#and i refuse to live a live without faith in our collective story

[queer-reader-07]

just out here reminding myself that the core of my belief system is faith in the human story

[mistresslrigtar]

DTIYS for @bahbahhh's 1200 follower prompt

As always, there's a song that inspires my writing. Today I share an oldie, but what a goodie.

Where Do I Begin - love theme from "Love Story"

Where should I begin? 

The story of our love is older than the Calamity. My memories of when we first met are foggy at best, but it wasn't pleasant from what she related to me. She told me once my silence drove her crazy, and apparently, my excuse was that wielding the Master Sword was the root cause of my quietude. I was a liar. That may have been the reason before she entered my life, but if she had any effect on me then as she does now, the truth is, she left me tongue-tied. I must have known then what I know now, that she was the only one for me. 

Sometimes, I imagine those star-crossed lovers felt as I do now when they realized their time was running out. 

Does it seem strange to you for me to think of them as entirely different people? It shouldn’t. Neither one of us was the same after one hundred years. I had no memories save the ones she spoon-fed me, and she was no longer the naive girl who had held Calamity Ganon at bay, waiting for me to awaken.

Ah, that’s difficult to think about. 

The guilt that consumes me knowing I wasn’t strong enough to save her then or now, is insurmountable. She’d had to fight alone. All those naysayers, including her father, who belittled her, were proven wrong. Without her, Hyrule would have fallen one hundred-ten years ago. Without her, Hyrule would have collapsed when Ganondorf returned from the dead. 

Without her, I’m nothing. 

People call me the savior of Hyrule when, in all honesty, I had very little to do with it. Hyrule’s salvation floats, unseen above our heads, endlessly circling, searching for what she’s misplaced. 

Something of her spirit must remain. I refuse to believe Mineru’s last words, that my Zelda’s mind and soul are forfeit to the cosmos. If that were so, she’d never have swooped in and saved me from the jaws of the Demon Dragon.

Why’d we go beneath the castle? 

If I could take it all back, would I, knowing what waited in the depths? Perhaps we could have lived to the end of our days in blissful ignorance. Had the children we’d only just begun to talk and dream about. We deserved that, didn’t we? We’d already sacrificed twice for Hyrule. 

This isn’t how it was supposed to end. 

I try not to curse Hylia, but my heart has hardened, and faith seems unobtainable. Zelda wouldn’t like knowing I feel this way. She’d had faith I’d save Hyrule and had sacrificed her mortal soul to ensure my success. 

I had faith—in her. Now, I’m lost in a void of moments when we lived and loved for a brief while. How can I move on? When all the best of me was lost when she sacrificed her beautiful soul in the hope that I’d triumph. 

The cost was too steep, Zelda.

It’s been over five years since she fell into the chasm, disappearing in the blink of an eye. I never saw her again, the love of my life and my only reason for being. I can’t escape her memory. Her ghost remains everywhere I go, to haunt me by day and my dreams by night.

I can’t stand to linger in Hateno longer than necessary and never set foot in the house. It takes all my willpower to descend the ladder to her well to collect the few brightblooms that sprout there. 

The home I began building in Akkala (back when I still had some hope that she’d return to me) is a complete lost cause. I haven’t visited there since the end. Seeing the empty study and gallery I built for her is too much to bear. The last letter from Hudson asked what I intended to do with the home. I told him to repurpose it into a school for Tarrytown. 

She’d like that.

Shielding my eyes, I look to the sky in search of her. There she is–the Light Dragon. She drifts above me, her legs endlessly swimming in the air, and the crystal green eyes I love so much gaze back at me.  

She’s still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, and I’ll always love her whether she’s a human or a wyrm. There’s an old song that asks the question, how long can love last and be measured? Surely not by the hours in a day or a lifetime even. My devotion to her transcends time, space, and physical form. I’ll chase her, search for her, and cherish my Zelda until the stars burn away. 

It’s my turn to rescue her, even if that means I die trying. I’ve scoured all of Hyrule and the Sky Islands, searching for a way to reverse her terrible fate. There’s only one more place that remains. If the answer to the riddle of how to save her is anywhere, it’ll be in the depths.

I’ll spend the remainder of my days searching for a way to save her. Because in the end, it’s always only been for her.

“Link!” Tulin’s voice, carried by the wind, breaks my reverie. 

Glancing over my shoulder, I see he’s heading toward me. He nearly knocks us down with a bear hug when we collide. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, and as he backs away, I realize he’s as tall as me. 

He sees that I’ve noticed and smiles, turning his head. “Check this out! My braid is long. Kind of like yours. Looks cool, right?”

Yeah, it does, Tulin. He reminds me so much of Revali without any of the pomposity.

He’s the one I’ll miss the most and who will understand the least why I have to go. He’ll want to follow me if I tell him, and I can’t have that. He belongs here, in the sky, touched by the sun and moon. I can see his future, and it’s bright. 

Before I go, I must spend these last few days with him, building brotherly camaraderie and making memories. Hopefully, he’ll fondly reflect on our time together and forgive me for leaving. 

Pulling out my paraglider, I put on a happy face for him. 

Race you!

[nvrcmplt]

Noise from the gardens permeates inside, Kenta being attacked from both sides by Himawari and Ryuune, both sinking their teeth into his forearm and clinging. Mikoto and Itachi watch from the bench they're sharing, amused smiles on their features, Clarence and Fugaku seated in the grass with snacks. The other children are somewhere nearby, napping in the sun, Toshio stands a step behind Fushimi, a hum of greeting on his tongue. ❝ ━ This reminds me of back home. The amount of people in one space is comfortable. Our combined families fit together well. ❞ Toshio will admit, he would probably never experience this on his own, but he can live vicariously through his family, their family. ❝ ━ Are you happy, Fushimi-san ? ❞ He's genuinely curious, but they both know the answer. It's written on the Oni's face whenever he looks at his children, at Itachi and it's a wonderful thing to witness. Mouth opens to ask something else, but Fugaku-jiisan appears and it nearly startles Toshio out of his skin.

The elder gives the boy a look, shooing him into the garden with the others. ❝ ━ I apologize for him. He's as inquisitive as Itachi but no thought to consequence. ❞ Then again, that was just like his son, but he'll deny it. Fugaku will admit, he's not well-versed in socializing, even as a Patriarch but there's no expectation here, just family. For a moment, he's quiet, basking in the noise around him, ❝ ━ There's a festival soon, my wife is probably gonna reveal it later after dinner, but I'd like to formally invite you. It's a big deal, lots of stuff to experience. Figured it'd be good for you all to come unwind before the warmer months move in. ❞

Family meddling well, litters of children and adults that refuse to grow. One that's re-found their childhood with a parent that no longer harms them - married children returning to mothers embrace and stories were to be shared and renewed. Time and time again, Fushimi stares upon them blending. Beauty in the elegance of numbers. Those visible and those just out of sight. Everyone was tranquil, welcoming and without a doubt enjoying themselves. Learning new tricks, something different every minute with the amount of bodies here… Fushimi was at peace, he felt no need to hold his shoulders so tense, to straighten his back within a form of correcting a slouching posture instead of making himself look larger than he already was.

One would think in such a state of ease, he's senses were to be dulled but Toshio's been making eyes at him all evening. The time wasn't long until he was there, behind him, like now - making a comment that made his lips curl in a momentary smile. "That they do." A comment to his own statement - though the question that followed made his head nod forward. "Happiest I've ever been, Toshio." He wasn't to lie, so when they were about to speak of another question no doubt to seek more from him and his mind. Fushimi was saved. The Father, rounding up his curious cub to another side of the garden. No doubt to be dragged into conversation with Aina and Su-Jin and his Husband.

Fugaku, was a man of little word, but intention were clear that something more was to be said. He was lingering, watching over Fushimi's view of the garden's and people within it. A sun-avoidant space as his eyes weren't the best under direct sunlight these days. When Fugaku finally started to speak of his reason for still being here, Fushimi listened without comment, taking it in. For him to be invited by the Father of his own Husband, meant a lot. After all, Mikoto-san had her ways of just knowing he'll be there whether she asked or not, out of politeness no doubt she did mentions things for him to know ahead of time. This, was as if Fugaku was asking for Him to join a sacred ritual again. Festivals were at large a collectives' tradition. A prayer to the Gods of personal and clan faith - this was not just a gathering to have good food or cheer on a moment of time that deserves praise.

Fushimi felt warm.

"Then I'll gladly come within honour of your invitation, Fugaku-san." Fushimi wasn't to deny that, not at all… As he smiled, he moved to take hold of his sake bottle and raise it in offering with a cup to be poured for his Elder. "Allow me." To serve the Father of his other half, to show his utmost respect, to bow in gratitude of being seen and welcomed all the same. Even after all this time. "Let me know if your clan need aid in setting things up."

[titabboy]

I had a pretty active tumblr for about ten years. I don’t know if you remember deejul (daydream) but that was me. I wasn’t an indie darling by any means, but it was certainly the most visible and most connected I’ve ever been. It was a golden age, the first time I really embraced algorithms for a curated social media experience. A truly striking collective moment for us all to explore what authenticity could mean in an increasingly hyper-accessible, hyper-meta, social structure. And I had my tumblr for the last half of my adolescence, the first part of my twenties; it was my diary, my personal library of memories, my second life and a source of some of my deepest connections. I mentioned tumblr in an application for a film program! I got in! And I watched all the movies I saw on my dashboard! I met and got to know some of the most interesting, kindest people all over the world. A friend who I met a long time after my tumblr days and I found out that we shared mutuals! Our favorite ones, even. I documented so much of the thoughts and feelings I couldn’t readily share in-person: I was a true testament to developmental angst, crises of faith, and the growing gap between who I was and who I could be. I, like you, often felt like I was the first person to feel the feelings I was feeling and those feelings felt totally alien until I found out other people who liked the stuff I liked and felt the stuff I felt and even did the stuff I did! and in that way I learned what vulnerability can be in-person, in-the-moment, without my dependency on drafting, editing, revising what I wanted to say. I found some of my favorite music, art, literature, people, that way. I felt comfortable in my stream-of-consciousness and didn’t feel as daunted by the obsessive, intrusive, insane, inexplicable thoughts as I do now.

And then I deleted almost every trace of it.

It’s normal to look back and be embarrassed about who you used to be, normal to look fondly back on your younger self and cringe about them because they didn’t know better and it’s not like you know better now! But I couldn’t really see past the pain of it all. At the time I deleted that tumblr, I was diagnosed with complex-PTSD (and a few other things) and I really, really, really, did not like that! I was trying to make the world my oyster, sow wild oats, sing a lot of karaoke at my favorite dive bar, do a lot of drugs and have a lot of sex and do a lot of things that I knew would be great stories to tell later! I didn’t want to look at myself! No one wants to see all that! To be “seen” in that way was terrifying and mortifying and so I decided that I wouldn’t be seen at all. My mind was so clouded and foggy with the revelation of persistent trauma and grief that I couldn’t bear to sift through all that mud to find the green, living, growing things that were actually deeply rooted therein.

I packed up all this stuff and stored it away in the far corners of my body, and I tried to “start from scratch,” knowing fully well that even if everything was different I would always be me, and everything that was me would be there in the shadows, traces of the most formative pieces of myself just on the other of the sheet I covered them with. Dusty old memories, a friend recently said.

I hated people dwelled on the past. I was trying to get over mine, so why even bother? I refused to peak in high school or college, I told myself it would get better and bigger than all of this and I was, and have been, quick to let go of things that go stale. I thought that shit was holding me back and I was determined not to let it. I didn’t need to “know the origins” of my pain in order to heal from it. My therapists would tell me that I don’t need to intellectualize or overanalyze my feelings. So I just said my piece and the rest was none of my business because I am determined to move forward. I’m trying to look where I am driving: ahead. Far far ahead.

I moved. I got in a car crash. I had a string of bad boyfriends, a faith crisis, I got kicked out of my house and estranged from my family, I got fired from my first big corporate job. I was unemployed. We had another evil president and a pandemic and we kept running out of time to reverse and repair the damage we have done to the planet, to each other.

I got a dog. I figured out what to do when I was by myself. I fell in love. I did a lot of mushrooms. I tried to go to bed by 9, and I took my medicine and my supplements and my probiotics and I made overnight oats. I got tattoos and piercings! I had a career and I helped important people do important things. NOW I am in LOVE. NOW I am SAFE.

But I didn’t want to share any of that with any of you. These precious precious things. I was too afraid to let them slip from my fingers. All this time I hold my breath, waiting for the rug to be pulled from under me, for the other shoe to drop. I walk into a room and force myself to have an exit plan in under 3 minutes of being there. I keep all the things I want at arm’s length, because if it’s out of reach I cannot drop it, it will not shatter.

And then, today I decided that I cannot continue on without fully embracing and absorbing compassion for myself. It’s been a decision long in the making, and I’ve tried it before and it was too scary and I’ve walked myself all the way back numerous times— but if there is a way to be better, and I have the capacity for it, why not?

I’m going to therapy and I’m reading books and I’m holding firm boundaries and I’m surrendering and I’m sleeping and I have health insurance and I have all these MEMORIES of what it is like to be loved and to love unconditionally.

I found my old journals. I may have deleted my Tumblr but I hoarded 15 years worth of paper and ink. I didn’t always know why I did this. I don’t have many physical memorabilia from before I was 15, I don’t know where any of it is.

My siblings and cousins would steal my diaries when I was a kid and make fun of me for all the crushes and angst I poured in there. What does a 10 year old have to be angry about? They would say “why did you write it if you didn’t want anyone to read it?”

I realize now that my audience was supposed to be me. I had so many stories and I never really let myself listen to any of them. I’ve always struggled with first drafts, and well, this is the only draft we get isn’t it? I spent all day today reading and crying and being curious and remembering and forgiving and worshipping and loving and losing and grieving and hoping and hating, even. I finally let myself look back at myself with the compassion I wish I had back then.

I thought I wanted to disappear, I thought I would have been better as a memory, I thought of myself as a background actor, an extra. I was grateful to be part of the scenery but even my innate Leo nature wouldn’t let me in my own spotlight for too long. I was tired of being seen and driven mad by the reality that I couldn’t see what other people saw— well, I couldn’t see the good bits back then, I only saw these awful faults within me whether they were real or not. I wanted to disappear, I wanted to be the right person in the right place at the right time, I wanted to be the antagonist in someone’s story, I wanted to be a tragic love interest. One of my professors used to say that romance & tragedy look pretty much the same until the end of the script and I fell a little bit in love with him.

But this isn’t TV. It’s not Fleabag. It’s not primetime or prestige and there are no awards shows. And I’m no tragedy, and this isn’t the end. I’m not a main character and I don’t wish to be. I am behind-the-scenes. I am writing, I am sketching, I am stumbling, I am surrendering. And I am ready to let other people have a look behind the curtain.

I am reopening my diaries and I am sharing them with you because healing doesn’t happen in the dark. Because self-compassion can’t be what it is without collective compassion. I am reopening these entries, not to rewrite or revise them, but to look at them with kindness, courage, compassion. And there are things that I can’t see, perspectives I cannot appreciate without other people. I have let a lot of my relationships shrink and fade and disappear and I regret that. I know you’re not supposed to regret things but I do and I’m sorry I tried to keep myself away from you this way for so long. I need you. I needed me for a long time, and now I know I can’t have all of me without you. I promise I won’t try to get rid of it all this time.

