you and Bob staying cozy in your own private library and away from the rest of your troubles.

[abiiors]

Book

So excited to do (write) anything that you want to! week with prompts from @imightgetbetter. Adding all of these to my Series Masterlist

Monday - early matty (pre-notes/bfiafl)

In a small corner of a dusty, second-hand bookstore, two hands reach for the same book at the same time. Fingers brush against each other, electricity zings, all the usual ingredients of a meet-cute, except the boy is on a mission. 

‘I’m going to sound like a twat here,’ he shuts his eyes tightly then opens them with a sigh, ‘but I need that book more than you.’

You feel a bit dumbfounded. At least, he has the decency to look embarrassed but the fact remains that he still hasn’t let go of the book. 

‘Oh?’ you ask, still gathering your bearings, ‘you don’t even know what I need it for?’

‘I knowww,’ he groans, ‘but please! I need it back.’

You look at the boy properly. He truly does look desperate for the book. His face is all pouty and his eyes big, his hair sits like a curly, poofy mop on his head. You wonder if this look is supposed to work on people, if it has worked on people in the past. 

Maybe, maybe not. And as much as you don’t want to admit it, it is working on you a little bit. Okay, maybe a lot!

‘You need it…back?’ you give him a quizzical look. 

‘I need it back,’ he confirms. 

‘You see,’ he continues like he’s about to start a soliloquy, ‘my roommate got really drunk or really high, it doesn’t matter, my roommate got fucked up and decided to sell my books for some extra cash. Yes, yes I know, messed up but now I’m here to try to get as many of them back as possible.’

You open your mouth, about to say something, but he’s not done speaking. 

‘Please, I’ll buy you a new copy of this but not this one. This one has some…annotations.’

His face turns pink. His eyes wander a bit, unable to meet yours. And you have to admit, he has almost won you over. 

‘What’s your name?’ You bite your lip, hold back a smile.

‘Matt,’ he says, clearing his throat, ‘Matty.’

‘I don’t need a new copy, Matty. I just needed to check a few passages, that’s all.’ 

‘Oh.’ It’s a soft sound like he’s contemplating. ‘Well, in that case…’ he trails off and holds the copy in front of you. 

His copy of On The Road by Jack Kerouac is old and a bit wrinkled. The pages are yellowing and the spine is cracked but you have to admit, it looks well read. Well loved, even. 

‘I just need to jot down a few things,’ you tell him and he nods. 

When you settle down on the floor, a notebook and pen in hand, he does the same. You wonder if this is to snatch the book away if you stumble upon any of his annotations. He could wander around the bookstore while you did your thing but he wraps his hands around his knees and rest his chin on them. He’s not exactly subtle when he lets his eyes roam over you with barely concealed interest. 

‘What’s this for?’ he tilts his head to one side, and then as an afterthought, adds, ‘if I may ask.’

‘A paper on road trip novels,’ you answer distractedly as you flip through the page to find what you need. 

There are a few pencil scribblings here and there, quotes that are underlined and circled over and over again. There are doodles—few and far in between—but they make you smile a bit. You so badly want to stop and read the annotations but not when he’s sitting right there, watching you like a hawk. 

While you note down the things you need to, Matty gets restless. He picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers effortlessly, picks up a second one and bangs them on his shins like drumsticks. The boy truly can’t sit still even when he lets you work in peace…for the most part. 

But you’re surprised that you don’t find it annoying. If anything, his fidgety restlessness is amusing. The way he stops every time you turn pages, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, ready to hide anything embarrassing. You feel tempted to linger on one of his notes just to watch how he’d react but they seem to have petered out as the book slowly comes to an end. 

You want to imagine this boy, in his bedroom or in a cafe or in a park, reading the book. His hands clutching it tightly, his face scrunched in concentration. He would be so absorbed that he forgets to note down any more of his thoughts. But something catches your eye as you turn to the penultimate page. 

Black ink has bled through. Until now, everything was in pencil, smudged, messy script but with a touch of gentleness. But this is much harsher, written in pen. 

His eyes widen, his hands freeze in place. Quicker than expected, he drops the pens and flips the page. 

‘What…’ he grabs the book in confusion and you let him take it away from you. His face changes from confusion to irritation, to gloom, to, finally, curiosity. 

His eyes dart over the dark scribblings. A crease forms between his eyebrows as he tries to make sense of the words. 

‘Wow, these are mental,’ he mumbles to himself. ‘God, these make no sense.’

‘I thought they were yours,’ you raise an eyebrow. 

‘No, someone else must have... Mine are much tamer compared to these.'

The curiosity gets the better of you and you have to ask, ‘can I see?’

‘Mmm, sure.’ He extends the book in your direction still holding onto one half of it. 

So you scoot closer, hold onto the other side. Your thighs touch momentarily, your heads are bent over it as both of you try to decipher the script. 

‘1 June, The 1975,’ you read aloud, trace the words with your fingers. ‘That’s a bit of a weird way of writing it.’

‘It is, isn’t it!’ He taps the space under the words, then tips his head back onto the shelves behind him. 

‘The 1975…’ he repeats and his voice has gone all soft and full of awe. ‘Has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?’

[aphrodisiac-siren]

hi! i hope you’re doing well :)) this isn’t necessarily a request but i saw that you wrote a hogwarts au for aemond and i’ve been searching far and wide for a hufflepuff!reader and slytherin!aemond dynamic, so if you ever feel inspired to write anything with that, please know that i would read tf out of it! have a great day!! 💕

Heyy! I love me a Slytherin-Hufflepuff couple so I’m superrr excited about this one. I hope I did justice to your request.

Slytherin!Aemond X Hufflepuff!Reader

“And then the potion just exploded like boom, right in his his face and I don’t really see how that’s my fault since all I did was..”

Aemond patiently listened to you rant as you both were sat under the large oak tree in the school’s courtyard. The both of you had a free period and had opted to sit by the tree, you leaning against him as he flipped through your notebook, proofreading your essay on sirens while your bags were carelessly pushed toward your left, his green and white scarf tangled with your yellow and black one that were also tossed alongside your bags.

“And then I-“ you paused, taking a moment to look up at him, observing his brows knitted together as he focused on your essay “are you listening Aemond?”

“And then the smoke turned green, a horrible odour followed after.. yes I am listening Y/N, go on” he assured, still not looking up from the book in his hands.

You pouted slightly, wanting all of his attention. So you waited until he was done reading the whole thing and only once he’d looked up from those pages did you smile, ready to start talking again but Aemond beat you to it.

“There’s a mistake in the historical reference of your essay,” he said in his monotonous voice “Homer stated that the sirens are part bird and not-“

“From what I read, in the greek origins of the sirens, they allowed themselves to be prevailed upon by Hera to compete with the muses” you interrupted, quoting something you’d read in a book only the night before “since they lost, their wings were taken from them and they were tossed into the waters to which their bodies adapted and that’s how they’re part fish-“

“But those are called mermaids. The sirens never replicated their appearance” Aemond argued further “when they tried to lure a ship full of sailers who outsmarted the sirens, they threw themselves into the ocean and drowned. Some say they metamorphosed into rocks”

“So you’re claiming sirens to be extinct? That my essay in flawed?” you raised a brow, taking your book from his hand.

