#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.

[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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[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.

[sentientsnakeskin]

Yellowjackets S3 spoilers!!

The shauhat kiss took everyone by such surprise (deserved) that we haven’t been able to process other elements of the show. I’m still personally weak about all this insight to Nat that we get? How good she’s doing leading the place and all that? Like she turned a whole bunch of girls starving in the cold into a thriving, cultivated community. Even though she’s not cut out for it, the wilderness or Lottie or whatever made her be leader chose right. She’s the only one who could have pulled this off and it’s incredible watching her be so happy in this space she’s created. It wrecks me to think about how she lost that beautiful purpose when she was rescued. And her FUNERAL??? Don’t talk to me on god. Her mother’s speech may have been shit but it also broke me into pieces. She was a little girl and she loved to get pushed on the swings. Her mother didn’t say anything about her moody teenage daughter’s actions leading to the death of her husband, she didn’t talk about the crash, she didn’t talk about the broken girl who came home, her estrangement, or her years of drug abuse, or her death, nothing. She was a little girl who played on the swings. And she wanted her mother to push her until it was dark. 

Also unrelated but she SERVED in that mugshot omfg 

[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.

[gf2bellamy]

hii!! i hope you’re well, i read some of your fics and just wanted to say you’re so talented and i really enjoyed reading them :) i also saw your requests are open and i actually have one if that’s okay?

could you maybe write a fic for isaac lahey where he and reader aren’t together but for a while they’ve had feelings for each other (both are too shy/awkward to admit it + reader is maybe scott’s sister). reader and isaac somehow get stuck in an enclosed space and reader has to calm isaac down after he has a panic attack and almost attacks reader. after she helps calm him maybe they confess to each other and it ends with something wholesome? idk it’s up to you!

im soo sorry if this is too long lol and feel free to ignore this request if you’d like <33 thank youu :)

stuck — isaac lahey

pairing: isaac lahey x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: isaac's dad , panic attack , isaac attacking reader , a/n: thank you so much for your request !! i felt so bad for him during this scene in s3 :( hope you enjoy this ( and i hope it's not too long ) <3

You were doodling absentmindedly in your notebook, your pen scratching lazy patterns across the page.

You shouldn’t have been doodling—especially not considering the reason you were sitting in detention in the first place. 

Mr. Harris had been very clear during chemistry class: “Stop defacing your notes with meaningless scribbles, or you’ll be spending your afternoon in this very room.”

And yet, here you were, stuck in detention because you’d gotten lost in your little drawings instead of paying attention to the lesson. 

To be fair, you were pretty sure Mr. Harris had it out for you anyway. He’d been holding a grudge ever since Scott had terrorized his class last year.

Your brother had an uncanny ability to escape the consequences of his actions, which unfortunately left you to deal with the fallout. 

You glanced up from your notebook and shifted in your seat, letting your eyes wander over the room.

It wasn’t exactly bustling with activity—there were only a few other students scattered throughout. One of them caught your attention immediately. 

Isaac Lahey. 

He was sitting a couple of seats in front of you and to the left, his curly blonde-brown hair slightly messy as though he’d run his hands through it one too many times.

He stared down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, looking like he was trying very hard not to fall asleep. 

A small smile tugged at your lips.You lowered your gaze back to your notebook, trying to refocus on your doodles, but you couldn’t help yourself. Every so often, you glanced up, sneaking another look at him. 

What you didn’t know was that Isaac had been doing the same thing. 

From the corner of his eye, he kept catching glimpses of you. The way your brow furrowed slightly as you concentrated on your sketches.

The little smile that appeared when you were amused by something you’d drawn. Even the way you absentmindedly twirled your pen between your fingers was... distracting. 

Suddenly your name was called.

Mr. Harris’s voice cut through the silence, making you jolt upright in your seat. Your pen froze mid-doodle, and you instinctively flipped the page of your notebook to hide your sketches. 

“Yes?” you asked cautiously, meeting his gaze. 

“Go to the library and fetch the chemistry textbooks for the next class,” he said, his tone curt and impatient. 

You blinked, relief washing over you as you realized you’d just been handed a golden ticket out of this stuffy detention room. The idea of not having to sit here for another hour doodling under Mr. Harris’s scrutinizing stare sounded like heaven. Plus, you were pretty familiar with the chemistry section of the library. It was tucked away in a secluded little corner, practically hidden inside a small room at the back—a quiet sanctuary. 

“Sure,” you said quickly, already pushing your chair back. 

But just as you stood, Mr. Harris started listing the books he wanted you to retrieve. You stopped mid-step, growing more and more horrified with each title he rattled off. By the time he finished, it sounded less like a list of books and more like a complete inventory of the chemistry section itself. 

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “How am I supposed to carry all of those?” 

