#i need to catalogue all my insane thoughts about him because he makes me. to use a technical term 'cray cray'

[mefilas]

I NEED MORE KUWANA IMAGES. IM BEING STARVED

[valkyrieandstrangeridingaragorn]

I know you said you weren't watching Loki Season 2 (and trust me, you're better off not doing it), but I DID watch it, and I need to get my thoughts straight and describe how it ended, and I can think of no better way than by telling you.

So... how to put this down concisely in a way that won't make me look insane?

OK, I think I got it.

Loki has somehow gained the ability to transfer his consciousness to any point in his time-stream. What happens to the past version of him when he takes control? Don't know. But ignore that, the story purpose of this is so he can Doctor Strange himself and continually repeat the process of trying to modify the TVA's Temporal Loom before it overloads and destroys all of reality. [In case you don't know, the Temporal Loom apparently "takes raw time and weaves it into the Sacred Timeline", but now that the multiverse is free it can't account for so many new branches, so they want to expand it's output.]

Now you might be thinking "well, the multiverse is infinite, so how can anything quantify it?" And you'd be right, because when Loki finally manages to expand the loom, it still overloads because there is just too many branches. Why did it take him thousands of years to realize it was fruitless? Because this show's Loki is a fucking idiot.

Anyway, at first Loki thinks the solution is to stop Sylvie from killing He Who Remains so the timelines aren't freed (I think the writers forgot that the timelines started branching before HWR died), so by going back along his time-stream he is able to talk with HWR, who tells him... get this... that the Temporal Loom has a fail-safe where if it overloads, it blows up to destroy everything except for the Sacred Timeline, and then it's rebuilt. So that puts Loki back to where he was at the end of Season 1 both narratively and literally; either protect one timeline and only one timeline by wiping out quintillions of lives, or let everything burn completely.

Right now you're probably thinking "killing quintillions of people to save a few trillion doesn't feel like a good tradeoff" and you'd be right. Loki thinks so too, because he tells Sylvie that he doesn't think it's worth keeping one timeline alive at the cost of all the others. So what does he do?

... to be honest, I don't fully grasp it, so stay with me here.

He does back to the moment before the Temporal Loom was destroyed, and somehow uses his powers to rip it apart himself and contain the explosion so it doesn't incinerate anything.... I think, because after that there are millions of little strands that I guess are supposed to represent timelines. And then.... I still can't believe what I saw... Loki reaches out and starts grabbing as many strands/timelines as he can, and weaves them into what I think is supposed to be the Tree of Yggdrasil, and at the end of the sequence he sits down on a throne at the center of the "tree".

How does any of this work physically? How can Loki do any of this? Fuck you, that's how!

What does any of it mean? I haven't the faintest clue. The best I can figure, the Tree of Yggdrasil is quite literally a physical representation of the multiverse and Loki is holding it together by sheer force of will, so he did in fact get out of HWR's puzzle box.

The cynic in me initially thought the opposite was true, and the tree represented just the Sacred Timeline, so we were back to square one and free will doesn't exist. And in my defense, there isn't any dialogue denying that. In the final scene we're back at the TVA, which seems to just be looking out for Kang variants now (Mobius briefly mentions the term "616", implying they are cataloguing timelines now I guess), but... as we've talked about many times, trying to turn a Nazi organization into something better, with ALL of the same people (minus Renslayer) to boot, will inevitably crash and burn. AND ALSO, the Tree is still a finite thing, so how is it accounting for literal infinite timelines? I dunno, it just is.

Written out I'm realizing how wildly incoherent this seems, but I swear I'm being as concise as I can. This show is just a nonsensical disaster.

Okay, that was the wildest ride I've been in a while. I don't know how to thank you because I genuinely loved that 👌

So... Loki can grab timelines now? 😂😂 See, this is what I meant with my review of The Marvels, the powers range in these new phases is all over the place. We have so many characters who are widely OP for no freaking reason, it is not explained, they just have that ability out of nowhere and the writers don't care about what that might mean in upcoming movies and series. Just like Wanda in MoM: if you give her such overarching powers, when we see her throwing a punch here and there it seems comical. Ridiculous, even.

Anyway, if I understand correctly then the timelines are still controlled, just by Loki this time instead of HWR? And the TVA still exists? So how is that a good thing? God, what happened to Marvel that they went from "Hydra, Shield, it all goes" to "Let's keep the TVA alive, they can do some good". Did they show the agents actually learning that all the shit the TVA taught them was wrong? Otherwise they will cause the same problems all over again. The problem wasn't HWR, the problem was that those agents believed in what they were doing. If they don't have a change of heart, they will repeat it all over again.

And character-wise, did Loki learn anything about himself? Or was it all talk about timelines and him taking over? Ugh, I'm so glad I didn't watch it...

[cielsosinfel]

cataloguing some twitter + bluesky threads about fc4/pajay thoughts (currently taking a break from revisiting it because of BG3 worming into my brain) (laugh track)

2:50 PM · Sep 18, 2023

something I've been stuck thinking about as I read all this FC4 fic from my time in the fandom a decade ago, and newer stuff written in the years since… very few people actually have Ajay go to Pagan's side over the Golden Path because of his mother

Like, outside of the secret ending. Stories mostly have him going over to Pagan because horny or because "damn the Golden Path is full of lunatics" (which bugs me for another reason lol the like. flanderization? of Amita and Sabal to the point it just reads like character-bashing

But anyway it's just like. I keep thinking about it. Ajay only goes to Kyra because his mother wanted her ashes laid to rest there. He has no idea what her relationship to the country's politics was. He has no idea who his father is at all. He just wants to be a dutiful son

And grieve, and do this for himself as much as for her. When he gets with the Golden Path, he keeps hearing Mohan Ghale, Mohan Ghale, Son of Mohan- why should this name meaning anything to him? His father was in his life for what, less than a year, he has 0 memory of him

So few people acknowledge Ishwari as a person. She's "Mohan's wife," "Mohan's child bride," I can't remember exactly but I'm pretty sure she's also mentioned disdainfully for "betraying" the GP because of everything with Pagan… no acknowledgment of her role in founding the GP

Everyone placing all of these expectations on Ajay's shoulders because he shares a name and blood with a man who may as well not exist in his life, and no one sparing a single kind word for the mother who he loved for 20+ years and lost just a few months ago

EXCEPT Pagan

When he has, on one side, Sabal who projects his ghost of a father all over Ajay while pushing him to go murder people for him, and Amita on the other who starts out hating him because of that same ghost of his father while pushing him to go… murder more people!

does it not make sense he'd get tired and upset and start considering reaching back out to the one single person in what feels like the whole country who knew Ishwari's name without Ajay even speaking it, and knew exactly where Ajay needed to go to lay her to rest

this is my tl;dr thoughts i've had all weekend

idk where i'm going with this and no one on here has even played this game good bye

if he even cared about the ethics at all, because this is a Far Cry game, ethics are kind of wishy-washy across the board

