#lost in space S3

[timeforsomethrillingheroicsblog]

alright where the desmond girlies at

[chirpsythismorning]

☎️🎲 🤼‍♂️ ✈️🚪 ➡️ 🫀🎮⌛️

I've Been Losing You by a-ha

previous ⏪︎ now playing ⏩ next back to playlist

[jackwhiteprophetic]

I love how it is established that Buck is always welcome at the Diaz house. In season 6, when he turned up, Eddie was barely surprised, and Buck didn't seem nervous or unsure about whether he was overstepping boundaries. In season 7, he turns up at night through the back door and Eddie's only confusion is that he didn't use the front. And in S2 (I think, but maybe S3) when Buck says "it's Eddie's house, I'm not really a guest" to Maddie when we've literally never seen him in the Diaz house before??

I am obsessed with how Buck, a character established to have been almost lost, looking for a home and a loving family and feeling like he was talking up too much space in his own childhood home, is shown to be so comfortable at Eddie's, and that Eddie, someone who does not trust people easily, especially with Chris, has clearly put the work in to make sure that Buck has no doubts about his place in their home.

Also canonically they both have keys right? (Eddie waking Buck up so he can take Chris to that tsunami, Buck getting into Eddie's house when he had the breakdown and finding Chris in the hallway (Chris didn't let him in...)) I mean idk if it's different in the USA/LA, but generally people lock their doors right?

[mosovi-vian]

And I will stay alive for my future self, so they can one day learn to be kind to who I was as a child. And I will teach them to honor who we used to be, so they can remember the comfort of what once was our untempered flesh and gentle soul. Me and myself are each a fresh wound and a rough scab, bearing respectively the gift of green faith and honed will.

This has been in my draft for a while because I was determined to post this only after I knew what I should write underneath it. I’ve read a lot on the concept of healing the wounded inner child since even before my c-ptsd diagnosis. However, I’ve sought as much comfort in my little self as they had in me. Looking back, I was an impressively emotionally-intuitive kid. I remember well how I used to think, the things I would write to my future self; they were wiser and gentler than I could ever hope to be as an adult. Needless to say, the little poem above is inspired by the aforementioned experience. Sure, big me is armed with a more developed pre-frontal cortex and access to invaluable resources (coping mechanisms, therapy, on and offline communities) , but I struggle to rediscover/reinvent my identity. Little me was the biggest vestige of my lost personhood. So yeah, this might be just a huge self-indulgent projection with my favorite character, but thinking that post-S3 Hunter would also be in my shoes is not completely baseless. 16yrs old Hunter is the fresh wound (a lot of things happened before his teen years, but I’m going to interpret the events of Hollow Mind - which happened when Hunter was 16 - as the ultimate boiling point in his trauma timeline, hence the ‘fresh wound') and 20yrs old Hunter is the rough scab. Each version of Hunter could be dealing with a different set of trauma-induced symptoms. I think his loyalty to Belos kept him going as a child. Being doubtless was important to Hunter back then; it held his sense of self together. And maybe when he survived and was rewarded the time and space to grow into his own person and live for himself, there was this lasting emptiness. I feel this sort of emptiness even today. My only reference of what ‘wholeness’ felt like was when I was obedient to my family. I equated self-abandonment as the righteous norm. The symptoms I deal with today are definitely different from when I was Hunter’s age pre-time-skip. Now that Hunter is in a safe space and an adult post-time skip, he might also need to seek that strength from his younger self. Reminding himself of how far he’s come and the parts of him that he'd like to keep from his past. The parts that he knows in his bones are purely his - not instilled by Belos, not inherited from Caleb.

[theragamuffininitiative]

Wait I forgot Scarecrow dies too 😭😭😭 which then explains it though?? They wouldn't even know that Adler might be out there?? Unless Scarecrow had found a way to leave a message or something?

Adler should not have died and I'm still mad about it.

[venus-light]

Good Omens S2’s ending is so agonising, but I do think it’s going to make Aziraphale’s development significantly more impactful in S3! As a second act this has every painful, fascinating ingredient that made Zuko’s arc in ATLA so outstanding, and Aziraphale’s core conflict/fatal flaw draws from the heart of his character!

He loves Crowley deeply but he’s still clinging to Heaven’s brainwashing, and he’s never actually treated Crowley as an equal or sought to understand Crowley’s perspective yet.

Aziraphale still seems to believe Crowley is just a ‘lost, confused angel’, rather than recognising what Crowley is actually doing: rejecting the system entirely and trying to do good on his own terms. Aziraphale still believes the desire to be Angelic and the desire to be good to others are the same thing, therefore if Crowley is good (as he’s shown himself to be) he must be secretly want to be an Angel and is betraying that whenever he argues against Heaven.

Aziraphale still hasn’t listened when Crowley explains over and over again that he DOESN’T WANT TO BE AN ANGEL. He’s still desperate for Heaven’s validation, even after he chose to leave, and there’s a deep void in his identity! He wants so desperately to be seen as “Good” (regardless of the actual morality of his actions) that it’s used over and over again to coerce and manipulate him! He also wants desperately for Crowley to be “Good” too, because at this point Aziraphale couldn’t ever let himself trust or accept Crowley if he wasn’t.

Aziraphale’s ‘angelic superiority’ is still constantly used to prop up his own identity, and he still considers deviance from Heaven (both in himself and others) as something shameful, embarrassing and in need of being ‘Corrected’. He also still believes Crowley needs/wants to be “Forgiven” by Heaven and that angels are inherently superior to everyone else!

Aziraphale’s default response to suffering being to make it about Heavenly purity rather than empathising with others also makes him extremely blind/self-centred in some situations. He’s proven that he’s willing to adopt empathy - the force that drives Crowley to compassion and forgiveness - if it helps to do good for others, but it’s still a very undeveloped skill in him.

At the start of this season Aziraphale lets Crowley sleep in his car for God’s sake, and apparently only calls Crowley when he wants something! He takes Crowley’s devotion to him for granted, and dismisses Crowley’s feelings and perspective on Gabriel instantly! Whenever they disagree on anything Aziraphale just assumes that he is Good and Crowley is Evil, therefore Crowley’s perspective isn’t worth taking seriously. And Crowley loves Aziraphale so much and is so afraid of losing him that he just… concedes. Over and over again. And keeps on forgiving him without Aziraphale ever realising how deep he’s cutting Crowley. Even now, Aziraphale still sees everything as a dichotomy between “Good” and “Evil”, “Angelic” and “Demonic”, with no middle ground or space outside of it. A worldview that fundamentally misunderstands Crowley’s entire life, moral compass and identity.

Aziraphale does love Crowley, but he still hasn’t reckoned with Heaven’s brainwashing. He still won’t ever be able to understand Crowley’s perspective until he gets the outcome he thought would fix everything, and realises that it won’t.

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

In the Light of Day

After years of buried feelings, you and Crosshair wake beside each other, the line between friendship and romance blurred. In the light of day, you both confront the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

Pairing: Post-Tantiss Crosshair x f!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: softness, fluff, implied night together, very very minor spoiler from the leaked official S3 clip, character growth, Cross is trying to embrace feelings, a lil' saucy.

Translations: ner kar’ta - my heart

The palm leaves outside the open window dance with the first light of dawn, casting dappled shadows across the peaceful bedroom. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, remnants of a night intertwined in passion. As the soft, warm breeze wafts through the room, carrying the scent of the ocean and nearby blossoms, Crosshair lets out a soft sigh. Eyes flitting around the space, he takes in the golden glow from the rising sun - such a stark contrast to the months of dark coldness he’d once accepted as his fate.

Shifting a little among the rumpled bed sheets, his gaze lands on you, lost to sleep beside him, your chest rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. Last night had been…unexpected. For years, you’d been the object of his deepest affections, a love he had buried deep within his heart, covering it up with wit and snark, fearing rejection or the potential loss of your friendship. Yet, here you were, nestled beside him in the soft embrace of dawn. Every stolen glance, every suppressed longing, had led to this, where the line between dreams and reality blurred into a blissful haze of possibility.

You’d been with him and his brothers since the start of the war, acting as a liaison between them and Command. You’d driven him insane at first – all smiles and laughter, always up in his space – but as the days had dragged into months and then into years, he’d found himself gravitating towards you. Your laughter had become his favourite sound. He'd worried when you weren’t in his line of sight. Somehow, you’d wormed past his walls and planted yourself there, occupying space he’d once reserved solely for his brothers.

But then everything had fallen apart, and for a year, he’d only caught snippets of you – while tracking you and his siblings across the galaxy, as Kamino burned and sank below the waves, and then when the torture on Tantiss had been overwhelming. His mind had needed something to hold on to. Shaking away the memories, Crosshair draws his right hand towards his chest, his left hand cradling the back of it to stop the irritating tremble that was now his norm. He turns his focus back to you.

You were so beautiful and had been even more radiant last night – the life and soul of the equinox celebration that had taken over Pabu. He’d been content to linger nearby for a while, keep an eye on you as you danced and chatted with the island residents, but the large crowd had quickly made him uncomfortable. He’d fallen back into form, taking refuge on a nearby rooftop.

