#Resurrection of She-Hulk

[keycomicbooks]

Civil War II 4 (2016) Marko Djurdjevic Cover, Brian Michael Bendis Story, David Marquez Pencils, 1st Appearance of Alison Green, Resurrection of She-Hulk

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[comfortless]

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

[thenewgirl76]

It's In My Blood

Okay, random idea centered around halfas that I just had to share.

What if besides death followed by resurrection via a source of ectoplasm, a human-ghost hybrid could also be created She Hulk style. And by that I mean the old school comics. Not that spiteful heap of garbage masquerading as a tv adaptation made by that toxically bitter hack Jessica Gao.

This can be applied to whatever hero/villain you choose, I'm going with Batman. Mostly because I haven't seen many half ghost Bruce Wayne posts.

Anyway, the scenario starts off with Alfred finding Danny roaming the streets in search of food due to running away from foster care. (Jack and Maddy left him there in the hopes of keeping him safe from the GIW after Wes finally succeeded in outing him to all of Amity) And through lots of gentle coaxing convinces him to let Alfred take him home.

Eventually Danny gets so attached he readily agrees to being adopted into the Wayne family by Alfred. Once enough trust has been built overtime to share identities Gotham automatically gains a new protector.

Then the further establishment of new relationships is suddenly interrupted by a full-scale alien invasion, requiring all hands on deck. Though all the heroes manage to hold their own for the most part it quickly becomes clear they may not win this battle if they don't find something to turn the tide in their favor.

They get that something in the form of Phantom rallying all his ghost allies/frenemies to join the fight. With their added power the entirety of the alien army is thoroughly beaten back. But not before Batman takes a hit hard enough to cause him to bleed out at an alarming rate.

The already dire situation worsens all the more when it's discovered that Batman is a rare blood type and no one in the batclan or even the other human heroes matches. All save for Phantom. Problem is, with all that ecto mixed with his blood a transfusion could possibly poison or worse kill his big brother. Everyone is aware of this. But any other option would take too long and Batman doesn't have much time left.

So with bated breath and reluctance Phantom gives his blood. For a few scary minutes it looks like Batman might be showing signs of rejection. But then he slowly begins to stabilize, giving the medical team much needed breathing room to get him properly tended to.

While Bats may be on the mend no one's relaxing just yet. And not for a lack of trying. It's just a little hard to be chill when Mr. Dark and Broody has started randomly going invisible or intangible, speaking with an echo, levitating over his bed, and overall become creepily unsettling to look at. Especially with that unnatural glow in his eyes.

[victoriadallonfan]

Alien vs Predator vs Parahumans

So, recently, I decided to check out Alien vs Avengers because that art is gorgeous and I was curious about how an author could write a xenomorph outbreak in the Marvel Universe, and what wacky interplays they can do with various aliens, superpowers, and magical stuff.

It was... disappointing. Not to go all power levels on us, but it had Hulk struggle with a single drone and Spider-Man be caught off guard by a face hugger. And randomly immune to magic.

Not great.

So I got to thinking... what would be a cool way to handle Alien, Predator, and the Parahumans franchise?

Spoilers beneath the cut for Ward Spoilers

I think the one that gives the least amount of headaches would be post-Ward, so I'll be going off that timeframe.

They way I envision it, is that Weyland-Yutani (Or just Weyland at this point I suppose) is a wealthy organization focusing on colonizing other Earths, seemingly working with the Wardens, Auzure, and Mortari in helping refugees and allied colonies to have viable successes.

They aren't squeaky clean, obviously, but all their marks against them seem small potatoes when the city of Perpetuity had to deal with winter, anti-parahumans, Shin and Cheit terrorists, supervillains, the Machine Army, and Titans over the course of Ward itself.

So the company grows in power and influence, eventually funding a colony they call Jericho on a pretty barren Earth, claiming to use it as a test bed for more hostile environment technology. Not many people give the useless rock and it's colony much of a glance, beyond noting the oddity of 2000 residents going over there.

Quite a lot for merely scientist and personnel families, but again, bigger issues.

During the epilogue of Ward, the Majors are made up of Sveta (Coach/Mentor), Victoria (assistant coach/mentor), Withdrawal, Caryatid, Finale, and Limerick. The team as a whole has made waves with their travels across the multiverse, protecting colonies from supervillains, monsters, and natural disasters.

With Victoria flying off to Japan to help with the cape resurrection project, The Majors are content with doing a final lap of known colonies when Withdrawal picks up an SOS from Jericho on his scanner, only for the signal to cut out.

Curious, the team heads out to the portal leading to the colony... and are met with Weyland Yutani security and a Project Executive, who greet the heroes with artificial cheeriness ("Server malfunction, you know how the tech acts with these wacky powers!" "Oh the armed security? Well, you know, can't be too careful with the wildlife and all that supervillain nonsense." "Oh, you want to check in with the colony? Uhhh, wow, hm, I'll need to bump it up to my bosses boss - paperwork am I right - and I'll need to see about permits and gosh- Oh, what was that? You... You know the Mayor personally? Oh you're going to call her to grease the wheels? Well, you know what, I don't want to bother her with such a small issue so how about you stick around and you don't tell on me that I'm looking the other way a bit wink wink hahahaaaa.....")

The tension is not quite high, but everyone feels a bit on edge with each other as they go through the portal. The security team leader explains the colony is actually several miles away from the portal to better work with the natural earths hostile environment, so it's not uncommon for some issues to come up and these check-ups are mandatory (though it's clear she's upset that the Executive is on the ground here with his own goons). The Majors aren't quite used to the military types beyond Limerick, but they do their best to try and bond with the group.

Tensions don't lessen when radio contact continues to be unreciprocated by the colony as they drive in, though it's still explained away with bad reception from the harsh Earth.

This quickly changes when the colony is abandoned. A ghost town. Ruined cars are in the street, windows busted and interiors ruined by the harsh conditions of Earth. Shell casings randomly across the colony, along with discarded guns.

Checking the databases finds that the records - all of them - have been deleted.

Yeah, this is a problem now.

There's more tension, more arguments about what happened and what to do, but the Executive eventually reveals that there is technically another site further off in the distance: an archeological dig site for what they thought were past Earth inhabitants.

The group heads there and finds the dig site ruined, thrashed apart at the opening of a massive tunnel leading into the earth below.

The story from there follows the Majors and WY team exploring the cave and running into the Xenomorphs, the cave morphing and activating various traps or leading into biomes that make no sense for existing underground.

Meanwhile, a trio of young predators are being led to the ritual site by an Elder, and find these superpowered humans to be the perfect chance to hunt new prey....

[rei-ismyname]

Storm with Mjolnir

Goddess of Thunder twice over, worthy AF

Thor summons Ororo right at the climax of the Genesis War. She demands he return her to Arakko, but this is a much bigger problem. Also, how TF does Al Ewing write Immortal Hulk, SWORD, Guardians of the Galaxy, Venom, X-Men Red, Resurrection of Magneto, and Immortal Thor either back to back or at the same time? He's a beast.

