#and you both theorise what it means or who slept with who

[shibaraki]

love imagining shouto as a huge secret gossip. he climbs into bed next to you each night and tells you everything he heard that day at work

#and you both theorise what it means or who slept with who #it's cute when he's a bit dense about it too #'apparently so and so came out of sidekicks office. but what's so weird about that? people visit my office all the time' #baby boy u are not wrong but still #context clues!!!!!! #or he shows you the grad group chat for any gossip he gets through the grape vine

[offtorivendell]

What’s your favorite obscure acotar theory? One that’s lesser known or not as hyped as others that you really enjoy or really hope will play out in the next book?

Firstly anon, I'm sorry this took me well over a week!

Spoilers: ACOTAR, CC and TOG series to date, mostly discussing witches.

This is a personal crack theory that I've had for more than a year now, which I haven't - as far as I can remember - mentioned publicly before, because it goes off more "the vibe of the thing, your honour" than solid evidence that I've seen in the text (at this point I've lost the motivation to research for new, giant metas, so this is apparently how you'll get it).

What if lightsingers were "rebranded" as witches in Prythian's world?

Here me out.

Koschei the sorcerer has shadow (dark light?) powers.

What if ACOTAR witches had light powers?

I've theorised before that Koschei may be Prythian's oldest shadowsinger, but it's interesting to note that he is also an accomplished sorcerer. This made me wonder, how do sorcerers differ from witches, if at all? I've had similar thoughts about shadowsingers and lightsingers, and I do still mean to write about that topic, but to sum up, I suspect that lightsingers and shadowsingers are two sides of the one coin, based on one of two things:

They are the same species, and the colour of their magic is dependent on mood or emotions (more likely), as I outlined in this post about Azriel's shadows and their response to Elain Archeron and his happiness/comfort in general.

There is possibly a male/female divide. This is less likely, but SJM established the following in HOSAB: "Two intersecting triangles. Male and female, dark and light, above and below … and the power that lies in the place where they meet." To many of us, this has a clear parallel with the Truth-Teller scene between Elain and Az in ACOWAR - "Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife." - but I digress.

* @wingedblooms has already written a fantastic post about why she believes Elain could be a lightsinger, and another hypothesising that Elain could be a witch (though we're both thinking and hoping that all three Archeron sisters are witches - and who knows, they were born in and slept on an ironwood bed in their cottage...); keep an eye out for wingedblooms' upcoming witch post! @silverlinedeyes has written similarly, wondering if Elain could be another sort of Singer, perhaps one that we haven't seen before. I highly recommend reading all of those posts.

There are - imo - similarities in the text between lightsingers, whose powers are not yet established beyond an apparent ability to lure people to them in some way, and ACOTAR witches, who are said to amass power beyond their natural reserves. We shouldn't, however, forget the witches from Midgard (CC) or Erilea (TOG, of which there was more than one sort: Ironteeth and Crochan).

The Ironteeth witches could be very beautiful, however, similarly to rumours of lightsingers in Prythian, they had keen predatory instincts, could change their teeth and nails to iron fangs and talons, and it wasn't uncommon for them to hunt for sport, as Cassian said of lightsingers in ACOSF. Other parallels exist, but as I said this is not just a crack theory, but a lazy theory as well, so I cbf going into it all. Sorry, but to quote @merymoonbeam, I'm in an it's in the text mood. 😅

Basically, it boils down to this: Koschei has shadow powers and can cast spells. Rhys has shadow-type powers and can also cast spells. Can Azriel, likewise, perform magic of his own? Do his shadows give him this power, or is it something more innate... does he have a hidden light? He can heal, of a sort, which we haven't seen from Cassian. Can lightsingers perform magical feats of their own? And if they are what are currently known as witches in some form, are they the sort that Mor spoke of, or Cassian? Or are they more similar to TOG or CC witches?

Witches in Prythian - the "human kind" that I assume Mor was talking about in ACOWAR (though this is unconfirmed) when Nesta asked the difference between a faerie and a witch - as I mentioned earlier, "...amass power beyond their natural reserve,” Mor answered with sudden seriousness. “They use spells and archaic tools to harness more power to them than the Cauldron allotted—and use it for whatever they desire, good or ill.”

As in TOG, Cassian seemed to hint, in ACOSF, that there was more than one type of witch, and he went straight into discussing lightsingers right afterwards: “What else dwells here other than kelpies?” “Some say witches,” he murmured. “Not the human kind,” he added when she raised a brow. “The kind that used to be something else and then their thirst for magic and power turned them into wretched creatures, banished here by various High Lords.” “They don’t sound so bad.” “They drink young blood to fill the coldness the magic left in them.” Nesta winced. Cassian went on as she scanned the bog, “There are lightsingers: lovely, ethereal beings who will lure you, appearing as friendly faces when you are lost. Only when you’re in their arms will you see their true faces, and they aren’t fair at all. The horror of it is the last thing you see before they drown you in the bog. But they kill for sport, not food.”

Witches, apparently, were also wretched creatures, banished to the Middle. This sounds eerily in line with what I suggested in this post, where I posited that lightsingers might not truly be evil after all, but they had possibly copped a bad rap after (and this is also a crack theory) siding with Theia against Fionn, and so, after the fallout, became an entire species of scapegoats to the misled public for that "betrayal." After such an historic event, it would make sense for the surviving lightsingers to rebrand themselves as witches, especially if they could pass for one sort, in order to escape the retribution that almost certainly would have followed. Has this disguise stuck over the millennia? Or, as I have often wondered, do they occasionally get caught out and then targeted, perhaps leading to a need for sanctuary in a library full of their own kin, run by someone who has her own unique brand of magic?

Again, I know that none of this is really well thought out, and I apologise for that, but I hope you get the gist of it, at least.

#acotar theory #acotar crack theory #lightsingers and shadowsingers #lightsinger #shadowsinger #lightsinger theory #shadowsinger theory #azriel shadowsinger #rhysand #koschei acotar #pro lightsinger #lazy theory #it's in the text #it's the vibe of the thing #why yes that is a reference to the castle #but whether this crack theory ends up in the pool room or sjm tells me i'm dreaming only time will tell #witches and lightsingers

[moriartyluver]

OMG MOTHER YOU ARE FEEDING US THIS WEEK

FIRST OF ALL

NEW FALSE LOVERS CHAPTER??? HELLO I WAS KICKING MY FEET AND HIGGLING THE ENTIRE TIME

fl is so really for those thoughts about Liam icl. If I slept with a man that fine I’d never stop thinking about it 😭 The way Jack was treating her like a daughter in law 🤭🤭

DONT GET ME STARTED ON LIAM RESPECTFULLY CHECKING OUT FL. IK THIS IS FROM FLS PERSPECTIVE MOSTLY BUT IF WE GOT LIAMS PERSPECTIVE, ISTG HE WOULD JUST BE THINKING ABT HER NON STOP

liam choking on the tea in the bonus 💀 I love how you didn’t use the usuals gender stereotypes of a virgin woman with a man who’s fucked half the female population. I think it makes a lot of sense for Liam and fls dynamic too (+ I livvvveee for subby liam 😩)

ANYWAYS

The band au 🤭 I’m so excited for more chapters omg

the way I called it Are you mine? Had me SCREAMING

i love AM and the references were just too good. Most fics never get pop culture references good but I think you did amazing. I’m gonna binge pistols today solely because of the sex pistols reference and also so I can theorise on what will happen.

the band is so cool too 😭 (name) is actually the embodiment of arabella and Brooklyn baby. She isn’t a rockstar’s gf she is a ROCKSTAR GF and she is hilarious. If she was a real artist I’d absolutely adore her and go to every concert fr

The bit about her parents was so sad but really well written at the same time 😕 like you can tell they care about her and want her to have a good career but they still obviously were in the wrong, especially her father not owning up to his mistake. It reminded me of Lane’s mother in Gilmore girls finding all of Lane’s stuff and kicking her out (please don’t do that to y/n my heart wouldn’t be able to take it)

omg that bit about her meeting liam 😭 it was too too funny. Bro was probably star struck but I love how they’re similar even though you’d expect them to be complete opposites

I’ve been rambling too much now but I’m really proud of you for how well you seem to be managing both writing and college too.

-🦢 anon (aka ur biggest fan)

OMG HI AGAIN

Liams perspective may be coming soon 👀

It’s so hard to write his perspective tho icl. Like what is bro thinking.

Also yes u have no idea how much I hate opening up an mtp fic and then all of a sudden it’s just casual misogyny and gender roles EVERYWHERE like Ik it was normal at the time but surely liam of all people wouldn’t be contributing to it??

The mtp band au is everything to me rn. It’s my baby. I think of it all the time. I just loooove how creative I can be with it

PLEASE WATCH PISTOLS. ITS LITERALLY SO GOOD. THE CINEMATOGRAPHY, THE PLOT, THE SOUNDTRACK, THE CHARACTERS ITS ALL JUST *chefs kiss*

I was actually so tempted to call the fic ‘arabella’ but it felt wrong and restricting because it’s a whole ass name of that makes sense?? I didn’t want people to click on it and think it was gonna be about an oc or something I might add a few arabella references tho 🤭

I was low-key inspired by Lane’s backstory. Like the bit about her trying to find herself except she won’t end up with a Zack because I hated that mf

Also thank you sm 🫶🏼 it really means a lot. It’s pretty tough doing updates but I still want to interact with people on tumblr if that makes sense but I also have to prioritise college too 😕

And dw I don’t mind rambles. Please feel free to send almost anything to my inbox, I really don’t mind <3

#—a’s anons 💄 #—false lovers 💋 #—a’s asks 💌 #—are you mine 🎸

[inz-lokisdottir]

I GOT NEW BABY INZ LORE WHICH MEANS I GOTTA CHANGE HER BACKSTORY BUT ITS FINE

Since Inz has both the ability of making illusions into actual things and has the ability to blow life into them if they need it, like with Ebony being an animal, needing to be alive to act like a real jaguar, she was thinking about something and began to theorise about it.

She thought if she could create another of herself, she would be able to make a variant of her own. And how would she know if it worked?

Well, Inz doesn't dream. She never has dreamt, in the sense that she did not see into other variant's of her's minds and what they were doing whilst she slept, because she had no variants. The only thing she did have were quite bad memories or trauma issues whilst she slept.

However, if the variant experiment worked, Inz would be able to see into the younger 'variants' POV whilst she slept. So she did it. She created a very much younger illuminated variant of herself, just before any trauma in her own life began, so 4. The age of 4, yes, that young.

A little time skip later, spoiler alert, the theory was proved wrong and her experiment failed. The teen had created a four year old copy of herself, but the youngling was merely just a copy, not a variant of any type.

But Inz thought it too cruel to just....you know, get rid of a child, especially a child version of herself which could still have the chance to be happy despite possibly not growing up at all. So she didn't, Baby Inz who...truly isn't really a baby, she's 4, but Baby Inz sounds sweeter, is still here today. Props to Inz for having a heart and not pretty much unaliving a child. "Oh, shut up."

Just saying!

#baby inz 🧸 #inz lore #time to go and fix baby Inz' profile #inz hc

[reginarubie]

LF and Marillion shared many similarities. Both are favorites of Lysa and Robin. Lysa gifts Marillion Jon's pet falcon while she married LF irking lords of Vale. Marillion is a harp player while LF claim that harps are stronger as sword. Marillion tried to rape Sansa and LF molesting her, she even compared him with Marillion. Myranda had slept with Marillion while thinking about marrying LF. Marillion called Sansa a rose while LF steal away Sansa enacting Bael and the Winter Rose.

Ciao anon!,

Good point. Marillion and LF have many things in common. They're both favourites of Lysa even against the other lords (who she spurns) and she gifts Marillion her late husband pet falcon, plus a golden bracelet and favours him over the others — even when he insults her suitors and predates on young girls to the point she even sends away people on his behalf — in the same way she favours LF for whom she has killed her husband and caused a war between Starks and Lannisters — sending the letter to Cat accusing the Lannisters — and whom she marries spurning all the other lords of the Vale who were offering their hand.

Though I must say I think that the quote about the harp LF makes is not supposed to make us think of Marillion while more of Sansa.

A harp can be as dangerous as a sword, in the right hands.

— Sansa VI, ASOS

I think this is supposed to recall to the reader something the show told us when Tyrion crowned Bran, that stories is what unites people. This is supposed to remind the readers that a harp (an object used for delight, which recounts a story) can be as dangerous as a sword, because mockery, rumour and truth can be as dangerous for a man as a sword if they are wielded by the right person. This hints, imo, to Sansa using her soft power and her voice (accusing him) to bring forth LF' demise. The same way the hidden dagger, instead, refers in my opinion to Arya, because no one is even suspecting Arya might still be alive and training to be a faceless assassin (hidden dagger pressing from behind that you never see coming). I theorise (I even put it in one of my stories — or several, truly it's something I think very canonic and thus use it often as a metaphor) that these two quotes are supposed to be about the Stark girls: Sansa the harpist and Arya the sword.

A bit like Doran-grass to Oberyn-viper (the grass shielding the viper until it's time to strike), I think Sansa and Arya (both of whom need each other, and both whom Ned needs per his own words — this will apply to the other Stark men, bear in mind) will be the harpist and the sword. One will weave the tale and lay the trap using soft means the other will execute the plan (a bit like in the show they had them collaborate to bring down LF with Sansa lulling him in a sense of false security before they put him on trial and Arya executed him); I think the show lacking the perspective of the books (which have this quote) used another which is essentially wrong with the Stark way, because after they've killed LF Arya says «I was just the executioner, you pass the sentence» and we know House Stark lives by the Old way of «who passes the sentence should swing the sword»; also because Sansa did pass the sentence and swung the sword (there is a reason why, though Arya was depicted as her arm — physically — they had Sansa stand up and look at LF' eyes as he was executed because the whole northern way of passing the sentence-swinging the sword is because this way the executioner who looks the victim/criminal in the eye is also the same one who passes the sentence because as per Ned Stark's words «if you cannot look in his eyes, maybe he does not deserve that punishment».

So to me, both the quote about the harp as well as the quote about the hidden dagger pressing at you from the back when you never see it coming are actually a foreshadowing of the Stark sisters coming together and using their different trainings and abilities to destroy their enemies. But that is strictly my interpretation.

Though I am pretty convinced about it, so I never really envisioned that quote being specifically about Marillion, it's also intended to nudge us to the importance of the tales ones says, tales which have different weight based off on who says them, thanks to their credibility, but they have a broader meaning that to me hints toward both Stark girls.

And yes, Randa slept with Marillion (not knowing what kind of man he was — to the point that after his imprisonment she apologises to Sansa/Alayne because she didn't know who he was and knew only he sung sweetly and was talented with his fingers) and she is considering marrying LF (also without knowing who he is; or in this case knowing perfectly well and trying to use it to get more power; though I am convinced the Royces who were clamouring because they were forbidden to join Robb Stark' cause won't forsake the Starks in this case).

And, I'm never over the fact that Petyr Baelish literally stole Sansa Stark from KL, the same Sansa who is associated with the rose symbolism (romanticism, love, sweetness and tenderness — Stark girls being stolen and being symbolised by a rose) and for whom Marillion was composing a song titled the “roadside rose”. I mean the parallel is staggering: lord Stark's daughter was stolen from her bed by Bael who had asked for the most beautiful rose of lord Stark's garden which he left on her bedding before they hid in the crypts and she gave him a son; Lyanna Stark was given a crown of winter roses at the Tourney of Harrenhal being named Queen of love and beauty by Rhaegar who later abducted her (stole her — persuaded her to come with him) and hid her away in a tower in Dorne, where she gave him a son. Both women (the first Stark girl and Lyanna) died after the death of their captors (lady Stark threw herself from the parapets of WF because her son had brought back from battle the head of the father; and Lyanna died in childbed after Rhaegar was killed by Robert) both ladies are hinted/rumoured to have loved their abductors (I still maintain that something more complicated was afoot with Rhaegar and Lyanna and that she was at first persuaded maybe, blinded by love, but that later she became a prisoner — because the only real quote we have of her is that she's fiercely loyal to House Stark and I refuse to believe she simply forgot all about that all of sudden just because Rhaegar came along); both children became liege of the North or king in the North and both will face wars (the son of Vael the bard against his own father — Jon against his own aunt?) anyway you catch my drift. I honestly am afraid that LF who is molesting Sansa as you say and is keeping her sequestered for her own good trying to isolate her to have her completely dependent from him (like I discussed in this ask)will try to either marry her himself or molest her even further; I hope Sansa, who has escaped rape already twice (and we know Martin loves his threes) escape these molestations as well and manages to come back home and that her future child will become, after her, king in the North, as Sansa has been known to break the tradition of those who came before her — she was sequestered in a castle by a prince/king to whom she was betrothed like her aunt Lyanna but managed to escape; she has been accused of high treason and murder against the king (of the latter she is innocent of high treason not so much as she has had a key role in the northern independence since the moment she tried to kill Joffrey) like her lord father but escaped any unwarranted and unjust punishment about it — so I really am holding out hope she will break this tradition of Stark girl being stolen, taken and gotten pregnant by their abductors to then die after them for however briefly or longly they managed to outlive them (by little as both lady Stark and Lyanna died after their abductors were killed off in battle — always near some banks of rivers; Rhaegar died at the Trident while Bael died at the Frozen Ford).

Baelish know this, your end is coming; because Sansa dear has the habit of breaking past tradition and outliving her abusers and you won't be any different.

As always thank you for your ask!, and hope you enjoyed my take on this. As always I wish you a very nice day!

