#but so far my spelling isn’t horrendous so

[moooooorning]

While I’m drunk and it’s Christmas Eve, I just want to share how wonderful my grandparents are. We had a long talk tonight and I know they’ve had one of the worst weeks ever, but o got to comfort them and tell

Then how mkcn good thrr E I e done for me in my life. And how it’s DLL been worth it, at least in my young and limited opinion. I have no regrets, which o attribute to being well educated in all aspects of life at the most critical times. But I also know that my ipninion is subject to chandelier and likely will. Right now what’s most important to me is ther experienced that have set me up yo love, respect, and learn from everyone I meet.

[theretirementstory]

Bonjour et bienvenue on this cloudy, cool morning, it’s only 5c out there at the moment and we can expect a high of only 10c. However, I don’t care as I am going out for lunch to the restaurant by the lake.

4 years ago, to the day, I stood on the rooftop of the museum in Mahdia and took this photo. I had arrived on the 22nd for the start of a 10 day holiday in Tunisia, I felt it was a good idea to be reminded of the sun and sea.

I have decided to do the music section first this week for reasons which may become clearer as the blog progresses. The first song is dates from 1980 and is by the Average White Band, its, Let’s Go Round Again. AWB are probably better known for their hit “Pick up the Pieces. I hope you enjoy these songs. The second song also from the 80’s is “Its My Life” by Talk Talk from 1986.

My young friend Pauline celebrated her 27th birthday on Monday, she had a great day. On Sunday she had been to the beach in Barcelona enjoying some someshine. She had a cake with candles and made a wish that I would recover! What a wonderful wish 😊. She said for the first time she is loving her work, obviously working in Barcelona, where she benefits from the brighter days, has booster her morale. Not like when she lived in Dublin and the bright days were few and far between.

After an horrendous nightmare where I felt like being “The Pied Piper” and leading zillions of 🐀 🐀 🐀 to the banks of the River Aube, I decided to ask my neighbour to check out my composter. The verdict was “No rats in here Mrs” oh did that make me feel better and I went into the garden and cardboard mulched around the hellebores which made my day. I also found close to the hellebores and even in the grass signs, if not primulas, then cowslips. I plan on letting the grass grow in order for them to at least flower, as long as I don’t have long spells in hospital, I hope to not let the grass be “shorn to the ground” which is what my neighbour seems to do to his grass. It’s kind of him to mow my grass but not to have it covered in moss during the wet months.

Primulas have been messed up again in the potager by “the damned cat” and now it has found it’s way into the back garden to 💩 first of all in the grass and then into the raised bed to not “tiptoe through the tulips” (as the song goes) but to 💩 and scratch among the daffodils. Is there no end to this “Monster”.

I had hurt my back last Friday replanting the planter (think I have pulled a muscle). So plans to add more cardboard mulch to the borders are on hold. As I can’t even carry a quarter bag of compost!

The nurse came and took my bloods, I had felt rather faint (hungry) before she came so bless her she was going to get me some breakfast before she left. I just asked for a cup of milk, which she brought me, I thought that was very kind of her.

I did a lot of reading at the weekend which meant that my knitting has been neglected 😱. I did a little bit early in the week but my heart isn’t in it at the moment. I went into town on Tuesday to see Claudine and to give the photocopied pattern for the crocheted pendant and earrings to her. We are looking to make some smaller items to sell at a lower price so that people will buy them at the markets. I then walked into town to see if the jeweller would be able to look at the stone in my grandmothers engagement ring to confirm if it was real or not. When I arrived possibly about 14:50 he was out and would be another 20 minutes or so. I couldn’t hang around!

The toilet I had fitted when I first moved into this house in 2019, has for years had a temperamental flush. Occasionally it flushed and water continued running down the back of the bowl causing terrible rumbling noises in the pipes. I guessed it was due to limescale but how to solve it? I asked my new plumber the cause and he cleaned the flush but it was still doing it occasionally. Well he came and worked his magic this week I think he cleared a lot of the limescale out of the cistern, replaced the flush, which now does exactly as needed a half flush as well as a full flush and at the moment no gurgling pipes.

Oh my goodness, have I told you how wonderful my grandchildren are? I received three videos of them playing at home. They are happy to play separately but the youngest (my grandson) was playing with his ro-ro ferry near where my granddaughter was playing with her dolls, needing some help he asked so politely if she could help him, she stopped what she was doing to open one of the doors then when he wanted it closing again she did that too. It was so wonderful to see.

“The Photographer” was unable to take photos at Scarborough AFC on Tuesday as he was working a 1-9 shift. He had been to an hotel near to Skipton for a night which included a meal at the Michelin Star restaurant. It was a 7 course taster menu, it all looked really delicious.

“The Trainee Solicitor” and “The Ex-Graduate” had four nights away in a “lodge” in Wensleydale. It had beautiful views but on their last night they were so cold and rain was coming in through a skylight. They were also disappointed with the siting of the hot tub. They did manage a decent walk to Hardraw Falls before returning soaked through. They took a trip to Aysgarth Falls it’s an area of renowned movie locations and of course Wensleydale cheese is known from the Wallace and Gromit film series.

My appointment with the oncologist was on Friday and as I had perused my blood test results I knew that all was not well. However, telling myself I am no doctor, I waited to hear what he had to say. Yes, cancer is back! So there I am not struck dumb at all and my first question was “is there treatment available?” The reply was “yes” my next question “when do we start chemotherapy, next week?” Yes I go into hospital on Tuesday. That’s all I needed to know. Poor Monique when I messaged her…. She replied did I want her to ring me or call to see me the next day. I said for her to come and visit me the following day. Apparently she had cried, she rang her daughter and cried again. My friends are rallying again, hence the restaurant lunch today. Anie who is still suffering with shingles pain without the postules, made me laugh when she said the postules can’t get through her fat, she isn’t fat at all! She too provided moral support. Pauline hadn’t answered my message yet and I know she will be upset. However, I am here and obviously fit enough to go through more treatment. It has made me think that perhaps the nine years I had when I thought I was a cancer survivor, I was actually just living with cancer. Who cares, I have had some great times and if I have any say in the matter I will have a lot more to come!

Monique came yesterday and we had a really good chat (about two hours worth) 😳. She always amazes me, she has a lovely garden at home but she looked out at mine, at the hyacinths just starting to flower, the tulips, daffodils, iris and the hellebores and declared it a wonderful garden. She loves the potager full of violas whose seed blew on the wind and filled the potager with yellow and green brightness. Then she noticed the violas tulips and iris I had transplanted to there location near the composter and was full of admiration. I felt very proud. I think I had better check the seeds I have to plant this year as I really do want the garden to be a riot of colour!

I had my book delivery on Thursday, whew what a relief! I have plenty of reading material to take into hospital with me.

Now I really must leave my bed and start to get ready for my lunchtime rendezvous.

Oh I would just like to add a special “God morgen” to anyone reading this in Norway.

Until next time…..

[mywitchyblog]

@cocozydiaries

I think those who shift for an "evil" person but end up scripting out all the terrible things that person has done are likely just physically attracted to the character, not to their actions or the persona built around their evil deeds. That’s precisely why they choose to remove all the negative aspects in their script—because it’s not the dark side of the character that appeals to them, but rather their appearance or charisma.

A prime example of this is Tom Riddle. Some people are drawn to him simply because he is good-looking, not because of all the horrendous things he did. These individuals aren’t shifting to be with someone evil—they’re shifting to be with someone they find attractive, and to make that scenario more palatable, they strip away the evil traits and behaviors in their Desired Reality (DR).

As for me, I’ve never shifted for any "evil" person who, according to your definition, lacks a tragic backstory that could explain or provide context for their actions. The characters I choose to connect with are not those who are evil for the sake of being evil or those who derive enjoyment from causing harm. I’ve always been drawn to characters with a depth of complexity—those who might have done terrible things but are shaped by their circumstances, trauma, or a deeply ingrained struggle that adds layers to their character.

For me, shifting isn’t about glorifying or romanticizing evil. It’s about exploring those complexities, understanding the motivations behind a character’s actions, and, in some cases, even shifting them towards a path of redemption or happiness that they were denied in their original storyline. If a character is purely malevolent with no redeeming qualities or deeper story, I simply don’t see the appeal in shifting for them. I’m interested in the journey of growth, healing, and change—not in reinforcing their darker aspects.

If I had to pick an example, the closest thing I have are the Mikaelsons in my TVDU (The Vampire Diaries Universe) DR. In this reality, they are my family. Long story short, I’m a demigod who is the reincarnation of Henrik, the youngest Mikaelson, whose death caused Esther to cast the spell that turned them into vampires.

When I was watching The Vampire Diaries and The Originals, I saw that they had good in them, but, thanks to the writing of Julie Plec, they kept making the same mistakes over and over. Even after a thousand years, when they finally had a chance at happiness, Elijah and Klaus still ended up dying. It was frustrating to see their potential for redemption squandered repeatedly.

As a shifter, I realized I could shift to a DR where they could be happy, so I scripted them to be far less violent. In this DR, I didn’t just remove their violent tendencies—I gave them the opportunity to live the lives they were never afforded in the shows. I saw the good in them and wanted to "create" as in shift to a reality where they could embrace that good without being dragged down by the weight of their past actions.

To answer your question, I don’t have an issue with people scripting out all the evil traits of a character. The real problem arises if someone shifts to a reality where that person is still committing horrible acts, and the shifter either doesn’t care or consciously chooses not to address or alter those behaviors. It’s one thing to be attracted to a character’s appearance and want to shift with them after removing their negative traits—it’s another thing entirely to accept or ignore those traits in the DR.

People have the right to shift to whatever they want (within reason, of course), but to say:

"Even if you script that they’ve never done bad things, you kinda have to consider that your first impression of them, in this reality, is as an awful person. So what about that made you want to shift for someone like that?"

In my opinion, that’s a fallacious argument. It’s similar to the anti-age changers who will still call you a pedophile if you age up a character in your DR for romantic purposes.

They say things like, "Eww, you’re still creepy—something in the media must’ve made you attracted to them for you to age them up like that."

To that, I respond: "Not at all. It’s because I’m not attracted to the way they are portrayed, and I don’t see myself being with them romantically as they are, that I 'change' them to my liking."

Most people shift because they find the person attractive, so they script out all the qualities they don’t like, which in these cases are the evil actions. As I said, it would be disturbing if they didn’t remove those things.

Possibly mild take but i genuinely don’t understand why some people shift for like actual evil people.

And i don’t mean people who like eventually do change or just happened to live under bad circumstances so they did whack stuff to survive. nah i mean like straight up evil, all they do is spend all their time tryna fuck up people’s lives, and actively enjoy hurting people. Yk, like a racist rat. i mean Imo ur about as good as your worst friend sooooo…🤷‍♀️

Even if you script that they’ve never done bad things you kinda gotta consider that your original first impression of them, which is here in this reality, all you see them be this awful person. So what about that made you wanna shift for someone like that?

There’s bad and then there’s just straight up unredeemable evil.

and icl i do just think it’s pretty privilege tho coz if they were ugly trust nobody would be shifting for them…

anyways actually curious if you have a possible explanation for this wild phenomenon!!

[tenebrius-excellium]

Book 10 - How To Seize A Dragon’s Jewel Liveblog

WHAT A BOOK (so far, I’m at 2 of 5.5 hours)

Valhallarama finally makes an appearance! Although an odd one.

The Deadly Shadow clearly served as inspiration for the Zippleback, for Toothless and for the Light Fury. The bat-like behavior, the turning invisible in the clouds??? Aaaaaaaahhhh...just imagine if Toothless had been able to change color too!!

The Windwalker smells like drinking chocolate what?

“But sometimes the bravest thing a hero has to do is not fighting monsters and cheating death and witches, it is facing the consequences of his own actions.” that got me

awwww Hiccup really seems to have changed a lot. He’s growing up!

Baggybum telling Snotlout “I am ashamed to be your father” that hurts

Snotlout: “Ashamed of me? I should be ashamed of you, and you should be proud that I am a Chief! You were never a Chief, Baggy, wwere ya? You are not really Chief material!” Somehow, that response felt strong in the moment tho???

Warty McSmelly, your waistcoat is on fire XDDDD

YO. Excellinor stares at Hiccup. does she recognize him mm. DOES SHE

EGGINGARDE. MY PRECIOUS BABY. PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS

I like Eggingarde. Why has she never been mentioned anywhere by the fandom???? I didn’t know she exists!!! She’s so cuuuuuuuute!!! Also I am unapologetically shipping her with Fishlegs??? *EDIT: they’re kids they’re kids I forgot I’m so sorry

Her bedtime horror story is a little lengthy though, isn’t it

yo, Eggingarde’s story was really grim O_O

THE HOPEFULL PUFFIN TWOOOOOOOOOOOO

“We may be slaves, but we can still be the best slaves we can be” this book is DRIPPING with the good lines...!!!!

“And then something unexpected happened. Gobber the Belch stepped forward, calmly wrestled Snotlout’s whip from him, broke it in half, and gave it back to him.” LOL

STOICK IS CHIEF AGAIN YASSSSS

GOBBER FLIPS SNOTLOUT’S YOT OVER HAHAHAHAHA

“.....and now I’m going to break it some more” Gobber is SUCH A BADASS

GOBBER EDUCATING SNOTLOUT ON THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS ACTIONS REGARDING CHIEFTAINSHIP IS EVERYTHING THAT’S THE BEST LESSON I’VE HEARD IN A WHILE DUDE

I’m sorry I don’t know how to spell ‘yot’

I love how Cressida constantly mentions the presence or absence of birds in her storytelling. That detail seems to be important to her whenever she’s being descriptive. Having been to Scotland before, they’re certainly a prominent part of the landscape. I vividly remember almost getting a hole pecked in my skull by a raging mad seabird once because I was walking too close to its nest - the critter did not hesitate to go right for my head with its beak!! Also, I feel like there really isn’t much other wildlife apart from sheep and the ugliest sea stars you’ve ever seen. So, ya. Birds. They’re a thing.

Ohmygosh Stoick gives Hiccup that Great Hall talk he had with Gobber about doing what you’re told instead of questioning everything. Hnnnnghhhh that’s awesome. I love the dynamic of that talk to this day.

“I just did what I was told, I followed the traditions, I stuck to the Barbaric code!” I respect this generational thing actually. Because it’s real. It’s a real problem too. And I’d genuinely give money to find out where this attitude came from. Like, what made Stoick’s generation - the generation of our parents - behave and believe like they do.

I had this part on repeat for like 3 times because it was so good

look tbh the swordfight against Stoick and the Test Drive sequence from Book 9 still haunt me...

“...the old order broken, all because of my son Hiccup and his questions.” Silence. “Can you blame me for being angry with my son?” Gosh the shame. The blame of being Httyd1′s Hiccup. I feel it all over again and it’s glorious.

“And yet...was he actually brave to ask this question? Was he right to ask this question? Was it even a question worth losing a world for? So, the answer to your question, McJelly, is yes. I am the father of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third. I am hoping against hope that somewhere out there he is safe and well, and I am proud to be his father. Even though I don’t always agree with his questions, and I do not yet know whether they were worth the loss of the world I loved.” WOW. Best stuff Stoick ever said. Also the “I’m proud to call you my son” moment from the movie. Auuuuuughhhhh.

The pessimism and hopelessness and the spite with which Hiccup is continuing to live nevertheless is sorta catching on. It hasn’t paid off yet. That’s disturbing, because it’s getting old. There needs to be a final win. Soon.

Anyway, that’s it from me so far! 

[tinkertytonkanddownwiththenazis]

Everybody shut up because my girlfriend got me into Alfred Molina and I’ve been having Dr Octavius Thoughts

You are Dr Otto Octavius and you are fighting Spiderman on an overpass. Peter keeps insisting that he does not know where your fusion reactor is, in fact he claims not to know you at all. And somehow he's kitted out in nanotech. Oh well, it’s a nice upgrade for you. Then you see his face.

That is not Peter Parker. At least, not the Peter Parker you know. As you take this in, you start to realise that the city you just travelled through did not look the same as usual. The nanotech is starting to raise more questions. Speaking of which, this new Peter Parker has just successfully used said nanotech to take control of your own creation and turn it against you. You don't even know this kid and you already hate him.

In an instant the world around you changes and you're in a cell. A wizard put you there (because why not?). Said wizard starts to explain why you're here and what the hell is going on. Something to do with a bad spell pulling in people from other universes. So The Multiple Worlds theory is real. How about that? The new Peter Parker and his new friends ask what your name is. They laugh at the answer. You should’ve killed him at the overpass.

A few hours pass and your fellow inmates expand to Dr Curt Connors, a man made of sand, someone called Max and Norman Osborn. Norman Osborn. Green Goblin Norman Osborn. Killed-by-his-own-glider Norman Osborn.

That last bit actually sparks some questions and you start remembering where you were before you got here. What you were doing. What you did next. The wizard (appropriately named Strange) seems utterly blasé about returning you and several others back to the moment of their deaths. But new Peter Parker does not. In fact new Peter Parker, the one you just tried to kill a few hours ago, wants to help you. All of you.

He snatches that weird box and both he and the wizard vanish. After a few minutes he returns with the box and without the wizard. He emphasises that he'll definitely send everyone back if they try anything, but not before he makes an attempt at “fixing” them. He can control 4 of your arms, you're not in a position to say no.