[rachelbethhines]

60 Years of Doctor Who Anniversary Marathon - McCoy 2nd Review

Destiny of the Doctor: Shockwave - Short Audio

It's amazing how much a decade can change your perception of something. Destiny of the Doctor (not to be confused with the video game Destiny of the Doctors) was a special audio series released for the 50th anniversary. Each entry focuses on each Doctor having a short adventure that eventually ties into a larger story arc. Kind of like the Prisoners of Time comic that ran at the same time, but without a crossover at the end. The series is a blend of both the Companion Chronicles and the Short Trips formats. Like the Companion Chronicles, each entry features one main character narrating everything and a guest actor playing another character to bounce off of. And the adventures are roughly an hour apiece. Yet the narration is all in third person rather than first, and the story is not necessarily told from the perspective of the companion. Hence why it's kind of more like a Short Trip. Plus Short Trips tend to come in collections like this.

But I'm beating about the bush; what of the story itself. Well it's good. It's well produced, nicely preformed, conveys the era it depicts perfectly as an anniversary special should, and the plot is both easy to listen to as a standalone while still tying into the larger story arc in a way that's not distracting. It's also deeply triggering. The story involves a planet blowing up and everyone running for their lives all while a group of doomsday cultists try to 'save' everyone by killing them. Now back in 2013, this sort of plot was fine. Standard Who stuff even with the bleaker setup. But in 2023, I've now lived through a global pandemic, several climate change induced natural disasters, two economic crashes, an attempted Nazi led coup, seen various terrorist attacks, wars, and senseless act of mass violence play out daily on the news, and watched as idiots repeatedly refused to partake in basic safety persuasions all because they didn't 'believe' in the very obvious danger before them because they wanted to feel 'special'!!! I just don't have the patience anymore. The main problem I have with this story, beyond just the anxiety inducing opening which is meant to evoke such feelings, is the sympathetic way the deadly lunatic tiring to murder everyone is dealt with. I kept wanting to reach through the speaker in order to slap the silly little dumbass. I appreciate that the story doesn't have her give up her faith as part of her redemption... but it also doesn't feel like she learned anything either. Even when she changes her mind and sacrifices herself to save everyone else instead, it's feels less like a change of heart and realizing that what she did was wrong, and more like she just changed her plan cause her deity told her too. Ugh! I can't. I just can't anymore. I no longer care why authoritarians do what they do. I'm not interested in empathizing with their selfish insanity. I don't want to 'hear them out' or 'politely' give them a platform. I genuinely, truly believe that coddling abusers is what has led to all of our recent problems with the world, and a cult is nothing more then an organization of abusers. That's what makes it a cult. And it doesn't matter how outwardly 'nice' or simply 'misguided' the antagonist is in this story, she's still a bully. End of. And I desperately wish that she was called out on that by the main characters rather then being forgiven so quickly.

[sniper-childe]

Some notes of a chili role swap au that I will never write

AKA 1.3k+ words worth of headcanons ft. Archon Childe and Harbinger Zhongli :D

Rex Mare / Celestial Vanguard / Flawless Lily

Has served Celestia for six thousand years. And like his devotion to the Tsaritsa, this Childe has a seemingly unbreakable bond with Celestia.

As the Archon of Justice, he is their judge, jury, and executioner. He upholds the Heavenly Principles more than any of the other archons.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own morals and sense of justice. He firmly believes that the most certain thing about our world is we know nothing—that we are all just fools—and that only by continually seeking knowledge and truth are we virtuous. This means he likes learning new stuff and mastering it. Kinda like how og Childe is with weapons but with basically everything.

This is the main value of the Land of Justice and it is the foundation of the many Schools of Thought. This is also why Snezhnaya’s best scholars are called the Fatui :D

However, the god is not as flawless as his people think. He refuses to see what Celestia truly is because of his faith. [insert here the complexities of letting go of your devotion that ultimately boils down to fear. Fear of retaliation to a rebellion, fear of a stripped identity without your faith, fear of the loneliness when you learn your god never existed in the first place and she is merely a collection of ideologies that you hold so closely to exonerate yourself of your blind eyes and bloody hands]

If you read the second story in my Ajax: Champion of Dreams series, you might realize I have some kind of religious trauma HAHAHAHAHDJGKG (living in an Asian country that is widely Catholic and Christian will do that to ya ;)) this is why I need the Fontaine Arc to be Anti-Church. I’ve mentioned this before but damn it. I NEED. Or at least touch the complexities of faith (and losing it) as mentioned above. You know? Of course, I don’t want it to be heavy-handed and Honkai handled this stuff well so I just— aaaaaa

Appearance: kinda like Taishakuten from Onmyoji but replace the lotus for the lily of the valley that actually chimes. They are the Damning Bells you hear before an execution.

Why lily of the valley? It’s the national flower of Serbia :D

Also, I know “cleansing bells” are more of an eastern thing but Catholics have bells too right? Bells are known to purify one’s soul or place of worship. If criminals think the god’s bells are damning, his followers revere them as their salvation. The cleansing of lilies in water—washing them of their impure thoughts and deeds. They are what gives them clarity so that they may hold court without bias.

To subvert the modern dystopia setting trope, Childe likes to come down from the White Palace to the valley and chill with the common people to ensure fairness among his subjects. This has made his country and its people endeared to him and he has become protective of them.

On one of his excursions, he meets a man from Liyue.

Fifth of the Seven Stars / Harbinger of Misery / Last of His Kind

五 (wǔ, the number 5) sounds like 呜 (wū) which is an onomatopoeia for crying. So number 5 in Chinese Numerology is considered unlucky.

Also yes, while the Tsaritsa needs Eleven Harbingers, Ningguang (the Geo Archon in this AU) only needs seven. She calls them the Qixing or the Seven Stars.

He is still a half-dragon, half-qilin but is far younger than og Zhongli.

About three thousand years ago, he slipped into a crack. He stayed in the Abyss for what seemed like 3 months but actually, millennia had passed in Teyvat.

In this world, Guizhong was the first Geo Archon but during the Cataclysm, she passed and Ningguang took the mantle.

Her death was not because of the Cataclysm though but because of her nature as an emphatic god—she didn’t approve of razing civilizations. She defied Celestia and paid the price. This is what sets Liyue’s vendetta against Celestia.

Appearance: He looks like White Asura. He wears a lot of white. A lot happened while he was gone and when he returned, it was tragedy after tragedy. And as a qilin-dragon and adeptus, he has a duty to Liyue and its people, so he’s immediately put to work. He hasn’t had the proper time to breathe and grieve. So he’s in an eternal state of mourning.

I actually have tried writing Zhongli, an immortal god who remembers everything, who is actively grieving (and it’s the hardest thing, let me tell you). I’ve imagined him trying to prolong his grief. I think he’d be the type of person to box it away because he has all the time in the world. Why should he have to face something that’s making him sad now? I think every stage of grief for immortals would take centuries.

So I think he actively supported Ningguang’s cause to not let himself breathe and grieve, not just to uphold the oldest contract. Because does he really deserve it when he wasn’t there to protect his family?

Anyways,,

A younger Morax was brazen and callous was canon, right? So I guess this is also what this Zhongli is. And he fell into the Abyss before the Golden Age of the Guili Assembly. So I think he’s more of an isolationist here like how other adepti are. He probably acts a lot like Xiao but has more bite and bark.

He was sent to Snezhnaya to steal the Hydro Archon’s gnosis. There he meets a man, picking lilies by a stream that leads to the sea. And he makes the first friend he’s ever had in… too long.

PS. Here is a picture of White Asura LOL. Listen His and Taishakuten's story feels like a chili role swap au. Go look them up, you won't regret it.

Some worldbuilding stuff that nobody probably will care about because it doesn’t have anything to do with chili BUT this is here so that you can imagine what would be their first meeting like, what would be their first impressions of each other, how would they act around each other, etc. (I actually have my own imagined scene at the bottom hajasdhh)

Snezhnaya is mountainous that is good for fortress-like cities. From the tallest mountain, water falls from the White Palace (even at such a high altitude, the Hydro Archon keeps the water flowing) down to a river that leads to the sea. This river cuts through the valley that the mountains surround.

The forts and castles in the mountain region are home to the nobles. While the valley is for the farmhands and common folk.

The class system is such that philosophers are considered the nobility. Social mobility is possible through the Imperial Exams. If you’re good enough to bullshit through essay questions that test your ethical, logical, and legal knowledge, then you can have a piece of land and a title :D

Ever since the Cataclysm, and the death of Guizhong, the diplomatic relationship between Liyue and the other nations has been strenuous. Maritime trading has become less ideal but there is a small port in Snezhnaya (Morepesok) that connects the country to the others.

Liyue’s main trade has become highly regulated. Export has become more expensive and has become a symbol of status among the rich and powerful outside the nation. Handwoven silk now sells at a minimum of 10 million mora!

Liyue has the best relationship with Mondstadt. The in-land trade between these two nations is the “only way in” to Liyue so to speak.

Liyue was the Land of Commerce so when it closed off itself from the rest of the world, there was an economic collapse. Self-sustaining cities have survived this but there have been less fortunate ones.

I mostly focused on class and symbols of status and wealth because I imagine that in their first meeting… Childe looks like a fisherman. And from an outsider, that must mean he’s illiterate, right????? Imagine the insult to everything sacred to Snezhnaya when Liyue’s diplomat actually thought that the Archon of Justice and Court Trials doesn’t even know how to read or write. Imagine Zhongli actually having so much money that he’ll splurge it on the poor fisherman he’s somehow befriended. IMAGINE!

[beauregardlionett]

from the clouds - prologue & ch i

AO3 Link

Our story begins—like so many others—in Wildemount. Descending through the cloudy overhang hovering over the Truscan Vale, rising along the Bromkiln Hills towards Mount Mentiri in the Cyrios Mountains. Between these points sat Kamordah. This, however, is not where the story begins. Deeper into the woods of the mountains, travelling north of Kamordah along the edges of the Cyrios Mountains, were numerous streams and rivers. Many of the waterways hidden among the warm mountains bore names long forgotten. Should one be lucky enough, they might encounter the spirit of a waterway and learn their name.

Most were not lucky.

According to legend, the spirits of the rivers were benevolent, but cautious. Too many of them fell by the sword of glory hungry adventurers, or became tamed and twisted to the will of mages. It was rare these days to encounter the water spirits known as Imugi. So rare, the mundane populations nearly forgot the name itself in the present.

But the dragons were not gods, and just because they were forgotten did not mean they ceased to exist. There existed several breeds of dragons—some better known than others. Imugi, however, were not full dragons—they were considered of lower stature and lesser power than their fully dragon counterparts. Imugi required outside intervention to become fully realized dragons—an orb of power known as a yeouiju. That, or to have lived and acquired knowledge over one thousand years of life.

In a twist of sick irony, the god that created the Imugi faded from knowledge and power over time in the material plane, lost to legend and memory. Their power waned as it was wont to do, and the yeouiju sent hurtling from the heavens to the material plane came less and less frequently.

This, however, is still not where the story begins.

It begins in the fringe woods north of Kamordah and due east of Mount Mentiri, on the banks of a tumbling river. Lined with trees whose ancient roots stretched above and below the soil to the water, their branches housing birds and fauna of all sorts. Between the current and the river rocks swam fish and otters, beavers and frogs. Flowers grew a short trot from the banks, and wildlife visited the river for the life it begat.

There, tucked away and hidden among the rocky face of a short overhang, was a hollow. Screened over by trailing moss and lichen, an absent traveller would miss the opening entirely.

This is where the story begins.

-

Beauregard does not remember how she learned her name.

Her creation was a simple thing. The river she called home came into existence a couple hundred years ago. She crawled out from between the river rocks beneath the tumbling current, willed into existence by a god fading from human memory. Her name—her real name—was something she had always known from the moment awareness set in. But the trees and the animals that took up residence on her banks named her Beauregard.

The spirits of the forest that lived around her took care of Beau, taught her their common tongue instead of the warbling, watery language Beau spoke intrinsically. The fish understood when she ate a few of them, and the red-tailed doe that visited the water allowed Beau to play with her fawns. They all encouraged Beau, cheered her on, as she stumbled through comprehending her powers, her abilities, and her frustrating limitations.

Beau could not fly, nor stray too far into the woods from her river without weakening and losing her breath. She learned her lesson the hard way when she was still small and less than twenty years old, carried home by a dryad who had found her gasping and grey less than half a mile from the river. She could not maintain her true Imugi form for too long, lest it sap at her inner reserves of power and magic. And though the river birthed her, though the river was her, Beau’s control over it was abysmally lacking for the first fifty years of her life.

But the spirits all kept encouraging her, pushed Beau to keep practicing. In return, when Beau finally had a handle on it all, she protected them. When the mortals came with axes and gleaming eyes, Beau shifted and roared and scared them away from the trees. The anglers set their nets, and the hunters set their traps, and Beau sabotaged them all. She stalked the banks of her river, eyes mirroring the clear, rushing blue of the water at her feet, and refused to give an inch. This was her river, her friends, and she was the guardian. Nothing would get in her way.

Despite it all, Beau was not content. Her chest began to feel hollow after a hundred years in her river. The monotony of her days, the metaphorical chain at her ankles, tethering her to these banks, was dreary. She longed to fly, to explore the heavens above, and to wield a storm at her fingertips. Beau knew—just knew—that Imugi could do more, be more. The stories and the knowledge all sat inside of her without prompt. Beau needed a yeouiju, needed that orb of power to help her rise above the treetops.

The dryads let Beau climb up their trunks and among their branches. They let her wiggle through the topmost canopy of their crown and witness the wind on her cheeks and dancing through her hair. The thrill in her veins from the dizzying height tasted of flying in the paltriest sense of the word. But it was enough to fuel her determination.

Which was why Beau remained so determined to find a yeouiju of her own, to ascend into higher stature and power. However, she knew the dwindling knowledge of her kind afforded fewer chances to Imugi like her to gain a yeouiju. Lack of knowledge and faith meant the god that created Imugi was fading from power and existence. It took more out of them to create yeouiju now than it had hundreds of years before.

These facts did not daunt Beau’s resolve, though.

Regardless of the tedium, every day she swam the length of her river charge, eyes on the heavens. She would consult schools of fish on their numbers, give them directions, rearrange river rocks, and tend to the flora on the banks of her river. She would protect the dryads, aide the birds with their nests, collect sticks and branches for the otters and beavers, and befriend the visiting fauna. Throughout each daily chore, Beau waited. At night, when the current babbled calmly over her stones and banks, she watched the heavens. The stars would twinkle back at her, each distant flash stoking a false flame of hope in Beau’s chest. Each time her aging heart would leap, thinking this might be her falling orb, her chance at last.

Each morning, the sun greeted her dwindling patience with empty warmth.

“Haven’t you ever heard the term, a watched pot never boils?” Caleb asked her one evening. He ruffled the feathers of one wing as he groomed his beak through his primaries.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you spend too much time eavesdropping on humans?” Beau retorted, voice sharp and bitter. Caleb did not rise to the bait, but he gave her a knowing look before returning to his task.

Caleb was an eagle, and a handsome one at that. His chest dappled white down into a russet color that encompassed his lower torso, legs, and coverts. His secondary and primary feathers dappled white and dark grey, long and prideful. Caleb’s eyes were a point of interest, however; a deep, beady brown shot through with a violet blue. Beau had asked him about his eyes once, and Caleb said they were odd for a bird like him.

He was intelligent and annoying, but an excellent teacher in all things beyond her banks, and Beau loved him like family. Granted, it had taken them until Beau was in her early seventies and a near brush with death to get there, but they got along fine now. Sometimes, when Caleb was in a good mood, he would let Beau assist in his meticulous grooming process.

