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just-some-random-blogger · 2 years

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hello gorgeous! if you don't mind modern au, i have an idea. if you don't feel like writing anything it'd be great to hear your thoughts abt it. daemon x wife!reader (who's somehow connected with magic but not targaryen) who are devoted to each other like madly in love. before daemon has to go to war they're saying goodbyes kissing, crying and not being able to let the other go. feeling like something's off he says smth like "i'll find you in another life. i'll find you in any time we'll be existing. i will love you any time i am alive" (in high valyrian or calling her some name in it) kissing her knuckles and going away. unfortunately, he was right. reader died some way while he was away and he remains faithful to her for the rest of his life (oc but whatever) and in the modern world he does find her. maybe targaryens are some sort of royal family, maybe they keep a family business or an ordinary family with lots of relatives. but he fins the reader and they somehow just feel. sorry if it's too much. i'd really like to read something about it but it absolutely ok if you don't feel like it. thank u in advance! take care!

Waiting For A Lifetime

Part 1 2 3 ?

Daemon Targaryen x Reader + Aegon Targaryen x Reader cos it just sorta happened

Summary: Overcome by grief, Daemon turned to black magic to revive you. Moved by pity, the witch who casted the spell promised you would live until you met your love again in his next life.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Modern AU, fem!reader, mentions/depictions of death/still birth/war, my pretty boy aegon whom i would die for, angst, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: i saw this last night when i woke up in the middle of my sleep and couldn't stop thinking about it. I changed a lot about your req nonnie. I do hope you still like it though. I absolutely could not help myself with this one and I got so carried away T_T also a lot of facts about the Targaryens have distorted so just just just roll with it ok ok ok thank you And yes i know this is a gif from the crown but i love it so much the hat falling off the kiss ITS EVERYTHING I WANT TO BE HERRRRRRRRRRRRR also i do acknowledge the fact that this anon came to me with this idea after i reblogged this amazing moodboard sooooo yeah i think this post sparked this fic idea lol ALSO ALSO ALSO 2022 MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!! LOVE YA ALL imagine seeing this post in like 2032 or smth shit thats like 35 years from now Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony pssst i made p2 "Never Before"

Daemon's face was streaked with tears and sorrow. His eyes were bloodshot and his voice was as sure as it was grave as he repeated the word he uttered to the shaman, "anything."

She looked at him, able to taste the desperation in the air, "even if it costs your life, prince?"

Daemon looks at his love before him, his love that was carrying his child. He places his bloody palm on the gaping wound on her stomach.

"Your child will not live even if she does."

Daemon screws his eyes shut tightly. He begins to quiver in anger, in grief, in pure sorrow. He mutters, "anything," he slowly opens his eyes to gaze upon her lifeless face, "better it me than her. There is no world worth living without her."

The woman narrows her eyes at the prince. She knew he was the Targaryen, once heir, known to be rugged and harsh. The Rouge Prince. Yet, there was no trace of malice within his being, only what she would describe as true devotion, true love.

"So, may it be done by the gods old and new," she says, drawing the prince's attention to her, "I will plead for her soul that she may live."

Daemon watches the witch, as she stands to her feet from the ground they were both sprawled on, in front of the body of the dead woman.

"I will plead that she may live long enough to meet you again in another life, so that you may have the love you have now once more."

"Another life?"

"Yes," she says, "the gods recreate humans they are pleased with to grace the earth again. I am certain they will let you be reborn to be with her again. I will make it certain."

Daemon grabs the cold hand that was beginning to stiffen.

"Although, I am unsure if they will allow you to remember her."

"I will remember her," Daemon retorts, kissing the hand of his love, "I will remember her no matter form I take... I will, I must."

"So it remains to be seen," she says before speaking out her incantation.

And it would not be seen until nearly 2000 years later.

The times have changed drastically. Women wore pants and voted. Men where made to take more responsibility for their actions, though still got away with things.

And yet...

... my love for him never faded.

Every prince that was born and named Daemon, I hoped would finally be him. It went about like this century after century, war after war, plague after plague, rise after fall. I had feared the Targaryens would die out, but they proved to be as strong as the very foundations of the earth.

And it took the televised of the marriage of Viserys XXIX to Duchess Aemma of Eyrie for me to see the face of my love: Daemon, the Wild Child, the Knight of Knickers, as penned by the press. Ultimately, the prince of my heart.

I burst into tears when I saw his cheeky face as he nudged his brother at the isle. I pressed my hands on the screen, thinking to myself, the wait was finally over, he was finally here.

All that was left was for me to meet the Prince of Valyria.

Yes. That would be no problem at all.

Except it was, because Daemon was just as mad as he was in this life as he was in the last.

After all, he did not get those nicknames from the press for nothing.

I used up so many of my resources to even just get a glimpse of him. It was hard to catch him in one place. I mostly caught him with a scandalous headline in the cover of magazines and newspapers.

Tonight, it was a newspaper.

"You know," the bartender taps his finger on my newspaper that was sprawled out on his bar, "he's a frequent here."

I turn to the blonde, in his white dress shirt, black waist apron, and black slacks. I raise a brow as he purses his lips as though the information was ground breaking. He wipes on a glass with his blue towel.

"Gee, Aegon," I lean on the surface before me, "I would have never guessed that from the picture on the wall."

I nod at the said picture. It's one of Daemon and the current owner of the bar, Tywin Lannister, who also happened to own Lannister Land Corp, shaking hands. Oh, Lannisters.

"Hey," Aegon shrugs, pulling his lips down in a nuff-said manner, "it had to be said, since you're literally the only patron here that has not interrogated me with questions about the Knight of Knickers."

I snort, "then allow me to change that," I rest my head on my hand, "is he truly so dashing that his looks practically steal the knickers of the ladies around him?"

Aegon finishes buffing his glass and puts it down, looking up in thought, "mmm, I think it's mostly cause he's a prince that he's got the effect he's got. I've got no idea what possessed the first girl to throw her panties at him."

I giggle, "are you saying the prince is ugly?"

"Bit harsh, innit," Aegon pulls back, getting another glass, rubbing it down with his towel, "your words, not mine."

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, as I laugh at the light haired boy's muses, "you know, if we had been living at the height of the Targaryen rule, Daemon would have had your head for that, pretty boy."

"Gods, to be beheaded," he sighed, "a dream, rather than working here, taking about some monarch who lives off the money of the people."

I snort once more. Aegon's face softens as he breaks into a laugh himself.

"No, but honestly," he says putting down the glass and the towel, "you, my dear, are my saving grace. The highlight of my begrudgingly stretched out day," he stretches out a hand to me.

I chuckle at him as I take his hand. He presses a kiss on the back of it, making me grin at him in amusement.

"You're the only sane person here," he releases my hand, "everyone else is so desperate to brush shoulders with the prince, or simply even catch a of whiff of his flatulence."

I break out into a fit of chuckles, slamming firmly at the wood between us.

"No, I'm serious! I heard the fittest gal, a total bombshell, boasting with pride about how she managed a sniff of the bloke's fart."

I'm wheezing with laughter, unable to believe what I'm hearing.

Aegon releases a deep and dramatic sigh, "what has the world come to?"

I wipe a tear as Aegon watches me empty myself of laughter. His face crinkles in a pleased expression, Adam's apple bobbing as he chuckles airily.

I sigh, catching my breath, "well, if I ever become that desperate, I ask that you pray for my soul."

Aegon presses his palms together, "praying for that girl as we speak."

I chuckle, folding the newspaper before me, "I must say, I am actually desperate to meet the wild child myself."

Aegon drops his hands along with his humored expression.

I cannot help but laugh at him as I continue to fold the paper, "though, I would say I am the desperate kind that is so desperate..." I eye him as I press the grey material together, "that I, somehow, dread to meet him at all."

Aegon snorts, screwing his eyes shut as he wipes his face, "the Stranger. Don't say things like that! I nearly had a heart attack believing you."

"No, but it's true, Aegon!" I say with a faux wounded pout, "prince Daemon is my great love, we have been destined to meet for millennia!"

Aegon leans on the table, humming as he nodds his head, "yes, and I suppose I am Aegon the Conqueror."

I lean towards him and grab his jaw, "no, you look more like Aegon II. The spitting image, I dare say."

He scoffs, swatting me off, "I'm hotter than him."

I pull away, "yes. That I can agree with, pretty boy. Personal hygiene does wonders."

Aegon snorts and plays off the blush on his cheeks by wiping his nose with his thumb, "you speak as though you met him."

I straighten up, "that's because I have. He was once my nephew."

He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. His face contorts at the thought.

I raise my brows at him, "have I not told you I am not only a Targaryen historian, an expert at that, but I am also a patron of the Museum of Ice and Fire? I'm married into their family."

"Okay," he raises a finger, "ew."

I snort.

Aegon lifts his jaw and hums, "well, now that you mentioned it, I always knew you were one of those insanely rich blokes who frequent here. I was thinking you were a mafia boss or something though."

I scoff in amusement, raising my brows at him.

He pushes his white sleeves up then raises his hand in defense, "you have a very intense aura about you."

"That's because you trigger my fight mode," I retort.

He huffs, "do I? I'm scared to know what you'll do to me when I've seen what you do to men who hit on you."

"Aww, don't worry," I coo, "I wouldn't hurt my pretty, baby boy."

Aegon doesn't get to reply when a customer calls his attention. With this, he pulls away and leaves me to my own devices.

We don't get to continue our conversation at all, for it was clear that the rush hour had begun.

I eventually pulled back and decided to entertain myself while my favorite bartender was busy. I swiveled on my stool, looking out to the room, spotting the jukebox collecting dust in the corner. I smile at the sight of it, thinking about how it was still here after all these years, in spite of being older than Aegon.

I stand from my seat and walk over to it.

Aegon, finding one patron missing, frantically looks around then calms, raising a brow.

I place my hands on the jukebox, bending over to check if it was plugged in.

Aegon snorts as he hands a man a beer, eyes not at all fixed on him, "that doesn't work, love."

"Mmm, ye of little faith."

Aegon is annoyed by the man that sits on the vacated stool, blocking his vision. In retaliation, he blocks out the sound of his voice. Aegon calls out, "if you can make that hunkajunk work, I'll clear your tab for you."

I chuckle as I pull the machine forward, checking its wiring, "I wouldn't want to make a kid working on minimum wage to pay for me at all."

"I only said I would clear your tab, doll face," is all he replies before he goes back to tending to drinks again.

I break into chuckles as I fiddle with the wires on the back. I admit, it took me quite a while to go through everything, which was why Aegon warned that he would not call an ambulance for me if I got electrocuted.

The sight of the jukebox coming to life was enough to shut him up.

I get to my feet with a huff, brushing my hands off with each other. I turn to Aegon, who was already looking at me in astonishment, along with a few other people in the room.

I smirk, "my tab then?"

"Good as gone," Aegon shakes his head in disbelief, cutting his hand across his neck.

I release a satisfied sigh as I punch at the hardened buttons and play whatever it was that was available to be played.

When the music starts, I close my eyes and allow myself to drift off with the music. The sound brings back some memories I had in the 1940's. If I recall correctly, it was around this time Daemon's father, King Baelon, was crowned.

I slowly moved to the rhythm of the song, swaying my hips, waving my extended arms out as I made my way to the center of the room.

Aegon stilled in his spot upon seeing this. His breath caught in his throat and he was only brought back to reality when someone demanded a gin. He looked around the room as he poured that idjit his drink and clenched his jaw tightly when he saw the onlooking crowd.

He snorts loudly, grabbing his towel, throwing it over his shoulder roughly, clearing his throat with more noise than necessary.

I smile to myself when I hear Aegon's familiar coughing. He had a tendency to do this whenever men around me started to be a bother. And I loved him dearly for it. He was a sweet boy.

With my eyes still closed, I continue dancing to the soothing song. My smile grows bigger when a section comes that tickles my musical senses. I chuckle as I twirl in my spot.

When I felt a hand come to my waist, I didn't have to open my eyes to know it was Aegon. He wouldn't have let anyone come near me at all without barking up a storm.

I hummed at the scent of him, familiar yet foreign to me at once. He must have changed his cologne. I prefer this one better. He pulls me close when I reach out to him, grabbing one of his hands and placing a palm on his shoulder. His dress shirt is softer than what I imagined it to be.

I am surprised when he leads us into a ballroom dance. In fact, I am so shocked, I open my eyes and see a blur of his white shirt and blonde hair as he spins me around.

I break into a fit of chuckles, screwing my eyes shut in pure bliss when he dips me, "I had no idea you were a dancer, pretty boy."

"Yes, well, journalists don't find it interesting enough to write about."

My eyes burst open at the sound of the deep voice.

My heart is pounding at the sight of the smirking man with silver hair. I nearly faint at the violet irises so close to mine.

"I do say," his hot breath fans on my face, "if we were spotted by one now, they'd have a field day."

I jolt upright and shove the man away. He doesn't seem to be offended by my harsh actions, and, in fact, chuckles as he reels back from my action, "not what I had expected and not the reaction I usually get, but there's a first for everything."

