#like. not something that grants additional power in any way just another way of Experiencing nature in a very peaceful way

[edalyhn]

btw literally obsessed with the implications there are in toh episodes that actually focus on eda teaching luz magic stuff about eda having a genuine connection with nature and that connection being what her magical powers are channeled through (when the curse isn’t blocking them ofc). i am taking the crumbs provided by canon on this subject and i’m running with them <3

[dc41896]

The Whole Time?!

Pairing: Jake JensenxBlack Reader

⚠️: Maybe a tiny bit of technical angst (🤷🏽‍♀️ lol), fluff💕

“P-Pooch?,” you stammer unable to fathom that your supposedly dead brother was standing in front of you and his wife who was about to give birth to their son in any minute.

“Hey peanut,” he smiles stepping further in the hospital room. “I’d hug you, but I’m w-,”

You didn’t even let him finish before immediately wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. Good thing he was already wet from the rain, your tears would just be a welcomed addition.

“Wait. D-Does that mean-”

“Hey babe,” the all too familiar voice speaks making more silent tears fall as you lift your head. Just as soaked as Pooch, he nervously smiles removing his hat to reveal his spiked frosted tips. He pretty much looked the same as you last saw him. Toned arms and chest shielded by his dripping jacket along with your personal favorite, his black circular frames bringing even more attention to those crystal baby blues.

There were plenty of times you thought about what you’d do if granted this moment. Cry, scream, maybe jump into his arms clinging onto him like a koala on a tree. Possibly all three even. Now, finally being granted your wish after all these months, there was one main thing on your mind.

“Wow,” he smiles as you slowly move closer to each other. “I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow you’ve gotten more beautiful.” Just as the words left his mouth, the back of your hand connecting with his abdomen in the hardest hit you could muster nearly knocks the wind out of him as he keeled forward.

“And apparently stronger too..,” he coughs.

“How could you?!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose! We had to so we could go after the guy who set us up. And why didn’t you hit Pooch?! He was in it too.”

“He’s got one coming after my nephew safely enters the world, right now though it’s your turn,” you glare before smacking him again.

“Told you she had a strong backhand,” Pooch states quickly closing the room door before his sister decided to direct her rage at him.

The rest of the team merely watch in entertainment as your hits move to his shoulders and biceps until Jensen can grab your wrists pinning them by your sides.

“I’m sorry for putting you through all that, but it’s not like I completely left! I could still see you.”

You tilt your head in confusion ready to ask what he was talking about, until seeing Clay nervously scratch the back of his neck as he and Cougar shift their gaze clues you in on what he meant.

“SERIOUSLY JAKE?!”

“Wha-? I-,”

“Did you really think that would make me feel better?!”

“...Honestly at this point I’m afraid to answer.”

Annoyed groan falling from your lips, you tried to escape his grasp, but his larger hands slightly tightening their grip on yours, along with him following your every movement, keep you in place. “When we go home I can explain everything.”

“Will you? Or are you just gonna lie some more?”

“I promise I’ll tell everything,” he whispers, leaving a chaste kiss on your temple before flashing one of his ‘please don’t stay mad at me forever because I love you’ smiles. So far, it’d gotten him out of any argument you had. Including this one.

Darn those good looks of his.

“Fine,” you reply as you cross your arms, leaving him to find a seat in the nearby waiting room.

“Any tips here Colonel?,” Jake sighs.

“I’m probably not the one you’d want relationship advice from.”

Another heavy sigh leaves his lips as he follows your path down the hall to sit next to you. That is if you’d let him.

“Okay, is anybody else stuck on the fact that Jensen actually has a girlfriend?,” Aisha states breaking the momentary silence and making both men chuckle.

———

It’s the happiest he’s ever been to walk into his small, outdated apartment. Things weren’t exactly the same as he left it with your few new decorations and pieces of furniture trying to make the place a bit of your own, but of course he didn’t mind. It actually warmed his heart that although he was “gone” you still chose to stay, sticking by his side when you easily could’ve moved on with your life.

“Jeez, the faucet always drip that loud?,” he lightly chuckles shedding his coat and placing it on the small hanger by the door.

“It started a bit after you left,” you sigh kicking off your shoes. “Think it’s loud now, it’s even louder when you’re just sitting here alone.”

Following you to the bedroom feeling like a dog with its tail between his legs, he sits at the foot of the bed looking down at his hands as you move about the bathroom getting yourself ready for bed. Your words were like the sharpest sting as his mind vividly showed an image of you just sitting in this apartment with nothing but thoughts of loosing your brother and boyfriend along with the hum of the AC. He knew for the sake of their mission, and the team, he couldn’t say anything, but it still didn’t take away his guilt of what you went through mentally and emotionally.

“I tried to write you.”

“What, your computer go down and you couldn’t watch me anymore?,” you counter over your shoulder before rinsing the soap from your face.

“That was only once okay? I was watching my niece’s soccer game and then I thought about what you were doing and kinda sorta hacked your office’s cameras, which yes I know was wrong. Speaking of, they really should update their software, a fifth grader could easily hack into it just guessing the password,” he answers making you roll your eyes with a chuckle.

“And who’s Tom?”

“Tom?”

“Yea. Curly brown haired guy, cubicle across from yours. Big head you can see a mile away.”

“I’m sorry are you somehow trying to turn things on me when you’re the one that’s supposed to be explaining why I’ve thought you were dead this whole time?,” you ask wiping the remaining moisturizer from your hands before crossing them in front of your chest as you step closer to the now nervous looking man.

“N-no, of course not! But I mean since he’s been mentioned...”

“He’s just this guy at work that apparently likes me and asked me out but I said no, because a small part of me kept hoping that you’d miraculously come back. Happy?”

“I-uh...y-yes?”

Sighing, you sit beside him tucking your bare legs under you and taking his hand in yours to trace the lines on his palm. You never knew how or why you started, but it was something you occasionally did while you two were talking or just lying next to him enjoying each other’s company. It brought a smile and giddy feeling to Jensen, just as it did to you.

“Listen, I’m sorry I’m giving you a hard time, I know you didn’t have a choice, and understand. Selfishly though, I just missed you so much and wish I could’ve known. It definitely would’ve saved some sleepless nights and tears.”

With his other hand, his thumb and index finger gently grab your chin guiding you to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through having you think I was dead. The second we threw our tags in that fire you and my family were all I could think about. Like I said I wanted to write and give you some sign that I wasn’t gone, but I could never figure out how to start. Plus Clay threatened to cut off little Jensen if I did send anything back home once he found out, which only made it tougher.”

“Yea we wouldn’t want that,” you softly laugh following a short sniffle you were trying to hold back. You really were done with crying, having done so since you got that devastating call so long ago, and just wished your tear ducts would shrivel up already. “Sorry, I thought I was done with the tears.”

“Shh, don’t be.” Leaning forward, his soft as clouds lips meet the single salty droplet in the middle of you cheek erasing its presence before moving to yours in quite possibly the most delicate, tender kiss you’ve ever experienced. Any other time, you’d probably call it painfully slow, trying to take the lead to move things along. But as you both sat there taking everything in from each other’s scents to the feel of how one’s lips and mouth felt on the other, you couldn’t feel more connected.

Just barely pulling away, his swollen lips rest centimeters above yours ready to take them again as soon as he caught his breath.

“I don’t know if I should be embarrassed at myself or amazed at whatever powers you have,” he starts, a light chuckle escaping him. “But I think you just made me-,”

“Jensen!,” you laugh, playfully smacking his shoulder. “Way to ruin a romantic mood.”

“If it’s romance you want, say no more,” he smiles taking your hand in his and placing it on his chest as he clears his throat. To the best of his ability, he begins singing the opening lines to your couple’s song, as Jake proclaimed it, instantly making you fall back on the bed in laughter.

“You actin' kinda shady, ain't callin' me baby, why the sudden change. Say my name, say my name!”

“This is definitely not a couple’s song,” you laugh feeling his forearms rest on either side of your head and chest vibrate from his laughing.

“I’ll admit lyrically wise..yes, you’re right. But it’s still ours which makes it special.”

You’d never forget that day in the grocery store trying to find a pint of your favorite ice cream as the song played overhead. Without really looking, you thought you were on the freezing aisle by yourself and began singing along as you gently bobbed your head. Suddenly hearing a voice singing the background vocals made you slightly jump turning to see the taller man in a grey sweatshirt, blue and white basketball shorts, and sneakers holding up his hands.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I-It’s Destiny’s Child, I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s okay, and I mean who can?,” you respond, both softly laughing before shyly looking back at your respective sections to get your frozen desserts.

“Soo...you like ice cream?,” he asks interrupting the momentary silence.

“Yea, um my favorite’s moose tracks,” you answer briefly holding up your pint with a smile.

“You know who has a good moose tracks? Bennie & Bailey’s downtown. They make it from scratch and I don’t know what all they put in it, but it’s amazing.”

“Oh, okay thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever been there.”

“Well you should definitely go one day. I mean if you want,” he nervously chuckles.

“Will do,” you smile. “Only if you’ll take me though?”

At first, being met with his shocked, speechless expression made your newfound confidence falter thinking you might’ve been too bold with the cute stranger, whom you hadn’t even asked if he was single or not. However seeing his eyes shine bright and adorable smile grace his pink lips, your excitement returned as he moved closer handing you his phone.

Years later, the rest is history as you lie in bed with the man you were sure was the love of your life.

“Hey what’s going on in there?,” he asks brushing his fingertips across your forehead noticing you become quiet. Lightly scratching his goatee, you feel your eyes start to water again causing you to blink a few times trying to keep them at bay.

“I just don’t want you to leave again,” you whisper, moving your fingers to card through his chestnut and blonde mixed strands.

“I’m not going anywhere unless you ask me too.”

Taglist: @fumbling-fanfics @honeydulcewrites @honeychicana @lady-olive-oil @themyscxiras @lovelymari4 @melinda-january @maxcullen @literaturefeen @damnitaa @curlyhairclub @plokyu23 @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @nunubug99 @felicity-x0 @ellixthea @jojolu @jnk-812 @brwn-sgr @captainsamwlsn @wildfirecracker @nina-sj @iammyownlover @chaneajoyyy @scoop93535 @secretmysteriousperson

If anybody wants to be tagged, has asked to be tagged but don’t see your name, only want to be tagged for certain people I write for (can be found in masterlist), or no longer wish to be tagged just let me know🤓!

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Astradaemon

CR 16

Neutral Evil Large Outsider

Pathfinder Bestiary 2, pg. 63 (but this illustration is from Pathfinder Society Field Guide, pg. 43!)

As much as I love 2es especially shiny version of the Astradaemon, I adore 1es depiction of them as withered, skeletal horrors with inhuman proportions that truly scream “this thing eats souls.” Apex predators of the River of Souls, Astradaemons are hardly ever actually found in their home plane of Abaddon, preferring to stalk the river banks directly much to the chagrin and terror of the attending Psychopomps. Resembling all the worst and most horrifying parts of every deep sea predator put together, Astradaemons are formed from the souls of those who died to energy drain, and if ever there were an unfair death, it would be to energy drain. Fittingly enough, they’ve evolved to cause the same terrifying demise a hundred times over.

Not only can it cast Enervation at will, EVERY one of an Astradaemon’s attacks causes 1 level of energy drain, so being slapped by all four already means you’ve lost an additional 20 hitpoints on top of the damage you’ve already taken, and now have a -4 penalty to all of your rolls. Fittingly, it can also use Energy Drain as the spell once per day to slurp 2d4 levels off a single target, and Finger of Death 1/day to finish off someone weakened by its destructive siphoning. It doesn’t really need to give its victims the Finger, though, when its natural attacks are usually enough; its claws deal 1d8+5 damage, its lengthy tail 1d12+2, and its viperfish jaws 2d6+5, all accurate enough that it can afford to use Power Attack without taking much chance to fail its attacks. While the damage may not seem impressive, remember that every blow can also inflict energy drain, which is another 5 HP on top of everything!

As with many beasts, its the jaws that are most dangerous, possessing Grab and thus grappling what they strike. Unlike what you may be thinking, seeing how they resemble deep sea horrors and knowing what those fish can be like, Astradaemons do not possess Swallow Whole, but have something infinitely worse. Their Devour Soul can instantly kill anyone they start their turn grappling, tearing the victim’s soul from their body with one forceful lunge and ripping into it like a savage animal if the victim fails a DC 25 Fortitude save. Devouring a soul in such a way, thankfully, takes its standard action, so an Astradaemon cannot attack the victim right away if they succeed their save, but it can attempt to drag them away--or even into the air with its 90 Fly speed--to try again next round. It also means that after eating a fresh soul, the daemon can’t instantly take advantage of the boosted stats it gets from the act; +1 to attack rolls, saving throws, and skill checks per 5 HD of the victim, for 24 hours!

The savagery which the Astradaemon revel in is a blessing and a curse. The process is unspeakably traumatic for the soul it happens to, but that’s just the thing! There’s a soul left after the attack, tattered and frayed as it is, that can be called back into a body afterwards, allowing the victim to be restored as normal even while the daemon still lives, even if their mind isn’t entirely intact.

Ripping souls out of living bodies isn’t their usual forte, though. They much prefer to find pre-peeled souls, which they can devour through simply proximity via their Soul Siphon. Any incorporeal creature or wandering soul (such as an astral projection, or parasitic soul leaping around with Magic Jar) within 10ft of the daemon is supped upon, losing 1d8 HP each round as it feasts on their essence, letting it dine on a banquet as it takes its pick of choice morsels to shove into its mouth personally. The Soul Siphon also lets it feed on the essence of departing souls, restoring the horror’s HP and granting it an infinitely-stacking Strength bonus each time a creature dies within 10ft of it, and thus can unfortunately include any second deaths experienced by the tide of souls that the daemons often hurl themselves into the middle of.

Whenever an Astradaemon arrives in the River--or in any plane they visit with their 3/day Plane Shift--it’s always the top priority of every Psychopomp in the area to drive it away or kill it as fast as possible, lest it become too powerful to stop in the short few minutes it takes to feed on the helpless and the scared. The Strength bonus it gets from Soul Siphon only lasts for 10 minutes, but there’s no limit to how high it can go, so adventurers arriving on a scene too late may have to contend with a level of damage much higher than what I described above.

You can read more about them here.

[blueburds]

Companion: Altrethir Valran - a continuation

First off i’m so glad yall have enjoyed that follower meme <3 second, i saw a few that had bonus details such as companion gifts and a character bio! figured that’d be fun to do for Altrethir. ALSO i included some random dialogue that i thought might be fun. implications of a random questline i made up are present throughout the dialogue.

original post is here. this will be an addition to that! i’ll be writing this as though he’s an Onslaught companion for a Republic character.

NAME: Altrethir (full: Lord Altrethir Valran) GENDER: Male SPECIES: Twi’lek AGE: 36 OCCUPATION: Inquisitor (Force-user) AFFILIATION: The Galactic Republic LIKES: Luxury, justice, learning of ancient artifacts. DISLIKES: Recklessness, close-mindedness, cold weather. GIFTS: Luxury(Love), Cultural(Favorite), Delicacies(Favorite), Weapon(Like), Imperial (Like).

BIO: Since his late teenage years, Altrethir possessed a strong connection to the Force. He was recruited to the Korriban Academy and trained to become a Lord of the Sith. Altrethir wholly trusted in the Force; he always had faith in its guidance. And when the Force wanted to go down a different path, he listened.

The Sith Empire’s ideals didn’t align with his own whereas the Republic would have fought for them. He defected and began to seek balance in the Force. Not Jedi, nor Sith any longer, Altrethir simply adopted the title of “Inquisitor” to suit him.

DIALOGUE CONVERSATIONS:

(First meeting)

Altrethir: “Greetings, Commander. I have heard... phenomenal things concerning your work. It is an honor to meet you in-person.”

Good to meet you, too. -- “’Phenomenal’ is certainly a way of putting it. I trust we’ll work well together.”

Altrethir: “As do I. With pleasantries aside, let us brief you on the mission.”

[Flirt] The pleasure is mine. -- “I’d love to hear exactly what you’ve heard about me. But, I think I’d also love to hear more about you.”

Altrethir: “Of course--but perhaps once the issue at hand has been settled.”

You’re Imperial? -- (Force-users): “You’re Sith--I can sense the darkness of your aura.”    (Non-Force-users): “The Republic’s relying on defectors now? I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Altrethir: (To Force-users): “I have harnessed control of the Dark Side; never again shall it back me into a corner.”     (To non-Force-users): “The Republic fights for freedom and justice. I want nothing more than that for my people.”

(Post-mission conversation dialogue)

Altrethir: “Reports say that the Empire’s swollen pride has taken a hard blow.” “You’ve done incredibly well--better than I could have anticipated. I never had my doubts.”

It was a hard-won victory. -- “Many innocent lives were lost. The choice was a difficult one, and not one I made lightly.”

Altrethir: “I do not blame you. Civilian casualties are inevitable in war, but minimalizing them should be a priority.”

[Flirt] It was better in-person. -- “You should’ve been there. I would have loved to see you in action.”

Altrethir: “I am a man of many talents. In this particular scenario, my non-combatant skills were needed elsewhere.”

They had it coming. -- (Republic class PC’s) “I’ve fought the Empire for years. It always feels good to hit them where it hurts most.”     (Imperial class PC’s) “No one knows what it takes to wound the Empire more than I do. I hit them where it hurt most.”

Altrethir: “We mustn’t gloss over the amount of civilian damage caused by our mission. Imperial or Republic, civilians should never be caught in the cross-fire of military operations.”

(New mission dialogue)

Altrethir: “Commander.” “An opportunity to send a message to the Empire’s allies has arisen.” “Members of the Hutt Cartel have shifted their allegiance, abandoning their former Republic allies in favor of the Empire.” “Imperial-loyal Hutts have taken members who are still loyal to the Republic hostage. By launching a rescue mission, we will succeed in showing our allies that we don’t abandon our own, nor do we tolerate vicious threats the Empire makes.”

Let’s go. -- “The Hutts are powerful allies and none we can afford to lose. Where do we go from here?”

Altrethir: “Nar Shaddaa. A place you could’ve guessed yourself, hm?”

You don’t like Hutts? -- “Given what you’ve told me about your past, I don’t see you willingly putting yourself at risk to save Hutts.”

Altrethir: “This is a matter of saving useful allies of the Republic. Not about my own personal distaste.”

Leave them to rot. -- “Hutt business always goes sour. We wouldn’t lose much by letting them go.”

Altrethir: “If my calculations proved that to be the case, then I would never have brought this matter to your attention. But the Republic needs these Hutts.”

(continued) Altrethir: “I shall be joining you on this mission. I’ll present you with more details during the ride there.”

(First time on Odessen)

Altrethir: “Such a marvelous world; the Force is in balance.” “While its aura is not fiery like that of Korriban, nor is it soothing like Tython, it feels... neutral. I am content.”

