#| this cosmic insignificance ( words lasting only a moment )

[hathyogi]

|| What Is A Mantra? How It Connects You With The Cosmos? Working Mechanism Explained ||

What is a mantra?

The term "mantra" originates from two Sanskrit roots, namely 'manas' which signifies the mind, and 'tra' which denotes an instrument. Essentially, a mantra functions as a tool of the mind, producing a potent sound or vibration that facilitates deep meditation. In mantra yoga, faith and devotion towards the mantra's deity are crucial elements that unlock its transformative potential.

How a mantra came into existence?

In a dialogue between Bhagawan Shiva and Maa Parvati, Parvati raised a question about people's unawareness of their own ignorance. She asked, "What can they do?" In response, Shiva emphasized the importance of staying connected to the universal energy, the ultimate source of wisdom. He explained, "For the source possesses all the knowledge that anyone seeks."

Shiva revealed, "The simplest way is to choose any sound from my damaru." He explained that everything in its current existence originated from those very sounds. Thus, the mantras came into being through the resonance of Shiva's damru.

How does the mechanism of a mantra operate?

To comprehend this, it is necessary to understand the functioning of the universe and the human mind.

Every utterance and thought we express possesses the potential to impact our lives and the lives of others. Words of encouragement, spoken at the opportune moment, can serve as lifelong inspiration, while unkind and hostile words can leave lasting scars. Even the conversations that transpire within our minds can significantly alter our self-perception and our perception of others.

The universe, too, can be envisioned as a living entity comprised of numerous interconnected components. Each planet functions as a vital element within this expansive cosmic organism. Though seemingly insignificant, every constituent holds importance. Just as removing individual grains of sand gradually depletes a heap, each entity, no matter how minute, contributes to the entirety. Correspondingly, both positive and negative words have the capacity to impact every individual and aspect within the universe. The inception of the ancient discipline of mantras was not a random occurrence.

Enlightened sages of the past recognized that both the human mind and the universe endure a constant barrage of words, encompassing both positivity and negativity. They understood that by amalgamating specific words together, forming mantras, they could exert influence over our lives and even shape the fabric of the universe itself. Moreover, the energy emanating from mantras is intended to attract the attention of the universal energy, thereby establishing a connection.

Mantra yoga serves as a pathway for strengthening our bond with this cosmic force. The science of mantras posits that by utilizing the appropriate words to train our minds, enhance our focus, and align ourselves with the divinity pervading the universe, we can transcend the negative tendencies that impede our progress. By harnessing the power of mantras, we can overcome obstacles and rise above limitations.

Every mantra encompasses three essential components, known as limbs or "Angas":

1. Devata: This refers to the deity who is revered and praised by the mantra.

2. Rishi: The seer or sage to whom the mantra was originally revealed.

3. Chandah: The specific meter or poetic structure in which the mantra is composed.

Furthermore, there are three distinct methods of chanting a mantra:

a. Vachika Japa: This involves chanting the mantra aloud, where the sound is audible not only to the chanter but also to those around them.

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b. Upanshu Japa: In this form of chanting, minimal movement of the tongue and lips is employed. The japa is audible only to the chanter and not to others.

c. Manasa Japa: It is the repetition of the mantra exclusively within the mind, accompanied by deep contemplation on its inherent consciousness. In manasa japa, neither the lips nor the tongue move, and even the chanter themselves cannot hear the japa.

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[jays-rus]

The final embrace

Summary: Heart-wrenching story of Anna and Joseph, whose love is tragically cut short as the world crumbles due to a catastrophic excavation and world wars. In their last moments, they share a final, tearful embrace, a poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of human existence.

____________________________

In a dimly lit room, Anna and Joseph clung to each other, seeking solace in their unbreakable bond as the world around them crumbled. Their final moments together were a heartbreaking reminder of a time when the Earth wasn't tearing itself apart, when they had their own white picket-fenced house and lived without the constant dread of impending doom.

Anna was a talented baker, passionate about her craft. Her bakery was renowned, drawing people from near and far for her delectable creations. It was in her bakery that she first met Joseph, a regular customer who quickly became more than just a familiar face. Their connection was immediate, and their love story unfolded over dates filled with laughter and shared dreams.

They married four years ago, in the year 2025, blissfully unaware of the impending catastrophe that would engulf their lives in 2029. Many had feared the world would end in 2012, but those predictions had proven false. Now, in 2029, as the Earth fractured due to a government-driven excavation gone awry, Anna and Joseph found their lives tragically cut short.

It wasn't solely the government's fault; the world was embroiled in World War IV, adding to the chaos and destruction. Humanity, it seemed, had failed to heed the warnings of the past, neglecting to address pollution, war, and unnecessary conflicts. The price for these oversights was steep, and Anna and Joseph, both at the tender age of 25, became star-crossed figures in a world coming undone.

As the earth shook and sirens wailed in the distance, Anna's tear-filled eyes met Joseph's gaze. Their house rumbled and trembled, its final moments upon them. In the midst of this heart-wrenching chaos, they exchanged words of love and regret, apologizing for past arguments that now seemed insignificant.

Huddled together, they clung to one another, knowing this was their final goodbye. In a world falling apart, they shared a final embrace, their atoms torn asunder.

In the ensuing silence, a profound sense of agony gave way to a realization. The universe, indifferent to their presence, would continue without them. Earth, no longer torn apart, would return to its cosmic dance.

They, like all of us, were here for only a brief moment, a fleeting spark in the grand tapestry of existence. It was a poignant reminder that our time is finite, and it can be abruptly cut short.

Their story, a testament to love in the face of devastation, became a poignant footnote in the history of a world that had forgotten the lessons of the past.

[syxjaewon]

‘worth it’ a solo

it’s jaewon, in case you’re wondering. he’s the one who fires the first shot and causes the ensuing chaos.

and of course he does, of course it’s him, of course he cannot stand to watch his crew trade itself like batting cards, argent’s words ‘two for the price of one’ still floating around behind his eyes like petulant phantoms, sneering and snarling and scratching at every edge of him, the lilt in that tone still mocking him despite the five hours since they were spoken, despite the kilometers traveled since then, despite the tense atmosphere and all the guns in the room aimed at him. it’s those words that sit on his chest nasty like a goblin, like a snake, like a spider threatening to weave him inside an iron-webbed trap, and he watches sonmi and neo approach while kafka steps away, his skin a thin film to encase his fury.

but for all their time spent watching the solar flair captain, they haven’t seemed to learn anything, haven’t noticed the way he stomps over webs and coils, plunges headlong into the maelstrom, catapults his way into danger, big black combat boot thundering against the catastrophe of the whole verse around him; he knows that space is cold, space is spinning out of control, space is unforgiving and hungry and greedy for blood, willing to drink him dry if he lets even a single drop of himself fall. he is a whirlwind of scars and devastations, more battles between his fingers than the ages of his crew, more ghosts tied to his ankles than the populations of entire planets, and if he can survive being shot point-blank in the chest by a girl he once loved, then what is this triviality? what does this argent have, what is he made of? thin and wraith-like, a presence like the devil himself, the man burns in jaewon’s irises, all coy and smiling, but the captain already knows he’s going to win-- what is the devil in comparison to hell itself incarnate?

the bullet launches from his gun, firing strategically towards the biggest of the lot, the one holding what jaewon gauges as the biggest, most powerful automatic machine gun in the room, finding a home square in the man’s temple, and a second later the enclosure erupts. jaewon is forced to duck, roll, spin out of the way as bullets and blasters flood into the two sides, screams and shouts ricocheting off the walls, some from his people, some from argent’s, but he does his best to keep the ratio in his favor, cutting throats and embedding bullets quickly and efficiently. he helps who he can, well-placed gunfire and knives, his practiced aim indenting into the enemy’s forces as deeply as possible, but he knows this isn’t enough and they will need to retreat eventually, especially since argent presumably owns this whole skyplex and reinforcements are already on their way. he can hear them all howling through the hallways beyond, hear the onslaught, hear the cries of dead soldiers in a valley somewhere, begging him to save them, begging him to bring them home, begging him to not let them all die here. he won’t let them all die here.

and then he catches a manic chuckle, the tut-tut-tutting of another machine gun somewhere from just beyond the corner of a crate he is crouching beside, the tune familiar enough to prick his senses, lift his fury to seething, his blood to boiling, his atmosphere on fire, and he re-fills his guns and decides he knows what he has to do, to ensure the safety of his crew, the safety of their exodus. this is going to hurt, this could incapacitate him, this could break him open and leave him stained against this foreign metal flooring, never to set foot on his own ship again, but he is a sun in the midst of the black, he is a perpetual burning man, he is a tower of stardust and rage and kalidasan heat, vallurian born and sand-scarred, the hymns of a thousand incense prayers lining his vertebrae, the scent of spice scorched into his bones, branded and bought, and he’d rather be dead than carry on with this tail threatening over their heads. freedom is what he fought for, freedom from every type of thumb, from every type of greed, from every type of asshole.

argent is standing on a high crate, his vantage point giving him a better eye-view of everyone in the room, unprotected except for the semi-automatic clutched in his arms, raining a hail of bullets down on anything that moves, a grin splitting his face in two like a horror story, and jaewon recognizes it as a stationary dare, the belief of invincibility making him stupid, that enough bullets in the air will keep everyone and anyone from even attempting to shoot at him. and if he were up against someone smaller, someone weaker, someone with watering eyes and self-preservation, someone who doesn’t blaze from every pore, hair and eyes and skin smoldering in effervescent sunshine, someone who doesn’t fill their lungs with meteors and gravities strong enough to rip planets to pieces and spaghettify atoms, he might have had a chance.

as it is though, this is yang jaewon, captain, sergeant, soldier, pirate, murderer, thief, blackened, seared, vulturous, and just as relentless as the spin of the universe, so he turns around the corner of the crate, all six feet of him on perfect display to the whole room for the four-second, suspended moment he needs for this task; teeth bared in a snarl, gold eyes shining, black boots, black coat, right arm long and outstretched, the gun in his palm cold and heavy and somehow a part of his hand as he aims, fires, feels the vibrations, the shock-waves echoing through his muscles. he catches one bullet in the thigh, three in his side, something grazing over his back, ripping at his clothes and his skin, a sharp, formless surge crashing into his shoulder, but the cartridge still leaves him half a second before all that and flies straight into argent’s neck, the spewing blood and damage ending his onslaught and giving jaewon enough satisfaction to last him the rest of this fight.

just before he takes another blaster surge to the gut and collapses.

worth it.

[blzzrdstryr]

Moth into flame. Yandere!Kaeya x gn!reader

Wordcount: 4k

A.N: It’s very self-indulgent, but I had this idea for 2 weeks now and needed to get it out. I’ve never written fanfiction and I am not a native speaker, so bear with me.

CW: Violence, unhealthy relationship

For as long as you know Kaeya, he feels different from other people. Odd in the way that empty alleyways and dark rooms are odd, a sense of barely concealed danger lurking underneath the layers of charm and friendliness. You always felt his darker nature, but never questioned it before - you are an adventurer after all, the danger is your thrill.

He must have known that you aren’t particularly repulsed by this side of him, as his friendly facade morphed into something darker right in front of you for a couple of times. You doubt a liar and an actor as skilled as he is would make such amateurish mistakes.

No, he can’t be ignorant about how his more ominous part is what makes your veins sing from the strange mix of fascination and fear. That must be why he kept flashing his less amiable side, enticing you further in his grasp, and you gladly took step after step in the carefully crafted trap he prepared just for you.

How could you not? Kaeya is charming and dangerous, like wildfire  and you are nothing but a moth, too blinded by his light to stop and just think.

And now, seeing an irrefutable, but faux proof of the crimes you didn’t commit in his hands, you feel it - how searing his casual coldness can be. Right now, Kaeya Alberich is no human in your heart, he is a small piece of abyss that made its way out of Khaenri’ahn ruins to drag you down the cosmic darkness, where you possibly truly belong.

***

Kaeya both loves and hates your first meeting and he avoids reminiscing about it. It sounds strange, right?

Back then he was still a part of Ragnvindr household and Diluc treated him like a brother, and maybe that is a small part of a reason why he feels such aversion to recalling it - those memories are tinted both by fond nostalgia and bitter loss, enough to make him itch for a bottle in his hand.

Both Kaeya and you were green rookies - a knight fresh from training and a beginner adventurer, accidentally teaming up against a gang of treasure hoarders. It all ended up with both of you victorious, but injured. Kaeya helped you to walk back to Monstadt as one of the criminal's bolts wounded your leg, enough to make you wince from pain at every step.

In the middle of the trail he suddenly grew bored from your barely suppressed pained expressions and soft pants, no matter how cute they were to him, and decided to carry you, just like the groom would carry his  bride. He quipped and joked about it, as he made his way to the city's general direction, and you laughed and made some witty remarks in return.

At the moment he didn't think too much of it - you were another adventurer in his eyes back then, a cute, but insignificant passerby in his life and he was just playing a role of gallant knight in shiny armor. Give it a week or two and he would forget your face and your name.

But he didn't.

Just as you were approaching city gates, a miracle happened - red vision materialized right in your hands. You clutched it tightly to the chest, a bright smile appearing on your face. You turned your head to Kaeya, and he could have swore you were using your newly acquired Pyro on him.

How else could he feel so warm inside all of a sudden?

He couldn't help but recall your smile for weeks after that.

***

Your second meeting happened when you were returning to Mondstadt after your first long expedition. Shortly after the word of your Pyro vision reached Cyrus' ears, he was dead set on sending you to Dragonspine to help other adventurers. You were hesitant at first, but then your natural thirst for thrill combined with a hefty pay he promised won over you, and here you were - carrying several stacks of starsilver, absolutely exhausted and frozen to the very bones walking back to Mondstadt.

To say that you were unprepared would be an understatement of the year - even with pyro vision the cold seemed absolutely unbearable and to make matters worse you almost had a run in with a frostarm lawachurl. To avoid hopeless fight, you had to hide behind the tall snowdrift, almost submerging your body in it, as you both admired and dreaded the ice cladden giant.

Nonetheless, you acquired all of the starsilver the adventure guild needed, and now you trekked through the forest as the sun started to set.

Straining your eyes to see through the heavy rain and approaching darkness you saw it - a bright red smudge against the dark tree bark and unmistakable scent of blood. Such stark contrasts were enough to shake off the tiredness. You slowly made your way to the source of the stench, both fearing and anticipating what may reveal itself to your curious eyes.

There was a silhouette of an injured man that started to slowly morph into a vaguely familiar figure as you got closer. Seeing that there was no threat, you threw your ore to the ground and ran to the unconscious person. It was that knight who helped you to defeat treasure hoarders, Kaeya.

He looked horrible - his normally rich bronze skin now looked ashen and grey from the bloodloss, the face that radiated smugness seemed as if it already belonged on the corpse, the blue vest that he was wearing dyed almost completely in purple from the bloodloss, but the most horrible thing was a shallow but wide gash on his chest.

Not wasting any second, you pulled out your trusty dagger, and sliced the vest to inspect the wound. As you pulled obstructing cloth away you noticed another detail - small burns, surrounding the gash, as if someone slashed Kaeya with something hot enough to scorch, but not hot enough to close the wound and most unexpectedly, faintly glowing blue orb. A cryo vision.

You sat on your knees to put his vision in your pocket and clean his wounds. It still bled, as you frantically searched for a way to close it your eyes fell on the small burns around the wound and suddenly a crazy idea popped up in your head.

With shaking hands you used a piece of sliced vest to muffle him and prevent Kaeya from accidentally biting his tongue off, and then you took the dagger again heating it up. You heard about cauterization from older adventurers, but hoped that you wouldn’t resort to using it.

Kaeya’s pained groans were muffled by the makeshift gag, yet it wasn’t enough to wake him. After you made sure that his bleeding stopped, you removed your outerwear and wrapped Kaeya up. You cursed, as you hoisted a heavier body on your back, an exhaustion you have forgotten moments ago hitting you with a renewed strength.

The path to the Mondstadt with a new burden on your back now felt ten times longer. Even if you two were barely an acquaintance, a cold coil of fear for Kaeya's life still set in the pit of your stomach, and it seemed that no amount of fire would make you feel warm again.

***

Waking up in the infirmary was one of the biggest surprises in Kaeya’s life.

There were times when he was sure of his imminent death - an abandoned shivering child all alone in the forest, a stranger in the strange land, a prince of nothing with the weight of the whole dying kingdom left on his shoulders; a rainy night reeking of death and loss, grief and fury burning him just as much as incandescent claymore, rapidly growing pool of bright red blood, just as red as a…

Kaeya was okay with dying - it would be a nice ending to his story. The dead saviour of an already dead nation, an outlander casted out from the only semblance of home he had. He liked the irony.

He could have asked for help right after the duel, calling out that person’s name, he knew that that person wouldn’t leave him if he was dying, but the possibility of seeing hatred in those eyes was too much for him. The second a fiery blade cut through his flesh was when Kaeya decided to die.

And honestly, he couldn't continue to live once he confirmed what kind of a monster he is - the first thing he felt when he saw Crepus Rangvindr, a person who took him in, kept him fed, warm, safe and clothed all these years, a person who loved him more than his own father did, slowly disintegrating under the strain of delusion Kaeya felt no sadness. No, a relief, as if he was freed of a tiresome burden came instead.

Kaeya was disgusted and horrified for even experiencing such feelings in the first place, but he also couldn't do anything with it - for the last few years he was torn apart between Mondstadt and his homeland, and Crepus’ death should have solved his internal dilemma, driving the final nail in the coffin.

Sometimes he felt as if he was no person at all, just an abyssal creature that took on a human form and was allowed to live only to be unleashed on Teyvat. The time at Khaenri’ah was something that stuck with him for the rest of his life - the fear and resignation he experienced there heavily imprinted on his brain.

Every once in a while he had impulses to lie, to hurt and do as he pleases, for a long time he stopped these urges at the root, maintaining the illusion of normalcy he built for Ragnvindr household. He knew it was from Khaenri’ah, a cursed  nation of sinners with all of its glorious legacy lost to the sands of time. Immoral impulses were something that would have helped him to survive among the endless darkness that surrounded god-forsaken place.