“All I’m saying is, perhaps you should read another book or two” he hummed “just to be sure”

A comfortable silence filled between you both. Aemond didn’t talk much unless it was related to academics.

This had always been the dynamic between you both, him being the quiet one and you, the comparatively louder one. You’d befriended him on your very first time aboard the Hogwarts express. He was sat by himself, fidgeting with the hem of his emerald green sweater, his shoulder-length hair pulled back neatly into a half-up, half-down hairstyle. He had a brown leather eye patch that covered his left eye.

Even at the age of eleven, he wasn’t at all talkative and you being you, sat beside him and sort of adopted him.

He seemed to like to hear you ramble about silly things. And even though you both were disappointed about being sorted into different houses, the both of you still stayed friends, growing closer and closer as the years went by.

You became his best friend, always walking around the hallways together, your shoulders bumping together, though as time went by and he grew his height, it was more like your shoulder bumping against his bicep.

You were the one who used to rush to his defence, regardless of the situation just the same as he used to rush to yours. The only difference? Aemond was a calm and collected person, always keeping his cool even when he was filled with rage to the brim meanwhile you were a short-tempered gremlin, quick to give into your anger and throw a punch. Aemond was usually the one who would have to break up the fights and pry you off of the poor student who had taken a good beating from you.

"Why do you always resort to fighting?" he'd ask you with a chuckle as he would come to walk you back to your common room after your detention.

"I can’t help it" you shrugged "he said something about you that I did not appreciate"

There were times when his older brother Aegon used to interrupt your peaceful moments, like the one you were presently having, to boast about how good he was at quidditch compared to his other teammates or sometimes to simply tease the both of you, stating that you lot would make an adorable couple.

You simply laughed along with him, while Aemond’s ears used to turn red.

"What are you lot doing this year for Christmas eve?" Aemond asked "there’s going to be some exchanging of presents in the Slytherin common room once its midnight"

"Oh we're just having the regular hot chocolate counter with cookies" you shrugged "though I'm sure the older students will sneak off for a smoke"

"Us Slytherins just spike the eggnog" he simply said, not giving you any further details.

"I'm going to sneak out too," you told him and that seemed to immediately regain his attention. You didn’t really smoke so it did catch him off-guard so you quickly clarified what your intent was behind sneaking out "not for a smoke. I was hoping to meet you"

"Oh" he simply said and it was hard for you to read his expression. Aemond was rather good at masking his emotions "past curfew"

"Yes past curfew" you giggled "wouldn’t be called sneaking out if it wasn’t"

"What for?" he asked, the corner of his lip curling up into a sly smile.

"Stop smirking Targaryen" you rolled your eyes, playfully punching his arm, that had him chuckling softly "I got you something for Christmas, but one more shit-eating grin and I will gift it to Aegon"

"Right right" he tried his best to suppress the smile "I got you something too, though I was going to wait until Christmas morning"

It was pretty much a ritual for Aemond and you to exchange gifts every Christmas. Unlike the older students, you both always sent each other presents by post. This year, you decided to stay in Hogwarts since your family were busy moving houses and you found that sort of thing boring and tiring. Since you were staying in school for the holidays, Aemond too had decided to wait back to keep you company.

You'd heard, over the years, many students talking about how they sneaked off at night to exchange gifts, taking walks along the grounds where Filch never patrolled, kissing in the silence of the night. It all sounded so sweet yet thrilling.

You too wanted to experience that, though perhaps expecting a kiss was a far fetch.

You wouldn’t say you had a crush on Aemond just the same way you knew Aemond never held any romantic feelings for you but you had thought about it, how the both of you would look walking around hand in hand, him leaning closer to hear your little rant and then letting out that adorable chuckle of his.

You wouldn’t deny that your friend was rather handsome, even though some of the other students made fun of his eye patch behind his back.

You couldn’t disagree more.

Aemond had lost an eye, but you would have to say it was those few others who were more blinded than him. How could someone look at him and not find him attractive?

"I'll see you at midnight then" Aemond stood up, offering his hand for you to take so that he might help you to your feet as well "meet me near the broom cupboard by the trophy room"

"Alright" you smiled as you slipped your hand into his. Aemond seemed to have forgotten that you were lighter than him in weight and tugged at your arm with such ferociousness, it sent you colliding right into his chest, sending the both of you toppling over and crashing right to the ground again.

Aemond grunted, feeling his arse sting from the impact while you broke out into a fit of giggles.

"It's not funny Y/N" Aemond spoke but you could very clearly hear the smile in his voice.

"I'll see you at midnight" you repeated his own statement "I hope you did not over-do it with your gift again this year"

As thrilling as sneaking out was, it was in equal measure, just as scary. Not only because you feared being caught but because you'd seen enough scary movies to make you paranoid.

When you arrived by the decided broom cupboard, you found yourself to be alone. You gently tapped your foot while you awaited Aemond.

The creaking of the cupboard doors caught you off guard as they slowly swung open and you could swear you had a heart attack. A hand immediately reached out to cover your mouth right as you were about to scream before another reached out and pulled you inside the cupboard.

"Shh, quit swatting my arm you- ouch. Lumos"

Your movement seized the moment the inside of the cupboard lit up, to reveal Aemond looking at you with a rather amused expression.

"If you are done being a gremlin, might we move on to the gift-giving, hm?" he said with a playful grin just as he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out a neatly wrapped present.

You too reached beneath your hoodie, retrieving the gift that you had tucked into the waistband of your trousers.

"Merry Christmas Aemond" you smiled as you handed him his gift.

"Merry Christmas Y/N" he returned the smile as he too passed you your gift.

He carefully took apart the wrapping, making sure he didn’t rip it- a habit he'd picked from his mother.

"Woah, where'd you get this" he whisper-yelled excitedly as he admired the book you'd gotten him. Aemond was a lad of many interests but the one thing he was absolutely obsessed with, was dragons. On you visit to Diagon alley, you saw a book on dragonology in the bookstore; it was a signed first copy and even though it was a bit expensive, you didn’t mind spending your allowance on it.

"Open it" you said, just as excited as him.

Aemond did as you instructed, flipping open the cover of the hardbound book to find two tickets to the game of his favourite Quidditch team amidst the pages.

"Y/N how did you get these?" his jaw was hanging open, unable to process all of this "I've been trying to get a hold of these for weeks"

"Oh one of my friend's father is working as security for the venue" you told him with a proud shrug "I asked her if he could manage to get me two tickets. You can take Aegon with you, maybe even a date"

Aemond was smiling from ear to ear, a rare yet adorable occurrence.

"Your turn now" he cleared his throat, pointing to the unwrapped gift in your hands "go on"

You slowly opened your gift, unlike Aemond, you didn’t care if the wrapping ripped a little but you still tried to be careful since the wrapper was a pretty one.

Once the paper was completely off, you were left with a beautiful velvet box in your hand.

"Is there a ring in here, you gonna propose?" you joked with a devilish grin that had Aemond roll his eye.

You gently opened the lid to reveal a beautiful necklace with a dainty topaz pendant. The chain was of a thin band of silver, intertwining with a thin band of the darkest emerald green.

Aemond came from a very rich family and each year he used to bring you rather expensive gifts that you were rather hesitant to accept. This year however, he went way overboard with this expensive piece of jewellery.

