#like that man is a hazard and a menace to the series

[neo-shitty]

🚦.

[rreskk]

I just rewatched the scene with Trevor and the guy who wants to arrest him for drug traffic (with the truck next to them)

And I wanted to ask you if you can do Trevor x Reader where after his escape in the water. He came back to Reader's house completely high, to confront her because he was suspicious and angry about her playing with him (and his heart) / betraying him

Reader did nothing to justify his actions and suspicious about her but Trevor doesn't want to listen to her. What stop him to talk was Reader who slapped him in the face and order him to get out, he did get out

Not even 24 hours later, he came back but a lot more calm and... as you want for the end of the fanfic 👀 (apologize, beg for forgiveness, ...)

A/N: If you don't know the cutscene, here it is!! Click to watch the video Worth watching :)

Summary: After the incident, he proclaimed profound assumptions that angered you beyond belief. The next day his charms persuaded you otherwise.

TW: Mentions of drugs

Trevor enjoyed the everlasting effect of his own meth, roughly limping down your driveway after a horrid afternoon of outrunning the Los Santos police radar. He allowed himself into your home uninvited and found you laying about on your sofa. Trevor’s paranoia and anger fuelled the sensation of meth and he scoffed when finding you surprised at his sudden presence.

“Trevor!” You concerningly exclaimed.

He remained pessimistic and shallow with his facial expressions. His eyes sacredly burnt into yours, jaw clenched under the force of his grinding teeth. You worryingly sat up and noticed his cargos that were damp, reaching his slim waist line.

Trevor held his stomach in and cruelly stiffened his posture; a gesture he does to control the situation.

“Of course you are shocked when I’m here,” He began, “After all, you only wanna use me when you are horny and lonely, don’t ya?”

You went to open your mouth but he took control again.

“Ain’t no way you gonna play around with my feelings. I loved you even though you don’t wanna love me.”

“Trevor, what are you talking about?”

He began laughing manically before pointing an antagonising finger. “I can see through your scaley mouth, you liar.”

You felt like your surroundings were catching on fire. How menacing he is… You’ve never seen this side of him that aimed towards you. Suddenly you felt villainised.

“I don’t understand,” You foretold. “What did I do?”

“What did you do?”

Trevor slapped his thigh and bent over in a series of insane cackles.

“Stop fuckin’ lying! You know, you always knew, you fuckin’ set me up! You play with my heart and you think I won’t notice?”

He lacked clarity that you felt as though you had switched dimensions. What the hell was he on about?

“Trevor-“

The intoxicated man shadily grasped your wrist in a violent manner. You felt so estranged by his behaviour that being around him felt like a health hazard. You felt endangered and forwardly hit Trevor’s left cheek with your vacant fist. He winced as his head fell back forcefully, a bruise layering his skin almost immediately.

After punching him, you automatically grew guilty and shameful. Now you felt like the villain.

“I’m so sorry.” You bodied.

Trevor straightened his back and returned your snarky gaze. He felt the drugs spiral out of control and when your hand went to graze his new bruise, he leaped out of the door and left you bewildered and alarmed. Trevor scattered out of your view, even when you chased him to the door. You’ve considered following him but the sky began dropping shambles of water, harshly excusing your plans. You had the spirits and motivation to seek him with the circumstances of interrogation and explanation. He walked into your home and threatened you of something so sinister and out of your morals. You’d never play around with his heart. Never considered it, never have, never will.

Sheltering back into your humble home, you could only message or call him. Your fingers rapidly dialled call. It took a few seconds for it to decline and you huffed ineffectively. Pacing around your room, it took hours for a message to actually send. His phone must have caught a signal now. With all the voicemails you’ve left, you expected a call in return… But nothing.

Nothing for over 10 hours.

You’ve stayed up all night. Your phone has been within hand reach all night. Your eyes had been strained from staring at his contact all night.

Until your phone began buzzing. He was calling.

Being sleep-deprived, you raised the screen to your ear and heard him breathe.

“I’m outside. Let me in.” Was all he said before hanging up.

You were beyond bitter now.

There was a window beside your door and Trevor was leaning against it with his back turned. You slyly turned the handle before drastically hitting his head with the flap of the window. He grunted.

“What the fuck?”

You were satisfied by this.

He grabbed the window and held it wide open. He was practically hanging his head inside that you stepped back to restrict physical contact.

“Am I supposed to crawl through this?”

“You are not coming back into my house until you explain what the big deal was yesterday.” You strongly discarded with a sense of feminine control.

He locked eyes with you and tilted his head. “I abused meth a bit too much yesterday.” Trevor admitted with an amused tone.

Despite the bitterness between you both, it was hard not to smile at how eager he was to feel your body warmth. Trevor’s hands were reaching forward for your body. He looked like a child eager for his mother.

“I thought you stopped abusing meth.” You remarked.

“Shit went down,” He mumbled, “I almost got caught for drug trafficking and got lost in a fuckin’ freezing lake. It was a bad day. Lost all my shit.”

You scoffed. “Why did you blame me?”

Trevor’s face scrunched up as he pulled his well-toned body through the window and onto the carpet. You watched him kneel before you, panting as it took strength to squeeze through that tiny window. He lacked enough energy to stand up so he remained crouched.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just scared you will leave me.”

Why does he do this to you? A goblin of a man, yet he still flatters you. A snicker left your lips.

“I’d never do such a thing, Trevor. I’ve promised many times.”

Trevor lifted his head and stood up to your height. His hands cradled your face and he pulled you closer to him. His breath smelt ungodly tragic… Cheap beer mixed with years of missed hygiene.

“I know, sugar,” He whispered. “But I don’t know that when I’m off my head.”

“Next time… Don’t be off your head.”

Trevor smirked at your bluntness. He loves it very much.

“Will you accept my apology?” He asked.

You leaned into his hands. “I don’t think you’ve apologised yet, Philips.”

Trevor repeated your words mockingly until he gave in. He was defeated.

“Fine… I’m sorry.”

You smiled. “I accept your apology.”

[literalgrill]

The Animated History of Treasure Island: Mr. Magoo's Treasure Island - 1964

I have been on a journey to watch every animated adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. (Yes, my hyperfixations can be quite unusual). I wanted to share my thoughts and research on them as they were compiled before hopefully making a long video about the entire topic.

So today I'm here to share my thoughts on one of its earliest animated adaptations: Mr. Magoo's Treasure Island from 1964. Read on if that's something you'd enjoy!

Nowadays, it’s easy to dismiss Mr. Magoo as that ableist cartoon making fun of nearsighted people that spawned the worst Leslie Neilson film of all time, one so bad it universally flopped and was even protested by the National Federation of the Blind. But this now maligned character was once a mainstay of animation and television. The original cartoon series won two Academy Awards for Best Animated Short Film and its titular character made TV history as the star of the first-ever animated TV Christmas Special — Mister Magoo’s Christmas Carol. It would go on to be parodied by The Simpsons and even still aired on television as late as 2014 by The CW. However, in this case, the most important part of the special is how it would lead to the story of Treasure Island’s first full-scale animated adaptation. (The absolute first was Mel-O-Toons: Treasure Island, but we’ll mention it a bit later.)

After the wildly successful original series and television special, United Productions of America decided to have Mr. Magoo star in various other literary adaptations. Thus, The Famous Adventures of Mr. Magoo came to life in 1964 with Mr. Magoo’s Treasure Island being one of its earliest episodes, a two-parter even.

The shows were played far more straight, ignoring the previous nearsighted jokes outside of their introductory sequences, and were quite realistic. My research says the other episodes were highly realistic and even portrayed a good bit of the violence and deaths within their stories. From my experience with their adaptation of Treasure Island, this rings particularly true. Plenty of characters are straight-up shot and killed as they are in the original novel and Jim Hawkins still fights Isreal to the death as he attempts to reclaim the Hispaniola. For the most part, it’s quite a direct retelling of the original story, but with a few big changes.

First, there are some characters that are completely omitted including Jim’s mother, John Trelawney, and “Blind” Pew, the latter of which is a particular relief considering the source material. I’d even hazard a guess that he was avoided entirely to not make any confusing associations with who the true “main character” was in the show.

The biggest departure from the book that is absolutely worth focusing on is how the story ends as it likely doesn’t align with your memories of watching adaptations of the story over the years. For those who don’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of Treasure Island as I now do, I shall quote the book directly:

"Ben Gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began, with wonderful contortions, to make us a confession, Silver was gone. The maroon has connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago and he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which would certainly have been forfeited if "that man with the one leg had stayed aboard." But this was not all. The sea-cook had not gone empty-handed. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved, and had removed one of the sacks of coin, worth, perhaps, three or four hundred guineas, to help him on his way further wanderings.

I think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him."

Mr. Magoo started at least one more historic trend with this series — they have Jim Hawkins set Long John Silver free. It makes sense as Jim is the only one with a relationship, however strained, with the pirate menace that might incline him to help the old sea dog avoid the gallows. Still, these were the first storytellers that decided Jim’s relationship with Long John was so important to the story, that he must have a conflicted moment where he sets his previous tormenter free.

In the first-ever animated adaptation of the tale, Mel-O-Toons: Treasure Island, decided to leave the end particularly nebulous as to what happened to Long John in the end. While Mr. Magoo’s 2019 animated series is so obscure most don’t know it exists, this choice made for Mr. Magoo’s Treasure Island is one that would echo out through the decades.

If this piqued your interest, my next Treasure Island-related post will be on Osamu Tezuka's adaptation — Shin Takarajima (A New Treasure Island). Thanks for reading, and let me know if you enjoyed learning about such a niche topic!

[gorogues]

Spoilers for Flash #762!

You can see the first few pages here.

Well, that's one way to defeat Eobard, and I'm glad Barry took it.  He went the route of forgiveness, and while that in itself wasn't enough to get through to Eobard, peacefully centring himself in the Speed Force removed Eobard's status as a paradox and reset him back to his past with no memory of life as the Reverse Flash.  The Reverse Flash's identity is once again unknown in the 25th century, and Eobard is now the kindly curator of the Flash Museum in that era.  In other words, it's what his life should have been had things gone right.

No surprise that Curatorbard's favourite Flash is Barry, but it's nice to see that he's made room for everyone's favourite Flash; it's something DC and the readership could learn from.  And we see that there's a Godspeed section of the Flash Museum, which directly contradicts Eobard's earlier claim that August was completely forgotten by the 25th century.  So either history has changed or Eobard was just being cruel to him earlier, and either option is completely plausible.

Obviously, we can guess that at some point things will get undone or Eobard will regain his memory, and Professor Zoom/the Reverse Flash will run again.  But this was an effective gamble which managed to avoid all the potential pitfalls we were expecting: Barry doesn't have the trauma of another murder on his conscience, Eobard isn't continuing his hellish cycle of death and rebirth (for now), and he doesn't even have to be trapped in suspended animation like has happened to him and other evil speedsters before.  It was the compassionate choice for a man who probably didn't deserve it, and highlights Barry at his best.  I'm honestly really glad he didn't kill Eobard, even if he ended the man Eobard was -- but that man was a threat to all of reality, as we've been discussing here recently.

And the other big news is that it seems Hartley and David are getting married!  It's hinted in the barbecue scene, when Linda says to them "did you set a date?"  So hopefully that gets followed up on soon by a future writer.  Also great to see them hanging out with the Flash Family, which is long overdue.

Plus, Al makes an ominous cameo to set up his story arc after Williamson's run.  He appears to be in prison again like he was before Flashpoint, still with his books, candles, and rats...it's always been funny how those candles aren't taken away as a fire hazard, but we know that Al basically does whatever he wants in prison so presumably the authorities have got no choice in the matter.

After the dust has settled, Barry goes to check various aspects of the timeline to ensure things haven't gone too haywire; as he notes himself, that was a distinct possibility once Eobard was reset.  The Renegades, including Commander Cold, are alive and well in the future and the future itself is intact.  The Tornado Twins are all right, and Grodd and the Rogues are back in their own eras.  What's interesting -- and it may just be an art error -- is that Weather Wizard sure looks like his pre-Flashpoint self.  However, it may just be a quirk of the art since he only appears in one panel.

And Barry runs past August's tombstone, finding it still there, but after he leaves its inscription begins to fade.  So August may be alive again, and that makes sense because his murder probably didn't happen now that Eobard has been reset (more on this in a bit).  It remains to be seen if another writer wants to pick him up in the future, and what his new status quo would be.  Would he ever have betrayed Barry and then redeemed himself, or will they have always been friends?  Was his brother still murdered?  Time travel and paradoxes make everyone's head hurt, and that was essentially the point of the story arc with Paradox.

Barry had been interested in solving the murder of Heather Macy before the Legion of Zoom struck, and now finds that she's alive and well since Eobard was reset back to his good self.  He speaks to her briefly, and learns that her husband (who'd previously been sentenced to death for her murder) has the surname of Thawne.  That's interesting and may never be addressed again, but it raises the question of who exactly he is.  One of Eobard's ancestors, perhaps, and maybe even Malcolm Thawne himself...the guy is blond, but we don't get a close enough look at him to see if he's Barry's twin.

We also see Barry talk to his dead mother, and it helps ease some of the grumpiness I've had about Barry's origin since she was killed.  I've long been cranky about his new motivation to become the Flash, which was an obsession with the past and finding justice for his parents, when originally Barry had two happy living parents and became the Flash just because it was right.  Here, Barry tells his mother "I'm the Flash because of what you taught me...because it's the right thing to do" even though she's still dead.  It just remains to be seen whether DC will actually continue in that direction and leave the doom and gloom behind.  I hope they do, though I'm not sure how much I believe they will.

Question is, why is Nora still dead even though Eobard was reset?  August is apparently alive again.  Did Flashpoint somehow cement her death in the timeline?  Or is that plot point so important to DC that nothing can change it :>

I found this a very satisfying issue and finale to a long run on the Flash book.  The series had its ups and downs, but I'll always be grateful for having much of pre-Flashpoint continuity slowly returned in the form of the Flash Family and long-missing Rogues, and concepts like the other Forces were introduced well.  And while I love Eobard as Professor Zoom, part of me is sorry that this won't get to stick as the permanent ending to his story because it really is a great way to finish it forever.  I hope he'll lie fallow for a while and get to be happy in the future before he returns to menace the Flashes again; that'd help with his recent heavy usage and prevent fan fatigue, and ensure that people are jazzed to see him again when he does come back.  But we will see.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

chivalry fell on its sword

the wench and the witcher

“chivalry fell on its sword”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader

Summary: Geralt witnesses one of the many perils involved in your profession. It rattles him enough to try and do something about it.

Warnings: Mentions of blood and violence. Geralt and reader continue to be foul-mouthed little darlings.

A/N: Holy crap, guys, I wrote something that wasn’t smut. “You know what that is? Growth.” Full disclosure, there is no real, actual plan for where I’m going with this series, thing. I’m just here to write shit.

@coconutxraikage​ ; @pantrashtic​ ; @kingniazx​ ; @onyour-right​

“Geralt, is this really necessary?”

“Yes.”

You eye the dirk in your hand. “I cook with these, I don’t fight with them - I’ll fucking stab myself.”

“And that’s why we’re here – so I can show you how not to fucking stab yourself.”

You glare at him. ‘Here’ happens to be the courtyard behind your tavern. The witcher has been with you for three days, warming your bed and keeping you company – even your regulars have started to get used to him. Well, mostly. At the very least, they’ve graduated from ‘outright hostility’ to ‘passive distrust’.

Baby steps.

Your only problem with Geralt’s extended visitation is the fact that he’s become annoyingly protective. He mostly keeps out of the way, doesn’t expect you to change anything about your daily routine to suit him, but having a very large, somewhat menacing companion at your back takes some getting used to. No, you’re not exactly what most people would term as ‘threatening’, but you’ve managed the damn place for near-on five years. Belligerent drunks are simply a hazard of the job. You have a very particular way of managing people when they get out of hand at your establishment, and while it does work – most of the time, kind of – the previous evening was a wholly different story.

_-_-_-_-_-_

“I think you need to leave, friend!“

How the bastard had managed to get this drunk on your watch was beyond you. You were going to have a talk with the staff about over-serving. Right now, you’re more about getting the sod’s hands off the barmaid – he’s ignoring you in favor of trying to drag the poor girl into his lap. “Hey,” you bark again. “I’m talking to you – “

Your hand grabs his shoulder and yanks. The girl he’s pawing manages to worm free as the drunk reels about with a shout of indignation, “Get yer fuckin’ hands off me, daft bitch!”