“Ugh”, he tried to get up, to shake intrusive and self-deprecating thoughts away, but failed. Pain, like melted iron, slowly spread from his chest to the points of his fingers in a second. Even breathing was hard - his entire body ached and burned, a shaking hand slowly touched bandaged torso. Alberich winced as he remembered why exactly it was aching.

“Sir Kaeya, you are already awake! Please, don’t move.”, pretty but forgettable nun fussed over him, rechecking his bandages and then taking out a foul smelling medicine. She made Kaeya drink it all. He still cringing from the bitter taste, half sat on the bed, leaning on the headrest, tried to flash her his most charming smile and asked:

“Do you know how I got there?”, it seemed his charms did work on the girl, as she started to describe the previous night in great detail: what she was doing prior to his arrival, how dark the sky was, how worried she was when she saw his battered body, how exhausted the adventurer and guards that delivered him looked.

“Do you happen to know the adventurer’s name? I would like to say my thanks once I get better”

“Oh, it was [First], I think, but I am not sure.  I believe I saw a pyro vision” Kaeya slid in the lying position again, as he remembered you, his first and only crush. Half buried feelings ignited in his chest with a renewed vigor.

Seeing that Kaeya paid her no mind, the nun headed to the exit of the infirmary, but right before she left she turned to Kaeya again, saying that you will visit him tomorrow.

****

Just as you thought Kaeya was conscious today. After you managed to carry him back to Mondstadt, worried but distrustful guards at city gates took away your load and delivered him to the Church of Favonius. You insisted at coming with them, still anxious for Kaeya’s life. Nuns almost showed you out of the infirmary and you, defeated, had to go home.

The next day you spent looking for the abandoned starsilver, thoughts occupied both by Kaeya and the payment Cyrus promised. Fortunately, the stacks lied right where you discarded them and after a quick trip back to the adventurer's guild, you had nothing to do - weekly commissions done days prior, so you decided to spend some time inside the city for once.

As you navigated the city square you felt the tense mood that hung in the air, Mondstadt usually cheerful and carefree now seemed uncharacteristically gloomy. You later learned that the local wine tycoon, Crepus Ragnvindr, died in the accident and his son and young the youngest captain in history of Ordo Favonius, Diluc, left the city and abandoned the knights.

Despite spending almost all of your time outside the city gates, even you were aware of the city's happenings and certainly heard about two dashing young gentlemen. Kaeya was rumored to be a foreign orphan taken in by Crepus and Diluc as you remembered is a claymore swinging pyro user - a picture of Kaeya’s injuries came to mind. Scattered details started to slowly gather into a sound theory.

A fight after Crepus' death(was accident Kaeya’s fault?), that resulted in Diluc abandoning the knights(Are knights also at fault?).

You quickly brushed it off, as theorizing without the concrete evidence was one of the biggest mistakes one could make. So instead of building baseless speculations, you decided to visit one of the key people, Kaeya. Occupied by your thoughts and curiosity, the travel to the church seemed almost momentarily.

Stepping in the infirmary you were hit with a strong bitter scent of the medicine, but Kaeya sitting on the bed seemed fine, if not a bit tired. He was reading a book, but put it aside as he noticed you and gave you a warm smile.“I remember you, [First], you were the one who saved me I was told. Seems I should make it up to you”

“No need for it, you were dying”, you head to him, a hand searching for the vision in the travelling bag. His smile doesn’t drop, even when a somewhat awkward silence hangs around you. Finally, you exclaim: “I found a vision near you, and kept it so it doesn’t get lost or anything”.

“Oh, that’s a surprise, give it to me” the vision in his hands glows alive with a gentle blue light, a small ice shard forming between his fingers and you find yourself holding your breath. Kaeya looks less impressed than you, a strange emotion written on his face,as he looks from the blue orb, to the ice, to your amazed face.

“It may sound rude, but do you remember who injured you?” Kaeya doesn’t appear phased, slowly blinking, a confusion written on his face, as he looks up in contemplation. “Hm, no, can’t remember anything” You shift a little, disappointment not reaching your face. Was Kaeya lying or not?

“I hope I didn’t mess up your adventuring schedule” Kaeya murmured, leaning a little closer to you.

“No. I planned on spending a week inside the city. Why do you ask?”

“Well” he smirks, “maybe a brave and strong adventurer will lend a hand to poor injured me and”, you felt your face slowly heating up “escort me to Good Hunter, the food here is abysmal and maybe your company and decent meal will clear my head a little”

Only a day later you realized that it was your first date.

***

Kaeya likes challenges, and maybe that is a reason why he’s so drawn to you - you’re smart, just not people-smart, and you have enough intuition to guide you away from the schemes and plans he tries to pull off. Of course, he wouldn’t risk your life or general wellbeing - he likes your presence far too much to do that - but the possible less savory reactions he could gauge out of you were too alluring to miss out - frustration, fear, anger.

Alberich is frustrated - a hunger that was ignited by you grew greater and greater with each day - he wants to see so much of you, see you in pain, see you helpless, see you defeated. Would you cry, would you yell, would you curse at him?

He tried to resist it in the beginning - just as he did when he was still a part of Ragnvindr family - but he failed. Maybe, Diluc’s dismissal of him and abandonment was something that broke Kaeya in the way that Khaenri’ah couldn’t. That rainy day he learned one lesson - everyone leaves, and Kaeya didn’t doubt that you would too.

You are an adventurer after all, as free as a wind. It’s just pure luck that someone as curious and thrill-seeking as you hasn't moved to the other nations in search of excitement.

Kaeya feels threatened.

Over the years, you both fell in the comfortable, but vague place between friendship and something-more-than-friendship,a status quo of sorts. You were a loner at heart - fine with keeping almost everyone at arm’s length and Kaeya, to his disappointment, found that even his charms wouldn’t bend your will.

He could see how uncomfortable yet excited you got, when he showed his less considerate side - when he arrested and fought criminals, when he pulled off his complex plans, when he turned and twisted the words of others to make them scream and writhe and beg. Oh, of course you tried to hide it, your face becoming akin to a mask of stone, but there were other tells - the shine in your eyes, the body language and accelerated breath.

Kaeya also knew what an excitement glutton you are - there is a flame inside of you, needing to consume and devour new tastes, sights, adventures and mysteries. You are predictable in that way, he has a gut feeling that you are wary of him, but the promise of a new enigmatic crime that needs your assistance is almost always enough to lure you back into his arms.

And now he has a new problem at hands - his failed plan. Months of subtle work and manipulation led and were supposed to build up your feelings for this. A public love confession, both sudden and extravagant. Kaeya thought that someone as awkward as you, would cave in under the pressure he would put you through by making his love public.

However you didn’t, even if some, if not most of the onlookers gasped in the shocked disappointment - Kaeya was sure that you two looked like a would-be-couple to the observer’s eye. You stuttered some apologies, hid your face and almost ran away from him.

It grates on Kaeya’s nerves in a special way, annoyance slowly building up. Fortunately, he has a strategy to relieve it, by methodically destroying it’s source.

***

“Thank you, let’s do the next commissions together” you wave goodbye to the fellow adventurer, missing an indiscernible look cavalry captain gives both of you.

Only when the said adventurer leaves, does Kaeya step out of the shadow, his single eyes wholly focused on you. After the confession you started to purposefully avoid him - something that Kaeya thought was possible, but didn’t entertain it enough.

Seeing him is what almost sends you to retreat - relationships are messy, especially after failed public confessions, there’s too much burden now and you never felt the desire to work on any of them leaving everything to take its course. Instead, you stand there, enduring his cold gaze and warm smile, hit by a sudden realization of how childish your thoughts are.

Kaeya must have taken your passiveness as an invitation, as his hand snakes around your shoulder, throwing you off your internal monologue. “[First], I have an interesting case again” he leans in, his breath tickling your neck, “and I need an assistant again, the pay will be like last time”.

In spite of your current discomfort you almost space out, body habitually relaxing near him. “What the thing about?” the cases that Kaeya involves you in are always bizarre and something never seen before, a mystery awaiting to be solved.

He begins describing it to you - a strange string of deaths of young adventurers, all of whom were visionless and most curiously they all died off duty. Young men and women did their commissions, plunged in the domains and fought with monsters, but died inside the city walls, inside their houses and beds, surrounded by safety and comfort.

Kaeya shares that his informant found a hearsay that there were some interesting potions on the black market and he needs you to infiltrate as a visionless adventurer and buy potions, as much as possible.

This evening you leave the city, your heart full of trust for Kaeya, even if your relationship did take a colder turn.

***

You, as Kaeya predicted, still believed him.  Alberich almost felt bad for exploiting and twisting your trust in him , but as he supposed there was nothing more he could do with himself. Your visage filled his head day and nights, sometimes he even daydreamed about the life he would have with you. It would be delightful - to have you underneath his thumb, ready for any whim and perversion he could come up with.

He came to the Angel’s share and ordered a glass of wine, ignoring judgemental stare Diluc pointed at him. He could almost hear Ragnvindr saying “already” and calling Knights inefficient and lazy drunkards. Kaeya happily took a sip of the liquid - all of his plans always carried an element of risk, so the cavalry captain felt a bit agitated. What if you don’t touch the potions? What if the gang will escape with them?

Nevertheless, if you did touch it or not wouldn’t really matter, as catching you red-handed was more important. He needed to make you look guilty - you worked with him unofficially, which meant that no one knew about it, not even Vile. Sure no one would take your word over his, even if you left significant evidence of your innocence, after all a lot of knights are weak to bribes.

He almost hummed, as he imagined things he would do to you once you were imprisoned and completely in his power. He, of course, would save you from the dank dark cell, finding an “overlooked” detail, but not before breaking and molding you a little.

Finishing his wine, he went to the knight’s headquarters, to request the assistance of other knights in the arrest of a dangerous criminal, a spring evident in his step.

***

It was treasure hoarders again, you silently cursed, while dodging one of the attacks. You weren’t the best actor and within the minutes they exposed you. Fighting among the fragile vials wasn’t the best idea, so you moved the fight to the outside. Once they all run after you, you jump over them, raining a constant stream of fire over them. Some of them started to scream, a pure agony written on their face.

Some of the hoarders used a hidden gas bomb, submerging the whole place in smoke and using it to run away. You didn’t run after them, and headed inside instead. There was a significant change: some of the vials that contained transparent liquid now were bright red. You took one of them in and gasped - it felt so warm in your hands - and then you recognized your own elemental energy.

Out of curiosity you reached for the “uncontaminated” one, the colorless liquid rapidly bloomed with scarlet red, as your vision came to life without your command. Was it that deadly potion that Kaeya talked about? You felt how it sucked some of the pyro energy from you, then it must transmit collected energy to its consumer. No wonder all of those adventurers died - without a vision their bodies weren’t used to receiving and processing such amounts of elemental energy.

You tried to take the vials with the “clear” potion, but no matter what you did all of them got dyed in red the second you stood a little closer. Sighing in defeat you collected ones contaminated with your energy and prepared to head back to Mondstadt. You needed to warn Kaeya to take some regular knights with him if Albedo needed samples for analysis.

Suddenly there was a sound of several people running up to you, a Favonius armor coming into the sight. You almost smiled as you saw Kaeya, happy that he decided to help you, until you heard it: “Arrest them!”

[lanawinters-ily]

The Way We Were

The reader has a stormy, bittersweet relationship with Lana; when they meet again, will it end in happiness, or will she walk away?

Based on the Barbra Streisand song ‘The Way We Were’

Pairing: Lana Winters x Reader

Word count: 1400

Warnings: a LOT of metaphors & a turbulent relationship

Memories Light the corners of my mind Misty watercolour memories Of the way we were

There she was. Lana Winters. Your Lana.

Well at least she was at some moment in time.

You had met on a typical stormy Tuesday; yet another grey, bleak day in what seemed like a melancholic lifetime at that point. Your job was the same every day, no change, no variety to break up the never-ending cycle of life.

Until you saw her. The rain had been streaming down the train window, mirroring the tears of pure frustration that fell down your face, monotony overwhelming & reminding you of just how ordinary you were. But then she had tapped your shoulder, turning to meet sad eyes with chocolate orbs of wonder.

And you fell for her immediately.

Because if there was one thing that was for sure in such an unpredictable universe, Lana Winters was far from ordinary.

Scattered pictures Of the smiles we left behind Smiles we gave to one another For the way we were

Make no mistake, Lana was just one woman, but her presence packed an almighty punch, transforming your outlook by filling it with positivity & absolute joy. The tedious routine of life soon became glimpses of heaven in every moment, the beauty of simplicity revealed by the love of your life.

Before you were looking at the wide view, insignificance in such a vast planet making every aspect of life some sort of mocking cosmic joke; as if you were the extra in the movie of someone else’s existence.

Then Lana pointed out every detail that made up the world around you; the details on the petals in the flower fields you walked, the birds chirping each morning from your bedroom window, the leaves rustling in the gentle breeze singing a lullaby to rock you to sleep.

She turned the negatives to positives, the rain no longer a reflection of God’s sadness, becoming Mother Nature’s nurturing of the planet; watering to sooth the wilting souls that walked the ground.

She was your personal land of Oz – bringing plain Dorothy into a bright technicolour vision, worlds away from the black & white Kansas you had been stuck in for so long.

Can it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time re-written every line?

But once a plane has left the ground to soar above the clouds of dreamland, at some point it must return to lucid reality. Romanticizing love is never idealistic, the honeymoon period often fades into truth when the couple learns all they can about their partner, bringing along the flaws & sufferings of life.

Only the Gods are immune to the human affliction of pain; immortality granting wisdom & maturity that only originates in the freedoms away from the confines of time.

Despite the naivety of the beginnings of a relationship, Lana was not a Goddess, & not a Queen; she had cracks in her porcelain surface, deep ones at that. You had your own insecurities of course; cruel voices pointing out every blemish, every sentence spoken, every outfit worn, but not to the multitude of how Lana had suffered.

Her horrific traumas were never verbally revealed to you, triggers providing peepholes into the haunted era of her twenties – scars both physical & mental slowly chipping away at the bridge of your union. You would never know if the truth could have saved you both, or ripped the bandage of the inevitable split, but either way, you never fully understood each other.

The romance of nature seemed to be your only continuous bond, reliance on surroundings to further linger the magic spark of your first glance at each other.

A distraction from the fractures slowly creeping over the glass, ready to shatter at any given push.

For some, putting two broken halves together heals the damage, comfort providing the ultimate cure, but not for you. The shards were too sharp, too jagged, too complex to be fixed with a few words or physical affection.

Really, fate had doomed your love from the beginning, the universe’s entertainment as the new Shakespearian- style tragic romance of the century.

If we had the chance to do it all again

Tell me, would we? Could we?

Oh, but how you yearned for her. It was like having a half ripped away, functions of the body barely surviving, not even close to thriving like you had been with Lana.

It was as if you meant to have your appendix removed, but lost a lung instead. How long would it take for you to not be able to pull in a breath without her nearby?

No matter how broken the sides where, you were willing to try every single possibility to make it work again, but was she?

Is there such thing as a one-sided soulmate? The sun gives so much to the earth; a way to survive, hope for the future & security with the warmth that radiates.

But the Earth simply looks back in appreciation, not providing much in return.

One simply orbiting the other.

Memories May be beautiful and yet

The times shared were just too wonderful & joyous to be abandoned; a lighthouse shining through the grey fog of memories.

Every time you heard Lana’s name, all you could think of were the bright summer days in which you would both sprint through flower-filled fields, chasing each other & giggling like you were little girls again – a childish blissfulness under your shining sun.

You were surrounded by Lana in those glory-days; she was radiant to you, with comfort in all the seasons.

And you would kiss softly under a blanket of darkness as night fell, whilst the stars looked on with their bright, twinkling smiles.

You longed for that eternal summer again, the beauty, the meaning to every moment.

What's too painful to remember We simply to choose to forget

But of course, the seasons carry on, melting into each other as the weather changes. And, as the weather fluctuates, so does the mood of nature; calm, peaceful summers fading into temperamental, dreary winters.

You were children of the earth, the outside world shaping your love for each other, so how was it to last as the seasons moved on? There was no eternal summer for you.

Like frostbite you nipped at each other, the snow beating down outside; stamping on the flowers of hope that you had nurtured in the sunlight.

Frostbite if left untreated, will only spread, much like the little flaws in your relationship that were growing as the days advanced, darkness threatening to hold you hostage.

So your sunshine left, & the flowers were buried under the ground again.

So it's the laughter We will remember

And here she was again, in the present day.

She peered at you with those muddy eyes & flashed a smile, igniting a switchboard of emotions within your very core.

The smile sounded like a thousand jokes shared on a beautiful day, & seemed to last for eternity in your mind. It was bright & warm, evoking a feeling of security, of home at last.

The smile sounded like bickering & arguing; short insults hit in a cruel game of lover’s tennis. It was pierced with venom, teasing with the prospect of a future that was promised, but never received.

It seems that the seasons were now inside of you, a turbulent cycle sped up to feel like an entire year worth of emotion as you flitted through them wildly.

Well, at least she had followed through with the vow that monotony & blank feelings would escape you after the day you met.

It was so bittersweet; should you live in the past or move forward with a different future?

Whenever we remember The way we were The way we were

As if to answer your question, Lana broke your gaze & looked up at the sky as grey clouded the sun, & rain started to spit onto the ground.

She just turned around & walked away, leaving you with the hums of life you began with, beautiful song dimming into the last teasing notes.

The crescendo of your existence faded into the distance, as you wondered if you would ever hear music quite like this,

Ever again.