My breath hitches when he smiles at me. I turn from him, to Aegon, who was staring coldly from his place behind the bar. It seems the rest of the people here were doing the same as well, gobsmacked by the presence of the man in the middle of the room

I roll my shoulders back, turning to my dance partner, "Prince Daemon," I mutter, bowing my head slowly, "pardon my rudeness."

He chuckles, waving me off as he stuffs a hand in his pocket, "oh, no need to be so formal, my dear. I can understand the shock," he tilts his head at me, lips still curved, "you surely weren't expecting to be dancing with the prince and thought me to be someone else, no?"

I look at him and stare in silence. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

Everything was suddenly so real, and it was making my mind and my heart race.

Aegon watches this and clears his throat loudly.

It does not help anyone.

Daemon raises his brows at me in expectation, placing his other hand in his pocket as he leans on one leg.

I open my mouth. A second passes before I mutter, "I thought you were my pretty boy."

His lips spread into a toothy grin. Airy chuckles leave him, "I can be your pretty boy."

When he extends his hand out to me, it was like the heavens opened and I could hear the angels sing.

This was the moment I have been waiting for since that day that I came back to life and kissed him goodbye with a promise of finding him in his next one.

My breath was heavily taxed when I lifted my hand.

My soul nearly leaves me when I jolt in shock over the sound of a record scratching and jumping, repeating over and over again.

In that moment, I am hit by an epiphany. I am so overwhelmed with emotions that I could barely breathe. The sight of Daemon before me brought tears to my eyes. This was all I ever wanted, and yet-- and yet-- I was drowning. I could not breathe properly.

"I..." I shudder, making Daemon's face fall, "I have to go," I mutter through a strained breath.

Daemon knits his brows, shifting in his spot with his hand still out, "what?"

Aegon watched with tightly knit brows as I ran out of the room.

The prince drops his hand and spins on his heels, eyes locked on the runaway. His nostrils flare as his face contorts in confusion, "wait! Stop! Where are you going?!"

I heave heavily as I push past people on my way out. I am absolutely winded when I exit the establishment, hands shivering from both the cold and the nerves that were getting to me in this moment.

I walk aimlessly farther out, down to the lawn that was now dark, since it was gods-know-what hour.

"Wait!"

My heart drops.

I spin around when someone grabs my wrist. My heart is still quick in my chest when I see Daemon, heaving. His short, light hair was slightly tousled in its place. He knits his brows at me, tilting his head, "you dare leave your prince, Cinderella?"

My jaw hangs low.

He releases a sigh, shaking his head, "I forbid it."

Seeing him here and now made everything feel more Real with a capital R.

Daemon adjusts his grip on my wrist, pulling his hand back, so that he was now holding my hand.

I look at him, blinking the glassiness of my eyes away, still in shock of his presence. A million questions were running through my head, and I was glad to be able to even have the mind to ask one in this moment, "do you know me, Daemon?"

He tilts his head upon hearing this, brows knitting, lips curving. He releases a chuckle at the lack of formality and how haphazard the question was, but finds himself further drawn because of it, "no," he shakes his head, "but I would love to know you."

Hearing the words come out of his mouth shatters something in me.

He did not know me.

I turn away from him as I try to even my breath. I retreat my hand and step back as a shiver runs down my spine.

And yet here he was, chasing after me.

Daemon steps forward to make up for the space between us, "don't leave. Come back inside with me. I'll give you my coat, then you can boast that the prince of Valyria gave it to you."

I continue stepping back as I shake my head, "you don't understand," I mutter under my breath in High Valyrian.

"Then make me understand," he retorts in the same tongue with a chuckle as he shakes his head and takes a wide stride over to me, grabbing my hand again.

I gasp at the warmth of his touch. When I turn back to him, tears have finally fallen from my eyes.

Daemon's face hardens at the sight of it. His hand reaches out to my face, wiping the wetness away. The sight of his torn expression tears at me, bringing me more tears.

"Why are you crying?" he asks in High Valyrian.

I do not get to reply, as suddenly there is a loud burst from behind us, commanding both our attentions.

It's Aegon. He busted through the door with my things in his hand. Upon catching the sight of the two of us, he freezes, breathing heavily as the looks out.

Daemon's expression hardens; his grip on me tightens. He turns to me, jealousy coating his mouth when he catches I where I am looking, "is that your pretty boy?"

I do not reply to him as Aegon walks over.

Daemon pulls me close to him. I look up at him with teary eyes. Aegon looks between us, jaw tense as he hands me my bag, coat, and newspaper.

"Thank you, bartender," Daemon dismisses, patting Aegon on the shoulder, before turning from him to face me again.

When I catch Aegon's face, I finally have the wits to move.

I pull away from Daemon to put my coat on. I swallow a heavy lump in my throat at feel of the stares of the two men.

Once I have my coat on, I pull a card from my bag, handing it to Daemon. He wastes no time in taking it from me, immediately scrutinizing it.

"I'd..." I start, taking a deep breath, "like to see you again."

Daemon's eyes dart to me, breaking into a smile.

Butterflies explode in my stomach at the sight of him.

Aegon's face tenses.

I release a breath before asking, "when are you fr-"

"Whenever," Daemon blurts. He places the card in the breast pocket of his white shirt, "I'm free whenever."

I nod slowly at his words, "I have work tomorrow, but I do have a long lunch at 12-

"I'll call you a 11:55."

I purse my lips at his words, trying to hold back my chuckle, but failing, "11:55?"

Daemon grins, nodding once, "on the dot."

I chuckle, turning to my feet as I nod at his words, "11:55 then."

"On the dot," he nods, extending a hand out to rub his thumb on my cheek.

I turn to him just as Daemon pulls away and stuffs his hands back in his pockets, "I'll walk you."

I shake my head, turning to Aegon, who was still standing there, watching the whole interaction between us, "you don't have to. I have a car parked nearby."

"Then I'll walk you to your car."

I turn back to Daemon, who then offers his arm out to me. I smile, unable to deny him, or myself, of the offer. I take his arm, and the next moment, he leads us off.

I turn over my shoulder, raising a hand at Aegon while I offer him a smile, "see you, Aegon."

Aegon watches as I turn back.

There is a twisted feeling inside him that grows. He mutters softly. It is too soft for anyone but himself to hear, "see you."

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atinylittlepain · 4 months

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Chapter One

jackson!joel miller x witch!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

He thinks he might fall in love with her. She can't let him fall in love with her. Or: a reimagined take on an infamous Practical Magic au by yours truly.

wordcount | 6.1K

series content info | 18+ slowburn-ish, strangers to friends to lovers to estranged acquaintances to ???, discussions of death and grief, a little magic, just a little, jackson era joel and all that entails, eventual smut, angst obviously, and love that requires a little elbow grease.

a/n | yeeeehaw, here we go. I have to just say, it was so damn fun writing this, and while I haven't gotten started on chapter two quite yet (hello, finishing undergrad, you thankless wench) I'm real excited to get started soon. As always, I'd love to hear what you think, thank you for reading.

............................................

He doesn’t understand this world of a town. Two months, maybe three, actually, and still not used to any of it. Not used to warm water and light switches that work. Not used to three whole meals, not used to whole anything. Tomatoes and peaches, sweet snap peas, the taste of summer. Not used to people living so closely and not trying to kill each other. He feels like a livewire strung taut, waiting for the shoe to drop, for the catch of it all. He’s starting to think there is no catch. And if there is no catch, he’s worried he’ll get too comfortable, too soft.

The people of Jackson live a different life. May as well be on a different planet. And as such, they treat him and the kid with a pitiful patience and a cautious distance. Careful, feral animals, still being housebroken, still learning not to eat with their hands and swear in the dining hall. Still learning not to flinch, or do much worse, when a friendly hand is placed on their shoulders. This strange world, strange life he’s walked into, and he’s pretty sure it’s not for him. But he wants it to be for Ellie, so he tries.

In this world, help is expected, and given freely. White-knuckling isn’t requisite, there are things that can be done for a fever besides waiting it out, ways to relieve a little suffering. Time and space, a luxury, he thinks. And so when the kid came home with a bloom of welts on her palms and up her bare shins, unaware of how easily poison ivy can spread, there was, for once, something he could actually do about it.

Tommy was the one who clued him in. The little shop that sits a few storefronts down from the Tipsy Bison which, in all honesty, he had never paid any mind to. He doesn’t get out much to begin with though, so that says very little. Unassuming, peeling blue paint and tall windows obscured by bursts and blooms of plants. A piece of smooth wood has been turned into a sign hanging above the door, letters seared into the grain. Apothecary.

He calls out, hesitant when he steps inside, unsure now if he came at the right time. No one in sight, the shop sits perfectly quiet, still, just the hum of a fan tucked into one of the windows, sending a faint shiver through the plants around it. He’s admittedly surprised by the sight, not that he had been expecting the clinical white of a pharmacy. Still, the shock of green all around him, warm clay pots on wooden benches, vines and leaves spilling over the edges like languid limbs in repose. Lush and strange, he steps further into the shop, foliage brushing against his shoulders, the cool, damp smell of earth. He calls out again, still silence.

There’s something that looks like an old checkout counter further back, a rusted-out cash register that now has thin vines growing along and in between the keyboard. The remnant stub of a receipt sits in its mouth, he thinks he can make out 2003, ink all but faded away. But the strangest of all things, as he’s studying the slumped machine. Someone else joins him. Or something else.

“Well, look at you.” It doesn’t exactly startle him, more like a small kick in his chest at the intrusion. Like black ink, sleek and shine and slipping up onto the counter, all ease, perched and staring at him. He thinks a bit idly to himself that he hasn’t seen too many cats in the last two decades. And this cat looks well taken care of, maybe even a little prim, if a cat can look such a way, sitting on its haunches and looking at him, unblinking, unwavering, and a little unsettling. Little impulse, before he can think too hard about it, he holds his hand out, a scratch between the ears that’s rebuffed as soon as it’s accepted, little snit and swipe, the sharp pin prick sting of blood over his knuckles. He presses his other palm over the small throb, the cat long gone by the time he has half a mind to look for it.

“Did she get you?” Now that does get a jolt out of him. Animals are easier. But people, well. He looks to his left, then to his right, deeper into the shop. He sees her hair before he really sees her. Piles of curls, gray starting to bleed through all that darkness. She’s standing in a doorway he hadn’t seen before, the cat rubbing its cheek against her shin. Somehow, he feels like he’s been told on, thick flood of something warming up the back of his neck.

“Just a scratch, think I deserved it though.” Somewhere around his age, he thinks, maybe a little younger. Her eyes do a lift and crinkle when she smiles, stepping closer to him. He sees the same years he recognizes in his own face, though she certainly wears it better, tempered smile, glasses getting pushed up into her hair, more mane now than anything else. What was he here for again?

“You’re Joel Miller.”

“I am, how did–”

“Tommy told me he was sending you my way. I didn’t know a person could come with a warning label.” Something southern in her voice, little twang, little twinge. Her words rasp just a bit, and it sounds like kindness, like a sharpness that could turn sour, though she keeps it sweet, tilt of her head, sweet.

“I guess my reputation precedes me then.”

“It’s a small town.”

“I’m starting to catch onto that.” The cat has taken an insistent twine between his legs, chewing at his shoelaces, until she, still nameless to him, hooks her arm around its belly, easy as anything, and Stevie’s a little curious is all, sending the creature slinking off and away from them, disappearing between all the green.

“I’m sorry, older I get the less I remember my manners. I’m Maggie.” Palm extended, and when he takes it, it’s like that thing he and Tommy used to do as kids, bored out of their minds and making a game of shuffling in their socks, fingertip shocks to the backs of each other’s necks, just a quick gasp of static, there and gone.

“Tommy said you could help me out with something for poison ivy?” Oh, she says, mostly pantomime when she takes her hand back and wipes it on the thigh of her jeans, is it for you? He’s surprised how easily that makes him laugh.

“No, it’s, well, it’s my kid, got it pretty bad.”

“Your daughter is in luck then. I’m almost sure every kid in Jackson under the age of sixteen gets it at least once, and I treat every single one of them.” A slip, a stutter, because did she? Did he? He must have, right? Must have used that word, daughter, for her to say it. Even though he’s pretty sure he didn’t, pretty sure of his pause, but he can’t give it any more thought because she, Maggie, has already turned heel, a cursory look over her shoulder at him that tells him, yes, he should be following her further back into the shop.

“So, witch hazel is going to be your daughter’s new best friend. Soak a little of this into a cloth or towel and dab it onto the rash a few times a day, you really can’t overdo it though.” He’s trying to keep up, really, nodding and mmhmming as she hands him a small bottle, already onto the next thing, her glasses now sliding down to the end of her nose as she looks through drawers and cabinets, plucking out things that look like old shoe polish tins, jars covered with cloth toppers. A mix of method and madness, a grace to her movements, though something skittish is threaded through. Bird of prey, he thinks, something of fierce and feather in all that motion.

A combination of workshop and kitchen makes up what he thinks is the backroom of the shop, large butcher block taking up most of the middle of the room, back door propped open with something that, frankly, looks like an urn. An impressive-looking range spans the back wall, and he thinks that, maybe, in the before, some kind of restaurant. But now, very different means to very different ends.

