#plot continues to move at a glacial pace

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ Dead Men Don't Sing ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x fem!stark!reader words: 9.5k requested: yes synopsis: “it is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” jacaerys admits, hesitating, “but there are other duties,” he murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.”  notes: thank you to the anon who requested this, it was months and months ago <3 i found this written and dusty in my drafts and realized how much i liked the concept of it so i finished it up, changed up a lot of plot (sry). peace & love (thinking abt when @softspiderling said that cregan & r had chemistry in this fic. fuck you) warnings: canon-typical marriage betrothals. something something heavy belief in the divine right of kings (cringe!), jace is so in love again guys, fluff and flirting, feelings of anxiety & worry, heavy on politics and the targaryen prophecy. doubts of magic and light religious tones. kissing. requests closed. masterlist.

THE CRYPTS BELOW WINTERFELL ECHO WITH FOOTFALL.

A dripping thing, echoing through low ceiling and sliding over stoned walls; your pace moves slow, measured. 

Aboveground yields a morning snow; it is no harvest season, yet you worry so of the rime which curls its way over the tender shoots of crop; kissing a delicate crust atop glacial lakes in the near distance, lining the roofs across Winter Town. 

Down below such crust of earth, the crypt holds no true warmth, instead boasting a rather eerie silence; though you’ve always felt drawn to such quietude in certain times – moments punctuated only by the rustle of fur cloaks, the steady drip of tallow wax candles that burn beneath the proud visages of ancient stone.

A gentle sigh escapes your lips. 

Your breath, barely visible in the cold, dissipates like a whisper of a cloak around a corner; The man beside you paces with deliberate slowness, though still his long strides force you to quicken your own. 

A familiar rhythm from childhood. 

He broods – or perhaps merely reflects; it is difficult to tell, though his introspection proves an unwelcome distraction and concern alike. 

“You think far too loudly, brother.”

Your voice, a stone dropped onto the serenity of a glassy pond; stirring, your brother beside you lets out a soft huff of amusement, turning to glance at your profile. "Aye, it seems I do,” he acquiesces, though he seems more than content to leave it as such.

And the ensuing quiet – his scrutiny of your features becoming almost unsettling. You purse your lips, folding your arms over the furs that ward off the chill, slowing to a halt – he, in turn, slowing beside you.

“Cregan,” you cast a guarded glance his way, “I appreciate your company, but…” You pause, clearing your throat, “Why did you ask me here?”

You cannot ignore the furrow of his brow, nor the weary sigh that escapes him. “I do not wish to burden you with troubles, sister,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting – mindful of spirits; watching, listening. “But there is something we must discuss.”

You, softly gesturing for him to continue under the flicker of torchlight. 

Yet, he does not speak at once; instead, guiding you further along the shadowed path. You allow him the moment of silence, a foreboding drop stirring unbidden in your chest. Has the time come to prepare for the Wall – will you set the Greybeards alone to fight in the Southern war? Dribbling wax slides over the edge of a wyck - a white tear falling to the frozen earth below. Winter is coming, you know; and so does war. 

You stop before a weathered stone – Cregan, his face so hardened even with young age; you recall in the earliest recess of your memories a more youthful visage – the brother who dangled you by the ankle in the Great Hall; who dragged you along to target practice in the yards, who met your gaze with mirth when you were scolded at the dinner table. Much has changed. 

“A raven came from Dragonstone this morning,” his voice is steady – the mention flares a mild concern in you; your brows furrow. 

“Different from the letter that arrived at my chambers just moments ago?” You wonder – the scroll was penned by Prince Jacaerys; though this is an occasion not extremely uncommon, as you’ve grown to write to him often in the past months of his departure. 

But your brother nods. “Aye.” He affirms, “It was signed by Queen Rhaenyra.” 

You blink up at him, breath bated – palms, growing moist though the cold nips gently at your nose: Never has the Queen herself sent letter by raven. Cregan utters your name, and you meet his gaze. 

“Prince Jacaerys has asked for your hand in marriage.”

Of the many possibilities you’d imagined, this was not one of them; shivers of flattery over your spine, quivering your breast in an icy shock.

And a scroll unread, perched upon your drawing table in your quarters – has Jace written to you to ask you himself? Your lip, plump under the pressure of your teeth. 

Though not wholly unpleasant, it is still a sudden shock to you, and your mouth opens – then closes with a soft click. You find yourself momentarily lost for words.

A breath, warm against the cold, escaping your mouth, fingers restless within your thick gloves. “Did–” You pause, clearing your throat, willing your heart to steady its foolish race. “Have you sent a response?”

A flicker in an otherwise stoic facade, gone in an instant: Some amusement laced into his visage that vexes you in a way only a sibling can.

 Quietly, your brother denies. “It was requested by the Prince for you to send a response yourself. The Queen wishes to be assured this is a marriage that will bring strength to the realm – one that will be strong from the beginning. She does not choose the future queen regent lightly, it seems.” 

A heat that grows twofold; and a sprouting dizziness as the proposal hits you. The future queen regent – Gods be good. 

The proposition is far from traditional. 

As the sister of the Warden of the North, you have always assumed your path would lead to a marriage with one of the High Lords of your own region – though with great war comes change, you understand well – and Cregan has mentioned it satisfactory to find a Targaryen princess among your House; perhaps you and Jacaerys will serve in such a steed. 

 A glance to the stone man before you; an ode, to Torrhen Stark. The King Who Knelt. 

A shiver of reality. Leave Winterfell, as a Targaryen bride – to go to the war brewing in the South – and there grows a flicker, beneath your concern. Hunger, pride. 

You’ve always known what’s expected of you; and Starks do not shy nor cower from responsibility. 

“This is no small task.” Your words, quite blunt as they often are – another nod from Cregan. 

“I remind you,” He assures, “It is no done deal.” 

A flicker of your lashes as your breath clouds before you; above your head, you wonder if the flakes which flutter from the sky have ceased in the wake of the day’s far sun. 

It is indeed a thought to consider; the North, your endless horizon of snow and stone – of moors and fields, of steep slopes and commanding eminences, carved by the hands of gods more ancient than the first of men. 

That cold kiss of wintered forests, of towering pines in snowed shadows; gnarled branches of the Wolfswood, icy rivers of threaded silver untouched by the frills of southern decadence; and the cold less endured than revered, a landscape of beauty drawn within the fierce devotion of its people. 

An unshakeable and profound sense of soul that tugs you towards the frozen earth, to the bodies brought back through turns of Winters, of endurance, of love, of life. 

“I would mislike to leave Winterfell,” You admit; a child once more, tucking toes beneath warmed covers as you hid from shadows upon walls. 

Perhaps he recalls those same nights; when you’d stayed awake against the syrupy droop of eyelids, listening to your Lord father’s tales of hunts and beasts beyond your comprehension. 

“As would I regret to let you leave,” His voice comes after a moment. “Your insight is not to be understated. Perhaps this is why the Queen wishes you to join her council in my stead.” 

Another shock to you – to marry the Prince, yes, but to join the Queen’s council? A flash of pride, conspicuous, licking up your spine – though you’re lost in the trappings of memory; of loss, of life. 

“What is it father said?” You muse quietly, watching shadows flicker over a contoured face of stone. “The South…Where men smile with daggers behind their backs.” 

Some huff from weary lips. “I hold no concern for how you might fare against a dagger, sister.” He reminds you; your fingers, calloused in the grooves of a longbow – you placate a wry huff, mind saturated with thoughts. “A serpent's lair, the Crownlands are.” He gruffs.

It is solemnly that you nod; a wistful memory of your Prince, curls entangled with the sharp wind, embedding pearled snowflakes into tresses. 

“I am not without my own doubts,” Cregan slowly admits, “Leaving the North – in wartime, as well – holds few assurances of safety, even at Dragonstone.” 

Your voice is considerably less steadfast than it’d been an hour past, when you’d directed the letter from the Prince to wait until your duties with Lord Stark were through – “I would not leave my home, my charge, merely for some Prince.” You mutter. 

Yet, the glance from your brother brings a small grin to your lips. 

He perhaps agrees with your stubborn resolve; you two, cut and sewn from the same sturdy cloth, borne with the same pelts upon your back. A tilt in his visage, looking at you. 

“Our father’s word was given. It is our duty to uphold it.” He murmurs; and then, a melting of such a look – as if Lord Stark has retreated, yielding Cregan in his wake: “You’d be queen one day, long after the war.” 

Still reeling, a warmth to your face as you consider the Prince – rosy cheeks, with that smile brighter than snow; he, with a fur cloak gifted to him in his visit to treat with your brother those months ago – a regal face, if you’ve the grace to know what such a thing is. 

The boy with kind words and genuine laughter; a fleeting brush of his hand on yours as he’d greeted you to his ancient beast; The square of his shoulders as he’d solidified Northmen for his Queen mother’s banners. A look, shattered and wet, as he mounted his beast in the wake of his brother’s death. Septa’s voice from the vestiges of adolescence: Heavy is the crown, my dear. 

“It is my duty,” you murmur more to yourself than to your brother, “To Winterfell, to the North. To our Queen… and the realm.” 

Cregan’s hand finds your shoulder in a grasp, “Sister.” Your eyes meet his own. “I would not have you do it if I did not believe it was the right choice. Jace is a good man. He will treat you right.” 

Indeed, a union of your house and the Prince’s would strengthen the North; you could ensure the maintenance of autonomy – and loyalty, a venerable duty long upheld by your house for hundreds of years. A marriage that serves not only your people, but such enduring legacy of kin. 

“Just as well,” He adds, “the prospect of marrying Jacaerys might prove rather agreeable to your sensibilities, would it not?”

He jests. The corner of your eyes narrow as you shoot him a sharp look; a smile emerging despite your efforts to conceal it. The warmth of anticipation creeps across your cheeks, a delicate flush across your face despite your valiant efforts to contain it. 

"You overreach, brother,” you speak, though both you and he can hear the fondness in your voice. 

A quiet moment, in which a memory surfaces – Jacaerys, bidding you farewell months past; a pain in his eyes, ragged with grief and urgency to return – his younger brother, killed by Aemond One-Eye.

A shaky kiss upon your knuckles, the cracking of a voice otherwise proud; the last glance of that massive beast swallowed up by the clouds. Your heart skips a beat at the knowledge of him, as your own. 

“I will marry Prince Jacaerys,” You agree, hoping to conceal the eagerness from your tone, “...for the good of the realm."

Cregan huffs, pulling you into a brief embrace, your eyes both stuck on the statue before you. "Aye, and perhaps a bit of warmth for your heart, too.” He jests; a rare occurrence, and certainly in these days of war and the eve of winter. 

“Is that not what you’d wish for your sister?” You jest in return, hiding the fluster of your cheeks. 

His expression sobers minutely. “You bring honor to our house.”

The long, stone face of Torrhen Stark watches your breath rise and fall from your lips. 

Hesitance melts away, leaving a giddiness, a sense of duty softened by an affection in your heart. “A wolf in the South,” you murmur. 

And a dragon at her side.

VERMAX IS RATHER DISPLEASED TO FLY NORTH AGAIN. 

Huffs and whining screeches; saged scales that melt tiny flakes of snow around the saddle - Jacaerys consoles his steed with a huff of amusement. “Se iōrves kessa daor umbagon syt mirre, Vermax.” He insists; The cold will not last forever. 

It is not until the sloping valleys and rolling mountains give way to dusting of snowcaps and frozen-earth that his stomach begins to burn with that odd feeling; excitement. 

Trees that reach up towards the heavens – ever green in their life, barely stirred by the beating of Vermax’s wings high above. 

Otherworldly, the North is; and Winterfell, with towering walls, sprawling courtyards, the frosted roofs that glint even through the thick of cloud – pure earth, that ancient knowledge within the ground, held for thousands of years past. Wisdom, sewn into rings upon rings within trees – depths of icy pools, glistening cold as glacier’s tears even in the dead of summer. 

Something, an aching feeling returns; not an ache for home, but for you. 

Eyes, amber and anticipatory, searching the grounds so far below – a wall, dark and thick in the sprawl of the low cirque. Vermax breaks through the clouds with a call, the whipping Northern wind blowing icy shards into Jacaerys’ inhale. Still, he looks with a fire, an intent – battlements, courtyards, all bustling and brimming.

The familiar banner of black and red, raised by the men sent weeks ahead in anticipation of the Prince’s arrival – and the Stark banner, hanging large enough to just see from the outskirts of Winter Town. 

The East Gate opens; a company awaits his arrival, bustling in the yard of the Great Keep – squinting against sharp air as Vermax circles in agitated descent. It is an odd thing, to see the expressions of men, women, and children become clearer in descent – to see the fear, the astonishment, the reverence in the ancient being in the sky. But he searches each visage turned up towards him; and then, there – with a grin and a flip in Jacaerys’ stomach, he finds you. 

Piled, swathed in thick furs that bring out your hair; standing straight beside your mass of a brother; a warmth that blossoms into heat as your head tilts, tracking Vermax in the sky.  

A heavy thud against the muddy ground encrusted with a fresh layer of crisp rime; the rich shades of green across the North have been kissed by some fae of frost that barely cowers under the heat of his ancient creature – and though it retreats in his molten wake, Vermax huffs at the feeling of frost and snow. 

Jace dismounts Vermax; pressing his forehead to the dragon’s thick neck, the warmth a final solace before he faces the unforgiving weather of the North – a mutter to his steed, running his palm over the scales, “Sȳz, vermax.  Ao ipradtis; ao gōntan sōvegon sȳrī.” 

Good, Vermax. You must eat; you flew well. 

He is accompanied, then; two dragonhandlers bowing to him, draped in borrowed furs as they tend to his weary beast. It is rather comfortable, to hand him off to them; a luxury, he supposes, when they are here to tend to the Valyrian rituals that will come in just over a week’s time. A skip in his heart as he thinks of the night to come: You and he, bound for life. 

His title is announced in the quiet of the Keepyard; he enters, feeling rather foolish as just one man faced with such a company – his eyes, unable to unstick themselves from you. The young Lady Stark; the Northern Star, some have called you; He finds himself agreeing. 

Head high, he walks as the prince he is, nodding to Lord Cregan; Formal proceedings that are blinked away in moments with a very present preoccupation of trying to keep his stare off your face. 

And then, after a lingering moment, ravens circling the sky, wind howling down the slopes of distant mountains, Cregan steps forward, arm extended – Jacaerys returns his grin, a camaraderie returning in his chest. 

In the grasp of his forearm, in the rough hug he shares with his friend, Lord Stark murmurs. “I see now why you were so reluctant to leave the first time, my Prince.” Cregan’s voice, rich with mirth; a sheepish grin that grows upon Jacaerys’ expression. Laughter between them, as easy as it ever was, the weariness that’d built in Jace’s flight northward dissipating. “I’ve been told a wise man knows when he’s found something worth returning to, Lord Stark,” Jace quips in response, the heat on his face deepening when his gaze darts in a glance towards you. Your brow, lifted at his words; full of grace but with a smattering of warmth across your cheeks, a small smile. 

The cold air seems to have brought a flush to you – dipping into a graceful curtsey, the wolf clasp of your cloak catches in the cloudy light of afternoon. His heart flips as you greet him: “My Prince,” and gods, your voice – “I hope you and Vermax found no undue hardship enduring such a journey.” 

It’s all Jacaerys can afford to bow deeply in return, eyes remaining on your own gaze; a gesture of respect and courteousness, but a strike of something far more personal lingering behind his stare. Your palm is bare, he’s shocked to see; and lifted within his own, his lips brush over your knuckles. 

Your cheeks darken, and he feels his heart race. “The purpose is far worth the journey, my Lady.” His voice, earnest, polite. 

Your smile widens just so. 

THE GREAT HALL IS DOUSED WITH LIT HEARTHS. 

The celebration is a swell feast – Jacaerys sits, having dined on a hearty meal and several goblets of wine: Roasted game, honeyed bread, mulled wine. At the high table he sits, and the din of the hall rumbles around him, drifting slowly into the high-beamed ceiling. 

A lingering storm has momentarily lifted in the warmth of familiar faces, of the unrelenting bite of cold that still yet lingers in bones weary from flight. There is a dread that has stayed within Jacaerys for many turns of moon now – a mourning thing, one that has left him with less and less smiles to divulge with each passing day. 

The horizon brews; a clouded thing, one dark and full of smoke and whispers – and yet here he sits, warmed by furs, by hearth, by ale – and by you, aside him. 

A girl no older than himself – a friendship kindled merely in the beginnings of formality, of happenstance; polite smiles and high chins, eyes lingering as he followed your brother into the study. 

A peculiar thing it is now, to sit beside you, to feel that string pull between you so inevitably; and though he is turned away from your warmth, well engrossed in a discussion with Lord Stark, he feels that tension – that tautness that soon will be severed with unseen shears, which will seal a dream conjured years before your birth. 