#ask the hag #anon asks #sansa stark #Petyr baelish #marillion #the wildling and the rose #the roadside rose #Sansa breaking traditions is my new mood #Sansa is the harpist Arya is the hidden dagger

[thebrownssociety]

i noticed that in a past post you had mentioned daffy was in the front lines of world war 2. how was that like? how did toons particularly handle war?

Not particularly well. Toons are not designed for war, they're designed to make people laugh. Added to that that most of the toons were very young [under 15] when they were sent to the front and the story gets sadder.

Warnings: Mention of War and descriptions of PTSD [I have done research, but this is Toon version, so it's not going to tally exactly with humans]

Disclaimer - this is a headcanon. I have mentioned the companies here and Walt Disney [briefly] stating the obvious, it's all made-up.

All of the companies involved did there best to help/protect the toons as best they could. None of the female or children toons were allowed to go and there was a limit on how old the 'adult' toons had to be before they could go. That ended up being 5. The companies wanted 10, the Military wanted three, five was a compromise - although the companies had to fight hard to get that. In the end it boiled down to 'Either five, or they don't go at all'. The companies also re-negotiated the initial year the toons would be away down to 6 consecutive months. The companies wanted three months, so it was another compromise.

Stating the obvious, none of the toons enjoyed it much. Even the ones who thought they would thrive [Like Donald, Yosamite Sam and other 'tough' toons] found it difficult. Not to say they don't remember some bits of it fondly, mainly the comradeship they found, but for the most part it was hell on earth. After the first lot of Toons who's gone in the first month [about 30, mainly background toons, Prince Florian and Sylvester] came back from the front they looked so pale and ghostlike [visually, a shell of there former selves] that none of the others wanted to go and the companies tried to pull them out of it. [This being near the end of 1943] But they weren't allowed to, so the toons had to go.

The time the toons were fighting was 'only' Jan 1943 - end of war, Sep 1945, and the toons were only there for 6 months, but it was a long, terrifying 6 months.

The weird thing was that after the first initial couple of months while there coulor came back and they looked more life-like again, they seemed okay. Really! They could still act - and act well - they joked with each other in a normal manner and they talked to people. Sure, there were a few of them showing more difficulties adjusting - like Daffy who was acting paranoid and was constantly on the edge and Donald who's already-existing anger issues went through the roof, not to mention Elmer who was mute for a few months after coming back and Pete [Disney] who locked himself away and wouldn't come out, not to mention the at least 30 of background toons who were all showing extreme level of difficultly, but, hey, that was only a couple of toons, right? In the grand scheme of things. The rest of them were fine.

They were not fine.

It took a good couple of years [between 5-10] But eventually the cracks started showing. The Toons who had fought in the war started reacting weirdly to loud noise. Jumping onto the ceiling and refusing to come down, hiding under things and in things [like jugs and cups and cracks in the wall] whenever they thought they were under attack. They were having frequent, intense nightmares and a lot of the toon were displaying mental health issues like paranoia and splitting themselves in two [literally. It depended on the toon as to what exactly the personalities looked like, but as a general guide they'd be one 'young' one from around the time they were first created and another one that was closer to there normal age, but looked and acted completely different. Doctor Scratchesniff theorised it's what the toons worse fears about themselves are, visualised and brought to life.]

The toons were also having flashbacks to the war, which is bad enough on its own, but because they're toons the flashbacks literally engulfed them and whoever was near, drawing them into a world that they hadn't been in for about five-ten years. This, as you can probably imagine, was quite a major problem so the three major studios - Disney, Warner Bros's and Hanna-Barbera - put there heads together and came up with a solution, and that solution came in the form of Doctor Scratchensniff. [I do have a separate headcanon on him, covered in my 'Mental-Health' headcanon] The idea was that D.S. would work across all three studios and have enhanced toon powers.

While it's well known that a lot of Toons have been affected by the war, I'll go through a few of the toons that [I headcanon] have had the most noticeable difficulties after the war.

Daffy - He now goes back and forth between his 40's characterisation [screwball, Clampett version] and his greedy-jerkass characterisation in later years. The way it works is he will be the 'sensible' persona of the Greedy Daffy for most of the year [who, for all his faults, does care about his friends/family and can take care of Plucky easily], then he will suddenly switch back to his 40's persona. [Who, although he does still care for his friends/family, he can't express it as well and he has NO IDEA who Plucky is.]

After a bit of help and counselling from D.S. he has identified his major triggers [and Daffy has informed the rest of the LT's so they're aware of them]. For example, flying a plane will instantly put him back in the 40's mindset. For a time it was flying in general that put him in the mindset [which was fun when the LT's went to Australia] but now Daffy's okay with it and can manage small journeys easily. Longer journeys he struggled with, but he simply doesn't go on long plane journeys.

He also doesn't like Toons taller than himself getting in his face, [much taller, I mean. Bugs is alright.] He'll go into 'Fight' mode and try to attack them. Non-expected loud sounds like a car backfiring or fireworks can also remind him of war. Daffy's reaction when he hears something that he's not sure of what it is, it to try and find it and attack it. Either that or he would teleport away to a small space [like a jug, under a staircase or a crack in the wall] and not come out until Avery/Elmer/Porky calmed him down. [Bugs does try, but Daffy tends to get more wound up whenever Bugs tries anything, so the rabbit had to stop.]

Donald - I'm not going to spend long on Donald, mainly because his issues have [I'm fairly certain] been touched on in canon? His triggers are a lot like Daffy's except that Donald is MUCH more likely to try and attack anything he thinks is a threat rather than run away from it. He has inadvertently hurt [both physically and mentally] people he cares about by doing this, but they understand the reason why. Doesn't necessary make it easier, but they understand.

The main difference between him and Daffy though is that Donald has always wanted help. Ever since he realised he was hurting the people he loved, he wanted help. He had time off from work, Scrooge stepped in and insisted Donald and the boys move in with him so he didn't have to worry about a roof over his head and getting food and stuff. [Unfortunately this genuine well-meant, kind act only added to Donald's general feeling of uselessness]

The good news was that not only did Donald have extended family support, but he was best friends with Mickey and Goofy. Mickey was able to lean in Walts ears and convince him to treat Donald more leniently than he might have other toons, he also did his best to help Donald come to terms with what had happened to him during the war. Goofy could - in theory - do a lot less than Mickey, but he WAS more available and completely willing to take the boys off him for a couple of hours/days/weeks if needed. Goofy can cook - and cook well - so he'd bring food over for Donald so that if [as happened often] he didn't feel like cooking he'd have something ready to heat up/put in the oven.

Elmer - Some of the toons when they were put in charge of there units got on quite well, in that they had men who were willing to listen to them, and treated them kindly. Elmer's troop wasn't like that. He was very young when he was sent there [8] and was still more like Egghead. A bit silly, a bit hyper and not as hard as he needed to be. He cried the first time he went into battle and had a lot of trouble trying to gain the respect of his men. This has had a knock-on effect in that he thought everyone around him hated him and didn't like him. Even when he went back to Toontown, he just thought all his friends/family were being nice to him because they had to, not because they genuinely liked him.

Over many years Elmer has come to accept this isn't true and has been in therapy with D.S. in order to discuss it further. On a different note the main immediately noticeable difference upon coming back from war [aside from the fact he was mute for about two months] was that he started sleepwalking. His sleep had never been great at the best of times, but the war gave him such bad nightmares that he hardly ever slept. When he did eventually get to sleep, he started sleepwalking. Elmer being Elmer somehow didn't notice this at first? He thought it was completely normal [?] to start the night in your bed and wake up in Toon-World Australia having somehow swam his way across the ocean and hacked his way through the Australian outbacks to the middle off Australia, while asleep. He then had to spend several days trying to get back to Looney-Tune Street. With this in mind, it was really only a matter of time until it was noticed by the others.

They do there best to look out for him, if one of the LT's see Elmer sleepwalking, they will follow him/go with him and try to look after him. It should be noted though that despite the fact Fudd is clearly asleep, he is somehow aware of his surroundings and should someone attack him he will fight back and, most times, win.

#Looney Tunes Ask #Looney Tunes #Donald Duck #Daffy Duck #Elmer Fudd #Yosemite Sam #Headcanons #Mickey Mouse #Goofy #Disney Headcanons #Looney Tunes Headcanons #PTSD #Scrooge McDuck

[janevillanueva]

do you think there's any weight to the theory that rafael and petra had a shotgun wedding? it's a personal theory of mine, based on the fact that the meeting-proposal after six months-wedding-pregnancy-miscarriage-cancer-divorce timeline of theirs seems extremely tight.

plus petra says it made sense that they got married so quickly because of how rafael always wanted a family, which could just mean he wanted to settle down quickly but if you interpret it a certain way could also imply she was pregnant and he wanted to marry the mother of his child, similar to jane.

also, it asks the question that we'll never really get the answer to it seems - what were raf and petra like when they were dating? if the shotgun wedding thing isn't the case then what set petra apart for him from past exes that he fell for and proposed to her so quickly? their relationship doesn't even start as we all know out of mutual interest in each other, but because of revenge on rafael's part and social climbing on petra's. i doubt raf had never been in love (or what he thought was love) before her - even if he slept around a lot he seemed to be more of a serial monogamist than a perpetual bachelor.

we never were shown much of their life before the insemination nor did we get much background on either of them really before that beyond family dynamics, so we can only theorise, but the shotgun wedding theory makes sense in my head. what are your thoughts, or anyone else who wants to add? haha sorry for the rant just been working this out in my head for a while and needed to share.

tbh i never really thought about it. i don't see why not though, nothing really contradicts it. i don't think i will particularly adopt the hc because i've always just thought they rushed in because he wanted to have a family, but it's a cool hc.

i do think rafael loved petra (and vice versa) at some point though. i think it's pretty obvious they were in love in the flashbacks of them together.

i think petra and rafael are really similar people so he was probably able to relate to her and see himself in her which was probably great for their relationship at first, but it's also what makes them wrong for each other because they both need someone who grounds them whereas together they just feed off each others negative traits.

#anonymous #reply

[foureyeswithanicesmile]

He’s back, the man behind the mask.

tags- mentions of sex trafficking, drug usage, violence, slight angst, slowburn. This also may or not be the beginning to a series i’m writing, might publish on A03 at some stage. Enjoy.

You prioritised your role as a private investigator, no matter how hard or endangering the job was; You always got to the bottom of it. However, after being too direct, you found yourself dancing with the devil after being tasked with the death of one of the worst of the worst.

When first researching the man’s death, you got your hands onto his autopsy report, revealing the kind of trauma he went through physically, as you didn’t care for the man’s personal wellbeing whatsoever.

“ He had a lot of blunt force trauma to the ribs and legs- and what bullets were found in his lungs and oesophagus?” You perked whilst you re-read over the knowledge documented into your note book.

“ Don’t you think he had it coming?” The masked forensic scientist spoke suddenly, his words almost startling you.

“ Excuse me?” You asked politely, unsure as to what he was getting at.

“ He ruined young girls and got their fathers hooked on meth- Why are you trying to look into him?” The man reiterated, his grip on the files tightening.

At this point in your career, you became accustomed with these kind of questions like ‘ why?’ or ‘ how do you live with yourself?’, In all seriousness you couldn’t disagree with them, the things the people you were given large sums of money to explore about were deplorable. Yet you had no exact choice, the fact you worked in a form of law enforcement allowed you to deter from the fact you too had a history of obscene violence.

“ My conscious isn’t up for discussion- what bullets were found” You now demanded, voice both tired and stern.

Even with your pistol strapped to your hip, the pathologist chose to ignore your requests.

“ I’m sure your family are pro-“

Before the sentence could conclude, you pulled out your gun and pressed it at the side of the man’s head, your other arm wrapped around his neck in order to secure him in place.

“ Tell me or I blow your fucking head off” You threatened with a whisper, the pathologist now beginning to tremble as the cool steel rested against his temple.

“ .45 Calibre bullets- Thats what was found” The man spewed, listening to you mumble the words back to yourself in remembrance.

“ Good- anyone else with these same bullets?” You requested as you released the pathologist from your deathly grip, hands now writing in your charcoal note-book; almost nerd like in comparison to your harsh demands prior.

“ Y-yes, multiple men have been reported dead in the last week or so with the same bullets”

A week? You’ve heard about these deaths on the news but it was never disclosed how close they all were to each other.

“ Names Fitch- names” You requested once more with a raised brow, now looking over at the pathologists identification badge diligently.

“ I can’t disclose tha-“

You cocked a brow, the deathly glare now sending shivers down his spine.

“ Jordan Greenfield, Jack Cunningham, Mark Evanston and Jonathan Brown” He spewed, occasionally stuttering over his own words. You hadn’t paid much mind to his stutter however, you were too focused on writing and researching the men named. If somehow you could find a correlation between all the men- you could crack the case for certain.

“ Thanks Fitch” You finalised, now leaving the facility.

In your own matter of research, you’d found out that all the men reported to be shot by a .45 had all partaken in a drug and sex trafficking ring not too far back; A little more research and you eventually found yourself spending your entire night on it.

That was until you received a fairly frustrated call from a friend.

“ You pulled a gun on the guy who did the autopsy? Are you kidding me?” Grayson’s voice rang through the phone’s speaker, his loud voice only eradicating any excess tiredness you had from before.

“ Listen Grayson I know- I know and I get it-“

“ Did you kill him?” Grayson asked, your face dropping about the accusation and the declaration of the death itself.

“ Dr Fitch is dead? Are you fucking kidding me?” You leaned back in your chair as you asked, a free hand rubbing your eyes whilst Grayson began to explain.

“ He was shot- Autopsy will say more but I’m convinced that somebody on your case doesn’t want you looking into it- so don’t” Grayson requested sternly as you furrowed your brow in contemplation.

He was shot?

“ I need a copy of that report Grayson- anyway you could get it for me without it being almost illegal?” You asked with an almost determined tone, now leaning forward with anticipation. Grayson however was quite displeased with your determination on this case; Someone could be watching you right now and you’d have not a single clue.

“ Are you seriously worried about that report? Shouldn’t you be telling the family to lock their doors or some crap like that?” He sighed, the sirens of police and ambulance cars blaring behind him.

“ Grayson come on man- you gotta” You insisted, now gliding more towards your desk as you scribbled Dr Fitch’s name and date of death into your beloved A5 notebook.

“ I’ll see what I can do alright- I’ll bring it to you when I can- IF I can” He finally agreed, an evident light up on your face.

“ Thank you Grayson, I’ll buy you a coffee when you hand it to me I swear” You finalised before cutting off the phone, adrenaline now racing through you- followed by worry.

If Dr Fitch was killed just a few hours after your information gain; did that mean you might’ve been next? Was this the same guy who’s been putting bullet holes in other people almost everyday?

In times like these you wish Jason were still around; Whilst he may not have agreed with your career he at least would’ve went with you to bust these fuckers you know?

The remembrance caused you to look over at the framed picture you had when he first died. It was of you, him, and some bad guy you both kicked the shit out of. He was notorious for taking polaroids of little girls as they slept; So you did the appropriate thing and took a picture of him instead.

Evening after and you felt restless; pacing your living room after what seemed to be hours whilst you evaluated everything that’s happened in your investigation.

Come meet me at Wayne Manor. I got the file.

The text that appeared onto your screen wrote; Your lips parting at the thought of even returning there.

You hadn’t been to Wayne Manor in years; especially after Jason kicked the bucket. You couldn’t help but feel enraged after hearing about Robin #3 Tim Drake. You liked Tim Drake, you really did think of him as a good kid- But after the death of Jason you would’ve thought Mr Wayne would quit the Robin act entirely.

Anxiety filled your heart as you found yourself outside of the manors gates, shuffling your shoes so that they clashed together in rhythm.

“ What a pleasure to see you back here [last name]” Alfred greeted, now holding out his hand for you to shake in greeting. You were quite fond of the old man; his sense of wisdom and comforting nature made him seem like a safe-space in comparison to Bruce’s cold teachings.

You never were fond of Bruce; After he tried to take you in as a young teenager and allowed you to observe the training of his younger ‘ sons’- you found him almost revolting after a few weeks. Eventually you parted ways with a large allowance, in which you saved for law school.

“ Master Dick is in the batcave- you do remember where that is correct?” Alfred asked as he halted; you consequently doing the same.

“ Of course I do- thank you Alfred” You smiled, now beginning to walk your way towards the hall leading to the secret entrance.

“ Oh and [last name]” He called out, you now pivoting to look back at him with a curious face.

“ I hope to be seeing you around more”

“ You really decided to get me down here again- What part of ‘ I’ll get you coffee’ did you fail to comprehend Dick?” You greeted, now almost snatching the files from his hands in order to observe them.

“ Why’d you need em anyway? Thought I told you to withdrawal” Grayson answered, choosing to ignore your dismissive attitude towards him.

“ I’m intrigued by the case- and the money I’m being given would pay off every debt in the world” You answered, only flickering your eyes up to him once before reanalysing the files.

“ Where do you think it came from [name]? It’s probably the earnings off all those young girls and meth” Grayson theorised sharply, you now freezing.

“ I’m being stalked by the fucker who’s killing everybody” You announced quietly after scanning over the words “ .45 calibre in the neck and lungs”.

Out of all the dangerous cases you took on; not one time were you ever discovered by a suspect. Maybe that was because you hadn’t taken on many serial murder cases- but regardless, shit was getting real.

“ You think? Why do you think I brought you here?” Grayson almost shouted, arms crossed as he looked at you with piercing

eyes, his body weight clearly leaning on his one leg.

Brought you here? What does he mean by that?

The thought was evident on your face as you mumbled both Grayson’s and Alfred’s words back to you.

