#should I tag the folks in the picture

[daily-dose-of-danno]

Do you happen to have a picture of Danny and Vlad in the TUE flashback on Vlad’s steps?

Season 2, Episode 5 - The Ultimate Enemy

[sheepthatgobaa]

Artblock hit me like a truck and in honor of defeating it here's a shitpost

[b4kuch1n]

making of a feathered thing

[stardestroyer81]

Do you? 💙✨

(Userbox edit lovingly crafted by my amazing sister @stephysalcido!)

[songs-ofa-dyingbird]

I’m not sure what’s normal anxiety and what Isn’t

Like- is it normal to be borderline crying because I have to ask my teacher to email me?

Is it normal to get so nervous my chest hurts every time I pull into the driveway cause I know my cats are out?

Honestly these are my two best examples. I use to get nervous that my food was bad or poisoned but not anymore.

Like- I know there’s an Issue here- but what if it’s just normal anxiety? Possibly I’m just being dramatic

[foxgloveinspace]

Being ADHD and bored is the worst, cause your brain convinces you everything is horrible and that you'll never be happy again, and then on top of being bored I've also been overstimulated, so these past few days have just been: I don't want to be around people, I'm bored, I will never be happy again, I can't even do anything to pick myself up from being bored, and make myself happy again.

To combat that I listened to a lot of new to me music today, heres a song dump from the day, some new to me, some old favorites:

[fly-sky-high-dragon-hoard]

Not to generalize fans but it's been a reoccurring theme on my dash to see artists I follow either being poked fun of or "criticized" for their rw art or character interpretations and it has me like

?????

[viserya-firstofhername]

The unsung heroes of HOTD • prologue

So here is the thing.

I was planning to make this a singular post, but at this point I am at I don't even know how many names but surely above at least five dozen, so I shall instead jump into my nerd shoes, and shall make of it a series.

The premise is as follows: The writing room of HOTD this season to a large extent failed a rich and marvelous piece of modern media and especially so, the incredibly gifted teams who worked on its production. It saddens me deeply how we only focus on the bad, while we fail to reflect on the enormous amount of talent and hard work so many people put into it. It happened in 2019. It will be happening again.

So what are we to do about it? Whine, dine, overanalyze, scream, cry, laugh, eat cake, repeat the same three curses until D&D reincarnated show up in our mirror?

Yap Condal this, yap Hess that? Condemn Martin for the next damned ungodly reason? Some folk may chose to slander and throw vitriol at the writing team and while I might indeed in the future yap along mine own hopefully constructive criticism (because some is positively and absofuckinglutely in place), I respectfully disagree with this approach of consuming media; yap about the bad, overlook the intensely good.

I should also state that I am sometimes that person to critique the let-people-enjoy-things movement for their certain lack of media literacy, but tis a lack that is often visible in the hotd critical tag as well.

To that statement, I should add, I refuse to become an apologist for Hess or Condal (the latter - let us all for a moment remember and admit - was one of the last saving graces of the rubbish inferno that was GOT's last couple of seasons and if you disagree - here be your invitation to enter a discourse with me). I might in due time issue a detailed post in a mock Shakespearian lingo mixed with High Valyrian & rap rhymes, but the point of this post is:

I should much more delight in praising the talented people who 1000% broke their backs and their hard labor is very clearly visible, because such is the topic I prefer mine own time be invested in.

We all agree across the board (right?) the actors are phenomenal. More than, even. I would love to touch on that as well but it shall be later on. I am much more interested in discussing the production value, because I'm here for this medium with all senses. Thus, I plan to focus on the production teams in this small nerdy series, sharing thoughts hopes griefs and all, as a way to fill the void in my heart until we get episodes 2x09 and 2x10 (my humorous brief on that: here).

For chapter i, we shall be focusing on the casting department, led by one Kate Rhodes James, for she is pure professional peak, more so than Nina Gold, dare I say, and everything she and her team have done for HOTD is purely and utterly ethereal, otherworldly, three-eyed-ravenesque, phenomenal.

When shall this post be posted will be decided by mine own nerdy brain and whether or not it decides to pen a 6000 words essay on a topic I know next to nothing of (surely, I could delve into research and this might be a source of delay, I suppose you see the potential for issues there).

-

TLDR version: I just want to spell the names of the folks that showed up to work and did fucking brilliant, and marvel at a their masterful craftsmanship.

