#all of these will be historically inaccurate at one point or another

[hopelessromantic5]

Alright.

This is a Masters of the Air snippet of mine. Just a small one. I’ll probably post most of the longer ones on ao3.

This is Buck and Bucky, post-war, in Wyoming.

Gale spends a month in Wyoming after the war, with no word from Bucky.

Marge visits, though they called off the wedding long before he left the Stalag. She stops to make sure he’s…well, alive. Brings casserole dishes that Gale can’t find it in himself to eat until he’s dizzy with hunger.

It’s a quiet, early summer morning when Buck hears the rumbling sound of an engine, and tires on the gravel road.

He freezes, an instinct any time someone ventures down his road.

He’s the only one still living on this particular dirt road, rest of the houses long abandoned and dilapidated.

Marge was supposed to be in Mills with her parents all week.

Who else knows-

Oh.

There’s only one other person on Earth who knows or cares where Buck is.

The realization almost sent him running down the road to greet him. Instead, as his breathing picked up in adrenaline and excitement that always accompanied John, he smoothed his hair back and ran a hand down the front of his button up shirt, hoping he didn’t look horrible.

Of course, John had seen him at his absolute worst, but logic really wasn’t in the cards just then.

The sounds got closer just as the single cab blue truck came into view.

With some kinda trailer on the back?

Buck would ask after seeing Bucky’s face on American soil for the first time since they left Texas years ago.

Then he was there, like he never left.

“Hell, Cleven, you never told me you lived in the middle of nowhere.”

Bucky grinned, slamming the truck in park and climbing out of the drivers seat before he had the chance turned the engine off.

Buck caught him when John launched himself into his arms. They were both gasping, like neither had breathed real air in a month.

“What took you so long?” Buck whispered into his shoulder, eyes closed, absorbing Bucky wherever he could. The smell of his aftershave mixed with lucky strikes, the span of his broad back under Gale’s hands.

“Had to get something first.” Bucky leaned back just enough to smirk at him, hands not leaving Buck’s waist.

“Go have a look.”

Buck furrowed his eyebrows in confusion,

“What-“

Then Bucky moved out of his line of sight, and he finally caught the movement of something in his peripheral.

He zeroed in on the trailer attached to Bucky’s truck, and found that something was alive in there.

Was that a-

“Bucky! Is that-“

“Yes, it is.” There was soft grin on John’s face, but it was still shit-eating and proud of himself.

Gale almost kissed him on the spot, but he would never ruin a moment like this with his impulsiveness.

“How in the hell did you manage that?” Gale’s feet were already bringing him closer to the animal hovering by the slats.

“Saved up for a while, and the extra check they sent certainly didn’t hurt.”

“Why? Why buy a horse?” Gale asked, looking back at him.

John furrowed his own brows, looking at Buck like he was crazy.

“Why did I- Buck, she’s yours. I bought her for you.”

“You did what?” Gale must’ve misheard, surely.

John chuckled, shaking his head. He stepped closer to both Gale and the horse.

“Let’s start over.” He said. After clearing his throat and effectively avoiding his eyes by focusing on the filly.

“Buck, considering that you’re letting me freeload in your ginormous house and bother you frequently, and as a partial thank you for getting me through the worst time in both of our lives, I bought you a horse. This is Blue. Named because, while she has a grey coat, in certain lights, it looks blue, like a stormy sky.”

Gale didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t speak.

So John, added a post script.

“Not that this will ever come close to evening our score. But I thought it might help. I remember what you told me, about your first horse. And how nothing was ever the same. I wanted to at least give you the chance at something like that again.”

A tear fell from Buck’s eye before he reeled Bucky into an almost bruising hug. Holding him so tight, Bucky thought it might leave a mark. He wanted it to leave a mark. He wanted to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

“Thank you.” Buck whispered. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

“Get used to it.” John quipped back, softly, causing Gale to laugh into his neck.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

WIBTA for going to my high school reunion even though the two witches I stripped of magic are going?

(Read for free on Patreon (X))

I (28 witch) was in a coven during high school. Not really even a coven. We weren’t recognized and there wasn’t a clear division of responsibilities. We did have a high priestess but she hadn’t Declared or been Initiated or whatever she believed. Looking back, her learning was all over the place (and a little problematic, honestly. I remember her calling a poppet a Voodoo doll before being called out by another member). Let’s call her Sarah.

Sarah was a year older than the rest of us (still the same grade though) and her mom was a witch so that made her the high priestess. She was the one who would organize all of our rituals and held the power of veto over any proposed spells. While you think that’d mean she’d provide the ingredients, she never did. She did tell us what to buy and, let me tell you, some of those things were expensive for a high schooler. We met in the park behind her house, and she demanded that at least one of us be in every one of her classes. If we weren’t, we’d be “cycled” out of the coven until our parents convinced the school to transfer us in.

Any alt kid knows what I’m talking about because they had a Sarah in their life. If she was angry, we had to be angry (and a little afraid of her). If she was sad, we were expected to ask why. If she was happy, we had to be even more happy. You get the picture.

The problem came when Sarah added Jess (fake name) to the Coven during the start of our junior year. It was the first time Sarah allowed someone else from a witch family to join. Jess was a transfer student from England. She told us all that that made her magic deeper and more powerful because she was a “daughter of the witches you could not burn.” When I pointed out that that statement is historically inaccurate, Jess called me a “pilgrim.” She tried to convince Sarah to blind me (take away my decision-making power in the coven), but I was the only one with reliable access to dried herbs (my mom’s a botanist and didn’t count her stores like Sarah’s mom did), so Sarah said no.

Jess’ dislike of me got worse when I actually did dress like a pilgrim for Halloween that year. And, if I’m honest, I did take it a little far. I was a hot-headed kid. I followed her around the entire day and had kids sign one of two petitions – “Burn” or “Not Burn.” When the Burn Petition won, I could tell I went too far (there were a LOT of signatures).  I tried to make it a joke and told her that now she really was a witch we couldn’t burn.

Jess and I got in our first physical fight. Sarah eventually broke it up, but not before Jess ripped out a good chunk of my hair, and I broke the tiger’s eye bracelet she wore.

 I later heard from another coven member that Jess tried to lay a curse on me that night. Unfortunately for her, I was pretty interested in defensive work and had a fresh witch’s jar buried under my window. Her curse got caught in it and rebounded. Apparently, that’s how Jess got pink eye, not from her younger sister.

We fought like cats and dogs. Any time Jess would talk about England, I’d make fun of her accent. When I brought up what spell I’d like to do, Jess would call me a juvenile pilgrim. Eventually, Jess got smart. She’d text me insults rather than say them to my face so that she’d have a chance to tattle to Sarah before I got the chance to hit back.

Sarah pulled me aside at least three times to “address” the fights. She basically said that I needed to respect Jess more because she came from a witch family, like her. She told me I could learn a lot from Jess if I stopped acting like a human. When I pointed out that we are humans, just humans who have elected to use magic, she got really mad.

And when Sarah got mad, she could make life really difficult.

My spell for luck on midterms got passed over for Jess’ jinx on our English teacher. The jinx worked and Ms. Edel tripped, but guess who still came to class with a broken leg? MS. EDEL. Guess who failed their midterm?

ALL SEVEN OF US.

Damn, I can’t believe I’m still upset by this petty high school drama. Therapy did not work.

So safe to say that Jess and I never became friends. I love magic now and loved it then, but she took it so seriously. I’ve always believed magic should be fun. All the spells she brought to the coven required a spirit element—blood, hair, sacrifice. One of the members was a strict green witch and had to drop out because of it. We missed two full moons until Sarah approved Eileen to rejoin after she woke up from her coma.

(And before anyone freaks out about the coma – we all ended up in comas here and there. We were a bunch of uneducated and untrained baby witches who all had different belief systems. The fact that there wasn’t anything worse than a coma is a miracle. She wasn’t traumatized by it any more than I was by mine.)

Jess and I mostly avoided each other for the rest of the year. We always voted against the other’s spell and I’m fairly certain she tried to trip jinx me in the hall as often as I tried to trip jinx her. Sarah never tried to diffuse the tension between us. She confided in Eileen that she was grateful we kept each other in check.

Things could have continued on that way until we all moved away for college (or repeated the year after failing all those midterms) if it weren’t for the vernal equinox. Or, as we inaccurately called it, the Spring Solstice.

The way it worked was that we all got to propose a ritual during equinoxes. They’re powerful magical events on their own and when you bring intent to the party? They were always our biggest, most successful workings.

Sarah always chose what we did on those days. She pretended like we got to vote, but we all knew she would never choose one of our rituals. My freshman year, she made us all do one for beauty. Because it was a “make real what is in the eye of the beholder” type, some of our transformations were a little…traumatizing. I’m only telling you this so you understand the power an equinox has, okay? I do not think this way anymore. Other members were just as extreme. Eileen went from a Wendy from Wendy’s to a Jessica Rabbit. And I…

Well.

I grew rabbit ears and teeth. That doesn’t make me a furry! Who Framed Roger Rabbit? was super influential on BOTH Eileen and me. I was a kid and didn’t understand my own concept of beauty. It took almost three months before I got the ears to go away entirely.

Suffice it to say, we were all excited and nervous for what ritual Sarah would pick, which is why it was a blow to find out that she had picked a ritual - Jess’ ritual.

A ritual for power.

I didn’t want to do it from day one, okay? My belief is that whatever magic comes to you naturally is what’s okay to take. I think if you rip magic up from the earth or the abyss, it’ll change you. Maybe even corrupt you or change your personality.

But I was a kid and didn’t know how to explain that. Jess and Sarah were both from witch families and they seemed to think it was okay. Even though I didn’t like Jess, I did see her as a more “authentic” witch because of that. I know better now, but as a kid seeing all of her grimoires, I gave her false authority.

Jess explained the ritual to us over the next month. She talked about how we were going to be “tested.” The ritual would pull our spiritual selves from our bodies, and depending on how long we chanted, we’d return to them with more or less magic than when we started. She said that everyone in her family did it when they turned 18.

It wasn’t until three days before the equinox that she told us what would happen if one of us were to be judged unworthy.

“Mostly nothing,” she said. I remember her exact words, how her black hair spun as she soared through the air on the swings. We stood in a half circle before her and Sarah as they swung higher and higher. An audience to their aerial court. She said, “Sometimes people lose some of their magic. When the ritual decides they don’t deserve it.”

Eileen asked, “When the ritual decides? It’s sentient?”

“There’s an overseer we’ll call on,” Sarah said. She’d been the only one allowed to read Jess’ grimoire. Her lip curled and she leaned forward so she could look down over Eileen like an avenging angel as she swung overhead. “An impartial entity.”

“I am not a deity witch,” I said. I had long ago committed that I would never call on a higher being in any ritual. Most of our spells had to be modified for me so that I could swear to the cardinal directions rather than to the Morrigan or Hecate. “You know that.”

“You’re not swearing to anyone,” Sarah said and rolled her eyes.

“Which means no one is swearing to us,” Eileen muttered under her breath. But I could tell she had given up by the slump of her shoulders.

“It’s only the unworthy who lose their magic,” Jess reassured. Her eyes flashed at me. “Scared you’re unworthy?”

Yes. I was scared. I know better now than to think lineage has any place in witchcraft. It’s about the magic, always just the magic. But months of hearing their rhetoric had worn at my self-esteem. It really felt like if I didn’t do the ritual, I was as good as admitting I wasn’t a witch. If I did do the ritual…

Well. Obviously, I did the ritual.

I was a hot-headed teen, okay? I felt challenged. I decided that I would wear extra protections. Tiger’s eye and quartz charged with intention. I picked out a silver locket my mother gave me, filled with belladonna. She told me it symbolized beauty and choice.

Now, here’s where I may be the asshole.

I can’t give you a play-by-play of the ritual. It was ten years ago, and calling on that much magic has a funny way of warping memory. But what I do remember is this:

We gathered in the park before sunrise. Seven of us in new colors – spring green, white, soft yellow and pink. Jess made us get rid of anything with a working on it – crystals, cards, and ladders. She collected them all in a linen bag and threw them into the woods. I couldn’t get away with my tiger’s eye or quartz, but she missed the pendant my mother gave me. It was a warm comfort against my chest as we began.

We lit the fire together, each of us frantically thumbing our lighter to make sure the sparks caught at the same time.

Jess brought the chalice. We all cut our palms and let seven drops fall into it. (No, we didn’t use a clean blade. My cut got infected as hell and it itches like a witch. I know better now!) She bade us drink, and we did.

“Now the magic will see us as equal,” Sarah said while Jess prepared the next step. She licked her lips as if savoring the blood. “It will only be our wills determining the outcome.”

Jess doused us with oil and herbs. It smelled sharp and uneasy. I had provided the herbs and knew all of them were either fresh or dried to perfection. But it was rancid. There was rot in the air, but I couldn’t place it then. I wrinkled my nose and took up the chanting with the others to distract myself from the smell.

If you’ve ever chanted before, you know the stages. First, you’re just talking. You say the words and they mean something, but you don’t feel them. Then your mouth gets tired. You start messing up the timing of the words. You stutter. You stumble. The words lose meaning. Most people stop there. They fall silent and sink into a shallow meditation with heads full of fog.

You’re only a witch if you can reach the next step. You keep saying the words. They become comfortable. You wear the words like clothes and feel your cadence curl through you like a companion. Your body goes on autopilot and your mind relaxes. The chant turns smooth as silk. Depending on the chant, you lose yourself to the sweetness of your coven singing. Sometimes, you sink into the earth with them. Other times, you ride the flow of the magic like waves.

This time, the words pulled us away from our bodies. Jess slowly introduced new words to our chant. Words of summoning.

We called upon the Overseer.

Pressure fell around me like a vice. I couldn’t breathe even as the ritual fell from my lips without breaking. Magic had, at that point, always given me control. This? This was a complete loss of it.

I felt myself compressing. Smaller and smaller in the face of the being that was rising in the middle of the flames. It was not an observer. The moment I “saw” it, its endless form writhing in the space between the smoke, I knew that. It was a judge and jury.

It was a spider.

We chanted. It grew. It pulled us from our bodies like spiderweb and spooled our essences onto its forelimbs. It was not what Jess described and, simultaneously, it was. We were being tested. Our psyches were being tested.

So long as we chanted, the being would be contained. However, the longer it was contained, the more of us it could take. If we let it go, what would it do? Would it return any part of our magic to us? Any part of who we were?

Or would it eat?

This wasn’t a test of magic. It was a test of faith. Faith in each other and faith in the ritual.

For those practitioners out there, you can see the problem. I didn’t enter the ritual with faith. My intent was flawed from the beginning. We’d had spells fail because of lack of belief. I had never been the person who didn’t believe.

Until then

My words wavered. The Overseer turned its eyes to me. I could see my magic like thread before it, shimmering against the backdrop of its maw.

Then another tremor. Eileen dropped a word. The Overseer split and looked at both of us. Someone else faltered. One of the coven – I couldn’t see them – fell and went silent.

The sky yawned overhead, empty and cold. The embers from the fire spun up into it and were lost. The Overseer rippled and I felt our coven shrink in the face of it.

I gasped around the chant and looked across the fire. The light licked Jess’ gleeful face. Her eyes hungered for my failure. I could see it. Through the connection of the Overseer, I could feel it.

Jess and Sarah changed the chant. To this day, I don’t remember if they taught it to the rest of us. There are so many parts of the ritual that I’ve left out or forgotten. But I remember them chanting different words. The circle grew discordant.

“I offer my magic so I may be unspun and woven anew,” they said. The words have imprinted themselves like bitters under my tongue. “I offer my magic so I may—”

Some of the other members tried to pick up the new chant. Their voices grew weaker and the Overseer’s limbs began to extend out towards each one of us.

I wouldn’t offer my magic to that thing. I wouldn’t be unspun.  Eileen was stuttering. I saw her fall to her knees. I was close behind.

I threw my necklace into the flames.

Belladonna. Beautiful and deadly. It has meant choice to many women and many of them have been from my own family. It's extreme and it’s final. An end that doesn’t always make room for a new beginning.

Pretty words that cover up what I meant when I threw it into the Overseer.

My intent was Death.

Entities never die. I’m sure the Overseer didn’t. It howled. The wind kicked up and brought the flames into a spiral ten feet tall. Its forelimbs shattered, and I reeled myself back together greedily.

Not all of us were safe from the Overseer’s desperate struggle against my death curse.

Sarah and Jess were alone in the third phase of the ritual. They had changed the chant. They had offered their magic and asked the entity to do with it what it will. They believed.

And because they believed, the Overseer took their magic with it.

I think it was the first coma Jess ever fell into. Her family certainly acted like it. They whisked her back to the East Coast before the end of the year. I heard from Eileen that she woke up shortly after I left for college.

Magicless.

Sarah too.

I fully own that I was responsible for the ritual failing. I panicked. I’ve gone through every excuse over the years. I didn’t know what the ritual really was. I was just a kid. I took magic too lightly. It was their fault for not letting us read the grimoire for ourselves. But, at the end of the day, the real reason the ritual failed was because I panicked and I let that panic break my belief.

I moved on to college and it felt like running away. I’ve never returned to my hometown. I’m happy with the life I’ve built. My magic summer camp gives me time to travel during the winter months, and I feel like I’m making a real difference in young witches’ lives.

Nowadays I teach young witches to never do a working without full intent. If they have doubts, they don’t do it. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way ten years ago. I tell them it can cost them more than their magic. It can cost them their lives.

Eileen is still back home and she says Sarah rarely comes out of her house. Sometimes she sees our former high priestess wandering the school grounds on nights of the full moon. I hear from other members of the coven that Jess’ family put out a bounty on me a few years ago. However, I never saw an assassin so I think that was just a rumor.

So, knowing that they’re still not over it, would I be the asshole for attending my high school reunion next month? I’ve been craving reconnection with my roots, but I’d be subjecting Sarah and Jess (though Jess marked Maybe on the RSVP) to my presence.

I know they must hold a grudge. If they were still witches, that would be a problem. I don’t think I’d be able to defend myself from one of their workings since I blame myself for what happened. But since they’re not, it’s not really a danger. That’s pretty asshole-ish, right? Ignoring their feelings because they don’t have the magic to back it up?

So WIBTA for attending my high school reunion even though the two girls I stripped of magic will be attending?

-----

Thanks for reading! It looks like I'll have quite a few updates for the anthology! I am still obsessed with this format and can't wait to share some of the updates over the next few weeks.

If you'd like to support me before the anthology, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X)! I post new stories every week and many of my patrons saw the above story a week early.

The current AITA story takes place in the same universe as our former Cryptid (X). About a poor, poor boy who is just proud to be a regional Nightmare. Why is everyone so mad at him?

See y'all next week!

