#admittedly he does get better in the final book but by that stage it's sort of too late to make up for some of the shit he's said and done

[nataliescatorccio]

I only read the six of crows books, but the show made me interested in the shadow and bone books and I was/am contemplating whether to read them or not but during the season's run and even to this day I still see people heavily dislike Mal's character but say that he is better in the show. I wanted to ask: is he truly that bad, or I just see more people dislike him than like him? Why is he so disliked/hated? Like is it his personality or did he do something...? 🤔

i'll put it under the cut for you (just so others can avoid if they so wish!)

i loathed mal in the books, honestly for a mix of his personality and his actions. i found book!mal to be way more of a typical 'nice guy'. and by that i mean the guy you meet in life who says 'i'm not like other guys, i'm a nice guy' but actually is a bit of a fuck boy and is constantly pushing for you to change yourself to conform to his wants.

the biggest issue i have with him as a character is that before alina realised her powers and potential, he effectively ignored her and slept around with other girls. then, as soon as she starts finding a role in life for herself and is not reliant on him, he decides he could actually have feelings for her and shames her for finding happiness with the grisha. also feed into this that the way alina's magic works in the book is very different - repressing her power makes her ill, she looks pale and sickly. she isn't anymore, she has found her strength, and mal shames her for it.

he continues completely rejecting alina and her powers and instead wanting alina the orphan to return. his whole plotline is basically being unable to accept that alina has power and seems to pull a whole 'pick me or your powers' situation, as if she can't be a powerful woman and love him. it really feeds into sexist stereotypes for me that mal can't possibly accept her as a powerful woman.

on top of all that he slut shames alina for her interest in the darkling. then, in the second book he has the audacity to cheat on her and sleep with someone else because he's not getting enough attention from her cos, you know, she's busy trying to save the damn world.

i just found his character to be incredibly entitled (hence the nice guy likeness), it came across to me as very 'i am your best friend so therefore i deserve you'. which particularly leaves a sour taste when he seemingly only notices her romantically once she's suddenly 'important' but immediately wants her to go back to the way she was. i just don't find his character very supportive, in the second book especially his attitude is very 'me me me' without taking a minute to think about the weight on alina's shoulders (who has suddenly been handed the responsibility of saving the world and is even being called a saint). for me, mal's character hit too close to home for comfort and that's why i couldn't stand him in the books; having to give up my own power for a man? yeah, that's more realistic and scary than facing a man who can create shadow demons.

[greenerteacups]

I absolutely adore the way you write Harry and Ron as clever and snarky in their own ways (Harry's conversation with Snape was hilarious and clever in Norberta). All too often in Dramione fanfics they are shown as lesser than because writers want to make Draco and Hermione exceptional, but your D and H are incredibly interesting and smart on a level that still allows them to shine next to remarkably wonderful Harry, Ron and all the other fascinating characters you write

Thank you so much! This is a really touching compliment, because I share the same pet peeve. Something I was careful of when writing the fic was not to pitch Harry and Ron too OOC (as with all canon divergences, you increasingly can't help it, and I think it shows in Harry the most — I just have to steer him a bit harder than JKR does in order to develop him when I can't rely on his internal monologue). I think there are three major reasons that Harry and Ron get washed out in Dramione fics — the first being a simple plot mechanic to get Hermione alone and in a mental state where she would be open to a connection with Draco, which, admittedly, is pretty unlikely if Harry and Ron remain in the picture. By the time OOTP wraps, she and Draco are just so ensconced in their separate social circles that she seems to regard him as irrelevant in HBP, so obviously, if they're going to get together sometime in that timeframe or afterward, their social situations need to change. On the other hand, though, if a fanfiction is taken in some respects as a theoretical argument for how a ship could happen, I always thought Harry/Ron bashing was implicitly a sort of weak argument for D/H, because it requires Hermione to be totally iced out of her own friend group before she considers Draco as a friend or partner. Not to mention that you lose the opportunity to develop these rich auxiliary relationships (Hermione and Harry as unofficial siblings, Draco and Harry as foils, Draco and Ron as foils, Harry and Ron as platonic soulmates) that provide shape and contrast to Draco and Hermione's relationship. The books are a story about love and family! Different kinds of love! And deep platonic love, honestly, more than anything else!

The other side of the coin is that bashing sometimes happens as a natural consequence of having to Do Something About Ron. The need to retcon Hermione's crush and/or relationship and/or marriage with Ron to clear the stage for Draco means that a fanfic author has to just fiat some stuff from the books out of existence. And so you get Death Eater Ron, or Ron as a terrible boyfriend, or cheating, or just being cruel. Or dead! I've read a few where Ron just gets unceremoniously fridged, which is maybe a little better than character assassination, but also pretty sad for all rare us Dramione Ron Enjoyers. Like, I don't think that Ron and Hermione would work out, but I think that's because they share zero interests and tend to aggravate each other's insecurities, not because they don't care about each other, or God forbid, that Ron was secretly a shit person and a bad friend for seven years.

Then you have the final group, which is people who actually do dislike Ron for his behavior in the text. Everyone has that right, so I don't hate, and I can especially understand it if you read his arcs in Goblet of Fire and Deathly Hallows a certain way (I hate the first half of Deathly Hallows, actually, almost exclusively because of the dumb ass Ron's Vacation subplot). JKR doesn't do him any favors here, because she doesn't give him a real reconciliation with Harry or Hermione before he comes back in Deathly Hallows — all their fights sort of end with a shrug and a joke and a comment like, "wow, that sucked, let's not do that again," which is not unrealistic, if you're talking about teenagers, but also does not solve the problem that caused the fight, and we know that because it keeps happening in other books: someone steps on Ron's feelings, he lashes out, they get hurt, and instead of asking for sympathy or trusting his friends to mend his feelings if he explains them, he storms off to sulk. (This is a pattern that I imagine starting at the Burrow, when poor Arthur and Molly just wouldn't have had time to have proper sit-downs and debriefs whenever their kids fought, and so Ron's self-soothing method was to isolate — we see hints of this in Chapter 32-33, and again near the end of Chapter 38 — until he can pretend to get over it.) But going from just canon, it's not impossible to come up with a reading of Ron as this selfish jerk who gets jealous of his friends and screws them over when he gets mad at them. A lot of those people come to Dramione for the catharsis of watching Hermione find a bond with someone who just... doesn't do that, and I don't blame them at all. All the same, I hope Lionheart!Ron can offer an opportunity to experience the joys of Ron Enjoyment for a wider demographic.

[illumax]

Taking The Arrow - Process

Breakdown of the painting process

“1308AD.  France.The Templar Order has fallen. King Philip IV has a price on the heads of its remaining members and associates.  Three Knights, Pierre, Jean, and Reynaud are on the run and head for the Order’s last bastion of safety: The island monastery and fortress, Mont-Saint Michel.  There they are presented with an opportunity to fight the king using dark methods. Soon, they are met with an untamable evil that turns Mont-Saint Michel from haven to prison. They will discover that not only does evil lurk beyond the walls of the monastery, but the actions of the past torment them within the walls of their own minds.” 

Over the last while, I have had the pleasure of illustrating a phenomenal book by Dalton James titled “The Night’s Many.” With his permission, I am going to share some sneak peeks of the finished illustration, as well as some insights into the process of making each one!

Our first image is titled Taking the Arrow. This scene is a flashback of one of the characters to his time during a war in England. During the battle, he is hit with an arrow (surprise) and is lost amid the chaos of bodies and presumed dead.

Now that we have a little background, let’s dig into the process.

Thumbnails/ideation

Every illustration should start with thumbnails and ideation. Admittedly, I tend to work on loose leaf paper and sometimes misplace them. So this is the only one I could find.

This image provided a unique challenge as I wanted to somehow capture the chaos of the battle, and those few moments of calm that the character had before blacking out. A major theme of this flashback was being lost among the fallen soldiers and I had this image in my head of being tangled up and swallowed by a mass of bodies. This would create a sort of pocket of solitude despite being in the middle of the battle.

I also took this time to research some period style armor and weaponry just to get an idea of what I would be working with in the image. Taking some time do studies helps us better understand the shapes and forms in an object, so when we get to the final piece, we are more comfortable exaggerating or putting them in different positions.

Preliminary Drawing - Blue Pencil and Graphite approx. 5”x8”

Once the concept was nailed down, it was time to move onto the preliminary drawing. This was done in a moleskine notebook using a non photo blue mechanical pencil and graphite.

A lot of my work tends to have a single figure or character in it, so this was really fun to try and fit as many bodies in as I could. Using things like the spears and arrows I created “blocks” for the viewer to keep them in the image. Everything swirls around the central figure and directs the eye back to his face and the arrow in his chest.

Final Drawing - 12”x16” Graphite on Toned Watercolor Board

After the composition was solved, I scanned, enlarged, printed, and transferred my sketch to a toned piece of watercolor board. (The tone was achieved through a wash of acrylic). During the transfer, I refined my drawing to really get the shapes I was after. Sidenote, that is one of my favorite hands I have ever drawn.

Now onto painting.

Final Painting - 12”x16” Acrylic and Charcoal on Watercolor Board

My Primary concern in the painting stage was to get the values established and have enough color in there to really manipulate digitally at the end. I used a very limited palette, and had fun figuring out the lighting and creating some texture.

I wanted there to be grit in the image so I was not overly concerned with making things look really neat and clean - it is a battle after all. I also played a lot with simplification, such as his chain mail. It really is just a shape with some tiled brush strokes in there to add texture.

Final Illustration - 12”x16” Mixed Media with Digital

Once the painting was complete, I again scanned it and started my digital edits. This is one of my favorite parts of the process as I am totally free to experiment. Pushing and pulling colors, values, and textures. It is really easy to fall down the digital rabbit hole and end up over editing, so I have to be careful.

As you can see, I added more color to the image, particularly the skin tones. I also warmed everything up.

I have been experimenting with introducing some vector based elements in my work, and brought that in through the arrows and spears. This is a theme throughout the illustrations for the book. It is a way to create emphasis, and kind of tone down a little bit of the violence (I want to help the viewer see past the gory details and focus on the themes and messages in the story).

All in all, I am quite happy with how this turned out, and I am looking forward to sharing more images with you. There are about 24 paintings in total for this book, so it will be awhile before they are all finished, and even longer before we get through all of them!

I would love to hear your thoughts on the piece, and if you have any questions about the process drop them down in the comments!

Until the next time,

B.

[duckapus]

All of Psychonauts 2′s bosses are upgraded versions of normal enemies(and I love that)

Okay some of these are admittedly a stretch but here me out.

Lady Luctopus: Bad Idea

The one pretty much everyone can agree on. Between her blue main body, bulb bombs, and the fact that she was quite literally born of Raz’s terrible idea to change Hollis’s mind, it’s pretty blatantly obvious.

Nightmare Maligula: Memory Vault/Panic Attack

More specifically, a Memory Vault that’s having a panic attack. It’s a bit hard to tell since she’s the only thing on stage that isn’t covered in colors unlike the standard Panic Attacks, but if you focus on how the Vault acts before she emerges, how strongly Time Slow affects her, and how weak she is once Helmut calms down it’s pretty clear what’s going on.

The Gluttonous Goats: Judge

First off there’s obviously their role in the cookoff as the literal judges, but there’s also their movesets. A strong but simple primary attack(Vomit/Gavel) that gets taken out of play and thrown back in their faces by the Telekinetic Hand(ingredients/gavel again) and is replaced/supplemented by a weaker but more versatile set of attacks(spatula and egg beater/throw the book and headbutt). It’s just that melee and projectile got swapped in the transition to full mental constructs.

The Die-brarian: Doubt

First off, at the very beginning of the fight she questions if this is the right thing to do(at least in the playthrough I’ve seen), so clearly at the very least she has doubts that she’s pushing down. She also has that attack that leaves massive blotches of ink on the arena that act like the Doubt goo puddles with an added damage-over-time effect. And, while she moves around too much and is usually too far away to test this with Pyrokinesis, she’s made of paper, which in the real world is Highly Flammable.

The Moth: Regret/Enabler

Even if you never directly fight it it’s still the main antagonist of Bob’s Bottles so I’m counting it. And come on, orange flying creature that tends to carry emotionally heavy objects? Textbook Regret right there. And as for the Enabler side of things, it’s got the high cheery voice, it claims to be helping but just makes things more difficult than they have to be, it legit starts cheering for the enemies during the Mook Rush portions of the boss, and most glaringly it’s explicitly the representation of Bob’s addiction and is thus an actual enabler.

Truheltia Memonstria: Bad Mood

Okay this one’s a bit harder to explain. While yes, unlike a normal Bad Mood you fight them directly, there’s still the first Mook Rush where the fight only progresses when you break Bob’s Cocoon, similar to how you can only beat a Bad Mood if you break its Good Mood out of its cage. Plus, like, symbolically, a mood that bad(as in the actual depressive episode this whole level is) is going to mess with your perspective, make you remember things as worse than they actually were, make you feel like the people in your life hate you, much like the little plants of his loved ones ballooning into spiteful violent monsters until Bob realizes that the way he’s seeing them is wrong and starts fighting The Moth so he can finally start to get better.

Maligula: Censor/Inner Demon

Okay so the Censor might be obvious since she’s explicitly stated to be Lucy’s mental defense system gone haywire, but some of you might be asking “what the hell are Inner Demons?” Well, they’re the little charging bomb guy enemies from the first game, stated to be rage and pain and all that sort of stuff made manifest. Sound familiar? It would also fit her fighting style, since all she does is attack attack attack, without ever bothering to defend herself or change attacks. Even her water snakes sort of explode on impact just like the Inner Demons did.

[pillage-and-lute]

Can I have some Book! Geralt,who somehow happened to be in show universe,meeting Jaskier, who after some prodding from him tells B!Geralt about mountain and B!Geralt is furious? At some point they meet show! Geralt and B!Geralt makes sh!Geralt jealous because he knows Jask's feelings are not unrequited,but only after making sh!Geralt understand that that is not how you treat your best friend in the whole wide world. I just want some sh!Geralt/Jask with a little help from B! Geralt Thank you <3

Hi Sadpathologist!

Have I read the books? no, but I intend to.  I’m giving this a whack nonetheless! 

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Jaskier about leapt out of his skin when the tall, silver haired witcher appeared beside him at the bar. He seemed...different. Jaskier’s brain, marinating in a fair amount of gin, wasn’t putting in the work to decifer the difference. 

Jaskier coughed.

Geralt glanced at him, looked directly at him, then went back to ordering his drink.

So that was how it was. Twenty two years, just to end up strangers again. 

Jaskier wasn’t going to put up with that. He deserved better than that. He wasn’t quite sure what all he deserved, an apology for one, but not to be given the silent treatment and a cold shoulder were definitely on the list.

“Hey,” he said. “Geralt.” 

The witcher turned. “Do I know you?”

Jaskier felt something little crush in his chest. “That’s not fair and you know it, we’ve known eachother for decades, Geralt.” His voice was getting dangerously wobbly now and it made him burn with shame but he didn’t deserve to be treated this way. “We were friends,” he said through the lump in his throat. “I know you never called us that but we were. I know we aren’t anymore but...” He choked, not able to finish the sentence and not sure how he would have if he could.

Geralt was looking at him, wide eyed.

“Dandelion?”

huh?

“I haven’t gone by that since Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said. His rational brain was really, really trying to tell him something about Geralt, something was weird, but it had been a lot of gin. “I’m not sure I ever told you that, either.”

Geralt picked him up by the shoulder and hauled him out of the tavern, into the light of day. It hurt after all the daydrinking, but realization slid into place and the shock had a better sobering effect than a cold bath.

“You aren’t Geralt,” he said. He began to twist about in the grip, captured by some Geralt-facsimilie. 

“I am, I am,” the not-Geralt set Jaskier down. “I’m just not- I’m not you’re Geralt. He pulled Jaskier into the stables and Jaskier took a good look, since the man didn’t seem to be actively trying to kill him. 

“You aren’t my Geralt,” Jaskier said. “The scars are wrong, and your beard is more grown in than you usually let it get.” He thought. “And I don’t think I told you I ever went by Dandelion.”

“What, never?”

“You-he never asked.”

“Okay,” not-Geralt said, sitting down on a sack of hay. “I’m not from here, I know a Dandelion-Jaskier, he looks a lot like you, but he’s blonde. There was this... thing, I interrupted some big sorceressy ritual, I’m sure I’ll get back in a couple of days but listen...what did you mean when you said we-you and your Geralt- aren’t friends anymore, that he never called you friends?”

The face, almost familiar, looked very serious. Geralt was looking at him with genuine concern and it was so close to everything Jaskier wanted, but the scars were wrong, there were little laugh lines and marks in the wrong places. The eyes were the same.

He believed this Geralt, too. It sounded crazy but, well...golden dragon men, djinns, devils, elves, Jaskier had known a lot of crazy.

This Geralt hadn’t asked for the whole story, but it felt so good to tell someone about it, Jaskier gave it to him anyway. From Posada to the mountain. His voice broke, and not-quite-Geralt put a comforting arm around him, rubbing his hair in a way he liked. It was as if he knew just how Jaskier liked it.

Jaskier full on cried talking about the mountain, but he never even talked about the final argument, merely saying Geralt had sent him away. He felt safe and appreciated but it wasn’t his Geralt and it was so close that it hurt to talk about it. The thought that in another life Geralt might be his friend, could be this more open, loving person ached. In this life Geralt would rather he be dead.

He sat there, other Geralt seemed baffled. After a moment he spoked.

“What a dick.”

Jaskier was thinking though. Maybe the difference wasn’t about Geralt. What difference in Jaskier could cause all this.

“Tell me about your Jaskier?”

Geralt-ish looked down at him. “He’s blonde, he wears loud clothing, more pinks and purples, and feathered hats.” A small smile crossed his face, and it was so beautifully, heart achingly familiar. “It took me a while to accept our friendship too, but he practically forced it to me. I love him more than anything.” There was a soft look in Geralt’s eyes.

“I can’t image a world in which we aren’t at least friends, if not lovers. I don’t think the white wolf was meant to be without his barker.” He made direct, blazing eye contact with Jaskier. “We need to find your Geralt and knock sense into him, if you can’t do it, I’ll take him outside and beat him from one end of the Continent to the other.”

“I don’t even know where he is,” Jaskier said.

“We’ll find him, if I were him I’d still be brooding at the bottom of that mountain.” Other-Geralt began slinging bags onto Roach. She looked exactly like Roach. Jaskier approached carefully. 

She sniffed him cautiously, but there must have been something in his scent she recognized because she nuzzled him appreciatively. Wrong-Geralt mounted up and looked at Jaskier expectantly.

“Well? Go on, get on Roach.”

“Oh no,” Jaskier said, stepping back. “I’m not allowed on Roach.”

Not-Geralt looked at him like he was stupid. “What do you mean you’re ‘not allowed on Roach’, you don’t have your own horse. You can’t walk all the time.”

Jaskier shouldered his lute. “I manage fine.”

