#(presumably at the bedlam) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

twistedtummies2 · 29 days ago

Text

Top 15 Portrayals of Dr. Frankenstein

“What makes a monster, and what makes a man?” This quote from a Disney movie, of all things, weirdly sums up one of the central themes of Mary Shelley’s masterwork, “Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus.” In my previous countdown - where I discussed my favorite versions of the Frankenstein Monster - I said that Shelley’s novel is widely considered the first piece of sci-fi horror, not only because its title character is a scientist who attempts to use science to create life, but because the themes and ideas present in the novel are ones most common in science fiction, and especially “science horror,” to this day. In Shelley’s original novel, Victor Frankenstein is NOT a doctor. (Although I will be calling him “doctor” throughout this list, for various reasons. Deal with it.) Instead, he is a medical student studying to BE a doctor, who becomes so obsessed with the idea of not simply saving but CREATING life it drives him practically to madness. While Victor in the book is NOT the villain, you’d be hard-pressed to call him a hero, either…and that is the point. The book is filled with a lot of morally gray elements and ethical questionability, especially on the part of Frankenstein himself; while the Creature he constructs ultimately does turn out to do terrible things, it is largely because it has known nothing but scorn and neglect. This all begins when his “father” - after driving himself to bedlam creating the fellow in the first place - outright abandons him for, to be blunt, really petty reasons. Victor, in the novel, isn’t necessarily evil, but he IS extremely irresponsible and…well…frankly a bit of a drama queen. (I can relate, sadly.) His personal flaws and bad decisions lead to his own self-destruction, and the ruination of everything he holds dear. It is largely through him that a lot of the questions of the story we now associate with science horror come through: what happens when someone seeks knowledge too fervently? Do the means of gaining greater understanding of the world justify the ends? If we explore in certain directions, and don’t know when to hold back, will we find things out we really aren’t prepared to know? Are there, frankly, just some things man shouldn’t tamper with…and if we DO tamper with them, will we be capable of dealing with the consequences of our actions? That’s essentially the basic point of nearly every work of science fiction, especially of the darker variety: whether the “Monster” being faced comes in the form of advanced technology, extraterrestrial entities, unknowable cosmic forces, or biological scourges…it all seemingly begins with Frankenstein and his poorly-handled Monster. It’s for this reason you’ll sometimes find memes and posts that say, “Frankenstein IS the monster,” referring to Victor: the line between good and evil in the story is an extremely thin one, and while Victor never INTENDED to do any real harm, that does not excuse the harm that IS caused by his actions and inactions alike. Throughout different adaptations and reimaginings, Frankenstein has, as a result, been depicted in varying states of moral standing. Some versions take the flaws inherent in Shelley’s novel and go all the way with them, making the mad scientist into a villainous cad who will stop at nothing in his self-centered, arrogant attempts to basically play God. Other versions actually soften the character, giving him more redeeming qualities as he actually tries to do genuine good with his work, only for things to inevitably and unfortunately go awry all the same. Victor is neither of these in the novel, but both directions - and many more - can be fascinating in different ways. Keeping this in mind, it’s time to delve into the heart of darkness: these are My Top 15 Favorite Portrayals of Dr. Frankenstein!

15. Tim Curry, from Frankenstein: Through the Eyes of the Monster.

I’m going to presume most of you know about Tim Curry’s star-making performance as Dr. Frank-N-Furter in the musical “Rocky Horror Show,” and its film adaptation “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” This cult classic musical was effectively a parody of Frankenstein…but, just like with the previous countdown, I didn’t think it was fair to include it, since I feel it’s really a bit more of its own thing, even if the parallels are obvious. HOWEVER, that doesn’t discount the time Curry played the ACTUAL Dr. Frankenstein, in this point-and-click adventure game. “Through the Eyes of the Monster,” as the title implies, puts the player in the role of Frankenstein’s Creation, as you have to explore the mad scientist’s castle and escape to the outside world. Based on that premise, and the casting of Curry, the version of Frankenstein here is one of the more villainous ones, and it really is Curry’s performance that makes the game: I’ve never actually played this title (it’s EXTREMELY rare and hard to get ahold of, by all accounts), but I have watched a couple of walkthroughs/Let’s Plays of it, and…well, let’s just say they don’t say much to its quality. It’s typically considered a bad game. Curry’s wry, morbid, delightfully wicked and predictably over-the-top Frankenstein, however, is very, VERY fun to see in action. If he’d been in a better game, this entry would have been a lot higher.

14. Grant Moninger, from TMNT (2012).

In the 2012 version of “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” there was a four-part story arc where the Turtles - alongside a time traveler named Renet - had to face the Universal Monsters, who were being led by a demon called Savanti Romero. In the third part of the story, Romero and his monster army traveled to Castle Frankenstein, where they manipulated Dr. Frankenstein with plans to use his Monster as part of their team. Both the doctor and his creation were voiced by Grant Moninger; a casting choice that does not appear to be mere coincidence. There was a lot of promise to this version of the scientist, but I don’t think it really reached full maximum: as much as I loved this story arc, the stuff with Frankenstein, in particular, seemed a bit rushed. This version actually makes the good doctor…well…a GOOD doctor, as he befriends the Turtles and actually comes to genuinely care for his Creation, despite his initial disgust. Unfortunately, we never really got any closure for the “Frankenstein Family,” and the shift from horror to acceptance seemed rather quick, as all of the doctor’s stuff was shoved into this one chapter of the four-part tale. I liked seeing a more sympathetic take on Frankenstein, and the interactions he had with Donatello and his Monster (nicknamed “Frank” by Mikey) were really nice, but I wish they’d just done more and given him more time.

13. Donald Duck, from Disney’s Frankenstein Starring Donald Duck.

I’m hoping a lot of you will remember, from my past Dracula-related lists, the time Disney made a graphic novel version of “Dracula,” starring Mickey Mouse as Jonathan Harker and the Phantom Blot as the Count. Well, in that comic adaptation, none of the characters from the Donald Duck universe appear. This is because they were all saved for another graphic novel that was made concurrently: Disney’s Frankenstein. (Also, no, I’m not counting Runaway Brain here, just as I didn’t count it on the previous list. Sorry.) Just like the “Dracula” comic, this book actually sticks pretty darn close to Shelley’s story and text (though it naturally softens up some of the nastier bits), and there’s a lot of little in-jokes throughout the story that you’ll really only understand if you’ve actually read the book. In this version, Donald plays the role of the mad scientist, except instead of stitching together a monster created from cadavers out of rifled graves (bravo if you got that reference, by the way), he makes his Creature out of cardboard. While this was a very fun and funny entry, I personally prefer the work on “Dracula” a bit more: I just think it’s funnier (as well as even weirder, to be honest), and the casting there is even more enjoyable. Still, this is definitely a charming companion piece.

12. Boris Karloff, from Mad Monster Party.

This Halloweentime film was a rare cinematic release by Rankin/Bass: the company best known for their holiday TV specials, such as “The Year Without a Santa Claus” and “Here Comes Peter Cottontail!” This is essentially a Rankin/Bass Halloween special, but expanded to feature length and released on the big screen. In it, Boris Karloff (whose animated puppet is a caricature of himself) plays the role of Dr. Frankenstein, rather than his Creation. It’s revealed that Frankenstein is actually the leader of an organization of famous horror icons, including Dracula, the Invisible Man, and his own Monster, just to name a few. However, the old doctor is getting on in years, and decides it’s time to step down and choose a successor in the form of his nephew: a wimpy, shrimpy clutz named Felix. The Monsters, appalled at this suggestion, plot to steal Frankenstein’s newest experiment - a special explosive - and assassinate Felix, so they can have the league to themselves. Then, without the good doctor to keep them all in check, they shall - what else? - take over the world. Karloff essentially plays a sort of exaggerated version of himself in this movie, which is, on its own, very fun to watch. His Dr. Frankenstein is a morbid and spooky soul, but he’s not really evil, unlike the Monsters he apparently controls. SPOILER ALERT: he even ends up sacrificing himself at the end of the film, to stop the villains from enacting their wicked schemes. The moment where he does so, for the record, is pure awesome: a word to the wise, DO NOT MESS WITH BORIS KARLOFF.

11. Robert Foxworth, from Dan Curtis’ Frankenstein.

Dan Curtis - famous for his work on the Gothic soap opera “Dark Shadows” - did a whole bunch of TV film and miniseries adaptations of famous works of classic horror, throughout the late 60s and early 70s. Among these were “Dracula,” “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde,” and, of course, “Frankenstein.” At the time, Curtis’ adaptation of the lattermost story was probably the most accurate that had been put to the screen, taking significantly fewer liberties with the source material of Mary Shelley than any other. Foxworth’s Victor Frankenstein, appropriately, sticks mostly true to the source as well, though the movie seems to paint him more as an idealistic scientific dreamer who gets in over his head than anything else. This carries over into one of the biggest changes to the film, the ending. SPOILER ALERT: instead of vowing to hunt down his creature to the ends of the Earth, a mortally wounded Frankenstein instead realizes his many mistakes, and apologizes to his “son,” telling him to learn to forgive both himself and others with his dying breath. Of course, we can’t give the Monster a happy ending, - we’ll have no joy and justice here, thank you - so the poor Creature, still in a state of mourning, ends up shot and killed anyway before he can put this into practice. Scientist and creation thus die in each other’s arms. Poetic in its own way, I suppose.

10. Barret Oliver & Charlie Tahan, from Frankenweenie.

A sentimental parody of the 1931 Universal classic, the original “Frankenweenie” was a live-action short subject, created by Tim Burton while he was working at Disney. The story featured Victor Frankenstein (played then by Barret Oliver) as a young boy living in contemporary America. The boy is heartbroken when his beloved pet dog, Sparky, sadly dies. Inspired by a science demonstration at his school, Victor decides to try and bring his petn back to life. The short subject was released in 1984. It was honestly a very sweet story, albeit obviously one with a dark sense of humor, but Disney was dissatisfied with the results, and claimed that Burton had wasted company resources on the project. This led to Burton being fired from the company, which only gave him the chance to strike out on his own. Burton had supposedly always wanted the story to become a feature-length film; many years later, he came to Disney with a proposition to try and remake the short as an animated movie. By now, of course, Burton was a household name, and Disney agreed to give the project the go-ahead, provided he also made a couple of other movies for them at their stipulation. Burton agreed, and in 2012, a stop-motion animated feature of “Frankenweenie” was released. This time, Victor was voiced by Gotham’s Scarecrow himself, Charlie Tahan. It followed the same basic beats as the short, but - by virtue of being longer, as well as animated and having the benefits of modern technology - it was able to go much further with its subject matter. Without going into too much detail, in the film version, Victor’s experiments get even more out of hand than anybody could have anticipated. Both versions are very fun and very cute, while also having a delightfully decadent style to them only Burton could bring. I highly recommend you check both out, and pick a favorite for yourself.

9. David Anders, from Once Upon a Time.

“Frankenstein” was a bizarre choice of story to reimagine in this Disney-based show of family, love, and fairy-tales. However, the series found a way to make things interesting, and while I don’t think the Frankenstein story elements are perfect, David Anders in the role of the obsessed scientist is definitely a winning interpretation. In the series, it’s revealed that Victor Frankenstein comes from a world called “The Land Without Color,” where everything is in monochrome (a reference to the classic Universal movies). His experiments with creating life take on a new dimension, when he decides to try and use his theories to bring back his brother, Gerhardt, blaming himself for his sibling’s demise. However, no ordinary heart can withstand the intense electric energy needed to give his brother life…which is where things start to get particularly unusual. Frankenstein gets roped into a deal involving Rumpelstiltskin, the Evil Queen, and the Mad Hatter (wow, what a trio of characters) to gain a special heart from their own world in the Enchanted Forest. Only the “magic” of that heart is able to function properly and serve Victor’s purpose. The series blends science and magic together in a fun way, seemingly taking on the old idea of Clarke’s Third Law: “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Anders’ portrayal of Dr. Frankenstein was extremely fun, giving the character a more sympathetic bend but also injecting a sort of eerie, icy, creepy composure to him. In the modern day scenes, Frankenstein goes by the alias of “Dr. Whale.” (Another reference to the Universal pictures, referring to James Whale, the director of the first two movies.) By both names, he was a recurring character throughout the series; I only wish we’d gotten more closure on how his experiments really went, or else he could have ranked much higher.

8. Kenneth Branagh, from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Released in 1994, this big-budget feature film was a direct response to the success of Francis Ford Coppola’s “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” released earlier in the same decade. While both films have a lot of similarities - generally staying true to the source, but also inventing a few new twists and really hyping up the sensuality of some characters (which I think works much better with Dracula than Frankenstein, for the record) - most agree that Coppola’s movie is the more successful one, and critics and box office records of the time seemed to agree. However, it does have its fair share of fans, and I suppose I’m among them. It’s not perfect, but to be blunt, neither is its “sister film.” Kenneth Branagh both directed the film and plays Victor Frankenstein - not uncommon with this Shakespearean-acclaimed performer. Branagh’s version of Victor has a raw, somewhat manic intensity in his passions, contrasted by the moments where he has to keep it all together and in-check for polite society. The most significant change to the plot is that, unlike in the novel - where Frankenstein never completes work on the Bride for his Monster - Victor actually goes through with the experiment, albeit for his own unique reasons. I won’t go into further detail for reasons of spoilers, but suffice to say, this version focused a great deal on Victor’s tragedy, while still making him the morally and ethically questionable obsessive of the novel. Never has the question of who is the real monster been more shrouded in gray area.

