#and i like the general ideas behind marvel stories

[jeremiahthefroge]

yeah fuck it aphmau's 2015 minecraft roleplay series can get me back into fandom culture. sure. why not. adult life is already so fucking weird.

[ozzgin]

Do you only write Hannibal lecter or do you also write for NBC Hannibal?

Yandere! Hannibal x Reader: The Grand Meal

Gather around for a short story in the spirit of Thanksgiving. You have been invited by Hannibal Lecter to a celebratory dinner, although unexpectedly barren of other guests. He will be entertaining you this evening, carefully describing each dish as he battles his own inner turmoil. (For extra immersion, I suggest listening to Bach's 'Sheep May Safely Graze')

Warning: Cannibalism and detailed gore. I'd advise against reading if you're squeamish. 

[Horror Masterlist]

He politely aids you in removing your coat, folds it over his forearm, and steps aside, expectantly. You glance at him, somewhat confused.

"Your bag, if I may."

"Oh, I...I was planning to bring it with me. I have my phone in it and all the essentials." you stutter, unsure.

Uh huh. Your etiquette seems to be lacking in certain areas. Nothing that cannot be chiseled. 

"You won't be needing it, I assure you." he extends his hand out, waiting. 

You hesitantly place the dark leather Pochette into his fingers. Hannibal has always been rather particular when it comes to decorum. You wouldn't want to upset him, especially given his generous invite to his Thanksgiving celebration. He'd heard your complaint of being alone during the holidays and he encouraged you to join him instead.

As you hurry behind him down the spacious hallway, you quietly marvel at the expensive, tasteful paintings sporadically adorning the walls. 

"I suspected they might be to your liking." He briefly peeks back at you with a faint smile on his lips. 

The heavy wooden doors creak open and your nostrils are quickly overwhelmed by the tempting smell of intricate dishes. You narrow your eyes, taking in the flavors. Once you finally look ahead, you notice that the table, although neatly decorated, consists only of two seats that have been prepared for dining. Two opposing seats, causing the whole setup to seem of ridiculous length. 

"Pardon my intrusion, but is anyone else attending?" You cannot contain your curiosity.

"Oh, no.  Not really." Hannibal pulls your chair outwards before departing to his own designated place. "It's you and me. Does that bother you?"

"I suppose it's cozier this way." You brush it aside with a chuckle. Better than being alone, you tell yourself.

He nods in agreement before settling down. He takes a moment to examine the table, confirming that everything is indeed in its proper place. A final, satisfied incline of his head.

"Allow me to introduce today's dishes. I don't want to keep you waiting for too long." He says as he remembers your earlier little gesture of delight. "It's a little bit of a scattered theme, if I am to be honest with you. I've drawn my inspiration from varied cuisines."

"I can see. How exciting!" You swiftly scan over the diverse plates, enthusiastic and hungry.

"The main course is over there. Balsamic-glazed oven baked ribs. I recommend a drizzle of cranberry sauce to go with it."

As he points to the dish, he can almost hear the dry crack of the bone. Abruptly, he's been taken back to the previous night, to his humble slaughter room - the meat needs to be fresh after all. Shears cut through the ribs with little resistance. The blades go around the thoracic cavity, contouring the ribcage. Once a proper opening has been made, he firmly grasps each side of the ribcage and nonchalantly lifts the bone flap, resting it over the face. 

Wait. He quickly digs through the skin and fat that had been shoved aside with the carcass, searching for the face of the victim. It's you. How delectable and surprising that you've wandered into such a recollection. Well, not quite a surprise that you've invaded his memories; from the very moment he met you he's been plagued by this indecent idea: How would you look on the dissecting table?

His musings are interrupted by the sizzle of the sparkling wine he's currently pouring in your glass. He finds himself back at the dining table, together with his favorite guest. You graciously thank him, and as he gazes over your features, he can't help but continue this game of imagination he's just spontaneously devised. Whoever had been carefully served for this occasion will be temporarily replaced during the theatrical retelling by you. And what a fine actor you'll be, even though you're not aware of it.

Alright, one must start from the beginning. He traces the edge of the autopsy table and inspects the drain just below your feet. He wouldn't want an incident. Would you be mortified if you'd learn your secretions and discharges leaked and clotted against the sieve? Don't worry, you'll be spared of such scenarios. He'd never willingly embarrass you like that. He softly presses the scalpel against your bare skin, going under each breast and stopping at the pubic bone. Now to trim the thick layers of fat sticking to the dermis. You're not making much of a mess, but then again it's a dream within his idle mind. A mischievous grin takes over his expression once he witnesses his clean work. The segments of skin detach smoothly, revealing your glistening, bloated organs. 

He already went over the ribs. That part has been covered. What comes next? His eyes rest on the most obvious: your intestines. Which reminds him...

"This one is a Middle Eastern dish. Stuffed intestines. You gently cut the membrane, like this." He demonstrates on a separate plate. "Don't worry about seeing some additional blood. Naturally there are many capillaries irrigating the walls, so you might open them up in the process. It quickly seeps into the mixture and adds a bit of a stagnant flavor to it, but it's merely noticeable."

You swallow dryly.

Back to the original matters. He searches for his scissors and cuts along the attachment tissue smoothly. Once the bowels have been freed, he fondles them into his hands, cupping them into place, and hurries to the nearby counter. The entrails collapse and spread onto the marble surface, like mischievous tentacles. He languidly eyes them. Do organs resemble their owner? Absurd question, really. Do they reflect one's health - that much is indubitable. Yet he can't help feeling that if presented with an endless row of viscera, he could, without hesitation, point and state which ones are yours. It's a mysterious confidence whose source he cannot pinpoint. You've always captivated him. Just when he thinks he's had you like an open book, you slip and slither between his fingers. Fitting.

What is it about you that preoccupies his mind to such degree? He turns back to the table and scans the remaining options. Your intelligence? The tool drawer opens and his fingers linger over the saw and skull chisel. Perhaps. But there's more to it, really. His analytical, rational self craves for more than what it can grasp. And what it lacks, well...

He pinches the visceral fascia and lifts the translucent membrane, with the same delicacy of unveiling a young bride, and reveals your heart, cold and still. There it is, the answer to everything. A transect to the vena cava near the diaphragm and the organ has been separated from the rest of the body. An angel with clipped wings. Holding it like this, he can almost discern the faintest throb, the fibrous muscle pressing into his skin. 

"And this?"

He purses his lips, taken aback by his own rudeness. Has he been zoning out in plain sight?

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"The dish, I mean."

He follows the direction of your stretched out index. Ah.

"Heart stuffed with mushroom duxelle. Old English classic with a twist." 

"You sound like a professional chef", you respond as you laugh. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Is there? He considers it. Right before his revelation was discontinued by your inquiry - absolutely not your fault, the ill manners were his - he was wondering if he possesses the capacity to love you. He definitely prefers you over all of the people he's encountered in his life, and your behavior and way of thinking never ceases to make him curious. Yet love is a conclusion he cannot asses with certainty. 

He had hoped a vivisectionist approach would offer him concrete data, palpable reasoning, but his journey only reinforced that some concepts must be tested outside of pure introspection. Or, as one would describe it colloquially, he has to take the bull by its horns. 

"By the way, what meat is this?" You have arranged yourself a platter with a little bit of everything, and just finished chewing a hearty bite. "Ox or something? It's very tender."

If Hannibal is to embark on his expedition of human feelings, he needs to reflect on his choices carefully. Or does he? Hmm. His methodical tactics are what caused this impasse in the first place. 

One can afford to give in, every now and then. How will you react to his self indulgence? He rests his head on the back of his intertwined hands and stares at you with a determined look. 

"Human."

[ellestra]

Tribute

I laughed almost non-stop watching Deadpool & Wolverine. The crass and gross and the ridiculous are mixed in with just a bit of clever. And then there's the pure joy of watching to almost indestructible dudes killing each other in violent ways (it's a WB cartoon kind of fun).

But as always it's the layer below the humour that really hits. And in a prefect Deadpool way this one worked both in the movie but also on the meta level. It's the story of a failed superhero that the Avengers didn't want and whose girlfriend left. Here trying to save his world to save his friends. He gets a second chance at being who he always wanted to be but the price is abandoning everyone he came up with. MCU and Sacred Timeline is one person deal. But this is where Multiverse pays off. It means he can keep his friends and timeline. He just has to fight cybernocracy that would rather dismantle it instantly first.

And it's a story of a fallen studio which movies lost the audience and couldn't find the right way to tell it's stories (with extra layer of Disney's Marvel being on precipice of that too now). All it's properties buried and replaced for a new shinier thing. We could move on and only acknowledge the pieces that haven't been tarnished. And yet, this movie looks back at it all, and brings back the discarded ridiculed. Including the ones we never even got. Using Void to discard them and Alioth to eat them into oblivion is such a prefect metaphor you'd think it was invented for this Film. It's a prefect integration of MCU ideas for the plot of this one story.

The whole movie is practically a tribute to the early days of Marvel and superhero movies that created the momentum that MCU then built it's 30 billion empire on. This is what makes each cameo count. It isn't there just for a joke or Easter Egg moment but it ties to the theme of the story, We are revisiting the forgotten heroes, the fallen ones, the ones who never got to be. And if we are lucky the ones who still might be (please, please let us keep Daphne Keen).

It's also a reminder of how long both Jackman and Reynolds have been in this. The first X-Men movie came out 24 years ago. Reynolds was in Blade: Trinity 20 years ago. I don't think it's an accident a lot of those cameos went to the beginnings with Pyro and Electra. And even with the MCU actors reminding us they started in Fox as Evans came back as Johnny Storm. Even Jon Favreau cameo as Happy Hogan was a reminder he was once Foggy Nelson in Daredevil. This was reunion movie in more ways than one.

And the behind the scenes of those movies, the whole history of Fox Marvel films really hit you in the end. Even the failures like the last Fantastic Four. Even to the X-Men Origins: Wolverine and the Deadpool abomination there. This is what got us here. This is for all the fun we had over the years with these characters and superheroes in general. This was the start.

Of course, Deadpool wouldn't be Deadpool if they didn't desecrate and made fun of the very thing they were paying tribute too. Both the initial fight and any reference to Fox made sure of that. Reminding us that even the best parts of the past shouldn't be sacred. You should build new stories and not be afraid to change. There will be new Blade. And a new Johnny Storm. And maybe a new Deadpool and Wolverine one day too (long, long time from now apparently 😋).

And new universes give you new opportunities to meet people. Maybe even find a romance like B-15 and Peter. Or become a villain. I'm not sure how I feel about the Doom Announcement but let's see. This movie reminded us it's just one more "same face - different person" case in this multiverse.

[creaman]

Hi there! I apologize for taking up your time, I am just so curious: When you tackle a comic, what does the process behind it look like?

Asking because I found myself scrolling through your blog once again and couldn't help but marvel at all the beautiful effects you use, at how flawlessly the structure guides the viewer's eye across each page, how the graphic weight seems to always be in just the right places…, and wonder how you learned doing this. Everything you put out looks incredibly professional and I aspire to reach your level of skill 😌❤️

Thank you Finz!! You're no bother at all, I'm an open book. This is such high praise for a guy that really doesn't have a set process, I feel like a hack. Ha. Rest assured my style is still developing. Besides the referencing of the linework and composition of official comic books, (practicing by redrawing panels for fun), explaining the process makes me feel like a serial killer but I will do my best.

(WIP Riddler panel, scrapped Scarecrow composition)

My comics usually stem from a single panel or concept — I like to focus on/emphasise particular panels of my pages, the heavy hitters, the main piece that catches your eye. I know I'm not a profoundly technically proficient artist so I prefer visually interesting elements and formatting, i.e. drawing characters outside their frames, negative space, notation, perspectives etc.

(Kung Fu Panda 4 sketch god I hate Kung Fu Panda 4)

I like to establish 'main focus' panels, the bits of the comic that really, well. make people want to chew on it. This is where the technical effort is concentrated, really, and the rest of the comic is generally build around these concepts.

('Restaurant Balthazar' focus panels)

Textures and effects are done on individual panels first, then the entire page as a whole to even out the unity. Generally, blocking in shadows, hatching for visual interest + middle tones, then textures/half-tones, then highlights.

(Script excerpt WIP)

I'm not a writer per se, but having a vague 'script' in your pages helps with pacing and direction. Comics are a versatile story-telling medium. I only really do scripts for comics longer than 2 pages. An optional but recommended strat is to send your script to a friend for a second opinion.

(Script excerpt — 'Restaurant Balthazar', annotated by @vincepti0n I don't know why he drew a face in the middle)

With the script crudely slapped together, I rough out the thumbnails and composition with the text, prioritising coherence and clean integration of previously mentioned 'main focus' panels.

Settling on a composition sucks the hardest. Drawing is fun, thinking makes brain hurty. Variety is good! Close-ups, wide shots, visual metaphors. Every panel is its own artwork.

The text bubbles are usually added in post, yes, but I'm just one guy and I don't have a writer to call me a good boy for doing things correctly. Bite me.

(Early 'Restaurant Balthazar' drafts)

In addition, keeping the text graphics in mind help create a sounder composition wherein even if the panels don't read cleanly left to right + top to bottom, the text can stagger and create the same reading order effect.

Panels and concepts are constantly tweaked, and my comic process is still highly experimental. A lot of industry standard comics aren't illustrated to their full potential due to deadlines and such — I strive for visual epiphany by treating each panel as its own artwork, and every page as a a bit of a mural.

(Old art hurts the soul)

Constantly experimenting allows you the insight of looking at your current art in comparison to your older works. In more recent works, I've been blocking in more shadows wiht lineart with thinner lines and more line weight, and learned to integrate the subject characters with less plain, abstract backgrounds.