Not-Geralt picked him up by his collar and deposited him solidly on Roach’s back. “Hold tight,” he said. “We can’t both ride her all the time, but we’ll take turns walking, it’s not too far to the mountain you mentioned.”

Jaskier wasn’t certain he wanted to go back to that mountain at all. 

This wasn’t his Geralt. This was a witcher from a completely different universe. One with a blonde Jaskier who still went by his old stage name. He could be completely wrong about all of this. He might love his Jaskier, but what if in this world Jaskier was truly despicable to his Geralt. A shit shoveler. 

He must have tensed because the Geralt he had his arms wrapped around twisted back to look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s something you aren’t saying.”

Jaskier sighed, and they rode on a few more minutes in silence. He hadn’t gotten very far from the mountain, and it would take them only a few hours on horse back.

“When Geralt-my Geralt, told me to leave on the mountain...” Jaskier tailed off, the memory was still so recent and it stung. 

“He said something, didn’t he?”

Jaskier nodded, sure the witcher would feel the movement.

“It’s okay, you can tell me. What did he say?”

“He told me I shovel shit,” Jaskier gave a wet little chuckle. “He blamed me for every bad thing that happened in his life. Then he said...”

Other-Geralt held Jaskier’s wrist where his arms were holding on and rubbed his thumb across the joint sympathetically. Jaskier began to cry silently.

“He told me that if life could give him one blessing,” Jaskier said, leaning his wet face against the back of other-Geralt. “If life could give him one blessing it would be to take me off of his hands.”

Other-Geralt took in a sharp breath and brought other-Roach up short. He turned almost fully around in his saddle.

“He said what?” His voice was low and dangerous. There was real fury in his voice.

“He said-” 

“I heard what he said, he said that to you? He actually looked at you and told you that?”

Jaskier nodded. 

“Tell me,” other-Geralt said. “Did he leave you to get off of that mountain alone?”

“There were tracks,” Jaskier said, feeling somehow that he should defend his Geralt, although admittedly the witcher probably no longer deserved his loyalty.

“And, from what you’ve told me, some pretty murderous people not to mention treacherous terrain.” Other-Geralt nudged not-Roach into a trot, but his jaw was working the way Geralt’s did when he was angry.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said softly. Not-Geralt peered at him over his shoulder. 

“You know you don’t deserve what he said, right?”

“Yes of course, I didn’t deserve any of that.” Jaskier huffed ruefully. “Especially not after twenty two years.”

“Good,” not-Geralt said, turning back to face front. “So long as you understand that.”

They rode a while in silence, Jaskier’s eyes gradually drying.

“Do you love him?” not-Geralt asked eventually. 

“More than life,” Jaskier said. 

“Even after all this? No one would blame you if you fell out of love after treatment like that.”

“Even now, yes,” Jaskier sighed. “I think it’s because I understand him better than anyone. He isn’t used to dealing with his emotions, so sometimes he does it badly. I still love him, but he really messed up this time, he’s bad at emotions but this bad...it really hurt me.”

Other-Roach walked another long silence.

“I think it hurt even more because sometimes,” Jaskier took a deep breath, not willing to cry again today. “Sometimes I thought he might love me back, love me too. There were little things he’d do...”

“Like what?”

“Oh little things, he noticed when my boots needed replacing before I did, let me wash his hair. Tiny, sleep smiles in the morning, that sort of thing.”

“He does love you,” other-Geralt said. “I’m certain of it. We’re not far from the mountain now, and I have a plan, if you’re willing.”

“A plan?”

“Absolutely. It will be torture for him, and he’ll certainly apologize, probably confess his feelings too.””

Not-Geralt explained his plan. 

Jaskier listened.

“Won’t your Jaskier mind?” he asked. 

“I don’t think so, we have a flexible exclusivity, and this is for a very good cause, besides, we won’t go very far.”

“If you’re certain.”

“It won’t make you uncomfortable?” asked the other-Geralt.

“No, actually,” Jaskier said, grinning. “I think it’s a perfect plan.”

They reached the inn at the base of the mountain before nightfall.

Just like other-Geralt said he’d be, Jaskier’s Geralt was drinking with a single mindedness that was a little worrying. Other-Geralt turned to him.

“Sure you don’t want me to just beat sense into him?”

“No,” Jaskier said, mentally slipping into character.

“Okay then, ready?”

“Ready.”

Other-Geralt strolled up to the bar with Jaskier basically hanging off his arm.

“Pint for me, please,” he told the barman. “And one for my...friend.”

Friend dripped positively salaciously. 

Jaskier’s Geralt didn’t even look up, but he didn’t let himself be deterred. 

They sat with their ales close, but not too close to Geralt. Jaskier plopped himself, giggling into other-Geralt’s lap. He leaned into his ear and whispered flirtily, “tell me a joke?”

Other-Geralt chuckled, and oh, that sound in such a familiar voice made Jaskier’s heart skip in his chest. 

“Where does the general keep his armies?” other-Geralt asked. Jaskier thought, then asked,

“I dunno, where?”

“Up his sleevies.”

It was such a ridiculous joke, silly and lighthearted and so odd to hear in Geralt’s deep rumbling voice that Jaskier tilted his head back and let peals of laughter escape. He finally disolved into little, bubbling giggles and buried his face into other-Geralt’s neck.

“Is he looking?” he whispered, barely a breath so that sensitive witcher ears wouldn’t hear in the loud tavern.

“Yes,” other-Geralt rumbled. “He looks green with envy.”

Jaskier looked into almost familiar eyes, smiling. “Okay?” he whispered. 

“Yeah, okay,” other-Geralt said. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier. 

It was a lovely kiss, other-Jaskier clearly liked being kissed the same way, but it was fairly short. Then other-Geralt pressed little kisses along the top of Jaskier’s cheeks and behind his ears, beginning to trail down his neck.

“Jaskier.”

It was his Geralt, standing over them. Jaskier looked up. “I’m busy,” he said, then leaned in to wrap his arms around other-Geralt’s neck, as if he was going to kiss him again. 

Geralt lifted him off by his collar. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled. Jaskier noted with amusement that he was making his voice deeper than usual, like a tom cat fluffing it’s tail. The bard crossed his arms as his feet hit the floor. 

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” he said, although part of him just wanted to melt into that familiar gaze. “Especially since you decided it would be a blessing for me to be taken off your hands.”

Other-Geralt, with expert timing, pulled Jaskier back into his lap, sliding one hand up to Jaskier’s inner thigh. It was almost indecent, although not really, but Geralt looked ready to explode. 

“I don’t know if you noticed,” other-Geralt said, voice pitched suggestively. “But your hands aren’t what he’s going to be on.” This was accompanied with a truly indecent hip thrust, rolling Jaskier where he was sat on other-Geralt’s lap. The witcher wasn’t hard, and it was all an act, but Jaskier couldn’t help blushing a little. This was, after all, the body double of his Geralt. 

He looked up at Geralt. “You can go now,” he said.

His Geralt looked so conflicted that Jaskier’s heart went out to him. He could see the emotion running across Geralt’s face. Guilt, regret, loss, betrayal, anger.

“Please, Jaskier,” he said. 

“Please Jaskier what?” just because he still loved the idiot didn’t mean he was going to make this easy. “Please Jaskier leave me so you don’t shovel more shit into my life?” Geralt winced.

“Please Jaskier take yourself off my hands because after more than twenty years I still don’t think of you as a friend?” Geralt winced again. Other-Geralt had started leaving teasing, butterfly kisses along his neck again, and was shifting in his seat. It wasn’t sexy, and his hips weren’t rocking against Jaskier, but to Geralt it must surely look that way.

“Please Jaskier, find your own way off this god-forsaken mountain with murderers and monsters and, oh yeah, all the provisions were in your pack and I had to forage and not poison myself?”

Other-Geralt growled his displeasure at that detail. Geralt’s shoulders slumped. Jaskier tapped other-Geralt’s leg to let him up and they both stood. 

“I’m going outside,” he said. “If you want to say something, come too, if not, I’m leaving.” Jaskier smiled flirtatiously at other-Geralt. “And he’ll be going with me.”

Geralt followed him outside. 

Other-Geralt followed too, but at a slower pace so they could talk. 

In the stables, hoping Geralt wouldn’t notice the identical Roaches side by side, he whirled around, finally letting out every last bit of anger, betrayal and frustration he’d been feeling.

“Twenty two years you stupid bastard!” he yelled, poking one finger into Geralt’s chest. “Two decades!” he smacked the armor with an open palm. “And in all that time not once could you bear to so much as call me you friend! You ASSHOLE! And I love you! That’s not fair because I STILL love you! And you DON’T DESERVE IT! But I LOVE YOU!” 

Jaskier took a tiny breath then continued yelling. 

“And I KNOW you love me too! You don’t do the things we did for one another without love! It might not be the way I love you, that’s okay, if you only love me platonically, but you love me! I was so SURE you loved me! AND THEN YOU LEFT ME ON THE MOUNTAIN!”

Geralt opened his mouth and Jaskier slapped a hand over it. He wasn’t sure at what point during the screaming he’d started crying but he wasn’t about to lose momentum now.

“NO! I’m talking now! You LEFT ME ON THAT MOUNTAIN! I COULD HAVE DIED! YOU DON”T DO THAT TO PEOPLE YOU LOVE!” Damn it all, he was losing momentum, he was crying for real, sobbing. And the sobs were choking his anger. 

“You told me I was a burden and a curse,” he said between sobs. “That I had only ever caused you misfortune.” He sucked in a breath and looked into tortured golden eyes. “You told me that if life could give you one blessing it would be for me to be taken off your hands. How did you mean that? Did you mean simply that you would never see me again? Or did you mean me dying on that mountain without a pack and without food or water? Or did you mean me falling on that mountain and dying alone and in pain on the rocks below? Did you mean me getting murdered by the bastards who’d gone on that dragon hunt?”

Jaskier was sniffling great, snotty pauses in his sentences. “Or maybe you just wanted some peace and quiet, like that time with the djinn.” He stepped back from Geralt and met his gaze, watery though his own eyes might have been. “So tell me, how did you mean it, Geralt?”

“I didn’t.”

It was a whisper, then Geralt knelt in the straw and took both of Jaskier’s slightly shaking hands in his own. 

“I swear on my life, Jaskier I didn’t mean it.” 

His gaze was so honest and open and he looked so tortured Jaskier wanted to forgive him and fall into his arms right there, but he was still hurting so badly.

“You said it though, it almost came true, like with the djinn, am I that much of a burden to you?”

“No!,” Geralt stood, not releasing Jaskier’s hands. “No,” he said a little more calmly, stepping closer. “You are the greatest gift of my life, my treasure, my friend,I swear it.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier’s face, gold and blue meeting in the dim stable light. 

“I don’t know if you can believe my oath, but I swear to you, on the name of every witcher, alive or dead, on the medallion I wear around my neck, Jaskier. Jaskier, you are my truest blessing.”

He pulled Jaskier into a perfect, soul numbing hug. 

“I’ve hardly slept,” Geralt whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve hardly slept for the thought that I’d killed you. Fed you to that mountain.” Geralt was taking great, shuddering breaths, his shoulders trembling, tremors in the earthquake taking over him. “I thought I’d killed my love. I’m so sorry, Jaskier. My love. I do love you, not as friends. I love you like a ballad, and I could have killed you.” 

Geralt was crying, Jaskier realized. His tear ducts may have been dry but he was crying all the same, clutching to Jaskier like a lifeline, like Geralt himself had been left dangling from the mountainside and Jaskier was his rope.

“I’m sorry Jaskier, so, so sorry. I’m poor with emotions and I took it out on you and it could have killed you,” Geralt said, his face buried in Jaskier’s hair, squeezing him tight like he wanted them to be glued together. “I didn’t mean a word of it I swear, and I searched that thrice damned mountain for you until I found your tracks leading you safely away.”

“I wanted to kill you,” other-Geralt said, stepping around from the corner of the stables. “You’re lucky he still loves you, or I might have.”

Geralt-Jaskier’s Geralt, for ther first time got a decent look, not obscured by jealousy or dim lighting, of other-Geralt.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re...”

“You? Yeah. It’s hard to explain but it involves blundering in to some sorceressy bullshit.” Other-Geralt clapped one massive hand onto Geralt’s shoulder and stared into his face, gold meeting gold. “I have a bard in my world, and I’ll be returned to him soon. He is truly my greatest gift. I want nothing of your bard but for him to be happy, because I do not believe in any world where I and my love are not at least companions.”

“I understand,” Geralt said.

“No, I don’t think you do,” other-Geralt said. “If I ever somehow, and I don’t know how, get a dream I suppose, that you mistreat your gift again, I will slice open this wall between worlds and hunt you down myself.”

A whistle came from behind them, and the three men turned. Jaskier looked into a face very similar to his own. It had a goatee. And blonde hair. The man was standing next to a glowing portal.

“Geralt,” the other-Jaskier, Dandelion, Jaskier supposed, said. There was relief in his voice. He leapt to his witcher and there was a kiss so vigorous that Jaskier, singer of two dozen bawdy songs, looked away. 

“I feared I’d never find you,” the blonde said. Other-Geralt grinned at him.

“I always knew you would, my love.”

He turned to Geralt and Jaskier, standing dumbstruck. “I guess my work here is done.” Here he pointed at Geralt. “Remember my warning.” He mounted up on his Roach and with barely a sound to mark their leaving, the pair left.

“Well,” said Jaskier, sitting on a barrell. 

“Well,” said Geralt, standing stunned in the center of the stables.

“I’m glad at least somewhere we sorted ourselves out,” Jaskier said, smiling sadly.

“I want that to be us.”

“What?” 

“I want to be able to kiss you like that, someday.” Geralt crossed the room towards Jaskier. “I want to turn to you someday and not be so...so stupid, so emotionally stunted, that I can name you as ‘my love’ in front of others.”

“But...”

“Jaskier, I never called you friend because it ached that you saw me as friend when I wanted you to be more, and now I’ve had a taste of losing you and I would walk over fire never to do so.”

Geralt got down on his knees in the stable and reached out with one hand. His fingers curled around Jaskier’s neck and pulled him closer until their foreheads gently met.

Somehow it was more intimate than a kiss.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier said. “And I love you, always.”

Geralt tilted his head up and captured Jaskier’s lips. 

It was sweet and perfect and Geralt pulled back and planted so many more beautiful, chaste kisses that they fell like rain. 

Then he pulled back and tugged Jaskier to his feet, a little, toe-tinglingly sexy growl escaping him.

“My love,” Geralt said, clearly savoring the phrase in their little bubble of secrecy. “I could eat you alive.”

“That,” Jaskier said, pulling back and smiling. “You may have to wait for.”

Geralt followed him out into the chilly evening. “For you I would wait forever,” he said.

Jaskier had a feeling that he probably wouldn’t make Geralt wait very long.

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Ope, you sent a request and I gave you a fic. 3812 words! hope you enjoy.

[the-queen-of-fools]

Coffee & Cowboys

Chapter 1

— — —

Word Count: 1600 Pairing: Jack ‘Agent Whiskey’ Daniels x English f!Reader (no y/n, no descriptions beyond accent) Rating: Mature (For language and themes. Might become explicit at some point) Warnings: Swearing; slow burn; angst; mentions of death; mentions of afterlife; mentions of alcohol; post-movie; AU

A/N: Slow burn. Meta / self aware-ish. I have no plan. First time writing Whiskey. No idea how often this series will be posted. (I’m English, and I liked the contrast with our ‘Southern charm’-filled cowboy, so the reader is English too…)

— — —

Saturday started like any other. No alarm, so you wake feeling refreshed and ready for the nothing you have planned. A nice long lie in, read for a bit in bed, hot shower, and very comfy clothes. You walk downstairs and into the kitchen as usual, eager to drink the glorious caffeinated nectar of life, when you stop abruptly. There’s a man stood there. His back to you, showing off some rather tight jeans, broad shoulders in a dark denim jacket and what looks like a stetson. Who the fuck wears a stetson? “What the fuck? Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” You yell, as you pick up the first thing you can find in reach - a chopping board. A chopping board? What? He turns around, face slack. You grabs a jar and throw it at him. It flies straight through him and hits the wall behind, glass shattering and coffee spreading everywhere. You’re both just staring now, right where the jar should have stopped on his body. Your eyes meet his, matching expressions of pure shock on your faces. 

Uh... no. You shake your head and turn, running back upstairs and shutting your bedroom door behind you. You slide the lock in place, and dive back in to bed. Still holding the damn chopping board, you throw the duvet over your head and squeeze your eyes shut. You’re asleep. You have to be. You’re asleep, and dreaming of your nice relaxing morning routine. When you open your eyes again you can start the day right, have another lie in, a nice shower, and then a coffee without any men in your kitchen. Deep breath in, out, eyes open.  Sitting up, throwing the duvet off, you look up and fuck! There he is, stetson and all.  “Where am I?” A southern drawl crosses the room to you. It’s deep, and velvety, and if you’d heard it at a bar you’re sure you’d feel very differently about it. But in your bedroom?  “Why are you here?” “Where IS here?”  “How did you get in, anyway? The door was locked?” That stops him.  His face softens slightly as he looks at you and says, “I... don’t know.” He furrows his brows, two deep set lines forming between them. He’s staring at the door, and when you lean forward you can just about see that the lock is still in place. “Did you walk through the door?” You whisper. He’s silent, still staring. “Are you a ghost?” That gets a reaction. He whips his head around, and glares at you now.  “No.” “Are you sure?” His brow furrows again, face changing from its glare to a more fearful look as he whispers back to you. “…No.”

…

You’re both in your living room now. It’s taken over an hour to get you both to the stage you can share a room without shouting or throwing things. That would have been hard to explain to neighbours or your housemate. Admittedly, he calmed down quicker than you did. You’re pretty sure an existential crisis will do that to you. Plus, the novelty of throwing things through him took longer to wear off than you thought. Grasping tightly on your coffee (finally), the mystery ghost man paces in front of you. “You’re making me dizzy, would you stop?” You ask. He stops moving, sighs deeply and sits down on the chair across the room. “Huh.”  “What?” He replies sharply. “Just curious why a jar goes through, or a pillow, or a chopping board, and you seem to be able to walk through doors without thinking about it, but you can still sit on a chair without falling through.” You explain to him, taking another sip of coffee. “Stupid metaphysical contradictions,” you grumble to yourself, and it actually brings out a slight chuckle from the man, who quickly tries his best to hide it. He shrugs. “Well, darlin’, I know nothin’ more than you.” “Don’t call me darling, cowboy.” “Cowboy?” His brows shoot up, a smirk lifting one side of his moustache slightly. “Because of the hat?” “And the accent. Thought you might prefer it to Ghost Boy... or Creepy McGee.” Another little chuckle falls from his lips as he leans forward, and looks at you. “You did follow me straight to my bedroom before. Creepy McGee would be a kind name for that.” “Cowboy is fine, sugar. Thanks, I guess.” “Ew. That’s worse than darling.” You finish the rest of your coffee in one mouthful, and look over to the man as he stands. “I’m still not convinced you’re real, just so you know.”  “What are the options then, darlin’? Ghost or what, exactly?” Or what, indeed. “And more importantly, how do I get back home?”  “The way I see it, we have three options.” “Based on what?” His hands are on his hips, and you forget for a second that he might not be there, he might not even exist. The breadth of his shoulders exaggerating the narrowness of his hands on his hips. Shit. Why couldn’t you have just met him in a bar instead? Why did he have to appear in your kitchen? He clears his throat, jolting you back to reality and you flush at the idea he’s just been watching you stare at him. The stupid smirk is back. “See something you like, darlin’?” He says, with a stupider wink. 