“Alright, this’ll help most with the itching. It’s a bit potent, so just tell her to take a little bit, warm it up between her palms, and rub it over the worst spots.” Ultimately, he’s left with a bottle, a small tin, and a few sachets of oatmeal bath soak, only half sure he got all her directions, trying to balance listening to her, and letting his eyes wander over all the cabinets, dried plants and variously odd containers spilling out from everywhere. Head spinning, already spun out actually, and he can’t help but wonder how he’s just now meeting this woman, a strange sense that she’s important, though why, or to whom, he isn’t sure.

“That should have Sarah all cleared up in about a week, but if it’s still persisting–”

“I’m sorry–” Whatever he’s sorry about, it cracks and fails in his chest. Like he’s been winded, or maybe wounded, a sort of deep suckerpunch shock hearing that name come from a stranger’s mouth. He has to clear his throat before he speaks again, posing it like a question, you said Sarah? And there’s a peculiar thing that happens in the silence, the quick pass of her eyes over his face, pull of her brow like she’s the one that’s confused. But whatever it is, it’s gone just as quick, lines smoothing, a smile so small it can only be apologetic. That queasy twist in his gut has loosened, but there’s still something unsettled, that lingering static all over his skin.

“I thought I heard that was your kid’s name, but judging by your reaction I must be getting people mixed up again.” She says something else, something about taking care, a lot of folks around here pass through my hands, sometimes they blur together. He believes that well enough, still uncertain about the rest, though too skittish to do anything other than drop it. That name isn’t for anyone else, not even a bird of prey, so he keeps it folded up close and tight between his ribs and lets out a sigh to blow out all of his held breath, slumping civility.

“No, it’s alright, I’m not too good with names myself.”

“Well, there hasn’t been much need for that in this world, don’t you think?”

“I guess not, though I’m getting the sense it’s a little different around here.” It seems like a nervous thing, a pulse point reassurance in the way she brushes a hand back through her hair, lets her palm curl at the nape of her neck for a moment, then hand to wrist. Never still, she’s done it a few times now just standing here talking to him, though her words come easy, if not a little sharp, a single, high note of a laugh.

“Oh yeah, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to work on that, unless you wanna hurt some poor bird’s feelings, you know.” Wave of her hand, you know, and the thought occurs to him, errant, that this is the most normal conversation he’s had with someone since deciding not to leave. And quickly after that, the thought that he doesn’t hate it, this, doesn’t hate normal, doesn’t want normal to stop. For once, he feels like he can do normal. For once, it feels easy.

“Any advice?”

“What, on assimilating?” That word rolls languid and loose off her tongue, making a joke out of it as she pronounces each syllable, that sour twang pitching up another key. He nods, try me.

“Give it time, the names that matter will shake out eventually. In the meantime, just avoid direct eye contact and the rumor mill will leave you alone, relatively speaking.”

“That right?” Shrug, sigh, she tilts her head to the side, smile going slanted and shoulder hiked, it’s been working for me, kinda, sorta. His eyes trail the slope of her collar bone, bare now with how the sleeve of her shirt has slid a little askew. Sunspots, a silver knick of a scar, paper thin and fine.

“Ellie, that’s, um, well, my kid’s name.”

“Got it, and you’re Joel.”

“And you’re Maggie.”

“Look at you, already getting better at it.”

“Is that short for something?”

“Unfortunately, my mother saddled me with Magdalene.”

“Don't hear that one often.”

“Nope, she was a little, well–”

“Eccentric?”

“I was going to say righteous, but that works too.”

“Religious then?”

“In a way, yes, you could say that. You too? Joel sounds very bible-y.”

“My folks were, I never really acquired a taste for it though.”

“Hmm, amen.” Easy, easy, easy, until time does that thing it always does, starts to fissure beneath that delicate freeze. She glances at her watch, a polite sigh, and he notices the thin band on her finger, a foolish drop of disappointment souring his stomach, trying, and failing, to double check if it was her left, if it was her ring finger. Not that it matters though, not that it would, or could matter. Already on the move, something about a colicky baby I have to go check in on, leading him back out to the front of the shop, and he finally remembers the bottle and tins he’s holding, what he came here for in the first place.

“I appreciate all this, really, just name your price and–”

“Oh, no, consider it a welcome gift. I hope Ellie starts feeling a little better.” And he wants to accept that, her kindness, and how easily she offers it. But there’s no muscle left in him for that, weak and wilted and wary of shoes dropping, catches, and being caught. Whatever remains in its place, she notices it, that nervous hesitation, that one step back, that shifted glance toward the exit, softening some of her sharpness. And it’s not pity, because he knows pity, seen a lot of pity in these few months he’s been here. No, not that, something simpler and saner. Seeing and being seen, the cool slip of relief from it.

“I might have an idea for a trade if you’re up for it.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Tommy said you’re handsy–” She stops herself with a gasp that sounds like a hiccup, seemingly just as stunned as he is by the word, hair falling in her face with the shake of her head, little laugh, little brightness. Handy, oh my god, I meant handy.

“I’m sorry, clearly I don’t get out much, lord.” All hands, talking with her hands, palm to her forehead, then back through her hair, quick flickers, he tries to track that ring through its orbit, a dizzying effort. Hummingbird hands, a woman who is all wings.

“It’s alright, reckon you’re still better at this than I am.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ve been the picture of civility.”

“Will you tell Tommy that?”

“I’m sure I can put in a good word.” He’s lingering, or maybe she is, or maybe they both are. Not used to this, taking time for time’s sake.

“I am though. Handy, I mean, if you need help fixing something?” She does, she tells him, stair railing that’s come so loose she’s worried she’s going to go right through it one of these days. And it’s been twenty years since he’s been in a world in which people worry about the upkeep of their stair railing, but it’s an easy fix, he tells her, he can do that, he tells her. Sunday? Sunday works fine. They shake on it, stepping out of the shop into the mid-day glare of sun, her with a deep canvas bag hanging off her shoulder. She squints at him, it was nice meeting you, and he says the same, and finds himself actually meaning it. But there’s still something strange slicking up and down his spine, he’s reminded of it watching her walk off in the other direction, though he’s not really watching her any more, but the people she passes by.

Small town, close town, everyone knowing everyone else, names pinned down under thumbs. Ellie had let out a loud what the fuck when a stranger greeted them, by name, the first time they went to the dining hall for dinner. He’s been feeling a similar way about all the greetings, all the good neighbors doing what good neighbors do. But Maggie gets none of that walking down the block. No smiles, no tipped chins, no knowing and being known. He swears he even sees a few swept away glances, a few steps back the closer she gets. If it bothers her, she doesn’t show it, a sort of easy sway to her gait, walking hips-first, there, and there, and then gone when she turns a corner. Strange, and stranger even, when he looks down and notices that the puddle of black ink is chewing on his shoelaces again.

Little trouble, yellow eyes that round and narrow on him, he takes one step, and little trouble follows him, close on his heels. He imagines that they’re putting on an absurd show walking down the main drag of town, him stopping every few steps to turn around and see that yes, little trouble is still following him, though at an admittedly respectable distance, settling back on its haunches and staring him down every time he glances back over his shoulder. Little trouble follows him all the way to the front steps of his house, seeming to finally lose interest in favor of a bee humming lazy around a patch of weeds. The last thing he sees of little trouble is pink-padded paws batting at dandelions, curled-lip grin and white fang chewing on stems, beheading thick yellow manes.

…

She lives on the other side of town. Older builds, he thinks, been here longer, windows with glass that warbles a little in its age like melted sugar, and deep-set porches washed with dark blue shadows in the early morning light. Cottonwood trees sway and dip, old limbs that arc and curl over the cracked-up sidewalk, slumbering giants making the sounds of all the small life it hosts. It’s a side of Jackson he hasn’t seen until now and it reminds him of a younger, simpler time.

The town follows an old rhythm, late starts on Sunday. There’s even a church somewhere, though he’s not particularly concerned with finding it anytime soon. It’s still early enough, however, that he’s one of the few people already up and out. She told him to come as early as he wanted, really, I’ll be up. And he sees for himself that she was being honest, because when he walks up to the house she told him to look for, he finds her waging a zealous war with a rose bush in her front yard, and it doesn’t seem like she’s winning.

When he told his brother he had taken his advice, he was met with a surprising amount of interest, talking quietly over a shared drink and well, what did you think?

I didn’t realize you were waiting for my report.

She’s a little different is all, does things her own way.

Well, she got the kid fixed up.

I had no doubt she would.

I’m helping her on Sunday with something, as a trade.

Oh?

Stair railing in her house is loose. Been a long time since I thought about stair railing.

Wait, you’re going to her house?

Yes.

Into her house?

I’d presume so. Is that a problem?

No, just surprising.

Why’s that?

She keeps to herself, not exactly one to make friends, though I don’t blame her with the way– well, people can be cruel, I guess.

What’s that supposed to mean?

There’s talk, stupid stuff really. For what it’s worth I like her just fine.

Talk, his brother said. People spinning stories out of fear, or maybe something weaker than that. He’s been gathering up some of that talk all week, enough of it to make his head spin. The only thing he’s sure is truth, Maggie was here before Jackson was even called Jackson, just a nameless group of people that somehow managed to survive, until it became something else entirely. The rest, however, weft and warp of fact and fiction. Plenty of good words, broken bones set back in place and flu seasons weathered, babies born and grown, though the praise seems to be given with a reluctant respect, skittishly, but, well. But, well, something strange about her, isn’t there? He’s heard plenty of strange too. Strange, the way she talks to the wind, and the way it seems to listen. Strange, that cat of hers, with lingering eyes that watch and watch and watch, a shadow showing up in all the close, quiet places. Strange, whatever it is she keeps on the stove in the back of her shop. He asked Ellie if she’s heard anything, and she, pleased with herself, offered up a fantastical report of flight and dancing naked under the full moon, a perfectly tall tale he could imagine the children of Jackson passing around a classroom.

One thing he hasn’t heard anything about, the ring and whichever finger she wears it on. His right, her left, she’s still wearing it this morning, simple silver glinting and a pair of garden shears aloft in her hand. She smiles sheepish when she sees him, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

“Those are pretty.” She doesn’t seem to realize he’s talking about the roses, big white blooms that she absently looks at over her shoulder, scoffing, her mouth screwed to the side.

“They’re useless is what they are, taking up too much space and overcrowding the rest of my plants.” As he gets closer, stepping beyond the gate and into the front yard, he sees the errant chaos of her work, stray petals and entire threads of flowers lopped off around her feet. She’s a little breathless as she speaks, back of her hand to her forehead to wipe stray salt, and he wonders how long she’s been out here at this.

“Not a fan of roses then?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know where these are coming from. It seems like I cut them back and by the next morning they’ve taken over even more.” She gives a weak stab to the flowers that remain intact, a shake of her head as she abandons her work, and he shouldn’t, just here to fix her stair railing, he shouldn’t, but he already is, already saying the words before he can think about keeping his mouth shut, you’re bleeding.

“What?” He gestures, at least having half a mind not to touch, his hand hovering somewhere in the vicinity of her forearms. Long, thin welts where he’s sure the thorns got her, and maybe he’s a little startled by her breathing out oh, those fuckers, and this again, on the move again, and expecting him to follow her up the porchsteps and in through the screen door and just let it slam or it won’t close all the way. She’s already tramped further into the house and he finds himself utterly unsure of what comes next, shuffling a little in the hallway she left him in, head tilting with the sound of a faucet turning on somewhere, pipes groaning.

Another truth he gets to see for himself, Maggie has lived here a long time, all the acquired detritus of life that only time can allow, that leaving washes away. Paintings dripping off the walls, a craned-neck glance into the rooms around him revealing worn-looking furniture, shelves of books and little nothing things, trinkets and half-melted candles. And more plants, more plants everywhere.

“So, the stairs.” The stairs, in question, are an easy enough fix. How nice, he thinks, to know what is needed, and to know exactly where to go to get it, a few tools and materials only a ten minute walk away. She tells him to make himself at home, let yourself in, I’ll be in the back, I’d warn you about my guard dog but she’s not very good at her job. The guard dog in question is rubbing its whiskered cheek against the leg of her jeans, thrumming a purr so loud he thinks it’s at least partial performance, yellow eyes skewing up at him every now and again.

The work itself makes up the morning. Methodical, monotonous work that allows his mind, and his eyes, to wander. Whatever that ring on her finger means, he’s nearly certain that nobody else lives here with her, except for the cat who spends the first few hours sitting on the bottom step, watching him. As for Maggie, he catches glimpses of her, in and out all morning between what looks like a sunroom and the backyard, never still, always something in her hands, always moving like she’s got an important destination to get to. She comes back inside just as he’s finishing his work, dressed down in a tank top now, all her hair pulled into a precarious knot at the nape of her neck. His eyes linger on bare collar bone, sun high in her cheeks, even though he tries not to.

“I completely forgot to ask if your kid is feeling better.” He tells her that she is, tries for a joke about teenagers and all their drama that just feels weird in his mouth, though she still smiles at it. And he feels it again, just the same as when he met her, that tug, that want to linger, even though the work is done, and she’s thanking him for it, and even he, and all his dormant manners, knows that’s his cue to leave.