He’d missed the sound of you clambering to his vantage point and flinched with surprise when you’d sat at his side. You’d reached for him, a soothing hand on his arm, and asked him to walk along the quiet shoreline with you. The pair of you had been halfway down the beach when your hand had slipped into his, and once you’d reached the docks at the far end of the sandy shore, you’d cautiously pushed up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

The rest was a haze – how he’d tilted his head to capture your lips in a desperate kiss, the building anticipation on the route home, the slam of the bedroom door, clothes discarded, the scent of you and, finally, the soft curves of your body in his hands.

You embraced everything about him. From his prickly attitude during the war to the desolate version of himself he’d been after his rescue, to who he was now – slowly healing, working through things that plagued him, and rebuilding his bond with his siblings. Gratitude flows through him, and he reaches for you, slender fingers dragging along the fullness of your cheek, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the sight of you resting amongst the pillows.

A feather-light caress stirs you from your slumber, your eyes fluttering open, meeting the hawkish gaze of the man beside you. Warmth sweeps through you, soft feelings that had slowly taken root in your heart over the years, no longer able to hide in the darkness. A gentle smile spreads across your lips. “Good morning.” You whisper, not wanting to break the tranquility of the moment.

Crosshair returns your smile, his fingers still tracing the curves of your face with tender reverence. “Good morning.” He murmurs in reply, his voice a low slink that sends shivers down your spine.

As you hold each other’s gaze, the galaxy seems to pause, waiting with bated breath.

“Last night... it was...” Crosshair breaks the silence first, trailing off, unable to find the words to articulate the depth of what he’s feeling.

Reaching out, you gently trace your fingertips along his jawline. The flicker of vulnerability in his eyes is a new development he’s learning to accept and embrace. “I know.” You murmur, your voice soft but sure. You’d been worried about making a move, concerned he wasn’t ready for it yet, but the enthusiasm with which he’d reciprocated had eased your worries.

Try as he might to hide it, a mixture of relief and disbelief washes over him. “I never thought...” He starts, his voice trailing off once more. With a heavy exhale, Crosshair lets the weight of his emotions settle, still learning to sit with them. “I’m not good at this.” He admits with a scowl, frustrated that he’s floundering.

“And that’s okay.” You respond, your voice a soothing melody in the quiet room. Your fingers thread with his and come to rest on the pillow between you, a gesture of comfort and understanding. You take him in for a moment – still a little gaunt with dark circles under his eyes. Among the knotted scars on the side of his head is a new one, a thin straight line, the only evidence of his chip being pried out once he’d been rescued. It was unsurprising that the Empire had lied to him about removing it.

Crosshair’s shoulders relax slightly at your reassurance. You’d always been patient with him, even when he hadn’t deserved it. “I’ve never been one for relationships.” He confesses, his gaze fixed on yours. “But with you, it feels...different.”

Your heart swells at his admission, the sincerity in his words washing over you like a gentle tide. “I feel it, too.” You reply softly, drawing your intertwined hands up to kiss the back of his hand, ignoring how it trembles.

“What…do we do now?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper as his brows furrow once more, uncertainty marring his features.

You pause, considering his question carefully. “I think we have a choice.” You answer honestly. “We can either retreat back into the safety of what we know, or we can see where this takes us.” There’s no doubt in your mind which path you want to follow, but you don’t want to lead him. He needs to decide for himself. Too many decisions have been taken from him throughout his life.

Crosshair nods slowly as if mulling over your words. “And if it doesn’t work out?” He ventures.

“We talk about it.” You assure him, sincerity ringing in your voice. “We work through it together. Just like everything else.”

A comfortable silence settles between you as Crosshair weighs up the options, and you take the opportunity to soak up the feeling of being in bed together, just in case this is the only time you can experience it.

Lost in your thoughts, you almost miss the subtle shift in Crosshair’s expression - a flicker of determination, a silent resolve. “I want to try.” He says suddenly, his voice low but firm. “I want to see where this goes with you.”

His words hang in the air, and, for a moment, you’re speechless. It’s a leap of faith, a step into the unknown, but as you meet his gaze, you know he means it. A smile tugs at your lips. “I want that too.” You admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Relief passes over Crosshair’s eyes as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss - as easy as breathing.

You return it without hesitation, letting go of his hand so you can cup his face and anchor yourself in this moment.

Crosshair deepens the kiss, his hand reaching your hip, pulling you closer as if afraid to let go. When you finally break apart, a soft smile lingers on both of your lips.

“C’mon, let’s get some breakfast.” You insist, still adamant about helping him regain a few more pounds. Pressing one more kiss to his lips, you pull back and sit up, the sheets slipping down your body.

Crosshair’s gaze snaps to your naked frame, sharp eyes roaming over every curve as his smile switches into a smirk you’re all too familiar with. “You on the menu again, ner kar’ta?” He teases, voice raspy with desire.

Your pillow connects with his chest before he can stop it, earning a deep chuckle from him. “Behave.” You chide playfully, though the warmth in your eyes betrays the affection behind your words, and you can’t deny how your heart races at the new pet name. As you slip out of bed, you pull on his discarded shirt. “But you might want to save room for dessert...”

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @starrylothcat @cw80831 @dreamie411 @issa-me-bry-blog @leftealeaf @isaidonyourknees

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[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part I)

Summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 1,536.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Notes: As soon as I saw him my feminism left my body immediately and my inner voice agreed that I'd let him take away my human rights with no question. He's an absolute idiot, would sleep with him 100%.

Heads up as English is not my native language sooo, yeah you know what follows. Lord pls give me inspo to finish this fic, amen.

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part I: For The Common Good

Two months.

Two months ago Grace Mallory decided to put the former greatest supe into sleep. Somehow, you managed to get in her head, explaining your new project to her and finding a new use for Soldier Boy, who had enough rest for 40 years.

You knew what happened at the Seven Tower, how Soldier Boy and Butcher's team ended up there to finally kill Homelander. Grace tried doing some shit against Vought before, but she never managed to win. It wasn't different this time. What was better then, that to develop a cure for supes like you, who didn't ask for it? People who never used their powers in public, nor seeked fame and money.

As a doctor in Chemistry, you were developing a cure for Compound V with a secret team. Suitable for you, you were in the same CIA tower Colonel Mallory decided to encapsulate Soldier Boy to, initially, spend the rest of his days in. You had luck Grace gave green light to the project, even though your team was already working on it without her approval anyway. But it was so much better if she found out properly.

Making your way to the super secured wing where Soldier Boy was held out of his sleep, you gripped the folder in your hands. You were scanned thoroughly before going inside a cold space, where two different crystal windows and metal doors separated the place. The armed guard guided you to the first room to check first through the window. You sighed, seeing a man sitting down, hands cuffed to a harsh steel table, gaze lost. It was him.

"The keys," you requested the guard by your side.

"Doctor-"

"I said, keys. He doesn't need to be cuffed."

He complied to your order, clearly annoyed but with a straight face and you walked to the closed door.

"If something happens, I can take care of myself. Don't let anyone inside understand?" you said.

He gave a nod. With that, he let you inside the room, the doors closing behind your back.

The prisoner observed you carefully as soon as you entered. His gaze was tired, but he seemed ready to attack, and it was completely hard to ignore his rough stare on you as you made your way to your seat in front of him. Soldier Boy observed you, placing the folder on the surface, and you held his gaze, not flinching for a second. Until you decided to talk first.

"I am glad you're awake. My name is Y/N, I am a doctor at the facility. Just wanna know how you're doing today," you spoke in a calm and soft way, so he could see you were not a threat.

He saw you roaming through the pages of the file, which he recognized as a copy of his file, and you took a pen from your lab coat to make some anotations.

"Not a smart move to let a fucking doctor here," he said with a deep voice, lips forming a straight line. "What do you want?"

"I want to help you."

"Cut the bullshit."

"I want to talk. If you let me, I will uncuff you so we can have a chat, like civilized people. Just don't try to escape, you won't go too far."

He raised an eyebrow as you reached his wrists and carefully, you set him free from the metal grip.

"I know what happened with Butcher and his boys," you said, confident that he would not try anything else. "About Homelander and your relationship with him."

"What the fuck do you know?" Soldier Boy tensed visibly hearing the name of the bastard. Still, he remained on his seat. "Want some info? You can lick Grace's pussy for that."

"She is, actually, the one who approved me to be here right now," you answered, brushing off his vocabulary. You used to deal with assholes like him all the time.

He scoffed. "Why?"

"Ben," you called his real name softly. "You've been sleeping for four decades. You deserve a second chance, I am offering you that. In some sort of way."

"I'm not going to be part of that freakshow-"

"This has nothing to do with Vought," you cut his words, his tone rising and you knew perfectly why. "You just need to be here in the facility, awake, in a dignified place we will give you so you can learn everything you missed. We can give you therapy, a comfy room, anything you want that's legal, of course..."

His jaw clenched, feeling you would ask for something more. "In exchange of what?"

"I know it's hard, unfortunately you won't be able to get out, but you don't deserve to sleep forever again," you sighed. "I will pay you visits and follow your improvements because you're human, after all. That's all I ask from you," you gave him a smile for the first time.

For a few moments, he said nothing, as if making up his mind about it. "Alright, anything but coming back to that shit hole. I need reefer though."

"Lucky you, that's legal now. We can certainly make it happen."

He looked around the room as you let him go inside first. Not the fanciest, not the shittiest. It had the basics: a bed, a sofa, a TV, a closet, a bookshelf with different books, magazines and newspapers he wasn't sure would read any time, a separate door for a bathroom, enough privacy, and no windows though. It wasn't really a cell, but he did look and felt somehow like a hostage. Just a little less if he could say.