honestly i'm definitely putting more thought into ajay's emotional interiority and reactions than the game writers did

~~~~

Sep 19, 2023 at 6:39 AM

& yknow, I think there's something to be said of the fact Pagan is the only person who never asks Ajay to kill someone for him. Unless you count the moment at the end where he suggests Ajay kill him even though it'd be Boring (and I do think he was full aware Ajay might actually go through with it.)

also think it says something he spent 20+ ys avoiding assassination attempts, only to sit there literally defenseless, waiting for the last remainder of a weird broken family he almost had to shoot him. After 20+ yrs of grief warping him. I'm turning this over in my head now

Sep 21, 2023 at 6:29 PM

another FC4 thing: I thought Pagan was the only non-Kyrati-native character that pronounced Ajay's name as "AH-jay" but apparently… Paul does too………? The choice to have Paul of all characters pronounce it AH-jay, but then Noore pronounces it A-J.. I wanna know how they decided these things

Sep 21, 2023 at 6:07 PM

Will I get suspended here for talking about how horny I am for Dadson, pseudo or not, and how insane FC4 in specific is making me right now

Pagan is SOOOO ATTACHED to ajay's simultaneous benefit (never at risk of Pagan's Actual wrath) and detriment (pagan being an overbearing creep forever)

[void-bitten-ghost]

Okay so. Back on my SCP bullshit

SCP Wintersberg. They're both SCPs but Ethan is fairly new to the facility (being given up to them by Mia as soon as his corpse she was burying started to regrow it's head) and is in class euclid because whenever he gets tested he accidentally gumifies and spores the personnel.

Karl is also technically euclid but he's been there forever and has special roaming privileges because he's a pet project of one of the top researchers (mother dearest (derogatory)). He knows of Ethan by name but not much else, him being mother dearest's new favourite pin cushion. It gives him time to scheme.

But yeah, Karl wants out. He orchestrated the containment breach in a way to cause the most manageable chaos that is useful to himself. In theory, at least. But he's had enough. The testing, the prodding, the being paraded around like some walking failure that might still be useful one day...

There's a slight hitch in his plan, though. All of his security stuff is declined, all of his pass codes, his key cards, everything he had lined up for his escape falls apart because something or someone has fucked with the system.

Enter Ethan Not-A-Fcking-Again Winters.

He can't help but think Lucas would have a field day working on the security team here. The electric gates and the layered card system, the many, many, many things that want to kill him...

It's all a big puzzle, and Ethan was fairly okay at those. He gets on pretty well finding all the information on the other SCPs and cataloguing them on his clipboard. He even found a digital map and some playing cards (don't judge him he's spent years in a plain cell in this shithole he wants the cards).

Karl though, he is clever. Not the same sort of patient clever, but just enough to make it to the other side of the facility.

And that's where they both meet the crying man.

(Also Karl's got that mannequin just. Following him now. He's gotten used to it.)

But yeah Karl isn't that familiar with this side of the facility. He didn't think to brush up since his original plans A and B were pretty linear. He didn't expect to need to go this far in to get out.

Ethan though, Ethan has been doing his homework and knows deep in his bones as soon as he hears the faint sobs that this is dangerous oh shit oh fuck stay calm look down-

But then he hears booted footsteps and panics shit security personnel with guns he's not supposed to be out of his cell shit what do i do-

"A class D? You're a long way from home, aren't you?"

D?? Oh. Oh yeah he forgot about the jumpsuit he morphed. He thought it'd be better if he saw any other inmates to look like them and not... someone else. Someone they'd hold a grudge against. Or fear. He's so, so tired of being feared.

Ethan glances up and huh. That's not personnel uniform. Not nearly clean enough to be one of the more eccentric doctors either.

But he's looking around like he doesn't have a damn clue what is wailing just beyond those bloodied windows. And then he bangs his fist against the glass like a fucking madman what the f-

"Quit your goddamned whining," he screams and who the fuck does he think he is? Does he think he has a chance against something that could tear an entire platoon of fully armed men apart in a few breaths???

"Are you insane?" Ethan screeches from his crouched position across the hall.

"Debatable," he casually replies. "Depends who you ask."

Great. Fantastic. A lunatic with a sense of humour.

"Get. Down."

"Why? It's just some walking corpse crying for sympathy."

"A walking corpse with the ability to put you on a census somewhere if you don't shut the fuck u-"

That cold tingle down his spine, the overwhelming sense of dread and everything else going still. That big concrete baby was behind him oh fuck-

"Move towards me," the man with the obnoxious hat said, his unblinking eyes looking beyond Ethan and not moving.

Well. No argument from him. He keeps his eyes down and does as he's told for once. The fear of his spine being snapped doing wonders for his discipline. He needs to survive. He needs to find Rose. And it's that need that spurs him on.

Karl on the other hand, is now reconsidering his position here. He felt confident dealing with one SCP alone if needed. But with two in front of him, one behind him, and big boy Larry close on his heels, he doesn't quite feel as confident. He's not completely stupid with pride, after all, despite what many assumed. And another set of eyes to keep the baby from being a nuisance would probably help a lot...

But yeah, gonna stop there. Maybe there is a fic here I dunno I just love these idiots being forced into situations where they have to work together to not die horrifically

[up-to-some-good]

A Wedding

Sirius was distinctly not freaking out. James was running late, but Lily was around and would be sure to collect him if necessary. Regulus was somewhere around, but he wasn’t in the room, so he didn’t have to worry about that yet. He was perfectly fine – completely fine and normal, not freaking out at all.

“You look great,” a voice came from behind him.

He knew who it was before he made eye contact with Remus in the mirror. He was leaning against the doorway, already dressed in a light grey suit, looking incredibly put together as always.

“You’re not supposed to see me before the wedding,” Sirius sighed, closing his eyes as Remus moved forward and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“It’s a gay wedding between a werewolf and a disgraced aristocrat blood traitor, I think we can disregard tradition a little,” he whispered into Sirius’s ear.

He chuckled and leaned back into the taller man.

“Having cold feet, love?” Remus asked quietly.

“No, just nervous,” he responded. “There’s a lot that can go wrong.”

Remus hummed and kissed his forehead gently.

“Anything specific you’re worried about?”

Sirius sighed again and went over his mental checklist again, cataloguing everything that had and hadn’t gone right so far.

“James and Harry have yet to make an appearance,” he started. “And they have the rings, so they need to get here soon. Regulus is – somewhere, which is a surprise as I didn’t think he’d actually show, but it means I’ll have to check on him, so he doesn’t feel left out. Your mom has been in here about three times double checking all the details, which isn’t something wrong so much as something unhelpful. Also, I’m pretty sure we forgot to buy you new shoes.”

Remus laughed and rested his forehead on his fiancé’s shoulder. Sirius opened his eyes again and watched Remus regain his composure before making eye contact in the mirror.

“We did, in fact, forget to buy me shoes, but I polished my old ones so no one will know the difference,” he said. “As for my mom, I sent Lily to distract her when I heard her come in here the third time, so you don’t have to keep her calm. Regulus, last I heard, was sitting with Marlene and Dorcas, so he isn’t alone. As for James and Harry – they’ll be here.”

Remus looked at him carefully in the mirror before spinning him around so he could look at him properly.

“I know it never helps to tell you not to worry, but you really don’t have to,” he continued gently. “Everything, except James, is under control.”

Sirius leaned up to kiss him lightly, finally feeling like he could breathe. Behind him, he heard the door open and turned to see James, slightly out of breath, but otherwise ready.

“Harry lost the rings,” he said hoarsely. “But I found them, and I’m here. Ready when you are.”

They both laughed as James leaned heavily against the wall. Remus pulled Sirius back for another kiss before leaving, patting James’s back and winking. Before shutting the door.

“See you out there.”

James was already tearing up as he walked down the aisle with Lily. Neither groom had walked to the altar yet, but he couldn’t help it. His best mates were finally getting married.

Sirius was down the aisle first with Fleamont, in a black suit with a light grey tie – almost the same colour as his eyes. Remus came out next with Lyall, wearing the inverse of Sirius. Sirius met Remus at the front and squeezed his hand gently. They were both smiling like it was the first time they’d seen each other that day. James had never seen them so happy.

“Friends and family,” The officiant started. “We are gathered here today for the wedding of Remus John Lupin and Sirius Orion Black. From what I have been told, this has been a long time coming, so I won’t speak for long, but rather let the grooms speak for themselves. Remus, if you’d like to start.”

Remus took a deep breath and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Sirius,” he started. “When we first got together, I couldn’t understand why someone like you would ever want to be with someone like me. You are so kind and brave, loyal to a fault and the best friend I’ve ever had. But throughout our relationship, you have shown me and told me time and time again why you love me, and for that I will always be grateful. You make me feel worthy and loved, something I have never been able to achieve by myself, and you have never let me think I am anything less than human. I am so glad I have you because, even in my worst moments, you make me feel kind and good. I love you.”

Sirius sniffed and wiped his face as Remus finished.

“I should have asked to go first,” he muttered as he pulled out his own vows.

A chuckle ran through the room before Sirius cleared his throat and started to read.

“I never really thought I would find my person until I met you, Remus. I thought I’d end up alone, or in some awful loveless marriage, never meeting the right person. You prove me wrong every single day. You are able to quell my worst anxieties and smallest fears with one hug and a few simple words. You understand when I’m restless and need a walk, or when I’m just too tired to move and need a quiet night in with me even saying anything. You never question my anxiety, or insane tirades in the middle of the night about insignificant topics. We match in all the important and unimportant ways. You’re right-handed, I’m left-handed. You’re the right height for me to rest my head on your shoulder. You’re perpetually cold, I’m continuously too warm. I’m a night owl, you’re an early bird. We’re a perfect set: the moon and the stars. I think I was always meant to love you. I know I always will.”

James sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes. Looking around the room, there was not a dry eye in sight. The officiant cleared her throat before continuing.

“Can we have the rings?”

Harry ran forward from where he was sitting with his grandparents, handing over the rings, and hugging his favourite uncles before sitting back down with a smug grin.

“Remus,” the officiant continued. “Do you take Sirius to be your husband, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death you do part?”

“I do,” Remus said hoarsely, slipping the ring onto Sirius’s finger.

“Sirius, do you take Remus to be your husband, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death you do part?”

“I do.”

“By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you married,” the officiant said, smiling. “You may kiss.”

Remus didn’t wait for the end of the sentence before pulling Sirius towards him and kissing him soundly.

James didn’t bother to wipe his eyes as they walked back down the aisle towards the reception. His best friends were finally married. He was allowed to cry.

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children [DP x Batman Crossover] Ch. 1

Disclaimer: It's been a while since I watched DP and the only Batman/DC stuff I've interacted with are B:TAS, the JL cartoons, and what I got from fandom osmosis so don't expect any sort of canon compliance.

In Which: the author takes advantage of the passage of time in Nanda Parbat being wonky and Danny doesn't give up, per se, but is sort of resigned to being stuck with the League of Assassins until further notice.

AO3 | Prologue | [ 1 ] | 2 |

CW for descriptions of non-consensual drug use (if there's anything you guys would like me to tag, please tell me)

-----

WHEN SOMETHING WENT WRONG WITH DANNY’S LIFE, it was usually because of one or two things: Ghosts or Vlad. And considering their truce and how even Vlad wouldn’t go this far (at least, Danny hoped), Danny was kidnapped because of ghosts. Or his association with ghosts.

Though how an organization of ninja-assassins got wind of his ‘unique’ circumstance was beyond him. The shackles they slapped on his wrists were more a formality than anything after the second time he tried to escape them with intangibility. The only reason they managed to get him contained the entire trip from Amity Park to wherever the fuck Nanda Parbat lay was because of the cocktail of drugs they pumped into his system spiked with blood blossoms.

Danny had to give it to them. The League of Assassins might not have any anti-ecto weaponry, but they did their homework.

He barely remembered the trip. He catches flashes—blurry figures and words he couldn’t comprehend. A warm hand holding his, a thumb rubbing smooth circles on the back of his palm and calloused fingers running through his hair.

When he awoke, it was in a room bigger than his bedroom. His ankle was shackled to a bedpost, and the only door leading out was locked. There was a separate room for the bathroom off to the side and a shelf stacked with books decorating the otherwise bare walls, but other than that there wasn’t much else. Not even windows.

Intangibility, he learned, wasn’t an option. The blood blossoms in his bloodstream were still in circulation, rendering his transformation useless. If his nose was right, his captors were pumping blood blossoms from the vents. The sickly sweet of the flower was faint in the cool air, but the slight red haze that persisted in the room was unmistakable.

He tried, regardless. The rings barely made it half-way before his knees buckled and he started retching all over the floor. At least his stomach was empty.

-------

Danny doesn’t know how long he’s been in Nanda Parbat. Time moved differently here. Faster, he thought. He doesn’t really understand how or why, though sometimes he wondered what Clockwork thought of all of this.

(There are times, in the darkness and solitude of his cell, when Danny would call for Clockwork to rescue him. Quietly, so quietly, it was barely even a whisper. But Clockwork would hear it—Danny was sure he would. Clockwork helped him out before, so this time shouldn’t be all that different. But at the end of the night, nothingness would answer him. And Danny had to learn over and over again that even the Ghost of Time had his own rules to follow.)

It had taken a few days and Talia nearly biting the head off of the League’s physician for them to realize that blood blossoms would be an awful way to contain him. Effective at immobilizing him, yes, but the flowers left him about as helpless as Superman in a kryptonite cave.

“It all works out in the end,” Talia would say. “The blossoms were never going to become a long-term solution; you might end up developing an immunity to them given enough exposure.”

Though knowing now what Talia’s ‘long-term plan’ was for making sure Danny didn’t slip through the walls of the headquarters and fly across the ocean, Danny would rather take his chances with the blood blossoms.

Danny might not have been as smart as Vlad, but he was tricky and creative when he needed to be. He knows he’s powerful. And sure, he might forget some of his own abilities every now and then, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use them. In the time he’s been stuck in the Leage’s lair (and coherent), Danny had thought of a dozen escape plans, each one with a high chance of success. If he made an attempt, he could guarantee the League wouldn’t notice until he was a quarter-way across the globe.

Escaping wasn’t the problem. That would be the easy part.

His core burned at the thought of it. And it hurt—as if his entire being was dunked in a vat of dry ice and left to freeze. He hated how he was here and everything that he was protecting was far. Away.

Danny wanted to go home. Wanted to read comic books in his bed, play Doom with Tucker and Sam, sleep in class and make fun of the Box Ghost. He wants to eat his mom’s food, even if there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it would come alive and try to eat him instead. He wants to listen to Jazz try to psychoanalyze his problems. Wants to go fishing with his dad and eat his famous chocolate fudge. Wants to fly above the skies of Amity Park and touch what little he can of the universe before he’s called down again.

Amity Park is his haunt. His Home. The soft hum of the Ghost Portal in the basement a lullaby he’s listened to for so long that sleeping without it was next to impossible. Every fiber of his being craved to go back because how is he supposed to protect Amity if he isn’t there?

But to go back meant sacrificing everyone.

Danny doesn’t risk it.

(The—the last time was an accident. If Danny isn’t—if he isn’t careful, this time it may be an assassination. He refused to have his family’s death on his hands again.)

He has faith in Sam, Tucker, and Jazz to hold down the fort until he could find a way to escape. They’re smart. Smarter than him. They’ll work something out and—in a worst-case scenario, they’ll find a way to shut down the Ghost Portal to stop the ghosts from coming through.

Logic meant nothing to his ghost core, though. The next best thing to do was to drown out his worries with the League’s rigorous education.

Hand-to-hand and weapons combat. Geography. History. Dozens of foreign languages. Poisons and herbology and basic first-aid. His days are packed with new things to learn and to repeat until it’s drilled into his skull so deep he could recite the information in his sleep. (Hyosycamus niger, aka Henbane. Every part is highly toxic and can cause dizziness, stupor, insanity, and eventual death. It’s medicinal uses range from--)

The League demanded perfection. The Demon’s Head demanded even more than that.

Talia oversaw his education. Sometimes, there would be another, older, man by her side, observing his regimen with cold calculation. Whenever that man arrived, Danny’s instructors were always stricter.

His teachers made little effort to interact with him outside of their set schedule, and during his lessons they only ever answer pertinent questions. He supposed there would be other students of the League in Nanda Parbat, but he’s seen neither hide nor hair of them. His rooms (a bedroom + bathroom combo that led out into a large indoor space for training) are separate from everything else.