Taglist: @ka-s @ninaahs @stayeviildarling @babypocahontas @lilypadscoven @winters-witch-bitch @basicasshole @bottom4delia @forevercountess @violentwavesofem0tion @sporadicsupercorpquotesmonger @liberosisaspire @mellowalieneggsknight @thecasualgeek1 @lucykilljoy

[eldritchqueerture]

Point of View - Original Statement Fic

Point of View (5004 words) by LadyNikita Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Statement Giver(s) (The Magnus Archives) Additional Tags: Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), this was intended as the eye but evolved into the vast as well, happens, cosmic horror, attempt at Eldritch Madness, unreality, Discussions of pointlessness and meaninglessness, Canon-Typical The Vast Content (The Magnus Archives), from the eps about space, Mentions of Death, Compulsion, discussions of free will (kind of), Dissociation, Panic, Mentions of addiction, Leitner Book (The Magnus Archives), except it was not possessed by Leitner, Pretty Colours <3, Neurodivergent Protagonist, Queer Protagonist, because I can project a bit as a treat, Can Be Read Without Prior Knowledge of the Podcast (I think)

Summary: "Humans crave understanding. They strive towards knowing more and more, that’s what all science is about, isn’t it? To study, to learn and understand; to seek answers to questions. But are we really equipped to handle the answers we seek? Even if we were able to reach them, are our minds advanced enough to grasp the truths about the world we live in? What if there are things just beyond our understanding, lurking in the shadows of reality, peeking into our world just enough to feed on us, on our uncertainty and our pathetic scrambling towards answers that would only bring madness?" --- Statement of Lyria Ellison regarding a different point of view and the dangers of knowledge.

Notes: Hiiiiii <3 I've been reading Lovecraft recently and as much as I hate the dude, The Colour Out of Space gave me so much inspiration that I immediately sat down and produced this in one sitting. I've been meaning to play with the concept of eldritch madness for a while; something about this trope is really appealing to me and I'm really enjoying my attempts at shaping it with words. Lyria is a preexisting OC of mine, I will give some background on her in the end notes because I love her very much. This is a form of practice for me; I'm playing with horror themes and I'd like to get acquainted with them to better incorporate them into my overall writing. Therefore I will accept constructive criticism if anyone wants to give it, but only in the form of DMs, either on Tumblr (your-queer-vampire-dm) or on Discord, if we know each other through a server. All of the warnings I think should be mentioned are in the tags, but if you think something should be added then please tell me!

Date: May 10th , 2018

Name: Lyria Ellison

Subject of experience: A different point of view and the dangers of knowledge.

—

How do you start telling a story that changed your heart, your mind, and your soul so profoundly that you can barely still function in a society? How do you say all that without sounding borderline insane? Nobody knows what I’ve seen, what I’ve been through. I know they would all say I’ve hallucinated it all and should seek treatment. But I know it won’t help. I know… I know so much now. Too much and not enough. Never enough. I know what happened was real . I don’t have proof so I’m guessing you won’t believe me either, but I need to tell someone about it. So I might as well tell you.

My name is Lyria Ellison and I’m a neuropsychology major. Ex-major, I should say. I dropped out after… Yeah. I dropped out; there’s not much point in continuing studying things about the feeble, insignificant human brain. Utterly pointless venture.

Humans crave understanding. They strive towards knowing more and more, that’s what all science is about, isn’t it? To study, to learn and understand; to seek answers to questions. But are we really equipped to handle the answers we seek? Even if we were able to reach them, are our minds advanced enough to grasp the truths about the world we live in? What if there are things just beyond our understanding, lurking in the shadows of reality, peeking into our world just enough to feed on us, on our uncertainty and our pathetic scrambling towards answers that would only bring madness?

Just a year ago, I was convinced I was going to finish my degree. I was so passionate about it too, eager to learn more and more, to research and seek knowledge. Curious and fascinated by the world around us. What a foolish thing it was to give into that drive. My mind was open to the supernatural, although I always approached it scientifically; I never said the supernatural existed, but I also never said it didn’t. It was plausible; all in all, every scientist must accept that there is still a vast amount of knowledge we don’t have about the world.

The ignorance was a blessing. But I shall not get ahead of myself.

It started around December last year; my dad had died, and my girlfriend, Shawala, and I were clearing out his house. There wasn’t really anyone else to do it; my mother had passed a couple years prior, I had no siblings, and extended family was out of the picture as well; and my dad had gathered a lot of things in his adventurous life; he was a traveller, and he loved the world, loved learning about it, just like me. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed with it all; my dad meant a lot to me back then, and Shawala proved an excellent support at that first shock. She promised to do some first view assessments of the ground floor, while I went to scope out how things looked in the attic.

It’s always either basements or attics, isn’t it? I used to read horror, Lovecraftian was my favourite – how ironic, isn’t it? How stupid . How utterly ignorant. The hubris of the human race at its finest.

Anyways, the attic was half-lit from the small windows in the roof, and dust was swirling in the faint light of the afternoon sun. It was cold here, but I didn’t pay much mind; the house was old, and it wasn’t surprising that there was draft. To say the space was cluttered would be an understatement; I could barely walk around the numerous boxes, old furniture, crates, and overflowing bookshelves; all of which made something in my chest curl tight, bringing tears to my eyes. I steered my steps towards the nearest bookshelf; I’ve always been a bookworm, fascinated by nearly any tome I came across; I’ve been reading popular science books since I was eight. So naturally, I was drawn to the books, taking huge steps above the cardboard boxes and careful not to hit anything else.

The books were old, of course, and dusty. Some of them had loose pages, and I treated them very gently, almost reverently. I have a little bit of a bookbinder streak, and I decided I would take them home and try to put them back together. As I rifled through them, I saw they pertained to a vast variety of subjects, from poetry, drama, and history, to science, metaphysics, and maths. The deeper I looked into this stunning collection, the more reverence rose in my heart; at my fingertips I had the oldest and the biggest accumulation of knowledge I had ever seen. I saw some books dated back even two hundred years ago.

At that point Shawala called me to check if I was alright. I put the book I had in my hands back and my knuckles brushed against the black leather cover of the next one on the shelf. I felt pleasant tingling in my palm at the touch and my heart leaped at the prospect; I didn’t know why –  the book seemed ordinary enough on the shelf and there was no title on its spine.

I sometimes wonder if I could have just left it there and gone downstairs; chosen to come back later and then maybe, it wouldn’t have enticed me as it did. If, by that point, I had had any choice left on the matter.

Alas, intrigued by the book, I placed my palm on the spine and took it out. The leather was soft and smooth, probably sheep, with familiar subtle grains all over the texture. I remember it striked me as odd that it was warmer than the rest of the books in the drafty attic, but I shrugged it off. The front cover had a title, small but visible in the centre, etched in gold – Punctum Visus .

I, by all means, cannot read or speak Latin, but I figured it was something to do with vision. I opened the book, an unknown anticipation buzzing in my stomach. The pages were worn and old, their texture was slightly rough but pleasant under my fingertips; as I opened the front page, I saw the title again, this time in thick but still elegant, black letters, and the smell came up to my nostrils.

I tried to describe it in my head countless times after. I always loved the smell of old books, and I knew it very well, so it came to me as a surprise to realize it wasn’t the only smell I could feel from the book. It was… cold, somehow, distant but prickling at my nose, a little bit the way peppermint tastes. It reminded me of the night sky and distant stars somehow. The smell awakened an unease within me, as I couldn’t quite place what it was and why it seemed so weird , but it wasn’t by any means unpleasant. It was… enticing. Like a promise of a mystery.

I breathed it in again through my nose, closing my eyes, and for a moment I lost all feeling in my body. I was untethered and immaterial, somewhere in deep darkness that seemed to envelop me whole. It felt cold on my mind, stretching it thoughtlessly in the empty vastness, and I saw distant flickering lights of stars. Before I could form a coherent thought, I was back in myself, panting and shaking, staring at the front page of the Punctum Visus . I looked around with shaky breaths; the attic looked the same, and Shawala’s steps on the stairs reached my ears, with her voice calling my name. A shiver passed down my spine, causing goosebumps to bloom on my skin; was it the draft, the dread, or the excitement I couldn’t tell.

I knew I had to read this book, no matter what it took for me to do so.

I took it home, almost forgetting about the rest of the books upstairs. It had spent the next month laying in my room, as I dealt with the formalities and moving the rest of things that weren’t sold from the house either to my place or to charity. After the day we left the house for the last time, I collapsed in my bed, exhausted, but instead of closing, my eyes fell on the book unassumingly waiting on my nightstand.

A surge of excitement passed through me, waking me right up. I sat up and reached for the book. It was still warm; I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, but warm it was. I think it made me subconsciously assign it more… being? Like, even before I knew anything, I somehow subconsciously accepted that it was more than just an object; that it was, in a sense, alive on its own. I brushed my fingers on the cover, feeling the texture of the leather and the etching of the letters. In the meantime during this month I had checked the meaning of the title – Point of Sight; a position from which a thing is or is supposed to be viewed. It makes so much sense now.

But then I didn’t know what dangers it held; or I didn’t want to think about them. I do remember feeling anxious, my hands trembling every time I opened the cover, but it was so mingled with exhilaration of the certainty I was discovering something important that I must have disregarded it. As I turned the pages, I wasn’t surprised to find the text in Latin; though I still felt a pang of frustration that it meant I couldn’t read it for now. I rifled through the pages, looking curiously at the letters that formed words yet unattainable to me. There was a hunger inside of me; a hunger to Know. As I turned the pages past various symbols, illustrations of the constellations, and of Earth, I determined it must be some sort of a metaphysical work. The point of view on the world around us.

Normally I just skim through works like this and leave them. While they are an interesting read sometimes, they’re not my favourite genre and, looking objectively, putting in the effort of learning a whole language just for the sake of reading a treatise on the meaning of cosmos by an unknown author seems strange at best. But somehow it seemed obvious to me that I had to read it. It called to me, sang into a part of my being that begged to be filled, promising knowledge that would finally leave me satisfied. I know now that it’s impossible. Once you’ve tasted the hunger for knowing, you will never find satisfaction; it’s like an addiction. You just crave more and more, and the knowledge never ends. After a certain point you know too much and when it all connects, when it starts to make sense… you slip. I didn’t know that, even though maybe I should have. I didn’t know what those things I was feeling meant then and I didn’t stop to question them; I gave into it as soon as it touched me. I was stupid.

What followed were a busy couple of months. Every waking moment that wasn’t spent keeping up the pretence of being interested in my major (back then I only thought it a brief hyperfixation, of course, and wouldn’t have called it a pretence at all), I was learning Latin online or staring into the incomprehensible words on the pages. This period of my life is a blur; I remember my friends checking up on me if I was alright, since I wasn’t particularly social anymore. Shawala got progressively more worried, but it fully escaped my mind to care. I know that staring thoughtlessly at the book took up more and more of my time; once, I remember, I returned from my classes at three PM and took the book out; when I came back to myself it was well past midnight. That’s when I started to feel truly uneasy about it. It was the second half of April; I looked back on what I’ve been doing these past months and this cold dread started creeping up to my throat. I realized I didn’t know why I wanted to read the book so much and I remembered the “vision” or the hallucination I had that first time in my dad’s attic. I had set it aside completely as unimportant, and I couldn’t wrap my head around why. I started shaking and theorizing in my head about the book being able to influence my mind somehow, to control it. Had my actions not been my own? How much of it was my own will and how much was the book? Was it even possible for it to influence me like that; could it be that it was supernatural in some way?

The house became cold, unnaturally so. It was dark and all the windows were closed, but a chill draft managed to find its way into the corridor I was in anyway. I sank to the floor and hugged my knees, trembling in panic. I was all alone in the flat, everyone I knew was surely already asleep in their homes, and I was small and weak in the face of something that maybe could have controlled my mind. I suddenly became aware of the leatherbound book in my hand, and I threw it along the corridor at the front door with a whimper, as far away from me as possible. The book thumped against the door, then the floor, and opened on a random page.

I’ve read enough horrors. I knew that the page would be significant, and that knowledge made me sob and hug my knees tighter. I didn’t know what was happening; I felt like I’d just woken up from a months-long dream… and perhaps I was right. The recent past felt alien.

I felt tears sting my eyes and that’s when the smell reached me. Again that mixture of old paper and peppermint cold, distantly sweet but freezing the blood in my veins. My breath came in ragged and shallow, and tears streamed down my face as I stared at the open book that was calling me in an inaudible whisper. The logical side of my mind was trying desperately to make sense of it, to assign the dissociative feeling to my father’s death and yeah, it was plausible, but somehow it just didn’t feel right. The whispers sounded again, swirling around my head, the golden sound almost touching the back of my neck, making me wince. It was enticing and promising, but this time, I felt terror instead of excitement. Disregarding how my mind was trying to rationalize the situation, I knew the book was cursed somehow. I knew that I was its victim. And I knew that I would not be strong enough to resist it.

I don’t know how much time I sat there, trembling, and sobbing into my knees, before I calmed down from the panic and decided I had to do something. I had to find out what this book was and how it found itself into my dad’s library. I couldn’t remember seeing anything in his diaries that would mention it at all, but then again, I didn’t read them all cover to cover. On wobbly legs I carefully made my way back to my room and searched the Internet until the sun started peeking out of the window; I found nothing about any book titled Punctum Visus . I tried all the libraries that I’d known of, that had their assortment online, all the research databases; nothing.

So, at the crack of dawn, with a fast-beating heart, I stood in the door of my room, staring out into the corridor, where the book still lay by the front door, unmoving. The golden strings of a wordless melody made it to my ears; it promised an explanation; that this time if I looked close enough, I would find what I was looking for.

What was I looking for?

Where else could I find the answers if not in the book itself?

I could feel its cold fingers slowly wrap around my mind, steering me to come closer. It called me with a hypnotising voice that awakened all the red signals in my brain, telling me to run and hide, but I didn’t. The voice meant danger, but I knew it also meant knowledge.

Dangerous knowledge. The pull dragged me through the corridor step by step; I hadn’t been fighting it as strongly as I could have had and I was about to start, since I was getting closer to the book, but suddenly I felt the chill of the influence let go, hovering close but out of reach. It was still compelling me to come, to Look, but I could move my own limbs. I had a choice to make.

Knowledge of danger. Did I believe my own warning thoughts that I would regret looking into the book? Did I take my own logical, rational side seriously? Was I ever good at resisting my own impulses?

I’ve never been addicted to anything, but then again, I never really had the opportunity, as it were; my friends were more of a no-alcohol types and I really ever smoked cigarettes once. I’ve never seen drugs in real life. So who’s to say if I’m not an addictive personality? And this, this was addictive. The thrill of mystery, the exhilarating process of learning, the anticipation of the answers.

Was it ever really my choice?

No supernatural force guided my steps that night; no cold fingers made me kneel next to the book and carefully cradle it in my arms, looking at the page with a shaky breath and tears in my eyes, as if I was coming back home like the prodigal son. But I’m sure it was by some paranormal means that this time I could understand the text on the pages.

I honestly don’t remember what it said. As I read the unfamiliar words, the meaning presented itself in my mind, not entirely unlike that first “vision” I had in the attic; as soon as I started reading I knew that I had made the choice and there was no turning back. That cold draft enveloped me, sat on my skin, and started to bite; I felt that smell again, stronger than ever before, something intangible but unmistakably inhuman . It was then that I realized that’s what had felt wrong to me about the smell since the beginning. It was inferior and alien. My hands started shaking as my eyes, glued to the text, moved now on their own down the page, drinking the words in. I was terrified out of my mind, but the pleasant tingling along my nerves was back, the anticipation of the promised understanding.

My mind was drowned with the tide of knowledge. This was just a prologue; a true discovery would require preparation, but I was almost ready. The voice said I was chosen, that I was a perfect candidate to bring It what It needs and that I would be rewarded. I cried tears of amazement and horror at the sheer scope of the voice – it seemed to encompass the entire world. I couldn’t comprehend it, but I didn’t know then that it was a blessing. I wanted to know, I craved to know what It was and how I could be of use to something so powerful, so huge. Divine. That was a word that crossed my mind, as much as I don’t like that. I don’t like many things, but I can’t change any of them.

The voice said I’m on the right path. I would Know and Understand. First, I needed to do something. As It told me what that was, doubt started to creep up to my mind. What was I doing? What was happening? How could this be real?

I came to on the floor by my front door, the cursed book in hand, with a tear-stained face and a bloody nose.

I knew what I had to do to get ready and, as I calmed down and went over everything in my head, I was surprised by how trivial it was. Honestly, by this point I was kind of afraid It would tell me to hurt someone, so I was glad this was just about reading a bunch of words in a specific location at a specific time. I was aware of the fact that this was most probably a ritual, and I was quite apprehensive. I kept arguing with myself in my head, over and over whether I should follow through, but deep down I knew that I would, no matter what I told myself. This part, I think, scared me the most; how compelling the promise of knowledge was, how reverently I’d found myself thinking of the book and its owner (which I assumed was the voice), how fanatical some of my thoughts sounded. I’ve never been religious, never really felt idealistic either. I was always focused on facts, on the here and now. Can knowledge be an ideal? Can you be a fanatic of Seeing and Knowing?

How much had I changed since I’d found Punctum Visus in that old attic.

I found a good, quiet spot, on the north-west side of the New Forest National Park near Southampton. I told no one about this, deeming it unimportant. I would come back after my big discovery, I would explain everything. I laugh at myself now; at my naivety.

The night of April 28 th was clear, and the starry sky looked back at me as I parked my car on the road in the forest and locked it. I tied a piece of a long red string to the wheel, not to lose my way in the forest, and started to walk forward. I held the book close to my chest, as if it could protect me from the dark, eerie outlines of the trees, swaying gently on the wind and whatever the darkness around me held. I didn’t light the torch; the moon was nearly full, bathing everything in its gentle light, and besides, for some reason it seemed that the crude yellow light would somehow break the sanctity of what I was about to do. I could see the ground in front of me and managed to lose sight of my car and everything else besides trees pretty fast.

I stopped when I found a small clearing. The moon was high in the sky, shining down on me like a big eye; I didn’t know why this comparison seemed the most fitting, but it did. I took a deep breath, feeling a chill plant little dots all over my skin, making my hairs stand on end. The wind died down and the trees froze, as if in anticipation. I felt something watching me closely; I was not alone here anymore.