Beau knew all the spirits who lived on and visited her banks, but there were a select few she kept closer than the rest. Caleb was the only one of that few who did not live on her shores permanently. He came and went with the wind and the weather, bringing Beau stories and trinkets from his travels. She had long ago learned to tamp down on the bitter jealousy with each journey Caleb brought back.

Summers were the worst, when the storms rolled in with warmer weather that made Beau roil in vicious hatred. They were awesome displays of power, and she knew dragons controlled these storms—dragons that had once been Imugi like her. If she focused hard enough, Beau could summon a mild cloud cover, but never more. She could not bring forth rain, let alone thunder and lightning. Her powers barely extended past the banks of her river.

“That looked great,” Caduceus encouraged from the banks of the river, his tone a pleasant drawl. Beau huffed with frustration as her chest heaved with exertion. Water droplets clung to her bare calves where she stood in the river, hair a loose mess as tendrils hung in her eyes and stuck to her sweaty temples.

“Don’t patronize me, Caduceus,” Beau snapped, clenching her fists so hard her blunt nails almost broke the skin of her palms. “That wasn’t any better than last time.”

“Maybe not,” Caduceus agreed as he lifted the lid on his white stone teapot to inspect the state of its contents. “But it’s better than two weeks ago. Progress is progress.”

Beau wanted to yell at him for his constant positivity, his endless faith in her. But she stopped short, knowing he only meant well and was not actively trying to patronize her. Besides, he was right. Two weeks ago, Beau had struggled to maintain the rolling fog she created for two minutes. Now she could hold it for almost ten. But it wasn’t enough. Every attempt she made today in trying to raise the fog higher, to make it into clouds that would rain, had failed. The cover never lifted higher than her knees.

Giving another frustrated huff, Beau kicked at the water, only growing more upset when it parted around her foot and she missed entirely. It was a funny thing, her relationship with the river. She existed as the river, and the river lived in her, but they also existed as two separate entities. When she stepped out of the water, it did not follow. She could ask the water to do things for her, but it did not always listen. Beau tried to explain it once to Caduceus and the other dryads, ended up having an existential crisis, and never brought it up again.

Trudging from the water and up onto the banks, Beau plopped down in the grass beside Caduceus with a mighty exhale. The second her feet left the water, the bone deep exhaustion set in. Every time, it reminded Beau why she shouldn’t push herself and tug at her magic for hours on end—even after all these years.

Caduceus passed her a steaming cup of tea with a knowing look and a gentle pat to her damp kneecap.

“That’s probably enough practicing for one day. Drink up and then maybe we can track down the others for lunch.”

“Yeah,” Beau mumbled around the rim of her teacup as she blew on the steaming liquid. Her face felt tight and flush with disappointment. “Sure.”

The summer days passed in a blur of scorching sunlight and overcast rainstorms. Beau took every opportunity afforded to practice her magic, to draw upon the well inside her until it sat nearly dry. It wasn’t a healthy or wise idea, but Beau had never been known for her wisdom.

On one such day summer day, a storm raging with a rare ferocity above, Beau lay coiled in her hollow, the water dappled scales along her spine shifting restlessly. The stone offered shelter from the wind and rain howling outside the walls. The lichen and moss whipped back and forth with wild abandon in the storm, the shallow water at the front of her hollow disturbed by the movement and the rain. Beau cared for none of it. Bright blue eyes trained on the clouds, she tracked each strike of lightning, shuddered with every crack of thunder. Her mind was far from the thrashing lichen, from the soaked banks of her river, longing to know the thrill of controlling the storm.

There was a flash among the clouds, vivid white and searing purple and achingly bright. Beau’s head popped up, eyes wide and nose twitching as the burn of ozone filled the air. Thunder raged like a mournful cry and rattled Beau’s bones.

Something glowing fell from the darkened clouds.

Heart racing and veins throbbing with adrenaline, Beau shot from her hollow with a speed unknown. Heedless of the surrounding storm, Beau’s eyes locked in on the orb hurtling from the heavens toward her.

This was her chance. This was her yeouiju.

Beau could now fly in the loosest sense of the word—a discovery made a mere month ago that had filled her with joy but now was a frustration. She often made it to just above the treetops and no higher, lingering in the air for a few minutes before she had to return to the water. Without a yeouiju granting her stronger powers, she could not make it higher into the heavens. Despite this, Beau pushed herself now, straining her ability as much as possible, draining her magical well dry. Desperately, Beau pushed herself to climb higher, claws extending toward this glowing orb, this shining future.

The yeouiju hurtled closer, burning and beautiful. Beau’s heart sung in her chest with victory as her claws closed around the object just above the treetops. It was heavier than anticipated, more tangible than she thought an orb of power might be. She didn’t care, though, because this was it.

Beau didn’t care, even as her clawed foot dipped with the weight of the orb, dragging her whole body a foot or two from the sky toward the ground. She was going to fly.

But instead of the thrill of power, the surge of ascension, the weightlessness of true flight, Beau felt a static buzz singing through her veins. It seared through her as though she had grabbed hold of lightning, whiting out her vision for an instant.

She only realized the object in her claws was not an orb at all as the buzz faded away.

Confused and frustrated, unable to stay in the air any longer, Beau wove her way back to the river, magic all but depleted. Depositing her charge on the damp banks of her home, Beau coiled around herself until she stood small and human on the wet sand.

Through the sheets of rain, she glared down at what she thought would be her yeouiju, finding instead the hulking figure of a woman. Her face lay turned away from Beau, her long, thick hair the blinding white of lightning stuck to her skin like a curtain, obscuring her features. The woman’s fitted tunic was a deep black, smoldering in places and crisscrossed with straps of dark leather. But her arms were bare, the skin alabaster in hue, a stark contrast to the black of her tunic and the rest of her outfit. Finally catching Beau’s attention, though, was her right arm. The skin was marred, covered in sporadic, spiraling veins of fresh scars—evidence of lightning damage—but somehow twisted and wrong.

Unable to help her frustrated curiosity, Beau moved around to stand on the other side of the woman, crouching by her head. Without caution, Beau gathered a handful of the sopping hair from the woman’s face and moved it aside. Slack features and more alabaster skin greeted Beau beneath the hair, a solid blue line of a tattoo curving over a strong chin and down a sloping neck. An oozing gash on the woman’s temple bled sluggishly as her breath stuttered from her lungs.

Beau could not pretend to understand what had happened or how this woman fell from the sky. But she sighed, short and sharp, as she knelt beside the woman in the rain. Lightning stretched across the sky so viciously that for a moment, it was bright as day. Beau flinched as the echoing thunder followed a mere second behind and seemed to shake the very ground.

Her hollow sat nearby, and Beau knew despite her frustration, she would not leave the woman in the rain to die. She was not that heartless.

After some clumsy maneuvering, Beau had the woman draped over her back, the bulk of her figure swallowing Beau’s slighter frame. Her knees shook as she walked over the wet, unsteady sand, but she stayed resolutely upright. Ducking through the lichen screen of her hollow, Beau only stumbled twice with the relief of being out of the wind and lashing rain.

Setting the woman down unceremoniously by the shallow water’s edge, Beau cleaned and dressed the head wound as best as she was able to. Uncertain and wary of the lightning scars, Beau settled on covering them with a healing salve and resolved to ask the dryads for help in the morning.

Scooting to the farthest possible corner of her hollow opposite the unconscious woman, Beau pressed her back to the stone. Bitter and angry and upset, Beau pulled her knees to her chest and folded her arms over her legs. She glared over her forearms at the woman until her eyelids betrayed her and Beau slipped into sleep.

[multific]

Alpha And His Omega

Alpha!Geralt x Omega!Reader

Omegaverse!AU

Summary: After all of his friends moved on, Geralt was once again alone. But not for long.

 Living in a world where everyone had a so-called second gender.

Alphas were usually leaders, rich and highly skilled from birth. Betas were the ones who supported Alphas they were considered to be the normal. Then there were Omegas. It was said that Omegas were only good for giving birth. They were weak, and without a life or soul mate, they couldn’t live on.

Ever since Omegas became so rare, there were these so called, Collectors who would kidnap or pursue Omegas. Collectors would sell them to Alphas or anyone who would spend money.

Omegas had heat. Heat is when an Omega would give off such a strong scent that only Alphas would be able to smell. During the heat it is an opportunity for the Alpha to mark the Omega as their own and there is a lot higher chance that they would get pregnant. When an Alpha smells the scent of an Omega in heat, their instincts come out and the only thing in their mind is to breed.

In this kind of world, it was no question that Geralt was an Alpha. But Geralt wasn’t rich, he grew up to be a skilled killer and a great leader. He was promised an Omega at a young age. His very first job was to kill the King’s ally, and when he had done that, the king promised him an Omega. This was when Geralt truly learned about the second gender.

The King couldn’t keep his promise. Omegas were said to have gone extinct.

Geralt really didn’t care as he moved on with his life. He met Jaskier, Yennefer and Ciri. And as the years passed, Geralt was alone once again. Yennefer had moved on with a man, Ciri found herself someone as well and Jaskier, well he didn’t change much and still looked for trouble wherever he went.

And one night he stumbled upon a lake.

He had seen many beautiful lakes, but this one, it seemed special somehow.

Geralt let Roach roam while he watched as the moon lit the water. The scene in front of him was so fascinating Geralt nearly forgot to collect wood and build a fire. And once he finally did, he began his routine and made dinner for himself.

Once he was done eating, he noticed the moon was even higher up in the sky and the little pond looked even more breath-taking. If he didn’t know he would say it had magic.

Geralt slowly fell asleep. Even his sharp senses didn’t detect the much smaller frame that slowly emerged from the woods and went to the water. Geralt was rather light sleeper, his senses woke him whenever something happened so he could protect himself. Maybe deep down he knew the person didn’t want to hurt him and that’s why he didn’t woke up. Not even when the person walked closer to him and took a long moment to observe him.

Geralt woke up in the morning. He noticed someone sitting right next to him, the person was talking to his horse.

Geralt jumped up, grabbing his sword, pointing at the stranger.

You didn’t pay must mind to the Witcher, his horse was much more fascinating for you.

“So, which one do you prefer apples or carrots?” you had probably the best conversation with the horse. “I see. I like apples more. No, he’s fine. But he needs to calm down.” you said looking at Geralt. As soon as you looked into his eyes, you knew you were right. And Geralt felt it too.

“How’s this possible? I though all Omegas were dead.”

“Well not me.”

You kept on looking into his eyes, Geralt’s eyes grew twice in size when he realized what was happening.

You are his soulmate. The one he will bond with, the one destiny gave him.

“No. This-No.”

“You can’t refuse it. If you won’t accept me, I will have no purpose in life!” you said when he began to shake his head, fear overcoming you. “You know what happens to us if our soulmates reject us don’t you?”

Geralt was aware of the fact that Omegas would most likely commit suicide after their partner rejects them. Since an Omega’s purpose is to be with their Alpha, if the Alpha rejects them, their life becomes pointless.

Geralt let out a loud groan.

A few weeks went by. You have been travelling with Geralt, but he barely acknowledged your presence let alone talked to you. Still you were thankful he didn’t reject you but decided to let you travel with him. You did try to start a conversation with him, so you mostly talked about stuff that you liked or food that you enjoyed.

You moved from village to village looking for jobs that Geralt could do. While he was busy fighting, you took the opportunity to buy herbs for yourself. Every night while Geralt was having dinner, you made your potion. The potion that would keep your heat and pheromones tamed. You knew the day will come when they won’t matter and will seduce Geralt but you still tried.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Said Geralt one night, surprising you. He was usually quiet or only talked to Roach.

“I grew up with my brother. He was also an Omega. We grew up on the streets of a city that has been long destroyed and forgotten. He died when we were still young, he was sick. I moved to a village where they captured me, enslaved me and sold me. A rare Omega costs a lot. I was a slave to a disgusting man. When I grew up, one day I couldn’t take it anymore and I killed him. I killed him because he abused me, one time he even tried to rape me, but I didn’t let him, he beat me up so bad I passed out.” you noticed how Geralt’s fingers gripped his plate as you told him that. You figured the thought was very unsettling for him. “So, I killed him and ran. I have been living near the pond we met for the last years. I thought and hoped that one day my mate will come and meet me there. I was surprised that you are a Witcher though. How that work? You are both an Alpha and a Witcher. Fascinating.” Geralt just ignored your comment on that and continued with his questions.

“How can you talk to animals? You always talk to Roach, how can you understand her?”

“Pretend.” you said as your potion finished.

“I assume that is to keep your heat at bay.”

“Indeed.” you said as you were about to drink it but Geralt grabbed your hand suddenly.

“Since you can only bond with me if we do it during your heat, you won’t need this.” he said taking the drink and pouring it onto the ground.

“So you accept me as your soulmate?” you asked looking at his handsome face as the light of the fire hit it.

“I did that on the morning we met. I just wanted to make sure you were someone I can live with.”

“I see. I’m happy I fit your expectations then.” you said as you stood up from beside the fire and slowly started walking. “I’ll go and wash myself. Join me if you feel like.” you said and left.

It took Geralt less than a second to get a move on and follow you to the river. He was excited that he had you as a soulmate.

This was only the beginning.

 A/N: GIF’S NOT MINE! I do have more ideas for the Omegaverse with Geralt and Reader so there is more to come. If you have any suggestions, feel free to let me know and if you liked it feedback is always appreciated! Prepare for more~

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[shirtlesssammy]

6x21: Let It Bleed

Then:

Dean and Cas broke up

Now:

March 15, 1937

Providence, Rhode Island

It was a dark and stormy night, and HP Lovecraft sits at his typewriter clicking away. He finishes his manuscript, and his door slowly creaks open. He pulls out a revolver and heads to the hallway, but quickly backs back into the room and locks the door. A window blasts open and a shadowy figure is there. He pleads with it --but becomes blood cannon fodder anyway. 

Dean continues to dissect what could have gone differently to prevent his breakup with Cas. Sam tries being the logical friend --but there’s no explaining heartbreak, folks. Bobby comes in to tell them that when Cas popped in for his late night tet-a-tet with Dean, he stole a journal. But don’t worry, Bobby had a copy. 

Upon reading it, Bobby discovers a mention of HP Lovecraft. Dean doesn’t know who that is --and you’re going to tell me the dude that knows horror movies like the back of his hand and reads Stephen King doesn’t know who the father of horror is? And I know that Dean lies to cover up things he thinks other people would look down on him for, but this would be a weird moment to do that. 

Anyway, Bobby thinks Lovecraft knew something about purgatory. 

Meanwhile, Ben is chilling in his room reading Cthulhu graphic novels while his mom is watching the sportsball with her new beau. Demons bust in and gut the boyfriend right away. One takes after Ben. Ben gets to his room and calls Dean in a panic. He doesn’t know what’s out there and he can’t get to the shotgun in Lisa’s closet. Dean tells him to jump out his window. It’s too late --Crowley’s there and has both Ben and Lisa. 

Crowley tells Dean that no harm will come to them if he backs off from the purgatory plan. 

Sam throws some salt on Dean’s wound and asks if Cas knows about this. “We gotta assume that he does.” OUCH.

While Bobby heads off to follow the Lovecraft lead, Dean and Sam set to finding Lisa and Ben. They summon Balthazar and tell him that Crowley is alive. He blinks and tells them Cas already informed him. They then tell him about splitting the souls in purgatory plan. Balthazar knew that too, ahem. He refuses to help find Ben and Lisa. 