Disclaimer 1: I cannot stress the following enough: I do not lend my support to anyone who would cast shade and hate or outright criticize the opinions of others simply because they diverge from their own. If thou dost desire to experience the show by critiquing the writers, then by all means - you do you, i do me, and we shall be in courteous and merry accord to agree to disagree.

Disclaimer 2: I know just about nothing of producing cinema and tv. I have one (1) friend who works in the industry. Come at me with professional opinions - very very welcome.

If thou would like to follow this endeavor, thou can keep an eye on the #the unsung heroes of hotd tag, no need to follow my daily fulminations.

I've done and made my peace.

[ravengards-rogue]

i thought of you so often.

arthur morgan x reader.

✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.

✧ wc : 2.4k (???)

✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.

✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.

He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.

You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.

On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.

You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.

It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.

It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.

Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.

Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.

Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.

Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.

You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.

(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.

"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)

But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.

You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.

You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.

And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.

A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.

The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.

So you're thinking on it.

The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.

Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.

You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.

"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.

Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.

The first few pages are nothing special.

A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.

You really love this man helplessly.

You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.

It feels like ages ago now.

You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.

There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.

It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.

Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.

You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.

She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.

Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.

You can't tear your eyes away.

Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.

Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.

Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.

You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.

I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.

She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.

One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.

After Arthur had been kidnapped.

I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one. Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was. Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow. Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.

Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.

A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.

The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.

Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.

You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.

You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.

Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.

Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.

My darling girl My muse The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.

Damn that man.

When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.

Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.

In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.

"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"

You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.

Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.

"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"

You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.

"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"

His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.

"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."

You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.

"Found your journal. The one about me,"

He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.

"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"

You shake your head.

"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"

He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."

You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.

"I love you, Arthur."

"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"

"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"

"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."

"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"

Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[raz-writes-the-thing]

A Fruit So Sweet (House of The Dragon One-Shot)

Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader / requests are open

Summary: Daemon's noticed you before, and tonight he makes his first move.

Fic type: fluff

HOTD: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The Targaryens had always been a source of fascination for you. Their slim jawlines, and bright, white hair. They looked so… holy up there in the Sept and in the Castle, like Gods and Goddesses looking upon their subjects. They were about as close to the Gods as you could get. You often wondered how the common folk felt, looking up at them with their bejewelled necks and glinting armour. 

And that wasn’t taking into account their dragons either. Great, big beasts that could block out the sun as they flew overhead. They were beautiful. When you were young, you often thought about sneaking off to the Dragon Pit, stealing an egg and waiting for it to hatch. Then you could fly away when it was old enough and go and live somewhere secluded. Or even just travel, and live where you please. 

At least that way there would be no expectations on you except the ones you placed on yourself. 

But you were young then, and all children had to grow up eventually. 

So you did your duties, curtsied when required, learnt your needlepoint and sat through age after age of lessons with the Septors. Your only real peace was in the library or the gardens. Hidden away where you could let your legs splay like a man’s would, or hunch your back over a leatherbound book. You could be unladylike and no one would know. Or care. It was the perfect escape. 

Until he started coming around, possibly looking for his own escape. He hadn’t noticed you the first few times, or maybe he just pretended not to, but when you saw him, you’d always snap back into place, sitting pretty like a lady should. 

You had your book in front of your face, elbow on your knee and hand propping up your chin. You were hunched over the novel, enraptured by the tales of daring, dragons and adventure. You were so enraptured by the words on the page that you didn’t notice the arrival of another person in the back corner of the gardens until a hand was between you and the pages, raising your chin with their fingers. 

Oh. 

“My, aren’t you the picture of decorum,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief. You snapped back into yourself, your brain suddenly catching up to the situation at hand. Your back instantly straightened, though his fingers lingered under your chin for another few moments. Then they were gone, taking their warmth with them. 

“My apologies, my Prince,” you breathed, suddenly very aware of the heat in his gaze and the fact that you were both out here in the gardens, hour growing darker by the minute and unchaperoned. “Would you like the solace of the gardens? They’re quite peaceful at this hour, I find. Should I take my leave?”

You make to escape to the safety of the castle halls, but Daemon stops you, fingers brushing the skin of your bare arm softly to keep you from leaving and yet giving you room to run should you need it.

 

“Running away so soon? And without your gift, too. You wound me, my lady-“ he practically purrs, a sly grin spreading across his lips. You tear your eyes from where his fingers brush your skin, sliding up his chest and settling on his mouth. 

