Mari + Pink 🍓

1970 | queen (part 1)

Summary: After working at a record store and discovering a record player that can transport you back in time, you find yourself in London of 1970. After scrambling to get back, you realize that something has gone terribly wrong with an infamous band, and you are the only one who can fix it.

Author’s Note: The beginning is very rushed (this whole chapter) only because I have big plans for the next couple of chapters. Please give feedback if you want this series to continue - it’s my first Queen work.

“They always say that time changes things, but actually you have to change them yourself.” - Andy Warhol (1975)

You worked at a record store in an old London strip, sandwiched between an ice cream shop and a children’s boutique. The building had been there for more then fifty years, according to the owner, and anyone who got close enough to look at it could tell. The concrete outside was stained with age, and the paint on the inside was beginning to peel. The man who ran the store knew of these things since you and your co-worker had begun to more frequently make remarks about the damages, but he would only shake his head with a smile and remark, “It makes it more authentic - a little more magical, don’t you think?”

With its dingy carpet floors and flickering sign, you didn’t understand how he could find anything magical about that store. It smelled of old paper and coffee, occasionally hosting the scent of a Bath and Body Works candle if you remembered to bring it. The cases for the vinyls were ridden with dust, and there was always Queen playing from a record player in the back corner of the store. It always played the same album: A Night At The Opera. You didn’t mind, since you had been a fan of Queen since you were little. Growing up, your dad would play it almost 24/7, and you grew to love the band and their music. No one dare change the album, and it’s been rumored that the same record has been playing for years straight; which, you must point out, is highly illogical. No vinyl record could play for that long without becoming damaged and scratched, especially if nobody has tried to take care of it.

It was a rainy Saturday when the owner, Mr. Jay as you called him, decided to stop by. He leaned against the register counter and cleaned his glasses with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket. “How’s everything going?” He asked, smiling. He was a short man with a semi-full figure. He had thick salt and pepper hair that dragged down into stubble along his jaw. He wore jeans, a plain white t-shirt and an olive green bomber jacket that stored a variety of items in its pockets: altoids, kleenex, money, you name it.

“Slow,” You said honestly. You were making your rounds of all the records, checking to be sure they were all in the right place: sorted by date. Your co-worker, Gabriel, let out a breathy laugh and kept scrolling on his phone.

Mr. Jay looked over to him with a sad smile, and then focused back down to his glasses. You began to feel guilty; you knew how much this shop meant to him. Who were you to talk about this man’s possessions like you were? You were a college student in need of a summer job that paid well so you could get your car radio fixed. Before you could speak up to apologize, or atleast end on a happier note, he spoke up, “It always is.”

He lifted his glasses up to the dim light to check for smudges and squinted. Dull thunder rolled in the background as a gentle shower of rain began to fall, hitting the tin roof above and echoing throughout the store. He slipped the clear-rimmed spectacles back on and sighed, strolling towards the isles of records. He dragged his finger tips along the top of them, stopping under the “1960’s” section. He pulled out a Beatles’ album and examined it. “Did you know there’s a conspiracy that Paul McCartney is dead?” He asked. You shook your head and he laughed, “It’s silly, it really is. Many believe that this,” He turned the revord to show the popular Sgt. Pepper’s Lonley Hearts Club Band album cover. “Depicts his funeral. There’s a left handed guitar made of flowers down in the corner, but It really could be a right handed one flipped the other way.” He continued to mumble on about the theory for a few more moments until he stopped and looked up at the two of you, who were both staring at him awkwardly. He slipped the album back into its slot and took a deep breath, “Well I guess it’s my time to leave.”

He took several large strides and picked up his hat and phone off of the counter. “Have a good one,” He called out as he slipped out the door. You both stood silent as you watched him pull out of his parking space and drive out of eyesight. It was always a weird, somewhat sympathetic, feeling after he left. Neither of you didn’t really know what to do. You stood and fiddled with the belt loop on your jeans.

“He’s an odd man,” Gabriel spoke quietly. You nodded. “Gives me weird vibes; like he’s seen way too many things. Did you see the way he spoke about that conspiracy? It was like he was genuinely amused, like he was the one who created it or something.”

“He’s just different,” You said, “I don’t think he means any harm.”

Gabriel shook his head with wide eyes. “I don’t know Y/N. Something isn’t right about that guy. He came in here to do what? Be a spokesman for the “Paul McCarney Is Dead” club?” He shuddered.

You didn’t say anything. Brushing off any questions you had about Mr. Jay, you continued to do your album sweep. By the time you had reached the 1970’s, the song playing from the record player began to skip. You waited a moment for the skip to pass, but it just kept going. Already agitated from the creeping day, you stormed over to the old machine and stared at it for a moment. The spinning Queen logo made you dizzy. The player was covered in dust, and it was clear to you that nobody had touched it for a long while. You blew on it first, and then reached for the tonearm to fix it.