TLDR: I have no idea

[dailydamnation]

Well, I said that if they kept giving X-ladies solo books, that have to get around to Illyana eventually, but I didn't dare believe in it.

A solo ongoing for our girl. This is a good day.

Generally, I'm not big on solo X-titles, teams just work best. I've always thought Illyana is one of the characters who it would work with, though. Part of that is bias, obviously, but I think that to justify a solo, you need a character with personal stories that are distinctly different from core X-Men/mutant stories. They surprised me by finding a solid take for Jean in making her go cosmic.

Illyana's magic and demons really set her up for a unique run, and it looks like we might be getting it:

The mystic mutant goes demon hunting in her own series! The X-Man Illyana Rasputina strikes out on her own with new allies and dark powers arrayed against her.

New allies? Leah Helranger when?

Having Ashley Allen return after her Blood Hunt oneshot is a big win. Illyana really felt like Illyana in that story, and played to her strengths.

Germán Peralta I've always liked, and I think his style could be a great fit for stories like these, too:

Throughout the series, Magik will also be forced to come to terms with her tragic history and learn to control her demonic Darkchylde persona. After years of suppression, Illyana’s Darkchylde form returns from the depths of her tormented soul to offer her more strength and power, but at what cost?

This is perfection--the struggle with her dark side that is fed by her trauma, while in the same breath Allen describes her as a character with a heart of gold... Trying to be good while fearing that she's bad is core Illyana.

Literally the only quibble I have with this announcement is Peralta saying he especially loves the Bachalo design, and that costume is my personal pet peeve and won't keep me from loving this book. (Is it wrong that I love it already? It's nice to have faith.)

I love the idea of the Darkchylde having stages, growing more monstrous as Illyana gets taken over by dark impulses. And those wings? Fire addition to the design.

As a bonus, here is Germán Peralta drawing Illyana years ago in Age of X-Man: Prisoner of X #2:

Now just to decide how I'm going to get this, since I don't have a pull list at my local comic shop anymore. Marvel Unlimited still runs months behind on physical releases, which is okay for most things, but...

[alotofpockets]

Happy when you're around | Florence Pugh

Paring: Florence Pugh x Reader

Summary: You're helping your girlfriend film her newest Cooking with Flo video, and help her with a Q&A on Instagram live.

Masterlist | Marvel masterlist | Words: 707

Florence was dancing around the kitchen, between the chopping of vegetables and stirring in pots. She was in the process of filming a Cooking with Flo episode. You were behind the camera making sure to get all the right angles to give her fans the best experience.

You loved how at ease Florence was in front of the camera, she had to be with her job of course but this was different. She connected with her fans, talked to them, even when her episodes weren't live and she couldn't see their responses or have a two way conversation with them. She never failed to find a new topic to talk about. 

As a bonus Florence posted an extra story on her Instagram for her followers to send in questions, after she posted all the parts to the Cooking with Flo. She was nervous because she had never done this before, but she was excited when she saw all the questions come pouring in.

Florence wanted to answer the questions on an Instagram live. So, you suggested putting up a tripod to film her and to read the questions aloud from your phone, that way it was more like an interview. Flo thought it was a good idea, it eased her nerves a bit.

"Hi, everyone! I hope you enjoyed that little Cooking with Flo." She started. She knew how much they love the series, as they're always requesting more. "Thank you so much for all the questions you've sent in. My lovely girlfriend, behind the camera, will read as many of them out for me before we have to leave. I hope to answer as many as I can!" 

You looked at Florence to give you the sign to ask the first question. Once she did you read one out for her. "Let's start off with a food related question, what is your favorite dish to make?" - "Hm that's a good one, I love so many. Honestly, I think my favorite thing to do is to create a dish from the leftovers we have. I get to be more creative and challenge myself." 

You continue with the next question, "Are you working on any new projects at the moment?" Florence looks at you and smiles. "We just finished the press tour for A Good Person. If you haven't seen it yet, it's out in theaters now!" She plugs while making finger guns towards the camera. "But to answer your question, no not at the moment. I've had a busy couple of years work wise and while I'm very happy with that, I want some time with my girlfriend. So, I'm taking a couple of months off, and we're going to travel together. I've got some auditions planned before we go, so who knows after our trip I might have some new projects coming up."

You continue asking more questions, when you stumble upon one with your name. "Haha I like this one, I'd like to know your point of view on this. What is y/n like when she's filming your Cooking with Flo videos?" Florence moves her hands in a come here motion. "If you all don't mind, I'm gonna bring her in front of the camera for this one." 

Once you sit down next to her, she starts answering the question. "Y/n is amazingly supportive behind the camera, and in general. She's very detail oriented and knows exactly what I want to show and when I want to give you all a closer look at something. Besides that I also have the cheesy answer, which is that she's beautiful behind the camera, and she always looks at me with the most admiring smile." You blush at all her compliments. 

"That's because I'm always happy when you're around." You say while leaning into her more. She puts her arm around you. You see the screen filled with lovely messages from the audience and feel the smile on Florence's face. "We have to get going now, but I promise I'll answer more questions soon! Thank you for joining us and I hope you'll all have a wonderful day." With that you end the live and cuddle up to your girlfriend, before you have to get ready.

[simplegeneral]

It was an early morning in the Sky Queendom, arriving at nearly 5 am at a meeting planned to happen at 9 am, the new queen of the SandWings past her mother queen Burn's passing, Oasis and her envoy had arrived extra early in order for her to prepare mentally to meet the other queens at the now famous Queens' Summit, happening every 5 years, this time earlier thanks to the new sandwing queen's ascension to power.

Depressed, angry and above all else, volatile, queen Oasis has declared speech after speech she would deliver to the queens, but to no avail nor her own approval, being only encouraged by her envoy, the adviser, principal and all-doer Sunny and her father, the ex-king now general Sandstorm.

At around 7 am, queen Moorhen, quite often seem as the matriarch and arbiter of the summit had arrived, so confident she would be the first one there, as always happened, only to find the young queen angrily snarling fancy words around in an attempt to showcase her nobility.

" Your new majesty, queen Oasis. A pleasure to meet you finally face to face. How long have you been here? " She spoke, ever so softly and stern as a mother figure, the mudwings behind her begun to hastily unpack their belongings to guard and offer during the summit.

" Oh. Your majesty.... Queen Moorhen... Of the mudwings, of course! I have been here for a few hours, I believe... " Oasis stumbled in her memories the coherent words to say in such situation.

" Oh three moons! Energetic aren't you? In fact, I do believe where all this energy came from... " Moorhen spoke as she looked Sunny, who was approaching them from the side. " Sunny, oh my, your energy is fueling through the ground or something? Its causing our royal guest here to feel accelerated! "

" No no no, your majesty, I mean, yes, I mean, kinda of. I mean I have been advising Oasis to the best of my abilities... " Sunny yelped cutely.

" Ha ha! Oh well. Delightful as it have been meeting your person, queen Oasis, I may ask, is everything alright? " Moorhen directed towards the young queen.

" Well... I am nervous, absolutely. Such a summit, it seems marvellous but, politicing at home is complicated, and I can not imagine what will be in foreign affairs... 

- Ah, yes, indeed. Come with me, if you don't mind. Lets go to a walk to a nearby pond, we will talk there. You too can come, Sunny. "

The three of them made their way through the bushes, flowers and trees, into a large pond of cristaline waters, so pure they could see all the way to the bottom.

" Beautiful, isn't it? This pond is so refreshing, its waters so pure. It always relaxes me, and you?

- I do feel calmer by its beauty... But, what do you seek to talk with me?

- Oh. Direct to the point, eh? I see. Just like your mother! Ah, Oasis, once you live up as long as I did, the beauty of life is to live very calmly and tranquil. Your mother, queen Burn, and your grandmother before her, Oasis as well, were very agitaded and hard working dragons.

- I believe so. What do you know about my mother?

- A lot. We were allies during the succession war before you hatched. I believe I was one of the few dragons who could stand up to her, be direct, straightfoward, honest, and she always reciprocated. I met very few dragons in my life like her.

- I feel like I am her daughter but... I don't have much of anything of her, not the courage, the strength or the honesty.

- You are only so young! Be patient, queen Oasis. Let me tell you one quick story about your mother's first meeting with the other queens, at this very summit.

- Oh. Oh! Its queen Moorhen's story time!!!

- Calm down, Sunny, you might spoil everything to our guest here before I can even begin! "

The three of them sat down at the edge of the pond, and Moorhen begun:

" Your mother, queen Burn, was as nervous as you are when she first arrived at this summit. The proud warrior had a terrible charisma, her oratory was terrible and she couldn't get her ideas across in a convincing way to the council. As soon as she arrived, usually not so long after me, we would come here to this very pond and I would tell her stories, like I am doing to you, of how her mother, Oasis, stumbled on her words and embarrassed herself at courts held by other queens...

- She did? How do you know that?

- I am old enough! I saw Oasis' rise from a dragonet to the queen she would become. Burn was usually not very kind to anyone who addressed her mother with any lack of respect, but she usually tolerated my mockery because she knew I was saying light-heartedly. Oasis and I were good friends and allies back in a day, so I missed her too, it was all in good heart to remember what seemed to be better days. Oh well... So, the first time she arrived here, you had hatched only a few months before, and Burn had refused to leave you at the wingery of the palace, so she brought you ALL the way over here, and she was desperated!

' Moorhen! ' she yelled, ' I brought my dragonet over here, how embarrassing it will be when I address the council for the first time and she starts crying at the talons of my husband?! '

I said ' Calm down, Burn. I see you could win a thousand battles, but apparently you can not figure out motherhood haha! '

' THIS IS SERIOUS, MOORHEN! ' She snarled at me.

' Alright, alright. Calm down, Burn. Look. If she does cry, so what? She may or may not do anyways. Other queens are also bringing their dragonets because they do want them close, the situation is tense, its our first meeting, for ALL of us, not only you. I can list all of the dragonets who might cry if you would like. '

' Argh... Fine. Thank you, Moorhen... I can bark orders all I want, but properly address a crowd, I have never done that, it feels such a waste of time. '

' Words are more powerful than your talons, Burn. If you seek the other queens to believe in your ability to follow the international laws we seek to establish commonly among the queendoms, you must show yourself capable of reasoning, either you like the outcome or not. '

' I see. You are right... Good thing my daughter is here. I will do it for her, for I do not seek a dangerous world for her to live. '

' Remember Burn. Speak for what you love, not against what you hate. Good luck, my friend. '

- And so Burn and me nodded at each other and departed to the meeting. It was alright. Burn stumbled on her words but she delivered them with her heart in the right place, the crowd was pleased, and she proved to Pyrrhia she was a respectable leader, both in times of strife, and now in times of peace. "

Oasis had paid attention to Moorhen's words like she have never had to anyone, not even Burn in the later years. She spoke:

" Mother seemed so confident, so powerful, I confess, I never thought she could be such a nervous dragon...

- We are all normal dragons at the end of the day, Oasis. And as queens, its expected the most out of us. Known where your heart lies in, and speak with the oratory to melt their hearts, its my elderly wisdom to you, young one.

- Thank you, queen Moorhen. I... I wrote so many speeches to impress, to mark me as a powerful and decisive queen, yet none of them came out of my true beliefs, what my mother, my father, even what Sunny has told me. Maybe its too late to change all of it.

- We still have a hour until the meeting, Oasis. Its not too late.

- You think so?

- I know its not. Rewrite it. And remember the lesson your mother also had, reason your ideals, be ready to be challenged, respect the outcome.

- I will keep this in mind, thank you, once again, for sharing this with me, queen Moorhen.

- Worry not, young one. Expect nothing, deliver everything. You will do well. "

As Moorhen stayed in the pond, ever reflective, Oasis and Sunny departed back to their caravan, Oasis more than ready to write with her heart in the right place.

[flamboyantly-incompetent]

HPB, Chapter 4 - Christmas in the Country

Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!Reader

Warnings: none?

Masterlist

Word Count: ~6,300

Note: when I started this chapter it was just getting warm where I live, and I hate summer, so that's why this took so long

“Malfoy kissed you?” screeched Donna

You paced in front of the common room fireplace, still wearing your party dress from earlier in the evening. Donna and Yvette had immediately noticed something off and demanded answers.

“Keep your voice down!” you hissed. Alone in the common room with your friends, you were still wary of the sleeping Hufflepuffs surrounding you on all sides.

“Sorry.” Donna scrunched up her shoulders and whispered, “Malfoy kissed you?”

“Well,” you said, chewing your lip, “technically I kissed him.”

Yvette passed a hand over her face dramatically. “We’re going to need details, pronto.”

“And coco,” Donna declared, disappearing into the dormitory for her electric kettle (a marvelous muggle invention).

You pulled off your shoes, and continued pacing barefoot.

Herbert came through the common room door, disheveled and annoyed.

“What the heck?” he asked you. “Where’d you go?”

Donna came back in the room with the kettle. “I am making coco, and then she’s going to explain. Sit.”

Herbert obeyed, confused, and waited patiently for Donna to produce coco. There were no electric outlets in Hogwarts, as the kitchens were run by house elves who had no need of electricity, so Donna’s mother had sent her along with a kettle, and a small hand cranked generator for ‘camping’ - the muggle term for living temporarily in the woods. While Donna cranked, and the water heated, Herbert summarized his efforts of the evening.

“Ok,” Donna started, handing out steaming mugs of instant coco, “once again, from the top please.”

You faced your friends, the warmth of the fire at your back, and your stomach flipped at the words you’d have to say again.

“I kissed Malfoy,” you mumbled.

Herbert blinked. “Sorry, what?” Yvette and Donna dissolved into a fit of giggling. “Seriously, what did I miss?”

