#ao3 authors note level of fuckery ^^

[blorbel]

Phantom of the Opera sefikura au. i am sick in the head about them

[mittensmorgul]

A lot of people keep saying that 15x20 was Chuck's ending, but... it wasn't? All of Chuck's endings had Sam and Dean sacrificing themselves or one another or otherwise "going down swinging", but what we saw instead was a random accident. No fanfare, no blaze of glory or sacrifice of any kind, no "epic tragedy". Kind of like getting poisoned by a bad taco. Unless Chuck just got fed up with the story and, taking notes from Gabriel, wrote a nonsensical boring ending purely out of spite.

It was Chuck’s ending in that if he’d actually been defeated, Sam and Dean would’ve been free. They were not. One still died “so the other could live,” and the finale even cancelled that bit with the Sam Wig Montage and having him end up dead, too.

For all the nightmare scenarios Chuck showed them, for all the “one brother murders the other” prompting he gave Sam, that was never the true core of his story. It was always about one sibling dying/being removed from the story so that the other could control the entire narrative. That was his original story with Amara. That was the “justification” he sought through every retelling of all his greatest hits. That was ultimately the story that “won” in Supernatural.

I’ve now been discussing this with some kind folks on discord, and we’ve gone down about a million tangents... but I have a few links to meta written on the subject I’ll provide as a result. But first, a short diversion into my own contribution to this conversation:

Recall how it seemed obvious that Dabb's authorial self-insert character was Billie. How from her intro she was both the character most intent on finding Balance in the universe AND had a Final Antagonist coding to her, in that she was the End Of Their Story in a very literal way. [12:55 PM] (I am going somewhere with this, I swear) [12:56 PM] Then she was shown in her library, with the myriad possible deaths Dean could suffer, and we wondered why he had so many books with so many different endings especially when the books could "rewrite" themselves as people lived and made choices that altered their fate. [12:59 PM] Chuck's hand-- even if he couldn't "read" those books himself or mess with them directly-- could "write" so may potential endings for Dean that would all have to be accounted for by Fate. Cosmically gaming the system by making it impossible for Dean to make ANY choice that wouldn't be accounted for somewhere. Which is the hamster wheel Dean described of never actually having lived his own life... [1:02 PM] But this is now making me furious. Because Billie was supposed to be the END of the story. Dabb was supposed to finally CLOSE the book of fate, having mended the imbalance of the universe. But like Billie, who Chuck disliked for "meddling" in his story despite her meddling being entirely focused on repairing the ever-worsening cosmic imbalance his story was creating, Dabb was sort of growing desperate toward the end. He slipped up. His plan to kill God was ALWAYS doomed to fail (because the network forbade it... it was NEVER going to happen, EVER, and loads of US knew that and it left me completely side-eyeing Billie's whole plan with Jack, because I KNEW it could never happen that way... yet Dabb kept driving the bus in that direction despite us all knowing it had to fail, that they would not be allowed to kill God in primetime network tv...) [1:03 PM] And that was Billie's downfall... because "the plan" was doomed to fail. [1:03 PM] And that was also Dabb's downfall, but he held the authorial intent to keep making it seem like a possibility, to his own detriment. [1:04 PM] Once Billie's plan failed, and she was sucked into the empty with Cas, all that was left was Chuck As Author.

I've been thinking of Billie's downfall as a sort of Winchester Derangement Syndrome, [1:05 PM]

There is zero doubt in me that Chuck was the ultimate winner.

But like... secondary derangement as a side effect of her position in the cosmos as the balance point of life and death, and the absolute Chaos Vacuum generated around the Winchesters by Chuck's constant meddling.

but at the end we learn it was ALL CHUCK. The Winchesters wanted to retire from fucking with cosmic forces! They never wanted that AT ALL. That's what Chuck wanted them to play with, though, so kept setting scenarios where they would have "no other choice" but to run headlong into another cosmic battle

every time they mentioned the toes in the sand, or any hint at wanting anything outside of hunting and cosmic disasters, it was a red flag that Chuck was about to step in with a new Hammurabi-Gun-Level fuckery [1:11 PM]

(pardon the timestamps from discord, I’m too lazy to delete them all)

(we’re now discussing how Becky actually was the best writer in the show, how Chuck couldn’t take criticism from her AT ALL and his only reaction to her being literally RIGHT about it being an awful story was to snap her out of existence... so like... makes the ending even that much worse, that it looked like he surface-level stole a few snippets of Becky’s preferred story-- doing laundry and talking to each other-- but then dismissed all that and flipped to Chuck’s preferred narrative of bringing on the monsters. Pointlessly, hopelessly. It’s like a sad, emotionless pantomime of the sort of story Becky would’ve told. But Becky recognized her issues and sought out therapy. Chuck... never would, and never did.)

(lol we’re now serving up fresh shattered glass in the discord server)

There is no explanation for this finale aside from “Chuck’s story won in the end.” He was vindicated by it. It functions as a “moral justification through parallel” of his own actions-- fridging Amara to maintain full control of the narrative.

And now those links I promised... a tumblr post on monsters in Supernatural:

https://trisscar368.tumblr.com/post/638157515063951360/of-villains-and-monsters-and-the-tragedy-of

and a post on AO3 (too long for tumblr, about 7k words about Death In Supernatural... even if you’re not up for a read that long, scroll down toward the end and at LEAST read the tl;dr of the finale segment of the essay)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28831941

Sorry if this is a bit incoherent. I’ve been tabbing back and forth on this for like an hour now, in abject frustration over it all. If you’d like clarification on any point I attempted to make here, I invite further questions. But short of writing a thesis-length treatise, I don’t know if I can possibly explain it all more concisely than this ^^

[strawberry-skies-xx]

forget the bottle

C H A P T E R    O N E

summary: Jaskier has always felt things on a deeper level than most, and more often, and he has gone through life this way. He has coping mechanisms, of course - drinking, talking, singing, etc. He can't be overwhelmed by his emotions all the time, after all.

After the mountain, Jaskier's coping mechanism is drinking. Turns out, there's something in it, and Nilfgaard knows exactly how to break the songbird.

words: 17097

tags: geralt / jaskier, yennefer, PTSD, post-s1e6, s1e6 fix-it, a fix-it of sorts, pyschological trauma, psychological torture, magical fuckery, mind manipulation, aftermath of psychological torture, emotional/psychological abuse, torture, nilfgaard, captured by nilfgaard, fringilla, fluff and angst, protective yennefer, yennefer ships it, idiots in love, love confessions, happy ending, solitary confinement

author’s note: alright, so here is the zillionth captured-by-nilfgaard fic in this fandom. and, yes, whenever i mention valdo marx + jaskier hate-fucking, i am passive-aggressively yelling at the fandom for not having more of it. it has massive potential, but i don't write smut. (aka, please link me to any amazing top/dom valdo and bottom/sub jaskier hate-fucking, i love it)

scheduled tuesday and thursday posting.

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

-0-0-0-

Jaskier felt too much.

He’d always felt too much. He spent his younger years raging at his parents, raging at the world, though he didn’t know what he was raging at, only that he wanted to get away, be free.

And when he was old enough, he went to Oxenfurt and learned - learned academics, learned the arts, and he flashed through emotions quicker than he did love. The world was new, the world was bright and big and bold and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to carve himself a place in it.

And he did. He went to an inn in Posada and met a white-haired Witcher, and he learned some more. Learned of the darker emotions - not just anger, but revenge, and not just sadness, but despair, oppression. The world was new, still, the world wasn’t quite bright anymore but it was big and bold and Jaskier still wanted to carve himself a place in it, by way of one grumpy, golden-eyed, white-haired Witcher.

So Jaskier went through the world, and he felt. He felt pain lance through him, sharp as any blade - pain of heartbreak, pain of rejection, pain of actual physical wounds. He felt happiness, like warm honey falling gently over him - contentment when he sat by the fire with Geralt and sang into the shadows, joy when he roused an entire tavern into singing and stamping with him and he danced between them all, singing his heart out to the world.

He also felt love, in a more permanent sense than he’d ever felt it. Love was…. a peculiar sensation for him. He fell into love hard, and fast, and deep - both literally and metaphorically; Jaskier did enjoy the finer things in life, and he wasn’t above flirting and taking everyone he met to bed, sometimes at the same time. He adored people, like soft warmth rising in him. Lust was sharp and primal, carnal in its intensity, and Jaskier sharpened it into something intricate, turned it into pretty words and meaningful looks and determined intent.

And he loved, loved with his whole being, loved with his entire heart. Jaskier gave a piece of his heart to everyone he met, and sometimes he took it back after a fleeting infatuation, sometimes it stayed with them and he yearned. Valdo Marx was one of those people - he had loved him as he did anyone, had ended up hating him, but Valdo was not a fleeting love. Jaskier still loved him, even if it was only for their sharp back-and-forths and the truly mind-blowing hate sex they had occasionally - Valdo knew him better than anyone, except for Geralt.

Geralt was different. For Jaskier, love shot through him like a lightning bolt - or, Cupid’s arrow. Sometimes it went out the other end and left, sometimes it stuck and bled and scarred. With Geralt, it had shot through him like any other person, except it had stuck, it hadn’t bled, and it hadn’t scarred. Jaskier loved Geralt, and he was never so selfless that he never wanted more of him despite having what he already did, but if he was truly forced to choose, Jaskier would have been perfectly content with the life he led with the Witcher, would have suffered through the pain of pining after him if he got to stay.

Jaskier hadn’t chosen, though. Geralt had chosen for him, and he had decided that he didn’t need him, didn’t want him, and Jaskier had granted him his oh so desired blessing, and left.

Heartbreak felt like needles, stabbing him, over and over and over, in multiple places, and when he thought it was done, he’d see something and he’d be pricked again, it would draw blood.

Jaskier had grown very good at coping with his feelings - he couldn’t go through life being overwhelmed by all of his emotions. He did this in all manners of ways - writing songs and singing them, putting on the optimistic act to simultaneously let out emotions while hiding others, and talking, constantly. One of his better - or, well, quite unhealthy but very effective - coping mechanisms was drinking, which was what he was currently using on the heartbreak needling at him.

He stared into the tankard of ale, which tasted more like piss than actual ale, and sighed. Even the damn ale reminded him of Geralt.

Maybe the Cupid’s arrow for Geralt had started bleeding. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it would scar.

He groaned and dumped coins on the table, ignoring the flirtatious looks some women were giving him. He would have accepted it at any other time, would have lost himself in pleasure, but he felt slightly dizzy and he wanted nothing more than to find someplace to sleep, without practically selling his body for it. He didn’t have enough coin for a room, so he’d have to sleep out in the woods. Which, dammit, was just like he used to do with Geralt. Minus the Witchery protection now, of course.

Jaskier’s head was thoroughly spinning by the time he got out of the inn, and he knew something was wrong. He was drugged, he knew what it felt like to be drugged, having been enough times that Geralt actually berated him for having to rescue him. He ran through in his head what drug it could be, landed distantly on the salty taste of the ale, and cursed under his breath. Or, maybe it was a curse. Jaskier’s head was too fuzzy to figure out whether it came out as an actual word or as incoherent noises.

He saw shadows out of the corner of his eye - black, large, vaguely terrifying considering the way he stumbled and couldn’t think straight. He was caught by two strong arms, Geralt flashing quickly through his mind before a voice that was decidedly not Geralt whispered in his ear, smooth and cruel.

“Hey, little songbird,” not-Geralt said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier replied. Or didn’t. He didn’t know, his head was spinning and he felt a headache pounding and his limbs were growing slow and heavy, and the darkness dragged him down all too easily.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke up cold, and shivering, and very, very confused. He was laying on his side on a stone floor, feeling like he had been dunked in ice water - which, maybe he had, because his hair was dripping wet still and plastered to his face. His hands were behind his back, and at an experimental tug, they were tied together too. He wore nothing but his pants, and his bare shoulder pressed against the cold stone.