"Aemond I can’t accept this" your voice came out as barely a whisper as you eyes the yellow gemstone "this must’ve cost you a fortune"

"Oh hush" he blew a raspberry "I saw it and it reminded me of us. The green in the chain is me, slytherin and the topaz stone is the colour of your house. Open it"

"Huh?"

"It's a locket," he told you as he pointed at the necklace "the gemstone is fused with a small locket"

You careful took the pendant in you hand and turned it to find a thin line running across the sides, indicating that it was indeed a locket. Carefully, you pried it open and the moment you did, it projected a small yet hazy image that began to move.

It was you and Aemond as children. You were on the Hogwarts express, laughing as you both tried Bertie Bott's every flavoured beans.

The image changed.

It was you and him in your third year, hugging him after you both had returned from Christmas break.

The image changed again and again, showing you many glimpses of a few happy moments you'd shared with Aemond.

"These are some of my favourite memories of us" he sheepishly said, looking down at you eagerly to see how you would react "it was a little difficult for me to charm the locket to do it, my uncle Daemon helped me"

"This is so sweet" you threw your arms around him to pull him in for a hug and Aemond instinctively wrapped his arms around your waist to hold you closer.

"Need me to help you put it on?" he asked while still being in your embrace.

"mhm I-"

"Oi, who's out here?"

The both of you immediately pulled away, eyes wide as you heard Filch's voice boom across the hallways. Aemond held a finger to his lips, to tell you to remain quiet.

"Nox" he softly whispered and immediately, the cupboard was dark once again.

You both could hear the footsteps getting louder and louder and you held your breath as if that would help. The doors of the cupboard slowly began to move but before Filch could fully open them, Aemond raised his wand and mumbled a spell under his breath.

"Rictumsepra"

Filch immediately stumbled backwards, clutching his stomach as he burst into laughter. He sunk to the floor, rolling as he cackled helplessly.

Aemond caught you by the wrist, dragging you outside the the cupboard as he dashed down the hallway, you following after him. He kept running and running until the both of you had reached the changing rooms near the quidditch pitch.

You were out of breath by the time you'd stopped, leaning against the wall as you panted, Aemond doing the same.

"He doesn’t come this way" he managed to form a sentence "Aegon mentioned it a few times"

You simply nodded, still a bit tired from all that running. Eventually, once you had somewhat caught your breath, you burst into a fit of giggles, Aemond laughing along with you.

"That was fun" you said in between your giggles.

"Yea it wa-" Aemond paused as something else caught his attention. He began to once again chuckle uncontrollably, pointing his finger upward as he looked down at his feet to avoid you seeing the blush rise to his cheeks.

You looked to where he was pointing and immediately looked away, smiling sheepishly.

"Mistletoe" you mumbled.

"Mistletoe" he repeated.

Aemond finally looked up to meet your gaze, drawing a sharp breath.

"Well?" he asked gingerly, awaiting your response.

"Well tradition is tradition" you shrugged, hoping that he couldn’t hear your heart that was beating ferociously in your chest. You took a step closer, him doing the same. His large hand came up to cup the side of your face before he leaned down.

You eyes fluttered shut right before you felt his soft lips against yours.

You expected him to leave you with a simple peck but he tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss. You instinctively hummed into the kiss, gently fisting his warm sweater, pulling him even closer.

It was like fireworks going off inside you. The way his lips moulded against yours, the way his fingers tangled in your hair, the soft whimpers escaping his lips, it was all driving you insane.

You were kissing Aemond Targaryen.

If the both of you weren’t already out of breath from all that running, you would be snogging for a little while longer but you had to break the kiss to catch your breaths.

Aemond rested his forehead against yours, his hand still cupping your face.

"Would've kissed you even without the obligation of tradition" Aemond breathed out, his lips brushing against yours "been wanting to kiss you for a while now"

You only smiled, still taking your time to process all of it.

"You said that I could perhaps take a date with me to that quidditch game" he gave you a boyish grin, playfully bumping his nose with yours "can I maybe take you out?"

You pocketed the box with the necklace and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him in for another kiss.

"I'll take that as a yes?" he asked with a chuckle as his lips moved expertly against yours.

"Yes" you confirmed with a hum into the kiss.

[saltwaterburns]

VERY EXPLICIT DETAILS AND DESCRIPTIONS OF MY FEELINGS AFTER FINISHING "THE EMPTY GRAVE"

I tabbed 5 pages: blue for 347, red for 354, green for 385, orange for 415 and yellow for the very last one

i. Lockwood tells Lucy about the blue sapphire necklace his dad got for his mum as a "symbol of his undying devotion".

I was listening to Radiohead for most of the book, and this scene in particular was very dear to me because "Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi" is almost most definitely Lockwood's song. Like. Everybody leaves when they get the chance to, but Lucy won't. Lucy is back here and he's with him and they're standing side by side and he nearly can't get the words out of his mouth that's gone incredibly dry but somehow he's telling her about the necklace in his palm and his mind is racing while thinking about how pretty it'd look against her supple skin. He's almost about to give it to her, his mouth is open but the words die in his throat because Kipps is leaning over the doorway and telling them that Winkman is here and now he might die and she might never really know about his feelings for her but it's okay, because she'll live. He'll make sure she'll live.

ii. "But, if anything, I had my eye on someone else."

"Good God, you don't mean George?"

"You must know there are other possibilities in this world."

Sweet, darling girl Holly and her unrecruited wlw crush. Sweet, darling Holly who was squealing on the inside whenever she caught a glance of Lucy, her glowing skin and twinkling eyes and bright hair. Sweet, darling girl Holly who couldn't help the mean words that sometimes spilled from her lips because God forbid anyone realised what actually might hide under those longing glances.

iii. Lucy and her pet Skully but Skully is being TAKEN AWAY and they're having an angsty goodbye.

I'm pretty sure I actually cried during this scene. As much as she hates to admit it, she's so fond of Skull and his company and she's so used to his vile, unannounced jokes and comments that when he's being taken away from her, her heart literally stops, even though she isn't in the living world anymore. We only realise what we have until we've lost it, and this quote fits here perfectly. Sure, she hates him and his comments are unneeded and he never helps her, but they can't just take him away, can they?

iv. "Marissa came by?" Lockwood asked. "Was she alone?"

"Hey, Lucy asks the questions around here," the youth said. "You can't just barge in and take over like you're the leader or something? Where's your respect?"

Bonus - Skull telling the Clapham Butcher Boy to "find his own human"

I GIGGLED SO LOUD. He's so emotionally dependent on her. Find your own goddamn human, fish face!! That's right!! He's my favourite character. Nothing intellectual to talk about here, it just made me smile really big.

v. She hung the symbol of Lockwood's father's undying devotion to his mother around. Her. Neck. Cause. Locky. Gave. It. To. Her.

CAN YOU HEAR MY SCREAMS AND SOBS? Oh my God, where do I even start? During the entirety of those 5 books, they've always ran and someone's been hunting them down and Penelope was always breathing over their shoulder but not anymore. They'll still take on dangerous jobs and get into little quarrels with Barnes but now Kipps and Flo are also part of their little 35 Portland Row agency. They'll still be in danger every day because that's just what their job requires but it's different because Lucy's got that little gemstone around her neck and it might not mean anything to simple onlookers but all the love and light that's ever been gathered in it is now shining upon her. It's casting a little golden halo around her head and it's all okay because even when death is looking them in the eye, they'll look at each other and nod and everything will be okay.