[actualhumantrashcan]

I can understand a silly workplace comedy about pirates not being everyone’s jam but I really can’t understand the amount of queer people I see hating on ofmd.

like for one thing most of the debates turn into gatekeeping queerness (which I think has a lot more to do with the ages of the main couples than actual concerns about authentic representation but that’s another post) and the rest are just hateful because it doesn’t directly name or label it’s queer characters but like why do we need that at this point?? listen I love heartstopper with all my heart but it is exhausting to watch them explain queer identities sometimes (even though I do think it’s super useful for younger audiences I’m just not the target demographic!) and ofmd is an explicit, violent, adult show that doesn’t NEED to explain it’s character’s identities.

queer people past their 30’s are usually very well aware of their queerness and have had (hopefully) plenty of time to go through the arc of discovering that. so why would we need to see Stede or Lucius or Ed going through turmoil because they’re attracted to men when they have already come to terms with that at this point in their lives?? i for one find it so fucking refreshing to watch a show where the characters being queer is not their main arc, they just ARE queer and life is still happening to and around them. maybe that’s just the millennial gay in me talking, but it gets emotionally exhaustive to watch show after show where the queer character’s arc is overcoming homophobia. yes obviously homophobia still exists and yes obviously if ofmd was trying to be historically accurate these characters would be living in a very dangerous time to be queer but it isn’t trying to be accurate!! it’s trying to be fun and diverse and kind!!

and also, they aren’t pretending homophobia doesn’t exist!! it’s just addressed in a different way. Stede was emotionally abused by his father for his entire life for being “soft” and then was chased down by his homophobic childhood bullies, one of which explicitly told him that he “defiled” the great pirate Blackbeard by simply falling in love with the man behind that name. Meanwhile Ed was forced into the world of piracy at a young age and developed the entire persona of Blackbeard (who fits the toxic, violent masculine stereotype of the time) to hide the fact that he’s actually an incredibly sensitive and deeply queer man! and is told multiple times by male figures in his life that sex with other men is fine but it is absolutely unacceptable to be in love with a man. both of their arcs contain homophobic rhetoric that is still present in society today, but its never presented as a problem that they have to wrestle with. they don’t have to come to terms with what it means to love each other, they just have to overcome some trials that go along with the complicated lives they both lead as a pirate and former aristocrat. the homophobia in ofmd is woven into the backstory of each and every character, it shapes them into the people they are at the beginning of the show when all of their walls are up and they are performing the “pirate” roles they are supposed to play. and then we get to see them grow and realize that they are in a safe space, part of a community not just on the ship itself but in the life of piracy (which in the show is pretty much explicitly an allegory for queer lifestyles.)

anyway, I could rant about this all day but just truly why do we have to tear people down for enjoying something? why do we have to find reasons to hate something so obviously created with sensitivity to it’s queer audience and with so much queer joy? if historically inaccurate gay pirates going on silly adventures and falling in love are not your thing, fine! but perhaps just let people enjoy things and find your own things to enjoy.

[upat4amwiththemoon]

As free as an avis | 7

Summary: A princess and a commoner falling in love was a scandal on itself, but them both being women just adds fuel to the fire.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Warnings: this story will deal with homophobia and sexism, this story is mostly historically inaccurate

Word count: 2359

a/n: lets pretend that it hasn’t been ages since I wrote the last chapter (this series is still my baby)

Tags: @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @themagnificentmx @raven-reyes-wife @spongebobtentacles @friskyfisher @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @sayah13 @wandsmxmff @emsmultiverse @natashamaximoff69 @scarsw1fe

masterlists | guidelines

All parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8

Ever since Y/N and Wanda said they loved each other, they have gotten braver and braver to show that love to one another, though it still happens behind closed doors, the people of the castle have started noticing their attachment to each other. At this point, it seems like a pair of two overly attached friends. It is inappropriate in many of the castle servant’s eyes, after all, a princess and the lady’s maid should not be so close, but none of them speak of it, as they know the Princess’s stubborn nature.

As the servants don’t speak of their relationship, they have also given up on stopping the Princess from leaving the castle without permission.

Which is exactly what she is doing right now, with Wanda.

“Would you say this is a good area?” Y/N lowers her hood as she glances at Wanda, who is studying their surroundings.

They are a bit away from the bustling city, near nature. The area is wide and open, full of unused fields and a couple of abandoned wooden sheds.

“I know it’s a walk away from the city, but I would make sure carriages would drive here, and there is a future possibility of building a shop near by.”

“Y/N.” Wanda turns to look at Y/N with a gentle smile. “It’s amazing. The walk isn’t too long, building so many homes will create a lot of jobs, this…” she gestures at the nature, “this is a beautiful place.”

Y/N nods and lets out a relieved sigh. She smiles as she takes hold of Wanda’s hand squeezing it softly. Her approval means everything to her. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Wanda giggles, glancing around before planting a kiss on her cheek.

The two of them are alone—besides the carriage driver waiting where he can’t see them—but they know to be careful wherever they may be, there’s always a chance of someone watching them.

“When will you start building?”

Y/N looks around with a proud smile. “Once I find trustworthy builders, so my involvement won’t go back to my parents.”

“You know all the townspeople would field loyalty to you in a heartbeat, no one has love for the King and Queen like they do to you.”

“You know every single townsperson?”

Rolling her eyes, Wanda links their arms together as they start making their way back to the carriage. “Obviously not.” A small grin adorns her face. “But people talk, and my brother is such a gossip.”

“And you aren’t?” Y/N laughs, pulling Wanda closer. “I’ve heard you speaking with Yelena, you leave no detail behind.”

“That is totally different.” She raises her brows, but can’t hide the small smile growing on her face. “Yelena is brutal with her words, I’m slightly afraid she’ll yell at me if I do not tell her everything I know.”

The skin around Y/N’s eyes wrinkle as she laughs. “She’s merely fun scary.”

“What does that even mean?”

Y/N shrugs, “she’s more fun than scary. She wouldn’t hurt you.”

“But she could hurt me.”

“Oh, without a doubt.”

Wanda lets out a quiet huff, gently pushing Y/N’s side as they untangle their arms, having come near enough of the carriage to see it.

The driver opens the carriage door, bowing his head as Y/N climbs in with Wanda right behind her. The door closes and the carriage starts moving soon after.

The woman sit opposite of each other, smiling and talking silently so the driver wouldn’t accidentally overhear them. Their feet bump against one another’s, giggles fill the carriage every once in a while.

“There’s a quiet corner in the garden where no one else goes to, we could go there after we get back?” One of Y/N’s feet move under the hem of Wanda’s dress, gently tapping against her ankle.

Wanda smiles, “I still need to do my duties, you know, cleaning up and such?”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. Of course she had her own duties to attend to as well, but she’d much rather bail on them and spend all her time with Wanda. “After those duties then?”

“Yes, after we both are done with our duties.”

The Princess’ duties are a bore, at least in her eyes. Besides reading books about being a good wife and baby making, it involves meeting potential suitors. Men, who are supposed to be the next King if they marry. Men, who will take over ruling, because the woman cannot be the one making the decisions, even if she is the rightful heir—to her parents’ dismay.

Y/N sits around a table, one parent on each side and Lord Scott Lang opposite of her, a man over twice her age, which seemed to surprise Scott himself. A nice man over all, but not one she would like to marry.

Most of the discussion has gone through Y/N’s ears, though it doesn’t necessarily affect anything, as her parents will are the one doing the ‘interviewing’ and choosing, it’s only her future after all.

“Darling,” the Queen pinches Y/N’s thigh under the table, causing her to bring her attention back to the conversation, “do you have anything to say to Lord Lang?”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lang.” Y/N gives him a polite smile, clearly wanting to get out of the room and back into Wanda’s warm embrace.

Scott nods with a smile, slightly put off by the Princess. “The pleasure was all mine.”

One of the servant guide him out of the room. The Queen lets out a sigh, rubbing the spot between her brows. “She will not be marrying, Lord Lang, he was too…aloof. Maybe we will have her meet Lord Barnes next.”

“I agree.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, leaning back on her chair as her parents talk about her inevitable marriage over her.

“And having a daughter out of wedlock,” the King scoffs, “unacceptable for a king to be.”

“At least he seems to genuinely love her.” Y/N mumbles, mostly speaking to herself, but not really caring anymore if her parents hear her.

Her mother’s cold glare turns to her. “What was that?”

“I said,” she turns to look at her, “that he seems to genuinely care about her, at least judging by the way he spoke so highly of her.”

“What is your problem?”

“I thought I’ve made my problems very clear.” Y/N states, narrowing her eyes. She might as well start a fight. She lifts a finger, “number one is you two,” she lifts another, “number two is becoming queen. Number three-“

“Oh, you need to grow up.” The Queen interrupts, her voice raising in pitch. “You have known what your job in this castle is ever since you were born. You have had all these years to deal with the fact you will be the new queen, but you still haven’t. You know why? Because you’re childish and refuse to make best of your situation. This is a problem you have created and if you don’t get over it, we will be forced to do something drastic.”

Y/N stares at her mother, a frown on her face. She never liked losing arguments. “Whatever.”

The King lets out a sigh and stands up, causing the Queen to follow along. “Listen to your mother, Y/N. It’s time to start acting like the future queen.” The two walk out of the room, leaving Y/N to sit alone, wallowing in her feelings.

“Are you sure no one will see us here?” Wanda looks around the garden as she gets dragged through it by Y/N. She is holding a picnic basket and a blanket in her free hand.

“I’m sure, Wanda.” She slows down her pace as they arrive to a more hidden corner of the garden.

The spot is shaded by an old oak tree and surrounded by tall flower bushes, giving it a private feel. The wind rustles the oak leaves, some falling down as a stronger gush pushes them. Though it’s already evening, the bees and butterflies still fly around the flowers, at times stopping on top of them, and birds communicate to each other, their words coming out as a delightful song.

Y/N and Wanda set the blanket under the oak tree’s branches, small slivers of the lowering sun hitting their face as they sit down. “Well?” The Princess turns to look at Wanda with a smile.

“It’s lovely, very peaceful.” Wanda sets the basket in front of them. It’s filled with different berries and pastries.

“It’s the perfect place for us.”

They set the snacks and drinks onto the blanket in front of them, enjoying them while they speak of everything and nothing in particular.

“You seemed upset.” Wanda mumbles, glancing at Y/N as she bites into a strawberry. “Earlier today, I mean. Before we came here.”

Y/N lets out a sigh, “it’s nothing, just my parents being themselves again.”

“Another suitor?”

She hums and nods, picking up a cupcake. “They’re really starting to push the idea of marriage on me, I think they’re getting desperate.”

“I’m sorry.” Wanda mumbles. She feels bad for not knowing how to comfort Y/N better in these situations.

“It’s fine.” Y/N smiles gently, gently bumping her shoulder against Wanda’s. “I don’t want to think about marriages when I’m with you.”

Wanda bumps her shoulder back, grabbing a handful of blueberries as she drops the subject.

Soon the sun fully sets down, the evening darkness slowly starting to engulf the garden. Wanda and Y/N move the blanket away from the oak tree, so they could lay on it and watch the stars.

“Which one do you want to go to?” Y/N asks softly after a moment of silence.

“What do you mean?”

“When we met, you said you’d like to travel to a stars.” She states, her gaze on the sky. It’s not fully dark yet, but the brightest stars are already visible. “Which one would you like to go to?”

Wanda hums. “I don’t know the names of the stars.”

“We have some astronomy books in the library, I’ll get them for you.” Y/N mumbles, turning her head to the side to look at Wanda.

Her side profile is ethereal. Y/N doesn’t know if she’s ever seen something so effortlessly beautiful. A small smile adorns her face, she swears she can see the twinkle of the stars in Wanda’s eyes, she’s sure Wanda’s eyes are the stars.

“Really?” Wanda turning her head to look at her makes her come out of her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “I’d do anything for you.” Y/N raises up to lean on her elbows, the upper half of her body over Wanda’s. They stare at each other for a moment, before she slowly lowers her face closer, pressing their lips together in a soft and slow kiss.

One of Wanda’s hands moves around Y/N’s waist, rubbing the dress covered skin gently.

They pull away, though their faces are still close enough to feel the other’s warm breath on their faces. Y/N feels like her heart is beating out of her chest. “Do you want to run away with me?” The question comes out so quietly Wanda almost doesn’t understand it.

Her eyes widen and she sits up properly, bringing Y/N up with her. “What?”

“I…I want to run away with you. Go someplace where no one knows me, where we don’t have to be careful or hide.” The heartbeat is almost deafening in her ears.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

A silence falls. Wanda stares at Y/N with slightly furrowed brows, her hands shaking at the prospect of running away with her, leaving her family and friends behind. They would understand, but could she really do it.

“I’m sorry.” Y/N clears her throat, her gaze falling after the silence continues. “It was a stupid idea. Our whole lives are here and w-“

“Yes.”

“What?”

Wanda sets her hands on Y/N’s cheeks, pulling their faces closer together. A smile grows on her face, one of those that hurt her cheeks but she can’t stop. “I’ll run away with you.”

Letting out a laugh, whether of shock or relief Y/N doesn’t know, she sets her hands on top of Wanda’s. “You’re perfect.”

The laughter is contagious. Giddiness and a sense of freedom fill their bodies as Wanda drops back down on her back, pulling Y/N down with her. Her other hand goes to the back of the Princess’ neck, bringing their lips together, their teeth almost clashing together.

They stay like that for a moment, hands wondering and occasional giggles interrupting their kisses. When they finally pull apart, they’re panting, huge smiles on their faces.

“When are we leaving?” Wanda whispers, moving a strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear.

“Soon. We just need to get ready, say our goodbyes, and make sure my parents won’t do anything.” She lets out a shaky breath, the weight of their decision settling in her chest. “But it’ll be good, I’m certain Natasha and Yelena will help us.”

“My family too.” Wanda smiles, her thumb rubbing Y/N’s cheek. She can sense the nerves in her. “I can’t think of anything better than spending my whole life with you.”

Y/N’s leans her head against Wanda’s shoulder as they lay on the blanket. “Me neither.”

Another silence falls over them, a comforting one. They stay close to each other, Wanda looking at the sky and Y/N listening to the beat of her heart.

A small rustle breaks the atmosphere.

They practically fly away from each other, both of their eyes moving to the direction of the sound. There’s just a flower bush there, no insects, no other movement. Just in case, they stay quiet for a moment, waiting for any kind of disturbance.

“Probably just a bird.” Y/N whispers, fearful of raising her voice.

“Yeah…”

Nonetheless, they gather up the blanket and basket, making their way back to the castle.

[p0rk-guts]

He's finally done I think. WOAW! Radio demon time!!!

Okay time for comparison + breakdown rant ^ - ^ another SUPER long one I had a lot to say about this silly guy

ALRIGHT. So. Atp all that can be said has been said about Alastor but I'll gloss over it anyhow. Grossly historically inaccurate hair and clothing. Invisible deer theming. One of the main reasons he's got one of the most clowned on designs in the show is bc he's a pretty good representation of the worst it has to offer. He's absurdly red and has the waspiest waist in town. Also gotta zero in on the coat for a second bc I find it incredibly stupid that he went to that tailor bc of his coat being ripped and then left the shop with the exact same torn coat on oh goddd that felt like a complete joke who wrote this

Also his "redesign" was pointless. He stayed pretty much entirely the same except his colors got pinker and grosser and now he has this?? White trim on his lapels??? Even less 1930's accurate and it only serves to hurt the pallate in my eyes. It's the only spot of white on his entire design, it doesn't appear anywhere else so it throws it all off. And it's so bright. Is it supposed to be a focal point?? His tits????

Anyways onto my guy who I love so very deeply. I'm pretty sure sepia film was outdated by the 1930s but I gave him a palette inspired by it to emphasize how dated and stuck in old ways he is. Added blood red accents bc. Well. Cannibal murderer. Also bc I redid the sin colors so red is wrath and it seems like a fitting sin to pair him with.

After looking into 1930's men's fashion a tiny bit (thanks anon, this video was helpful!) and gave him a double breasted coat but wider and pointier so he looks a little less like just some normal guy and really emphasize how prideful and egotistical he is. "Ooo look at me I'm super big and imposing and powerfulll". I think it's a fun character trait of his. Definitely keeping it.

I liked him wearing gloves bc I feel like he wouldn't like getting his hands directly dirty and would always be covered when committing his murders. Maybe he's a germaphobe even. "I can excuse murder but I draw the line at dried blood on my skin". Also the gloves being white would contrast really well with blood so. Love that

I gave him a long tie to free him from the Vivziepop bow tie uniform and a fedora to add to the 1930's vibe and serve as something that can occasionally obscure his face in shadow. His glasses are also opaque and I imagine his eyes would rarely be shown if ever to make him seem more inhuman and off-putting, disconnecting him from personhood a bit. Wanted to add to that with his smiling mouth never opening and just being a static grin that can only occasionally widen or lessen, his voice cracking out of his "speaker" with fuzzy radio static. Seen multiple ppl use that idea and it always eats

I love Alastor's silly theatric nature (primarily in the pilot) and I'd probably keep it, but I'd add a layer of uncanny-ness to him where when he's not putting on his silly jovial facade, he gives off an unnerving vibe. Trying to appear approachable and charming and pleasant to lure people in before he's revealed to be less than human. Loveee thattt

I love Alastor being a deer. Predator becoming prey (animal) + "prey animal" lulling people into a false sense of security before striking. Love it. We should be CAPITALIZING ON IT❗So I gave him deer like legs, visible deer hooves, and more readable deer ears + the ham radio tower antenna antlers (sorry 4 calling them horns 💀)

Tried to make it a little more obvious that he's a mixed man of color by giving him dark wavy hair and the faintest hint of lip definition Viv uses in her style. I think it works. He's still not dark skinned tho

LASTLY the mic. Also not an original idea as I've seen tons of others turn it into a carbon mic but turned into a pentagram shape and I love the idea a lotttt so I joined the crew.

AND THAT DOES IT!!!! hope u like him as much as I do hehe. Just 1 supplemental doodle this time sorry :/ showing off how his face is probably obscured most of the time. He's. So hard to draw. I'm just bad at men but I'm tryinggggg guys

Alsoooo I've already finished the drawings for Niffty, Angel, and Husk! Once I've finished their breakdowns I'll add em right to the queue, and then I'll make a post with all of the main 6 together :3

[fayes-fics]

Doctor’s Orders

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Someone decides to play doctor to ameliorate your bad day…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, doctor/patient roleplay, dom/sub tones, ‘medical examination’ with use of stethoscope and latex gloves, voluntary breathplay, cardiophilia, vaginal fingering, edging.

Word Count: 4.5 k

Authors Note: this is a long-awaited (9 months!) request fill for the lovely @eleanor-bradstreet. My dear, I hope this is somewhat worth the wait. To anyone medically trained, yes, I know what he does is wrong/inaccurate, but that’s the whole point: he’s a somewhat clueless but enthusiastic roleplaying boy, not a real doctor. Thank you to @colettebronte for the read-through and suggestions. Enjoy! <3

It’s been one of those spectacularly shit days at work. When you get to your boyfriend’s flat, all you want to do is shower, crash out and watch brainless TV together.

