#brams fruit

[yeetearth]

[a-treatise-on-velociraptors]

Modern Dracula comedy where a running bit is that the protagonists keep trying to sus out how Renfield connects to Dracula because he keeps buying flies in bulk and they saw him holding a spider once but it turns out he's just really into reptile/arachnid keeping.

[themenuland1]

Braum’s Menu – A Dairy Delight and Savory Sensation!

Braum’s is a renowned family-owned and operated restaurant and dairy store chain that has been serving customers since 1968. 

[thethirdromana]

More travels with Jonathan Harker, in pictures

Here's the route that Jonathan travels by the public coach today:

I've tried to find copyright-free photos from the actual route, but I've not had much success. So this tour is going to be a lot more vibes-based than reflective of the actual sights out of the stagecoach window. Think of it like Jonathan's Transylvanian Pinterest board.

(Scenery photos are all of Transylvania, assuming I can trust the sites where I found them, but not necessarily the right time of year or the right bit of Transylvania. It's a big place.)

"Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road."

"There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom—apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals."

"In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame."

"Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly."

"As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink."

"By the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves."

"Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys."

And a bonus: Bran Castle is marked as 'Dracula's Castle' despite being even further away from the locations in the book than most of my vibes-based photography choices. It also doesn't resemble Bram Stoker's descriptions of the castle.

But more importantly, it looks really cool. So here it is:

[yanderestarangel]

⋆ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍!𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀 ⋆

A/N: He's back bitches, DADDY MIGUEL O'HARA.

SYNOPSIS: Miguel is a 45-year-old man who works in a local library, also giving tutoring classes in literature to the local village community, you decide to go visit him after being on vacation, awakening a side of himself that Miguel didn't know.

TW: Yandere themes, age gap, afab anatomy, betrayal, dark themes, threats, manipulation, smut, au.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA -He leads a peaceful life, always opening the library at 9 am and closing at 9 pm, sometimes staying overtime to look at the landscape outside the large windows, to try to forget his failed marriage with his wife.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who has the same patterns every day, namely: taking both children to school by car, buying the same fruits to eat throughout the day - a few dates, an apple and a bottle of coffee aluminum portable, hot and sugar-free in the dark green side pouch he carries everything he needs for that day -

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - What you see in a boring life, everything was the same, he worked out, went for walks on the weekends, watched the same period films after 11pm, in the same leather armchair that got hot in the uncomfortable summer heat, drinking the same beer while the black and white images of the Hollywood film passed through the lens of his glasses, while he smelled the cold food made by his wife, who as always, had left the children with him and gone out.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who woke up late that day due to the hangover from the several beers he had on Sunday, rushing to drop his children off at school and avoid an argument with his wife early in the morning. He calmly went to the library, after all, there was no one there at that end of the world. But he was wrong. He soon saw you, sitting on the steps of the cold concrete stairs while waiting for someone to open the library, he had never seen you in the community, so it was a surprise for him to see someone so beautiful and different from the routine faces in the village. Miguel got out of the car, adjusting his round glasses, giving you a polite "good morning", his strong accent mixed with the smell of coffee coming from his lips, he opened the library while looking you up and down, he would casually ask you your name and what you do there. You spoke your reasons politely, while explaining that you were on vacation and decided to visit the tourist attractions of that village, such as the lighthouse and rough sea, as well as the large library, which, in addition to needing some literature classes, you two were taking Miguel O'Hara nods and gives a practically invisible sideways shy smile.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who gets excited like a young man when he sees you interested in literature, Miguel would make a point of giving you some books as a gift, explaining about each one, especially if you like gothic literature, such as: Bram Stocker, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stocker - or horror stories, he automatically falls in love if you, speaking excerpts from his favorite stories while pouring you some coffee, sitting in front of him while the two of you did a literary duo circle, the voices echoing through the ancient wood.

"-With a long scrutinizing look at the shadow, which frightens me, which haunts me, And I dream of what no mortal has ever dreamed of, But the vast and silent silence, silent remains; the quiet stillness." -O'Hara reads with a strong, hoarse accent, his voice was raw, reverberating his passion for each verse and word he spoke, holding the book in his thick fingers, now, with the abandonment of the wedding ring he wore, even though he was still married, you didn't need to know that detail.

"-Only you, unique and beloved word, Lenora, you, like a scarce sigh, leave my sad mouth; And the echo, which heard you, whispered to you in space; It was just that, nothing more." -You completed, reading your part in the tale of "The Crow" while feeling the older man's gauze on your body, while Salvatore's hands massaged your bare shoulder, lightly adjusting the clothes you wore, a long and possessive touch.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who offers you a ride home, turning on the radio while asking you everything about yourself, if you were dating, if you had traveled with someone, he expected you to be totally alone, totally for him. Miguel drops you off at home while he says a quick goodbye, but he actually just hides the car in the middle of some trees, looking out your windows, writing down your nighttime habits in a diary - he got home later that night, his wife noticed the delay, but he just made up an excuse, mostly lying that he had lost the ring in a library cleaning, which was a lie, he got rid of the ring in the sea, near the local town port -

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who studied everything about you on the days you two were alone in the library, becomes his refuge. Don't get him wrong, O'Hara loves his children, but he hates coming home and seeing that his marriage is a failure, and that the woman he was once so in love with, young days that passed through his life in long ago, Now she's just a strange and cold woman, but you? You are his treasure, always happy, smiling sweetly, asking if he is okay, or if he has eaten that day, if he needs help with something in his work as a librarian, you are so angelic, so beautiful, so his. You're totally his, aren't you?

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who lies to you about his private life, saying that his wife and he are divorced and he just lets her live close to the children, he lies so naturally that even he himself believes in the madness of his mind.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA- Who finds an excuse to leave you up late with him in the library, telling you about some more books, and giving you a letter, letters that were always sealed in luxurious black paper like an envelope, with a red coat of arms with an 'M' for Miguel, big in the center, he always asked you to open it at home, they were poems and poetry written by him, about you, but each time, with each letter given to you, they became darker, more intense, more... Intimate.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Which makes you sit on his muscular legs that night in the peace of the library, while his big, calloused hands lightly run over your thighs, while he praises you. "-Your skin is soft like the finest and purest silk, your lips are full and shiny with life, your smile is like the epitome of beauty, I look at you and see an angel, not even the richest kings who had harems with several women And men, none of them come close to your beauty, mi angelito, did you know that? Your heart is so pure and beautiful, your soul is practically eradicated from your carnal being." -Miguel spoke hoarsely, as he forced you to look at him, his eyes shone, not only with enlightenment but with love, a sick love for you.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA -He fingers you slowly and lightly, giving you kisses on the head, feeling the smell and softness of your hair, his fingers enter and curve slightly, he was an expert in that, he wanted to make you come, to make you see the stars in the sky pleasure he could give you. Miguel praises you even more when he sees you moaning so beautifully, writhing in his lap, while he whispers in your ear how well you do it, being such a good girl/boy for him, giving yourself to him like that, like you It's beautiful when your pussy tightens around his fingers, how perfect you are when you let your sweet saliva run down your lips like that, while he gives you all the pleasure, making you squirm on his arm full of veins and scars from the time he had, dirtying the papers and reports he signed, but he doesn't fight with you, no my sweet girl/boy, you are his, Miguel just applies a chaste kiss to your temple, salty with the sweat of sexual effort and the heat of lust from your body, while he just said everything was going to be okay.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - Who was worried when you didn't show up after a few days, so he left work early, seeing you at a local fair. He tried to talk to you, but you were disappointed in him, you had found out he was married, and you felt dirty for giving yourself to him. Miguel O'Hara froze immediately, but he soon recovered his posture, telling you in a serious and cold air that she didn't mean anything to him and you did, but you didn't want to listen, just saying how rubbish he was as a human being and leaving the room. running, hiding in the crowd, he didn't go after you, just walking away with a neutral and serious air, thinking about the next step he would take, and he knew exactly what it would be. He spent every day at your house, placing flowers, chocolates, teddy bears, gifts and books on your doorstep, even if you threw them in the trash, he bought more and more, even more expensive and extravagant. Miguel didn't leave you alone, going to your house every day, even trying to knock on the window, but you didn't pay attention to him, but he didn't care, he wasn't going to give up, he stopped the car every day after his shift from work to look at you,or look at the lighting in your house, where you were, what you were doing, and who you were with.