Jaskier cursed, both from his situation which had rapidly come back to him, and the very annoying strands of wet hair that had decided to plant themselves directly in his eye, and managed to roll himself onto his back with some effort. He lifted his head as much as he could and shook his hair out of his face, trying very hard to ignore the feeling of it plastered to his cheeks, his neck, just all over the place. He took the brief time to berate whoever had kidnapped him on hair care - honestly, did no one know how to dry hair? He liked to keep his hair soft and this was decidedly not the way to do it.

Of course, none of this was what he believed. He was ignoring the fear crawling up in him, feeling like spiders and making his skin itch, feeling like ice trickling down his spine and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. If he focused on anything other than the fear, then he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. It couldn’t do anything.

Jaskier rolled himself back on his side in order not to crush his hands beneath him, and after a long, heated moment spent mentally berating whoever had kidnapped him, again, on the best positions for singing, he actually started singing. The lecture went on, still - every time his voice cracked very much not artfully, or every time he couldn’t pull in enough breath, he took a second to come up with some particularly creative insult in his head about calling him songbird and then prohibiting his ability to sing.

He ignored the feeling of spiders crawling over him and the feeling of ice trickling down his spine.

It was an undetermined amount of time, measured only by the fact that Jaskier got through eight songs verbally before he started shivering uncontrollably, and six songs mentally before the door opened and a woman in blue robes and two men in black Nilfgaardian armor strode in.

He gave a dry laugh, ignoring the spiders crawling and the ice trickling. “Nice of you to stop by,” he said. “You know, it’s a bit contradictory when you call me songbird and then put me in a position like this, which is very much not conducive to singing, let me tell you.”

The woman in blue robes smiled and walked forward. She reached behind him and tugged harshly on the ropes tying his arms, pulling him into a kneeling position, before yanking him up to stand. Jaskier met her dark eyes, sensed the crackling undercurrent of magic around her, and supposed that this was Nilfgaard’s mage. Or one of them, at least.

She held his gaze for a long moment, searching, before letting go. “Untie him,” she said, turning around and standing several paces back as the Nilfgaardian soldiers descended on him.

Jaskier stood still, finding his heart suddenly pounding and adrenaline racing through him. This was his chance - he could try to escape now.

The ropes dropped from his arms and he lashed out, landing a right hook in one of the soldier’s jaws and aiming for another in the other soldier, when the entire room popped and Jaskier found himself slammed into by a wave of magic. His back hit the stone wall hard, knocking the breath out of him, and he gasped, arching. The sorceress walked forward, cruel emptiness in her eyes, watching him like he was a bug pinned to a board. Which, he supposed he was.

He was always a bug pinned to a board, poked and prodded and seen as amusing by Geralt and Yennefer and now this damned mage. Gods, Jaskier hated being human.

“Don’t struggle,” she said, voice oddly serene. “It’ll only be worse for you.”

Jaskier scoffed, rolled his eyes and studiously ignored the fear threatening to overtake him. Sometimes feeling too much was a blessing, sometimes it was a curse. Right now, it was a curse.

“Why? So I can become your puppet and you can do whatever you’d like to me? I’d be flattered you think of me that way, if this wasn’t a kidnapping,” he retorted sharply. The mage laughed, amused, and Jaskier tugged against his invisible bonds. Something in him wanted to cry at the fact that they didn’t even deem it necessary to tie him up, he was so weak and human.

The mage didn’t respond - not to his question, anyway. Instead, she raised two fingers to trace along his jaw. “It’s better to get this over with now,” she said.

Jaskier paled, felt the fear rising in him. “Get what over with? I’d rather you don’t-“

Her fingers landed on his forehead and his sentence ended with a scream. He arched against the invisible bonds, feeling the searing heat crawl into his mind, flood it with lava, with blood and pain and misery. She dissected his memories, sharply cleaving through every defense he had, and he felt the magic ripping through his body harshly, tearing through his mind.

Jaskier slid into the wooden seat, bread shifting uncomfortably in his waistband - but that wasn’t important. What was important was the lack of a review, the golden eyes staring flatly at him and the two long, sharp, menacing swords sitting beside the man.

“Come on, you must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

“No,” he gasped. “Don’t- please don’t-“

He screamed again as she ripped through another of his memories, feeling tears start in his eyes and the feeling of fear inch up his spine, waiting for the opportunity to get past his defenses and overtake him.

“How’s my singing, Geralt?” Jaskier asked loudly, because oh he wanted to have this conversation. He was quite heartbroken from the Countess de Stael’s rude break off of their relationship, and he thought spending a good long while defending his singing with a loud, unrestrained sarcasm he hadn’t been able to use since he entered the Countess’s court would make him feel better. There was something freeing about being with Geralt, not having to tiptoe around the darker and dirtier things in life.

Jaskier gasped through the pain, shaking against the wall, mouth now opening wordlessly as he arched and the mage tore into memory after memory, pulling everything he ever felt, thought, said, did, into full view, forcing white hair and golden eyes into the forefront of his mind. She learned he felt too much, she learned he loved too much, she learned of the frankly embarrassing number of times he hate-fucked Valdo Marx.

And she learned he loved Geralt with a love more permanent than anything he’d ever felt before.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The agony ended with that line echoing in his head and he fell limp against the magic holding him to the wall, gasping for breath and still feeling the echoes of the searing pain ripping through his head.

The mage was entirely unconcerned, standing and waiting with a blank look on her face until Jaskier caught his breath and sent her a glare. He growled - which, of course made him think of Geralt. Damn the fucking Witcher who stole his heart. “Are you done? Learned anything useful?” he snarled, truly not giving a fuck about whether he angered her and made it worse.

She traced her fingers along his jaw again, sliding them beneath his chin and raising his head, lowering herself down to look him in the eyes. “Oh, songbird. We learned so much. I'm going to enjoy breaking you.”

Jaskier felt the fear rise up in him, felt his breaths start to come shorter and tears fill his eyes, and forcefully shoved it down. He couldn’t let his emotions overwhelm him.

“Why do you want me?” he asked, uselessly. He knew why they wanted him - and he knew he couldn’t give them the answers they wanted. Geralt had discarded him.

The mage released his chin and stood up, not responding. Jaskier watched as she stepped back, flicked her fingers, and suddenly Jaskier fell hard to the floor. He gasped when the cold shocked through him, and the mage walked to the door with the soldiers. She turned back at him when he raised his head to look at her.

“The Witcher has something we want,” she replied, and turned and left. The door slammed loudly behind her and the soldiers.

Jaskier was left alone in the darkness, and the sudden drain of adrenaline from the mage ripping through his mind left him exhausted. He resisted the urge to cry; he kept up the dying hope that Geralt would save him, or he would escape, because they were the only things keeping back the flood of fear, and he knew if the fear and emotions overtook him then he would break.

For now, he curled up on the cold floor and let his eyes close, succumbing to the deep exhaustion and letting sleep take him.

-0-0-0-

The mage introduced herself as Fringilla, and the next time she came in there were the same two soldiers with her. Jaskier had searched his cell when he woke up feeling marginally better, though still freezing cold, and found nothing - it was pitch dark, so he couldn’t see, but he had felt every inch with his hands and there was absolutely nothing that would help him escape. He could barely find the door in the darkness.

The bright light blinded him and he covered his eyes as Fringilla and the soldiers walked in. He glared at them, backed away when the soldiers came up to him. They reached out and Jaskier laughed harshly, ducking out from under their arms. “Nope, no, I am not letting you touch me.”

Fringilla sighed impatiently as Jaskier kept dodging the soldiers, who did nothing more than walk steadily after him in the small space. He hated this, hated that he was trapped and couldn’t do anything other than run three feet from the soldiers and make himself look weak by prolonging it. They still hadn’t deemed him a threat enough to tie him up, for fuck’s sake.

Jaskier would have enjoyed taking apart that delusion, if he wasn’t freezing cold, half-naked, outnumbered, and with no weapon to speak of. He uselessly avoided the soldiers for several more minutes, until even he was growing bored of the game, and the only thing that Fringilla needed to do was raise her hand before Jaskier was stopping, freezing like a deer in headlights, fear flashing through him. The soldiers took that opportunity and slammed him against the wall, hands pinning his arms and legs in place.

Jaskier wondered if the display of sheer power against him was intentional, deeming him too weak for chains or ropes, but Fringilla smiled in such a way that it was instantly confirmed and Jaskier bit back his noise of annoyance. It was truly insulting, and hit something deeper in Jaskier that was still fighting, that kept up hope. He figured that was the point - if they could restrain him so easily now, what was the point of fighting? It would only be worse.

“Love,” Fringilla said, and Jaskier felt his stomach drop and his body go cold. If Nilfgaard wanted to break him, they certainly knew how to do it.

“It’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it? So volatile. It’s the only thing us mages can’t predict,” Fringilla continued, voice low.

Jaskier glared at her. “Shame. Thought you mages were all-powerful,” he snarked. Fringilla only looked amused.

“However,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “we can use it to our advantage.” And, yeah, that’s definitely not good for Jaskier, who squirmed just at the thought of what they could do to him regarding Geralt - because that was the only person he truly loved, really.

She raised her fingers, intent in her dark eyes, and Jaskier barely had time to protest, fear shooting through him, before cool magic washed over him like ice water, and he sank into darkness.

He saw the light first - saw the mountains in the distance, felt the clothes covering his back. Heard Geralt and Yennefer arguing below, saw Borch sitting on the ledge - and oh, fuck, this was the dragon hunt, he realized with a jolt of panic.

“Like fuck you didn’t,” came Geralt’s irritated voice, and Jaskier’s heart hurt just hearing it. He stood up, or, well, he tried to. There was a magical force pulling him down, forcing him to stay in the body of the Jaskier in his memories, the one who sat on the rock, and walked over, and then walked away. He wanted to cry, again, because he knew how this turned out and he could already feel the heartbreak needling at his skin, the pain of rejection lancing through him. He remembered how his dreams shattered like glass, and he cut himself on the sharp edges of them as he walked away.

He stood up, walked over once Yennefer left. Spoke without wanting to, felt the insistent magic tugging at him. “Whew,” he said. “What a day. I imagine you’re probably-“

“Dammit, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted sharply, whirling around to face him, and Jaskier felt the needles of heartbreak start pricking him, stabbing and drawing blood. He was stuck in his memory’s body, though, so he was forced to listen, feeling the tug of Fringilla’s magic on his voice, on his body.

Geralt’s eyes were hard, burning with anger as he continued. “Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Jaskier replied, voice soft. It was just as painful the second time as it was the first, and back in the dark, cold cell, Jaskier was resisting the urge to cry. He didn’t want to relive this, it was too much for him to handle.

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! ” Geralt’s voice was harsh, everything about him was harsher and sharper and Jaskier was cutting himself on it, he was practically bleeding out with the force of the heartbreak ripping through him. He sang so many songs about Geralt, about him not being a monster, and Jaskier fought against the negative things said about Geralt with everything he had, but some dark, selfish part of himself whispered that maybe Geralt really was the monster everyone thought he was. He was certainly acting the part right now, hurting Jaskier in the most efficient, effective way possible. Jaskier was wrong when he said Geralt didn’t know how to use the blade of his words as effectively as steel and silver.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Sharp pain lanced through him and Jaskier woke up gasping, laying on the cold floor. The cell was dark; Fringilla and the soldiers were long gone. Jaskier was alone.

Jaskier shoved down the tears, shoved down the fear and heartbreak and emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Crying was not one of his coping mechanisms. Drinking was, talking was, singing was. Not crying, never crying. Jaskier would not show weakness.

Well, he couldn’t drink. He had two options. Singing or talking. There weren’t many songs to sing that weren’t about Geralt - and he had just been painfully reminded of how he felt about him, thank you very much. So he curled up in a weak defense against the cold, and in a quiet, cracking, whisper of a voice, started to talk.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier had fallen asleep in the middle of some sentence about geography, some passage he had memorized from a textbook when he was at Oxenfurt. He didn’t remember it now; didn’t need to. All he remembered now was the surge of fear as the cell door opened and Fringilla and two soldiers walked in. Jaskier looked up, too exhausted to think about physically fighting as they dragged him up from his position on the floor.