“ ‘ hope to be seeing you around more’ Wait a fucking minute- Did you bring me here so I could hide from whoever’s out there??” You interrogated, now pissed off with the set up you found yourself in.

“ You aren’t hiding [name]- You’re simply retreating for a while- no harm in that” Grayson now spoke calmly in hopes that it’d also calm you- which hadn’t worked whatsoever.

“ No harm in that?? You’re acting like Bruce Grayson- you really are” You affirmed harshly, now collecting your file and storming out.

“ Don’t call my motherfucking phone” You declared angrily before continuing your pace to your bike.

“ Wait- I have news about-“

“ About what Dick- what is it now?”

“ Jason”

“ Are you fucking serious? You want me to stay so bad you speak ill on the fucking dead?” You shouted again, your grip on your file tightening as you let out steam.

“ I’m not speaking ill on anyone” Grayson sighed, now rubbing his temples with his hand.

“ So don’t fucking tell me anything” You spat, now taking yourself back to your moped.

“ Leaving so soon [last name]?”

“ Yeah Alfred- hopefully for good this time” You finalised, now slamming Wayne Manor door behind you almost piercingly loud.

Your way home was certainly memorable, you had noticed that there was another motorbike rode by a man with a brown leather jacket following you in your small moped mirror. Leaving you no choice but to swerve through other cars on the road and take a longer detour.

You believed to be safe when you returned to the comfort of your down-town apartment; now listening to the heavy rainfall outside whilst waiting for your coffee to brew.

All was peaceful and typical; You reiterating all of your ‘case of the month’ knowledge whilst you waited for the night to take its course.

Until you heard heavy footsteps behind you. Leaving you frozen in place.

“ Drop every form of weaponry you have- scream and I’ll put a bullet in your skull” The low-toned voice spoke. The command itself left you contemplating- perhaps you could dive under the counter and fight whoever’s holding a gun in your direction.

“ You hear me the first fucking time- drop it” The voice almost shouted, leaving you no option but to throw your gun beside you.

“ Now turn around- slowly- no sudden fucking moves”

You did as the entity behind you told; the sight of him almost alluring.

Of course it was the guy on the motorbike. But he was more up close now.

He wore a red mask- the shade matching the red symbol on his chest-plate. Two pistols held firmly in your direction.

“Little birdy on the street told me there’s an investigator searching for .45 bullets” The man announced, tilting his head almost sarcastically.

“ Fuck does that have to do with me” You spat, now leaning back onto your counter calmly- now analysing ways to either fight or escape.

“ Another little birdy told me it’s you” He announced again, laughing forcedly after he observed your defeated expression.

“ So it is you huh- Didn’t think you’d be the type to come onto me so quick” The red-masked man commented- you now biting back a snappy comment.

“ Alright- you’re going to get on my side of the counter and we are going to leave- you understand?” He laid out to you,

leaving you no option but to nod in agreement.

Carefully you walked over to him, surprised at the conveniency of the position you were in. His left arm hugged your neck in a way that communicated his severity- his right arm holding a pistol firmly into your back. If he was to shoot you- he’d paralyse you, which’d get you off his tail easily for the next year or so.

You exhaled breathily, now deciding to follow through with your hit-or-miss escape plan.

“ You know something?” You peaked, The red masked man exhaling after you inquired.

“ I can cut you a favour- seeing as though I’ve been on your tits for an amount of time now” You fake offered , almost completely surprised at the man’s gullibility towards you- especially after being a convicted killer.

“ Oh yeah? What’s that favour then?”

“ I’ll break one rib instead of all”

After that, you used your left leg to boost yourself onto the counter- using the man’s grip on your neck to secure you as you elevated yourself off of the floor- completely manoeuvring yourself over the mans’s shoulder, only barely missing the bullet he shot at you.

After getting over, you took no time before stabbing him in the back of the leg.


You may be wondering, ‘ how did I get a knife?’- But you’ve been hiding one in your coat pockets for what seemed to be years now- just in case it was needed in times like these. The predicament you were in now reminded you of Bruce’s old teaching/saying “ Never bring a knife to a gun fight”, In which you almost always answered “ You don’t bring anything to a gun fight.”

The man groaned as the knife began to penetrate the back of his right thigh- luckily not going in too unbearably deep due to his thick protective attire.

After being forced into a kneeling on one knee position, he used it as an opportunity to pivot into your direction- now beginning to shoot bullets at you.

Luckily you managed to jump over or duck them, now kicking the pistol out of his hand before attempting to kick the man in the side of the head- In which his hand pushed your foot away.

You tried to kick and kick again- eventually having him swoop your leg with his spare one.

After you slipped onto your back- the man took this as the opportunity to attempt to mount you. Before he could get his hands around your neck you used all your force to kick him into the face with both feet; Knocking him back.

The both of you rose to your feet at the same time- now clearly sharing piercing glares.

“ You don’t have to make this worse for yourself”

“ I could say the same about you”


Those remarks were the last things shared before you leaped onto your coffee table and then kicking the man into the face- his arms unfortunately shielding his mask.

After that- the both of you shared an exchange of punches that you both either ducked- blocked- or accepted.

At some point- you punched the masked man into the face directly, the hard material of his helmet causing you to gasp in pain.

“ Fuck that hurt like a bitch out of water” You swore, now standing still in front of the masked man, shaking your hand in order to dismiss the throb of your knuckles.

He took this as an opportunity to punch you into the chin- causing your back and your head to collide with the coffee table behind you due fo force.

You weren’t loosing this easily. You were used as Jason and Tim Drake’s roll model for a reason- and you were sure as hell going to live up to it.

Your thoughts were interrupted as a boot stomped angrily in your face’s direction- leaving you no time but to roll out of the way and allowing your coffee table to be completely broken at the force. This guy wanted to kill you now- If he hadn’t intended to before.

After he demolished your coffee table similar to most of your apartments living room- you charged into him so that he’d knock your couch over- now leaving you straddling him and attempting to stab him with your knife once more.

“ You come into- My fucking home- and you try to kill me” Your words broke out- now fighting with his hands as your knife almost broke through his masks eye barrier.

You were strong- even he had to admit that one.

Using all of his body weight- the man turned you over and threw your knife into oblivion, his hands now gripping aggressively at your neck.

Your arms desperately punched and hit the masked man, now looking at your peripheral vision and noticing the cracked glass of the framed picture of you and Jason.

“ N-No” You choked out, head completely craned into the broken glass’ direction whilst you began to loose your sense of consciousness. Out of curiosity, the masked man also peered into your eye’s direction- now observing the picture.

What the hell was his and his old friend’s picture doing in your apartment.

#dc comics #dc fanfic #dc universe #enemies to lovers #red hood #red hood x reader

[letaliabane]

Willing To Try

anon request: Ooooooh can you do “Shouldn’t you be with him/her?” with Javi pretty please???

Photo cred. to me

warnings: mostly angst (also let’s pretend Elisa and Javier didn’t sleep together for 1x04 just for the purposes of this story? PLS)

Prompts (If you would like to request a prompt, please include the name of the list and the number of the prompts)

15. Shouldn’t you be with her/him? (Angst/fluff list)

You sat back down at your desk, watching as your partners Steve and Javier joined you in your shared office. 

You had just had a mass meeting with the ambassador and the leaders of the DEA apartments. They had informed you that they were keeping an eye on M-19, a group that once had been enemies of Escobar. 

But now it was theorised that they conspired with him and were allegedly the ones who attacked the Palace of Justice Supreme Court. They wanted to be kept informed if anyone came in with information, particularly members of the group. 

However, this was difficult part, because Javier was currently harbouring Elisa Alvarez, the co-leader of the M-19. 

‘How the fuck do you get yourself into these situations Javier? All three of us are going to get caught and lose our jobs if we keep her in hiding any longer!’ Steve muttered as he glared at Javier, arms crossed over his chest as he leant against the desk. 

He scoffed, shaking his head, ‘Maybe next time when your wife decides to bring home a hand grenade like Elisa how about she hands it to you instead of me?’

You just rolled your eyes, continuing to finish the report you had abandoned before the meeting. At times it was just best to stay out of it and let the two stubborn fools but heads. Just before he could leave the office, Steve spoke up, ‘Are you fucking her?’

Your hand froze mid-writing, glancing towards the two men. Javier looked between the two of you before chuckling, ‘Sleep with a communist? That would be downright un-American!’

When he disappeared from your sight you let out a heavy sigh, Steve immediately looking towards you. He knew you were harbouring feelings for the popular, good looking agent long before he even arrived in Colombia. 

Javier and you had been partners for a year or so before they brought in Murphy, and boy had you got along like a house on fire. You’d sometimes share a beer and a pizza after a long day at the office, or you’d go to one of the nearby bars. 

However that changed due to frequency of his visits to his “informants,’ and you 

You saw Steve like an older brother and opened up to him, telling him how conflicted you felt. Yes, you knew the stories of Javier Peña that ran throughout the office, how he was a womaniser and slept with every woman he came across, besides you that is. 

But you wanted to get to know Javier for who he was, you knew he was a good man deep down, but you also didn’t want to end up as another woman on his list of one night stands or informants he had slept with.  

‘I probably shouldn’t have said that-’

You rolled your eyes at Steve’s attempt at softening the blow, keeping you eyes on the scramble of words that were your report, ‘Don’t bother Steve, you heard him. Of course he’s fucking her. Why do you think he wants to keep her around.’ 

Steve only sighed in reply, remaining silent, not wanting to worsen the tension that was already in the air. It was hours later when Javier returned to the office, only to watch as you grabbed your gun and essentials from the drawer of your desk, Steve doing the same. 

‘What’s going on?’

Steve looked up at his voice. ‘We got a lead on where some of those who were involved with the attack on the supreme court are holed up. We’re going to do some recon, scout it out.’ 

‘Why didn’t either of you or anyone else let me know?’

You were quick to answer before Steve could even open his mouth, barely looking towards him. ‘Why would we? Seems like you’ve had your hands full recently.’ 

Javier’s eyes flickered towards you, completely shocked by your words. He'd noticed the changes in your attitude toward him over the past few months, once being very good friends to barely a “hello.”

‘And what the fuck is that supposed to mean Y/N?’

‘What does it matter, besides,’ You said as you step in front of him, finally looking him in the eye, ignoring the anger present within them, ‘You probably should go check on Elisa, make sure she’s still waiting for you at the apartment.’ 

You quickly side stepped him as he gaped at you, ignoring as he called after you, knowing full well he was watching you until you disappeared into the elevator. 

Javier glanced towards Steve who also seemed to have frozen at your words while reaching for his gear. He just gave a brief shrug, grabbing his things before following, leaving Javier alone and confused in the silence of the office. 

You hissed as Steve knelt beside you, pressing the freezing ice pack to the darkening bruise around your eye. Once he knew you had a steady grip on the back, he moved to check the bandage wrapped around your waist, spots of blood decorating the gauze beneath. 

You and Steve had gotten into a scuffle when realising two of the M-19 members had indeed been at the hideout you had intel on, and felt cocky when you watched them leave the base. Unarmed and unwatched by others.

Well, you thought they were unarmed. And it was Steve’s bright idea not to take guns to take them down. 

Both of you hadn’t expected the knives they had hidden within the belts of their pants. Steve escaped with a couple of scrapes, however you ended up receiving the brunt of the attack, one of them slashing you across the waist. It wasn’t too deep of a cut, but it did need stitches. 

‘Ow! Fuck Murphy! If I knew you were this bad I would’ve called your wife!’ You screeched, tugging his hand away from your wound where he had pressed down on. 

‘Oh sorry big baby for not being gentle!’ 

You rolled your eyes at him as he pulled your shirt back down, giving you the look over once more, ‘anyway stitches are holding up well so just take it easy this week and allow it to close properly-’

‘And recover my dignity,’ I mumbled, Steve chuckling as he rose from the floor, packing away the medical bag. It was then a loud knocking echoed through the apartment. You jumped from your spot on the couch and Steve reaching instinctively for his gun. 

‘Oi Murphy open up!’ 

Steve sighed at the sound of Javier’s voice, however you weren’t as glad, staring at him in disbelief. ‘You told him?!’

‘What? He called asking how it went when you passed out in the car, what was I supposed to say? He was worried and wanted to check up on you!’ 

You groaned, throwing your head back against the back of the couch as he went to the door, quietly muttering to one another before Javier noisily making his way over. When you peeked your eye open he stood at the end of the couch, hands on his hips as he took in the sight of you. 

‘What the fuck happened to you?’

‘Oh nothing! You know these bruises and this knife cut just appeared out of thin air!’ You bit back, rubbing your temple as it thrummed in what you knew would be a terrible headache. 

Steve sighed, ‘I’m gonna head off, you two need to talk.’ You glared at him about to retort, but he hurriedly turned and left your apartment, leaving both you and Javier in a very awkward, tense silence. 

You sighed, rolling your eyes as Javier looked anywhere but at you, ‘You can leave Peña, just make sure the door doesn’t hit you on the way out.’

He finally looked at you, his annoyance reaching its peak as he turned towards you, ‘What is your problem Y/N?’

‘We are not doing this right now,’ You said as you stood up, turning to head towards your bedroom, but he stopped you by grabbing your arm. 

‘Yes we are Y/N, we haven’t spoken for months now and I don’t know why! I didn’t say anything but now its getting in the way of our work-’ 

‘Look I don’t really want to talk about this, not right now and especially not with you,’ You muttered, ignoring the hurt that crossed his face, ‘Besides shouldn’t you be with her?’

His eyebrows furrowed, confused, ‘Her? With who?’

‘Don’t play dumb Peña, I’m talking about Elisa! You two seemed so snuggled up when Steve and I found you two at your apartment the other night. Why don’t you run along and go see her?’ You uttered, staring up into his face. 

You took in the hurt that filled his eyes, cause by you. There was a tug at your heart, your anger faltering for a moment. You wanted to take it back. But what if didn’t feel the same way? 

Taking a step back, you began to pull away, but before you could turn away he tugged on your arms, pressing his chest to yours so you couldn’t pull away. 

‘I didn’t sleep with her Y/N, I know I have a reputation for that and I won’t deny it, but not with her. She was escorted out of Bogotá this morning. All she was was an informant. Nothing more. I promise you that.’ 

You’re not sure if it was the way he held you in his arms or the sincerity in his eyes that convinced you. But either way you believed him. 

You sighed as he gripped your arms gently, bringing you closer to him. You moved your eyes to the floor, gulping. ‘I-I’m sorry … it’s just-for so long I’ve-I’ve liked you, and yet I couldn’t help but feel like all you saw me as was a friend, a colleague, and I just felt the need to pull away so I didn’t feel the hurt.’

Javier leant into you, using his hand to nudge your chin up. ‘Y/N, I’ve felt the same way for you too.’

Your eyes widened, mouth agape. ‘What?’

‘With the rules and regulations of the DEA, I just thought it would never cross your mind. A-And I just have never been good at this,’ He pointed between the two of you. 

‘Talking about my feelings Y/N is foreign, and something I’m terrible at. And I’m sorry that I didn’t have the balls to talk to you. I was afraid to ruin what we had already, though we weren’t talking, I still wanted you in my life.’

You couldn’t help but smile softly as he mumbled around his words, looking anywhere but at you, taking your hands into his, playing with your fingertips. You tipped his face up gently, pressing a hand to his cheek. 

‘You could never lose me Javier, even if it meant I was a bitch to you without you ever telling me about your feelings.’

He chuckled loudly, and your smile widened. You hadn’t been alone in a room with him for so long you almost forgot how he looked when he did, and you couldn’t help but find it so beautiful. 

‘I’m willing to make this try and work Javier, even with all the precautions we have to take as agents, I’m ready to do it with you.’ 

Javier smiled gently, gripping your hand, ‘I am too. I know I’m not good at any of this, but I really am willing to try.’ 

Still smiling, he pressed his lips to your forehead gently, face cradled within his hands. You couldn’t help but tremble against him as he did so, leaning you’re face upwards before pressing your lips to his. 

He instantly responded, his lips dancing across your gently before firmly pressing a second kiss to yours. His hands moved down your back as yours wrapped around his neck, pulling him in closer as you tugged on his lip-

‘Ow!’ You cried softly, pulling away as he gripped your hip near the cut, his eyes instantly widening. 

‘Shit I’m so sorry-’

‘No no, it’s okay Javier,’ You chuckled, pecking his lips as you kept him close, nudging his nose playfully as he also joined in the laughter. You felt his hands once more lower to your back, careful of where he placed them. With a sigh, you both smiled against each other as you kissed. 

Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Tagged: @pascalisthepunkest​

A/N: Remember requests are open! I head back to uni soon so get them in early! Feedback is really appreciated! (Btw there is some smut coming for our boy Javier AND I MEAN PROPER SMUT THIS TIME)

Remember requests are open for Pedro Pascal characters! Check it out and request whatever you like!

#javier peña imagines #javier peña imagine #javier peña #javier pena #javier pena imagines #javier pena imagine #javier pena x reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña x reader imagines #pedro pascal #pedropascaledit #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x reader imagines #javier pena x reader imagine

[queerlilacroses]

Nothing to fear but fear itself (TW Blood, Murder, Biphobia)

Richie had always been afraid of werewolves,  ever since he was a little kid the thought of them sent shivers up his spine. He didn’t know if it was the sharp claws, the big teeth or the fact it could be anyone, watching waiting to turn him into his worst fear.                                                                                                                                                              It has also been theorised that werewolves are a metaphor for a specific sexuality, bisexuality, not many people believe that bisexuals exist, at least that’s what Richie hears when he attempts to come out.  

