#maybe ill make this a series about torch

[lizpaige]

TORCH - all caps 🐱✨

They were at their townhouse in DC for once. Ronan hated it here, but this was technically Adam’s homebase for work and it was situated on the outskirts of the city, buried in foliage, secluded and quiet despite the location. Some might call it magic…

Their bedroom was cast in a warm glow from the sunroof overhead. Ronan had melted into the sheets the night before, the crisp white sheets, the down comforter, the always-fluffy pillows, the bed just enveloped him. He woke early in the morning to Adam’s arms wrapping around his waist, a gentle squeeze, before slipping back into a deep sleep. Ronan always slept better here. 

He woke slowly, paralyzed from whatever he brought back with him from his dream. He didn’t have any worry, his dream had been pleasant, uneventful, warm summer memories replayed from years ago, Adam’s hand holding his, Opal’s hooves stomping around the dirt of the Barns. Still, a part of him would always be vigilant despite that. He felt something soft cupped in his hands. Almost like a cotton puff or ball of yarn. He felt Adam stir beside him, somehow always in sync with his sleep cycle. 

Adam reached over to sling an arm around his waist, bury his head in his shoulder, grumble a “too early” complaint. Then Ronan heard him inhale sharply, his arm must have brushed against whatever he brought back with him. Or maybe Adam could just feel how coiled tight his body was. 

Ronan watched Adam sit up, gentle fingertips skimming up his forearms and prying open his tight grip. His eyes widened and his lips made a small oh shape. Ronan came back to himself abruptly, gasping. 

“What is it?” He sat up, keeping whatever it was close to him, far from Adam. The ball of fluff moved and his hands opened, dropping it into his lap. Adam reached out to scoop it up before Ronan could protest.

“Ronan Lynch,” Adam whispered in awe, holding the creature up to his face. “Did you dream the cutest kitten into existence?” 

Sure enough, the ball of white fuzz had tiny ears poking out, a small pink nose peeking through, and when Adam pressed the fur to his cheek, Ronan caught the widest blue eyes blinking back at him. 

Mrrp, the kitten chirruped, nuzzling at Adam’s cheek. 

Ronan’s cheeks burned. Every dreamt creature was enamored with Adam from the start. 

“I think this is the most telling thing you’ve ever brought back,” Adam teased, easing the kitten from his face and settling them gently in his lap. “And you dreamt up a shit ton of rose petals the first time we-”

“Okay, shut up, smartass,” Ronan interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment. 

“Fluffy kittens are roaming around in those dreams of yours?” Adam continued with a huff of laughter. The kitten was attempting to climb up Adam’s shirt to be held again and Adam obliged. “Big bad Ronan Lynch dreaming of the cutest kittens in the whole world and-”

“Whoa.”

As Adam eased the kitten off the blanket and raised them up, their fur became a mottled gray and then black, their eyes a mustard yellow, their back paws, buried in fur, were tipped white, the pads of their feet were bubblegum pink. 

“Cool party trick,” Ronan praised, reaching out his hands to take the kitten. “Can you be a bit more badass though?” he spoke to the kitten, ignoring Adam’s laughter. “You’re ruining my street cred.”

Seeming to get the message, the kitten jumped out of his grip and tumbled off the bed onto the floor. 

“Ronan!” 

They looked over the side of the bed to see the kitten transform again, this time their fur faded away and was replaced by bright orange and yellow flames. They were a little fireball with a feline face. Features that were once hidden by fur were now hidden by the blur and heat of the flames. Surprisingly, the fire was not spreadable; the kitten did not leave scorch marks on the floor, the rug, or the bedpost as they brushed up against it. The kitten purred happily, wide red eyes looking up at Ronan for approval. 

“Nice.”

The fire went out. Ronan leaned over the bed to scoop up the kitten with a wide grin and held them out to Adam, who was only barely shocked by the shapeshifting elemental creature, but took the now fur-covered kitten back slowly. 

“What’s her name?” Adam asked.

Ronan hummed, laying back against the headrest as he thought. “I think TORCH - all caps.”

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2023 21 Chains

Summary: The day that Avery Hawke found a chained dragon deep in a dungeon was a day that would change her life forever. Maybe she should stop picking up cool rocks...

---

Nothing like a dungeon to make Avery Hawke glad she could see in the dark.

Now, some may argue that a house wasn’t a dungeon, and they would be right. However, when the house on the coast had a cellar that went into an underground series of caves, then she was going to say it was a fucking cave.

And since she had the sword and shield, what she said stood.

They were there to find some lord’s sword that had been lost in one age or another. Honestly, she hadn’t been paying attention. She didn’t need to know the age or how it was lost – just that it was a sword, it was lost, here’s where it might be, and this was what she was going to be paid.

Avery was a simple woman that way. She left the details to those who cared about them.

“How deep does this damn thing go?”

Varric was grumbling next to her – he hated caves. Well, he hated everything that had to do with nature. It was part of his dwarven nature, or so he said. Really, he was a nerd who would’ve preferred staying in the Hanged Man and avoiding his editor, but that was a story for another day. In a way, she was doing him a favor by getting him into the fresh air and sunshine.

“It’s starting to level out.” Moses had his hand to the wall because unlike his favorite older sister, he was human and couldn’t see in the dark. “We should see the bottom soon.”

Avery didn’t need him to tell her that – she could hear it. The dripping was getting louder and louder, indicating they were getting close to a big room. How big, she wasn’t sure, but it was big enough to echo.

Electricity ran across her skin as she glanced over at Fenris. “You ready for a fight?”

Her lover – well, shared lover – had his hand by his sword. “If need be. But I believe we took care of the mercenaries up top. There may be none here.”

Maybe… but she could go for another round. She was itching for a fight thanks to the fact she had gotten kicked in the stomach. The reaver urges were burning bright, and she had nothing to use it on. It was like fire under her skin, making her twitch.

She needed something to sink her teeth into – animal, human, she’d bite a fucking rock if she had to in order to work the energy out.

The floor stopped sloping though, and the room opened up to a large cavern. Water dripped from stalactites and low torches burned around the room to provide faint sources of light. There were burnt bodies in a ring on the perimeter, covered in twisted, melted metal as if it had melted while they held it.

“What the-“

Avery’s eyes focused in the dark to the center of the room. There, chained to a platform, was a dragon. Was, because it was clearly dead. It hadn’t started decaying yet, but it wasn’t moving, and the number of spears and arrows sticking out of it was proof it was no longer with them.

At least it had gone down fighting – it had a qunari between its arms, head bitten off and front clawed to hell.

“Maker, who the hell could chain up a dragon?” Varric’s voice was barely above a whisper as he made out the details. “And why did the qunari want it?”

Fenris carefully edged forward to examine it. “Some qunari believe they can be controlled. They may have heard about this one and attempted it to ill effect. It had enough fight in it to put them down.”

That it did. Really, it was a magnificent beast, all obsidian black scales and dark purple wings. It was small though – probably not full grown. She had to wonder if it had ever made it outside to try those wings. Something about it made her stomach shift as she grit her teeth.

A dragon shouldn’t be chained. It should’ve been free.

“Well, we better look to see if the sword is here.” Moses stepped forward, the end of his staff glowing. “Spread out and look.”

Avery nodded as she headed towards the dragon. “I’ll check around the body. It might have been guarding it.”

The group broke after that, searching around the room for what they had come there for. Avery wound up in front of the corpse, poking around and hoping it hadn’t landed on the damn thing before it had died.

If it had, they were going to have to wait until it was bones… and that was a long time to wait for payment.

Her chest still went tight as she pressed her hand to the creature’s side. “I’m… sorry you had to go through this. It wasn’t right.”

It was her reaver side, no doubt, that made her heart call out to the poor thing.  Though, that didn’t stop her poking around the corpse to see if she could find the sword. She still had a job to do, after all.

A job she was failing at – no sword. Just a bunch of corpses, a few broken weapons, a couple loose scales…

And a really neat rock.

Avery blinked as she stopped walking. The dragon was on its side, and its tail was curled around something in death. Gently, she nudged the tail aside, revealing what it had been hiding. There were a number of rocks there, about the size of a small shield. Two of them were broken, leaking dark goo, but one was whole.

“Huh… that’s neat.” Avery reached out, one finger brushing against the surface. Thunder struck as a deep sound reverberated in her ears in a strange, quick pattern that her heart sped up to match.

She fell back hard, groaning as her bony ass hit the ground. As soon as she broke contact, the sound stopped. Yet, she could see in the dark that the surface was shimmering a little, as if her touching it had activated it.

“What the fuck?” Avery, never one for being sensible, reached out to touch the rock again. Just as she thought, the rhythmic pattern returned. It wasn’t like she was hearing it – instead, she was sure she felt it.

It felt… kind of like a heartbeat.

“Avery, are you alright?”

Fenris voice drew her away from her thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder – he had the sword in his arms and concern written all over his face. No doubt it was because she had landed so hard, but it was kind of his job to be worried when his girlfriend did something stupid.

She stood, glancing back to the rock. “I found this weird pulsating rock… thing. It’s neat.”

That made Fenris cock an eyebrow as he approached. “A weird… pulsating rock?”

Avery nodded as she pointed. “Yeah, it’s between the tail and body. Every time I touch it, it starts pulsing. What do you think it is?”

It wasn’t a bomb – she would be dead by now – but that was as far as she got. Magic wasn’t exactly her domain, so if it was mage-made she was in the dark. All she could hope was that they could pick it up and bring it home.

Fenris reached out carefully, laying his hand on the sword. He held it there for a second, face quizzical, before he pulled it back. He then stood back, shaking his head as he gave her a confused look.

“I felt no pulsating.”

“You didn’t?” Avery frowned as she reached out again. As if on cue, the sensation started anew. “It’s doing it right now!”

That just got her another confused look. “Are you sure you were not injured during the fight?”

No, she knew what a concussion felt like… this wasn’t it. What it happened to be was frustrating, especially because he didn’t seem to feel it. She would’ve said it was the armor, but she was wearing gloves.

Go fucking figure…

“Well, I’m taking it with me.” She grunted as she pulled it away from the goo, almost stumbling back. “Maker’s scrote, it’s heavy! Must be full of that goo!”

The sensation was still there, annoying as ever, but it settled in as she fit it into her pack. At least it was insulated by the material and allowed her to carry it without feeling off. Better yet, since they had found the sword they were going to get paid.

She liked getting paid… almost as much as she liked a mystery trinket.

---

That night, Avery found herself unable to sleep once again. So, what better time was there to experiment with her new toy?

“Alright, let’s see what you are.”

She hefted the egg onto the table in her workroom, grunting from effort. Under the torchlight, she could see it was the same black color as the dragon with some inclusions of dark purple. Obsidian, maybe, or something with amethyst?

“Definitely not a natural gem… maybe it’s made by the dwarves to hold something?” She grabbed a hammer from her tool chest and glanced over the surface. “Let’s see how hard you are.”

Avery tapped lightly and instantly regretted it. A soundless ring of energy shook the room, making her vision go blurry. She dropped the hammer, holding her head and grimacing as pain beat behind her eyes.

“Ok, ok, sorry! I won’t do that again!”

Why she was apologizing to a rock, she didn’t know, but it worked. The pain stopped, and she could see clearly again. Her hammer hadn’t left a mark, so she hadn’t damaged it at the very least.

So… hitting it was a bad idea.

“Alright, so you don’t like being hit.” Avery frowned as she rubbed her hand on the surface. Before, it had been hot to the touch, but now it was starting to cool. “And… you’re getting kind of cold actually…”

She had a small forge in the room for more complex metal work. Something about the cool rock made her think shoving it in there was a good idea. Maybe if it melted she could figure out what was inside it?

It took some time to get the forge hot, but soon it was blazing and sweat was dripping down her forehead. Avery wiped it with the back of her hand, then glanced back to her specimen. Carrying it over was going to be a pain…

But she did it. She felt like she had to.

Soon, the rock was nestled amid the flames, almost glowing under the heat. Avery stood there, watching as it glittered in the fire. She wasn’t sure why she was watching – it would be bad if it shattered, maybe?

Weird that it wasn’t glowing hot, though… was it not hot enough?

“This is stupid, I’m heating up a rock and expecting something…” Avery shook her head. “I must be tired…”

She trailed off at the sound of cracking. Her sharp eyes realized a crack was slowly beginning to form down the center, glowing red. Cracking was never good – it meant explosions. She wasn’t going to risk pulling it out and getting cut, so she did the only thing she could.

Time to hit the deck and roll for cover.

Just as Avery found a safe place to shield herself, the cracking sound grew louder. Then came the sound of it splitting – half fell out of the forge and lay smoking on the ground. The other half was in the forge still…

And there was a bubbling sound.

“What the hell?”

Avery grabbed a shield she had been working on and approached the flames in case it spit or cracked at her. At first, all she saw was the fire and the other half of the rock, glowing in the heat. It looked normal.

Then she saw the… thing… sitting on the top of the forge.

It… was a little thing, jet black and shiny as if it was wet. It was shaking off, sending the goo in a circle around it. Then it stretched out its arms – no, wings, it had wings – and opened its tiny mouth to show sharp needle teeth.

Two eyes peered at her, bright purple, and it let out a squeaking noise.

“… It was an egg.” Avery’s voice came out flat as she got a little closer. “The dragon had a nest… you’re its baby.”

She had a baby dragon in her workroom.

The little dragon’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice. It fluttered its little wings and let out a peeping sound, as if it wanted her to come closer. No doubt it wanted to bite her – it was no doubt hungry – but she found herself drawing closer, hand outstretched.

“Please don’t bite me, I’d really appreciate it…”

Her hand found the top of the dragon’s head. In that moment, a soundless grinding of metal rang out and everything grew red hot. Avery fell back hard on the floor, groaning as her vision spun and the world made no sense.

Then the dragon landed on her stomach.

“Oww…” she glanced up. “I guess I should’ve clarified don’t do any weird shit, huh. You’re not going to eat me, are you?”

The dragon cocked its head, as if it understood her to some degree. Then its little head reached out, bumping under her chin. It crawled up, nestling itself on her chest with its head under hers, breathing slowly.

It… was taking a nap on her.

“Really, you just hatched and you’re already tired?” Avery chuckled softly as she reached out to pat it on the head. It was softer than she expected… almost squishy, honestly. “Guess I’m going to call you Squishy then, you’ve got some hardening up to do.”

Squishy didn’t respond because it was fast asleep. Moving was out of the question for the moment – it was rude to wake a baby. No doubt in the morning she was going to have to figure out what the hell she was going to have to do with it.

What did dragons eat anyway? Templars? She could probably find one…

“We’ll try a bunch of meat tomorrow, see what you like. You’re not allowed to eat Chewy or Dog, got it?” She paused. “Or any of Anders’ cats… or the dwarves… or anyone in the house ,ok? My friends are off limits when you get bigger.”

Laying ground rules was important, right?

She would worry about it in the morning. Right then, Avery was content to pat Squishy and watch the little dragon sleep peacefully on her chest. No doubt her back was going to kill her when it was all over, but she didn’t mind.

Weird, she had never wanted to be a parent… now she had a baby dragon to worry about. Life was weird sometimes.

[katatonicimpression]

Thoughts about the Iceman mini series a few weeks on:

I'm surprised by how positive I still feel about it. I was expecting my enthusiasm to be at least 70% "new content finally omg" and fade a lot over time, but actually I still feel really good about it.

Thinking about what other people have said:

A lot of the backlash I've seen is from people who just really don't vibe with the art style which is a) completely valid but b) not really a complaint I care about. Like, for instance, I can't watch Rick and Morty - the animation makes me feel physically ill idk it's so off-putting - but I couldn't use that as an argument for or against the overall quality of the show. It's not bad necessarily - it's just a style I don't like. It's just one of those things.

I've seen some people complain about the Romeo thing, and tbh I really don't care. Some people have made it out to be problematic, but I don't buy into that, which I've talked about elsewhere. And I've also seen some people complain that Romeo isn't really an independent character and it's bad for that reason. This is funny to me because Bobby's last love interest was Christian and that was the biggest non-event let's be real.

It's fine if Bobby goes on dates with a side character. Like, I cannot stress enough how much it is not a problem that he has a random love interest that isn't a pre-existing major character. And it's weird to see people suggesting "fixes" to this that are just ludicrous ideas narrative-wise? Maybe people need to stop viewing characters' relationships as their assigned endgame ship, and instead see this storylines as what they are. i.e. stories.

Some negatives:

I think my biggest worry about this in general has nothing to do with the mini-series itself, and has more to do with Duggan, and Bobby's writing outside of his solo appearences.

I can't imagine anything from this series being revisited or continued by Duggan in a way that isn't just plain awful. I think Vecchio's done a good job of filling in the void left by Marauders, but what good does that do if he spends another few years in limbo? I can appreciate the series as its own, standalone thing. But still - I have very low expectations going forward.

The global warming thing is a funny thing to bring up, but idk maybe it would be funnier as a tweet. I do like the ever present implication that 616 earth just has way worse pollution and eco damage than the real world, and that's why the Storm and Bobby can't fix everything. Maybe whatever Tony Stark is up to is just environmental poison. Maybe the human torch's carbon footprint really is that bad.

Another thing I've thought of is that there are aspects of Bobby's character that didn't get explored here and maybe could have been. Bobby's dad is Catholic, and his mum is Jewish. This didn't get brought up in this comic at all, and it's not like it had to be, but like. Ok, so the way I interpret it is that the mixed nature of Bobby's heritage is less about his own beliefs and lifestyle (you never get the impression he's particularly religious in the first place, or that he has any angst about fusing the two different cultural traditions), but more about the way he feels inadequate and out-of-place. Like, he's got all these insecurities and imposter syndrome, and his childhood experience of "I don't belong anywhere" is a part of that. I bring it up because THIS IS TOTALLY RELEVANT to the themes of this series and could have fit in seamlessly.

Some positives:

Related to the last thing, I did really appreciate how the series directly confronts the "living up to your potential" thing and calls it out as a false and harmful way of understanding his life. Yes, this was the original unsubtle theme of the 90s storyline, but seeing as Duggan seems to not understand it, it's worth repeating it. Bobby does belong, he's not an imposter. I really appreciate this.

I also think Vecchio is good at handling the omega mutant thing. Like, ok so if you're writing Storm or Magneto or whoever, you know that it's never a question of whether or not they can do The Impressive Thing with their powers. It's a matter of when and how, and what their internal journey is like. This is not super complicated by hey, Duggan struggles with it so I guess it's worth spelling out. It's not inherently impressive or interesting for Bobby to get really big, or survive an injury, or freeze a lot of stuff. And it's weird for him to brag about it when he does. It's about putting something creative on the page, and about feeling feelings.

I loved the bit about being distant from humanity. That was on point for the character.

