#in a more dull and dour way

[daisyachain]

Amazing Maurice time! The set design on the town and rat catchers is very fun, I loooooove the Bossman, VAs for Maurice and Darktan quite appropriate. Tone/humour/comedic timing absolutely atrocious. Joins GO as a workmanlike, line-faithful adaptation that fails astoundingly to adapt the spirit of the book. The entire joke is that the real Pied Piper story is grimy, modern, urban, and cynical while the visual presentation of the movie is spick-and-span Disney clean with bright colours, round shapes, friendly scenery. Even if they’d given the rest of the characters the Selickian designs of the rat catchers/Bossman it would’ve raised it from ‘standard kids’ movie’ to ‘good-looking kids’ movie.’ Of course if they’d actually adapted the dry, deadpan novel then it might be a good movie…but we’re well past that

[moodymisty]

Please put my baby girl rowboat in a situation where he is in unfathomable amounts of pain, 🙏

Author's note: so perhaps the pain isn't incredibly unfathomable, but I always hate to see a man with no self esteem. Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Gn!Reader Warnings: Low self esteem and a bit of mental turmoil for Guilliman

"You have a very nice smile."

The words tumble from your lips before you even realize it, fumbling with the edges on a batch of flimsies. For a moment you fear repercussions of some kind, of traipsing beyond the strict speech you should don when speaking to the Lord Regent; Though it wouldn't be the first time you've failed in that regard. If anything, it might be one of the less uncouth things you've said in his presence.

Guilliman doesn't move to reprimand you to your relief, just surprised. He recoils just a bit, brow raised. You manage to control the heat rising from your chest and into your neck before it gets too out of control. He stares you down intensely enough that you feel you very well might crumble.

"You are quite bold, you know that?"

You purse your lips a bit and cringe outwardly. Words are suddenly so much more difficult.

"It, It was an accident. But," The expression on your face softens with a nervous smile. "Is it bold to just give someone a compliment?"

Guilliman takes a drink of the wine resting on his table, a large glass that his hand still manages to dwarf. He sighs after taking a sip, as if the act somehow exerted him.

He'd requested for it specifically, and at such a odd hour as well- most of his men are getting their five hours of rest, you would've thought he would be sleeping as well. Maybe the primarchs don't require rest you think to yourself- even if he perhaps looks as if he would benefit from some. His eyes are sunken, and his skin is lacking in color.

If he weren't the Lord Regent- a primarch of untold power- you'd say he looked exhausted.

Apparently he didn't have need of it however, as when you'd entered he was still at his desk, his dull blue eyes watched you intently as you held the wine out to him. You couldn't sit it on his desk easily, and so he took it from your hands and poured himself a glass, which he downed in one fell swoop. You couldn't help but watch the way the knot of his throat bobbed with each swallow, until the large glass of wine was long gone. He drank like he hadn't had water in ages, and you silently backed away to take your leave.

The way he felt seemed, different. You supposed it was best to not linger and leave him alone.

When you'd turned to leave however he'd called your name, hesitating for a moment before clarifying; He wanted you to stay a moment. You're used to being requested by him randomly, Guilliman often uses you for tasks at a moments notice, but this didn't seem like he needed you in that particular way. You had shuffled back in his direction, holding your own hands in a self soothing gesture.

In the time since he asked you to stay he's downed another two glasses, and you've begun to notice a soft red flush to his cheeks. He's become a bit more talkative as well, much to your surprise. It's helped ebb your nervousness. Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you notice the mess of parchment and flimsies all around his desk, a pile scattered across the floor as if he'd thrown them. You start to pick them up, holding a few in your hands as you quickly rise to look at him.

Guilliman sighs a bit in response to your question after the surprise wavered, shifting his jaw.

"I've heard my fair share of compliments. Most were about my military prowess; Macragge's might. Ultramar. I was given a scant few about my appearance but, not anymore."

His brow furrows a bit more, and his facsimile of a smile fades. The wrinkles around his mouth fade but the ones around his brow grow much deeper, his deep set eyes staring somewhere else. His age shows more prominently in his sudden dour change, but he is no less handsome. He swirls the wine in his glass and seems to debate the idea of more before takes another sip.

"I don't see why they would stop."

You haven't drank any of the wine, not that you can to begin with, so you can't blame your lack of respect on that, still playing with the pack of flimsies like a life support.

"Have you ever accepted a compliment from someone?"

Guilliman laughs, though underneath it is a slight layer of hesitancy. He plays with the raised filigree adorning his gaudy cup.

"If I was how I looked before the Heresy, I might have."

You soft expression a bit, but you fear him accidentally taking your sadness as pity. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to.

"Macragge, my legion; Their primarch was a young statesmen with bright eyes and a body chiseled from stone by the Emperor himself." Guilliman smiles at you- but again, it seems almost like a facsimile of what it should be.

"They are still coming to terms that I've greyed, and have a few pains to boot."

He scratches at the jagged scar across his neck as if the thought of it made it itch, the long O in 'boot' emphasizing the odd rasp in his voice from his ruined vocal cord. You can hear the ever so slight scratch of stubble that's bled underneath his jawline.

Perhaps he wasn't what the Imperium texts and stories described down to the letter, but he's no less a primarch. You would admit his presence at first was intimidating, being in his sight would make your heart race, but over time you've grown used to him; Grown used to the way he seems less like a god, and more so human.

His struggles with the Armour of Fate, his frustration with the state of the Imperium, his wrinkled brow and grey hairs; All things that make the primarch seem just a bit more human.

"I don't see why that would be an issue."

You genuinely don't; You think that he still looks ethereally handsome, and if anything you prefer him now than to the statues he refers to. Perhaps it's because the Guilliman in front of you is real, and not an artist's rendition. This is the Guilliman you've been spending time with, months worth the hours assisting him. Along with a few of just talking, of him saying how he enjoys having someone to talk to that isn't one of his men. Of having your company and not just being alone. The last one he had made you leave shortly after admitting it, and while you both elected to forget it was said, you still remember how his voice had wavered.

But Guilliman seems almost shocked by the casual admission, examining you with a furrowed brow.

"Then perhaps your intelligence comes into question," He says while glancing in your direction.

His tone appears lighthearted, but it still hurts to be insulted, causing you to shrink a bit into your shoulders. Your heart is a bit too open for him than you'd like and the sentence stings.

Guilliman waivers and clears his throat.

"That... That was perhaps a bit too harsh. I am just," He continues. "It is just, surprising someone would show interest in an old man like me."

He looks at you, hesitation beginning to paint his features. It looks so uncharacteristic on him; You've barely seen him anything less than stoic and unyielding.

"It is... It is interest right? Am I reading too far between the lines?" Guilliman chuffs dryly, looking at his glass. The wine inside of it is mostly gone. "I thought I would need this for courage, but I think it's only made the nerves worse."

You can't help but laugh a bit, face a tad warm. A primarch can have nerves?

Though you honestly never expected for the thoughts you had to ever come to fruition. You entirely expected to spend your days pining silently, stuck to look at Guilliman like one would the stars. You assumed he was too far above you, and that even the thoughts of such things would cast you as a heretic pining for a god.

Though you weren't as silent as you thought apparently, if he was able to piece it out. Or perhaps as he implied, he simply took his own risk and got lucky.

Guilliman shifts a bit in his seat and reaches for your hand, taking and watching it disappear into his warm, weathered palm.

"Once we return to Macragge, I promise you a proper first outing. I might be tired and irritated with the state of things, but I will not disrespect you with the boredom of my office. Or my men. With the amount of time you've spent dealing with all of these messes you quite well deserve it."

You can't help but laugh at him, and wonder what the potential alternatives would be. A walk through the Thunderhawks wouldn't be the worst time together, you suppose.

"I don't need a full fancy Macraggan date." Guilliman rolls his eyes at you.

"Let me have my rituals. My father and mother taught them to me and I only now have the chance to put them to use. It only took ten millennia." You laugh even louder.

He then looks away for a moment before sighing; He takes one hand away from cradling your own and swigs down the rest of that glass of wine.

"I can already hear my men complaining."

You smile at him, though in reality you don't think he's wrong. A few of his men already find issue with him having you around so often, many find that your ears are too privy to things, and that your tasks could be done just as well by a servitor. You've overheard them referring to his reliance on you 'unnecessary and inconvenient'.

"I think they will listen to the orders of their primarch above all else, Guilliman."

He looks to you and smiles softly.

"Roboute, please."

[kiame-sama]

How do you think the characters react to mc having their period in the monster au. Cause it would make sense for other monster species to have them as well, but it could end up being a "human" thing to them. Like how would the love interests and the staff react. I imagine Malleus panicking the moment he smells blood on his human.

(More lovely fan-art~ Credit to the wonderful @tinseltina for drawing up Mr. Handsome Leona)

Humans are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) 9.5

Something tells me y'all really want to know the answer to this.