You have to laugh at that, “I may be a daft bitch, but I’m the one who’s name is on the lease here. You’re harassing my waitstaff, now get the fuck out.”

The bastard scoffs at you and has the unmitigated gall to turn his back on you; you see red. Somewhere behind you, you here the rumble of your name – Geralt, trying to tell you to stand down. You ignore him, obviously, because who’s going to take you seriously if you can’t deal with one drunken shithead? With an irritated growl, you grab said shithead by the back of the collar.

“That’s it – “

“Get off, you fucking slut!”

CRACK. Your vision flashes white for a second, like a firecracker has gone off next to your face. The impact of the back of the drunk’s hand sends you stumbling into the nearest table, bell thoroughly rung. You manage to catch the end of the table before you go spinning to the floor.

Geralt shouts your name. Behind you, your assailant gloats, “Come on, girlie. More where that came from.”

There’s blood in your mouth. You spit, grimace, and grab the nearest heavy object you can find; one of your solid clay pitchers.

It’s makes a satisfying “thunk” when it cracks the drunk across the face.

“Fuck you, prick,” you gasp.

_-_-_-_-_-_

 You’d woken up this morning with an impressive shiner, but that son of a bitch had been dragged off with a shattered jaw, according to the gossip. By your standards, everything had been taken care of, but Geralt didn’t seem to be of the same mind. He’d grumbled something about men and fragile egos - ‘reprisals’, blah blah blah- then hurried you through breakfast, and promptly dragged you out of doors.

So, here you were. Staring at a knife. “Geralt, come on – “

“No, you need to be able to protect yourself – “

“ – I’ve managed just fine for most of my life, thank you very much – “

“You have a black eye – “

“ – and I caved that other guy’s face in!”

“That was a lucky shot and you know it!”

You startle so violently that you almost drop the blade on your foot; you don’t think Geralt’s every actually shouted at you before. He’s glaring at you while a muscle in his jaw ticks and you feel you’re your own temper start to bubble – he can’t just yell at you, and you’ve a mind to rip him a new asshole, because fuck him your goddamn face hurts and you don’t have time for this, but then he’s marching up to you and you give a small grunt of surprise when he grabs you by the shoulders.

“You can’t…” He growls, obviously frustrated, before he continues. “You can’t just hope for the best, sweetheart. You’re tough, and smart, I’ll give you that much, but if someone bigger comes along and decides you’ve got something they want…”

He trails off, lets you go, and paces away. You open your mouth to argue, but then he turns and pins you with those pretty golden eyes – oh.

Oh.

He’s worried.

It’s… unexpected? Yes, that’s the word.

But not unwelcome.

You drop Geralt’s gaze and look at the thin blade in your hand. It’s quite nice, actually – small and light enough to palm against your wrist. Hell, you could probably slide it down the front of your dress, if you ever needed to.

“… So I don’t just jab them with the pointy end?” you finally ask with a weak smile.

The witcher blinks, narrows his eyes, and finally exhales on a chuckle. You tamp down on your smile and do your best to keep your sarcasm in check with he begins instruction. He helps you find the balance point on the dirk, shows you how to hold it underhand, then overhand, followed by a breakdown of how to easily switch your grip.

Next is vital points on human anatomy. You learn that the fastest way to drop a man is to stab him through the neck and let him bleed to death. Stabbing for the heart his more difficult; if your blade glances off a rib, it can get stuck. Same thing with the kidneys in the back – hard to get to, but effective if you can manage it. Geralt shows you on his own torso. You stand in front of him while he guides your hand, keeping the sharp point of the dagger tucked to your wrist and away from his vital parts.

“Aim for the middle, if worse comes to worse,” Geralt tells you. “Stab the bastard and get the fuck out of there – he’s not going to be moving very quickly with a blade in his gut.”

With that, he draws a small-ish knife from his boot and moves to stand beside you. He slowly walks you through defensive stances, watching you like a hawk to correct anything he sees as a potential opening. Each movement is numbered and he has you drill through each one, first in order, and then in random patterns of his choosing. You only realize how long you’ve been at it when your arms start to ache. Tending bar can be hard work, but this is a different sort of practice – you’re a little winded, and a little sweaty, but you grin and shake your head when Geralt asks if you want to stop.

“No,” you tell him. “No, I think I’m getting it. Give me more.”

There’s a fierce kind of pride behind his eyes when he nods. Flipping the grip on his blade, he turns to face you and raises an eyebrow. He attacks with slow, even movements and you counter just as slowly. It’s like dancing. When you stumble or misstep, he stops, and the dance begins again.

You only make it through two sequences, at first, but then it’s three.

Then four.

Then five.

And then you realize that Geralt hasn’t stopped to correct your form in some time. He’s gained speed, as well, and you’re able to keep up. You find yourself watching not just the glint of his blade in the sunlight, but the tension and flexion of his arm, or the way he twists at the waist – all of it gives you a clue as to where he might go next. The dance flows back and forth over the cobblestone courtyard, accompanied by the whispering of your blades when then slide together and deflect. Geralt’s smooth, flowing steps push you back towards a wall, but you find an opening, spinning under his arm and back to the center of the courtyard. The witcher is hot on your heels, sweeping a wide arch that you duck under.

Then Geralt missteps. You swipe forward without thinking and leave a thin line of blood on his forearm. He swears and hops back.

Shit – you drop your blade immediately, let it clatter onto the stones below. “Geralt,” you gasp. “Fuck it, I’m sor – hmph!”

Geralt sweeps you up, careful of his unsheathed weapon, and kisses you quite thoroughly. You’re startled for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for you to relax; you melt into his touch and wind an arm around his neck. When he finally draws back, you’re more than a little breathless, and it’s not just from the training.

“Good,” he murmurs. Honey-gold eyes stare down at you, and he lifts one hand to gently push your sweaty curls away from your face. “You did good, sweetheart.”

You’re only a little sorry when he lets you go and picks up your knife, holding it handle-out for you to take. “Find a place to keep that,” he says lowly. “Your bodice, your boot, your garter – doesn’t matter, long you can reach it without fumbling. Understood?”

You smirk. “Understood,” you confirm.

Geralt gives you one of his almost-smiles, offers you one more brief kiss, and turns back for the tavern. “Just think how good you’ll get when we have you working at this every day,” he calls over his shoulder.

You blanche. Every…

Shit. “Son of a bitch,” you mutter as you follow the witcher inside.

[mintdrop]

@windup-dragoon​ this ended up becoming spearmint school au sdkfjbdsfs

“C’mon, Estinien! I can’t get caught skipping again, the principal’s gonna talk my ear off.” Mint whined as she looked through the closed gates that led to the entrance of the school, hiding behind the brick pillar that served as their starting point.

“Have you thought about maybe.... not skipping? Just eat lunch in school like the rest of us.” Estinien sighed as he rubbed his eyes with one hand. He, unfortunately, had to squat behind the brick wall just to avoid giving away the fact that they had skipped, at the behest of his tiny girlfriend. “Get down, you’ll give us away!!” she had said. Now his legs hurt for how long he’d had them bent. To his right, Mint let out a dramatically fake gasp as she turned to look at him.

“Us? You’re here with me too! You’re my partner in this crime! Besides, are you saying you didn’t enjoy our date?” The look on her face could only be described as a puppy who’d just been yelled at for the first time. Damn her cute face and ability to pluck at his heartstrings like a bloody harp. 

“I didn’t say that.” He sighed again, letting his head lean back onto the wall with dull thud. He couldn’t admit he enjoyed it far more than he showed - that would make her far too happy for their current situation. “Alright then. What’s your plan?”

Mint grinned, a grin that only ever showed when she had an awful idea. “Here’s the plan. We go around back and you boost me over the wall, and then hop it yourself since you’re so tall. And then,” she puffed out her chest and put her hands on her hips, casually ignoring the look of disappointment growing on Estinien’s face. “you boost me into the window, and then I’ll pull you up! It’ll be easy. We’ll act like those sneaky spies in that book series you like.”

Ignoring the dig at his literature of choice, he stared at the 106 centimeter tall menace he was unfortunately head-over-heels for. “You. The girl with arms as flimsy as melted pudding - you’ll pull me up into the windows?” He watched as she gave several full nods, clearly confident in her ability to not instantly drop him.

“I have the arm strength of all the Twelve combined.” Mint flexed, giving her bicep a good slap. If it weren’t for her cardigan, you’d be able to watch her arm jiggle as it started to instantly turn red. “We’ll be fine! Unless you have a better idea?”

“Walk in through the fron--”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT. Let’s go!” She grabbed at Estinien’s hand as she jumped over him, pulling him in the direction of the side of the school. He attempted to stand up straight, which earned him a hushed “no! they’ll see you walking around!,” forcing him into a weird hunch as he walked. He wasn’t sure why she had to whisper that when they’d been talking at a normal volume not even seconds ago, but then again he wasn’t sure about a lot of things - like why he was going along with this. 

At the back of the school, Mint looked up at the top of the wall; it wasn’t exactly high, but she wasn’t exactly tall. “Alright.” She spun on her heel to face Estinien, who was now allowed to be standing up straight. “Lift me, tall man!” She stood with her arms glued to her hips, watching him with a gleam in her eye. In return, he looked at her with half-lidded eyes of disbelief. If you could read his mind through his eyes, you’d hear nothing but “I really wish I weren’t here right now!”

With a sigh, he lifted her from the ground, pausing only when she said “wait!” in a tone that made it seem like she’d realized this probably wasn’t the best idea. Instead, she gave him a quick kiss on the nose, causing him to flush a pale pink as he finished boosting her above the wall. 

“You’re a hazard to everyone around you.”

“Thanks! I love you, too.” She gave him a toothy grin as he lifted himself up and over the wall, deliberately turning his head so she couldn’t see his face, as if she hadn’t already. Jumping down to meet him, she ran towards the school, gesturing for him to come over. The windows were taller than Estinien, the edge of one just barely out of his grasp even after his best jumps. “Okay, lift me up! If I stand on your hands I’ll be able to reach the windowsill and check to see if anyone’s in the halls before we pull you up.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He replied, cupping his hands and leaning down so that she could get her balance before being hoisted.

“When have I ever not? Don’t answer that.” She held onto his arm as he began to lift her, letting go only when it was below her. She just barely made it to the windowsill, grabbing on and scrambling up the wall as best as she could. Making sure she was far enough in, she slid the window open and peeked her head in, confirming that the hall was empty. She could hear the bustling of voices inside the nearby classroom, which meant that lunch hadn’t ended yet. She turned around, laying flat on her stomach as she reached down with both arms. “Now you!”

The majority of his brain said no. This can only end poorly. Estinien ignored the warnings as the few empty brain cells that made poor decisions decided to take the reigns of his motor functions. He jumped up, grabbing on to her tiny hands as his feet planted themselves against the wall. The two looked at each other, hanging there as Mint’s face lit up.

“See! I told you we could do it. Now we just lift-” She began to pull her arms up using only her upper body strength, his weight clearly more than she could handle. After only a few seconds, she heard a dull “pop” from each of her arms. The smallest “ah” fell from her lips as her arms went numb, and within moments she was sliding down at a rapid pace, crashing into Estinien as they both fell to the ground below.

For the most part, Estinien was fine - his shoulder was probably bruised from how he’d hit the floor, with the added weight of Mint landing there, but otherwise he was just a little sore. He sat up as soon as her weight had disappeared, quickly looking over her. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? I told you this was a bad idea-” He quickly scanned over her, looking for anything that might’ve been bent the wrong way.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt, but...” She looked up at him with a sheepish grin, her head no longer hiding that her arms were slumped in front of her. “My arms won’t listen to me. I can still feel them! But they’re just kinda.. here.” She attempted to lift one, but the only part that moved was her hand. “Hm.”

Estinien sighed, scooping her up in one arm as he stood up himself. “I’m adding another tally mark to the “Bad Ideas” column.” Hearing nothing but a dejected “noooooo!”, he began walking towards the front of the school. 

“Wait! They’ll know we skipped!” she cried, but his ears had turned off. At the front entrance to the school, he bumped into the teacher in charge of making sure people didn’t leave.

“You! What are you doing out here? Class is about to start again!” His eyes zeroed in on Mint, who seemed to shrink into herself.

“We were taking care of the plants out back. She filled the water bucket too much and it was too heavy for her to carry. I think she dislocated her arms.” Estinien explained without skipping a beat or stumbling over his words, leaving Mint to stare at him in awe for a second before realizing that she probably needed to corroborate this.

“Y-yeah! I thought it’d be fine but, uh.. the distance was longer than I thought from the faucet to the flower patches..” She looked at the teacher, who stared at her with nothing but doubt on his face. He only let them through after watching that she could only move her hands, escorting them to the nurses’ office.

Roughly half an hour later, the two sat side by side on one of the beds within the room, both of Mint’s arms in slings - she had dislocated her shoulders and bruised her forearms in the fall, requiring her to keep her arms bound for three weeks and a regiment of daily shoulder massages; the latter had been aimed directly at Estinien. She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

Estinien sighed yet again - he was going for a new record, it seemed. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad that we didn’t just go through the front.”

“But they would’ve yelled! We didn’t have any excuse!” She looked up at him, her mouth pulled into a deep frown. “I just didn’t want you- well, I didn’t want either of us to get into trouble!”

“I had an excuse planned. It was the same one we used before, except the back door was locked instead of you dropping a water bucket.” His explanation made Mint gasp.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me? It would’ve been fine!”

“I tried to, but you cut me off. Would you have budged off your plan if I’d said it?”

“Ah-” she looked down again, dejected. “P-probably not. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Estinien moved his hand to rustle her hair. “You can make it up to me with a dinner date when your arms can move.” Before she could reply, the nurse walked back into the room.

“Alright, I’ve informed your parents about your injury, Totomi.” The nurse attempted to hand Mint a paper, realizing that she couldn’t exactly reach up and grab it. Instead, she folded the paper in half, sliding it between the sling straps and her body. “That’s just the treatment on paper, along with some recommended pain killers if anything starts to hurt. I need to deal with Estinien’s back now, so you can go to class.”

Mint nodded, hopping off the bed. “I--” she cut herself off for a moment, thinking, before turning around to face Estinien again. “I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you. And I’ll tell Illya and Kiri all about how cool you were!” She dashed to exit of the room, a loud bonk echoing as her head collided with the sliding door. Right. She had to open it. Dropping her head to hide her face, she spun around and used her back to slide the door open an inch before using her foot to open it fully and close it.

The nurse looked down at Estinien, arms crossed. “She dropped a water bucket, huh?” 

“Yep.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I know.”

[jellyfax]

The Ancient Magus’ Bride Revisited: Yup, It’s Still Bad

There’s something I find wholly unpleasant about the way many fans discuss The Ancient Magus’ Bride. 1) it’s the same few ideas expressed nearly verbatim and 2) it’s very centered on dismissing very troubling trends in narratives that involve toxic, abusive relationships between girls and adult men. Anyway, sit down, have a taco, this spiel might take a while.

It should go without saying that romantic relationships between teenagers and adults are always unhealthy. Ephebophilic/pedophilic relationships really shouldn’t be justified or defended. However, The Ancient Magus’ Bride tries its damnedest to portray the focal relationship as anything but inherently dangerous and as something the audience should avidly support and root for. Despite what some fans claim that the series isn’t necessarily focused on a romantic pairing between Chise and Elias, the narrative does in many ways convey a budding romance with both characters. The images below depict Chise and Elias’ intensely intimate interactions and convey rather overtly romantic overtones, and even sexual undertones at times: 

For the record, I hated putting this together. Just looking at these images make me sick. It’s so fucking gross. A 15/16-year-old girl should never be portrayed like this with a grown man, it’s revolting.

There’s no denying that there is a burgeoning romantic love between Chise and Elias and it’s one that isn’t depicted as abhorrent. Whether or not the characters are themselves aware of the romantic, sexual chemistry between them doesn’t matter because the creator knows and we the audience know better.  

