#I want to make it more horror centric than I drew it here

[telanadasvhenan]

A first rough draft of Lea’s starting Armour! This isn’t for sure his final design but these are some of my thoughts & notes on how his clan makes their armour! I read a fantastic post (I can’t find it now :[ ) on Dalish textures & clothing so I wanted to try and think more on why his armour looks the way it does. But this works for his first reference (^_^) I’m likely to redo it when l finally design his trespasser & da:tv looks

[inventors-fair]

Sayo-Naya: Alara Design Commentary

Maybe it's time I devour something today. Maybe there have just been a lot of cards. Something I've noticed for this contest: there was a lot of swinging for the fences, but in a mad scientist way. I guess the question becomes: do we need that?

As evidenced by the winners, the answer is definitively no. Things don't need to be massive—they need to be precise. Stories don't have to be epics—they have to earn their flavor. There are nuances I wish I could explain better and ideas I wish I could express in a manner that makes sense. Here we are, though, on the tail end of my coffee and on hour one zillion of this slow cooker recipe.

Cards, right, Alara. I still want to go back there. Some worlds we just won't be going back to, not in Magic's lifetime. I wonder what the conflicts will be then. Innistrad is one of those where the last couple sets were received slightly less popularly than the first time—what if other worlds eclipse them, and the next time we go there will be after everyone's forgotten about the horror? What's a new world with nobody but characters to live in it? Alara is full of my characters. I ran people over with beasts. I cascaded into colored equipment. I drew and milled until the soul was sufficiently un-eternalized. How eternal, then, is the soul of a world that exists in a collective imagination. But that's not a fair question; memory is only as much a measure of truth as humanity is a measure of Earth, which is to say, not at all. Is creation a measure of humanity? What's up with measurements in the first place?

Card design, right. Card games. Cards. Here we are again. I do eventually want to go back here, but it'll never be the same, and that's okay. Can't cross the same behemoths twice. If that's a lesson learned, it wasn't learned by me. I think, for now, I would encourage people to explore the energy of the small. Roles of cards are just as important as bombastic iterations. Don't be afraid that your polish isn't worth it.

@bergdg — Etherium Deathcruiser

This card certainly plays well. Like, it's a big black vehicle with a strong unearth ability. I think adding the "creature" to the entry from the graveyard is pretty cool, although I think "this turn" might be necessary there. If you were to just reanimate it, there would be some memory issues down the line with how that'd be tracked, right? And if it's usually going to be going away via the unearth clause, it would make more sense for it to only last for one turn, IMO. Still, it's a beating body that clearly wants to be part of both the Esper-fueled artifact world and the Grixis demon cult-scape.

When that happens, the identities don't feel watered down, but they're...contested. I'm trying to imagine some other kind of art, because honestly, what we have for the Tennis concept art here is just overtly silly to me and doesn't resonate with either Esper or Grixis—so the problem becomes, what would Esper have to do with demons, and what would Grixis have to do with building vehicles? What IS a 'Deathcruiser?' Maybe this is one of those cards that would make less sense by itself and be more of a one-off weird addition, but I don't feel the strength of either shard being represented here. As a Horizons-y card I can potentially imagine this being a speculative vehicle. For a standard release and a callback perspective, it doesn't strike resonance.

@curiooftheheart — Nefarox's Damned

Ey, there's a callback. I guess the demon cults are still going strong, and I'm totally okay with that. I think that this is a totally fine utility card for the demon in question, considering that he's all about sacrifice. As much as I'd like to wax on the flavor, I think the speculative nature of Grixis is going to be more interesting here, and it IS Grixis, we can name that for sure, even though I have a inkling that this would work just fine for whatever Jund deck ends up wanting it, all things considered. A more sacrifice-centric Grixis shard archetype would be perfectly reasonable, I think. Mechanically, hey, we don't need to know that yet, but something could come from it.

I thought something was weird about the wording, and I honestly can't find precedent for what you have here, but I think that World Queller is going to be of use. It just has folks choose permanent types, so this card could be worded: "When ~ enters the battlefield, choose two different card types. For each type chosen this way, each player sacrifices a permanent of that type, then each opponent who didn't sacrifice a permanent of that type discards a card." That's not perfect, but it's a draft of the idea of what I'd suggest for wording. What I also like is that you can choose types that nobody has, and then your opponents will just discard two cards. Honestly, that's pretty neat, and I didn't consider that until typing just now. Still pretty cool overall!

@deg99 — Rafiq, Sigiled Paragon (JUDGE PICK)

That's a pretty great name. And a pretty great ability! There's no way to make it, like, easier to grok under the rules, but I do think that the buff is a little odd for "each instance of exalted." I'd honestly rather it just get a buff equal to the other attacker's power, worded like "+X/+X until end of turn, where X is the greatest power among other attacking creatures you control." Or something. It's...slightly less mechanically cumbersome to me but also nothing that needs fixing because I gotta say, this is a remarkably clever card. Genuinely makes me excited to see the Bant shell here in the archetype.

I guess that I want to extrapolate on the flavor? Like, this card's already an awesome design, but where are we now in Bant, is the other question. Rafiq's alive, he's doing well, ish. I'm calling to mind Angelic Benediction, and I think that that's kind of his schtick. Friendship is magic meets paladin nonsense. I wonder what's changed about Bant to make him feel this way, who he's talking to, what he's expressing, because yeah, nobody's alone, but the Shards are converging, and being alone means watching the world you once knew falling into chaos. What's it mean to be lonely then? Or to force yourself to not be lonely? Maybe I'm overthinking it, but it's got new context now, that expression. Poor guy.

@dimestoretajic — Tale of the Maelstrom / Nicol Bolas, Victorious

I think it's been repeated a few times, but the first saga's cascade-without-casting was a bit of a whoopsie there. Even if it wasn't, cascading into a 1-2-3 drop isn't that exciting for the amount of mana being put into this card. As for Bolas, I am going to start with the mechanics, because I almost launched into a diatribe. The plus is interesting, sure, but not the most powerful, and the minus only being able to make a body after a turn is a pain. What've you been doing for those turns after investing this much mana into casting small spells? If you're alive by that point, your opponent is, in limited at least, running a horrendously suboptimal deck. And if they haven't prepared for Bolas, that's another story, too.

Preparing for Bolas also means seeing what he's up to, and I am absolutely going to contest Bolas' five-color identity. Some five-color legends are prismatically inclined through natural creation. Some are masters of unity and cooperation. Some are older than the world itself. Bolas is as much a natural-born rainbow as Magic cards are edible. What's this story telling of? How is it spinning into a manifestation of a non-canon Bolas like this? I don't understand, after over a decade, how this would be recontextualized. Where the Alaran feeling comes into play, the effect is underpowered, and where the modernization is, I'm simply lost as to the intent of it. Perhaps this is meant to convey the new arc, Bolas coming out of the realm, or an alternate history. Whatever the argumentation is, the presentation lacks the necessary clarity and cohesion to feel Alaran to me.

@guymcperson144 — The Jundland Wastes

Did you research this name? Apparently, it's a location in Star Wars. Huh. So, this card is still not too bad, but whether or not it does much is... I don't know, I just don't feel that the card itself has much to talk about. It's a purely colorless land most of the time and that's the facts. If you've sacrificed a permanent, would you first want to have the resources in the right colors to cast the spell or activate the ability that would allow for a smooth sacrificial game plan to be made? i.e. how does this card compare to a basic land that would give you the right color without a restriction?

I guess this card's art description is pretty great. I'm absolutely baffled as to why you chose to put it in the place where the flavor text would be instead of putting in—well, flavor text. Maybe this is just a 'me' thing at this point. I want all the cards to be as polished as they can be: art description to compliment, flavor if it fits, wording as solid as it can be, resonant name. What flavor could've been there? What additive aspects could add to this card's flavor? Burnt goblin is the name of the game, I suppose. In all seriousness, I'm left uncertain at a lot of these choices, and there's not much I can say aside from that.

@helloijustreadyourpost — Grim Soultaker (JUDGE PICK)

Okay, so, I just—I'm gonna write this down after, I will remember, I swear. SO. This card! It's pretty good by itself. I'm curious about, like, the wings growing out of the corpse? Honestly I didn't think that the fleshtakers of Grixis would shape their corpses with much artistry out there in the wastes until later. Or maybe that's just a result of Grixian misshappenness and strange mutations happening out there in the void. The point is: this card's a great removal spell and/or flying horror maker and I enjoy it immensely. But. Harvest is pretty weak as a start. It did give me an idea, though, or at least it does.

Imagine it said "harvest a creature card." And if harvest read "To harvest, exile a card from a graveyard. When this permanent leaves the battlefield, put each card harvested with it into its owner's graveyard." It's completely different, ish, but it's a unique flavor resource with weird possibilities and allows for cards to be harvested after their energy has been re-used. There's the possibility of it being abused, too, and there might be issues, but in limited... I'm getting ahead of myself and getting into exploratory design space myself. The point is that I want harvest to be a little more interesting. Something simple like Bargain or whatever makes you want to build your deck around specific ideas. Harvest isn't quite there for me yet, even if this card's pretty great. I love ogres, bby.

@horsecrash — Aspirant Assistant

I want this to be an ability word so bad; Like, "Etherswear—2W/B: If ~ isn't an artifact..." etc. Right now, as a keyword, it really, really doesn't need to be a keyword worded like that. As an ability word, it's sexy as anything, and I know it would be nice to have a keyword searchable with all that nonsense, but. Interestingly enough, I'm not sure how to feel about this now that I'm picking it apart like a clockwork corpse! I want to love it but I have to wonder how the gameplay would be if you're looking to make an artifact deck but all of your "artifact" creatures get removed before they can become artifacts.

Flavorfully, this captures a unique feeling that gives the individual non-Etherium-infused citizens of Esper a calling of their own. This was touched upon in the winners, but you know what, is that what Esper...is? On somewhere like Kaladesh, I can imagine that being the goal. From the perspective of an individual's story, becomes Etherium'd would be quite interesting. Gameplay-wise, we're still in a weird removal space of mana and resources, but I guess this... Hm. This is almost monstrosity, but for artifacts. Honestly I'm fine with that, especially with ability counters. Where does that leave us, though? Where does that leave me? I think I'm willing to work with it in a story but not as a deckbuilding piece. Esper is about a precise world, the pieces that come together from the sculpted minds and underground rogues of a shining world. To become that tugs at modern heartstrings; me, I'm not quite as moved. As a designer I'm willing to get on board with a little bit of give-and-take.

@lanabutnotdelray — Etherium Armorer

I'm genuinely surprised to see how many new mechanics people made for this set and how many Esper cards got made, too. I'll do a tally afterwards. Anyway. This card's one of those that's great in a shell but I'm once again lacking the context for it. Investigating as an armorer? Why? What's it looking for? As a deciduous mechanic, sure I get it; even Scrap would make sense, though, at least in my opinion. Incorporation is interesting, I suppose? I'm not quite in the get-it stages. You want to have artifacts, sure, you want to sacrifice them, and there'll be both sacrificial artifacts on the UB side for Grixis, and on the white side, there are other cards too. Maybe. Dunno; like I said, not quite getting it yet.

What would incorporate look like on other cards, then? Would it be like conniving, where you can let other creatures do it, stack it, whatever? If so, how could this card be more powerful—perhaps by allowing it to affect any attacking artifact creature? I think what this card is lacking is context and precision. Precision, I mean, is the exact way that this card takes the best aspects of its mechanics and flavor and... Well, and incorporates them. Art direction, flavor text, some notion of what this card's doing in the world, I don't know. My own imagination regarding those kinds of notions are limited by what's given to me. I do get that this guy incorporates by putting artifact metal on their body. Why is that now what Esper does? Are they gearing up for something? Okay, soldier subtype—Esper's never had soldiers before. I'm intrigued, but not to the point where I feel comfortable saying what I know and don't know. Maybe I don't know anything. Wouldn't be the first time.

@little-red-rabbit — Obsidian the Forge Maw

Okay, let me see if I got the intended wording right for the idea you'd like to convey: "Whenever Obsidian, the Forge Maw attacks, you may remove a +1/+1 counter from it and exile target nonland permanent card from your graveyard. Create a token that's a copy of that card if its mana value is less than or equal to the number of +1/+1 counters on Obsidian." Whew. What a mouthful. But what a strangely neat card as well. Flying and devour are both excellent additions here, and I think that in an Alara set, this card could be a strong Jundian signpost legend as well as a cool commander.

The name and moniker aren't as Jund-feeling to me as I feel from other dragons, but that's my opinion based on the naming conventions associated with Jund's colors. The ability to copy permanents from your graveyard is cool, but that too isn't catching the Alaran styling to me. Jund cares less about reusing what it's already used up and more about how to turn that into other forms of life. What I like mechanically is, well, everything about the intent. You devour cards, you reanimate them kind of, and that's the resource cycle. It's neat! Is it Alara-themed? I'm not quite feeling this guy there. Lastly, I'm curious if you intended for this card to be a 0/0 instead of keeping it with some base P/T so that it could die and be a resource later, or if that was unintentional.

@nine-effing-hells — The Filigree Texts

You know, it took me a second to actually look up what the Filigree Texts were about. Did I know before? It's, uh, been a little while, I'll admit. All the same: while the Phyrexian Scriptures were a book themselves and the Phyrexians executed them according to their beliefs, the texts were still... Well, they were there, they were written in, they were a doctrine that could be followed. The Filigree Texts are literally blank—and what can come of those? Even the brilliant ultimatum of discovery was more about Tezzeret's spark than it was about the texts themselves. Does belief equal action in the same sphere? Can it? Does the secrecy of the texts make that more or less sensible?

I'm in the camp that this card is trying to emulate the Phyrexian Scriptures and I'm not exactly thrilled. The fourth chapter is cool for the card draw, but this is emulation that's too close a reference to stand on its own. Either there's intense subversion of the texts themselves happening here, or the reference wasn't as thoroughly researched as it could've been. I was the same way for a little bit, honestly, but regardless, we have that on our hands, and now there are sagas on Alara. Which is fine here in the context of texts. Guess I'm just still iffy on how much the execution can be said to be...well, how it can be different. Artifact sagas, awesome, cool, neat. Is this new? Is this supposed to represent something new about a return to Alara? I'm just not sure what the intent is compared to where we're already at post ARB and MOM.

@reaperfromtheabyss — Exuberant Mightwaker

Naya, how I love thee! Big Naya stuff has always been a favorite of mine. I think that this first ability here is definitely the coolest. It's not a buff in the same way as other buffs, and maybe the fact that it could be activated at instant speed is pretty nasty, but we don't need to worry about that until playtesting. Or until after blocks. Narsty. I can see that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree in terms of getting back to Naya's roots. There's not a whole lot that can be done with, like, giant creatures and whatever, not in the same way as other mechanically direct causes. Maybe we don't have to reinvent the wheel.

We do have to do SOMEthing to the wheel, though, because otherwise, that's how we get stuck in ruts. The rut we have here is the rut of caring about creatures with power 5 or greater that aren't on the battlefield or whatever. That's the thing about this mechanic: it wasn't...great. Or at least, from what I can tell, it wasn't supremely popular to see as it stood, and having the core of this card rely on that property of cards not on the battlefield having power 5 or greater feels odd to me. What are you supposed to do once those creatures hit the battlefield, unless you've used them with a weird mediocre cards that has you reveal creatures for bonuses—you get the picture. If I'm getting where this card wants to go mechanically, I don't futz with it for both mechanical reasons of not being crazy useful and nostalgia reasons of not being that far off from where we started.

@snugz — Sangrite Scavenger

'Spared no expense.' Man, that's just... I dunno, there weren't a zillion entries this week, but maybe I'm just losing my mojo early, because I'm stuck on that detail. Am I really? No, I'm just curious about the economy of Alara now and what's happening here. What IS happening here. Did this guy... Are they a mercenary? They might as well be, I dunno. I'm still not certain, actually, but let's put that aside for the moment. The card is still pretty good, but I don't know about whether or not Consume is doing anything for me right now. Sacrificial convoke is pretty great in concept but I don't like how it groks. Or, like, do I? It might just be kinda weird to have on the battlefield. Sacrifice three hybrid creatures, free Sangrite Scavenger. That's not so bad. It can be powerful, and on the right card that amount of sacrifice can be intense, but all the same.

I guess this card has a lot of parts that aren't coming together yet for me. The things that I get and the things that you explained in the notes are all reasonable, but emotionally, what I'm feeling is less about excitement to go back to Alara and more about trying to puzzle out how I'm supposed to be feeling about the relationship between Esper and Jund. Whatever that feeling is, I'm feeling more wishy-washy about it than other cards. Maybe I just have high standards for nostalgia, and yeesh, that's the first symptom of being a critic. Don't like that. But regardless, Consume could be better than I'm giving it credit for, and free (ish) spells are still good even when the wording can be a little odd.

@wolkemesser — Jund Diplomacy

What. Alright. Sure. I've got nothing to lose here. Rest assured: this card won't be part of the table anytime soon and not just because of the five-color identity. Once this lands, you're almost guaranteed to have an opponent who's running the blue-white-X version of whatever in your pod, and that means your opponents will be able to have an army of unblockable creatures as a mana sink. Is that what you really want to see? I would argue absolutely not, because an army of Goblin Advisors is usually bad for my health. Not that I listen to my doctor anyway, and not that my doctor is a dragon.

Look: Jund does not have diplomacy. I can't believe that this shard would have a dragon come around and say that yes, this is what I'm after, the ability to show what our world has to offer and look for agreeable political positions. No, this is a world of dragons and chaos. Is this name meant to be ironic? If so, I'm not...there, I don't want to be there. I want to eat things and be angry and whatever. The minor wording notes about this card aren't really relevant here, but I can go over them later. It's capitalization I've been over before, mostly. What's the Jundian feel here? Food's returned. What does that matter when EVERYTHING. IS. FOOD. on Jund. Not to be dramatic, I don't wanna be angry about that, it's just the nature of the beast. The counters are a cool callback. I'unno. I'm just kind of dealing with this card as a wall of objects and less of a return-themed card. The energy of the small is important. This card's too big for me. A cake being rammed down the throat of my prized sparrow.

I'm gonna collapse. Love you all! @abelzumi

[kuaille]

i have been developing a wip for a fic will solace-centric where solangelo is together since the period between TLH and SON and will goes on the argo II trip too

i'll just made a timeline divided in specific situations here to not forget or confuse my ideas

two months after the manhattan battle, on october, will, lou elen, cecil and drew leave the camp to get medical supplies

drew goes along because she's a fucking good driver and she and will are friends (drew just pretends to ignore him so she doesn't "ruin" the broken hearts thing)

they're in the middle of the road when BAM a big heavy thing lands on top of the hood

it was nico fighting a chimera

(he had already left the chb at that point)

fight this fight that, chimera is killed, but nico has a serious and open wound on his arm

will tries to say he can bandage and give the guy some ambrosia because it's way better than getting a damn bloody arm, but nico is a stubborn ass who rolls his eyes and tries to walk away with shadow travel

at the last second, will notices and grabs nico's coat, and drew grabs will's wrist

the three make the shadow travel and end up in nico's room in hades' palace

nico gets super pissed off and was about to take them out at the same moment when someone knocks on the door

he throws will and drew in one of his closets (haha closet haha) and threatens them both to be quiet

will and drew are two fucking curious gossips so obviously they peek through the crack and BAM

nico di angelo is being hugged by a titan in janitor outfit

the two see nico talking to the titan (who is apparently named bob. what fuck titan is called bob?), being healed and giving an astronomy book to the titan, who's actually very happy and even talks about meeting some hazel

nico is quick to dismiss bob after that, visibly nervous and uncomfortable, and takes drew and will back to where cecil and lou ellen were waiting

nico then demands that will and drew promise by the stygian that they haven't seen or heard any unfamiliar names, and will realizes that nico almost looked like he was about to cry

but then drew freaks out and starts complaining with nico, wanting to know why he's harboring a titan, that he's a fucking traitor and that she will not make any promises

nico says he'll kill them both if they don't promise (jusst like that demon child aura from a horror movie) but drew says he's bluffing and he can try to kill her if he wants

nico gets more nervous and the ground shakes before he lowers his sword and says "silena knew how to keep a secret"

drew goes pale and completely expressionless after that, is silent for a few seconds before replies "at least my sister's death was of some use"

nico looks like he's been punched in the face, opens a crack that swallows a pole and disappears into the darkness

drew gets into the car they came from and speeds off, leaving will, lou and cecil alone

part 1 | part 2 | will's backstory

[spacebatisluvd]

Happiness

Rating: T, for references to torture/religious trauma

Summary: After Prime’s defeat, everyone tries to have dinner at camp.

This is fluff with a dash of angst! Hordak-centric.

A/N: I will be calling Wrong Hordak “Kadroh”.

-

“So, brother, how did you get to Etheria?”

Hordak didn’t look up. Entrapta and Kadroh had dragged him to the fire when everyone settled down for dinner. He was extremely aware of the Etherians’ eyes on him—some friendlier than others. “I’m not certain that revisiting the past is wise at this moment,” he said, trying to hide his discomfort.

“Gee. Why not?” the princess of Salineas asked.

He glanced up at her, ears twitching. Beside him, Entrapta wrapped her hair around his waist and shoulders. The gesture seemed almost protective. Looking around the fire, he realized that he knew the titles and powers of everyone gathered, but he only knew a few of their names. For a very long time, these people had been nothing more than obstacles to him. He didn’t hate them or resent them for their actions—he actually found himself feeling fondly for Adora—yet he could clearly tell that many, if not all, of the people around the fire hated him.

He lowered his gaze. Perhaps they did deserve an explanation. With a sigh, he said, “I’m still not fully sure what happened. I was separated from my brothers on the battlefield; a portal pulled me through and deposited me here. At first, I thought it was part of my punishment or maybe a test, but....” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense now.”

“Why would Prime be punishing you?” Catra asked, brows furrowed.

Shame still lingering, Hordak looked away and confessed softly, “I was...am flawed. I took pride in my work. I thought of myself as clever. Special. When Prime discovered the flaws in my thinking, he attempted to purify me—“

“Prime is merciful,” Kadroh agreed reflexively. Then he realized what he’d said. His eyes grew wide and he covered his mouth with both hands.

The boy beside him just threw an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, buddy. We know you didn’t mean that.”

Kadroh nodded, ears drooping. “Thank you. Brother, what happened then?”

“The purification ritual failed.” He couldn’t repress a shudder. “I do not remember how many times he tried—“

“Wait. You went through that multiple times?” Hordak looked at Catra, remembering chanting with his brothers when she underwent her own purification.

“Yes. My body gave out before I could be purified to Prime’s satisfaction. He recognized my willingness to serve had not wavered, so he allowed me the honor of dying in his service, rather than executing me. Then the portal sent me here. You know the rest.”

She swore under her breath and stood, beginning to pace. Adora stood too, ready to reach for her, but Catra stopped suddenly, glaring at him. “So, you went through a portal and ended up here. You were free! Why would you—? Why would you try to bring him here? Why didn’t you just, I don’t know—do literally anything else?”

Hordak looked at her, his ears drawn back, then he looked around the fire at the others. “Isn’t it obvious? If your god cast you out of heaven, what wouldn’t you do to be back in his grace?”