“Gift?” You echo quietly, confusion evident in your voice. Daemon’s grin widens just a touch, almost imperceptible. Gifts weren’t common unless a courtship was underway, and the Prince had so far not shown any interest in you as far as you knew. But then, they didn’t have to. All a man had to do was woo your father to get to you. Not an easy task, thankfully, and yet… “My Prince, I-“ 

Daemon shushed you gently and presented you with a pomegranate from behind his back. You looked at the fruit, perfectly ripe. You’d always loved pomegranates, but they weren’t common here, and they were expensive. A frivolous expense saved for the royal family, your father would say. You’d only ever had one before on your fifteenth name day. It was a memory you cherished deeply. 

Daemon arched a brow when you still hadn’t taken the fruit from him, and you reached for it gratefully. You roll the fruit in your fingers, finally meeting his gaze. 

“Thank you, your Grace,” you say, a coy smile playing across your lips. You can’t help it. He is rather handsome, even if a bit older than yourself. You play at the thoughts of being his wife. His strong arms holding you at night, watching he and his dragon, Caraxes, come in after a long flight. You shake the thoughts from your mind. One pomegranate did not mean that Daemon Targaryen wanted to wed you and take you far away- no matter how much you might wish for it. “A very kind gift.” 

“I’ve seen you,” he says, disregarding the praise, and you stand, putting the book onto the chair you were just inhabiting. “Hiding away. What do you hide from?” 

You look over his shoulder out at the bay below. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear the water lapping at the shore. You shouldn’t be out here. You shouldn’t be having this conversation. The Court was well aware of Daemon’s reputation, and being caught out here alone would do no wonders for your own. 

“I…” you fight to find the right words, not wanting to be offensive but not wanting to lie or bend the truth either. “Everything.” 

Daemon doesn’t reply to that. It’s a silent request for you to elaborate, but you get the feeling he knows exactly what you’re talking about anyway. 

“Do you not want to see what the world has to offer? Do you not want to fly away and live a peaceful life away from the burdens of our society? To be improper and free?” 

Gods, you’d do anything to take a big bag of gold and set off somewhere else. Anywhere else. Maybe a nice villa in Quarth, or perhaps Dorne. It was true the Westerosi had a delicate relationship with the Dornish, but you’d always wanted to see the Dornish countryside. You’d read about it, of course, and had seen the painted ink artworks etched into the geography books the Septors had you memorising from the age of six, but that was nothing compared to being able to see it, to feel the sand in your fingers. You’d never even seen sand, locked up in the castle as you were. 

Daemon doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks out upon the view of the bay below tells you everything you need to know. He does. 

“You’ve never travelled far then?” He asks, effectively deflecting the conversation from both the topic of himself and back onto you. He was quite good at that, deflecting probing questions about his person. Daemon was a relatively private man, not that there was anything wrong with that. 

You let out a rather unladylike breath and clasped your hands together around the pomegranate. 

“I’ve not been past the castle gates, my Prince,” you replied sadly, eyes flitting to the castle walls below. You’d been here your whole life. It was too dangerous, supposedly, to travel far. Especially when the common folk were unhappy. Or so father says. 

You do not miss the slight furrow of his brow, but it is smoothed only moments later. He takes a breath in and turns back to you. 

“Now that is a shame,” he clicks his tongue. “Perhaps I should sneak you out of the castle one night and show you what fun you can have in the city below.” 

Your eyes widen comically at the thought, and you find yourself spluttering at the proposition. Underneath the inbuilt horror response to the idea of leaving the castle, however, you consider what you might see if you were to accept. 

Taverns and drunkards laughing and singing their songs? Market-goers scrambling for the best price on a rare fruit? Or perhaps dog fights? You knew, of course, there were also far less enjoyable things happening on the streets below, but they didn’t sit right on your mind, so you attempted not to picture them. 

“Perhaps,” you reply amicably. “Though what I would truly love to see is over the Narrow Sea. Other lands…” Your smile turns upwards slightly. “Doesn’t that sound exciting?” 

Daemon chuckles, keeping a close eye on you. Then here’s there, in your space, crowding you against the banisters and twirling a piece of your hair around his finger playfully. 

“Would I be permitted to call on you tomorrow?” He asks devilishly, eyes glinting in such a way that tells you that he doesn’t much care what your father thinks about calling on you. All you need to do is say yes. “We could take a stroll in the gardens, or… perhaps-”

Your mouth makes a sound, and you have to stop yourself from interrupting him. The words die on his tongue and he nods his head for you to continue. 