Another excuse often utilized by fans to condone this romance (or at least very dubious relationship) is the idea that Elias is childishly naïve; that he doesn’t really understand that he shouldn’t propose to marry a scared, traumatized teenage girl he just bought, that he doesn’t know it’s inappropriate for him to forcibly disrobe and bathe said girl, that he can’t really control his emotions and actions much like a petulant child, and so on. Firstly, it doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t understand basic human behavior, social constructs, and standards. He’s worked alongside humans for centuries, so his ridiculously selective ignorance only exists for the author to excuse his dangerous behavior toward Chise. In fact, when Angelica rightfully admonishes him for treating Chise poorly, Elias’ reaction indicates he knew what he did was wrong.

Elias just bought a teenage girl as a slave, proposed to her, and forcibly undressed and bathed her. Now, he’s being called a pervert for doing all that! Isn’t human trafficking and child grooming hilarious!! ROFL!!!11!!😂🤣😭🤮

Elias’ feigned naiveté is a clumsy attempt to make him palatable and sympathetic, and while I would like to say it failed it clearly hasn’t. Most viewers and readers are more than willing to infantilize “bonehead” Elias to defend or understate his actions. 

Goddammit! Human Supremacy strikes again!!! Elias said non-human monster rights!!! I am the Wokest of all, you see!!!! 

Despite how little sense it makes in-universe, even if Elias doesn’t understand the implications of proposing to a girl, the creator understands, and the audience understands that Elias x Chise is the endgame. Why else would it be called “The Ancient Magus’ Bride”? Though no matter how hard the creator and fans try to coddle and baby Elias while supporting his forced, noxious relationship with Chise, all I see is a manipulative, possessive man who’s gradually grooming a vulnerable 15-year-old girl into his ideal future bride. Still other fans, while they don’t necessarily infantilize Elias, they treat Elias and Chise as if they’re virtually equals. Nevertheless, despite these fans’ insistence, the pair are not on equal footing in their hazardously dysfunctional relationship. It really doesn’t matter that Chise occasionally scolds Elias and stands up to his abuse, because she has very little control of their relationship (i.e., she’s a child, he bought her, he’s a more experienced magic user, he has an established career, a luxurious home, etc.) and unless she leaves him permanently, her safety will never be guaranteed. Their relationship is too riddled with unsettling power imbalances, stemming mostly from Chise being a child, far too many for them to be even remotely compatible.  

Even if the story had avoided that innate nastiness of child grooming, Elias is still very possessive and manipulative. If ephebophilia/pedophilia weren’t enough of a red flag with him, the writer had to make the slow burn between Elias and Chise even more sickening with Elias’ controlling and domineering tendencies. While fans argue that his behavior is acknowledged as detrimental, as Chise leaves him for some time as a result. However, fans fail to consider how his actions should have ended the relationship, permanently; Chise should never have returned to him. Even when “called out” nothing will ever change the fact that he BOUGHT her and that she is, technically his SLAVE. He didn’t save her from servitude or worse by being a “good” master. It’s despicable that this story tries to make human trafficking and enslavement seem like it’s justifiable. Also, Elias continues to spy on Chise, claim that she is his as if she’s an object, and generally discourages her from engaging with others. He destroyed college admission offers for Chise! He almost killed a child due to his possessiveness of Chise!!! He even seemingly almost eats Chise because of his maniacal jealousy???

Excerpt from Wikipedia episode synopsis: “Chise becomes afraid Elias may be about to eat her and sends a distress signal to Ruth. [...] Chise realises Elias is jealous of Stella and having a childish temper tantrum.” This fucker physically assaults her, but sure it’s just “a childish temper tantrum,” because he’s a violent man-baby who can’t control himself. Fuck this godforsaken pile of shit.  

These actions can’t be forgiven or dismissed like a partner who tends to forget anniversaries, is a bit of a braggart and know-it-all, borrows clothes without asking or some other minor flaw. No, these are HUGE red flags that read “GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN.” Not only is he controlling, but he also claims to not be able to control his most primal and destructive urges if he doesn’t get what he wants. There are predatory people who act exactly like Elias. Abusive people who claim that they can’t control their fits of anger that result in physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. These abusers’ behavior can’t be “fixed” by those they abuse; it shouldn’t be Chise’s responsibility to repair a broken, troubled yet extremely dangerous man who wants to wife her up. This isn’t some obstacle to be overcome by the pair, it’s a clear reason for Chise to remove him from her life. The best outcome for Chise would be to get away from an absolute menace like Elias. Plain and simple. Though of course that’s obviously not going to happen, because it is a wretched nightmare of a story. 

I know I’m not the first person to express all these ideas about The Ancient Magus’ Bride, and I know I won’t be the last. It’s just that direct rebuttals to typical fan assertions are lacking whenever critics of the series take issue with its flaws regarding the main characters and their interactions. Anyway, this was my take on the most common defenses of Elias Ainsworth and his reprehensible relationship with Chise Hatori which is so central to the plot of the series. Now pardon me while I... 

[canid-slashclaw]

The Outliers - A Guildwars Love Story

Chapter 5

Four months had past since Kaleb's introduction into the Seraph guard. During that time, both he and his best friend Brad had distinguished themselves as fine, albeit troublesome, soldiers.  Cynthia Waterstone who had been their mutual friend, commanding sergeant and (occasionally) Brad's lover, had helped the two young men excel in many facets of their military life. 

Training as a warrior, Kaleb had become renown for his use of the broadsword as well as the use of short-range pistols.  Brad, meanwhile, excelled at using the long bow, and as a ranger, he could also do petty well with axes.  

The trio was stationed at a Lionguard base known as Kessex Haven that was located in the Kessex Hills region.  Throughout their brief duration at the base, they had all seen plenty of combat; especially against the centaurs.   Kaleb was busy affixing a piece of armor to his damaged pauldron when Sergeant Waterstone stepped in front of him.  

"Ten hut!"

"Ma’am!  I mean, sir!" Kaleb stood up as he saluted his commanding officer. 

"At ease, private.  How goes the repairs?"

"Armor cracked after receiving a blow from a centaur’s javelin.  It’s all better now," Kaleb said as he showed her the now-repaired piece. 

"Not a bad piece of work there, private.  Even if I do say so myself." Cynthia saluted him then turned away.

"Thank you, sir.  But I have a question..."

"Go ahead and ask." "Rumor has been floating that Seraph are prepping for a major assault on Earthworks Bluff.  Is there any truth to this?"  Kaleb asked as he refastened the repaired pauldron onto his armor.

"Officially, you are on a need-to-know basis.  And right now, officially, you don’t need to know," Sergeant Waterstone replied. 

"Then what about the antithesis of official?" "Unofficially? We may be setting up for a major assault upon the centaur main base. The reason being, our supply lines keep getting disrupted and all roads leading into our fort have become too hazardous for many merchants to travel," Cynthia said with a hint of resignation in her voice. 

"So what you're saying is we are being strangulated."

"Yup, that's what's happening. Unless we find a way of neutralizing their main base of operations, our supply lines will continue to be disrupted to the point merchants will be too afraid to replenish our stores.  The Lionguard are stretched thin as it is and they can only do so much to protect the roads.  The rest is up to us, unfortunately."

Brad located his friends among the throng of gray armor-clad soldiers. As their gazes met, he slung his sturdy long bow over his left shoulder and began to give them a hearty wave.   "Come join the party, corporal.  Three's company is good company as my father used to say," Cynthia shouted as she beckoned for him to come over.

"Any luck scoring a few hits on some apples?"  Kaleb asked as he shook the hand of his lifelong friend.

"One taur got it through the eye socket.  Arrow didn't pierce that thick skull of his, but that beast did run off in full gallop bleating like a castrated bull," Brad said with a laugh.

"Ouch. That must bite for them being unable to wipe their own bottoms.  I mean, what would happen if one of them got shot in the ass and no one was there to pull the arrow out?"  Kaleb mused as he made a mock gesture of firing a bow.   "Only you would think of something like that, Kal."  Cynthia quipped. "Just considering sound military strategy, ma'am... I mean, sir." Shortly thereafter, the platoon captain arrived and announced the official plan in preparing for the assault.  He mentioned that food stores were in dire shortage and that the only feasible supply route was via a nearby lake port town called Triskell Quay. 

Captain Errol Conrad stood in front of his troops to address them.   "Each of you may have heard rumors regarding the assault upon the Earthworks Bluff.  I am here to confirm that those rumors are, in fact, true.  Before the next sunrise tomorrow, our forces will be marshaled at the foothills of the centaur base."

The captain gazed across the rows of armor-clad troops as he continued his speech.  "It is also true that our food stores are running dangerously low.  We are in desperate need of grain and protein staples.  About twenty miles from our base, lies at the lakeport town of Triskell Quay.  Information from the locals indicates that there are a couple of meat supply stores located somewhere within the town."

"Currently, our garrison has only one serviceable supply carriage.  All of the others have either been damaged or destroyed.  Henceforth, what I am calling upon is for at least one qualified volunteer to commandeer said carriage, ride into town and requisition the necessary supplies."

Without hesitation, Kaleb shouted.  "Then I'm you're man, sir."

"Say your name, private."

"Private Kaleb Grimwald, first infantry, sir.  I'm a wagon maker by trade and can probably lift and carry more stuff in a shorter amount of time than just about any man, or woman, here."

"I can vouch for him, sir," Sergeant Cynthia Waterstone shouted as she saluted the captain. 

"Me too," chimed Brad. 

Shortly thereafter, several other soldiers vouched for Kaleb's abilities as well. 

"Congratulations, private.  It looks like you've been volunteered."

"Thank you, captain. All I need is a sturdy dolyak and a trusted comrade to tag along."

Brad whistled.  "That's me! Sir!"

Several of the Seraph soldiers helped Kaleb hitch the dolyak onto the transport wagon.  His friend, Brad, made sure everything was secured properly before climbing onto the riding bench. 

Kaleb made some last minute checks to see if the wagon's structural integrity was secure.  Captain Connor approached then beckoned for the two men to come. 

"A brief word, private, corporeal.  I didn't want to announce this to the rest of the troops, but there's something else you and your comrade should know."

"What would that be, sir?"  Brad asked curiously.

"Just so the two of you are aware - the only meat suppliers in town who have the capability of providing enough stock for our troops are, shall we say, not human."

"Well, if they are norns then loading up a ton of meat will be a breeze," Kaleb said with a smile.

"That makes two problems, private.  First - the owner is disabled.  Second - both he and his offspring are charrs." 

The news hit Kaleb and Brad like a load of bricks. 

"Charr?! Why would their kind be living in a mostly human settlement?" Brad said in a disgusted tone. 

"Dunno.  Perhaps they are taking advantage of the peace treaty to expand their business.  Either way, I don't want this information to become common knowledge.  Is that clear?"

Both man said to their captain in unison.  "Yessir!"

The captain gave a quick salute.  "Good luck you two." 

Kaleb then turned to Captain Connor and asked.  "Sir?  You mentioned about one of them being disabled.  What about the other one?  Are they able to do anything?"

"The other one is about your size - small by charr standards.  And rumor has it that it - can't tell if its a male or female as they all look alike to me - mostly sits up in their room doing whatever it is that charr do.  In other words, I wouldn't hold your breath on expecting any help from either of them.  The both of you are on your own.  Now, dismissed!”

With a final salute, the two lifelong friends headed out from the base as they began their journey towards the small fishing village. 

***

The air that permeated Triskell Quay was rife with the odor of dead fish that emanated from the boat docks.  Kaleb's nostrils had not yet acclimated to the pungent scent that was typical of all waterside communities.  As the two men entered the outskirts of town, they noticed a couple of pedestrians walking by.  Not being of shy disposition, Kaleb immediately took it upon himself to ask for directions. 

"Excuse me.  But where can I find a meat marked that's run by a couple of charr?"

"I dunno why fellas like you would be lookin' fer um, but they's place is just up the road a couple of miles due west.  Look for the sign that says Blazeridge Butcher Shop & Marketplace. And if ye can't find it, just follow yer nose till ya gets a whiff of something that smells like a cross between dead cows and a smeltin' factory."

Kaleb and Brad thanked the gentleman for providing the directions then proceeded to follow the instructions they were given.  When they rounded the west corner, Kaleb could detect the unmistakable smell of burning coal along with the faint stench of ripe meat.

"Holy Balthazar!  Are charr really this nasty?  The cistern in my uncle’s backyard smells better than this place!"  Brad commented as he winced up his nose at the pungent aroma. 

"You are naive, bro.  All slaughterhouses have about the same foul aroma.  As a matter of fact, this one smells rather pleasant compared to some of the places I've been to," Kaleb replied as he slowed the cart to a complete stop just before exiting from the right side of the seat.

"Are you comin in too?"

"Nah. I'll wait outside here and guard the cart.  Besides, you’re better at the PR thing than me," Brad said with a wave.

"You just don't like charr, that's all."

Brad laughed. "Nah.  I think every human should have a right to skin one."

Kaleb looked up and saw the sign that read - Blazeridge Butcher Shop & Marketplace. When he walked in, much to his surprise, his nose was greeted with a symphony of exotic herbs and spices.  Once the door closed behind him, a high-pitched whistle sounded for a split second. 

It must be a charr version of a doorbell, he thought as he walked towards butcher counter. 

Within moments, a massive feline-looking creature greeted him.  It had horns jutting out from either side of its head just above its eyes and its face was caged with rows of menacing dagger-like teeth.  The large paw-like hands sported massive claws and its fur was a tiger stripe pattern of umber and dark orange strip patterns.

"Something I can help you with?"  Came the creature's deep and almost thundering voice. 

Kaleb promptly saluted him then pulled out a series of documents from under his breastplate.  "Private Grimwald of the Thirty-First Seraph Platoon, sir.  I am here on behalf of the Queen's army to requisition a supply of protein products from your establishment, sir."

Ludrick grumbled for a moment then promptly snatched the paperwork from the jaded human's hand.  He quickly looked over the documents while muttering a string of incoherent words to himself. 

"Everything seems in order.  But what makes the Queen assume that we even have enough product to supply an army of your size?  Look around you, human.  I sell to the locals.  My supply chain doesn't accommodate masses of marching mice," the charr grumbled as he handed back the paperwork. 

"Well.  I'll remember to say that the next time I'm enjoying a few brews with my friends.  Just repeat after me - masses of marching mice.  Masses of marching mice.  Masses of marching..."

"Gah!  It's got to be something in the air around this village.  It seems to make everyone around here behave like obnoxious morons."

Kaleb bit his tongue.  "Oh.  Sorry Mr. Charr, sir. The heat has made me a bit loopy.  Plus I've never met one of your kind before.  I just tend to say stupid things when I'm nervous."

"The best thing you can say to me right now, human, is 'what can I buy' or 'I'll take x amount of product y'.  If those aren't the two phrases coming out of your mouth then I suggest you get out of my shop."

"Hey.  I'm just here on the Queen's orders.  No need to bite the head off the messenger, kind sir.  But I had heard things through the asura gate that yours is the best meat supply market around.  My soldiers are in need of food badly and what better way of fostering a sense of good will between our people than to make a noble contribution to mutual corporation," Kaleb said with a smile. 

"You're damn right.  Mine is the best market around!  Now, are you going to reciprocate that 'good will' and buy something from me today?  Look around you, it will take days for me to carve up enough cattle to supply your damn army." Ludrick looked away for a moment before glancing back at the rather bulky-looking human.  

"Well, if you must insist.  I would very much be interested in those briskets over there.  But first - I would very much like to inquire about those oh-so savory spices I've been smelling since I walked through the door."

"Not my expertise.  But hold on..."

"Amalthia!  Customer interested in the spices."

Kaleb stepped back for a moment trying to locate the origin of the fragrant aromas.  As he walked towards the nook of spices on display, he heard an echo of footsteps coming down the spiral staircase.   He turned his head to see a slender charr not much bigger than him, padding gracefully down the bare metal steps.

Her pelt had an orange yellow hue and her markings were of a tiger-striped pattern as well.  Four horns framed her amber-eyed face.  The two bigger horns extended from the mid-ridge of her skull and tapered off into elegant points while and two smaller ones jutted back along the length of her cheekbones. 

The young man deduced right away that this charr was, in fact, a female.  He had done enough history lessons to easily recognize the distinction between the two sexes. 

"How may I help you?" She asked in a slightly deep, but otherwise noticeably feminine voice. 

"Those spices other there caught my eye the moment I smelt them," Kaleb said in a strangely sheepish tone. 