Ignoring him and his smug face, you begin. “Option One: I’m having some sort of mental health crisis and you’re a figment of my imagination. A symptom, if you will. Option two: You’re dead. You’re a ghost and, for whatever reason, you’re haunting me. Or, option number three,” you pause, “You’re not dead.” “Preferable, from my point of view.” He interjects, frowning. “Option three is more like, you’re not dead, but you’re close. Like you’re in a coma, but you’re still sort of haunting me. An apparition, astral projection, you know?” He’s nodding along, but silent, and still frowning. “Let’s rule out option one, I have no history of visual or auditory hallucinations, nor a family history of such things. So. Onto option two; there is a fairly wide and agreed consensus about ghosts, so we have ideas on next steps. Option three may be a little trickier though...” You trail off, placing your empty mug on the table in front of you. You stand, and walk over to a shelf to vaguely look at the DVDs. “Why is that one trickier?” He asks, sitting down onto the chair again. “Resources, mostly.” You tell him, over your shoulder. “There’s a lot of hauntings in film and TV, so a decent amount of lore to look into and test. But apparitions not so much.” You turn to him, and shrug. “Wait.” He says, processing what you’ve told him. “Film and TV? Those are your resources?” “Oh. I’m sorry. You got a library book recommendation? Name and number of an expert, perhaps?” You are just met with a huff and Ghost Cowboy just folds his arms and leans back. “Uncharted territory here, Mr Grumpy.” The look that replaces the sulk is priceless. “Sorry, sugar. But I think I’ll get my own answers.” He stands up and walks to the front door. His hands passes straight through the handle, so he sighs, and just walks forward. He can’t get through it though, hitting it like he would usually instead. Another sigh as he turns to you. “What now?”

…

He’s pacing again as you voice each thought crossing your mind. “So. Physical limitation to a place: ‘Beetlejuice’, ‘The Others’... Pretty common trope.” You pause. “Ooh, can we try something?” He stops his pacing and looks at you with a huff.  “Why not?” He says, throwing his hand out. “It’s not like it can get fuckin’ worse.” You stand and walk to the door. You open it, and walk back, past Mr Grumpy-Ghost-Cowboy, to the other end of the room. “Try to go through.” He does, hitting the invisible barrier. “Okay,” you move next to the open door, “try now.” He isn’t happy, but he tries again anyway. Nothing, still stuck. “Fine.” You move to the other side of the doorway, into your front garden. “One more time?” You raise your eyebrows and try to look sweet and innocent. “Please, Cowboy?” His hands are back on his hips. “Last time, English.” You nod, ignoring the newest nickname. It is decidedly better than darling and sugar, anyway. He tries again, and success. The cowboy walks through the door without any resistance. He looks shocked, and tries to walk further, perhaps out of your life forever. He’s stopped, again, at the wall. “Huh. Interesting.” You walk back inside your house, the ghostly intruder following you after a moment of pushing the solid air. “Very interesting. You weren’t dragged back by my reentering the house.” You close the door again, and move back to sit on the sofa. “So. We’re looking at… limited physical proximity to a specific person instead: ‘Heart and Souls’, ‘Just Like Heaven’, maybe? Sort of. Not quite.” You start to mumble to yourself, before lifting your head and looking directly at your guest. “I’m going to plan a movie marathon.” The ghost cowboy just shakes his head, frowning more than you thought possible. Any more, you think, and his eyebrows will start to fold in on themselves. “Look,” you tell him, “you’re not in pain, and you’re not fading away. I’m dealing in my own way, but I’m open to suggestions.” “Alcohol. Whiskey. Lots of it.”  “A cowboy who likes whiskey. Groundbreaking.”

[kbstories]

Deconstruction

de·con·struc·tion (n.) The act of breaking something down into its separate parts in order to understand its meaning.

To Trafalgar Law, trust has never come easy.

(Or: Luffy does his thing and Law recovers.)

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Trafalgar Law Needs A Hug, Recovery, Nakamaship, Luffy Being Luffy, Minor Canon Divergence

Set between Dressrosa and Zou but Sanji is there because the author mixed up the canon timeline woops. Content warning for references to suicidal ideation (in the context of Law’s plan).

***

The coffee is good, Trafalgar Law thinks as he follows the wood grain pattern of the Sunny’s dining table with zero interest. His eyes itch like there’s a sandstorm raging between cornea and lid; Law is certain they’re swollen something fierce too, and can’t bring himself to care. Fuck, his head hurts.

Another sip, and Law’s lips twitch into a frown. Scratch that, the coffee is fantastic, and isn’t that another entry on the ridiculously long list of things-to-resent-Luffy-for. Admittedly, this particular dose was administered by Strawhat’s cook. Luffy-by-proxy, then.

Never let it be said that Trafalgar D. Water Law can’t be both a master strategist and a petty asshole.

Cigarette ever-present between his lips, Sanji regards him with something-like-sympathy. The look doesn’t stick around, there and gone while he prepares enough food to be considered a light lunch on the Thousand Sunny, and a veritable feast anywhere else.

Sour mood or not, Law can appreciate the space he’s given. Unlike a certain someone, most Strawhats know to leave him the fuck alone when Law asks for it.

With a porcelain click, a plate is placed next to his half-empty cup of coffee: It carries a colorful assortment of cut fruits and two onigiri, perfectly shaped. The portion is small enough not to challenge the loveless marriage Law has with his appetite, and the glass of water that follows is served sans the usual snide commentary.

So much for that.

Law glowers at Sanji but the cook has already moved on to the dozen other dishes in varying stages of preparation, and to have a staring contest with Sanji’s back would be, well, childish. And unproductive.

The past few weeks – and yes, it’s weeks and not years or decades as his overtaxed nerves will have him believe – have taught Law a great many things. How much he appreciates wonderful concepts like privacy and personal bubbles, for example, and that the Sunny is a parallel universe where those things simply do not exist.

Oh, and also that food is not to be wasted, or else.

Thus, Law doesn't. He eats, and a quiet breath makes it out of his mouth that is only partially the annoyed sigh he intended. Because the food’s fucking delicious, and his stomach decides to stop hating him because it’s his favorite, and the headache that’s been shadowing his every step since he woke up eases just like that. Suddenly, the mother of all emotional hangovers dims and for the first time in hours, Law can think.

Sanji smiles like he knows it, too, the bastard.

Weeks of this bullshit and he’s at his limit, defenses shot, walls badly patched up and crumbling regardless. Law blinks and groans, presses tattooed fingers to closed lids in a desperate bid for the moisture building there to fuck off already.

And he’d thought he’d cried himself into a desert just yesterday. A naïve assumption to make, on a ship populated by sentimental idiots.

“Luffy finally got to you, huh?”

Oh, Law does not want to talk about it. The crux of the problem is that he wasn’t raised among thieves – at least, not entirely – and with the empty plate in front of him and the pleasant tingle of caffeine in his system, politeness dictates some form of reciprocation. Bepo would be oh-so-proud of him, if…

Well. That thought is added to the pile of others he pushes far down to be able to function.

So Law mumbles, “That’s one way to put it”, a fleeting glance over the rim of his cup ensuring that yup, that damnable glint of kindness is back in Sanji's eye and this time it's going nowhere. Law’s shoulders draw up so tight they might as well be made of granite, as rigid and unyielding as he wants to be. Strawhat made quick work of that illusion, too.

“Listen, cook–”

“You really think you’re the only one?” Sanji interrupts him calmly, a statement-turned-question for Law’s sake, and Law shuts up and watches the other smoke for a few, tense seconds.

Tense for him, at least. Sanji looks like he does this every fucking day, leaning against the counter with his back straight and his legs crossed at the ankles and his words piercing past all pretense like he’s the one known to wield swords, not the other way around.

Law just gives him a look. Sanji chuckles and turns his head to blow out the smoke away from him; in return, the doctor spares him the comment about deadly habits that he’s probably heard from Chopper a thousand times anyways.

“Well, you’re not. Luffy pulled that shit with every single other person he’s decided to befriend, so we’re all – pardon the pun – on the same boat here.”

“…Everyone?”

Even Zoro? is the real question here, because Law can imagine pretty much every Strawhat losing it eventually (they’re an overly emotional bunch even on a good day) but somehow his mind blanks at their first mate. And Nico Robin, while he’s at it.

There’s a particular sort of glee in Sanji’s gaze, then. “Everyone. Captain’s a charming little shit, and he hates seeing someone being sad on his ship. With that fucker Mingo gone and”, he gestures casually at Law’s… everything, and Law glares, “it was only a matter of time, really.”

“I see”, Law says but he doesn't, not really. Even after sailing with him, fighting with him, bleeding with him, Luffy remains an enigma and ultimately unpredictable. Law taps a rhythm against the edge of the table, catches himself doing it, stops.

“I don’t know how you stand it.”

What he means is the incessant laughter, the constant interruptions, the Hi Traffy! and What are you doing, Traffy? and Traffy, play with us! and You’re funny, Traffy! – yet all he thinks of are intense brown eyes and a starburst scar and Luffy’s voice, quiet with sudden sincerity:

Don't you know? You deserve to be happy, Law.

Law misses the flippantly dismissive tone he was aiming for by a nautical mile and then some. He winces, looks away with a huff; there’s no way Sanji can miss the rough honesty in Law’s voice, obvious and crimson-red like a target sign, pointing to the parts of his soul left aching and raw.

All Sanji does is shrug as if to say, you get used to it, and he extinguishes his cigarette and picks up the plate and leaves the cup with a pointed look. The cook returns to his craft and just like that, Law is off the hook again.

Oh.

His coffee is cold by now but he finishes it anyway, downing the rest like a shot of liquor. Carefully, Law returns the cup to the counter next to Sanji’s elbow, and his murmur of thanks is accepted with an easy-going smile.

Law’s motivation to step outside and face the day is fractured and hazardously taped together at best. There is no reason to delay it any further: It’s a miracle the galley hasn’t been invaded already, especially with the smell of grilling meat wafting all over deck at this point. Law will take whatever his pitiful sense of luck will grant him.

That is, until he taps his hat in parting, opens the door and promptly stumbles over Monkey D. Luffy, captain of the Strawhat Pirates and recently-assigned commander of an extensive fleet, as he loses balance and rolls into the room with a dumbfounded look of surprise on his face. Law stares as it is swiftly replaced by a delighted smile.

“Oh, hey Tra–!”

With a flash of blue and the dull flop of a book on wood, Law disappears.

*

The sun is dipping towards the horizon and painting everything in vibrant reds and gold when Law decides to stop avoiding Luffy.

It’s a bizarre amalgamation of factors that leads up to it: Nico Robin’s look of mild curiosity as he appears in the library without warning; the fact Law has already dug up and read every book that is even tangentially related to any of his interests (and those that aren’t, too); a rare sense of yearning to feel the wind on his face and to watch the sea as she tosses and turns playfully against the Sunny’s hull–

The sea is out there, however, and so is Luffy, and were his self-control to slip any further, Law would shudder with the nervous energy that tingles in his veins at the thought.

The truth is that Luffy is brilliant. Perhaps not book smart like Law or as mechanically gifted as his shipwright or his sniper – people and emotions, that’s what Strawhat Luffy knows better than anyone, and it’s fucking terrifying. By his own design, Law is more lies and deceit and meticulous strategy than he is a person; it’s what carried him from being a child-beyond-death all the way to Dressrosa, the island-that-would-be-his-grave. It’s the one element that didn’t change in a plan he revised and adapted a million times over the years.

And then Law shambled Luffy out of the air and Luffy smiled at him and they set sail again and there, with all escape routes barricated by endless blue, the man dedicated a whole week of his life to go look for what’s left of Trafalgar Law in the aftermath and just... No.

A real shame that the ally he chose turned out to be allergic to plans. And common sense, and doing things in reasonable amounts, and– He sighs, a tired little noise that is lost to the uncaring backs of countless books.

Yeah, this is getting ridiculous.

Thousand Sunny can rarely be described as quiet by any definition. Stepping out on the quarterdeck, Law is met with the idle cries of sea gulls high above and the fluttering of the gaff sail as it turns to catch a lazy breeze. The sight of a napping swordsman, a sun-bathing model, and a skeleton delicately partaking in afternoon tea with a reindeer really shouldn’t register as anything other than bat-shit insane. He finds himself immediately losing parts of the habitual scowl he keeps on his face, and once again he has to wonder what kind of forbidden magic the Strawhats wield to simply do that.

No matter. With steady hands, Law tucks the tips of his hair under his hat – it’s gotten rather long, without Penguin around to cut it – and makes his way across deck, side-stepping Zoro’s comfortable sprawl with an ease born of practice.

The same ease with which he ignores the mumbled comment of “Fucking finally”, as much as it makes his stomach churn. The notion that everyone on the ship knows is not a comforting one.

Your crew is waiting for you! Are you gonna give up on them, too?!

You don’t know shit about my crew, Strawhat!

Then again, a screaming match between two captains in the small hours of the night can hardly be categorized as ‘stealthy’.

Framed by the sun, Luffy is a proud silhouette atop the figurehead of his ship. His legs are crossed, hands hooked under his shins as if to limit the amount of excited twitching to be done; boundless energy slips through the cracks like the glow of a firefly held between two hands. Law huffs a breath, shakes his head. A botched attempt at holding back but an attempt nonetheless. He can respect that, at least.

The unwritten agreement among the Strawhats is that this spot, it’s Luffy’s and Luffy’s alone. The man claims no other luxury on his own ship – which contains a captain’s cabin, Law checked with the cyborg on that, it’s just that it’s used for storage because Luffy-bro doesn’t like sleeping alone, you know? – and there hasn’t yet been a situation which required contesting that.

Thus, Law hesitates just outside the invisible circle drawn around the Sunny’s wooden mane. And, while there’s little doubt the other can track his approach, he knows he owes him for the tactical retreat earlier in the day.

“Luffy.”

Law’s tone is neutral, expression marginally softened by the clear relief in Luffy’s reply of “Traffy!” that comes with a glance over his shoulder. The grin that follows may be the only predictable thing about the guy, and Law can’t find it in himself to begrudge him for that.

“Come up, come up! I wanna show you something.”

For once, he walks instead of using Room. There’s nothing to replace himself with up there except for Luffy’s hat, and (the expected outcome of his big plan aside) Law doesn’t actually have a death wish. Step by step, Sunny’s head reveals a breathtaking view that only a handful of people have seen: From end to end, the line between sky and ocean disappears in the purple-pink swirls of twilight and a world that stretches on to infinity below their feet. Up here, a universe of possibility is within reach for those courageous enough to try.

No wonder Luffy adores it so much.

Law sits next to him with as much grace as he can muster, one knee pulled close to his chest and disregarding the painful twinge from his side where the nerves of his arm have yet to fully reconnect. His gaze remains on the horizon for a while longer, soaking up the sight befitting of a king.

“So that’s why you’re always up here.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! It’s cool, right?” Luffy snickers, patting the polished wood under them like one would a well-behaved dog. Or lion, in this case. “Sunny’s the best. But that’s not it. Look!”

Law throws him a measured glance to see what he means and gets stuck on the scrap of paper cradled in Luffy’s hand with care, inching straight ahead. “Nami says we’re getting close”, Luffy tells him, voice radiating warmth and giddy anticipation in equal shares. “I can't wait to see them all again!”

Bepo (Bear), it says in Law’s own writing, with a miniscule scribble of the Heart Pirates symbol next to it.

“That’s...”

His train of thought is derailed by the sudden longing wrapping around his heart, there and impossible to push aside. Law misses his crew, misses Bepo’s stupid apologies and Ikkaku’s stern reprimands and the hopeless blush Penguin and Shachi share when a woman merely acknowledges their presence. In hindsight, the months without them seem unbearably lonely, bleak and shadowed without the cozy togetherness of his family and the comforting hum of the Polar Tang all around him.

To Law, giving that Vivre Card to the Strawhats was the last bit of reassurance he needed to make his plan a reality – a wordless promise for them to find his crew and tell them it worked, perhaps some final words, if he got lucky enough to utter them. Now, after, it takes all his resolve not to snatch the precious paper away and never let it out of sight ever again.

He snaps himself out of it in time to stay exactly where he is, opening his mouth without the faintest idea where to begin putting it all into words, but by that point Luffy is already showing him his palm, offering Law everything he holds dear without asking anything in return or even a shred of hesitation.

A captain without a crew is sad and lost. Don’t you know? You deserve to be happy, Law.

In that moment, it doesn’t matter how vulnerable and exposed he felt the night before or that Luffy saw– Law takes the Vivre Card back and holds it up to his eyes, barely blinking as the paper wriggles impatiently between his thumb and index, surrounded by the tender colors of dusk.

“I... When? Tomorrow? The day after?”

“Tomorrow”, Luffy nods and it’s the tone he makes promises with, filled with determination and the courage to dream. He leans back on his hands, says, “Told ya we’ll take you home”, the smile on Luffy’s lips now soft with fondness.

It's an unfamiliar comfort, to watch the sun disappear knowing dawn carries with it a brighter future. For the first time in years, excitement bubbles warmly in Law's chest. Humming, he quietly admits, “Yeah, you did.”

Then Law laughs, rusty and a little awkward, and feels freer than he ever has.

[dawnwave16]

Not what I expected

3; 4(here); 4.5 ; 5 ; Pictures for Interlude ; Interlude

Chap 4

“It's confirmed,” she said with a soft smile, then looked at Hotch. “Congrats, Dad, it's a teenaged girl!”

Hotch was driving home to pack extra things into his bag when he realised that he should probably fetch Jack first. After all, if he remembered correctly, Jack was meant to be having an art day at school and the last thing he wanted to do was take Jack on a plane covered in paint and other art supplies. He had requested that Garcia book accommodation for them as the last thing he wanted was to arrive in Paris and find out the was nowhere for them all to stay, so he knew they would be staying in the Grand Paris Hotel, they would pay for their rooms after they arrived though.

That planned he picked up a very messy, yet excited Jack and got everything else that he needed done sorted and met the team at the airport. He was admittedly a bit nervous, after all, he'd just found out he had a teenage daughter and he had no idea if she knew that Tom wasn't her father. The team boarded without any issues and settled in for the flight. Since D.C was 6hrs behind Paris, despite them leaving at 1 pm they would be landing in Paris at 6 pm.