One agonisingly awkward drive later, you're in an apartment far too nice to be owned by a teenager. You're proven correct when new Peter's Aunt says Happy won't mind them using it (and they laughed at Otto Octavius). Aunt May makes a horrendous comment about salt water while new Peter and living Norman (that's still catching you off guard) vanish next door to get to work on "cures". You can't decide if new Peter is being kind or stupid.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, they both emerge with a microchip. Before you can marvel at the sheer speed of its creation, new Peter is piloting your arms again and you remember that you hate him. This damn teenager has you restrained and dangling in the air like a piñata and why did you not kill him quicker you...

It's quiet.

You've forgotten what quiet feels like. Forgotten what it's like to have only your own thoughts. Forgotten what thinking was like before... them. The nanobots are recalled and you slowly shift your arms. Your arms. They move at your will, not theirs. And as you settle on the ground floor, you see Norman. The real Norman. And he sees you. The real you.

This moment of perfect recognition is interrupted by the thud of Peter jumping down to join you. He looks so damn happy. He looks more like your Peter. It's the expression of a student going "look at this thing I did! Isn’t it cool?!" But this time you're not his mentor. You're a stranger who tried to murder him.

And he gave you your mind back.

You feel like you should be crying.

He starts talking at that breakneck pace again about the next steps for everyone else. He sticks something to Max's chest and explains the process of power absorption and that he'll get to keep his body after this, before rushing off with Norman to work on something for him.

That’s definitely Peter Parker. No doubt about it.

[anonymousewrites]

There's a Beauty; There's a Beast Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven: Monster Fever

            Fukuzawa struggled against the men around him. They forced him towards a large, cage-like black carriage. He was being taken to an asylum.

            “He needs a hospital, not an asylum,” said Poe, trying to help Fukuzawa but getting pushed back.

            Fyodor pushed Fukuzawa inside the padded carriage. He leaned in and smirked. “I’ll give you a chance to be free. Give me (Y/N)’s hand in marriage, and you can leave. I’ll help you.”

            “Never,” declared Fukuzawa.

            Fyodor narrowed his eyes and slammed the doors shut. Sliding the bolt, he commanded, “Take him away, Monsieur Mori.”

            The asylum director snapped his reins and the horses started forward. Before they could get far, however, a white horse galloped into the village square with a rider clad in green. It was (Y/N), riding on Philip.

            “Stop!” she cried, sliding from her steed’s back. She ran to the back of the inky carriage and looked through the windows. “Father!”

            “(Y/N)!” Fukuzawa had never been so relieved. “You’re alright!”

            “Let him out!” demanded (Y/N) to Mori.

            “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t. He’s been raving about beasts in the forest and accusing people of attempted murder. He needs to be somewhere he can’t hurt himself or others,” said Mori.

            “My father’s not insane!” (Y/N) looked to the villagers for some form of support. “You know him! He’s calm, logical, level-headed. He wouldn’t go around stirring up trouble.” Her eyes landed on Fyodor. I really hate this, but nobody will believe me if he doesn’t… “Fyodor, please, tell them.” I feel so gross…

            Fyodor stepped towards her. “(Y/N)…I just want you to be safe, and living with a man who rambles about monsters isn’t.” He reached towards her face, but (Y/N) slapped his hand away. “He thought you were capture by a beast in a castle. His mind is disturbed.” I don’t care if he is telling the truth. That beast can stay out there. All that matters is that I have my angel to myself. All mine…

            (Y/N) stood up straighter, the picture of elegance and power. “I’ve just come from the castle, and the Beast is there.”

            “I’ll admit that I am incline to believe you,” said Fyodor, a devilish smirk on his face. “You’ve always been honest, but I’m afraid that without proof, there’s nothing I or Monsieur Mori can do.”

            “You want proof? Fine.” (Y/N) held up the mirror. “Show me the Beast!”

            In the reflective surface, the image of Dazai appeared. To (Y/N), it was a wonderful sight, for already her heart longed for him. For the village, however, it was a horrendous sight of a monster living under their nose.

            “There, you have proof.” (Y/N) glared at Fyodor. “Now let my father go.”

            Fyodor grabbed the mirror and examined it. “So there is a monster…” The villagers gasped in fear.

            “No!” said (Y/N). “He’s not a monster.” She smiled to herself. “He’s kind and funny. He means us no harm.”

            Narrowing his eyes, Fyodor clenched his teeth. Not only were the people being swayed by her will, (Y/N) clearly cared for the Beast more than she ever cared for him. It angered him. Well, then, I shall just get rid of the competition. Then I’ll take what I want: her. He took a deep breath before turning to (Y/N) with a caring, concerned face. He caressed her face once before she flinched back. “Oh, my poor angel…The Beast has you under a spell.” Fyodor cast a sympathetic gaze on Fukuzawa. “The same must have happened to your poor father.” His eyes returned to (Y/N). “Don’t worry. I shall slay the Beast and set you free.”

            “He’s not a monster like you, Fyodor,” hissed (Y/N). “He didn’t use any spell on me. He wouldn’t!”

            Fyodor shook his head mournfully. “The dark magic is so strong…” He looked up and put on a heroic act that nearly made Ivan and Gogol faint. “But I will save you from it. Until then, you and your father will stay here, stay safe.” He motioned to the asylum carriage, and two men grabbed (Y/N)’s arms.

            “Uh,” interjected Mori. “If she’s no insane, then I can’t take her. I don’t deal with…bewitched patients.”

            Fyodor’s cruel gaze landed on him, and he hissed under his breath, “I suggest you do as I ask. Or would you prefer being seen as a defender of the Beast’s actions?”

            Mori narrowed his eyes but stepped out of the way so (Y/N) could be forced into the cage.

            “You won’t get away with this, Fyodor!” she shouted as the door was bolted.

            “F-Fyodor…” started Sigma.

            “Are you looking to be next?” The dark-haired demon didn’t even bother to look at his companion.

            “No, of course not.” Sigma quieted down.

            “Fetch my horse, then.”

            Sigma nervously went to do just that while Fyodor jumped onto a wagon to address the assembled crowd.

            “We must defeat this Beast! If we do not, he will curse us as he cursed them!” declared Fyodor. “I say we kill the Beast!” The townspeople cheered.

            “Kill the Beast!” yelled the town.

(Various townspeople) “We’re not safe until he’s dead, He’ll come stalking us at night, Set to sacrifice our children, To his monstrous appetite, He’ll wreak havoc on our village, If we let him wander free!”

            Fyodor smirked at the success of his plan. Even his hurried ones were exquisite.

(Fyodor) “So it’s time to take some action, boys, It’s time to follow me!”

            He raised a flaming torch and his crossbow into the air.

(Fyodor) “Through the mist, Through the wood, Through the darkness and the shadow, It’s a nightmare, But it’s one exciting ride!”

            Around him, the villagers were scurrying for weapons and torches in a villainous frenzy.

(Fyodor) “Say a prayer, Then we’re there, At the drawbridge of a castle, And there’s something truly terrible inside, It’s a Beast, He’s got fangs, Razor sharp ones, Massive paws, Killer claws, For the feast! Hear him roar, See him foam, But we’re not coming home ‘till he’s dead!

            “Dead,” cried the town as they mounted their horses, ready to march on the castle.

(Fyodor) “Good and dead!”

            “Dead!” they cried.

(Townspeople) “Kill the Beast!”

            Fyodor led the procession out of the village and into the night.

(Fyodor) “Light your torch, Mount your horse, Screw your courage to the sticking place!” (Townspeople) “We’re counting on Fyodor to lead the way! (Fyodor) “Call it war, Call it threat, You can bet, They all will follow, For in times like this this, They do just as I say!”

            Sigma glanced at Fyodor. The obsession over (Y/N) had grown so strong now the whole town was subject to Fyodor’s manipulation. Sigma didn’t like the situation one bit.

(Sigma) “There’s a beast running wild, There’s no question, But I fear the wrong monster’s released!”

            However, the rest of the village didn’t understand they weren’t thinking for themselves. They believed all of Fyodor’s words.

(Townspeople) “Sally forth, tally ho, Grab your sword, grab your bow, Praise the lord, and here we go!”

            Fyodor paused on a hill and held up the mirror. “Show me the castle.”

            Inside the castle, the household was mourning (Y/N)’s loss.

            “Well…at least he learned to love,” said Atsushi.

            “That means shit to us if she doesn’t love him back,” muttered Akutagawa.

            “I still have a bit of hope! She really seemed to care for him!” Atsushi’s belief in Dazai and (Y/N) held strong against everything.

            The whinny of a horse echoed from outside.

            “Someone’s here,” said Kyouka.

            “Has she come back?” asked Atsushi, hope saturating is tone. He and his companions climbed onto the windowsill.

            Akutagawa growled at the sight. “Invaders! The mob with torches, pitchforks, and swords were arriving at the castle.

            “Ruffians,” muttered Kouyou.

            “Man the barricades!” called Atsushi to the entire household. “And hold fast! The curse may take us tonight, but these people will not!”

            “Watch out,” snapped Chuuya, moving to hold the door.

(Townspeople) “Hearts ablaze, Banners high, We’ll go marching into battle, Unafraid, although the danger’s just increased!”

            They banged on the door, trying to force their way in.

(Townspeople) “Raise the flag, sing the song, Here we come, we’re fifty strong, And fifty Frenchmen can’t be wrong! Let’s kill the Beast!”

            They used a makeshift battering ram to break down the door and pushed into the castle entryway.

l  

            (Y/N) watched as Mori paced through the village square. She examined the bars and latches of the carriage doors in an attempt to find weak points.

            “Damn it! I need to warn Dazai,” huffed (Y/N).

            “Dazai? You mean the Beast? Why would you warn him?” asked Fukuzawa. “Didn’t you escape?”

            (Y/N) smiled ruefully. “He let me go. He sent me back to you.”

            “I don’t understand, how? Why?” Fukuzawa furrowed his brow.

            “Because he’s not a monster,” said (Y/N). “Or he isn’t anymore. And I need to save him.”

            “It’s dangerous. I don’t want you hurt.”

            “Yes, it is.” (Y/N) took a deep breath. “But I have to do this.” She took off her wreath and twisted it. “Will this work to move the bolt?”

            Fukuzawa gazed at her for a moment. She’s so grown up… “Yes.” He would always support her.

            (Y/N) grinned. Dazai, I’m coming.

[rhowena]

To add, I would like to point out that if we want to zoom in on the Raven Queen’s place in the domino chain, she made a couple of other relevant decisions in between Vax’s death and him getting orbed:

Giving him the power to affect the world of the living in ways that most dead people can’t (The power of love alone doesn’t give Zuala or Will the ability to bamf onto the Material Plane to save their respective spouses.)

Allowing him to use that power in ways that have nothing whatsoever to do with his duties as champion (This was actually what surprised me the most: with the BBEG having declared war on the gods, I didn’t think Vax getting involved somewhere along the line was horrendously far-fetched, but when he actually showed up, it wasn’t as the Champion of Ravens fighting on behalf of his goddess, it was as Vax protecting the woman he loves.)

The implications of those choices haven’t gotten anywhere near enough acknowledgement or discussion. I’ve read fanfics that portray the Raven Queen as viewing Vax’s bonds with the rest of VM as something that might pull him away from her and thus feeling threatened by said bonds (projection much?), but in canon she explicitly praises him for his devotion to those he cares for (“Your resolve is admirable. Your love of your chosen family is vibrant.”), and by letting him come to Keyleth’s aid when he did, she’s shown through her actions that that isn’t just something she says when that devotion benefits her in some fashion.

Additionally, something I’ve seen pointed out and agree with is that even if Vax knew he was walking into a trap (and between the Raven Queen being the goddess of fate and the question of whether or not Vax’s angel of death role would have put him in contact with any of the slain members of the Grim Verity, I think this is an ‘if’ worth seriously considering), it would be entirely too in-character for him to insist on going to Keyleth’s aid anyway if the alternative was letting her permadie. And in that scenario, the Raven Queen not nailing him to the floor to keep him from being used to kickstart the apocalypse (which I’m pretty sure she could have done if she’d really wanted, since Gate specifies that “Deities and other planar rulers can prevent portals created by this spell from opening in their presence or anywhere within their domains.”) was, for better or for worse, a choice to respect Vax’s autonomy, decisions, and relationships with people other than her even when they proved really, really inconvenient -- y’know, the precise things that so many of her detractors refuse to do.

Lastly, Vax’s current predicament actually strikes me as an opportunity for a bonding exercise between the Raven Queen and Vox Machina (which might help the latter move past the anger and resentment they’ve been carrying around for the last thirty years): this all started with Vax’s bond with Keyleth being used against him, but moving forward, I think the Raven Queen will be putting her faith in those same bonds as her best hope of getting her champion back.

Ludinus, pondering the Vax'ilorb: There's no hope for you, Champion. Even your goddess is nothing against the might of Predathos. What made you think you could stop me? Vax: F...friends. Ludinus: What was that? Vax: My strength... comes from my friends. Ludinus: *laughs evilly* Well, it's too bad, Champion. They couldn't save you. Vax: Yeah... but the thing is... I got more.

*cue Ludinus getting nailed with a shot from Fenthras*

EXCUSE ME FUCKING WHAT

"This is Matt confirming once and for all that she shouldn't have done it."

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

[sophneedsfandoms]

Painful

Stephen Strange x Avenger!Reader (Non-Powered, Agent/Widow potentially)

Post DS:MOM

Please be kind, this is my first ever fic, but I do welcome CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.

Warnings: SFW, one swear word (a**hole), minor minor DS:MOM spoilers, only mentioned in passing.

Words: 790 words, not sure if this is a one-shot or drabble at this point!

“I need to get back to the compound, Sam is expecting me for a meeting.” You spoke as you hastily made your exit to the front door of 177A Bleeker Street, hoping to get away from the handsome sorcerer.

 Since the ‘Wanda Incident’ as you’d dubbed it, Strange felt it was more necessary to be involved in the Avengers, therefore you’d been seeing him regularly, and falling deeper in love every time you were in his presence. Especially this morning, you’d had to drop some files around, feeling emotionally vulnerable after the intense dream you’d had involving him. You wanted to be in and out and not see him again until you could get a level head.

 True, he was a bit of an asshole, condescending and arrogant, but you could tell it was from a place of love, humour and self-defence. Sadly, for you, you’d been hit with love at first sight, and you knew about his history with Christine and how much he loved her thanks to a bit-tipsy, over sharer Wong one night, post-meeting. This had ruined your hope entirely, resigning yourself to a life of pining.

 “Well, I can portal you back, if you wanted to stay for a tea?” Strange was following you to the front door, catching you up quickly.

 “No, no, I need to get going, prefer to take the subway.” You panicked and came up with the most ridiculous excuse ever, he’d see right through that one, no one ever likes to take the subway at 9am.

 “Look, Y/N, I need to ask, as that’s a horrendous excuse, but do you have a problem with me?” You scoffed and nervously spoke, “No, what would make you think that?”

 “You, you were fine with me and then you started avoiding me and sending others in your place. Have I done something to offend you?”

 “No, not at all, the opposite really, but that’s beside the point, I need to go, now.” Strange sensed you grabbing the handle and quickly cast a spell, encasing the door in an orange glow.

 ”Please, tell me why. Why do I suddenly deserve the cold shoulder and frosty greetings when you used to be so kind and welcoming?”

“You don’t deserve it, but I really can’t tell you.” You stayed staring at the door, easier to look away from this confrontation.

“Why? Why would you no…” Hurt was beginning to show through in Strange’s voice and you could feel your facade cracking into tiny pieces with it.

 “It is painful…” You confessed.

“What?”

Unable to hold it in any longer, you shouted, “Loving someone who will never love you back!”

 Strange furrowed his eyebrows and took a step towards you, “What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it fairly obvious? I’m in love with you and you’re still clearly struggling with letting Christine go”

 He scoffed, looked away and looked back with an intensity you had never seen before. “I will always care for Christine, she was the first person I truly loved, but I do mean loved” He shifted, uncomfortably. “I do have very strong romantic feelings for someone else. Which far surpass what I feel for Christine.”

 Stephen took a couple of steps closer, as you swallowed the looming feeling of despair at being let down as he revealed his true feelings.

 “I love you.”

 Those three words made your world stop. “Me… are you messing with me? No one ever picks me.”

 “You, Y/N are the one I love. The one I pick, as you so described it”

 Your eyes flooded with tears, as Stephen looked on in horror and confusions at the appearance of said tear. You began to laugh hysterically, in happiness, but clearly the sorcerer couldn’t read any of this as he began to try to backtrack, “I… uh… I mean”

 You ran forward and wrapped your arms around him, breathing in his scent. He began to settle into the embrace just in time for you to pull back. You gazed into his clear, bright eyes and began to trail your hand up his chest to hold his face in your hands. His arms tightened around your waist.

 “If I hadn’t made it clear enough, I love you”

 You connected your lips to his, as he moved his hands to your neck, pulling you closer, if that was even possible. Your heart soared as the kiss continued, Stephen passionately reassuring you of his feelings. Pulling away, you placed your foreheads together, and stared into his eyes, sure of your happiness and possibilities of the future.

[joshslater]

Cross Contamination

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I'm fucking furious. To most people Jack Wilson is a hockey hotshot, but to me he is just my wife's ex that can't let go. She said they had another encounter, but wouldn't go into details, saying it wasn't just his fault. She couldn't help herself, she said. Knowing how much she loathes him I suspect she was afraid of him turning violent. He is a star athlete after all, known to have punched more than a few players on the ice.