“Bad day?” Benedict intuits, wandering over from the kitchen, casual in shorts and a t-shirt, as you drop your bag like a tonne of bricks near his front door and pout.

“Hate my job,” you whine, burying your head into his shoulder as he chuckles affectionately, pulling you into his arms and busses a kiss onto your temple.

“No, you don’t; you love your job. You just didn’t love it today,” he smiles into your hair.

“Urgh, fine, yes, Mr EQ, yes, that's true,” you huff his neck, enjoying his clean scent.

“Come with me, my stressed-out noodle,” he offers good-naturedly, withdrawing from the embrace and lacing your fingers with his. He backs up, pulling you along with him further into the flat.

“Where are we going?” you pout again.

“To eat, I made us dinner,” he smiles, something melting in your chest at the sweet gesture. 

“Do I have time to shower first?” you ask, wanting to remove all physical traces of this workday from your skin.

“Of course, be my guest,” he nods towards his room, with the en suite bathroom beyond, and you drop a kiss on his cheek as you go.

—

Fifteen minutes later, you emerge freshly showered and wearing some of his clothes- a t-shirt that swamps you and jogging bottoms you have to roll up at the waist. You take a seat at the kitchen island and tuck into the amazing-smelling food he has laid out, even giving you a comedic bow as you reenter the room.

The food tastes like heaven, and you can't stop the appreciative moans at the flavour explosion on your tongue.

“Fuck Ben, this is delicious,” you assert as you swallow the mouthful.

His face lights up with that beguiling smile that hooked you in the first place all those months ago, and you can't help but lean in and give him a quick peck.

“So do you want to talk about the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? Or is this more of a big glass of wine and stfu sort of deal?“ he hedges amiably, assessing your needs.

You sigh as you finish your next bite. “Honestly? I don't know. I’m so stressed about it all I sort of don’t want to talk about it. I feel like I need to be one of those Regency ladies who is prescribed a trip to the seaside for my nerves, you know?” you jest, circling your empty fork in the air to highlight your point.

He barks a laugh. “Funny you should say that; I was just reading a book about hilarious historical cures.”

“Yeah…?” your interest piqued.

“Dorset left it out,” he explains, referring to his roommate, a junior doctor at Guys Hospital. “It's hilarious. But I don't think they would diagnose you with a trip to the seaside, at least not based on what I’ve read.”

You swivel on your stool to face him. “Oh no? Then what would I have been prescribed, Dr Bridgerton?” you jest, leaning your chin on your hand and arching a challenging brow. But you don't miss how his pupils dilate a fraction as you address him such.

He turns towards you with a laconic smile. “You likely would have been prescribed a course of pelvic stimulations.”

You are glad you hadn't taken another bite of dinner, as you would have sprayed him with food with that spit take.

“What?!? No!” you laugh incredulously.

“Don't believe me? Go look,” he challenges, gesturing to the book on the coffee table.

“So… Is that what I think it is? Women would literally be told, medically, to masturbate?” you giggle, disbelieving.

“Oh no,” he corrects. “You wouldn't do it; the doctor would.”

“What the…??”

“Yup… ‘to alleviate the female hysterics’,” he chimes, affecting an old-timely announcer voice.

“With what?” you ponder aloud, still utterly perplexed.

“Hands, I would assume,” he breezes. “Why? Would you like a helping hand?” he winks, wiggling his eyebrows comically.

“I mean….” you trail off, still laughing but feeling a tiny buzz between your legs at the idea. “I'm not going to say no… Doctor Bridgerton,” you banter back.

Benedict puts down his fork, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows his bite of food and turns slowly towards you, an enigmatic glint in his eye.

“Well, now, you will need a thorough medical examination before I can determine if such a prescription is even the correct one,” he throws out, still with a jovial air, but the dropped octave is decidedly suggestive.

“How long until I can get an appointment?” you shoot back, feeling the atmosphere in the room shift, the dynamic between you playful but with a definite undercurrent of heat now.

“The doctor is always in… for you,” he answers, a hand landing heavily on your knee. “If you are ready, please go wait in the exam room,” Benedict responds, signalling to the sofa, that hand squeezing slightly. “The doctor can be right with you.”

You giggle and shoot him a ‘Are we really doing this?’ look. When he nods, you wiggle off the stool and drift over to the sectional as he disappears down the hallway, your half-eaten dinners now very much abandoned. Little butterflies in your stomach as you perch, eagerly awaiting his return.

When he re-enters the room, you almost forget how to breathe. He has obviously raided his flatmate's room and come out wearing a white doctor’s overcoat, his shapely calves bare beneath the hem, a stethoscope slung casually around his shoulders. He has also dug out his reading glasses to complete the look. He is so utterly convincing you don't know what to think, except…. Oh fuck yes.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n,” he greets, stepping effortlessly into the roleplay. “I'm Dr Bridgerton. Tell me, what ails you today?” 

He sits on the coffee table right in front of you, looking at you expectantly for your response.

“Hello, doctor,” you begin, stilted, still a little discombobulated by his appearance and how utterly aroused you are by it. “I… I am overworked in my job and don't know the best way to relieve the stress I feel….” 

“Well, I am sorry to hear that. Let us do a basic examination so I can rule out any possible physical ailments and go from there.” Before you can respond, he produces disposable gloves from his overcoat pocket and snaps them on, your tummy fluttering at the sight of them pulling taunt around his long fingers. 

Oh, he means it.

He leans in, his hands cupping your jaw, warm even through the latex. You whimper quietly, realising he is pretending to feel the lymph nodes beneath your ear for swelling. But he doesn't let go; he just stares you down, his eyes glittering in the lamp glow. 

“Say ahhh,” he prompts.

You open your mouth instinctively, just like at the doctor’s. He pivots a hand so his thumb gently presses down on your tongue as he peers into your mouth.

“Hmm, I see no evidence of an oral infection. But I should check via other means too, to be thorough,” he murmurs, pupils dilating as you cheekily close your lips around his thumb and suck on it suggestively. The powdery flavour on the glove somehow just heightens the heat you feel spreading inside.

“Behave please, Miss,” he rebukes, but his actions say otherwise - extracting his thumb and trailing your saliva in a line down over your chin, your neck, resting it in your suprasternal notch as his fingers curl around your neck and tug you towards him.

His kiss is deep and breathtaking. His tongue unfurls into your mouth and probes yours as if this, too, is a thorough examination. You follow his lead, letting him dictate the terms, wanting to follow wherever he is going with this.

“I think we can rule out anything in your mouth being the problem,” he opines drolly over your lips. 

“Thank you, doctor,” you respond coquettish.

“Let me listen to your lungs to ensure there are no respiratory problems. Remove your clothing, please,” he orders brusquely, sitting back.

“All of it?” you inhale sharply.

“I suppose just your top for now,” he revises, looking a tad impatient.

When you whip off the top to reveal you are without a bra, his eyes flash, and the tip of his tongue pokes out as your nipples pebble in the cool air of the room. A wave of something behind your ribs as he unfurls the stethoscope from around his neck and places it in his ears.

“Please keep your hands at your sides at all times. And beware, this may be cold,” he warns.

You squeak as the cool metal is placed onto the flesh above your left breast, your hands curling around the sofa edge by your thighs so you keep them as told.

“Breath in deeply for me,” he instructs, and you do, taking a deep inhale, feeling your body bloom with his proximity as his face squints in concentration. When he doesn't say exhale, you hold, unsure what else to do, your lungs feeling tight. It seems much longer than necessary. “And out”

He drags the bell over your sternum to the same spot on the right side. 

“Again” he orders. You follow the instructions, taking a deep breath. “Hold it,” he alerts, as you start to feel the struggle for air. You do his bidding, feeling that trademark ache under your ribs under the exertion. “And release,” he instructs just as you want to disobey.

“Good,” he rumbles, “just one more.”

You pant lightly as he drags the scope down between your breasts, then jump as he presses it low into the sensitive spot where your ribs meet on your diaphragm. 

“In and hold.”

As you do, he tilts forward and suddenly seizes a nipple between his teeth. You make a strangled noise in your closed mouth, a zipping thrill right down to your clit. The surprise makes air escape out your nose, fingers grasping the cushion.

“No,” he gruffs into your breast, not looking up at you. “I told you to hold. You hold your breath until I say you can release,” he lectures. “Now breath in and hold it,” his voice taking on a steely edge that makes your pussy constrict.

Wordlessly, you do as told, and this time, he swaps to your other nipple, biting down, then lathing with his hot tongue as you struggle—tight lungs, intense pressure behind your cheeks. The thronging pleasure around where he teases you makes it an almost impossible task; starting to struggle a little, your body twitching, fingers and toes flexing.

“Let it out,” he permits, and you open your mouth, the air escaping in a loud ‘pahhhh’ sound.

“Well, I think your lungs sound very healthy,” he breezes nonchalantly as if this is just how a doctor does an exam.

“That’s good,” you defer to his faux expertise even as you feel his saliva drying on your areola. 

“Now, let's test your heart,” he proceeds, pulling the stethoscope from his ears so it rests around his neck. “Remove the rest of your clothing now, please, Miss.”

“Is that strictly necessary, doctor? Just to listen to my heart?” you waver, even as your hands go to the ties at your waistband.

“I am the doctor here, am I not?” he counters, raising a brow.

“Yes,” you demure, a pulse around your clit at how thoroughly he inhabits this role.

“You may find it easier to stand,” he chuckles as he watches you shuffling, struggling to remove your bottoms while seated. 

So you do as he suggests, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin around your belly button as you push the loose jersey material over the swell of your hips. He growls at the other surprise lurking—you wear no underwear, your bare slit inches from his face as the clothing pools around your feet, now utterly naked.

“Is this okay, doctor?” you simper, looking down at him sitting on the coffee table as he finally tilts his head to look at your face.

“Lay down on the exam table,” he commands, his pointer finger jabbing towards the chaise.

“Make me…”

Your tongue rebels before your brain can engage, wanting to see how much he will take control if you act out. He springs to his feet, towering over you, inches from you, and grasps the nape of your neck, forcing you to look up at him.

“Are you questioning my methods?” he interrogates, his hold strong but not hurting.

Oh, yes, Benedict, well done.

“No, Doctor,” you simper, attempting to look innocent but knowing your eyes must be fully dilated by now, distracted by the pulse you see in his throat.

“I need to be very thorough before I can diagnose you accurately, Miss,” he cautions. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, doctor.” 

“Good. Now lay down,” he instructs brusquely, releasing his grip.

You drop to the sofa and lay out for him, a thrill zipping over your skin. He places a large cushion beneath your neck and head so you are tilted up and can see down the plain of your naked body.

“Now be very still and be very quiet. Keep your hands at your sides. Whatever I do to you is to ensure your heart is healthy. Do you understand me?” he tutors, his eyes roaming your body covetously.

“Yes, doctor,” you confirm, knowing your chest is rising and falling rapidly, the anticipation burning in your being.

He places the stethoscope directly over your heart and loops it back into his ears, the cool metal now a balm against your flushed skin.

“You have a good strong heartbeat,” he states casually, “But it is a little slow for my liking….”

His gloved hand loops around the leg closest to him and hauls it wide into his lap, your knee brushing a prominent bulge under the overcoat that makes your insides clench at the very thought of his cock.

“Stay still.” 

His clipped reminder is delivered as he trails his fingertips along your inner thigh, his other hand still holding the stethoscope against your chest. Your breath stutters as his latex-covered fingers nudge your folds, already weeping.

“Well, I see there is certainly no problem with your ability to get aroused,” he intones smokily with a tantalising brush over your clit. 

His moves are unrushed, his touch maddeningly light, not nearly enough, barely a glance over your soaked flesh, making you ache for more. After a few moments, you whine and defiantly attempt to push into his touch.

“Did I not tell you to be still and quiet?” he arches an eyebrow, and you pout but still yourself and fold your lips inwards under your teeth. “That’s better. Now let's see what happens when I….”

He expertly plunges two long fingers into your pussy, your arousal leaking over his gloves as he does so. He hisses his approval at your heated cling, pushing deep as you swallow your gasp, biting your lip to prevent any more sound from escaping. His fingers hook, and his wrist twists in slow corkscrew turns, dragging thoroughly over your walls as if giving you an internal exam. You crave more: more fingers, movement, friction, more of anything, your fingernails scratching against the fibres of the sofa, keeping them at your sides as told, even as you itch to grab his wrist and direct his motions.

“Interesting,” he mutters, his fingers swirling slowly, probing inside as he drags the scope fractionally on your sternum.

You utter a silent curse, your body already quivering. The room filled only with the sound of your ragged breathing and the sodden noise from between your legs as he leisurely rocks his gloved fingers into and out of your pussy, you suctioning around his knuckles, the stretch with each stroke making you want to beg for him to make you come.

“Your heart is definitely strong,” he declares, “but I think we need to put it to the test properly.”

His thumb presses onto your clit, and it's like a lightning bolt through your being. Something about the fact it's not his skin on yours lends an extra frisson. You can feel the warmth of his pad behind the latex barrier as he flicks against your swollen nub.

“More, please, Doctor Bridgerton, please,” you entreat desperately, attempting to tilt your pelvis to ride his hand.

He groans at your use of his name, not chastising you for vocalising. His rigid cock brushes your knee held in his lap as he surges his hips fractionally, your legs spread obscenely wide as he finger fucks you, his stethoscope leaving a circular imprint on your chest, almost bearing his weight into your skin. God help you both if his flatmate cuts his night shift short.

“Your bpm is rising,” he reports as his fingers move faster, wringing filthy noises from your body now, pushing harder with every stroke, his thumb circling your clit with unerring pressure. You just moan a litany of ‘Dr Ben’, and ‘yes’ and ‘please don’t stop’ as you spiral higher.

“That's it, yes, that's what I like to hear,” he encourages, “it's like music.” 

Even you can tell your heart is thumping now, hearing it loud in your own ears as the blood rushes to your head. Just as you are about to crest, he suddenly stops his ministrations and withdraws his fingers. You cry out as he rests the soaked glove on your lower belly, pressing down softly from the outside on that spot that aches for more, your own juices dripping down between your bum cheeks.

“Shhh shh,” he pacifies, the scope he still holds with his other hand feeling heavy on your flesh as his prideful gaze travels up your panting body, gleeful at his ability to do this to you. 

You plead with your eyes as his eyes finally reach your face, silently asking him to finish.

“Wonderful, your heartbeat is so strong in my ears,” he sounds almost wistful, dreamy. 

Your breathing slows, even as you feel the burn of an orgasm so denied, your pelvis throning, your clit painfully engorged.

“Hmm, let’s go again, shall we?” he smirks.

That’s all the warning you get before he plunges his fingers back inside, this time using three, the latex glove squeaking slightly around his palm. You scream and cant your body up off the sofa to the point he briefly lets go of the scope; his glove presses down on your diaphragm, forcing you back flat so you cannot ride his fingers like you want to.

“Please, doctor…” you beseech, voice reedy and wanton, uncaring about anything but being hurled over that divine edge.

“The more you ask, the less I am inclined to deliver,” he menaces. “I will just edge you all night and listen to your heart thumping so hard for me it sounds like it wants to break out from under your ribs.” he jerks the scope pointedly over your breastbone. 

You close your eyes and bite your lip, resigning yourself to obey. That he might keep you on edge for so long, you cannot bear—you need to come like you need air.

His handsome face is smug as he once again probes your body from inside, almost experimenting based on the tiny whimpers you make. He jabs a spot that makes your entire body spasm, and a crooked, dangerous smile spreads over his features.

“Oh, look what we have found,” his chest resonant with pitch, the tone dark and sweet.

Once again, you beg silently, but he indulges in the tease. Tapping gently on the spot rather than rocking into it, a slow, gentle touch that makes every nerve jangle, like an itch you cannot scratch hard enough.

“I love to see you like this,” he admits breathily as he keeps us at that vexing pace. “So strung out and desperate to come. You would do anything I told you to right now, wouldn't you? If I just promised to let you over the edge.”

You are nodding vigorously before he even finishes his sentence, his triumphant expression almost galling if not for the desire writ large on his face.

“Good,” he snarls and starts to jab on that same spot. Desire roars fire in your veins, and you scream, your body trembling. He leans over and captures one of your nipples in his wet, warm mouth, and you scream again, uncaring what any of his neighbours may think.

You are dangling on the edge, reality bleeding into pleasure when once again he stops, and the noise that escapes your lungs is feral—a wretched groaning wail as an inferno licks around every edge of your being.

“Listen,” he growls, roughly yanking the tubes from his ear and placing them over yours. The noise is almost deafening, a thumping rhythm so fast it is virtually interpolating and looping upon itself. It's fascinating and life-affirming even as your body cries out, your clit pulsing in tempo with the thrumming beat. Greedily, he grabs them back and places them over his ears again, moving the bell to the right, his breath gusting hard.

“Touch yourself,” he orders gruffly.

It doesn't take moments for your hand to slide between your legs and catch your clit, a hardened, searing nub so wet you can hardly find grip and so distended it doesn't even feel like your body.

He leans possessively over you, a vein in his neck pulsing as he listens intently, his eyes pinging between your face, the scope on your naked chest and your hand between your legs, rubbing vigorously.

When his fingers sink back inside you, your knuckles cradled in his palm as you strum your clit, it hurtles you instantly over. You grasp his bicep as you crest the wave, your whole body held taught then snapping, shuddering and pulsing forcefully around his fingers as you tumble down that abyss, his stethoscope almost bruising your breastbone as you writhe, him singing your praises. You don't recall the next few moments, floating far away as everything is fuzzy, as if behind a gauzy filter. 

“Oh, that was perfect,” he attests sotto voce as you return to yourself, shaking with tony aftershocks. “You should hear how alive your body sounds when you come like that. Fuck that was amazing…” he seems almost dazed, his fingers dormant inside you.

As he withdraws from you, you emit a mewl, overwrought and shaking from the intensity. 

“Well, Miss,” he begins, slipping back into his roleplay. “I can say without a doubt you are very healthy, so no concern there. I can also tell your stress level is much lower now. Thus, I shall be prescribing you a minimum of two orgasms a day. Purely for your health, you understand,” he adds with a knowing smirk.

“Yes, doctor,” you nod drowsily, slurring slightly. “Should I administer them mysel…?”

“No,” he cuts in. “I'm afraid it requires a medical professional such as myself to ensure correct dosage,” his tone gravelly, snapping off the gloves from his hands, balling them up and tossing them aside. “You will need to see me morning and night for at least a month until I can properly assess whether the treatment plan is effective.”

“Yes, Doctor Bridgerton,” you purr sibilant, too strung out to do anything but languidly agree to everything he says.

As you go to close your legs, he grabs your kneecap, preventing you.

