#AND THEY TALKED ABOUT HOW THE SPELL WORKED

[bewarethewolfarmy]

Not quite the same but similar, I found out an "interesting" fact when I was seventeen: my Social Security number wasn't mine.

See, when I was born and my mom got everything dealt with (I'm not sure how it works in the US but I was born outside the US to an US citizen so it required paperwork and talking to the consulate and all that fun stuff), my name was spelled wrong. It wasn't a major thing, just a case of the first letter being input wrong; instead of an R it was a B. I always joked that it was because I was a big baby (ten pounds surprisingly) and again not in the US so my mom was exhausted and probably wrote my name too fast.

It took until I was 17 fucking years old, having gone through the US education system and now getting my first ID for anyone to inform either of us that actually the Social Security number my mom had for me, that she had used before for tax stuff and all the rigamaroll, yeah no that wasn't actually MINE but belonged to someone with a near identical name, with the same birthdate, with the same place of birth, with the same parents. No one thought to tell us.

Luckily this happened before my 18th birthday but it did involve a LOT of time and effort talking to people. Why is it lucky? Because to get your SSN information corrected, they prefer you have an ID. But to get an ID you need a SSN number. See the issue? BUT because I was seventeen and thus still a minor, we could make use of the loophole of parent affidavit; my mother had to state I was her kid, she was my mom, and that my name was NOT spelled with a fucking B. It was a pain in the butt and I still remember sitting in the Social Security office near us waiting for our turn so my mother, who again had been using the number for years for me and had never had any clue about this nonsense, could say "yeah no that's the one, the tiny teenager? yeah that's the one I pushed out of me and no, her name is spelled this way not that way". We both were annoyed.

Point is: bureaucracy is a nightmare and I'm glad they found out now so they can at least prepare ahead of time. I would have liked to not have had to deal with any of that thanks.

A newborn baby girl will have to go through life with the wrong sex on her birth certificate after a registrar’s error, which her parents have been told they cannot change. Grace Bingham and her partner, Ewan Murray, were excited to register their first child at the Sutton-in-Ashfield Registration Office in Nottinghamshire last week. But, after nights of broken sleep, they failed to notice the registrar had written the wrong sex on the birth certificate until after it had been submitted. “We were horrified but assumed that, as we saw the mistake just a few seconds after it had happened, correcting it would be an easy matter,” said Murray. “But although the registrar apologised for her mistake – and the area manager also apologised – it turns out that birth certificates can’t be changed.”

this article is interesting because it demonstrates that cis people can very easily apply structural thinking to sex assignment - this couple immediately identifies that their daughter, having mistakenly been assigned male at birth by the registrar, will have administrative problems in employment, education, travel, and so on. they pretty adeptly identify the foundational role that sex assignment plays in the administrative and civil functions of a state, and how incorrect sex markers effectively produce a ‘rational’ reason for discrimination within these administrative and civil arenas:

The General Register Office (GRO), which is responsible for administering all civil registration in England and Wales, and the Home Office have both confirmed that Lilah’s birth certificate cannot be reissued, although an amendment can be made in the margin of the original document. But Bingham said this is not enough. “People reading a birth certificate might easily miss a tiny note in the margin – which means that Lilah could be regarded as male when she applies for school, her passport, for jobs – for everything that she needs a full birth certificate for.”

And given that this was published in The Guardian, this article makes zero mention as to why it’s impossible for this couple to receive an updated birth certificate with correct information (something the author notes was possible to do a year ago), but the reason is obviously transphobia. 

Now one might ask why there’s no exception for cis people whose birth certificates were recorded incorrectly at birth, but this reveals the instability of cissexualism. How would you determine who is a cis person with a mistaken birth certificate, versus a trans person who wants to change their mistaken sex assignment record? Sure, you could say well, this is an infant, of course she’s “really” “biologically” female (something the parents argue in the article as grounds for having their child’s birth certificate re-issued), but 1) that certainly can’t be argued for in all cases, 2) 'biological sex' is understood by medical doctors as alterable through hormones and surgery, which trans people are often required to undergo in order to change their records, and 3) binary sex assignment is already imprecise and discretionary, particularly if infants have sex characteristics that don’t conform to binary F/M assignment standards (which is part of how the category of intersex emerges, framing this failure to conform to state census categories as a biological defect - and in fact, many intersex people do not discover they are intersex until the onset of puberty or later, at which point they are even less in luck if they want to change their sex assignment - and if they don’t, if they are cis but have sex characteristics that do not conform to cis standards, they will be discriminated against anyway). 

Even setting aside the issue of transgender and intersex people for a moment, states fuck up all the time in administration! you've probably either experienced this directly or know someone who's had some kind of record fucked up by the government at some point in their life. If you get married they could fuck up changing your last name, fuck up your disability status, record your social insurance number wrong, print the wrong address on your driver’s license, fail to acknowledge you as a dependent when filing taxes, incorrectly mark you as having graduated when you’re still a student, fuck up your immigration paperwork, record your name wrong during immigration, etc etc into infinity, and this is not even getting into errors that occur when different levels of government pass information between one another. This level of administrative rigidity is purely to punish people who fail to perform cissexualism correctly, and in the case of this couple's child, the administrative error of the state is imputed to them as a personal failure that she and her parents will now have to deal with for the rest of their lives. 

I think the ultimate analysis is not that transphobia will become less precise and hit more "wrong" targets as it expands its reach, but that this is the exact same operational logic as all other liberal state measures - if you encounter a systemic issue, it’s your fault for not avoiding it, fuck you, go away. You’re poor because you’re lazy, you’re unhoused because you’re lazy, you’re disabled because you’re lazy, and your daughter is now administratively transsexual because you’re lazy. In this case, we don’t even need to assume the intentions of the state - they outright say it:

The family complained to the GRO but was told the mistake was their responsibility and could not be fully rectified. “The duty to ensure that information recorded in any particular entry is true is the responsibility of the person providing the information and not of the registrar general or the registrar recording the birth,” the GRO said.

[mwuaferrari]

FERRARI GIRL - LANDO NORRIS

summary: at carlos sainz's birthday party, lando meets a captivating woman who is part of carlos' close circle of friends. Instantly struck by her warmth and confidence, lando finds himself drawn to her in ways he doesn't fully understand.

pairing: lando norris x reader

warning: english is not my native language, so any spelling or writing error is the fault of the translator hehe.

I´M BAAAAACK

The place was alive with energy, music echoing through the spacious villa and laughter spilling out into the night air. Carlos’ birthday celebrations were in full swing, and his closest friends and family mingled effortlessly, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces.

She arrived late, fashionably so, stepping through the wide-open doors with a casual confidence that immediately drew attention. Carlos spotted her from across the room and waved her over enthusiastically, his arm slung over the shoulders of another friend.

“¡Por fin llegas!” (you finally arrive!) Carlos exclaimed, greeting her with a tight hug. “Ya estaba pensando que te olvidaste de mi cumpleaños” (I was starting to think you’d forgotten my birthday)

“Jamás” (never) she replied, grinning. “Me atrasé por el trabajo, pero sabes que no me lo perdería por nada” (Got held up at work, but I wouldn’t miss this.

He introduced her to the group around him, most of whom she already knew, except for one. Lando Norris.

Lando was mid-sip of his drink when Carlos gestured toward him. “And this is Lando—he’s part of the family now, I guess. You probably know who he is.”

She turned to him, her smile widening in recognition. “McLaren´s golden boy?”

Lando chuckled softly, setting his glass down. “Guilty as charged,” he said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She shook his hand, her grip firm but friendly. There was something about her that caught him off guard—a mix of confidence and warmth, paired with a sparkle in her eye that made him forget for a moment how to speak.

Carlos, blissfully unaware of the silent exchange, clapped Lando on the back. “Don’t let him fool you; he’s way more interesting off the track than on it.”

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

Lando blushed slightly, waving off Carlos’ teasing. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to embarrass me.”

Carlos laughed and turned his attention back to the group, leaving Lando and her to chat.

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “What’s it like being part of the ‘family’ Carlos talks about? He’s so annoying, isn’t he?”

Lando relaxed a little at her lighthearted tone. “Oh, you have no idea. But I guess he’s worth the chaos. What about you? How do you survive being in this group?”

“Years of practice,” she replied with a mock-serious expression. “It’s all about knowing when to dodge Carlos’ pranks and when to just give in.”

Lando laughed, the sound genuine and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any other survival tips?”

“Plenty,” she said, her smile teasing. “But you’ll have to stick around long enough to learn them all.”

Lando felt his heart skip a beat at her words, though he quickly tried to mask it with a confident grin. “Challenge accepted.”

They continued talking, the noise of the party fading into the background as they delved into an easy, flowing conversation. For the first time in a while, Lando found himself genuinely captivated—not by a race, not by a victory, but by someone who seemed to see him as just another guy at a party.

And as the night wore on, he couldn’t help but think this might be the best birthday party he’d ever attended—not because of the celebration itself, but because he’d met her.

…

The days following Carlos’ birthday party felt like a blur for Lando. Between training sessions, media obligations, and sponsor meetings, his mind was on autopilot. Yet, every now and then, a thought would creep in, derailing his focus entirely: her smile.

It wasn’t just her smile, though. It was the way she spoke with an ease that put him at peace, the way she teased Carlos as though she’d known him forever, and the way her eyes seemed to hold a quiet depth, as if she understood the world in ways others didn’t.

He found himself scrolling mindlessly through his phone one evening, laying on the couch in his apartment, the TV murmuring in the background. His thumb hovered over Carlos’ contact. Should I? he thought. Asking for her number felt… bold. Presumptuous, even.

“Mate, just do it,” he muttered to himself, groaning as he dropped the phone onto his chest. “It’s not a big deal.” Except, to him, it was.

After another ten minutes of mental back-and-forth, Lando sat up abruptly, picking up his phone again and tapping Carlos’ name. He typed a message, erased it, typed it again, and then sighed heavily before hitting send.