"This is what we have for now, I am all ears if you request something else to have in here," you began as he paced around and tested the bed, sitting down on the mattress.

Ben still wasn't convinced on why you offered this to him. Sceptic, he gave a good look at you, roaming his eyes at your standing figure in a fucking lab coat. Christ, he hated those. Too pretty for a doctor, but too dumb to be locked with a supe like him. He was so tired that he didn't try and hit on you like he normally would with any walking pussy that appeared in plain sight. He was too exhausted to even give a shit.

"Lemme think about it, doctor."

"Of course, take your time," you replied as he walked toward the bookshelf, scanning through the titles there were. He recognized only half of them.

"So, I will be imprisoned here instead of a fucking eggshell," Ben said, turning around to meet you. "Charming," he smirked, dragging the words out of his mouth. "Doing charity."

He watched your face drop as you shook your head. "It's not like that-"

"Then why keep me awake?" Ben insisted as he gave steps to get close to you. "I can't die, it's much easier to force my sleep in a capsule your boss made specially for me."

He stopped mere inches in front of you, your eyes never turned away from him. He thought you were fucking brave just by keeping his dark gaze.

"Ben, I told you I will be watching your progress. You can grow from all of this with our help-"

"What kind of doctor are you?"

"A psychiatrist. That's why I'm here."

Ben scoffed with a grin showing on his lips. He didn't believe in that kind of shit, but oh, well. What was he gonna do about it? He was tired of sleeping, Mallory captured him, and you were here, giving him a shelter for no cost, but his freedom. In his mind, that was temporary of course. With time, a plan would come. Right now, he just needed to keep up with the fucked up things of the modern world.

"I guess you would come and babysit me then," he said, going back to take a sit on the bed.

"Wouldn't use 'babysit you' but I will come to see you, that's for sure."

He nodded. Silence was his answer, so you continued.

"Just general rules. Our people will bring you three meals a day, if you're missing something that you need then just push the button by the door, there will be guards outside to assist you on that. Also, there are clothes your size on the closet and personal products so you can change and take a shower," he stayed silent again, just taking in your words. "If you don't need anything then I leave you to get comfortable," you said, about to leave.

"Wait. I do need something," he hesitated for a moment, but he continued anyway. "Don't use those lab coats when you come in."

Your eyes widened, he quickly realised you already knew why he was requesting that when you started to take off the coat, revealing your formal attire. You wrapped the coat on your arm and cleaned your throat.

"I totally understand, I will keep that in mind when I come tomorrow. And I will ask for your reefer too."

You flashed a final polite smile and left him to get settled. Ben breathed out. Fuck, he really needed a shower.

[thenameswinterfics]

CAOINEADH

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Banshee!Reader Settings: Season 2, brief mention of moments from S3 to SKMD Summary: While wandering outside Dunholm with his mother, Sihtric is visited by a creature whose presence brings terrible news to his family. Years later, the Banshee returns to the mortal lands and Sihtric, now grown up and in the service of Uhtred, faces the consequences of a bad omen. But the tragedy also brings them closer together. Word Count: 5,2 K Warnings: Angst, mention of blood, mention of death, mention of main character death(s), human/monster romance, hopeful ending? , me writing Finan's Irish accent. A/N: After a long time, I'm back to writing for my favourite Dane rat boy. I'd somehow forgotten how much I loved and enjoyed writing for him, especially after a period of putting him aside for a while. This feels like I'm republishing a fic of his for the very first time, so I'm terribly nervous. I hope you like and enjoy it. If you find the ending a bit rushed, I'm sorry. I finished it while it was late at night in my timezone, and everything will be fixed eventually when I'm awake and more aware of my actions. Many thanks to @foxyanon , @legitalicat and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with the Banshee lore, for writing Finan's accent, for the emotional support, for the beta reading and last minute corrections, and to @sylasthegrim for the early beta reading and emotional support as well.

This fic is my entry and first submission to the Fan-Frankentober event, organized by @fandomeventcenter. Here the masterlist to take a look at the other works.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header by me (template by @zaldritzosrose) Dividers by me and @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3 (COMING SOON)

Caoineadh: Irish and Scottish Gaelic pronunciation of "keening" (to cry, to weep); traditional form of the vocal lament for the dead in the Gaelic tradition.

By the time Sihtric stopped running, he had no more memory of the place he was in.

His hands, clenched into small fists, rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to scan the surroundings, looking for any detail that might help him orientate himself in the unknown space. He could not recognize the long tree trunks rising from the ground, their dry branches seeming to touch the twilight sky as he watched the sun's rays filter through the few remaining canopies. 

The place was eerily quiet, the sound of the wind blowing and moving the branches and leaves on the ground the only sound to break the surreal yet disturbing atmosphere. He felt a shiver run down his spine and the little Dane suddenly hugged his shoulder, as if to hide his head between them like a turtle. 

It was one of the few times he and his mother had left the strong walls of Dunholm together, Sihtric enjoying the fresh air of the forest while Elflaed was busy gathering flowers and herbs that he had little interest in. Sometimes his curiosity would get the better of him, his big, mismatched eyes fixed on Elflaed's wooden basket and how many herbs she had managed to gather. When his mother felt his eyes on her, she would patiently stop picking and crouch down beside him, patiently explaining what she was doing as she wrapped his small body around her, only to see her son wriggle out of her embrace soon after and play with small sticks nearby. 

Sihtric was usually a quiet and obedient child: when his mother asked him to stay close to her, he obeyed without a fuss. That day, however, something caught his attention, a heartbreaking wail that filled his ears and shook his heart: it was a gentle but sad song that carried pain and sorrow, hiding a sense of concern and care towards to whom it was addressed. Armed only with a small stick and with curiosity teasing him, Sihtric dared to disobey his mother for the first time, and entered into the woods while leaving his mother behind.

And there he was, lost in an unfamiliar place, with nothing to defend himself but a small stick. He was too young to call himself a warrior, barely able to hold a knife, let alone wield a sword that was too heavy for his tiny hands and a shield properly. Hiding and fleeing was the only option he could take in case of real danger, for he had spent his whole life hiding from the wrath of his cruel father; but the surroundings would make the task impossible, as the tall and twisted trees casted long shadows, and the undergrowth cracked with every step he could take.

Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken by the same sorrowful chant that dragged him in the deep of the woods. Holding his wooden stick in his hands, Sihtric moved carefully in the direction of the voice, trying not to make noise while the ground cracked beneath his feet. 

The walk was short, and he found himself in front of a small lake he had never seen before. Squatting on the bank was a young lady in a blue gown, her black hair cascading down her shoulders like pitch-black watercourses, giving the little boy her back as she continued to sing her lament. Sihtric could hardly understand what she was doing, her head almost hidden beneath her shoulders, her hands working frantically to move the water in small ripples.

Holding his breath and trying to be as quiet as a mouse, Sihtric crept up behind her, lifting his small head and trying to find the right angle where he could see what she was doing underwater. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, fear and anticipation creeping into his bones as he felt the keening close to him, the chanting drawing him in even if he couldn't understand it. But as he crept closer, something beneath his boots cracked softly, and the sound was enough to make the lady turn and show her face to the boy.

It was the first time he met you. 

Sihtric watched with frightened eyes as your icy blue gaze locked on his and a low hiss escaped your mouth, your pale complexion adorned by scarlet tears rolling down your eyes. Behind you, piles of clothes lay scattered on the grass, others dripping in the water that had lost its transparency and had become muddy with blood. 

The little Dane found the strength to stand up and try to run away, but he soon fell, tripping over a stone behind him. Your ghostly presence, now calmed down after the initial fright, lightly approached him and crouched down. One of your slender hands rested on his cheek, your touch as cold as the death itself. But the words that came out from your lips were way colder, breaking the silence with your voice as soft as the silk but sharp as a piece of glass. 

“She cannot escape to the Other World.”

“She?” “Escape from what?” “What is the Other World she is talking about?” These were the words that filled the boy's mind, filled with nothing but fear and the coldness of your touch. But soon Sihtric's tiny body was enveloped in a familiar warmth, and two arms lifted him from the floor. It was only when warm, trembling lips were pressed to his forehead that he recognised the touch of his mother, who had searched for him after losing sight of him.

“Sihtric!” Elflaed cried while holding her son close to her. “Why were you here all alone? I told you never to leave my side, never! Oh, my sweet boy!” 

The young Dane watched as he silently pointed to the spot where you appeared before him, but a cold realisation hit him as you were no longer there, gone like ashes in the wind.

Sihtric did not answer, too lost in his mother's warmth and love, and the bad omen you gave him still shook him to the core. He clung to her presence, and each time your words echoed in his mind, he sought comfort in his mother's presence, even when they left the forest and the warmth of her small hut welcomed them.

But a few days later, the opening of the Other World shook nature and its creatures. And his mother's soul was claimed after a long agony.

Standing outside Eoferwic, you looked up at the walls that surrounded the town, admiring the mix of Roman, Danish and Saxon architecture that was unfamiliar to you: you were there when the Romans laid the foundation stone on the ground, and the same souls were the first you guided to the Other World, announcing the sad event in the form of a manifestation to the families you watched over.��

And you were called to do your duty again: to find the same boy you met years ago, to tell him that more of his family's souls will be claimed in the days to come. They will not be gentle and innocent like those of his mother and grandparents you guided through the other world: they were violent, reckless, stained with blood’s innocents and sins far from forgotten. But it was up to the god or gods to decide where their souls would go in the afterlife. 