And throughout the evening, his gaze has more than often wandered to your own visage, carved in those same harsh winds of beauty – a smile warm and true, a depth sinking into his stomach; for as Jacaerys has dined heartily, his appetite for food has given way to an appetite for conversation. 

The hall boasts cheer, laughter; an odd thing, in the tide of coming war, in coming strife even this far North; the Lord returns to the Wall not even a fortnight after the wedding, and with him goes half the rations of crops saved through the Northern harvest. 

With Jacaerys will go his new wife – and with you, a secret untold to any but those who sit the throne. 

The fire in the hearth is great, and it swallows Jacaerys’ eyes as he sips from his cup; licks of flames, screams unheard through halls – the final breath of many, the staggering gasp of death. 

Outside, snow blows harsh and cold against the walls – a breath of winter, howling and iced. 

It is a song that lingers in Jacaerys’ mind, even as the music inside the hall crescendos and the ale flows; and finally, he is torn from his trance with the departure of a lord from White Harbor from before you, leaving you finally by your lonesome. 

Jacaerys turns to you – and at his stirring, you glance to his hoping gaze; your cheeks warmed in the same breath as his own, you glow in the firelight. 

He gestures gently before you, towards the hall brimming with people, “A celebration in our honor, yet it seems finding a moment alone has proven rather difficult.” His voice remains as warm as he’d hoped, though evergreen and mantled by duties, by composure. And you, a flower of grace and stoicism, nod kindly - he's always found the dance of formalities to be amusing.

“It seems the whole land has anticipated your arrival once more, Prince Jacaerys.” Your voice is tinged with that same warmth he remembers from those moons ago.

He ought to accept your kindness with compliment; or perhaps ask how the owl that’d nested in the rook outside your chambers during his last visit fares – but indeed he is met with that insistence of passing time, of his mother’s words fallen onto his shoulders; of a whispered dream of years to pass and years still to come.

When he looks at your visage, honeyed by the glow of firelight, some warmth mixes shockingly with an icy knowledge of what is to come. 

“It has been too long since we last met,” He says - and, perhaps in a moment of insecurity, his lip is bitten and pulled from pearled teeth. “I have missed your company.”

He does not miss the soft growth of affection that blossoms upon your countenance, nor the shift in your hips as you turn to face him more, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your goblet in a mirror of his own nervous habit. 

“And I have missed yours,” your voice is equally quiet to his own, in some conspiratorial hope to remain private while remaining in a room full of guests. Your lip is caught between your teeth just as his was – he wishes to unfurl it with the soft of his thumb. “Though, I confess, it is strange to know that soon we will no longer need ravens to speak to one another.”

A soft chuckle from his lips – a thought indeed that crossed his mind after sending his last raven Northward; and in the shadow of looming war, what a relief it may be to have you beside him. 

If he were any more a fool, Jacaerys might worry indeed for your safety in the coming times – and though that thought lingers still in the stoop of his mind, he is no more ignorant to your abilities than he is admiring them. 

A memory, one of fresh falling snow and the youthful innocence of only half-year ago; before the shift of tides, before the moonlit jaws of Death found his brother – before the death of the young one in the Red Keep, and the fall of Rhaenys and Meleys just days ago at Rooks Rest; before it all, when still the horizon brimmed with a more peaceful hope for settled war, there was time of laughter. Of a hunt drawn about for a Royal Guest in Winterfell, when he came with wishes of an alliance, of oaths sworn in blood and brotherhood. The hunt brought anticipation - and, in his foolish Southern ways, Jacaerys had wondered if you’d see he and your brother off in the courtyard of Winterfell – perhaps with a favour of yours to gift him, and a kiss upon his cheek for well-hunting. 

It was not such delicate smiles and whispers he was met with; no, instead he found another horse, saddled with your frame and a bright grin upon your face, your hair plaited away from your peripherals and a longbow strewn across your back. 

A fond memory, those days watching you traipse across snowstruck Wolfswood – and the snap of a string, the fall of a buck into the earth below. Your grin, your appearance; so unlike your kin, and yet so shared in hardiness with your brother – a warmth now so foreign in a world laced by such ominous ideas as fate. 

Jacaerys chuckles at the memory, and also at your words, sobering as they are light. “Strange,” He repeats, tilting his head to you. “-But welcome, I’d hope?” 

And though it is a tease sent with the efforts of putting the thick tension of betrothal at ease, there still lingers a fear of the answer; and a leak of hesitance in his words. 

When you hold his gaze for a moment, he nearly doubts the flicker of affection that still drips from your rosy cheeks. But your expression softens, and your earnesty is undeniable. “Of course,” You beam and it sends his heart into a flutter, “It will be quite welcome.” 

And it is in this moment, a quiet one, that Jacaerys nearly cracks; a split that would leak out the foreboding world of prophecies, of danger and fear and worry – if only in search of some comfort, of some assurance that the truths he lives are merely the whisperings of a bloodline destined to rule. 

Though he loses the moment when you turn to the revelry before you; and Cregan rises from his seat beside Jacaerys, drawing his attention away from blistering flames and flurries of chill that strike through his heart. 

YOU FIND A MOMENT TO CATCH YOUR BREATH IN THE MORNING.

The sun is high in the sky for such an early hour; perhaps a reflection through of the sheet of thin gray which stretches from one horizon to the other. A sweet light over the rather empty training grounds – and your skirts drag along snow as you brush hair from your cheek, nocking another arrow. 

The target, more than plenty paces away, is riddled with arrows from your work – the bow in your hands, warm and smelted to the form of your grip, carries that same woody scent from youth. You draw back with an inhale. 

Though you know very soon of a presence in the morning courtyard; You can feel the gaze upon you as soon as he enters. And with a small tremble, it occurs to you – no matter where the Prince goes, it seems you can always feel him near. 

You resist a small grin, exhaling as you release the arrow; it embeds itself into the center of the target, a light thud that presses your heart against your ribs. 

Jacaerys watches you; this, you know – and you nock yet another arrow. 

The prince leans rather casually against a post just a few paces to your right, though there is little casual about the heat of his stare upon you – your glance is merely through the side of your lashes, a short thing in effort to pretend you are less effected by his presence. 

Though, you cannot deny the burning in your cheeks, a determination in your throat as you draw the bowstring once more. 

A murder of ravens scatter across the sky to the South – you let the arrow fly; It notches just to the right of your previous shot. A smile, tugging the corner of your lips once more before you drop your arms, glancing to your audience. 

“Impressive as ever, my lady,” Jacaerys muses; his gaze is imbued by lashes and the sun, though there is some esteem within his stare that brings a flutter to your stomach. 

Impressive. 

A heat on your cheeks – as if you’re a blushing little maiden, complimented for the very first time. Though, you remind yourself, he’s spent his life in the highest courts of the land; he himself squired for many years, acquiring fair skill in such trades – and you hum, mind filled with visions of men from all stretches of the realm and beyond – jousts, tourneys, all to show at the King’s court. 

 “Well,” You brush the hair from your cheek once more against the faint wind, nocking and drawing a fresh arrow, much less focused this time, aware of his gaze burning through your frame. “I’m sure Southern men like you have seen feats far more impressive.” You tease, eyes locked down the line of the arrow.

Jacaerys huffs a small laugh at your jest, stepping further into the training yard. The wind blows, and you wonder if you should have taken another fur; but his voice is warm and you are put at ease.

“Perhaps,” He agrees, voice nearing your focus, “But some Southern men certainly know to appreciate what we cannot find back home.” 

You’re lucky you’ve released the arrow just as he finishes his sentence; your stomach flips, butterflies sprouting within your chest at his gentle flattery. He is quite the charmer - and though you find amusement in his attempt, still grows your warmth at the attention.

It is still in the courtyard, and Jacaerys nods toward the target, where your arrow has hit the mark. An approving hum, brows lifted to underscore some coming point: “Like a woman who can outshoot any knight in the realm.” 

A blatant praise – and you lower your bow, hoping to suppress the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Why don’t you try your hand?” you suggest, your tone teasing in attempt to flit such fluster upon the Prince instead. 

He grins in a way that brings to mind a time less full of strife – always one for a friendly back-and-forth; Hands upon the hilt of his sword, Jacaerys shakes his head. “I’m not foolish enough to challenge you, my lady. I’ve learned to respect northern steel – be it by sword or arrow.”

You tilt your head, unable to school such a playful glint in your eyes. “So you’ve come all this way just to be bested by a woman?”

A provocation; perhaps testing the waters. And it shows in his expression, the stark divergence between your brother’s personality and your own; you suspect he is pleased with the opportunity. 

His grin, as you’d hoped, only widens – cheeks reddened by the morning chill, eyes bright against the sun. “I’d consider it quite an honor.” A flick of his gaze to the target and back. 

A roll of your eyes – highly inappropriate for a lady, especially to the Prince - but he only seems to find it more amusing. The smile tugs at your lips; you tamper it with your teeth, “I don’t believe flattery helps your aim, Jace.”

At his nickname, his cheeks seem to glow – a name he’d insisted you’d call him in the dark solitude of the Godswood during his initial visit to Winterfell those many moons ago. 

He shakes his head, ever the charming Prince: “My aim is of no consequence. I am more than content to watch you hit the mark every time.”

The space between you has begun to narrow, and you can just make out the freckles which kiss the bridge of his nose. You hold the bow to him, “Come now, my prince.” You insist – and he acquiesces, stepping forward with a growing smirk. 

You, in effort to see the blush upon his cheeks again, send him a smile. “Aim for the center, and you might impress me.” 

The look he gives you is mildly amused; his shoulders, proud and brushing against yours as he handles your weapon. Deft fingers wrap around the bow as he tries to mimic your stance; and it is rather clear, as it’s been the handful of times you’ve seen him in the yard sparring, that he is far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a bow. 

And your smile grows at this; the heir to the Iron Throne, trying to impress you with a weapon that is not his own. 

Your amusement is not so concealed; in a moment, he glances to you and huffs, arms still stretched to aim for the target. “I see your confidence growing, my lady,” he chides, and you lift a brow – he grins boyishly, eyes returning to the target, “Perhaps you mean to humble me.”

A feigned thoughtfulness as you tilt your head, tresses of silken hair glinting against your furs, “Humble you, Jace?” You feign surprise, blossoming at the growing smile upon his countenance, “That seems an impossible task.” 

There's a warmth lying low beneath your jest – and whatever sharpness delivers with your wit is softened by the candid affection you hold for your newly betrothed. He laughs, and it is a song you wish to remember for the rest of your years.  

His cheeks are that same very pink you’ve cherished for many moons - and he lets the arrow fly; though it strikes the target, it lands fingers shy of the center, and you conceal a laugh. 

Your prince sends you a look, and though his mouth opens with some likely sharp words of humility, he is interjected by another voice in the yard. 

“–Impressive,” Cregan’s voice cuts through the morning wind, startling you and Jacaerys alike. Jacaerys turns, hands lowering the bow as he nods almost sheepishly; Cregan steps closer – an expression only mildly imbued with amusement. 

He regards you first, then your betrothed. “I see our prince has found a new skill.” 

Flustered as though caught stealing wine from the feast table, you busy yourself adjusting the bowstring; and though Jacaerys chuckles, the sound is tight. 

“It seems I���ll need more practice,” He says easily, eyes flickering to your own warm gaze and leaping away when heat creeps onto your cheeks. Cregan merely claps him on the shoulder, a grin small and amused upon his visage, “Come with me, then. You’d best not distract my sister.”

A sheepish glance with hot cheeks between you and Jacaerys before you bow to him, sending a sharp glance to your brother.

The two leave you to your practice in search of a hearth in which to discuss before; and you nod to them, cheeks alight and eyes trailing over the silver dragon holding together the Prince’s furs. 

THE DAY JACAERYS TELLS YOU IS A DAY BROUGHT ON BY A SQUALL OF ICE AND SNOW.

Since his arrival, days have fallen in succession of clear skies and silent winds; and with the weather has brought a change in your betrothed. You have spent most days watching frost curl over begging pines from your chamber windows with growing unease - though your warmth is still shared well and kind between you, Jacaerys grows agitated in his time away from the war; a thing you understand too well, and wish to ease in the coming days. 

And, unlike the days of his arrival, there is too much to do now to any longer relish in the still-present small moments – the times which bring in the smell of holly and pine, of clove and spiced wine, of wide smiles and the steaming scales of your betrothed’s ancient accompaniment. 

The wedding has been planned – and in only a few more days, you and Jacaerys will become one; you will whisper words long thought and wondered, you will bind your palms, you will share your blood. 

Though in no way unsure of the union, still lingers the presence of something unspoken – in the growingly distant amber eyes, in the insecure stuttering of words, in the shaky palm which soothes over your own underneath leathered gloves. It seems Jacaerys furrows his brow in riddles more and more these days – and a darkness follows, some weight that brings his lips to drop and his voice to taper in the ends of sentences. 

You have begun to wonder once more why indeed a union between you and Jacaerys was so suddenly proposed by the Queen. 

Your breath shows against the casement; The day has brought with it more than a chill – and in search of an excuse, you wonder if the Prince has drawn a large enough hearth, if he has found furs thick enough to stave the chill. Yourself, a girl sewn and grown from Northern soils, still finds a strike of shiver from your veins when you rise from your own hearth; and so, with a small flash of worry and a gathering of pelts from your own bed, you set off to the guest quarters. 

JACAERYS SITS BEFORE HIS HEARTH. 

He welcomes you with a nod and a gesture to join him upon the settee; you deposit the armful of furs upon his bed with a gentle breath and murmured words – and though it is well into the morning by now, Jacaerys looks as though sleep evaded him in the night previous – teeth-bitten lips, mussed curls, a heavy gaze that lingers upon the melting flakes of snow in your hair. 

It is only moments of gentle conversation; a tale of the nesting owl above your chambers that brings a gleaming smile to Jace's eyes, a wonder of the turned crops coming from the Neck; mere half-hour passes before he, ever mindful, shifts towards your visage. 

“What troubles you?” he wonders – a stare that leaks with some unknown vulnerability, that stiffness that has still pervaded the pair of you despite your comfortability. 

And perhaps that very observation is it; you swallow down the rising resistance - a melting of icy hesitance, a heavy weight shared between shoulders so different yet destined.

Jacaerys watches unblinking – you notice for perhaps the first time the signet ring that perches upon his smallfinger, glinting black and ruby in the daylight. Your own ring – a wolf, dark and proud, sits upon your middle; and you wonder how indeed a wolf will fare in a den of dragons. 

You’ve spent enough time with Jacaerys – though this has been swaddled in the nest of the North; your own comfort of life, of family and that sweet soul-binding heritage. Perhaps what troubles you is this – of the impending binding of your life to his own by duty and blood: To know him and be known for the rest and beyond; of fighting a war not of your own making but of your own fate – and yet, with your love and devotion for him fostered and growing, leaking from your very core, it still feels foreign.

“I do not know,” you admit in a surge of emotion, glancing into the open pit of emotion within his gaze. “I cannot help but wonder…why,” you utter slowly, eyes shifting under the uncomfortable embrace of vulnerability. 

And his own vulnerability shows upon his sleeve as he turns to face you fully, drawn in silhouette from the glowing embers that warm the chill in your heart. “Why?” He repeats, eyes searching your own. 

You do not fear your betrothed; you know nothing but faith and conviction laced between your hand and his own. Jacaerys is of good blood; not in the sense perhaps that his ancestors might boast, but that of the same very blood your Northern people acclaim – honorable.

He, even in the unlikely instance of a lack of a lasting affection or love, will always hold you honorably as his wife, and in time his Queen – and this, indeed, you hold in common.

You will perhaps always hold flame for Jacaerys, even if time passes in your marriage and he does not hold such equal affections – and this is some comfort in itself, to know that he will protect you no matter where you lie within his heart. 

 Your words come easier in the passing moment, as Jacaerys awaits your gospel with the veneration of a knelt pilgrim – and you come to understand that somewhere within his breast is a flame alight; an affection returned, with your name burning there. 

Your lips part, and his eyes track the motion. 

“Our union. It is…” You swallow, “Unusual.” 

Your heart aches only in the flickered trace of sorrow that paints his gaze; he leans back to the settee, an expression clouded by unnamed emotions. It is not any absence of affection, then, from either of you – a coupling not lacking in love, then, but instead marked by a trace of fate that drags your heart into worry. 

After some time, your prince speaks. “It is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” Jacaerys admits, hesitating. Amber eyes, flickering deep into the hearth, as if trying to light the embers that die down with just his stare; you wonder, faintly, if he could. His words are an echo of many nights swirling in doubt above your bedposts – and to hear them, a warmth of relief in your breast.

 “But there are other duties,” He murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.” 

His tone has reduced to a rather trance-like state; your eyes, roaming the rich of his furs before focusing in the distance; a ring of clouds, circling the light of the sun just out of view. 

Beams of heavenly breath, breaking through the cold sky; a break in the squall, some gasp of mercy from the Old Gods – and a ring of light, sprouting from Jacaerys’s head. It is some ancient song, an echoing you’ve only truly felt in the silence of the crypts low below your feet – you blink twice at the sight of such a reverent sight, his grace outlined in the slope of his nose, the pout of his lips. 