Cheeky 'Cyclops was right' poster in the background

It all started when Thor returned to Midgard and found it not to his liking. He smote some ORCHIS fascists and freed mutants until presented with an apocalyptic problem only he could solve. Toranos, a rival jerk of a Thunder God.

After temporarily banishing him at a high cost, Thor needed allies! First was Ororo.

Ororo doesn't like being summoned.

But there are forces that even a God must bow to. She zaps the shit out of Thor, though it kinda looks like he enjoys it.

Thor simply asks the lightning to stop then tries to explain himself.

Ororo turns up the heat while Ewing references his own work and gets metatextual with a little jab at powerscalers. Thor flings Mjolnir at/to Storm, leading to the first panel I posted. Thororo rides again!

Loki shows up and apologises for the events of Asgardian Wars in the 80s, then he gets metatextual too. He also portals in Beta Ray Bill.

Loki touches Mjolnir and Jane Foster arrives. The new Thor Corps is born! Very fucking cool.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Locked Out - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco goes a step too far.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Tip Jar

"Silco?"

"Hm?"

"Have you considered—" She stops, "—what Vi's death will do to Jinx?"

"I have."

"And? If you can't control her emotions, you won't be able to control the consequences."

"Jinx is resilient." Silco threads a cufflink through one sleeve, then the other. "She'll survive."

"And forgive you?"

"I'm all she has." 

Unspoken: All she'll ever have.

Sevika takes the glass of vodka, and slugs it back. Then she sets it down with a hard clink. Her expression flattens itself. He knows that look too. It's the look that says she's about to bare her throat to him, and she'll take his head off if he dares to go for it. He's struck by the threads of silver that've begun to glint in her pitch-black hair, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Numberless days of combat, closeness, counsel, sewn together in a single thread: one that binds him to the past, and keeps the future in his crosshairs.

And yet she has not changed. Not at the core. Thirteen years of loyalty, heaps of bodies, and a steady acceptance of every fatality in between.

This time, he understands, the acceptance may not be as steadfast. 

"If Nandi showed up again," Sevika says. "Right now, right here, alive as the day she died, I'd have two reactions. One: I'd be so goddamn happy I'd break down crying. And two: I'd gut anyone who tried to put a hand on her again. I'd do it for her. I'd do it for me. Because it's taken me this long to get over it. It's taken me this long to even imagine a future without her in it."

Silco's scarred features are etched in the neon-striped gloom. The rest is shadow. Preternaturally still.

"I know you," Sevika goes on. "I know you'll never forget what Vander did to you. What it cost you. I know that, after all these years, you've built up a rage like nothing I've ever seen.  But what if he came back?  Would you still go through with it? Would you still want him dead?"

Silco says nothing.

He thinks of Vander as he'd seen him last: a hulk of spoiling meat. He thinks of Vander before the drowning: a blurred silhouette in red riverwater. He thinks of Vander on the Day of Ash: a behemoth in a backdrop of flames. He summons the memories up with tenderness and no hatred, even as he knows that if Vander were to resurrect now, try to threaten Jinx, he'd stab him ten times over. Wouldn't stop until the man was a corpse.

Again.

That's what the rage says. But the residue of man says: No, and no. It's a truth buried deep. Too deep to be excavated. So he leaves it alone, beneath the layers of sediment. Beneath the body of a dead man, and the promise of a better world

One Silco will carve out with his own bloodstained hands.

Crossing the room, Silco pauses at the door. The knob is bracingly cold against his palm. 

"Dead is dead," he states. "It's the living who incur the cost." 

And he'll make sure Vi pays hers.

Stock, lock, and barrel.

In the background, Sevika's stare burns into his skull. But her mouth stays shut. He leaves her like that: the woman who'd watched the dark swallow him whole, and chosen to stay beside him as the shadows lengthened. So long as it meant a city shining bright. So long as it meant home.

Now she's paying her own price: an empty flat, an empty bed, a dead man's silhouette. And a monster who'll never, ever fill any of them.

Huskily, she says. "Watch yourself."

"You know me," Silco answers.

"I do."

The words pass with a grim intensity, like a vow.

Or a renunciation.

Shutting the door behind him, Silco hears a moment's silence. Then hollow click of the deadbolt sliding home.

And he wonders, with a sudden twinge like a blade between the ribs, if Sevika has locked herself in.

Or locked him out for good.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Kraven In Marvel Rivals

I just. Imagine it. And squirrel girl and them interacting 😭 Ok so imma do my best to like. Give a game play concept. So like yeah. There is so much detail here. I hope yall appreciate. And uh if yall wanna like more let me know pls

Ignore the lack of details on the gun. Guns are hard 😔

His Play Style

Hunters Eye

A passive Skill that allows him to increase crit chances against animal themed enemies (SQUIRREL girl, SPIDER man, Rocket RACOON, etc)

Hit List

Able to fire a bullet that allows you to track a target for a temporary time frame. Lasts longer on animal themed hero’s by a few seconds

Blood Lust

A Passive where he will develop a temporary movement speed after getting a KO

Fish In A Barrel

Able to throw a net to temporarily stun the enemy. Can be used on people who can fly and make them crash to the ground, causing small amount of damage from the impact. Same applies to if Spider-Man is on a wall

Cat Scratch

Similar to Squirrel Girl’s tail bounce he can leap himself to a wall and perch against it to take a sniper position aim. Consider it a merge of Tail Bounce and Spider-Man’s wall crawl. A hand will sink his claws into it, and he will use his other arm to aim his sniper rifle

Dodge The Dagger

His melee is that of a dagger, and his claws.

Feral Frenzy

“YOU ARE MINE” Ultimate where he becomes a Tank similar to The Hulk. Able to charge towards the enemy and swipe at them. Holds a temporary higher resistance to projectiles in the frenzy. Works well for a last hurrah/barrier breaker for Domination

Team Up Ability

The Pride

When Spider-Man and Squirrel Girl are on the same team with him he has a chance of resurrection if either two kill an enemy team member. Much like Hela’s team up

For Spider-Man and Squirrel Girl they’ll be given a increase health bar and critical chance increase

Some Interactions

“Well hello there, little one. Are you Belka’s friend?”

“MRR-!”

“You seem like someone she would befriend.”

Kraven to Jeff

“Sergei, it has been a while since I’ve seen you!”

“Same to you, Ororo. Last we’ve spoken was at your wedding. Sorry for um….crashing it.”

“In your defense, it was rather literal. T’challa and I needed an excuse to get to the honeymoon already anyhow.”

Storm and Kraven speaking

“GAR-BEAR!”

“BELKA!”

“I missed you! Oh my god we need to catch up like as of yesterday! Where you been?!”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I don’t know~! Look where we are talking now!”

“….You got me there…Dory~”

Squirrel girl and Kraven

“Proshchay, vdova.”

Kraven killing Black Widow

“You were certainly easier to kill than your male counter part-“

Kraven killing Penni Parker

“Not one for shark fin soup, but I’ll make an exception.”

Kraven killing Jeff

“SORRY-! NO HARD FEELINGS?!”