I know he's training at the stadium right now. That's how bad it has gotten, that I even know his schedule. I'm probably speeding getting there, but nothing else is important right now. I park the car in the huge, but almost empty parking. Neverending slabs of concrete to allow for the cars of thousands of cheering fans during game day. Well, I'm certainly not a fan. Still fuming as I exit the car and heading towards the arena I see him and a few others from his team running towards the same building from across the car park. They must be out for cardio or something. I stop and shout towards them "Hey! Jack!"

I can see them slow down a little, Jack saying something to them, and then breaking apart jogging in my direction while they continue at speed towards the stadium building. I remain still, just glaring at him as he closes in on me. He slows down quite a bit away and saunters towards me, still panting. He has an aura of smug superiority. He's good looking, despite his matted, sweaty hair and week-old beard. It's not just because he's in top shape, but he has that classic athlete chin cut, and mesmerizing eyes to go with it too. He's quite a bit shorter than me, and way denser and muscled, but I would bet my weekly martial arts practice can match him if needed. "Hey, cocksucker! You managed to find your way here," he yells back at me.

"I want you to know..." "Shut up"

I don't know why, but I can't look away from his intense eyes. It's like they can see into me, see every part of me. I'm frozen in place just watching him getting closer. "I said hey cocksucker. What are you waiting for? Go ahead and suck my cock." He says this as calmly as he can, never breaking eye contact. I don't think he blinks. I don't think I blink. I slowly go down on my knees,  grabbing the hem of his sweatpants, and pull down. I still keep eye contact, so I have to feel my way for the waistband of his underwear to pull it down too. I can feel the heat radiate from his steaming body. There's a smell of sweat, not the stale, musky kind, but from someone who showers every day and uses fresh clothes for each workout. He's professional and they got staff. I can hear his heavy breath as he is still recovering from the sprint. And I can feel a rather large cock in front of me that is erect, or at least a good way there. I grab it in my hands and guide the tip to my lips and begin to lick it. It doesn't really taste of much. I open my mouth and get more and more of his compression shirt wrapped abs and pecs in my view as I stare into his deep eyes, and take his big cock deeper and deeper into my mouth.

The tip reaches some point at the back of my mouth and I start to gag, making horrendous gurgling noises. I move back from him. "All the way. I want to be balls deep down your throat, cocksucker." I do as he commands, and push it in again, further. It's somehow much easier this time and my lips are tickled by his moist bush of pubes. I then start to work it, in and out, in and out. The noise I'm making is still horrendous. A wet, sloshy sound, and I hate it. "Yeah, you like that, cocksucker. Now, faster." I grab him by the hip and increase the pace. I get lost in the actions, like nothing matters but his cock, the noise, and his eyes.

I don't know for how long I was in a trance, but I feel him tensing up, pulling me tight to him, and shooting a big load of his cum down my throat. Suddenly the gaze that had held me like a vice breaks and he looks at my face rather than into my eyes. The spell is broken. I'm kneeling in a parking lot with Jack Wilson's cock down my throat, and my nose nuzzled into his pubes. His eyes suddenly widen, and his face turns into horror, like he is looking at a monster. Everything is going like in slow motion. I begin to push him away, to get his disgusting cock out of my mouth as he shoots his second load. Somehow in shock I manage to breathe in his cum. He pulls away from me as well, and his third load ends up just next to me on the concrete. "Fuck!" he says, visibly upset. "It's still in the bloodstream. Spit it out! Spit it out!"

I'm not sure I even have any in my mouth to spit out. It just went straight into my belly and into my lungs. Lungs that are desperately trying to cough up his spunky goo in phlegm-filled, deep whoops. "Fuck!" he shouts one last time, pulls up his sweatpants, and runs towards the Stadium building with one hand holding the pants up. I'm just folded over on my knees coughing and coughing while my mind is racing to make sense of what just happened. My chest is burning and I feel nauseated. There is the salty, bitter taste of cum in my mouth and a stench of athlete sweat as I gasp for air in between the coughs. I keep coughing, but less and less of substance is coming up. I spit out specks of Jack's spunk on the concrete in front of me, and realize what she had meant when she said she couldn't help herself. Did he fuck her? After what just happened I wouldn't put anything past Jack, and there is literally nothing I wouldn't forgive her for having done. She would have been helpless to stop.

I can feel my whole body burning as I get up from the concrete. I'm very aware how my clothes rubs against my body, like my senses have just gone into overdrive. Everything, every single muscle in my body feels sore. My head is spinning. Still coughing I stagger towards my car and get in behind the wheels. As I close the door the world goes silent. I can only hear my own exhausted panting. I'm confused about what is happening and feel sick as shit, but at least the world isn't spinning anymore. Somehow I must have been poisoned. What did he mean with "in the bloodstream?"

I start the car and carefully drive from the parking lot and out in the direction of home. Perhaps I shouldn't be driving at all. Crashing while driving is worse than crashing while sitting in a parking lot, but I really don't want to have to call anyone for help. Not after what I've just been through. I so sympathize with the movie cliché of a girl sobbing in the shower. I only want to cleanse myself in any way possible. To get rid of Jack from me. Even now I can feel the smell of athletic sweat, like it was clinging on to me.

There is a big pop accompanied by one of the chest buttons on my shirt shooting off in the car. The pop isn't so much heard as felt, as a reverberation in my body like someone just punched me in the chest, with dull spikes of pain in the joints. I swerve dangerously close to the side of the road. It feels like my shoulders pops into their sockets, like my chest just suddenly expands and the rest of my body catches up. There is no mirror I can look in, but I can clearly see something is off just by looking down at my body. What little movement I can make while driving the car feels different.

There is another big shift. Knees and hip joints this time, I think. I'm a little more prepared to handle that one without swerving, but this time I'm instead missing the brake pedal like the seat is set wrong. I scoot forward on the seat and reach the pedal. Now I'm getting real nervous what is happening. I'm almost home though, but I can feel my thigh muscles involuntarily flexing, my feet are hurting, and my stomach is gurgling like bad plumbing.

Her car is not home yet, thank God. I park mine as calmly as I can, screaming inside that I need to get inside and see what the fuck is going on. As I step out of the car I get a first inkling about the enormity of the changes. I almost trip stepping out of the car, and sit down again on the edge of the seat. The fabric on the trousers are straining, and I realize that my feet are probably hurting because they have swollen up inside the shoes. I try to kick off one of the sneakers, but it's stuck enough that I have to untie them. My movements feel off. It's not that it is hard to move. The opposite in fact, but different somehow. Me feet thanks me in relief as they are freed,

With the shoes off I awkwardly make my way into the house and step into the nearest bathroom. It's me in the mirror, of course, but me 5-10 years younger. I'm touching my face in disbelief. But this isn't just me regressed a decade in time. I was way taller than this then. Curious I unbutton the remaining buttons on my shirt and throw it on the floor. The chest and abs are not me 5-10 years ago. I've never looked this buff before. For one I've never had washboard abs, and the pecs and shoulders are wide and meaty. The arms more slender, though still muscular, and the core is built more for function than aesthetics. A bit too dense for the show off V shape. Dense, with a low center of gravity.

It's the body of a hockey player.

I rip off the straining trousers and the socks. Sure enough, massive leg muscles, big thighs, big ass, big feet. Jack the fucking cheater is a fraud in all areas. Whatever the fuck he is taking must have concentrated in his balls, shot into my lungs, and from there gone straight into my bloodstream to do whatever the fuck it's done to me. And there is nothing I can do to hurt him with it. Who would believe me? This is so far from any science I've heard of.

I take a closer look in the mirror again. Perhaps it isn't all bad after all.

[scriptaed]

bygones of the sun. 09 (m)

genre: angst/fluff/(future)smut || dance captain!hoseok, bad boy!au, uni!au

pairing: reader x hoseok;

length: 5.5k;

synopsis: Jung Hoseok was once the sweetheart of the school, the dance captain whom every girl, including you, can’t help but fall head over heels for. But like the force of the ever-glowing sun, everything that rises must also set. A year of inactivity later and he’s now the school’s resident bad boy. You’re a firm believer of allowing the past be the past, and yet you can’t help but wonder where the risen sun has gone into hiding—because perhaps its shadows have out-shined its own radiance.

Moonlight bellows in the background of the warm, golden-lit room—crashing and seceding, crashing and seceding, repeatedly colliding against the jagged rocks by the cliff like tidal waves out at sea in the deep sway of the black night. Under the hypnosis of the jet-black skies absent of the charming twinkling of the stars, you had somehow stumbled through the retreat to your room. You aren’t exactly sure what you had seen—and perhaps, out of consideration for your well-being, you simply don’t want to nor need to comprehend your sightings—but the glutinous image of the broken boy sticks to your chest akin to a dark secret weighing heavy on a sinner’s heart.

And somehow, amidst the long night looming ahead of you, the spur of emotions sweeps you before the door of his room.

Taking a deep breath, you clear your throat and whisper hesitantly next to the wooden frame, “...Hoseok?”

In the red-carpeted hall where dozens of fellow camp attendees rest until the next sunrise, you stand there wondering if Jimin had mistyped the captain’s room number on the emergency flyers. The overwhelming guilt of having pushed Hoseok to his breaking point, albeit unknowingly, had forced the heavy footsteps of yours to this very spot, but now that you’re faced with silence as an answer, you figure perhaps it isn’t in your fate to confront him tonight; it would be the easier way out, at least, for irrationality had bewitched you and plans on what to even say were the last things on your mind… until now.

Subconsciously, your knuckles meet the cold wax finish of his door once again.

One knock, two knocks, and alas, a sigh.

Your hands drop to your sides in defeat, despite regretting your rash decision which had brought you here in the first place. You glimpse around to ensure that the coast was clear, and when the last sigh escapes your lips and the balls of your feet pivot to your left, only then does the door swing wide open.

“What do you want?”

Whirling around, you find Hoseok standing aside where one arm leans against the door frame and the other hides behind the door, clutching the gold handle. As you gaze at him in silence, too taken aback to make your next move, Hoseok stands there, heavy-lidded and jaws clenched, disgruntled by your late night appearance.

The uninviting glare of his elicits the uncomfortable shift in place of your footsteps. It’s a rare moment for goosebumps to rise and chest to constrict when in the presence of someone as playful and flirtatious as Hoseok, but the sudden cold mien of his persona now conveys to you that you’re not welcome here tonight.

“I… I was just…” your eyes dart to the floor as your mind crashes into auto-pilot, searching for any form of excuse other than the truth too unready to be exposed, “I couldn’t fall asleep. So—”

“—you could’ve texted me,” he refutes, brows furrowing, but all your eyes are fixated on are what appears to be beads of sweat dripping from his damp bangs. And when he notices the softening of your wandering eyes, his voice nearly drowns in the waves of sneakers squeaking against the floor and the buzz of the vending machine which shrills in your eardrums to this very second.

From the tee which drapes his upper body and his sweatpants which masks the witnessed scene weighing heavy in your heart, everything about him now would serve as the perfect facade of a normal captain disturbed from his sleep. But at least he's still up, at least he's still trying, at least he answered your call.

You want to believe he’s okay again, that everything you had seen was just a misunderstanding, but something tells you the sun won't be rising again after tonight, and that very thought plagues you of your sleep.

A few seconds pass as you scan him over in a confusing mixture of both disbelief and relief, when Hoseok half scoffs and half chuckles, frowning at your expression, “is something bothering you? You look like you're almost glad to see me for once.”

“...why are you sweating?” you blurt, his words completely missing you as your eyes fixates on the beads of liquid plastered across his temples and trapped in his brows.

“Sweat…?” Hoseok arches a concerned brow before pressing his lips into a thin line. “This isn't sweat… I just got out of the shower. What makes you think that, though?”

Your lips part, but silence ensues when you realize neither you nor him seemed prepared enough to tackle the true reason as to why you're here.

“Nothing… really. It was just the first thing which came to mind.”

Hoseok nods, eyelids weighing heavier and heavier as the conversation comes to an abrupt end. “So…” he drawls, “what do you need?”

“I didn't need anything, per se,” you emphasize, eyes averting to the side and away from his watchful gaze, “I just… wanted to talk. I didn't get to talk to you much today.”

Usually, at a point like this, Hoseok would tease you; “someone's a bit needy today, and I know you're pure and untainted and all, but shouldn't you at least know not to come begging for attention to a guy's room at midnight”—is what he would've said, but tonight, the tidal waves under the wavering moon dictates otherwise.

“Look, Y/N,” he runs a hand through his hair and leans his entire weight against the doorframe, “I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone right now. I want to be alone.”

But does he? Because the gleam in his softened eyes, the windows to his soul, are begging you to accompany him through the long night.

“Are you… okay, Hoseok?” you ask, brows cinching in concern.

He flinches, but his brows immediately lift to mask the initial response. “...yeah,” he finally says after a long pause, taking a deep breath and sighing, eyes never budging from yours, “...I'm fine. Now go sleep if you're done badgering me.”

“Okay… you should sleep, too.”

“Yeah,” he utters under his breath, eyes glued to the ground as he mumbles, “I'll try.”

“Try…?”

“I have a lot of things on my mind and decisions to make tonight,” he explains with a final sigh, the void in his eyes lifting to meet yours once again, and you don't notice until now the purple-blue dark circles which only emphasizes the absence of his usual vigor. “I'll see you tomorrow then.”

And ever so quietly, as if none of the conversation had taken place under the mist of the night perched high up on the mountains, the door closes on you, and the walls between you and Hoseok become thicker than ever.

You can't tell what's on his mind. You can't even tell what's on your own mind. All you can convey is the sheer dejection, the unusual lethargy radiating from Hoseok akin to a captain too prideful to allow his pupils to witness his own cracks and falls.

You're partially responsible for this—no, somehow your mind had convinced you that you're the one completely responsible for this. If you hadn't pushed him to return, maybe things wouldn't have gotten this far. You had reopened a wound like ripping stitches off a gash still in the process of rehabilitation.

And sometimes, wounds of seconds can inflict more pain than its first and leave deeper scars than the past itself.

You're guilty as charged, and you want to fix things now, but the unwelcoming tone of tonight's conversation tells you it might just be too late. If you've acknowledged your mistakes but the other is unwilling to receive your sympathy, what else are you supposed to do?

You had hated the new Hoseok for laying the death of the old, but now that you stand here before his guarded walls and closed door, maybe things would've been better the way they were before.

But that thought finds you as ridiculous, and the very fact that a part of you still wants to aid him in rediscovering your first love at the expense of the person he is now, finds you even more horrendous.

For now, a shower is the only concoction for such a plague.

-

Water beads drip from the ends of your hair to the cottons of the white towel hanging from your neck. A rush of goosebump inducing air envelops you the second your right foot meets the carpet beyond the bathroom tiles. Besides the remaining drip drops of the water draining in the bathtub behind you, all that is left in the sanctuary of your room is what should have been silence.

Because you can still hear the buzz of the vending machine, the familiar squeaks of sneakers, and worst of all, his wincing breaths endowed with despair still echo in the back of your mind—gradually quickening and crescendoing into a chaos of a symphony without its conductor until everything collapses, the squeaks and the huffs replaced by the ominous buzz of the machine.

As you run through your hair and turn your back on the door to further bury yourself in the depths of your sanctuary, a sudden rise of events interrupts the temporary serenity with the strike of fear into your racing heart.

A series of slurred knocks—two loud, quick knocks followed by one hesitant bump of the knuckles—elicits a ring in your ear as you cautiously turn on the balls of your feet to face the door head on.

The numbers 1:15 A.M. blink in red digital font from the desk beside your bed.

Who could possibly be visiting you at this time of the night?

“Y/N?”

The familiar voice strained with lethargy finally announces after a sigh, and as if reciting words to a spell of witch craft, your heart stills and your body freezes… because did you really just hear Hoseok? Outside your room? The one who had just turned you away without a blink of the eye?

Even with the mess of your mental state after finally digging up the answer you had been searching for all along, the only and greatest fear which plagues you now is the thought of whether the victim, Jung Hoseok, had somehow caught onto you preying upon his darkest of secrets.

After half a minute of silence, Hoseok sighs once again with a groan, “I’m not here to mess around with you if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m on duty for patrolling tonight, and I noticed your light was on. Now open up, would you?”

The walk to your door seems to take you centuries, because the second your hand pushes the handle even an inch down, the door swings wide open to reveal the rather irritated, profusely impatient boy standing on the other side.

“Could you be any slower?” he remarks, eyes peering down at you, unamused. “You’re even slower than me and I worked out more than…”

His white tee shifts underneath his crossed arms as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. The intensity of his eyes with bags and dark circles drooping below elicits a shift in your own body of discomfort. Your own eyes retreat to the ground when his brows cinch and you can tell he’s scanning you over, just seconds away from catching you red-handed.

“...w-what? Can you  stop staring at me like that?” 

“What? I’m not checking you out or anything if that’s what you’re worried about,” Hoseok scoffs for a fleeting second before silence befalls his lips—and suddenly, the warmth of his hands radiate from your cheeks. A lock of your hair lies in the palms of his long, delicate fingers just barely grazing your cheeks, and it doesn’t take you very long to hastily cover your reddening ears and cheeks with your dampened towel. He frowns, not at your sheepish behavior, but for the wet strands of hair which are all that he fixates on, “did you just work out or something?”

Shouldn't you be the one asking him that? It's as if the irony of his actions is his own method of begging to be exposed without having to come out and ask for it himself.

“No,” you retort, scrunching your face at the absurdity of his suggestion.

Just as you’re about to pull away from his touch, Hoseok retracts his hands from the proximity of your cheeks before what would usually be another one of his mischievous acts; and as much as his sneaky pecks and meaningless affection had once infuriated you, it’s hard to admit how empty you now feel in the absence of its wake. His retreat made of his own will is a first for you.