Kadroh was looking down at the ground, nodding softly. He understood. Everyone else just stared at him in horror.

It was Adora who broke the silence. Delicately, she asked, “You know...you know that’s...wrong, right?”

“Now? Yes. Prime was no god. Not a good one, at least. Not merciful, no matter what he told us. If I could go back....” He looked at the fire and sighed, knowing that was not an option. “I am sorry for the suffering I have caused. I thought....” He shook his head. It didn’t matter what he thought. He’d been wrong, and he knew that now.

He stood, facing Adora, and he bowed low. “Thank you, She-Ra. For freeing my people from him. I am in your debt. And in debt to Etheria. I know it won’t erase my past wrongdoings, but if there is something I can do to help restore your world, I will do it.”

When he straightened, Adora was rubbing the crook of her elbow and looking anywhere but at him. “Okay. Um. Let’s just...eat dinner and not talk about anybody being in anyone’s debt. Okay? Okay.”

She quickly sat down and began eating her food with remarkable speed. He looked at Entrapta, who shrugged. He sat back down, not really sure what to do with himself now.

Across the fire, the Salineas princess said, “Awkward,” under her breath.

The boy beside Kadroh cleared his throat. “So, Entrapta, now that the war’s over, do you think we can restart the Makers’ Guild?”

Entrapta exclaimed in excitement and the two of them began talking enthusiastically about their guild. There was a brief moment of tension when Entrapta grabbed his hand and said, “Oh, Hordak! Would you want to join the guild? Bow, can you imagine—alien tech and First Ones’ tech?! The possibilities are endless!” But, slowly, the mood around the fire began to ease, bolstered by their happy chatter.

As the evening dragged on and the air chilled, he noticed that Entrapta was shivering, but she was too involved in her conversation with Bow to retrieve a cloak for herself. With a touch to her shoulder, he murmured, “I’ll be back,” then started toward her tent. As he walked, he noticed that the Salineas princess was following him. He glanced back at the fire, where the others were too busy talking to take notice. “Princess.”

She stood in front of him, arms crossed. “Hmmph. You meant that? About restoring Etheria?”

“It is not in my nature to lie.”

“First Ones, you’re so weird—‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Yes. I meant it.”

“Good. You can start with Salineas.”

He nodded, remembering the damage that had been done to the seaside kingdom. “I believe I can—“

“Don’t care,” she said, already walking away. “Just fix it.”

His ears drew back; he was not fond of being dismissed. However...he started to think about the sea wall and the damage done to her kingdom. It should be easy enough to rebuild, with time and resources. He wondered, too, if the princess had ever considered building a desalination plant. The inland villages had rich soil, but the region suffered frequent droughts. A desalination plant and a proper irrigation system could make life a little easier for them. Why simply rebuild when he could improve it as well?

When he retrieved Entrapta’s cloak, he grabbed a tablet and stylus as well, already making plans. Back at the fire, he draped the cloak over her shoulders and settled beside her once again. Across the fire, Scorpia made a strange sound. “Force Ca—Princess Scorpia? Is something wrong?”

“No! Nope! Nothing wrong!” Her voice was inordinately high pitched, and one of her claws was pressed to her mouth. The tall, willowy princess at her side was staring at him and Entrapta intently.

He had no idea what to make of that. Before he could draw any conclusions, Entrapta drew the cloak around his shoulders as well, cuddling into his side. “Thanks!” she said, looking up at him, “I didn’t even realize I was cold.”

“You’re welcome.” He sighed, looking back at Scorpia in response to the strange sound she’d made. “Are you quite sure you’re well, Force Captain?”

She nodded vigorously, one claw pressed to her mouth. “Mmmh-hmmm.”

He eyed her suspiciously, but ultimately decided to let it go. Instead, he chose to let Entrapta’s happy babble wash over him as he drew up plans for Salineas. Hordak smiled fondly, happy to hear her voice, happy to be beside her, happy to hear her plans. Just.

Happy.

[thewayshedreamed]

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An Elriel fic

This fic is set in the “This Time” Nessian AU— Starting with Elain’s birthday party from Part 3. Here’s the back story of those texts that haunted Elain, how the conversation with Azriel went, and mention of the eventual date that Nesta interrupted in Part 6 😉

You can catch up on This Time here!

A/N: It only took an eternity for me to finish this chapter. It’s the first thing I’ve posted that’s Elriel-centric, so I found myself deleting/re-writing to try and get it right. Eventually, I had to cut myself off and just put myself out there, so I hope y’all like how I’ve written them! Shoutout to @keshavomit and @acourtofmarauders whose comments inspired me to share this!!

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Once Nesta dropped her off at her apartment post birthday breakfast, Elain drew herself a hot bubble bath. She hoped the warm water would ease her achy muscles and her unsteady nerves; both from the night before. It wasn’t that she had completely blacked out. She remembered the majority of the night, with only the time after her body started to succumb to exhaustion being a little fuzzy.

She lay back onto the back of the tub, taking a deep breath of eucalyptus scented bubbles and easing her eyes closed. She couldn’t help but reflect over the night, heart swelling with love for her family and friends who had truly made her 23rd birthday one to remember. It was increasingly rare that every one of them were able to get together on the same night, and she was feeling extra loved that they made it out just for her.

She had a few laughs to herself as the memories ran through her mind. She thought of her and Feyre dancing for hours, being joined by the others on and off throughout the night. Cassian grabbing her hand when Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” came through the speakers, spinning her around and singing loudly with her. Her friends keeping her drinks full and making her laugh. Being so excited that Nesta finally joined them for a couple of songs. Spinning into Azriel accidentally and hearing his deep laugh as he steadied her.

And just like that, her thoughts hanged on Azriel; like they always seemed to. She was no moron. She knew they had a natural sort of chemistry, but she always struggled to tell if he truly saw her that way or if he would ever be open to her. She was struck with a memory of him from the night before, something that hadn’t come back to her until now.

——————————————————————————

Somehow, she had ended up near the edge of the dance floor, semi-cornered near a table by Grayson. She remembered being so annoyed that he’d been there and even more annoyed that he was insisting on polite conversation. She wanted to yell at him that she knew he didn’t give a shit how she was doing and that he had no right to know after he’d wrecked her heart a couple of years prior. She wanted to swat at his hands when he would laugh and playfully touch her or reach for her. The alcohol in her system was begging her to do all of it, and she was almost completely convinced. Just one more touch or one more attempt at familiarity, and it was game over. She steeled herself, waiting, until a pair of arms wrapped gently around her waist from behind.

“There you are, love.” Azriel’s smooth, deep voice ran over her, and she relaxed immediately.

He was closer than usual, more affectionate. She realized the show they were supposed to be putting on, and she leaned into him. She rested her head back on his chest, and turned her chin way up to look into his face. He was looking down at her, mere inches away, with amusement sparkling in his hazel eyes.

“Hey,” she breathed, lamely, if she was being honest with herself. She felt the impression of cool glass in her hand and looked down.

”Sorry it took me so long to grab your drink. The bar was really backed up.”

She looked down at the half-empty glass in her hand. Definitely his existing drink. She decided to give him a little hell. Why not? They were pretending, anyway.

“Babe. It’s half-empty,” she pointed out through a laugh.

He narrowed his eyes at her playfully, telling her he knew she was being difficult. “I may or may not have gotten thirsty on my way back to find you.”

“Az, you remember Grayson.” She gestured toward her ex as she spoke. When he looked up, she noticed the tension in his jaw.

“Of course. How are you, man?” He released her waist with one hand, extending it toward Grayson. Grayson only looked at it, ignored it completely, and addressed Elain.

”Really? This guy? You’re better than that.” She felt Azriel tense behind her. Grayson gripped her upper arm, pulling her toward him. “You can’t be fucking serious, Elain. Guys like him are good for one thing. Maybe you can have a few good rolls around in the sheets, but you can’t honestly expect to settle down with a guy like him.”

All too quickly, Azriel’s large hand gripped Grayson’s wrist where he was holding Elain’s arm. There was a layer of darkness to his tone that Elain had never heard.

“Get your fucking hand off of her. Now.” He gripped Grayson harder in warning, but Grayson’s eyes stayed on Elain’s.

“Elain, come on,” Grayson said.

She was fuming. His company had been unwelcome from the beginning. He’d been far too comfortable entering her personal space. He had openly insulted Azriel on multiple levels. He was manhandling her. The words left her before she could stop them, the alcohol delighting that it finally got its way.

“Even if you’re right, he’s the best fuck I’ve ever had and has ruined me for anyone else. So allow me to indulge myself for as long as I feel like it,” she seethed.

Grayson’s eyes widened and quickly narrowed in anger. Nevertheless, his grip on her arm softened, and Azriel shoved his arm back toward his body. He shook his head and walked away, totally speechless.

“You okay, Ellie?” Azriel was in front of her now, looking down into her face. He was running the back of his fingers up and down her arms, and she cursed the goosebumps that erupted over her skin.

“Yeah. I really am. Thank you for coming over. You didn’t have to do that,” she said. She glanced up at him and watched his features soften when he realized she was serious. Shortly thereafter, he started laughing.

“Elain, you can’t just go around saying things like that about me. Word will travel, and I may not live up to people’s expectations,” he joked.

She groaned, feeling guilty that she had completed objectified him without his consent. She leaned into him, resting her forehead on his chest for a couple of seconds before looking at him again.

“I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what got into me. I just felt like humbling him a little, and I didn’t like how he was talking about you.”

Azriel laughed as he pulled her into a hug, his forearm braced around her neck.

“No apologies, Ellie. Come on. I owe you a drink; you know, a fresh one.”

——————————————————————————

Elain’s eyes popped open, and despite the heat of the bath water, she felt herself flush further at the memory. He hadn’t seemed bothered, but holy shit. Who would take it upon themselves to call someone “the best fuck they’ve ever had” when they’d never so much as hugged long enough to be considered intimate? Gods above.

She was obsessively thinking about her deleted messages again. She grabbed her phone off the side of the tub, hoping that when she opened her messages app, all of her texts would magically reappear. They didn’t, just as they hadn’t the other 15 times she’d done it that day.

She removed the plug from the bathtub, letting the water out and begging it to take all her memories along with it. She toweled off, put her lazy Sunday clothes on, and padded out of the bathroom.

She was startled by her phone ringing and dragging her back to the present. To her absolute horror, Azriel’s name flashed on her screen.

She steadied herself before she answered. She was glad to hear that her voice sounded as if she were a perfectly stable person.

“Hello?”

”Hey, Ellie. How you feeling today?” he teased.

Hungover. Fucking mortified.

”About how you would imagine,” she laughed. “What’s up?”

”I wanted to check in on you. And I wanted to see when you would have some free time to meet up. I still have your gift,” he explained.

Of course he’d gotten her a gift. Because he was wonderful. And she’d treated him like a glorified escort. She answered him before she lost her nerve.

”Oh. You didn’t have to do that, Az,” she paused. “What about now? You could come by?”

It took him a couple of seconds to respond. “Um, sure. Yeah. You know, it doesn’t have to be today, though. I didn’t mean to impose or anything.”

Shit. Was she too eager? To hell with it if she was. Waiting would kill her.

”You’re not! Really. I’m just being a bum on my couch today. I’d like the company,” she replied.

——————————————————————————

After about thirty minutes, Elain was convinced she was being stood up. Maybe he didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t wanting to see her today. She was about to draft a text to him before she heard his knock on her apartment door.

“Come in!” she called. She had unlocked her door during her fitful pacing minutes ago.

He poked his head in before opening the door and stepping inside. The sunshine flowed into the apartment behind him, and for a second, she was almost convinced that he was superhuman. His dark hair was damp and brushed haphazardly to the side, and she couldn’t help thinking about how unfairly attractive he was. He was wearing a black v-neck with black jogger sweats, and his scent of cedar and mist washed over her as he plopped on her couch.

“You look way too alive and well today. Seems a little unfair,” she pouted.

He breathed a laugh as he turned toward her. “Some of us drank water throughout the night, birthday girl,” he teased as he tapped her nose with his index finger.

“Hey!” she exclaimed in faux annoyance. “I drank water. Maybe it was today, but I did.”

He tapped her knee with his hand, and she swore she felt it throughout her entire body.

”I’ll be nice. I’m here bearing gifts, after all,” he replied.

She thought back to the night before. The memory of their bit with Grayson, her deleted texts. She thought of Nesta’s words of advice that morning to ask him about the only remaining text she had: his reply. It was now or never, she supposed.

”Before you give me my present...” She bit her lip. “...can I talk to you?”

She watched his eyes land on her lips and jump immediately to her meet her stare. His brows furrowed in concern.

“Of course, Ellie. About anything. You okay?” His words, so similar to those he asked her last night, flooded her nerves all over again.

“I woke up this morning to a really confusing text from you. Not that what you said is confusing necessarily, but apparently, I deleted all of my texts last night. I must have done it right before you responded, so I have zero context to our conversation.” She could feel the heat of her blush on her chest, her neck, her face. She wanted to be literally anywhere else. She showed him the text for frame of reference.

Azriel: 😂 Not cool. You had me worried there for a minute, Ellie. Goodnight. Hope you enjoyed your birthday.

She watched his eyes scan the text, his lips spreading into a small smile. He wasn’t speaking soon enough for her liking.

”Oh. That. We had been texting a little at the table right before you left, but at some point between you standing to leave and getting home, you sent me this.” He scrolled through his phone until he landed on her message. He turned it to her so that she could read it for herself.

Ellie: I’m v mad at you Az

Another one, several minutes later.

Ellie: Nvm talked to Nessie. We’re good. Night 😘

Cauldron, Elain. Kiss emoji, really?

The only other message was his response that she’d already shown him.

She shook her head. “I have no idea what that’s about. What was I saying before that?”

Now it was Azriel’s turn to blush, the tips of his ear turning a faint pink. “Oof. I don’t know if sober me feels as bold as the drunk me in those. I think I’ll just keep those tucked away.”

She blinked at him and his nerve to insinuate he was going to keep them from her.

“Azriel Spion. You better show me those texts.”

”Mm. Don’t think I will, Elain Archeron.” His blush spread to his cheeks.

She lunged for his phone, but he dodged her at the last second. He lifted it into the air out of her reach, her body sprawled across his lap. Elain with less adrenaline would have been mortified to find herself there, but this was critical information. She pushed herself back onto her knees, reaching for the phone in his outstretched hand. He evaded her yet again.

”Why are you so giant? For the love of the Mother, just let me see!” she exclaimed.

”No! It’s not my fault you deleted yours,” he retorted.

She knew she would never be able to overpower him, and he was too stubborn for her to talk him into giving in. She landed on torture, hoping it would work in her favor.

She stopped reaching for his phone and instead turned her hands to his torso. His position left his underarms wide open, and she took her chance, hoping he was ticklish. Otherwise, this would only be even more awkward than it already was.

To her absolute delight, Azriel yelped in surprise. He immediately snapped his arms to his sides as he tried, and failed, to hold back his loud laugh. He tried to move away or grip her hands, but doing so would mean he would have to shift his arms. His body wouldn’t allow it.

“Elain!” he bellowed. “Stop it. I said STOP.” He let out another loud belly laugh, and Elain fell a little bit harder at the sound. It was one of the most precious things she had ever seen. Azriel, who was always so reserved, so dry, letting out such a loud, deep laugh felt like an honor to witness.

”Not until you show me those texts! They’re just as much mine as there are yours!” She had to raise her voice over his laughter, the words coming out through laughter of her own.

“You didn’t keep yours,” he said through clenched teeth between laughs. “Not. My. Problem.”

She pushed her fingers in a little harder, and he yelped again, dissolving into laughter once more.

“Fine! Alright!” he yelled. “You win!”

He tossed his phone on the cushion behind her. She stopped immediately to retrieve it, leaving Azriel spent and gasping for breath next to her.

“You tiny, brutal woman,” he breathed, eyes locked on her.

She waved him off, scrolling up through his messages to the beginning of last night’s conversation. The first messages were mild enough. She thanked him for her birthday drink, for saving her from that conversation with Grayson, for humoring her with a slow dance despite the fact that he wasn’t one to dance much. His responses were polite and friendly, barely on the flirtatious side. She was about to toss his phone into his lap and call him dramatic before her eyes landed on a message that sent her pulse through the roof.

Ellie: That feels nice. Thank you 😊

A: Anything for the birthday girl.

Ellie: I mean, I can’t believe everyone hasn’t offered to play with my hair. Seems a little rude.

A: Very. I guess you’ll have to get new friends.

Ellie: Except you. You have to stay 💕

A: Like I said, anything for you.

She shot her gaze up to look at Azriel. He was watching her with the focus of a surgeon, scanning her face for any reaction. She was doing the same to him. She had a vague, fuzzy memory of sitting next to him in their booth for a portion of the night and assumed that’s when these had occurred. They had likely resorted to texting considering their friends’ nosiness. There were more messages, the time stamp about thirty minutes later.

Ellie: Stop being so nice to me. I’m going to fall in love with you.

A: Promise?

Ellie: 😅 Very funny. You’ve been warned.

The rest were the ones she’d already read about how she was mad at him, whatever that meant. She could hear her own heartbeat; feel her blood pressure in her gums. She knew her blush was at an embarrassing level, and she had to take a couple of deep breaths before she looked at him again. He was still looking at her, an almost pained expression on his face.

She cleared her throat. “So. Did you?”

”Did I what?”

”Stop being nice to me,” she murmured.

”No.”

She locked his phone and handed it back to him as she settled into the cushions. She wanted so badly to close the distance between them, but she knew she’d already pushed him beyond his comfort zone. His answer spoke volumes if she was interpreting him correctly, but she was terrified to find out. She decided to stay the course, keeping the focus on her deleted messages.

“I guess I should check in with Nes. Just to see what I was mad about,” she said quietly.

”I talked to her this morning,” he murmured.

Her eyes locked on his yet again.

”And are you going to tell me?”

”Do I have a choice? You’ll torture it out of me otherwise,” he joked. She was grateful for the laughter as a break in the tension. He cleared his throat.

“You told Nesta you were mad at her, too. When she asked why, you told her it was because she and I are such close friends,” he said. He glanced at her, giving her a chance to react.

“Why would I care about that now? I only know you because of your friendship.” She was so tired of being lost, of being the only one who didn’t know what was happening.

His voice remained quiet and even, as if speaking any louder may scare her away. “You told her it was because I would never look at you. Because you’re her little sister and I was considerate and wouldn’t want to make her mad.”

She swallowed thickly, hoping she looked more put together than she actually was. “And what did she say that made me so quick to drop it?”

That evoked a small laugh and the sound of it made her want to curl into him. “That I’m not scared of her in the slightest,” he began. “And that I was basically the only person she would find worth of you.” His blush deepened as he finished.

She nodded, processing his words. Her mouth was dry, and she was totally speechless. The distance between them was almost painful now, but she was so terrified to make him uncomfortable and potentially ruin their comfortable friendship.

He shifted on her couch, scooting a little closer to her. She was still facing him, her legs curled under her and her elbow settled on the back of the couch. She propped her head on her fist and fixed her gaze on his thigh, an inch away from her knees.

“When I told Nesta that I’d deleted my texts, she told me to talk to you. That you would be understanding.” She glanced up at him. “I basically bit her head off. But it’s because she knew without a doubt that you would understand, isn’t it?”

”She’s known for a long time how I feel, Ellie. Without me having to say a word.”

All she could do was nod. He shifted forward, turning his attention back to the reason he’d come over.

”Az, you really didn’t have to—“ he interrupted her my lifting a scarred finger.

”None of that. I wanted to, and I did.” He placed an envelope in her lap as he ran his hand through his damp hair.

She opened it, scanning small documents inside to figure out what he had gifted her. Two tickets to see the Velaris Philharmonic Orchestra. One of the first true conversations they’d had, she shared with him that she wanted to go one day. With the hustle and bustle of life and the expenses that came with it, she’d never gotten around to it.

True to her sensitive spirit, tears brimmed her lower eyelids. She was so touched that he remembered but simultaneously felt guilty that he’d spent so much on a gift for her.

“You can invite who you want to. I know Nesta has wanted to go, but you can bring a friend, too. I just wanted to make sure you had company. It didn’t feel right to give you a gift where you’d have to go alone.” Her heart melted at his rambling. Azriel never showed his nerves, and he had let that wall down for her several times today.

“Azriel.” She glanced at him, willing him to look at her again. His elbows were resting on his knees and he’d been staring straight ahead as he spoke. He finally turned his head toward her, his onyx hair brushing across his brow. She leaned forward, resting her chin on his shoulder as she took in his elegant bone structure.

“Thank you. I love it more than you know,” she whispered.

His eyes lit up at her words, and her chest squeezed at how much joy it brought him to make her happy. His eyes fell to her lips, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she watched him wet his own. He brought a scarred hand up to cup her cheek and pulled her face even closer to his, using his thumb to pull her lip from her teeth. She gasped softly, and he pressed his full lips softly to hers. She leaned into him, letting out a small whimper when his grip tightened slightly on her cheek.

Something shifted in him at hearing her whimper into his mouth, and he sat up to orient his body toward hers. He deepened the kiss, then hooked his hand behind her knee to pull her over his lap. She settled into him, moving her hips against his, and he let out a low groan as she moved.

She pulled back from his kiss to look at him, still a little in disbelief that this is where their day had taken them. She ran her fingers through his hair and watched as his eyes fluttered shut. He let out the most indecent moan, and it took everything she had not to slant her mouth over his again.

“What are you doing Thursday?” she asked.

His eyes popped open, still a little glazed over from the heat between them. His hands were under her sweater, thumbs tracing small circles over her ribs.

“No plans, why?”

”A very dear friend of mine gifted me two tickets to see the orchestra, and I’d really like to take you on a date, if that’s okay.”

He smiled at her, his eyes turning up at the corners as he looked at her. “I would say I feel bad for the guy, but there’s no way I’m missing that,” he replied, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. “I’ll be sure to pull out my best suit.”

Her returning smile was so broad, it almost hurt. “Perfect. I can’t wait,” she whispered as she started to rock her hips once more. His lips crashed into hers then, their conversation over for the time being.

Before she lost herself in him completely, she had one fleeting thought as she reflected over their earlier words. “So, did you?”— “Did I what?”— “Stop being nice to me.”— “No.”

It looked like he was hell bent on keeping it that way, and she knew she was beyond screwed.

She was already in love with Azriel Spion, and even still, he was never going to stop being nice to her.

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Well, there it is! A brief timeline note: Nesta’s phone call falls on that Thursday, during their post-date sleepover. I hope y’all enjoyed it!