They had been on the plane for about an hour when Reid, who had been quiet for the most part, spoke up.

“I think we should look into Marinette's teacher as well as the two girls Matt mentioned.” Seeing the confused looks he continued, “While it may be possible that the teacher hasn't noticed what is happening with Marinette. If we go by what Matt said about how she seemed relieved that an adult other than her parents believed her, I think we can deduce that the school hasn't supported her. I read through the records about her that Garcia was able to get and her school file indicates that she has almost been expelled a few times since Miss Rossi joined the class. I find that strange because before that she had an almost spotless record there is even a note stating that she is generally quiet but will stand up to bullies. If you then take Frances' policy of emphasising the teacher's authority and how much they stress analytical thinking, it paints a picture of either a weak-willed teacher or one that just doesn't care.”

“I see where you going with this Pretty Boy, you think that the teacher has seen everything that Marinette is going through but instead of trying to help her, she's making Marinette lock away her natural reaction of standing up for herself in favour of trying to maintain the status quo. Marinette has probably tried to speak to her teacher but been told to simply keep quiet, which has then lead to her classmates thinking that she's been reprimanded and that what they are doing is the right thing.” Morgan sounded contemplative as he spoke.

“I could see that happening if the teacher wasn't very experienced with teens or perhaps was better suited to teaching much younger children.” This time it was Prentiss that spoke up. “Garcia can you-”

“Already ahead of you there. Records sent to your tablets but to summerise what I have found this is Caline Bustier's first teaching position, she applied to only teach art as she wanted to gain a bit more experience before teaching full classes. She has a history through her school career of fading into the background whenever there was any conflict near her. Ironically enough she was always found at the scene of a fight but never seen to be directly involved.” Garcia's fingers were flying over the keys of her laptop even as she gave her brief report.

JJ frowned, “Do you guys think she could have instigated those fights only to step back as the fight got bigger? I don't think I'd want to let her near my kids if that was the case.”

“That's presuming the parents knew about her history in the first place,” Reid interjected.

By this stage, Hotch was glad he had had the forethought to pack a tablet with games and movies along with headphones for Jack. He knew how strong Jack's sense of right and wrong was and knew that if Jack heard about what was happening to his big sister he wouldn't be happy. When he had told Jack where they were going and why Jack had just about bounced off the walls even as he promised to be the best little brother in the world. Apparently, some of his classmates had older siblings then themselves and Jack had been jealous of the bond they seemed to share.

The rest of the flight passed in much the same manner with the only pause in the conversation being for their in-flight meal as Jack took his headphones out while he was eating. They spoke about the backgrounds that had been pulled up for each of the people in Marinette's' class and felt they knew which ones would have been swayed and why as well as which ones would keep quiet out of fear. By the time their plane landed, they had agreed they would have to talk to Marinette first but they were pretty sure she would want to change schools to get away from all the negative memories that had been formed by her class.

The trip from the airport to the hotel was also uneventful however that changed soon after their arrival. They checked into the hotel and received their key card and were just about to gather their luggage when something large and scaley ran past them fairly quickly. It stopped near the doors watching them eagerly, it's tail waving wildly. They blinked then Reid broke the silence.

“Either I am seeing things or that is a crocodile. What is a crocodile doing in Paris, let alone in an upmarket hotel?” The team couldn't answer however it seemed they didn't need to as their answer arrived in the form of a teen with Ravens wing blue hair pulled into pigtails walked through the door, only to drop what she was holding as she fell to the floor with a lap full of the reptile.

“FANG!” she yelped. “Hey, silly boy why are you down here and not upstairs with your dad? You know you not allowed out of the room without a lead on. Did you escape just too great me?” Even as she calmed down and spoke, she was rubbing its jaw showing absolutely no fear of it despite its size. She even seemed to scold it through the giggles that were now trying to escape her lips. The huge croc simply rumbled in what could only be described as a purr. Another teen stalked into the reception hall to see what the commotion was, only for a sneer to cross her face.

“Uugh, it's you. Seriously why are you even here?”

“Hello to you too, Chloé. I'm sure I don't have to explain myself to you so instead of fighting, why don't I simply take Fang back to his room and then you don't have to see me.” As she replied to Chloé, she pushed the croc off her lap and gathered the bags that she had been carrying. They seemed to be clothing bags of some description. She then looked up and the BAU realised who the girl was, Marinette. Why was she here on a Friday night? Shouldn't she be at home? Why was she so comfortable around such a large crocodile?

“Fine! Just get out of my sight. This is ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous!” The blond, Chloé, spun on her heel, flicked her hair and flounced off. Marinette looked at the BAU and seemed to read their confused faces as confusion over Chloés' behaviour.

“Don't worry about her,” she said reassuringly, “ Chloé is always like that, her father is the mayor and owns this hotel. She was also one of the temporary hero's at one stage so she likes to act like everyone else is beneath her.” She then looked down at the crocodile, “Right, let's go, Fang, your papa is probably pulling his hair out looking for you. I have his and Penny's order with me, they just need to have their final fitting then we can have some more cuddles, how does that sound?” The crocodile pranced in place, acting more like a big puppy rather than the reptile he was, then as Marinette walked towards the elevator he walked next to her, as perfectly behaved as any army dog. As she got the elevator she frowned then looked at them again.

“Since there are so many of you would some of you like to travel up with Fang and me? He's a big softy who wouldn't hurt a fly, I promise.”

Jack immediately started tugging Hotch's hand, “Please Dad? I want to pet him!” 

Hotch smiled softly yet worriedly, he was a little nervous for this to be his first interaction with his daughter but his paternal instinct wanted him to get to know her and find out why she was here with garment bags in the first place. JJ noticed his dilemma and volunteered to go up with them. Hotch smiled at her in relief and the three of them joined Marinette just as it arrived so they all piled in. Marinette quickly showed Jack how to pat Fang and the croc seemed to lap up the attention. It was pure chance that they were all going to the same floor so when the doors opened again Marinette let them out first then walked out only to be greeted by an overly loud shout.

“MARINETTE! And you found Fang for me! Rock on!”

 @virgil-is-a-cutie for the idea about madam Bustier

@a-marlene-s for all her support! You Rock!

[packsbeforesnacks]

Darkness Arrives (and Departs) || Lydia, Mercy, & Winn

TIMING: Friday, July 10th, 2020, Day LOCATION: Lydia’s Home PARTIES: @inspirationdivine, @cryxmercy, & @packsbeforesnacks SUMMARY: After Winn’s collapse, Mercy and Winn turn to Lydia for help. Lydia explains. Mercy regrets. Winn processes.   WARNINGS: None, but it's sad.

Collapsing less than a week after you’d killed a man really took a lot out of you, it turned out. Winn was exhausted, right at the cliff’s edge where, if he was lucky, it would slip into awake again. His body wasn’t going to get a real break, he knew, until this was all over. He put a hand to his chest, hoping the pulse was still there, that he wasn’t already dead, and this was some sort of, he didn’t know, near-death experience? Living out a life he’d never get to lead. Shaking the admittedly super morbid thoughts away, Winn pulled up to Lydia’s home, looking for Mercy in the setting sun. When he found her, walking across the street to him, he gave her a tight nod. “Thanks. For comin’, I mean.”

Mercy had never expected to hear anything about Winn’s memories again. It had been simple.  He’d wanted them gone, and Mercy had known a way to make that happen. They did the thing. It worked. And Mercy had taken the young wolf to Europe. All sorted. Or it had been. Until he’d called her up out of the blue, asking for help to get them back. So what choice did she have? When she saw Winn’s car pull up, Mercy crossed the street, greeting him with a nod of her own. “Welcome. You ready for this?” She tipped her gaze towards Lydia’s home.

“No,” Winn said, honestly. “She… I don’t know, she might not be able to help us, or, uh, help me, I guess. But if neither of us know how to get them back…” Winn shrugged, walking towards Lydia’s door to knock gently.

“What’re the other options? Y’said the ravens came from a museum, Lydia knows about art and…” Winn waved a hand loosely. “I mean, I don’t know what she, um…” He sighed. “I’m not good at this shit. But we have to try. And I don’t… I don’t know why I collapsed. And we can’t ‘put that thing where it came from or so help me’ my memories, if they’re somewhere else. So… No? But, let’s do it anyway?” Winn tried to give Mercy a smile, but, if he was bein’ honest, he felt like shit and was startin’ to get pessimistic about his chances of ever recovering what he’d lost.

At least he was honest about not being ready. That could save them a lot of trouble in the future. False bravado only got people hurt. Or worse.

As for other options, Mercy gave a small shrug. “Nothing I know of that’s pleasant.” But they would discuss that later, if this visit didn’t pan out. But hopefully, Lydia would be able to help. Speaking of. “Just be careful what you say around her.” Mercy gestured to the door as they approached. “She’s fae. I don’t know her personally, but don’t let her promise-bind you into something.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder, and a small smile as he knocked. “Meaning if in doubt, just keep your mouth shut, hm?”

Who on earth would knock when Lydia had a perfectly functional doorbell, and when she lived in such a grand place? Fortunately, Winn had messaged ahead, so she was ready. They wanted her artistic expertise, he’d said, which had intrigued her. Adjusting her sunflower yellow jumpsuit, Lydia opened the door. “Winn, darling, do come on in. And, if I recall, Mercy, right? Can I get either of you a drink?”

Winn straightened as Lydia appeared before him, a fragile (but true) smile on his face. “Hi, Lydia,” he said. “It’s real nice to see you again.” And it was, despite everything. Lydia had been kind enough to help him save face at the auction, and here she was again, offerin’ her expertise — well, Winn had asked, but she had to say ‘Yes.’ Winn hadn’t had much experience with fae, but knew better, given Juliet had beaten it into his head for a week, not to promise anything that he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, deliver on. Winn gave a low whistle, this house nice even by his loaded standards. “Dang,” he said aloud, openly staring at pieces of art that caught his attention.

Mercy waited quietly next to Winn as he knocked. She’d had her share of experiences with fae — some good, some not so much — but all in all, she liked most of them. Even envied one or two that had trusted her enough over the centuries to show her their wings. But that was neither here nor there. The door opened, and Mercy gave Lydia a nod in greeting. “That’s me. And I’m fine at the moment. But thank you.” She followed Winn inside, looking around the beautiful home. It was impressive. As were a few of the art pieces that were displayed throughout. Was that… a Degas? And across the way… an actual Rembrandt? Mercy’s fingers itched to get up close to them, but she remembered herself after a moment. “Someone knows their art,” she said, turning back to the others. “I’d say we’re in the right place.”

“My job is art restoration, darling, you’d certainly hope I would.” Lydia looked from one to the other, and clasped her hands when they both declined the drink. “Right, in which case, we can retire to my office and then you can explain what exactly it is that you need my help with.” She led them through a door to their left, into the main working studio, with several benches and easels all with art in various stages of reconstruction. She had one on the vacuum table, having the hide glue drained from canvas, another painting on wooden panels that had split and she was clamping together as it dried, another on the easel with her paints out, half way through concealing a coffee stain on the left corner. From there, she led them into her office, where she perched on the front of her desk. “Right, so what can I help with?”

“Uh,” Winn started, really showin’ off his elegance. It was a little overwhelming, if he was bein’ honest, to see such a… lavish display? It wasn’t bad — wasn’t gaudy, like he felt that maybe ‘lavish’ hinted at — but Lydia lived at a level of wealth that seemed, to him, to dwarf even his considerable trust fund. “So, I, uh, I’ll explain the situation, and Mercy can explain why we’re here, specifically?” There was too much of a question to his voice, he knew, but it wasn’t like they’d had time to rehearse. What had been a relatively normal interaction had suddenly catapulted to urgency — even if Winn wasn’t sure how urgent. “So, there’s a hole in my memories. From a time where I… from a time in my life I guess I thought needed buryin’. Found out they’re hidden somewhere from a friend of mine, that they aren’t in my head. Found out from Mercy here that we used, well… Mercy, would you mind takin’ it from there?”

Mercy merely hummed in response before they moved off towards Lydia’s office. She sat next to Winn and waited patiently — eyes roaming curiously over the works in progress that filled the space — while the young wolf started to explain. When it was her turn, Mercy looked back at Winn, gave him a small smile, and then turned to Lydia. Reaching into the satchel she’d brought with her, Mercy pulled out a very, very old book wrapped in a bit of worn leather. “This book contains the spell we used to remove Winn’s memories.” She sat the book on Lydia’s desk for her to inspect if she wished. “A pair of ravens were used as focal points for the spell.” Mercy set a second carefully wrapped bundle on Lydia’s desk. “I brought them out for Winn to see again, thinking maybe they would help him remember. Because the book says nothing about reversing the spell.” She glanced at Winn. “Can you tell her what happened when you touched the raven?”

“I saw me askin’ her to take my memories. Just that,” Winn started. “It was… painful. But it passed. I woke up on the ground.” Winn looked at the wrapped Raven, wonderin’ what would happen if he touched it again. Would it just kill him outright this time? “And then a few minutes later, I collapsed again. Since then, I’ve felt… weaker. It almost feels like I’m losin’ a connection to my wolf, like that part of me is bein’ muted, somehow.” Now, diagnose me, Winn wanted to say, but there was one more detail. “I’ve lost two years of memories, Lydia. It— We didn’t mean to take that much away, and we don’t know where they went. If they’re gone, why does it… hurt? Why does it feel like my heart is,” Winn clenched his fist in his shirt, grabbing at his heart, “dying.” There. He’d said it aloud. It was out there.

Lydia ignored the book, but picked up one of the Ravens, her face sinking into a heavy frown as she listened, waiting until the end before she commented. She weighed it from hand to hand, feeling the wooden grain and grooves under her fingers. “You’re centuries old,” Lydia said to Mercy, remembering her conversations with the woman fondly, discussing labyrinths and monstrous creatures within them, “which means that you likely aren’t a spellcaster.” She looked back to Winn, hearing the pain in his voice and unable to escape just how much it rattled her. There was no easy way to break her reply, as she carefully set the artefacts down on her desk, swallowing hard as she clasped her hands in front of her. Her lips were pressed into a thin line before she answered, her gaze full of concern. “These are fae artefacts, that have been missing for centuries. Between the two of you, you’ve misused them, desecrating this ancient magic in ways it wasn’t meant to be. You probably feel like your heart is dying because it is.  I may have some answers for you, I want to help, but this is no small thing to ask of me. ”

Mercy’s eyes never drifted from Lydia as the other woman examined the raven. Winn’s story, while important, was white noise to the Fury who knew they were swiftly approaching an impasse. Two roads would soon diverge in the proverbial wood. One where Lydia was unable — or unwilling — to help them. And another, where she could. But that road would require a toll. Such things almost always did.

When Lydia finally spoke as Winn’s story concluded, Mercy nodded. “I am.” She figured Lydia as someone who’d seen her fair share of years as well, considering the lifespan of most fae, but didn’t comment. As for the spellcaster part: “Correct again. Which is why an acquaintance of mine performed the spell,” Mercy clarified. “I only spoke the three words at the end.” Lydia pressed on, explaining things to Winn much as Mercy had initially. Straight to the point. Mercy felt ice water rush through her veins. Dying. Gods…

“Fae artefacts?” Mercy said, frowning slightly. She didn’t doubt Lydia at all, it was simply new information. And it wasn’t often Mercy found herself genuinely surprised. “They were in a display on Norse culture. In a museum in Europe. Over three centuries ago. We only knew they didn’t belong with humans.” She didn’t elaborate on the ‘we’. “That they were… old. Perhaps even dangerous. So we took them. Stored them for safekeeping.” Mercy scrubbed a hand through her hair. It wasn’t an excuse, merely an explanation. If she had known they were Fae… “No one ever came looking, so they stayed with me. Stored away.” And what about the book? Was it fae too? When Mercy had thought otherwise? Gods what a fucking mess. A heavy weight seemed to settle across Lydia’s face, and Mercy looked to Winn, hoping he remembered what she’d told him earlier, despite the fact that the other woman wanted to help. Though what choice did he have? It was this, or die.

“Okay,” Winn said, after a solid minute of silence. “Okay, alright,” he said, after another five. He huffed out a humorless laugh. “So, have I been dyin’ since I had ‘em taken out? ‘Cause I—” Fuck. He could hear the brokenness in his own voice. “I have so much more I want to do, Lydia.” Winn wasn’t mad at Mercy, couldn’t find it in himself to even be angry at the situation. No. No, this was grief, pure and unadulterated. Anger, maybe, would come later. For now, he’d settle into denial, thanks. “I have so, so much more that I will do. ‘Cause you— you said you might have answers, and I…” He swallowed, hard around the knot in his throat, looking into his trembling hands. No claws were coming out, no fangs forming at the stress he was under. In this moment, Winn was small, and vulnerable, and so, so very fucking human. Death really was the great equalizer, huh? Ha. Hahahahaha. Winn went from laughing in his head to laughing aloud, a bark of a thing, high and panicked and intermixed with shuddering breaths. The look on the faces of the women was pitying. Pull it together, Winner. You have to. “I don’t want to die,” he said, finally, and then, quieter, a sob working its way, finally, out of him, “I don’t want to die.”

While Lydia was listening to Mercy, her eyes were on Winn, frozen with her admission hanging in the air in front of him. She nodded at Mercy’s summary. “Let’s put a pin in that,” she murmured, because at that moment, Winn cracked. More than cracked, he crumbled in front of her, his jaw trembling. Lydia stood up from her desk top perch, eyes widening in increasing alarm as he laughed, tears beginning to cloud his eyes. He wasn’t quite a stranger, but he was hardly a dear friend either, and so she didn’t quite know whether to cast her gaze away from him when he sobbed, or to take his hand. “Winn, I—” she said softly, but there was no reassurance she could offer that wasn’t a lie. Instead, she gave his forearm a tiny squeeze, before walking around her desk to reach into a drawer there, pulling out three crystal glasses and a bottle of whiskey, pouring one out for Winn, and bringing it back to him. “I’m so sorry.”

Winn couldn’t find it in him to lie, say ‘It’s okay. We all have to go sometime.’ So, instead, he downed the entire glass in one gulp, letting the burn ground him into the moment, back into the studio, the present, and not a future he might not have. Tears still ran down his face, but he swallowed the sobs. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to spend his final — days, weeks, months? — moments wallowing in his sadness. “Thank you,” he said, finally, holding the empty glass between shaking hands. For once, he was sure he wouldn’t break it. “I’m— I’d rather know. Gives me time to… make arrangements, say my goodbyes or, um.” He thought of Noah, and his heart broke. Winn had promised. Winn had promised he wouldn’t leave Noah. If there was any chance he could survive this, any chance at all, Winn had to take it. For both of them. Mercy’s words echoed in his head. No promises. Ask questions. “Is there anything I can do?”