Danny slept alone, ate alone, and trained alone. And for a boy who has had his two best friends stuck to his side like glue for as long as he could remember, it’s a terribly lonely experience.

His shadow guards don’t count. They might as well be another piece of furniture. Another stone in the wall.

-------

Talia was the only one that broke his new mundane routine, as much as she was the cause of it. She was his only source of companionship in this hell hole; the only one who would really speak to him. And yeah, he knew why that was. Jazz had rambled on enough about Stockholm syndrome to know that this ‘arrangement’ was Talia’s attempts at forging a bond between them. But godit’s just so hard to be stuck inside your own mind all day when. It made him think too much. Worry. (Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif).

And then—

And then.

Danny had asked Talia a multitude of questions, but only two did she ever answer. Both asked when he was still trying to flush the drug cocktail and the blood blossoms from his system.

The first was when he asked, “Why am I here?” She answered that it was because Ra’s al Ghul, her father, wanted him. He had knowledge the Demon’s Head wanted; powers that Ra’s could only ever dream of. The man was curious—though Talia assured him over and over again that Danny wouldn’t be vivisected and studied for science.

The second answer came right after when Danny asked her “How could you be so sure?”

Talia smiled. Lacquered fingers coming up to brush away the dark strands that fell over his face. Her hands traced the curve of his jaw, cupping his cheeks to raise his eyes to hers. “Because you are my son,” she said, voice honey sweet.

He jerked from her hold.

Burned by it.

“You’re lying,” he spat. “I’m already someone else’s son. Try again.”

Talia let her hands drop to her sides. “You are my son.” She took a step closer towards him. Steady. Firm. “That is why you are here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A pitying smile. “Be that as it may, you cannot change the truth.” She approached him, slowly backing him against the wall before she reached out to tilt his chin upwards. Some traitorous part of Danny’s mind catalogued her features. Made connections that shouldn’t exist. “I have carried you in my womb, Daniel. You were a part of me for so very long and I loved you more with each passing day. You are of my body and of my blood—not matter how much you may deny it.”

“No.” He pushed her hands away and raked his hands over his hair. “You’re lying.” She must be. They don’t look alike. Not at all. Everyone always said he was his dad’s—Jack Fenton’s—exact copy. Black haired and blue eyed and sharp-jawed. Awkward but well-meaning and with a heart of gold, his mother said. It was once of the facts of life; Danny took after his dad, and Jazz took after their mom. Simple as that.

(There is a memory resurfacing from his early childhood that Danny is desperately trying to repress again. Memories of kids teasing him on the playground, innocently cruel in the way only children can be as they tried to convince him he was adopted. That his skin looked nothing like his parents’. Dusky where his parents and sister were fair. He went home crying to his parents that same day, and they soothed away his worries with hushed words and a well-timed distraction.)

He asked no more questions after that. Talia was lying to him for some reason, and no answer she could give would be trustworthy anyways. What little of him he could see in her was only a figment of his own imagination. His mind playing cruel tricks.

Then his hopes were dashed aside when Talia showed him a picture of his father a day later.

The man in the photo looked like him. Black haired and eyes the same shade of too-bright blue. There were differences, of course. The man in the photograph was fairer, unlike Danny. He was taller and broader where Danny was lean and lanky. But despite this and all the other minute differences, this man who was supposed to be Danny’s biological father looked like him.

The same slant of the brow. The same shape of the eyes. The way the man held himself with this sense of gravitas and power that Danny couldn’t yet do in his awkward teenage years but had seen before. In a monster another man.

Danny’s future self was terrifying in its inhumanity, but it didn’t take that much of an imagination to know that he looked almost exactly like the man in the picture.

[cactusnymph]

Prompt fill #9 for @dimension20alphabet:

Injury

The air smells of smoke, dust and blood.

 Fabian is pretty sure that his left foot is broken, which sucks because he’s going to have a hard time kicking anyone’s ass without both his feet. Dancing will also be difficult.

 He clutches his battle sheet and tries to pull his foot out of the rubble it got stuck between. If he gets his hands on the bastards who made this damn cave explode above them even their ancestors are going to have a headache waking up tomorrow.

 But for that to happen, Fabian needs to get out of here.

 “Fabian?”

 Riz’ voice sounds hoarse and muffled and Fabian assumes that he’s somewhere behind another pile of rubble.

 “I’m over here”, he answers and tries to make his voice sound casual and not like he wants to do something embarrassing, like whimper from the pain. Fabian can barely anything and breathing is hard because there is so much dust in the air.

 “I’ll—let me see if I can get to you. You okay?”, Riz asks. Fabian doesn’t waste his breath to answer, he tries to push some of the rubble away from his ankle and lets out a wheezing breath. His mouth tastes like iron.

 He can hear Riz try to move the rubble out of the way, but his arms are like tiny twigs so Fabian doesn’t see how he’ll get any of that shit to move. And Fabian, being uselessly stuck with his damn foot, can’t help him.

 Fabian thought that splitting up the party was the smartest move, but now he regrets their choices because damn, they sure could use Kristen’s healing or Adaine’s magic or Gorgug’s insane muscles to move some of this shit.

 The quest to defeat the Night Yorb hasn’t exactly gone well so far. Fabian feels like being stuck in a fucking cave with his foot broken and his mouth full of blood is the peak of bad luck that they have reached so far. He can only hope that the others had more success on their ventures.

 But as far as he knows, they’re also stuck somewhere in here.

 Fabian never specifically had a problem with small, closed spaces, but right now he feels like his chest is unusually tight and he could swear that the damn ceiling is getting closer while he’s desperately trying to get his foot unstuck.

 The rubble behind him shifts and a few pained noises bring Fabian back to reality as a small, lithe shape wiggles itself through an impossible tiny crack made in the pile behind him as Riz appears, his head bleeding profusely and his face contorted in a mix of determination and pain.

 “Are you okay?”, Riz asks again the second he scrambles through the hole he made. Fabian notices that his hands are also bleeding—probably from digging through all those stones. Something in Fabian’s chest feels like a nervous bird fluttering against his rib cage and it takes him a confused moment to realize that it’s his heart.

 Riz has been different since they defeated the Nightmare King.

 More self confident somehow. Less awkward. Scarily competent.

 And he stopped wearing his hat.

 Fabian has been feeling weird around him for a while, but the fact that this little Goblin dug himself through sharp rocks to get to him, bleeding and bruised and hurt, and the first thing he does is ask if Fabian is okay—it does things to him.

 Fabian refuses to acknowledge this.

 “My foot is stuck”, he says.

 Riz—and he’s been Riz for a while now, at least in Fabian’s head, and not The Ball anymore—turns his huge, yellow eyes to the stones that are crushing Fabian’s foot between them.

 “Got it”, Riz says and without doing anything about his bleeding head or his bleeding hands he gets to work, his small frame working tirelessly, determined, stubborn even. The rocks are big—way too big for Riz to actually lift them.

 But Riz wouldn’t be Riz if he wouldn’t be a nerd even about stuff like this.

 Using his sword as leverage he manages to roll the bigger ones off of the pile. While he works Fabian can see blood dripping down the sword and Riz’ face.

 He swallows heavily.

 “You’re bleeding”, he croaks.

 “I know. I’ll take care of it in a second”, Riz answers.

 He’s focused.

 Fabian knows that, when Riz gets like this, there is no way to deter him from the task at hand. It sometimes happens for a project at school, or when he has a case he’s close to cracking. He disappears into his head and into his task at hand and it takes hours for him to appear again.

 Fabian doesn’t know when exactly he started to catalogue all of Riz’ facial expressions and behaviors, but he has quite the collection so far.

 Riz works in silence. Sometimes, when he gets like this, he starts mumbling to himself, but not this time.

 He looks almost grim.

 Fabian isn’t sure if it’s actually getting warmer in here or if that’s just him.

 “Do you think the others got stuck as well?”, he says to distract himself from the heat crawling under his skin and the fluttering in his chest.

 “Probably not. By my estimation they should be way further down already”, Riz murmurs and wipes some sweat off his forehead, which simply leaves a smearing of blood where his hand touches his green skin.

 Fabian has no idea since when his damn brain finds it mesmerizing to see blood on his best friend’s skin, but here he is, staring at Riz because he looks weirdly... ragged? Badass?

 Fabian is annoyed at himself.

 When he finally feels the weight lifted off his ankle he pulls his leg out and makes a pained noise in the back of his throat that causes Riz’ concentrated gaze to turn to him. His yellow eyes remind Fabian of cats’ eyes in the dark and he swallows again as Riz comes over to him and touches Fabian’s face to turn his head to the side so he can inspect his wounds.

 Fabian’s heart stumbles in his chest.

 Gods dammit, this is completely ridiculous.

 “You bleeding anywhere else?”, Riz asks and then his eyes find Fabian’s and they’re staring at each other. Fabian knows that Riz is in no headspace to think about kissing, but damn, Fabian does. Fabian’s stupid brain tells him to just grab Riz by the shoulders and pull him down, pull him on top of Fabian to minimize the space between them—

 “Fabian? You got a concussion? Let me check your eyes.”

 Riz gets even closer.

 Fabian thinks he might die.

 He thinks about the way Aelwyn made him feel back then, when he got so excited about kissing her again. Somehow that was nothing compared to how he’s been feeling about Riz for a while now. As Fig said, kissing someone you’re “madly in love with just hits different”.

 “Don’t think so”, he manages and his voice sounds like sandpaper on stone.

 “Okay. I have my healer’s kit. Just let me clean my hands real quick.”

 Fabian watches how Riz procures water and his healer’s kit from his bag and starts washing his hands as good as he can before he tries to wrap bandages around both of his hands. He lets out a frustrated hiss.

 “Let me—“, Fabian says and grabs Riz’ hands.

 To be fair, Fabian never paid much attention when Cathilda or Kristen tried to teach him first aid because it never was of much interest to him—and now he definitely wishes he had listened a little closer. But it can’t be that difficult to wrap a tiny pair of Goblin hands in bandages to make them stop bleeding.

 “You have to do, like, a kind of V-shape. Yeah. Like that. Not too tight, please. Yeah, that works.”

 What Fabian didn’t really think through was that now he’s somewhat holding Riz’ hands. Which doesn’t exactly help his brain or his heart to calm down. At least his internal turmoil distracts him from the pain and the situation they’re currently in.

 He remembers how Riz stole that healer’s kit on their very first day of school. He’s had it ever since and restocked it carefully for each of their adventures, taking great care to learn how to give first aid to his friends when everyone else was out of spells or they were separated.

 “Thanks, Fabian”, Riz says once it’s done and he wiggles his fingers slightly, then turns his eyes back on Fabian’s face.

 “I’ll take care of your head first and then I can check out that foot. Maybe I can—I dunno. Make a splint or something.”

 “You—uh. You got really good at this”, Fabian says and turns his gaze upwards so he doesn’t have to focus on Riz’ yellow eyes right in front of him anymore.

 “Thanks”, Riz mumbles and his bandages fingers touch Fabian’s face gently.

 Fabian kind of wishes one of the rocks had just knocked him out.

 This is pathetic.

 He is Fabian Aramais Seacaster.

 Maybe his confidence died briefly—or for a longer period of time—back on their Spring Break adventure, but he’s been building it back up! He’s a catch! He’s amazing!

 Riz should be the one getting nervous because he’s allowed to touch Fabian’s handsome face.

 “I think once we’re patched up you should take my sword and teleport through all that rubble and I’ll try to crawl back. We need to find the others.”

 “You shouldn’t crawl back through that, The Ball”, Fabian says, thinking about Riz’s bloody hands. Riz shouldn’t get hurt on Fabian’s behalf.

 Gods, Fabian has it bad.

 “It’s fine. I’m smaller than you, so it’s easier for me. And I don’t think you should move too much with that brok—“

 “I’m in—I have feelings. For you.”

 Silence.

 Fabian doesn’t dare to breathe. Two seconds ago it felt right to finally say it, but now he’s regretting all his life choices leading up to this, as Riz’ yellow eyes stare at him, his small fingers still on Fabian’s forehead, holding a piece of gauze against the wound.

 “Wh—what?”

 “Forget it—it’s uh—I probably do have a concussion. Nevermind!”

 He can tell that Riz doesn’t buy it and also that Fabian’s words have ripped him out of his state of hyper-focus, something that Fabian has never managed to do before. Maybe he should feel kind of proud. But instead he feels sick to his stomach.

 “Feelings? Like—uh—like...”

 Fabian sees the confidence slip from Riz’ face like a mask he wore, and underneath is still the socially awkward kid handing people fucking business cards and vomiting inside of backpacks because he heard some clues.

 “Yeah. Like that”, he says.

 It’s hard to see in the dark, but Fabian could swear that Riz’ cheeks are tinted dark green.

 “Really?”

 His voice sounds very small now. Nervous. As if he expects Fabian to start laughing and say “Of course not, The Ball”. Which is probably fair. It’s not like Fabian ever managed to make his appreciation of his best friend very clear.

 “Hm.”

 “Oh.”

 “Oh? What does that mean?”

 “I—uh—I don’t. Um—this is—“

 Riz laughs nervously and turns his head.

 “I didn’t—um. Well”, he laughs again and sits down, hugs his knees and props his chin on top of them. “I kinda didn’t expect to ever hear that. From you. Um—yeah. It’s been... a long time. For me? I guess.”

Fabian’s brain short circuits and his heart does a very complicated dancing routine.

 “You—what?”

 Riz peaks up at him. Shrugs.

 “I’ve kinda been in love with you since. I don’t even know. A long time.”

 “For real?”

 “Yeah. For real.”

 “Okay, fuck this cave. Fuck this whole thing. We have to get out of here so I can fucking kiss your brains out. Give me your sword.”

 Riz hides his face for a second and then he laughs, a shaky, nervous but also happy laugh. He does not hand Fabian his sword.

 “First the wounds. Then the sword. Then—then the other stuff.”

 “Fine. You better hurry up.”

 “I will. Hold still.”

 Fabian is still determined to kick everyone’s ass once they get out of this. But maybe he’ll also send them some fruit baskets to the hospital afterwards.

[velvetsands]

updates

three whole days in new york was a lot of fun

i bet i could do some serious damage in that city if i lived there lol

catching the subway at 11pm with a teenager both fresh off the plane all the way from jfk to hoboken not knowing i could have died?

sights seen: brooklyn bridge, flatiron, statue of liberty, wall street, stock exchange, one world trade centre, saks fifth avenue, central park, the met (briefly), the friends apartment

saw an influencer shooting onlyfans content completely nude in central park

saw the yankees win at home with two home runs with amazing bars pre and post

rounded the corner from the friends apartment, found myself in a pride parade and then kesha was randomly performing???

saw moulin rouge on broadway, then cash took me to times square

where we stumbled into the wade vs roe street protests -- insane

made friends with the girl beside me during the yankees game, she scored me reservations to peak and crown shy

learnt how to do **** the "new yorker way"

partied until 6am before dragging my sorry ass across state lines watching state of origin updates was definitely novel

hailed a taxi which was cool

probably walked ~45-50km in total just because

ate bagels, pizza, catalogued all the names they called me at starbucks, fell in love with chick-fil-a and brown sugar floats at dunkin' donuts

then caught a plane to boston (mistake, should have caught the train) and i thought i was going to andover, ma BUT NO i was going to andover, nh

turns out the conference was at some elite boarding academy in the middle of rural new hampshire and actually.... turns out it wasn't my field at all (they were chemistry, i am biology and the intersection is small believe it or not)

i was disrespected so many times and at one point, one of the giants in the field told me to "shut up" and i gave it back to him bc guess what... he's a nobody in MY field.

the conference for the most part sucked, my talk was given to someone else bc i wasn't "senior enough" when in reality it's actually all MY data like what..... i know that data better than my own boss tbh

the chairs wanna talk about empowering grad students during every lecture session blah blah blah but then the one real opportunity to do just that presents itself and they knocked me back

i asked (read: begged three times) them to give me a slot and it was fucking humilating -- nobody in my own country cares about copper, i go to the once place people care about copper, and my work falls on deaf ears

anyway i ended up making a bunch of new friends, came up with a new experimental technique i think will be of major interest and managed to squeeze a hike and a wine tour so all was not lost

i feel like this was reaaaaallly good practice for spain where i will be talking in only a couple of weeks (#girlboss) where people will be in my field and hopefully appreciate my work!!!!!!!!

went back to boston and visited harvard... very very cool. would love to have spent some more time but just needed to get home so booked flights 24h earlier to buy some time in sydney lol

fact: human bodies aren't meant to hurtle at 1000kph for 23h across the world

so even though flying premium+ economy was fantastic

i don't reckon i could do that to myself more than once a year which really raises questions about a future postdoc in the US

[englass]

Hello ❤ hope you have a nice day 💖 can i request #14 from the dark prompts please?

Heya hun!!! Honestly, the day has been hot, but we push on. I hope your day has been good!! 💖 Hope you don't mind, but I went for a Fantasy AU for this one; I was super struggling with the prompt and the only thing I could think of was, "oooh, John as a mage..." so we kinda get that. The whole thing is more set up then anything else, but I didn't want to delete anything...

14. “You’re too sweet, darling. What type of monster would I be without you?”

- - -