Warnings; not proofread (my stuff rarely is, but this is hot off the press), menstrual cycle and all that comes with it (mood swings, blood, cramps, ect), female pronouned reader, not too big on plot but several moments for the fellas, the stressed Dragon is trying his best, use of Japanese words (Nii-san, nee-san, Oji-san), Dragon, Crow, Harpy, Shinigami, Nemean Lion, Gnoll, Shadow-men, Cervitaur, Genie, Unicorn, Cecaelia, Vampire Bat,

~~~~~~~~

It was officially your eighth day in Twisted Wonderland and it was finally time for Diasomnia to take a step back and allow the other dorms to guard you. According to the raffle, it was to be Ignihyde's turn next. Both Idia and Ortho had shown up to the early morning meeting, Ortho still somewhat asleep as he sat leaning up against Idia's arm.

The other Housewardens were present and they had even remembered to invite Malleus this time as there was no other way the Dragon would give up his Human. Both Shinigami were anxious for different yet similar reasons as they waited for the inevitable arrival of the Dragon. Only problem was that Malleus showed up without the Human.

"What is the meaning of this, Malleus? Where is she?"

Vil was first to voice his concerns, one of the few among the Housewardens who would willingly snap at the dour prince. Malleus simply stared at the Harpy even as he squawked and fluffed his feathers in irritation. Of course, they all wanted to hear whatever explanation the Dragon was going to give for this clear violation of the rules they had set regarding soft (Y/n).

"I don't recall ever agreeing to this nonsense of trading my hoard among others, but if you must know, (Y/n) is currently unwell and I have no intention to leave any member of my hoard while they are in such a state."

"Unwell? How is she unwell? She was fine yesterday, if a bit temperamental."

Crowley was displeased by Malleus' refusal to bring the Human they all felt increasing fondness for, but he was more displeased to hear she was ill in some way. In fact, the news unsettled everyone at the table, Idia and Ortho included. They were all keen to keep (Y/n) in high spirits especially with news that there would be several representatives from various countries making surprise visits to check on her well-being.

"She is bleeding but insists it is normal for Humans. The scent of blood alerted me to her state as she rose before the rest of us and I found her in her bathroom crying. She refuses to leave her bathroom until she is able to aquire 'pads' to catch the blood and commented something about 'tampons'. I know not what these 'pads' and 'tampons' are, but even Lilia insists it is something Humans do on a monthly basis and warned me to not push her on this matter."

"If that Mousey is bleeding," Leona growled, "then she must be injured in some way."

"That was my thinking, but Lilia said I was wrong and that he would explain it later before he insisted I attend this meeting instead."

"What exactly has Lilia told you about (Y/n)'s condition?"

~•§•~

"I hate everything and everyone."

You grumbled as you lay curled up on a towel in your bathtub, holding your bloated stomach as you whined loudly when another cramp gripped you. The dull throbbing ache in your back made you want to throw something if it meant the discomfort would end. Your arm had healed quickly- still somewhat mending, but now useable- only for your period to smack you while you were down.

Of course these useless monsters didn't have pads or tampons or Midol and now you relegated yourself to laying on a towel so you don't bleed all over the shared nest. If you could have things your way, you would have as many sanitary products as you wished and you would be laying on Silver's back as the Reindeer was so comfortingly warm. It only made you angrier to remember that there were no heating-pads in this forsaken land.

"(Y/n)?"

"Let me die."

"Please don't talk that way, (Y/n). None of us want you to die."

"Then why aren't there any heating-pads or pain-meds, Lilia? Sounds like you all want me to suffer and die."

"(Y/n)-"

"Leave me to suffer."

"(Y/n)-"

"Go away, Lilia!"

The Bat sighed and closed the door, letting you wallow and whine in pain. He had been around Humans enough to vaguely remember what was wrong, but it had been a long time since he last had to deal with such a situation. Lilia didn't exactly remember the how and the why of your condition, just that it was normal for Humans. No, if anyone knew what was happening, it was you and you were not keen to share your wisdom.

While you were wallowing in self-pity you felt your stomach begin to growl and you just started crying again. None of these moron monsters knew how to cook and you just wanted a nice breakfast to soothe your upset body even if for only a bit. Somewhere during your tears the door to the bathroom had opened again and a delicious smell met your nose.

Walking into the room was the man wreathed in shadows, he set a cloth bag down next to the tub where you lay and stood for a moment watching you. You somewhat recognized him as one of the staff members Crowley had introduced you to the first day- you think his name was Sam- and even in the daylight he looked like liquid darkness. Apparently he was the only one who had a store on campus and he was the one to go to for any and all needs.

"Breakfast is ready downstairs, little Imp."

With that he left the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaving you to examine what he brought. Inside the bag was a note and several items you thought you would never see in this forsaken world. What looked to be reusable cloth pads took up a good portion of the bag, clearly the kind that could be buttoned and wrapped around undergarments to act like your world's traditional sticky pads. Further down were what seemed to be several small bottles filled with star-shaped pills in various purples, oranges, pinks, and yellows. What almost made you start crying again was the sweet and heartbreakingly beautiful appearance of chocolate fudge in a medium sized tin.

That first bit of fudge melted on your tongue and brought the sugary sweetness of chocolate to your senses. It was like a slice of heaven had fallen into your mouth and you could hardly believe it.

The pads were similar to the disposable ones you had back in your world but with a button clasp along the wing of the pad so it could be secured. You were quick to change your clothes with the extra Lilia had brought you, securing the pad to your underwear and sighing in relief once it all was in place. Though you would have to wash these pads after you switched them out, it was better than nothing.

The note was simple and short, but you couldn't be happier to read the almost elegant script.

'Hey, little Imp. Thought you would need these, though not so soon. Unlike most in Twisted Wonderland, Shadow-folk and Humans were the few species where the child-bearing members have these bleeding cycles. My friends on the other side figured you would want some chocolate. The bottles have some bloating and pain medicine that should help. Only take one of each color twice a day. Chocolate isn't too common, but I think now is as good a time as any to share.

- Sam'

You could have cried it was so beautiful. To think there was someone here who wasn't completely oblivious to your suffering was soothing in ways you hadn't expected. If anything, Sam was now in the top spot for your favorite of the staff members, the others be damned.

As you finally got the chance to clean yourself up and wear clean clothes, you were now ready to emerge from the bathroom you spent most of the morning in. The warm smell of food brought you down to the kitchen and you saw a beautiful sight. Standing near what looked like an entire breakfast feast was Sam, he seemed to be guarding the food from the group that stood eyeing him suspiciously. Ruggie, your guards- minus Malleus- and Grim all stared at the shadow man who refused to let any near the copious amounts of food.

"Morning, little Imp! Figured you would want some breakfast given the morning you've had. Have as much as you like before I let these beasts eat the rest."

Sitting in large bowls and stacked on plates were an assortment of eggs, some kind of sweet smelling breakfast meat- as sausages weren't prevalent in Twisted Wonderland- pan-seared onions and peppers, even pancakes stacked high. It was a veritable feast for the eyes and stomach, the best part being the fact you didn't even have to make it.

"... You're my favorite, did you know that?"

"You honor me, little Imp. I know my sisters and mother would be sending me shadow curses if I didn't at least lend a hand during your time of struggle. Eat up."

You did exactly that as you gathered up a generous portion for yourself and settled at the small table in the kitchen to dig in. Once Sam saw you were happily eating your fair share, he grabbed his own plate before he moved to let the others descend on the food. Lilia was quick to join you and Sam at the small table, not at all put off by your earlier attitude towards him.

"So, Sam, do you know what's going on with (Y/n)?"

"Of course. We shadow people go through a similar process- I should say the ladies and child-bearers of the Shadow people know- I personally don't, but you can bet your ass my meemaw would whoop me something fierce if she found out I left this Human to endure alone when I could have helped."

"Guess there is no need for Malleus to be so distraught then."

You ignored the conversation and simply ate your meal, thrilled someone else knew how to cook a damn fine breakfast. Sebek, Silver, Ruggie, and Grim were content to eat at the kitchen counters instead of the small table, talking quietly to one another. Well, Ruggie and Grim were shoveling food down their gullets, Sebek and Silver were the ones talking.

It was during this conversation that you heard many footsteps thundering down the halls of your dorm to the kitchen. You gripped the fork in your hand tightly and the moment someone grabbed you was the moment you swung the fork to stab whoever dared to touch you. They were quick to let go and narrowly avoided your utensil as they backed off and you saw it was the Headmage.

"(Y/n), my poor little chick! Where are you bleeding-?"

"None of your business!"

Your voice was an angry grumble as you guarded the plate in front of you, putting an arm around it and glaring at the feathered man. He seemed confused before he looked over at Sam who had continued to eat calmly.

"Ah, I should have known you would already be on top of it, Sam. Shadow folk and Humans were two sides of a very similar coin, after all."

"Headmage, why did you bring all these students into her kitchen?"

You looked around and you saw many familiar faces as well as a few unfamiliar faces. Malleus, Vil, Ortho, Azul, Leona, and Riddle were of the familiar. Of the unfamiliar were two men of vastly different appearances. One had white hair and tanned skin, almost seeming to be shining from the inside with a bright gold. The other looked like an older, non-mechanical Ortho with extreme anxiety at even being perceived.

"Mr. Draconia informed us that (Y/n) was unwell and I couldn't keep them from coming with me to check on her-"

"Well, you all are done checking, now go away. I want to eat my breakfast in peace."

"(Y/n)-"

"No! I have had little to no personal space since the moment I fell into this madhouse of a campus and it shouldn't take me having my period to get some! If you all are really that concerned, I have a whole list of things I could only benefit from and you all are welcome to start gathering."

"... Would that make you happy?"

"It would be a start!"

It seemed all of your uninvited guests were uncomfortable as they looked at one another before the shining golden one nodded excitedly. Out of everyone, he seemed the most oblivious to your annoyance and instead seemed happy to be given something to do.

"Sure! What's on the list? I can get stuff for you! Say the word and Jamil and I are on it!"

"See? This is a model Housewarden right here. Doesn't push his own agenda, doesn't demand more information, just says 'okay' and does what is asked of him."

Vil seemed the most offended by this, but kept his thoughts to himself and instead just glared at the happy shining man. Malleus was also clearly displeased by your less than favorable attitude, moving to stand near Lilia as if that would curb your anger at the situation. Ortho seemed to be of the same mind as the first odd-ball and looked ready to run off for whatever you requested.

"Don't forget your medicine, (Y/n)."

Sam prompted gently, continuing his meal as if nothing were amis. Naturally, you had mostly forgotten the bottles of oddly colored stars in your frustration and only now remembered they were present. His note said one of each color twice a day, so you figured it was a morning and night kind of medication.

The stars were actually somewhat cute and you felt a vague temptation to sit and sort the stars by color, but your ever present cramps demanded you take them instead. They actually tasted sweet and must have had a sugar coating of some kind as they went down easily enough. Perhaps it was psychosomatic, but it felt like they were helping the moment you swallowed the odd shapes and felt far less irate even with the herd of others in your home.

"Nee-san, can I have that list you mentioned? You can send it to me via-text so Nii-san and I can get started on gathering things for you!"

"Nee-san?"

"Oh! Are we not close enough yet for me to call you that? Sorry! I just want to be your friend so much I keep forgetting we just met. Oji-san wants to meet you too since he hasn't been able to meet a living Human for a long time and he misses Humans. Would it be okay if he came over?"

It was then the one that looked like an older version of Ortho spoke, resting his hand on Ortho's shoulder.

"Ortho, stop. I get you wanna be her friend but it is so cringe to just invite people over to someone else's place when they aren't feeling well."

"Oh, I'm sorry! I just want everything to work out and Oji-san Hades has been texting non-stop about meeting (Y/n)..."