Ideal for the Alliance. -- “The Eternal Alliance is made up of people from all sorts of backgrounds. Jedi, Sith, some in between--such as the defected Knights of Zakuul. Odessen’s neutrality probably helped everyone feel safer.”

Altrethir: “Indeed. The subject piques my interest. Perhaps I should do some independent research on the matter later.”

[Flirt] You want a tour? -- “The base is pretty big, but the wilds are where the real beauty and charm lie. I should show you around.”

Altrethir: “And I would not object. Your company has been ever pleasant.”

I don’t care. -- “There’s got to be something better on your mind than that.”

Altrethir: “Matters concerning the Force are always something worth thinking critically about.”

(continued) Altrethir: “I am inclined to speak to the leader of your Force Enclave: The Voss Mystic, Sana-Rae.” “If there is nothing else for now, Commander, I shall be heading on my way.”

Go ahead -- “I’ll see you around. You know the way?”

Altrethir: “I do. Farewell for now, Commander.”

[Flirt] I’d rather show you around. -- “My offer for a tour’s still open, Altrethir. You sure you don’t want just a quick look around?”

Altrethir: “Since you are quite insistent, it would be rude of me to decline. Shall I meet with you somewhere after I’ve concluded my business?”

PC: "My personal landing zone will do just fine.”

Altrethir: “Then I shall be no longer than twenty minutes.” “I will see you then.”

(Continued scene, prompted from flirting)

Altrethir: “You were right; the wilds are utterly gorgeous. While perhaps a bit warmer in temperature, I daresay they remind me of Alderaan.”

PC: “Have you been to many worlds?”

Altrethir: “I have, yes. Once my old Sith Master granted me the freedom to travel where I pleased, I abused that power.” “After being chained and enslaved for the first twenty or so years of my life, I wanted to see everything the Galaxy had to offer.”

You weren’t only a slave to the Hutts. -- “Knowing the Sith hierarchy, you traded one master for another.”

Altrethir: “I do not disagree. Still, Lord Sen’tulo--my late Sith Master--granted me a level of freedom I’d never experienced before. I was grateful for that much.”

You fought for the wrong side. -- “The Empire openly oppresses people--aliens especially. Why waste so much time with them? Why didn’t you defect sooner?”

Altrethir: “I wanted to prove that success could be achieved no matter one’s species. By becoming a Lord of the Sith, I spat in the face of those who tried to drag me down throughout my endeavor.”

Sith Master? -- “You haven’t mentioned this Master before. What were they like?”

Altrethir: “Lord Sen’tulo was an honorable woman. Rational, level-headed, logical. Stern, but held compassion. She broke several Sith stereotypes. Perhaps that was what lead to her ultimate downfall.”

(continued) Altrethir: “Freedom is important to me. I cannot bear to see innocent individuals shackled as slaves.” “I know what that cruel life is like first-hand. Initially, I sought to use my position of power in the Empire to find an end to slavery. My desire clouded my judgement.” “The only way to end the practice was to fight against it. Thus, I defected.”

A noble cause. -- “I can tell how important your ideals are to you. You did the right thing.”

Altrethir: “Who determines what is right or what is wrong is irrelevant. But--I understand your meaning. I did what I believe was right.”

Position of power? -- “Just how powerful of a Sith were you before turning to the Republic?”

Altrethir: “A Darth, but not on the Dark Council. I nearly reached the position when I had my revelation.”

The Republic’s wary. -- “The Sith are ancient enemies of the Republic and the Jedi. Do they wholly trust you?”

Altrethir: “I would imagine there are many who don’t. But the team I work with does--they are all I need to prove my loyalty.”

(continued) Altrethir: “Your hospitality has been greatly appreciated, Commander.” “Though we’ve known one another for a relatively short period of time, I speak truthfully when I say I’ve enjoyed every moment of your company. You are quite the inspiring leader.”

[Kiss] So have I. -- “And I’ve enjoyed your company.”

(post-kiss) Altrethir: “Commander, you are as charming as you are alluring.”

We should head back. -- “It’s been nice. We should be heading back, though.”

“I concur. Thank you for this time to speak with you; it has been a pleasure.”

[gold-eyes-vengeful-heart]

Questions, Answers

((or: Runya is displeased with the situation at large.

Spoilers for the 5.5 Diamond Weapon quests! Contains Runya being kind of an asshole about the VIIth Legion’s Weapons’ pilots.

Also this entire fic line is not going to stop the Spite Train (TM) I have against this fucking ridiculous nonsense writing in the canonical questline, this is your only warning lmao))

===

Runya just idly drummed the fingers of one of his clawed gloves on the stony bench, looking more closely at the datapad he held in his other hand as his thoughts wandered. It was difficult to keep them on-task, as of late; he knew that he should be focusing on finding that bloody last Weapon--the Diamond Weapon, the few files his nodes had managed to scrounge called it--but all the same...

There was Baelsar.

His ears flicked back just at the thought, and his tail lashed. Yes, that was a problem. While he had been recovering, he had heard about what the Garlean was up to--namely, insinuating himself into Werlyt’s burgeoning resistance, all under the guise of being helpful and lending his expertise and just being the man best suited for the job--

And anyone who actually believed that had all the gullibility of a literal child, in Runya’s estimation.

He finally stilled his tail and flicked his ears once, twice, and just squinted down at what scant information he had. No amount of him complaining had fixed that one; even Sorin agreed with him, as far as he could tell, and agreed that it was at the very least incredibly tone deaf of the Legatus. And yet, there Baelsar was, still doing exactly what he had been, despite all of that. Bloody typical. If Runya wanted anything done, he had to do it himself.

“S-Sir?”

The small voice broke him out of his reverie, and he glanced over the top of the datapad before letting it fall entirely. The young Au Ra--barely old enough to be considered a teenager, with ill-fitting armor to match--stiffened under the sharp golden-eyed stare, but he held his ground and only the tip of his own tail twitching betrayed his nerves.

“Ah, S-Sir Damask...” A pause. “That is you, yes?”

“Mmmm, the very one.” He smiled, and that did exactly nothing to make the Xaela’s nerves any better. “I’m honored; I thought only a few people here even knew of me. Blue has far more fame than I do.”

The easy, conversational tone made the boy’s shoulders relax just slightly. “Ah, well, yes, your machine is very well-known, after fighting those awful Weapons--and beating them. We thought no one would be able to...” But he shook his head, suddenly. “Anyway, ah, they wanted to see you. Mister Baelsar and Mister Garlond did.”

“Mister Baelsar.” Runya laughed, lightly, and that tension came right back. “Is that what he calls himself now? I would have half-expected him to demand to be called lord, or something equally stuffy.”

The Xaela blinked. “He’s not...like that right now, at least. Not ever since he took over.”

“And yet he’s still making children do his dirty work,” Runya remarked, waving his free hand as the boy opened his mouth indignantly. “Arguments about your exact number of years aside, I’d quite enjoy to remind everyone what happened the last time Baelsar had access to a bunch of people around your age. And younger, for that matter. One of the more...exquisitely awful things he ever did, I think.”

Now the Xaela was silent, and more visibly torn. Almost like he wanted to say something, but hesitated.

And Runya smiled. “Come now, you can say what’s on your mind. I don’t bite. Only if I’m given good reason to.”

Not that that seemed to reassure him any, but he did finally speak, if reluctantly. “I know. My sister...” He swallowed. “Never mind.”

Ah, so someone else that knew. Really knew, not just claimed they knew when they hadn’t experienced the half of it. So Runya just smiled, and patted the Xaela on the shoulder, despite the way the boy visibly quailed a bit at the strange look in his eyes now.

“And you don’t like it, either, do you?” His voice was low and smooth as oily smoke. “That they’re all just letting him lead again, when we all saw what horrors he committed the last time. Times, even.”

Now the boy wasn’t looking at him. That was enough of an answer for Runya, and so he just let go of him, leaning back.

“Or is it more...those with power before him are just in it for themselves?” the Miqo’te ventured, tilting his head thoughtfully. “The terrible things the Empire did must have barely hurt those with that kind of influence. They don’t care about how you and people like you might feel, if they were to use the architect of your own oppression for their own ends--even when it means letting him lead. All that matters is that being away from the Empire is more profitable than being under it, so they’ll use any tool they have for it.”

“I just...” The Xaela sighed, shaking his head. “It isn’t like I can fix it. That’s what the resistance’s leaders want, so they’re going to do it.”

“And the Alliance assistance certainly doesn’t care,” Runya added with a nod. (He got one back.) “Well, Sorin dearest does, but even someone like him only has so much sway against a crowd. As do I.” He stood up rather creakily, though when he was offered a hand, he took it without too much complaint. “Mmm, much obliged. One wouldn’t think me to be such an old man...”

And yet the Empire had done this to him anyway. But the Xaela had the sense to not really ask; he just nodded back, and let go of Runya’s hand rather quickly. “Are you--?”

“Coming?” Runya interrupted. “Ah, no. I have little of note to say to them, as you might have guessed. I’m going to do what I set out to do, and that does not involve them getting in my way--the only thing I’m interested in hearing from them is if they found that last Weapon, and where.” And he was quite sure that few were going to try and argue in the face of his own Weapon, even if he was just as keenly aware that they would like to.

The Xaela finally dismissed himself, armor clanking as he made his way away, and Runya was once more left by himself. Or about as alone as one could ever get, with Blue in his head...

{Runya-friend.} The faint voice pattered across his thoughts like a light rain. {Runya-friend is mad.}

“Not at you, dear.”

{But still mad.}

He just sighed in resignation, and let the matter slide. “The point more is, Blue, that the sooner we find this last Weapon--and stop being involved in Baelsar’s messes, lest I finally stab him to death ahead of when I intended to off him, just to keep him from making more of the damned things--the better.”

{...Yes.} Even Blue was uncomfortable enough with the notion--it roiled in the back of his mind. {Does Runya-friend want to fly? Go look?}

“Hmmm, in a little while.” He would wait, for right now, just to make sure he was entirely out of any other ideas beforehand. (No use in wearing Blue out, if they could find that other Weapon another way.) And he wanted to make quite sure that Baelsar wasn’t going to simply backstab them all as soon as they got the chance; he wouldn’t put it past the man to try, if he was being granted such power by fools.

And fools they were, no matter what the reasoning behind it. Anyone that would listen to those bleated lies about just not knowing that the Empire was so cruel, from one of the main architects of that cruelty, was enough fool that it was a miracle they remembered how to breathe. And anyone who saw that manipulation for what it was, only to still believe they could use the man’s expertise and cunning anyway and not be bitten by him in the end, was no different.

(Part of his insistence on working alone was, after all, just that set of realizations at play...in addition to him being much more willing to tear his own limbs off than ever work with a Garlean like that ever again.)

He would make damned sure that he wouldn’t fall to that idiocy. He would continue taking out Imperials, one by one, starting with these Weapons...and inevitably including the Legatuses. Even Baelsar. Especially Baelsar, no matter what amount of recrimination Sorin kept throwing at him just for the thought--these idiot children of his were just more of an immediate danger, was all.

And they’d die just like the rest. He’d personally see to it.

[fictitious-whimsigot]

The Web, as an Issue

(TW: Spiders, Webs, Isolation and Manipulation, Loss of Free Will) Dreamwidth Link There is a thing that sits at the center of the world. It sits replete upon the wheel of destiny, and the laws of the world it weaves. A strand of that web has brushed on your life. A bit of the terror of dominance, power, of being controlled and used- of manipulation and lies and paranoia- it has touched you. How intermeshed will it become? You may pick up the Web issue by…

Loitering in abandoned places filled with cobwebs and hidden spiders.

Being affected by, or pursued by, one of the acolytes or monsters of the web.

Being so afraid of someone controlling or manipulating you that you become isolated and hostile.

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, because the world is terribly unfair.

Web 1 Omens of encroaching strings Something skitters just outside of your line of sight. You feel like something far away is.. calling you. You feel an intention that is not your own. Your dreams are becoming strange. It’s probably nothing, though. Web 2 Signs and portents only you believe You see them now. You see.. Something. Maybe fleeting dreams fill you with an unsettling sense of déjà vu. Or, just for a second, you see thin grey strings wrapped around your friend’s arms, vanishing up into the sky. Or you wake up every morning with webs woven between your hands. Something is happening, you just can’t understand the pattern yet. ...but no one else sees it. No one else understands it. They can’t face the encroaching web. At this point, traditionally, you begin to experience supernatural changes to your being. This manifests as a level 1 Superior skill. Often this is Superior Affinity to Spiders, but it can be any Superior skill that conveys extrasensory awareness, mental control of others, precognitive powers, skittering movement, lying prowess or affinity for webs and silence. If this is the first time you are experiencing the Web issue, you may not manifest any power at all. This superior skill remains until the issue is resolved. Web 3 Establishing what’s controlling your life. You see it all the time now, inescapably. You find yourself doing things sometimes, things you don’t really want to do, or you didn’t plan to do. You make decisions and find they somehow get passed over. You see the lights in the sky that tell you what you are going to do in excruciating detail. You see the puppet strings that connect everyone and everything, winding into buildings and down streets. You see the men in black suits watching everyone and you see the people they take away. The web is all around you. At this point, you should establish what, specifically, is controlling your life. What has your fear writ wide across your world? Is it something like…

Premonitions that unfold in your waking dreams and extinguish any illusion you may have of your own free will?

A vast conspiracy that weaves through everyone and everything you know, revealing them all to be part of some organization or power that wishes you ill?

An unseen puppeteer that moves people by invisible strings, crouching like a vast spider in some unseen celestial web?

A vampiric cult that calls innocent people into the dark streets, only to suck them dry?

Something else?

This level of the issue intensifies your supernatural affinity with dark forces. You may raise the Superior skill granted by this issue to 2 and choose one of the following:

An affliction that revolves around destiny, your loss of control or the physical changes to your body and mind that are happening. It scales with the Web issue.

A bond representing your fear, fascination or desire for power and control. It scales with the Web issue.

If you choose to bear more of the power of the web, you may also complete the Acolyte’s quest to solidify your connection. The powers granted by this Issue typically vanish soon after it is resolved, but they may linger in much the same way you might keep a wound (Chuubo Core book, 129). Web 4 A final moment of freedom Despite the strangling cords of destiny. Despite the feelings of helplessness that wash into your soul- you have a moment, a chance to escape. Perhaps you fought and marshaled your will. Perhaps a friend came through when you least expected. Perhaps the web just loosened, unexpectedly. When your Issue reaches this level, you may make a choice to escape or to remain. If you choose to escape, you may close out this issue by...

Choosing a fiery baptism, immolation, and reconstruction from the ashes.

Choosing desperate, sudden violence against them. Turn the tables.

Choosing to run away from this life, abandon order, embrace chaos and live.

Choosing to accept help, to put yourself at another’s mercy, to trust again.

It is possible that your choice may embrace another power to escape this one. If, in this final moment, you falter and choose to remain, then your fate is sealed. It’s only a matter of time now. Web 5 Make peace with how your dark fate will manifest. The world seems so unreal. The world seems so gray. It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like this. You are surrounded by it. Your body is not your own. Your mind is not your own. You do not control your thoughts, but- Mercilessly your feelings are still your own. They’re going to take you soon. They’re going to eat you. They’re going to render you down into whatever they wanted from you. And the worst is, you know that the entire course of your life has been leading up to this. Destiny is the tool of a dark and evil god, and you never had a choice to begin with. This issue is resolved when you are taken by dark powers. The character disappears for a time, at least a chapter or so. They may be dead, but they are always gone.  If they return, they are not the same. Their player may move points from mundane skills into a Superior skill representing these changes, or rewrite Bonds or Afflictions to suit this. These changes always mark their connection to dark and insidious forces, to spiders and to consumption. They typically interfere with the character’s free will. The Spider Acolyte’s Quest [30 XP] Bindings 1 This is a quest about cleaving to the dark powers. It is about becoming part of the spider, of the mother of puppets, of the web. It’s about giving in before you are eaten. It is about forging a bond of fearful reverence with something that controls the world. Major Goals The HG may reward you with 5 XP when…

You wield vicious lies, rumors, cruel jibes or similar horrible tricks to hurt or coerce someone, or when you bear through and accept the same as an inescapable part of life.

You are subject to some kind of terrible psychic or mental trauma associated with isolation, spiders, authority figures or distant gods.

You begin to act, physically or metaphorically, like a spider.

Your Web issue rises to 4 and you choose to embrace, rather than reject the Web.

You accept, in your heart, that even an evil god is better than none.

You can earn each bonus once, up to a maximum of 15 XP. Quest Flavor 1/chapter you may earn an XP towards this quest when:

[Green] You feel sick and terrible, and then see that it’s part of your metamorphosis. Describe the horrific changes in as much detail as you can bear.

[Green] You open a window or leave an external door uncracked so that spiders can enter.

[Blue] You experiment with wielding social conventions, power dynamics and lies to make your environment better for you.

[Gold/Green] You feel ecstatic joy at your body and mind doing things without your input or decision.

[Red/Gold] You flee from an alien being of burning hatred or ecstatic violence.

The reward for completing this quest is an Acolyte perk:

Acolyte Perk: You gain a Connection 1-2 for the Web as a concept. In addition, you are so deeply connected to it that you can never really escape- After resolving the Web Issue, you gain a point in it at the end of the current scene.

[alistairmoonshine]

My Best Was Not Good Enough

TITLE:  My Best Was Not Good Enough

AUTHOR/ARTIST: @alistairmoonshine

PROMPT DAY #: Day #4 Hurt/comfort

SUMMARY: "If Life could give me one blessing it would be to take you out of it," Those words would ring through Jaskier's mind for over a year as he tried to learn and deal with a life away from Geralt.

WORD COUNT (if applicable): 9316

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Jaskier gets drunk, he kinda almost dies? Not really sure if that would be triggering or anything. Also this is 19 pages so it isn’t short

RATING: E

ADDITIONAL NOTES: @geraskierweek

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” those words echoed through Jaskier’s mind as he felt himself tear up as he tried to choke back the sobs. He sniffed and fidgetted,

“Yes, well I’ll… I’ll get the rest of the story from someone else,” Jaskier murmured back and gave one last look at Geralt before he was turning and walking away and down the path. Once out of sight, Jaskier felt his body wrack with sobs and he fell to his knees crying in loud choking sobs. He cried so hard he felt bile rise and he vomited onto the ground as his body wretched loudly.

How could this have happened? 22 years… 22 fucking years he spent following Geralt in the most dangerous of places. 22 years of singing the praises of a man who was so unlovable and yet he had tried to change the view of every single person on the continent. Granted, that didn’t always happen but he had noticed the changes over the years. People were less likely to kick Geralt out of town. Sometimes they came to him willingly with problems. Maybe not ones he could always fix but they sure came to him. All because Jaskier sang Geralt's praises.