His voice is lower than a whisper when it comes once more. 

“Aegon.” 

Rather struck by the light of heaven’s breath breaking around Jacaerys, your brows furrow; you tilt your head, rising to follow as your betrothed leaves the settee. His eyes are stuck on the flutter of snowflakes from the heavens, his back aflame with the fire of the hearth – and he stops before the window, blinking away frost. 

An odd, ancient feeling stirs in your mind – your shoulder brushes the fine tailoring of his cloak as you join him at the casement overlooking the Godswood; Your voice is clear against the blanket of quiet. 

“The Usurper?” 

His lips are pursed for a moment before a gentle shake of his head. “The Conqueror.” 

It is once again awakened – this seed of uncertainty, the knowledge of the trickling poison which drips from the old blood of Valyria and poisons the minds of those men upon their Stone – but you tilt your head to your Prince, considering his words. 

A breath that plumes against the crawling chill of snow, and Jacaerys’ voice is distant once more. 

 “I’ve heard his song.” 

Perhaps Jacaerys has been kept inside too long: In that way the cold can take a man’s mind – curl around it with frost, trickle ice into veins so sewn with fire; turn him mad. 

You take a small step closer; cold air upon your face, the warmth of his arm brushed against the peak of your shoulder.

It is an attempt, youthful and unsure, at comfort – though he accepts it as he turns to look at you. A gentle gaze, the kind he’s always saved for you, warming the side of your visage; you’re much too gone in thought, eyes stuck at the peek of red bleeding through the pines in the distance. 

The leaves are frosted, though they remain ever crimson, ever watching. You whisper to Jacaerys, eyes upon the godswood. 

“Dead men don’t sing, my prince.”

YOU FIND YOURSELF REFRESHED IN THE BREAK OF WINTERSNOW THAT AFTERNOON.

The Godswood; a sheltered overhang provided by the sprawling branches of the Weirwood – your knees floated within the chasmous snow pelted fresh-fallen and sweet onto the frozen earth.

Jacaerys rests near you – perched on what below lies a boulder, he watches the flakes fall gentle onto the surface of the pooled spring behind you, your quiet words deadened in the blanket of snow. 

The wind is forgiving today – and you can only hope, as you rise from your knelt position before the tree, that it will extend its mercy unto the ceremony in three day’s time. 

There is only the plume of your breath and the muffled compaction of your boots against the settled snow that accompany the short distance to your betrothed. 

Steam rises in tendrils from the warmth of the pond’s depths; a simmering fate from the icy flakes which flutter onto its surface, giving the last breath of their life in sacrifice for its own. 

“How fares Vermax?” 

Your voice carries with it that sullen evergreen repose – Jace looks up at you from where he sits, a small smile gracing his countenance. “He has found a cave to the West.” 

You nod with a knowing smile, lowering yourself to perch beside your betrothed upon the soft snowed earth, your furs dark against the bright kiss of the Gods. “I wondered if he might,” You murmur, recalling the natural springs not unlike the one you sit before; their warmth a relief to any who are graced by their presence within the caves of the slopes. “It would do him well to return home soon.” You murmur, eyes roving over the hands, ungloved and calloused with cold and fight, which rest in Jacaerys’ lap. 

Perhaps in resistance to the weather or from the heat of your attention, he flexes his lithe fingers; and with the breath he takes, he looks to you. “He’s never quite agreed with the North.” He admits with a soft smile. You nod thoughtfully, wondering indeed how such a being of fire could fare against the land of ice. 

“And his rider?” You wonder then, eyes hinged on a swaying pine in the distance, its needles shed of snow as a pile falls to the ground. 

Jacaerys looks at you with that expression once more – a warm one, but one hesitant by nature. “I’d say he is learning to weather it,” Jacaerys answers with a lingering smile, though his gaze shifts momentarily to the horizon, where the faintest sliver of dusk begins to creep through the flurry of snowflakes. “He's come to learn that it grows on a man, much like its people.”

Your lips curve in a bout of shy flattery, and you shake your head. 

A loss for words stretches on into more; the water is calm in its reflection, and you watch snowflakes flutter from the stretch of gray, kissing your hair and tangling in your lashes. The clearing is large, though still so very intimate – it is not long before your thoughts meander to the days ahead, to the many preparations still to be done despite your moment of respite. 

After a beat, you speak into the blanket of quiet. 

“Three days.” You muse, blinking away flurries of white and turning to your betrothed. “Does it not feel strange to you, that in so little time, we are to be bound?”

Jace exhales, his breath clouding the air which swirls before you, and you look up to him in wait. He tilts his head just so, blinking away flakes as they come to kiss his flushed skin. You watch them melt to his lips with some faint lick of envy. 

His voice is hardened by the deadened air of winter, though you know there is nothing but kindness laced within. “There is no hesitation in me, if that is what you ask.”

A warmth pools within you at his chosen words, at the thought of he and you, under the very tree which you now sit, joint in hands and bound by blood. 

Perhaps it is that small yearning that festers unsaid in your heart – or it is the residual worry of his words of songs and men long-dead this morning in his chambers; but you press on gently. “And why is that, my Prince?” 

He looks into your eyes, then – and you see some search for verity amidst the downfall of snow; your fingers are cold, and they itch to hold his own. “Do you hold your own reservations?” In his tone holds no such judgement; merely the curiosity of a boy no older than one and twenty – and you, in the same turn of years, shake your head. 

“No, I–” Your lip is bitten once more, and his eyes remain upon them despite the flush on your cheeks. “I suppose I just wish to know,” You whisper, swallowing thickly, “If it is all… for strategy.” 

Jacaerys takes a moment; you allow it, watching as the flakes fall into the curls, as his eyes skim over the Northern edge of Winterfell, falling somewhere far, far beyond. “It is not simply a duty for me,” He chooses, tracing your visage with the care befitting of one who’s known you for life. “I believe you know this.” 

And perhaps you do; you smile under his accusation, tilting your head. “I suppose so, though I should like to hear you say it,” You admit, looking towards the very horizon he’d worried over. A murder of ravens, cutting dark through the gray blur of afternoon. “You speak too much in riddles these days.” 

It seems as though your words penetrate whatever foggy worries swirl within his sharp mind; and he nods solemnly. 

“You’re right,” and his voice is quieter now, guarded; unsure whether to reveal what such odd whisperings might mean. “I must have you know,” he starts, glancing to you, “that my care for you goes beyond duty.” 

His words are a balm to the brunt of fate that now befalls you; his cheeks as pink as your own, and he whispers kindly. “I have long held an affection for you in my heart, and hoped you might feel the same.” 

Any words of agreement are halted upon your lips when Jacaerys takes another breath, one laced with the weight of a realm divided: “But after Lucerys…” He clears his throat once more and you are struck with his pain.

Your palm finds his knee in some hope of comfort provided; his own falls atop it. “Princess Rhaenys and Meleys fell at Rooks Rest while I travelled North; a war wages still - and yet I had to come. I know you wonder why, and you deserve to know.” 

And you wait with breath bated, as you have for many days in wonder of why indeed now seemed fit for the Prince to come to the North for you. 

“My mother… shared something,” he begins once more, his tone low, “Passed down through our blood, through King and King – from long before Viserys, to my mother, and now me... A prophecy.” 

Your stomach has grown a pit of anticipation, some dreadful cloud gathering above you. Your Prince blinks to you shortly, brows drawn in consternation - as though it is a far crime and violation, what he is to tell you. 

And then he begins: words strung with the cloudiness of destiny, of doubt lingering in a stream of worry – and you sway where you repose, in a blinking dread when mentions come of a common enemy, of a terrible winter long to come.

And you, then, are struck with thoughts – of the long nights at Castle Black; of the men who patrol the wild lands, who speak in hushed voices and train with hard hands – of the old memory of Death, which lingers in the dreams of Northern children and on the tongues of Septas sat before hearths. 

You turn your gaze from the Weirwood’s branches above to Jacaerys, who looks out over the horizon to the breath of twilight leaking through.

A song – a dead man’s dream; of the ice of the north, he explains, and the fire of Valyria. 

It is a cold many minutes in which you breathe, a dread lingering between you and your beloved prince, hands clasped together and hearts beating as one. It does not do well to play on a foolish man’s beliefs – though your prince is no foolish man, and the hands of fate are too tightly bound. 

“You speak of fire and blood,” you whisper finally, “Of dreams that burn through the night?” 

The eve that falls is quiet, and the wind forgives your trespassing. He nods solemnly, your prince; and his absence of further response lets your mind wander.

Swirls of snow dance along the footprints left in your previous wake; the wind blows strands of hair across your vision.

Jacaerys’ eyes are amber pools and you drown in them, in the heat that has grown in the knowledge of words dreamt by a long dead man, in the legacy which leaks through each new crowned Targaryen. You drown in the knowledge that perhaps, in some way, a truth rings within this so-believed prophecy; secret as the lands which lie far to the North.

Your lips are wetted gently, shaking your head as you continue your thought. “But magic does not only run hot,” you murmur, “It does not only belong to the South.” 

His expression turns – and a weight which indeed shrouds him finds you too, cocooning you and your betrothed, binding you with threads of fate long ago tied and drawn. The woods whistle with the breath of winter, and you hear their song. 

“It is in the roots of the tree, in the bones of this land,” You admit, “My ancestors prayed to the Old Gods, and in return they whispered in the wind, spoke in the silence. And they, too, endure.”

Jacaerys shifts beside you and your palm is taken into the cradle of both his own. “I do not wish to burden you with such things.” He murmurs - and a memory of your brother's same words the day this very betrothal became so; it is forever, then, that the men of your life will wish to protect you from harm.

In the moment’s breath, you speak quietly: “–But such things are ours now, are they not?” You wonder aloud; and in the relief of a smile, he nods smally.

“There are threats to face sooner; I know it is no small ask to bring you into the throes of conflict. But perhaps our blood,” He murmurs, cheeks tinged pink, “might one day save the Realm.” 

An odd thought – but still one that does not change the truth: You go into the heart of the fire in three days’ time; but you will go with Jacaerys, and you will not be alone. A wolf in the South – and a dragon by her side. 

In the lingering peace of companionship, Jacaerys huffs gently. “I wish I could have done more,” He murmurs, “Ensured a proper betrothal.” His cheeks remain stained in that crimson colour against the fading light of the sky, and you resist the longing feeling to feel his lips against your own. 

You laugh, a short thing in the muffled quiet, “It matters not, Jace,” You promise, a smile small and kind upon your visage. In his shift, you slide gently between his knees – and your palms squeeze his own. 

“I’d have courted you,” He insists in that boyish nature you remember from those moons ago – and the air that’d frozen your lungs in the moments fallen behind has thawed into a budding giddiness. You smile at his tone, tilting your head. “Is that right, my Prince?” You tease, lifting your brow, “Taken me for strolls in the gardens, picked me flowers?” 

His smile is so boyish and hopeful; your heart skips as he nods. “Of course.” His grin grows softer as you shift. 

It is when the space between you narrows in a moment that you purse your lips gently, eyes tracing the curve of his own cherried lips. “Though my duty is to the North, it is also to the Queen,” You begin. His eyes fall to your own lips. “And to you. I hold love for you in my heart, Jacaerys,” You admit, cheeks warm, “And I am quite pleased to be your wife.” 

His hand leaves your own – and in its ascent, you see a slight tremor; when your face is cradled by his palm, you let your eyes flutter shut. 

It is only a momentary shock when lips, cold and light, press to your eyelid; a brushing so gentle, you wonder if it will not melt into the snow itself. 

Jacaerys’ breath lingers, a quiet warmth as he moves to your other eye, kissing away the flakes of snow which cling to you in reverence. A stirring in your breast as your hands find his cloaked arms, strong beneath your grasp; a whisper into the earth around you as snow falls. 

He pulls away only in a plume of warm breath that you feel against your visage; your eyes open to find his own, warm and wanting. A fire burns in you, and it calls his name – somewhere in the distance, Vermax roars. The edges of the pond lap over a small crust of ice, and your touch warms against your betrothed. 

“I was made for you,” He murmurs, lips chilled against your warm cheek; and you believe it. He says your name, and it falls from bitten lips with a desperation that sets your nerves ablaze; "I will love you with everything I am," He promises; and fingers trace the curve of your jaw, a gentle thing – a lingering of breath with your own, a hitch to your lungs as desire claws at your throat. Your smile is small and melts under the weight of heat.

In a moment, you cannot bear the space which lingers, small and unforgiving, between you; Without hesitation, your palms slide over his furs, kissed with snow – and soon, you card your hands through the curls at the nape of your betrothed’s neck. 

It is a pull towards your awaiting lips, and soon Jacaerys kisses you soundly. 

Hands slide to your waist, dropping from your jaw to cradle you between his legs, flush in the heat of shared life; and you, a blossoming flutter of affection and anticipation for nights to come. Hands tremble – yours, around his neck, his, curved around your waist. 

The snow falls heavier still – and a howl of wind that blows you closer to Jace, a short share of giggles between you, giddy and alight with some small kernel of hope. The Godswood is quiet, and your lips slide together in a shy, lingering sweetness; he pulls away from you only to press small kisses upon each exposed breath of skin you offer, and you laugh into the quiet, heart beating as one. 

“I am yours.” 

And for some time, a soft exploration of affections beneath the sprawling limbs of the tree – and the words fall from lips taking and giving, smiling and sighing, pursuing and pressing. 

The woods sing with the bells when supper is called; and so with hair tangled, cheeks warm, you rise together. 

Arm in arm, your betrothed and you retrace footprints kissed with the gift of fresh-fallen snow; words quiet and half-burdened with the weight of the future – but still remains the lingering of hope, the promise of love even in the dreary eve of fate. 

The Godswood of Winterfell echo softly with footfall; The warmth of the Great Hall awaits you both. Jacaerys presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you push open the doors together.

taglist & mutuals <3 ; @dipperscavern @oldtowrs @systraes @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @earth4angels @mattnott @divinesolas @hxtd @housetargaryenloyalist @bucksplum @v3lary0ns @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @vee-mage @bitchydragonparadisee @elaena-aerrin @kenna-the-cosmic @xxselenite @smurfelle @alyssa-dayne @uhnanix @still-jon-snow @astrxq @cregan-starks

[gojuo]

Ryan condom forgot that after rhaenyras death we sre supposed to follow aegon if he wants to continue after nyras death so he can put at the end of the series the crown on aegon III, so he eather tries to make people view aegon possitively or have the series end with nyras death and the crown on aegon’s head and people will riot like they did with the mad queen end of got, either way he deserves the hate he is going to get at the end of hotd. But now that i tnik of it the series starts with rhaenyra doing a voice over telling her story so i wonder if he will change the end of the story and all the lore just to have finally a targ kween sit at the iron throne

i've been saying this since forever but making rhaenyra the unequivocal protagonist of the story + writing this show with a protagonist-centered morality framework + shoving 30 years of court drama and political intrigue building up to the actual war in a measly 10 episodes is a huge fucking mistake because

1. the portion of the dance in f&b starts with alicent reading to king jaehaerys as he lays dying, and the dance eventually ends when alicent herself dies. this is thematically important

2. daemon is the unequivocal villain of everyone's story in the dance, including rhaenyra's, and him staying that way is just better and (i'm loath to say it) cooler for his character & arc

3. like asoiaf/got, they should have had multiple protagonists povs spanning different locations for viewers to follow. the teams debate + emotional investment, stakes and satisfaction would have been far more balanced that way

4. rhaenyra dies long before the war ends anyway. like please think ahead when you're writing a show like this dawg

5. aegon just has a better character arc than rhaenyra does (especially if he kills himself). bias aside, it's just factual 🤷‍♀️

6. season 2's issue is the glacial pacing of character arcs (and some are... straight up just stagnant) while the plot moves its merry way along. we went from blood and cheese to harrenhal exile to rook's rest to regency era to now the sowing but the character work isn't there (and continues to not be there since the set ups and pay offs are almost all offscreened or nonsensical) because condal & co have structured the story in a way that skips 30 years worth of character work and arcs and relationships in favor of getting to the action immediately. they're suffering from that decision now in season 2 rightfully so

[lurkingshan]

Japanese QL Corner

ICYMI: There are so many Japanese qls airing weekly, so I’m going to start posting this little round up at the end of each week. All of these are on Gaga and I highly recommend watching!

Love is Better the Second Time Around

This is officially my favorite bl currently airing. I loved this second episode a lot. I appreciate that while the first episode gave us a really solid grounding in who Iwanaga is, the second let us get to know Miyata in all his contradictory glory. That entire sequence from his failed proposal to him demanding Iwanaga take responsibility was glorious. He is still nursing a wound from their high school days and hearing Iwanaga sincerely apologize for his immaturity in making the bet back then seems to have given him some of his power back. I love that he's making Iwanaga work for it, and judging by that smile at the end of the episode, Iwanaga loves it, too.