7. Benedict Cumberbatch & Jonny Lee Miller, from the National Theatre Production.

In 2011, a stage adaptation of Frankenstein was produced by the prestigious National Theatre in the UK. The play is a sort of semi-accurate retelling of the Shelley novel (it follows most of the major story beats, but cuts or slightly alters various elements), and has a lot of merits to it…but by far the most interesting part was the casting of Victor Frankenstein and his Creation. Throughout the run of the show, both roles were tackled by Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller. (Both actors were popular for playing Sherlock Holmes at the time. Probably not a coincidence, though it’s an odd leap to make.) The two performers alternated parts over the course of the show’s time onstage, with Cumberbatch playing Frankenstein some nights, while Miller played the Creature, and then swapping roles the next round, over and over. Two nights of the show - each featuring different revolutions of the two leads - were filmed and shown on various screens around the world. As a stage actor, I can safely say no recording can PERFECTLY capture the beauty of any live theatre show, but at least it allowed folks who never got the chance to see it live a chance to take a peek for posterity. While both actors do an amazing job in both roles, I personally most enjoyed seeing Miller in the role of Frankenstein, with Cumberbatch in the role of the Monster. There was a brusqueness to the way he handled the part that Cumberbatch didn’t quite have; given how the stage version here ends, and what we learn about Victor (I’m not giving it away here), I feel that’s more appropriate to the character. Again, though, both performers are to be commended: if you get the chance, try to watch both versions and judge the performances for yourself.

6. Ian Holm, from “Mystery & Imagination: Frankenstein.”

In 1968, the UK-produced horror series, “Mystery & Imagination,” made their own adaptation of Mary Shelley’s classic novel. It’s actually one of the few episodes of this show I’ve seen, and of the few I’ve witnessed, it’s definitely my favorite. A big part of the reason why goes to the gimmick the episode used: casting both the Monster and the Doctor as the same person. That person, of course, was future Bilbo Baggins himself, Ian Holm. Before he ever ventured into the Shire, Holm had a long and storied career, playing everything from Richard III and other Shakespearean roles, to a couple of the most famous writers in history, such as J.M. Barrie and Lewis Carroll. It’s perhaps only natural that he would get to play not only Frankenstein’s creation, but Victor Frankenstein himself. Holm does a brilliant job in both parts, and it’s a worthy adaptation overall, mostly following Shelley but with a few unique twists. Holm would not be finished with Frankenstein once this production ended, either; he later played a supporting part in the 1994 film adaptation. I highly doubt this bit of casting was coincidental.

5. Alec Newman, from Frankenstein (2004 Miniseries).

Alec Newman is a name some fans of dark video games may recognize; among his body of work, he was the voice of Simon Belmont for the “Castlevania: Lords of Shadow” reboot trilogy, and also Jack the Ripper for “Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate.” It’s therefore somewhat unsurprising to learn that, before either of those came to be, Newman played one of Gothic horror’s most famous figures. This two-part miniseries is a highly underrated adaptation. It’s arguably the closest to the book ever made, at least that I’ve seen, as the longer running time and two-part structure allows for not only virtually everything in the novel to be given space, but allows for a few innovations and changes unique to this interpretation. Newman’s Victor Frankenstein, however, sticks more or less true to the source all the way through to the end, in terms of writing and general portrayal. If “definitive” can be taken to mean “truest to the original material,” then he is arguably the definitive version of Victor Frankenstein: starting off as an idealistic and romantic youth, whose passions become twisted as his naivete and rebellious obsessions ultimately lead to his downfall. His health declines, his fortunes decline, but perhaps most importantly, his very soul is effectively despoiled by his own negligence and imprudence. While he’s not the first person most people will think of when they think of the character, he’s definitely one of the most interesting portrayals to date.

4. Gene Wilder, from Young Frankenstein.

There have been several characters over the years who were not meant to be the actual Dr. Frankenstein himself, but rather his successors or descendants. Examples include Wolf von Frankenstein, the titular character of “Son of Frankenstein,” and Victoria Frankenstein, an upcoming female take on the mad scientist made for Universal’s “Dark Universe” attractions. (Look into that, by the way, seems like it could be interesting…unlike the last time Universal attempted a “Dark Universe” rebranding, but I digress.) However, I left such characters out of the running because…well…they’re not Victor Frankenstein. They’re his sons or daughters or general followers. I made an exception with Gene Wilder’s delightfully daffy Frederick Frankenstein, the title character of the Mel Brooks dark comedy classic “Young Frankenstein,” for one simple reason: it felt like a crime to leave him out of the running. This is mostly because, while the film does state that Frederick is the original Frankenstein’s grandson, the movie more or less follows, beat-for-beat, the familiar Frankenstein story: it takes the story beats we recognize from both the novel and the first two Universal movies and transforms the tragedy and horror into zany, satirical humor. The result is probably one of the greatest horror comedies in the history of movies, with Wilder’s Willy Wonka - I mean, Dr. Frankenstein at the very center of it all. He is HILARIOUS in this movie; I would argue quite possibly the funniest performance of his whole career, which is saying quite a lot. There was no way I could have forgiven myself if I didn’t include him in the Top 5.

3. Colin Clive, from the Universal Monsters Series.

While the iconography of the original Universal version of Frankenstein’s Monster (and the work of Boris Karloff in the role) cannot be denied, I often feel that Colin Clive’s work in the role of Dr. Frankenstein gets somewhat overlooked. In the first film, 1931’s “Frankenstein,” Clive is really the main character, and gives us a really strong intense performance that actually still really holds up to this day. The Universal Frankenstein is just as obsessive and ethically questionable as the one in the novel, but he’s a BIT less morally problematic. Unlike Victor Frankenstein in the book, HENRY Frankenstein (as the film strangely decides to rename him; the name of Victor is given to another character, for some reason) actually DOES try to care for his Creation and teach him. Henry even defends the Monster for a while, against his own skeptical mentor figure, Dr. Waldman. However, after the Monster commits his first bit of homicide - which was ENTIRELY justified as self-defense, I should add - Frankenstein is led to believe his experiment has been a failure, and feels he has no choice but to destroy his creation. I really, REALLY love Clive’s Frankenstein: he has lines and moments that are just as memorable and masterfully handled as any of Karloff’s pantomime in the first movie. It was also nice to see him return in the second film, “Bride of Frankenstein,” although his role in the sequel is strangely much smaller. You can tell they really wanted to focus on the Monster, realizing he was the moneymaking character; by the time the third film comes around, Frankenstein has died offscreen, and his adult son (played by Basil Rathbone) is in the process of…ahem…inheriting the family business, shall we say? As the man who made “IT’S ALIIIIIIIVE!” such a well-known bit of dialogue, Clive more than earns his place in my top three.

2. Peter Cushing, from the Hammer Horror Series.

While the ethics and moral standing of both Colin Clive’s Frankenstein in the Universal films, and Mary Shelley’s Victor in the original novel, are certainly up to discourse…there is no such debate with Peter Cushing’s take on the mad doctor. This is the second (and last) Frankenstein on this list, after Tim Curry’s version, who is just straight up EVIL. In fact, I may be wrong here, but I THINK this was the first time anyone depicted the character as an out-and-out villain before, at least in movies. Cushing’s Frankenstein is almost a Richard III sort of character, at least in his first outing of “Curse of Frankenstein.” We actually sympathize with him at the start of the movie, but as the film goes on, he becomes more and more of a dastardly scoundrel. By the end of the movie, even though his Creation certainly does their fair share of murder and mayhem, there is no doubt that Frankenstein himself is the REAL monster. And, like any great monster, Frankenstein seemed almost indestructible: in every single film, he would narrowly escape his own demise, and come back in another ready to try his experiments again. As the films go on, we see Frankenstein’s character change and shift, as he bobs in and out between a sort of sympathetic villainy and just being a cruel, callous, coldhearted cad. By the end of the series run, we realize there really is no hope for the mad doctor: he is lost in own obsession, unable to escape from it, even if he secretly sort of wants to. Never had the warnings of Shelley’s novel been so explicitly elaborated on, and - through good scripts and bad - Cushing carries the role with incredible power, dignity, and precision, his work just as meticulous as the character’s onscreen. While I personally will always think of him as Van Helsing from Hammer’s equally popular Dracula franchise, first and foremost, his Frankenstein is certainly nothing to scoff at, and is still widely considered one of the greatest.

1. Harry Treadaway, from Penny Dreadful.

On the previous list, I mentioned how Rory Kinnear’s take on the Creature (whom I shall henceforth refer to as “Caliban” for this description) was somehow one of the most faithful to Shelley’s version, despite the story of Penny Dreadful being obviously different from the original novel. I also mentioned that the Frankenstein characters of the series were probably my favorites of the whole show. (This is saying quite a lot, with icons like Dorian Gray, Count Dracula, and - most terrifying of all - Simon Russell Beale in the ranks.) Harry Treadaway’s Victor Frankenstein is not only no exception, he is the epitome: this was my favorite character in the show. Treadaway’s Frankenstein captures the spirit of Shelley’s original version, and mingles it with a number of new ideas and concepts, in a way that is absolutely spellbinding. This version of Frankenstein didn’t give up after his first “failed” experiment, and continues to look into creating life, for various reasons. The relationship between himself and Caliban is one of the most intriguingly twisted in the entire show (which, again, is saying quite a lot), as are his relationships with several other characters. Most notably, this one has Victor not only coming to grips with his own faults and actions, as he is lost in a cycle of poor-decision-making throughout the show, but also has him facing the idea that there are some things science just cannot explain or overcome. It was a great way of bringing the philosophies of a character and their story into a new medium, and it made Victor easily the most fascinating figure in a show filled with so many other interesting, dark, disturbed characters. I have no problems or hesitation whatsoever naming Penny Dreadful’s Dr. Frankenstein as my favorite take on the character. Case closed.

HONORABLE MENTIONS INCLUDE…

Samuel West, from Van Helsing.

As I’ve said in the past, I do have a soft spot for this very, VERY crazy “monster mash” movie. The opening sequence where we see Dr. Frankenstein’s deal with Dracula, and the creation of his Monster, is arguably one of the best parts, but West’s Frankenstein is killed before the 10 minute mark.

Dr. Henry Blackbrew, from V-Rising.

Just like with Adam the Firstborn, this game’s version of the Frankenstein Monster, “V Rising” created their own version of Dr. Frankenstein, and you’re even able to face him as a boss. Very fun, but I just didn’t think there was enough here to give him a slot.

Robert Powell, from Frankenstein (1984).

I mentioned this one on the previous list. This made-for-TV adaptation tries to follow Shelley’s novel in a truncated format, and has a very good cast. Powell does a decent job as the doctor, but the low-budget and untidy script don’t do his Frankenstein any favors.

Augustus Phillips, from Frankenstein (1910).

The very first film version of the mad scientist and his story…though, as I said on the past list, the film seems to misunderstand the entire crux of Shelley’s novel, reinterpreting Frankenstein’s quest for knowledge as more of a Faustian bit of black magic than actual science. Still, credit for kicking things off.

14 notes · View notes

racefortheironthrone · 10 months ago

Note

Do you have any thoughts on the character of the Hate-Monger? I presume that him being Hitler in a KKK costume is linking the bigotry of Nazis to those who opposed civil rights?

Yeah, the Hate-Monger is not a particularly subtle symbol; Jack Kirby had Something To Say about racial hatred in all its forms, and as a "premature anti-fascist" (and WWII vet) himself, clearly shared in the view advanced by the advocates of the Double V campaign that Jim Crow was American fascism full stop.

The Hate-Monger (fyi, the original Hate-Monger is technically a clone/memory upload of Adolf Hitler created by Arnim Zola in yet another example of how HYDRA is 100% Nazi) is also an example of Jack Kirby's continual interest in the theme of hatred and mass hysteria and how demogogues can manipulate the masses.

We see this theme returned to again and again in Jack Kirby's Fourth World, with Dr. Bedlam's Paranoid Pill from Mister Miracle #3, or (as @elanabrooklyn has pointed out) Glorious Godfrey in The Forever People #3.

#marvel #marvel meta #jack kirby #fantastic four #hate-monger #fourth world #glorious godfrey #dc #dc meta

78 notes · View notes

borom1r · 4 months ago

Note

I am as always late to the ask game (time zones smh) BUT

Headcanons about Marlott’s Bedlam years?

Also for Marlott, it always makes me laugh in season 1 how he let Flora sleep in his bed and just. Never took it back. Eventually set up a wee cot in the other room because presumably Old Scarred Ill Man + Uncomfortable Chair is Not a good combination. But man was having bat fucking insane dreams/visions that whole time and I’m like. Did Flora ever see the nightmares? How did she feel about all this? She never felt unsafe there (up until the end) but she must have witnessed SOMETHING.