What did Geralt do to thank him? He yelled at him and made Jaskier feel as if he was nothing but a burden on Geralt. First, the man had said he was a horrible traveling companion and now this? It was almost too much. At that thought, Jaskier stood and took a deep breath as he tried to tamp down any feelings of remorse. No, only anger would blaze within his heart now. Not after what Geralt had done. Oh no…

Geralt had heard the sobs and the retching but he didn’t move from his spot. It was too painful to have Jaskier near. He cared for the bard and had always done so, but it was better if they were separated. Witchers don’t make emotional connections. That was what he was taught and he had made one with Jaskier even if it was only friendship. Geralt cocked his head when he heard the retching stop and the sound of Jaskier stumbling to his feet as he sighed and sniffed up the last of his tears. That made Geralt relax slightly, ‘Good,’ he thought to himself. ‘Now he can move on from this,’ that was all what Geralt wanted of course. For Jaskier to move on and live a happy normal life. Not one full of heartache and pain. Not one where you didn’t know if you would eat or sleep in a comfy bed. Jaskier deserved oh so much more than a witcher’s life could give him.

~ ~ ~

A year had passed and Geralt had finally found Ciri. They were on their way to the broken down ruins of Kaer Morhen. It would have to do if Geralt was going to train Ciri to become just like him. She was young, and impressionable but also fierce and her scream seemed to wrack anyone within a mile radius. Thankfully, he had only experienced that scream once in the six months they had been together.

“Are we almost there yet?” Her trill of a voice rung out on the large gelding she rode next to Geralt who grunted lightly and looked towards her,

“Almost.” He said softly as he patted Roach gently on the nethers. “A week’s more ride. I got word to Vesemir and he will be there to meet us,” Geralt stated and Ciri groaned ever so loudly as she leaned against the black horse.

“A week? You know we would have made it a lot sooner if you would have just followed a straight and narrow path there. You keep weaving us in the forests and small back waters towns to kill imaginary beasts.”

“They aren’t always imaginary. I killed two werewolves and a griffin within the last month,” he said as he picked up the coin pouch and shook it at her lightly, “you wouldn’t be eating or have new clothes if it wasn’t for me killing,”

“You could do for some new clothes,” she replied snottily as she turned away from him and stiffened up. Geralt rolled his eyes again at her and kicked Roach closer before he grabbed her reins and pulled the gelding so they were face to face,

“Take notes. If you are to defeat Nilfgaard and come back as the rightful queen of Cintra you will be doing exactly what I am doing,” he hissed lightly, “you will become strong, your magic will be honed in and you will learn to control it much better. Cirilla you are a powerful and fierce little girl. You just lack the common skills. Calanthe can take most of that blame but we will right it, got it?” Ciri sneered and kicked to try and get away as she made a face at Geralt,

“Don’t take my grandmother’s name in vain you… you…” She didn’t know what to say so she huffed and turned away from Geralt who let go with a sigh.

“Don’t come crawling into my bedroll when you are freezing at night then,” though his words held no malice or truth. He actually loved having the small 13 year old curled against his chest and sometimes she would wrap her hand around his shirt or knot it in locks of silver for a bit of comfort as they slept and huddled close to keep warm. 13 was the age of marriage but Geralt did not see Ciri in that way at all. No, this was his adopted daughter almost.

She was young, and innocent and Geralt had 90 years on her. So, he would comfort the young teen and try to teach her the best that he could. Even if it was only for a little bit after all.

~ ~ ~

The year was a blur to Jaskier. He spent most of his time drunk off his ass and singing bawdy tunes in lively taverns. The man was bedding anything and anyone he possibly could get his hands on. Sometimes that meant a romp in a nice bed or against a wall in an alleyway. Jaskier didn’t care. Why would he? He was 41 years old and his whole life was spent following an ungrateful man who only wanted him out of his life. So, of course Jaskier was out of the witcher’s life now; for good.

“‘Ey! Oi!” Someone called as Jaskier strummed his lute singing about some fair maden, “you there troubadour sing that one about that witcher an’ the coin!” Someone called and Jaskier made a face at the drunk man as he slowed his strumming,

“I’m sorry I don’t sing that one anymore. There are plenty of bards who are still singing the praises of the white wolf. I am not one of them!” He said as he went back to strumming loudly and humming as he did so. He felt the first smack of something and looked down groaning at seeing the bread. It had been the man requesting he sing toss a coin to your witcher and he glared as another piece hit him, “oi fuck off!” He screamed and dropped the lute. It clang and he cursed himself. It was the beautiful lute Filavandrel had bequeathed to him on his first adventure with Geralt. Hell, it was the lute he actually composed toss a coin to your witcher on!

“Toss a coin toss a coin!” Shouts started and he groaned and started up the very familiar yet heart wrenching melody.

“When a humble bard… Graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia… Along came this… Song…” He crooned and the crowd quieted. He got back into the groove and started to sing loudly as he danced along the floor. Soon, everyone was laughing and singing along with the chorus and throwing coins at the bard who would gladly collect those at the end of this song. Then, maybe he could drown himself into some more liquor and women? Who knew what the night would bring him!

Once the song ended, he quickly collected the coin and filled his purse up before he put his lute away and settled at a chair, “wine!” He called and there was a loud whoop as the barmaid quickly brought him the wine. He grinned with his ever charming smile and leaned forward, “thank you,” he murmured and placed an extra coin in her hand as he looked up at her with wide blue eyes. She turned bright red and giggled faintly. The girl was probably half his age but what did he care? He didn’t look anywhere near 41 (no one could figure that out either) and on top of that, he was handsome if he said so himself.

She skittered off as he sat back with the glass and took a long swig of it as he sighed. The warmth of the red wine tingled down his chest and into his stomach. Oh it would not take long for him to get drunk off of this. Maybe he could seduce that pretty little barmaid into his bed?

Jaskier pushed the long grown out locks away from his face. The mousy brown hair almost curly at his cheeks. It was a lot longer than he liked but he had no need nor want to cut his hair. In fact, his own face now matched his chest. It was covered in a thick layer of curly dark brown hair. He hadn’t ever let himself become unshaven and yet here he was looking rugged and dark not the baby faced troubadour that had followed Geralt to the end of the world and back again.

Jaskier had put on a bit of weight as well. Not much, just from all the alcohol he consumed on a daily basis had given him that gut. He didn’t care, why would he? People still fell at his feet to fuck and be fucked by the great Jaskier! Even without Geralt, he still was able to bed just about anyone and it wasn’t often he was threatened with death. That was a nice change. He literally could walk in to a town and fuck anyone without anyone so much as batting an eye; if he was careful that was. Can’t go fucking the alderman’s wife after all. Jaskier snickered at that idea and held up his empty mug for more.

The beautiful barmaid was quick to refill and he put another coin in her hand and let his fingers linger. She was a bright red and she grinned at him shyly, “I have a room. Maybe we could… get to know each other better? I will gladly serenade you with any song you wish my love,” he almost purred and she giggled even louder,

“Oh… oh that does sound amazing. My shift ends in a few hours. Maybe then?” Jaskier hummed and leaned forward again his breath ghosting over an ear,

“Room 206.” he said calmly as he sat back and she flounced off again as he drank his wine and adjusted what was growing in his pants. Oh, tonight was going to be quite fun after all.

~ ~ ~

Geralt woke to a piercing scream and sat up from the camp they had made. Ciri lay next to him but had screamed herself awake. This was quite normal and he sighed as he gathered the teen up and pulled her into his bedroom. “Shh… Sh…” He wasn’t the best at comforting but she didn’t seem to care. Hands dug into his shirt and twisted frantically as she tried to find purchase of some sort,

“I saw him.. The man with the bird hat,” she admitted softly and sniffled, “he killed you and he, he took me!” She cried as her body shook.

“He isn’t here,” Geralt stated bluntly as he rubbed his rough and calloused hands along her face and cheeks and up into her scalp lightly scratching and rubbing to try and calm the frantic child down, “no one can hurt you. Roach is on watch,” he nodded to the mare who just sighed and huffed at them as she paced tied to her spot. “Do you want to sleep with me?” He asked and Ciri gave a light nod as she settled down with Geralt who slowly leaned back and let her lay upon his chest.

Her breathing slowly went shallow out and she was fast asleep again. Geralt was wide awake though, his eyes wide as he looked up at the top of the tent; listening to the horses breath and the way Ciri murmured in her sleep as she wrung his shirt between rather strong fingers. He smiled and rubbed down her lower back in comforting circles as he too fell back into a deep sleep.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, neither talked about the nightmares or dreams. Neither talked about Ciri almost begging to sleep in Geralt’s bedroll as if she was a little girl. Geralt would never deny her nor would he ever bring it up to embarrass her. She had been through so much in a years time that it would not be fair to her. “We will be stopping at the next town,” he explained to her as they finished packing and mounting up onto their horses, “they may have a contract and we can actually have a bath and eat a proper meal yeah?” Ciri nodded,

“Mmm, anything besides rabbit and venison,” she said with a happy nod as they trotted along the woods. Geralt just gave her a light smile as he followed right next to her.

“Come on Roach,” he said quietly to the horse who neighed in response as he rubbed her side gently. Ciri smiled at him and silently sped up knowing Geralt would follow whatever pace she kept.

It was the end of the day when they finally entered the small and quaint town. People went silent when they saw the golden eyed witcher and the girl with the piercing green eyes and almost white blond hair as she rode proudly on her horse as if she was already a queen. Geralt loved that the most about her. She had no fear nor did she show any weakness. She truly was Queen Calanthe’s grandchild.

They stopped in front of the one inn, and he got down helping Ciri off her own horse. He left her standing in front of the inn with their bags as he went to stable the two horses. He paid a few coins to the stable hand to make sure they got a good rub down before he came back and picked up one. Ciri grabbed the other.

Geralt opened the door to the inn and felt the silence drop over them as if it was a blanket. He cleared his throat and nodded to the bar and Ciri nodded as she went to go to the bar and cheerily asked for a meal and some ale for Geralt. Geralt searched and soon found a dark corner and settled knowing Ciri would find him shortly. She came back holding two large bowls looking quite proud of herself.

“They will be bringing you ale soon and milk for me!” She said happily as she sat the stew down with the crusty bread. He hummed and happily took a bite of the bread before he dug into the stew. Geralt could hear the talk pick back up as everything seemed to go to normal as a scared looking barmaid came to his side and sat down the ale,

“Here you are, sir witcher. It is our best,” she bowed her head and cleared her throat, “M-may I ask if you are Geralt of Rivia? The white wolf?” Geralt sat down his spoon loudly and looked up at her as Ciri made a face and continued to eat,

“Why?” He hissed and she turned bright red and jumped back,

“N-no trouble I promise ye’ sir!” She cried and bit her lip as she worried it through her teeth. “You see, there is a bard in town… J-jaskier?” She said softly, “Well, he got caught up with the wrong woman and got her pregnant you see,” she explained, “it was the sheriff's daughter,” the girl said quickly, “they plan to… to hang him tomorrow.” She looked at him and his eyes were wide as he stared at her.

“Where is he?” Geralt asked and she gulped,

“H-he’s locked away right now. I don’t know what you could do for him.” she said softly as she looked to Ciri who was staring between Geralt and then to the barmaid curiously. “I just thought you would like to know. He cries your name when he's sleeping.” at that, she flounced away and Geralt groaned,

“Jaskier… I’ve heard you mumble that name in your sleep.” Ciri said softly, “that is that bard that used to sing that song?” Geralt glared at her slightly as she turned bright red, “just curious don’t look at me like that. I am not the only one who has nightmares Geralt of Rivia!” She snapped and went back to her food.

Geralt picked up his own spoon and continued to eat, but his thoughts were on Jaskier. He had to save the stupid bard from himself again! Granted, it had been a year since he had to save Jaskier from some cuckold who was out to cut off his cock. Geralt sighed a bit and stood as he walked to the counter. He made small talk and pushed a few coins and pointed towards Cirilla. The barmaid that had talked to him had nodded and he walked back.

“You will be going to a room.” He stated quietly, “you will take a bath and you will wait for my return. I will be back before day break got it?” Ciri’s eyes went wide,

“Don’t leave me!” She cried and stood, hugging him. Geralt cursed as this was not helping his image. No, why would a big scary witcher; the Butcher of Blaviken let a small girl hug him?

“This is no different if I were to go off to kill something.” Geralt murmured and kissed the top of her head lovingly, “stay sharp, you have the dagger I gave you yeah?” She nodded and looked up at him with tear filled green eyes, “no later than dawn.” Geralt repeated as she pulled away and sniffled,

“Please don’t leave me.” she said softly, “Come back please? I don’t wanna be alone again..” Geralt sighed and hugged her tightly again,

“Never would I leave my child surprise, got it?” She smiled up at him and nodded happily. Geralt pulled away as the barmaid walked over with a key,

“Come little one. I will draw you a warm bath okay?” She nodded and picked up her pack as Geralt grabbed his. She followed the barmaid out of the room and up the stairs to the room Geralt had rented for her.

Geralt sighed as he glared at everyone there as if to say ‘you touch her you die,’ and everyone got the hint well as he started out of the inn. He had to make his way to the jail to save Jaskier. That was all that was on his mind. Save Jaskier, get Ciri, and get the fuck out of this small town before his own head was on the chopping block!

~ ~ ~

Jaskier groaned as he sat in his own filth and leaned against the hard and cold stone wall. He had been locked up for a week now after he had supposedly gotten that cute little 22 year old pregnant. It wasn’t his fault she was so damned good and when he tried to pull out she stopped him! What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t exactly stop an orgasm as it started. Jaskier banged his head back harder and groaned at the delicious pain.

Jaskier had no hope of rescue. No, who would come for him? His family had no idea where he was. He was too far from Oxenfurt for anyone who actually cared to hear of this, and Geralt? Who knew where the fuck the witcher was and if he actually cared? If Geralt had heard of this he would probably just say it was a good thing and good riddance to the bard.

That made his heart ache again as he tried not to cry. No, he was not drunk enough for these feelings. Jaskier sighed as he despaired to the idea of dying here, alone and sad. That was it for him, death.

~ ~ ~

Geralt found the jail easily enough and tried to bully his way in, “just let me see him,” he hissed, “Why are you killing him hmm? What did he do?” The guard sneered,

“He impregnated the wrong girl! He knocked ‘er up and left ‘er!”

“Well, we all know bards aren’t the smartest or the most loyal to who they bed,” he snapped lightly as he stepped closer, “that is no reason to kill him. There must be a mage or witch you can get a potion to rid her of such issues?” The man looked at him with wide eyes but tried not to be bullied as he stepped even closer,

“Does it look like we ‘ave a mage?” He sneered, “we barely ‘ave an inn! Now get along or we will be tossin ya in there to die along side the bard!” Geralt sighed and slowly formed the sign for Axii and let the sign touch his mind,

“You will give me the keys and I will let the bard out. There will be no violence and we will leave here immediately.” He said softly as he saw the sign take over the man’s mind. The man blinked and started to look for the keys on himself before he said,

“‘Ay sir witcher, don’t have no keys,” he mumbled and Geralt felt himself curse as he also started to look over the man. For sure, he had no keys. Geralt pushed past him and went into the small office and started to dig. No, no keys here either!

“Who the fuck doesn’t give the guard keys!?” He nearly screamed at the guard and kicked his knee out as the man fell with a cry. “Fuck,” he cursed and started to think. He would just have to wait until they were ready to execute him. Yes, he would lay in waiting with Ciri ready to ride out the minute he grabbed Jaskier. That would have to work. “Fine,” he hissed and let the sign go as he quickly left the man in pain on the ground screaming from a possible broken knee.

~ ~ ~

Geralt made his way back to the inn and Ciri had already bathed and was in a new set of clothes. When he entered, she was cowering but when she saw it was him; she flung herself and he wrapped his arms around her as he caught her. “See? I’m back,” he soothed as she looked up,

“Where is the bard?” She asked curiously and Geralt sighed,

“The damned guard didn’t have a key. We are going to go to bed and wake before the sun.” He explained, “we will have you on Stepper waiting with Roach and our things and I will grab him when he’s in the process of being moved to be executed alright?” Ciri nodded and curled up on the one bed. He slowly crawled in after her and fell asleep. Though, it was light because he refused to sleep past dawn.

~ ~ ~

Geralt woke with a gasp and sat up. Ciri was curled with her back against his side snoring lightly and looking so pleasant. He brushed a piece of blond hair from her face and bent to kiss her cheek as she twitched a bit, “time to wake,” he murmured in her ear. She huffed and yawned as she rolled over,

“It’s so early.” she complained but was already up and starting to gather their things. She was pretty organized and neat such as Geralt and Geralt thanked Melitele that she was.

They descended the stairs of the silent inn. It was still early enough no one was awake. Even when they went to grab the horses, the stable boys were fast asleep in piles of hay. Geralt had to shush Roach who wanted to neigh and whinny at seeing him. Stepper pranced in his spot as Ciri quickly threw the blanket and saddle up as she deftly buckled it. She had become quite efficient in the last six months with Geralt. Geralt had to stop and watch with pride.

They lead the horses out of the stables and Ciri quickly stepped onto the large horse, Stepper as Geralt tied Roach’s reins to Ciri’s saddle, “stay, Roach,” he commanded as she tried to pull away but stopped at that as Ciri soothed the chestnut mare. “Alright, I want you waiting on the outskirts of town in the tree lines.” He nodded towards the road, “south east. We will have to be quick or I will be killing when I do not wish to kill alright?” Ciri nodded silently,

“You will come for me, right?”

“Don’t be silly, you have my horse,” he tried to make it sound like a joke and Ciri thankfully got the dry humor and smiled before she kicked Stepper forward. The horse huffed but moved easily enough with Roach following not too far behind.

Geralt only had a small dagger within his belt. His two swords had been tied to Roach’s saddle for he sensed he would have no need for a sword in this fight. Geralt could almost always incapacitate a normal man with his bare hands.

The witcher moved almost as if a ghost through the silent and quiet roads of the small town. He found the jail and hid behind it as he listened. He could hear shouts and cries and laughter as it seemed they were roughing Jaskier up one last time. He winced and had to stop himself from lunging in already.

Though, he heard laughter that sounded like Jaskier as if Jaskier was laughing at the pain. He could hear the faint, “that’s all ya got!? Come on! You horses arse!” Yes, that was definitely Jaskier. Geralt cursed lightly,

“You have no self perseverance.” He said out loud. He heard a loud crack and winced. That had to have hurt for he did not hear Jaskier again.

“Damned bard, doesn’t know when te’ shut eet,” a man said in a rather thick accent. “Come we need te’ hang ‘im before that damn witcher comes back,” he hissed as he heard movement and nodded to himself. They were going to move him. Geralt could feel the warmth of the sun as it started to rise ever so slowly. A rooster crowed three times and he quirked a smirk at that.