“I was about to make some lunch if you wanted to stick around?” He shouldn’t.

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” And so he stays for lunch, and so there’s tomato sandwiches, thick and bursting, summer sweet and savor on her back porch, wiping dripping ripeness off on the thigh of his pants, a hum in his throat to be enjoying something like this.

“How’s another week of domesticity suiting you?” Words that crackle with a half-grin, her cheek cupped in her palm, a picture of afternoon haze, sleep and sate, and he finds himself being lulled by the sight, little slump back in his chair.

“Don’t think it’s something I’ll get used to anytime soon.”

“That’s to be expected, I don’t think anyone ever fully gets used to it though. Not unless this is all they’ve known.”

“Where were you before you came here?” It’s a question that borders on prying, he apologizes and you don't have to almost as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but she waves the apology off, it’s a little complicated. And she tells him that this is where she lived in the before, right up until the after, and that she, like so many others, got funneled into a quarantine zone in the earliest years.

“Were you ever in one?”

“Boston, for a while.”

“Then you know how maddening those places are.” Bird of prey, trapped in a cage. Bird of prey, who flew back home. Bird of prey, who found that a few other people had the same idea.

“It wasn’t called Jackson back then, wasn’t called anything, just people, you know.” Until it became something else, something bigger, and a little more serious, and if that bothers her, she doesn’t show it. And now he really is prying, asking after her accent that surely doesn’t come from the mountains. He’s not wrong, she tells him.

“I moved here when I was, oh, maybe nine? My parents, we lived in Mississippi before they passed, and when they did I was sent up north to live with my aunt.” It’s an old wound, whatever pain that remains from it has been transfigured into a sort of tired nostalgia around her eyes, the tempering of her smile. She’s quick to brush it away, a bright laugh and a shake of her head, I think I just told you all my secrets. He knows that isn’t true, though warmth still starts to unfurl in his chest. And when she asks him the same questions, he offers the same piecemeal parts of the whole truth. Offers Texas, and his brother, and a halfway truth about Ellie. Shards and fragments passed between each other’s hands, it surprises him how easily he has given his to her.

“I guess we’re not strangers anymore then.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I should– I feel the need to warn you.” Like she’s not sure how to put these words together right, brow pinched low and smile slanted nervous, you might not want to spend too much time around me.

“Why’s that?”

“People around here like to talk.”

“Right.”

“And they like talking about me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And I don’t want– you seem like the kind of guy who just wants to keep his head down and get by.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I’d like to be friendly, but I don’t want to take that from you.” The word friendly does something unpleasant in his chest. He does his best to ignore it.

“Why’d you invite me to stay?”

“Because I like talking to you and because I’m selfish. Because I wanted to.” And there’s something else, he thinks, something else unspoken behind her grin. Because he hasn’t made up his mind about her in the same way everyone else has, at least not yet.

“I have heard things, about you, I mean.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“And I have questions.” She sits back in her chair, an edge of a challenge in her jutted chin, palms turned up and open, try me. But given the chance, he doesn’t know where to begin, which thread to pull first. What comes out, ultimately, isn’t even a question, but plain and blunt observation. This is a big house.

“It’s just me, and Stevie. I’ve offered up rooms to folks around here, haven’t gotten any bites so far.”

“But it wasn’t always, just you.” Absent-minded, she spins that silver band with her thumb, another wound revealed.

“I was married until I wasn’t.”

“Before or after?” He doesn’t know where this is coming from, this plainly brash openness, though she doesn’t wince, doesn’t recoil from it, just as steady as he is.

“After, about a decade after. You think you’re in the clear and then, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for now. Ask me something else, why don’t you? Something more interesting.” Wave of her hand and a clipped laugh that’s more like a sniff, tender, don’t touch, don’t dig into that wound any deeper.

“People say you’re strange.”

“Strange.” Dragging out the word, letting it crackle with a grin that’s all teeth, little laugh on the end, picture perfect amusement in how she tilts her head at him.

“That you can do strange things.”

“That’s kind of a nothing word, isn’t it? Strange?”

“I thought you were gonna answer my questions.”

“Oh, I will. You’re gonna have to be a little more precise in your language though.” Back and forth, back and forth, why does he like this so much? Dragging his palm down his jaw to stop the spread of anticipation, heat-hazy in the mid-afternoon sun.

“That cat of yours, for starters.”

“Mmhmm?” Raise of her brows, voice high in her throat, and he has to huff, do I really have to say it?

“Are you referring to the rumor that my cat spies on people and reports back to me all their wicked, little secrets?”

“Sure, yes.”

“That cat right there?” His eyes follow her pointed finger out into the tall grass of the backyard, where the cat in question seems to have contented itself with tangling its paws in a loose length of twine, belly-up, writhing around in all that green. Maggie snorts.

“Oh yeah, she’s a real mastermind, you better watch out, she’ll be visiting your bedroom window next.”

“Then what about the rest of it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“I’m glad you’re finding this so amusing.”

“Mmhmm, I really am.”

“I feel foolish even saying it.”

“If there’s a word you’re skirting around, and I think there is, it’d be better if you just come out with it.”

“This really is a nothing word though.”

“Oh?”

“Made up, make-believe.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure of anything about you.” She hums, chin cupped in her hand and her elbow propped on the small table between them, her brow dipping in mock consideration of his words. He can see that she really is finding all of this entertaining, something in her eyes like a squinted challenge, ghost of a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth.

“How about I say the word I think you’re thinking of?” Spiraling words, circling each other, he nods, and she purses her lips, getting ready for some kind of lift off.

“People have told you my cat is strange.”

“People have told you I’m strange.”

“People have told you I do strange things.” Yes, yes, yes, he nods with each statement, and her smile only seems to brighten.

“Joel, have people been telling you I’m a witch?” And that’s it, isn’t it? Foolish, and he doesn’t know why that word has seemed to stick in his mind. Maybe just because he’s heard it from enough mouths in the last few days that it almost makes it seem plausible. Maybe he’s lived in a world turned inside out on itself long enough that there is very little imagination that hasn’t been eaten away by reality. Maybe he’s just like the rest of them, looking for any way to explain someone who doesn’t do things the capital-w Way they are supposed to be done. Maybe he’s still thinking about Sarah, and where Maggie could have possibly plucked that name from. And maybe that word is just holding the place of something else, an uneasiness he feels around her, though not unpleasant, just other, and so very unlike any other. He opens his mouth to speak, but decides against it, and this seems to amuse her most of all, sharp smile now softening, no longer playing at a game because they’ve both caught each other now, haven’t they?

“That’s what people say.”

“And you? What do you say?”

“Does it matter?”

“If we’re going to be friends, yes, I’d like to know what you think.” Friends, they’re going to be friends. When did that happen? He thinks that may be the strangest thing of all.

“I think I don’t know enough yet to tell you what I think.”

“How judicious of you.”

“I think you’re different though.”

“Well, I think you’re different too.”

“Why?”

“Most people wouldn’t have gone past the front porch, and here you are staying for lunch.”

“I don’t mean to impose or–”

“That’s not what I meant.” The words are kind, but they’re also a conclusion, enough, for now, enough. He watches her get up and collect both their plates before he can think to move, and then another kindness, touch, her palm on his shoulder as she passes behind him, there and gone. He’s a stranger to touch that isn’t economical, or clinical, or plainly violent, and he finds himself unsure what to do with that, though inexplicably wanting more of it.

She thanks him again for the fix to the railing, and he thanks her for lunch. He lingers, and she lets him, helps with the dishes, checks the railing one more time. I’ll see you, she says, walking him out onto the front porch, and she does it again, touch again, somewhere at his elbow, as simple as anything. The roses are still raging in her front yard, a whole wave of them.

Somewhere in the middle of his walk home, he realizes the cat is following him, second shadow slinking low to the ground, dipping her head when he turns around, pretending at predator. He keeps walking, pays little attention to her pursuit. He’ll get used to it eventually. He thinks he already is.

...........................

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ceruleanwhore · 9 months

Text

As I've been working on outlining the shit out of my Winx rewrite, I've been thinking a lot about how all the villains in the series desperately need to be treated like actual characters and given real motives. I know everyone loves Valtor and the Trix and the wizards of the black circle, but they're all equally boring as fuck because they're all just generically, black-and-white evil for no real reason. As such, I've started to come up with some potential backstories/motives for all of them, and I thought I'd share since I'd also love some feedback.

Something I think the series set up like it was going to do something with is the idea of the Trix having some sort of connection to the Ancestral Witches. If we keep what seems like the most canon timeline they appear to have settled on in the show, that the fall of Domino and everything happened about 18 years prior to season 3, then it wouldn't be unreasonable for the Trix to be the witches' granddaughters. I like the idea of that connection to the Ancestral Witches being the main thing that originally brought them together into their coven and that, as soon as they discover Bloom's true identity, their primary goal is killing her to finish what the witches started. With this, of course, would be the omission of bullshit rivalry between fairies and witches, though their ongoing conflict with the Winx could still start with Stella's ring, like in the original.

With Valtor, I would want him to be a person rather than a physical manifestation of the dragon flame that was made by the Ancestral Witches. I just think it would make him more interesting for him to have an origin story as a human, living in the world, that leads to his eventual corruption rather than him just being made evil by evil for evil. I have this vision of him coming from some country that was an ally of Domino but when something happened and they needed Domino's help, their allies turned their backs on them, inspiring Valtor's blossoming hatred for them as he personally suffered and watched the fallout of that betrayal. This all would've happened with the previous king and queen before Oritel and Marion btw, but it would take him a hot minute to learn the dark arts in order to pursue his revenge.

What I'd love to see is Valtor actually learning dark magic from Darkar, since I do also think Darkar should be a bigger deal than he was in canon. By learning from the Shadow Phoenix, who is the opposite of the Great Dragon, I feel like his magic would be both better suited to going against the dragon flame and more vulnerable to it. That would also bring back in some sort of dragon flame element without Valtor being a spark of the flame itself like in canon. So Valtor would gather the witches and attack Domino for personal revenge, with his focus being on ending the royal family, hence the way it all turned out with Daphne being a ghost, Oritel being a statue, Marion being sealed in his sword(?), and Bloom getting dumped out of a portal to spare her from the culling.

As for the wizards, I want them to be from Earth and for all their beef to be with Tir Na Og instead of just... all fairies, for no real reason. What I'm thinking is that Tir Na Og is the bridge between the Magic Dimension and Earth, so I take that to mean that Earth doesn't have any real magic of its own and what they have all comes from through Tir Na Og. Because of this imbalance that's so different from how the Magic Dimension is, that could put Earth-dwelling magic users in a position of power over non-magical people, and perhaps that all really starts with and is encouraged/exacerbated by the king and queen of the Earth fairies. I'm thinking it would be the sort of thing where they would've convinced all the non-magical people of Earth that they are deities of some kind and then abuse the shit out of the power and trust that gives them.

The wizards would've seen all the problems that would come with this abuse of power and would seek to destroy it. Knowing that all magic on Earth comes from Tir Na Og's connection to the Magic Dimension, they would decide to target Tir Na Og and take away the magic of all the magic users there before sealing the kingdom off from the Magic Dimension entirely. Their mission when they show up in s4 then becomes keeping Roxy from reconnecting Earth and the Magic Dimension and bringing back all the issues they originally sought to end.

Lastly, just to touch on Darkar, my main thing with him is that it really should be all about how he's the opposite of the dragon, so where the dragon flame creates, Darkar's shadows can only either mimic what already exists or destroy. Just as much as the creative nature of the dragon flame contributes to the dragon's desire to create, the nature of Darkar's powers contribute to his own desires to deceive and to destroy. It's not just that he's evil for the sake of it, he's evil to us because of the inherent nature of his magical abilities and how he himself is the living embodiment of what his powers represent, which I think adds sufficient depth for him to stop being so fucking boring. Also, Relix wouldn't just be the home of some McGuffin he's been chasing the whole time, I think it would actually be the resting place of the Great Dragon and his main goal would be the absolute destruction of everything (including himself) that could only be achieved by killing the dragon.

Thoughts? Feelings? Opinions? Should I go on and also dither on about villains from later seasons?

#winx club #winx #winx rewrite #winx club rewrite #the trix #valtor #wizards of the black circle #ogron #winx anagan #winx ogron #winx gantlos #winx duman #darkar #winx villains

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gucciwins · 2 years

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birthday gifts

harry and y/n celebrate twenty-nine

A/N: hi friends!!!!!! happy harry day! thought I'd write something for bel and harry on celebrating harry’s birthday. hope you enjoy! I love you, sweet angels. happy reading 💝

Word count: 1797

love on tour series

29.

Harry had spent 29 years on this beautiful earth. He had impacted thousands of lives in his short time, including yours. You sit in bed watching him sleep and pray to the stars above that you get to love him for the rest of your life. That’s all you’re asking for, and hope he loves you the same in return.

“Feel you staring at me,” he mutters, burying his face in your covered lap.

You giggle, running a hand through his soft brown hair. “Admiring you at 29.”

“That’s what you said last night.”