And one for Aramir because I woke up feeling like a Trash Can Man: in your general whump Situation (illness or injury or both), which one is the worse patient? XD

I think like obviously Flora HAD to have seen his nightmares + I think she just kinda let him have his space about it?? like he’s not going to trouble her with the nightmares of an old man, least of all when she’s got her own trauma. like I can’t imagine she was sleeping particularly well at first either, so I do kind of imagine she’d go wake him up if she could tell the dream was particularly bad. then at least they can sit together instead of being miserable alone. share some 2am post-nightmare tea in tired silence.. she’s probably fallen back asleep leaning against him before (and the realization that like. oh. he’s inadvertently wound up with a surrogate daughter, hasn’t he? and she trusts him enough to fall asleep around him. oooooo that would hit Hard)

+ Bedlam years…… good question actually?? like Hervey has him institutionalized + visits the cell after John escapes but iirc the doctor implied John got dropped off and Hervey never fuckin came back to visit which is. like MAY have been a lie bc he was talkin to Nightingale but considering Hervey’s miraculous return to society, I don’t think so? which means John was completely alone, catatonic, for however many years. undergoing electroshock therapy and like. who knows what else.

and it’s like. he could escape. 1) he was plenty aware of his surroundings with Hervey, enough to kill a man and orchestrate his escape there and 2) he’s fully strong enough to rip chains out of the wall. he could’ve escaped earlier. so the question I think really comes down to what triggered his catatonia? bc Hervey is not a particularly kind or forgiving man, and his weird obsessive god complex “I could never let you die” shtick seems to develop (mostly) in season 2 after John escapes. I.E. when John begins to exceed his expectations. bc Hervey was fully content with the idea of dumping John in a cell to rot for eternity. Another failed experiment stored away + forgotten in pursuit of bigger, better things

(th god complex IS there in season 1 but again, as soon as John “fails” in his eyes, tries to escape, any feigned care/concern is Gone)

+ with the catatonia thing, 1) was it a response to the treatments in bedlam to protect himself by dissociating his mind from his body. or, was it 2) sth triggered by however the hell Hervey reacted when he found and recaptured John. because he certainly was not happy, and Hervey is notttt above harming those who disappoint him (he’s certainly not above harming those he claims to care about either, though more in the manipulative mental sense).

HM. Boromir for sure. Aragorn was raised in Rivendell, his foster father is a renowned healer, like he may Complain about it but he knows when he needs to take it easy.

Boromir would HATEEEEE being sick most of all bc at least an injury is like. a tangible external thing? sickness he would try to power through until he collapses or sth. Aragorn sitting next to his husband in bed, tending to him after he tried to take care of some papers and passed out at his desk like “you are a nightmare. do I need to lock you in our rooms to make you rest???” (Boromir fully threatens to climb out a window before being hit by the worst coughing fit ever).

I think an injury, he’s more willing to rest bc if he fucks up the healing process it may permanently affect his ability to move/fight (depending on where/how severe ofc— he will fully just Ignore a minor injury and go about his day. as long as it doesn’t get infected he’s fiiiiiiiiineee)

#tyyyyyyy!

10 notes · View notes

imthepunchlord · 7 months ago

Note

I think that in ROTTMNT the boys should have had an episode where they got brooches. It's canon that they work on mutants after all. I want to see what they look like human.

It would be neat to see their official human designs, especially as I have seen quite a bit of fanart doing what artists imagine they may look like if they were human.

Maybe if we got more of s2/an actual s3, presumably Big Mama would've been a semi frenemy, having a slight soft spot due to Splinter, and there could've been an ep or few of them going about the day like they were human.

And there could've been some fun shenanigans. Like, all the boys, or at least Donnie, trying attend April's school and the sheer chaos of that.

That skateboard star they like could be in town and they, or at least Leo, want to show off their skills.

Or there could've been something for Raph and Cassandra, who sadly didn't get too much of a relationship going. I remember at most they only really got their tiny petty square off on the train, which was hilarious.

youtube

And we didn't get more.

So yeah human!Raph just getting into absolute bedlam with Cassandra could've been so funny.

And Mikey I could see maybe swiping two brooches and he had him and Meatsweats entering some cooking competition.

There's just a lot of comedic potential if they also got brooches and got to pretend to be human and amongst other humans.

Ah, Rise, left us too soon.

But hopefully, one day, we'll get lucky, and get that 3rd season later. Not only because this is my fav adaptation of TMNT, both in animation, characterization, and comedy; but there are a few things I want answered. Particularly most of all: her.

Supposedly this is their sister. And I need answers. I want to get to know her. And see how she and her brothers work off each other.

If not a season, I'll also take a movie covering her. As she's a really cool mystery we just don't get answers for.

#ask Punchie #rottmnt #sorry for the ending ramble

11 notes · View notes

hp-fruit-fest · 1 year ago

Text

For all the Drarry lovers...Here are all the Drarry works created for this year's Fruit Fest! Check out these yummy treats, and give them some love if you like!

ART. Fruit: Apple. Rated: E. Drapple. Digital art. NSFW art.

Draco does a photo shoot for Witch Weekly, in which he shows his appreciation for his favorite fruit.

View on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Strawberry. Rated: T. Words: 3,062. Postwar. Established relationship. Baking. Domestic fluff.

Baking is an unexpected hobby that Harry fell into a little over a year ago, nearly a decade after the war ended.

Read on AO3

ART. Fruit: Mango. Rated: T. Muggle AU. Meet cute. Fluff.

"And it might sound silly but let's go home"

View on AO3

ART. Fruit: Lemon. Rated: M. Digital art. NSFW art.

Symbolism: longevity, purification Song: "Lemon Eyes" by Meg Myers History: in ye olden fandom days, "lemon" referred to explicit erotic content.

View on AO3

ART. Fruit: Apple. Rated: G. Mpreg. Pregnant Draco. Cravings.

peace, beauty, wisdom, joy, fertility, and youthfulness OR Song: Rotten Apple by Alice In Chains OR Song: Apples by Lily Allen

View on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Blueberry. Rated: T. Words: 964. Getting together. Fluff & Humor. Vet Harry & Healer Draco.

Draco wasn’t sure if it was palpitations or a crush. Best to find out.

Read on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Blackberry. Rated: T. Words: 749. Established relationship. Werewolf Draco.

Long fingers pluck a blackberry from the bramble bush, and place it onto a pink tongue. Rolling it around his mouth, savouring the sweet-sour taste, before biting it with white, sharp teeth, and it goes pop in his mouth.

Read on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Grape. Rated: M. WIP. Postwar. Vineyard. France.

The thick, wooden door, held together with ancient iron straps, swung open with surprisingly little noise on well-maintained hinges despite its age and size. The absolute last person Draco could have ever expected stared at him in a subdued, frozen kind of horror once it was open. “No,” Harry Potter said evenly and calmly, as if Draco had asked him if he was supposed to be alive. “How?” Draco choked on the question so it left his mouth as little more than breath. “No!” Potter shouted as his hands flailed back and forth in desperate negation before diving into the bedlam of black hair, like they sought shelter from the moment. “‘Arry?” a feminine and heavily French voice called out. “Is it ‘im?” “Yes!” the presumed dead man in question shouted too loudly, as if he could no longer control his own volume. “But no, he won’t- we couldn’t- I-” A woman maybe just a bit past her middle age came up behind him as he stammered. Draco continued to stare. He couldn’t even sneer; he was shocked to his core. His chest held onto his surprise like a barely contained explosion. Harry Potter wasn’t dead. It felt like it should change everything, yet they remained staring at each other as if nothing ever would.

Read on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Fig. Rated: T. Words: 16,873. Unspeakable Draco. Lost Souls. First Love.

Draco struggles with infertility and hopes to find the answer in a magical fig tree. His journey takes him to Aydin Turkey, where he meets another lost soul named Harry.

Read on AO3

#hp fruit fest 2023 #hp fests #drarry #drarry fics #drarry art #draco/harry

31 notes · View notes

olet-lucernam · 7 months ago

Text

A Hollow Promise [28] chapter vi, part v

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture, explicit sexual content

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : you, greta isaac

tag list: @femmealec @mischief2sarawr

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

48 weeks and 4 days out

The air was hot and humid, saturated with the smell of acid, bricking her into a wall of heat.

In the fresh dark, golden eldritch light glittering on her skin as the portal closed behind her, Astrid flipped her other phone out of her pocket- still dressed in the sleek-tailored trousers, pink satin heels, and black blazer with a narrow, dagger-plunge neckline that she had worn all day in Monaco. It had been edging into pre-dawn, as she left the Mediterranean coast; in Madripoor, the night was just beginning.

She checked the time on her screen, waiting for it to catch up to the local time zone.

She had a few new messages- one from Dr Wu’s ream, confirming the intended date for the scheduled surgery, another from Ophelia-

The clock updated.

Fashionably late.

Her client was probably beginning to sweat.

Tucking her phone away, Astrid pulled her hair up into a brisk, curling ponytail, walking towards the fire escape at the edge of the roof, the tide of noise from the streets rising to greet her.

Vivid and cluttered and treacherous, Lowtown was teeming with trebled activity as soon as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. Its unpaved narrow streets trammelled through a jungle of industrial steel beams and graffiti-splashed brick, thick bundles of electrical cables swooping overhead between the buildings and elevated walkways like trawl nets; structures staggered and crowded in and away from the water’s edge as though climbing over each other, jockeying for the highly priced commodity of square footage on the densely populated island.

The district was noise and neon lights, a grease trap and a den of iniquity.

Within it, the Brass Monkey Saloon was a strange oasis. The blue-backlit feature wall of carved primate skulls was a little gauche, and the cocktail menu was slightly bizarre even for Astrid’s well-travelled palate, but the fugu sashimi with ponzu and serrano chilli was to die for- quite literally, if the bartender was careless with the knife.

The bar was a place of business, primarily, a venue for deals to be conducted under a strict code of etiquette, enforced by the imminent threat of violence. And a contractor like Alethia was considered a selling point, a draw for customers- allowed to skip the line at the door.

The bass hummed through her bones as she was admitted by the bouncer, winding her way through the press of bodies in embroidered silks, cropped leathers, and street-fashion cotton. The dress code was somewhere between dystopia, music video, and runway in Milan- meaning that her blazer suit strangely blended into the bedlam, smudged out amongst the black and greys and blues.

Sliding up the glass-topped bar, Astrid caught the eye of a particularly humourless bartender.

“Benjamin.”

He looked up, pausing in sliding glasses away beneath the bar, and approached unhurriedly.

“Alethia.” He answered expressionlessly. “The usual?”

“Please.”

With the slightest nod, he turned away to prepare her eponymic drink.

Most of the drinks at the Brass Monkey were little more than a mouthful- premium liquors served up in a double shot glass with a dash of garnish.

The Alethia was an exception.

Hip and elbow leaning against the bar, facing out to scan the densely-packed room, Astrid glanced back over her shoulder to watch Benjamin work. The cocktail was a take on a Kir Royale; in a tilted flute glass, Benjamin tippled a chilled, sparkling rosé, mulled using a seventeenth-century French recipe that proclaimed itself wine of the gods, infused with powdered sugar, yellow apples, lemon, and orange blossom water. Benjamin added a shot of a liqueur made of summer berries, vanilla, and rose, a heavy dash of sharp lemon juice, and a sprinkle of dried rose petals and edible gold.

Astrid’s mouth curved faintly as the drink was set in front of her, incongruously and shamelessly pretty, sweet and feminine with a sour edge.

She parted her fingers around the stem of the glass, gently pulling it towards her by the base.

“Thank you. My client?”

Unblinking, Benjamin lifted his head in the direction of one of the booths tucked against the wall.

Straightening, Astrid turned to look, the fall of her ponytail sweeping against the back of her blazer like the scrape of a butterknife.

She bit down on her lower lip, to stop herself from laughing.

Dr Abigail Brand had dressed the part- dark studded leathers and a lace bralette, the silver glint of the hardware picking up and reflecting the acid green streaks threaded into her braids, eye makeup smoked out with an expert shimmer of emerald glitter- but her posture was that of a rabbit frozen amongst a pack of wolves, stiff and shoulders gathered in, eyes darting towards anyone who walked a little too close to her table.

Gripped in her hand- raised a little too high to be natural, obviously on display- she was nursing a glass of the same pretty pink cocktail bearing Astrid’s alias.

“Stars above,” Astrid murmured to herself, the slight pressure in her chest halfway between outright laughter and pity.

“Only reason she hasn’t been eaten alive is because she’s one of yours,” Benjamin commented.

“Mm.” Astrid inclined her head back, in implied gratitude.

She lifted her apéritif to her lips, awareness opening up.

There were a few familiar faces amongst the froth of bodies, as well as fresh blood. She swiftly recognised a certain Cajun thief who had given her trouble in the past, flipping a pack of cards low at his waist with the deftness of a magician, scanning the floor as though searching for a mark; not far from her, two women lounged against the edge of the bar, talking- one with white hair cropped short against brown skin, the other taller and curvier with a spill of iron-oxide hair.

Her eyes snagged on a shadow slouched against the wall several seats away.

Broad and bulky and closed in, arms folded across their barrel chest with blatant hostility, they were concealed amongst the dye of blue light, and constant slow-churning motion of the patrons.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Can I order a plate of the fugu sashimi to the table, Ben?” Astrid spoke over her shoulder. “I have a feeling that this is going to be a long one.”