Your pale eyes scanned the area, and when you found a small stream where you could wash the dirty clothes you were carrying, you walked over and dipped your hands into the cold water. You watched as your fingers swirled around the cloth and the water lost its translucency, a faint reddish tinge staining it.

The night was still, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees, lightly caressing your raven locks. You continued to scrub the clothes in the water as your wailing began, your lament filling the air and mingling with the sound of the rushing water as your eyes watered and scarlet tears rolled down your white face. 

As on that night, something soft cracked on the ground and your wailing stopped. You lifted yourself from the ground and turned towards the sound, and soon found yourself crouched beside a young man, probably trying to sneak up on you without attracting attention. 

He was a handsome man, the most beautiful your eternal eyes could ever have seen; his features sharp, his fair skin adorned with a few scars on his forehead, eyebrow and cheekbone, a knotted tattoo crossing part of his head, his dark hair cut at the sides and combed into three plaits and knotted at the back. These were features that were strangely familiar to you, your mind trying to remember when was the last time you saw him. 

But it was his eyes that captured you the most. There was pain, melancholy and innocence in them - the same light you had found in the bicoloured eyes of the little Danish boy you had reached outside Dunholm. You felt a sudden flicker of recognition, your eyes widening slightly as you recognised that lost and frightened boy in the man he had become. The years had moulded him into a skilled warrior, but the softness of his eyes remained unchanged, you noted. 

You chose a cautious approach, slowly closing the distance between you. You noticed his body trembling and his jaw clenching, his muscles not moving from where he was: it was still unclear to you whether he wasn't moving out of fear or anticipation.

“It has been a long time, sweet boy,” you broke the silence, using the same nickname you had heard his mother call him. Sihtric stood frozen, partly enchanted by your ethereal appearance and your voice, as melodious as the birdsong at sunrise.  

His eyebrows furrowed and his expression changed from alienation to curiosity: your figure was too familiar to him, but he could not remember where he had first met you.

 “Do… Do I know you, lady?” the Dane asked, holding his breath as the silent nod of your head answered his question. 

You took a long pause before answering him, "You do, in a way," you said in a soft voice that carried the weight of your grief. You took a step closer, noticing that the Dane was shifting his incongruous gaze slightly away from you, "But I have known you since you were a little boy playing spy in the deep forest.”

One of your hands reached out and rested on his cheek, the cold touch awakening something in Sihtric that he thought he had buried deep in his heart. He remembered your figure knelt near the lake shore, your icy blue gaze that penetrated deep into his soul, the cryptic prophecy you had given him but he was too young to understand.And then he remembers the mother he lost, and how it was one of the last nights they wandered the Dunholm woods together, and how after her death the Dane desperately tried to find you to explain, but you never showed again.

Instinctively, one of his calloused hands reached for yours, shivering at the cold of your pale skin. But he never pulled you away: instead, he leaned against you, finding the softness of your touch endearing.

“I remember your touch,” he murmured shyly, lowering his gaze as it briefly met yours, fascinated by your pale eyes, “It was you, all this time,” he continued, earning your satisfied hum.

“It is your family that forged our bond,” you announced with a solemn tone, absently doing circles on his skin with your thumb, “It was your mother’s souls that bound you to me.”

The mention of his mother made Sihtric snap back to reality, and pain filled again his mismatched eyes, “My mother’s soul?” he repeated in a whisper, a slight trembling could be heard in his voice, “What did you do to her? Why didn’t you save her?” 

His voice broke down when he asked his final question, and the red tears rolled down your cheeks furiously “Why did you take her away from me?” 

“It is not me who willingly chose to wrestle your mother from your arms,” you murmured softly, your other hand resting on his other cheek, cupping his face completely. Your thumbs gently wiped away his tears, and you could hear him draw in a sharp breath. Under the moonlight, you could see a faint blush in his cheeks.

“It is fate that foretells a mortal's permanence in this world and how their entry into the Other World will come about,” you explained carefully, as if you were talking with a child. “It is my duty to show myself to you and to guide you through the painful parts of death. Your pain is my own burning.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell over you, the weight of your words making it almost impossible for you both to speak. Finally, you summoned the courage to speak again, and your next words sent shivers down his spine. 

“The Other World is shaking, more souls from your family should be claimed,” You solemnly stated, and your words brought a sense of uneasiness and confusion in Sihtric. 

“Lady,” The Dane lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning at the sight of you, his body trembling at the surreality of the information he was receiving that night, “I have no family left outside my mother and my grandparents,”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, amused at his naivety, "Even if they neglect you, there are still ties of blood that fate will sever."

Sihtric clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening at the memory of a father who neglected you and looked at you with disgust only because he was guilty of being born a bastard, and of his half-brother who always looked at him with the same disgust for their father. The news of their imminent deaths brought him an unexpected sense of peace, and the chains of his tortured past will be broken forever: but he would fear how their deaths would affect him, when the damage they had done was far from repaired, and the memories of his past would knock furiously at his door, reminding him that no matter how hard he worked to forge his own path, he would forever be marked as a slave.

The Dane was about to open his mouth to reply to your words when a loud, rough voice called him out from a distance. 

“Sihtric! Come back here, yer little runt!” Finan’s voice brought him back to reality, forcing the Dane to shift his gaze and look at him. 

“I am coming, Finan!” Sihtric replied to him as quickly as he could, so that he could face you and ask you about the fate of Kjartan and Sven in death.

But when he turned his eyes again, you were gone. And a sudden emptiness filled his heart and saddened his soul.

Later in the evening, the atmosphere within the walls of Eoferwich was playful and joyful. Warriors gathered around small tables outside, filling their stomachs with food and ale while telling stories of women, successful raids, or simply myths and legends from their homelands. 

Sihtric's mind was elsewhere that night. It was common for the warriors who shared a seat at his table to see the young Dane so shy and taciturn, a pattern they justified from his earlier days as a slave in Dunholm, his eyes darting around while his body tensed at the proximity of the too many people in front of him.

But this time it wasn't the echo of his past that tormented him: it was you, your stunning, ghostly presence and melodious voice had bewitched him and altered all his senses. It was as if he was seeing you for the first time, for he had seen you when he was a little boy, unaware that his world was about to collapse upon him and that he would have to rebuild it all by himself. Now that he was a young man and more aware of his own feelings and the world around him, it felt like a string pulling him towards you, longing for your touch and the way you spoke of destiny and its inexorable flow. And the mystery surrounding your figure made you even more desirable in his eyes, and he often wondered if he was facing a goddess herself.

Sihtric's thoughts about your figure were suddenly interrupted by Finan's speeches about his homeland, Ireland, its customs and its most famous legends. One in particular caught the Dane's attention, and he shifted his gaze from his reflection in the mug to the Irishman.

“I told yer tha these creatures ain’t nothin’ but an omen of death!” Finan spoke with such emphasis, looking at Clapa and the few men at the table listening to him. When he felt Sihtric's gaze resting on him, he continued his story. “Legends say they’ll appear in front of yer, sometimes washing bloodied clothes, and they’ll cryin’ and wailin’ somethin�� terrible tha will hit ya family.”

Sihtric listened intently to Finan's words and felt his hand tremble as he gripped his mug of ale. He felt all the dots connect at once, especially when he saw you washing dirty clothes and singing a mournful chant, your wailing so tearful that it filled the listener's heart with sadness. He also remembered facing you twice and seeing the tears of blood leave your eyes. 

There were no creatures like you in the Norse legends and beliefs, and Sihtric wondered how a creature from a different faith could become the spirit guardian of his family.

“I found a beautiful lady washing a pile of clothes not so far from here,” The Dane murmured against his will and soon the animated atmosphere died down and he shrugged as he felt all eyes on him. His mismatched eyes found the Irishman's brown ones and with a slight nod he silently ordered him to continue.

“She was singing something,” Sihtric continued, his voice faltering slightly as he could feel the intensities of their gaze on him, “It was a lament, something so heartbreaking that it chills the blood in your veins.”

His gaze rested on Finan while he spoke his last words, “She brushed my skin and was cold at the touch. And then she was looking at me with her pale eyes, crying blood-“

“Cryin’ blood, yer said?” the Irishman asked in an urgent tone, and Sihtric nodded his head. Then he reached for the Dane's shoulder and squeezed, but not too hard: Finan knew what the wrong touch could do to a former slave, especially one as young as Sihtric.

“That woman you claimed to have seen before… Did ya know what a Banshee is?” Finan asked Sihtric, and received a shake of head as an answer. The Irishman sighed quietly, and leaned his face close to the Dane. 

“Tha’s the spirit I was talkin’ about before. They’re bound at yer family and they’ll come wailin’ and cryin’ blood while announcin’ the death of yer loved ones. She can be either a gorgeous woman or a vindictive old witch. Tha’s someone ain’t to be trifled with, remember this.”

Sihtric gulped at Finan's description of the Banshee, which was nothing like what you really were. You were so gentle with him, taking care of his pain and not putting the burden of grief on his shoulders. How could such a sweet creature as you be the dangerous spirit that Finan described earlier?

“She treated me with nothing but kindness, Finan,” the Dane replied almost innocently, and the Irishman grinned at his words. 

“Then ya were a lucky bastard!” he retorted in an ironic tone, gently slapping Sihtric’s cheek and returning to his seat. 