This is it! Thank you for reading my little rambles. I don't know how I'll ever recover, because 35 Portland Row will eternally be etched to my heart. As my favourite singer once sung, there'll always be a chamber in my heart dedicated to those three and all their little hooligan friends and the shenanigans they got into.

[ilynpilled]

The golden armor, not the white, but no one ever remembers that. Would that I had taken off that damned cloak as well.

When I reach King's Landing I'll have a new hand forged, a golden hand.

Cersei might like that. A golden hand to stroke her golden hair.

I am not myself. He eased himself down until the water reached his chin. “Soiled my white cloak . . . I wore my gold armor that day, but . . ."

“Gold armor?” Her voice sounded far off, faint.

Jaime slid into the offered seat quickly, so Bolton could not see how weak he was. "White is for Starks. I'll drink red like a good Lannister."

She did as he bid her. "The white cloak . . ."

". . . is new, but I'm sure I'll soil it soon enough."

“That wasn't . . . I was about to say that it becomes you.”

When he was done, more than three-quarters of his page still remained to be filled between the gold lion on the crimson shield on top and the blank white shield at the bottom. Ser Gerold Hightower had begun his history, and Ser Barristan Selmy had continued it, but the rest Jaime Lannister would need to write for himself. He could write whatever he chose, henceforth. Whatever he chose . . .

"Robert's beard was black. Mine is gold."

"Gold? Or silver?" Cersei plucked a hair from beneath his chin and held it up. It was grey. "All the color is draining out of you, brother. You've become a ghost of what you were, a pale crippled thing. And so bloodless, always in white." She flicked the hair away. "I prefer you garbed in crimson and gold."

At its head Jaime stood at vigil, his one good hand curled about the hilt of a tall golden greatsword whose point rested on the floor. The hooded cloak he wore was as white as freshly fallen snow, and the scales of his long hauberk were mother-of-pearl chased with gold. Lord Tywin would have wanted him in Lannister gold and crimson, she thought. It always angered him to see Jaime all in white.

Ser Jaime Lannister, all in white, stood beside his father's bier, five fingers curled about the hilt of a golden greatsword.

Fissures had opened in his cheeks, and a foul white fluid was seeping through the joints of his splendid gold-and-crimson armor to pool beneath his body.

Glory wore trappings of Lannister crimson; Honor was barded in Kingsguard white.

His cloak was Lannister crimson, but his surcoat showed the ten purple mullets of his own House arrayed upon a yellow field.

"My lord," the lad asked, "will you be wanting your new hand?"

"Wear it, Jaime," urged Ser Kennos of Kayce. "Wave at the smallfolk and give them a tale to tell their children.”

“I think not." Jaime would not show the crowds a golden lie. Let them see the stump. Let them see the cripple.

Behind the lords came a hundred crossbowmen and three hundred men-at-arms, and crimson flowed from their shoulders as well. In his white cloak and white scale armor, Jaime felt out of place amongst that river of red.

Jaime Lannister wore a doublet of red velvet slashed with cloth-of-gold, and a golden chain studded with black diamonds. He had strapped on his golden hand as well, polished to a fine bright sheen. This was no fit place to wear his whites. His duty awaited him at Riverrun; a darker need had brought him here.

Jaime had thought long and hard about whether to wear his gold armor or his white to this meeting; in the end, he'd chosen a leather jack and a crimson cloak.

For an instant, the deep red clouds that crowned the western hills reminded him of Rhaegar's children, all wrapped up in crimson cloaks.

Seven bloody hells," he started, "who dares—" Then he saw Jaime's white cloak and golden breastplate. His swordpoint dropped. "Lannister?"

quotes specifically focusing on his hand:

“The boy is dead." Jaime had drunk three cups of wine, and his golden hand seemed to be growing heavier and clumsier by the moment.

His golden fingers were curved enough to hook, but could not grasp, so his hold upon the shield was loose. "You were a knight once, ser," Jaime said. "So was I. Let us see what we are now."

“Radiant." Fickle. "Golden." False as fool's gold. Last night he dreamed he'd found her fucking Moon Boy. He'd killed the fool and smashed his sister's teeth to splinters with his golden hand, just as Gregor Clegane had done to poor Pia. In his dreams Jaime always had two hands; one was made of gold, but it worked just like the other.

"Men shall name you Goldenhand from this day forth, my lord," the armorer had assured him the first time he'd fitted it onto Jaime's wrist. He was wrong. I shall be the Kingslayer till I die.

One of them wore the ruins of a crimson cloak, but Jaime hanged him with the rest. It felt good. This was justice. Make a habit of it, Lannister, and one day men might call you Goldenhand after all. Goldenhand the Just. The world grew ever greyer as they drew near to Harrenhal.

The weight of his golden hand had grown irksome. He fumbled at the straps that secured it to his wrist.

Well, what's one more broken vow to the Kingslayer? Just more shit in the bucket. Jaime resolved to be the first man on the battlements. And with this golden hand of mine, most like the first to fall.

Around him he glimpsed the faces of men he'd done his best to kill in the Whispering Wood, where the Freys had fought beneath the direwolf banners of Robb Stark. His golden hand hung heavy at his side.

then the subconscious conclusion:

"Is it?" She smiled sadly. "Count your hands, child."

One. One hand, clasped tight around the sword hilt. Only one. "In my dreams I always have two hands." He raised his right arm and stared uncomprehending at the ugliness of his stump.

I think the narrative that is being told in the color symbolism present in Jaime’s story is the realization that glory has no presence in the man he wants to become. He gradually realizes again the truth of the golden hand covering his stump being a golden lie. It is more an embodiment of his sins, a heavy burden he carries. True honor and change will not be wrapped in gold, and obviously not crimson. But this should not lead to the return of his cynicism, which is how he approaches this early on, and why he wants to delude himself about it. He greys, and he sheds the red and gold color. The white becomes him. The crimson & gold comes back when he does his duty for the horrid Lannister regime, when he sustains loyalty to his family, and emulates his father. Nonetheless, he keeps drawing nearer to the blank white shield at the bottom of his page and distancing himself from the crimson at the top. But maybe the lesson is that he cannot start over like that. Maybe his only choices are not the evil Kingslayer and the glittering Goldenhand the Just. Maybe he should just be Jaime. That white shield is tainted. Our good actions do not wash out the bad. They will exist simultaneously. You will never be the golden heir, the perfect pure white Just Knight. You are a crippled broken man. But that does not mean you cannot choose to continue living and keep pushing to change for the better:

“What else can I do, but die?”

“Live,” she said

Maybe the blank white shield is an impossible ideal not made for him. But what remains if he cannot be crimson, gold, or the pure white?

yet she knew it was him. “Even at a distance, Ser Jaime Lannister was unmistakable. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black.”

He was always meant to be a grey character. Why don’t we mix that black & white?