He should get to keep the facial hair.

He's being drawn too blue in other comics. Vecchio goes for mostly white with blue accents and that's fine, but not the only way of doing things. There are tons of good blue Icemen out there. But he shouldn't be looking like Dr. Manhattan. Just move that cursor up a little bit on the old colour diamond. Please. For me.

[multific]

Wind of Change (Part 1/3)

Jaskier x Enchantress!Reader

Summary: One day two men come to your castle, just when you were already done with love, a certain bard catches your eye. 

Part 2

There is a legend of a woman who can grant all of your wishes. It is said that she was a normal woman, she fell in love with a man, a soldier. The soldier however, never loved her, only used her. And one evening as intruders got into her house, she begged for her life. The soldier saw what was happening, but walked away, pretending not to see. It is said that the way her heart broke could be heard all across the land. And as the intruders left the woman, half-dead in her home, something happened, as she awaited her death, the darkness pulled her in, creating a being greater than all.

Shortly after the people who killed her died in the most horrible ways. And lastly, the soldier died as well. His body was stuck to a pole to shame him.

Every person feared her, but some were brave enough to meet her. She lived in the deepest forest, a castle, tucked into a mountain. The people who met her without any ill intentions were granted their wishes, but of course, all paid a big price. 

She lived there for centuries.

Then as the times passed, people built a village near her home. Thinking that she was only a myth. If it wasn’t for one man, who saw her. Late at night, as he was heading home, people wouldn’t believe in her till this day. 

The woman had long hair, barely had any clothing and was dripping in jewels. However, the most terrifying thing about her were her eyes. Dark as the night. 

As she walked a dark aura followed her. She was barefoot and the way she moved. Like a snake.

The next morning, the whole village panicked. Thinking a monster is roaming their home, they needed it gone.

And what better way to get rid of monsters then a Witcher?

Geralt and Jaskier arrived to the village by chance hiding from a big storm. The villagers were rather happy to have a Witcher there.

So, they brought the man in to explain what he saw.

“If this witch of yours didn’t hurt anyone, why would I kill her?”

“She is a threat!” one villager said.

“Yes! She is doing something, she could hurt us or steal our children!” someone at the back yelled.

“Geralt?” asked Jaskier as his friend got up from the table. 

The Witcher was already entering the forest when Jaskier caught up to him. 

“Are you going to kill her?” he asked once he finally caught up to Geralt. Geralt didn’t answer just walked further into the forest following his senses.

Geralt knew without a doubt that the witch who had been seen at the village was a very powerful being. 

After a few hours of walking, the two men stopped in their tracks. Standing in front of a huge castle. It was old, but still perfectly intact, built into the great mountain.

Geralt took a deep breath.

“She is in there.” he said. “And she knows that we are here.” 

The bard looked up at the big windows and saw a shadow behind one, he was sure it was someone or something as it soon moved. Jaskier gulped, if it wasn’t for the sun already setting, he wouldn’t have followed his friend into the building.

They walked closer, over by the bridge, Jaskier did what he shouldn’t have and looked down, he was greeted by darkness, he couldn’t even see the bottom of the hole.

The big oak door creaked as it opened. 

“Shouldn’t you...you know...get your sword ready?” asked Jaskier.

“Whatever lives here, a sword would be useless.” said Geralt and now Jaskier was terrified. 

The castle was even bigger on the inside, two stairs coming right down by the sides of the room. Three long hallways, one by their sides and one in front of them, they could only imagine how this place looked like.

“But.. then how will you kill her?” Jaskier was now whispering.

Then the door behind them clammed shut. Making Jaskier jump and Geralt quickly turned. Jaskier watched as Geralt spoke to the darkest spot in the room.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“The villagers sent you to kill me.” answered a woman. Possibly the most calming and beautiful voice any of them ever heard.

“I have no reason to. Those people are wrong. If you wanted to hurt them, you would have already.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” said the woman as he took a step forward coming out of the dark.

Both men’s eyes widened. She looked just like the man explained, breathtaking yet the dark fog that followed her scared both.

“I’m just here to talk. If I don’t take proof back that you are dead, they will send another man to kill you.”

“You are no man, you are a Witcher.”

“And what are you?” Jaskier asked. The woman finally looked at him, as if she now only realized the other man in the room. Geralt watched as her face light up, her lips moving to a smile.

“Enchantress. And may I know your name?” she asked with a flirty voice as she batted her lashes at the bard. Geralt couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Jaskier.” the bard was clearly scared and very confused. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz.“ she said.

She slightly moved, this is when Geralt noticed the crescent moon shaped medal around her neck. It wasn’t as the man said, she didn’t wear a lot of jewelry, she wore one. It’s just that one was crafted around her body, like clothing.

“How do you know my name?” 

“I know everything.” she whispered into his ear. Jaskier jumped as she was suddenly now behind him. “I like you. Handsome as well.” she said running the back of her fingers down his cheek.

Jaskier begged Geralt to save him, but Geralt did nothing.

“As I said, I need proof, anything. And they will leave you alone. You can continue living here.”

She pouted.

“I’m done living alone. Maybe I can go with you or you can stay here with me.” she said looking Jaskier right in the eyes.

“G-Geralt can we talk alone for a minute?” he asked as he grabbed Geralt’s shoulder and walked further into the castle, stopping by the stairs.

Jaskier looked at the woman then at Geralt.

“What the fuck is going on? And what the fuck is an enchantress?” 

“I heard of one. Do you know the story of the woman who was in love with that soldier? The one who betrayed her?”

“Of course, they tell that to children and unfaithful men so they would behave.”

“I think that’s her.”

“What?” Jaskier tried to lover his voice as he looked back at the woman, it was rapidly getting dark in the castle.

“Just let me talk.” said Geralt as he walked back to her. She had her back turned.

Suddenly she lifted her arms, all torches and lanterns were lit at the same time, illuminating the main hall.

“What do yo wish for the most, Geralt of Rivia? I can grant anything for you in exchange I wish to keep your friend.”

“No.” Geralt said stopping behind her. 

“That’s sad. I don’t plan on giving you anything, “proof” as you said. I can kill anyone who comes here with bad intentions. Stay the night, but in the morning you will leave.” she turned to take one last look at the two man before she walked away, up the stairs.

Both of the men’s eyes followed her as she moved. Geralt didn’t want to stay, he really didn’t but he also didn’t wish to walk back to the village so late. He needed a plan otherwise the villagers will have questions. Geralt groaned as he looked at Jaskier.

He was the one the enchantress showed interest in, maybe ha can use Jaskier in some way to convince her.

To be continued...

Part 2

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Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank You for reading my story!~

A/N: This is going to be a 3 part mini series. I hoped you enjoyed part 1, I will be posting part 2 next week. 

[aion-rsa]

Midnight Mass: It’s Time to Talk About That Monstrous Twist

https://ift.tt/39I2zkp

This article contains huge spoilers for Midnight Mass. So help me God if you read this without watching the series first…

The version of Midnight Mass that Netflix advertised still would have made for a compelling horror series. 

An isolated, insular island community? Great. A young, charismatic preacher suddenly coming to town to shake things up? Perfect. That preacher proving capable of performing minor miracles? Love it, no notes! 

Of course, as viewers who have watched at least four episodes of the seven-episode series now know, Midnight Mass has one extra supernatural twist in mind that elevates an already interesting story to true mind-blowing status. Critics were understandably asked to keep this aspect of the show a secret before it premiered. So please indulge me as I finally slay these embargo demons and get it off my chest.

Vampires. Vampires! V-A-M-P-I-R-E-S. VAMPIRES! VAMPIRES VAMPIRES VAMPIRES! Literally like Dracula. And Nosferatu. Anne Rice’s Lestat. Stephen King’s ‘Salem’s Lot. Vampires. VAMPIRES, BRO, VAMPIRES.

For creator Mike Flanagan, a filmmaker influenced by all manner of classic horror, bringing the fanged bloodsuckers to life was a long time coming.

“My favorite vampire movie is (Werner) Herzog’s Nosferatu,” Flanagan told Den of Geek and other outlets prior to the premiere of Midnight Mass. “That film is the vampire story as high art. I also adore From Dusk Till Dawn. I read Dracula young enough for it to really burrow in for me. And I read ‘Salem’s Lot early enough to color an enormous amount of work that I’ll do for the rest of my life.”

Midnight Mass’s depiction of the mythological undead beast and how it can neatly fit into Christian dogma is one of the most satisfying horror twists in years. Now that the truth is out, let’s discuss Midnight Mass and how it conflates vampires and biblical angels. 

Mistaking a Vampire for an Angel

The interesting thing about Midnight Mass is that it clearly takes place in a universe where the average person has no knowledge of what a vampire is. Even Sarah Gunning (Annabeth Gish), arguably the most well-read person on Crockett Island, has to do some research into “porphyria cutanea tarda” (a.k.a. the real life “vampire disease”). This is similar to The Walking Dead’s approach to zombies, in which the “z” word and George A. Romero’s name are never spoken. This strategy in Midnight Mass allows for a truly fascinating case of mistaken identity.

While viewers immediately know that the creature Monsignor John Pruitt (Hamish Linklater) encounters is a vampire, he believes it to be an angel. Given how studied Pruitt is in the Bible and Cathloic theology, it’s entirely understandable why he would think a tall, muscular, bald-headed beast with fangs and leathery wings is an angel. As it turns out, the angels of the Old Testament can be truly terrifying. 

Not all angels are soft-featured human-like creatures with fluffy white bird wings. Some, like Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones are designed to intimidate God’s enemies. In the New Testament’s Book of Luke, an angel visits Zechariah and immediately asks him to “be not afraid” because the angel can see the poor guy absolutely shaking in his boots upon his arrival. Angels being terrifying is even something of an Internet meme, with users contrasting the phrase “be not afraid” with images of truly monstrous beasts. 

Not only does Pruitt’s vampire have the vague appearance of an angel, it also apparently holds the secrets to eternal life as promised in the Bible. By merely drinking some of the “angel’s” blood, a good Christian can live forever just like God says. Does that blood-drinking sacrament sound familiar? It did to Mike Flanagan.

“In Bible school I used to say ‘if the wine turns into Jesus’s blood literally and we’re drinking it so that we can live forever … that seems like a short leap to vampiric myth.’”

Of course, drinking the angel’s fluids in the case of Midnight Mass also leads to some unwanted side effects like a thirst for blood and extreme sensitivity to sunlight. Thankfully, good ol’ Bev Keane always has a Bible quote ready to go for that. When read through the proper perspective, the Holy Bible may as well be the original vampire story. 

The Rules of Vampirism

“The thing that I love about the vampire as a cinematic tool is how malleable it is,” Flanagan says. “We all agree that there is no canon. There are no rules. In fact, part of the joy is seeing what rules people cherry pick as they approach a vampire story.”

All depictions of vampires are indeed quite different. Vampires can range from the classic Stoker-ian monster to Twilight’s nigh-invulnerable sparkle bois. Midnight Mass’s version of the vampire leans towards the classic, albeit with some tweaks. In terms of appearance, The Angel (as we will be calling Midnight Mass’s O.G. vampire for simplicity’s sake) has a more bestial look like Nosferatu rather than an aristocratic one like Count Dracula or Anne Rice’s creations. 

“We winked at (Nosferatu the Vampyr actor) Klaus Kinski a few times when we designed our guy,” Flanagan says.

Though the Angel resembles Nosferatu in appearance, its vulnerabilities owe more to Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles. Religious iconography does not appear to hurt the Angel nor its thralls. Traditional human weapons like bullets or blades also do no harm (at least not mortally). These vampires are, however, tremendously susceptible to both fire and sunlight. Exposure to the latter for even a few seconds is enough to kill the Angel and his many acolytes. 

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Like in Rice’s works as well, the path to creating a new vampire is quite simple. Step 1: Drink its blood. Step 2: Die. In Dracula and ‘Salem’s Lot, the method of vampire creation is merely being bit by one, zombie-style. Rice and Flanagan’s approach is quite a bit more intentional and interesting. It also opens the door for perhaps Midnight Mass’s most ingenious storytelling quirk: communion. John Pruitt is able to get nearly the entirety of Crockett Island to become a vampire by spiking the communion wine with his buddy’s blood. Then, all that remains is for them to poison themselves to death, Jonestown-style. 

The mass “resurrection” scene in which the congregation awakes as their new vampire selves also provides some insight to just how hard it is to contain the vampire’s overwhelming hunger. Riley Flynn was able to resist it when he turned because John Pruitt babysat him like a psychedelic mushroom guide. The plan for the rest of the congregation was to have their babysitters as well but that didn’t quite work out. Still, Riley’s dad Ed makes it clear to his wife Annie, that even if it’s hard to resist the call for blood, it’s not impossible. 

“When I saw them at the church, I thought it was something they really couldn’t help. Like something impossible not to do. But it isn’t, Annie,” he says.

Maybe if more vampires were like Ed Flynn, a whole island full of vampires wouldn’t be too bad of a thing in the first place. 

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How to Defeat a Vampire

While every vampire story presents its own unique take on the creature, the answer on how to defeat a vampire is usually the same: by doing it together.

“We poor humans only have so much that we can give,” Flanagan says. “We’re ill-equipped as individuals to make any kind of meaningful stand. The only way evil in the world can be brought down is through collective effort. That’s something Stoker understands inherently. It’s clearly something King understands.”

Alongside the aforementioned Bram Stoker and Stephen King, Flanagan presents a small team of humans at story’s end who will do what it takes to defeat evil, even if it means dying in the process. Erin Greene (Kate Siegel), Dr. Sarah Gunning, Sheriff Hassan (Rahul Kohli), Annie Flynn (Kristin Lehman), Warren Flynn (Igby Rigney), and Leeza Scarborough (Annarah Cymone) are the six residents of Crockett Island brave enough to try to take down the Angel. All but two (Warren and Leeza) die. They do succeed in eliminating the immediate threat on Crockett Island but it’s possible the Angel made it away to suck blood another day, damaged wings and all.

What’s interesting about Midnight Mass’s “final crew” is that six appears to be the magic number when it comes to taking down a vampire. Stoker’s Dracula has six heroes: Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker nèe Murray, Arthur Holmwood (Lord Godalming), John Seward, Quincey Morris, and Abraham Van Helsing (of which, only poor American cowboy Quincey Morris dies). King’s ‘Salem’s Lot also has six: Ben Mears, Matt Burke, Susan Norton, Mark Petrie, Jimmy Cody, and Father Callahan (of which, decidedly more than one of them die). This strange bit of arithmancy is something we asked Flanagan about.

“The number was certainly not intentional,” he says. “Once it was clear that Riley was not going to be carrying the torch to the end it really was about asking ‘who are the characters who seem in the very beginning to be at a disadvantage and how do we empower them in the end?’ This was gonna be played out by Sarah Gunning, Sheriff Hassan, and everyone else who would get to just give a little piece.”

Considering that Erin and company were outnumbered about 117 to six, it was a pretty good showing for Crockett Island’s last humans standing.

All seven episodes of Midnight Mass are available to stream on Netflix now.

The post Midnight Mass: It’s Time to Talk About That Monstrous Twist appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3CPaitL

[janekfan]

omg you're taking prompts?? best day EVER!!! i was thinking. season 2, where jon is complaining about some kind of illness/pain that's actually worse than he's letting on? maybe elias sends jon, tim, and martin on some kind of gay little errand and jon's either really ill or already hurt, and he keeps trying to communicate that he really wants to go back to the hotel and lie down, but they're so angry with him that they assume the worst? then, comfort :) if you don't like this i can try again!

@taylortut :D I hope you like it!

6 hours and 47 minutes.

The average amount of time it took the train to travel from the London station to Edinburgh.

And that being if they didn’t run into some sort of delay. Or hit a cow. Rupture the fuel line and be trapped on the tracks for the rest of the day.

Jon massaged his temples, shifting uncomfortably on the hard cushion that honestly might as well not exist for how much good it was doing him. Barely back from their mandatory thirty days leave after the Prentiss, Elias, the prat, sent them away to investigate the vaults beneath the city regarding the murders committed by Burke and Hare nigh 200 years ago.

And Jon really, really didn’t want to.

He’d been looking forward to sitting in the dark of his office and going through statements at a snail's pace and possibly, possibly skiving off early because he hurt and hadn’t been sleeping well because of it. The injuries left behind had been deep and damaging and he'd walked out of the hospital with a brand new cane. Leaning against the window and easing the weight off his left side, Jon tried to let the scenery slipping by lull him at least a little bit. Tim and Martin were spending the majority of their time in the dining car sampling the assortment courtesy of Elias’ generous travel budget and that was fine by him. While Martin may be better at hiding it, both of them were quite angry with him and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to the next week spent in their company.

Pain exploded in his bones, waking him from his nap and he whacked his head against the window blinking hard, breathing shallow, as he gathered his wits about him and took in Martin sitting across from him.

“Tim,” he admonished, setting a cup of tea down in front of Jon and turning the handle toward him. “Should perk you up a bit; you look tired.”

“Yeah, Boss.” Tim mocked him, prodded a particularly sore spot on his side. “Drink your tea.” Jon chose to ignore him.

“Th’thank you, Martin.” He spoke low, shrinking away, into himself, and holding the warmth close to his chest, checking his watch: two hours and change. Surely it wouldn’t be this awkward between them the whole week?

Jon was often wrong and this experience would prove no different as he pushed himself as fast as possible following Tim and Martin, the tip of his cane clacking unevenly on the cobblestones. It was dark and he had no desire to be caught alone on the streets at night, sure that whatever else had complaints with them wouldn’t hesitate.

“Tim, slow down.”

“Ah, sorry, Marto.” Jon looked away, feeling the heavy weight of Tim’s gaze press down across his shoulders and he almost stumbled beneath it, catching himself and thankful he’d chosen a backpack instead of luggage. “Tired from the train?”

“I happen to be, yes.” Authoritative, eyes cast pointedly forward. “Besides, it’s a nice night. Let me enjoy being away from the Archives for a moment, won’t you?” Tim laughed, pounding Martin on the back, and the two discussed going out for drinks at the various pubs they passed along the way. While grateful for the decreased pace, Jon was isolated and alone, throat closing up so tight it was like choking, face turning hot, but he refused to cry.

He’d dug this grave. He’d have to lie in it.

Unable to stand one moment more after climbing the stairs to their room, Jon collapsed heavily to the couch, digging his knuckles into his thigh in an attempt to stop the awful seizing in his muscles. His whole body was trembling with fatigue and when Tim suggested it was the perfect time to head into the Vaults he could have kissed Martin for insisting he was too tired tonight because he knew he was only saying it for Jon’s benefit and he didn’t understand why. How could he...after all. He hated him and he still--

“Well, I call rooming with Martin and there’s just one bed. That leaves the couch for your skinny arse, Boss.” He batted big dark eyelashes at Martin, making the other man blush furiously and sputter and despite himself Jon smiled, just a little, bidding them a quiet good night neither of them would hear through the door between them.