The realization made my breath catch in my throat and the last streaks of sanity broke through my thick skull. Run! Drop the book and run! I didn’t. My hands trembled, my muscles tensed, and I stood there, frozen with fear as something stared at me, seemingly for eternity. Something bigger than me, bigger than anything I have ever seen was watching me, waiting. My eyes dropped to the book in my arms. The black leather was warm, as always, but this time I felt a pulsating sensation from it. A heartbeat.

I screamed. The book landed discarded on the ground, and I stumbled backwards and tripped, landing in the grass as well. It was cold and wet, and it glistened with something in the faint moonlight. At first I took it for water, but upon closer inspection I saw it was the grass itself that glittered – a shy rainbow, glowing iridescently in an impossible way. I froze, stunned, for I have never seen such colours before. It seemed utterly alien, something unfitting for the human eye to see; simultaneously beautiful and horrifying.

As I looked around, I noticed that everything alive in the forest – the trees, the grass, the bushes, the plants – had taken on that iridescent mixture of faint light that prickled my eyes and sent a shiver of terror down my spine. It was beautiful, utterly gorgeous in a way that nothing a human eye can perceive could be. It was horrifying in how different, alien, and other it was. My senses could tell this is not of the Earth; not of this reality, not of this world; everything in me that still had common sense tried to recoil from the inferiority of this magnificence and the danger it brought, but I had abandoned common sense a while back. Maybe even when I touched the book for the first time. I stared then, breathless and trembling, at this scenery as if from a fairy tale and decided to lock away my rational thoughts. I wanted to See, to Know; I wanted to experience and if this was the death of me then hell, it was a pretty good way to go. To behold such a sight, I thought, was a reward in and of itself.

Of course, I had no idea what any of it meant. I slowly rose to my knees and patted the ground down until I felt the book. It still pulsated with this heartbeat and the letters etched in the leather glowed with golden light. My hands were sweaty, and I didn’t know whether I was shivering from fear or the cold. I opened the book on the first page.

What I saw was not what I had expected. I remembered that the first page, after the titular one, was the beginning of the introduction, that much I had understood, but now it was a big picture in black and white; a night sky, with an almost full moon and strewn with stars. It was a shot from the ground and treetops could be seen at the edges of the picture. As the book swayed in my hands, the stars glittered, and the perspective shifted ever so slightly, as if it was in 3D. Stricken by a surge of dread and cold certainty, I looked up. My suspicion was right – the picture in the book depicted the exact image that was now above me. I gasped quietly and looked down at the book—

And this is where things started to really go horribly, horribly wrong.

The book was gone. What’s more, the ground was gone too and suddenly everything was not where it should have been. I blinked but it did nothing to ease the dizziness; and when I composed myself enough to register what I was seeing I froze, the most intense horror I have ever experienced crushing my body from all sides and inside out.

I realized that I was Seeing. I was finally Seeing, and I Understood it all.

I don’t know how to convey in words what I saw. I don’t believe it’s possible; humans were never made to see and understand such things. I should have never touched the book, I should have never asked for knowledge. All my life I believed that knowledge was the point; it was a tool, and it was power. I don’t know what I think anymore. I think some knowledge should always be hidden because we were not made to know everything. We can’t , it’s physically impossible for us to comprehend.

For one moment in my life. For one moment I became something else, and I saw the world in the way It sees the world. For one moment I shared a mind with an eldritch being, a thing that is Fear itself, and I saw the Earth through Its Eye. I can’t… I can’t tell you just how horrible it is. How… How meaningless; we’re all intertwined things, guided by strings of web that lead us through life, and we’re all connected in this maze of fear . We’re not individuals; we’re not special. We don’t have souls and none of our experiences matter. We’re just fear. These… These entities are a part of all of us. They’re our fear and they live inside of us, inside of every living creature that can feel fear. Can you comprehend that? How can you be sure you are yourself when there’s a cosmic entity, a power as old as life itself, living you ? And no one has any idea. Nobody knows and if I tell someone they’ll think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think I’m crazy. But deep down I know what I saw. I know it was real. And I’m terrified. I’m terrified because I know that this Being of eyes that I became a part of watches everything I do. I feel Its presence here very strongly, and I guess it makes sense. It will never leave me. It’s a part of me, just like the rest of them; just like they’re all a part of every one of you, yet you have no idea. But I know. And I know I’m all alone with that knowledge, the knowledge that I can’t comprehend, but I know I could in that one moment. It’s a very lonely place to be and I’m scared.

I’m scared as I have never been before; this fear doesn’t leave me anymore. Every second of every day I’m aware I’m watched by something as great as cosmos. I’m aware I shared my mind with that being and it makes my skin crawl.

I don’t know what to do now, but I don’t expect any advice from you. I’m leaving the book with you, as proof. Its heart doesn’t beat anymore, and I’ve seen what I was supposed to.

Don’t read it.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a comment!! For people interested in a little bit of background: Lyria is a D&D character I have created that still awaits her chance to play in a campaign. She's an arcane scholar that has a dark little secret of actually being a warlock of a being she doesn't know a lot about. She's in love with knowledge and she seeks to learn about her powers as well as the world around her. I'm currently DMing a Ravenloft campaign and I just couldn't miss the fact how much potential for a corruption arc she has. Then I listened to TMA and I was like, she would definitely become the Avatar of the Beholding.

[pastelwitchling]

Alex had been quiet at first.

No one had known what to make of Sergeant Eduardo Ramos when he’d first shown up at the Wild Pony, a knowing smirk on his face. No one except Alex.

“At ease, Captain,” had been his first words, and Alex’s brows had furrowed with recognition before he’d even turned around. Then he saw Ramos and his whole face lit up in a way Michael hadn’t seen in too long to remember.

He’d been that way since, with this man more like his father than his actual father had ever been, ruffling his hair and proudly telling stories about his “favorite student”. Michael had been amused, seeing Alex blush and smile more than he ever had, but . . . he had to admit he’d been jealous, too.

This guy seemed to know Alex in a way, in a time, that Michael didn’t. Alex had seemed so comfortable around him that it almost excluded Michael from the table. Michael had felt distant enough from Alex before this guy had shown up, but he’d never realized just how separate he was from Alex’s entire life outside of Roswell. To Michael, nothing had changed because he’d never left. But to Alex, everything was different, and Roswell and everyone in it were just another part of his adventures and who he was. Michael often worried that it was the more insignificant part.

And then the attack from Mr. Jones had come, and Alex had been in the line of fire, and Eduardo Ramos had thrown himself in to save him. The next thing Michael knew, he was watching Alex pace the hospital halls outside the ER, covered in dry blood, and Kyle had come out with an expression that had Michael’s heart sinking into his stomach. Alex had taken one look at his best friend, their silent conversation as loud as an avalanche. His face had fallen and he’d come to a crouch against the wall, his elbows on his knees, his hands interlocked against his mouth, open on a silent sentence.

“Alex?” Michael had tried, kneeling beside him, but it was like the airman couldn’t hear him. He stared off into nothing, his eyes wide and searching, like he’d thought his hero would live forever and had only now been forced to face the cruelest truth in an already cruel reality.

Kyle had tried to speak to him. Gregory and Flint had tried. Isobel and Max and Liz and Maria. But Alex had just stood. He’d wanted to go home, and Michael hadn’t planned to leave him. So he’d caught him outside the hospital and steered him towards his truck.

“I’ll take you,” he had said, and Alex had wordlessly gotten in. When they’d reached Alex’s house, Michael had walked in after him and locked the door behind them. He waited in Alex’s bedroom and watched the airman undress. For some reason, he couldn’t trust to let Alex out of his sight for a split second. Alex didn’t say anything, and pulled on his sweats as if Michael wasn’t there. Then Alex had curled up on his living room couch, and stopped moving.

Even now, as Michael sat at the end of the couch and pulled Alex’s legs onto his lap, Alex didn’t say a word. Michael might’ve been happier about that, but Alex wouldn’t even look at him. It was like he couldn’t see or hear anything but his own rush of thoughts.

He leaned down and kissed Alex’s leg. Alex didn’t react, so he kissed up higher, on his thigh. “You want some water?” he whispered against his hip.

Alex didn’t respond, his beautiful eyes empty and unseeing.

“Alex,” he tried again, but it was like Alex couldn’t hear him. Michael licked his lips and nodded. He pressed another kiss to Alex’s hips, just above his waistband where a sliver of skin peeked out.

He gently laid Alex’s legs back on the couch, and got up to get a glass of water. He came back to Alex’s side, and this time knelt beside his head. He held up the glass to his lips.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured. “Drink some water. For me.”

Those were the key words. No matter what, Alex never could resist Michael’s requests. It took Michael a long time to realize that Alex would do anything for him if he just asked. Sometimes he didn’t even need to do that for Alex to listen.

Nonetheless, Alex blinked once, twice, and lifted his head enough to take a small drink of water before he turned away, and curled in deeper on himself. Michael kissed his clothed shoulder and stayed there a bit. Alex’s body was so still, like he was sleeping, though his eyes were open. Michael tried not to think too much about when Alex would move again.

He left the glass on the table and went to Alex’s bedroom, finding a thin blanket in the closet. He came back to Alex and covered him with it before he pressed another kiss to his temple. Michael had wanted to kiss him this easily since their first time in the UFO Emporium, but he’d never known it would break his heart this much.

He brushed Alex’s bangs back from his eyes, wishing Alex would look up at him, but he didn’t. Michael sighed silently and went to the kitchen to make him some dinner.

It took around an hour for him to finish, but when he came back to the living room, he found Alex sitting in front of his keyboard, the setting sun shining through the window and casting his airman into gold. Michael had to stop at the threshold, his breath caught in his throat.

When he realized he was just staring, he swallowed heavily and said, “Alex?”

Alex looked over his shoulder at him, his usually dark eyes turned hazel and gold and green in the sunlight, his cheeks rosy, the tips of his hair turned to golden brown. Michael’s heart leapt in his chest. Alex turned back to the piano, and Michael took a step towards him only to stop again as he caught something leaning against the wall out of the corner of his eye.

There it was, the same guitar Alex had tried giving him over a year ago and the one Michael had shoved back at him without a single kind word. And still, Alex kept it untouched and cleaned it of dust. As if it was too valuable to be played, to let anyone else ever touch it.

Michael clenched his jaw and took the instrument out of its case. He came to sit down beside Alex who did not acknowledge his presence until he started to play.

His fingers thrummed the strings softly, out of practice but familiar, like a song that had meant the world to him years ago, a song he’d been terrified he’d forgotten, and one that came as naturally to him as breathing now, without even needing to think about it.

Alex’s eyes flickered over to him, his brows pinched together, as if Michael’s song was a soft call to wake him from his reverie. Alex turned back to the keys, and as Michael played, he thought that if he couldn’t hear Alex’s voice, he could at least bring him some peace. He watched Alex as he played. Once upon a time, he’d closed his eyes, losing himself to his thoughts as the music surrounded him. Now, music didn’t have the same appeal unless he was looking at Alex. Now, finally, he’d found something he’d needed and wanted more.

As his notes softened though, Alex raised his hands, his fingers hovering above the keys before he played a melody that fell perfectly in with Michael’s own. The pieces want to be together.

His eyes burned as Alex’s piano and his guitar fit together as cosmically as he and Alex always have. It was a music neither of them could nor needed to explain. There was a beautiful, brief moment where, as they played, Michael could hear the symphony of orchestral music fade into their own simpler song, and his heart swelled with the thought of what they could do together when they did nothing but stay beside each other.

Then, because all great songs do, the music eventually faded to something softer, gentler, just for the two of them. And as Alex played out the last few keys on his piano, because the best music always ended with the piano, he leaned in until his cheek was rested against Michael’s shoulder. He smiled, but it was overwhelmed and tired and sad.

As he closed his eyes, tears fell down the bridge of his nose and onto Michael’s flannel shirt. He wrapped a hand around Michael’s elbow and held on. His cries were silent, except for the occasional sniffle.

It lasted for a half hour before Alex shifted slightly and murmured, “You should’ve changed. You can’t be comfortable in that.”

Michael rested his cheek against Alex’s head, his nose in Alex’s hair, and inhaled his scent. He carefully set the guitar down with his powers, using his free arm to wrap around Alex’s waist and pull him in deeper against him.

Alex turned his face into Michael’s exposed chest, holding on unbearably tight to the flannel. Michael closed his eyes, Alex’s vanilla scent surrounding him. He didn’t realize how worried he’d been for Alex this whole time, how badly he’d needed to reassure himself that Alex was still safe and alive and here. That Eduardo’s sacrifice had saved Michael’s everything.

He exhaled shakily and held Alex tighter. “I’m comfortable just like this,” he promised in a whisper.

***

The song they play is The Wisp Sings by Winter Aid, for anyone interested. I hope we get to find out more about Alex’s time in the Air Force through Eduardo.

[idreamofplaid]

It Begins

Square Filled: Tongue Fucking for @spnkinkbingo & Singing Christmas Songs for @spnchristmasbingo

Characters: Sam x Olivia (OFC); Jensen and John mentioned

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Oral (female receiving)

Summary: Olivia is new to the marketing firm owned by John Winchester, and is surprised to be assigned to an important ad campaign for a high profile client. She feels like she’s in over her head with the work, but she’s in even deeper with the boss’ son, Sam.

Word Count:3781

A/N: This is Part 1 of a Series called Surrender to the Truth. It’s an AU mash up of RPF and SPN characters. I’m also playing with time. Imagine Season 8 Sam and Jensen a year or so into the future.

It was beta’d by the wonderful @fangirlxwritesx67. Thanks Viv for your patience with all my questions, your enthusiasm for this project, your thorough reading that really made me think about what I was doing, and the series title. 

Why were Mondays always like this? Olivia found it hard to decide what to wear after a weekend of being relaxed in pajamas and denim. Traffic was predictably the worst, even more so because of the holidays, and if there was any day she was going to forget and leave her coffee on the kitchen counter; it was Monday.

She made it to work on time with only a couple of minutes to spare. This was only her second week on the job at the city’s most up and coming marketing firm and being late was not the way to make a good impression on her new boss. John Winchester was a man with exacting standards and high expectations.

Her first stop was the coffee pot in the breakroom. There was no way her creativity was going to start flowing without caffeine. Cup in hand, Olivia made her way to her office. It was a respectable office, larger than the little more than a closet sized space she’d had in her last office. This one even had a small window. These things might seem insignificant, but Olivia had worked hard for them, and to her they were badges of success.

Olivia had barely had two sips of her vanilla creamer laced coffee when she had a visitor in her office, the kind of visitor who doesn’t knock: Sam Winchester. She hadn’t been here long, but she had been filled in on Sam. He was practically legendary among the women of the office, and some of the men. She took another sip of her coffee to hide the fact that her mouth had fallen open. This guy lived up to the hype. 

He was wearing a white dress shirt, minus the jacket, and the way his shoulders and chest filled out that shirt was nothing short of sinful. His tie formed a perfect Windsor knot at his throat, and the face above that tie was Greek god handsome. He was a Greek god with dimples.

As he walked across the room, his every move exuded power and privilege, without the arrogance. Holy fuck. Could a man be more attractive?

 He put a folder down on the edge of Olivia’s desk. Work. Right. He expected her brain to focus on what his family was paying her for.

She sat down to take a look at what was so important Sam Winchester himself had delivered it.  When he spoke, his voice was just as delicious as the rest of him.

 “New account. Dad wants you to take it.” He sat down smoothly on the edge of her desk to watch her look through the file like he owned the place, which he basically did. She finished looking through the file then looked up at Sam, more confused than ever. She was the new kid here. Why would they give her something this high profile, as in Hollywood high profile?

It wasn’t her most impressive moment or the most professional thing she’d ever said, but she blurted out, “Why me?”

Sam rested his hand on his thigh. The way his long fingers spread out over it wasn’t helping her concentrate or wrap her head around this situation. “Because you’re from Texas. Gives you insight into the culture, the vibe, the feel of it.” He stood and adjusted his tie, drawing your attention to his hands again. “This Ackles guy is a personal friend of my dad’s, so make it good.” As he left, he looked back over his shoulder. “Besides, everyone likes beer; you’ll come up with something.”

She said to the empty room, after he closed the door behind him, “No, actually I don’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a couple of minutes after Sam left, all she could do was stare at the nicely framed but generic artwork on her wall. The Winchesters were trusting her with a huge account for some reason, and she was scared completely out of her mind that she was going to screw it up and ruin her future with this company, along with her career in advertising. Why did it have to be beer? Finally, she opened the file and spread the pictures of the brewery and the photos of its famous owner across her desk. 

She picked up one of the glossy pictures of Jensen Ackles in all his male model perfection and took a good look at it. He was just as gorgeous as Sam, but his look was distinctly different.  His eyes were a clear green, and they held a deep intensity. Those eyes were captivating in a photograph. What would they be like in person? She allowed herself to indulge in that fantasy for a few seconds then shook her head to break the spell. She needed some Bailey’s in her coffee. Excellent idea. She was already walking a perilous line at this new job, so why the hell not?

Olivia swiveled her chair and opened the cabinet behind her, reaching into the back to grab the bottle of liquor where she’d stashed it. She poured a generous amount into her cup, hoping it would calm her nerves. With that in mind, she turned on some music. The soothing notes of an instrumental version of “White Christmas” floated from the speakers. 

She closed her eyes and let the taste of the coffee and the Irish cream sit on her tongue. This had been one of her favorite Christmas songs when she was growing up. It always took her to a fantasy wonderland, a place where life was ideal and Christmas cottages had perfectly trimmed trees with beautiful presents piled beneath them, fireplaces alive with glowing fires, stockings hung on the mantel, and snowflakes falling gently outside. Living in Texas, snow had been a magical and rarely seen event.

That long cherished holiday dream filled her mind and calmed her. She started singing along with the music. ...just like the ones I used to know.  After a stanza or so, she opened her eyes to focus once again on the pictures of the brewery in front of her. A snowy Christmas was her fantasy, but she had a job to do; that was her reality.

By the end of the day when Sam came back to check on her progress, Olivia had practically nothing to show him. It would do no good to try and stall or hide just how little she had managed to accomplish. He was her supervisor on this project, and he was here to see how much progress she’d made. 