My Strawberry Film

Yet another week focused on the het love rhombus, this time with a double date. I was spiritually with Ryo sitting on a rock by himself, headphones on and gazing at the sea in mild despair. The plot continues to move at a glacial pace, and I am not nearly as interested in Minami or her secrets as the show wants me to be. She is just not a compelling character. I did appreciate the show making it clear that Hikaru's crush on her is based more on a fantasy of who she is than the reality. And I felt for Chika a lot in this episode and was glad she aired things out with Ryo; she needed his rejection to move on. I wonder if, as @bengiyo suggested, this show will play better as a binge, because it's kind of torturous as a weekly viewing experience.

Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yara ka

A nice ending for a show that didn't quite come together for me. I liked both of these characters a lot, but the writing for their romance was kind of all over the place and we spent a lot of time on frustrating plot diversions instead of building a stronger relationship foundation that would leave us feeling confident about their future (apparently a lot of that extra plot stuff was added to stretch the simple manga story to 10 episodes, and it sure felt like it). I didn't at all buy Mizuki suddenly reappearing and trying to help them get back together. The way the show used his character was perhaps the most frustrating part of all; he felt more like a plot device than a person. But I'm glad Soga and Sakae decided to try again at the end, even if I wish we would have spent the back half of the show seeing them actually work through these complications instead of just talking about them constantly only to end right where they started. Not one that I will be rewatching or that will stick with me, I think.

Bonus: Call Boy (2018)

I have been meaning to watch this film for ages, and finally got around to it this week. Before I am accused of false advertising, let me clarify that this is not a bl or a romance at all; rather it is a story about a disaffected youth who gets offered a job as a sex worker in a high end club and finds purpose and satisfaction in bringing others pleasure. Our lead Ryo is (mostly) het, but he does have one extremely memorable sexual encounter with a male colleague (played by my beloved Izuka Kenta!), and this is in general a film exploring sexual kink and stigma, so it earned its spot on ql corner.

This movie is surprisingly great, and its themes are very sex and sex work positive in a way some other recent shows have claimed (and failed) to be. The narrative is all about Ryo coming to understand the purpose of sex work, finding his own pleasure in fulfilling his client's needs, and working through his childhood trauma in the process. It's very well done and I highly recommend it for anyone who can handle exceedingly NC-17 content. It's on Viki for rent (and also in the grey).

[zahri-melitor]

Newish Comics:

Batman: The Brave and the Bold #12: It...just occurred to me this Gotham Academy era story is in fact a flashback/alternate continuity set probably shortly after Second Semester, because Alfred is alive and they go to the ordinary Cave. Which tracks with my usual hypothesis that everything happening in Gotham Academy is NOT actively connected to main continuity unless proven otherwise. Anyway, this again is proving that Maps isn't actually an active Robin in the main continuity, and right now she's appearing as Future!Meridian which is actually a cooler role for her, honestly.

I honestly haven't read much Gentleman Ghost so this was interesting? Nice to see a bit more than him just appearing in a group scene.

Artemis story remains excellent, apart from the tragic fact it intersected with the stupid current Wonder Woman plot. I do like that it's portraying the ridiculous level of overreach involved in the 'ban the Amazons' concept.

(for reference, they're currently in Qurac)

It's damning to me that every other person working around this storyline is building a more interesting narrative, but what can you do?

There's a Swamp Thing story and I loved it and I am getting closer and closer to going wild and starting a massive Swamp Thing read. It's some gorgeous conception of death though.

The henchman story is...fine, I guess? If you're a fan of looking at the socioeconomic dynamics of the Gotham hench crowd, it's probably up your alley.

The Flash #8: We can have Barry wondering how Wally does it all and Wally being central to the universe, as a treat.

Green Arrow #11: I am so torn on this title. I think its biggest crime is possibly being just a little TOO indulgent and juggling too many balls, rather than focusing in telling one or two of these stories in better detail.

Because. In terms of what Williamson is doing here, he's: reuniting the entire Arrow family for the first time since 2010 or so including bringing in peripheral characters like Cissie for the first time (but not Sin); he's given specific 'you're alive!' reunions for Roy and Lian, Ollie and Connor, Ollie and Mia, and so on, untangling situations where people simply didn't know the other was bopping around again; he's doing a lot of work setting up Waller for Absolute Power; he's giving us an excuse for why Green Arrow as a title has been off page for so long; he's making it a love fest for lovers of the Arrows by the list of artists involved, including multiple nostalgic favourites AND Sean Izaakse doing modern redesigns for everyone's costumes...and he's doing it in a title that was originally sold as a mini, expanded to a maxi, and then finally given an ongoing.

I think, honestly, the title is overwhelmed with too many goals crammed in just in case this was the only Green Arrow story we got for the next however long.

And equally, while being overly ambitious in terms of what it wants to achieve, the plot itself is moving at a glacial pace and is pretty underwhelming, in that there simply isn't time and space to devote to plot when the title is also busy juggling "has everyone seen that Lian and Connor are alive yet?" and flashbacks to re-establish everyone's connections to Ollie, and explanations to retcon previous behaviour, and and and...

I think it would be less frenetic if it had been signed off from the beginning as an ongoing, so the book could have just gone "5 issue story, followed by a Roy and Lian reunion issue, followed by 5 issue story, followed by an issue that's about Ollie finding the house full again and juggling kids moving back in," and so on.

All that said, I do think it's a good title to give to someone who's curious about Green Arrow as a title as an intro to get them interested and excited about the range of characters involved. I just don't think it's showcasing the best of Green Arrow storylines well.

And that's okay! But I think it's trying to achieve the reset that say Jeremy Adams' Flash gave the Flash books, without having the space and pacing that Adams had over 33 issues to achieve his final goal.

Oh, the actual story this issue? It’s Merlyn trying a bit hard to convince everyone he’s really one of Ollie’s biggest foes (typical Merlyn).

This made me laugh however:

Love that Izaakse specifically decided to use a bunch of particularly mid to sucky Dinah and Roy costume choices here and didn’t include their best costumes. You’ve got my back.

The Warlord #49: This week in the Lost Land of Skartaris, Shakira bets Travis that he can't go an entire story without using his gun.

They proceed to investigate a mysterious castle, where Travis and Shakira are avoiding traps and seeing skeletons. They end up defeating a mummy.

Travis, apparently unmoved by the promise of large piles of gold. He lives only for war!!!

But then...a leopard jumps out at them! Travis reacts and shoots it!

Sucks to be you, Travis.

Also we get a check in with Jennifer, who while asleep in her bed in the mysterious new castle encounters...a head-hand man?

Nightmare is a good description, yes.

Also we had a freaking Mongo Ironhand story running in the bottom panels of each page, that contained Legally Not Gollum.

Gollum's 'pretty' is a book of magic, which turns him into a demon known as the Evil One.

Also there's a Claw the Unconquered backup, which is pretty ordinary, but this particular panel is just some beautiful art.

[fussyspace]

The Arrow of Time, B.T. Lamprey

Word count: ~43,600

Cover: This is an excellent cover – clean and striking, with great font choices. You can definitely tell that it's going to be something about time (if the title didn't give it away), and the different outfits the characters are wearing make for a curious mix.

Blurb: 'Only minutes after his tragic murder—and a hundred million years before he’ll be born—Aloysius Cook gets the offer of a lifetime.

'Joining a team of time-traveling commandos may not sound like a cushy gig, but at the moment Al’s only alternative involves a closed casket. If he hopes to survive working for The Institute at the Beginning of Time, he’ll need a crash course on temporal paradoxes, recursive causal loops, and the very real possibility of the multiverse folding in on itself like a poorly made origami giraffe.

'Luckily for Al, every new recruit receives a copy of The Everyday Timekeeper’s Almanac, the only guide to spacetime a time traveler will ever need. Compiled by an infinite number of researchers from across all possible realities, it contains every fact and every theory that might prove useful to a time traveler, plus helpful tips on how to avoid obliterating the multiverse.

'Armed only with his Almanac, Al must dive into the time stream alongside a short-tempered saint, a self-centered cyborg, and an embittered survivor of the climate apocalypse. To prevent a cataclysm that threatens The Institute itself, they’ll need to outwit a deadly cadre of rival time travelers—hopefully without stepping on any butterflies or becoming romantically involved with someone’s grandmother.'

The blurb definitely makes this sound like something I'd like to jump into, with an immediate hook in Aloysius' death, the outline of an interesting setting and a good smattering of light humour to seal the deal.

Vote: I voted No to continue at the 30% mark, but continued reading to the end given it was a short book.

Content: The Arrow of Time was a rather odd book to judge, featuring an entertaining writing style with a narrator distant enough to somewhat get away with omniscience, but a plot that moved at what felt like a glacial pace (relative to the book's short length). By the 30% mark, it hadn't really got anywhere besides introducing two characters and the time-travelling group. The mission they had received didn't particularly stand out from anything you might find in other time-travel stories – not that a lack of novelty is always a bad thing.

I think I may have enjoyed this book more had the main character – or, indeed, any of the other characters – had been a little more likeable. To my mind, Aloysius proved to be an absolute irredeemable idiot and rude to all his new colleagues to boot. Not only that, but the characters spent a lot of time joking with each other, and the book spent a significant amount of time focussing on these attempts at humour, which just weren't funny at all.

By 50%, the characters still hadn't actually done much, and by the end it became apparent that this book exists simply to lay out the setting and origin stories of the main characters before the rest of the series continues, rather than being its own thing. (Each team member got a part of the book that showed their life before joining the Institute.) The ending itself seemed a little rushed, with the sudden and relatively casual introduction of another group of time travellers.

[mirandagoing4baroque]

This book ended up being a perfectly adequate murder mystery, especially when graded on the debut scale. A medical historical mystery, we follow a female doctor named Lydia who struggles to prove her talents and her worth in a post civil war Philadelphia. When one of the maids who visits her clinic disappears suddenly, Lydia fears that there is more going on than meets the eye.

This book definitely feels like a debut--especially in the first half, which moves at a glacial pace. But just when I was beginning to despair the pace picked up and the back half is a perfectly enjoyable ride. This won’t blow your socks off if you’re an aficionado, and the prose is at its best merely good, but if you love historical mysteries with spunky female detectives, and you’re waiting for the next in a series and want a fix, this will do a perfectly fine job of it.

It also is very much set in Philadelphia, which is not a city I’ve spent a lot of time in, so I can’t speak to the accuracy of the specifics. The author also has a medical degree, so that allows the plot to be grounded in what I assume is accurate medical detail. I’ll certainly be keeping an eye on this author and I hope that her writing continues to improve as it did over the course of this book.

I received a free advance copy in exchange for this honest review.

[atlanticcanada]

Fredericton strawberry farm faces possible closure as owners retire

Dave and Susan Walker have been owners of Sunset U-Pick strawberry farm for forty years, and now, they're ready to retire.

While buyers are interested in taking over, it hasn't been the seamless process the Walkers hoped for.

"That challenge is if somebody is going to purchase the farm, they need to get financing,” said Dave Walker. “In order to get financing, they need a longer-term commitment on the land from the owner of the land, which is the city. So, until we get a longer term commitment on the property, then it's not going to happen.”

The city seems to be aware of the issue.

“I have received a number of emails regarding the Sunset U-Pick,” Jocelyn Pike, councillor for Ward 4 where Sunset U-Pick is located said in a statement. “I want you to know that I appreciate all the comments and will be working diligently with all the parties in finding the best solution for everyone.”

"The City of Fredericton understands how important the U-Pick is to residents,” said Councillor Bruce Grandy. “Staff have been working diligently with the Walkers for a few years now to help them transition out of their U-Pick business. In fact, recent negotiations, which the city felt were progressing in a respectful and productive manner, revolved around a proposal made by the Walkers themselves."

But the couple says talks are moving at a snail’s pace.

"We've had dialogue with the city for the last two, two-and-a-half years, but it's just moving at glacial speed,” said Susan Walker. “There's no sense of urgency perhaps on the city's part and we're just winding down.”

In 2012, the city voted to continue agricultural use on the land after supporters spoke out following discussion to develop it into a residential area.

"We've been in discussions, to use their words, for several years, it's been a while,” Dave said. “We kind of initiated that because we want to see this continue, and if somebody's going to continue, they need a longer-term commitment when they go to a financial institution to get their financing.”

The Walkers have about three weeks before they turn the land back to the way they found it, or prepare it for next year's crop for their buyer.

"Basically, the berry season will end in about three-and-a-half weeks. We usually start renovation, which is what they call getting ready for next year, by mid-August at least,” Susan said. “That is the point when we start putting new inputs in which cost us more money so that is the point where we need a decision.”

"If there's no future for the U-Pick, we'll just simply start plowing things under,” Dave said.

The farmers want to see generations of future Frederictonians enjoy the farmland and fear the city could turn it into a housing development.

“I think there will be a great deal of disappointment and upset,” Susan said.

The Walkers hope the plot of land remains strawberry fields forever.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/PZtpqmn

[pi-cat000]

BNHA: Kakashi dimension hops crossover (5)

Summary: Kakashi gets dumbed into the My Hero Academia universe through random plot devise.

Characters:  Kakashi Hatake

Fandoms: My Hero Academia and Naruto

WARNINGS: Mentions of violence/injury

START  / RREV / NEXT

Ms Iroi always tries to engage him in conversation whenever she comes in, asking questions and chatting to herself in a fruitless attempt at helping him recover his 'lost' memories. Most of the time, Kakashi is indifferent to her presence and always has a magazine handy as an excuse not to talk.

Today, Iroi is in a particularly good mood, humming to herself, greeting him with an energetic, “How are you doing today!”

Kakashi grunts a noncommittal response which doesn’t do much to discourage the woman’s good mood as she runs through a check-up routine.  

“You should try watching U.A’s sports festival tomorrow. I hear it’s going to be particularly spectacular this year,” she says as she pulls the blinds on Kakashi's window, blocking out the distant city lights. 

U.A? he recognises the name. Kakashi glances up over the pages of HERO!! MONTHLY BREAKDOWN. It is the third time he has read this issue.

“You know, since you like reading those hero magazines, I figured you would be interested in watching the ‘next generation of heroes’ debut,” she continues, noting his attention, “U.A always puts on a good show.”

Kakashi frowns. The problem with his amnesia cover story is that he is still trying to figure out what he can get away with not remembering. So far the doctor’s seem content to chalk up the disappearance of his long term memories to a ‘quirk’ accident but were always more concerned when he failed to recall basic factual information. Something to do with different parts of the brain being responsible for different types of information.

 “Watch how?” He settles on asking. U.A. was supposed to be a hero-training academy so whatever this ‘sports festival’ was was worth checking out. 

“Oh,” Iori pauses to think, “I, ah, think channel 2 with be covering it?” she hesitates, “You know what. I’ll look it up and let you know later. Sorry, I can’t carry my phone around with me while on shift.”

“Thank you.” He smiles and makes a show of returning to his magazine to dissuade further conversation.

Later the same evening, just before the end of the evening shift, Iori pokes her head into his room again. She is out of uniform, long hair untired, waving to catch his attention.

“The coverage is on channel 2 and starts at 11am,” She holds up her portable communication devise like it means something.  It probably did mean something. The frequency by which people checked them suggested it had a function beyond basic communication. He has held off attempting to steal one because, unlike pens, people would notice and care if one went missing.  

“Have fun watching! Oh… also, I forgot to ask…”

Kakashi raises a brow.

“I have a bunch of old gossip magazines. Mum used to read them all the time and there are a few hero-themed ones in the mix. I can bring them in if you want more stuff to read.” 

“If you want.” Iori must have noticed him re-reading the magazines. 

"I'll bring them on Friday!"

Iori had been unsubtly hinting that Kakashi might have had a history in heroics. It definitely wasn’t because reading information on a page just made sense when compared to the barrage of conflicting reports the television gave him. A few weeks with only the television as his information source has him writing off most of its information as useless or propaganda.  

…

...

“HEELLLOOOOO, LISTENERS!”

Kakashi stares dully as the video footage, which had been giving him a bird’s eye view of a positively massive stadium, changes to a sweeping shot of what must be thousands of people crammed into seats. It almost makes him claustrophobic just watching it.

“WELLCOME TO OUR ANNUAL U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL! THE HIGH SCHOOL ADOLESCENT RODEO YOU ALL LOVE TO WATCH. CAN A GET A ‘OH YEAH!’”

As if of one mind, thousands of people leap to their feet screaming. The camera angle changes again to show a grinning blond-haired man, seated at a desk and pointing enthusiastically at the camera. All these shot changes are going to give him a headache. Kakashi is already having reservations watching this and its only10 minutes.

“Thank you! You’re an AMAZING audience!”

 It almost reminds him of the final Chunin Exam stages -if the Chunin exams had had three times the audience - which always involved some sort of combat display.  There hadn’t been any public Chunin Exams recently for reasons such as a large portion of Konoha being flattened by Pein.