"Hmm.  That's something the legions never told us about when we were at war with your people."

"What's that?  If I may be so bold as to ask."

"Bold you are, then.  For your people seem to become unhinged and stutter about like adolescent cubs whenever you meet one of us for the first time," Amalthia commented as she walked over towards the spice nook and pulled out a tray of some dried herbs. 

"Well, I told your dad...."

"Sire."  She corrected him.

"Excuse me.  Ahem... 'sire', that it was my first time meeting your kind..."

"A fact that I already stated to you.  Did you even listen to what I said just thirty seconds ago?"

"And do you, have a habit of always interrupting your customers before they had a chance to finish their sentences?"  Kaleb quipped.

"You just did and I did not.  At least that time," Amalthia retorted.

"What did I not do to you the thing you said I was supposed to have done?  You lost me there."

"I think you are only confusing yourself further.  What kind of spice would you be interested in?"  Amalthia grumbled.

"No. You are the one who is trying to confuse me. I'll take the Siverpeak bay leaves and the Ascelon sagebrush stalks."

Amalthia plucked the chosen spices from their respective boxes then proceeded to individually wrap them with some tissue paper.  As she moved, Kaleb couldn't help but study her form.  He had never seen a charr up close let alone a female one.

She immediately glanced in his direction.  "Is there something else you want?  You can't seem to take your eyes off me."

By now, Kaleb was visibly blushing.  He rarely felt embarrassed about anything, but yet there was something about this charr that he was drawn to, something he couldn't quite explain.

"You have twice as many ears as I do, yet you only seem to possess half the cognition.  Didn't we make it clear earlier that when I get nervous I tend to say and do crazy, stupid things?"

"I think you must have been talking to the wrong charr.  Or is it because you think that all of our kind seem to look alike... hmm?"  Amalthia chided as she carried the packaged contents to the register. 

Moments later, Brad popped his head through the door.  "Hey, bro.  What the hell is taking ya so long?  Don't you realize we have a mission to complete?"

"Hold your dolyaks, Brad.  I'm in the process of delicate inter-species negotiations.  I'll be there once I iron out a few things."

Ludrick looked at Amalthia then Kaleb.  "Still going to purchase that brisket?"

"How will I be able to get it to my base before it turns rancid?"

Amalthia reached over one of the counters then pulled out a small jar of rubbing salt.  "By using this.  Don't worry, it won't leave an aftertaste like so many other salts do."

After the meat was treated and wrapped, Amalthia handed him the salted brisket as she rang up the final sale. 

"Thirty silver even."

"Thanks for the stuff.  And thank you, Amalthia, for being such an interesting... person.  See ya later," Kaleb smiled as he turned to head out.

"Two rules to follow the next time you come here.  First - we are not on a first-name basis.  Second - I'm not a person... like you.  Got it?" Amalthia said as she gave the impetuous human a clawed thumbs up.

Kaleb gave a wink and a thumbs up in response.  "Forever and always."

Brad looked over as Kaleb stepped out from the shop door.  "Here ye, here ye - to all citizens of Kryta. Today the esteemed Kaleb Grimwald has single-handedly started an entire new round of negotiations with the charr.  From now on humans and charr shall rub salts together and sate each others' hungers with copious amounts of meat."

"Hey.  Don't knock it bud!  It was a classified operation.  Somebody somewhere's gotta take the first step toward world peace.  Am I right?"

"If you say so, bro.  If you say so..."

[seeaddywrite]

6. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.” animal kingdom with deran x adrian plz!

this is probably not what you wanted, & far longer than anyone expected, but! here it is! haha. Thanks for the prompt! :) aaand this is my first fic with these guys after binging the entire series last week, so if i’m way off-base, let me know!

Adrian Dolan was born with an honest face and a charming smile, and thanks to his family’s association with Janine ‘Smurf’ Cody, he learned how to put them to use at a young age. The babysitters his mom hired before she took off always raved about how cute and well-behaved he was, never noticing the stash of cookies and toys he’d collected and stored beneath his bed. He remembers beaming toothily at the older lady who owned the corner market as he walked out of her store with pockets full of stolen candy, and the way she only chuckled and told the customer she was checking out what a great kid he was.

Adrian also remembers, vaguely, grinning up at a uniformed officer from the heat-baked sidewalk outside his family’s shitty apartment in Oceanside while his father jumped out the back window and ran for his freedom – remembers how the officer had blinked and held out a hand for Adrian’s, and called after him when the ten-year-old boy ran instead of accepting the offer. He’d gone straight to Smurf’s, of course. It’d been drilled into his head at an age far younger than ten that when Dad needed to lay low, he went to the Cody house and trusted the people there to protect him.

As a teenager, Adrian used his honest face to stand lookout for Deran and Craig more times than he could remember. Those memories are a blur of questions and frowning officers, of sun in his eyes and adrenaline flooding his system until it felt like his heart would pound out of his chest. He remembers Deran dragging him into an alley and kissing him senseless after they got away with stealing a sports car on fucking camera, and the way Deran whispered over and over again how incredible Adrian was into his skin while they had sex for the first time just ten feet from the police station where they were questioned.

He got older, and he got more independent. Adrian turned surfing into a career for himself, used the natural talent his father had encouraged and made himself something on the circuit. The Codys remained part of his life, Deran more than anyone – and Adrian knows that he was a damned idiot, letting them impact his entire life in such a way. Renting from Smurf, taking off with Deran, letting himself get beaten and terrorized and treated like shit in the name of staying with the one man he’d ever loved. But even through all of that, Adrian kept coming back, kept leaning on Deran and his reputation when he had to in order to keep himself safe from the thugs in Oceanside who knew exactly where Adrian came from.

After all that, it’s no wonder keeping secrets from Deran is so fucking hard, now that they’re in a good place and living the life Adrian’s always wanted together. They share space and breath and secrets, and keeping the fact that he’s working with the DEA from the man he loves is a lot like trying to digest acid. From the outside, no one can tell – but inwardly, Adrian’s being eaten alive. He can lie with the best of them, and switches through masks and cons as needed, but it’s never been that way with Deran.

Adrian’s always prided himself on being the only person in the other man’s life that gives everything to him straight, no bullshit, and trusts that he’ll be okay anyway. This drastic change in their dynamic makes everything seem off-balance and wrong, and Adrian knows that Deran feels it, too. He’s asked, point blank, what’s going on with Adrian, and the fact that even Craig is asking questions tells him that his house of cards is going to come tumbling down in a spectacular way at any moment.

So, in a way, it’s not surprising when Deran awakens with a jolt in the middle of the night to find a stranger in a ski mask pointing a gun at him. He swallows, the sound audible in the otherwise silent milieu of the bedroom he shares with Deran, and takes a precious second of the mere moments he’s got left to thank whatever God might be listening that the other man is gone tonight, working a job with his brothers in Santa Monica.

“Get dressed,” the man tells him, his voice a low, menacing rumble that starts Adrian’s heart pounding at doubletime. He feels light-headed with panic, can barely suck enough air through his mouth to inflate his lungs as the barrel of the gun is waved nearer his head, but Adrian follows the order, moving mechanically as he yanks a pair of too-long jeans over his legs. They’re Deran’s, he realizes belatedly, but it’s too late to change now – and there’s something poetic about the idea of dying in his lover’s clothes. Like they’re connected, somehow, even when that’s the last thing Adrian should want. Deran can’t be connected to anyone’s murder, not even Adrian’s, not without serious consequences.

“Down the stairs, out the door, and into the car,” Adrian’s abductor orders, his thin lips moving in the slit of the ski mask. Adrian nods once, silent, and begins to move – only to freeze when something cold and solid meets one of his kidneys. “You pissed off the wrong guys, kid. All we asked you to do was carry a fucking bag. How hard is that?”

Adrian doesn’t answer. What would he say? That it’d been harder than he expected? That it wasn’t his fault? None of that is true, and Adrian doesn’t want to make himself a liar this close to the end, just in case all those sermons his mom had dragged him to as a kid weren’t bullshit. Besides, he’d known when he accepted the smuggling gig that it could backfire on him – smuggling drugs was stupid, especially with no real plan or forethought. But the money, the need to feel on equal footing with Deran, was a siren’s call, and he’d succumbed. But Adrian had grown up as an honorary Cody, and so he knows better than anyone that life’s short as the weakest link… and even shorter as a rat.

He doesn’t know why they’re bothering to take him somewhere else to kill him. Maybe they know who Deran is and don’t want to risk being connected to a murder in his house, or maybe they want to torture him first, in retaliation for the information he’s given the Feds. It doesn’t matter; Adrian’s not brave enough to tell them ‘no,’ to make them shoot him here, and even if he was, he wouldn’t. Not when that would mean Deran coming home to his corpse. Adrian might be naive in thinking it would affect him to find that – if he had to guess, Adrian would hazard that Deran’s seen dead bodies before. But they’re together, have been for such a long time … surely it would matter? He’s not stupid enough to think Deran loves him – he’s pretty sure Deran doesn’t know how to love, not really. Not with his family. But he has to mean something to the man, or he wouldn’t be sharing his bed and home with him. 

“Miguel! Sabes quien es el dueño de esta casa?”

Adrian frowns, the presence of a second person surprising him. The other man is somewhere beyond the bedroom – the kitchen, maybe? – and sounds alarmed, but that’s all he can tell with his rudimentary Spanish skills. “Callate! Just go start the car!” Miguel calls back, the volume and proximity making Adrian’s ears ring. He’s shoved forward, out into the kitchen, where the second masked man is staring down at the bills strewn over the counter, waiting on J to help Deran with his budgeting. The bills. With Deran Cody’s name on them. 

Hope sparks in Adrian’s chest, desperate and impossible to ignore. Maybe these guys didn’t know who owned this house – and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to convince them not to kill him. The Cody name is infamous in Oceanside, after all, and Adrian knows Deran would be obligated to retaliate against a home invasion even if he didn’t give a shit about Adrian, which isn’t the case. 

“What’s the matter?” Adrian asks, hoping the tremulous quality of his voice will be mistaken for breathlessness after being forced to move so quickly. “Didn’t realize you were fucking with one of the Cody’s people?” Smurf didn’t have a lot of morals – or any, actually – but she did take care of the people in her properties, and always had. It’s self-serving, ultimately, since it’s how she maintains loyalty and her position on top of the criminal underbelly of the city, but it’s still true. And all of the people who run in her circles know it. “Didn’t notice you were dragging me out of Deran’s bed?” 

The man hauls back and strikes him in the side with the butt of the gun, and pain erupts in the wake of the hit, but Adrian doesn’t cry out. He’s been hit before, plenty of times, and his captor isn’t nearly as strong as some of the guys who have taken issue with the way he lives his life. Adrian stares, trying to imagine what Deran would do or say in this situation – but comes up empty. Deran would never be stupid enough to get into this situation in the first place, and there’s no good in pretending otherwise. Adrian isn’t Deran. He’s not nearly as good at brute force and intimidation, and if he tries to be, it might get him killed that much faster. 

“I wonder what he’ll do to you,” Adrian muses, once he’s gotten his breath back. “He and Craig are pretty tight, and I know he likes to use his bare fists, but Deran’s pretty smooth with a baseball bat. And God, you should see him with a gun in his hands. It shouldn’t be hot, I know, but –”

This time, his captor uses his fist, and he might be a little stronger than Adrian thought. His eye swells almost immediately, and the way his chest throbs with every breath he takes tells him that he’s probably got a busted rib now, too. As Adrian recovers, slumped against the kitchen wall with blood trickling from his busted nose and two guns trained on him, the men toss rapid Spanish back and forth, the anxiety in their body language escalating quickly before they both relax. They’ve got a plan, then – Adrian lets his eyes drift closed and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in for a quick death.

                                                                   ********

The room they tie him up in is small – Adrian would guess it’s a closet, except for the narrow window to his left and up near the ceiling. His hands are bound behind the chair with twine that digs into the skin of his wrists, and if he moves too much, blood starts to pool, warm and sticky, in his palms. His ankles are likewise bound, one to each leg of the wooden chair he sits in, and there’s no way out of that, not for him. 

He’s there for what must be hours; it’s hard to track time in the tiny room, and he’s pretty sure he fades in and out of consciousness a few times, because the light through the window seems different every time he remembers to look for it. He wonders why he’s still alive, from time to time – they’ve kidnapped him, there’s no point in keeping him alive. Deran and his family will come for them either way, and at least they’d only have to hide from the Codys if they fulfilled their obligation to the gang who’d sent them in the first place. 

At some point, Miguel charges into the small room, mask still in place, and shoves a cell phone to his face. Adrian blinks, trying to figure out what’s going on, but Deran’s voice is tinny and familiar in his ear, and that’s all he needs to know. 

“Adrian? Adrian! Are you there?” 

He clears his throat, trying to ignore the embarrassing lump building there at just the sound of Deran’s familiar fury. “Hey,” he says, and finds his voice hoarse. “I’m – yeah, I’m here.” He doesn’t know what to say, or why they’re allowing him to talk to Deran, but he’s not stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I messed up, Deran,” he manages finally, his breath turning ragged. “Fuck, I messed up so bad, and -” 

“Where are you?” Deran cuts him off, the words harsh and implacable. He’s in work mode, now; Adrian can tell it by his tone even without seeing the cold, thoughtful expression on his face. “Tell me where you are, and we’ll come get you.” The royal ‘we’ where the Codys are concerned isn’t surprising, but the rush of relief that Adrian feels to know they’re all involved is. He’s never known the Cody’s to fail in their end goal when they’re all working together, and if they’re all coming to get him – well, he might live through the night after all. 

“I don’t know,” Adrian says, the words a croak in his sore throat. Fuck, how long has it been since he’s had something to drink? “I don’t know, Deran, I -” 

“Adrian, listen to me.” Again, Deran interrupts, stopping him from an embarrassing emotional display. Miguel is listening, watching him with beady black eyes through his ski mask, leaning in close enough to hold the phone that Adrian can smell the beer on his breath, and Adrian doesn’t want to break down in front of him. “I’m coming to get you. Everything’s gonna be fine – but you gotta keep your head, all right? This is just one giant, scary fucking wave trying to drown you, but you always come out on top, right? Breathe. Trust me – I got this, okay? I got you. Always. So tell me you’re with me, and get the jackass back on the phone. I’ll get a location from him.” 

I got you.

The words are the closest Deran’s gotten to ‘I love you,’ at least in the sense that Adrian understands love. Deran’s begged him to stay with him, tried to manipulate him with tears and begging, but this is something different – this is an exchange of trust. This is Deran, coming for Adrian when he’s fucked up and put them all in danger. This is Deran being reassuring and supportive, and Adrian is so overcome that he barely manages a coherent response. 

“I trust you,” he says, because he’s not saying anything else with Miguel’s rancid breath in his face. He’ll save those words for later, when he can be sure, when he can look in Deran’s eyes and see the truth there, when he’s come clean and knows that Deran can accept the shit he’s done. 

Because his words are true. Adrian trusts Deran, and because he does, he knows he has time to wait for the perfect moment. 

                                                                  *******

Adrian makes an effort to stay aware after Miguel disappears with the phone, already arranging a dollar amount and a meeting time for the exchange to happen. He sounds smug, like he really thinks this has all worked out in his favor - and hell, maybe it has. Adrian has no idea what’s going to happen next, if this will be the end of his association with the smugglers or not, but he can’t think about the future just yet. He’s stuck on the lack of circulation in his hands, on the ache in his side – and on the fact that Deran is going to see it all when he shows up, and he’s damned sure to have questions. There’s no way Adrian will be able to hide the fact that he’s been talking to the Feds, now, and – 

All panicked thoughts flee as soon as the fighting starts outside. Adrian would’ve had to have been deaf to miss the thuds and clatters, the smack of fist on skin. He recognizes Craig’s laugh and Pope’s irritated reminder to watch his fucking back– god, that guy enjoyed brawling way more than could possibly be healthy. J is as quiet as always, but Adrian catches him telling someone to, “Go get him, dumbass!” in a particularly exasperated voice. 

And then Deran is there, illuminated in the suddenly-opened doorway. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, the kind that bougie idiots wear under suit jackets, and it’s torn in a couple of places and spattered in brown-red stains that Adrian hopes very much belongs to someone else, but his black slacks and shoes are unmarked, which either means he wasn’t involved in much of the fight, or that it was a fairly easy one. 