"We can talk about that later. Okay?"

You raised a single brow at the two- who you assumed to be brothers- as they had their back and forth banter. Somewhere you figured all the Housewardens in your dorm were there to help, but you were still annoyed they came over uninvited. Maybe they could be of use if you split up that growing list of yours and put the clearly eager men to work.

"If I give you all the list will you go away?"

"No," Malleus said, crossing his arms, "I must protect my hoard and if a member of my hoard is unwell, then I shall stand guard until they are well again."

"Fine. You can stay, but I just want a quiet day today. I don't have classes and I just want to sleep."

"You are always welcome to the nest."

"Wasn't asking permission, but thanks, I guess. I also want Silver to be in the nest because he's warm and it feels nice to have heat on my stomach."

"Silver has clases today, but I am free for the day. I can use my magic to warm your stomach so you can rest easy."

"Fine, but if you burn me I'm kicking you out of my dorm permanently."

[sleep-i-ness]

Maybe They're Born With It, Maybe It's Trauma

Summary: You make a new friend at rehab.

Content Warning: Drugs, rehab

TUA MASTERLIST | GENERAL MASTERLIST

“I hoped we wouldn’t be seeing you back here so soon.” The dour face of Dr Hartleben greeted you as you waltzed into the rehab centre, a grin splitting your face in two.

“How could I stay away? I simply adore the early morning yoga sessions and going around in a circle after lunch explaining why we’re all so fucked up.”

Dr Hartleben’s pursed lips and sour expression conveyed all she had to say on the matter as you turned sharply on the ball of your foot. She took large strides down the corridor, and you had to jog to catch up, your scruffy trainers squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor. This place was like a second home to you, having been in and out every few months for the past 7 or so years.

You’d tried to hold down a steady job, really, you had. But all you had to show for it was a place as a flautist in the local orchestra, which did not pay, and a spacious but surprisingly cheap apartment in the dodgy part of the city. That you’d bought with money from your past life, when everything had been fine and on track to at least a minimal amount of success. But all in all, you’d decided that there was no point in trying to regain some semblance of normalcy in your life when all you ever did was try to escape the ghosts from your past.

Dr Hartleben pushed open the dull aluminium door with your foot, a shaft of sunlight illuminating the room. Ah, home sweet home. The stale scent of iodoform and sweat wafted out and you breathed deeply. This was the one thing that never changed, no matter what.

“You know your way around, the top bunk on the far left is vacant. I expect to see you adding your name to the duty rosters and coming to group therapy this afternoon,” Dr Hartleben was itching to leave you in the confined patient dormitories, barely even standing on the faded doorstep of the room. “Your stuff will be brought to you as soon as it has all been checked.”

You scoffed. “I’m always a model patient, I’d never jeopardise my spot in this wonderful place by bringing shit in with me.”

“Then why are you back again? I’ll leave you to get settled and make your bed. Your sheets should be on the end of your bunk. The others are in the garden, one of the nurses will be round in 10 minutes to escort you.”

With that, the door swung closed, and you were left standing in the dank and poorly lit room. The frosted windows were too grimy to let much light in and the bulb in the lamp buzzed a faint yellow. At least this time you had a top bunk, which was clearly the superior spot.

That was the problem in having so many drug overdoses on your medical record; every so often you’d be sent back into rehab, with or without a court order to stay. You had forgotten the strict rules that had to be followed and the lack of freedom; you didn’t need a babysitter. At least in rehab you wouldn’t be quite so lonely, you had roommates to keep you company now. And everyone had their own demons to face, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. There was no room for judging.

The crisp sheets smelt of starched linen, over washed and firm to the touch. No more comfy bed sheets, you mourned. The mattress was lumpy and had a suspicious dark stain on the plastic that you straight up refused to touch, choosing to flip it over instead and hope that the other side was less grimy.

“Y/N?” A knock sounded at the door and a nurse popped his head round the door, clutching your overflowing crochet shoulder bag. It was a face you hadn’t seen before, and you quickly plastered on your friendliest grin.

“Hi, yep, that’s me. Is my stuff all okay for me to take?” All there was in the bag was a change of clothes, some toiletries and spare underwear. No point bringing anything too nice, someone was bound to nick it otherwise.

“Yeah, yeah.” The nurse returned your smile, holding out the bag for you to quickly grab and sling over the end of your bed. He was quite young, you would guess late 20s to early 30s. You pitied the poor guy, having to deal with them all the time. Well, he had chosen this.

“Dr Hartleben said that the other patients were all in the garden, can I join them?” You skipped over to the door, your colourfully patterned skirt swishing round your ankles. You hadn’t been quite sure that your outfit was particularly fitting for the centre; it had felt a bit too bohemian but seeing the drab and dreary walls reminded you that a pop of colour would do this place some good.

The garden was a bit of an overstatement really. It was more of a paved courtyard with weeds growing between the cracks in the slabs and a couple of small flowerbeds, one of which had been a vegetable garden the last time you had been here but now appeared to have been taken over by weeds. It was the space for the newest patients, who couldn’t be trusted to go into the slightly more expansive grounds yet. It was depressingly barren, and you eyed the patients morosely milling around with a grimace. How boring.

“What’s growing in the beds at the moment?” You turned to the nurse, whose name you hadn’t learnt yet, with a dazzling smile.

“I don’t think there’s anything particular being grown.”

You pursed your lips. How sad. Any life or nature in this place really was stifled and stamped out in the end.

--

You trudged into the group therapy room, eyes following your feet as they left scuff marks on the shiny floor. You slipped into a spare seat, barely making eye contact with anyone else. If you could get out of this without a single person trying to become your new bosom pal, you’d count it as a win.

“Hi, I’m Ella and today we have someone new joining us, so I’d like everyone to go round in the circle and introduce themselves by saying their name and why they’re here. Louisa, if you wouldn’t mind starting off for us.” The irritatingly cheery voice of the therapist was grating on your nerves, you hated these sessions with a passion. What was the need in sharing the same stories every week?

“I’m Louisa and I’m an alcoholic.”

“I’m Mark and I’m a heroin addict.”

“I’m Susanna and I’m a drug addict.”

“I’m Brent and I’m an alcoholic.”

The droning of voices soon became a wave of background noise that washed over you like a sea of calm, each introduction as monotonously boring as the next. The person to your left spoke and you yawned softly, daintily lifting a hand to cover your mouth. “I’m Y/N and I’m an addict.”

There was something so tiring about rehab. Between the withdrawals and the endless therapy and need to be in touch with emotions, it was draining both physically and mentally. You couldn’t wait to get out; you only had a couple more weeks to go.

“And, our newest member, would you like to introduce yourself?” You could practically hear the beaming grin in Ella’s voice, and you rolled your eyes. Bit much.

“I’m Klaus and I’d like to say I’m a tortured soul-” Your head snapped up to look curiously at the newbie. Heavily eyelinered brown eyes stared back at you, a mischievous twinkle shining in them. “But to stick with the same pattern as everyone else, I’m an addict.”

He lifted a ringed hand to wave to the circle, winking at you. And you felt yourself flush, ducking your head from his intense gaze.

Group therapy had never felt so long as today, not that you could recall anything discussed, not when your eyes kept straying towards Klaus. And boy, did he notice. Every time his eyes met yours, he held the eye contact, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and you flushed redder and redder.

How unfair that someone this gorgeous was at rehab; how were you meant to even attempt to recover when he kept looking at you!

It wasn’t until the end of the session, as you all shuffled out, that he properly made his way over to you, a cheeky grin on his face. You glanced at him, turning your head back to the door with a small smile which you tried your hardest to fight back.

“Hello, Y/N,” he murmured, voice so low it felt like a conversation that was only for you. And you bit at the inside of your cheek to squash the blush crawling up inside you.

“Hiya,” you whispered, hoping you didn’t sound quite as excited as you felt.

“Come here often?”

You giggled, hating how much like a schoolgirl you sounded, and finally plucked up the courage to make eye contact with him. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Court mandated as well?”

You nodded, picking at a stray thread on your skirt.

“Well, we’ve got each other now.”

And you chewed at your bottom lip, beaming grin splitting across your face as a heady rush of giddiness filled your chest. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

“Want to go see the garden with me?”

You nodded, a little too quickly and eagerly, and he just chuckled at you.

Maybe rehab wouldn’t be as bad this time around.

[after-witch]

For your yandere Summer oc, i offer you a quote.

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?

notes: just vague fae-ish stuff, reader was whisked away unwillingly

--

Sweat sticks to the back of your neck, but you no longer bother wiping it away. It will be there again soon enough--perhaps tomorrow, if you spend the afternoon stretched on some sandy beach, while monstrous machines you barely comprehend fly overhead and poison the air.

You hate these days, and tell him so; but he's seen so much more, and sometimes forgets that you have not--that you do not wish to--and he only gives you a grin and pulls you back down onto the sand. For a kiss or a secret or to sink underneath like turtles burying eggs.

Or perhaps that sheen of sweat will come in a week, where you might taste frozen ice cream made with fruit you've never heard of before. Maybe it will come in a year, in ten years, a century from now, when you are spending yet another summer day underneath the sun, its rays soaking into your clothes, your skin, penetrating down to the marrow of your bones.

God, how you have grown sick of summer. The thought would have never crossed your mind, before. How could it?

If you found yourself wishing for an end to the hot humid days, all you had to do was look ahead on your mother's calendar, picked up every year from town. Summer would be over and the coolness of autumn would settle in, sparing you from the sweat and heavy lead of heat.

And then, when the dead frigid beauty of winter grew dull and you began to miss the way the sun beat down on your back until it was late in the evening, there was only a matter of counting the days until the season began again.

Now? Now, there is no end in sight. No blissful moment when the heat will break and cool autumn nights will come sliding in through a cracked window.

"You're thinking awfully seriously about something," he says, suddenly standing above you; you jump, never used to his surprise appearances. "But what?"

When you look up at him, he is wearing the clothes of a farmer's son. Hand-me-downs, with patches that would have--if he were really a farmer's son, and every angel and devil in the world knows he isn't--been carefully stitched on by a mother or sister or spinster aunt.

Today his hair is blonde and his face is sun-kissed, brown freckles splayed across his nose like specks of paint. He grins at you, tucking his hands behind his head like he hasn't a care in the world.

Well, it might be the truth.

"Does it matter?"

You pull your knees in closer to your chest. Today is a day for being petulant, you decide. It's too hot. You're too sweaty. The beach is deserted and you can't even swipe a coin from someone's purse to buy an ice cream from a cart. There's no one here but you and him and the damned heat of the sun.

"Aw," he says, just as petulant. He has those days, too. Maybe you've rubbed off on him--or is it the other way around? "Don't be like that." he gives you a light poke to the side, and you flinch. "It's a beautiful day."

Your expression must be that damn dour, because even he looks taken aback when you glare at him.

"It's too hot," you say, the words like bitter lemonade. "I'm sick of it. How can I enjoy a hot day, when every day is like this? There's nothing to look forward to, no--no autumn chill that makes you want an extra blanket in the morning, no foggy morning breath while you milk the cows, no..." The endless list of things that are no longer available to you tumbles out, only some of it coherent.

All the while, he simply watches you, waiting for the moment that you run out of steam. When you do, you simply go limp, letting the sweat drip down your neck and drip on the ground with your frustrations.

He tilts his head, and looks more serious, just for a moment. A flicker. So quick that it might have just been a heat mirage, and you blink, just to be sure.

"I can't give you winter," he says, softly. Like you're a stubborn horse in the barn he has to coax. "I wouldn't know how, if I wanted to. But," he adds, and his grin is boyish again, light and airy. "If you want a change, how about a summer storm? I know the perfect place!"