“Then why are you showering at 1 A.M. in the morning?” he cocks his head with a raised brow.

“Says you—”

“—but at least I have an excuse. I was busy cleaning up after practice,” he retorts and shifts his weight to his other leg, musing, “you, on the other hand…”

“B-Because…” you cross your arms and shoot him the most annoyed glare you could muster; while meeting and comforting him were all that shrouded your mind just a few minutes ago, seeing him in a completely fine state like this is enough to put you to peace and shoo him away for now. “...I slept through the entire day and forgot to shower.”

“...okay,” his lips pressed into a frown gradually bursts into a large grin plastered with second hand embarrassment. “While you kept nagging at me to ‘attend dance camp’ and pick up dancing again, which I so dutifully obliged to tonight, you hide yourself in the corner of your room and sleep the day away?”

“Oh, shut up. It's not like I'm an actual dancer like you—” you roll your eyes before stopping mid-sentence; was that too insensitive of you to say considering the struggles Hoseok seemed to be going through? Clearing your throat, you lift your head high and sigh, “so what’re you doing here? I thought you were busy thinking the night away.”

“Like I said, I'm on patrol tonight. Are you even listening to me or are you to busy fantasizing about all the things we could've been doing in my room right now?” he teases and gently knocks his knuckles on your head.

His entire demeanor had reverted to his usual self, and as concerning as it is to wonder whether this is all an act too painful to witness yourself, you're glad to see him joking around again, even if it's forced.

“No, that's the last thing on my mind, but I guess it's not the same case for someone here,” you roll your eyes.

In retaliation to your indifferent attitude, Hoseok leans against the doorframe with a scoff, pulling you back in as you pushed him out. “Like I said, Ms. I Like To Break Rules Because I’m Dating the Captain, you’re supposed to be asleep by now.”

“I’ll turn off my lights after I blow dry my hair, Mr. Ex Dance Captain—” you bite your tongue when you notice the twitch in his darkened eyes and hardened jaw “—I mean, I'm not dating you.”

At this point, you’re not even sure how to address his relationship with dance, if you should even do so at all.

“So, if you’ll excuse me,” you continue, giving him one last pressed smile and stepping back to close the door; but before you could do so, Hoseok swiftly juts a foot out to interevene, and a simple question ensues.

“What? You don’t want me here?”

All efforts to protest dissipate when he turns his head to face you and lets out a scoff in disbelief, eyes completely empty, and you nearly have to lean in to catch his next words.

“You’re always so cold to me,” he lets out a soft laugh and cracks the most reluctant of grins. “Why do I even bother being disappointed at this point?”

A few seconds of tense silence goes by before it occurs to you what he had just said.

For once, he actually cares about what you say? He’s taking your meaningless banters to heart?

“I’m turning off my lights now,” you frown at him, but his attention remains elsewhere, “isn’t that what you came here to do?”

“You really...” he scoffs and lifts his head, eyes piercing yours and opening the window to his souls; shaky, colorless, lost and infuriated by the calamity of the world before him, in the world you present him. “...do you really think I came here just for that? I could care less what time you sleep.”

“O-Okay…” you stutter; you know there isn’t anything to be hurt over, because what he’s saying has made you believe is of the utmost truth, but the unusually blunt implications of his disingenuity comes on all too harsh.

His constant switch in demeanor is all too confusing to keep up with tonight, and quite frankly, you don't know how to read him anymore, as if you ever could.

His lips part, words of apology ready to be uttered, and his eyes soften in worry for a swift second, but when the clock ticks twice, his jaw hardens the invisible wall built between the two of you.

And for the first time in a while, he’s actually acting like the infamous reputation he had been endowed; because he doesn’t apologize, and now your guts begin to twist and turn, wondering whether you had done something wrong.

Was he in a bad mood because of what you had seen just half an hour before? Should you confront him about it? Should you comfort him? Would words of encouragement even help? Is that what he’s asking for?

Is that the true reason as to why he’s here? Is he… asking for help?

“I’m here to check up on your ankle.”

His mumbling interrupts the internal war fared between two hidden motivations; defeat is all that reigns in the realm of tonight—you, unable to decipher his code, and him, unable to send you such codes.

The mention of your momentarily forgotten injury brings a crease between your brows, “my ankles are fine.”

“Don’t make this harder than it already is for me, your highness,” he refutes with a pressed, unamused smile.

“But it really is fine—” you stop mid-sentence when you notice Hoseok taking a deep breath, chest struggling to rise while constricting the impatience and whatever else remains buried from within.

Please let me in, his eyes scream.

Your feet stumbles as they shuffle backwards, and in response, he takes one swift, large stride forward. The door shuts behind him, and suddenly, the room seems significantly more lackluster than before.

“What if someone sees us?” your fear translates into words.

“Should’ve worried about that earlier, don’t you think?” he flatly remarks, cocking his head to the side.

“...but,” you frown and shake your head, “what if they spread rumors about you entering my room?”

He snorts and rolls his eyes before returning the look of impertinence to you, “haven’t they already spread rumors about us? We literally made out at the pool last night. And who cares what they say? I’m tired of giving a shit about them. All it does is burden you.”

“Burden…” your mind subconsciously slips the words into formation when your eyes naturally trail from his gray sweatpants and up to his white tee where beads of water drip from his drenched bangs. “...hey, Hoseok, why haven't you dried your hair yet?”

He couldn't have possibly went out to practice again, could he?

“My hair…?” his brows cinch as his hands find their way to twirl the wet locks in between his fingers and his eyes light up before settling into a frown once again. “Ah… but first, why are you so concerned for me tonight?”

“Maybe because I was kind enough to let you in my room and that's the least you could do…?”

“But I’m the captain. I’m the one in charge,” he quickly quips. You can see the tip of his tongue running across the inner walls of his mouth from the protrusion of his cheeks and his hardened jaw, as if preparing for a fight. “So, technically, I do have the rights to be here, because you broke the rules. If you don’t want to see me, maybe you should turn off your lights next time.”

His sudden defense rubs you the wrong way when you scoff, “captain? Huh, funny, because I seem to recall a certain someone getting all pissed off at me because I begged them to come here in the first place.”

“What?” he asks in disbelief, narrowing his eyes at you.

“It’s really not that big of a deal. Why are you being so aggravated today? Are you scared to tell me the truth? That you’re playing around and checking in on me to pretend and act like you’ve been up hard at work all day? So you can continue playing around with me without having to hear me nag at you?”

You just want him to be honest with himself, and more so with you, and maybe you aren’t approaching it the right way, but you simply don’t understand how to fix the dent in Hoseok’s enclosed heart.

“What?” he repeats, the fury in his boiling blood exuding from his step forward and your step back. “I’m doing my job here, aren’t I? I’m guiding us through the camp, I’m teaching you guys how to dance, I’m even out here past midnight patrolling as a captain should! So how am I anything but a captain?”

Buzz, sneakers, collision, and buzz—the entire sequence washes onto shore once again from the back of your mind, blaring at you as if to tell you to back down.

He continues to take steps forward, forcing you to retreat backwards into the depths of your room.

“I didn't mean it like that…” you mumble, taking another step back until your heels hit the drawer and the back of your head bumps into the TV behind you.

Hoseok steps one intimidating stride forward, arms gripping at the drawer on either side of you and entrapping you in his field of control. He gives you one long, hard stare, and as uncomfortable as it is, something tells you there would be serious repercussions if you looked away.

“No, but it sure does feel like it and it confuses me,” he retorts lowly, “so tell me, Y/N, why are you so concerned for me all of a sudden?”

His watchful eyes and parted lips pray for the hopes that you had seen him, that he had finally found someone who knew the true him, but you don't want to and you can't possibly reopen his wound. You know it would hurt him all too much.

So you keep silent, just as he has all along

“...you’ll wake them if you yell any louder,” you mumble, looking off to the side in dejection.

But his warm hands cup the cold surface of your chin damp from your shower, turning you until your gaze has returned to meet his.

“Stop making excuses. You know they can't hear us,” he lowly utters. “What did you even think I was doing anyways?”

“I-I don't know. I was just asking what you’ve been doing. It’s not that hard of a question,” you mumble. “You can lie to me, even, if you want.”

“No,” he shakes his head, keeping his fingertips grazing against your chin. “I want to hear your guesses.”

You gulp, diverting from his piercing gaze, “I don't know…”

“You seemed to have a pretty good guess just a minute ago,” he narrows his eyes at you. “Just say it. I dare you to.”

I dare you to say it, but I doubt you can, because I doubt you even know, his leer screams.

“...maybe you had a girl over in your room or something…”

You know that's not the case, or at least you hope, but that's the most believable guess you could muster other than outright accusing him of his late night practices sessions.

“You think that I'd let another girl other than you into my room? Who do you take me for?” he scoffs, even chuckles. “Ah, you're too cute.”

He doesn't mean it, you tell yourself, you can't believe him and you can't fall for this specific trick because you know that's exactly what he wants to distract you from the pain hidden beneath that flirtatious crooked smile of his.

You frown, “quit playing and let me go...”

“Just one more question,” he laughs for a brief second, silence failing for a tense minute before finally asking in the lowest of voices, “can I kiss you?”

“W-What?”

“I mean, last time I was so congested and upset with these dark thoughts of mine that I forgot to even ask you for permission before I forced myself on you. Two elements of a great kiss are consent and surprise, remember? I think I got the surprise part down judging by the look on your face,” he smirks, but all you can do is stare at him in silence.

It's not like you're opposed to the idea of kissing him, per se, but you're against sharing such an intimate moment when you know he would just be using you like alcohol as a way to temporarily numb the pain.

But should you go ahead and let him? If something as trifling as this could even relieve him of the pain, should you give him what he wants?

“Are you… lonely? Are you upset over something? Can't I help you?”

Several seconds of silence passes by until you hear him chortle with a sigh, his arms dripping from your sides and releasing you from his grasp as he brushes by your shoulder and heads toward your bed. “I was just joking around with you. Don't look at me like that, it hurts me too, you know? I didn’t come here to argue anyways, ” he remarks, lightening up the mood. “I just forgot to dry my hair, that’s all. Do you have any snacks in your fridge?”

Nonchalantly, Hoseok plops onto your mattress without further permission, but all you could notice is the slight limping in his walk; if anyone else had watched his strides, including you from the past, no one would have suspected a thing, but now that you’ve discovered his secret, the uneven footsteps of his are all too glaring.

With his head against his hand propped by an elbow against one of your two pillows, Hoseok grins at you with an arched brow and a hand tapping on the sweatpants concealing the swelling of his leg.

“...no,” you finally answer, walking a few steps forward into the room to lean against the corner wall next to the lower side of your bed. You cross your arms and continue, “why would I bring food for a three night trip?”

“Ah, I forgot this is only for three nights. I see,” he nods, pursing his lips and turning to lie on his back with his head nestled into your pillow. The fingers of one of his hands drum against his stomach as the other props above his shoulders and under his neck.

The buzzing of your empty fridge stimulates you to memories you don’t want to revisit, but the overwhelming silence seems to be the motif of tonight and you just don’t know how to fix it; yet the longer he stares emptily into the ceiling above, the more curious you become.

“Hoseok?”

“Hm?” he hums without budging his eyes from the ceiling.

“What’re you thinking about?”

A few seconds pass by before he takes a deep breath and sighs loudly, his chest noticeably rising and sinking underneath his water-drenched tee.

“Truthfully, I actually came here after you left because I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone tonight. I was wrong to shut you out,” he confesses; but when you’re left staring at him in utter, shock, Hoseok finally breaks his gaze from the ceiling to meet your gaping expression with a chuckle. “It’s a joke, Y/N. I’m a lonely person, just like you said, remember?”

“Being lonely isn’t a joke…” you grumble, uncrossing your arms and walking over to gently seat yourself beside him in bed.

You’re expecting some teasing remark for supposedly joining him in bed, but what you don’t expect is what slips from his lips instead.

“Have you ever wanted something so bad that it’s all you come to know, but the second you get it, it turns out to be the only thing you can’t have? It just… it doesn’t love you back. I’m the only one trying at this point.”

“Like what…?” you hesitantly ask.

“Like you,” he swiftly answers, turning his head to shoot you a lopsided grin.

Everything comes crashing down into a full circle once it finally clicked for you: dance; dance is the unrequited love for Hoseok, and you were just one of the many replacements to allow him to forget what he had lost.

The thought irks you the wrong way, and as much as you want to console him, the teasing relationship you two have established does not exactly authorize for such a moment.

“But you never got me in the first place,” you snort.

Hoseok blinks blankly at your words before scoffing in disbelief, turning his head and smirking with the shake of his head, “go dry your hair before you get sick, you cold-hearted woman.”

“No, I can’t leave you unattended in my bed!”

“I won’t stay here overnight, alright,” Hoseok rolls his eyes while cracking a smile. “So stop worrying and go or you’ll get a cold.”

“Psh, fine,” you huff, getting up from your bed; but before you could depart to the bathroom, Hoseok’s hands grip onto your hands only to pull you back into bed beside him. You sigh, turning your back to glare at the blank look on his face, “do you want me to stay or not?”

“Y/N,” he ignores you and proceeds with his question, looking you straight in the eye, “what would you do if I said I still wanted to quit dance? If I said this entire trip only reminded me of why I hated it so much in the first place? What would you do?”

Your eyes grow wide; he’s practically asking you upfront about his inner true conundrums, and this time, you’re going to make things right again.

“I would support you no matter what. If dancing isn’t what you want, then I’m fine with it,” you answer. “I kissed you so you would come to camp. That’s all I bargained for, and that’s all I’m asking for.”

Hoseok stares at you for several seconds in silence before scoffing and tossing your hand to the side, “I came here for an answer, but now you’re just confusing me.”

“What?”

“Go dry your hair already. Your hands are cold,” he states, turning his head away from you. “I won’t be able to kiss you anymore if you get sick.”

Glaring at him from his back, you oblige to his demands and retreat to the safety of your washroom. While drying your hair, you spend all your time scrambling for something to say, to fill in the conversation, to keep you from the pounding white noise of sneakers and buzz, but most importantly, to keep him from the ill reminder of his downfall.

Yet, all is in vain, when you return to your room to find him asleep.

Sighing, you tiptoe your way to lie down in the bed right beside him. With your head cupped in your hands propped on the mattress by your elbow, you lean just a bit forward to catch a glimpse of his dozing expression. Only in his slumber is he relinquished of all worries. The crease between his brows has vanished, and the frown he had constantly worn in the corner of his lips had dissipated along with it. Finally, he is at peace and solace.

“You see, Hoseok, the thing about life is that it constantly challenges us to new obstacles… kind of like what you’re doing to me right now,” you chuckle to yourself and brush the fallen streaks of hair off his forehead and to his temples, “but you’re strong enough to overcome it, and as long as you have someone beside you the entire time, everything will turn out just right. You are loved, you just don’t know it.”

And with that, you lean in to place a chaste kiss on his forehead.

It’s the first time he ever failed to smirk after a kiss shared between the two of you.

With the official set of the sun ironically at the rise of dawn, an epiphany strikes you at 2 AM in the depths of your room where Hoseok lies asleep beside you.

Some secrets are meant to be kept hidden, some wounds are never meant to be revived; and so, instead of hurting and turning him away, you’ve agreed to be his sanctuary for just tonight.

Jimin [2:23 A.M.] Hoseok? No... he’s not supposed to be on patrol. I am.

[reflection-s-of-stars]

Broken bones and tattered clothes: Chapter 1

Part one of the fic I was talking about with @yulivia!

If Amber knows anything, it’s that there’s strength in numbers. Raine taught her that, but they seem to have forgotten it.

The group has separated by now. Katya and Derwin are off on some other path, far away from the Emperor’s silver-faced soldiers. Amber and Raine have been running, running for hours through this pitch-dark forest. They’re too weak even to make a light spell, so it’s up to her to light their way.

“C’mon, I see a cave,” she whispers. “It’s dark, they’ll never see us in there. We’ll wait this out, and then find the others.”

“No, I want you to go find them now.”

Amber cocks her head. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not safe for you with me. The soldiers won’t hurt you if you’re not in their way, and I don’t intend for you to get hurt.”

“No!”

The light spell is fizzling out. There’s just enough light for her to see them crying. What if Raine dies here, alone in the forest, at the mercy of the Emperor’s guards? Or what if they’re taken back to Kikimora, to be tortured until they give in? A million realities jump to Amber’s mind, each more horrendous than the last, and every one of them is her fault.

“I’m not just leaving you here, okay?”

“Amber, I know you’re worried, but I’ll be fine. You know I’ve held my own against these guys before. Just get out of here, alright? And I’ll come find you when it’s safe.”

As the lemony light dies, Amber can barely see Raine- still crying, but smiling too.

“Do you promise?”

“Yeah,” they mutter as they take her hand. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

————————————————————

“Do we have to do this now? It’s five in the morning.”

“And who’s not out at five in the morning, King?”

“Me!”

Amber’s eyes snap open. Either she ate a bad plant, or somebody’s here.

It’s been a week since the Day of Unity. Raine’s soft voice still echoes in her mind, but survival is more important right now. It’s easier in the forest than on the streets of Bonesborough: Food can be hunted and picked in solitude, rather than stolen or begged for. However hard the ground may be, it’s better than pavement. And the Emperor’s army is no match for Amber and the massive oak bough she’s been carrying around. But this can only last for so long.