“Oh no, we are not done here,” he intones with a tinge of menace.

“No?” you stutter.

“No, I need to be very thorough,” he counters, his voice rich like velvet. His bare fingers trail ticklish patterns over the crease of your knee as he smiles perilously, enjoying keeping you on tenterhooks. “I am nowhere near done with your treatment for the day. You have only had one climax, and I do believe I said you need a minimum of two per day," he reminds you, his stare blistering. 

You watch, almost stupified, as he removes the stethoscope and swivels to kneel between your legs, grabbing them and pushing them high and wide apart, the burning stretch along your inner thighs making you gasp.

“Now, are you going to do exactly what your doctor tells you to do this time?” he grills, his fingers digging into your flesh, his gaze intense.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Good,” the word resonates through his being as his hungry stare slips over your body, down between your legs. “Now I think you need something more substantial than fingers, don't you?” he smirks playfully.

“Please, yes, please, Doctor Bridgerton,” you implore, canting your breasts up towards him, your eyes covetously sliding down his body as he hovers over you. Your breath quickens when you see the clear outline of his cock bulging against the overcoat. Oh god, is he naked under there? The thought makes you clench again.

You raise your hands and tug at the collar of his overcoat until the first popper opens, revealing his constellation of freckles. When he doesn't stop you, emboldened, you pull again, each popper relenting, a larger slice of his naked torso revealed with each ping. By the time you are down to the last two, you see the trail of hair from beneath his belly button and moan.

“You have been naked this whole time, doctor?!” your voice hitching almost scratchy.

He grabs your hand away, pressing it into the cushion above your head as he bears you into the sofa with his weight, one of that last fastened poppers snagging cold metal against your swollen clit.

“I cannot ask my patients to be naked if I am not as well, surely?” he rumbles, hot in your ear, his warm chest covering yours. He grabs your other wrist and guides it to the same place. “Now, hold onto the cushion under your head and don't move your hands until I say so,” he orders, his smoulder turning lethal as you do as told. 

He pulls up slightly and yanks the rest of the coat open, throwing it aside, giving you only a fleeting glance before surging his leaking, heated cock right over your slit.

“God, Ben, fuck me,” your errant internal monologue slips from your tongue before you can stop it.

“Who is Ben?” he quips duskily, rocking in a distracting manner, his tip glancing into your folds. “There is only Doctor Bridgerton here tonight.”

“Doctor Bridgerton,” you amend, fingers curling into the seam of the throw cushion, fighting the urge to grab him, “please fuck me.” 

He smiles triumphantly and lowers himself over you so you are swamped by him. 

“Well, as you asked so nicely…” 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies

Dividers credit: @/firefly-graphics

[acti-veg]

is it actually wrong to be Islamophobic? and by this i mean "disliking Islam". NOT saying "all Muslims are terrorists" or we should treat Muslims badly in any way. but to dislike the religion - not the people? are there not lots of verses encouraging violence in the Quran? (this is a genuine question - i don't know the answer)

It is perfectly fine to challenge or dislike any belief system, religious beliefs are not unique in any way in that respect. However, when you ‘hate’ an entire religion you’re not really just challenging a specific belief; because religions are extremely diverse, representing a fairly wide group of belief systems that may only share some key common features. One person’s Islam can be very different to another’s. Those who hate Islam as an entire religion tend not to know very much about it, in my experience.

There are certainly passages that can be interpreted as violent in the Quran, as there are in the Bible, but the Quran and modern Islam are not the same thing. Religious believers negotiate with scripture for meaning, and apply it to their lives. You can interpret ‘violent’ passages as reflective of the specific struggle that was happening at the time that the Quran was written, you could view it as a spiritual battle, or as encouraging violence against non-believers more generally.

If you are violent, your Islam will be violent. If you are a pacifist, your Islam will be peaceful. If you took a moderate Muslim from an affluent area in East Sussex and asked them to speak to a militant Islamist from an impoverished community in Kabul, they’d barely even recognise each other’s religion as being the same as their own. They may both claim that the other is not a ‘real Muslim,’ yet you’d hate all Islam on the basis of the behaviour of one of them? Or based on the text they both hold as sacred?

To view a religion as essentially just words on a page, or Muslims as a homogenous, unchanging group is a very narrow and inaccurate view. All religions are organic belief systems that change depending on the historical period, the cultural context, by mosque and even by individual. When people say they ‘hate’ Islam, when asked why, they usually break into criticism of Muslims as an entire people, which is Islamophobia. Or, they just point to specific lines in the Quran, which is fine, but very reductive and simplistic. At that point you’re just criticising a book.

People who ‘hate Islam’ generally don’t have a good grasp of what it is they even hate, and that goes for a lot of the more forceful critics of religion more generally. They haven’t studied the Quran, they haven’t engaged in Muslim culture, they haven’t really even talked to Muslims about what their beliefs even are. They read some out of context Quran quotes on the internet, or a few lines from someone like Ibn Kathir, and they think they understand the entire religion well enough to declare that Islam is violent. Religion is complex, they’re not just dead texts, they’re lived beliefs that are coloured by perception, culture and history as much as any other belief is.

What Islam is for most people is just what they have heard about it, and that is usually negative coverage from media sources. Even for you, I’d question why you are specifically focusing on the religion that the media has told you to hate, rather than any other religious or political ideology. That isn’t a criticism of your character, none of us are immune to propaganda. I’d just encourage you to reflect for yourself just how much of this thinking comes from your study of Islam, and how much comes from negative representations in the media.

[lailoken]

What are your favorite pieces of media that you think accurately represent magic and spirit work? Movies, books, even music..

This is an interesting question, but one that requires a lot of thought, as I have read and watched an inordinate amount of books and movies. Plus, even really good fiction with pagan themes that I've read/watched is generally inaccurate in most ways, with some realistic aspects of magic woven in here and there. Some of my very favorite media relating to the subject can't really be included, simply because of how inaccurate it is overall, but there are a few that have caught my notice.

I'm sure I'll end up missing ones, which bugs me, but I'll do my best to recount some examples that I can think of:

The Love Witch (2016) is a movie that I think presents a strikingly realistic portrayal of what magic can look like. It manages to show some of the ways one might use magic to great effect, without actually skewing into fantasy at all. Clearly, the magic shown isn't going to line up with every paradigm, and its not exactly a heady or spirit-based story, but I think it's a very real look at how ritual and magic is/can be approached by many folks in the modern day.

The Witch (2015) is, above all else, a great slow-burn horror film and an excellent period-piece. However, it also portrays quite an accurate conception of folkloric beliefs about Witchcraft in the 17th century, which inexorably inform the realities of modern Witchcraft traditions. It does just barely skew into fantasy horror, but the actual folkloric information being presented is quite sound.

A Dark Song (2016) is a film that portrays ceremonial magic realistically in many ways. Ultimately, it is still a supernatural horror film, but the bulk of the magic in the movie is based directly on the Abramelin Operation, which was interesting to see. A lot of the ways that the magic "takes shape" in the film feels real enough to me, too (though it certainly takes it to extremes at points, as horror movies are wont to do).

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson is a horror novel I much enjoyed when I read it a coulple years ago, but I also remember that it happens to contain small, but meaningful, instances of sympathetic magic within the story that I appreciated as a practitioner looking in. This one has been made into a movie as well.

Cunning Folk by Adam Nevill is one of the more realistic looks at magic—including the uncanny side of it—that I've come across. It's still definitely a horror story, first and foremost, but there's an oomph to the ritual and magic described therein that a lot of other similar fiction lacks—even when the ritual act being described isn't necessarily accurate in terms of historicality or my personal experience of the Craft.

The White People by Arthur Machen is a Welsh short horror story from the turn of the century, which I think is worth including here. There are elements and aspects of the story that feel surprisingly real in terms of Gloaming initiation and the Gloaming Spirits—though, of course, it takes creative liberties informed by the paranormal beliefs and trends of the time (1890s).

The Craft (1996) is a movie that I'm sure a lot of pagans have of nostalgia for in one way or another, myself included. I struggled with whether this movie should be here or in the Honorable Mention section, but I included it here in the end because a lot of the ways magic and ritual are presented in the film are accurate enough. I also think it did a fairly good job of capturing how it can feel to discover, revel in, and then become overwhelmed by magic. However, since it is a supernatural horror film, a lot of magic shown is portrayed more fantastically than the real thing, and there are aspects of the magic (rituals, entities, etc.) made up entirely for the sake of the story.

As implied above, there are also some pieces that, while largely inaccurate or too far into the realm of fantasy, still manage to succesfully capture some essence of realistic feeling magic in them. I will list those here as Honorable Mentions:

Practical Magic (1998) is another movie that I'm sure a lot of Pagans have nostalgia for in some way or another. I won't claim that it's a genuinely "accurate" representation of magic—and it certainly strays into outright fantasy at times—but there are little things throughout the movie that managed to ring a bell for me, as someone who grew up with magic in my family. I know this was originally a book, but I actually haven't read that as of yet, so I can't speak to it.

Pan's Labyrinth (2006) is a movie is squarely in the fantasy-horror genre to me, but even still, I include it here as an honorable mention because a lot of the lore depicted is drawn from real lore, and the overall ambience it manged to evoke strongly reminds me of some of my own experiences with chthonic journeying.

The Good Witch franchise isn't one I have ever actually watched any part of before, but I include it here because, oddly enough, multiple practitioners have mentioned to me that they think the magic is surprisingly realistic for a Hallmark series. As I understand it, the main character is a sort of local Wise Woman who helps the folk in her little town using things like folk-knowledge, remarkable intuition, and an uncanny ability to seemingly sway people and circumstances. Since I haven't seen it myself, my take on it may be somewhat lacking, (which is why I listed it as an honorable mention), but based on the description, it actually sounds like it may be one of the more realistic interpretations of magic on this list.

I know this is a strange addition, as it's not exactly magic, per se, but much of how Stephen King writes about psychic abilities like clairvoyance and healing throughout his works manages to touch on something all too familiar for me. I think, sometimes, that he may have known someone with the Sight and/or the Touch in his real life, as it comes up a lot in one shape or another in his writing.

As I said, I'm sure there's stuff I'm missing, but this at least a serviceable overview. I encourage others to share any other media that they think deserves a mention, too!

[ssinnerplazahotel]

╭──────────.★..─╮

*Chapter Fifteen*

╰─..★.──────────╯

WC: 5k

Warning: 18+, age gap, smut, fluff, toxic elvis, manipulation, drug use, it’s the 50s/60s, painful-difficult-devastating-life-changing-extraordinary love

Pairing: elvis x black reader

Disclaimer: full of inaccuracies, inaccurate timeline, inaccurate depictions of Graceland, historically inaccurate themes and items

Masterlist: Prologue, Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

finale pt. 2

“They want you for the cover of Harper’s Bazaar.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“Why?”

“Because they think you’re ‘extraordinarily beautiful,’” He said, quoting the request directly. “‘Otherworldly.’

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Well, I happen to agree that you’re out of this world.”

He smiled as you sat down in his lap, hugging his neck as you glanced over the letter. You thought about the offer for a moment.

“You don’t have to think about it too much,” Elvis said when he noticed your contemplation. “I’ll tell them you don’t want to do it.”

“Will you do it with me?”

“They didn’t ask me, dirty bird, they asked you.”

You laughed. “I know but…we do everything together.”

You knew if Elvis was on the cover they’d hardly spare you a glance. Doing it alone opened up the floor for criticism—criticism you no longer had the tolerance for. Though the hit pieces you saw were few and far between (Elvis made sure of that) you knew there was another level of hate out there.

“It should be all about you,” He said. “You have a few months to make up your mind.”

“They may not want me in a few months.”

“Why’s that?”

You shrugged dismissively. “I might be pregnant.”

You felt him tense beneath you. “You think?”

“I don’t know,” You said. “I’m late but…I’ve been late before.”

“They said there was a chance~”

“I don’t want to get excited. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“That mindset won’t get you far.”

“And being optimistic will?”

You stood up before he could respond, taking the lighter from the corner of his desk. He watched you wordlessly as you took a cigarette from its case and lit it.

“How late?”

“Don’t start with the questions, E.”

He stood with a sigh, dropping the pen that he had been fidgeting with. “Well, let me know when you start giving a fuck.”

You faced him. “You’re upset?”

“No.” You stopped him from leaving. “Birdie, I don’t care if you don’t.”

“I care,” You said. “I’m just scared.”

“If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, then that’s just it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do understand.”

“Do you know what a miscarriage feels like?”

He retracted, but he was still upset. “I don’t see the point in trying if we’re gonna ignore it when it happens.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” You said. “I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“Well.” He walked past you. “I guess we’ll see.”

The months slipped by agonizingly slow. It was a miserable day every day you woke up still pregnant. It wasn’t that you hoped for another miscarriage, you just hated the anticipation of it all. It was hard to even acknowledge the fact.

You were measuring small, even towards the end of term. The doctors told you it was due to stress. It wasn’t the baby that was stressing you out however.

“I can’t believe I’m the one telling you that we need to get some things in order around here,” Elvis said, forcing you out of bed. “That sucker’s gonna pop out any day now, honey. They told us that weeks ago.”

“It’s fine,” You complained. “I’m sure someone will have the room ready overnight if you ask them.”

“This ain’t the inn, birdie,” He said. “You don’t just put it together in one day. Shouldn’t you have some kind of maternal instinct by now?”

You weren’t prepared to have a baby, let alone be a mother. You feared that you’d mess it up, like you mess up everything else.

“Come help me put this thing together,” Elvis said, returning to his passion project for that afternoon—the baby’s bassinet.

“Put it together in the nursery,” You said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t make sense to do it here.”

“She’s not sleeping alone in a nursery,” He said. “You gotta keep her close the first few months at least. Unless you want a psychopath on our hands.”

“You read too much.”

“You don’t read enough.”

“Down the hall isn’t close enough?”

“Don’t be cruel.”

You watched him as he intently read the instructions word for word—ordering you around as he did so.

“A should snap into D,” He said, pointing the pieces out to you. “And B into C.”

“What?”

“A and D, B and C.”

“That’s so stupid.”

“Let me do it.”

It felt like everything was happening to you. You were nothing more than a variable in this equation and life was insistent on working you out.

~

“Just breathe for a second~”

“Is it happening?”

“Calm down~”

“Is it really happening?”

“Birdie, relax.”

You couldn’t, how could you? You were in labor, actual labor. Elvis had kept his wits about him when you told him but that didn’t stop you from succumbing to the feeling of impending doom that you had been trying to outrun for the past eight and a half months.

“Get off the phone, E,” You said, rushing him along. “We need to get there before they really start. I can’t handle it.”

“I’m coming,” He said, trying to keep his frustration at bay. “Go get dressed, you can’t go out like that.”

“I’m going to have a baby.”

“Go change,” He insisted. “You could use the distraction while I get this together.”

“Please hurry,” You said, going to find something decent to wear. “I don’t want to feel anything. I can’t take it, I already told you~”

“I know, darlin,” He said halfheartedly. “We’re practically already there.”

You were fully in labor when you arrived at the hospital and barely in time for the epidural. But, after twelve and a half hours, you were welcoming your first daughter into the world.

It was a moment that already felt surreal in your head but even more so as you watched it all play out in front of you. It was painless—as painless as it could be—and you were happy. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. In reality, you had no idea what you were feeling.

“Birdie?”

“Hm?”

“Her name.”

Your eyes met Elvis’s as you held your daughter. He looked down at the both of you with such admiration.

“Are you asking me what it should be?”

“No, I’m telling you.”

“Birdie’s no name for a baby, E.”

“It could be.”

You looked down at the child in your arms, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands balled into tiny fists. “How about…Lark?”

“…I like it.” Elvis kissed your temple before leaning his head against yours and looking down at his daughter. “Y’know…we’re gonna have to tell the press soon.”

“Yeah, I know,” You responded. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.”

“It’s no rush.”

“Of course it is. They’re probably camped outside waiting.”

You turned your head when he didn’t respond, finding a telling expression on his face. “E…they are not camped outside waiting.”

“I don’t know how they found out~”

“Why would you say anything about telling them if they already know?” Your shift in tone startled the sleeping newborn in your arms, causing her to fuss. “Oh god, take her please~”

“Hey, it’s okay.” You weren’t sure if he was consoling you or the baby as he took her and stood from the bed. “It’s okay, hunna.”

You stared in the direction of the window, unable to see out but still picturing the press crowded around the building.

“What are they saying?” You asked, looking at him. “I know you’ve heard something so don’t lie to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” He said in a hushed tone, walking the baby over to the crib that the hospital provided. “It’s just a shock, really. Most of the reactions are good.”

You didn’t believe him but you didn’t argue. You were too tired to go back and forth any longer.

After a restless night, you were awoken by Elvis saying that you were being discharged.

“Liz is here.”

“Why?”

“We have to go through the press to get out of here.”

“Is there really no other way?”

“They want to see us.”

You went through hair and makeup, nursing Lark along the way. You handed her off quickly after she was fed.

“Doesn’t hurt to hold her sometimes, bert,” Elvis said.

“Please don’t start calling me that,” You complained tensely as Liz zipped the back of your dress. You could hardly breathe in the stiff fabric.

“You don’t like it?” He laughed.

“No,” You exclaimed. “How do you get ‘bert’ from ‘birdie?’”

“D’You hear it, Lizzie?” He asked.

Liz shrugged and muttered something about hearing where he’d gotten it from.

“I can’t hear it,” You said. “I also can’t breathe.”

“You definitely don’t look like you had a baby twenty-four hours ago,” Liz said, adding the final touches. “They’ll love it.”

You enjoyed your brief interactions with Liz. She wasn’t talkative—by nature or per Elvis’s request you didn’t know. She finished up and left.

“What’s wrong?” Elvis asked when she was gone, laying the baby down.

“I don’t want them to see me,” You confessed. “I don’t want anyone to see me.”

“Why?” He wondered. “You’re beautiful.”

Your eyes threatened to roll at the compliment. You didn’t feel beautiful. You felt sore and tired—all but beautiful.

“It’ll be quick,” Elvis said. “Like tearin off a bandaid.”

The nurses insisted that you be wheeled to the car but you politely declined. You could make it walking.

Lark was carried out in her car seat first, heavily protected on all sides before you and Elvis casually strolled out of the building. It was pure chaos outside but you tuned everything out. When you finally made it to the car Elvis let you in before following suit. It was quick, like he promised.

*

“Andrea?”

You were shocked to see her waiting for you in the foyer when you arrived back at Graceland. She stopped you before you grew excited.

“I came back for the baby.”

You smiled despite her cold demeanor. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Her expression softened when Elvis entered with the car seat in tow. He sighed as he shut the front door.

“You came,” He stated.

“For the baby,” Andrea clarified again, kneeling down to peek at her in the carrier. “What’s her name?”

“Lark,” You responded. “Like the bird.”