“Deran,” Adrian breathes, raising his battered face to get a better look at the other man, who seems to be frozen in the doorway. “Is it – is everyone –” 

Finally, like the sound of Adrian’s voice had broken whatever spell was keeping him frozen, Deran surges forward and drops to a crouch at his side. Adrian moves his head to look at him, taking in the way his hair has fallen out of the attempted ponytail and the sweat dripping from his brow even as Deran slices through the twine binding his wrists with a knife he’d pulled from the back of his waistband. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and Adrian wonders what his wrists look like to evoke a reaction. Judging by the fact that he can’t feel his fingers, he decides he doesn’t want to know. His ankles are freed next, but Adrian doesn’t notice – the silence from Deran is starting to freak him out, and he’s already pretty fucking shaky. Would it be too much to ask for a little reassurance? Or a kiss – or even just a fucking touch?

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What hurts?” Deran’s standing over him, and it takes a moment to register that there’s a tear making its way down Adrian’s cheek. Fucking damn it. “Adrian, talk to me, man, what’s -” 

Adrian shakes his head, because he’s not admitting that he’s crying because Deran’s acting coldly toward him – but he’s not willing to lie, either, not when lies are what got him into this mess in the first place. 

There’s a quiet moment, broken only by the sound of someone begging in the living room for someone else to stop – Pope, if the sound of Craig’s reminders not to kill anyone are any indication – and then, finally, Deran cups Adrian’s chin in one calloused palm, making him look up with care. After an instant of shock at the contact, Adrian pushes his cheek into the touch, noting with some incredulity that Deran’s hand is shaking. 

“I need you to tell me that you’re ok, man,” he says, and Adrian’s brows lift at the urgency in the statement. “I need to tell me that you’re okay, and I need you to mean it, because if you’re not, I’m going back out there to kill those motherfuckers.” There’s a dark sincerity to the words, and though Adrian knows Deran is not a killer by nature, he will follow through on that promise if Adrian gives him a reason to. It’s a heady sort of power, and Adrian has no idea what to do with it. As much as he wants this problem to disappear, those guys are grunts – they’re not the real problem, and really, they’re just stupid. Killing them won’t help anything. It won’t make Adrian sleep better at night. 

But it settles him a little, to know that Deran means it. That might make him a sadistic son of a bitch, but Adrian doesn’t care. Acts of violence and stacks of cash are the best ways that Deran – and his entire fucking family, really – know how to show affection, and Adrian is fluent in the Cody language. 

“I’m okay,” Adrian says, and he leans forward, into Deran’s chest to press a clumsy kiss against the side of his neck. Blood smears over his white shirt, but Deran just wraps an arm around him and holds Adrian there, gently enough that his ribs don’t protest, and tightly enough that his need for skin-to-skin is almost satisfied. The itch won’t go away until he’s had the chance to get rid of the stupid shirt Deran’s wearing, but it’s enough for now, when the rest of the Cody brothers are in the other room. “Don’t kill them. It’s not really them that’s the problem.” 

Deran pushes sweat-lank hair from Adrian’s forehead with one hand. “This have to do with whatever’s had you acting so weird, lately?” 

Adrian nods reluctantly. “I fucked up,” he admits, biting at his lower lip until he remembers that his face aches, and more movement is not the way to help it. “I needed money, and I hate taking yours, so I –”

“Not tonight,” Deran says with a weary sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. Adrian can read the frustration in the tension of his back and the roughness of the gesture, but when he helps Adrian to his feet, his touch is careful. “Let’s just get you to Mexico. We’ve got a doc there who can fix you up, and we’ll – go from there.” 

They’re two steps from the door to the closet when Deran stops abruptly and pulls Adrian in against his chest. The latter winces as his ribs protest, but he’s happy to accept the searing kiss that he’s given. His fingers are still numb, but he wraps his arms around Deran anyway, clinging to his solid strength and familiarity as the world shifts and rocks around him. He’s never been part of the criminal part of Deran’s life before. He’s heard the plans, he’s been an alibi – but this, this is different, and he knows that there’s no going back. His surfing career is over. There’s no fallback plan, no way out, but it’s hard to panic when Deran’s mouth is hot against his own, almost bruising in the intensity of the kiss. 

Deran’s not walking away. Deran came for him. 

And Adrian’s damn well going to show up for him in return. So he holds him as best he can, shows him that he’s alive, that his heart is still beating, until they’re both ready to leave that room and face the music. 

[voicesfromthelight]

The Story of “Abuela,” Simon, and Millicent: On Astral Party-Crashers (and How to Avoid Them)

Today, to celebrate the Halloween/Samhain season, I’d like to explore the somewhat spooky phenomenon of astral party-crashers.

Astral party-crashers are spiritual entities that sometimes pop up in mediumistic settings - or in your home! - who have no readily apparent association with any individual in the room, but are drawn to present themselves out of curiosity, benevolence, boredom, or, in some cases, energetic hunger stemming from unresolved issues that keep them hovering close to the physical plane.  Luckily, the intrusions of astral party-crashers have been fairly infrequent in my personal experience. However, when I have encountered them, the evidence has been strong enough in terms of physical manifestations of synchronicities, etc., that I think it’s important for students of mediumship to know that they exist, and plan for them without apprehension.

Much of the work of a competent medium consists of understanding how to attune oneself to the spirit world, and receive accurate, verifiable information from it. However, far from being one uniform field, the “other side” is a multifaceted realm: a spectrum of different frequencies. Different types of entities dwell in different “layers” of the spiritual plane, of varying densities, much like different colours of light occupy different ranges on a spectrum of wavelengths. Accordingly, the emotional, spiritual, physical and energetic qualities of a medium determine which frequencies they are able to attune themselves to most easily. This is why Lorna Byrne speaks to angels, Jessyka Winston works with her Lwa, Tyler Henry passes messages between people and their dead loved ones, and I communicate most easily with Salvador, Natalie and my other guides, who dwell in a layer of the spirit realm somewhat higher in frequency than the astral. The reason I refer specifically to astral party-crashers when talking of this subject, is that the entities in question will usually pop up because they dwell in the frequency band commonly known as the astral realm, which is closest in density to that of the physical plane. This doesn’t necessarily mean that they are the types of ghosts who would cause physical hauntings, but I do find that they seem to have an easy time firing off synchronicities that manifest in the physical realm. Although they are usually harmless, and easy to miss altogether if one is not psychically open, if you find yourself frequently bumping into astral party-crashers, it may be an indication that your baseline energy level and psychic protection measures could use a boost.

The first time I bumped into an astral party-crasher was a bit over a year ago. The incident started on the same day I spoke about in my piece on clairaudience, during a time when my mediumistic ability was going through a bit of a spike. I had been working on a film set in Harlem that day, and took the opportunity of being in a neighborhood with a large Latino population to visit a local botánica. Salvador and Natalie are quite protective of me, and have more than once shooed me away from dabbling in working with any spirits outside of my circle of personal guides. However, I was curious to see the place, and wanted to buy a candle.

The botánica was a large space, with hundreds of different candles of all colours to choose from, soperas, and a plethora of pre-packaged oils and incenses for every magical purpose, stacked on shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. The energy there felt a little scattered to me, but not uncomfortable. I chose a candle for myself, and went home happy with my purchase.

The next day, as I was tuning into a channeling session, an unfamiliar spirit popped up and greeted me. In Spanish. Which I barely speak. 

“¡Hola, Emily!” 

Somewhat taken aback, I asked whom I had the pleasure of speaking with. “Soy Abuela,” she replied. (“I am Grandmother.”) She then switched to English, and went on to give me specific instructions on how to burn my candle for best magical results, and which herbs would work best with it. (Damiana and vetiver, on an alternating basis, she said.)

My psychic protection practices always include specifying whom I wish to communicate with before my channeling sessions, so when “Abuela” declared her presence, I was a little suspicious, but also, I admit, somewhat intrigued. If she was who she claimed to be, it seemed someone’s magically savvy grandmother had followed me home from the botánica, wanting to teach me her craft. I wasn’t so sure it was something I should be getting involved in, but appreciated her attention. I thanked her for visiting me, and said goodbye.

Abuela turned up again intermittently in my sessions over the next couple of weeks, and I remained somewhat wary of her. Salvador told me that she was harmless, but there were other incidents not directly associated with her - not all of them pleasant - that had me a bit on edge. My energy around this time was running low due to working very long hours on film shoots, and once in a while, I would notice astral level spirits that needed to be crossed over tagging along with me from my excursions out into the city, or otherwise subtly tugging at my spiritual sleeve. A woman from a small Finnish village I had never heard of before wanted me to warn her relative about a fire hazard, giving me her full name and place of residence. A gay man from a few states over wanted me to take a message to his husband. After sending them home, I would usually end up googling their obituaries, and try to find clues as to how to address their various requests. I attempted to make the most of it and gather at least some kind of mediumistic evidence. However, I knew in my heart that working outside of designated “office hours,” and being vulnerable to astral interference, was neither smart nor sustainable.

Because of these incidents, I began working long-distance with a shamanic healer and psychic named Joy. Joy, who specializes in working with other practitioners, was helping me tune up my psychic self-care and patch up my energy field to stop uninvited energies from seeping in.

At the end of my first phone session with Joy, I described some of the latest incidents of tag-alongs I had been experiencing. I mentioned my encounters with Abuela. Joy said that it was probably fine, but if she hung around much longer, it might be a good idea to ask her if she needed some help to move on.

Right after we ended our call, I decided to check my Instagram account to wind down from the session. As I opened up the app, through a slip of my hand, I unintentionally ended up on a feed that was not my own - which is something I rarely explore. And there, one of the very first posts that popped up was not a photograph, but one that only showed a screen capture of this text, in bold letters:

“¡SOY ABUELA!”

I do not recall hearing from her since.*

Perhaps the strangest incident I ever experienced of astral party-crashing happened in connection with a séance I attended a while ago, which I briefly outlined in my recent post on “getting the wires crossed.”

At the time, I had been shopping around for a new psychic development circle to join up with, and visited one I had been to once before, a few months earlier. I had already had some misgivings about the way the circle had been conducted before, but publicly announced séances are surprisingly few and far between in New York City, so I decided to give it a second shot.

As in most message circles, the protocol at this one consisted of the leader of the circle taking us through a series of meditations and psychic protection practices before moving on to passing messages to those present. However, my alarm bells soon went off, when after our initial meditations, during a quick break, the somewhat grandiosely inclined leader started to explain that there were demons attracted by the spiritual light generated by our circle, attempting to interfere. As he began to give a graphic description of the “demons” he had seen, I covered my ears and walked out of the room. (For the record: If you ever see anything menacing during a mediumistic meditation, unless you are specifically doing some kind of shadow work or banishing, the last thing you want to do is to feed it with attention and anchor its energy down through verbally describing it.) I did not care for the man’s foolish attempts to impress the novices at the event, nor was I intimidated by what he had said, but decided to let go of my reservations to get my own mediumistic practice time in.

When the break ended, I returned to the circle, and we moved into the section of the séance where messages would be delivered. As I meditated, I became aware of a middle-aged, stocky man, wearing leather boots and a cap. I heard the name “Simon.” He seemed to be a farmer. I placed him to have been alive around the 1970s. I did not recognize him, but he reminded me a bit of a character I had seen bizarrely stomp through a precognitive dream, the previous summer, flashing a set of very unlucky Tarot cards at me before declaring, á propos of them: “Nobody wins!” - the night before my fiancé had broken up with me.  Then, in my mind’s eye, I saw a slender woman with long, brown hair. Her name was Millicent. She was wearing something that looked like a prairie dress. Perhaps a hippie. They seemed to belong together. I jotted down all the details, anticipating the end of the circle, when I could speak up and find out whose dead relatives I had brought through. They certainly weren’t mine.

The leader of the circle worked his way around the room, delivering messages to each attendee in turn. Then, he turned to me and said: “When I tune into your energy, I am aware of two spirits. There is an older man, whose name is either John or Simon. I’m not quite sure. And a woman with an M name. She comes across as a hillbilly. I think she’s Irish.” I concurred that I had picked on those exact two people, but my ancestral roots went back exclusively to Eastern Europe and Finland, and I definitely did not have any relatives from Ireland named Simon or Millicent. Surely they were there for someone else! However, nobody in the room recognized the rustic duo any better than I could.

The séance eventually trailed off, and I noticed that the leader never formally closed the circle. This worried me somewhat, but I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I also wondered what exactly was going on with Simon and Millicent. Why would two such random characters show up for me, when we didn’t seem to have any direct connection? Still, for all my concerns, I was happy that the session had resulted in the information I had received on them being corroborated so closely by the other medium.

That night, as I was falling asleep, something very unusual happened. Right as I was dozing off, in a hypnagogic state, I heard a male voice loudly say my name in my right ear, almost as if it was physically coming from outside of my head. (Usually, when I receive clairaudient  information, the impression is one of simply having a verbally expressed thought, and it feels like it is situated more near my left ear. Furthermore, it almost never happens unbidden.) “Ugh.” I thought. “Here we go. Someone followed me home.”

Life went on as normal for a while. Salvador confirmed to me the next day that the problem had been that the séance had not been closed properly, and I should avoid that particular circle in the future. I tried to shake off the incident.

About a week later, I met up for coffee with a dear colleague, and as we were catching up on what had been going on in our lives, I shared with him the strange story of Simon and Millicent. By then, I was laughing about it, and my friend was also amused.

Towards the end of our visit, we stopped by a large bookstore to look for some inspiration for a project we were working on together. My friend took the opportunity to visit the restroom, and as I was waiting for him, my eyes wandered to a book sitting on a stand in the children’s section: “Dear Mili,” read the title. It was a book illustrated by the illustrious Maurice Sendak, author of “Where The Wild Things Are.” I had already had several other, sweet little synchronicities happen that day, and so, my first thought was “Hey! My spirit guides must have wanted me to see this, since they always call me Dear Emily.” As I leafed through it, I discovered it was a somewhat creepy little story, discovered in the early 1980s in a letter written by Wilhelm Grimm to a young girl in 1816. The story made me somewhat melancholy, but the pictures were beautiful. I texted a picture of the cover of the book to a friend of mine who not only had been one of my first mediumistic clients, and was quite familiar with the lingo my guides use, but had also been at the séance with me where Simon and Millicent had made an appearance. “Look what Natalie sent me!” I captioned my photo.

Then, I opened the book up to its dedication page, and my jaw dropped open.

“For my sister, Natalie.” - M.S.

M.S.  - Millicent and Simon?

Barely believing my eyes, I texted my friend a second photo of the page.

A moment later, she replied:

“Wait. Dear Mili - MILLICENT?!”

And that, as they say, was that.

These two incidents of astral party-crashing illustrate well some of elements that can contribute to being vulnerable to psychic interference. They can be summed up fairly simply:

Attempting mediumship when energetically run down either through physical tiredness, negative emotions, poor diet, illness, or while under the effects (or after-effects!) of mind-altering substances such as alcohol or drugs. (Yes, this includes cannabis for most people. CBD, however, is usually fine, as it isn’t psychoactive.)

Not practicing proper psychic self-care through meditation, energy-clearing, and psychic protection. This includes not only your personal energy, but your personal living space, as well.

Dabbling in practices that are not aligned with your spiritual integrity.

Spending time in places with negative energy, that attract low-vibration entities. These can be spaces associated with addiction, abuse, or violence. This doesn’t mean mediums need to avoid such spaces altogether, of course, but energetic clearing is doubly important after being exposed to that kind of energy.

Focusing on images, thoughts, or stories that invoke fear or unease. Don’t watch horror movies before doing a mediumistic session! At least give yourself a few days to detox.

Asking for trouble by intentionally invoking fear-based entities. (Duh.) Just don’t. It’s not worth it.

Being afraid of the spirit world, and of one’s own mediumistic tendencies.

Not properly opening and closing your mediumistic sessions.

On the other hand, my guides have a slightly different take on the matter. From their perspective, every experience is an opportunity to learn something new. So, here are some points that my guides conveyed through clairaudient dictation around the time that Abuela was visiting me. (Parts of this were cited in an early post on this blog about empathic vulnerability.)

Question: “Why are uninvited energies interfering with my mediumistic sessions? Am I not strong enough to keep them out?”