That is true. Harry went to bed early last night after a beautiful sold-out show, but for some reason, you were restless. You tossed and turned until Harry had enough, wrapped an arm around your waist, and kept you tucked at his side. Once the squirming was done, you traced his face with your eyes memorizing every freckle and wrinkle. “You were twenty-eight last night.”

Harry shrugs, not correcting you because he’s sure it was past midnight then. It doesn’t make a difference. He blinks his eyes open and finds you smiling down at him. “Feliz cumpleaños, mi vida,” you whisper in the quiet of the room.

He sits up, wrapping you in a giant hug. You press repeated kisses to his bare chest. “Happy Birthday, Harry. I hope all your wishes come true. I have no idea what this year has in store for you, but I want you to know that I love you. Te amo.”

You pull back when you feel his shoulders shaking. “Amor?” He’s crying, and you know he’s okay because his dimpled smile doesn’t lie to you.

“So happy you’re here, love. Thank you.” You lean and kiss Harry. Neither of you care about morning breath. You’re quick to get lost in your own world. The kiss is slow, allowing you to explore each other as if it were the first time. There’s no urgency because you have the rest of the day to enjoy each other. Harry doesn’t want to stop kissing you, but he knows you both must breathe.

“Fancy seeing my birthday suit?” He huffs out with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and push him away. He pouts, but it’s quick to fade when you throw your (his) shirt, and it lands on the floor. “This is my gift to you. Now enjoy amor.”

It’s the best way to start his birthday celebrations.

Harry was happy. He was celebrating his birthday doing what he loved with the people he loved. His family called to wish him a happy birthday, and he promised to see them all as soon as possible. He’d leave North America to settle at home for a bit before preparing to head to Australia, trying not to think about the fact that he would be away from you for longer than he’d like since you were scheduled to start filming in a month.

“Mum loved the flowers,” Harry tells you as he stares at the large bouquet of flowers you’ve sent his mum as you did the previous year. “It’s kind of you.”

“Someone has to thank her for carrying that big head of yours,” you tease as you smile at the selfie he received.

“Heeyy!” He whines.

You roll your eyes, giving him a kiss to help him forget about what you said, and like magic, the topic is long forgotten, and instead, he gets lost in kissing you. He’s always shared how intimate kissing is and how he’d kiss you forever if he could. “Love you,” he mutters against your lips.

“Dork,” you push him away, going to look for his gift.

Harry sighs, “come here, baby.”

“So needy.”

He gasps, and you can’t help but laugh at his reaction. He makes it easy to tease him, and you know he loves it.

“It’s my birthday. You have to be nice to me,” he chastises you.

You apologize, making your way back over to him and hand him his present. You go to sit next to him, but Harry makes you sit in his lap. He’s been extra clingy today, not that you mind. You love being close to him. “Mermaids,” he giggles. It’s blue wrapping paper with mermaids and different sea creatures who look like they’re swimming around. The paper reminded you of Harry, and you knew it would be perfect for the gift you had for him.

“I didn’t need a present,” he reminds you as he’s already begun to tear into the wrapping paper.

He made you promise not to get him anything extravagant. Although you loved giving grand gifts, you knew Harry didn’t need anything he couldn’t buy himself, so you did the next best thing and made him a gift. You feel your palms beginning to sweat as Harry is close to seeing the gift you made him. You place your hands on top of his, stopping him from opening the box. “Do–m-maybe you want to save it for later?”

Harry frowns, picking up on your nerves. He lets you hold his hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “No matter what it is, I’m going to love it,” he promises. “Whether it’s a strawberry cake you made or socks you found at the market. I will love it because you bought it with me in mind.”

You let out a deep breath and know he’s right. “I’m going to make you your cake as soon as we’re back home.” With his schedule, there was no time to bake and decorate a cake–at least you didn’t have the time because he will have a cake for later tonight.

“I look forward to it,” he assures you. “Can I continue, baby?”

You nod, and he lifts the top of the box. There's a wrapped frame and a card waiting for him. He picks up the frame and turns it around carefully. You don’t look down at it. Instead, take in his reaction. You love taking photos. They allow you to look back at a memory. All you had left of your family were boxes of photos. Boxes of memories. You remembered a quiet night in your house with Harry photos scattered around you as you told Harry story after story. It’s one of your favorite memories. The frame opens up, displaying three images. It was a struggle to pick only three.

The first is one of you both at the beach. You’re sitting between his legs, both smiling at your phone. You managed to stand in front of you after a few failed trials. The second photo was taken during Christmas. You sat outside Anne’s home wrapped in his yellow puffer, both of you laughing at a dumb joke Harry made. You’re happy Anne was able to capture the moment. The last one was taken during your time in Italy during the new year. You set up the camera without telling Harry and captured the moment he decided to bring you in and dance with you. The photo was a bit blurry, but it captured his grin perfectly. Your love for each other was on display, loud and proud.

“For your bedside,” you whisper.

His eyes are full of tears. You didn’t think it was anything special, but it was the perfect gift for Harry. You picked out your favorite moments with him and framed them so he could see them every morning he woke up. Harry doesn’t say a word. No, instead, he leans in, slotting your lips together. The kiss tells you everything he didn’t say. Thank you. I love you. I love it.

“I love it, baby. So much,” he promises.

Harry looks down at the box and picks up the card, and you feel your throat close up. The card is a baby blue color reading “Happy Birthday” with a cake in the middle and the number “29” on top.

“Happy Birthday,” he reads. “Why thank you, Bel.”

You can’t help but laugh. Harry knows you so well he noticed that you were beginning to get lost in your head, your nerves almost getting the best of you.

“Para mi estrella.” His Spanish is good. Harry makes many things look easy. There were times when you spoke too fast you confused him, but he’s been practicing with you and Sarai. It means everything to you. “Still your rockstar.”

“Para siempre.” Always.

Harry opens the card and finds doodles of balloons and flowers. It wasn’t anything special, but you thought it’d be something he’d cherish, especially because of what you’d written inside.

Happy Birthday, mi amor.

Now, how about I be the last voice you hear at night?

And every other night

How about in the morning I be the first thing you see

And every morning after

When I wake, I want to see you staring back at me.

Now how about we add one more title to our lives:

From best friends to partners to mi corazón.

To flatmates. To housemates.

Yours, Y/N.

He doesn’t know what to think. Many emotions are running through him, but you can see the surprise clear on his face. “Baby, is this—what are you saying?”

You raise your hand and caress his cheek. He leans into your hold. “I know we’ve got a busy year ahead of us, but when I return to London, I want it to be at our place. One place we both call home.” Your life with Harry is so intertwined that you don’t want a part of you without him. “Only if you want that,” you add in a rush.

Harry laughs, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him, but this really is the best gift he could ever receive. “Baby, I have wanted this since we finished tour back in New York,” he reminds you.

“Worth the wait?” You ask.

“You will always be worth the wait.”

You believe him.

Harry stares at you as if memorizing every part of your face until he stands up with you in his lap, spinning you around. “We’re moving in together,” he yells. “Yes!!!”

“Harry,” you shriek in delight.

He settles you back down. “I love you, Bel. Thank you for the best present.”

“Doesn’t feel that big,” you try to downplay. You both know it means everything to you. There are many things to talk over, but for now, you’ll celebrate his birthday. Everything else can wait.

Harry pouts, “so you weren’t nervous to ask me?”

You pinch your fingers close together, “only a little.”

“I love you. Life with you is all I want,” he vows.

He kisses you pouring all his love into you, a reminder that you are his and he is yours. Together you are creating a beautiful life.

taglist: @alienorknight @harry-is-on-route-66 @myfavfanficsever @springholland @michellekstyles @harryismyfwend @japanchrry @charlessgf @golden-hoax @itsmycorneroftheinternet @harryspirate @tenaciousperfectionunknown @thurhomish @thelovecayon @shawnieeboyy @dontworrysunflower @a-strange-familiar @caramello-styles

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mkstrigidae · 5 months

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Winter's Child Preview WIP (Surprise!)

Some of the pieces I have written for Winter's Child are more edited than I realized, so I thought I'd share one here as a treat for all of you who have stuck with the story through my accidental hiatus. We start reeeeally getting into some of the lore I've developed for the story going forward, and I'm excited to hear what you think of it!

“It’s so dark, father.” Sansa shuddered as her eyes flicked around her and she clutched tight at her father’s hand. She was all of eight years old, and had never been this far back into the crypts. Her other hand was firmly ensconced in Bael’s fur as she held onto his leg. “Why must our kin rest in such a- a lonely place?”

Her father chuckled, the sound echoing in the cavern.

“’tis not lonely, child.” He told her, easily lifting her up onto his hip. “Our crypts hold our kin- the history of our house. Hard men and honorable men and men who survived many winters. Can you think of better company for us in death?”

Sansa had to admit that this made sense. she snuggled closer to her father, tucking her head in his neck. Lady seemed wary as well, sticking close by Bael’s side. She was still tiny, next to the massive adult direwolf, and kept darting under him, eyes flicking around at the stone figures.

“You’re freezing already, sweetling.” Her father frowned, putting a hand to her cheek. “Your skin is like ice.”

“I’m not cold.” Sansa insisted, stubbornly. She didn’t want to go back yet. The crypts frightened her, but it was so rare that her father’s attention was focused on her and her alone. “Why are our crypts underground?”

“Where should they be?”

“Mother’s family lay their kin to rest in the rivers.” She murmured, playing with a lock of her father’s dark hair. “The Targaryens burned their dead, Maester Luwin said.”

Her father smiled at her.

“Would that your brothers paid half as much attention in their lessons.” He shook his head. “We return to the embrace of the earth- to rest under the roots of the weirwood and the eyes of the old gods.” he was quiet for a moment as they reached her aunt Lyanna’s tomb. “The old gods grant us the privilege of their power while we live.”

“Our gifts.” Sansa murmured. “The direwolves.” Bael leaned his head down, nuzzling at her dangling feet and she giggled.

“Yes, sweetling.” her father murmured, his eyes flashing for a second. “We return that gift to the earth when we die. The stone keeps in our bones, but our ancestors rest on the earth itself.” he gestured towards the older tombs, overrun with great, twisting white roots. “We feed the weirwood in death, allowing her to take back our magic.”

“Old Nan told me that the crypts are deep enough to keep our wild magic in.” Sansa told him. “Especially the Starks of old. Before Torrhen. The kings of winter.”

“Perhaps she is right.” Ned murmured, setting Sansa down to stand next to him in front of Lyanna’s statue. His gaze was indecipherable as he looked on her stone face. She had been beautiful, Sansa knew. Everyone always said so. She was beautiful even in stone, her companion, Alya, carved beside her. “The gift granted to the Starks of old was different from the wolves, sweetling. Harsher, wilder- more dangerous. Those who could call winter to their fingertips do not rest easily.”

“Why not?”

“To hold sway over winter was to call and command death itself.” Her father told her, his voice soft. “To live with one foot in the world of the gods. It was a wild gift, Sansa, and not one to be taken lightly.”

She nodded, solemnly. She had read the stories of the Stark kings of old. She wasn’t sure she would ever want to meet one, even if they were kin. One question kept tugging at the back of her mind, though.

“Father?”

“Yes, sweetling?”

“Why did the gods take it from us? The winter-blood gift, i mean.”

“I wish I knew.” Ned told her, his gaze not directed towards her, but rather to his sister’s face. “But none but Torrhen Stark and his immediate kin would know, and his bones remain silent. They hold no answers for us here.”

The two were silent for another moment.

“Do you think the gods will ever give it back to us?” Sansa asked, softly.

Her father’s face momentarily crumpled into a deep grief before he seemed to steady himself, digging a hand into Bael’s thick fur.

“Perhaps.” he murmured, laying a wreath of evergreen atop his sister’s tomb. There were snowflakes etched up and down the stone. Sansa had always thought it oddly beautiful for something so grim. “We can only wait on the gods, sweetling. One day, they may answer your question.”

#my writing #my wips #writing wip #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #got fanfic #jonsa #Sansa Stark #Ned Stark #Jon's not in this scene sorry guys!#He's up having some... interesting conversations with benjen at the wall #tell me what you think!#Winter's Child

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distinguisheddwarffriend · 6 months

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My brain is FULL of TH fic ideas but I've already got 3 WIP and most of them are just "what if"s with no plot so I'll just post them here I guess and maybe some writing god hears me/ reads them and someone else actually uses them.

Here's Nr. 1:

Frerin did in fact NOT die at Azanulbizar but was transported into our modern world, sometime in the second half of the 19th century.

After some adjusting (industrialization is in full force but it's still not as 'bad' as it would be rn) he builds a life, him being a dwarf meaning that he ages extremely slowly compared to us lowly humans so he has to move after a while and again and again.

He lives in the UK, US, France, Germany, Italy, Finland.....

He fights in both world wars depending on where he lives during that time (WW1 on the German side, WW2 on the UK's), other than that he goes to university and works all kinds of jobs like policeman, fireman, soldier, teacher, carpenter,smith, weaver, factory worker, violinist etc etc etc

Around 1900 he meets this fella J R R Tolkien and befriends him, and after a time finds out that his friend is writing books about middle Earth, not only that, but one about his very own brother. Tolkien apparently is a seer of some kind because it's still almost a century until "The Hobbit" would happen (he does the math).