“You named her after a bird?” Andrea asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s sentimental.” You shrugged. “You don’t like it?”

“I think it’s a beautiful name.”

Your head snapped instantly in the direction of Dawn’s voice. She stood off to the side watching the interaction unfold.

“Aunt Dawn,” You said delightfully. “You made it.”

“I promised I would,” She said, opening her arms and wrapping you in her familiar embrace. “I had to see this to believe it.”

You felt small in her arms, like the child you once were. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She rubbed your back as she held you. “I’m here.”

“Let’s get you to bed, little bit,” Elvis said, cutting your embrace short. “Doctor’s orders.”

Things were different around the house with the baby and Andrea. Dawn stayed for a few days but ultimately returned to her house a few minutes up the road.

You promised to bring Lark over as often as you could, and you meant it. You aimed to go over every other weekend, but that changed into whenever Elvis could make the trip. He hated for you to visit Dawn on your own. You hadn’t paid it any mind until she brought it up one evening.

“It’s like he’s afraid to leave you alone with me,” She complained. “I’m your aunt. I practically raised you.”

“It’s not like that, Aunt Dawn,” You said as you buckled Lark into her seat. “He hates for me to travel alone. That’s all. There are crazy people out there.”

“He hates for you to do anything alone. It’s concerning.”

“No, it’s sweet. And he really enjoys our visits.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I hardly recognize you. You look exhausted.”

“That’s because I am exhausted.”

“Andrea and Joel seem to think~”

“Are you really going to let Joel and Andrea ruin our day? They’re the reason he hardly lets me come over anyway. Have they turned you against him too?”

“My worry for you has nothing to do with my feelings about him.”

“Don’t believe anything they say, it’s all made up.”

“Why would they make these things up?”

“Because they don’t want to see us together.”

Elvis appeared from the house then, carrying Lark’s missing pacifier.

“Where was it, baby?” You asked, ignoring the disconcerted expression on Dawn’s face.

“Under the couch,” He said. “The drive back would’ve been hell without it.”

“You two be careful,” Dawn said. “It’s getting dark soon.”

“We will be,” You said, stepping forward and hugging her. “Don’t worry about me. Please, I’m okay.”

“See you, Dawny,” Elvis said, hugging her briefly as well. “I’ll bring them by again soon.”

“I look forward to it.” She watched the two of you climb into the car and waved as you left.

“What’s got her so worried about you?”

“Hm?”

“Dawn. You told her not to worry?”

You shrugged dismissively. “She’s always like that.”

He hummed, unsatisfied with your response. “Did you say something in particular to get her like that?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know…she said I looked tired.”

Andrea was there to scoop up Lark the minute you got back. She claimed to not trust the two of you alone with her. She meant it as a joke but a part of you couldn’t help but think she was serious.

“I was about to take her upstairs,” You said. “She needs to get changed and fed.”

“I can do it,” Andrea offered as she bounced Lark in her arms. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s alright~”

“Let her do it,” Elvis said. “We’re gonna be down here anyway.”

“I was going to,” You said as he took the diaper bag from your shoulder and handed it off to Andrea. “It’ll only take a second.”

“I don’t mind,” Andrea insisted. “Go relax. I’m on baby duty.”

“Come on, bert,” Elvis said, laughing at the nickname as he guided you away.

You watched Andrea carefully climb the stairs until she was out of your view.

The scene downstairs was too chaotic and you would’ve preferred to be anywhere else. Elvis kept a heavy arm around your shoulders as you sat silently by his side amongst the group.

Despite your presence, there were still numerous women who had taken the same mundane interest in him as the hundreds (thousands, or even millions) who came before them. You couldn’t blame them, or the way they stared shamelessly—he was too beautiful to only steal a glance.

What they wanted from him was surface level, they craved his body, but his mind and soul were yours—some crude part of you wanted them to know that. You felt invisible next to him as their eyes locked on his every move.

“What?” Elvis asked when he noticed you shifting closer.

“I want to go upstairs,” You said, giving him a look and hoping he’d understand. You placed a suggestive hand on his thigh to further express your point. “Please.”

“Don’t, birdie, come on,” He scolded, moving your hand from his thigh.

“I need you,” You said. “Don’t you want me?”

His jaw twitched. “Why are you being like that in front of all these people?”

“They like watching so much, I figured we’d put on a show.”

“What?”

“A show, y’know…”

His eyes narrowed as he processed what you were saying.

“I want them to know that you’re mine,” You confessed.

“And the only way to prove that is to…?”

“Show them.”

“How?” He laughed.

“Kiss me,” You insisted. “Touch me.”

“You’re crazy,” He muttered under his breath. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

His words hurt but in some sort of satisfying way.

He kissed your cheek and his deep voice vibrated in your ear when he whispered, “Go upstairs.”

You stood, trying not to pout as you left the room. You stopped by Lark’s nursery on your way by and you saw Andrea but you didn't make your presence known as you watched them. She was so good with her.

Elvis came up the stairs as you stood there and you immediately went to the bedroom without a word. You shut the door behind yourself, making him open it moments later.

“What? You have a problem with me?” He asked, slamming the door.

You faced him—crossing your arms.

“How can I help that they were looking at us?”

“They were looking at you, not me.”

“D’you know who I was looking at? You.”

“Do they know that?”

“Who cares what they know?”

“I do.”

“So, what, you want me to fuck you in a room full of people?”

You pushed him away when he stepped closer but even with all your strength he didn’t budge. You struggled against him when he grabbed your wrists, trying to pull away. His grip tightened and he forced you into a rough kiss. As much as you wanted to deny him you gave in quickly.

He made you straddle him when he sat on the edge of the bed, assisting your movements with a tight grip on your waist and making you grind your core against the bulge forming in his pants.

“You’re gonna finish what you were trying to start out there,” He said. “Do you understand?”

You aren’t sure what came over you in that moment, but you brought your right hand up and struck his cheek in one swift motion. He seemed as shocked by the action as you were, his head cocked to the side—frozen for a moment before acting suddenly.

He stood and shoved you onto your back, wrapping a hand around your neck.

You nodded in encouragement. “Hit me back.”

He kissed you, there was a gentleness lingering behind his touch that you wanted him to let go of. “Don’t be brutal.”

“I want it.”

“You want me to hit you?”

“Yes.”

He examined your expression for a moment before pulling away. You waited as he sat back on his heels and silently removed his shirt.

“Take off your dress,” He finally said, waiting expectantly.

You smiled and shook your head ‘no.’ He was on you immediately, forcing you onto your front before unzipping the back of your dress. He stripped you, leaving you in only your heels and panties.

“On your back,” He demanded.

You turned over but immediately lifted your foot, using the pointed end of your heel to keep him from coming closer. He grabbed your ankle and ripped the shoe from your foot before wrestling the other off.

He forced himself between your legs. You tried to push him away but he pinned your hands beside your head—he wasn’t letting up but you could feel his frustration building.

You forced a heavy moan and arched your back, playing up your pleasure and becoming pliant. He released your wrists and you put your arms around his shoulders—you let him kiss you fully before grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling. You tugged harshly and he groaned.

“Don’t do that,” He said through clenched teeth. “Fucking let go.”

“Make me,” You challenged. “Hit me.”

“What’s that do for you?”

“It makes me feel like yours.”

You closed your eyes as he kissed you, releasing your grip on his hair.

“You are mine,” He muttered against your lips. “I don’t have to hit you to prove that, do I?”

“No,” You agreed, trying not to let your excitement show as he grabbed your jaw and made you look at him.

“You’re my girl?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what that means?”

Your eyes widened when his ring and middle fingers suddenly pushed past your lips, forcing your tongue down. You gagged and tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let you. The rings on his fingers clanked uncomfortably against your teeth but you couldn’t avoid them.

“It means—” His face was close to yours. “—that you hold yourself together when other girls make you jealous, you don’t fall apart and turn into a desperate nag.” He only pulled away after you choked, his fingers covered in your saliva. “You should know that by now, birdie. You’re actin like an amateur.”

You hardly had a second to breathe before he was forcing you onto your back.

“You’re always asking why I never use your mouth and you can’t even handle two fingers. It’s fucking adorable.” His words must’ve had the effect he wanted them to, because he laughed when you started struggling again. “You’re just a little girl. You don’t know the first thing about what you’re getting into when you ask me to do shit like this to you.”

“You’d rather fuck one of them?”

“I probably would’ve if it weren’t for your bad attitude.”

You fought harder but he held you down under half his body weight.

“You don’t like that?” He asked knowingly, grunting as he thrusted his touch-starved erection against your core.

“No, I don’t fucking like that,” You spat. “You’re an asshole.”

“Your mouth.” He tutted, disapprovingly.

“Fuck you.”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck y~”

You were stunned by the slap that crossed your face. It didn’t hurt but it stung in an addicting way and made you throb with desperation.

“That’s what you want?” He asked, you could hear the panic reserved in his tone. He was checking in.

“Yes,” You reassured him.

“When did you get like this?” He muttered, sitting up and instructing you to remove his belt. “Come on. It’s the least you can do after being such a mean little thing.”

You sat up with him to unbuckle the belt. He took your face in his hands and kissed you, still unable to resist your lips.

“Say you love me,” He demanded, breaking the kiss. “Fucking say it.”

“I love you,” You said. “I love you, I love you, I love you~”

“Alright, shut up,” He interrupted. “You’re gonna get yourself off, d’you think you can do that?”

You followed him as he sat back against the headboard, letting him force you to straddle him. You brought your hand up in an attempt to land your revenge, but he caught your wrist before you could connect.

“Don’t try it again.” He tore your underwear from around your waist, ruining them. “Take my rings off.”

You reached for his hand and he pulled it out of your reach.

“Uh, uh,” He hummed. “Use your mouth.”

You hesitate but parted your lips anyway. He swore as you used your mouth to remove each ring, leaving his fingers glistening with your saliva.

“Last one,” He said as you spit another ring into his right palm and took his left ring finger in your mouth. He hissed as the wedding band slipped from his finger and into your mouth. He stopped you from spitting it out. “Keep it in your mouth. Don’t swallow it.”

You wanted to protest but focused your attention instead on not letting the ring slip down your throat. He kissed your chest as his wet fingers glided through your slick folds.

With his left hand occupied and his right arm wrapped around your back, you had a clear opportunity to land another sharp slap across his cheek.

He released an involuntary gasp upon contact, clenching his jaw and sighing through his nose.

“Spit,” He demanded, holding his left hand out for the ring. You let fall out of your mouth along with the pool of saliva that had collected.

He tossed the ring aside and leaned forward until you laid flat against the bed. He forced his fingers into you, curling them deep.

“It’s not enough that I married you, and gave you my child,” He said through labored breathing. “You want me to use you in a room full of people to prove a point.”

“People you would’ve had the luxury of screwing if I were nicer.”

“You know I say that kind of shit to piss you off.”

You released an accented moan as he slammed his fingers harshly into you, cutting your rebuttal short.

His hand found your throat again and applied more pressure. Your eyes widened in shock when your breathing was interrupted and you struggled to push him off.

“What?” He stopped moving. “Too soft? Harder?”

He waited another second and let go.

“Harder,” You gasped.

“Really?” His thrusts became longer and deeper—making your legs tremble as he reached that spot that made your toes curl. “But you’re crying, mama.”

He knew as well as you did that the tears in your eyes had nothing to do with you crying and everything to do with him choking you moments before. But he’d use the tears as a testimony to your pain if it made you appear frail.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked, knowing the answer.

You wanted to tell him to keep going, but it was too much. The last thing you wanted to do was prove him right by affirming your sensitivity. Rather than appear weak, you opted for silence.

“Okay,” He whispered, kissing your lips gently. “I’ll take care of you, darlin, don’t worry.”

He sat up and silently motioned ‘come here’ with both hands—his lids heavy and his pupils blown with lust. You forced yourself to sit up, figuring it best to agree. He wrapped his arms around your torso, expecting you to wrap your legs around his waist.

“Stay,” He whispered. “What’re you gonna do?”

“…Stay.” You shivered when he entered you, relaxing into his hold and completely relinquishing your senses.

“Good girl…see? You can be a sweet girl.”

You couldn’t feel anything outside of him. You couldn’t see, hear, smell, or taste anything…only him.

“You walk around like you have so much to prove,” He said, his voice low in your ear. “I don’t know why.”

You couldn’t respond, you couldn’t form any words as that familiar knot started to form in the pit of your stomach.

“It’s like you’re jealous of a couple of strangers,” He continued, rocking his hips upward to thrust inside of you. “Do you want me to treat you like them? Like I don’t know you—like I don’t love you?”

The world fell away and for a moment you were just a body made up of electricity and burning pleasure. Your eyes rolled and you trembled. He kept going.

“Do you want me fuck you like a stranger?” He muttered, you couldn’t tell if he was talking to you anymore.

“Please,” You whispered, encouraging him. “…fuck me like a stranger.”

His hips stuttered and he came instantly, bursting inside of you like a teenager. You felt the warmth of his release pooling inside of you and seeping between your thighs.

You climbed out of his lap, leaving no time for either of you to come down or catch your breath. You tried to turn away—too woozy to get up—but he grabbed you by the arm and made you face him. You wouldn’t look at him, so he gripped your jaw.

“I love you,” He panted. “I…love you. That’s the difference. That makes all the difference.”

You met his eyes. “That makes everything okay?”

“No,” He admitted. “It doesn’t.”

You couldn’t read his expression—his lids were heavy with post-orgasmic bliss. He was still coming down from his high, not speaking for himself but from his pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” He muttered, nuzzling the crook of your neck.

You hugged him back, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to revel in his apology while he was sorry—because you knew he wouldn’t be for long.

He pulled away from the embrace after a few minutes. “Say it back.”

You smiled, you almost thought he hadn’t noticed. “I love you too.”

He smiled, content.

“You should get back out there,” You said. “Seemed like the night was just getting started.”

“I’m not finished with you just yet,” He said, smirking suggestively. “You’ve awoken something inside of me.”

“Oh no,” You said sarcastically, laughing as his hands shamefully roamed your body. “What have I done?”

“Where’s Lark?”

“With Andrea still.”

“Perfect.”

You squeaked in surprise when he rolled onto his back and pulled you onto his lap.

“Tell me what to do."

You paused. "What do you mean?"

His fingernails grazed your bare thighs as he smiled timidly. "I want you to order me around. Make me do things I wouldn’t usually do.”

You would grow to accept that there would be no final retribution or day of reckoning. No fight, no agreement, no threat, no reconciliation.

Those things didn’t matter when it came to the two of you. At the end of it all—good, bad, ugly and indifferent—you two would remain. It was an undisputed truth…wherever you went, you went together.

You could be opposites, or just alike, it’d make no difference. He could be like the sea. Open, free, abundant in what he could give. Charitable, but indulgent. Hazardous, but certain. You could be like the desert. Brutal, unforthcoming, full of life in some areas but destitute in others. Fertile, but not nurturing. Guarded, but unprotected. You could have been all those things and one simple fact would remain.

Wherever there was Elvis Presley, so too was his baby birdie.

—fin.

[olderthannetfic]

People going on about how they're representing this whole Greek thing are missing that that one anon had a pretty good point about how "cultural appropriation" rhetoric gets misused. People do really need to be more specific about what the issue is, or it very easily turns into basically just arguing for cultural segregation. I've seen that happen numerous times on this website over the years. I've seen people argue that it's appropriative to do something like *learn about* another culture or learn its language. I think it's really important for people to keep an eye on what are the actual issues with cultural appropriation (mostly about exploitation and colonialism) and not just the idea that cultural mixing is bad, or that being interested in a culture that isn't your own is bad. Because the truth is, whether you intend this or not, if you're just arguing that everyone should only keep to the culture of their ethnicity or their place of origin or both, then you're basically in agreement with white supremacists. It's not that cultures mixing is bad; most culture is a result of some mixture. It's when it's done in a way that's exploitative and/or disrespectful: like reducing sacred symbols like indigenous war bonnets to a fashion accessory, or incorporating the art of another culture into your own art without giving credit and without paying anyone from that culture who taught you or added to your work.

FTR, I don't think you can "appropriate" ancient mythologies. I think people are getting twisted around though because there is a genuine history of colonial exploitation of Greek artifacts by colonial powers to fill their museums, as with the Elgin marbles. I do think it's still a good idea to be properly informed about them, regardless, at the very least because those make for the more interesting retellings. For all that people (who IME, largely haven't read it, I'd love to hear if people who have read it disagree though) rag on Song of Achilles, I actually thought it was a pretty good example of a retelling because the author, who has an educational background in mythology, takes great pains to try to recreate the society and cultural norms of Greece at that time rather than sugarcoat it. Achilles may be even more of a jerk than he was in the original Iliad, tbh. It's telling to me that the author's other books that are less "shippy" don't have as negative of a reputation on here in that regard as Song of Achilles, despite being fairly similar, and it makes me wonder how much of that is because it's popular among "fujoshi fandom" so people just assume it MUST be shallow and fandomified, and I was super shocked at how much it really wasn't that at all. As well as I saw that a lot of people expecting something more like that were disappointed by all the period-accurate misogyny and so on.

Which brings me to another point: another reason I'm skeptical of a lot of this discourse is that it seems like often it's more of a high-culture, low-culture thing. A thing that is popular with M/M fanfic writers can't POSSIBLY be doing it right. A thing that is a popular video game or Tony-winning Broadway musical that is popular with the fandoms for those things, can't possibly be accurate. And I get that a lot of that is because a lot of populist things that took from Greek mythology have been inaccurate (Disney's Hercules, for instance) but if you're going to criticize the accuracy of something, I think it is worth engaging with the original work and what it actually does rather than just assuming It's Popular It Must Suck. It feels like a lot of this turns into lording that you were into it before X over others. And being aware that Tumblr Recommendations often do a poor job of actually giving you a good idea of what the work is really like.

As well as, of course, asking yourself - as we should with any sort of historical inaccuracy etc. - if the inaccuracy was deliberate or not. Sometimes people are not really telling that story in order to tell the most accurate version of something but to make a different kind of point, and so the changes might be deliberate. I would argue this is true with something like Hadestown.

That doesn't mean you can't still dislike it for that reason, of course. I know a lot of classical musicians who dislike the movie Amadeus for being so inaccurate about Mozart's and Salieri's lives. I like it despite that because I think the point it is trying to make is stronger for not sticking to the historical fact. I just wish more people did know the historical fact, though.

--

One would think the "Is it bad if I learn to cook Thai food?" thing was a strawman... but I've seen it in the wild far too many times.

[macaroonff]

Taste- Lee Minho

Genre: Undercover detective x gang leader; the roaring 20s Paring: Minho x fem reader Content Warnings: Spice (no smut),mentions of alcohol, inaccurate historical representation, not intended to be factually correct, please forgive any inaccuracies. Word Count: 5.6k Suggested Songs: Taste- Stray Kids Whatever Lola Wants- Ella Fitzgerald Fall in Love With Swing- Trio Manouche Smooth Operator- Sade

Refer to this for context regarding specific terms in bold

No one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat in one of the many dressing rooms the jazz club contained. He hated how his sweaty palms digging into your lower back barely managed to keep both of you steady against the rough wall.