YANDERE DILF LIBRARIAN!MIGUEL O'HARA - That on your last day in the village, he left you a letter, in a red envelope, you didn't want to read it, but your curiosity got the better of you, with you finally reading the content of the man's letter.

My dear, (Y/N) This may sound strange, but I like it when you hide like a scared little bunny, running away from me like that, as if I were a predator? so I am offended my dear. Do you know how far I'm willing to go for you? Do you know exactly what things I can do to try? Do you know the dark thoughts I can carry out with your friends or family? If you gave in. We would be even more than perfect together, we were born to be each other's my love. Just as the sun rises day after day, just as the moon appears in the dead of night. Just as the stars shine in the black sky of the dark and cold night, void of voice. Just as birds spend their lungs in a melodious song, unable to be stopped by foolish men. Just like every natural phenomenon and incapable of being stopped, I will make you mine. just mine. You can try to scream, try to escape or even ignore me, like a mirror covered with a fine linen fabric, I'm still there, watching you, attentive to your smallest details, your flaws, your sins, your darkest, hidden fears. inside your mind, the intimate and core of your most secret suffering... I know everything, I know you more than you know yourself. We are destined to be one, drawn by a happy and unhappy destiny, a piece of the gods perhaps, who are we to question love? In fact, I'll ask you one more time, you love me, right? Just try to say you don't love me... Then I will destroy you... I k-

You didn't even finish reading the letter, hearing heavy footsteps coming from the back door, while you saw a tall figure standing in the dark shadow of the hallway, something dripping on the floor while those familiar and maddened brown eyes stared at you, deep in your soul, Miguel O'Hara.

"-And you know, (Y/N)... you shouldn't leave the door open."

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[riboism]

haunted ═╬ act II: the count

♱ content tags: centuries old vampire! seonghwa x fem reader, vampire au, gothic romance, gothic horror, story takes place circa early 1900s, reincarnation, smut, angst, forbidden love, slowburn, lots of yearning, no happy ending, blood, satanism, animal cruelty, nosferatu/bram stroker’s dracula/edward scissorhands vibes

♱ wordcount: 4.2k

↳ series masterlist

The dream wrapped around you like a silken thread, soft yet suffocating. You were standing in the castle, but it was not the same. The walls seemed closer, the shadows deeper, and the air heavy with an unspoken yearning.

A figure emerged from the darkness—him. The Count. He moved with an almost otherworldly grace, his long fingers reaching toward you with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. When he touched you, it was as though your skin had always been waiting for him—familiar yet distant, comforting yet electrifying.

"Y/N…" he whispered, his voice velvet-soft, reverberating in the cavern of your chest. His lips brushed the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of heat and shivers in their wake. "Why do you feel like mine?"

You wanted to answer, to ask him the same question, but no words came. Instead, his touch deepened, his hands tracing the contours of your arms as though committing you to memory. There was a sadness in his gaze as if he knew something you didn’t.

Your hand brushed against his cheek, the coolness of his skin startling yet inviting. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as though your warmth was something he hadn’t felt in an eternity. The weight of his presence, so near, sent a shiver coursing through you.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. “Hold me. I’m so cold.”

The air around you shifted suddenly, and the two of you were no longer indoors. You stood together in the garden, bathed in the silvery glow of the moonlight. Dew clung to the grass beneath your feet, the night alive with a symphony of soft rustles and whispers. Your skin seemed to glow under the ethereal light, every nerve tingling as his gaze lingered on you.

He stood before you, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His dark eyes raked over you, devouring every inch of your form that hid behind the sheer nightgown, but his restraint was palpable. He bit down on his lower lip, his jaw tightening as though battling something within himself.

You stepped forward and embraced him, wishing to bask in his warmth for the rest of the night, but the heat failed to find you. It was strange how badly you desired to feel him. You could almost see yourself outside of your body, shaking your head, begging to run away, but your screams went silent and ignored. It felt as though your body no longer belonged to you, moving of its own accord, driven by an unseen force you couldn’t comprehend. Desire burned inside, and you took his hand, guiding him to your covered breast, the thinly draped fabric leaving nothing to the imagination. A desperate moan left your lips, your nipples hardening at his cold touch. The Count parted his lips, looking as if he was shaken with defeat. His fingers gripped your soft flesh, kneading them in his hand firmly, your soft and breathless moans stirring something within him.  

You eased the strap of your white nightdress down your shoulder, the fabric slipping to reveal the soft curve of your breast. The pale moonlight illuminated your skin, highlighting the delicate lines of your collarbones. His gaze lingered, dark and intense, drawn irresistibly to the expanse of bare flesh before him. “Touch me,” you begged in a breathless whisper. You reached down and palmed his clothed cock, his size slowly increasing in your grasp. “Make me yours.” 

The Count shuddered under your touch. You were so tempting, like a forbidden fruit dangling just out of reach. The way you stood there, so willing and determined, broke down his strength bit by bit. He fought against the pull, but the faint tremble in your voice only deepened his desire. 

You sank to your knees, the damp grass cool against your skin. A hunger stirred deep within you, unrelenting and all-consuming. It defied explanation, an ache that demanded no reason, only release. You didn’t question it—you couldn’t. It claimed you completely, guiding your every movement, every thought, until all that remained was a singular, desperate longing for him. 

You peered up at him, your eyes smoldering with desperation. His breathing grew unsteady, a faint tremor betraying his composure as he watched your face linger so close to his pulsating cock. You rested your cheek against his growing bulge, your unrelenting gaze holding his. “I need you,” you said into his thick trousers, your tongue darting out of your mouth and licking a long stripe over his buttoned fly. “It’s been too long…make me yours again.”

His knees buckled, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through, as though he might collapse under the weight of his restraint. His hand reached out to pet the top of your head, watching intently as you lapped over the fabric that restricted him from you. You spoke with an enchanting allure, each word weaving a spell around him. It left him powerless, yearning to give in, to surrender himself entirely to the bliss you promised. Then suddenly, he blinked, as if snapping himself out of a trance. 

“You foolish girl!” he said at last, his voice raw with anger. He pulled himself away from you sharply, his hands dropping to his side as though your skin had burned him. “You know not what you ask of me!”

You fell forward, your hands grasping onto the wet grass and dirt. You reached for him, your fingertips grazing his legs, but he stepped back into the shadows, his presence retreating like a phantom. The distance between you grew into an abyss, and the longing you felt swelled into an ache that pulled you from the dream.

⸺

You woke with a jolt, your breath catching in your throat as the remnants of the dream clung to you like a shadow. Sweat slicked your forehead, and your pulse hammered in your ears. The strange ache of his touch still lingered in your chest, a sensation that you couldn’t shake.