Frerin helps Tolkien with authenticity for his books, because the dude is smart and found out about Frerin after he corrected his Khuzdul one time too many.

Anyhow, after reading what will happen to his family, he becomes a mite bit obsessed with returning to Middle Earth and having ammased quite some wealth and with the help of some friends in high places starts founding various research projects into things like teleportation, multiverse, magic, alchemy, you name it. He also becomes a member of the Freemasons due to his occult knowledge.

In around 80 years there's almost no progress towards Frerin's goal of returning home, he does still have a research company but only a small group of mostly students works on the multiverse hypothesis, the rest does all kinds of stuff, technology, energy, whatever.

He has for the time being settled somewhere in Scandinavia, is a College Professor for Sociology and Political Science and volunteers as a social worker for troubled children.

He is fostering 2 or 3 children himself (ages 6 - 16) and has two grown up adopted children that still live & work with him (they found out about him), a guy & a lass ( both early twenties).

Somehow (don't ask I don't know) the whole household (meaning Frerin, his two young adult children, the foster children, his south American householder, her tiny dog and their personal Butler (more of a live-in family friend by now, think Niles from "The Nanny")) all get sucked into a portal or whatever end get spit out into Middle Earth.

Not at Ered Luin of course, that would be easy, no, but somewhere extremely inconvenient. The Lone lands, the Brown lands, Moria, something along the lines of "we are so fucked".

So now it is a few years (1-3, or the characters have too much time to become Mary-Sues), before the quest to Erebor, and they have to reach Thorin before then and somehow survive a world filled with orcs (and elves!) while juggling a 6 year old, a tiny & barky dog, a cliché Mamacita, a British butler, and Frerin's realisation that he has gotten much too used to modern convenience.

(my weak ass would probably include some romance between one/more than one of the original characters and the canon characters, I'm a sucker for Fili or Kili x OFC and rare pairings like KilixBifur or ThorinxNori and I want Frerin to date an elf or Bard I think.)

.... Does this sound like something you would read/write? I'd maybe try to write this with someone else, alone I don't dare to. What do y'all think?

#the hobbit #tolkien #middle earth #fili and kili #fili durin #thorin oakenshield #fíli #the hobbit fanfiction #kili durin #kíli #frerin #hobbit au #fanfic #fanfic ideas #the hobbit imagine #MGiME #modern character in middle earth

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fandom-go-round · 10 months

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Hi, bebe! I would love a thing on how each of the magic-using bg3 party members feel when they're channeling their different kinds of magic through their bodies to cast it, both physically and emotionally--i.e. druidic magic and channeling nature for Halsin, Shadowheart and her divine casting, Wyll and the power he draws from his Patron, Gale and what it's like for him to manipulate the Weave. One thing I'd love to see with Shadowheart in particular is the ways in which it feels different for her to channel divinity from different goddesses as her relationship to the divine changes. Thank you so much!

Warnings: Act 2 Spoilers, Act 3 Spoilers, Shadowheart Quest Spoilers, Gale Quest Spoilers, Halsin Quest Spoilers, Wyll Quest Spoilers, Magic Talk, Implied Self Image Issues, Relationship Issues (Gale)

Halsin:

His magic feels like a warm breeze, grass between your toes, laying in a sun patch. Casting druid magic always feels like the earth is responding, reaching out to the call. It’s one of the reasons Halsin loves being a druid so much. Nothing makes you feel connected to life than the world responding to your pull. It’s more complicated than that of course and the type of spell also means a lot. Healing magic is like warm water, rolling across wounds. It can cause people to jump in surprise if they’re used to divine healing magic which is more of a ‘sinking into the skin’ sensation.

Being in the shadow cursed lands makes everything hard. Summoning the power of the land is nearly impossible so it pulls more from the caster. Halsin focuses mostly on changing shape than complicated spells; it feels like spell slots go twice as fast. He has to admire the other druids who make it look easy. Part of his issue is that he’s distracted by Thaniel; with so much to focus on, magic is hard to come by.

Baldur’s Gate is easier and harder at the same time. It’s easy to find life in the city but only humanoid life. There are patches of plant life here and then but it’s a weak cry to the forests he’s been living in the last hundred years. Halsin finds it jarring to be around as so many people and longs for more open spaces. He takes small pleasures in warm bathes and interesting food but it can feel hollow. He’ll never say it but he enjoys breaking the cobblestones with his spells when he has to fight, letting nature push its way through. He’s not going to tear the city down but he knows that he can’t stay permanently. The sooner her can feel grass between his toes, the better.

Shadowheart:

Shar’s magic feels like a crisp breeze; it can feel jarring but also makes her feel more alert. Little the first nipping of winter on her cheeks. A pinch on the cheek from a teasing relative. The cold keeps her alert on a normal day. The magic makes her numb eventually; after a long day Shadowheart feels like she’ll never get warm again. She does find it comforting and to feel close to her Lady is something that she wants every day.

After she renounces Lady Shar, magic feels empty. It’s almost worse than the cold sinking into her bones. The feeling of going to call for a spell and simply feeling void; it would be funny if it wasn’t so cruel. There is a god that answers (she can still cast magic) but she tries not to think about it too much; she’s not ready to commit herself to another god yet. It makes it hard to be a cleric and she’s in pain on two fronts; losing her god and also her purpose.

Where Shar’s magic was cool, Selune’s is warm. The first time she feels the connection Shadowheart doesn’t finish the spell, the surge of warmth making her panic. To feel safe and warm makes her want to cry but she pushes through, healing Karlach so fast most don’t even notice her hesitation. Warm hands cupping her cheeks, a hand on her shoulder. She’s in awe that worshipping can feel this good and has to sit with that. Devoting herself feels easy when it’s like standing in the sun.

Wyll:

Wyll’s magic always has a heat to it. Even if it’s an ice spell, his fingers tingle like being held too close to the fire. It makes sense, he figures, since his powers do come from a devil. He was never someone who thought he would wield magic but the longer he has the powers, the more he enjoys it. They give him the power to protect people and what he loves. How can you not appreciate them, even when he’s on the edge of falling in deeper?

The issue is that the magic changes, over time. The first few years it’s a warm tingle and now, after seven, the flames are licking up his arms. Wyll feels tired after he casts a spell, even as he’s able to cast more spells. It feels like the magic is an inferno and could swallow him whole. It’s a blessing when he first gets the tadpole, it blocks some of the heat and makes it easier to think. It’s during this period he realizes the truth; the magic is wearing on him. Physically and mentally.

Wyll has to decide if he’s going to keep the magic or try to get out of his deal. His Infernal powers are addicting in the best and worst ways, like stretching a muscle and feeling the burn. He wants the power to save people and he does a damn good job at it. If he loses his magic, then what? Wyll knows he’ll still be a hero but if he can save more people… it’s not something that he’ll decide just yet but it weighs on his mind the entire journey.

Gale:

The Weave is something that Gale can’t live without. It’s one of the constants in his life and tapping into it is almost as easy as breathing. Sometimes it’s easier. When he was with Mystra it felt like every time he cast a spell he could smell her, feel her all around him. A comforting embrace that shielded him from the outside world. If he felt lonely with her, it was worth it to feel wonderful doing magic. To push himself deeper and deeper into study so that he could feel good again. Was it healthy? Maybe not. And that’s a hard pill to swallow, even years later. But in the moment, it felt like everything he ever wanted.

After her has the orb, magic feels like a vice. The comforting hand turns into a clenched fist and Gale has to stumble through learning to cast even minor spells. It’s like wading through mud in the dark; he’s lost and the Weave threatens to consume him entirely. The first few times he pleads with his goddess to set him free, to help ease the burden but she doesn’t reply. Eventually, he learns how to navigate these new feelings. The sensation of being swallowed turns more into water lapping at his ankles, cold and icy.

The Weave will never feel the same way again and Gale accepts that. After the crown, after the tadpole, he’s happy to be able to touch magic and not feel pain. It’s not longer a lover’s embrace anymore and he needs that, to heal. It’s still warm, still comforting but more like a pair of gloves than entangled bodies. He has a lot of feelings about Mystra but he does still respect her and he’s glad that she respects him. The Weave makes him feel whole and it’s not something he’s going to take advantage of again.

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nota1eks · 11 months

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If/when they create a phm movie, what changes (if any) would you like to see them make to the story?

Jesus that’s a hard question…wow…! In a perfect world, they’d change nothing. It’d be a TV show with lots of room to portray everything. But we don’t live in a perfect world. I, therefore, want to keep as much of the original book as possible. My only immediate want is that it might be cool for them to use “they” for Rocky instead of “he”. Maybe some toning down of the Crazy Russians stereotyping, though if they do it right, that can be great. Nothing else comes to mind that I want changed -- it's a very good book.

But with that out of the way, let's talk about stuff that will very likely be cut. Because I think that's very interesting...

I think, as with Pathfinder getting fried and the dust storm in the Martian (2015) (wherein, both times, a huge plot event in the movie was gotten rid of for time purposes, with little impact on the overall plot, but a devastating-ish loss to the dedicated novel-enjoyers), some stuff will get cut out. Let's go one by one through the timeline of events:

The flashbacks will be there. Maybe not in flashback form (maybe they come before the rest like in the Martian...though those aren't flashbacks it's just backstory), but nonetheless there. Not everything will be there, though. Stratt barging in on Grace's class will be there; him doing the first experiments on astrophage will likely be there; meeting the crew will be there along with some of him training them so as to explain how he learned so much about being an astronaut; the explosion at Baikonur and the proceeding chaos will be there, trailer meetings included; but I think that'd be roughly it. They'll add some; they'll take away a lot. No Steve Hatch; no Lamai; probably very little Lokken (which is very sad); no frenchscientistwhosenameicantrememberimnotevenarealphm fanomllllll, either. They'll have their stories be explained via Grace talking to Rocky. Lots will be explained via Grace talking to Rocky.

Now, they'll have to have Grace waking up and seeing his dead crewmates. They'll have to have Ryan Gosling wandering about this spaceship scratching his head. That's a big part of the story. But I think after a certain point, after enough clues are gathered together, they'll infodump on us. It will be done well, of course, I mean just look at who's making the movie, but it wil lhaev to be like that. Maybe the nannybot will give him information. Maybe there will be a "Here to save Earth from imminent apocalypse? Click here ->" type of thing, but it won't be Grace turning to the camera and saying "Hey guys! I'm here at Tau Ceti to save Earth from astrophage! There's this weird ship out there. Keep you updated! Like and subscribe!"; nor will it be a voiceover. I had a Media Arts teacher in school and he told us that, more than anything, we were to avoid having to use voice-overs to explain out movies. At all costs. So I doubt they'll use that here -- maybe later, though. More talking-head with visuals than voiceover explaining the story.

Now. With Grace meeting Rocky there will either be nothing cut or everything cut: Maybe Rocky wil have a Magic Language Machine. Maybe Grace has a Magic Language Machine. Maybe they do everything how they did it in the book. Either way, it'll have to likely be one or the other. I'm very excited to see how they do Rocky's voice. An adaptation of the Audible Audiobook's version would be ideal, as I and many others think. There aren't many other good options... With the rest, I'm genuinely not sure. I can see them going both ways with this: cutting everything and rewriting it or keeping it pretty book-accurate. By any measure, they won't cut it all out. That'd be stupid.

With the in between between the Blip-A-Hail Mary disconnection and them arriving at Adrian, much will be cut out. It'll be rewritten. For better or for worse. Since it's just that theoretical, I'm not sure what changes I'd even want to see. Maybe some more back story on Rocky's crewmates? On Adrian (the eridian)? I mean Grace asking Rocky about Adrian would be a great opportunity to get some backstory in, btu the movie will already be so chock-full of it that I don't know if they'll be able to fit it in amongst everything else.

The Adrian Incident will likely still be very, very similar. It's the emotional peak of the movie. Rocky will nearly die. I will watch my friends weep, crying about how I should have warned them, and I will tell them they should have read the book. With Grace trying to save Rocky...eeh...it might be there; it might not. Flip of the dice with the landscape of the table being what the rest of the plot looks like, if that makes sense.

Now......The Great Taumeoba Escape. It's a lot like Pathfinder and the Dust Storm. It's just not all that relevant! SO MUCH is happening in the book at this point that -- I don't think -- they would be able to fit this in, even with a TV show with half a dozen hours to show the story in. I'd much rather lose this than lose backstory or silly goofy Rocky details.

The journey back, though, along with the breeding of Taumeoba was so boring it was cut out in the book. No way they'll have it in the movie. Probably even more will be cut out. Maybe one single Eureka! scene where Grace and Rocky drink vodka and wear crystals, respectively, but no more.

Now...The Great Taumeoba Escape 2: Radiation Exposure Boogaloo will NOT be cut out. Lest I stomp out of that movie theatre shouting insults at the directors etc. I kid, but not by a lot. They have to have this in order for Grace to turn around. I also bet they'll delay Grace learning he was a coward until here. It'd work so well there, yeah!? So he does his little thing, then turns around. From here, I think everything will be to-the-book. But let's talk about the ending.