As soon as your fingertips touched the arm, you felt yourself being thrown from the record player. It was as if you were in a plane during takeoff: insane amounts of pressure were building on you, squeezing your body and twisting it in jerking motions. Your head felt as though it would crack and explode in any moment, and you squeezed your eyes tighter than they ever had been before to avoid seeing your insides being blown out. Before you could fully slip out of consciousness, you felt your feet firmly on the ground again. You stood still as your hearing began to come back, keeping your eyes still closed tightly shut. It wasn’t before you heard the commotion of voices that you decided to open them.

You were standing in the same place you had been: next to the record player that was sitting on the wooden stool. Except for this time, the player was brand new, and the music that was playing wasn’t queen; it was “Hey Jude” by The Beatles. You took a few moments to stand there, trying to calm the pounding headache in your head and figure out what in the world had just happened. Maybe I blacked out, you thought, or maybe I’m dead. Is this Heaven? Kind of dissapointing. You shook the thoughts out of your head and tried to stable your shaking body. It took a few moments for you to realize that you weren’t alone, so you slowly turned around and caught your breath. There was atleast thirty people in the record shop, browsing through the albums and talking amongst themselves. You couldn’t hear much since you were standing right next to the speaker, but something wasn’t right. The shop was lively and colorful, and Gabriel was nowhere to be found. Okay, this has to be Heaven, you convinced yourself, Where else would there be this many people in here? This has to be a dream.

A voice pulled you back into reality. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

You jumped and turned to your left to see a girl who looked about your age. Her hair was short and feathered, and she wore a long patterned skirt with a purple blouse. Her teeth were shining white and perfectly straight, and you could tell she wore a thin layer of lip gloss. She resembled Princess Diana when she was alive. “No,” You croaked, “Just looking around.”

“No problem, just let me know if you need anything. My name’s Michelle,” She said as she smiled. She turned to walk away.

“Thanks,” You hesitantly said. Nobody seemed to care that you were there; like you had been there all along. Realizing that you couldn’t stand there and people watch for forever, you took a deep breath and went to walk outside. You needed to figure out what was going on, and where exactly you were.

You wobbled at the first step, and it was more than just uneasy legs. Looking down, you realized you weren’t in your jeans and sweatshirt anymore. You were wearing tight, bell bottomed baby blue pants and a blue ruffled blouse. You wore white boots with a slight heel and quickly realizing something was seriously different, you frantically grabbed for your hair and realized it was long and straight, down below your shoulders. It wasn’t like that before. You were beggining to panic, and rushed out the door as fast as you could. You brushed past employees and young children cradling vinyl records, offering quiet apologizes as you did.

Once you busted through the doors and onto the street, you were taken aback. The streets were full of life. People passed you and offered friendly smiles. The smell of cigarette smoke and burnt rubber filled the air, along with hairspray whenever a girl walked by. Men’s hair was slicked back with gel to resemble Elvis and the women on their arms wore patterned dresses and jumpsuits with their hair up in high ponytails or curled. This definitely wasn’t 2019.

Looking around, you spotted a boy who looked around your age standing by a wooden post. He was fumbling tape on one hand and a small poster in the other, and eventually turned his back to you to apply the poster to the pole. You scurried over to him, still getting used to your shoes, and called out, “Hey!”

He quickly flashed his head around to you and paused what he was doing. He has slightly shaggy blond hair with big blue eyes. Slight bangs were hanging in front of his eyes, but as you got closer he brushed them out of the way. He wore tight pants and Lou Brock Converse, with a long, tan trench coat that was partly buttoned up. “Yes?” He said, lowering his arms.

You eyed the poster in his hands. “Could I have that?” You asked slightly out of breath.

He widened his eyes a little at your question, but gave you a quick look up and down and cautiously handed it to you. “Sure,” He said, biting his lip. “Are you interested in coming?” He asked eagerly.

“Um,” You faltered. Coming to what? You didn’t even know what decade you were in. Quickly scanning the paper, the headline “SMILE - MUSICAL PERFORMANCE” caught your eye. “Yes, actually. I’m new around here, and I was, uh, looking for something to do.”

The blond boy smiled. “Well, I hope we see you there,” He exclaimed. Giving you a smile, he turned and began to walk away. “I play drums, by the way!” He called.