You sat up quickly, your eyes darting around your small, humble quarters. The quiet stillness of the room greeted you, a stark contrast to the vivid intensity of the dream. The sun streamed through the window, casting soft light across the faded linens of your bed. You blinked, realizing with a start that you’d slept too long.

With a quick shake of your head, you wiped the sweat from your brow with the hem of your nightdress, the fabric cool against your skin. The warmth of the day was beginning to fill the room, and you could hear the faint chirping of birds outside the castle walls.

You hurried to your feet, pushing the unsettling remnants of the dream aside as you tried to ground yourself in the present. You had work to do. There was no time to dwell on the strange, unnerving sensations still swirling inside you. Shaking off the weight of the dream, you composed yourself, smoothing down your nightdress and bracing yourself for the tasks ahead.

You made your way to the kitchen, your eyes scanning the space for any signs of breakfast, but there, on the counter, you noticed the note. It was simple, but the neat handwriting caught your attention immediately.

Y/N,

Please deliver these paintings to Mr. Kang down at the bank. And please collect my mail from the post office.

~ P. SH

Paintings? You blinked, trying to make sense of it. The Count, an artist? The idea was strange to you, as you had never once seen a single paintbrush laying around in the mess of his home. In the corner of your eye, you spotted them—two wrapped canvases in the corner, waiting to be delivered.

You walked up to them slowly, almost hesitant. Your fingers brushed against the rough brown paper that wrapped the paintings, a strange sense of curiosity tugging at you. What kind of art did he make? His workspace was off-limits, so you had no way of knowing.

After finishing your quick breakfast, you set off into town. The weight of the paintings strapped to your back was a constant reminder of your responsibility. The cold morning air nipped at your skin as you made your way down the winding path leading to the village. The walk was long and uncomfortable, but you couldn’t afford to mess this up—not on your first task.

With each step, your mind kept wandering back to the dream you’d had, its lingering effects still curling around you like smoke. The sensation of the Count’s touch was so vivid, so real. You had to shake your head, forcing yourself to focus on the day ahead. There was no room for distractions. Perhaps, you developed a small girlish crush on your master, and your imagination went wild. 

The whispers seemed to grow louder the closer you got to the heart of the town, the townsfolk casting wary glances your way. It was a strange feeling, to be the center of attention in such a way. You kept your head down, determined to ignore them as best as you could. There was work to do, and you didn’t have time to let idle gossip rattle you.

When you finally reached the grand bank, its impressive structure towered over the cobbled street, its tall stone steps leading up to a heavy wooden door. You adjusted the paintings on your back carefully, making sure they were secure before stepping up to the threshold. The scent of ink and paper greeted you as you entered, the soft hum of quiet conversations in the background as people conducted their business.

You approached the marble counter, where a teller stood, organizing papers with practiced efficiency. The moment she looked up, you felt a brief, cold shift in the air—an unspoken judgment, perhaps. But you kept your gaze steady.

“I’m here to deliver some paintings for Mr. Kang,” you said, your voice more steady than you felt. “He’s expecting them.”

The teller nodded, her expression cool but polite. “One moment, please.” She turned to the side, picking up a small bell and giving it a single ring, the sound echoing through the marble halls.

A few moments later, a man in a well-tailored suit approached from the back of the bank, his presence unavoidable as he stepped into view. His sharp features softened when he smiled, and you could tell immediately he was the person you were looking for.

“Ah, you must be the new housekeeper from the castle,” he said smoothly, his voice warm but with a hint of something curious. “I’ve been expecting these. Please, come in.”

He led you to a private office in the back, where a large desk was stacked with papers and books. A few other paintings hung on the walls, but none of them resembled the size or shape of the ones you carried. Mr. Kang gestured to a chair near the desk. “I’ll take the paintings from here. I appreciate your effort in bringing them all this way.”

You gently unstrapped the paintings from your back, handing them over to him carefully, feeling an odd sense of relief now that the task was done.

Mr. Kang inspected the canvases for a moment before giving a slow nod. “I can see why it took Count Park so long to finish these. Quite extraordinary work,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He looked up at you then, a glint of curiosity in his eyes."Are you familiar with his work?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with a hint of pride as he turned to you.

"No, actually, I just learned myself that he is a painter," you answered softly.

He chuckled, the sound warm and light. "He is the best there is. I needed something that would brighten up the waiting area, and this is just what was needed."

He gently moved one of the paintings, revealing it fully to you. As he adjusted the frame, you couldn't stop yourself from gasping.

The scene before you was breathtaking—a serene ocean at sunset, its waves gently lapping at the shore beneath a sky painted in hues of violet, gold, and soft pink. The water shimmered with hints of silver, as though the moonlight itself was woven into the brushstrokes. Silken clouds floated lazily above, catching the last golden rays of the day. Far off in the distance, the outline of a ship’s sails seemed to catch the breeze, adding a touch of movement to the otherwise tranquil scene. The whole painting seemed alive, as if you could almost hear the waves crashing softly against the rocks and feel the salty, cool ocean breeze against your skin.

"It's stunning," you murmured, almost in awe, your eyes lingering on the artwork. "He truly is talented."

Mr. Kang smiled knowingly, his eyes fixed on the painting. "Indeed. The Count's work speaks for itself." His tone shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful as if considering something. "It’s a rare gift he has, a gift that few can appreciate fully."

You nodded, still captivated by the painting. It was hard to imagine that such beauty had been created in the cold isolation of the castle.

"You should be careful, miss," Mr. Kang warned, his voice low, a slight edge of concern in his tone. "People talk... about the Count, about the castle. The tales they spin can be... dangerous to believe."

You nodded, the uncertainty twisting in your gut. The weight of his words lingered, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeper beneath the surface. But before you could respond, he turned back to the paintings, tracing over them with a thoughtful hum.

“It’s a pity really…” he mused, his voice taking on a more somber note. “Outcasting a man isolated in his grief. The townspeople are uneducated and overly pious, and people like that love to gossip about things they cannot understand.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if that was exactly what you were doing, too—siding with the stories and rumors instead of the truth. His words resonated with you, and a wave of empathy swept over you, the image of the Count, sitting alone in that grand, empty castle, growing clearer in your mind.

"Do you know the Count well?" you asked, hoping for more of the truth behind the mystery.

Mr. Kang paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Hmm? Oh, no. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him face to face. I commission him from time to time, sometimes for other people in need of artwork, though I never tell them who the true artist is." He seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. "It’s an understanding the Count and I have. He wants to stay hidden up there, refusing to take credit for his hard work. No one would accept anything that he touched anyway. I don’t blame him for staying up in that lonely castle. With the way people are down here, I’d isolate myself too."

Your heart tightened at the mention of his isolation. You’d only just begun to understand it, but you could already see the toll it must have taken on him over the years.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should press further, but your curiosity got the better of you. “Though it’s not my place to ask, but… do you know why it is that he secludes himself up there? You mentioned grief…has he lost someone?”

Mr. Kang sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. There was a weariness in his eyes, as if recounting the story exhausted him. “I’ve only moved here a couple years ago, but I quickly learned of his misfortune. The Count lost his wife in a fire long ago, right at that very castle." His voice softened, the gravity of the story weighing in on him. "He fell into a deep depression, occupying himself with painting to help maintain his estate and cover the cost of the damage. He remained up there for years. There was never a proper burial, and the Count was never a churchgoer himself, so the townspeople began spreading rumors, marking him as some diabolical entity hungry for blood. It’s sad, really. I felt for him when I first learned of his sorrow. Of course, that’s not a popular sentiment. I only know of this because I manage his financial accounts."