Mr. Harris raised an unimpressed eyebrow, as if he found your question completely irrelevant. He stared you down for a long moment, and you weren’t sure if he was about to start yelling or simply assign you an extra hour of detention for questioning him. 

Finally, he glanced around the room, his gaze landing on someone behind you. 

“Lahey,” he barked, his voice sharp. “Go help her.” 

You turned your head, just in time to catch Isaac blinking in surprise. He looked as if he’d just woken up from a daze, his blue eyes wide as he processed what Mr. Harris had just said. 

“Uh... sure,” Isaac muttered, standing up. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused by the turn of events.

On one hand, the idea of spending time with Isaac Lahey—someone who had a habit of making you feel inexplicably flustered—was nerve-wracking.

On the other hand, there was no way you could have carried all those books by yourself, so maybe this wasn’t the worst outcome. 

Isaac slowly walked over to where you were standing, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

You exchanged a quick look with Isaac before heading for the door. He followed close behind, the heels of his sneakers making soft noises against the tiled floor. 

The two of you walked in silence for a few moments, the quiet only broken by the faint echo of voices from other classrooms.

You couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He was tall and his curly blonde-brown hair looked almost golden under the fluorescent hallway lights. 

As you stepped into the library, a shiver ran down your spine. You rubbed your arms, mumbling, “Geez, it’s freezing in here.” 

Isaac, who was just a step behind you, glanced around and replied casually, “They probably left the window open. It’s the wind.” 

Reaching the secluded room where the chemistry books were kept, you fished the key Mr. Harris had begrudgingly handed you out of your pocket. The lock clicked open with a small metallic sound, and you pushed the door wide. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” you began, stepping inside the small, dimly lit room with Isaac trailing close behind. “I don’t remember the names of half the books we’re supposed to get.” 

A soft chuckle escaped from him, low and warm, breaking the stillness. Your heart gave a little stutter at the sound, and you silently cursed yourself for how easily his laugh could affect you. 

What you didn’t notice, though, was Isaac pausing briefly as he stepped into the room, taking a deep, steadying breath. The walls felt like they were closing in already, the tightness of the space triggering a familiar sense of unease. But he wasn’t about to show that—not in front of you.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on you instead, the way your fingers skimmed the spines of the books, while concentrating on finding the needed books. It was enough to momentarily distract him from the panic threatening to claw its way up his chest. 

“Well, that makes two of us,” Isaac finally said, attempting a joke. His voice came out steady enough, laced with a light teasing edge as he scanned the shelves. 

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your lips twitched upward. “Great. So, between the two of us, we’ll definitely manage to fail this task.” 

“Confidence is key,” he quipped, earning a small laugh from you that made his chest feel a little less tight. 

The two of you fell into a rhythm, moving to opposite sides of the cramped room as you worked. Your fingers brushed over the rough edges of old chemistry books, occasionally pulling one out to glance at the title before replacing it.

For you, the silence was pleasant. For Isaac, it was suffocating. 

His gaze kept flicking back to you, as though anchoring himself to the sight of you could keep the memories at bay. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to press in closer, threatening to drag him back to dark basements and locked doors, but every time his breathing quickened, he’d force his eyes back to you. 

You must’ve felt his gaze because you glanced over your shoulder, catching him mid-stare. “You okay over there?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” he said quickly, too quickly. He cleared his throat, pretending to focus on a random book in front of him. “Totally fine.” 

You squinted at him, not entirely convinced, but let it go. “If you say so.” 

As you turned back to the shelves, Isaac silently cursed himself. He needed to get it together. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him like this—on the edge of unraveling over something as simple as a small room. 

The door behind you groaned faintly, drawing both your attention. A sudden thud echoed as the heavy wooden door swung shut, making you jump. 

“What on—” you started, spinning around to face it. 

Isaac froze, his pulse spiking as the sound reverberated through the room. His throat felt dry, and for a second, he couldn’t move. 

“Is it... locked?” you asked, stepping toward the door and jiggling the handle. It didn’t budge. 

Isaac’s jaw clenched as he stared at the door, his mind racing. He stepped forward grabbing the handle.

“It’s locked,” he confirmed, his voice tight. 

“Well, that’s just perfect,” you muttered, turning to face him. “Guess we’re stuck until someone finds us.” 

Isaac didn’t respond, his hands flexing at his sides as he tried to steady his breathing. 

You frowned, stepping closer to him. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. 

“Isaac,” you said softly, tilting your head as you studied him. 

Isaac’s hands were on the door handle, pushing and pulling with increasing desperation. The sound of the metal creaking under his grip filled the small room, making your chest tighten. 

“Isaac,” you repeated, your voice steady but edged with concern. He didn’t seem to hear you, his breaths growing harsher, each exhale shaky and uneven. 