He paused, inscrutable. “Sure.”

Nudging herself off the bar with a flick of her hips, Astrid wound her way through the crowds, shoulders twisting as she slid between turned backs and jutting elbows, pivoting on the balls of her heels, until she came to a halt at the edge of Abigail’s table.

She waited until her nervous sideways glance began to flicker upwards- stuttering towards her face, but afraid to make eye contact, in case she was mistaken.

Head cocked, lips parted in the insinuation of a smile, Astrid spoke.

“Now what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Abigail’s chin snapped up.

“Alethia.”

Her expression and tone were translucent- relief mingled with apprehension, and a dash of visible reconsideration of every decision that had led up to this point.

Unimpeded by the dim half-light, Astrid looked directly into her, pulling her open.

What she caught, in the flickering fire of Abigail’s synapses, was- not what she expected.

But it did stain colour into a few of the blanks.

She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

Without a word, Astrid slid fluidly into the seat opposite her, relaxing into the cushions, her aching muscles easing into rest.

“You came,” Abigail said tightly. She was fidgeting with the stem of her glass anxiously, dried petals and gold leaf swilled against its sides in the wash.

Astrid arched a brow.

“Should I not have?”

“No,” Abigail said sharply, clenched and perturbed, a hint of a steel-honed conviction in the reflexive panic, “I mean yes. Yes, you should have come.”

“Mm.” Astrid lifted her glass, the rim pressing against her lower lip, all caprice and acceptance. “Alright.”

Abigail glared at her uncertainly. “Alright?”

“Mm-hm.”

Blinking at Astrid’s slow, languorous hum of affirmation into her drink, Abigail shifted in her seat. “Uh. Okay.”

Astrid watched her, swallowing a mouthful of liqueur-spiked rosé, while Abigail cast about for something to say- or, rather, a way to phrase whatever she had contacted her for.

“How are you?” Astrid prompted, folding her arms atop the table.

Abigail looked nonplussed by the question.

“Um. Good.” She decided after a moment.

Astrid flicked her eyes up, and across their surroundings briefly- the pleasant small talk incongruous to the bar.

Abigail seemed to catch the meaning in her gesture, cringing to herself at the awkwardness.

“I, uh- I got out of SHIELD, a few months ago,” she explained.

“Oh, that is good,” Astrid said sincerely.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Abigail swallowed thickly. “I, um- I mean it. Thanks. You, uhm- you knew, didn’t you?”

Astrid arched her brows.

“Knew what?”

Abigail’s lips pressed together, smudging her plum lipstick.

“About- me.”

Hesitating, her hand gestured vaguely against the surface of the table, palm up and fingers flaring.

It mimicked flame.

“Oh, that.” Astrid tipped her head nonchalantly, laughing softly. “Of course. Mutant, not mutate, right?”

Abigail sucked in a breath, gaze fixed at Astrid’s clavicle.

“You didn’t tell SHIELD.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

Abigail’s expression flickered with the first, fragile threads of consternation, looking away.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I tracked you down?”

“Mn, no. I have a fair idea as to how.”

“Right.” Her jaw was set, chin lifting, frustration and discomfort beginning to lend her confidence. “I’m guessing you already know why I’m here, then.”

“Actually, no- well, yes, but it is broad enough a why that it barely counts.”

The outer corners of Abigail’s eyes creased slightly as she glanced up, setting her eyeshadow glittering.

“What, you’re not gonna claim the credit for getting it right?”

“I’m always right,” Astrid pointed out, lifting her shoulder. “If I kept pointing it out, I would come off like men who are so very insistent about how nice they are.”

A snort startled out of Abigail, a hand immediately whipping up to cover her mouth.

Astrid grinned, picking up her glass.

“It’s good to see you, Dr Brand- I’m glad you’re well.” She allowed herself to say. “So. Why don’t you tell me why you bought us here?”

Abigail sobered. The zips on her leather jacket clinked with the motion of her shoulders drawing back, throat moving.

“So, um. My contract ended with SHIELD, and afterwards- I decided to take a break from work. It was a few months after you- after APOLLO was finished, and I, uh, I actually ended up going back to-”

“Ah, I’m sorry- I should have been more specific,” Astrid interrupted gently, setting her flute down, teeth crunching into the dried petals, crisp on her tongue, “I know why you’re here. I was asking,” she met Abigail’s startled black eyes steadily, “why- you bought us here.”

Abigail’s mouth moved soundless for a moment.

“Wha- I don’t unders-”

“I can infer that Dr Brand is an envoy, of a sort,” Astrid continued, talking past Abigail, gazing directly into the aperture of her pupils and through, “and your point of contact, to me. But wonder if it was necessary to drag her into the lion’s den. Even with her shadow in the corner. Madripoor may know him, but they have no indication that he is here for her.”

For a moment, Abigail sat locked in place under Astrid’s stare, doe-eyed and blank.

Then, her entire posture shifted.

Knees crossing under the table, she leaned back. With a flick of a deeper glance, Astrid perceived her pulse throb down from its brisk, nervous clip to a comfortable resting thrum. The wound-taut stiffness dropped from her like snapped marionette strings, leaving her slouching into the booth, fingers lacing over her abdomen. Her eyes became knowing, the smile politely curious, her entire manner avuncular and professorial; Astrid could see the pattern in the spark-shower of her synapses shift, the electrical impulses changing.

Something other than Abigail Brand was stepping towards the surface of her skin, taking up the reins, from where it had been seated as a voyeur for the past several minutes.

Abigail Brand herself melted back with a rush of relief, willingly giving up the pilot’s controls.

“My goodness, but you are good,” Abigail’s mouth mused, grinning softly.

Telepaths, Astrid thought, restraining herself from rolling her eyes. Because they could read others, they thought they were entirely opaque.

“I assume that you were aware of my reputation.” she pointed out coolly. “It makes hiding behind the metaphorical curtain seem- a little pointless, no?”

“Well, I had to be sure. I’m sure you understand.” Abigail’s shoulders shrugged, gaze calm and clear as a cloudless night. “It’s why I wanted to see you for myself.”

Astrid couldn’t begrudge that. She lifted a shoulder in acquiescence.

“What were you hoping to find?”

“Ah. Well. When Abigail told me about you- about who you are, and what it is you could do- I could only hope that you would be precisely what she described.” She took a pause. “Interesting that you are upset. That I appeared careless with Abgail’s safety. It certainly speaks volumes of your character, Miss Alethia.”

“Are you terribly concerned with my character?” Astrid asked dryly.

“As a matter of fact.” The smiling eyes turned solemn, beneath the maintained tension that kept the edges pleasantly upturned. “It is of great concern to me.”

The press against the surface of her thoughts was light, experimental, expert- like the skim of fingertips on opaque glass.

Her mana lashed out, driving the expectant, exploratory force back.

There was no flinch in Abigail’s features at the rebuff, only a distant surprise.

Astrid twitched her head to one side, as though flicking off the residue.

Abigail’s spine straightened slightly, its occupant readjusting.

“When did you work it out?” The question came from the telepath with downturned eyes and a light mien. It was he bearing of someone finding enjoyment in an intellectual challenge, and deciding to ignore what had just happened.

Wise choice. “That Dr Brand was not alone in her head?”

The telepath used Abigail’s vocal cords to hum in affirmation.

“As soon as I looked in her eyes,” Astrid said simply. Like recognises like, she mused.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“You’re not my first,” she replied with a bland smile, lifting her glass to her mouth, her right eyebrow arching with the curve of the left side of her mouth.

Witches and warlocks and interdimensional demons had all tried to crack her skull and pry it open to peer into her brain, at one point or another. Her defence mechanisms were instinctive, and effective, and only restrained if she wanted to invite them inside- like Loki.

“You can invite them to sit down, by the way,” she added, elbow resting on the back of the booth, finger toying with a stray blonde curl. “Although- we might need a larger booth if all four of themintend to join us.”

The smile on Abigail’s face twitched wider.

A moment later, one of the bar staff delivered Astrid’s sashimi platter to the table- raw fugu arranged in fine slices on the dark ceramic- and she felt three people exit the club.

The fourth moved in the corner of her vision, towards their booth, as Astrid popped a bite-sized fillet into her mouth.

“Ah, Logan,” Abigail’s voice called, so staged that Astrid almost rolled her eyes, “there you are.”

Astrid looked up obligingly.

The once-shadow stood close against the edge of the table, backlit in dim smoke-blue, looming over them with a blatant standoffishness, limbs held as though cut from granite- or else constantly primed to wind back into a right uppercut. His build was stocky, tall and broad, square-faced, corded with a type of muscle that was just slightly underfed- in a way that made Astrid think of rescued fighting dogs- and wearing stone-washed jeans, a weathered leather jacket, and a deep scowl, brows heavy beneath a shoved-back mane of dark hair.

While Madripoor was no stranger to soldiers of fortune and pit-fighters and hired guns, this one had a different air about him- something slightly incompatible with the city, but so unconcerned with it that he was accepted anyway.

“Logan, this is Alethia,” Abigail announced, somewhat unnecessarily. “Alethia, Logan.”

“Hey,” Logan grunted.

“Hi. Pleasure,” Astrid replied, sensing that laconic answers would endear her to the man known to the island as Wolverine. “Sashimi?”

He flicked his chin up. “I’m good. They still only serve that mini-cocktail crap here?”

“The Alethias are a reasonable size,” the telepath had Abigail interject, lifting the glass and twirling it by the stem. “And rather pretty, I must say.”

“They have a few craft bottles behind the bar, on request,” Astrid informed Logan lightly. “I can order you one.”

He glared at her for a moment, as though attempting to determine what the catch was.

Astrid kept her gaze clear and open.

“Sure,” he said eventually.

Astrid glanced towards the bar, catching the eye of a bartender and lifting two fingers in the universal gesture of requesting service.

Abigail slid aside in the booth seat to make room for Logan. He dropped into the cushions with an almost deliberate inelegance, sizing up Astrid from underneath his eyebrows.

She let him.

“You still haven’t given me your name,” she directed at the telepath instead, curling her hand under the line of her jaw, eyes remaining on the bar.

Abigail made a soft noise.

“Oh, yes. Forgive me.”

Through Abigail, the telepath smiled warmly, steepling her fingers across the table.

“My name is Professor Charles Xavier. I run a school for remarkable youngsters, in Westchester, New York. And I have a proposition for you, Miss Alethia, that I do believe may be of mutual benefit to us both.”

Astrid glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, lashes low, tone light.

“Mutual and beneficial,” she echoed consideringly. “That is an interesting combination, Professor Xavier.”

Abigail- Charles Xavier- smiled brightly.

“I most certainly hope so.”

Astrid exhaled an answering laugh, turning to him.

Logan was still watching her with an expression that threatened to pin her by her throat, if she bared her teeth first- but she simply glanced at him with dancing eyes, before turning her gaze back at Abigail and the telepath looking through her eyes.

“Alright, Professor,” she said, taking up her glass, “I’m listening.”

Another addition was made to the list.

Storage boxes.

47 weeks and 1 day out

It was an uncharacteristically lazy morning.

The linens were crisp and freshly laundered, the air conditioning thrumming into the penthouse, filtering the humid air to a comfortable temperature. Monsoon season had passed, and sunlight streamed through the drapes from clear skies, its glare from over the city spires softened enough through the gossamer drapes that she could slip back into sleep if she chose, like dipping into a warm bath.

It was a brief stillness, amongst the organised, frantic entropy that dominated her waking hours- and Astrid was struggling to regain the useful panic and need to move, to keep going.

You need the rest, Astra, Loki murmured against the curve of her neck. His mouth was pressed so flush to her skin that the words were more vibration than sound, dissipating and melting through her flesh, dissolving into utter primal want in her bloodstream, like gold dust. Now stay here and be sweet for me. It has been too long since I enjoyed you like this.

Biting her lip, Astrid resisted the urge to arch into the illusion of him- tauntingly bare-skinned from the waist upwards, the comfortable contours of his arms and marble-cool expanse of his chest and stomach encasing her, pressing against her warmth, a knee sliding lazily against her bare calf.

She was thoroughly upset at him for trapping her so effectively.

She could feel Loki’s smugness as he sank into her, languorous and satisfied. A palm smoothed under her camisole, and up the curve of her waist indulgently.

Astrid gave a muffled, bitten-off noise of protest and delight, barely stopping herself from flexing back against him.

Loki knew exactly what he was doing.

They had talked for a short while after Astrid had woken that morning, and she had just been about to rise, mix herself a caffeine hit, and review her progress, when Loki had unfurled the illusion of his weight against her- slotting a leg between hers and burying his face in her hair, projecting affection and pleasure as though there was nowhere else that he would rather be- and rendering her completely useless.

Astrid huffed into the plush of her pillow, still lying prone against the mattress.

“As though I wouldn’t do anything for you,” she mumbled ruefully.

Loki took his victory with relative grace, only smirking against her nape.

He still wasn’t entirely relaxed. She could feel it. The underlying tension was corded through him in a low thrum of anxiety, like a plucked wire, like the current of a storm in the air.

Astrid felt its echo strumming in her chest, a low roar of things that she didn’t want to think about, reverberating louder.