“I do apologise, your Grace,” you rush out. “It’s just… would you perhaps take me to the Dragon Pit? I should love to see your dragon.”

His expression appears familiar, as though this is a request he has heard before. 

“I don’t think your father would take too kindly to me taking his eldest daughter to the Dragon Pits, my lady,” he replied amusedly, lips twitching. 

“It will be our little secret,” you hush back, biting back a laugh. Daemon seems to like this, the idea of a secret between you. 

“Allow me to walk you back to your chambers, my lady,” Daemon says, reaching for your book and letting the ringlet of hair go. The action sends a shiver down your spine but you allow him to do so. You thank him for the kind offer and the both of you set off towards your family's chambers. 

It’s a short walk, which is a shame, but you find yourself giddy at the prospect of what the morning may bring. 

When you reach your chambers, your father is waiting for you, watching the moon draw darkness through the windows. The hour is late and he was worried for you, and when he sees Daemon kiss your hand goodbye with the promise of seeing you tomorrow, his eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“You won’t mind, will you, my lord?” Daemon feigns the question, knowing that as the Prince, he cannot say no. “If I call upon your daughter again tomorrow?” 

Your father agrees to it, but he doesn’t look overly pleased. He’s aware of Daemon’s reputation as well, clearly. 

You bid Daemon good night, thank him once again for the pomegranate and set about your routine before you retire for the evening. You do not, however, expect to get much if any sleep tonight, though. 

Tomorrow you meet a dragon. Daemon Targaryen’s dragon, no less. 

What more could a girl ask for?

[see-arcane]

me, ten innocent minutes ago: Come on, it can’t be that bad. 

me now, fresh from reading the Tag Warzone, aging like a magic portrait in an attic: 

Guys. My friends. My fellows in gothic lit love. This is just a funny little poll on tumblred dotted com. Reserve this rage for the infinity of bastardizing media based on our favorite books that have yet to ever actually do the stories credit. You know, the content that actually goes out of its way to sandblast and strip the characters of their character, often being far more regressive than the books that were written in the 19th century. That deserves our bile. Torches and pitchforks and a plague upon Hollywood, et cetera.

That said, why is it so deeply enraging to you that people might find Jonathan Harker more appealing/sexymanlier than Dorian Gray? Jonathan Harker, who up until recently on this site (and frankly, everywhere else) was practically a ghost in his own story after over a century of being buried by sour Freudian lit critic takes and even worse sidelining and distorting of character from films and TV? 

People barely remember who Jonathan Harker is in pop cultural osmosis because he’s so consistently smothered by warped takes that turn Dracula into a liberating Casanova rather than an enslaving, abusive monster.

His recent popularity can only be blamed on Dracula Daily...

...in that it required people to sit down and actually read the story and meet Jonathan Harker as he was. A loving, vulnerable, passionate, dedicated-to-his-wife-unto-blasphemy protagonist. Oh, and also a husband! Which somehow is also a demerit in sexymanhood.* 

(*I’ll be honest this one legit confused me. Like not even angry-confused, just outright baffled.)

Additionally, voting for Jonathan is an outright attack. One that makes you:**

**Grain of salt here, maybe this is just a hyperbolic joke. Apologies if so. But the general vein of the tag pile makes me wonder. 

Especially considering how often Jonathan is genuinely used as a character-shaped bin to dump random biases in by academics and directors to make him seem like a less worthy love interest to Mina to support their latest Daring Count Fuckula adaptation. Because he’s somehow supposed to represent Othering on top of secretly being afraid of powerful women while also secretly being a cheater.

Jonathan ‘Definitely Extremely Straight’ Harker, who wrote he was charmed by Dracula before the Count got creepy and abusive. Jonathan ‘Mega Dull Standard Man’ Harker who had many a damsel moment over the two month period of gothic heroine imprisonment. 

Which isn’t even getting into the points made about how Bram Stoker used both him and Mina as self-inserts in exploring the idea of a queer certainly not a reaction to Wilde’s trial unconventional romance that could go against God Himself, as seen when Jonathan vows to join Mina in undeath as a demonic vampire if she can’t be cured, even after the Holy Wafer burns her and seems to show God’s abandonment. Certainly no symbolism happening here.

There’s also “Dracula’s Guest,” to consider, featuring a narrator likely intended to also be Jonathan pre-castle. A story in which he is rescued from a mob of vampires by Dracula the Wolf pinning him down and licking his throat (and stealing a nip), before Jonathan is whisked away by some manly traveling soldiers on horseback, one of whom he takes up to his room for a talk and a glass of wine. 