   “There’s no such thing dear, I mean you can be gay or straight I don’t mind I know you’ve always been an odd child but there’s no such thing as both”. He had lamented over that loss for a while, honestly he know lots of people wouldn’t understand but his own mother! That was his biggest disappointment.

So he ran out on her, hiding in the Clubhouse™ that his good friend Ben had built, waiting hours until his best friends Bill, and Bev came frantic down falling down the hole of the clubhouse, “why didn’t they use the stairs”, he wondered aloud forgetting that he had disappeared without letting anyone know and it had been all day since he had ran out on his mother.

“WHY DIDN’T I… I was looking for you you’ve been missing for 6 hours you dummy”

“I’ve been wounded Bev darling, I…wait SIX HOURS”

“Yea is s-something wrong”

Whilst his friends had accepted him all those years ago Richie was still paranoid about his bisexuality despite knowing he wasn’t gay or straight there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind watching, waiting to creep up on hm like a horror movie jump scare that made him spill popcorn all over the floor like an idiot.

The problem with horror movies is they are real; Vampires, Zombies, Witches and of course Werewolves which are the worst of them all. The first time Richie had seen a werewolf had been in a stupid movie , a teen movie, “supposedly a romance” Bev had mentioned nonchalantly as they walked past it at the Aladdin and well it was, for the first 20 minutes or so then it turned out the lead had a secret…the movie plagued him for months after that day after day, night after night all he could see was the male lead chasing him waiting to turn him into a werewolf. He never knew what to do or where to go Richie was traumatized.

Eddie, had been a new confusing figure in his life, they had met at gig which Eddie had helped organized and hit it off but there was something about him Richie wasn’t so sure of. Was it the smell of wet dog despite Eddie claiming to be allergic? Was it the fact that he refused to wear the silver chain that Richie got him as a present? Was it his oddly hairy body? Or was it the fact that anytime  a full moon was around no matter what Eddie would make and excuse and disappear so nobody would see him for days. It confused and scared the hell outta him so he had to confront his ‘boyfriend’ he isn’t sure honestly they haven’t labelled what they are yet and Richie’s kinda nervous that’s because Eddie doesn’t wanna be with a bi man and whilst all these thoughts are in his head he’s overthinking again and he needs to talk to Eddie.

“Eds,”                                                                                              “Urgh what?”                                                                     “Are we like?”                                                                             “Like what Richie use your words”       “Are we boyfriends?”                                                           “no we’re Italian farmers who love growing tomatoes of course we’re boyfriends”                                                                                                               “Geez okay I’m just making sure”                                                                                                      

“Especially cause you’ve been acting so weird, I mean I hardly see you, anytime you stay it’s daytime and the two occasions that we’ve stayed together you’re like a magician here one minute and then disappeared the next like some cruel trick it’s not fair Ed’s, I wanted to move forward with this relationship but it’s so hard when I can’t, don’t, know? Do you understand what I mean?                                                                                                                                          

“Uh no? Why would that ever make sense babe” sighed Eddie although he understood Richie well and knew him inside and out he didn’t understand how his brain worked? His ADHD flickering from thing to thing topic to topic and although Eddie could sometimes be known to ramble he couldn’t keep up.

“Well I mean with you? Why are you avoiding me at night? What’s the big secret?” Richie teased.

“I’m a werewolf”

“WHAT”

“I’m one of those creatures you know the ones that come out on the full moon I turn into a wolf howl at the moon y’know all those stereotypes”

“WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THAT! YOU KNOW ABOUT MY FEAR OF WEREWOLVES”

“I’M SORRY BUT YOU ASKED. THIS IS WHY I’VE BEEN AVOIDING YOU! I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO BE SCARED OF ME YOU ASSHOLE”

“I…what”

“Yea I remembered you saying that you were terrified of werewolves since you were 12 so I’ve been trying to avoid transforming and all the side effects around it whilst I’m around you so I guess that seems like I need to avoid you and I mean there’s the murder”

“MURDER”

“Well I mean it’s not exactly murder more people get in the way of me as a 7 foot tall wolf and unfortunately I think my instincts kick in? Although it could be deer,  but there’s been bodies found and I…”

“BODIES!!?! BODIES AS IN PLURAL !!?!”

“Richie can you stop yelling, it’s been a long night I’m tired and sore, honestly I just want to rest…”

“WAIT WHAT,  YOU WERE OUT LAST NIGHT? Like it was a full moon ? I’m sorry I have to go call Bev or something, I-I can’t.

“WHERE ARE YOU- it’s your never mind” Eddie sighed as his voiced tailed off his head in his hands. This hadn’t been the way he wanted Richie to find out, honestly they’ve only been together for a few weeks and as soon as they talked he found out about his fear of werewolves and was horrified, he knew it might potentially be a dealbreaker and although he didn’t want to lose Richie. He had known that at one point that he’d have to sit down and tell him the story of the doctor, decided that his mother, who was a maniac bringing him to the hospital every time he even touched the ground too hard convinced he’d broken or dislocated his ankle needed something to worry about properly and turned him into a werewolf whilst he was at one of his many stays when he was eleven. His mother had been far more protective when she had found out, it was as if she had been normal beforehand, complete and utter curfew (“back straight after school Eddie-bear don’t talk to anybody, you don’t want them to find out!”), bars on the windows and even restraints at night as she was too paranoid, which wasn’t fun, especially as every night he just kept breaking out of them which in turn scared his mother more and more.

Shakily Richie reached into his pocket for his phone that he’d grabbed in his     haste to leave the apartment building, as it rang the word murder went in his stomach over and over again. “Hello?” Oh good she answered he wouldn’t have known what to do with himself otherwise I mean…. “Helloooo??” Oh right yeah she’s still on this phone.

“I-I Eddie, and…”

“What’s wrong with Eddie, depth breaths calm down and try to try me what happened.

“He.. he.. he’s a monster, a werewolf a murderer I don’t know if I can do this” sobbing he knelt on the pavement holding the phone thinking about how he didn’t want to lose Eddie, the problem was that he loved the shorter man despite them only dating a couple of weeks and he knew about the dangers of dating a monster.

They had learned about it in school which only fuelled Richie’s fear further the teachers explaining about scientific experiments gone wrong and turning ordinary people into creatures that could climb into his slightly opened window in the dead of night and maim them or if they were dating whilst in transformations they would completely forget their partner, ending up harming them. Listening to this had made him scared to moved his bed and slept under his window to make sure nothing got in, freaking out anytime a bug crawled on him.

“A werewolf? Yea probably. A murderer? Probably not and an I mean a monster definitely not. Don’t you love him? Don’t you want the chance for him to prove you wrong, honestly you’ve been scared for far too long. All this time people have been putting ideas into your head about ‘this that and the next thing to do with monsters and no offence Richie but I’m sick of hearing about it, time to march back to your apartment and make your own decisions about Eddie.

“Yea, yea I guess you’re right, I should maybe go back? I.. okay Bev darling I’ll speak to you later”.

Sitting up he decided that it was time to get back, not realising it was getting darker and darker as a full moon approached.

Waiting for Richie made him terrified he was transforming in an hour and he had no idea what would happen. Would they break up?? If they did it would be so much worse, the adrenaline in this body taking over, making him more angry and upset and he knew his wolf side would harm anything that got in his way, which could include his caring but stupid and scared boyfriend. Hearing the door creak open his head perked up realising that Richie hadn’t let for that long and that probably meant bad news, knots grew in his stomach as he waited in anticipation for Richie to say something, anything whilst looking at the clock ticking on closer and closer to his time of transformation.

“I’m home babey! I wanna talk to you, my love” he said in a singsong voice. This wasn’t good, he honestly knew Richie’s speech patterns very well and he almost never called him babey unless there was a big problem or something was wrong.  

“Yea I’m in here what’s happening”

“I just wanted to say, I talked to Bev and she put things into perspective, I think I love you and I shouldn’t judge you based on what happened when you were younger and I should try to get over it, I wanna keep dating you so I think it’s a good idea to see you at least once.

“Wait wait you want to stay with me? HOLD UP YOU THINK YOU LOVE ME”

“Well yea, I guess? I know we’ve only been dating for a few weeks and technically I only found out a few days ago but I have really strong feelings for you and I think I love you”.

“ I … okay… really don’t know what to say I love yo…” but before Eddie could finish off his sentence something happened, it was supposed to be a strange scary thing but Richie didn’t feel scared all he felt was concerned H could see the pain manifesting on Eddie’s face as he twisted and turned and hair grew from his body turning him taller, more muscular and then into a wolf.

Werewolves, although potentially not less dangerous were smaller than the stories, and Eddie didn’t seem to want to attack him honestly? Richie was very confused and conflicted between everything he had ever heard and feared vs the man who was his boyfriend who had just turned into what looked like a slightly taller dog still vigilant just sitting there. Well until it started talking, but you never hear about things like that when people are attempting to scare you.

“Well aren’t you going to say something? You’ve been looking at me in a daze for the last five minutes like I get the idea of you being scared like yea but can you please snap out of your like -why are you- dude why are you laughing?” Forgetting he was a wolf he attempted to walk over to Richie and ended up falling over four paws”.

Doubled over in laughter Richie realising his boyfriend was an idiot as a wolf decided that there something they needed to talk about “Eddieeeeeee we need to talk soooo I also have a secret”.

“Okay, and it is?

“I’m boisexual, well actually I’m bisexual but we both know I couldn’t come out without a pun”

“And an awful one at that I mean, what does that even mean rich? But honestly I know you told me about the time you dated Bev before she started dating Ben so I just assumed, why is that like a problem?”

“Oh…I- forgot about I just -I assumed like most gay guys you wouldn’t be down to date a bisexual guy I mean most of my life I’ve been told I don’t exist and-“

“Wait who told you this, how many people told you this? You know they’re wrong right I mean you’re bisexual”,

“thanks I means it was mainly my mum and a couple of ex-boyfriends, some teachers and stuff you know”

“Do you want to get your own back?”.

Richie looked at the small wolf in surprise thinking about how he could play pranks and stuff or what they could do in order to get his own back but Eddie had something else in mind.

“Do you want to come with me to kill them”

 Maggie Tozier, was baking in the kitchen humming a light tune whilst taking a pie out of the oven, she hadn’t spoken to her son since he turned sixteen and came out as bisexual for the third time to her disbelief that it wasn’t a phase and after she decided not to accept him they both just stopped talking to each other and then a year later he up and left.

As Richie made his way to his childhood home with his boyfriend in tow he looked at his mom and realised there was no turning back, it was now or never, he could talk to his mom get clarification? If it all went wrong Eddie would be there to make sure he’s okay. Walking in announced he saw he face drop and her mouth open, unfortunately it didn’t seem to be in a nice way. “What are you doing here” her voice laced with disappointment at seeing her thirty-odd year old son standing in front her for the first time in years waiting for her approval or acceptance at last, but that would never come. “Do you still think you can live in cloud cuckoo land and date both boys and girls, I hate to tell you baby but people are going to take advantage of you, I don’t see a ring if you’d just stop all this nonsense I could-“

Before anyone knew what was happening Eddie had lunged at Maggie and grabbed at her arm to bite her, Richie frozen in shock and horror couldn’t do anything except gape at the site as he could see she was losing more and more blood out of her arm, thinking realising he didn’t have many options his adrenaline kicked in, he pondered back to all the times he’d been told he was invisible, bisexuality didn’t exist or he was a monster for trying to invade both communities and he snapped. Grabbing a butcher’s knife from the kitchen he could see his mother attempting to back away muffled screaming, and stabbed her stomach, hearing the organs squishing made his feel better so he did it again and again until he was cover in a pool of blood, surrounded by his mother whilst he was sobbing, Eddie in a corner waiting on him.

“I just murdered my mother”

“Well yea, I just thought you’d hurt her a little honestly but that was a full on murder, but I think she had it coming? Do you want to get cleaned up?”

“Mhmm, that’d be nice, but the problem is I liked it, I enjoyed stabbing her, is that weird?

“Weeelll that depends on who you ask, me, I’m fine with it I mean I enjoy maiming people as a wolf but to normal person I guess?? Hey do you wanna murder people when I’m in my wolf form”.

“You mean people who deserve it right? Not just random people on the street because I don’t know if I enjoy it that much”.

“Yep yea sure of course I won’t pressure you it’s only been your first murder  after all”.

That next night was the final full moon for the month and Richie was trying to think who he would want to murder next, one of his teachers who made him terrified of werewolves, one of the executives who said he’d never get a job in comedy (look at him now!) or one of his biphobic ex-boyfriends who made him feel so disgusting and pathetic that he decided not to date for six years and when he at last did date ‘forgot’ to disclose his sexuality every date he went on.

Tracing down his ex-boyfriend wasn’t as difficult as it seemed just follow the scent of disappointment and go to the nearest seedy gay bar. Julian, who was happily walking towards his car according to the police report, was ribbed in the heart with a duller kitchen knife as if to mimic a broken heart. One arm was ripped off and had teeth marks in it as if it was created by both man and dog.

Waking up next to Eddie, was one of the nice things about existing having had one of the weirdest dreams of his life, although as the blood dripped from the mattress that he couldn’t see he did know one thing though.

He wasn’t frightened of werewolves anymore.

#reddie #reddie au #fanfic #writing #it chapter 2 #hallowren's spooktacular it project #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #beverly marsh #tw murder #tw blood #tw biphobia #tw gore #ask me if there's anything you want me to tag #this is my first lil writing project #werewolves #some of my formatting is awful but i copy pasted from word and i I don't care I'm just proud to have finished!

[eliminatedtheimpossible]

The Loss of Inhibitions in Sleep Deprived Addicts

As self-help books and medical practitioners are quick to point out, an addict is always an addict. Generally, I’m the type to disregard idioms as baseless, but in this instance, I find myself begrudgingly agreeing with the sentiment. It should come as no surprise to those who are interested in my personal life outside the realms of logical theorems, deductive reasoning, and cases that I’ve struggled with my own addictions. This has been mentioned in newspapers with an attempt to discredit my work to little avail. 

I’ve never considered myself an addict. I’ve always been keenly in control of what I put into my body, for what means, and how much. My dabbling with cocaine has always been for the purpose of my work. There were instances in the past where I was required to stay awake for long periods of time to solve a case. Though I pride myself in my capability to withstand my body’s more base urges, after two sleepless days, the third is always difficult to muster without losing some of one’s mental faculties. Obviously, when working on a case, this is unacceptable. Cocaine was an easy solution. As it is a stimulant, it was able to keep me alert and functioning well past the time when I should have been able to do so. 

I won’t delve into a past that holds no bearings on the present but needless to say I haven’t used frequently in some time, after a bad miscalculation. The whole trick to being a functioning drug user is the ability to discern the dosage needed to produce the desired effect without developing a dependency. Tolerance is also a painful variable in the equation, but I’m not here to explain how I managed to use drugs for as long as I did. 

I’ve been informed by John that I was using intellectualisation as a coping mechanism. If I believed I had an infallible equation, there was no way I could be an addict. He must have discussed the matter with his idiotic therapist. As she was unable to cure John’s psychosomatic limp and I was, I choose to believe my equation still holds merit. Though, I will resign to the fact that the heroin had been a mistake. 

There had been a logical explanation for the heroin use at the time, but I’m unable to recall it. It had something to do with balance. Like one balances a chemical equation. The cocaine was a high, a stimulant, an upper. But what is left when the case is over and the high continues? What does one do when they need to sleep, when it feels like the universe as a whole is in flux and you can feel it, when everything is hurtling at you with breakneck speed and there are millions upon millions of new ideas and possibilities scratching at the corners of your mind and there are loose threads on your bedsheets, and when did this happen, and how did this occur? Where is the nearest place to buy new bedsheets and would they be open? And why does one need bedsheets? What real purpose do they hold?

It all came down to wanting to sleep. I craved the moment of silence heroin gave. Even now, there are some nights where I crave this silence. 

After my train journey back to London with John, I came to the revelation that it had been months since I slept as well as I had with him in that carriage. It only made sense that my mine went to heroin. Once an addict, always an addict. 

I didn’t have any in the flat, of course, I wasn’t that stupid. Once I had kept a small stash of cocaine beneath the floorboard of the creaking step which led up to the landing of 221B. John had discovered it about a month after he moved in. Since then, I haven’t kept drugs in the flat. It’s probably for the best but last night I regretted this decision. 

It was four in the morning and I hadn’t slept in three days. It’s always around day three things begin to get difficult. On day three, heroin seems like a logical idea. A cure for an ailment. It’s really the equivalent of taking paracetamol to alleviate a headache. On a brain which has been deprived of sleep for three days, it seems like the same thing.  

I wanted to stop my experimentation regarding the relationship between John and myself, as I theorised further advancement would be treacherous. However, last night I saw no other alternatives but to push our boundaries once more. As I’ve stated (see ‘The Method of Places’) John and I have been known to share his bed during the day when his injuries are particularly bad but we’ve never actually slept together, in the most literal sense of the word.

I’d been desperate for sleep and John’s bedroom door was ajar. He’d been asleep when I first entered the room, but as I crawled under the covers beside him, he awoke with a start. The morning after I recorded a transcript of our conversation as I could best recall it, to use as further data regarding the changing attitudes towards affections within our relationship. The transcript goes as such:

“Sherlock?” It should be noted, having just woken up, John was rather more daft than usual. I hadn’t seen the need to respond. I buried myself deeper under the covers. They smelled of John. 

“Everything alright?” He asked next. It seems to be a habit of his, to ask if I’m alright following a display of closeness. I made note to conduct a systematic analysis of other transcripts I have recorded to see if such a theory holds true. 