You took a step closer, trying to figure out how to snap him out of whatever was happening. That’s when you noticed it—his eyes. The faint, eerie glow of gold that had replaced his usual blue. 

Oh no. 

“Isaac,” you said again, your voice softer now, but still firm. He kept wrestling with the door, his claws just starting to extend. You felt your heart start to race. 

He was slipping. 

Tentatively, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. “Isaac, it’s okay—” 

Before you could finish, his head snapped toward you, his glowing eyes locking onto yours. He moved faster than you could react, grabbing your wrist. You gasped, pain flaring as his claws pressed against your skin. 

“Isaac, stop!” you murmured, trying to keep your voice calm even as his hold tightened. He wasn’t himself—not entirely—and you needed to tread carefully. 

But he wasn’t letting go. He stepped forward, forcing you backward until your back hit the shelves with a dull thud. The books rattled from the impact, and you felt your heart lurch. 

“Isaac,” you tried again, louder this time, your voice trembling as you looked into his eyes. His fangs were visible now, and his expression was feral—more animal than human. 

You swallowed hard, panic bubbling up, but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Isaac, it’s me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. 

For a moment, it felt like he didn’t even recognize you. His grip on your wrist was unrelenting, and you could feel your pulse pounding against his claws. 

“Isaac, listen to me!” you said, your voice stronger this time. “You’re not in danger. It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

His eyes flickered, the golden hue dimming slightly before brightening again. You could see the battle playing out in his head—his human side wrestling with the wolf. 

“You’re hurting me,” you said, your voice strained but steady. You bit down on your lip to keep from crying out, the sharp sting in your wrist growing harder to ignore. 

Isaac’s glowing yellow eyes bore into yours, unrecognizing, primal. You tugged lightly, trying to free your hand from his grip, but his hold was unrelenting.

Your lip trembled under your teeth, and you bit down harder, trying to focus on anything other than the ache radiating from his claws. 

“Isaac,” you said again, your voice breaking slightly. “Please, you’re hurting me.” 

The words seemed to hang in the air, cutting through the haze in his mind. His glowing eyes faltered, flickering between gold and blue as realization began to creep in. 

His grip loosened—first slightly, then completely—as if he’d been burned. His claws retracted instantly, and he stumbled back, his expression shifting from feral to horrified in a heartbeat. 

“Oh my God,” he breathed, his voice shaking. “I—I’m so sorry.” 

You instinctively cradled your wrist, wincing at the dull ache left behind, but your focus stayed on him. His face was pale, his eyes wide with guilt and fear. He looked down at his hands as though they weren’t his own, flexing his fingers in disbelief. 

“I didn’t mean—” His voice cracked as he stepped back again, putting more distance between the two of you. “I didn’t want to—” 

Isaac sat down on the floor, his back against the cold bookshelf, his head buried in his hands as he tried to steady his breathing. His chest heaved, and his fingers gripped at his hair like it was the only thing holding him together.

You winced slightly, feeling the remnants of pain in your wrist, but you pushed it aside, focusing on him.

He was far more important right now. 

You slowly took a step forward, feeling the pull in your chest to comfort him, to reassure him that it was going to be okay. Without thinking too much about it, you lowered yourself down beside him, sitting carefully on the floor.

Isaac’s eyes slowly met yours, his face pale and his expression still full of guilt. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice rough.

His gaze dropped to your wrist, where his marks still lingered, faint red lines, like a reminder of what had just happened. “I hurt you...” 

His words trailed off. His breath hitched, and you could see how deeply he regretted it. The self-blame was eating at him, his shoulders slumping even more as he shook his head. “I’m so sorry...” 

You carefully leaned forward. “Isaac…” you started softly, your voice gentle, steady. “I’m okay.”

His eyes searched yours, filled with doubt. "Are you?" he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. He was so torn, and the weight of his concern for you was written across his face. 

You scooted a little closer, now sitting in front of him but close enough that you could feel his warmth.

“Yeah,” you nodded, your voice firm, even though you could still feel the tremor in your own chest.

Isaac looked down at his hands, his fingers trembling slightly.You gently reached out, placing your hand on his arm, hoping the contact would ground him.

He didn’t pull away this time. 

He looked up at you then, eyes softening as they met yours.

“I don’t know what happened,” he confessed quietly, his voice a little broken. “I—I lost control, and I thought—God, I thought I was going to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

“I know you didn’t,” you whispered. You couldn’t help but reach out, gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re not that person, Isaac. I know that.” 

He stared at you for a moment, his expression slowly shifting, as if something inside him was beginning to break free. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, just a little, and the intensity in his eyes softened. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he murmured, his voice a little shakier now. “Especially you.” 