Tags (This Time taglist + masterlist):

@polireader // @lord-douglas-the-third // @justgiu12 // @notyournymphetish // @sjm-things // @strangeenemy // @iammissstark // @keshavomit // @sjmships // @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks // @dusty-lightbulb // @texas-shaped-waffle-maker // @julemmaes // @charincharge // @superspiritfestival // @awesomelena555 // @sleeping-and-books // @hizqueen4life // @maastrash // @bookstantrash // @rhyswhitethorn // @grace-k-sterling // @sayosdreams // @sis-it-dont-add-up // @b00kworm // @courtofjurdan // @sannelovesreading // @acourtofmarauders // @candice-dick-fit-in-your-mouth // @gisellefigue08 // @girl-who-reads-the-books

[moonchildsaurora]

Moonlight Sonata

✤ OT8 w/ Woo-centric (+ a side of WooSan, SeongJoong) ✤ genre: fantasy!AU // mild horror, more creepy than anything really, a dash of fluff ✤ t/w: sfw, lots of spoopy shit happening, swearing, description of fantasy violence & grotesque body horror, very brief mention of intoxication, rated M  ✤ count: 6k+ ✤ [ ‘prologue’ of The Alderfell Chronicles ]

a/n - well this was suppose to be for Halloween and instead I’m using it as a belated birthday one(long)shot for our beloved Wooyoung. It’s my first member-centric piece that stemmed from me thinking about, “Why aren’t there many AUs for legendary beings like the Dullahan (Headless Horseman)?” Lo & behold the world of Alderfell was created and I do not regret it one bit. The only thing I regret is not having enough time to write this out as an on-going series, having to squeeze info/hints throughout this piece...so please excuse the weird jumps in timeline...about the characters’ lives and backstories. This is also my own twist on the concept of the Dullahan – they usually are depicted with a more sinister nature but my Dullahan is a good boi™. I do plan to re-visit every now and then, maybe to elaborate on certain origins or associated scenarios/blurbs. But for now, please enjoy reading about Wooyoung having the time of his life trying to settle down in a town that’s more than meets the eye and live to tell the tale of how he experienced first-hand a midnight stroll with a legend 💙 P.S. sentences in all italics are flashbacks! P.P.S. I would absolutely be keen to hear any thoughts/headcanons/speculations as to what you think is happening with each character or just about the world itself. See how many easter eggs you guys can find!

The balcony windows slammed opened as the intruding wind howled into the bedroom, drawing a shriek out of Wooyoung. In the unfortunate process of accidentally slamming his knee up to the escritoire with a startled jump, he helplessly watched as the ink jar tipped over a river of black onto his handwritten letter. Tugging at his coal black strands with a groan of frustration, he was soon reminded that the tempestuous rain had come in uninvited when the lamps and bronze candelabras started to quake.

Grumbling a string of curses under his breath, Wooyoung marched across the rosewood floor towards where the billowing ivory curtains were. They reached out to brush against his cheeks as he worked against the wind to quickly close the large windows. By the time he managed to secure the latches, his vision was dotted with rain droplets that splayed across his silver-rimmed round glasses.

Fumbling with the sleeves of his sleeping robe, Wooyoung lightly wiped the lenses clean whilst he made his way back to where the ruined letter laid. Staring at the mass of harsh ink smears across majority of the previously neat lines, he gingerly reached out to grab the papers.

Then came a soft knock on the door.

“Wooyoung, is everything alright?” a deep dulcet voice spoke from the other side.

“Y-Yes, I was jus– please, come in.”

Wooyoung turned to face the doorway just in time to see it swing open, revealing the ever empyreal-looking aristocratic owner of Rosentine Mansion where he was currently residing at. Adorned with a beige embroidered silk sleeping robe and a faint smile, Yeosang stepped soundlessly in to the room.

“Sorry if I disturbed your sleep, there was a bit of a mishap…” said Wooyoung, gesturing to the mess on the escritoire with a sheepish look. The windows started rattling once more which drew Yeosang’s attention towards the balcony.

“No need to worry. Was it the wind?” he asked, walking over with the intention to check the latches.

Wooyoung nodded, “it’s rather blustery tonight.”

Yeosang hummed as he peered through the curtains, looking out to the gloomy darkness where he could barely make out the glowing street lamps through the rain.

“The rain will pass after tonight, storms don’t tend to linger around here for too long. At least it’s cleared up the fog a little for now.”

An involuntary shudder went down Wooyoung’s spine at the mention of the fog. He quickly learnt within the first few days of his stay, more often than not, the streets became foggy after dusk once the sun has gone to slumber and the moon awakes. Wooyoung wasn’t fond of how his mind would wander to think of what might be lurking within the fog, and so he makes a conscious effort to never stare too long from his windows. Too afraid that one evening he might find fiendish eyes staring right back at him.  

“You speak as if the weather has a mind of its own.”

“Oh? Have you never thought of that possibility before?”

The ambiguity of Yeosang’s smile certainly didn’t help Wooyoung in trying to decipher whether the aristocrat was being serious or not with that question. Then again, Wooyoung had somewhat gotten used to the eccentricity within the mansion; especially when his own cousin is just of that calibre along with the rest of the residents.

However everyone he’s met so far have been nothing short of pleasant and accommodating, even the brutally honest groundskeeper who was particularly protective over his fruit trees.

“Please let me know if you require any more candles.”

Wooyoung diverted his attention back to the present, only noticing then that Yeosang had gone round to dim the lights within the lamps.

“And…” pausing, Yeosang turned towards the half empty ink pot and stained papers, “Perhaps it’s best to leave that for tomorrow. You’re due to wake up at dawn if you wish to make it on time to Seonghwa’s shop, you know how he can be like with tardiness.”

“You’re right,” said Wooyoung, with a tired sigh.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Goodnight Wooyoung,” giving the room a once over and deeming nothing else was out of place, Yeosang left just as quietly as he arrived before.

“Goodnight Yeosang.”

That night, Wooyoung fell asleep under the comfort of his duvet on the 4-poster bed. Dreaming of flowing ink, swirling fog and the echoes of thunder from the depths of his mind.

“Do be careful Mr Jung!”

Wooyoung still wasn’t used to being addressed so formally by the townspeople, it wasn’t this sophisticated back at his previous home in Rookhaven. But he had no time to dwell on that as he hastily dusted the dirt off his taupe trousers and gave a courteous nod before continuing on with sprinting his way to the shop.

Cheeks tinged with a rosy hue and not just from the chilly air. After tripping and face-planting onto the gravel path right in front of the Mayor surely proved to be an embarrassing start to his morning. He raced past the magnificent fountain of the dancing naiads in the town square; where the granite sign that sat on the top tier engraved with bold letters of gold read; ‘ALDERFELL – welcome thee to a pleasant stay, otherwise be on your merry way.’

Tucked in the corner of Étoile Lane was Alderfell’s main apothecary shop that Wooyoung was headed towards. He entered through the back gates to ‘Drops of Aurora’ and almost immediately, the fluttering of wings reached his ears. Soon his shoulders were claimed as a perching spot by the shop’s inhabitants. Hummingbirds of sunset shades excitedly chirped their welcome, making Wooyoung giggle as he placed his leather satchel aside.

A few of them had already begun gathering his hair in a loose ponytail and looping a ribbon around it. The first time this ever happened he was left flabbergasted and didn’t quite know what to make of it. By now he’s accepted the hummingbirds were simply highly intelligent and perceptive.

Even if they had an odd glow around their forms.

When he brought it up with the Master Healer all he got was a teasing, “Shall I send for the oculist to come examine your glasses?”

Wooyoung huffed at the memory, taking out a glass vial from his satchel that was filled with light amber-coloured liquid. Grabbing one of the spare ceramic bowls from the shelves, he placed it by the window sill where the morning rays were slowly trickling in and poured out the liquid. The hummingbirds gave cheerful chirps and took turns taking sips of the sweet nectar that Wooyoung had harvested from the new batch of bell purple valdeisses.

Smiling fondly at the scene, he left them to their treat and went to grab his work apron off the wall hanger before walking through the connecting archway to the main section of the shop.

“Ah Wooyoung, nice to see you’ve made it.”

Wooyoung felt his soul jumped. Releasing a silent yell, he blinked owlishly at his mentor who was unexpectedly early and already pouring lavender tea into two vintage floral tea cups by the counter. His almost-silver hair that had been meticulously styled to one side, faintly glimmered under the light.

“Good morning Seonghwa, I’m sor–“

Wooyoung was interrupted by his own stomach letting out an unbashful rumble. There was silence, in which Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to disappear into the ground before deep chuckling filled the air.

“Oh my, did you skip out on breakfast my young apprentice?” asked Seonghwa, a knowing look in his glacial eyes.

“I may have woke up later than usual this morning…and rushed right out the door to get here.”

“You’re lucky that Hongjoong insisted I bring these along then,” Seonghwa pushed a brown paper bag across the counter towards Wooyoung. Inside was an assortment of berries and cream cheese pastries, still having that freshly-baked scent had Wooyoung salivating.

“He was in one of his baking moods and next thing I knew he whipped up half a dozen batch too many. As the saying goes…sharing is caring.”

“Thank you, please tell Hongjoong for me that I’m very thankful for this too!”

Wooyoung felt a warmth stirring within. Both from the fond expression his mentor displayed as he talked about his beloved and from the simple yet kind gesture of looking out for Wooyoung’s wellbeing.

The whimsical ambience of the shop continued for the rest of the morning, especially when the mellow sound of a piano came through the radio speakers. Seonghwa hummed along to the melody and footsteps swaying between the counter and shelves. Wooyoung tried not to snicker out loud and hid his grin behind the bunch of mountain ifliums that he was tasked with deseeding.

What a rare sight it was for him to see the softer side of his normally strict mentor.

“What happened to your previous apprentice?” Wooyoung remembered asking with curiosity. Wondering if it was the pressure of the work itself as he knew Seonghwa’s way of teaching left little room for play – only because the nature of being a healer required immense knowledge and skills that can’t simply be absorbed overnight. And Seonghwa expected no less than his best, pushing Wooyoung to where he knows his capabilities could take him to.

“This just wasn’t the place for them, which was a pity because they had potential…”

Wooyoung felt there were unspoken double meanings underneath that simple answer, but decided to not push for it. Instead he dedicated his time and energy in to learning when he found himself growing to genuinely enjoy this area of expertise. The move from his previous mundane life was unplanned but he didn’t regret taking up the opportunity; perhaps this was the change he never knew he needed, until now.

It was when a chime came from the tall grandfather clock at midday that the hummingbirds noisily came chittering and flapping their wings around the Master Healer and apprentice. Seonghwa had been demonstrating to Wooyoung how to finely slice evergreen opier roots for a healing elixir when they were interrupted by the commotion.

“Hush, one at a time. What’s all the fuss about?”

A marigold coloured hummingbird with speckled spots came to land on Seonghwa’s outstretch hand, some of the others making Wooyoung’s shoulders and head their perching spots once again. Wooyoung stared at his mentor who paid attention to the little bird’s rapid chirping, pondering if Seonghwa was a bird whisperer on the side or by some sorcery if he actually understood the bird.

Then the bell to the entrance jingled, effectively drawing everyone’s attention towards the doors.

“That must be our visitor, Wooyoung would you please let them in.”

Must be an important visitor if it had the hummingbirds excited, or so Wooyoung thought when he swung the dark oak doors open. Only to be met with an empty space, confusion taking over as he looked around.

A sharp yip caused him to cast his gaze downwards.

“Um…Seonghwa? There’s a….”  

The little silver fox stared back up at Wooyoung, head tilting to the side and fluffy tail swishing lazily. It let out another sharp yip before proceeding to walk right through the entrance and in to the shop.

Wooyoung scrambled to move out of the way, still utterly confused but not wanting to risk unintentionally stepping on the creature…and was that an ornate scroll container slung around its body?

“Don’t be alarmed, this is one of the town’s messenger.”

What an odd term for a postman, if Wooyoung could even call it that. He watched the silver fox jump up lithely on to the stool and greedily took the chin scratches from Seonghwa before nudging the small container towards Seonghwa’s hands.

“Thank you for coming by to deliver this. Here, for your afternoon tea,” said Seonghwa, pinching one of the extra pastries and offering it to the silver fox. As it left ‘Drops of Aurora’ with its sweet snack, Wooyoung swore the creature winked at him right before it leapt back outside. He really hoped he wasn’t losing his mind already, closing the doors and rubbing his eyes at an attempt to calm his nerves from the small oddities he’s observed throughout the day so far.  

He shuffled back over to where his mentor was already reading the paper parchment he retrieved from the container.

“Seonghwa, what’s The Twin Moons festival?” asked Wooyoung with curiosity, after taking a glance.

The sheer look of surprise and raising of eyebrows fleeted across Seonghwa’s face, entirely missed by Wooyoung since he still had his eyes on the parchment. To Seonghwa, the written text was common Elvish that he was fluent in understanding – but to anyone who Alderfell has yet to accept would’ve been foreign script.

And yet, Wooyoung was patiently waiting for an answer he shouldn’t even have known to inquire about in the first place.

Placing down the iron pot in the middle of the dining table, Wooyoung felt a great sense of achievement. The hearty venison stew with a mixture of herbs from Jongho’s garden (with his permission of course, Wooyoung wouldn’t risk the groundskeeper’s wrath) had steam rising and the aroma of spices, rosemary and juniper berries filled the room.

His cooking ability had grown immensely after his arrival, having found out that the mansion’s kitchen was hardly in use; simply putting it that –

“…there aren’t any ingredients? At all?”

“Well, nobody here really cooks.”

“How in the hell did you all survive till now?!”

Wooyoung took it upon himself to make sure that the pantry was stocked and everyone had some form of substantial food at least. Yeosang would remark that it’d give him an excuse to bring out the fancier gold plated cutlery sets since the whole group would gather together for dinner whenever Wooyoung cooked.

“Something smells delectable in here!” announced a tall figure with a cheery voice and an even cheerier smile.

Yeosang had just finished placing the last gold fork down when Yunho walked in to the dining room along with his fellow gentle giant, both already in their work attire and carrying over-cluttered folders. A careless yawn and the dishevelled fiery red hair gave a good indication that Mingi had just awoken from slumber. Wooyoung was aware that both worked predominantly throughout the night at Alderfell’s Observatory, hence their abnormal sleeping schedules. He once made a passing joke that Mingi could very well be a vampire with the rarity of seeing him during the daytime hours, which made Jongho snort and comment about the, “lack of imagination…such a cliché thought.”

A small basket of ruby red apples and plums was placed on the other side of table as everyone took their seats. “Been feeling rather generous lately and these were ripe for the picking,” said Jongho casually, subtly puffing his chest out.  

“Aww, he really does have a heart after all.”

“I will not hesitate to leave the cheese in your room again and let the remu– I mean rats find their way to it.”

“You wouldn’t…Yeosang would never allow you to do something so cruel!”

“Please do not involve me in this.”

The high-pitched laughter escaped Wooyoung’s mouth and he held his sides for support. The light-hearted bickering reminded him of his family back home and how boisterous the atmosphere would get. It made him smile till his cheeks hurt because in good company, he felt less alone.

“We should start eating before the stew gets cold, wouldn’t want Wooyoung’s hard work go to waste now would we?”

Among the clinking of cutlery against ceramic bowls, Wooyoung heard his name being called by Yunho, “Oh! Before I forget…these are for you. Yeosang mentioned you needed new paper to finish your letter and I have abundant in stacks lying around for the taking. I’ll be sending mail back to my family too, would you like for me to post yours off tomorrow morning?”

Wooyoung’s mind reeled back to the previous night’s mishap and promptly made a mental note to rewrite the letter after dinner. Or else his mother would surely worry her way into bombarding Yunho next with letters about her son’s lack of response. Wooyoung felt that same warmth from before engulfing his heart and starts to think, as he reached out with grateful hands, that maybe he’s found his new home here after all.

The Twin Moons festival turned out to be longer than just a day’s worth of celebration, rather it went on for two whole weeks. Wooyoung had been slightly overwhelmed at the start, even more so when visitors from smaller neighbouring towns poured in for the festivities. Alderfell came alive at night where Wooyoung got to witness the unveiling of the moons as the clouds parted and stars shone like little diamonds bedazzling the darkened sky.

“Yeosang! Look at the colour!”

And what Wooyoung found more astounding than the two giant azure orbs up above was that Yeosang had voluntarily left the mansion to accompany him down to the festival. He’s never really seen Yeosang leave the grounds of the mansion, unless he’s done so whenever Wooyoung had been at work, so being able to spend time with him outside was an enjoyable change. Wooyoung saw a couple of familiar faces in the crowds, notably Hongjoong who provided music for the townspeople; skilled fingers flying across the keys of the piano situated under the elegant gazebo and sweet low suave tunes enticed the crowd to slow dance the night away.

He could definitely see how Seonghwa became so enamoured with Hongjoong in the first place. If his charismatic presence wasn’t a big enough charm already than his music from the soul certainly was the final hook.  

On the 3rd day, Wooyoung found out about the significance of moonflowers and why the entire town was decorated with them.

“Has anyone told you of Alderfell’s legend yet? It’s said that this land used to be occupied by the King’s bravest knights who defended against intruders. The fiercest knight left standing fought battle after battle, even after his head fell. Now in spirit, that same knight continues to guard this town. Rumour has it that in the wee hours of midnight you may hear the galloping of hooves in the distance or even catch a glimpse of a rider cloaked in black on a crimson-eyed noble steed if you’re courageous enough to venture out to the woodlands. The moonflowers we display are a tribute for our guardian!”  

By the end of that Wooyoung was left with a copious amount of words to process and a, “…to guard this town from what?” at the tip of his tongue.

It wasn’t till the 10th day that Wooyoung got a cryptic answer of sorts to his question. Yunho and Mingi decided it was their turn to take Wooyoung down to the town square for the night, Yeosang opting to stay back at the mansion. They even managed to rope Jongho along who easily became distracted by the wood chopping competition and didn’t hesitate to sign up for it. Yunho introduced Wooyoung a local favourite drink, Duchess’ Crystal, which was a crystal clear liquid with an iridescent tinge and tasted like extremely sweetened blueberries. However there was a sting similar to that of drinking vodka when it hit the back of his throat.  

Well into the night, a happy buzz tingling all over, Wooyoung asked Yunho what Alderfell was being guarded from.

“Oh my dear cousin, why there are many things! From deep within the woods, crooks and crannies…foul beasts that roam…fiends that lure with deceitful mimicry” Yunho spoke with a dramatic air.

Mingi slung an arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders, having gotten bolder with affection the more he drank. “Just remember this – do not always trust the voice that calls your name especially if you hear the clicking. Do not turn around, do not look and if by heavens’ grace you get a chance to…run!” he whispered to Wooyoung.

As inebriate as Wooyoung might have been in the moment, the chilling message stuck firm with him since. Logic scoffed at the ridiculous elaboration, yet intuition told him to take heed of this warning.  

Fate sure had a peculiar way of working and Alderfell decided it was time for the final mask to be taken off.

“Oh shit…shit…bloody hell...” Wooyoung muttered like a mantra with each hasty step he took along the dirt pathway through the woodlands. He had spent all afternoon collecting medicinal herbs, mushrooms and flowers to restock some of Seonghwa’s ingredient jars that he completely lost track of time. Straying quite a distance inside where the rarer plants were found in abundance meant being able to fill his basket to the brim; though at the cost of how far he was from the safety of the town’s borders.

The sun was beginning to dip real low and Wooyoung could only hope that he’d reach back before the last sunray disappeared below the horizon.

He most certainly did not miss the fog that was currently creeping over the ground steadily chasing after his feet. Much to his delight there was the absence of it during the entirety of the time when the Twin Moons reigned the nights. Nerves were settled then but now, alone and stuck outside past the curfew set him right on edge.

Wooyoung held the basket closer and concentrated on moving forwards, refusing to allow his eyes to waver from the path ahead. The woods became eerily still and silence encompassed his surroundings, save for the crunching of leaves under his leather boots. Any other day he’d welcome the tranquillity with open arms. At present he was desperate for sound, for anything to drive away the feeling of being watched.

“I just hope someone will continue to feed the darling cat if I were to meet my demise here…” Wooyoung mumbled out loud, trying to elevate some of the tension by attempting to make light of his current predicament. He would miss the cat with gorgeous cerulean eyes that’s taken a liking to accompany him on the walk back to the mansion after work. It took him almost a solid week of many fresh salmon slices, sweet praises and patience to befriend the feline.

Just as the last light started to dwindle, Wooyoung finally caught sight of the familiar large wooden gate that he entered from. To hell with the uneven ground and risks of rolling ankles, Wooyoung was about to take off sprinting the last leg of the pathway.  

“Wooyoung?”

He halted in his movement so abruptly that he nearly toppled over. The sudden voice that cut right through the silence took him by surprise.

“Seongh–“

Wooyoung paused from turning around to the sound of his mentor’s voice. Wait a minute…there had to be a mistake; Wooyoung knew for a fact that Seonghwa was out of town with Hongjoong and wasn’t due back till tomorrow. So why was he suddenly hearing…

“Do not always trust the voice that calls your name!” rang loudly in his mind.  

His stomach dropped, limbs locked and frozen as sheer dread filled his veins.

And then he heard it.

Clicking.

Almost like sharp thin nails against glass, a heavy drag also followed. Conjuring up an image in Wooyoung’s mind – a mass of broken bones moving in unison, grating disjointed parts and the snapping of unhinged jaws at irregular intervals.  

“Wooyoung.”

Came Yunho’s voice this time, luckily not sounding right from behind Wooyoung but not too far off either. The time he spent staring at the ground as he internally willed his body to move, he took notice of how thick the fog had become.

Each second that ticked by the clicking became louder and each time a different voice from someone he knew within Alderfell called his name. A part of him wanted to haul rocks whatever cursed being it was, angry that it had the audacity to mimic his friends with sinister intentions. But that would require turning around and he remembers, as clear as day, Mingi’s warning to not look.

At all.

The mimicry itself was perfect, however it felt off.

When the raspy breathing and rancid stench of decay hit his senses, his body jolted and legs broke out of its frozen state.  

“RUN!”

An inhumane wail unleashed that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Which was more than enough for Wooyoung’s survival instincts to take off, kicking up the dirt and leaving the monstrosity behind. He could hardly see where his boot-clad feet landed as he sprinted, moonlight only being able to guide him where the fog hasn’t consumed. But he couldn’t care less so long as the distance between him and the wooden gate was diminishing.

Much to his dismay, it sounded like he was being followed as the clicking of bones were sent into a manic state and getting louder. Wooyoung yelled his throat hoarse, weaving in-between the trees and he was oh so close to grabbing the sturdy gate to leap over…

He lost his footing and fell, dropping the basket (he miraculously still had in his hold all this time) in the process. Something was painfully squeezing his right ankle. Looking downwards he had to bring a hand to cover his mouth, bile rising and threatening to spill at the sight. A solemn grey coloured…hand…if Wooyoung could even call it that, with unnaturally long spindly fingers each had unforgivingly sharp bone white talons protruding out from their joints.

“WOOYOUNG, HELP ME.”

“NO! STOP, GET THE HELL OFF ME!”

Wooyoung was blindly kicking in the direction of the ‘Yeosang’ voice that wailed, feeling the crooked fingers clamped down harder and he was pretty certain it was going to leave a nasty bruise for days. Too focused on trying to get his feet out of the creature’s vice grip he didn’t pick up on a distinct neigh and sound of hooves charging across the ground.  

It all came at a blur for Wooyoung.

One minute he was thrashing about and then he was sailing through the air, having been flung by a mighty force. Luck was still on his side when his landing was cushioned by a pile of foliage. His ankle freed from the death trap.

“Be gone, you vile creature. Go back to the depths of the Abyss from which you came!” a disembodied voice bellowed through the woods.