[mistresslrigtar]

Chapter Five: Sun (written for @zelinktines24 day 5 prompt)

Read below or HERE

The front door knocks against the table in the foyer, causing the blue and white vase filled with flowers to wobble precariously before righting itself. Looking up from her nest of pillows in the corner of the main room, Zelda smiles when she sees Link standing in the open doorway wearing his simple work clothes, a loosely woven cream tunic, and worn brown trousers. He brings with him a warm breeze and the scent of late spring. Zelda notices his skin is turning golden and sandy highlights streak his dark blond hair, from hours spent in the sun, tending their garden, grooming the horses, hunting, and making short excursions.

“How I long to sit with thee and while away the hours.” He quotes a line from Carik, Zelda’s favorite Sheikah court poet. “And gaze upon a sun-kissed world in a field of fragrant flowers.”

Since their dinner a few evenings before something has shifted between them and she welcomes the change. With the approaching promise of summer, her spirit has been improving and it feels like a veil is being lifted.

“What would Carik think, hearing you quoting him?” Zelda muses, setting the book aside she’d been reading and rising to her feet. 

Carik had been a not-so-silent rival to Link before the Calamity fell. He’d spent the remainder of his days composing sonnets to aid Link when he returned. His protégé, Kass had given Zelda a book of Carik’s poems when she and Link had visited him after the Calamity’s defeat. She’d been surprised when Kass shared a beautiful song Carik had composed that was a tribute to her and Link’s love.

“Carrot? Nothing complimentary, I’m sure.” His lips curve into a mischievous smile when Zelda snorts at the nickname before he shoves his hands in his pockets and gives her a questioning look. “It’s a beautiful, clear day and I’ve let the horses out to graze. Would you consider sitting outside with me?”

Zelda glances out the wall of windows that offer an expansive view of the green pasture and azure blue sea beyond. Epona’s deep chestnut coat and Star’s golden yellow shimmer in the afternoon sunlight. Their tails flick, indicating their contentment as they graze, cutting down grass allowed to grow tall. Link is hoping they’ll breed soon and produce a stunning dappled filly.

Worry twists cold in Zelda’s belly thinking of how she’s not had her monthly cycle since she’s returned. She’s afraid the trauma of her transformation has left her infertile or worse, she didn’t return fully human. Will Link still want her if it turns out she can’t bear children?

Looking back at him, he still stands patiently in the entry waiting for her to decide. Zelda shakes off her doubt and looks back at the horses. The scene is idyllic and would make a perfect study of nature. Perhaps it’s time for her to be a little more adventurous, even if that was taking a few steps outside the front door. Collecting her Purah pad, charcoals, and sketchbook from the kitchen table, Zelda joins Link. His eyes light up when he sees the tools she’s chosen and retrieves a blanket from the basket by the door. 

Choosing a spot near the horses, Link unfolds the soft blanket and spreads it on the grassy knoll. Kicking off her shoes, Zelda stretches out her legs and lifts her chin to the sun. A sea breeze carrying the faint scent of salt and brine ruffles her hair, tickling the nape of her neck.

Link lays on his back beside her, crossing his arms behind his head, and soon he is dozing, a contented smile gracing his lips. Zelda marvels that even though he’s never regained all his memories, some things remain unchanged–like his ability to fall asleep anywhere. When asleep, the worry melts away from his face, leaving his visage youthful and unlined. She wonders what he was like before fate pulled him firmly into her embrace. There’s no one left to ask who would know.

Turning to a blank page in her sketchbook, Zelda opens her charcoals and begins outlining his profile. Capturing the way the sun casts shadows across his cheekbones and brings out the subtle highlights in his messy hair, her heart swells with love for him. She takes note of every detail–the warmth of the sun on her head, the soft whickers of the horses, and the gentle rhythm of Link’s breathing. It’s a perfect moment, forever frozen in time on the page before her, and Zelda doesn’t realize she’s weeping until teardrops splatter across the page.

<day one><day two><day three><day four>

many thanks to @floraunderground for looking this over and being kind about my attempt at poetry 😅

[highly-important]

Modernism & Fascism

Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue III 1967-1968 This painting is circling my Twitter FYP page in a meme about human-created art vs AI art.

Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue

The artist, Barnett Newman (1905-1970), is one of the foremost color field painters. Newman saw his work as a reaction to the horrors of World War II. “For Newman, figuring out what an artist could do after witnessing events such as the Holocaust and the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki required ignoring all of art history, quote, “to start from scratch, to paint as if painting never existed before.”

In 1967 Newman finished his largest painting, Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue III. It shocked audiences at the time, who wrote letters to express their disgust and dismay. In the 1980s, a disgruntled painter named Gerard Jan van Bladeren slashed the painting with a box cutter. One of the main arguments the lawyer made in his defense was that the painting was a kind of cultural provocation, which called for a reaction. He was sentenced five months in prison, and people sent letters to the museum praising him, one even saying “this so-called vandal should be made the director of modern museums.”

Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue After the Attack (2006) Thomas Raat

“Anybody Can Do That”

The museum tried to restore the painting, but no one would take them up on the job. Eventually, Daniel Goldreyer said he could repair the painting. Four and a half years later the painting was revealed. It seems like it would be easy to repair the red part of the piece, but when it was revealed people immediately noticed the red paint looked different. Previously there had been a shimmering quality to the red that gave it a sense of depth, but the restoration had a flat-looking paint that, according to critics of the restoration, robbed it of its original power.

The biggest challenge to repairing Red, Yellow, and Blue III was the simplicity of the art. Regardless of how you feel about this painting, there is an undeniable truth about the craftsmanship. Usually, texture and brushwork can mask repair work, but Newman’s work is a swath of uniform color. No visible brush strokes, no uneven texture. Anyone who has worked with paint, especially oil paint, knows how particularly difficult this is to do The recreation tried, and failed, to recreate the delicate techniques of the original.

The painting was sent to a forensic lab, and it was revealed the paint Goldreyer used would be impossible to remove. The painting was destroyed a second time.

Cathedra (1951) Barnett Newman

In 1997, Bladeren returned to the museum in search of the botched restoration. When he couldn’t find Red, Yellow and Blue III, he found another painting by Newman titled Cathedra, and attacked it with a box cutter. He also scattered a packet of pamphlets to the floor that contained incoherent writing. At his second trial, Bladeren was declared mentally unfit and sent to a psychiatric institution.

You don’t have to like Newman, but this work has incredible technical skill.

 But as Jacob Geller says in the youtube video essay “Who’s Afraid of Modern art” says, the debate around whether or not the art requires technical skill misses the point.  “Reducing art to a linear connection between ‘skill’ and ‘value’ fundamentally just turns art into a commodity.”

Rejection of Modern Art is a form of Fascism

Newman was a Jewish artist, and Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue III was struck and spat upon in Germany because the attacker said it bore a mocking resemblance to the German flag. In 2018, another sculpture by Newman, Broken Obelisk, was vandalized by white supremacists. White paint was poured into the reflective pool, and scattered around were posters with the phrase "it's ok to be white." It was vandalized similarly before, with swastikas spray-painted across it.

Broken Obelisk (1963-1967) Barnett Newman

You’re not a bad person if you hate modern art, or any art created after 1800. Art is a subjective experience.

Part of the problem is also how modern art museums display artwork. When art gallery patrons are given more detailed descriptions of art, they experience more positive and fewer negative emotions.