He could tell already he wouldn’t be getting much sleep, if any at all. The pain wasn’t anything sharp anymore, just a low level throb impossible to ignore, and no amount of adjusting or staying still or squeezing his fists so tight crescent moons were bit into his palms would change that. So he laid there, in the dark of an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar city, filled with unfamiliar sounds and listened to the deep and even synchrony of his employees’ breath. More street lights kicked on, the glow pleasant if only because he could see, transforming eerie shadows into shapes he could identify. Jon nibbled his bottom lip, shifted, pushed his feet into the cushions to exert pressure? Release pressure? He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to accomplish other than keeping himself quiet.

Dragging his bag over he dug blindly through it for the bottle of paracetamol settled at the bottom, fighting with the child safety cap and tipping too many pills into his hand. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t touch it. Not really. But hoping for a placebo effect was better than writhing in agony and Jon swallowed them dry because getting up wasn’t an option. Rigid, shivering, he pulled up the blanket, trying to take comfort in its weight and the sun was coming up by the time heavy lashes fell shut over tired, burning eyes.

“Wakey, wakey, Boss!” Jon jerked violently awake, whole body thrumming in panic and pain before he had the sense to realize what was happening and by then Tim was gone.

“Sorry Jon, I tried to distract him.” Sheepish, Martin offered up a small smile and a cup of tea, setting it on the low table beside the couch. “You alright?” He’d relaxed back into the cushions, trying to gain back any of the soft, drifting nothingness he’d finally succumbed to and failing miserably. Good lord, he wasn’t well.

“Just fine, Martin.” Rubbing away the remnants of sleep, Jon struggled upright and took a sip. “Thank you.” Strong and dark and perfect, the caffeine would help. “When, what time are we investigating the Vaults?”

“Midnight or so? There will be fewer people on the streets then.” Silence broken only by Tim’s puttering in the room settled between them. “We’re hoping to sight see, be proper tourists for the day.”

“Ah.” He hid his disappointment behind the rim of his cup. Of course they would. Of course and they deserved it. “That sounds like a fine idea.” It didn’t. He wouldn’t make it, surely. Almost choking on his tea when his jacket came down over his head, Jon sputtered and coughed, catching a glimpse of Tim slipping on his trainers.

“And you’re not getting out of it.” Martin reacted to Jon's sigh with exasperation and hurt.

"Look, Jon. I know you'd rather be anywhere than with the two of us, but try to enjoy yourself?" And while that wasn't entirely true Jon was unfortunately too much a coward to refute it.

Which is how he found himself here, now. Nauseated, Jon sipped carefully on some juice, sitting stock still in his chair and watching Martin and Tim sample almost everything on the menu. He’d been dragged through the city and while he’d enjoyed some of the history and honestly their company, the pain cast a dark pall over the day. It was only on his third try asking for a break that they passed a pub and Martin suggested supper, and not a moment too soon. Even with the cane and Jon's white knuckle grip on his self control, his leg felt ready to give way.

“Come on,” Tim cajoled, tongue loose and on his third pint. “Don’t you want to waste Elias’ money with us?”

“Not that hungry I’m afraid, but go on. Looks good and you mustn't forget dessert.”

"Martin! You heard the boss-man!" After sitting in the low light, resting for a bit, Jon felt up to a drink, enjoying how it blurred everything at the edges and dulled the worst of it so quickly on an empty stomach.

When they returned to the room for a nap prior to their excursion, Jon barely remembered passing out on the couch.

It was cold, the jacket completely useless against the underground chill and his exposed fingers were numb on the handle of his cane, on the torch. Long after this happened, Jon asked for a reprieve. They’d been down here for hours already and they had all week so with no leads they could come back another night, couldn't they? It had fallen on deaf ears and when he tried to speak up again, this time because he’d fallen more than a few steps behind, it was clear he just needed to tough it out. Obviously, he was supposed to be handling this better and he was only embarrassing himself by being overly dramatic. Gritting his teeth, Jon pushed himself faster, catching back up only to lose ground seconds later.

“I’m. I’m sorry. I.” Why was this so hard? Asking for help, for a break, to go back and just please stop standing up. “Could we. Could we take a moment? Just. I mean--”

“Spit it out!” Tim’s frustration echoed painfully in the enclosed space, bouncing off walls and striking Jon from all angles like a series of blows. “We don’t have time for whatever you’re on about.”

We don’t have time.

“Leave off, Tim.” Something caught Martin’s eye and he veered away from the pair of them.

We don’t have time for you.

Stop it.

Stop being a child.

“Of course. Yes. Push on.”

Sick with exhaustion and shaking from pain, Jon was falling further and further behind, the torch losing its effectiveness as the dark closed in, heavy, tight, suffocating. He couldn’t call out. They wouldn’t. He. They’d made how they felt clear and asking again would only be shameful. But his cane wasn’t enough anymore and it dropped from his ennervated fingers, clattering to the ground while he held onto the wall with both hands. He’d be lost here, buried here, in the oppressive black, his body saved by the End for experimentation and dissected by medical students and he didn't think he cared about being forgotten but the thought of it felt far too real. He sobbed. It echoed. And he clapped his hands over his mouth and let the tears glance off them as he slid to the ground.

He’d just hide here. In the dark behind his eyelids, stifling the pathetic sounds forcing their way up his throat and between his teeth. If he was quiet he wouldn’t be found, nothing could find him if he was quiet. Not the things scuttling around in the black, not the pain doing its level best to gnaw its way through his skin, not the overwhelming weariness clawing open his chest, between his ribs.

“Jon!” He flinched. He hurt. He curled tighter despite it. He didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. “J--Christ, Jon.” Martin’s heavy footsteps slowed to a stop on the stone in front of him, shifted nervously. “Hey, what’s. Jon? What’s wrong?”

“M’.” But it was so much more than that and he didn’t know how to explain, so he didn’t and Martin’s voice came from above him.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn't you say it was this bad? ” But he had. He had tried. Hadn’t he? After being ignored he thought he was just being needy and dramatic. Annoying. Tim had similar injuries and he was fine. Jon ducked his head into folded arms, shoulders hitching with a shaky breath. He didn’t know what to say or how to justify how bad off he was.

“S’sorry.” He’d have to stand in a moment. To continue the investigation and even the thought made him want to cry. “Just need a. N’need.” But it hurt so much and when the next breath he reached for broke open he heard Martin sigh heavily, shoes scuffing the ground and this time his words were at his level.

“I’m sorry, Jon. You. You did tell us. We just didn’t listen. Thought you were cross at being sent here with us.” A warm palm enveloped his forearm. “What do you need?”

“N’nothing. Just.” Deep breath. Relax. You’re alright. “I’ll be ready in, in a m’moment.” Thick and hoarse, he didn’t want Martin to see his face. He didn’t want to see the disgust in his. “You, you go on. Tim shouldn’t be alone.”

“And you should?”

Yes.

Yes, because he’d be fine. He was always fine.

Before he had the chance to answer he heard Tim coming back, steps angry if there was such a thing, and calling through the tunnels.

“I see, just abandon me to the spooky vaults, serve me up on a platter next time, it’ll be faster!” Jon risked a look and saw Tim staring down at him. “What the hell, Martin? Jon, sure, but you too?” And that hurt, cutting to the quick of him deep enough that he almost checked for blood. Tim didn’t really think he’d abandon him, did he? “What’s with the secret meeting?”

“We need to go back to the room.”

“What?! We’ve barely started anything!”

“Jon needs a break.”

“Of course.” Scoffed, Jon could practically see him rolling his eyes

“Tim--! No, Jon’s been. He’s tried to ask a few times and I know we’ve got work to do but--”

“It’s alright, Martin. I can. Keep going.” The crease between Martin’s eyebrows deepened. “O’or stay here until you get back.”

“No,” Martin spoke sternly, “Tim, help me get him up.” Jon didn’t think he’d ever seen such a scathing look on his face before but it was enough to shift Tim. They lifted him together and as everything stiff stretched back out fire bled into his bones and he couldn’t help but cry out, trying to collapse back to the ground and into himself. “Oh, okay, Jon. Okay.”

“Ah, it’s.”

“If you say “fine” I’ll drop you right here.” Tim adjusted his grip, tried to take more of his weight and Jon was ashamed that he let him but--

"Good lord, Jon. You're so pale." When had Martin gotten so close to him? “I’m, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright.” The shaking started up again when he tried to take a step and Martin had to catch him before he collapsed all over again. This was so stupid. Why was he like this? Why did he hurt so bad?

“You can’t walk like this.”

“No! No, I can! I just…nngh.” His teeth were chattering, he was shivering. Just leave him here. This was mortifying and he all but gave up, following their soft directions until he was draped across Martin’s broad back and suffering through the strain of forcing his leg far enough forward for him to get his hand under it to lift him. Off his feet and pressed against a veritable wall of warmth, Jon lost his grip on the frayed threads holding the last of him together. They unspooled, slipped from his hands, and tears soaked the back of Martin’s collar.

"You're warm." Empty, sitting limp on the edge of the couch, Jon leaned into Martin’s hand on his forehead. “Are you sick?”

“No…” Clumsy fingers clawed open the bottle of paracetamol, irrationally angry when Martin only allowed him double the dose.

“Jon.” Tone firm, Jon looked up at him without lifting his head. Didn’t think he could if he wanted.

“S’mm.” He pulled in half a lungful of air with difficulty. “When it. When it hur’s like this.” The next breath strangled him and he thought he saw Tim and Martin exchange a look, one he couldn’t interpret and didn’t care to if it just meant they were leaving him here to go back to the vaults. He didn’t bother worrying about the new moisture dripping off his chin. He just wanted to disappear.

“Jon?” There was a packet of digestives being thrust under his nose and his stomach turned. "I haven't seen you eat at all today, or yesterday for that matter. I'm not going to let you take all those pills without at least a little something."

“Mm.” He forced one down his throat and pushed insistent hands away, swallowing the medicine with some lukewarm water Tim helped him hold, gasping when they manhandled him down to the cushions, sighing when something cold eased the fire in his hip.

“Ice, should help, okay?” And Jon concurred, new tears slipped between closed lids in relief, in weariness.

“Try and sleep, Boss.”

Quiet voices tugged him up through layers of cotton. Martin. Tim. Talking. Hushed.

“...shouldn’t have pushed so far.”

“So stupid...didn’t think…”

“Shh.” Caught eavesdropping. Jon swallowed. Everything they were saying about him was true, he wouldn't cry over it.

“Hey, Jon. How’re you feeling?” Sore. Foolish. Like he wanted the couch to open up and drag him down to wherever loose change went.

“Better.” When he made to sit up Martin stopped him. “Really, m’fine.” He stayed put.

“I need to apologize, Jon. I, I was so stupid. I didn’t even think about. Well, your injuries. Caught up in myself, I suppose.”

“No! I. Martin, it, it isn’t your fault. This,” he gestured to himself and laughed humorlessly. “This isn’t your fault.”

“We should have listened.” Now Tim was sat on the arm nearest his feet. His elevated feet and his face must have shown his confusion. “Did some googling. But we shouldn’t have let it go so far.”

“It’s--” he stopped abruptly at their combined frowns. “It’s. Um. Thank you, for taking care of me.”

“How is it?” Jon looked at his folded hands, guilty.

“I’d. If I could stay here today?” He closed his eyes, waiting for the frustration, the disappointment. “Not because I don’t want to, to, I want to. I enjoy your company! I’m.” He was botching this, just speak your mind, Sims. “I’m just. I’m very tired. Haven’t been, uh, sleeping much.” Opened them again when Martin cupped his shoulder and saw understanding reflected back.

“Sure. Of course you can.”

“We’ll make a day of it.” Tim flashed the company card. “Back soon, gents.”

The day was spent watching bad daytime television and Jon dozed on and off between being plied with sugary snacks and tea and watching Martin scold Tim for throwing wrappers at the worst of the actors.

“I’d clean it up, Marto, but,” he gestured to Jon’s feet where he’d tugged them over his lap. “I’m trapped, clearly.” It was so much like old times, away from the pressure of the Archives and Elias that Jon couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this could be fixed after all. Maybe it wasn’t all lost.

In the end, they’d discovered nothing new. No evidence to back up the statement givers that inspired this whole excursion in the first place.

6 hours. 47 minutes.

It didn’t seem such a long time on the way back.

[lokiondisneyplus]

For his entire tenure as an Avenger, Anthony Mackie had never been the first name on the call sheet.

In a galaxy of stars populated by Robert Downey Jr., Chris Evans and Scarlett Johansson, the actor was aware of his place in the on-set pecking order, but would never miss an opportunity to make his presence felt.

“Number six on the call sheet has arrived!” Mackie would routinely shout on films like “Captain America: Civil War” and the box office-busting “Infinity Saga” sequels, according to Marvel chief creative officer Kevin Feige.

It exemplifies the sort of winning tone that the 42-year-old actor has brought to his superhero character the Falcon, aka Sam Wilson, for six movies from the top-earning studio — wry and collegial humor, with the potential to turn explosive at any moment. Both Mackie and his character are set to burn brighter than ever when the Disney Plus series “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier” lands on March 18.

On that call sheet, “Anthony is No. 1,” Feige is happy to report, “but it still says ‘No. 6.’ He kept it because he didn’t want it to go to his head.” The series is essentially a two-hander with his friend and longtime co-star Sebastian Stan, the titular soldier. All six episodes were produced and directed by Emmy winner Kari Skogland (“The Handmaid’s Tale,” “The Loudest Voice”). The series, for which combined Super Bowl TV spot and trailer viewership earned a record-breaking 125 million views this year, is reported to have cost $150 million in total.

For Mackie, though, the show comes at a critical time for both his career and for representation in the MCU. Sam Wilson is graduating from handy wingman (Falcon literally gets his job done with the use of mechanical wings), having been handed the Captain America shield by Evans in the last “Avengers” film. While it’s unclear if he will formally don the superhero’s star-spangled uniform moving forward (as the character did in a 2015 comic series), global fandoms and the overall industry are still reeling from the loss of Chadwick Boseman, who portrayed Marvel’s Black Panther to culture-defining effect. With this new story, Mackie will become the most visible African American hero in the franchise. And when asked whether he’ll be taking the mantle of one of its most iconic characters, he doesn’t exactly say no.

“I was really surprised and affected by the idea of possibly getting the shield and becoming Captain America. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I did it the way they said you’re supposed to do it. I didn’t go to L.A. and say, ‘Make me famous.’ I went to theater school, did Off Broadway, did indie movies and worked my way through the ranks. It took a long time for this shit to manifest itself the way it has, and I’m extremely happy about that,” Mackie says.

Feige says that, especially with the advent of Disney Plus and the freedom afforded long-form storytelling, the moment was right to give the Falcon his due.

“Suddenly, what had been a classic passing of the torch from one hero to another at the end of ‘Endgame’ became an opening up of our potential to tell an entire story about that. What does it really mean for somebody to step into those shoes, and not just somebody but a Black man in the present day?” says Feige.

Like many comic book heroes, Mackie has an origin story marked by tragedy at a young age — specifically around the loss of a parental figure. The New Orleans native is the youngest of six children from a tight-knit middle-class family, whose trajectory was spun into chaos when his mother was stricken with a terminal illness.

“It was unexpected and very untimely. I was 15 when she was diagnosed with cancer, and a few months later, she was gone. She passed the day before my ninth-grade graduation,” Mackie recalls. “If my mom wouldn’t have passed away when I was so young, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

Mackie had already gravitated toward the performing arts before the loss of his mother, having enrolled at the pre-professional school New Orleans Center for Creative Arts. Like many young people grappling with trauma, Mackie says he began to act out. A core group of teachers helped get him out of trouble. Ray Vrazel, still an instructor at the school, personally drove the student to a Houston-based audition for the University of North Carolina School of the Arts, where he was accepted for his senior year of high school.

“Everything I did, I did for my mama. The idea of leaving home at 17 to go away to school would have never been an option if she was still around. She was my best friend. Losing her gave me a kind of strength, and a desire to succeed,” Mackie says.

Succeed he did. Spending that formative year as a minor on a college campus helped Mackie find his “tribe,” a misfit crew of artists and performers, which propelled him to acceptance at New York’s prestigious Juilliard School in 1997. There he was part of the breakthrough class of students of color to be chosen for the notoriously selective drama program, which Mackie says was liberating given the institution’s track record.

“Our year was a huge transition. There were hardly any Asian people in the drama program, maybe one or two Black people and hardly any Black women. In our class, we had three black women, two black men, one Native American, one Asian female, out of 20 people. Ever since then, the classes have been wildly diverse,” says Mackie, whose fellow students included stage and film star Tracie Thoms and actor Lee Pace.

Following his training, Mackie launched a staggeringly versatile career. He has played Tupac Shakur and Martin Luther King Jr. to similar acclaim, a juicehead bodybuilder in “Pain & Gain” and a homeless gay teen in the Sundance player “Brother to Brother.” He has exhibited remarkable staying power in an industry that often pigeonholes actors and has a pockmarked soul when it comes to inclusion.

“I was drawn to Anthony because of his electrifying ability to combine intensity with sensitivity, courage with compassion, and all of it comes across as inevitable, as if it could be no other way,” says Kathryn Bigelow, who directed him in the 2009 best picture Oscar winner “The Hurt Locker.”

Samuel L. Jackson, whom Mackie calls a mentor and has played alongside in several films, says he has “an innate quality that first and foremost makes everyone want to cast him.” On a recent idle Netflix search, Jackson came across Mackie’s latest sci-fi film, “Outside the Wire,” and it triggered a memory of sitting in the audience for his performance in the 2010 Broadway production of Martin McDonagh’s play “A Behanding in Spokane.”

“Watching him onstage, I thought, he’s a very adroit actor capable of putting on many hats. He’s fearless and will try to be anybody. Then, on my TV, he’s playing a nanobyte soldier or some shit,” Jackson says.

Though always humble about getting the next job, pre-Marvel Mackie was rarely offered pole position.

“There were certain pegs. My first was ‘8 Mile.’ It was a monumental step at the beginning of my career,” Mackie says of the 2002 Curtis Hanson film that elevated rapper Eminem to multi-hyphenate stardom.

“After that it was ‘Half Nelson.’ It blew up Ryan Gosling, so I was there to ride the wave. Then ‘The Hurt Locker,’ and it blew up Jeremy Renner. It was the joke for a long time — if you’re a white dude and you want to get nominated for an Oscar, play opposite me. I bring the business for white dudes,” says Mackie.