He hops to his feet, and stretches his arm down towards you.

A summer storm is not winter. But it is not this endless heat, either.

What can you do, but take his hand again, and follow where he goes?

[adarkandmagicalforest]

An Irritation

pairing: Otto Hightower/Targaryen reader (twin to Daemon)

warnings: Mildly Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut

contains: Explicit Smut, Hate Sex, BItter Sex, Cunnilingus, Brief Cock Warming

whenever her twin brother ended up inevitably irritating her in some way, she always had the same threat for him

'well, perhaps the lord hand might enjoy my company tonight'

until one day her threat becomes realized

Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight, Part Nine, Epilogue

It normally got her what she wanted.

Just the threat alone had always been enough to rankle Daemon, his utter dislike of that cunt Otto Hightower and the thought of her going to him over either of her own brothers enough to bother him into submission, or, more usually, at least into compromise. 

But not today.

Today, her threat was treated with a mere bob of his brows and a daring look. "Do as you will, sister dear." Her twin replied. It seemed that she had used this threat one too many times, to the point that her brother no longer believed her capable of it at all.

But she was a dragon - and she would show him exactly what she could do.

So the ivory-haired princess turned her back on her brother, slamming the door behind her as she stormed off to locate the Hand of the King. She did not look back to see if Daemon had followed her - she knew he hadn't. But he would hear of her exploits soon enough, she would make it quite certain.

The small council chambers were empty, so she went to the Tower of the Hand next.

Sure enough, there were men guarding the door, men who opened the door for her after she demanded to be let inside. 

The Hand's chambers were decorated with emerald curtains and held a tower motif that the princess always thought was rather boring. But then, this did fit Otto to a tee, whom she always saw as an equally boring man whose singular desire was to linger with very powerful people. She and Daemon both found him to be a dour cunt, and had in the past (as well as to this day) made sport of infuriating him, as that was the only time he was interesting to them.

Otto Hightower had a rather dull look to him as well. He was tall, but not mountainous. His features were plain, but not so much as to be called ugly. And yet Viserys kept his uninteresting council and his uninteresting presence about him, despite the opportunities to choose any other. She thought it queer. Daemon thought it an insult.

"Princess." The Hand had been sitting in front of his hearth when she stormed in. He'd stood immediately at the sight of her, and she noticed that even while lounging in supposed relaxation, the man still wore his tight doublet and golden pin. He even still had his boots on. "By what reason do you force your way into my chambers?" He demanded of her, as if he had any authority.

The Princess turned her head to his guards. "Leave." She commanded them. 

They did, albeit with a large amount of hesitation – but she was their Princess, whom were they to argue?

"What is the meaning of this?" Otto repeated himself, quite irritated now and coming closer as if he might take her by her arm and drag her out.

If only he could be so daring, she thought with bemusement.

Instead of answering him, (his voice was a low, grating thing) she merely grabbed hold of the front of his doublet and yanked him down, ignoring his grunt of surprise even while her lips captured his in a silencing kiss.

His shock lasted enough time for her to pull him even more into the embrace, her lips dominating his until her tongue finally enterred his mouth, moving against his own hotly as his wiry beard tickled her. It was surprisingly pleasant, with him tasting of bitter tea and saltwater, the wrongness of it all lighting her lust all ablaze - at least until his hands gripped her biceps and he yanked himself away.

"What," Otto nearly growled, low, fury clashing in his eyes. "Do you think you are doing, Princess?" 

Finding his fury to be rather exciting, the dragon was not deterred. Her hands released his collar and instead went to the garnet-studded belt on her gown, making short work of it. "I'm sure you're familiar with the procedure, Otto." She said impishly, dropping the belt to the rug below them as her hands then went to the laces of her gown, vastly enjoying the way his face grew somewhat panicked as she did so.

"You will stop this!" He hissed, his hands reaching for her arms so as to stop her from dropping the red silk to the floor, but to do so he had to get close to her again, which the princess took full advantage of.

This time, when she kissed him she bit him as well - sinking her teeth into his lower lip, just hard enough to hurt, the boring old Hand nearly snarled back. But then, she had always angered him as Daemon had. It was him who had convinced Viserys to marry their brother off to another woman rather than her. It was Otto who had encouraged Viserys to wait to betroth her to a new man, one of good Valyrian stock. Corlys Velaryon's younger brother had been courting her for what felt like years now, but only from his spit of rock and far from court. But then, Vaemond bored her also. 

Otto's blood leaked from where her teeth had sunk in, like iron and salt, and she hummed with satisfaction at the taste, pressing herself firmly against his body as her hands continued their work on her dress. She'd done the hardest part before she had ever arrived in his chambers, and so when her dress fell, it was her naked body that was revealed, all pale milky flesh and pebbled nipples as the cool air washed over her. The only scraps left to her were her black stockings on her legs, embroidered with roaming red dragons around her thighs. She was an erotic sight, and even Otto Hightower could not deny such a fact. 

She felt the moment she got her way from him. It was in his sneer, in the raise of his lip she felt before suddenly his hands were on her waist, grasping her pretty body roughly as the typically quite boring man became even more interesting to her as he suddenly began devouring her.

The princess moaned as Otto yanked her backwards, towards his bedchamber she presumed, his kisses growing deeper and wetter as he hungrily moved against her. He was pulling her so roughly that her steps stumbled and dragged, and soon, he had all but lifted her up into his arms before carrying her to his bed.

"Is this what you came here for?" Otto demanded of her coarsely after dropping her onto the mattress, his shaking anger blowing out the pupils in his eyes and giving him the look of a mad dog. The princess found it rather an attractive look for him, especially coupled with the aggressive way he knelt over her. "You want to be treated this way? By me?" 

"Who else would I be, Otto?"  She asked with a toothy grin, propping herself up by her arms, spreading her pale thighs open to him as if she was a lovely dessert. From what she'd heard, she was one. 

Oh he was pissed beyond all belief, she thought with thrilled delight. She could feel the neediness spread within her, arousal making her cunt wet, so wet that she knew he could see it.

And when he had? 

That was the moment she saw his resolve truly break. The very sight was a fascinating one. 

And so, the previously quite boring man (and hers and Daemons largest detractor) knelt forward onto the bed and yanked her harshly by the back of her knees, spreading her legs wide and a bit painfully before he delved his face there. The touch felt punishing and delicious. His tongue was strong and forceful, though too unpracticed, but that was no matter when she gripped at his hair and began grinding against his mouth - his gruff moan made her gasp with pleasure as she felt it through her cunt.

Otto was better at serving as a tool than a practitioner of the craft. She knew how she wanted to be touched more intimately than he did, and she moved him by his hair in the way that she’d learned years ago that she liked most. A few times from Daemon, when she could stand his company. Once from Otto’s own son. Those memories made her soaking wet upon the Hand’s tongue, more erotic than they should have been while this man was between her legs. What would he think if he was to learn that his son had been where he was now, licking and sucking at her cunt? 

She could not help but moan breathlessly at the thought.

But it seemed he only had a certain amount of patience from her grip on his hair - soon enough, he was ripping himself away from her again, kissing her of his own volition now, the flavor of her core on his tongue, tart like wine. 

His urgency made her laugh - but that only seemed to anger him, as if her giggle was an insult. 

"Cease that at once," Otto demanded against her lips, his hands beginning to roam her again, their course grasping and painful and intense, only softening when they reached her breasts, though the way his thumb rubbed purposefully at her pink nipple made her arch her back and sigh with pleasure. "Do you enjoy that?" He asked gruffly, capturing her nipple between his knuckles, pulling at them. 

"I'd enjoy it far more if you kept on." She breathed, unable to keep her smirk away as his eyes flashed again. He was still fully dressed, but this did not bother her. She almost preferred it, rather enjoying the look of her naked body against his dark clothes and layers of fine wool. The fabric of his trousers rubbing against her inner thighs almost like the coarse body of Cannibal when she rode him.

Otto's hand kneaded at her small breasts, until her nipples were stiff and sensitive. "Pretty," He murmured quietly, the comment somehow sounding unkind. She wished he would have put his lips back to good work – she needed more from him. 

For once serving her eldest brother's comment of he being a fine and thoughtful servant (though if Viserys saw them now, this comment would be never spoken again – at best, Otto Hightower would lose his position and at worse, she’d be married off to him) the older man lodged his leg between her thighs, giving her something firm to grind against while he lowered himself to kiss her again, gentler than she expected, while his free hand reaching up to grasp her by the back of her neck. But soon his kiss was beginning to grow more hungry, especially when she grew tired of his softness and pushed herself forward demandingly, wanting him rough, wanting him cruel. 

The Hand did not fail her in this - his kiss soon broke away, moving against her neck where his coarse beard rubbed against her sensitive skin, his teeth joining against her flesh when she incessantly yanked on his body, looking for more. 

Soon, his hands were punishing, his thigh rocking against her cunt until she ached, her eagerness soaking through the fabric until she was sure it would stain. 

And then he bit her. A proper bite, not the grazing of his teeth against her neck as he had been. No, he bit her, hard, on her shoulder, as if to leave proof of their coupling marred on her skin - this made her gasp loudly and then for her laugh of surprised delight to follow. 

Then, the princess had enough. 

She was a dragon at heart, and if Otto wanted to ride her, then he would have to give an appropriate fight for it. 

It only took a single shove to put the Hand off course and a single push to put him on his back. And so she straddled him as she had once straddled Cannibal, her hands batting his away as she went for his trousers, undoing the laces with skilled fingers as she took in his enraged expression. But by the time he had thought to grasp for her again, she had already taken his cock in hand - not quite a tower, but long enough for her use. The Princess lifted herself up, rubbing the blunt head of his member against her before sinking down upon him in one strong motion. 

"Fuck fuck!" Otto grunted, an amusing thing from such a man who so rarely cursed. The last time she remembered, she had just broken one of her suitors fingers. The suitor had been too familiar and grabby, what did it matter if he was some fancy lord from Highgarden? If one wanted to ride a dragon, they had to be prepared to suffer what would happen to them should they fail. Otto had gruffly cursed her, accusing her of the same mercurial violence that Daemon had, not listening to a single word she said until Viserys had forced him to listen to the truth. And now here he was, between her thighs as she grasped at his hands, leading one between her legs, where she had his cock deep inside of her. 

"Do you know how I claimed Cannibal, Otto?" The princess asked him suddenly, her voice airy with pleasure as she moved, pressing his hand against her so she might grind her clit against it, the ecstasy dazzling. 

"I - no, princess." The older man seemed to be having trouble paying much attention to her words, his eyes were traveling sharply from where the base of his cock was being revealed, soaking wet, whenever his princess lifted her hips as she moved - and then to her face, as was polite when speaking to a member of the royal family, whom Otto had always desired to suck at the teat of. 

"I was naught but a young girl at the time." She explained, moving herself faster now, leaning forward and putting her hand against his shoulder to brace herself as she spread her knees. This gave her more power to fuck herself on his cock, a thing that made Otto's hand reach up to grasp her by her nape, as if he could keep her locked in place. "At Dragonstone, he was the most vicious of dragons. The most hungry - and the flesh he craved most of all was that of other dragons." A moan stopped her then, as she found that spot inside herself, that deep rooted ache that she knew would send her to her peak.

"A dangerous, violent creature. He is well suited to you, princess." Otto commented with no lack of difficulty as he thrust upwards to her, attempting to fuck her rather than be fucked himself. His voice was dark and heady, a well-suited change in her opinion, but she would not allow him the pleasure of riding her, not yet. She hadn't finished her story.