He flipped through the work she’d done that day. His expression was unreadable, but his words were clear enough. “The Taste of Texas? Not exactly original is it?” He paused and cut his eyes over to her, then dropped them back to the papers he was holding. “The drawings aren’t bad though. We can probably use some of these hill country sketches. Maybe a logo design.” He closed the file and tossed it back on her desk.

 “Do you know what you need?” Her silence said she didn’t. “Inspiration.”

She put her hand on the folder lying on her desk, the one that represented her failed day of work. “Where do I get that exactly?” She was unable to keep a hint of exasperation out of her voice.

He flashed her those unbelievable dimples and winked. “Follow me.” Sam took her to his office. It was easily four times the size of hers with an entire wall of windows that revealed a breathtaking view of the city, the lights from the skyline competing with the white lights on the tastefully decorated Christmas tree that adorned his office. It was opulent and sleek, a space befitting the heir to the growing empire. 

She allowed herself to indulge in the breathtaking view of the skyline for a few seconds before commenting, “It’s an incredible view, but I don’t see anything about a family business in Texas out there.”

“Your inspiration isn’t out there; it’s in here.” His voice drew her eyes away from the magnificent view. Sam walked to his mini fridge and pulled out a six pack. He held it up. “A little Cosmic Cowboy from Family Business Beer Company. How can you create an impactful and memorable campaign without sampling the product?”

Sam twisted the top off a bottle and handed it to her. She took a sip of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t one of those people who could describe the taste of beer. It was cold. It was beer. That was all she had. She was not a connoisseur. How was she ever going to do this ad campaign? She didn’t even like beer.

Sam had been watching her reaction carefully. Olivia didn’t have a poker face, though she’d tried to hide her reaction. It didn’t slip by him that she wasn’t comfortable with this beer thing.��

“Not your favorite then?” He took a drink from his bottle. “Taste it again.”

He was the boss’ son, effectively her boss right now, and this was her job; but she got the feeling she would have done whatever he asked even if that hadn’t been the case. She took another sip, and Sam coached her through it. “Think about what you’re drinking; savor it. Just like wine, beer has notes; and they’re all different.”

She took one more drink. “What am I supposed to be tasting?” She’d never been good with wine either, but once someone explained there was blackberry or oak or whatever in it; she could pick up on that. She needed Sam to tell her what she should be tasting.

“Do you taste how it’s substantial but still light?” She took another sip and nodded. “It’s the grapefruit and pineapple that make it light; the pine in it gives it a little something more.” When he said it, she could taste it. She could taste it all.

Sam’s office had a fireplace, not like the one in her fantasy Christmas cottage, but when he picked up a remote and clicked it bringing the flames to life, it was cozy nevertheless. Sam took off his tie and tossed it on one of the upholstered chairs in front of the fire. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Absentmindedly, Olivia took another sip of her beer while she watched him. 

Sam sat down on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, his back leaning against the leather sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. He put what was left of the six pack of beer down beside him and patted the floor on his other side, inviting her to join him. Olivia lowered herself next to him. She was thankful her pencil skirt wasn’t so tight that it didn’t allow some freedom of movement, and she tried not to stare at the way the firelight danced over his golden skin. He caught her looking at his strong forearms, exposed below the rolled white cuffs of his shirt. Sam smiled, a flirty and suggestive sort of smile. He finished the last of his beer, and popped open another.

Olivia was slower to finish hers, but she was beginning to warm up to the taste. Perhaps it was something you had to acquire, or maybe the company you were in made all the difference. Beer might be okay after all. 

He asked, “What do you think of it now?”

“I can taste everything you said.” The crackle of the fire, the lights from the Christmas tree, and the skyline in the background created a perfect storm of romantic atmosphere. Olivia noticed how Sam’s eyes were a beautiful honeyed brown, dappled with green and gold. His lips looked incredibly soft in contrast to the hard line of his jaw. He caught her starting again, this time at his mouth. 

He took her empty bottle and slotted it back into the cardboard square where it had originally been and put what was left of his beer in the empty square beside it. Sam turned back to her and leaned in closer. He took her face into his hand and looked into her eyes for a long second or two before he lowered his mouth to hers. 

The way he kissed was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. His tongue was sure but gentle as it circled hers. He had complete control of her through what his mouth was doing. A wet spot was forming in her panties, her body responding to him. At the same time his hand was cradling her face while his fingers moved slowly back and forth through her hair, massaging her scalp and melting her under his touch. He could do anything to her. She was eager for it.

He broke the kiss, and now he was holding both sides of her head in his enormous hands. His lips were still just inches from hers. She could feel his breath when he asked, “What do you taste now?”

This man could make her breathless. He was either meant for her, or he was excellent at reading her actions and responses. His attention was completely on her, waiting for her response. 

 “I...can still taste the beer, but the way you taste makes it better.” It wasn’t eloquent. For someone who worked with words to pull the maximum effect from them, he could make her forget how to use them properly. 

Sam kissed her again, hands roaming down her back and stopped just above her waist. “You know what else might really inspire you?”

Olivia pressed her body so tightly against his she could feel the muscles in his chest and stomach through his shirt. It made her wetter. “I have some ideas.” 

He took off her jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Then let’s get those creative...juices flowing.” The blouse she was wearing was form fitting. Sam’s gaze traveled over her breasts before his eyes locked onto hers.

 A spark traveled between them. Lust? Need? Want? Whatever it was, the sexual tension hung in the air for a moment before their lips crashed together. 

Sam lowered her to the floor while he pulled her shirt up. He broke the kiss to tear it  over her head and throw it out of the way. Now it was his turn. She took a fistful of his shirt and pulled it out of his pants, then did the same on the other side. He propped himself over her on his hands while she unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. She ran her hand across his chest and over his shoulder. What he’d been hiding beneath that expensive shirt was impressive.  

Sam smiled down at her. “You like?”

“Very much,” she answered while he took off her bra and lowered his head to take one of her nipples in his mouth. He teased it with his tongue until she was arching her back and raising her hips off the floor. 

Sam sucked hard on the nipple in his mouth before pulling off it. “Do you want more?” Her eyes closed and her lips parted, a small moan escaping from them. 

He unzipped her skirt and dragged it down her legs, then turned his attention to her lace covered mound. Sam rubbed his fingers over her panty covered core. “Already so wet.” He pushed her panties aside and swiped his fingers through her folds. Then he lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked her juices from them. His eyes bore into hers. “Tastes so good.”

He tore her panties from her body to gain access to what he wanted; she heard the sound of silk and lace ripping. Sam’s hand felt huge on her thighs as he pushed them wide apart. He held them there, and his tongue found her clit. He sucked it the same way he’d worked at her nipple. 

She was raising and lowering her hips beneath him, fucking nothing and needing to be filled until Sam swirled his tongue all the way down her slit to her opening and thrust it inside. She wasn’t empty anymore, and it felt incredible. He moved his tongue in and out of her, fucking her on it until she was writhing and grabbing fistfuls of his hair. 

She wanted to scream but was still aware enough to know they were in the office building. So, with some effort, she held it in. But when he added the pad of his thumb circling over her clit while he continued to thrust into her with his tongue, she started to whimper and moan. Her thighs were shaking when she came on his face. He licked and stroked her through her orgasm until she went still beneath him.

Sam didn’t move for a few seconds, then he raised himself up so he could see her reaction to what he’d done to her, how it had affected her. Olivia smiled up at him, and Sam returned the smile while he unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed his pants and underwear down over his hips. If she’d thought what was under his shirt was stunning, what was under his pants was better. His cock was absolutely magnificent. It stood against his stomach long and thick, resting on his well defined abs. Sam caught her looking at him yet again, and his smile got bigger. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Sam lowered himself from his kneeling position until he was sitting on the floor. He pushed his pants farther down his legs to get them out of the way. He extended a hand to her, and she took it. He settled her on his lap. Olivia wrapped her legs around him. He looked at her with those beautiful eyes that combined colors in so many ways that seemed to change from moment to moment. “Do you want to go through with this? It’s not too late to say no.”

She squeezed her thighs into his sides. She was imagining the feel of his cock stretching her open. From the looks of him, it was going to be a tight fit. “I absolutely want to go through with this.” 

That was all he needed to hear. He took a condom from the wallet in the pants pooling around his ankles and rolled it down over his length. Sam put his hands on each side of her waist and lifted her up, lining her up over the tip of his cock.

When he started to lower her down onto his shaft, she rolled her head forward. Her hair brushed over his shoulder as he continued to slowly ease her down onto his length, giving her time to adjust to his size. Once he was fully seated inside her, he began to roll his hips. Oliva imitated his movements, rolling her hips with the same rhythm. 

She raised her head because she wanted to see into Sam’s eyes while he thrust up into her. There was something in the depths of them that she couldn’t quite define, something she wanted to figure out, something she wanted to understand and know better. He covered her mouth and kissed her with an intensity she could feel through her entire body.

His tongue was circling hers, tasting her, when she came again. Olivia clenched around him and her body spasmed in waves as her orgasm crested and blended into another. Sam kissed her all the way through it. She went limp in his arms, and he kept moving. 

She could feel his hands on her and the warmth of the flame from the fire on her skin. She could feel the way his cock throbbed, still buried deep inside her, and she could taste him. He pulled away from her mouth and buried his face in her neck when he came.  

“Olivia.” He said her name once, just the one word, and it struck her to the core. Olivia regretted that she couldn’t feel his hot release painting her insides. It felt like some part of him was being held back from her, and she wanted it all. 

Whatever magic she’d felt hearing the sound of her name on his lips dissipated with the reality of Sam pulling himself from her body and carefully removing the condom. He pulled his pants back up before walking over to his desk to dispose of it in the wastebasket there. Olivia imagined it wouldn’t be the first time the cleaning service found one of those in his trash. 

What was she doing? She just screwed the boss’ son in his office. She was a total cliche. Her mind told her she should feel like a slut, but she didn’t. She refused to be ashamed of what she’d done. The sex had been mind blowing; her body had never responded to any man that way. Sam had stirred something in her physically, but it had gone beyond that. It was something she would examine later and try to define, but now all she could think of was escaping the overwhelming thoughts and feelings consuming her. Hastily, she grabbed her clothes and was in the process of putting them back on when Sam returned. 

He took her hand and charmed her with his boyish dimples and his eyes that had turned a soft gray like the color of a sky lit by a silvery moon. Still, it was his words that got to her the most. “Hey, don’t be in such a hurry to leave; you’re going to make me feel cheap.” He was flirting with her. Guys like him moved smoothly through situations like this as though they were born to it, and in a way they were. Still, part of her hoped he was being at least a little sincere.

Sam hadn’t let go of her hand. “Stay with me. We can watch the fire, enjoy the lights on the Christmas tree.” This was a fling, right? It was a one night stand with the irresistible guy at work. “Plan our trip to Texas.” What did he just say? “A six pack is just an introduction to the business. What you need is to see the brewery.” 

Sam sat down on the sofa, and Olivia sank down beside him. She lowered her guard a little and let some of the bliss she was feeling wash over her. The ambience created by the light from the tree and the fire enhanced her mood; both the light and her mood seemed somehow softer now.

“We can take the company jet. Ring in the new year in Austin.” Listening to him, Olivia had a most happy thought. Maybe this wasn’t a one night thing after all. 

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @onethirstyunicorn @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @shaniquacynthia @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @heycasbutt @jules-1999 @mrsdeannafuckingwinchester @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @mrs-meghan-winchester @timelordy-fangirl2 @sweetness47 @hobby27 @awesomesusiebstuff @kickingitwithkirk @becs-bunker @sandlee44 @supernaturalgrandma @lonewolf471 @sea040561 @dawnie1988 @volleyballer519 @outcastedangel @kdfrqqg @lizette50 @daisymoder72 @sorenmarie87 @winchesterxfamilybusiness @deansotherotherblog

Sam/Jared: @girl-next-door-writes @stunudo @feelmyroarrrr @sammit-janet​ @idabbleincrazy​ @evansrogerskitten​ @focusonspn​ @autumninavonlea​ @spnxbsessed​ @durinsbride​ @deansyahtzee​ @waywardnerd67​ @fullmooner​ @julesthequirky​

[decimateddreams]

a description

A sudden, staccato tap of boots picked up overhead, crisply driving into the cobblestones for a second or two. They faltered - seemingly to wince at the resonating thuds - and resumed; duller and softer, as if their owner was reverently traversing over sacred ground, or some immaculate, fresh bed of undisturbed snow. As an almost imperceptible echo trailed in their wake, they delicately picked their way across the slick stone, pausing only to regulate their own patter, an incessant knocking on the coarse rock door of the pavement below. The stealthy movement flicked minuscule droplets up from the rain-coated street, scintillating in the harsh white light from the towering streetlamps. They trickled down the uneven stone like limpid tears - returning to pool once again in the cracks and fissures that scarred the surface, from the unyielding pressure of the foot traffic and drumming city rain. A relentless spiral downwards, soaking back into the earth underneath.

The swishing of fabric over rugged brickwork. Empty limestone eyes stare perpetually into the shadowy alley, gazing at the traveller. Trickling steadily down the statue’s grainy carvings, rain like teardrops coated the weathered stone, tugging down fragments of its being; to the streets, to the sewers - to the earth, returned. One day these empty limestone eyes will empty themselves of rainwater tears for the last time, the final return to un-being. They have roved over life, in the meantime, and continue to do so - and even ancient, frozen stone remembers the brush of warm fingertips. Former glory does not register in the mind of the passer-by, their bright eyes sweeping briefly over the delicately and precisely carved sculpture before filing it away into some unconscious depth of their mind. Such glances and moments are cast into the fire that fuels our dreams, resurfacing there in an insignificant appearance and lost with a sudden breath of confused nostalgia.

However gloomy the disposition - and indeed, appearance - of this traveller, they unknowingly basked in the celestial rays from close, near, and afar. Intense white light hung close from the lanterns overhead, spotlighting the unknowing protagonist of the scene for a moment: until they slipped out from under its harsh glare and anticipated the next hero of the night stepping into place. Further, yet still near, the glowing moon laid its muted beams down to earth, tumbling like airy, radiant snow and settling upon the surface, invisible. The disk was neither a crescent, nor full, not the right shape to please human eyes, nor to form a perfect circumference. It glowed all the same. Further out still, and the desperate light of distant, scattered stars cascades towards the lonely heads on our lonely planet. Ageless light seeking both youthful and aged eyes - blink, and bar the final segment of its journey. Keep your eyes open and absorb this cosmic wonder. Starlight is a beautiful word, and even more so of a phenomenon. Is anyone truly wandering alone, in the dark, while bathed in the desperate gazes of these silent observers?

One silhouette passes two. Hot breath vaguely mingles in the biting cold of the night air. Human contact is not limited to physical or linguistic connection. To pass one another on a crisp, tranquil night is to tangle with each other in the great web of souls interacting in our infinitely tiny domain. Their shadows blur together, innocent of the convention of ‘strangers’, of isolation in a society where one being craves closeness to another. To know and to be known. Yet, no more than glances are exchanged, frantically gathering details; spiderweb strings of wispy hair - what colour? Somewhere in the mental hurry, this detail was lost. Others are retained. The dusty scattered freckles on the other’s face - half shrouded in the concealment of jet black shadows, that seemed to fling themselves across the street, dramatically landing in precarious positions. Such minor observations remain as others are immediately dropped from our memories. Footsteps fade further away from each other into the jet black shadows, forgotten in the void of the night, as the staccato tap of boots fades into the rhythm of the suburbs in the dark. Perhaps never to return to this cobblestone. But the stone remembers, the stars follow with their enduring light. And such moments resurface in dreams.

[mimosaeyes]

“You were upset about Simon, though,” Jon muses. “And I don’t think it was because of the rollercoaster thing. Not really.” 

Post-174, with references to 173 and 151. Jon and Martin anchor each other in the Vast, and discuss agency and significance. 1k.

@emberidzae broke beta land speed records on this. Thanks fren.

The Vast is not just big — it’s bright, too. There had been an interlude of ordinary apocalyptic sky between the Dark and this, but somehow it’s like Martin’s eyes haven’t adjusted. The light hurts, and disorients him. It doesn’t have a clear source, like the sun; it’s simply ubiquitous, uniform in intensity no matter which way he looks, and unchanging over time.

It bleaches the colour of the ground, their clothes, his very skin. Three days? Another three hours, he thinks, and he might already be transparent. Incorporeal. He might blow away on the next gust of wind that radiates outward from each point where the Great Beast takes another ponderous step.

That impact has been the only sound for so long that he startles a little when Jon suddenly speaks. “Are you alright, Martin?”

Oddly, hearing his name brings him back to himself. He gives himself a mental shake and blinks against the light. His vision swims for a second, then focuses on Jon. 

“Fine,” he answers. “Why?”

Jon cants his head at him, while keeping his feet angled unerringly in the direction of the Panopticon. “I just thought... well. If the Vast is the fear of your own insignificance, it’s not all that different from the Lonely, is it.”

Martin furrows his brow. “How d’you mean?”

“Losing yourself in too much space, losing yourself because you feel disconnected from other people, because they seem so far away...” Jon lifts his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug, shifting his backpack’s weight around. “I lost you in that house. And you’ve been quiet for so long, I just — I wanted to remind you you’re not walking through this barren wasteland alone.” His lips lift in the shadow of a smile on these last words, wry and a little self-deprecating.

“Oh,” Martin says. His experience of the last who-knows-how-much-time realigns itself in his head, and he repeats, “Oh.”

Stumbling slightly in his rush, he reaches for Jon’s hand and clasps it tightly. Jon returns the pressure after a brief moment of hesitation. The sensation grounds him at once, reminding him exactly where and who he is in these homogeneous, apparently boundless surroundings. He sighs with something akin to relief.

“Martin?” Jon says tentatively.

“Better,” he responds, answering the unspoken question. “Thank you. I... I didn’t even realise.”

In response, Jon only makes a vague contented noise, and runs his thumb over Martin’s hand once, twice.