He despised how desperately you held onto the lapels of his tweed suit, as the cold pearls around your neck jingle against his watch with every turn of your head. Every jingle was followed by a gasp, and together they seemed to override the perky jazz coming from the stage. 

He hated how he was stuck here, unable to release himself from his hedonistic urges, to the point where he neglected his work, the reason he entered this shabby club. 

Priv. Detective Lee wasn't supposed to be here today, not in your embrace, not under your enchantment, not under the influence of something he was prohibited from. 

Alcohol.

Despite his deceptive actions and seemingly careless attitude towards alcohol at parties, Lee Minho had a restrained regimen for himself. Especially when he’s working, which is almost everyday.

He only lets himself go when necessary in social gatherings, in  those crowded salons where everyone had their eye on him, forced to follow skewed norms to strengthen his reputation as an owner of a winery acreage in France. A false identity pasted on him to get any sort of tip-off in this industry.

The industry where smuggling had become as common as a family buying a car.

Last Sunday, when he happened to be at another one of these parties, he was invited by his neighbour Mr Brown to a different wine tasting session at a strange, albeit new jazz club, rumoured to sell cheap booze. Of course he’d go.

Not just because of the "good" alcohol, but because of the fact that any place selling cheaper goods meant that it was smuggled. Not necessarily, and not always; but in this day and age he was sure it could be nothing else.

So he enters this somewhat run down club behind the busy streets of downtown Chicago, surprisingly packed with locals, a pungent smell of alcohol immediately welcoming him. A smell he thought he was used to, but clearly not enough to refrain from wincing, his eyebrows furrowed at the chaos and the crowd; at the suffocation he felt walking in.

At the centre of this chaos stood, in all her glory, the lead singer, her sweet voice accentuated by the saxophone, the quartet following it. She stood below the dim yellow chandelier hung above her as a spotlight, in her white satin, semi beaded dress which fell just below her knees, rather provocative.

He doesn't look away until Brown reminds him of the wine testing and ushers him towards a VIP parlour.

He makes his way through the crowd, pushing against bodies dancing the Charleston, a recently popular dance that Minho found amusing. All of this while he probes the ins and outs of the club, looking for all entry ways through which big cartons could arrive, as well as places for them to be stored.

All he found was a door that appeared to lead into the dressing rooms. That didn't deter his ambitions though, because he knew that behind this lively exterior, there had to be secrets involved . He would do whatever he had to in order to uncover the operation.

If he had any flaws, it would be this, that he was too stubborn to give up on what his intuition said. He was hard headed, but in no way was he stupid. He'd be devious if it was necessary, he'd lie if he had to. He'd also seduce if it was extreme.

It wasn't his first time trying seduction. He'd done it before, at least six attempts, and maybe five successful ones. The last one was into girls, and he hoped, fairly desperate that this one wasn't.

After a while, he uses needing a trip to the toilet as a somewhat acceptable reason for leaving the now boring session. The drunk men weren't their most reasonable, and paid no heed to the poor excuse. Apparently being a connoisseur meant taking proper breaks. He shrugs it off with a smile, promising to come back in some time.

Lies.

He was long gone to meet his mysterious flapper who he surveyed every corner for.

Under the new frosted light bulbs bought for the bar, you find yourself in the company of many men and women alike, all desperately trying to sink their teeth into your precious minutes. All of whom you appreciated but wanted nothing to do with. Most of them were here to sign record deals from new radio channels wanting to capitalise on the upcoming modern woman movement. All of which you supported but didn't see yourself working as.

Not because you liked working as the main singer for a rundown jazz club. But because your actual work meant that you were never supposed to find fame. Fame meant prying eyes, and nosey neighbours; something you'd have none of in this lifetime.

Why risk it for fame, when you had important business to take care of here?

You had to make sure that not a single thing was out of line and that not a single person would ever find out about the second business run here.

So far, you've done a good job at pretending to be the club's owner's sister. And although it was true, the story behind renovating your grandma's old house into a jazz club wasn't. There was no grandma's old house, there was no renovation, no grandma either. This was always a place for trade.

Your kind of trade. Where you’d find the good dupes and sell it at a higher price, and the actual bottles would be shipped out for a lump sum.

The excess or the bad bottles would be sold in this club, at a discount. It was pretty simple actually, and it made you money.

Sure it was illegal. But sometimes you needed the money, no questions asked. This was how your family knew to fend. This is how you'd continue to fend for yourself.

The risks you took were calculated, and you weren't afraid.

While your brother looked after the actual shipments, you'd deliver intel, in control of all the information passing through here. Nothing happening in town would ever slip away from your grasp.

So what if it was a jazz club?

Most people from different backgrounds always ended up at "The Charmer". Most people let themselves go. They always end up telling the bartender about their business, the dirty dealings that they've also been up to. The fact that most were more grey than the white that they appeared to be.

It was no different for you.

And if there was any difference, it was that you'd never let yourself slip-up. You weren't stupid. You weren't a naïve little Tomato like most believe. Even if you did find yourself faltering, you'd know how to convince others into changing their mind about you.

The same way you knew you could convince Mr Brown that you were interested in the specificities of wine when he almost caught you switching bottles from the basement. You barely convinced him, saying that true wine from France would have plum and black cherry aromas, which it did have. Lucky for you, Mr Brown had no idea that dupes could have chemical fragrances added to them too, because he'd never had to collect wine right from the port. Defeated, he said he'd ask his "very dear friend" to figure out the truth.

At first, you were shocked that there was another wine connoisseur you didn't know of, but after asking your people to investigate, you realised why Mr Brown was so confident. Why he was after your tail.

You knew he was new to this part of town; an insanely handsome, Big Cheese foreigner who wasn't yet used to life in America.

That his speciality was French Wine, and that if he was rich here, he was even richer back home. That he might even be a scofflaw, since he hung around in as many alcohol parties as he could, including the ones for the middle class. This piques your interest, and in a long while, you haven't been as excited to unearth someone's mask.

Now, all you had to do was wait. Because you hoped, no, you knew he would come to find you tonight, regardless of never having spoken before. Because most people do the first time they visit this club.

Most people come looking for you when you're done singing. Because they're enthralled, curious, or physically attracted to you. Because you're almost too beautiful for them to admire from a distance.

These weren't just based on what you heard, but accounts from your members, beyond tired of regulars ravishing about you. But that wasn't enough . You needed beyond sensuality to tempt and guarantee clients. Sure your circle of customers had grown over the last five years since you took over, but that didn't mean the risk had dissipated.

So while your confidence was with justification, your anxiety insisted on you keeping things tight-lipped. You had to know everything that occurred in this paltry but pertinent place.

Maybe that was why you were grateful when your target approaches you of his own accord. His deep brown eyes intent on yours, his long hands embellished by his expensive Rolex oyster- an wrist watch only few would dream of affording-, an orange tie loosened as though he had drunk the daylights out of himself.

He was perfect. Both handsome and tipsy, there was nothing more you'd want out of a potential threat?

"Stunning performance," you hear a deep voice say, in a slurred accent, you can't tell if it was because he was French, or just drunk.

"Thanks, first time here?" you ask.

He nods, leaning ahead. "Mr Brown told me, you have some really good wine down here, something I might be familiar with."

"Ahh you must be the foreigner Mr Brown keeps raving about... Mr?"

"Just call me Claude," he replies sweetly.

You raise your eyebrow. Was he so private as to not let his last name slip? You call the bartender over.

"A bottle of our finest Cheval Blanc." you look back and smile at him.

Claude smirks. "I'm familiar with this wine you know. It's made from the labour of my vineyards."

You examine his face, looking for any sign of deceit. You'd come across many con artists, most of whom didn't have adequate expertise in alcohol. Nobody knew the real in a world where fake was deliberately greater. But here's someone who claimed to know, here's someone who you were sure was lying, despite no hint of deceit.

Why would a rich French billionaire come down personally to your shabby store, instead of asking someone else to collect it?

Unless he had something to prove.

Soon the glasses are laid out, and half a bottle poured. You wait as he swirls the glass in his hand. Despite the loud jazz, you hear nothing but the sound of ice clinking in his glass, and the aroma of plum piercing through, making it difficult for you to breathe. You realise, that after a long time, you're nervous. You see him smell the alcohol briefly.

The cup reaches his lips, and he closes his pretty eyes. You watch him gulp a miniscule sip down. It is silent as his eyelashes flutter slowly as his mouth twitches in slight distaste. Just as anyone else would frown, but for some reason his seemed deliberate, somewhat dangerous.

Dangerous was what Lee Minho thought you were, with the real thing in the glass in front of him. Somehow, he knew it wasn't a dupe. It had the same percentage of alcohol as he knew it should, and not one flavour felt out of place. But then again, he couldn't be sure; he wasn't actually the person he claimed to be. He wasn't an actual connoisseur. If this was the real thing, then it made no sense for you to sell it at a discount.

"Why is one bottle so cheap?" he asks carefully, leaning against the counter. This time, he looks at you in search of deceit. Instead all he reads is a hint of surprise on your face, along with a little bit of glee, he couldn't be sure.

"You should know after tasting them shouldn't you?" you ask, eyebrows raised, a small smile on your lips, as though you had it all figured out.

Lee Minho falters, suddenly unarmed. What did that mean? Did you admit that it was fake? Or were you trying to gauge his identity?

A wrong answer now, and he'd give himself away.

"Of course I know why, but I'd rather hear from you." he avoids, to which you don't reply.

He needs to draw everything from you. "The discounts are unreasonably low, especially for a Cheval Blanc. It almost hurts my pride," he playfully pouts.

He sees you shaking your head in slight disappointment, an amused smile along with it. "You shouldn't worry about that, you're not losing any money here," you whisper close to his ear.

He tries so hard to ignore the smell of may rose and jasmine that accompanied your Chanel no. 5 parfum, and he tried to ignore how some of the others gaped at him, envious of how close he'd gotten to you.

"How can I be sure?" he questions his breath slightly arrhythmic.

How would you know rather, whether a rich business man would have lost his money? Really nobody would know unless they went through the ledgers. Something you were sure didn't exist in his company, or else he'd know just how much he'd lost.

Everything he said pointed to him being a careless business owner, something you thought would never be possible for a man so rich. You scan through his appearance again, his suit looked genuine, the tweed proper. You even gently caress the back of his broad lapels to confirm. He was rich, but was he anything close to the person he says he is?

Out of all the people you met in this small place, there was one thing you knew too well. If something or someone is too good to be true, it probably was. He was no vineyard owner from France, foreigner maybe, but not someone who knows business.

Something about the way he tried so desperately to gauge your business instead of you meant that he wasn't here to play, nor was he here to strike a deal. Most businesses that advertise try to get their way into you, instead of the business. They usually came knowing you were a snake charmer, someone who could sell all the bad ones for better prices. Selling rejected alcohol ended up being a way for them to reduce their losses.

The man in front of you, "Claude", could be one of two things. An embalmer like you, jealous of the profit you're making; or someone here to investigate your business. A situation you were familiar with.

Multiple cops had come to investigate before, all of whom were easy to shut up. However the person in front of you didn't feel like a cop, he didn't try to exert power, nor did he try to undermine yours. A man so hard to read, you weren't sure how to make head or tail of who he really was.

"Hmm, only if you tell me why you don't think it should be sold for less" you offer, laying out your cards in front of him. His response would determine if he was a tremendous master of deception.

"It is indeed the real thing; however the aroma feels diluted, although the drink's concentration seems correct. It is from a batch of wine of secondary quality made from bad grapes. However the year it was made in, suffered from excessive rain, and the waterlogged condition meant that production had reduced that year. It would make sense for you to sell it for a higher price due to excess demand."

You smirk, as he answers correctly. Somehow, he knew his stuff. The details however did feel as if he had thoroughly prepared for an interrogation.

"Unfortunately the people who buy here don't care about a particular year, they care just for the alcohol. It matters to only a few, such as Mr Brown and your friends who care enough to investigate, Claude."

"We're just curious, since we're linked to the same industry. I hope you don't take it the wrong way miss...?" he enquires, his eyes never leaving your lips.

"My name is a secret for those the first three times, if you return after our third meeting, I'll tell you. For now, goodbye; I have other patrons to meet."

With that you leave hastily, already unnerved at the fact that he somehow picked at your disguise. Annoyed yet excited.

After a long time, you find something vaguely resembling a challenge, and the following meetings would ensure that you get every second worth of thrill from him. You'd make sure that Claude, or whatever his handsome name was would only tread carefully from now.

Lee Minho should've known better, that a woman so beautiful was so secretive. That a woman so desired in this mysterious club would obviously play hard to get. Did it help that she was also the owner of this place? No it did not.

But what did help was that a set of the smoothest pearls had fallen into his lap, and either on purpose or by accident, you had left him your necklace. Lee Minho couldn't decipher your intent, but at the very least, he found himself an excuse. It was as though petty fate that stopped him before was helping him proceed in this mission.

He searches for you in the crowd with continuous effort, but you seem to have disappeared a long time ago, as though your conversation with him was just another of his delusions. Lee Minho also realises that he's a little tipsy. He's starting to sweat under the warm suit in the crowded room, and he feels his heart rate pick up rapidly. Unlike how he had become tolerant of the alcohol here in Chicago, he wasn't used to this club as an entity, he especially wasn't used to you. For a trained detective like Minho, two minutes was all it took for him to decipher what a person desires, what their intentions are, but you were so hard to read. He had never felt so incompetent, so out of it before. He looks back at the bartender, who had offered him another free drink.

"What do they call her, that flapper?"

"She isn't just any flapper," the man replies with a smirk, "she's the most famous in the city, her stage name is Estelle Vin."

"Is she always that... mysterious? I can't help be drawn to her," Minho confesses foolishly, wanting to gauge the bartender further.

"Well, you're not the only one." the bartender jokes.

"Well then I'll need these," he reveals. the pearls dangling from his hand, "if you know what I mean," he flashes a wink, pretending to be a lovesick fool, unsure if it was pretention on his part.

Lee Minho leaves with a small stumble, feeling the blood rush to his ears, his entire body getting warm. His vision is somewhat blurry, as he pushes his way towards the door he was eyeing before, his hands clutching the pearls close to his chest in his breast-pocket, holding on as though his entire life depended on it, and maybe it did.

He had to duck through the entrance to the dressing rooms, where he found himself standing in a complex maze. There were doors to the right and left of him, and a long corridor leading down. The shabby exterior was deceptive of the space within the club, and he could barely believe that it was just a small, rundown club that lured people in. He walks further down the corridor, when a singer comes out of a door on the left. She looks at him, startled by his intrusion. "Who...?How did you enter? It's authorised personals only."

He quickly apologises, and in convoluted sentences that his brain pushed out, explained that he had something to return. "The door was unlocked, and I need to see Ms Vin."

The lights dimmed nearby, signalling that a new performance was about to start. The stranger looks rushed and tries to shoo him away.

"Get out, and stop acting like a stalker. This would ruin your reputation Mr Claude Landry."

Lee Minho's eyebrows furrow in confusion. Why did a singer working here know his surname? He had only disclosed it to Mr Brown and a few other aristocrats. He was sure that most of them were tight-lipped about it, but now he was somewhat alarmed. Of course, as a man of public curiosity, along with him being a foreigner, it may not be as alarming. Maybe a clerk saw him sign as Landry, and he overruled his previous suspicions. Absorbed in his thoughts, he slowly back away from this new area shrouded in mystery, until he feels the floor under his feet vibrating, as though something heavy was moving below.

"There's no way what I'm feeling is an earthquake now ma'am?" he questions, his suspicions aroused for perhaps the hundredth time in the night.

"I think you've had too much of hooch Mr Landry," the stranger replies.

Sure, he was somewhat intoxicated but there's no way he'd be this gone. He also made sure that the bartender didn't have any chance to spike his drink, which makes him feel fluky. The feeling increases, and he swears he can hear glass shatter below him, although faint. The Whangdoodle from the stage increases their volume as this happens, and Minho finds his ears ringing.

It was at that moment you spring out of your dressing room, almost alarmed. "Why are they so lou-" you exclaim but stop when you notice Minho.

His eyes look into yours, and for a second he feels relieved to see someone he knows, though barely. At least the situation didn't seem as unfamiliar as it did before.

"It's loud isn't it Ms Vin?" he asks, back to his stoic self, as though examining your anxious demeanour.

You hold back a breath, unsure how to answer the question. A new shipment was supposed to arrive today, and they're usually stored in the basement, which unfortunately happened to be right below where you were standing. You'd ensure that the entrance to this area was secure, but most of the men had gone to help carry the shipment in, which happened to be in excess today, and you must have left it open when you came back with your head muddled with thoughts of Minho. It was scary. The fate that usually favoured you, happened to be sabotaging you today.

"Yeah, the band is louder than usual, I should probably check on them."

You locked your door to stop him from entering, and nod at your colleague. She tries to usher Minho back to the main area, and you also try to leave past him. He grabs your hands instead, and you feel his eyes on the back of your head.

"This must be yours," you see your pearls drop from his hands, clinking against his watch.

You only now notice that your neck was bare, putting your hand against it. Another sound erupts from the basement, and you get frantic. You watch as your colleague runs down to the basement to make them aware of how conspicuously loud they were being. Minho is quick to follow her with his eyes, suspicion written all over his face.

In spontaneity, you pull him into the dressing room you had previously locked. It was a last resort to distract him, stupid as it was.

"I... I can wear the necklace here," you say, pulling him closer to you. "Or maybe you'd like to put it on me?" you try flirtatiously hoping to keep his attention on just you. You sit down on the red chair, and remove the makeup from the counter. Luckily for you, Minho seems to appreciate this opportunity just as much as you, walking closer until his hand rests on your naked shoulders. He carefully held your long bob in a fist, placing the cold pearls as delicately as he could around your neck, taking his sweet time. As he moves in closer, you feel his warm breath fanning your ear, where you're taken aback by his rapid breathing. You could feel his sigh travel down your spine as he bends to snap the necklace in place. It felt like he was holding himself back, deliberate. Careful. Once he's done clasping the necklace, you look at him through the mirror, his eyes focused on you. You see him take your appearance in, and a small gasp leaves his mouth.

"You look beautiful y/n," he says in a deeper voice, taking you by surprise. You weren't taken aback by the compliment itself but by the fact that you had never once given him your real name, and the only thing he could find out was your stage name. Even some of your closest workers were hidden from your real identity.

But you didn't want to confirm this with this stranger, deciding it would be best to feign innocence. You furrow your brows as though it was annoyance. "Who's y/n? Your wife? A lover? A tomato you fell in love with?"