Your heart skipped a beat at his words.

The silence that fell between you two was no longer uncomfortable but filled with unspoken understanding.

It wasn’t until Isaac cleared his throat that the moment seemed to shift, something in his demeanor changing. “You know… I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but his eyes never left yours. 

You looked at him, your heart starting to race.

“What is it?” you asked, voice soft. 

Isaac seemed to take a deep breath before he spoke again. “I... I like you. I don’t just mean as a friend, or... whatever this is. I—” He broke off, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now, and I never said anything because I didn’t know how to—” 

He stopped himself, his words fumbling as he tried to figure out how to make sense of what he was saying.

“I like you too,” you said before he could finish, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. 

Isaac’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost unsure if he had heard you right. Then, a soft smile crept onto his face, and your heart skipped a beat. It was shy, hesitant, but real. 

“I really like you,” you repeated, this time with a little more confidence, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. 

Isaac’s eyes softened as he processed your confession. The tension in his face slowly faded, replaced by a warmth that seemed to radiate from him.

A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, you thought it might be the first real, carefree smile you had seen from him in a long time.  

You smiled back, your breath finally slowing as the weight on your chest lifted.

After a few moments of silence, you shifted, moving closer to him without really thinking.

Without saying a word, you gently rested your head against his shoulder. It was a small gesture, but the way Isaac’s body stiffened at first, as if unsure of what to do, made you smile softly.

But then, he relaxed. His breath seemed to steady, and you felt his shoulder shift slightly as he adjusted to the new closeness. 

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let you stay there, his warmth spreading through you like a quiet reassurance.

His hand, which had been fidgeting nervously in his lap, slowly moved towards yours. It hovered for a second, unsure, before his fingers gently brushed against yours.

You smiled to yourself, squeezing his hand lightly, the action as comforting for you as it seemed to be for him. 

Isaac shifted just a little, turning slightly toward you, his head leaning ever so slightly closer to yours. You could feel his breath on your hair, soft and steady. I

"I'm glad you're here," Isaac murmured softly, his voice almost a whisper. 

You smiled, your eyes fluttering closed as the weight of the day, the tension, and the worries drifted away. "Me too." 

And for a while, you just stayed there, sitting in the dim light of the small room, head resting on his shoulder, hands intertwined, finding comfort in each other’s touch.

[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

[shaunamilfman]

marked me like a bloodstain

pairing: Shauna Shipman x reader summary: for everyone who watched the s3 trailer and was like, Shauna should have bit ME like that instead. note: minors dni. blood involved (obvi). shauna being a fucking freak. mentions of cannibalism.

Shauna groans, the noise sounding like it pains her to let out as she bites harder at your collarbone in retaliation. You can't help but cry out in pain again. Confident in the knowledge that Shauna would ignore it again. It feels like it might be bleeding, like she's dug her teeth in enough to break the skin, and it still hasn't satisfied her. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. Could you sit still for a second? Or can you not manage that either?” Shauna spits, the disdain dripping from her voice making your stomach twist in a way that's entirely too pleasant. 

You squirm again, an almost involuntary movement when she practically chews on your skin. She rewards the effort with another bite, not enough to break the skin this time, but enough to let her worry the flesh between her teeth. 

“It hurts,” You complain, with no real heat behind the words, but knowing it would make Shauna dig in just that much harder. Sure enough, the words have barely left your mouth before you feel her canines digging into your skin, scraping across the surface hard enough to send a jolt of pain through your shoulder. It pulls another gasp from your lips, making you arch up into her mouth like you're offering yourself up to her. Always willing to give her more space to work with.

“Good,” she says dismissively. 

You've lost count how many times Shauna's bit you since she first dragged you out here, shoving you down onto the ground and planting herself firmly in your lap. The bite of twigs and rocks against your bare back has nothing on the feeling of her weight on top of you, thighs locking you in place. 

There's a sort of intimacy in having her in your lap like this, warm skin pressing down against yours through the thin layers of your pants, her scent enveloping you completely as she leans over you. Still, you can't shake the knowledge that at least a part of it was to stop you from running off. 

Not that you would want to go anywhere she wasn't. 

Blood is dripping down your skin in little rivulets now, pooling on either side of your body on the dirt floor you now call home. She leans down even closer, licking the blood away from your body and leaving a warm trail of saliva in her wake. The feeling lingers long after she moves on, burning into your skin like a brand. 

Shauna's still grinding down ever so slowly against your lap, hips rocking so subtly you aren't even sure she's fully aware of what she's doing. But you're aware, uncomfortably so, of the heat pooling between the two of you with each drag of her hips. 