Sam thinks they should call Cas. “WE’RE NOT CALLING CAS.” This is a man in pain, Sam, he needs time. 

Bobby, meanwhile, interviews someone who possesses a large collection of Lovecraft’s private letters. He asks about March 10, 1937 specifically, and the dude wonders if he’s working with the other guy --”trench coat, looks like Colombo, talks like Rainman.” We’re supposed to assume he’s describing Cas, but ?? okay. They’re competitors actually.

The guy tells Bobby that Lovecraft had a dinner party with other blackmagic followers. They were getting together to perform a ritual to open a door into another dimension. He has --or had-- letters describing the dinner. Bobby leaves, knowing exactly how the letters disappeared. 

Bobby discusses the case with Sam, revealing that one guest of the party -the maid’s son- didn’t die and has been in a mental ward since that night. He’s gong to interview the man now. 

Dean, meanwhile, is lining the demons up and taking them down if they don’t answer his questions. 

For Murderous Rampage Science:

Sam tries to get his brother to take a break, but Dean is 100% on an emotional bender and will not stop. Sam then heads outside to pray to Cas --pleading with him to bring Ben and Lisa home. 

When Cas doesn’t appear, Sam walks away, dejected. Only Cas is there, invisible to Sam. AND I WANT TO TEAR OUT MY EYES. 

Cas confronts Crowley. Crowley was “merely exploiting the obvious loophole.” Cas demands he tell him where they are. 

Crowley tells Cas the only way to save Lisa and Ben is for him to find Purgatory. 

For Literal Science:

Cas flaps away when Balthazar summons him. They meet in a wooded area, and Balthazar confronts Cas about his partnership with Crowley. 

Balthazar confirms that Cas would be the vessel to take on the souls from purgatory. He could explode from all that energy. Cas assures him he won’t (weeps). Cas demands Balthazar tell him if he’s with Cas, and Balthazar laughs but agrees. 

Bobby interviews the maid’s son, and discovers Cas was already there. Bobby asks for the story. The man tells what was said at the time, but then asks, “Do you believe in monsters?” He tells Bobby that the door did open that night, and whatever came through took over his mother. Then the others died. Bobby gives his condolences to the man, and he shows Bobby a picture of his mother. Bobby recognizes her.

Dean prepares his Tortures for Demons™ when his foot drags part of the devil’s trap away. The demon immediately gets the drop on Dean, only for Cas to flap in (or turn visible) just in time to save Dean’s bacon. 

Dean’s...ungrateful. Surly, even! Cas apologizes about Lisa and Ben, and he’s hurt when Dean doesn’t believe that he had nothing to do with their abduction. 

“Dean, I do everything that you ask,” Cas pleads. “I always come when you call and I am your friend - still. Despite your lack of faith in me, and now your threats.” Cas is just asking for backup this ONE TIME. (And you know what? Knowing the crap these Winchester boys have pulled, I always felt like Cas made a good point here.) They lob soulful looks at each other. Cas promises to rescue Lisa and Ben if Dean will just PLEASE stand down and let him absorb every single monster soul EVER it’s NOT A BIG DEAL. This is entirely the wrong tactic, and Dean tells Cas to go back to Crowley and he’ll save Lisa and Ben on his own. 

Cas flaps away. Soulfully. 

Bobby arrives at Eleanor-the-Dragon’s door. She’s at a little cabin in the middle of nowhere - one of her safe houses. He confronts her with the old photo and demands to know her agenda. “You know, we’re not all alike,” she retorts. She reacts similarly poorly to Bobby complaining about sleeping with her without knowing she was a monster. BOBBY! WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT RIGHT NOW. She tells him that the world’s lucky that she’s who popped through the portal. The professor is on Team Earth. Bobby begs to know the secret of the portal so that he can protect her from Cas. 

Balthazar flaps in on Sam. He’s joining Team Winchester because he’s terribly concerned about Cas’s life choices. He flies them close to Crowley’s angel-warded lockup, and Dean and Sam swoop in to save Lisa and Ben. 

They split up inside the warehouse - always a sensible plan. Sadly, Sam “Soft Noggin” Winchester gets knocked out IMMEDIATELY. Sam plz. Dean bursts into Lisa and Ben’s prison like a little angry blur of knives and in short order, he’s killed all the demons standing guard. They start to flee, when Lisa holds Ben at knifepoint, her eyes flashing black. 

The demon goes all in on the mental torture, telling Ben that Dean’s his real father (JK!) and that Dean is Lisa’s WORST EVER MISTAKE. While Dean catalogues the internal damage, he and Lisa fight. He sheathes the demon blade and starts an exorcism, and I look directly at the camera. Demon Lisa’s got another trick up her sleeve. While the exorcism progresses, the demon grabs a tool and jabs it into Lisa’s gut. Then, she gives Dean a choice: exorcise her and Lisa bleeds out or let Lisa remain animate (but a demon puppet). Wrenchingly, Dean finishes the exorcism. 

He makes sure Ben’s armed with a salt-round shotgun and then they head out of the factory. Ben shoots his first demon while Dean shouts at him to “pull it together” and I...just…….

Guys.

I’m just going to box these feelings up and stuff them in my Dean Winchester is a Sad Child attic, while humming Cat’s in the Cradle to myself.

They find Sam and head for a hospital, Dean muttering the whole time that she’s FINE Lisa is JUST FINE she is FINE. Cut to the hospital where Lisa is NOT FINE, but also is not dead! Yet! 

Cas flaps in. 

Dean refuses his apology. REFUSES IT. But Cas didn’t come to apologize. Okay, he DID, but he primarily came to heal Lisa miraculously. Dean looks up at him like he completely forgot that Cas can heal. 

For Healing Cas Science:

In Jensen Ackles your face is a menace news, Dean displays grief, joy, relief, anger, betrayal, sad cat memes, and more in like less than five seconds of screen time. He thanks Cas for healing Lisa. “I wish this changed anything.” Regrets lie thickly between them. Dean asks for one more favor. He wants himself erased from Lisa and Ben’s memories for good. 

When Lisa wakes, Ben explains that they were in a car crash. Dean enters, and introduces himself as the guy who hit them. GAH. The shitty things these characters do!!! Excuse me while I hurl knives at the wall for a solid thirty minutes!

“I lost control for a minute,” Dean says, not AT ALL metaphorically about their time together. “And I just want to say that I’m sorry.” He heads out, leaving the Braedens entirely unprotected from future supernatural threats and missing a substantial chunk of their lives. Hope Cas also cleaned up Matt’s body??? And the busted door??? (Side note: does anyone else have weird squid emotions thinking about Cas willfully blanking their memories when his own memories have been tampered with time and time again? I SURE DON’T!)

Dean meets judgmental Sam back at the Impala. Sam, I see your judgment, and I judge thee valid. Dean talks about his emotions in an open and healt----hahaha nope. Dean tells Sam that if he ever mentions the Braedens to him then he’ll break Sam’s nose. He punctuates that with mournful, red-rimmed eyes which definitely deal at least 1.5X damage against Sam’s puppy eyes. They drive off into the sad music. 

Elsewhere, Eleanor Visyak leaves her cabin, only to encounter Cas behind her. Cas flaps her away. CAAAAAAAAS!

You QUOTE Miette??!!

Your chocolate's been in my peanut butter for far too long

What’s with the slow burn?

You’re just a man. I’m better off protecting myself

I’m officially on your team. You bastards

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 3, chapter 10

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: death mention, mutilation mention, fantasy religion

The bodies were strange. They were dressed in the tatters of elaborate regalia that marked them as members of the Zakarum high council, but each one was twisted and deformed to the point where they only looked human at the first glance. All of them were also missing one hand. As Morgan examined them, it became clear that those wounds, though inflicted recently, had not been what had killed them. Unusual burn marks spread like roots across the bodies, concentrated in the centre and spreading thin across the extremities. Lightning, perhaps. Phaedra sported a similar pattern of scarring on her hands, just as Telash was marked with numerous small burns and the tips of Devak's fingers were blackened and insensate from cold. If the lightning was strong enough to leave such large burns, it certainly would have done enough damage to the organs to kill the council members almost instantly.

Zakarum was a strict faith with little tolerance for outside interference. They had a particular distaste for adherents of the Order of Rathma, which presented something of a quandary for Morgan. The spirits of the council members were agitated, he could sense their restlessness - they had nearly attacked him when he'd reached out with his mind to look at their bones, which had been warped just as much as the flesh atop them. He wanted to lay them to rest, as was his duty to any unsettled souls, but they could not find peace with him leading them there. Being shunned for his affiliation was nothing new, but this was the first time it was coming from the dead themselves.

"What are they?" Blaise was leaning against a wall, having satisfied herself that there was no immediate danger.

"I believe they were once the Zakarum high council. That's what their clothing suggests." Morgan ran his fingers over the fine silken fabric just once, briefly savouring the texture before lifting his hand away. He didn't need to further agitate the spirits.

"These used to be people?" She came nearer, squinting down at the bodies. "Could have fooled me. What happened to them?"

"I don't know," Morgan admitted. "I've never seen anything like this."

"We could ask around at the docks," Blaise suggested. "One of the Iron Wolves might know something. Do you want to bury them before we head back?"

"Ordinarily yes, but not in this case." Morgan stood from where he'd been kneeling next to one of them. "Devout Zakarumites view the Order of Rathma as a heretical cult, and do not suffer our presence gladly. They will not let me aid them."

"Well, I mean, all the business with the dead is pretty disturbing. To an outsider. It's not so bad once you get used to it, though."

"Their main objection is to our dedication to the Balance," Morgan explained. "Zakarum preaches devotion to the Light exclusively."

"The Light is good, though, right?"

"The Light is goodness and order. But without chaos to offset it, order will eventually turn on itself. This is why the Balance is necessary."

"Makes enough sense."

"The faithful of Zakarum disagree. It is their perogative, but it does complicate our work." Morgan unrolled a portal scroll. "We should prepare ourselves with what knowledge we can gather."

"Wouldn't hurt to prepare ourselves with equipment either," Blaise observed. "I'm running a little low on arrows. Mephisto is going to be at the bottom of this place, yeah?"

"I should think so. This is the temple Tyrael mentioned." It was still strange to think about their encounter with the angel. To imagine that such a great power could require their aid. Well, Blaise's, anyway. She was by far the stronger, and better - or, more precisely, naturally aligned with good. But the threat to the Balance was significant enough to warrant Morgan's involvement as well, however little help he might actually prove to be. He would do all he could to support Blaise to the best of his ability. To avoid getting in her way, at least.

"You gonna open that thing or what?"

Morgan blinked. He was still holding the scroll open, unread. "Yes, of course." He opened the portal to the docks. There were preparations to make.

Cain had a theory about the missing hands. Mephisto had been imprisoned in a magical artifact known as a soulstone, bound inside its facets. According to the stories Cain had gleaned from the remaining residents, the Zakarum priests had split the stone into pieces with the intent of making it more difficult for the demon lord's soul to be reassembled. But they hadn't made the appropriate preparations, he surmised, and they had damaged the integrity of the stone in splitting it. The essence of chaos had seeped out of the stone fragments to corrupt their bearers, which explained their twisted, monstrous forms.

The concept of a soulstone was intriguing. Each one was created through magical means developed by the Horadrim, and could contain the soul of a powerful demon. Their effectiveness could be amplified through the conduit of a living body - ancient, forbidden magic, undeniably powerful but with a high cost. The priests had likely noticed their mistake too late and tried to correct it by using their own bodies to confine the pieces of the demon lord's soul. A noble effort, but ultimately unsuccessful. Something had recently collected the soulstone pieces, presumably with the intent to reassemble them.

The implications of that were grim. It could only mean that Diablo and Baal intended to restore the stone containing their brother, the third point of their triad. On the bright side, there hadn't yet been any cataclysmic, world-ending eruptions of power that one might expect from the reunification of the Prime Evils. But the absence of such events only raised more questions. Were they biding their time, gathering their strength? Was there something about the soulstones that was still impeding them somehow? Cain didn't have answers to these questions, but it was clear that they would need to retrieve the soulstone if at all possible.

Morgan asked around, but none of the Iron Wolves were adherents to Zakarum. Unfortunately for the council members, that meant they would simply have to wait until someone of their preferred faith returned to lay them to rest properly. If they even would - their failure to contain the power of Mephisto had warped them badly enough that it was possible they might no longer be welcomed at all in that religion of Light, despite all they had done trying to preserve it. That was a sobering thought, but Morgan set it aside in favour of concentrating on their larger goal.

None of the Iron Wolves seemed particularly interested in supporting their assault on Mephisto, either. Morgan couldn't fault them for that; the power of a Prime Evil was not something to take lightly, and the danger was great. Blaise was considerably less impressed by their refusal. Morgan left her arguing with Telash as he sought out Ormus. Perhaps the wise old mage would share a particularly useful insight before the battle.

Ormus didn't have much to add when questioned, but scrutinized Morgan with narrowed eyes. "Mind your nest," he advised briefly. "The honeyguide is waiting." With that, he turned away toward Alkor's hut.

"Thank you," Morgan said to his retreating back. The advice was in the mage's usual vein, of course. Honeyguides were birds, he knew that much. Ones that were known to lead people to bee colonies, feasting on the insects after the humans had taken the honey. Was he a bee in this metaphor? Bee nests were usually called hives, but no other sort of nest seemed relevant. He puzzled over it a little longer but no clear answer revealed itself. There were more pressing things to consider at the moment, so he set it aside in favour of finding Blaise. Perhaps she had learned something a little more concrete, and he wanted to share Cain's insights as well.

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Oh Yes. It’s That Time Again. (End of Year FUCKING Round-up!)

Wow! That last blog entry was super-optimistic and sweet-tempered in the end, wasn’t it? You can tell I’m engaged to be married, can’t you? Don’t worry: I’m still a terrible cunt really. Which is why we’re now back to our regular, scheduled program. That’s right: it’s time for me to do my traditional end of year round-up! With Xmas and New Year on the horizon, I can see the year that was getting ready to drip off onto the great shag-pile carpet of the past, like a drop of cum from the cock-tip of eternity. I don’t hold many traditions dear, but I have to admit, I really enjoy this one. Handing out my end-of-year gongs gives me a chance to just be funny for the sake of being funny, laying into things I hate and praising things I love without the cradle of a whole essay or an analytical framework. I may not do much blogging nowadays (over the last two years I’ve actually been writing a fifteen-book sci-fi saga that will eventually be folded into an even larger, more complicated cosmology of interconnected stories, many of which will also be multi-book efforts. Yeah. I’ve really hit my stride as a fiction writer lately). However, I sincerely wouldn’t miss this round-up for the world. So, without further ado, let’s dive in with…

The Freddie Krueger Award for Something That Just Won’t Fucking Die ... Which goes to COVID 19, which just keeps coming back. Every time it looks like we might be getting back to normal, a new variant crops up and we’re back to hiding in our hovels like hobbits cowering before the fiery, boggle-eyed might of Sauron. Of course, a big part of the reason this keeps happening is that we keep trying to get back to normal as soon as anything even slightly optimistic happens rather than continuing to exercise caution until we’re absolutely sure that our medical science is on top of the threat. On the plus side, it’s made life quite exciting: it’s like living in the first act of a zombie movie. If I sound inappropriately jaunty, it’s because I used to live in South London, which was like living in the second act of a zombie movie- the bit where the shambling, dull-eyed corpses of former people blunder around bumping into things and trying to eat the protagonists. This is an improvement in comparison!