I admitted to him that I needed to sleep, unsure of how he would respond. I waited for him to object. He didn’t. He became quiet for so long I had begun to drift off but he startled me awake by saying my name again. 

“If it’s a danger night, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” It had taken my own sleep-deprived mind a painfully long time to catch up. Oh Mycroft. Bloody gossipy bastard.

“Possibly,” I responded. The two of us don’t discuss this type of thing but John seemed to want to.

“Is it a danger night?” John is stubborn when he wants to be, so I told him the truth. 

“Not anymore.” This was enough for him.  

He settled back down into the bed, leaving half a foot between us. I hadn’t realised my hand was encroaching on his side of the invisible boundary until I heard the rustling of sheets and felt the lightest touch ghost across my fingers and palms. In my tired state, I found myself clinging on to the touch. It was a hand, John’s hand. His hand was warm and calloused. I could feel the slightest hint of a tremble, which seemed strange as since John and I began solving cases together his hands had remained steadfast. Like his ever-present limp, the slight tremble in his hand had been a memory. Now I felt it, another strange phenomenon. I’m not known to be a comforting person but I felt as though John needed something. 

It was then I remembered John’s sleeping habits when it came to the long list of girlfriends he had since I made his acquaintance. He stays the night at their house and they have sex but they never sleep together. He comes back to Baker Street with a sore neck and a barely perceptible limp from sleeping on their sofa. 

It was then, I did something I’d never done before. I asked for permission. 

“Is this okay?” I felt like an idiot. John had laughed a long, shoulder-shaking baritone laugh. 

“After all the shit you’ve put me through, you’re going to ask if this is okay?” This confused me, I may try to unpack the statement later but I was glad I seemed to make him relax. 

“It’s fine Sherlock, get some sleep.” 

He may have said more after but I can’t recall. I had finally fallen asleep. 

After some reflection, I can confirm my supposition that attempting to further our relationship would be disagreeable as I now understand my desire to avoid romantic relationships doesn’t strictly apply to John. As I understand he doesn’t have the same inclinations as I do, I believe it would be best for the both of us to reestablish our old boundaries. 

S.H. 

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #fan fiction #fan fic

[fullmetalscullyy]

If you're down for those writing prompts you posted, 11 sounds great!

i know it’s been a hot minute since i answered a fic ask but we’re here!

sorry it took so long! i hope you enjoy a bit of humour, embarassment, and payback

body-swapped for a day

Roy woke up slowly. His brow furrowed when he didn’t recognise theceiling above him. Movement against his side is what caught his attention next.Looking down, he saw a ball of black fur curled up against his body.

He paled.

Had… Had he slept here last night? Had he done something with Hawkeye?Why couldn’t he remember it?

Roy shot up in bed, gaze scanning the room. Hayate jumped in fright,grumbling after being roughly awoken from his sleep. After a yawn he settledagainst Roy once more, sighing in contentment as he tried to fall back into hisslumber. Roy felt the pup’s heat against his thigh.

Oh… Oh…

He wasn’t wearing shorts. Well, not his shorts. Not theones he remembered putting on yesterday evening. These ones were faded blue andshort. Very short. A lot of skin disappeared underneath the duvet cover.

Not his skin.

Roy lifted his hands, not seeing his own. There were different scars,rough callouses on the palms, and different fingernails. His hands were suddenlyvery feminine.

Almost fearfully, he looked down at his chest.

Roy paled. Again.

Scrambling through the apartment – that was not his own – to thephone, he dialled his home number. A groggy voice greeted him and with a jolt,Roy realised it as his own voice.

“Hello?”

“…Hawkeye?” he asked cautiously.

“Who is this?” she – no, he – asked.

“It’s… Mustang.”

“What?” There was a yawn before she spoke again.

Roy knew the feeling. He was already tired of trying to keep up withthe changes in pronouns and trying to wrap his head around who was talking. In hishead, it was his own voice, but when he opened his mouth, it was Hawkeye’s. Throughthis phone, he heard his own again, and that was throwing him off big time ashe tried to coax himself(?) awake.

And, not to mention the fact that his head was beginning to hurt as hecontinued to process what the hell was happening.

Why was he in Riza Hawkeye’s body?! Riddle himthat, universe.

“Hawkeye, look at yourself.”

“I’m tired and have no idea what you’re talking about,” she mumbledsleepily. It was such a characteristically Roy response that hisbody jolted after hearing it. This was far too weird.

“Hawkeye, wake up.”

“It’s a Saturday,” she stated petulantly. “No.”

“It’s not a Saturday,” he replied, resisting the urge to pinch thebridge of his nose. “It’s a Friday.”

Judging by the fact that he’d woken up at six am on the dot and feltwell rested, Roy theorised that being in Hawkeye’s body came with all herhabits. Therefore, the same would apply to her in his body.

“In my head it’s a Saturday.”

“That’s not how the world works,” he stated. This time he did pinch thebridge of his nose. It was incredibly odd addressing her like this. It was soout of character – both for Hawkeye’s responses and his reaction to Hawkeye’s(his body’s?) words. The “all the same habits” theory was beginning to look alot more likely as he tried to reason with her in his petulant-when-tired body.“Get out of bed and look at yourself in the mirror.”

There was a loud sigh. “Fine. If I do, will you let me sleep?”

“Yes.” That was all he needed.

There was the sound of movement, a sharp intake of breath, thensilence.

“See?” Roy urged.

“Uh…” she replied eloquently. “What… What’s happening here, sir?” Itwas odd to be called sir by his own voice.

“I don’t know. I woke up in your body this morning.”

“You’re in my body?” she asked incredulously.

Roy nodded. “Yes.”

There was a pause and after she spoke Roy could imagine her narrowingher eyes. “Don’t try any funny business.”

“What?” Those were not the first words he expected her to say.

“You heard me,” she accused. “Don’t even try it. If you do, I will know.”

“Hawkeye, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind!” he exclaimed. “Iwas more thinking “holy shit, what is happening?” rather thanhaving a peek at anything.”

She hummed, the noise indicating that she didn’t quite believe him. “Iknow what you’re like.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, indignant.

Hawkeye sighed in exasperation. “Nothing. Look, let’s just… get throughthe morning, right now, and get to work. Once we’re there, we’ll pretend everythingis fine. Until we can figure out what the hell has happened.”

“Okay.” Roy let out an exhale, glad for some kind of plan to be inplace. At the thought of having a goal, her thinly veiled insult was forgotten.Despite the jabs, it felt good to know that he wasn’t alone in this bizarre newventure the universe had decided to through upon them. “Sounds like a plan.”

She bid him farewell, hanging up the phone.

Roy put the phone back and considered his next problem.

He needed to pee. And shower.

*          *          *

“How are you doing?” Roy asked as he met Hawkeye by the entrance to HQ.

“Not freaking out, if that’s what you’re asking.” Roy detected theclear sarcasm in her tone.

“Good. Because I’m definitely not either.”

Hawkeye turned her head and gave him a quick smile. It was meant as a comfort,but it was decidedly unsettling to see him do it to himself.

“It’s like I’m currently having an out of body experience.”

“It’s so surreal. How did this even happen? Alchemy?”

Hawkeye shook her head, shrugging her shoulders helplessly. “I have noidea.”

“How… How was your morning?” he asked awkwardly. “Um, I… I didn’t… look at anything whileshowering.” He noticed her cheeks turning pink as she cast him a sidelongglance.

“I… I didn’t either, sir.”

They were both adults and old friends, but this was so far beyond therealm of anything that should be considered normal, that they were both awkwardand unsure how to act. Peeing had been an interesting affair for him thatmorning and he almost felt mortified for Hawkeye as he thought about what shewould need to do for him.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Me too, sir.”

“Not to mention the fact that you can’t call me sir right now, but I do think we’re farbeyond the formalities and use of last names right now,” Roy stated with anervous laugh.

She nodded. “You’re right, but I can’t help it. Old habits. But it would be strange for meto call you sir in this body. That wouldn’t work.” She sighed in frustration thenher voice lowered as they turned into a particularly busy corridor. “Let’s justtake it a step at a time and work it out on our lunch break, if we can.” Roynodded in agreement.

“Hey, boss,” Havoc greeted casually as they entered the room. They bothblinked at him, causing Havoc to look up from his breakfast burrito and frown.

“Hey, Havoc,” Roy blurted out, forgetting that he wasn’t technicallytheir boss today.

Havoc gave him an odd look, before greeting him too. “Hey, Hawkeye.”

One glance at Hawkeye told him she’d come to the same conclusion he had.

They’d have to play the other’s role in the team for the time being.

That was easier said than done. Roy began to panic slightly when herealised he’d have to do Hawkeye’s work for the day. He didn’t really know whatit was exactly that she did – as in what reports she worked on and what shespecialised in – because he barely had time for his own paperwork, nevermind the rest of the team’s.

This could be bad.

However, after the greetings, Roy followed the new General Mustang intohis inner office and closed the door.

“What are we going to do?” he whispered urgently. He froze when he noticedthe smirk on her face. “What?”

“So, I get to play the role of the great General Mustang today, don’t I?And you’ll be working on my tasks. Interesting. Very interesting.” Roypaled. He didn’t like the sound of this.

*          *          *

“I must say,” Riza stated lowly, her breath tickling his ear. Royshivered inside Riza’s body, but with a jolt realise just how responsive herbody was to his voice. “Being in your shoes today was really rather eyeopening.”

Oh my god, this is embarrassing, he thought as hefelt his skin heat up.

But… Then he smiled widely. This… This could be used to his advantage later.A method of payback for all she’d put him through today. She’d been far toosatisfied watching him try to struggle and fill her role. Riza, for her part,simply had a day off today. She’d put her feet up in a very characteristic wayof the General and watched as he’d floundered helplessly. Roy supposed it washis own fault. One day wouldn’t pay back for the years she’d been subjected toit, so Roy knew he deserved it.

Payback was a bitch, as they say.

“You sat on your butt and did nothing all day.”

“Exactly. So, I played the role of you perfectly,” she smirked, eyesdancing with amusement.

“Oh, ha ha,” he stated, not laughing in the slightest.

“Maybe today was a lesson about how difficult and stressful my job canbe when a certain someone sits on his butt all day?”

“All right, point taken,” he grumbled. “But remember, payback is abitch, Riza.”

After what they’d both been through today, they were so far passed theuse of honorifics and surnames.

She smirked. “I know. And this is only the beginning. I’ve had to putup with workdays like that for the past fifteen years. There’s a lot to payback to you,” she grinned.

Roy hummed in consideration. “Well, let’s cross that bridge when wecome to it. If we wake up the same tomorrow, then I’ll accept my fate.” He couldn’thelp his amused smile.

“Good,” she stated, sticking her tongue out playfully at him as sheleft the empty office. Roy was left staring after her, mouth parted in hissurprise.

As soon as Roy woke the next morning he shot up in bed, patting hisbody down. He exhaled in relief as he found a flat, hard chest. He kicked thesheet off to find his own legs, brought his hands up to see his own hands, andflopped back in his bed, eyes closing as he tried to calm his racing heart. He wasback.

Oh, thank God. Not that he didn’t enjoy being in Hawkeye’s body (he did a little bit), but it meant that he wouldn’t have another day fraught with paperwork and trying to keep the whole team in line.

Maybe he should stop off at her favourite bakery on the way to work to buy her breakfast as a thank you and as an apology for slacking the last fifteen years, now that he knew what it felt like…

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #worldeater337 #ask #anon #fic request #writing prompts #emma writes

[screensirenfic]

Black Leather - Chapter 13

Warnings: Aftermath of Sexual Assualt

Sleep had been a bitch all night; which means to say that it’d run away from me nipping and screaming whilst the shadow of Billy had loomed over me all night like a malevolent spectre.

If I had to put a number on it; I’d say I slept maybe four hours, and that was including dad’s untimely interruption, because of course; he had to piss off the only person capable of opening the door from the comfort of her room.

That; and the fact that he was so damn paranoid that we had to have a minimum of three locks on the door at all times, meant that I had to go let him in.

He’d been surprised; of course. Expected me to still be partying it up at Tina’s, three sheets to the wind and with no intention of returning home anytime soon.

Proves how much attention he paid to my drinking habits; if he knew anything about me, he would’ve guessed that Tina’s annual Halloween bash was the last place I’d want to be spending my weekend.

Even with his relentless stream of questions following me back to my room; I had no intention to answer any of them. If he’d just kept his nose out and let me stay home; none of this would’ve happened.

But no; he had to play tough father for one night and expect me to ‘act like a man’, despite his near constant insistence that I was still his little girl.

Hypocrisy never was a good disciplinary tactic, and dad’s idea of parenting more often than not aligned with his training of rookie cops.

Tough love did not sum it up, and I often had to remind him I was his daughter and not a suspect to be interrogated.

If he could just listen to me just once; than maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess with Billy, maybe he wouldn’t have...

No. I couldn’t think of that again; even after I’d sobbed myself to sleep, feeling so much like a stupid little girl that for the first time in nearly ten years; I found myself wanting my mom.

I hadn’t thought about her properly in years; both me and dad actively avoided it to be honest. Too many sour memories; too many late night arguments filled with words we’d both regret.

I missed her; of course, but I’d accepted that she was gone long ago; just like I had with Sara.

Dad had found that harder; his dreams too easily troubled by the things he wished he had said, things he had wished he had done.

I slept easier; the ignorance of my relative youth at the time, a better shield against regret.

Still; there was times in my life that I longed for my mother’s love.

For the sound words of advice and the gentle understanding that was so important between mother and daughter in her blossoming teenage years.

Like your first dance, when she’d take you to pick your dress and braid your hair; telling you you looked so pretty, just like a princess.

My dad bought me a dress; of course, left me traipsing through half of the strip mall to find the right one. But I’d struggled with my hair alone, eventually leaving it in its usual messy curls, because dad said I looked like a proper punk rocker.

I missed her when I first went to the movies with Steve; faking smiles whilst I was quietly terrified, because something had changed between us, and it wasn’t just the six inches he’d managed to grow over the summer whilst he was away at camp.

Dad was terrible with feelings; even worse when they involved boys, so he’d been no help there.

I’d missed just being able to talk to her; to gush about stupid teenage crushes on a boy who’d never be more than my best friend, who still called me beautiful when I’d thrown up in the popcorn bucket, blaming it on menstrual cramps.

I’d missed her more than anything last night, sobbing silently into my pillow, because I was terrified that I might wake my dad up; terrified that he might ask what’s wrong, and I’d have to tell him. I’d have to come clean about the shame that hung over me like a dark cloud; that dripped down my thighs in a guilty shimmer, baring itself for the world to see.

I’d needed her then; the cold comfort of her stroking my hair and telling me it’s gonna be okay, even if we both know it’s not, because she understood.

She understood what it was like to be a girl in this world.

To have all your expectations and worth measured up by what you could fit between your legs.

I’d missed my mom, but she wasn’t coming back, no matter how much I pined for her.

The sunlight seemed especially harsh as it seeped in through the holes of my fraying drapes; my mind reacting as if it had a hangover, despite me having not touched more than a couple of drinks last night.

Part of my mind theorised that my drink might’ve been spiked. At least that would’ve given me a scapegoat for what happened with Billy; and damnit, I was thinking about him again.

I thought that this was meant to be easier in the sober light of day, but apparently I had been wrong about that too.

A large part of me was tempted just to turn over and spend the day in bed, but that would’ve aroused too much of dad’s suspicion and no doubt he’d find out the truth; and the truth was something I was determined to never see the light of day.

So instead I hauled myself out of bed, ever thankful that the ache between my legs had faded, even if my bruises hadn’t.

Those bad boys were looking particularly impressive today, blending into a myriad of violets and indigos that was sure to rival even the most battered of mugging victims.

It was gonna take a hell of a lot of concealer to cover those suckers up, and I wasn’t quite sure I had the patience, nor the supplies to do it.

I suppose I could always wear a sweater, though that would be ridiculously out of character for me and would definitely arouse my dad’s suspicion more than if I’d walked out of my room with a sign around my neck that said “GUILTY”.  

So I elected to plead the fifth to all summons from my self decided prison cell and took the coward’s way out, hiding out in my room until I was risking yet another tardiness slip from Ms McKinley.

I could hear yelling outside my room; El and dad were arguing again, a sound that was strangely reminiscent of myself at her age.

It wasn’t the kid’s fault. She was going stir crazy, being locked up like a dog in a cage; it only made sense that she’d lash out. He couldn’t keep her prisoner here; no matter how much he feared for her safety in the outside world.

She was a kid; for Christ’s sake, not a pet.

She needed to go outside and feel the sun on her face, spend some time with some kids her own age, instead of hiding in the dark watching cartoon reruns till all hours of the night.

But still, try telling my dad that. He wouldn’t hear it. Being seen outside was an unnecessary risk, and taking risks were stupid; “and we are not stupid.”

Give me a fucking break.

A door slammed, and I knew that Eleven had locked herself in her room, judging by the fact my dad hadn’t raced out of the house like a filly in the Kentucky Derby.

Dad was still yelling, but that was to be expected. He hardly ever relented on having the last word; too goddamn stubborn to let it be otherwise.

I emerged from my room, hoping that he’d be so busy with the current focus of his ire that I’d be able to slip out unseen. Good fucking plan that was.

“Oh; look who decided to show her face now!” My dad spat with all the cold spite of a washed up forty year old with two rebellious teenagers.

I cut him some slack and ignored him, knowing this was one grenade he really didn’t wanna pull the pin out of.

Instead I swept over to the kitchen table, snatching my jacket off the chair in a clear display that I was not in the mood for his shit today.

“So you’re brooding too?” He queried; clearly not getting the message that he was walking on thin ice, and my calm demeanour was really beginning to crack under the poking of his jibes.

