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trainsinanime · 3 years

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Zoé can never replace Chloé (and she’s not meant to either)

There’s still quite a bit of dialog in the Miraculous Ladybug fandom about the question: Is Zoé supposed to be a replacement for Chloé? I felt like examining that a bit further. The key to figure this out is to look at what Chloé’s role in the story is, and how it does and does not overlap with what we’ve seen from Zoé so far.

For example, is Chloé’s role to be the mayor’s daughter? I would argue no. Being the mayor’s daughter is how she gets her (considerable) power over the class, and thus, a large part of her ability to influence or create stories. You could just as easily imagine her getting that power from elsewhere, e.g. by her father being Monsieur Damocles or some school superintendent, or just a really rich political donor, and it wouldn’t change Chloé’s role at all. Alternatively, there are characters who are in similar positions of power and privilege, but don’t actually use it. Adrien and Kagami are both rich, and Gabriel seems to have at least an indirect connection to André, so you could easily make stories about Adrien abusing that power and privilege if you really wanted to - except it doesn’t fit his character and his role in the story at all.

Is Chloé’s role to be the carrier of the Bee Miraculous? Again, I don’t think so. The bee miraculous is a result of how Chloé acts. Its power of telling people what to do is tailor-made for her personality, and by that I mean pre-possible-redemption-arc personality if that makes a difference. The story does not really need to her to have the bee miraculous specifically. Any would do. The bee was created for her because it fits her established personality best. This is in general how the show works: It’s ultimately never that Marinette has a certain miraculous and has to find a wielder for it; it is that the show wants to highlight a certain character, and gives them a specific power-up that matches their established character and the plot of the episode (except arguably for Alya, where the only link is “orange”, but that’s a different post). The story works just as well if Chloé got a different miraculous, or a different way to get a glimpse into the superhero world, because the point of her getting this is to tell us more about who Chloé is as a person, what she really wants, and how she acts when she both gets and loses it.

Is Chloé’s role to be a close friend of Marinette’s? Clearly not. That may change in the future, maybe, who knows, but so far, when Chloé is important in a plot, it is often specifically because she dislikes and resents Marinette.

Ultimately Chloé has a very simple role. It is literally the same as Draco Malfoy in Harry Potter, Cordelia Chase in Buffy, Libby in Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and many, many others like them. Almost every teenage TV show has someone like them. Chloé is here as the school life antagonist, as a counterpoint to Hawkmoth. Some author (I remember it as being Marjorie Liu, but I’ve never been able to find the quote again) once said that the fun the thing about writing teenagers is that everything has equal importance: Tomorrow is the big dance, and also the world is going to end, and both things are equally important. Miraculous Ladybug follows that scheme strictly, and in it, Chloé’s job is to make the „big dance“ part of this challenging.

A fun thing is that the show generally tries to link the problems she causes to the superheroics, because that makes for a better story. The obvious case is when she is the akumatized villain herself. But there are also for example things like Darkblade, where the show uses the situation with Chloé to draw explicit parallels even though her situation isn’t really linked with D’Agencourt’s at all. A few times Chloé’s role is to literally just show up, upset someone for no reason until they become Akumatization material, and then leave again, such as in Frozer, Stormy Weather 2 or Frightningale. And sometimes the superhero plot is all about Chloé’s actions and also a hilarious homage to every single zombie movie trope ever (Zombizou). Either way, Chloé exists to cause problems - and by extension, episode plots - on purpose.

Another aspect of that is that she helps Marinette grow. Sometimes she is simply motivation for Marinette to go out and be a better person (Darkblade), but she can also appeal to Marinette’s darker instincts so that Marinette can then reject them, or at least feel bad about her actions, such as in Animaestro.

Zoé, who is friendly and passive, and whose stories are all about her relationship with Chloé, is as far from a replacement as you can possibly get. Yes, Zoé has taken over the bee miraculous, but that was part of a plot that was all about Chloé as a person, and not at all about Zoé herself. And it doesn’t really matter, because Chloé isn’t here to get the bee miraculous, the bee miraculous is here to tell a story about Chloé.

Now, yes, Zoé may seem like she has taken over from Chloé if you look at it from a hypothetical end point: Throughout parts of season 2, it looked like Chloé might do a standard grade 1 redemption arc, become nice, a friend to Marinette and a member of the team. There were hints that Chloé might be interested in that, and hints that Marinette might be open to the idea, and then the show went very hard in another direction. Zoé is indeed very, very roughly the kind of person that Chloé and parts of the fandom thought she deserved to be.

But that isn’t actually a replacement of Chloé, because the role of Chloé is not to become redeemed as quickly as possible. The point of a redemption arc, or in fact any arc, isn’t the endpoint, it’s the way there. That’s why people read 100,000 word enemies-to-lovers stories despite the fact that eventual result is already literally there in the tags. Miraculous Ladybug doesn’t need "mayor’s daughter who looks good in yellow and is nice" and takes shortcuts to get there; it needs - and most importantly clearly wants - an interesting story about Chloé specifically. You can’t replace Chloé in a story all about her personality and her relationships with people with anyone except literally Chloé herself, and certainly not with someone who is noticeably nicer.

(This does not mean Zoé is pointless; it means Zoé’s role is something else entirely. Maybe someone who pushes Chloé to be better? We’ll see.)

Now, will this story be told well? As of right now I’m honestly giving it 50:50 odds, and my guess is that it will both feel drawn-out and rushed at the same time in the end thanks to the "occasional large dumps of plot" technique of storytelling the show generally uses. We’ll see. But I am certain that the story will be told at all. If the show writers didn’t want to, they could have literally sent her off to America, that was literally a plot point in the season 3 finale.

So: Zoé as a replacement for Chloé? That’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.

And final thought: Once more, I want to point out that literally all Chloé-related salt is true if and only if you insert Lila instead at the right place. First, she is the obvious replacement for Chloé. She makes Marinette’s life more challenging when not in costume, and she is very good at that because she’s specifically designed to push all of Marinette’s righteous fury buttons. Lila is literally an explicit counterpart to and partner of Hawkmoth. And finally, she’s the character the creators don’t seem to like at all, or at least don’t seem to know what to do with, considering how little she appears and how she’s gotten no development whatsoever. We really need a "justice for Lila, turn her into the meaningful dastardly villain she deserves to be" movement in the fandom.

#miraculous ladybug #mlb meta #Chloé bourgeois #zoé bourgeois

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commander-diomika · 3 years

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(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 5 - Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, literal background Barnes/Carter Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2500 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Opposites Attract, Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Pining, oh there's yearning in this one lads,

Summary: With the quarantine cell still under construction, it's not quite as soundproof as it ought to be.

It was remarkably easy to keep busy in the business of saving the world. Wilde made it his mission to get to know every face in town, and in turn have them know him, and like him. He made friends easily, the locals charmed by this tall man with his fluent Japanese and endless supply of entertaining stories. For the sake of the job - not just his own lingering fear - he was meeting every person on the island and building a solid network of people who would let him know the moment a new face appeared. The wider his web, the less he found himself reaching for the scar on his face.

Zolf won people over not by charming them, but by helping them. The gruff dwarf at the inn became known as someone the locals could go to when someone fell and broke something, or to use magic to help Stone Shape the stumps of houses that were slipping into sodden earth.

He also worked on supply lines. Trade was still relatively lively, but he and Wilde were in the market for more esoteric items than bread and booze. They needed adamantine for the cell, they needed anti magic equipment, and it was certain Barnes and Carter were going to return having depleted the stock of healing potions they’d taken. Strangely enough there wasn't a steady supply of any of those items on the island.

As much as Zolf wouldn’t admit it, Wilde smoothed the way when it came to trading. He charmed the locals and when Zolf appeared with increasingly obscure demands, he was seen as a friend by association. Zolf knew he wouldn’t have achieved that so quickly.

They both oversaw changes to the inn. Many rooms were separated with nothing but thin paper walls on slides, making the whole space quite modular. Wilde sequestered one of the few solid, seemingly defensible rooms on the ground floor and turned it into an office-cum-sitting room. Before their gentle takeover it had probably been a private dining room for special, or at least rich, guests. Zolf took the time to install a proper bed frame in his room, since his legs made climbing down to the floor-level futon bedding difficult.

On another continent, sentient creatures went wrong, turned on their loved ones, fought, died. Cities were turned and abandoned, and storms ravaged places that had never seen more than a light drizzle. But even knowing that elsewhere things were coming apart at the seams, there was a touch of peace in their little corner of it. For a few weeks they slipped into a routine.

Zolf rose in the mornings before Wilde, wordlessly depositing a coffee in front of the bleary man when he appeared. In the evenings that Wilde wasn’t out liaising they took to Wilde’s sitting room and read, or drank, or talked. Frequently about the mission of course, but there was only so much hashing and rehashing they could do. When things got too heavy, or nothing had changed, topics wandered. Zolf’s stories from the navy. How Wilde became a journalist. Small things. Easy things when they both just needed to put it down for a while.

Wilde would never do something so gauche as ask for forgiveness, or understanding, but some days when he reported another success, it sounded like I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.

Some days when Zolf poured coffee into Wilde’s mug it looked like you don’t have to apologise.

And on the rare mornings when some watery sunshine peeked through the clouds, as Zolf practiced in the yard with his glaive, Wilde followed to idly spectate over the paper and his breakfast, and the action felt like I don’t know why but it’s easier to be around you than not.

Barnes and Carter returned in good enough spirits and got started on their isolation in the mostly-complete cell. As soon as they returned, Zolf felt himself get itchy for action and movement again. He couldn’t even scratch the itch by properly debriefing the returnees yet; the newest information from Curie posited a hive-mind connection between those infected by the blue veins. Still, this was just the way it had to be. Zolf tried to soothe his agitation. Things were just going to move slow for now. He only had to look at Wilde’s scar to help quiet any feelings of angst. A little bit of frustration was something he could cope with if it meant what befell Wilde never, ever happened again.

Four nights after Barnes and Carter returned, Zolf sat in front of the fire attempting to read the Dwarvish tome Wilde had picked up in Damascus. It wasn’t exactly riveting stuff, and his Dwarvish was rusty, but he promised he’d at least make a dent in it. Wilde came in fresh from the bath, his hair wet and wearing the yukata he’d been gifted by one of the locals. As he passed the back of Zolf’s chair, Wilde placed a hand on one of Zolf’s shoulders and leant over to inspect the page.

This close, Zolf could smell him. There was a soft, flowery note that Zolf couldn’t identify, probably whatever he washed his hair with. And then there was the warm, familiar smell of the man himself. Zolf kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

Pointing with his other hand, Wilde spoke. “This character here- the translation guide I was using didn’t even have it. Brought the whole lot to a screeching halt. How are you getting on with it?”

Zolf, nose full of Wilde’s scent and nearness, opened his mouth to reply. “I – er, it’s fine. It’s an older script but I can read it- don’ quite understand what they’re gettin’ at, but, er.” He looked over to Wilde’s face again, profile lined in firelight. His face was so close that Zolf could lean and place a kiss on the man’s unscarred cheek, if he chose.

Wilde glanced up from the book. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before Wilde straightened, letting go of Zolf’s shoulder with a small squeeze.

“Wonderful. Let me know if anything useful comes up, will you?”

Zolf simply grunted in reply, still feeling off-kilter. This wasn’t the first time Wilde had touched him like that. As Wilde started to settle into life at the inn, started to feel a little safer, some of that old comfort was returning. Zolf didn’t mind the touching. He got the feeling Wilde was lonely. He was probably used to a lot more physical contact than he was getting now. For all he had been ingratiating himself with the locals, it was clear as day Wilde couldn’t trust them. If Zolf was the only person Wilde could reach out to…

Zolf shook his head a little and tried to focus back on the text. Wilde collected his own evening reading material, some piece of Japanese fiction, and settled in the other chair. The silence, but for the ever-present sound of rain, was comfortable enough. Their new lot in life involved a lot of waiting, and they were both doing their best to try and make peace with that.

Time passed and Zolf, already struggling to focus on the dull history book, realised he’d read the same sentence three times over. Some essential part of his mind had shifted, noting a change in the soundscape. Previously, there had been nothing but the rain and slight crackle of fire, but now there was a new element in the mix.

Zolf stared blankly at the page, listening hard. It was… conversation? Perhaps, but the innkeeper and his wife had rooms all the way on the other side of the building, and Zolf couldn’t usually hear them. It was… the wind? No, for all it was raining, it was the usual dreary patter, no strong winds to explain the slow rhythm or hint of a moan in those sounds.

Zolf’s heart beat slowly. One, two, three… and suddenly he knew what he was hearing.

Zolf looked up from his book to see if Wilde had noticed. Obviously, whatever he was reading was much more riveting than Zolf’s dry historical facts, because he was still engrossed in his book. Despite his close attention to the pages, Wilde could sense Zolf’s regard. Without Zolf even clearing his throat, he looked up.

“What?” he asked mildly to Zolf’s raised eyebrows.

“You hear tha’?” Either it had gotten louder, or Zolf’s ears had adjusted to picking out rhythmic moans and whimpers.

Wilde slipped a finger in his book to mark his place, cocking his head. With his attention drawn, he contextualised the new sound quickly (much faster than Zolf) and his eyebrows started climbing. When the brows couldn’t get any higher, he straightened in his seat and placed a hand delicately on his chest in feigned shock. “Well, we didsay that Barnes would look out for him, but that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Zolf tried not to roll his eyes.

“And we knew that Howard would struggle with the isolation period,” Wilde continued, voice artificially prim. “I’m glad they’ve found a way to pass the time.”

Zolf’s efforts to not roll his eyes failed, then he glanced around, puzzled. “How is the sound even…?”

Wilde’s eyes were bright; his expression screaming this was the most fun he’d had in weeks. “The trapdoor. The one in the Teal Sitting Room. It’s still under construction, so…”

“So, sound is travellin’ through it.” Zolf finished the thought, voice level despite the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks.

Barnes and Carter were slowly increasing in volume. Zolf could finally make out the timbre of Carter’s voice specifically, though he’d never heard him make those noises before.

“I didn’t know that Barnes had it in him,” Wilde murmured. “Or, had it in Carter, specifically.” With that puerile comment, Wilde moved. He folded the corner of a page to mark his place and stood, checking the ties on his yukata as he did.

“Where are you going?” Zolf hissed.

Wilde smiled wickedly. “Why, to the Teal Room, of course.”

“Wilde!” Zolf said, flushing angrily. He was trying to formulate a scolding regarding privacy and eavesdropping, but the scoundrel had already stridden off. Zolf’s thighs tensed and relaxed as he went to stand then aborted the movement, debating with himself. Carter voiced a particularly sharp cry and Zolf decided that anything was better than sitting here by himself.

I’m just gonna stop Wilde from doin’ anything inappropriate, he told himself as he stood and followed.

Inside the room, Wilde leant against the doorframe, body languid as if he attended a mere dinner party. There was a tarp covering a half-constructed hole in the centre of the room. When Zolf came to hover beside him in the doorway, any lingering mystery about what was happening downstairs was dispelled.

“Fuck, James, please,”Carter sounded utterly desperate. This close, Zolf could even hear the slow rasp of movement, skin-on-skin. Barnes’ voice was harder to make out, as he responded with something quiet and urgent. There was a breath, then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Carter making a choked noise that pulsed straight from Zolf’s ear to his crotch.

Wilde was delighted. He looked sidelong at Zolf and mouthed the word “James?” wrapping his lips around it in impish joy, as though first names were the controversial thing about this situation.

There was a grunt from downstairs that was undoubtedly Barnes

Wilde spoke sotto voce, keeping his voice under the sound of the rain. “I knew he’d be the strong and silent type.”

Zolf didn’t reply. He didn’t know where to even start. He would hate to be overheard like this, but there was something thrilling about it. Fuck, Wilde’s a bad influence on me. He knew he should leave, just walk away, but…

The pace downstairs changed. What had previously sounded like a languorous tease picked up energy. Carter literally wailed as the thump of a cot knocking against a wall started up, one, twice, three times, continuing, not rushed but steady. Carter’s whine cut off in a muffled ermf and Zolf could see in his mind’s eye, agonisingly clear, the way that Barnes had just put his hand over Carter’s mouth.

Zolf’s eyes had been locked, unseeing, on the rough tarp, but at Carter’s stifled moan, he looked up at Wilde. He was gazing back, and Zolf was shocked to see something hungry in those eyes. Mere moments ago, the energy from Wilde had been lewd and juvenile. Something had shifted.

Wilde’s scent was still in Zolf’s nose and suddenly the image in his mind changed.

His hand, hooked behind one of Wilde’s knees, pushing it up toward his chest… fucking him open fluidly, pace keeping time with the rhythmic thudding from below. Wilde’s face flushed cheek to cheek, eyes half lidded, awash with the pleasure of it.

Zolf shut his eyes, hard, hot with shame. When he opened them, Wilde was still staring him down, a touch of that imagined flush now true in his cheeks. There was something knowing in his expression as well, as though he could see straight into Zolf’s mind and the images that lay within.

They had been so in tune with each other lately, after all.

Wilde’s mouth worked as if he was seeking words, but he was interrupted. “Heavens above, James, faster please, I’m going to-”

Wilde sucked his breath in hard as Carter came. The words died on his lips and he half-shoved past Zolf to leave the room, taking long strides and disappearing down the corridor.

Zolf stumbled. If the two men downstairs were in any state to be paying attention to their surroundings, they would have heard Zolf’s clumsy footsteps, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He went to follow, but by the time he’d caught up to Wilde, the bedroom door was shut.

There was no lock. It was only a barrier in that it was one that Wilde chose to put up. Zolf wasn’t about to go barging in where he wasn’t wanted. He lifted a hand to knock. Paused. What exactly was he here to say? To tell Wilde off? To apologise? To say, Look at me like that again, I’ll be ready this time? He lowered his hand.

Later that night in bed, for the first time in months, Zolf found himself firming a spit-slick hand around his cock, breath unsteady. He kept his mind cautiously blank. Every time he was tempted to dwell on the sound of Carter’s whimper, or Barnes’ low rasp, or that ravenouslook in Wilde’s eyes, he drew himself back to sensation alone, pleasure coiling in his gut. He certainly wasn’t thinking of Wilde’s hand on his shoulder, the relaxed set of his body as he listened to Barnes and Carter fuck downstairs, the salacious delight in his eyes.

Zolf pumped his fist faster, definitely not thinking of the thud of the cot against the cell wall downstairs as his hips rolled and breath hitched. Hanging on to awareness by a thread, he remembered the thin walls, and bit his lip to stifle his groan as he came.