“FIRST UP ARE OUR FIRST-YEAR EVENTS! And what an exciting round of events they are, perfect for debuting our newest students! Give us a shout so they can feel your support!”

Another loud shot as thousands of people yelled in unison.

“Come on! Louder than that! These are your future Heroes I’m talking about! SHOW THEM SOME LOVE!”

More yelling. Kakashi turns down the volume.

“But! Wait just a minute!! We're not only here for our Hero students! As I'm sure you all know, behind every great hero is a hardworking support team! GIVE IT UP FOR our Support, Management and General departments who are also competing for a chance to face off in the finals!”

Kakashi sighs. He is getting the sense that this might be more for entertainment than utility purposes, conforming to the general trend of Hero-related stuff being flashy. Different from the Chunin exam which had deadly consequences if not taken seriously.

“Hey. Hey! HERE THEY COME NOW! OUR STUDENTS PARTICIPATING IN THE FIRST YEAR STAGE!”

What follows is an overly dramatized race where the only thing of interest to him are the obstacle types, including robots, - mobile mechanical weapons of some sort that produced a lot of environmental damage but were taken down fairly easily- and explosive devices that acted a lot like explosive tags. Then there was a team elimination round and one-on-one tournament fights after which the coverage shifts to the second year and third year stages.

He uncovers the sharingun only to discover that, while its memorisation function worked fine, the part that translated the movements into muscle memory felt off. Perhaps, the replication and copying component of the eye didn’t work when viewing a technique through a screen rather than in person. Interesting. As there wasn't anything particularly impressive technique-wise during the events he counts the new information as a net gain. 

The student-heroes – he is not sure if there is an official term for a hero in training – barely match Konoha’s academy standard in their taijutsu and physical conditioning though there was marked improvement between first, second and third-year groups. These students were what...between 14-18 years old...and yet most had the skill level of an academy  students and fresh genuin with only a few notable exceptions?

Sure, there were - honestly ridiculous- versatile and powerful bloodline abilities being thrown around like nothing, but ninjutsu techniques only took a shinobi so far without a strong base to work from. He shakes his head, reminding himself that these kids - because what else did you call combatants who hadn’t graduated yet- weren’t shinobi in training and would be policing civilians and engaging ‘Villains’ of similar skill levels. It was obvious that the students favoured non-lethal takedown methods and put little to no thought into stealth and misdirection during fights. 

Different words…different priorities. 

As Kakashi has yet to see any evidence that the country, Japan, was at war with another he thinks the skill level displayed might be serviceable. There were also no major conflicts between the country’s large cities over farmland, water sources and the like. Obviously, this place had sorted out the resource and distribution issues usually encountered when supporting such large populations. Or, who knows, maybe everything on the television was a carefully constructed lie to lull people into complacency.

Now he has seen an example of hero-students, he better understands the low combat ability demonstrated by the police. It also gives incite into the blurry recordings of Hero/Villain confrontations which played on repeat across the various ‘news’ reports. They all tended to hover around Chunin or maybe Special Jounin in terms of skill. He knows generalisations are dangerous so, until he saw the combat in person, he would exercise his usual level of caution. There were bound to be outliers after all-the impressive brute strength of the number one hero comes to mind- and there was no telling what advantages a bloodline ability might provide. Absently, he makes testing the susceptibly of people without chakra to genjustu as something to figure out sooner rather than later.

He sighs. This is why he hated the television. Whenever he watched it, he came away increasingly confused, with more questions than he had answers. Not to mention anything useful being constantly interrupted with information detailing one of the many products that he could apparently buy here. It irritated him to no end. 

...

...

The chakra collecting seal is ready before the week is out. Mostly ready...it was ready enough.

Kakashi returns to the roof. Sitting cross-legged, back against the stairway entrance, he works his way through the 100 or so pens, cracking them open and tapping out ink into a large bowl, stolen -like the pens -from hospital staff.

The mix of black, blue and red ink is gluggy, forcing him to add water to thin the solution out. Once satisfied he pulls out an appropriated scalpel – one of a growing collection hidden alongside his pens because having a stash of weapons is never a bad thing- pricking his middle finger, watching the blood drip and curdle with the mixture. The blood would be absorbed into the ink, allowing it to conduct chakra. He mixes everything with pair of disposable chopsticks, taking care not to spill it on the ground or stain his hands.

The whole process reminds him of other insistences where he had improvised fuinjutsu ink in the field. The last time being during his final Anbu missions where he had created a body storage scroll from scratch after unexpectedly losing a squad mate on what should have been a simple intel retrieval mission. Not a particularly fond memory but a memory he was stuck with.

Since his demotion to Jonin-sensei there had been fewer of those sorts of missions. Not that being a Jonin-sensei had been easy – considering all his students had gone off to find other teachers he didn't even think he had been particularly good at it - bringing with it its own special brand of stress, culminating in a stint as Hokage, a fourth war and him stuck here. He is pretty sure his experiences aren't universal. Team 7 was just cursed to fail in increasingly spectacular ways.

He lets out a heavy sigh, leaving his airways open to a sudden gust of cold wind which carries the scent of cleaning chemicals from the hospital and oil from the road straight up his nose. He exhales forcefully and mentally bumps finding a face mask up his list of priorities. It would be good for hiding his features and dulling the artificial smells of a city housing over a million people.

The sound of wind whistling around the building almost blocks out the echo of feet in the stairway, approaching his location. In one smooth motion, Kakashi stands pushing the remaining broken pen back into the vent, nudging the cover back in place with his foot. Carefully he holds the bowl of ink in his injured arm and a scalpel in the other. Kakashi steps back against the entrance so the outward opening door would hide him from whoever came out.

A crying kid comes barrelling through the door.

Well, not completely crying, more like sniffing loudly, eyes all shiny. He even recognises the kid from the U.A combat demonstration, as improbable as that was. It is the first year hero student with the speed-enhancing ability which, seeing him up close, probably had something to do with the strange growths coming out of his caff muscles. High speed movement put enormous strain on the body so he could reasonably conclude that the kid was physically resilient to acceleration stress and similar forces. Not resilient to stabbing though....

Kakashi forces himself to relax, his scalpel lowering ever so slightly. Lucky he had heard the kid coming or he might have accidentally hurt him. A few weeks of reduced sleep coupled with a lot of time to ruminate on past missions and failures has put him on edge. This was exactly why he disliked taking extended breaks. 

Maybe, Kakashi should start relocking the stairway if he was planning to make regular trips up here because the young male probably hadn’t had the roof in mind as a destination. Kakashi knows from experience that, unless you were injured or a member of staff, there were few good reasons to wander around a hospital at odd hours.

With the hero-student distracted sniffling into his arm, Kakashi slips around the door and back down the stairs. He hadn’t planned on applying the seal on the roof anyway. Too exposed to the elements and the concrete was too rough for the delicate line work.

He continues mixing while he walks, having mentally mapped the hospital well enough to know which hallways to use and which to avoid. There is a surgeon with some sort of heat-sensing vision who works late most nights that he must be careful around and a nurse with a weak proximity based empathic ability working in paediatrics. Both obstacles force him to take a meandering detour on his way to the ground floor and  the larger shower blocks which housed  cubicles the size of small rooms. Enough smooth floorspace for the expanded seal design and easy to clean afterwards. He supposes he is lucky, some complicated fuinjutsu required several meters worth of floor space. The containment on Saskue’s cursed seal comes to mind and he is glad that this seal is infinity smaller.

Not one to waste time knowing that nurses and patients regularly used the space even this late in the evening, he immediately slips into a cubicle upon arrival. Flopping onto the floor he pulls out the paintbrush he had had scour the hospital for and eventually to steal from the children’s ward. Carefully, he begins the slow process of application.

…

…

The final seal design is circular, about the size of his splayed hand, positioned on his uninjured shoulder just above where his Anbu seal had previously sat. The sleepwear provided by the hospital had sleeves that extend just past his bicep. It hid the design, for the most part. The final visible seal is a bit bigger than he had predicted or planned for. If this were a proper infiltration mission, where blowing his cover came at the price of death, he would be in big trouble. If this were a proper mission, he would have waited before applying this. An unnecessary risk. He itches the back of his head, turning from where he is craning his neck to see the seal, gathering up his supplies to be thrown in one of the hospital’s many rubbish bins. Kakashi lets out a breath. Maybe, this whole ‘trapped in a different world’ thing is affecting him more than he was willing to admit and making him sloppy.

He pulls down the sleeve so it mostly hides the design. Not like the doctors here would recognise the significance of fuinjutsu, he reminds himself, even if their questions would be annoying to deflect.

He pumps chakra into the seal and a jolt akin to lightning runs down his limb. It activates without issue and Kakashi grimaces as his chakra is slowly drained and collected. The rate of the drain is pathetically slow. Three years too slow. But, between this and his sharingan - which was always active and draining chakra- he can’t risk making it quicker. Despite the relatively low-level threats around him, Kakashi is, first and foremost, a Jonin in an unknown territory who is already taking risks simply making and applying the seal. He can’t afford to impair himself with poor chakra management on top of everything else.

Kakashi pops his head out of the cubical, scanning the shower block. Nothing of note has changed and he darts out, intent on returning to his room. He is tired and it would be a long, tiresome week as his body adjusted to the strain as well.

NEXT  

[nicklloydnow]

“That said, Sátántangó is a film requiring tremendous patience, with its gargantuan length far surpassing other lengthy films like Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Happy Hour and Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander. It’s a single movie only slightly shorter than the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, only in Sátántangó, the film’s staggering length isn’t used to portray a sprawling, epic tale like Peter Jackson’s lauded films. Instead, Béla Tarr combines his film’s seven-and-a-half-hour runtime with an almost stagnant pace to express the futility and despair of his characters.

Based on a novel by László Krasznahorkai, Tarr’s film focuses on members of a collective farm in the Hungarian countryside as they remain financially shattered after the unexpected closing of their sole source of revenue. It’s a film that pushes to their limits the techniques frequently found in other works of slow cinema, a sort of sub-genre that’s exactly what it sounds like: films that move slowly, often with minimal plot points. In his book Transcendental Style In Film, critic/writer/director Paul Schrader writes about Soviet filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky’s movies: “time was not a means to a goal. It was the goal”. The same can be said of Sátántangó, though its intention in capturing time is distinctly novel and vastly different from Tarkovsky’s. With the seven-plus hours of his epic film, Béla Tarr captures the futility and hopelessness of the villagers as they struggle against the indifferent waves of time. Sounds bleak, doesn’t it? Well, it is. Sátántangó is no afternoon picnic.

(…)

It’s through its unrelenting focus on the banal that Tarr’s film creates such an overwhelming state of helplessness. Many of Tarr’s shots are like moving still-life frames in which nothing remarkable is happening. Consequently, time is shown to move on and on as nothing occurs that saves the villagers from their unfortunate circumstances. Because the film is as long as it is, the time is felt rather than simply portrayed.

(…)

The fact that the villagers follow Irimiás towards his alleged promised land and never get there (since it doesn't actually exist) helps build the film's despairing view. After seven long, slow-burning hours, they aren't rescued. They remain stuck exactly as they were, penniless and without hope. By moving slowly and continuing for so long, Sátántangó lets the viewer share this experience to some degree. None of the characters' problems are ever really solved. Instead, viewers are made to wait for a release from these conditions. Expecting something to occur, for the film’s grammar to break, is futile. We’re only stuck there, much like the characters, with little hope of escaping. Sátántangó shows how its characters wait and wait (and wait) for their conditions to change, to no avail.

There’s no chance denying it: Sátántangó is a long film. It’s a really, really long film. While the length of Sátántangó (a good movie) often precedes the reputation of the film itself (often unjustly so), it isn’t too long of a film. Sure, it’s not a movie that would often be selected from somebody’s queue, but thanks to the ease with which anybody with reliable internet access can binge an entire season of their entire show in a single afternoon, Sátántangó’s intimidating length seems unconquerable than it may once have. It also helps that Sátántangó is broken up to 12 episodes that can be consumed individually. Tarr has expressed a wish for his viewers to digest the movie in a single sitting, save for a much-needed intermission between the film’s two halves. Still, a whole work day’s worth of cinema-viewing seems daunting. Should ambitious cinephiles choose to take Tarr’s challenge and watch the film all at once, however, they’d definitely be rewarded with an overwhelming artistic experience.”

“Béla Tarr���s seven-hour 1994 epic, referred to as “the Mount Everest of modern cinema”, depicts the collapse of a collectivised Soviet-era farm in rural Hungary.

The film, released in 1994, is the screen adaptation of a homonymous 1985 novel by László Krasznahorkai, Hungary’s best-known contemporary author, famous for his heavy existential themes and demanding prose. Tarr, Krasznahorkai’s long-term collaborator, took on the monumental task of adapting the complex literary masterpiece for the screen, and the result is a no less testing watch.

In an unhurried style — 432 minutes, to be precise — the film portrays a dilapidated village where life has come to a stand-still. While a group of villagers wait for a final payout before abandoning the farm, they get thrown in disarray by the appearance of a former villager, whom they had long assumed dead. With the corruptive influence of money souring the air, the chaos of change casts a strange spell over the community.

Shot entirely in black and white on 35mm film, the Hungarian movie has long been lauded by critics for its compelling story and the unwavering cinematographic beauty of its long, uninterrupted shots — some of which last upwards of 10 minutes. The film was named the 36th greatest film of all time in the 2012 edition of Sight & Sound critics’ poll, and the 65th best film of the 1990s by Rolling Stone magazine. Following its enduring critical acclaim, in early 2019 the film enjoyed a 4K restoration, and returned to cinemas across the world, alongside its first-ever VOD release.”

[the-badger-mole]

No Aang au??? I'm interested in how you'd make that work

I haven't decided if Aang's going to be in it eventually or not, but he's no longer the plot device to get Katara and Sokka out of the Water Tribe.

“I said thank you,” Katara folded her arms, feeling significantly less grateful by the moment. Her attitude did not move Zuko, who only paused his pacing to shoot her a scathing look.

“Great!” he snapped. “You’re welcome! Now how about an ‘I’m sorry’?”

“I’m sorry?” Katara repeated. “For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Zuko feigned thinking and tapped his chin. “How about for stealing from the pirates in the first place and getting us in this situation.”

“I didn’t get us into anything!” Katara balled her hands into fists at her sides. “I got me into it, and you chose to follow me. And I didn’t do anything wrong, either. Where do you think those pirates got the scroll in the first place? I’ll bet they didn’t buy it.”

“It doesn’t matter where they got it!” Zuko shouted. “You stole from pirates! Did you think they were just going to forget about it? What were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t theirs!” Katara wasn’t shouting. Her voice was as hard and sharp as her native glacial land. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Zuko froze, startled out of his anger by Katara’s quiet rage.

“Katara, I-”

“No, you know what?” Katara scoffed and took a step away from Zuko. “You’re absolutely right. Stealing is fine, as long as it’s from my people, right? Nevermind that I might never get another chance to learn Southern style waterbending. Nevermind that those pirates have probably gotten away with much worse than stealing. Fine, Zuko. I’m sorry! I’m sorry that your country destroyed everything my people used to be. I’m sorry that the only way for me to learn about Southern waterbending is to steal from a bunch of homicidal pirates. I’m so sorry that I ever met you! Okay? I’m sorry!

Katara screamed the last words past a lump in her throat. She turned away from Zuko so he wouldn’t see the tears escaping her eyes, but there was no hiding the body wracking sobs. She waited for him to walk away. To make some excuse- Iroh and Sokka’s imminent arrival would be a convenient distraction- and leave her alone in her misery.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko said after a long stretch of silence. He didn’t touch her- he didn’t even move towards her- but he didn’t leave, either. Katara scrubbed the tears from her eyes and glanced back at Zuko. He had picked up the muddy scroll from the ground and was using the tail of his shirt to clean it up. A moment later, he rolled it up and held it out to Katara. She took it hesitantly. A peace offering she wasn’t sure if she wanted to accept.

“I didn’t think about what this meant to you,” Zuko said. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t acceptance of the apology, just an acknowledgement. Still, Zuko seemed to take it as encouragement.

“I’m sorry I got so upset,” he continued. “It’s just that...those guys were...if I hadn’t gotten here, they might have…”

“Zuko,” Katara wiped the last of the tears from her face. “Were you worried about me?” The flush on Zuko’s face was just barely visible in the light of the crescent moon, but it was there. His shoulders went up around his ears and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

“I...I mean, it’s not like I want something bad to happen to you,” he said. “And they were...I...I didn’t want you to end up hurt. You’re part of my crew, and we’re supposed to watch out for each other.”

“I’ve never agreed to be part of your crew,” Katara sniffed distastefully. “But...I guess I don’t mind watching out for you.” Zuko’s mouth twitched up into a hint of a smile.

[fruitcoops]

I have a request. :) What if coops were watching a scary movie together and Sirius is getting actually scared so he is just trying not to watch and cuddle into Remus instead. But he is too embarrassed to ask Remus to turn it off so he just tries to suffer through it. You can decide if you want Remus to notice and turn it off and comfort him or not. Thank you for all of your amazing writing!