Mercy gave Lydia a small nod, and turned her eyes to Winn as he started to fall apart. Her expression was carefully neutral save the tiniest furrow of her brow, not because she didn’t care - she did - but because to show anything else was to risk her influence affecting the situation. She’d used it on Winn in the past, and even though what had happened was ultimately his decision in the end, who’s to say what would have occurred had Mercy not been involved. A voice in her head said that it was unlikely Winn would be dying, but she shoved it away.  

The past was done. It couldn’t be changed, and lingering over what if’s wouldn’t help anyone. Least of all Winn. And Mercy would do everything in her power to make this right. “Dying isn’t dead,” Mercy said, grim determination in her tone as she glanced between the others. “Don’t hasten it’s coming by thinking they’re one and the same.” Her gaze lingered on Winn for a long moment before it settled on Lydia. “How long does he have? And what can be done?” she asked, adding her own questions to Winn’s.

Lydia only grabbed the bottle, and poured Winn more to drink.  “I don’t know, but let’s also not waste time on false hopes. Can you show me the spell you used?” Lydia’s eyes lingered on Winn a moment more, before nodding to herself. First Luce, then Remmy, then that lady detective. Fae secrets, every time risking her safety and her community all at once. These were old, too, entrusted to the Leanan-Sidhe to safeguard. True art, made by fae, to which human art had no comparison. Fueled with frequent human meals, she walked over to her full bookshelf, and crouched at the knee. She grabbed one of the shelves, and lifted up the entire bookcase, which slid up on hidden railings. The floor had cut outs, and so by lifting she revealed two additional shelves of the book case. Straining a little, she grabbed one of the larger volumes, and lowered the bookshelf back so that what was hidden remained hidden. Wiping a drop of sweat from her brow, she flicked through the book, setting it open on the page of the raven models, Huginn and Muninn.

“Right,” she said, skimming her fingers over the texts, written in the dialect of her father’s Aos Sí, reminding herself of the tales she’d read as a child, as an adult. These were the things that needed remembering, especially those that were stolen by humans. To see them in front of her again made her hands tremble. And it was them, no cheap imitation. It was the pieces missing from the fae community, and they were killing Winn. “I’ll explain more if you like, but the main answer is… that, well, you’ll die when you’re most human, at your weakest.” Lydia looked back up to Winn. That wolf mask felt mocking in retrospect. “The next new moon.”

Winn snorted. He couldn’t help it; it was too perfect, too ironic for words. “Awoo,” he said, dryly. Taking another slug from his refilled glass, Winn slipped out his phone, scrolling to the calendar. “New Moon’s on the 20th. So, I’ve got… ten days, or thereabouts. Cool, cool. Nice, even number. 1:33 PM ain’t a bad time to die, all things considered. Not gonna ruin my mornin’, and, hell, if I really party my ass off the night previous, I might be able to sleep through it. Makes total sense I’d die on a Monday. Fuck Mondays.” If he rambled enough, he could pretend this wasn’t happening, right?

The spell. He turned to Mercy, pointing to the bound volume on the desk in front of them. “Spell’s in that book, right? The definitely-not-an-evil-book book?” Winn knew there was a reason he hated reading. It really would kill him to have to read. He laughed again, a dark sound in the back of his throat, and leaned forward to open it, flipping through the pages with mock-interest. “Please, Mercy, tell me what page it’s on. 666? 13? 320 for some big ‘Fuck you, Winner’ energy?” At least the book wasn’t makin’ him go through a flashback. One point in its favor. “And does the spell say why now? It’s been two-and-a-half years, y’all. Does this spell just hate July?”

Mercy nodded, and reached carefully for the book. Setting it in her lap and gently opened the ancient text to the page that contained the spell they were looking for. The words were there as they’d always been, written in faded ink and surrounded by beautiful, scrawling artwork in the margins. “This one.” She glanced at Winn to confirm the answer to his question, and set the book back on Lydia’s desk as the other woman moved to a set of shelves across the room. Mercy watched as they were lifted clear of the floor — quite easily, she noted, tucking the information away — revealing hidden rows beneath the floor. Clever, she thought to herself.

Winn was understandably upset, and Mercy didn’t stop him or chastise him. What good would it do? Best to let him rage and cry and do whatever else was necessary at the moment. Because later he would need to focus. If there was a later. Which is what they were here to find out, wasn’t it? She glanced at Winn as he pointed at the book. “Most magic is neither good nor bad.” There were exceptions, of course, but from what Mercy had learned over the years, it was the intent that mattered more. Just like anything else that could be used as a weapon.

She leaned forwards to look at the pages of the book Lydia set down. Mercy immediately recognized the ravens — so ingrained in her own history and beliefs — but didn’t recognize the language. The Fury looked back to the pages of the first book, which to her was still written in Irish Gaelic. “There are no page numbers,” she told Winn distractedly. “And no. It doesn’t.” Though Mercy had her theories on ‘why now’.  

She also had questions. The first of which was why an Irish text seemed to be linked to Norse-inspired artifacts, even if they were fae. But then Lydia answered the most important question of them all. And Mercy felt herself blanche slightly.

Ten days.

Gods...

Less than two weeks and Winn would be dead. Unless they got his memories back.

“Where are his memories now?” Mercy asked. “And will getting them back stop this?”

“You’re going to need to give me some time with this,” Lydia said, pulling Mercy’s book towards her. “Even then, I might not have all the answers. If this text is what I think it is…” She looked down at it, tracing over the hand penned pages. Then she turned her own book, the fae histories to them, so that they could see it too, although the irish gaelic, quechua and spanish were more modern than anything in Mercy’s book. “These ravens were made between eight hundred and a thousand years ago. They were a collaboration between an A— a fae commune and spellcasters, to make all the local humans forget their existence after a particularly voracious mushroom season. Combining human and fae magic is an inherently unstable and risky endeavor, no matter how powerful it may be. Time has only made this magic more volatile.”

Lydia paused, looking to Winn. When she spoke to him, it was entirely gentle, but there was no kind news here. “The spell when first created killed several of the humans it affected, and throughout the centuries it has killed many humans that have come in contact with the ravens, until it was stolen. At a guess… something to do with repeated exposure, your body trying to process the gap, that you’ve been exposed to both the spell and the artefacts, the fact that you are much more human than Mercy and I. I’m sorry, Winn.”

She tapped Mercy’s text. “This is a copy of the original spell. However, it’s going to take me some time to decipher all of it. You’re welcome to hang around while I give it a go now, take advantage of my kitchen or my garden. Just be aware that if I need to call in some other fae to help translate, it may take longer.”

“Take your time, Lydia,” Winn said, trying not to think about how ironic that sentiment was, now. Standing, he put a hand on Mercy’s shoulder. “I’ll be in the garden. Think I want to spend as much time takin’ in nature as I can before… y’know. Come get me, if Lydia finds somethin’.”

The garden was beautiful, Winn could admit, even through the exhausted malaise that seeped into him, infecting even the wildflowers with a tinge of melancholy. Would this be the last time he’d see them? Lydia’s garden was new to him; would this be his last first time somewhere? No. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. Maybe he could convince Noah to… He pulled out his phone, flung off a text, and pocketed it again.

Winn chose a patch of grass beneath a shady tree to lay down, staring into the sky. Center yourself, Winner. He could hear birdsong from above him, felt the grass blowing gently against his skin, smelled the earth beneath him, and, closing his eyes, he let himself enjoy, maybe for the last time, the simple pleasure of living.

“It looks like Irish Gaelic to me,” Mercy said, if only to inform Lydia. She leaned forwards to look at the second book as Lydia explained what had happened all those centuries ago. She scanned over what she could translate, but when Lydia revealed the true origins of the ravens, Mercy’s gaze snapped back to the other woman. And suddenly that piece of an ages-old puzzle fell into place. “Well I’ll be damned.” She shook her head and sat back. There was no joy in her expression or her tone. Not this time. Mixing species-specific magics was like mixing oil and water, or so she’d always been told. “We knew they didn’t belong in that museum.” Again, Mercy didn’t elaborate on the ‘we.’ “They had… left a trail of death in their wake. Only humans. Never supernaturals.” If they had, she never would’ve— but that didn’t matter now.

“Sort of like… a much older, much more prolific version of the Hope Diamond,” she said, trying to find a good comparison. But it still fell short of the true gravitas of the situation.

She glanced at Winn as Lydia did, nodding at his request and feeling another wash of guilt as the young wolf excused himself. Mercy watched him go, her face a mask of neutrality. When he was out of earshot, she turned back to Lydia, rolling everything she’d learned over in her head. Finally:

“It’s not really written in Gaelic, is it?”

Lydia watched Winn go with an unplaceable expression, her chest hard and heavy as she pulled her notepad towards her and a pen, to write down her thoughts as she worked on understanding it. She looked up, briefly at Mercy’s question. She wanted to help them where she could, but the intricacies of Aos Sí language were still a secret to be kept close to the chest. “Mercy, I need to focus. If you mind?” Lydia nodded to the door of her office, and set pen to paper, working.

After an hour, Lydia rubbed her face, setting down her pen. It was legible in a long, roundabout way, much like the fae themselves, but the complex intertwining of languages left segments where their meaning was indecipherable to Lydia. What was decipherable, at least, gave some insight into the working of the spell, and the conditions around it. Yet it was the last line, with the words Mercy had spoken that Lydia was staring at now. Better not to be hasty. She read the sentence again, and again, before picking up Mercy’s spell book and her own notes, dashing from her office, through her work studio, and into her home proper. “Mercy?” she called, before spotting Winn under the trees outside.

Lydia swung open the french windows and ran over to him, and knelt in the grass and twigs and foliage beside him. “I have good news. This might be completely reversible.”

Winn hadn’t fallen asleep. Then, he never slept easy. Had it always been that way? Or… Instead, he focused on the sounds he could hear, even with his weakened hearing. Eventually, he heard the swinging of a hinge, soft feet on the ground, and blinked open his eyes, wincing at the sunlight which was now shining closer to him.

He sat up, pulling his legs close to his chest to regard Lydia. Hope was a fragile thing, and Winn wouldn’t let it root in his heart. Not yet. “Tell me more? Please?” He wanted to ask if there was a catch, wanted to know what he’d have to give up to save his life, but held his tongue. No need to be an ass to the one woman that could help him.

Mercy knew when she was being asked to leave. She didn’t take it personally, and rose without comment to leave Lydia to her work. But the lack of answer — where a simple yes or no would’ve normally sufficed — to her question said enough in itself. And that didn’t sit well with Mercy. At all. Not because of the secrecy, everyone had things they kept closely guarded, but because if it was some… fae language… what had Mercy potentially attached herself to in speaking the three runes? She had never felt different than she had before the spell. Maybe she was just thinking of the worst possible scenarios for herself. Even though Winn had gotten the short, shit-covered end of the stick, if she was being honest. So Mercy found somewhere to sit while she waited. She closed her eyes, and tried to rein in her wild, errant thoughts before they could run out of control. When Lydia called her name a bit later, it took Mercy a moment to open her eyes. Once she did, she saw Lydia going outside to where Winn was sat. She followed, standing in the doorway to listen.

Her heart leapt a bit at Lydia’s announcement. This was good. Really good. But with every good thing came the consequences. Mercy didn’t ask what the bad news was, not having the heart to smash the tiny flutter of hope that crossed Winn’s face. Instead, she let Winn take point with the questions, and waited to see what Lydia had found.

“Your memories weren’t destroyed. They were just stored in someone else, unreachable to both of you,” Lydia explained without dally. She looked back to Mercy. “You said you spoke the last three words? In doing so, you accepted taking his memories into you.” She turned back to Winn, her eyes sparkling. “If you can find a spellcaster who can find the memories in Mercy and return them to you, you’d disentangle yourself from the spell entirely.”

She looked down to her clasped hands, and picked up a brown leaf, dried to crumbling in the summer sun. As she spoke, she cracked it into pieces between her fingers. “I couldn’t understand all of it, and there’s plenty more I don’t understand simply because I am not a spellcaster. There will likely still be consequences and dangers. Memory magic, well, as you have learned, it is not simple. I don’t know if there is a spellcaster in town capable of it.”

Winn could feel his mouth hanging open in soft surprise as Lydia explained. Memories, stored in another person. It seemed too unreal to believe… and yet, not really any stranger than his memories being gone in the first place. “Wow,” he said, looking at Mercy. “I… actually know someone who can help with that.”

He tried to phrase his next remark to Lydia as carefully as he could. Winn trusted her, completely, but knew one wrong move could bring about some fuckery he just didn’t have time to deal with. “Lydia,” he tried. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

Not destroyed. Only stored away. Alright. That wasn’t the worst, right? At least Mercy thought so until Lydia looked in her direction, asking Mercy a question that Lydia herself already knew the answer to. Gooseflesh crept up her spine, but Mercy nodded that she’d been the one to speak the words. What came next was the last thing the fury expected to hear.

“I’m sorry… what?” She pushed up from where she’d been leaning against the doorframe. “I never consented to a goddamn thing. Those runes were Norse. And the only reason I spoke them was because the caster didn’t know the words. They were meant to repeat them after I translated.” But even as Mercy spoke she knew it didn’t matter. Winn had collapsed the moment the runes had been spoken out loud, activating the spell. The caster never got the chance to repeat them. “Fuck,” Mercy said to herself. She shouldn’t be upset, it was karma at its finest. But there was no helping it. “So… what now?” she said to them both, making herself speak calmly if only for Winn’s sake. “I’m just supposed to let some random caster dig around in my memories?” Mercy crossed her arms, looking between them both. “Been there. Done that. Didn’t buy the t-shirt because it fucking sucked. Turns out memory magic gets a bit overwhelmed when there’s a millenia to muck through. And that was over 200 years ago.” The revelation of her age was deliberate, because they needed to understand. If they were even going to consider this… if Mercy was considering this— fuck… what choice did she have? This was her fault. She had to make it right. She would make it right. But first… first they needed to know:

“One caster won’t be enough.”

“Those are fae rules. You spoke them; you’re bound by them.” Although, Lydia knew, to an extent, all magic was fickle when it came to words and intention. For that reason, her sympathy for Mercy was limited, relative to Winn, who was dying. That said, letting any human, even a spellcaster, rummage through her thoughts was enough to make her feel queasy. “What you do with that information isn’t up to me. Nor where you find your casters.”

She looked back to Winn again, and took his hand in hers. A small, reassuring squeeze was all she could offer. What else was there to say, in the face of impending death? “So don’t say anything yet. Just send me a text in eleven days' time.”

Casters? Winn looked up at them, a small smile bleeding through the anxiety he still felt: “I’ll make some calls.”

[solacefruit]

Hi Grey, I struggle a lot with world building and I think it's easiest for me to learn by example. I was wondering if you had any books or series you'd recommend that you thought did particularly well in the world building department or that you found inspiring. I'm trying to start building a list of things to read, could be any genre

Hello there and thank you for your patience! I’ll be honest, this one’s a challenge to answer, but I’ll do my best. I’ll put it all under a read-more, because I’m going to talk a lot about why I feel these books are good places for thinking about world-building. 

Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman. (fantasy)

This one comes up a lot when I’m making recommendations and that’s because I love it. For me, it was deeply formative in many ways, and especially when it came to world-building, because Pullman uses a style of world-building which really clicks for me--which is basically throwing your reader into a world and not explaining much at all, leaving many things gestured at but never explicitly said. Things just happen, things just are, and the reader has to keep up. There’s a lot that goes unsaid in this book, and it means you as a reader have to start thinking and “solving” the gaps in the world yourself. There’s room for speculation and I thrive in that environment, and lean on it heavily in my own work. 

A great example of that comes in the first chapter of the novel, on the fifth page and then again on the seventh: 

“As Lyra held her breath she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like almost all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet...” - page five. “... and said something to his daemon. He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. In fact, she had the form of a red setter.” - page seven.

That’s good oblique storytelling, because you are told so much and simultaneously so little. From these two tiny pieces, you now know that:

servants usually have dog-shaped daemons

some daemons, even within a family, are “better” than others

daemons mean something about their person

But these pieces tell you enough that you can now speculate and question the world as you read on. Things like:

why do servants have dog daemons?

what makes a red setter daemon better than another dog daemon?

what does a dog daemon mean?

what is the hierarchical system of daemons, who is better than whom?

are people sorted because of their daemons, or do the daemons reflect where the person is sorted to after the fact? 

what do other daemons mean?

are these meanings innate or cultural? 

The book itself will directly answer maybe one or two questions, hint at a few others, and leave many completely unresolved. But that’s not bad world-building. For me, that’s the kind of world-building I love best. The book can now say, “this person’s daemon is a butterfly,” and you will be primed to read symbolism and significance into that, even in moments where the book itself doesn’t give you any. You’re a participant in creating the world as you read. A little goes a long way. 

The Discworld novels, by Terry Pratchett. (fantasy, comedy) If you’re trying to pick a first book, start here. 

And now for something completely different. Pratchett’s Discworld is an absurdist world, created to satirise fantasy tropes and play as the stage for social and political commentary. What makes Discworld so interesting as a place to learn about world-building is that it is a world that doesn’t take chronology or “consistency”  or “authenticity” seriously. Where a lot of fantasy writers will stress over making sure every detail lines up, and their fans will often get very upset if they find anything “inconsistent” or “incorrect”, Pratchett’s world entirely rejects that way of doing things. Pratchett commented: 

 “[S]ometimes I even forget [...] where things are ... I don’t think [...] even the most rabid fan expects complete consistency within Discworld, because in Ankh-Morpork you have what is apparently a Renaissance city, but with elements of early Victorian England, and the medieval world is still hanging on. It’s in a permanent state of turmoil, which is very interesting for the author.” (quoted in Hills, Guilty of Literature).

There’s something very liberated and fluid in how Discworld forms, because it’s such a committed pastiche, but it doesn’t at all (at least, for me) undercut believing in the characters or story. I adore Discworld and its characters. I think it’s very valuable to read if you’re in fantasy writing (or speculative fiction in general), because it’s easy to fall into thinking that unless you make everything Perfect and Realistic and Consistent, your world-building isn’t good. 

Something else about Discworld worth noting is that, despite being absurd and fluid, it is also grounded in the real. Pratchett’s world is in turmoil, but it includes sewer systems, passages of trade and commerce, and a pervasive sense of the civic life happening and living outside of the plot-line: it’s not just a diorama to be walked through, but a place where people exist and do mundane things and have everyday needs. I personally find it fascinating that the story manages to exist sort of balancing at oppositional ends of the “realism” spectrum at all times, but I think that’s also the key to why it is so successful at what it does. 

(Side note: Matt Hills’ chapter in Guilty of Literature is a great read if you want to know more!) 

Ancillary Justice, by Ann Leckie (science fiction)

I’m not a big reader of science fiction, because my heart is with fantasy, always. But this series was super interesting and I can recommend it, especially if science fiction is more your flavour! It’s been a while since I’ve read it, so I can’t give the same amount of detail as I’ve done above, but it was thoughtful and intriguing and I loved the ways this trilogy defamiliarised and refamiliarised ideas through the world and characters. 