He remembers the sensation “Hurt Locker” caused during its awards season. It was a moment he thought would change everything as he stood on the stage of the Dolby Theatre with the cast and filmmakers, having just sipped from George Clooney’s flask while Halle Berry radiated a few rows away.

“I thought I would be able to move forward in my career and not have to jostle and position myself for work. To get into rooms with certain people. I thought my work would speak for itself. I didn’t feel a huge shift,” he says, “but I 100% think that ‘The Hurt Locker’ is the reason I got ‘Captain America.’”

He’s referring to “Captain America: The Winter Soldier,” the 2014 Marvel film that was the first to be directed by Joe and Anthony Russo (the current title holders for the highest-grossing film of all time with “Avenges: Endgame”). Mackie says that blockbuster not only gave him his largest platform to date but changed expectations of superhero movies forever.

“It was the first of the espionage, Jason Bourne-esque action movies at Marvel. After that, the movies shifted and had different themes and were more in touch with the world we live in, more grounded,” he says.

Bolstered by the words of another mentor, Morgan Freeman, Mackie feels no bitterness about his path.

“We did ‘Million Dollar Baby’ together, and when we were shooting this movie, I got offered a play. When you do Off Broadway, it’s $425 a week. In New York, that’s really $75 per week. I got a movie offer at the same time, and it was buckets of money. Three Home Depot buckets of money were going to be dropped off at my door,” Mackie says. “The script was awful; the whole thing was slimy. I went to Morgan’s trailer and asked him what he would do. He took a second and said, ‘Do the play. When Hollywood wants you, they’ll come get you. And when they come get you, they’ll pay for it.’ That blew my mind, and I left him that day with such a massive amount of confidence. He’s been a huge influence on me.”

He used the currency of that first Russo Brothers film and five subsequent ones to do what many creators and performers in Hollywood have done in recent years to help balance the scales of profit and representation in content: make things on his own.

Last year, Mackie produced and starred in “The Banker” — what would be Apple Studios’ first foray into original streaming film distribution and the awards landscape — through his banner Make It With Gravy. The film follows the true story of America’s first Black bankers and the white frontman they deployed to acquire the institution, all while supporting Black-owned businesses and communities in the process. A late-breaking scandal over sexual misconduct accusations involving the real-life family members of the film’s subjects delayed the release, overshooting awards-season deadlines and entangling the fledgling producer.

“It was a good lesson, and gave me a new perspective on the world around us. It’s very important to me that the women by my side are treated equally. It was a valuable lesson learned. I was very humbled by my sisters, for once not being mean to me,” he says.

Mackie is in development on the film “Signal Hill,” about the early days of lawyer Johnnie Cochran and the theater he brought to courtrooms long before the O.J. Simpson trial, and is hoping to secure the life story of civil rights pioneer Claudette Colvin as a vehicle for his directorial debut. Raising four sons of his own now, Mackie wants his off-screen work to make them well-rounded men.

“Look at Robin Williams,” he says. “He used to be crass and funny, and then he had kids, and he started doing all these family-friendly movies. Same thing with Eddie Murphy. I’m trying to curate my children’s experience with the things that I’ll be producing, rather than starring in. That’s what is most important. They know my job is my job; they know who I am. I’ve given up the idea of them ever thinking that I’m cool,” he says.

Jokes about the call sheet are among many of Mackie’s filming quirks. Jackson says that sets are often littered with hidden cigar stubs, to be fired up between takes or after long days. Bigelow says his rapport with crew has led to nights where the “clock was ticking but it was impossible to regain composure enough to shoot.” But according to Evans, no Mackie-ism is more famous than the phrase he bellows whenever his directors cut a scene: “Cut the check!”

Evans says this “will be forever associated with Mackie. I find myself saying it on sets all the time. I love it. But I’ll never be able to say it as well as him.”

As the man handing Mackie his armor, Evan says the Falcon’s “role within the Marvel universe has answered the call to action time and time again. He’s proven his courage, loyalty and reliability over multiple films. Sam has given so much, and he’s also lost a lot too. He believes in something bigger than himself, and that type of humility is necessary to carry the shield.”

The question of Sam Wilson’s humanity will be explored at length in “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier,” what Mackie calls a deeper showcase for both himself and Stan and their characters. It was a prospect that at first confused and frightened him.

“I didn’t think we could do on the television what we’d been doing on the big screen. I didn’t want to be the face of the first Marvel franchise to fail. Like, ‘See? We cast the Black dude, and now this shit is awful.’ That was a huge fear of mine, and also a huge responsibility with playing a Marvel character,” Mackie says.

He was quickly assuaged by the level of depth in the scripts from head writer Malcolm Spellman (“Empire,” “Truth Be Told”), especially when it came to the nuances of Wilson — a Black American man with no powers beyond his badass wings.

“Sam Wilson as played by Mackie is different than a Thor or a Black Panther, because he’s not from another planet or a king from another country,” Feige says. “He’s an African American man. He’s got experience in the military and doing grief counseling with soldiers who have PTSD. But where did he grow up? Who is his family? Mackie was excited to dig into it as this man, this Black man in particular, in the Marvel version of the world outside our window.”

Mackie celebrates Sam’s relatability in a universe full of mythological gods and lab-made enforcers. “I’m basically the eyes and ears of the audience, if you were put in that position where you could go out and fight alongside superheroes. It adds a really nice quality to him, that he’s a regular guy who can go out there and do special things,” Mackie says.

While bound by standard Marvel-grade secrecy, the actor confirms there have been no discussions of a second season for “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.” As the majority of domestic movie theaters remain closed due to the coronavirus pandemic, he is equally unaware of the theatrical prospects for his Falcon character — or the Captain he may become by the end of this Disney Plus run. For now, he’s content to take up the mantle left by Boseman, a quietly understood pact of responsibility to Marvel-loving kids the world over.

“For Chad and I, [representation] was never a conversation that needed to be had because of our backgrounds. There was a hinted-at understanding between the two of us, because we’re both from humble beginnings in the South; we have very similar backgrounds. We knew what the game was. We knew going into it,” he says.

Outside comic book movies, Mackie is not done searching as a performer. There is a particular genre he would very much like to cut him a check.

“My team gets mad at me for saying this, but I would love to do a cheesy old-school ‘When Harry Met Sally’-type of project,” he says. “One of those movies where I’m working outside and have to take my shirt off because it’s too hot. I want a romantic comedy. I want to do every movie written for Matthew McConaughey that he passed on.”

[whumpthisway]

Huck and Stephen - Unwanted

This is a series - link to 01. Masterpost here <3

A/N: This one is set directly after Repentance, with Huck being taken away from Alyse by some nasty, drunk men. Huck is in a very bad place, mentally and physically, here. Please do ask me for specific tags or warnings if you need them or I miss something, and if you have any opinions, questions or thoughts, feel free to send me an ask :3

Huck and Stephen’s story can now be read on my AO3 here, and this new chapter is here.

Content warnings: abuse, mention of broken bones, drunk people, borderline suicidal thoughts, low self-worth

Huck/Pet POV

*

Pet was conscious as the men hauled them carelessly down the street, slung between two of them with their paws dragging over the abrasive ground, the leash dangling from their collar. They whimpered in pain, lacking the strength to stay awake, let alone walk.

There was another car, and Pet was shoved into a dark compartment at the back and the door slammed down so fast they almost didn’t tuck their broken tail away in time. As far as they could remember, they’d only been in a vehicle a handful of times but Pet was beginning to loathe cars; nothing good ever happened in them, or at the other end.

But it could be worse. At least here in the dark, Pet was left alone and could mewl softly to themself without fearing a kick to the side, or strangers’ hands in their fur. The car juddered and shook beneath them and Pet whined. The leftover taste of alcohol, stomach acid and blood in their mouth was making them feel ill, and they were as bruised as if they’d been pushed down a flight of stairs. The side of their head ached where Harrison had smacked it into the car console, their ribs were throbbing from the men’s’ boots, and every tiny motion jarred their tail. Their ears were sore from being tugged at and their throat raw and chafed by the leash still hanging limply from their collar. Pet just wanted to be home.

Master, I’ll be better, I’ll be better- they pleaded silently, as if Master Parry could hear them. Would he even care they were gone? He’d been so glad to go away on business, and get away from them. But he’d told Harrison to give Pet back in one piece, so maybe Master hadn’t given up on them. Not entirely.

They slid, somehow, into a half-wakefulness, which they were painfully jerked out of by a too-bright light shining at them out of the dark and a hand grabbing their arm. They were dragged roughly out of the boot and Pet flinched, whimpering. Dropped onto damp concrete, they were too exhausted and pain-ridden to even consider running.

It was completely dark except for the blinding torchlight, with no bright signs or buildings or too-loud vehicles in sight. Pet pressed their eyes tightly closed and whined, trembling as a cold breeze threaded its way through their sweat- and blood-damp fur as the ground dug its cold fingers into them.

I’m sorry, Master, I’m so so sorry. I’ll take the cane, the crate, anything, Master. Anything. Just please come. Please take me away from here. They tried to fix Master’s face in their head, tried to picture his response to Pet being returned. Maybe there would be just a little relief in his stern expression, and maybe he’d rub Pet’s head between their ears, even for just a moment. He’d be angry, too, of course, but maybe- maybe-

A hand slapped them hard across the face and Pet yelped, jerking away before they froze, curling themself down into the smallest shape they could manage with their damaged ribs.

“Still with us, beastie?” The male voice came from the too-bright light being shone in their direction. It could have been Kieran but Pet wasn’t sure.

They squinted against the bright light, unsure whether an answer was needed. They nodded shakily after a second, ears pressed down.

“It understands! Not so dumb as you look.” The voice chuckled. Pet just hunched down, struggling to keep their eyes open, even as terrified as they were. Everything seemed slightly out of focus and blurry at the edges and the way the bright light was swinging around didn’t help how sick they felt.

“Alright, dump it in the basement.”

Pet was wrenched up again and the sharp movement made their stomach roil. The alcohol surged up and they retched painfully, the acid scouring their throat. The hands that had grabbed them dropped them roughly, so that Pet landed hard on their sore paws and swayed, coughing. Their tail felt aflame with pain. They coughed, whined softly.

“Disgusting. It reeks of booze.”

Another kick in the rib and Pet was knocked sideways to the dirt, their claws scrabbling weakly, eyes streaming. The flashlight was jerking around sickeningly, illuminating men’s shoes or boots and the ground but not much else. Pet’s faceless torments hung over them as shapeless, threatening, evil.

Then a hand touched their head and they flinched. Leave me alone! they wanted to yell. Please please please-

But the hand smoothed down their furred back and shushed them. Like Master Parry did or used to do, when they were being too loud while he was trying to work, though Master barely touched them anymore. Pet managed to suck in a shallow breath, whining softly at the pain in their sides. They pulled in a breath, and another. A new light appeared and moved over them, making Pet cringe, their eyes narrowed.

“It’s not worth anything if you fuck it up even more,” a new voice said from above them, low and hard. Pet tensed, hunching down in the dirt like they could burrow right under the surface and disappear.

“You carry the filthy thing then, Ry.” It was definitely Kieran’s growl that came from the left and Pet cringed away. “Killjoy,” Kieran muttered, before the sound of his boots crunched away into the blackness, taking his torchlight with him. Several others went with him, so that it seemed to just be Pet and this new man, Ry, left alone. Pet couldn’t stop shaking. Exhausted, cold, in pain. Terrified.

The man, Ry, sighed. “Alright, beastie, c’mon then. And don’t think about clawing me, ‘kay?” The light was shined on Pet again and they flinched away. “Hey, nod or something if you hear me alright?”

It took Pet several seconds to both understand what the man wanted and to force themself to nod. They wouldn’t claw a human- well, they never had before tonight. No wonder this new man, Ry, didn’t trust them. Pet would’ve reassured him that they wouldn’t do that, but talking wasn’t really for the likes of them and they’d been bad enough already tonight, so they kept quiet.

Being picked up hurt so much that Pet was left crying and breathless with it, squirming helplessly, but they were beyond grateful that Ry wasn’t rough with them. When they moved out of the open space and through a narrow door, he was even careful not to knock their limp, twitching paws into the doorframe.

The darkness out here was absolute, with only Ry’s torch lighting the way, and Pet had never felt anything like it. It scared them, that there weren’t lights in the distance, signalling the presence of other lives going on around them. Even when they’d been locked in Master’s houses for months, there was always lights out in the dark they could look at through the window. Here, they felt terribly, achingly alone.

Ry took them into a huge building, bigger than anything Pet had ever seen, though it felt completely abandoned. The parts of it that Ry’s light illuminated were thick with rust and dust, and there seemed to be a number of strange metal contraptions and machines, which loomed eerily over them as Ry picked his way through. The wind keened through the space and the metal creaked, making Pet flinch. They huddled slightly closer to Ry’s warm solidity.

By the time Ry shouldered his way through another door, their silent crying had dried up. It wasn’t that Pet was in any less pain or any braver, but exhaustion had taken over, and their mouth felt grossly sticky and parched. They could still taste blood, and alcohol, and longed for nothing more than to scrub the lingering foulness away, scrub it all away until Pet felt clean and good again, rather than filthy and broken and worthless. Ry descended a flight of steps, each one jolting Pet and making them whimper.

“Here we are.”

Pet sniffed and wrinkled their nose. It stank like damp and bodily filth and they didn’t want to be here. But even as they tried to curl their paws in Ry’s jacket, they couldn’t stop Ry from putting them down and gently tugging himself free of their grip. He straightened up once they were on the dirty concrete, lying on their side beside a wall, and they couldn’t see Ry for the brightness of his torch, pointed as his feet.

“You’ll be fine. Just be good and stay here, understand?” Pet didn’t react. “Understand?” Ry pressed.

Pet gave a tiny. Painfully, achingly cold and scared, they couldn’t even get up to follow Ry when he walked away, taking his light with him. All they could do was whine, soft and desperate, wordlessly pleading with him not to leave them here. Ry’s footsteps stopped half-way up the steps and Pet’s hopes lifted briefly, soaring when Ry returned, his torch light bobbing.

There was a rustle of fabric and Pet flinched as Ry came close to them. They braced to be picked up but no, a jacket warmed by Ry’s body was laid over them.

“It won’t be long.” Ry almost sounded apologetic.

This time, Ry walked away for good, no matter how much Pet whined. They flinched at the sound of a door clunking shut at the top of the stairs, and then the silence was unsettled only by their soft whimpers and pained breathing. The jacket was a blessed warmth but the concrete’s cold seeped through their fur and they trembled, fighting fear so thick they could taste its sourness.

When Harrison and his friends had taunted and tormented them, Pet had wanted nothing more than to be alone. When Master was in a truly foul mood and Pet couldn’t get out of his way, they’d sometimes wished Master would disappear. When they’d been caught by Kiaran’s men, all they’d wanted was for the men to go away. Now Pet had gotten what they wanted, and the emptiness was more awful than anything.

Curling up as tight as their damaged ribs would allow, Pet succumbed to the never-ending darkness and cried themself to sleep.

*

Pet didn’t know how much time passed. A slither of murky light poked under the door at the top of the stairs in daytime, and disappeared at night. It didn’t matter. Pet was in too much pain to get up, let alone climb the stairs, and so they just lay there. The door was locked, anyway. Breathing was exhausting, their ribs a sharp, stabbing pain.

The man, Ry, had promised to return soon, but Pet was used to humans lying to them. And only their growing, aching thirst told them how much time had passed. Strangely, they didn’t long for Master Parry anymore. Instead, they thought of Alyse and her kindness and imagined her finding them, imagined her fussing over them, allowing them to curl up at her feet somewhere warm and cosy while she petted between their ears. It was a wonderful fantasy. Pet just tried to think how they’d never see her again, might not see anyone again. Sliding into unconsciousness was their only relief from their sandpaper-throat and swollen tongue.

*

The next time they were awake, there was movement around them and Pet groaned. Their head swam groggily and when a hand was put under their head, they could barely flinch, let alone pull away.

Wetness at their lips stopped them from trying to curl up and protect themself and instead focus on drinking as much water as they could. But they were barely given a few mouthfuls before the bottle was withdrawn and Pet could’ve cried. They whimpered, pleading wordlessly, and forced their eyes open.

A man knelt over them as he screwed the bottle lid back on. Pet stared at it, licking their cracked lips. But the man, who had a mop of unruly brown hair and weathered skin, just tucked the bottle away and smiled thinly at them.

“You can’t drink too fast, you’ll get sick.” He spoke like Pet was a pup. “Do you understand me?” Pet made themself nod and the man seemed pleased by that. “Good. Hold tight, we’ll get you out of here soon.”

The man stood up and Pet cringed back when they realised how very big he was. But the man just walked away, his torch’s beam bouncing in front of him, and Pet swallowed thickly. Their thoughts felt sluggish and seeing a number of people with torches flashing around didn’t alarm them as much as it probably should’ve, nor did they feel any great sense of relief.

Maybe they’d finally accepted that they could do nothing. That humans ruled their life; always had and always would, and Pet controlled nothing, no matter how good they were or how goddamn hard they tried. But they knew that being bad, being useless and ugly and injured would make everything so much worse.

So Pet couldn’t find it in themself to be grateful to these people for finding them. Master Parry wouldn’t want them back when they looked like this, and nothing good ever happened to unwanted creatures.

~

So this chapter is the end of what I’ve got written, so i need to get writing again lol, fingers crossed it won’t be too long till the next one <3 my inbox is always open for thoughts, requests, feedback and ideas!

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[spaced0lphin]

Massive Speculation

On N7 day of this hellscape of a year, BioWare announced they were making another Mass Effect instalment. Naturally, being sat up here in the bridge as I am, it gives me a lot of time to speculate and here are my thoughts on the wider picture.

These remasters are intended to revitalise the fandom for the upcoming project.

That much, to me, seems obvious. Whatever this new instalment is, it’s some years off and it makes perfect sense to give something to the (not insignificant) fanbase Mass Effect still has to attract them again, as well as new fans. These remasters will be well positioned to buy them a few years of good “fandom time.”

This upcoming instalment after the remasters is going to be Mass Effect’s last hurrah.

And maybe, as much as it sucks to say, BioWare’s last hurrah in its current form, too. It’s no industry secret that BioWare has outlived its life expectancy since the EA takeover. EA notoriously acquires and dissolves spirited, highly skilled studios once they stop being profitable (and sometimes even before that.) Unlike films, where franchises are just allowed to limp on indefinitely despite litanies of failures (think Terminator, Alien vs Predator and its ilk) games “enjoy” no such luxury. Beloved franchises are taken out behind the barn on the regular. BioWare’s productions in particular are large, grand, expensive, and alarmingly the past two have been both critical and commercial failures, vastly underperforming expectations. Mass Effect: Andromeda sold well initially, but proved to have no legs in the market; so much so, that all its DLC was cancelled and the title unceremoniously shelved. Anthem suffered a very similar and drastic fate. Whatever this upcoming Mass Effect title is going to be, it needs wide, iconic and lasting appeal.