“Your guides know when an energy can be helpful even if you yourself have not set up the meeting. Even if you are being told something you think you do not want to hear, the energy itself may have something useful to tell you. Have no fear. You are in good hands. Wear an amulet if you think it will make you feel more safe, but this is not necessary or helpful if you do not trust your guides to help you. Call your guides to help you raise and strengthen your energies.  Allowing the information that comes through to reach you as just that, information, and not as an energetic intrusion, will give you the best access to knowledge of all stripes.

Allow your guides to act as informed gatekeepers and let in the spirits covered in your opening prayer. [Being very adamant about proactive,] careful vetting places an undue burden of self-protection on the practitioner. If you feel unsafe or drained, plan ahead and look to your sources of strength to hold you in a higher vibration. Ask the lower energies to step away. You are safe […] Do not succumb to the influence of fear. You are OK. Pay attention to any disturbances in the atmosphere of your home, Work to become a better arbiter of your own boundaries. Nobody can enter your awareness [unbidden] if you have placed high enough barriers on your consciousness.”

All of this can be summed up into the principle that the stronger your connection is with your personal team of guides, and the better care you take care of yourself as well as your environment, the less vulnerable you will be to interference. Lately, I almost never experience these kinds of incidents anymore, and when they are about to happen, Salvador and Natalie will quickly warn me and nip them in the bud. The bottom line is, these are not things to be feared. At the limit, I would use this information to encourage my readers to treat themselves with love, self-respect and kindness, stay true to themselves, and build a strong relationship with own protectors.

Have you ever experienced an astral party-crasher? How did they make themselves known?  How did you deal with it? How would you deal with it if it happened again? Let me know!

------------------------------------------------------

* In case you are wondering if this was a result of an algorithm being triggered by my phone “spying” on my conversation with Joy, I can only say that it wasn’t the first time that Spirit had used social media for synchronicities. The first time my guides gave me a timeline for an event using astrological timing, citing only the symbols for Venus and Scorpio, I had no idea what it meant - until I opened up Instagram after the session. The very first post on my feed was captioned with a long piece on the astrological implications of Venus shortly moving into Scorpio. There was no technological record of my channeling session to feed into any algorithm at that time. I also had never had any interest in astrology until that moment.

[i-want-to-bethlieve]

Pepperony Fic Recs that have nothing to do with Endgame

A list (in no particular order) of some of my favorite Pepperony fanfics I’ve compiled over the years. Feel free to add your own recommendations. Most of these were written between 2008-2012, so If you want to go back to a simpler time, these fics are for you!

Five Times Tony Hugged Pepper by SilverHeart09  Summary: … and one time she hugs him. Humor/Hurt/Comfort (Multi-chapter)

Bailout by CSI Clue  Summary: Pepper makes a phone call. Humor/Romance (One-shot)

Recluse by CSI Clue  Summary: What if Tony Stark *wasn’t* the face of Stark Industries? AU/Angst/Romance (Multi-chapter)

Copra Cabana by CSI Clue  Summary: After a plane crash, Tony and Pepper find themselves depending on each other in a way they never expected. Romance/Adventure (Multi-chapter)

In the Dark by Sheryl Nantus  Summary: Tony has a visitor on Halloween. Horror/Hurt/Comfort (One-shot)

diving into lakes by RebelzHeart  Summary: Pepper falls in love with the boy by the lake. AU/Romance (Long-shot)

Breaking Point by SopranoZone  Summary: Post Iron Man 2. Pepper tries to deal with the fact she didn’t know Tony was dying. Angst/Romance (One-shot)

The Dubai Alibi by Sare Liz  Summary: “I would like to throw a party. So, could you get the house in Dubai ready, please?” Continuous from the deleted scene from the film. AU/Romance (One-shot)

Disseverance by E.M. Stevens  Summary: She never thought he’d actually let her quit. Pepper Potts meditates on life after Tony Stark. Drama/Romance (Multi-Chapter)

Satis by LouBlue  Summary: There are so many things left unspoken between Tony and Pepper. Will they find the courage to tell each other the truth before it’s too late? A hopefully fun, angsty, romance-filled adventure. Romance/Drama (Multi-Chapter)

Precious by LouBlue  Summary: Pepperony/Avengers. Tony Stark can handle anything except for the woman he fell in love with. When the irresistible force meets the immovable object, sparks are sure to fly. Romance/Adventure (Multi-Chapter)

The Magnificent Octopus by LouBlue  Summary: Pepperony/Avengers. Sequel to ‘Precious’. The newly formed Avengers are still trying to find their way as a team. Love is in the air for some of the members, with some surprising outcomes. But nothing is more surprising then the new menace the Avengers will soon be facing. Adventure/Humor (Multi-Chapter)

Prophet by Kpasa  Summary: The life of Virginia 'Pepper’ Potts comes full-circle. Intended to be a companion piece to 'Secondary Highways’. Drama/Romance (One-shot)

An Uncanny Likeness by Outtabreath  Summary: Tony introduces Pepper to her action figure. Humor (One-Shot)

This Bit of Normal by Kira  Summary: And despite the sweat and blood and bits of lubricant from where his skin is in contact with the suit’s inner workings, she slides down the wall and loops an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Hurt/Comfort/Romance (One-shot)

These Bloody Footprints by Kira  Summary: Each and every time he comes back like this, she wants to find something heavy and hurl it at his head, hoping it would knock some common sense into him. But the fact of the matter is, he doesn’t have anyone else. Hurt/Comfort/Romance (One-shot)

Listening to the World Turn in on Itself by Kira  Summary: Because if he thinks, if he goes backwards, things go dark and he’s decided to move forward.’ Tony Stark, inside and out, upon returning home. Angst (One-shot)

Afterimage by niewypowiedziane  Summary: Sometimes, people and objects just suddenly appear and it’s frightening. (Blind!Tony) AU/Drama/Hurt/Comfort (Multi-chapter)

Heroes & Demons by Silver Spider  Summary: "I don’t have anyone but you.“ But what if Tony Stark didn’t even have her when he’d needed her most? AU/Drama/Romance (Multi-Chapter)

Mnemosyne’s Lock by VR Trakowski  Summary: It’s Pepper who’s hurt, but it’s Tony who needs the comfort. Amnesia fic. Drama/Romance (Multi-Chapter)

Oneiros by VR Trakowski  Summary:  A cure for soul-chill…At the Dubai house, Tony and Pepper have nightmares. Hurt/Comfort (One-Shot)

Winging It by VR Trakowski  Summary: Pepper deals with the aftermath. Post Iron Man 2.  Romance (One-shot)

Blessings by VR Trakowski  Summary: What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Pepper sends out Christmas cards. Romance (One-shot)

My True Love by VR Trakowski  Summary: Tony has a song in his heart, and Pepper finally hears it. Absolute Christmas fluff. Romance (One-shot)

Parthian Shot by VR Trakowski  Summary: Some memories will always be stained.  Obadiah left one last surprise.  Suspence (Long-shot)

For A Decade by Big Sparrow  Summary: Pepper tells Tony about their upcoming anniversary at his Fourth of July party, but his intoxicated mind misinterprets her entirely. The morning after is no picnic either. Pepperony fluff. Pre-IM. Romance/Humor (Multi-chapter)

Hazard Pay by Perri Smith  Summary: Pepper is trapped when danger hits closer to home than anyone predicted.  Adventure/Drama (Multi-chapter)

Tony and Pepper Go to Target by A.j  Summary: Movieverse crackfic that isn’t touching, poignant, or filled with angst. Basically, Tony and Pepper go to Target. Humor (One-shot)

The Paths we Travel by staarss  Summary: As Tony and Pepper continue to deny their growing attraction to one another, neither one realizes that the separate paths they travel are about to converge. Romance/Adventure (Multi-chapter)

Crashing: missing moments Iron Man 2 by RhyannD  Summary: immediately follows the fight with Whiplash in Monaco. Now continuing missing moments from IM2. Hurt/Comfort/Angst (Multi-chapter)

Double Walker by robot iconography  Summary: Pepper finds herself attracted to an actor who’s shadowing Tony for a television role. How will Tony react? Angst/Romance (Multi-chapter)

Beginnings (Travel Series) by pukajen  Summary: “It’s Rhodey’s birthday, Pepper, and I can’t skip out on him,” Tony had protested when she had suggested that maybe sleeping for a day or so was called for. Mature (Multi-chapter)

All the Lovely Ones Have Scars (Series) by olivemartini  Summary: Her first day of working for Mr. Stark, she’s expecting it to only last a week because that’s what Mr. Stane had told her. "Don’t take it personally,” He had said, “he fires everybody.” Angst (Multi-Chapter) Still in progress.

Fighting for More by gloamings  Summary: It takes Tony five years of pleading, pouting, and flirting, but he finally convinces Pepper to come out drinking with him.VERY Pre-IM1. Hurt/Comfort (One-shot)

Silent like the Grave by Arukou  Summary: The first night in the hospital, Tony sleeps like a baby. By the third night, he can barely sleep at all. Iron Man 3. Hurt/Comfort (One-shot)

Five Times Pepper Potts Took Care of Tony Stark (and one time Tony Stark took care of her) by zauberer_sirin  Summary: In Pepper’s defense she really did try to keep things professional. Pre-Canon/Hurt/Comfort (Long-shot)

the tender places by zauberer_sirin  Summary: Pepper has no real medical training but she has learned a few tricks along the way. Hurt/Comfort (One-shot)

[general-du-vallon]

I like thinking about post series Porthos when he’s retired he probably lives kinda half at Athos’s house, half with Elodie and Marie-Cessette, and half at the garrison (Marie-Cessette obv sometimes is with him at Athos or the garrison). Elodie prob banishes him to Athos or the garrison once she’s tired of him trailing about the house, not bothering to wear proper formal clothes, in his stockings of bare feet and his shirt not even done up, causing chaoses. Cooking, interrupting the maids to do their sewing for them and gossiping (and half the time they don’t even know he’s General Du Vallon he’s just sat there sewing and cheating at cards and giggling at their gossip like a boy instead of being a Respectable Old Man), half the time he seems to be looking after servants’ children and they’re not even THEIR servants’ children he just... accumulates them. He trails after Elodie and gets in messes and gets bored and naps EVERYWHERE causing trip hazards and eventually she’s like RIGHT OFF YOU GO ENOUGH OF THIS and boots him out (not that she’s a refined and well mannered lady - half the time she’s in messes with him and the other half she’s doing business for the queen and teaching people how to shoot with arrows and bullets and educating Porthos’s accumulation of children and being like Ninon teaching and protecting the women of Paris and generally causing her own kind of chaos but she is SUBTLE ABOUT IT, MR DU VALLON... SUBTLE)... 

so Porthos will cheerfully track Athos down to whatever corner of the countryside he’s pretending to be a farmer in, or whatever town he’s pretending to be a lord in while Sylvie prints her pamphlets Raoul in tow, or whatever old falling down country estate they’re all Slightly Hiding Out In after causing ruckus and discord, and he and Athos will dress in the least possible clothing and lie around in the garden or the fields pretending to work and mostly just being slightly drunk and laughing so hard they can’t move and people keep thinking their dead or dead drunk (which they are not they are SLIGHTLY drunk which they will assert by demonstrating their steadiness... by fighting each other). They spar and Porthos cooks and Raoul hangs on their every word wide-eyed and Sylvie makes sure he knows that his father and uncle are perhaps honourable men but also the two biggest liars in France when it comes to a story. In the evenings Porthos and Raoul will do Raoul’s chores and studying and playing and talking while Athos and Sylvie slowly forget they’re there and kiss and stuff. And Sylvie probably sneaks the house (whichever house) full of people to plan riots and rallies and pamphlets and Porthos eventually tired of both the sedate life and the pounding of his heart when Sylvie is planning her activism and he will return to Paris. 

At the garrison he’ll probably eat every single food there and d’Artagnan is probably not captain anymore because he’s also old and too important and probably some kind of advisor at the palace for wars and Parisian politics and security. Constance probably still runs the garrison, whoever is captain. Whoever is captain has probably given up on everything and is resigned to Porthos and Constance. Porthos eating everything. Constance telling him off. Porthos cleaning all weapons ever. Advising the cadets and the musketeers and often ending up telling loud, rude, untrue stories that have the cadets gazing in awe and the musketeers snorting but also later whispering ‘was that true?’. Constance doesn’t help by backing up Porthos 100% every story no matter how ludicrous, because she’s Madam d’Artagnan and they all trust her. Porthos probably still naps everywhere like a trip hazard. He probably also sits in the captain’s office and does half the paperwork while critiquing things. He probably brings apples from the market and apricots and Marie-Cessette to sword fight if she so wishes (which she does - she can beat most cadets and even some musketeers). He probably sometimes ends up going on missions and getting in trouble like Serge and Florian that time and he laughs too hard for missions and nearly gets them caught and he always just shrugs his big shoulders like ‘I’ve done this a thousand times, boys and girls’ and throws himself in the fight. He probably also spends time with the horses and sneaks them out for rides and good lord he’s a nuisance. 

He takes so much joy in life and the people he loves and throws himself whole-heartedly into everything, wherever he’s wandered to. Elodie loves him so she loves having him and loves having him sprawled around the place to nap on, and the servants like having him to take care of their children who sometimes sorely need it because their parents have plenty of love but not much time, and Porthos never makes them feel ashamed of that. He makes it feel like it’s just part of community. The servants like having him to gossip with because he can spin a story out of anything and he’s got quick fingers and his sewing is neat and he always seems to turn up when they need a bit of extra cheer, when their fingers are tired and red from too many stitches, when their arms are tired from too much carrying he’ll show up and whisk away their loads of laundry or make them roar with laughter or bring them food, and when he cooks he cooks for everyone and anyone who turns up, part of his household or not, just welcoming everyone in. In return they take good care of him and his house and close ranks and keep any secret and the only gossip they spread about him is what a fantastic general he’s been and what a good honourable man he is. No one ever gets any hint of the kind of unorthodox boss Porthos is because the servants know better than most what a reputation can mean to a man like Porthos so they make sure his reputation is pure gold. 

Athos loves having Porthos near and Sylvie likes it because it means Athos rests and recharges and talks about the old stories that sometimes weigh on him, some of the darknesses he keeps from her and Raoul. They like having him because he looks after Raoul and helps him study when the lessons are hard and understands better than either of them the frustration of not understanding the lesson (they both found studying easy - Sylvie because she’s bright and quick and Athos because he’s bright and because he had a lot of advantages). He makes the periods of having to lie low easier to bear, the frustration and quiet of their effective exile cheerful and full of stories and company and joy instead of being tiring and isolating. He’ll bring them news and supplies and hope. They like having him because despite his eternal disapproval of them for inciting people to push against authority and cause trouble instead of being quiet and peaceful, he’ll give them grudging notes on strategy and remind them of the things they forget in their rush to get to the end goal and he’ll sit in the corner in Sylvie’s meetings and back her up when she needs it, big and menacing when that’s needed but also as a general of France, experienced, rich with knowledge. They compliment each other well, her passion and learning and experience of refugees and community, and his slower fire, steadier after battles, his self-taught knowledge of random things, his experience of soldiering and knowledge of far off places. Together they can convince almost anyone of almost anything. Besides which, Athos, like Elodie, just loves Porthos and loves having him to sprawl with and keep company with and share his life with. Loves that they’ve lived long enough to have this life to share, and that Porthos is still here despite his marriage and his life in Paris. 

And at the garrison he’s so much trouble but when missions go bad or people come back injured because of brawls or stupidity or they get hurt sparring, he’ll be there steady and calm and he’ll be able to hold them together until the surgeon arrives, or he’ll swing up silently into the saddle and ride out to meet the musketeers injured, bringing them home alive. He’ll sit with injured or feverish men and cool their skin and soothe their wounds where other medics haven’t got the time, tell them quiet stories, even sing to them. His boys and girls, he’ll call them, and give them proud smiles and such calm and quiet. He’ll sit with the homesick cadets and the stable hands and the boys who work in the stables and as messengers and in the kitchens, helping them when the work is too much, listening to their stories, their worries. They take good care of their general, give him food in return, bring him things from their missions far away and abroad, flick him a coin for good luck before heading out on a dangerous one. He’s good for the garrison so the garrison welcomes him when he comes and closes around him if he needs it.

[ahumanfemale]

Everything.