“The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas,” by Ursula K. Le Guin. (short story)

It’s only four pages long, but it’s haunting. I’ve put this story on the list because I feel like Ursula K. Le Guin belongs in many conversations about world-building; her work, in her time, was often radical--and remains so, in many cases. She didn’t flinch away from making her worlds alien, not in the sense of writing about space and people out among the stars (which admittedly she did also do!), but truly questioning and challenging cultural and societal norms and creating new ones, even (and especially) when they were uncomfortable to the status quo. 

To me, that’s a core part of good world-building. You can just recreate the world we live in, with all the biases we’re raised to have, with the beliefs and expectations of conduct we have, with all the same bigotry--or you can push yourself to pull it all apart and pick from it the pieces you want to play with. You can push things to their extreme limits, or erase them entirely, or just... slide things a little to the left and make the whole world slightly off. Being able to be flexible in your thinking is vital for making vivid, interesting worlds, and Ursula K. Le Guin's work is a place you can start exploring that kind of thing if you’re unfamiliar with it. 

For instance, in her novel Left Hand of Darkness, there is only one pronoun (a theme you’ll notice in Ancillary Justice) and the people of the planet Gethin change sex regularly. In her collection of short stories, “The Birthday of the World and Other Stories,” she writes about sedoretu, a four-way marriage she invents, as well as exploring gender, religion, culture, and society. Any of these are worth taking a look at, if you’re feeling a little boxed in. 

However, despite saying all this: I don’t really enjoy her writing! I don’t have fun reading Le Guin’s work in practice; it doesn’t mesh with me beyond my delight at the conceptual elements she discusses. I often feel about reading her work like how kids think about medicine: tastes kind of awful, but it’s good for you. I’m grateful to her for paving the way, but I don’t read her work for fun. 

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of her Own Making, by Catherynne M. Valente. 

I’m throwing this one in the ring for a few reasons. One is that I am heavily indebted to nonsense; I grew up on Dr Seuss, Roald Dahl, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland + Alice Through the Looking-glass, Edward Gorey, A. A. Milne, H. R. Pufnstuf, and a little later, A Series of Unfortunate Events and Discworld. This book feels representative of that big love, and taps into what I love about nonsense. 

Another reason is that it’s a good example of what I think of as delightful lawlessness in storytelling. It feels--as respectfully and lovingly as I can say this--like a game of mad libs turned into a book, because of how free and wild it is with what is allowed to happen. I think it’s very difficult to do something like this well, but I also think it’s a great place to play around when you’re first beginning to get to grips on world-building. Spin a wheel of options and go, “okay, so there’s a manticore in the basement, what now?” Make up reasons for things on the spot as a game for yourself. Ask and answer questions, just for fun! “Why is there a manticore there?”  “It got in through the magic portal.”  “Where’s the magic portal?”  “It’s an old picture of the protagonist’s grandmother.”  “Why is it a portal?” “The grandmother is secretly a witch and the ex-queen of a fantasy land.” “Why is the manticore here?” “Come to retrieve the queen, but accidentally takes the protagonist by mistake.” “Why does the manticore want the queen?” “Extreme Trivia Night at the Castle has really sucked lately. Also she misses her.” And just like that, you’ve got the start of a wacky but not impossible-to-tell story.  

My final suggestion isn’t a book, but a podcast!

Be The Serpent (a podcast of extremely deep literary merit). 

A fortnightly podcast by three charming writers who discuss a different theme or topic each episode (using a couple of texts as reference material), and will also make media recommendations. I love listening to it and it’s a great place to think about writing, both as a reader and as a writer. I don’t have a lot of writing friends myself, unfortunately, so it’s honestly so valuable to me to be able to hear them discuss their process and ideas on topics I care about. 

I hope this helps! Best of luck to you, and please feel free to write in if you have any other questions. 

[missgoalie75]

gilmore girls | chilton au | jess + luke

prompt: anon prompted: missing scene between jess and luke after jess is kicked out of hartford. word count: ~1,900 note: chilton au is this fic, reblog link here, so please read that first before you read this. also sorry anon this took a while to happen - i hope it’s worth the wait!

Jess winces when he walks to Luke's Diner as he brings a thumb to his jawline, muttering a fuck under his breath before reaching up above the doorway to grab the key to let himself inside Luke's Diner.

Once he grabs it, he pauses. He doesn't do this. He usually leaves, wanders, keeps away until enough time has passed and then he comes back.

Except that fucking panic he felt when he walked down black streets, utterly silent save for the cicadas, made it obvious that he can't do that – not in suburbia. He was able to slip under the radar and not be noticed by ACS, but here in Connecticut, at a school where demerits are handed for creased pants, he can't risk testing mandated reporters.

He finally lets himself in, cringing when the bells ring overhead. He finally hears Rory driving away and he smiles a little; of course she wanted to wait until he was safely inside.

He quietly locks the door again and his stomach grumbles when he first smells remnants of fries. Maybe he can make himself a sandwich or something before he goes upstairs and –

A light turns on behind the curtain. "Hello?" Luke demands, his steps loud and uncoordinated as he goes down the stairs.

Jess clenches his jaw. "It's me," he says.

Luke stumbles into the diner and squints. He has a bat in his hand.

"Really?" Jess questions, staring at the bat.

"What are you doing here? Is something wrong?" Luke asks, turning on the light.

They both wince at the sudden brightness.

He wants to say nothing, but once Luke's eyes properly work, they're bulging out of their sockets when he notices the mark on Jess' face.

"Where'd you get that?" Luke demands, striding over. His hand is rough but gentle when he tilts Jess' head to get a better look at it. "If it's that guy, I swear to God –"

Jess removes himself from Luke's hold. "Can we go upstairs and talk about this?" he asks, stopping him short.

Even though the blinds are down, he still feels too exposed. He stuffs his hands into his pockets.

Luke inhales sharply. "Yeah, okay, come on."

Luke leads him up the stairs and Jess takes care to shut the lights behind him. Once they're inside the apartment and Jess drops his duffel, Luke turns around and asks again: "Did he do this?"

"No."

Luke exhales in relief.

Jess doesn't know why – maybe it's the heat or exhaustion or shock – but he has to swallow over a lump in his throat before he can speak. "It was Liz."

There's always been a lingering bitterness when it came to Luke – sending money, enabling his crazy sister and her fucking bad habits. But seeing him go through the five stages of grief in the span of a second made him realize that Luke really fucking thought his sister was better than she is.

Poor, naïve bastard.

"It was her ring," he explains emotionlessly.

He looks off to the side when he sees tears in Luke's eyes, giving him a moment.

"I have Arnica, but I don't want to irritate the cut," Luke says in a rough voice. He clears his throat.

"It's fine. I've had worse."

Luke holds up a hand. "I don't need to hear that."

Jess breathes. "You didn't hear a lot of things, Luke," he says, not unkindly.

"I'm sorry," Luke says and Jesus Christ, his voice broke.

Jess exhales. "Can I crash here? At least for tonight –"

"You're staying here indefinitely, end of discussion," Luke takes over him, looking around the apartment in thought. "Sheets…I may have them…" he mutters.

"I don't need indefinitely."

"If you think you're living with your mom after tonight you're delusional. Go use the bathroom – shower – I'll get you set up with a bed."

"I can sleep on the couch."

"No, you'll sleep on some sort of mattress. Go shower."

Jess furrows his brow. "Are you telling me I stink or something?"

"Showering will help make you feel better."

Jess tries not to laugh. "Aw."

"Shut up." Pause. "Did you eat? I can make you something."

"I'm fine."

"I'll make you something."

Jess rolls his eyes, but picks up his duffel and heads toward the bathroom. He didn't bring much with him – a handful of shirts, two pairs of pants, some boxers, his favorite books and CDs, some hair gel, and a pack of cigarettes. He does have a bottle of shampoo in the bathroom here because of an incident over the summer involving misplaced flour; no good deed goes unpunished, indeed.

He turns on the shower and avoids looking in the mirror as he undresses. He has a feeling that Luke is probably doing other things besides preparing the apartment for him, like calling Liz, so he takes his time. He tries to avoid thinking about what's going to happen next, like Luke says he'll house him, but will he actually? And if not, can he really do the next two years in that fucking mansion? And what if he does live in Stars Hollow – what about Chilton? Will his dick of a step-father really shell out the money for Chilton after tonight? And if that's the case, then so what? Why does Jess give a shit about Chilton when he hates the fucking uniforms and the school work is absolutely insane? He could go to Stars Hollow High and wear his regular clothes and be bored out of his fucking mind (and not be entertained by Rory taking notes and biting her lip) –

(Okay, he's going over his options.)

He shuts his eyes tightly as he rinses out his hair, forcing himself to recite "Howl" until his mind clears.

He turns off the water and dries himself, wrapping his towel around his waist when he hears a sharp knock on the door.

"I have clothes," Luke says, his voice muffled.

Jess considers arguing, but he's tired now and it seems easier to open the door and take the offered clothes: a pair of sweatpants and a Mets shirt. Jess had figured Luke would be a Red Sox fan given the 860 territory of Connecticut, but he doesn't plan on questioning it.

When Jess leaves the bathroom, he finds Luke in the kitchen, flipping what seems to be a grilled cheese.

"I used provolone and cheddar. Did you want a tomato in this?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Luke flips it one more time to check the bread and reaches for a plate to put the sandwich on. He hands it to Jess.

"Thanks." Jess checks the fridge and there are a few cans of Coke left. Figuring soda isn't the best thing given that he has residual nicotine buzz in his system, he grabs a water bottle and sits down at the table.

The grilled cheese is pretty damn good. Once Luke is satisfied that Jess will be eating the entire sandwich, he goes to the stove and breaks out a fucking tea kettle. Jess grimaces, figuring correctly that Luke would be making two cups of herbal tea.

Luke finally stays still and Jess notices Luke's red rimmed eyes.

"I spoke with your step-dad. Your mom wasn't available," Luke says in the stilted way that Jess had picked up on weeks ago to be Luke's 'lying out of his ass' tone.

"She was passed out," Jess corrects him flatly. "What did he say."

"I told him you were staying with me and he was more than okay with that."

"Okay. And Chilton?"

"He said he'll continue paying for it as long as you continue to keep up your grades," Luke snorts. Then pauses. "What are you getting?"

Jess smiles.

Luke grumbles and shakes his head. "Well, if it's good enough for this jerk, it's good enough for me."

He's obviously still paying as a status thing, or a way to avoid scandal, which, whatever. At least he'll get to enjoy Rory in knee-high socks in the fall.

"I gotta ask – how did you dent your car?"

Jess snorts and takes a sip of his tea. Nope, not good. "It was months ago and I backed into a pile of snow."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"I wanted to see how long it would take for anyone to notice."

"Well, it got noticed alright." Luke sighs. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow. Are you still hungry?"

"Nope."

"Okay. So…not a fan of tea?"

"Not really," Jess admits, but he picks up his mug again and takes another sip. It's somewhat getting better, but he'd never make it himself.

"Let me see if I can find you a spare toothbrush."

Luke gets up from the table and halfway to the bathroom, Jess says, "Thank you."

Luke stops walking. "You're welcome." Then continues to the bathroom.

(Jess tries not to laugh when he years shit falls out of the medicine cabinet and Luke cursing.)

**

Luke seems to pass out immediately, but Jess, despite his exhaustion, is awake on his blow-up mattress or raft or whatever the hell he's on.

Over the year he's gotten used to the utter lack of noise at night, mostly with the help of music. It's still weird and it's downright eerie at times, but it's not as bad as it was in the beginning.

Although this – Stars Hollow – is probably even worse than where he was living before.

He only has six CDs with him and as much as he loathes to admit it, he probably needs to listen to something that's more akin to Parachutes and not Never Mind the Bollocks.

So, he's left with the silence. And Luke's intermittent snoring. Eventually, he's lulled to sleep, mostly because the adrenaline and nicotine are long gone and the hot shower did help a little, even though he won't admit it.

**

When Jess wakes up, he's alone. He checks his watch and it's a little past six. He groans and considers falling back asleep, but the raft has deflated a little and he heard Luke drop something in the back, so he sits up with a wince, rubbing the back of his neck.

He tries to get his hair back in order, but gives up after a few minutes. The cut looks worse in the daylight, but he ignores it. He rubs his cheek against his growing stubble and figures he needs to really make these living arrangements official and buy bathroom supplies later.

He heads downstairs and seeing Rory first thing in the morning is admittedly one of his favorite things. He can get used to having breakfast at Luke's every day and maybe he's a little relieved to have Luke with him when they go back to Hartford since he always believed in the power of the getaway driver. He just hopes that Luke can have a lead foot when it's important.

(Which, it turns out he does while they're speeding up I-84 on the way there and speeding down on the way back; they should get along just fine.)

[sailor-cresselia]

Zi-O 14: Raw viewing

Hm. Hmmm. HMMM.

omoshiroi.

Here’s the liveblog for Zi-O 14, pre-subs.

These are apparently taking me several hours to watch now, since I’m taking notes live, and with checking the wiki to get names right and backing up frequently to check images and figure out what I can actually hear. Whoops.

(WOW that phrase comes in handy.)

Woz, where’d you go – oh, so the clock’s not just some sort of Aesthetic Background. It’s actually there.

Okay, I can’t tell if he’s pissed because Sougo’s kinda dead, or because he’s not the reason Sougo’s kinda dead, but Geiz is pissed.

Aw. I think he might actually care.

“Can’t you just tell them that I’m right here?”

“They wouldn’t believe me.”

Urgh, I can’t actually get what they’re saying. I THINK it’s along the lines of:

Takeru: “So, I’m the only one who can see you, and it ‘might’ be because of this.” He pulls out the Ghost watch.

Sougo: “Ohhhh. So Geiz is headed to see the past you.”

Takeru: “Wait, what? The past?!” (oh god no not time travel again!)

(Re: the opening)

HEY WAIT.

Apparently, episode 11 was the last time that the final shot of the Opening had that uncomfortable ‘burning page reversing itself while grainy footage of Zi-o on his bike’ sequence. Episode 12 turned it to being a straight shot of Zi-o Riding his bike straight at the camera between two jets of flame. I only noticed watching 14, just now, but huh. I thought the only changes that had happened so far were the shots of the Time Jackers updating.

I’ll have to check on that later.

Ohh… Another Ghost immediately went after the crane operator… that’s really heartbreaking.

(Geiz, bud, what’s with the terrible green-screen? Your transformation’s usually better done than that.)

Hora: Come on, we need to kick Geiz’s butt in the past.

Tsukasa: Pft. Plebe. I can travel on my own, thanks. (proceeds to open a dimensional portal of his own)

Thank you for not summoning the hoodies this time, Geiz.

Enter Ryuki!Decade… who promptly changes to Ghost!Decade… oh, this could be good. (I paused mid transformation to write, mind you.)

The rules of time travel say that only one version of a rider’s powers can exist at a time. Somehow, the Another Riders count as this, but the Ride Watches don’t, which bugs me. But now… We have Another Ghost present, Geiz is using the Ghost Watch, and Decade is about to use the Ghost Card.

How will this play out… (spoiler alert to 2:00 am samantha from 3:30 am samantha: it made absolutely no difference. drat.)

SURE, you’ll let TSUKASA be spooky, but what about Takeru, huh? HUH?!?

Okay, so Geiz just summoned Musashi and Edison. Another Ghost has Robin Hood and Newton. Tsukasa got Billy the Kid and… um. I think that’s Beethoven? Yup. Beethoven.

OUCH. Geiz’s losing streak continues, with a distressing looking slash from the Gan Gun Saber, followed by a pair of Rider Kicks from Ghost!Decade and Another Ghost.

That red-and-black aesthetic of Another Ghost’s Emblem behind his kick though… Mm. Yes. This is still such a good Another Rider look. … and actually, this is the first time since Another Build and Another Ex-aid that we’ve seen this much of an Another Rider using their bases powers, isn’t it? Build was making bottles and using them, and Ex-aid was summoning bugster mooks. Okay, that’s admittedly actually a Bugster thing, but he was also generating game areas, so it still counts.

Hm. No sequence breaking for us, it would seem. Decade just wiped the Ghost Watch, turning it blank… and tossed Geiz the Decade Watch before taking off.

Interesting.

Or we could have some compeletely different sequence breaking, seeing as how Takeru had to pilot the time mazine for Sougo. Yanno, due to incorporeality. THEY landed just before Mika’s brother dies, as opposed to Geiz landing just after.

I hate to say this, but Nani The F*ck? So clearly, inherently magical Takeru can also force shove objects, because he just deflected the beams before they could hit either Mika or her brother. So now he can’t become Another Ghost, which sends Sougo back to his body… in 2018. While 21-year-old!Takeru is now in 2015. Where spooky!18-year-old!Takeru is supposed to also be.

Oh deary. So Heure pulls out the blank watch he was going to use to make Another Ghost, and summons a bunch of Ganma mooks with it. Fine, good, he’s ticked, makes sense. They attack 21!Takeru. Fine, fine.

Makoto shows up, asking why Takeru isn’t transforming.

He’s asking 21!Takeru – who, being from an altered timeline, does not remember being Ghost (allegedly).

“Oh, right, I’m a Kamen Rider. Makoto, let’s go!”

Mind you, Makoto is played by the same actor as always, and clearly neither of these men have aged a much more than a day since 2015, since they still look pretty much identical. This is for the best, because otherwise we’d have to wonder why Makoto doesn’t catch that suddenly Takeru (who should not be aging in 2015) looks bit older than he ought to.

((Takeru: Oh, man, I’m out of practice, last time I did this was December, one year ago for me, two years from now… I might be stuck here… ~oh well~ ~not like I haven’t gone off script like thirty different ways before~))

I don’t know what just happened in the hospital (2018) but I do not like it. That was very uncomfortable to watch. I can get that the whole Sougo-going-back-to-his-body thing just was undone, since Another Ghost exists again, but. What was Woz explaining? And he didn’t move when he said ‘waga maou.’ That was… that wasn’t a thought sound effect for that, the ‘stylization’ for thoughts and narrative are about the same, and they aren’t as faint as that. That felt like… idk, a telepathy thing?

~It’s not Ghost without sister issues~

Takeru: (oh no oh no I think we pulled it off? Maybe? Oh no Makoto’s looking at you say something)

Takeru: Uh, okay, uh, hey, Makoto, give the other Takeru my regards.

Makoto: ???

(exit: stage future)

Geiz is worried. That is a worried Geiz. And a stressed Sougo. And an uncle who is definitely faking his usual, already awkward laughter.

Sougo’s uncle has too many dishes ready to not have known there were extra people coming.

(Hee, Narita’s got Akari’s Shiranui cannon! And they mentioned her by name! Eee!)

TEAM WORK. THIS IS THE BEST THEMATIC TEAMWORK YESSSSS.

Sougo using the Ex-Aid watch with his mech is cool enough – it gets the same hammers that he does.