You frowned, defeated, and sat on the floor. “I stormed out of Slughorn’s party, I found Malfoy, I grabbed him by his stupid tie, and my plan was to yell at him a lot. And instead,” you threw your hands up in the air, “I kissed him. Just planted one on him.” You drew your knees to your chest and hid your face in your skirt.

Herbert pressed, “And? What’d he do?”

“Hf kffed mf bef.”

“One more time?”

“He kissed me back, okay? And then I did what any sane witch would do, and ran away.”

“Ok, but how was it?” Yvette asked. “I have to know.” You didn’t answer, as the heat in your cheeks started to become unbearable. “Oh my god. It was good, wasn’t it?”

“Uh huh,” you whimpered.

Donna asked, “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, do you like him?” Herbert demanded.

“I don’t know!”

“But you kissed him,” he said flatly.

“Yep.”

“Why’d you do that if you didn’t like him?”

“Oh, because life wasn’t awkward enough.”

Yvette interrupted, “Clearly, Y/N has no idea what she’s talking about, but I think we should be talking about Mr. Tall, Blond and Moody.”

“Malfoy? What about him?”

“Well, if he kissed her back, he must like her!”

“Eh,” Herbert waffled, “maybe. It’s possible he was just surprised.”

Oh, god. What if you’d accosted him, and now he was regaling the whole Slytherin common room with the whole story, laughing at your girlish impulsivity and coming to many, many embarrassing conclusions.

“Herb, c’mon. You’re making it worse. If I surprised kissed you, would you be confused enough to kiss me back?”

Herbert sputtered, “That’s, I mean, it’s different.”

Donna, amused, asked, “How?”

You groaned, face still hidden behind your knees. While the prospect of teasing Herbert did threaten to lift your spirits, you needed this conversation to be about you for just another minute.

“Would it be terrible of me if I did?” you asked quietly.

Yvette frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t love the idea that I’d be interested in someone who could call my friends… what he called you. Last year, I mean. And if I’m gonna date anyone I’d want them to like you, and you’d need to like them, but I don’t really see that happening.”

“So you do want to date him!” Donna exclaimed.

You rolled your eyes. “Can we focus on the issue at hand?”

“You mean Malfoy being an elitist and an overall git?” She waved a hand dismissively. “We already know that, but if you like him there must be something likable about him?” Draco Malfoy, likable?

Certainly not.

Herbert interrupted your train of thought, “In any case, it’s getting late.”

Yvette agreed, “And we’ll have lots of time over the holiday to hash out all of these romantic and complicated feelings of yours.” Herbert looked less than thrilled at the prospect, but only slightly less thrilled than you felt.

“I’m meeting Mum tomorrow in Hogsmeade, to do a little last minute shopping before Christmas,” you sighed. “Any requests from Honeydukes?”

“Acid pops for me,” said Yvette.

“Liquorice wands if they’ve got any,” said Donna.

“D’you think your step-father will have made his cauldron cakes?” asked Herbert. You nodded. “Then I’ll happily await those. I’m already packed.”

Morning arrived cold after a fitful night sleep. Wilbur had settled on your chest, and was purring softly, waiting for his regular treat once you woke up.

The village of Hogsmeade had been wrapped in a snowy blanket overnight, and the wreathed doors of the shops were dusted with the white glittering powder. You spotted your mum huddled under the awning in front of the Three Broomsticks, rubbing her hands together in the cold, watching the passersby for you.

Her eyes found you and lit up. “There she is!” she called, trotting up to hug you. “How is my little shrivelfig?”

“Mum,” you choked through the strength of the embrace.

She released you, and herded you into the Three Broomsticks. “We’ve got time for a butterbeer and I could use a warm up. Tell me all about your classes, I want to hear everything!”

The both of you settled at a table and drank your butterbeers, while you complained to your mum about the upcoming O.W.L.s.

Eventually, the conversation made it around to Transfiguration. “But I can transfigure a hedgehog into a pin cushion now,” you said.

“Almost, anyway. It still snuffles a bit, but it certainly looks like one.”

“Ah,” she replied, “so the tutoring is going well then?”

Thankfully, your cheeks were already flushed from the cold, because you had absolutely not meant to bring up tutoring, or the Slytherin doing the tutoring.

“Yes, it’s fine. It’s good.”

She smiled and patted your hand. “Now, I’m sure you’re ready for a break from school and talk of it. Gladrags or Honeydukes first, do you think? Julien needs a new cloak and there’s one in the window I think he may like.”

“Let’s do that first then.”

Gladrags Wizardwear was packed full of other students doing last minute Christmas shopping amidst the festive garlands and sprigs of holly that decorated the shop. You passed Wanda Clemm, who was agonizing over two different pairs of gloves, and Colin Creevey, who had in his arms no less than a dozen pairs of socks. Every time the bell on the door rang to signify a new customer, your heart jumped, but it was never Draco Malfoy.

The cloak in the window that had caught your mother’s eye was one fit for travel - evergreen in color with a wide hood, and imbued with a rain repelling charm.

“Think he’ll like it?” she asked

“I think so,” you replied, thoughts elsewhere.

“Well what have you gotten him this year? Not more pranks from Zonkos!”

“What’s wrong with Zonkos?”

She sighed. “Nothing, only that he only just used his last dungbomb last month. I thought the venemous tentacula had been rotted overnight, scared me half to death.”

You thought for a moment. “Want to hide a fanged frisbee in his stocking?”

“Sounds like a plan. Let it never be said that your mother is above a petty payback.” She glanced around for a moment before setting her eyes on the store clerk and waving him over. She paid for the cloak, and tucked the wrapped package under her arm, then followed you to Zonkos.

A light snow began to fall as you shopped the morning away, zigzagging through Hogsmeade from Zonkos to Scrivnshaft’s Quill Shop, then along to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop for a quick lunch before braving Honeydukes.

Jingle bells jangled merrily in little bunches hung from the ceiling all throughout Honeydukes, lilting over the buzz of the shoppers. Your mum split off to find the baking chocolate, while you searched through the novelties for acid pops and liquorice wands. Finding the acid pops, you stooped down to look through the flavors.

“Y/N?”

You started at the sudden voice, smacking your forehead against the self in your hurry to stand. Draco Malfoy peered quizzically at you, bundled in his dragon hide lined coat with the large brass buttons, holding a box of cauldron cakes.

You rubbed the sore spot on your head, embarrassed. “Draco, hi.”

“Erm, hi.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Stocking up for the holiday?” you asked.

At the same time, he said, “Looking forward to the break?”

You shared an awkward laugh, looking at anything but each other.

“I am,” you answered. “Some friends from my house are spending the holiday with us.”

“Ah.”

“Y/N?” your mother’s voice called from around the corner. “I’ve got the brick chocolate, are you ready to - oh. Hello.” Your mother extended a hand for Draco to shake. You hoped desperately this was a nightmare you’d soon wake up from. “I’m Y/N’s mother. Nice to meet you.”

Draco took the hand stiffly and replied, “Draco Malfoy, Ma’am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, lovely. Y/N’s told me so much about you.” He raised his eyebrows and ventured a glance at you. Your cheeks burned in response. “The fate of her Transfiguration O.W.L. rests in your hands, I hear.”

“She’s quite capable,” he said.

Your mum smiled at that even as you continued to shrink. “How is Narcissa these days?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You know my mother?”

“We had a few years overlap at Hogwarts. We were never close, but I remember her.”

“She’s doing well,” he said slowly. “She’s visiting family on the Continent for the holiday.”

“Are you not going home for Christmas? Oh, well then you must stay with us! We’ve already planned for guests, one more won’t hurt.”

“Oh, well,” he sputtered, looking at you. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense, the more the merrier.”

Finally, you looked up. He was still eying you, wary and unsure. For a moment, you pictured him, alone, and wandering the garland-covered halls of the castle on Christmas, then said, “We’ll have cauldron cakes, and more candy than we can deal with, and we’ll probably play quidditch over the garden. It could be fun. If you’d like to come, of course.”

“I do like cauldron cakes,” he said quietly, searching your face. “Very well, that’s very kind of you. I appreciate the hospitality.”

“Excellent,” said your mother. “I’m staying in town overnight, so I’ll meet the lot of you outside Hogsmeade tomorrow. Now, Y/N, what was it you came over here for? Give me those - I’ll pay and we can go.”

You watched your mother make for the sales desk laden with candy, then turned to Draco and took the box of cauldron cakes out of his hands.

“Ours are better,” you said. He did not argue. “We’ll meet you under the clock tower after breakfast?”

“Are you, ahem. Will your friends mind?”

“Ha, no. They’ll be fine.” In fact I think they’ll find this hilarious. “See you tomorrow!” Then you turned on your heel, and fled out of the store into the safety of your mother’s presence before anything more could be said about it.

Outside, you turned to her and asked, “Why did you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You invited Draco Malfoy to Christmas!”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Well? Why?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do. He just seemed so gloomy.”

“I - he - I think that’s just his face.”

“Hmm.”

“Mum.”

“What? I thought you liked him - you’re friends.”

“Not really. We’re civil. But he’s a Malfoy. And half my friends are muggleborns. His father is in Azkaban for-”

“I know exactly where his father is. Really, Y/N. I seriously doubt that polite boy I just met is going to go around hexing your friends all holiday. Trust me. It’ll be fun, it’ll be fine.”

You grumbled incomprehensibly to yourself all the way back to Hogwarts after your mum had gotten settled back at the Three Broomsticks with your purchases from the trip. When you traipsed back into the common room to deliver the news, Donna and Yvette both burst into another round of giggling at your misery.

Herbert crossed his arms and merely declared, “I reserve the right to jinx him at any time.”

The next morning, after breakfast, Draco Malfoy waited for you under the clocktower by the courtyard. He sat cross-legged by a small trunk, looking at nothing in particular, lost in thought.

“Good morning,” you said, jarring him from his thoughts.

“Good morning,” he replied stiffly.

“Uh, right. Draco this is Herbert, Yvette, and Donna. Guys this is Draco Malfoy.”

Yvette offered her hand to shake, which Draco took. So far so good. Then, Yvette opened her mouth.

“We’ve met,” she said, a saccharine smile on her face. “Last year, when you tried to give us detention in the library.”

“Ah,” choked Draco. “Right.”

“And then again, on the Quidditch pitch, when we absolutely destroyed you, I’m sure you remember.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he only responded mildly, “I do.”

Donna cut in before Yvette could continue to barb. “At this rate we won’t get to Hogsmeade until New Years - let’s go,” she said, and started the walk to the village without looking back.

Herbert and Yvette followed, chatting about the perfectly timed snow, leaving Draco and yourself at the rear.

He gestured at Wilbur’s carrier, strapped to the top of your trunk. “Would you like me to-“

“No,” you said, too quickly. “No, I’ve got it.” He nodded stiffly, and matched your pace. “Thank you, though.”

Donna led the charge valiantly, until the flurries started, and then she stopped every few paces to try and catch one on her tongue. Herbert and Yvette teased her the first few times, but couldn’t resist forever.

“What was that about New Years?” you teased, pulling to the front, Draco still beside you. “There’ll be plenty of time for this once we get there.”

Begrudgingly, Donna let you lead. She fell into step between Herbert and Yvette, who all began whispering with each other, but they kept up.

Halfway there, Draco sent you a sidelong look. Then another.

“You okay?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re not going to make a speech? Tell me to behave?”

“Well I thought that went without saying. Obviously, you should behave yourself. My mother is under the impression that you’re polite.”

“Excuse me, but I can be very polite.”

“When it suits you.”

“Well, yes.”

“Oi!” Donna called, “What’re you two conspiring about?”

Without missing a beat, Draco replied, “Just asking Y/N about whether I should set the house on fire before, or after Christmas dinner.”

Yvette snorted, “Definitely after, there’ll be no dishes to wash.” Donna and Herbert laughed, and began to argue their opinions.

You raised an eyebrow at Draco.

“What?” he asked. “This is me behaving.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, unconvinced.

The snow picked up, gathering into a thick blanket along the road. You all struggled a little with your trunks, until you saw the outline of your mum at the top of the hill through the whiteout. She raised her arm high over her head and waved you over.

She gave you all quick hugs, even Draco - who stood still and confused - then gathered all your trunks together.

“Here, take Wilbur, Y/N,” she said, then waved her wand at the pile of trunks, which began to float in front of her. “We’ll have to hurry. Follow me.” She wove through the streets of Hogsmeade to the fields just North of it at a light trot. “Julien arranged for a portkey, but if we miss it we’ll have to wait for the train.”

“I’ve never taken a portkey before,” Yvette said.

Herbert replied, “It’s easy, just stand next to me.”

In the middle of the field, a Christmas cracker had been slowly covered in snow. Careful not to touch it just yet, your mother waved her wand again, and the snow was gently blown away.

“This is the portkey?” you asked.

Your mother laughed. “You know Julien. Always making jokes. He got a kick out of this one. All right everyone, grab on. It’s almost time. The landing will be easier if you try to keep your feet pointed down.”

You grabbed hold of the end of the cracker between Donna and Draco, who was clearly skeptical of the muggle device. You leaned over and whispered, “There’s a little gift inside when you pull it open.”

His frown deepened.

Your mother checked her watch with her free hand. “Should be any moment now. Just hang on. Here we go-“

The world around you spun, or maybe it was you spinning? You’d seen some kind of muggle amusement contraption called a roller coaster that shot them down a track and whirled them around corners, and you imagined that must be something like this. Yvette and Donna grinned at each other and laughed as the cracker flung you across the countryside.

Not two seconds later, the journey ended with your feet slamming into the ground, and a long roll into the side yard of your mum’s house. You landed in between Yvette and Donna, Herbert on Yvette’s right already trying to help her up. The three of you picked yourselves up and brushed the snow off your coats, then dissolved into a bit of giggling.