It was unhealthy at the best of times, fucking someone who held such obvious distain for you. Yet, there's something so incredibly enticing about it all. The way she would tremble and shake under your efforts while all the while pretending to be unaffected, the way she would send harsh words your way even as she rode your fingers that much harder. When her breath would catch in her throat, tripping up whatever threat she was making against your life. She'd rather bite through her tongue than admit it, but you know. 

No matter what she says to you, Shauna wouldn't let anyone else see her like this. 

And that's how you keep finding yourself here, trembling from a mix of pain and the chill of the night air against your skin. It stung as it brushes against your torn skin, making the edges of the small wounds feel all that sharper. It's got nothing on the sting of your sweat, or even the harsh drag of Shauna's tongue against the worst of them whenever you start to look a little too comfortable for her tastes. 

Knowing Shauna's going to reach her limit soon if how much she's going to bloody you up is the only thing keeping you from pleading with her. That, and the knowledge that Shauna would never let you hear the end of it if you broke down and asked her to stop. It's not worth the humiliation, not when you know how it ends. 

She always reaches a point–when you start trembling a little too hard as she grins down at you with bloody teeth, when you start to go uncomfortably limp beneath her with her hand wrapped around your throat–that she'll pull away, no matter how reluctant she seems. Even if it makes her mutter furiously under her breath, fists clenched by her side like she wants to hit something, Shauna always pulls away. She’ll linger for a moment or two, like she’s trying to convince herself that it doesn’t matter what happens to you. Teeth bared and chest heaving, fingers twitching like she’s imagining squeezing the life out of you.

It's something you secretly hope is a fear, however slight, of you catching an infection and dying. It would have to inconvenience her at least a little if you croaked, if only because she would have to get someone else to fuck her like you. Someone else who would let Shauna Shipman of all people put their mouth anywhere near them. More than likely, Shauna just pulls away because she just gets bored of the taste of human flesh by now. The taste of your blood, the way it coats her tongue and stains her teeth, must have lost its novelty by now, right?

You've grown confident over time, dangerously so, that she will not kill you. At least, you remind yourself, when she wants you nice and pliant and touching her however she tells you to. Any other time you're fair game to kill, even more than the other girls at times. It feels like she’s sharper toward you most of the time. Crueler, quicker to lose her temper, more deliberate in the way she rages toward you. You aren't sure where Shauna's fascination with you comes from, why she picked you specifically to focus on. 

But you knew, beyond the moments you were so focused on her you barely remembered to breathe, that there was a special kind of danger in your position. Her eyes follow you everywhere, distant like she's deep in thought. It’s like she’s constantly debating whether you’re worth more to her like this or a memory.

It’s the way her eyes narrow whenever you talk to someone else, scoffing at the idea that you could have anything worth speaking to anyone–let alone to someone who wasn’t her. You can feel her dissecting your words as you spoke, like she’s looking for any and every reason to pounce on you. Her contempt wasn’t subtle. It radiated through her actions: her bitter glare as her body tensed, her jaw clenching as she all but dared you to continue.

She has a lot of thoughts about you, and she loves to dole them out when she feels like it. Such as the time she had you on her table, tracing shallow cuts across your body with that knife of hers she wields so well. The touch is casual, almost affectionate in a way. Her cuts are never deep enough to cause serious harm, but it’s enough to make you gasp as she told you exactly what she'd do to you when she finally got the luxury of cutting you open. Telling you where she would cut first and what parts of you she would save for herself with an intensity that still makes you shudder just to think about. 

“Are you crying?” She asks in mocking disbelief. 

You stare up at her with wide eyes, having not even noticed those tears welling up in your eyes had finally fallen. You raise your hand off her hip to wipe the tears away, but Shauna slaps your hand away before you can get close. 

“Ah, ah,” Shauna chides, dark hair falling around your face like a curtain as she leans down over you.

She wipes her thumb across your face, tracing the trail the tear left as it fell off into your hair. With that same thumb, still wet from your tears, she presses down hard against a mark she'd left on your chest to make your blood well up again. 

Slowly, and with a confidence that makes you want her now, Shauna uses her fingertip to trace something across your cheek. You can't quite make it out at first, not until she does it again on the other cheek.

S. S. 

The realization hits, and your breath catches in your throat. Shauna Shipman. Her initials, marked on you like a signature.

“There,” she murmurs, looking pleased for once as she looks down at you. Her voice is low and surprisingly playful, but there's an edge to it that keeps your mouth shut as you nod along. “Maybe you’ll remember that for once.”

She looks feral, like a predator that should send you running, but you were already caught in her jaws. Shauna takes another moment to admire your chest, fingertips running light circles around the indentations as she slowly pulls back. The pressure of her touch is almost mocking considering how harsh she’s been with you, how roughly she moves you around to get at what she wants like you’re her little doll.