The Uri Geller Award for Services to Rampant Claptrap … Goes to the entire anti-vaccination movement- y’know, while we’re on the subject of COVID. Fake psychics and mediums have been known to lead people astray while they look for lost or kidnapped loved ones. Faith healers and crystal healers have prevented people from seeking real medical help and caused the deaths of the impressionable and easily-led… and their children. Meanwhile, away from the world of the falsely spiritual, flat-earthers have been making a concerted effort to destroy people’s trust in reason and science a lot lately and far right conspiracy theorists seem to have tricked us all into believing we’re taking part in a winnable ‘culture war’ which actually just degrades us all. Yet none of these reality-phobic con artists are quite as dangerous and pernicious as anti-vaxxers have made themselves since the advent of COVID. Like many others, I was dubious of the rushed-through vaccines when they first came out, but- unlike the entrenched vaccine-haters- I allowed my mind to be changed by changes in the known facts and circumstances. There came a point where any reasonable, well-intentioned person would admit that the risks of COVID (which definitely kills people) far outweighed the risks of a vaccine that hadn’t gone through the usual long-term testing cycle (which only stood a relatively small chance of causing harm later down the line). That point was quite some time ago, yet a growing and vocal enclave of dangerous nutters insist on endangering themselves and undermining collective immunity (which endangers us all) by both refusing to take the vaccines themselves and spreading patent lunacy about how they’re an insidious method of control. Let’s give ‘em a big hand, folks! They’ve supplanted fake psychics, healers and the most extreme conspiracy theorists  as the most dangerous, potentially-destructive quacks on the planet. I think that deserves a standing ovation, don’t you?

The Drunken Motorist Award for Most Spectacular Overcorrection Goes to Doctor Who, which has spent the last few years digging its own grave. Under Chris Chibnall’s cartoonishly bad stewardship, the Doctor teamed up with a grown man who needed his gramp’s help to learn how to ride a bike then went onto lock a bunch of fairly blameless giant spiders in a room to starve to death and become a corporate shill for Space Amazon (no, really: there’s an episode of Chibnall and Whitaker-era Who in which the Doctor sides with a corrupt, worker-exploiting company over the plucky rebel trying to raze it to the ground and it’s exactly as bad as it sounds). At this point, the idiotic gender-flip in which the show chose to ignore a core aspect of the protagonist’s identity isn’t even the main problem: it’s just the vomit-icing on a massive toilet-cake of compacted turd. The BBC seem to have realised this- and their solution is… interesting. They’ve brought beloved Who writer, Russel T. Davis back to fix the mess Chibnall created and the next Doctor is going to be the other guy from Pirates of the Carribean- you know: the one who wasn’t Johnny Depp. Having been punished for a bunch of stupid and obviously-destructive risks (i.e. a terrible casting decision and the appointment of a predominantly non sci-fi-writer to the helm) the powers that be at the Beeb have now decided not to take any risks. Instead, they’re going to lock themselves in a big, cosy nostalgia closet to smell their own farts for the next few years. They’re not giving new writers with new ideas a chance and they’ve appointed the oldest, whitest, most establishment dude they could find to the role of the Doctor. THIS ISN’T WHAT I OR ANYBODY ELSE WANTED! What fans have been begging for isn’t stagnation but just a bit of respect for the show’s legacy and main fucking character. It’s like they accidentally fucked a watermelon and instead of just pretending it didn’t happen and buying a new watermelon like normal people, they’ve cleaned the old watermelon, brought in an expert watermelon chef to make it look palatable and then sealed the result in plastic veneer to be displayed forever, changeless and totally fucking inedible. Yeah, it’s not my best simile, but fuck you: I’m writing this in Costa while the worst Xmas music in the world is parped into my ears via a tinny speaker system.

The Richard Ayoade Bursting out of a Cake Award for Best Lovely-Yet-Confusing Surprise … Goes to Dune (2021), which may be the best sci-fi adaptation of anything in, like, fucking years. It came completely out of left-field, too- I saw one advert for it over a year ago, then nothing happened for ages, then suddenly it was in cinemas and was effortlessly better than everything else made in a really, really long time. Which is lovely. But it’s also confusing, in the sense that I’m baffled by how it got made. Who was out there looking at famously hard-to-adapt sci-fi books and resultant bananas David Lynch films and suddenly thought ‘you know what? It’s time for another crack at this’? Why, then, did they choose to do a version in Paul Atreides is just very slightly off and maybe a borderline sociopath? Why did they cast a surly French dude in the role? And why does it all work so fucking well? I neither know nor care. I am content to be overjoyed and confused. I don’t know how Dune (2021) happened or why it’s the bizarre beast of a film that it is, but I don’t need to understand it to be utterly captivated by it. It’s fucking great.

The Ryan Reynolds Post-Green Lantern Award for Most Spectacular Comeback … Goes to Rick and Morty, whose fifth season pretty much fixed all the problems I had with Season 4 and got back to delivering some of the best animated science-fiction on record. Sure, Rick is still kind of nerfed, but his characterisation has softened a little so that it feels more like he’s not trying than that he’s really out of his depth and we still get to see him at his best (and worst) in a couple of episodes while the universe as a whole continues to expand and evolve in interesting ways. Yeah. I didn’t think there was any way to put out that tyre fire (especially with the open contempt S4 evinced for its audience), but here we are. Nice work, creative team behind Rick and Morty. Could you maybe put the cherry on top by taking less than a year and a half to make ten or so twenty-minute shorts next time? Seriously, the guys who write the stories for the 2000AD mag are laughing at you from behind their novelty Judge Dredd replica helmets.

The Charge of the Light Brigade Award for Most Self-Defeating Manoeuvre … Goes to basically all British shops on Xmas Eve. The moment at which people are most likely to need last minute Christmas supplies, I just discovered, is the moment at which the shops take them off the shelves and then close early. Seriously, all I fucking wanted was a Yule log and a selection of fancy cheeses. What I got instead was a headache and a marked up-tick in my ambient desire to murder and maim every fourth person I lay eyes on. There’s nothing quite like sprinting around Morrison’s with a wonky trolley while dull-eyed phlegm spigots meander back and forth in front of you to make you feel Xmas-y. And my ‘Xmas-y’, I mean ‘burdened with a sense of existential futility’.

The Eduardo York’s Clone Award for Soup-Spoon Gouging Perfection … Goes to Zack Snyder’s Justice League. Yes, they finally fucking released the fabled Snyder Cut. I mean, in a sense, the movement to get this cut released was erroneous because it falsely assumed that the cut already existed, when- in actual reality- a combination of pressure from Warner Bros. And personal tragedy forced Snyder to step aside before he got to edit together his version of the film. However, the movement (and yes, I’m aware that calling it is silly, but I can’t think of a better term) was correct to assume that such a cut (however theoretical) would be infinitely superior to the cobbled-together mess that arrived in cinemas and was also morally correct to want a major creative force behind the early DCEU to have a chance to deliver his vision free of hamstringing studio interference. And, for once, creative legitimacy and basic human decency won out and Snyder was able to deliver his version of a team up between some of the most legendary characters in the world of graphic storytelling. So how is it? Well, it’s about four hours of Wagnerian drum-beating invested with a kind of terrible, doom-laden weight… which only becomes noticeably silly when you remember that its main characters include a guy who fights crime dressed as a bat and a dude who goes out wearing blue pyjamas whenever the world needs saving and can shoot fire from his eyes- yet also low-key works in print journalism. It should come as no surprise to those of you reading along that this shit is my jam. The juxtaposition of the intrinsic daftness of comic-book characters with the mythic levels of cultural importance they’ve assumed offers up a rich vein of weird media that we don’t tap often enough and this is one of the best examples since the film adaptation of Watchmen. We’ll be ignoring the existence of the TV series for now. And probably forever.

The Surprising Longevity Award for Still Being Alive … Goes to Jeff Bridges. Someone told me he was dead earlier this year, but I just googled it and he’s fine. Thank fuck. I really like Jeff Bridges so, even though he hasn’t done anything noteworthy lately, I wanted to include him on this list, just to say ‘wow. I’m glad he’s still alive’. The Dude abides, my friends. The Dude still abides.

The Most Weight Gained by Consumption of Cheese Alone Award … Goes to me. Probably. I really fucking like cheese and my metabolism is not what it used to be.

The Special Award for Media that Gives my Fiance a Headache … Goes to Legion, which didn’t come out this year, but did give my fiance a headache this year. In case you’re wondering, the point at which she gave up on the show was the point at which a trio of women with moustaches turn up and describe themselves with the words ‘Now we are this: The Organising Principle; the Machine that Bleeds.’ I mention this for two reasons. First, I love my fiance very much and need to remember not to inflict anything as head-scratchingly weird as Legion on her again. Second, I still really like Legion and think y’all deserve to be reminded of its existence. Well, ‘deserve’ is probably the wrong word. If I was Santa, you’d all be receiving a stocking full of bricks to the face this year. But I’m feeling generous, so go watch Legion and then come back and thank me for the most unique experience you’ll have had since I introduced to be The Void.

And honestly, that’s all I’ve got. This year has been perfectly pleasant but kind of uneventful. More COVID happened, the things that were already good continued to be good, the things that were shite continued to be shite. I could hand out gongs to my favourite movies, but we’ve already done Dune and I feel like a movie-specific blog should be a separate thing. As much as I enjoy writing these, the world just hasn’t been cooperating when it comes to giving me stuff to write about. I’ll see you soon. Not necessarily on the blog. Maybe in a slasher film way. Only time will tell.

[ladynightmare913]

Secrets of the Darkened Seas

Welcome to Chapter 4! I would like to say a special thank you to my best friend and co-author Olivia ( @asunshinepuff​ ) for inviting me to work on this story with her. As you may have notice, we have decided to change on how we release the chapters of our story. We will be alternating from my blog to @asunshinepuff​‘s blog. 

These chapters contain many original characters created by Olivia and myself. All credit for our creations goes to each other for our respective characters because we have both work so hard to bring these characters to live and I would never dare to take credit for any of Olivia’s characters. 

Small warning, there is a funeral in this chapter. If you have any questions, feel free to send an ask!

As always there is mermaid lore hidden within the storyline. The included lore on different types of merfolk will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. We are taking no credit for her work. The different types of mermaids will be explained later so don’t worry. We have also taken the liberty of creating some of our own original types of merfolk. 

Now without further adieu!

Chapter 4: Honoring The Fallen

The voyage back to Swansea in West Wales was somber. The Captain hardly said anything more than a sentence. Remus would sit on a barrel next to the railing of the ship, watching the sea for hours. Quinn and Opal took over caring for the young Black Heir in the midst of taking over some of the Captain’s duties whilst Min-Jun was focused on preparations and work. 

Newt and Tina took it upon themselves to care for the two mers, to try to calm them down. There was some progress, but the older mermaid refused to part with the younger mer child. 

It took all of two days, the Dragon’s Pearl made port, and Min-Jun ordered the crew to finish the preparations before he left the ship in First Mate Scamander’s command. Normally the trip back home would bring Remus a strange sense of nostalgia, but now he felt only dread. 

He watched Min-Jun, dressed in a white coat with black pants and boots, walk down the loading dock. A heavily pregnant woman wearing a brown dress with her hair tied into a bun walked towards him with a smile. 

“I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes… ” Opal stood beside Remus. She was dressed in a royal blue button up shirt which was tucked into her black slacks and brown boots. In addition, she wore a moonstone pendant necklace and a wide sword with a blue sheath was at her side.

Remus said nothing as he watched. The woman’s face began to pale, her head began to shake, her hand covered the pained gasp that escaped her lips. Min-Jun stood perfectly still. 

The woman began to sob hysterically, she began to fall from despair, Min-Jun gently caught her before she could read the ground. Min-Jun spoke to the weeping woman. Quinn joined Opal and Remus. 

 “She’s so young to be a widow…” Remus spoke softly.

“He died too young…” Was the only answer Quinn could give. 

The Captain sat with the pregnant widow on the ground for a few more minutes before he spoke once more, the woman nodded her head in response. Slowly, Min-Jun lifted the woman to stand, gently taking her arm as he guided her aboard the ship. Opal stepped forward. 

“We have a gown if you would like to change.” Opal took the hand Min-Jun held, giving a small smile. Opal walked in step with the young mother-to-be who only nodded her head as Opal led her to the cabins. 

“Are the preparations complete?” The Captain asked his First Mate. 

“Yes, we are weighing anchor now.” Quinn replied with a curt nod.

Min-Jun only nods his head in acknowledgement before he leaves to his chambers. Quinn exhales slowly, turning to carry on with the remaining tasks. Remus joined the rest of the crew in setting up the banquet. 

The ship sailed out to sea, and just when the sun was beginning to set, they lowered the anchor, they stopped. Lanterns were lit all around the ship, gold and white streamers made of cloth hung on the masts and staircases. A life boat was placed at the center of the ship, Ethan’s body rested inside. He was cleaned, and dressed in simple white garments. He looked peaceful. Like he was only asleep. 

Mirissa, Ethan’s widow, sat silently by her still husband’s side. Her hair had been let loose from her bun, flowing gently on the warm summer breeze. Her grey eyes staring lovingly at his face, her fingers gently brush against his cheek. She was dressed in a white gown that matched her husband’s. It was not a usual funeral, but she was thankful for different colors instead of the grim black. 

Remus stood beside Opal on the left side with the crew, dressed in a black shirt, dark grey pants and dark brown boots. Replacing his treasured blue scarf around his waist was a white sash in honor of tradition. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the peaceful face of his fallen friend. 

Opal had changed, for she was now dressed in a simple black attire consisting of a long sleeved blouse, slacks and boots. Her light brown hair was tied up in a french braid, a white ribbon interlacing the folds. In addition, she wore a moonstone pendant necklace which brought the only contrast to her outfit.

Newt and Tina stood beside each other, close to Remus and Opal. Tina was dressed in a black blouse with a black long flared skirt and black flats, her black hair was pulled up into a high bun. Newt was dressed in a dark grey coat, with a black shirt and slacks with dark brown boots as he silently watched the crew gather to begin the funeral. 

The First Mate was dressed in a dark blue coat with gold embellishments, a black shirt, slacks and boots as he stood beside the Captain. His sword was sheathed at his side as usual, the only hint of his signature red in sight. 

The Captain stood beside Mirissa and Quinn, in a white coat with black pants and boots. A gold sash across his waist, his sword at his side. He only looked at Ethan's pale face. A pastor walks next to the lifeboat, opposite of where the three stood, and invites everyone to gather to the funeral. Min-Jun gently prodded the pregnant woman to stand, hold her steady as she rose to her feet.

No one really paid attention, at least Remus didn’t. He only listened when the pastor mentioned Ethan’s life. How he had been an orphan, and taken in by Min-Jun and Quinn. Raised on the Dragon’s Pearl, and helped save many people who were attacked by pirates. How Ethan was a vibrant and kind soul who died too soon. Leaving behind a wife and child he will never know. Remus silently cursed the Blacks. 

After mass, the eulogy done by Captain Hua and First Mate Scamander, and a few stories shared by Quinn, Opal, and some of the crew. The funeral mass concluded to an end, yet the funeral was still not over. Without a command, four crewmen lifted the lifeboat with a pulley, ropes were tied to the hooks. Another crew member gently pushed the boat over the railing of the ship, the life boat slowly lowered to the water. 

Captain Hua looks down to Mirissa, grabbing the bow offered to him by the pastor. 

“It’s time.” 