This is such a cute ask, and lots of fun to write! Thanks for suggesting it <3 Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, but Hattie is mine!

TW for mentioned blood and gore (in the movie) and general fear

“That’s a lot of blood,” Remus remarked.

Personally, Sirius thought that was a bit of an understatement considering the gorefest happening on the screen, but he had been terrified into silence twenty minutes before and simply nodded in response.

The shrieking, wailing, and rending of various body parts continued. Hattie whined and buried her nose further into the small of his back. Smart girl, Sirius thought, cuddling just slightly closer to Remus’ side. The horror movie had been a last-minute, pick something or we’ll both be frustrated decision—now, an hour into the worst television experience of his life, he regretted every choice he had made that led them to this spot.

He turned to place a kiss just below Remus’ ear. If it also served to hide his face from the literal demonic entity that just popped out of nowhere…well, that was nobody’s business but his own. “Hey, I’m kinda tired,” he mumbled, though every nerve was alight with fear and he wasn’t sure his eyelids would ever shut again.

“Oh?” Remus kept his gaze on the screen. I love you, but you confuse and terrify me.

“Mhmm. How much is left?”

Remus picked up the remote; half a second before he paused, one of the lead characters got fucking stabbed in the back by something that had not been there mere moments earlier. Sirius jolted, stifling a shout of surprise. Remus remained absolutely still. “Whew, that was a good one,” he said mildly as Sirius struggled to regain control of his stuttering heartbeat. “Just under fifty minutes left.”

Why am I doing this? Sirius wondered internally. I have nothing to prove.

“The effects are pretty impressive, huh?”

Sirius hummed vague assent.

“No CGI or anything. Pretty cool.”

“No, yeah, definitely.”

Bones weren’t supposed to do that. Kids certainly weren’t supposed to bend like that. Sirius’ mouth was drier than desert sand and he gave up on dignity, squishing himself as close as possible under the safe haven of Remus’ arm. “The, uh—” Remus was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream that froze Sirius from the inside out. He cleared his throat. “The—I heard the director has been trying to make this for ages. It was in the newspaper last week and everything.”

“Was it?” Sirius’ voice sounded weak even to his own ears.

“Uh-huh.” Please keep talking, please keep talking, please keep talking. “Sorry, I’m probably ruining this for you.”

“No, you’re all good.” You are the only thing keeping me from crawling under the blankets with the dog.

They lapsed back into silence and Sirius squeezed his eyes shut as what was left of the main group turned their backs to the basement. The creepy-ass door was going to open—yep, there’s the creak—and then they were going to go down the rickety staircase, and then everyone was either going to die or be traumatized for life. No matter how formulaic it was, Sirius still felt ice trickle down his spine.

The next forty-five minutes passed at a glacial pace. More blood than Sirius could have imagined spattered the set, and he had stopped trying to follow the plot entirely so he could zone out instead. “Ready for bed?” Remus asked as the credits rolled, sounding entirely unfazed. Hattie crawled into their laps with a soft snuffle. “Oh, lovey, were you scared?”

Yes. “Poor thing,” Sirius cooed with as much control as he could muster, lifting her up to hide his shaky arms. Remus ducked into the kitchen to put away the popcorn bowl; as soon as he was out of earshot, Sirius leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You and me both, ma petite. You’re sleeping on the bed with us tonight.”

“What?” Remus called from the kitchen.

“Oh, nothing.” He set Hattie down. “I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.”

Sirius made it to the base of the staircase, then paused. The hallway at the top was dark; fear prickled the back of his neck. There’s no such thing as demons, he told himself, grabbing the bannister. His palms were sweating. Nothing to be afraid of. “Honey?”

“Merde!” he yelped, letting go as if it had burned him.

Remus gave him a look of alarm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just—” He flailed a hand around, pulse pounding in his throat. “Just thought I saw a spider. Startled me.”

“…alright.”

He turned the lights on as soon as they reached the landing. Sirius had never been so grateful for the power of modern electricity. The hall was just as they had left it, looking ridiculously normal and unthreatening—embarrassment reddened his cheeks as he changed into his pajamas. Scared of your own house? Really?

Well, that wasn’t quite true—he wasn’t scared of the house itself, just the murderous entities that may or may not be living in the dryer vents. That was all.

He was feeling better until Remus turned the lights off and slipped into bed beside him, leaning over for a ‘goodnight’ kiss. “Sleep well, baby,” he said, resting his temple on Sirius’ shoulder.

“Love you.”

The trees swaying outside looked like long, bony fingers; if he concentrated, he could hear low weeping in the wind. Sirius felt an irrational fear rise when he tried to close his eyes and focus on Remus’ slow breaths—what if he woke up and there was something in the doorway? What if he had nightmares? What if his fear wasn’t irrational at all, and there was an omen he was missing—

“Sirius?”

“Yeah?” he whispered back.

Remus hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. “Can we turn the light on?”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Sirius said around a sigh of relief. “Yes. Also, please never suggest a horror movie ever again.”

“I hate them,” Remus confessed as they sat up. “I saw a commercial for The Conjuring in seventh grade and had nightmares for two full months.”

“Why did you recommend it?”

“I thought you liked them!”

“I was about to hide under the couch!” Sirius laughed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Mon dieu, that was the w—holy shit!”

The fuzzy thing under his foot made a high-pitched noise and moved; Sirius scrambled back with a strangled shout, nearly toppling them both over the other side. Remus clung to him as they both shrieked in sheer panic until the only sound was their heavy breathing. The shadow by the edge of the bed shifted again, then whined.

Sirius groaned, releasing his death grip. “Really, Hat Trick?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Viens ici.” He patted the side of the bed and the blob of inky black hopped up, then settled at the foot of the bed with an indignant huff. “Did I step on you?”

Hattie grumbled and stretched her long body across the mattress. Remus turned the bedside lamp on, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “Well, that was mortifying.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, but I don’t really want to go back downstairs.”

Remus laid on his back and held out his arms. “Cuddles?”

“You read my mind.”

They snuggled up to each other as tight as they could, leaving only a sliver of space between their bodies as Hattie warmed their feet. Sirius kissed the top of Remus’ head once before closing his eyes once more; they laid in silence for a moment longer, then let out twin sighs as he pulled the covers all the way up to their necks to create a cocoon of warmth and safety. The soft glow of the lamp chased away the shadows, and within a few minutes he fell into a dreamless sleep.

[catboycafe]

I Will Now Express Every Thought I Have About Pacific Rim: The Black 

⚠️ spoilers for the whole thing baby

I actually forgot Pacific Rim: The Black was premiering today until I saw it in an article this morning! When I first heard about it months ago, I was decidedly not sold on a Pacific Rim anime. Uprising burnt me the fuck out and I don’t have a lot of trust left in me for new entries to the franchise. But I had heard rumblings of Raleigh and Herc being referenced after going into #pacificrim and I decided I may as well check out to see what was up! I binged it in 4 hours and it sure was a whirlwind, I’ll tell ya

The Plot

I really enjoy the setting and initial concept! We’re so use to seeing Kaiju/Jaegar shenanigans play out within these major cities with helpless civilians everywhere that spending so much time in a lonesome desert and these destroyed civilizations was really cool and indicative of the changes Pacific Rim has undergone in the last few years. I also looooved the Desert Settlement from the beginning!! It seemed really homey and picturesque; I wish we’d spent more time with the other survivors and got to see more of their day to day aside from farming and sitting. 

I also found the first episode set up to be really tight and well written! I was hooked during the initial flashback, Hayley and Taylor’s fight was really poignant and well acted, and the reveal of Atlas Destroyer felt really huge and epic!!

But once we left the Desert Settlement and the plot started actually moving along, the pacing becomes suuuper rough. We spent way too long in Bogan with Shane and Mei; there’s only 7 episodes and we spent, like, 3? 4? within the confines of that camp and I felt it weighed the plot down. Boy is introduced in the 2nd episode and, because the narrative spends so much time on Shane’s evil machinations and Mei’s back story, we still don’t know anything concrete about his origins or purpose 3 episodes later! That felt frustrating to me

The story beats overall were very predictable. I was able to pick up on Mei’s backstory via her dynamic with Shane in their introductions, so her memories felt too built up and too hollow once they were revealed. The same with the reveal of Boy’s Kaiju form; he was in a big green test tube in a PPDC base - I assumed immediately he was a part-kaiju experiment and again his reveal felt hollow, especially after the glacial pace of it’s development. 

Even when events weren’t predictable, they lacked weight. The appearance of several Kaiju Breaches in “Boneyard” felt very cheap for some reason; I wasn’t scared and I didn’t feel tense about these odds mounting against the protagonists. This was just happening and I was just watching. 

The Art Direction and Animation

I’m very obsessed with all the new Kaiju we got from this; I love how Copperhead is rendered, they’re a joy to see on screen!! The Rippers are also very cute and deserve little plushies...i love these neat little dogs. Boy’s Kaiju Form is very intimidating with an interesting color palette and I loved seeing him next to Copperhead’s highly saturated design!

That’s unfortunately all that I liked however; All the human character design is unmemorable to me. Every character looks exactly like another easily identifiable anime character from a different property (Hayley looks exactly like Zero Suit Samus to me, for example. And Mei kept reminding me of both Bernadetta Fire Emblem and Motoko Kusanagi from GitS. The list goes on). 

I can sort of understand why they’re so bland? A franchise going from Live Action to something as heavily stylized as anime is probably a really difficult transition and these designs are probably meant to be more lowkey than more unique anime designs in order to help that transition. But realistically stylized designs can still be recognizable and unique! These feel uninspired and bare bones.

 I have no problem with the switch to CGI animation that modern anime is doing because I know it’s a lot cheaper to produce and it can still be really unique and striking! But The Black’s model animation felt very stilted and inconsistent. I don’t have a lot of knowledge about animating so I don’t think I can accurately describe what I disliked? Wooden is probably the best term. Character movements felt wooden and things like hair and clothes felt plastic. 

Impacts also had very little weight. The fight between Tayler/Mei and Copperhead reminded me of when you’re in a dream and trying to punch something, but you can’t punch hard. It was simply too floaty and too soft. The final showdown in “Showdown” was better, but not by much. It was very immersion breaking seeing these Giant Robots and Giant Monsters unable to throw a real solid hit!

Characters

My favorite character was unequivocally Joel Wyrick. We love Joel Wyrick in this house! Joel’s character has real charisma and charm. I love his flirtations with Loa, how his cocky disposition is juxtaposed with his drinking problem and later insecurities over his lost memories, and his genuine kindness shown to Mei, Taylor, and Boy. No one ever plays with Boy, they just run after him and drag him around...but Joel has this moment in “Escape from Bogan” where he kneels down to Boy and helps him collect rocks. It was sweet!

So of course, when Joel dies for absolutely no reason 5 minutes later - pissed! I was pissed! I yelled “COME ON” aloud in my studio apartment! I was genuinely so excited to see him interact more with the rest of cast then, poof. No More Joel.

His death felt like it was for shock value to me rather than actual narrative development. Why kill him when we still don’t fully understand his and Mei’s relationship? Why were they so close? Were they childhood friends, or just coworkers that happen to become friends? Why did he specifically know all the details of Shane’s abuse towards Mei before she did? 

What did his death accomplish? It made Mei sad...ok? She was already...very sad. Her running away from Shane already had consequences - the consequences of Shane coming after them for revenge in the future. Why did Joel have to become a causality? 

His death is ultimately tied to Mei’s character arc which is, unfortunately, my least favorite :c I find Mei to be a really one dimensional character with a personality, backstory, outlook, and motivation that I’ve seen done a million times before with a million other characters. She feels very out of place in the franchise as a whole - Pacific Rim is, at it’s core, a story about connecting with others. Her self-centric arc and lack of desire to connect outside of drifting really alienates her from the story at large and it frustrates me how long The Black’s narrative spends on her. 

Hayley and Taylor were otherwise very interesting in the pilot episode, but become similarly one dimensional at the story chugs on. Taylor’s unflinching (bordering on unhealthy) faith in their parents was really interesting next to Hayley’s complete acceptance of their parents’ death. But once the two of them make up their differences, they lack an interesting dynamic and become very passive protagonists.

 Taylor especially has no personality - how would you describe Taylor? He’s...brave. He’s the older brother. He’s a leader? He’s nice? There is nothing noteworthy about him at all, which is sad considering I think he has the potential to be a really interesting way to explore the original movie’s influence on The Black’s story.

Hayley’s grief and self-blame are more interesting than Taylor’s...nothingness, but she still falls into this one-note trope of being the naive, excitable little sister. I guess I feel abnormally frustrated about this flat character writing because Pacific Rim’s incredibly unique cast has always been an inspiration to me! It feels sad that this new iteration into the series is full of what feel like stock characters. 

Then we get to Boy. How come Boy can’t have a person name? It’s specifically written in a dialogue between Taylor and Hayley: “I’m not going to call him Chad or Barnaby or one of those names for a baby brother you wanted as a kid,”

Why?

He’s by all accounts a human child when they find him. Yes, he was found in a big green test tube - but he walks and acts just like a human child. The only difference, seemingly, is that he is non-verbal and engages in strange/annoying behavior (running off, eating bugs, etc). So he isn’t deserving of a name?? I don’t know why that makes me so mad, it just does. it’s like they refuse to treat him as a human even before they find out he’s a Kaiju  - it’s super weird! How can the story sell me on the three of them becoming found family (like they’re seemingly trying to do) if the protagonists won’t even treat this kid like a kid??

Misc. Thoughts

The callbacks to Stacker, Herc, and Raleigh were cool! I also like that Herc is a major plot point! We love Herc Hanson and it’s what he deserves. I also find Loa’s connection to Horizon Bravo very interesting...and the fact we’re getting Kaiju cultist lore! Love that! Love that!

Fucked up that the only two dark skinned characters were: 1) removed from the story 10 minutes in with no call back yet, 2) Killed after having 1 line of dialogue and fridged for the character development of the blonde white girl. I really need to know what the deal with those 4 characters leaving in the beginning was about - I absolutely thought we’d see them again by now, but no dice

I don’t know how to feel about Ajax and have no clue what their purpose in the story is. They’re cool, but whats the point? 

If Mei and Taylor are paired up together romantically, I’m putting Craig Kyle and Greg Johnson in the time out box. Very tired of seeing random hetero romance B plots in stories that can’t even get their A plots together

Overall, it’s kind of subpar! It has the foundations of a really interesting story, but the pacing and characters really took me out of it. I’m interested in Season 2! I know season 2 is already ordered and I’d love to see how things continue to develop, see if the character writing gets any better - but I’m not too hopeful unfortunately. I really really love Pacific Rim after all these years and I’m happy to still be getting content and world building! There’s just sooo much I would change about this however. At least fanfiction’s free! 

Thanks for reading all this, I have ADHD and just go on and on if u let me. hmu if You Too have thoughts about Pacific Rim: The Black and have no one to talk abt them with

[refinedbuffoonery]

Flawless (1)

A Heist/Ocean’s 8 AU // Masterlist 

This story has been rattling around in my head for months now, and I’m so excited to finally share it with you! I’ve been describing this as an Ocean’s 8 AU, but it’s based more on the concept of the movie than the actual plot, although a few of the basic scenes are the same. Regardless, I have big plans for these girls. Content warnings for this fic are listed on the masterlist (link above). 

*****

“Good morning,” the parole officer said. “Please state your name for the record.” 

“Riley Davis.” 

“Thank you. Miss Davis, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether you are likely to break the law again if released. According to the record, this is your first conviction, and you have never been suspect in another criminal investigation. During your time in prison, you kept to yourself and were well behaved.” The man looked up from her file. “As you know, parole is not a right. Parole is an immense privilege, Miss Davis, one you should not take lightly.” 

“I agree,” she said. 

“Good. What would you do if released?” 

Riley paused, thinking through her answer. “I would settle down, find a good job, fall in love, maybe have kids. I’ve learned my lesson, sir. It was a mistake. Now all I want is to lead a simple, happy life.” She placed one hand over the other, crossing her fingers on her covered hand. 

He squinted at her for a long time, like he was trying to read her mind. Riley painted her face in remorse. After several minutes, the parole officer relented and, apparently satisfied with her answers, said, “Very well.” 

Riley breathed a sigh of relief. By the end of the day, she’d be free. 

The officer continued, “The following are the conditions of your parole. You will report to me, in person, every two weeks until your parole period has ended. You may not cross state lines without my express permission. You must find and maintain steady employment. You may not use drugs or alcohol, nor enter any drinking establishments. You may not possess firearms or other weapons, and you may not associate with other persons with criminal records. In addition, you must obey all federal, state, and local laws, and generally be an upstanding citizen. If you do not follow these rules, Miss Davis, you will find yourself back in custody. Do I make myself clear?” 

Riley nodded. So close. “Yes, sir.” 