Your hands fall back to her hips as she sits up, hooking your thumbs loosely through the belt loops of her shorts. Shauna could get picky about where you can touch her, especially when she’s in one of her little moods like she is tonight, but you’ve found that her hips are generally the safest place to reach for. She never says anything about it but always seems pleased regardless. A guaranteed way not to piss Shauna off was in high demand.

As you suspected it would, the action immediately draws her attention south. Her lips curl into something just short of a smirk as she slowly rolls her hips down, watching the way your hands move along with her. She knows exactly what she’s doing as she tilts her head forward, hair falling loosely around her shoulders and framing her features in the dimming light. She can hardly draw her attention away from your hands, from the way they can do nothing but follow her lead. If you tried to set a rhythm, she would just stop, going back to tenderizing your flesh like she never stopped. Or, worse, she might pull away entirely. Might just head back to where she slept and leave you here.

That’s not what you’re here for.

Shauna says nothing as you hesitantly move your hand toward the button of her jeans. You quickly grow confident in the touch as she stills long enough for you to pop it open and slip your hand through the opening. Her skin is warm against your skin, warmer still as you make your way beneath her panties. Your fingers find her soaked, and the discovery pulls a shaky breath from your lips.

Her hips start grinding down against your hand before you even adjust, the angle awkward as you try to readjust your hand against the force of her hips. She certainly doesn’t mind, not as she grabs your hand to move it exactly where she wants it as she rubs herself against the palm of your hand. The sound of her rough breathing fills your ears, dulling the sounds of the nature around you that you’ve grown so accustomed to. All you can hear is her, and the rustle of her shorts as the fabric rubs against your own as she moves.

You can feel the drag of her clit against your palm with each roll of her hips, a groan leaving Shauna’s lips as she tosses her head back. You can feel her against your fingertips, slick warmth covering them even as she takes what she wants. Your wrist aches from the angle and from the way the elastic band rubs against your skin as she moves, but you don’t dare to move. Not when she looks so achingly carefree for once as she chases her pleasure.

Good things don’t last forever, especially out here, and just as quickly as Shauna started, she stops. Her breath comes out in quiet pants as she stares down at you, her nails digging painfully into your lower arm. She pulls your hand out of her shorts and then pulls on your arm hard enough that you worry she’ll do damage. You sit up quickly, if only to spare yourself a bruise, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Shauna. Her expression changes too quickly for you to be sure what that meant.

You watch her reach behind you, grabbing the shirt she so carelessly pulled off you and threw on the ground. You think for a moment she might be handing it to you, so your hand is already outreached by the time she folds it up and puts it back on the ground. Eyes narrowing in confusion, you glance back and forth between her and the shirt, and she just rolls her eyes as she swings one leg over your hips to join her other. She’s almost a little put out, like your confusion is just another part of you she has to manage.

Your hand hovers in midair before limply falling back to your side. She flops back on the ground beside you, wiggling across the ground as she finds the right position. It’s not until she starts pulling her clothes down her legs that you catch on, rolling your eyes at how she’s positioned herself on your shirt so that she doesn’t have bare skin against the ground.

“You’re unbelievable,” You mutter.

“Yeah, yeah,” She replies lazily, her voice carrying that familiar lilt of sarcasm. “You’ll survive.”

You sit up onto your knees, crawling over to her to dutifully take your place between her spread thighs. Still, you don’t touch her immediately, moving to clean your fingers off with your mouth as she watches intensely. Shauna arches her back in a silent plea that she would deny to the grave as your cold hands brush the hem of her shirt. You push the offending fabric upward, letting it stay rucked up around her chest as you lean down to press your mouth against her stomach. Her abdomen tenses beneath your touch, quiet noises leaving her lips as you trace the contours of her stomach with your lips.

By the time you make your way down her thighs, still trailing little nips that you soothe with your tongue, Shauna’s almost writhing in her impatience to get your mouth where it belongs. Her hands twitch at her sides like she’s trying to fight off her own impulses, but she’s finally found a battle she can’t win as one hand reluctantly rests against the back of your head. She doesn’t try to force you yet, not when you’ve still got enough leverage to pull away and leave her wanting. Not when she wants it so badly. The knowledge is enough to keep her in check.

For now.

You always enjoy those brief moments in which you’ve got Shauna desperate enough to play at complacency. Because that’s what she’s doing–playing. She’s lying in the grass, waiting for her moment to strike the second you’re preoccupied. Once you let yourself be lead prone between her legs, she’ll surely get her revenge for your indulgence, but until then you’re going to enjoy marking up the smooth skin of her thighs.

“Enjoying yourself?” She asks dryly.

You say nothing, grinning hard enough against her skin that you hope she can feel it, hope it irks her just a little. Judging by the huff Shauna lets out, she must be able to.