They walk on like that for some time before Martin finishes processing the rest of what Jon had said. “Wait,” he says slowly, “how long was I not talking?”

He half-expects Jon to give him one of his infuriating, cop-out answers, but instead, with barely a pause, he gets: “Thirty-one hours, seventeen minutes, and twenty-six seconds.”

Martin stops walking so he can properly rail on Jon, though the effect is rather spoiled by the fact that they’re still holding hands. “So much for Mr. Cryptic!” he says accusingly. “Mr. ‘What Counts As A Day? What An Excellent Question’. You know exactly how much time is passing.” 

He doesn’t really mean for it to sting, but he’s tired and apparently has been dissociating for more than a day, so his joking tone ends up far sharper than he intends. Wincing, Jon pulls his hand back from Martin’s, and rubs it absently. 

“No,” he explains, “I know how long I take to breathe in and out. Since the terrain is flat here, the rate was steady. I can’t do it all the time, it takes conscious effort. I only started counting because you seemed upset with me, and I didn’t know how long to give you — ha — space.”

“Why would I be upset with you?”

Jon scuffs his shoe against the ground. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Because I didn’t kill Simon Fairchild, but I did kill all those other avatars. I didn’t smite them out of... righteousness, I did it for petty revenge.”

Gods or whichever-dread-power-it-may-concern help him, his boyfriend cannot process his own emotions. “Jon,” Martin says patiently, “I’m not upset with you.” He pauses, making his voice even gentler. “You’re upset with yourself.”

Jon looks up, his mouth falling open slightly. “Oh,” he says, echoing Martin earlier. 

It occurs to Martin how weird it is that they seem to know each other better than they know themselves. There might be a lot of tension between them due to various end-of-the-world reasons, but that still holds true.

“You were upset about Simon, though,” Jon muses. “And I don’t think it was because of the rollercoaster thing. Not really.”

Martin sighs. Now it’s his turn to stare at his feet and scuff his shoe. “Yes,” he admits. “I’ve been quiet because I’ve been thinking.”

A beat. “Are you willing to tell me what about?” Jon asks softly. Martin silently appreciates his effort to avoid asking a direct question and compelling an answer out of him.

“Peter Lukas asked Simon to explain the Extinction to me. He didn’t do anything, sure, but — but that’s just it. He was okay with Armageddon happening. He said it didn’t matter, cosmically, whether people ever lived, or whether they suffered before they died. He said it was about the big picture.” He takes a deep breath. “When we left those kids in the Dark...”

He trails off, biting his lip, but Jon comes in, fierce and certain. “No, Martin. It’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Martin offers him a crooked smile. 

Jon is already shaking his head. “You don’t believe that. I listened to your tapes, every one of them. I remember what you said to Fairchild. You told him you thought our experience of the universe has value, even if it doesn’t last. Even if it’s only a, a blip in the universe.” 

He takes a step closer, cupping his hand over the back of Martin’s neck. “Don’t you still believe that?”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat. 

“I have to,” he whispers, in a vast, near-featureless plain. Under a sky that feels like it looks at him and sees absolutely nothing of significance there. “I have to believe that what we do matters.”

Jon presses their foreheads together. “Then it does.”

Their voices are almost lost in the great expanse. But only almost.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[fangirlingtodeath513]

all things must come to an end | a 15x12 coda

The most important part of writing the books in this library is rewriting the endings to fit the rest of the book. Sometimes those endings are as simple as the subject dying in their sleep, sometimes it’s as complicated as a Rube Goldberg machine, with all the moving parts that eventually trigger someone’s demise. 

God’s death is the latter. The crumbs have been spread throughout the centuries, his death written and rewritten almost as many times as the Winchester’s deaths.

The crumbs are solidifying, now. It’s been nearly fifty years since God’s book has rewritten itself. It sits alone in the glass case at the very front of the room, the most frequently opened book in the entire library. Her predecessor had kept a close eye on it and Billie’s continued the tradition. She’ll be the one to reap him, she’s certain of it now.

The first crumb was dropped centuries ago, now. Lucifer’s fall. The first brick of the house was laid when God betrayed his favorite. It wasn’t Lucifer’s fault, of course. The Mark corrupted everything it came in contact with, including the purest soul of Dean Winchester. 

The next bricks wouldn’t be laid for centuries, and it was something Chuck engineered himself, unbeknownst to him. John and Mary Winchester’s cupid match. Chuck was too obsessed with playing out his ultimate story that he hadn’t even considered for a moment that said story would be his downfall. His arrogance will be his death.

The final brick laid was Castiel’s fall from Heaven. Sure, other things needed to happen—Jack’s birth, the release of Amara—but the moment Castiel’s wings wrapped protectively around Dean’s bruised but still bright soul, Chuck’s fate was sealed. He’s always underestimated Castiel’s role in all of this, though Billie suspects that’s because he was only ever meant to be a supporting player. The Winchesters have always been underestimated, at least as far as Chuck is concerned, but Castiel has been cosmically underestimated. He’s the wrench in Chuck’s plans and the fact that Chuck still doesn’t understand that is mind-boggling, at least for Billie. Perhaps she’s at an advantage, though. She isn’t emotionally invested in whatever story Chuck thinks he’s trying to craft, so she can watch with an outsider’s perspective. 

Chuck’s death is in permanent ink in his book, and Billie intends to keep it that way. Chuck’s had his time and his fun meddling, but this is her world. He’s encroaching on her territory—deciding when and how people die despite their books, ending whole worlds because he’s having a tantrum. She simply won’t allow it anymore.

It takes barely an ounce of her cosmic power to place Chuck’s book on the bunker’s kitchen table. The bunker is asleep at the moment—probably the most peaceful night of sleep the Winchesters have had in a long time, and she’s not about to disturb that. They’ll need all the rest they can get if they’re going to take on God himself. Besides, having Castiel and Jack safely tucked away in the bunker is doing wonders for the eldest Winchester’s circadian rhythm. 

They’ve got time. The final piece of sand in Chuck’s hourglass has several weeks before it triggers the demise of the Lord, and Billie’s in no hurry. She’ll reap Chuck soon enough. No, right now she needs to focus on the Winchesters, and Castiel in particular. Despite the Shadow looming in the background of Castiel’s every move, they’ve still got a deal. It can take Castiel, and soon, but only until Billie requires him. He’s the spanner in the works, Chuck has even written those words himself. 

He just doesn’t know how true they really are.

~

The old Winchester House, November 12, 2020

Chuck peers through the frosted windows at the front of the house. It’s a chilly November evening, the very last one he’ll ever get to feel. He’s weak, ever since Amara was taken to the Empty. They’re supposed to balance each other out and without her, he’s losing his powers. Quickly. Still, this is his story, he’s not going to let two unruly humans, a wayward angel, and a satanic nephilim be his demise. 

The deep rumble of the Impala sounds long before the headlights are visible. Chuck would know that sound anywhere, though it makes him more nervous than it used to. Must be a side effect of losing his powers. He’s not afraid of these insignificant ants. 

It’s over in a flash. Jack’s far more powerful than he is these days, and his indignant fury at Chuck’s meddling makes him ruthless. 

God dies at the hands of two humans, a fallen angel, and a nephilim. He dies scared, powerless, and alone in the house where it all began.

[lacquerware]

Sekiro has one big similarity to Bionic Commando, and it's not what you think

Spoiler Warning: Sekiro, Bionic Commando (NES)

Progress in Sekiro is meted out through challenging boss fights and punctuated with scenic, relatively safe traversal sequences that enhance the sense that you’re on a textured journey that’s headed somewhere. Fairly early in the game, after you’ve found your initial footing and conquered a few lifebars bearing fancy names, the game pulls a fast one on you: As you’re scaling some cliffs to get to the next part of the game, a snake roughly the size of Godzilla glides into view—filling your view—and looks at you like you’re the last donut hole in Boston. What was supposed to be a rejuvenating slice of downtime is suddenly the most stressful situation Sekiro has placed you in so far. A harrowing stealth sequence ensues, where you must divide your time between hiding and madly dashing for the next hiding spot.

Eventually you escape into a cave and get on with your life without confronting the beast, but a new seed of anxiety has started to sprout; eventually you’ll have to confront this thing. It’s Sekiro’s way of shaking the confidence you’ve spent the first chunk of the game building. “You think you’re all that because you beat an eight-foot ogre who started the fight in shackles? Sit back down, insect.”

From then on, the Great Serpent becomes a sort of sinister mile marker, dividing your journey broadly into acts with recurring reminders that your successes don’t mean you’re not still a tiny worm on a giant fucking cosmic hook. At one point it ambushes you on a rope bridge, leaving you floating helplessly in the water below. Another time, you find its shed skin adorning the scenery.  

In my many hours and playthroughs with Sekiro, I’ve come to learn that there is some variation to the order in which the game’s key events may unfold, but on my first playthrough, I’d done just about everything possible before finally emerging from that Sunken Valley cavern to find the Great Serpent nestled asleep on a cliffside a few hundred feet below. I’d acquired the Mortal Blade as well as all the ingredients for the Fountainhead Incense. The dreaded Guardian Ape was dead, then undead, then dead-dead. It was clear I was about to enter a new, late phase of the game, but then there she was, once again laying watch over my only path forward.

I edged forward on the overlooking wooden beam, scanning for grapple points or other escape options. There were none, but I was startled to find I could lock onto the slumbering Serpent’s head. Ah, I thought. This is the fight I’ve been dreading all along. Nothing left but to walk the plank and wake the dragon. I gulped, wiped the sweat off my palms, and dove . . . .

As I plunged, I was again startled to see the familiar red smudge of a Deathblow opportunity appear on the Serpent’s head. I spewed some fragments of syllables as my finger scrambled for the R1 button. It registered and Sekiro readied his sword in midair. Unexpected as this was, it occurred to me that many boss fights had begun this way, with a Deathblow opportunity that knocked off one of the boss’s multiple life bars. There was no special reason to think this would preclude a grueling fight, until, that is, Sekiro tore his sword through the Serpent’s uncaring reptile brain, drenching the entire landscape in a downpour of strawberry rhubarb jam and leaving the Serpent a dangling dead decoration. The fight was over before it had begun.

I’ve already commended Sekiro for being FromSoft’s first game in the “Souls” template not to be centered around discouragement, but this dramatic display of leniency was downright motivational. It was like your drill sergeant surprising you with a pizza party instead of the expected twenty-mile march.

“It’s fucking dead?!” I said out loud to my wife in the other room.

“What’s dead?”

“A snake in a video game.”

“Oh.”

But to me it was astounding. This colossal demon, whose prime function up to now had been to keep my confidence in check, had now fallen to my little blade in one of the most spectacular shows of player triumph I’d seen in my more than thirty years of gaming. What I’d thought was the game’s way of saying “You’ve haven’t accomplished as much as you think you have” was ultimately the game’s way of saying I’d accomplished more. Even this impossibly large beast, this divine manifestation of terror itself, which had made every other adversary look puny and insignificant, was now dead. What a shot in the arm! There was no stopping me now.

After finishing Sekiro, I realized this moment had been instrumental in creating the lasting impression that, unlike Dark Souls and Bloodborne, Sekiro never seeks to discourage or punish. It also contributed heavily to the dynamic contour of the whole experience, which is a major thing I think Sekiro has over my beloved Nioh. It aspires and succeeds at being more than a game with a predictable loop—it’s an odyssey of diverse sights and experiences, and the Great Serpent kill feels like the centerpiece. My favorite moment of Sekiro.

Some time later, I had a shower thought: Bionic Commando on the NES, one of my all-time favorite games, had done something very similar more than thirty years prior. The Japanese version of the game includes Hitler’s Resurrection (ヒットラーの復活) right in the title, but in America it’s not until the climactic showdown that you even know it’s a game about defeating Hitler. Until then, your ostensible adversary is Generalissimo Killt, an imposing, sneering, decorated man with all the trimmings of a fictional fascist. He taunts you face-to-face early on in one of the game’s RPG town-esque neutral zones, where you have no recourse even though your bionic arm could surely crush his skull like a grape in a condor beak.

When you finally meet again, Killt stands regal before a towering stasis chamber with a human figure floating within. He says something menacing about “Master-D” and a “revival device,” makes a threat on your life, and then the encounter is cut short by an apparent electrical malfunction. With a powerful jolt, the device unceremoniously kills Killt before he can even try to make good on his threat. 

The floating figure within the chamber slowly emerges and speaks. Despite his censored name, the pixelated portrait that accompanies his dialogue box is unmistakable—an eerily lifelike rendering of Adolph Hitler. I was six or seven when I first witnessed this moment, but thanks to Mom’s yearly Yom Kippur tradition of breaking out the Holocaust picture book, Hitler’s stony visage was already imprinted upon my brain. He was my boogeyman, the subject of recurring nightmares, and now somehow he’d invaded my video game. This real-life association made him formidable in a way no other video game villain could touch (no, not even Mike Tyson). It was personal and terrifying in a way no game had been. In an instant, the stakes of this adventure soared sky-high. Hitler was the Great Serpent, a terrible titan sent to ambush your confidence.

After his grand entrance, Hitler unleashes upon you the “Albatros” [sic], a hulking, amorphous war machine outftitted with rhythmically spewing flame vents and a pulsating organ. A tense fight ensues, putting your swinging and shooting skills to the ultimate test. Finally, the Albatross explodes in a screen-filling spectacle of pyrotechnics, and you emerge on an elevated precipice just in time to hear the dying words of a wounded comrade, Hal: Hitler is getting away in a chopper, and it’s up to you to stop him. Even the ultimate test had fallen far short of stopping this monolithic evil.

Hal hands over a bazooka and instructs you to aim for the chopper’s cockpit as you leap from the precipice. You edge forward, scanning for grapple points. You gulp, wipe the sweat off your palms, and swing . . . .

As you plunge, you fire off a single shot. It strikes the glass. You land.

“Your number’s up! Monster!”

Now bear in mind that up to this point, only the weakest enemies in the game had died in one hit. And this wasn’t just any adversary; this was the biggest possible bad. As with the Great Serpent, there was no special reason to think this one shot would preclude a grueling fight, until, that is, Hitler’s cranium exploded in a starburst of strawberry rhubarb jam, the gory detail intricately rendered in four disgusting frames of diverging skin, teeth, and eyeballs. 

The fight was over before it had begun. What appeared at first to be a demoralizing escalation of the game’s peak, was in fact a spectacular way to pat you on the back for making it this far. It's like they shoehorned Hitler into the game at the last minute just to let you blow his head up. For a little Jewish kid, that was just about the tastiest proposition a video game could offer. 

The more I ponder these two moments, the more they feel like twins. The dissonance of the antagonists’ grandeur with the world they inhabit. The ease with which you reveal both to be false gods. The extreme use of gore to convey the weight of your achievement. They even both hinge on a do-or-die attack performed in free fall. Considering Sekiro also stars a grunt with a bionic arm, I have to wonder if there weren’t some Bionic Commando fans involved in its conception.

[megabadbunny]

Cosmic Love and Monsters (4/?)

"Now don’t you do that,” he says, suddenly stern and very south-London, pouting at Rose in mock admonishment. “Don’t you do that Very Bad Thing. You’ve got to listen to me, I’m the Doctor! I’m a poncy self-righteous twat with my head buried so far up my cobweb-filled arse it’s been centuries since it last saw the light of day!" (sfw version on ff.net; full tags and info on ao3) Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

***

Chapter Four: Fear Him

Cold pain awake hurt

Why

Doctor—

Rose wakes with a gasp, flinching at the ache that flares dully through her head. Icy water drips down her face in rivulets, and she wipes the great fat droplets out of her eyes, gingerly pushing herself up to a sitting position on the couch—

Wait. The couch…?

Confusion mounting with every passing moment, Rose scans the room around her, discerning what little she can in the darkness; it’s that castle-place, still, from the looks of it. Stone meets her eyes at every turn, drapes stretching gently from column-to-column, swaying lazily in the night air, and it’s quiet in here, oh-so-quiet. The softness beneath her legs must surely be plush cushions and yes, the thing behind her is definitely the back of a couch.

She’s in a fancy dress. In a castle. Recovering from a fainting-spell on a fainting-couch. The only way it would be cheesier, she thinks, is if she were chained to a set of train tracks instead.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” drawls a voice somewhere out of the darkness, and Rose jumps. “Sleep well?”

Rose glares at the Doctor—no, not the Doctor, the man from before, that terrible man, pretending to be the Doctor, but how did he have all of the Doctor’s memories, how did he know so much?—and he steps out of the shadows, holding a crystal goblet in one gloved hand. Water drips down the goblet’s sides, splatting loudly onto the floor and the man’s shoes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is focused solely on Rose. He watches her, his face blank, impassive, eyes blinking just a little too slowly in the dim light, like a lizard. Like a snake.

The Master, Rose remembers, and she shivers.

“Hullo? Master to Rose,” the Master says, waving a hand. “I asked you a question. Do you care to answer?”

“Not really,” Rose replies.

The Master chuckles. “Rude, but then you never were a morning person, were you?”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, I’ve got my ways.” Dipping his gloved fingers into the goblet, the Master draws out a palmful of water and flicks it into Rose’s face. She forces herself not to flinch at the icy-cold deluge. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”

For a half-second, Rose considers making a run for it (or better yet, making a run at him), but she can just see the top of the sonic screwdriver sticking out of his jacket-pocket, and the memory of the pain it caused is still fresh, still raw. Unthinking, she almost raises her hand to the collar sitting heavy on her neck, until she catches the Master’s eyes, watching her patiently, almost gleefully. 

Do it, he seems to be saying. Do something stupid. I dare you.

Rose’s hand falls to her side and clenches stubbornly in her skirts instead.

“Who are you?” she asks sharply, shaking water out of her eyes. “Not your name,” she snaps before he has a chance to reply. “I already know that. I want to know who you really are, and why you’re really imprisoned here, and why you pretended to be the Doctor.”

The Master cocks his head to one side, inquisitive. “Well, aren’t you a curious little kitten?” he laughs.

“You’ve got two hearts, so you must be a Time Lord too, right?” asks Rose, almost speaking to herself, more than him. “But the Doctor said he was the only one left, after the War. How’d you survive?”