Mass Effect can only be a flagship title.

There is no way to make a cheap Mass Effect game, and so all the stops are going to have to be pulled for this one. The studio learned a painful lesson when they left ME in the hands of their passionate, yet relatively inexperienced branch. Narratively, that puts the upcoming title in a very interesting place.

Mass Effect: Andromeda 2 is not a safe investment for a flagship title.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense to rile up interest in the ME universe again just for the next offering to be a sequel to the broadly disliked and violently shelved Andromeda. Such a decision seems counterintuitive. ME:A seems like a very bad basis to hitch a project of such importance on.

In terms of Mass Effect, what is more iconic than Commander Shepard?

As discussed, the new title is going to need to capitalise on broad appeal and fan favourites to survive. Mass Effect: Andromeda’s premise of sidestepping the whole Reapers debacle by being pioneers seeding the stars in a new galaxy was an excellent idea. Unfortunately, that ticket has been used up. Doing that same idea again seems ill-advised at best. Fandom has been hungry for more Commander Shepard for almost eight years, now... Easily, they and the N7s are the most recognisable, iconic figures. But, and it is a krogan sized “but”...

However, the endings were not meant to be written around.

Whatever you think of them, each “candy flavour” has far-reaching consequences that narratively speaking would be intensely difficult to write a meaningful and interesting continuance for. I’m not saying it isn’t possible, but it is extremely challenging and I think the only way to go forward with that would be to piss off a lot of people, for lack of a better term. It presents several challenges: 1. Okay, so the protagonist is Shepard. How? We have to pick the only path forward from here, which is to say that only the Shepards who chose this particular colour candy ending can proceed. This essentially makes one of the decisions the “canon” ending, because you can only make a game based on one of these outcomes, realistically. Scope becomes too huge if you’re trying to include all the branches. So... we are faced with the age old problem that caused such outrage over the endings initially... a lot of people are going to feel like their choices didn’t matter. This said, there is a slight precedence for this in that one could get their squad and themselves all killed in Mass Effect 2, and only my man Joker is left. That’s a bit of a different situation, but it’s all I got. 2. Okay, so only the Shepards who chose x ending can load their save and continue on. Shepard doing what? N7s are an interesting concept and the Mass Effect universe is a very interesting one with many kinds of narrative possibilities, however, it’s a real pretty corner the writers have painted themselves into on this one, gotta say. This leaves only two other narrative possibilities: 1. The least interesting of all the options, a prequel. This presents challenges of its own, because in Mass Effect’s own lore, it’s not actually that long ago that humanity came into contact with the rest of the galaxy. You can either write about the First Contact War, which involves only humans and turians and shrinks the scope drastically so much so as to be disappointing and lose much of the colour of the universe... or you go so far back into the past that it’s the Protheans’ cycle, in which case there’s no opportunity for a human protagonist - which is a massive problem - and is narratively not very compelling because we know everyone and everything dies, unless you want to do something stupid like time travel. Mass Effect is already high concept enough, I don’t think time travel is a particularly good mechanic to introduce to the series... Unless it’s short-term and single-use, like Shepard has to stop themselves from making a choice in the third game’s era. Even then, that’s opening a big can of worms that I don’t think is a good fit for the series. 2. Mass Effect: Mandalorian The only way to retain the colourful scope, the human protagonist, and the aliens we’re familiar with is ditch the iconic N7 situation entirely and set the instalment maybe 5 or 10 years before Shepard’s time. This ensures humanity is still an up-and-coming member of galactic society, yet the whole Reapers business isn’t going on yet. They won’t go for N7s because as we know, Shepard was the first human Spectre, so the protagonist could be some kind of smuggler, criminal or vigilante rather than military. Touching on what fans loved so much about Mass Effect 2, which was the feeling of getting together your motley crew of misfits to do a real big job, your role could simply be to amass a group of space jerks to do a mission of much smaller scale than the Reapers’ plotline, but no less fun. I’m going to bet it would be called something like Mass Effect: Renegades (you can have that one for free, BioWare) and the player could be pitted against C-Sec and other galactic law enforcement agencies. This even gives the opportunity for small cameos, such as Garrus’ time in C-Sec, and other characters to appear in different points in their careers. Whilst it wouldn’t make up for the loss of the iconic N7 visual and idea, it might go some way towards helping broad appeal. Also just look at how successful the Mandalorian has been for Star Wars. The only reason I don’t like these ideas is because I don’t get to date Joker in any of them. Seriously, BioWare, I don’t care what you do, just let me date the damn scruffy pilot. Not a different one, that one. Specifically. You could get an impersonator if Seth Green doesn’t wanna do it. Say his voicebox got damaged, I don’t care, just something, please In all seriousness though, I’d love for Shepard to come back. My ideal situation has to do with only one of the endings being “canonised” and is that Shepard somehow survives. Then it’s about rebuilding the galaxy after the Reapers have gone. I’m sure there’s drama to be had in that. And it gives me the opportunity to hope for Shepard to finally, FINALLY hook up with Joker. Seriously it’s so narratively powerful they’re always there for each other come on give me this I think that option would be challenging to write and would involve a sacrifice of pissing some fans off quite a lot, but the fact is, Mass Effect needs to be saved if it’s going to continue on, and it might be possible to orchestrate a situation where Shepard passes the torch on to new characters at the end. That’s also a common theme in shows and games these days.

[itsblissfuloblivion]

Torch - Chapter 11: July

you asked for it, we give it to you, don’t be mad...

Ao3//FFnet

.

Harry thought he’d been through quite a series of unfortunate events throughout his relatively short life, some that’ve left him feeling embarrassed and in need to crawl into a hole and possibly die, and others that have left him a heartbeat away from turning rogue and going after Voldemort guns ablazing. But this, Harry comes to accept, is the worst so far.

Not only did six other people suddenly become acquainted with his most...intimate parts, but two of them happened to be Fred and George. Judging by the grins they’re both sporting, Harry’s in for a hellish summer - or however long he’d be spending at the Burrow before jumping recklessly into what probably will be his death.

Later, when the firewhiskey’s numbed his heart, when he’s too tired and tipsy to scream at everyone and claw at himself to grip the pain and throw it out, Harry lets the images of Hedwig and Mad-Eye wash over him like muddy waters clashing against the shore. The two first soldiers of the war - and Harry wonders how many more there’ll be until a skinny, averagely skilled, not-special almost seventeen year old serves justice and catches the bad guy for good.

A bitter laugh rolls down his throat and Harry shakes his head in self-loath, marveling at how impossibly stupid everyone has to be to put all their trust in him.

Harry starts as he feels a small hand on his shoulder - Ginny’s. As she’d done earlier, instead of saying something or asking him what’s wrong, Ginny takes his hand as she sits down next to him on the front steps. And, like earlier, her touch has a calming effect on him, steering his thoughts away from self-destruction and towards the blissful, golden days they’ve spent together.

But most of all he remembers her as she’d been on their last shared moment, her sad eyes and her bare chest, giving herself entirely to him. And just like then, his heart battles his mind, takes it to a savage war where what he wants to do and what he must do almost blend in, blurred around the edges.

He remembers her standing before him, waiting for him to touch, to feel, to melt into her and he remembers that he couldn’t do it then. He can’t do it now either.

It’s as if Ginny reads his mind because she squeezes his hand tighter and, looking bravely into his eyes as her bottom lip quivers, she says, “You know, I’d really wanted...that to happen then.”

Harry’s breath catches and he nearly crashes his lips to hers, nearly loves her right there, on her parents’ front porch. But instead he mumbles, his voice too shallow to meet the unwavering courage etched in hers, “Ginny, I - ah. Please know that putting an end to this,” he gestures between the two of them, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows, “is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“An end?” Ginny lifts her brow, her brown eyes blazing.

“Yes. It’s how it has to be,” Harry retorts, his voice a little higher and he immediately hates himself for it.

“Why?”

“Because it must. Because you’re not safe if you’re with me. Because I couldn’t live knowing that they’ve hurt you because of me.”

Although he’s careful to keep his voice low, the words erupt like barks from his mouth, clipped and loaded with ill concealed anger. And when she starts protesting that she doesn’t care for her life, that she can take care of herself, Harry loses his mind for a moment and his vision darkens suddenly, he’s out of breath.

He’s astonished to discover that he’d gripped her shoulders sharply and had probably shaken her, the anger boiling in his chest taking over his actions. Ginny stares back at him for a moment, pained and shocked, then smashes her mouth onto his with such force it hurts them both. Harry’s arms immediately let go of her, falling limply at his sides.

She ends the kiss just as quickly and shoots him a look that Harry can’t entirely describe - a little wounded, a little cross, and most of all a steel resolve that sends him into a panicked frenzy because he doesn’t know if she’ll run after him, or fight her own battle or, the most terrifying of them all...if she’ll just forget him.

Ginny smacks the door behind her before he can get a chance to apologise for being a crass prick or ask her what she’d just decided. Sighing deeply, Harry admits he really does deserve the door smacking. Why did he ever think that this, whatever this was, could’ve possibly been better than admitting that he loves her, so much that he feels a big part of him is missing when she’s not there, so much that his heart is broken beyond repair.

Because he’s a stupid prat with a hero complex, that’s why.

“What’s with the face, Medium Sized?” Fred grins at him when Harry finally drags his feet back inside.

Harry simply flips him and starts climbing the stairs all the way to Ron’s room. He’s fairly certain there’ll be enough other occasions for Fred and George to take the mickey out of him on accounts of his physique, but today he’s just not up to it.

An unsettling thought crosses his mind before he drifts to what he has no doubt would be an unrestful sleep: being split into seven, even if by means of Polyjuice, appears to him not so different than what Voldermort’s attempted to do. It’s truly a thought that weighs tangibly on the self-hate load for many reasons, but most of all it’s the fact that Harry keeps finding similarities between him and Riddle every time he stops to think about it. And that makes him retch right there, near the camp bed he’d been sleeping on summer after summer since someone had seen enough good in him to have him rescued from the Dursleys - and, quite truthfully, from himself.

Somehow there’s not much opportunity for wallowing when he wakes up as Mrs Weasley seems to have devised the cleaning schedule from hell to keep them occupied and leave no room for mysterious plots to be cooked up between Ron, Hermione and himself. And honestly? Harry’s a little grateful for that.

The blazing sun overhead casts an orange glow behind Harry’s eyelids at the end of the day, warms the metal rims of his glasses where they press against his flushed cheeks. For a minute, while Ron and Ginny’s mingled laughter still colors the air and Harry’s breaths are still calming, it’s almost like he’s got a normal life again. Like the world isn’t silently waiting for him to take out a maniac they haven’t managed in two decades.

And for a minute, maybe more, Harry thinks he can let himself have it and forget about yesterday, forget about all the bad days he’d ever had. He’s already given up so much, is preparing to give up more when he heads out alone to finish what Dumbledore started, he lets himself be selfish. Only a little longer.

“Alright over there, old man?” Ginny’s voice calls out.

Harry cracks one eye open and finds Ginny smirking at him, hair wild around her face, braid half undone. “I’m just a year older.”

“A year is a long time,” Ginny shrugs and winks, “Grandpa.”

“Whatever happened to respecting your elders, then?”

Hermione returns from the house with lemonade in hand and a smile on her lips, “Are we back to this again?”

“Yes. Harry is an old man and I proved it by totally kicking his bum three games in a row.”

Harry pushes up onto his elbows and blinks slowly. “First, you’re a trained Chaser and I’m not. Second, Hermione was my Keeper. And we all know what that means.”

“Don’t be mean,” Ron puts in as he gulps at his lemonade, stray droplets falling over his cheeks. Hermione gives him an approving nod and that probably genetic Weasley smirk slides across Ron’s face, “Hermione can’t help being allergic to the Quaffle.”

“Oh bugger off, Ronald,” Hermione grunts, kicking Ron’s thigh as she claims a place in the grass.

Comfortable quiet falls over them, the trees in the grove swaying with the wind as it carries the scent of wildflowers over the yard. With the sweet tang of lemonade on his tongue, Harry truly feels a sense of relaxation, of contentment that people tend to associate with summer. It’s borrowed time he can't bring himself to give up.

As if Ginny can read his mind, as if she knows his overthinking, overworked mind is settling on its usual dark track, she nudges his side with the toe of her trainer. “So all I’ve heard so far is a lot of excuses, and I’m nothing if not an excuse eliminator.”

“That’s one thing to call it,” Ron snorts.

“Anyway,” Ginny says with a roll of her eyes, “How about we have a go with the Snitch. Although we’ve seen I’m no slouch as a Seeker either.”

Her eyes catch his and he knows they’re both thrown back to that day, the sunlit weeks that followed, the stolen time. And her smile is a little dimmed when she stands and offers him a hand up, “Let’s put you to the test, eh?”

It’s like she wants him to know she’s momentarily forgot about the day before too, about his words and about her pleas.

So Harry accepts the hand up and ignores Hermione’s pointed stare and mumbles about ‘idiots with self destructive tendencies.’ He has a sudden death challenge to win after all.

The Snitch is for practice, and probably older than any of the foursome, but it does the job. It’s a bit sluggish taking turns, so there’s an advantage to catching it there, but the old thing has no trouble darting off and hiding before Hermione’s finished her last eye roll aimed at Harry.

Ginny doesn’t need to take her eyes off the horizon for the trash talk to begin, mostly the usual shots at his age and eyesight. Ron likes a good gangly something thrown in there, but Ginny’s never been one for poking fun at Harry’s physique. In fact, she seemed to like it well enough - before Harry’s life kicked in with its usual ‘pull the rug out’ disappointing development.

They circle in the air for who knows how long and Harry gives as good as he gets, asking things like whether Ginny can find balls smaller than six inches wide. But when he mentions ‘balls’ Ginny gives him a dangerous look he knows means something scandalous is about to leave her lips - until they light in victory.

He twists quickly and finds the Snitch bobbing in the air, as if it’s about to flit over for a visit with Luna and her dirigible plums.

Though Ginny spotted the Snitch first, Harry’s definitely a few paces closer and he’s fast on the uptake so they’re basically neck in neck, screaming toward the little ball.

Ginny nudges his shoulder a bit with hers, no cobbing, but her set jaw and cheeky grin are just as dangerous. Harry’s so caught up he can barely hear Ron and Hermione’s shouts from below - who they’re rooting for is undetermined - all he knows is the push of the air against his ears, the pounding blood in his veins, and Ginny flying at his side like a comet.

At the last second, she lowers herself just a bit closer to the broom and slips past him so her fist closes around the Snitch. So last second in fact, that his hand closes on top of hers. He can’t seem to release his grip and Ginny doesn’t pull away, even as the wings flutter against their palms. “Gotcha, Potter. No flashy mouth tricks - just quality play.”

Her whiskey eyes find his and if he thought his heart pounded uncontrollably before, now it may as well be beating out of his chest. His thumb brushes over top of hers and it feels like all his insides are in his throat as he murmurs, “Nice catch.”

“I don’t know another kind.”

Somehow, his grip slides to her wrist and she’s released the Snitch to feebly fly over the swaying grasses. Then her hand is around his forearm and they’re breaths apart. “Ginny - ”

Whatever he was going to say, it’s now lost to the summer air as Ron’s voice sounds from below, beckoning them inside.

They spend the little time left of July planning and preparing for the moment they’ll have to leave everything behind, which, to Harry, is in a way exactly what he needs simply because it doesn’t offer much room to interact with Ginny. It’s odd how seeing her now makes his heart leap with happiness and then immediately twist with sadness and guilt.

Even though it’s hard not to catch her eye at dinner, especially when the table’s too packed with people, close members from the Order, and no one can notice. Or when little Gabrielle Delacour arrives with her parents and turns her Veela charm on Harry; the small display of jealousy from Ginny revives the old monster nestled in his chest, gives Harry an extra spring in his step for the rest of the day. She cares enough to show the rest of the world he’s off limits. Only Ron’s withering look wipes the stupid grin plastered on his face.

“Should I be fighting off smitten women having a go at you or is this a girlfriend only task?”

Harry stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder. He sees Ginny, her hair messily twisted in a bun at the top of her head, leaning against the doorframe of her room and staring after him intently. He also notices the puffiness around her eyes that makes the dark rings under them more evident. His insides churn painfully.

“I don’t think women have ever been smitten when it comes to me. I rather tend to attract the usual love potion spiked chocolates kind of people,” Harry shrugs as he fully turns around to face her, one hand gripping at the railing. He feels as though he needs to tether himself to something or else he might just run to her and take her in his arms and kiss her tired eyes till she’s sound asleep and safely pressed against his chest.

Ginny lets out a dejected chuckle, “Clearly you’re not at all familiar with Hogwarts bathroom talk.”

“Oh?”

“But it’s somehow so typical of you to be oblivious of your charms,” Ginny shrugs and Harry forgets himself enough to let a smile stretch onto his face.

“My charms?”

“I believe tall, dark and handsome were uttered here and there,” she smiles a bit as her eyes lock with his and instantly a series of intimate moments they’ve shared passes before his eyes. “But they’re all wrong.”

“They are?” Harry parrots stupidly, heat spreading all over his chest, his face, to the tips of his ears.

“Yeah,” Ginny nods and covers one arm with the palm of her other, brushes it from her shoulder to her elbow as her lips slightly quiver. “It’s actually your eyes. Good night, Harry.”

And just like that she twirls on her heels and closes the door right after her. Harry can hear the springs of the mattress lamenting faintly and tries with all his might not to imagine her crushed on her bed, crying.

He doesn’t even realise it’s his birthday until the sun shakes him out of the poor sleep he’d managed to get once his mind got too tired of playing thousands of different versions of how he might die, how we might bring sorrow and death upon others, all peppered with instances of Ginny crying.

Huh, at least now he can do magic without being traced. Cheers to surviving this long and successfully eliminating the option of rotting in Azkaban every time he feels like actually being a wizard.

Harry gets to enjoy a bit of lightheartedness and bask in other people’s relationship problems when Ron gifts him a book essentially on how to pick up women and not long after Hermione publicly announces she’s about to pack Ron’s pants as soon as they get out of the washer. Unfortunately, he can’t share neither of those moments with Ginny as she’s not there…

Soon enough he locates her when she calls him to her room and Harry steps inside aware of his faint trembling. He comments on the view from her windows and she ignores him, like she should. Who’s invited into their former girlfriend’s bedroom and steers the conversation towards scenery?

A bloody idiot, that’s who.

She mentions Veelas again and his head starts spinning as Ginny looks at him with that blazing look on her face and it’s then when he knows it’s simply become impossible for him to step back. Harry kisses her as fiercely as she’s kissing him, ready to go where he’d previously forbidden himself to go with her, no longer able to control his mind, his body, its reactions to her. Harry’s ready to give himself away completely.