And moment by moment, it seemed to creep closer, nearer, blurring into her vision, like the sight-lights of a train, screaming on its tracks.

It lingered, as a sour taste in her mouth.

With a flex of her scarred shoulder blades, Astrid eased herself up onto her elbows.

Loki barely loosened his embrace enough to let her move. His mouth and the tip of his nose grazed down her back as she pushed upwards, lifting his head to her, quietly watchful.

The muscles in her abdomen and flanks stretched, the sharp-edged pull a welcome distraction from the sickness gathering underneath, clouding her thoughts.

Loki reacted before she felt him think of the motion.

Rearing onto his knees, he snaked a strong arm across her abdomen, dragging her up against the bend of his body, holding himself up off the bed on the opposite elbow.

The air was forced from Astrid’s lungs in a sharp gasp, heat pooling in her gut with a reflexive lurch, pinned in place up against him.

You seem distracted, darling, Loki said delicately, a dark and deliberate contrast to his possessive grip upon her, fingers fanning across the curve of her waist. Where are you, my heart?

Head bowed, weight forced upon her forearms, bridged underneath him and pulse hammering into a canter, Astrid swallowed down the shock, regrouping.

“That’s- Loki, that’s not what I- ah!”

She let up a yelp as Loki sank phantom teeth into her shoulder. A sharp wrench of want ripped through her, setting her chest heaving.

There you go again, darling.

Using the arm that was locked around her waist, Loki dragged her a few effortless, powerful inches down the mattress- bending her underneath him, until she was settled on her knees, stable even without his grip holding her up.

You’ve been distant of late, sweet thing. Preoccupied. One of Astrid’s hands reflexively reached for his, glazing over the back of Loki’s hand, tracing the sculpted ridges of tendons and veins and knuckles, thrown into relief as his long fingers flexed against the dip of her waist. Always swift to leave, to return to work.

Arousal speared through her stomach, at being so cavalierly manhandled. Astrid could almost feel part of her brain shorting out, switching off; the illusion of Loki was damningly firm against her, all lean strength and long, defined marmoreal lines, echoing reality to the finest detail. Her train of thought stalled at the flex and flutter of muscle and sinew, the controlled crush of his weight bearing down on her, and how he fit her against him.

Astrid half-wanted to grapple loose and twist over in his arms, and paint his skin with heat.

The other half of her wanted to willingly give up the fragile threads of control that were still taut in her grasp, and let him do whatever he wanted.

Here we are, at our leisure, and yet your mind is working away. Loki mused, ominously unhurried as the steady tightening of a knot. Away from me. Have I been neglecting you so?

She choked out a soft scoff of denial. “I d- it’s not that-”

No? Perhaps not, yet I have to wonder if it had not crossed your mind. Loki’s voice in her mind was like blood and sugar, heady as strong wine. That I have been remiss in showing my appreciation.

Astrid pressed back, as his palm spread possessively against her lower ribs. His handspan was broad enough that the pad of his thumb brushed distractingly close to the underside of her breast, taunting.

She bit down on her lip hard, neat-pared nails scraping at the rumpled bedsheets.

Ah, see? Loki teased. I have neglected you. My poor darling. I was thoughtless. You have been working so very hard, relentless, tireless, without due reward from your prince-

“You are my reward,” Astrid gasped out before she could think.

His lips curved at the shell of her ear, darkly delighted, the mark of a perfectly executed victory.

Astrid could feel the net closing upon her, caught.

Aha. Right as ever, dove.

Loki nudged a knee between hers, and pried her legs open.

Her thoughts instantly turned molten, her spine slackening.

I am your reward. Loki purred. He began mouthing his way across the open span of her back, tracing the violent edges of her scars, lingering on the ridge of her vertebrae, a tease of fingertips beginning to gather the hem of her camisole, lifting it up across her body. Now take it. Like it’s your right.

Her breath was punched out of her.

“Fuck, Loki, you can’t just say-”

His hand smoothed beneath the waistband of her soft jersey shorts, stroking her hipbone.

“Uhn-”

Say it again, he rasped, say my name again.

Her sigh shuddered on her tongue.

“Loki.”

That’s it. Again.

“Loki, please-”

Again.

“Loki-”

His hand moved to palm her thigh, long fingers gently pressing into the firm-soft flesh, parting her legs further.

Yes. Just like that, Loki murmured. Like you mean it. Like you need this. Show me that you are here, with me.

“I-” Astrid forced herself to focus, ignoring the flick of his tongue on her skin with sheer brute willpower. “Hn- it’s not- over yet. Not even close, I thi- th-this is jumping the gun a- a little, don’t you think-? If this is meant to be- a r-reward-”

Oh, believe me, Loki answered heatedly, the hand on her ribs sliding back up until his fingers rippled over the jut of her hipbone, sending Astrid shivering, stuttering against a breathy exhale. You have earned this much, at least. I will save the very best for when I can work you over with more than just my magic- but neither do I intend to deprive you now.

“I am not- deprived-”

Loki tucked a firm, searching kiss against the pulse on her throat. His fingertips barely grazed the crease of her inner thigh, teasing at the rush of arousal short-circuiting her synapses.

Stop thinking. His breaths were at the curve of her jaw, his lashes brushing her temple as he inhaled against her skin, his loose hair skimming her face. Astrid breathed in, drawing in lungfuls of his scent, of wild boreal forests, the clean bite of frost, the warm musk of leather, and fresh-ground ink. Relax, and close your eyes, and let me ignite the stars behind them. Say you’ll do that for me, Astra. Say yes. Tell me yes.

She heard the note of pleading in his voice, beneath the thick cadence of command, and Astrid’s will snapped clean in half.

“Yes.”

Loki let out a close-mouthed groan against her, before snapping out a command, every inch the proud, uncompromising, imperious prince he had been raised to be.

Eyes closed, beloved. His hand rose to her lips, caressing their edges. And let me hear you.

Quick as a viper, he gripped her hips, and flipped her over.

Astrid gave a yelp as her back hit the mattress, her head thudding into the pillow, pulling her hair almost completely loose from its ties.

She huffed, within the dark behind her eyelids.

“You are enjoying this a little too much, prince,” she barely managed to accuse him, against the caress of his fingers at the bone of her ankle, swirling against it.

Yes I am, Loki agreed amiably, lifting her leg with a crook of his finger at her heel, kissing her calf.

Astrid heard the lie instantly.

She threw her elbow over her eyes.

“Tak guna,” she muttered in Malay.

Chuckling knowingly, Loki surged in and bit the inside of her thigh.

Astrid jack-knifed with a shriek of surprise- before dissolving into laughter. Pure joy brewed up and bubbled out of her, like a cloudburst in sunshine, bright and clean and refreshing.

She could feel Loki’s answering grin, and the soft thrum of his laughter as he kissed the inside of her knee sweetly.

There she is, he breathed, the velvet of his tone softening just slightly, tenderness edging in and twining around her like ivy. My darling. My Astra.

“Your Astra,” Astrid breathed out in a vow, reaching for him. “Yours.”

Her fingers threaded through the waves of his bed-mussed hair, soft and wildened under her touch.

There was a sudden intimacy in the gesture. Even through the red-tinted shutter of her eyelids, and the cold fact that he wasn’t really there, it made him feel close and undressed and open, and hers.

“I love you.”

Loki paused abruptly.

It occurred to Astrid that this was the first time that she had said it, in naked, unambiguous terms, that couldn’t be misunderstood or misinterpreted through a veil of references or implication.

Loki reaction bled through their mental link, with a sympathetic corkscrew in her stomach.

First came a heartbreaking hesitation- a reflexive flash of doubt and plunge of agitation, acidic and uncertain and almost panicked, like a starving stomach presented with a banquet- before hardening and sharpening and rapidly breaking apart into a storm of fierce, raw, deliberate affection.

The mattress dipped as he levered back up the bed, slipping loose from her hands, before dipping down to smudge a kiss against her cheekbone, just under her left eye.

Astrid sighed, tipping her face into him. Her hand shifted up to find the ridge of his forearm, where he was propped up above her, stroking along honed muscle and the curve of bone.

Although she had sincerely never felt deprived, Astrid could admit that she wanted this.

Two deft fingers scraped the inside seam of her shorts.

The friction of soft jersey against her damp, expectant flesh set Astrid’s hips snapping up reflexively, muscles pulling taut.

“Mn-!”

Loki exhaled his satisfaction against her, his breath dusting her lashes like frost, before his lips grazed upwards to the corner of her eye.

Let me hear you, he reminded her, darkly, setting a shock of pleasure through her bloodstream.

His fingers curved against her again, pulling a bitten-off cry from Astrid that pitched higher towards its tail, becoming strangled in her throat as her head pressed back.

The pads of his digits barely scraped against her, swirling in a tight droplet shape, testing and gathering the dense slickness that was clinging to the gusset of her shorts, heavy and rich. Astrid’s grip upon Loki’s arm tightened, nails dragging into his skin for purchase, heels dragging against the sheets as she drew her body open to him.

Loki lowered his head to slide his tongue languidly along the line of her clavicle. From behind closed eyelids, Astrid blindly reached for the artifice of his shoulder, anchoring herself against him; her palm slid along to the curve of the nape of his neck, carding her fingers through the soft, cool satin of his hair, scraping pared nails against his scalp and lilting her body up against his perfect mouth.

It elicited a faintly agonised noise from Loki, ghosting across and cooling the saliva on her skin. Loki’s form dragged a few desperate inches against her, his spell wavering and sparking under a rush of uncontrolled mana, rippling through Astrid as its conduit.

Almost in retaliation, he dipped his touch deeper, and began setting a rhythm in earnest.

She was lost in under four strokes, pulled under like a riptide, raw nature hijacking her brain.

Her hips began mindlessly rolling and hitching with every clever, experimental, painstakingly measured grind of Loki’s fingers, dragging against her flesh, the motion forcing soft whimpers from low in her throat. Loki’s mounting desire and gratification at her every twitch and vocalisation echoed though her, ricocheting into itself and creating a feedback loop that began blanking her thoughts out, involuntary little sounds pulled from her as though he was drawing music from an instrument, nerves set singing like violin strings.

“Loki,” she heard herself gasp out, using her hands on him as leverage to pull herself up into him, the stimulation simultaneously too much and not enough, balanced on the knife edge of agony and hunger, “Loki, fuck, so good to me, you’re so good to me-”

I haven’t even started yet, beloved, Loki murmured against the upper swell of her breast, the words heavy with promise.

Astrid felt his arm turn under her grip, and heard his fingers snap crisply.

Magic deluged the air, sizzling on her tongue as it surged through her like a lightning rod, a split second before her wrists slammed against the mattress, held in place by an unseen pressure.

She could feel Loki rising to kneel between her legs, parting his knees wide to force hers apart, cool air brushing hot flesh.

Mm, there we are. Loki gentled for a brief moment, fingertips brushing indicatively over the delicate veins of her inner wrist. Comfortable?

“Yes,” Astrid answered, quick and strangled, a little startled- but not entirely surprised- by the heat that pooled in her at Loki restraining her with his magic, cuffing her in place.

And he caught it, seeping through their connection, easing into a smirk.

Oh, I can see that. Look at you, Loki mused, each syllable dripping with lust, like an offering at a sacred alter, tied up and wet and willing for me. Fit for a god. Fit for worship.

One finger crooked beneath the hem of her camisole, lifting it from her body, dragging the cotton upwards, air cooling the glimmer of sweat that was beginning to form on her skin. His other hand slipped beneath the hem of her shorts, brushing teasingly against her sex, making Astrid flinch into him with a short cry.

Loki’s exhale was almost a snarl of conquest.

Bolstered by the sound, and with a sudden surge of boldness, Astrid lifted one leg and wrapped it around his hip, knee crooked and her heel pressing at the small of his back.

“Did you think about me?” She asked breathily, tipping her chin up, supplicant and wanting. “Like- like this?”

The vibrato of Loki’s airless groan settled behind her sternum.

I have.

Astrid shivered.

“Tell me.”

With a twist of his wrist, Loki seized a handful of her camisole in his grip, hulling the fabric up over her head- the magic around her wrists loosening just enough for him to slide the straps underneath them and hurl it aside. In the same motion, fluid as silk, he pulled her calf loose from his waist, bent down, and took the waistband of her shorts between his teeth.

Humming in the back of her throat, Astrid lifted her hips obligingly. Loki swiftly dragged her damp shorts loose from her, trailing a smudge of slick against her inner thigh.

You want to hear how much I want you? Loki growled, velvet and deadly.

Astrid exhaled, carefully.

“Well- yes- but more of the how. I- like to aim to please.”

Loki chuckled sinisterly, and snapped the swatch of jersey from over her ankle.

Are deciding on how to greet your prince, once you have me in the flesh?

“I should plan ahead,” Astrid breathed, “for a- grand welcome.”

And if I tell you that I have thought of this, since that morning on the Helicarrier?

His touch trailed up the centre of her abdomen, skimming the underside of her breasts. Smoothly deliberate, his fingers spread, applying the slightest pressure to the curve if her ribs, to hold her in place under him. Loki’s illusion remained at an infuriating, controlled distance, leaving Astrid only able to guess and verbally test at any physical effect she might be having on him, feeling her way in the dark.