Squirrel Girl killing Kraven

“Eh-! You got eight more lives!” And will count down each more until reaching past the 9th mark. Where he will say. “HOW MANY LIVES DO YOU HAVE?!”

Spider-Man Killing Kraven

[olailamajnoon]

Nefertiti's headdress

A sizable crowd of reporters were in the room, and cameras were flashing as Zatanna stepped up to the podium. She was wearing her Justice League uniform—Batman's attempt to make her look more official, instead of her usual hot pink leopard-print one-piece pajamas. He stood behind her with arms crossed. It was entirely possible this was the most fame Zatanna had ever gotten, and she was very obviously enjoying it, if her reels were anything to go by.

Zatanna leaned into the mic. "Hello, everyone,” she practically purred. Bruce reflected that either she or he had been spending too much time around Selina. Possibly both. "I’m here to address the recent controversy surrounding my supposedly illegal acquisition of Queen Nefertiti’s headdress."

The reporters were urgently taking notes. Zatanna pulled out a never-ending rainbow colored handkerchief from her sleeve, and put it to her eyes, to wipe what were presumably tears of remorse. Batman felt an ugly twinge in his stomach, the twinge that said hey dumbass, maybe, just maybe, things are not going according to plan.  

“I am so sorry,” Zatanna apologized, and made the handkerchief disappear with a flourish. The reporters ahhed. “I am here to tell you guys something. Promise you’ll keep it a secret?” 

There was some confusion in the audience. Batman began to debate the virtues of very publicly pulling Zatanna away from the podium, versus the PR headache that was sure to follow if he did.

“It is I,” announced Zatanna. “I am Nefertiti, reborn.”

Oh no. He should have pulled her away from the podium.

The reporters were clamorous, now. 

Batman stepped to the podium, and positioned the mic to himself. "What Zatanna means to say is that she regrets her actions and has ensured that the artifact was returned to its rightful place. The Justice League takes the preservation of cultural artifacts seriously. Any misunderstandings about Ms. Zatara’s actions are being addressed internally.”

Zatanna put up a victory sign behind Batman's cowled head, and said, loud enough to drown out his voice, “The headdress belongs to me, ye puny mortals. I shall claim what’s mine! Who else would Nefertiti’s headdress belong to, if not Nefertiti herself?”

Batman leaned back and hissed into her ear like an angry cat. “Shut up. You will not put the Justice League through yet another PR nightmare.”

“Sorry,” Zatanna mumbled, subdued. Batman watched her uneasily as she angled the mic towards her face. The cameras were flashing. “But I have adapted to your puny modern-day life,” Zatanna said in a small voice. “I have found a newfound respect for the laws of puny men.”

“You are not the Hulk,” Batman muttered under his breath.

Zatanna waited until Batman had stepped away, expecting her to follow, before she lunged for the mic again. “Follow me on Insta, ye puny mortals, or I shall curse ye to the day ye die!”

There was an uproar. A cacophony of shouts had erupted, and Batman numbly glanced behind him. Zatanna looked up at him with her innocent moon-eyes. He found himself wondering if her magical abilities included the power to resurrect herself.

Perhaps he could test that theory for scientific purposes.

[lokiondisneyplus]

Disney+ Series ‘The Mandalorian,’ ‘WandaVision’ and ‘Loki’ Coming to Blu-ray and 4K UHD Later This Year

The formerly streaming-only titles are now physical

Some of your favorite Disney+ streaming series from Lucasfilm and Marvel Studios are getting the physical media treatment later this year with new Blu-ray and 4K UHD releases of the first two seasons of Lucasfilm’s live-action “Star Wars” series “The Mandalorian” as well as Marvel Studios’ “WandaVision” and the first season of “Loki.”

“Loki” will be available on Sept. 26, “WandaVision” will be available on Nov. 28, and the first two seasons of “The Mandalorian” will be available on Dec. 12. The titles will be available on Collector’s Edition 4K UHD and Blu-ray, “featuring Steelbook packaging, concept art cards and some never-before-seen bonus features.” The Steelbook edition will feature brand-new box art designed by artist Attila Szarka and collectible concept art cards. (People love their Steelbooks!)

The special features for the “Loki” release include “Designing the TVA” which features production designer Kasra Farahani and Tom Hiddleston (and contains a look at the upcoming season 2); the Miss Minutes TVA orientation video; deleted scenes (including a moment that introduces Frog Thor); a gag reel; and the “Assembled” documentary (another former Disney+ exclusive). Special features for the other releases will be shared at a later date.

“The Mandalorian” debuted with the rest of Disney+ on November 12, 2019. It quickly became the flagship series for the company’s direct-to-consumer streaming platform and inspired a whole host of spin-offs, including “The Book of Boba Fett” and “Ahsoka” (premiering this Tuesday on Disney+).

“WandaVision” was the first Marvel Studios Disney+ series, which debuted on the platform on January 15, 2021. “Loki” debuted several months later on June 9, 2021, resurrecting the Tom Hiddelston character that died at the beginning of “Avengers: Infinity War” and introducing the idea of the Multiverse. It is also the first Marvel Studios Disney+ to warrant a second season, which will start streaming in October.

Other Marvel Studios Disney+ series that followed “WandaVision” include “Moon Knight,” “She-Hulk: Attorney at Law” and “Secret Invasion,” which recently wrapped.

All four of these Disney+ titles will be available to pre-order beginning on August 28.

[ultrameganicolaokay]

Incredible Hulk #19 by Phillip Kennedy Johnson, Nic Klein, Greg Pak, Torunn Grønbekk, Lynne Yoshi, Geoff Shaw and more. Variant cover (1) by Tony Daniel. Main cover (2) by Klein. Out in November.

"CELEBRATING A HULK-SIZED ISSUE #800! Has Hulk finally met one stronger than himself? After a crushing defeat at the hands of ELDEST, the Incredible Hulk is a slave, and the return of the Mother of Horrors is imminent! Hulk's only hope is the newly resurrected Charlie Tidwell, who takes on the SKINWALKERS OF LYCANA to save Hulk… But what ancient power did the Skinwalkers awaken within her to bring her back? Can her mysterious new power give Hulk the edge he needs to defeat both the Skinwalkers and the immortal ELDEST? PLUS: all-new tales of the extended Hulk family featuring She-Hulk, Braun and the Red Hulk!"

[scarlet--wiccan]

Sensational She-Hulk #10

The fallout of Avengers Disassembled-- particularly, Jen's trauma and the horror of Jack's brief resurrection-- has been haunting the narrative throughout Rowell's run on She-Hulk. In spite of how long it's been and how much Wanda's treatment has improved, Rowell has consistently avoided lending the situation nuance, and this has made Wanda appear to be culpable for things that we simply know she isn't. This week marks the final issue in the series, and this scene here was, surprisingly, the only measure of closure afforded to this subplot.

I think it's entirely fair for Jen-- or Jack-- to still be holding onto that trauma or have a one-sided view of the situation, but I also think that it's irresponsible in modern comics to invoke Disassembled/HoM without acknowledging or countering Wanda's character assassination in some way. The text was inherently racist, ableist, and sexist, and that needs to be reckoned with every time it's revisited. To do otherwise frequently incites racist, sexist, and ableist responses amongst readers-- we saw this time and time again throughout Krakoa.