But before the thought of locking the door can cross his mind, before he can take this any further, the door bangs open and they break apart. Lust turns to anger and anger turns to guilt in Harry’s mind as he promises Ron he’s done, he’ll stay away, he’ll will himself to stop. He can’t keep doing this to her, he must never do it again.

An image of Ginny happily in love with another man invades his mind for the rest of the day, obsessing him, torturing him, the faceless man telling him nonchalantly that ‘you’ve lost her, mate’ as the two of them kiss deeply and turn their backs to Harry. They’d never could’ve had a future anyway...

[gra-sonas]

Heads up, humans: This interview spoils the events of Monday’s Roswell, New Mexico finale. Proceed at your own risk.

“Howdy, partner.” Those two words will haunt Roswell, New Mexico fans until the moment the show returns for its third season — whenever that is. But before we tear this episode apart, twist by twist, here’s a quick recap of what went down:

After deactivating the alien explosive and saving her town, Liz received an unexpected reward from the universe: Diego returned to Roswell with Dr. Margot Meyerson, a renowned scientist who not only offered Liz a fellowship but also volunteered to sponsor Arturo’s citizenship. (Yay!) But when Max learned that Diego was going to bring Dr. Meyerson to Liz’s lab without her permission, he torched the place, ensuring that no one would catch wind of Liz’s alien experiments. (Boo!) Understandably furious that Max resorted to such drastic measures without consulting her, Liz told him that she needs to figure out where he ends and she begins — making the decision to relocate to California even easier.

In other relationship news, Maria broke things off with Michael, Alex kissed Forrest in public (after performing an original song!), a rehab-bound Rosa told Helena — who’s already furious that Jesse Manes died as a “hero” — to leave town, and Kyle was overjoyed to discover that Liz’s interference saved Steph’s life.

Then came the big reveal. Guided the whispers he heard when he touched the alien console, Max took Isobel and Michael to a secret tunnel, where they freed a mysterious stranger — the stowaway mentioned in Tripp’s journals. And he looks an awful lot like an evil, bearded Max. Below, executive producer Carina Adly MacKenzie answers (most of) our burning questions about this game changer:

TVLINE | I’ve never read [Melinda Metz’s Roswell High] books, and I never watched the first Roswell series, so I was really not expecting that final twist. They did have a clone element on the first show, but it was kind of a funny thing. And it wasn’t in the books. Or if it was, I didn’t know about it because I only read the first one. That story actually evolved kind of organically.

TVLINE | We know he’s the stowaway, but what else can you say about this look-alike, if anything? Very little. But after years of watching Nina Dobrev pull double duty on The Vampire Diaries, I’m really excited to throw that challenge at Nathan [Dean]. We had originally considered introducing his father at the end. We were shooting the scene in Episode 3 where the stowaway steps out of the ship, and I called Nathan and asked him to be the person who puts his hand on Nora’s shoulder. At that point, we were like, “Whoever we cast as Max’s dad is probably going to be a tall, dark-haired guy.” And Nathan wasn’t working at the time, because Max was still dead, so he was just excited to come to set. Jeff Hunt directed both Episode 3 and the finale, so I said to him, “We might [introduce a Max double]. Can you shoot it like we’re making a big reveal?” So he did, and then we saved that footage for the finale. Once we saw how cool it looked to reveal that it was a double of Max, I was like, “Well, I guess we’re not casting a dad!”

TVLINE | Since you brought up Nina, I feel like I can say that the “Howdy, partner” line gave me major “Hello, brother” vibes — in a good way! [Laughs] We had fun with that. I think I had Nathan say it 100 different ways on the actual day, because there are so many ways you could do it where it’s either funny or sinister. And it works because, in the end, they are set up to be partners.

TVLINE | So that’s how we can expect Nathan’s other character to speak? Mr. Jones learned how to be a human in 1948 Roswell, and he certainly has a bit of John Wayne to him. I’ve got Nathan watching old cowboy movies now as he develops the voice — and works on growing his beard.

TVLINE | I hate to boil it down to such simple terms, but Max and Liz are definitely broken up? Not just on a little break? They are definitely broken up, not on a break. Their interests are diametrically opposed right now. On a second viewing, I think people will notice there’s more to Max’s choices in the finale than he might be revealing. He blew up Liz’s lab to protect his family and to stop her from continuing her experiments, but there are also some ulterior motives there. He’s had so many secrets for so long, he���s just not a good partner for her in the way she needs him to be right now. He’s got some growing to do before they can reconcile.

TVLINE | I do love them together, but I’m glad she chose her career. She’s always going to be that girl. Sometimes I get notes from the studio and network, saying, “Can we have Liz stop talk about leaving town? The show is called Roswell. The audience knows she’s not leaving forever.” But it’s not about creating jeopardy. It’s about who this woman is, and she’s not settling in Roswell. It’s just not in her bones. Part of the struggle of telling this story, and part of Liz’s struggle, is balancing ambition with home and with love and with family. She’s always going to be doing that.

TVLINE | I’m also proud of Rosa for going back to rehab. What does the future hold for her? She’s going to finish out her program, and she’ll have been sober for a little while when we catch up with her in Season 3. We’ll get to see her grow up and become who she really is as an adult, as opposed to this perpetual teenager trapped in her angst forever and ever — not that I can relate at all. [Laughs]

TVLINE | She had some strong words for her mother at the end. Do you see Helena having a place in this story, even after her plan went up in smoke? A reconciliation between Liz and Helena is a story we’ll explore down the line, but for right now, she had this grand idea of revenge and justice — and justice wasn’t served. She’s going to have to grapple with that. There’s going to be a statue of Jesse Manes in that town. He died a hero, and that’s incredibly frustrating for her. Meanwhile, she’s grappling with addiction and with mental illness, the same things Rosa is up against. Down the line, there’s a story to be told about her showing up for her daughters, but it’s going to be a while.

TVLINE | Lastly, I just want to give Michael a hug. How is he feeling about himself right now? He’s actually, for the first time in a long time, feeling a little bit of hope. He knows he has to get over Maria before he starts anything up with Alex, but I think after listening to Alex’s song, he has some hope for their relationship. At the beginning of the season, he was pretty hopeless, so just that little glimmer maybe there’s still a story to be told here is enough. We’re making progress. Baby steps.

~ TVLine

[atinytokki]

Distant Daylight

vi. The Treasure Trove 

Yunho’s tenth birthday was the day things changed.

Sangwoo hadn’t returned yet, despite the passage of winter, and while for Gunho he was only a distant thought, Yunho still spent afternoons looking out the window and wondering when he would turn up.

His absence didn’t mean training stopped however, and Yunho would square up against bags of flour if he had to, he needed to be in shape. He needed to get out of here.

The orphanage didn’t believe in birthdays, or at least they didn’t celebrate them, which meant yet another secret pantry meeting to spend time with Gunho.

“I have to confess something,” Gunho whispered, candlelight casting a strange shadow on his face. He was oddly withdrawn, only hesitantly partaking in the secret birthday feast with his brother.

“No you don’t,” Yunho chucked nervously. “Let’s just relax and eat rice cakes.”

“But...” Gunho bit his lip and looked away, and after that Yunho knew it was serious. “I was going to give you something for your birthday.”

“What do you mean?” Yunho pressed quietly. “You don’t need to get me anything. It would probably be confiscated anyway.”

“It already was,” Gunho whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Mother’s music box. I was going to give it to you in case they move me to another room or someone adopts me—”

“What are you talking about?” Yunho asked slowly after gasping at the news. “You can’t be adopted, not without me...”

“We don’t know that,” Gunho snapped back. “I just think Mother would want you to have it, so I was going to give it to you, but the caretakers saw it and they took it away.”

Yunho sat back, astonished. “Well... where is it?”

Gunho finally met his eyes and winced at what he was about to say. “In the headmaster’s office.”

Yunho went quiet for a minute.

“Forget about it,” Gunho eventually sighed when he received no response. “When personal objects go in there, they don’t come back out. It’s probably a lost cause.”

“No, it isn’t!” Yunho cut him off, a sly smile spreading on his face. “Let’s sneak in and get it back!”

Gunho paled at the very idea. “But we could be caught...”

“What’s the worst they can do? Put you in the delinquent room?”

As soon as it left his lips, Yunho regretted saying it.

It was true, he wanted company in his lonely wing of the orphanage. With Sangwoo gone, hardly anyone ever talked to him. But dooming Gunho to join him in his unfortunate fate...

Maybe it was better if he broke the rules alone.

“Never mind. You just keep watch and make some excuses with that baby face of yours if you have to,” Yunho chuckled, getting to his feet. “I’ll take care of this.”

As he slipped out of the pantry and towards the headmaster’s office, Gunho whined after him, “I don’t have a baby face!”

Gunho wasn’t joking when he said objects couldn’t return from the study. The moment Yunho silently crept into the office, he understood why.

The stern headmaster’s desk was frustratingly devoid of not only their mother’s music box, but any stolen items at all. Yunho opened every drawer and even shook the massive thing to see if secret compartments would reveal themselves, but nothing worked.

All the trunks and bookcases yielded the same empty results, and soon Yunho was beginning to wonder if it was time to give up. He was tiring and becoming less alert to potential caretakers that might walk in on him.

Inspecting the paintings that hung on the walls, he suddenly realised one of them was no painting at all, but actually a secret door. The portrait pushed open at his touch, and the giddy, adventurous feeling that bloomed inside left no room for hesitation, so he entered the short tunnel quietly.

It only took three or four steps in the dark before he arrived at a dimly lit room, so large and spacious that he had to tilt his head to see the ceiling. It was solid, imposing stone with only the faint glow of fading torches to warm its cold walls, and Yunho suppressed a shiver as he took in the grand room.

Piled all around were objects— blankets, toys, articles of clothing, various items of jewellery, occasional furniture, and even game pieces. Anything that might have sentimental value was gathered here.

At first, Yunho was horrified. What kind of person would steal from his charges for so many years that he had to hide a collection of their things piled so high they couldn’t see the top?

And then, he was excited. While it tinged his melancholy to rifle through treasure that didn’t belong to him, he was in search of one very important item that did.

The morning sun was gently brushing the rooftops in the city by the time he located it, atop an empty shell of a suitcase and a worn infant blanket.

Playing the song back once and letting the sweet tinkling of the familiar tune fill his ears, he slipped out of the secret room without incident, and presented a beaming Gunho with his prize.

Gunho squeezed him in a hug so tight, it brought tears to Yunho’s eyes, and he watched with a fond smile as his brother played the tune back again for the hundredth time.

It hit Yunho in the face that day with all the subtlety of a royal parade.

Gunho was growing up.

...

Their borrowed happiness together didn’t last longer than the summer, however, with the disappearance of Gunho’s treasured mouse friend.

Yunho was much less motivated to search the halls at night for the grimy little creature, especially as sickness began to sweep through the city.

One of the boys in Gunho’s room came down with the fever, and a week later, three more had contracted it. Mousey was caught and exterminated with all the other rats responsible for spreading disease.

By mid-autumn, Gunho himself was showing signs of illness and Yunho was tearing his hair out looking for a way to help him.

Sangwoo hadn’t come back and most likely wasn’t going to. It had been almost exactly a year since his escape, which meant Yunho needed to take things into his own hands.

Still, he found himself helplessly fighting the caretakers with tears streaming down his cheeks as they refused to let him into his brother’s room to see him.

“No one is allowed in,” the woman told him sternly, struggling to avoid his fists while keeping him out. “It’s for your own safety.”

“Please,” Yunho sobbed, sinking through their arms to the floor as his strength gave out. “Please, my brother needs me—”

“You’ll get sick,” the second caretaker argued, like that was any deterrent.

“I don’t care,” Yunho cried bitterly. He was tired of fighting them. “You can’t do this.”

If he couldn’t stand up to a couple of exhausted caretakers, he wasn’t ready at all for the real world.

But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing was being done for Gunho or any of the sick children. The adults were too afraid to help them and risk their own safety and whether he was prepared or not, if Yunho didn’t escape with Gunho now, his chances of survival were looking slimmer by the moment.

And so he resigned himself.

With nothing but a bag of pantry food and a music box, he waited until the dead of night and slipped the bag under the fence.

Gunho’s room was guarded, but the man keeping watch had been there for a few hours and looked moments away from nodding off, so Yunho forced himself to be patient.

He could see Gunho’s motionless form stretched out beside the other sick boys on the floor. No one was attending them, and it made Yunho’s blood boil.

The second the caretaker’s head hit his chest, Yunho silently entered the room and tried to shake his brother awake.

Gunho was feverish and, for a moment, unresponsive, and it brought Yunho’s heart to his throat for the terrifying pause before his brother’s eyes focused on him.

“Wha—?”

“Quiet!” Yunho hushed him and began scooping him up, pressing a hand to his mouth should he make any more noise on the way out.

“Where are we going?” Gunho finally mumbled as soon as they safely left the building. Yunho squeezed under the fence, collecting his bag, and motioned for Gunho to do the same. With some help, he managed to wriggle through without injury to himself and climbed onto Yunho’s back for the long walk into town.

“We’re leaving this place for good.”

The world was out there, and anything was better than the cage they’d been stuck in.

...

A/N: Haha... you mean to tell me... I haven’t updated this since July??Well I have remedied that~ and a few more spinoff chapters and maybe a main series one will be out shortly (or at least when my classes end in a couple weeks) so thanks for being patient and enjoy 🥺

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[lov3nerdstuff]

I Found

*Loki x reader*

Part: 1/8

Words: 3.3k

Warnings: mention of blood, violence, slavery, sexual stuff

Summary: Loki finds himself stranded in Underworld, a kingdom hidden deep inside a desolate planet. In order to survive, he puts himself in the service of the tyrant king, who promises to give Loki his freedom back if he fulfills one simple task. Loki is to set out and bring the mad king his newest toy: You.

~A dangerous, forbidden love. Abduction. Slavery. Tortured conscience. A mad tyrant... Escape?~

Request: A song fic based on 'I found' by Amber Run, requested by @strawberrysandcream 💗 Hope no one minds that I'm making another mini series!

All Parts can be found on my Masterlist!

__________________________________

It had been weeks since Loki had last seen the sky. Weeks since he had felt the wind in his hair, chilling him in the most pleasant manner and tousling his raven locks even more than they had previously been. Weeks since he had felt the sun's warm rays on his skin, a calming comfort bearing the promise of a day yet to come. Weeks since he had crashed on this horrible planet, been stranded in this place that consisted only of ragged rock and stone. Weeks since he had been brought into the caves, the tunnels and catacombs winding through the entire planet like an anthill, the city underneath the surface of all that cold stone. Weeks since he had managed to gain the favor of the king, pledging his unyielding loyalty to yet another ruler. This was starting to become an infestation in his life, really… changing allegiance like others changed their garments.

Yet, Loki was a smart man, to say the least. He knew what it took to survive in a seemingly inescapable purgatory like this, hell, even profit off it if he went about it correctly. And as long as he sensed a personal advantage, he was all for it. At least until he would see a chance to escape this place without drawing any severe harm to himself.

Thus it was no surprise that after a few weeks of flattery, of strategically placed opportunities to prove himself valuable and of some minor felonies, Loki became a highly valued yet not fully trusted member of the royal court of Underworld. That's what they called their kingdom… Underworld. Not very creative, in Loki's eyes. But the king was a nuisance anyway, a brutal and cruel tyrant one shouldn't underestimate; Loki had learned that quite soon. When the king asked for something, or rather demanded for something to be done, one couldn't refuse. Not if they wanted to live to see another day.

And so it came the day – or night? – when Loki was summoned to the grand throne hall. Honestly, he had lost track of whether it was day or nighttime, for life down here went by different rules anyhow. As he strode through the many narrow, torch-lit tunnels leading from his assigned quarters (a rather small cave that at least was equipped with everything he deemed necessary) towards his place of summoning, he wondered what the king might want this time around. Someone to scratch his back maybe? Or to tell another story to keep him entertained while he dined? Loki snorted at his own thoughts.

Yes, life down here was rather easy for him. He had a bed and a fireplace against the insufferable cold of the eternally ongoing stone, food and fresh water in the plenty. But he knew that not everyone was as lucky. He had been outside of the area one could consider a palace a couple times, and he had returned deeply shaken. The people of Underworld suffered, very greatly so. Certainly, there were always some people in every kingdom who suffered, for that could hardly be prevented for a longer period of time. But here, it wasn't merely some people who suffered. It was THE people. Singular form.

Loki may be mostly concerned about himself and his own affairs and well-being, but he wasn't cruel. He still had a conscience, and a heart… even though he wished he didn't, for it made his life down here so much harder to bear. Yet, he knew that there was very little he could do about that and thus the knowledge that he was highly privileged weighed heavy on his conscience at all times. He just couldn't shake it off, couldn't become the cold and heartless man he pretended to be on the outside.

As he entered the large throne hall, he cringed internally. It was stuffed with prestige objects, valuables from other realms that might have excited him in a previous life, but that now only served to him the purpose of proving the king's vanity. Had Loki himself really wanted to be like that at some point…? That version of himself seemed more distant now than ever before.

"Loki, my friend!" The king's croaky tenor voice greeted him a moment later and Loki flashed his most charming, and most fake smile.

"You called for me, your majesty?" He replied politely, bowing ever so slightly while his stomach turned at the action.

"I did indeed. I need you to so something for me, god of trickery." The king started in his condescending, almost mocking manner that Loki had grown increasingly numb to. "It seems I have broken one of my toys. You are to fetch me a new one."

The words made Loki's blood freeze over and the bile rise in his throat. By the norns, why did it have to be him this time around? He had been able to close his eyes to this before, had been able to block it out of his mind… but now he couldn't any longer.

The truth came crashing down on him like a cave's contraction, crushing him between miles deep of stone. Loki felt sick to the stomach. The king's 'toys' were nothing he wanted to become affiliated with. Poor, innocent girls reaped from their families at any age the king saw fit. And now Loki would become the reaper, if he wished not to be tortured to death.

"You see…" The king continued to speak and drew Loki back out of his mind. "...this is a matter of trust. I trust you, Loki, to bring me the girl of my choice unharmed and untouched. If you accomplish your task you will be rewarded with certain… liberties, in this kingdom. Like the freedom to venture wherever you please. But if you fail to fulfill your task, I'm afraid you will breathe your last."

Loki flashed on of his brightest smiles once more, bowing yet again. "As you wish, your majesty." Then he turned around, trying to convince himself that he was NOT fleeing as he walked back towards the exit.

"And Loki?" The king called out to him again, upon which he turned around with as neutral an expression as he could manage. "My head of guards will see you to the destined girl's residence and detail some men for your protection."