You looked up and laughed a little. He blushed and swiveled around once more, this time not turning back. You immediately looked back down at the paper and searched it for any type of date. The only thing you got was June 2, not any year. Sighing, you slowly began to turn the other way to start heading back. You didn’t look up from the flier in your hand, your mind and heart still rushing from adrenaline, and before you knew it you had run right into somebody. You bounced off of each other quite aggressively, and instant apologies started spewing from both of your mouths. The boy you had ran into reached out for your arm to balance you. “I’m so sorry,” He said.

“No, no, don’t apologize! I wasn’t paying any attention to where I was going,” You admitted, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. You both chuckled a little bit and looked down at your shoes. He picked at the ends of his long black hair and gave one last apology before walking away. You took a few steps but turned to watch him. He walked up to the wooden telephone pole and scanned the posters taped to it. He definitely was looking for something.

What was happening to you didn’t feel real; everyone you walked past or bumped into you felt like an illusion, even though you could touch them. It was like you were stepping into a movie. How did you get here? Where even were you? It’s like you were in a different dimension - a different chapter with the same setting.

You blinked a few times to get out of your trance and began looking for a new source to get the date. You would look insane if you asked somebody for the year, and Converse boy’s poster didn’t help very much. Slowly spinning around, a newspaper stand a few yards away seemed to glisten. You quickly made your way over, folding up the band flier in quarters as you did. Grabbing The Times off the stack, you read the headline: “D-Day for Europe as Dutch Vote”. You quickly scanned the small writing for any sort of date and by the grace of the Heavens, the year was finally printed before your eyes.

June 2, 1970.

Masterlist

Last Updated  → 09/04/19

Characters I Write For  →  here

Smut (*)

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Some words to use when writing things:

winking

clenching

pulsing

fluttering

contracting

twitching

sucking

quivering

pulsating

throbbing

beating

thumping

thudding

pounding

humming

palpitate

vibrate

grinding

crushing

hammering

lashing

knocking

driving

thrusting

pushing

force

injecting

filling

dilate

stretching

lingering

expanding

bouncing

reaming

elongate

enlarge

unfolding

yielding

sternly

firmly

tightly 

harshly

thoroughly

consistently

precision

accuracy

carefully

demanding

strictly

restriction

meticulously

scrupulously

rigorously

rim

edge

lip

circle

band

encircling

enclosing

surrounding

piercing

curl

lock

twist

coil

spiral

whorl

dip

wet

soak

madly

wildly

noisily

rowdily

rambunctiously

decadent

degenerate

immoral

indulgent

accept

take

invite

nook

indentation

niche

depression

indent

depress

delay

tossing

writhing

flailing

squirming

rolling

wriggling

wiggling

thrashing

struggling

grappling

striving

straining

i made a quiz: which iconic fairytale lady are you?

there are 20 possible results, with characters both familiar and obscure: beauty from beauty and the beast, princess kaguya, snegurochka, cinderella, the nightingale from death and the nightingale, the little mermaid, sleeping beauty, baba yaga, the fairy godmother, the snow queen, thumbelina, the evil queen, snow white, little red riding hood, goldilocks, the goose girl, bluebeard’s bride, vasilisa the beautiful, rapunzel, and janet from tam lin.

please do reblog + tag with your results; thanks so much if you take it!

all right. so. this is a Harry Potter AU, in rambly and abbreviated form.

this is a version of events where, on the morning of November 1st, 1981, the police are called to a house in Surrey.

when they arrive, a large man with a red face and a moustache is waiting for them, brandishing a baby.

to be more accurate: he is brandishing a basket. the basket contains a baby.

he tells the police that his wife found the basket on their doorstep that morning. “Gave her the shock of her life,” he says, with a chuckle that does not seem the least bit sincere.

the police officers have a lot of questions about this, but the man does not have any useful answers. his wife, he tells them, is not in any shape to be interviewed. “she’s been poorly,” he says, “and we’ve got a baby of our own to worry about, keeping us up at all hours.”

the baby in the basket seems to be about a year old. he is cheerful, seems healthy aside from a cut on his forehead, with a crooked sticking plaster on it. he has startlingly green eyes.

there is no identifying information in the basket, except for a torn scrap of paper with ‘his name is Harry’ on it in a delicate hand.

there is nothing else to be done, it seems. the officers take baby Harry, and leave.

one of them comes back a few days later for a follow-up interview with the woman who found the baby. she seems a little fragile, and her own baby, in the next room, keeps up a constant shrieking tantrum the whole time the officer is there. “I’m sorry,” the woman says, with a brittle smile. “this has all been a bit much. I recently lost my sister, you see.”

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ted: professor, why are you so crunchy?

hidgens: excuse me? ted: y’know, whenever you move you go ‘crunch’. hidgens: i have arthritis, ted.