“Look, now’s as good a time as any to re-learn some old spells. You didn’t have to come.”

“What, and stay home with the giant jump-rope? Besides, you might get eaten or something. It’s up to me to protect you from my fellow beasts.”

But now, there might be a chance at something more than the bare minimum. She recognizes those voices. They could be enemies, but it’s probably the only chance she has.

Amber takes a deep breath and screams with all her might:

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Her call hangs in the air, and all is lost for a second. Of course. Help doesn’t arrive because you shout to some voice in the woods. Amber should be looking for Raine, looking for food, looking-

“Hold your broom-handles, we’re coming!”

The voice is closer now, clearer. Amber relaxes a bit. Coven soldiers don’t say things like hold your broom-handles. And whoever it is, she knows them. They’ll know what to-

“Amber?”

The sunlight is bare, but the figure appears clearly. The witch in front of her is familiar. She’s pretty distinctive-looking: the wild gray hair, the fanged grin, even the same red dress from months ago. Eda, her name was, the agent of chaos. She played an oaken mandolin, and got even Katya to blush at her jokes. And most importantly, she was Raine’s old friend.

Eda can be trusted.

“Hi,” Amber says simply. It occurs to her that she hasn’t spoken to anyone in a week.

“What are you doing here? Where’s…” She trails off, eyes growing wide. “Is Raine here?”

“I- I don’t know, they said- they said they’d come and get me, but I can’t find them or Derwin or Katya, and I don’t know what to do! If they’re dead or something, then-” Amber’s voice breaks, and a lump grows in her throat. She can’t look Eda in the eye. What must she be thinking? That this child abandoned her old friend to the woods, that Raine is in danger because of her? She’d be-

“It’s okay,” Eda says, placing a hand on Amber’s shoulder. Kindness isn’t what she was expecting, but she’s not complaining.

“King, take her back to the house. I’m gonna go look for the others, and you,” she says, pointing at Amber, “Don’t worry. I’ll find Raine soon enough.”

And for the first time in a long time, Amber believes it’ll be okay.

[interstellarflare]

Bend and Break || Homelander

-PART ONE-

Warnings: Gore, violence, course language, angst.

Summary: People can only bend their morales so far before they break. Homelander is the world’s greatest superhero, and you, a tech analyst, somehow become entangled in his world when he learns that you provide intel to The Boys. He makes it his personal mission to find out exactly what you know, but he never expected such resistance from someone as damaged as you. But broken things can be mended, sometimes in the most unexpected ways possible.

Author’s Note: As a bit of a disclaimer, I have only seen snippets of The Boys. I haven’t actually watched all of it, so forgive me if there are some details that are wrong, as well as the many spelling errors that will undoubtedly be in this series. There is a tag list open for those who wish to be added. Gif by @stream​

You had no idea how you ended up providing intel for The Boys. You didn’t even know how they managed to find you.

You were a nobody, a nobody who so happened to be very knowledgeable around technology. You hacked into secure companies that were affiliated with The Seven, media outlets, private companies and the like, and gained whatever information you could before passing it on to the leader of The Boys himself, Billy Butcher. He stopped by your apartment at random hours during the day and night, giving you set deadlines to complete certain assignments before he came to retrieve the intel. No one knew who you were. You were so mysterious in fact, that the general public had even given you a name. The Watcher.

Not long after you were given your name, The Seven were notified of your existence. Madelyn Stillwell explained to The Seven that their servers had been hacked, and several files of important information had been taken in a matter of seconds. It was a serious security breach, and Madelyn wanted whoever did this killed. Homelander couldn’t help but agree. He volunteered to personally to do it himself, to a send a message to The Boys. It would be a good publicity stunt. If The Watcher was stopped, then The Boys would lose their only source of information. Plus, the public would love him even more.

But unfortunately for you, you had made a mistake. Vought International traced the IP address to your apartment a few days after your cyber attack, and Homelander was en route within the hour. It was a shitty apartment complex, fitting he supposed, for one who would commit such a crime against him and his colleagues. A huge uproar occurred outside the building, drawing your attention toward the ground floor. When your eyes met the form of the famous superhero waving to the adoring crowd as he entered through the lobby, a string of disgusting curses escaped your lips. There was no point in running, he could catch up easily. There was no point in hiding, the fucker could see through walls. There was nothing you could do except panic internally, and hope that maybe Billy and the others knew about this conundrum.

Before you had another second to think, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, eventually stopping in front of your apartment door. You stood in the centre of your apartment, debating whether or not to open the door and atop that horrendous knocking, or answering Billy’s distress call on your laptop. If you made a run for your laptop, he would know. There was no doubt that the son of a bitch was using his x-ray vision to watch you sweat. He was probably reviling in the fact that he had caught you, and that there was nowhere for you to go. Regretfully and hesitantly, you moved towards the door, steadying your breath before throwing it open. You swallowed thickly as your gaze met Homelander’s blue hues, as he stared down at you with that stupid fake Hollywood smile of his. With his hands braced on his hips in that cliche superhero stance, he pointed accusingly at you, trying to keep up his heroic image as a crowd began to gather in the hall. “You, are one hard person to find Miss L/n...” he began, laughing mockingly as the crowd gathered around your apartment door.

Your eyes flickered around the crowd, some tenants you recognised, others you didn’t. Biting your lips nervously, your shrugged your shoulders as calmly and nonchalantly as you could. “I like to keep it that way...” you responded confidently, holding his gaze despite your growing fear “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”. Homelander grinned, and without saying a word, he pushed past you into your apartment, his eagle shoulder pad deliberately knocking you out of the way. You clenched your jaw, giving the gathered crowd one last warning glare before slamming the door in their faces. You heard several muffled shouts, and hushed voice talking. What could Homelander possibly want with her? What makes her so special?

“So, you are The Watcher?” He spoke tauntingly, folding his arms intimidatingly over his chest as you turned to face him. Pressing your lips into a thin line, you nodded slowly, your eyes landing on your laptop screen once again. Billy was still trying to contact you, and it was by sheer dumb luck that the tyrant in front of you didn’t notice. Homelander’s eyes narrowed, glowing a faint red as he approached “You know, you’ve done a very bad thing...” he spoke lowly, moving so close to you that your back hit your apartment door with a loud thump. Homelander could hear your heart beating rapidly in your chest, though your breath came out even and slow. “I want back what you stole from Vought International, now” he growled stepping closer so that there was barely any space left between you. You looked up at the superhero in front of you with a shrug of your shoulders, slipping out of that small space and making your way over to your laptop.

“Sorry, but I don’t have it anymore...” you responded blatantly, pressing the ‘decline’ button to Billy’s call. Homelander’s eyes returned to their normal blue out of shock, as he turned to face you bewilderedly. You leaned against the desk beside your laptop, your head tilted to the side in an almost carefree nature. In a matter a seconds, your demeanour had changed entirely. How? You were just terrified of him...he could hear your heart beating like crazy. “I’m sorry, what?...” he asked in disbelief “where is it then?”. “It’s long gone by now, The Boy’s probably have it now, so I don’t think you’ll be getting it back anytime soon”. How dare you. He was Homelander, the world’s greatest superhero, how dare you, a mere human speak to him this way. Downplaying your words, you watched as Homelander’s expression darkened, before he used his superhuman speed to suddenly appear before you in a burst of wind. You released a sharp cry as Homelander gripped your forearm, using his superhuman strength to apply agonising pressure to your limb. You winced, tears flowing freely from your eyes as he leaned forward, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear.

“I’ve changed my mind, I don’t even want the information anymore...” he began, tightening his grip which made you release a pained cry “I just want Billy Butcher. Now, I know you have contact with him. If you don’t tell me where he is in the next five seconds, I’m going to break your arm”. You shrieked, trying to pry your arm from his grip to no avail. “Five..” Homelander began, slowly squeezing your arm “four-”

“I don’t know where he is! I’m telling the truth!” “I don’t believe you, three...” He continued, as you screamed for him to let you go. You squirmed, you kicked, you tried anything and everything to get him to let go. “Two...” he whispered tauntingly, no doubt enjoying your pain. You were panicking by now. What could you do? What could you say to get him to believe you? “STOP! He comes by my apartment at random times of the day and night. There isn’t a set schedule, that’s all I know I swear!”. Silence enveloped the apartment, the only sound heard was your soft cries as the pain in your forearm became unbearable. But just like that, it disappeared as Homelander released you from his hold. You collapsed to the floor of your apartment, sobbing quietly as you held your arm to your chest. Through your tearful gaze, you could already see your arm starting to bruise, the vibrant red slowly turning to a deep purple.

Heavy footsteps approached as Homelander knelt down before you. Cupping the side of your face with his gloved hand, he lifted your head up to meet his gaze. With a small victorious smile, he spoke authoritatively “Then how about you and I make a little arrangement. I’ll stop by at random times of the day and night as well, that way, I’m bound to catch him at some point right? And when I do, I’ll kill you to set an example. How does that sound?”. You said nothing as Homelander stood up, his touch lingering as a silent promise to his threat. “Oh, and I forgot...” he called out, turning to face you with a smirk “Don’t even think about warning him, I’ll know” he continued, motioning to his ears in reference to his superhuman hearing before walking through your apartment door. As he disappeared through the adoring crowd still gathered outside, you began to sob loudly.

You had never been more terrified in your life. Your arm still hurt like hell as you trudged towards your phone, which had been vibrating non-stop the entire time. There were five missed calls from Billy, and about seven texts, all of them containing a stunning variety of swear words which you didn’t know existed.

‘Answer me damn it, fucking hell woman. What’s going on over there?’

Your hands trembled as you replied, your breath uneven as your heart thundered in your ears.

‘Not safe to talk. He knows’.

[jaskierswolf]

The White Wolf (pt. 1/3)

Ship: Geraskier - Established. Rating: T Word Count: 6k in total (this chapter is 2k)

Summary: Following an unfortunate encounter with a mage, Geralt gets cursed into a wolf. Jaskier and Geralt must travel the Continent in search of someone that can help them. (AO3)

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, nudity (Jaskier’s clothes don’t change with him).

Part 7: Shifter!Jaskier Verse (Tumblr) - Can be read as a stand alone. 

_________

The cloud of sparkling dust settled on the floor and Geralt was nowhere to be seen. The last Jaskier had seen of his boyfriend, he’d been thrown against the wall, barely able to move his fingers to form Quen in time before his head knocked against the stone. There was no witcher in the room now. Just a pile of bloodstained white fur in the corner of the room.

Jaskier snarled and sniffed the air. He could smell Geralt but something was wrong. Geralt reeked of wet dog. Jaskier growled, low and menacing, at the sorcerer in front of them. The man had been luring children away from their homes in the dead of night using all sorts of sweet treats. Then at night he was pulling their dreams from their minds and using them for fuck knows what. The children were returning to their homes as lifeless ghosts of their former selves, and thus a witcher and his trusted companion had been hired.

“I’m no fool, bard.” The sorcerer spat. “I can sense your magic.

Jaskier let his sharp teeth show as he snarled again. He let his magic loose and there was a sickening crunch of bones. Jaskier’s thick russet fur melted away into long red feathers. He spread his wings as a thick black mane grew along he neck. He roared at the sorcerer and struck both talons across his chest, balancing on the large lion paws of his hind legs. The sorcerer was thrown backwards as dark blood seeped through his clothing. The attack had caught him off guard. Jaskier stalked forward, his front talons clacking on the wooden floor. This human had stolen Jaskier’s mate and they had to pay.

The scent of blood was thick in the air and all he knew was the hunt.

The prey was wounded. It was an easy kill.

He screeched as he prepared to land the final blow but a large snowy white wolf with glowing amber eyes suddenly stood between him and the prey.

Amber eyes.

Jaskier knew those eyes.

Geralt.

He let his magic loose and shifted back into a wolf. There was just something about Geralt being in wolf form that ignited all his pack instincts. He didn’t know whether Geralt was stuck as a wolf or could shift between animals, but Jaskier knew he would match Geralt no matter what.

The thought gave him pause. He wondered whether it was an instinct of his people, lost and long forgotten. Were there ever groups of shifters? Were they still alive? Or was he alone… He’d always felt so alone. Jaskier nudged his head under Geralt’s snout and whined. Geralt huffed and butted Jaskier’s head. Jaskier did his best wolfy grin and then mouthed at Geralt’s nose before rolling over onto his back with a wag of his tail.

Geralt gave a quick bark and then looked pointedly between Jaskier and mage. Jaskier tilted his head, wondering how Geralt still managed to look unimpressed even as a wolf. Jaskier snorted and rolled back onto his paws. He glanced around the room, his clothes were still at the inn. Geralt’s clothes appeared to have disappeared when he was changed into a wolf; lucky bastard. He spotted a long cloak hanging up on the wall and wagged his tail. He leapt up on his hind legs and pulled at the cloak with his teeth. When he was covered nicely by the heavy material he shifted back into his human form with a crack of his bones.

The cloak was thick, grey and woollen. It had a large hood, reminiscent of the cloaks the elves used. He wrapped it round his shoulders and then grinned at Geralt.

“Hello, dearest. I know you’re the White Wolf and all, but isn’t this taking it a bit too far?” He reached out with his hand and Geralt bumped it with his snout. He gave Geralt a quick scratch behind the ears. “Can you shift?”

Geralt tilted his head.

Jaskier frowned and stuck his tongue out as he tried to figure out a way to explain it. It was like trying to explain how to blink or breathe or… just exist. “Umm, ah, think of Roach? Try and feel her hooves, her mane?”

Geralt’s snout scrunch up and he let out a snarl.

“No?”

Geralt shook his head, one ear twitched and Jaskier couldn’t help but coo. Geralt growled at that.

“I’m sorry!” He said, not really sorry at all. “But, my love, you look so cute!”

Another growl.

“Oh stop it. You’re trying to be all scary witcher and it’s not working. You are adorable and I can turn into a dragon so shush.” He bopped Geralt on the nose and gave him another scratch behind the ears. Geralt’s tail began to wag. Geralt looked behind him and snarled, clearly not enjoying the way his body was betraying his feelings. He also looked as if he was about to start chasing his tail. He was baring his teeth, snarling as the tail flicked on the stone floor. Jaskier took pity on him and knelt down so he could cup his wolf’s face in his hands. “Geralt, darling?”

Geralt blinked and looked up at him.

“There you go. The instincts might feel a bit strong at first but we’ll work it out alright?” Jaskier buried in face in Geralt’s fur, his own instincts to shift back into a wolf were almost overwhelming him, but Geralt needed him human. It was easier to explain things to his newly wolf companion when he could use words. It was also nice to be able to snuggle in Geralt’s fur for a change.  “Do you know how to fix this?”

Geralt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have killed the mage, should I?” Jaskier asked with a sigh.

Another head shake and a whine.

Jaskier kissed Geralt’s head. “In my defence, witcher. I thought he’d killed you!” Geralt licked his face and he grimaced. “Geralt! Oh gods, that went up my nose!”

Geralt wagged his tail and pounced. Jaskier was knocked back onto the ground and Geralt’s tongue was drooling all over his face, which would have been fine if Geralt’s tongue didn’t feel so coarse against his skin. “Oi, no! Get off you big lump!”

Geralt nipped at his ear and sat back down, his tail thumped noisily against the stone floor.

Jaskier sighed and grabbed Geralt’s swords from where they’d clattered on the floor. Jaskier hummed. Geralt’s clothes and medallion had changed with him but his swords had not. At least his magic was consistent. Geralt head-butted his leg and they finally fled the tower together. It felt strange being the one on two feet instead of four but they’d faced worse things in their two years travelling together.

Two years…

Had it really been so long? He’d been with Geralt for two whole years… not mentioning the little blip of his mother’s horrendous return into his life. He shuddered at the memory. Yeah, they’d definitely been through worse together. ___________

As they approached the town Geralt snorted and laid down on the ground, resting his head on his big white paws. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder at the wolf with a scowl before he realised why Geralt had stopped. He grinned and walked back to pet Geralt’s head. Geralt’s tail thumped heavily against the ground as Jaskier gave him a scratch behind the ear. Geralt still looked put out by his tail’s reaction to affection but now seemed resigned to the fact he could no longer mask his happier feelings.

“Well isn’t this a turn of events. I’m normally the one that has to wait outside!” Jaskier announced with a laugh.

Geralt let out a low growl and mouthed at Jaskier’s fingers.

“Ouch! Sharp teeth, Geralt. You’re not exactly a pup, dear heart,” Jaskier chided.

Geralt’s ears flicked and Jaskier was pretty sure the strange snuffling noise was Geralt trying to laugh at him.

“Stay here. I’ll go and get our stuff,” he sighed and looked down at himself. The cloak wasn’t exactly modest and whilst he had very little shame over his body, most humans wouldn’t appreciate him walking around town with his dick out. “Next time we are keeping my clothes in a pack and not back at the inn.”

Geralt barked and his tongue hung out of his mouth as he wagged his tail.

“Yeah yeah, go on, laugh at your poor suffering boyfriend.”

Geralt barked again and jumped up to lick Jaskier’s face, placing both paws on Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier just ruffled Geralt’s fur and kissed his snout.

“I’ll be back soon, love.”

He wrapped the cloak around him in a feeble attempt to cover himself up and trudged back to the inn. He did get some bizarre looks from the villagers but he did his best to ignore them. Had they never seen a bard wearing just a cloak and witcher’s swords before? He scoffed. They were amateurs. He tried to sneak up to their room at the inn but the bloody innkeeper spotted him.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?”