Loki nodded once, then turned back around and his eyes fell upon the swarm of men waiting for him at the entrance. Surely they weren't detailed for his protection, but for his supervision indeed. Obviously he wasn't the first person assigned this task who considered choosing escape over obedience. Oh and Loki wanted to escape, now more than any time before. He needed to come up with a plan of how to get himself out of this mess, and off this planet. Underworld was no place for him to stay.

The first step always was to gather some more information. Thus he took the opportunity of the small army of guards leading him out of the palace and towards the city for some questions.

"May I ask, why does this… reaping require my presence?" He started off, hoping that some easier questions would loosen the tongues of the guards and make them warm up to him.

"He needs someone to take the blame." A guard in simple leather armor answered. "If the people have another face to hate, they won't know that we take the girls for the king. And he likes to play games."

"Charming." Loki sighed, frowning to himself. Of course, if someone to take the blame was needed it would always be him, no matter the realm he was in. How truly wonderful that at least some things never change. He rolled his eyes once he knew that no one was observing him too closely. "How often does he break his… toys?"

"Every couple weeks." Another guard shrugged. "Sometimes he does it on purpose though, when he grows bored of them. Or when they… fall ill."

A very much unwanted shiver ran down Loki's spine, but he kept his cool, knowing that he had to. But he wanted to know more, even if he wished he didn't have to. "What happens to them afterwards?"

"You don't want to know." The guard mumbled in return. "No one wants to know."

"And what happens once we… what are we doing again, officially? Once we reach the girl's home?"

"We escort her back to the palace."

"And then?" Loki inquired further, trying to squeeze as many questions into this unpleasant experience as possible.

"Then she won't be your concern anymore, and you'll be better off forgetting about her altogether. The king is very strict about that."

"Strict about what exactly?"

"Anyone who touches what is his, who lusts for what is his will not live to see any trial."

"A bit possessive, isn't it?" Loki commented sarcastically and one of the guards snorted, only to be nudged in the side by one of his fellows.

Loki sighed to himself. These men knew nothing of relevance and even less of importance.

Thus, all he could do was to let the guards lead him through the maze of tunnels and the differently sized caves, until they halted all of a sudden in a rather narrow tunnel. Loki's brows furrowing in an instant, every fiber in his body on high alert. The dim torchlight danced across the stone walls and created deep shadows in the corners of the tunnel, casting illusions on the rough surfaces.

"You will wait here." The guard in the front spoke to Loki, who only lifted his brows in question. "We get the girl, then we're going back."

Before Loki could complain as for why he had to come all the way here just to wait in the shadows now, half of the guards hurried on into the next part of the tunnel while the rest remained watching him. Now… he could easily overpower them, sure, but he also knew that he wouldn't find his way out of the maze of tunnels alone. He only knew his way around the palace, vaguely, not all the way to the surface of the planet. And being lost down here in the tunnels was probably the only thing worse than being a royal prisoner.

Suddenly a loud scream echoed through the damp and chilled air, reflecting off the stone walls like the light of the torches and creating an eerie sound that made the remaining guards jump. It would've made Loki jump too, had he not spent centuries training his body to react visibly only at his will. Yet, he found the deep silence that followed upon the loud noise to be more sinister than the bone-chilling scream had been in the first place. Nothing good ever came out of a silence as looming as the one surrounding him and his guards at the very moment.

Then, finally the silence was broken by approaching footsteps, and Loki was almost glad that the guards were coming back at last. The first thing he saw was the glow of their torches at the curve of the tunnel, then they became visible as they approached quickly. One guard was carrying a limp body in his arms and Loki's eyes fixed on it immediately. The closer they got, the better he could see the outlines of your small form pressed awkwardly against the guard's feeble body. The poor guy looked like his legs might give out under your additional weight any second and Loki rose an eyebrow at them once they joined his guards in the tunnel. What he did not expect however was that the young man carrying you came straight towards him with a relieved expression.

"You will carry her back." He pressed out, looking like he might just drop you any second now.

"Yeah, I don't think that's going to happen." Loki replied with one of his signature breathy laughs reserved for internal moments of utter irritation, as he took a step backwards.

"Oh, you must. It's not up for discussion." Another guard said almost lightly.

"Why couldn't you just let her walk on her own legs?" Loki asked in what sounded more like snapping than he had intended. Luckily, the guards didn't seem to care much for his ways of conversing.

"They tend to make too much noise, and struggle more than necessary. It makes things easier to just knock them out for the way." The guard replied calmly. Loki had to realize that this must be a regular thing for them, a routine almost. The thought made his stomach drop and his head hurt.

"I'm going to drop her if you don't take her." The skimpy guard groaned and his legs started shaking dangerous, as did his arms.

"Fine, drop her then. Whatever. Not my problem." Loki commented coldly, looking at the guard in false indifference. He couldn't allow himself to care about anything but his goal of escaping as soon as possible. Everything, and everyone, else was a mere distraction to his own cause.

A few seconds later the guard's arms gave out indeed he dropped your body in an attempt to keep from breaking down himself. Loki watched you falling as if time had been slowed down just to torture him. Even in the dim light he could see your beautiful face, the dark bruise starting to form on your right cheekbone, the slightly parted lips… you looked so peaceful. So innocent. And for the first time in a decade his body didn't obey his reason as he caught you in his arms, only a broken second before you would have hit the ground. Time went back to moving at a normal speed, and he closed his eyes for a second as he stood upright once more, jaw clenching. Damn his conscience, and damn your stupid angelic face! This only made matters more complicated, and he hated it.

"Look who's not as tough as he always carries himself…" A guard to Loki's left laughed, only to find himself pressed against the wall of the tunnel a second later with a blade of pure ice pressed against his throat.

"Be careful who you speak to, and mindful of the ways in which they can kill you." Loki spoke in his most threatening voice as he tried to keep your body balanced on only one arm while holding the blade pressed against the man with the other. Yet, upon the beyond frightened face of the guard, he let the blade disappear again and hoisted you up higher against his chest with both arms. He wasn't particularly strong for a god, but in comparison to the people of Underworld he was Hercules himself, and thus he found no trouble at all in carrying you. What did trouble him a great deal on the other hand was not to stare down at you while they made their way back towards the palace. And not to let himself care.

"What's her name?" He finally couldn't resist asking, already blaming himself for the first signs of attachment forming in his mind. Gosh, he couldn't let himself get sucked into this.

"Y/n." One of the guards answered him. "She has been on the king's list for a very long time."

"And why has he waited until now to reap her? He does not seem like a man inclined to take pleasure in delayed gratification." Loki was beyond careful in wording this statement, for he knew that an insult to the king equalled a self-imposed death sentence.

"She's been hard to find and even harder to capture. Usually the girls he goes for aren't much of a challenge when it comes to their reaping. But this girl, Y/n… she's killed more guards than the beasts living in the caves below our feet!" The guard mumbled in disdain at the loss of his friends. Loki couldn't feel sympathy at all for the men who willingly stole innocent people away from their lives only for them to pleasure the mad tyrant on the throne. In his opinion, every single one of them deserved death more than most people he had killed himself in the past. But he couldn't be the one bringing them their end this time, for he needed to remain in the favor of the king a little while longer.

When he finally allowed himself to look at you, it left him wondering how a person could look so innocent while obviously being so lethal. Somehow, he felt a sense of pride in that, and a sense of very faint relief at the knowledge that you were a fighter. Maybe you could survive becoming the king's new plaything. He felt sick yet again at the thought, and even more so now that he was the one carrying you towards your doom. But he needed the reward he would get for accomplishing this task, he needed the freedom to roam the tunnels of Underworld to find a way to the surface. Maybe he could offer to take you along with him on his escape, if you lived to see that day. The prospect didn't make him feel any better. What he was doing here was wrong, very wrong indeed, and he was well aware of that.

"How did you knock her out?" He heard himself asking as his eyes remained fixed on the gentle curve of your jaw, the bruises and cuts, the dried blood just below your bottom lip.

"Poison." One man answered easily enough and Loki found himself shivering yet again. "So she doesn't run even when she wakes up. The only possible antidote is safely stored in the palace."

"Didn't you mean to say so that I don't run, with her?" Loki snapped before he could keep his mouth shut. How could these people do such cruel things with a smile on their face? Prior to his stay in Underworld Loki had believed himself to be a cruel man… oh how wrong he had been.

Since running with you wasn't an option, because of the poison, and neither was running without you, because of the tunnels, Loki found himself walking all the way back to the palace with you in his arms. He hoped dearly that he could just drop you off somewhere and forget about you for good, but if he was honest with himself, he knew that he wouldn't be able to forget. Not after spending forty minutes carrying you to the point of his arms going numb, after using his own precious magic and energy to keep you from shivering all too badly, after shielding you from the hungry gazes of the guards. Honestly, Loki didn't know why he was doing any of this… developing a weird sense of protectiveness over you only to hand you over like prey the next moment.

Finally, once they reached the gates of the palace, he realized that to him, you were a warning sign. Reminding him that this place was despicable, that he needed to flee as soon as possible, that the king was not to be messed with. Reminding him that if fate had played him any differently, it could very well be him on the throne. A mad tyrant caught up in an illusion and unaware of what he was doing to the people around him. And for once Loki found himself glad that he still had a conscience, still head a heart. Otherwise he would not be any better than the people bringing your doom upon you. Yet, if his conscience kept talking sense to him, he knew that he would lose his mind. Over you.

______________________________

If you would like to be tagged in this series or on the general tag list, tell me in the comments 💗✨ Hope everyone enjoyed this first part!!! Special thanks to @kthemarsian @beenthroughalot @strawberrysandcream

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[seancekitsch]

Richie Tozier x Reader: 27 Years Later... Revamped!

You heard it here folks! I’ve updated my big Richie x Reader post to be more inclusive! The reader is now gender neutral instead of female, and I’ve mixed elements from the book and the new movie IT chapter 2! warning, i am a book purist so there are some plot elements from the book that do not occur in the movie! Enjoy!

-Growing up, you had always been Stan’s. You’d be each other’s go-to people, sometimes even closer than Richie and Eddie. He had been your perfect Boy Scout crush growing up, and after the first encounter with IT, he decided he couldn’t dance around his feelings any longer and asked you out.

-You always felt like the loser on the “outside”, you were at all group hang outs and meetings but you didn’t really hang out with anyone but Stan besides the occasional sleepover with Bev, but after Stan’s bar mitzvah that changed. Richie was the only loser to attend (besides you) and that meant a great deal to you. Despite how Stan used to get annoyed at Richie’s jokes, you always made sure to go out of your way to include him and befriend him after that day.

-Even though the losers drifted during high school, you remained Stan’s partner and Richie’s best friend besides Eddie. You had a lot more in common with Richie than you had originally thought because both of you essentially had to raise yourselves. Stan found a new found respect for the fellow loser over this connection you had.

-Stan was your first everything, from kisses to heartbreak. Yes, heartbreak. You broke up the summer before college. You were going out to California for school on an honours program and he was going to a university in Georgia with his twin sister. It was practical but it didn’t mean it didn’t sting either of you. You had promised to remain on good terms, however.

-Despite him moving on in Georgia, you never really did. He after college quickly married a woman named Patricia and settled in Atlanta. You met back up with Richie after graduation, and moved into a townhouse with him in Beverly Hills. Despite dating around, you never had much luck, probably thanks to your loud tall housemate.

-You and Richie actually flew out to Stan’s wedding, and while your first love was gone, there were no ill feelings from either of you. You shared a dance with him at the reception and told him how much you approved of his new wife. It meant a lot to him.

-After the wedding, you start to drift from Stan. Soon you don’t hear from each other at all. Richie was the only loser left for you.

-As much as he hated to say it, Richie saw this as his opportunity. You see, he had cared about you since the bar mitzvah. He knew there was someone he loved, but he couldn’t remember who. He guessed because he remembered you so vividly and nothing else, it had to be you. He was respectful of Stan and you, so he had never said anything and kept his distance. With Stan married, and Richie as your roommate (and secretly ruining most of your dates, whether he meant to or not) you were free, and he could hope you’d somehow feel the same.

-You and Richie live it up in Beverly Hills, networking and working side by side; going to celebrity parties and drinking with the big wigs.

-You’ve been tipsy and kissed at these parties, always to fend off unwanted company. It became the perfect cover and a casual display of affection for your closest friend. Despite it being a defence, you once kissed in a taxi after leaving one of these parties. It was a deep and long kiss, and there was no audience for it to be necessary, but it was never spoke of again.

-You became a writer on a semi popular TV series and Richie became a stand up comedian. While you hadn’t gone to school for writing, Richie had encouraged you to go for the job. You had always been good at writing, even minoring in it during college. He helped you prepare and edit scripts. He would even act out scenes in his famous impressions.

-Things were going so well, until one day Mike Hanlon calls. At first, you don’t even remember him until he calls you your old childhood nickname. You have to go back to Derry. IT is back.

-The plane ride is long, and both you and Richie decide to knock a few back in the airport bar and sleep it off on the flight. When you wake up at landing, your head is in the hollow of where his neck and shoulder meet and his arm is around you. Your hands are interlaced. Sure, the two of you had shared beds on road trips and when you’d travel for job auditions, but you had never really snuggled like this. You’re both blushing messes when you get to baggage claim.

-When you finally get back in town, you head straight to the Chinese restaurant in town in the car Richie rents. You recognise everyone immediately, embracing each of them with warmth and love... except for Stan who is nowhere to be seen. Mike assures you that he had contacted him.

-Despite his absence, you all enjoy dinner. You notice Bev and Bill still carry torches for one another after all these years. Ben looks amazing and seems very successful. Mike is even wiser than he was when you were all young. Eddie is still just as hyper and fun to talk to.

-After the meal, you all head off from the restaurant to talk strategy. On the walk out of the building, Bev pulls you back to walk and talk with her. It’s as if nothing has changed and you’re having a sleepover again. She specifically asks if you and Richie are a couple. When you deny this, she laughs and says that’s insane because of how you seem so in love with one another.

-You’d never say it, but you had imagined a life with Richie before. You can’t really be roommates with someone you have such a bond with without thinking of these things. But late at night when you can’t sleep you think about how nice it would be to have his arms around you, pressed into his lean and warm chest. There have been times when he’s brought people back, and he has a type in the people he brings home. A lot of them either share your name, or Eddie’s. You realize this isn’t a coincidence that you’d hear him calling out these names. Tozier sounded like a nice title to gain. It would be fun to see his last name, even hyphenated, on yours in any of your writing credits. But you’re snapped out of your thoughts the second Bev gets through on the line she’s trying to reach Stan at.

-Patricia was on the line; she said Stan had slit his wrists in the bathtub just an hour earlier. IT had been written on the wall in his blood. This makes your blood run cold. You can’t even react for a good five minutes even though everyone is watching you very carefully.

-The day you had all made that blood pact, Stan had made an off handed joke about slitting your wrists instead of just your hands. It had made you uncomfortable then, but scares the shit out of you now.

-When you finally do react, it’s like your whole world crumbles. You think you might be screaming, you know you’re definitely crying. You don’t even realize you’ve fled past all of the other losers cars until Richie’s arms are around you and he’s pressing you close to him on the curb.

-He let’s you scream it out, let’s you dig your nails into his skin until he bleeds, let’s you soak his nice dress shirt with tears and spit. Anything to comfort you and be close to you. This is the most thankful you’ve ever been for Richard Tozier.

-When you’ve stopped crying, there’s a newfound hate in your heart. You’re going to kill IT and it’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. You vow to avenge Stanley Uris. The group can’t disagree, even though half of them want to run. You all vow that before tomorrow is over, the clown will die.

-Richie and Eddie tell you how much they want to leave, and they try to get you to leave as well. But between your need for vengeance and Bill and Mike’s ranting about a strategy to kill IT, they don’t end up leaving town. That night, you can’t sleep. You aren’t sure how, maybe it’s a trick of IT’s illusions, but somehow you end up in Richie’s bed. It’s restless and you’re both terrified, but you cling together in solidarity and something stronger than lifelong friendship. But by the time he wakes you’re gone already, looking for your token to burn.

-You find it in the clubhouse, hidden behind one of the wooden boards nailed to the floor. It’s the little paper program from Stan’s bar mitzvah. An important day that quite literally changed your whole life.

-Upon returning to the townhouse, you find It nearly empty, with Eddie patching up a hole in his face. He’s mumbling something about the library while he’s finishing sanitizing his wound, so that’s where the two of you head when he’s done.

-Richie is shaken after killing Bowers, and now it’s your turn to comfort him. He shakes as you slip your arm around his, guiding him as he walks. Your other hand squeezes his bicep every few minutes to remind him to breathe. You’re here, and you’ve got him. It helps.

-Returning to Neibolt fills you with all of the memories you’d struggled to remember the day before. All of the fear and isolation of your childhood filled you so completely that you thought you could be sick. But you enter anyway, nausea and all.

-seeing IT take the form of Stan’s body is what does it for you though. You’re doubled over vomiting and crying, your hands sting against the broken glass and splinters on the floor. You’re only half aware of the chaos going around you until Richie kicks what you can only describe as a spider with Stan’s head and razor sharp teeth away from you. And then everything is so horrifyingly clear. This is only the beginning; it will get worse. When the head spider attacks Richie, you try to pull it off of him, but you aren’t strong enough. It’s up to Eddie, but Eddie is frozen.

-Down in the sewers is even worse. The fight takes a larger toll on all of you than expected. Eddie finally abandons all of the fear he cling to his entire life and charged head first into the fight, only to be stabbed through the torso and not get back up. You’re bloodied by one of IT’s claws, your wrist probably broken and one of your legs is in agony, so much so that you have to fight to stand while dodging the giant spider monster in it’s true form. All of you are injured in some way but team work weakens the creature.

-ripping out IT’s heart and destroying it should have been the end of all of the horror, and at first you think it is. You’re all relieved, until you notice Eddie hasn’t gotten up. Eddie and Richie had always had a special bond. You knew this better than anyone. He was the first one to Eddie’s side and held him as he tried to get him to respond.

-Eddie Kaspbrak is dead, and you can feel Richie’s heart breaking beside you. You hold his hand as he goes, and the rest of the losers hold each other. Richie presses a long kiss to his face, finally allowing tears to fall for the first time in the lifetime you’ve known him. It hurts even more knowing you can’t carry his body out of this place.

-As you leave the sewers, something changes. It’s as if the curse on you all has finally been lifted. You know you all have to go back to real life and finally live without fear, but fear is all any of you have ever known. The water of the quarry is healing to all of you, in the physical case of soothing aching muscles, and spiritually. It’s a rebirth.

-Richie cries again in the water, and you all come together to hold him. Under the water you feel a hand grasp yours, and you don’t even have to open your eyes to know that it’s Richies hand.