He did fight verbally, though, if only because talking to someone to fight off his emotions was better than talking to himself. “In the old stories, the knights swept the princesses off of their feet,” he said. The soldiers started pulling him towards the door - he had a vague hope of escaping, though he felt like shit because he was being starved and really had to piss. “Does that make me the princess?”

Fringilla gave her signature, idly amused smile, the one that reminded Jaskier just how much he was a bug pinned to a board and surrounded by immortals who didn’t care for him. “You’re a bard, and nothing more. The place we’re taking you is not from the old stories.”

Jaskier frowned. “Shame. Oh, speaking of being a bard, why do you even keep me here? You already rifled through my mind, you saw Geralt abandon me. You know I don’t know where he is, or what he has that you want.”

Fringilla didn’t look bothered. “You’re still useful. You know the Witcher better than anyone else, you can tell us where he would go next. His patterns of behavior, the way he thinks. The best way we can ambush him. Or, if not, you’re good for bait.”

Jaskier laughed, and the sound was harsh and mocking. “He won’t come for me,” he said bitterly. “You’re delusional if, after looking at that memory, you think he would come back for me. He doesn’t care whether I live or die.”

Fringilla smiled. “You’re right. He doesn’t care about you, and he won’t come back. Whether you help us find the Witcher or not, bard, you’re still ours.”

It came so easily, so certainly, that Jaskier deflated in the soldier’s arms, staring at Fringilla with a sort of blank horror. She had looked through his memories, had seen everything he’d seen, and she was able to say with such smooth certainty that Geralt wouldn’t come back for him, and he was Nilfgaard’s now. It hit the same part of him that it had when they had so easily restrained him, the deeper part of him that glowed gold with hope even as the rest of him withered and broke.

They stopped in front of a simple wooden door that Fringilla opened to reveal a room with a tub, toilet, and sink. Jaskier turned to the sorceress. “You’re giving me time to clean myself up?” he asked incredulously. “Doesn’t that go against, you know… everything about torture?”

Fringilla smiled again, but there was something darker in it. Jaskier resisted the urge to shiver at the dark promise hidden in her tone and smile. “You’re going to need it, bard. You won’t come back here for a long time.”

Jaskier felt the dread rise in him, like being touched by ice, and the fear. He nodded, staying quiet, and went into the room, flinching when the door slammed and locked behind him.

An hour later, the door was opened and the two soldiers came to get him, just as he finished using the bathroom. Jaskier sighed. “I’m guessing you won’t pamper me as much anymore?”

Fringilla smiled in the same dark way when the soldiers pulled Jaskier through the hallways. “No.”

They got closer, and Jaskier thought he was immune, he thought he was still strong, but he thought of the pure darkness of the cell and the cold air and the sheer loneliness, and started struggling when he saw the metal door at the end of the hallway. The fear was threatening to overtake him, his breaths came shorter and his voice rose an octave.

“Are you really sure you want to put me in there?” he asked, while pulling against the soldiers, who forcefully manhandled him down the hallway. His heart was picking up, and dammit he shouldn’t be this affected after two fucking days, but here he was. Nilfgaard had better torture tactics than they were given credit for - Jaskier had a bitter feeling that the reliving the hardest, most painful ten minutes of his life factored into the reason why he was so scared. “I’m sure there’s another option, something much less… well, dark and cold.”

“Will you answer our questions?” Fringilla asked.

“No,” Jaskier replied automatically. He wouldn’t give up that easily, no matter how terrifying the cell was.

Fringilla opened the door and the soldiers threw him in. He landed hard on the stone, still in only a pair of pants because that was all the clothes he was given in the bathroom, and he barely had time to watch the sliver of light be sliced away by the door slamming before he was left in pitch darkness, the cold air already seeping into him.

Jaskier sat up and leaned against the wall. He sighed, very firmly refusing the urge to cry, and stared into the darkness. He couldn’t even see the edges of the room, for fuck’s sake.

He let out a breath that definitely wasn’t at all shaky, tilted his head back against the wall, and started to sing - about everything and anything, because he couldn’t give a fuck about whether the songs were about Geralt if it meant he was distracted from the pain of knowing this was all he would see for gods knows how long. After all, it was just another emotion to add to the pile, wasn’t it? Nilfgaard wouldn’t care if he broke down - fuck, they wanted him to break down. Some dark part of him wondered if it would be easier to break down, stop fighting; it was only exhausting him anyway.

“When a humble bard, graced a ride along…”

[haich-slash-cee]

Is the print publishing world picking up online/fandom terms? How they are using them? How do we feel about this?

So this is... attention-getting, for folks who like to follow publishing and meta stuff.

https://twitter.com/sapphicxrey/status/1215065948677443584

https://twitter.com/TorDotComPub/status/1233391556750647299

(2nd tweet -- TW, mentions of non-con)

Are we seeing the beginnings of book publishers directly borrowing from online/fandom culture in promoting their books? How do we feel about these examples?

More below cut.

Exhibit #1: screenshots of Bonds of Brass promo from Jan 8 2020. (Which is probably going to have reactions of “haha, cute” at most.)

Transcript of blurb: 

“If you like... 

forbidden romances, “there’s only one bed”, cityships, weaponized umbrellas, powersuits, secret princes, best friends, best friends PINING, fake dating between PINING best friends, tactical streaking, the minivan of starships, cigar-chomping cyborg ladies, scary empress moms, galactic-level bisexual disasters, LEGACY (WHAT IS A LEGACY?), rooftop hopping, golden trios, rumblin’ drums, bootleg fireworks, BIG SPACE BATTLES PEW PEW, a surprisingly functional public transit system, mob trouble, one hell of a pilot, the inherent DRAMA of empire, a nice interlude in a river, smoking a joint that’s been on the floor, sick stunts, slick grifts, hiding in a dumpster, or any combination of the above,

 Then you might like 

BONDS OF BRASS”

The Twitter responses seem to be generally enthusiastic. (And also, “FinnPoe! FinnPoe!”)

Personally, I’m intrigued from a meta-view of “oh so that’s definitely pulling from online world and fanfiction world, interesting. I wonder how much fanfiction culture is starting to influence print book culture and promotion.” Maybe I’ve got some questions like, “Ok so moneymaking companies such as Penguin are now using culture developed by the not-moneymaking-world of fanfiction? How do we feel about this?” Anyway, the book looks cute, I’m interested enough and I might get it from the library.

I suspect many people’s reactions are along the lines of “hm, interesting”, “sounds like a lark”, or “haha they’re using AO3 tags as promo”, etc. 

Exhibit #2, screenshots of DOCILE promo, from Feb 28 2020 (today is March 1 2020), and screenshots of Twitter responses so far:

(*CW, non-con discussion)

Tweet transcript:

“DOCILE by @KMSzpara:  

-Dubcon/Noncon 

-Dramatic Trillionaire Content 

-BDSM and then some more BDSM and then a lot more BDSM

 -Hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort

 -Cinnamon roll of steel 

-The most scandalous kink: love 

-Courtroom, bedroom, & Preakness drama

[Tor book website link]”

So this is getting mixed reactions on Twitter. All dozen or so reactions, so far. Here’s text transcripts and bio info from repliers, below. I’m being a little obsessive, mostly to show that there’s a mix of queer, book-ish people in the replies (including the author).)

Noncon is nonconsentual sex, rape. Even in fandom it's a content tag, not a promotional term. I can't imagine being a rape survivor and seeing this come across my TL. -- @WriteSomeGood [queer rainbow] [Cis queer homemaker, aspiring author, maker of incredible cinnamon buns. She/her] [has a Tumblr page]

I’m not a survivor but it was an instant “no thank you” from me. And I was sincerely looking forward to this prior to. This is the most immediately off-putting marketing push I’ve seen for a book in a long damn time. -- @AGAWilmot [Author, editor, artist. Co-EIC of @anathemaspec. @SFU alum. The Death Scene Artist/W&W 2018. Ace/enby. They/them. Horror is my comfort food.]

Whichever intern wrote this tweet, deserves a full time job. With benefits. -- @simeontsanev [Aspiring writer, post-aspiring musician, and overall geek  He/Him /[queer rainbow]/ To the world we dream about, and the one we live in now! http://simeontsanev.com]

Idk why everyone thinks it’s always an intern writing copy and not a team comprised of extremely skilled social media experts, editors, publicists and marketers, and their assistants  I worked on those tags with my editor and a good friend!! -- @KMSzpara [Kellan. [queer rainbow]  Speculative fiction writer. Queer agenda.  Hugo & Nebula finalist.  DOCILE 3/3/20 from Tor Dot Com Publishing.  He/him.  Rep @suddenlyjen] *The author, bio page and twitter page.

this is CUTE! -- @MSSciarappa  [queer rainbow] I do books. he/him.

I am Extremely Ready for this content thank u -- @JessicaBCooper [Journo ☽ Writer of faerie, villain fuckery & cruel desires ☽ Lestat & Loki's love child ☽ Aleksander Morozova's side-hoe ☽ Rep'd by Kate Testerman @ktliterary]

I’m listening -- @MerynLobb [Government worker. Weightlifter. Nihilist. Aspiring cult leader. Avid user of words, often bad ones. #AMM R6 Mentee. she/her]

Soon! Soon!! -- @castrophony [Geek. Gamer. Cosplayer. Bibliophile. Scientist. She/Her.]

[happy reaction gif] -- @TorDotComPub [Providing a home for writers to tell SFF stories in exactly the number of words they choose. All our titles are available globally in print and DRM-free ebook.]

[throwing stuff in dumpster, unhappy reaction gif] -- @cursedgravy  [name's xavi, im a transman and i like to daydream about making content] 

For more context, here’s the blurb from the author website. Below is the blurb from the publisher’s site:

“Docile

K.M. Szpara

K. M. Szpara's Docile is a science fiction parable about love and sex, wealth and debt, abuse and power, a challenging tour de force that at turns seduces and startles.

There is no consent under capitalism.

To be a Docile is to be kept, body and soul, for the uses of the owner of your contract. To be a Docile is to forget, to disappear, to hide inside your body from the horrors of your service. To be a Docile is to sell yourself to pay your parents' debts and buy your children's future.

Elisha Wilder’s family has been ruined by debt, handed down to them from previous generations. His mother never recovered from the Dociline she took during her term as a Docile, so when Elisha decides to try and erase the family’s debt himself, he swears he will never take the drug that took his mother from him.

Too bad his contract has been purchased by Alexander Bishop III, whose ultra-rich family is the brains (and money) behind Dociline and the entire Office of Debt Resolution. When Elisha refuses Dociline, Alex refuses to believe that his family’s crowning achievement could have any negative side effects—and is determined to turn Elisha into the perfect Docile without it.

Content warning: Docile contains forthright depictions and discussions of rape and sexual abuse.”

So that’s a lot of info and reactions.

Personally: at first glance, I absently skimmed the tweet and “hurt/comfort” popped out, and I was like “What? Mainstream publishing is cool with this now? I was wondering if ‘hurt/comfort’ would one day become commonly used in publishing [related post]. But this is way sooner than I thought.” And then I read the rest of of the tweet and thought, “Wait, what?” 

And then I started reading through the tweet replies and thought, “OK, at the risk of getting a bunch of Tumblr drama, I want to bring this to the whump community and see how people feel."

As for myself, one of my squicks is non-con, and I’m not really interested in hurt/no comfort. So just from the tweet, I know the book is not for me. The official blurbs confirmed that. In this sense, this is like skimming Ao3 tags on a fic and saying “pass” on a story.

However, I have questions about the specific promotion of the book. So the official blurbs are pretty standard. What about that tweet, which Tor (and the author, who helped put it together) put out? Because I think an official publisher’s Tweet comes with different context than Ao3 tags.

First, the different internet spaces. You can filter tags on Ao3 and Tumblr. I know you can mute words on Twitter, but is that the same thing? Also, would people be expecting these tags on Twitter? Compared to Ao3 or Tumblr or Tumblr Whump spaces?