With Jen spending so much time around Wanda in the last few issues, I genuinely expected Rowell to pursue some kind of resolution between them. She didn't, and again, I think that's a valid choice for Jennifer, but it seemed odd that the subject simply.... didn't come up once Wanda was actually on-page until this very awkward moment between her and Jack, which comes midway through the final issue. Obviously, Rowell isn't a Scarlet Witch writer and isn't responsible for rehabbing Wanda's character, but this type of shameful avoidance is incongruous with how much Wanda's grown, and how she typically handles addressing this part of her past.

[chuckeroo777]

Dungeon Meshi Volume 6 Part 2

Continuing chapter 38! As always, spoilers ahoy!

I like how he compliments the picture of Falin. He hasn't even seen the Cerberus yet.

So, before I read Dungeon Meshi, I remember seeing lots of stuff on twitter and tumblr about it, but none of it really stuck in my memory. One thing did. The Chimera. This was the one big thing I was spoiled on. A cool-ass chimera that the elf was gay for. It may have been what finally got me to check it out. Good food? Cool monsters? Lesbians? Sounds good to me. And it was good!

But it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize who the chimera was. I didn't remember the chimera's name, so Falin didn't ring any bells. I should have caught on when Falin was resurrected with dragon flesh, but no. It literally took Thistle saying "Hey Dragon" for me to realize what the chimera was.

The only other spoiler of note was Izutsumi, who, as I mentioned, appeared in chapter 0. She totally blindsided me. I didn't suspect Asebi for a second. Kabru I am not.

Such a good group shot with lots of little characterization. Chilchuck and Mickbell arguing, Kuro fixing his armor, Holm mourning his Undine, Marcille isolated from the rest, Tade taking a nap. Good stuff.

Ah, trauma. Wait a sec. There. In the lower right corner. Did Kabru glimpse the demon itself?

Eh, close enough.

Honestly, I think this might be the one big plothole I've noticed. When Falin teleported them to the surface, they only had what they were holding. Like, they kept the essentials like Marcille's staff and book, and Chilchuck's picking tools, but their backpacks were left behind, right? Yet, once they are in front of the dungeon again, they have packs? Where did they get those? Weren't they broke?

This bit of foreshadowing was a lot more effective in the anime. How am I supposed to remember what everyone's gloves looked like?

Also, I just noticed that Marcille's hood goes on before we see her face in this chapter. So if you're just going off this chapter, you can't get a good read on her current hairstyle. Clever.

Let's go over the fakes character by character. The Laios fakes are kinda obvious, because even though Laios is good friends with all three of his companions, they have trouble understanding him. Thankfully, Laios has the thickest skin, so it doesn't really bother him too much. I also find it funny that Marcille's turns him into a lumbering hulk who epitomizes the differences from Falin, yet Senshi's is just butch Falin. Pretty sure I remember Senshi mentioning in his journal that Falin and Laios are basically the same person.

The Marcilles are a bit better. Senshi's is obviously a elven stereotype, but the other three are all quite close. Curiously, unlike most of the clones, Laio's Marcille emphasizes her good traits, her determination and loyalty to Falin, while most of the other clones emphasize negative or false traits.

Honestly, if not for the scarf, it probably would have been difficult to tell Laio's version from the real one. He's the only one who has a proper grasp on his maturity.

Senshi is easily the hardest to pick out. Senshi has yet to share his deeper secrets, and he is a pretty straightforward guy.

I like how the Chilchuck Marcille is the one to propose the method that outs herself.

An important image.

What the heck guys? My entire job is getting things open.

Hmm... looking it over, it doesn't look to be consistent, but I almost thought for a sec that the fake Marcille has pointier ears. I dunno. Maybe it's just the calmer demeanor, but Marcille A does seem more elf-like than Marcille B. Then again, I'm not sure if Laios ever met an elf before Marcille, so he wouldn't have a baseline.

It's actually soba, if anyone cares.

See, what you want to do here is have all the Senshis take their helmets off. Laio's would be the only one with eyebrows.

And hey! When he later runs into a monster disguised as Marcille, he sees through it almost immediately!

Chilchuck is correct.

Marcille has one line she won't cross. With a long list of stipulations that will make her cross. Like starvation. Or ignorance. Or eating her girlfriend.

The proper term is Black Mage, and that just means I'm good at fireball.

The heck were the gnomes using this for?

The real moral of the story. Marcille is infallible, so you should listen to her.

I think the funniest (and saddest) part of Izutsumi's story is that she has it all wrong. She isn't a person possessed by a cat, she's a cat possessed by a person. She's been conditioned all her life to think the cat part of her is unnatural, when in reality it's her true self. Try to separate the halves, and you'd end up with a braindead tall-man and a very disappointed kitty.

It took two read-throughs, the anime, and two more read-throughs, but I finally can remember how to pronounce/spell your name.

It's kinda sad that as far as I can remember, this one line is the only bit of characterization we get for the Touden mom.

I remember finding this panel odd on my second read. The chimera didn't look right. Turns out this nerd continuously updated it throughout the adventure. Anyway, want to see another of my creatures?

All the best monsters have grenade launchers on their tail.

Oh my god. Even as a child she's still wearing that dang choker 24/7. Her mother also has one. I wonder if it has any significance?

And no lesson was learned by anyone ever.

We'll finish up chapter 42 and the misc monster tales next post!

[loz-furbies]

Spirit Tracks Zelda

We've reached the surprise S-tier Zelda!

Design

Her princess look is the usual reused Toon design again, and this time it bothers me extra much since the game goes out of its way to namedrop Tetra as her ancestor. If you actively want me to think of multiple Zeldas in one game, you should give them different looks!

The Phantom design isn't really what I'm usually into, but it is cute when she retains her princess personality even when using a hulking suit of armour, and the Phantom isn't made any girlier (other than a slight pinkish purple colour scheme) just because a girl is controlling it. Though I wonder how much that is affected by the risk that little boys wouldn't want to play the game if the cover art had a girly suit of armour on it.

Character

The Sprit Tracks Zelda probably has more screen presence than the other Zeldas put together, and the extensive screen time is also luckily used to make her a more interesting character.

She starts out already as a mature and responsible ruler of her people (there's no king in this game), which I think is a bit of a missed opportunity, as you could give her more character development if she wasn't already so competent at her job. Regardless, the plot starts to happen and the bad guys steal her body to use it as a vessel for the resident big bad, and her now disembodied spirit gets to show quite the range of emotions and participate in comedic scenes as well. Like her horror at having her body kidnapped for end boss resurrection is played for laughs, because her first thought is just that the whole idea is gross.

Once her body is stolen, she gets both incredibly motivated to get it back, and starts bossing other characters around while she just sits back. One of the funniest scenes in the story is when she gets closer and closer to Link's face with each sentence as she pushes him to take the job. When the mentor character Anjean says that Link needs a companion, Zelda first goes through every NPC she knows, and Anjean has to be the one to suggest that Zelda go herself.