Wooyoung’s eyes was on high alert for he did not recognise the commanding voice. He rolled over to his side where he heard metallic sounds and piercing screeches of a battle unfolding.

He swore upon the heavens for the second time that night. Not entirely sure if he was stuck in a twisted dream or that Alderfell’s legend was far more real than fantasy.

“I ought to start believing in ghost stories…”

Wooyoung watched as the headless rider strike his luminous blade fiercely down on the creature. One of its several elongated limbs made a clawed swipe at the rider’s steed, to which the shadowy stallion reared defensively on hind legs. Using the window of opportunity, the creature dashed in an attempt to flee though it didn’t make it very far.

“Close your eyes.”

The voice returned with a firm yet gentler undertone. It took Wooyoung a whole 30 seconds to realise that the instruction was directed at him and he followed right through; knowing enough to not question a legendary figure who had just saved his life. In the few milliseconds before he blocked out the view entirely, he witnessed the rider’s hands being engulfed in purple flames along with his sword, the blade itself unlocking in sections and extending to resemble more of a whip.

There was a cacophony of metal crushing bone, wail-screeches filling up Wooyoung’s eardrums, a sudden searing heat blowing against his skin and the reciting of an ancient language before silence took over again.  

Wooyoung let out a deep breath.

He was alive, he was breathing and his heart still beating.

Just to be cautious he peeked one eye open, deeming it was safe to open the other and shook his head slightly to re-focus his sight in the dark. The headless rider stood by what Wooyoung assumed was the monster from before, now nothing more than a crumbling husk. Small purple embers ate away at it sending bits of ash floating off into the empty air.

Now under the spotlight of the moon, Wooyoung could get a better look at the headless rider. He was expecting a gory wound where the head was meant to be, instead black smoky tendrils coiled calmly in place. A heavy-duty cloak sat upon lightweight armour, leather gloves, pants and sabatons all of which were in an obsidian black. Wooyoung thought the rider would’ve looked rather regal, headless or not.

The stallion let out a low grunt signalling a reminder that they still had company.

Wooyoung stumbled to his feet, wincing slightly at his swollen ankle, when the headless rider sheathed the sword and turned to make his way towards the young healer apprentice. The sea of fog seemed to part and retreat wherever the headless rider stepped.  

Up close both figures seemed to tower over Wooyoung but he didn’t shrink back in fear. Not when the stallion with mounted spiked armour and glowing crimson eyes stared into his soul nor when the headless rider quietly regarded him in his formidable presence. They didn’t pose a threat…or at least Wooyoung didn’t feel like they did.

“Your leg…is it hurting?”

So he had noticed Wooyoung keeping his weight off his right side

Now that the headless rider wasn’t fending off terror entities, he spoke in a warmer honeyed voice. Another aspect Wooyoung wasn’t expecting of the mythical figure. He could imagine the rider’s head tilting down to survey his leg as he asked the question.

“Ah…yeah, my ankle’s not in the best shape at the moment.”

The headless rider descended down on one knee and held out a gloved hand towards Wooyoung’s right foot.

“May I?”

Wooyoung mutely nodded and balancing on his left foot, he allowed the headless rider to hold his other to inspect the injury. The same hands that wielded a sword to slay were handling Wooyoung with utter care.

“It doesn’t seem to be broken, but best to get it treated soon. Come.”

A confused noise escaped Wooyoung when the headless rider beckoned him closer to the saddle.

“You came from Alderfell did you not?”

Another nod.

“It’ll be much quicker to return by horse than on feet, these woods aren’t safe at this hour…as you now are well aware of.”

Wooyoung felt bewildered. Only just a week ago, he found out about the legendary Dullahan and now said legend was planning to stroll through town to escort him back?

“Are you allowed to?” was what Wooyoung wanted to ask, instead he settled for, “But you don’t even know where in Alderfell I live.”

An amused chuckle resounded all around.

“I trust that you ought to know the way back home, little healer. You’ll be my guide for tonight.”

Wooyoung gawked at where the smoky tendrils were intertwining together, not doubt there was a grin hidden somewhere in there.

How did the headless rider know about Wooyoung’s connection with healer’s work? How was he being so…nonchalant about, well everything? Was he always this approachable towards other townspeople that may have encountered him? Did they even know that Alderfell’s legend actually exists? Questions upon questions that Wooyoung would demand answers for if he wasn’t already so drained from his near-death experience. Should he ever get the chance to meet his saviour again, he’d pester him about it then.

For now, Wooyoung was ready to head back home.

‘Is the legend really true?”

“Might I ask you to please clarify, which part of?”

“You being a knight…and that you’ve been guarding this town, or rather, land since you lost…your…”

“My head? You’re allowed to say that, I take no offence. After all I’ve had a century or two to get used to this new form.”

“Wow, you’re practically an ancient!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. To answer your question, yes. It seems like even after death, my guardianship of this land still remains.”    

“…The thing, back from before…is that the reason why Alderfell has the curfew?”

“There are others besides Hollowsworns that come from The Abyss to hunt after dark. The curfew is a precaution. Alderfell has its own ways–powerful ways–to protect its people.”

“Like yourself?”

“You could say that.”

“You truly are the bravest. Do you have a name Sir Knight?”

The shadowy stallion let out a loud snort.

“So are you, and apologies for not introducing myself sooner. You may call me San, Choi San.”

“You have my deepest gratitude for saving my life Sir Choi. My name’s Jung Wooyoung!”

“Just…San is quite enough, Wooyoung. You’re very welcome.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it because it makes you sound old?”  

To say the residents back at Rosentine Mansion were worrying their heads off was an understatement. Yunho was ready to lead a search party out for Wooyoung even if it meant breaking the rules. Jongho argued that was a counterproductive plan since no one knew exactly where Wooyoung had even wandered off to.

“What if something were to happen to you? That’ll be another added issue!” With Seonghwa being absent, they couldn’t turn to their level-headed elder for help.

It was a painful waiting game.    

When the clopping of hooves and spectral guardian came into view from the porch, both Yeosang and Jongho instantaneously leapt up from where they had been sitting on the stairs.    

“Yunho! Mingi! Get out here now, Wooyoung’s back!” hollered Jongho, sticking his head through the front door.

Meanwhile Yeosang had ran down ahead, oil lamp swinging in his hand, to fling open the front gates.  

“Is he…?!”

“He’s safe, just in slumber. Understandably so.”

Wooyoung had fallen asleep against San’s chest on the ride back, head cradled under where San’s chin would’ve been and letting out soft snores.  

“OH THANK MIHTOS!”

“HE’S ALIVE!’

“Shush! Or do you want to wake up the entire town?” 

Jongho and Yunho managed to squeeze past Yeosang out on to the street. They worked to slowly lift Wooyoung’s sleeping form off the saddle and into Yunho’s arms so he could carry him back inside. San untied Wooyoung’s basket (that he made sure to recover, “I worked hard and nearly died for those!”) from his saddle bag and passed it over to Mingi.

Everyone thanked San profusely, Jongho even sneaking an apple from his pocket to feed the stallion which bowed in appreciation.

“San…”

The small whine ceased the group’s chatter, all eyes turned towards the figure curled up in Yunho’s arms. One of Wooyoung’s arm reached out languidly for San’s gloved ones. The Dullahan reciprocated to envelop Wooyoung’s hand with his.

“…thank you, again”

“Sleep well Wooyoung, may dreams allow you to rest properly tonight,” San responded softly with a light squeeze to Wooyoung’s hand.

Mingi followed Yunho back inside to help him get Wooyoung to bed while Jongho and Yeosang stayed to see San off.  

“He can hear me, just like you two.”

“Who’s looking forward to seeing Seonghwa’s face tomorrow when he returns and learn of what’s happened?”

“I’m relieved that Wooyoung is here to stay, I’m growing rather fond of the young mister.”

“Do prepare Wooyoung for the discussion...”

“More like a history lesson!”

“...and please check on his ankle as soon as you can, the Hollowsworn got there before I did.”

San waited till Yeosang and Jongho disappeared behind the mansion doors before manoeuvring the reigns of his horse back in the direction he came from. It has been an eventful night and the Dullahan was intrigued by the young apprentice. There was much more to Jung Wooyoung than meets the eye – much like Alderfell and he hoped to cross paths with him soon again.   

A purr stopped San and his steed in their tracks.

“There you are my dear, so this is where you’ve roamed to.”

A gloved hand patted at the rear and the cerulean-eyed cat claimed the spot on the horseback, nestling comfortably behind its master.

Somewhere else in a well-kept tomb beneath the winged stone sculpture, a dimpled smile forms on a serene face resting on a pillow of moonflowers. The head lets out a contented sigh.    

[narukoibito]

worthy of love anyway

A gift for @hillnerd / @hillyminne for all the amazing Harry Potter quarantine activities and for being just a kind, wonderful person!

Summary: The image of his own reflection caused a burst of desperate desire in his heart. The shiny badges and trophies. Proof that he was as cool as Bill, as brave as Charlie, as funny as the twins, as smart as Percy, as beloved as Ginny. He fell asleep fitfully as resentment burned in his gut as he remembered Harry’s flippant dismissal. What’s interesting about that?

Ron Weasley, the sixth son, in six scenes.

FF.net | AO3

Note: Lyrics from "Three" by Sleeping at Last. It screamed "Ron" to me from the very first listen. This is my first Ron-centric story. I hope it does him justice.

*

i. Maybe I've done enough, / And your golden child grew up. / Maybe this trophy isn't real love, / And with or without it I'm good enough.

"Look at me!" Ron said, his voice filled with awe. He only saw himself in the mirror — but instead of his skinny, gangly self, his reflection was taller, fitter than Charlie, and handsomer than Bill! There was an air of confidence to his reflection, whose Head Boy badge and Quidditch Captain badge glinted cheerfully, almost as brilliantly as the House and Quidditch Cups he carried with ease. Older, cooler, happier Ron gave him a wink.

"Can you see your family standing around you?" Harry answered with excitement.

"No — I'm alone — but I'm different —" Ron explained what he saw, glee bubbling up inside him. He desperately drank in the sight of himself, of everything he had ever wanted. But he tore his eyes away from the mirror to look at Harry, wanting to gauge his reaction. "Do you think this mirror shows the future?"

"How can it? All my family are dead." The hurt and pain that shined in Harry's eyes made Ron falter. "Let me have another look —"

"You had it to yourself all last night," he protested. "Give me a bit more time."

"You're only holding the Quidditch Cup, what's interesting about that?"

Only? Pressure built up in Ron's chest.

"I want to see my parents."

"Don't push me —" Ron was surprised by Harry's hard shove, but was even more taken aback by his burning look.

The noise in the hall immediately disrupted the conversation. Ron quickly dragged away Harry, who seemed reluctant to leave. Even after they returned to Gryffindor tower, Harry seemed angry, which confused Ron and fueled his frustration. He burrowed deeper into his bed and drew his blankets closer, holding tight to the image of what he hoped would be his future.

The image of his own reflection caused a burst of desperate desire in his heart. The shiny badges and trophies. Proof that he was as cool as Bill, as brave as Charlie, as funny as the twins, as smart as Percy, as beloved as Ginny. He fell asleep fitfully as resentment burned in his gut as he remembered Harry's flippant dismissal.

What's interesting about that?

But when the morning light crept in and woke Ron from his deep slumber, the resentment had faded away, leaving only a resounding hunger. After a hearty breakfast, he was ready to enjoy the rest of his holiday with Harry.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed distant and detached. For the second day in a row, he pushed his food around on his plate as he stared unseeing at the eggs, the burning hunger in his eyes not matching his appetite.

"You're not eating anything," Ron said, but Harry shook his head at Ron's attempt to add food to his plate. He couldn't help but glance at the empty spot beside him, wondering what Hermione would have said to get Harry to eat.

Back in the common room, Ron tried to coax Harry out of his mood, offering to play chess or Exploding Snap. But Harry simply stared listlessly at the fire, his knees drawn toward him, looking cold and alone. Ron thought back to why he was here rather than back at the Burrow. He thought of the curt, unfeeling letter from Harry's relatives. He thought of the mixture of shock and painful hope on Harry's face at the embarrassing jumper his mum sent.

"I know what you're thinking about, Harry — that mirror. Don't go back tonight."

"Why not?"

"I dunno, I've just got a bad feeling about it — "

Harry shook his head, reckless determination radiating from his body. 

Ron fiddled his new jumper, poking a finger through the yarn to make a small hole. Maybe Ron couldn't be what the mirror showed him to be. Maybe Ron couldn't replace the things that Harry saw. But at least he could try to be there for Harry.

ii. Maybe I've done enough, / Finally catching up. / For the first time I see an image of my brokenness, / Utterly worthy of love.

This was going to be the worst Christmas ever. He pressed his face further into his pillow, trying to will away the holiday. Bill and Fleur had been trying to engage him in some pre-Christmas cheer, but all Ron could think about was what today was like for Harry and Hermione. Were they shivering by a small fire and a tin of beans, looking ragged and worn? Or were they looking far better than when he left, determined, happier, complete without him?

He flopped over in the bed onto his side and wrapped his arm around himself.

It was still early if he was right about the amount of light parting the darkness through the window, and no one else in the cottage was stirring. He considered trying to sleep but knew it was useless. When he closed his eyes, it was like he could see her, running towards him, large tears streaming down her pale face, her hands reaching up to hold onto him. Him wrenching his arm away, wanting nothing more than to see the hurt and rejection shine in her eyes — for her to feel just a modicum of the pain he had felt those weeks — years, watching her put Harry first. Just like everyone else.

Ron! Hermione had cried, begging him to stay.

He felt sick to his stomach now, remembering the fury, the wicked satisfaction of being able to hurt her. He never wanted to hurt her, but he always seemed to. He had left, abandoning her and Harry and everything he had stood for in one fell swoop. The moment he had flung off the locket and Disapparated, all of those awful feelings had lifted, and in their stead, horror, dread, and guilt took hold.

Immediately, he tried to go back. The campsite was deserted, and he had felt ridiculously left behind.

Maybe they're better off without you, he thought morosely. Hermione would cry, and Harry would be there for her. They would comfort each other over what a prat he was, the weakest link, unable to handle the hunger, the hopelessness, the Horcrux.

Ron curled his hand into a fist. He had to go back, he had to make amends, he had to do what he had set out to do, perhaps had always prepared to do, the moment he pushed open that compartment door on the Hogwarts Express where the boy with untidy hair sat alone in second-hand clothes like him.

He closed his eyes.

He missed her.

"...Ron?"

He started at the sound of her voice, scared it had been his imagination, but he knew it was her. Hermione. Her voice was coming from the direction of…his pocket? Then he heard her again.

"…broke his wand…"

Ron fumbled out of bed, pulling out the Deluminator, which he carried everywhere. It looked exactly the same, but he heard her. He was sure of it. Hope bloomed in his chest for the first time since he left. He clicked the Deluminator, and the light went out from his room, only for a ball of bluish light to appear outside the window. It pulsed, beckoning him.

This was it.

He changed as quickly as he could, shoving his maroon pajamas and other things into his rucksack. Anticipation buzzed under his skin as he hurried out to the garden where he knew the little ball of light would be waiting for him. The light snow flurried around him as the hovering ball led him behind the shed. When they were hidden from view, it floated toward him and went straight to his chest, into his heart. It pulsed, achingly hot inside him, flooding him with memories of Hermione fussing over his homework, dancing with him at the wedding, lying Petrified on the hospital bed, brushing her lips against his cheek before tryouts, holding his hand at Grimmauld Place.

And Ron just knew what he was supposed to do; he knew the ball would take him where he needed to go.

He disappeared with a loud crack.

iii. Maybe I've done enough / And I finally see myself / Through the eyes of no one else. / It's so exhausting on this silver screen / Where I play the role of anyone but me.

His forehead stung from where the stupid badge hit him, but he barely noticed over the swell of emotion in his chest. Harry swept past him, up the stairs.

Ron stood motionless until there was no other sound in the empty common room aside from the occasional crack or hiss from the fire before he leaned over and picked up the lime green monstrosity. His fingers curled over the blaring words, POTTER REALLY STINKS.

He was feeling more and more like he had made a mistake. But why didn't Harry get it? If he had put his name in the Goblet, why hadn't he done it with him? The Goblet probably would have chosen Harry over him anyway — everyone always did. But they would have done it together. It would have given Ron just a sliver of hope, to have had just the chance of some of the endless glory of his best friend.

You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky… That's what you want, isn't it?

He sunk into the couch, staring at the fire. Unbidden, he remembered watching Harry all those years ago, when he had found the Mirror of Erised.

The guilt that had been lurking settled at the pit of his stomach, which had felt hollow for days. Hadn't he promised himself that he would be there for Harry? Didn't Ron know best of all everything that Harry didn't have? The way Harry had pressed his hand against the mirror.

You're only holding the Quidditch Cup, what's interesting about that?

Bitterness surged up, pressing against the guilt.

Ron had pushed aside his feelings then, hadn't he? He had put being Harry's friend first. He has always done that because — because Harry was his best friend. 

He just wished that Harry would try to do the same for him.

iv. And I finally see myself / Unabridged and overwhelmed, / A mess of a story I'm ashamed to tell. / But I'm slowly learning how to break this spell, / And I finally see myself.

The bark was rough against his palm as he leaned against a tree for a moment. His muscles ached from the damp, miserable cold. He had been wandering around for hours, staring hard into the darkness, waiting, willing for Hermione or Harry to appear. What he would give to hear her say his name again.

He told time by how long it took for his hands to go numb, and he would have to remember to recast a warming charm. Maybe he should rest at the base of the tree and try again in the morning.

Just as he was about to lie down, silvery light caught his eye. When the corporal doe materialized, Ron nearly yelped out in surprise. But the cry died in his throat at the sight of Harry emerging out of thin air, with a look of wonder and hunger. What was Harry doing casting his Patronus? Instinctually, he followed Harry, who followed the doe deeper and deeper into the thick forest. 

Without prompt, Harry broke out into a run. He was so quick, Ron worried he would lose him to the shadows. He stopped when the forest opened up to a clearing. But the silvery light of the doe had vanished, leaving only darkness. He strained his eyes, trying to find Harry.

Suddenly, a blue light appeared, revealing Harry and a small lake before him. Ron's breath caught in his throat, but somehow he felt compelled to stay quiet. Harry raised his wand, and Ron pressed himself against a tree, his heart clamoring loudly against his ribs. Harry spun around and knelt to the ground, the light from his wand reflecting on the black ice before him. He leaned forward, nearly pressing his face against the pool. After a few moments, he rose and began to pace.

All this time, with the Deluminator light inside him, Ron's primary concern had been to find Harry and Hermione again. It had taken his entire focus. But now, with Harry just a few feet away from him, suddenly all the fears and doubts began to fester again. The apology looming in the recesses of his mind sounded trite. What would they say? Would they even want to see him again? The cruel words he had said to them before he left rang in his head like a bell.

What if it was too late?

A sharp cracking sound jolted Ron from his reverie. He looked up, wide-eyed, to see that Harry had stripped down to his pants and was placing his wand on the ground. He couldn't…

Ron leapt up from his spot just as Harry jumped into the lake. Harry sputtered for a moment, his breath coming out in broken gusts of white. A chill ran down Ron's spine when he spotted an ominous glint around Harry's neck. Harry took one deep breath and vanished beneath the black depths.

Harry didn't reappear.

The locket, Ron realized with swelling panic. The locket must have made him do it.

He scrambled from his hiding spot to where his friend had just disappeared — movement catching his eye, but all thoughts scattering from his mind.

The dark waters reflected his pale, drawn face back at him, his blue eyes gleaming with rising fear as the seconds ticked away without Harry resurfacing. Not the face of a hero, not his brothers' or his sister's, not the glowing one in the Mirror. But the only one that could save Harry now.

The reflection's expression changed, becoming brazen and determined. Ron bit back a swear and dove into the icy waters.

v. Now I only want what's real, / To let my heart feel what it feels. / Gold, silver, or bronze hold no value here, / Where work and rest are equally revered.

The weight of the gold felt heavy and yet was lighter than he had imagined. Not that he had ever imagined this, he thought as his finger traced over the green ribbon. He looked up from the medal, out into the lake, the waves shimmering back at him. The breeze brushed against his neatly trimmed hair.

Ron wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling. The way people looked at him now was different, but he didn't feel any different. Was this how Harry had always felt?

"Hey." The wind carried Hermione's soft voice to him, and he turned. She was looking up at him, smiling despite the line of worry between her brows. An identical First Order of Merlin glinted from her chest. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, watching as she joined him on the rock. The smell of whatever potion she'd put in her hair made his lips curl up. "Wanted a moment away," he said, stretching his arms behind his head. He casually let one rest behind her, giving her something to lean on if she wanted. "I'm too famous for my own good."

She huffed in amusement before they lapsed into a comfortable silence. There was the sound of the lake, the leaves rustling in the breeze, and the murmur of everyone closer to the castle behind them.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked finally.

"I don't know," Ron admitted, watching her face drop. He swallowed nervously and fiddled with the tie Hermione had knotted too tightly. "I was thinking…of going to Australia with you. If you want."

Her eyes shined brightly, even as her face screwed up. She looked beautiful with the sunlight streaming through her hair.

"Yeah?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yeah," he said, pushing some of her soft, fuzzy hair from her face. "I'd even fly in an aero - thingy whatsit that Harry was talking about the other day."

"Aero-plane," she enunciated, swatting his hand away, sighed — not in disdain, as he had imagined months ago — but with amused affection. "And I already told you that it doesn't make sense to go that way."

She then launched into a long-winded explanation of the challenges of Apparation across long distances, bodies of water, and the complications of international Apparation customs. 

Sometimes he still couldn't believe it.

Least loved, always…

He shook the words away and smiled gently at Hermione.

"Come on," he said, interrupting her as she began discussing the pros and cons of Portkeys by taking her hand in his, lacing their fingers the way he had dreamt of since his fourth year. He looked over his shoulder at his family, where he saw Ginny practically shielding Harry from nosy strangers trying to get a closer look. His heart ached at the obvious absence there, and he squeezed her hand. "Let's join the others. I'm starved."

"Honestly, Ron!" she huffed predictably. "We ate just before the ceremony."

"Carrying this thing around my neck takes a lot of energy." He laughed.

vi. I only want what's real. / I set aside the highlight reel, / And leave my greatest failures on display with an asterisk, / Worthy of love anyway.

He stared hard at the mirror, his tongue caught between his teeth as he carefully adjusted his ginger hair with a comb. The damn butterflies in his stomach wouldn't stop fluttering.

"You look good, dearie," the mirror said in a cheery voice.

Ron eyed his reflection skeptically, but it only gave him a wink.

"You do," Harry confirmed from the door.

"Yeah?" Ron asked, pulling at his new and fitted robes. 

"At least this time it doesn't have lace."

"Har har," Ron said, but he smiled now at his reflection. Midnight blue was Hermione's favorite color. "Do you think I should have a smudge of dirt on my face, for old time's sake?"

"If you want her to kill you."

They were laughing when Ginny popped her head in, arching an eyebrow at her brother and boyfriend. "Time to take your places." She gave Harry a long look of appreciation. "You clean up nice, Potter."