Nothing but wall to wall hetero happenings there, too. You can tell because, in true cinematic fashion, the movie kept entirely to the text and didn’t change a single th--

...

Hm. Well, at least it’s keeping with tradition. Said tradition being erasing or swapping out Jonathan Harker’s canonical role as the damsel preyed on by a powerful older man and given the bulk of his intimate attention while the actual women are given a love bite or two before being ditched. Because Jonathan and his role are just so so straight and heteronormative and homophobic and repressed and sexy vampire lady-horny all at the same time. A multitasker, you know.

But this is all getting off track. 

Let’s turn to the star of the show: the gorgeous, the beguiling, the paint and blood-spattered Dorian Gray. I do mean that literally. He is the star of every show--movie, musicals, et cetera--with him in it. Because his story is all about him. About his innocent beginnings, about his descent into debauchery and half-mad refusal to accept his wrongdoings as truly his, warring with the flickers of conscience that dare to arise as he buries himself in harmful hedonism that results in the piling of tragic and wholly preventable deaths caused by callousness. Sibyl and Basil, Alan and James. Dorian himself.

And the whole of the novella is beautiful for both Wilde’s most perfumed prose and cruelest conjuring, showing the ugliness and evil that can simmer under pretty veneers, and how sadistically the purest love can be spurned--oh Sibyl, oh Basil--when a life becomes ruled only by immediate self-satisfaction. If we’re being honest, beautiful and infinitely capable of seduction as Gray is, his character has more in common with Edward Hyde than any other figure of the era. It’s just that he has the blessing (curse?) of the portrait to preserve his beauty versus showing the increasing deformity of his soul as Jekyll and Hyde wears theirs/his.

He is an entertaining, enthralling, engagingly complicated and groundbreaking character in literature, as is his book. Which is all about him. And even in the most agonizingly straight-washed and, notably, very often brunet-washed to cover up his original Anglo golden tresses and Cupid complexion because only dark features are allowed for characters who descend into wickedness we still get to see the bulk of his character and story arc unfold in a way that delivers the core of the novella.

Dorian Gray is known. Dorian Gray is a shorthand term. People can quip about folks who look perpetually young and lovely as probably having a portrait aging in the attic because the story is so immediately known, just as the character is. 

If you want to argue that, in a legitimate crossover, Dorian Gray would draw more amorous attention than Jonathan Harker? 

I would buy that. 110%. We don’t even have a ton of description for Jonathan to go on beyond his eyelashes, looking reserved and friendly, seeming at once young and ancient/corpse-like following the discovery of Mina’s being assaulted by Dracula, and having a general grave and wraithlike look for the latter third of the book. Very nebulous versus Dorian’s clear-cut description of his features.

In a book where the two worlds meld, Dorian Gray could have rooms upon parties upon whole counties wrapped around his ageless finger. As per canon.

Jonathan Harker would still be the person who had a higher quality of people around him. More of happiness too, despite Gray’s rabid and nigh tragic chasing of that fleeting experience. Jonathan Harker has endeared himself to the cast of his novel. Just as he has, finally, after one colossal, beautiful Internet-wide book club moment, endeared himself to an audience who barely knew he existed as anything but a footnote in misleading essays and mangled movies.

Endearment that is redoubled due to so many new readers recognizing in him what Stoker intended him to be for Mina, even as she wept and declared herself unclean for being attacked by Dracula, for being tainted by vampirism, for being the Other.

Jonathan Harker’s love is unconditional. Period. 

His love is what keeps him from suicide in the castle, what drives him to civilization through the wilderness, what powers him through that strange transformation that culminated in him hunting down the Count and chopping his head off in the bastard’s dirt box. He is the champion we all wish we had as a partner, the person who looks us in the eye and tells us that even if God Himself has declared us filth, has deemed us a monster, he does not care. He will not let anyone harm us, even ourselves. And he is ready to be a monster with and for us.

How is that not objectively sexy?

How is he not objectively someone that people who have the ability to see beyond faces and into actions--like us, the Audience--would leap at the chance to love and be loved by?

I’m not saying he has to be your sexyman, or your type, or your blorbo, or any kind of favorite in literature. He doesn’t even have to be The Gothic Lit Sexyman Supreme (c). But he, and people who like/support him more than Dorian Gray, deserve not to be spat and shat on for having a little lead in a fun nonsense fandom poll like a dozen others circulating right now. 