There was a loud squeak Geralt recognized as an unoiled metal door. He pressed himself closely to the side of the building as he heard the door bang open and they brought out a half unconscious Jaskier. Geralt steeled himself for a fight and sneered; baring teeth as he saw the sorry state Jaskier was in.

Jaskier had shackles on his ankles and rope keeping his wrists together. His clothes were tattered and bloodied. His face was bruised and swollen with dried blood from a bloodied lip and bloody nose.

“Fuck,” he hissed quietly under his breath as one man held the rope and another followed behind Jaskier. Geralt’s golden eyes darted and he was thankful to not see anyone else. At least if there was blood shed, it would be two no more than that.

Geralt was silent as he fell into step behind the three without so much of a sound. Geralt was big, but he could be light on his feet. He had to be when it came to killing monsters. It didn’t take much for Geralt to grab the man behind Jaskier and put him into a sleeper hold. He shushed him as the man went down quickly and quietly. He dropped the body to the ground before he looted the body. He smirked at taking the small coin pouch and found what he hoped was the keys to the shackles upon his friend’s ankles.

He fell back behind them and walked silently thankful neither turned around. Though, Jaskier soon tripped and was on the ground crying softly as Geralt stopped and looked upon him with such empathy. His own heart was slowly hurting in his chest as the second guard turned to curse at Jaskier. Though, his eyes went to Geralt standing there silently, holding a set of keys,

“You! You fucker!” He snarled as he dropped the rope and moved to attack. Geralt easily dodged the blows and moved about. He dipped below and used an elbow to jar the man to the side before he grabbed him and wrestled him down. It was quick and painless as he snapped the man’s neck with a loud crack.

Jaskier had sat up and was sitting on bare knees as he stared at Geralt through horrified blue eyes. Geralt dropped to his knees and grabbed his friend’s face between now gentle hands,

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt murmured gently as he rubbed his cheek with a thumb. Jaskier looked away defeated as Geralt continued, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. You don’t have to forgive me but I won’t let you die,” Geralt admitted softly, “you won’t die today, I promise.” Jaskier felt a scream rip through him as he pulled away and started to sob as he brought his bound hands to his face and sobbed uncontrollably.

This was what he wanted, this feeling. He had wanted this and here Geralt was. He had saved him from dying. A weight had lifted from his shoulders as he wailed and sobbed. Geralt was unsure what to do but sit there with a hand on his shoulder. Though, he looked around and cleared his throat a bit, “Jask, more guards are coming. We need to go, now.” He hissed and used the dagger to cut the rope off. Jaskier rubbed his sore and chafed wrists as Geralt fumbled and found the right key to let his ankles out.

“Can you run? “He asked and Jaskier shrugged. At that, Geralt didn’t care as he tossed the bard over his shoulder and started for the path he had told Ciri to wait on. Jaskier didn’t argue or complain as they made it quickly to the horses. “When I say run, I mean it.” he said to Ciri who nodded and held onto the reins tightly. Geralt untied Roach and tossed a limp Jaskier up onto Roach.

He climbed up and held Jaskier against his chest as he felt an arrow whiz past his head. “Run!” He screamed and Ciri easily kicked Stepper into running. The reason the horse was fondly called stepper was because when he wanted to go, he went.

Roach was no slouch and followed behind just as quickly as Geralt used one hand to steer and one hand to hold onto the limp bard. They rode like that until they were far enough that no one had followed. “Woah woah!” He called and Ciri reined back. Stepper reared but she held fast as he soon settled. Roach just huffed as she slowed to a stop. “We need to assess the damage.. Jask can you walk?” Jaskier nodded and slowly climbed from the horse, albeit a little unsteady.

Geralt got off the horse and rummaged until he found a few healing salves, “can I bandage you?” Geralt asked and Jaskier said nothing as he nodded ever so faintly and closed his eyes. He was silent as Geralt started to rub the healing salve over his body. The aches were leaving and the bruises would heal. Blood was wiped off of his sore face and Geralt cursed under his breath at how badly Jaskier had been beaten.

Once he was mostly clean, Geralt pulled out a pair of his own clothes, “until we can get you more.” he said nodding to the troubadour’s torn clothes. Jaskier was numb as he finished undoing the buttons and didn’t seem to care that a girl was watching with curious eyes as he stripped to underwear. He shakily pulled on the black tunic. It was rough but it smelt of Geralt and Jaskier sighed as he took a deep breath and almost fell right there just from that scent. Geralt helped him into the trousers and buttoned them. They were only a few centimeters too short and the shirt was large and loose due to Geralt being built a lot more. The pants stayed up though and that was nice.

“Alright, we are going to ride until dark and set up camp.” he murmured softly, “you can ride Roach with me. Is that okay?” Jaskier just numbly nodded as Geralt climbed back onto the mare and pulled Jaskier behind him. Jaskier quickly wrapped lithe arms around his friend’s waist and laid his head against Geralt’s back. Geralt gave a faint smile and Ciri smiled to,

“Nice to meet you. He used to dream about you,” she said and Geralt gave her a look, “what I would wake up and you would be mumbling his name and saying sorry and you messed up,” she shrugged innocently and Jaskier looked at Geralt quietly with curious eyes.

“We can talk when we settle down,” he said softly and Jaskier just nodded as they started to ride again. It was best to get as far away as possible just in case they wanted to pursue the three.

~ ~ ~ It was almost dark when Geralt finally called for a stop. They were next to a spring fed river and with it being so hot during the days he knew it would be quite warm still, “alright we will make camp here. Ciri, can you set a trap?” She nodded and jumped off Stepper, tying him off with deft hands before she grabbed the supplies from her pack and started to trudge the woods for a perfect place for a trap. Geralt got off Roach and helped a still quiet and limp Jaskier.

Geralt found a log and heaved it to a spot and pointed. Jaskier sat with no qualms as Geralt started to gather up twigs and leaves for kindling. It wasn’t long before he had a fire started and Ciri had came back to announce her trap was set. She started to help set up camp as she always did. Though, green eyes kept looking at the older man that seemed as if he was a shell of a man now.

“Geralt? He doesn’t look so good,” she finally murmured into his ear and Geralt sighed,

“I think it is shock. I will try to bring him around. Get the tent ready I am going to take him to bathe. No peeking,” he teased and she snorted,

“We’ve bathed together plenty of times!” She said and he chuckled as he grabbed two towels from one pack and pulled Jaskier up ever so gently,

“Let’s go take a bath…” Jaskier just hummed and followed easily behind Geralt to the river. Jaskier let Geralt undress him before Geralt slowly stripped and pushed Jaskier into the warm waters. Geralt sighed, “not a bath bath but it's better than nothing…” He said softly and Jaskier just hummed and started to wash without prompting. That made Geralt feel better as he too started to clean himself off with the grime of the traveling. He hadn’t gotten to bathe like Ciri did at the inn.

Once they were clean, Geralt pulled Jaskier out and dried the man off before he put more healing salve all over the scraps, cuts and bumps he had. He cursed under his breath at how marred that once smooth skin was in just a year. Jaskier dressed as Geralt dried himself off and pulled his own clothes back on.

When they entered the campsite, Ciri was skinning two rather large rabbits and grinned up at Geralt, “I’ve gotten good!” She chirped and looked to Jaskier and cocked her head faintly to the side, “you hungry?” She asked Jaskier who looked at her and then back at Geralt and Geralt gave a nod as he plopped down next to her,

“Starving,” he said hoarsely and she grinned at his first word being to her. Geralt smiled as he took one of the rabbits to finish skinning before they both were spit roasted and thrown onto the blazing fire.

They all sat in relative silence as the rabbits cooked. When they were done, Geralt filleted pieces and handed them out on crude plates he had procured in the last six months of traveling with the young girl. When Ciri got hers, she moved to go into the tent to give Jaskier and Geralt alone time, claiming tiredness. Though, Geralt knew better.

“Jaskier…” He murmured faintly as Jaskier picked at the rabbit eating it slowly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do or to say.” He said softly, “you mean so much to me and I was stupid. I was stupid to force you to leave me.” Jaskier twitched and looked up behind lidded blue eyes,

“I...I just wanted to do my best for you,” Jaskier said softly. “I wanted to be your companion, your friend, maybe even your lover.” Jaskier felt his cheeks rise in heat as he cleared his throat, “you hurt me so bad,” he choked faintly,

“I wanted to do my best and yet my best wasn't good enough was it, Geralt?” He asked and Geralt felt his heart thud loudly and rapidly.

“I-it was good enough. I promise you Jaskier.” Geralt replied gently as he moved so they were sitting closer. Jaskier was leaning his back against the log and Geralt fell to the ground next to him. He let his leg touch Jaskier’s and Jaskier did not pull or shrink away. “I was so hurt by Yen, and I took it out on you. I didn’t want you to suffer anymore traveling with me,” Geralt said softly, “but I can see now you were suffering without me.” Jaskier snorted as he sat the plate down of uneaten rabbit.

“I suffered more without you than I did with you,” he said softly as Geralt hummed and nodded,

“I realise that now. I also realise I can have a companion and care for them as well as protect them,” he nodded his head towards the tent where he could tell Ciri was leaning and listening.

“I loved you, Geralt,” Jaskier finally admitted, “I fell madly in love with you. Why would I give you my twenties and my thirties?” He asked as he stared at Geralt, “why I followed you everywhere and anywhere? You took my love and stomped it out on that damned mountain you know that?” Geralt huffed lightly and nodded,

“I know that now and I was wrong, can you ever forgive me?” Geralt had sat down his half uneaten plate and moved a hand to Jaskier’s knee. He was thankful Jaskier did not pull away but soon his own hand was shakily grasping Geralt’s as he grasped it tightly; lacing their fingers together. Geralt smiled and brought the hand up to kiss it gently, “I can’t promise to be the best but I can promise to love you fiercely. I want you to come with us; come to Kaer Morhen please?” Jaskier’s lip twitched and he nodded as he leaned closer to Geralt,

“Of course you and your child surprise?” He asked as he looked over and winked at the girl who tried to hide from the two men’s eyes. Geralt nodded and Jaskier took that moment to turn and quickly bring Geralt’s lips to his own. Geralt was surprised but happily tossed his arms around Jaskier and gave back just as good as Jaskier had given. Their tongues meshed and they kissed tenderly next to the fire light. Jaskier moaned and straddled Geralt’s lap and ground down as Geralt ground up but he pulled away and panted, “not here, not now.” he said as he looked up at his bard’s disappointed face, “we have a 13 year old girl listening and watching. I rather our first time be in a nice big bed.” He said truthfully and Jaskier nodded but pouted as he settled to just sitting in his lap and he huffed a sigh,

“Okay I can live with that.” he said softly and then cursed, “my things! My lute!” he cried, “oh they still have them! What will we do!?” Geralt groaned softly,

“I can go back.. Just me.” he said as he looked at Jaskier and to Ciri. “you two keep riding for the next town. Ciri do you mind riding double with Jask?”

“No,” he meek call came from the tent,

“Good I will leave at daybreak and meet you in the next town over. Ciri are you okay with that?”

Ciri poked her head out and looked at the two men, “he won’t leave me will he?” She asked nodding to Jaskier, “and you will come back right?” Jaskier looked at her fondly and smiled,

“My dear, I won’t leave you at all. I have wanted to meet you for so many years,” he cooed and slowly crawled off of Geralt’s lap and moved to her and pulled her into a tight hug. Ciri relaxed mostly because the scent she smelt was all Geralt and it was her comfort. She nodded against his chest as Geralt moved closer and wrapped them both into his arms.

“I won’t leave either of you. Now, let’s sleep so you two can get on the road and I can head back.” he grumbled faintly and Jaskier grinned,

“Can I share your bed roll?” He asked and Geralt rolled his eyes,

“If she doesn’t beat you to it,” Jaskier gasped loudly,

“Is my place in your heart being replaced by such a sweet girl!? Oh what will I do!?” Geralt just grunted,

“Not like that. Shes… shes like my daughter,” he admitted and Ciri flushed before she dove into her own bed roll. Thankfully, Geralt’s was big enough for the two adult men and they easily fell into a deep sleep.

~ ~ ~

Geralt and Roach were gone before the other two had stirred. He had left a large coin purse so they could purchase a room. Ciri woke against an unfamiliar chest and gasped as she sat up but then noticed it was the sleeping troubadour and slowly settled against him until he woke with a yawn and smiled as he stroked her hair, “morning princess.” he chirped and she smiled happily,

“We should head out that is what Geralt would want,” she said quietly and he nodded,

“Of course, come let’s pack up shall we?” They made quick work of the campsite and were soon both on Stepper and riding for the main path to get to the next town over.

~ ~ ~

Jaskier had gotten them a single room with two beds so they could wait for Geralt. They expected him to be only a day but one turned to two and then three. Every day, Ciri became more and more distraught, “what if he doesn’t come back? “She cried on the third night as she wiped her eyes, “he left us he won’t come back!” She was now wailing and Jaskier had pulled her into his arms and settled on the bed trying to comfort the teen against his chest.

“Now, now there! He just probably got held up, maybe he got a contract?” He asked gently. “Why don’t we go down stairs and get something to eat? He should be here any time I promise you. He wouldn’t leave us.” at least, that was what Jaskier was trying to rationalize as well. Would he? Did Geralt think he would be better suited to care for Ciri?

Jaskier was able to prod the younger girl down the stairs and he quickly called for ale, milk, and food. They settled in a dark and quiet corner and started to eat and drink. Ciri still looked miserable as Jaskier tried to comfort her.

The door swung open and everyone stopped as the gold eyed witcher stepped inside. He looked bloodied and his eyes were blown. Everywhere he looked, everyone shrunk away quickly. Jaskier saw this and grinned as he stood, but Ciri was already flying at him and clinging to him as the man dropped the bags and lute to the floor. “You did come back!” She cried and he sighed softly and kissed her head,

“Got held up. Food.” he said roughly to the bar keep who nodded as Geralt fished the items off the floor and walked, holding Ciri to the table with the bard. “Got your things.” he grunted softly and Jaskier smiled gently,

“Thank you.” he murmured softly, “see? Told you princess!” he teased the girl who smiled and sat back down. Geralt sat next to Jaskier as a plate of food and a mug of ale was brought to him. He took a big swig and dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Once Geralt was done, he asked for a second room for Cirilla so he could bathe and maybe talk to Jaskier alone without the 13 year old eavesdropping. She fought the idea of having to sleep in a room by herself, but thankfully it was right across the street and Geralt promised if she got scared she could crawl into bed with him and possibly Jaskier.

She acquiesced and they made their ways to the respective rooms. Once Ciri was in her room, and their door had shut, Jaskier had his hands all over Geralt. “Are you hurt? Do you need to be rubbed down? Anything I can stitch?” The bard asked gently and Geralt shook his head as he put strong hands on his friend’s shoulders.

“Just a bath,” he rasped quietly and Jaskier nodded. Geralt pulled away and quickly went to the tub. The water was cold so he lit it with igni and slowly undressed before he slipped into it. The water smelt of roses and chamomile and he knew that Jaskier and Ciri probably had bathed in it before. He didn’t care too much. A bath was what he needed.

Jaskier dropped to his knees and put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and massaged lovingly before he leaned closely, “we missed you… I missed you,” he admitted and Geralt huffed and leaned back a bit,

“I got caught up with the guards. It wasn’t pretty let’s put it that way. Got some nice coin out of it,” he smirked lightly,

“Geralt! You did not become a brigand and steal from them!?”

“Not like they were going to use it,” Geralt grumbled lightly. “We can rest here for the night and start on for Kaer Morhen tomorrow alright?” Jaskier nodded at that and sighed as he started to help wash Geralt’s back gently. Geralt happily leaned forward and moaned softly at the touches. Jaskier felt his face heat up and he cleared his throat gently,

“Geralt.. I have a confession,” he said softly as he pulled his hands away, “you may tell me to leave or send me on my way again but I can’t hold back any longer. I’m not a young man anymore as you know…” Geralt looked over at him over his shoulder and waved a hand for him to continue, “my point being is: I am in love with you. I always have been. Something about you drew me to you and I was never able to get away,” he said softly and sighed a bit. Geralt just sat there in stunned silence as he watched Jaskier, “S-say something please,” Jaskier almost pleaded as he felt his chest tighten at the idea of Geralt rejecting him again.

Geralt turned in the tub and surged up. His lips crashed against Jaskier’s and they shared a rough kiss that was all teeth and moans. Jaskier groaned as he was pressed against the floor next to the tub with a very naked and very soaking wet Geralt on top of him. Geralt lessened the kiss and it became gentle and loving as he ran strong hands up and down the bard’s body.

When it almost became too much, he pulled away and panted slightly as he looked down at the bard who looked as if he was shocked. “Bed,” Geralt murmured softly and Jaskier nodded and scrambled for the bed quickly. The tunic he wore that was Geralt’s came off and he undid the pants but did not pull them off. His boots got kicked to the side as Geralt stood and shook out the wet hair. He walked silently to the bed, still naked before the bed dipped with his weight.

He dropped down next to Jaskier and pulled Jaskier to his naked chest as he laid down. Jaskier leaned against it before he was pulled up again for another rough and loving kiss. Jaskier moaned quietly as he pressed himself against Geralt. Geralt pulled away and murmured against kiss swollen lips, “I am so sorry Jask. I never meant to make you feel that way. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh you silly Witcher… I already have,” Jaskier stated and grinned as he dived back in for another heartwarming kiss. Geralt flipped them so Jaskier was beneath him. Strong hands were running all over his body and Jaskier was sighing happily into the ministrations.

One hand soon cupped between his legs and Jaskier flushed as he felt a surge of arousal hit straight at home. The hand massaged and rubbed until Jaskier was grinding back and moaning loudly for more. Geralt soon ripped the pair of trousers off and down his body and smirked at the naked form of his now lover.

“Lovely,” he breathed and Jaskier flushed as he tried to hide almost in embarrassment. Geralt pinned the arms away and bent to kiss him again as he rubbed his own growing erection against Jaskier’s. Jaskier gasped and moaned softly at that as Geralt ground down and groaned against his lips.

“Jaskier, I want you to fuck me,” Jaskier’s eyes flew open and he almost sat up but bumped against Geralt and fell back,

“W-what?” He asked loudly, “F-fuck you? You?” Jaskier stared at the well muscled chest, the lovely patches of fur that ran down and all those damn scars. The fact his cock was rather large and pulsing against his thigh and he gulped. Granted, Jaskier was unsure if he could take something so large. It had been years since he had bottomed. “Are you sure?” Geralt nodded and rolled over and laid down, legs open,

“Very,” he breathed softly as he smiled up at Jaskier, “please?” Jaskier groaned and nodded as he quickly bent down to take what he could of the thick piece of meat into his mouth. Geralt just moaned softly and let Jaskier work his magic.