The front door opened and your step father came out, grinning, followed by Buttercup, yapping in excitement. “C’mon, everybody, there’s a batch of cider on the hob, and I just finished a batch of crumpets - eat ‘em while they’re hot!” He waved his wand, and the pile of trunks followed him dutifully inside.

You scooped up Wilbur’s carrier and followed; Buttercup running circles around your heels. Yvette scooped up a handful of snow and began shaping it into a ball, angling for Herbert’s back; Donna snuck up behind her with a handful to shove inside her woolen hat. You herded them through the door, then paused.

“Draco?” He’d stopped by the garden wall, barely inside the gate, examining his surroundings.

He snapped his gaze to you at your voice. “Hmm?”

“You coming?”

“Right, yes."

Your mum called from the kitchen, “Y/N, you’ll let all the heat out!” The ceilings had been hung with tinsel and garlands, and the scent of cinnamon and clove hit you at the threshold. Celestina Warbeck warbled from the radio above the crackling fireplace. You sighed. You were home.

Julien had deposited yours, Donna’s and Yvette’s trunk in your room, and was showing Herbert and Draco to the guest room in the attic. He waved his wand, and the double bed split down the middle into two twins with a pop. Then he frowned.

“Draco, you’re an only child, right? If you’d be more comfortable, we could set Herb up in Y/N’s room, and the girls could take the living room. Two years past we pitched a tent outside, and they loved that.”

“No,” he answered quickly. “This is fine. More than fine. As long as, ahem, as long as you’re alright with it too, then?”

Herbert opened and closed his mouth, evidently thinking better of some scathing remark, and said simply, “It’s fine.”

Wilbur was relieved to be let out of his carrier, and promptly sprawled across your bed for his morning nap, as the rest of you reconvened back downstairs for the aforementioned ciders and crumpets. Julien roped Yvette, Herbert and Draco into a game of whist, while your mum updated you on the state of her garden and Donna played tug-of-war with Buttercup.

Your bed had been pulled off its frame, tucked into the corner and laden with pillows, and a few long sheets pinned to the ceiling to make a canopy. You sat with Donna and Yvette inside, in your pajamas and bundled in quilts, holding steaming mugs of cocoa. It was well past midnight, so you had to whisper.

“What do you think they’re doing up there?” Yvette asked.

“Probably sleeping?” said Donna.

“No, I mean, do think it’ll be awkward? Do you think Herbert snores?”

You giggled behind your mug.

Donna countered, also giggling, “Do you think Malfoy snores?”

“Oh, no,” Yvette shook her head, “I think he’s far too rich to snore.”

“What does that even mean?” you asked.

“Rich people never snore. Or they pay people to tell everybody they don’t snore.”

Donna waved a hand at her. “What’re you on about? Everybody snores.”

“I do worry it’s awkward though,” you said, a bit somber. “They hardly know each other.”

“I think it’s going fine,” Yvette declared. “Herb and I won at whist and he didn’t even seem bothered.”

“Huh.”

“But, we’ll find out in the morning, whether he hexed him in his sleep or not, I guess.”

You groaned. “Was this a terrible mistake?”

“Honestly, Y/N, you have to stop worrying about it.” Donna set down her cocoa and nestled in between two pillows. “It’s Christmas, and for the first time since September we don’t have to think about O.W.L.s. I’m going to enjoy it, and so should you.”

“Speaking of,” Yvette said, following suit and setting down her cocoa to settle in for the night, “we’re playing quidditch tomorrow, no arguments.”

You held up your hands in surrender, and turned out the light.

Some time in the early morning, you woke to Donna’s quiet snoring and Yvette’s knee in your back. Wilbur was a white ball of fluff purring between your legs, until he noticed you were awake. He stretched a bit, then sat with his tail regally curled around him, patiently awaiting treats.

You pulled a jumper on over your pajamas, scooped him up and headed downstairs.

“Y/N?” your mother’s voice came from the armchair in the living room. “Everything ok, shrivelfig?” She was wrapped in her own quilt, feet up on the footstool, Buttercup asleep on her lap. The floor was cold against your bare feet, so you stepped towards the fireplace, still glowing from hot coals.

“Yeah,” you said, yawning, “Just woke up a little thirsty. We’re taller than the last time we were all here. D’you think my bed could transfigure to three?”

“Oh, sure. I think that’d be fine.”

“You ok, mum?”

“Yes, dear. Just enjoying the quiet. This has become a little ritual of mine, you know.”

Wilbur wriggled out of your arms, having not gotten his treat in a timely manner, and hopped up onto the dining table. He meowed.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

Your mum passed you on her way back to the stairs. “I’m going back to bed for another wink, I think. Wake us up if you need anything.”

“Thanks, mum.” Buttercup yawned and sat by your feet, expecting a treat as well. He accepted your tribute with slobber and a wagging tail. Wilbur, on the other hand, gobbled his treat up and promptly retreated to the rug by the fire.

The stairs creaked again, and you asked, “Back for Buttercup?”

“Who?”

“Oh!” Draco stood at the foot of the stairs, looking bedraggled, in pajamas, house slippers, and pinstriped dressing gown.

“I was already awake and heard voices. Your friend snores. What’s funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” you said through a snort of laughter. “I came down for some tea, like some?”

“What do you have?”

You waved him over to the cupboard above the stove. “Almost everything.” He frowned at the cannisters of tea filling the cupboard for a moment, and settled on an oolong. “Good choice,” you said, filling the kettle from the tap. “If I’d known my mum was going to invite you over, I’d have picked up some jasmine.” Draco was quiet, and watched you pull down a ceramic teapot painted like a Chinese Chomping Cabbage. “C’mon, this fire can be revived and maybe my toes will thaw.”

He looked down at your feet. “Do you not own socks?”

You gave him a look, and pushed past him back into the living room. Buttercup followed at your heels, very excited for extra company.

“Are you sure you don’t want your own room? The tent is very cozy.” You put a log on the coals and fanned the base. “This must be a much smaller place than you’re used to.”

He settled himself on the sofa. “It’s quaint.”

“Translation: tiny.”

“Well,” he grinned sardonically, “if you ever see Malfoy Manor, you’ll understand. But this is… nice. Cozy. I’m very comfortable, you don’t need to worry.”

The light swelled as the log caught, and you sat back on your heels, hands outstretched towards the heat. You gave him a long look.

“We’re playing quidditch today.”

“Alright.”

“Donna doesn’t like flying, so she’ll keep score.”

“That makes sense.”

“Keep this going while I check the kettle. Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

You caught the kettle before it started whistling, and poured the water into the pot to let the tea steep. The sky was beginning to lighten outside, that pre-dawn blue painting the hills. You poured the tea, and took a deep breath.

The fire was burning solidly, and Buttercup had curled up on top of Draco’s feet. He took his teacup from you and breathed in the steam. You sat down next to him, a careful few feet down the sofa, with your own cup.

You cleared your throat, and started, “About the other night-“

“It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Oh,” you said, deflated. “Okay. Good.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then, “This beast is very trusting.”

You looked down at your dog, who began thumping his tail against the ground at the attention. “Yes, he is. Do you have pets?”

“We have a pair of white peacocks that roam the grounds.”

“’The grounds,’ huh? Do peacocks really count as pets, though?” You patted the spot on the sofa between you, and Buttercup wasted no time claiming his place.

“No. I thought I wanted a rat in my first year, but my father said they were undignified. He was right, of course, so I have Montague instead.”

“Your eagle-owl?”

“Yes, though I think if he could speak he would take offense to being called a pet.”

You scratched under Buttercup’s chin. “I like rats. They’re sweet, very social, and prone to napping in the hood of your robe. I’d have one if I wasn’t sure Wilbur would try to eat them.”

“I imagine I’d run into the same issue with Montague.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Draco frowned into his teacup. “Have you taken Divination?”

“Nope. You?”

“Never. For the best, maybe. I hear tea leaves’ predictions tend towards the pessimistic.” He moved to set the cup on the side table next to him, then paused.

“Here,” you said, “I’ll get it. Headed back to bed?”

“I’m not sure there’s any point now,” he said, gesturing to the sunrise.

“Careful, if you’re up when my mum starts to check her greenhouse she may rope you into helping.”

“Ah, well.” He stood and chanced a glance towards the stairs. “Perhaps I’ll manage another hour or so.”

You stood up quickly; Buttercup huffed at you. “Unless, you fancy another race?”

His mouth twitched upwards in a half-smirk. “Only if you’re okay with losing again, on your home turf.”

“Oh, you’ve done it now.”

“Have I?”

“Yep, it’s on. Go get your fancy coat, your broom, and get out there because the clock starts-“

“Wait, hang on-“

“Now!”

You shoved both teacups back into his hands before he could argue, and made a mad dash for the stairs, hopping up them careful to avoid the squeaky boards. Yvette and Donna stirred groggily when you opened the door to pull on your boots and lift your broom off its shelf. Draco met you on the stairs with his own broom, hat askew, trying to button his coat with one hand.

“This is madness,” he whispered.

Outside, you broke into a run, and in between huffs instructed, “First one twice around the garden, thread through the green house, back here wins.”

He grinned wolfishly, sprinting next to you. “You’re the worst.”

“Yep,” you replied, mounting your broom mid-stride and launching into the air. The frigidness of it hit you hard, and you regretted not taking the time to put on your own hat, until the handle of Draco’s broom edged into your periphery. Even after pressing yourself into your broom as far as you could go, he pressed forward and eventually passed you on the second lap around the garden.

He called back to you over the whipping wind, “This isn’t fair, I don’t know where the greenhouse is!”

“That’s because I cheated!”

“Huh?” He paused in the air, turning back, just as you cut hard to the right to circle behind the house, where the greenhouse sat mostly hidden behind a hill. But he wasn’t delayed very long, and beat you to the greenhouse’s transom window, which sat open most days for circulation. He expertly dodged the trap of the venemous tentacula as it snapped after him, and turned his broom on a dime just out of reach of the vining snargaluff.

But he wasn’t prepared for one small gnome, which your mother could never manage to stop from napping in the dittany pots, throwing baneberries at his head. He paused just enough in his confusion for you to skirt by him.

“What the- Oi!”

By the time you were close to the side yard where you’d started, your broom was going so fast that when you pulled up to stop, it did a quick loop-the-loop before throwing you to the ground. The snow stung your bare hands and the back of your neck, and you breathed in the winter.

Draco landed, much more gracefully, next to you. “Woah, what happened? This feels familiar.” He fell backward into the snow beside you. “My feet are freezing.”

You laughed. “Yeah, mine too.”

“That ties us then.”

“Excuse me?” You sat up and brushed the snow off your shoulders. “We raced twice last year, so I’ve still got you by one.”

“Then I demand a rematch.”

“Maybe after Quidditch, and coco.”

“Hot coco for breakfast? Sounds indulgent.”

“Well, it is Christmas. C’mon.”

Your mum and step father had already started on breakfast, sausages popping over the stove, and Buttercup waited diligently below, ready to take care of any spilled table scraps.

“Coco? For breakfast?” your mum exclaimed. “Only since it’s Christmas. Oi, make me some too, please?”

Julien turned his head away from his work to ask, “Ooh, me too. Thanks, hon.”

Not a moment later, Herbert, Yvette and Donna plodded down the stairs, and all sat at the dining table, waiting for coco of their own.

“I heard you mention coco, Y/N,” Donna explained through half-opened eyes.

Herbert continued, “And I heard Donna. Did I snore too loud for you, Malfoy?”

“Huh? Oh, erm, not at all.”

Herbert clapped him on the shoulder nonchalantly and moved into the kitchen to take over sausage duty while Julien scrambled some eggs. Draco’s brow twitched, but his face rearranged itself in an instant.

“So, we’re playing Quidditch today, right?” Yvette asked, and blew across her mug of coco.

“Looks like someone’s been warming up without us,” Herbert commented.

Donna smirked, but said nothing.

You coughed awkwardly. “Just a quick race. Still plenty of warming up to be had.”

“Mmkay.”

“After breakfast, then,” said Yvette. “Can we help with anything, Mrs. Y/L/N?”

“Oh, no,” your mum said, fetching plates from the cupboard. “We’ve got it girls, thank you. Draco, Y/N, Herb, go sit down.”

After a dozen sausages between the seven of you (not counting Buttercup, who had some luck mooching off your mum), you tramped back out into the cold, brooms in hand, where you played on a team with Yvette against Draco and Herbert. Donna set up a shovel, propped upright inside a bucket to be the goal post.

Best two out of three left Draco and Herbert both looking quite smug.

The morning of Christmas Day, you stumbled down the stairs, Donna and Yvette in tow, to find the tree decorating itself with ornaments and tinsel, surrounded by presents that had absolutely not been there before.

You took a surreptitious glance through them, spotting each gift you’d gotten, and hidden carefully from, Donna, Yvette and Herbert. Then, you frowned, remembering Draco. You hadn’t thought to get him anything. And with his mother out of the country for the holiday, it was unlikely he’d have anything to open at all.

He was in your kitchen, at the table next to Herbert, silently awaiting breakfast on Christmas morning. And you’d gotten him no gift. He looked up as you came down the stairs.

You felt your cheeks flush, and stuttered out, “Happy Christmas!”

He smirked in amusement. “Happy Christmas.”

Yvette, behind you, said, “Yeah, yeah, Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”

He inclined his head politely and Happy-Christmased Yvette, then Donna, then your mum when she remembered that’s what she was supposed to say.

Then, after everyone had Happy-Christmased everyone else, Yvette sidled up to your mum before you could, and said, “Please, Mrs. Y/L/N, do we have to wait for the tree to finish decorating itself before we can open gifts?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

Donna chanted quietly, “Present time! Present time!”

“You girls never change,” your mum said with a laugh. “No, we don’t - but you do have to eat breakfast first. Sit down!”