Jaskier spun around, only just remembering to keep his hands gripped on the cloak to stop it from flying open. He still had Geralt’s swords in their holder in his hand and he held them up for the innkeeper to see. “I’m a friend of the witcher’s. Jaskier? The bard? You might have heard of me?”

“Toss a Coin?” The innkeeper asked and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief.

“Ah, yes. That’s the one,” He sang a couple of lines just to prove his point. “And umm, well. Geralt… Geralt was looking after my lute for me whilst I was… away?”

“Away?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier winced. It was a terrible story and he was ashamed. “But you see, I really need to get it back.”

“Did the witcher take your clothes too?” The innkeeper asked with a smirk, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and it took all his control not to shift back into a mouse. He laughed nervously and tugged the cloak tighter around his chest. “Well, funny you should say that.”

“Those his swords?”

“Yes! Yes they are. I ran into him on the path just outside of town. He’s dealt with your mage problem, but ah. Umm. Spells! He was hit by a spell and it’s really not very pretty so he asked me to collect our… his.. belongings. So I’m just…” He pointed to the stairs and the innkeeper waved his hand. “Thank you ever so much, kind sir. May all the gods praise you!”

“Just go, bard.”

Jaskier gave a quick bow and then flew up the stairs, two steps at at time. Once inside the room he got dressed and quickly gathered up their belongings before heading back out to fetch Roach. The conversation with the stable girl went just as well as the one with the innkeeper and Jaskier barely remembered the story he’d woven only a few minutes before, but he was gone and heading back towards the forest before anyone else could question him.

He didn’t ride Roach but it was easier with her carrying the bags and his lute. Once he was out of sight from the townsfolk he considered shifting back into a wolf. Whatever the mage had hit Geralt with was driving him crazy, but they still needed to find a solution to Geralt’s wolf problem so regretfully he remained on two feet. He huffed and dragged his feet as they headed back to where he’d left Geralt. How did people cope with being in one form all the time? It was so boring!

___________

Next

[armageddon-generation]

Articulating Why His Dark Materials is Badly Written

A long essay-thing with lots of specific examples and explanations of why I feel this way. Hopefully I’ve kept fanboy bitching to a minimum.

This isn’t an attack on fans of the show, nor a personal attack on Jack Thorne. I’m not looking to ruin anyone’s enjoyment of the show, I just needed to properly articulate, with examples, why I struggle with it. I read and love the books and that colours my view, but I believe that HDM isn’t just a clumsy, at-best-functional, sometimes incompetent adaptation, it’s a bad TV show separate from its source material. The show is the blandest, least interesting and least engaging version of itself it could be.

His Dark Materials has gorgeous production design and phenomenal visual effects. It's well-acted. The score is great. But my god is it badly written. Jack Thorne writing the entire first season damned the show. There was no-one to balance out his flaws and biases. Thorne is checking off a list of plot-points, so concerned with manoeuvring the audience through the story he forgets to invest us in it. The scripts are mechanical, empty, flat.

Watching HDM feels like an impassioned fan earnestly lecturing you on why the books are so good- (Look! It's got other worlds and religious allegory and this character Lyra is really, really important I swear. Isn't Mrs Coulter crazy? The Gyptians are my favourites.) rather than someone telling the story naturally.

My problems fall into 5 main categories:

Exposition- An unwillingness to meaningfully expand the source material for a visual medium means Thorne tells and doesn't show crucial plot-points. He then repeats the same thing multiple times because he doesn't trust his audience

Pacing- By stretching out the books and not trusting his audience Thorne dedicates entire scenes to one piece of information and repeats himself constantly (see: the Witches' repetition of the prophecy in S2).

Narrative priorities- Thorne prioritises human drama over fantasy. This makes sense budgetarily, but leads to barely-present Daemons, the Gyptians taking up too much screentime, rushed/badly written Witches (superpowers, exposition) and Bears (armourless bear fight), and a Lyra more focused on familial angst than the joy of discovery

Tension and Mystery- because HDM is in such a hurry to set up its endgame it gives you the answers to S1's biggest mysteries immediately- other worlds, Lyra's parents, what happens to the kids etc. This makes the show less engaging and feel like it's playing catch-up to the audience, not the other way around.

Tonal Inconsistency- HDM tries to be a slow-paced, grounded, adult drama, but its blunt, simplistic dialogue and storytelling methods treat the audience like children that need to be lectured.

MYSTERY, SUSPENSE AND INTRIGUE

The show undercuts all the books’ biggest mysteries. Mrs Coulter is set up as a villain before we meet her, other worlds are revealed in 1x2, Lyra's parents by 1x3, what the Magesterium do to kids is spelled out long before Lyra finds Billy (1x2). I understand not wanting to lose new viewers, but neutering every mystery kills momentum and makes the show much less engaging.

This extends to worldbuilding. The text before 1x1 explains both Daemons and Lyra's destiny before we meet her. Instead of encouraging us to engage with the world and ask questions, we're given all the answers up front and told to sit back and let ourselves be spoon-fed. The viewer is never an active participant, never encouraged to theorise or wonder

 Intrigue motivated you to engage with Pullman's philosophical themes and concepts. Without it, HDM feels like a lecture, a theme park ride and not a journey.

The only one of S1's mysteries left undiminished is 'what is Dust?', which won't be properly answered until S3, and that answer is super conceptual and therefore hard to make dramatically satisfying

TONAL INCONSISTENCY

HDM billed itself as a HBO-level drama, and was advertised as a GoT inheritor. It takes itself very seriously- the few attempts at humour are stilted and out of place

The production design is deliberately subdued, most notably choosing a mid-twentieth century aesthetic for Lyra’s world over the late-Victorian of the books or steampunk of the movie. The colour grading would be appropriate for a serious adult drama. 

Reviewers have said this stops the show feeling as fantastical as it should. It also makes Lyra’s world less distinct from our own. 

Most importantly, minimising the wondrous fantasy of S1 neuters its contrast with the escalating thematic darkness of the finale (from 1x5 onwards), and the impact of Roger’s death. Pullman's books are an adult story told through the eyes of a child. Lyra’s innocence and naivety in the first book is the most important journey of the trilogy. Instead, the show starts serious and thematically heavy (we’re told Lyra has world-saving importance before we even meet her) and stays that way.

Contrasting the serious tone, grounded design and poe-faced characters, the dialogue is written to cater to children. It’s horrendously blunt and pulls you out of scenes. Subtext is obliterated at every opportunity. Even in the most recent episode, 2x7, Pan asks Lyra ‘do you think you’re changing because of Will?’

I cannot understate how on the nose this line is, and how much it undercuts the themes of the final book. Instead of even a meaningful shot of Lyra looking at Will, the show treats the audience like complete idiots. 

So, HDM looks and advertises itself like an adult drama and is desperate to be taken seriously by wearing its big themes on its sleeve from the start instead of letting them evolve naturally out of subtext like the books, and dedicating lots of scenes to Mrs Coulter's self-abuse 

At the same time its dialogue and character writing is comparable to the Star Wars prequels, more childish than media aimed at a similar audience - Harry Potter, Doctor Who, Avatar the Last Airbender etc

DAEMONS

The show gives itself a safety net by explaining Daemons in an opening text-crawl, and so spends less time showing the mechanics of the Daemon-human bond. On the HDM subreddit, I’ve seen multiple people get to 1x5 or 6, and then come to reddit asking basic questions like ‘why do only some people have Daemons?’ or ‘Why are Daemons so important?’.

It’s not that the show didn’t answer these questions; it was in the opening text-crawl. It’s just the show thinks telling you is enough and never shows evidence to back that up. Watching a TV show you remember what you’re shown much easier than what you’re told 

The emotional core of Northern Lights is the relationship between Lyra and Pan. The emotional core of HDM S1 is the relationship between Lyra and Mrs Coulter. This wouldn't be bad- it's a fascinating dynamic Ruth plays wonderfully- if it didn't override the Daemons

Daemons are only onscreen when they serve a narrative purpose. Thorne justifies this because the books only describe Daemons when they tell us about their human. On the page your brain fills the Daemons in. This doesn't work on-screen; you cannot suspend your disbelief when their absence is staring you in the face

Thorne clarified the number of Daemons as not just budgetary, but a conscious creative choice to avoid onscreen clutter. This improved in S2 after vocal criticism.

Mrs Coulter/the Golden Monkey and Lee/Hester have well-drawn relationships in S1, but Pan and Lyra hug more in the 2-hour Golden Compass movie than they do in the 8-hour S1 of HDM. There's barely any physical contact with Daemons at all.

They even cut Pan and Lyra's hug after escaping the Cut in Bolvangar. In the book they can't let go of each other. The show skips it completely because Thorne wants to focus on Mrs Coulter and Lyra.

They cut Pan and Lyra testing how far apart they can be. They cut Lyra freeing the Cut Daemons in Bolvangar with the help of Kaisa. We spent extra time with both Roger and Billy Costa, but didn't develop their bonds with their Daemons- the perfect way to make the Cut more impactful

I don't need every single book scene in the show, but notice that all these cut scenes reinforced how important Daemons are. For how plodding the show is. you'd think they could spare time for these moments instead of inventing new conversations that tell us the information they show

Daemons are treated as separate beings and thus come across more like talking pets than part of a character

The show sets the rules of Daemons up poorly. In 1x2, Lyra is terrified by the Monkey being so far from Coulter, but the viewer has nothing to compare it to. We’re retroactively told in that this is unnatural when the show has yet to establish what ‘natural’ is.

The guillotine blueprint in 1x2 (‘Is that a human and his Daemon, Pan? It looks like it.’ / ‘A blade. To cut what?’) is idiotic. It deflates S1’s main mystery and makes the characters look stupid for not figuring out what they aren’t allowed to until they did in the source material, it also interferes with how the audience sees Daemons. In the book, Cutting isn’t revealed until two-thirds of the way in (1x5). By then we’ve spent a lot of time with Daemons, they’ve become a background part of the world, their ‘rules’ have been established, and we’re endeared to them.

By showing the Guillotine and putting Daemons under threat in the second episode, the show never lets us grow attached. This, combined with their selective presence in scenes, draws attention to Daemons as a plot gimmick and not a natural extension of characters. Like Lyra, the show tells us why Daemons are important before we understand them.

Billy Costa's fate falls flat. It's missing the dried fish/ fake Daemon Tony Markos clings to in the book. Thorne said this 'didn't work' on the day, but it worked in the film. Everyone yelling about Billy not having a Daemon is laughable when most of the background extras in the same scene don't have Daemons themselves

WITCHES

The Witches are the most common complaint about the show. Thorne changed Serafina Pekkala in clever, logical ways (her short hair, wrist-knives and cloud pine in the skin)

The problem is how Serafina is written. The Witches are purely exposition machines. We get no impression of their culture, their deep connection to nature, their understanding of the world. We are told it. It is never shown, never incorporated into the dramatic action of the show.

Thorne emphasises Serafina's warrior side, most obviously changing Kaisa from a goose into a gyrfalcon (apparently a goose didn't work on-screen)

Serafina single-handedly slaughtering the Tartars is bad in a few ways. It paints her as bloodthirsty and ruthless. Overpowering the Witches weakens the logic of the world (If they can do that, why do they let the Magesterium bomb them unchallenged in 2x2?). It strips the Witches of their subtlety and ambiguity for the sake of cinematic action.

A side-effect of Serafina not being with her clan at Bolvangar is limiting our exposure to the Witches. Serafina is the only one invested in the main plot, we only hear about them from what she tells us. This poor set-up weakens the Witch subplot in S2

Lyra doesn’t speak to Serafina until 2x6. She laid eyes on her once in S1.

The dialogue in the S2’s Witch subplot is comparable to the Courasant section of The Phantom Menace. 

Two named characters, neither with any depth (Serafina and Coram's dead son developed him far more than her). The costumes look ostentatious and hokey- the opposite of what the Witches should be. They do nothing but repeat the same exposition at each other, even in 2x7.

We feel nothing when the Witches are bombed because the show never invests us in what is being destroyed- with the amount of time wasted on long establishing shots, there’s not one when Lee Scoresby is talking to the Council.

BEARS

Like the Witches; Thorne misunderstands and rushes the fantasy elements of the story. The 2007 movie executed both Iofur's character and the Bear Fight much better than the show- bloodless jaw-swipe and all

Iofur's court was not the parody of human court in the books. He didn't have his fake-Daemon (hi, Billy)

An armourless bear fight is like not including Pan in the cutting scene. After equating Iorek's armour to a Daemon (Lee does this- we don’t even learn how important it is from Iorek himself, and the comparison meant less because of how badly the show set up Daemons) the show then cuts the plotpoint that makes the armour plot-relevant. This diminishes all of Bear society. Like Daemons, we're told Iorek's armour is important but it's never shown to be more than a cool accessory

GYPTIANS

Gyptians suffer from Hermoine syndrome. Harry Potter screenwriter Steve Kloves' favourite character was Hermione, and so Film!Hermoine lost most of Book!Hermoine's flaws and gained several of Book!Ron's best moments. The Gyptians are Jack Thorne's favourite group in HDM and so they got the extra screentime and development that the more complicated groups/concepts like Witches, Bears, and Daemons (which, unlike the Gyptians, carry over to other seasons amd are more important to the overall story) needed

At the same time, he changes them from a private people into an Isle of Misfit Toys. TV!Ma Costa promises they'll ‘make a Gyptian woman out of Lyra yet’, but in the book Ma specifically calls Lyra out for pretending to be Gyptian, and reminds her she never can be.

This small moment indicates how, while trying to make the show more grounded and 'adult', Thorne simultaneously made it more saccharine and sentimental. He neuters the tragedy of the Cut kids when Ma Costa says they’ll become Gyptians. Pullman's books feel like an adult story told through the eyes of a child. The TV show feels like a child's story masquerading as a serious drama.

LIN-MANUEL MIRANDA

Let me preface this by saying I genuinely really enjoy the performances in the show. It was shot in the foot by The Golden Compass' perfect casting.

The most contentious/'miscast' actor among readers is LMM. Thorne ditched the books' wise Texan for a budget Han Solo. LMM isn't a great dramatic actor (even in Hamilton he was the weak link performance-wise) but he makes up for it in marketability- lots of people tried the show because of him

Readers dislike that LMM's Lee is a thief and a scoundrel, when book-Lee is so moral he and Hester argue about stealing. Personally, I like the change in concept. Book!Lee's parental love for Lyra just appears. It's sweet, but not tied to a character arc. Done right, Lyra out-hustling Lee at his own game and giving him a noble cause to fight for (thus inspiring the moral compass of the books) is a more compelling arc.

DAFNE KEENE AND LYRA

I thought Dafne would be perfect casting. Her feral energy in Logan seemed a match made in heaven. Then Jack Thorne gave her little to do with it.

Compare how The Golden Compass introduced Lyra, playing Kids and Gobblers with a group of Gyptian kids, including Billy Costa. Lyra and Roger are chased to Jordan by the Gyptians and she makes up a lie about a curse to scare the Gyptians away.

In one scene the movie set up: 1) the Gobblers (the first we hear of them in the show is in retrospect, Roger worrying AFTER Billy is taken) 2) Lyra’s pre-existing relationship with the Gyptians (not in the show), 3) Friendship with Billy Costa (not in the book or show) 4) Lyra’s ability to befriend and lead groups of people, especially kids, and 5) Lyra’s ability to lie impressively

By comparison, it takes until midway through 1x2 for TV!Lyra to tell her first lie, and even then it’s a paper-thin attempt. 

The show made Roger Lyra’s only friend. This artificially heightens the impact of Roger's death, but strips Lyra of her leadership qualities and ability to befriend anyone. 

Harry Potter fans talk about how Book!Harry is funnier and smarter than Film!Harry. They cut his best lines ('There's no need to call me sir, Professor') and made him blander and more passive. The same happened to Lyra.

Most importantly, Lyra is not allowed to lie for fun. She can't do anything 'naughty' without being scolded. This colours the few times Lyra does lie (e.g. to Mrs Coulter in 1x2) negatively and thus makes Lyra out to be more of a brat than a hero.

This is a problem with telling Northern Lights from an outside, 'adult' perspective- to most adults Lyra is a brat. Because we’re introduced to her from inside her head, we think she's great. It's only when we meet her through Will's eyes in The Subtle Knife and she's filthy, rude and half-starved that we realise Lyra bluffs her way through life and is actually pretty non-functional

Thorne prioritises grounded human drama over fantasy, and so his Lyra has her love of bears and witches swapped for familial angst. (and, in S2. angst over Roger). By exposing Mrs Coulter as her mother early, Thorne distracts TV!Lyra from Book!Lyra’s love of the North. The contrast between wonder and reality made NL's ending a definitive threshold between innocence and knowledge. Thorne showed his hand too early.

Similarly, TV!Lyra doesn’t have anywhere near as strong an admiration for Lord Asriel. She calls him out in 1x8 (‘call yourself a Father’), which Book!Lyra never would because she’s proud to be his child. From her perspective, at this point Asriel is the good parent.

TV!Lyra’s critique of Asriel feels like Thorne using her as a mouthpiece to voice his own, adult perspective on the situation. Because Lyra is already disappointed in Asriel, his betrayal in the finale isn’t as effective. Pullman saves the ‘you’re a terrible Father’ call-out for the 3rd book for a reason; Lyra’s naive hero-worship of Asriel in Northern Lights makes the fall from Innocence into Knowledge that Roger’s death represents more effective.  

So, on TV Lyra is tamer, angstier, more introverted, less intelligent, less fun and more serious. We're just constantly told she's important, even before we meet her.