He smirks, "Future wife, maybe. Lover, if we're looking to start from today" he counters, snarky, yet in a weird way seductive. At this point you were beyond alarmed and tried extremely hard to keep yourself grounded to this new predicament.

"What do you mean by we? Besides if you want to address me, then you can call me Estelle."

"Well, are you jealous Estelle? Cause to be honest I'd rather call out your name later instead of y/n. I really hope you aren't y/n."

Who was he and Why did he care so much? Maybe he was mistaken, your name might be popular in France, or wherever he's from. Because there's no way he was referring to you.

You wanted to change the conversation desperately, you absolutely had to. In so many years of hiding behind a façade, it was scary having it disintegrated, crumble in seconds by a mere stranger.

"I'm not jealous, Claude. I don't think you should be here, unless you have more to speculate?"

He says nothing, instead he reaches for his breast-pocket for the umpteenth time, removing his linen handkerchief engraved with C.L and a classic fountain pen with gold borders.

"Time and date, for our next meeting," he asks sweetly, a charming smile painted on his lips.

You take his pen and examine it carefully. "Looks expensive, must be a family heirloom," you ask carelessly.

Minho smiles, as though he had already won this game of deception. Did he actually know your name? No. But he made a somewhat educated guess. Like most of the women of the time, you had tattooed on your back your social security number. As a celebration of autonomy, it had become a popular trend, which you also seemed to have followed. Luckily, for him, he had access to the case of a few bootleggers who were hidden so well that the only thing that could be traced was the social security number on someone's back. The number belonged to y/n l/n. Did it help that the social security number had no pictures? No. But did it help that the numbers on your back were visible to him as he placed the necklace on you? Of course it did. He decided to take a dangerous bet, and observe your reaction.

Beyond your unperturbed expression, he could see a shift in your body language, your fingers clasped onto your necklace tighter for some time, before you recovered, your confident face wavering and your beautiful eyes shifting away from him . All he had to do was catch you in the act.

"You're such a liar Claude." you say out of nowhere. "What are you? A cop? you say also catching him off-guard.

"A cop, those incompetent people with a meagre salary? Of course I'm not, don't be ridiculous darling." he replies slowly.

He watches you smile, a menacing one that pretended to be comforting. "It was a joke, of course you're not a cop, you're big cheese around here," he takes the handkerchief from you, where he sees all you've written on it is "today" with a red lipstick stain on it.

"Today?" he raises an eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah, unless your bank's closed?" you entice.

He smiles and pulls you in swiftly. His unexpectedly rough hand that you would not expect someone rich to have, is on your back, drawing circles as his lips are pushed against yours. You taste the same cheap wine you had offered him towards the back of his tongue, except that it tasted so much better this way. You could taste remnants of the fake plum flavouring, mixed with the scent of your Chanel no 5 parfum taking over all your senses. You feel as his cold fingers trace definitely around your back. "Three" he whispers, "Eight," he continues, moving leftwards, causing goosebumps where he'd left his impression. "One" he continues. You pause for a moment, confused at the numbers he was repeating, until it eventually dawns on you. You push him away worried, your pearls clinking as you move back. "Anything wrong?" he asks innocently. You knew you couldn't directly admit to being a criminal. He wouldn't know just by your social security number, unless he was working with someone important. But he also somehow knew your name.

At this point you knew he wasn't a French Casanova, observing how his supposed "heirloom" had different initials engraved on the pen, L.M., which you were sure didn't belong to a Claude Landry, or that of a real family. It must have been a stolen good bought illegally, or that L.M were his real initials. The only way you could find out was if you played along.

"Nothing, I just needed a breather, your kisses are quite intense," you make a stupid excuse. Despite realising that you weren't yourself around him, you go back to making out with this handsome stranger, his hands going back to where they were until he managed to trace your entire number. He removes his tweed suit, and lifts up your dress until it was hiked far above your thighs, and with every movement the tassels of your dress get tangled up near his zip. You unbutton his cotton shirt, holding the fabric close, revealing his chest which was so much warmer than your hands. A chill blows through the window, and you shiver in between his warm touches. He stops there for a minute, and eyes the bottle of rum on your counter. He lifts you with ease, and places you on the counter, where your social number was reflected in the mirror, as though everything about you had finally been revealed.

"We should make our last toast," he speaks up breathless, sipping out of the bottle, then holding it to your lips. You accept, and gulp down more than you usually do. Something tells you it would be the last time you'd be this delirious, yet so satisfied. It was like with every kiss, he meant to take you down, in more ways than one. His kisses travelled down your body, scattered, frenzied. He kissed as though this was the first and only time he'd be this close to you. Soon you also gave in to the delicate pressure with all your being, overruling your innate intuition, lost in his seduction.

You were so guilty of doing this. Of finding comfort in the way he moaned your name, your real name, in low whispers, something you'd never trust anyone to do. And it didn't matter what secrets he hid when he made you feel this good. Though you were always guilty of lying to others, so was he. In a weird way, for tonight both of you would be equals- equally guilty parties for betraying yourselves.

Similarly, no one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat, enjoying it despite knowing you were a criminal. It was as though he couldn't let go, and for a minute he felt like none of it mattered, and that you were as innocent as your kisses fluttering over his collarbones. For tonight, he'd become the sinner, not you.

The same Lee Minho who hated being drunk during work hours, was beyond pleased, convincing himself that it was just for tonight. For just this night, he'd given into this hedonistic urge, of wanting nothing but a taste of your body, of your attention and your entire world which he would eventually have to destroy tomorrow. But tomorrow was so many kisses, so many secrets and so many bottles of alcohol later. So he continued deluding himself with your moans and soft lips, until he could no longer despise himself for his new intoxication: you.

Hi there, a small repost. I thought this read better as a single post instead of a two part, hence why some transitions may be bad.

I hope you enjoyed

<3 macaroon

[dresshistorynerd]

kinda random question but how do you go about researching? I’ve wanted to get deeper into fashion history than just watching youtube videos, but I don’t really know where to start.

ps. thanks for making such detailed posts. they’re really interesting to read.

Thank you! I'm really glad you've found my posts interesting!

This is great since I've kinda answered this in replies couple of times, but not properly. I very much understand the struggle. Dress history is a relatively new academic field and there's not that much reliable sources available and so so much unreliable sources everywhere. Internet of course has this problem but so does a lot of books too.

I thought this would be a short one and yet, here we are again.

Disclaimer: I'm writing this from a western fashion history perspective, since that's what I know best, but especially reading up on academic research and doing primary source research applies to non-western cultures too, though often it's harder to find sources for non-western fashion.

Getting started

Imo the best place to getting started is to read a book that gives a general timeline of fashion through history. I'm not sure if that's just how my brain works, but it helped me a lot of when going deeper into one period or another to understand the broader context and what roughly came before and what after. However these books are inherently difficult to make well, because there's so much nuance and variation in every period of dress history and if you're writing about the whole timeline through thousands of years and keeping it book length, there will need to be a lot of simplification to the point of inaccuracy. There's many popular fashion history timeline books with illustrations made for the book, but I would avoid those since non-contemporary illustrations often give a distorted image of the fashion, especially when it's about earlier periods in history. I've seen some really inaccurate illustrations depicting Middle Ages and Renaissance especially.

Costume and fashion: a concise history by James Laver - I'd recommend this as the starting point. James Laver was a art historian, an important pioneer of fashion history and curator of Victoria and Albert Museum, which has one of the most extensive costume collections now. The book is therefore based on serious academic study, but being a pioneer means you'll be outdated, when the field is more established, which is partly the case with this book. There's some outdated parts, but the images are primary sources and it does give good historical background. It should be taken as a starting point, not as the end point.

A History of Fashion by J. Anderson Black and Madge Garland - This is another similar book. It's more recent, but it also suffers from some outdated parts. The writers are not academics, but it has more primary source pictures which does help (at least me) understand visually what's being said.

Books

In a given subject I'm researching I usually start with seeing if I can find a reliable book on it or related to it, if I haven't already read much on it. Often what I want to research goes deeper into details than what a book usually does, so it will work as a starting point. As said it can be hard to find these books that are actually reliable, but here's couple of reading lists to help with it.

Here's a reading list by a retired professor of dress history from Helsinki University. It's very extensive and has a wide variety of books and papers listed. There's a bit of leaning towards Finnish sources, but most are in English and about more international western fashion.

Here's a reading list by @clove-pinks, who is excellent and writes a lot about the Romantic period, especially men's fashion here on Tumblr. These are all books that can be read free on Internet Archive, which makes the list even better.

Internet sources

There's a lot of bad sources floating around in the internet, but also some excellent gems. As dress history is such a new field, there's a lot of unexplored spots and lacking research still, but some troopers in the internet have done some great legwork in going through primary sources and gathering them together. These can be excellent especially when trying to research a specific garment, since often these blog posts are by historical costumers, who are detailing their background research in reconstructing a specific garment. It's not always easy to find them, since they might not come up in the first page of the google search, but I often find them through pinterest, where the blogs are linked into the primary source images and images of the reconstructed garments. Though be sure to look with blogs like that with critical eye. The best sign that it's reliable is when each image is given a source.

There's some more general sources too that need to be taken with a grain of salt.

Fashion History Timeline - This is a page with entries to the whole timeline of fashion as well as entries of specific garments. It's very well sourced and has usually pretty good image sources too. I will say though that it often gives a pretty limited description of the period focusing on some specifics, without giving a good overall picture, especially in the Medieval sections. The medieval sections are honestly pretty useless. It's at it's best in 19th century imo (I haven't checked out the entries to 20th century since I rarely research vintage styles, but I'd assume they are pretty good too). But since it has great sourcing it is usually informative. It just shouldn't be relied upon to give full picture of a period.

Wikipedia, History of Western fashion - In some ways this is the opposite of Fashion History Timeline. Wikipedia has articles on each period. The sourcing on these articles is often quite lacking and the information shouldn't be taken at face value. Especially the terms for the garments are often used in these articles in very questionable ways. However what these articles have is pretty good primary source image collections, and what is nice is that in Medieval, Renaissance and Early Modern periods they are often divided into regions, and they often have images of working class clothing, which are for some periods really hard to find. These articles often don't either give a full picture of the period, but in someways the basic picture of the period is easier to grasp from these than from Fashion History Timeline. I use these mostly for the primary source images, and the texts of them should be taken with a bucket of salt.

Academic papers

Going deeper into something will inevitably require reading up on some academic papers. I'm lucky since I get access to a lot of academic publications through my uni, but JSTOR (my beloved) gives free access to 100 papers per month (you'll just have to make an account). Through google scholar you can search for papers on a given subject, or if you don't have access to other publications, you can just use JSTOR's search engine.

Primary sources

If some MVP hasn't already combed through primary sources to gather them on a give subject, you can do that too. It's not necessarily an easy task though. There's thankfully a perfect guide for that.

A Handbook of Costume by Janet Arnold - Janet Arnold was a legendary dress historian, who really defined the modern field. This book details the process of researching dress history and how to analyze primary sources. And it's free on Internet Archives.

I'll give some basics here though.

Extant garment

Most of us who are not academic historians don't have physical access to extant garment, but many museums have nowadays excellent digital archives of their costume collections. Here's a list of the most well known ones. MET and V&A has sometimes great descriptions of the clothing and their history, but not for every item.

MET Costume Institute

Kyoto Costume Institute

LACMA

V&A Costume Collection

Palais Galliera

Extant garments are of course the ideal sources to study, since they are the actual garments and not just representations or descriptions of them. Sometimes the collections even have pictures of the insides of the garments, giving invaluable information about their construction. However, extant garments have limitations for research, since there's a strong survivorship bias. Firstly, they heavily lean on later periods as textiles deteriorate relatively quickly. You won't find extant garments from Middle Ages, at most fragments of them. Secondly, they are mostly clothing of the upper classes. Lower classes used their clothing till they broke down, and even then often salvaged any fabric that could be salvaged for new clothing and other textiles. Upper classes didn't necessarily have to do that, so what survives is usually very expensive formal clothing that people would wear rarely and rather preserve than salvage the fabric from it.

Photography

Since camera was popularized in early Victorian era, you don't get photos before that. Photography is a great source from the times it was available, since yes it's still only representation of the clothing, but there's less artistic interpretation than in paintings and illustrations, though importantly, there still is artistic interpretation. As long as there has been photography, there has been photoediting. They of course used it for creepypasta purposes by editing them holding their own heads and editing ghosts into backgrounds, but also editing their waists smaller. Basically the exact same way photos are still edited. So no, this is not really how small the waist got in Edwardian era, since this is edited.

Another obvious limitation for early photography is that it didn't have colors, so popular colors of a given time period and given styles have to be found through other means. A great thing about photography though was that compared to painting, it was relatively cheap, and therefore a lot of lower class people were able to photograph themselves. We even get people outside in everyday situations not posing.

Photography can be found with search engines like google and pinterest, though they should be always sourced then. You sometimes come across very Victorian looking photos that are actually just modern photos that are well edited. And also it's important to date the photos, which might not be easily with photos just randomly floating in the internet. Libraries and museums sometimes have good digital collections of old photos. For example:

Digital collections of New York Public Library (NYPL) - It has a wide variety of collections including photography, fashion plates and other illustrations. I haven't found a great way to search through the collections, but the best way I've come up with is to search images within the Clothing & Dress topic, put some limiting filters, then click some right looking image and then go to the collection it was from. I bet there's an easier way but I haven't figured it out.

Paintings

A great thing about paintings and statues is that they date basically through whole history of organized civilizations. Paintings are more delicate so even with murals in antiquity, you'll get more surviving status from that time period. But because of the strong artistic interpretation inherent to these art forms, there's some tricky parts to them as sources for historical fashions.

You'll find a lot of paintings by just searching for fashion or paintings of a given period in google and pinterest, but it's sometimes tricky to source them to figure out where and when they were painted. Therefore I often check from Wikipedia a list of artists from a given time and place, and search their paintings from digital archives of museums. It also helps when you choose artists who were specialised in specific type of paintings. What kind of paintings depends on what you're researching and the time period.

Portraits are of course great sources. They depict the actual clothing an actual person wore and if the person was historically important enough you can find out who they were and gain a lot of context for the clothing. However, they are usually all rich people, though not always. Another thing to keep in mind is that sometimes portraits portray the subject in a costume. This became a pretty big trend among nobles in 18th century. They had costume parties and would have their portrait painted with their costume, but also there were trends of costume that were not even worn for parties, but only for having a portrait. Sometimes the painting would be painted like a scene and not like traditional portrait. Van Dyke costume (first picture below) in first half of 18th century paintings is one such example. It referred to mid 17th century fashion that was seen as timeless at the time. Peasant costume (second picture below) is another example of a popular costume for nobles to wear in portraits. Costume balls continued to 19th century, but after the popularization of camera they were mainly photographed. People would continue to dress up in costumes for portraits, but it wasn't as big of a trend as in 18th century.

Genre paintings were a genre of paintings that became popular first in 16th century Low Countries and then In Netherlands/Belgium area during the Dutch Golden Age (from late 16th century and thorough Baroque) and during Baroque's popularity all over Europe. Genre paintings depict normal everyday life of peasants, working class people and the bourgeois. During Baroque they often had elements of idealization, symbolism and even sexualization of the subjects, so they should be taken with a grain of salt, but they do usually depict accurately the clothes the people wore. Rococo era had a lot of these types of everyday scenes about the upper class. During the Romantic era peasants were heavily romanticized in genre paintings, but there was also a lot of genre paintings of bourgeois thorough 19th century that was wasn't as strongly romanticized. These scenes were sometimes also depicted in portrait form. Realism brought another interest into the genre and Realistic genre paintings often focused on the working class. They did the opposite of romanticism though and often exaggerated their subjects to look more wretched.

History paintings depict events and scenes that were for the time historical too. They became very popular in 19th century, when Historism was the dominant in arts, but they have existed long before. There's even some from late Medieval period, and in those earlier history paintings, the historical figures are usually depicted in contemporary clothing and there's no attempt at recreating historical styles. In later periods, especially during 19th century Historism they very much tried to recreate historical styles. This is why it's important to always source paintings. I've too often seen Victorian paintings used as images for Medieval fashions.

Religious paintings have sometimes a bit of the same issue. They were very popular during Medieval and Renaissance eras, and usually the biblical figures would be depicted in contemporary fashions, though not always, sometimes in vaguely "biblical garbs". Religious paintings also have the issue of often being highly symbolic, so sometimes the characters in them are not dressed for the situation, or a character that in the biblical canon very poor is depicted in upper class contemporary fashions.

Illuminated manuscripts

Medieval manuscripts with illustrations are invaluable sources for Medieval fashions. They are usually commissioned by royalty and detail historical narratives, so they mostly depict royalty and nobility, but some illustrated scenes depict commoners too. You often find images of the illustrations floating around in pinterest but they can be hard to source when the source is not linked (which is quite often). The illustrations can be spotted by the quite consistent style (though sometimes they are not from illuminated manuscripts but some other rarer illustrations like playing cards).

A lot of illuminated manuscripts have been digitized and British and French libraries have quite extensive online collections of them which are linked below. The manuscrips in those are mostly English and French of course but there's manuscrips from other places in Europe too, I've seen quite a lot of the German speaking area especially.

The Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF) The British Library

Fashion plates

Fashion plates became a thing in 1780s, so they are not useful for periods before that. They are basically illustrations that show the latest trends and they were published in fashion magazines. They don't reflect the way everyone dressed, since as they did show the latest high fashion and the people who would be wearing that were mostly young rich fashionable people. However, fashion at the time had a little different meaning than today as it was linked to dress code, and to be respectable you needed to follow fashion. So everyone, even working class people, would follow the new trends to an extent. This is especially true when we get to Victorian era, when mass industrial mass production and the emerging middle class made clothing cheaper and more available to more people. They wouldn't maybe follow every new trend or with every detail and with as much extravaganza or with the most expensive fashionable materials.

While the fashion plates didn't necessarily depict specific existing clothing, they were based on existing clothing and they were often used as guides for dressmakers. Kinda like you might go to a hairdresser with a picture of a famous person's hair or hairdressers sometimes use pictures of famous person's hair to show what they might do. And the people who might not afford something as extravagant as shown in a fashion plate, might still show it as a guide and get a simpler version of it made for them. People of the middle and lower classes especially would also use them as guides to sew themselves fashionable clothing.

Fashion plates are quite easily found on the internet, but as with other things, if you don't go straight to some organized archive, it might be really hard to date them accurately. Many bigger museums and libraries have fashion plates in their online archives, for example NYPL which I mentioned earlier.

MET Fashion Plate Collection - This is a pretty extensive collection.