"I'm the one getting married today," Ron grumbled, lightly elbowing Harry, who had flushed a deep red. Harry flashed him a sheepish grin, but Ginny stepped closer. Ron bristled under her critical gaze, but she suddenly pulled him into a hard embrace, forcing him to bend downward awkwardly. All that Quidditch training was making her way too strong.

"Oi! Watch the hair!"

"You look great," she said fiercely, hiding her face in his shoulder in a way that reminded him of when she was twelve. And just like that she was pulling away with a bright smirk on her face. "Though I still think the puce looked better on you."

He scowled as she skittered out the door.

"Better be quick before Mum comes to get you!"

"Come on," Harry said, patting him on the back. "Big day."

"Yeah," Ron said, his face already starting to ache from smiling.

He took one last glance in the mirror.

He'd never looked happier in his life.

[salmonthestoryteller]

The Crossroads

For @suzteel

A little Rosa-centric fic set after s1 with lots of Human Squad feels for you!  I hope you enjoy!

The Crossroads

Rosa can't help but start to feel trapped.  It’s not that she doesn't understand Liz's concern.  She gets that she can’t just go wandering around town where the wrong person might see her. Not until they figure something out.  Something that doesn’t involve Rosa Ortecho coming back to life. Because, let's face it, that's not normal.

Rosa isn't one for staying still, though. She's wandered what is apparently Max Evans's house and property so many times now she's certain she has the whole place memorized.  She'd actually managed to cut out a stencil from some spare cardboard she found. There was leftover paint from when the house was decorated - because, unsurprisingly Max Evans was the type to keep spare paint cans in case he ever needed to touch up the house's paint job. She's still not sure how her sister fell for such a boring guy, well boring aside from the whole alien-who-brings-people-back-to-life thing. Liz had not been amused when she had come to check on her and found her artwork addition to Max's exterior sidewall.

"Someone could find this and what would they think?"

"Well, I'd like to think they'd appreciate his taste in artwork."

"Rosa, I'm serious."

"Who is going to find it? Nobody is here. Liz, c'mon, just chill."

"Just, I'll get you sketch pads but please, don't redecorate his house more."

"Ooo. This would be a bad time to mention the bedroom, wouldn't it?"

"What did you do to the bedroom?" Liz's eyes widened.

Rosa laughed. "Psych. You're so easy. Your eyes practically bulged out of your head."

"Oh, you're a riot."

"I totally am." Rosa had nibbled on the Crashdown fries she had out on the counter while Liz unpacked the groceries she'd brought. "Have you figured out what to do yet? I can't live in Max Evans house forever."

"I know. Kyle and I are trying to figure something out."

"What about Dad?"

"Rosa, we can't tell him the truth. We can't tell anyone."

"Dad isn't just anyone."

"And what would I tell him? That Max was an alien? That he was some sort of healer and he brought you back to life? The dead don't rise from the grave, Rosa."

"It's Dad. He'll believe you. He always believed you."

"Do not start that with me."

"Why cuz it's a decade in the past for you? Cuz it's not for me. Dad never doubted your word like he did mine."

"Yes, he did, Rosa.  I had to tell him everywhere I went. And everyone I went with. And why I was five minutes late. Everything I did had to be perfect. To prove I wasn't turning into you."

The word stung.  Not as bad as the last day - the words then had cut even deeper. "It wasn't me you had to prove you weren't turning into.  It was Mom." She snapped back. "And it sure sounds like you failed at that while I was gone."

Liz closed the cabinet door with a bang. "That is not true!"

"Oh, yeah? I asked Kyle how often you visited home.  And you know what he said? Never."

"You died! You died and that changed everything! I couldn't stand to be in this town a moment longer."

"You abandoned everyone we cared about, everyone we loved, for ten years. That's on you, not on me!"

Liz had tears in her eyes, and Rosa knew she had the same.  Turning away, she nabbed up the keys from the counter and ran out the door. "Rosa! Rosa, wait!" Liz shouted after her, but she was already gone.

----

She ditched Liz's car ten minutes up the road, keys still in the engine.  She'd needed to get out - get away - and she couldn't have done that on foot if Liz was chasing her in a car. She needed to move, though, and sitting in a car wasn't the type of movement she needed.  She needed to run, to scream - she needed ten years of her life back.

The crossroads weren't far. One of her old hiding spots. Maybe if she could just see her things, touch them, she'd feel less disconnected with this new world. But there was a truck parked on the side of the road and who was sitting by the spot froze her.

Like Liz, Maria was older now. Her face no longer filled with innocence and naivete, but more defined - her eyes hardened as she glanced back sharply. If she'd been there to shield them, would they have kept more of that innocence? Could she have given them that? Or was this just the inevitable march of time and there was nothing she could have done?

Maria had one of her boxes, plucked from the ditch alongside the road where she’d kept it.  The box itself was open, and one of her sketches was in her hands. An old one, from simpler times.

Maria’s eyes widened, then her brow creased with confusion.  “R-Rosa?  How?”

“Don’t worry about how.”  Rosa told her, approaching slowly.  “Just accept that for now, I’m here.”

“That’s not possible.”  Maria shook her head.

“That’s what I keep hearing.”

“Am I dreaming?"

"I would hope you have, y'know, far better things to dream about." Rosa teased her.

"Nothing could beat this."

"Don't be stupid.  Look at you.  You got all hot and shit."

Maria let out a pained laugh. "That's what my mom told Liz."

"Mama DeLuca always knew what was what." To her horror the light hearted statement made tears fill her friend's eyes.

"Yeah, she did."

The emphasis on the last word was confusing and she reached out a hand.  Maria grabbed it, squeezing it. "Hey, don't cry."

"Sorry. This is just a really amazing dream." She managed an amazed smile through the tears.  "It's so real."

"Yeah. So, c'mon.  Come tell Rosa everything.". She led her to the back of the truck, and they settled into the flatbed as she started talking. When she fell did fall asleep later, Rosa took the small tin and repacked it carefully, glancing at the drawing one last time before doing so.

She drew up along the truck one more time to brush a hair from Maria's face.  "Sorry I wasn't here." She whispered, before turning her feet back the way she'd come.

-----

Alex Manes pulled up alongside her two miles from the house.  "You getting in or are you going to walk the whole way back?"

"Y'know, you should be careful about picking up strange girls.  Some of them turn out to be dead." When Alex rolled his eyes, she hopped in. "Do I get to call you Pegleg?"

"No."

"Long John Silver?"

"No."

"I know a guy with a false leg called Alex."

"What's the name of his other leg?" He didn't miss a beat.

"It's, like, tackey to steal someone's punchline."

"Uh-huh."

"Tough crowd."

Alex gave her a tight smile.  "Feel better?"

"Not really."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I want my life back." Rosa replied.

Alex nodded.  "I get that."

"Liz cut you off too?"

"We grew up, Rosa."

"No, like, the term you're looking for is fucked up.  Valenti, of all people, he grew up. The rest of you just fucked yourselves over."

"We did what we had to do." Alex responded.

"Or maybe you just did the easy thing."

“There wasn’t anything easy about any of it.”

Rosa scowled at him, but turned back to watch as they pulled up to Max Evans’s house.  “You’ve changed.”

“We all have.”

“The world just went out on without me.  I feel like an imposter in my own life. I keep thinking about what I would have done if I was here. What I could have done.”

“You can’t change the past, Rosa.”  Alex looked over at her.  “All you can do is keep moving forward.”

“Do yourself a favor and never write hallmark cards.”  Rosa told him, but her lips curled into a small smile, which he returned.  “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Alex only nodded, but it was enough, and she forced herself to leave the safety of the car.  She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she didn’t have time to even say anything before Liz was hugging her.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.  Hey, no worries.”  She reassured her.

“You died.  You died right after we argued and I never got to take it back.”  Liz clung on tighter.

“Liz, hey hey hey, don’t do this, okay?  I’m okay, you’re okay.”

“I can’t lose you again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”  Rosa promised her.  “I’m sorry, too.”

Liz finally drew back, wiping the tears from the corner of her eyes.  “Kyle said if you wanted to, he could take you to one of the bigger cities. Someplace they wouldn’t recognize you. Maybe there you could-”

“Hey.”  Rosa interrupted her softly and waited for her to stop before repeating,  “I’m not going anywhere.  I’m here.”

“I used to lie awake at night and think of all the things I could have done different.  I could have said differently.”  Liz confessed.

“I guess this is our big chance to do things differently.  Let’s neither of us blow it, okay?  Well, I mean, we probably will.  But we can try not to.  What do you say?”  Rosa offered her a grin.  Liz hugged her again.

-----

“This is your ride, seriously?”  Rosa complained when she went out to meet Kyle.  They had planned a trip to Albuquerque for the day.

“I’m sorry, are you making fun of my car?”  Kyle crossed his arms.

“Aren’t you a doctor now?  Shouldn’t you have some expensive zippy little sports car?”

“In New Mexico?”

“Okay, point.”  Rosa conceded as she slid into the passenger’s seat.  “Please tell me there will be music for this ride.”

“My car, which you were making fun of, is bluetooth enabled, and I have Spotify.”  Kyle told her, placing his phone in the holder on his dash.

“Spot a what?”

“There will be music, okay?”

“Oh, you aren’t in charge of the music.”  Rosa grabbed his phone from the holder.

“That’s my phone, and you have no idea how to run that app.”

“I’m the one whose a teenager still, you’re the old fogey now, and I’m sure I can figure this out.”

“I’m not old.” Kyle told her, clearly insulted.

“You’re older than me now… but somehow not any taller.”

“Do you want to walk to Albuquerque?”

“Well considering you haven’t even pulled out of the driveway, I’m starting to think it would be faster.”

“Buckle up.”  Kyle told her.

Rosa grinned, and did as he said as they pulled onto the road.

[rowdy-revenant]

It’s The Full Moon, Martin Priest

Pairings: None (please do not tag as drummerwolf)

Characters: Martin (Priest), Suzie Boreton, Mr. Palacios, Cross, Gripps, Vogel, Drummer (Amanda Brotzman)

Warnings: Minor body horror, OOC Martin, smoking mention, bitchy customers, swearing, nudity

Prompt: 13. Werewolves

A/N: This is for the @dghdaspookfest - It’s about the Rowdy 3 but it’s Martin-centric. I’ve set it up so a part 2 is possible but not necessary.

Words: 2100+

[Read it on AO3] [DGHDA masterlist]

Martin’s whole body was in pain. Sweat poured down skin that felt too tight, skin then felt like it was being stretched beyond what should have been possible. His bones cracked, elongating, rearranging themselves.

He pushed himself. Run a little further, just a little bit further, he told himself. Still his lungs were screaming for air and his feet were on fire, trapped in shoes that were feeling too small. Martin collapsed in a clearing in the woods and began to tear off his clothes.

He kicked off his shoes, the left one’s sole had already torn off. His fingers, with nails that were getting longer and sharper by the second, fumbled to take the tie off from around his neck. His shirt tore and he ripped it off his body, a sense of momentary relief washing over him as he was free from the confines of the long sleeved, collared shirt.

Martin looked down at his pants then hesitated. He couldn’t take his pants off and be found naked in the woods! He could be arrested! A second, louder thought shouted over the first one; dear God take these pants off! Martin clawed at the belt around his waist, undoing it and tossing it into the growing pile of discarded clothes. He wrestled with his pants, gasping when his legs were finally free. He then looked down at his underwear, paused, then took those off too.

In the desperate race to get undressed, Martin’s black rimmed glasses had slipped off his face. He didn’t notice until he saw them on the ground. He saw them. For a good few decades of Martin’s life, he had been as blind as a bat — no, even more blind than a bat — without glasses. Yet the world was slowly coming into focus around him, even without them on, even as the fading light of day was replaced with black night.

He could hear his own heart racing, pounding in his chest. He heard his rapid breathing, heard the wind rustle the leaves around him, and worst of all, he could hear his body creak and tear at the seams.

A pained groan escaped his mouth, low and guttural, changing into something more of a growl. It hurt so badly. Never before had Martin felt this amount of pain. Not when his brother broke his nose, not when he had been hit in the ribs with a bat during baseball practice, hell not even in that crash that had taken his mother away from him.

Martin watched his body change. Thick, black hair grew everywhere, his skin becoming completely covered by it. No, it wasn’t hair. That was fur. His body stretched, rearranged itself into a shape that was barely recognizable as human. He spat out blood that had started to fill his mouth when sharp fangs protruded from his gums.

Martin watched as the fur enveloped the mark on his wrist. A tattoo, if you could call it that, of a moon. A full moon.

Martin was terrified. He was in pain.

He was hungry.

If you went back by just a day, you would have never guessed that Martin would be in this situation now.

Martin Priest, the quiet and proper desk clerk at the Perriman Grand Hotel, naked and rolling around in the forest in the middle of the night? Don’t be absurd.

Martin drummed his fingers on the desk and pushed his glasses further up his nose. He stared at his reflection in the polished countertop. He could use a shave. His boss didn’t think it was a good impression to have “a scruffy hooligan greet the guests.”

Work trudged on. The clock ticked. Elevators dinged. It could be worse, Martin thought. I could still be a bellhop. Martin definitely didn’t miss that dumb red hat. He had worked hard for this promotion.

Still this mundane work at the hotel was so incredibly boring, Martin wondered if it were really worth it. He hated wearing a tie, that thin and incredibly difficult to tie strip of fabric always felt too tight around his neck. The only jewelry that was permitted for men was wedding rings. Martin wasn’t married, hell he hadn’t dated in over a year.

His ex had told him he didn’t “live enough”. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Martin was alive, wasn’t that good enough? So the idea of a painful tattoo freaked him out, or the idea of dyeing his hair felt like too much of a commitment (“That shit is permanent!”). Martin just couldn’t handle that big of a leap into something crazy and long-lasting.

Part of him wanted to. Part of Martin yearned to do something fun with his dark, drab, hair. Maybe he could get a tattoo, a small and hidden one that his boss wouldn’t notice. Maybe he could go to more parties, try to get out of his shell. Maybe he could finally come out as bi. But still… he was afraid to.

Lost in his own head, Martin didn’t notice the woman until she had stormed right up to his desk. Slamming a manicured hand down onto the bell repeatedly, this blonde, soccer-mom looking woman had a look on her face somewhere between “unstoppable rage” and “I just ate a lemon”.

“Hello?! Hellooooo!!” the woman yelled.

Martin blinked, straightened his tie, and got ready to diffuse this ticking time bomb. “Pardon me ma’am,” he spoke, his southern accent a little out of place, his quiet voice only just audible. “How can I help you?”

“I want a refund,” she huffed.

“I’ll see what I can do, ma’am. Can I get your room number?” Martin asked.

The woman huffed as if Martin should know her room number just by looking at her. “201.”

Martin looked through the computer system before delivering a response. “I- I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t refund your room. You’ve been kicked out.”

“Well I want my money back!” yelled the woman, who the computer told Martin was Suzanne Boreton. “I paid to stay here and I’m being forced out before I should be, so I want my money back!”

“Ma’am, it doesn’t-”

“It was just a little weed!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Scottie had the window open the whole time!”

“Smoking of any kind is prohib-”

“It’s barely smoking. I want my money back, and an apology to my son!” Mrs. Boreton yelled. She was attracting the attention of other guests in the lobby now. Martin wished he could just hide behind his desk and the woman would disappear.

“I can’t do that, Mrs. Boreton. I’m sor-” Martin began.

“Oh you’re going to be sorry!” Suzanne cackled. Oh god, was she going to ask for his manager?

Instead, Suzanne drew a long, thin stick from her purse. It looked like a twig she had picked off the ground, or maybe even some kind of junk she had bought from a hipster-y, holistic-y, fake magic mumbo jumbo shop. She pointed it at Martin, who stood there not knowing what to do, and mumbled a few nonsense words. Nothing happened.

Then Martin’s arm began to burn. It was like a hot brand was being pressed on his skin on the inside of his wrist. He rolled up his shirt sleeve to look at it. His skin was bright red, but a black mark was beginning to form. A circle, slowly becoming more detailed. A full moon. Martin clutched his wrist with his other hand, gritting his teeth in pain. What the hell was going on? This was impossible!

“Martin? What’s going on here?”

Oh, crap. Martin pulled down his sleeve as his boss approached. “Sir, I-”

“Is everything okay here, ma’am?” Martin’s boss asked Mrs. Boreton.

“I was just leaving,” Suzanne huffed, sticking her nose up in the air. “You really should hire better employees.” And with that, she walked off.

“Martin, what was that?” Palacios asked.

“I- I-” Martin stammered, rubbing his aching wrist. “She got kicked out of her room but wanted a refund.”

“Well you didn’t have to make a scene!”

“I made a scene?” Martin asked. “She was-”

“Enough,” his boss cut him off. “What’s going on with your arm?”

“I don’t kn-”

“Is that a tattoo?”

Sure enough, part of the mark poked out from under Martin’s sleeve. “No, it-”

“Don’t lie to me, Priest, you know that tattoos aren’t allowed for employees. We’re running a respectable business, not a circus.”

“But-!”

“Pack up your things.”

“I’m fired?!” Martin exclaimed.

“You’ve caused enough trouble,” his boss said, nodding. “Pack up your things and leave. If you’re still here in an hour, I’ll have to get security to escort you out.”

Martin? Causing trouble? Martin, the quiet, sheepish, scared-of-his-own-shadow man, causing trouble?

Before he could argue, his boss walked off, leaving Martin with an hour to leave, no job, and an unnatural mark on his wrist.

When Martin woke up, he couldn’t remember the events of the night. He remembered changing, but nothing after that. His body was human again, but not the same as before. A little taller, a little hairier too. His senses felt amplified, hell he could see without his glasses!

Still his head throbbed and his mouth tasted funny, like the world’s weirdest hangover. Martin licked his lips, trying to determine the strange taste. Metallic… blood. What had happened? Whose blood was that? Martin had a sinking feeling it wasn’t his own.

“HI, THERE!”

Martin jumped at the voice then scrambled to cover his naked body.

“Here,” said another voice. A bearded man stood before Martin, a small group behind him. He held out a neatly folded pile of slightly torn clothes, a pair of black rimmed glasses sitting on top. “These are yours, right?”

Martin nodded, then took them. “Thank you… can you uh...” The group turned around as Martin put on what remained of his clothes. “Thanks,” he muttered, letting them know it was safe to look back again.

“I’m Vogel!” the energetic first voice said. A younger man with wild, partially shaved hair stood next to the first man. He gestured to the one who handed Martin his clothes. “That’s Gripps, that’s Cross, and that’s Drummer!”

Vogel gestured to two others. Another man, presumably Cross, who had shaggy hair and a circle tattoo around his eye. Drummer was a woman with sunglasses, holding a black parasol.

They all wore clothes of a similar style. Mostly black, probably second hand, and unmistakably… punk.

“I- I um…” Martin stammered. “I can explain?”

“First shift?” Cross asked.

“Recently bitten?” Gripps added.

“Yes, and um… no?” Martin answered. “I wasn’t bitten but-”

“Born?” Vogel asked.

“What?”

“Cursed!” Cross exclaimed. “You got the tattoo! Man, yours is so much cooler than mine!” He gestured to the circle around his eye.

“Are… are you all like me too?” Martin asked, bewildered by these strangers.

“Werewolves? Duh!” Gripps laughed. “Oh, apart from Drummer.”

Drummer flashed a smile, revealing long and sharp canines. “I’m usually asleep right now, but I wanted to stay up to say hi.”

“V-v-vampire?”

“No, I’m just really goth,” Drummer replied. “Yeah, vampire.”

“Vampires and werewolves are real?” Martin asked, already knowing the answer. Of course they were real.

“Yup! Welcome to the club!” Cross greeted. “I was cursed, like you, but Gripps was bitten. Vogel was born a werewolf, third generation. He’s the most experienced outta all of us.”

“Cursed… of course,” Martin mumbled. “That b… woman with the stick.”

Drummer laughed. “You can swear, dude.”

“That…. That damn bitch!” Martin exclaimed. God, that felt good. “That fuckin’ witch! She cursed me then got me fired! Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” The others laughed and cheered him on.

“What’s your name?” Drummer asked.

“Martin.”

“Well, Martin,” Gripps began. “We found you wandering around last night, howling your head off. You ate a rabbit then passed out.”

“First nights are rough,” Cross nodded. “But you get the hang of it and eventually start having fun!”

“I didn’t eat a person,” Martin sighed.

“Ewwww!” Vogel grimaced.

“We don’t eat people,” Gripps explained. “It’s a myth. Mostly just eat animals, or raw meat from the butcher’s. Or like… normal food. And beer.”

“Drummer gets blood bags from a friend, we don’t harm nobody,” Cross agreed. “Sometimes we get a bag for the full moon, like a treat.”

“TREAT?” Vogel asked, looking up. Drummer patted his head, promising a treat later.

“You wanna join?” Drummer asked. Martin nodded and she smiled. “Welcome to The Rowdy 3.”

“But there’s-”

“Martin, Martin, Martin,” Cross tutted. “Lotsa things won’t matter anymore.”

“Like math!” Vogel chimed in.

Gripps nodded. “Or jobs.”

“Or driving with your head inside the car,” Cross added.

“Rules,” said Gripps.

“Glasses,” Vogel said, nodding at the pair in Martin’s hand.

“But I liked my glasses…”

Drummer patted Martin’s shoulder. “We can get you a fake pair. Don’t worry. There’s a whole other world out there,” she told Martin. “It’s a lot of fun, trust us.”

[thaisibir]

Be Kind To Yourself (5) - Wanda-centric Infinity War alt ending

Chapter 5/6: Truth Fandom: Avengers Characters: mainly [Wanda, Vision], T’Challa, Shuri, IW cast Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst

Wanda’s remarkable feat against Thanos leaves her with crushed arms and stroke-like symptoms. She feels unworthy of the gratitude and medical care from Wakanda, because what hurts her the most, still, was guilt. Always the guilt.

You can also find & read it here.

Ch. 5 below, Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4

Be Kind To Yourself (5) Truth

Slowly and carefully, Wanda drew her knees up to her chest, folded her arms, and rested her chin on them. The breeze, cool and soft, tugged at the ends of her hair. It turned her necklaces into pendulums as they swung back and forth between her thighs and belly. Dwarfed under the vast canopy of stars that blazed above her, wrapped up in her solitude, and far away from the hubbub still going on inside, she felt very small and lonely.

"Miss Maximoff."

Wanda flinched, despite the gentle utterance of her name. She whirled around to find T'Challa standing just behind her.

"I'm sorry for startling you," he said. "This suit is designed to make me almost unseen and unheard. Sometimes I forget that."

Wanda's hand flitted up to her chest in an effort to catch her breath and collect herself. She could barely tell his frame and figure apart from the shadows, the night sky. Only the glint of claws around his neck, and the silver seams of vibranium along the armor, gave him away. His feet made no sound against the stone as he drew closer and settled down next to her with lithe, fluid motion. Truly a black panther, not just in name. She should have expected him to find her out here, after she tried to detach herself from the rest of her team and took no part in the celebration.

Wanda heard the clinks of armor and a spear; Okoye had followed closely behind T'Challa.

Still seated, he twisted around to acknowledge the general with a small wave of his hand. "There's no need for you to accompany me out here, Okoye. I would just like to speak with Miss Maximoff alone. Please attend to my sister."