MRS COULTER (AND LORD ASRIEL)

Mrs Coulter is the main character of the show. Not Lyra. Mrs Coulter was cast first, and Lyra was cast based on a chemistry test with Ruth Wilson. Coulter’s character is given lots of extra development, where the show actively strips Lyra of her layers.

To be clear, I have no problem with developing Mrs Coulter. She is a great character Ruth Wilson plays phenomenally. I do have a problem with the show fixating on her at the expense of other characters.

Lyra's feral-ness is given to her parents. Wilson and McAvoy are more passionate than in the books. This is fun to watch, but strips them of subtlety- you never get Book!Coulter's hypnotic allure from Wilson, she's openly nasty, even to random strangers (in 2x3 her dismissal of the woman at the hotel desk felt like a Disney villain). 

Compare how The Golden Compass (2007) introduced Mrs Coulter through Lyra’s eyes, with light, twinkling music and a sparkling dress. By contrast, before the show introduces Coulter it tells us she’s associated with the evil Magisterium plotting Asriel’s death- “Not a word to any of our mutual friends. Including her.” Then she’s introduced striding down a corridor to imposing ‘Bad Guy’ strings.

Making Mrs Coulter’s villainy so obvious so early makes Lyra look dumber for falling for it. It also wastes an interesting phase of her character arc. Coulter is rushed into being a ’conflicted evil mother’ in 2 episodes, and stays in that phase for the rest of the show so far. Character progression is minimised because she circles the same place.

It makes her one-note. It's a good note (so much of the positive online chatter is saphiccs worshiping Ruth Wilson) but the show also worships her to the point of hindrance- e.g. take a shot every time Coulter walks slow-motion down a corridor in 2x2

The problem isn’t the performances, but how prematurely they give the game away. Just like the mysteries around Bolvangar and Lyra’s parentage. Neither Coulter or Asriel have much chance to use their 'public' faces. 

This is part of a bigger pacing problem- instead of rolling plot points out gradually, Thorne will stick the solution in front of you early and then stall for time until it becomes relevant. Instead of building tension this builds frustration and makes the show feel like it's catching up to the audience. This also makes the characters less engaging. You've already shown Mrs Coulter is evil/Boreal is in our world/Asriel wants Roger. Why are you taking so long getting to the point?

PACING AND EDITING

This show takes forever to make its point badly.

Scenes in HDM tend to operate on one level- either 'Character Building,' 'Exposition,' or 'Plot Progression'.

E.g. Mary's introduction in 2x2. Book!Mary only listens to Lyra because she’s sleep and caffeine-deprived and desperate because her funding is being cut. But the show stripped that subtext out and created an extra scene of a colleague talking to Mary about funding. They removed emotional subtext to focus on exposition, and so the scene felt empty and flat.

In later episodes characters Mary’s sister and colleagues do treat her like a sleep-deprived wreck. But, just like Lyra’s lying, the show doesn’t establish these characteristics in her debut episode. It waits until later to retroactively tell us they were there. Mary’s colleague saying ‘What we’re dealing with here is the fact that you haven’t slept in weeks’ is as flimsy as Pan joking not lying to Mary will be hard for Lyra.

Rarely does a scene work on multiple levels, and if it does it's clunky- see the exposition dump about Daemon Separation in the middle of 2x2's Witch Trial.

He also splits plot progression into tiny doses, which destroys pacing. It's more satisfying to focus on one subplot advancing multiple stages than all of them shuffling forward half a step each episode.

Subplots would be more effective if all the scenes played in sequence. As it is, plotlines can’t build momentum and literal minutes are wasted using the same establishing shots every time we switch location.

The best-structured episodes of S1 are 1x4, 1x6, and 1x8. This is because they have the fewest subplots (incidentally these episodes have least Boreal in them) and so the main plot isn’t diluted by constantly cutting away to Mrs Coulter sniffing Lyra’s coat or Will watching a man in a car through his window, before cutting back again. 

The best-written episode so far is 2x5. The Scholar. Tellingly, it’s the only episode Thorne doesn’t have even a co-writing credit on. 2x5 is well-paced, its dialogue is more naturalistic, it’s more focused, it even has time for moments of whimsy (Monkey with a seatbelt, Mrs Coulter with jeans, Lyra and Will whispering) that don’t detract from the story.

Structurally, 2x5  works because A) it benches Lee’s plotline. B) The Witches and Magisterium are relegated to a scene each. And C) the Coulter/Boreal and Lyra/Will subplots move towards the same goal. Not only that, but when we check in on Mary’s subplot it’s through Mrs Coulter’s eyes and directly dovetails into the  main action of the episode.

2x5 has a lovely sense of narrative cohesion because it has the confidence to sit with one set of characters for longer than two scenes at a time.

HDM also does this thing where it will have a scene with plot A where characters do or talk about something, cut away to plot B for a scene, then cut back to plot A where the characters talk about what happened in their last scene and painstakingly explain how they feel about it and why

Example: Pan talking to Will in 2x7 while Lyra pretends to be asleep. This scene is from the 3rd book, and is left to breathe for many chapters before Lyra brings it up. In the show after the Will/Pan scene they cut away to another scene, then cut back and Lyra instantly talks about it.

There’s the same problem in 2x5: After escaping Mrs Coulter, Lyra spells out how she feels about acting like her

The show never leaves room for implication, never lets us draw our own conclusions before explaining what it meant and how the characters feel about it immediately afterwards. The audience are made passive in their engagement with the characters as well as the world    

LORD BOREAL, JOHN PARRY AND DIMINISHING RETURNS

At first, Boreal’s subplot in S1 felt bold and inspired. The twist of his identity in The Subtle Knife would've been hard to pull off onscreen anyway. As a kid I struggled to get past Will's opening chapter of TSK and I have friends who were the same. Introducing Will in S1 and developing him alongside Lyra was a great idea.

I loved developing Elaine Parry and Boreal into present, active characters. But the subplot was introduced too early and moved too slowly, bogging down the season.

In 1x2 Boreal crosses. In 1x3 we learn who he's looking for. In 1x5 we meet Will. In 1x7 the burglary. 1 episode worth of plot is chopped up and fed to us piecemeal across many. Boreal literally stalls for two episodes before the burglary- there are random 30 second shots of him sitting in a car watching John Parry on YouTube (videos we’d already seen) completely isolated from any other scenes in the episode

By the time we get to S2 we've had 2 seasons of extended material building up Boreal, so when he just dies like in the books it's anticlimactic. The show frontloads his subplot with meaning without expanding on its payoff, so the whole thing fizzles out. 

Giving Boreal, the secondary villain in literally every episode, the same death as a background character in about 5 scenes in the novels feels cheap. It doesn’t help that, after 2x5 built the tension between Coulter and Boreal so well, as soon as Thorne is passed the baton in 2x6 he does little to maintain that momentum. Again, because the subplot is crosscut with everything else the characters hang in limbo until Coulter decides to kill him.

I’ve been watching non-book readers react to the show, and several were underwhelmed by Boreal’s quick, unceremonious end. 

Similarly, the show builds up John Parry from 1x3 instead of just the second book. Book!John’s death is an anticlimax but feels narratively justified. In the show, we’ve spent so much extra time talking about him and then being with him (without developing his character beyond what’s in the novels- Pullman even outlined John’s backstory in The Subtle Knife’s appendix. How hard would it be to add a flashback or two?) that when John does nothing in the show and then dies (he doesn’t even heal Will’s fingers like in the book- only tell him to find Asriel, which the angels Baruch and Balthamos do anyway) it doesn’t feel like a clever, tragic subversion of our expectations, it feels like a waste that actively cheapens the audience’s investment.

TL;DR giving supporting characters way more screentime than they need only, to give their deaths the same weight the books did after far less build up makes huge chunks of the show feel less important than they were presented to be. 

FRUSTRATINGLY LIMITED EXPANSION AND NOVELLISTIC STORYTELLING

Thorne is unwilling to meaningfully develop or expand characters and subplots to fit a visual medium. He introduces a plot-point, invents unnecessary padding around it, circles it for an hour, then moves on.

Pullman’s books are driven by internal monologue and big, complex theological concepts like Daemons and Dust. Instead of finding engaging, dynamic ways to dramatise these concepts through the actions of characters or additions to the plot, Thorne turns Pullman’s internal monologue into dialogue and has the characters explain them to the audience

The novels’ perspective on its characters is narrow, first because Northern Lights is told only from Lyra’s POV, and second because Pullman’s writing is plot-driven, not character-driven. Characters are vessels for the plot and themes he wants to explore.

This is a fine way of writing novels. When adapting the books into a longform drama, Thorne decentralised Lyra’s perspective from the start, and HDM S1 uses the same multi-perspective structure that The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass do, following not only Lyra but the Gyptians, Mrs Coulter, Boreal, Will and Elaine etc

However, these other perspectives are limited. We never get any impression of backstory or motivation beyond the present moment. Many times I’ve seen non-book readers confused or frustrated by vague or non-existent character motivations.

For example, S1 spends a lot of time focused on Ma Costa’s grief over Billy’s disappearance, but we never see why she’s sad, because we never saw her interact with Billy.

Compare this to another show about a frantic mother and older brother looking for a missing boy. Stranger Things uses only two flashbacks to show us Will Byers’ relationships with his family: 1) When Joyce Byers looks in his Fort she remembers visiting Will there. 2) The Clash playing on the radio reminds Jonathan Byers of introducing Will to the song.

In His Dark Materials we never see the Costas as a happy family- 1x1’s Gyptian ceremony focuses on Tony and Daemon-exposition. Billy never speaks to his mum or brother in the show 

Instead we have Ma Costa’s empty grief. The audience has to do the work (the bad kind) imagining what she’s lost. Instead of seeing Billy, it’s just repeated again and again that they will get the children back.

If we’re being derivative, HDM had the chance to segway into a Billy flashback when John Faa brings one of his belongings back from a Gobbler safehouse in 1x2. This is a perfect The Clash/Fort Byers-type trigger. It doesn’t have to be long- the Clash flashback lasted 1:27, the Fort Byers one 55 seconds. Just do something.

1x3 beats into us that Mrs Coulter is nuts without explaining why. Lots of build-up for a single plot-point. Then we're told Mrs Coulter's origin, not shown. This is a TV show. Swap Boreal's scenes for flashbacks of Coulter and Asriel's affair. Then, when Ma Costa tells Lyra the truth, show the fight between Edward Coulter and Asriel.

To be clear, Thorne's additions aren’t fundamentally bad. For example, Will boxing sets up his struggle with violence. But it's wasted. The burglary/murder in 1x7 fell flat because of bad editing, but the show never uses its visual medium to show Will's 'violent side'- no change in camera angle, focus, or sound design, nothing. It’s just a thing that’s there, unsupported by the visual language of the show

The Magisterium scenes in 2x2 were interesting. We just didn't need 5 of them; their point could be made far more succinctly.

In 2x6 there is a minute-long scene of Mary reading the I Ching. Later, there is another scene of Angelica watching Mary sitting somewhere different, doing the SAME THING, and she sees an Angel. Why split these up? It’s not like either the I Ching or the Angels are being introduced here. Give the scene multiple layers.

Thorne either takes good character moments from the books (Lyra/Will in 2x1) or uses heavy-handed exposition that reiterates the same point multiple times. This hobbles the Witches (their dialogue in 2x1, 2 and 3 literally rephrases the same sentiment about protecting Lyra without doing anything). Even character development- see Lee monologuing his and Mrs Coulter's childhood trauma in specific detail in 2x3

This is another example of Thorne adding something, but instead of integrating it into the dramatic action and showing us, it’s just talked about. What’s the point of adding big plot points if you don’t dramatise them in your dramatic, visual medium? In 2x8, Lee offhandedly mentions playing Alamo Gulch as a kid.

I’m literally screaming, Jack, why the flying fuck wasn’t there a flashback of young Lee and Hester playing Alamo Gulch and being stopped by his abusive dad? It’s not like you care about pacing with the amount of dead air in these episodes, even when S2’s run 10 minutes shorter than S1’s. Lee was even asleep at the beginning of 2x3, Jack! He could’ve woken from a nightmare about his childhood! It’s a little lazy, but better than nothing.

There’s a similar missed opportunity making Dr Lanselius a Witchling. If this idea had been introduced with the character in 1x4, it would’ve opened up so many storytelling possibilities. Linking to Fader Coram’s own dead witchling son. It could’ve given us that much-needed perspective on Witch culture. Imagine Lanselius’ bittersweet meeting with his ageless mother, who gave him up when he reached manhood. Then, when the Magisterium bombs the Witches in 2x2, Lanselius’ mother dies so it means something.

Instead it’s only used to facilitate an awkward exposition dump in the middle of a trial.

The point of this fanfic-y ramble is to illustrate my frustration with the additions; If Thorne had committed and meaningfully expanded and interwoven them with the source material, they could’ve strengthened its weakest aspect (the characters). But instead he stays committed to novelistic storytelling techniques of monologue and two people standing in a room talking at each other

(Seriously, count the number of scenes that are just two people standing in a room or corridor talking to each other. No interesting staging, the characters aren’t doing anything else while talking. They. Just. Stand.) 

SEASON 2 IMPROVEMENTS

S2 improved some things- Lyra's characterisation was more book-accurate, her dynamic with Will was wonderful. Citigazze looked incredible. LMM won lots of book fans over as Lee. Mary was brilliantly cast. Now there are less Daemons, they're better characterised- Pan gets way more to do now and Hester had some lovely moments. 

I genuinely believe 2x1, 2x3, 2x4 and 2x5 are the best HDM has been. 

But new problems arose. The Subtle Knife lost the central, easy to understand drive of Northern Lights (finding the missing kids) for lots of smaller quests. As a result, everyone spends the first two episodes of S2 waiting for the plot to arrive. The big inciting incident of Lyra’s plotline is the theft of the alethiometer, which doesn’t happen until 2x3. Similarly, Lee doesn’t search for John until 2x3. Mrs Coulter doesn’t go looking for Lyra until 2x3. 

On top of missing a unifying dramatic drive, the characters now being split across 3 worlds, instead of the 1+a bit of ours in S1, means the pacing/crosscutting problems (long establishing shots, repetition of information, undercutting momentum) are even worse. The narrative feels scattered and incohesive.   

These flaws are inherent to the source  material and are not the show’s fault, but neither does it do much to counterbalance or address them, and the flaws of the show combine with the difficulties of TSK as source material and make each other worse.

A lot of this has been entitled fanboy bitching, but you can't deny the show is in a bad place ratings-wise. It’s gone from the most watched new British show in 5 years to the S2 premiere having a smaller audience than the lowest-rated episode of Doctor Who Series 12. For comparison, DW's current cast and showrunner are the most unpopular since the 80s, some are actively boycotting it, it took a year-long break between series 11 and 12, had its second-worst average ratings since 2005, and costs a fifth of what HDM does to make. And it's still being watched by more people.

Critical consensus fluctuates wildly. Most laymen call the show slow and boring. The show is simultaneously too niche and self-absorbed to attract a wide audience and gets just enough wrong to aggravate lots of fans.

I’m honestly unsure if S3 will get the same budget. I want it to, if only because of my investment in the books. Considering S2 started filming immediately after S1 aired, I think they've had a lot more time to process and apply critique for S3. On the plus side, there's so much plot in The Amber Spyglass it would be hard to have the same pacing problems. But also so many new concepts that I dread the exposition dumps.

[readbyred]

Wilbur Cross x Reader

Warnings: cursing, suggestive comments, bad spelling

Everything happened quickly.

Flash!

Bang!

And nothing.

You anticipated something much grander from what appeared to be your death. But this day was more than disappointing from the start so why would your passing be any different?

You woke up, went to see a movie at Cineplex and got trapped in a local mall with a bloodthirsty cult. And now you apparently were dead. You exploded to be exact. But death didn't look like what you expected.

Everything was dark and damp. Wherever you were there wasn't any ‘up’ or ‘down’, ‘far’ or ‘close’. But you had to be somewhere, you still had your senses, slowly coming back after the explosion.

Even if you were dead you didn't feel like it, you couldn't know for sure though. Trying to check, you slowly lifted up your head (or maybe just looked up) and tried to move around. There was no indication of you moving but somehow you knew you were. Not that there was anywhere to move towards, everything was dark, the air felt thick and solid as if it was made of jelly. Not a very pretty comparison but the place was far from nice so it’s a fitting one.

You didn't know how long you were walking but you decided to stop paying attention to details. Your body distorted on the edges, it seemed to blend with the air around you and bend in weird places but every time you focused on it, it stopped. It was hard to tell why you saw it at all given the darkness of the place but that you stopped questioning either. And so, you walked.

Finally, after some time every time, the space around you started gaining shapes. It looked a bit like one of those stroke-simulation photos but instead of frustration it brought you a sense of security.

It wasn't long until you came across a strange light.

It was green and the closer you went the less it looked like a light and the more it gained a… Sort of human form. It had arms with slick fur and big, glowing eyes. It's features were also sort of animalistic but without doubt everything else was human. When it had sensed you it ran, or rather swam away.

Figuring that you were dead either way so there wasn't much else you had to do, you followed the thing further (or deeper) into the strange darkness.

From amongst the shapes stood out one, green and huge. It looked like it could occupy most of the endless space around.

It's gigantic eyes glowed, shining a light at a man and a woman. They were surrounded by the creatures.

Unnoticed, hidden in the thick darkness you crept closer to them. Both seemed slightly distorted but it was nothing compared to the fact that the woman had a bullet hole in her head. She seemed fine, however, other than the fact that she was yelling at her companion, clearly aggravated.