The words hit you harder than you expected, as if the puzzle pieces of the Count’s life were suddenly falling into place. The tragedy, the loss, the isolation—it all made sense. And yet, despite the understanding, something still felt off. You could feel the weight of those rumors clinging to him, twisting the truth into something darker, something harder to grasp.

Mr. Kang paused, his expression turning more contemplative. “It’s a shame. If the townspeople knew the truth, maybe they’d see him differently. But instead, they cling to their ignorance. He will forever be their scapegoat.”

You found yourself nodding slowly, your thoughts turning back to the Count, his lonely figure in the castle, hidden away from the world that had rejected him. You didn’t know what to make of it all, but one thing was certain—you were not going to let the strange rumors rattle you anymore.

⸺

The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the castle in hues of amber and crimson. The days seemed shorter now, the warmth of the sun slipping away faster than you remembered. You sighed, striking a match to light the candles scattered around the kitchen. Their soft glow danced across the walls, illuminating your hurried movements as you chopped vegetables and stirred the pot, determined to create a hearty, meaty dish for the Count. Tonight, you hoped to redeem yourself for last night’s lackluster soup.

With the meal prepared, you carried the steaming platter to the dining room. But as you stepped inside, you froze. The bowl of soup from the night before still sat at the table, untouched. Your heart sank as you approached, examining it closely. The spoon rested where he had left it, its handle sinking into the cold broth. The loaves of bread were stale, the wine glass barely touched.

He hadn’t eaten a single bite.

Your chest tightened. Was it your cooking? Or had he been too occupied to dine? Either way, worry began to gnaw at you. The last thing you needed was to fail at the one thing you were meant to do.

A sudden, loud thump echoed through the castle, startling you. The sound of heavy footsteps descended the grand staircase, growing closer.

Panic spurred you into motion. You quickly cleared the untouched bowl and set the table anew, arranging the fresh meal with care. As you adjusted the wine glass, your hands trembled slightly. The air seemed to shift, thickening with an unspoken tension. You could feel him approaching, even before you heard the final step land with a resonant thud.  

The Count entered swiftly, his long coat trailing behind him as he moved with purpose. He didn’t pause to acknowledge your presence fully, offering only a curt, “Good evening,” before taking his seat at the head of the table.

“Good evening, sir,” you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the quiet clatter of silverware as you adjusted the place setting.

“Did you complete the errands?” he asked, his tone even and controlled as his eyes refusing to meet yours, instead,  shifting to the food before him.

“Yes, sir,” you answered quickly, standing a few paces away from the table. “Mr. Kang seemed pleased with the paintings.”

He paused, his gaze still lowered. “Did he?”

You hesitated, unsure if you had overstepped, but you pressed on. “Yes. He even showed me one—an ocean scene. It was beautiful, sir. I had no idea you were so talented.”

For the briefest moment, his expression softened, a flicker of something akin to pride flashing in his eyes. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual stoic demeanor. “They’re just paintings,” he said flatly, turning his attention to the pile of mail beside his plate.

You nodded, unsure how to respond. He picked up a newspaper, the edges crinkling as he unfolded it.

“Does the food look alright, sir?” you asked, trying to gauge his reaction as he absently swirled the wine in his glass.

He glanced at the platter, barely sparing it a second look. “Yes. It looks fine.”

The dismissal in his tone stung more than you expected, but you maintained your composure. “Is there anything else you need tonight, sir?”

He folded the newspaper with a sharp flick of his wrists and set it aside. “No. That will be all for now.”

You curtsied slightly, more out of habit than necessity. “Very well. Have a good night, sir.”

He didn’t respond, already engrossed in the unopened letters before him.

As you stepped out of the dining room, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that lingered in the air. His reaction to your compliment wasn’t what you had expected. There was something guarded about him, as if the mere mention of his art touched on a part of him he wasn’t ready to share.

You carried your dinner back to your quarters, setting the plate down on the small desk before you. Sitting in the dim glow of a single candle, you stared at the food, appetite waning as your mind wandered. He had been colder today—aloof, distant, as though your presence was no more than a passing inconvenience.

Had you done something wrong?

You sighed, leaning your elbows on the desk as you poked at the food with your fork. Already, you were tired of this endless game of wondering whether you had pleased him. It was exhausting, this constant dance around his moods and silences.

But then again, wasn’t this what grief did to people? It hollowed them out, turned them cold and untouchable. Maybe that’s all it was—a man drowning in his own sorrows, closing himself off to anyone who dared get close.

You shook your head, trying to push the thoughts aside. Grief or not, you had your own worries to tend to. With a resigned sigh, you took a bite of the hearty stew, the rich flavors of tender beef and vegetables grounding you, if only for a moment.

⸺

You dreamt of him again tonight. 

You were seated in that same garden, the air cool and damp with the promise of more rain. A cat purred softly on your lap, its warmth seeping into your frail hands. You looked down, startled to see how much they trembled, the wrinkled knuckles swollen with age. The ache in your fingers was dull but persistent, and your breaths came shallow, each one rattling faintly in your chest.

The garden was beautiful, though your weakened eyesight struggled to make out its finer details. The flowers seemed like smudges of color in the dim twilight, their shapes indistinct. You squinted, trying to focus, when a figure appeared at the edge of the garden. It was the Count.

Even blurred, his silhouette was unmistakable—tall and poised, his face ageless and unchanged, striking against the dusky sky. He stepped closer, his boots crunching lightly on the gravel path, and his features sharpened as he neared.

“There you are,” he said softly, his voice carrying across the quiet garden. It was the same voice you’d heard at dinner, yet it felt different now—warmer, intimate. “Come inside, my love.”

You looked up at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "Just a moment longer, Seonghwa" you rasped, your voice weak but affectionate. "You know how much I love the rain...or…was it snow?" For the life of you, you couldn’t remember which one it was, and the struggle of remembering made you tense.

The first droplets began to fall, pulling you out of your thoughts. You reached a hand out instinctively, the raindrops feeling cool against your skin. You felt the gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder. It was grounding, familiar even.

“It’s going to rain harder soon,” he urged, kneeling beside you. His dark eyes searched yours, soft yet insistent. “You shouldn’t stay out here.”

The cat leapt off your lap as if understanding the urgency, disappearing into the shadows. You tried to rise to follow it, but your body felt heavy, your weak limbs trembling with effort. The blurry edges of the world seemed to darken further, your vision betraying you.

He stayed by your side, his presence steady and comforting, guiding you with a hand at your elbow. “Come,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a comforting whisper.

The rain intensified, the sound mingling with the beat of your heart. Just as you opened your mouth to respond, the scene dissolved, fading into blackness.

You awoke with a start, the sound of rain tapping steadily against the windows of your room. The faint glow of the moon spilled through the glass, casting shadows on the walls. You sat up, pressing a hand to your chest. The dream had been so vivid, so tangible. Almost like a memory that didn’t belong to you.

You looked toward the window, catching the reflection of yourself in the glass. The memory of his touch lingered, warm yet distant, like a melody you couldn’t quite recall. The rain continued its steady rhythm, as if trying to echo the fragments of the dream you couldn’t let go.

taglist: @a1sh1teruu @filmnings @professormingisglasses @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @yunyunrin-reads @seonghwasstar @innocygnet

for taglist request or removal, please send me an ask

act III: the woman in the painting ➜

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Imagine, Shibusawa accidentally activated his ability in real world.