The conversations continued with more stories of the Banshees and Irish legends until Uhtred broke the mood by calling for Sihtric, who obediently rose and reached for his Lord. And after preparing the final strategies of war, everyone fell asleep, thinking of the battle they would face at Dunholm and how you would draw the veil of death over their heads.

After a day of celebration, Sihtric found an opportunity to sneak out of Dunholm fortress through the small door in the east wall used by the servants. He followed the small watercourse that flowed into the forest entrance and, armed with his sword and dagger, he walked into the heart of the forest, his movements light as a feather to avoid any upcoming dangers.

Once again, the prophecy you told him about your family proved true, and on the day of the battle both Kjartan and Sven were killed, their souls taken by you and sent to the afterlife. While the event lifted a great weight from Sihtric's shoulders, free at last to forge his own destiny without the cruel shadow of his father tormenting him, he wondered if you knew the difference between your afterlife and his, and if his father's soul did not rest beside Elflaed's. The image of Kjartan distressing his mother even in the afterlife made his heart skip a few beats: he would rather accept slavery under the cruel Lord of Dunholm than see his mother tormented in heaven, having found the peace she never had in life.

Finding you would be the only way for him to be reassured and to have the answers he wanted. But finding you would also mean surrendering to your cold touch, losing himself in your lifeless eyes that stirred emotions he could not believe he was feeling. Finan had warned him to be wary of spirits like you, but you were nothing more than a comforting presence at his side, a guardian who would watch over him even if he could not feel you.

Fortunately, Sihtric found the little spot where he had found the two of you the first time, remembering the details of the foliage and surrounding vegetation. And there you were, sitting near the shore, gazing out at the shimmering water, your presence quiet and not filled with your lamentations. When you appeared, Sihtric noticed how your pale face was cleared by your scarlet tears and held his breath at how even more beautiful you were without crying, the pale rays of the moon caressing your skin.

"You came," you said with a gentle smile as you stood up and approached him.

"I thought I would find you here, lady," Sihtric replied sheepishly, his cheeks turning red as he saw you closing the distance between us. He swore he had never seen such a beautiful creature as you. 

"I realised I never asked what your name was," the Dane continued, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“Names are not important for eternal creatures like us,” you explained while you cupped your cheek in your hand, brushing his skin with your slender fingers, “you do not need to know my name to feel close to me. I will always watch over you, Sihtric.”

“I refuse to believe a creature as beautiful as yours is deprived of a name that does her justice,” Sihtric replied, closing his eyes while abandoning himself to your touch, ignoring the lump that was forming in your throat. 

You could not remember what your real name was, for you had forgotten it when death took you in its arms. You did not remember your former life as a young woman full of hopes and dreams, and how a violent death, coming from those closest to you, extinguished your light forever.

Ignoring all your thoughts, you shook your head and looked at Sihtric, who covered your hand with his calloused one and pressed his lips to your palm, feeling the coldness of your skin against his. It was a small gesture of affection that set a heart beating that you had forgotten you had, for it beat only with sorrow and grief.

"You claimed the souls of my father and half-brother today," it was Sihtric's turn to break the silence, wrapping his strong arms around your slender waist and pulling you close. Even though you were a ghost, you looked so real in his eyes and he was content to touch you and cradle your form.

"The doors of the Other World have indeed been opened to them," you replied, almost lost in his touch, "but for them there is another path to take, one filled with eternal pain and damnation."

The sight of his body tensing at your words saddened you, so you spoke quickly to reassure him, "Your mother and father have taken different paths in the afterlife. They will never meet again.” 

Sihtric felt another burden lifted from his shoulders, and his body suddenly became light: he was glad to see that his dear mother's soul was enveloped in the eternal light of beatification, while his father was probably rotting in the depths of Niflheim, surrounded by cold and darkness, for he died without a weapon in his hands. But even if he had gripped his sword tightly with his last breath, Sihtric did not believe that Odin would open the gates of Valhalla for him.

“Thank you,” the Dane whispered softly, giving you the first sincere smile you’ve ever seen while watching him growing up. His bicolored eyes shone with a renewed life, tasting that freedom he thought he could never have in his life. 

But a new realisation hit him hard, and the light in his eyes was replaced by a look of suffering: your duties were done, and you would return to the veil that separates the living from the dead, and watch over him silently but without concealment. He was not ready to say goodbye to you, not after he had found a person who would treat you with kindness and make his heart beat faster, it mattered not if that person was a creature from the afterlife or not.

“Do not go, please,” Sihtric pleaded in a feeble voice, his jaw clenching as well as the grip he had on you, afraid that you might vanish at any moment. He moved your body close to his own, resting his warm forehead on your cold one.

“I have to, Sihtric,” you explained quietly, though you felt your eyes burning and your scarlet tears about to escape. “I am bound to the spirit world, preparing families for their upcoming deaths. You are a young warrior, with life burning inside you.”

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth his living body is giving to you, a warmth you used to radiate as well. And when you felt a rivulet of blood escaping from your eyes, Sihtric’s arms were quickly cupping your cheeks, wiping them with his tattooed fingers. 

"One day, when the doors of the Other World open again and the veil between our worlds forms its rift, they will give me the call to take you, and only there will you be mine forever," you added, the words slipping easily from your tongue as you lifted your gaze and locked it in his eyes. You have never had anyone look at you with love in their eyes, not even in your previous mortal life. Sihtric was sent to you to show you that a damned spirit like you could be loved and deserve to be loved. But he was the right person at the wrong time. 

“Promise you will live and wait for me until your hour will come.”

Sihtric took his time to calm down, closing his eyes and breathing slowly to calm the tears that were about to fall and to suppress the pain inside him. He thought he had found the right person to spend the rest of his life with, to take you as his wife and build a family with you. But he had to face the cold truth that you were not a living being and that you would soon have to leave his side.

The Dane opened his watery eyes again and looked at you with burning desire as he gently lifted your head with his hands. "I promise I will wait for you, my love," he swore, clutching his Thor's hammer with one hand, "and when that day comes and death takes him, I will be ready to go. And there I will be yours forever."

You both raised your faces to each other like a magnet drawing you close, sealing your eternal promise with a kiss that poured out all the love you both had carved out of each other, but that your time had not yet allowed. And when you reluctantly broke the kiss, you slowly turned and walked towards the small lake, your body disappearing into a cloud of mist that slowly dissipated into the air, the sound of a bird flapping its wings in the distance. Sihtric watched your disappearance with pain in his heart and watched over the lake until morning, when he returned to Dunholm to be reunited with Uhtred and the others.

Over the years, Sihtric had kept his promise and lived a true warrior's life, the once shy boy growing into a skilled warrior and confident man. He became one of Uhtred's most trusted allies and closest friends, and together with Finan and Osferth they wandered the borders of Mercia and Wessex, the Danelaw and East Anglia, eventually reclaiming Bebbanburg for Uhtred, who reclaimed his birthright and became its lord.

Feeling that you were always watching over him, you only appeared sporadically to bring him and his band of friends bad news: it was your job to inform him of the impending deaths of Gisela and Thyra while he was at Coccham, to warn him of Father Beocca's death before their first attempt on Bebbanburg fortress, and to claim Osferth's soul at Rumcofa. Uhtred was next, succumbing after a long and arduous battle, followed soon after by Finan, too old to even stand properly on his feet.

You were at his side, emptying his heart of grief as his mouth claimed yours in fleeting kisses before you went back to hide in the veil. You watched Sihtric grow old over the years, loving every single wrinkle on his face and every white hair that appeared over the years, while to him you were always the same young woman he fell in love with when he was a young and inexperienced lad.

And when he grew old and grey, surrounded by nothing but the walls of Dunholm, of which he had become lord, he felt the doors of the Other World open and a bird flap its wings, followed by the sound of a gash. With dying eyes and a tired smile, he watched you keep your own promise and claim his soul as he breathed his last, and feeling his body rejuvenated by the effects of eternal life, he took you by the hand as you reached the gates of the Other World, and with a long, desperate kiss, you sealed your eternal life together, and your souls at last lived and rested in peace.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

Sihtric Kjartansson Taglist: @whitedarkmoonflower @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @foxyanon @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

@alexagirlie @sylasthegrim @lord-aldhelm @sihtricsafin @arcielee

@volklana @gemini-mama @ladyinred2248

[kradogsrats]

Revisiting the Arc 2 Opening

So particularly @raayllum had done some detailed analysis and predictions based on the comparison of Viren and Callum's variant arc 2 openings, but I want to return in the post-s6 space now that we have Claudia's opening as a third point of comparison because that addition has an impact on how the original two relate to one another and what each one is saying.

The basic sequence of each opening is the same: from the initial star-map zoom (associated with destiny/time-blind vision of future events) the camera circles the principal character, placed at the celestial Sea of the Castout, as they turn to stone. Aaravos's giant hand swoops down and plucks up the statue, now contextualized by size as a pawn or other game piece, to admire from within his prison with a satisfied smile.

The most important point to understand about this sequence is that Aaravos doesn't personally turn Viren, Callum, and Claudia to stone, but is able to capture and manipulate them as pawns because of it:

This doesn't seem like much of a distinction at all, particularly because the petrification that results in Aaravos's satisfied claim on each mage is a representation of dark magic, which is... what allows Aaravos to influence/control those who resort to using it.