His eyes closed, he listened to his hammering heart, breathing slowly. It had been a very strange night. From the buzzing post-orgasm haze, a thought emerged, unbidden.

Lavender. Lavender was what Wilde’s soap had smelled of.

#hank writes #rusty quill gaming #rqg #zoscar #zolfwilde #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #rqg fan fic #i don't even know if these are appearing in tags but old habits

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ibijau · 4 years

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Oh yikes, that situation wtih Jin Zixun is a mess. I gotta ask - in the answers to asks you always mention that the turning point for lxc is seeing nhs dripping wet and get his first ever boner. Does he also realise that nhs is a person with a personality in a similar manner, like a punch, or does it come naturally?

lxc is too emotionally constipated when it comes to nhs for it to comes easily, but...

It takes a multitude of drops to create an ocean, but they're still drops, one after the other.

The first drop is a “no” said with a calm voice belied by clenched fists.

“My uncle orders it,” Lan Xichen insists, shocked by this rejection of his authority. “He suggested it to your brother who agreed. We are to meet every week and...”

“No,” Nie Huaisang repeats, with more assurance. “I won't do it. Da-ge did not tell me to. Your uncle did not tell me to. And I'm not listening to you.”

“You think I'd lie?”

Nie Huaisang hesitates, his fists nearly trembling from how hard he clenches them, and smirks.

“I think I don't care what you have to say,” he announces. “I think if your uncle has sometimes to tell me, he can say it himself. Until then, I'm not spending more time with you than I have to.”

Taken a back and feeling anger rise in him, Lan Xichen doesn't stop Nie Huaisang when the other boy simply leaves. It takes him a few minutes to calm down enough that he can go seek out his uncle to tell him what happened, but even after Lan Qiren has promised to handle this, something still stings.

Laughter rings from inside the cabin, just as Lan Xichen was about to knock on the door. It is loud and unashamed and a number of things that aren't quite allowed in the Cloud Recesses. There's several voices, but one catches Lan Xichen's attention more than the rest.

He's never heard Nie Huaisang's laugh before.

When the door opens, Nie Huaisang still has a grin on, although it drops when he sees Lan Xichen and turns into a grimace.

“Oh, right, it's today,” he sighs, before turning to the company he has. “Wei-xiong, Jiang-xiong, sorry but I actually have to go. Can we continue later? I'll come to your cabin as soon as I'm done with this.”

Lan Xichen stares at the two boys inside. It's a surprise that Nie Huaisang has managed to make friends already, when last year he awkwardly remained on his own except when Jin Zixun felt like bullying him. It's even more surprising that the friends he made are Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin, who could have anyone they like as playmates. As they leave, the two boys bow to Lan Xichen and tease Nie Huaisang who takes it well and jokes back.

“I'm glad you're making friends,” Lan Xichen states as they walk back to his house together. “Or did you know them before they came here?”

Nie Huaisang hesitates, then shrugs.

“Your uncle says that we have to spend an incense stick's time together every week,” he says. “I'll talk to you when it's burning. Not before, not after.”

Lan Xichen flushes in anger, pinches his lips, and says nothing. It's not as if he wants to talk either, of course, but to be so rude about it was unnecessary.

Lan Xichen has to oversee a class after his uncle was called elsewhere at the last minutes. The students are told to work in small groups and practice etiquette quietly. Lan Xichen's hopes for studying his own lessons are quickly destroyed when Jin Zixuan says something that apparently annoys Wei Wuxian. It is not an uncommon occurrence, although so far they've luckily never come to blow yet.

They don't this time either.

Seeing them this upset, Nie Huaisang starts poking fun at them, in particular at Wei Wuxian who he starts mirroring with such exaggeration that the other boy soon forgets he was angry and starts laughing along. Jin Zixuan, clumsy but not stupid, simply rejoins his group and avoids anyone who isn't a Jin for the rest of the class.

“I'm told you play Go?” Lan Xichen asks during one of their weekly meetings.

Nie Huaisang looks at the incense stick burning nearby and shrugs.

“A little. Not good enough for Lan gongzi, I'm sure.”

“Would you like to try anyway?”

Again, Nie Huaisang glances at the incense, already half consumed.

“There's not enough time.”

Normally, Lan Xichen would get upset that his efforts at friendliness are being rejected again, and he would drop the matter. But with Nie Huaisang so unwilling to chat, those meetings are really more boring than they need to be, and he is actually curious about his fiancé's skill at the game. He's heard that Nie Huaisang can play on equal footing with Jiang Wanyin, whom Lan Xichen had a chance to play against, once, and whose skill surprised him.

“We can start the game now and continue next week. It would be more fun than just drinking tea and waiting for time to pass.”

That argument wins over Nie Huaisang, and they begin playing. Lan Xichen starts confident, but soon realises that what he's heard isn't just idle gossip. Nie Huaisang is a skilled player, forcing him to fight hard for victory.

In the end Lan Xichen loses, but he's not even upset about it. It has been a while since he's played such a thrilling game. And while they don't say it, he knows they're both shocked that they kept playing long after the incense burned down, too taken by the board to pay attention to anything else.

“Let's play again sometimes,” Lan Xichen suggests.

Nie Huaisang seems surprised by his eagerness, or perhaps by the fact that Lan Xichen takes his loss so well. Either way he smiles and nods almost hesitantly. For a brief moment, he looks more like the boy he was last year, shy and uncertain, but he doesn't linger around long enough for Lan Xichen to question it.

“Fighting is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Xichen scolds. “If there was a problem, you should have found a senior and asked them to handle the situation.”

Jiang Wanyin grabs his brother's wrist, probably his way to tell him to stay silent. Wei Wuxian pinches his lips but obeys, probably unwilling to add to the punishment he's already receiving with Lan Wangji.

No one is there to control Nie Huaisang though.

“And what would the senior have done?” he asks, glaring at Lan Xichen. “Listened to the bullies' lies before blaming that boy for making people want to tease him? There was nobody around, Lan gongzi, someone had to do something, and it had to be now.”

“Surely there had to be options other than violence,” Lan Xichen retorts.

“We tried talking first,” Jiang Wanyin intervenes. “But they were unwilling to let that boy go and he was crying. I hope Lan gongzi can see why we had to do something.”

“And I hope we won't be the only ones punished,” Nie Huaisang adds. “We can testify that they were taunting him. I think that's against quite a few rules, no?”

“The child says they were just playing,” Lan Xichen retorts, because two can play that game.

“Of course he'd say that. That's why we'll bear witness to what really happened, if it's needed. Gusu Lan believes in rules above all else, but Qinghe Nie will always stand for what's just.”

Lan Xichen glares at Nie Huaisang. It's not his fault if Jin Zixun was never punished for his abuse of others, he wants to say. It's not his fault if Nie Huaisang, like the boy today, was too terrified to stand up and blame his attackers. It's not his fault there were no other witnesses that time, no one but Lan Xichen himself who could so easily have been accused of being biased in favour of his fiancé.

“They will face proper punishment,” he promises. “And so will you. You will copy the rules of Gusu Lan in their entirety, and apologise before Grandmaster Lan for disrupting the peace.”

It's a light enough punishment as all three of them should know, especially after how many times Wei Wuxian has gotten in trouble already, but they still groan and complain. Nie Huaisang bemoans the pain he's sure to fill in his wrist he's sure to feel, until Wei Wuxian starts teasing him about something and they nearly get into a playful argument. Jiang Wanyin wisely stands to the side, rolling his eyes and trying not to smile.

Lan Xichen has to order them to calm down, but they still exchange amused glances after.

A few times, Lan Xichen catches glimpses of Nie Huaisang spending time with a young Lan boy. Usually they are just walking together and chatting, but once or twice, if the weather allows, they play Go in front of the Qinghe Nie cabin.

After been shown such favour by an older boy from a prestigious clan, that boy never gets bullied again. He shows his gratefulness by sometimes letting other children tag along with him now, other boys who startle too easily at the sight of older teenagers. Sometimes, he takes them to play with Nie Huaisang, who in returns brings along Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.

When he hears about that, Lan Xichen feels something gnawing at his heart. It's an almost painful sensation, but it might not be a bad one.

Lan Xichen wakes up with a slight headache, and memories of a hand in his, of gentle words, of being kindly led to safety.

It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself as he lays in bed. They were in a viper's nest, they had already agreed to stand together and give the image of a united front so the Wens would know the alliance between Qinghe Nie and Gusu Lan is a strong one.

And still, that hand in his own, so warm.

There could have been other ways for Nie Huaisang to take him back to his uncle after he was made to drink, but he took his hand, a hand Lan Xichen now stares at, trying to call back the ghost of that touch.

It doesn't mean anything that Nie Huaisang took his hand, Lan Xichen knows that. It must just have been the most convenient option, and one that would further the impression of good feelings between them to the prying eyes of their enemies.

It doesn't mean anything.

Lan Xichen wants it to have meant something.

He wants everything that happened yesterday at Wen Chao's wedding to have meant something. He wants for Nie Huaisang to really smile at him this easily, to chat with him like they get along, to really be able to trust him, to take his hand not only out of necessity but because it is pleasant to both of them.

Lan Xichen sighs and closes his eyes again.

It had been inconvenient to realise that Nie Huaisang was, for lack of a better word, attractive, but this... this is much worse.

Lan Xichen sighs again, and curses himself for feeling this too late, when he has already ruined everything.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mo dao zu shi #worst engagement au #jau writes #madwriter223

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

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WIP #46

(Send me a number 1-60 [or a fandom/character I guess] for the corresponding wip) because I’m bored and brain-fried and have too many wips that’ll otherwise never see the light of day.

For @janetm74 who actually asked for ‘Thunderbirds, 31′ but 31 isn’t TAG so we’ve got the closest TAG one instead. (top tip: wips are mostly arranged alphabetically by fandom and the TAG wips are 46-59!)

It was really only a matter of time before someone hit Scott!whump, wasn’t it? Snippets of this one have actually appeared in previous ask games, so you get the whole thing this time (because I don’t remember which bits I’ve already posted). Fun fact: this was my first attempt at Virgil’s PoV!

There was always something wrong about Scott in Thunderbird Two. Of all the Tracys, he was the least likely to travel in the green behemoth that was, in Virgil’s private opinion, the heart of International Rescue.

And yes, that included John.

Gordon was his co-pilot, his wingman, his back-up. For all that the aquanaut was, well, an aquanaut, there was honestly no-one else Virgil would rather behind the controls of his beloved girl if he was needed elsewhere. Heavy lifting, or – his least favourite – medical duties could sometimes pull him elsewhere, and in those moments his immediate brother would take the helm with a joking smile but steady hands that would never let anything befall Two (if only, he thought from time to time, because without Two Four would be grounded).

Alan was all nervous energy, a genius pilot but too cocky for Virgil to ever be truly relaxed when Two was in his hands, but it was far from uncommon for his youngest brother to be perched behind him, screens and panels showing readout after readout as he assessed situations and started remote assembly of pods when time was particularly of the essence. Sometimes, often, he knew Alan desired the speed of One, but he also liked his comfort and short of pulling Three’s own seats into One (a feat done once, never repeated), there was no comfort as a passenger of their first response craft. Or even as the pilot, in Virgil’s opinion.

John was an unusual passenger, unlikely to be Earthside for a mission – and even if he was, quickly wrapping things up and ascending back to the lofty heights of Five and the world at his fingertips – but when he was Earthside, well, Thunderbird Two was his ship of choice. He didn’t pilot her, for all that he was trained, but no matter what Scott would mutter, John was stubborn about always using Two to get to the danger zone. Something about reckless flying and too much gravity. Virgil couldn’t truly say he understood, because John’s aversion to gravity had never been a point in common between them, but he did at least appreciate that Thunderbird One was fast, and generated far more Gs than any atmosphere-bound craft had any right to make.

Statistically speaking, Scott did travel in Two more than John did, but as he didn’t spend over three hundred days in the year off planet, Virgil wasn’t quite so fussed on the literal numbers. Scott in Two always, always meant something was wrong. Maybe One was out of action (again) but Scott wanted to be on the rescue anyway. Maybe the world was conspiring against them, and Scott just wanted to be with his brothers rather than haring off at triple their speed and leaving them alone and vulnerable (Virgil knew that really One was more vulnerable than Two, although his eldest brother could never see it that way).

Or maybe, the worst wrong of all that always lined Virgil’s stomach with lead and dried up all the saliva in his mouth, Scott wasn’t fit to fly.

John was hovering, holographic form always a little too dull to accurately capture his brother’s vibrancy. Gordon had flight control, gloved hands firmly on the yoke as though he was her designated pilot. Alan had co-pilot, booted feet reaching the floor with little difficulty nowadays – he would out-grow Gordon soon – as he flicked switches in uncharacteristic silence.

Virgil was in the medbay, scanner clutched in his hands like a lifeline as it told him nothing that he wanted to hear, and many things that he didn’t.

Scott was in the medbay, doing nothing.

Danger dogged their steps with every rescue. They knew that – had always known it, even before the Zero-X blew their father sky-high as he tried to save the world – but it never made it any easier when it got closer than normal.

As normal for them was less than a second’s escape – buildings collapsing the moment their trailing foot left the threshold, planes erupting into fireballs the instant they leapt clear – closer was barely possible. Closer was a Thunderbird coming home with deep gouges. Closer was broken bones and terrorised faces.

Closer was their eldest brother lying motionless in his ‘bird’s medbay because it had taken thirteen minutes to find him after the snow roared down.

Avalanches were a messy business. Survival rates were low, some of the worst odds International Rescue ever faced, and there was no denying that their own past experience did nothing to help whenever John uttered the word in a brief. This one shouldn’t have been too bad, as far as snow monsters went. Out of season, with few people in the huts that dotted the lower reaches of the slopes and fewer still outside. Ten people were reported missing.

They found nine, all fortunate and breathing, before the second one struck.

Alan had been in Thunderbird Two, holding her steady in the air because the large Thunderbird would have done more harm than good if she’d landed and providing a much-needed birds’ eye view of the danger zone. It had been entirely due to the combined information from him and John that had let them find the nine lucky people so quickly.

Gordon had been on triage in the hut deemed safest in the event of a second avalanche. Virgil had just reached him with rescuee number nine when it had struck.

Scott had been heading up the slope, travelling scant inches above the snow via jetpack, searching for person number ten. One’s drones had been with him, scanning furiously even as John hijacked them to give Five even more data than the space station had already obtained from other means. Those same drones had given them a glimpse of blue, grey and white all jumbled together before going dark.

It took two minutes for Virgil and Gordon to force their way out of the semi-buried but still standing hut. One more for Alan to configure a pod and tentatively lower it from the module even as they realised their original one would take too long to excavate from the snow. In those three minutes, John had triangulated all the data he could amass from Five to provide the most viable search area.

Five minutes to find a body, cold to the touch. Rescue number ten had never stood a chance. Face down and neck broken, he would have been killed almost instantly during the original avalanche.

Fifteen minutes was the time limit. Nine people had already defied it, surviving anything between half an hour and an hour under the snow before International Rescue reached the scene and dug them out. The Tracy family never had that much luck, and an avalanche was their own personal hell. They knew, in that cold-fist-closing-around-their-hearts way, that Scott would not be number ten.

Twelve minutes and the pod’s heat sensors showed yellow-green in a sea of blue.

Thirteen minutes and their eyes showed them blue in a sea of white.

Scott had been wearing his helmet when the avalanche struck. As Virgil knelt to ease his limp, cold, but breathing body from the frigid prison, he’d thanked their parents for that fact silently but profusely. Still intact, the helmet had stopped snow clogging his airways, and had enough of an air supply to stop Scott from suffocating to death in the thirteen torturously long minutes it had taken them to find him.

In the medbay, scan finished, Virgil finally removed the life-saving gear. The detached feedback from the scan told him as much, but he sighed resignedly when there was no response. Scott didn’t gasp dramatically as his recycled air supply was replaced with the real deal, nor did lightly closed eyes snap open.

“How is he?” John asked unnecessarily as Virgil’s hand lingered under brown hair longer than strictly necessary after lowering the now helmetless head back down onto the stretcher.

“Cold.” Virgil humoured him, knowing full well that John had been desperately analysing the results of the scan as they occurred. Their suits were well designed for the varied environments they found themselves in, and while Scott had shown up far, far too cold in their initial search for him, as soon as they’d got him into the security of Thunderbird Two the hint of a shiver had taken hold and Gordon had encouraged it with a single blanket.

Scott’s uniform was somewhere in the middle as far as easy to remove International Rescue uniforms went. While Gordon and John’s specialist environments necessitated almost vacuum-tight uniforms, and Virgil and Alan had heavy-duty but therefore less clingy attire, Scott wore a streamlined flight suit that didn’t adhere precisely to his body but wasn’t exactly loose either. Still, the zip tugged down easily enough and Virgil manipulated his rag doll of an eldest brother out of the tough material delicately before clearing away any leftover snow trying to chill him further and cradling him in blankets.

John watched in an agitated silence, the distance between their physical bodies never so apparent as when one of them was hurt and he was twenty two and a half thousand miles away. Sooner rather than later, Virgil knew the space elevator would be docking at Tracy Island, but before John could leave Five he needed to get One nestled back safely in her hanger.

The Thunderbird had escaped the avalanche by never landing, set to an autopilot hover by Scott upon his arrival to the danger zone because despite being smaller than Two, her VTOL posed just as much of a risk to the stability of the snow. With Gordon at the helm of Two, and a universal desire for the whole family to be together landing Alan in the co-pilot seat rather than their brother’s Thunderbird, it was up to John to remote pilot her home.

Hypothermia was not the only issue Scott had been hit with by the avalanche. None of them had done the exact calculations – John might have done, but if he had he hadn’t shared them – but Scott had been swept a fair distance by the sheer might of the snow and the journey had been far from smooth. Something had knocked him out in the tumble – what, Virgil couldn’t begin to decipher – and while his ribs were miraculously okay, thanks to the support of his flight suit, his left arm was bent awkwardly. Already, beneath the blankets, his skin was blossoming in the reds and purples of early bruising.

“Any change?” Alan asked, his hologram flickering into existence beside John’s. Gordon was just visible at the edge of the projection.

“He’s warming up,” Virgil assured them, eyes never leaving his eldest brother as shivers slowly intensified. “No sign of consciousness, though.” He leant forwards, running his hands gently through gelled hair. The scan didn’t indicate a concussion to accompany the rest of Scott’s injuries, but with no evidence for why he was remaining unconscious barring the hypothermia itself, Virgil needed a more hands’ on check to reassure himself that there would be no further complications.