The whole house is covered in fog. And all abilities are on a loose.

Even Crime and Punishment are gone.

But, they don't attack their respective ability users.

They are nowhere to be found.

You are also nowhere to be seen.

Worst of all, Dazai is also missing.

BSD Cast are panicking.

What, if abilities hurt you?!

BSD Cast is searching through the house.

They found you, surrounded by abilities, on the attic.

And all abilities are trying to get your attention.

🐯 Beast Beneath The Moonlight is chuffing, rubbing its head against your chest.

📒 The Matchless Poet creating knick-knacks for you.

👘🗡️ All Men Are Equal is guarding the window, taking short breaks to pet you.

🩺 Thou Shalt Not Die is applying cute bandages on smallest, almost healed cuts.

🌨️ Light Snow is recreating movie scenes with its power.

🐄 Undefeated by the Rain create stone figures with its bare hands.

🐰 Demon Show holding a plate with snacks.

Futon is manipulating electronics, changing channels, so you can watch some interesting show.

🍰💉 Vita Sexualis is making accessories for you.

🍷 Upon the Tainted Sorrow making things float for your entertainment.

🌂 Golden Demon is bringing you nice clothes.

🇫🇷 Demonic Beast Guivre is curled around you.

🎧 Illuminations is creating a hyperspace over you.

🗣️ Lippman's ability is sitting near you, guarding you.

🧥 Rashomon is glaring at everyone, who is trying to get close to you.

🚬 Falling Camelia entertain you by pushing around different things.

🩹🧲 Midwinter Memento is controlling metal pieces to create some cool figurines.

⭕⭐ Dogra Magra, as a little doll, sitting on your lap.

🍋 Lemonade is creating fireworks for you.

🍛 Flawless is playing cards with you.

⛩️ Hail in the Begging Bowl preparing non-alcoholic drinks for you.

💻 Discourse on Decadence is writing down interesting memories, it read from anything he could find.

🥷 Yesterday's Shadow Tag is sitting near Rashomon, protecting you.

🕶️ Another is bringing you dolls from Ayatsuji's collection.

💰 The Great Fitzgerald is bringing you cases, full of money (don't worry, it simply took them from Fitzgerald).

🦝 Black Cat in the Rue Morgue is ready to send you in any book you want.

🐋 Mody Dick is floating outside the window, ready to fly with you anywhere you want.

🍇 The Grapes of Wreath is growing grapes for you. Don't worry, they are edible.

☕ Annie of Abyss Red is playing ball with you.

🪶 Little Women is planning your weekends, while sitting in the next room

👒 Gone With the Wing is using wings to make paper butterflies fly around.

♊ Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are floating above you, telling jokes.

✝️ The Scarlet Letter is writing your name in the air with its power.

😷 A Feast in a Time of Plague simply observing you from the corner.

🫖 The Precipice is outside, rumbling happily.

👻 The Perfect Crime is bringing you mystery novels.

⚔️ Mirror Lion is entertaining you with its sword skills.

🦇🧛 Bram's ability is handing from the sealing upside down. Protecting you.

🃏 Sigma's ability is laying near you, with its head on your lap.

🤡 The Overcoat is doing a circus performance for you.

🐀 Crime and Punishment is playing with your hair.

👧👩👵 Gasp of the Soul is cuddling your left hand.

💧 Priceless Tears is floating through the vents all over the house and bring you whatever you ask for.

🌸 Plum Blossoms in Snow is using its power to cut fruits.

⌚ Strait is the Gate is observing surroundings.

🐈‍⬛ I am a Cat is purring and doing tricks for you.

🪢🦀 Dazai, somehow, got captured, and how is in a cage, far away from anyone, he can touch to nullify.

The moment, BSD Cast stepped to the attic, abilities turned towards them, glaring at their 'hosts'.

So, you, either, will be stuck here, until Abilities decide to let you go.

Or, until BSD Cast manage to free Dazai.

[chambersandfogg]

February 14th, 1931

Dear Charles,

A happy Valentine’s Day to you, my friend! I hope you’ll forgive the bit of kitsch enclosed, for I have no one else to whom I could possibly send a valentine without it being interpreted as some kind of serious overture. But when I saw this fellow, I simply had to share him. A peculiar card, isn’t it? Poor attempts at feline humor aside, the cat in question is somewhat off-putting, I’d say. Those mad eyes, sharp claws; the strange lack of front legs. And the text just adds to the threatening air. I got a real kick out of it and thought you might too. 

Did you make any plans for the evening? I am, of all things, going to the picture house to see the new “Dracula” film. Perhaps not the most romantic outing, but the chatter from the New York premiere is grand. And I will be accompanying a quite spectacular new actress whom I met just a few weeks ago. If I’m being entirely honest, I write “spectacular” not to describe her talent—she is certainly not the next Clara Bow—but her looks, which more than make up the difference. Perhaps you’ll find that terribly shallow, but I’m learning that the film industry relies heavily on its stars being rather nice to look at. After all, the audience is so much closer to them than they are to a performer on a stage. 

But the medium does have its other benefits—it is much easier to create a sense of illusion and wonder when you can manipulate the final product so completely. Not that I am looking to adapt my old act into a picture, but one does marvel at the possibilities. In any case, I’m looking forward to see what they do with the bizarre fruits of Bram Stoker’s imagination. 

Thank goodness we don’t have to drink blood to remain immortal. Dracula really did get the bad end of the deal. Then again, he was able to pass on his strange disease to others—though he did it quite badly. If we had that capability, would you take advantage of it? Would you create for yourself a forever valentine? The idea is tempting, though only Lord knows who it would be. It certainly won’t be this actress, fine as she is to gaze upon. 

I will write again to tell you of my thoughts about the film, by which point you may have seen it as well. I personally am in the habit of going to see pictures the day they come into theaters  and perhaps you are too. How would I know when you never tell me anything beyond the contents of your work? Though I suppose I can’t complain too much when you’ve secured the eminently capable Mister Weston, Esquire. Do let me know if he requires any further information from me to secure our entry into new life. 

I hope the mysterious work you’re doing in Washington is yielding the results you hope. I continue to enjoy the Western part of this country immensely and will remain here for some time, as,

Your friend,

John Fogg

[a letter received by C.X. Chambers, with the following card enclosed]

[to read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]

[vergess]

100% using it for the Bloofer Lady Situation.

I cannot think (I have been trying for a year now) of a better example of the way particular phonetics get eroded by writing them in standard english.

In IPA, how I read the children is approximately

bʍu fɒ waɨdi

Which is a pretty comprehensible bit of toddler babble for "beautiful lady."

This gets written out as "bloofer lady" to convey the children's accent on top of just their wording. And it is done here in a way that is almost miraculously free of racial or colonial complexity. It's such a perfect, perfect case study for this specific type of erosion by written language, without any of the complicated shit that follows this phenomenon.... everywhere else...

It's so.... beautiful... and so fucking piss bizarre...

I'd include this book in anything I was using to study short term changes in language structure over a few decades.

Hell, at this point we have enough Dracula Daily content explaining it that like... you could use it to discuss language changes over a century now, and you'd still have existing examples of the living accents to compare it to and like.

I mean not for LONG because most of those accents are endangered but oh my god.

For this one miraculous moment.... fuuuuuuck.