I snatched my keys up off the tabletop, ignoring him more for his sake than mine, because if I blew; I was gonna go full on Armageddon on this bitch.

“It’s so nice to be surrounded by such lovely teenagers...” He spat, but I really didn’t need to stand around here and listen to his bitching.

He thought dealing with a barely pubescent kid was hard; he should try dealing with a hormonal meathead twice his size who wouldn’t take no as an answer.

So I stormed out of the house, slamming the door in his face in what must’ve been becoming a familiar experience for him, before making my way over to my bike.

I might not be able to outrun my problems, but when I knew I could hit 120 on my Triumph; I sure as hell was gonna try.

———————————————————-

I arrived at school ten minutes earlier than expected, but that was probably due to the three red lights I’d ran on the way over.

I mean; it’s not like I was gonna get arrested. I was the chief’s daughter for Christ’s sake; the most I’d get is a ticket.

My dad would chew me out about it, but I really didn’t care; if he wanted to talk to me about responsibility, he should’ve considered that before he’d forgotten about the thirteen year old waiting alone in our cabin on Halloween whilst he played Magnum half the night.

I’d pulled up in the parking lot, yanking my helmet off and tossing it onto the back of my bike, before marching into school like I was running drills because I was still steaming over how he acted this morning.

The fucking nerve to have a go at me, when he was the one continuously neglecting his parental responsibilities.

I know it wasn’t socially acceptable to hit your dad, but I swear to God...

“Whore...” Sneered a voice, and at first I thought I was hearing things, because someone sure as hell wasn’t saying that to me.

I ignored it, continuing striding through the halls as I made a beeline for my locker.

“Like a fucking hooker...” Another murmur cut through the bustle of the hallway chatter, and this time I knew I wasn’t imagining it.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Alex Kaplinsky and one of his basketball buds snickering as they walked down the hall, grins and eyes flickering in my direction.

Since when did these dicks grow balls?

Seems like everyone had heard about my eventful night at Tina’s, even the kids who hadn’t been there judging by the nasally snorts coming from Nora Pierson and the rest of the debate team.

And of course, as it was whenever someone who garnered even the slightest amount of respect in this school did something risqué; it was the hot topic of the hour, whispers and giggles following me through the halls.

I tried to ignore it; I really did.

Why should I give a flying fuck what the brain dead populous of Hawkins High thought about my sex life?

It’s not like they didn’t do it anyway; regurgitating wild rumours varying from me to being a downright prude, to me fucking half the cheerleading team, because of course; when a girl says she’d rather gag herself with a spoon than suck you off, she’s gotta be batting for the other team.

The most recent and popular spin of the rumour mill this month would’ve been a recycled story that I was Harrington’s bit on the side for when he got bored of Nancy; something that had been circulating on and off for about three years whenever everyone decided the tantalising thought of the lesbian virgin seemed too far fetched.

That all heated up with the arrival of Billy; creating the teen movie love triangle I never wanted.

Everyone secretly pinned their bets on their favourite, though Billy clearly was the front runner; all testosterone and muscle, and now with a pair of my ruined panties in his belt, Steve really was lagging behind.

I held my head high as I reached the final stretch to my locker; the place I knew I’d come across the majority of first hand witnesses from the party.

“Such a slut...” Hissed a smirking Tina to an equally venomous Ally; both of them staring at me and gossiping like I’d just decided to become a prostitute.

Gone was Tina’s fake smiles; no longer having to commit to the act of gracious host, returning to her former role of cheerleading captain and Hawkins High’s resident bitch.

They were just bitter; angry that with all their skimpy spandex and neon eyeshadow, Billy had still passed over them like they were yesterday’s cafeteria lunch.

Well; fuck ‘em both.

I never cared about the thoughts of Tina or Aly; they both despised me anyway. Forcing fake smiles in front of Steve; only to talk shit about me later.

Fuck Tina and Ally, and fuck anyone else who thought they could judge me.

I’d almost reached my locker; I could see Steve’s ridiculous hair rising above the crowd at the opposite end of the hallway, a clear signifier that my walk of shame was almost over.

“Hey Lola. Got time for another dance partner?”Chirped the voice of Tommy H, and normally I’d be seconds away from gaining myself a collection of molars, but instead I nearly jumped out of my skin, because where the vultures circle; the lions can never be far off.

But lucky or unlucky; I couldn’t decide, it was just Carol and Tommy cackling like the perfect pair of hyenas. I didn’t even say anything in response; fucking weak.

What the fuck was wrong with me? Since when could I be snickered into submission by Tommy H?

Well; since his mullet headed idol decided to make a sideshow of me, that’s when.

Jesus; when would this day be over?

I’d only been in school for less than ten minutes and already I was torn between leaving and never coming back, and burning the place down, or some strange combination of the both.

If I saw Billy Hargrove today; I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from knocking him into next week! The slimy fucking bastard!

But I had to hold back; from slaughtering Billy and everyone else who dared snicker at me in the hallways, because I could see Steve clearly now; tall lanky form peering into his locker as if the whole world went straight over his head.

I strode up to my locker and immediately set to work on opening it; happy to let Steve remain in whatever little fantasy filled that pretty head of his. He didn’t need my venom; he’d done enough for me.

“Hopper...” He purred, and without even looking up from my locker, I could sense the smirk on his face; our normal playful banter routine resuming with clockwork regularity.

“Steve; I really don’t have time for this today.” I sighed impatiently; both irritated by his easygoing nature, yet strangely jealous that he could just assume normality with such little effort.

Perhaps it’s true what they say; ignorance is bliss, and judging by the carefree smile on his face, Steve was still completely oblivious to today’s rumour mill.

That, or he’d chosen complete denial and ignored the whole thing entirely; though Steve always seemed too much of a hothead for that.

“Lo; are you alright?” Steve asked, concern dripping from his tone as he looked at me with those big doe eyes.

But of course I wasn’t damn alright. I was wrongfully crowned the new reigning slut of Hawkins High, with a fabricated body count rising into the early twenties; all thanks to Billy Hargrove and my inability to handle even a smidgeon of alcohol.

But of course; I couldn’t tell Steve that.

Not when I risked him getting a quick fire concussion at the hands of my least favourite bad boy.

So instead I slammed my locker door; managing to growl a thoroughly unconvincing “just peachy...” through gritted teeth.

Peachy or not; my locker really didn’t fucking care, refusing to shut itself despite me slamming it with all the force of the five hundred backhand slaps Billy and his cohorts had long been overdue.

“Here, Lo; let me help with that...” Steve offered, reaching across with all the casual chivalry I really didn’t need right now.

What I needed was a twenty pound mallet and for Billy Hargrove to keep his head still for a while, but considering that was as likely as the virgin lesbian rumours coming true; I had to settle with taking my anger out on my locker door.

“I’ve got it.” I insisted, slamming the door with even more force this time; so hard that I’m pretty sure it’d leave a dent. It stayed shut this time.

I then turned to make my way to first period algebra, because I knew if I spent another minute with Steve, I’d start taking my anger out on him; and he really didn’t deserve that.

“Wow! Do think she’s pregnant?!” Snickered Ally to Tina as I passed; her complete obliviousness to anything except  fashion magazines astounding me more than ever.

I shot her a set of daggers, because rumours or not; I still had some amount of respect in this school, and damnit; if I wouldn’t use some of that to remind her where to get off.

Ally and Tina both flinched, and although I’d preferred that they scattered like cockroaches in the sunlight; that would have to do.

Fuck this fucking school, fuck Tina and Aly, fuck Tommy H and Carol; but most of all, Fuck Billy Hargrove!

#stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things fandom #fanfiction #fanfic #strangerthingsfanfiction #strangerthingsfanfic #original character #stranger things oc #strangerthings oc #jim hopper daughter #hopper daughter #Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargove x reader #steve harrington #jim hopper #hopper #jane hopper #eleven #eleven sister

[ybyg]

Another round of TGD theories (no reviews and The Guest this time, because I’m feeling like shit and I can’t think. Give me 10 drinks, then we can talk.)

After the Chuseok cutoff, it’s hard to make any theories and that’s sad because two of my theories from last week were debunked. The ‘cliffhanger’ timings are all off due to this. I meant to discuss, but I don’t feel like it. Maybe in a few days when my brain works again.

If you’ve read my posts before, you know the drill: This Post Contains Ghost Detective Spoilers because I’m an asshole who has to reveal everything, so if you’re trying to avoid spoilers, don’t read until you’re all caught up. I have no idea how to write a goddamn show and I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I just love typing and talking and thinking and giving unsolicited opinions. No, seriously. Ask my friends.

BTW, if you’re reading this, why are you reading this?!

How did Dail end up in the middle of the street?

Let's get one thing straight: the 'jump' between 'Dail in the interrogation room' scene and 'Dail in the middle of the street in broad daylight with bloodshot eyes and seemingly had sucked out the bad juju' scene is... drastic. So who did he meet in between these scenes?

Based on the first scene, Dail entered the interrogation room in the most dramatic way possible. He forcefully turned Deokjoong's face as he realised that the latter was mind-controlled by Hye because the sclera turned red (heh I slept in science class, so thanks Google). In order to turn Deokjoong's face, he has to touch him. Right, there was no pain response from Dail. Should he be in pain, the response would be immediate. Cut to: Jungdae in his superior's office. Then, we were greeted by a shot of Dail somewhere in Seoul with bloodshot eyes, black veins visible underneath his skin, in pain, and he looked lost.

It's worth noting that all the pain responses Dail has gotten were moments he touches ghosts like Hye and the tunnel ghosts. When it comes to the victims of mind control, like Deokjoong in the interrogation room and the boy at the hospital, Dail has made contact with them, and yet hasn't shown any signs of being affected by the pain. But why were his eyes red? He could touch ghosts without his eyes turning red. So this means he was angry, and his evil side emerged (since Evil!Dail will only make an appearance when he's angry).

What happened in between the two scenes? Who did he meet that made him angry and simultaneously sucked the bad jujus from? He can't meet Alive!Hye, because, at that point of the story, they have yet to cross paths. He won't be able to meet the tunnel ghost because the helpful half (Chaewon's spirit mother) is gone for good (or is she?)

Since TGD has a track record for answering theories (doesn't matter if they're debunked or turned out to be true), I should expect to find out about this bit because it's been bugging me. If the intention of this scene was used in a way to establish the moment of realisation where he had heard the tourism fair jingle, then it's a huge loss for the story. If it's left unanswered, then it will be a frustrating loophole, and we want to avoid that.

The 'Can Chaewon Hear Dail' Saga Continues (because it's been bothering me)

We've previously established that Chaewon is one of the mysterious characters in the show. This has led me to believe that one of my theories about her to turned out to be true: as much as she's the outgoing character we all have fallen for, she's secretive and has a dark past. In this section, we'll talk about how this very character fucks with my emotion and why I'm starting to doubt my formerly 'confirmed' theory.

In the last review/theories post and also on Reddit, I theorised that she hasn't told the truth about the ghosts she can hear or see hence, we get to see her interacting with the grandpa ghost in Ep. 7/Ep. 14. But in Ep. 8, she was in a 'conversation' with Dail (patience... we'll get to this), it seemed like she could only see the silhouettes of the ghosts and not hear them, just like how we see Dail through her eyes. As of now, it's conclusive she's able to see only ghost grandpa and the tunnel ghost.

...or is it?

[Dail enters the elevator. We don't see Dail, but we know Chaewon does.]

Chaewon: Did you find anything?

Dail: Sunwoo Hye isn't here. Maybe she already approached everyone and controlled them to commit suicide.

Chaewon: It's impossible to control many people at once.

[Dail does a double-take. He expects to be in a one-handed conversation because Chaewon can't hear him.]

Chaewon: [cont.] If that was possible, she should've done it when she was in a coma. Point 1

[Dail looks at her up and down in confusion.]

Dail: You can hear me? Point 2

[Chaewon smirks.]

Chaewon: You're quite taken aback, aren't you? Point 3

[Dail looks away. Possibly feels awkward, but definitely confused.]

Chaewon: [cont.] I don't know about anything else, but I know what you might want to ask me. Point 4

[At this point, Dail shoots her another bewildered look in her direction. After she says her line, he relaxes.] Point 5

Dail: We need to find out how she's going to try and kill everyone.

[An idea hits Chaewon.]

Chaewon: Let me tell you something I found out yesterday.

Okay, let's stop right there and try to analyse the italicised dialogues and action.

It sounded like she could hear him and replied his query. She answered his question and didn't even hesitate. Her timing was spot-on too. Interesting.

Dail looked genuinely perplexed. He wasn't sure if he heard her right. Honestly, same. For that one second, he seemed convinced that she could hear him and that she replied to his remark. Remember: she wasn't supposed to hear him, but we've seen her doing this before and it was revealed that she could see him... well, not like how Yeowool sees him, but you get the picture.

Again, she answered him, but in an indirect manner. Instead, she posed him a rhetorical question or Dail simply just couldn't reply because he was baffled. Yay vagueness! On the other hand, Chaewon also didn't answer him with a definite answer like "Yes, I could hear you all along!" and we don't know for certain if she could hear him. We know that she is secretive and we discover more about Chaewon when she thinks if it's appropriate for her or when someone finds out about her (examples: Yeowool instructing Sangseob to find out about Chaewon, and when Jungdae finds out about her ability as he peeks from afar.)

This one frustrates me because I'm not sure if it's something that gets lost in translation, or if I'm the one who just couldn't understand it. If it's the former, I'm not blaming the translators because these things happen and not everything is translatable. K-dramas have the tendency to use flowery, vague-ass language, and since we only have one line to work with, let's try to dissect it. I'll be honest: I don't see how that very line connects with their previous questions or remarks. What about Chaewon expecting Dail to ask her a question, and her knowledge on this 'thing' is limited? We might be able to look at it this way: she can't hear him, but anticipates questions from him; basically, she'll blurt whatever she thinks Dail wants to know. If that's the case, how could she be certain that's what answers his questions? And her reply to him ten seconds prior to this 'revelation' was very specific. From here, the Dail's-and-Chaewon's-conversation end up being a one-sided conversation once again. Is this the writer's way to tease (in both sense) the viewers?

And Dail lets his guard down. Why? Probably there are more important matters at hand? Could he realise that Chaewon was just pulling his legs? So far, Chaewon hasn't tricked him about her abilities and everything she said and had done reveals that she knows what she's saying and doing, and she had done it with purpose. If this character is just playing that 'Haha, got you!" card, then it's a waste of time and is directionless.

As I rewatch the flashback scene with Chaewon and ghost grandpa, she did make an attempt at talking to the ghost child by asking it a question. She asked, "What do you want?" before ghost grandpa interjected with the information about how the other ghosts died.

Once again, when it comes to revealing her secrets, Chaewon does them whenever no one's watching, especially without Yeowool, Sangseob and Jungdae around. By right, based on this elevator scene, this means she could hear him.

So, could she really hear Dail? Is Chaewon taking a shot at answering Dail's questions, hoping that she answers his question? Could she just be playful and tricking him?

Why is Hye still so powerful?

Trigger warning: mentions of suicide.

So... Hye's not dead? And she's committed to terrorise everyone's lives, especially our Korean Scoobies'. We have six episodes (or twelve episodes, depending on how you see it) left for this drama, and we've just witnessed what might be one hell of a stretch so far... but with worldbuilding (which is our keyword), anything is possible.

The biggest questions like why Hye is the murderous rampaging bitch she is and why is she adamant on killing everyone have been answered. I guess in this particular story, anger is justifiable for acts of violence and manipulation... by a 12-year-old. Young!Hye didn't want to die, so she switched the laced Coke with her father's and fessed up to Dail, saying, "Yes, I killed [my father]!" rather than rationalising it as an act of self-defence. What can a 12-year-old do except to feel angry about what she had done when she was alive? Also, what can a child rationalise?

I have to say I don't get why Deokjoong said those words because he was the only adult who was with her since the death of her family. This is why Hye was angry: to hear someone say that she should be killed and that she's not able to survive alone is disheartening. He was guilty of encouraging a traumatised 12-year-old to attempt suicide, and he hasn't made an attempt to rectify his words or tell her what she's done is wrong and it's not her fault. What the writer didn't explain was this: was Deokjoong an idiot that he didn't realise how damaging his words were, or was he under some kind of influence (at this point, not Hye's) to say those horrible things? Could it also mean that 12 years-old Hye misinterpreted what Deokjoong was saying?

Alright, let's talk about why Hye might be able to retain her psychic powers. (Again, this is worldbuilding and has got nothing to do with how real life operates. Duh.)

Theory 1: Dail realises and knows a fetch's powers are learned skills. For example, if you know how to build a table from scratch, you should be able to do it from scratch, regardless of your form as a person or a fetch. Like Dail, he's still a sharp detective, and he knows his shit even when he's a fetch because that's what he's good at. Whereas Hye who have been a fetch the majority of her existence is good at mind manipulation. What she learned as a ghost gets carried to when she's alive.

Theory 2: I've mentioned show Hye's a great manipulator, and how she tricked both Dail and Yeowool into believing that only one of them has the power to kill her. Let's say Dail was the one who wasn't supposed to kill her, and it's Yeowool who was supposed to do it (which I think is the truth), Hye wasn't 'properly' killed, and with him doing the deed, he entrapped her spirit. Someone who's been in comatose for 25 years is basically dead, for lack of better word, despite Deokjoong going out of his way to keep her alive, hence why he wanted Yeowool's body to become Hye's new host. But what had happened was that it was Dail who'd done it, and he used the weapon that killed Yirang. So back to Theory 1: because of this, she was able to return to her body along with her powers.