“We’re almost home,” Gordon chipped in. “Make sure you’re both ready for the landing.”

“F.A.B.”

Securing Scott was easy, straps looping over him and cinching tight but not too tight against the stretcher. The temptation to stay standing beside him, watching like a hawk for any sign of change – good or otherwise – was strong, but John made a small noise in the back of his throat and Virgil forced himself to take the two paces away from the stretcher and collapse into a fold-out seat.

“Thunderbird One has landed,” the astronaut informed him, and Virgil managed something that was almost a smile.

“See you soon,” he said, and John returned the almost-smile before floating with purpose. With the limitations of the holograms, it was difficult to tell where he was headed, but Virgil knew there was only one place John wanted to be.

Their landing was soft, softer than Gordon had ever managed before, and Virgil shot out of his chair and back to Scott’s side as soon as he felt the wheels connect solidly with the runway. The touchdown had done nothing to disturb him, eyes still softly closed. His skin was pale, and the shivering was still gaining in intensity, but Scott’s face was as peaceful as Virgil had seen it since the Zero-X.

He pulled the scanner back out, running another one just for something to do as Gordon taxied them back into the hangar. Scott’s temperature had risen marginally, still too cold but headed in the right direction. He adjusted the blankets cocooning him as Thunderbird Two finished her rotation and the hydraulics either side of the module whirred into action, raising the body of the craft.

Someone had remembered to call ahead – a flash of guilt coursed through Virgil as he realised that should have been his job – because as the module door lowered, letting in the orange flickering light that indicated mechanical movement in the hangar, Grandma was standing there, arms crossed and finger tapping nervously. She didn’t wait for the door to finish lowering, jumping into the module as soon as she could and heading straight for them.

“What happened?” she asked, wrapping an arm around him firmly for a moment before taking the final step to Scott’s side and tutting at the results of the scan.

“Avalanche,” Virgil responded, even though he knew she knew. Old hands that had yet to lose most of their dexterity pulled at the blankets, exposing Scott’s throat enough for her to press two fingers to his pulse. “Nine survivors, one fatality.”

“Broken arm and extensive bruising,” she mused, light fingers dancing over her eldest grandson’s body as she confirmed the scanner’s results for herself. “His suit protected him from the worst of it. Let’s get him inside.” Virgil nodded, reaching out to activate the hover jets on the underside of the stretcher before releasing the clasps that held it to the wall. Hurried footsteps indicated the arrival of his younger brothers, finished with their flight checks and anxious to see their eldest brother.

“Is he awake yet?” Alan asked, blue eyes filled with hope. Virgil shook his head as Gordon placed a hand on the youngest’s shoulder.

“Your brother will be fine,” Grandma assured them all before he could find the words to explain Scott’s condition. “A little battered and bruised, and rather cold, but some rest and home cooking will sort him right out, you’ll see.”

Gordon’s mutter that home cooking would do more harm than good wasn’t as quiet as he’d clearly intended, but Grandma ignored the slight as she put a firm hand on the hovering stretcher and started to guide it towards the house. Virgil paused, checking his two younger brothers over thoroughly. Alan was pale, shaken at the sight of Scott’s limp body, while Gordon headed over to the discarded uniform and picked it up.

“He’ll be alright,” he told them. Both nodded sharply. “John’s coming down; Alan, why don’t you go meet him?”

Neither asked why John was coming down if Scott was going to be fine. It was a much appreciated fact that sometimes a hologram wasn’t enough for reassurance, and none of them would ever begrudge John the chance to be there in person. Alan nodded again and left.

“I’ll clear up here,” Gordon said. He was feeding the damp uniform through his hands, most likely unconsciously. Damp, half-melted snow littered the module, and the remaining pod. “Go help Grandma.”

Virgil didn’t protest, although he gave Gordon a final look over before turning to leave his ‘bird. They all needed to feel useful, finding something to do while they waited for Scott to wake up. He would have cleaned his ‘bird himself, but Gordon’s order had been a hidden plea: I want you with Scott.

“I want her spotless,” he said instead, and Gordon laughed.

“Yes, yes,” he dismissed. “Now go help Grandma keep Scott in bed.” Because that was going to be the hardest task of all. None of the Tracys made for a good patient, but Scott was the undisputed worst patient of all. Alan and Gordon would try for subtle, the elder blond with more success, escape attempts made when they were left alone for too long. John hid in Five, well-practiced in manipulating holograms to make him appear healthier than he actually was – although the arrival of EOS had put a stop to that particular trick. It was the thing that had finally got her into Scott’s good books. Virgil himself knew that he gave his brothers a little too much grief, largely because he knew how to treat his own ailments better than they did.

Scott didn’t bother with subtlety. The moment their backs were turned, and sometimes not even then, he would be forcing himself up and out of bed, determined to carry on working no matter what. He’d never been a good patient, but it had only worsened since their Dad’s crash. Knowing why didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Not bothering to change out of his uniform, he ran after Grandma and the stretcher, catching up with them just outside the infirmary doors. Scott was still unconscious, a fact that bothered him considering there was no sign of injury that would cause it, but it made transferring him from the stretcher to the soft bed far easier. A pile of warm blankets were gently tucked around him, mindful of the broken arm.

As Grandma fussed with an IV line, more a precaution than a necessity, Virgil turned his attention to the limb. It was a clean break, simple enough to reset and splint. Scott let out a noise of complaint as the bones were dragged back into place, and both he and Grandma immediately looked at him. Brow furrowed, hazed blue eyes flickered open.

“Scott?”

“Vrrgg?” his eldest brother slurred, eyes slowly focusing on him. “Whh..?”

“We’re home,” Virgil told him, resting a hand on the blankets over where Scott’s right shoulder was buried. “The rescue’s over.”

Scott blinked at him slowly, the haze of confusion not quite leaving his eyes.

“Rsscu?”

“Let’s focus on getting you warmed up for now, Scott,” Grandma cut in, smoothing his hair back gently. She gestured sharply with her other hand – hidden from Scott’s view – to the reset arm. Virgil took the hint, returning to strap it up, knowing that he’d need to mix up a proper cast for it if he wanted any chance of it healing properly with Scott’s reluctance to rest of any length of time.

“Buh-”

Scott’s protest was cut off by the door slamming open, the pitter-patter of Alan’s booted feet flying into the room. Behind him, at a more sedate pace, John followed, turquoise eyes raking over the scene in front of him sharply.

“Is he awake?” Alan asked, skidding to a stop by the bed. “Scott?”

“Ara?” Scott started. Virgil lunged up to stop him as he made his first attempt to get up.

“No, Scott,” he said firmly. “You’re still too cold.” Scott didn’t fight him, a sign that he was still confused. It didn’t go unnoticed by either Alan or John, the former losing his smile and the latter narrowing his eyes for a moment.

“Go get yourselves changed,” Grandma told them. “He’ll still be here when you come back.” Hoping she wasn’t including him in that order, Virgil busied himself with fussing over Scott, fixing the blankets he’d dislodged and hushing any attempts to ask about the rescue.

“It’s over,” he repeated as his two brothers left the room with orders from Grandma to also locate Gordon and make sure he got changed, too. “Stay still.”

“Virgil,” Grandma warned, and his shoulder slumped. “You too, young man. You’re still wearing some of the snow.”

He hadn’t noticed, but when she mentioned it he realised that the creases of his uniform still carried damp white.

“I won’t be long,” he promised Scott, who looked at him with wide blue eyes. They reminded Virgil of Alan. Usually it was Alan who reminded him of Scott; he didn’t like it the other way around. “I’ll bring you back a drink. Think you can manage that?”

“Drrnk?”

Virgil sighed, and turned to Grandma.

“I’ll bring him something,” he told her and she nodded with a tired smile.

“You do that,” she said. “Now go get out of that wet uniform before you catch a chill, too!”

With a last look at his brother, still too pale but thankfully shivering properly at last, he forced himself to leave the room.

When it came to Grandma, there were fights that could not be won, and unspoken orders to be heeded nonetheless. It was not as simple as tugging off his uniform, throwing on some casual clothes and running back into the infirmary with a warm, sugary drink in hand served with a straw to sip it with, so he begrudgingly threw himself under a hot shower, allowing his own body to warm up after too long in the snow himself, albeit not buried like his big brother. Still, a shower did not have to be long to be effective, even if he would usually take the time to let his muses grow amongst the gentle hiss of pouring water, and within five minutes he was thoroughly warm and worming his way into clean clothes. A quick blow with his hair dryer got the worst of the water out of his hair, but he forwent the gel to return it to its usual style. Certain younger brothers might have a field day about his hair not being carefully sculpted, but a certain hypothermic older brother was worth a little bit of pride.

John had beaten him to the kitchen, a hot squash – blackcurrant and apple, from Scott’s personal stash – steaming on the counter. Virgil glanced around the room to make sure nothing was broken.

“You haven’t taken it in?” he asked, wrapping a hand around the container. It was almost hot to the touch. John shrugged.

“I’d drop it,” he said, plucking a blue straw from the collection in the cupboard and neatly dropping it into the top of the cup. Virgil couldn’t disagree with the possibility and scooped it up, straw bobbing in the dark liquid, before continuing on to the infirmary.

Alan and Gordon were there, both out of uniform as per Grandma’s orders, and trying to get a laugh out of Scott, if their antics were anything to go by. Scott himself, Virgil was pleased to see, appeared less confused than when he’d left.

“I have a drink for you,” he announced, passing it to Grandma as he perched on the bed by Scott. “Think you can manage some sips?” Scott was still shivering but managed a grateful smile.

“Will i’ tas’e goo’?” he asked, still too cold to pronounce his words properly. Virgil gently brought the head of the bed up slightly before propping Scott up in a more upright position with the use of many pillows. Gordon helpfully readjusted the blankets as Alan crawled onto the bottom of the bed.

“It’s from your own stash,” he promised, taking it back from Grandma and holding the straw to his lips. “John made it hot, so be careful.”

“’M alway’ ca’ful.” Scott mumbled the biggest lie Virgil had ever heard before accepting the straw and taking a sip.

“If you say so,” he said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to help keep him in place as he drank. He was still cool to the touch, despite the blankets wrapped around him firmly.

Scott hissed as the liquid entered his mouth, and Virgil tightened his grip even as he rolled his eyes.

“I warned you,” he said lightly, as John entered the room and perched on the end of the bed, watching Scott carefully. Scott took another sip, more cautiously the second time.

...tbc one day..?

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #wip excerpt #virgil tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #grandma tracy #thunderwhump

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todisturbtheuniverse · 3 years

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FIC: Set All Trappings Aside [7/9]

Rating: T Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Pairing: f!Adaar/Josephine Montilyet Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Class Differences Word Count: 2200 (this chapter) Summary: After months of flirtation, a contract on Josephine’s life brings Adaar’s feelings for her closer to the surface than ever. It highlights, too, all of their differences, all of the reasons a relationship between them would not last. But Adaar is a hopeful woman at heart; if Josephine can set all trappings aside, then so can she. Also on AO3. Notes: While the context for this story is the Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune questline, some of the conversations within it didn’t quite fit for this Inquisitor. The resulting fic is a twist on the canon romance. This Adaar and Josephine have featured in other fics, so you may miss a little context if you haven’t read Promising or Truth-Telling, which both come before this one. Chapter-specific note: I did not intend to leave this hanging for six months, but 2020 comes for us all, I suppose. I hope, if you're still reading, that you enjoy the conclusion. All of the remaining chapters (7-9) are up on AO3; they’ll be posted more slowly here on tumblr so as not to clog your dashboards.

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

"See," Adaar said, pointing, "we’re nearly there."

She leaned a little to the left in her saddle, closer to Josephine, giving her a better trajectory to follow. Josephine's eyes narrowed, searching. At this distance, the landmark was still hard to make out if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

"Strange," Josephine said. "That star appears to be moving."

"Dancing," Adaar corrected. "The old windmill is still lit. There must be someone left." At Josephine's perplexed look, she explained, "The windmill’s practically center of town. Someone got the idea way back when to keep a brazier lit at the top. Like a lighthouse, kind of. Instead of bringing ships in to port, it guided the farmers and herders into town at the end of the day. When you’re closer in, it’s a good way for the neighborhood watch to mark where they’re patrolling overnight, too. From far off, though, it just looks like a dancing star."

Josephine nodded. "Clever. And if it’s still lit…"

"I can’t see bandits bothering to tend it, can you?"

"That depends on the breed of bandit." Josephine’s mare whickered, and she patted its mane absently. "I think this tells us something about what might be happening in Duskfield. Either your old neighbors have already driven the bandits off, and things have returned to normal...or the bandits have taken up residence here, kept all the old habits in place, so that your farmers and shepherds might keep operating. If that’s the case, they’re after some kind of long-term stability and supply."

"And that could be good or bad," Adaar agreed. "Maybe they’re just folk driven to desperation by the current unpleasantness."

"Or maybe they are Red Templars, establishing new routes through the Free Marches while we have been busy elsewhere." Josephine glanced sidelong at Adaar. "Rest assured I do not plan to negotiate with them, should that be the case."

Adaar forced a thin laugh. "I expected as much." She looked ahead again, at the Dancing Star, trying to find something red in the flicker of its light. It was still too far to tell; it looked perfectly normal, just as she remembered it, yellowish in hue.

And if she did see a bit of red? More easily attributed to her imagination, fear, and anxiety. At this distance, it could be nothing else.

"If it’s an entire band," Josephine said, her voice lowering, "will you be able to manage on your own?"

Adaar glanced behind her, at Cassandra and Bull and Dorian, all riding quiet and alert. "We’ve managed an awful lot," she said. "And we could still run into Leliana’s people. There's some road left to go. If we don’t find them, I’ll sneak ahead to see what we’re working with before we go charging in."

"Is that wise? If you’re caught—"

"Would you rather send one of them?" Adaar asked, jerking her thumb at the others.

"I heard that," Bull said.

Adaar ignored him. "Cassandra makes a noise of incredible menace with every step she takes. Bull's worse, like a small earthquake. And Dorian can’t keep his mouth shut if there’s an opening for a witty quip."

"She’s right," Dorian said easily. "Adaar is the sneakiest giant you’ll ever meet. And that rates somewhat above the rest of us."

Josephine didn't look convinced. Worse, she looked afraid. Adaar tipped her head, silently asking Josephine to follow her ahead, out of earshot. The others kept to their own pace, allowing the road to spread out between them.

"Not reassured?" Adaar asked.

"I don’t doubt your skills. I just…" Josephine's fingers tightened on the reins. "If you’re caught, what then?"

"We’ll figure out the exact timeframe when we get closer, but if I’m not back in, say, an hour, the others can ride to the rescue."

"Has that ever happened before?"

Adaar figured it was best to be honest, but casual. "Sure."

Josephine’s lips thinned; she didn’t reply. Someone else in Adaar’s boots might’ve seen this as a good opportunity for comeuppance. They’d taken care of Josephine’s assassins her way, and Adaar had lost a month’s worth of sleep in the process. Josephine would get a little taste of her own medicine.

But Adaar had never been accused of vengefulness. The idea of Josephine fretting down the road behind her only made her feel vaguely queasy and sad.

"Don’t get caught," Josephine said at last.

Adaar inclined her head. "I’ll do my level best."

"You have to remember that they chose Duskfield," Josephine went on. "Maybe it’s random, maybe they are just desperate people, but it seems an awful coincidence. If anyone bothered to learn enough about you, to try to lure you out, this is how they would do it."

"If it’s a trap, I have a light step. I won’t spring it."

Josephine gave a despairing laugh. "If there’s an opening for a witty quip, are you certain that you will be able to restrain yourself?"

"In all things that matter, I am the picture of restraint."

She'd meant to sound cheerful; instead, the words were a little sour, and she turned her face away before her expression could add to the unintended effect. She didn't want to give Josephine another opening to make her case, not yet. Despite her words, her restraint had been wearing very thin indeed since their conversation on the road to Val Royeaux. One good snip would destroy those last tenuous threads.

But Josephine did not sound disappointed or angry when she replied, simply, "I know."

For a moment, Adaar thought she would leave it at that. They rode in the quiet, to the soft sounds of horses, for plenty of hoofbeats.

Then Josephine asked, "I've been wondering, how long have you...cared...about me?"

Adaar didn't have to answer. The question was put forward tentatively, feeling for where the boundary line was. Josephine would have understood if Adaar reminded her of her promise, the promise of space to think.

But thinking, so far, had gotten her nowhere. She kept chasing it round and round in her head, ever since that night on the road to Val Royeaux. She slept with her head pillowed on the shawl Josephine had left with her, and breathed her scent, and could not stop wanting, no matter how much she wished to. Maybe a little talk wouldn't hurt.

"Too long," she said. "Embarrassingly long. Well before we left Haven."

She looked back to Josephine, who smiled and ducked her head, as if to hide it. "Me, too."

The words struck Adaar like a slap, rendering her speechless. She hunted for what to say, how to react, and came up with nothing more original than, "Really?"

"You sound surprised." There was a teasing note in Josephine's voice now.

"Well, you just didn't…" Adaar floundered. "I don't know. You didn't seem interested."

"Leliana has said that I was being dense," Josephine admitted, with as much dignity as could be mustered with such a sentence. "I only thought that...your attention was split so many ways. You had—have—a great deal to worry about. I didn't think there would be time. And if there was, I didn't see why you would choose to spend it with me."

Adaar shook her head, exasperated. "We’re a pair, aren’t we?"

"I certainly hope so," Josephine said archly, but her smile faded again as she looked ahead to the Dancing Star. "When this is over, can we revisit the issue of restraint?"

"Lady Montilyet," Adaar said, all feigned astonishment, "I had no idea your desires ran that way."

It had the intended effect. Josephine lost her worry again, face flushing, hand coming up to cover a surprised laugh. Adaar grinned, reveling in her small victory. It would help, for what was to come. It would carry her through to the other side.

"Don't worry," she added, squinting at the Dancing Star. "I have a plan."

The good news: they weren't Red Templars.

Adaar had been gone from home so long that there were people in the village she didn't recognize or know, but she'd gotten good at distinguishing peasant from combatant; she observed carefully from her rooftop perch by The Wet Whistle's chimney stack, and she counted. It wasn't just about who wore armor, who carried weapons. It was body language, alertness. It was the berth that others gave them.

She'd arrived too late to count the bandits as they went into the tavern, but she counted them as they came out—and as a patrol cut through town and continued to the north. These ones carried obvious weapons, and they didn't sway when they walked. They were professional enough to keep their heads clear on duty.