How I started reading Chinese novels

I think we all know just how hard it is to get started reading native content in our target languages. For the longest time, I thought reading Chinese novels was an unachievable goal. Every time I opened one up I was just overwhelmed with unknown vocab. So what changed? 

Well, I kinda put myself in a situation where I had to read a novel or else. That’s to say, I took a Chinese lit class at college where we read two novels and three short stories. At the same time I was also taking a half-credit class where we read small parts of the 三体 trilogy. So, my only options were to read or fail. 

The two novels I had to read were 《在细雨中呼喊》 by 余华 and 《家变》 by 王文兴. 《在细雨中呼喊》 was up first, and I decided to do something that I actually wouldn’t really recommend y’all do: I made a spreadsheet of every new word I encountered. Every. Single. One. You might remember I made a post about that last year once I’d finished the book. If you’re curious about the exact details of what I did, I suggest you check that post out. Here’s a screenshot of the spreadsheet:

So lemme just reiterate: I absolutely do not recommend doing this^^^ unless you a) are only planning on reading like a page or two a day, or b) love suffering and pain and misery and crying. I know I definitely stress-cried a few times while reading this novel.

Anyways. I did this for two reasons: 1. I wanted an accessible list of the new words I encountered, and 2. I wanted to track how many pages I read and new words I encountered each day. It was super time consuming, but also really satisfying because I was able to see the number of new words decrease as the days went on. The first day, I read 8 pages and had ~200 new words. By the end, I was averaging 7 new words per page. It was cool to see the progress, but it was a pain in the ass to document so. Decide for yourself if you wanna put yourself through this.

However, not everyone has access to a college-level literature class in their target language. So here’s some methods that have worked for me when reading outside of class: 

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cocoa.

| regulus black x reader | fluff |

anon requested. drinking cocao while doing sleepy talk

cw: slightly steamy, no actual smut, smoking

“Oh, pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay, and let me love you, baby,” your soft singing soothed Regulus as you gently combed your fingers through his hair.

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The Invasion (4)

1 // 2 // 3 // Ao3

Chapter Four: The Earthquake April 15, 1985 Hawkins, Indiana

“Mr. Wheeler? Are you listening?”

Mike felt a sharp, unexpected poke between his ribs and startled, peeling his eyes away from the clock that hung over the blackboard, its hands crawling impossibly slow from one minute to the next. He was suddenly painfully aware of all twenty-odd sets of eyes in the room focused on him. Next to him, Dustin glared with exasperation, mouthing the word nine as subtly as he could—which was, in fact, not very subtle. Mike narrowed his eyes in confusion, his lips pursed.

“Mr. Wheeler?”

Sheepishly, Mike glanced up at his math teacher, Ms. Lennox, watching him expectantly behind her thick-rimmed glasses. So that’s what this was about. Mike licked his lips and hurriedly looked back down to his notebook, filled with messy numbers and doodles of a certain girl’s name across the margins. Silently, he thanked his lucky stars that he already had the page opened to last night’s homework.

“It’s thirty-six,” Mike answered, voice quiet but confident, “The answer to number nine is thirty-six.”

Ms. Lennox looked slightly annoyed, shooting the rest of the class a quick and deadpan look as they began to snicker. “That’s correct, Michael,” she sighed, half-heartedly, “But I think what Mr. Henderson was trying to tell you was that the answer to number fifteen is nine.”

Mike and Dustin flushed simultaneously as Ms. Lennox, heels clicking against the linoleum floor, returned to other side of the room to look for someone to answer the next question. Dustin nudged Mike in the ribs again, this time with more irritated force, shaking his head in a resigned way. Mike shot him an apologetic shrug, both of them thankful Ms. Lennox wasn’t the kind of teacher who gave detention for little things like being distracted.

Because Mike was, to say the very least, distracted. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything during first or second period, and things were only getting worse as the day progressed, his nerves growing more and more acidic in his stomach. El had looked so tired when he left her yesterday, her eyes weary and her face pale. And when he had called to ask about her after dinner, Hopper said she was sleeping. He said the same thing when Mike called again at seven and a third time at nine-thirty.

It was difficult to forget the sight of El’s face when she had woken up in his lap, the way the blood had been practically gushing from her nose and the fear in her eyes that she insisted was the result of just another nightmare.

But Mike knew El’s nightmares; he had spent months talking her to sleep on the phone, waking to the buzzing of his supercom when she needed to talk in the middle of the night. More than once she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, babbling and whimpering until she woke up, her terror softened when she looked at him with sleepy eyes.

Yesterday something had felt different and it made Mike worry. Sighing, he returned to his vigilant staring at the clock, counting down the seconds until he could leave school and bike as fast as his legs would carry him over to the cabin.

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