Regional costume illustrations

When genre paintings became popular, artists didn't necessarily have the change to go and see what peasants wore in the places they were setting their genre paintings in, but because the whole point of them was to depict authentic real life, there was a need for illustrations of regional dress around Europe. And some artists would travel and create costume collections for resource to other artists. These are really invaluable to us today, though they should always be taken with a grain of salt, because sometimes the artists who created these drew dresses for places they never had even been in. For example some of these collections include non-European dress and they should all be probably disregarded as fantasy costumes basically. You can usually assume that the closer the region which dress they depict is to their own place of origin, the more accurate and based on reality it is. It's also good to try and google the artist and see if you can find information of where they actually traveled, because sometimes we know that pretty well.

These collections can also be found in the digitized archives of big museums and libraries, again there's some in NYPL collections.

British Museum's collections by Hippolyte Lacomte from 19th century

A collection from late 16th century on BnF archives

Honorable mentions

There's many other primary sources in different periods that can be helpful, but the ones I've mentioned are the major ones and easiest to access, when you're not doing academic research with institutional resources. I thought I might mention couple of other sources that have become handy to me as examples.

Magazine and news paper ads became wide spread in the Victorian era and from that onward is a great source. They advertise specifically ready-made clothing, so clothing that was much more available to a regular person and therefore can be really helpful to understand what a regular person might wear. I don't know a great source for them though. Many libraries have digitized old papers and magazines so going through fashion magazines is perhaps the best bet, but it's definitely a lot of combing though. Some people have though gathered ads in blogs.

Satiric comics can be surprisingly helpful for researching sort of alternative styles and seeing what trends garnered backlash. For example I've long been obsessed with Aestheticism and the other counter-cultural movements related to it, and there's quite a lot of women's Aesthetic extant garments, photos and paintings available, but very little of men's Aesthetic fashion. But then I found that Punch Magazine (conservative satire magazine) loved mocking the Aesthetes and therefore drew a lot of comics with men in Aesthetic fashion. Caution should be taken though since satiric illustrations do often exaggerate for comedic effect. For example the idea that 1770s ladies made ships out of their massive hair comes from a satiric illustration mocking the large and elaborate hair of the time.

Runaway ads of slaves and indentured servants are bleak, but can be helpful source for the clothing of poor people during 18th century. This is specific to US, but because of the colonialism poor people there would often wear at least similar clothing as those in Europe, especially Britain and France, which had the most colonial presence in that region. The clothes were described in great detail in these ads for identification purposes. These runaway ads can be also found in news papers of the era, many of which are digitized in archives of bigger US libraries, but it's definitely even more combing through. Though again some people have done some of that work already and documented it in blogs.

[momo-t-daye]

Momo's Snapedom AU Ask Game!

I do love how the Snapedom has folks who write extensive meta with citations and how the Snapedom has oodles of people making a delightful diversity of AUs that gnaw on the bones of the canon narrative skeleton to cook up a more satisfying story-soup! So I thought it might be fun to put together a few questions for an ask game (after all, the fun part of fandom is interacting with other fans):

Do you have a name and/or a tag and/or a master post for your AU (so I can peruse your blog and admire your creativity)?

What is the premise of your AU (one sentence summary, tropes, your big “What-if” question, etc.!)?

Can you describe your AU badly?  (Because I do love hilariously misleading but not actually inaccurate descriptions of stories)

What your favorite thing about your AU? (Does it make you cackle with glee or do you break your own heart?)

What are the major divergence points in your AU?

Is there any part of the canon narrative you really like to build off of or interrogate with your AU?

Are there themes or motifs or specific concepts in your AU that you hope people will notice?  (Do you want to give hints about your masterful foreshadowing or chat about your extensive world building?  Should we all grab a floriography dictionary when flowers are mentioned?)

What are some key life moments in your AU!Snape’s life that differ from canon!Snape’s life?

How and why does your AU!Snape differ from the canon!Snape?

Would your AU!Snape want to trade places with canon!Snape (and vice versa!)? Why?

Do you know if Severus going to escape the gravitational pull of the canon narrative/fate in your AU?

Do you think any other characters are going to escape the gravitational pull of their canon narrative/fate in your AU?  If so, can any of that extra AU!velocity be attributed to Severus’ actions?

What era does your AU primarily take place in (is it focused on part of the canon timeline? Is the canon timeline adjusted a few years one way or another? Or are you playing with a futuristic sci-fi AU or a historical AU or something else entirely?  Maybe you have a 1998!Snape dealing with life in 1942 or some other combination?)

What is his childhood and/or family life like in your AU?  Is it better than his canon life starting out in Cokeworth?

Does Lily exist in your AU?  Are Severus and Lily friends in your AU?

Do any of the Marauders exist in your AU?  What role do they play in your AU Severus’ life?

Do the Malfoys exist in your AU?  How do they interact with your version of Severus?

Does Voldemort exist in your AU?  Does Severus join his cause at any point in your AU?

Does Dumbledore exist in your AU?  What role does he play in Severus’ life in your AU?

Does Harry Potter exist in your AU?  How does he interact with Severus in your AU?

Is there another canon character that plays a major role in your AU!Snape’s life?  What role do they play and how does it differ from their canon relationship with Snape?

Is an Original Character a major feature and player in your AU?  Who are they? What role do they play AU!Severus’ life?  How do they interact with any other canon characters in your story?

Does Severus have a significant other (or others) in your AU?

Does Severus have children in your AU?

Is Severus Snape the Hogwarts Potions Master in your AU?  If not, what is he doing instead?

Does Severus have any major interests (mycology, astronomy, sci-fi, baking elaborate puff pastries, art forgery, etc.) in your AU that we never got to see canon!Snape indulge in?  Do these interests play a major narrative role?

Do you have a snippet of prose (or an art piece or a list of headcanons) from your AU that you particularly enjoy and want to share?

Free space!  Any other questions folks want to ask?

[iamsosmaug]

Miraculous Fic Recs

Recently I've been complaining a lot on the internet how sucky the recent seasons of ML have been, and how much better the old fanfics are; I'm going to prove my point by sharing my tried-and-true rec list. Here we go.

Back To Us - Written in 2017, so some things are inaccurate. Basically Marinette, as Ladybug, kills Gabriel Agreste on accident by pushing him off the Eiffel Tower and Adrien moves to Milan. Seven years later Marinette is a rising fashion designer, her long-lost partner comes back seven years later but hot, and a new Hawkmoth shows up on the very day Adrien comes back. Suspicious. INCLUDES: Antihero!Chat. Alternate superhero names for Alya, Nino + there are only seven miraculouses which honestly I like a lot better than Ladybug just busting another one out whenever she feels like it. At one point, it was the longest fic in the fandom but now it's not even close. 446k. Requires an Ao3 account to read.

Second Chances- Again, written fairly early in the fandom. Adrien is a single dad and Alya volunteers Marinette to be his daughter's nanny - the premise sounds like it could turn out really weird but I promise it's not. Adorable adorable. INCLUDES: Past ChloexAdrien and MarinettexNathanael, and Adrien never went to school. Reverse best friends (Alya + Adrien, Mari + Nino). 105k.

Whose Woods These Are (I Think I Know) - Ladrien Cinderella AU. Super well-written in a kind of fairytale style. I honestly love this fic. 105k.

Spotty Connections - Adrienette texting fic (no miraculous AU, but does incorporate LadyNoir). Tikki & Plagg are M&A's cats. One of my favorites ever. 66k.

Film It - Adrien is a youtuber! Soon all of Twitter ships #adrienette. INCLUDES: Gabriel Agreste's A+ Parenting. Endgame Adrienette. Superheroes exist, but LB & CN aren't a huge part of this. Also worthy of note: #thatfoursome and a decent amount of Twitter formatting. This has pretty much everything I want in an Adrienette fic. 56k.

Chasing The C/h/atwalk - Project Runway AU. Marinette is a designer and Adrien... is her model. Shenanigans ensue. INCLUDES: Some LadyNoir, mostly after the identity reveal. #MarinetteInDenial. 100k. I love this fic.

Lucky Us - No Miraculous email AU. See Spotty Connections: LadyNoir incorporated without the actual superheroes. Fluff with a tiny bit of angst but still happy ending. 136k.

Secret Santa - fluff. Pure fluff; classic in the fandom. A bit cheesy and very outdated but very nice. Time for a reread. It has a sequel called New Year's Ball. 52k.

Être Majeur - horror, AU, fairly short, creepy and strange but really well-written. 24k. M for horror elements.

La Pucelle Et La Coccinelle - Absolute favorite. Explores Joan of Arc (Jeanne d'Arc in this story) with the Ladybug Miraculous. INCLUDES: Actual historical references, lore for the miraculouses, and a flashforward to the future at the end with Marinette. 38k. I have it printed out, I love it so much.

Pray For the Children You Lost Along the Way - Silent Hill AU (Emilie Anderson from the arcade game is Adrien's mom). It has been on hiatus since 2019, but is still worth a read because so many things tie together in a satisfying way. 86k. Rated M b/c of Silent Hill-type things.

Under Lock and Key - Huge classic also published on Wattpad. Author/artist collab with Maerynn & EdenDaphne - Maerynn passed away while the fic was being written and ED finished it. Very nice art by ED. I view this fic as the quintessential 2017 era Adrienette fic. Very sweet and fluffy. 34k.

Tripped at Fencing - Gabriel hits Adrien. INCLUDES: Gabriel Agreste's A+ Parenting. Accidental identity reveal (Marinette finds out first). Only 5k but a classic.

The Butterfly and Her Brother series (Generations Past and Future) - written c. 2016. Gabriel is NOT Hawkmoth; Gabriel is not a villian in the least so technically OOC. First couple are set in the 1990s, then a couple in ~2016 and the latest in like 2044. I haven't read the last one in the series but WHATHGAWAATG (Europe gets taken over), featuring the next gen of Agrestes, is really good as well. Many things are outdated/false as this was written based off of s1, but I honestly like this interpretation of the Miraculous much better than how the show does it. Mama Agreste's name is Adele (again, s1) and I quite like her character. I freaking LOVE this series. I have it downloaded to my phone and I reread it when I'm feeling sad. 340k in total, but the longest work in the series is about 166k. SO many kudos.

a fight that you were born to lose - "Adrien finds out that Gabriel is Hawkmoth, and Gabriel gets to bring his long-waited plan into action." TW abuse, emotional manipulation, forced dieting. Gabriel Agreste's A+ Parenting. Fairly short for how well-rounded it is - 17k.

An Impromptu Proposal - what it says on the tin. Reverse love square kinda: Ladynoir requited love bc Adrien never went to school. Includes identity reveal and Hawkmoth!Lila takedown. 33k.

On The Prowl - Criminal CN. Also on ffn.net. Good story and TOTALLY a classic, but also uses 'ravenette' and 'sapphire orbs' unironically. The writing is okay if a little melodramatic. 53k.

Chat Noir's White French Man Hit List For Feminist Purposes - pretty much what it says on the tin. Sentimonster!Adrien. 7.8k.

i think it's time i told you (i'm a fan of your universe) - ladynoir proposal. v v nice. Just 5k. Smidge of angst.

The Ladyblog Comment Section - what it says on the tin. 27k. Hilarity and crack.

spark - Tinder AU. Lots of Marichat. Angst with a happy ending. 49k. Slow burn w/ eventual identity reveal.

all dressed up and nowhere to go - No Miraculouses modern royalty AU - human Tikki and Plagg. Mostly DJWifi but a mild amount of adrienette and a smidge of chlogami. Includes arranged marriage Adrien x Alya but they don't end up together. "Twenty-five-year-old Marinette is a wedding dress designer, business blooming in her trusty shop, Ladybug Bridal. When the engagement of Prince Adrien Agreste and Ancient Princess Alya Césaire is announced, all she expects is an influx of work. What she gets instead is... a bit different." 35k.

tangled ribbons - Ao3. ballet/dance AU (no miraculous). Adrienette with some DJWifi and human Tikki & Plagg. "Marinette is a small studio dancer who wins a scholarship to a summer long ballet intensive. Adrien is a famous ballet dancer who would rather be at home than at said intensive. The end of the summer will bring about a showcase that could make Marinette's career, if she can ignore Chloé and focus on something other than Adrien." 82k. The slowest of burns.

Where timing is kind to us - Ao3. marichat discusses quantum physics. 4.3k. This is a beautiful one-shot with a one-sided reveal.

[lennnypooh]

Roundtable Presentation: Painting With All the Colors: Pocahontas

Disney's "Pocahontas," the film's score plays a crucial role in situating the story within its narrative context by utilizing various musical elements that evoke the setting and themes of the film. Alan Menken's score blends orchestral arrangements with Native American-inspired motifs, such as flute melodies and tribal drumming, to create a sense of place and time. For example, the use of Native American chanting and percussion during scenes in the Powhatan village or the incorporation of traditional folk instruments like the Native American flute helps to immerse viewers in the film's historical and cultural context.

Moreover, the songs in "Pocahontas" serve to push cultural authenticity within the film's diegesis by employing character performances that reflect the diversity and traditions of the Native American characters. For instance, "Colors of the Wind," sung by Pocahontas, not only showcases her character's connection to nature but also incorporates elements of Native American musical styles, such as vocal ornamentation and rhythmic patterns inspired by traditional Native American music. Similarly, the song "Just Around the Riverbend" features Pocahontas singing about her desire for adventure while incorporating Native American musical elements to underscore her cultural identity and connection to her surroundings.

Additionally, the film uses musical "framing" techniques to structure the score within familiarized styles, thus enhancing the audience's emotional connection to the story. For example, the recurring motif of the "Colors of the Wind" melody throughout the film serves as a thematic anchor, reinforcing the central message of environmental harmony and cultural understanding. By weaving this motif throughout the score in various musical arrangements, the film creates a cohesive musical narrative that resonates with audiences and reinforces the film's overarching themes. Similarly, the use of leitmotifs for characters like Pocahontas and John Smith helps to establish their identities and emotional arcs within the story, providing a musical framework for their development and interactions. Overall, the film's score effectively utilizes musical framing techniques to enhance the narrative structure and emotional impact of "Pocahontas" however although it has been praised for its stunning animation and memorable music, it has also faced criticism for its inaccurate portrayal of history, particularly regarding the depiction of the character Pocahontas herself.

One of the primary criticisms of the film is its romanticized portrayal of Pocahontas and John Smith's relationship. In reality, Pocahontas and John Smith likely did not have a romantic relationship as depicted in the film. Pocahontas was around 10 or 11 years old when John Smith arrived in Virginia, and their interactions were likely more diplomatic than romantic. By presenting a romanticized version of their relationship, the film perpetuates a misleading and culturally insensitive narrative.

Furthermore, "Pocahontas" has been criticized for perpetuating stereotypes and inaccuracies about Native American culture. The film portrays the Native American characters in a monolithic manner, failing to accurately represent the diversity of Indigenous peoples and their cultures. Additionally, some critics argue that the film appropriates and simplifies Native American spirituality and traditions for the sake of storytelling, without fully understanding or respecting their significance.

Another point of contention is the historical inaccuracies in the film's depiction of the Jamestown settlement and the interactions between the settlers and the Native Americans. The film simplifies complex historical events and glosses over the violence and exploitation that occurred during this period of colonialism.

Overall, while "Pocahontas" is a beloved animated film, it is important to acknowledge and critique its inaccuracies and problematic portrayals of history and culture. By perpetuating romanticized narratives and stereotypes, the film may inadvertently contribute to the misrepresentation and marginalization of Indigenous peoples and their histories.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Dormarth - Day 105

Race: Beast

Alignment: Dark-Neutral

September 6th, 2024

Many mythological dogs fall into a set of strangely similar tropes, even beyond just the idea of them having multiple heads, as observed in the Orthrus analysis. One that I find particularly interesting, though, has to be in their common connections to death. Likely stemming from how dogs were, and still are, seen as intrinsically connected to hunting, many dogs in mythology are connected to death, the spiritual realm, and many such things. We've already seen this with the Inugami analysis earlier this week, but another curious example, and a personal favorite of mine, has to be in the Celtic Wild Hunt's goodest boy, Dormarth.

While the Wild Hunt is a demon itself in SMT, its intrinsic connection to death and the afterlife makes it a very curious topic in connection to Dormarth, also known as Dormarch, a hunting hound that joins in during said hunt. Originating in Wales, Dormarth is a beast that accompanies the riders during the Welsh version of the Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt itself is a common motif throughout many different European mythologies and cultures, with many cultures offering their own spins on the general concept. This, naturally, leads to differing figures throughout the recurring motif, and the Welsh version has its own fair share of unique ideas, with one of them being the collection of souls of warriors to join in on the hunt, and who else does that collection than Dormarth?

The games' recollections of Dormarth are somewhat inaccurate, from what I can tell- for the most part, they paint the dog as being a guardian of the Celtic version of hell, but most actual historical references of Dormarth seem to split that between many other concepts regarding death and the afterlife. In fact, we don't really know much about Dormarth, given that the dog only appears in one passage throughout old Welsh literature, being in The Black Book of Carmarthen. The name Dormarth is also rather controversial, as the original text is somewhat fragmented, missing a letter in the name that could be either Dormarch or Dormarth, both of which carrying wholly different meanings. To quote the only reference we actually have of Dormarth,

My hound is sleek and fair, The best of hounds; Dormach he is, who was with Maelgwn. Dormach rednose – why stare you so? Because I cannot comprehend Your wanderings in the firmament.

A lot of controversy has surrounded Dormarth for years, but that's beside the point. Dormarth, as a name, seems to roughly translate to mean an 'embodiment of death,' giving light to the idea of Dormarth being just that. Combine that with Dormarth's connection to the dead due to being in the Wild Hunt, a hunt made up entirely of spirits, and one can easily draw a connection between it and Cerberus or other such guard dogs of the underworld. On top of this, though, its connection to death may also be it guiding lost souls to the underworld, or even collecting dead warriors to join in on the Wild Hunt. Language is fun like that, no?

Given that its natural habitat is described as being 'among the clouds,' being associated with the Wild Hunt, it's commonly believed that Dormarth accompanies the Wild Hunt, and observations in the Black Book of Carmarthen by one John Gwenogvryn Evans in 1906 seem to also give a physical description of the hound as being a two-legged dog with swirling fish tails behind it. Its overall role is rather unclear, as I've gone over in extensive detail, but Dormarth does seem to play a rather interesting role in the Wild Hunt overall, whether it be a guardian of the gates of Annwn (the Welsh underworld) or a hunting dog that accompanies the Wild Hunt, to even one that collects new hunters for it. With all of that, though, how's it portrayed in SMT?

I love Dormarth's design, but given everything related to the dog, it's really hard to see where a lot of the elements came from. Like, come on, where's the fish tail? Where are the only two front legs? Why is she bipedal, and why is she a girl? As strange as it is for a Dormarth design, though, I do like how it looks. She is incredibly gender, and I like the spike collar- it plays well into the whole themes of death- and helmet, which ties her (though vaguely) to the Wild Hunt. Overall, a pretty good design, though not one I quite understand for the hound of the hunt.