We get the direct link between the heart, dark magic, and Aaravos's influence/control explicitly spelled out by s6, and (as many noticed before)... go figure, in all three openings the corruption petrification begins at the heart.

Now, Callum is actually the only one who knows explicitly about the connection between dark magic and influence/control by Aaravos. Viren has sort of intuited it by the end of s5, in that we can see by portions of his dream that he's aware on at least a subconscious level that he was not in his right mind during at least the latter half of s3. This is why the distinction between the petrification being a factor allowing Aaravos's control, rather than an effect of it, is important—the conflicts and dynamics being represented are more complex than that. For example: Viren's opening, it turns out, isn't about Aaravos at all.

That's a Reach

When the primary arc 2 opening, featuring Viren, was revealed as part of the lead-up to the s4 release, there was a decent amount of speculation as to what it meant—the connection with Avizandum's death was recognized immediately, but what did that signify? Would there be further-reaching direct consequences of Viren's involvement and the archdragon-killing spell? Would Avizandum himself somehow have expanded significance? What is Viren reaching for: Aaravos, redemption, another chance at life?

Mostly, it set the tone for s4 and arc 2 in general, particularly regarding Viren's character arc, with strong mood and themes of helplessness, the past, regret and consequences, cyclic harm, and (of course) death. Not even to mention the looming presence of Aaravos and his relationship with Viren as his pawn. It was a vibe.

It wasn't until after s5 and/or s6 that the opening came into full context: Avizandum, in his final moments, turns his back on the battle with Harrow—the cycle of violence that he, himself, has contributed to perpetuating—and reaches for the child he will now be unable to protect from that violence.

Viren, as it turns out, does the exact same, as we see explicitly in s5 and continued implicitly in s6. Like Avizandum, he reaches for his children, unable to save them from the damage he has already done—all of it through dark magic.

On its own, it's an elegant implementation of the parallels TDP is so fond of to demonstrate that both sides of this long-time conflict have inflicted harm on each other and themselves in very similar ways for generations. Even at the time of s4, however, we had Callum's opening obviously derived from Viren's, and after s6 we have Claudia's, as well—both of which come with their own context that builds off of Viren's in different ways.

Lost Child

So while Viren's opening actually has very little to do with Aaravos (prior to Aaravos's actual appearance grasping him as a literal pawn), Claudia's (and Callum's, which we'll come back to in a bit) is difficult to interpret as not being related to her personal dynamic with Aaravos.

Interestingly, Claudia's opening places her at a very specific point in time, since it's visibly between two major physical changes to her body/appearance—her lower leg is missing, severed by Rayla in the Sea of the Castout at the end of s5, but she still has her long hair from before prompting Terry to cut it off for her early in s6. Even more specifically, she has the half-and-half split of black and white hair, which is already majority-white in s6e1:

This is Claudia in a moment we don't see on-screen—when, having failed to collect Aaravos's prison and not knowing that Viren has been offered and rejected the Infantis Sanguine spell, she turns to Aaravos in the dark of night and is willing to do anything to save her father.

I could do a whole thing here about the nature of Claudia's perception of Aaravos as both a paternal and divine figure, but the relevant part is that her only association between dark magic and Aaravos is a positive one—as far as she's concerned, Aaravos gave humanity dark magic as a benevolent gift, and her main reason (at least that she's willing to voice) for hesitating to give it up is that Aaravos kept his promises to her and it would be right to keep her promise to free him. In her opening, she goes from pained and defeated to looking upward with total trust and hope—looking to Aaravos the way she would have looked to Viren.

Her petrification shares the single tear with Viren and Avizandum, really cementing her place as another loop in the cycle of harm between humanity and Xadia that has dark magic at its heart. That callback to Viren's opening also puts hers in dialogue with him as much as with Aaravos, placing her in the same position as he is in a reflection of his horror and dismay that she has followed his path and example so closely.

Given that Claudia dramatically changes appearance (and, to an extent, attitude) immediately after this opening is introduced, it's possible that we'll see a different variant for s7... but given the end of s6, she actually hasn't really changed all that much. She has doubts about how to proceed with her life after Viren leaves, but as soon as Aaravos re-enters the picture, her conviction is back. She may not have done any dark magic after s6e1, but I don't think that's because she's decided to give it up.

Key Framing

Given the context of Claudia's opening, Callum's opening becomes unusual because it references Viren's without tying back to Avizandum and that cycle of harm. It's still on some level about dark magic, but Callum's relationship with dark magic isn't tied up in family and inheritance like Claudia's and Viren's are—instead it's focused entirely on fate vs. freedom, and on Aaravos specifically.

Callum's opening appears only for s4e4 ("Through the Looking Glass"), where he is possessed by Aaravos and it is established that his single use of dark magic is what allows that control, and for s5e8 ("Finnegrin's Wake") when he uses dark magic a second time. The shared opening puts those two episodes in obvious dialogue with each other, since s5e8 never makes explicit that the danger of dark magic for Callum is control by Aaravos—something he has already asked Rayla to end his life in order to avoid.

The focus in Callum's opening, both by its visual prominence and Callum's own gaze directed at it, is the Key. While Viren and Claudia's petrifications end the way Avizandum's does—with the single tear—Callum's ends with the Key in a blaze of light.

I expect we will see Callum's opening return for s7, possibly even as a primary opening, but it will almost certainly be recontextualized at some point and possibly even changed to a variant that reflects that new context. The Key is an element that will contribute to Callum's doom or salvation—or both, as a key can both lock and unlock—and its prominence in his opening reflects that and will likely be informed by how that resolution develops.

All of Us, Stardust

Speaking of alterations to the openings:

The final, altered version of the Viren opening kicks off s6, acting as a last, fun little extension of the "is Viren dead?" cliffhanger of s5. Aaravos's hand reaches down as usual, but instead of firmly grasping the petrified Viren, he very briefly hesitates before pushing it slightly, instead. The petrified Viren then crumbles and collapses into dust.

We first saw (or rather, had described to us via frantic convention attendee note-taking) this opening at the first reveal of s6e1, which was originally shown without any of the scenes revealing Viren to be alive. There are a lot of ways it could be interpreted, from a straightforward "he'd dead, Jim," to my own kind of fanciful theory from the time regarding Viren, dead or alive, having been made unusable by Aaravos as a pawn.

One way to contextualize this opening is with this old illustration from Patience, which ties in closely with the Aaravos chess/pawns motif (and was a significant part of contextualizing the arc 2 opening as "pawns"):

Now, there are a lot of things about this image that are important, not least the confirmation/reinforcement of the chain of manipulation of dark mages by Aaravos across thousands of years from Ziard to Viren, with the implication of Callum in the future. What I'd like to call attention to is that in chess, tipping over a piece is a gesture specifically used only with the king, and specifically to indicate that you are resigning the game and the opponent is victorious.

I don't think there's anywhere we've seen Aaravos truly lose, except for possibly when he was imprisoned, because his plans have levels of redundancy that mean they don't depend on any given individual—a game of chess hinges on the king, but Aaravos is essentially playing six or eight interconnected games at once, and a loss on one board only reinforces his remaining pieces on another. Losing Viren, deliberately or not, empowers his influence over Claudia... exactly as we see in the sequence of arc 2 openings. It would be difficult for them to have replicated the tipped-over/toppled king imagery with the petrified Viren without having to do some labor-intensive camera work on the existing opening pattern (e.g. do they show the ground when he falls? What even is the ground?)—so I think there's a strong likelihood that him crumbling to dust is meant to have a similar resonance.

Anyway, I'm kind of dancing around some complex theorizing and analysis of Viren's death that I go back and forth on depending on the day, but basically I do still think the important takeaway from this opening variant is that as far as Aaravos is concerned, Viren is off the board. That it's the opening for s6e1, rather than a special use for s6e8 (as Callum's variant openings are handled) is also IMO a positive sign regarding Aaravos's loss of control and direct manipulation of Viren over the course of s6. I don't think we've heard the last about Viren, and between Claudia, Soren, and Kpp'Ar there will definitely be a multifaceted interpretation of his legacy with significance in s7.

Opening the Final Season

Ultimately, given the dialogue between the three (four?) variant openings we have seen so far for arc 2, I think for s7 we can expect:

the Callum variant will appear at least once

at least one new Claudia- or Callum-based variant, OR possibly even an Aaravos variant

a new variant (possibly one of the ones from the previous point) to close out the arc for at least s7e9

That's my fevered ramblings about this 20-second repeated sequence, thanks for coming to my continuing insane TED talks on this and other ridiculous topics.

[sailortongue]

The Pursuit

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

wc: 1.5k

summary: finally debuting for your first social season, you quickly find that the men are rather lacking. save for a charming duke, that is

a/n: in honor of bridgerton s3 finally being released. i'm thinking this will be a four part mini series? assuming anyone is actually interested in this being continued so pls let me know!

------

The gowns, the music, the dancing, the flowers—it was all lovely, but what a shame the men couldn't be nearly as wonderful. All they seemed to care about was the size of your dowry and how many children you wanted. You couldn't take one more second of dull conversation and excused yourself from the festivities, opting instead to roam the many halls and admire the artwork that lined them.

You knew that your parents were hoping for you to find a husband during this social season, and, of course, you didn't want to let them down, but you'd rather become a spinster than spend the rest of your life miserable with a man you don’t even like, much less love. There would always be next year, after all. Perhaps that social season would offer better options.