-Much to yours, and i think everyone’s surprise, Bev leaves with Ben. You could have sworn you heard her going at it with Bill the other night. Bill stays in town another week to recover before leaving and starting to work on his next novel. Mike resumes his life without the burden of watching Derry for ITs return, even more wise than he ever had been. You and Richie were another story.

-The second he saw you bleed in the sewer, he had gone berserk. Nothing else had mattered in that moment but destroying the thing that hurt you and Eddie. He knew after that he couldn’t ignore his feelings any longer. If his past love was gone, he had to pursue his future.

-He is uncharacteristically quiet on the way to the airport, and without speaking you know why. You’re all each other has now.

-He parks, gets out, walks around and opens the car door for you. Before you can reach for your suitcase, he reaches for you. The kiss is sobering yet intoxicating all at the same time. His hands rake through your hair and your arms rise up and wrap around his neck. The only reason to stop is the lack of oxygen that leaves you both dizzy. For once in your life, neither of you need to talk to be heard.

-The flight home feels weightless. You’re joking and lighthearted and giddy. If you weren’t as clear minded you could have sworn there was music in the air.

-When you arrive home, you decide to convert one of your bedrooms into a guest room. Stan’s letter to you both is framed in the living room. For once, you fall asleep peacefully. You fall asleep next to your best friend, your soulmate.

——————

Request anything you’d like to see! My ask box is open!

[flappypineapples]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615143/chapters/58509889

Escapism Chapter 3

Matthew quickly swept Cordelia up into his arms and carried her into a side hallway leading into an ornately decorated retiring room.

Trying to grasp on to any control of the situation Matthew laid Cordelia out onto the nearrst loveseat and fell to his knees at her side.

He check first for a pulse; steady if not a little fast. And then he checked her temperature. She was sticky with sweat and flushed pink all over, radiating heat.

He couldn't drag her back out into the main room and drive home abandoning Anna and, subsequently causing a scene. He was on thin ice already for the last surprise Shadowhunter visit he didn't think an injured one on their hands would bode over well on anyone's side.

His mind was going a thousand miles a minute and none of the miles traveled were getting him anywhere. He cursed himself for not knowing what to do. He was usually reliable when push came to shove but here he was now.

Panicking. Helpless.

Matthew was debating going and looking for Anna when Cordelia started to stir. Startled Matthew jumped a little and pulled his hand back quickly from her forehead. However Cordelia's hand came up to grab his wrist before he could get too far.

Her glassy eyes peeled open slowly and gazed up at him through heavy lips.

"Matthew?"

"Oh thank goodness. Cordelia how are you feeling. Can you tell me where we are? How we got here?". Matthew contuned with every grounding question he could think up before noticing the far off look in her eyes.

"Cordelia can toy understand me? Cordelia." Matthew was starting to become more urgent but Cordelia just lazily shifted her gaze from the wallpaper to his face. She blinked slowly and let a lazy smile play at her lips and giggled.

Good god. She was drunk.

Matthew had spent so many hours with experienced drinkers and sturdy part goers who held their drink well he forgot what it was like for someone to be newly intoxicated. And, as he was starting to theorize, Cordelia did not hold her drink well on a good day. Especially not today where she had been keeping up if not beating Matthew to the bottle.

But that was just the thing. With her he felt almost no need to reach for the flask. To have that poisonous touch stone. He, was not as drunk as he was used to and this made him uneasy. It was not like him to be in the other person's shoes.

"You're much prettier than him". Cordelia mumbled low in her voice, letting her head sway back.

"Pardon?" Matthew said furrowing his brown

"When he change back and forth I was so delighted to see him wearing your face. I thought I would have to look at James forever."

This must've been what Cordelia saw in the shape changing man, him and James. But why?

His thoughts were inturpted by Cordelia lifting her hand to his head. She ran her fingers through his hair. Rough and callous; they were warrior hands. He had never thought of worked hands as more beautiful than in this moment.

Cordelia widened her eyes and gave Matthew an adorably serious gaze given the circumstances.

"Angel", she stated matter of factly.

Matthew chucked despite himself, "who? Me? Maybe one of the tiny mischievous cherubs painted on some clouds but no most certainly not an angel."

Cordelia was beginning to look frustrated with him now, scrunching up her nose at him.

"Your hair Matthew. Its like", another chuckle slipped in, "angel wings, golden and feathery."

Matthew was no stranger to observations about his hair. Most were either mocking remarks by the Merry Theives or a flirtatious coming on from a gentleman or lady at the bar.

But because it was her it all felt brand new.

Cordelia raised her other hand to his left cheek as her right hand came down from his hair to squeeze his cheeks in.

"It also looks very hard to maintain, like an angel. Can you imagine keeping all those feather untangled? I shudder at the thought of how many boars brushes I'd go through."

Matthew's face lit up and he laughed a short loud snort that was muffled and distorated dude to Cordelia still gripping his face.

"Matthew?"

"Hm?"

Cordelia relaxed her grib but didn't let her hands fall. "If I asked you to do me a favor would you do it?"

"Mhmm", he mustered out. Her string gaze was making him sweat like a soloist under a spot.

"Please kiss me Matthew. I'm so tired of being someone's second choice. I want to have one moment of my heart that is for myself and not stolen away from me by careless childish men and distant drunk fathers and whatever other battles iudt fight. For once I don't want to be a hero I just want to love and not be hurt." Her eyes were begining to fill with tears as Matthew gathered her into his arms.

He brought her down to the floor with his and rocked her back and forth while she cried. He didn't think he had ever seen her cry. Not even when her leg had been practically snapped in half after the battle with Belial.

But she cried now and Matthew would never let her feel weak for her. All true hero's cried, for the world is terrible and without tears theirs no expression of grief for what could've been.

Cordelia stopped shaking after a few minutes and stilled. Still gripping Matthew's shirt she looked up at him. All golden hair and golden skin. With the torch back lighting him one would think he really was an angel.

"Cordelia whatever you need from me to make this better. Say the world and I will bend heaven." His face searched hers frantically as he hesitantly reached up with his hand. His fingers brushing aside some stray curles that had stuck to her lips and cheeks in thr past couple minutes.

"Matthew I want to kiss you". Cordelia looked for sober than she had been moments before. Her eyes more level, like the crying rid her of her initial euphoria.

"Cordelia please-", Matthew began but was cut off

Cordelia began to draw back into herself. "Matthew if you don't wish to the we can simply pretend this never happened and blame it on the-"

Cordelia never got to finish her sentence.

Matthew gathered her up in his arms and leaned down to cover her lips with her own. Cordelia was quick to respond. She leaned in close to his chest tilting her head up to meet him.

There was a slow and luxurious passion to the method in which Matthew kissed her. He did not take liberties or assume what she wanted. His kisses were long and hot, like lava rolling down an island.

They grew impatient with this careful passion however. Cordelia reached out and cupped the back of Matthew's necks, using this leverage to pull gersl further into his lap. Between kisses Matthew pulled back and dipped his head under her jaw and kisses lightly.

"Break my heart Cordelia", he kissed her jaw line, "strike my face", he feathered a kiss on her cheek bone. "You'll wish to forget me come morning but for now let me be yours in this world we've created."

Cordelia pulled back and looked Matthew with her eyebrows drawn. She looked as if she was going to make a reply but instead she cried out in pain gripping her stomach.

Matthew pulled back from her as he himself was pulled back violently into the cold water memories of his mom's illness.

Cordelia stumbled to her feet and met his gaze in a panic before she crumpled forward infront of him. He rushed to catch her as she fell but only succeeded in softening her fall as she took him down to the floor as well.

----

Anna had been having quiet the night of sideshow and talent. She had learned to juggle with one hand and mix a particularly strong cocktail from the new mixologist who had been entranced by her eyes and who Anna has thought in return had the most lovely monolid and sharp jawline.

Thought the night was getting slower and she too was starting to wish to retire to bed.

She set off quite some time ago to locate Matthew and Cordelia but was having a hell of a time wrangling them. She was now searching the east wing retiring rooms in a last ditch attempt to locate them. Even if it meant finding them in a surprising manor. Thought, Anna doubted, Matthew would ever have it in him to break Jamse's heart and confess his obvious infatuation with the girl.

Then again, love is a two way path.

What she didn't expect to find was a colapsing Cordelia and Matthew grabbing at her like a drowning man in rapids.

She watched as Cordelia's stumble three Matthew off his feet and into the ground cushioning her fall and landing him on his knees, practically crushing her in his grib.

Matthew looked like a young boy again. One who had just broke their favorite new toy and had come to terms with the fact that things break. It broke their hearts like this moment now broke Anna's.

She had no time to react before Matthew looked up at her, hair falling over his forehead in a drastically unfashionable way as his wide eyes bore into her. He looked 13 again.

He croaked out in a heart shatteringly desparate tone.

"Help me."

Notes: Hey guys! Thank you for your patience with me taking so long to get back on the horse. I took a one month legally blonde obsession break on accident. I've read about 418,786 words of legally blonde Fanfiction and I'm reading to get back in the grind 😤. This one's a little short but I plan on posting the next chapter soon (like actually soon) so stay tuned :-).

[maaaddiexo]

Chapter Six | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book One: Roses]

Synopsis: With World War Two ravaging the world, no one is safe and no one is happy.

Despite their protests, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie are evacuated from London and sent to live in the English countryside with an old professor. Scared and unhappy, only the youngest Pevensie child remains optimistic and ends up sharing her hope with her siblings in the form of a wardrobe that takes them to Narnia, a different world where they are the only form of hope to bring an end to an evil witch's reign of terror.

Rosemary Bennett has no more hope left in her heart. Her brother and father are off fighting for their country, the former having gone missing months ago, and her mother ignores her, preferring the company of a bottle over her own daughter. Giving up seems the only logical plan of action. But when it finally comes to carrying it out, she's transported to a different world, with talking animals and a prophecy that doesn't involve her. Unsure as to why she is there, she must navigate a new world and ponder the possibility that maybe - just maybe - she doesn't actually want to die.

*Warning: this book deals with depression and suicide. Though mental illness isn't what this story revolves around, the act of suicide and depressive thoughts are intertwined with the plot and act as 'backseat drivers' to the novel.

[Chapter Seven] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

"I'm gonna kill him," Peter growled.

"You may not have to," Beaver replied gravely. He remembered what his friend, Badger, had told him earlier that day - before he went to find the Pevensies - a Son of Adam had been seen conversing with the White Witch. "Has Edmund ever been to Narnia before?"

"Yes?" Lucy answered. "Once with me, though he wasn't actually with me. We were just in Narnia at the same time."

"Oh my," Mrs. Beaver gasped. "The White Witch."

"What about her?" Susan asked. The beavers talked too slow for her.

"Enough about the White Witch," said Peter. He reached for his coat. "We need to find Edmund. Now."

"Rosemary and I will stay here while you look for him," Mrs. Beaver says. "Maybe he'll come back."

As the three remaining Pevensie children donned their borrowed coats, Beaver pulled his wife aside. "Start packing. If they want their brother back, we'll need Aslan's help."

Mrs. Beaver pecked her husband on the cheek. "Be safe."

•

Running through almost a foot of snow in heavy, oversized fur coats definitely wasn't the easiest thing, but Peter was determined to save his brother, no matter how stupid Edmund might be. Peter was the first behind the four-legged animal. Beaver led them through a thick plot of trees before it finally thinned out and they had to stop In front of them was a lake of ice and in the center, was a beautiful but intimidating castle made of ice. They all stood there for a moment in awe, taking in the ice castle in all of its terrifying glory.

"Seems fitting for a woman who cast an eternal winter on Narnia," Peter remarked absentmindedly.

When he focused, Peter could see the massive front door open and a small figure walking through it. Edmund. "There. He just went in. Why would he do that?"

"Edmund!" Lucy screamed. The word echoed across the ice but eventually got lost in the wind.

Beaver quickly shushed the young girl. Was she trying to get them all killed? "They'll hear you."

"Okay, a silent approach then," Peter declared before he rushed forward, ready to do anything he could to save his brother.

"No!" Beaver pulled Peter to a stop. "Don't do that either. Do you guys have a death wish or something? You're playing into her hands."

"We can't just let him go!" Susan argued.

"He's our brother," Lucy said quietly.

"He's also the bait," Beaver replied exasperated. He tried his best to suppress his anger. He had to remember that the world of Narnia was entirely new to them. "The Witch wants all four of you."

"Why?"

"Oh for Aslan's sake," Beaver rubbed his forehead. "To stop the prophecy from coming true. To kill you." Those three words seemed to do the trick, snapping the Pevensies out of their daydream of walking in and taking Edmund back. They all looked back to the castle, wondering why Edmund would so willingly walk in there if he was only going to end up dead.

"This is all your fault," Susan spat, walking up to Peter.

"My fault?"

"None of this would have happened if you had just listened to me in the first place!"

"Oh, so you knew this would happen?"

"No, I didn't know. Which is why we should've left while we still could. Now Edmund's as good as dead because of you!"

"Stop it!" Lucy yelled, stepping between her two siblings. She hated when her siblings argued. But more than that, she hated that they were acting like Edmund was already dead. "This isn't going to help Edmund."

"She's right. Only Aslan can help your brother now." Beaver sadly turns back to the castle, hoping Edmund Pevensie was still alive.

Peter took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Then take us to him."

•

Mrs. Beaver spoke as she moved around the dam. Finding a bag at the bottom of the trunk, she began packing it with as much food as possible. "If Edmund's been taken by the White Witch, our only hope to save him lies with Aslan and his army. We'll have to leave as soon as we can so get dressed. We've got a lot of walking to do - the Stone Table is quite a journey."

Rosemary quickly pulled her now-dry black trousers over her stockings and replaced the dress with the red shirt she'd put on that morning back in England. She was lucky she worked on a farm because she wore pants almost every day, and she would much rather walk through snow in pants instead of a dress. After doing her peacoat up, she took the belt she'd grabbed earlier and tightened it as much as she could in order to keep the wind from going up her coat.

She was just lacing up her boots when Beaver and the Pevensies returned. Only three Pevensies.

"Well?" Mrs. Beaver asked, stopping to look at her husband.

"He's at the Witch's castle - he walked right in!"

"He walked right in? Why would he do that?"

"I have no clue. But we need to get to Aslan quickly. They're after us!"

"I'm almost done packing up a bag and Rosemary looks as warm as she can get. Give me one more second."

"What's she doing?" asked Peter, looking at Rosemary for an answer.

"Oh, you'll be thanking me later. It's a long journey and Beaver gets pretty cranky when he's hungry."

"I'm cranky now!"

Seeing the logic in Mrs. Beaver's actions, Susan moved to help. "Do you think we'll need jam?"

"Only if the Witch serves toast," Peter remarked sarcastically, but the fear of being eaten by wolves was clear as day.

"Done!" Mrs. Beaver exclaimed just as she finished tying the bag. Just in time, as barking and growling circled the dam.

"They're here!" Lucy cried out, turning to Peter for comfort. He placed his hand on her shoulder, looking to the beavers.

"What do we do!"

Beaver smirked, an act so mischievous and out of place in such a scary situation. "Follow me."

Beside the stairs going up to the second floor was a cupboard. At least, it looked like one until you open the door. The only thing inside the cupboard was a rope going down into the ground. One by one, they took it down into the tunnel, following Beaver.

"Badger and me dug this. Comes out right near his place."

Mrs. Beaver gasped from the back. "You told me it led to your mum's!"

Beaver chuckled. "Oops."

"Do you hear that?" Rosemary asked, slowly coming to a stop.

"Rosemary? What are you doing?" Susan panicked. "Come on!"

Holding her hand out, Rosemary whispered. "Listen." Echoing through the tunnel were sounds of growls and footsteps. No, paw-steps. And they were growing closer. "The wolves are in the tunnel!"

"We need to move," Commanded Beaver. He didn't wait for the others before he began to run again, faster this time. "Hurry!"

They continued running, taking turns and dodging roots poking out from all sides of the tunnel. At the very back of the line, Rosemary felt the bag bump rhythmically against her back and focused on her feet, making sure not to trip in the dim lighting. She was so focused on her feet, she didn't see Susan stop and ran right into her. "Sorry." At the front, they had come to a dead-end and Rosemary felt her heart sink. They were sitting ducks now.

"You should have brought a map!" Mrs. Beaver exclaimed.

"Not that I need one, but even if I did, there wouldn't have been any room next to the jam!" And then he disappeared into the ceiling, where the tunnel ended and they were back above ground. One by one, they helped each other out of the tunnel, Peter being last. Without asking, he grabbed Rosemary by the waist and boosted her upwards to be pulled out by Susan and Lucy. helps Rosemary scrambled on her knees, turning around to take the burning torch from Peter before grabbing his hands and she pulled him out.

While they were both laying on the snow and trying to catch their breath, Beaver blocked the end of the tunnel with a barrel. "That won't hold them for long."

"Beaver." He turned to his wife, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she was staring at Lucy, who had tripped over some stone statues.

"Oh no," Beaver said solemnly. Without another word, he headed deeper into the small village, leaving the others behind. Mrs. Beaver quickly followed her husband, who stopped in front of another statue. This one was of a badger. Rosemary understood immediately. "He was my best mate. And now he's gone."

"What happened here?" Peter asked. "What's with all of these statues?"

"This is what becomes of those who cross the Witch," a new voice spoke from above. On a large rock, a red fox stared down at the odd group of six. Instinctively, Peter pushed his sisters behind his back, but upon seeing Rosemary standing there in shock (probably at another talking animal because he sure as hell wasn't used to it yet), he grabbed for her too.

"You take one more step, traitor, and I'll chew you to splinters!" Beaver spat.

"Relax," the fox chuckled, though nobody saw the humour in the situation except for him. "I'm one of the good guys."

"Yeah, well you look an awful lot like one of the bad ones," Beaver growled.

"An unfortunate family resemblance," the fox said, bored. "But we can argue breeding later. Right now, we've got to move."

"I don't believe you."

"He's a fox, not a wolf," Rosemary said. "They look the same but he isn't a wolf."

"How do you know that?" Lucy wonders.

"There's a large forest on the back of my family's property. I've seen wolves and foxes. Foxes are much smaller than wolves. He's a fox."

Everybody looked at Rosemary and the fox smiled gratefully. "A daughter of Eve. It's an honour to meet you. And because of your status, I'll ignore the comment on my size."

"It's a fact not a comment. And I'm not part of the prophecy," Rosemary replied, slightly miffed.

"Nonetheless, Narnia brought you here for some reason. It must need you and for that I am grateful."

"Oh, um. You're welcome?" Lucy giggled at Rosemary's uncertainty but stopped when she hears the wolves once again.

"You mentioned moving?" Peter frantically asked the fox.

[Chapter Seven] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]