With all the reluctance of someone willingly walking into a trap, you position yourself fully between her legs, feeling the way her warm skin brushes against yours. You slide your arms under her thighs, letting them rest on your shoulders as you rest your hands on the side of her stomach. 

Your hands are carefully placed, carefully held just lightly enough not to hold her down. Not when you know Shauna would make you regret that. You’ve already pushed your luck too much tonight. Even now with her body laid out before you, her thighs framing your face like a crown, you can’t fully relax.

You can, however, fully enjoy yourself. You’ve always been drawn to the sharpness of her, even before she became the girl who occasionally held you at knifepoint. There’s a thrill in the risk she presents, in the ever-present threat that's held back by nothing but her own choice. Would they even tell her she couldn’t kill you?

Her. The butcher.

If she came back dragging your body behind her one day, you’re sure the others wouldn’t even hesitate before digging in. You doubt anyone would even say anything to her about it. There’s a challenge in it, carefully walking that line between what makes her storm across a clearing toward you in rage and what would actually make her snap. You’ll enjoy her attention just as long as you can keep it.

Shauna sighs as your mouth finally makes contact between her thighs, tongue running up the length of her. Her legs tense, as if reminding you of their existence. A threat, just as clear as the uncomfortably familiar way you’ve watched her wrap her fingers around a knife. But that’s part of what makes her so intoxicating.

She looks down at you with feigned nonchalance, eyes betraying her as they glance toward your torso. To make sure you're not touching the ground, maybe? Checking to see if you’re getting dirt in the wounds she so carefully placed on you. It won’t add up to anything but a momentary flicker of hesitation. It’s a nice thought, but not one she voices as she allows her hand on the back of your head to become forceful, guiding you forward.

Her hips buck, seeking more pressure, more everything. Shauna could have every last bit of you and still find herself wanting more, more, more. You love it and hate it at the same time, the way her attention is either all-encompassing or nonexistent. There’s nothing you can do but revel in it before you’re left aching afterward. Right now you can't find yourself thinking about anything but the taste of her arousal coating your tongue as you go at her like you're starving for it. 

You've always loved the noises she makes, almost to the point of obsession. Sometimes when she pulls away long enough, brooding off by herself and glaring whenever she catches you looking, you try to replay them in your head. You’ll close your eyes as you lie alone at night, retreating in your memories of the way her voice catches when you move your tongue just right. You can never quite get them right, the shallow hitches of her breath or the low moans, not even in her occasional appearances in your dreams. The real Shauna, the one who shudders on your tongue, can’t be replicated from sheer memory alone.

There's just something about the way they come out: either strained and muffled like she's trying to choke them down or loud and unashamed when she's finally too turned on to care. The moan that echoes through the woods around you is one of the latter. 

“Fuck, you're so good at that.” Shauna murmurs irritably, grabbing a fistful of your hair between her fingers. There’s no gentleness in it, but that’s not what you want from her right now.

You can't help but preen at the comment, even as irritated as she spoke it. You’ll take it for what it was: a compliment, even buried beneath all those barbs. One that you didn't have to draw kicking and screaming from Shauna's throat or try to subtly walk her into. Even if it was just a slip of the tongue, a moment of pleasure that went to her head, it still came unbidden. Those were always in high demand, especially by you. You redouble your efforts, tongue pressing in ways you know drives her wild.

“Don't look smug,” She continues, voice breathy. “You have to be, don't you? It's the only way you can prove you have any fucking use to anyone.”

You make a muffled noise of protest as the words register in your ears, wanting to argue but less than you want to stay where you are. The vibrations against her clit make her thighs tremble, her hips bucking up against your mouth insistently. Shauna scoffs, trying to hide how rough her breathing has become. 

“And what do you do, then? What do you bring that someone else can't do?” She waits, as if waiting for you to speak a complaint. Not, of course, that she would even give you a chance to, as her grip on your head tightens enough to stop you from pulling away. 

“Nothing,” She sneers, even as her body tells another story. “Fucking nothing. You're worthless.” 

The words are cruel; you can’t deny that, but the way she can’t stop herself from chasing your mouth is enough for you to push them aside. Secretly, in those rare moments you decide to be honest with yourself, if only in your own head, you know that those words only ever add to the experience. 

You’re not sure what you would even do with her kindness lately. You used to experience it a lot. Everyone did. As violent as Shauna could be, it used to be more than balanced out by those moments of kindness. You haven’t seen that girl in a while, not since winter carved its way through all of you. You’re not the girl you once were either–all your edges have become just as sharp.

You can feel the leaves crinkle around your sides before you realize that she is moving, your only warning before you're enveloped between her legs. It’s a deliberate move, one that leaves you no room to question her intentions.