And then Geiz comes in with Genm. AND THE PURPLE WARP PIPES YESSSSS!

Is that. That’s the Cross-z watch.

MECHA BUILD AND CROSS-Z UGH YES.

Bottle boyfriend mecha RIDER KICK!

Hm. More mook summoning, by Another Ghost this time, ala Ex-Aid and OOO.

Pft-ahahaha.

I love Tsukasa’s reaction to Woz’s speech.

Tsukasa: What. What are you doing.

And Woz just growls.

NEAT. I knew that the Decade Armor let Zi-o get the Mid-forms of the Legend Riders, but I didn’t think of how that screen variant of the helmet could come into play with it. It shows the Zi-o-with-Decade color scheme before he changes, and when he puts in the Build watch… it’s shuffling, kind of like a character select screen – or cards being dealt. You can see Ex-Aid most clearly going by, but I can tell there were others.

Welcome back, RabbitTank Sparkling!

And Tsukasa just tells Woz to shut up and grabs his book. Was he always like this? Because I’m liking the snark.

I don’t know what this sword is called but I really really like it. Not only are the Ex-aid sound effects back in English, but it let him summon Max Flare, Funky Spike, and Midnight Shadow’s tires! (fangirl squeal)

Welcome back, Grateful!

“Why did I give him my watch? Eh. Thought it’d be interesting.”

(I think that’s about what he was saying? Ish? Approximately?)

Hang on, that screen? The mask for Decade is a Zi-o variant, but RabbitTank Sparkling and Grateful are their usual appearances.

And now Geiz has someone he wants to punch even more than he does Sougo or Woz.

So, overall...

Interesting indeed, Tsukasa. Interesting indeed.

[shinylitwick94]

Shinylitwick reads Wheel of Time - Book 14 -A Memory of Light

Warning:Contains spoilers for the whole series

So here we are - finally at the end!

Took me about 3 months to get through the whole series, although admittedly with a lot of skimming in some of the slower storylines.

All in all it’s been a great journey and I’ll do a whole series post too, but for now on to AMoL!

Hands down the best book in the series, although perhaps that is not so surprising - it’s what we want from a good finale, after all!

Compared to the rest of the series, even to the other Sanderson books, the pacing here was extremely fast.

It had to be, otherwise we’d probably have ended up with 15 books instead, but that means that unfortunately many of the smaller characters and storylines and even some of the bigger ones don’t really get closure at all.

The difference in style between Jordan and Sanderson is also pretty clear here -action is what Sanderson likes best and it’s what he does best and there’s plenty of it to go around. I suspect if Jordan had had the chance to write the last battle, there would have been more character interaction and less cool and inventive ways to kill Trollocs. And I don’t mean to criticise Sanderson here at all, I think he did splendidly, but they do have different strengths as writers.

I don’t always think epilogues are necessary, but I feel like this could have benefitted from one. I liked the ending scene itself pretty well, but I just wish we’d had a little more time for everyone else.

What takes up the bulk of this book isn’t Rand’s struggle against the dark one, but everyone else’s struggle against the armies of the shadow. Which, I think, makes perfect sense - deep down we all know how Rand’s clash with the Dark One will end. We know, because that’s the way stories work, that even if the hero somehow were to fail at the end, he’ll find a way to turn the tables.  So Rand was actually not as interesting to me in this book as he has been up until now.

Still, I was surprised he made it out of there alive - I wholly expected him to die for real.

Rand’s whole peace treaty thing also felt a little out of place to me. I think it’s totally justified, given Rand’s character, that he would try. I also think it won’t last 10 years, let alone 100.

So that whole conflict was a bit meh, because it was just...Rand sweetie I know you’re trying to do the right thing here, but it’s really really not going to survive your corpse.

The whole meeting was worth it for Moiraine’s entrance though.

As for the other stories, I loved Pevara and Androl to pieces and I’m super happy they made it through. I was a little disappointed he never got to confront Taim more directly, I was looking forward to that.

Lan was one of the other stand out characters in this book. He’s pretty one-note as a character overall, but this book brings out all of the best in a character like Lan and doesn’t stop until the end. Loved every scene with him!

I was a little surprised that none of Rand’s 3 girls died. I thought for sure Aviendha was going to die in that fight with Graendal. I think I would have liked it if one of them had died, probably Min or Aviendha, killing pregnant Elayne sounds too dark for this series, but it’s fine this way too.

I was really sad that we lost Siuan and Gareth Bryne, I really liked their relationship, but I suppose Siuan’s character’s purpose was pretty much gone the moment Egwene became Amyrlin.

And speaking of Egwene, that’s the death that probably hit me the hardest. She’s had such a long journey as a character and it was an incredible finale for her, but I really wanted the Two Rivers kids to get back together at the end.

Perrin’s story was more engaging than usual, however I still feel that Slayer is too obviously made to be Perrin’s villain and feels a little too dettached from the main storyline for me to fully connect. At least here there was the Black Tower at first and later protecting Rand too.

I kind of wanted Faile to die, not because I dislike her character, but because I think it would have been tragically ironic for Perrin to spend half the series worrying about Faile, only to fail at the end. Again, probably too dark for this series.

Mat was pretty great in this, as I’m sure everyone expected him to be. I don’t think anyone had any doubt that Mat would lead the armies of the Light ever since he got his memories. And of course he did splendidly at that.

There were still some incredibly irritating Mat moments, mainly whenever he was around Tuon. Mat on his own was mostly ok. What stuck out to me was him threatening to spank Egwene and Tuon. What.The.Fuck is it with this series and spanking? It just pulled me completely out of that scene (and it was such a great scene too!). It was stupid, absurd, out of place, infantilizing and just plain gross. Who in their right mind would say that at that stage?!

The Seanchan problem was left completely unresolved in this book, unfortunately. I found the way Rand agreed to Tuon and the way Mat fawned over her to be a little disgusting, to be completely honest. I’ve never been sold on Mat/Tuon, but I’d sort of grudgingly accepted I’d have to deal with it. To see Rand accept those terms, when he has been so much harsher with everyone else and went around changing the laws of every country he ruled just pissed me off.

I get it - end of the world, deal with the devil, etc, but Rand didn’t even seem to be all that upset about it.

I think I might have accepted his decision better if we actually got to see Rand struggle with it, instead of getting the whole scene form the point of view of Mat, who doesn’t give a shit.

I liked Demandred and from what I hear there’s a whole short story about him and the Sharans. I kind of wish that had made its way into the main books. This way the Sharans felt like they were coming completely out of nowhere, just so that the Light’s forces would need to get help from the Seanchan.

Nyneave didn’t get much to do here, as a side effect of being with Rand for the duel with the Dark One, but I still enjoyed what little we got of her.

All in all, it was a spectacular final book for this series and I’m very happy I stuck around long enough to read it all the way through!

Favorite scene(s): Lan and Demandred, Egwene’s flame of Tar Valon, Moiraine’s entry into the command tent, Androl’s lava gates, Rand’s final scene, Brigitte’s return, Olver blowing the horn, that refugee woman with Logain, many many other scenes

Least favorite scene(s): The part of the Mat-Tuon-Egwene scene I already mentioned, Rand and Tuon, some of the smaller battle scenes felt a little repetitive sometimes, 

Favorite character(s): Lan, Egwene, Androl, Pevara, Moiraine, Nyneave, Rand

Least favorite character(s):  Tuon, Taim (just disappointing...)

Book rankings so far: 1.MOL 2.TOM 3. TGS 4.LOC 5.TSR 6.TGH 7.TFOH 8.ACS 9.TDR 10.WH 11.KOD 12. TEOTW 13.TPOD 14.CoT

[theclacks]

Buffy Thoughts - (S7 E20-E21)

AKA Touched and End of Days

AKA:

(and also pain)

I don’t know if I can put my thoughts for these episodes into coherent words. But IDK, I’ll try. They’re pretty much 90% shippy, 10% the rest of the actual episodes, but whatever. Also they’re both technically several months old because I’ve been procrastinating on watching the final episode out of fear. What else is new?

BtVS & AtS Recap Master Post located here

Episode 20 (Touched)

Oh my god. Oh my god. It is official Buffy/Spike is my favorite ship of all time.

OF ALL TIME.

Like my god, I think I’ve said it before that I’m glad I’m only seeing this series now because if I was younger and less fiction-ly jaded, I think it would’ve destroyed me, but seriously, WHY DID IT TAKE ME THIS LONG TO WATCH BUFFY? I don’t know where my heart is going to be when I finish, what I’ll watch next to fill the void, if there will BE anything to watch next (which is why I’ve been stretching out these final episodes for so, sooooo long) and yeah.

Spike’s speech. AKA quite possibly my favorite scene ever. I discussed this ep a bit over at EF with the Spuffy crew right after I’d watched it and there were some back and forths over opinions of this speech, namely that it sounds like something Riley would’ve said, not Spike, right down to the “you’re a hell of a woman” line from As You Were and I stand by what I said then:

The line is the same. The context is not.

Riley made his “you’re a hell of woman” line as he was leaving to return to his wife, right after he basically said “yeah, you have a shit job that makes you smell funny but you’re still a hottie and you’re better than this.” And I want to put those other two things aside and focus on the “you’re better than this” sentiment, because that’s something that’s been fucking with Buffy’s emotional health for a very long time. This idea that there’s a better Buffy out there somewhere that she’s not currently being and therefore needs to try harder to be that Buffy because if she’s not that Buffy then she’s doing something wrong.

Spike on the other hand. Best line hands down = “I love what you are, what you do, how you try.” He loves her for who she is in that moment, not some idealized version who she could be. Lets her know that trying and failing is fine, that if she fails she doesn’t lose any of her worth as a person (something that Buffy punishes herself frequently her).

And I also love how Spike’s speech begins and ends with humor. Not “you smell bad but you’re still hot” humor, but audience-directed humor in the vein of:

BUFFY: Fine. The stage is yours. Cheer me up.

SPIKE: You're insufferable.

BUFFY: Thank you. That really helped.

It’s like… blah, my brain is refusing to connect words right now, but basically a lot of people in Buffy give her complements when she’s feeling bad for the sake of giving complements vs seeing through the angst and getting frustrated at it. Not like “why are you trying harder” frustrated, but IDK, it’s the difference between letting someone mope because you don’t want to upset them more vs giving them what they need (AND THAT’S NOT RUNNING AWAY TO ENGLAND, GILES). IDK, the speech was a perfect blend of emotional lightness, followed by an emotionally raw sucker-punch, book-ended by yet more lightness.

So yeah.

And as much as my shipper self could’ve skipped out on the other “love” scenes of the episode, I think they really do work well as contrast, particularly the Faith/Robin sex scene. There’s practically no emotional connection there, just the need to physically connect to someone, anyone. And IMHO it represents a growth in the way BtVS handles relationships? Unlike the Faith/Xander scene from Season 3, it’s not played for laughs. There’s nothing “wrong” or “bad” about it.

But, at the same time, contrasted against the Spike/Buffy cuddling scene, it really highlights that sex doesn’t automatically make anything more “meaningful.” Which has been this huge hangup for Buffy (the “need sex to have a complete love” thing). First there was Buffy/Angel which basically culminated in a single night of sex, and then he ultimately broke up with her because he didn’t think they could ever give each other a wholesome relationship without sex. That translated into her jumping into sleeping with Parker, perhaps to get the post-sex skeletons out of the closet ASAP (which, admittedly, she did). And then Riley… well, Buffy/Riley had a fuckton of issues that broke them apart, but she definitely felt like she couldn’t trust him until they’d had sex, not in terms of the actual act but him not leaving before she woke up.

...and then Buffy leaves Spike before he wakes up and oh my heart. It will never be whole.

Anyways, yeah, Andrew/Spike friendship remains beautiful. Spike growling like a cat/dog is canon (has he growled before this episode and I just haven’t noticed?). I loved the camera direction in the chaotic Scooby Meeting sans Buffy. I really loved Faith period, even (especially) through all her leadership failures ; it’s ridiculous how much my opinion on her has done a 180 since season 3.

And then Buffy finds a red scythe which I know is important because it’s on all the comic covers, and Faith finds a ticking time bomb and I actually laughed because of the clichéness of it all.

Episode 21 (End of Days)

Ugh.

Ugggggh.

Ugggggggggggh.

So this review, despite being for End of Days, will have lots of spoilers for Chosen and AtS S5. Because lots of spoilers are a thing that happened to me over the course of watching this series.

If for whatever reason you’re reading this blind and not as a vicarious feelings recap, stop reading now.

Good?

Okay, good.

So, I know pretty much all the basics of what’s going to happen in the last episode: Willow does a spell that transfers the Slayer powers into all the potentials, Anya dies (gets hit by the equivalent of a Stormtrooper blast? you were a leaf on the wind, Anya. a leaf on the wind)...

...Angel gives Buffy an amulet that can close the hellmouth but Spike has to sacrifice himself in order to use it, Spike does so but not before Buffy confesses her love to him…

Which okay. Pretty much the only thing I’m NOT spoilered for is how that scene goes down. Like does Buffy tell him that she loves him before or after he makes the decision to sacrifice himself? Does he believe her? If it’s before, does he think she’s just saying it to convince him to sacrifice himself? If it’s after, does he think she’s just saying as a consolation prize?

And it’s like, I REALLY WANT HIM TO BELIEVE HER, BUT I AM FILLED WITH DOUBTS. Because I know what happens in AtS S5, and yes, SMG not wanting to do the show anymore is pretty much the reason why she doesn’t make any cameos, but in an in-universe context, the only reason Spike WOULDN’T hightail it across the world to wherever Buffy was upon re-achieving corporeal status is if he didn’t think her declaration of love was genuine.

And if that’s the case, I think Chosen is going to break me. Which is one of the reasons why it’s actually been about 2 months now since I watched End of Days and I still haven’t gotten the courage to watch Chosen. (That and I have a thing about watching final episodes of shows I love. There’s something about knowing there’s always just a little bit more content waiting for you. IDK, I’m weird.)

But yeah. So.

If Spike doesn’t believe Buffy’s declaration of love, then there’s only one reason why he wouldn’t.

And that’s fucking Angel.

I shipped Buffy/Angel during my initial watch of the earlier seasons. I really did. But now I just want to PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE. He swoops in all smirky and condescing and then just INSTANTLY starts making out with Buffy, going all forever love with her despite what should be his fucked up emotional state re: loving and losing Cordelia and also his son. And the fact that he instantly, INSTANTLY, goes for the make out session without clueing Buffy into any of this… it just feels really, really, REALLY scuzzy.

Like, it’d be feeling scuzzy even if I wasn’t a Spuffy shipper (which I am, disclaimer). That’s how scuzzy it is.

And really, there’s very little difference between Angel swinging into town and sweeping Buffy off her feet with no mention of his other recent relationship, and what Riley did in As You Were.

And I think everyone knows my opinions on As You Were.

So anyway, back on topic. What’s the point of shoving a sudden love triangle into the FINAL EPISODE of Buffy, especially when it’s going to (I think) end with Spike not believing that Buffy truly loves him. Like was it fan service for Bangel shippers? (I mean, it very well could’ve been, but their ship had sailed FOUR YEARS AGO.) Was it to introduce last minute drama between Buffy and Spike? (to which I said, they already had an Atlantic Ocean’s worth of drama between them, they didn’t need anymore). Is it to make Buffy realize by seeing her options face to face, that she prefers being with Spike? (this would be the option i’d be most okay with, but am majorly doubtful because of all the post-series lists of “Top 15 reasons Buffy should’ve chosen Spike”).

And it’s just like… why?

This is the final season. You guys KNOW it’s your final season. So why?

Buuuuut, this is all speculation on my part due to incomplete spoilers, so maybe my hunches are all wildly off base. I sure hope so.

Either way, it’s January 1st, 2018, and I’ve put off watching BtVS’s final episode long enough. This is the night it ends.

Or… you know, kind of ends for the readers who’ve been reading these. I’ll come back sometime later this week to put all of my Season 7 thoughts + BtVS series as a whole thoughts into some sort of written cohesion.

Oh, and then I have all of AtS S5 to watch, which FUCK YEAH, SPIKE INTERACTING WITH WESLEY AND LORNE AND GUNN AND FRED, I AM STOKED. (You guys have no idea how scared I was that one of them would’ve died before the end of Season 4 and they never would’ve been on screen together.)

Also, paddlin’ back in circles as a last minute thing:

WHY? WHY WOULD YOU BRING ANGEL BACK IN AFTER THIS? THIS WAS PERFECTION. THE DICTIONARY DEFINITION OF PERFECTION.

Until then, Cassie is my last remaining ray of hope:

Happy New Year, everyone. See y'all at the finish line.

[vspirit8]

Call me an easy-to-please dumbass but...

All the decisions Hanyu’s made in his career thus far have turned out to be practical, and sound ones (even when they didn’t seem like it at first) while remaining exciting. This one is no less so, even if it might seem disappointing at first. Why is this, you ask? Let’s put a few things (28, to be exact) into perspective (I’m not blindly positive, y’all):

Hanyu’s winning pattern has always been one problematic skate, and one redeeming and/or explosive one.

Prior to 2012, his SPs were almost always uh-oh! while his FSes were what saved his ass (even if they weren’t super clean).

Post-2012, but pre-2015, when he skated clean, it’s almost always only in the SP.

When he finally skated *both* programs clean in a single competition, he did it with Ballade No. 1 in its second season and SEIMEI in its 3rd competition–more than a decade since he first started skating competitively.

SEIMEI is also the first FS he’s ever skated clean, like *truly* clean, and the first time he skated it clean was also following a clean SP performance. To date, it remains the *only* FS he’s skated clean more than once, and the only one he’s skated well *twice* despite following a clean SP.

Skating it clean following a clean SP means he wasn’t simply chasing, but he was utterly and purely dominating—that was his very first taste of it and methinks the boy man Likes the Feeling Very Much.

In the 2016 WC, after two clean sets of performances in prior competitions, he reverted to the clean-SP-problematic-FS pattern.

And in WC 2017, he flipped the switch and it’s now back to his whoops!SP and explosive!FS pattern.

If there’s anything he wants more than a second Ollie gold, it’s two clean skates on the Ollie stage (preferably preceded by clean skates in prior comps). Especially so since he’s pulling double duty in going for that 2nd gold *and* proving to the world that he rightfully deserves his first one.

So based on his pattern all these years, he’s only been able to pull off complete dominance for part of a single season, and that’s with a recycled SP and the only FS he’s skated clean twice.

Chances of him skating clean next season, the most crucial one, with two brand new progs: next to 0 (not with his anal retentive fusspot tendencies)

The feelings for SEIMEI he has are so strong, he’s apparently already decided it was gonna be his Ollie program after GPF15, a decision he’s stuck to despite his poor showing of it in WC 2016. I think his fanboyism of Mansai and all the lovely input he’s gotten from the man himself prolly also played a critical part in his choice.