Lando: Hey, Carlos. Random question, but do you think you could give me your friend’s number? The one from your party? No worries if not.

The response came quicker than expected.

Carlos: Which one? You mean y/n?

Lando’s pulse quickened.

Lando: Yeah, her. If it’s okay with her, of course.

Carlos didn’t reply right away, and in that silence, Lando second-guessed every choice that had led to this moment. He was about to follow up, maybe even backpedal entirely, when his phone buzzed.

Carlos: She said it’s fine. Here you go…

Lando stared at the screen, his heart doing an odd little flip. She’d said yes. That had to be a good sign, right? He copied the number into his contacts, hesitating again as he stared at her name.

What should he say? Something casual? Something funny?

After a moment, he typed out a message and hit send before he could overthink it any more.

Lando: Hey, it’s Lando. Carlos gave me your number, hope that’s okay. I just thought it’d be nice to keep in touch.

The seconds ticked by, and he was already regretting his choice of words when his phone buzzed.

Y/n: Hey! Of course it’s okay. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.

Lando let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a grin spreading across his face. Maybe this wasn’t so scary after all.

…

Lando was lounging on the plush sofa in McLaren's team lounge, his legs stretched out lazily as he typed away on his phone. A small, content smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he read her latest reply.

Y/n: Wait, so you actually thought pineapple on pizza was a good idea?

He chuckled softly, quickly firing back a reply.

Lando: Listen, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Elite taste buds only.

He could almost picture her rolling her eyes as she typed her response, and the thought made his grin widen.

“Alright, mate. Who’s got you looking like that?” Max Fewtrell’s voice cut through Lando’s bubble, teasing and curious.

Lando jolted slightly, instinctively locking his phone screen as if he’d been caught doing something incriminating. “What are you on about?” he asked, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant.

Max plopped down on the sofa beside him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been sitting there smiling at your phone like some lovesick teenager for the last ten minutes. Spill.”

“I’m not—” Lando started, but Max gave him a knowing look, arms crossed, waiting. Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. It’s just... someone I met recently.”

Max’s face lit up with excitement. “Ah-ha! I knew it. Who is she? Is she fit? Of course she’s fit—she’s got you giggling like an idiot.”

Lando groaned, trying to dodge the interrogation. “Can you not make this a thing? It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Max countered, grinning. “So, where’d you meet her? Tell me everything. What’s her name? Does she know you’re you?”

Lando rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. “She’s a friend of Carlos’,” he admitted reluctantly. “We met at his birthday party.”

Max leaned back, nodding approvingly. “A friend of Carlos’. Okay, solid start. So, what’s the game plan? When are you seeing her again?”

“Don’t know yet,” Lando said, glancing back at his phone when it buzzed. Her latest message lit up his screen.

Y/n: You’re lucky you’re funny, Norris. I’ll let this pineapple thing slide….for now.

The smile returned to his face before he could help it.

Max smirked. “Mate, you’ve got it bad. Just don’t screw it up, yeah?”

Lando shook his head, chuckling. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Max.”

Max gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Anytime, lover boy. Anytime.”

…

Then the day came. After weeks of messaging and playful banter through their phones, he was finally going to see her again. Lando had tried not to think too much about it, but now that the moment had arrived, he felt the same nervousness he had when they first met at Carlos's party.

The paddock was its usual whirlwind of activity, with mechanics, drivers, and journalists rushing around. She was leaning casually against a barrier, chatting animatedly with Carlos and another friend from their group. On her head, she wore a red Ferrari cap emblazoned with the number 55—a clear sign of her loyalty to the Spanish driver.

Lando spotted her from the other side of the paddock. His heart was racing faster than he’d like to admit. He had managed to greet her that morning with a barely audible “hi” before she turned her attention back to Carlos, and since then, he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of going up to her.

“Come on, mate, just go say hi. She won’t bite,” Max Fewtrell said, grinning as he toyed with a water bottle beside Lando.

“Easier said than done,” Lando muttered, scratching the back of his neck, trying to look distracted.

“For crying out loud, you’re a Formula 1 driver. You literally race at 300 kilometers an hour, and you can’t walk ten steps to talk to a girl? Pathetic.”

“She’s not just any girl,” Lando mumbled, his gaze inevitably drifting back to her. She was laughing at something Carlos had said, her smile lighting up the space around her—or at least that’s how it seemed to him.

Max let out an exaggerated sigh and gave him a friendly shove. “Then do something. Or I’ll go over there and tell her you’ve been standing here like an idiot, staring at her.”

“Don’t you dare!” Lando whipped around, alarmed.

Max burst out laughing, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, mate. But seriously, don’t waste time. It’s not like Carlos is going to hand-deliver her to you. Make a move already.”

Taking a deep breath, Lando grabbed his orange McLaren cap from his back pocket and started walking toward her. Each step felt heavier than the last, like he was carrying the weight of the entire paddock on his shoulders.

By the time he reached her, she was still engrossed in her conversation, completely unaware of his presence. Carlos noticed him first, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.

“Hey, Lando. What are you doing just standing there?” Carlos teased, dragging out his words with obvious intent, clearly enjoying the moment.

She turned then, her eyes locking with Lando’s. “Oh, hi, Lando!” she greeted him with the same warmth she always did.

For a moment, Lando froze, his mind completely blank. Finally, he raised the orange cap in his hand. “I think you’re wearing the wrong hat.” Before she could react, he swiftly swapped her Ferrari cap for his McLaren one.

She blinked, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. “Oh, really? Is this some kind of declaration of war?”

“Something like that,” Lando replied, scratching the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks flush. Carlos chuckled and walked away, leaving them to it.

She adjusted the orange cap, looking at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Bad boy isn’t really your vibe, but I appreciate the effort.”

Lando relaxed a little at her laugh. “Well, someone had to save you from that awful red cap.”

“Awful?” she said, feigning offense, though her smile betrayed her. “I guess I’ll have to get my cap back by any means necessary.”

“Good luck with that.” Lando finally grinned, the initial awkwardness melting away bit by bit.

It was a small gesture, just a simple exchange of words, but in that moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in the midst of the chaos.

[sophsicle]

I AM A GROWN ADULT

[birdadjacent]

Breaking my commitment to the bit to answer this because TGE really is one of my favorite books of all time.

I'll forego the plot synopsis since the publisher has already written that, and better than I could, and talk about themes instead:

The Goblin Emperor, written by Katherine Addison, is a book about a person being thrust, unexpectedly and unpreparedly, into a position of great authority within the machinery of imperialism.

It touches a bit on the question of whether a person, any person, should even have that much authority, but it's more interested in the material reality of what someone who IS in that position can do to make the world a better place.

And the answer it gives is to choose kindness and compassion. Over and over, even when it's hard, even when you're tired and cranky and overwhelmed, even when it's to someone you hate, or who hurt you.

It spells out what I would consider the thesis statement of the book when the protagonist, when asked if an angry, revenge-fueled impulse would be just, answers with, "it would be cruel. And cruelty is never just."

It's not insipid or naive in its understanding of how power works, but it has a very clear and confident stance on what kindness can do. Maybe it can't save everyone, but it can build bridges.

imagine: you're a minimum wage mail carrier. you have to deliver a letter to some guy's house WAY out in the middle of nowhere. the letter tells him he was elected president. the guy didn't know he was running for president. a month later you're secretary of state and directly advising the president on nuclear policy.

this is the plot of the goblin emperor from csevet's point of view.

[dorabellingham]

Both

warning: none

characters: jude x jobe x fem!reader

summary: when he introduces you to his family, but it seems like the younger brother doesn't have the expected reaction

request: yes

may contain spelling and translation errors!

It was a sunny Saturday in Birmingham, and the weather was perfect for the lunch Jude had been planning for weeks. He was eager, though he wouldn’t admit it, to officially introduce you to his family. Until now, they had only known you through a few stories and videos that he had shared with them with enthusiasm. Today would be different. Today they would meet the woman who had stolen his heart.

You were visibly nervous as you adjusted your simple but elegant dress in the rearview mirror.

—They’re going to like you, babe. —Jude said, squeezing your hand gently. —You’re amazing, Y/n. It can’t be any other way.

—I just�� want to make a good impression.

You replied, your eyes betraying a hint of anxiety.

Jude smiled, leaning in to kiss your forehead.

—You’re going to be perfect, as always.

As soon as you arrived at the Bellingham house, you felt the warmth of the welcome. Denise was the first to wrap you in a tight hug.

—We finally met the girl Jude talks about so much!

She said, smiling warmly.

Mark, on the other hand, was more reserved, but kind. He shook your hand firmly, silently nodding his approval. You felt relief course through your veins.

Then Jobe came. At only 16, he seemed less at ease than the rest of the family. Tall and with the same unassuming smile as your boyfriend, he kept a slightly stiff posture as he greeted you.

—Hi, I'm Jobe. I've heard a lot about you!

He said, his voice slightly shaky.

You smiled, warm and spontaneous.

—I hope good things, Jobe!

The younger brother blushed instantly, looking away.

—Oh, yes, of course. Good things, lots of good things.

Jude watched the interaction closely, his smile fading slightly. He knew that look on his brother's face —it was the same one he used to give you in the first few months he'd known you.

During lunch, you quickly won over everyone at the table. You had funny stories and a light-hearted manner that charmed your in-laws. Even Jobe, who was usually more reserved, laughed at your jokes.

—And then Jude tried to cook for me once. —You said, laughing. —He even burned the water!

The table erupted in laughter, and Jude shook his head, feigning indignation.

—Okay, it was just once, and I was trying to impress.

—Well, it seems to have worked.

Denise commented, smiling at you approvingly.

Jobe, on the other hand, remained quieter, but his eyes were constantly on you. Every time you looked at him or asked him something directly, he would visibly blush, stumbling over his words to answer.