The way she is depicted about this changes more sympathetic once she starts to look just really helpless about the situation and that her not taking more action was more about that she didn't think there was anything she could do than just selfishly demanding others to do all the work. When it's eventually settled that she'll be the one to join Link, we end the scene with Link's exasperated sigh, which does give the whole thing a somewhat "great, now we need to drag this useless annoying girl along" vibe.

For the most of the game, Zelda has a friendly and cheerful personality, and feels more energetic than many of the other Zeldas. The opening credits where she flies alongside Link's train are so cute! One of her lines when boarding the train is an excited "Aaall aboooard!" too, which I was always happy to see.

She keeps her personality in her Phantom form too, so we get to see the Phantom do a giddy pose and say lines like "eeek!" and "hee hee". And while she initially complains how unpleasant being inside hot scrap metal is, she quickly becomes excited at her new power, and starts the Phantom gameplay sections confident that together they'll be able to get through. Once she takes part in a mini boss battle she even gets a little cocky and comments how good it was that she was there to help, but this doesn't lead to any plot line about her being overconfident or anything like that.

At first Zelda appears more concerned about getting her body back than preventing the end boss from taking over the world. Also after Anjean has done the "you two escape, I'll hold the enemy back" mentor thing, Zelda expresses vague worry. The player then gets to ask if she means Anjean, and Zelda's response is a pretty dismissive "oh right, her too", which felt really weird because this is pretty late in the game and she should have bonded with Anjean more at that point and shows concern for other characters at multiple points. While she is clearly heroic in the grand finale, I wish the plot line about her initially selfish motives (or I mean I think it's pretty fair for her to want her body back but she's portrayed somewhat flippant about it) had gotten a more concrete wrap up.

Another thing that quite didn't hit the mark is the possibility that even if they manage to drive the end boss out of Zelda's body, she might not be able to return to it. Zelda is understandably worried, but all this amounts to is one encouraging line from Link/the player. This does get some payoff when she is actually incapable of entering her body again and only manages to pull it off after a pep talk from a villain-turned-ally, so the plot line isn't completely pointless. But it does feel like it sort of fizzles out.

Other notable characteristics about Zelda are that she's ready to work with the aforementioned villain ally so she appears pretty forgiving, and also shows a dorky side of herself when she starts shadowboxing the air when she claims she'll "have words" with him later. She can also stand her ground and talk back when the situation requires it, and Anjean notes that she's feisty like Tetra.

It's also nice that Zelda gets some lines to just talk about herself, like that she used to visit the ocean world village during summer and hopes to come back again to swim together with Link, or that her grandmother playing the spirit flute used to calm her down as a child, or that she misses the castle and wishes she ate more of her favourite foods while she had the chance. She also hates bugs and tells Link to go to the forest village alone, but changes her mind since she doesn't like the thought of waiting at the forest train station alone with the bugs either.

In addition to her dislike of bugs, she is also scared of mice, which becomes a gameplay mechanic when she can't move if there are mice enemies around. Having your female lead get paralysed by fear from the sight of a mouse is kind of stereotypical and I wish they would have thought of some other way, but at least it's set up first.

Finally my analysis may make her seem more selfish and flippant than she is in the actual game experience; in most of the scenes she's perfectly friendly, shows concern for others and puts in the work herself. It's just that some scenes felt somewhat inconsistent and didn't have a proper payoff. Overall Spirit Tracks Zelda is a really strong character with many sides to her, but I do wish her character development was better defined by giving her a clear moment that references her initial inelegant reaction to losing her body and makes a note that she's different now.

Role in the story

The basis of the plot is the usual fare: Zelda senses that something is up, but gets kidnapped before she can do anything about it, and in the finale she does some big magic stuff to neutralise the end boss. But as we know this is the one mainline Zelda game (before EoW that is) where you get to play as her and she is present through the whole game, which makes a huge difference. Her presence makes it easy to keep in mind what's at stake at all times, and even if many Zeldas make great (and bigger/more dramatic) efforts and sacrifices that are essential to saving the kingdom, the player getting to be an active participant in all that just hits different.

Through the whole game and especially the multi-part final battle I was holding my breath for if Zelda would be damseled after all, but luckily that was not the case and she remains playable for the whole thing. The final scene where Link is pushing the sword into the boss's head and Zelda runs over to help really hammers it home that this was a team effort. A+ for that!

During my playthrough I got an unscripted moment where I was running away from an unkillable enemy and Phantom Zelda happened to stand in the way, so she was able to hold the enemy off for a moment while I made my narrow escape. Which was one of the most memorable things to happen in the game for me, moments like that just feel so much more meaningful when they're not in a cutscene. And in the context of the loz franchise it was cute for the roles to be reversed for once since Link spends so much time rescuing Zelda.

Gameplay wise Phantom Zelda is good as well. Or the sections where she is present include a lot of stealth and it's been well documented on this blog how much I hate that, but the puzzle and action parts with two playable characters who have different abilities are pretty fun.

Also a point in Zelda's favour as a companion is that I didn't feel like she was disruptive for the gameplay. Even if an NPC is likable, if they constantly interrupt the player their presence can quickly become a bother, but I thought that Zelda's lines didn't take too much time, and generally she shows up in situations where you would be reading NPC dialogue anyway.

Relationships

This time Link and Zelda aren't already friends, and instead meet for the first time when she officiates his train engineer graduation ceremony, and then requests his help to sneak out of the castle to investigate the Spirit Tower (because you need to go there by train). Which is a pretty logical way to get them working together, like sure she does trust a total stranger pretty fast but whatever.

Their relationship doesn't really get developed during the story, and is mostly just based around the implicit knowledge that going on such an adventure together naturally brings you closer. Zelda does regularly compliment Link for doing well so there's that at least, but I think most of their relationship relies on the player growing to like Zelda through the game and transferring those feelings to Link. They do end the game holding hands, which probably puts them in the top 5 canon Zelink couples, though I'd rather see it just as two friends who have gone through a lot together finally getting some relief; I don't remember anything else in the game that could be seen as romantic. Regardless it's cute that both of them move their hands at the same time so they're clearly on the same wavelength.

As for the other characters, the mentor Anjean feels more of a mentor to Zelda than Link, since she's the one whose emotional state is discussed a lot more. Aside from that one weird comment about being seemingly dismissive about Anjean's fate (or maybe Zelda was sure she was ok and thus didn't even think to be concerned about her safety? That wasn't my reading of the scene though), they care about each other and Anjean ascending to heavens at the end hits Zelda specifically.

The villain's henchman and a former student of Anjean's becomes a somewhat important character to Zelda as well. Once he's betrayed and incapacitated by the end boss (duh) Zelda becomes concerned for his well-being immediately, though it's not really explained why. I guess she's just empathetic? Him being Anjean's former student probably helped. Zelda doesn't directly say that she has forgiven him (not that he apologised), but she does say she has a bone to pick with him after they're done with the end boss in a very non-serious way, so I feel that it's implied. He is presumably moved by this and sacrifices himself in the final battle, and the failure to save him is the big bittersweet moment for the finale. This didn't really do much for me since their relationship wasn't that developed, but I guess it's nice that he got to do something at least.