Duskfield was a small village, and this company was enough to keep them cowed. She'd counted eight so far; she was sure there were more she was missing. She just wasn't sure what to do about them.

The bad news: she knew some of them.

Only three, that she'd spotted and recognized. Old neighbors, around her age: Vilya, the blacksmith's daughter; Cossus, her younger brother; Herbert, one of the farmer's sons. He'd been friends with the other two, she remembered.

The others were strangers to her, but they held themselves with more confidence than these three by far. Had they been recruited? What had convinced them to allow these mercenaries to occupy the town, to throw their lot in with them?

She didn't have time in the hour allocated to her to figure out why they were here. She only knew she didn't like the occasional raucous laughter spilling from the tavern below her, or the way the rest of her old neighbors flinched out of the way when one of the rogues stalked past. They were not starving and desperate. They were hungry, but they were waiting.

And there was no sign of Leliana's people. They were on their own.

It was time to return to her companions. She'd learned what she could, precious little though it was, and maybe they would have better ideas. Josephine had spun gold out of less before. Delicately, silently, she crept down the roof and lowered herself to the ground.

Her feet had barely touched down before the point of a sword pricked at her spine. "Not so fast, Inquisitor."

She considered her options. Two shapes in the shadows of the barrels ahead of her formed up and revealed themselves to be people. They, too, held swords, so that was three—at minimum. She'd won out over worse odds before.

But she'd missed these three watching her. What else had she missed? She didn't want to get chin-deep in a fight where she didn't know the stakes. Maybe they needed her alive, but maybe they were happy to dogpile and kill her.

She didn't know enough. Damn it.

"A welcoming party," she said. "Nice of you. I wasn't expecting such a fuss—"

The point of the sword jabbed harder. She sighed and stopped talking.

"I can't believe you actually showed," the voice behind her said. "When Moiraine pitched this idea to me, I almost punched her. 'Moiraine,' I said, 'she's Qunari, what does she care about a bunch of human cattle in some nowhere village?' But tales kept spreading about you—how you'd stick your neck out for any refugee needing a blanket, even if they'd spit on the ground as you walked past." He spit on her boot, for emphasis. Nice aim. "Started to see the potential. Still, though. Didn't expect you to be stupid enough to take the bait."

He lapsed into silence. Adaar waited a moment, then said, "Just let me know when you actually need my input. Hard to tell if there was a question in there. I'm kind of slow, as you've figured out."

"Watch her," the voice said, and yanked her hands around to bind them behind her back. She resisted the urge to fight, mind working frantically. Did she know a Moiraine-the-bandit? No, she was fairly sure she didn't. Did she know any Moiraine? She didn't think she'd ever heard the name before.

"Now," he said, yanking her daggers roughly from her back, "we're going to get comfortable and wait for your friends to come along. Then we'll have a nice little chat, and everyone can go home happy."

"My favorite part of the day," Adaar muttered.

Well, technically, at least, this was still part of the plan. Things had just accelerated somewhat. She was sure the others could work out the rest.

She'd been captured before, bound before. She stayed alert, but let her mind turn to more pleasant things. In similar situations, she'd thought of Josephine. She'd thought, Well, we didn't have much of a chance, anyway. She'd thought, Maybe, if we'd had more time…

This time, though, she thought of Josephine's stately walk, of the fire burning in her eyes, of her sharp and clever tongue. She thought of Josephine riding to her rescue, and she smiled.

#josephine montilyet #inquisitor adaar #f!adaar x josephine #f!adaar/josephine #dragon age #inquisition #friends to lovers #class differences #mutual pining #developing relationship #universe writes

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visenyatargaryn · 3 years

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Once, she had been a wife, a mother… someone who had finally found their happily ever after. However, that all came crashing down once the bombs fell and her once beautiful life turned into ashes before her eyes. After being the only survivor from Vault 111, Evangeline made her way into what was now known as the Commonwealth with one mission in mind:

To find her son and get revenge on the bastard who murdered her husband.

With the ongoing search, Evangeline eventually found herself in one particular neighborhood where she would meet a peculiarly dressed ghoul who—unbeknownst to her, would become the one to drag her out of her ever-growing darkness and back into the light. However, will it be enough to find her son? To save him from the clutches of the Institute? Or will she forever lose the last thing that brought happiness to her?

CHAPTER THREE || Drown Your Sorrows || M || 2555 words || ao3

With the help of an old acquaintance, Evangeline and the synth detective—Nick Valentine, both uncover a clue that helped them gain a step closer in answering a long-awaited question. The location of the Institute. However, to achieve such an accomplishment, Evangeline would have to trek across an extremely dangerous area. A place where many don't survive, and if they do... they turn into ghouls—if they're lucky.

Later, Evangeline finds herself wanting to forget painful memories that had been resurfaced after delving into the memories of the infamous mercenary—Kellogg. To do just that, she ends up in the only place in Goodneighbor that has what Evangeline needs—The Third Rail.

Even with all the stimpaks, it had taken Evangeline a month to recover from her injuries. Her condition had been a lot worse than she realized, and band-aids don’t necessarily fix bullet holes—or broken bones for that matter. She had refused to take any chems to relieve the pain, afraid that it would make her addicted, but instead took it from the bottle—which, in a way, wasn’t much better.

While she was bedridden for the first week, Hancock had kept her company for the most part. He asked her an endless amount of questions about who she was and where she came from—innocent questions that she could easily answer. At some point, Evangeline felt that she could begin to trust the strange ghoul who had taken her in, so she told Hancock her secret—that she had been alive before the war. At first, he was hesitant to believe her, skeptical if she was bluffing or not, but soon realized that Evangeline was telling the truth. This led to even more questions that would need answered—things that she would have instead kept buried deep within. Still, she told him enough to pique his interest and nothing more.

Eventually, Hancock had finally sent word to her about Nick Valentine’s arrival and that she would find him waiting for her at the Memory Den. Since her leg had not fully recovered yet, she had to use a crutch to get places beyond a couple of steps. Evangeline found it quite troublesome, especially when it came to trekking down the Old State House's spiral staircase—which almost ended in disaster on multiple occasions. After meeting up with the synth detective, they talked to Doctor Amari about their situation and how they needed Kellogg's memories—to locate the Institute's location. At first, she refused while not wanting to take any part in desecrating the dead, but eventually changed her mind once Evangeline showed her the augmenter that she had found attached to Kellogg’s head—or brain to be more precise.

After Doctor Amari examined it, she then wired it into Nick’s interface with the implant in hand to find that it had been encrypted—a failsafe to protect the Institute’s secrets. After their original plan had dissolved, Amari had another idea. She told them that to decrypt the memories, it would require two minds instead of one. Without a second thought, Evangeline agreed—not once considering the potential dangers that may put her at risk. If it meant finding her son, though, then it was worth it—no matter the cost. Evangeline, along with Nick, hopped into the Memory Lounges to finally find the answer to a long-awaited question.

While she explored Kellogg’s memories, Evangeline realized that the merc was not so different from herself. They both had fathers that hardly loved them and later lost those that meant the world to them. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would have followed the same path had Shaun met the same fate as her husband. Would she, too, be a cold-blooded killer? Or would she have taken a different route entirely? In the end, it was too late to dwell on such thoughts as Kellogg was now dead, and she was the one still drawing breath.

Once they had found what they were looking for—that the Institute was using teleportation as a means to enter their facility, she headed upstairs to discuss everything with Nick. She needed to head into the Glowing Sea to find this rogue scientist—Virgil, who used to work for the Institute. It was a treacherous territory, as it was a place that produced enough radiation to either kill someone—or turn them into a ghoul. Nick offered to tag along, but Evangeline refused, knowing that his place was in Diamond City, where the people needed him more.

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

After a couple of weeks had passed since her walk through memory lane, Evangeline decided to finally explore Goodneighbor. Her curiosity about the little neighborhood getting the best of her. It seemed like nothing of importance from outside the walls, but once inside, one would never guess the two were the same. The interior of the place reminded Evangeline of a time where she still bore a hint of innocence—when she worked at the dance club in Philadelphia not long after graduation. Its neon lights, rundown atmosphere, and intoxicating smell brought back many memories. The smell itself was a mixture of sex, chems, and alcohol—an unpleasant combination, she thought.

One evening, Evangeline found herself at the Third Rail after being in a foul mood all day. It was a fine establishment, considering it was built into an old subway station. The music was beautiful, as was the woman singing it—who wore a red sequin dress and had short dark hair that came just above her shoulders. Making her way through the crowd, Evangeline could hear the patrons' whispers as she passed by them.

“That’s the woman the Mayor killed Finn for..” she heard one man say to someone.

“What makes her so special that he had to put down one of our best fighters?” another asked.

Most of the comments were about how Hancock had saved her life, while others were viler. Those ones, in particular, made her skin crawl. Finally making her way to the bar, Evangeline found an empty seat where she settled herself into.

“So what’ll it be?” a gruff voice asked.

Evangeline had not expected the bartender to be a Mr. Handy since she came by so few during her travels. It appeared to be the same make and model as Codsworth was, except that this one had a British accent and wasn’t as friendly.

“Whiskey,” she answered.

She watched as the robot poured a glass of the substance in front of her. It was one of her go-to drinks, especially when she was having a bad day. Picking up the glass, Evangeline swirled the amber liquid around before taking a sip. The beverage burned as it made its way down her throat, which then engulfed her body in a blanket of warmth.

Looking around, she noticed that most of the patrons there were ghouls—men and women alike. At first, it surprised her to see this many in one general area, but then later realized that Goodneighbor must be a sort of sanctuary for them. It was no surprise to her, given how most of the Commonwealth held a disliking towards them. In the crowd, Evangeline spotted an all-too-familiar face across the room. Hancock was sitting on a couch that had seen better years with two attractive women sitting relatively close—one of which was sitting on his lap. Enough hands were wandering to give one the idea of their intentions by the end of the night. The three of them seemed to be having a good time. She also noticed that their table was littered with empty containers of jet, mentats, and alcohol bottles.

A sinking feeling settled into the pit of her stomach as she watched them. They were all smiles and laughter, as was everyone else in the room, and here she was—sitting alone and miserable as ever. Evangeline had not felt more out of place than she did at this moment.

“You look like you could use some company,” a voice came from beside her.

Taking the empty barstool next to her was a man with handsome features. He had pale blue eyes and hair, the color of sand. Evangeline didn’t know who he was or what he wanted—which made her be even more on edge than usual.

“Go away,” Evangeline said plainly. She was in no mood for conversation and preferred to be left alone, even if he was easy on the eyes.

“C’mon now, darlin’. That’s no way to treat a friendly face,” he said, not taking heed to her words.

Admittedly, Evangeline knew that she was quick to judge. However, she had dealt with enough monsters in her lifespan to know the worst ones were always those who didn’t look the part. Sure enough, Evangeline felt him place his hand on her knee, which caused a sick feeling within her from the interaction.

She closed her eyes, wishing to be elsewhere.

Evangeline recalled being in a similar situation many years ago, about a year after being employed at the strip district's dance club. Evangeline had been sitting alone at the bar during one of her breaks, drowning herself in a bottle of whiskey, when a middle-aged man approached her. He wanted only one thing from her—as all men did, and it had terrified her. Evangeline told him no countless times, hoping it would make him go away. However, it only seemed to make him more persistent. Thankfully, before it could go any further, one of the girls of the establishment had put a stop to his unwanted advances.

“Take your fucking hand off of me,” Evangeline said slowly, with a bite of irritation in her tone.

The man beside her laughed. “Or what? Look around you, sweetheart. Ain’t nobody gonna save you. You’re just another stray Hancock has taken in, and nothing more.”

The words hit harder than Evangeline cared to admit. A stray—that was something she had always been—someone with no place to call home. Someone who had always been a poor, helpless, unfortunate soul that others looked upon with pity. Maybe he was right, she thought miserably. Maybe I am nothing more than just another stray looking for a handout. Evangeline shook her head as if to rid herself of such thoughts. Perhaps she was a stray, but she wasn’t nothing, no—she had never been nothing. Evangeline had made a name for herself before the war. She had been considered one of the greatest detectives that Boston had ever seen.

But what use was that now?

She took another drink from her glass, only to find out that it was empty. Evangeline swore under her breath. If she was to deal with this asshole, then she was going to need more whiskey. Signaling the barkeep for another drink, Evangeline looked to where she had last seen Hancock. Unfortunately, the spot he had been sitting was now empty with neither him nor his companions in sight. Evangeline didn’t necessarily need his help, but because she knew next to nobody here—it would have eased her mind a little if he were still present.

Evangeline took a swig of whiskey—emptying the glass entirely, and sat it down on the counter hard. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, nor do I fucking care. I just want to be left the fuck alone, okay?”

What patience she had was currently wearing thin as a throbbing pain began to form at her temple. Evangeline decided she should turn in for the night and sleep off the headache—and to rid herself of the unwanted company. Pushing the glass away, she stood and placed a handful of caps on the counter.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, grabbing ahold of her wrist. “We ain’t done yet.”

She whipped around and struck him, causing him to stumble off the barstool and hit the ground hard with a clash. Evangeline didn’t bother to see if he was okay—not that she cared either way, as she wanted to make herself scarce. The entire room had fallen silent, and everyone’s attention now fell upon the commotion that had just occurred. Making her way through the crowd, Evangeline could feel her heart pounding in her chest—fearing that it may actually burst from its cavity. However, she dared not show an ounce of fear because Evangeline knew a place such as Goodneighbor—would be a death sentence. She was currently a lamb that found its way inside a lion’s den and was awaiting the inevitable slaughter.

Once outside, a chill went through her as she stepped out into the crisp night air. Tugging her jacket tighter, Evangeline started off toward The Hotel Rexford to rent out a room for the night. Evangeline had a feeling that Hancock was currently entertaining his companions from earlier, and she would rather not walk in on that. Besides, it wasn’t like Evangeline had to sleep there, and she knew her absence would not go noticed anyway—as it always has.

Upon entering the old hotel, a musty odor of over-aged furniture and stale tobacco filled the air. Surveying the place, Evangeline saw pieces of faded-yellow wallpaper peeling away from years of neglect. At the front desk was a short elderly woman with dark skin who was in deep conversation with a tall, dark-haired man who wore a high-quality suit. Evangeline knew she shouldn’t interrupt the two, but she was tired and needed somewhere to cope with tonight’s events. Her footsteps echoed over the wooden floor as she made her way to the desk, which caused them both to look up.

“Umm, excuse me?” Evangeline said meekly, giving them both her best smile. “I was hoping I could get a room here…”

The dark-haired man whispered something into the woman’s ear before taking his leave, who then gave Evangeline her full attention.

“Alright, that’ll be ten caps,” she said plainly.

“Thank you,” Evangeline said as she exchanged what was left of her caps for the keys to the room.

“It’s on the second floor, the last door on the right,” the receptionist called after her as she headed towards the stairs.

Once inside her room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Evangeline realized she was shaking. Whether it was from the cold or what had happened tonight, she wasn’t sure—perhaps both? It also occurred to her that she had now made an enemy here and wasn’t sure what that meant—would Hancock throw her out because she harmed one of his own? What Evangeline did know, however, was that she now had to be extra careful because she knew damned well that he would want revenge for what she had done.

In truth, she hated it here, not just in Goodneighbor but in the Commonwealth's entirety. Evangeline wanted her old life back. She was so tired of always hurting. She wanted to laugh again, to be happy once more—to not be wary of everyone she met. To be able to walk the streets of Boston without having to constantly look over her shoulder out of fear.

Letting out a shaky breath, Evangeline sluggishly made her way over to the dresser where a bottle of vodka was sitting. Taking off her jacket, she grabbed the bottle and took a long drink from it. By the time Evangeline was finished, she felt a bit woozy—enough that she had to use the dresser for support. Placing the bottle back on the dresser, she stumbled over to the bed and sat on the mattress. It creaked under her weight as she laid down—curling herself in a ball. However, there were no blankets, but Evangeline was grateful that at least the room was quite warm. While she laid there, Evangeline tried not to think about the man from the bar or her current situation as she closed her eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep.

#fallout #fallout 4 #usermacy #queennymeria #chuckhansen #a different kind of rush #oc: evangeline zotova #mine*#fic*#writings*#this... isn't that great I know #alksfjskfjsk

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izzyovercoffee · 5 years

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Prompt number: 14. “I can't come back.” Fandom: Republic Commando Rating: PG Warnings/Tags: none that I can tell, ask to tag if need Summary: Bardan keeps Parja company at the shop on a rainy day. Notes: if I get any details wrong... my bad. also if it wasn’t clear... a lot of my repcomm writing is set in an Etain-lives AU, mostly bc her death makes zero sense in the narrative

Bardan lies on an old, well-loved chaise stitched together with the itching fabric sourced from the local farmers. The lights overhead blink in periodic outages---in tandem with the crack of thunder outside and the brilliant flashes through a single window at the far end of the machine shop. One hand facing up, lazy, a device slowly rotates a few centimeters above his palm.

It’s not what he meant when he offered to help, earlier, but Parja insists he helps by lying there and “holding” the device.

To be honest, he’s not really sure what it does---and he doesn’t ask.

She stands about two arms’ length from the chaise, arms crossed over her chest. Her tightly braided hair falls over one shoulder, the braids adorned with polished, painted beads that match her usual armor.

“It’s not doing it,” she says, at length, after another two cracks across the sky outside. “Damn.”

“What’s it supposed to do?” he asks, curious.

“Shock you,” she says.

He looks away from the swaying, blinking lights, to the not-quite-cubed device in his hands.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, it’s definitely not doing that.”

“Is it doing anything?”

He frowns in the direction of the device, and raises his hand higher. A small effect on the force and it rotates a tad faster over his palm. He waits a few seconds, watching it spin, and turns his head to look at her.

“No,” he says.

“Damn,” she says again.

Parja moves forward to pluck the device from its rotation above his hand, and shakes it between two fingers as she walks back to her worktable. He watches her go, lowering his hand over his chest while he adjusts the one cradling behind his head.

“Need me to do anything else?” he asks.

“Just stay there,” she says, and sets the device down on the table. She reaches for something else---her toolbox---and appears to switch her attention to another project. “Maybe tell me a story.”

He’s not very good at stories. Mereel’s better at that sort of thing, and he’s a long, long way from Mandalorian Space.

“I don’t have any stories off the top of my head, Parja,” he says, and wonders at what else he could, should, be doing.