Mirissa nods her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks quickly. Min-Jun gently guides her to the side of the ship where the lifeboat began to float away. The captain doesn’t rush the young widow. No one dares. Everyone stays silent, swaying gently as the waves rocked the ship. For a moment, Mirissa’s posture changes, she takes the bow and sets her feet into position. She was ready now. 

Quinn lights the tip of the arrow, igniting it aflame, then gives the arrow to Mirissa. She drew the arrow back, and in that moment, memories of Ethan flood her mind. His gentle words, his boisterous laugh, the way his hair could not stay neat. How his face broke into a smile when she told him she was with child. Her arms begin to waver as tears begin to fall. Her body trembles. 

Min-Jun moves to stand behind her, gently steadying her aims. His presence calms her immensely. With a weak sob she looks back to the boat that was floating farther away. She wants to send him off with one of her brightest smiles. He loved her smile. As she pulls the string to her chest, Min-Jun helps steady her hands. She releases her breath. She releases. 

The arrow flies gracefully across the sky. Landing on its mark. A few moments pass before the whole boat is lit aflame. Min-Jun takes the bow from her hands, stepping back to give her space. She continues to watch the boat burn. The crew lower their heads to their fallen brother. 

Remus watches the bright flames from the boat that reflect on the surface of the dark sea. It was not fair.  

“Remus.” 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Remus turned to look to the voice who called him. Newt stood beside him, watching the setting sun leave its final rays of sunlight before it sank into the horizon. He simply hands Remus a book. 

Remus takes the book into his hands, his thumb gently brushing against the letters of Fantastic Nautical Creatures, by Newt Scamander. 

“I want you to look after it.” 

Remus’ head snapped up to meet the older Scamander’s gentle gaze. “What?” 

Newt takes a deep breath, this wasn’t easy for him to do. “That book is my life’s work, and people won’t stop coming after it. It does not belong to people who wish to exploit the knowledge I collected over the years. And they found me, it’s no longer safe with me anymore.” 

“I understand that. But why me? Why not with Quinn?” Remus frowns. 

“Quinn is a target simply because he is my son. He knows some of the contents. But no one would know who you are, or that you have the book.” Newt smiled softly. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I know that you will do what's right to ensure that no one gets their hands on this book. Burn it if you must.”   

“But- it’s your life’s work?! I can’t just burn it should the need call for it!”

“Yes you can. I have faith in you. Even if all that’s left is ash, all its content is in our minds. It will never truly be lost.” Newt turns his head to look at his wife. “You can update it, I’m sure there are many things I still haven’t learned.” He looks to Quinn. His eyes become filled with sorrow. “Tina and I are going into hiding. Quinn knows.”  

Remus didn’t know what to say, he understood why they were going into hiding, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Newt Scamander had asked him to guard the book. How can someone be this trusting? He has hardly known him for long…. 

Wait. That sounded familiar. It was exactly what he had thought when Quinn offered him the chance to join The Dragon’s Pearl. So Quinn gets it from Newt. This was all so sudden and too much, how could he become the book’s guardian? Add his own updates? What had he done to gain the Scamander’s trust this easily?

“I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do my best.” Remus gave the older Scamander a small smile.

The reception was full of merry music, there was nothing left of the banquet by the time dawn arrived. Some of the crew were passed out drunk, while others began to clean up the deck. Captain Hua had informed the crew that he would be accompanying Ethan’s wife back to the mainland, where she would return to live with her parents, and deliver the Scamanders to a temporary safe house, He would return in a few days. Quinn was left in command.

And so they waited by the mainland. Opal continued to care for the mers, Remus would join her whenever she would go to check on them. They learned that the older mermaid’s name was Brielle, after she had calmed down. 

She was just barely beginning to trust them. The younger mer child was her brother, who Greyback mercilessly threatened to cut the child’s tail with his cutlass. The child was a boy, Tadase. And Remus could honestly say that being around the little mer child made the ache in his heart ease for a few hours at least. 

Quinn looked after Regulus, the Black’s second heir. Remus also went to check on the young boy who was awfully skinny, and barely responsive. 

“Why don’t we introduce Tadase to him?” Opal suggested. “He might perk up around someone close to his age.” 

“Would Brielle let us is the real question. She barely trusts us.” Quinn responded with a shake of his head. And for good reason. 

In the end, Brielle consented to allow her tiny brother to play with Regulus who was only a few years older than Tadase. Regulus was cautious, his soft black hair and storm grey eyes contrasted strongly from his pale skin. He would always search for traps in everything. Whether or not he could eat, sleep, or play without getting into trouble. 

Remus’ heart ached for the small boy. Regulus was slow to accept Tadase’s easy friendship. Tadase was a soft spoken child, gentle with everything he did. It was adorable to watch Tadase shift uncomfortably in the clothes provided to him, and learning how to walk. Tadase would simply smile and try again. 

Only on the third morning did the two boys become friends. Brielle was always watching them close by. Tadase had given Regulus his tears, blue pearls as a sign of friendship. Regulus only stared in amazement at the beautiful pearls. He wailed. 

Tadase had been panicked at the sudden tears of the older boy, gently pulling him into an embrace. Remus wrote into Newt’s book about the blue pearls. He would ask about the color later. 

The ship stayed motionless on the water as The Dragon’s Pearl waited for her captain’s return for three days. It was the fourth night now, since the funeral. Quinn stood in as Captain, sailing around the Bristol Channel. 

Remus leaned on the railing as he stared at the docks on the mainland. He looked back to the deck to see the two boys sleeping on deck on top of a blanket. Regulus curled on his side while Tadase tucked to his side. Remus’ gaze softened at the sight of them. He looked back to the mainland. 

The muffled sound of footsteps caught Remus’ attention. There was no one on deck besides a few of the crew who were eating silently, and the soft breaths of the sleeping children. Remus’ eyes narrowed. He turned around and nearly jumped back when a man landed on top of the very railing Remus had been leaning against, a rope in his hand, probably from his ship that Remus had failed to spot in the dark night.

A tall young man was dressed in a loose dark blue shirt, black trousers, and black boots. He would have thought him truly a handsome man, who had most likely left many women swooning for him. If he did not have that smirk upon his face that clearly meant trouble. Remus glared. The man had raven black hair that fell just on his neck, fair skin, and stormy blue eyes that twinkled in mirth as he smirked directly at Remus. Remus knew those eyes. He had seen them on Regulus. 

“Sirius Black!” 

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Supernatural Series Finale

It took me a couple days to collect my thoughts on one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to watch in my life. Like I said a few days ago, I cried even harder watching it the second time around. But now that I’ve had a chance to process and also see what other people were saying, I think I can finally put into words my impression of the finale. 

Buckle up, this is a long one....

Let me preface this first off by saying that as an adamant Dean girl that has said numerous times over the years that all I’ve ever wanted was to wrap Dean in a blanket and give him some forehead kisses and tell him everything is going to be fine, this episode gutted me. I fully believe that my boy did not deserve to fight so hard for so long to just die as soon as he was free. He deserved a lifetime of truly enjoying time with his baby brother, the person he loved most in the whole world.

Now with that being said, having watched this series so many numerous times, I truly don’t believe that the show could have ended any other way. It’s something that has been pointed out by the creator, the writers, the actors, and even the characters themselves in the show. Dean never saw anything else for himself than dying doing the one thing he knows best, hunting. I saw a post that discussed how this would have happened numerous times already had Chuck not been interfering in their lives, and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. 

And Dean had been raised to never think anything of that. It goes back to Cas’ declaration that he is “the most loving human he has ever met”. Dean is and always has been a man of duty. He would gladly die at the end of a blade if it meant he saved someone from the fate his family was ‘destined’ to live. He has always cared more about other people than he ever has himself. It part of the reason that his freak out in 15.17 didn’t throw me because for fuck’s sake wasn’t it his turn to be a little bit selfish for once?

Anyway, I digress. Dean has been fighting for others his whole life. And as stated in 15.19, him and Sam were free to finally write their own story. Is it not 100% on character that Dean would die a hunter’s death? As we see in the beginning of the episode, the Winchesters could have chosen to walk away from the life then. They could have chose the apple pie life, a wife and 2.5 kids. But they didn’t, they chose to continue saving people, hunting things. They were writing their own story, even if it ended tragically. But that’s life, it’s messy and depressing, but it’s also beautiful and even if Dean only got a small taste of that, I can be happy.

I know a lot of people feel like that negates their character growth throughout the seasons, but I disagree. I think that the way this ended shows just how much both of them had grown. Sam very well could have went to Jack and begged him to bring Dean back and Dean could have asked him to. But neither felt that it was necessary any longer. Without Chuck pulling the strings, that scary, neurotic, codependence they used to hold was gone. Dean was okay with dying and Sam let him go. Dean told him how much he loved him and how scared he had been to go get him at school. Dean opened up, something that season 1 Dean never would have done. Just look back at “Faith”, the episode where Dean makes every joke in the book about dying instead of facing the truth that his time was up and Sam refuses to accept it so much that his one source to save him (unwittingly) is black magic. The men I saw in 15.20 were far from the men we met in season one. 

Coming back to finally being free, I have to talk about the dammed paperwork in Dean’s room. I’ve seen the speculation about that. But that’s all it is, speculation. We have no idea what that was supposed to be about. If they had meant for us to see it, they would have shown it to use like they showed us the “Dean’s other other phone” sticker. But they didn’t. So it’s perfectly fine to speculate about it, that all a part of art interpretation, but in my opinion, even if Dean was working on ‘something else’ I don’t think he ever could have fully walked away from hunting. This ending was for all intents and purposes, inevitable. 

For all the rest, as a writer, I fully understand the way that they chose to do this episode. Sure covid played a role but the boys had said that the crux of what the episode was did not change. There is a certain nuance to storytelling, like I posted back on Thursday and something that is probably one of the most famous lines from this show. Endings are hard. Writing is hard. It’s impossible to please everyone and even harder to tie up all loose ends. At the end of the day, the writers had to be satisfied with the story that they put out, irregardless of what you or I think. As Jensen so beautifully puts it, Supernatural is a piece of art, one that has numerous hands in the pot. From writers to actors and directors. And art is always up for interpretation. But that’s the beauty in it. 

I talked to a dear friend, @waywardbeanie after the episode and was like “I want to know x.y.and z” because a part of me wanted all the answers from them. I’ve always been a person so very deeply rooted in canon (I know as a fanfic author that sounds weird but stay with me). I trust the information given to me and take it as face value. I seen my stories as an extension to canon, not trying to rewrite it. So it took me a few days, and more conversations with other fans of the show, like @winchest09 , to understand that the facts left out of the final were most likely intentional. 

This is a show that has such a passionate and loving (mostly) fandom. Together we have done so much good for the world, and that is something even if you hated the finale, you can’t take back. The writers left the ending open for us, to write our own stories, whether it’s just your thoughts or if you actually write a piece of fanfiction. There is so little about what happens after Sam leaves, presumably for Austin (don’t even get me started on the essence of that cause I might cry again), because it’s our job to decide. Did Sam quite hunting all together or was he a pseudo Bobby, manning the phones for other hunters? Did he finally go to law school or end up getting some other mundane job? Who was his wife or girlfriend or baby momma in the background? Was it Eileen? If not did she know about his life? One could drive themselves crazy answering these questions, and it’s your right to do so however it will make you happy. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter to the story. 

At the end of the day, what mattered was the peace that the boys found together, in heaven. Sure Dean missed Sammy when he first got there, but he didn’t fuss, because as Bobby said “he would be along”. So Dean did what he’s always done, he took a drive in Baby, and Sam was there when he finally brought her to a stop. In the end their story ended just as it had started, our boys together. 

And I know a lot of people are angry because one of the big themes this show touched on was that family doesn’t end in blood. And I agree wholeheartedly that I would have loved more familiar faces or even the mention of them (I screamed when Donna was mentioned), but at the end of the day, something Eric Kripke has been saying since season one, this show is and always has been about the brothers and their relationship. I in no way think that this negates the family they found along the way or how they could not have done a lot of it without them but, it’s not their story. I’m sorry but it’s true. 

It’s not about Cas, Jack, Bobby, Crowley, Ellen, Jo, Mary, Eileen, etc. It’s about Sam and Dean and it sucks that people can’t let that go, but I get it. I can’t imagine putting so much time into something to let something like that ruin the whole experience for you. I hope that you can find peace eventually. I guess that’s my blessing, that I never really cared for anyone besides Dean. Which isn’t to say I didn’t like characters but what happened to them never mattered to me, as bitchy as that sounds. 

I’m at peace with this ending, no matter how much it hurts me. And I think it’s just the finality of it that hurts. Jensen and Jared and Kripke are satisfied with their little show that could and that’s what matters most to me. Because those are the real people with real feelings that I care about. 

So there you have it. I have zero tolerance for negativity, so please keep your comments off this posts. You are free to your opinion but I don’t want to see it and put any seed of doubt in my acceptance of this ending. I’ll be the first to admit I’m too easily swayed, ha!

But if you need to talk, my inbox is always open. I’m still coping with the loss of this show and everything that comes with it. I don’t do well with change or facing my own mortality, something that has rattle me these past few days. I feel a million years older and that scares me. So know your feelings are valid and I’m here. 

[wordsablaze]

hardest of hearts

A fix-it songfic inspired by a request for something post-mountain where Geralt feels guilty for hurting his bard and Jaskier struggles with low self-esteem...

A/N: @holisticfansstuff hey, i finally wrote this for your ask !! sorry it took a while and i’m not quite sure this is what you wanted but i hope it’s alright !! the song is hardest of hearts by florence + the machine x

-

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

And with that one sentence, Jaskier shatters.

And everything changes.

there is love in your body but you can’t hold it in

Meletite knows Jaskier has had enough practice picking up the broken pieces of himself, whether it’s literally pulling his skin back together after being too troublesome or reassembling the shards of his heart after someone carelessly, unknowingly damages it.

He’s broken and been broken countless times before and really, it should be nothing new to witness himself do so once more. Because Jaskier has always loved freely and deeply, but it had been different this time.

And yes, he’s long since lost track of how many windows he’s leaped out of before the sun has risen or how many hushed promises have turned into hazy tavern memories. But this time, it was Geralt.

It was his livelihood and his muse and his very reason for making it through winter, and it was different to any other love he’d nurtured - it was the only one he’d offered slowly and steadily, the only one that had been so sharply spat back at him.

Never has he struggled so much to even breathe right as he turns away.

it pours from your eyes and spills from your skin

Geralt is so, so fiercely angry that he forgets how to be guilty.

That is, until he sees Jaskier’s expression, because Jaskier should be angry or upset or amused but he’s simply a brave face, a faux smile, a testament to Geralt’s mistakes.

An excuse is made about collecting the rest of the story but they both know there’ll never be an accurate song sung about a dragon hunt. And if Jaskier’s expression isn’t enough, the bitter sorrow and sharp pain that radiates from him even after Geralt has turned around is evidence enough.

He’s messed up and he’s messed up horribly and he’s frozen in place as he hears Jaskier’s footsteps fade until they’re too far to follow.

Part of him hopes Jaskier will stay so things can go back to normal but by the time he remembers to move, the only trace left of him is a lingering floral scent that does nothing to fill the sudden void in Geralt’s world.

tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks

Jaskier walks until his feet hurt and then he carries on walking because that’s what he always does when his heart breaks. Only this time he’s certain the blisters on his feet will heal long before his heart does, if it ever does.

He’s no stranger to this sort of pain, he’s travelled a path paved with the disdain of people he’s loved, but Geralt’s blow seems to have hit the hardest of them all despite never truly touching him.