It's safe to say that in a fictitious story, in my aunt's words, the bad guys will have the advantage, and the good guys will need to struggle in order to defeat the bad guys. However, there's a downside to Hye being advantageous (alive and possesses mind manipulation powers).

I'm not going to pretend as if I liked this Alive!Hye thing. I genuinely don't like where it's going. We've seen Dail and Yeowool in distress in their attempts at defeating her, and Hye's always been the strongest, and just like a sadist, I love it. To end Fetch!Hye, it'll be an equivalent to a boss level fight. It would've been fun to watch them go through Hell in order to defeat her, and in return, we'll be able to see better characters' development especially Dail, Yeowool, Sangseob, and Chaewon. It could be done with the involvement of Dail's newfound powers; how he insists on gaining and perfecting the powers he gain, and he ends up being an evil spirit (because we can't all win.)

Alive!Hye's appearance was great -- it created a buzz. Despite it being exciting, I can't help to feel like the writer chickened out from a crazy yet effective plan because they can't outline what will lead to the final battle. It's too easy to kill Alive!Hye, but had it been harder, it'd be worthwhile. For the sake of the story in a long run, it's a half-hearted and desperate attempt to find an easy way out/way to end the story after what the writer had panned out at the beginning of the drama which was very promising.

I enjoy overthinking things. Anything you folks have in mind? :)

#the ghost detective #qila rambles

[lsmithart]

** Research: Points of Trauma by Oliver Guy-Watkins

This is a book of an essay that I came across a while ago which theorises ideas about trauma in relation to contemporary artists. The short book discusses many artists who I have explored and returned to over the course of my practice and provided helpful insight into these artists from a similar perspective to my own. After reading and reflecting on the text, I began thinking about trauma and how it exists within the body. It became evident from the text that what all of the artists explored have in common is the need to divulge the internal into the external, material realm. Sometimes this is in response to collective trauma seen, processed and then regurgitated; whilst others use their art practice to process and release their own traumatic experiences. Both concepts felt very relevant to me as my work often explores very personal histories. At the same time, I am also an empath which means I often absorb external traumas; causing them to become enmeshed in my experience of the world. 

When researching trauma as an entity that attaches itself to the inner tissues of the body, it is described by ‘Integrated Physical Therapy and Wellness Miami’ that ‘pain and trauma are incidents prevented from being completed’. 

Specifically, ‘traumas can be considered anything that keep us locked in a physical, emotional, behavioral or mental habit. Recovery from trauma is the process of the body finding balance and freeing itself from constraints. All too often, the recovery process is halted, preventing the traumatic occurrence from completing.’

‘The energy of the trauma is stored in our bodies’ tissues (primarily muscles and fascia) until it can be released. This stored trauma typically leads to pain and progressively erodes a body’s health. Whenever we store trauma in our tissue, our brain disconnects from that part of the body to block the experience, preventing the recall of the traumatic memory. Any area of our body that our brain is disconnected from won’t be able stay healthy or heal itself. The predictable effect of stored trauma is degeneration and disease.’

Three things are necessary for the body to release stored trauma: 1. The inner resources to handle the experience that were not in place when the experience originally occurred. 2. Space for the traumatic energy to go when released. Being full of tension and stress does not allow space for the stored trauma to move into. 3. Reconnection of the brain with the area of the body where the trauma is stored.

It is apparent from the consideration of trauma within art practice divulged by many artists that it can act a tool for creating a resource for processing. Therefore materiality through the form of making and channeling can act as a release and ‘regurgitation’ for such stuck trauma to make its way into the realm of objects. It is therefore my view from experience that these expels of the inner body can latch themselves to an material or external object within the capacity at the time of processing. Often through the means of art making this means a new sculptural or material form, but also existing objects that can be repurposed as commodities of new narrative. This is a notion I am exploring in depth within my dissertation.

Key notes from the text:

Page 9:

In his essay ‘Forgetting Things’, Freud discusses how a person’s mind will block locations, people and events that are links to traumatic experiences. E.g. you may block out the location of a shop as someone you fell out with lives nearby. Artist’s work can act similarly - the creation of work can replicate the function of the mind by compartmentalising trauma. Instead of locking it away to be forgotten it chews it up into pieces and presents it as a new entity - released from the individual artist.

Page 17 & 18:

Briony Campbell used photography to say goodbye to her father in ‘The Dad Project’. She uses subtle photographs, in conjunction with simple and delicate captions to guide us through her journey. E.g. the first photo in the series is a shot of a building engulfed by the rays of the setting sun, with the caption ‘the sunlight supported me this year’. The sun as healing power. Campbell found a way to keep the memory of her father alive, as well as to overcome her own grief.

Louise Bourgeois - used symbols and prompts from past memories in her later work. E.g. she recalled a memory of how her father created a model of her from a tangerine skin and made disparaging remarks as a phallus emerged from inside. Years later she posed with a phallus of her own making for Robert Mappelthorpe.

Bourgeois often stated that to be an artist was a guarantee to your fellow humans that life’s harsh reality would not make you a murderer. Her statement echoes an underlying truth that art can channel the emotions of its makers and offer them some form of release from captivity.

Page 24-28:

When the public’s desire for backstory and gossip is coupled with the artist desire to create we find an area in which stories are told regardless of intent. The Polish filmmaker, Krzystztof Keilowski, said that his life and its influences should always be present in his work but that the viewer should never be able to notice it.

Louise Bourgeois did not reveal her history until her husband's death, whereupon she gained a level of notoriety that revolved around her life story her critical appreciation began when the viewer was told what to think. Similarly, Tracey Emin has always confronted her personal history directly in the public eye through her practice. In her work everyone I have ever slept with Emin’s story was there in the title the work and even the exhibition guide. Her collaboration with Bourgeois again highlights Emin’s desire of the story.

In discussing not becoming a mother, Emin has stated that she sees her paintings as her children, and describes the feeling of failure that engulfed her as being sued by seeing her work exhibited. By telling you who they are and why they came, do the artists open doors for further interpretation, or do they close them? If an artist can drive a viewer to a specific thought pattern, then there is a greater chance of success in achieving transferences of an exact attitude.

Page 47:

“Up until this point I had undertaken a largely relational practice, asking others to contribute their words to my work. I thought it more important to portray their emotions than mine in order to connect. Yet, as a backbone to each project I used my own backstory. My own struggles. As if I was afraid to confront myself directly. As if my own identity was easier to find in the words of others. Maybe I just didn’t want to feel like I had been alone. Maybe I just wanted validity.”

Page 50:

Wolfgang Tillmans is a massive installation at the Tate modern as part of his 2017 retrospective featured a number of projected screens displaying extracts of his video work, whilst a constructed soundtrack played and white spotlights rotated across the bare concrete. Occasionally blinded by light, or overpowered by music, your eyes and ears remain active, searching the darkness for the next movement, waiting for a video to begin and wondering which screen it may appear on. In between the films, in the time you wait and as your eyes adjust to the light, you search the actions of others. You wonder which anxiety or fear stop them from becoming a must, and even what the initial cause of that feeling was. Tilmans creates a space where we are drawn into a natural instinct of voyeurism, a characteristic of his work as a whole. - A thinking point for my 303 installation idea.

Page 56:

Freud continued on to say in his essay that painful memories are easily hidden for good reasons. It seems to me that there is an obvious similarities within the practice of certain artists to vary their own personal traumas within the work they create. Where the conversation dilutes is the point at which an artist confronts trauma on a collective scale. An artists job is to conceal the trauma in such a way that it is revealed to the viewer.

References:

Guy-Watkins, O., (2017). Points Of Trauma: A Consideration of the Influence Personal and Collective Trauma Has on Contemporary Art. Ruysdael Press. Available at https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=-6TcswEACAAJ. IPT Miami, (no date). Learning How to Unlock Tissue Memory. [Online]. Available at https://www.iptmiami.com/news/Learning_How_to_Unlock_Tissue_Memory. [Accessed on 30/01/2021]

#301

[upstartpoodle]

Mirror Worlds

Summary: The sixth chapter of my George x Elizabeth magic AU, in which Elizabeth is a magician and George is a fairy. This chapter: tragedy strikes the Poldarks and Elizabeth visits Nampara and Trenwith.

Previous chapter

Chapter 6: Tarot Cards

“Well, I have found nothing in even the most reliable of treatises I possess. I fear we must dig far deeper than we have so far to avoid the awful conclusion that books, for once, have failed us.”

Elizabeth blinked, having just come down the stairs to the parlour for breakfast. Thus had been the greeting that her father had bestowed upon her from his place, alone, at the table as she entered the room. The words in themselves were not unusual—she was well used to conversations with her father on the subject of magic, and enjoyed them immensely, but those conversations were not usually started so abruptly. Nor did her father usually look so haggard—his hair ruffled, his coat discarded, his neckcloth askew and the buttons of his waistcoat done up the wrong way. He looked, currently, as if he had been up all night, and considering all the stress they had been under, Elizabeth wouldn’t have been surprised if that were not so far from the truth.

“Papa, have you slept at all?” she asked, a concerned frown on her face as she took her own place at the table.

Her father suddenly looked very sheepish.

“I think I dozed for a short while before dawn…” he muttered, as much to himself as to her.

“Papa, you must rest a little at the very least,” Elizabeth chastised him gently, pursing her lips in mild disapproval. “How are you meant to discover anything of value if you are too tired to think properly?”

Mr Chynoweth looked at her bleakly before screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, as if to stave off a headache.

“I know, my girl, I know,” he sighed after a short pause. “It is simply that I cannot abide the thought of something like the attack on the Bassets happening again, when we could very well have been holding the key to this thrice damned mystery the entire time…”

“But you have found nothing in the books?,” Elizabeth replied, pouring herself a cup of tea and blowing gently on it to cool it down. “Nothing about the sigil?”

Her father shook his head grimly.

“Nothing even close to it,” he said. “All I have been able to confirm is that the king it belongs to is not Tregudda—all works of any repute confirm that his sigil was a hawthorn tree.”

This did not particularly surprise Elizabeth. Tregudda, the famed merchant king of the Western Cliffs, had been the last fae ruler to have any proper contact with his human neighbours, both as an ally and trading partner in ancient times and as a bitter enemy in the violence that had come from the rise of the hunting families in the Middle Ages. Tregudda’s forces, however, had swiftly retreated from Cornwall some two hundred years ago, and had never returned. Most people claimed that it had been an undisputed victory for the hunters, but some more scholarly minds were inclined to theorise that something had occurred in Faerie that had required the entirety of his army to return there. Given that what little that they knew of the past two thousand years of Faerie’s history—ever since the rise of Benbencula, the infamous warlord who ruled the land across the sea—was somewhat bloody, it was highly likely that Tregudda was dead, and could well have been replaced by a far more warlike king. Still, that offered no explanation as to why this king—whoever he was—was attacking them now of all times, and considering that it had been some time since a human could have visited the Western Cliffs and lived to tell the tale, the prospect of finding anything about that in their books was a highly improbable one.

“Well it is something at least,” she said consolingly. “But we never expected to find a great deal amongst our books anyway. If only we had some works concerning Faerie’s more recent history…”

“I believe that the Guild of Magicians is in possession of Robert Goldsworthy’s journal of his time in the Southerly Land,” her father remarked thoughtfully, taking a bite out of his toast. “That, at least, is only from a hundred years ago, even if it isn’t the part of Faerie we want to know about. I would be highly surprised if Benbencula doesn’t keep a careful eye on what occurs across the sea from him, so there may be a chance that Goldsworthy heard some things of interest about the Western Cliffs and wrote it down. Perhaps I should write to them and ask them to loan it to us.”

A look of slight distaste crossed his features at his own suggestion, but Elizabeth knew that had nothing to do with the prospect of getting his hands on the journal of Robert Goldsworthy—an eminent Yorkshire magician of the previous century who had dedicated the majority of his life to studying Faerie and its denizens—and everything to do with the prospect of having to deal with the Guild of Magicians. Comprised mostly of well-educated, well-bred and, most unfortunately, entirely unmagical city gentlemen, the Guild had, due to the wealth of its patricians, managed to gain something of a monopoly over most rare and important volumes on the subject of Faerie and the arcane, and that made them somewhat unavoidable to deal with on occasions such as this. Her father tolerated them, she knew, though their preciousness concerning the books which they hoarded, their condescending attitude towards the practical magicians who required access to them and, above all, their glaring ignorance and incompetence when it came to the arcane frustrated him beyond measure. It did not help that they constantly had to worry about some of the less tight-lipped members of the Guild revealing their secret—practical magicianship may have be seen as a pleasant form of entertainment in London or Bath, but in a place like Cornwall, so close to Faerie and full of hunters, many of whom did not care to discern between human and fae practicioners, it was a far more dangerous skill to have.

“Well, let us hope that they shall be more easily persuaded this time” she said, though she knew very well that her father was no more optimistic than she was.

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a soft cough from the doorway, and they both turned to see their elderly retainer, Mrs Hammett, standing in the entrance to the parlour, looking perturbed. Elizabeth frowned.

“Misters Poldark to see you, sir” she said, the uncharacteristically disquieted expression on her features setting Elizabeth’s insides squirming with worry.

Her father frowned in consternation, glancing down at his unkempt state. He seemed finally to have noticed that his waistcoat was done up the wrong way, and immediately set about rectifying it, apparently too absorbed in the task to take in the grave atmosphere which had begun to settle over the parlour like mist.

“Very well, very well, send them in” he sighed impatiently.

Mrs Hammett did not move, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Upon realising that she was still there, Mr Chynoweth stopped fussing over his appearance, hands hovering over the top button of his waistcoat, and stared up at her, his frown deepening.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

“It is only that…,” Mrs Hammett floundered slightly, her eyes flickering towards Elizabeth. “Well, they be in quite a state, sir, and I be a-feared they’d make an alarming sight for a young lady…”

“I shall be quite alright, Mrs Hammett,” Elizabeth assured her, though the feeling of dread twisting deep in her gut had by no means lessened upon hearing this—after all, what must have happened to make them look so shocking that the old lady feared for her sensibilities? “Please, send them in.”

Mrs Hammett, though she did not look at all happy about the decision, made no further complaint, turning on her heel and leaving the room to fetch their guests. A few excruciating moments passed, and then the door creaked open once more to reveal the pale, wan forms of Charles and Francis Poldark. Where Charles was stoic but grim, his son, swaying dangerously at his shoulder, looked rather like he was about to cry, or be sick. None of this, however, was what Elizabeth first noticed when they entered the room, for—and she suddenly appreciated why Mrs Hammett had been so disturbed by their appearance now—their hands and clothing were stained unmistakeably with blood.

“Good God, what on earth has happened?!” cried her father, leaping to his feet in an instant and gesturing to them to sit. Francis, who looked like his legs would no longer support him, sank into the nearest seat and covered his eyes with a shaking hand.

“I must apologise for coming here in this state,” said Charles, heaving out a great sigh, his expression dark, “but given the night’s events we were concerned for your safety…”

“The night’s events?,” Mr Chynoweth echoed, his eyes widening. “Has there been another attack?”

Charles took in another deep breath, gathering himself for what he was about to say.

“Not precisely, no,” he replied, “but I am afraid… I am afraid by brother is dead.”

There was a long, horrible silence, then—

 “Dead?,” Elizabeth gasped before she could stop herself. “But…but how?”

Charles gave her a sharp look.

“I hardly think that this is an appropriate topic of discussion for a young lady—”

“That is for Elizabeth to decide,” her father cut across him, his tone firm, though not unkind. “And besides, I fear it may shortly become an unavoidable topic of discussion amongst our associates nevertheless. But what is it that has happened? I am guessing that some manner of fae creature is responsible for…?”

He trailed off, glancing over at Francis. The young man was hunched over, face buried in his blood-stained hands. He had not said a word since their arrival, as if he had been robbed altogether of the power of speech. Silently, Elizabeth stood and made her way over to him, coming to sit beside him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He didn’t respond, but she could feel him shaking.

“You guess correctly,” Charles said gruffly, paying no attention to his son as he too sank down into a chair; her father followed suit, taking up his own seat at the table once more. “There was a small party of them abroad last night. We were worried that they may have come for another attack, but it doesn’t seem to have been their aim.”

Her father frowned.

“Then how…?"

He trailed off, and Charles glanced at him, suddenly looking very old and tired. The man let out another long sigh, lifted a hand to his temple, and began to massage it slowly before speaking.

“We were visited late last night by Lord Godolphin and his son,” he said. “Mr Teague and Mr Trengrouse were accompanying them. They told us that a small party of fae creatures had been seen prowling about not far from Trenwith. Naturally, as members of three prestigious hunting families, they felt it their duty to find the creatures and do away with them before they did anybody harm and, given our own family’s reputation, they were counting on our aid. I said Francis and I would join them, of course—it’s damn well about time he grew a backbone.”

He shot a nasty glance at his son, a sour expression on his face that made him look, Elizabeth thought a little uncharitably, like a grumpy old toad. She felt Francis twitch convulsively under her hand, though beyond that he made no indication that he had heard his father’s words, or that he was even aware of what was happening around him. Elizabeth let her hand trail downwards so that the flat of her palm rested at his back, exchanging a glance with her own father, whose lips were pursed ever so slightly in disapproval. In that moment, she knew that both of them were thinking exactly the same thing—that Charles would very likely have done better by his son by allowing him to remain at home rather than forcing him into a dangerous and potentially deadly hunt that he was not in the least prepared for. Still, it would not do to speak such notions aloud, and her father turned his attention back to their visitor, a deep frown etched between his brows.

“So, you set out to hunt this party down and…then what?” he prompted.