"I went to the caves of the volcano f-first." She breathed, stuttering when the Hand's hand decided to make her story as hard to tell as it was for him to listen to, his deft thumb rubbing harshly over her delicate folds, toying with her clit until he found a motion that pleasured her to the point of trembling. She must give this to Otto Hightower - once he found something that worked, he did not cease nor change his tune. "I... I went with a wheelbarrow full of meat, goats,  cattle and little cakes from the castle kitchens... I even burnt them first." 

She had to close her eyes then, her hand forming a fist against his doublet as she felt herself grow closer and closer to a peak. "And then he came from behind me.. I hadn't noticed him, he was a fright." 

"And he chose you." Otto said, his voice regaining some decorum even balls deep in her, as she'd stopped rocking now. His cock was merely being kept nice and warm inside her cunt while his fingers made her burn hot and wet. 

"By the time I had climbed upon his back, the wheelbarrow was empty and my Cannibal had a new rider... Nyke ivestretan zirȳla naejot dohaeragon issa, naejot rȳbagon naejot issa se ziry gōntan. Issa merbugon valonqar iksos nēdenka, sīr olvie sīr bona ziry daor sagon ōregion isse se zaldrīzes ripo. Jāhor ao dohaeragon se rȳbagon naejot issa hae issa zaldrīzes, Otto?" I told him to serve me, to listen to me and he did. My Cannibal is fierce, so much so that he cannot be held in the Dragon pit. Will you serve and listen to me as my dragon has, Otto?

Her use of High Valyrian fell upon non-understanding ears, but her coy rumble of the foreign language appeared to create a fierce desire in Otto.

As suddenly, he had enough toying - he hated Valyrian. Hated that the royal family could converse in a way that he could not know, even in the same room as he was. That they were above him, that they were more than a common people as he was. Their language was another way they became otherworldly. And the Hand craved this otherworldliness, craved their power, craved their dragons and fire - and now, it seemed he had a craving for her too, as much as he also resented her.

Because then as she had done to him, Otto grabbed onto her hips roughly, his fingers digging into her in a way that would surely leave bruises upon her flesh, and he shoved his cock inside of her again with a single motion - her legs wrapped around his waist, her black stocking-covered limbs digging deeply into his thighs to encourage his action. His kisses returned, harsh and hungry and yet worshiping over her lips, her neck, her chest as he thrust forcefully inside of her. He fucked her like she was the power he craved, the motion making her gasp and grab at him, pulling on his trousers so he was moving as hard as he possibly could - they would both ache in the morning, hopefully. It would please her to no end to still feel what he had done to her while sitting in both of her brothers company at breakfast. 

"Lo - Lo ao keligon, kesan ipradagon ao glaesagon!" If you stop, I'll eat you alive. She threatened weakly, desperately, her head falling back as he forced her peak to come over her, the pleasure making her moan loudly as she came over his cock, especially when he grasped at the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her white hair as he forced her to look up into his angry eyes while he too took his pleasure of her. The princess felt him inside her, filling her with his spend as he grunted another, "Fuck," into her ear.

Satisfaction weighed her limbs like stones as Otto pulled himself from her, his cock pulling from her full cunt with an amusing squelching noise, making her giggle with a bit of a drunken daze to her. 

The Hand didn't appear as bothered at her laughter as he had been earlier as he laid himself beside her, his chest still heaving from the effort it took for him to fuck her. He was hardly a young man, especially compared to her mere three-and-twenty, but at least their fuck had been a rather interesting one. 

"Se hembar jēda ao vēdros nyke sīr, kostan emagon naejot emagon iā tȳne urnēptre, ñuha āeksio." I may require another show the next time i am infuriated with you. The princess murmured softly, turning to use his arm as a cushion, not caring that his cum was leaking out of her and onto his bedclothes, the Valyrian easier to speak for her just then than the Common Tongue. 

"Do you often revert to High Valyrian while intimate, Princess?" Otto finally said, making her smirk into his doublet. His irritation was back and palpable, even as his right arm moved up and draped around her waist, his long fingers smoothing over her hip and down her backside. In an almost delightfully dirty move, his digits ducked between her arsecheeks and down to the petals of her cunt, where his seed was dripping down her thigh. He was annoyed with her for not making motion to avoid making a mess on his bed. She didn't care. 

" Mirri jēdi. " Sometimes.

His hand gripped her arse. His claws dug into her flesh as he lifted her cheek. His left hand brought over a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped over her cunt, rubbing through her sensitive flesh until she was clean, the action less courteous than it was the action of a disgruntled servant.

This thought, the princess enjoyed, and she wiggled her hips slightly, enjoying a brief fantasy of making another mess that he might have to tidy. 

But for this, she received a sharp swat on her bottom. 

"You are an irritation." Otto Hightower accused humorlessly, putting his soiled handkerchief away before lying himself back. She returned to using him as a cushion, and he did not argue against this usage. He was a servant to House Targaryen, after all. 

[rebeccalouisaferguson]

Warning: This article contains full spoilers for Dune: Part 2 and Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning.

In case you haven’t noticed, Dune is on top of the world right now. The much acclaimed and very lucrative second installment, Dune: Part 2, wraps up Denis Villeneuve’s take on the first book in Frank Herbert’s iconic science-fiction saga, setting the stage for the all but inevitable next film to tackle the second book, Dune Messiah. As IMAX theaters continue to fill up with Dune fans eager for a close-up look at Shai-Hulud, studio executives all over Hollywood will certainly be looking at what happened here to see if they can replicate Dune’s success with future projects. Beyond “letting directors make the movies they want to make” and “audiences are getting tired of formulaic franchise movies with dull visuals,” there’s one other element that stands out as a bit easier to implement…

The obvious answer is to cast Rebecca Ferguson in your movie.

Looking back at Ferguson’s Lady Jessica in both Dune Parts 1 and 2, she stands out not just as the best performance among an incredibly stacked cast, but also as a critical part of the film’s press tour through her chaotic energy and memeable personality. How did this Swedish sensation secure her place as the MVP of the Dune franchise? Let’s take a look.

That’s Mother (of the Messiah)

Over the course of both Dune films, which run about five hours in total, we run into a wide array of colorful characters played by a murderer’s row of Hollywood’s current top talent. However, many of the characters are either exclusive to one installment, go long stretches of the runtime without being seen, and in some special cases like Anya Taylor-Joy’s appearance as Alia, are clearly setups for films yet to come. Even Zendaya as Chani, who is credited as co-lead in Part 2, is restricted mostly to a handful of dream sequences in Part 1. However, the one character relationship that exists as the strongest throughline from the beginning of Paul Atreides’ journey all the way to its culmination in this first story is that of Paul and his mother, Lady Jessica of the Bene Gesserit.

n a film where many of the emotional beats can get drowned out a bit by the expansive backdrops and dour atmosphere, the foundational scenes of Part 1 illustrating the contradictory relationship between mother and son stand out as some of the film’s best. Jessica bore Paul out of love for his father, Leto, consciously choosing to grant him a son when she was instructed to do otherwise, and she cares for Paul’s safety above all others. At the same time, she is also a cunning manipulator who has been training Paul in the superhuman abilities of her order against their wishes, and grooming him for a dark destiny that the young Atreides spends much of the two films hoping to avoid. Jessica is simultaneously driven by a genuine love for her son and a desire to facilitate his rise to power, and Ferguson walks the razor-wire line between these two aspects with pinpoint precision.

This continues into Part 2, where we see Jessica step into an even more overtly villainous role as she schemes her way into assuming the mantle of Reverend Mother of the Fremen. Her relationship with Paul becomes more antagonistic as she sets in motion the events that will lead to his accepting the role of Lisan al Gaib and challenging the Emperor, to the point of even being deemed a traitor to the Bene Gesserit despite ostensibly doing what they wanted by bringing the Kwisatz Haderach into existence. That Jessica has any sympathy from the audience – despite being a eugenicist and megalomaniac who usurped the religious leadership of an indigenous culture so her son could claim dominion of the universe almost purely out of her own vanity – all comes down to Ferguson imbuing her with inner life and dimension that makes us feel like we understand her even when the script doesn’t actually give us every detail about her motivations.

From her recurring role as Ilsa Faust in the Mission: Impossible movies to portraying main villain Rose the Hat in Mike Flanagan’s Doctor Sleep, and now playing Lady Jessica in the Dune films, Ferguson has always been at her best when she takes on characters with a darker edge to their persona that she can contrast with her natural charm. Although Ilsa is more heroic than the other two, all three of these roles intrigue the audience, and the other characters they interact with, through seductive ambiguity, something Ferguson is better at than most of her contemporaries. But what makes this all the more interesting is that she’s seemingly an entirely different person off-camera, and one who is just as important to Dune’s success.

Princess of the Press Tour

As with all things, the true measure of a film’s success in the modern age is how many memes it spawns on social media. From one filmgoer riding a homemade sandworm at his local AMC to jokes about Stilgar’s somewhat overzealous dedication to his prophet, there’s no shortage of humor from fans sharing their responses to Villeneuve’s latest epic. However, one member of the cast is bringing her own brand of comedy to the party, and that’s none other than Rebecca Ferguson, who has taken to promotional interviews with an energy that can best be described as somewhere along a spectrum between “unconventional” and “frankly chaotic.” Not that there’s anything wrong with her having a goofy side to her; on the contrary, the impression she’s made on social media indicates she’s become a true fan favorite because of her behavior.

At a time when press tours are increasingly filled with inane questions and too many influencers at the expense of journalists, clips of Ferguson’s interviews where she reveals just how little of a filter she has have been one of the unsung joys of Part 2’s release. From admitting she still hasn’t read the novel even after making two movies, to texting Denis Villeneuve mid-interview to ask him the answer to a question she didn’t know, to even referencing MGM’s history of the casting couch after learning about the Dune popcorn bucket, Ferguson’s refreshing honesty and hilarious affability have stood out from the crowd amidst so many celebrities who have had much of their personalities sanded down by media training. These and other clips have been making the rounds online, keeping Dune-related media in the cultural conversation.

Given that many lesser films make “the mother of the main character” into a thankless role, Ferguson jumping in and stealing the show both on-screen and off is a reminder of how strange it is that so few Hollywood films have taken advantage of her talent. It also brings to mind how boneheaded of a move it was for the Mission: Impossible franchise to kill Ilsa off in such a haphazard way in Dead Reckoning. Now, to be fair, Ferguson has indicated she wanted to move on from the franchise after three installments, but there had to be a better send-off for her than to die mid-film in an incredibly hamfisted manner. We’re still interested in whatever happens next with the M: I franchise, but it’s a shame that an otherwise fine movie in Dead Reckoning is marred by how one of its star players was treated.

Regardless, it’s Mission’s loss and Dune’s gain, and paves the way for Ferguson to take on even more roles in the future. As Dune: Part 2 continues to gain accolades and box office momentum in part because of her contributions, hopefully the rest of Hollywood will follow in Villeneuve’s footsteps and clue in that this is one star worth investing in.

[dirty-bosmer]

WIP Wednesday

It's that time of the week. I'm going out later tonight, so I'll queue this up, but thank you to my very kind and lovely friends who tagged me earlier in the day @skyrim-forever @ladytanithia @kookaburra1701 you're all so motivating <3

Tagging: @thequeenofthewinter @tamrielesque @gilgamish @thana-topsy @elavoria @tallmatcha @nuwanders @paraparadigm @throughtrialbyfire @sylvienerevarine @rainpebble3 @mareenavee @expended-sleeper @lucien-lachance @miraakulous-cloud-district

Looking forward to reading whatever you decide to post :)

Meanwhile, I blew some dust off my long neglected chapter of The Illusionist.