But there is a pursuit of fascism to make everything of a specific aesthetic through rigid, culturally appropriate standards. As a nation’s mythology is built on its art, the subsequent art begins to feed into this narrative by continuously referencing this mythology. The result of this self-referential loop is a hierarchy that rejects anything new or divergent from the aesthetic. Thus, when art deviates from the established norms, it doesn’t feed into that nation’s mythology, eliciting criticism. This is because it doesn’t “contribute” to that society, but challenges it." (source)

The Nazi party seized 15,000 pieces of artwork, and in 1937 selected 640 of these pieces to be displayed in a derisive exhibition called "Degenerate Art." They wanted to invite public displays of anger and protest. This art was hung crookedly under mocking slogans like "nature as seen by sick minds.” Others were displayed with the extravagant price the original work sold for, to invite mockery and derision.

This pushed the Nazi's paradigm of what constituted good vs bad art.The argument made against this artwork was that these pieces showed no sign of craft that 'real art' does, so to celebrate them is an offense to the German people and their culture. 

The fact that these pieces were held in high regard was seen by Nazis as proof of the insidious plots of the left. The art held critiques of sexual norms and norms of the family values that were important to Nazi respectability. Modern art, they said ,was made for “eradication of the last vestiges of racial consciousness.” New and transgressive styles by black and Jewish artists were indicative of their ‘degenerate intellectualism.” This is eugenics through the systematic devaluation of art. (paraphrased from here)

"Modern Art" is still used as a catch-all term to denigrate any work that ignores or rejects traditional Western standards of art and beauty, and the criticisms against modern and contemporary art are not dissimilar to the arguments made by Nazis against degenerate artwork.

"What “modern art” does, directly or indirectly, is question what constitutes ‘proper art’. The idea that Rembrandt and Shakespeare are the only valid forms of artistic expression lies directly in those artists being Christian, western Europeans. By widening the frame, by hanging a Picasso, Newman, or a Van Gogh under the same roof as a Friedrich, you visualize the idea that certain ideas are not superior. The privileges of aristocratic, white Europeans are directly threatened by the mere existence of “modern art”, which makes it a target." (source)

Here is a really fantastic article about the artist as cultural worker.  Culture needs to be maintained. And art that doesn’t fit into a cultural narrative becomes a target. The rejection of non-traditional art is often a rejection of oppressed people.

Fascists didn’t vandalize “Broken Obelisk” because of its simplicity, they did it to assert power and control. The criticisms of the art are just a way to assert their own “superiority” by dehumanizing the other.

[hazely-sims]

Spectrum Lepacy "Rules"

"Rules" in scare quotes because the fun of a Lepacy is that there aren't really any rules! (I know there is a variation with more rules but I'm not about that life.)

That being said, I've imposed a singular rule upon myself (because I love to suffer, apparently) and it's a sort of genetics challenge: each heir must inherit the founder's hair and eye colour genes. But to enjoy the full Spectrum of the glorious colour wheel with which we've been blessed, I'll change that colour according to each generation.

Additionally, I've taken a page out of cas-sims' Lepacy book and decided to add the EA worlds into the mix because I've really never explored most of them. But in order to make actually finishing this slightly more realistic for myself, I'm combining some of them with the EPs that don't have new homeworlds, so there's only... 18 generations total (!)

Here's the plan:

1: Base Game (Red) 2: Riverview (Burnt Orange) 3: World Adventures / Barnacle Bay (Bright Orange) 4: Ambitions (Yellow) 5: Hidden Springs (Yellow-Green) 6: Late Night (Forest Green) 7: Generations / Aurora Skies (Mint Green) 8: Lucky Palms (Turquoise) 9: Pets (Royal Blue) 10: Roaring Heights (Baby Blue) 11: Showtime (Lilac) 12: Monte Vista (Violet) 13: Supernatural (Plum) 14: Dragon Valley / Seasons (Mauve) 15: Midnight Hollow (Rose) 16: Island Paradise (Peach) 17: Sunlit Tides / University (White) 18: Lunar Lakes / Into the Future (Rainbow)

[bracketsoffear]

Since my submission didn't make it I'm pasting it here because I need people to know about the trollhunters book and how fucked up their version of Gunmar is

First up he looks like this:

Titles include: Gunmar the Black, the Hungry One, He Who Sups of Blood, the Untangler of Entrails

He's a troll trying to invade the human world to "feast at will".

Him and his followers kidnap and eat humans with a preference for children (190 of them the last time he tried to take over). He's about the size of a building, his spit is boiling, he can retract his spine and he sits on a throne made from their bones. Other trolls' bodies mutate just from being in his proximity. They've rebuilt the Machine, a giant meat grinder with pipes leading directly to Gunmar's maw, which are at that point filled with 45 year old kids meat mixed with rat meat (and other body parts, there's teeth in there).

When the protagonists cut open his belly there are hundreds of tinier versions of him inside.

Some body parts of his can move despite being separated from him (like his eye) and can latch onto other living beings giving him partial control over them, also like all trolls unless his gallbladder is destroyed he can completely reform his body.

The entire book starts with a page-long paragraph on how You are Meat and the later descriptions are just as visceral:

'You are food. Those muscles you flex to walk, lift, and talk? They’re patties of meat topped with chewy tendon. That skin you’ve paid so much attention to in mirrors? It’s delicious to the right tongues, a casserole of succulent tissue. And those bones that give you the strength to forge your way in the world? They rattle between teeth as the marrow is sucked down slobbering throats. These facts are unpleasant but useful. There are things out there, you see, that don’t cower in holes to be captured by us and cooked over our fires. These things have their own ways of trapping their kills, their own fires, their own appetites.'

(Gunmar quotes)

'It is believed that Gunmar chose to center his clan in San Bernardino specifically to spite the self-satisfied pacifists who populated the local underworld. Whatever the reason, he and his minions wasted no time stealing children. One per month for the first three months. Then one per week. By the time 1969 began, several children were disappearing every week in San Bernardino, each one of them dragged screaming to a hidden underground labyrinth and caged for weeks before being grilled over an open flame and eaten.'

'The Killaheed Bridge had been the ancestral home of Gunmar the Black in the far northern region of Scotland known in Gaelic as A’ Ghàidhealtachd . It is where he murdered every blood relative, erasing his surname in favor of “the Black,” and began the Gumm-Gumm cult with himself as the principal deity.'

'It was the soggy voice of one who’d spent decades gnawing on his tongue. Gunmar the Black, the Hungry One, saw me, smelled me, wished to eat me. From somewhere within the pupil’s void I could hear the splintering whack of what I knew was his wooden arm. He was aching to add another few slash marks of conquer, and as much as he’d prefer to do it in person, he wasn’t strong enough yet, so he’d just use this handy, four-ton puppet.'

'Even without the plateau, the Hungry One would’ve outsized us all. He sat upon a throne of yellowed bones collected from the 190 kids who died during the Milk Carton Epidemic, and with long icicle teeth he gobbled at the meat that spattered across his face and chest. The “Black” of his title was metaphorical; his skin glistened a deep, blistered red. With each swallow, his limbs convulsed along several unexpected joints—two elbows to each arm, a scabby, wrinkled knee on each leg, and all of them adept at bending in any direction. His crooked spine elongated and retracted like a periscope, rifling the thick porcupine spikes that ran from the back of his head all the way down his back. Luxuriously he spread the six arms that sprouted from his sinewy chest, each of which was encumbered with seeping tumors, except for the topmost left arm, which, as promised, was a weathered block of wood marked with his numerous kills. Gunmar’s jaw dropped open to reveal the mangled tongue that he’d been chewing on in resentment for over four decades.'