It almost feels like a waste, to lie here and do nothing when he could be outside, doing something. Filling up the time. Helping someone else. Helping Fi. Helping Etain. Helping the other Bralor, under whose care he placed Arla in spite of Kal’s disapproval.

She moves across the machine shop as the storm clouds outside finally open up, and the torrential downpour crackles over the metal roofing of the establishment. Parja stops at an old speeder, one in obvious and desperate need of TLC---as Mereel likes to put it, tender loving care---and kneels by the engine.

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Parja,” he says, “You’re never this vague.”

“Bard’ika,” she says, imitating the way he says her name, “I know this is a touchy subject for you. I’m trying to be tactful.”

“Please don’t worry about my feelings.”

“Someone has to.”

He frowns, and tilts his head to look back towards the ceiling, to the source of the ungentle drumming of the rains.

The quiet drags on---broken only by the storm---as Parja begins her work on the speeder.

Bardan thinks about what she could possibly mean. Miss it. Miss what? The Order? The War? The Core?

Someone has to. And what’s that supposed to mean, too?

“That’s not fair,” he says. “You’re not the only one who cares.”

She sighs, and then sets down one of her tools noisily onto the open toolbox lying on the hard ground.

“I know,” she says. “But of the two of us in here, it feels like I’m the only one.”

Alright. He can’t have this conversation lying down.

He shifts, to groaning tired muscles, and sits up. His legs swing over the edge of the chair, and his feet touch the floor with a soft, barely-there scuffle. His fingers loosely interlace, hanging with his elbows at either knee and hands between them.

Parja reaches out, to gently tug a stool over to herself so she can sit, and face both him and the speeder.

“I just want you to ask me plainly,” he says, “because the Order only ever talked in circles.”

The look she gives him is… studying. Curious. He can feel the gentle tug of that curiosity, that need, that urge to take apart and piece things together. It’s the look she wears when she plans to work on and rebuild old broken things and restore them to new---or, as she often says to him, better than new. Different, not wanting to reach for the impossible---not aspiring to be unbroken---but to have that brokenness shine through in its new form.

It’s in everything she does.

It sometimes reminds him of how things could be, should be, but not how things were---in the Jedi Order, that is.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and means it. He knows she means it, even without the unintentional taste of it on the force. “I haven’t met many ex-Jedi. I don’t know what the Order was like.”

He feels the shrug rise his shoulders even despite not intending to do so---a bad habit he’s picked up from Mereel, maybe. Or Jaing.

“I do miss it,” Bardan admits. “In the same way I miss a place, or a memory, through the lens of nostalgia---and then I endeavor to remember what it actually was like, when I feel myself doing so.”

Parja hums in response, neither an interruption nor a comment but an acknowledgement she hears him as she returns her attention on the project. She’s still listening---he knows this, too, from experience rather than any crutch to lean on through the force.

So he continues. “But the Order was… there was a very real pressure, there, to adhere to standards that many of us couldn’t keep, or couldn’t reach. A standard that the… Masters, themselves, did not keep. And the consequences…”

He pauses, chewing on the thought, feeling the weight of the pain in his chest and focusing on that pain as it threatens to claw its way up his throat. He lets himself experience it, feels it consume him, and allows it to dissipate.

Parja waits, reaching down for another tool as she works.

“...they were severe,” he says. “They always spoke of support, of acceptance, of love. And yet, those who needed it the most---the ones who couldn’t grasp the force easily, or what they were asked to do---were denied it, and dismissed.”

Parja pauses in her ministrations to look at him. “Dismissed?”

“No longer able to become Jedi,” he answers, and then frowns. He corrects himself: “Sorry. No longer allowed to become Jedi. Instead, they were sent to work elsewhere, under the supervision of the Order.”

“Work?” she asks, tense. “They failed, and they weren’t sent home?”

He feels a bitter smile infect his frown and doesn’t fight it. “Too dangerous, when touched by the force, to be let loose on the universe. And because we were all taken as young, young children---many didn’t know they could simply leave.”

He almost laughs.

“Many,” he adds, “Even if they knew they could, had nothing to their name, and no way to contact the family they were taken from. We’re not allowed possessions, in the Order, and absolutely no contact with family. I still don’t know if mine are alive. I wouldn’t know how to contact them, if they were.”

A bitter anger runs under that thought. A hurt, like betrayal, in his heart---but he also understands. He wants to think, to believe, that his birth family had no choice---that they sent him to The Order for a better life. Many were taken because, no matter what, it guarantees a better life.

Or it did, before... before the end.

Parja sets down her tool, and shifts on her stool to look at him fully.

“You have a family now,” she says. She looks down, to the ground, and back up at him as another crack of lightning, then thunder, booms outside. “But I’m sure if you asked Mereel…”

“I don’t want to,” he says, firm. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t want to.”

She purses her lips and nods, and doesn’t say whatever it is she’s thinking though he can see she’s thinking something. She’ll probably gnaw on it for a few days, and then blurt it out the next time he visits the shop, and…

And Bardan finds he’s perfectly happy with waiting until then.

“I’m free of the manipulation,” he says, unable and unwilling to hold the bitterness from his tone. “Free from having the phantom of failure wielded as a whip. And free from simply accepting that the death of good men should not somehow weigh on my conscience.”

Free, he thinks, from having the threat of attachments being found out, used against him, to keep him isolated and placid and content. Complicit.

Parja places a hand on the speeder beside her, and beckons him look at it. He rises from the chaise to join her.

“This speeder,” she says as she gently pats the top edge of the dented, rusted metal, “once belonged to a well known racer in the underground circuits, in Nar Shaddaa.”

“It’s a long way from Nar Shaddaa,” he says, surprised.

She smiles at him. “This racer pushed this poor speeder beyond its limitations. Do you see this damage, here?” Her gloved hands trace the places where the metal curls outwards, as if burst from the inside out. “And here?”

Bardan looks at the damage. “I do.”

“Sometimes,” she says, “when pushed too hard, too far, for too long---with no stops in between---the speeder will respond in any way it can to release the tension.”

She doesn’t explain, and he doesn’t need her to.

“The driver died,” she continues. “This speeder would have been left in a junk pile, if not for someone who saw its beauty, its real potential, under all its supposed failures, and rescued it. She brought it here, to me, and asked for me to restore it in whatever way I see fit.”

Parja, proud in her talents, in her ability, and her side projects, gently pats the speeder. “But I’m not fixing it up to race, because it was never meant to race. It was meant to ride, and to duck in and out between the trees.”

And she looks at him. “And there are no trees on Nar Shaddaa.”

He looks at the speeder.

There are no trees on Nar Shaddaa.

“Am I really helping,” he asks, “coming here, and lying on your couch while you work?”

“Yes. More than you know.” She reaches out, and gently takes his hand in hers. “More than you can know.”

She squeezes his hand, and then lets him go.

He lingers, unsure, but stands after a moment passes and returns to the couch. He sits down, first, and watches her attention pull away from him to return to her project. He watches her begin her work, sensing it’ll be some time before she’ll want to talk again, and takes a moment to breathe. To think. To settle.

And then he lies back down, one hand behind his head and another on his chest, and watches the ceiling lights sway as the storm outside rages on.

#writing: fictober19 #writing: repcomm #c: Bardan Jusik #c: Parja Bralor #writing: mine

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blueyesandleatherjacket · 4 years

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The Fallen, 4/17

Volume: 1.

Number of parts: 4/17.

Pairings: Nine x Rose.

A/N: Written for Whumptober. "Wake up" (ALT1), Stitches (D11), "Don't move" (D12), Adrenaline (D13), Tear-stained (D14). Tagging @thebookster on her demand.

“We've all fallen, but at the same time we're not broken. There is the hint that we are going to get up again.” - Amy Lee.

CHAPTER 4:

Maya Carson was one of Nash’s oldest friends. They were both from Shitferz and had both been part of that experimental program of exchange between their planet and Gallifrey. They hadn’t been told anything, they were just put on the list and sent away. The Quiston Calcium Assassins weren’t known for creating friendships or other bonds between people. Instead, they were setting their recruits against each other to make them merciless, heartless and bloodthirsty. The perfect assassins. Nash and Maya had both played the game; they had both compelled to their rules. They had become two of the best assassins of this deadly organization, had executed all their contracts. Their shapeshifter genes were giving them a longevity of life and a healing ability that was very useful when you were fighting targets stronger than you. When the Daleks and the Time Lords began fighting in a war that was to destroy everything around, the Quiston Assassins were sent on the battlefield. On the front lines. Despite their training, many of them had died that day. Maya was pregnant. It wasn’t visible yet, but Nash knew it. They had kept the secret. Only Maya’s husband, Oliver, another member of the Quiston Assassins, did know about the news, and they were all fighting for the sake of this future child. It wouldn’t have the same life as them on Gallifrey. No, it would come to this world in a better world than this one. That was their belief. The intervention of the Doctor was what saved them. He gave them the time to run away, to steal a TARDIS of their own and find another planet to settle down. Earth hadn’t been their first choice but it had been their best. This had happened over thirty years ago in their current timeline but the memories of it were still fresh. Forgetting about their killing instincts and making themselves accepted had been the hardest parts and they were still working on this, even now. Sadly, Oliver wasn’t around anymore – a divergence of opinions and an inability to control himself had caused his downfall – but Maya had found help in Texas. A married couple of shapeshifter and witch took her under their wing and took care of her for a moment. Maya had given birth to her daughter in this atmosphere and safety before coming to England, to London where she met again with Nash. She was forced to abandon her daughter in an orphanage for her safety when other assassins that had fled from Gallifrey came after them. The woman was growing somewhere in this world and Maya had no way to know where she was. But she would find her one day. “Maya? Maya, dear, do you hear me?” There was a clear wound on her temple. She had been knocked out with a heavy object. If she had been human, it could have killed her. They would have to pretend she was human and stitch that wound so no one – especially the person who caused this – would suspect a thing. With someone like Jeremy around, better lie low. “Wake up, please. You can’t let me down now. We haven’t found her yet.” The mention of her daughter brought some life into Maya whose eyes slowly fluttered open. She groaned. She was having a headache now. She brought her fingers to her head and touched the bleeding wound. She made a grimace of pain. “What the…” Her instincts quickly kicked back in and she immediately jumped on her feet. All her body was on alert but she was dizzy from the pain throbbing in her head. She clutched the frame of a bunk bed to keep steady. She would fight anyone coming near her. This dizziness was nothing compared to everything she had gone through. “Sh, sh, sh,” said Nash. “It’s only me. Do you remember what happened?” Maya focused. She relaxed only when she was able to distinctly identify Nash beside her. She sat on a bed with a heavy sigh. No, she hadn’t seen nothing at all. It was her break time so she had come here for a bit of sleep and before she could see or hear anything, she was out. Her reflexes weren’t as sharp as before. It wasn’t good. She let Nash clean and stitch her wound. She also accepted the band aid. It would hide the fact the cut and bruise would be gone in a few hours or less. No need to draw more attention on her. She already didn’t know why she had been attacked. It was frustrating for a former assassin to have been knocked out so easily. “I need to tell you something, but I can’t do it in here.” She was almost certain that Jeremy was spying on his employees to be sure they were obeying his orders and not nosing around like Nash was sometimes tempted to do. He was hiding secrets, dark secrets, and the therapist didn’t like that at all. She needed to talk about this, and about her patient, to her friend. It would have to wait until their shifts were over. She couldn’t even take the risk to speak telepathically. She was acting as humanly as possible. “The bathrooms aren’t on watch.” Maya’s voice had been so low that only a person with enhanced senses could have heard her. Still, Nash looked around and gave her friend a nod. They would find a bathroom and have their talk there if it was the most secure place of the building. Not the most appalling or pleasant for people with such developed sense of smell but it would do. They found one near the isolation ward and Nash made sure to check every corner and every hub. Safety first. She was very distrustful toward the owner of the place and the changes he had done around here. No micro and no camera in the bathrooms. At least, he had some respect left. A breach in his so perfect security. “I have a new patient,” whispered Nash. Just like Maya minutes before, she was speaking very low so only her could hear what she was saying. If anyone was passing by, they wouldn’t even suspect that someone was on this bathroom unless they came in. The two women would pretend to be washing their hands after using the loo. As simple as that. “I’ve heard of something about a new guy around. A psycho.” “No, not at all. It’s him.” Maya’s eyes grew big. It’s him. She couldn’t believe those words and yet, her friend wouldn’t lie to her. So it had to be true. The Doctor, the man who saved their lives thirty years ago, was here. As a patient. What could that mean? Was he undercover or something? “What’s he doing here?” “I don’t really know.” “Do you think he…” Nash shook her head. The Doctor wasn’t undercover. Something had gone wrong and he had gone nuts. He was t there for Jeremy either. He had been surprised to see him two days ago. A bad surprise. The rage and fear and disgust had made him lose it completely. Well, the person he stole this face from had lost it. Quite impressive. The body had been taken care of by Jeremy’s staff. Mash preferred not knowing what they had done of the poor woman’s cadaver but she hoped it was respected. No one should meet such an end. Not even someone working for Jeremy. “He’s pretty vague and confused. Looks like his latest adventure has gone wrong and it deeply affected him. J has already laid his hands on him. It wasn’t pretty.” “So what do we do?” “We have to help him out of here. For the rest, we’ll see that in time.” Maya nodded. The mission was simple: help the Doctor to escape this place before Jeremy Backfire had full control on his case. They had been working here for years and had been trained to run from the worst situations. But it was always easier said than done. It would take some time and organisation.

“Don’t move!” The adrenaline was pulsing in every vein of the nurse’s body. He was one of the three employees in charge of lunch today and it was pretty calm until this one guy quietly eating alone in his corner was being bothered by another patient. A blonde woman who had tried to have him speaking only to be rewarded with a ‘stop trying to be her!’ and an empty plate straight in her face. The nurse hadn’t been told about this new patient yet so he didn’t know how to handle the situation but one thing was sure: they had to disarm it before it went south for real. The other patients were feeling the adrenaline and fear and tension in the air and that was exciting them. They were ready for a fight. A deadly fight since the new guy had a shard of broken plate in his fist. He was holding it so tight that it had cut his hand. Blood was dripping on the floor but he didn’t seem to notice. Or to care. “Put that down slowly, sir. No one will hurt you. We’re just here to help you.” The nurse had a raised hand toward him, a universal gesture for ‘calm down’, but the Doctor didn’t see him. He was oblivious of everything around him. His eyes were staring at the ground before him but his sight was a blur. He was seeing the floor without seeing it, being physically in this hospital and mentally elsewhere. The Wolf was active. It was there at the moment but the Doctor’s eyes weren’t glowing gold like it usually did. This blonde woman wandering around and trying to get him to speak had reminded him so much of Rose – though the woman had nothing in common with his companion – that it had triggered his fury. He had punished the woman and was punishing himself for not being able to get to Rose in time. She could be dead for all he knew and that was all his fault. And that new Doctor, why hadn’t he noticed that something was wrong? The Wolf had intervened before it could get worse. It had used a card the Doctor ignored everything about. As Rose was the host of the other half of the Wolf, they were telepathically connected and nothing could break this bond between them. So the Wolf had connected him to Rose’s mind. It was enabling him to have a look at her mind, at her surroundings through her eyes. Pain struck him at the pink walls. She wasn’t in the TARDIS. It could have been a day off, a day visiting Jackie but he knew deep down that it wasn’t. Rose was back at home, back at her old life with Jackie. Her sight was blurred. She was crying. When she looked down, he could see what she had in her lap. A notebook. It was closed and the cover was tear-stained. She had been crying for a while. She closed her eyes and the connection was broken. He was back in his own mind, back in this hospital. His fury wasn’t any better, but another emotion was dominating now: pain. The pain to know that Rose was at Jackie’s again, the pain to know that she was unhappy, the pain to know that the other Doctor had done nothing to get rid of the Wolf in her mind. He had cravenly left her behind and that was unforgiveable. He was clenching his fists so hard that the piece of plate he was still holding was deeply sunk in his skin now. This pain didn’t matter. He was all too focused on another pain, on her pain. It was unbelievable, unbearable and it was growing in him like a cancer. He suddenly leant his head backward and howled his frustration to the dirty white ceiling…

To be continued...

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#doctor who #ninth doctor #rose tyler #bad wolf #doctor x rose #dw fic #the fallen

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toseehowthestoryends · 6 years

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A Different Fate - Chapter 37

Summary: Rumplestiltskin is the Dark One, but Fiona knows that his fate was meant to be different. When she learns what has become of her son, she grows determined to restore the destiny she cut away—whether he wants her to or not. When Belle makes a deal to become the Dark One’s maid, she never expects to find his mother encouraging her growing relationship with Rumplestiltskin.

Read it on AO3 | FFN | tumblr tags

Chapter 37—“We Must Believe”

“I got a letter from my father.” Belle found Rumplestiltskin reading, something he seemed to be doing more these days now that he didn’t have voices in his mind to distract him. He’d been poring through some ancient books on realm crossing with a scowl on his face, which told Belle that he could use the distraction.

“Has he decided that he regrets letting you leave with the beast?” Rumplestiltskin’s tone was light, but Belle thought she could detect a hint of self-loathing.

“No, he actually seems to have accepted my decision.” Belle was pleased with that, although not quite as satisfied with the rest of the letter. “He did also ask how you’re treating me, and if I need anything,” she admitted.

“Do you need anything, sweetheart? You know that I’ll put the world at your feet if you want me to. All you have to do is say the word.”

“Really, I just want you.” She leaned against his shoulder with a smile. “Though, if you’re offering, I could use a few new dresses.”

“Of course!” Rumplestiltskin slammed his book shut with gusto. “Would you like me to call seamstresses? Or would you prefer to travel? Or we could travel to the seamstresses, of course.”

“Seamstresses? Travel?” Belle blinked, taking the options in. “I thought you’d just magic me up a dress or two!”

“Magic?” Rumplestiltskin’s lips curled into a magnificent sneer. “Of course not. Anything magic can make, magic can unmake. Even the finest gown made of magic can be dispelled by a semi-competent sorcerer, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Belle felt her eyes go wide. “No. No, we definitely don’t need that.” Not that she minded the idea of encouraging Rumplestiltskin to pull her clothes off—she’d only just recently convinced him to do so at all—but the idea of some unscrupulous enemy doing it made her shudder.

Rumplestiltskin must have seen her reaction, because he reached out to take her hand. “I’ve never been much of a seamstress, or I would offer to make you something. Instead, however, I can offer you the finest seamstresses in any realm.” He shot a glare at the book he’d been reading. “Or almost any realm, anyway.”

“Can we go somewhere where they won’t recognize you like this?” Belle reached up to touch his cheek. “I like this face.”