The sound travelled poorly in this place and so you decided to get closer, curious as to what was happening. Was this some sort of purgatory? Or hell? But what would you get into hell for?

Since the mystery woman appeared to be even more dead than you, then this had to be some sort of an afterlife situation.

“I didn't ‘fuck it up’! If Beck Barnes and her consolation prize boyfriend didn't ruin my plan I-” the blonde woman yelled at the taller man. She was facing you but didn't seem to notice a thing.

That's why you decided to creep even closer, crouching behind the man in denim. But when you took another step his head snapped towards you.

He was around your age but looked sick, way more dead than the woman with blood dripping down her temple. His head tilted as he looked down on you with a wicked grin.

“Well well well” he started, with a raspy voice that was familiar “another new face already?”

Even if you wanted to turn back you couldn't, feeling paw-like hands grabbing you and holding in place. You didn't know where those green things came from, you could swear they sat by the woman’s side seconds ago. But now they were making high pitched noises at you and staring with their huge eyes, possibly awaiting a stranger’s command.

“Let's see what we have here” he crouched down, inches from your face, presumably in an attempt to taunt you further. The man seemed to enjoy creeping you out, however, his expression and tone changed drastically a few seconds later as his green eyes took in the details of your face. Much more serious he let out a surprised “(Y/n)?”

“Uhm, who is that, Wiley?” the woman spoke up looking down at you, but not because you were crouched down.

“Leave us alone for a moment, will you, Linda” the man, Wiley, raised his voice rapidly getting back up. The name seemed to be familiar to you, but you never knew anyone with it.

“But-” she whined.

“Out” Wiley barked out, making the woman groan, clearly not intimidating her one bit.

The green creatures however vanished, leaving you alone. It was your chance to run but you didn't want to. Whoever Wiley was, he knew you and he didn't exactly give you bad vibes.

Even the glowing green eyes and his dishevelled state weren't exactly a red flag considering everyone you came across so far was either a fantasy creature or dead.

“Out? This place is fucking endless if you haven't noticed! What am I supposed to do? Stand by Wiggly’s right or left tentacle?!”

“Go find out.” his tone suggested that the conversation was over. With more whining the blonde stomped off, towards the green, glowing thing’s head.

“Did they get to or did you just miss me so much?” he turned to you, gaining back his composure, looking you up and down “Either way! Can't say I'm disappointed…”

“Um, I don't think we know each other” you admitted, now up on your feet.

“Come on! (Y/n)” but his face fell “...fuck”

“What’s wrong?” you asked as if it wasn't you who just got killed and locked in an endless pit of nothingness.

“If it isn't you I swear…” he grumbled furrowing his brows but asked, a bit less intensely “Don’t you remember me? Come on I know you do”

His entire being seemed so inherently evil but he wasn't scaring you so far. In fact you were just growing interested in whatever he had to say the more you two spoke.

“How do you know my name?” unable to affirm his last claim you decided to question him for a change.

“(Y/n) (L/n), raised and born in Hatchetfield, studied in the local community college, from 2001 to 2005 worked as an elementary school teacher” he recited “now the question is - do you know me?”

You frowned searching for any distant memory you could have. You never knew any Wiley but that could be a dead end. And besides how would he know all that about you in the first place?

If his information stopped so far back as 2005 then this could be someone you knew then...

It took you a few seconds to put pieces back together, they told you he was dead after all.

“Wilbur”

“Bingo. Knew you wouldn't forget me, (little lady/pretty mister/sweetheart)” he smirked.

That sparked even more questions but you decided not to ask them all at once. It still bothered you what was your long-dead boyfriend doing in some sort of a purgatory void.

“What is this place? Are we dead?” you finally let out as your past lover grinned enthusiastically.

“Well, (Y/n) we are in the Black and White! A place between all timelines PEIP managed to accidentally open up” he explained proudly, leaning on your shoulder and gesturing towards the space in front of you, for better effect “but I’m not dead! Never been better. Now you on the other hand…”

He made a sound running his finger across his throat but he didn't seem very concerned.

“To be honest you look more dead than me” you rolled your eyes. It was common for you to scold him for not taking enough care of himself, back when you were together. He responded with a sigh.

“Do I, now? Do I? Come on!” he opened his arms and pointed towards himself “Don't tell me you don't like what you see”

Well, he wasn't wrong. He was a mess in every possible definition of the word and you seriously had to ask him about his horrendous outfit but he was the love of your life and you couldn't be happier to be finally reunited.

You still had some questions but not wanting to ruin the moment you just smiled at him rolling your eyes.

“You wish, Cross” still smiling, you walked by him, much less scared to meet others. You looked back, asking him if you two can join the blonde, now talking to the enormous creature.

“Hey, wait up” he caught up with you and trying to be smooth he put his arm around your waist and let it slide down, putting it on your butt “aren't you a naughty one”

And here was, using his old tricks and lines. It didn't matter though, because both of you knew they worked just fine.

BONUS (crack):

Sitting and chatting was nice, and not like there was much more to do in the Black and White. The eldritch god your boyfriend worked under seemed off but not too bad either.

“How come I ended up here though? I never joined any of the cultists” you questioned petting a sniggle laying in your lap.

“Well” started Wiggly before Wilbur could even open is mouth “I-existed-befowe-eawth-did. I-nevew-knew-14-yeaws-could-be-long. But-UwUncle-Wiley-came-hewe-and-stawted-talking-about-his-fwendy-wend-non-stop-and-i-found-out-how-long-it-can-be-OwO! So-i-bwought-his-cUwUsh-home!”

Wilbur did not want to speak on the matter.

Tag list:

@joeycupcakerichter

[hayleysstark]

For your prompt event: Merlin accidentally hurting Arthur with his magic post-reveal and freaking out about it? (I love your writing!)

oh my god op YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!! im losign it,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 

Arthur had all of ten seconds to get out of range and, as it turned out, ten seconds wasn't nearly enough.

To tell the truth, he knew it was all his own fault—he hadn't tried or, at least, he hadn't tried hard enough, mostly because he didn't want to get out of range, he didn't want to run away, and he certainly didn't want to leave Merlin behind to face the mad old witch entirely on his own. For all his magic, for all his power and know-how and strange, old-soul wisdom, Merlin was a right idiot most of the time and, while Arthur trusted him to take down an obviously mediocre, middle-of-the-road sorceress alone, he most definitely did not trust him to be smart about it. He didn't trust Merlin to be smart about most things, come to that, but magical battles with evil sorcerers was settled firmly at the top of the list.

But it didn't do an ounce of good, because Arthur couldn't get near enough to land a blow on the old woman, and he couldn't even get near enough to watch Merlin's back like he should, like he usually did in these sorts of situations—the spells flew far too thick and fast around the quiet green grove, blinding bursts of color and light flashing like suns and stars in the deep shadows of the wood, curses rebounding like stray cannonballs off the trees and boulders and branches—no, he could only stand there, sword in his hand, out on the edge of the battle, completely useless.

All of a sudden, the old witch stopped, her wrinkled hands still held out in front of her, and she said something—it didn't sound like magic, it didn't sound like a spell, and it didn't look much like magic, either, it looked like she was talking to Merlin, like she was talking and she wanted him to talk back, but Arthur couldn't hear the words over the whispers and rustles of all the sorcery in the grove—and it must have been magic, he realized, hardly half a second later, because a high, howling wind whipped up, right in the middle of the forest, on a cloudless, sunny day.

She must be a bit better than mediocre, then, she must be a bit more than middle-of-the-road, if she could call up storms like Merlin could—

The wind picked up, stronger and stronger until the shriek of it was all Arthur could hear, until the force of it nearly ripped his cloak from his shoulders and clawed the sword from his hand, until it pushed him back, farther and farther away from the old witch, away from Merlin, until it finally grabbed him up in its screaming grip and slammed him, with a nasty crunch, back into the nearest tree.

As near as Arthur could figure out, from the flashes of blue sky rushing past over his head and the fleeting glimpses of Merlin's bone-white face and terrified blue eyes, he had come back 'round on the way back to the castle, but he hadn't stayed awake long enough to remember much, and Merlin had, apparently, defeated the old woman mere moments after Arthur had blacked out, but he never heard the whole of it, and Merlin never told him.

All he could say for certain was, when he had finally opened his eyes to find himself in Gaius' chambers, in the rickety white cot reserved solely for the very ill, the old man had forced him to choke down a vast number of horrible potions and medicines before he had allowed Arthur to settle back in his own bedchamber.

It had seemed an awful lot of fuss for nothing but a broken arm and a few bruised ribs, and, if he had to make a guess, he would say the whole thing had upset Merlin rather more than he had thought it would, and certainly a great deal more than it had any right to—the idiot had turned into the perfect servant in the week since, nothing but yes Sire or no Sire or let me get that for you, Sire, not one gripe or grumble or complaint to be had, and never more than ten steps from Arthur's bedside.

And he didn't make a face when Arthur told him to muck the stables, and he didn't breeze in to work a half hour too late Arthur's breakfast in one hand and a sheepish smile on his face, and he didn't throw the curtains wide and shout good morning like he wanted to wake the entire castle, and he hadn't spilled wine in Arthur's lap even once, and he hadn't used his magic to heat the bathwater, or scrub the floor, or make the bed, and Arthur's armor had literally never shined brighter, a dazzling silver gleam out of the corner of his eye, glinting and flashing in the light of the sun through the open window.

It was absolutely unbearable.

And it was obviously much more than the usual mother-hen impulses Merlin fell into when Arthur got hurt, because he certainly hadn't acted like this even when Arthur had gotten a bite from the Questing Beast, when Arthur had, very literally, cheated death, and survived the unsurvivable!

No, this was bigger than all Merlin's girlish little fits and frenzies of fear, this was more than his everyday panic over nothing, and Arthur was not going to put up with it one moment longer.

"All right," he said, eight days out from that fight in the forest with the old witch, his arm still wrapped firmly in a simple white sling, and the bruising on his ribs a touch lighter now, and certainly less painful, "out with it, Merlin, what is it? What's gotten into you lately?"

"Sorry?" Merlin said, flatly, and he didn't even look up from where he had crouched down to pick up all the dirty laundry scattered 'round the chamber. "Not sure what you mean."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't be an idiot, Merlin, you and I both know that suits you a bit too well."

"Yeah," Merlin said blandly, stuffing Arthur's brown trousers in his basket, "just one of my many gifts, Sire."

"Merlin," Arthur sat up a little in his seat, and put down his quill with a soft swish of the long white feather on parchment, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," Merlin said at once. He tossed a pair of socks in the basket, too. "It's nothing."

Arthur waited.

Merlin straightened up and turned his back on Arthur to pluck a red tunic up off the floor and plop it down in the basket with everything else.

Arthur waited a bit more.

All of a sudden, Merlin stopped, with the basket perched on the end of the bed, his hands still clinging to the wooden rim, and finally, Arthur thought, with a rush of relief, finally, he's going to stop being such a girl and just tell me—

Merlin sniffled.

Arthur's insides turned to ice. Oh, God, no, this was a mistake, this was a terrible, awful, horrendous mistake, and now Merlin was having feelings, and what if Merlin wanted to talk about those feelings, couldn't he just give Merlin the day off and let him sort it out on his own time, wasn't that a thing he could do, or would that be "insensitive" and "rude" the way Guinevere always told him, would that make him a "bad friend" the way Guinevere always told him—? "Um," he said, a little blankly, and a lot desperately, "y-you don't need to—you shouldn't—erm—"

"I—" Merlin wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to look at Arthur, his eyes red and puffy, his cheeks sticky and stained with tears, "—I-I'm sorry."

"For crying?" Arthur said, rather weakly, and also rather hopefully.

"I should have said it sooner, but I thought you were going to—to bring it up, and I thought you were going to be angry, so I-I just waited and waited, but you didn't—"

Not for crying, then, Arthur concluded dismally, before he scraped up the last remnants of his dwindling-in-the-face-of-a-crying-Merlin courage. "Why on earth did you think I'd be angry with you?"

"I did this to you," Merlin said, looking for all the world like a deeply repentant puppy left out in the pouring rain, waiting to be kicked. "I hurt you. I-I used my magic to h-hurt you."

What? Arthur blinked a bit dazedly at Merlin while he waited for the words to make some sort of sense. "Hang on," he said, slowly, mostly to make sure he had this absolutely right, "you were the one who called up that wind? You were the one who—?"

Merlin blinked back, just as dazedly. "Y-You didn't know?"

"I thought it was the witch!" Arthur said, thoroughly baffled now. "What in God's name did you do that for? You never do storms unless it's—!"

"I got angry," Merlin said miserably. He sniffled again and wiped at his nose now. "I—I got so angry, she—she said some things that made me realize she was—she was somebody that had done really awful things, she had—she had hurt someone I know, she'd hurt her really badly, and I lost my temper, and—" he flicked a mournful glance up at Arthur from under his wet lashes, "—and it just happened, and Arthur, I'm so sorry!"

Arthur almost crumpled right back down in his seat again. Merlin had conjured up that wind, not the old witch, and oh, that made sense now, didn't it, he had thought, even then, the old woman hadn't seemed strong enough for magic like that, he had thought she hadn't had the power for a thing like that, and he had been right, and—

—and if she was so mediocre and middle-of-the-road, what on earth had she done in her past, to make Merlin so furious with her? "Is she—?" Arthur raised his head to look at his friend on the other side of the room. "Is she all right? The friend that the witch hurt? Is she all right now?"

Merlin stared blankly back at him, blue eyes wide and wet. "That's—?" he scrubbed at his nose again. "That's what you're worried about? Not the fact that I almost killed you?"

Arthur almost laughed. "It's a broken arm, Merlin, and it's not even my sword arm! Honestly, I hardly think I'm going to drop dead all because—"

"It's not funny," Merlin snapped, his every word sharp as a knife when it rolled off his tongue. "It's not funny, Arthur, this isn't a joke! I almost killed you! I almost killed you because I lost my temper! Because I lost control!"

"Yes," Arthur conceded, "but everyone loses their temper at some point, I wouldn't worry about it if I were—"

"Well, you're not me!" Merlin bit out. "And count yourself lucky on that, because when you lose your temper, you don't have to worry that you'll wipe out the entire kingdom, or—or level a whole forest, or put all your friends in danger just because you can't—!"

"M-Merlin," Arthur said, too startled to stay silent any longer, "of course you're not going to—"

"You don't know that!"

"No, I don't know that!" Arthur said sharply, a bitter burn of fury in the back of his throat, because what the hell was wrong with this idiot, why the hell couldn't he see—? "You're right, Merlin, I don't know that, I don't know for absolutely certain that you are never going to do something horrible, but I trust that you won't! I don't know, I can't tell the future, I'm not a Seer, but I trust you to do what's right and to never take it too far, and isn't that enough for you?"

For a moment that felt very much like forever, Merlin only looked at Arthur, his eyes still red, a few stray tears still trailing lazily down his wet cheeks. "But look at what I did to you," he whispered. "You can't honestly tell me you're not angry with me."

Arthur let out a soft, heavy sigh, and rubbed a hand down the side of his face. Yeah, sure, he was a bit put out, but mostly he was put out that he had gotten stuck in bed for three days straight, and that Merlin had decided to hedge around the problem for so long when he could have come to Arthur and told the truth straight-out, but it was like he had said to Merlin—everybody lost their temper now and then, it was hardly some sort of bone-deep sin Merlin had to atone for every day for the rest of his life.

"You can't honestly tell me," Merlin said, and even softer than a whisper now, softer than a breath, "that you're not scared of me."

Oh. Arthur's chest squeezed with something almost like pity. Oh, that's what this is, that's what he thinks, that's what he's so worried about— "Merlin," he said, and he meant it, "I'm not scared of you. There's nothing in you to be afraid of."

"Except the magic that could have broken your neck," Merlin snapped, voice high and tight and still thick with tears. "You don't have to pretend, Arthur, you don't have to put on some kind of front for me, I understand, I get it—"

"You can't swing a sword without almost impaling yourself on the blade," Arthur pointed out. "You can't go an entire day without tripping over your own boots and falling flat on your face. There's nothing in you to be afraid of, and trust me, I'm not flattering you when I say that."

Merlin stared at Arthur like he had never seen him before, his eyes enormous in his tear-streaked face, one hand halfway up to dry the damp trails on his cheeks again. "Y-You're not—?"

"For God's sake, no!" Arthur rolled his eyes. "One time, I heard you say sorry to a butterfly!"

"I startled her," Merlin said, at once, and scrubbed at his eyes again. "I hit the branch she was resting on with my elbow, and I startled her."

Arthur had to bite back a smile. "Yes, I'm absolutely terrified. Shaking in my boots, Merlin, please don't kill me with your evil temper and big bad sorcerer powers."

Merlin turned a little pink. "I'm sorry," he said, hoarsely. "I really didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah, I picked up on that, believe it or not."

Merlin went a touch pinker, but he pushed on valiantly. "I-I didn't realize you were near enough to get hurt. I should have been more careful with you."

"Careful with me?" Arthur echoed incredulously, half-offended and half-amused. "Tell me, Merlin, how is it that I'm the one who got thrown into a tree, you're the one crying about it, and you still manage to make me sound like the delicate maiden in this situation?"

Merlin wiped at his nose again. "Should have known you'd be all right," he said, finally, and unless Arthur was very much mistaken, he could swear he saw a small smile tug at the edge of the idiot's lip. "Should have figured your thick skull would cushion the blow."

"Merlin—!"