There had been tales, whispers amongst the women and men of people going missing; of them being snatched off darkened paths and empty roads. Some reckoned it was a beast, spoke of a monster that was stealing people away to fuel their wicked appetite. Others thought it to be bandits, or other unscrupulous groups looking to profit off of the lives of inconspicuous civilians. But there were a handful, the few like yourself, that felt the shift in the air; that could feel the remnants of something foul and forbidden coiled around the scenes.

It had worried you greatly, the thought of such dark magic set loose in the town you had made a home of. Often you found yourself lost in your own mounting anxieties as the reports grew more and more frequent, and rumours gradianted into a much dreaded possibility. Even though you were no stranger to the darker arts, proficient as you are in the art of Summoning, you had never delved too far into its catalogue. In fact, Summoning was about all you ever touched and even then, amongst some other magically inclined individuals, it was considered somewhat of a lesser art; not as destructive and therefore not as notable as others.

However, just because you never strayed into more questionable arts doesn’t mean you know not of them. You’re aware that there are some dark arts that are a bit more accepted amongst the magically inclined than others, used for educational purposes and approved of as a means to protect oneself. Really dark arts are just offensive abilities, so no matter what there is always an element of wariness when it comes to the potential of such arts. As long as you utilise them in an acceptable manner there will be no questioning, no inquiries into your character.

For those not accepted though it is typically because they cross some form of moral or ethical line, taking an individual down a path that alters them irremediably. Stains the core of their aura with the makings of something dreadful, corrupts them until they lose all that makes them as they are.

Admittedly, if not studied correctly or the thirst for knowledge becomes too consuming, then any art can destroy a person; can set them down that very smart path. And sometimes a person can destroy the values of the art and stretch it into something it is not designed to be. There are many stories of Healers’ playing Maker, of a Conjurers’ calling going terribly wrong, of Astrologians’ going insane from their divinations. Once you were almost entranced by your own Summon; a rookie mistake, terribly embarrassing to recall.

Magic in general is a dangerous art and care will always need to be taken. But there are some arts where that danger is part of the art, and those are forbidden. They will always cross the line, and they will never fail to destroy a person; and that person will never fail to destroy others.

That’s what scared you so much about the recent happenings of the town. To think that such a person was lurching about the place, taking people off the street for who knows what nefarious reasons, terrified you. The idea that you could be next, that the stability of your own aura could be at risk because of this rogue caster sickened you. It tore you apart.

And John saw that.

It was a relatively small town, filled with all types of people coming in and out from across the region and the different towns within it. For a long time though the only people you knew that did magic was a spirited Pyromancer called Sharky and some eccentric Apothecary who lived on the outskirts called Larry (you were convinced the man tested his own potions on himself). The first you met when you had summoned a Kelpie to help you put out a fire he had accidentally caused a bit too close to your home, while the latter you had met by chance while looking for ingredients.

That had changed once the Seed brothers had moved in close to the town. They were surprisingly open about their magical inclinations and while the town wasn’t outrightly hostile they were openly suspicious of the three. You had even been a little suspicious of the three, not understanding their reasons for being so forward to a none magically inclined town; it could be dangerous to do so. Ultimately though they suffered little consequence of their reveal, other than strange looks and quiet gossip made of them. You had been envious of that freedom, to be forthright about what you were, but thought better of it. To reveal such a truth after so long would spell disaster for you.

Not even a full lunar cycle had passed before Joseph, the middle brother of the three, had made a point to come seek you out, introducing himself and his brothers to you. It had been a wholly uncomfortable encounter, especially the instance where he had suddenly questioned what arts you had studied. Desperately you had tried to deny it but thankfully the oldest brother, Jacob, had merely sighed and apologised on Joseph’s behalf. As an ex-Paladin turned Enchanter he had fully understood your need for secrecy and had been your saving grace during the whole thing. From then on the brothers become quick acquaintances to you, whether you wanted them to be or not.

Joseph was… okay. He made for interesting conversation no doubt and oftentimes his words gave you pause to think on things, but he could be a touch preachy at times, especially about his beliefs and divinations. Jacob on the other hand had become a confidante of sorts. You didn’t often talk, but when you did the conversation held well enough and his advice was always sound. He was also honest about his thoughts and opinions on a matter, and while you didn’t like being called out when you messed up you did respect his outlook. Your relationship with the youngest brother, John, however was a special one.

It had taken him a few days after the initial introduction to strike up a conversation with you, and for the most part he had purely asked you about yourself. But somewhere between admitting how long you’ve lived here and him nervously revealing himself to be a Conjurer, you had developed a fast trust of the man. It was unexplainable, completely foolish of you, but there was just something about him that you thought was pleasant; a believability to him. He was the first you deliberately told about your darker studies and thankfully, being of similar arts, he had taken it exceedingly well. You had even bonded over the differences and similarities between your chosen studies. He had become a dear friend, and only became dearer as the years went by.

So John noticing when your worries began to eat at you didn’t surprise you. He knew you extraordinarily well, sometimes it was even a little spooky how well he knew you, but it was also an odd comfort. He knew just what to say to put you at ease, to assure you that you would be safe and even going so far as promising that he himself would protect you from such a fate as those missing. You still had doubts, but his care was touching.

If only you had learned the truth sooner.

“My friend, please,” you cry, wrists shackled uncomfortably above you, the metal cutting into your skin, “I beg of thee, stop this! Such practises are a blight to the soul, you will doom yourself if you continue. I know not what it is you wish to accomplish, but please spare them this torture! Spare yourself! Surely there has to be another way, John; surely!”

John merely chuckles quietly, slowly shaking his head as he does so. “Oh, you’re too sweet, darling. Even now, as you are, you still think of me and my well being before yourself. Not to imply you have anything to fear, of course; you know I would never hurt you. I merely mean it as an observation. It is a charming trait, that sweetness of yours. It’s part of why I fell for you so.” He turns to you then, up to his elbows covered in blood. The person before him is still alive, but barely, their breaths shallow and their skin a deathly pallor. To think he was a Hemomancer this whole time…

“But why waste words on their behalf when they would never deign to do the same for you? You had to hide yourself, deny what you truly are just to be accepted by these lowly worms for years. Tell me, where is the fairness in that? In what world should we sequest ourselves away from those weaker than us, those deemed less worthy by the Maker themselves?”

Crossing the space in a few long strides he stops before you, bloody hands cupping your cheeks gently even as you try to turn away from him, bringing you back to stare helplessly into his sparkling eyes, “Don’t you see, sweet one? You are beautiful, in every part, as you are. We were blessed by the Maker, but they will never see that, blinded as they are. They will never appreciate our arts, our gifts, or even us as people, no matter what we may do or sacrifice for them. If I need to subject myself to risk to show them their place, to create a world that you need not hide in any longer, then I’ll do so gladly and without hesitation.”

Shaking your head softly, face still captured within his hands, a tear slips unbidden down your cheek. “But it will consume you. You’ll become a monster.”

“Maybe,” he admits, tone oddly calm as he carefully brushes beneath your eye with his thumb, smearing blood through the track of your tear, “but I wonder, what type of monster would I be without you, do you think?”

Perhaps it is vain of you, but something tells you that he would be another beast entirely without you chained to him as you now are…

[charincharge]

I Don’t Want To Wait, three

rowaelin high school bff au  masterlist

Based on the prompts : 

Subtle glances at each other but they don’t notice Everyone else knows how they feel Where one of them subconsciously copies the others movements.... For Rowaelin HS au (of course)

Person A sneaking things into the cart when Person B isn’t looking. I thought of Aelin sneaking some chocolate sweets 😂

“Ace, control yourself.”

Rowan removed the family-sized bag of assorted chocolates from their grocery cart and replaced it with a smaller one. Aelin pouted and widened her eyes, hoping that her puppy dog eyes would distract her best friend, but he remained resolute. He walked a little further down the aisle and placed a bag of trail mix into the cart. Aelin picked it up and frowned.

“Ro, there’s not even chocolate in this!” she whined, and Rowan rolled his eyes. “Who eats trail mix without chocolate? That’s a crime against humanity.”

“Some of us have lacrosse nationals to prep for and might want nutritious snacks.”

“You can have all the carrots and humus you want,” Aelin laughed, grabbing two bags of potato chips and a can of queso.

“You’re never going to make it through this all-nighter if you eat that crap,” Rowan chastised, but Aelin merely flicked him off in return.

“Please. My body runs on grease and sugar and caffeine,” she bragged. “I’ll be fine.”

Rowan’s eyes slowly perused her body, and Aelin resisted tugging at the hem of her cropped hoodie, studiously ignoring Rowan’s pointed gaze.

“It is kind of insane how true that is,” Rowan said, eyes still affixed to the few inches of exposed skin between her jeans and top. “You’re a medical marvel. Doctors should study you.”

“I exercise,” Aelin huffed in response, and Rowan barked out a loud laugh. As a varsity athlete, Rowan’s exercise regiment bordered on extreme – a five mile run every morning, lacrosse practice every afternoon, followed by weight lifting.

“Says the girl who uses cramps to get out of gym every other week, and then the week you actually have your period.”

Aelin snorted loudly. “It’s not my fault that Coach Hammel doesn’t know anything about the female reproductive system.” Aelin frowned. “And by the way, it’s weird that you track my period.”

She watched as Rowan’s ears turned pink, but he rolled his eyes regardless. “It’s for my own protection. I need to know when to steer clear, otherwise you might mistake me for a piece of chocolate and bite my head off,” he said, poking her in the ribs.

Aelin could feel herself heating up, imagining how delicious Rowan might taste with some chocolate on him.

Since Aelin’s birthday, it was as if her hormones were constantly going haywire. Some sort of teenage hormonal glitch, for sure. Her lust for Rowan had blossomed, and she was no longer in control of her thoughts or her body’s flustered reactions to his presence.

Since their weird, too-close slow dance just a few weeks ago, Aelin had kept track of every time Rowan had touched her. Her body was just… hyper aware of him.

It wasn’t as if Rowan hadn’t touched her before – no, the pair of best friends had always been comfortable with each other in their casual physical intimacy. But suddenly, it was driving Aelin insane. To the point of distraction. She’d written down every pinch and tickle and arm slung over her shoulder with a time code into her diary, just to organize how frequently he touched her.

It wasn’t even that the touching was inappropriate. No, it was completely innocent, but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if it meant something. Like, maybe Rowan wanted to kiss her too?

She mentally clocked another one to add to her diary – Tuesday at 5:12pm: Rowan poked her side in the grocery aisle.

To combat her rising flush, she diverted her attention to their full cart, overflowing with every kind of junk food from frozen pizza to cookies to tubs of icing to energy drinks and every snack food in between. Rowan’s healthy food section was a paltry sampling of baby carrots, hummus and now his gross, chocolate-free trail mix. They had exactly what they needed for a late night of cramming for their world history exam.

As they made their way to the front to pay, Aelin took a quick moment to replace the bag of chocolates with the family sized one. Rowan didn’t notice until she placed it on the conveyer belt to pay, which he noted with a loud sigh.

“You’re a menace to society,” Rowan he said, squeezing her side.

As Aelin paid, Rowan brushed by her again, his fingertips ever so slightly caressing the bare skin of her back, flustering Aelin completely. Her cheeks heated as she fumbled with the credit card in her hand. Gods, she could not get her lust under control today. How many times had she blushed in this shopping trip alone? But also…

Was that necessary?! She wanted to scream at him as he took his place at the end of the belt to help bag groceries. She looked up at the cashier, who was looking at her with a knowing smile on her face.

“Huh?” Aelin asked, not having quite heard the cashier.

“$83.78,” the cashier repeated, glancing quickly at Rowan and then back at Aelin.

“Right,” Aelin mumbled, ignoring the cashier’s pointed look and swiping her dad’s card quickly.

Rowan hoisted the bags onto his broad shoulders and led the way back to his car, completely oblivious to Aelin’s most recent spike of arousal. Luckily, Rowan was unable to touch her over the large center console of his jeep, and Aelin propped her feet up on the dash, giving herself some space to cool down.

But as he put on his driving playlist, her eyes unwittingly slid to him. She couldn’t help herself.  Somewhere over the last six months, he’d grown about four inches and had started filling out his lanky body with actual muscles. She glanced at her best friend’s face, noticing his long blonde lashes and sloped nose and his silver-blonde hair, in desperate need of a haircut, falling ever so slightly into his dark green eyes.

“Why are you staring at me?” Rowan asked, never taking his eyes off the road. He was nothing if not an overly cautious driver.

Aelin leaned forward and poked her thumb against his cheek. She briefly wondered if Rowan was cataloguing every time she touched him, too. She doubted it. Instead of saying anything incriminating, she went with something ridiculous.

“Do you think you’ll ever need to shave, or are you too blonde to grow facial hair?” she asked, causing Rowan to scowl. He leaned his head down and lifted his shoulder, trapping Aelin’s fingers. She laughed loudly, wriggling her fingers, but she didn’t try hard to remove them. Why would she?

“Why, you think I’d look good with a beard?” Rowan asked, and Aelin crinkled her eyes trying to imagine him, even more grown with a full face of stubble. She just couldn’t.

She must have been making quite the disgruntled expression, because Rowan looked immediately offended as he released her hand from its hold and snapped at her free fingers with his bared teeth. Aelin squealed and pulled her hand back into her lap. “Rude,” he said, pulling into Aelin’s driveway.

“Your dad just left,” Elide announced, barely waiting until the jeep was in park to pull the door open. “He said not to burn the house down.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. That was her dad’s sign off every time he left to go to work. Aelin had started one tiny fire while attempting to cook dinner alone one time, and her father had shown up with the entire Orynth Fire Department in full gear, ready to rescue his daughter from certain death. He’d never let her live it down. She was OFD legend.

“What’d you get?” Lysandra asked, rifling through one of the grocery bags. “Oh! Stuffed crust,” she said with a grin. “Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

Lysandra batted her long lashes at Aelin, slipping her arm around her friend’s waist as Aelin led them all into the house. Another arm tugged at Lysandra, pulling her away, and Aelin laughed at Lysandra’s annoyed squeal with her boyfriend.

“Wes, go help Elide set up our work stations,” Lysandra ordered, and Wesley immediately pouted, wrapping his arms around his girlfriend’s waist even tighter, nibbling at her neck.

“But I’m so hungry,” he complained.

Lysandra pushed his face off her as she narrowed her eyes with warning.

“You get that snack after you help me ace this exam,” Lysandra smirked, and Wesley nuzzled his chin against her shoulder, pulling her closer.

“This is a PDA free night,” Rowan groaned, unloading his healthy snacks. “You promised.” He wagged his finger at the amorous couple, who, since losing their virginities to each other over spring break had been completely inseparable. At the mouth and the groin.

Wesley kissed Lysandra one last time before taking a large step back.

“Just because you’re not getting any,” he grumbled, “Don’t be a killjoy.”

Rowan’s mouth dropped as he continued to plate his carrots. “I could get some… if I wanted…” he mumbled under his breath, causing both Aelin and Lysandra to burst into laughter.

“Sure you could, Buzzard,” Aelin said with an overzealous wink. She grabbed her bags of chips and queso and left a flustered Rowan in the kitchen.

Aelin plopped down onto the couch and groaned at the extensive schedule Elide had written up for them.

“I’ve broken up our schedule into twelve, forty-minute long increments,” Elide explained, tying her dark hair up into a bun. “If we stick to the schedule, we should be fully crammed in… eight hours.”

Aelin pouted as she opened her chips. She knew she was in for a long night, putting Elide in charge of the study schedule. But… eight hours? That meant they’d be studying until two in the morning.

Elide clapped loudly as she started handing out flashcards. “Let’s go, team.”

Six hours later, Aelin was ready to collapse. It was approaching midnight, and they’d made it through nine of the twelve study sections. Only three more to go until freedom. She knew she was supposed to have thoughts of Elirea history swirling through her head, but since Rowan took his place on the floor next to her, she was having a hard time concentrating.

“You know what we need?” Wesley said, twirling one of Lysandra’s chestnut curls around his fingers. Aelin shrugged. “A bowl,” he said. “I always study better when I’m buzzed.”

“You think my dad wouldn’t be able to smell weed as soon as he walked into the house? The man is like a bloodhound for smoke,” Aelin replied, trying to ignore the way Rowan leaned back into her in agreement.