Yeah, I'd include it.

received an anon ask that mentions a character who has not appeared yet + a trait of theirs that might be spoilery for first time readers. as such, I can’t answer it directly.

instead, I’ve put a screenshot of it, plus image description, below the cut~

Keep reading

[pupsmailbox]

BIRD ID PACK

NAMES︰ adreinne. aero. alouette. altair. amaranth. aoife. arden. aria. arno. aster. astor. ava. avian. aviana. azure. baz. beckett. blackwell. blair. blythe. bram. branson. branwen. brielle. briggs. bromeliad. brooklyn. byrd. cale. callum. canary. cardinal. carlton. carmine. carrie. carrion. celadon. celeste. ceru. chaos. chirp. ciel. circe. citrine. claw. cobalt. collectoresse. collectorette. colm. corbett. corbin. corrie. corva. corvid. corvus. crane. crawford. creston. crosby. cross. crow. crown. dade. daya. dove. doverie. dovesse. draco. dracoonia. draven. echo. enda. ezio. falcon. feather. featheresse. featherette. featherine. finch. fletcher. gavin. hawk. heliconia. heron. hevea. hunter. jay. jaybird. jemima. jinx. jonah. jonas. kale. koko. krow. lark. lilith. lonan. lowen. luna. maggi. maggie. magpie. marigold. masie. mavis. melody. merle. merope. midnight. mimi. minnie. morticia. muru. nevermoresse. nevermorette. noir. noire. noiresse. noirette. nym. nyx. onyx. ophelia. orev. oriole. orpheus. ozul. paloma. phoenix. pigeon. poe. prophess. psitta. raven. ravenesse. ravenette. ravin. robin. sephora. sequoia. skye. songbird. sparrow. swan. taci. talon. torres. trinkesse. trinkette. tweety. valerie. vega. vera. volya. whistle. wing. wingesse. wingette. wren. zephyr. ákos.

PRONOUNS︰ adore/adore. ae/aer. ama/amazon. av/avi. beak/beak. bill/bill. bird/bird. black/black. ca/caw. cage/cage. caw/caw. chirp/chirp. chrip/chirp. chyr/chyr. claw/claw. cloud/cloud. collector/collector. coo/coo. corv/corv. corvid/corvid. corvus/corvid. cro/crow. crow/crow. dark/dark. dove/dove. echo/echo. fea/feather. feather/feather. finch/finch. flight/flight. float/float. flock/flock. fluff/fluff. fly/fly. fruit/fruit. grain/grain. hawk/hawk. hum/hum. hx/hxm. hy/hym. it/it. ix/ix. jay/jay. melody/melody. midni/midnight. mimic/mimic. murder/murder. myr/myr. nest/nest. nevermore/nevermore. night/night. owl/owl. parr/parrot. paw/paw. peck/peck. perch/perch. plume/plume. proph/prophecy. raven/raven. reincarn/reincarnation. river/river. robin/robin. seed/seed. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. sing/sing. sky/sky. soa/soar. soar/soar. song/song. spar/sparrow. star/star. swan/swan. talon/talon. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. trill/trill. trinket/trinket. tweet/tweet. ve/ve. whistle/whistle. wing/wing. 🐔. 🐣. 🐤. 🐦. 🐦‍⬛. 🐧. 🕊. 🕊️. 🖤. 🗑️. 🦃. 🦅. 🦆. 🦉. 🦚. 🦜. 🦢.

[see-arcane]

It's come to my attention that the last time I pinned up all these new chapters, it apparently got lost in the slog of other updates when I first opened my Substack. So many folks are shocked that Penclosa has new chapters, hiatus'd though it is at present. So!

All Chapters of Penclosa (So Far)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

“The Parasite” by Arthur Conan Doyle for background.

And for new readers who don't know what this is all about:

It’s been almost a year since Jonathan Harker made that fateful first trip to Transylvania. The monster that imprisoned him, that threatened his love, that died in a box of earth by two blades, has been gone for months. Yet Jonathan’s nightmares have never left. In fact, as the bleak anniversary nears, they have worsened. Van Helsing’s mesmerism has made no progress in freeing him from the nightly horror. But he has come from Amsterdam for a potentially fruitful visit to another professor. 

Prof. Wilson is playing host to a mesmerist of singular and uncanny power, Miss Helen Penclosa. On meeting the troubled young man and his wife, she is only too happy to help…

So opens Penclosa, a story sadly locked in stasis for the indefinite time being. The work is a crossover between Bram Stoker’s novel, Dracula and Arthur Conan Doyle’s short story, “The Parasite.” The one features the infamous vampire and the heroes who clash with him, the other stars a professor who gets himself entangled in the amorous-to-villainous intentions of a hypnotist who’s implied to have more than the usual power behind her mesmeric ability. While I was reading both of these stories around the same time, an idea occurred:

Wow. This hypno-lady would be such a huge problem for Jonathan Harker specifically.

Which led to the next thought:

I should make her a huge problem for Jonathan Harker specifically.

And then I did!

(Sorry there’s no grander scheme behind it than that, I just like playing dolls with scary classic lit characters. And terrorizing my favorite gothic horror solicitor in particular. Sorry, Mr. Harker.)

That said, I make no promises as to an if or when of continuing Penclosa beyond the point it was paused at. I have an inkling of other ways to play with the story in a further-down-the-line plot where she meets the Harkers under different circumstances, but I’m also really attached to the bones I’ve already laid down here. So it’s a bit up in the air for now. Let me know what you guys think, I’d love to know what the interest level is.

In the meantime, don’t make direct eye contact with any mesmerists and/or undead horrors.

[gardenerian]

actually i have been meaning to ask you... if you would tell me all your thoughts about Dracula and Landlordism 🙂

well!!! okay! whew yeah alright! let's do thissssss 🧛🏻‍♂️ i wrote an actual paper about this in grad school but... alas... i can'T FIND IT !! so here are some insane and incoherent thoughts i have cobbled together. it's, uh, long:

so. here's a bunch of stuff:

we know bram stoker was irish (anglo-irish, technically, but he was born and spent his first 30 years in dublin). his mother was from sligo - she herself was a writer/activist, and she published a record of the 1830s cholera outbreak in western ireland (it's argued by some that even this piece of writing + theories of public health partly inspired dracula... more on that later!).

but also! bram stoker was a sickly kid and spent a lot of his early childhood bedridden. during those long days stuck in bed, his mother told him irish folk stories and other tales. he later said that his illness "gave opportunity for many thoughts which were fruitful according to their kind in later years."

some theorists have written that he would have heard stories like this:

from an early irish legend, abhartach was said to be a demonic tyrant who terrorized parts of derry. the locals tried to kill him with the help of a chieftan - but he kept returning night after night with increasing violence (later versions of the myth say that he demanded blood from villagers to sustain him, but this is a more modern addition). a druid said that abhartach had to be killed and buried in a very specific way (upside-down, for one) in order to stay dead. and this worked! the people were free! yay! spooky!

charlotte stoker also lived through the famine (she moved to dublin after marrying in 1844, bram was born in 47), a pretty bleak fucking period in history. while she was in the city, her family remained in the stricken west. there are folk tales from that time that involve menacing undead who would drink the blood of the poor and dying as they slept - this is likely inspired by the actual famine practice of mixing animal blood with oatmeal to supplement starving diets.

then you have ACTUAL family history! bram stoker's great uncle, george blake, took part in the 1798 rebellion of the united irishmen (wolfe tone, etc.) and was executed for his part in leading 1500 irishmen against the crown. another branch of his family, the o'donnells, were involved in the gaelic revival movement. charlotte's cousin richard o'donnell facilitated the donation of gaelic artifacts (the psalter of st. columbcille) to the royal irish academy.