Within the Tumblr Whump community, from what I’ve browsed, the community attitude (guidelines?) seem to be “Write and discuss what you want. Be sure to tag it, use content warnings, or otherwise clearly communicate if you have things that may be triggering. Respect people’s squicks/triggers. Walk away from what you don’t like.” Like, tumblr whump has a very specific culture of trying to balance discourse/stories about potentially very dark stuff, but also wanting to make sure the IRL people and Tumblr users are okay. There’s always posts going around about how to do this, are we doing this in the right way, ethics, so on. Also -- and people can correct me -- the whump tumblr space might be where tags are content warnings for people to stay away, and also what people might actively look for. So if any space is going to discuss if this promotional tweet checks out, I feel like it’s this space. 

Also, to note again, Tor Tweets are in the money-official-publisher-world, not unpaid-tumblr-people or unpaid-fanfiction-fandom-world.

Maybe I just want to ask, “Hey those first two tweet responses, does they have a point? Tor using ‘noncon’ as official promotion? On Twitter?” I mean, I’ve previously written, “The CW and TW tags that Ao3 writers use, I really wish those were used with published books as well.” But somehow, the Tor tweet was not quite what I was expecting. Maybe for reasons similar to that first tweet response. (I guess one could debate if a tweet is really promotion or just information... you know what someone can correct me, but I’m gonna say that a Tor.com tweet is promotion, compared to information like Ao3, and that tweet was there for promotion.)

Those tags operate within specific Ao3 and Tumblr cultures and infrastructure. I don’t hang around Twitter for whump stuff, IDK what the culture is. Anyway, does dropping these tags into a promotional tweet from Tor.... translate?

The tweet is evidently gathering the people who are there for it, and the people who aren’t there for it are quickly realizing that they are not there for it. But personally, the Tor website blurb does a better job at that, using writing that I’d expect from a publisher for communicating fictional non-con situations. (Maybe the blurb content warnings are what I wanted more of, when I said I wished for CW and TW in books.)

Anyway, there’s no huge drama about that Docile book promo on Twitter, as far as I can tell. So this is a niche thing, right now. But. The promo for Bonds of Brass and for Docile might be the beginnings of a trend of well-known book publishers borrowing from online writing / fandom culture and terminology in order to promote or categorize their books. These two promos might set a precedent or have other significance.

So if anyone has discourse on the tweets or potential future trends... 

[courtorderedcake]

Hallow ch XI - For CSSNS 2019

“The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King’s will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time.”

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.

Read on AO3 here.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Written for @cssns​ Ch 11 / ?? - In which a monster hides in plain sight

The library had several Kitsune in it when Killian arrived, but as he climbed to the upper level, his immediate concern became the Dragon in the corner. Haku was furiously scribbling down information from a stack of books, throwing them aside in frustration. Killian made the pointed note to stay far away from him and whatever had caused his anger. 

The latest ledgers of the island census were missing as far back as five years, and many of the cultural or study of heritage scrolls were also missing as Killian searched for them amongst the rows. He found a few scrolls of painted art that showed depictions of what the rite aimed to do, though; a Fox spirit in full splendor attacking the barrier and breaking free, it's teeth and many tails shining on display. The actual rites were a mystery as he found those books missing too. 

On a sneaking suspicion, he glanced over at the piles of books Haku had stacked at the desk where he worked, still frantically taking down notes on whatever he was studying. Seeing the same bindings that matched the books in the series, Killian sighed. Of course the Dragon was using them. Resolving to wait, Killian read instead the long history recorded by what once were the Dragon elders, long gone now from the world.

In the beginning, there was fire, ice, air, and earth. We came from all four, the blending of these elements making way to the subtler magics, but leaving us perfect in primordial effortlessness. From the blending of the four came the Old Gods, the Elementals, and then magic itself. After that, time, then light and dark, followed as the Gods and Elementals made this world, and all the vast realities between. We found no use for time, for light, or darkness. Only magic, and only the elements were as wild as we. At one time we too could traverse the planes of existences, but that gift has been long lost to us. 

From magic and the elements came the old creatures, many lost to new as they burned too bright, stars bursting into a supernova, creating, changing and destroying the others. Kitsune, Draugr, Kraken, Gorgons, Sphinx, Harpies - they all come from the old magics, brought to life by their own will until there was either nothing left or just enough for permanence. 

Fire and ice made water, which made seas; earth and fire made jewels and metals, it forced rock from the seas that cooled into land. Air, earth, and water made forests that towered above the hungry ground while ice and air made snow, and water, fire, and air created storms. The Old Gods created their own beings from the many new elements that were created; starlight and moonbeams graced Elves as sunbeams and breezes molded the first Fae, born with wings. Dirt and jewels made Hob-Goblins sparkle like quartz, Anisapi the first to stand guard of places of power. Merfolk and the sea dwellers came together as foam that topped great waves and salt, the Gods loving their children as long as they could before their ends befell them. By war, sickness, age, or simply choice, they left the world to who they hoped would treasure it. 

The Old Gods did not teach their children enough, however. They did not teach their children to share, or warn them of the dangers they had kept hidden away. Trying to be like their creators, and with the last few Deities hanging on, an unknown coalition created mortals. While weak and without vitality, they were vicious, bred quickly in their short lives, and became impossible to eradicate. Before long, they were the dominant species of the world created for us. They learned our weaknesses, they learned how to take down the last of the Gods. They cornered us until something was done. 

The first wars cut lands from mortal hands and placed them in our own, establishing the sacred places that mortals should not tread. Even amongst the non-believing, the superstitions and deadly reminders of trespass passed easily through their generations. 

After that, space was limited amongst the races. A peaceful mountain dwelling species of Fae came under attack for their resources and labor by Jeoff N'lan, who imprisoned them. It wasn't until rumors of an insurrection came under the rule of his son, Jeorg N'lan, that their population was decimated. We know them now as - 

"Reading something good?" Emma's voice made him jump, and he came back to himself with a jolt. She rested her chin on his shoulder, and he could practically taste the honey and sunshine smell that graced her. Coming out from behind him, she placed a picnic basket on the table as he closed the book and set it aside. "I didn't mean to make you jump, it must have been a good book -" 

"Interesting, but not necessarily good," Killian shrugged. He took in her appearance, as she had changed. She looked even better than she had previously, a red gown which had a square cut neckline, her body poured into it as he tried not to notice how lovely she looked. How did she not know the effect she had? He wondered it idly, trying to understand why he was even feeling the effect of her beauty. Sighing, she sat next to him, slumping with her head in her hands. He hesitated when he went to lay his hand on her shoulder, his eyes watching her chest rise, the sigh making her bosom press up, freezing him. 

"Killian, I am not sure how to say this," she began nervously, biting her lip. Under the light of the library, her eyes were sea glass in the sun, bright and sharp. Their appraisal snapped him out of his inappropriate trance, and he refocused quickly as he took in her words. "But I'm beginning to get a little bit scared. There's something off here, and after observing what they're proposing for this rite, I don't know -" 

A book slammed shut across from them, Haku looking at them with his steely eyed gaze. Emma rubbed her temples, body tensing. The Dragon strode over to them, leveling his glare at Emma from across the table. She looked away, and Killian immediately felt ready to spring, coiled in defense of her. 

"You know then, and you know that you could easily take her place?" Haku said quietly, his voice cold. Emma nodded, swallowing hard. 

"What is there to know? Your people chose the Maiden, Emma has nothing to do with -" Killian argued, but Haku let out a yell, his nails digging into the table. 

"You do not have any right to speak on this Dark One. If your grievances are absolved with this Royal, let mine be heard: Don't you feel any repentance for anything, or do you like the weight of your family's legacy on your shoulders?"

Emma closed her eyes, flinching when the Dragon brought his fist down on the table with a loud bang. 

"That's enough -" Killian hissed, but the Dragon shook his head. 

"It will never be enough. You were a hero to our people because you were the answer to the violence her family created, Dark One. We prayed for your return, your revenge on the Royal family, revenge on the Goblins - you were supposed to mete out justice. To think you were distracted by this, this silly girl!" Haku spat at Emma, and she yelped.

Killian ripped the Dragon across the table by his collar, blood pounding in his ears. Lifting his arms, he threw Haku, the Dragon stumbling into the bannister of the stairs down to the main level. 

"Get away from us," Killian hissed. 

"Gladly," Haku gritted out as he straightened, sending a pointed look at Emma.

Killian watched him walk away, Emma shaking in her seat. 

"What the bloody hell was that about?" he asked, before sitting next to her. She shook her head, seemingly trying to find words to explain. 

"These rites - Killian, I'm scared. I -" 

"There you are! Oh how quaint, a basket lunch. Who knew royals as far up in status as you knew how to prepare one," Maleficent purred, walking up the stairs. Lilly followed, her head bowed as she nervously fidgeted with her hands, Isaac trailing behind her. "You ran out so quickly Princess, we weren't done talking about coming to an agreement."

Emma looked up at Killian, pleading with her eyes. 

"The princess and I were talking about your rituals, actually, and thought we might have a moment alone -" 

"Yes of course, but later in the day. There's still so much to show her!" Maleficent purred, yanking Emma back, Lilly catching her as she stumbled. "Princess Emma still has things to see, but I'll leave Isaac here to help you with any questions. Lilly, make haste, come now girls."

Killian smiled apologetically, Emma's look of panic blocked by Isaac's body.  

"What do you want to know? I know almost everything in these books, and I'm the author of more than a few." The shorter man puffed up his chest proudly, and Killian inwardly screamed. Letting his jaw clench into something he hoped resembled a smile, he straightened. 

"I would like to know a bit about the workers I've seen around. The ones that wear the masks and the black outfits, are they a servant class or some leftover of the plague?" he asked, quickly moving to grab the books Haku had been using. Carrying them over, Isaac wrung his hands nervously. 

"Oh, the husks. The Dragons call them 'no faces' because of the masks and their woolen veils, but I think that's a tad tasteless," Isaac chuckled lightly. "They're those who have served us, starting back some sixty odd years. Those left live together with their attendants or with their families if their families so choose."

Killian narrowed his eyes. "Served you? They seem…" He trailed off, unable to find a way to make his meaning less blunt. 

"They seem 'gone'? Well yes, of course they do, and they should! They are fighting, their very essence of spirit attacking the barrier of this prison." Isaac grinned, spreading his palms upward. "That's what the rites are for, they create a trance like state that becomes greater every consecutive turn. This is the year we break free, I can feel it."

"And you want Emma to do this? What are the risks? Is there danger involved -"  

"Now now. The princess is surely capable of making her own choice or coming to you for counsel, yes?" Isaac asked, dropping his hands. His head quirked to the side, and he shrugged. "Besides - The only ones that fear are those who aren't faithful to our teachings. They believe that their loved ones are empty, faceless and lost, not that they are husks waiting for their successful return. The day comes that those still living will have a reunion of body and mind."

Killian thought about Haku's reaction, how vitriolic it was, and glanced at the stack of books. He returned Isaac's grin and nodded.

"Of course. Thank you for elucidating." 

Isaac bowed, backing away. "It was my pleasure to illuminate. I must be off to see to final preparations. Should Emma return, see that you remember our chat? It would certainly help win favor for an alliance."

"Of course, of course. We'll go through the process together if she wishes, and make a decision." Killian watched Isaac's smile falter marginally, confirming his suspicion. 

"Very good then. See that you do." Isaac turned, leaving the library, as Killian furiously began to dig through what Haku had left. The results were frustratingly vague answers about ‘glory to the Kitsune’, who in theory would break through the initial ward, but the magic didn't relate to any sort Killian understood or any ruminations that he was aware of. If anything, it seemed that someone with enough energy could potentially pierce the island's barrier, but any type of assault would need to be targeted, not blanketed as the current ritualistic attempts suggested. The ritual itself was vague, barely described besides a few mentions of a story being written that seemed to usher the chosen into some sort of astral state. 