“Gods, I can’t wait to smoke a giant bowl after lacrosse season is over,” Rowan said, resting his chin on top of Aelin’s head.

“Pack it for two, Buzzard,” Aelin said with a laugh, and she could feel Rowan nod against her scalp.

“What about ice cream instead?” Elide suggested. “I think we could all use a sugar bump.”

Lysandra jumped to her feet, moaning loudly as she stretched her arms above her head, her back popping with each subtle movement. Aelin watched as Wesley practically salivated, getting a glimpse of her lacy bra strap. He grabbed at Lysandra’s thigh, and Aelin laughed as she kicked him off gently with a wink.

“Soon, babe.”

Aelin’s filter must have disappeared with her exhaustion because upon looking at her two friends she shouted out, “You two cannot fuck in my house.”

“Please, I’m classier than that.”

“Are you?” Aelin asked, causing Rowan to snort into her hair.

Lysandra blushed but ignored Aelin as she swayed her hips all the way into the kitchen. She reappeared with three pints of ice cream and five spoons.

Aelin immediately grabbed her favorite flavor, Half Baked, and stuck her spoon into it. Her lips wrapped around the cold metal and she couldn’t help but moan loudly at the fudge brownie bite.

She nearly protested as someone else stuck their spoon into her pint, but she stopped herself when she saw it was Rowan.

“Sugar? Really?” she asked. “You must be really tired.”

She watched as Rowan smirked in response, taking a large bite for himself. Aelin’s throat dried as she watched his lips wrap around his spoon, his tongue peeking out and licking the remainder of the ice cream. How was it possible that he made ice cream look pornographic?

“Yum,” he said softly, and took another bite for himself.

There was something weirdly intimate about sharing a pint of ice cream. One pint, two spoons. Aelin completely missed the tenth section of Elide’s schedule because she was too focused on the way Rowan was eating next to her, occasionally knocking his spoon into hers.

When they got to the second to last section, Aelin realized she’d forgotten her notes upstairs. Grateful to have an excuse for some space to cool down, she made her way up to her bedroom to search for her notebook. Even though it was exactly where she’d left it – on her desk, Aelin couldn’t resist the fluffy allure of her bed. She looked at the clock, almost one am. She was so, so tired.

Knowing her friends would absolutely send someone to find her if she didn’t come back downstairs in a few minutes, Aelin risked getting into bed, huddling under the covers for a very quick power nap. Sleep found her quickly, and before she knew it, she was being woken up by soft whispers and laughter.

“Should we wake them?” she could hear Elide ask, and Lysandra’s chuckled reply came quickly after.

“No, don’t wake them.” A long pause. “They’re so cute.”

“And stupid,” Wesley drawled.

Aelin went to roll out of bed, but she found herself pinned down by something heavy. She cracked her eye open and was shocked to realize that Rowan was on top of her comforter, arm flung around her shoulders, deep asleep next to her. His light snores made Aelin smile.

Aelin moved her head over her shoulder, only to see her three friends standing in her doorway, staring at the sleeping friends, wide grins plastered to their faces.

“We sent him to bring you back an hour ago,” Lysandra explained.

Aelin glanced at the clock. Officially 2am. They must have finished Elide’s study schedule. Shit. Well, hopefully Aelin could remember enough of the other topics to do well on this exam. Despite her movement, Rowan didn’t stir once.

“Just leave a note for my dad downstairs that Rowan is here?” Aelin asked, not feeling particularly inclined to move out of his grasp at all.

“Done.” Elide nodded. “Already texted Aunt Maeve, too.”

“Love you,” Aelin mumbled out to her friends, already letting sleep overtake her vision again.

“Love you, too,” Rowan mumbled in his sleep, sticking his nose into Aelin’s hair.

Aelin ignored her friends’ snickering and closed her eyes and burrowed into Rowan’s soft shirt. Inhaling deeply, she was asleep before she even heard the front door close.

~*~*~*~

AN: I’m starting a ToG tag list. Please let me know if you’d like to be added to it HERE (replies in notes tend to get lost, so if you’ve asked to be tagged already and you’re not, please don’t hesitate to ask again!)

tag list:

@df3ndyr

@hizqueen4life

@maastrash

@justgiu12

@aknymph

@bamchickawowow

@thewayshedreamed

@strangeenemy

@studyliketate

@iammissstark

@heirofthenightcourt

@acourtofmarauders

@cmoff1

@stardelia

@b00kworm

@wordsafterhours

@m-like-magic

@the-third-me

@cursebreaker29

@annejulianneh111

@queen-of-glass

@aesthetics-11

@x3hopelessdreamer

@illyrian-velaris

@galyxsy

@cool-ish-nerd

@althelkingshorses

@rockgirl321

@westofmoon

@sanakapoor

@louiseleblancdiggory

@superspiritfestival​

[kurowrites]

I’m sure someone sent this to you already but ‘“You’re the one in class who has tattoos all over their arms and piercings and everybody’s scared of you and one day I catch you watching cat videos and doodling in the middle of a lecture and wow you’re a dork” AU.’ screams WangXian and I’d love to read your take on this! Thanks for all the amazing fics!

You were in fact the first to send this suggestion! And I agree, this is a very Wangxian thing. :3c

---

When Wei Ying joined Lan Zhan’s class for the first time, his appearance was followed by heated gossip and a badly suppressed uproar. Everything about Wei Ying’s appearance was eye-catching, from the long hair tied into a ponytail to the heavy black boots he was wearing. And while his mostly black clothes and the rows of piercings in his ears alone might have been enough to make him stick out like a sore thumb in the environment of an university classroom where most people wore button-down shirts and blouses rather than t-shirts, there were two things in particular that marked Wei Ying as an immediate outsider. The first was the piercing on his left lower lip that was connected to his left ear with a small metal chain. The second were the colourful tattoos sprawling down his slender arms poking out of an oversized t-shirt.

Lan Zhan himself couldn’t help but stare for a moment, his eyes wandering over the motives engraved on Wei Ying’s arms as he catalogued them. Halfway poking out of his shirt sleeve was what must be Guanyin holding a lotus flower. Delicate orchids were trailing along his elbow. Below that, a crane among pines. A dragon among drifting clouds was on his other arm. There were more, but before Lan Zhan could see them properly, Wei Ying moved, turned towards him with a crooked smile and a casual introduction.

The tattoos on his arms turned into a colourful blur as he moved, and Lan Zhan… was struck.

It didn’t take long for people to start spinning tales. The most popular was that Wei Ying got involved with crime at a young age and had been a member of a criminal organisation for the longest time. The stories differed, some saying that his father had been a triad boss, others saying that he got picked up off the streets by ruffians when he became orphaned. Whichever it might be, however, everyone was in agreement that Wei Ying was a dangerous person, and that it was better to stay away from him as far as possible. Many were offended that he was allowed to enrol in the university at all.

A person like that, at their prestigious university? Inconceivable.

But Lan Zhan knew that Wei Ying wasn’t here without reason. He might not be the image of a model student, but he had the academic qualifications to justify his enrolment. Even if it sometimes pained Lan Zhan himself to admit that.

Most students preferred to keep their distance from Wei Ying and only talk about him behind his back, which made Lan Zhan and Wei Ying more similar than he really liked. After all, most students kept their distance from Lan Zhan, too. If for entirely different reasons.

But their mutual unpopularity (if it could be called that) often led to them sitting close to each other during class. No one would sit next to Wei Ying on their own accord. Wei Ying, on the other hand, had no qualms seating himself in the eternally vacant seat next to Lan Zhan.

It was strange, the first time it happened. It wasn’t just the fact that no one ever sat this close to Lan Zhan that wasn’t family. It was also that the presence of Wei Ying next to him was completely different from anyone else. Lan Zhan had been taught how to sit properly from earliest childhood. Sit upright. Sit still. Be attentive. Don’t fidget.

Wei Ying was the complete opposite. It didn’t take five minutes for him to start moving around, slumping in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position for his limbs. Sometimes he went as far as slipping out of his boots, sitting cross-legged on the chair or tucking one foot under his leg. It drove Lan Zhan absolutely insane. How difficult could it be to sit still for one class? And how difficult could it be to not involve Lan Zhan in his disruptive activities?

It was hard to concentrate when someone next to you was constantly moving around. And whenever Lan Zhan dared to look over, he caught Wei Ying in some kind of activity that certainly didn’t have anything to do with the lesson at hand: sneakily eating snacks, watching cat videos or, perhaps the rudest of it all, just plain dozing. How he managed to follow the lesson, Lan Zhan didn’t know. But it was clear that he followed it, because the teacher had yet to catch Wei Ying off guard.

And then, when he was particularly bored, he would lob little pieces of paper at Lan Zhan. At first, Lan Zhan thought they were simple harassment for the sake of harassment, but after a sustained assault, he became aware that each of the papers contained a message.

The whole incident was caused by Lan Zhan making the unfortunate decision of looking over to Wei Ying’s side during the lesson, and catching Wei Ying watching cat videos on his smartphone. Lan Zhan sent him one of his particularly vicious glares, and turned back to the front to listen to the teacher. He only just caught Wei Ying’s shameless grin in the corner of his eye, an obvious sign that he wasn’t feeling sorry at all before he turned back to the video.

Lan Zhan was incensed. How could such a bad student manage to keep on top of this class? It was frustrating. It was… had no one ever put this young man in his place?

A few minutes into his quietly stewing anger, a paper landed on Lan Zhan’s desk. When Lan Zhan looked over, Wei Ying exaggeratedly mimed unfolding the paper.

Lan Zhan should really know better. And yet, he unfolded the paper.

Lan Zhan, are you more of a cat person or a dog person?

He crumpled the message with prejudice and glared at Wei Ying without bothering with a reply.

A moment later, another piece of paper landed on his desk.

Cat person, then. ;D

Wei Ying grinned shamelessly when Lan Zhan sent him another chastising look.

It didn’t take long, and yet another paper landed on Lan Zhan’s desk. This time, it was a terrible drawing of a cat.

Not good?

And then, seeing that it incensed Lan Zhan, Wei Ying started sending him different drawings of animals in quick succession, trying to guess his favourite. Of course, none of them were even remotely accurate, and all were terrible.

Snake?

Spider???

The spider was more than Lan Zhan could bear. He turned the paper around and finally wrote his first reply, scratching each word into the paper with force, as if he could force common sense into Wei Ying’s head that way.

Spiders have eight legs and four pairs of eyes.

Wei Ying only chuckled and quickly sent another reply.

Ah, so you do like them. :3

No.

Come on, tell me what you like!

Lan Zhan stowed the paper away to throw it out later on. He would never, ever give that kind of ammunition to Wei Ying.

It was not enough to discourage Wei Ying just yet, however.

Oh, I know. :3

A few moments later, a new drawing landed on Lan Zhan’s desk.

Lan Zhan stared blankly at the cute and surprisingly detailed drawing of a rabbit, evidently a very different quality from the earlier sloppy doodles.

Good, no? This is what Lan Zhan looks like, to me.

Lan Zhan couldn’t figure out if it was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. Before he could settle on one or the other, however, another message landed on his desk.

My tattoos were all designed by myself.

That gave Lan Zhan pause. Wei Ying’s tattoos? He had designed all of them himself? Of course Lan Zhan had noticed before that despite the fact that Wei Ying had many different motives on his arms, they seemed to fit together very well, building a cohesive, well-designed unit. But he had been so caught up in the unsuitability of having tattoos at all that he had never thought about whether the tattoos itself held any meaning or not. But if Wei Ying designed them–

His thoughts were interrupted by another folded paper.

I’ve noticed your looks.

Lan Zhan felt his ears burn.

He had always assumed that Wei Ying was either ignorant or completely uncaring of all the strange looks he was getting. But that couldn’t be true, now that he thought about it. It wasn’t like Lan Zhan was unaware of the looks he was getting, no matter how much he liked to pretend that he was above such things.

Before he could react to Wei Ying’s last message, however, the bell rung and announced the end of the class.

And Wei Ying, quick as a rabbit, was out the door before the teacher could even dismiss them.

---

From that moment onwards, something had changed.

Perhaps it was that Lan Zhan didn’t have the luxury of pretending that he didn’t care anymore. Perhaps it was that someone finally had him made take a long, hard look into the mirror. And he didn’t quite like what he saw.

He felt frustratingly out of control, the next time he deliberately sat down on the seat right next to Wei Ying, and the way Wei Ying smiled in return only served to drive it home that Lan Zhan had just made an irrevocable decision.

The course of his destiny, he had no doubt, had been altered.

Wei Ying had forced him to make a decision.

And Wei Ying, judging by the look he sent him, understood what Lan Zhan’s choice had been.

This time, once class was over, Wei Ying didn’t take off with the ring of the bell. Instead, he patiently waited until Lan Zhan had packed his things and was ready to leave (as patiently as Wei Ying ever did anything, that was).

When they left the classroom, together, Wei Ying softly bumped into Lan Zhan’s side and smiled up at him. Lan Zhan couldn’t fully read the expression on Wei Ying’s face, but he thought that Wei Ying looked happy, somehow.

“Do you like them?” Wei Ying asked.

He didn’t need to explain what it was that he meant. Lan Zhan understood.

“Hn,” he replied.

It was all he could say. He felt that both ‘You are very good at drawing’ and ‘I want to know where else you have tattoos’ were somehow inadequate and also inappropriate, so he remained quiet.

It didn’t help that the third thought that crossed his mind was ‘How would it feel if I kissed that piercing on your lip right now?’

Wei Ying, thankfully, took pity on him. He tapped at the delicate orchids at his elbow and said, “This is my latest one. I got it after the birth of my nephew.”

He smiled, clearly lost in a happy memory for one moment. Then, he looked up at Lan Zhan again, and his smile turned impish instead.

“I have a feeling I might be getting another one soon,” he added with a laugh in his voice. “And I think… it’s going to be a rabbit.”

The gods have mercy on me, Lan Zhan thought to himself. Where is he planning to put that?

He wondered if Wei Ying would allow him to know.

[earliebirb]

I'm feeling very exhausted and sleepy and I thought what if someone wrote a small something about Steve being very exhausted after a mission and he basically face plants himself onto Tony who is at movie night with the team with full gear on and filthy from the fights, thank you already ❤

Hi there! I know you sent me this prompt forever ago and you must’ve thought that I forgot about it. I’m so sorry for only finishing the fic now, a century later. I hope you enjoy the fic anyway!

bring back my bonnie to me

steve/tony, hurt/comfort, established relationship, 1611 words 

It is halfway through Alien—Clint’s choice—when a heavy weight falls onto Tony’s back and the bowl of popcorn in his lap nearly goes flying. He freezes for a few seconds before registering the soft tufts of blond hair tickling his cheek. Tony didn’t even hear him approach. Perhaps he had been more immersed in the movie than he previously thought. 

“Hey there, sweetheart. I thought you weren’t going to be home until next week.”

Steve gives a noncommittal hum that does absolutely nothing to explain his unexpected arrival, pressing his face into the side of Tony’s neck. His arms loop around Tony’s shoulders from where he is standing behind the couch, body hunched forward with his chest resting against Tony’s back as if he couldn’t be bothered to stand upright. 

Fresh off his latest mission, Steve is still clad in his uniform, sans cowl. The two-week-turned-one-week-mission is the reason they have pushed back Toy Story to the following week—the man has made it clear that he has been dying to watch the animated movie ever since Tony first showed him a snippet of it on his phone. Technically, this week is Steve’s turn to pick a movie, but he isn’t supposed to be home for a few more days. 

Not that Tony is complaining, of course. Tony is definitely not complaining. The shorter Steve’s missions are, the sooner he comes back home to Tony, allowing him to ascertain with his own two eyes that his boyfriend is safe and sound. 

The team lets out soft murmurs of greetings upon seeing Steve, but for the most part their eyes remain glued to the movie playing on the TV screen. 

Tony has seen this particular movie more times than what is probably healthy, so he focuses on Steve instead, reaching up to ruffle Steve’s hair and smiling at the pleased groan he lets out. Besides, if he is being completely honest, no movie is going to be interesting enough to fully pull his attention off of his boyfriend.

A flake of popcorn hits Tony’s cheek.

“Keep it PG-13 or get a room, lovebirds,” Clint says. Tony turns towards him to express his indignation, but Clint’s eyes are still focused on the screen. Tony doesn’t think he will ever stop being creeped out by the eerie accuracy of his aim.

“You want to join us?” Tony asks, fingers still scratching Steve’s scalp lightly.

Steve shakes his head.

“You want to go to bed?”

“I’ll just sleep here,” Steve mumbles tiredly.

“You can’t sleep here, sweetheart.” Tony chuckles, patting one of the arms Steve has around his shoulders. The material of the uniform feels rough against the skin of his palm. With his current position, the edge of the couch must be digging into Steve’s stomach in an unpleasant way. “Let’s get you cleaned up and head straight to bed.”

“Here’s fine. Don’t need a bed.” Steve’s words are muffled against Tony’s shirt, speech becoming increasingly incoherent. “Just need you.”

Tony huffs, a fond smile on his lips. Another flake of popcorn hits him, bouncing off his stomach and landing on his thigh. This time, Tony doesn’t even bother gracing Clint with a glance.

“No can do, Sir.” Tony squeezes Steve’s wrist decisively. “Come on, up you go. Up, soldier.”

Steve lets out a displeased sigh, but eventually he straightens up groggily. Tony stands up and rounds the couch to actually get a good look at him. 

Steve’s face is grimed with dirt. There is a cut on his right cheek that Tony knows is going to heal completely come morning. 

He reaches up anyway, cupping Steve’s cheek and tracing the line of the wound with the side of his thumb. Steve blinks down at him, slow and languid. He is already struggling to keep his eyes open, eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