And worst of all, he doesn’t dare sing about it lest anyone get the wrong idea about witchers, for that would unravel decades of effort and he couldn’t bear to see their kind suffer just because it turns out he has a weak heart.

“Toss a coin to your witcher…” he sings, tempted to toss and lose the coin that’s been nestled in his pockets since Posada.

He’s a fool for keeping it, he knows he is, but he can’t bear to part with it, can’t bear to admit that he’s been cast aside by yet another love.

and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

It’s no secret that Geralt is a quiet person by nature.

He’s never pretended otherwise, which is why it was such a shock when Jaskier slots into his life as if he were born to do so.

Because Jaskier talks enough for the both of them and he becomes an expert in knowing what Geralt is feeling, even when he himself hasn’t figured it out. And Geralt hates it at first, hates the way Jaskier knows when he needs help with bargaining or when he just wants to get away from people and shelter in the forests.

He knows he doesn’t express his gratitude enough, he knows that Jaskier deserves someone who can match his love, who can hold his hand in broad daylight instead of curling up with him in the dead of night under the pretence of necessity.

It doesn’t bother Jaskier though, and all the bard asks for in return is tales of heroics and heartbreak for his songs - Geralt hates himself for so harshly providing the latter.

there is love in your body but you can’t get it out

Sometimes, just sometimes, Jaskier regrets building up his career on Geralt’s adventures.

He’d never imagined that they’d part ways - or rather, he’d let his guard down and forgotten to remember that most people leave him eventually - so he’s wholly unprepared for how much it hurts to sing about witchers when he’s no longer travelling with one.

But he does it anyway because he’s loved Geralt from the start and he doesn’t think he’s capable of ever not loving Geralt and he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.

So he keeps going.

On and on.

He travels as far as he can so that he can stay out of Geralt’s way, taking his broken heart with him and ignoring the way he feels like its shards are tearing into his insides a little more with each passing day.

it gets stuck in your head, won’t come out of your mouth

There is more than one town in which Geralt wants to murder a bard.

His bard - for that is what everyone knows Jaskier as - has created masterpieces and they are being butchered by men with far lesser voices, by men who don’t deserve to sing them in the first place.

And Geralt yearns to hear the original versions but it seems he is fated to hear Jaskier’s pain second-hand. He asks around, of course he does, for where to find Jaskier, but nobody knows what to tell him and he has never been good at bargaining for information.

He wishes he knew how to say more than please and thank you but Jaskier was his communication and without him, he can only really achieve the minimum required from him.

Regret pools in his gut every time Jaskier’s trail fizzles out.

sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face

Performance has always been Jaskier’s area of expertise but gods is it difficult to pretend he isn’t drowning in the love he was never meant to keep for himself.

He doesn’t know what to do with his compliments and his teasing and his fond exasperation because all of it was for Geralt and if Geralt doesn’t want it, doesn’t want him, he doesn’t know what to do with it, with himself.

He wastes some of his unwanted love on drunken adventures and always regrets it when he’s asked to stay and give up his travels or asked to leave and flee before a betrothed returns - both demands are knives that sink into his chest and add to the cracks in his heart.

It seems that nobody can truly understand what pleases him but he cannot fault them for he has forgotten how to be honest, whether it’s with others or himself.

Jaskier is tired of loving and hurting as if they are one and the same.

that the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste

“I care for you,” Geralt tells Ciri.

“I want you to be safe,” he adds sincerely.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, because he is.

But all he’s doing is repeating what Jaskier had done, what Jaskier had taught him, and the words sometimes refuse to leave his lips because even they know someone else should have had the right to hear them first.

And all Geralt can do is hope Ciri understands that he means well, he really does. She does, of course, because she is far smarter than she seems and because she too has learned from Jaskier - another fact that sends wave after wave of sour guilt through his mind.

With no way to cure it, his guilt only festers.

darling heart, i have loved you from the start

Jaskier was a mere infant the first time he was abandoned, not that he truly remembers the woman who had decided she didn’t want to take care of him anymore. He only knows because his parents had held it against him, as well as every other heart he failed to win over, right from the start.

Geralt hadn’t abandoned him, Jaskier reminds himself every time he feels anger rise inside of him, he was the one who had abandoned Geralt. And he feels terrible, especially after hearing about Cintra, about Nilfgaard, about everything.

A part of him firmly believes that Geralt is safe because he refuses to think that the love of his life could die without him feeling it, but a part of him is too scared to hold onto that faith.

“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting…” he sings, because he is.

But only ever for his white wolf.

but you’ll never know what a fool i’ve been

Geralt takes Ciri to Kaer Morhen and feels sick when his brothers tell him how soldiers have been none too gently questioning any bards they come across.

He feels stupid when he realises that all this time, he’s been endangering Jaskier by not trying hard enough to find him, to make sure he’s okay, to apologise for his cruel words on the mountain.

And he feels even worse when he thinks of what little Jaskier has told him about his past, of how he had never spoken of his parents, of how his touch had lingered as if waiting for permission that he hadn’t thought to grant.

Oh, how ungrateful he had been of the first person to teach him the true meaning of emotions.

“You have to find him,” everyone says, and he can’t bring himself to argue.

there is love in our bodies and it holds us together

Funny how one can never be prepared for the sting of a whip, Jaskier thinks.

A brief flirt with fame had inflated his ego but no matter because bleeding out in a stone cell is the perfect way to remember that he is nothing and means nothing to anyone.

He lives, of course he does, but only because he hangs onto the possibility of once more meeting a golden gaze the same way he hangs from the ceiling and ruins his wrists, which is to say he does so every day.

And he’s okay with all the superficial agony inflicted upon him because although nobody learns anything from him, he learns from them that they’re still searching, that Geralt is safe, and that he has no true reason to be upset.

He doesn’t even care that there’s not a single person he can think of who would bother trying to save him.

but pulls us apart when we’re holding each other

Witchers cannot travel in time but Geralt so dearly wishes they could.

He doesn’t find Jaskier before snow starts to fall and travel becomes impossible.

He fails and it’s his fault that Jaskier is out there somewhere - possibly hurt, possibly dead, and possibly worse - when he is given warmth and love and everything his bard deserves more than him.

A deep chill settles into his very bones and although he is offered blankets, he knows it cannot be averted except by Jaskier’s touch. Oh, how he craves the warmth of sharing a bedroll and waking up at ungodly hours so Jaskier can learn about the constellations for his newest ballad.

He wants nothing more than to take back his words and keep Jaskier in his life, in his arms.

we all want something to hold in the night

A noble lineage meant that Jaskier was taught independence before anything else.

It meant he was always “a big boy who needs to stop wasting time” and “not a child anymore, for goodness sake” and “such a pathetic excuse of a noble, you should know better than that by now” but he was never truly loved.

And he never learned that he was meant to be loved, never learned that the affection he gave was supposed to be returned in equal.

So as Jaskier wobbles and stumbles through his escape, collapsing into the forest floor when his legs refuse to support his weight any longer, he just closes his eyes and pretends that he’s not in his own arms, that he’s in the arms of someone who cares enough to look for him.

But of course, he’s not.

And he wakes up alone.

Over and over again.

we don’t care if it hurts or we’re holding too tight

Geralt leaves at the first sight of spring.

He couldn’t possibly wait a day longer when he’s made Jaskier wait so long, even though he can’t be sure if Jaskier is even still waiting for him or if he’s moved on, which he had every right to do.

He forgets how to plan and finds that his resources run out before he’s crossed even two towns, but he makes do from under the cover of shadows and night because he couldn’t bear to give up, not on Jaskier.

With the bounty on his head, he finds himself fighting monsters just to survive rather than for coin. And with the bounty on his head, he finds himself having to treat his own injuries because he can’t ask a healer and he doesn’t have his best friend to help him.

Nothing hurts as much as Jaskier’s absence.

darling heart, i have loved you from the start

The only reason Jaskier survives past winter is because he heads to the coast.

He’s lucky that despite his reputation for trading secrets, he’s never traded all of his own. He’s always kept his love of the open water to himself and that’s the only reason he makes it there at all.

It still hurts to curl up inside his secret little coastal home though, because he’d spent so long imagining what it would be like to bring his- to bring Geralt with him. But he knows that can’t happen because Geralt had grown tired of him and wants nothing to do with him.

He doesn’t have a lot of food and he knows he should be concerned about that but he can’t bring himself to care because for the first time in over two decades, he doesn’t have anything - note, anyone - to live for.

but that’s no excuse for the state i’m in

It’s harder than it had seemed to travel without being seen.

Geralt knows how to hunt. He knows when to hide and when to begin travelling but for some reason, getting to Jaskier is far more difficult than any contract he’s ever taken.

He’s never been one for Destiny but he finds himself practically praying to her for a way to reach his- for a way to reach who he so dearly wants to make his again. His bard, his friend, his Jaskier.

Roach jerks to a halt every time he almost falls asleep whilst still on the saddle but he doesn’t learn from it, he can’t afford to when he so desperately needs to make amends, so desperately needs to figure out how much damage he’s caused and then fix it before he loses the best part of his life.

Desperation has never been his colour but then again, he's never cared for being fashionable.

my heart swells like a water at work

There’s a knock at the door but Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to move.

He stays where he is, huddled by a fire that’s long since run out of fuel to burn, and hopes that if it’s another mage, they kill him quickly this time. But it’s not.

“Jaskier, please!”

He blinks.

It can’t possibly be who he thinks it is, who he wants it to be, can it?

It can.

“Jaskier?” Quieter this time, as if he’s worried.

And then a crashing thud echoes, followed by his favourite set of footsteps and a hand on his shoulder.

He flinches without meaning to, not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. Geralt offers him a small smile and he promptly decides to do both.

can’t stop myself before it’s too late

“I’m sorry, Jaskier, I’m so sorry.”

It’s an apology long overdue, Geralt knows that, but he has to try, he can’t stop himself from trying, not this time, not when it comes to Jaskier.

And he looks so awfully small wrapped in blankets that Geralt can feel his heart clench. He feels even smaller when he melts into Geralt’s touch as if he’s never been granted the luxury of being held as he cries.

“I know,” Jaskier replies between sobs.

There’s so much more that Geralt needs to say but it’s a start and it’s more than enough because Jaskier is alive.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt says, not sure if he’s asking or demanding or begging. But it doesn’t really matter which because Jaskier agrees all the same and he’s just glad he has another chance.

hold on to your heart

Jaskier doesn’t want to get comfortable again.

Well, he does. More than anything. But he doesn’t want to risk the consequences again, he doesn’t think he can live through another heartbreak because there’s so little of his heart left intact and he’s scared to lose himself entirely.

So he goes to the school of the wolves and he gets help for his injuries - and scars, but he doesn’t want to think about that any time soon - but he can’t bring himself to relax, not entirely.

He’s sure they can smell his constant worrying and he feels awful for being such a pain but he doesn’t know what he’s meant to do and his fingers itch for a lute but he doesn’t want to annoy anyone by asking for one.

“I’m okay,” he promises, knowing that it’s a broken one even as it leaves his lips.

‘cause i’m coming to take you

It’s a month before Geralt clocks on to the problem and risks leaving, returning just before dawn with a lute that he places on the table beside Jaskier’s bed.

It’s another week before music fills the building.

It's two more everyone finds themselves humming or singing along every time they hear the lute being played. And another before Geralt finds Jaskier waiting for him where he usually trains, a hesitant smile on his face. “Thank you.”

Geralt nods. “It was the least I could do.”

Jaskier frowns, slowly shaking his head and shuffling his feet. “It’s far more than that. Music, it- it’s almost everything to me, I can't explain it...”

Geralt exhales softly. “But I can understand it because, Jaskier, you’re almost everything to me.”

hold on to your heart

A childhood filled with recklessly throwing around his heart meant that Jaskier became more careful with who he truly trusted over time.

Not careful enough, but still too careful to forgive and forget.

But Geralt is patient and kind and more affectionate than Jaskier has ever seen him and he can’t help falling in love all over again, not that he’d climbed out of it in the first place.

He wants to let go of the dragon hunt, he really does, but Geralt’s words still sting and they, along with his mother’s and father’s and countless fleeting lovers’, flash in his mind every time he thinks about surrendering his heart once again.

And he’s scared, he’s oh so scared that Geralt will get bored of him, sick of him, fed up with him again.

‘cause i’m coming to break you

Geralt waits until summer is waving goodbye before telling Jaskier.

He can feel Jaskier’s doubt rising, he can feel the way he’s not sure whether he’ll be invited to stay for winter or not - he will, of course, because he has become one of their own and it would be foolish if he wasn’t.

But when a week goes by without even the faintest echo of a lute, he and Ciri gather up the prettiest flowers they can find and after their evening meal, he offers them to Jaskier.

“I love you,” he admits softly.

Jaskier is still for all of a few seconds before he starts crying.

And Geralt’s whole body is telling him to run because he hates to see tears in his favourite blue eyes but he resists that urge and slowly, carefully wraps his arms around the bard instead.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time, Jaskier, and I don’t think I could ever not.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, but he falls asleep in Geralt’s embrace and finally lets his guard down, and that’s answer enough for anyone.

hold on

The war rages on but Jaskier finally finds peace.

Nothing about their life is particularly easy but he has never been more at ease because as much as Geralt had hurt him, he’d also helped him to heal far more than anybody else ever has.

“You have my heart,” he confesses one morning, after waking up to Geralt’s rare but increasingly more common smiles.

“You can keep it to yourself, your love is enough for me,” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier blinks slowly, suddenly overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, but he does curse softly. “When did you become so poetic, my dear witcher?”

Geralt chuckles, pulling him impossibly close and leaning right beside his ear to reply, “When you taught me how, my dear bard.”

It takes a matter of seconds for Jaskier to decide that he wants to get married.

hold on

Geralt says very little the day they lawfully commit to spending the rest of their lives together.

He says very little as Yennefer and Ciri craft their rings and loop them into matching chains. He says very little as Eskel and Lambert place their bets on who’s going to cry first - they’re both idiots, it’s obviously Jaskier - or who’s going to remain dry-eyed. And he says very little as Vesemir gives them his blessing.

But when they return to their room, Jaskier places his hands on either side of Geralt’s face and smiles softly. “Geralt, my love, will you tell me what’s wrong? You’ve barely said a word.”

And finally, Geralt cracks. “We vowed to stay with each other until we die, right?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Of course, but I would have done that with or without the ceremony, you know that.”

“Witchers live for a long time, Jaskier. I-”

Jaskier places a finger on Geralt’s lips, grinning. “You beautiful fool of a witcher, do I look like the kind of bard that’s going to die any time soon?”

When Geralt really looks, it’s obvious that he doesn’t.

And so, with that one sentence, everything changes again.

For the better this time.

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it's not particularly original, i know, but i really love this song and kind of let this write itself, and i have too many WIPs to have spent any longer trying to make this better :p hope it was okay anyway <3

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thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher sideblog: @itsjaskier

[bryte-eyed-athena]

A New Earthseed Community

I used to imagine what life would be like in a dystopian society where everything has collapsed or is on the verge of collapse. This Earthseed community project has given me the opportunity to actually put some serious thought into how a community might survive in a world that has gone off the rails. However, I am going into this making a few assumptions. First, the world I am envisioning my community living in is very similar to the one depicted in Parable of the Sower. I was considering writing journal entries like Lauren did, but then I thought that was too much like fanfiction. Instead I am going to simply respond to the questions. Second, this is an established community that has already done the hard work of gathering trusted people, escaping to a safe area, and building the community. I’m trying to think about how to make this community survive, as well as thrive, long term after it has already been established. Third, the community has decided to give their settlement a name so I will refer to them as “The Dandelion Community”. Hopefully trying to envision this ideal community can help me with thinking of solutions to solve our real world problems.