Last thing, because it was a greatly languished fact in the tags too: 

The Dorian Gray Weekly Substack is right here.

Been going on since January.

It’s one of the many, many, many classic literature Substacks that have taken off thanks to Dracula Daily’s success proving that people are eager and willing to dive into old stories they only previously knew from misleading media and dry-as-dirt classes that sucked all the beauty out of reading them.

Oh, my mistake. We aren’t thanking Dracula Daily for inspiring anything in anyone. 

We’re blaming it.

tl;dr: Long-ass ramble that amounts to wondering how particularly meanspirited fans think ‘WELL IF ONLY PEOPLE HADN’T RECENTLY READ THE BOOK WITH THIS OTHER CONSTANTLY MISREPRESENTED CHARACTER IN IT AND WERE ENCHANTED BY HIM DOING COOL THINGS AND BEING APPEALING, HE DEFINITELY WOULDN’T BE WINNING IN THE SEXYPOLL AGAINST ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS PRETTY MURDER MEN IN ALL OF MEDIA!’ is a good argument or a reason to be so full of bile 

aaand want you guys to be normal about Jonathan "shafted away from half his own canon's adaptations and spin offs" Harker winning something on a small tunglr dot edu poll. esp since I've seen him lose plenty of polls so far and ones he qualifies for more than sexyman (which I don't think he is but if u do that's valid there ain't no dictionary definition) and no one was nasty on his behalf there. like maybe don't literally call people homophobic and/or illiterates and just be normal abt it maybe ‼️

[is-the-snake-video-cute]

We're back!

Hey folks, I'm excited to let you all know that this blog is officially back! I've finally got the time to be here again and I'm excited to talk about reptiles with you all.

A few housekeeping notes:

Because of how long I was away and how many asks had piled up, the askbox has been cleared. Please do send in questions about snakes in general, reptile husbandry, whatever!

Please remember that, because of the volume of questions I get, I might not get to all of them right away! Please wait a week before resending your ask.

I'm a herpetologist but my specialty is squamates (snakes and lizards) pretty exclusively. I will not be much help with questions about amphibians, I'm afraid!

This blog has and always will be for reptile education only. It is not a platform for donation posts, current affairs and political posts, etc.

It's OK to ask me about husbandry for your own pet snake, but remember that I'm not a vet and I will not give out medical advice. My answer is always going to be "take your snake to the vet." I'm always happy to see pictures of your snakes, though!

Please submit questions through the askbox, not DMs. I just often forget to reply to DMs!

It's OK to tag me for my opinion on videos and content from large creators and content hosted by animal content farms (such as EverythingFox), but I will not post ratings for personal videos shared of people's pets on here unless they ask me themselves - that can too quickly lead to dogpiling.

Alright, that should be it. Let's finally get back to our regularly-scheduled snake content!

[plor-bindery]

Bound: The Bucket List, by GallaPlacidia

This is actually a gift, but I'm taking a risk that my pal Lately isn't on Tumblr enough to know about this thing, lol. (Lately, if you see this: surprise? Merry Christmas?)

This is, of course, a bind of GallaPlacidia's fic The Bucket List. Galla's fic is no longer on AO3 but is available if you make a very small effort to locate it, which you should if you haven't already done so.

First off: huge thanks to @sits-bound who spotted me their typeset of the fic when mine was not behaving at all. I owe them thanks for this, for their choice for Draco's handwriting (which became quite a Theme for me as I went), and their help in figuring out toner-activated foil, which I used on the endpapers.

Secondly: the UK folks among you will, I hope, recognize this binding as an homage to the Oxford Black n' Red notebook. I wanted to create this binding to look as though it might be Draco's actual bucket list notebook, so I went with this theme in the colour choices and cover design, down to the name tag label (made from HTV) that I imagine Galla's Draco slapping on haphazardly as he frantically began his list.

I made Draco's version of the notebook just slightly different, of course -- with Galla's name in place of the text "black n' red", the name tag, and the little Aelfgifu crest in place of the Oxford one on the original.

(Aside: Aelfgifu is a bit of an inside joke with me and Lately, as we have spent a lot of time imagining a magical college within Cambridge called Aelfgifu College, as well as Draco and Harry's different academic journeys, their collegiate romance, etc., without ever writing more than a few hundred words of same, whoops. But! The college has a crest now! Maybe it'll get a story to go with it!)

This is a favorite, tip-top fic for Lately, and it's up there for me too. I don't think I need to dwell on Galla's brilliance as it's well-known in the fandom. But it was a treat to create my own typeset and bind for this fic. (I kept my first attempt as a personal copy, warts and all.)