“Careful now, darling,” he replies. “You know what they say about cats and curiosity.”

“Enough bullshit. Cut to the chase.”

Tutting in disapproval, the Master shakes his head. “My my my,” he sighs. “What a nasty little mouth you’ve got on you. Surely you’d never say such a thing in front of your precious Doctor. You must know he doesn’t approve of such crude language.”

“We could always call him up and find out for sure.”

The Master barks out a laugh. “That isn’t possible for a variety of reasons, I’m afraid—numero uno being that your Doctor’s more than a little bit dead.”

Suddenly all the hurt in Rose’s body feels very far away. A vision of a gurney and a still hand floods her memory; she fights to keep her face calm and composed as panic surges in her chest, strangling her. A strange buzzing sound fills her ears like a nest of angry-buzzing wasps.

She is very, very cold.

Rose forces herself not to shiver. “I don’t believe you,” she says calmly.

The Master grins a Jack-o-Lantern’s smile. “You should.”

“No,” Rose replies with a sharp shake of her head. “If he was dead, you would said he didn’t approve. You said he doesn’t.”

“Well, I never!” says the Master gleefully. “Turns out you’ve got some cognitive capacity, after all! What a delightful surprise. Though to be fair, the truth was going to come up sooner or later, anyway. Only a matter of time.”

“So he is alive,” Rose says, relief washing over her.

The Master nods. “For the moment.”

Allowing her eyes to shutter closed, Rose takes just the briefest of moments to thank her lucky stars back home, all the ones that haven’t disappeared yet. “How do you know so much about him, anyway?” she asks. “How did you know who I was, back at the tournament? Just how much do you know?”

Humming thoughtfully, the Master considers for a moment, fingers tapping idly against the cup in his hands. “Nah,” he says, “I’m much more interested in talking about you, pet. Now tell me—” and here he plonks down on the couch next to Rose, ignoring how she shifts as far away from him as she can, “—just what will it take to get you to cooperate?”

“With what?”

“Well, with me, naturally.”

Rose eyes him warily. “Why? What do you want?”

“Just a smidge of your help.” The Master tilts his goblet this way and that, watching the motion of the water inside, as if it’s all terribly fascinating. “Well, that, and a decent cappuccino, but first things first.”

“I’m not helping you off this planet.”

“Nor could you,” the Master replies. “If I haven’t figured out a way off, then you certainly can’t, though it’s cute you thought that was a possibility. No; your assistance will be of a different nature,” he continues thoughtfully. “Something more along the lines of bait and switch, lure and hook, catch and release. Without the release.”

He shoots a sly smile her way. “Something to do with our mutual friend. Something a lot more personal, if you know what I mean.”

Rose shakes her head in confusion, running over his words in her mind. Then it dawns on her. 

“You want to use me,” she realizes aloud, “to get the Doctor here. To steal the TARDIS.” 

“Bingo!” shouts the Master in delight, clapping his hands together heedless of the water that sloshes from his cup. “Right in one.”

Rose stares at him. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Oh, I very much am not,” the Master says pleasantly. “I can’t get off this planet, but you know what can? A TARDIS. And guess who’s got one of those, along with buckets and buckets of horrendously boring and otherwise useless sentimentalism for a certain blonde and insignificant squalling little beastie?”

“No. No way.”

“Yes. Yes way,” says the Master. “And in another way, really, I suppose I should be thanking you right now. My other plan was to modify your little hopper, use that to get off this rock and track the Doctor down. But thanks to your Stone Age technology and your oh-so-elegant solution of stamping the thing to smithereens, now, we can jump straight to the end goal. No more wasting time looking for him—we’ll bring him straight to us!”

“I’m not gonna help you trap the Doctor,” Rose says loudly.

“Oh, come on. You barely know me—certainly not well enough to know all the reasons why you shouldn’t help me.” The Master pauses, thinking, as he wipes one damp glove on Rose’s skirt. “Granted, there are many, but there’s no reason for you to be so stubborn about it. So why don’t you just cooperate, like a good little girl?”

A harsh laugh. “How about you take this collar off me first?”

“How about you stop wasting my time?”

“Remove the collar or you get nothing.”

“Comply or I’ll kill you.”

“Good luck getting help from my corpse.”

The Master’s eyes flash and for a second Rose is so, so certain he’ll shift, fast as a blink, turning his sonic on her collar again or maybe even ripping it off so he can wrap his hands round her throat, fingers squeeze-squeeze-squeezing the life out of her, but instead he just grins.

That’s…unsettling.

“How about,” the Master muses, pretending to consider, “you give me what I want, or I kill all of your little friends? Hm? The ones you were helping out in the tournament. How about that?”

Rose doesn’t flinch. “They’re all gonna die in the tournament anyway.”

“Ooh, that’s cold!” laughs the Master. “I mean, you’re not wrong, but still. Cold.” 

He taps his chin thoughtfully with the goblet. “I could still kill you, you know. That option is very much still on the table. And what would your Doctor say about that?”

“He’d understand,” Rose replies firmly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says the Master, and if Rose didn’t know any better, she’d be tempted to label his tone soft. “But then again, maybe you’re right. So damned noble, the both of you. It’s such a nuisance, really.”

With a sigh, the Master sidles up next to Rose, as if they’re just two friends having a casual chat, mates gossiping about the latest celebrity news or office scandal. It’s a very strange contrast to the collar sitting heavy and cold on Rose’s skin.

“Don’t suppose there’s still any hope of convincing you I’m the Doctor?” the Master asks cheerfully.

“Don’t suppose there is. Didn’t work out the first time you tried.”

“And I tell you, it’s a damn shame, Rose. Just a real damn shame,” says the Master, shaking his head. “What a waste of a performance! I had so much more material. Here, look: Now don’t you do that,” he says, suddenly stern and very south-London, pouting at Rose in mock admonishment. “Don’t you do that Very Bad Thing. You’ve got to listen to me, I’m the Doctor! I’m a poncy self-righteous twat with my head buried so far up my cobweb-filled arse it’s been centuries since it last saw the light of day!”

He bumps Rose’s shoulder with his and the gesture is so reminiscent of the Doctor that Rose has to fight not to dry-heave. “Not too shabby, eh?”

“Positively Oscar-worthy,” Rose replies through gritted teeth.

“Thanks, I thought as much,” says the Master, beaming. “Now, back to my earlier question—because I won’t let up until I get the answer I want, see, so you might as well comply now, before I get bored with you. And as the people on this fair planet can attest, you won’t like me when I’m bored. So what’ll it be, love? Your life, or your Doctor?”

Rose doesn’t reply, just stares stonily ahead.

“Oh, Rose Tyler,” the Master says, heaving a disappointed sigh after several long moments tick by in silence. “Rose, Rose, Rose. A rose by any other name—”

“God, can we get on with the killing already?” Rose groans. “Cos honestly, I’d rather die than have yet another idiot feeding me that stupid—”

He aims the sonic at her collar and pain surges through her body with a nasty shock. Spasming backward, Rose’s head cracks against the wall behind her with a sickening thwack that echoes through the room while stars explode behind her eyelids. Copper-taste floods her mouth as blood wells up from where she bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes start to water as the shock fades, before the pain sets back in, but it’s a short head start; the pain at the back of her head blossoms through quickly, and hard.

A sound of glass shattering on the tiles and suddenly a set of leatherclad fingers clenches her chin in a steely grip, wrenching her face sideways and forcing her to look the Master in the eyes. Despite herself, Rose gasps at the sudden closeness, the way the Master’s pupils dilate until his irises are nothing but a pool of lightless black.

“Surely by now, you’ve realized that behind this pretty face, I’m a monster,” the Master says, his voice chillingly pleasant for all that his smile is a thin-stretched grimace. “And monsters do bad, bad things to little girls.”

A chill runs down Rose’s spine and brings a violent shudder with it but Rose doesn’t reply and she doesn’t look away, just glares at him with all the hate she can muster, her mouth clenched tight against the swelling blood. You’re not the only monster in this room, she wants to say, but judging by the way he’s clenching the sonic, tightening until the leather squeaks against the casing, more and more as her silence stretches on—oh, leaving him hanging in the quiet is so much better.

“I can break you,” the Master breathes, chest heaving beneath the confines of his tailored suit. “I can break you, and I will, and it will be so, so very easy. And how do you think your beloved Doctor will react to that, hm? What do you think it will do to him, just how much will it tear him up inside, to see the bloody, mangled, twisted husk of a broken and empty thing that used to be the woman he loves?”

Rose spits in his face.

With a dark chuckle, the Master thumbs at the blood and spittle where it landed on the corner of his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the traces left behind. “Iron-deficient,” he says. “You really should consider a daily supplement, sweetheart.”

He pushes off the couch and strides away into the shadows, crystal shards from his dropped goblet crunching beneath his heel. The click of a handle and splinter of light in the semi-darkness let Rose know that he has reached the door.

“Oh, don’t worry, darling; I shan’t be gone too long,” the Master says, pausing long enough to flash Rose a winning smile. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonely. Only be warned: the rest of our conversations might not be so pleasant. Next time you don’t give me what I want? Somebody dies, and they die nasty.”

“My condolences to your widow,” Rose shoots back.

Laughing gaily, as if Rose just told the most charming after-dinner joke, the Master leaves, the door clicking quietly shut behind him, locking afterward. Darkness and blessed silence filter back in, and Rose relaxes just the littlest bit, slumping back against the couch, wincing when her head touches the wall behind her. She doesn’t feel the telltale warmth of blood matting her hair, but she’s definitely bruised back there, probably going to swell, certainly going to hurt for the next few days.

Doesn’t matter. She’ll be fine; she’s had far worse. It won’t stop her from trying to escape. And it certainly won’t change her mind about protecting the Doctor. It doesn’t matter how badly she wants to see him, doesn’t matter how much the longing hurts even worse than the pain splitting the back of her skull. She will not do anything to compromise him. She’ll die first.

It’s what he’d do for her. He’d understand.

He will understand.

Willing her muscles to unwind, Rose lets out a long-trapped sigh, surrendering to the exhaustion that washes over her.

She sleeps.

***

Previous | Next (forthcoming)

[nerdy-as-heck]

Bitterly By Your Side

A/N: Me? Posting a fic for the first time in 8 months? I'm just as surprised as you are. Ao3 Link

Summary: Logan is a world-renowned author, but not for his scientific journals. For a romance novel he never intended to publish, and an upcoming movie that would finally get the two it was inspired by together.

Ships: Pre-Prinxiety, background Logicality

Warnings: None

There were a lot of things in this world that didn’t make much sense to Logan. What made someone hate a specific group of people for an unchangeable part of their identity? Why would some people continue to believe a falsehood even after being shown irrefutable evidence? Why the fuck is college so expensive? But this. This went beyond every question that Logan could ask himself. Any amount of logic he tried to apply would shatter into a thousand pieces.

For years, Logan had been a distinguished author. Dozens of academic papers, journals, books, and articles were published under his name, making more breakthroughs in science than one could have ever imagined possible. Some were small advancements, granted, but none were insignificant. But that’s not why the general public knows Logan’s name.

Ten years getting a PhD in Astrophysics and one Nobel prize later, Logan Berry’s name is on the Best-Selling Romance Novel section in every bookstore across the country. And Logan will continue to blame his husband for it every time someone asks.

Not that it was really /entirely/ Patton’s fault. Both of them had been sick of Roman and Virgil’s pining that had been going on since freshman year of college. At least Logan’s infatuation had only lasted a month or so before bluntly asking Patton if he finds him physically attractive; that story always gets a laugh every time they tell it. The four of them had been suitemates during their first year, with Logan and Roman sharing their room while Patton and Virgil had the adjoining one. That was nearly twelve years ago, and yet the two of them still seemed to be clueless as to the other’s emotions, even with all four of them once again living in the same apartment.

All Patton had said was he wished there was a way to see them get together, like a movie or something. Now, Logan couldn't direct or act, but he could write. So, naturally, he did the only thing a sane person would do; he stayed up for three days straight writing a 300 page chaotic mess of the two falling in love. Perhaps it was a bit dramatic, and it definitely ended up being far longer than he had intended. But Logan’s train of thought never seemed to stay quite on track when it came to making his soulmate happy.

Of course, Logan had no interest in simply reading it over and over again himself; he printed out the pages and presented it to Patton as an early birthday present. Logan was under the impression that Patton knew it was a simple gift for his eyes only, nothing more. But Patton hadn’t quite gotten that impression.

Logan hadn’t necessarily made it a ‘fanfiction’. Yes, it was about two hopelessly oblivious in love college roommates that got together in the end. The thing that kept it unique was neither character revealing their actual name until the very ending, instead choosing to use a nom de plume. In this particular case, Roman had called himself “Merlin” and Virgil went by “Storm”. Neither the reader nor the characters within the story would learn their true names until the last chapter.

Apparently Patton did not read to the last chapter. Instead, about halfway through, he had believed it was a good idea to take it straight to a publisher; he couldn’t believe Logan had trusted him with the draft of his first novel!

It wasn’t until Logan got a copy of the book in the mail, fully printed and with his name on the cover, did he realize why Patton hadn’t commented on it after finishing. “Bitterly By Your Side” was already in every store in town and quickly spreading. Logan quickly pulled Patton into their shared room to discuss this with him and show the last page; needless to say, Patton was humiliated that he had done such a thing. It took hours to calm him down. Logan simply believed the book would not be popular and it would be taken down from the shelves in a matter of a few weeks.

He could not have been more wrong.

People slowly began to recognize Logan on the streets, asking for photos or to sign their copy of the book. Stores would reach out to him and schedule book signings, which Logan reluctantly went to as a chance to promote some of his other works. No one was buying any of that.

This was about two years ago. Logan had always scolded Roman and Virgil for not reading as often as they should, but it was unexplainable how grateful he was that they never listened. Not once in those years did the two step foot in a bookstore, see Logan scatter away for a photo when he was found in public, or questions the ‘meeting’ Logan seemed to be going to every other week.

By this point, Logan had gotten used to how things were. It was bringing in money to support the entire group, and no one was hurting for it. Though it still confused him why this was the case, he had accepted it as an unexplainable cosmic phenomenon. Logan didn’t even think twice when allowing a company that approached him to make a movie adaptation, with the promise that Logan could supervise on site, of course.

Months later, and somehow the two’s obliviousness had only gotten worse. It was a true miracle that they never noticed Logan being gone all the time or that Roman didn't pick up on the potential movie acting gig. Though the last wasn’t much of a coincidence; Logan always checked their mail and tossed out any advertisements for it.

Logan had only looked over one important detail; the company picking up the story was Disney. And regardless if they had heard about it before, Virgil and Roman both had a dedication to watching it together day it shows up on Netflix. Patton would always tease Virgil about it being their little “date night”, which would be received by a shove and Virgil’s hood coming up to hide his face.

On the night that this happened, Logan was out late at a midnight book signing, and Patton had agreed to go with to drive him home in case Logan was too exhausted. So for the first time in quite a while, Roman and Virgil had the whole apartment to themselves for movie night. As tradition, Virgil grabbed popcorn, snacks, and drinks, running back to the couch just before Roman clicked play.

“Are you ready for what is sure to be the GREATEST FILM of ALL TIME?”

“You say that every time, Princey. Bitterly By Your Side may be Disney, but its a dumb romance too. It can’t be that good.”

Of course Roman scoffed at that, but before he could continue the argument, Virgil just threw a handful of popcorn at his face and hit play. Storm happened to be the first character that came on screen, and the second Roman saw the actor’s face he gasped and leaned forward.

“That man… Is the love of my life.” Virgil couldn’t help but to laugh at the dramatics of such an early declaration, and for a short time Roman stared at Virgil rather than at the movie.

“You think that guy is good looking? Don’t be ridiculous, he looks like a ten year old that got into his mom’s makeup.” Roman could only glare at Virgil for a few minutes before Merlin came on screen. And then it was Roman’s turn to laugh as Virgil’s jaw literally dropped.

“You can’t be serious! Storm is far more attractive than /that/ over dramatic piece of work!” Virgil didn’t even have the words to argue at the moment, simply shoving a hand over Roman’s mouth as Merlin already had a shirtless scene. It wasn’t more than five seconds later, though, that Virgil realized what he had done and practically shrieked, crawling to the other side of the couch. “S-Sorry… But if that doesn’t prove Merlin is the best, then nothing will.” A simple joke had now turned into a full out war between the two, pointing out each small quality in the other character that made them far superior.

“Look at Storm’s purple eyes! And that long hair, I just want to run my hand through it and kiss that man.”

“They’re probably contacts anyway! Merlin has the swoop in his hair that at least doesn’t block his /actual/ green emerald eyes!”

“But that’s the thing, Storm is so shy yet abrasive at the same time! His hiding just makes his natural beauty all the better!”

“Sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you over Merlin’s fifth shirtless scene.”

Of course, it was all joking banter. Despite the insults thrown from time to time, this was a typical thing for the two of them, and tonight wasn’t any different. It only finally died down at a point where the movie was getting ready to end. For some reason, Roman was a moron. Well. Virgil knew that already. A cute moron, but still a moron, one that had decided to run to the bathroom right after the climax of the movie and refused to let Virgil pause it. In the short time, Roman was gone, that was all the movie needed to make Virgil’s fight or flight response kick in.

“Now that we’re dating, shouldn’t I at least get to know your name, angel?”

“...Its Virgil.”

“Roman. A pleasure to finally meet the real you.”

That was. A weird coincidence. But with anxiety, nothing ever felt like things could be so coincidental. So once Roman came back, Virgil was on his phone, googling the book, and every word he read just made his face burn even more.

  Bitterly By Your Side is a romance novel by Logan Berry, published in 2017. In recent interviews, he has confessed to it being inspired by real life events and people he knows, though for now he wishes the details to remain private.

...Oh Logan is so dead when he gets back.

“H e y!” Virgil was next to be assaulted with popcorn as he pulled his hood up to avoid Roman seeing his face right now. “Get off your phone and watch the eye candy! Storm is back on screen!”