Hello all, I’m new to the Strike fandom but not to the series - I’ve been hooked since the first, all those years ago.  I’m about a third of the way through Lethal White and felt the need to try my hand.  Also up on ao3 if that’s easier for anyone.

xoxo, ahf.

Robin imagined the worst.

She couldn’t help it — an occupational hazard, she would say, after the last three years of her life.  Murder and mayhem and trauma that left lasting scars.  Of course, it was tempered with victory and justice and a profound sense of validation, but those attitudes were less likely to be affected on a night like tonight.  When the weather was hot and balmy and she was running from the train station so quickly it felt like she couldn’t catch her breath or steady the frantic jackhammer of her heart against her ribs.

Cormoran was hurt.

The bloody idiot had promised her.  Promised.  A covenant that had always held the utmost importance in their partnership, and Cormoran had broken it.  Had made a move on the suspect after swearing the weekend would be spent surveilling while Robin was in Masham, visiting her mother after her emergency gallbladder removal.  It had been understood between them that their conclusion was not yet proven, that there was still evidence to collect before they could be sure, and that he would keep an eye on Roger Marshall until Robin could return to London.

She’d planned on taking the redeye Monday morning and going straight to work from the station bright and early, and instead she’d gotten a frantic call from Ilsa in the middle of Sunday afternoon when she was putting supper in the oven.  

You have to come home, Ilsa had pleaded, sounding distraught.  It’s Cormoran.  

Robin had hardly needed to hear anything else.  She dropped the tea towel on the kitchen table, had kissed her mother goodbye, and had asked her father to drive her back to the station.  It had been clear from the expression on her face that there were to be no questions or refusals.  Her normally practical father than driven over the speed limit the entire way, offering comforting pats on her knee as she phoned Ilsa back to let her know she was on her way.  It was only after she’d bought a ticket and found a relatively quiet space within the station that Ilsa had been able to explain.  

They had been working in conjunction with the Met on a kidnapping case, hired by the young girl’s wealthy grandparents after her ransom insisted they were not to contact the police.  Of course, hiring private detectives was very nearly the same thing, but Cormoran had somehow maintained that they could hunt down leads without drawing the same attention as CID.  It was assumed that the child’s estranged father had taken her after gaining nothing in his divorce from his clients’ wealthy daughter but neither Cormoran nor Robin had believed that to be true.  To Wardle’s complete consternation, they had insisted on looking further.  It was a formerly beloved tutor, it turned out, who had taken young Camilla Evans from her bed in the middle of the night, leaving a typed letter devoid of all forensic evidence for her mother to find in the morning.

Not that they had been able to prove it, nor that they had been able to find the child.  Cormoran did not believe the girl to be in danger if things stayed as they were, if Marshall stayed in control and confident, and so he intended to watch until eventually the man led them to where he was keeping her.  Or at least that was the plan discussed moments before Robin hopped on the train to Yorkshire, worried more for her ill mother than she had been for the disheveled and exhausted hulk of a man waving her off from the platform.  

How wrong she’d been.

Her former mentor and boss, current partner and best friend, had instead followed Roger Marshall to a seedier part of London just in time for the man to receive a phone call from someone who had talked to Cormoran earlier in the day - a warning, not that it was likely the person on the other end of the line knew it.  Cormoran had been behind the man on the street as the voice on the line offered, Oh, that private detective.  You know!  The one in all the papers.  Great beast of a man, even bigger in person.  Did you know he’d been hired to find Camilla?

Robin knew, just has Cormoran had earlier in the day, that Camilla was in more danger at that moment than she had been since her disappearance three weeks before.  And when the man had rung off and hurried to a small rental house around the block, Cormoran had spotted a blade in the man’s pocket.  What else could he have done?  Call Wardle, which he did, and then follow the man around the back of the house to find a cellar with walls so thick not a soul would have heard a rock concert through them.

What happened? Robin had asked Ilsa, feeling sick when she heard tears in the attorney’s voice.

He went after him, because he’s Cormoran and of course he did.  The woman sniffled and Robin could see in her mind the woman pressing her glasses back up her nose, unconscious of the reflexive gesture.  The little girl is fine and the evil prick is in custody, but he got in a good jab before Wardle showed up.  It’s- God, Robin.  It looks awful.  I couldn’t, I can’t—

I’m on my way, it’s okay.  I promise it’ll be okay.

She didn’t know quite how she could promise that, but of course she did — whether it was a promise to herself or Ilsa, she couldn’t say.

That was close to four hours before and now, running down Denmark Street in the dark, Robin felt breath catch in her lungs.  She’d found out through text messages on the trip that Cormoran would live, that the damage would heal, but that he’d also refused to stay in hospital.  Had checked himself out against medical advice and against pleas, accusations, and threats from both Nick and Ilsa.  It didn’t surprise Robin, not really, but she found herself fuming all the same.

It’s Cormoran.

Ilsa’s voice whispered in her ear while her eyes burned.

It’s Cormoran.

It’s Cormoran.

It’s—

She’d arrived.  

Taking the steps as quickly as possible, she picked up the pace at the sound of raised voices coming from upstairs.  Female, she noted immediately, high-pitched with emotion.  The second voice was the low grumble of a male arguing.  Cormoran and Ilsa, she’d be willing to bet, as she hurried her steps a little more.  When at last she’d come to the door and pushed her way inside, it was to the sight of Ilsa standing in front of the couch with her mobile to one ear and her hand to another to block out the sound.  She barely had time to take in the fact that Ilsa was clearly arguing with someone on the line before her eyes sought out what she’d come for in the first place.

Cormoran.

…

Cormoran stood, transfixed.

For a long moment he thought she was a hallucination — something his brain had dreamed up to comfort him, because of course he’d known Robin wasn’t in London.  Robin was in Masham with her mother after an operation.  And yet this woman in front of him looked like his Robin, breathed like her.  Smelled like her, he thought with an inhale as her subtly sweet perfume drifted into his nose.  Hell, she even sounded like his Robin as she assured Ilsa that she would stay with him, that Ilsa could go and attend to whatever client was having an emergency somewhere else in the city.

Listening probably would have been a good idea, he bet, as Ilsa had shouted something else vaguely menacing in his direction before storming off and leaving him and the hallucination standing on opposite sides of his still shabby office.  Alluring blue-grey eyes met his and his heart thudded in recognition.

Robin.

The hallucination was real.

Imagine that.

Ilsa had practically slammed the door behind her as she left, the raucous noise still echoing in the air between them, but still through the fog of pain medication and exhaustion she was the only certainty his mind could lock on to.  Her hair, burnished rose gold over the shoulders of her dark blouse.  He rarely saw her in dark colors, he realized hazily.  Always pastels and florals and smart professional outfits that were flattering without being provocative — of course, nearly everything Robin wore was provocative to him, just because she had the virtue of being Robin.

Robin, who was breathing hard and mysteriously silent.

Cormoran knew better, of course.  He had long since perfected the art of the pointed silence as a means of gleaning information from an unwilling source.  Still, with the weight of her stare on him from a few feet away, the words came and came quickly.

“Caught a train back, did you?” he said and heard the slight slur in his speech.  “That’s good, I guess.  I hope it was a good trip.  I mean, not that you coming back was good.  M’sorry, that’s not what I meant.  Damn it…”

She only kept those alluring eyes trained on him.  Nearly unblinking, narrowed in on him either because of the dark or in spite of it.  In spite of him, most likely, and that only kept him stammering.  Muttering about Masham, asking after her mother’s health following the surgery.  Talking about the bloody weather, of all things, until the very moment that Robin took pity on him and moved.  To leave, probably, if she knew what was best for herself.

Or not.

Closer.

Robin was coming closer.

Walking on worn trainers until he was backed up against the pitiful desk and she was face to face with him.  With his dilated pupils, with his vague reek of warm copper and harsh antiseptic.  Had he known he was going to get knifed that morning he might have been compelled to keep a spare shirt handy.

A fact that he apparently uttered aloud, because Robin’s hands lifted up to the shirt in question without so much as a pause.  She touched the vertical line of buttons and glanced up, meeting his eyes.  His dark to her light, earthen to tempestuous sky.  

Entirely without thought, he nodded.

In a second she had two handfuls of fabric and had tugged his shirt clear of his trousers, exposing the mat of dark hair that covered his midriff.  Had he been more cognizant of the moment he might have experienced some trepidation; some sense of self-consciousness at the bit of his stomach that was soft and expanding over the cusp of his belt.  As it was, he stood numb and waiting as Robin pulled his shirt up and out of the way.  

The wound was deep, or so they told him.  Eight or so inches across the ribs on his upper left side, a puncture and rip that had nearly blinded him with pain in the seconds after it had happened.  He’d had just enough wherewithal to knock Roger Marshall out of his shoes before collapsing and blacking out.  Seconds, minutes, he wasn’t sure how long.  Only knew that he woke up when Wardle had shaken him to within an inch of his life and then cursed him up one side and down the other at how much it had hurt.

Now it was sutured and bandaged and gauzed and taped, kept entirely from sight even if it did still hurt like the bloody devil.  When Robin reached out to touch the edge of that gauze he flinched in anticipation but let her, realizing as she moved that the scar very nearly matched the one on her right arm.  The one rent into existence by Donald Laing almost two years before.  

If she embraced him, he thought drunkenly, the two might just line up.  

“It’s fine,” he said, hoping the words he spoke would drive away the ones he’d thought, “I’m fine.”

Robin nodded, and then hit him.

It was hardly a glance, aimed at the meat of his chest rather than somewhere nearer the wound on his side, but Cormoran blinked in surprise anyway.  

“Robin, what—”

Another smack, this one to the right side of his chest.  Another, and then another.  Seemingly delivered flailing but somehow careful enough to never land anywhere near somewhere it might actually hurt him.  After a moment he stopped bracing against them and let Robin go, feeling something crack in his chest at the first broken sob to escape her throat.  The sound of her crying had an uncomfortable effect on him, forcing something like agony to crawl into his throat and lodge there for him to swallow around.  It was all he could do to wrap his arms around her shoulders and let her have her fill while he fought the sting behind his eyes.  He held her while she struggled, while she cried, until she stopped landing blows and collapsed into him.  It was the first hug they’d shared since the one on her wedding day, though Cormoran had the fleeting thought that he’d felt worse then than he did now.

Still, Robin shook and wailed against his chest until his button up was damp and his arms were the only thing holding her upright.

When finally she quieted, hiccuping every other breath, Cormoran huffed a flippant laugh.

“Feel better?” he asked.  “Talk about a hostile work envi—”

“You don’t know, do you?”

Her interruption set him aback, made him tilt his neck so that he could see her tear streaked face.  She was serious, he quickly realized.  There wasn’t a hint of a rueful smile on her face, the light in her eyes had dulled to smoke.

“I— what?”  

“You don’t know that if something were to happen to you, if you—”  Her voice broke, her misery shattering him like glass.  “Everything.  I’d lose everything.”

She looked shell-shocked now, breath coming quick even as her hand rested lightly on the knife wound Roger Marshall had bestowed upon him.  Under his shirt, so delicately skin to skin.  His addled brain couldn’t decide which sensation to process first; the feel of her so close, touching him, was headier than the best whisky in London.  Then again, her words bounced between his ears taunting and teasing and promising things they had no business promising.

Everything.  I’d lose everything.

“You didn’t lose me, Robin,” he said stiffly, wishing he were something approximating sober for the first time all night.  “It missed everything it needed to.”

“And if it hadn’t?” she asked emptily.  She sounded very much like the hypothetical part of the question was irrelevant and Cormoran found himself pulling her a little closer, arms closing around her a little tighter.  It hadn’t even occurred to him to let her go.  Frankly, he wasn’t sure he could have if it had.

Cormoran, for most of his adult life, had felt… expendable.  He was no one’s nearest and dearest, always a fleeting and peripheral character in the everyday lives of the people close to him.  Supposing the worst had happened he had no doubt believing people would mourn.  His sister would be miserable but she had Greg and the boys, would inevitably see his demise as living by the sword and dying by it.  Shanker would loot his corpse and nod farewell, visit him and Leda together when it occurred to him.  Nick and Ilsa would miss him, he supposed, but they again had each other.  It hadn’t occurred to him until just that moment that the woman in his arms might feel differently.  To her, perhaps, he was irreplaceable.  

She means her job, you tit.

“Don’t worry, I’d see you’re taken care of,” he started and this time Robin picked her head up, surprised.  “Ilsa got on my case a few months back, insisting I make a will.  I don’t have much, but I have this office and the agency.  If someone one day manages to kick my bucket, ‘CB Strike Investigations’ becomes ‘Strike-Ellacott Investigations’ and she’s all yours.”

Robin stared.

“You’ve worked so hard and done so much and… I have no doubt that I would have lost all this by now had Temporary Solutions not cocked it up and sent a temp I’d already canceled,” he said and felt the lump in his throat grow.  “This agency is nothing without you, Robin Ellacott.  It’s yours just as much as it is mine.”

I’m nothing without you, he thought wretchedly.  I’m yours.

But, no.  More words he could never take back, and so he never offered them.

“So.  Don’t worry about making a living,” he continued and cleared his throat.  “I’ve got it all worked out, for once.”

She was silent for so long Cormoran thought she might start hitting him again.  Maybe he would have deserved it, he didn’t know.  The world was fuzzy at the edges and he was exhausted and Robin was really there.  She wasn’t a hallucination, not a dream like she sometimes was, and she was so close—

She was kissing him.

Full lips, soft and smooth, were pressed to his.  Robin had come up onto the tips of her toes and taken two handfuls of his shirt again and maybe his brain was starting to catch up because suddenly he was kissing her back.  His hands at least knew what to do, coming up to cradle the back of her neck with one and the soft line of her jaw with the other.  For long, glorious moments they shared air and the taste of weak hospital tea on his lips and he reveled in the feeling of his heart clamoring out of his chest, fighting to get to her.  

Everything.  I’d lose everything.

She opened her mouth to him and his knees threatened to buckle.

I’m nothing without you.

When at last they separated, Cormoran wondered if he had ever truly been kissed in his life.  The raw emotion in Robin’s eyes threatened to bowl him over, send him crashing to the floor just as surely as his awful right knee could and often did.  Was it… was it even possible?  What in God’s name could a woman like Robin want to do with him other than give in to an urge to spend a few nights in the slums?

“I don’t give a damn about the job,” she said, breathless but stern.  Her eyes darted to his lips again and he wanted to crumble.  “I give a damn about you.”

Cormoran stared this time.

“Do you understand me, Cormoran Blue Strike?” she asked.  “Do you know what I’m telling you?”

He nodded, wordlessly.  

Christ, how his heart was drumming.

“Besides,” she started again, this time with an air of teasing in her shaky voice, “I could always go join the Met.”

“What?!” he cried finally, scandalized and still feeling lighter than air.  “And what would happen to the agency?”

“I’d sell it to Shanker for wine money.”

“Over my dead body!”

“Well, yeah,” she said dryly, sniffling, “That’s the idea.”

He scowled so deeply it made her laugh, brittle after her tears but still the best thing he’d ever heard.

Music.

It was music.

“Guess I might as well live then,” he growled, surly and gruff and still happy enough he might fly apart at the seams.  

Robin grinned.

“Now you’re getting it,” she told him matter-of-factly and kissed him again.  All light and laughter and something so dangerously close to love it threatened to break him.

Everything, he thought as he tasted her for the second time that night.

She’s everything.

“Come on.  Let’s get you to bed,” she said finally, pausing between words to press fleeting kisses to his lower lip and the scruffy edge of his chin.  “You’ll have sleep on your side so you don’t tear anything.”

“You planning on joining?”

Robin Ellacott, consummate professional, blushed some intimate shade of rose he’d never before seen on her and Cormoran found himself dying to chase every bit of skin where that color might have bloomed.

She beamed at him.

“If you want,” she offered, coy only because she was unsure.  

“Can’t say I’ll be much fun,” he admitted, only because his better judgment had temporarily won out.  “You know.  Knife wound and all.”

“Then I’ll just have to be patient then, won’t I?” Robin asked, voice low and exaggeratedly wicked, and he heard himself chuckling despite the blood that rushed decidedly south of his brain.  “Come on then, pin cushion.  Let’s get some sleep.”