some of these influences hold more weight than others, and so far this has little to do with landlordism BUT i do think it sets a precedent for stoker to be influenced by and concerned with irish matters. stoker was always interested in irish affairs, even if he didn't always come to the conclusions i wanted him to 😂 still, combined with his early career in the irish civil service and as a critic of irish theatre.... despite the fact that the novel was written in london, with obvious influences of the empire, i really do think there are some elements of the novel that are quite irish.

so! landlordism. what's going on in ireland in the latter half of the 19th century? this is a period of major agitation in the lead up to the revolutionary decade in the early 20th century. the main conversation here is about LAND. ireland is hugely rural and agrarian at this time:

in 1841, 4/5 of the irish population lived in villages with fewer than 20 houses

meanwhile, by 1870, 50% of the land on the island was owned by just 700 families - many of whom did not live in ireland

between 1850 and 1870, landlords collected 340 million pounds in rent, and reinvested just 5% back into the irish economy

so in the late 1870s, the irish land league is formed. the land league's goal was land reform - they wanted irish people to have the right to own the land they worked on. they used rent stikes and boycotts - and sometimes intimidation and violence - to achieve reform (1881 land act did restrict rights of landlords). under charles stewart parnell, they also succeeded in extending the right to vote to many agrarian workers. the land league soon became the national league, which pushed for home rule and other economic reforms beyond the land.

what's funny is that the land/national league agitators were themselves depicted as vampires in contemporary criticism - in order to paint the league as a secretive, sinister force that could disrupt imperial stability and suck the life of the irish colony. look at that poor damsel:

that bat even has the face of parnell 😭

so!!! the land!!!! is a constant thread in irish revolutionary activity. the 1916 proclamation declared "the right of the people of ireland to the ownership of ireland and to the unfettered control of irish destinies, to be sovereign and indefeasible." the irish revolution was in many ways a socialist revolution, and the right to LAND was a huge part of their goals. this is also seen in literature of the period, no matter the perspective - there are constant references to soil, earth, environment, and land.

so....... dracula. here is an aristocrat who not only drinks and lives off the lifeblood of people, but also literally removes soil from the land and brings it to england with him so he can live. the ultimate absentee landlord - and a poor one, too. like the ascendency class he may well be based on, dracula continues to drain people of life and resources while his ability to retain his fortune grows weaker (perhaps a nod to reform?). this has been read by some scholars as a depiction of a class that is losing its grip on power, unable to adapt to a changing social and economic landscape. there's also van helsing's constant reference to their plan of campaign/attack, etc. in describing their hunt of dracula... this is curious in that even though it was certainly a commonly used phrase, it's also a direct reference to a specific strategy by the land/national league against landlords in the late 1880s.

then you have the similarities between the eastern question and the irish question.... basically two anxiety-ridden issues from the imperialist point of view on "what to do" with the ottoman empire and the ireland as a colony. as these regions are beset by economic decline... war..... nationalist rebellion.... the question becomes "how do we fix this AND maintain power over people and land?"

we do have to remember that while stoker grew up hearing distinctly irish stories of folklore, rebellion, and famine, he was still a member of the anglo-irish class: he was not writing from an anti-colonial perspective, nor did he hold much anglo-irish guilt for his status. stoker was concerned with irish affairs, but he was never a nationalist. he was instead known to write off both militant fenianism and british landlordism as damaging.

stoker labeled himself as a "philosophical home ruler," meaning he, in theory, supported irish home rule if achieved through peaceful means. he supported irish self-government as internal autonomy - as a monarchist, he believed that ireland should remain in the british empire. stoker was a protestant, even if a liberal one, which also put him at odds with a largely catholic ireland.

so while we can (and i do!!) read the irish political influences here, what stoker himself was more concerned with was the idea of modernity, and he felt like both national and capitalist allegiances held people back from progress.

stoker was hugely interested in medicine as a way to advance progress. there is an anxiety here about infection. back up to charlotte stoker's record of the cholera outbreak in sligo - 10% of the town's population died. it was bram stoker who suggested that his mother write her history of the outbreak - where she noted that the illness came from ships and then infected people as it moved over the land... just like dracula. many cholera victims, nearly dead but still undead, loaded up with morphine and waiting to pass, were burned or buried alive. stoker was said to be morbidly interested in this... the idea of being buried in the earth before being truly dead. the original title of the novel was the undead, before stoker settled on dracula.

i had a whole thing about medicine written out here but i have veered so far away from landlordism that i am going to shut up. i just think that what stoker is messing around with here is a massively changing world, with conflict and advancement alike. landlordism is an obvious influence, but i think it goes hand in hand with an overall sense of: the order as we know it is crumbling.

this pairs well with contemporary anxieties about race, sexuality, and gender.... but that's another post altogether. there are also obvious influences of eastern european history at play here as well, and if i had another post in me i would get into that too!

this is all to say that there is nO WAY stoker didn't have at least some thought of land and empire - mixed with anxiety about the future as modernity and a new century rapidly approaches... a very victorian concern! what makes societal progress - power, knowledge, capital??? everyone at this time seemed to have a different answer!

shut up mel!

[gcldfanged]

Kkeungi's Comfort List

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒.   ― char siu bao, dumpling soondubu jjigae, army base stew, cream of broccoli soup, freshly baked bread (despite having a gluten intolerance lmao), fresh fruits

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒.   ― Hot spiced apple Chai + honey & milk, Vietnamese iced coffee (condensed milk or gtfo), hot green tea + honey & lemon juice, idfk what it's called in English (MAYBE congou???) but Chinese ppl call it 'red tea' (it's actually just strong af black tea, but w/e- IT IS NOT 'ROOIBOS' or whatever that shit is).

𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐒.   ― Kamikaze Girls, The Goonies, The Neverending Story, Practical Magic, Turning Red, Eastern Promises, Midsommar, Redline, The Professional (original 1984 theatrical release, NOT the Director's Cut where Luc Besson made it weird), Beowulf (2007), Iron Monkey (the og, not the Tarantino 'remaster' that sucks and takes it's WAY too seriously), In Absentia, Hellraiser, The Secret of Kells, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Dracula: Dead and Loving It, IDK THERE'S MANY-

𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐒.   ― HBO's ROME, The Haunting of Hill House (2018), The Glory, Celebrity, Girl From Nowhere, Doom Patrol, Battlestar Galactica (2004), Rose Red, Berserk (1997), OVERLORD, BLACK LAGOON, Pandora Hearts, BACCANO!, can't recall much else since I was never a big 'tv show' person until like... streaming services?