As it was, your dance card was nearly full and you still had yet to find a single man that could hold your attention for the entirety of a dance. After the last one, you’d made a hasty exit as discreetly as you could. It would have been rude to decline a dance if the space on your card was available, but you couldn't suffer through a dance if the men couldn't find you to ask in the first place.

As you were walking, you found yourself admiring a series of four paintings. The Reid family certainly had wonderful taste. Lost in your musings, you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching you until someone spoke.

“Lovely, aren't they?” 

You whirled around in shock and were suddenly mortified that not only had you been found somewhere you shouldn't have been, but you had been found by the head of the house himself.

“Your Grace! I—“

“There's no need for apologies. I could tell you about these paintings, if you’d like?” he offered, a small smile gracing his handsome features.

You beamed at his suggestion. “I’d like that very much.”

–❀–

Spencer was well aware of the fact that he was expected to marry and produce an heir to pass on his title, but it seemed the family line may just die with him. He didn't believe his expectations were so lofty, yet every woman with whom he spoke fell short of the qualities he desired in a wife. After another excruciatingly bland conversation with one such young woman, Spencer made a hasty retreat from his mother’s soirée.

He did want to be wed, that was for certain. But he wanted to be happily wed. However, it was beginning to seem that such a marriage just wasn't in the cards for him. He huffed, growing frustrated just thinking about it. Initially, he had been on his way to the garden for some fresh air, but he was stopped in his tracks when he noticed one of the guests—a beautiful young woman he had yet to see at any of the other social events. She was standing in the middle of the hallway, eyes fixed on the wall. She’s admiring the paintings, Spencer deduced.

The sight had a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. He considered turning around to take a different route to the gardens and to allow her to continue enjoying the artwork in peace, but he found that his feet would not obey him and his eyes were solely fixed on her, memorizing every feature he could. The shape of her lips. The slope of her nose. The way her eyes glimmered in the light. He was struck by the beauty of this stranger, and, suddenly, the gardens were no longer of any interest to the young duke.

Giving in to his curiosity, Spencer continued down the hallway with the intention of introducing himself, but he found that he had accidentally startled her in his approach.

“Your Grace! I—” she started, eyes wide and cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

Spencer cut her off. “There's no need for apologies. I could tell you about these paintings, if you’d like?”

She smiled shyly and Spencer swore his heart stopped beating. “I’d like that very much,” she said.

–❀–

The small smile he’d given you as he offered widened into a full-blown grin at your acceptance. He gestured broadly at the paintings, four of them in total. “These paintings, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, tell the story of two lovers. They were painted by Jean-Honore Fragonard and were commissioned by Madame du Barry. She was a mistress of King Louis XV. But when the paintings had been completed, she rejected them, though it’s not—” 

He stopped his mini art history lesson abruptly. He had been told time and time again that he tended to ramble and women tended to not like that about him.

“It seems I have let my mouth get away from me. I did not mean to bore—” he started, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

“No!” It was your turn to cut him off. “I mean, you are not boring me at all. It’s quite fascinating. Would you please continue?” Your eyes were wide and hopeful, earnest even. Spencer found his cheeks growing hot, not used to a woman being genuinely interested in his, admittedly, long-winded explanations. His heart fluttered in his chest as he nodded at you, picking up where he left off.

“Well, it’s not known for certain why she rejected them. Some think the style didn’t fit with the style of the building intending to house them, which I personally disagree with. She chose Fragonard specifically, so she must have known of his painting style beforehand. After rejecting Fragonard’s work, she commissioned Joseph Marie Vien to paint replacements with the same theme.”

He noticed you out of the corner of his eye hanging onto his every word and nodding along, enraptured by the paintings’ origins and giving him your full attention. This was a first for Spencer, and he silently hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

He pointed at the first painting in the series. “This one is called The Pursuit. It shows the first meeting of the subjects of the series—which is called The Progress of Love, by the way—and he appears to have ambushed her.” He chuckled, and the sound was pure music to your ears. You began to find yourself admiring the duke more than the paintings. The warm brown eyes. The locks of hair to his shoulders. The intelligence—you were completely and utterly captivated by this man you had just met.

He was about to continue when he stopped. “Forgive me, but it has occurred to me that you know who I am, but I haven’t yet had the pleasure of an introduction.”

You thought about it for a second, and, indeed, you had not introduced yourself. You giggled at your slight oversight. “Y/n L/n.”

“L/n? As in Count L/n?”

“The very same.”

“Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady L/n,” he said, delicately taking your hand and placing a feather-light kiss on the back of it.

Heat rose to your cheeks and swirled in your chest at his chivalrous action. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace.” 

He glanced at the painting and then back to you. “Shall I continue?”

“Oh, please do,” you encouraged.

“If you look closely, you can see that the boy has a flower in his hand and is holding it out to the girl. He’s trying to woo her, and she’s clearly running away from him. But this is just the beginning of their love story. The next three paintings in the series tell the rest of it.”

“Would you tell me about them as well?” you asked.

“I’d love nothing more,” he replied, smiling gently at you.

“Y/n!” came an angry shout from the end of the hall. Both you and Spencer turned, finding your mother marching towards you angrily. “Have you been alone with him all this time!?”

“But Mama—!”

“No! You are coming back right this instant!” She redirected her attention to Spencer, taken aback that he wasn’t a random lord but rather the duke whose home she was in. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, but if you wish to speak to my daughter you will need to do so with a chaperone present. Come, Y/n.”

You followed your mother back towards the ballroom, glancing at Spencer over your shoulder as you did.

He remained where he was, shifting on his feet uncertainly before seeming to decide something.  He called out, “May I call on you?”

You turned to see a longing, hopeful expression on his face. His eyes were wide with eager anticipation, desperately awaiting a response. A broad grin spread across your features and that alone was all the answer he needed for his expression to change to one of giddy excitement.

“You may!” you called back.

With that, you continued to follow your mother, and Spencer’s eyes continued to follow you until you turned the corner and were out of sight. Maybe the cards were in his favor after all.

[thirdeyeblue]

“Nine would have treated Martha better than Ten did”

I need to talk about this argument that never seems to stop circulating.

Note: Not a venomous/anti post. There’s more than enough of that across fandom spaces as is, and this is supposed to be a place for ✨sweet, blissful escapism✨

When making this argument, people seem to envision a scenario in which Nine never met Rose.

While I can appreciate a good hypothetical, recognizing Rose's significance to the Doctor (Nine and Ten) is essential to understanding why things with Martha played out the way they did in the first place.

In the third series, the Doctor is grieving. This grief is deliberately threaded into nearly every script, whether spoken aloud or not (and these are just a few examples):

He's burning in Rose’s wake the entire time Martha travels with him, which is why it’s so frequently called upon: It’s 100% deliberate in framing his grief. He grieved as Nine too, of course— having been fresh on the heels of the Time War — but then he met Rose, which changed everything.

Back then, he was still a rude, traumatized pain in the ass, but we watch Rose soften more of those jagged edges with every episode as they grow closer; as he lets his guard down and forms a deep connection with her.

He falls in love (against his better judgment) and it's game over.

And yes: provided S1E1 had been titled 'Martha', one can realistically assume things might have unfolded similarly to how they did with Rose. However, it wouldn’t have been that way just because the Doctor was Nine and “Nine was different” — it would be because he wasn’t already in love with someone else. The same can't be said for the start of S3.

Think of it like this: if Rose AND Martha had been in that cellar — if Nine had taken both of them along with him in S1 — we’d eventually be looking at the most melodramatic love triangle ever, what with him living in close quarters with two brilliant, gorgeous, compassionate young women... But Doctor Who is plenty “soap opera” as is with just one woman in the TARDIS.

(I certainly wouldn’t object to reading that fic, though)

Now, regarding the unrequited elephant in the room…

His inability to be romantic with Martha isn’t because he thinks her lesser, nor is it for lack of compatibility. It isn't because Rose is any better than her. It certainly isn’t just because he’s Ten.

It’s really only for one reason, which can't be denied — and now I’m a broken record:

He is still in love with Rose.

(cut from a tenrosedaily gif)

Nine is Ten, and Ten is only such a mess in S3 because he’s just lost the love of his life. Martha merely got caught in the crosshairs of a volatile Time Lord in mourning, and yes — it sucks. Absolutely.

But it also feels dismissive to chalk Ten and Martha’s relationship up to little more than some sort of mindless dance of pining, jealousy, and toxicity.

Ten trusted Martha with his life over and over again — and hers, with him. He constantly praised her brilliance, happily carting her around time and space with no intention of letting her go. In the BBC’s extended universe of novels/comics/cartoons/etc, there’s so much depth to their relationship: love and trust and trauma and sacrifice. They had their own special bond as mates, their own complexities — so it’s a bummer that it's forever overshadowed by the other things.

I’m not denying that there was a lot of stuff that sucked/was for sure toxic about Ten's S3 behavior, but so many of the things I've seen him catching flak for can be directly attributed to being A Clueless Fucking Alien Idiot (not a trait that’s unique to Ten) — as well as his flat-out obliviousness to Martha’s feelings.

So yes, I agree: if Rose never existed, he would have treated Martha differently as Nine. He also would have treated her differently as Ten. Certainly.

But Rose did exist, and when discussing canon, it matters.

“He tells me that he absolutely, 100% loves Rose... He tells me how my daughter; my wonderful, beautiful, clever little girl saved him from himself before… And he says that’s all because of me! I made her into the Rose Tyler that saved him.”