...Storm. The character inspired by Virgil. That Roman had been calling hot all night long. And Virgil had done the same to Merlin. Virgil didn’t focus much on the rest of the movie, far too busy trying to hide his ever reddening face and cursing the entire world. Once the movie finally ended, Roman stood up to give the TV a round of applause. But before the credits, there was one more thing…

  And now, an interview with the author of the original book: Logan Berry!

Roman was understandably shocked and sat back down, confused as to when Logan had written a book without telling them. With every word spoken on the show, Virgil’s heart sunk deeper and he made another promise to kill Logan tomorrow.

  Yes, it is true that this novel was inspired on true events. I have two friends that have been obliviously in love with each other for nearly twelve years now, despite mine and my husband’s encouragement for them to confess. Storm and Mer- Well, I suppose I can use their real names now, it's no spoiler since this is shown after the movie. I don't blame either Virgil or Roman for their hopeless pining, it's just something my husband tired of and wished to see come to life in case it never did in person.

After that sentence, Roman was quick to turn off the TV. At least now it made sense why Virgil had curled up into a ball on the couch during the interview. Silence. Silence that lasted far too long for either of them to stand, yet neither had the will to break it.

Surprisingly, Virgil was the one to swallow his pride first. “...so. Eye candy, huh?”

Not even a second later, Virgil felt a pillow hit his head. “Oh shut up! You’re one to talk! Drooling in every shirtless scene in the whole movie!”

There wasn’t a coherent comeback in Virgil’s mind, so instead he just flipped Roman off from his hoodie protection. Roman, being the prick he was, couldn’t let it go so easily though, grabbing Virgil’s hand and ignoring his own pounding heart as he pulled the two closer together. Safe to say, Virgil felt like he was going to explode. “You know the real thing is always better than fiction.”

And then for some unknown reason, one that he would claim to this day as temporary insanity, Virgil’s mind had decided it was time for him to be the moron today. The only thing he could think to do was kiss Roman, so he did. Both were surprised and afraid, but neither pulled away. Not in the first few minutes, not even in the first hour. It was a scene that easily could have rivaled the masterpiece of a movie in itself. By the end of it, they were both out of breath and exhausted, choosing to simply sleep together on the couch.

“...goodnight, Storm…” “Night, Merlin.”

Still. They were going to kill Logan in the morning. But for now, it was just them, and that was enough.

[bluefirecas]

Belonging.

Word Count: 2.6k

Rating: General Audience

Warnings: Mention of depression.

Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester

Summary: Set post 13x06 (Tombstone). Castiel just came back from the Empty. Jack left the bunker and now Cas is ready to leave to find him.

Author’s note: I’m a first time writer; honestly this is not what I do! So please ignore my mistakes! It’s an angsty with a happy ending CODA and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

———————-

It’s extraordinary the things you can accomplish once you put your mind to it. At the time, Cas had little hope that his plan to escape the Empty would work. He never thought he had it in him. He took a gamble and now he’s out of that dark place, the void, leaving behind the worst parts of himself in the Empty. All his time on Earth, and the Winchesters, taught him to fight for what you want and when the time came, Cas knew what he had to do.

Sitting in his car, still parked in the bunker’s huge parking lot, he’s desperate to do anything he can to find Jack and save him from everybody; the demons, the Angels and probably himself. After Jack vanished, Cas and the Winchesters tried every lead they had to track the nephilim, but he’s surprisingly good at staying under the radar, considering he’s only been here for a few weeks. Jack was so angry and hurt when he left and Cas feels responsible. How could he let this happen? Jack was his responsibility and he had made a promise to Kelly that he would protect her son no matter what and teach him everything he can about embracing the human side of him. And now Jack’s gone and Cas doesn’t know what to do. He’s helpless at the moment and he can only hope the Angels haven’t gotten a hold of him, or worse, Asmodeus’ demons. He can tell Jack’s a good kid from the little time he’s spent with him. After all it was Jack who woke him up in the Empty.

He knows he should start the car and start moving but there’s something that’s eating him up. He wishes he still had his wings and he could just zap himself anywhere but it’s his fault that the angels fell. It was a trap, and he fell for it like a fool. Just like he thought he could help by letting Lucifer in. Dean tells him that it wasn’t his fault; that he was only trying to help but Cas still feels guilty for everything. He wishes he could be of help, and not just be a screw-up. Whenever he tries to do the right thing, he fails, and that burden, that failure is absolutely crushing him every moment of his existence because he’s hurting everyone around him. He doesn’t know how to fix it. Nothing seems to work in his favour and he’s starting to feel like he shouldn’t be anywhere near Sam and Dean for their own well-being. He’s never told them about this, but he feels like if he does, they’ll agree with him. He is broken, and he knows it. He doesn’t know how to get rid of this feeling. Feelings. He has feelings now and no way to cope with them. It feels strange, to be a cosmic being, an angel who’s fallen in every way possible. Ever since he experienced what it like is to be human, it has always stayed with him. His compassion, his morality, the taste of PB&J, a slight feeling of belonging, and most importantly, his feelings for Dean. But he also felt the pain, the guilt, the feeling of hopelessness, his inadequacy and his failures. It still haunts him to this day and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

It’s time to leave his thoughts behind and get going, he tells himself. He told the Winchesters he will check with the Angels if they had any information that can help him find Jack and bring him home. Dean wanted to join him, but he can’t let that happen. He can’t let Dean accompany him. He’s only been back a couple of days and they haven’t even had a chance to talk. And with everything that’s going on, Cas can’t focus on anything else but Jack, no matter how much he wants to stay at the bunker, his home. Home. Not in heaven, not with the Angels, but with Dean, with Sam, his family. He still doesn’t know if it’s true but that’s what Dean always says, and Cas wants to believe it, so bad, but he’s not able to.

The day Castiel saved Dean Winchester from hell was the day this one insignificant human became his mission. He would do such things for him that he didn’t know he was capable of doing. He was a warrior of heaven, always following his orders, always being the best at his job, and always fighting for what’s righteous. He never thought anyone could change that; anyone, let alone a human. Dean Winchester changed everything for Castiel. For starters, he became “Cas”. He’s always liked his nickname, the one Dean gave him. And Cas loves it. Dean. Dean. Dean. He can never get him out of his head. He remembers it all, right from the beginning to where they are now. He was just a “hammer” as Dean says, not caring about anyone or anything. And then he started having doubts, all because of him. He wouldn’t have been able to help stop heaven’s dirty plan had it not been for everything he learnt from Dean - his mission, his friend, his best friend and now, his family.

He will never forget the day he woke up in the Empty. It was pitch black, nothing to see and nowhere to go. How poetic, Cas thought. After everything he’s done, he probably deserves it. An eternity of solitude and unrest, nothing but his memories to accompany him. And then just when he thought he was all alone, he found someone. It called itself “the Empty” but it looked just like his vessel. How can he forget looking in its eyes and seeing his worst fears, and the most terrible part of him staring back at him? Everything the Empty told him was true, or it seemed true at that moment, and Cas was on the verge of giving up, but he didn’t. Because somewhere along he realized that he’s not worthless. He has a family on Earth. Sam and Dean may be damaged but they love him. He had to get back to them and be the guardian angel that he’s always been. And now there’s Jack too, he’s Cas’ mission now, after Dean, he has a cause and he just cannot abandon him. He can’t give up.

And just like that, he was out. The sun shone on him again and he was free. He called Dean; he’ll always be the first phone call Cas makes. And look how happy Dean was to have him back! How can he ever doubt him? That he doesn’t love him? But he will never ask Dean about it. He will never read his mind. And he will never act on his feelings for him. He’s still an angel and Dean’s not. Why did it have to be like this? His time as a human taught him so much about them - about their feelings, about food, about pain and heartbreak, but most importantly, about love. Love that he felt in his heart, his soul and his whole body, love for Dean. His soul ached for Dean’s comfort, his warmth. All he wanted was to stay with him, be with him and hold him close. But he didn’t know it would be this hard. Dean told him to leave just when he needed him the most. And that was the first time he could hear his pulse racing, his body numb and every atom in his being telling him to scream at Dean and ask him, how he could do that to his friend?

He got lost in thought again. And in fact, he’s so lost that he doesn’t even hear footsteps coming down from the bunker. He looks to his right and watches as Dean’s rushing towards him, waving him to stop the car. Cas stops the ignition and gets out of the car, all confused and worried. Did something happen to Sam? Why would Dean be in such a rush to stop him otherwise? Dean reaches the car, and puts his hands on his knees, panting, gesturing to Cas to give him a second to catch his breath. That moment Cas is reminded again that he is an immortal being and he’ll never grow old, but Dean is not. He will age, and he will one day, leave him. He puts a hand on the hunter’s shoulder and asks him with concern, “Dean, what’s wrong? Is Sam okay?”

“He’s fine. Listen. I know you told me to not come with you but I don’t care. I’m coming with. Can’t let you get yourself into trouble again.”

“Dean. I’m an Angel. I know how to handle myself.”

Dean felt a flash of irritation followed by a moment of grief. He remembers what it was like with Cas gone.

“Are you sure? Because from what I remember, last time it got you killed. And I can’t let that happen again!”

Dean is staring at him like he’s about to murder him. Cas could see Dean is running on sheer anger now. He decides to reason with him. He knew there’s no point arguing with him right now. He takes a long breath and speaks calmly.

“I was trying to protect you and Sam. You know that.”

“Cas, I don’t care. I’m coming with you and that’s it.”

“Dean, please. Let me do this. I owe it to Kelly. Jack was my responsibility and I’ve already ruined it once when I died. I can’t wreck it again.”

Dean looks away and takes a step towards the driver’s seat to open the door, and looks back at him and speaks with conviction in his voice.

“That’s what I’m saying, Cas. I can’t let you get yourself killed again. I just can’t. I watched you die. I won’t let that happen again. Ever. So you get your ass back in your crappy car and we’ll do this together.”

Cas takes a step back. He doesn’t know how to stop Dean. Again, nothing works. Dean can be so stubborn. Why wouldn’t he just back off this once?

“Why do you care so much Dean? What if you get killed while you’re trying to protect me? What will I tell Sam? I can’t live with that guilt for the rest of eternity. I can’t take that chance. So if I die, I die. I deserve it. I’ve just made everything worse for you. I don’t want Sam to lose his brother because he’s trying to save me.”

Dean can’t believe Cas just said that. He looks at his angel with a resolve. He’s determined to stop him and he will. He’s not going to leave Cas on his own again. He’s always had trouble talking about his feelings, no chick flick moments, but not today. Cas just came back from the dead, again. Dean can’t lose him now. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

“Cas, can we talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about, Dean?”

“I know I haven’t always been there for you, especially when you lost your grace and you needed me the most. I was a dick to you. I still am sometimes. But you’re my best friend and I care about you, man. I need you!”

Dean takes a step towards Cas. It’s been a few seconds since he stopped talking but Cas hasn’t said anything. Dean can feel the tension building, he can see the beautiful ocean blue eyes staring at him, and the pain they bring with them, something he never noticed before. Cas is the first one to break eye contact, he looks down and then looks back at Dean. In all the time he has known Cas, he’s never seen him like this.

“Cas? Say something?”

“I don’t know how to make you understand, Dean. It’s not just about that. I can’t stay here. I want to, I do, but I can’t. You don’t understand, you never will. And I can’t blame you for it. It’s better if I go. Let me go, please.”

“Too bad. I’m not going to let you just leave like that. So try me.”

“Dean, please. Don’t force me.”

“I’m not forcing you. I just want to know what’s wrong. So tell me, I want to know.”

“You don’t understand the consequences it can have if I tell you. It can be catastrophic! I can’t risk it, Dean!” Cas raises his voice.

“Damn it, Cas! Why can’t you just talk to me? Can’t you see I’m trying to help you? You’re my best friend!”

Dean pauses for a moment, collecting himself. “You’re more important to me than you think, Cas. Can’t you see that?”

“What…?”

“I… I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t understand anything. All I know is that when I lost you, I thought it was final and I tried to bring you back, I tried! I prayed to Chuck, I begged him to bring you back, to bring mom back, but nothing happened! There were days when I didn’t want to live without you in my life. I didn’t know what to do!”

Dean moves closer now, and Cas can see the tears forming up in his eyes. Just when he’s about to say something, Dean raises his hands and cradles his angel’s face gently, his thumbs caressing his cheeks.

“Cas. I don’t understand how it happened, I don’t know when it happened, but now you’re back by some miracle and I have to tell you. You are my everything. I’m not losing you again okay? Now you better tell me everything that’s going on.”

“Dean… I don’t know what to say, or how to say it. I’m not human and I’m not allowed to feel anything. But the day I met you, everything changed. I rebelled, I constantly went against my kind and now I don’t have a home. I’m neither an Angel nor a human. You and Sam are my friends but look where that got you. I always bring trouble and when I can’t even protect myself, how will I protect you?”

“You have a home, Cas. This is your home. I’m your home. I want you to stay here with me. I don’t care about anything else!”

“Dean, please. You have to understand that we don’t belong together. We can’t. I don’t belong anywhere. I’m an outsider and I always will be.”

Cas cannot let this happen. Dean must understand. He can’t risk his life. He can’t be with him. He gently moves Dean’s hands away from his face and turns his back on him.

Dean won’t let this go. It took him so many years to finally realize how he feels. So much time wasted, so many missed opportunities. He goes around Cas to face him. He won’t back down, and this will not be the end. Cas is not even looking at him, but he will make him.

“Cas. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Cas looks up at Dean, astonished to hear these words.

“I want to be with you. You get it? I want to spend the rest of my life with you and only you. You’re not an outsider to me, Cas. You’re my family. You’ll always be. You can never hurt me or Sam. You belong with me.”

“You deserve someone better than me, Dean. You deserve to be happy.”

“I deserve you. You make me happy. I dare you to take that away from me.”

Castiel smiles. Dean Winchester is stubborn.

“Now let’s go upstairs and tell Sam, he’s been waiting! And after that, we’ll go and find Jack, the three of us. We’re better together.”

———————-

If you read it all, thank you from the bottom of my heart :’D Please don’t hesitate to leave comments, I would love love love to know what you thought about this :)

Thank you @dochollidayed & @bend-me-shape-me for all your input and being so effin’ patient with me :’)

Tagging: @starsmish​ , @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you , @magnificent-winged-beast , @givedeanhisangel, @princesscas​ , @wanderingcas , @ahoyspn , @inacatastrophicmind , @super-sootica , @deanandcastrash​

[mollyandsarawrite]

I want a book and I want it now. I want to read the right words that will somehow explain the cosmic fuck of waking up every day and knowing I have to do it again the next day and again the day after that. I am re-reading Chloe Caldwell’s I’ll Tell You in Person for the third time because it makes me feel a little less stupid about feeling stupid, but I am beginning to know the words too well. I am starting to crave new reassurance. She has another book of essays, one Cheryl Strayed describes as a scorching hot glitter box. I don’t know what she means but a scorching hot glitter box sounds like a cool cocktail, and since I’ve deprived myself of that particular tonic, I feel owed something else. Maybe this is that thing. What are the odds I can find a physical copy of a critically unimportant book in the Boulder-Denver metropolitan area? How many bookstores could it take, really? I consider devoting my entire day to this.

I am trying to enjoy what’s happening in the moment. So far this looks like a series of unfortunate decisions and foreseeable consequences. I spent last night intermittently sleeping and tending to the throbbing pain in my right ear, a predictable side effect of my DIY piercing venture. It had seemed like a foolproof idea at the time. I would grit my teeth through the pain and then, in a flash, get the thing I wanted. Most schemes I’ve come up with in the past few years follow this same formula: the idea is to carry myself to a more desirable state, and to do it alone and fueled by manic willpower. I can tell you it’s not a good approach, but even as I write this I can’t bring myself to say it’s bad. I’m too faithful to my stubbornness. I want to be right.

I’ve gotten into the habit of saying out loud “how am I going to do this?” I mumble-cried this to myself last week as I was clinging to a rock wall on a sunless December day. My hands were numb and my brain couldn’t move past the anxiety of knowing that some untold number of feet above me, there was a boy I would very much like to be having fun with, who had scaled this heartily and without pause. I wanted to be having fun doing a thing that I really didn’t want to do. I told myself that if I just got used to this — the feeling of not having any feeling in my arms and legs — maybe it would be less miserable. Was that true? Did I want to be there, freezing and frustrated? Maybe I just liked the idea of him thinking that I was having a good time. I spun the mental circles but couldn’t imagine moving a single muscle. None of it was helping me haul myself up and over the fucking rock.

I found myself there again last night, except this time on my bathroom floor, mouth dry and coppery from the burn of my unhappy piercings. I rubbed alcohol between my fingers, a belated attempt at sanitization. I tried holding one side of the earring and twisting off the back and in the midst of the pain it hit me that I only had myself to get myself out of this. I had to successfully do what I was doing and simultaneously stay conscious and not vomit. How the fuck am I going to do this?

I don’t know how I get from one place to the next. How I stay presentably intact enough to put myself into the world day after day is baffling to me. The old clouds of guilt and superstition loom over budding wonder and excitement. I don’t trust good feelings, and I can’t shake the sense of everything being small and insignificant. I try on three versions of the same black t-shirt to go work a retail job where everyone else looks like they just rolled out of a tent. My heart might kill me. I’ve newly decided I’m not someone who believes in marriage. One minute these things are monumental and overwhelming, and the next I can’t remember how I came to care so much. Maybe I feed these fires of feeling and fear because I want to be a person who has convictions. It sounds more appealing than stumbling around in confusion.

I drink a lot of tea. I read when I feel like I might as well spin into a black hole— sometimes books, sometimes Twitter. I ask myself often if I am enjoying something or if I just like the idea of enjoying it. I find myself waiting for things to end— work, conversations, days. I don’t like the feeling of living exclusively in my brain so I experiment with snapping back into my body— I stretch. I dance along to a song if I can get over my self embarrassment. I buy kale and beets and nightshades because it’s the season of warm and hearty vegetables and I force myself to make things with them. If nothing else, I will be able to say I made something.