Grace being a teacher is fundamental to the story. He can't not be, or the book/movie just won't work. Now, in The Martian (2015) they changed the ending. But that's not big, really. Mark becomes a recluse who gets looped back into being an astronaut training people who will then work on Artemis versus him being a teacher -- there's not that big of a plotline difference there. And we can pretend that in the interim he was a recluse. BUT IF THEY DON'T MAKE GRACE A TEACHER I SWEAR TO GOD--! calm. be calm. Anyways, him teaching again is a huge end for his character arc. And Rocky wil come in, no doubt, and tell Grace Earth's back to normal. Sending him back off to Earth just doesn't work, plot-wise or logic-wise.

Here's my last want: Earth. I want to see Earth back in shape. I want to see Stratt looking happy in her jail cell, etc.

Christ, I just wrote a lot. Um. I hope that answers your question...? And if it doesn't, feel free to ask me! I can -- and gladly will -- talk about this book all the livelong day!

#project hail mary #phm #phm movie

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pomrania · 8 months

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Yeah I'm starting my Bestiaryposting design work really late; what can I say, time is fake and the world is filled with distractions. Here I'll just put whatever comes to mind, and then later hopefully find a way to put it all together.

carnivore (or at least ingests blood)

greyhound build??

strong jaws

can't turn neck around

"lives on its prey", parasite?

sometimes terrestrial, sometimes carried by the wind ((decided this was the wrong interpretation of the phrase))

hunts far away from its vulnerable young

has paws

tapetum luci-whatsit

wins if it sees a human first; loses if a human sees it first -> ambush predator

it can't literally be a wildcat (even if that's what this is intended to describe) because some of these features don't make sense with actual wildcats

magical patch of hair on the tail

don't eat for a while, and then eat a whole lot at once

manes in so many different colours (between individuals, or in a single individual?)

jumps like Superman; doesn't actually have wings

I'm like 95% sure this is describing some large cat, but it goes against the spirit of the event to just draw the animal I think it might be. There's only one bit here that doesn't make sense to me, like I'm genuinely not sure what it was trying to get across: "It is said to live sometimes on its prey, sometimes on earth and sometimes, even, on the wind." ...unless "live on" doesn't mean "physically reside upon", but rather "be nourished by", in which case things make more sense, but also I'm just left with like, a mythologized lion or leopard or tiger or whatever.

I don't want to draw a normal-ass large cat for something that's prolly a cat, I want to draw something WEIRD. Also because the description given for the creature would feel RIGHT at home in an old D&D 2E sourcebook, if they replaced "Solinus" for a more fantasy-sounding name.

Think I'll stick with a "wildcat as filtered through my vague memory" build though, to reduce the cognitive load. "Mane" can be like a lion's mane, but also like a horse's or donkey's, so that can make it weirder; and even if I stick with just viable fur colours, having a bunch all together will still look weird. Or it could be... I was going to say "tentacles", then I realized I'd end up unintentionally recreating the akata from Pathfinder/Starfinder, and I don't want to do that. "Fibre-optic cables" would be hilarious, but I don't know how I'd pull that off, and not sure if I want to try, depends on what all ideas I get.

"Can't turn head" makes possible sense as something with really highly developed jaw musculature, where everything's going towards force instead of flexibility. It said that strength was "least of all in its loins", but how to mesh that with something that can "tall buildings in a single bound" kind of jump... very springy legs I guess? The creature looks oddly unbalanced, in my head (because I haven't doodled anything yet), I need to consider what kind of features can "balance" it so it seems plausible, yet still deeply odd. Like, platypize it.

The bit about how it lives "sometimes on earth, sometimes on wind", going by the interpretation of "nourished by", that could be that it's an opportunistic insectivore, digging for grubs or snapping up flies. The "mane" could be something like a frill, to help tunnel bugs to its mouth; I don't know if that makes actual biological sense, but it's the "iunno, seems plausible enough" that you get in bestiary entries so I might go with that, if I can find a way to depict it that I like.

So, next stage is "staring blankly off into space while I consider things"; it's going to happen anyways, might as well make it an official part of the process. I might end up including some bat-like features, as there were bits in the description an made me think of bats, even if it was due to a misreading.

#progression #not a reblog

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sepublic · 6 months

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Back from Godzilla x Kong! Gotta say, I love how you have this dynamic of... Mothra is Lawful Good, Kong is Neutral Good, and Godzilla is Chaotic Good. Because sure, Godzilla is officially the arbiter of nature's balance, he's the one keeping things in check; But boy does he not care about what he needs to do to get it done. I like how the Monsterverse has made Godzilla into quite the anti-hero as well; It's a nice mix of both heroic and villainous depictions. He has no real love for humanity, even if he begrudgingly acknowledges its right and need to exist.

If Godzilla needs to get from Point A to B, it doesn't really matter to him too much if there's a fully-populated city he needs to stomp through, especially if he's on short time (Conversely, Mothra and Kong seem much more sensitive to that sort of thing, Mothra especially). It really does make Godzilla feel like a wild card that humanity just has to accept and deal with, and coexists with uneasily; You know, in theory, he has your back. But you're still rightfully terrified of Godzilla, and hell so are other titans. He's the scariest kaiju on the block for a reason, and I love how he's still a mean city-destroying menace while technically being a 'good' guy. Portraying Goji from Kong's perspective, where he's often an antagonist, was a good way to maintain that terror that was alleviated with King of the Monsters' depiction.

Also, I can't help but imagine how relieving it was for Jia to find more Iwi! Trapper makes a good point about how she ends up having a lot of weight on her shoulders with saving the world, but you know what? She ends up having so much other weight taken off knowing there are other Iwi alive and thriving. For years, Jia must've been saddled with the burden of keeping her entire culture alive, finding a way to somehow preserve it and keep it going; But now she can relax, she knows it'll live on with or without her, and that makes Jia's decision to stay with Andrews all the more natural because she's free from obligation.

You know, seeing Monarch successfully augment Kong with cybernetics... I'd love to see the Monsterverse tackle Gigan soon, because with how technology has become so much more advanced since the first film in 2014, it feels plausible that some would see the success of Kong with the gauntlet and think; Hey, let's bring back that project full-force! Maybe they find Gigan, originally flesh and blood, deeply injured and torn apart after fighting Godzilla. Initially he's on life-support with artificial organs, but at some point investors decide, let's just reprogram him into a cybernetic attack dog to defend humanity with!

Alas, Gigan breaks free of his programming; And he ends up going on a killing spree. Because while other antagonists like Ghidorah or Skar King are ambitious warlords, Gigan is a pettier sadist, a bully who likes to hurt and torture. He kills for sport, and that's literally all he's going to do once he gets his upgrades, doing it all for no other reason than fun.

Of course, another part of me would really like to see Gigan still associated with aliens, too; Monsterverse has clearly become modern Showa, we've basically got magic now! And I like that, the weirder and more fantastical, the better. There's an underground civilization that uses ancient technology bordering on magic, the Iwi of the Hollow Earth are like the Monsterverse's Seatopians. So it seems a natural evolution to introduce a more one-to-one counterpart to Seatopia in another film, another group of Hollow Earth humans who want to destroy those on the surface, and worship Megalon's power to tunnel through the earth itself. And if you have Megalon, you should have Gigan, and if you have Gigan, you may as well throw in aliens, not just in the sense that they're from space like Ghidorah, but I mean like. Actual UFOs and the like.

#godzilla x kong #godzilla #kong #king kong #monsterverse #jia andrews

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nkjemisin · 1 year

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Hi! (Just to get in front of it, I'm not asking you for anything. I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your work and I SEE the decolonization in it. I'm definitely also neurodivergent, so forgive me if I over- or under-explain a point.) But I realize this is an Ask Me Anything... egad.

I'm working on a piece about Broken Earth for the Decolonizing the EcoGothic volume of the Gothic Nature Journal, and I just wanted to let you know that I am blown away by the way you tell stories. I was in a Gothic Horror (I'm really not that big of a Gothic literature nerd, I swear!) class while I was in graduate school last year and we read Toni Morrison's Beloved. That was the second time that I read that novel in particular, and the first time I read it I got hung up on Mama Suggs. Her character and her ceremonies in the clearing were very powerful, and I couldn't put a pin in why until I read Broken Earth. Something about the connection between Essun and Alabaster's bodies transforming as a result of their magic use and the utter negation and abuse and colonization of the black body in both stories and historic times of slavery (and the prison industrial complex today, let's be real). Reading Broken Earth helped me understand that. So thank you.

I'm sorry this is turning into a mini essay, but I also wanted to mention another connection I found between the two on my second read (a connection I formed, I'm definitely not trying to say that I know for sure what you were going for because of course there's a lot to the stories) was between that of the characters Nassun and Denver. Near the end of the novel, after Beloved's ghost has all but taken everything from Sethe, Denver begins to step off of the safe porch and enter into the unsafe world alone for the first time to try and find help. She finds herself recalling a conversation that she heard between Baby Suggs and her mother:

“Oh, some of them [white people] do all right by us,” Sethe said. Baby suggs responds,

“And every time it’s a surprise, ain’t it? Don’t box with me. There’s more of us they drowned than there is all of them ever lived from the start of time. Lay down your sword. This ain’t a battle; it’s a rout” (287). Denver then asks the memory of her grandmother what she should do, then. “Know it, and go on out the yard. Go on,” her grandmother responds (288).

What should Denver, or Nassun, do with the knowledge that they will never truly be safe? She has to accept it, but go on anyway. One foot after another, and so on. I felt a bit of this driving Nassun after her father takes her away from their home in Tirimo... and I dunno. You and Toni Morrison both write stories that stick with me, personally, and make me think. And think and think.

Oh I'm also not assuming you've read Beloved, either. I'm sorry! I this is turning into a mess. I think I'll stop there. Just, thank you. For your stories and for your characters and for the story of Syl Anagist. I loved the Inheritance Trilogy also, I'm just very stuck on Broken Earth because of this piece I'm working on. Thank you! Sorry.

No need to apologize! But I can't answer your question because I haven't read Beloved. Read and loved several Morrison novels, but not that one. (I keep meaning to, but my Mount ToBeRead is the size of Everest and growing.) Both books are inspired by the same historical event, and I think because of that, folks who don't know about Margaret Garner reasonably assume I'm riffing on Morrison rather than reality. But nope, the Broken Earth trilogy is just one of several creative works that are in conversation with the Garner tragedy. Any similarities you see probably come from the fact that Morrison and I share a racial and gender identity, and had a similar reaction to realizing just how much our current lives are impacted by hidden historical horrors.

Even if I'd read Beloved, however, I probably wouldn't be able to answer your question. Lit crit is best done by people other than the author, IMO. We're too close to our work to tell you very much about it.

#answered asks

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theflintwarlock · 2 months

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Celestial light and magic

I have often been unsatisfied with the way that current witchcraft communities approach the sun, the moon and the stars. The approach is often mythical or based in gender associations which don't particularly call to me. Since I've been exploring basic astronomy recently, I thought I'd write my personal guide to celestial magic. No hate to people who work with celestial bodies in different ways to me, I simply want to share my practice and experience with you all for those like me who might want a new perspective on an old practice.

The Sun

I have found that returning to the basics of astronomical knowledge on the sun has helped me connect with its energies and come at it from a new perspective.

The sun, the star in our solar system, is responsible for almost everything we see in daily life. Not just plants which live off its light, but our gravity itself, the planet we live on works in perfect harmony with the celestial bodies that surround it to create the world we hold dear. The workings of physics on our earth are not mundane but instead wonderful and magical. Our exact position in the solar system is what allows life. Whether you believe it is by chance or the gods that allowed it to happen, the beauty in it only grows when you learn more about our precious star.

The light that comes from the sun gives life, and its existence allows us to exist in tandem. But it is also deadly, its rays can burn and wither and one must apply caution when working with it. The warmth it gives us can sometimes be overwhelming, I think most of us have experienced that thanks to global warming.

Regardless, the sun, to me, represents the present. Everything that is during the day, the slow progress from dawn to dusk in the present moment. It represents life and warm light that gives light and hope to many, but it can also be too much at times. Just as life can be. But as it moves across the sky it is a reminder that the present moment changes. It is fluid, and each moment passes and brings forth another after it. The cycles of the sun, too, are this reminder. The solstices change as time passes, but they are ever a reminder to stay in the present moment and notice the world around you.

That was all very poetic, but in reality, it is very simple. The sun is a powerful tool for use in magic of abundance, life and happiness. But it can also be used in baneful ways that are less commonly addressed. The sun is a deadly laser, after all. As our star, there are few things that escape its touch. Harnessing its power can be simple, but that is a post for another day.

The Stars

I find that the stars are less often discussed as a plural celestial force in witchcraft and are more commonly associated with astrology. While the reading of the patterns of the stars is no doubt interesting, they themselves hold a unique power.

While at first glance it appears to be a cold light, these stars are not so different from our own star, the sun. Lightyears away still their light shines to us, some dying and some new. To me, this signifies the past. They are each of them unique, and while our position to them changes as the earth moves throughout the year, they each have their own place in the universe. Their own solar systems, their own galaxies. We change and the world around us changes, but the stars' patterns can be counted on and predicted.