"As you wish, my king." Okoye stepped away, giving the two one last sweeping glance before leaving them on the balcony.

Wanda ventured a request: "Please, just call me by my first name, Your Majesty." Being called Miss made her feel both very old and very young. She had grown up poor, and quickly without her parents, in the slums of Sokovia. She could never get used to formalities.

"Wanda, it is." Without the cat-like helmet masking his face, the king smiled at her. "She's very impressed with you. Okoye."

Wanda straightened up and blinked in surprise. "I...I wouldn't think so."

"It's true. I'll have you know that she is very difficult to impress, but your show of power on the battlefield saved her twice, and now you wear panther claws. She will not forget that in a hurry." T'Challa craned his neck back. "So, what do you think of Wakanda at night?"

"Beautiful," Wanda replied. "I had never seen so many bright stars in my life. Where I grew up, pollution always fogged up the sky. You'd be lucky to get a glimpse of just one star at Sokovia." What she couldn't tell him was that this was the very same sky in her nightmares, the last thing she saw before everything around her went up in flames. Wanda couldn't hold her gaze to the stars for long, and returned it to her feet.

"My sister told me that your symptoms have practically resolved, but to me you still look unwell."

Though he said this out of concern, to her the remark seemed laced with accusation, as if he was saying "Come on, Wanda, why the hell can't you get your shit together?" At least, that was the nasty little voice hissed in her head. She tensed, trying hard not to meet his eyes.

"Your body has been healing well enough. The doctors, nurses, and Shuri did a wonderful job seeing to that. But I sense that we still haven't done everything we could for you. There is something about you that our technology cannot detect and our medicine cannot treat. Something that you're keeping tucked away from everyone around you. We are made up of more than just bodies. We have our souls, as well. Your soul does not know peace. It's filled with unrest."

Wanda bit down on her bottom lip, trembling in her tight, balled up position.

"My sister tells me that you don't sleep well at night. You have said that it's from the pain. But I don't think it's pain from your fight against Thanos. It goes back further than him. It's something older, and deeper."

She squeezed her eyes shut. With the king's arrival, it seemed as if he had her cornered in the balcony. Like a cat with prey. Though she was in no shape to do so, she wanted to run away so she wouldn't have to hear him go on.

"I have seen grief, in all of its terrible glory, from this costly war. But there's something else in you that I have not seen in Thor, or in Peter Quill." T'Challa's voice dipped, as if he was talking more to himself now. "I think I have seen it before...yes, in Zuri, and in my father, for the wrongs they've done when they tried to do right."

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes and a lump swelled in her throat. The king was terribly perceptive, wise beyond his years. He had her figured out, even when she hadn't had the courage to tell him for the longest time.

"Guilt. It's eating you alive. Be honest with me, Wanda. Is that it?"

At this, she burst into quiet sobs, ones that barely slipped through her lips but made her shoulders quiver uncontrollably and her chest ache. Wanda buried her face into her hands, feeling the warmth and wetness of tears on both of them.

To her surprise, he chuckled. When she looked up, the lift of his cheeks made his eyes crinkle merrily. "You know, I forgive you for tossing me into the jet bridge in Germany."

She didn't laugh, and slowly he reassumed a serious air. T'Challa had opened up the floodgates from within her, and the deluge swept her away in its release. In the midst of that tumult, she could almost hear Vision gently prompting her, "Tell him how you feel. Let it all out."

Wanda dashed at the tears with the back of her sleeve. Meanwhile T'Challa said nothing and waited as she struggled to compose herself, face him, and find the words. "The eleven Wakandans who were killed in Lagos...I am responsible for their deaths. Their blood is on my hands. Their voices follow me in my dreams. You are right, King T'Challa. I am guilty."

She did not expect forgiveness, and certainly didn't have the nerve to plead for it. No, just opening up in front of the king was enough of an obstacle for her to overcome.

"Wanda, look at me."

At his firm command, she complied. In his eyes, there was no trace of accusation she thought she had heard in his voice. Only sympathy, and compassion. "Being guilty is not the same as feeling guilty. Hard as it was for me to watch the deaths of my people, I came to believe that you and them were victims of being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I'm no victim," Wanda murmured. "I'm the one to blame. My lack of control had killed them."

T'Challa said nothing to that. How could he deny it? Finally, he said, "I could go back and forth with you all night arguing the contrary, but that wouldn't do much for either of us, I suspect. Whatever we may think of what had happened, the past is the past. That would never change. What we can do is what we say and think here and now." He paused, almost in contemplation, then went on, "My father had never given the Avengers an official pardon for the incident in Nigeria, did he?"

Wanda cringed as she remembered the former king's words, ringing with disappointment and condemnation through the TV: "Our people's blood is spilled on foreign soil. Not only because of the actions of criminals, but by the indifference of those pledged to stop them. Victory at the expense of the innocent is no victory at all."

Up until that moment when the vest went off, she had been working seamlessly with Steve, Natasha, and Sam, executing maneuvers and neutralizing the threats as she had practiced so many times. Her team seemed well on their way to call it a victory. But in the end, everything fell apart. The last thing she heard that day had been the bomb, the inferno, the screams. All because of her. It had been so hard for Wanda to watch that, as well...not just the first time, but as her mind went against her will to play it over and over in her head ever since.

"Frankly, if King T'Chaka was here now, I'm not sure if he would give that pardon," T'Challa said. "But he is gone, and I am not my father." He rested a hand on her shoulder. "Let the claws be a sign of forgiveness, then, from me to you."

Mingled shock and horror jolted through her. "No, I can't accept it." Wanda's reply came swiftly, and her response took him aback. "I...I couldn't refuse it at the ceremony, with so many watching. I didn't want to insult anyone, not after your people had done so much for me. But now you invite me to be honest..." She sucked in and let out a shaky breath. "Well, this is my honest answer. I'm not worthy to wear this gift." She forced herself to go on, to finally share with him the nightmares that kept her from getting any real rest. Even now, though she sat up wide awake to confide in T'Challa, the claws draped around her felt too much like the claws of dead Wakandans that squeezed at her neck and haunted her dreams. She had trouble distinguishing one from the other. They felt the same. They were tearing her apart. Eating her alive, as the king had put it.

As he was taking all of this in, T'Challa looked dismayed. "You have been through so much. You lost your mother and father...your brother and home...and the man you loved. I can't bring back what you had lost, but I wanted to recognize your strength with the highest honor a king could give." He tipped his chin to the ground, his brow furrowed. "How foolish of me. Instead I've caused you greater pain."

"You weren't being foolish," she insisted. "You don't have to be sorry for anything, King T'Challa. The medical care and attention I've had here is more than enough for me. That I can take." With heavy, trembling hands, Wanda lifted the necklace over her head. "But I...I can't take this. I'm so sorry."

"Wanda..."

"Please." Her plea ended with a waver. She could not bear the weight anymore, and wanted so badly for him to relieve her of the burden. But T'Challa did not reach out to take it. She let the claws rest on her lap, and let the tears fall.

The king said nothing for some time, perhaps at a loss for words, then he replied softly, "I bear you no ill will, hatred, or blame for the eleven who had died that day. Neither do their families, when I last spoke with them to offer condolences. I want you to know that. It's a comfort to them, at least, that their loved ones could be brought home to rest. We have a saying here in Wakanda: 'Let the dead remain buried.' Do you know why we are so adamant about needing a body to bury?"

She had heard about it, but she shook her head.

"When the body cannot rest, the soul will not be able to rest, either. It will wander forever, restless and without peace, in perpetual torment. My father went to his grave carrying the guilt from his brother's death. I do not want you to end up like him. Lay your guilt to rest, while you can. " His gaze lowered to the necklace on her lap. "No one before had ever declined wearing the claws, but if that's what will help give you peace of mind..."

Nearby, unbeknown to Wanda and T'Challa, Shuri and Okoye had been listening in on the entire conversation. The general was keeping the princess company, and the king had never ordered his sister to stay away. Shuri and Okoye remained still and quiet as statues in the hallway for some time. Then they seemed to jerk to life as they heard Wanda murmur a farewell, their only hint of T'Challa stepping back from the balcony in his soundless suit.

Heavy-hearted and unsmiling, Shuri and Okoye needed no explanation as they watched the king return. Clutched in his fist, the necklace of panther claws swayed with every step.

[professortennant]

mark me as yours (a tdbm, jean/lucien fic)

soulmate AU for @marcuskaen

jean-centric, 3577 words

Today was Jean Randall’s 18th birthday and she was finally going to find out if Christopher Beazley was her soulmate. They were all but engaged and Jean thought the world of him. Strong, smart, hard-working, and handsome, he was everything Jean could hope for in a husband and soulmate. 

No one understood the science of soulmates. At 18, your body took on the marks of your soulmate’s: every scrape, cut, tattoo, burn, and bruise. Luckily, the pain your soulmate experienced was not inflicted on you as well. Experts assumed 18 was the time of the marking because childhood was too filled with cuts, scrapes, and bruises to have an accurate reading. 

Christopher had been 18 for a few months already and hadn’t experienced any markings on his body, so the hope that she was his soul mate still burned within her. 

Dressing quickly and skipping breakfast, Jean dashed out the door and practically ran to Christopher’s family farm. Christopher greeted her at the door with a chaste kiss to her cheek. His hands were warm and clammy. So, they were both nervous. 

“You ready?”

Jean nodded, smiling reassuringly. Christopher led her into the kitchen and sat her down at the table, grabbing a small paring knife off of the counter and sitting next to her. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she wrapped her fingers around the handle and pointed the blade at the tip of her finger. 

“Wait!” 

Christopher took her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of them. “Jean, just know that whatever happens, I still love you. I still plan on marrying you. I plan on building a life with you.”

Jean smiled softly and cupped his face. “I love you, too. But, I just can feel it, Christopher. This will prove we are soulmates. Watch.”

And with that, she turned the blade towards her finger and made a small, one-inch incision. She hissed in pain, sucking at the blood, before eagerly turning Christopher’s hands over, searching. 

But there was no mark. His smooth remained completely clear. 

With a sinking heart, Jean realized how wrong she’d been. Christopher wasn’t her soulmate at all. Eyes stinging with tears and swallowing her disappointment, she held Christopher’s hands in hers. 

“Christopher....” She sighed. “I understand if this does change things for you. Really, I---”

But Christopher was holding a gold and emerald engagement ring out to her. “Jean Randall, I told you I loved you and wanted to marry you and I meant it. If it doesn’t matter to you, it doesn’t matter to me. So Jean, will you marry me?”

Jean stared at the ring and Christopher’s earnest face. What did it matter if he wasn’t her soulmate? He was good and decent and kind and would protect and provide for her. 

“Yes.”

Their marriage was a happy--if not stressful--one for many years. They worked hard on the farm and faced obstacles in their relationship that many would have crumbled under. The town frowned upon their marriage. The biddies gossiped, “But they aren’t soulmates. It can’t last.”

Jean Beazley loved proving them wrong. 

While Christopher had never experienced any marks (and they both wondered at those implications), Jean had been dreading the day her body became marred with anything more serious than a few bruises.

She distantly wondered if her soulmate saw the stretch marks she had acquired with each of her pregnancies. Wondered if he felt jealous or lost or forsaken knowing his soulmate was bearing another man’s children.

And then the day came that she experienced her soulmate’s marks--real, significant marks.

It was Christopher who found them first, leaping out of bed and holding his hand over his mouth in shock. “Christ, Jean...” His eyes lingered on her back and shoulders, shaking his head. 

Jean pushed the covers off and leapt out of bed, twisting to look in the mirror. She felt her stomach clench in shock and her mouth dried. Her back was covered in angry, red, criss-crossing lines.

Her heart felt icy at the thought of her soulmate, whoever he may be, experiencing the pain that came with these marks. Battling back tears, she turned to her husband--her wonderfully unblemished husband. “Christopher, these are whip marks, aren’t they?” He nodded, still staring in horror. “Are you okay, dear? We both knew this day may come...”

But Christopher was already crossing the room to smooth his hand over her marks. “So, you have a soulmate out there.” Jean wanted to comfort him, to tell him she was as good as his soulmate, that it didn’t mean anything. And yet a part of her was still thinking about the man on the receiving end of these whips...

Pushing past her, Christopher left the room and started in on the farm’s chores. He resolved to not linger on her marks and to simply enjoy the time he shared with Jean. After all, they shared a beautiful life together and beautiful children. 

But the marks kept appearing on her skin. Before the marks of the previous day could fade, new ones came. Burn marks on her forearms. Bruises mottled her knees and thighs and buttocks. Her fingers were discolored and scraped as if they had been broken. And every day, the whip marks across her shoulders doubled. 

Jean couldn’t think beyond what her soulmate was going through. Torture. Her soulmate was being tortured and Jean was helpless to stop it. Would she feel it if he died? Would the marks just never go away if he died wherever he was?

It was these marks that ultimately drove a wedge between her and Christopher. 

“Jean, all you do is talk about these marks. I understand they’re upsetting, but you can’t even feel them! You don’t even know the man on the other end of these marks. Our life is here. We promised each other on our wedding day that we were choosing each other over soulmates. That we were making a choice. Have you changed your mind, now? Do you want to go find this man? If he’s even still alive?”

Jean felt an irrational sense of anger towards him. “Christopher! This man is being tortured. Look at this!” She thrust her arms towards him. “These are bloody brand marks. They’re branding him. I think, I think he’s a soldier. He must be. How else do you get these kinds of marks? Certainly not as a farmer.”

Christopher reeled back as if she had slapped him. “Is that what you want from me, Jean? To get myself my very own set of marks?”

“What? No! Christopher, don’t be ridiculous! Wait, Christopher!”

But Christopher was already storming out the door without a look back at her. 

Three days later, he was fully enlisted and being shipped off to the front. 

Jean resented the marks now. They had eased over the course of a few months but she now wished more than ever she could have some sort of connection to her Christopher.  She felt confident, however, that if something truly terrible happened she would know. Somehow, she would feel it. 

Two days later, the army showed up and informed her that her Christopher--her husband--was dead. Not only that, but that he had died months ago. 

The army officers long since departed, she trudged up the stairs with heavy, lead legs, locked herself in her bedroom, and drew the blinds, encasing the room in darkness. She didn’t want to see the marks. Not right now. Not ever again. 

Losing Christopher was a hot, searing pain across her heart. If this is the pain that accompanied losing her husband, she never wanted to experience the pain of knowing, loving, and losing her soulmate. 

For the first of many nights, Jean cried herself to sleep. 

Since losing Christopher, the marks had long-since disappeared. Her soulmate, wherever he was, appeared to be safe. At least for now. Jean took a small comfort in that. 

Still, every once in a while Jean woke up to swollen lips, scabs and cuts on her face, and black eyes. Her soulmate was a fighter--literally and figuratively. A distant part of her wondered if her soulmate and Christopher ever met on the front.

Jean kept the farm running as long as she could on her own with Christopher Jr. and Jack’s help, but she eventually sold the farm and took up a position as housekeeper for Dr. Thomas Blake. 

In addition to providing care to the residents of Ballarat, Dr. Blake dabbled in soulmate science and found himself fascinated with Jean in particular. 

“My dear,” he managed between coughing fits. “A woman forsaking a life with her soulmate for a man of her choosing! I’ve never heard such a thing. It’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

Jean blushed, embarrassed, and tilted his head forward so he could sip at the cold water. “I just didn’t want my life dictated by something no one understands.”

Dr. Blake nodded, still fascinated by this mysterious woman. She was unlike many women in Ballarat and he adored her. She listened to his theories on the science behind soulmates with a keen ear as she dusted and cleaned his room, brought him meals, and helped him organize his patients’ care. 

“So you see, my dear Jean, I think in a way, if a person was brave enough--or stupid enough--to use this ability, they could actually carve a message to their soulmate through their skin. I truly can’t believe it hasn’t been done yet. At least, not a documented case.”

Jean shook her head, “That’s barbaric! What kind of moron would do that?”

The elder Dr. Blake let out a croaky laugh, thinking that he knew exactly someone who would do that. 

“You’d be surprised what desperate men will do.”

That night, Jean found out her soulmate was a moron. As she readied herself for bed, Jean noticed the bright red scratches carved into the top of her left thigh.

Who r u?

Jean stared at the message. The words were crudely etched into her skin and she appreciated the fact that her soulmate was at least smart enough to save himself some pain and shorten the words when possible. 

But there was no way in hell she was carving a message into her own skin. Not even for her soulmate.

Smoothing lotion over the marks, Jean felt pleased to know he was at least alive. Even if he was an idiot.

Dr. Blake’s condition was worsening a little every day and Jean grew anxious at the thought of losing him as well. She had come to care for Dr. Blake very much and she knew his loss would be felt deeply. 

Today his son, Lucien Blake, would be arriving to say his final goodbyes and begin arranging things for his move back to Ballarat. He was all set to take over the surgery and Jean felt more than a little miffed this Lucien Blake thought he could simply swan in and take over. 

The knock at the door surprised Jean. He was early. Tucking the ends of the blanket around Dr. Blake’s feet, Jean hurried to the front door and was met with quite a sight. 

The young Dr. Blake was--and there was no other word for it--handsome. Slicked curls, wide shoulders, blue eyes, and a gorgeous three-piece suit. He smiled at her and offered her his hand in greeting. “Hello! I’m Dr. Lucien Blake. I’m here to see my father and see to some business of settling the surgery and moving back in. I’m looking for a Mrs. Beazley? She’s the housekeeper, I believe.”

She looked at his offered hand, confused. “I am Mrs. Beazley. Or, Jean, if you prefer.”

He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on the hollow of her throat and the curve of her hip. Jean shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She crossed her hands over her chest. 

Lucien laughed. “Bloody hell, from the way my father talked about you, he sounded as if he was half in love with you! Not that I can’t blame him, look at you, I just thought, well, that you’d be older!”

She didn’t know if she should be offended or not. Then, he was leaning down and grasping her hand in his in greeting. Jean stifled a gasp. There was a heat to their handshake, a feeling of electricity and connection shooting from her fingertips to the top of her arms. She searched his face, wondering if he felt it too.

But his face was still smiling and jovial. No sign of shock or wonder. Maybe it was just her. Maybe it was just the first touch of a handsome man since Christopher...

Pushing aside the feeling, she stepped out of the doorway and gestured for him to come in. “Please, Dr. Blake, do come in. Your father is just down the hall in his bedroom. Leave your bags! I’ll take them.”

Brushing past her, Lucien’s hands lingered over hers. “Thank you, Jean. And please, it’s Lucien.”

Lucien Blake was an absolute mystery to her. On the one hand, he was charismatic and charming. She often found herself getting wrapped up in his stories of Singapore--a land she had only dreamed of visiting. Lucien was also exceedingly warm towards the people of Ballarat, treating each of them with kindness and warmth. 

Other times, he was strangely mercurial. His moods swung with the amount of whiskey he’d drank or the number of nightmares he’d had the previous nights (oh yes, she heard his screams at night). 

His interactions with the elder Dr. Blake were even more curious. They were equal parts nostalgic and warm, hostile and bitter. Jean thought there was perhaps too much history between them to resolve in the short time they had left.

After one such bitter encounter, Jean followed Lucien out of the room and watched as he punched the wall in frustration before escaping to the kitchen for a drink. Jean shook her head, sadly. The man really did drink too much.

The next morning, Jean thought nothing of her slightly swollen and bruised hand. There wasn’t time to consider it.

Dr. Blake had passed away.

The weeks after the elder Dr. Blake passed away, Jean and Lucien went their separate ways. Grief manifested differently for everyone. For Lucien, it was escaping to The Colonists’ Club for a few drinks. For Jean, it was an overwhelming need to be alone and hidden away. The first night, she sat in Dr. Blake’s study--Lucien’s study, now--and breathed in the smell of pipe tobacco and leather. With gentle sobs, Jean snuggled into his chair and fell into a restless sleep. 

When she awoke, there was another crudely carved message into the top of her thigh. 

R u there? I feel alone.

She ran her fingers over the message and wondered at what her soulmate was going through, wondered if it was because they were soulmates that their feelings were so closely aligned.

Taking a deep breath, Jean grabbed the letter opener with shaking hands--her mind flashing back to a paring knife and a kitchen table all those years ago--and with gritted teeth, she replied. 

I’m here. 

The blood bubbled over her skin with each scratch and yet, she welcomed the pain. It was something besides numbness, at least. In a strange way, his message had lessened her loneliness and she hoped her soulmate felt the same.

As Lucien and Jean both healed from Dr. Blake’s passing and began to move on and settle into a new routine, there appeared a new problem: Lucien and Jean were terribly attracted to one another. 

Lingering hands, brushes of fingers against cheeks, teasing smiles, outrageous flirting. 

Each day her control slipped a little more and she found herself gravitating towards him, just wanting to be near him. Lucien found himself doing the same: rubbing her shoulders, hand at the small of her back, whispers in her ear.

Jean needed to put a stop to it before this--whatever this was between them--boiled over. Slipping into his office in between patients, Jean sat in front of his desk. 

Lucien smiled at her, “Jean! Was there something you wanted?”

Jean took a deep breath and decided the direct approach was the way to go. Lucien liked directness. “Yes, actually. I don’t think it’s just me who is feeling this,” she gestured between them. “This pull between us. And as enjoyable as the flirting is, we need to stop.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Oh?”

She nodded. “Lucien, I have a soulmate somewhere. And I’ve already lived a life with a man who was not him and I just don’t think I can do that to my soulmate again. Nor to the memory of my Christopher. I hope you can understand.”

Lucien nodded slowly, hand stroking his beard. “I see. Very reasonable.” He laughed, a hollow laugh, and reached for the scotch and tumbler on his desk. “Did you know,” he started, pouring himself a generous drink. “Did you know that I also have a soulmate?”

Jean shook her head, wondering where he was going with this. Lucien was usually so closed-lipped about his past, particularly anything remotely personal. “I didn’t know that. Where is she?”

Taking a large gulp of scotch, Lucien smacked his lips. “No idea. She’s the most ridiculously careful woman I know. I know she had children, for sure. The bloody stretch marks were a surprise.”

Jean thought to herself that at least that question was answered. Somewhere out there, her soulmate had also felt her stretch marks. 

“But whoever she is...she didn’t wait for me. I don’t blame her, of course. I’m just about the worst soulmate you could ask for. I wouldn’t want to be saddled with me either.”

Her heart clenched oddly at that. It hurt her to hear Lucien speak so dismissively of himself. He couldn’t see how wonderful he truly way. Even when he was being moody. 

She watched as Lucien drained his glass and pushed himself away from his desk and walking around to her side of the desk, reaching down for her hand and tugging her up to stand in front of him. 

“I understand that you don’t want me, Jean. My own soulmate didn’t want me. So, consider the flirtations stopped. On my honor.”

Jean opened her mouth to argue with him, to comfort him, but Lucien was already shuffling her out the door and then the door was being closed in her face. Seconds later, Jean heard the sounds of glass smashing against a wall. 

Sighing to herself, feeling oddly dismissed and sad, Jean headed for the closet to pull out the broom and dustpan. Ridiculous, mercurial man.

Reaching into the closet, Jean started at the deep gash that spread across her whole palm. It had been the first mark since that night with the letter opener and Jean felt the familiar sense of relief that her soulmate was once again alive somewhere, even if he wasn’t with her. 