There was nothing referencing any method in which a husk could be saved, Haku's notes in the margins seemingly indicating that he too had come to the same conclusion. A highlighted passage seemed to be confirmation of this, citing a tethered link being ripped away. Emma could not go through with whatever this was. The thought of her as a stumbling and soulless thing made him feel ill, the image in his mind of her eyes gone gray making him irrationally angry. The island's leaders had to know that this was wrong. A drawing Haku had made of a dome over what must be the island showed what looked like to be fractures, referencing another book on spellcraft, specifically breaking long lasting protection wards. There it showed a sketched illustration of an immortality enshrining spell being fractured while remaining unbroken, resulting in the shamaness inside not retaining her beauty as intended, aging as she should have whilst still remaining alive. Killian shuddered at the thought. 

A dog eared page caught his attention. Haku was a methodical researcher, his notes precise as he followed this ritual to its origins. The marked page was out of place in that regard - a sleeping draughts of great potency, one similar to the sleeping death he himself had given the Queen of the United Realm's, Emma's mother, under the Goblin King’s command. She was famous for overcoming it during the war and her kiss with the man she would later choose to rule by her side had led to his capture. This was not quite that curse, which had taken a great deal of dark magic to create, and ingredients Killian did not want to deal in again if at all possible. It was lesser in its extremity, seemingly focused on lucid dreaming or actively blending the dreams of others with one's own. Did the ritual require some sort of unwaking sleep? That thought was chilling as well, dreams and the magic behind their power were widely known for their unpredictable nature, and Emma’s dreams were beyond powerful and erratic. 

"It seems like you have had an easier day than me. Maybe I'll read, and you go play politics?" 

Emma's voice startled him, and he turned as he stood, almost knocking her over. She looked different than he had last seen her, her eyes kohled and lips red. If the red dress he had seen her in earlier had not attempted to kill him with impropriety, the outfit she wore now had every chance. 

The black dress was by all measure sinful in every facet of its design, and the exhale he gave was choked as she stepped in closer to place her hands on his arms. The pitch black velvet clung to every inch of her toned body, half corset tight but allowing the fullness of her curves, the neckline plunging, and the skirt slit on both sides. A red necklace hung heavy around her neck, the color a deep crimson that seemed to absorb the light. He’d been attracted to the princess before, she was beautiful as it were, but never had he wanted so much to act on it. Not only because of the dress, but because of the way her lips parted, the concerned way she looked at him through the dulled gray green of her eyes under the library lights, her red nails slightly digging into his sleeves - 

As she steadied herself, Killian felt himself falling, unable to catch himself in the sudden vertigo. 

"Emma," he breathed, and her eyes seemed to glint with mischief at how her name was practically wheezed out. He had to compose himself, had to get control - 

Emma leaned in, rising on her toes. 

"I've been waiting to get you alone all day," she whispered, smiling softly, as if she hadn't just made his brain explode. "About earlier -" 

He cleared his dry throat, suddenly far too hot. "Yes, ah, about earlier; you shouldn't go through with anything they try to pressure you into -" 

She laughed, looking at him with amusement. "Oh, no, I know that. What I meant is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier."

He blinked, and while one hand held her steady on his forearm, the fingers on her other hand played with the lacing of the collar of his shirt. Breathing seemed harder, requiring thought. 

"It wasn't about your fears involving the rites here, and the alliance?" Killian asked, and she shook her head. Looking down for a moment, chewing her lip as she let go of him, Emma eyes flitted up at him through her lashes. Taking his hand and squeezing it lightly, she smiled warmly. 

"So… Um. I was scared about talking to you, about finding the right things to say that would make sense. The thing is though… I'm not scared anymore. I feel like I know the answers to my fears just by being near you. You've been so different lately, and I feel like I know you so much better."

"I - I uh - Princess, what is it you're…?"

"You're blushing! Please I don't mean to - oh no -" 

"I'm just not sure what you're trying to convey here, love," he managed to get out, her own face heating in time with his ears. The dress was again another hurdle to his calm, the black velvet slipped tight over the farthest curve of her breasts where it could sit at without being indecent. The color in her face was settling there too, and he dragged his eyes upwards with force. 

Emma stepped forward, and he noticed that she had even streaked her hair jet black in a few places. His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips, trying to fight the wave of carnal thoughts that had suddenly bloomed in his mind. She was so lovely, would feel so right curling into him as he tasted her berry colored lips, finally chasing her properly. What was wrong with him?  Where did these indecent thoughts come from - they had been contained when the Darkness had seemed to be held at bay, and yet here on the isle among the festival goers, it roared to life. 

"Killian, you don't know? I've been thinking about what I want, what we mean to each other -" Killian snapped out of the fantasy with difficulty, as if it had tried to trap him or had used some sort of charm on him. Her words didn't seem real, and he rolled them over in his thoughts. 

"What we mean to each other?" he asked. "Wait, Emma, are you suggesting that you - you feel - you want -" 

"I'm not suggesting anything, Killian," she murmured, and he thanked the Gods for approximately six seconds, before her next words fried his brain. "I'm telling you that I think I want something more from you than friendship."

"I --- I -, er… I am -" 

"Aye to you, too. Come find me later, and I'll tell you what I decided. I think you'll be very pleased." Emma twisted her red necklace in her fingers, looking up shyly at him through her lashes. "I know I am."

Another wave of want hit him, stronger than before, his mind going fuzzy at the edges. Emma was too close to him, and yet she stepped closer; he could smell the smokiness of her, the pine woods, soot, chilies, and rice wine. Vaguely he wondered why she didn't smell of her usual honey, vanilla, cinnamon, and rose, but the thought vanished when she pressed her lips to his cheek. 

Quickly retreating as he cupped his cheek, she waved goodbye, leaving down the path from the library with confident steps. 

Killian felt the small ember he carefully stoked inside the most protected regions of his being turn into a flame, hope surging as he tried to focus on anything but his confirmed feelings for the princess. For Emma. The books he tried to read could not hold his attention; nothing could draw him from his racing thoughts. 

He found a note pinned on the outer side of the door as he was leaving, telling him to meet her on the high cliffs as soon as he could, which left him feeling elated, and he smiled at the thought of trying to figure things out with her. The Darkness had been under control, she was always nearby if it wasn't, and her magic was strong. She was smart, unfailing in her kindness, brave, and he had been denying his feelings for so long. Tonight he would deny her just for a few moments longer, all to court her properly. 

There was a flower vendor for the festival he had seen earlier when walking with Mushu, her cart filled with crowns of marigold, chrysanthemums, eucalyptus and carnations. He had also seen a sweet vendor that had marzipan sculptures, noticing the swan immediately. He had planned to get it for her before they left, but tonight was much more perfect. Both in hand as fast as possible, he hoped Emma wouldn't mind his late arrival. If anything, she would be too delighted by the gifts, and Killian could finally, finally do what he realized he wanted for so long - 

"Love, if you think helping the denizens of this isle is a worthy cause, who am I to ever argue with you?" 

Killian froze, turning to the sound that sent chills down his spine. Someone was talking in his voice, a scarily good imitation of it as well. 

"When have you been wrong, Swan? When have you not risen above your challenges?"

"You're right, Killian." 

Emma's voice. His stomach dropped. Moving closer to the conversation tucked into a small aisle behind tents, he saw Emma in her red dress, and himself. Or, a poor facsimile of himself; there were a few streaks of white in his hair, and his nails seemed pointer even in the dim light. The doppelganger seemed to notice, carding a hand through, covering the white with his palm and burying them there. The other hand went snugly into his pocket. 

"I know. I have no fear for you either, so take that as reassurance. After you succeed, it will be easy to take on the Darkness… and we could…" The fake slipped an arm around her waist, tipping her chin up and stroking her face. It was like a punch in the gut, the way she blushed and swooned so innocently, the reaction so sharply different than her earlier forwardness. Killian felt the growing suspicion that it wasn't Emma that had visited him but another, realizing with anger that his feelings had been twisted into vulnerability. 

"We can talk about something more, what comes next. A future," his double whispered, laying his forehead against Emma’s. 

"I'd like that," she replied as she smiled. 

Killian began walking towards them, his rage boiling over at this deceit and jealousy that flamed into a blaze. The manipulation that was in play to create the idea she actually - that she could possibly feel something like that for him and that they could make something work; the idea was ridiculous when laid out. The princess being courted by the war criminal. Jealousy wasn't what he was feeling; he couldn't be jealous when she had been tricked, or when he had been weak. Emma didn't want anything from him, truly. He moved through the tents, following Emma to make sure that she put distance between herself and his fake, watching her through the gaps. In the cage he held tightly closed, the Darkness rattled. It took in a gasp of air, straining in its bonds. 

No one could ever want you, stupid, weak, petulant man. 

No one.  

No one, and especially not her . 

Someone so good, you would break her, you would never work. 

Never . 

Imagine what scars you would give her, imagine how easily she would see how pathetic you are… 

He stumbled, felt the pressure of someone strong on his back as he struggled, albeit briefly. A cloth was pushed over his mouth and nose, a prick of some sort of dart hitting both sides of his neck one after the other. It took seconds for his eyes to go bleary, the world spinning as he fell. 

Haku looked down at him, frowning. 

"I'm sorry," Haku whispered. The words swam along with everything else in his vision, but Killian valiantly tried to crawl towards where Emma had been, following the sound of his voice, his voice used by another. 

"Hurry now love. Don't leave Isaac waiting; they'll need you as soon as possible."

Emma's voice was bright as she called over her shoulder with a wave, unaware of Killian’s groan as he reached for her, unseen behind the many tents as Haku dragged him away. 

"I'll be seeing you soon, Killian."

  *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

  The amount of interference and pressure the combined Dragon royals and the Kitsune leaders held all day on Emma was absolutely unbearable. At the beginning of the morning, Lilly had dragged her to a bathhouse, the beauty and ornateness of the place overshadowed by the obnoxiously rude company. Emma was given a robe like wrap made of thick damask, golden fish swimming on the blue fabric. Lilly helped her put it on, ignoring Emma's objections at her intrusion while she was partially nude. 

Chihiro wore a white gown, not making a sound even with bells tied in her long black hair. They glinted in the sunshine along with her braided ribbon as they all moved through the hallways, polished wood catching their many colored reflections. A paper screen door opened to reveal a large bath surrounded by rocks, a waterfall cascading into the steaming pool. One by one the women disrobed, dipping themselves, and Emma followed suit with a blush. The water felt heavenly, even if the conversation was not. 

"So, the women as a congregation join the Maiden in her cleansing, where we all purify ourselves and commune with our ancestors," Lilly sighed, kicking her toes out of the water. From across the steam, Emma could see the great plumes of green smoke coming from where Cruella sat. When the steam parted, Cruella's eyes were focused solely on her, giving Emma chills even in the heat. "After this, we go get massages, then we get facials, then tea. Then we take a processional walk through the sand gardens, after which we do a lantern ceremony in the turtle pond. Lastly, we head to the cathedral for the final rites."

"I have plans to lunch with Killian -" Emma said cautiously, biting  her lip. 

"Because of course you do," Lilly said with an eye roll. 

Emma smiled innocently. "Is there a way I can sneak away at some point?" She batted her eyes and Lilly snorted. 

"Yes, of course there is," Lilly sighed, annoyed. "But getting a chance to while fielding my Mother and Cruella is going to be tricky for you. After this, that is. Enjoy the reprieve while you have it."

"Oh no, really?" Emma let herself whine. While unbecoming, it worked effectively well for Lilly, and was fair turnabout. "Lilly, will you buy me some time? You owe me for last night."

Lilly's eyes became more cool, and calculated. She looked at Emma conspiratorially, pointing up a finger before wagging it in her direction. "Alright. One condition though." 

"Sure, I guess?" Emma said with a slight shrug. Realizing the current situation, she let herself float her toes up and down in the water in slow kicks, adding with a little edge of warning, 

"Just don't be weird" 

Lilly nodded, looking away. The Dragon collected herself, looking resolute as she began to speak in a slow and careful manner. "You've heard a lot about how much people want you to do this, but today you are going to hear some of the why. I want you to hear my reasons." Taking a deep breath, she continued while obviously trying to keep from speaking too fast. "I don't love Mushu. He's like a brother to me, a truly close friend, but I don't and have never loved him. I don't believe he feels anything for me either, but I don't care to know in fear of sympathy winning me over. We simply don't have any other options - the royal lineage either goes on, or dies with me. Unless we escape. Unless somewhere, pockets of dragons survived that did not follow the call of our elders - then I am like you, forced into a loveless marriage."