“Just a cut,” Steve whispers, leaning into Tony’s touch. When Tony’s worried frown stays in place, Steve turns and plants a soft kiss in the center of his palm.

Taking Steve’s hand, Tony turns to address the rest of the room. “Sorry folks, looks like you’re going to have to finish the movie without us.”

After exchanging their good night’s with the team, Tony leads Steve up to the penthouse. 

Steve tries to make for the bed the second they enter the bedroom, but Tony redirects his path swiftly to the en-suite bathroom, much to his disappointment. Steve proceeds to make his disapproval clear in the form of a frown and a pair of grumpy eyebrows creasing together.

“You’re filthy, baby.” Chuckling in amusement, Tony squishes Steve’s cheeks together with one hand. Steve whines petulantly. “You have germs, mister. Germs. Do you want me to die of germs?”

Steve glowers at Tony. Tony grins up at him. With the hand still squishing Steve’s cheeks, he moves Steve’s head from side to side. 

“No, Tony. I don’t want you to die of germs, because I love you,” Tony says, his voice an octave lower than usual. It’s a hilariously poor attempt at mimicking Steve’s voice, but it’s worth it for the way Steve’s eyes wane into happy crescents, for the way his lips twitch with the effort of holding back a smile.

“Come on, darling. All you need to do is just stand there. I’ll do all the work, okay?”

Eventually, Steve succumbs to his wiles. Tony strips Steve out of his many layers of combat uniform before undressing himself. Together, they step into the wide space of Tony’s glass shower stall, which houses a multi-jet shower system with a total of eight body sprays in addition to the rainfall showerhead that is mounted on the ceiling. Tony makes sure the water is at a sufficiently warm temperature—warm enough to become hot after a while, because Steve likes it that way—and sets the body sprays’ water pressure to a pulsating massage.

When the water hits his skin, Steve groans audibly. Tony runs his hands soothingly up and down Steve’s sides.

Doing exactly what he promised, he lets Steve stand still while he lathers soap all over Steve’s body, mentally cataloguing all the bruises and cuts he manages to find. He also works shampoo into Steve’s hair, massaging his scalp with the gentle press of his fingers. 

He turns the water back on afterwards, letting the soap suds disintegrate. Even after their bodies are rinsed clean of soap and grime, they continue to stand there in the middle of the shower stall, indulging in the pleasant pressure of warm water against sore muscles. Tony rests his forehead on Steve’s sternum, arms holding him close. 

After a while, when their fingers have become wrinkled prunes, Tony reaches over and shuts the water off. The bathroom is thrown into abrupt silence. It is broken only by the sound of water circling down the drain and the sound of their breathing, which echoes in the enclosed space.

He plants his chin on Steve’s chest and looks up at him. Steve’s eyes are still closed. He looks unfairly breathtaking even when soaking wet, water droplets hanging precariously from the tips of his eyelashes. 

Tony lets the hands he has on Steve’s waist slide up to his shoulders, thumbs caressing the jut of Steve’s collarbones. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Slowly, Steve’s eyelids flutter open. His eyes hold Tony’s gaze for a long moment before dropping down to his lips. Tony’s eyes track the bob of Steve’s Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“What?” Tony whispers, meeting his eyes again. Steve’s arms are warm around him, pulling him closer as if they weren’t already pressed skin to skin.

One of the corners of Steve’s mouth hitches up in a lopsided smile that Tony has grown incredibly fond of. Amazement swims in his baby blues.

“Just wondering where I’d be without you.”

Tony hums with his eyes turned to the ceiling, pretending to ponder the answer. 

“Slumped over the back of a couch, probably. Asleep. Sweaty, bloody, and filthy.”

Steve laughs softly, not bothering to disagree. He leans down to capture Tony’s mouth in a kiss, ardent and saccharine sweet, his lips caressing Tony’s in a way that makes it abundantly clear just how much Steve has missed him. 

Eventually, Tony pulls back for air. He cradles Steve’s face in his hands, staring straight into his eyes. 

“Thank you for coming home safely,” he whispers, solemn with sincere gratitude.

At that, Steve’s eyes soften. “I missed you. So much.” 

Steve reaches for the ball chain hanging from Tony’s neck, twisting it around his fingers. He has an endearing habit of touching the chain of the dog tags Tony never takes off—the feel of it against his fingers a reassuring reminder of where Tony’s affections lie. He has always taken pleasure in the sight of Tony wearing something that belongs to him, whether it’s his dog tags or one of his shirts.

Tony seems to have also cultivated the same habit. On nights where he misses Steve like a lost limb and the man is somewhere out of reach, touching the dog tags brings him a ridiculous amount of comfort. 

It makes him wonder if that is what it would feel like to wear a ring from Steve—if Tony would be able to fool him enough to actually make him do something as insane as marrying Tony. 

“Right back at you, mister.” If Steve notices the way Tony’s voice has gone thick with emotion, he doesn’t comment on it. Tony pats his cheeks lightly. “Come on, let’s dry up and go to bed.”

When Steve releases the chain, the dog tags clang against the edge of the arc reactor.

“After you, sweetheart.”

[vancafreader]

Fine Art Comics of Canada: Sixties to Seventies - Heart of London, Snore & More by Robert Dayton

Part One: The Heart Of London

There was a time where artists were making vast ripples away from Toronto and other outsized hubs. London, Ontario was such a place, all eyes were on it in the late 60’s and not Toronto. The Heart Of London comic book from 1968 was actually an exhibition catalog, an overview of the art that was happening there at the time. Organised by The National Gallery of Canada, this exhibition traveled from London to Toronto, Kingston, Edmonton, Victoria, Charlottetown and, of course, The National Gallery H.Q. itself in Ottawa.

This catalog/comic book consisted of fumetti, comics done using photos for the images. Fumetti was most prominently used in the 60’s by Harvey Kurtzman in Help and Playboy, prolifically in numerous Mexican comic book melodramas, and in Italian comics featuring the masked master criminal Satanik. Heart Of London’s particular fumetti is further stylized by heavily contrasted processing causing colours so bright that they make everything heightened artifice, buzzing as if emanating from a higher plane of being.

Cover of the Heart Of London catalogue

The Heart of London logo in Pepto-Bismol pink is rendered somewhere between Archie and underground comix titles. Above it, The Comics Code of Authority symbol -a comic book mainstay of the day implying that the work is of safe moral quality- has been altered to “National Gallery of Canada”, the institution that made this comic book and exhibition happen. The cover features what appears to be London public workers, perhaps? These men in yellow hard hats casually stand in front of a store with a Coca-Cola logo also coloured Pepto-Bismol pink, Pop Art style, at the city’s main intersection in what very well may be the heart of London.

The comic opens with a quote placed above a looming Brutalist parking lot, huddling various small businesses below it. This quote contains the phrase “heart of London” but it is rather self-deprecatingly not about London, Ontario but London, England in World War One. Sharing a name with London, England has often made this Ontario city the butt of many a joke, ie. “I live in London… (long pause) Ontario” with its population being just over 200,000 in 1968. Named in 1793 by Lord Simcoe, Upper Canada’s first Lieutenant-Governor known for starting the abolition of slavery, he was also fervently British, his vision for Canada was for it to be like England which he looooved, desperately (but stiffly) wanting this particular London to become Ontario’s capital. Alas, Toronto was chosen instead. Related, always related to everything: the term “cosmic consciousness”, the higher state of consciousness, was coined in London in 1872 by Richard Bucke, a psychiatrist and head of The Asylum For The Insane, after he received a blinding vision, illuminating him. Besides being active in asylum reform, Bucke was heavily involved in the arts -the vision occurred after an evening spent reading Romantic poetry as well as poems by Walt Whitman, who he later befriended. Yes, London, Ontario is an eccentric place.

The artists involved in the Heart Of London show were part of what was known as “London Regionalism”, a loose-knit movement of artists who were adamant about residing in London, away from Toronto or New York. Artist Greg Curnoe helped establish some of the very first artist-run centres there. He was an early member and huge proponent of CARFAC, a Canadian organisation that fights for artists to get paid and paid fairly for their work. CARFAC was founded in London by Heart Of London artists Jack Chambers and Tony Urquhart -along with Kim Ondaatje.

Besides Curnoe, Chambers, and Urquhart, the eleven artists in Heart Of London included John Boyle, Bev Kelly, Murray Favro, Ron Martin, David Rabinowitch, Royden Rabinowitch, Walter Redinger, and Ed Zelenak. They are all profiled in fumetti form talking about their practice through speech balloons and captions, along with quick biographical details. Many of these artists were known for their inventiveness, they were influenced by a variety of subject matter -including comic art- without falsely delineating these influences into false boxes of high or low art. They didn’t just make work in the visual art field either. Along with a Hart Of London work-on-paper, Chambers made an experimental film with the same name in 1970. This film intensely shows brutal shots of an abattoir in Spain interspersed with London scenes; it has been described by Stan Brakhage as “one of the greatest films ever made.”  Both Curnoe’s Heart Of London painting from 1967 and Jack Chambers’ 1968 work-on-paper Hart Of London are in the show.

Noted curator and historian Judith Rodger told me that Curnoe’s Heart Of London piece depicts The Forks Of the Thames downtown, “arguably the heart of London” near many of the artists’ studios with Greg’s studio as the main hub or heart of it all. As for the idea of a comic book catalog, it was a mystery until Rodger guided me to Katie Cholette’s PhD thesis Memory and Mythmaking: the role of autobiography in the works of Jack Chambers and Greg Curnoe which states that it was the idea of William Bragg, assistant to the director of The National Gallery’s extension services. Cholette’s paper quotes Bragg from the Sept 29, 1968 New York Times’ Arts Notes column, “…The idea was to make a kind of scrapbook, to talk as a group, not individuals. Their work is kind of echoed by the comics—it’s really their bag […] Everyone likes to read comics once in a while, anyway.” Due to its uniqueness, the catalog garnered a lot of press for the show. Beverley Lambert (Bev Kelly in the show) says, “I think we all thought it was pretty neat and it was funny. It got people’s attention.”

When I talked to artist John Boyle about this comic book catalog, he said right away, “It’s too bad that Greg Curnoe isn’t with us anymore, because he was really interested in comic books. And he always did comic book or comic-like drawings from the time he was a little kid.” In the book Greg Curnoe Life And Work, author Judith Rodger’s description of his 1963 painting Myself Walking North In the Tweed Coat could be ascribed to many of his works. “The flat, vivid colours; schematic outlines; and text all come from his love of the comic book.” As well as the inclusion of the name of the newspaper strip Mary Worth in the piece. Another colourful painting casually inserts Dick Tracy into the frame as a representative of one of his interests. Curnoe’s series of cut-out collages were often shaped into cartoony and anthropomorphic forms.

Curated by Pierre Théberge at The National Gallery, Boyle readily notes, “Both Curnoe and Chambers talked up all the other artists who were around in London, and ended up persuading Théberge to have a group show to get a sense of the whole London art scene.”

The comic book itself doesn’t give William Bragg’s name at all, nada. The designer is credited: Roger Duhamel, FRSC, Queen’s Printer and Controller of Stationery, a federal government official, as well as the design firm: Eccleston + Glossop International. All of the photos, however, were done by the late Don Vincent, of whom Boyle says, “He was a friend of ours, of all of us. And a really terrific photographer. And he documented the whole London scene as it unfolded taking photographs all the time of everybody in this show and just of London, his whole life was photography.” Vincent’s work also appeared in 20 Cent Magazine, a delightfully scrappy local art magazine started in the mid-60’s with many of the people in the show, including Boyle and Curnoe, contributing writings and drawings. 20 Cent Magazine sold for 25 cents, ha! Vincent also photographed The Nihilist Spasm Band who are regarded as the first noise-rock band; this amazing, mind-blowing, intense and milk-spurtingly funny act was founded by the late Greg Curnoe, with Boyle and Favro (playing unique guitars that he builds himself) as still very active members over fifty years later. They are unique cultural ambassadors bringing such songs as “No Canada” to the world, having performed in Japan and in Vancouver at The Western Front with poet George Bowering guesting on guitar, and have had a documentary made about them by the late noise artist Zev Asher.

In one of Heart Of London’s comic book panels about Boyle an early issue of the four color MAD sneaks its way in. I asked him if he read MAD, “Yeah. Although that is from the designer. I read MAD, although not madly.”

A very young Boyle states in one of his panels, “The day I can truly defile myself in public, I will have accomplished everything, and I will no longer have a need to paint.” Reflecting today he says, “I still think that actually, and I think I may have succeeded. Because I do still have the need to paint. But I don’t have the need to show it anymore, or to get applause or approval from anyone. And I don’t know how that arose in me. But I kind of had a fair amount of attention and approval and acceptance and shows in fancy places and meeting important people and pleasing art administrators. And I kind of reached the conclusion that most of them aren’t worth pleasing and their opinion was not as good or not as important as the opinions of other people that I happen to know. And I thought they made a lot of mistakes and people that they chose to support. And also, their approval was very fickle. They were very fickle about it because as soon as fashions would change, their eyes were directed elsewhere and the people they thought were geniuses today were no longer geniuses tomorrow. I did kind of lose my enthusiasm for the art world, but not for painting. So, I was mistaken.”

The final pages of this catalog feature a few reproductions of pieces from the show itself, including Bev Kelly’s window paintings which, with its window panels, adapt quite easily to the comic book form, comparable to an ornate and mysterious painted comic page. The layout, however, was a bit fast and loose with one of her works being printed sideways. In her fumetti section she says, “These windows aren’t ‘real’ windows, they are still paintings. They don’t have sashes and you can’t see through them. A real window is to look through, these are to look at.” Painted on canvas, the window pieces used lumber to make the frames of the paintings, carved to look like the ribbed mouldings of window frames.

Bev Kelly was the sole woman in the show and when I asked her about this she said, “I’m very happy that they didn’t concentrate on this issue that I was the only woman. I didn’t want to be known as an artist because I was a woman.” Having recently moved to London from Saskatchewan with her husband, they were warmly welcomed by Curnoe and she would go see The Nihilist Spasm Band play every week at The York Hotel. Her first solo show was at The 20/20 Gallery in London.

She spent the first two years of her life in Biggar, Saskatchewan where the signs read, “New York Is Big, But This Is Biggar.” Being in London changed her notions of places like New York being the absolute cultural mecca. Beverley says, “There was a really vibrant cultural community there. You know what a regionalist Greg was. He really believed, as a lot of writers do, that you should write about what you know, or you should do your art about what you know, including where you live and so on. And, of course, when I started on the windows that was right out where I was living. The first ones were of my house and then I walked around and took pictures of various houses that I thought looked interesting. When I got a studio in London above one of the businesses downtown I used some of the windows there as inspiration for my works. And then when I went back to Saskatchewan, I was very into that, looking around at what is there where you live. I even got a grant to travel around small-town Saskatchewan and look at the local -in air quotes- ‘folk art’ or untrained artists, let’s say, just painting odd things on their house or their property or whatever. So, I went and I did interviews, took pictures of them, and I imagine I must have produced some kind of a report on it because I probably had to for my grant. So that led me into being more observant and looking more at where it’s from and what is around you and that you don’t have to go to some huge, big place to find art.”

Bev Kelly was her married name and she returned to using her original name, Beverley Lambert in the 1970’s. Lambert did a series of three large lithographs for International Women’s Year in 1975 on women’s issues dealing with real news stories that happened on the prairies. Many of these prints were donated to many women’s centres across the country. She has also worked in clay doing an entire main street based on the fictional Saskatchewan town in the humour book Sarah Binks by Paul Hiebert. Beverley Lambert currently resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland where she makes art and is active as a conservator.

Flip the comic over and it is the same but in either French or English depending on where you first started reading!

Boyle comments, “Last night, my wife and I were looking at the Heart of London catalog. She was amazed that this was a National Gallery touring show with a lot of artists who became major artists in the country. And it looked like they were trying to spend as little money as possible by making this skinny little comic book-like thing on newsprint and I think there’s a large measure of truth in that. Because, again, I remember when Greg Curnoe had a big one-man exhibition retrospective at The National Gallery and the catalogue that they did for him was kind of a minimal thing. It was like a paperback book with one colour reproduction and a number of inferior black and white reproductions and basically a list of artworks in the show. And in the same year, The National Gallery did a big one-man exhibition of Donald Judd, the American sculptor, and his catalogue was a huge coffee table book that weighed about 15 pounds and was three inches thick and loaded with colour from beginning to end. And that just, I think, represented a specifically Canadian problem.” When I mention this to Hairy Who member Art Green he responds, “Well, of course, because they’re trying to impress their betters in New York, so you get a job at The Whitney or The Museum of Modern Art. Canada has been an incubator for museum directors since forever.”