—So, Jobe, how are trainings going? Jude talks about you a lot.

You asked with genuine interest.

Jobe choked slightly on his water.

—Oh... they’re good. Well... intense, but it's... it's nice, you know?

Jude narrowed his eyes, watching the interaction carefully. When you leaned over to pick something up and accidentally brushed against your brother-in-law's arm, your younger brother's face turned red and that bothered the older Bellingham.

Later, while you were talking to Denise in the kitchen, Jude pulled Jobe out into the backyard.

—So, what's going on, huh?

Jude asked, crossing his arms.

—What do you mean?

He answered, trying to sound casual.

—You know exactly what I mean. The way you look at Y/n. —Jude stepped forward, his expression serious. —She's my girlfriend, Jobe.

The boy raised his hands in defense, his face still flushed.

—I... it's nothing, right? I just think she's... nice, that's all.

Jude narrowed his eyes, assessing his brother.

—I hope so. Because I love her, and I won’t let anyone, not even you, ruin that.

Jobe sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

—I wouldn’t do that, Jude. You know that. Just… relax, okay?

He finally nodded, but still kept a warning look on his face.

—Okay, just remember: Y/n is my girl.

Later, while Jude helped his mother clear the table, you found Jobe alone in the living room. He looked uncomfortable, fiddling with his phone as if he wanted to avoid eye contact.

—Jobe, is everything fine?

You asked, sitting down next to him.

He glanced at you quickly and then looked away.

—Yeah, sure, Y/n. It’s fine.

You smiled softly, touching his arm lightly.

—Look, I know Jude can be a little… protective sometimes. But he only does it because he cares.

He finally looked at you, his eyes revealing a mix of emotions.

—You’re amazing. Jude is lucky to have you.

You blushed slightly, surprised by his sincerity.

—Thank you, Jobe. That means a lot.

When Jude entered the room, he saw you smiling at Jobe and his brother looking at you with an admiration that was hard to ignore. He immediately approached, putting his arm around her waist.

—Everything okay here?

Jude asked, his tone casual, but his eyes fixed on his brother.

—Yeah. —He replied, standing up quickly. —I’m going to help mum in the kitchen.

When he left, you looked at Jude, confused.

—He’s acting weird, huh?

Jude sighed, squeezing your waist.

—He’s just… a little shy. Nothing to worry about, babe.

But deep down, Jude knew he would have to keep an eye on Jobe for a while. After all, his girl was irresistible – even to his younger brother.

[tatsumi-rin]

Anyone else thought about this?

With the popularity of Mouthwashing as a game, I've seen people who talk about it talk about the mouthwash itself as a metaphor for Jimmy (and they're definitely correct in their read imo), but dear god NO ONE is talking about it as a potential metaphor for Pony Express itself as a company.

This is an item considered to be an essential. It is a dental hygiene product dentists would generally recommend you have. 99.9% of bacteria gone - but this one is loaded with sugar. Using this is going to be detrimental to its own cause and probably worse than using no mouthwash at all.

Pony Express? No matter your start, it seems like a good, stable job and a promising future. People will always need goods transported to other planets. It even has a cute mascot representing pride in their work that they sell toys of to kids!

Butttttt, the caveats. Oh boy, the caveats. All of those cute images are done to soften the blow of little red pieces of text about how doing things to the point of basically existing means your credits are going to get docked - something that's just as much Aperture Science-esque dark humor as horrible foreshadowing. Late delivery? Docked. Resting in any manner for more than five hours? Docked. Using medical support in any manner? Docked. REPORTING ISSUES TO HR??? MOTHER. FUCKING. DOCKED.

And trying to avoid any of those dockings; those detriments? Pretty much impossible, and that would spell doom for anyone: including members of a certain ship. With every one of those rules, if they survived that payout would be hilariously low. The usual rules; made by out of touch people in fancy suits.

The members of the Tulpar all (mostly) had reasons to be there, even at radically different life stages. Reasons why they needed the work, and reasons why it should fulfill those reasons and enrich their lives.

It was meant to be Jimmy's ticket away from struggling on earth. It was meant to be Daisuke gaining direction in life. It was meant to be Anya finally getting into medical school. It was meant to be Swansea gaining a stable and fulfilling life as he made it into sobriety, and it was meant to be Curly making it further up into his career path with glowing words of praise.

As per capitalism's usual spiel that we were even shown in the game itself via public domain cartoon, taking this job was meant to be joyous opportunity and innovation for their lives; but with so many flaws in the system around them around them - including the words on those posters - just trying to find benefit in the system they needed in order to survive was nothing more than fatal poison. The dead pixel, the sugar, and the 0.1% all working together.

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 crusty first kiss rookanis enjoy 🪶

By the time they come out of the Diamond and into the marketplace, even the crystal peddler is closing up.

"Mierda."

"What?" Rook comes to a halt next to him. Little less than a week ago, he would have stepped away from just how close she stands to him.

"I meant to buy groceries. We're out of some spices."

Rook is quiet, like she's working up courage to speak her mind. Strange.

"I mean.. I've got groceries at home, if you still got time."

"How would you know the contents of the cooking rack?" Lucanis asks, despite motioning for her to lead the way. "I've not seen you use it once."

"Because someone always hogs the stove." She playfully knocks her shoulder into his arm. "No, I meant in my pad. It's just- well, up the roofs, but down the road. You get it."

She takes his hand and guides him down the road, up the trellis, over beams and through strategically broken windows.

"It's probably smelly in here," she says as she pulls out a keyring from under her cloak and opens a doorlock hidden behind an overgrown trellis. "Haven't been here in.. oh, over half a year."

"Hit the Antaam and hauled out of Treviso."

"For all the good that did, yeah. Oh, dear, sorry about that!"

Smells like stale air and rotten onions. Spite makes gagging sounds next to him as they both thread themselves through the open frame.

"Kitchenette's over there, you can just pick up whatever you like - let me open another window." She says over there as though her room wasn't so small it was already crowded with two short Crows and a demon.

A grunt, as she breaks open another of her windows. "Curse this forsaken rookery."

Sweet. Rook lives in a rookery.

"I'm sure her name hasn't been Rook her entire life, Spite. Or that she lived in a rookery all her life. How would a babe even get up here?"

If Lucanis had been told a year ago that he would comfortably talk to a demon inside him out loud while his dear is well within earshot, he would have fallen off a beam cackling.

Rook laughs. "It is a little funny, he's not wrong." Smart girl.

"Varric's chosen Rook for the chess piece, though. Says I think in straight lines. Can't imagine why."

"What's wrong with your own name?" Instead of going through her cabinets, he watches her light what seems like enough candles to burn down half of Treviso as she weaves a path through the clutter on the ground. Messy girl.

"He has this old friend of his, from where he comes from, who he'd given it as a nickname. Also an elf. Shorter than both of us, still, apparently. But she was Daisy first, I guess."

"I'm taller than you are."

"And I heard what Teia said to you about me. How you found the one Crow shorter than yourself." No bite or judgement, none at all. He's said worse to Davrin on a good day.

There's a spell of quiet, as he turns to actually take inventory of her reserves and she collects things she wants at the Lighthouse off the floor into an enormous backpack. Clothes, mostly, from the sound of it.

At least, quiet except for Spite logging every individual smell he registers. Every herb, every spice, the old must of damp fabric on wood planks, garlic so rotten the cloves have turned liquid inside. Lucanis' own cologne and Rook's strange mixture of cocoa and wet soil, though he dismisses those as Known and therefore uninteresting.

"Your kitchen is well-stocked, Rook." When she leans against the side of her tall cupboard, her plumed jacket hangs haphazardly over the doorknob behind her. By the door, her overstuffed backpack and a strapped milk crate filled with shoes.

"Don't sound so surprised. I remind you my shit-frys were at least edible, as opposed to whatever Harding does to the poor produce."

"That you call them shit-frys makes me all the more concerned." His sigh is playful, and she knows it. She hands off a basket to him, to collect the kitchenette's loot in.

She moves her hair over her bare shoulder, watches him collect containers of dried herbs, pink salt and ground garlic, syrups, jams. Some jerky, preserved damson.

"I don't actually put shit in it, you know." Through the sleeve of his shirt, she pinches at his arm.

"Do I know that?" She plays at offense when she catches his glance.

"Shit-fry's said faster than random assortment of fried vegetables. If I had grains, I'd call it Crow Feed."

It hits him like a blind bird hits a tall window, the domesticity of what they're doing here.

The achingly familiar weight of her skin on his. The unconditional trust as she lets him raid her kitchen. The fact that, when he'd asked to touch her back just that morning, to rub the visible tension from the muscles along her spine, she'd brushed her hair over her chest and turned away from him.You don't have to ask, Lucanis. You never have to ask.

The way that, even though he holds himself still as marble, his muscles still soften to accomodate for her touch.

Her forehead rests square against his triceps. Fingers curl in the fabric of his waistcoat, the other hand covering the edge of the countertop with the familiar ease of having suffered many injuries at its points.

Lucanis doesn't dare move. The spell of the moment would be broken faster than a splinter takes to skin. Spite runs across all four walls and the ceiling like a rabid cat.

"Never thought I'd see this place again," she admits, quietly. "Funny. I always hated it here. That I could never dream to live anywhere better. That this rancid, abandoned nest covered in birdshit was all my life would ever amount to."

The fingers in the fabric of his waistcoat pat gently against his small back as she collects herself with a deep, steadying breath.

"If you miss it that much," Lucanis starts, slowly. He holds himself so taut he can feel her brows pull together, even through his shirt. "You can always come back. A hideout from the hideout."

He moves to meet her gaze when he can feel her move to look up at him.

"Are you coming, too?"

"If you lead, I will follow."

Spite hurls curses at him in languages Lucanis never heard in his life, for reasons he isn't privy to, but it doesn't matter.

Not with the way Rook looks at him, right now.