Emma had to bite off the urge she had to scoff. 

"I mean, not quite, but sure I guess. What other reasons are there?" 

"There's a lot, Emma. A whole lot. This barrier is killing us, and killing any chances of a future for the entire island." Lilly grimaced, closing her eyes. "I hate everything that the pressure from all sides under it has made us become; made me become. I hate what it's done to my family."

"I’m truly sorry, Lilly. I will try to consider this as I make my decision." Emma patted her hand, and Lilly smirked, pawing an eye. 

"Yeah," Lilly bit out, the teasing quality in her voice softer. "As I pressure you. Fiore, there's no end in sight. Come, let us at least get this tension lifted from our shoulders."

She rose along with a few others, stepping into beautiful thick silk robe like dresses held by attendants. Emma followed, letting herself be ushered into a small room with a table in the center, a paneled paper divider opening revealing a room beyond that with the same layout as the first. With the divider pushed in to halve the start of the room, Emma was led to the further table while Lilly was disrobed. Emma's attendant followed by taking her own robe, laying Emma down so she could only see Lilly's head and shoulders her own attendant was pouring oil over her upper back. Emma felt the liquid slip over her own, flinching, before practiced fingers pressed long held tension away. She tried not to moan loudly, her body coiled tight since before she had fallen into this world. 

Neither Lilly or the attendants were conversationalists, nor were there interruptions, leading Emma to daydream contently like she had done before falling through the portal into this world. After what felt like only a few minutes, Lilly's snoring joined the quiet sounds of hands working their bodies, and Emma let herself doze in and out, feeling safe for the first time in… 

A part of Emma struggled to give the answer, torn. It should have been before Nil, and before her life was thrown off its natural course, but the truth that had popped immediately into her mind confused her. As did the fact her daydreaming kept leading her to strange places, and thoughts that were untoward, childish, and ridiculous. The last time she felt safe was much more recently, to only the last night Killian laid next to her. She'd woken from the same recurring nightmare, Nil advancing just a bit further each time, but Killian had been there immediately with his arms around her tightly. 

He'd mumbled a mixture of soft, soothing things in a rough voice heavy with sleep, letting her face lay against his chest so she could hear his steady heartbeat, feel his breathing, bringing herself to calm as his nose buried in her hair. There was a sort of intense intimacy in that, and she had woken when he had begun to pull away gradually, slowly even. He began growing more fitful and Emma had struggled not to wonder if it was because he wasn't tired, but if instead… If whatever part of him that governed sleep, governed the way his innuendos had stopped, or governed the way he was when he was drunk enough to hold her close had wanted him to stay that way. Either way, she had felt cozy, and fiercely protected by him. 

Her daydreaming was not protected from him though, and had been wandering to the feel of his hands on her thigh, the way she knew his lips were soft, the secret way his fingers trailing from her curls to trace patterns on her shoulder when he comforted her, and what it might be like to have the silly idea that he felt even the slightest attraction to her be not so silly. Graham had once brought her flowers, before her father's intervention, but Emma wondered if he would court her in the modern ways of the world outside the barrier, the ways of the strict rules her parents might expect, or even the traditions here that were bits of both with their own unique twists. Killian would be a gentleman no matter how long the path the courtship was, and for that reason she felt even more longing for him. 

Maybe Lilly was right and they did both want each other? Emma drifted further into the pleasure of that idea, even as noise started in Lilly's room. The eventual heated tone and rising volume of an argument brought Emma back from her musings with quickness. 

"She should meet her, Father Isaac says to have faith and I have. I've been faithful since both sets of our parents were taken, and I've been faithful waiting for Aurora. This is a chance for her. It's like she isn't even there anymore. I can't even remember the blue of her eyes, her eyes used to be blue, almost violet. Now they're that wretched, empty, gray - "

"Phillip, be calm and be silent, I'm working on it. I don't want to pressure her and all of you are making it very difficult," Lilly hissed lowly. "Trust me, I want this as much as you, but we can't just tell them that this is a potential outcome when they don't understand."

" I don't understand. I don't understand why it feels like Aurora isn't even in there anymore. I miss her so much; we were trying to start a family and then this happened. When she gets back, if she gets back, how much time will be left?" The man's voice was growing more plaintive, and Emma tried to control her breathing to maintain the illusion she was sleeping. Her attendant hesitantly moved away, and Emma risked a glance at Lilly's room. 

The Dragon was in another of the heavy silken damask robe dresses speaking with an angry looking man, one who could only be Phillip. He was tall and broad, deep chestnut hair and a boyish face that was well tanned. Next to him stood a husk, its black cowl and mask still even as Phillip gesticulated. 

Emma had felt the strangeness of the husks pull before, attributing it to the island's own unique feeling of arcane forces. Everything on the island pulled at her, as if the ground was trying to absorb the very elements it was created from, starved of its own power. The husks were like this, but with the force of a cyclone, a gaping maw of a vacuum that demanded to be filled. This husk was no different, the stillness of it betrayed by how it gave off a dark and desperate feeling of need. 

"Please, you need to -" 

"I don't need to do anything, especially when you aren't even included in the lottery!" the man yelled. 

"Yes," Lilly drawled, sounding annoyed but dismissive. "Being on the door of extinction as a species is the epitome of an exit strategy. Bravo Phillip, you figured it out."

"Lilly, you know what I mean! I don't know how anyone else does it. She isn't Aurora anymore; she doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't talk or smile or sing - I miss her singing. I used to complain about her singing all the time and now, and now I -" 

"We need to talk somewhere else; the princess is going to wake up and I'm going to have to -" 

Emma's attendant closed the screen between their rooms, separating them once again, and leaving Emma alone as the voices carried out into the hall. The silence was not broken by any attendant, and Emma rose quietly to sit. A beautiful dress of her own sat out, in the same traditional style as Lilly's. It was a soft violet, patterned with swans, and cherry blossom blooms. Lilly had helped her tie the previous dress in the style they wore, a thick bow on the back accented with sparkling ropes that ended in beading or bells, but Emma found it was very difficult to do herself. With a few muttered curses, she managed to get it in some type of semblance just as she heard shuffling steps on the other side of the divider.

"Lilly is that you?" she called quietly. The answering noise of a soft keen came from the other room. Emma huffed out a breath as she tried to adjust the bow again. "Oh, good. Will you help me with this? I'm afraid I have it a bit askew."

The footsteps shuffled slowly to the sliding door, waiting there. Lilly let out a small moaning noise, and Emma rolled her eyes as she walked to the door herself, holding the dress in place the best she could with one hand. She attempted to push the sliding door, but it did not budge, Lilly's side holding fast. 

"Lilly, is your side stuck?" Emma asked, surprised at how quiet Lilly was being. As she thought about it, she wondered if the argument between Phillip had gone so poorly as to mollify her friend into contrition, a feeling of intense anger and upset pouring from the other side of the door. Emma swallowed hard, ready to hold knowing about the fight tightly to her chest until it could be used to her advantage. If Lilly was involved in any sort of trickery, it might be easier to coax it out with this information. The thought made her sad, but it wasn't as if it was unlikely. 

Lilly rasped something on the other side of the door, Emma's ears unable to make it out. Another soft moan followed, and a strange 'Ah' sound was heard as the divider door rattled. Emma pressed again, but the divider screen stuck firmly on its track, not sliding to open at all. Lilly was holding it shut. 

"Lilly, this isn't funny. What are you playing at?" Emma grunted, pushing harder, but the door did not give despite her best efforts. Lilly held fast on her side, her breathing heavy. Emma felt uneasy, letting go of the screen as a chorus of whispers and strange moans broke out in many voices behind the door where Lilly stood. 

The lights in Emma's room, a few simple paper lamps, went out suddenly all at once as the divider door began to rattle. From the brightness of the other room, shadows showed against the paper, people filling the space as they pressed against the divider wall, hands silently beating and clawing. Emma's hands covered her mouth as she backed up further, until she ran into the table she had been sitting on, the rattling of the door becoming louder. The voices converged, no longer whispering but now many chanting the same words against the paper.  

"Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Hungryyyy…!" 

The rattling stopped, the lamps in the other room going out. The divider stood dark in the pitch of the room, everything silent but Emma's thundering heart. As her eyes adjusted, she heard the door slowly slide open, her panic at what lie behind too much, too much, something was in that shadow waiting - 

The door slid open fully, revealing nothing on the other side. Emma let out a nervous laugh, her hands shaking as she lowered them. Taking deep breaths, she steadied herself, and began to put things together. 

This was obviously a Kitsune trick, Lilly most likely involved as well. It wasn't as if she shouldn't have expected it; Lilly had warned her enough times about their prankster ways and Emma's own distinct lack of popularity. 

Walking toward the door to leave, she was surprised to meet a solid black wall as she bounced back from it. The divider was blocked by a black surface, that when pressed was slightly opaque as it let her hand sink slightly. It reminded her of the Selkies flesh when they wore their pelts, the blubbery skin letting her hand sink a bit as she petted. This was not soft or furry like that however, but like that of a great mottled toad. Emma pulled her hand away and it came back wet, a black viscous slime sticking to her palm. She flicked it away, taking a step back and letting her other hand card over her face and into the crown of her hair. 

Wet and warm gunk fell on her hand and into her hair, her fingers pulling away in shock as she examined the sticky, clear, bubbled slime. It looked like some sort of saliva, strangely enough - Another glob hit her head, and she looked up. 

The husk mask was in the middle of the ceiling on a great thing , its mass huge and stretched. Black spider like arms pressed to the corners to hold its own bloated weight, its torso was stretched up through the divider, like some sort of slug. Under the mask, a dark mouth opened displaying broad, flat, teeth the size of dinner plates. A tongue lolled out slowly, dripping more thick dollops of drool. 

A single small 'Ah' came from its throat, causing Emma's eyes to go wide with terror. She felt rooted on the spot, unable to move; a glance down quickly confirming another set of arms had wrapped around her, a hand with two long fingers encircling her body. The thing smiled at her with its uneven teeth, lifting her as she tried to remember how to scream. 

"Hungry!" it roared, Emma finally shrieking in its grasp as its long tongue wrapped around her and she was plunged into its mouth. 

Images assaulted her, the smell of the creature acrid, musky, and cloying. 

An older woman sipping tea with deep wrinkles around her brown eyes. A dark haired man making smoke rings, his young son clapping at the shapes. A woman with a patient smile and raven curls tucking in the beds of children she has taken in to mother, afraid of nothing more than orphaning them again. A man with a beard and mustache the color of wetted stone, his eyes tired but posture proud. A beautiful maiden singing while gathering blueberries, her golden blonde hair catching on the sunlight as birds sung along. An older boy playing ball on the shore, shaggy hair in his eyes as he ran, his grin huge. A plump woman with reddish curls and a saucy smile, throwing tiles in some sort of game. A sullen young man with a shock of red hair, his tall height able to reach books in the library he needed. 

The voices grew louder still, her head pounding and ears ringing. 

"HUNGRY. HUNGRY!" 

A soft, melodious woman's voice sung through the noise, overcoming it. Emma recognized it as the tune she had heard in the strange vision of the woman picking blueberries. Her pretty words were hurried as if she was out of breath. 

  "Help us. Please, help us."

  The woman was swallowed by the noise again, the thing bellowing out its hunger as Emma felt its rage at being so hollow, desperate for anything to make it whole. It tore at itself as it screamed in fury, Emma's own screams lost under its cries. Hands clawed at her, shaking her as she struggled in the increasing pressure of the blackness; it would crush her surely, and soon she would be without air. 

A hard pinch on her side made her yelp, the noise fading as she opened her eyes to meet Lilly's look of annoyance. 