So it’s a good program in his mind that’s left him with unfinished business with it, since he’s essentially never skated it clean in a major championship, national *and* international, a development that basically told him it’s still too early to pack the program in and consider it a perfectly done piece with no more room to grow. Sides, he’s put in so much effort in the making of the program, from the music to the choreography, it stands to reason he’d want to get some more mileage out of it, if he could.

So his choices, as of end 2015, were a brand new SP and SEIMEI or a repeat SP and SEIMEI. Depending on how he performed LGC in the 2016/17 season, it would either be his Ollie SP or it would be something else.

If it leaves him with good feelings, he’ll either use it again or chance a new SP.

Sadly, that didn’t happen and instead, he was left with negative feelings and mental impression for both the program itself and SPs in general, so no repeat of LGC and his mind is telling him his mental focus probably won’t be able to handle a brand new SP in the Ollie season. Not especially if he wants to up his tech further while increasing even more bells and whistles.

At this point, (end of the 2016/17 season), everything is telling him to reuse Chopin and SEIMEI.

But because he is Hanyu and he’s already upped his tech last season, he has to either maintain or up it further.

And because he’s reusing both programs, he’s left with no reason to not raise his tech content level and it’s gotta be way bigger than last season.

All in all, if we want him to skate clean on the Ollie stage while still doing what he always does, well, we’re getting it.

But if we want him to skate clean with one new program just to please us fans despite all the above, then I think we’re asking for the impossible, even from the guy who’s been giving us the impossible all these years.

We’ve got two new and beautiful programs last season. If this were another season, and not an Ollie one, I’m willing to bet we’d have at least one new program.

So let the guy do what he thinks will allow him to win in the way he wants to on a stage he’s been looking to deliver his best on since he was 7. I think he’s proven himself enough to deserve unconditional support in getting there.

Delivering his absolute best is one but, let it be said that we *still* don’t know what his absolute best can amount up to, only the promise of it and that’s already so far above and beyond what everyone else in the field is capable of delivering right now, it’s not even funny anymore.

If there’s anyone who can build something that’ll make the world’s collective jaws drop even further than they did before with the same programs but *better*, it’s Yuzuru Hanyu.

And remember, if he skates clean at the Ollies, for most of the world, it would be their first time going slack-jawed. Especially amidst all the warhorses. SEIMEI is definitely going to make them sit up and pay attention. Because not only is it different (being definitively non-Western), it is bold, it is powerful, and it is fierce. Plus, it oozes a sort of masculinity most have never seen before in men’s FS. And it appeals to a wider range of audience, no matter their culture, because it’s just such an obviously damn cool program. So people who’s always made fun of men figure skating will have to STFU.

If it’s any other skater, this might be seen as lazy and playing it safe, but then I ask myself this: has Yuzuru Hanyu *ever* been lazy? And since when did 5-quads start being considered as safe?  All he’s doing is entrusting his ultimate dream and desire to a *program* he trusts. Not a layout. A program. So that he’d be free to chance a high-flying layout packed to the high heavens with transitions and exquisitely performed elements–without having to kill or maim himself in the process. Which means, the only thing disappointing about it is that it isn’t a brand new program. That’s it. And if I have to sit through an entire season of watching a program I like again to see it taken to never-seen-before heights, as opposed to a brand new program I may not like as much and watching him struggle and make compromises in order to simply *deliver*, and during Ollie season at that, it’s a no-brainer which I’m going to go with.

What Hanyu wants to do isn’t just to win and to wow. He wants to completely dominate and he wants to go down in history doing it. He’s gotten a taste of it two seasons back and wants to make damn sure he gets to relive it again, preferably for a longer stretch this season and most definitely covering the Ollies and perhaps even the WC in Milan. And these two programs are his best chance at achieving just that next season. 

Really, there’s just way too much at stake for him to not do this. Our brains know this, but some of us still can’t help but feel just a wee bit disappointed in our hearts. Still, as long as we know where he’s coming from, those of us who are disappointed will likely come around sooner or later, because we know what truly matters this season and would conclude that we’d have made the same choices if we were in his shoes. If we’re even the teeniest bit invested in him, we won’t even have a choice about it, I guarantee it.

As for me personally, I’m just fawning over the fact that the whole world is finally going to get to know SEIMEI, not just the FS one. And it’ll stand out so beautifully among all the warhorses. SEIMEI is an Olympic-worthy program and in hindsight, no amount of new programs has a more rightful place, especially since it’s proven itself more than worthy once before, and even left its skater room to develop it further.

And get this, it’s not even my favorite program from him. LoL. It’s #3 on my list at best, so I was neither hoping for it nor against it. But now that we’ve got it, I can now see it so clearly for what it really is. Plus, there are bonuses that only SEIMEI can afford. If he skates it clean with higher tech content, he’d be able to corner the judges into giving him scores that at least match what the 2015 judges gave him for the same program. Because imagine the kind of questions they’ll have to answer if they don’t. And with this, he’ll be able to surpass his old scores with his BV. It is the one surefire megaweapon he has against his younger rivals that was cultivated long before they are the threat they are today as well as iffy judging (in a way, I feel that his hand was forced) and it’s time he reaped and harvested the fruits of his foresight, talent and hard work.

So there is everything to celebrate and absolutely nothing to feel disappointed over. Not for friggin’ SEIMEI as the Olympic program for the Yuzuru Hanyu.

(Admittedly, I was a tad disappointed back when he announced he’d be doing Chopin for the third time, but knowing the mess LGC left behind in his mind, I forced myself to accept it and after what he’s shown us of it in FaOI, I’ve come to wholeheartedly embrace it.)

I don’t know if all this will result in gold still, seeing as there are still very human factors involved in the judging, but if he delivers everything clean in PC, I’m going to consider it a win in my books.

And yes, I’d still like to see him make more history with new programs so hopefully he’ll stick around for at least one more season after this and we’ll get to see him doing that.

One thing though…the guy is now a confirmed LIAR. Cos he’s said right after WTT that he has no plans for the Ollie season and here he is claiming he’s already decided SEIMEI would be his Ollie program right after GPF15.

I get that he wanted to dodge those interview questions, and what he said was very obviously a lie (because only a bigger dumbass than me would believe anyone hoping to make it to the Ollies the next year who says they have no plans at least 2636351 years in advance, much less him) and I’m not sure if there’s anything else he could’ve done but flat out lie but it amuses me to no end to be able to loudly call him out as a big fat liar. xxxxD

[peanutdracolich]

Peanut Dracolich watches (Hammer) Horror: Dracula Has Risen From the Grave

The fourth Hammer Horror Dracula film, the third with the magnificent Christopher Lee as Dracula, and the 2nd in which he speaks. The film was at its heart a Hammer Horror Dracula story, possessing the trappings of the Romanian wilderness, the small town plagued by Dracula, and so forth. In fact the film in many ways echoed the original Dracula story. There’s Dracula, the morally loose first victim, the morally upstanding second victim dragged in by his spell, her lover who must vanquish the vampire to keep his girl from being seduced away by Dracula’s dark powers.

What sets the film apart is the sexual charge. Vampires are full of sexual metaphors, but this film makes it overt (though not explicit). It all lies just beneath the surface where only a true innocent would miss it. Maybe it’s the era of film (I’ve not watched many 60s 70s vampire films) and the sexual liberation that American cinema has backslid from, but it really brings out those sexual metaphors.

This sexual charge is not really bad, it’s not gratuitous boobs for the sake of boobs, and it is not overt enough to just be erotica. Still it actually surprisingly avoids the female vampire, instead preferring displaying the addictive and yet abusive and sexually predatory nature of vampirism and makes me want to look for metaphors about unsavory relationships and think about the basic metaphor implicit in the young suitor saving his beloved from moral degeneration of being a ‘loose’ woman. I’d say that might be more an alchemical reaction that the film alone cannot be blamed for, but its choice of an atheist hero sets the stage for it even better.

And of course you have Christopher Lee offering another excellent performance as Dracula, and bringing an unrivaled charisma for the role (I find Bella Lugosi’s Dracula lacking by comparison, and even as a youth the film made me want to read the book because it had to be better). The other actors while not having Lee’s sheer Presence give enjoyable performances and the film while not being scary (it’s a vampire film it’s not supposed to be scary unless you’re scared of a foreign count coming and taking your woman because you’re a wimp and then abusing her) has its fearsome moments. Over all the film was quite enjoyable, and definitely superior to the others in the series (save perhaps the original, though to give a true assessment I’d have to watch them close to each other).

Good/Bad/Ugly and play by play below.

The Good:

Christopher Lee: I have never seen an actor more fit for the role of Dracula than Christopher Lee. I can honestly believe that he could stare you in the eye and hypnotize you, and has the dark charisma to compel a man of god to his bidding. Christopher Lee was going to make the movie on his own and he does.

The Sexual Charge: I found it quite effective for creating an impact and getting me thinking about vampires as sexual metaphors.

The Atheist Hero... and Renfield Priest: The film just had a good choice of roles. While they are basically analogous to roles in the original book (this is most true for Zena and Maria as Dracula’s victims and the loose woman with many suitors and the faithful woman torn from her love). Still while the actresses are charming, able to make small actions expressive without need for directly telling us feeling, I’m not really talking about the acting. From a story view I liked the atheist vampire slayer and the lapsed priest forced to serve the Dark Count.

The Bad:

Cliche: The story is, admittedly, rife with cliche and easily dismissed as just another Dracula story. Sexual charge alone doesn’t really make it horribly unique, but the film was well done and of its period and type an excellent one. Still it’s full of the cliche of its genre and does not edge outside in any particular aspect.

The Ugly:

Dracula’s Death: While the scene is actually beautiful and enjoyable, he comes off looking sort of suddenly so much less at the end which is sort of disappointing.

The Play by Play:

We begin with a lava lamp. It is supposed to be a creepy backdrop for the opening credits, but it's generic horror music (as expected from Hammer Horror) and a lava lamp.

 We find a church and the rope for the church bell is covered in elderberry juice! Oh no. Berry juice. Our whistling finder of said juice goes to see who has been pressing berries in the bell and begins to scream, not telling the priest what he has found for he is far too shocked. I joke around but while we know there's something up there (and this is the 60s they can't be too grotesque in showing a body, we don't know what for a good time and when we do see it's a woman, upside down, blood flowing from her throat where a vampire's teeth had killed her.

 We get some exposition from the new comer, a priest of the church visiting the valley that was the domain of Dracula till his death one year ago.

 He finds the church with no priest saying mass, the priest drinking in the tavern instead, and the church boy a mute.

 The man come to check on the town is pissed at the town for not attending church, and disbelieves that there is still evil in the castle that can reach into the House of God. Or at least he does before the villagers, when dealing with just the priest he is far more accepting (though still seems disbelieving that it's anything more than superstition) and he intends to prove there is no evil still there.

 The mood is suitably creepy. The film is not going for shock and terror, but a sort of creep and dread (as is the nature of older horror films). The music is well not ineffective, but not anything great and a little too obvious. It puts me in mind of a group traveling in a Ravenloft adventure of D&D... which isn't itself a bad thing... And the local priest just collapsed on the journey. Somehow despite leaving at dawn they arrive near dark and the superior priest goes the final way alone for his companion refuses to continue.

 There is dread here. Something will happen to this priest as he prays before the dark castle of the archvampire. A storm begins, the lightning as fake as the mountains, and the local priest tumbles down from where he watches a far ways off; hitting the ice which encased Dracula in the last film, and cracking it unconscious from a head wound. Blood trickles down to Dracula, and the superior priest returns to look for the local one, disgusted that he has been drinking and seemingly assuming he wandered off drunk.

 We know better. And we now know that while a mirror will not reflect a vampire a pool of water will.

 Lee does nothing more than stand and glower but he remains an imposing figure, the intensity of his look almost something supernatural. This is Lee's unique power.

 The superior from the Catholic church returns to the town believing he has done his duty, and asks after the priest, and prepares to leave. The townsfolk claim the priest returned and left, and we see the priest is now Dracula's creature, and Dracula cannot enter his castle with that golden cross sealing it. He must have his revenge.

 The film shows us the priest and his... well she seems to be his wife, but eventually it assures us she is not and in fact implies she's more likely his brother's widow... and it is his niece's birthday and she is having a young man over. One training to be a shirtless doctor, got to get some beefcake in.

 Oh and we also see Dracula and his new minion digging up the corpse of the woman from the opening. She's rather rotted and it's sort of fan disservice. Still the scene is good, chilling, and for the time a bit revolting.

 Still we see the local tavern. It is far more boisterous than that in Dracula's village. The waitress is jealous that our doctor to be (now in a suit) is going out with someone else. Apparently she likes all the guy flirting with her and has 'more boyfriends than she can count' and takes that with pride. We also see our heroine, the lovely Maria. She's got a very nice looking face, lovely blonde hair, a fetching heroine.

 We learn something horrible about our protagonist, Paul, something that truly shocks and amazes Maria's mother and uncle, he is an Atheist. The priest has limits to how far he values honesty, and blasphemy crosses them. I wonder if Paul will still be an atheist by the end of the film.

 I also wonder how long until our saucy barmaid becomes a bride of Dracula.

 Paul gets drunk, Zena (the saucy barmaid) takes him to bed, kisses him, and starts to undress him when Maria comes... even after she decides to cup a feel of his crotch. She is rather disappointed that Maria drives her away. I mean he'd sort of invited while merely nearing black out drunk, but he was past remembering that and at the 'why are you in my room' stage of black out drunk.

 Still our waitress leaves the tavern and begins the walk home alone in the dark, a walk that leads her pass Dracula's carriage. When it begins to follow her she reasonably starts to run, when it speeds up she runs into the woods (also reasonably). The woods are wide spaced and it doesn't help but it's reasonable. And she does manage to lose it, diving through a row of bushes. This simply leads her to walking up to Dracula where she is paralyzed with shock and his gaze. She does not resist his embrace.

 She returns to the tavern before morning, dressed in her shift and a light cloak, and hiding her bite. She is cranky though more afraid that her bit will be seen. She hides it with a scarf before day proper. Dracula's priestly creature tries to rent a room, and the tavern keeper tries to say they have none... but Zena (having recognized him from the night before) speaks up despite (creepy) priests being bad for business. And Paul tells Dracula's pet priest that the Monsignor has a niece. Zena and the priest is interesting to watch. She is torn, she fears him, knows that he was part of her attack the night before. He makes her neck itch. Yet she cannot bring herself to reveal it, and in fact worked to ensure he would be there. It's an effective way to show how she is drawn to him, or more him through his master, even as she fears him and feels revulsion and an unclean self-disgust at the entire thing.

 A leg would have gone up were a cat not on them, an intense showing of Dracula. And I am reminded that more perhaps than even Lugosi's Dracula, vampires from the 80s till Twilight tried to invoke Lee's tall, dark, and intensely charismatic count.

 Zena is jealous of Maria once again when Dracula reveals that he wants her. 'What do you want her for, you've got me'. It's a parasitic, twisted relationship, but the sexuality of the vampire-victim dynamic is highly visible in this film. I mean it's been part of Vampires as long as they've shown up in the English language, but vampirism as a destructive, abusive relationship is rather displayed here without it being too 'treats you like an idiot and explains it' about it.

 Zena grabs Maria and hands her over to Dracula. Paul finds out that Maria came looking for him and everyone assumes she's with him... not staring into Christopher Lee's hypnotic (though in this film overly bloodshot) eyes. Only Paul's arrival scares off Dracula enough that she escapes... for a time.

 "You have failed me" So much menace in his voice. Christopher Lee reminds me of nothing so much as Darth Vader (on a good day of Vader's) here. And then the understated "You must be punished" just sends chills. Zena pleads for mercy, asking why he needs Maria when he has her, he has her! It's a good scene, and one which is intense.

 Zena is turned completely, but the priest is tasked with killing Dracula's new creation by shoving her into the fire that heats the bakery's stove. It's an effective scene. The film is an effective film. It's the best of the Hammer Horror films other than probably Horror of Dracula that I've seen.

 Maria is ashamed to go home in a state where her mother might see what has happened to her and how distraught she is at it. She hides her assault from her family for the shame of it all.

 No one seems to notice that the priest is acting drugged. I mean given the period and his position as a priest, and the lack of our knowledge of what's actually happening it's understandable.

 Still we get more of Maria's family assuming she was just sleeping around with her boyfriend that they disapprove of, and not that she was the victim of sexual assault. And hints that she may have actually been bitten, just not on the neck itself. Dracula arrives and you see Maria's fearousal, and despite initial fear after looking into his (no longer bloodshot) eyes she yields to him, a face of rapture as he does not quite kiss her, though she years for it, and then... he bites. It's the vampire's bite as sex in its pretty purest form. Highly charged with eroticism, elements of seduction mixing with assault, it's intense and functional.

 Maria's uncle, the Monsignor, finds the bite on her throat and he knows what it is; he failed at Dracula's castle and in so doing has somehow drawn Dracula's wrath upon him.

 As is the cliché in the Dracula tale they close Maria's window for her, but do not watch her and she of course opens it to invite Dracula in, baring her throat to him and a bit of her chest, waiting in eager rapture... only to be saved from Dracula when her uncle bursts into the room with a crucifix leading to her mute and disappointed seeming relaxation. Also Lee's eyes are super bloodshot again. The chase is good.

 It plays with the normal symbols of the vampire story quite entertainingly in that Paul is an atheist. I mean usually the vampire is... he is the foreigner, the man who has no moral standing in the social order, who is corrupting the young women of the land with his dark ways and sexual nature. The traditional story as crafted by Stoker uses the loose woman with many suitors (Lucy, Zena) and then the chaste and holy one (Wilhelmina, Maria). And in the latter though Dracula gets a foothold upon her soul, and leaves her soiled, in the end she breaks off the affair and becomes a good, proper, chaste, and virtuous woman more devoted to her husband for the ordeal. She is more devout for it, more reliant upon being righteous and walking with God and faithful to her husband. Here we see a movement away from that religious aspect of virtue, a little death of God as the moral arbiter. The Priest is Renfield, and the Atheist is a servant of truth and virtue without God.

 Oh and I skipped a (good quality) bit, but Paul is now standing in for God to force the priest back onto the path of righteousness. Paul stakes Dracula in an anti-climax, but is told that he must pray. Dracula pulls the stake from his chest for without Christian faith it cannot kill him (so that's time to back some of the prior. Fire though is a weapon that can still harm him... and Maria is coming for Dracula, coming to be his bride. Dracula casually, disdainfully even, defeats Paul, and declares his revenge complete as he leads Maria away.

 Paul takes a horse and rides to Dracula's village and we get... more good scenes.

 The music builds well as Dracula makes Maria unseal his castle, throwing her like an abusive boyfriend and ordering her to remove the blasted cross.

 Paul arrives, and his call to her combined with the recent abuse snaps her from the spell momentarily and he wrestles with Dracula, causing the vampire and him to tumble over the railing, Dracula being impaled upon the same cross he could not remove. Finally the Renfield Priest uses pray and the vampire is defeated. The scene is both anti-climatic and effective and Maria is freed.