"I really want to kiss you, Lucanis," she whispers. Her eyes flick up at his, down at his mouth.

"So do I." Spite chokes on the lump Lucanis tries to swallow out of his throat.

"Oh, good."

And then she leans up and does.

It's short, doesn't even last a heartbeat, and somehow it's both the smallest and the biggest thing that ever happened to him.

Her hand settles, surprisingly warm, on his low back. Even Spite is quiet, crouching in the sink with eyes wide as saucers. Rook's palm is still shielding him from the countertop corner.

People kiss like that all the time. Good-morning, good-night, I'm-still-too-sleepy-to-speak, I-just-felt-like-kissing.

It means nothing, and it means everything.

She comes back up for another.

YES. Again. More!

And another.

Her lips are parted now, wrap warm and soft around his.

Or his around hers.

Lucanis isn't sure.

The noise out of her throat, from balancing on her bad knee, rings loud as a chantry bell to him.

He's still holding on to the sweet potato.

Drops it to steady her, hand near her elbow. The sound turns curious, but she leans into the touch. There's renewed strength behind her lips now.

"Maker provide me," Rook huffs when she comes back down. She abandons the countertop corner, her nails slide onto his welt pocket.

When he looks at her lips, somehow there's more glitter on them than before.

"I could get lost in your puppy eyes for the rest of all time."

Lucanis has neither breath nor words.

So he ducks his face down to hers again.

🪶

this is spite

ALSO I PUT MY THESIS INTO THE HANDS OF MY COORDINATOR TODAY IM FINALLY FREE WHEEEEEEEEEE

also idk what first kisses w someone you actually care about are like dont come for me the reason I write like a wattpad preteen is bc when it comes to intimacy i AM the wattpad preteen

@lanafofana what we talked about is coming i promise <3

[~rina]

[definitelynotshouting]

You have synesthesia?? How does that work for you? Is this how you manage to use the word “meat” in a way that makes me go “holy shit that’s good and cool i need to read that sentence four more times” instead of “ew”?????

I do!!! Letters, numbers, and words all have colours and sometimes visual textures for me-- and while numbers and letters on their own are generally only a single colour (7 is a bright, grassy green!!! while "K" is a pale peachy pink, for example :] ), when i put them into words they often take on entirely new colours, some of which even bleed into each other like watercolour paints. Ironically, its why i use the UK spelling of "colour" in the first place-- the "u" turns what looks like a dull, desaturated blue into a smeared blue-and-purple that i find really pretty to look at :]] so when i say i like to paint with words, i kinda mean that literally 😂😂😂😂😂

But yeah, i'd imagine thats why my writing is Like That™ to some degree-- a lot of what im doing behind the scenes involves matching the colours and visual textures of a given word with all of the others in order to evoke a particular vibe or image in my writing. There are a lot of layers to how i write, but this is probably the one that takes both the most time AND is the one i happen to talk about the least WKDJWKSJEJ

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

yandere!young justice x magician and sorcerer!reader

BUUUUUUUUUT,the readed is a part of the team,however,shows no interest in them,and it just there because she kinda just has to,and no matter how much they try to get her attention,she never gives them any of it.

(I love your writing btw😼)

Yandere! Young Justice x magician! Reader

The Cave was quiet, as it always was at night, the hum of machines and distant murmurs of the world outside barely touching the stillness that clung to the mountain like a second skin. In this isolated hollow, surrounded by the cool stone walls, you could hear your own thoughts—the whisper of spells, the pulse of magic, the unspoken words you chose not to say.

You never had to explain yourself here, never had to wear the mask of pleasantries or pretend you cared about anything more than the mission. The others, they didn’t understand. They couldn’t, not really. You weren’t like them, never had been. You didn’t need the comfort of their companionship. You didn’t want their attention, their curiosity, or their pity.

And yet, they tried.

Conner was always watching. A silent presence, brooding and intense, always lingering in the background, his eyes following your every movement. He never asked questions—no, that wasn’t his style. Instead, he observed, the way a predator watches its prey, calculating, waiting. He never made an effort to speak, not in the way Wally did with his incessant jokes or M'gann with her quiet warmth. Conner was patient, cold, waiting for something to crack, for something to change.

His silence was a constant reminder. He didn’t need to speak; you could feel his presence, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you, always at the edge of your vision, always waiting.

It was unsettling, but you never let it show.

Wally was a different story altogether. His energy was like a crackling fire, unpredictable, always bouncing from one thing to the next. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t leave you be. "Come on," he would say, leaning over your shoulder as you worked on a spell, his grin wide and carefree. "Show me something cool. You know you’ve got some crazy magic tricks up your sleeve."

His insistence was always accompanied by that grin of his, mischievous and bright, as though his charm could draw you out of your shell. But you never did. You never gave him the satisfaction of seeing you smile, never let him see you as more than just another teammate. It wasn’t his fault—he was just trying to make the team feel more like a family. But you didn’t care about family. You didn’t care about any of them.

“I’m busy,” you’d say, dismissing him with a flick of your hand, returning to your spell. And Wally, ever the optimist, would laugh and zip away, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he left you to your silence.

But it wasn’t enough for him, no. His persistence was a thing of legend. Sometimes you’d catch him watching you, his gaze fixed, a question burning in his eyes. "Why are you always like this?" he seemed to ask with every look. But he never voiced it. Instead, he’d turn away, hoping that somehow, eventually, you’d change your mind.

Then there was Robin. The dark and silent watcher. He knew how to stay in the shadows, how to be everywhere without being seen. His presence was like the night itself—always there, always watching, never truly gone. Robin was the most subtle of them all. He never asked outright; instead, he would drop little comments, observations that always felt like a puzzle, like he was trying to figure you out, piece by piece.

"You know, you could talk to us more," he’d say, casually leaning against the wall as he watched you work. His tone was light, almost playful, but you could sense the undercurrent of something more—something deeper. “We don’t bite, you know.”

You didn’t respond. Of course, you didn’t. The only response he got was the steady flick of your fingers over the spellbook, the quiet hum of magic filling the space between you. He didn’t try to get too close, not like Wally or M'gann, but his eyes never stopped tracking you, always measuring, always calculating. Robin was patient, the kind of person who knew that some things took time, that some people had walls that needed to be broken down slowly.

And you? You weren’t going to let him.

M'gann was the opposite. Her presence was always warm, soft, inviting. She would sit beside you, her legs tucked under her, her eyes wide with curiosity. "You know," she would say with that gentle voice of hers, "I could help you with your spells. I can be a good study partner, if you ever need one."

Her kindness wasn’t forced, never had been. It was natural for her, as natural as breathing. She wasn’t like the others who were driven by some sense of duty or curiosity. No, M'gann’s attention was genuine, a quiet offer of companionship. She was the one who tried to reach you without asking, without expecting anything in return.

But you didn’t need help. You didn’t need her to reach you. And so, you’d quietly decline, giving her nothing more than a polite smile before returning to the words in your book, the pages filled with symbols that had no need for her warmth.

And then there was Artemis. The sharp, straightforward one. She didn’t waste time on subtlety. Her approach was always direct, blunt, like a sharp blade that never hesitated. "You don’t have to be so closed off, you know," she’d say, her voice a mix of irritation and something else. It was hard to tell with Artemis—her eyes were always guarded, her emotions always hidden behind a wall of indifference. "We’re all in this together."

She had a point, of course. But you didn’t care. You didn’t care about being “in it together.” You had your own path to follow, and they weren’t a part of it. You didn’t need to explain that to her, or to anyone. So, you’d give her a nod, a brief acknowledgment that wasn’t really an acknowledgment, and move on with your work.

Kaldur was the calm one, the quiet one. His respect for you was obvious, but it never crossed the line into anything more. He would offer you a nod as he passed, his gaze soft, his presence steady like the water he controlled. He didn’t push you the way the others did. He didn’t try to break down your walls. He simply respected them, kept his distance, and allowed you to be as you were.

But even Kaldur had moments when his gaze would linger on you, just a second too long, like he was waiting for you to finally open up, to let him see more than the cold silence you kept locked behind your eyes.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough for you to feel the weight of their gaze, the quiet pressure of their attention. They thought they understood you. They thought that if they just tried enough, kept reaching out, eventually, you’d let them in.

But you wouldn’t.

In the midst of their attempts, you kept your distance, always lost in the pages of your spells, your incantations, the quiet hum of power that thrummed beneath your fingertips. They were drawn to you, like moths to a flame, their fascination burning just beneath the surface of their words, their glances, their actions.

But you would remain untouched. You would keep your secrets locked away, your magic a barrier between you and the world they wanted to draw you into.

They didn’t understand it, not really. They couldn’t. You were not like them. You didn’t need what they offered. You didn’t need to be a part of their team, their family, their world. You were the silent watcher, the one who kept their distance while they reached out, always hoping that something would change.

But it wouldn’t.

You weren’t there for them. You were there because you had a purpose, one that had nothing to do with them, nothing to do with the team, and nothing to do with any of their quiet, unspoken obsessions. You would remain distant, and they would keep trying, never understanding why you remained so cold, so unreachable.

And that, for now, was enough.

(A/n: thank you kind fellow fur🤭😽)

[hollowed-theory-hall]

i remember you mentioned Harry loves spending time with Diary bc of his connection with Voldemort (or i think so) but what about Voldemort in his head? does he loves it or not? i also think after death-and-rebirth he kinda feel more lighter and even sad about it

Like, it's canon Harry likes to just hold the diary becouse he feels drawn to it, even before knowing how it works:

Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t just throw Riddle’s diary away. The fact was that even though he knew the diary was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he’d had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But this was absurd. He’d never had friends before Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that.

(CoS, Ch13)

That's an actual quote from the book.