Breakfast served and eaten, the tree flung the last piece of tinsel over its top branches just as you sat down to open gifts. Yvette was correctly suspicious that your mum had timed breakfast to that effect. You rubbed your hands on your plaid pajama bottoms nervously. It was too late now.

Donna knelt by the pile of presents, and carefully distributed one to everybody but Draco. You chanced a glance out of the corner of your eye; he didn’t seem particularly bothered, legs crossed and sipping hot coco.

“Hang on,” your mum said, pointing to a small red and gold package just behind the tree.

Donna reached for it, and looked at the tag. She handed it to Draco, saying, “This one’s for you.”

He frowned, lowering the mug from his lips, and took the package silently. You looked at your mum in question; she winked.

“Now everyone’s got something. Dig in!”

Yvette and Donna wasted no time, ripping off paper decorated with trees and cartoon renditions of Santa Claus. You held yours in your hands, waiting, and watching Draco.

It was easy to watch him, even with a furrowed brow and frown. His long fingers untied the golden bow and sliced through the paper. As he removed his gift from the box, his brow raised.

“It’s a travel case,” your mum explained, “for cuff links, tie clips, lapel pins, you name it.”

Draco pressed an indent at the top of the smooth octagonal prism, and the thing unfolded in his palm, revealing several empty compartments for display, and rotated slowly.

“Y/N mentioned you were a snappy dresser,” she finished.

He closed the device and held it with both hands. “This is lovely. Thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten any-“

Your mum waved a hand dismissively. “Please, honey, we’re just glad your here.”

Julien chimed in, “Your presence is the present.” Everyone groaned. Then, when he unwrapped his gift, he turned to your mum and said, “You remembered!”

“Of course I did,” she said, smirking.

“And you went back for it!”

“Evidentially.”

He clasped the traveling cloak around his neck, feeling the water-resistant enchantment. “I have the best wife in the world.”

“You do,” your mum confirmed, and grinned when he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Open yours, Y/N!”

All told, you walked away with: a new jumper; two books, one fiction, one on the migration habits of lesser dragons; an enchanted bird toy for Wilbur; and something Donna had called a walking man.

A round of cauldron cakes later, you were all outside building snowmen, when an owl swooped down, dropping a brown package into Draco’s hands.

“What is it?” you asked, carrot in hand.

He opened it, and his gaze went stony. It was a wizard’s cap, ornately embroidered, with a white feather stuck pinned on the side. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said stiffly, then retreated into the house.

“What’s up with him?” Donna asked.

You shook your head. “I’m not sure. I’ll be back.”

You followed him in through the door. “Draco?” He stood by the fireplace with his back to you, rubbing his forearms. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be back out in a moment.”

“Look, it’s perfectly natural to be homesick-“

“Y/N,” he snapped, “I’m fine.”

You felt your cheeks heat and took a step backwards. “Okay. Sorry,” you squeaked, and turned to go back out the door.

He turned towards you. “Hang on, wait, I’m sorry.”

You gave him a quick, searching look. “No, it’s okay. You need a moment, I shouldn’t have intruded.”

“Don’t be silly.” His tone softened. “You don’t have to go.”

“Okay,” you said, and moved towards him to stand by the fire. “Then I won’t.”

[itsabouttimex2]

Plot Idea: Azure Lion unknowingly had a child with his lover before his defeat and death at the hands of Sun Wukong. Subsequently leaving his lover (and future Cub) to live on without him. Maybe their mother passes away during their birth? The kid long out lives their human family and their friends and their village.

Alone, sad and bored they go off on their own to explore the city that they’ve heard traveler’s passing through their village speak off. Megapolis is a bit overwhelming for them at first but they come across Pigsy’s Noodles. Pigsy seeing this borderline feral kid looking in his shop hesitated on shooing them away and offers them some food, a few years later MK arrives and the rest is history…

They finally meet Azure with MK and Mei trying to get the scroll. The kid has no idea that he’s their dad and Azure is just shocked to see them. He sees both himself and his old lover in their features.

His kid feels extra betrayed and he can see it in their eyes when the group confronts the now reunited brotherhood. They are 100% on MK’s side and don’t hesitate to fight with the group.

Maybe they land some heavy enough hits the Azure has to leave them behind or maybe he’s able to capture them and force them to come along with him and his brothers. Though with their rather vicious stubbornness they might be more of a hinderance to his quest than he’d like. Maybe he traps them in the scroll and keeps them on his waist like he does with Wukong?

I’d love to hear your thoughts about this idea 💖

Leonine Love

This is a really fun (and kinda sad) idea! I’m a big fan, actually! I loved this so much that I wrote a little (admittedly, non-yandere) intro because this is such a creative and interesting story idea.

Just… Lion!Y/N being pried from the arms of their dead mother, taken in by humans who recall Azure not as a delusional tyrant but a hero, recalling his mighty blade and fondness for mortals. How he knelt to level with children, how he stopped to help with the harvest. Feeling as though they owe him, the village takes you in and raises your as their own, watching in awe as your leonine ears and tail come in, marveling at the cyan growths.

Through a few generations you grow from infant to child, just in time for the legends of your father’s exploits to be consigned from legend to rumor, and now all the love you were lavished with has turned to dust.

To these new folk you are more fixture than family, an ever-present individual that they merely accustom to.

No more praise or warm embraces, no further tales of your ‘heroic papa’. All that you know about him is written on an old scroll that none are allowed to touch. Each story has been carefully penned, allowing you to preserve the legacy of a father you’ve never met.

With that scroll, a notable stash of pilfered money, and the clothes on your back… you bid farewell to a village that is no longer home, trudging out to find somewhere new.

And what name do you hear again and again?

Megapolis.

A few kind strangers help you along the way, hikers and hermits pointing you to the illustrious city and sharing supplies with what they take as a hapless child.

It feels too much like how you were treated by the original villagers, a communal child to be cherished and loved. Still, you thank them and leave, still intent on seeing this city with your own two eyes.

Of course, you’ve spent all your life in a slow and quiet village, so nothing has prepared you for even a single neon billboard, much less an entire futuristic city of light and noise, electric sugar for the eyes and ears.

The photonic onslaught of blinding light sears your eyes, leaving you disoriented and dizzy. Your stomach turns in circles, empty and begging for food. A strange black post that reaches to the sky blares with sound, causing you to scatter into the back alleys.

Any note of wonder at the electric rainbows and thrumming music is dashed by now, leaving you to curl up and sob, paws clamped tightly over your ears. There’s no one to wipe your tears or ask you not to cry, no one to tell you to be strong and brave. All you can do is crawl into the nearest discarded cardboard box, feeling like a coward and an outcast as you weep yourself to sleep.

And you wake up in a cozy little store, wrapped up tight in a two-tone changpao. A scholar argues at the front counter, the porcine demon behind it looking at you cautiously.

“They’re starving, Pigsy! You can see their ribs poking out, can’t you?!”

“I can see that! I’m just not sure about feeding a demon, Tang…”

“You’re a demon! A pig demon!”

“No, that’s different! I am a perfectly respectable noodle-chef! Not some damn ‘pig demon’!”

Hic. Sniff.

The little pitiful noises draw their attention, looking upon your quivering form with split reactions.

The scholar is worried, clearly. There’s a kindness in his eyes that looks almost ancient, like it’s been passed from generation to generation. He nudges his… friend? Rival?

You can’t tell what their relationship is, really.

The pig isn’t unkind with his gaze or words- cautious, maybe a little nervous. But he grumbles to himself at the sight of tears, stomping off to his kitchen and turning on the stove.

“You better be right about this kid, Tang…”

The scholar- Tang, then, comes to you and ushers your shivering and scrawny form onto a chair, pulling the changpao tighter around you.

“It’s alright, dear,” his soft voice promises. “Just sit down and try to relax. We’ll get a nice bowl of noodles ready for you-“

“There’s no ‘we’ about this, Tang!” Calls Pigsy, his voice booming above the clatter of metal and the sizzle of oil.

Actually, they do remind you of something- the old couples in your village who had been together a little too long and thus grown sick of one another.

But those were always men and women, weren’t they?

Tentatively, you wipe your eyes and ask:

“Are you two married?”

———————————————————————-

“That’s how we met Y/N,” Tang cheerfully explains, patting your head as you fixate your eyes on the ground.

The child (or is he a toddler?) -MK, as your fathers are calling him, looks up at you, stumbling over to your slowly swishing tail. “Kitty,” he says, a new animal he’s learned from the children’s books that you gave him. Tang had gifted them to you not long after he had convinced Pigsy to take you in, and now you had given them to the new kid.

New. Younger. Cuter. No demonic features. No fangs or sharp pupils or sheathed claws.

Are you being replaced?

“Kitty,” the little one repeats, tugging on the cyan fur of your tail. “Meow.” The babbling of a toddler or at least a very young child, stilted and happy. “Kitty.”

“Very good,” Tang praises, clapping his hands to provide encouragement. “What other animals do you like, MK?”

You step out of the room just as the adorable little thing starts to make loud oinking noises.

The storage room is tiny, just big enough to fit a few people and a cleaning cart. It’s fortified in case of emergencies, serving as a tornado shelter. You’ve spent a few prospective storms in here, clinging to Pigsy and sniffling at the sound of blaring sirens. Thankfully, nothing bad had ever even come close to happening, and eventually you shifted to viewing it as almost a break from the world. Just you and your…

Guardian. Boss. Caretaker.

You want to add father to that list. But taking that first step is a terrifying ordeal, and would involve putting yourself through a potential rejection.

You don’t think you could recover from that.

Another person enters the storage room, one hand on your shoulder. It’s not rough or big enough to be Pigsy. Not warm enough, either.

“Y/N? Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Mister Tang.” Too fast. The words slur together, a falsity even by the first second you speak.

The freeloader sighs, lightly moving to tilt your chin up, meeting you eye-to-eye.

“You don’t come to hide in here when things are ‘fine’, dear. And you don’t slur your words like that, either. Why not tell me what’s wrong?”

“…do you think Pigsy likes MK better than me?”

“Wh-what? Y/N, why would you- dear, what’s going on?”

“…MK is a normal kid, isn’t he? He’s not some half-breed freak like me, and-“

“Y/N. I know you’ve been through a lot, but I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

A scholarly man with the build to match, Tang is far from strong. But he’s got just enough strength to pull you into his arms, letting you bury your head into the cloth covering his shoulder.

“Please, Y/N. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m scared that he doesn’t see me as his child,” you gasp out, clinging to Tang. “I’m not just his sous chef, tell me I’m not just his sous chef! Dad, please-“

“Dad?”

You break down a little further, legs giving out as your body struggles with the fearful anticipation of potential disappointment. You wait there against his chest, weeping.

“I don’t mind if you see me as a father figure, dear. If anything, I’m actually flattered. You don’t need to be worried about that.”

“Not mad?” You manage to spit out, face thoroughly drenched in your own tears.

“Not mad,” he confirms, patting your head. “Now, let’s dry those tears and get you something to eat. I talked Pigsy into making grilled cheese dumplings with canned tomato soup.”

A moment to compose yourself is taken, wiping your puffy eyes.

“Pigsy hates using canned food, though. He always says: “It’s a disgrace to my profession, using canned ingredients! There’s no alternative to fresh!” and then he’ll throw a spoon at whoever asked.”

“Well, MK loves them. And you know that Pigsy can’t say no to kids.”

And Tang was the only one who got spoons thrown at him, but he left that little bit out.

“Now, come on. Let’s get you to the bathroom to clean your face up. If Pigsy asks you can just say you got peppercorn dust in your eyes and needed a moment.”

The door opens, and you see the other half of this family, Pigsy and MK.

Family.

A real one, this time. Flaws and cons and stumbles thorned all along interwoven vines of love and adoration.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

[supercalifragipopculturevomit]

THE BEST OF DANIEL BRÜHL

It’s dumb, honestly.

You get this seemingly brilliant idea of turning to foreign films so you’re forced to read subtitles and focus—a problem you’ve been noticing of late—but in doing so, you end up with a more destructive distraction.

“Who’s that guy, again? The one in all those international productions?” That’s how I found myself on my Daniel Brühl marathon-turned-obsession.

It was his role as the cute Nazi in Inglorious Basterds that first put him on my radar. Over the years, I would see him in The Fifth Estate, Burnt, Woman in Gold, The Zookeeper’s Wife, and The King’s Man. Midway through All Quiet on the Western Front, I was like, “All this needs is that German actor…” and I had to chuckle when he later appeared on screen. I also checked out the first season of The Alienist because I was intrigued by what he and Dakota Fanning as leads would do with such a spooky-looking show.

Adorable as he was in his breakout role in Good Bye, Lenin!, it was his performance in the critically-acclaimed Rush that caused me to spiral. Similar to when Benedict Cumberbatch took on the modern version of Sherlock, it was like seeing Brühl with new eyes. His playful take on Helmut Zemo in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier was the final nail in the coffin. I don’t imagine it’s all too different from what Tom Hiddleston did to fans of Marvel as Loki.

I’m actually at the tail-end of this obsession now that I’ve seen everything I can get a hold of—around 39 films, two TV shows, a documentary, a music video, countless interviews, a bunch of ads, and a handful of fan cuts—but he has a lot of works worth recommending so I thought I would share them on here. This will mostly be a subjective list with priority on projects I found most interesting which showcase his range best. Like, I enjoyed The Bourne Ultimatum but he was on screen for a total of 2 minutes so I wouldn’t include that here.

RUSH (2013) This biographical sports film written by Peter Morgan—the man behind The Crown—centers on the rivalry between Formula One drivers James Hunt and Niki Lauda in the 70s. Not a fan of F1 or sports in general. I have nothing against either, just zero interest. But this character-driven film, much like Ford vs Ferrari, had me at the edge of my seat the entire ride. And it surprisingly has one of the best meet-cutes—and accidental wingmen—I’ve seen yet.