He blushed adorably. “I’m sure I can think of somewhere.”

Zelena’s vault was ridiculously unguarded. A few spells lay in Fiona’s way, ones easily waved aside, and finding Mulan’s heart among the many was easy. The boxes were even labeled, so Fiona did a quick dance around the room, spying out this name and that, making sure that no one useful might be bereft of that rather vital appendage. But she didn’t recognize any names, and she made a mental note to let Tink now that the friend she was worried about wasn’t missing her heart. Zelena could have left it elsewhere, of course, but she seemed a bit too obsessively organized for that. That hardly matters, though, does it? I have what I came for, and Zelena’s little spy won’t help her any longer. Smiling, Fiona stepped out of the vault—

Only to run right into an obnoxious little manchild she had devotedly hoped to forget.

“You again?” Her lips curled into a snarl, and Fiona instinctively snatched Mulan’s heart closer. Heavens only knew what Mal—Pan!—would do with it. He’d probably steal it for fun.

“Fiona, my darling. It’s been so long.” He offered her a mocking bow, which only made her scowl harder.

“Not long enough. Besides, I thought you liked that nasty little world you made for yourself.” She snorted. “Why slum in the Enchanted Forest again, darling? It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, it certainly doesn’t.” He was so smug; was he ever not? “And you can rest assured that I won’t stay here for long. I’m not sure the place could last between the two of us.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “I have better things to do than pick a fight with you.”

“Particularly since you know you’d lose.”

“Must you sound like the child you turned yourself into? It’s terribly wearying.” Fiona groaned. “Now, if you must, gloat about whatever clever trick you’re up to, and then get out of my way. I have places to be.”

“And a stolen heart, I see. It’s nice to know that we’re both so naughty.” Pan grinned, but Fiona didn’t take the opportunity to correct him. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to know that she was here to help someone. He’d probably laugh.

“Do just get on with it.”

“Don’t you worry, love, I’m not here for you. Even if that would be an interesting battle.” He actually leered at her, and although Fiona had once—many times!—taken this man lovingly into her bed, the look on his face left her feeling vaguely nauseous. “I’m just here to find two missing lost boys and bring them home.”

“You’ve come yourself? Either they must feel honored, or they’re too clever for you to find them.” She couldn’t resist a little snicker. “I’m going to bet I know the answer to that, though, don’t I?”

Pan’s leer whipped into a snarl. “Don’t be too happy for them, Fiona. When I get ahold of them, I will make them suffer.”

“Oooh, what a happy home you offer! You know, when I stole children, I at least had the decency to be upfront about making them miserable. You offer them fun and games until you decide to hurt them.”

“High minded words coming from the Black Fairy.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing high about them. I am what I am, and I admit it. But at least—unlike you—I have not abandoned my son. He doesn’t remember you very fondly, by the way. In fact, I think he prefers not to remember you at all.”

Was that a flinch? She hoped so. But Pan came back on balance all too quickly for Fiona’s tastes, and the smirk was back in full force. “Oh, I know he remembers me. He knew me as a boy, unlike you. And that abandonment leaves a mark.”

“You’re actually proud of that?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course I am. You should be as well. Between the two of us, we created quite the monster.” Pan threw back his head and howled a laugh. “What a perfect little dark family we make, huh? It’s glorious!”

“There is nothing glorious about you, Malcolm.” Fiona snapped those words before she could stop herself. “And there never was.”

“I seem to remember you singing a different tune, once upon a time.”

“Reversion to childhood does wreak havoc upon memories, though, doesn’t it?” She smiled sweetly, and stepped around him, wrapping herself in a cloak of darkness for protection. “Go look for your lost little boys if you must. But leave our son alone, or you won’t enjoy the reception you receive.”

“I doubt you’d enjoy it, either!” Pan’s laugh wouldn’t have sounded hollow to someone who hadn’t once known him as well as she did, but Fiona could tell.

Her smile, on the other hand, was quite genuine. She knew that their son was no longer any sort of monster, and if Pan did drop by, the Rumplestiltskin he encountered would be far from the one he expected. Fiona hoped he would not, because she did know that the wounds Pan had spoken of were both real and deep, but her son had also come a long way. He had people who loved him now, people who would help him, and he never needed to worry about the father who had abandoned him again.

Blue made her wait, of course. As if trekking up to the fairylands—and burning the last favor she’d ever have with the Rose Fairy—wasn’t bad enough, Blue left Tiger Lily cooling her heels for hours while Blue did whatever it was she did. She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised, not after all this time, but a small part of Tiger Lily had still thought of Blue as her friend. Even after everything that had happened, she had hoped their onetime closeness still meant something.

Two hours later, she was certain it did not.

“Tiger Lily!” Blue floated forward—full sized, so as not to offend her guest—and gave her a perfunctory hug. “It is so good to see you after so long. You’ve found your way free of Neverland!”

“I have.” Describing how that had been done was not on her list of things to do, nor was listening to some lecture about how she never should have gone.

Blue’s smile was thin. “I take it that Pan is still contained there?”

“Last I knew.” That really was all Blue cared about, wasn’t it? A few lost boys meant nothing to her, particularly since most had been foolish enough to go with Pan or the Shadow willingly. Tiger Lily gritted her teeth for a moment before forcing herself to smile. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“No, of course not. I understand you’ve set yourself up as a healer in Port Mystic.”

“I have, yeah.” Tiger Lily felt her eyes narrow. Was Blue judging her? She was helping people as best she could, following the creed she had been raised to. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, of course not. I am glad to see you doing well.” Blue’s smile was that patented shallow one, though, one Tiger Lily had never seen directed at her. She didn’t enjoy it one bit. You’re not a fairy anymore, she told herself firmly. Get used to it.

“Anyway, I came here to tell you about something, and then I’ll get out of your wings and back to my mundane life.” She squared her shoulders. “There’s a witch near Port Mystic who has a reputation for stealing young and beautiful people so that she can curse them with eternal life. And then suck out that eternal life for herself.”

Blue’s eyes finally narrowed. “I have heard of such terrible things. It’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, it is. And we need your help. There’s no one in Port Mystic who can stop her. Her name is Madam—”

“This really does sound like a problem for the humans, my dear.” Blue cut her off gently, but Tiger Lily still felt her eyes go wide.

“I just said there’s no one around who can stop her.”

“Oh, I’m sure someone would be willing. Or maybe the patron fairy of a nearby family might find it in her heart to help.”

“If her family is affected.” Tiger Lily ground the words out so hard her teeth hurt. “Madam Faustina seems to only go for youths no one will miss.”

“It is a pity, but—”

“Kind of like Pan. Is that why you’ve never tried to stop him?” She couldn’t help from snarling the words; part of Tiger Lily burned to punch Blue, but violence had never gotten her far before, so she didn’t. Even if the idea was attractive.

“Tsk, tsk.” Blue clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You disappoint me, Tiger Lily. I do know who freed the Black Fairy, you know. Trying to guilt me into action after what you have done is not the right thing to do.”

“I don’t care about right and wrong,” she snarled. “I care about saving children from this witch!”

“You released the Black Fairy back upon the world, my dear Tiger Lily. That endangers far more children, don’t you think?”

“And has she been taking children again, hm?” Tiger Lily shot back.

Blue folded her hands. “It is only a matter of time.”

“Hm.” Tiger Lily rolled her eyes. “You really are a hypocrite, aren’t you? You don’t care about anyone other than your precious ‘chosen’ ones. As far as you’re concerned, the rest of humanity can be left to rot.”

“The fairies cannot save everyone, Tiger Lily. You were taught that in the very beginning.” Blue shook her head sadly, now, but after all this time, Tiger Lily was not fooled.

“Yeah, I was. And now I’m starting to be really glad I left.”

Mentioning the way they had both abandoned Fiona’s son to Malcolm was on the tip of Tiger Lily’s tongue, but on second thought, she stopped herself. If Fiona was right, she had freed her son from the terrible fate he had ended up with, and Blue should have been happy about that. Tiger Lily felt just spiteful enough not to share the good news, and left the fairylands as quickly as she could find a way out.

“Can I help you with this time traveling spell of yours?” Nottingham leaned in close, and Zelena couldn’t help preening a little. “It sounds impressive. Know, I know I can’t do magic or any of that, but if there’s any help you need—even in a little way—I would like to do that for you.”

“You really are quite sweet, aren’t you?” She smiled, and for once, the expression didn’t feel either nasty or forced. Nottingham was no prince, and he wasn’t a man with any magical power, but he was already proving to be quite devoted to her. And he looked at her like she was a beautiful woman, without even hesitating over the green skin that she hated so.

Nottingham was drawn to power more than good looks, Zelena knew, but she was all right with that. After all, she had power, and she liked the fact that he was amoral all around. He would be loyal to her, just like Tink had said. And she wouldn’t need to take his heart.

“Well, if we are soulmates—and I see no evidence to say we aren’t—I figure we should help one another.” His smile was genuine, if a little hungry.

She laid a hand on his chest, palm flat to touch the hairs peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt. “And what help do you want from me?”

“Revenge. There are those I would make suffer.”

“Oooh, I like the sound of that.”

“Here. You’ve been missing this.” Fiona held the heart out as nonchalantly as she could, trying to pretend that the encounter with her ex-husband hadn’t rattled her. Mulan didn’t help matters by staring at her like she had two heads.

“I’m not—”

“Oh, bother, I’m not going through this with you. The compulsions are gone.” Fiona rolled her eyes. “And here is your bloody heart.”

She thrust it in with perhaps a bit more force than was required, making Mulan gasp. But the smile that lit Mulan’s face up afterwards was far more disconcerting than the pained gasp had been.

“Thank you!” Mulan looked down at her chest with wide and happy eyes, and then back up at Fiona. “You—you found my heart!”

“Well, it wasn’t lost. A little green goblin just happened to have it locked up in her vault. I just took it back.” Fiona shrugged.

“For me? I didn’t even think you liked me?”

“Don’t take it personally. I don’t like many people.” Fiona shuffled back a step, afraid Mulan might hug her or something. “But I particularly hate Zelena, so anything that annoys her is a worthy endeavor. And I also do like Belle, who wanted you to be, um, complete.”

“Thank you again.” Mulan didn’t hug her, thankfully; maybe Mulan wasn’t the hugging type. Fiona was so glad for that. “What, um, do I owe you?”

“Well, not letting Zelena steal your heart so she can spy on my son again would be a fantastic start. Other than that, nothing.”

“She wanted to know why Rumplestiltskin likes Belle. Or if he was just using her.” Mulan looked a little defeated, and very uncomfortable. Fiona knew why, of course. No one liked being used, particularly against their friends.

Fiona took a breath; they’d expected that, but it was still unsettling to hear. “How much did she see?”

“I don’t think that much. I avoided them unless she made me go watch them, and I could usually tell if she was spying through the buzzing in my ears.”

“Clever.” Fiona nodded approvingly. “And, um, helpful.”

“Please don’t thank me. Belle is my friend.”

Fiona nodded. “Well, then, I’m glad we can see eye to eye on this.” And she wished this could be less awkward, but she couldn’t figure out how, so she gave Mulan another nod and walked out of the room.

For her part, Mulan didn’t look like she knew what to say, either, so she didn’t follow.

Rumplestiltskin could get used to this.

Their first stop had been Agrabah, which was admittedly not the place to find dresses of the type that a traditional lady of the Enchanted Forest would wear, but Belle had still enjoyed the sights and the wares. She had ended up with as skimpy little sari that made Rumplestiltskin’s jaw drop, though. He’d vowed that if anyone else saw her in that (excepting perhaps his mother), he would have to kill the offender, but Belle had only laughed. He’d bought her jewels, too, which she insisted she didn’t need, but he thought looked glorious on her.

“I’m no princess!” Belle had objected.

“You deserve to be treated like one, and more.” He’d kissed the side and talked her into it before sweeping Belle off to another realm almost identical to their own. He’d had to get Jefferson to play chauffeur, of course, but a healthy helping of gold and a promise that Jefferson could take Grace shopping made the Hatter eager enough to come along. Jefferson had the good grace not to ask about Rumplestiltskin’s suddenly human looks, too; he probably thought that Rumplestiltskin was just humoring Belle.

That didn’t keep him from needling them both about their romance, but it made Belle smile, so Rumplestiltskin didn’t threaten him. Much.

“Be nice!” Belle swatted his arm lightly as they popped out of the hat in the alternate version of the Enchanted Forest.

Jefferson laughed. “This is nice, for him! He only threatened to turn me into a puppy—that’s a significant leap upwards from the toad he usually chooses.”

“I think you’d make a cute puppy, Papa.” Grace grinned.

Rumplestiltskin gave the girl a sweeping bow, sharing her smile. “Shall we find out?”

“Rumple!” But Belle was almost laughing too hard to object, and he liked the way she glowed so happily. He would travel with her every day for the rest of his life if it would make her happy—if only they could find Bae, first. Bae would like this world, Rumplestiltskin decided. He generally avoided the Alternate Forest because it was so much like home, but with Belle at his side, things were different.

“How about I take a raincheck on that and show you to the finest dressmaker in any realm?” Jefferson put his hat back on with a flourish. “She’s a little bit crazy, but I promise, it’s well worth the trip.”

“A little crazy?” Belle looked dubious, and Rumplestiltskin had to agree. He generally trusted Jefferson, but he knew that his sense of adventure was a little more daring than it was intelligent. He was trying so hard to be good; the last thing he needed was to test his newfound ability to be nice to strangers with some ‘crazy’ seamstress.

Jefferson just shrugged. “Ah, Minnie’s a good sort. She likes to dress like a mouse for some reason—hence the crazy—but she makes dresses like queens can only dream of.”

Jefferson was right, of course; both Belle and Grace left with dozens of dresses after their two day trip to the Alternate Forest. Even Rumplestiltskin found himself with a few new suits, as did Jefferson, and Minnie the Tailor—who hated being called a seamstress—ended the day quite richer. She had a touch of her own magic, which was the only way the dresses could be done so quickly, but nothing that could be deconstructed by a well-placed spell or three. Belle did bring home a dress for Fiona, too, since Rumplestiltskin knew his mother’s size by heart, which she said she hoped would get Fiona out of those dreadful black things she usually liked wearing.

Rumplestiltskin wasn’t so sure that Belle could talk his mother out of being the Black Fairy so simply, but he did suggest gold for the dress.

His new book was fascinating. Bae hadn’t known that there had been so many Saviors; he’d known that people had once thought Beowulf to be one (they’d been wrong, even if he couldn’t remember most of those details or why his father had killed Beowulf), but he hadn’t heard of many others. Why hadn’t there been one there to stop the ogres? He hoped that reading further into the book could provide answers. Right now, it was just telling stories about various Saviors and one nameless boy who had had his fate as a Savior cut away before he could even help anyone.

“Do you know anything about this?” he asked Tiger Lily one night after she’d gotten back from her useless conversation with Blue. “It says that there was a Savior who had their fate cut away.”

Tiger Lily’s face went strangely still. “Yes, actually.” She bit her lip. “I was…I was to be his fairy godmother.”

“Is that why Blue took your wings?” Beans asked around a mouthful of beans. He really did love eating the things, provided they weren’t of the magical variety. Bae hadn’t asked if Beans had any more magical beans, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, but he did know that the normal variety made his friend fart non-stop.

Unfortunately, beans were cheap, and they weren’t rich.

“Yes, actually.” Tiger Lily swallowed. “I couldn’t stop it from happening.”

“What happens to a Savior who has their fate cut away?” Bae really didn’t know much about how being a Savior worked; the book said that the job came with great light magic, but what did that have to do with fate? He didn’t really like believing in fate, anyway, because if so, that would have meant that his father was meant to be evil, and he was meant to be let go.

“Nothing good.” Her sigh made Tiger Lily look very sad and very old. “A Savior is meant to help others in times of the greatest need…and if that fate is cut away, they are unable to help at all. Often times, no one does.”

Bae frowned. It sounded to him like Tiger Lily was avoiding answering questions again. “But what happened to the would-be Savior?”

“Um.” A long moment passed before Tiger Lily spoke, her voice very quiet. “He became the Dark One.”

“What?” Surprise jerked the word out of Bae, and he knew—knew—right away what that had to mean. A funny feeling coiled up in his stomach, one that was sick with what-might-have-been and a loss he hadn’t known he’d suffered. “Can you imagine me with that power, Bae? I could save all the children?” The memory of his father’s voice rang so loudly in his ears that Rumplestiltskin might well have been in the room. The next question blurted out of him: “Is that why there was no Savior during the Ogre Wars?”

“Yes, actually. The would-be Savior you’re asking about was supposed to stop the First Ogre War, and then it would have been the last.” A shrug. “If things had gone according to plan.”

“But they didn’.” Beans even sounded interested, now, despite his usual disdain for human magic. “There been three Ogre Wars, now.”

Tiger Lily looked away. “Unfortunately.”

“But what happens to the Savior?” Bae already knew about the Ogre Wars; they were terrible, but not new and interesting. But his father…what had that done to his papa? “If their fate is cut away, are they supposed to die?”

“No.” Tiger Lily’s face took on a strained sort of grimace. “No, they don’t die. A Savior without their fate—and without the power they were fated to wield—is left empty and rudderless. They can become anything…good or bad.”

“The way you say that makes it sound like the Savior becoming the Dark One was just meant to be.” Bae didn’t like that, not at all. It made him feel so trapped.

“The one that it happened to, the Dark One…well, let’s just say that he suffered for it before causing suffering in turn.” She heaved another huge sigh. “I should have been there to help, but without magic, I could do nothing. So, I went to Neverland. It seemed as good a place as any for exile.”

“You mean a miserable place.” That was Beans, but Bae agreed wholeheartedly.

“Perhaps I was just punishing myself.”

“I imagine you don’t want to see me, but I’ll leave all the sooner if you would bother coming out of whatever hole you’re hiding in.” Fiona bit back a groan, sitting on a rock in front of the Apprentice’s house. She’d contemplated just blasting the door in, but that wasn’t really a good way to ask someone for help.

She hated playing nice. It was so boring.

“I am not sure why you have returned, Fiona. I cannot help you.” The Apprentice finally emerged, his face long and haggard.

“Do you always look so down in the dumps? I promise I won’t turn you into a ferret this time.” Fiona tried a winning smile, but the Apprentice only grimaced. “Truly.”

He just scowled at her. “I am merely saddened by the state of the world and the coming of the Dark Curse.”

“Well, if it’s the Dark Curse you’re worried about, you’re in luck today. You can help prevent it. Right here, right now.”