"What are you doing? Why are you down there freaking out like that?" she asked, pulling Emma up by her elbow. Shaking, Emma looked around the room, the husk standing in the corner with its face to the wall. Its mask lay on the floor between them, and Emma backed away as she pointed at it, unable to form words.

Lilly looked at the husk and shook her head. "Yeah, they do that sometimes. They like to be behind things, as if they find comfort in not seeing or not being seen. The masks help with that."

"No, no, that thing - it attacked me!" Emma blurted, and Lilly raised an eyebrow before laughing raucously. "Lilly, it tried to eat me or did, it was -" 

"Husks don't do anything unless you patiently, and I mean patiently, teach them. Even then, it can't be a complicated task or they'll wander off in search of some wall or cubby hole to stick their head in." Lilly shook her head as she giggled. "They don't eat or sleep, don't talk at all, so if you saw something it was most likely not her."

"But she - it did! It was a monster Lilly; it spoke to me and told me it was hungry. I don't know how I -" 

"If Aurora could speak, she would not have wasted her voice on you," a male voice said coldly. Phillip brushed past Lilly and into the room, sighing with frustration as he picked up the discarded mask. "If Aurora could speak, she'd talk to her husband who has been waiting for her to come back since she laid down in that cathedral and this took her place. She would answer when I ask her questions, where she went, if she's safe, and if she's coming back like she promised… she promised me… " His voice broke, and Emma looked down at her bare feet with shame. 

"Phillip, it was probably a Kit trick on her; she doesn't know about how difficult it is -" Lilly soothed, moving closer to Phillip. He instead turned, pulling the husk from the corner and facing it towards Emma. 

"Does this look like a monster to you?" he asked, his voice and body tense. 

The husk's face was visible in its habit, everything else swathed in black. She was pretty, her features familiar to Emma although it was difficult to place them or why the woman made her neck hair rise in nervousness. 

Emma shook her head indicating no, averting her eyes to once again look at her feet. 

"Kitsune wouldn't cross the line with this sort of prank. It could have gotten Aurora hurt, and she wouldn't be able to come back. No Kit would dare." He prodded a finger at Lilly, and she shifted uncomfortably. 

"If you're implying it was one of us -" Lilly began, her voice going steely. Phillip interrupted without pause. 

"I'm implying that I want no part in games, or politics any longer. This was a mistake." He held the husk a bit tighter, running a hand over the black fabric that covered her head. His voice softened. "I only want Aurora back." 

"I hope she comes back to you soon," Emma said lightly. "And I am sorry. I know what I saw, but never meant to -" 

"Keep the rest of your apology, princess. The beginning was enough," Phillip said coldly. He ushered the husk to the far door, its habit now askew revealing long golden blonde hair. Once placed back over her head, he placed the mask over where only her face was visible. Emma watched them go, now convinced that the woman with the blueberries who had sung and begged for help was none other than Aurora. 

Lilly interrupted her thinking. "So did you drink some special tea, or something? Or did you see smoke?" 

"Forget about it, Lilly," Emma whispered. "I… I think I'm ready to go have lunch with Killian. Can you help me steal away with a picnic basket?" 

"I can, but not for long. We slept through some of the minor traditions, so the next are really important. We have the communion with the spirits and the sacred tea ceremony before Chihiro drinks her own to traverse the veil." Lilly leaned against the table Emma had been massaged on, thinking hard. "My mother and Cruella surely have plans to grill you before that. You'll have to be quick, and leave as soon as we finish the bell ceremony in the cathedral."

"I can be. Also, not to be terribly rude, but…" Emma bit her lip and displayed her very askew and barely secured dress for Lilly's appraisal. "I would very much like to wear something that does not require so much tying and folding, please."

Lilly rolled her eyes, pursing her lips. Dragging Emma to a closet near the entrance of the bath house, she pulled out a few dresses before pushing them back in the overfilled space. Finally she found one that suited her discernment, giving it to Emma. 

"This will work. Red protects from bad spirits, and collects energy. It gives power. It suits you." Lilly helped Emma out of her dress (what Lilly called a Yukata, and Emma sighed in defeat at Lilly's, pristine and tied tight) and into the red dress. It was barely corseted, which seemed to be in favor here on the island, with a square neckline and a flare at the hips that led to a full skirt. The red was a deeply pigmented crimson, the sleeves and way the dress fit on her body as if it was made for her. 

Lilly walked with her to the cathedral, a picnic basket hidden between their skirts that they had pilfered from the kitchens in the bathhouse. 

"So we drink this tea, to commune with spirits, and Chihiro drinks a special blend of it?" Emma whispered as they walked along the path to another ornate building. Lilly nodded. "Why?" 

"The tea allows her to traverse the veil, gaining power and trust from the other spirits. She will undergo trials that allow her to command a targeted attack of the barrier, which can only be achieved by strengthening herself," Lilly intoned.  

Entering the cathedral was like being thrown into ice water. The power that lurked there and the energy made her feel queasy, the ever present feeling of wrongness heightened and magnified under the splendor of its roof. She ran to see Killian, but was cornered before she could explain anything, led back by Lilly and her mother. 

It was enough to send Emma into an uneasy conflict with herself and the power of her magic. The scope of how broken the barrier spell seemed to be, the chaotic anger of the spirits chipping away at it, how magic itself was decaying in swaths underneath it along with the population - the mounting pressure was enormous without the heavy handed encouragement of the involved parties. Later, she stumbled out of the cathedral without grace into the fresh air, her mind full of questions. A fair of sorts was being set up while the Maiden began her sleep, and Emma walked among the tents idly looking at the sugar sculptures, glass beads, dream catchers, and charms while trying to seek out Killian, finding him nowhere. 

She saw him turn the corner out of the corner her eye, spinning to look to where he had gone, but he seemed to round the opposite corner in the reflection cast by a gilded hand mirror in a booth. Emma felt herself getting lost even among the small amount of vendors, following phantoms that turned out to be mist with frustration. A hand caught her shoulder, and with relief she turned to find Killian smirking at her. 

"Looking for someone, pet?" he teased, and she sighed through a huff at his humor at her expense. In the light, his hair seemed to gleam silver, almost white, but she shook off the strange ideas that seemed to be whispered in the air surrounding them, surprised by the boldness of her imagination. It was not the time to think about how silky his uncut fringe would be between her fingers, or how soft he'd kiss below her neck if she was someone he wanted. 

"Princess?" Killian whispered salaciously, as if reading her thoughts. Emma's knees seemed to grow suddenly weaker, to her great concern, but that only made her resolve grow stronger. 

Straightening her shoulders, she spoke firmly as not to be tongue tied. "I felt unsettled, and I came to you. I have to ask of you to help me make a decision. Do you think I should take Chihiro's place and undergo this rite myself? Do you believe that it will help both sides?"

"It's the best thing we've got to get them allied to our cause. Give them everything you have. You have a reputation for being the Savior to live up to, after all." He was acting strangely, his usual nervous ear scratch replaced by scratching at his neck. His nails seemed sharper, but the light was poor as the sun fell. Emma laid a hand on his and he flinched away, bowing his head slightly. He buried a hand in his hair, looking bashful, before taking a deep breath to look at her with a sort of pride. 

"Love, if you think helping the denizens of this isle is a worthy endeavor, who am I to ever argue with you? When have you been wrong, Swan? When have you not risen above your challenges?" He searched her face, and for a moment she thought Lilly might be right about him feeling something. The idea made her stomach flutter with hope. 

Emma sighed. "You're right, Killian." 

He stepped closer, and her heart felt as if it might pound out of her chest. He'd been so forward here, but she never thought or would have even guessed that he had any interest in her, or intentions. Emma let him fill her space, the idea of him wanting to court her, or the thought of the thousands of ridiculous romances she was able to have Ruby sneak her into the castle and the scenarios therein, made her think longingly of what she possibly wanted. That is, possibly wanted with him . 

"I know. I have no fear for you either, so take that as reassurance. After you succeed, it will be easy to take on the Darkness… and we could…" Her heart skipped a beat, Killian slipping an arm around her waist, tipping her chin up and stroking her cheek. It was as if there wasn't enough air in her lungs. Blushing, she fell forward into him slightly because of dizziness. It was so warm, the night air not cooling her skin any longer, and indecent thoughts of everything he could do to her were like a spring garden's flowers, ready to be picked. 

Emma tried to speak, but couldn't find the words to do so. She settled for breathing his name out on a whisper, watching him smirk. As the wind blew gently, his eyes softened. 

"We can talk about something more, what comes next. A future." His whisper while laying his forehead against her own was so tender. 

"I'd like that." She smiled. 

"Hurry now love. Don't leave Isaac waiting, they'll need you as soon as possible."

"I'll be seeing you soon, Killian."

He gave her a wave, and she did not hear him whisper under his breath, his voice becoming a feminine purr. 

"Sweet dreams, princess."

  *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

  Emma was found wandering the beach in a silken gown, with no memories of how she had gotten there. The village on the island was abuzz with it; nothing like the strangeness that her arrival heralded happened in the Blackwater, excitement in short supply. Not only was she a wisp of a thing, but she could not be a day older than seven or eight to his eleven or Liam and Elsa's fourteen. Liam had taken him to the shore to watch alongside the others as Isaac held her hand, helping her off the small beach and up the cliff side. There, hidden in the trees where no one could see, Emma Swan looked at him for the first time, her green eyes like another forest he could lose himself in. His father and mother had chastised him over dinner - worrying about some peasant girl was not fitting for his social stance as a Blackwater lordling. 

The next time he saw her, she was dancing at a harvest ball, her hair braided with autumn leaves and ribbon. It had been several years, his interest in girls going slightly beyond love notes and hand holding if that. She still drew his eyes, spinning lazily in her embroidered gown, looking like a falling blossom. Even Liam had been caught by her spell, and Killian had secretly hated him for his boldness and smooth confidence as he walked toward her. 

She froze when Liam asked her for a dance, looking at him with such confusion, as if he was a ghost. Sir Isaac ushered her away, and Killian shrugged. Liam told him later that the petrified girl had told him that he wasn't real, and had asked for Killian by name. She hadn't used proper titleage or etiquette, just his name again and again more shrill in each utterance, until Isaac took her to rest at his home. 

No one could say what happened, other than she was ill. Some said that she mumbled madly about both the future and the past, events that would come to pass or secrets that she should not know. Tongues wagged in the Blackwater; finding the truth therein was like finding a needle in a haystack. 

The seasons changed, no questions answered, and Emma was rarely around to create enough intrigue for questioning. The questions stopped eventually as she became the village herbalist, sending her wares down the mountain from her cliffside cabin with her friend Lilly. His good friend and the Lady of the Baelfire side of the Isle, Milah, confessed she had never bought Emma's strange remedies - but she credited that to her renouncing witchcraft in all forms, her name safe from spells and mind safe from the sale of esoterics. 

Magic ran rampant through the Blackwater, as they were all Fae, but it was taboo to do more than simple charms or common place spellwork. Potions, incantations, divining the future, enchanting, and the many manners of magic Emma did easily made her an outcast - and Milah agreed with the townsfolk that Emma was in league with a Demon, making her a witch. Rumors swirled that the Demon had stolen her sanity as payment for her skills. On some nights if you looked to the cliffs, a strange glow in many different colors radiated from Emma's small cabin. That did little to quell rumors. 

Life in the village went on. Killian and Milah grew closer, and they fell in love in a whirlwind romance that seemed to take the entire Blackwater with it. Their marriage was expected, and easily approved. As soon as their small home was up near the library Killian dutifully cared for, his brother followed suit. Liam and Elsa married, much to his father’s, Ingrid's, and Nemo's delight. His mother was gone for several years now, but he thought she would be proud of her children. 

Unlike the intimate affair Killian had held, the entire village was present for Liam’s marital feast. 

Including Emma. 

Her hair was in a wild braid, her dress without corseture or boning, flowing in swaths of mossy green cotton. Her fingers were stained in different colors, ranging from ochre to blackberry, crimson to indigo. 