Zelda's old teacher is also a prominent NPC and the two clearly care for each other, though this doesn't really get explored that much. Zelda does comment that the teacher would have loved one of the puzzles Link solves, and hopes to bring him to see it too. She also has a mutually respectful relationship with Link's engineering teacher and a former soldier.

[randomfoggytiger]

Writing Patterns

Thank you for the tag, @virtie333~! :DDD

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

"I Know You. It’s What I Do."

The hulking shadow had vanished from the tunnel mouth, slipping through cold, faded stone as easily as mist; and taken her partner with him. Mulder’s ferocious “FBI--” wilted into an unanswered echo while she yelled for him, hit the rock, hit it again, and began pushing, shoving each of the weathered corners to find a weak spot. 

"You're Not Here, Dana-- You're a Million Miles Away"

He didn’t know what had gone wrong.

The Hospital Where You Slept

The world shrank to his beating heart, desperate inhalations, and freezing sweat.

“Think He’ll Call You Tonight”

Charlie was the one that convinced their father. 

"You Up For Joining Us?"

Bill had arranged it with Dana ahead of time: Dad’s first mates guarding the perimeters while Charlie, Hessa, and the kids stood inflexibly in the middle. 

"Mr. Mulder, I Know Something About You"

The first time Bill heard the name Fox Mulder was the day after his sister and her partner were sucked almost dry and hospitalized in Washington State for nearly two weeks.

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 8, Lights

Lights catching and sliding off of files, lots and lots of files, hearts beating in time with their feet, breaths hitching with the heady flurry of the past few days-- wondrous resurrections and answers in their hands and dangers rumbling quick and powerful behind them.

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 7, Latkes

Mulder stopped mid-signature, holidays at his grandparent’s house slamming into focus as Agent… as one of the agents swept by with a wide smile and a plateful of food.

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 6, Dreidel

“Yes, Mom, yes, I will-- what? You… what? Yes, yes I-- yes, Mom, I got it. Yes, I’ll tell him. Mom, Mulder’s here I have to go--” 

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 4 and 5, Endurance and Miracles

Mulder stood as far as he could from the blood and the gore and the rotting scent of failure, willing the ocean air to leech the exhaustion from his bones.  

and

“Mulder? We need to follow the ambulance back.” 

Tagging (if you want~): @baronessblixen, @welsharcher, @agent-troi, @amplifyme, @suitablyaggrieved, @pennyserenade, @deathsbestgirl, @settle-down-frohike, @cecilysass, @slippinmickeys, @aloysiavirgata, @storybycorey, @sigritandtheelves, @invidiosa, @thescullyphile, @darwin-xf, @numinousmysteries, @skelavender, @television-overload, @nachosncheezies, @wexleresque, @sagan-starstuff, @writingwell, @incidental-ao3, @tofuttim, @stephy-gold, @jessahmewren, @whovianderson, @oohnotvery, @syntax6, @teethnbone, @chavisory, @two-microscopes, @piecesofscully, @sharpestasp, @freckleslikestars, @spidey-is-tired, @leiascully, @mulderwearingglasses, @frogsmulder, @danascullysjournal, @unremarkablehouse, @xxsksxxx, @redteekal, @sarie-fairy, @agentwhalesong, @dreamingofscully, @cutelilcurtain, @thatfragilecapricorn30, etc.~!

[heckcareoxytwit]

A preview of Incredible Hulk #19 (LGY #800)

INCREDIBLE HULK #19 (LGY #800)

CELEBRATING A HULK-SIZED ISSUE #800! Has Hulk finally met one stronger than himself? After a crushing defeat at the hands of ELDEST, the Incredible Hulk is a slave, and the return of the Mother of Horrors is imminent! Hulk’s only hope is the newly resurrected Charlie Tidwell, who takes on the SKINWALKERS OF LYCANA to save Hulk… But what ancient power did the Skinwalkers awaken within her to bring her back? Can her mysterious new power give Hulk the edge he needs to defeat both the Skinwalkers and the immortal ELDEST? PLUS: all-new tales of the extended Hulk family featuring She-Hulk, Brawn and the Red Hulk!

LEGACY #800

Written by: Greg Pak, Benjamin Percy, Phillip Kennedy Johnson, Torunn Grønbekk Art by: Lan Medina, Nic Klein, Lynne Yoshii, Geoff Shaw Cover by: Nic Klein Page Count: 64 Pages Release Date: November 27, 2024

[queen-scribbles]

Here and Now

Oka, here we go. Gotta love when characters' personal demons intersect so well. :D Figuratively speaking. Though there is also a literal demon. ~3.3k ---

In the end, there were too many.

That's what it boiled down to; there were too many enemies and Seelah the screw-up couldn't keep track of them all. They had their roles in a fight; Rethelion was the cauterizing light leading the charge, Sosiel healed their wounds, and Seelah put herself between the demons or cultists or what have you and her friends.

At least that's how it was supposed to work.

Apparently all it took to make her fumble was a trio of cultists trying to backstab the Commander. She focused just a moment longer than she should've in one spot and someone else paid for it.

The glabrezu leading the cultists teleported and she missed it. Landed behind Lann and Arueshalae and she was too far away. She yelled a warning, smote the demon to slow it down as she finished off the cultists and a babau that tried to get in her way.

Too far.

Too slow.

Not enough.

Arueshalae's wings flurried as she repositioned herself further away from the hulking demon, its swipe at her back a hair too slow. Denied one target, it wheeled on Lann. He dodged the first slash of its claws as Seelah cut down the babau. Didn't dodge the second one as she got close enough for holy fire to pour from her blade into the glabrezu's chest.

The damn demon didn't even flinch. It laughed. At her, at Lann as he spat a mouthful of blood and fired an arrow at it. And struck again.

Her hand brushed Lann's shoulder as he fell, the intended healing fizzling out on her palm.

Too late, too slow.

Seelah devoted her focus to the fight, to watching her commander's back. Deliberately ignoring the glabrezu's red-ringed claws, that the magic which soothed her wounds had not gotten Lann back on his feet. She didn't have time for the twist in her gut that knew what it meant.

Not until the glabrezu and all its minions had fallen. Only then did she drop to knees, hand on his still-warm shoulder and turn him to confirm her fears.

"Seelah?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat at Rethelion's tone. "I was too slow." My fault. It's my fault again. "It... He's dead."

"What?!" The commander had never been one to easily display emotion, so the catch in her voice on the single word was a knife in Seelah's gut.

"You heard me," she mumbled, gaze dropping from her friend's. Bad move; that meant looking at Lann. Half-open, vacant eyes drilled into her with accusations she knew he'd never fling in life.

Seelah the screw-up, couldn't even keep track of a demon the size of a house. Not until it was too late.

Seelah jerked her head back up, briefly met Rethelion's compassionate gaze--Iomadae help her, that was worse--before the two of them looked at Sosiel.