That I had thought of breaking the lock, wrenching the door open, and fucking you while you wear nothing but those delicious thigh-high socks?

Astrid’s thighs clenched infinitesimally, a zoetrope-flicker of the scenario projecting into her mind, directly from his: of Loki sinking into her, one large hand grasping the underside of her thigh, gripping smooth skin and grazing soft clinging wool as he forced her open, mounting her, driving into her as her spine arched up, lips parted-

“Mn. If that’s what you want, alderliefest,” she managed to reply almost casually, swallowing the whisky-burn of his words, fingers clenching against nothing, “I- had thought about whether I could short out the cameras for long enough to ride you in that cell-”

The moan that spilled from Loki was quiet, but utterly obscene.

Astra-

“- especially after you quoted that line from E.E Cummings,” Astrid pressed ruthlessly, confessions spilling from her in a rush, “you said those words, and I thought about it- wondered whether that would prove that I was here for you, not them, if I- if I took you while you were in full armour, fingernails in the seams of your leathers, tongue at your throat-”

- Norns-

“- or maybe on my knees, if you wanted- I wanted reclaim you from them- bring you back, overwrite it all- ah!”

Astrid shouted, kicking out wildly as Loki plunged his tongue into her cunt.

He brushed past her oversensitive clitoris, instead pressing close to her entrance, flattening a broad, slow sweep against her heat and dragging through the syrup of her wetness. It still set her straining against her unseen cuffs and cursing out, every nerve turning to incandescent wire.

“Fuck, Loki, f-fuck, stars, that- ahn! Your mouth, please, fuck, please, please-”

I thought of you gasping my name like this, Loki mouthed against her, vehemently, humming vibrations into her throbbing flesh, leaving her whimpering, open-mouthed, begging me, and the heat of you, slick and gripping me, pliant and willingly mine-

His tongue dipped inside of her, brief and probing, the tip of his straight nose nudging the underside of her clit. Astrid cried out, long and plaintive.

“Loki-!”

I thought of my hand wrapped around your neck, as I took you from behind, he almost snarled, like the sound of grinding ice, carnal and visceral. Seizing her leg to drag it over his shoulder, Loki let her heel press into his back as his tongue curled into her, again, again, again, until her back pulled into a desperate, straining arch like the pull of a loaded bow.

One sculpted arm looped over her stomach, effortlessly holding her to the mattress with sheer iron force, the silk of his hair sweeping against her inner thighs.

Or your knees hitched around my waist, moaning like a whore for your prince, taking me until I am almost deep enough for you to taste in the back of your throat- hands pinned above you, just like this, or clawing at me as though you might die if you don’t have me- in my lap, with your back against my chest, hands in my hair, driving us both to completion, taking what you want from me like a queen upon her rightful throne-

Astrid thrashed her head against the sheets, Loki’s voice tapping into something primal she hadn’t known existed in her, striking deep, hooking into her gut. Her body moved mindlessly to chase the pleasure he offered, thoughts melting, her own voice cracking as Loki’s thumb edged into to nudge her folds wider.

“Fuck, Loki, yes, like that, just like that, right the-ere-”

His tongue swirled against her indulgently, humming with satisfaction. It set her head spinning, white beginning to bloom in the darkness covering her vision.

Tell me how you want me, Astra, Loki demanded, lifting away just enough that his slick-glazed lips brushed her clitoris. Astrid almost sobbed, twisting and bucking as she fought away, yet closer, her frontal lobe disconnected and her body given over to sensation, all reflex and reaction. Tell me what you like. Tell me what should I give my perfect girl to make her scream, what does she want of me, I’ll do all the work if she likes, all the fucking, just tell me how you want me-

“Everything, any way you want,” Astrid moaned out, turning her cheek against the pillow, twisting against him, chasing the perfect angle, hips stuttering and shifting restlessly, her ankles locking at the small of his back in a half-conscious attempt to tangle the two of them together and fight for leverage, sparks chasing through her limbs, hot and sharp as a livewire, “stars, whatever you want, Loki, you can have all of it, just- uhn! Want you to want it, want you to lose yourself in me, want you to cum for me-”

Loki’s lips sealed around her clit, and Astrid shrieked in bliss.

It was like a spark exposed to pure oxygen, the first crack before an avalanche, the swell before a tsunami. It gathered into her nerves, violently, as Loki tongued her in earnest, his tongue grinding against the delicate tightly clustered bed of nerves, humming low and lascivious.

Head thrown back, Astrid slurred half-coherent praises- back bowed and lifted, hips flicking up into the sweet friction, wrists straining against the pressure holding her down for him.

“Beautiful, faen, Loki, you’d look beautiful coming inside me, exquisite, divine, every inch of you, Loki, only you, yours, break me, Loki, Loki, Loki-”

Loki let out a whining groan, curving in and bearing down on her, flicking his tongue against her with lethal precision.

Her orgasm came crashing down like the roaring rush of a spring storm, spilling through her blood, seething through her.

Astrid could hear herself gasping for breath, short, vehemently feminine sounds forcing their way through her clenched-open jaw. Loki’s grip turned bruising, caging her in place.

When she came to- eyes still closed, rising from the fall with stardust shimmering behind her lids, pleasantly senseless with pure dopamine- she could feel the facsimile of Loki’s hand soothing down her side, in long, languid, honeyed strokes of his palm, his nose nuzzling at her temple tenderly, trembling almost infinitesimally above her.

Her lips twitched, in delighted disbelief, when she realised that he had gotten off from that alone.

Back with me, pretty girl? Loki murmured sweetly, just slightly out of breath, kissing the curve of her jaw.

“Mn.”

How do you feel?

“Hmn.” Astrid shifted, testing her limbs with a sigh. “Spectacular. Definitely, ah- un-deprived.”

With an airy chuckle, Loki kissed her cheek, chastely.

Good.

Ignoring the pleasant, protesting ache in her arms, Astrid reached up- finding her wrists released, the magic dissolved- and twined them around Loki’s shoulders, pulling him down flush against her.

He came willingly, melting into her warmth like wax. She tipped her head aside as Loki tucked his face against the curve of her neck, settling his weight against her with a contented sigh and shuffling of angles, seeking the most comfortable fit. Thrumming a soft laugh, Astrid relaxed, luxuriating in the swathes of cool, bare skin that greeted her. The pads of her fingers traced over and massaged into his shoulder blades, running through his hair, until she felt a hedonistic moan purr through his chest.

Astrid was drifting somewhere in the gentle liminal haze between sleep and waking, when he spoke again.

This won’t be forever, Loki whispered, his thumb running along the curve of her hipbone, I promise. His hold on her tightened slightly. My eternity.

Teeth slicing against her lower lip, Astrid smiled, bittersweet.

She was unspeakably grateful, that he had misinterpreted her.

To her luck, it seemed that Loki believed it was the distance that was plaguing her psyche- and not the fears that the distance had begun to dredge, from somewhere dark and uncertain inside her heart, stirring up silt, scraping at her insides.

But Loki’s words rang of an ancient vow, of something that he must have said to her before.

The familiarity of it slotted into and turned against the void in her memories, like a key in a neglect-stiffened lock- not enough to unlatch the time-frozen pins and barrels and gears, but enough to tell her that it fit.

Astrid tightened the circle of her arms, burying her mouth against his crown. Her legs slid between his, sliding up his calves, grounding herself in the verisimilitude of him.

Loki was not there, but somewhere lightyears away, he could feel this.

And Astrid had chosen selfishness and pain and hurling herself onto the dagger of his affection, and she was nothing if not faithful.

No matter what lay ahead, no matter the unknowns that could drop the floor from underneath her, she had already made her choice. It was too late; she loved him.

“Can I be greedy?” She asked tentatively.

Always. Loki slid his arms around her, snug between her back and the cushion of the mattress. Tell me.

Astrid exhaled carefully.

“When it’s over,” she said, breathing in his leather and ink and evergreen, “let me hold you like this again.”

Loki huffed a fond, incredulous sound.

As often as you like. As though you need even ask.

She curved herself around him, denying the pressure building behind her eyes.

“Then I can wait,” she said softly.

I can earn you, Astrid didn’t say.

43 weeks and 2 days out

It wasn’t HYDRA who found her first.

It was as she was leaving an appointment one night- her messenger bag satisfyingly weighted with several files, as payment for services rendered, along with a fresh commissions list- when Astrid recognised that she was being watched.

She didn’t react. The dockside warehouse was one of Ophelia’s less glamorous, and more legitimate operations- located on the docks of Hǎidào Bay, on the cusp of the deep waters of the harbour. Within the shifting labyrinths of shipping containers and omnipresent grime of corruption, it had been easy for Astrid to dress herself in black and casual confidence, and render her presence unnoticed as she came to meet with Ophelia for their usual exchange.

It was equally easy to slip through one of the narrow corridors between the shipping containers, step into the Mirror Dimension, and open up a portal to another continent, escaping within seconds.

The air in Odesa was pleasantly temperate, the sun bright and the breeze cold, the skies clear as glass in the cool March weather. Ornamental trees were beginning to come into bud and bloom; by April, their fragrance would be almost sugary, like a confection made by layering something chiffon-delicate upon itself, until it became saccharine.

“I’ll give you all that I own

You’ve got me standing in line

Out in the cold-”

Singing quietly to herself, burning enough mana into her surroundings to incinerate any magical trace that had been placed upon her, Astrid bought tea and a pastry from a nearby stand, and settled on the edge of the fountain outside of the opera house. The curving Italian baroque façade was radiant in the high daylight, the sloping lawns accented by the thundering, frothing roar of the fountain jets at her back, and the susurration of conversation and rustling leaves and sharp, lilting cries of seabirds.

Setting her tea beside her, Astrid pulled the files from her messenger bag, opened each cover, and checked the contents.

“Bend me, shape me

Any way you want me

‘Long as you love me

It’s alright-”

Ophelia had been a little nonplussed by Astrid’s recent request, despite her established preference for currencies other than cash- but had dutifully provided it without fail, to her exact specifications. Each file contained a rental contract for an industrial warehouse or disused commercial space, listed with an address and lease term, signed and paid for under a shell corporation. The locations were scattered across the globe, in highly populated cities and municipalities, all carefully selected by Astrid.

She glanced over each set of papers, noting her approval with a sip of tea. Beside her, the waters of the fountain basin rippled like ocean shallows, catching spangles of blinding light in a fae shimmer, dazzling her briefly.

“Everybody tells me I’m wrong

To want you so badly

But there’s a force that’s driving me on

I’ll follow it gladly-”

She would have to get the warehouses outfitted and set up before November, at the latest- and make them fit for purpose, to emergency-house thousands of people.

Taking a bite of her pastry, still humming, heel tapping to the beat, Astrid began mentally compiling a list of favours that she could call in. She would prefer not ask something of Tony yet, with their cooperation still so tentative, built upon a house of cards fewer than those they had hidden up their sleeves- especially when she couldn’t give him the truth about why she needed these safehouses.

But Professor Xavier- or Charles, as he had insisted upon- might be amenable. And she had a few contacts that might be able to point her in the direction of people willing to do the construction work, possibly even some that Ophelia could recommend-

Astrid swallowed the mouthful of sweet pastry.

Someone was watching her. Again.

Slipping the pastry back into its paper bag, licking the film of butter and pastry flakes from her thumb, Astrid turned the page unseeingly, focusing out.

“So let them laugh, I don’t care

‘Cause I’ve got nothing to hide

All that I want

Is you by my side-”

It was the same person as Madripoor- not a camera, not an astral form, only one of them, moving towards her-

Astrid willed herself to remain composed, the nape of her neck prickling, assessing her options. Straightening her shoulders, she flicked her hair out of her eyes placidly; she would prefer not to make a scene, if possible- not while she was pulling pieces into position in the chessboard-

She recognised them.

Astrid stilled. Panic stabbed through her, shock wiping her expression blank, music stoppered in her throat.

Shit.

She hadn’t expected this.

She hadn’t planned for it, or even vaguely speculated on the possibility. Her nerves fizzled and swooped with adrenaline- this could be catastrophic, a disaster to everything they were doing- she could run, but that would solve nothing- she had to kill this risk before it reached Loki-

Their shadow crossed her, slipping across the papers on her lap and her crossed legs, sunlight just barely catching on the toe of her boot.

Heart in her mouth, Astrid looked up.

Standing before her, dressed in white tennis shoes, bootcut jeans and a collared cable-knit sweater, was Frigga of Asgard.

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

4 notes · View notes

the-tharns-speak · 1 year ago

Note

Leythen was a earl of the Court of Bedlam and the Champion of Mephala.

Not really informative about him as a person (and honestly this whole 'Court of Bedlam' has missed by several leagues), but Mephala is one of the better Princes to be a champion of, as long as you do not mind dying in some really terrible extraordinary manner, usually in some sort of a self-sacrifice. I presume his family life was a disaster.

#the mystery answered #c: earl leythen

3 notes · View notes

detectiveapparatiagreen · 1 year ago

Text

Prologue

Okay, so I've never posted my work on a public forum before and I'm very nervous. I'm also having a lot of trouble with the formatting and settings on Tumblr, so I'm very sorry if it looks like trash. This is a prologue to a story I'm writing for fun based of a hodge-podge of source materials, among which will be Sherlock Holmes, and Murder Most Puzzling by Stephanie Von Reiswitz, and more to come. Please tell me what you think!