Jaskier was incredibly skilled with his tongue and it made Geralt drip with precum as he felt the man bobbing his head roughly up and down. Geralt placed one hand in his hair to help steady and let Jaskier work. It wasn’t long before Geralt was pulling Jaskier off his cock and panting, “gonna cum if you keep this up. Rather cum around your cock.” Jaskier moaned at that and nodded,

“Oil?” He asked and Geralt groaned as he rolled off the bed and dove into his pack. Soon, he pulled out a small tin with some salve that was great for sore muscles. This would do perfectly. Geralt crawled back onto the bed and laid out on his back, legs open. Jaskier fought with the tin for a minute before he finally got it open. He grinned nervously but soon was scooping some and covering his fingers in the thick substance.

One finger went between his lover’s legs and down his crack. Geralt tensed slightly but soon relaxed when said finger started to massage his hole slowly. Geralt groaned and bit his knuckle lightly as to not be too loud. Jaskier massaged and worked the tender hole until it was finally pliable. At that, he pressed his finger into the first knuckle. There was little to no resistance so it was easy to press it all the way in.

Jaskier moved said finger in and out slowly watching Geralt for any signs of pain. There was nothing but signs of pleasure as Geralt actually moaned and panted out loud as he pressed back against the finger. Jaskier groaned and pressed in a second. Geralt hissed but it was a hiss of pleasure not pain. Jaskier slowly scissored the two fingers and kept working him open before Geralt swatted at his hand, “I’m ready damnit. I don’t need as prepping as normal people.” Jaskier nodded and pulled his fingers out before using the last of the salve to slick his hard cock. He pulled back his foreskin and moaned softly as he slowly settled over Geralt’s hips.

This would be a first, Jaskier had never bedded someone quite larger than himself. Granted, they were almost the same height but Geralt easily out weighed him and was much wider than Jaskier’s own form. Jaskier took a deep breath and slowly pressed forward and his cock breached the round and puckered hole easily. Geralt gasped and keened as his head threw back. Wisps of white framed his face and Jaskier had to bite his lip to keep from shouting ‘fuck’ into the air.

Geralt leaned up and caught Jaskier into another kiss as Jaskier started a slow and steady pace. His hips rocked in and out of Geralt and Geralt just moaned against the lips before he broke away to look at him with lust filled eyes, “you can fuck me as hard as you like, bard. You won’t injure me.” That made Jaskier groan loudly before his hips shot forward harder and he started a brutal pace.

Geralt fell back against the bed and moaned loudly as he felt Jaskier speed up. Jaskier grabbed the witcher’s legs and was able to put them on his shoulders and almost bent the witcher in half as he fucked down into his willing body. Geralt was a mess, crying out and moaning and encouraging the bard on before Geralt was fisting his own cock.

Three hard fists and he was screaming his orgasm as large white ropes shot out and covered his chest, hand and stomach. Jaskier moaned at the site and felt his own body stutter before he was shaking and cumming deep within Geralt; moaning as he released.

When he was finally done, he let down his lover’s legs and slowly pulled out with a groan. His cock was softening and overly sensitive now. Geralt’s was limp and still pulsing as cum oozed and pooled in his navel. Jaskier lay down and rest his head against the witcher’s chest and shoulder as he relaxed. “That was amazing,” he murmured and Geralt put an arm around him and hummed,

“Hmm, yes yes it was.” He said softly and smiled down at Jaskier. “So, will you stay with us in Kaer Morhen?” He questioned softly,

“For sex like that? Of course!” He laughed softly and Geralt chuckled as he rubbed soothing circles against his lower back,

“Good. I need you.” Geralt murmured and Jaskier flushed slightly,

“And I need you.”

[countryshitposts]

may god forgive us all

Happy Independence Day Philip :D have a smol fanfic i speedily wrote in two days

(also btw this 5k words of plotless stuff... i don’t even have a plot when i started and finished writing this fic-)

and this ended in gay

Trigger Warnings (not much but): mentions of child abuse, subtle racism, internalised homophobia, murder and violence

Philip is on this paradisiacal beach again; the salty sea breeze softly blowing on his - chocolate tinted - skin, the sounds of birds cawing as they pass him, their wings open, flying so high, so free with the winds, no fear evident in their faces. He watches them as they soar higher and higher into the sky, and he wishes that he could be free as them.

He usually wakes up to this, whenever he finds solace in his bedroom, and then bed; he’d usually sleep right away, since sleep is kinder than his father ever is with his frigid and degrading words. He would smell warm air, and the next thing he is hearing the sounds of waves and the chirping of birds.

(It was rather puzzling at first, but he liked the sensation and scenery so he stopped complaining, since this was a gift from heaven.)

He looks down on his dainty feet as he feels something grainy yet warm sticking on the soles of his bare feet; golden sand, unlike any other fertile soil he has ever seen. He smiles at how slippery they seem to be, even kneeling down to cup a few of the sand into his hands. He simply smiles as its golden colours result back to the beach once again; it was different from the soil he’s played at in Papa’s gardens.

(Because Papa ordered him not to play with garden soil but he was never around so Philip could do as he pleased.)

The thing with this golden sand was that it was always dry, like it has no room for water to help quench their eternal thirst, unlike those dark brown (as dark as his skin, much to his irritation and chagrin) yet rich soil that is almost always scattered around in Papa’s gardens.

The blue waves roll and collide onto the shore, the watery hands even tickling his bare feet (he tries not looking at them as he watches the water absorb into the sand). The birds frolic around the air even more, their wings open and so full on display that he thinks they’re all laughing at him, because he cannot join such avian creatures.

Lucky birds, he thinks, just when another wave comes in to disrupt thoughts on how birds have the liberty to fly around the world.

(Papa boasts about sailing around the world, but Philip is not sure if he has seen the oceans he’s boasted of navigating in such an abstract view as the birds.)

He smiles, as he dips his hands into the water; he feels a hard surface touch onto his soft and small hands. Amazed and curious, he pulls it out to find a shiny pearl- something he’s never truly seen (despite the fact that Papa loved calling his island a ‘pearl’, but it isn’t meant for him but for the minerals and riches hidden deep inside the land he will supposedly inherit) before, underneath his hands it was smooth yet hard; its colours were white with a pink tint to it, but when shone under the sun it produces an entire prism of colours- a rainbow in one sphere.

His smile seems to have caused a disruption in nature, since the dark blue waves he’d seen roll in the distance crash back on shore, harder, faster, spreading its talon-like-fingers as the colossal wave makes its way towards his direction. The waves’ shadow blocks out the sun like a monster finally cornering its prey- or scaring the common sense out of the natives.

(He’s seen Papa become scared at the sheer mentions of ‘rebels’ and ‘Muslims’ from an island near them; he’s been kept oblivious to such matters, to the point that he doesn’t even know what the definitions of those words mean- but that doesn’t mean he can’t read the expressions or look of horror on Papa’s face, that usually turns to anger at the mere second.)

Philip raises his eyes to greet the oncoming wave, just a mere meter away from him, its dark blue blocking out the golden and glorious yellow sun that he had felt on his hair and back all day long, the wave creating an enormous shadow that seems to engulf everything it touches.

Waves are a powerful thing, he realises; far from shore said tides were low, small, not even looking as if it can cause harm’s way- but waves are underestimated. It runs towards the shore like it has a score to settle with the golden sand, to engage in battle, even though such waves know that they can never truly see victory once they collide onto the shore. After all, it seems that water is just seeped into the sand; they dissolve into thin air, like how the sand does not get any nutrients from such waves, while still maintaining their dry exterior.

He stares at the wave seemingly trying to come down him, trying to deprive him of all his air, undaunted.

(The only thing that scares him is his Papa’s cold and frosty glare; he can make ice just from his dark red eyes.)

Thus, the wave seems to have dove straight for him, trying to claim its price; he closes his eyes, thinking that this was the last image he would see - a giant blue wave crashing down and depriving him with air - the entire shore smelling like salt and sand and seeds.

Then he wakes up with the smell of fresh air- but not that fresh, since his father had polluted such marvelous and natural air before he had even been born, contaminating it with his orders and general - fear - attitude.

(He fears his hands and he fears his voice most of all- it was as if the entire heaven and earth shook and decided to merge out of fear.)

He looks down towards his hands- he sees no such evidence of grains of sand collecting into his hands; like he was never in a Garden of Eden after all- it was just a dream of hope and desire, into thinking that God would actually let him into the place where Adam and Eve were banished from due to listening to a snake’s whisper and letting such animal convert them to their indulgences rather than the promises of God fulfilled.

He swears at himself, feeling angry at the fact that he had just woken himself up from a dream that was meant to be forever, meant to be eternal… but then again, a dream is a shallow construct of the mind, reflecting on what he truly wants rather than what is given to him by his father- like the ungrateful little child he is.

He can already hear his Papa’s voice now, a growl and a roll of thunder, lightning igniting the entire skies. He can already feel the cold - how is skin supposed to be cold - hand on his shoulder, already anticipating his father’s disappointed look, that made his insides churn and his hands shake; even his confidence is no match for his father’s glare.

(Bonus points if he makes an ill comment about Philip’s skin tone being darker than his pale-snow-touched skin, and also - rarely - about his ‘whore’ mother.)

He sighs as he hears a couple of - rather pretty - maids asking if he was already awake (sometimes he wonders if his father would like it if he’d invite one - or two - of the maids in the house to lay with him) just beyond the doors; he gets up and starts fixing his bed (he wonders what the hell he even does in his sleep), still thinking of when he will wake up in the evening and if the shores of the beach has changed.

Then he turns his head towards the shrine of Jesus he’s had since he was an infant- a gift from Papa, to keep him faithful to the Lord above, the Creator of the Earth and the Ruler of Heavens that only allow those who had done good - and ardently believe in him - to enter into his domain of Good. with a monotone expression (he does not understand why he has to pray to a God who has yet to arrive and even grant his wishes and prayers), he approaches the shrine.

Philip touches Jesus’ bound feet, smooth yet cold to the point he’d shiver (Papa says it was made out of porcelain, so he must treat it carefully), his hands moving up to the nailed hands at the top of the cross, reminding himself that Jesus had died for all the sins of the world- and rose again. His dark brown eyes lie on Jesus’ look of pleading, his eyes giving him a look which seems as if he has experienced all kinds of torture.

Well- he was crucified, he states the obvious fact to himself, before taking the rosary he always has with him from his pockets (he has them everyday in his pockets, since Papa would sometimes show up unexpectedly and make him show that he was - indeed - praying to God at any given hour).

Philip then kneels, his knees coming to contact with the hard floors; this has always been an uncomfortable task, even if he’s been doing this since childhood- Papa tells him Jesus Christ suffered for his sins, so now he must endure such uncomfortable means to pray. He closes his eyes (what he always does to have peace of mind and also get into contact with divinity), his hands closing together on the rosary, and he opens his mouth to start the prayer.

His morning prayer (and lunch, and evening) was usually the same, only with additional words or different phrases to substitute ones that he had forgotten. He thanks God first for giving him another chance to live, another day for him to live life the best he can (which he doesn’t), then asking for God to bless him and his family and friends with longevity (which sounds so generic now that he keeps repeating those words over and over again), then asking to grant him riches unimaginable so that he can be happy (God doesn’t even respond to those wishes), and last - but not least - he asks God to change his - abominable - skin colour; to make it look like his Papa’s (The Almighty doesn’t even respond to that, no matter how many flattering comments he’s given).

After he was done praying, he stood - stumbling a little due to his knees - before staring at the shrine of Jesus, then leaving; he can’t really stand looking at a dead man’s statute. As he opens the doors to his bedroom, he greets the maids and servants courteously (giving the maids an eye of flattery and charm as he passes them as well), as he makes his way towards the farms his father has given to him to tend.

Then again, even if beaches or shores of a beautiful island are in his dreams, farms and the sheer view of mountains flourishing underneath his hands are visible in real life, and not those obsolete and destructive accounts of dreams.

Why would you try dreaming of something paradisiacal when you are already living - and slaving - in your own soil?

-

He’s back at the sandy shoals of the beach again; but this time it was different. It was a kind of difference that somewhat pulls on his shoulder, usually demanding him if he spots the unlike elements the night before and the night now. By a far - and disproportionate - glance, nothing on the shores were different, nothing was unusual. But if you were Philip - which you are - you’d easily notice that the reason why the shores were all so wrong and feeling different was due to the sun.

Philip, before being sent here, had - unintentionally - slept against the light of a candle wick (despite the fact Andres told him not to, but he’s not really the type to listen), while he was busily signing off letters to the other rebel groups. He’d been so deprived of sleep and wishing to actually rest that his body gave in to his desires and forced him to sleep.

Now he was here, back at these sickening shores that had haunted him since he was a child; but now with a melting sun to add insult to injury.

(He didn’t know when he started hating these shores- one day he’s decided to hate them since it’s become so mundane compared to the other sites he has seen in his long - yet laborious - life.)

His lips curl at the sight of it; its usual golden colour gives off a sickly-energy, the yellow seemingly spilling off of the golden disk that was meant to be the solar sun, which was supposed to be forever shining in times like this. But like a melting candle that gives off too much light, said sun is supposedly melting on its candle.

Philip wonders if there was any explanation to his dreams; he recalls the various education and courses he’s learned in Europe (he persuaded his Father to let him study in Europe- it’s become one of his Father’s biggest mistakes in his life), trying to make sense of his subtle dreams. He recalls that all of his dreams have some sort of symbolism tied to them.

“But what could a nonsensical shore with a dying sun represent?” he asks himself- since he is the only one present in this damned realm. “What could this possibly mean?” He swears to himself - a daily occurrence now that he’s being hunted down by his own Father - as he kicks the golden sand he’s come to know since childhood with his dark - and polished - shoe (no more of him being barefoot and running around like there’s no time in the world).

The dark-haired man sighs, before looking back at the ocean and its waves, seemingly serene- more serene than he’s ever seen it in his entire life. His dark eyes shine with fascination and a strange - yet familiar - pulling in his chest. He takes off his shoes, feeling the grains of sand on the soles of his feet for the first time since stepping onto the shore.

He smiles at the sensation; like the sand notices how distressed he is now so they try keeping him happy and smiling, his lips curving up in delight. He hears an onslaught of waves crashing back to the shore, and he turns to the blue horizon, running towards it like he was greeting an old friend he’s only seen again now. The waves seem to embody his happiness, as they dissolve back into tame waters, landing on his feet. He sighs at the sensation, sighs at becoming a child again.

Once he sees something shiny in the waters, he immediately scoops it up, and - much to his delight - he finds another pearl, its colors just like the pearls he’s seen on display, but for some reason, catching and seeing it for the first time seems to make the pearl more beautiful than it really is.

He cranes his neck to look up at the sun- but it is still giving off that dying light, but this time the entire beach was growing darker by the minute. His smile fades at seeing such a worrisome state; he doesn’t realise that the waters he had thought of as friends receded back to the seas, like he was someone unfamiliar. He glares at the sun, thinking that this would make it glow brighter, but the entire world flickers.

(“How come candles melt easily when in contact with fire?” Philip asks his friend as he writes a few more letters to their society members.

“Because they have a life-span too; just like us”, Andres - Katipunan - replies simply, yet in an absent sort of way; as if he was not as interested in this conversation as Philip is. “The wax melts due to the fire- the fire dies because it cannot be sustained by the candle any longer. They have a life-span, even if they are not living things. They can live and die as they please.”

Philip smirks into the letter - while eyeing the candle that’s been grievously lighting up the room - before turning to face him, “I got to be honest with you- perhaps you shouldn’t have studied all by yourself at all, if you’re going to declare such eccentric ideals.”

Andres scowls, but doesn’t look back at him, “You asked me why candles melt easily.”

“And your answer was about how long we live.”)

Philip wakes up with a horrible pain on the nape of his neck- he now regrets sleeping on his desk like it was the best idea he has ever thought of (to be honest, he’s not much of an ideas-master; that goes to Andres himself- but now they are not talking to each other anymore). He groans as he sits up, also realising his back hurts and that it was still evening, just by the sheer darkness of the room.

He then turns to look at his candle- the flame was extinguished, and the wax has melted to a pathetic little puddle of white mess on his table. Such a shame; he was going to pray to God Almighty for making him sleep early.

(He was also going to pray that he and Andres would be friends again- after that silly and ludicrous little spat his friend had after he was elected as President.)

He grips his rosary (that he wears proudly on his suit), muttering a few prayers towards the Lord, before getting up- he feels his head and neck throb in pain as a result of sleeping like that but he can tolerate it. After all, if Jesus can tolerate pains of being crucified, then he can tolerate having blistering pains on his body for as long as he’d like. He sighs- maybe he can spend the entire night just planning away his rather uneventful plans.

It’s why he needs Andres back- they can plan and make several attempts to drive out the Spanish once and for all. But to make him see that they deserve to be friends, one of them has to swallow their damn pride- and Philip is not good at apologising before making things even worse. Father is right; hubris truly is a man’s downfall, the path to evil and everything in-between.

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to sooth himself- before remembering that Andres used to do this with him so that the both of them can feel no stress. He feels an undermining anger; how Andres keeps climbing back to his memories like a moth to a lamp and why such memories were veiled under a fondness and a sadness; but a different kind of fondness and sadness.

The dream really did a number on him, and he didn’t like the sensation.

-

He steps on moist soil- an effect of the storm that had rumbled on last night, turning such a beautiful and eye-catching sight, deprived from reality, to a gloomy and dark bleak sight, as if the rain has devastated such land so much to the point it refuses to be happy anymore- like it was a wasteland and void where all of children’s happiness are sent and forgotten.

He stares at the sky- dead, the clouds as grey as the drab shade of night whenever She passes by, no sight of the sun that turns the entire world into light with just one peak of it; like it never existed before.

Like it doesn’t want to be witness to the occasion today; Philip also does not want to be witness to this as well, but it’s his job to do some justice- even if it means executing someone publicly (in the witness of all their friends). He feels another headache come in, and his hands subconsciously trace up towards the bullet wound his - old - friend had shot at.

It was still painful (but not as much as the pain he felt inside when he saw Andres aiming his gun at him), but in a sort of pinch of pain that would go away at any given time- the pinch of pain just usually reminds him that he was ambushed by his friend because he ‘took’ the goddamn position he’s always wanted his entire life.

(What if Philip never wanted that position? What if he didn’t rig the votes or confuse such voters? Will they still be friends - with false pretenses - or will their roles be reversed?)

Nevertheless, someone will still die today and such weather was suitable for this event.

His eyes avert their gaze from the sky towards his old friend- held up by two of their colleagues (he wonders what emotions those two were feeling, since before they were Philip’s friends they were Andres’). His dark eyes stare at Andres’ messy and disturbed dark hair (he’s combed it to the point Philip thinks the most monstrous of winds wouldn’t try tearing it down), his skin layered with a few mounds of dirt (Andres is conscious about filth- he hates it despite the fact he was raised in poverty), his chocolate brown eyes drooping like he was already dead, with evident dark circles on it (Andres’ eyes were almost always full of spirit and power, ambition and desire) and the only thing he was wearing is a filthy white shirt and pants (the Andres that he met ten years ago wouldn’t wear such a thing).