More process under the cut.

Materials: Nothing extraordinary here except (as noted) the foiled endpapers. I used 1 mm board to create proper Bradel boards with a notch for the spine piece.

Process: A three-piece Bradel! My first!

I could have done a quarter bind (as the actual commercial notebook uses) but I wanted to learn a true Bradel three-piece bind for a non-fandom bind and this was my chance to try it out. Verdict: kinda neat, and handy when foiling directly to bookcloth (which I did not do here, but did for the non-fannish bind.) Endbands are machine-made and boring. (The actual commercial notebook has no endbands but I couldn't go that far.)

The typeset was fun. Galla's writing is very dialogue-driven, which means a lot of paragraph breaks, which leads to some interesting page break challenges, but in the end it came out nicely. I enjoyed setting Draco's letters, the Prophet article, and the Witch Weekly gossip column. And I had too much fun dropping random shit into the half-title page.

Re the endpapers: yes, I did comb through the fic and pull out all the numbered bucket list items, then all the non-numbered ones referred to in passing, which I then numbered and slotted into the list for the endpapers. I regret nothing. (Not pictured: for the back endpaper, the list is identical except I went through and struck out all the items Draco knocked off his list in the course of the story.)

I still don't own a colour printer! But I do own a little tiny photo printer (Canon Selphy) which is what I used to print the Aelfgifu crest, which I then just cut out and glued on. I like the shiny quality, even if it probably should be more like printed HTV in texture.

I'm quite delighted with the cover design. This one was so fun!

[lovelytsunoda]

gonna have a good time tonight // lance stroll

part of the welcome to wherever you are verse

summary: it’s time for lance and y/n’s annual canada day party. as an australian, y/n never really got the hype, but any excuse to get her old men in a room with lances old men was bound to create chaos

pairing: lance stroll x hutchence! reader

authors note: just in case anybody missed it, I added to the masterlist with a masterpost of some links to learn more about the real life lore behind the series

y/n.hutchence just posted to her private story!

y/n.hutchence just posted!

lake muskoka, ontario, canada

tagged: lancestroll, yourbestie, aprilrosepengilly

liked by yourbestie, yourmom, kirkpengilly and 203 others

y.nhutchence boys will be like ‘I know a place’ and then whisk you away to their cabin the woods

see all comments

yourbestie yeah but he gets a pass because HAVE YOU SEEN THE CABIN? i love your sugar husband. tell him thank you for the awesome weekend!

-> y.n/hutchence sugar husband?

-> yourbestie sugar daddy just sounded wrong

lancestroll ❤️

(liked by y/n.hutchence)

garrygarybeers for all the shit you talked about kirk's tacky shirt collection when you were growing up, you married someone with a collection much much worse

-> y.n/hutchence garry no collection is as bad as kirks

chloestroll gotta live it up before the old men get here!

-> timfarriss the next person to call me old is getting drop kicked to new zealand

-> fernandoalonso agreed. i'll help

kirkpengilly the real question is who won at poker? i taught you both so well

-> aprilrosepengilly neither. we were practicing to beat you

-> y.n/hutchence with both of us together, we should be unstoppable

-> kirkpengilly why is everybody ganging up on me today?

lailahasanovic thanks for the invitation! i'm having such a great time with you guys

y.n/hutchence posted to her private story! (and texted tim)

(The text messages got away from me here, tap to read and enlarge 😭 )

y.n/hutchence posted to her story!

seen by chloestroll, yourbestie, yourmom and others

lancestroll why is it that y'all are making fun of our margaritaville performance but fernando and paul are getting no flack at all for ruining the human league?

y/n.hutchence because fernando and my stepdad can actually hold a tune? oh and the fact that paul was SOBER

y/n.hutchence do you want me to bring you a hangover cure smoothie?

lancestroll ...yes please

lancestroll just posted!

lake muskoka, ontario, canada

tagged: y.n/hutchence, mickschumacher, aprilrosepengilly, scottyjames, chloestroll, estebanocon, lailahasanovic

lancestroll great weekend, greater people

see all comments

y.n/hutchence cinnamon rolls on the campfire was the best idea i've ever had

-> lancestroll the strangest, but one of the best

garrygarybeers notice how the old folk haven't been tagged in the campfire picture?