______________________________________________________________

I came to walking in the woods outside what I would later find out to be Hyde Park, although I had obviously walked a ways before regaining my bearings. My head felt like it had been struck by lightning, my mouth was unbearably dry, and my feet could feel the knotted roots through my thin shoes. The sky above is gray, with thick clouds that promise rain in the near future. The underbrush was light, but a lively mixture of deep greens and browns from dew, with a squirrel staring at me from the shade of a shrub on my right. He seemed to be waiting for me to pass so he could scurry across to another tree, presumably his home. I paused. "Hello."

Understandably, he didn't reply, still gazing at me with apprehension. "Do you know where I am?"

The creature's nose began to sniff the air, as if that would give me a clue to my surroundings. I scrunched up my nose to copy him. Maybe I did get hit by lightning. I don't seem very disturbed at waking up in the middle of nowhere with no recollection as to how I got there. Does this happen often?

Wait… does it? I look away from the squirrel and furrow my brow in thought. What was the last thing I remember? Nothing comes to mind, and now I'm confused. How can I not remember where I am, what I was doing? What happened?

"Oi! Lady!" A harsh voice distracts me from my existential crisis. It's a man with a reddish nose and sandy brown hair that's thinning at the top of his head. He's wearing a shirt that has the shading of a dirty pillow case and pants with overalls. He walks to me then snaps his thick fingers in my face as if I'm stupid. "You listenin' ta me?"

"Yeah, what's up?" I reply.

"Aw, Jeezus, an American," he groans, and I furrow my brow again. Yeah, I'm an American… wait, where in America am I from? Where am I now if not in America?

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"Wot I wanna know is wot you think your doin' walkin' 'round 'ere alone like a bedlam," he gets straight to the point.

"What's a bedlam?" I ask, because I can assume it's something bad, but I don't know what it means exactly.

"A crazy lady. You a crazy lady?" he spells out for me, enunciating his words and speaking loudly while leaning forward. I keep my composure.

"No, I'm lost—"

"No doubt 'bout that, luv."

"Can you get me back to town?" I test the water. Am I near a town? City? Village? You sound British. Am I in Britain?

"You 'aven't left London you dimwit," he kindly explains. "But the path out the woods is thataway—"

He points his thumb in the direction that he came. My eyes follow behind him but I just see more forest. I mean, he has to get out too, right? I can just follow him. "Okay, thank you."

"Don' mention it, jus' feck off," he cocks his head to spur me along then turns himself and heads off. What a nice gentlemen. I hope he stubs his toe. I trudge behind him, then look down at myself to see what I have on me. Just a white blouse and a long blue skirt, both of which look rather worse for wear from walking in the woods for an indeterminate amount of time. A couple streaks of dirt are tracked along my front, as if I was rubbing up against something, and the hem of my leggings underneath and skirt are wet. Did I step in a puddle? Cross a stream?

I have a small pouch slung across my shoulder. I hold it up and open it. I really hope this explains something. Please have a note from past me saying I did shrooms or something and I'm okay. There's a coin purse with… eight dollars— and twenty eight cents. Why isn't it in euros, or pounds? Why American money? Didn't he say I'm in London? As well as a blue pen and some chapstick. Ah yes, the essentials. Okay, but what about like, an ID? Driver's license? Cell phone? Did I leave it at home again? Where is home?

"Oi! You comin' or not, sunshine?" the man yells at me, and I look up towards him. His face is unamused, looking at me like I'm a nuisance, and it occurs to me that maybe I'm not supposed to be here. Is this private property? I step to it and catch up to the man, looking at him with curiosity.

"How did you know I was out here?" I wonder aloud, inspecting him cautiously. Wide pores and blackheads litter his face, but he pays no mind.

"Heard you walkin' 'round as I was trimmin' some branches," he says, and looking ahead I see the path he was talking about earlier. It's a rock path, well, pebbles really, easily hidden by the ankle-high grass and miscellaneous twigs. Once my feet hit onto the trail, he turns to me and crosses his arms. He cocks his head behind him again. "Not too many people walkin' 'round this time a mornin'."

"What time is it?" I question. How long have I been out here?

"You's a queer one. It's 'bout five turty," he replies, then points his thumb down the path, the same way he had cocked his head a moment ago. "That way'll get ya to the entrance of the park on the Mayfield side."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, well—" he spits on the ground. "Don't muck about. Get a move on."

Charming. I head behind him and begin walking. Obviously, I've got a lot of questions, and most of them are unanswered.

Who: me, although I'm not sure who that is.

What: I'm walking out of a park into London.

Where: see above

When: five thirty AM, probably spring time given the weather. No idea the month. Wait, what year is it even?

Why: bud, your guess is as good as mine.

Okay, so that's the prologue. We're going to meet our detective friend later on, but I wanted us to get our bearings in the world. What do you guys think?

#sherlock holmes #x reader #new writerblr #work in progress #murder mystery #murdermostpuzzling #sir arthur conan doyle

2 notes · View notes

bedlamsbard · 2 years ago

Text

1K written today, though I also took another 1.7K from the previous draft of this chapter and fit it in here, with minor line edits to make it fit the new version of the scene better. This chapter’s past my minimum chapter length by a couple thousand words now and will pick up another couple thousand in upcoming scenes, but I always think my transition/recovery chapters are going to be shorter than they are. (Yonder 6 wasn’t initially meant to be a full chapter, it just turned out that way after I wrote it.) I know the scene this chapter will end best on, but I don’t know if that will take me over 15K, and I’ll usually split a chapter at 15K. This chapter has a day break in it, but I really don’t want another transition chapter before the end, so...whatever. I don’t think anyone’s going to kill me if this chapter ends up in the 15K-20K range, though it might now. Who knows. There’s one chapter after it and that one might end up short, so it’ll all balance out. *abruptly does the math* oh. I think this story is going to be 200K. Which for those who only got here from my MCU fic and not the ones who followed me from Star Wars: that’s actually pretty normal for me. Short, even. Horizon’s actually a very typical Bedlam story; Yonder’s the outlier.

In Zoom meetings all day today, which...oof. Plus it was raining all day; I haven’t been outside all day except to check my mailbox. I’m stressed and tired and watching my computer like a hawk because I don’t have TIME for this, but today’s it been...fine. /she says warily Made bread dough today, but I did some weird stuff so it came out a little funky. (I know exactly what happened; I’ve made enough bread to know that.)

Snippet from The Horizon Line chapter 16.

“Everything okay?”

“Both of the Widows with the Hulk serum are still alive,” Natasha said. She bit her lip, put the last file down, and said, “How much of that did you hear?”

Steve’s serum-enhanced hearing was good enough that he probably could have heard both sides of the conversation all the way down the hall, since the door had been open the whole time. He had told Natasha once that he had to make an effort not to listen in on everything going on around him, which occasionally led to him missing something very important. Like the Destroyer in Atlanta, presumably, but no one was going to mention that to him.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Just the end of it. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.” He looked down at the files in front of her, frowning a little at the Russian script, then looked back up at Natasha. “I was thinking about going for a walk.”

Natasha looked at the window, where it had started snowing again sometime since the last time she had looked. “In this?”

Steve followed her gaze and sighed. “Maybe not.” He looked at the files again and Natasha resisted the urge to throw a blanket over them, since she knew Steve could read Russian; like most of his languages, he had picked up bits and pieces growing up in an immigrant-heavy neighborhood of Brooklyn and then gotten to full fluency during the war, probably in part due to the serum.

#daily fic snippet #roleswap endgame au concept

8 notes · View notes

catsafarithewriter · 10 months ago

Text

A/N: Part... *checks notes* 33 of the Bedlam AU! So very, very behind schedule, but better late than never! I have written Not Much lately, so it's been nice to get back into scribbling. Enjoy!

He fills the entire corridor, shoulders hunched, head bowed, like a bear, or a bull in a china shop. What had once been fur is now cloth, a woollen fabric with seams along his joints and muzzle – and only a stitched line for a mouth.

And there, in place of one of his button eyes, is an orb.

He lumbers towards Haru.

And Haru steps back.

He should be adorable, that's the thought that keeps rattling through her mind. Built like a stuffed toy, like the marshmallow cushion she has teased him so often as, and yet there is something palpably, gut-wrenchingly wrong about him.

He lurches, and his body sways weightlessly. His paws though...

His paws slam into the floor like sacks of sand. Haru feels the tremour ripple through the ground, feels the weight behind them. One good smack from those paws, and Haru isn't sure she'll rise again any time soon. They're not even clawed, but they don't need to be.

She steps back again. Just for good measure.

Other Muta steps forward.

Toto leans his beak to Haru's ear. "Haru, the orb–"

"I know." She takes another step away.

"We need it–"

"I know."

Other Muta nears, and Haru takes the only sensible course of action to her.

She flees.

Toto rises to the air, flying alongside her as best he can in the enclosed space of the corridor. "If I go for the eye–" he begins.

"He'll turn you into a pancake!" Haru retorts. She takes a right. A left. Another right.

"I'm fast!"

"And indoors!" she reminds him. It was right, wasn't it? God, she can feel Other Muta's footsteps through her own soles. "You don't have the space to get any proper speed!"

"What other choice do we have?"

"This!" Haru cries, and she turns into a dead end.

Dammit. Guess it was left, after all.

Other Muta pauses at the corner. He sways in that uncanny puppet manner, head bobbing and limbs lax.

"There's still time to admit defeat," croons the Bedlam. Haru can't see him, but the voice drifts through the walls. The anger has dissipated, and now he sounds more like Baron than ever. Calm. Reasonable. "Take the buttons, Haru, and your friends can go free."

"You say that like it's a generous offer," Haru says.

Other Muta pads towards them.

"Surely your soul is a reasonable price for the safety of your friends," says the Bedlam. "You've risked your life so many times over in your time with the Bureau, what makes this so different?"

Haru edges away until her back hits the wall.

"I can only presume," the Bedlam continues, "that it's because you never really believed you'd have to follow through. You thought you'd always find a loophole, a way out before it got to that point."

Haru sets a foot against the wall, hands splayed across the brickwork. In the fingers of her right she still holds her penknife.

"It's all performative, isn't it? A show, to make yourself look selfless," and his voice is still so akin to Baron's, Haru's breath hitches, even knowing the Bedlam's true nature. Other Muta raises a paw, ready to strike. "Because when it comes to it, to be truely selfless, you still look out for number one."

Other Muta's paw comes slamming down, but Haru has already pushed herself away. She twists as the paw thunders into the wall, and slices at the strings puppeteering it.

The other paw is coming for her, but Toto is already on the case. He tears his talons through the strings and now both front paws are slumped across the floor.

The remaining puppet strings are pulled taut, but the weight of the untethered front paws make any substantial movement impossible, anchoring him in place.

"Or maybe," Haru says, "I'm just smarter than you give me credit for. Toto, if you wouldn't mind...?" She nods to the remaining strings. "I don't want to take the orb while he's still... you know."

Toto doesn't argue about Other Muta's alliance, not this time, and begins to cleave the threads that are still in play.

"Or maybe Baron was right to throw you out," the Bedlam hisses. His voice cracks, distorts. "Maybe he knew that your blindness to your own mortality would one day get you killed."

Other Muta collapses down as the last string is severed. He almost now looks... at peace.

"Oh, please," Haru retorts. "Like I'm the first mortal to ignore the fact I'll die one day. I'm not special." She steps across to the inanimate puppet. "Most of humanity is good at that until it slaps them in the face. We'd go mad, otherwise."

"I mean, just look at the mess you've made," the Bedlam continues, undaunted by Haru's reply. "You tried playing Bureau all by yourself, and you're going to get your friends killed in the crossfire."

Haru shakes her head, and gently pries the orb loose from Other Muta. She does her best not to tear the fabric, but the orb is embedded into the socket so thoroughly there's no way to hide the damage.

"No one's getting killed yet," she mutters, and cracks open the sphere.

#the cat returns #cat writes #bedlam au

6 notes · View notes

kylo-wrecked · 1 year ago

Text

@mayxthexforce sent:// ❝ the world is so big. why do i never feel like i fit into it? ❞ ( Voe for Soft!Ren, for something happening later in our current threads? 👀)

{ from this meme }

— ☾ —

"Because you're so bigheaded," he replies instantly.

He wipes a bead of sweat from under his eye and looks into the fuchsia cerulean and ever-present piss-yellow lights swirling in the cesspool of jostling, sweating bodies below, bodies that pass through twelve-foot-tall holograms of whores and gambling holes seeming more like ghosts than the holos themselves. It's the smell and the bedlam that reminds one they're on Nal Hutta's glowrod moon and not suffering the hallucinogenic consequences of a neural lapse.

Their passing glances catch in the neon's bloom. Voe turns to glare at him, and Ren freezes, gripped utterly by the hurt on her face.

"Err—" he doesn't look away, though he blinks so many times maybe he should have. One day, he'll learn to make a mask of his face. Ren avows to himself that in the course of time and through vigorous discipline, his face would never reveal fear, regret, shame, or anger. Not any of the things it now puts on display. Not even when he wore the helm.