Extending his hand, the parole officer said, “Congratulations, Miss Davis. You are now a conditionally free woman.” 

“Thank you.” Riley shook his hand. 

The rest was all a blur. One minute she was sitting in a cold, metal chair with her wrists cuffed to a table, and before she knew it, Riley found herself changing out of her atrocious orange jumpsuit and pulling on skinny jeans and her buttery soft black leather jacket. Wearing real clothes didn’t hide the fact that she looked like shit, but in that moment Riley didn’t care. She was getting out of prison. 

After two years, one month, and four days, she was finally being released from prison. 

Two officers walked her to the exit. Opening the door, Riley squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight. She found herself in one last cage of chain-link fences with coils of barbed wire arching over the tops, and Riley quickened her steps through the open gate in front of her. 

A familiar face waited in the parking lot, perched on the back of a motorcycle. “Welcome back,” Nikki Carpenter said. The pair shared a conspiratorial grin. 

Riley hadn’t known who the officers called to pick her up, but perhaps her best friend coming to take her home was the universe’s repayment for the last two years. Nikki handed Riley a helmet before putting on her own and swinging her leg over the sleek, white bike. 

Riley started to put the helmet on and hesitated. She turned, looking back at the concrete cage she’d spent the last two years of her life in. Even though her sentence was only three years, the nagging voice in the back of her mind had reminded her every day that she might not make it out. Taking a shaky breath, Riley vowed to herself that she would die before finding herself on the wrong side of those fences and walls again. 

Never again. No matter what. 

Nikki must’ve noticed her hesitation, because she rested a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “You okay?” 

Still facing the prison, Riley couldn’t form the words to respond. 

“Hey. Thank you,” Nikki added softly. 

Riley didn’t want to deal with the implications of that ‘thank you.’ Not yet. Finally tearing her eyes away, she said, “Let’s get out of here.”

*****

“God, I need a drink,” Riley said as soon as they entered Nikki’s cozy two-bedroom apartment. Located in the heart of downtown LA, it was on the top floor of her building, so Nikki wasn’t subject to loud overhead neighbors stomping and dropping things in the middle of the night, but the elevator moved at a glacial pace and descending twelve flights of stairs was a bitch. Riley preferred residences that were easier to vacate—in case of emergency or unfortunate run-in with the feds—but it was nice enough. 

Nikki raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t avoiding alcohol a condition of your parole?” 

Riley shot her a withering glare and strode into the kitchen. She opened the white-painted cabinet above the stove, revealing Nikki’s extensive stockpile of wine and hard liquor, and dug around until she found the mason jar full of moonshine hidden in the back. Taking a big swig, Riley held Nikki’s gaze, daring her best friend to try to stop her. 

Nikki simply opened the fridge, pulled out some sort of leftovers, and put them in the microwave. While she waited, Nikki studied her. This is what it feels like to be an animal at the zoo, Riley thought as she squirmed under her friend’s scrutiny, crossing her arms over her chest. Riley took another big gulp of moonshine, letting the clear liquid burn her throat and make her stomach churn. 

The microwave beeped. Nikki grabbed a fork and the food and held it out to Riley. Content to doom herself to the worst hangover of her life, Riley shook her head in dismissal. 

“Eat,” Nikki commanded. She tugged on the waistband of Riley’s jeans. “You and I both know those weren’t mom jeans when you bought them.” 

Riley blinked. She’d eaten less while in prison, but it never seemed like a big deal. But the way Nikki was looking at her...she might as well have turned into a skeleton. Suddenly self-conscious, Riley obediently traded her drink for the food—lasagna, she realized—and settled onto the couch. 

After two years of cardboard-flavored prison food, the lasagna tasted like heaven. 

Riley waited until Nikki was mid-gulp before announcing, “I’ve got a plan.” Her best friend nearly choked. “Want to help me get the gang back together?” 

“What’s your plan?” Nikki ground out between coughs. 

Riley grinned. “I figure it’s time we go on that little trip to Paris we’ve always talked about.” 

Nikki shook her head. “Damn, you’re one crazy bitch, Riley Davis. You know that?” She paused, contemplating. “I’m in.” Handing back the moonshine, Nikki added, “But tonight, I say we get drunk and celebrate your freedom. Deal?” 

“Deal.” 

Thirty minutes in, they’d finished the whole jar of moonshine, and Riley’s head spun. She stumbled into the kitchen in search of water, suddenly grateful Nikki had made her eat a substantial meal before drinking. 

“So,” Riley slurred. “How’s it going with that boyfriend of yours? The cute blonde one.” 

Nikki groaned. “You mean the big fat liar? Fabulous.” 

“So it all blew up in smoke.” 

“You have no idea.” Nikki shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth. “Anyway, I’m back to being single, but Sam and Desi are still as insufferable as ever.” 

“Think they’ll get married?” 

“No way. That’s just one more thing they’d have to deal with if they ever have to fake their own deaths.” 

“On the contrary,” Riley drawled, “they should take out disgustingly large life insurance policies and then take turns faking their deaths every time they run out of money.” The idea sounded flawless to her drunk brain. “I’ll help them with their new identities for a cut.” 

“How big?” 

“Twenty percent.” 

Nikki snorted. “Like they’d ever agree to that.” 

Riley snuggled up to Nikki as they settled in to watch a movie, ducking under Nikki’s arm and using her boobs as a pillow. As Riley’s eyes caught Nikki’s laptop charging on a nearby table, her friend’s babbling about what chick-flick to watch faded into white noise. Riley’s fingers twitched. It’d been too long since she had the comfort of a keyboard beneath the pads of her fingers—since she felt powerful, the way Riley always did when armed with a computer. 

Too long, in fact, since she’d had any agency at all. Riley banished the thought before Nikki could notice where her attention had wandered. 

The movie turned out to be one they’d seen a thousand times, but Riley didn’t mind. Honestly, she needed the familiarity, not that she would admit that to Nikki. Even drunk, Riley loathed to reveal any sort of weakness, no matter how small and insignificant. 

Nikki pinched her side. “You’re brooding. Stop it.” Riley grumbled, but she let the movie distract her all the same. 

When the credits rolled, Riley glanced up at Nikki and found her friend already staring down at her as she rubbed Riley’s head. That caged animal feeling resurfaced. It was moments like these when Riley hated how well Nikki knew her, making it that much harder to hide everything going on in her head. 

In an attempt to escape, she said, “I’m thirsty. Let’s celebrate.” Riley forced a giggle as she walked back to the kitchen, grabbing two wine glasses from the cabinet. Everything in Nikki’s kitchen was exactly where it was two years ago, the layout as familiar to her as her own. Did she still have her own? Riley was too drunk to remember what happened to the spacious penthouse apartment of a convicted felon. 

“Riles, nooooooooo,” Nikki whined. “We are so drunk already. We cannot drink any more.” 

“Relax.” Riley rummaged through the fridge, pulling out the milk and a bottle of chocolate sauce. She filled the wine glasses with milk, then added an ungodly amount of chocolate, giggling again when the bottle made a fart noise. Riley didn’t mix it very well, but she was too drunk to care. “Your chocolate milk, milady.” She held out the better mixed of the two, keeping the worse one for herself. Nikki accepted. 

Riley held up her glass in a toast. “To freedom,” she said. “And doing whatever the fuck we want.”

*****

“Phone,” Riley demanded the next morning. Nikki handed hers over without even looking up from the scrambled eggs she was making. Riley unlocked it on the first try. “You haven’t changed your password in the last two years? C’mon, you know better than that!” 

“My password is twenty-nine characters long! I don’t think anyone is going to…Wait you still remember it?” 

Riley scrolled through Nikki’s contacts with one hand, the other busy stuffing her face with toast. “Obviously,” she said through a mouthful of cinnamon swirl bread. 

“Damn,” Nikki muttered, turning back to her eggs. 

Riley found the name she was looking for. Desi Nguyen. The call nearly went to voicemail before the woman on the other end snarled, “What?” 

Riley couldn’t help her grin. “I’m out, and I’ve got a job.” 

“Good for you. Let me know how long you last living the clean life.” 

“No, you jackass. A job. You in?” 

Desi didn’t even hesitate. “Hell yeah I’m in.” 

“Great,” Riley said, “and since I’m assuming Cage’s mouth is too occupied to answer, tell her I say hello.”

“Fuck off,” Desi growled, but it came out just a tad breathless. She hung up before Riley could make a snarky comment about being right. 

“So,” Nikki asked. She dumped the scrambled eggs on two plates. “Are they in?” 

“They’re in.” Riley smirked, gratefully accepting her plate. She sat down at the kitchen table and resumed scrolling through Nikki’s contacts. Riley reached the bottom of the list, but the name she was looking for wasn’t there. Riley checked again to make sure she hadn’t overlooked it. 

“Why isn’t Leanna’s number in your phone?” Nikki kept eating. “Nik,” Riley pressed. “Why don’t you have her number? What happened while I was...gone?” If Nikki noticed how she’d stumbled over the last word, her friend didn’t let on. 

“Leanna got out. Got clean. She’s CIA now.” Nikki’s cold stare was clear. Do not ask me about this again. 

“Oh.” Riley hadn’t seen that coming. “How the hell did she pull that off?” 

“She’s good at making people disappear,” Nikki said matter-of-factly. “Guess she finally used her skills on herself.” There was more Nikki wasn’t saying, but Riley didn’t push her. 

They ate their scrambled eggs in silence. 

As she cleared their plates, Nikki said, “So tell me about this plan of yours. Are we really doing it?” 

“If by ‘it’ you mean the heist of a lifetime, then yes. We are absolutely doing it.” Riley swung her feet onto Nikki’s now-vacated chair. “I had two long years to figure out exactly how to pull it off. All I need now is my team.” 

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “Your team? Last I checked, the Five Eyes were our team.” 

Rolling her eyes, Riley snarked, “Semantics.” 

“Whatever.” Nikki was clearly upset, but Riley couldn’t bring herself to care. “I’m going to take a shower.” 

“Don’t drown,” Riley replied automatically. 

As soon as she heard the rush of water moving through the pipes, Riley snatched Nikki’s laptop. Once again, the password was still the same. Nikki took long showers, so Riley figured she had at least thirty minutes to find the information she needed. 

Hacking into the CIA’s employee database was all too easy for someone like Riley Davis. She practically had the secrets of the universe at her fingertips, but Riley didn’t waste time snooping. All she cared about was one name: Leanna Martin.

[elenajohansenreads]

Bookoween Book Review / Books I Read in 2020

Curses - why does it fit this prompt? The town goes into witchcraft hysteria when a child turns up murdered with a suspicious mark on his shoulder, and even once a “witch” is chosen, imprisoned, and tortured, the townsfolk are fearful of her supposed power when bad things continue to happen and more children are killed.

#150 - The Hangman's Daughter, by Oliver Potzsch, illustrated by M.S. Corley

Around the Year in 52 Books: A book related to witches

The Reading Frenzy: Read a book featuring witches or magic users

Mount TBR: 129/150

Rating: 2/5 stars

First, the best thing: I did not know there was such a thing as a "Kindle in Motion" book that has animated illustrations, so when I started this I was pleasantly surprised to find them, and I really loved the art style. Anytime I flicked a page over and found a new one, I was delighted.

Too bad I didn't think the story deserved the effort, though. This plot did not need to be nearly 450 pages long, maybe 300 at most. The story moved at a glacially slow pace, because it often took a character an entire page to perform one simple action, and many conversations between different sets of characters retread information I, as a reader, already had. The prose was plodding and simplistic, and the author over-relied on epithets stylistically, even for characters who had names; though in fairness, many didn't, "the devil" in particular. But why was "the hangman" or "the midwife" or "the hangman's daughter" or "the physician's son" so prevalent when we know their names are Jakob, Martha, Magdalena, and Simon?

In addition, the scenes jumped from character to character in different locations abruptly, often without any sort of scene break, which made the narrative difficult to follow in places. I would be following Simon along his tramping through the forest, then next paragraph, I'm with Sophie in her hiding place; this isn't a movie, it's a novel, smash cuts don't work mid-scene without something to tell me I've changed locations, like a scene break.

Overall, the writing struck me as amateurish, and as historical fiction, more concerned with accuracy and detail as proof of research than it was with plot and character.

At halfway through, I made the decision to skim instead of fully read, and I don't regret it.

As for the plot, it's not complicated, witchcraft is a sensationalized smokescreen for what's really going on, and several key points are fairly predictable, though I didn't solve the overall "mystery" myself. (I'm not particularly torn up about my failure to, because I wasn't deeply invested.) Also, I'm on record disliking this about several other books, and it's equally true here--why is this titled "The Hangman's Daughter" when she's nearly the least important character? She's barely in the book for the first half, and in the second half she's mostly an object, for Simon to lust after, for Jakob to yell at, for the villains to kidnap. She's not interesting, she's not vital to the central plot, but she's the title, for some reason.

I did not enjoy this, I do not recommend it, and I won't be continuing the series.

[d3-iseefire]

Nevermore Chapter Two

Five Years Later - 

Bilba pasted a smile on her face, and lifted the pastry box over the counter. “Here you go, Ma’am. Enjoy.”

The woman, a middle-aged blonde who apparently loved bright colors and oversized sunglasses, smiled brightly. “Thanks. My daughter is going to love it.”

She spun and wound her way through the round white tables and lattice work chairs of the small bakery. 

The second she vanished through the door into the fading light outside, Bilba’s smile vanished. Quietly, she walked around the register and went to the door. She flipped the “open” sign over to “closed” and, with a quick turn of her wrist, locked the door. 

She moved slowly through the room, wiping the tables down and putting the chairs up. The display case had already been emptied so she closed out the register and flipped the lights off. Gloom settled over the room and Bilba suppressed a shiver.

Clutching the money bag far too tightly, she pushed through the double doors into the back of the bakery. Here, her co-workers were chatting animatedly as they finished cleaning the room and prepping for the very early morning they would have getting baked goods ready for the day. 

Bilba headed to the small office where her boss, Bombur Urson, was scribbling away in a ledger. She placed the money bag on the desk, coins and paper money rustling and clinking inside, and turned to go. 

“Bilba?” Bombur’s quiet voice stopped her mid-step. “A few of us are going to Arkenstone for a bit. Would you like to join us?”

Bilba put the smile back on, or hoped she did anyway. It had been so long since she’d have a real one that she sometimes forgot what muscles to use. It was impossible for her to tell anymore if what she was doing was smiling, or grimacing.

“Sorry. I have plans.” The lie slid out easily, She’d said it enough times over the last five years, to co-workers, bosses, neighbors in whatever community she’d been living in. They tended to blur together after a while, a murky mass of faces and voices asking her to take part, join in. Belong. 

As if she deserved any of that. 

As if she could have it even if she wanted it. 

Bombur didn’t seem surprised. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.” Definitely not. Bilba kept the smile on a few more seconds, and then left the office. Back in the kitchen area, none of her colleagues so much as spared her a glance. Over the two weeks that she’d been there they’d already learned that her response to any personal questions would be vague, and her answer to invitations a polite no. Bombur was the only one to continue to ask, longer than most did, but he’d give up eventually. 

They always did. 

She retrieved her coat and purse from her small locker and pushed through the back door into the brisk fall air. The back of the bakery butted up to a wide open plan and, in the distance, she could see tall, snow capped mountains reaching toward the sky. 

Sometimes, she had to fight a desire to just start walking toward them even though, rationally, she knew they were a lot farther away than they looked. 

She headed around the corner of the building, to the small parking lot in front. The area was newer construction, with wide streets and white bricked buildings with beautiful landscaping that blended into the environment. 

Most of the buildings were only a story or two, a sharp contrast to the densely packed skyscrapers that seemed to just spring out of the ground only a few blocks away. The city state of Erebor liked nature as much as anyone, but they had a firm belief in the idea that everything had its place. The city proper for business with high buildings and narrow streets, and the outskirts and other territories for a slower, more comfortable paced life. 

Bright lights flashed in her vision and Bilba looked across the street to the exception to that rule. Arkenstone, a multi-story entertainment complex that housed everything from a food court, to shopping, a movie theater and, she was told, a very exclusive high end nightclub on the top floor. 

One would think the place wouldn’t do as well, located on the edge of the city as it was and well away from the nightlife center, but the exact opposite was true. Arkenstone played to the exhausted employee, straight off a full shift and wanting to relax a little before going home. Arkenstone allowed them to literally stop by on the way, and to be mere minutes away when the full weight of their day finally hit and all they wanted was a soft bed and their most comfortable pajamas. 

Or so claimed the city’s official website anyway. Personally, Bilba imagined the rumor that Arkenstone was personally owned and operated by Erebor’s ruling family was the greatest allure. She doubted the royals had ever set foot in the place, but the fantasy of bumping into one of them was probably a pretty strong selling point. 

The lights flashed again and she frowned at the giant, diamond shaped...disco diamond? Whatever it was called, the thing was massive, the top reaching over the roof of the building and the pointed bottom ending just above the front doors. It reminded her a little of some of the sparkly balls that various places would drop on New Year’s to ring in the next year. The only difference was this one didn’t move, and it was there all year round. 