“How?” The Apprentice’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“My son only wants that curse cast to find his son, as you well know. And you and I both know that you can create a portal to the Land Without Magic.” Fiona sat up straight, looking him in the eyes. “Create one so that we can find Baelfire, and I give you my word that the Dark Curse will never see the light of day again.”

“I have already told you that my magic cannot create a portal through which the Dark One can pass—”

Fiona cocked her head innocently. “Oh, but what if he isn’t the Dark One any longer?”

“That would be impossible.”

“So you said, but you don’t know my son.” She couldn’t restrain her grin; Fiona was still so proud of Rumplestiltskin that she could burst. “He has fulfilled Merlin’s prophecy. Rumplestiltskin has turned the darkness to light.”

“He could not have possibly done so. Not after so many centuries.” The Apprentice crossed his arms crankily. “You are wasting my time. Why? If you have some nefarious plan in mind, I assure you that it will not work.”

“I honestly don’t. I’m here to help my son find his son, nothing more. Although you are so terribly annoying that the urge to turn you into a ferret again is almost overwhelming.” She groaned. “Why will you not believe me?”

“Because I have seen that curse and the rot it causes. It eats at the host’s soul until there is nothing left, and none of your son’s predecessors have lasted as long as he has. The fact that there is enough love left in you that you hope for him is impressive, but—”

“True Love’s kiss,” she interrupted him, unable to take more of that dreadful monologue. “True Love’s kiss did the trick, and the Dark One is gone forever.”

“…What?”

Fiona smirked. “I do believe there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”

“This I must see for myself.”

A/N: I suck again! Sorry for the long delay before this chapter. Life has just totally gotten away from me lately.

Stay tuned for Chapter 38—“Bring Back the Light”, in which Rumplestiltskin finally figures out his magic, the Apprentice visits the Dark Castle with predictable results, Bae and Beans run into Flynnigan Rider, Gaston and Hook go looking for help to “save” Belle, and Madam Faustina realizes something.

#a different fate #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #redeemed rumplestiltskin #no more dark one #accidential redemption

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rpbetter · 3 years

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I think a master list for long term roleplayers is such a good idea! I think if it delineates the reasons someone would do long term over short term, and makes sure to not prop up one style over another, it could go over well. I just wonder what a roleplayer would have to do to be listed. Rp a muse for over two years? Have a declaration they don't easily lose muse and keep muses for a long time by default? I think that's the hard part, because it would be easy to exclude people if done wrong.

Hey, Anon!

Well, I'll let you in a secret...I might have begun that project this weekend. So, it might (absolutely will be) be happening, and this message certainly made me feel good about it!

It also brings up some incredibly valid points I hadn't thought about, like how one would go about specifically designating RPers as long-term. As you said, it's got a potential problems for exclusion, and the only exclusion intended is simply not being a dedicated, long-term RPer.

I think the only fair way of doing it is to let the muns themselves decide. As it presently stands, the idea is to submit the answers to a form that does ask "RP experience (years and places)." I thought that might help muns field each other better, and now, I think it might be the fairest way of determining what "long-term" means to everyone.

If you feel like someone who has been RPing for two years with the same muse(s) is long-term enough, then it is! If that's not enough to hit your mark of long-term, no hard feelings even happen because you just keep scrolling the list to someone who has been RPing for ten.

I'll be rewording the question to have two parts, thanks to this ask! It'll now read something like, "How long have you been RPing (includes tumblr and other RPCs)? Has this been the same muse/handful of muses (what's your longest time RPing a muse)?"

That way, you're also not running into issues like...well, let's use me as an example. I've been RPing online for over twenty years, but have only been RPing on tumblr for seven. I've had one muse for almost seventeen years, but another one only for that seven years. If I was to answer just with my presence here on tumblr with that muse, that's far shorter than my total time RPing and doesn't include that I'm long-term enough to have had a muse for seventeen years. This way, I could customize my answer and give a fuller one.

I know we all tend to think of tumblr's RPC as rarely taking on new muns these days, but I meet them fairly often. None are new to written, online RP, but they've only just joined this RPC. I certainly don't want anyone to feel like they have to answer "six months" when that isn't entirely an accurate representation of their experience and interest.

The questions are also not overly skewed toward any single type of RP outside of the umbrella of "Dedicated." Meaning long-term, primary hobby/dedicated interest RPers who stick with threads and muses. So, while, yes, a lot of us are also into long replies, it's not excluding those who write less either. It asks your style(s) and gives the options of "sentence, para, multi-para, novella, lengthy novella." You can, obviously, put multiple answers in as to what you prefer to write!

Some additional things it asks for:

links you'd like to include (rules, promo, carrd, docs, bio, other)

types of RP concentrated on (angst, slice-of-life, canon-involved, AUs, romance and shipping, friendships, horror, etc.)

your URL(s), obviously!

blog type (single-muse, multi-muse)

muse/primary muses' names (if this is a multimuse blog with all muses in one place, if not, please designate which goes with which URL)

mun age/age range and age requirements

other things about your blog/RPing/muse(s) (hard limits, crossover friendly, OC friendly, plot-driven, selectivity, etc.)

I really want to give the widest variety possible of dedicated RPers the opportunity to put themselves out there if they desire, since it truly is incredibly hard to find each other anymore. And I believe that since such phrasing tends to be a turn off for those who are more casual RPers, that alone cuts down on the likelihood of me having to message someone and tell them that they might not qualify.

I do plan to actually look at the blogs, though that is definitely going to annoy some and take more time to get people's submissions posted. It isn't because I am remotely interested in being judgmental of anyone's blog, writing, muses, or whatever! It's...tumblr. In 2021. Leaving anything up to an honor system is asking for trouble, and as we've seen in the not too distant past, very unfortunately, no matter what one says, the effort they go to in order to not rub people the wrong way, if someone wants to misread negativity into something, they will. Any time you have the topic of types of RP or broach it being at all acceptable to have preferences, requirements, expectations, and so on, it can turn quite ugly quite quickly.

It is a serious concern that those determinedly offended parties will misuse the listing. While seeing too many red flags of harassment on a blog doesn't retroactively stop them from seeing the list of RPers, it does at least prevent them being on it. That is absolutely within the rules, too, that this is not a place that is friendly/tolerant of any manner of policing and resultant harassment.*

*There will be a harassment policy. I realize that any listing can be used inappropriately, and I realize, too, that there is a limit to what I can do to cultivate and maintain a safe place...but that needs to be done in so far as possible and taken seriously. Callout culture is absolutely not allowed, period. That won't be added to the list, if it's engaged in and I'm aware of it, it'll be a removal from the list. Inappropriate use of the list as a callout resource will result in blocking, harassing others to RP with you when you've been politely declined will result in blocking. Yes, that can be subverted, but the stance matters.

And, obviously, I'd also be looking for anything really glaring like the basic (and it's my intention to make it as clear as possible that these are variable things, we're all real people here, that it's repeat and extreme behavior only) parameters state. Things like incessant, flippant muse creation and collection when there is, right there stated repeatedly, not the time or creative energy to keep up with those already present. Or just as obvious blog/muse/fandom hopping. Again, a thousand times, if that's how you enjoy RP and engage with it as your hobby, that's perfectly fine. It's also perfectly fine that other people don't enjoy that and would like a space to find the comparatively tiny number of muns who want to engage with the hobby in the way they do. That's what I'm trying to do!

I don't have an estimate on when this might go live, as has been clear with my horrifyingly delayed responses, I'm very busy right now. Just know that it will be happening! I believe things will be slowing down, allowing me more time to do more than a couple of responses a week, roughly toward the end of October/beginning of November. So, I'm thinking it might be the first week of November.

That's a little bit off, but it does give everyone time to send in asks about it! If there's something you can think of that would be helpful (questions for the submission, the way it's set up, rules, whatever you can think of), please, do send it in. I want to know! I'm just one very busy, very tired mun trying to still be a dedicated RPer myself elsewhere lol I appreciate that sort of feedback! And the list is for y'all, you really should get to opine and suggest things!

Also, I did just think of something, opinions, anyone? Since it is a list that is open to everyone who fits the description, there will be blogs containing "dark content." While tags would catch the major, basic things muns might wish to filter, that can't possibly be expected for unique squicks and triggers. I don't want anyone getting specific on the listing, I think that could incite problems, but how about warning that the blog does contain such content, with the notation right there in the rules, use info, and posted listings themselves that it's advised to visit rules links first for details. I'd like to avoid anyone getting exuberant, clicking a blog URL, and seeing some graphic imagery they need to avoid. This way, if you do that, you have been warned...repeatedly and responsibly, and made your choices.

Obviously, that is dependent upon muns actually detailing what upsetting content might be present on the blog in their rules and not simply making a blanket statement that it exists. I haven't seen many RPers of this type doing that in recent years, but I'm sure that the increasing threat of harassment has negatively impacted this honesty and warning system. Still, at least this way, you'd be warned and could exercise your own judgment messaging the mun of the blog to ask for content specifics before you proceeded beyond rules.

Those are my thoughts, anyway!

#answered #anonymous #dedicated rper listing

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unbreakablejemmasimmons · 7 years

Text

Dear Yuletide Writer,

Thanks for signing up for this superfun exchange! This is the fourth year I’ve participated now, and I’ve always enjoyed it-- I hope you do, too.

Below you’ll find the following:

General Likes/Kinks

General DNWs

Fandom Specifics/Prompts

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend - Rebecca Bunch, Greg Serrano

Schitt’s Creek - Stevie Budd, David Rose

The Good Place - Eleanor Shellstrop, Trevor the Demon

Newsies - Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Jack Kelly

I’ve tried to list some varied prompts for each fandom, but please don’t feel like you have to stick to what I’ve come up with! If the rest of my letter gives you another idea you’d like to write, I’d love to read it!

A little about me to start:

My AO3 name is SuburbanSun; you can also check out my Tumblr if you’d like, and my tags for each of my requested fandoms (that I’ve posted about before-- apparently that excludes Schitt’s Creek!) here: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, The Good Place, Newsies.

General Likes/Kinks:

I’m a big trope fan in general– faves include rivals/enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, bed-sharing, trapped in an enclosed space, mutual pining, secret dating/sneaking around, slow burn, FWBs that turns into something more. Subversions of tropes are also great, so don’t feel like you have to go the obvious route if you choose to write something tropey!

I have a weird (not weird because it’s uncommon, more weird because it doesn’t fit in obviously with the rest of my likes and favored tropes) love for Secret Service/bodyguard/witness protection AUs and private eye AUs.

Epistolary fic, either as part of a story or as all of it, is always fun to me, if it’s up your alley.

I love strong female friendships, strong-but-flawed-and-realistic female characters in general. Ladies kicking ass, preferably through cleverness and wit and competence as much if not more than through brawn, is the best, and I love it when they’re allowed to make mistakes and fuck up and dig themselves into a hole, too. That said, I will literally never turn down a Vampire Slayer AU. They’re among my faves. (I loved the one I got for Crazy Ex-Girlfriend last Yuletide, but am always excited to see more of them for other fandoms!)

Smut is cool and fun and here are some kinks that I like to read: Teasing. Phone sex/sexting. Semi-public sex (not actually getting caught though). Workplace sex. Dirty talk. Light domination (aka more like just bossing each other around rather than actual D/s stuff). Oral sex. Playfulness/joking around during sex.

General DNWs:

Darkfic. Sad endings. Gore/intense violence. Miscommunication that could super easily be avoided. Babyfic/kidfic/pregnancy in general. Self-harm/abuse. Noncon/dubcon. A/B/O, mpreg, incest, bestiality, hard kink. Poly/threesomes/orgies. Members of my ships being paired romantically with other people (unless it’s just briefly, on the way to an OTP-happy ending). First person POV.

Fandom Specifics/Prompts:

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Rebecca Bunch, Greg Serrano

I love this show so much. It’s clever, it’s feminist, it’s funny, it’s real (even as it features elaborate musical sequences!), and the characters are so flawed but so great. I got a couple of great giftfics for this fandom last Yuletide that I loved, but I’m always excited to read more.

I ship Rebecca and Greg so hard, in spite of their many flaws, and am bummed that Greg’s gone, and hope they find a way to bring him back someday. I just love their chemistry– bickery battle-of-wits style relationships are a huge favorite of mine. I also really just love Rebecca as a character. She’s such a mess and makes so many mistakes but I find her really relatable.

I’m very interested to see where the show goes this season with Rebecca’s revenge plot and seeming descent into (back into?) madness, but I don’t know that Greg easily fits into that trajectory for now, so don’t feel like you need to write something that takes place in current canon. I’d be happy with a story set while Greg was still in West Covina, or a future fic, or just a total AU.

Prompts:

Rebecca/Greg + any number of tropes– stuck somewhere together; inconvenient bed-sharing; fake dating, the works.

Rebecca’s blindness toward money is intriguing to me, in a “when is this shit going to REALLY hit the fan” kind of way. What if that had come to a head somehow and she had to get a second job at Home Base? How would she and Greg have taken to working together into the wee hours of the night? (Store-room sex could be a good addition here if you’d like!)

What’s their dynamic like in a couple of years when Greg returns from Atlanta? Are they over each other or not quite so much?

Conversely, what if a couple years go by, and Rebecca feels compelled to leave West Covina? Maybe she moves back to NYC (hopefully after a few hundred hours of therapy with Dr. Akopian to give her the coping mechanisms she needs to be happy there). Maybe Greg moves to NYC for a job after graduating Emory. Have they kept in touch enough to know they’re both in the same city again, or do they run into each other randomly, an echo of her NYC run-in with Josh in the pilot, only better, because she’s older and wiser and hopefully better-adjusted?

Schitt’s Creek Stevie Budd, David Rose

This show is so funny, dry and ridiculous at the same time. I love how absurdly out of touch the Roses are, and how the show balances their outrageousness with the humdrum middle-America of the town of Schitt’s Creek.

I can’t help but ship Stevie and David, and I hope the show leans into that. If you aren’t into them romantically, though, that’s okay-- they are also fab as begrudging BFFs. I love how they challenge each other and one-up each other, always smirkingly pushing each other’s buttons.

*Note: Season 3 was only just added to Netflix US this week, so when I wrote this letter I hadn’t seen it yet. I just marathoned it (loved it obvs) and it’s pretty clear that they’re not going go lean into Stevie/David, and that’s ok! I’m really digging the Patrick thing so far too. For the purpose of Yuletide, feel free to write something that takes place earlier in the series, or goes AU, etc.

Prompts:

David finds out Stevie’s birthday is coming up, and decides (or perhaps is convinced by Alexis) to throw her a party, as posh as the parties of his old life with the limited resources of Schitt’s Creek. Of course, everything goes wrong.

I love Stevie teaching David how to adult. What other normal things has he never experienced before that she needs to walk him through?

Schitt’s Creek throws a fall festival, complete with a parade. Stevie gets chosen to be Sweet Potato Pie Queen or something equally ridiculous, and David will never. Stop. Teasing. Her. Until the Sweet Potato Pie King (or similar) comes down with shingles and Roland insists David step in.

Somehow (perhaps through a series of dares?), Stevie winds up running for local government.

The Good Place Eleanor Shellstrop, Trevor the Demon

There’s not much on Earth I love more than a Mike Schur show, and I’ve always loved Kristen Bell, so I was pretty destined to dig this show. It’s just so clever and interesting and fun to watch!

That said, I wasn’t really shipping anything on the show yet. I like all the characters but nothing leapt out for me romantically. But then they introduced Trevor, and the thing is, Adam Scott is my weakness. If he exists on a show, I can’t help but ship him with somebody, and I have loved his and KBell’s chemistry together in other shows (Party Down! VMars!). I’m not proud of it, but my mind immediately went there.

But things are a little more complicated now! Is Trevor just a Bad Place demon who was acting like the head of the Bad Place, or does he actually hold some kind of leadership role? Is “Trevor” even his real name?? There are so many possibilities! I’m cool with fic that assumes any of them are true.

Prompts:

Trevor has a bad day at the "office," because he's really just a Bad Place underling who enjoyed the chance to play a big-shot evil-doer in Michael’s first attempt. He somehow runs into Eleanor get sloppy drunk together.

Eleanor and Trevor have to team up for some reason-- so he can get ahead in Bad Place bureaucracy, and so she can try to defeat Michael, for instance. How does that work out?

Any sort of stuck together/trapped in an enclosed space tropefic would be great– especially if they start to have feelings for each other.

Nothing wrong with a little good oldfashioned hatesex.

Newsies Jack Kelly, Katherine Plumber Pulitzer

A friend of mine invited me to go see Newsies when they did the first Fathom Events screening early this year, and I had nearly no familiarity with it-- hadn’t even seen the movie. So naturally, I loved it and immediately fell down the Newsies rabbit hole.

I love Jack and Katherine individually and together. I love how cocky he is, and the vulnerability that cockiness masks. I love how headstrong she is, and ambitious. I would love to see fic for them that takes place after the events of the show-- what happens next? How do they begin to have a real relationship, as different as they are, now that the strike is over? Does Jack take that cartoonist job? Does he keep selling papes, too? Where do they live? What do they do on dates?

Prompts:

Even out from under her father’s thumb, Katherine’s lifestyle is certainly a bit ritzier than what Jack’s used to. How does it go the first time she has him over to her apartment?

Jack likes to leave little notes around for Katherine to find, sketches, doodles, and the like. I’m not opposed to epistolary fic here or elsewhere.

Katherine has to plot with the other newsies behind Jack’s back, for some reason (surprise party? Surprise gift?).

So, that’s that! I really hope you enjoy the whole process this Yuletide season, and thanks for participating! Happy writing!

#yuletide 2017 #yuletide letter #yuletide

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1wngdngl · 6 years

Text

Daily Reviews - Thor: Ragnarok

I finally mustered up the courage and saw “Thor: Ragnarok”, with my parents, aunt, and uncle.

I don’t know if I’ll sleep tonight.

The movie was just so intense. So many questions answered, so many questions raised, so much death, so much special effects, so much: “How do they say that with a straight face?!”, so much irreverent humor, so many times the movie turned to the fandom’s expectations and said, “Nope! This is how it happens!” The general tone is a bit lighter than the other Thor movies, more like “Guardians of the Galaxy”. (I wonder who directed it?)

It’s a very fun movie, and it will be seared on my brain forever, for good or ill. Sorry, but I’m spoiler-tagging the rest. 😉

(all stuff below is based on memory after one viewing, including quotes. So don’t expect 100% accuracy!)