She stepped away, heading toward the door that would take them up to his tiny flat.  Robin had been up the steps so many times he could hardly count them, but this time she’d be staying.  It baffled him to realize he’d be falling asleep next to her that night, waking up next to her in the morning.  How had he gotten so lucky?”

“Cormoran?”

Her voice was on the steps now, inquisitive.

He stifled an elated chuckle and pushed himself away from the desk, limping to follow her.  He’d follow her anywhere, he realized as she held a hand out to him.

Taking it, he gave her slight fingers a small squeeze.

“Lead the way.”

She always did.

[drivingsideways]

Episodes 7 & 8

Spoilers and yelling under the cut

Well, just a note that I really love the theme music, esp the bit they use as the love theme. 

-honestly I feel bad for Feng Hao. Like sure, he’s not the sharpest tool in the box, and frankly, he’s like..entitled and annoying until this part of the series, but the dude has a point about the whole “at least tell me the truth before i die!!!” thing. 

-Anyways, the Feng/Qiu family dynamic is also so interesting- Feng Zhiwei and Feng Hao are such different personalities! My guess is that Mingying both devoted a lot of her resources to making sure Feng Zhiwei would be “ready” when the time came, but also held her to impossibly high standards! Feng Zhiwei is scared of her mom in ways that Feng Hao is not! And perhaps Qiu Mingying compensated for (placing Feng Zhiwei first) with spoiling Feng Hao, so that he basically got away with being an idiot most of the time. 

-Prince of Chu literally jumping in between Feng Zhiwei and a sword *starry eyes *

-Hahaha, Feng Zhiwei being all like “you better fucking save my mother and brother, PRINCE” before she realizes he’s actually wounded. Also, the fact that she calls him Mr.Tailor before she calls him Prince of Chu (oh no oh no!)

I think Ning Yi never realized the depth of her devotion to Qiu Mingying and Feng Hao, though honestly, he should have- starting from when she’s willing to take her mother’s crime upon her? Somehow he doesn’t seem to grasp, later, how much their deaths devastated her, especially since she blames her own existence for that.  

-Oh no, Ning Yi trying to tease her because he doesn’t know how to deal with her distress! (also the soft lighting and the general intimacy of that scene, THANKS FOR NOTHING SHOW)

-Feng Zhiwei blaming herself for everything-pretty similar to how Ning Yi also internalizes blame and guilt-in some ways they are both so similar in this, that’s perhaps one of the reasons that they can’t talk through things, later. 

-Ning Yi has like 50 expressions in the space of 1 minute going from “oh no i need to comfort her which is awkward and weird and i’d best deflect her by teasing to oh fuck what am i doing”, the entire thing is delicious, YOU COMPLETE IDIOT NING YI. 

-OH NO NING YI’S TINY SMILE AT NING CHENG TO LET HIM KNOW HE’S MOSTLY OK while they stage a drama for Official Zhao. OH NO I AM HERE FOR THEIR FRIENDSHIP ALL THE TIME

-Chen Kun’s cheekbones should be declared illegal, that’s just a fact. 

-Ning Cheng is the best because he knows when he’d be An Intruder (the way he sneaks off while Feng Zhiwei is being nurse-maid to a sleeping Ning Yi is so cuuuuute) 

-I wish there were subs for the song that plays over this scene. 

-Poor Zhiwei- so conscious of the seriousness of her oath, which she doesn’t fully understand, and also this-something- she feels for Ning Yi, which she doesn’t quite understand, either. 

-Ning Yi watching her sleep, don’t be a creeper, Ning Yi, sorry, this whole trope was ruined for me with Twilight, and I can’t stand seeing it on screen anymore! 

-His exaggerating the pain to deflect- you’re such a loser, NY, omg. lol i love how she sees through him. That’s one of my favourite parts of this pairing at the start, how they intuit each other’s true feelings/intentions more often than not. But that can never be a substitute for actual talking???about things??? and you can see how they fail at the end. GOD I AM MAKING MYSELF SAD IN ADVANCE. 

-HOW HAD I FORGOTTEN THE HALF REVEAL OF A COLLAR BONE, THANK GOD FENG ZHIWEI STOPS HIM, I THINK WE WOULD HAVE ALL GONE UP IN SMOKE OTHERWISE. 

-LISTEN CHEN KUN’S CHEEKBONES ARE A HAZARD TO PUBLIC SAFETY

 * AMBULANCE SIRENS IN THE DISTANCE *

- Ning Yan, you’re like not even playing in the same league as your brothers, I’m so glad you died fast. Like honestly, Ning Chuan’s expression alone should have made you run for the hills, but you actually thought you were getting somewhere. 

-Note on the sets at Prince of Chu’s residence- I fucking love that room with the opera masks - need to find a BTS video subbed in English to figure out more about them, but 100% that was a great choice for Ning Yi’s personality, and we often see him framed against those, as I recall. 

-The repeated theme of “hiding” from Feng Zhiwei- the first time they meet, he’s literally hiding from her behind a screen at the House of Lanxiang, until he knocks it down because he’s curious about her-and now he’s hiding in a different way, because he doesn’t want to answer her questions-but she’s literally like “there’s no place to hide” and just *sigh * i love how that’s both literal and metaphorical in this story between them. Ning Yi has spent his life hiding-his feelings, his skills, his intelligence- and Feng Zhiwei forces all of that out into the sunlight, so to speak. *starry eyed about it *

-I love how Ning Cheng is all of us, if he had popcorn, you bet he’d be eating it right now. 

-XZ being all passive aggressive about Feng Zhiwei *cough cough *

-XZ has no second thoughts about sacrificing the entire Qiu family if it will eliminate Ning Chuan, although the earlier, the killing of the canal workers troubled him quite a bit. It’s Ning Yi who says “I don’t want my throne to be tainted with innocent blood”. Idk why XZ feels differently about the canal workers vs the Qiu family- perhaps, on some level, he can justify this by saying that they *were * after all, “enemy of the state”- and their fate would be the same whether it was the Emperor who dealt the killing blow or them- so in XZ’s scheme of things, it just makes sense to use it to their advantage, as the outcome would not have varied, in any case. Unlike the canal workers, who were entirely caught up in this by accident. 

-I like how Ning Yi says the line “I’m the only one who can protect her”, twice; the first time is a justification to XZ, the second is a justification to *himself *.  And XZ knows it too. 

-lol NY’s absolute fury at Feng Zhiwei being like “so long and thanks for all the fish” - god, he hates having his plans interfered with, and this woman just won’t listen, will she?

-Idk if this is a subbing issue, but occasionally, there are lines,esp idioms that seem completely out of place in the show. For eg “Each man for himself, the devil take the hindmost” is something both Gu Yan and Col Qiu say; and in this episode Col Qiu says “Man proposes, God disposes” which seems really weird. Anyways. 

-Oh Ning Yi, the relief he feels when he sees Feng Zhiwei safe-under his roof, thanks to Chief Gu-after that whole dialogue earlier to Col Qiu about “Wouldn’t it be better if a person didn’t have to care for other people” . *cackling * My poor prince, having to spend his life pretending he doesn’t care, when the problem is that he cares *too much * (about some people!)

-The scene between Gu Yan and Qiu Mingying is one of the best scenes in the show! For one, it features Qiu Mingying who gets tooo few scenes, gdi. Second, god I love how she uses her silence as a weapon here- in the Qiu household, she had to stay silent, swallowing every insult until it became truly dangerous to be silent, and she makes her thoughts known very strongly- but here she reduces Gu Yan to tears with her silence. If she had (justifiably) given  vent to her anger, I don’t think it would have been half as effective! The person who holds the power in that room is not the Chief of the Royal Guards, it is that unyielding woman and her silence. 

-Honestly, all the actors in this series are so GOOD, like Hai Yitian as Ning Chuan is just perfect as the paranoid, menacing and not very competent Crown Prince. 

And finally, gosh, I love our manipulative Prince of Chu literally setting a “little cat” among the pigeons.

[thatfanficstuff]

Salvation (10)

Pairing: Loki x OC

Warnings: Canon typical stuff

Series Masterlist

***

"You mean to tell me, Reindeer games and Svengali are our best hope to get out of this alive?" Stark asked as he landed near the others. 

"Focus, Stark," Steve snapped. "At least we've got a plan which is more than we had before."

A black humvee slid to a stop nearby before anyone could say anything else. Banner got out of the passenger side and they all hurried over to greet him. "I see you guys destroyed the city without me," he said, a half-smile twisting his lips. 

"Blame Stark," Natasha said. "It's good to see you, Banner."

Bruce tilted his head. "Thank Alyx. Left to my own devices I probably would have turned up on a scooter or something."

They all glanced over as Agent Oliver slammed the driver's door shut. "Hello, team."

"You shouldn't be here," Stark said with a frown, his eyes worried.

Steve agreed but it wasn't his place to say anything. He wondered why Stark thought it was his. As far as Steve knew they hadn't met until the helicarrier. 

"Nobody should be here, but here we are," she said with a shrug. "What's the plan?" 

Stark looked like he wanted to argue, but just shut his helmet instead. "Call it, Captain."

Steve divided everyone up, giving them their assignments and reminding them all to be on the lookout for the scepter. It was the key to ending this whole thing. The Avengers stepped into their roles, prepared to defend the city and the people within. They were the last line of defense against the alien menace after all.

***

Isolde stood behind Loki, her stance wide so her body could move and roll with the vehicle she stood on. Surprisingly, Loki was doing a fantastic job steering the unfamiliar contraption. They had been making loops of the city taking out several of the flying aliens while they searched for the one on charge of it all.

"Where is he?" Loki hissed. 

She knew he was upset because of his role in all this, but he was doing everything he could to make it right. To fix what had gone wrong. Aliens continued to pour from the hole in the sky. "How many of them are there?" Isolde asked, leaning close so he could hear her over the sounds of the battle and the wind.

Loki glanced around. "More than you could possibly imagine, my love. They seemed endless to me, and maybe they are."

An endless army of armored Chitauri. The thought made her shudder. The aliens made for tough opponents for their trained companions. What devastation could they cause amongst the untrained Midgardians?

"There," Loki announced leaning forward. "I see the general. Hold on."

Isolde did as instructed as her prince steered the flying contraption into a steep dive. He banked to the right and they seamlessly slid into the space behind the general. "We've got eyes on the scepter," Isolde said into the ear piece. 

"Roger that," the archer responded. "Eyes on. Be alert."

Isolde frowned at his words wondering what exactly it was he meant to do. Couldn't they just speak plainly? Her eyes widened as an arrow flew threw the air and embedded itself in the side of the craft. "Well, that wasn't terribly effective," she muttered. Then the arrow in question exploded, sending the general and his craft crashing back down to the top of the large tower. 

The blow rocked their vehicle as well but Loki managed to keep it steady. He landed them on the roof and hurried after the alien. Isolde shot him one last look then headed for the scepter as she spotted it laying on the roof below her. 

***

"What are you talking about, Coulson?" Agent Oliver said in her earpiece. Her head was bowed and a hand was cupped over her ear so she could hear him better. The battle waged around her as the others continued to fight, oblivious to the conversation she was having with her old friend and mentor. 

"The council made the decision. Fury tried to stop them but he was too late. It's on the way to you now. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? All of these people are going to die and you're sorry? How do they know blowing them up will even work? What if the device keeps functioning and the portal stays open? The aliens will keep coming but there won't be anyone here to fight them. Did they even consider that?" Her breath came in pants between her words as every horrible possibility of what could go wrong flashed through her brain. 

"Breathe, Alyx," Coulson ordered and she sucked in a ragged, deep breath. 

"I've got to go," she said and pressed the earpiece to sever the connection. She struggled to focus and breathe. This was not the time to be having a panic attack. "Tony, did you hear that?" She knew the genius had his AI tap into everything he could, including private com channels.

"Yeah, I'm already on my way to intercept. Fury called me while you were talking to Coulson." He paused. "This isn't how I intended to do this, but I'm sorry." 

He wasn't talking about this moment, about the missile he was trying to stop. No, he was talking about a desert on the other side of the world and what had happened when she'd attempted to rescue a certain billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist. "It wasn't your fault, Stark. It's just one of the hazards of the job. Keep me from getting blown up and we'll call it even."

"That's a deal, Agent Oliver," he readily agreed. "J, let's save the city."

***

Isolde retrieved the scepter and ran for the machine, ready to shut it down. The green beast they called the Hulk had shown up and beaten the Chitauri to a pulp. He hadn't twitched since the last time he was slammed into the ground so she assumed he was dead. Loki was standing guard however to make certain. 

"I'm prepared to close the portal," Isolde announced. "Once I do, the Chitauri that are here will be stuck here. We'll have to eliminate them all. Should even one escape the result could be horrific."

"Understood," the captain answered. "Do it."

"Not yet," the metal man said and she paused with the scepter halfway through the force field that surrounded the device. "There is a  missile flying into the city and I know just where to put it."

"Would that be up a Chitauri's ass by any chance?" Raven Barton asked. Isolde smiled despite the circumstances. She liked these people that fought alongside them.  

"Inappropriate, agent," the Captain chastised. "Are you sure about this Tony? That's a one way trip."

Tony hummed. "I promised a pretty lady I wouldn't let her get blown up. I'm a man of my word."

They all watched as Stark and the missile flew into the portal. After a moment, the Chitauri fell dead around them. Even the large beasts that appeared to swim through the sky, fell, crushing the buildings beneath them. However, the metal man did not reappear. 

"Close it," the captain ordered.

Isolde  shot one last look to the sky but eased the scepter through the protective barrier until she could press the plate on the machine. The device powered down and the portal began to close. Their savior fell through at the last moment but he did not slow. Just as Isolde was about to yell for someone to save him, he was snatched from the air by the Hulk. 

Isolde tossed the scepter to the side and sank to the roof in exhaustion. In moments Loki was there, wrapping his arms around her. He held her against his chest before leaning back to look her over for injuries. He cupped her face in his hands. "I love you, my princess."

She looked into his clear, green eyes and smiled. "And I love you, my prince."

The Hulk let out a roar which caused both of them to jump just before the captain's voice came over the earpieces. "Stark is fine. I repeat, Stark is okay."

Relief flooded through Isolde and she sighed. Their companions had all survived. And they had saved Midgard. Surely, Odin himself would be proud of their success. 

[lakeshorestrcngler]

Shipping Questions

Which person in your OTP:

can’t stick to the grocery list Definitely Chucky, he comes home with cigs, alcohol, and snacks, and basically “forgets” everything else Tiff told him to get... so everything that’s actually important and required for their survival.

would be addicted to Netflix (and chill, if applicable) There was no Netflix in the 80s, but say there was - it would probably be Chucky. He could probably spend hours scrolling through, especially if Tiff happened to be doing the ‘chill’ part in his lap while he was.

manages the joint account They, uh... They tend to deal more in cash.

is the better city driver and why Tiff, even though Charles would never admit it. She’s the better driver in general, he gets too overwhelmed by road rage so she’s usually the designated driver.

walks around the house in their underwear Both, it’s their favourite past-time. I guess maybe Tiffany slightly more.

which one prefers to watch Game of Thrones and which one prefers the books GOT was also not a thing in the 80s. I can’t see either of them being particularly into it even if it was. Chucky might be slightly inclined to tuning in for the parts with sex and gore. Shameful considering I live in NI where a tonne of the production is done, yet have never seen it lol. I met the direwolves once though, saw the tapestry depicting the whole series, and am constantly near the filming locations. Oh also my ex was an extra on it.

has the higher alcohol tolerance Chucky does, his stomach is pretty much titanium at this point. Saying that, Tiff is no lightweight either.

instigates sex most often They are both absolute menaces with very high sex drives. Tiff is more likely to tease him into it, but Chucky is more likely the one to actually physically instigate.

likes having candles around the house Tiffany, and Chucky thinks they’re “fucking fire hazards.” 

always misses the clothes hamper Chuck, and he never bothers to pick up his clothes afterwards.

gets the first grey hair Chucky because he’s older and doesn’t dye his hair like Tiffany does.

is more protective They both are super protective, but probably Chucky. He’s killed for her over and over again, and will continue to do so.

prefers a quiet night in They both enjoy it equally, Tiffany would probably prefer to have her man at home all to herself rather than him being out killing (especially if it’s without her) so probably her slightly more. She’d love to make him a cute lil candlelit dinner like she did in Bride.