He sighed, expression grave as he cleaned blood off his glaive and armor. "I truly wish there was something I could do," he said with a shake of his head, "but I've yet to master resurrection magic in my studies."

"Arsinoe would know how to do it," Arueshalae piped up, playing with the end of her bow.

"Good, but we better get moving, then," Seelah said, sorting out her mingled relief and guilt. This could be fixed. "We're two days out from Drezen; a lot can happen out here in that time, not much of it good."

"Would Aimee accept a second rider?" Rethelion asked, chewing her lower lip in thought, her fingers tapping the Sarenrae talisman hanging from her belt. Her grief was pressed back, behind the practicality that made her such a good leader. "You could make it faster on horseback."

Seelah mulled it over a moment, glancing at her recently-acquired horse, blithely munching grass a short way down the hill. She sniffled and nodded as she stood. "If I don't wear my full kit, and we take off her barding, she could handle a decent pace with a... second person. You'd have to carry--"

"We'll manage," Rethelion cut her off. She flicked her fingers through her bangs, dark eyes unreadable.

On the one hand, a cynical voice in her head pointed out there wasn't any real need for urgency. Or the other hand, she agreed this needed to be fixed as quickly as possible. Why tempt fate to make it more permanent? Besides, saving the world wouldn't be the same without him, and she'd hate to lose a friend. Especially one that was her fault.

Arueshalae helped with removing all of Seelah's plate aside from the chestpiece and armored boots. She needed something in case she got ambushed on the way. Aimee's pleasure at being free of the stitched leather barding turned into a disgruntled snort when the trade-off was an extra rider. But she set off at a trot, quickly picking up speed with only the normal nudging from Seelah.

"See you in Drezen!" she called back. Iomadae protect us.

---

For once there were no demons. No cultists, no roving bandits. The roads was clear and the journey went smoothly. Seelah offered many prayers of gratitude for her request being granted. It was taxing enough to travel with a dead friend, even knowing the goal was undoing the dead part. If she didn't know better, she could almost convince herself he was sleeping, so long as she didn't look at the deep ragged gashes torn across his chest.

She talked to him the night she camped. Even knowing he couldn't hear and unnerved by the ringing silence that should have been snarky replies. This is my fault and I'm gonna fix it, she promised silently. We need you back.

The Drezen gate guards saw her coming and must've recognized her, because the way was clear for her to ride right in. She didn't stop, barreling through the streets with hollered warnings until she reached the chapel.

"Arsinoe!!!" The urgency in her voice--not to mention the horse and limp figure balanced in front of her--drew attention from more than just the priest emerging from the chapel. "We need help." Seelah said, breathless, before Arsinoe asked.

Arsinoe cocked her head, looking at Lann. "Healing?" The bloodstains were hard to miss.

Seelah shook her head. "He's past that, or we could've handled it," she said, carefully sliding off Aimee's back. "Arueshalae said you know how to bring people back?" She couldn't have kept the hopeful, desperate lilt from her words if she'd tried.

"I do," Arsinoe nodded, her expression shifting to unspoken understanding, and Seelah's heart leapt.

She reached up and grabbed Lann's belt to haul him off the horse. Staggered a little under his full weight. They'd leaned against each other when sharing a drink, or for support after less grievous injuries, but this... well, he was heavier than he looked. She grit her teeth and carried him in, following Arsinoe to a small room at the front of the chapel. Her arms were burning with the effort and she had to fix her gaze on a much smaller and less consequential cut on his arm so she didn't get lost in... the other ones.

It didn't matter that she could get him back. That it would be in just a few minutes, even. Right now, this second, he was dead and she couldn't shake that it was her fault.

"Here is good," Arsinoe said. She indicated a cot along the windowed wall of the chamber.

Seelah's muscles almost cried in relief when she laid him down. She rolled her shoulders a few times, still staring at the slender slice through scales, the blood staining his sleeve, as Arsinoe rummaged for the components she would need.

"Are you alright, Seelah?" Arsinoe asked, rejoining her.

"What? Oh, yeah." Her gaze had drifted to Lann's face--he still looked like he was sleeping--and she jerked it up to look at the cleric as she answered. "Nothin' but sore muscles and a hot bath'll fix those."

"That's not what I meant," Arsinoe said gently. She set down the small pouch she carried and twisted her shimmering gold hair in a bun. "it's not easy to lose friends, no matter how permanent or temporary, and.." she hesitated, biting her lip. "It hasn't been that long since Elan and Kiana's wedding."

Her gut twisted. Seelah the screwup strikes again. "At least this can be fixed a little more quickly."

Arsinoe took took the doubled hint to drop the topic and get to resurrecting her friend. "Very true." She pulled a flawlessly beautiful diamond from the pouch. "I trust the commander has means to replace this?"

They'd probably found something comparable in their travels, but even if not... "We'll make it work."

"I would help regardless," Arsinoe clarified, placing the diamond on Lann's chest. "just confirming where the replacement is coming from. Restocking from Nerosyan is quite a wait, and I'd hate to be short if someone else needs it."

"I hear you," Seelah muttered, staring at the way the diamond reflected the closest of the ragged gashes.

"You'll want to look elsewhere," Arsinoe said, "right there's about to get very bright."

"Right." She shifted her gaze up to look out the window, around the walls. Arsinoe closed her eyes and started to chant the words of the spell.

It was somehow awe-inspiring and more... understated than she'd expected. The diamond glowed with soft golden light, refracting in diffuse rainbows to paint the walls. There was no heavenly chorus or Angels reaching down or brilliant blaze of light, though the glow was enough to make her glad she'd heeded Arsinoe's warning.

Seelah barely waited for it to fade before looking down. The gashes were gone, all of them. Lann's fingers twitched, still chest now rising with breath, and her heart leapt.

She poked his shoulder and grinned despite the lump in her throat when he groaned.

"Didja happen to get a look at the driver of the cart that ran me over?" Lann muttered, draping one arm over his eyes.

"Yep." Seelah laughed, uneven and high-pitched. "It was an ugly-ass lobster mad we wiped out its cult."

"Oh. Yeah. Charming fellow," he deadpanned, then what she could see of his face twisted toward a frown. Processing that where he remembered being didn't match his current surroundings. He shifted his arm to look. "...wait."

"We're back in Drezen," Seelah offered, "since Sosiel doesn't know how to resurrect people yet--"

Lann's arm dropped and he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Wait, what?!" He looked down at himself, searching for injuries that were no longer present.

"Sorry, yeah, that's a backwards way to explain." She smiled sheepishly. "Our glabrezu friend took out its frustration on you and you... were dead." She nudged his shoulder. "Heavy emphasis on were."

He ran a hand down his face. "Right. Okay."

Seelah arched a brow at his flat tone. He was probably tired. Disoriented. Coming back from the dead was a strain, from what she understood.

"You'll need more rest," Arsinoe chipped in, as if she'd read Seelah's thoughts. "You're welcome to do so here, though these are far from the most comfortable beds in the city."

Lann nodded absently, staring at his hands in his lap. "Yeah, if I'm gonna sleep this off, I'd rather do it in my own bed."