Also, later on, Tom has to literally spell out that he's Voldemort because Harry was just completely unwilling to accept that his new BFF Tom who he might have a baby crush on is evil:

“Tom — Tom Riddle?” Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face. “What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said desperately. “She’s not — she’s not — ?” “She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.” [...] “Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly. “A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.” He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry [...] For a second, Harry wondered how it had got there — but there were more pressing matters to deal with. “You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here. There’s a basilisk . . . I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment. . . . Please, help me —” Riddle didn’t move. [...] But his wand had gone. “Did you see — ?” He looked up. Riddle was still watching him — twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers. “Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it. A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly. “Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go! If the basilisk comes —” “It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly. [...] “What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, I might need it —” Riddle’s smile broadened. “You won’t be needing it,” he said. Harry stared at him. “What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?” “I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.” “Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later —” “We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand. Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here. . . .

(CoS, Ch17)

Like, it takes Harry forever to get to the realization something is wrong even though Tom steals his wand and says mysterious evil shit because Harry was so desperate to keep Tom as his friend.

I mentioned here, how Harry does like his mental connection to Voldemort in DH in a way because it gives him a sense of purpose.

Harry is the one to decide they should be wearing the locket after he sensed life from it:

“Can you feel it, though?” Ron asked in a hushed voice, as he held it tight in his clenched fist. “What d’you mean?” Ron passed the Horcrux to Harry. After a moment or two, Harry thought he knew what Ron meant. Was it his own blood pulsing through his veins that he could feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like a tiny metal heart? “What are we going to do with it?” Hermione asked. “Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it,” Harry replied, and, little though he wanted to, he hung the chain around his own neck, dropping the locket out of sight beneath his robes, where it rested against his chest beside the pouch Hagrid had given him.

(DH, Ch14)

He's also the one of the trio that insists they should be wearing the locket even after they learn of it's effects, while Hermione suggests that maybe they really shouldn't:

“Hmm,” said Hermione, looking down at the heavy gold locket. “Well, maybe we ought not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent.” “We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around,” Harry stated firmly. “If we lose it, if it gets stolen — ”

(DH, Ch15)

Ron is also against wearing Horcruxes, while Harry didn't seem to mind keeping the cup in his pocket:

Harry pulled the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket he had just taken off and set it down on the grass in front of them. Glinting in the sun, it drew their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice. “At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit weird hanging around our necks,” said Ron, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

(DH, Ch27)

So, yeah, I think Harry definitely could feel his connection to Tom and the various Horcruxes.

I do think, once he comes back to life, he feels emptier, like a part of him is gone in a way. He'd feel lighter like a weight was taken off his shoulders, but I think he'd also feel off and aimless. I talked about it more here.

It's why I think Harry should've gone back for 8th year, I think getting his NEWTs and the familiar environment at Hogwarts would do him good after everything. Give my boy a break.

[gtzel]

(title TBD) winter and claus

Next/previous

Chapter 1:

It had been a long night of work, and Winter had finally gotten every item on his list. Since his brother, Ryan, had left on a trip to visit their parents, Winter had to fend for himself. But you see, Winter didn't have a normal human job, anymore than he was a normal human teenager. Because he wasn't normal, or human. Winter was a borrower, a secret tiny subspecies of humans. No one knew how they had come to be, and as far as actual humans were concerned, they didn't exist at all. Borrowers, for those of you who don't know, are tiny people who stand about 3 inches in height. They “Borrow” from their stronger and bigger counterparts, without their consent. Yes, it could be called stealing, but is it really stealing if it never leaves the house? So anyway, these Borrowers usually reside in the walls, floorboards, or ceilings of human houses, and take little items that won't be missed. 

And that brings us back to Winter. As I'm sure you’ve already realized, Winter is one of these Borrowers. The 17 year old boy stood at a height of about 7.82 centimeters. His dark black curls were shaggy around his delicate complexion. He had bright silvery eyes that glittered when he was curious. The borrower had a tuft tipped tail which was soft, and very much sensitive to touch. His ears were pointed just enough to come off as faen. He wore a patchwork tunic and intentionally torn pants that his older brother always gave him trouble for. Winter thought of the tears as a fashion choice. 

The borrower sat on the sill of a window in one of the human’s rooms. He watched the sunrise, knowing he would need to head home soon to prevent being seen. But he brushed the thought away, the human always had an alarm that went off, and waited a long while before actually waking up. He wouldn't have to worry about being caught today. After all, he was a skilled borrower, trained by the best. 

Winter’s eyes caught on the papers on the human’s desk, curiosity perking him up. He had been taught to read at a young age by his parents, a borrower necessity for gathering the correct supplies. He hastily made his way over to the desk, clamoring up the tall side using his home-made grappling device. It was self engineered by him and his brother. A sort of pulley system to prevent the pains and risks of the usual borrower's fish hook. He launched the hook in the air with stunning precision, then attached the clamp to his harness belt and finally flipped the leaver which helped to propel him along the rope. The pulley system had been Ryan’s idea, since Winter had irregular fainting spells and needed a safe way to guarantee his borrowing trips would be successful. 

As Winter finally reached the top of the desk and unhooked the harness, leaving the pulley system intact on the edge of the desk for his trip back down. Winter curiously approached the humans papers, the night prior he had noticed the human writing ferociously and he grew more intrigued by the moment. His head tilted to the side, not unlike a curious puppy, as he stepped onto the writing that dwarfed him in size. He focused his eyes on reading each letter, making sentences. To Winter’s delight, the human had been writing a story of sorts. The borrower did not understand the majority of what the human was talking about in the story, a lot of numbers. But it appeared to be talking about a group of humans on a trip to a place called “California” in search of the rare item “gold.” As Winter read, he became more and more engrossed with the story. Winter was so engrossed in fact, that he had completely forgotten about the human who was supposed to be asleep behind him. It wasn't until it was too late that Winter realized the horror. 

As a floorboard creaked behind him, Winter spun around, eyes wide. His gaze landed on the human’s towering form, looming above. Before Winter could process the scene enough to run, a sickeningly massive hand shot out and curled itself tightly around the borrower's bony form. The sudden movement knocked the air out of WInters body. His delicate form finally caught up with the rush of pain. As the whole world shifted around him faster than he had ever experienced, Winter’s body seized with terror. Fear spiked within his disoriented form as two massive eyes the size of him focused, their dark blue mixed with flecks of shimmering gold looked with sick curiosity as they met Winter’s small form. 

Winter felt his throat close up as his heart thrummed in his ears, a loud ringing echoing through the room as the human alarm went off. Winter flinched and screwed his eyes shut at the piercing sound, his breathing becoming an erratic mix of strangled gasps and panicked chokes. His head swivels around, his pinned down arms desperately wishing to shield his tender ears from the sharp painful sound. He felt the world around him move at a nauseating speed, a loud booming voice echoed around him but was clouded by the borrower's panic and the loud ringing. Winter felt the already firm grip around him tighten. 

The loud piercing sound was quelled and zeals' eyes opened blearily.  Immediately his dizzy gaze dropped down to the startling height he was being held at. His eyes darted to the human, his cold stare, shapely face looking at the borrower scrutinizingly, his wispy blonde hair falling across his face delicately. As his lips moved to speak, Winter winced in pain, a sharp throbbing in his head as the human's bellowing voice became more clear to him.

“Tch-what the hell do we have here?” His voice was cold and sickeningly toned. The voice made WInter’s blood run cold with fear. Suddenly, the weight of the situation gripped him. He had been caught, not only that, the human looked as if he might just kill Winter there and then. 

Winter shrunk into himself, struggling helplessly in the pain inducing grip of the human. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his panic triggering a fight or flight sense, causing him to act without thinking. He sunk his teeth into the tip of the human’s finger, the only form of fight he was able to muster up. Unfortunately for Winter, this backfired and the human just squeezed tighter. Winter whimpered and shrunk into himself more, his lungs so compressed that he could barely breathe. 

“Ah! P-please” a pathetic whimper escaped his lips in pain, pleading to be let go. A sharp cry of desperation. He would definitely be severely bruised later. If there was going to be a later for Winter. 

The human's eyes widened a fraction, upon realizing the creature he had caught could speak. He loosened his grip on Winter enough for the borrower to be able to breathe. He needed to think cautiously.

“What are you?” the human asked in a cold tone. He tightened his grip on Winter just enough to be seen as a warning. 

But Winter couldn’t just answer humans. Revealing his species would jeopardize his family and all of the borrower kind. He had already fucked up once by speaking in the presance of the human, he wouldnt allow himself to break any more rules. 

“I-I don't have to tell you” Winter spat out, an obvious tremble in his voice as he tried to mask his fear with harsh words. 

The human scoffed at the words, looking down at the borrower coldly “oh really? Those are some bold words for someone smaller than my hand” he smirked devilishly down at the frightened borrower. 

Winter bit back a cry of fear, he felt his senses overwhelm, his vision blur. ‘Oh no’ the borrower thought in a panic ‘no no no no no not now!’ he felt his vision double and his head began to cloud over as he was visited by a fainting spell. He had been trying his best to not over exert himself for fear of this happening. 

He felt his head nod back as everything went black, his body collapsing under the stress of the situation. 

[sasheemo]

When we collide

Chapter 11

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Fic masterlist

Chapter Summary: Agatha sneaks into your house, and an already risky plan takes an unexpected, and even riskier, turn.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: I know this update took forever and I am so sorry, work and life in general have been crazy lately. Writing has been such a slow process, and finding the time to sit down and focus has been hella hard.

That said, I’m so grateful for your patience and support—it truly means the world to me. Every comment, like, and bit of encouragement keeps me motivated to push through, even when things feel overwhelming. I hope this chapter was worth the wait and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed crafting it.

Thank you for sticking with me through this journey. Your love for this story keeps me going 💜

It feels like you’ve been hiding in the shadows of your garden for hours. You have no idea how much time has passed or how long Agatha has been inside.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been waiting an eternity.