“Well, nothing happened for a good few hours,” Charles replied, running a large hand over his face. “We followed their tracks, but with no fruit, and we hadn’t heard of anybody being attacked so we were beginning to suspect that they had simply returned to Faerie.”

He paused, glancing off into the middle distance with a grim look, before mustering himself to continue his tale.

“We had followed the tracks to Nampara and…somehow,” he said, with another glance towards Francis, who was still had not shifted from that hunched, despairing position, tense and unmoving save for the sporadic shivers that were shaking his entire frame, “Francis managed to get himself separated from the group. Unfortunately, the party had not returned home, as we had thought. One of the creatures attacked him. If Joshua hadn’t come bursting out of the house with a star iron pistol and shot the bugger—pardon my language, Miss Chynoweth—he would probably be dead.”

“My God…” breathed Mr Chynoweth, looking alarmed. Elizabeth couldn’t help but agree with her father’s statement, and she suddenly realised that Francis, who was not wearing his neckcloth, bore several long dark bruises at his throat, the skin scratched and grazed, as if clawed hands had wrung themselves about his neck, trying their very best to squeeze the life out of him. Swallowing, she let her own hand stroke gently up and down his back.

“It was too late by the time we got there,” Charles said darkly. “Another one of the fiends—huge goblin, about seven feet tall, I’d say—had lifted him right off the ground and stuck a knife between his ribs—(Francis let out a soft moan at this, something which his father summarily ignored)—and just…dropped him down again on the floor and ran off into the dark the moment he saw us. It was enough to finish him off as it was, but the blade was coated with some kind of poison. Choake was at a loss—had no idea what it was. Needless to say, it was far from a pleasant end…”

He trailed off, staring morosely into the middle distance. A long, uncomfortable silence filled the room as they absorbed the gravity of what had happened. For several moments, the only sound in the parlour was the ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall, before her father shifted slightly and brought them all out of their reverie.

“And the fae party?,” he asked tentatively. “I presume that they have returned home by now?”

“If they’re still here, we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them,” replied Charles, a definite note of bitterness in his voice. “I expect they’re long gone.”

Her father nodded, glancing around him distractedly.

“What on earth could they have wanted here?,” he wondered aloud. “There must have been some purpose for their coming…”

“Bah, it’s pointless to expect anything more than mindless violence from those creatures,” Charles snarled, his tone almost alarmingly vehement. “This proves more than enough that it’s all they care about. They tried to kill my son! They did kill—”

He cut himself off abruptly, glowering at the floor. A tense silence stretched out between them, before he took a deep breath and composed himself, lifting his eyes to Mr Chynoweth’s face once more.

“My apologies,” he sighed. “I imagine I am not currently the best company.”

“We understand, sir” said Elizabeth softly.

They left a little while afterwards, when her father gently suggested that it would perhaps be best if Francis were taken home. Charles had acquiesced, albeit a little grudgingly, Francis following him, looking lost and dazed, as if he couldn’t quite understand what was happening or where he was going. Both Elizabeth and her father watched his progress with concern. Once the door closed behind them, however, Mr Chynoweth’s expression darkened, worry etched across the tired lines of his face, and he shared a significant glance with his daughter before speaking up.

“You know what this means, of course?” he said grimly.

Elizabeth nodded, her resolve set. For all she had been dreading the time when this would become necessary, she was ready for it.

“Of course,” she echoed, taking a deep breath and drawing herself up. “We must go to Nampara.”

They set off right after breakfast, riding hard along the clifftops, where they could hear wild grey waves frothing and crashing against the rocks below, the wind cold and vicious as it whipped at their hair and faces no matter how warmly they were wrapped up. A storm was coming in from the sea, and dark clouds were roiling and broiling like smoke from a fire in the sky on the horizon, blurred slightly by the rain that was lashing down on the water in sheets far away. As focused on their goal as Elizabeth was, she couldn’t help but cast it a nervous glance. It wouldn’t do to be caught out in such poor weather, especially not when there may be other dangers abroad.

Even at the pace they had set, it took some time to arrive at Nampara, cold and shivering but determined nevertheless. Elizabeth swallowed, feeling a lump rise in her throat at the sight of the familiar stone cottage. There was still a part of her that half expected Ross to emerge from it at any moment, wild-haired and defiant and ready to take on any that threatened those under his care headlong. But she could not pretend, however much she might have wanted to. Had it not been Ross’ recklessness that had had him shipped off to the Americas in the first place? His determination to do whatever he pleased? His eagerness to fight? For a brief moment, she wondered if war had suited him, but clearly it had not, or else he would not have…

To her horror, her eyes began to sting as tears welled up in them, blurring her vision, but she blinked them angrily away. No. That was not what she was here for. She had a duty to fulfil, and it would not do to dwell on Ross’ misfortune or her own misery now. With that in mind, she tore her eyes away from the house and looked to her father, asking him silently what they were to do next. He was frowning, staring around him as if searching for something, clearly deep in thought.

“So this is where they were last seen, I suppose,” he mused aloud, his eyes narrowed against the wind. “But where did they go from here? Where are they now?”

For someone who had no skill or knowledge in the area of magic, that question would have been highly difficult to answer. For herself and her father, however, there were certain means which could be used to find the information that they sought. There was one such spell—a way of tracing the imprints left behind by magical beings that had been developed by a distant ancestor of theirs who had once famously traversed the whole of the Northerly Land of Faerie from Treguddan to the mountain kingdoms of the north in the ninth century—that they had become particularly well-practised at casting, and it was that that they decided to cast in order to get their answers.

First they moved a little way away from the house, so that none inside would be able to see what they were doing—Ross may be gone, and poor Joshua may have died as well now, but the Paynters most likely still lived there, and a nosier pair Elizabeth had never met—before dismounting from their horses and preparing to cast. Carefully, almost reverently, her father reached into his saddlebag and took out an old, worn leather journal, in which he kept the most precious of his spell, and opened it. He did not even have to rifle through the pages, for it fell open right at the working they intended to cast, so often had they used it in recent months. On the yellowing parchment was a complex symbol, resembling a many pointed star, which Elizabeth knew that her father had painstakingly drawn himself, copied from their ancestor’s own ancient journal as he had imbued every carefully sketched out line of ink with a little bit of his own magic.

“Ready?” he asked her and, when she nodded at him, leaned down to the paper and blew gently it. Immediately, the lines of black ink floated right off the page before scattering like dust or soot grass and earth and stone. A pause, and then the ground lit up with silver. A group of footprints, large and strange and alien, glowing like ghostly echoes had appeared before them, dwindling off up the hill and into the distance. Elizabeth bit her lip a little nervously at the sight of them.

“Well then” sighed her father, and they both headed off in the direction that the tracks led, wary and alert for fear of what they might find when they came to an end. There had to be at least twelve separate sets of footprints there, she guessed as she stared down at them. Most of them were large and long and narrow—the footprints of goblins or wights most likely—but there was one pair that was truly enormous, dwarfing her own dainty feet as she stepped beside them, and she could only presume that those footprints had been made by a particularly large troll.

Once they reached the crest of the hill, they saw with some surprise that the footprints led right up to the old engine house of Joshua Poldark’s abandoned mine, Wheal Grace. They exchanged a wary glance, before approaching it cautiously. It soon became apparent, however, that the place was not capable of concealing over a dozen fae soldiers, one of which was most definitely a gigantic troll, and so they threw caution to the wind and followed the tracks inside.

“Could you summon us a light, Elizabeth?” her father asked—with the sky outside so cloudy and grey, it was very dark in there.

Elizabeth nodded, reaching for her magic. Conjuring a light was only a simple spell, and did not need the careful preparation that the tracking spell did, and so she could perform it easily without any of their usual magical aids. She felt a familiar tingling sensation surge through her fingertips before a white orb of light as large as her fist burst into life above her outstretched palm. She sent it to hover in the air above them, casting strange, eerie shadows on the walls, and her father smiled, thanking her, before crouching down to examine the footprints on the ground beside him.

“These footprints… They go right down into the shaft!,” he exclaimed, peering cautiously down into the darkness, illuminated only by Elizabeth’s ball of light and the silver glow of the ghostly footprints that headed down into its depths. “There must be a portal down there—one that emerges underground on both sides. Perhaps that is why they have not used it so much before—they can be assured of what is on their side but were unaware of whether they could get above ground once in this world.”

“Would it also not be awkward to manoeuvre any reasonably sized force down there?,” mused Elizabeth. “The mine tunnels must be a lot narrower than the pathways of Treguddan—if that is indeed where this portal leads.”

“Precisely,” hummed Mr Chynoweth, pushing himself off his haunches and consulting his journal by the light of the white orb now floating just before him. “I should think that it leads to the very outer reaches of Treguddan—possibly very close to the cliff edge, and for that reason alone, whoever lives there now may be keen to steer clear of it.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, staring down at the floor with a little frown on her face. With a start, she suddenly noticed that the footprints of the party that had come to their world last night were not the only ones she could see. There was another pair of them, fainter than the others, and markedly different. They were smaller, made by feet a little larger than her own, much more like human feet in their size if not in shape. Their glow was much dimmer than the others, and she could only suppose that whoever had made them had arrived before the party—perhaps by a day, maybe less. Her frown deepening, she followed them.

“The question is, though, why have they started using this particular portal now? What do you think, Elizabeth? …Elizabeth?”

“I think…it looks like they were in pursuit of someone…” Elizabeth called in reply to her father. She was already outside, having followed the footprints that far. A few feet and their direction turned and headed right to the edge of the cliff, as if their maker had gone to look over at the sea below. After that, they turned sharply back away. A few paces more and they simply…disappeared.

“What makes you say that?” asked Mr Chynoweth, poking his head through the doorway of the engine house to stare at her with a contemplative expression on his face.

“These. Look,” Elizabeth replied, pointing to the footprints in front of her. “These don’t belong to the party that came here last night, and they just…stop here.”

Her father stared down at the footprints in astonishment, following them as she had until he came to a stop beside her.

“My God, you’re right!,” he cried. “And these footprints certainly don’t belong to a goblin or a wight or a troll. I wonder where they went after here…”

Their discussion was cut short, however, by the appearance of a figure coming along the path from Nampara. Mr Chynoweth immediately let go of the spell, and the silvery footprints disappeared from view. It was unlikely that whoever it was could have seen them, unless they had magic of their own, but it wouldn’t have done to risk it.

The person approaching them, as it turned out, was Prudie Paynter. Upon seeing them, she fixed them with a rather hard, narrow look, and Elizabeth fought not to shift uncomfortably under it. She wondered what this must look like to the other woman, who quite frankly looked more suspicious than she had ever seen her. Beside her, her father snapped his journal shut very quickly.

“Can I help ‘ee, Mr Chynoweth, Miss Elizabeth?” she asked, frowning.

“Oh, well, I…” Elizabeth floundered unconvincingly, glancing out at the sea so as not to have to meet her eye.

“There b’aint any t’ visit ‘cept poor Prudie and that lizardy lousy layabout back in there” Prudie said, jerking her head back in the direction of Nampara, where her husband, Jud, was no doubt taking the opportunity to drink as much of his former master’s rum as possible.

“Oh, I know that…I…,” said Elizabeth softly, glancing over at his father; he was now hastily stuffing his journal away into his saddlebag. “I am sorry about…about what has happened. It must have been…”

She couldn’t quite find the words to describe what it had been, but the sentiment must have carried across nonetheless, for Prudie’s face softened, her attention entirely on her now.

“Aye it were,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and a long silence stretched out between them before she spoke again. “You be missing Mister Ross, Miss?”

Elizabeth started at the question, but she could not deny the relevance of it despite not having expected it. She swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly as she stared out at the sea.

“I…it is just so…so strange being here without him” she confessed. Her voice shook slightly as she spoke, for all that she tried to suppress it.

“Aye that it is,” replied Prudie with a wise nod. “and with old Mister Poldark gone so sudden as well… They be dark times we’re havin’, with all those fancy folk droppin’ like flies an’ all them devils maraudin’ through our lands. We be needin’ a man like Mister Ross right now, Miss.”

Elizabeth sighed.

“And yet we do not have one anymore…” she murmured, more to herself than anything.

Prudie gave her a sad look.

“Aye, Miss,” she said. “Not anymore.”

The next day, Elizabeth paid a call to Trenwith. Even with her head buzzing with thoughts and possibilities and jumbled events which she could never quite make sense of, no matter how much she tried, she was keen to see her two friends in light of the tragedy that had struck their family. She was particularly worried about Francis, thinking back to the state he had been in when he and Charles had called on her father and herself at Cusgarne, and had taken it upon herself to see how both he and Verity were faring, though she imagined that was something she could guess quite well without witnessing it. After all, losing Joshua so soon after Ross…well it must be painful, no matter what.

Charles was away when she arrived, though considering it had been Francis and Verity she had come to see, that made little difference to her. In all honesty, she was a little relieved—she had never liked him very much, and even though she was used to his manner by now, she found his presence rather wearing. Instead, she was led into the parlour by Mrs Tabb, where Verity and Francis were sat, looking pale and sombre. Verity had been working on her embroidery, but clearly without the usual attention to detail which she afforded it, for she had been absentmindedly undoing a rather glaring mistake when Elizabeth entered the room. Francis was slumped in a chair by the fire, a glass of brandy clutched in his hand and staring at the floor with worryingly vacant eyes. He barely noticed her when she greeted them, nor when she sat down beside Verity, inquiring after their health and the absence of their father.

“He is…he is…making arrangements…for the funeral…” said Verity in a very quiet voice. Her eyes were very red, Elizabeth noticed, and her voice sounded a little stuffy, as if she were suffering from a head cold.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Verity, Francis,” Elizabeth said sadly. “It must be…”

But she trailed off, for she realised once again that she could not find the words for what it must be, and even if she had been able to, she doubted that either of them would have wanted to hear it. By all accounts, Joshua Poldark had, unlike his son, not been all that close to his Trenwith relations. In fact, he and Charles had seemed to have loathed each other. Things were always different when someone passed, though. Nobody wanted to think of the dead badly, after all.

“It was my fault.”

Both Elizabeth and Verity started, turning to stare at Francis. He had not lifted his eyes from the floor, and the utterance had been so soft that Elizabeth almost began to suspect that she had imagined it before he spoke again.

“It was…it was my fault that he died,” he said, glaring down at the rug at his feet. “If I hadn’t…If I had just stayed with the group, he wouldn’t have had to…”

“Francis, no!,” exclaimed Verity, looking stricken. “They clearly wouldn’t have tolerated being followed. Imagine if you had all caught up with them. There were only six of you. They might have killed you all! It was not your fault that they chose to attack you. In fact, I do not think Father should have taken you at all. It was a very dangerous thing to do when there were so few of you to combat them.”

Elizabeth could not help but agree with that, though she was rather surprised to hear Verity disagree so openly with her father’s actions, but Francis didn’t seem to be heartened by his sister’s words. He drew his free hand over his face and stared morosely into the contents of his glass, the muscles of his jaw working convulsively as he swallowed.

“He expects me to be like him,” he said darkly, a hand reaching up to massage his throat, where Elizabeth knew the marks from the fight with the goblin lay hidden under his neckcloth. “The patriarch on his throne—the great leader of men. But…but I do not think that is a legacy I can live up to. When that…that thing sprang out at me… Well, I do not think I have the makings of a fearless hunter to say the least.”

There was a snort from the corner, and Elizabeth started, whipping round her head to see where it had come from. Sitting at the table, with a pack of tarot cards clutched in her wizened hands and a glass of sherry sitting before her on the table, was Agatha Poldark. Elizabeth swallowed discreetly. She hadn’t noticed the woman when she had come in, and she wasn’t best pleased with suddenly finding herself in her company. She did not wish to think ill of her friends’ family, but like Charles, Agatha had always grated on her. Most of it was to do with the way she treated those around her—she had always been unkind and dismissive, even to Verity, who waited on her hand and foot—but there was something else lurking underneath it that she could not quite put her finger on. It was something about the way she watched her when she visited, she reckoned, as if she knew some secret that she was greatly enjoying hoarding to herself. Of course, that could have been Elizabeth’s mind playing tricks on her—she did have a secret to hide, after all, and with it came the constant, and sometimes irrational fear that she might at some point be found out. Nonetheless, she could never quite shake the feeling off, and to say that unnerved her would have been quite the understatement.

“Oh, please, do not keep your thoughts to yourself, aunt,” said Francis, his tone bitter and scathing. “I am sure you are creative enough to find something suitably disparaging to say which has not already left my father’s lips."

Agatha scoffed, turning over one of her tarot cards. Elizabeth watched them curiously. It wasn’t real magic, of course—only fairies had the ability to see into the future, which they did by communing with fire, and even that was a fairly unusual ability, passed down from mothers who had the ability to their children—but the imitation of the arcane held some degree of interest to her nonetheless.

“I’m sure he’s exhausted the subject already,” she said, turning over another card and placing it carefully down on the table, “but he’s not wrong. You will need to do better than that in future, boy. There are dark times ahead—you mark my words.”

“So you keep saying” sighed Francis.

“So I do,” Agatha retorted sharply, fixing him with a sour glare. “There is something coming, and you know it, Francis. We all know it.”

Francis said nothing in reply. Elizabeth’s attention, however, was now fully on Agatha as she moved to turn over the third card. The old woman gave a jolt as she saw what it was, her eyes narrowing ominously. She laid it down on the table beside the other two, and Elizabeth got a clear view of what it was—of the image of the winged, horned man with a pitchfork and pointed tail. She swallowed. Staring right back at her was The Devil.

Next chapter: George and Cary meet up with the others, and plans are put in place.

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