Based on the previews and stuff, I’d been having a hard time figuring out the role of various characters like Hela, the Grandmaster, etc. and how they all tied in, and what order all the events happened in. But now I can provide a basic synopsis:

(First, you know how theatres play those little videos about ‘please turn off your phone before the movie’? They did one of those, but it was written so that Loki is watching Thor’s gladiatorial match, and Loki’s cell goes off, and Thor yells at him for ruining the moment. Why Loki would even have a cell phone, who knows... >.>)

The movie proper starts in media res, with Thor fighting Surtur (I thought that’s who that fiery demon guy in the promos was). Thor defeats him pretty easily and brings back the prize, Surtur’s helmet, to Asgard. It’s revealed that ever since his “vision” in “Age of Ultron” when Thor saw Asgard being destroyed, he’s been cruising the Nine Realms looking to vanquish any possible threats.

Anyway, Thor goes back to Asgard. Heimdall has been replaced as Gatekeeper by Skurge from the comics. I couldn’t recall what had happened to Heimdall at the end of “The Dark World”, but I guess he was banished or something. Thor’s friends seem to be free and well in “Ragnarok” though.

We get to finally see what Loki had been up to during his four years ruling Asgard as “Odin”. And apparently, he didn’t do a horrible job. The damage from the dark elves’ attack is cleaned up, everything is running smoothly. The craziest thing he’s done as Odin is have a giant statue of his ‘son’, Loki, commissioned. In fact, Odin goes so far as to deliver a sort of eulogy regarding Loki’s ‘sacrifice’ in “The Dark World”. And the eulogy is, it’s...I don’t even...

You know that scene in “The Dark World”, where Loki is seemingly dying on the sands of Svartalfheim, with Thor cradling him and murmuring: “It’s okay, it’s okay”?

That scene that showed that Loki was capable of doing something good at the last, a final moment of vulnerability in him, a moment of raw honesty between the brothers?

Of course, even “The Dark World” showed that Loki hadn’t really died, but the fans still debated whether the whole death was a ruse, or whether he simply survived when it wasn’t expected. Whether his ‘last words’ to Thor had been his true feelings.

Well, in Odin’s eulogy/memorial in “Ragnarok”, that ‘death scene’ is played on a big screen, in front of a huge crowd, with every moment exaggerated to comedic levels. Loki-on-the-screen easily confesses to everything he’s ever done (”Sorry for that thing with the Tesseract, and for trying to kill you, and being an incorrigible traitor.”), while Thor-on-the-screen easily forgives him (”Don’t worry about it! I know you didn’t mean any harm.”). When Loki-on-the-screen finally ‘dies’, Thor lets out a truly over-the-top, wailing, “Noooo!”.

Part of me wonders whether the scene was meant as a subtle “Take that” toward the fans that thought there might have been anything genuine in that ‘death scene’ (or about Loki in general).

Anyway, after the ‘video’, Loki-as-Odin gives a little speech that makes it sound as though Loki was a hero who conquered the dark elf menace single-handedly, all for the greater good. One line of “Odin’s” struck me, something like: “I never imagined when I took in that little blue icicle that he’d be the one to melt my heart.” Obviously it’s horribly cheesy and not something Odin would actually say, but it did hit me - that Loki here is casually admitting to where he had come from. Is that something that the Asgardians had even known about before? They don’t seem shocked by the line, so maybe word of Loki’s origins had gotten around after his initial “death” off the Bifrost, or after Loki had been brought back to Asgard as a prisoner.

Anyway, Thor arrives just in time to witness the ‘memorial service’. Loki doesn’t notice him at first, but when he does, he’s less than thrilled at Thor’s presence. I don’t know if it’s because he just doesn’t like Thor being around, or because the eulogy was not something Thor was meant to hear. Even if Odin could have had a way of knowing what had happened between Thor and Loki during the ‘death scene’, the fact is that Loki mis-represents that scene to make himself look better, something Odin would have had no reason to do.

So Thor gets suspicious, and he starts threatening “Odin” until Loki is forced to reveal himself, to the shock and horror of the Asgardians standing around. Thor forces Loki to come with him to Earth so they can find the real Odin and bring him back to Asgard. Now, I remember around the time of “The Dark World”, some interview had stated that Loki hadn’t actually killed Odin (though who knows why not, when it would have been simpler). Apparently, Loki stuck him in some retirement home on Earth, while also either putting him in a coma or removing his memories, I don’t remember which. Which is pretty horrible when you think of it, but Loki’s hatred of Odin shouldn’t really be a surprise at this point. (Why didn’t he just kill him, though?)

Well, Odin’s not at “Shady Acres” or wherever anymore, so the two go to Doctor Strange for help in finding him. And this is where that stinger from the “Doctor Strange” movie comes in, with Strange reluctantly agreeing to help if it gets Thor off the planet faster. We also get to see what Loki was up to while Thor and Strange had their conversation. I’d thought he was maybe waiting outside, or looking for Odin elsewhere, but instead: “I’ve been falling for thirty minutes.” Loki and Strange don’t get along at all in their brief interaction - Loki is indignant that a mere mortal dares call himself a sorcerer, while Strange treats Loki like a buffoon.

They find Odin in Norway or somewhere like that, but he’s not doing too well. Partly from age, partly from the still-raw pain of losing Frigga a few years earlier, partly from whatever spell Loki had used on him (about which Thor derisively commented, “Mother would be so proud”. Did Frigga actually teach Loki spells to manipulate thought/memory, or did he find that in a book somewhere?)

Odin is accepting toward his own pending death, but he’s worried about a forthcoming danger to the realms. As his last wish, he bids, “My sons, you must protect Asgard.” He says “My sons,” plural. As though he can’t even muster the energy to be angry at Loki’s treatment of him. Then he dies, and it’s a solemn moment, for a few seconds. Until Thor turns to Loki, enraged at his causing Odin’s death. Before a fight can break out, however, Hela appears.

[I’m really pleased that Odin got a proper send-off in this movie, when I wasn’t sure if he’d appear at all. You can tell he has a lasting legacy that affects the plot and the fates of the other characters.]

I’d known Hela was in this movie, and I wasn’t sure what kind of role it would be for her. I was happy to see that, despite her being shown as attractive and dangerous, she wasn’t dressed skimpily nor portrayed as a femme fatale who used her “womanly wiles” to get her way. She’s more just violent and power-hungry, and could kill everyone herself if it pleased her. She’s probably the only character in the movie (excepting maybe Odin), who’s portrayed completely dark and seriously.

Her backstory has been changed quite a bit from the myths and Marvel comics. In “Ragnarok” she is not related to Thanos in any way and is not his “mistress of death”. Nor is she shown to be Loki’s daughter or any other relation to him - she’s actually older than him. Rather, she is the sister of Thor and Odin’s firstborn child.

Apparently, back before Odin was the wise, peace-loving ruler Thor knew, Odin led many bloody wars against the other realms to place them under Asgard’s rule. Hela was his powerful heir, his sword arm against their opponents. But then Odin developed a change of heart, and decided to seek more peaceable relationships with the other realms. Hela didn’t want to give up the fight, so Odin eventually imprisoned her to keep the realms safe.

But now that Odin’s dead, the seal on Hela’s prison is broken, and she heads back to Asgard to claim her right of rulership there. Thor and Loki try to go after her, but due to some kind of wormhole/portal craziness, end up on the far end of the universe on the planet of Sakaar.

Thor wakes to find himself alone on a trash heap, and before he can fully orient himself, he is taken prisoner by a woman named...uh, what was her name? I think it’s Brunhilde, though I don’t know if they actually say it in the movie. Anyway, she’s basically like a slave trader, selling the ones she captures to the Grandmaster, who forces them to compete in his deadly games for fun and profit.

Thor is desperate to escape imprisonment and go back to Asgard at once to stop Hela’s reign. You see, she’s not the nicest ruler, and when the Asgardians refuse to accept her - apparently because she’s unstable and violent, and wants to lead them on a new bloody conquest of the universe - she starts killing people without discretion. That’s including the Warriors Three, which makes me sad :( . She even revives a bunch of people to be zombie warriors for her. That Skurge guy decides to ally with her, making her sort of fill the role of the Enchantress.

Hela takes a moment to explain to Skurge and the audience how she used to be esteemed by Odin until he became “soft”. This discussion takes place next to an interesting mural that depicts Odin’s interactions with the other realms. As an example of Odin’s “going soft”, Hela points at an illustration of Odin and Laufey making a treaty to end the Asgard-Jotunheim war. Hela acts as though she is familiar with this war and treaty, which means that Thor and Loki would have been young children when she was sealed away.

[Having Hela be related to Thor, having her be a relic of Odin’s dark past, really adds a lot to complicate Thor’s view of Asgard and his father. He never knew he had a sister, and now he has to kill her, poor guy. I wonder if Hela’s mother is meant to be Frigga? I don’t think the movie said.]

In order for Thor to get out of Sakaar, though, and get back to Asgard to stop Hela, he must survive his match against the Grandmaster’s reigning champion.

Meanwhile, Loki has also ended up on Sakaar, a few weeks before Thor somehow? He’s used that time to try to ingratiate himself to the Grandmaster, hoping it’ll help him make his way in this weird new world. He has a conversation with Thor via astral projection, reminding me of the convo between Loki and Frigga in “The Dark World”. It’s a good thing Loki isn’t physically present, because Thor might have punched him otherwise. He blames Loki for Odin’s death and the freeing of Hela. Regarding Thor being displaced as Odin’s true heir: “It hurts, doesn’t it?” Loki says. “Thinking you’re one thing and then finding out you’re not?” More tense words are exchanged, but then it’s time for Thor’s match in the arena. [sorry if I’m getting any events out of order!]

It turns out that Thor’s opponent is the Hulk. [Loki is watching the match from the balcony, and his reaction when the Hulk appears is, “I need to get off this planet. o.0″] At first Thor is happy to see his old buddy from the Avengers, his bash brother. But Hulk isn’t as receptive toward Thor. Turns out that Bruce was kidnapped along with the Quinjet right at the end of “Age of Ultron”, so he’s been stuck in Hulk form in the arena for the past two years, and doesn’t remember much from before that. So Thor is forced to fight him for real. He’s hampered a bit by his lack of Mjolnir, just using two short swords instead. Thor does show a brief display of being able to use electricity without Mjolnir, which confounds him. [spirit!Odin eventually explains that Thor had the power all along, and that Mjolnir was just a focus for that power.]

The match ends with both of them still alive, and they spend time afterward healing up, with Thor trying to get through to Banner. Eventually the two of them escape the arena complex together, and begin planning a way to get off the planet.

The Grandmaster isn’t happy about losing two of his strongest fighters, so he asks Loki (his newest ‘employee’) and Brunhilde to go retrieve them - for a hefty prize, of course. Brunhilde finds Thor first. She reveals that she’s had a change of heart and she wants to help him escape. You see, she used to be a Valkyrie - an elite female warrior of Asgard - but when all the rest of the Valkyrie were slaughtered by Hela, she fled, eventually ending up on Sakaar. She says she wants to regain some honor, and get revenge on Hela.

Thor, Hulk, and Brunhilde go and pick up Loki - whom Brunhilde had basically tied up in a closet - and then go to steal the Grandmaster’s spaceship and escape. But just as Thor is about to board, he stops, and suggests that Loki should stay on Sakaar. “We’re different people, and our paths diverged long ago. This world is lawless, chaotic - you’d fit in just fine here.” Plus there’s the fact that, now that Loki’s masquerading as Odin was revealed, the Asgardians might not be keen to welcome him back. Plus plus, going to Asgard means facing Hela, who will quite likely kill any who challenge her.

So it looks like Loki is going to stay on Sakaar, with Thor’s blessing - but then Loki reveals that he never actually gave up on capturing Thor. The prize money from that would set him up quite comfortably, he explains. I don’t know why this betrayal surprised me. It shouldn’t, it shouldn’t. But that’s the kind of duality Loki presents - you know you can’t trust him, he exudes an aura of suspiciousness; yet, like Thor in “The Dark World”, you wish you could trust him, to believe that you can make an ally of him, and benefit from his humor, and knowledge, and connections.

I’d claim that Loki’s constant betrayals show that he holds no loyalty to any other person and is acting out of simple self-interest, but many times his betrayals end up hurting himself in rather predictable ways. The way Thor treats it, it’s like Loki has a compulsion for betrayals, one which Loki and Thor are both aware of. Thor basically predicted that Loki would betray him in “Ragnarok”, and reacts with more disappointment than anger.

Even as he subdues Loki, Thor makes a simple but memorable observation: “Isn’t this all getting a little same-y? We team up, you betray me, I retaliate. Don’t you think there’s some room for change, for growth? I know you’ll always be the “God of Mischief” - but you could be something more.” Thor boards the ship and leaves Loki behind, and Thor and his two allies speed along toward Asgard.

Speaking of Asgard, Heimdall has come back from exile to try to help the Asgardians escape to another world via Bifrost. Hela isn’t too keen on that, though, and sends her zombie army to stop them. But then Thor arrives! He fights Hela’s army of undead, but Hela herself is too much for him. She even blinds one of his eyes!

Just then, however, Loki also arrives in another ship with some other escapees. I don’t remember the reasoning Loki gave for why he bothered to come back. Maybe he took to heart Thor’s challenge to do something brave, or at least unpredictable. While Heimdall hurries all the Asgardians onto the spaceship, Thor and the others try to figure out how to destroy Hela, who is clearly more powerful than any of them.

Eventually, Thor realizes that they will have to destroy Asgard with Hela on it, so she doesn’t escape to any of the other realms. The best way to do that is to summon Surtur - that demon Thor fought at the beginning of the movie - and doing that requires combining Surtur’s crown with the Eternal Flame that’s in the Vault.

Loki gets drafted to go activate this “Self-destruct” mechanism in the Vault (because they think he’s the fastest, or the best one at remaining unseen, who knows), while Thor and the others distract Hela. There’s a part where Loki runs right past the Tesseract in the Vault, before stopping to give it a long look. The scene cuts away then, but you just know he took it and put it in his dimensional pocket. After all, the Tesseract is one of the Infinity Gems, so it has to appear in the “Infinity War” movie. ;) (I wonder if he snagged any other relics while he was there, like the Casket of Ancient Winters, which I thought had fallen into the abyss when the Bifrost was destroyed?)

Anyway, Loki summons Surtur, who makes short work of Hela, before destroying the rest of Asgard. So in essence, Thor and Loki cause Ragnarok in order to defeat Hela.

The group of Asgardians that survived huddle together on the spaceship, their new home. Thor is now king of a new “Asgard”, one that is not a fixed world, but a migrant group of people. Loki, despite being at ground zero when Surtur was summoned, manages to escape onto the spaceship as well (maybe he used the Tesseract to make a quick getaway?).

In the stinger, Thor and Loki discuss where the ship should travel to next. Thor wants to visit Earth (maybe to set up a colony there?). But then some sort of other, gigantic spaceship appears right in front of them, looming menacingly… [Does Thanos have a spaceship?]

Sorry for the longest summary ever. Here’s a few more general thoughts that didn’t go anywhere else:

Loki is like the butt-monkey of “Ragnarok”. Other characters share this role sometime, and Loki certainly provided comedic value in other movies, but in something like “The Dark World”, there was also a dangerous, angry aspect to him, and a thirst for revenge. In “Ragnarok”, he’s at the end of many jokes, loses most of his battles, and isn’t treated as a threat by anyone. Maybe spending four years as “Odin” without any battle practice made him get sloppy?

In “The Dark World”, Thor and Loki try for a bit to maintain a cool professional relationship (”We’re pursuing the same enemy, that’s all.”), before that attitude tumbles down. In “Ragnarok” they don’t even try to pretend at distance. They were brothers for a thousand years, and stored in their shared memory is every fight, every insult, every silly moment, every childhood fear, every catchphrase, every quirk and whim. The question in “Ragnarok” is whether they have any future together, or whether they’ve grown too far apart and should stay apart.

A couple of offhand comments mentioned that Loki once turned Thor into a frog, and himself into a snake (not at the same time, thankfully). In the first Thor movie, the most he seemed able to do was make duplicates. In “The Dark World” he can change his and Thor’s appearance using illusion magic, but that’s all it seemed to be – illusion with no substance. While saying he’s able to actually turn people into animals isn’t contradictory with past movies, it does make you wonder why this ability hasn’t shown up before. For instance, when he was fighting Kurse, why didn’t Loki just zap him and turn him into a mouse? Fanon can probably assist here. Maybe that sort of full transformation takes a lot of setup and isn’t suited for the battlefield. It might require the target to stand motionless for some time, or to be fed a special potion.

This movie seems to uphold the stance that “Loki doesn’t have children”. They made Hela be Odin’s child rather than his, the wolf Fenrir/Fenris was Hela’s familiar from before Loki was born. And I think Sleipnir has shown up during Odin’s battle against Jotunheim, so Loki couldn’t be his parent either. (Wonder what happened to Sleipnir – did he die when Asgard got destroyed?)

I don’t think Sif was in “Ragnarok” at all. Jane was mentioned briefly, with the comment that she had broken up with Thor. Maybe to make Thor available to pursue Brunhilde? I’m not so surprised Jane and Thor might not work out – they’re very different people, Thor has a much longer lifespan, he was always busy travelling the realms and couldn’t see her much. Too bad though, when much of “The Dark World” focused on keeping Jane safe, plus Thor gave up the throne then partly so he could be with Jane. Oh well, we’ll see what happens in the future.

I like that Bruce/the Hulk had a pretty big role in this movie, not just a cameo. There were loads of other callbacks to previous movies, quotes, music, etc., such that you’d need to see both other Thor movies and Avengers movies to get them all. Things like “A wise king must always be ready for war”, a song from the Thor I soundtrack, Odin’s Weapons Vault, Stan Lee making an appearance, Thor getting an eyepatch like Odin’s, Tony calling Thor “Pointbreak”, and so on.

One thing that struck me was how much fun Thor and Loki’s actors seemed to have in reprising their roles. I wonder what it was like for them filming together again after several years?

Now that I’ve finally seen Ragnarok, I can go back and start catching up on fanfic for it. I like fanfic. It fills in the gaps, provides explanation for confusing things, records your favorite quotes, and helps you make connections between movies.

Oh, and I should also check out that “Infinity War” trailer. Has the identity/location of the Soul Stone ever been revealed in the MCU? That’s the only Infinity Stone I can’t account for. >.>

I should also get a hold of the “Ragnarok: Prelude” book, to see if it helps explain anything further…

#daily reviews #movies #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #thor #thor: ragnarok

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