The door croaked open to reveal the main hall, fortunately vacant. Familiar stale air rushed to greet her, only the dull thwacks from the distant training room to give it weight while she stared down its gullet past the broken teeth of so many memories. Nim could still see them in glimpses, quick ghostly wisps darting through her periphery like silverfish. Now in the sanctuary’s jaws, the only way forward was through, but each breath only served to pull her a little deeper into her grief, and with each step she felt a little more of her spirit flee her, a little more of herself letting go. 

“Elianna is right this way.” Arquen surged forward, dress swishing at her heels. Her words came clipped. She kept her eyes fixed forward, eager to get this over with, and Nim didn’t know if she should be too when the sudden grasp of her sorrow felt more welcoming than sleep. It was true what One-Ear had told her sprawled out on the plush cushions lining his den, eyes closed or maybe open, merely clouded in the smoke, Careful, friend. Misery’s grip is even stronger than the moon-sugar's—

“Follow.”

At the stern sound of Arquen’s voice, Nim stepped back into her body and quickened her pace to keep up.  When she realized they were heading down to Vicente’s old quarters, that Arquen was pulling a key from the pouch belted at her waist, her heart skipped a strange clumsy rhythm. “You keep her locked up?”

“On the Listener's orders.”

“He would, wouldn't he? Well, you’ve made it clear you don’t do everything he says.”

Arquen glanced at her over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “I’m not barbaric, Nimileth. Don’t look so dour. She has plenty of enrichment, and let’s not forget that when we found her, she’d been left in the gutters alone. I still wonder exactly how she wound up there. Whose orders were those now, hmm?”

Nim shut her mouth. When she swallowed, the guilt tasted sour, metallic. Of blood.

Arquen continued on, leading her to Vicente’s room or the room that had once been Vicente’s. Nim couldn’t imagine it containing anything but him, and did his presence still fill those empty spaces, a whisper of him calling from whatever liminal length away? Or was it merely her own memory willing his shadow back into existence that made long silhouettes dance in the corner of her eye? Whatever it was, she hoped he was there, that with every step closer those memories might crystallize, that his ghost might leap out from the walls, come back to haunt her, and even if it was only a gelid, spectral touch, it would be better than feeling nothing of him ever again.

Man wouldn't I just love to finish this chapter sometime 😅

[novelmonger]

I just finished The Silver Chair and thought I’d pop over to let you know I enjoyed it this time through (you said it’s your favorite, recently), and also that I figured out why it was one of my least favorites as a kid. It’s a sort of middle-aged book. I am, of course, referencing Screwtape’s advice to Wormwood that “The long, dull, monotonous years of middle-aged prosperity or middle-aged adversity are excellent campaigning weather. You see, it is so hard for these creatures to persevere.” Of all the Narnia books, it’s the one that requires the greatest perseverance from the characters (and thus from me, the reader), with the least “reward” along the way. There are no respites at the Beavers’ house or bright days of sailing in fair weather or rides on a winged horse to break up the slog through marsh and moor and underground maze. Every apparent respite is just more danger and discomfort in disguise. Even the season is the grimmest, hardest part of the year as the tail end of autumn slides into the bleakness of early winter.

And then there are the adventures. I am petrified of snakes, and a serpent plays a prominent role in this story. I am terrified of heights and can’t even watch characters in a movie stand on the edge of a cliff without nausea clawing up my throat, so Eustace falling over the edge of that cliff and Jill flying through the air on Aslan’s breath provoke a deeply uncomfortable physical reaction for me. And I, like Jill, also cannot bear being shut up underground. I identify a little too strongly with her POV to enjoy their trip to the Underland—especially since Lewis keeps emphasizing her discomfort!

But! This time through, I found Puddleglum a hoot. The parliament of owls too, with their odd, backwards view of humans. Jill is incredibly relatable to me, not only because of her fears, but also because she is so ordinary and she bickers with Eustace and she wants a warm bath and a hot meal so badly. That’s exactly how I would feel in a like situation. Her negligence in reviewing the Signs is also more relatable than I like to admit. The enchantment scene with the witch is a brilliant presentation of how secular culture tries to reduce faith to something ridiculous and imitative through denial and mockery. And it’s presented in a way that children can see the flaws in the witch’s words.

As for the “middle-aged” atmosphere—well, I’m old enough now to have hiked my own Ettinsmoor and Underland. I can appreciate the virtues endurance and patience in a way I didn’t as a teen. So all that is to say that I guess I’ve finally grown up enough to appreciate this book. It’s still not the volume I’m most likely to pull off the shelf, what with the physical and emotional discomfort, but I definitely see more in it now.

To clarify: The Silver Chair is my favorite of the BBC miniseries. Of the books, my favorite is The Horse and His Boy.

I think a big part of why I love Silver Chair so much is because it was the first of the BBC adaptations we owned, so I watched it over and over (as well as the animated LWW, which I love aspects of but also recognize that the animation is...special).

But I also identify with Jill most out of all the children, I think. She just seems so normal. She doesn't become a queen. She almost feels like a hero by accident, because she was showing off and ended up being the only one to hear the Signs. I mean, it's all part of Aslan's plan, and none of the children were chosen because they were particularly special (other than that Aslan chose them!). But Jill just feels a bit more relatable to me. Also, everything about forgetting the Signs was really convicting to me as a kid who often thought of Scripture memorization as boring and pointless.

Then there's the climax, with the Queen of Underland almost convincing them there's no Narnia, no sun, no Aslan! But Puddleglum comes to the rescue! His dourness and pessimism, which seemed like little more than a funny sort of character quirk before, turns out to be exactly what they needed at that moment to save the day. And what he says about how he'd rather believe in Aslan, even if he's not real, than the Queen's depressing "reality," has always struck such a deep chord in me.

And then there's Prince Rillian! That whole part where they're all suspicious but then he says Aslan's name sends chills down my spine to this day.

And then, specifically from the BBC version...I honestly can't imagine anyone better than Tom Baker for Puddleglum, and Barbara Kellerman is a fantastic Green Lady/Queen of Underland (and White Witch, but that's a whole other post).

Anyway, I never thought of Silver Chair as being "middle-aged," though I see what you mean. Maybe I've just always been an old soul or something XD Thanks for sharing your thoughts!

[erzherzog-von-edelstein]

Hi, just wanted to say, I love your writing!

Also a qq, are you taking prompts? I saw york reblogged this awesome prompt list with different categories. If you by any change are open for requests, 7 an 17 from angst section with roderich and gilbert. I just like to see Austria suffering

Austria groaned and put a hand to his side as he settled into a chair. His face was pale and his eyebrows were knit in an unmistakable grimace.

Prussia’s first instinct was to look for some sort of injury. He had not seen anything happen in battle recently, but in the carnage, it was possible that he had missed something. He looked closely at where Austria’s hand was on his side. There wasn’t any blood, at least not that he could see.

He had to ask, “Are you injured?”

As he waited for an answer, it struck him that the world sounded too quiet without the sound of guns ringing in the background. Prussia had becomes far more used to the sounds of the Eastern front in recent years. There was something uncanny in the silence.

He let his mind wander until Austria answered the question, “Not precisely.”

He shifted uncomfortably and took his hand away from his side. As Prussia expected, it came away clean. So, he had not been shot, and that was some relief. It did, however, leave Prussia at a loss for why he looked so pained.

Since he had no time to be coy, he said directly, “But you are in pain. I can see that.” Austria attempted to smirk, but it looked unconvincing with the strain on his face, “How perceptive of you.”

Prussia did not appreciate the cutting sarcasm in the slightest. He was trying to be helpful, and not say the words that came most directly to mind: You will be of no help on the battlefield like this. Even if you were not much help before.

He knew he would get nowhere being too sharp; he would just get the same sarcasm back. It was Austria’s way. He tried again, making a concerted effort to soften his edges, “Roderich, you can tell me-“

Austria cut him off, “It’s the empire. I can feel it straining at all the seams.” He balled up one hand until the knuckles turned white and let out a breath through his nose like he was bracing himself before he said, “There is so much conflict.”

Prussia could hear the way that he was speaking through clenched teeth. He tried to be comforting, though it was certainly not his strength, “I can give you something to dull the pain and get you on a train back to Vienna tomorrow. I don’t need the help here, and you should rest.”

He felt like he was coming across as perfectly practical, and he knew that on a military level he could do just as well without Austria. The personal level was considerably more complicated. He had enjoyed the close quarters together. He added, “You have my leave to go get some beauty rest. I’ll win this war and you’ll feel better.” He threw in a wink, “Let me do what I’m good at.”

Austria was slowly shaking his head as he slowly tilted his face up so that he could meet his eyes. He looked agonized and Prussia was puzzled at what he had said wrong. Austria sounded exasperated, “Gilbert, be realistic. Even you cannot win this war.”

Prussia raised an incredulous eyebrow at him, and spoke from pure wounded pride, “Have some faith in me.” Austria gave another shake of his head, “It’s not a matter of faith. It’s all too far gone. I do not feel like going back to Vienna to watch Karl fail.”

Prussia rolled his eyes, “Nonsense. You are in pain, and it is making you pessimistic.” He opened a small medic’s pack that he kept on his belt and pulled out a small bottle of pills. He poured a couple into his hand before pressing them firmly into Austria’s extended hand. He spoke with the authority of a field medic, “Take those.”

Austria wrinkled his nose at him like a child but did as he was told. Prussia decided that it must simply be that Austria was failing to understand the military situation, and he would feel less dour when he did.

He started his lecture as he tucked the bottle back into his medical bag, “It is not as bad as it was a year ago. Ivan has surrendered.”

He tried not to choke on the words or to remember how Russia had looked at Brest-Litovsk. So wan and pale.

He forced his train of thought back on track, “That leaves us only Romania and Italy on this side. You could take Feli on your own. And I can handle Vladimir easily. Then we turn West.”

Austria ran his hand over his side like he was trying to comfort an angry invisible wound, “I am sure that is what you tell Ludwig when you send him letters. And I do not blame you for softening the edges for him. He’s a boy still drunk on ideas of glory. But do not treat me like I am naïve.”

Prussia was about to argue with him again, but Austria put up a hand to stop him. Austria took the quiet as an opportunity to continue, “I can tell you what will happen: We will lose this war. And then-“ he swallowed hard like the next words were physically painful, “then I will die. You win, happy?”

Prussia could not believe what he had just heard, and said on instinct, “What? No, I am not happy.”

He had no idea what leap of logic had led Austria to the conclusion that he was in mortal danger. He had lost wars before and been completely fine. He was even more offended by the concept that he would be happy if loss had been fatal.

Austria leaned back in his chair and fixed Prussia with a stern gaze, “It does not surprise me that you have not thought about it. But it has not left my mind since the emperor’s death. I am nothing without the empire.”

Prussia scoffed, unimpressed with the idea that losing the empire was that detrimental. It was just Austria's ego talking. But Austria continued before he could speak, “Listen to me, for once. I have no kingdom without the Reich, nothing that I represent. If the crown fails, there will be no Crownlands. And I need not remind you what happened to Holy Rome when what he was dissolved in pieces. That is the fate that is waiting for me.”

No, Prussia did not need to reminder. He knew the secret he had kept for over a century about the boy he had found nearly dead during the Napoleonic wars. He could have said that he knew it was possible to survive a collapse, but then he would have to admit to the lie he told about Germany for years. He would have to admit that to the person who had carried profound guilt about Holy Rome's death. He decided against it. The middle of a war did not seem like the right moment to have a reasonable conversation about something so delicate.

Instead, he kneeled and took both of Austria’s hands in his own and said, “Even if we lose, I am not going to let anything happen to you. You can marry me and come live with Ludwig. I would do it because I love you.”

He reached up to stroke his hair, but Austria leaned away, “No, you don’t. You love yourself first and foremost. There was never room for me in that.”