And her eyes. They were suddenly the brightest green Killian had ever seen. 

Milah begged him not to say hello to Emma, making a symbol with her thumb, index and smallest finger that likened the woman with having horns. Like the rest of the villagers, her belief that Emma was a Demon-led witch held strong, even as they bought her herbal remedies from Lilly. Killian obliged, as not to upset his wife. In the end it was wise. As his brother stood to give a toast with Elsa looking on in adoration, there was a struggle in the back of the room. Emma was wild eyed, pointing at Liam and Elsa. 

"This is - it's impossible, this doesn't - please I don't understand, this isn't real! Someone help, why is this being shown to me? I need to get out of here, these are ghosts, memories - They aren't real! You are dead! Dead!" 

Emma's cries brought gasps from the crowd, with Nemo, Lilly, and Isaac pulling her from the room. Milah shook her head and muttered a prayer; the herbalist herself confirming the rumors that she had bouts of madness. Sir Isaac and Lilly desperately tried to keep her as rooted in reality as possible, but it was clear that she could not handle this event for whatever reason. She was calmed with a jacket and gag Isaac had made, sitting in the back where the sight would not disturb anyone. Although Killian thought it was barbaric to tie someone into sitting quietly (even in a wheeled chair), he thought that Emma was lucky enough to find an adoptive family like Sir Isaac and Lady Cruella. 

A strange feeling of wrongness fell on him, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. They were Fae, they should be able to heal her, heal each other, even in matters of madness. The thought had barely crossed his mind when Milah pulled him into a dance. As they spun with the other guests, Emma's eyes met his, Milah and him both laughing at Ingrid's clumsy footwork as she danced nearby. To his surprise, Emma smiled at them with the saddest look he had ever seen before she was wheeled away, disappearing into the crowd. 

That night he dreamed of Emma, even as Milah slept next to him in their marital bed. 

"You have to. You have to, before she's gone." 

Killian felt his mouth go dry, looking down at Emma's sleeping form. "This was a bad deal Lilly. You were supposed to be her friend, why did you let her do this?" 

"I fucked up. Please. You have to save her before she turns her into a shell of what she was or worse; you have to get her out of there. There's a potion, a sleeping draught or something - I don't know. I tried it and was able to get to her; but it's dangerous. She can -"

"I don't care. We can't stand around here while she… While she… I can't believe you did this, and that she agreed. Of all the stupid ideas to follow through on -" 

"Killian, it's not like I had a choice!" Lilly snapped. Killian glared, his anger threatening to boil over. 

"Bullshit, Lilly. Whatever you have to tell yourself, right?"

"Just listen. I was going to get her out, but you don't understand. My mother, Cruella, Isaac - none of them have seen anything like this. You can lose yourself in there; it takes over everything, rewriting your entire existence." 

"Then I'll lose myself happily. She'd already be doing that for me if it were me." 

"And for me. I hope Emma never forgives me," Lilly sniffed. 

Killian felt his jaw clench, something in his head clawing at his thoughts as he pushed it away. "That would make two of us, but she will. Emma is too good for the likes of us."

He woke with a start, Milah slightly stirring as he tried to remember the fragmented bits of the dream that lingered. 

Years passed, and Emma interacted with the village in small, rare, interactions. She bought food sparingly, but more often than not, Lilly bought it for her. The village was quiet, and Emma was too unpredictable, too loud. Killian professed sympathy for her, and Milah agreed that the herbalist truly had a terrible fate. 

Then Milah fell ill. 

It was nothing like he'd ever seen, as if she was being erased, her body falling apart quickly and her vibrancy muted. She became a shell, her fatigue and pain without relief until Milah let him try Emma's wares. A salve gave Milah almost instant comfort, and Killian bought as much as he could. As Milah deteriorated, they required more and more until they were out both at home and at the small stall where Lilly peddled her wares. When he asked for more, Lilly raised an eyebrow. 

"You could ask Emma. She does make the rare house call for extreme cases," Lilly whispered behind a cupped hand. 

So, Killian climbed the mountainside, up to the cliff Emma's cabin stood on. He peered in, noting how sparsely furnished the space was. There was no one inside, so he made his way to the back, following soft singing. Wearing a paint splattered cotton gown that did nothing to hide her body's shape, Emma stood with a brush grasped lightly in her fingers. Her hair was long and thrown back into an unkempt tumble of curls with no bonnet in sight, no corseture around her waist, and her feet were bare in the warm evening as she sang. 

Killian watched her paint in small strokes, tongue poking out as she finished and wiped her palms together with a clap. Her song abruptly ended and she turned to face him. 

"You're here," she said quietly. 

Her eyes were still so very green. 

"I… Beg pardon?" Killian shook his head, confused by why she seemed to stun him. For the first time things felt real, the moss and rocky soil on his feet even more so. "I'm here for -" 

"For Milah's medicine, yes. It's on the table there." She nodded her head to a small clay jar. He opened it, looking at the strange paste inside. Who had told her he was in need of it? 

"How did you -" 

"Not important. What is important, Killian, is that this will only help her for a day or two." Killian looked at the jar in his hand, terrified. Yes, Milah was getting worse, but days left? There was no way. Emma looked unflappable, her face empathetic. 

"What's wrong with Milah?" 

"It's complicated. She's wasting away, and I can't, she's - all I can do is slow it down. I'm so sorry, I know you both are so happy, and if I could do more I would. I can see how much you dream of a long life with her, and how scared you are of losing her." Emma seemed upset by his inquiry, and began to fidget. "I could possibly extend things longer if I was there, but… This will make things more comfortable. Less nightmarish."

"I'll ask Isaac, I'll beg -" 

"Lilly is a better bet. She sneaks me out to the beach, or makes distractions, and covers for me. She could… cover for me to help you."

"I'll ask her to, and to watch out for Isaac for us, but you'll come, right? Please say -" Killian began. Emma hushed him quietly. 

"Of course. I can't imagine how much of a torture this is, and I'm sorry. I'm trying to make it better, I don't want this fear to hurt you. I just - I don't know how any of this is happening, but while it is, I don't want you to -" Emma stopped and closed her eyes, lip caught in her teeth, as if collecting her thoughts. "I don't want either of you to hurt. I never want you to hurt, and I try to stop it when I can, when I see them try to punish me or you. You're real aren't you? If I can keep you happy, it will be alright, and you'll be alright." 

"I don't - uh. I don't know what that means, Swan," he admitted, scratching behind his ear. Blinking out of her outburst, Emma sighed, kicking dirt with her bare toes. She nodded, looking downcast. 

"Have Lilly send for me as soon as she can."

The look of tired misery in eyes that matched the moss haunted him the entire way home, sitting on his shoulder and whispering strange thoughts into his brain. 

One whisper stood out from the others, and he wasn’t sure if it was true or imagined, though he’d swear it was truth : Emma’s canvas had been filled with one of his own, very blue, eyes. 

[thewillowbends]

If you don’t mind the question, how/(in what way(kind of dynamic)) do you ship Obikin? I ship it too but find myself surprisingly picky when it comes to fanfiction.

In general: I ship Obikin.

Caveat: I only ship it in VERY specific ways that most writers can’t accomplish to my satisfaction.

Second caveat: Obianidala > Obikin for me.  There are only certain circumstances I accept it without her because I feel Padme gets written out enough of her own story as is and, well, it’s a lot more interesting if she and Obi Wan have to quarrel constantly with what they think is the right way to handle Anakin.

Anakin and Obi Wan love each other, but they have a pretty fucked up relationship, no getting around that.  There’s codependence and there’s abuse and there’s role confusion and emotional repression and serious communication issues, and it’s a giant mess, as canon has well indicated.  Inserting sexual attraction and romantic feelings is not going to fix that.  It is, in fact, going to make it even more fucked up because Anakin has enough issues with self-esteem and empowerment around authority that going down on his former superior and vaguely paternalistic figure is not going to be healthy for him.  It’s not as if Obi Wan is going to be able to turn that off automatically, either, since fuck knows he’ll never pass up a chance to be a sarcastic, patronizing asshole (which I love about him, don’t get me wrong).

For me, the ideal Obikin/OTP3 fanfiction acknowledges ALL of these issues and does something interesting with it.  It should acknowledge that things will never be perfect.  Anakin is a mess.  Sans Vader, he would have still been a mess.  The chance for him to be perfectly well adjusted was destroyed by merit of his birth.  The chance for him to be BETTER adjusted was denied by the repressive and toxic environment of the Jedi Order.  (I honestly don’t care if it worked for other Jedi, NOT acknowledging the comparatively traumatic differences of Anakin’s childhood and failing to deal with it accordingly was problematic, if not arguably abusive.)

At the same time, for the relationship to have any real grounding that doesn’t fill Anakin with persistent anxiety, Obi Wan would have to admit how he feels in a way that is overt and blunt and responsive to Anakin’s intense fears of abandonment.  That means overcoming literally a lifetime of psychological conditioning that tells him such attachments are dangerous and unfit for a proper Jedi.  It’s going to take one hell of an incentive for him to do that, not only because being a Jedi is literally all Obi Wan has ever known, but because it took the literal destruction of the Jedi Order and fall of the Republic at the hand of his best friend for Obi Wan to have an impetus to examine his beliefs. Obi Wan and Anakin are very much in love with the idea of each other than they are the reality.  A marriage, so to speak, would require them to face those delusions and idealistic views of one another and start to address the real problems in their relationship.  There’d be anger.  There’d be resentment.  There’d be the realization that they really were failing each other in different ways and it needed to be addressed.  The best outcome for them still involves some level of fuckery that just happens to work for all of them in a way that manages to stabilize Anakin but isn’t messed up enough that it wouldn’t inevitably implode down the line.  

Also: notice how a lot of this is about Anakin, yeah?  The guy is a black hole of need sucking everyone in and forcing them to provide the emotional and moral stability in his life.  In a world where Anakin never falls, I see Obi Wan and/or Padme going through a period where they realize they’re seriously struggling maintain their own personal lives and identities without being subsumed by Anakin’s many issues.  Eventually, counseling just really wouldn’t be an option without the relationship falling apart.

Also: there’s going to be a potentially serious problem when Anakin is living and loving two people to whom he’s a junior and falling into the trap of letting them run his life because he has a naturally passive personality.  Being passive is not a terrible thing, but for Anakin it’s linked to a whole host of psychological issues in terms of how he’s been taught to frame the world since childhood between “masters” and “slaves” “subordinates,” so I could definitely see that becoming an issue with Padme and/or Obi Wan being more assertive and bringing out the passive aggression in Anakin as he struggles to rebel against their authority while fearing alienating them.

So now that I’ve vomited lots of words about how I like to watch two fictional men fuck, let me give you the tiny list of authors who write it the way I like it:

1.) @cadesama - Burnt Edges is like my gold standard ObiAniDala.  Like, all of the problems and issues I’ve listed above get explored and then some, and it doesn’t pretend to end on a perfectly agreed note, either.  The Bones of What You Believe is also excellent and an example of how I can deal with Obikin if Amidala isn’t in the picture but is still part of the picture.  Read them here.

2.)  Calicokat (who is sadly off tumblr now) wrote it really well, though her stories were written before TCW came out and softened some of how fandom perceived Anakin, so there’s a decidedly bitterer tone to them.  You can find her older stuff here and here.

3.) @xpityx (I think this tumblr is the same as the ao3 author, apologies if I improperly tagged!) - She’s only written two, but I really, really like the curious interplay of ObiAniDala where it’s essentially Obikin and Anidala coexisting peacefully within an arrangement.  It’s perhaps the most optimistic take I’m willing to accept on it.  Read it here.

As a final note, I want to assure you that while I’m picky about it (these three are really the only ones I’ve read thus far that deeply resonate with me and how I like it written), I read plenty of Obikin and ObiAniDala that isn’t perfect.  I mean, I’m a queer woman.  I’ll take my gay romance where I can find that, but that’s what they are to me: gay romance novels.  The characters may share their looks and names with the SW characters, but they aren’t really the same characters and I just generally read it thinking of it as an original novel.