Grabbing the broom and dustpan, Jean headed straight for the study and opened the door. The sight inside stopped her dead in her tracks. 

There, standing over a pile of shattered glass, stood Lucien. His hand was dripping blood, a large gash stretched across his palm. Jean’s hand burned with the realization. 

The feeling of heat and electricity at their first touch. The undeniable connection they had. His soulmate had children. His hand held a gash in the same place as hers. He thought she didn’t want him.

The broom and dustpan dropped to the floor and Lucien’s head shot up, looking at her, shamefaced. “Oh Jean, I’m so sorry. I’ll clean this up, don’t worry--”

But Jean was busy crossing the room, heels crunching on the glass, and flinging herself into his arms. She pressed her lips to his, desperate, sloppy, eager. This was her soulmate. This stupid, infuriating, handsome, impossible man was hers--all hers. 

Lucien’s hands wrapped around her, hauling her up against him and deepening the kiss. She broke away and leaned her forehead against his and slid down his body. 

Lucien sighed, happily. “Jean, love, not that I’m complaining, but I’m getting some mixed messages here.”

Wordlessly, Jean held her palm up for his inspection. Lucien stared at the gash before raising his own, bloodied hand up. Shaking, he pressed their palms together and sighed. 

“It’s you.”

She nodded, entwining their hands together. “It’s me.”

Lucien tugged her impossibly closer and tucked her under his chin, swinging them side to side slightly. Jean knew they had a lot to talk about. The memory of those horrifying marks were still burned into her mind and she wanted to ask him about them. She knew he must have questions for her about her life with Christopher. 

His words from earlier haunted her: My soulmate doesn’t want me.

Holding him tighter, Jean silently vowed to him that she would spend the rest of their lives proving him wrong.

[greekowl87]

Fic: Out of Sight, Out of Mind

A/N: Season six episodes “Tithonus” and “Monday” are hands down two of my favorite episodes. I’ve been wanting to write a fic for “Monday” for a long time and do a Scully centric POV. So hopefully it turned out okay.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Merely borrowing.

Scully was annoyed. Well angry and annoyed. She had already received the brunt of Skinner's gruff reprimand earlier that morning at the beginning of the meeting because of Mulder's absence. During the break at 9:15, he sent her to go find her wayward partner. Mulder already looked thoroughly ruffled himself, explaining his leaky water bed and the domino effect of the world's worst morning ever. When had he gotten a waterbed, she wondered uselessly. But one quick puppy dog look (especially with that goddamn bottom lip), she was powerless to do anything but agree. He rushed off, check in hand, promising to be gone for less than 10 minutes while he rushed down to the bank.

She licked her lips in thought. Why did this seem familiar? He had just mentioned something about having deja vu himself this morning. Settled that this was likely forever to be the case, she went back to the meeting to weather a few more of Skinner's gruff stares and the uncomfortable tension.

But as soon as she entered, the look she received with her boss made her twinge inwardly. Skinner narrowed his eyes. "Find your partner, agent."

She bit her lip and wordlessly got up to go find Mulder.

The whole situation as feeling weirder and weirder to her. As she pulled on her coat in the basement, she had gotten a distinct impression that she had done this before. Sure, she had been in the office for six years and she had pulled on her count numerous times over six years. But this moment was somehow different like Scully had experienced it before. Shaking her head and focusing all her frustration on her errant partner, she slammed the door behind her and walked quickly to the elevator.

She knew Mulder's bank was not that far away. As she walked, Scully saw a little boy dressed in clothes that looked to be from the early 20th century, standing barefoot, dirty blonde hair, gray eyes, and cheeks that looked to be smudged with something like coal.

She stopped midstep, fixated on the little boy. She looked around wondering if anyone else could see him.

"It's not his time," the little boy said ominously. "It isn't supposed to be like this. I already met you in New York. I'm not supposed to meet him for two more years."

Scully bit her bottom lip. "Are you lost? Do you have a name?"

"This isn't supposed to be like this."

She turned, wondering if she could find his parents or something. But as soon as she turned to look at him, the little boy was gone.

"What the..." she mumbled, chalking up to something she imagined.

Jogging across the street to the bank, Scully pulled the door open to be greeted by a would-be bank robber wearing a bomb strapped to her chest. Instinctively, she pulled her Sig Sauer, and screamed, "Drop it! Drop it now!"

She watched Mulder behind the robber take the moment of surprise and reach for his weapon. Someone screamed. But the robber was quicker spun around and shot Mulder before he could get his own shot. She watched, in horror, as the bullet entered his upper left chest and he collapsed in a bloody heap. She wants to scream his name but all she does and lower her weapon. The robber trains his weapon on her as she kicks her gun away useless, focusing all her attention on Mulder. She quickly crosses the short distance to Mulder as the robber grabs Mulder's dropped weapon. Her partner stares uselessly at the ceiling, his mouth wordlessly calling her name over and over again.

She drops to her knees, pulling her head to her thigh, and ripped open his shirt. Why does this seem so familiar? Like she had experienced all the before? She pressed her bare hand against the wound, feeling the sticky, familiar, warm substance of his blood spread uselessly against the pressure she applied. Her other hand strokes Mulder's cheek, trying to comfort him.

Scully leans over her partner, whispering, "It's gonna be okay, Mulder. I'm going to get you out of this. I promise."

She remembered being shot in her abdomen in New York and how afraid she had been. Her last thoughts being of Mulder and Fellig telling her to close her eyes. She was not going to let the same happen to Mulder. He nodded slightly, turning his head slightly to her, and closing his eyes, soothed by the small comfort of her hand stroking his face. Scully closed her eyes, on the verge of tears. The robber was saying something. Her words are not even her own, her FBI training taking over as all she can think about is Mulder.

Then she sees the little boy again, the same one she had met on the street. "It doesn't happen like this," he says again, stomping his foot like he is about to have a tantrum. "You and Mulder don't die here! This is all wrong! Wrong! Why can't it be right?"

She trains her gaze back onto the robber...Bernard. "I just want everyone to live. That's all," she admits after a long moment, her voice small. She absently continues to stroke Mulder's cheek as his eyes become more unfocused with each passing second. "I just... just show them. You have control over everything that happens here. You do. And it doesn't have to end this way."

Bernard looks lifelessly at her. "Yeah, it does!"

Scully only remembers screaming and bending over uselessly to shield him from the explosion as everything went black.

. . . .

Scully kept feeling like she was having the same dream that Monday morning. She could not remember it but she knew it was familiar somehow. She remembered going to church and brunch with her mother the day before but something about today felt off. The odd sensation of deja vu. She went through her regular morning routine, rushing a bit more to make sure she would get to the Hoover building early. She stopped at her favorite coffee shop on the way in to grab something for her and Mulder. But stopped short of the door seeing a little boy with out of date clothes, dirty blonde hair, gray eyes, and bare feet.

"Where are your parents, sweetie?" she asked cautiously. Something familiar of this child. "Are you lost?"

"No! Why can't you see, Scully? The woman is the key!" he cried impatiently.

"How do you know my name?"

He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head, looking at her like she was crazy. "Really? You've seen me before. We met before. New York. I am not here for you. I am not here for Mulder either. It is her I need. You two..." He flapped his hand like a fish. "You two are too...entwined. No one without the other. His time will come but not yet. He will return, like you. But not yet. It is her that I need. She is the key to fixing all this mess."

"How do you know my partner's name?" she demanded, feeling unsettled.

"Find her. She's the key, Scully," the little child said testily.

She looked around, hoping to find the child's parents but he had disappeared. Scully sucked in a breath, chalking it up to just being extremely tired and in need of caffeine. But she still felt unsettled. New York. She brought her hand to the scar of her gunshot wound that rested beneath her expensive black blouse. She shook her head and tried to focus on getting coffee and getting to the Hoover building on time.

And of course, Mulder was late. Of course, he would be late. She sat uncomfortably at the meeting, avoiding Skinner's scorching gaze, and doodling the structural formula of various chemical compounds in the margins. But Skinner's secretary, Kimberly comes in, to interrupt the meeting.

"Excuse me. Agent Scully?"

Scully shifts uncomfortably as she gets up out of her chair, well aware of all the eyes on her.

"Excuse me," she said tightly and closed the door behind her.

Kimberly gave a weak smile and passed her the phone. "It's Agent Mulder. He says it's urgent."

Scully rolls her eyes. "Mulder, where are you?"

"I'm at the bank."

"Yeah, I know where you are, but what's taking so long?"

"Scully, I need you to do something for me right now."

"What, Mulder?" she sighed.

"There's a woman sitting in an old beat up car across the bank. Skinny, green eyes, dyed hair. I need you to get her for me, Scully and bring me to the bank. And I need you to hurry."

"Mulder..."

"Just hurry, Scully. We don't have a lot of time."

He hung up without another word. She sighed and gave the phone back to Kimberly before leaving Skinner's office to go back down to the basement to find this mysterious woman. As she pulled on her coat and double checked her weapon, she saw the same boy in the corner of the office tapping his wrist impatiently like he was wearing a watch. She was about to say something because when she blinked, the boy was gone. What the hell was going on today?

Scully rushed to the bank, seeing the car and the woman that Mulder had described. Impatiently, she banged on the window with her badge, startling the young woman. Both were confused as Scully brought this woman in, Pam was her name, into the bank and quickly drew her weapon seeing Mulder and a robber squaring off.

She blinked when she saw the little boy appear at the end of the room, behind the robber, Mulder, and all the hostages on the ground. He stared at her and smiled. "Thank you."

There was a sudden gunshot and she jumped, seeing Pam on the floor in a bloody mess. She checked the woman's pulse before quickly drawing out her cell phone. Scully walked away quietly dialing 911. "This is Agent Scully with the FBI..."

But her voice was caught in her throat. The little boy was bending over Pam while Mulder kneeled in front of her. Could Mulder not see the little boy? The little boy gently touched Pam's head and she let out her last breath. The little boy smiled and looked at Scully. "See? She was the key. It's all fixed."

She wanted to say something, feeling the same cold she felt back in New York. She back slightly away, darting her eyes towards Mulder. The little boy looked at Mulder and shook his head and got up. "I'll see you again, Scully. And don't worry. You won't lose him, not really. Remember, he'll come back. Like you did." And when she blinked again, he disappeared.

Mulder looked up, seeing the color had drained from his partner's face. She held the phone to her ear. He could hear the operator calling for attention. "Scully!"

She blinked coming out of her reverie. "Yes. I have a woman shot and a suspect in custody at the Craddock Marine Bank on E Street..."

. . . .

Scully sat on the steps of the bank as the police swarmed with police and swat. She saw Bernard being dragged away, the police and EMTs tending to hostages, Mulder talking with a detective down the ways, and here she was, unsure of what had just happened. Her hand kept drifting to the scar of her abdominal gunshot wound.

You won't lose him, not really. Remember, he'll come back. Like you did.

Those words haunted her. New York still haunted her with what Fellig had told her to do and how she tried to dismiss the nagging that always sat in the back in her mind. And now that little boy. Could that little boy be Death? No. She shook her head and buried her face in her hands. And the warnings about Mulder. They scared her. She remembered the moments of deja vu like she was going to lose him, actually holding his dying body against her, powerless to do anything. She wanted to forget it but she could not.

She felt the tears in her eyes and for once she did not care. She felt them trailing down her cheeks as she was so overwrought with emotion. She felt a feathery touch on her shoulder gently, causing her to jump. She looked up to see Mulder in front of her.

He was already frowning deep with worry as he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "Scully?"

Scully bit her lip and the emotions of the mere thought of losing him over and over again swelled in her chest as she surrendered herself to those emotions. She hugged him tightly, catching him off guard as she buried her face into his chest. He caught her tightly and hugged her close. She racked with sobs. He kissed his partner's hair wordlessly and simply held her, uncaring of what everyone else thought.

"What is it, Scully," he whispered.

"I can't lose you," she whispered back.

"You won't. I promise."

She thought about telling him about the little boy and those ominous warnings but she kept silent. Scully just nodded against him. "Let's call it a day," he whispered softly. "Out of sight, out of mind."

"It's only noon."

"So, we have time for a late lunch and then dinner and a horrible sci fi movie. I'll drive you home. We won't be missed. Come on, Scully."

She could have argued, she could have fought him and said she was fine, but she did none of that. She took his hand tightly and nodded. He wiped away the remaining tears and walked her away down towards the mall to one of their favorite delis for lunch, never relinquishing hold of her hand.

[azrielsiphons]

Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same (ch. 4)

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This fic is meant to be read in connection with my Azriel-centric prequel stories. I would highly suggest reading those first to get the full reading experience of this fic. 

Lucien’s brothers were gone. Vanished. There was no blood or bodies, they were just… gone.

And in their wake, standing across from Feyre, Cassian, Lucien, and Azriel, was a faceless someone hidden beneath the cloak of their hood.

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief, moving to take a step towards her, towards Lena.

But a knife sailed through the air right by Feyre’s ear and Truth Teller embedded itself deep in Lena’s chest.

Feyre screamed.

Azriel was in front of the cloaked stranger a heartbeat later and while he could hear Feyre and Cassian screaming at him, the white noise in his head was louder — the icy rage constantly in his veins had emerged in full.

He leaned down, ripping Truth Teller out of their chest. They made no nose, only slumped over. Blood dripped from beneath their hood from other injuries, but Azriel didn’t care.

He had missed their heart on purpose. He wanted to look them in the eye when he slit their throat, and watch as the life left their eyes. He had been searching for this cloaked fae for almost two centuries, and retribution was in store.

The fae gave a grunt from beneath that damned cloak that haunted Azriel's nightmares as he kicked them in the chest. They fell backwards onto the ice, wheezing. Blood pooled on the ice and snow below them, a horribly familiar sight that only enraged Azriel further.

Feyre was still screaming, but Cassian held her back. He knew when Azriel got that look in his eye, there was no stopping him.

Azriel knelt next to the fae, reaching beneath their hood and gripping a slender throat with his scarred hand.

"This is for Breen," he hissed.

And as he moved to rip their hood off and slit their throat in one smooth motion, a single sound had him freezing less than an inch away from his revenge.

Laughter.

Low, amused, bloodied laughter bubbled out from beneath the fae’s hood.

And he recognized that laughter. Every bone in Azriel’s body seemed to turn to molten liquid as he jerked away, his knife clattering to the ice behind him.

“No,” he whispered.

And then the voice that haunted his dreams spoke clearly as she leaned her head back, letting the hood fall away.

“You missed.”

Cassian cursed, stumbling backwards as his breath caught in his throat.

But Azriel — Azriel’s heart stopped beating for a split second. His very blood stopped pumping as he stared at her. At the face he only dreamed of, covered in blood dripping from cuts above her brow and a broken nose, a thick scar that had been reopened in some places cutting across the left side of her face.

Her face.

Lena’s face.

Blood dripped from her nose, coating her teeth in red as she smiled grimly. This was his worst nightmare come to life. This was a trick, a hallucination, just like before in the Middle so long ago. He was poisoned, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be.

“Lena!” Feyre cried out, rushing to her side and kneeling, her hand covered in blood when she pulled it away from where Truth Teller had been embedded just above her heart.

Truth Teller. He had thrown Truth Teller. He had almost killed her. He had been going to kill her.

Azriel turned and vomited.

~~~~~

“Lena, stay with me,” Feyre said quickly, her hands shaking as she put pressure on Lena’s chest wound. She groaned in pain, eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion. Blood was still pouring from the cuts on her face, they must have been recent, right before she arrived on the ice. With horror, Feyre realized that there was a wound in her gut as well.

“Faebane,” Lena gritted out. “Hybern’s men, they… they found me when I was tracking you. My powers are almost all the way gone, I can’t — I can’t winnow us out, I—”

“Shh,” Feyre said soothingly, pushing Lena’s blood-saturated hair away from her face. “You’re going to be fine, we’re getting you home.”

Cassian stepped past where Azriel was now dry heaving. He couldn’t bring himself to care that Lucien was staring, completely bewildered. He knelt down other the other side of Lena and cursed himself for his shaking hands.

The moment he knelt, her scent cloaking shield snapped as the last of her powers began to go. When her scent met his senses, he knew that he wasn’t dreaming. It was her — it was truly Lena.

Azriel keeled over, shouting in pain.

Cassian swallowed, making the conscious decision that he would deal with his grief and shock later. With a roll of his shoulders, he placed his hands over Lena’s gut wound. She cried out in pain and he couldn’t help but flinch.

“Take the last of it,” Lena choked out, grabbing Feyre’s forearm with her bloodied fingers. Feyre gasped as Lena poured the last remnants of her power into her High Lady.

“Stop it,” Cassian hissed. “You won’t heal, Lena stop!”

Lena didn’t though, and as the last of her power seeped into Feyre, she slumped over. Cassian froze, but slumped in relief when he realized she was still breathing — albeit shallow, wet breaths.

Feyre was still gasping, shaking at the expanse of power now coursing within her.

“Lucien, Azriel,” she choked out. “Get over here. Now!”

Lucien stumbled over, completely in shock and very confused at the turn of events. He grabbed a stunned Azriel by the arm and hauled him over as well. None of them had ever seen Azriel so unraveled, so out of that perfect control he had mastered over the centuries.

And as Feyre winnowed them across Prythian and into the Night Court lands where Mor was waiting, breaking down in hysterical sobbing when she saw Lena in Cassian’s arms, Lena realized even in her broken, unconscious state, that she was home.

~~~~~

“She is my sister, Feyre, you should have told me. Sent a note, come home with her immediately—”

“I couldn’t! She made me swear, she told me that you would die Rhys.”

“My sister, Feyre—”

“I had full faith in you protecting my sisters here without me, how could you doubt that I would—”

Lena tuned out of the conversation happening just outside of whatever room she was in. Her whole body ached, but she forced herself to remain still. She couldn’t sense much, but she felt a heavy presence at her side and a warm hand holding her own.

“Azriel will you just listen to me!”

That voice that Lena hadn’t heard in centuries resounded through the room as well, but on the opposite side, just outside the door.

“Mor, leave it.”

His voice… that was his voice.

“No! You’ve been sitting out here all night, refusing to go in or even talk to us. I get that you’re devastated, we all are—”

“You have no idea what I’m feeling, Mor,” he growled terrifyingly.

“But your devastation is not her burden to bear,” Mor snapped right back, unperturbed. “She needs you. More than probably any of us, but Cassian and Feyre and I are the only ones with the balls to go in there with her! She needs you and Rhys, Azriel.”

Silence fell once again until Mor scoffed. Lena could almost see in her mind’s eye how the blonde would have thrown her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes.

“Self-absorbed morons,” she snapped, her shoes clacking as she strode off somewhere else.

Lena forced herself to breathe evenly. Feyre and Rhys were still arguing on the other side of the wall, but she tuned it out.

This wasn’t the reunion she had been looking forward to.

“Sounds like mommy and daddy are fighting,” a low voice whispered, squeezing Lena’s hand gently. “Though I’m not sure who is who.”

Lena couldn’t help herself. Her lips twitched upwards.

“I know you’re awake,” he said softly enough that the others outside the room couldn’t hear. “You never could fool me.”

Lena opened one eye and was met with Cassian leaning towards her, his eyes lit with pure joy and amusement. Not a hint of grief.

She closed her eyes tightly once again.

“Come on,” Cassian crooned. “You know you want to see my pretty face.”

Lena huffed, wincing at the tug on her wounds. She could feel Cassian tense at her pain. She opened both eyes slowly, looking up at him.

“You let your hair grow out.”

Cassian huffed. “Back from the dead after five centuries and that sass is still there.”

Lena smiled weakly. “You know what they say. You can kill the girl, but you can’t kill the sass.” Cassian flinched. “Sorry.”

With a huff of amusement, Cassian pressed his forehead against where her hand was captured by both of his. “Don’t apologize,” he said softly, propping his chin up on their hands. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have to apologize to us for anything ever again.”

Lena’s eyes flashed and she swallowed thickly. “Trust me… that’s not true.”

Cassian’s brows drew together before he sighed. He squeezed her hands tightly and leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. Lena couldn’t help it, a tear slipped from her eye.

How long she had waited to see him once again — her Cassian, her friend, her mentor, her brother.

“We’ll worry about all of that later,” he said softly. “We just need you to get better.”

Lena swallowed, looking around the room she was in. It was somewhere she didn’t recognize — not the House of Wind, that much she was sure of. A light blanket over her legs, and her torso was bare, but wrapped completely in bandages. Spots of blood seeped through even still.

A glance to her other side had Lena looking into a small mirror and she flinched when she saw her reflection.

Even after almost two centuries, she tended to forgot about the horrible thick scar that marred her face. Her right eye was bruised purple and yellow, and a cut was still healing on her lip.

“Pretty as ever,” Cassian said softly. She turned her head and glared, but he only grinned. “Prettier than Rhys, at least.”

“Oh, always,” she said back.

And just like that, it hit her that she was home. Sitting there, Cassian’s hands holding hers, her family just outside the door, teasing with him, laughing with him as if the past five centuries hadn’t happened…

She couldn’t have stopped the tears if she tried. The cut on her lip split again as her lip trembled and her shoulders shook with barely restrained sobs.

“Lena…”

Cassian said nothing as he leaned in and pulled her up and into his chest, being careful of her injuries. She was full on sobbing now, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life.

It was all just too much. The way that Azriel had looked at her when he’d kicked her in the chest and moved to slit her throat, her inability to fight back out of complete and total shock, Feyre gripping her hand, her powers being ripped from her body by Hybern’s men, the smell of Velaris, the knowledge that the King’s spell had been a ploy all these centuries, the sound of everyone fighting because of her —

It was all just too much.

And so Lena cried. She cried for her mother, for all those she had killed, for her brother left alone for centuries, for Azriel’s broken heart.

And she cried for herself. For the girl she had once been that died right alongside Wren all those centuries ago.

Lena vaguely registered Rhys, Feyre, and Mor bursting into the room at the sound of her heavy sobs. She felt herself being transferred from Cassian’s arms into Rhys’s, but she only held him all the tighter. She heard Mor crying, holding her hand tighty. She felt Feyre watching them, tears slipping from her own eyes.