He stood up, and winced at the sudden movement, but managed to right himself. He announced, tersely, “I am going to bed.”

Prussia watched him go and made a mental note to give him a half an hour to calm down and to let the pain medication take effect, and then he could try to join him in bed.

[sentryofwords]

Haven Shy

The clone of Fluttershy, Part of the Mean Six

Background Information

Date of Birth: N’th day (out of 60) of 179x C.E. (Equestrian) (Born during a Spring or Summer Cycle)

Place of Birth: Everfree Forest

Nationality: Equestrian

Education: REDACTED

Social Standing

Not very popular, but she has good intentions

Physical Appearance

Race/species: Unknown  (artificially made, Clone of Fluttershy)

Coloration: pale pink mane, off-white underbelly, pale yellow coat that fades to a dull brownish orange towards the hooves, turquoise/teal eyes.

Cutie Mark: An empty bird’s nest with a single feather in it. The crescent shape of the cutie mark is important

^Not the best drawing, but you get the general idea

Hair: Has her mane pulled up away from her face and held in the back with a clip. Both her mane and tail eventually get cut down to be a bit shorter than fluttershy’s, because she didn’t like the way they dragged behind her. They are now about the length of an average pony’s. 

Clothes: REDACTED

Key Details: Over time, she gets more muscular than fluttershy, in her legs, shoulders, and wings. This makes her a tad bit larger than fluttershy. This in addition to her generally holding herself taller and the brownish orange and white markings helps to differentiate her from fluttershy, aside from just the cutie mark.

Additional Details: White and brown markings are added after an encounter with the tree of Harmony, during which REDACTED. This caused her appearance to change slightly as well as caused other effects.

Personality

Posture: Stands tall and rigid, with good posture, and will look you in the eye even if it means she has to look down at you, rather than moving to your level.

Gesticulations: Moves her head a fair bit when talking, as well as her front hooves. Has a generally dour resting face, 

Speech: Harsh and stern sounding. Even though she talks pretty quietly, she has a firm voice.

Ideals: REDACTED, she is always pushing you to do more, even when you don’t think you can. She will convince you that you are doing something yourself, but secretly, she is right there with you the whole time (Remember that baby bird she walked back to its nest?). This is so that later on, when you do have to do it by yourself, you are used to not having a safety net.

Friends: Rest of the Mean Six, REDACTED,REDACTED, etc.

Enemies: Queen Chrysalis

Relations: Queen Chrysalis (Mother?), Rest of Mean Six (Siblings?), Fluttershy (Siblings?), if any others, they are undecided as of yet

Additional Details: REDACTED

[swapauanon]

I'm starting to understand why the original creators washed their hands of the live action adaptation.

"Why does Aang make all those pit stops?" Because he doesn't know he's under a deadline until halfway through season 1. The Solstice is meant to serve as his wake-up call that things are more dire than he already thought they were. He wasn't making all of those pit-stops because he didn't know what to do, he did that because he's a kid and wants to have fun on the way to learn Waterbending.

Also, why would Aang get a prophetic vision of the Siege of the North, but NOT Sozin's genocide of the Air Nomads?

Remember how people complained about Aang being too dour and serious in the Shyamalan film? Are you SURE that's what you want your Aang to be like?

They're just removing all of the character growth to try and shut down Tumblr discourse before it can start, but in the process have created a show that promises to be really, REALLY dull.

Say what you will about the Shyamalan movie, but at least THOSE issues were born from executive meddling, with Shyamalan himself actually being a passionate fan of the show. This might actually be MORE disrespectful to the source material!

[boatswainscall]

I tried out Starfield through Gamepass and I am deeply Whelmed by it. Brutally honest thoughts below, though I will admit I did not get very far into the game and as such won't comment on the quality of the story and gameplay beyond that point.

Character Creator

The character creator is honestly really good. Options are not locked behind gender markers and I found it relatively easy to make an androgynous looking character, which is at least my standard for RPG character creators. The game uses sliders like past Bethesda character creators, and features a wide variety of scars, facial markings, tattoos, piercings and makeup to apply.

You can also select your pronouns in a deviously hidden sub menu upon naming your character, which I honestly hope becomes the industry standard across all triple-A titles. You can pick between She/Her, He/Him and They/Them. Which is limited but it's still good. You can also customize your character's physique and walking cycle, which are not locked to masculine/feminine bodies at all.

The one complaint I have is that the textured hairstyles, while better than past Bethesda games, there aren't as many as compared to like, Baldur's Gate 3, which honestly set the new standard that should be upheld across the games industry for its variety and quality of textured hair options.

The perk and character background system also impressed me, if by Bethesda standards. The perks have direct influence on character dialogue and some even have direct and pretty interesting downsides to them.

Opening Story Hook

It's not a surprise to me that they haven't learned their lesson from what, how many RPGs they've made now with insufferably foot-dragging opening sequences that force you to stare into the bottomless dead eyes of the plot that you can't skip in any way every time you start a new character. That everyone has at some point complained about each time, and critics have criticized.

And yet here we are in Starfield, and the opener and plot hook are not only aggressively mid but also incredibly fucking slow paced and overwhelmingly dour in tone. For as much as the game reminded me of the Outer Worlds in several ways, Starfield by comparison is at least in its opening taking itself way too seriously. Which honestly contributed towards me losing patience with it pretty early on.

I wasn't exactly asking for the game to be on the Outer Worlds' level of tongue in cheek right off the bat and god forbid I wasn't asking it to be on a Marvel movie's farcical level of goofiness, but I honestly think it would have benefited from being a little more lighthearted. VASCO, your helper robot and first companion, does have a few lines that made me smile but the rest of the characters didn't really play off him in a fun way to amplify it enough for me.

I will not comment on the quality of the story past you meeting Constellation in New Atlantis, but the inciting incident and main plot hook were both incredibly dull and formulaic and didn't do much to compel me to stick with it. So I ultimately didn't.

Aesthetic and Art Direction

I heard from a friend that some of their acquaintances in a Discord server described Starfield as "Fallout 3-like in the best and worst way possible", and I can't help but agree. But Starfield might honestly have the most dull premise out of all of their games, made even more so by its strong but very... Indistinct aesthetic.

Fallout 3 and Fallout 4 have equally lame plot hooks but they at least have the Fallout aesthetic to prop them up, which is incredibly strong and at least comparatively unique and fun to engage with. Meanwhile Skyrim and Oblivion are just iconic for their own sake due to their presence in a lot of millennial childhoods and teenage years which led to them sinking themselves permanently into the Internet's cultural weave. And their own specific fantasy aesthetics are similarly strong and kind of the general standard for the average gamer for "fantasy video game" at this point, for good and for ill.

And while Starfield similarly has an admittedly wonderful aesthetic and art direction - it's weapons, armour, environmental details and architecture are reminiscent to me of 80's Sci Fi/Futurism with its chunky and clunky design elements. I adore that kind of tech - movies like the original Alien and honestly Fallout 3 were what endeared me to it in the first place as a young teenager - it has the problem where while strong it's art direction is a little... Derivative.

There's not really much I encountered at least within the game's opening hours that truly stand out as something new or as a unique twist on an existing style of sci-fi. That paired with the early game's intensely drab and desaturated colours in its early planets and even the first hub city contribute to how uninspired it felt. There was even a point as I was sneaking through the first dungeon clearing it of Pirates where I briefly felt like I was in a cleaner, less wasteland-ified Fallout 4 one instead. So while it honestly might work for some - I wasn't endeared to its aesthetic as much as I would have liked to.

Combat and Related Mechanics

Okay, now to talk more positively, at least comparatively so. The combat in Starfield right off the bat feels really good. Animations for reloading and firing/swinging weapons are very polished and detailed, and enemy AI while still suffering from Bethesda-isms in some respects does feel at least on par or improved upon Fallout 4's. Guns also sound and handle in a very satisfying manner.

When you are inside of a building you don't have to worry about it, but when on the surface of a planet with a hostile atmosphere you have to be mindful of your Oxygen and Carbon Dioxide levels while in combat. Autorun and Sprint drain your O2 and fill your CO2 really fast while you're in a fight, so you can't just run and gun the way you could in their other games and get away with it. It forces you to be more methodical and slower with taking things down, which I at least enjoyed. When you're out of combat though you only have to watch your O2/CO2 levels when you're sprinting, so don't worry about having to manage it while out exploring unless some wildlife aggros on you.

The perk system is also off the bat the best one they've made, at least by Bethesda standards. When you level up you get perk points, but you can't just automatically spend them on whatever you want. You first have to complete mini challenges tied to those specific perks in order to level them up. Unlocking perks at their base level I don't believe require said challenges, but if you want to improve them in any way you have to work for it. Which compared to past games is a welcome change and definitely makes the game feel more like a RPG.

Other Mechanics

The lockpicking minigame is the best Bethesda has ever made. Which is a low bar to clear but they sure did clear it. It's a lot more cerebral than their previous one where it was just a guessing/patience game. Now it's an actual puzzle to solve, and while it might grow repetitive to some over time I really enjoyed sitting down to figure it out the first time I encountered a locked box.

Ship combat/flight though is something I want to take a second to warn people about. If you have wrist/joint issues, either due to injury or medical reasons and you want to play Starfield on a keyboard, I strongly suggest you rebind the controls for Ship System management to be something that will be more comfortable and safe for you. Because as it exists now while I don't normally have issues with my hands it was causing me pretty severe hand cramps due to the Crab Claw positioning I had to take to manage it effectively, so I can only imagine it would be excruciating by default for someone who has joint issues. It's a major accessibility issue, and again I strongly suggest you rebind the keys to prevent injuring yourself if you have these issues.

Also if you similarly have problems with motion sickness I'd avoid playing Starfield because ship combat and navigation is intensely disorientating and made me nauseous after only two sequenced dogfights with pirates.

Beyond that ship management is... Fine? It's mechanics are interesting in theory but in practice its intensely clunky and frustrating to deal with. I saw someone else post about it but frankly ship combat at least while you're flying solo with nobody else to assist with things is very aggravating to manage and honestly kind of bad.

Performance

I'm not running with a rig that meets all the minimum system requirements, so the game defaulted me to low settings with automatic dynamic resolution scaling (DRS) enabled to prioritize performance over prettiness. But despite that, I found the game actually ran rather well even after bumping things up to medium settings. I didn't encounter any graphical bugs in my time playing beyond some z-fighting textures in a small part of the environment in New Atlantis, which I think was more caused by the graphics settings than being of developer error.

I would still warn that if you don't meet system requirements and decide to play anyway with your own customized settings and DRS enabled, that when things get busy on screen the quality of your resolution will get quite blurry as the game compensates, which may cause eye strain and motion sickness from extended exposure.

Conclusion

I wasn't riding the hype train for this game so I wasn't exactly disappointed by the early game experience I got, but I was let down by how overwhelmingly "Bethesda" in the bad way it was.

If you honestly enjoy the Bethesda game experience of ignoring the main plot and spending hundreds of hours exploring and sidequesting instead, I think that Starfield will hold up just fine for you. But for me at least, I wasn't impressed, and likely won't continue to play it.

[rukari]

A sum total of twelve years gifted and talented education, eight years studying criminal justice and forensic science, and a two-year long internship with Metro PD had to be good for something. In this case, it ended up being death.