-> lancestroll its because you made fun of my tacky shirt collection

user jfc how big is this lake house?

user don't be shy, leak the karaoke video

-> scottyjames there are half a dozen old men who would be very cross with me if i did that . . . so no

aprilrosepengilly i'm going to miss that view so much

-> y/n.hutchence agreed

mickschumacher killer weekend bro. same time next year?

-> lancestroll of course!!

user the way she holds him in the boat.. they're so in love nobody speak to me

-> fernandoalonso trust me theyre worse in person

-> user KING NANDO REPLIED

jonfarriss we’ll always have margaritaville

-> andrewfarriss that’s no joke mate, my head is still killing me

-> lancestroll ditto. I’m still washing the smell of tequila out of my clothes

kirkpengilly added to his story!

(next part)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for correcting harmless misinformation?

I'm 20, my friends in this story are in their 30's-50's, genders irrelevant. Occasionally one of them will post something neat they saw on social media (facebook usually) and about half the time it'll be relatively harmlessly, but inaccurately, captioned. Examples include:

- that one picture of river outflow meeting the sea [captioned as "the line where the pacific and atlantic oceans meet"],

-some silly unsourced posts about X holiday being Secretly Wiccan Until The Christians Stole It (it wasn't. lot more complicated and nuanced than that!)

- very well done digital art of "rainbow galaxy visible from earth"

I don't want my friends to be tricked! They're all very smart people, just a little credulous sometimes when they're online (aren't we all?). I try to gently correct the information (ex. "this is actually art by [artist]!") and end it by giving a reason I'm still glad they brought it up (ex: "It's SO well done, though - absolutely gorgeous and really sparks my imagination!").

Thing is, none of the stuff they've posted is, like... particularly harmful misinfo so far? It's just people being Wrong, albeit sometimes intentionally, on the Internet. People are allowed to be Wrong on the internet.

Am I being a buzzkill for not just keeping my mouth shut? Am I letting my urge to be Correct overpower me? Should I just let people enjoy things? I'm scared I'm being rude to my friends, when all they want is to show the groupchat something cool they saw and thought we'd like! I'm not really sure what the social Rules are for something like this, and so I ask the jury:

Am I an asshole, folks?

(if mod's ok with it) please hit me in the comments with your favorite fake social media post. i really like the digitally altered red peacock footage

What are these acronyms?

Okay I was gonna leave mine in the tags--it's the blue watermelon photoshop that resurfaces every so often, claiming to be real and with some esoteric description about its flavor--but then I googled it to make sure I was remembering it right and found this absolute gem of an amazon listing:

Look at these extremely real and extant fruits that definitely aren't the same image over and over

[notalostcausejustyet]

Story time.

I was fortunate enough this past weekend to get to spend some in-person time with some of the most incredible human beings I have ever met. I want to talk a little bit about it.

Fandom is so much more than geeking out over your favorite things with like-minded people. It’s community, and especially for us queer folk, it is often family that we don’t have, love and acceptance that we can’t find elsewhere. It’s shared joy and sorrow. It’s people who connect through A03 comments and added tags and who somehow find their way to where they belong. It’s learning how to love yourself better, and others well and finding solace when you need it most.

The place we wound up renting (unbeknownst to us when we rented it) was a pit of evangelism. The scary kind. The so-white-and-straight it’s transparent and stiff like an iron collar kind. Amidst all of the bone chilling literature and the neo-Nazi family portraits, there was a photo missing. One who escaped, or was cast out. One who fell from the fold. A ghost that could not be neatly exorcised, the evidence of them lingering long past the removed picture.

In the off event that they are here, or that you are one of the fellow fallen children like so many of us. You’re not alone. You made it out. And I know that it is lonely and difficult and frightening. But you are beautiful. You are so much more than what they told you you should be.

I want you to know that we filled that house with love while we were there. With found family and joy and SO much laughter. We were queer and we loved out loud and as a family together. We lifted you up with us. We will continue to do so.

This is for you.

If anyone cared to look

They would see

The shadow of Grace

With you still

It brushes your brow

With soft love

Acceptance that they lacked

Forgiveness you didn’t need

You are beautiful

Made by your own determination

Willful in spirit

Pure of heart

Please know this child

You are loved

You are exactly

As you were made to be

You are known

You are seen

We lift you up

And sing the song of your praise

All of my love to too many to tag here.

@voluptatiscausa @adverbian @malachitegrey @hakunahistata @cemeteryangel725

I’m sorry idk the rest of the handles off the top of my head. I love you so very much. Not in spite of who you are, but because of it.