Philip, for his part, has to stand steadily and finally get him to talk to him- one last conversation, before his dear friend - or enemy, he doesn’t know anymore - dies. He musters the most stoic expression (which was easy, but it would perhaps be impossible to make the same face throughout the entire execution), before facing the young man once again (it was funny he looked up to Andres as a father-figure despite the both being aware that Philip was about a hundred or two years older than him).

His friend meets his eyes- then a spark reignited, but this time he looks at Philip the same way he looks at the many pictures of Spain or hearing about the ludicrous and impossible stories he’d usually tell him.

(Andres is a very reactive man- Philip was telling him of the story where his Papa had commented degradingly about his skin colour, and he gasps in shock like it was the worst crime he has ever heard in his entire life- even worse than all the murders his father has - ‘righteously’ - done in his lifetime. His reaction was so severe to the point Philip sees it as entertaining and starts venting about his life with that ‘No Good Man’.)

Andres spits on the ground - he knows he was supposed to aim at him - and the two men hold him even tighter than they did before; he glares at Philip, and he matches his glare as well, hoping his face was undecipherable enough.

“How dare you”, Andres says through gritted teeth, his eyes trying to conceal the hidden grief within but betraying him ever so slightly, “so this is how you repay a friend?”

“You’re not my friend”, Philip drawls, feeling a satisfaction on seeing Andres look so weak and pitiful, unlike the calm and composed man that had thought he’d get some price on holding him hostage. “You tried to murder me because I won the entire elections.”

“That was supposed to be my place”, he seethes, “then you came and took it away from me.”

He tilts his head in a manner that would seemingly look innocent- but Andres knows who he really is. “I don’t think they’d listen to a commoner anyway-” He smirks as Andres tries to lunge at him, completely vulnerable from the jab, “so you can say this is a blessing; I’m more well-versed in politics and leadership than you will ever be.”

(A complete lie- he knows Andres knows he was completely indecisive and forgetful, almost always latching onto elder and ill officials until Andres sees how much he is struggling and just tries helping him with these confusing times.)

“Fuck you. I should never have let you out alive if you’re going to turn out like this.”

His face contorts to anger- he was the more passionate of the two and Andres knows how to offend him, “Excuse me? I’m the rightful heir to this stupid and cursed island- it’s my birthright by now-”

“Would the people listen to a son of Spain?” he raises a brow, almost amusedly, and it made Philip’s blood boil- to think he’d let him go free and exiled from this damned place-

“I’ve heard that you’d rather spend your time with those pretty women down the streets and make bastard children with them than actually doing the so-called ‘duties’ your father had told you to do-”

“You know nothing-” He was dreadfully angry at this point; he can already feel the entirety of his body growing as hot as summer’s heat.

“You said yourself that you wanted to waste away into nothing rather than become Spain’s little minion”, Andres shrugs like he’s not spilling his various insecurities that Philip had trusted he’d keep them to the end of his grave.

He scowls, before deciding to take another jab at the man, “Your parents would be disappointed to see you in such a state; even they know that they’re not that desperate enough for this.”

Much to his satisfaction, Andres’ eyes shine with murder, finally freeing himself from the grip of the two men, before throwing himself onto Philip, surprising his old friend with his hilarious strength and willpower to make him take back what he just said.

(Philip had a sturdy build from working in the fields his Father had cultivated; Andres meanwhile, seemed to have gained his physique perhaps a time before something had planted the idea that maybe, just maybe, he can overthrow Spain. Much to his embarrassment - which happens often - Andres usually wins all of those physical - but also playful - fights they’d do.

Which made him envy the man.)

God, Andres was heavy- especially so if he was on a rage after he had deliberately insulted his parents (and his dreadful fashion sense right now), but he ends up finding his voice and rather than shouting at him to stop damn it Andres you’re really heavy (in a playful manner but he knows they’re not being playful right now) instead he just smirks - painfully, when Andres’ arm locates itself on his thigh - and says,

“Maybe this is really the reason why your parents let themselves die from disease”, his voice is left with a tone of smugness because he can and will; he finally gets the upper hand as his hands roam around Andres’ back (he was the more ‘hand-abled’ between them), locking him in a position in which he won’t be able to get up. Andres squirms underneath him but he has an iron grip; he will not be escaping from this any time soon, since he has all the time to hurt him. He presses his lips against his ear, a warm sensation, yet cold words are soon to be said. “Because they’d know how much of a failure you are-”

He feels a sudden pain on his jaw- like the few hits he’d endured from his father (he did not endure a few of his father’s hits as well, sometimes even collapsing after enduring a beating), but this one less painful than those his father had surprised him with; but he evidently loses his firm grip on Andres, resulting on him becoming free.

Philip was always slow to recover from an assault, and it shows when he was just about to rub the forming bruise on his jaw before Andres decides to give him another punch on his right eye- now that was something comparable and akin to the punishments his father has for him (which he talks about to Andres, who usually reacts explosively and seems to hate his father even more). He gasps from the pain erupting through his skull, combined by that damn pain in his jaw.

A horrible mix of pain- one trying to conquer its way through his skull to become the only possible feeling he could feel now. His other hand - which was pressed against his back - struggles to reach the dagger he’s hidden since the very morning.

Then Andres stops struggling; like he was in no state to fight anymore, despite the influx of strength he had just experienced. Philip hesitantly meets his gaze- and to his shock he is not met by the crimson red eyes of a former friend wanting to shed blood, he was looking at the dark brown eyes of a young man who had seemingly lost something important to him.

“I want to confess something to you”, his voice was as soft as that stupid voice he keeps hearing inside of his head whenever he is alone- a voice of nurturing and care. “I let you go not only because I thought you were useful for our cause- I also let you go because, frankly, I thought you were pretty.”

Philip did not have time to realise if he meant it in a rather abstract or sinful way before he feels lips crash into his- but unlike the few kisses he’s entertained in his life, this one was driven more by the sanity - or rather, insanity - of love and desire, as he helplessly watches himself be given into the sinful ways of Lucifer or Satan or Hell, as Andres tries to deepen their immoral kiss.

And there was something inside of him- like a rose finally blooming after a torrent of rain showers and gloomy weather, following the sun and its rays wherever it goes. It was a fire in the fireplace, reigniting and warming the deepest and coldest abyss inside of him. He feels as though he was being kissed by God himself, in the most naked of aspects and ways.

He widens his eyes in the kiss (why is he still kissing him?), finally realising what the feeling he is feeling inside, especially when Andres’ hand roams around his back, soothing him along the way.

He likes - no, loves - the feeling of Andres kissing him.

Like lightning shaping up the entire storm so thunder can walk and rumble freely, he takes out the dagger he’s been wanting to use since this entire thing started; he now has the excuse to actually kill Andres, as he was partaking in a wicked activity- something against God.

(I thought you were better than this.)

With a swift raise of his hand holding the dagger, he brings it towards Andres’ stomach- he feels the (warm, soft, and comforting) lips part away from him, choking like he was dying from some sort of disease (which he was, kissing someone of the same gender- he should be thankful Philip had murdered him before giving him away to conversion), the hands that had held Philip in place go limp and slack; his eyes which were full of a blazing fire is turning dull.

To think that he was so full of strength and determination when he had done such an immoral thing (he knows Philip knows that the Bible forbids this), only to be turned to a shallow husk of his former self after just a mortal wound to the stomach.

And then he’s dead- just another body in an ocean - world - full of one; each with a story to tell but they do not have the life nor mortality to tell their tales; thus, they are lost to a world where only the dead can go.

Philip then realised he had an audience- who were all either eager or grimacing at the concept of the Father of Revolution dying. They were staring at the body- perhaps in a new perspective: a perspective where Andres truly isn’t a god or divine being.

Philip shrugs- he was shocked as well, but he decides it was up to him to defuse the rather awkward and revealing situation they’ve just bore witness to.

“He was a horrible kisser.”

(He was an impressive kisser.)

-

That night - and the nights after that - he dreamt of the shores of the beach; but instead of giving off the familiar and relieving light the sun had given him the past hundreds of years, the entire sky was grey- as if the sun had somehow vanished from the sky, seemingly devoured by the ash-coloured clouds. Even the waves were still, its colours dull and with hints of grey like the night’s sky.

The sand seemed to be grey from underneath the clouds, like it was a mirror to see what was happening in the skies.

For the first time in his life, Philip can finally feel what it is like to be lonely.

[fmdtaeyongarchive]

headcanon #043: interest in performance art

word count: 1,688 words.

triggers: mentions of violence (including gun violence), assault.

ash is notoriously talented in the musical arts and terribly untalented in traditional visual art like drawing or painting, but performance art is something ash has developed a unique interest in over the years. he’s a dancer, a performer by nature, but it’s situation art pieces, so-called “happenings” that step outside the bounds of a simple enjoyable story performance that intrigue him the most. 

ash hasn’t gotten the opportunity to experience much situation art in person, as it’s generally meant to be experienced, but he loves reading about it and watching videos of it or on it. since the beginning of the year, he’s made a point to read more, and in addition to topics like philosophy, he’s delved deeper into research on performance art as well.

he’s most interested in art the explores topics of human relationships, the dynamic between audience and artist, the nature of art, and the human experience as a whole. that’s part of why he’s so drawn to situational performance art. though he’s one of many, he’s in particular a fan of marina abramović‘s works.

two of marina abramović‘s works he’s most interested in are breathing in, breathing out (which marina abramović did with ulay) and rhythm 0.

in breathing in, breathing out, the two blocked their nostrils and pressed their mouths to one another so that they could only breathe the air the other breathed out until eventually, they were each only breathing in carbon dioxide and deprived of oxygen up to the point of passing out. ash views it as a commentary on human connection and relationships and the danger of dependence in relationships — to rely too much on another is to deprive and ultimately poison oneself. while ash considers this to be a commentary on all relationships, be they romantic, friendly, or familial, it resonates with him in particular because of his own tendency to depend too much on romantic partners in the past.

violence tw, assault tw, gun tw // his other favorite abramović piece, and possibly his favorite performance art piece, is the famous rhythm 0 where abramović stood in a room with seventy-two objects, varying from feathers and food to a scalpel and a loaded gun, laid out on a table. she left instructions on the table stating that the others in the room could do whatever they wanted to her for six hours and she would take responsibility for whatever they did, absolving them of any responsibility of their own for their actions. by the end of the six hours, she’d had her clothes cut off of her body, had been cut with various sharp objects, someone had attempted to suck blood from one of her cuts, and someone had pressed the gun to her head and put her own finger on the trigger before someone had torn it away. when she moved after the six hour mark had passed, the audience had all scattered and the observers-turned-participants left at the closure of the piece, not wanting to talk to her. abramović stated she realized in the midst of the piece that the participants might very well kill her if given the right time and circumstances. there are obvious feminist implications to this piece that ash acknowledges, but wouldn’t feel qualified to talk on himself as a man, but the part that resonates with him the most is how it speaks to the relationship between artist and audience. art builds a fourth wall, even despite all attempts to tear it down, that makes an audience feel ownership and emotional detachment from the artist. the pedestal a performer is put on grants the audience the ability to do or say anything they’d like, even if it’s demeaning, violent, or sexual, without the fear of consequences — things they’d never do or say if faced with the face-to-face humanity of the artist. the piece really struck ash the first time he read about it and saw pictures of it, and he’d like to do a song based on the piece one day, or even an entire album inspired by marina abramović‘s works and his own interpretations of them in the context of human relationships and the relationship between artist and audience.

gun tw // the death of the artist by abel azcona is another piece that stuck with ash for similar reasons as rhythm 0. the artist had previously done performance art pieces on topics like religious institutions, politics, and sexuality that angered several organizations and groups that had caused controversy and caused him to receive death threats, and for this piece, he wrote letters to all of the organizations and people who had threatened him inviting them to a gallery where he stood on a raised platform facing a loaded gun on open display nearby on a platform. this is more of a commentary on persecution and attempted censorships of artists by powerful entities, something ash can’t really relate to since he doesn’t do anything provocative enough to earn him death threats from anyone other than edgy teenagers on twitter. nevertheless, it’s a piece he thinks about a lot in relation to the nature of art and an artist’s place in society.

other pieces ash likes to ponder are:

tehching hsieh thirteen year plan, where he declared that he would make art in private without showing it publicly for a span of thirteen years. at the end of the thirteen years, he concluded the project with the statement “i kept myself alive. i passed the december 31st, 1999.” it makes ash consider his relationship to his own art and whether he’s doing it for others or doing it to keep himself alive.

marina abramović and ulay’s lovers (another piece he’d like to use as inspiration for a song), where the pair embarked on a dramatic spiritual journey to end their romance. they started walking from opposite ends of the great wall of china and met in the middle to officially end their relationship with an embrace, a final farewell, and the promise to never meet again afterward. it’s the sort of poignant closure ash thinks every relationship could have in an ideal world, and it speaks to the depth of bond romance can root in two people.

marina abramović and ulay’s rest energy, where the pair balanced a drawn bow and arrow between them for four minutes, with the arrow aimed directly at marina abramović’s heart. this is again a piece with feminist implications of the societal power men hold over women, but it also speaks to the vulnerability of love to ash and the kind of unwavering trust he’s not sure he’s ever had with anyone.

yoko ono’s cut piece, where she invited audience members to cut pieces of  clothing and remove it. ash likes this one for similar reasons to why he likes rhythm 0.

roi vaara’s artist’s dilemma, a video piece where a sign saying “art” points in one direction, while another stating “life” points the other in a frozen, barren landscape. vaara deliberates between the two for the duration of the video before it ends with him standing in the middle, still not having chose one direction or the other. to ash, it’s unclear whether it’s saying one must choose between one or the other, that an artist exists between two different worlds, or that performance art lays in between the balance of life and art, and he likes that he can interpret it in so many ways without any explanations feeling hollow.

tino sehgal’s kiss, a choreographed piece involving two dancers slowly acting out a passionate embrace on the floor of a museum or gallery. among original choreography and poses, they reenact famous kissing scenes from other artworks such as rodin’s kiss and brancusi’s kiss. the piece to society’s simultaneous discomfort with publicized intimacy and fascination with other’s love lives, both historically through art and socially through gossip and rumors. it also speaks to the difficulty of recreating intimacy through art. as someone who spends a lot of his time trying to recreate love and intimacy through music, and has had plenty of people both obsessed with and shaming him for their own perception of his love life, this piece stands out to him on a personal level as well.

ash’s interest in performance art comes mostly from how directly it can invite the audience of the art into the work. it’s part of why he’s come to love performing (solo) concerts over spending every day of his life in front of a camera. (jay z himself has argued concerts can be akin to performance art in an alternative venue, and ash would like it if one day he could hold a concert that plays with that idea more.) performance art allows for statements to be made that can’t be made as resoundingly through musical art or the fine arts. in performance art, the artists themselves are the art, and oftentimes the audience becomes a part of the art, too, and it can be outside of the commodification and greediness of other forms of art because of that if the artist so chooses. videos, pictures, and books on performance art can be sold, but often the piece itself cannot be and lives within the minds and memories of the artist and the audience. situational art can’t as easily be censored, controlled, or shaped by rich collectors or executives at labels, and that’s a part of the appeal to ash, who has often felt his music has been compromised by the business processes of the music industry. it reminds him of why he used to love dance so much, how a live performance lives in the moment.

ash himself doesn’t think he could ever be a performance artist, though he’d one day like to have the chance to sit down and talk to performance artists about art through their eyes. he believes performance artists are greatly underrated and too often written off as fake deep try hards when the legends of the form have just as much to say about the human experience as the greatest artists of any other art form.

[kittae]

Spray Away

pairing: Hoseok x reader

genre: crack, comedy, fluff, reader POV

word count: 2296

prompt: Genie!reader + 15. “Please put your penis away.”

⟶ Halloween prompts masterlist

If anyone would ask? Then no, your life hasn’t been all that great since you’d been banished from the Spirit World and into a stupid perfume bottle, roughly a millennium ago. Granted, no one ever asked that question. They asked plenty of other questions, though. They asked for money, true love, to go back in time, more money, to bring back a dead loved one, and most of all: money. You may still be a supernatural entity with cosmic powers, there were limits to what you could do. Well, legal limits only. Apparently, just because you could, doesn’t mean you should. Messing with the balance between life and death, choice and destiny, was exactly what got you into this situation.

You were young, naive, hell-bent on helping those powerless humans. You couldn’t just stand there, watching them cry and go mad in despair when there was so much you could do for them. It was too late when you learned why they were not granted the gifts of your kind. You’re still paying for their mistakes.

Lucky for you, people these days didn’t fancy the looks of your physical prison. You’ve travelled all over the world, from one flea market to the other. Sometimes, you get picked up by a collector or someone who likes old things. They have a name for it now: ‘Vintage’. How stupid. Most of the time, though, years pass where you just lay in a drawer somewhere. Peacefully, unbothered, especially now there’s this awesome thing called Netflix! It certainly makes for much better entertainment than constantly replaying the same memories in your head. This era is truly not that bad, allowing you to sit out your sentence without any complications or devastating boredom.

See, to summon you, one has to squeeze the bulb three times, spraying the perfume in one sequence. Most people test the scent out once, decide they don’t like it, then put the bottle away for undefined periods of time until they get rid of it again. Lately, a few actually managed to do it right, but fainted when you appeared. Since your imprisonment, you’ve never actually granted any wish to those who didn’t faint. Well, not in the way they’d hoped for, at least. Not even a thousand years are enough to forget the way those humans betrayed you. It seems only fair to betray them right back.

And now? Right now, you’re meeting an old friend of yours: the dirty, dusty blanket splayed out on the ground where other old artifacts will join you. It’s flea market season again, it seems. The girl who picked up your perfume bottle at the previous one only needed a unique and old looking –sorry, vintage– thing to pose with during her boudoir photoshoot. Now she has no use for it anymore, you’re back in this familiar setting.

It’s so annoying. People pick you up and turn you around in their hands all the time. Can’t they just keep their dirty fingers off of you if they’re not gonna take you?!

“Hey! How much for that cool perfume bottle?” You hear a voice call out to the girl, sounding very chipper.

“Oh, you can just make me an offer! Any small change will do.” She responds.

Really? You’re not even worth a decent amount of money anymore? You’re a thousand years old, hello! That’s, like, antique times ten. You’re probably worth a fortune. What an Idiot.

“Hmm, then…” The boy thinks aloud, scrambling for change, “I just bought this pouch so I don’t have much left… Is this enough?”