The night grows colder and heavier with each passing second, the chill creeps through your dress, your eyes fixed on the darkened windows above. The faint glow of the kitchen light spills onto the ground, a subtle but constant reminder of your mother’s presence inside.

You clench your hands into fists at your sides, trying to still the growing unease coiling in your chest. The plan had seemed straightforward at the time: get Agatha inside, have her pretend to be you, and wait for her to open the window. But now, as you stand in the biting cold, the enormity of the risks begins to gnaw at you.

Agatha doesn’t know your mother. Not the way you do. 

She doesn’t know the sharp edge to her voice, the way her words cut deeper than her glares. She doesn’t know the little tells, the moments when her mood shifts and it’s better to stay quiet than risk provoking her. And most importantly, Agatha doesn’t know the intricate, tense dance you’ve perfected over years of enduring her.

The weight of it all suddenly feels crushing. You shift uneasily, your breathing shallow as your thoughts spiral. What if your mother notices something’s off? What if Agatha hesitates or says the wrong thing? What if she tries to talk her way out of something and slips up? 

You bite down on your lip, forcing yourself to breathe slower, deeper. But the thoughts don’t stop. 

What if your mother catches her before she even reaches your room? What if she figures out the truth? What would she do - to Agatha, to you - if she realized the extent of this betrayal? Your mind conjures up a dozen worst-case scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last.

A sharp gust of wind pulls you from your spiraling thoughts, and you glance down instinctively at the small bundle of fur near your feet. The rabbit, Agatha’s rabbit, sits quietly in the shadows beside you, its nose twitching as it sniffs the night air. Its presence is steady, calm, almost indifferent to the storm raging in your head.

You crouch down slightly, your fingers brushing against the creature’s soft fur. It doesn’t flinch, simply shifts closer as if it senses your unease. There’s something grounding about the animal, something simple and reassuring. Agatha had brought it here with her, and for some reason, the thought that something she clearly cares for is by your side soothes the sharp edges of your panic.

You take another breath, steadier this time. The faint glow from the kitchen is still there, unchanging, and the stillness of the house seems both unnerving and hopeful. 

She’s inside. She’ll make it.

And then, finally, you hear the faint creak of the window above. 

Your head snaps up, your pulse quickening as you watch it ease open. Your own face peers out from the shadowed wooden frame, tense and searching the garden below. It takes you a second to remember that it’s actually Agatha.

The sight pulls at something strange in your chest. You know the spell you cast has served its purpose, that she’s safe now. That realization settles over you like a wave, and you exhale slowly, steadying yourself.

Closing your eyes, you draw on the lingering energy of the spell, your magic buzzing faintly under your skin. You picture her, not as a reflection of yourself, but as she truly is: darker, undeniably powerful, magnetic. With a flick of your wrist and a soft breath, you send the magic out, releasing it.

When you open your eyes, the figure leaning out of the window has changed. Her true form has returned: wild, dark hair framing her face, sharp cheekbones catching the faintest glow of the night.

Agatha’s gaze catches yours, steady and knowing, as if she’s fully aware of what you’ve just done. She tilts her head slightly in acknowledgment, a silent signal to come up. 

The tension in your chest doesn’t fully ease, but you let yourself glance at the towering tree at the center of the garden, its ancient branches stretching out in every direction like a great, unmoving sentinel. The bark is thick and weathered, furrowed with deep grooves that speak of countless seasons endured. 

Its lowest branches bow slightly under their own weight, but higher up, the limbs grow stronger, sprawling outward with a defiant strength. One of its largest branches curves close to your window, not enough to block the view from your room but near enough to serve as your path inside.

The tree has always been there, a quiet companion through your childhood. Back then, its lower limbs had felt like a sanctuary, their rough surfaces welcoming and steady beneath your hands. You’d scramble up effortlessly, laughing as you dangled your legs and let the world blur into your own imagined wilderness. 

But tonight, the tree looms above you, its branches no longer inviting but daunting, like a puzzle demanding perfect precision. Your gaze fixes on the thick branch that leads toward your window, and doubt creeps in uninvited.

You exhale, trying to calm the knot of nerves twisting in your stomach. The branches look sturdy, thicker than they seemed when you were younger, but you know they’ll need to hold more than they ever have before.

You step closer to the tree as you prepare to hoist yourself up. But as you look upward, plotting your path, reality snaps into focus. 

One of your hands is clutching the rabbit, its small body shifting slightly against your palm, leaving the other useless for climbing. Both hands will be needed to grip the bark and the branches, to steady yourself as you ascend.

You can’t climb like this.

Your jaw tightens as you glance down at the animal, then over your shoulder at the satchel pulling against your back. The weight of both feels suddenly oppressive, a barrier between you and the safety of the window above.

Your breath is clouding in the cold air as you glance up at the towering tree again. For a moment, you stand frozen, your mind racing for a solution.

Then, an idea comes to you. Maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s all you’ve got, and it’ll have to do.

Kneeling carefully, you place the rabbit gently on the ground beneath the tree. 

“Stay.” you whisper softly, as the small creature sniffs the grass, its twitching nose brushing against a fallen leaf. You shrug the satchel off your back, unfastening the flap with fingers that tremble slightly from the cold.

You glance down at the contents of the bag and let out a soft sigh of relief. Agatha, it seems, is a light packer. There’s enough space, you think, and without hesitation, you scoop up the rabbit again, cradling its small body close for a moment. 

“Alright, you’re going in.” you whisper, angling the bag carefully to create a safe, snug space.

The rabbit shifts, its ears flicking in mild protest, but it doesn’t wriggle too much as you tuck it in among the folds of Agatha’s clothing. You adjust the fabric gently, making sure it’s secure, and offer a quiet, almost reassuring murmur. “See? Not so bad.”

You hope the familiar scent will keep it calm during the climb. For a moment, the faint smell reaches you as well - earthy yet sweet, rich and layered - and it stops you in your tracks. The briefest flicker of distraction pulls at you before you shake it off, focusing on closing the satchel and readying yourself for the climb.

You glance up at the window to check for any sign from Agatha, but what you see halts you. She’s leaning out of the darkened window, her features clear despite the shadows, and her expression… well, if looks could kill, you’d be flat on the ground.

Her glare is direct and unmistakable, her lips pressed into a thin, irritated line. It doesn’t take much to realize why. 

She’s staring straight at the satchel slung over your shoulder and the rabbit inside it. You’re frozen, caught mid-motion, her piercing gaze making you feel oddly small, like a child caught red-handed. Your irritation flares before you can stop it, the sharp edge of it cutting through your nerves. 

‘What exactly does she expect me to do?’ you think, sarcasm practically spilling over. ‘Carry it in my teeth?!’

You bite back a laugh at your own thoughts, the absurdity of the situation tugging at the corners of your mouth. You glance away from the window, shaking your head with a mix of annoyance and amusement. 

“As if she’d have a better idea.” you mutter quietly to yourself, the words more a release of tension than anything else.

The bark digs into your palms as you grip the trunk, pulling yourself up onto the first branch. It creaks faintly under your weight, but it holds, as it always has. Your breath comes slow and deliberate, each movement measured as you reach for the next handhold.

Even so, the awareness of Agatha’s eyes on you gnaws at the edge of your focus. Her gaze feels like a weight on your back, amplifying every misstep and every slight tremble in your limbs. The idea of her judging your clumsy climb, silently critiquing each slip of your footing, sends another wave of irritation coursing through you.

And yet… there’s something oddly reassuring about it too. As if her presence, no matter how frustrating, guarantees that someone will catch you if you fall. Not literally, of course, but the thought lingers, steadying you more than you’d care to admit.

You shift your weight carefully, reaching for the next branch. The satchel presses against your back, its weight a constant reminder of your responsibility, and of the sharp eyes above you. You resist the urge to glance up briefly, focusing instead on the climb.

You move cautiously, gripping the bark tightly as you climb higher. The tree groans faintly under your weight, and you freeze, holding your breath. 

The sound seems impossibly loud in the stillness of the night, a sharp contrast to the quiet hum of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. For a moment, you glance toward the kitchen window, half-expecting to see your mother’s silhouette appear, but the glow remains steady, undisturbed.

You grit your teeth, focusing on your balance, careful to distribute your weight evenly. Every move feels agonizingly slow, the need for silence making each step a deliberate act of precision.

As you near the branch that curves toward your window, you reach out with one hand, your fingers brushing the rough bark. It’s close, close enough that you can almost imagine the feel of the window frame beneath your palm. 

But as you shift your weight to make the final stretch, your foot slips against the trunk, the bark giving way beneath your boot.

Your stomach lurches as your balance wavers, your free hand scrabbling desperately for a hold. The satchel shifts sharply, throwing you further off balance, and for a terrifying moment, you’re certain you’ll fall. Your breath catches in your throat, panic blooming in your chest.

From her vantage point at the window, Agatha tenses instantly. Her eyes widen, and for a split second, she shifts forward slightly in a reflexive, almost involuntary motion, as if she could somehow close the unbridgeable distance and reach you. Concern flickers across her face as her hands grip the windowsill tightly, knuckles paling with the pressure.

But then your hand finds purchase, gripping a knot in the bark just in time to steady yourself. 

You hang there for a moment, your heart pounding in your ears, your body frozen as the satchel settles back into place. The rabbit stirs faintly inside, and you murmur a soft reassurance under your breath, though it’s as much for yourself as for the animal.

The faint creak of the tree subsides, and the night seems to hold its breath along with you. You force yourself to exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening as you steady your footing once more. Carefully, you reach out again, this time gripping the branch firmly before pulling yourself up onto it.

The window is finally within reach, a threshold to safety. 

As you glance up, Agatha is there, her figure sharp and still against the faint shadows of the room. She’s waiting, her presence a silent promise that the plan is almost complete. The sight steadies you and, for the first time since the climb began, relief flickers at the edges of your thoughts, fragile but real.