'The braids of their hair were hardened by dried blood and their bodies had mutated from residing too close to Gunmar: scabs birthed extra eyes, sores sprouted extra fingers, rashes gleamed with newly grown teeth.'

'Gunmar’s humungous jaw grinded and the stake-sized teeth fought for placement. His single eye blazed as he rose from his throne. Six sausage-stained arms, including the wooden one, spread open as if preparing to greet his attacker with an embrace. The Eye of Malevolence leapt from Gunmar’s shoulder and scuttled in gleeful circles through its master’s boiling drool.'

'But the spines along Gunmar’s back sprung outward like a regiment of bayonets and I heard the excruciating sounds of several of Blinky’s tentacles being torn in half.'

'What was not expected were the dozens—no, hundreds—of tiny trolls that fell from the opened cavity. The first few thumped off Jack’s helmet, wiggling and mewling, and Jack just stood there, shocked stupid. But as they continued to pour, Jack backed away, picking the parasites off his armor and flinging them to the ground in disgust. In seconds, the little trolls were everywhere, writhing in the grass, blinking tiny new eyes at the strange world around them.'

'Each was the size of a baseball and an exact copy of Gunmar: glistening red body, six little arms, a cape of quills flexing experimentally along its back. Worse, each of the beasties appeared to grow larger with each breath, as if the smell of so much human meat were enough to fortify their young bodies. Gunmar shook his torso so that a few more babies fell to the field, and he grinned down like a proud papa.'

'Blinky was struggling to his feet to our right, but the three of us still looked pretty wretched when compared to Gunmar, who stood shivering above us as if sobbing over the destruction of his infernal litter.' (they got lawnmowered)

'Gunmar lorded above us, blood streaming from between his teeth and down a torso that, emptied of babies, flapped with loose flesh. He’d lost control and was flailing about, stamping his feet like an infant, flogging himself front and back with his double-jointed arms, quills extending and flattening with the sound of a hundred falling guillotines. He spread his limbs and swooped down at us, big as a fireworks finale.'

'Gunmar the Black had waited forty-five years, but here it was at last: the final demolishing of the trollhunters, no more difficult than a little kid’s squashing worms on the playground. Afterward, he and his kind would infest the surface of the earth, gorging themselves on the meat of man and growing fat and surly in the way of the Old World. He lifted a foot over the nearest trollhunter—me—aiming so that when my runny guts squirted out they would bleed into those of the hundreds of his slaughtered offspring.'

'Gunmar’s body swayed and his six arms tried to push his skull back together to cover the exposed brain. His manifold hands, though, became confused and tussled with one another before giving up. Then the mighty lord of the Gumm-Gumms, the Hungry One, He Who Sups of Blood, the Untangler of Entrails, Gunmar the Black wavered in place for a long moment before dropping to his back with all the ceremony of a chopped tree.'

'It took only a few slices to carve out Gunmar’s heart; the leathery, tubed organ skipped around in an attempt to dodge my blade.'

(The Machine or Meat quotes)

'We climbed over a berm of melted steel and found ourselves behind a conveyor belt, a crudely sewn patchwork of stained textiles that shuttled cargo into a large tin funnel. At the moment the belt was empty of everything except greasy stains, but nonetheless I followed the progress. The funnel fed into a thundering box the size of a treehouse, held together with railroad spikes and constructed from miscreant metals: a dented go-cart frame, a child’s red wagon, a neon sign from a strip club. Scorched wires snaked in and out, while virulent fumes poured from electrical circuits gone haywire. The box shook like a laundry machine about to explode and I could hear from inside it the whirring of saw blades and the music-box plinking of a grinder churning through gristled remains. It all led to a spout on the other end.'

'A corroded pipe held aloft by spindly stilts ran from the Machine, and from inside it I could hear the squish of pulpy matter. It stunk like death, but I leaned toward a section of pipe that had been rusted away. Inside was meat, a lumpy sausage equal parts red muscle, white bone, and gray tendon mashed together with the multicolored gristle of internal organs. The fleshy sludge slugged through the pipe in uneven spurts as the Machine shoved it along. The kaleidoscopic viscera dazed me, and so I was caught unaware when the meat squirted forward and revealed something else sunk into the ground flesh.'

'I couldn’t help but see what he wanted me to see: loose teeth, embedded in the meat, white as pearls. This made me all the sicker until the meat rolled and I saw that the teeth were tiny and pointed. “Rats!” Jack shouted. “The meat is mostly rats!” Within the threads of muscle I saw a long pink tail. “Can’t you smell it?” Jack demanded. “This meat is ancient. Left over from the last war. He’s had to cut it with animal parts to keep him strong until the Killaheed is finished. Which means your friends aren’t in there, not yet.'

'From the open end of the pipe, clods of meat plopped like wet dog food into the open mouth of Gunmar the Black.'

'Their mouths were crusted with unidentifiable slop, evidence that Gunmar had been fattening them with tasty stuffing before making sausage of them in the Machine. These children and teens hadn’t been buried, they’d been planted so that the rich dirt and underworld clay could properly season their bodies for the troll palate.'

'yummy tubes of fresh meat packed into shirts, pants, jackets, and hats.'

This book could be a Flesh Leitner

.

[appleciderp]

As some of you guys may know, I'm obsessed with Soap having a journal. I recently just bought a collectors edition MW3 just for the Journal (It legit only cost me like 20 bucks + shipping because the box was damaged)

Here are some little tidbits I didn't see when I looked up the journal in the past! Under the cut, since I'm gonna ramble a lot.

It's a small notebook of ~14cmx9cm (~5.5"x3.5" for you Americans). I expected it to be a proper Moleskine-sized, not pocket. But I guess it makes more sense.

I've said it in the footnotes of my fic, but Soap has at least 4 pens he constantly uses. Black, Red, Blue, and Green. He also has a yellow pen, an orangy-brown pen, and a pencil that crops up occasionally. I also think there are 2 blues; a lighter and a darker. Boy's carrying around multiple pens. You can see for yourself on the PDFs, but I feel it's not talked about enough.

After the "They're smooth, Price has taste" there's a cardboard Cigar Band. It's a "Villa Carla" brand, which upon a quick google search, is fake. He either wanted to know the brand (which he could have quickly written down the name instead) or he likes keeping items like that as memories.

After the final plans, there are about 7 pages blank before the last quote (which is speculated to be written by Price) The first page immediately after the plan is ripped out. At first, I thought it was the previous owner (I just bought it second-hand, the journal is a bit crumpled; but I like it, it's a bit more realistic) but the ripped page is slightly thicker and slightly different in texture. Plus, why rip out a page?

I didn't want to put my speculations on it, but I fucking will. Soap wrote his "If I Die" letter. We know it's somebody else who wrote the last quote in the book, so why else would the "last page" that Soap wrote be ripped out if it wasn't something to give to somebody else. Because what would be the odds that Soap ripped out a random page and it ended up right after he wrote his last entry.