And when Lena heard Azriel’s steps taking him further and further away from her, she cried even harder.

~~~~~

The moon was high in the sky when Lena woke up once again.

After hours of crying and holding one another and explanation after awful explanation on Lena’s part, she had finally made Rhys, Cassian, Mor and Feyre leave. She assured them that she was fine, that she could already feel her magic coming back and healing her injuries faster by the second.

It might have been a lie, but it was a small lie. And after scolding Rhys for the guilt on his face when he looked at Feyre, torn between wanting to be with his mate after only a month’s separation or being with his sister and 500 years of separation, she pinched his arm and told him to get out and come see her in the morning. He had looked down at her, utterly devastated and simultaneously delighted that she was acting so much like her old self that he thought long gone.

But Lena knew it for the lie it was. She wasn’t her old self. That girl was dead. And no matter that the King’s spell had all been a lie — she was still a weapon. A living weapon. No longer Daughter of the Night Court.

No longer… anyone.

Cassian and Mor had also been reluctant to leave, but a comment from Feyre about the creature Amren — who Lena still had yet to meet — needing to speak with them as soon as possible had them scurrying after hugging her tightly and promising to be back before first light.

But first light was still a few hours off, and Lena was wide awake. Her magic truly was coming back now, and while her face was still bruised and the wound just above her heart was still healing, everything else was fine.

Lena laughed bitterly as she thought to herself how ironic it was that Azriel’s blade had almost pierced her heart. Of course.

With a grunt, Lena sat up from her bed and tossed her legs over the side. With several deep breaths, she managed to stand to her feet without too much pain, though she had to brace herself on the bedframe to keep from falling over for the first few steps.

With a hand on her still sore gut, Lena slowly limped towards the door. She opened it slowly, looking to the left and the right of the corridor before gingerly stepping out. Her senses were still dulled from the lingering faebane, so she couldn’t smell or hear as well as usual, but it seemed that none of the healers were milling about at that time of night.

As silently as she could — which was still quite silent considering her condition — Lena made her way down the hall barefoot, clad in only bandages covering her torso and linen shorts that one of the healers had changed her into when she had first arrived unconscious.

Lena didn’t need her enhanced senses to smell the Velaris air — she would know that telltale salty breeze anywhere. Her steps hurried and she only stumbled once, catching herself on the wall with a grunt as she made her way to an open balcony.

And then there it was.

Velaris.

Home.

Lena breathed in deeply through her nose, her eyes fluttering shut as she let it wash over her. The King had been very clear that she was never to go near the Night Court during her service to him.

487 years. 487 years apart, but she was home.

With her voice a mere whisper on the wind, Lena said to the shadow behind her, watching silently —

“I know you’re there.”

~~~~~

Azriel froze.

At the sound of her voice, his shadows scattered — ran. She didn’t bother turning around to look, but he saw her shiver when he was in plain sight, no longer hiding as he watched her.

He had been sitting outside her room, he had been all night. Listening to her breathe, inhaling her scent deep within his lungs every few seconds to tell himself that it was real, that it was really her and not just some sick and twisted dream.

But it was her. His Lena. Back from the dead and covered in scars from head to toe, the one beneath her left eye the worst of them all.

And now she would have a new one. Right above her heart. From his blade.

He had heard her getting out of bed, breathing through the pain of her injuries. He had wrapped himself in shadow just one second before she had stepped through the door.

She was right there. His Lena, standing right in front of him, towering over where he sat on the ground leaned against the opposite wall. And all he could do was stare.

When she started walking, hurrying for the open air, he could only follow. The world could have been set on fire all around them, and he would still have only been able to follow her. And when she stumbled, his hands hovered over her waist, ready to protect.

But then he jerked away. What good had his protection done?

And now as she stood on that balcony, the moonlight making her hair look so dark it was almost blue, he was numb. Completely, totally numb.

Lena inhaled deeply through her nose, flinching at… something.

Slowly, almost unbearably so, she turned.

And as Azriel beheld her face, her violet eyes looking right into his very soul, he felt it.

That thread he had pushed away time and time and time again. He had felt it when he took her flying on her twentieth birthday, he had felt it when she had held him close on the bridge over the Sidra, he had felt it every time he pulled her into the shadows with him and kissed him breathless all those years ago, he had felt it when he had been inside her and she had whispered she loved him the last time they had been together.

Azriel felt it. That thread of pure shadows and darkness between them, he thought severed but was only dormant of his own making.

He took a bewildered step forward, his eyes never leaving her face — still so beautiful, so stunning. She was holding her breath, her eyes lined with silver, but she was as unable to look away as he was.

And as he fell to his knees before her, looking up at her as the moon shone down on her as if she were the Mother herself, Azriel only had one word.

“Mate.”

~~~~~

Lena collapsed, but he caught her. Of course he caught her. And the moment his hands touched her skin, the moment she could feel him, she fell into his embrace.

She couldn’t cry — no, there were no tears left within her. She could only hold onto him tightly, breathing in his scent and letting it wrap around her soul. She felt the bond between them, his side of the cord finally coming to fruition after years and years and years of waiting.

He buried his hands in her hair, whispering incoherently how sorry he was over and over again. She had no words, she could only clutch him all the tighter.

And they stayed like that in each other’s arms until the moon fell and the sun rose.

Shadows and darkness, one and the same.

>>Note: This is not the end of Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same

[forthegothicheroine]

Dear Yuletide Author

I’m robberbaroness on Archive of Our Own, and I would just like to say how lovely to have you in my corner!  The inescapable onslaught of Christmas becomes more bearable knowing I have some great fic waiting for me!  Seriously, thank you for picking one of my weird-ass requests.  I’ve bubbled over with ideas for these, so please don’t feel obligated to include *everything* I’ve suggested or put in my general likes.  I really just want to see what you come up with!

General likes: Worldbuilding, hard-won happy endings, F/M, maledom (dubcon or noncon are okay, as long as they are acknowledged as such), historical AUs, fairy tale motifs, female-centric stories, gen friendship stories.

General dislikes: ABO, snuff fic, scat, mundane AUs, character bashing, female characters pushed aside.

Georgia Coffee “Twin Peaks” Commercials (characters: Dale Cooper, Ken, Asami)

The only Twin Peaks canon with a happy ending!  I got a really cute treat for this last year, and now I’m anxious for more.

If you haven’t seen these delightful commercials (which have a whole story and everything!) you can watch them here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3acm7j9k_1w .  Agent Cooper and a Japanese detective investigate the disappearance of a beautiful woman from the Great Northern, take plenty of breaks for Georgia Coffee, and actually rescue her from the Black Lodge!  No surprise downer twist!  I really need this right now.

You can take this in either a comic or a serious direction, and set it anywhere in the series.  (It seems like it would fit best either during the original run or after the Return.)  Bring in more Twin Peaks characters if you like (Donna and Albert are always appreciated!) but don’t feel that you have to.  I just want to know about how these events played out.  Another idea- maybe Cooper reconnects with Ken and Asami in the new timeline at the end of Return and they help him set things right?  But really, do whatever you want here as long as it has a happy ending.

Hard Candy (character: Hayley Stark)

Hayley is something between a hero and a monster, and I want to read about her.  You can expand on the events in canon if you like (did she really know Donna?  Will she kill again?) or give me an AU.  Pre-revolutionary French Hayley, taking a dagger to libertines!  Renaissance Italian Hayley, enacting her very own revenge tragedy!  Film noir girl detective Hayley, with methods that are a bit more ruthless than those of Nancy Drew!  Or go with the suggestion offered by Kim Newman in his book Nightmare Movies, and have her actually be a supernatural entity; a ghost, a goddess, an avenging angel, whatever you’d like.

The only things I don’t want are Hayley as an opportunistic sadist (she clearly cares about these events, even if she’s just a sociopath personally disgusted by child predators) or Hayley/Jeff.  But you knew that last one, right?

I’m cool with Crueltide fic for this canon.  Preferably no porn here, though.

Hope: The Other Side of Adventure

I keep asking for this every year, and one day I will get it.  If you came here for another fandom, consider checking this out as well- it’s a free iphone game (yes, free, despite the fakeout about adding a quarter towards the end) which you check on once a day for five or so days for a couple of minutes of pure heartache.  It’s basically about what Princess Peach or Zelda might be thinking while she waits for her videogame hero to rescue her, and it’ll make you think very differently about any damsel in distress games you play in the future.

I’ll take pretty much any kind of fic for this, but if you want some prompts, consider: what happens after she’s rescued?  Was the hero dicking around collecting stars while she waited in dread or was he really trying his best to save her, getting irritated when nobody else in the world of the game seemed to take the quest seriously?  Or give me some creepy stuff with the Duke as he threatens his captive- how does she respond?  If you just want to write more of the Princess’ inner monologue as per the game, I’ll happily take that!

The only thing I specifically don’t want is victim blaming.  Oddly enough, the article that first alerted me to this game described it as being about a wimpy princess who desperately needed to listen to some Beyonce and get empowered.  Listen, you try breaking out of a castle locked and guarded by a warlord, then you get to criticize the Princess.

Horror of Dracula (character: Van Helsing)

Peter Cushing is one of my all time favorite actors, and his Van Helsing one of my all time greatest movie crushes.  He’s a good guy in the truest sense of the word, that rare hero who does what he does because he’s actually kind and caring and wants to help people as opposed to just testing his strength against his foes.  He’s a nerd and a swashbuckler, the perfect combination.

So, give me a story about him!  He could do further battle with Dracula or any other monsters in the Hammer Horror lineup (bonus points for mistaken identity hijinks if it’s Frankenstein.)  I would especially like to see him in a romance- with Mina, Lucy, Dracula’s bride, Marianne from Brides of Dracula, or an OC.  But if you aren’t feeling shippy fic, then just give me some exciting, funny, angsty or otherwise interesting escapades.

Darkest Dungeon (character: Graverobber)

My beautiful, snarky noblewoman!  There’s so much to play with here, be it in backstory, midgame or epilogue.  Her backstory comic (http://www.darkestdungeon.com/darkest-dungeon-presents-the-grave-robber/ ) hints at a lot, but there’s still plenty to be elaborated upon.  Was the man in the picture her father or her husband, and what was life like with him?  Did she get into any amusing shenanigans robbing her own ancestral tombs?  (Of course she did.)  I would LOVE to see her interacting with members of the Crimson Court, almost her kind of people but oh so wrong.  If you want to ship her with anyone feel free (my preference is the Houndmaster- ex-cop and ex-thief!- but pretty much anyone would lead to an interesting story.)  And what about how her personality changes in the game with acquired strengths and weaknesses?  If you just have a funny story from one of your playthroughs where she gets an odd quirk, I’d love to read it!

I’m cool with Crueltide fic here, too.

Kushiel’s Legacy

Unlike some of my other requests, I know exactly what I want here: Night Court worldbuilding!  There are so many interesting houses that are either mysterious (what exactly does an adept of Orchis or Briony do?) or touched upon without elaboration (how far do adepts of Mandrake or Valerian who don’t have Phaedre’s super-masochism go?)  Whether it’s smutty, romantic or behind the scenes and businesslike, featuring the characters we know and love or OCs of your own, I would really like some descriptive Night Court adventures.

[demitgibbs]

Screen Queens

Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again

You don’t need to see Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again more than once. That’s still one more time than you needed to see the original Mamma Mia! when Meryl Streep bopped and pranced around the streets of Greece’s dreamy Kalokairi island. One very famous woman’s infectious buoyancy, however, couldn’t entirely save the jukebox musical’s no-fun drudgery, nor could she cleanse Pierce Brosnan’s croak of a “voice.” For good reason, then, Streep bowed out of Here We Go Again – almost, anyway (her single scene is literally otherworldly and more tearfully tender than it ought to be; also, I’m a crybaby). But no matter: Your mom’s favorite movie of 2018 is a brand of stupid-fun I support, probably best viewed after eating an edible. It tells the story of Streep’s Donna without Streep (played in her youth circa the 1970s, through flashbacks, by a very alive Lily James), as she journeys to matriarchal womanhood with the man triad who swept her off her feet, naturally set to deeper-catalog ABBA bops/ballads not in its predecessor. Like an amusement park ride you promised yourself you’d never go on again but then you just couldn’t help yourself, Here We Go Again is just that, with the gratuitous and appropriately dramatic and well-lit addition of a mini Cher concert. Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, after all, isn’t really a movie anyway; it’s a gay reason for gay sons and their gay-adoring moms to bond together and want to plan a trip to Greece together and emphatically say “OMG, don’t you just love Christine Baranski?!” together. So just surrender to its dumb charms and then gaily skip to the special features to see Meryl do a drag-worthy vocal impression of Cher.

A Simple Favor

Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick making out in A Simple Favor was the lesbian kiss 2018 needed, so thanks a million for that, Paul Feig. The comedy writer-director who we love because he loves putting women first in his films (particularly his muse Melissa McCarthy, in both Spy and Bridesmaids) has his finger on the pulse of so many gay things in his latest flick, merging dark, twisted comedy with his signature farce. Beyond the Lively-Kendrick hookup that rocked our world, Feig somehow knew exactly what was missing from queer cinema: a frothy Hitchcockian crime soap opera about a bisexual mom (Lively) and a straight mom (Kendrick) that also features a Mr. Mom (Andrew Rannells, gay). Kendrick’s cat-sock-wearing Stephanie meets the sophisticated, wouldn’t-be-caught-in-cat-socks Emily, deliciously played by Lively, at their kids’ school. They are night and day, and their mom differences (Stephanie would never hang a giant painting of her bushy vag in her home!) makes for some genius comedic awkwardness. But things get weird and twisty and gayer when Stephanie disappears after asking Emily to pick up her son from school. Emily goes into Nancy Drew search mode: “We are soldiering on with cookies and origami,” she bravely shares with the moms who watch her dorky domestic vlog. Come for the kiss and Blake Lively in men’s suits; stay for the bonkers shift into “Murder, She Vlogged.”

Shampoo

Before we knew straight men could look as good as gay men and not even identify as gay, there was Warren Beatty as George, whose sexuality was the subject of speculation in 1975’s raunchy sex dramedy Shampoo. During a business meeting, George explains to aging private investor Lester (Jack Warden) that beauty school led him to his profession as a hairdresser, leaving Lester looking as stumped as any old white guy who can’t conceive of breaking gender norms. Little does Lester know that George’s bedhead poof of a Mick Jagger mane is the result of the lady carousel he’s riding hard. One of those women is Jackie (Julie Christie), Lester’s mistress. Lester is blind to their affair: “You think George is a fairy?” he asks Jackie. (Later, when the two are caught in an intimate hair-styling moment, George feigns gay.) Then there’s Goldie Hawn and Lee Grant, as Jill and Felicia, respectively; George keeps both women around for different reasons, though role-wise Hawn got the feebler of the female parts while Grant got an Oscar. Set against the 1968 presidential election, Shampoo is a sign of the times with regard to evolving homosexuality and big-picture politics, marked by an intimate love story that’s messy, bittersweet and holds up timelessly in 2019. During one of many supplemental features on Criterion Collection’s new restoration, critics Mark Harris and Frank Rich discuss Carrie Fisher’s use of the word “faggity” and the film’s striking gay implications.

Also Out

Halloween

The new Halloween is not great. If you’ve never seen a horror movie before or lived through America in 2018, there are some scares, and one particularly effective and artfully shot sequence is thrilling: a long, strolling shot of the franchise’s masked terror, Michael Myers, on Halloween night amid trick-or-treaters going about his usual knife-bludgeoning business. It’s the perfect throwback to John Carpenter’s 1978 classic, his legendary score still bone-chilling 40 years on. The big sell here is Jamie Lee Curtis returning as Grandma Laurie Strode, even though she fell to her death in 2002’s Resurrection, a movie that doesn’t matter (and never mattered; it’s bad) because director David Gordon Green’s Trump-era Halloween asks you to forget that Curtis was even in a movie with Busta Rhymes and Tyra Banks. This contemporary pseudo-feminist take featuring generations of women standing up to an evil man (sound familiar?) serves as a direct sequel – and, occasionally, slick homage – to Carpenter’s classic. Curtis’ Laurie is one-note frayed and fierce, but at least watching her kick major ass is more inspirational than anything the other Grandma Lauries watch on the Hallmark Channel.

Philadelphia

For just under five minutes, Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington and Mary Steenburgen, along with openly gay screenwriter Ron Nyswaner, reflect on the intent and legacy of their landmark AIDS-centric drama Philadelphia. These new interviews featured on the 25th Anniversary 4K Ultra HD and Blu-ray Edition of the 1993 film, renowned for giving a human face to AIDS and gay discrimination, are slight. Perhaps that’s because viewing this historical snapshot all these years later – post same-sex marriage, post PrEP – does most of the speaking on its own. It speaks to a time. It speaks to a community. It speaks to those outside of the community: “I don’t think Philadelphia was made for gay people,” Hanks says. “It was made for straight people who didn’t understand how you could be gay or why you were gay.”

Some Like It Hot

American cinema will tell you that if you’re a man in peril – running from criminals? looking for a way to see your kids after losing custody of them? – slipping into a dress, plopping on a wig and powdering your face can free you from your troubles. Beloved crime-comedy caper Some Like It Hot, to which Mrs. Doubtfire and those White Chicks owe their thanks, would become the definitive landmark crossdressing farce, and the 1959 film is preserved as beautifully as Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis (and, of course, Marilyn Monroe) in lace and lipstick with this new 4K digital restoration Blu-ray from Criterion. Special features are plentiful: a 1988 talk between Curtis and critic Leonard Maltin, a new costume-centric featurette, and a wonderful essay written by author Sam Wasson.

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2019/02/21/screen-queens/ from Hot Spots Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.tumblr.com/post/182960416805

[cynthiajayusa]

Screen Queens

Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again

You don’t need to see Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again more than once. That’s still one more time than you needed to see the original Mamma Mia! when Meryl Streep bopped and pranced around the streets of Greece’s dreamy Kalokairi island. One very famous woman’s infectious buoyancy, however, couldn’t entirely save the jukebox musical’s no-fun drudgery, nor could she cleanse Pierce Brosnan’s croak of a “voice.” For good reason, then, Streep bowed out of Here We Go Again – almost, anyway (her single scene is literally otherworldly and more tearfully tender than it ought to be; also, I’m a crybaby). But no matter: Your mom’s favorite movie of 2018 is a brand of stupid-fun I support, probably best viewed after eating an edible. It tells the story of Streep’s Donna without Streep (played in her youth circa the 1970s, through flashbacks, by a very alive Lily James), as she journeys to matriarchal womanhood with the man triad who swept her off her feet, naturally set to deeper-catalog ABBA bops/ballads not in its predecessor. Like an amusement park ride you promised yourself you’d never go on again but then you just couldn’t help yourself, Here We Go Again is just that, with the gratuitous and appropriately dramatic and well-lit addition of a mini Cher concert. Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, after all, isn’t really a movie anyway; it’s a gay reason for gay sons and their gay-adoring moms to bond together and want to plan a trip to Greece together and emphatically say “OMG, don’t you just love Christine Baranski?!” together. So just surrender to its dumb charms and then gaily skip to the special features to see Meryl do a drag-worthy vocal impression of Cher.

A Simple Favor

Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick making out in A Simple Favor was the lesbian kiss 2018 needed, so thanks a million for that, Paul Feig. The comedy writer-director who we love because he loves putting women first in his films (particularly his muse Melissa McCarthy, in both Spy and Bridesmaids) has his finger on the pulse of so many gay things in his latest flick, merging dark, twisted comedy with his signature farce. Beyond the Lively-Kendrick hookup that rocked our world, Feig somehow knew exactly what was missing from queer cinema: a frothy Hitchcockian crime soap opera about a bisexual mom (Lively) and a straight mom (Kendrick) that also features a Mr. Mom (Andrew Rannells, gay). Kendrick’s cat-sock-wearing Stephanie meets the sophisticated, wouldn’t-be-caught-in-cat-socks Emily, deliciously played by Lively, at their kids’ school. They are night and day, and their mom differences (Stephanie would never hang a giant painting of her bushy vag in her home!) makes for some genius comedic awkwardness. But things get weird and twisty and gayer when Stephanie disappears after asking Emily to pick up her son from school. Emily goes into Nancy Drew search mode: “We are soldiering on with cookies and origami,” she bravely shares with the moms who watch her dorky domestic vlog. Come for the kiss and Blake Lively in men’s suits; stay for the bonkers shift into “Murder, She Vlogged.”

Shampoo

Before we knew straight men could look as good as gay men and not even identify as gay, there was Warren Beatty as George, whose sexuality was the subject of speculation in 1975’s raunchy sex dramedy Shampoo. During a business meeting, George explains to aging private investor Lester (Jack Warden) that beauty school led him to his profession as a hairdresser, leaving Lester looking as stumped as any old white guy who can’t conceive of breaking gender norms. Little does Lester know that George’s bedhead poof of a Mick Jagger mane is the result of the lady carousel he’s riding hard. One of those women is Jackie (Julie Christie), Lester’s mistress. Lester is blind to their affair: “You think George is a fairy?” he asks Jackie. (Later, when the two are caught in an intimate hair-styling moment, George feigns gay.) Then there’s Goldie Hawn and Lee Grant, as Jill and Felicia, respectively; George keeps both women around for different reasons, though role-wise Hawn got the feebler of the female parts while Grant got an Oscar. Set against the 1968 presidential election, Shampoo is a sign of the times with regard to evolving homosexuality and big-picture politics, marked by an intimate love story that’s messy, bittersweet and holds up timelessly in 2019. During one of many supplemental features on Criterion Collection’s new restoration, critics Mark Harris and Frank Rich discuss Carrie Fisher’s use of the word “faggity” and the film’s striking gay implications.

Also Out

Halloween

The new Halloween is not great. If you’ve never seen a horror movie before or lived through America in 2018, there are some scares, and one particularly effective and artfully shot sequence is thrilling: a long, strolling shot of the franchise’s masked terror, Michael Myers, on Halloween night amid trick-or-treaters going about his usual knife-bludgeoning business. It’s the perfect throwback to John Carpenter’s 1978 classic, his legendary score still bone-chilling 40 years on. The big sell here is Jamie Lee Curtis returning as Grandma Laurie Strode, even though she fell to her death in 2002’s Resurrection, a movie that doesn’t matter (and never mattered; it’s bad) because director David Gordon Green’s Trump-era Halloween asks you to forget that Curtis was even in a movie with Busta Rhymes and Tyra Banks. This contemporary pseudo-feminist take featuring generations of women standing up to an evil man (sound familiar?) serves as a direct sequel – and, occasionally, slick homage – to Carpenter’s classic. Curtis’ Laurie is one-note frayed and fierce, but at least watching her kick major ass is more inspirational than anything the other Grandma Lauries watch on the Hallmark Channel.

Philadelphia

For just under five minutes, Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington and Mary Steenburgen, along with openly gay screenwriter Ron Nyswaner, reflect on the intent and legacy of their landmark AIDS-centric drama Philadelphia. These new interviews featured on the 25th Anniversary 4K Ultra HD and Blu-ray Edition of the 1993 film, renowned for giving a human face to AIDS and gay discrimination, are slight. Perhaps that’s because viewing this historical snapshot all these years later – post same-sex marriage, post PrEP – does most of the speaking on its own. It speaks to a time. It speaks to a community. It speaks to those outside of the community: “I don’t think Philadelphia was made for gay people,” Hanks says. “It was made for straight people who didn’t understand how you could be gay or why you were gay.”

Some Like It Hot

American cinema will tell you that if you’re a man in peril – running from criminals? looking for a way to see your kids after losing custody of them? – slipping into a dress, plopping on a wig and powdering your face can free you from your troubles. Beloved crime-comedy caper Some Like It Hot, to which Mrs. Doubtfire and those White Chicks owe their thanks, would become the definitive landmark crossdressing farce, and the 1959 film is preserved as beautifully as Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis (and, of course, Marilyn Monroe) in lace and lipstick with this new 4K digital restoration Blu-ray from Criterion. Special features are plentiful: a 1988 talk between Curtis and critic Leonard Maltin, a new costume-centric featurette, and a wonderful essay written by author Sam Wasson.

source https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2019/02/21/screen-queens/ from Hot Spots Magazine https://hotspotsmagazin.blogspot.com/2019/02/screen-queens.html