As you near the window, Agatha leans out further, her gaze flicking to the satchel slung over your shoulder. She lifts a hand, gesturing for it with a slight wave of her fingers, her expression calm and maddeningly smug.

You pause, blinking at her. 

“Really?” you mutter under your breath, incredulity practically dripping from your tone. 

She tilts her head slightly, arching a single brow, her smugness somehow amplifying as she gestures again, clearly waiting.

For a moment, you consider ignoring her, but then you glance at the satchel. She has a point, giving her the bag would mean the rabbit is safer, and, without the extra weight on your back, you’ll have an easier time pulling yourself through the window.

With a dramatic sigh, you shrug the satchel off your shoulder, the strap sliding down your arm before you lift it toward her. She stretches downward, her fingers brushing the edge of the leather before she grips it firmly and pulls it from your grasp. 

For a moment, you watch her, half expecting her to disappear entirely now that the bag is secure in her hands.

And that’s exactly what she does. Agatha retreats, vanishing from the window’s edge with the satchel in tow. You roll your eyes, your mind instantly jumping to the conclusion that she’s probably fussing over the rabbit. 

The thought irritates and amuses you in equal measure, but you shake your head and steady yourself for the final push. 

The ledge is close, and with the satchel gone, the climb feels marginally easier. You stretch your arms upward, gripping the edge of the window frame as you shift your weight onto the thick branch beneath you. 

Carefully, you pull yourself higher, your knees brushing the frame as you begin to hoist yourself inside.

For a moment, it seems like you’ve done it. Your body halfway through the window, balance steady enough to keep going.

And then your foot catches on the edge of the frame.

The jolt sends you stumbling forward, your grip slipping as the momentum drags you into a clumsy, uncontrolled tumble.

Agatha moves instantly, appearing as if out of nowhere, her reflexes instinctive and precise.

You barely register the sudden shift before her silhouette is in front of you. One of her hands darts out, gripping your arm with surprising strength, but it’s not enough to counter the force of your fall. Her other hand slides to your waist, firm and steady, trying to catch you, but the momentum is too much.

There’s no time for either of you to adjust. The pull of gravity drags you forward, and you both tumble into the room in a chaotic, ungraceful heap. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, and you land tangled together. 

Agatha is half-sprawled over you, her weight pinning you to the floor, grounding and overwhelming all at once. The world seems to fade, narrowing to the soft rustle of leaves in the night and the rhythm of her breathing. 

Her face is unbearably close, so close that her breath brushes against your cheek, warm and uneven. Untamed hair spilling over her shoulder and grazing your arm, strands scattered haphazardly from the fall.

There’s a stillness to her expression, but the faint parting of her lips reveals a hitch in her breathing, as though the shock of the tumble hasn’t fully left her.

Both of her hands remain where they caught you, one curled tightly around your arm, the other pressed firmly against your waist. The heat of her touch burns through the fabric of your dress, rooting you in place even as your pulse races wildly.

Those sharp blue eyes, piercing even in the dim light, are locked on yours. The intensity of her gaze makes your breath catch, as if she’s not only seeing through you but searching for something at the same time.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Your chest tightens and your pulse hammers in your ears as the space between you feels impossibly thin, a fragile thread stretched taut and trembling. 

And then, fleetingly - so quickly you almost think you imagined it - her gaze drops, flickering to your lips. The motion is so subtle, so brief, that it vanishes almost as soon as it happens. But the imprint of it remains, sharp and electric, making you shudder.

Your mind scrambles for something, anything, to say, but the words won’t come. All you can do is stare back at her, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to make sense of the moment.

The silence stretches, thick and almost suffocating, until Agatha breaks it. Her voice is low, threaded with dry amusement but carrying an almost daring undertone that sets your nerves alight. 

“Are you always this dramatic,” she murmurs, “or am I just special?”

The words pull you out of your daze, and your cheeks burn instantly, the heat rushing to your face. 

“I— I didn’t—” you stammer, scrambling to find words, but every coherent thought scatters.

Agatha exhales sharply, her lips twitching as if she’s about to say something else, but instead, she pushes herself up abruptly. 

The cool night air rushes in as her warmth leaves, and you’re left on the floor, heart still pounding in your ears.

She brushes off her skirts with deliberate ease, her expression once again smug and composed, though there’s a flicker of tension in her movements. She extends a hand to you, her sharp gaze watching you carefully.

“Come on, get up.” she whispers, her tone calm but firm. “Your mother might have heard that.”

You glare up at her, your pride stinging, but you take her hand anyway, letting her pull you to your feet. Her grip is firm, steady, and as she helps you up, her fingers linger just a second too long before she steps back.

The sensation is fleeting but familiar, a ghost of what had happened only hours earlier by the lake. She’d done the same after you healed her burns, offering her hand with that same deliberate calm, as though her touch carried no weight. But it had lingered then too, just like now, and the memory ignites a warm spark in your chest. 

As you rise to your feet, your balance feels oddly unsteady, not from the fall but from the moment itself. You linger there, caught between embarrassment and something heavier. Your fingers twitch at your sides, as though still feeling the echo of her grip, and your gaze follows her as she moves away.

She crosses the room, moving toward the satchel she’d placed on the floor earlier and crouching down. 

You turn toward the window, reaching for the frame to shut it. The cool night air still drifts into the room, carrying the faint scent of the garden below. Your fingers curl around the wood, and just as you push it closed, a sound freezes you in place.

A creak. Faint, but unmistakable.

Your heart stops, and you glance at Agatha, who has gone still beside the satchel, her hand hovering over the flap. Her sharp eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathes.

Another creak follows, heavier this time, accompanied by the low groan of the wooden stairs shifting.

Panic flashes between you in a silent exchange, the weight of the moment sinking in with brutal clarity. Agatha straightens slowly, her hand dropping from the satchel as her gaze darts toward the door.

Well, shit. Your mother definitely heard.

[maxdibert]

hii!! i love ur blog immensely, i literally spend so much time reading your analysis, and i agree with everything u say abt severus (my fav character), which is very rare for me

so, id like to know what do u think sev would be doing if he didnt have to go back to hogwarts at 21 and be forced to teach? like, if there was no voldemort (but everything else stayed the same like his childhood with lily, the marauders bullying him etc), what would he be doing nowadays? i always thought he would open his own potions store, maybe he'd try to heal from his past, find someone to love, idk, u probably have a more detailed answer lol

First of all, if Voldemort didn’t exist, I don’t think Severus would have ended up with the Death Eaters because, well, they wouldn’t exist, right? The story would be very different. I think his "break" with Lily might have taken longer, but eventually, they would have drifted apart quite a bit, and when she got together with James, it would likely have been Severus who distanced himself completely. Because, I mean, Severus isn’t exactly brimming with self-love, but I can’t imagine him handling his friend ending up with his bully very well, for obvious reasons. That said, I don’t think it would have been such a traumatic break but more like one of those friendships where, as you grow older, you just don’t have anything in common anymore and go in completely different directions. Then, one day, ten years later, you run into each other on the street and have no idea how to greet each other. You know what I mean?

That said, without him being part of the Death Eaters, without Voldemort in the picture, and without Lily dying and creating a lifelong guilt trauma that led him to sell his soul to Dumbledore—no, Severus wouldn’t have been a professor. At least not at Hogwarts, which is a pretty triggering place for his personal traumas. I see him dedicating himself to magical research and experimentation. I’m not sure if there’s an equivalent in the wizarding world, but like a typical Muggle university researcher working on specific scientific projects, only applied to magic. We’re talking about Severus Snape, the guy who rewrote his own Potions textbooks and invented complex spells as a teenager—the same Severus Snape who, despite everything, was a Slytherin, which means he has ambition. I think the perfect mix of those two things would have been dedicating himself to magical research, publishing his findings, and maybe—just maybe—teaching. But only teaching adult wizards who had already graduated from Hogwarts and wanted to further their skills by applying advanced knowledge. Like the equivalent of a university professor who only teaches because they’re required to in order to continue their doctorate.

I think with a life like that, with the peace to follow his own path and achieve his own successes, he could have healed from a lot of his issues. Probably not entirely, because the magical world sucks when it comes to managing mental health, but he could have moved on from Lily and built his own life.

[stormbreaker101]

W101's Advanced Combat 102: School Identity and The Roshambo

Over the past few years, Wizard101 has been trying to add more variety to gameplay by introducing Advanced Combat, which focuses less on raw damage and more on hanging effects, the additional ‘things’ that can be present in battle.

In a previous post, I went over each hanging effect and their symbol, as an intro to reading spells. This post will dive further into the inner workings of Advanced Combat's logic. It's somewhat of a tangent from the topic of learning how to read the spells, but I believe it's a necessary one. Simply reading spells is one thing; understanding why they work the way they do is another, and far more important in my opinion.

School Identity

In Advanced Combat, each school is represented by a hanging effect, except for Balance, because Balance is All Things. As such, when we talk about schools interacting with other schools (via synergy or countering), what's really happening is that the spells are interacting with the hanging effects associated with other schools.

This graphic is provided in-game by the prequest, and it is a higher-res and less comprehensive version of the post I made earlier.

Each school's representative hanging effect is based partly on its previous identities, the ways each school worked before.

Fire's hanging effect is Damage over Times, as it's always been since the game first came out with its iconic DoT spells like Fire Elf, Heck Hound, Fire Dragon, and Rain of Fire.

Ice's hanging effect is Positive Wards, derived from Ice always being characterized as the tank school and getting more defensive utility than any other school (Tower Shield, Legion Shield, Frozen Armor).

Storm's hanging effect is Positive Charms, easily remembered by the most infamous wizard101 player archetype Wolf Stormblade.

Life's hanging effect is Heal over Times, because Life has always been the healer school. Think back to the 1-pip Sprite spell.

Myth's hanging effect is Negative Wards, and it's certainly the most changed from how it used to play, partly because Myth has had So many different gimmicks over the years that aren't hanging effects.