Not real death, that was messy and smelly and distasteful on all accounts. No, The Necromancer preferred the illusion of death. How to get as close as possible to emulating the real thing without all the problematic parts of actually dying or killing someone. Synthesized and naturopathic remedies to slow the heart, video proof of heroes dying in massive explosions that left little in the way of remains for the real forensics team to identify, a splash of good old-fashioned dark magic, any death could be faked with the right planning and pizzazz. They were infamous now, immutable, immortal.

And nobody had any idea it was actually me.

My office was a literal morgue, a tiny place with space for maybe four bodies in cold storage and a heating system in the waiting room that never quite worked as well as it should have. The whole place was so dull and drab, grays upon grays with a splash of light grey by the windows and a darker grey floor to hide any mishaps. Dour-faced nineteenth century portraits with sallow faces add that antique air of being watched from every wall and having nowhere to go. Most of the color came from taxidermized wildlife on tiny shelves right above the chairs. I designed the room myself, and it served to be very effective for the clientele I wished to attract. People who were truly desperate. The little bell over the door to my beloved "Final Rest" jingled, and somehow even it sounded dull and lifeless. I watched the broad-shouldered woman stoop to avoid catching her head on the doorframe. Even in plainclothes, I knew my next client. The black turtleneck and baggy jeans could fool most civilians, but the necromancer kept a close watch on all the heroes who seemed just a little too close to the edge. Better to get them out of the spotlight before the spotlight turned red, so to speak. I liked to have a plan ready when my services were needed. Her hero alias was Sunspot. It suited her. Fiery red hair, fiery powers. Fiery temper. I kept my head down, glancing over the thin silver wire of my spectacles as the woman stalked towards my desk, arms crossed tight over her chest. "No walk-ins, appointments only," I said dryly. I didn't need to play up the routine. I was the only other person at the desk, in the room, in the whole building. But for as much as my clients liked to keep work and life separate, so did I. They made appointments to see the Necromancer, not me. I just manned the receptionist for now. Based on the glower creasing her forehead, I didn't think she liked my greeting. She leaned in, so close I could feel her hot breath ruffling my hair. Still, I kept my eyes down, carefully writing notes in my appointment ledger in my own special shorthand, mostly about her. "This is the place, isn't it? Where is he?" she growled. None of the chipper bravado she laid on for the media masked the anger in her voice, or the exhaustion. Anyone on the street could feel her desperation, but something about it made my skin crawl in the worst way.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Heat rolled off her in waves, tinged with the salty tang of sweat and something else that I couldn't quite place aside from bitter. With one hand I closed the ledger, sweeping it to the side as my tired eyes turned up to meet hers. Few people dealt with dark circles as bad as the necromancer, but somehow she looked even more tired than I felt, and killing people without killing them was exhausting work. I clasped my hands, sitting up just a little bit straighter to meet her gaze and move our faces apart. "That depends on what place you're looking."

"The light at the end of the tunnel."

The necromancer knew having a code phrase or a password was such a cliché, but it made things feel more authentic. And I was nothing if not a stickler for the rules of how things ought to go. "I see. I'll inform him that a new guest has arrived. May I have your name? Is there... anything you wish to tell him?"

Sunspot scoffed, the fire inside lighting up her golden eyes for a moment as she squared her shoulders and struck a pose. "Nothing I'm telling you, girlie. This is private business, I'm not airing anything to anyone but him." So proud. So tired. So.... strange.

I collected the ledger, holding it close to my chest like a leather-bound shield. As I stood, I glanced over her, adjusting my spectacles like the precariously perched bits of glass threatened to fall off my face. "I'm just doing my job. Basic intake questions. That's how it goes for everyone, especially without an appointment." Not that anyone ever scheduled their pre-death visits, I added in my head. I couldn't figure out how to implement a website that wouldn't tip off the police and I hated phone calls more than life itself.

Perhaps the heroine finally took a shred of pity on me, as she sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Tell him.... Tell him I'm a friend of Aegis. He'll understand."

Aegis died last month, in a heroic collapse that toppled an abandoned warehouse. He bravely held up the ceiling to allow a hostage to escape the clutches of the evil Necromancer, but he didn't have enough time to save himself. Old Aegis asked for the deluxe package, and the Necromancer had been happy to oblige. "Are you looking for the same treatment?" I asked. Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped into a wooden chair that groaned in protest. People didn't usually pick that chair because it sat opposite the taxidermy screaming possum. I didn't even like that one. Based on her glassy stare, I wasn't sure she even saw it.

I let the silence stretch for a minute, then two. Normally by now the hero would sigh and say something about how they couldn't keep up with it anymore, they were tired of the spotlight, the media, they wanted families and safety. All very valid reasons, wishes the necromancer happily fulfilled. Sunspot took a deep, shuddering breath, and with a monotone said only, "I can't deal with this anymore."

The words fell like footfalls in the snow, quickly swallowed by the crushing silence. Wherever she was, it wasn't somewhere in this room. I stood, taking three steps to the single door behind the counter. Through the intake room, past the rarely used exam room, I finally stopped in the cold storage room. I liked the receptionist, plain and unassuming, but that wasn't the necromancer. From a small panel in the room, I could still see Sunspot sitting, waiting, in her own head. I pushed a button, speaking into the intercom, "Please enter the waiting room, he will be with you in a moment." With another button I opened the door, leaving the choice to stay or go up to her.

I didn't watch to see her choice, because I already knew where she'd go. I was already opening the door to one of the cold storage chambers, pulling out an empty metal table. I opened the next, smiling at the black-shrouded body with a small, nostalgic smile. The metal chilled my mortal coil, prickling the exposed flesh as I stretched myself out on the cold slab. My eyes closed. A bone-deep sigh escaped my lips.

The Necromancer would see her now.

You are a villain famous for “killing” heroes. In reality, heroes come to you to fake their deaths.

[popentertainment-moviereviews]

BONJOUR TRISTESSE (2024)

Starring Lily McInerny, Chloë Sevigny, Claes Bang, Naïlia Harzoune, Aliocha Schneider, Nathalie Richard, Thierry Harcourt, Rebecca Dayan, Moncef Farfar, Rosalie Charrier and Mélodie Adda.

Screenplay by Durga Chew-Bose.

Directed by Durga Chew-Bose.

Distributed by Greenwich Entertainment. 110 minutes. Rated R.

Bonjour Tristesse is a story from the past brought to the present. Based on the 1954 novel by then-18-year-old novelist French novelist Françoise Sagan, it tells a story that is supposed to be somewhat cruel and misogynistic, and yet it blunts most of the story’s spikiness. Interestingly, the 1958 film version of the book – directed by Otto Preminger and starring David Niven, Deborah Kerr and a then-obscure Jean Seberg – feels significantly edgier and more suspenseful than this modern remake.

It's not so much a matter of story – to a large extent Bonjour Tristesse (which is French for Hello, Sadness) is rather faithful to the original plot – it is a matter of mood. While the novel and the earlier adaptation had a palpable sense of danger and sleaze under the waters of its placid tale, the new version settles for the luxuriating in the placid part.

Don’t get me wrong, this film takes place in the gorgeous French Riviera beach town of Cassis  and the urge to luxuriate in the gorgeous scenery and tropical sea breezes of Bonjour Tristesse can be certainly understandable. The problem is this film’s sheer laconic mood – it feels like one of Erich Rohmer’s summer films – tends to blunt much of the storyline, in particular the cruel plot twist which climaxes the film.

Still, you have to hand it to Canadian writer Durga Chew-Bose for having the courage to take on such a well-known property for her first film as a director, particularly one in which there is already a film version which is considered something of a classic.

The story is about a 17-year-old girl named Cécile (Lily McInerny) who is on vacation in a lovely villa in the south of France with her father (Claes Bang). Dad is a partier and a womanizer, and he is sharing the house – and his attention – between his daughter and his much younger, beautiful new girlfriend Elsa (Naïlia Harzoune).

Cécile is enjoying her life. She has a summer boyfriend and no worries about school. Her dad is too busy – or just too indifferent – to worry about her loafing around in the sun, lazily enjoying all of the wonders of nature and beauty.

The conflict – or what little conflict you can make out in this laconic version of the story – comes when Anne (Chloë Sevigny), a friend of Cécile’s late mother, takes the dad up on a half-hearted invitation to visit. Anne is a fashion designer, very serious but sometimes surprisingly wry. To Cécile’s surprise, Anne quickly becomes dad’s lover. They agree to marry after less than a week. And Anne starts mothering Cécile – trying to get her to put her school and her future before her new boyfriend.

Therefore, Cécile decides half-heartedly to come up with a plan to break up her father and Anne – a scheme which works with more seriousness and finality than she really imagined.

Part of the problem, probably the biggest problem with Bonjour Tristesse, is the fact that the characters – particularly Cécile – are mostly rather dour ciphers. In the older film, and in the book, Cécile had a pixyish charm. Even the dad’s slightly creepy vibe is mostly sanded away here.

Which is not to say that it is unthinkable to change characteristics of known characters when remaking a story. However, the slightly repressed vibe of the whole thing dulls the storyline – and particularly the ending. In fact, the twist ending was done so tactfully that it was completely possible to miss the significance of what happened.

Still, while the film never quite reaches the heights that I am sure it was aiming for, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than indulging in the sun-dappled beauty of Bonjour Tristesse.

Jay S. Jacobs

Copyright ©2025 PopEntertainment.com. All rights reserved. Posted: May 2, 2025.

[pazodetrasalba]

Worth the Candle

Dear Caroline:

So, on a different note from lately - there's enough sadness you have to deal with without me perhaps reminding you-, I was unfamiliar with this expression. It comes up in one of the letters written in your favor, in the context of highlighting your extreme generosity in donations and your extreme indifference to wealth and material goods. Of course, it immediately brought to mind the other idiom, and the other candle, that I have associated with you: Alexander Wales's novel.

Looking back, I remember how fascinated you were with Amaryllis, and the more I think and know about you, the more I see how she would make an idealized projection for you. not so much for her girl-bossiness, but rather because she is the closest incarnation to Duty in the whole series: an extremely intelligent, moral and hardworking person, born in privilege but determine to use it to bring about Utopia, and ruthlessly self-sacrificing, utilitarian and single-focused in the pursuit of her goals.

Personally, I always had a moderate dislike for her, but I can see how you would have empathized and identified with her rather than with Juniper, who is too much of the stereotypical, male everynerd. Only through Amaryllis incarnating the utmost physical beauty can it become plausible for him to become so hung up on her, because as a prospective romantic couple, she is completely unappealing in the same way that Duty is for (almost all) of us: something dull, dour and painful that has to be done against our wishes and instincts. Her dominion over her instincts might make her look heroic, but also robotic and unengaging. It made sense for her to be indifferent or lukewarm to desire and physical intimacy. It feels weird in the happy ending that she has opened up to became just a happy person - a personality like hers can never find true, long-lasting, rest. But again, all this probably stems from my focusing on Juniper as the hero. Amaryllis's attributes are more congenial to the protagonist, but would still make her wearisome.

Perhaps it is a result of a rationalization my own perceived limitations, but I've always found perfection unappealing. The Japanese wabi-sabi aesthetic is something that rhymes very well with me: a fondness for the impermanent, the incomplete, the imperfect, which allows space for growth and a degree of commiseration and pity for our frailness and fallibility. It is your failings, not as much as your virtues, but to a very non trivial degree- which have made you immensely appealing and sympathetic to me. Without them you'd be too Minerva-like and intimidating to even consider contemplating. And yet your failings are such as to only have the power of casting you in a better light in my eyes: overtrusting, naive, insecure, excessively selfless and agreeable. And I like you all the more precisely because you aren't Amaryllis.