“It’s yours!” The girl receives the change –you don’t even want to know how little it is– and another hand picks you up to take you to your new destination. You’ve lost count of the number of places you’ve been. Or rather, you’d stopped counting a long time ago.

“Ooh, there’s still perfume left!” He exclaims in excitement to no one in particular and you inwardly roll your eyes. Yeah, this one is gonna test you out for sure. Great.

Nothing really special happens after that. It doesn’t take too long to reach his home, where he places you in a bathroom cabinet before he takes a shower. He’s a good singer, though, you have to give him that. So this is it, huh? You wonder how many years you’ll spend in here before you’ll get ditched again.

To your surprise, you feel his hand curling around your bottle again. So soon? This is a first.

He sprays some perfume on his wrist and the action makes you feel all tingly and shivery. It relieves you, in a way. A natural thing that happens when someone tries to summon you.

Bringing his wrist to his nose, he takes a whiff. You expect him to be disgusted, like everyone that came before him, but he surprises you again by making a delighted kind of...noise? Oh, my god. It’s happening. He’s gonna do it.

You brace yourself, equal parts anticipating and dreading the reveal. You never know what reaction you’ll get in advance.

What you haven’t been considering, however, is your own reaction when the bulb gets squeezed three times in a row and you’re met with not a face, but something else entirely.

“OH– FUCK, NO!!” You stagger and thrash around to escape from underneath your liberator’s towel, grabbing and stealing it right off his hips.

Both of your screams are in sync when he throws himself on the bathroom floor, pointing at you like he’s seen a ghost. Well, he’s not entirely wrong in this case. Although if you could, you would personally decapitate anyone who would ever insult you by calling you a mere ghost.

“WHAAAaaaat the h-hell a-are you?!” He stammers, wide-eyed and seemingly forgetting he’s still butt-naked as you try to avoid the sight of him by covering your eyes.

“I- Here! Put this on first!” You squeak as you throw the towel back, somewhere in his general direction.

He doesn’t, though. He keeps whining and shaking, rubbing his eyes over and over again in the hope this isn’t real. “This isn’t happening! Not happening!”

“WHY WOULD YOU SPRAY PERFUME ON YOUR– YOUR–” You splutter, embarrassed beyond belief. Hey, it’s been a while, okay?!

“WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?” He yells back equally distressed. “I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

“Let me explain, I– for fuck’s sake, please, put your penis away.” You groan, reaching for another towel hanging from the rack to throw it at his head. Thank goodness he finally gets it and wraps it around his hips again, the red sheen of embarrassment tinting his cheeks and ears.

“This is happening. Like, in real life. You’re not going insane and you’re not dreaming.” You finally feel comfortable enough to look at him and drone off the words you’ve said time and time again, in the past. Humans aren’t exactly the most intelligent creatures, so you know you have to break it down for them every single time. “I am ___, a genie. You summoned me by...spraying perfume...on your- your dick...uh...”

He looks extremely dumb, with his mouth agape and hair wet and tousled, but also kind of cute. You curse yourself to an additional century of damnation upon realising your weak spot for humans still hasn’t died down completely.

“Seriously, who does that?” You ask, genuinely curious...or concerned. Maybe both.

“I-” He starts, closing his mouth to gulp loudly, “I-I have a date later…”

You nod, still not seeing how this could be a thing. Humans remain to puzzle you. “And your name?”

“M-my name?” He pokes a finger in his chest, “It’s Hoseok.”

It’s silent for a few awkward seconds until he speaks again. “Am I really not going insane? This is… Too crazy.”

“I know, right,” You mumble, more to yourself than to him. “But I can assure you, Hoseok, you’re fine. I’m really here, in your bathroom. Traumatized, but here.”

“Was it really that bad?” he murmurs under his breath, a pout on his lips as he finally remembers how his muscles work and stands up.

“I know you must be really freaked out by suddenly summoning a genie without knowing you were, but imagine how I’m feeling right now. That’s the first thing I saw after centuries of being locked up.”

“Centuries of being locked up?” Hoseok’s brows furrow. “That’s terrible.”

You scoff. “Oh yeah? Try a whole millennium!”

Hoseok looks genuinely horrified. It makes you feel uneasy. You’ve never had this reaction before.

“That’s- wow. Who did this to you?” He asks, carefully stepping closer. You know you’re in your human form, to minimize the shock factor, but you’ve never experienced this amount of compassion from a human before. You’ve only seen them do it to each other. Not you, their magical wish machine.

Right! That’s probably why! You haven’t told him about the wishes yet.

“So, here’s the thing,” You sigh. This is your least favourite part. You know, aside from being imprisoned. “I have to grant you three wishes. There are some limitations to what I’m allowed to do, though, so. Other than those, ask and you shall receive, I guess.”

“Limitations? What kind of limitations?” He asks, looking utterly confused.

Ah shit, here we go.

You shrug. “Let’s see, I can’t make people fall in love with you, can’t bring people back from the dead, or kill anyone for you. That’s pretty much it.”

You could practically see the little gears spinning in his head and you roll your eyes, predicting one of the three will most likely be money again. Going off of his tiny apartment, at least. And the fact he barely had enough money to buy an ugly pouch and your perfume bottle. Also, people just really love money.

“So I can ask for anything, right? Anything outside of those three limitations?” The words leave his lips slowly, as if he’s heavily contemplating something.

“Yup. ‘S what I said.” You knew it. The second you’d talk about the wishes, all supposed concern about you would suddenly disappear.

“Okay!” Hoseok beams, looking like the sun itself. “How about your freedom? I can do that, right?”

“You- what?!”

You must look so incredibly stupid right now, considering the dumbfounded expression on your face, yet it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. “You said I could wish for anything except for those three things you mentioned. You never said I couldn’t wish for your freedom, so there.”

You shake your head in disbelief, “Why would– why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, eyebrows frowned in curiosity.

“Because...Because!” You raise your voice now, heated, almost angry for a reason you couldn’t put your finger on, “It’s not how humans are wired! You’re supposed to only think about yourselves! Why aren’t you asking for money or to get revenge on someone like a normal person?!”

Hoseok scoffs. “Wow, sorry to disappoint? By the way you were talking, it sounded like you hate being confined and imprisoned. My bad for misunderstanding.”

Great, now he had you feeling bad about it. You still couldn’t process how he just went and wished for your freedom.

“Even if you’re really crazy enough to waste a wish on my freedom… Why make it your first one? You could still have two wishes left for yourself.” You counter, not knowing whether he’s just overly kind, or plain stupid. Probably the latter. “Once I’m free, I won’t be inclined to fulfill any wishes.”

He shrugs, smiling. “Because the only thing I could think about when you told me your story, was how terrified you must’ve been all this time. How awful you must feel. I know I’d go crazy in there if I were you.” He nods at the perfume bottle.

“But, still,” You murmur, unsure. He sounds so genuine, it’s getting harder to convince yourself of how he must be inherently evil, like you’ve thought all humans are up until...well, now. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m doing okay, you know?” He laughs, the sound ringing beautifully in your ears, “I got a job I enjoy. I know it doesn’t pay much, but that’s okay! I love doing what I do. I have a house that feels like a home… A dog who loves me. My family is still alive and also loves me.”

You’re not going to tear up, damn it. You’re over a thousand years old! Crying is overrated!

“Honestly, there’s just nothing I can think about that I want and don’t have already. But you wanna know something?” He asks, taking a step forward, really looking at you, “I still don’t know if maybe I ate something wrong earlier that makes me hallucinate, but even if I am… I just want to help.”

Well, so much for trying not to cry. Genies need emotional relief too. You’re having trouble looking him in the eyes while tears spilled from yours.

“You look like you’ve lost faith in humans and frankly, I can’t blame you… We’re a mess,” He chuckles, hesitantly raising his arm to take your hand in his. You let him. “But I hope, by doing this, you could let go of your anger and give yourself a chance to start over. With yourself, with us. If I’m given the opportunity to give you that freedom, I’m taking it with both hands and I hope you can forgive us. I hope you can be happy again.”

You feel like you could die, from happiness, from relief. For the longest time it’s what you wished for. One genuinely pure human makes you want to live harder than ever before, when you hear him speak the words to change your life forever.

“I wish for your freedom, ___.”

[alchemabotana]

Hindsight is 2020

Walk with us through our medicine wheel:

The Eastern Direction:

No one could have been less surprised by the announcement of the Corona virus pandemic than my medicine hoop. 

In 2018 a local paper, Yes! Weekly interviewed me on my predictions for 2019, in which I detailed many of the struggles we’d see that year as a sneak-peak on what to expect for 2020: Whaples said 2019 is the preparation and intention-setting year, “for the real show;” she said [2019] is the “dress rehearsal for 2020.”“It is an important year to set up positive energy for what you want to come in the future,” she said.

We saw this come to fruition in the work we do with Kindred Spirits, my shamanic healing store and art gallery located in Winston Salem, NC. 

In early 2020, we celebrated my most dedicated Shamanic apprentice, RJ Walker as the Winston Salem Ambassadors awarded him the Everyday Hero Award - an exceptional and much-needed recognition of BIPOC work in the spiritual community.

Having dealt with the emotional and financial hits taken by the closing of the major highway through downtown Winston Salem, we were more than excited to celebrate the re-opening of our roadways and a new lease on business and life. I worked with a local news station to bring awareness to our continued existence in the downtown community, and our work to support and bring together that community. I hope any readers will take the time to watch the linked newsclips in order to gain a deeper understanding of the situation.

Not long after this, one of our hoop members came onto our fb livefeed to announce the pandemic and warn others to be aware of the upcoming energy. You can watch this on facebook!

As soon as the national news hit, our store promptly closed its doors prior to the statewide shutdown. We continued to provide shamanic services and wares through our online portal, and distance work.

The Southern Direction:

RJ and I answered a spiritual call close to our hearts in early June with spiritual warfare and ceremonial ritual work on behalf of national and local protesters in the Black Lives Matter movement. I created a ritual crucifix for our hoop member Camille to carry in the protests. One such protest was held on the very street where our store resides, bringing awareness to the issues of racism on our street. A local business owner who had posted racist material was ousted from our block. We celebrated in solidarity with song, drumming, and our ceremonially summoning. We walked, carried the painting of St. Maya Angelou, and wore our traditional regalia with pride:

Antonina Whaples is a shamanic artist and co-owner of Kindred Spirits, a store and healing arts center on Trade Street. She has been marching in the protests while beating a Siberian goat-skin and birch wood drum.

She made a crucifix for her student Camille Adair to carry in the marches. Instead of the traditional Christ figure, the cross bears an image of a black madonna with a sacred heart.

“I said to her, ‘You are like a daughter to me, and I have no other way to express how I feel,’” Whaples said. “It is a layered piece. It is very personal and emotional to me. I felt like Camille would be protected by it.”

Her friend, Elyse Bottomly, carried another one of Whaples’ art works in the marches, “Her Majesty St. Maya Angelou,” which Whaples had made for Rosa Johnson, Angelou’s niece.

Whaples is doing what artists do: responding to the moment and finding ways to express feelings for which there are no words.

We were able to re-open in early July, seeing a completely new client and customer base supporting the work like never before. Just before re-opening, I was able to completely finish drawing the Minor arcana for the Piczanka Tarot, now available for first edition pre-order on the website.  We celebrated this victory by partnering up with an amazing team of entrepreneurs in Winston Salem: PinkTalk Podcast. We truly enjoyed being the guests for Episode 14, hosted by Bobbi Bugatti and produced by Mizz Faith. You can access it on youtube, facebook, instagram, and iHeart Radio! 

The Western Direction:

As a traumatic brain injury survivor still in the depths of my healing journey, I have been a high-risk individual for the entirety of the COVID pandemic. Going further inwards, I focused my sorrow, grief, and understanding on the transformative power of art throughout this year. Creating and displaying hundred of pieces of sacred shamanic artwork at my store, Kindred Spirits, became my purpose and grounding act of revolution daily. In a time of destruction there is nothing more revolutionary than to create.

From late September through August I focused my attention solely on my work for Winston Salem Fashion Week’s 6th show, presented at the Southeast Center for Contemporary Art. Although I had participated last year for the 5th anniversary as a model & guest designer with Melissa Coleman from Hanesbrands; this year I designed jewelry and headpieces for Melissa while also designing my own line of jewelry and clothing for Kindred Spirits.

 This year we presented the fashion week virtually, filming the showcase at SECCA in late August, and launching the showcase in October. Filming was exciting and different, with our models being able to walk through the open and empty gallery during the shutdown. It was a a beautiful presentation. I worked double-time, modeling for Melissa’s bridal line, and coordinating and preparing my own models at the same time. In fact, I walked with one of my own models for Melissa just prior to my own line’s presentation that day. Talk about being in two places at one time! 

My line was sponsored by Goodwill Industries as part of the sustainable fashion initiative of WSFW. I enjoyed painting shoes, purses, and hats - as well as upcycling clothing that represented the designs and colors of our culture lineage systems.

We were happily surprised when Yes! Weekly did a feature-story about WSFW, with our 2019 designs on the front cover, and beautiful large format photographs of additional designs in the inside story. I was especially proud of the front cover, as the make-up design feather, head-pieces, and jewelry thoroughly represented the medicine work we intentionally worked last year. The pre-runway experience was true ceremony. 

But that’s not all 2020 had to offer us! 

RJ and I also worked on finishing many of our long-term projects already far into the completion phase. We announced many of these upcoming releases with Yes! Weekly when it was announced that I had been voted the “Best Visual Artist in the Triad” by the paper’s readers:

“As an artist, to be named something like that in your hometown feels more special than some of these international awards that I have gotten,” she said. “Especially since people voted for it, it has made me feel more affirmed.”

In addition to being a visual artist, Whaples is the owner of Kindred Spirits on Trade Street, a Shaman, a published author, and a fashion designer. Last year, she gave half of her business to her shamanic apprentice, so that she could focus on creating art to sell at Kindred. The new book she just published is called Stone People: An Introduction to Stone Medicine, which she said is a descriptive book about “all the healing stones organized by the chakra system, and how to use them to heal yourself.” Whaples also finished drawing her own 78-card tarot deck she calls the Piczanka Tarot Deck, which is set to be released this month.

“[Piczanka] was the name of the holocaust camp that my grandmother was interned in,” she said. “So this deck is like a reflection and a message from those of us who have already conquered and lived through tragedy to others who are experiencing displacement in order to help them through their journey spiritually.”

Stone People: An Introduction to Stone Medicine has been a big hit at the store, with only 12 copies currently available of the first edition. 

The Piczanka Tarot first edition major/minor arcana has just become available for pre-order this month, and can be purchased on our website. 

The North Direction:

As we close the year, we celebrated the Winter Solstice and great conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in Aquarius (my natal sun & moon!). Along with this celebration of the dawn of a new age, we at Kindred Spirits were congratulated by the Innovation Quarter, Chronicle, and Triad Minority and Women’s Business Expo, the Urban League, and more as we were named the “Business of the Month” 

I became an official artist with Saatchi Gallery, an international fine arts organization with an online gallery. You can now purchase the originals or prints of many pieces of shamanic fine artwork created exclusively for Kindred Spirits through their gallery online. 

RJ and I are still hard at work completing the final touches of a project over 6 years in the making: the launch of the online Introduction to Herbal Medicine program through Piedmont Herb School. Although we had hoped to launch before the new year hit, it looks like the first thing we’ll be doing in 2021 is making sure that this very important information can be accessed ASAP.

We hope our local and extended hoops continue to be blessed by the important recognition of the medicine work we’ve been deeply involved with this year, and in the years leading up to this massive event. I truly believe that the more recognition and normalcy granted to shamans and medicine people practicing in the open, generational and cultural healing will move further and deeper in our shared experience of community and personal well-being, regardless of your place on a chess board of life. 

We’ll be in ceremony, of course, celebrating the new year and the beginning of our 27th year in business in Winston Salem, NC in the heart of the downtown arts district.

[questionablehero]

Of Mazes And Men || Subaru & Victorique

@lagoldenfairy

Stepping into the Ashinaka Library, the sight that greeted Subaru was beyond what he’d imagined even for the so-called “towering library”. Craning his neck back, there was no explicit end in sight of the myriad floors, each distinguishable by the railing guarding the floor itself from the vacuous center of the tower. The building itself was circular in structure, giving each floor the appearance of a ring of sorts, lining the shelved walls containing the library’s precious stores of knowledge. Connecting each floor to the next was a staircase, stretching from one end of the lower floor to the opposite end of the higher floor, in a zigzagging, criss-crossing pattern, so that when Subaru’s unprepared eyes looked up from the ground floor, he was met with the dizzying, labyrinthine spectacle that constituted this library’s structure.

“Huh… So when she said it was a ‘towering library,’ it wasn’t an exaggeration,” he muttered to himself. He had been informed of this library and its vast stores of knowledge by someone during his search for more information on the mysterious strain powers afflicting him. In addition to the ability to resurrect from death (with his memories, unfortunately, completely intact, and with no control over it whatsoever on his own part), recently he had been experiencing another foreign feeling. Originating deep within his chest, he could feel something unusual stirring, shifting, like a viscous sludge had wormed its way into his heart.

Curiosity had compelled him to nudge it previously, and he’d found that it was surprisingly reactive to his will, bending and moving with surprising ease. And, as he’d pushed it forward, a strange black hand had emerged from his chest, pushing out from roughly where his heart was but yet without any kind of physical repercussions to his body. It was at that point that he’d retracted his authority over the new power, making the hand vanish instantly. Fatigue had washed over him then, dropping him to his knees, as a strange gaping, sorrowful loneliness flooded his chest as well.

That had been his experience with the new strange power, which he figured must have been a new strain ability granted to him at some point. And it was his thirst for more knowledge on this subject that led him now to the Ashinaka Library. Surely, if any place would have information on such a topic, it would be this place.

“But, really, I have to climb all these stairs to the top?” Such had been the suggestion given to him by his contact, but… looking at it now, it looked impossible. Having been a shut-in NEET for so long, he really didn’t have any endurance to speak of. But, well, he’d already traveled all the way to this library, and he had his heart set on learning anything he could about what was going on.

So, full of youthful vigor and determination, he started his ascent.

One floor at a time, he climbed stairs to reach his lofty goal.

It wasn’t long before his determination gave way to sheer dread.

Three floors up, he was already exhausted, sweating through his tracksuit, knees wobbling from the demanding strain of the climb, and still had… countless more to go. Why hadn’t he at least thought to bring water?

Cursing his lack of such foresight, he continued dragging aching feet up more and more stairs, desperately grasping onto the railing for support as the relentless climb continued to sap away his meager reserves of strength.

…

Finally, after more floors than Subaru had bothered to count, his feet landed on the solid, even floor of the uppermost floor, his goal. Falling to his hands and knees, gasping for breath to fill lungs that screamed and ached for oxygen, he almost forgot for the moment his reason for even climbing up here as he fought just to catch his breath.