Ren joins Voe on the rafters, lowering beside her in a feral half-crouch, his hand gripping the iron ledges of a bygone city level that's become a barrier between the newfangled. In the event that Voe chooses this particular moment to yield to the siren's call of her rage and push him off. It's a testament to his sturdiness of form that he doesn't waver.

"I'll presume the question rhetorical," he says.

He hasn't touched Voe's thought shield since tracking her down. She hasn't even attempted a mind probe on Ren, perhaps because she's the better person, because she has less and more of a heart than he.

Since they won't communicate with each other through the Force, since they've cast all feeling aside, they rely on crude speech.

"If you'll grant me the privilege of answering, I would say you're caught between. You're living a half-life. Joining the Resistance may be the closest you'll ever get to living by the code, but it isn't the same. Is it?"

At first glance, it seems unfair. Unfair that Voe levels such a question at him. Unfair that he should respond as such. But then,

"I did kriff up your trials," he admits. "I took a lot from you."

Ren looks at Voe in no particular manner. He looks to see.

#mayxthexforce #sw au | soft!ren: master of the knights #mini thread

1 note · View note

thagyann · 2 years ago

Note

❝ not exactly a calming presence, are you? ❞ (for sukuna!)

HE COMES WITH MIRTH LICKING HIS LIPS TO COIL HIS TONGUE IN THE NAME OF BEDLAM ˇ˚ what had time said about him ? the devil was he , barbaric was his hunger . low bearing fruit on a tree of hellish bark . mouthing off to fate . and thus his teeth come on man . peeling faith to sit his laughter up against the knowledge that he ( THE WHORE OF RUIN ) was the truest image to their god. he goes to the boy body resting on a pedestal of bodies presuming themselves anything but fodder for quips. what he is an answer , day of judgment brought to a people that lie themselves to bed on holiness that turly shuns them. he , he , he , goes the world KNEELING ITS MOUNTAINS FOR WHAT IT KNOWS TO THE BE CURRENT OF THE END.

" why should i dim myself for the those that have never turly been anything ?? @hiircgi "

#tbt #hiircgi #i hope this is okay :D

1 note · View note

bongaboi · 27 days ago

Text

Los Angeles Dodgers, all of them, are World Series champs

Bradford Doolittle, ESPN Staff Writer Oct 31, 2024, 02:32 AM ET

NEW YORK -- The 2024 World Series is over: Shohei Ohtani and the Los Angeles Dodgers are champions in five games, the first title for him and, for the team, the eighth in franchise history.

There were heroes and goats, as there are in every Fall Classic, but no storybook showdown of Ohtani versus Aaron Judge. There were dramatic grand slams, stunning comebacks and horrible defensive miscues. The New York Yankees' title drought reached 15 years, and their captain, Judge, faced struggles that sometimes reached nightmarish levels.

In the end, what we got was a pure baseball matchup decided by baseball factors, and mostly by the fact the Dodgers had more good players than their opponent. They earned it -- as a group.

"They were the better team in this series," Yankees manager Aaron Boone said, while praising his own heartbroken club.

This championship, and the way Los Angeles achieved it, is less about the names on the marquee and more because of the ensemble. It belongs to them all, as much to the supporting cast of Teoscar Hernandez, Gavin Lux and Max Muncy as to Ohtani and fellow stars Freddie Freeman and Mookie Betts. To anonymous relievers as much as more heralded starters such as Yoshinobu Yamamoto and Jack Flaherty. None of this is by accident. The Dodgers won this way because they were built to win this way.

Every season, the Dodgers rank near the top of the majors in categories such as rookie WAR and in total appearances on the transaction wire. Think about that: With all of the resources poured into the L.A. payroll -- the Dodgers spent more than $1 billion this past offseason -- the Andrew Friedman-led front office never stops tweaking the roster mix, addressing needs both immediate and imagined. The Dodgers excel at turning other teams' excesses into gold, with journeymen such as Ryan Brasier, Brent Honeywell and Anthony Banda becoming crucial contributors to the bullpen. Every bit as much attention is paid to the bottom 10 slots on the 40-man roster as it is to the top three.

"It's about getting the right players, the right people," Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said. "Talent is a lot, but it's not everything. You still have to be cohesive. I just think we do a great job of getting the right players in our clubhouse."

The Dodgers have as much star power as any team we've seen in recent years, but they could never be accused of taking a stars-and-scrubs approach, or constructing a top-heavy roster. Depth or stars? We'll have both, thank you.

"We have a culture here at the big league level," Roberts said. "But the scouting and player development is second to none."

After a second title in five years, the Dodgers, from top to bottom, are what Roberts says -- second to none.

THIS WAS SUPPOSED to be the Ohtani-Judge World Series.

Just look at the cover of the official program. On the left is Ohtani, his face exuding focus and exertion, his arms pointing behind him in the act of the backswing that completes the arc of one of his mighty hacks.

Judge is on the right, his mouth open in the midst of a shout, his head turned as he presumably looks at the bedlam in the dugout in the aftermath of one of his missile-like blasts into the farthest expanses of Yankee Stadium.

It would be Ohtani vs. Judge, in the ultimate version of a baseball hero's journey, one with no antagonists but two protagonists on a parallel odyssey in pursuit to slay the same dragon: a career-first championship.

Thus was the hook for the resumption of baseball's most prolific Fall Classic matchup, Yankees-Dodgers, the dream showdown between two of baseball's most storied franchises.

The hype wasn't without justification. This truly was an unprecedented clash between perhaps the best-right-now players in the sport, starring for marquee franchises in the glitziest of markets and biggest of stages. Together during the regular season, Judge and Ohtani hit .315/.423/.672 with 112 homers, 274 RBIs, 256 runs and 69 stolen bases. That's from two players.

This pairing of the game's two best players just hasn't happened very often in World Series history. It's easy to lose yourself in a debate about just who was considered the best in the game at any point, but the clear precedents are few: Ty Cobb vs. Honus Wagner in 1909. Ted Williams vs. Stan Musial in 1946. George Brett vs. Mike Schmidt in 1980.

Let's imagine the Platonic ideal as the climactic scene of "The Natural," when Roy Hobbs -- "the best there ever was" -- homers into the stratosphere, turning another Knights disappointment into an instant pennant. We've never had that payoff -- a championship-winning, come-from-behind home run blasted by the game's best player.

None of the superstar matchups we highlighted had the type of payoff we might dream of, and most of them disappointed altogether. In the just-completed 2024 showdown, while Ohtani played well as a stalwart at the top of the lineup, his series was most noteworthy because he popped his shoulder on a slide, bringing the term "subluxation" into the mainstream. And Judge, homerless until the clinching game, was astonishing to watch for much of the series, after a season in which he recorded one of the best offensive showings in history.

"He's a great player," a sympathetic Roberts said after Game 4. "I have so much respect for Aaron. There's probably a little bit of maybe trying too hard right now."

That's baseball, though, isn't it? When we zero in on a star matchup like Ohtani against Judge, that's the possibility we're teasing, even as we know the nature of the sport itself makes the realization of the dream scenario so unlikely.

In fact, the most cinematic moment of the series was not produced by Ohtani, Judge -- or even each team's next best player, Betts or Juan Soto. That belonged to yet another star, Freeman, in a postseason when his injuries threatened to keep him out of the lineup. His two-out, Game 1-ending grand slam evoked immediate images of 1988 Kirk Gibson and inspired Joe Davis' epic, instantaneous Vin Scully homage.

There's a lesson in there, both about baseball and about the Dodgers. No matter who we zero in on, it's never about only one person. Anybody might be the one to realize a boyhood dream.

"Those are the kind of things, when you're 5 years old with your two older brothers and you're playing whiffle ball in the backyard," Freeman said, "those are the scenarios you dream about. Two outs, bases loaded in a World Series game."

As for Ohtani, he went 0-for-4 in the clincher and struck out with the bases loaded in the sixth. It didn't make his night any less sweet.

"The success of the postseason is very similar to how we were able to pull it off during the regular season," Ohtani said, via interpreter Will Ireton. "Again: The strength of the organization. Extremely honored to be a part of this."

CONSIDER THAT 29 different Dodgers played this October. Nearly everyone had meaningful roles along the way, including a bright-eyed rookie named Ben Casparius, who began October with all of three big league appearances under his belt. He ended up making a start in Game 4 as an opener.

This is every bit as much a characteristic of this era of Dodgers baseball as the presence of household names Ohtani, Betts, Freeman and Clayton Kershaw.

"It takes a lot to get here," Kershaw said. "Regardless of the talent level, everybody just assumes that we're going to show up, win 100 games and win the World Series. It takes every last guy."

Since the start of the 2021 season, the Dodgers have had 68 instances of a player recording at least one bWAR. Only the Brewers and Rays (69 each) have more. But the Dodgers have also had 17 instances of a player reaching an All-Star level of four BWAR, second only to the Astros (18). L.A.'s success is built on stars plus depth.

During the 12 full seasons since the Guggenheim Baseball Management group assumed control of the Dodgers, they've won 99.2 of every 162 regular-season games they've played. During the wild-card era, no team has done better over such a span, one that has included 11 first-place finishes, a 12-for-12 presence in the postseason bracket, four pennants and, now, two World Series titles. And there is no question the Dodgers' economics might play a role in the team's staying power. According to Cot's Contracts, the Dodgers have sported a top-five payroll in all of those seasons. Yet other teams make huge payroll splurges -- including the past two teams they beat, the Yankees in the World Series and the Mets in the National League Championship Series -- and the Dodgers are sometimes outspent by one or two competitors.

A level of investment measuring in the billions sets a clear expectation for everyone who dons Dodger blue: to do what they did Wednesday -- win it all. That expectation isn't just carried by Ohtani, Betts and Freeman, but everyone who steps into the clubhouse. They would have it no other way.

"You've got a lot of good people that care about winning and that want to win," second baseman Gavin Lux said. "None of them have egos."

The Dodgers' stars, including Ohtani, outperformed their New York counterparts, especially Judge, in the Series, but that was mainly because of Freeman's massive output as World Series MVP. That certainly played a part in L.A.'s triumph.

But in terms of the headliner matchup, at no point did this feel like an Ohtani-versus-Judge World Series. If anything, it was the Freeman series, but of course he isn't going to claim that title.

"Sitting here now, I've just been blessed to be able to play this game a long time and be in certain situations because of the group of guys, the organization," Freeman said. "Just from top to bottom, to be put into a situation. … I mean, I got asked about the RBIs, and the RBIs are because there were guys on base. That's my teammates."

NO TEAM LOST more player games to injury in 2024 than the Dodgers. Even as they sprayed champagne and whooped it up in the clubhouse at Yankee Stadium on Wednesday, the Dodgers had more than an entire upper-tier starting rotation on the injured list.

That's why Roberts -- whose postseason decisions have been maligned by Dodgers fans and detractors alike over the years -- deserves so much credit for this run. It's not just that Roberts, along with pitching coach Mark Prior, was able to navigate around the losses in the pitching staff. It's also that the skipper, as usual, folded in rookies such as outfielder Andy Pages, Landon Knack, Casparius and even Yamamoto, not a traditional rookie but a rookie nonetheless. It's also that when the Dodgers splurged at the trade deadline, adding Flaherty, Tommy Edman and Michael Kopech, they all fit so seamlessly on and off the field that it's easy to forget they didn't join the team until the end of July.

No game showed it more acutely than the Dodgers' Game 5 win against San Diego in the NL Division Series, when the big three went a combined 1-for-10 but four relievers backed Yamamoto on a two-hit shutout and Teoscar Hernandez and Enrique Hernandez hit solo homers for the game's only runs.

"He lets you be the player that you'll always be," Teoscar said of Roberts. "He lets you have fun. His communication with his players is one of the best that I've had in my career. I think that's why he's so special for this team and the players."

Roberts' masterpiece was Game 5, when he had to work around Flaherty's too-brief outing and a bullpen with perhaps too few adequately rested arms. So Roberts rode relief ace Blake Treinen for 42 pitches -- seven more than he got from Flaherty. And then he turned to Walker Buehler, his Game 3 starter only two days before, to slam the door in the ninth.

"That's one of the best games I've ever seen managed," Freeman said. "That was special."

Through it all, Roberts spreads the credit steadily away from himself, even as he joins the short list of managers who have won more than one World Series, a list made up almost entirely of current and future Hall of Famers, including Dodgers legends Walter Alston and Tommy Lasorda.

"Humbling," Roberts said. "Never thought I would be in that same conversation. I'm a part of a great organization, a lot of great people around me supporting me, and we've won a lot of ballgames. This is something I really wanted. I wanted this one."

If Roberts required validation that perhaps the team's shortened-season 2020 title did not supply -- he has it. He might just be another high-profile cog in the Dodgers' immense apparatus, but he's a vital one. He's also the manager of a dynasty.

This championship -- after a grueling marathon of 162 games plus a month of playoffs, cannot be diminished. It took all of the Dodgers to make it happen, right to the end.

When the Dodgers spilled out of the third-base dugout after the final out, Ohtani, Betts and Freeman were in the middle of the pile. So too were Casparius and Knack. Baseball's latest championship doesn't belong to any one of them, but all of them, under a banner dyed a rich Dodger blue, just how it was drawn up all along.

#2024 #los angeles dodgers #mlb #world series #major league baseball

1 note · View note