Her thighs squeeze tightly around your head, warm and still moist from your lips. You can still hear her moaning, but it's harder to make out. The sound is muffled before it reaches your ears, especially with the way your heart pounds in your chest as the lack of oxygen becomes more apparent. 

You grasp at her sides, trying desperately to find some kind of purchase and finding none. Shauna keeps you right where she wants you, her grip feeling like iron as she rides your face. 

She's still speaking all the while, comments that you can tell are increasingly nasty from her tone even as you struggle to make out the exact words. Each word drips with derision, sharp enough to draw blood. There’s no need to hear the words to feel the sting of them. You give up on the concept of breathing in order to stiffen your tongue, allowing your mouth to be directed into whatever rhythm Shauna's got her heart set on. 

“All you're good for is this.”

You can feel the rough calluses on her palms as she grabs onto your arm, fingers digging in tightly. The sharp sting of those crescent-shaped indentations has nothing on the rising panic swelling in your chest, filling you with a desperation you can feel deep in your bones. It’s squeezing around your ribs, begging you to do anything to get another breath in, to get a single moment of relief. 

There's none to be found, not until she decides to allow it. It doesn't look like it's coming any time soon either, not as she gets closer and closer to the edge. Your only hope is that she comes before you pass out, because God knows she wouldn't notice with the way she's using you. 

You try to focus on other things–the way her skin feels beneath your fingers as you dig them in her sides for purchase, the way the pebbles on the floor dig into your arms, the way the sheen of sweat on her thighs glides against your skin, or the taste of her on your tongue–but you find it difficult to think about anything. 

Each desperate sound she releases only draws more attention to the way your lungs burn, the sharp contrast between her pleasure and your struggle. Those seem to be much the same thing lately, much to Shauna's apparent delight. 

Finally, just as the thoughts of how Shauna's muscles would flex as she dragged your body back to camp crosses your mind, Shauna moans long and drawn out. The sound cuts through the fog that's taken root in your mind, instantly bringing you back to the way her thighs shake on either side of your head and hips buck hard enough that you start to worry about the state of your nose as she comes hard. Every muscle in her body seems to shudder with the force of it, nails digging into your scalp hard enough that your eyes start watering. 

She rides her peak with a desperate intensity, completely unwilling to give up even an ounce of her pleasure for something as useless to her as your continued consciousness. For a moment it feels like her body is weightless before she crashes back down to earth with a suddenness that surprises the both of you.

Shauna's grip lightens just enough that you can turn your head to the side to take in desperate gasps for air, your entire body trembling along with hers from the effort of it. She doesn't speak, not yet, and the only sounds exchanged between the two of you are wordless breathing. 

Your hands slip against her skin as you try to hold on, her skin slick with something. You can't make it out by feeling, even as you try to rub it between your fingers, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize it was blood. You stiffen in alarm until you can finally make out the edges of scratches running up her sides, the edges hot and pulsing angrily. You must've gotten her good in your panic. 

You rub your fingertips lightly against marks, both in a silent apology and because you want to hear the way Shauna cries out at the feeling of pain. The efforts quickly rewarded as a choked noise leaves Shauna’s mouth, the muscles in her abdomen trying to flinch away from the feeling even as her hips twitch in response. 

“That hurts,” She complains, nudging her foot none too gently into your side in reproach. Noticeably, she makes no actual move to pull your hands away, which you know she would be more than capable of doing.

You rest your head against her thigh as she pants, your hands splayed possessively across her stomach in a way you're not sure is allowed. You can see it now, the blood staining her skin and your fingertips. Those deep scratches shudder with each deep breath, moving along with her stomach in a motion too enticing for you to look away from. 

Shauna clears her throat, interrupting your musing before it could really start. “Did I tell you to stop?”

[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.

[delicatelystrangepolice]

One of the early observations I made was that YR fandom could really use some sort of actual 'confession blog' - a thing where people could safely say what and how they truly feel. Insistence on always saying only positive and loving sentiments seemingly had the opposite effect. There seems to be pent-up tension in this fandom because I feel its culture never left ANY room for people to feel safe to just... be honest.

Everything has to be justified to a ridiculous extent. You are not allowed to like or dislike a character or their behaviour without proving that you are the purest of angels and you understand and support every single struggle in the world. (Well, you are allowed - you are just not allowed to talk about it. Not in the main tag because it's a sacred space where only one type of interpretation is tolerated)

After s3 it was irritating when people couldn't criticize the show without vehemently declaring their political beliefs.

And it isn't lost on me that Lisa Ambjörn personally made sure for that to be the case. It still makes me nauseous.

I don't think fandoms should be about that - they should be a fun little hobby one picks up because they would like to talk about their favourite characters. No? Just me?

[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