Death's hanging effect is Negative Charms, since its old-school primary mechanic of draining HP isn't a hanging effect. An easy way to remember Death as the Weakness school is to remember its utility spells of Plague, Virulent Plague, Infection, and Bad Juju.

Roshambo

Rather than having pairs of schools that are both super-effective against each other (Fire/Ice, Storm/Myth, Life/Death), each of the two Triads (i.e., Element and Spirit) has a rock-paper-scissors dynamic going on now. This system was first introduced in Beastmoon, and introduces an updated version of the School Wheel:

However, while this graphic is good enough for Beastmoon, I believe it can't be used to explain Advanced Combat's system unless you're already familiar with Roshambo. So I will be making my own graphics to introduce and break down the Advanced Combat Roshambos.

First, we have the Elemental Triad of Fire, Ice, and Storm.

Storm douses Fire, and Storm's immediate and hard-hitting attacks overpower Fire's slower overtime method.

Fire melts Ice, and one turn of a DoT activating can remove the shields Ice puts up and leave the Ice user vulnerable to the remainder of the DoT's damage.

Ice freezes Storm, and a Shield can block most of the damage from an otherwise buffed-up Storm hit.

Then we have the Spirit triad.

Death ends Life, and Death's many Negative Charms can hinder Life's ability to heal or attack.

Life surpasses Myth, and Life is able to heal back the extra damage that Myth would do with its traps.

Myth conquers Death, and Myth's traps can make up the lost damage that Death's weaknesses give.

And when we put the two triads together, we see relationships between Element and Spirit schools form:

Death withers Storm, and Death's Negative Charms overpower Storm's Positive Charms.

Storm washes away Life, and Storm's immediate damage can knock out a target before they can try to heal it back.

Life survives Fire, and Life is able to heal back the gradual damage that Fire gives.

Fire burns Myth (think the Library of Alexandria), and Fire's overtimes can whittle away at Myth's traps the same way they plow through Ice's shields.

Myth shatters Ice, and Myth's infamous double-hits of old and trap spam of new can overpower Ice's defenses. (Think also of the old spell Shatter, which can remove multiple shields from a person)

Ice survives Death (think of prehistoric animals being preserved in glaciers), and Ice's defenses can keep Death from draining enough health to keep themselves alive.

Each school is able to counter two other schools, but can also be countered by two other schools. Except of course for Balance, which sits in the center of the wheel and has no arrows pointing to it. It doesn't directly counter any one school, but can't be fully countered by any one school.

A Note About Astrals

Auras (both positive and negative) aren't as immediately representative of any of the main seven schools. However, they are closer to some schools than others.

Star is situated inside the triad of Storm, Life, and Death. Following this, the developers have begun to add Auras as supplementary parts of Life and Death's identities, with Life getting Positive and Death getting Negative.

We can see this new association with Spellweaving. If you weave into Life or Death, your exclusive weaving buff is an Aura that increases the damage of your main school and Life/Death damage.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Hi!

New prompt:

ANGS- HURT JASKIER - SACRIFICE - LOVE - False betrayal - misunderstanding - Geralt being an idiot again - Jaskier sacrificing himself again.

Prompt: Jaskier did not survive the torture of Rience and a mage who arrives soon after, to help the firefucker. The mage ends up thinking of Jaskier as a way to help her get her hands on the witcher. She ends up resurrecting Jaskier from the dead… tying the bard's soul to her life energy. In other words, she needs to stay alive for Jaskier to live. Jaskier finds Ciri and Geralt… but despite everything, he doesn't tell Geralt anything about his death and doesn't think about putting them both in danger… trying to find a way to protect them from the mage. When the mage finally manages to locate the three, through a spell she placed on Jaskier… she tries to kill Geralt and kidnap Ciri, telling the witcher that Jaskier was working for her. Geralt wounds the mage who runs away, leaving Jaskier to face the witcher. Jaskier is weak from the witch's wound, but he doesn't say anything to the witcher. the Witcher confronts Jaskier being cruel to him in every way your creativity allows. But Jaskier doesn't talk about being already dead and close to dying if the mage dies. Geralt expels Jaskier who continues following them without them seeing. In the end, the mage returns with Rience and they find Ciri and Geralt. Jaskier appears to help them… Geralt kills Rience but distracted trying to protect Ciri, the mage prepares to attack him. Jaskier appears, piercing the mage… Already on the ground, she starts laughing… Geralt asks why… when he looks to the side, seeing Jaskier fallen…

M: Mage G: Geralt J: Jaskier Y: Yennefer

M: The idiot… I gave him a chance. Spat in my face, but I’ll take him with me. J: (gasp). G: What does that mean? M: He will die with me… Y: She has united him with her vital energy… (Yennefer appears). G: Yen?! I don’t understand! Y: He will die, Geralt… As soon as she dies. He knew that even when he attacked her… M: (laughs). J: It doesn’t matter… (gasp) I don’t belong here anymore… here. It was for me to rot… in that cell… G: Jaskier…? (He approaches and sees Jaskier getting weaker). J: Goodbye, Geralt… (gasp). G: Yen! Do something! He’s dying! M: (Laughing)… the stupid bard. Rience had a lot of fun with him. I had to patch everything up so I could bring him back. I read his mind… Why are you whining? You always wanted to get rid of him! I understand now… Nobody wants a useless idiot. G: Shut up! Don’t say that about Jaskier! M: I’m just repeating what you’ve been saying all these years to him… (gasp). Y: Geralt… she’s dying, Jaskier is going… G: Do something, Yen! J: Yen, no! He’ll regret it! Just… it’s all right. Just… leave me… just… (gasp). G: Please, Yen! Y: Geralt… he doesn’t want it. He believes you don’t want him in your life. He told me… what you screamed at him on the mountain. When Rience got him the first time. Jaskier… he… G: Damn… I was wrong… never been so wrong in my whole life… I need him. I need him. I can’t without Jaskier… Yen: Geralt… I… G: I beg you… I’ll do whatever you ask. Please, Yen! (Jaskier is out and Geralt has his hand in his hands). Unite our souls, Yen… I will take care of him, I promise. I will tell him… every day how important he is to me. Y: He will be dead, Geralt… He will only live as long as you live. Do you understand that? It’s a great responsibility… G: Just make him live… Y: That’s fine… but I won’t forgive you if you hurt him again. G: I will never make a mistake like that again…

You go on.

Extra flavor: Geralt realizing that… He never knew about Jaskier's torture. In this prompt, Jaskier died the second time after much suffering. He is resurrected, used, but still he would rather die again than hurt him and Ciri… and Geralt was stupid again.

Ooh I love this!!! very angsty! I'd love to read this with a nice get together happy ending. Geralt has a lot of making up to do

[crepesuzette2023]

Thank you for the tag, @pauls1967moustache! My heart is in my fiction, and I'm happy to talk about a bit. <3

How many works do you have on ao3?

15! All within the Beatles fandom (various pairings, but with a focus on J/P).

What’s your total word count?

95,825.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

In John's Lap (early days mclennon), play me one of yours (early days, Jim POV on J/P), Brian Manages (Sole Direction) (1968; Brian lives AU/Fix it, mclennon from Brian POV), Serenade in Paul (PWP mclennon), I was the dream weaver (1968/1969 breakup, angst; John POV)

Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?

I do. I deeply appreciate it when people take the time to let me know their thoughts, or simply that they liked my story—and replying feels like completing a handshake.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Probably I was the dream weaver—there is some hope in the end, but it's a small flame in a dark night. But the love is there.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I think Brian Manages, which is only appropriate, since it's a Secret Santa gift (2023). Yes, the story is about saving Lennon/McCartney, but it's mainly about Brian, and it was important to me to give him a happy ending as well.

Do you write crossovers?

Not yet, but I would love to one day! I can't think of any, though...

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not yet.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do write smut, and I think I tend to write smut with feelings. No specific kinks yet, except...Paul's leg fur and body hair. And his entire spritely gestalt.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware. Brrr.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again, not that I'm aware.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, twice, with @ohjohnnysblog. Thank you, OJ, for holding my hand during my very first fic, Storage Space, and for coming back for Serenade in Paul!

What's your all-time favourite ship?

I'm probably mainly a John/Paul fan, but I have a soft spot for Paul/Mal, and actually enjoy Paul/ any male Beatles-adjacent character, or Paul in a threesome...

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I am determined—*determined!*—to finish my story about Old Man Paul releasing his mclennon dreams/memories on the world. I'm also determined to write a long Woodland Sprite Paul AU. One day.

What are your writing strengths?

I swear I'm not fishing for compliments, but I honestly can't say. I don't hate my writing, I'm just reluctant to analyze myself that way, you know. But if I had to pick one: I think I have the ability to remember, out of all the Beatles stuff I read and saw and thought about, the right detail at the right time while writing. Not as in listing facts, but as in: this would fit nicely here.

What are your writing weaknesses?

English isn't my first language, which in the context of Beatles fic means I'm not your best choice if you're looking for realistic Liverpool dialogue to leap off the page. I wish I had Paul's talent for mimicry...!

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

People can do what they want, but if there's entire pages in a language I can't read, and no footnotes to help me, the story isn't for me. Individual words and phrases are a different thing, of course.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

This one! Beatles! McLennon! Paul, you were my first, and I was your billionth!

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Breaking news, I think I might try my hand at Peaky Blinders at some point...

What's your favourite fic you've written?

Similar to you, Mo, I love all of mine equally, but I have special love in my heart for the fic that lifted me out of a spell of the writing horrors this fall: Johnny Gentle and His Group, about the Silver Beetles' 1960 Scottish Tour. And, of course, Hurricaneville: leg combing McLennon in 1961!

Tagging, if you’d like @eveepe, @revollver, @m1ssunderstanding, @unchaineddaisychain , @therealsaintscully and @scurator!