Hairy Who catalog page by Art Green, courtesy of the artist

This style of catalog for Heart Of London corresponds nicely with The Hairy Who, another such grouping of artists around that time who were part of “The Chicago Imagists.” Their three Chicago art shows starting in the mid-60’s were accompanied by comic books that also doubled as exhibition catalogs. The Hairy Who weren’t very aware of the underground comics scene then just barely getting started, they chose this method out of creative necessity, printing a glossy catalog was cost prohibitive. Green explains, “And the printing was expensive and not very good. And we didn’t want to have a show that was called ‘Six Recent Graduates’ or something unexciting like that. And so, we realised we all liked comics and we all knew how to do colour stripping because we’d taken silk-screening courses, we figured out we could do it. And it was cheap.”

Delineating further, The Hairy Who made playful art inspired by a wide range of neat stuff. The London artists were well aware of The Hairy Who. In fact, The Hairy Who were even going to show in London at The 20/20 Gallery. Boyle notes, “20/20 was kind of a precursor to the art in the so-called artist run centres, most of which aren’t run by artists anymore. But anyway, it was one of the first and it was all sponsored by local people in London. And I don’t think it lasted longer than a couple of years, but it was a terrific gallery while it lasted.” Many of the artists in The Heart Of London show were active in 20/20, which lasted from 1966 to 1971. Greg Curnoe discussed the show with Hairy Who artist Karl Wirsum, who in a letter to Art Green wrote, “Well, if they go ahead and publish a comic book, that would be all right.” Green notes, “He may have thought that the 20/20 Gallery was more well-funded than it probably was. But it was on, we all agreed to do it. We were looking forward to it.” Green himself left Chicago for Canada in 1969. The 1968 Democratic Convention had transpired and as Green puts it, “Everybody was angry at everybody.” He was dissatisfied with his teaching job there as well, so when offered a job at NASCAD, the art school in Halifax, he leaped at it.

Alas, the show didn’t happen. In a letter to Art Green, Curnoe writes, “We had to cancel The Hairy Who show and a lot of us were disappointed.” Boyle notes, “I suspect that it got caught up in the death throes of the gallery. And they would have had to cancel whatever exhibitions they had coming up.”

Green notes that both London and Chicago are far enough away from the more major centres that artists can, “…be free to go their own way because there’s not much at stake partly and nobody’s paying attention. And I remember the first time I had been in London, we were driving on our honeymoon to Halifax where I got the job. And I thought, ‘I’m gonna stop here and get a Canada Dry.’ I’m driving down what’s the main street that runs north south and pulled into a corner store. And I said, ‘Do you have Canada Dry?’ ‘No, but we got America Dry.’  I have never before or since seen a bottle of America Dry. I bought it and it wasn’t as good as Canada Dry. And, and that’s not a dream. I mean, I have never seen it ever again. But that made me say, ‘Wow, this is a weird place.’”

While Green was teaching at NASCAD, Curnoe came for what Green calls, “One of his annual excoriations, if that’s a word, he would rip them up one side down the other in public, for being a Canadian art school with no Canadians teaching, hardly any, and all yanks -and it was true! And so anyway, they would invite him and it was almost like a ritual. He would be in the public, there’d be 400 students there and Greg would just rip the place apart. I had known Greg, I heard about the show and so on, and we got along fine. And afterwards he’d come up to me and say, ‘Well, how did I do?’ ‘Greg, you’re doing great, but you do realise I’m a yank’, but I agreed with him 100%.” Both Curnoe and Green commiserated on how Canadian art was neglected at the school. “If he had been in Chicago, Greg would have been a member of The Hairy Who or maybe started it. But he was more political, he had to be, and Chicago, the politics were so acidic that you wouldn’t have wanted to be to be involved in it, unless you went in full immersion. And we were decidedly unpolitical. Although we all agreed on the politics of it. We were a collective in the sense that we wanted people to collect us.” On this, Art Green is a tad glib, having made art responding to and criticizing Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. Both Art and Greg would visit with each other in various Canadian cities: Halifax, Vancouver, Toronto. “Nobody appreciated Greg in Toronto, they went out of their way to un-appreciate him. And luckily, they did put a put up a pretty nice retrospective after he was safely gone.”

Of London, Green notes, “I think that for a period of time. I don’t know how long it was maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, maybe a few months? Maybe a few years. London, Ontario was most interesting art scene and literary scene in the whole world.”

The propensity for great art still ran in the water there, the stream flowed, there was a continuum and a recognizing of that history. London has some great galleries including Forest City Gallery, founded by Jack Chambers and Greg Curnoe, where The Nihilist Spasm Band plays every Monday night.

In 2013 The London Museum held the group show L.O. Today with artists Jason Mclean, Marc Bell, Jamie Q, Billy Bert Young, Amy Lockhart, Peter Thompson, and James Kirkpatrick. Many of these artists are a part of the Canadian Psychedooolic art comic movement that began in the 1990’s, captured and collected in the book Nog A Dod, edited by former Londoner Marc Bell and released by Conundrum/PictureBox. Much of the work in Nog A Dod occurred in Vancouver with a couple of these London artists relocating there, immersing easily, doing a lot of collaborative drawing and art books with other Vancouver based artists. Yes, ‘Canadian Psychedooolic’ was named after the fact by Bell, but we weren’t thinking of ourselves as a movement or a group at the time. Yet all of these art books had an unfettered comic wildness, funny, and expansively playful. And Nog A Dod got out there, impacting and influencing a lot of artists the world over. Furthering the connective tissue, in 2003, The Western Front in Vancouver put on an art show featuring ‘documents and ephemera’ from musical acts The Nihilist Spasm Band, The All Star Schnauzer Band (a somewhat fake band as mail art project involving Bell, Mclean, and Thompson) and July Fourth Toilet, a Vancouver based group that often involves many Nog A Dod and Nog A Dod related artists, including yours truly occasionally wearing outlandish semi-functional semi-nude costumes specially designed by Jason Mclean. The show was curated by Jonathan Middleton, who is now Executive Director at Art Metropole, a Toronto based artist-run centre dealing primarily in artists’ publications.

Getting back to Greg Curnoe. Released in two parts in 1970, The Great Canadian Sonnet contained numerous images by Curnoe. Described as a “Beaver Little Book”, the format was modeled after the popular Big Little Books, distant cousins to comic books so named for being small, square and thick. Big Little Books were marketed to children and featured popular comic, cartoon, radio and film characters of the day in text-based stories with illustrations on every other page. Some Big Little Books had flip-it cartoons in the top corner so one could make the character move. With its second volume The Great Canadian Sonnet does this as well, stating “See ‘em move – just flip the pages” on the cover and, sure enough, in the corner a spot rolls up a hill-like abstract shape transforming into a medley of human faces.

Written by poet David McFadden, Curnoe riffed off lines in his text creating a great many detailed pen-and-ink drawings for the book with titles that included “Proud Possessor Of Meaningful Pain”, “One that will be Truly Loved by the Prime Minister”, and “The Empty Universe” which featured a drawing of a tin of apple juice and a packet of bird seed -the book’s drawings contained many such absurdist pairings. The Great Canadian Sonnet was published by Coach House Press who were -and still are- known for releasing all manner of experimental works including poetry, prose and beyond. Both volumes together weigh in at over 400 pages, with every other page being a drawing by Curnoe.

Many thanks to Jason Mclean, Marc Bell, and Judith Rodger for their immense help with this piece.

Thanks as well to Art Green for use of his respective artworks.

Part Two: Scraptures, Snore and More coming tomorrow, Friday, August 20!

Robert Dayton

www.robertdayton.com

www.patreon.com/CanadianGlam

[clio-just-clio]

The Riverdale 102(?)-Day Sprint, Day 9: “Chapter Twenty-Eight: There Will Be Blood”

Soap Opera Blues

Aaaaaand we’re back! Hopefully this “two-episodes-in-a-day” thing is a one-time deal, because no matter how enjoyable I find these episodes... they’re still Riverdale, a pretty bad show. So here we are again! And there’s no need for a recap or deciphering what’s going on this time because we are lucky enough to have an actual contiguous episode for once. So! Let’s see how our heroes will react to hearing that the Register has been bought out by the scheming Hiram Lodge. I’m sure it’ll be a very well thought out plan that makes total sense, even though it was conceived by high schoolers.

* * *

Ugh.

Well, I knew this double-feature had to happen because I missed yesterday, and I thought that given how much I enjoyed the prior episode (relatively speaking), I’d probably not have any issues with this one. How wrong I was for thinking Riverdale is a show with any kind of consistency.

In this episode... things sure do happen. Jughead tries to break the story of Hiram Lodge’s master plan, while Archie completes his transformation to the Dark Side. Also the Blossoms do things, Hermione Lodge becomes mayor, Cheryl laughs at her uncle’s gay joke, and Chic Cooper acts vaguely sinister. I’d go into more detail but I’ve realized it really doesn’t matter, because aside from some jabs at the beginning of the episode this one was a stinker. There’s no internal consistency to characters’ loyalties. In this episode alone Archie is adamant that Veronica stop manipulating him and his father on behalf of Hiram Lodge, yet later in the episode he seems very quick to throw away his reservations and join a blood pact with the Lodge patriarch, even as his father (who he was trying to protect) turns away from the scheming family. Similarly, Jughead’s dad is ride-or-die for Hiram Lodge after he had stopped wanting to tear down their trailer park and evict the Serpents, but then later in the episode he’s suddenly willing to go on-record for Jughead’s hit piece. It’s just such a nothing episode.

So that’s where we are. My biggest challenge isn’t watching the show, it’s finding new things to say about every episode beyond simple observations. It’s so bland while simultaneously having a dozen insane plots happening at once. Aren’t there musical numbers at one point? Who knows. It’s late and I’m tired. This show has bested me once again. But in the end, after this series has been catalogued to death, who will have the last laugh? Probably the showrunners because I stuck to this absolutely pointless project but whatever.

Tomorrow: “Chapter Forty-One: Manhunter”

quick notes

- from the recap: “Chick is a male gigolo, an e-boy” AHAAHHAHAHAHA EVIL E-BOY EVIL E-BOY

- so I know that Hiram Lodge’s eventual plan is to become mayor and unincorporate the town, destroying it (because he does just that), but like... how does that tie in to SoDale? what’s his current plan? can his face get any more punchable? (he is the best character in this show)

- what’s the deal with Mr. Jones? wasn’t he dead at one point? doesn’t he become a sheriff or something? isn’t he a gang leader?

- of course all the parents of the gang hung out together

- why is Betty being like... kind of really weird about Chick? sure he’s a bit odd but he hasn’t done anything antagonistic yet. maybe if you backed off he’d open up to you in his own time, Betty. and yet, she decides to catfish him to extract information. how sisterly

- and Kevin has to be the bait because he’s the only gay guy they know. of course. god this is awkward and badly written

- HA and Hiram Lodge wants Mr. Andrews to be the puppet mayor. sure whatever isn’t he going to die soon?

- as horrible a thing as this is to say, Mr. Andrews should’ve died sooner. Archie’s shtick of being gloomy all the time just doesn’t work because his life is completely perfect – his dad supports him, he has plenty of friends, and he’s popular. that angst he has needs a reason, or else he just seems kind of self-centered

- Hal wants a divorce, definitely not so that he can put more time towards his hobby of serial murder (you’ll see he’s 100% the black hood has to be)

- why are they getting a divorce anyway? something to do with Chick I guess? this is really the first time I’m seeing Hal in a speaking role (besides seeing the Black Hood, who could be a different character but let’s be honest it’s Hal)

- heehee he calls the divorce “setting him free” what a nerd

- wait how did Hiram Lodge and Hermione get back together? weren’t they divorced earlier?

- “If what you’re telling me is true, everyone is in danger [because of Hiram Lodge].” yeah but how?

- is Veronica working with her dad now or what? how is she back on board with him after wanting nothing to do with him in S1? their relationship flip-flops as much as Archie’s tired “will-they-won’t-they” with Betty

- it never stops being hilarious when Betty walks in and sees Chick in her house, and a horror movie sting plays as if it’s a jumpscare... again, this guy has done nothing evil or particularly sinister except be kind of reserved (and also an e-boy); similarly, the spooky exhaling sounds that play as his leitmotif are incredibly funny

- Archie’s best argument against Veronica manipulating him and his dad is him telling her it’s “not cool”. great work Red

- so... the Coopers are related to the Blossoms? and the Blossoms are... inbred? interesting interesting

- Madchen Amick’s half-hearted delivery of this ridiculous line makes it even funnier: “Shut your face, you half-melted ten-cent trollop.”

- SECRET TWIN BROTHER! this really is a soap opera

- and the Blossoms have a curse, that one twin shall die at the other’s hand. this reminds me of something but I can’t quite put my finger on what

- wait Polly references The Farm – so they’re already in play? how? why?

- alright calling it now – Chick is refusing to have his blood tested because he’s not really a Cooper, but is faking it for... some reason

- Mr. Andrews is quite similar to Archie in some ways, mostly in how he’s apparently utterly clueless and can be easily swayed one way or another just by talking to him once

- so correct me if I’m wrong, but Hiram Lodge’s master plan is to bulldoze the South Side and then turn it into some kind of literal gangster’s paradise? but why? how does that benefit him? does he really have enough people who are loyal enough to him to just go with that plan and not immediately stab him in the back?

- why does Alice side with Chick so easily?

- turning the South Side into a for-profit prison!!! that’s his real plan? why? how does this benefit him? is he building an army or something or is he just turning Riverdale into the next setting for an Escape from New York sequel?

- WHY DOES ARCHIE STAY IF HE WAS SO CONCERNED ABOUT –

- wait so the Black Hood plot already happened??? who was he?? why the personal connection to Betty?

[milfjensenackles]

to purgatory and back: chapter 4 (final chapter!!)

1.7k works | read it on ao3

Dean didn’t know what he felt. He felt numb. He couldn’t even bring himself to cry. Cas was gone. Again.

Dean pushed himself from the ground where he had very roughly landed only a few short minutes ago. When Cas pushed him away. When Cas left him.

Dean was roughly shaken from his racing thoughts by the soft vibrating that emanated from his forearm. Oh, shit. He’d almost forgotten about Benny.

Slicing a thin line down his arm, he released the essence that was his friend while speaking the final few lines of the incantation. Benny appeared before him again, with a telltale smirk on his face that told Dean he saw everything.

“Wanna talk about it?,” Benny said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Well, I am sorry that your friend didn’t make it. He was a good fighter and I know how much he meant to you.”

Dean scoffed. “You never liked him.”

“You wanna know the truth?” Benny asked, looking away from Dean, “I was jealous of him.”

“Jealous? You?”

Benny chuckled at Dean’s reaction. “You’re a special guy, Dean Winchester. Castiel is lucky to have you.”

Dean looked down, hiding the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes at the mention of Cas’ name. Benny reached out, pulling Dean into a hug. Dean understood what Benny was trying to tell him. Maybe in another life, it could have been himself and the vampire against the world. But for now… they had to go their separate ways.

Dean coughed, awkwardly breaking off the embrace. “Take care of yourself, Benny.”

“You too, Winchester.”

Benny tipped his hat to Dean and began his journey in the opposite direction. Dean could only stand and watch, unable to move.

-

It had been five weeks since Dean was forced to leave Cas behind. He finally met back up with Sam, which led to a tearful reunion and many long talks catching each other up on the past year. Dean left out the part where he fucked a literal vampire, for Sam’s sake.

Dean was doing okay. Waking up in a filthy motel bed is miles better than cold Purgatory dirt. He and Sam were working cases again, which allowed for some distraction from the ache in his chest whenever he thought of Cas.

He saw Cas everywhere. Hallucinations, or apparitions of some sort, haunting his every waking hour. He didn’t know if he was being fucked with or if his brain was truly this fucked up. The reminders of his lost friend were painful enough that Dean barely wanted to get out of bed in the morning. The only thing that kept him motivated was knowing that Cas would want him to move on.

Sam learned very soon after Dean’s reappearance that Cas was a sore subject. Dean was driving when Sam finally brought it up, trapped by his own car so that he could no longer avoid the discussion.

“What happened to Cas, Dean?”

Dean groaned. “I told you. He didn’t make it out of Purgatory.”

“Yeah, but why not? Why don’t we try to get him out?” Sam asked.

Dean slammed his palm into the steering wheel before shouting out, “Sam. Leave it.”

Sam held his hands up in surrender, turning to look out the window as they continued down the highway toward their next case.

When they finally reached the motel a painfully silent five hours later, Dean went straight to the bathroom, in part to avoid his brother but also providing him the first chance he’s had all day to brush his teeth. Indoor plumbing is something he would never take for granted again after his stint in Purgatory.

Dean leaned over the sink to splash some water in his face. He looked up and into the eyes of his own reflection but was startled when he noticed someone behind him.

No.

It couldn’t be.

He screwed his eyes shut. It’s not real. He’s not real. He opened them again. Cas was still there. Dean turned around slowly, jaw set with anticipation.

Cas was still there. Standing right in front of him.

Cas knit his eyebrows together, staring right through Dean as he tilted his head to the side. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean reached out to touch Cas, before quickly dropping his hand to his side again. “Cas? Is that really you?”