I find the stars to be a unique and comforting sight, when I can get somewhere with a lack of light pollution to truly appreciate them. Though I may not have learnt the constellations by heart, there is something touching about stargazing. Do not forget to be curious about them, not just in learning their names and associations but in the light themselves. Venus shines brightly in the sky, not because it is a star but because it is a planet in our solar system. The same goes for Mars. I find learning about these planets and stars beyond far more enlightening than star signs. Do not forget that beneath the mysticism and the names lies a real, tangible light and power that you can feel if you only look.

The Moon

So much has been written on lunar magic I could not scratch the surface if I tried. But again I return to science to guide my magical inquiry. The moon, our moon, is a satellite which rotates around the earth in a unique and fascinating equilibrium which is special to our own planet. The moon, while small compared to some of Jupiter's moons for example, is uniquely large when compared to the size of our planet. This is what allows its gravitational force to influence the tides of the world.

If the sun is the present and the stars the past, the moon, then is the future. When the sun sets and the world is bathed in its light, it is a reflection of the sun that we cannot see. A reflection of the sun that has yet to rise, revealing things in the darkness which have yet to come to the light of the sun. Perhaps that is what gives the moon its unique power and special place in witchcraft practices. Perhaps it is its proximity to us, the closest celestial power and the only that humans have yet touched. Or perhaps it is the gods. Regardless of what its origin is, there is little doubt that the moon is a powerful force in witchcraft. Countless guides and books can tell you more than I could about it.

Light magic

When I say light magic I mean not the term often used in fantasy to mean "good" magic, but the use of light itself in magical practices. Celestial light is, in my opinion, the most powerful form of light available to us.

It is quite common for people to use sunlight or moonlight to 'charge' crystals or sun/moon water, but rarely have I seen a more in depth explanation of how light can be used in spells. Many spells are done under the light of the moon, particular moon phases or at certain times of day, but the light rays themselves provide energy which can be used and manipulated for magical ends. With energy work it can be helpful to have a visual aid, and i certainly find the aid of the light to be a good visualisation tool. Sunbathing (with proper spf protection), moon bathing or star gazing are all excellent ways to work with the unique energies of celestial light. But something as simple as opening your curtains in the morning is its own form of energy work.

If you know anything about my posts you know I prefer the simple, everyday magic over complicated rituals and spells. For me, sitting in the sun with a cup of coffee or tea helps me to recharge. I will always pick the simple things over the complex, and the energies that light provides are an excellent way to work with not just the world around you but the universe too. The solar system beyond our little rock, the galaxies and other solar systems which are visible in the night sky. All of them are beautiful and unique.

If this post inspires you to do anything, I hope it inspires you to be curious about the universe around you. Read a book about the moon, watch a documentary about the stars, or pick up a pair of binoculars and go out at night and see what you can see. This is all just as important as spells or rituals, if not more so.

#a long one from me as usual lol #the warlock speaks #witchcraft #witchblr #celestial magic #sun magic #moon magic #star magic #energy work

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queen-of-deans-booty · 1 month

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The Executioner's Song: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: As the newly formed Scarlet Witch, you're not letting anyone get in your way to true power, not even Dean. The power you feel is like no other, and not even Cain is a match for you. Sure is cute to watch him try, though.

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

Cain turns to watch Crowley and Cas walk out of the barn. Right before the doors closed, you and Dean make yourselves known so he knows who is here to kill him. Cas rubs his head from where he hit it on the truck as he approaches the group.

"Hey, Cas, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It worked."

"You sound surprised," you say.

"My turn," Dean says and turns to Crowley.

"Dean, we want to help," Sam says.

"The only help you'll bring are your deaths. I'm assuming you want to live to see tomorrow's sunrise," you state.

"I hate to admit it but she's right. I'd be too worried about what he could do to you or what I could. Plus, I need you three out here to take out whatever comes out of there. I'm serious. I mean whatever comes out."

"Happily," Crowley says.

"Yeah, if Dean becomes a demon again, that'll be your biggest problem. You won't stand a chance against me."

Everyone hates it but they know you're right. Dean holds out his hand to Crowley and the demon takes out the Blade. Your mark starts tingling in anticipation even though you're not going to be the one to use it.

"What guarantee do I have that you'll give it back when you're done?" Crowley asks before handing it over.

"None. I might even use it on you," you glare. "That's a risk you're gonna have to take."

"If I survive and come out of there and I don't give it back, you'll all have a much bigger problem on your hands," Dean sighs.

Crowley hands the blade over to Dean who takes it reluctantly. Red tendrils spread up his hand toward his mark and the same thing happens to you. Whatever he feels, you feel. You two are connected. This power along with your magic is giving you a high you don't want to come down from.

"Stay out here, kids. This won't take long," you smirk.

You and Dean walk inside the barn where Cain is waiting patiently. He smirks when he sees both of you, and you close the barn doors behind you.

"Dean, Y/N, hello." You two don't say anything. "At a loss for words? Allow me. This is the part where you tell me it's not too late and I can lay down my arms and abandon my mission. 'We don't have to fight'."

"I'll spare us the formalities. You're past talking down. Cain, you're fully mental."

"Oh, I prefer to think I've finally gotten clear. When I made my bargain with Lucifer and killed Abel, I released a stain upon the Earth, a stain deeper and far more lasting than mere precedence."

"So, you're the one who says your bloodline is tainted? Did you know Sam and Dean come from your bloodline? You're gonna kill them, too?"

"Not all killers are my descendants and not all my descendants are killers, but enough are, enough for me to know that extinguishing them is the least I owe this world. Can you honestly tell me that humanity's not better off with fewer Tommy's, fewer Leon's, and fewer you's?" Cain smirks.

"That's what I've been saying this entire time. Glad someone else sees it that way," you chuckle.

"What about the kid?" Dean asks after he glares at you.

"He could go either way. I prefer to be thorough." Dean steps up to the edge of the devil's trap with the blade in his hands. "How's it feel, Dean, to be holding the Blade again?"

"It feels like a means to an end."

"Then do it," Cain challenges and looks at you. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm here to have some fun," you smirk and show him your magic.

"Chaos magic. This will be fun," he grins.

Dean makes the first move against Cain. He makes several attempts to stab Cain but Cain expertly evades them all. He pushes Dean to the ground, and you take a seat on a barrel of hay so you can watch this unfold. Dean gets up and tries to stab him again but Cain throws him down to the ground again. Cain marches over to Dean who then tries to swing the Blade into the demon that way, but Cain grabs his wrist. Both of them are struggling to beat the other.

"That seems a bit weaker than I would expect from you with the Blade. I think you can do better." Dean punches Cain in the face, and the demon stumbles back. "Unless you're holding back." Dean lunges at the demon and remains in a tight grip, both of them fighting for the Blade. "What is it, Dean? Do you think if you hold back just enough, you won't succumb? That you'll leave this fight the same as you entered?!" Cain throws Dean to the ground and he lands right where you are. "Look to my example, boy! There is no resisting the Mark or the Blade. There is only remission and relapse!"

"Why aren't you fighting?" Dean groans.

"Because I can take him down in one move, but I figured I'd give you your little moment to shine," you chuckle and pick at your nail.

Dean rolls his eyes and stands up to face Cain.

"You told me that this day would come. You told me that I would have to kill you."

"Is that so?" Cain lifts his hand and flings Dean across the barn and through a window. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood my intentions here, Dean. When your pet angel found my burial site, I thought about ending him and swatting him like a fly." Dean gets up on shaky legs. "Then I thought about you two. Your biggest weakness, the thing I noticed the moment I met you, is your courage and your reckless bravado. "

Dean sees the Blade lying on the edge of the devil's trap. Cain can get to it if he wants to.

"I let Cas go, knowing that he would report back to you, knowing you would bring into battle the one thing that can kill me, the one thing I truly want."

Both of them stare at the Blade in a stand-off Dean dives after the Blade at the same time Cain summons it. The Blade flies from the ground over to Cain who picks it up. Red tendrils run up his wrist and arm.

"Help!" Dean yells at you.

"No, you got this."

"It's been too long," he sighs blissfully. "That old feeling makes me wonder how I ever had the strength to resist." Dean runs to attack Cain but the demon grabs him by the throat. "This may be hard to believe, in light of what I'm about to do to you, but I care about you, Dean. I truly do. I know I'm doing you a favor. I'm saving you."

"Saving me from what?"

"From your fate." Cain tosses Dean over to where you are, and Dean groans in pain. "Has it never occurred to you?" Cain kicks Dean onto his back. "Have you never mused upon the fact that you're living my life in reverse? My story began when I killed my brother, and that's where your story inevitably will end."

"If you're going to do anything, then do it," Dean glares at you.

Fine. You guess it's your turn now. You get off the barrel of hay and step over Dean to walk closer to Cain.

"What is a witch like you going to do to me?"

Cain raises his hand with the Blade and goes to stab you but you catch his wrist with your magic without actually touching him. Cain tries to move but finds it impossible, and you twist your hand so that his wrist breaks. The Blade falls to the ground and you kick it away toward Dean without a second thought.

"This," you smirk.

You blast him in the stomach so he goes flying across the Devil's Trap. You send another blast at him but this time, your magic encompasses his entire body. You pull your magic back toward you, pulling his power along with it. A steady connection of power goes from Cain to you. The more power you steal from him, the more your mark burns with desire.

Cain falls to his knees weakly but you don't stop collecting his power. You turn to Dean with a smirk and power-hungry eyes.

"If you're going to do something, do it now."

Dean picks up the blade and struggles to get up but manages on shaky legs. He walks behind Cain and raises the Blade only to stab it through his back and his heart. The magic connection is broken and you stumble back with a moan. God, there is so much power running through your veins right now.

You and Dean leave the barn only to see Crowley, Cas, and Sam with worried looks on their faces. They're confused as to why Dean is the only one with blood on his hands and bruises on his face. You look like you did when you first walked in.

"Dean? Y/N?" Sam asks.

"Dean, the Blade," Crowley says and holds out his hand.

No fuck this. You've got too much power to not do anything with. You push past Dean and snatch the Blade from his hand with the intent of using it on Crowley. Before he can disappear, you pin him to the wall with your magic.

"Tell me, Crowley, what's stopping me from killing you?"

The others jump in to stop you but your magic shoots out of your back and surrounds their throats. You hold them by choking them and you don't even need to take your eyes off Crowley. You start to press the Blade into his chest and he gasps out in pain.

"I can give you more power," he chokes.

"Your power sucks," you laugh, "just like you. I'm done with you. You're no longer useful to me."

Before you have a chance to kill him, Dean takes out his phone from his pocket. He can't breathe but he can still pull up a video he took of the kids. He plays it and turns the phone to face you.

"Mommy!" Joanna laughed. You pause right before you can plunge the Blade into his chest. You turn to see Joanna in her swimsuit with a big smile on her face. She was out by the pool with her sister. Maryann was in her floatie since she wasn't old enough to swim on her own. You remember taking that video back when you had your soul. "Mommy, look at what I can do!"

Joanna jumped into the pool and created a splash. Noah laughed and came into the frame wearing his swimsuit. Dean was in the pool and helped Joanna swim since she was still learning.

"I can do it better. Check this out."

He jumped into the pool and made a bigger splash than his sister. Everyone had a big smile on their faces. The magic you put on Cas, Sam, Dean, and Crowley is gone, and you turn to Crowley only to see him gone. He took the first chance he got and left like the coward he is. You suck in a breath and shove the Blade into Dean's chest because you don't want it anymore.

"Take it. I don't even want it anymore."

You shove your shoulder into Dean's as you pass by him, and he catches the Blade before it drops to the ground. He quickly hands it to Cas so he doesn't have to succumb to the power it gives. Dean stumbles forward, exhausted, and Sam catches him before he can fall.

"Hey, hey, hey. You did it. Dean, you did it."

"No, she did," Dean mutters.

Cas takes time to hide the Blade somewhere where no one will find it as you're on your way back to the Bunker. When you do get back, you leave to do your own thing somewhere else. Sam and Dean are in the kitchen to recoup after the tiring events.

"Dean, what you did back there was incredible. You know, if you can do that without losing yourself that's cause for hope, even without a cure."

"Yeah, maybe," he sighs.

Cas walks into the room without the Blade in hand.

"Where's the Blade?"

"Somewhere safe."

"Good. Well, if you guys will excuse me, I think I am gonna go to sleep for about four days."

Dean leaves the kitchen and Sam looks at Cas worriedly. He waits until he's gone before he speaks.

"We should talk about what happened."

"Yes, I know. I can't imagine killing Cain did anything good for Dean."

"I mean about Y/N. Yes, Dean is in trouble but so is Y/N. She was ready to kill Crowley and kept all three of us at bay without breaking a sweat. She's powerful, too powerful. Did you see her when Dean showed her that video? I think her kids are the key to bringing her back."

"Sam, without her soul, she can't be brought back. They can't be anywhere near her."

"You know where they are, though, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, we gotta do something because they're both in trouble... big trouble."

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