Brühl delivers an Oscar-worthy performance in this role. For someone who needed a lot of convincing he could do the character justice, he truly went above and beyond. For one, he befriended and studied Lauda, the iconic F1 figure he was portraying. No easy feat considering Lauda being, well… Lauda. In interviews, Brühl recounts the story of the memorable invite he got from Lauda to meet in Vienna. This would be their first meeting and Lauda told Brühl outright that he should only bring hand luggage so he can piss off if they don’t like each other.

He would end up staying a few days and buying additional clothes.

He also spent a month in Vienna to nail the accent, making sure to capture the arrogance and irony innate to it. And although he got driver training for the role, he also considered the tiniest details like which went on first: helmet or gloves? There was also the tricky business of looking graceful entering a tiny F1 car—a bigger challenge for Chris Hemsworth who plays Hunt—but an obstacle all the same.

All the hard work paid off. It was well-received by audiences, critics, and the F1 world. The first time Lauda saw the film he went, “Holy shit, that’s really me”. Lauda’s friends thought he did voiceover work for it. Director Ron Howard was so pleased with Brühl’s performance that he went out of his way to show an unfinished cut of the movie to the producers of The Fifth Estate (2013). This gracious act would land Brühl the co-lead role opposite Benedict Cumberbatch.

GOOD BYE, LENIN! (2003) Can't tell if it's just because the two films have the same composer and were created around the same time, but this tragicomedy set in East Germany reminded me so much of my beloved Amélie. This is definitely more dramatic and political but it has that same mix of whimsy, heart, and charm. With its budget, it was meant to be an indie film, but the story of a son who would recreate a faux-socialist world to keep his mother alive captured the heartstrings of audiences, not just in Germany but also worldwide. Brühl plays the son and his success with this film was a double-edged sword: although it would open doors for him internationally, he would also be typecast as the “nice guy” in his home country.

INGLORIOUS BASTERDS (2009) This has one of the best, most intense opening sequences in all of cinema… and one of the greatest villains. In this wild alternate universe from Quentin Tarantino, he rewrites the ending of World War II. It’s the right balance of dark, hilarious, and entertaining—my favorite from the auteur’s works. Here Brühl plays a cute and charming Nazi, which is very confusing to the senses.

Aside from Brühl, it was also my first introduction to Christoph Waltz, Michael Fassbender, and Melanie Laurent—all fantastic European actors who’ve crossed over to Hollywood after the success of this movie. “Crossing over” seems ubiquitous now but, at that time, giving most of the lead roles to then relatively unknown actors must have been a risk. But for this, it was necessary. Language plays a huge part in this trilingual film and casting native speakers grounded it in authenticity. Tarantino originally had Leonardo di Caprio in mind to play Hans Landa. Whether he meant for him to learn German or to speak English with a German accent, who knows. Either way, it’s safe to say that would have been a different film.

THE EDUKATORS / DIE FETTEN JAHRE SIND VORBEI (2004) This anti-capitalist film, which has become a cult classic, captures the spirit, idealism, recklessness, and angst of young revolutionaries who just want a better world. Where one stands on the measures taken, or even their sentiment, can be considered a litmus test. With or without reference to this quote from the movie—“Under 30 and not liberal, no heart. Over 30 and still liberal, no brain.”—is up to the viewer.

There needs to be a suspension of disbelief for the series of events that takes place but the setting is necessary for the clash of worlds to happen. It’s not a perfect movie but the issues they debate about in length… they’re still discussions we’re having nearly 20 years later.

p.s. this has my favorite behind-the-scenes of all of Brühl’s projects. Though he hasn’t lost his sense of humor, he seems to have become more reserved as he got older. HERE, at this period in his life, he’s a total goofball bordering on loose cannon.

THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER (2021) Though I’ve enjoyed quite a few MCU movies, I’m not invested in the universe at all, so watching this wasn’t a priority. In fact, I was ready to settle on YouTube compilations made by devoted fans of all the scenes Brühl was in. Upon seeing clips, however, I got intrigued by his character so I still ended up watching the miniseries and also Captain America: Civil War (2016).

Both were better than I expected. Civil War is more serious, while TFATWS is more playful, but both face relevant issues along with formidable foes. Brühl’s villain in Helmut Zemo is fascinating because he tears the mighty Avengers apart with mere patience, fury, and intelligence… and his motivations are understandable. He lets his character loose in TFATWS—at one point, on the dance floor—and it’s magnificent. His mission is still the same, but this time he does it with a lot of charm, humor, and fabulous Sokovian style. A Turkish delight, personified.

ME AND KAMINSKI / ICH UND KAMINSKI (2015) Brühl’s Sebastian Zöllner is a repulsive and sleazy journalist who has greasy hair and wears too much cologne but I can’t get enough of his chaotic energy. His magnum opus is hitched on a legendary artist dying and his fantasy is to turn the orphaned daughter into a sugar mommy. It’s all kinds of messed up but he plays the hell out of the smarmy dirtbag so it’s a lot of fun. This is Brühl’s second collaboration with Wolfgang Becker, who directed Good Bye, Lenin! Daniel Kehlmann, the writer whose eponymous book this film was based on, would later write Brühl’s directorial debut, Nebenan.

NO REGRETS / NICHTS BEUREUEN (2001) This is reminiscent of the slightly problematic but highly enjoyable teen comedies and coming-of-age films of the 90s. It’s like an edgier Can’t Hardly Wait: boy goes through cringe-worthy measures to get the girl he’s long been pining for, his two closest pals have nothing but dumb advice to offer, yet he still ends up on the path to self-discovery. It’s awkward, chaotic, frustrating, and beautiful—but such is adolescence.

Brühl and his co-star Jessica Schwarz fall in love on the set of this film. And although they would break up years later, the tenderness between their scenes together is palpable and there’s something rather bittersweet about seeing that captured in perpetuity.

For a more straightforward rom-com, he has Lila, Lila (2009). It’s about a guy who passes off a manuscript as his own to impress a girl and the hilarity that follows. It’s on YouTube for those who need a fun and light watch.

THE ALIENIST (2018 – 2020) Based on the novel of the same name, this moody psychological thriller set in late 19th century New York follows a psychiatrist—then called an Alienist—who investigates a series of grisly murders with methods still considered new and controversial at that time, such as psychology and fingerprinting. He gets by with a little help from his friends, John Moore, an illustrator for the New York Times, and Sara Howard, a society woman who works in the NYPD.

In the lead role of Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, Brühl plays the dark, complex, and mysterious Alienist whose study of mental pathologies and deviant behaviors reveals much of himself and his past.

LESSONS OF A DREAM / DER GANZ GROßE TRAUM (2011) This film is loosely based on Konrad Koch, an educator and pioneer who brought football to Germany in the late 19th century. In the movie, the sport is used as a means to pique students’ interest in the English language and culture—both considered barbaric by the Germans at that time. A heartwarming tale of a teacher who overcomes insurmountable odds and inspires students along the way, it’s the German equivalent of Dead Poet’s Society.

ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT (2022) This story, the third adaptation of the 1929 novel, “Im Westen nichts Neues”, conveys the futility of war like no other. There aren't as many films on World War I as there are on World War II, fewer ones that tell it from a German perspective, so this is doubly unique in that regard. Powerful watch but 10/10 not like to relive it again. Apart from producing it with his company, Amusement Park, Brühl plays Matthias Erzberger, the German State Secretary who pushes for armistice talks with the Allied forces.

An ideal companion watch to this would be Joyeux Noël / Merry Christmas (2005), another WWI movie Brühl stars in, which depicts the unbelievable Christmas truce between French, German, and Scottish soldiers in 1914. His linguistic ability shines here as he shifts between German, French, and English effortlessly. (Half German, half Spanish, Brühl speaks a total of five languages: those three plus Spanish and Catalan.)

The Zookeeper’s Wife (2017) and Alone in Berlin (2016) also recognize the bravery of defiance at the height of tyrannical regimes. Although between the two, I would skip the latter.

JOHN RABE (2009) This biographical film set in China tells the incredible true story of a German businessman who uses his Nazi Party membership to create an International Safety Zone in Nanking. This was in the late 1930s, during the Rape of Nanjing. In this six-week carnage by the Imperial Japanese Army—which includes sexual assault, mutilations, and killing contests—upwards of 200,000 Chinese are brutally murdered. The protective zone manages to save around the same number of civilians.

Brühl doesn’t play the titular Rabe, but his character, Dr. Georg Rosen, is one of few Westerners who decides to remain and protect Nanking even as conflict escalates. Dr. Rosen was a German Diplomat instrumental in the creation of the safety zone.

p.s. with all these heroic roles in his catalog, I’m convinced Brühl would be a frontrunner to play President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, should a movie be made about him and Ukraine’s conflict with Russia. You heard it here first.

NEXT DOOR / NEBENAN (2021) This is Brühl’s directorial debut. Here he plays a darker, fictionalized version of himself. Definitely not for everyone but quite enjoyable if you’re familiar with his major works and public persona, appreciate the ingenuity of one-location movies, and delight in British-style meta humor.

Pre-requisite viewing for maximum enjoyment: Good Bye, Lenin!, Captain America: Civil War, and The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.

[magicaldogtoto]

Genuinely confused over people insisting that Ultraman Rising is not a good entry point to Ultraman because it "doesn't explain Ultraman's origins enough."

Back when I was thirteen, Disney released Sky High and Pixar also had just released The Incredibles (both are classics, imo). Those films introduce a new world of superheroes, with little to no explanation of where or how they got their powers. You see the Commander in Sky High, and your mind just immediately fills in the blanks that he's meant to be a Superman expy with his cape and super strength, along with his colors being red, white and blue. (The Commander's wife Jetstream also works as a Superman expy, having the ability to fly.) Similarly in The Incredibles, Mr. Incredible and Elasti-Girl have power sets that are easy to get around to, without having to go into detail as to where they got it. Both works do allude to superheroes being born with their powers, but it isn't given a lot of focus. You just kind of learn to role with it and enjoy the film. The point is, both films start in media res, with a fully formed world and heroes who are already on active duty. But they don't suffer for it.

And remember, Rising was originally going to be an original film that featured an Ultraman expy named Gamma Man. I just feel like people are overestimating how hard it would be for newer fans (especially children, who tend to accept fantasy ideas faster than adults) to watch the film and get behind the idea of a man who turns into a giant from space to fight kaiju.

I'm just wondering how this discourse came about--is it because of how the Marvel Cinematic Universe ingrained the origin story formula quite a bit over the years? Is it because Ultraman isn't a super mainstream hero in the US, so people think newcomers won't have the dialogue necessary to engage with his kind of powers? (The two films I mentioned above are heavily inspired by American superheroes, which mainstream American audiences would understand better.) Is it some other third thing?

I generally want to understand, because from where I'm standing, there's nothing too complicated about Rising.

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Beast Wars - Second Chances - Page 4

Originally posted on February 2nd, 2011

Story - Mike Priest Art - Jeffrey Witty Colours - Jenny Son Letters - HdE

deviantART

wada sez: This was originally meant to be Page 5, with some of the later Waspinator stuff moved earlier. As envisioned by Mike Priest, all of the pages for the comic would have individual titles, but only he seemed to like this idea and none of them made it into the final product. He gave this page the title “Eternal Too”, a reference to the fact that this entire story is an expansion of his previous Mosaic one-shot, “Eternal”. See below for the original script and an early sketch by Witty, along with Mike’s “Writer Spotlight”.

Beast Wars: Second Chances- Page 5

“Eternal Too”

By Mike Priest

-

(FIRST PANEL- Depthcharge’s hand slaps down on wet sand; he’s just pulled himself from the ocean.)

(SECOND PANEL- A full side-view of Depthcharge, on his hands and knees crawling from the surf- wet, caked with dirt, seaweed hanging from parts of his body…we cannot see his chest.)

DEPTHCHARGE: G-geh…

(THIRD PANEL- Close-up of Depthcharge’s head, looking down at the sand, in confusion.)

DEPTHCHARGE: Huh…how?  I-I…thought…

(FOURTH PANEL- Depthcharge whirls and looks behind him in a panic, having heard a voice.  We still can’t see the front of his chest.)

RAMPAGE: (Dialogue bubble unlinked, border color differs) Well…THIS is certainly interesting.

DEPTHCHARGE: (Enraged) X!  WHERE ARE YOU??

(FIFTH PANEL- Depthcharge, horrified expression as he looks down at himself.  We see the pulsing glow of a spark from below off-panel.)

RAMPAGE: Where I’ve always been…

DEPTHCHARGE: (Small text) no…

(FINAL PANEL- Unveiling of Depthcharge’s chest- it is torn open enough for us to see a SECOND spark (smaller; it’s only a half) somehow messily “fused” onto Depthcharge’s larger spark, like some cancerous lump.)

RAMPAGE: …a touch more literally now, it would seem.  AHAHAHAH!