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆.  ― Hades hoodie feat. Cerberus, my Fox motorcyles military jacket, nerdy t-shirts, thick socks, fingerless gloves, fur

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒.   ― Teen Idle (Marina & The Diamonds), REVIVED (Derivakat), EAT YOU ALIVE! (emigrate), Hong Hu Shui Lang Da Lang (but only if that old lady from Dumplings sing it lol), Guts by Susumu Hirasawa (fuck all the ppl who turned it into a meme, that song is gorgeous ok), IN MY SPIRIT by Shiro Sagisu, 愛の天使 (masahiro ikumi), ITAINO ITAINO TONDEIKE (Tooboe), IDOL (English EDM cover by Aries Shepard x djJo), GO CRY GO (OxT), Deal with the Devil (Tia), Red Fraction (Mell)

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒.  ― Farseer Trilogy by Robin Hobb, Gerald's Game by Stephen King, Pet Semetary by Stephen King, Joyland by Stephen King, SNOWCRASH by Neal Stephenson, like literally any fucking book written by Joe Abercrombie, Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follet

𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒.  ― Final Fantasy IV, Final Fantasy VI, Breath of Fire series, Vagrant Story, Final Fantasy XIII, Persona 3: FES, Parasite Eve, Xenogears, Bloodborne, Condemned: Criminal Origins (only reason WHY I bothered with an Xbox + Dragon Age: Origins), Dragon Age Origins & Awakening, Jet Set Radio, Umjammer Lammy ('YOU THINK I'M OLD NOW- I GOT THE SKILLS TO BEAT YOU AND KNOCK YOU OUT'), Space Channel 5, Resident Evil 2 (OG, BAYBEE!!! "I'M S-SORRY, LEON- BUT IT LOOKS LIKE YOUR PARTY... HAS BEEN CANCELLED... :'( AGHGH URRGGH *DIES*", like you cannot even pay people to do voice acting this fucking bad anymore)

Stolen from @visionaryanarchist ♥

[i-am-vita]

Oc or Self Insert/Reader Headcanons Game: Your blorbo with a wife/husband/partner from a different culture

👉 Masterlist

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Mihawk x Ghost Rose Headcanons

I'm trying to get a grip on Mihawk again after a week of Bogard writing so I came with a silly game of how would be Mihawk and Ghost Rose knowing each other as a couple after he managed to find her again.

I don't know if it's been obvious, but I want my Ghost Rose Oc to be mexican coded. I'm headcanoning that she spent all the years with her niece hidding in her birthtown at the Red Line region equivalent to LATAM (and you can't change my mind, half the Red Line is LATAM and Mexico is on the East Blue side).

Meanwhile, Mihawk is so spaniard coded it's not even subtle. That flamenco theme they came up for OPLA just cemented it. Plus, all the gloomy Dracula aesthetic... I'm headcanoning he had a spaniard-coded mother and a romanian-coded father if we take Kuraigana Island as a fantasy reimagining of Bram Stoker's Transylvania and Nightmare Before Christmas.

So this is a half-spaniard Mihawk with mexican Ghost Rose:

Everything happened so fast after Mihawk found you again, seduced you and convinced you to go away with him that it came as a surprise when, during your trip back to your hometown to retrieve your belongings, you made a comment in spanish and he answered in return.

You were still knowing each other so you had yet to talk about your respective past and families.

Hearing you speaking the language of his mother for the first time, even with a different accent, made Mihawk extra passionate and romantic towards you that day.

You tried to be as discrete as you can when arriving to your village to inform your noisy extended family (strong emphasis on extended, your father's sister took way to seriously her mother and wifely dutties having eight children) about your niece going away to her new life and you going away with someone you met.

Like that's going to keep them satisfied.

You ended staying for dinner and subjected to your father's relatives meddling.

No, you're not running away to elope, you just met and are knowing each other. No, you're NOT pregnant!

Mihawk takes it like a champ, his stoic countenance and menacing aura not enough to relent your tías from their noisy ways. In a way, they remind him of his own mother and how carefree and meddling she could be too sometimes, when his father would spent enough time away for her to feel safe again...

His ears may be ringing and his brows lightly frowned, but you can detect the smallest of smirks at the corner of his lips.

The food is like nothing Mihawk had ever taste. He do recognizes most of the ingredients, though half of the spices and definetely not any of the types of chiles he's presented with. You warn him to not believe any of your cousins anctics about the intensity of the salsas, all of them are spicy. He still takes a taste of the most spicy one. His force of will to not react to it is astonishing, but his face does turns an alarming shade of red and he drinks the tallest glass of cold water in a go.

And talking about water... There's no such thing as regular water on all the table. There're several pitchers with colorful fruity liquids that everybody insist on calling "fresh water of *fruit name*". He gives you a knowing smirk when you take a glass from the berries water. His mother had a preference for some milky like beverage that he recognizes and have a taste. The flavor is not exactly the same but its close enough to give him a bit of homesickness.

And don't make him start with the language. He was pretty sure he had a good grip of his mother's language and learnt it well enough to be fluent in it, except now he have to ask for clarification one of every ten words he hears, five if the relative in question has a fast speak.

You stay seated by his side all the time, giving him reassurance and advice, a hand on his knee, his arm on your shoulders. You take the fact he hasn't insult someone as a good sign, some of your cousins can be a pest and you have no remorse in calling them out, rudely if you have to.

As the night goes by, somebody gets a guitar out of somewhere and starts playing, followed by other instruments. You drag him to the yard to dance. The rythms are familiar and yet have their own uniqueness, so the steps, more hips' movements and closeness, that he has absolutely no qualms to follow.

You're giving your good byes when you're invited by one of your cousins to visit the vineyards he works at tomorrow. His boss would totally give you a special discount for the tour. The mention of wine is enough to hook Mihawk and he's accepting before he realizes it.

And then one of your aunts mention the festivities for the local saint start in three days. A night of loud music, fireworks and street food... Mihawk can't help to remember his mother mentioning the festivitiews of her own birthtown and he say yes again without realizing it.

It's later than he anticipates when you finally retire to the small home you lived for the past years. It's fresh and cozy, with tall ceilings and almost floor to ceiling windows to deal with the suffocating heat, wood furniture and hand embroidered fabrics.

You both were too mentally exhausted to do anything more than cuddling in bed with the minimum of cloth. You talked for hours about your families.

How you were raised in the village until after the death of your marine father at sea, your mother remarring barely a year after with a stuffy and wealthy high officer who took her and her daughters to live at the fanciest part of Loguetown. How you couldn't stand the new society you were draged to and longed for a life of your own.

How he was raised mostly by his mother at Shikkearu Kingdom (main city of Kuraigana Island before its fall), and his absent father, a soldier of the local lord.

There were still much to learn from each other, but Mihawk was set more than ever that you were it for him, and you could feel your guarded heart warming more and more towards the swordman.

And now I have to write a part 2 of them living in his castle with her new partner and her mexican quirks... and then the children arrive (aka Perona and Zoro, that will be fun). And how the Phantom Pirates react with Ghost Rose romantically entangling with the same Warlord she had to divert from the party a year ago and she had definitely not fell for.

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@cinnbar-bun you have a beautiful culture and amazing writing, I refuse to accept idiot anons going after you for sharing it, they can come after me too if they dare!!! I won't leave you alone in this.

Moots and interested people I remember. You can participate too if you want, I would love to read your exploration of your cultures adapted to One Piece: @fanaticsnail @jintaka-hane @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @feral-artistry

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Shibusawa, Nikolai, Goncharov, Bram 🙏

🐉🍎🍏 Shibusawa insists on cutting fruits for every meal. He is going all and beyond in cutting fruits, so they look cute or beautiful. Apple Bunnies are the least he can do. Fishes from bananas, flowers from oranges, mice from berries... The list will go on and on.

🤡 Nikolai, sometimes, sew and knit. He will make scarfs, sweater and mittens for everyone, not only for you.

🫖 Goncharov makes sure, that there is enough snacks, drinks, films, video games and new tabletop games, so every time someone wants to relax, or you and BSD Cast have a movie/game night there will be everything that is needed.

🦇 Bram has a connection to bats, he can speak to them and command them. He asks bats to bring fruits, beautiful flowers, stones to you and Aya. Sometimes, Bram will ask bats to deliver small notes to others. Mostly when he doesn't want to leave his room but wants to say something.