She’d heard that the color patterns that flashed every hour from the...whatever...were truly spectacular at night, but she had no plans of ever seeing them. 

A shiver ran over her, as if by simply thinking about the dark she might inadvertently summon it. She looked up, a habit now as ingrained as breathing, to see the sun well past its zenith but not yet officially setting. 

It was going down earlier and earlier as the days clicked toward winter. 

She hated it. 

It would soon be dark as soon as she got up, and dark by the time she finished work. The night was not her friend, hadn’t been for five years now. She tried, as best she could, to get shifts that would allow her to be out only during the day but sometimes, and especially in the later months, it was simply not possible. 

She fumbled her key into the lock of her car, opened the door, and slid in. The worn seats had almost no padding and she could feel the sharp edges of springs poking through tears in the fabric covering.  

The seats hadn’t been ripped when she’d gotten the car. 

She got the key in the ignition, sent up a silent prayer, and turned it. The engine sputtered for a few seconds and  then, mercifully, turned over into an almost smooth rumble. 

Bilba wrapped her hands around the wheel and clenched her fingers until the cracked leather creaked under her fingers. She shut her eyes and let out a long breath. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Okay.”

She opened her eyes. Her heart began to thud in her chest, an action now so familiar to her that it felt strange when she couldn’t feel it. An uncomfortable sensation ran through her gut, and a cold sweat broke out on her brow. 

In a movement so slow it was nearly glacial, she pushed up until her eyes peeked over the bottom edge of her rearview mirror. 

The relief she felt at seeing the backseat empty almost brought tears to her eyes. It was quickly erased by the near constant low grade anxiety forever buzzing just under her skin but, for an instant, the relief was nice. It made her feel almost normal. 

Or at least helped her get back a tiny remembrance of what normal had once felt like. 

She backed out of her parking spot, and caught sight of her co-workers and boss on their way to Arkenstone. Bombur gave her a friendly wave and Bilba sent a hesitant one back. It didn’t occur to her until after she’d put her hand down that she’d completely forgotten to fake a smile. 

She pulled into the exit and flipped her signal on, preparing to head toward the city. She’d rented a house this time around, on the very edge of the city where her view out one window was a skyscraper and peaceful suburbia out the other. 

She usually went for apartments, but after what had happened the last time…

She shuddered, and suddenly the house was the last place she wanted to be. The thought of being trapped inside those four walls, in silence, waiting...

Before she could talk herself out of it, she flipped her blinker to signal the opposite direction, looked both ways and then pulled out onto the street. She didn’t know where she was going, just that she was going.

As she got further away from the city, the smatterings of business and strip malls gave way to homes, but not like the simple, tract like homes that lay just outside the city. No, these were the wealthy folk who lived in towering mansions with sloping, manicured lawns, and curving driveways. 

Many of them worked in the city’s palace, built into an actual mountain that served as the border between Erebor and its closest neighbor. Bilba had caught glimpses of it as she’d traveled through the city a time or two, but had never bothered to get close enough to see its entirety. There were tours apparently that people could take through the gardens and some of the ground floors but she doubted she’d have a chance to go on any of them. 

She wouldn’t be here long enough. 

The fancy homes began to peter out as she drove further, and then suddenly she was past them and the land opened up to a...a park?

On both sides of the road were rolling carpets of carefully mowed grass, and plotted out bushes. A wide, rock lined walking path meandered through, bordered on one side by the open spaces and the other by densely packed trees. 

An empty parking lot came into view and Bilba pulled into it, parked, and shut off the engine. Silence set in and, for several minutes, she didn’t move. Finally, she clicked off her seatbelt, opened the door and stepped out. 

The air was cool but still, and the light scent of pine hung in the air. Bilba crossed her arms, hunched her shoulders and headed up into the grassy area. 

Now what? 

She’d had no plan other than not going to the rental house, and now that she’d...arrived, she had no idea what to do. She had no book or anything else with her, and it was too late to consider using the walking trail for anything more than a very short walk. 

She idly wandered over to the trail, and was surprised at how beautiful it was. It was wide enough for several people to walk side by side, lined in white rock and filled with what looked like crushed granite. She stepped on it, and felt the satisfying crunch of the rock under her shoes. 

A peace like she hadn’t felt in years settled over her. The ground on the far side of the trail, leading into the forest, sloped up and she went to sit on the retaining wall holding the earth back from collapsing onto the trail. 

The wall was made of white stone and stood about what was probably waist high to an average sized person. Bilba had to brace her hands on the ledge and push up to sit on it, leaving her feet dangling well above the dirt path. 

She planted her hands on either side of her, closed her eyes and let out a breath. 

The sputter of a car engine broke the silence. 

Bilba’s eyes snapped open, and her heart leapt into her throat. 

A truck was driving slowly down the road that ran through the park. In the front cab, Bilba spotted a middle-aged man with dark hair and sunglasses. 

Please keep driving, she thought. Please keep driving. 

The truck turned into the same entrance she’d used and pulled up next to her car. As the man clambered out, Bilba instinctively scrambled up until she was standing on the low wall. 

It was fine, she told herself. He was just there to enjoy the day, like she was. It just so...happened that he’d shown up minutes after her...in a very isolated spot....where he’d chosen to park next to her in an otherwise empty lot…

Yavanna, how could she be so stupid?

“Hey!” the man called out to her, raising a hand in a half wave. “What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” Bilba lied. She desperately wanted to get back in her car and leave, but he’d moved so he was standing in front of it. She’d have to walk past him, and she wasn’t about to do that.

“Nice to meet you, Sarah.” The man sauntered forward. Something about his eyes, about the way he moved, reminded her of a snake slithering across the grass, or of a panther stalking its prey.

She’d gotten very good at recognizing both over the last five years. 

She backed up, off the wall and onto the ground where it sloped up behind her, toward the trees and forest behind her. She hoped it was a forest anyway. If it were nothing but a small copse of trees…

“Hey, now,” the man said, coming to a stop on the grassy area before the path. “Where are you going?”

“I’m looking for my dog,” Bilba blurted. “He ran away.” Maybe, maybe if he thought she had a pet, or something, he’d leave her alone. Cold raced through her, and she could feel her heart thumping against her ribs. Adrenaline surged in her bloodstream, and pushed her to either fight, or take flight. 

The man grinned, a predatory look that reminded her of a shark circling. So many animals contained within the skin of one man, and all of them predators. “I’ll help you look. What’s his name?”

He took another step forward. Bilba’s breath caught in her throat and she turned to scramble up the hill, desperate to put more distance between her and him. The ground sloped up so sharply that it was all she could do to keep her feet. She was forced almost to her hands and knees, clawing at dirt and grass as she pulled herself up the hill. 

“Ah, come on now,” the man said behind her, sounding bored. “Don’t be like that. I just want to be friends.”

Bilba grabbed onto a tree root rising from the earth, and used it to drag herself up. The motion got her to a more level section of ground at the top of the slope. 

Behind her, the man laughed. “Hope you find your dog. I’ll wait here until you get back.”

Bilba didn’t answer. Instead she plunged into the trees, and put on speed in case he changed his mind and decided to come after her. 

With every step she took she mentally kicked herself. What had she been thinking? Why had she come out here? She knew better. Didn’t she have enough to deal with without--

She never got the chance to finish the thought. It was darker inside the trees, with the canopy overhead blocking out much of the sunlight and leaving everything shrouded in shadow. 

Much darker, and she was distracted. So much so that she never even noticed when the ground suddenly sloped down again, or at least she didn’t notice until she’d already stepped one foot too far. 

Suddenly, there was nothing but open air beneath her. She barely had a chance to gasp before she was falling. 

She hit the ground hard, and then she was rolling downhill. Rocks, branches, and debris sliced and stabbed through her clothing, sending hot pricks of pain racing through her. Bilba threw her hands over her head, trying to protect herself. She frantically hoped there wasn’t a drop off at the bottom, or a tree branch just waiting for her to break a few ribs against it. 

She hit something, hard, and, just like that, her forward motion stopped dead. 

For several long moments, she stayed exactly as she was, on her stomach, face pressed into the dirt, trying to catch her breath. Her body trembled in the aftermath of the shock it had taken, and her breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps. She hurt all over, especially her right ankle which burned as if she’d managed to scrape all the skin off, but she didn’t think she’d been seriously injured. 

She put her hand out, hoping to push herself up onto her knees. Her hair had come loose from its ponytail and fell around her face like a fan, obscuring her vision. Her right hand flailed out, reaching for whatever had stopped her fall in the hopes it could serve as a support to help her regain her footing. 

Her hand encountered fur. 

Bilba stopped moving. 

She stopped breathing. 

She was pretty sure her heart stopped beating in her chest. 

Under her hand, the fur rose and fell with the steadiness of breathing which meant that, whatever she’d landed against, was definitely not some dead animal carcass left by….she didn’t want to know what. 

Please be a deer, she thought. A really nice deer who was perhaps raised by humans, and had saved her in the spirit of human/animal friendship. 

Please. 

Please.

Please, be a deer. 

Slowly she turned her head, not a lot, just enough to look out of the corner of her eye. Get a glimpse through the curtain of her own hair. 

Just enough to see --

It wasn’t a deer.

It was a wolf.

The biggest she’d ever seen. 

And it was staring right back at her.

Continue Reading on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298015/chapters/66695635

[popculturebuffet]

Ducktales Reboot Recap Reviews!: The Rumble For Ragnarok!

The Family wrassles for the fate of the universe as The Million Dollar Mallard , takes on the people’s champ. Dewey grapples with the perils of x-pac heat, while Huey grapples with the commentary booth and Launchpad actually knowing something. IT’s time for Ragnarok N Wrestling under the cut! 

Heloooo and welcome. IT’s your boy jacob mattingly here as always with... nobody. I just wanted to refrence OSW review. Anyway today’s crack is an episode that like the last two I looked forward to and did not disapoint. Admitley this is because i’m a casual wrestling fan; while I like things taking a shot at wrestling more than actually watching it (though if I had acess to AEW that’d change), I do highly respect the sport, and yes even if the winners are deterimined ahead of time and everything’s scripted it’s still a sport. Besides the obvious fact many have been injured and some killed or paralyzed doing it,  it takes a lot of effort to do it, injuries can happen even if your doing eveyrthing right just by freak accident, and you sometimes have to work AROUND said injuries to change the finish. And that’s not getting into not having any control about how sucessful you’ll be no matter how good you do if the bosses simply don’t like you or having to work though mounds of pain or other bullshit. The point is, these fine men, women and non-binary persons work their asses off so yes I felt it necessary to take a paragraph to honor that.  This episode itself does a good job too: it GETS why wrestling works and works it good. The premise is simple ish: Scrooge has decided to take his nephews and niece with him to his once a decade bout with Jormangadr, a nice call back to Last Christmas! and i’m glad we elaborated on that. And as you probably know, it turns out in the duckverse, vikings invented pro wrasslin. The why is really good and is why I don’t mind this episode despite the pacing this season being eh: While the plot’s moved pretty glacially the theme of legacy has been baked into every episode: From what it’s worth, to people creating a legacy for you, the theme has been far stronger this season than the past two , and it was strong there and it makes up for the main plot taking it’s sweet ass time to get anywhere. Here it’s at it’s strongest: Scrooge is aware that while he can still add a decade or two magically, he’s not immortal and won’t always be there. He knows he needs to pass the torch.. and thus he knows that by the next time this would roll around it’d be the kids turn. As for why not his actual children, I actually like the justifcation for not including donald and della as it works: “They can’t cooperate on a jigsaw puzzle much less the fate of the world”. Which.. is 100% true. The two love each other clearly.. but they couldn’t go thorugh a space battle for the fate of earth without squabbling, HOURS after reuniting after a decade. Their first interaction was screaming at each other. While their good siblings.. their still siblings. The triplets, while still prone to sibling fights are easier to work as a team, probably because there’s always a third to break up a fight, and now there’s a 4th in webby, it’s much easier to trouble shoot than with two grown ass adults who have fought their entire lives and aren’t going to stop now even if they do care about one another.  As it also turns out Scrooge is playing the heel, which he’s a natural at and does easily. And that’s part of the charm here: they do what MANY wrestling movies, tv episodes and what not have trouble with: what’s real and what’s kayfabe. Here the fight’s entirely a shoot, and suspension of disbleief on moves that would take coperation is easy because these ducks are badass and their fighting a pig, hella and son, and a world serpent that can shapeshift from actual serpent to sexy snake man. It dosen’t have to make perfect sense. But the ducks still play rolls because Scrooge knows his place here, and knows his crowd: To them, JOrmangadr winning means the end of humanity and a bigger world for them in vallhalla with quintillions joining them. While Team Earth knows it’ll be terrible, the only earthlings present are our family. So Scrooge is more than willing to be the million dollar mallard and put on a good show and play the bad guy. However things quickly go pear shaped as Scrooge, after winning the first matc against a pig guy with super strength granting hair, gets a chair shot and has to rely on the kids... and is down to half of them at that since Louie, the second he realizes theris a merch table, gets to work selling, even working the crowd with anti-scrooge and dewey shirts, while Huey settles into commentary with Launchpad. It’s now up to Webby, Dewey and Scrooge’s reinfrocments he called because he knew Dewey would probably maybe fail completely in beakly to save the earth.  But before we get back to that i’ll get to the commentary subplot real quick: It’s fucking hilarious and I like not only reuniting huey and launchpad, as their commentary in missing links was fucking great, but reversiing it: Golf is a very structured sport Huey likely had lots of time to study. Here, without checking his guidebook oddly but he probably simply didn’t have time and by the time he did felt discoruged, and without prep, i’ts launchpad, whose a huge fan of wrestling, whose the expert. Launchpad, being more instinctual and spur of the moment is able to combine his knowledge with his entusasim and be a hell of a commentator. It’s only when Louie advises Huey to do the oppsoitie of his usual instinct, structure and plan like hell, and just roll with it like launchpad that the boy excels. It’s also nice to get some Huey focus in what’s supposed tobe his season, but despite being a huge Huey fan that hasn’t bothred me much either: Louie’s focus also got staggred out over the whole season. Dewey... not so much, but clearly Louie having a good CHUNK of episodes, while still spreading the focus all around, was a direct reaction to that. I do question why the Dewey episode that could take place at any point is at this point in the season but I don’t knokw what else they have in the tank at this point so eh.  The main plot, as I made clear, though is Dewey. While Webby is actually DAMN GOOD at playing the heel, and it’s a nice bit of continuity as while she’s all sunshine and rainbows Webby both has a sarcastic streak as the series goes on and a good sense of battle quips, see the study the blade bit in timephoon. Dewey on the other hand thrives on approval and his attempt at getting the fans to pop with with looks like the bastard child of zack morris and 90′s superboy, mostly 90′s superboy, only makes them hate him.  But we do get a nice moment here. While Dewey does loose the team a match, Jormangarnder agrees to a battle royale for it, and Scrooge .. is entirely fine Dewey isn’t good at playing the heel. Besides preparing for it, which admitely makes the boy feel worse, he knows that not everyone can do the unpopular thing it takes to be a hero sometime. I’ts just not for everyone, and he gets that adulation and attention obessed Dewey just.. can’t take being hated and loathed. Scrooge is used to it, life and times more than proved that being rich means people will automatically look down on you for BEING rich and scrooge has had decades of that kind of shit at this point. Dewey is just an 11 year old boy. It’s okay he’s not there yet. But soon eveyrone takes a turn at jormanganr, even beakly who has a whole costume ready and likelky has been here before, and looses. Dewey is their last shot.  But Louie, as things look dire, turns from merch to inspiring his brothers, Huey as shown above and Dewey with the fact that, as he pointed out earlier when selling anti-dewey t-shirts, he always knew how this would turn out: and cheers or no, Dewey can dew this and can be there hero. And like Lex Luger he can turn from a heel to a face awfully face, finally letting himself be a heel.. and his determination not to give up, while Jormangander uncessarily toys with a child and pummels him, turns the crowd to his side. He pulls a stone cold, and witht hepigs help jackhammers the champ and wins the day. It’s a really great moment: Dewey still gets what he wants..by putting the world over his own desires and EARNING it. And with a final great shot, Scrooge steals the belt from dewey for a fun rematch between great uncle and grandson. Also Dewey piledriving a snakeman was fucking awesome. Great work.  Overall this was a great episode, while it dosen’t move the plot forward, which is a series wide problem and not just this season, it’s still great fun, great character stuff and really that’s why this season has been great: even double o duck, which was just okay, has been great and as we piledrive our way into hiatus, we can at least take comfort in getting a ton of great episodes and having more to come.. probably montsh and months from now but still, it’ll be worth the wait. Until then, i’ll be trying to do mroe reviews, so shoot me an ask or message if you have any suggestions. I take sugggestions as well as full on comissions, and there are no bad suggestions. Until next time, Later Days.