Cas stared at Dean’s fallen hand for a moment. “It’s me.”

Dean ran his hand through his hair. “I- What- I mean… how?”

“I do not know.”

Once Cas had a chance to shower and shave, he walked out of the bathroom with a flourish, showing off his clean clothing. Dean’s pants became uncomfortably tight at the sight, and he shifted in his seat in order to hide it from Cas.

After a moment of silence, Dean stood up and enveloped Cas in a hug, wrapping both arms around the angel’s broad shoulders. Cas froze, surprised by the sudden display of affection.

Dean pulled back after a moment, elated that Cas was finally home, before remembering that he was still pissed.

“Cas, why the fuck did you do that? Why the fuck did you kiss me and then ditch me for Purgatory? You could have died,” Dean said, his voice trembling with anger. “I wanted to die after I left you behind. Do you get that? I didn’t want to be on this Earth anymore if it meant you were gone.”

Sam looked between the two of them from his chair, recognizing that this was something he didn’t want to be around for. “I’m… gonna go get some dinner,” he said quickly, before letting himself out of the room.

Cas stood across from Dean, hands pressed into his thighs. The angel’s eyebrows shot up, shocked by Dean’s sudden outburst. “I did not realize my absence would impact you so severely, Dean. I apologize. If it is any consolation, I feel the same way,” Cas said, sympathy etched into his features.

Dean’s brain stuttered to a halt. Cas felt the same way? About Dean? “Cas…”

“I stayed in Purgatory because I felt like I had a debt to pay. I no longer felt like I deserved to be here, to be in your company. I wanted to prove that I have a purpose other than destruction and pain,” Cas said, sighing. “I understand now that while I have done terrible things, I can choose to do better from now on. I cannot change what I have done, but I can change the future.”

Cas looked into Dean’s eyes and firmly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know why I am so willing to accept that everything happens for a reason, but I am not willing to recognize that I am also here for a reason. I think my reason is you, Dean.”

Dean felt himself choke. “You-” He stuttered, “You can’t just say shit like that, Cas.”

“Why not, Dean? I have long denied myself the pleasure of telling you the truth. I no longer need to, so I plan to tell you how much you mean to me every single day, as long as I’m granted the privilege of being in your life,” Cas said, smiling like Dean himself was the one who created the entire universe. There’s something about an age-old creature that’s seen just about everything finding Dean the most fascinating individual he’s ever met. Dean felt his heart drop into his stomach at the idea.

Smiling softly, Dean rubbed the back of his neck with his palm, both in discomfort as well as the need to stop himself from reaching out to touch Cas. They’ve cuddled, they’ve kissed, but Dean still doesn’t know where they stand.

“What are we, man?,” he blurted.

Cas arched an eyebrow. “Whatever you want us to be, Dean.”

Dean let out a shaky breath at that, leaning forward into Cas’ space. He reached out slowly, pressing both hands into Cas’ forearms, then his biceps, before making his way up to cup Cas’ face gently. Cas followed suit, surrounding Dean’s fingers with his own. Dean watched as Cas’ lips fell open, cataloguing every movement of the angel’s face. Last time, Dean was caught off guard. This time, he was going to remember every second.

Both of them moved at the same time, capturing each other’s lips in a sweet, soft kiss that lasted only a second before they pulled away, overwhelmed. Dean grinned, embarrassed, before pulling Cas back in. What started as a chaste kiss slowly became more urgent, with Dean sliding his tongue against Cas’ bottom lip and eliciting a loud groan from the angel. The noises Cas was making only served to make Dean go even more insane, if that was possible. He grabbed Cas by the hips, pushing him slowly until they hit the wall behind them. Dean paused for a moment before leaning into Cas, their bodies flush against one another. The back of Cas’ head hit the wall, and Dean took advantage of the opportunity to suck as many bruises as he could manage into the side of Castiel’s neck.

“Dean, Sam told me that you should not sleep with someone you are interested in until at least the third date. Maybe we should take this slowly,” Cas stated very seriously.

Dean snorted. “Screw slowly, dude. We’ve known each other how many years now? We’re far past slowly at this point.”

“Okay,” Cas said, smirking. He pushed Dean back, grabbing him by the hand, and walked backwards toward Dean’s bed. Cas pulled Dean on top of him, and Dean let him.

-

“Dean?”

Dean was still groggy, but he opened his eyes to find Sam staring at him sheepishly from foot of his bed. He looked over to the other side of his bed to see a person-shaped lump taking up a large chunk of space. He smiled, thinking back to the previous night, before rubbing his eyes and looking back to his brother.

“Sam? When did you get back?” Dean said.

“I got another room for the night. Thought it might be best for everyone.”

Dean grinned. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy the rest of the morning with my boyfriend.”

Cas stirred next to him, apparently disturbed by the conversation. His face peeked out from under the covers. “Good morning, Sam.”

“Morning, Cas,” Sam said, with the air of a man who was trying to be as normal as possible about his brother and his best friend sleeping together. “Well. I’ll leave you to it.”

Once Sam closed the door, Cas smiled at Dean. “I’m your boyfriend?”

“I mean, I… if you want, I don’t want to force anything on you, I wasn’t trying to-“

Cas pressed a finger to Dean’s lips. “Dean, I would be honored to be your boyfriend.”

“Oh, well. Good. I’m glad.” Dean leaned in to kiss Cas, and Cas happily obliged.

Tags: @professorerudite

[7-wonders]

You Say I’m in Love

Summary: Michael makes his rescue with his unexpected ally in tow, and HBIC Madison Montgomery whittles away at your willpower to continue surviving.

Word Count: 2444

A/N: The long-awaited next chapter of Mad Love! As always, feedback is appreciated, and if you enjoyed, I would love if you left a like, comment, or reblog. Enjoy :)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Two weeks in captivity comes with little fanfare; a daily changing of the guard is the only sort of notification that you receive, along with Madison Montgomery’s foray into your prison cell to verbally and, a new addition in the past couple of days, physically harass you. Although it’s nothing too serious, just a little pushing and shoving that occasionally turns into something a little harsher, it chips away at whatever remains of your morale. At this point, you’re not sure that there is anything left in that respect.

A choked groan escapes your mouth as you’re slammed against the wall by an unseen force, almost as if to illustrate your point. It’s laughable that you’ve thought of Michael as the “blond devil,” because with the way that Madison is standing across from you with a cruel smirk on her face and a cigarette poised between her fingers, she owns that title. You slide down to your knees, attempting to regain your breath and breathe through what you’re sure is a cracked rib. However, you’re given barely a moment to recover before being hauled up to your feet again, this time with Madison’s hand gripping the roots of your hair.

“You know, you disgust me,” she hisses, watching with unfettered glee as you wince in pain.

“Yes, you’ve made that very clear in the past couple of days.”

“When the cat’s away, the mouse will play.”

“So you’re scared of Mallory, then?” She releases you suddenly, eyes full of fire as she glares at you. Obviously, you’ve hit a nerve by bringing up the younger woman who’s next in line for the Supremacy (yeah, you’ve eavesdropped, but what else is there to do here?). Hot, blinding white light explodes in your field of vision, and it takes you a moment to realize you’ve been punched. Another moment, and you conclude that she made you punch yourself. “Fuck, I throw a mean punch.”

“You’ve never asked me why you disgust me,” Madison notes.

“That’s because I don’t care.” A drop of blood blooms on the floor, and you pinch your nose and tilt your head back to stop the blood from flowing more.

“I’ll never understand how somebody could be in love with the Antichrist.”

You unexpectedly let out a sharp laugh, the sound coming out as more of a wheeze as you grab at your ribs in discomfort. “I’m not in love with Michael!”

Madison looks like she thinks you’re obviously lying, and you scoff.

“I’m not! Like, I love him, sure, but as a friend!”

“I can’t tell if you’re lying or just insanely blind.”

“Thirty seconds ago you were making me beat myself up, and now you’re trying to describe my feelings to me?”

Madison rolls her eyes. “If you didn’t love him, you wouldn’t be resisting helping us take him down.”

“You want to kill him! I can’t let you do that. Like I told Cordelia, he’s my friend.” Madison takes a step towards you, making you flinch in anticipation. “Where is your Supreme, anyways? Shouldn’t she be here to keep you in check?”

“Cordelia’s away, and since Myrtle’s an old bat, I’m in charge.” Makes sense why you’ve only been beaten up in the past couple of days, then.

“Well, your good witch, bad witch routine isn’t exactly working, and it’s obvious that Michael’s not coming for me. You gonna put me out of my misery and kill me, or do you want to beat me up some more before that?”

Madison narrows her eyes, and you steel yourself in preparation. “You wanna know how I know you’re in love with the Antichrist who you’re so sure is not going to rescue you? It’s the way that you look when he’s mentioned. Your eyes get all soft, and then you look like you’re waiting for him to come in and sweep you away.”

“Yeah, because I’m desperate to get out of here!”

“What about how fast you come to his defense? That’s not just friendship.”

You look at Madison like she’s crazy. “Yes, it is.”

“This is the first time you’ve ever been in love.” It’s not a question. “I know you have this idealized version of what it’s like to be in love with a person. You’re expecting there to be this big ‘aha’ moment, sparks and instant connection and love at first sight. It’s not like that, though. It’s the little things that make you realize that you’re in love.

“When you can say anything, no matter how dumb you think it may be, and you know they won’t laugh at you. You can see their face when you close your eyes, feel their arms around you even after they’re done holding you. Their presence eases any pain, and you can just truly be yourself without fear of ridicule. It’s a slow realization, not at all like what you’ve read about or seen in movies. It doesn’t surprise me that you haven’t come to that conclusion yourself.”

You’re silent, face stone-cold as you digest the verbal blows that Madison just laid on you. She’s not right, that’s ridiculous. There’s no way that you’re in love with Michael. He’s...dependable, and can make you laugh even when you feel like crying, but so what? Maybe you do get to say things without fear of judgement, his smile whenever you make a dumb joke bringing butterflies to your stomach. You’re absolutely certain that you’re not in love with Michael...almost.

Madison smirks, knowing that this has gotten to you more than any punch or shove could. “I pity you, really. You’re pathetic.”

With a short laugh, she saunters out of your cell. The door clangs shut behind her, the sound barely registering in your brain. The only thing that resounds in your head:

Are you in love with Michael?

//

“I swear, Mallory, that if this is some sort of trap, I will not hesitate to brutally and painfully murder you and every single witch I can get my hands on.” The threat is blunt, although Mallory would expect nothing less from the Antichrist standing next to her. 

“You really think I wouldn’t have already had the witches ambush you if this was a trap?”

“Pardon me for not exactly trusting you right now.”

Michael really can’t be blamed for his apprehensiveness right now. Honestly, Mallory had been preparing herself to be tortured or killed after Michael got the information that he wanted. It was a gamble for her to go rogue in the first place, and it was a near-miracle that she had actually been listened to when she showed up on his doorstep last night. After hurriedly explaining herself, and being more shocked that Michael actually listened to her (maybe (Y/N) is a good influence on him), a hasty game plan had been established. And by “game plan,” it was really just Mallory stopping Michael from running to rescue (Y/N) without any sort of idea of what he was going to do.

“I just need you to trust me until we get (Y/N), then you can hate me.”

He glances at the rising Supreme with suspicion. “Why do you want to help, anyways? You’re the reason (Y/N)’s in this situation in the first place.”

“Because I was stupid and naive for going along with whatever Cordelia told me to do. I should have backed out the moment that we actually became friends, but I didn’t. That’s going to remain one of my biggest regrets; that I didn’t stop this situation from happening in the first place.”

Michael knows that she’s being serious; those big, dark eyes of hers hide no secrets. Still, he can’t help himself from harboring a fair amount of resentment. “(Y/N) trusted you, Mallory.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mallory yells, making Michael stop in surprise. “You don’t think I saw the betrayal in her eyes when her fucking car crashed and I was the last person she saw before she passed out? Or how she reacted when she woke up and saw that her eyes really hadn’t deceived her? I used to look up to Cordelia, and I would gladly have followed her to the ends of the Earth before this mess. She teaches us that the sisterhood we have with our fellow witch is the most sacred of all bonds, but she’s wrong. The secrets, the lies, the anger? That’s not sisterhood. What I have with (Y/N) and Kate is sisterhood.”

Mallory takes a deep breath, reining in the anger that Michael wasn’t aware she was capable of.

“Let’s just finish this, and then you can kill me and be on your way.”

Michael shakes his head. “Oh, I’m not gonna kill you.”

“You’re not?”

“Not unless (Y/N) asks me to.”

They reach an unassuming looking set of storage units, and Mallory pulls a key from her pocket and unlocks the front gate. “Far enough away that you weren’t able to trace us, but close enough that we wouldn’t have to use transmutation to get here.”

“You were planning this out for some time then?” Michael tries to act like he doesn’t care what the answer will be, but Mallory knows that this is all just evidence that he’s cataloguing.

“A few months.”

Michael confidently strides to the first unit, holding his hand out and busting open the lock with a flash of sparks. “Stay here.”

“What? Why would I stay here? I’m going with you!”

He looks back at Mallory, who shudders when she sees the definition of a devilish grin on his face. “Wouldn’t want you to inadvertently end up as a casualty.”

//

It starts with a scream.

You’re jolted awake (you hadn’t even realized that you’d fallen asleep) by a sharp noise from far away. Dismissing it as a chair squeaking or a dog yelping, you roll over on the mattress and close your eyes again. Your attempt at sleep is thwarted when you hear the noise again, only closer this time. Now, you’re certain that what you’re hearing is screaming. Sitting up, your heart hammers in your chest as more screaming is heard, accompanied by sounds of banging. 

The commotion slowly gets closer and closer, making you begin to feel like a character in a horror movie. You had thought that nothing could frighten you more than being kidnapped and forced to marry the Antichrist, but this might just top that fear. Glancing around, you realize that there’s no sort of weapon that could protect you if this is finally the witches coming to kill you. As a last resort, you press yourself to the wall facing the door in an attempt to catch whoever may come inside in a sneak attack.

An eerie silence falls upon the cell, your ears ringing from the sudden lack of noise. Then, a sound akin to a cannon exploding momentarily deafens you as the door goes flying off of its hinges. You shriek and cover your face, hesitantly lowering your arms when the door clatters near the mattress that’s been yours for two weeks. 

“Michael?” Disbelief colors your tone, sure that the blond in front of you is merely an illusion. After all, the witches had used illusions to trick you before; why not do it to fully shatter any willpower you may still have?

“(Y/N),” Michael gasps. The intimidating demeanor that he had upon breaking into the room melts away as he races towards you, concern evident on his face. You begin to shake as he grabs you by your shoulders, realizing that he’s real and here and that all of your wishful thinking has finally come true.

“Michael, I-I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have...I didn’t mean--”

“Shh,” Michael quiets your tearful words, eyes scanning you and filling more and more with anger as he notices the blood and the various cuts on your body. “Who did this to you? Which one of those witches dared to lay a hand on you?”

“Madison.”

His nostrils flare, but he focuses on what’s important and pulls you to him in a hug. “Don’t worry, they won’t ever hurt you again.”

“Did you...kill them?”

“I did what had to be done.”

You nod, allowing yourself to sink into the hug. “This is the first time you’ve ever hugged me first, you know.”

Michael laughs, kissing the top of your head for a long moment. “Don’t worry, this won’t be the last time.”

“Promise?” You look up at him, and your heart aches when you see that he’s crying. “Yeah, I promise.” He pulls away from you, but remains touching you. “Do you think you can walk out, or do you want me to carry you?”

“I can walk.”

Michael leads you to the door, stopping right before reaching the hallway. “I’m going to caution you and say that the carnage may be a lot for you to handle. I...lost control when they started trying to attack me, and may have engaged in a bit of overkill.”

“I’ll be able to handle it, Michael.” Just walking down the hallway, however, reveals the white concrete walls splattered in copious amounts of blood. You shudder, choosing to bury your face in Michael’s shoulder so as not to actually see any bodies and letting him lead you out of your prison.

The sunlight burns your eyes when you emerge, and you blink furiously to regain your vision. When the black spots do clear from your eyesight, you see another figure waiting for you.

“What the fuck? Mallory?”

She sheepishly waves at you. “You told me to do something about it, and so I did. I’m just sorry that it took me so long to come to my senses.”

Mallory tries to take a step forward, but becomes frozen by an unseen force. Michael has a hand raised ahead of him, glowering at the witch in front of him.

“You’re lucky that I don’t kill you right now, little witch. The only reason I’m sparing your life is because you helped me find (Y/N). If I find you plotting against me ever again, however, I will kill you.” His hand flexes, and Mallory falls forward. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

Mallory wants to say more to you, but Michael looks deadly serious about his threat. Within a second, the new Supreme is gone.

“Now,” Michael smiles softly, “let’s go home.”

Home. The comforts of your physical home are appealing to you on a level that they never have before, but standing in Michael’s embrace, you realize that you already are home.

//

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