Ah, Beast Wars.  For me, it's a case of "third time's the charm!" Y'see, Beast Wars was Transformers' third coming for me.  And once it hit, I was snared for life.  As a wee lad, I was a fan of G1, from about the age of three 'til the age of seven or eight.  Oh, there was the Real Ghostbusters and Spidey and His Amazing Friends and whatnot here and there.  But Transformers was always the fallback, always something I could go back to when I lost interest with whatever the new fad was on the playground. Around 1991 or 1992, while there were still some Transformers toys on the shelves, I was growing more enamored with Ninja Turtles and Marvel Superheroes, and Transformers was largely on the backburner, possibly for good this time. But my growing love of comic books would bring me to Transformers yet again.  One fateful day in 1993, on a routine trip to the comic store with my older cousin, I saw it on the shelf. Transformers Generation 2 # 1.  Everyone can remember that cover -- Optimus Prime with bullets jutting out of his skull and faceplate and the tag "This is NOT your father's Autobot." I eagerly snatched it up and for the next twelve months, going to the comic store became a regular occurrence.  I loved Spider-Man and X-Men and Iron Man, but Transformers Generation 2 was the comic I HAD to have every month. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered the book had been canceled after only twelve issues.  Without supporting fiction to give my toy "adventures" some measure of credibility, my interest waned as it had before, and Transformers once again only became a fond memory. Fast-forward to 1996.  My younger cousins tell me of an awesome "computer-graphics" show airing in the morning called Beast Wars.  "It's animals that transform into robots!", they tell me.  I chuckle, inwardly wondering if it is some rip-off of Transformers.  A few weeks pass and I catch an episode.  "The Web", it is titled, but what shocks me most is the "Transformers" subtitle underneath the prominent Beast Wars logo.  It isn't a rip-off, it IS Transformers! Of course, as a bitter, world-weary twelve-year old at this point, my initial reaction is "Turning into organic-looking animals?  Huh, dumb".  This doesn't stop me from watching the show on weekday mornings before going to school, rationalizing that "nothing else is on". Then suddenly, about midway through the first season of Beast Wars, I realize I'm not watching it because "nothing else is on" anymore, I'm watching it because it IS Transformers and it is AWESOME!  Before I knew it, I was hooked again!  And this time would be for good.  Never again would something push Transformers to second or even third-banana status with me.  I was a Transfan through and through and I owed it to Beast Wars for reminding me. To me, Beast Wars represents some of the very best Transformers storytelling has to offer and is unequivocally the best Transformers animated series of all time (so far).  I jumped at any chances to contribute to the Beast Wars universe in anyway, through fanfiction, through Transformers Mosaic, and now, through BEAST WARS: Second Chances. It's funny.  We're calling it "Second Chances".  But for me, Beast Wars was a THIRD chance.  And like I said before, third time's the charm! -- Mike Priest

[littlereyofsunlight]

I'm late!

Sorry, @doctorhelena for the belated Steggy Secret Santa gift! I'm still working on the rest, but I've got the beginning polished up and ready to share ...

I loved receiving your letter to @steggyfanevents/Santa: "here are some general ideas of things I particularly like (applicable to either fanfic or fanart!): - stories (or fanart) set during the war - AUs with Steve present during the Agent Carter timeframe - AUs in general - friendship and found family - secret relationships, but also Peggy and Steve getting teased about each other - shared adventure, working together to achieve a goal - banter - Peggy being badass and Steve loving it - hijinks and terrible ideas - the Howling Commandos, Howard, Phillips, the Jarvises, Angie, Rose, Natasha, Bucky, Sam, Tony, Pepper, Thor - Bernard Stark, Howard's flamingo"

I had a lot of fun pulling a few of these elements together to come up with this story. Hope you enjoy!

Peggy bit the inside of her cheek as they arrived at Howard’s Beverly Hills home. He'd assured them of their privacy when he’d offered this house as a place to lay low while the news of Steve’s return blew over. It was their best option—she just hoped this really was the place to wait it out.

The driver handed over their bags to Steve, who took them with a warm smile, despite his obvious exhaustion. Peggy noted the way weariness seemed to have settled into the laugh lines at his eyes, the crease on his forehead that never quite went away now, the perpetual, if slight, downturn his mouth had. She shook herself from her reverie, reminding her wandering, maudlin thoughts that she’d never thought she’d get to see his face again, let alone watch him age. 

She rubbed at the simple band on her left ring finger. While Steve’s miraculous return had certainly caused a stir, it was the news of the wedding that had turned the press rabid.

Peggy looked at Steve. Steve looked at Peggy. There was, not for the first time since he’d returned, the feeling of uncomfortable tension between them. “Well,” Steve said, his voice congenial, “I’m fifty-percent convinced he’s not going to out us.”

Peggy nodded. “I might go as high as seventy-five percent, just knowing how well Howard pays.” 

“He sure is doing us some favor.” Peggy found his tone inscrutable. This was a new development, since his return. The small lines on his face and, sometimes, the wrong-footed feeling that Steve was referencing something from where—when—he came from.

She shifted her purse strap higher on her shoulder. The California sun was hot, and Steve’s suit hadn't fared well on the transcontinental flight. She didn’t feel particularly fresh, herself. “Shall we go in?”

He inclined his head. “I take it you know the way.”

Biting back the sharp retort that flew into her head—this wasn’t the same callow Steve who’d suggested fondue was some kind of lewd act, after all—Peggy was acutely aware of Steve behind her as she strode up the front walk to Howard’s ridiculous mansion. The lawn was just as green and well-manicured as when she’d last been, two years ago. Peggy supposed Howard thought stuccoed walls and wrought iron details made the place stately, but she’d always found it cozy, despite its size. And of course, the pool made it especially appealing. She looked back at Steve—at her new husband—and thought idly of just how secluded the pool really was. She felt a flush come over her that she couldn’t blame entirely on the heat.

“Howard played host when I was here working a case with …” She fumbled for words as she reached the front door and dug into her purse for the key Jarvis had arranged to have messengered to her back in D.C. “Ahem, well … there was a scientist, I’m not sure I’ve had the chance to tell you about this one.” 

Peggy’s mind raced. What exactly was she going to tell him in this moment about the escapade with Whitney Frost? Her flirtation with Jason Wilkes? Her dalliance with Daniel? Not exactly honeymoon talk. “Well, another time,” she finished inadequately, feeling suddenly quite tired. Opening the door, she stepped inside. The heat of the day hadn’t touched the cool tile entryway, and she sighed in relief. Peggy ushered Steve in after her and, with a final look back at the expanse of lawn and the eight-foot wall beyond it that encircled the property, she firmly shut the door and locked it.

“Alone at last,” she said, with a genuine smile for her new husband.

***

Steve took in the immaculate Spanish Colonial Revival details of Howard’s house. He’d visited Tony’s home in Malibu, once, before he rebuilt it. The setting had been spectacular, and the house had certainly gone out of its way to provide unobstructed views of the ocean, but all that glass and space had left it feeling empty. 

Now, Steve wondered if it had been a reaction to this place and to Howard’s preferred style. There was dark, ornate woodwork, plush, heavy furniture and warm colors everywhere Steve’s eye landed. Light spilled into the vestibule from arched windows stretching above the front door. The tiles were an inviting orange, with a Moroccan motif bordering the floor. A staircase of dark risers and wrought iron lead, Steve presumed, to the bedrooms on the second floor. Beyond the stairs was a hallway into the back of the house, and to the left of the foyer Steve saw a study filled with bookcases and leather club chairs. 

He suddenly became aware of Peggy’s eyes on him, her expression expectant. “Nice place,” he observed blandly. She raised an eyebrow, and he noticed, not for the first time today, how impeccably turned out she was. Her honeymoon suit crisply pressed, hat set just so, red, red lipstick looking freshly applied even with the transcontinental flight they’d boarded that morning. Steve knew his jacket was creased to hell and his collar had lost its starch—he was out of practice keeping his clothes up to this time’s standards, that was very clear. 

And, he realized through his musings, there was a frown beginning on his wife’s incredibly beautiful face.

Steve reached out a hand, pulled her in close. “Did you say something about being alone?”

He was relieved when she melted against him immediately, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “One hears that’s how newlyweds are supposed to spend their time, alone together,” she teased, her eyes soft as she looked at him. He’d been flagging on the drive from the airport, looking forward to a nap when they arrived. But now he couldn’t resist kissing her, pressing her fully against him, reveling in how her lush curves fit against his body. 

“Good thing I cleared my schedule,” he murmured as they broke apart. She removed her hat and set it down on a table just to the side of the door. He let his hand roam down her shapely backside, knowing there were layers of nylon slip and girdle beneath the lightweight wool of her skirt. Maybe a nap could wait. Would she let him peel her out of each layer slowly this time? 

Peggy rewarded him with a laugh before she leaned up to kiss him again. “I have a few items to add to your itinerary, darling.”  

He wasn’t sure how long they spent, pressed against the door. Long enough for the shadows to change, lengthening over the stairs. Peggy’s stomach rumbled and Steve laughed. “Some things never change,” he said, a smirk on his face. 

“Do people in the future not require nourishment at regular intervals?” Peggy quipped, smoothing her skirt back down. “If I’m hungry, I know you’re famished,” she said.

Steve dragged her hem back up a few inches. “I could eat.”

Peggy arched an eyebrow at him, her hand around his wrist. “Focus, darling.”

“I would be very focused.” He saw how her eyes darkened and her breath came just a bit quicker. He brushed the tips of his fingers against her thigh, keeping his touch light. 

Her grip tightened and she exhaled. “Steve.”

He angled his head and let his lips graze the shell of her ear. “Peg.”

She sighed again, turning her head to kiss him firmly. “Lunch first.” She punctuated the imperative with a quick nip at his bottom lip. 

“Is that an order?” he teased, chasing her lips as she pulled away.

Her eyes sparked at him as she put both hands on his chest. “It is indeed, Captain.” She stepped back out of his arms. “But if you find us provisions, you have leave to resume your mission after your wife’s been satisfied.”

Heat spread through his chest at that word. His wife. He couldn’t keep the goofy smile from taking over his face, even as he sassed back at her, “I’ve been trying to satisfy my wife this whole time, Mrs. Rogers.”

Peggy laughed as she took up her small suitcase, shaking her head with a smile that echoed his. “I’ll go freshen up. The kitchen’s back through there, and I expect Ana Jarvis will have left plenty in the larder.” 

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.” He resisted the urge to pinch himself as he watched her walk up the stairs. All the ways he’d struggled with the decision to find her, after everything that had happened to him—he’d nearly talked himself out of even trying to have this a dozen times. But somehow, Steve was here, with Peggy, and everything felt so right. 

Even if they were technically on the run from the press.

Steve ventured to the back of the house, where the well-appointed kitchen was indeed stocked with food. Steve couldn’t remember if he’d ever learned when frozen french fries had been invented, but apparently it was before 1949. There was a box of those plus a few cans of Minute Maid concentrate in the freezer, along with a wealth of tupperware, all labeled in neat Palmer script with the contents and instructions for thawing and reheating. Steve whistled at the display and selected a stew to thaw for dinner later that evening. 

There was a note taped to the fridge, and Steve scanned it quickly.

Peggy, my dear—

I’m desolate that I cannot offer you my heartfelt congratulations in person, and that my inspection of your illustrious gentleman will have to wait until Edwin and I return from our visit. Please help yourself to anything; I have arranged for more groceries to be delivered on Tuesday. 

E says I must warn you that Bernard is suffering from some tropical malaise. But as sardines seem to cheer him up, I admit to being skeptical of my husband’s theory.

Affectionately yours,

Ana

Steve couldn’t remember who Bernard was supposed to be. But Howard had assured them both that his staff would give them their privacy while they stayed at his home, so Steve assumed the fellow would have to get his sardines elsewhere. 

In the fridge, Steve found basic sandwich supplies. For his part, he was still a tiny bit sad that sriracha wasn’t yet a staple in American cupboards. Thinking of sriracha made him think of being on the run with Sam and Nat. Instead of shoving the memory aside, he let it wash over him. Two years of running that grief group had been good for many things, of course. But certainly, an unintended benefit was how it had prepared him to leave it all behind and return to Peggy. 

Steve took the stairs two at a time, balancing the sandwiches, two glasses of water and a package of Oreos in his hands. He found Peggy down the wide hall, in a spacious bedroom with a private attached bathroom and a Juliet balcony overlooking Howard’s tree-filled side yard. She was still occupied in the bathroom, so Steve set down the food on one of the nightstands and pulled the inner lace curtains closed over the inset windows in the balcony doors, leaving the heavy velvet drapes open. The diffuse afternoon light that filtered through turned the room a cozy orange. By the time Peggy was done, he’d unpacked their suitcases into the closet and dresser provided, and stowed the bags underneath the giant four-poster bed. 

She’d changed out of her suit entirely and had on her robe, her hair unpinned and falling softly to her shoulders in mahogany waves. “Sandwiches!” she said, and clambered up onto the bed beside him. 

“Oreos, too,” he pointed out, delighted at her excitement over his extremely basic offering. “You were right about Mrs. Jarvis keeping the kitchen stocked. Which reminds me,” he fished the note out of his trousers pocket, “she left this for you.”

***

Peggy read the note quickly, mouth full of roast beef, and then tucked it under the water on the nightstand. Ana must have dictated it, as it wasn’t in her handwriting and she and Jarvis were on a trip to Europe, visiting cousins of Ana’s who had settled in the Netherlands after the war. 

Steve had eaten a sandwich of his own, as well as several chocolate biscuits, and then he’d gotten up to hang his own suit and change into pajama pants as Peggy finished her own meal. Though it was three hours later by her internal clock, Peggy felt a bit of a thrill to be in her nightclothes in the daylight. She watched as the muscles beneath his white undershirt flexed with his movements, his physique somehow even more impressive now than when he’d first gone through the transformation of Project Rebirth. Peggy was grateful for all that had transpired to bring Steve back to her. She was grateful that the man he was now was with her in this time. She felt suddenly such a swell of overpowering love for him, she was happy to be sitting down as it hit. “Steve,” she managed, hearing the emotion thick in her voice.

He turned back to her, concern clear on his face. “Peg?”

She shook her head, smiling through the rush of feeling. She aimed for sultry when she spoke and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “You have leave to resume your mission at your leisure.” She toyed with the tie on her robe. 