Much like Moleskin notebooks, there's a pouch in the back, this part made me happy. There are 5 items:

Russian newspaper clipping, two different areas are highlighted. One underlined in red pen with "Man of the People" written on it.

Another diagram of a fight, this time with a Range/Elevation Chart overlayed and some "Quick Dope Cheats"

A fake "Hotel Lustig" matchbook. Filled with images of matches and a textured strip on the back.

Finally two team photos, one for each MW game that came before.

So it's OBVIOUS he carries this journal around with him, but he keeps lil memento's in it as well.

The love and attention to detail make it one of the prettiest Collectors Edition items I've ever owned.

[morebedsidebooks]

King of the Fairies by Anne-Marie McLemore

What I did know, what I know still, is that fairies are long used to having what they like.

Another anthology of reimagined classic works by contemporary YA authors edited by Dahlia Adler, That Way Madness Lies focuses on Shakespeare. Queering Shakespeare is far from unusual, yet when it comes to specific retellings some are more popular than others.

I primarily picked the anthology up because it includes an accomplished writer whose work I like reading. Anne-Marie McLemore is a Latine trans/nonbinary bigender queer author. Who has a love/hate relationship to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a work that was also nightmare inducing for them. Their short story contribution, a sequel of sorts, King of the Fairies in “brown and queerest theme” gives a voice to a remarked and silent figure, as narrator the changeling child (i.e. either an abducted or substituted child) Queen Titania and King Oberon quarreled over in the play.

This child is now older, a kind of exotic accessory and isolated in the very white fairy court. Less a world apart and one that is homogeneous and of the elite, moreover a court that while more sexually free is also more gender conforming and even human than one might expect. McLemore does some genderbending and codes this narrator as Latina. (One could fill pages on lexicon and race but tl;dr ‘Indian’ got used for a lot of different peoples. Though, it is more convincing Shakespeare was giving nod to Oberon’s associations with the East. Also often argued evoking imagery, if romanticized and otherwise, of real region(s) of India. During a time when Portugal was the most powerful European empire in India, challenged by England. Yet one argument cites Guiana since Sir Walter Raleigh had an expedition there in 1595. Records a few years later in early 1597 show he brought a young native boy to be baptized.) But a narrator who prefers the so defined masculine colors and trousers, which are denied lest it “mar my girlhood”. Further introducing a new character with Narciso. A trans fairy prince bearing brown skin born out of wedlock to a fairy but, raised by a mortal father and an outcast who dangerously defies Oberon. Now Shakespeare’s fairy land had its nebulous borders and hierarchies. But I tend to think of such beings more outside most (human) conventions and constructs. Although McLemore has the narrator mention tales of the ones in the depths of the woods “live as they wish”. Racism and English colonialism furthermore broached. It is the entitled belief Oberon shows when interacting with Narciso and before in the original play (plus the Queen) McLemore strikes home. In fact, a section of Puck’s lines from the play is quoted whole, ending with the declaration of the child 'stolen from an Indian king'. Beside McLemore describing some and embellishing what Titania asserts in the play, to quote the latter:

His mother was a votaress of my order, And in the spiced Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip’d by my side; And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, Marking the embarked traders on the flood; When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following, — her womb then rich with my young squire — Would imitate and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy; And for her sake I will not part with him.

Traditions of the dangers when dealing with the fair folk, particularly kidnapping are plentiful, and Shakespeare was inevitably drawing from this as well. Considering too (orientalist) literary canon or travel narratives. The horror and effects of a child taken away from their own people and culture and raised among another in a faraway place is necessary to recognize. As the changeling child conceivably emblematic of racial and cultural mixture. But at the same time there have been interpretations on Titania and the votaress as an example of queer pregnancy. Acting out of love and a subversion of heteronormativity and patriarchy than via privilege, possession, and power. Whereas ‘And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forest wild’ it would appear only considers the child in terms of value offered and the displacement of affection and authority with regards to Titania and his supposed dominion. (I won’t get into whether characters are reliable, to be taken at their word.)

Then marriage (which along with love Shakespeare was waxing on a lot about) seems to be the only farce in McLemore’s King of the Fairies. Oberon and Titania are a political match, with his lover in Puck and her with her attendants. As for the human characters in the original play who were toyed with, Helena and Hermia plus Demetruis and Lysander are mentioned as involved in a scheme too. Revealed they staged and faked the lovesickness in addition to please their parents going in for what we’d call a lavender marriage, “but man and man would share a bed as well as wife and wife.” The memorable comedic Bottom is paired off with Quince as well in reference.

Again, King of the Fairies is not the first example to interpret, present, match or cast these characters up in less cis monogamous heterosexual or otherwise more diverse ways. Though inspired by Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in reading this short story one wouldn’t gather the former is a whimsical, at times ironic and satirical comedy of desires, social conventions and norms. Still, McLemore does take from the bard (lifting figurative language or using their own), offering crafted writing and commentary. Giving a voice to a character more should better take into consideration.  

[brycethinksthings]

I have tried and failed several times to get a diary or journal off the ground. During college, I used an old yellow notebook as a diary. I kept up with it for about a week. I was in a deep, depressive spiral after one of my best friends left town. I was so worried I'd never see her again. I did end up seeing her again, but that summer did have a profound effect upon me, as did many summers spent in that small studio apartment. I fell off of it and felt too guilty to pick it up again. Earlier this year, I picked it up again for a whopping two entries, but within those entries, I wrote it a lot. I really bared my soul on those pages. I don't know if that's what I'll do here, but I just want a place to stick my thoughts. What spurred it this time is a mix of a couple things, but the biggest one was that I saw too much of myself in a movie. This last Saturday, 10/28/2023, Matthew Perry unfortunately passed. I was throwing my Halloween party, and my girlfriend told me. I've never been the largest Friends fan, but my parents are. They love Friends and quote it quite a bit. Whenever we move furniture, it's "pivot, PIVOT". This may be what causes me to finally sit down and watch the whole show. It's a piece of my relationship with my parents. We took a vacation to Los Angeles recently, and we did the WB backlot tour. A large portion of that tour was touring sets where Friends was filmed. I was being a moody prick at the time, but that memory is special to me. It's not visiting the sets themselves, but the smiles on my parents' faces that I'll cherish the most. Back to the topic, there's a movie streaming site I like. There's a channel always playing movies. It feels like cable which I long for. I popped in tonight, and they were playing a memorial marathon for Matthew Perry. He'd starred in a handful of films following the end of Friends, and I'd happened upon one of the last films of the night. Numb. I decided to give it a watch. I'd seen the poster, and I'd been wanting to see what his career was like beyond Friends. I don't know what it was, but something about this movie really connected with me. Matthew Perry's character, Hudson, struggles with depersonalization and depression spurred by a bad trip. He falls in love with a girl and desperately tries to cure his condition. It's billed as a romcom, but I really connected with the drama of it all. I saw myself in Hudson. I struggle with the same things, and I've had some really bad trips. Part of the reason why I've sworn off smoking or getting high. I think Matthew Perry's performance is incredible, and I wish he'd gotten more work post-Friends. The movie is cheesy, but I'm just drawn to it. I've never felt myself represented on screen like that before. What an experience to have on a Wednesday night. Thank you, Matthew Perry.