He wobbled when he stood and Seelah grabbed his arm until he was steady. "I can walk with you part of the way," she offered, "I still gotta stable Aimee."

He nodded again and they walked out in silence, aside from Seelah's profuse thanks to Arsinoe. Aimee was gone, hopefully cared for by some kind soul who'd pieced things together from the helter-skelter arrival and her exchange with the priest. She should still check, which meant walking the same direction regardless.

Lann didn't say anything until they were practically level with the stables. "Y'know, I don't really feel like sleeping..."

"Okay." Seelah shrugged, glancing at his pensive expression. "I think as long as you're not, say, doing cartwheels around the battlements, another type of taking it easy is alright. You want me to grab a drink?"

He thought about it a moment before nodding. "Yeah, that'd be good."

"Let me make sure my horse is actually in the stable and I'll get 'em."

Aimee was indeed safely stabled, so after getting the name of the helpful soul responsible, Seelah headed to the Half Measure. She emerged after only a few minutes and minimal fuss, tankard in each hand. However, she'd only made it halfway back to the outbuildings where the mongrels had set camp when she caught sight of a familiar silhouette up on the battlements and changed course.

"What did I say about the walls?" she joked as she joined him and handed over one tankard.

"I'm not doing cartwheels," Lann countered, but his half-smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Touché," Seelah said with a laugh. She followed his gaze out toward the Worldwound. "Looking for something in particular?"

He shook his head, sighed, and turned to slide down the wall until sitting with his legs loosely crossed. Without spilling his drink, which was impressive.

She joined him, her legs crisscrossed in closer, and let the silence hang a few seconds. "How're you feeling?"

"Sluggish. Worst hangover ever doubled." Lann set the tankard by his knee.

Seelah wrinkled her nose and took a swig of her drink. "Sorry. Just curious, seein' as I've never been dead."

"Can't recommend it," he said dryly, leaning his head back against the wall. His fingers toyed with the loop of beads tucked in his belt. "Why... why'd you bring me back?"

Seelah, mid-drink, choked on her beer. "Are you kidding?" She frowned. He wasn't kidding. "You want to be dead?"

Lann made a sound that was not a firm yes or no. "Not much use if a silly little demon can take me down, after all."

She snorted, setting down her tankard so emphatically it sloshed on the stonework. "If a glabrezu is a silly little demon, I'm the second coming of Iomadae! The thing's five times the size of us combined. Its claws alone are half as big as your body!" She winced and sucked her teeth, remembering what that combination had netted. "If anything, it's my fault for not holding its attention."

Lann snorted and straightened to look askance at her. "And what were you supposed to do against something five times the size of us put together?!"

"Protect you? It's what I'm here for; to watch everyone's backs, keep the monsters' focus on me and off you, keep you all alive and I failed."

And failed big, even if there were no lingering consequences to it. He didn't even have any scars.

"All of us is a pretty tall order. There are better uses of your time where I'm concerned," he muttered.

Seelah frowned and leaned forward, studying his face as she rephrased her earlier question. "Lann, do you want to die?"

It took him a worryingly long time to answer. "I... I want to fight the demons, seal the Wound, and help my people," he said, looking down at the beads rolling through his fingers. Some were red now, stained with his blood. "If that costs me my life, so be it. Mongrels aren't known for having terribly long or good ones anyway. There's worse ends than doing something heroic, right?"

She chewed her lower lip and gestured over her shoulder and the wall. "In case you missed it, both the Worldwound and your people are still here, so you're still needed."

"Don't you think 'needed' is a little strong?" he muttered, letting go of the beads to reach for his tankard.

"No," Seelah said bluntly. "Rethelion wouldn't have you traipsing all over the Worldwound with her if she didn't want and need you along. Hell, that glabrezu only went after you and Arueshalae because you'd picked off half of its cultists. Don't think we woulda won without you."

"Except you did," Lann pointed out. He took a single swig of his drink and was back to playing with the beads.

"After you'd cleared almost half the rank and file, made my job a lot easier. If only I'd been able to return the favor." She tugged on her holy symbol to give her own hands something to do.

"Again, doubt there was much you could do against a glabrezu on your own." He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.

"Still my job to try. And I look out for my friends." She thought of Curl. Jannah. Elan. A sigh breached her lips. "Try to, anyway."

"And you do a good job of it," Lann said, eyes still closed. "Could have been worse, right?"

"I guess." She traced one finger around the sword point on her symbol. You still died on my watch.

"Only lost me, and you fixed that." His tone was so bland when he said it.

She wondered again if he was just tired. He had described this as feeling like a nasty hangover. "You don't sound happy with that last part."

"No, I am." A pause. "I think. This does mean I still have to deal with Woljif." He sighed, hands fallen still. "I just don't know if I'm worth it."

"Of course you are!" Seelah burst out. "You're a friend! You're my friend, you're Ret's friend, you're Ulbrig's friend, we want you around!" Normally she might've tied it off with a joke or teasing, but she was serious as a balor about this and needed him to understand. "I'm a little short on friends at the moment, so the remaining ones are getting treasured all the more fiercely. I can't undo Jannah's cowardice, or Curl working with demons. This I could undo."

Lann opened his human-side eye to look at her. "So, I'm a back-up friend?" he teased.

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Keep talking like that and I'll dump my drink over your head."

He gasped in mock affront. "You'd waste good beer?"

"If it gets you to come to your senses." She nudged him with her elbow.

"Consider them come to." Lann straightened and picked up his drink again. "Just hard to wrap my head around. Thank you, by the way." He tapped his tankard to hers. "Don't think I said that yet."

"You're welcome," Seelah grinned. "And worth it."

"Heh." He took a drink, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "So where's the rest our troop? Didn't see any of 'em on my way up here."

"Oh, out there somewhere." She gestured over the wall again. "Rethelion and I were in a hurry to fix you being dead, and Aimee can only manage one extra rider."

Lann glanced at her over the rim of his tankard. "...I rode a horse?"

"Well..." Seelah pursed her lips. "You were dead, and I had to do all the work, so I dunno if it counts."

"Mm."

"If you wanna ride a horse, I can help with that."

"I think I'll pass for now." He set down his tankard and looked out over the city, quiet for a few minutes. "You must've really legged it. How long...?"

"Oh, less than a full day." Seelah set aside her drink and started fiddling with a loose seam on her boot. "Aimee's very fast, though I did have to stop for sleep." She could see him doing the mental calculations on travel time. "Didn't want to be absent your jokes or your company any longer than necessary."

"Keep talkin' like that, it'll go to my head," Lann mumbled into his drink.

Maybe it needs to. she thought. "Oh, Heaven forbid," she deadpanned. "You might start believing me an' Ret when we say we like having you around."

"I know, what's wrong with you?" he said dryly.

Seelah grinned. "Guess you'll hafta stick around to find out."

Lann chuckled. "Stay in the here and now? Guess I will. Someone's gotta keep you out of trouble, anyway."

"Deal." If that's what he needed to tell himself, she'd take it. She was just glad to have her friend back.