-Jackie Tyler, Flight Into Hull!

Martha got the short end of the stick in S3. She came round at the wrong place and time, but that doesn't mean it was all bad. It doesn't mean the Doctor didn’t adore her. It certainly doesn't mean the time they spent together was wasted or worthless. They were brilliant!

Sure, he could be a twat, but let it be known that he was a twat with Rose as well, both as Nine and Ten. I’m sure Tentoo can be plenty infuriating, too. So while I'll defend Ten (and Tentoo) into the ground forever and ever and ever, I'll concede that he's fucked up.

The Doctor is a certified Pain In The Ass. It’s one of the things I love so much about this character — dynamics.

But never forget that Martha was goddamn tough as nails and overcame every bit of it. She moved on with her life, and the Doctor moved on with his. One can only pray that, when they inevitably drag her back onto the show (which feels inevitable if I'm honest), we see at once that she's been living her best life for all these years.

[shitpostingkats]

Hello! My friends have PowerPoint nights and for my next presentation I want to go over why Jaden Yuki is an absolute freak of nature™️. I remember a lot of stuff like the monkey, eating forks, the whole genocide thing, etc., but it’s been a while since I’ve seen the show and will miss a lot. Therefore I am calling upon your vast knowledge of this weird little guy to best explain to my friends why he barely matches the definition of human. The more the better, your aid is greatly appreciated in this quest

*trips and 1000 photos of Jaden Yuki fall out of my pockets*

JADEN YUKI, LOCAL CRYPTID WHO LIVES IN ABANDONED BUILDINGS AND IS EXTREMELY HARD TO GET A PHOTOGRAPH OF?

After the events s3, Jaden chooses to move back into the red dorm which has, at that point, no one else living in it. He goes into a depression spree of hiding from everyone at school and not attending classes, just bumming around campus and sitting alone in completely dark rooms. (As is his right) So everyone at the academy is just like "oh yeah, that's our local weirdo. No, you'll never see him. If you want to talk to him, write a letter and give it to his cat."

Oh yeah, his cat who ate their homeroom teacher's soul and now carries around his ghost in its tummy.

How does he live without school support? Why, he just fishes in the ocean and eats whatever he catches! (Most likely not cooked) He's been doing this since freshman year!

(Red dorm students apparently took to fishing because of their lack luster cafeteria options)

Though, it's questionable if Jaden even needs to eat, because he can

survive in the cold vacuum of space without any scientific or magical protection

survive in oxygen-less environments (like space)

survive reentry into earth's atmosphere from orbit (again, unassisted)

go a whole week without eating and suffer no ill effects other than being a little peckish

After the finale of s3, he is part duel spirit, which might go a long way to explain his baffling continued survival. Duel spirits don't seem to need to eat or breathe, and exist just fine in the cold void of space (With the exception of Yubel but like. Physically they were fine being isolated in space for years.)

This tracks with the time Jaden got back from a daytrip to one of Jupiter's moons, got lost, spent a week starving in the forest, and became so delirious he started hallucinating. (Yes, a monkey took pity on him and tried to guide him back to food and water and Jaden thought it was a constantly shifting spectre of his friends who were all informing him he was losing his mind and talking like monkeys.)

But also in season 1 it's casually revealed that he keeps accidentally eating forks so maybe he's just always been Like That

[princessbrunette]

Okay but being involved with s2 rafe and then some time passes between you (maybe you were on poguelandia) and you reunite with s3 rafe and he's just,,, different. Like he's more confident, more stern, and way less patient with you when you give him trouble

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

this but he’s expecting you to be more distant since your time away, thinking things might’ve changed especially as he was hellbent when you were gone, thinking he’d lost you forever. he wants to give you your space and not scare you because he understands that things are different now and before your departure you might’ve seen an unfavourable side to him.

however, he couldn’t be more wrong. at first, yeah— you’re a little careful around him, watching the way he handles things with big curious eyes, something about him more… mature, in charge. you can’t hold yourself back for long, soon to be clambering all over him at any chance you get because he’s just soooo sexy now that he’s gained a little power and maturity !! he’s bigger too, having been clearly spending all his free time working out when you were gone, and it proves itself useful when you finally get him hovering over you, fucking you on wards old bed.

you’re completely naked, and he’s still wearing his white shirt and slacks, just pulled down to slot his cock out. he’s holding you at the waist, thumbs sliding over where your ribs are as he fucks you on his cock, arms bulging in the white material of his shirt.

“missed you daddy, mmph— missed you so much.”

“ffffu— you really, really shouldn’t have ran from me, little girl.” he ticks his jaw, focused on the thumb that slides down your tummy to stroke your clit. before you went away, he fucked you good— don’t get it twisted, but something was better now. more attentive, manly, almost forceful. all you could do was lie back and take it, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

[pensbridge]

S3 Moments of The Height Difference that Made Me Lose my Mind Go Aww

- "Goodnight Mr. Bridgerton"

- the market! (where he knows nothing of personal space)

- where they're standing across the room during the lesson while they're basically eye flirting before the "kind eyes" moment even!

- that part where she went under his arm

- the 'we should gallop along' & 'maybe I can read more of your journal' moments

- the willow tree

- again him knowing no personal space while she is browsing and gets the pastry

- The carriage, on his KNEES

- When Pen turned around in the mirror to kiss Colin

- 'Aww' is not an expected fit, but the wide shot during the first time (*you know the 1)

- The moment after when they're cuddled up on the chaise lounge

- in the carriage riding through town (& not knowing the meaning of personal space) is it rly a height difference??? idc I'm including it

- him comforting her during her panic attack at The Engagement Party

- anytime they danced

- when they're having their 6 ft apart argument, taking cue from johncesca while the mothers watch (I know I know, but they looked adorable)

- during the Whistledown fight outside the modiste's (when he stepped up on the sidewalk & the difference was large)

Also this )

And also this *at the end, she's so small he can cover her )

I'm just gonna start using gifs now )

I said all the dances...but honestly )

I forgot about this )

Plzzz...she's on a step )

I seeeaaarcccchhhed 4 this putting it over the edge is the almost-kiss )

Actually, just came back to this post, lost it again, and ended up adding this )

And I've actually been coming back to stare at this one for at least a week plz THEY ARE SO DUMB IT'S ADORABLE! the utter joy he has in that last part )

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Alternate Doctor Who Companion Endings

The Hartnell Years

Barbara: becomes an Aztec queen

Ian: Stabbed by a TARDIS-possessed Susan running with scissors

Susan: Eaten by a normal-sized Earth woodlouse while shrunk

Vicky: Conscripted into a civil war between large-sized non-Earth moths and ants

Steven: arrested for mugging a man for his Rolex in 1066

Katerina: journeys with the Doctor for eight multi-part serials before falling in love with a Samurai and staying in Edo period Japan

Sara Kingdom: becomes a Golden Era Hollywood stunt actor

---

The Troughton Years

Polly: Becomes a fish person

Ben: Conscripted into being a Highlander

Jamie: New face new man

Victoria: Killed by a Cybermat

Zoe: vanishes in Foam

-----

The Pertwee Years

Liz Shaw: falls in love with a Silurian

Jo: accidentally drops the Doctor's tupperware box of anti-matter

------

The Baker Years v1

Sarah-Jane: stays on Peladon to pioneer feminism

Harry Sullivan: accidentally replaced by a Zygon

Leela: steamed

Romana 1: a Mishap with a giant squid on a methane refinery. Regenerates.

Romana 2: becomes a vampire

------

The Davison Years

Nyssa: stays on Earth to become a paleontologist

Tegan: goes home with the wrong Doctor (it was a choice of 5, whoops)

Adric: gets lost in an Escher building. Left behind.

Turlough: succeeds in killing the Doctor. Sent home by the Black Guardian with an extremely silly hat

------

The Baker Years v2

Peri: turned into a bird by a slug

------

The McCoy Years

Mel: stays and joins a rebel punk roller derby team and takes on alien!Thatcherite non-Britain

Ace: becomes a Time Lord (with a baseball bat)

------

The McGann Years

Grace: stays dead

Chang Lee: stays dead

------

The Eccleston Years

Adam: promoted and eaten by a gelatinous ceiling

Captain Jack: is so successful on Trinny and Suzannah that he gets and stars in his own future!TV show, How to Look Good Naked. Becomes a celebrity. Stays.

------

The Tennant Years

Rose: possessed by Cassandra

Martha: blows up Earth with the Oster Haagen key

Donna: refinds her real life husband from Silence in the Library after being downloaded

Mickey: becomes parts in a clockwork spaceship

------

The Smith Years

Amy: becomes an Angel

Rory: finds out his fiance sexually assaulted another man the night before their wedding and leaves to build a better life

------

The Capaldi Years

Clara: genuinely leaves and never comes back after that moon bullshit because she's fed up with his abuse

Bill: stays on the Cyber-infested spaceship to lead the colonists as they start a new society

Nardole: Cyber-converted, but is the quirky comic relief robot. The Doctor leaves him with Bill, in case he's useful.

------

The Whittaker Years

Yaz: joins Zheng Yi Sao, is now starring in Our Flag Means Death s3

Graham: stays in the frog universe with his dead frog wife

Ryan: seduced by King James VI and I, becomes prince consort

Dan: goes to space with his grumpy dog friend on new adventures