Immediately, his eyes darkened and the concerned dip of his brows smoothed over. A hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Is that so?” Peggy nodded, unknotting her robe so she could let the neckline fall open. As Steve realized she had nothing on underneath, she watched his breath deepen and his hands clench at the suit he still held. “Remind me where we were?” he teased.

Peggy licked her lips eagerly. “I seem to recall you promised satisfaction.”

Steve tossed the suit behind him, ensuring it would truly need a thorough pressing before he could wear it again. He prowled back towards the bed. “Did you have anything particular in mind?—”

Before Steve had even finished the question, there was a loud crash on the balcony, accompanied by a sound Peggy could only describe as a goose attacking a chalkboard. Steve immediately closed the distance between them, pulling Peggy off the bed and positioning her behind him. The sound came again, this time accompanied by some shuffling and … flapping? 

Peggy slapped a hand to her forehead. “Bernard!”

[bookoftheironfist]

Please take a moment out of your day to check out this incredible 80s-style Iron Fist fan film created by @sky-liam! Sky very generously shared with me the inspiration behind the film, as well as insight into the filming process, fight choreography, and thematic sensibilities:

"As a former martial arts champion, I wanted to show authentic Kung Fu techniques (we were lucky to get an action coordinator who's worked on Chinese martial arts movies). I have a background in Shaolin Kung Fu and competitive Wushu, training and competing for many years, and living in China for a year-and-a-half as well (majoring in Chinese language in college). Going back to some of the original issues of Iron Fist, what really grabbed me was how Danny has trained so long with one goal in mind, and then feels completely lost when he isn't able to complete his revenge on Harold Meachum. I felt like this story was something that anyone could connect to, because so many of us have had that moment where we finished school, or got a 'good' job, and then realized that attaining that single-minded goal didn't actually satisfy us, and we were still searching for something. I also connected with moments from Iron Fist: The Living Weapon when Danny was practicing Kung Fu almost like a drug to keep himself sane. And I connected it to the idea of all those things we do without even thinking because they've become a part of how we define ourselves."

(Behind-the-scenes photos, courtesy of @sky-liam)

"What was most important to me was this sense of [Danny] not being compatible to the world around him; being the Living Weapon but having no target to aim at after Meachum died. Martial arts and fighting becomes a drug to stay above water instead of a means to preserve life. I started Shaolin Kung Fu as a kid and eventually studied Mandarin in college and lived and trained in China for a year-and-a-half, competing in tournaments and working in Kung Fu films there. I wanted to make sure Danny used techniques from actual Shaolin forms (similar to the kind of stuff he'd learn from the monks in K'un-Lun) and also spoke some of the language he picked up while living there. "I knew our fight director, Alfred Hsing, from the Wushu competition scene, and he had also trained in Beijing and worked with Jet Li for several years. He used a lot of 'in-camera editing' in his choreography - that is, setting up short sequences of the fight that were designed to be shot from a specific angle, thus highlighting the best stuff while eliminating wasted camera setups. Of course he also played a version of Steel Serpent in the final fight with Colleen and Danny. "Kara Wang, who played Colleen Wing (and not long after went on to shoot 'Top Gun: Maverick') trained for about three months to complete her fight scene. Our other actors were former athletes with martial arts experience and we also rehearsed choreography for several weeks before shooting. We were able to get many locations for free (the parking garage, the apartment, and the plaza in Monterey Park that doubled for Chinatown) through business and personal connections. "The original short film was about 15 minutes long, and had a lot of voiceover that gave an insight into Danny's inner monologue. We made a few changes to the costumes and events (such as Danny wearing clothes he bought off the rack after coming back to the States, Meachum dying from a drug overdose), which was similar to what was done for the 80s and 90s Marvel adaptations where certain details would be changed for budgetary reasons. In the end, there were some issues with some of the footage in the narrative scenes of the film, so I decided to recut it like a VHS trailer from the 1980s or early 90s would be. "My goal in the end was to highlight some of the grittier story elements of Danny Rand, and to show Iron Fist doing some legit Kung Fu. I hope fans of the character can enjoy it!"

A huge thank you to Sky for sharing this amazing project!

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

Ranting about the old Netflix Marvel shows:

Looking back at the original NMCU as a whole, while I think the general consensus is that this side of the MCU fell off when “Iron Fist” premiered, I think the real issue is more complicated then that. I think that the Netflix shows started off strong, but couldn’t implement their long-term plans for their side of the universe due to mismanagement/lack of collaboration. Oddly enough, the NMCU sorta reflects the current issues with Phases 4 and 5 of the mainstream MCU.

When you look at the shows overall, it feels like a bunch of creators were given free reign with these characters, and it shows. All of them had their own distinct identity, as well as what audience they were targeting. The problems started occurring when the shows had to start connecting.

I can’t say this for sure, but it really feels like no one was put in a Kevin Feige-like position to direct the overall journey. Instead, it feels like Jeph Loeb and Marvel Television (which was its own thing before being absorbed by Marvel Studios) just sorta mandated that the shows need to have a big crossover event. It made sense, especially since the Arrowverse was pulling this off as an annual thing with their shows. While it sounds good on paper, I feel like none of the teams behind each show were in sync with each other:

1) Daredevil didn’t really find a good way to balance the needs of the show and the needs of the crossover. Rewatch season 2 and you’ll notice that while the Punisher storyline feels more thought-out, the Elektra storyline feels jumbled and incomplete. In fact, the first 4 episodes are focused on Frank, and then all of a sudden, Elektra is pushed into the story. I can’t prove this but it feels like the original idea was to focus on Frank Castle, but then Elektra had to be introduced in order to set up “The Defenders”. Which was premiering the following year.

2) Jessica Jones didn’t even bother building up into “The Defenders”.

3) Neither did “Luke Cage”.

4) Although I have a ton of separate issues with “Iron Fist”, I do feel sorry for the production team. This show had the unfortunate burden of having to introduce its hero while also doing most of the build-up for the crossover. To make matters worse, if you read up on the behind-the-scenes development, you would know that the show was rushed out. Finn Jones was literally learning the fight choreography minutes before filming.

I have this funny feeling that Marvel Television set up the schedule for each show and refused to change it. Given more time, Netflix could’ve made it work. I can easily imagine the Elektra storyline being its own season of “Daredevil”, “Jessica Jones” and “Luke Cage” each having a season focused on the Hand, and “Iron Fist” being given more breathing room to introduce Danny Rand before diving into the crossover.

But let’s say Marvel Television didn’t want to make people wait that long for a crossover. Then they still failed to move the storyline of the shows in a way that could naturally lead into “The Defenders”. You’re telling me Jessica and Luke couldn’t have at least had a 1-2 episode subplot about the Hand? Or that the Daredevil team couldn’t have introduced Frank Castle later on in order to prioritize Elektra, who is arguably the most important character in the crossover? “Iron Fist”, while not a good show, at least tried to lead into the crossover.

(Side note: Just as a reminder, a common problem people had with the NMCU was that each season was too long at 13 episodes and that the shows didn’t have enough story to squeeze in. Jessica and Luke could’ve definitely worked in a 1-2 episode Hand stand-alone subplot to offset these issues)

I don’t mean for this post to take away from any of these shows. I still am fond of the NMCU. But looking back at it, I can’t help but feel that they were mismanaged. Good on their own, but since they had a crossover miniseries set up, there needed to be stronger collaboration between each show. Or, at least move the damn crossover if the shows weren’t ready for one.

[dapandapod]

oh my god, I need this in my life ;____; Pairing is dealer's choice.

36. unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping

Look. I kinda missed the mark here, in a sense, as did I miss the timely window to write/reply.... xD anyway here it is? some Geraskier, a healthy dose of pining, and a lot of semi-platonic cuddling! Thank you Ebs my love for beta-reading! And I hope you like it, Kuri-darlin! Please enjoy <3 On Ao3 here!

It starts, as it often does between the two of them, with a deep bottle of spirit and a great idea. Usually, it’s one of Jaskier’s, but this time neither of them will claim the responsibility.

Skinnydipping is a much better plan in summer temperatures, rather than in late spring. Cold water from the icy mountains is still trickling down in rivers and finding itself in the lake they are now rushing out of, bare as the day they were born.

Jaskier isn’t shrieking, he never is, he is just flexing his vocal chords. Geralt is telling him that he is indeed shrieking, and that he should stop before it gets shrill enough to call the local dogs over.

Punching Geralt’s chest is very different when he is not wearing any clothes, skin cool and slippery, and Jaskier loses himself for a moment.

This is where it all begins, in a sense.

They are both rather lost, directionless in the free way of the traveling pair they are, but still trying to make out what path is theirs, and if what they will find at the end of the road will please them.

Geralt grasps Jaskier’s hand, and holds it to his chest. If asked, he will say he is clearly making sure Jaskier won’t be able to punch him again, but if you ask Jaskier, the only thing he will remember is firm fingers around his wrist, chest hair rough against his knuckles.

When Jaskier does not immediately protest, just stares at their hands with wide eyes, Geralt declares the bard too drunk, and he pulls Jaskier with him towards land by the hand.

Getting dressed one handed is… even more complicated while drunk, but the witcher does not let go of the bard, and leads him all the way to their rooms. They technically have their own rooms, but somehow they both end up in Jaskier’s room, only half way into the bed.

Later, Geralt remembers waking up with Jaskier’s fingers laced through his, and turns to look at his face lax in sleep, pressed against the mattress.

It happens again, of course it does. This time they are between inns, with winter and his bad timing stealing one last cold night before spring broke through properly.

They have found alright shelter, compromising the comfort of the open forest floor for keeping warm, snuck in the crack of a rock formation.

The fire is doing wonders, and despite the smoke stinging their eyes, Jaskier is looking decidedly snuggly with the fire behind him outlining his figure.

Their bedrolls are side by side, and Jaskier has grabbed onto Geralt’s hand, marveling over… well, marveling in general actually.

This time there is no alcohol between them, just a sense of peace and amusement, and Geralt watches Jaskier trace each digit, using both hands to look this way and that.

His knuckles are getting a great deal of attention, as is his thumb and palm. While he does it, Jaskier tells a story about his mother and a fortune teller that probably was a sham, but there once was this palm reader he met in Novigrad, and did you know that the placing or lack of calluses really tells a lot about you as a person?

Geralt listens with a smile, and snarks at the obvious holes in the storytelling when Jaskier is making too much up again, and, between one heartbeat and the next, Jaskier’s eyes droop shut.

He is still holding onto Geralt’s hand, one cradling the side of his hand and his pinky, the other holding onto his thumb. Even as specks of snow trickle down from above, and the wind howls, the fire crackles merrily, and Jaskier is holding his hand in his sleep.

Geralt doesn’t take his hand back, and in the morning they have inched closer, and Jaskier is holding Geralt’s hand against himself like you would a teddy bear.

Not long after the summer solstice, they make a close acquaintance with death. Her foul breath brushes the bard’s cheek as a Necker’s claw dug into his flesh.

Lucky for all of them, Jaskier is wearing a leather coat, and instead of being fatal, it just ends up being very fucking painful.

Blood is not a good look on bards, at least not their own, Geralt decides when Jaskier sits eerily quiet after being patched and bundled up in a barn that they’ve got to borrow for the night, with the promise not to bleed on the hay.

That night, Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand, holding it as he presses himself up against the bard’s back, listening to his even breaths and rapid heartbeat, infinitely grateful he made it in time to save him.

As with anything, spend enough time doing something and a habit is formed.

It isn’t every time, nor is it a conscious thought, but if there is but an arm's length between them, they will either end up half way out of their bedrolls and meet in the middle, fingers lacing together, or when they’re sitting idly next to each other for whatever reason, their fingers will seek each other out, sometimes barely touching, and other times overlapping.

It stops being a conscious choice, it is something just done. Jaskier eagerly grabbing his hand as he tells exciting news and then forgets to let go, or Geralt wanting to keep track of him, or to support him, or when in a crowd.

It’s natural, an anchor when they are in danger of getting lost.

They part, and they reunite later that summer, and that fall Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands to rub them warm, to breathe on them to help him regain temperature.

He knows you shouldn’t breathe on them, knows how a breath actually can make them colder, but Geralt may or may not be accidentally brushing his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles, and Jaskier is pretending not to notice, pretending he doesn’t have fine rabbit gloves tucked in his backpack, gifted by the very witcher right in front of him.

Things change, and also they don’t.

Dragons and witches and a child of the elder blood marks each change in their own way. Jaskier finds himself waking up, holding his own hand in his cold room in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt’s hand reaches across the empty bed for the bard’s even before he registers not to.

Another bottle of spirits, this time a stolen Nilfgaardian booze smelling absolutely terrible with the aftertaste of dirt, and another bright idea later, and Jaskier and Geralt once again find themselves sprawled halfway across Jaskier’s bed.

Geralt had to pull him up the stairs by the hand to keep their balance, or so they told themselves. The White gull Geralt ended up downing tastes terrible on the second day he notes, shifting and pulling the warmth by his side closer.

Jaskier grunts in his ear and knees his thigh, but only when he tightens his hold around hot, sweaty fingers does Geralt realize what he’d been missing. Jaskier is tangled against him, arm trapped under himself in an angle that will promise complaints the moment he wakes up. It is warm, and it is comfortable, and Geralt is slowly coming to terms with what pleases him.

Relearning how to share a bed is much easier when you have an anchor, a focal point, or it would have been if Geralt wasn’t startled awake by Jaskier almost falling out of bed. They resettle, Jaskier now firmly between the witcher and the wall, and the back of Geralt’s hand pressed against his lips as sleep reclaims him.

It doesn’t matter if they are awake or not, they reach for each other like a weed craves the sun, like roots seeking dirt, like vines growing where they find purchase.

The day Geralt wakes up and finally finds courage, he kisses Jaskier’s palm, and Jaskier kisses his lips.