Explain two real-life issues that make it necessary to create your Earthseed community. What are you seeking shelter from?

Climate change is wreaking havoc all over the world as it exacerbates natural disasters and displaces millions of people. In California the climate will get hotter and wildfires will cause more damage. Climate change also disproportionately impacts low income people of color who do not have a refuge to escape to once the environment becomes hostile. These are the groups of people that are going to be impacted the most negatively and they are the ones who require shelter and protection.

Police brutality has impacted communities of color and immigrant communities the harshest due to the influence of systemic racism and capitalism. It has created a culture of fear and violence which harms us physically, mentally, and spiritually. It is a system that must be entirely abolished in order for all marginalized people to feel safe. If it cannot be abolished then we must seek refuge in areas where the police don’t exist and have no power.

Quote two Earthseed verses from Parable of the Sower and show how you will apply them to your community. You may be creative in your interpretation.

“All successful life is Adaptable, Opportunistic, Tenacious, Interconnected, and Fecund. Understand this. Use it. Shape God.”

The Dandelion community understands that there will be numerous challenges for them to face if they want to survive. But life is not just about survival it is also about being able to live well. This verse will inspire the community to see their existence as more than just a fight for survival. It will motivate them to seek success defined in these terms. They will internalize this message and learn to be adaptable to new challenges. They will either seek opportunities or turn their dire circumstances into one. They will tenaciously fight for themselves and for their fellow members. They will feel connected with the community and other people they meet on the outside. They will also try to make sure that all their endeavors are fertile in order to produce more good to balance all the bad in the world. With this verse in their hearts they will be able to Shape God.

“Embrace diversity. Unite— Or be divided, robbed, ruled, killed By those who see you as prey. Embrace diversity Or be destroyed.”

Out of all of the Earthseed verses, this is the one that defines the human story. Centuries of conflict and horror could have been avoided if we sought to embrace diversity and unite with our fellow man. Instead, this planet has been divided and conquered over and over. The Dandelion community will refuse to be divided, robbed, ruled, or killed by any one. Their strength will be in unity and the bonds they form with each other will heal them internally. The diversity of body ability, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, faith and so on will give the community a unique advantage to respond to change. The diversity of opinion and experience would be a useful tool and not seen as a hindrance.

Explain where you will create your Earthseed community to be safe.

Safety comes from being in a defendable area surrounded by people with the skills and tools to survive. The Channel Islands National Park is a chain of four islands off the coast of Santa Barbara. It is too far away to swim to and there is enough land to support a large community if they are spread across all the islands. The Dandelion can reserve certain areas for small villages that contain homes, libraries, and facilities to create goods. The rest of the land can be used for farming sustainably as well as a training/play area for children. Once the community is able to build boats they can start to fish farther out into the ocean to provide more variety in their diets. These islands would be easy to defend since they are isolated and far away from the coast. Swimmers wouldn’t be able to get there and the community could devise ways to sabotage the waters so boats wouldn't be able to get through. The islands are also large enough that a stable and thriving community could be built there so people can live peacefully.

Who can join your community and why? Who can’t join? Why not?

Anyone can join as long as they are willing to learn skills and be ready to contribute. They are expected to be understanding of others and respectful of diversity. They also must dedicate themselves to protecting all members of the community from external threats. It is also important that they understand that joining a community means truly becoming an engaged member of the community. This means that they make the effort to be a part of people’s lives and make positive contributions no matter how small. They must want peace and understand that it takes hard work to create the conditions for peace and love to flourish.

What will your leadership model be for your community?

The Dandelion community is very mutual aid based so it is important that every member has a voice and opportunity to exercise power. There will not be a single leader since teamwork and communication are valued highly here. Instead there will be a group of around ten people who gather and discuss the problems of the community no matter how big or small. The community will also gather in weekly town halls to address any grievances or solutions they have directly to the group of leaders. During that meeting they will try to create solutions that take into account the needs and wants of the community. After a month this group of ten people will be replaced with a different set of ten people. Anyone can volunteer to be a member of the group and it's basically first come first serve. Eventually as the group rotated members monthly every person in the community who wanted to be a leader would have been a leader at least once. This way the burden of leadership is shared equally across the community. This also means that no one person can hold total power and become a tyrant. It also means that there will always be someone in charge and someone the group can defer to in order to make a final decision.

Create a future technology (one on the horizon, not something like teleportation or time travel) to help improve life at your Earthseed community.

A water filtration device will be necessary to support the community. It would be non polluting and powered by solar energy. Once water is filtered from the ocean the community members can all go and get as much as they need. There will not be a plumbing system so people will have clay jugs to transport their clean water.

A series of solar powered radios set all around the island chain will help make communication easier and faster. If an urgent warning needs to be sent out people will be able to hear it on their radio. It will also make internal communication easier so people could just ask for things without having to travel.

Long range portable telescopes will help the defenders of the island see any oncoming threats. They will also be a good educational tool for the children when they want to see the stars.

Most importantly would be a submarine that can be used to travel to the mainland safely. The island won't be able to provide for every need and there will be times where trash needs to be disposed of. A submarine with a renewable energy source would be a good way to travel and maybe explore other places that could be safe as well.

Explain/show how your Earthseed community will SURVIVE.

The Dandelion community will survive by using knowledge collected in books and by forging strong community bonds that will encourage mental health. Books on indegenous and sustainable farming practices will help the community create a replenishable food source that feeds everyone. If there are surpluses, scouts could travel to the mainland and give it away. Books about fishing and the ocean would help the community fish safely and prevent overfishing. Books on natural medicine and surviving in wilderness environments can help the community treat and prevent illnesses as well as be attentive to their surroundings. Other books on math and literature and technology can help with basic education and entertainment which will help the community feed their minds and souls. All of this knowledge will help the community become self reliant and understand the world better which will help them Shape God.

Explain/show what TWO steps your Earthseed community will make to build a better future, i.e. education, housing, conservation, farming, etc.

The Dandelion community recognizes the importance of education and that learning can happen at any point in life. All members of the community will be educated equally and on the same topics. They will learn the basics like reading, writing, and math. They will also learn survival skills, how to cook and clean, how to swim, and how to use tools and weapons. They will also learn how to be sustainable and not harm the environment. As they grow older and develop their own interest they can divert into different fields. Some may wish to become teachers, potters, weavers, fishers, farmers, writers, etc. New members that come from the mainland will also be educated in the same way and if they have certain skills then they will be asked to contribute their knowledge as well. Innovation and creativity are encouraged, but above all the survival of the whole must be put first.

Hopefully the environment of peace and love will encourage the community to want to share their resources with others. One of the reasons Lauren’s original community fell was because outsiders thought that they were rich. In reality, that wasn’t the case, but Lauren’s family was still better off than most. If the Dandelion community found a way to share their resources and beliefs with those on the mainland they would be able to create more stable communities. The best defense against criminality and violence would be to remove the factors that cause it, in this case poverty. By sharing their technology and knowledge the Dandelion community would be able to lift people out of poverty and create stable communities across the coast line. Once those communities are stable enough they would also be able to create stability even further inland. This will ensure the longevity and survival of the Dandelion community.

[curioussubjects]

So I did a season 15 rewatch and wanted to do a thought experiment

I know I often mention that the meta the corner of fandom I’m in has multiple points of entry, but I don’t think I ever just dumped plain text as a thought experiment before. Obviously, the parts of the text I decided to dump here are picked through a specific meta lens as well as being only a facet of the SPN text itself, since I only have the words and none of the complex visual language the show employs from set dressing to editing to acting -- and that’s a ton of info I’m omitting, I know, but generally speaking all text gets reduced to the writing even in the mytharc of the show itself, so it feels appropriate to use words on a page to do this. That said, this is just a start, and any analysis of SPN needs to take into account the full scope of the text beyond the words (with the one exception of a soundtrack pick in 15.10 because it’s too good to pass up).

Anyway, I started writing this as a simple “here look at this selection of very cursed quotations let’s cry” sort of self-indulgent thing, but then I thought, well, what if we could all take a pause from fandom stuff and finale anxiety in order to sit a little with one of the textual building block? What if we could even put a pin, for just a second, to the greater nuances and more involved abstraction about the text and think in bare bone terms? 

Of course, I have a reading here, but through the quotations I picked notice the repetition of themes, of words themselves. What is there? What is it telling us? Regardless of our personal wants and wishlists, whatever our feelings about what is and what should or shouldn’t be. And if we pluck these words and put them back in their context, what is the story trying to tell us? On its face, without any editorializing about what we think could happen maybe because we’ve all been burned by tv shows before. Or even do we really think the text seems so clumsy and lost and incompetent as some seem to think it is? 

Again, this collection is just on facet of the text. Think of it as a spring board, rock number 1. 

15.01

We were just rats in a maze. Sure, we could go left. Sure, we could go right. But we were still in the damn maze. Just makes you think, if all of it... you know, everything that we've done... What did it even mean?

It meant a lot. We still saved people.

When we win this, God's gone. Hm. There's no one to screw with us. There's no more maze. It's just us. And we're free.

We got work to do.

15.02

Chuck is all-knowing. He knew the truth, he... he just kept it to himself.

Even if we didn't know that all of the challenges that we face were born of Chuck's machinations, how would we describe it all? We'd call it "life". Because that's precisely what life is. It's an obstacle course, and maybe Chuck designed the obstacles, but we ran our own race. We made our own moves.

I'll tell you what we do know. Nothing about our lives is real. Everything that we've lost, everything that we are is because of Chuck.

You asked, "What about all of this is real?" We are.

I'm done, Chuck. I've changed. I've adapted. I've... I've become the better me. And you? You are still the same... petulant, narcissistic. So... I'm leaving you here.

15.03

No, we’re gonna end this, Sam. Like you said. We’re gonna be free.

And I'm here, and you're here, and everything we need to end this right is in our hands.

But will you let the world die, let your brother die, just so I can live?

I've tried to talk to you, over and over, and you just don't want to hear it.  

Jack's dead. Chuck's gone. You and Sam have each other. I think it's time for me to move on.

15.04

Wow. So you’re still, um… [...]  Uh, obsessed with my work.

You mean my work.

So instead of reading your stories, I kept writing my own. [...]  Where the guys didn’t have to hunt monsters all the time. They just sit around and do laundry and talk, you know? I mean, that’s what people like the most, anyway.

… this is just an ending.

I can do anything. I’m a writer.

We are finally free to… move on, you know?

I don’t know. Uh… I-I don’t know if I can move on. You know, I-I-I… I can’t forget about any of them. Dean, I still think about Jessica. I… I can’t just let that go.

15.06

Yeah. If I stay, nothing changes. It's time for me to get back in the game.

15.07

What would I do without you? Hmm? What would I do without my best friend?!

Angela was raptured, and I was left behind.

but... but best friends don't just up and leave without saying goodbye.

Listen to yourself. "We're owed." "We deserve." Come on, man. You're not God. Hell, God's not even God.

Then you fix it. You don't walk away. You fight for it.

15.08

No one hands you anything, darlin'. I took it.

Then one day, you die, you go to hell, they make you queen, and you can't make it right. So fix it!

Doing what we do, we've had to get used to losing people. Probably too used to it. With Adam, we said goodbye because we thought we had to. We were wrong.

Since when do we get what we deserve?

15.09

You just refused to hear it.

Maybe if you didn't just up and leave us.

I left, but you didn't stop me.

No, the Dean I know... the Dean who raised me -- he'd never give up, no matter how bad things got.

Well, he does. He will. This is the truth, Sam. This is what comes next. 

I hope you can hear me... that wherever you are, it's not too late. I should've stopped you. You're my best friend, but I just let you go.

Okay, Cas, I need to say something.

You don't have to say it. I heard your prayer.

When we beat you, I will make it better!

But there's still so much about the fabric of the universe that you don't know... that you can't know. 'Cause you're only humans. But I'm God.

I wish you'd stay.

I wish I could. After what happened, I don't know what's real anymore.

I know that was real.

If we can't kill him or trap him...

... Well, then we find another way.

15.10

You know, go out young and pretty. But now I've got a great wife, great kids. I guess...sometimes things work out.

Yeah, sometimes. Good, man. You deserve it.

~Let's be outrageous  /  Let's misbehave~  

You know, I always thought I could be a good dancer if I wanted to be.

15.11

Beach read? Lady, I’m Tolstoy.

God created the world, but you know who created us gods? You did. You humans. Sort of.

How dare you not recognize his beneficence?

Our bad. Not his

I learned from my brother.

What is with you and these losers? They’re nothing! They don’t matter.

They matter to us.

Heroes. Like the old days. And, uh, she gave me a message. She said, “Don’t play his game. Make him play yours.”

Every day I wanted to come home, but… I couldn’t.

Billie kept him hidden in the Empty until Chuck went off world.

15.12

In the beginning, it was just me and sis. And it was fine. But I wasn’t satisfied. So I made more. I created the world.

So, I… I kept creating. I made… other worlds.

Those other toys, they don’t… they don’t… spark joy. But Sam and Dean… the real Sam and Dean… they do. They challenge me… they disappoint me… they surprise me. 

They’re… the ones.

You know, Kelly just had faith that Jack would be good for the world, and I felt it, too. I knew it. And then, when everything went wrong, and God took him from us… I was lost in a way I’ve never been before. Because I knew the story wasn’t over. I knew Jack wasn’t done. And I was right.

What sounds good to me is Jack fulfilling his destiny.

I thought I could leave her behind, but… she haunts me.

Her world looked peaceful. This place is… cold. I don’t understand it. I don’t know how to move through it. So, I just find empty spaces, and I hide. This world doesn’t want me. And I’m done with it.

We can fix this. You can help us. Please? Please.

Feels good. Disobeying cosmic entities, doing the, uh… dumb, right thing? Feels like we’re back.

I don’t belong in your world. You do. Go.

When I was a reaper, I believed in the rules. But then you killed me. And when I became Death, I inherited Death’s knowledge… and Death’s library. And in Death’s library, everyone has a book. Even God.

After God made the world, he couldn’t stop. He wanted more. But he needed to create a perfect harmony… a Swiss watch, so this world could keep tick, tick, ticking in his absence. He had no choice but to build himself into the framework. It’s his only weakness.

You and your brother have work to do. This is your destiny. You are the messengers of God’s destruction. 

15.13

Then there's no God, there's no Darkness. Nothing out of balance. World saved.

Okay, yeah, but then who takes over? Uh, Jack?

Probably not.

I used to feel things. In my bones. It was glorious, and sometimes unbearable. But I felt them. Now, I understand joy or sadness, but... I know those things aren't in me.

So it's possible he could work through this. One day, he may explode and let it all out and breathe deeply and move on.

A place... a thing... Whatever you want to call it, it's powerful.

Why do they call this place the Empty? This place is full. It's full of sorrow and despair playing over and over again, of angels and demons dreaming about their regrets. Forever.

Funny thing about her plan, though... she didn't say anything about needing you.

Maybe it's a key. It's a passage in Enochian. It says, um, loosely translated, "In order to be in the Occultum, the Occultum must be in you."

This is the Garden. Man's beginning.

His prize creations, until he banished them and all of mankind from the perfection of the Garden. And he hid it away.

Who are you, really? Who are you meant to be?

That's the crossroads of divinity and humanity.

Please. Just please forgive me.