“Haahhh… Hahhhhh… Really… I need to know… What kinda architect… designed this library?!”

[healieas]

levels of beholding feeding; aka, will this successfully feed me or the eye?; aka, there are actions that beholding avatars are likely to take that may not constitute life-sustaining feeding; aka, the illuminati food pyramid.

the post where i break down what i personally consider feeding the eye to entail, including things that fall under the eye’s “jurisdiction” ( remember that fears are malleable and bleed into each other, and the eye especially tends to overlap with everything else bc it is a gratuitous voyeuristic sack of fuck, but for the purposes of this post i am going to try to focus on what in and of itself is eye fear and if it overlaps well that’s just fun and sexy isn’t it ) but do not feed it, things that engender beholding behavior but are not in and of itself feeding, things that eye avatars need to do to maintain themselves, and things that make the eye sigh and go “ah yes that was great food.” also this does not detail beholding powers. i’m just talking about the food, man. the gifts the eye grants its avatars is another story.

first and foremost, what qualifies something as feeding the eye? how does the eye “eat”? if something falls under the following categories, it feeds the eye: fear of being watched, fear of being exposed, fear of being followed, or fear of having your secrets known to somebody else. if something falls under the following categories, it is eye-related behavior likely performed by avatars, but is not in and of itself “eye food”: pursuit of knowledge, especially at the cost of one’s own health or sanity. obviously the latter can enable the former if that pursuit of knowledge is at somebody else’s expense, but what separates the two categories for me is that, to keep the eye as an entity from spreading so thin to the point where anything can be construed as capital-b Beholding because it involves observation or information, is holding fast to the eye being a fear entity. i.e., something can technically be in the eye’s territory of knowledge, but it does not become eye-related unless there is an active element of horror. of course, what constitutes “horror” is subjective, but i think that narrows down the options and removes, say, doing a book report from beholding. tma has a tight thesis of beholding being the horror of watching something terrible and doing nothing to intervene, or the inherent evil of inaction when one is witnessing an atrocity. 

therefore i’m going to make my grading for eye food the following. ( note that like... there’s grey area in between each level where, by taking a lower level to an extreme, you could slide it up to the next, etc. )

level one: are you watching in an obtrusive way? i.e., is this something you should be seeing? are you an active participant? or are you eavesdropping. things that fall into this category include people watching, listening in on conversations, or reading private correspondence. this is the fear of being watched / known against one’s will at play, but only one person ( the avatar ) knows the secrets, so it’s low-level feeding. just hoarding secrets unto oneself gives the avatar what i’d consider a steady drip of water, necessary for life and remaining active, but after an extended period of time with just water, you’re going to want for food. 

something like following someone and making them feel watched as more than just a prickling on the neck for an extended period of time would probably start to actually feed the eye a bit, as was the case with the cursed mirror; someone with a constant and perhaps debilitating fear of being watched, facilitated by the actions of a beholding avatar, would advance to feeding the eye. 

institutionalized watching in an obtrusive way, i.e. the lack of privacy afforded to inmates in a place like millbank, ratchets up to full eye feeding. again, the longer and more intense the watching, the more intense the fear produced, the more likely it’s going to drift up into actual feeding territory. but as a casual action, it’s not sustainable.

level two: are you revealing to the person that you know their secrets? to distinguish this from the above category, i’m talking about the situation with elias and daisy / martin / melanie -- digging out someone’s secrets and then throwing them in their face, making them feel the despair of being peeled open for examination. what puts this at a lower level than mass exposure is the fact that it is probably only the beholding avatar who’s getting anything out of this. this is semi-solid food to the eye, like a gelatin or pudding or other soft hospital food. you can sustain yourself on it, but try to go for any extreme period of time just doing this and you’re probably going to suffer from malnutrition ( if you want to talk to me about malnutrition and how it actually works, aka you’re getting plenty of calories but not all of the components you need, and historic examples of mass malnutrition, we can totally do that; but i want to make it clear for those that might think malnutrition is just like starvation lite, it’s not -- you can be eating a ton of food every day and if you have no variety and if it lacks the proper nutrients, you’re still going to suffer the adverse effects; all this detail to say that’s what happens to an eye avatar who only feeds by privately exposing someone’s secrets to their face, a slow and conscious wasting ). 

constantly harassing someone about their secrets might make your diet a little more diverse, metaphorically, but this category really doesn’t have the same mobility as the previous one.

level three: are you making other people aware of the information you’ve gleaned? this is fear of exposure, where somebody is going to face the fallout and consequences of having something unsavory put on display for an audience. ( yes, this covers body image fears of people in the public eye, which is imo a flesh fear that the eye can also feed upon, but that’s an intense discussion for another post that needs to be handled with nuance. i only mention it to make it clear that like... it doesn’t even have to be something objectively horrid that’s exposed; if the person who is being put on display has a fear of being seen, that’s enough to put it in this category, because it is producing anxiety or discomfort. ) no need for bullet points! this gets more and more intense the wider the audience and the more people talk about it. this is solid beholding food with good nutrition! you could make a beholding career out of this! i’m certain that elias does some feeding by allowing students in to read the dirty laundry of named statement givers ( in addition to slurping the despair of visitors who aren’t going to be helped at all by the institute ). after all, statement givers frequently express fear of being pegged as “insane” or having experienced the denial, pity, or avoidance of their friends and family after their experiences. judgement cast upon vulnerability? eye food.

level four: taking a statement. this is sort of disconnected from the rest and may exist alongside them rather than above them, but canonically, reading and experiencing ( getting into character, allowing yourself to feel the presented emotions ) a statement feeds the eye. notice how jon works through tons of “statements” a week, documents gathered by the institute, but only reads one true statement a week on average. he “steps into the shoes” of the statement giver and re-experiences the terror, often while learning something about another entity and how it functions, increasing his own knowledge of the fear world. in my opinion, this is where we get into the eye simultaneously feeding on what’s offered and feeding on the avatar. jon is exhausted after reading a statement and needs to rest. multiple people state that it seems to take a lot out of him. he needs them to survive, but he also finds the experiences draining. this is a solid cooked meal, and the eye has the digestion of a snake, so if you get one of these a week? you’re good. 

level five: taking a statement directly from another subject, though? that’s just feeding. cutting out the middle man and the mental transportation of reading a literary piece ( or listening to a tape, or watching a recording ) means that you just get to feed off the person’s fear, because you are peeling them open and knowing them. this does relate a bit to level two, which is why i said it’s probably more of a horizontal relationship, but the difference for me is that you are forcing them to give an account of their encounter with a fear, thus accumulating knowledge of a lived experience and of the other deities, and you are making a person feel known and exposed, often ( in canon ) in a way that’s abrupt and uncalled for. willing statement-givers do not seem to have the same reactions as the poor people jon yoinks in public. taking statements seems to be compulsory for archivists in particular. whether or not it impacts administrators ( elias ) in the same way is hard to discern. maybe not, or maybe that’s solved by having the institute function the way it does, because all those statements are technically elias’s. ( i also have opinions on how elias feeds every single day but we’ll get to that later. the fear machine of the institute. ) this is good food. this is gourmet. this is why the eye stans jon. feeding just off of direct statements is going to cause your own power to skyrocket because you are eating so well.

there are probably more examples of ways to feed, and if people wanna shoot me ims or asks like “is this proper eye feeding?” i’d be happy to answer with my own takes on the situation ( because these are my own takes lol you do not need to live or die by this headcanon I Just Think My Theory Is Sound Enough For This Blog ). but now we’ll look at behaviors that may indicate a propensity for beholding, or that keep a beholding avatar in shape without feeding them; the exercise counterpart to a healthy diet. presented in bullet point form because these are not as in-depth as the above.

an inclination towards extensive research. not just looking up what you need for a book report and nothing more, we’re talking about going down a rabbit hole of research frequently out of a desire to know more. because this does not necessarily produce a fear response and does not necessarily deal with witnessing horror, it is not feeding ( i think about the idea of true crime beholding avatars and i get a little woozy because like... could it work and be canon compliant? certainly. is it therefore a valid take? it sure is. is it something i’m willing to get into? no, because it makes me personally uncomfortable sadly, because i feel some kinda way about the glamorization of serial killers and so on, and though i think an interest in true crime can be pursued tastefully, it’s so nuanced and so Not Me in particular that i just don’t want to get into it, even if i acknowledge that it’s something that probably exists in the tma universe because the tma universe is uncomfortable horror! )

being a nosy bitch. are you always involved in other people’s business, especially drama? do you subscribe to tea spill youtube channels? are you prepared to drop a hot tweet about something shady a celebrity did? ( THIS IS NOT A CRITIQUE OF OR COMMENTARY ON CALLOUT CULTURE INB4, PLEASE I BEG YOU. ) you have the beholding inclination to dig and reveal secrets! awesome!

a desire to organize and preserve information. i think often about this one because one of the things about the ceaseless watcher is that it knows but does not comprehend. it is not interested in understanding or exploring the nuance of what it observes, which is what makes it so horrific. it doesn’t care, the only thing it’s invested in is watching fear and accumulating knowledge so that it can “say” it has more information than anybody else. this, i think, is why beholding tends to center itself around academic institutions. the idea of gatekeeping knowledge, of an ivory tower, is so beholding-appropriate because if you think about the implications then yes, it’s bad. hoarding knowledge and not allowing other people to learn is not a good thing, and that’s why beholding is so very into it. HOWEVER, I AM ALSO DEEPLY INVESTED IN THE IDEA THAT THIS IS WHAT SEPARATES THE FEAR GOD BEHOLDING FROM ITS HUMAN AVATARS. because the avatars are painfully human! michael is proof enough of that i think! even if avatars consider themselves a different species, at the very least “formerly-human” categorically, they were humans and still have human flaws and inclinations. one of these, for beholding avatars, is organization. it’s putting the puzzle pieces together ( unless you’re bad at it, i’m so sorry jon you’re really trying and i love you, but in this case i think that has more to do with jon’s tendency to shoot himself in the foot / put himself at a disadvantage because he is afraid than a beholding-wide thing ), because the human brain usually wants to understand things. it wants to draw meaning from things. even elias, probably the least human of the beholding avatars we see, has to organize the information he has and put separate stories together to form a larger picture, because functioning in the human world just necessitates doing that! you want to stop another ritual? you can’t just gather different pieces of information and not relate them to each other, you have to categorize them and draw conclusions. and, imo, this is what separates the human world from the post-apocalyptic world. the post-apocalyptic world does not require analysis or organization, it can simply be; that is reality as warped and controlled by the fear gods.

there’s probably more to this but i have talked so much, i think that’s enough for now. anyways i care so much about beholding and how it functions and this is actually my least academic bullshitty piece on it, so yay for that. usually i’m all “voyeurism and The Gaze and how it functions in society and especially media!” but today? today we just talk about good eats.

[theothersideofthecinema]

The Captive Lover – An Interview with Jacques Rivette, Frédéric Bonnaud

(September 2001)

Translation by Kent Jones

This interview was originally published in Les Inrockuptibles (25 March 1998) and has been republished here with the kind permission of the author.

* * *

I guess I like a lot of directors. Or at least I try to. I try to stay attentive to all the greats and also the less-than-greats. Which I do, more or less. I see a lot of movies, and I don’t stay away from anything. Jean-Luc sees a lot too, but he doesn’t always stay till the end. For me, the film has to be incredibly bad to make me want to pack up and leave. And the fact that I see so many films really seems to amaze certain people. Many filmmakers pretend that they never see anything, which has always seemed odd to me. Everyone accepts the fact that novelists read novels, that painters go to exhibitions and inevitably draw on the work of the great artists who came before them, that musicians listen to old music in addition to new music… so why do people think it’s strange that filmmakers – or people who have the ambition to become filmmakers – should see movies? When you see the films of certain young directors, you get the impression that film history begins for them around 1980. Their films would probably be better if they’d seen a few more films, which runs counter to this idiotic theory that you run the risk of being influenced if you see too much. Actually, it’s when you see too little that you run the risk of being influenced. If you see a lot, you can choose the films you want to be influenced by. Sometimes the choice isn’t conscious, but there are some things in life that are far more powerful than we are, and that affect us profoundly. If I’m influenced by Hitchcock, Rossellini or Renoir without realizing it, so much the better. If I do something sub-Hitchcock, I’m already very happy. Cocteau used to say: “Imitate, and what is personal will eventually come despite yourself.” You can always try.

Europa 51 (Roberto Rossellini, 1952)

Every time I make a film, from Paris nous appartient (1961) through Jeanne la pucelle (1994), I keep coming back to the shock we all experienced when we first saw Europa 51. And I think that Sandrine Bonnaire is really in the tradition of Ingrid Bergman as an actress. She can go very deep into Hitchcock territory, and she can go just as deep into Rossellini territory, as she already has with Pialat and Varda.

Le Samourai (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967)

I’ve never had any affinity for the overhyped mythology of the bad boy, which I think is basically phony. But just by chance, I saw a little of L’Armée des ombres (1969) on TV recently, and I was stunned. Now I have to see all of Melville all over again: he’s definitely someone I underrated. What we have in common is that we both love the same period of American cinema – but not in the same way. I hung out with him a little in the late ’50s; he and I drove around Paris in his car one night. And he delivered a two-hour long monologue, which was fascinating. He really wanted to have disciples and become our “Godfather”: a misunderstanding that never amounted to anything.

The Secret Beyond the Door (Fritz Lang, 1948)

The poster for Secret Défense (1997) reminded us of Lang. Every once in a while during the shoot, I told myself that our film had a slim chance of resembling Lang. But I never set up a shot thinking of him or looking to imitate him. During the editing (which is when I really start to see the film), I saw that it was Hitchcock who had guided us through the writing (which I already knew) and Lang who guided us through the shooting: especially his last films, the ones where he leads the spectator in one direction before he pushes them in another completely different direction, in a very brutal, abrupt way. And then this Langian side of the film (if in fact there is one) is also due to Sandrine’s gravity.

The Night of the Hunter (Charles Laughton, 1955)

The most seductive one-shot in the history of movies. What can you say? It’s the greatest amateur film ever made.

Dragonwyck (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1946)

I knew his name would come up sooner or later. So, I’m going to speak my peace at the risk of shocking a lot of people I respect, and maybe even pissing a lot of them off for good. His great films, like All About Eve (1950) or The Barefoot Contessa (1954), were very striking within the parameters of contemporary American cinema at the time they were made, but now I have no desire whatsoever to see them again. I was astonished when Juliet Berto and I saw All About Eve again 25 years ago at the Cinémathèque. I wanted her to see it for a project we were going to do together before Céline and Julie Go Boating (1974). Except for Marilyn Monroe, she hated every minute of it, and I had to admit that she was right: every intention was underlined in red, and it struck me as a film without a director! Mankiewicz was a great producer, a good scenarist and a masterful writer of dialogue, but for me he was never a director. His films are cut together any which way, the actors are always pushed towards caricature and they resist with only varying degrees of success. Here’s a good definition of mise en scène – it’s what’s lacking in the films of Joseph L. Mankiewicz. Whereas Preminger is a pure director. In his work, everything but the direction often disappears. It’s a shame that Dragonwyck wasn’t directed by Jacques Tourneur.

The Big Sleep (Howard Hawks, 1946)

It’s Chandler’s greatest novel, his strongest. I find the first version of the film – the one that’s about to be shown here – more coherent and “Hawksian” than the version that was fiddled with and came out in ’46. If you want to call Secret Défense a policier, it doesn’t bother me. It’s just that it’s a policier without any cops. I’m incapable of filming French cops, since I find them 100% un-photogenic. The only one who’s found a solution to this problem is Tavernier, in L.627 (1992) and the last quarter of L’Appât (1995). In those films, French cops actually exist, they have a reality distinct from the Duvivier/Clouzot “tradition” or all the American clichés. In that sense, Tavernier has really advanced beyond the rest of French cinema.

Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958)

Of course we thought about it when we made Secret Défense, even if dramatically, our film is Vertigo in reverse. Splitting the character of Laure Marsac into Véronique/Ludivine solved all our scenario problems, and above all it allowed us to avoid a police interrogation scene. During the editing, I was struck by the “family resemblance” between the character of Walser and the ones played by Laurence Olivier in Rebecca (1940) and Cary Grant in Suspicion (1941). The source for each of these characters is Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, which brings us back to Tourneur, since I Walked with a Zombie (1943) is a remake of Jane Eyre.

I could never choose one film by Hitchcock; I’d have to take the whole oeuvre (Secret Défense could actually have been called Family Plot [1976]). But if I had to choose just one film, it would be Notorious (1946), because of Ingrid Bergman. You can see this imaginary love affair between Bergman and Hitchcock, with Cary Grant there to put things in relief. The final sequence might be the most perfect in film history, in the way that it resolves everything in three minutes – the love story, the family story and the espionage story, in a few magnificent, unforgettable shots.

Mouchette (Robert Bresson, 1966)

When Sandrine and I first started talking – and, as usual, I didn’t know a thing about the film I wanted to make – Bernanos and Dostoyevsky came up. Dostoyevsky was a dead end because he was too Russian. But since there’s something very Bernanos-like about her as an actress in the first place, I started telling her my more or less precise memories of two of his novels: A Crime, which is completely unfilmable, and A Bad Dream, a novel that he kept tucked away in his drawer, in which someone commits a crime for someone else. In A Bad Dream, the journey of the murderess was described in even greater length and detail than Sandrine’s journey in Secret Défense.

It’s because of Bernanos that Mouchette is the Bresson film I like the least. Diary of a Country Priest (1950), on the other hand, is magnificent, even if Bresson left out the book’s sense of generosity and charity and made a film about pride and solitude. But in Mouchette, which is Bernanos’ most perfect book, Bresson keeps betraying him: everything is so relentlessly paltry, studied. Which doesn’t mean that Bresson isn’t an immense artist. I would place Trial of Joan of Arc (1962) right up there with Dreyer’s film. It burns just as brightly.

Under the Sun of Satan (Maurice Pialat, 1987)

Pialat is a great filmmaker – imperfect, but then who isn’t? I don’t mean it as a reproach. And he had the genius to invent Sandrine – archeologically speaking – for A nos amours (1983). But I would put Van Gogh (1991) and The House in the Woods (1971) above all his other films. Because there he succeeded in filming the happiness, no doubt imaginary, of the pre-WWI world. Although the tone is very different, it’s as beautiful as Renoir.

But I really believe that Bernanos is unfilmable. Diary of a Country Priest remains an exception. In Under the Sun of Satan, I like everything concerning Mouchette [Sandrine Bonnaire’s character], and Pialat acquits himself honorably. But it was insane to adapt the book in the first place since the core of the narrative, the encounter with Satan, happens at night – black night, absolute night. Only Duras could have filmed that.

Home from the Hill (Vincente Minnelli, 1959)

I’m going to make more enemies…actually the same enemies, since the people who like Minnelli usually like Mankiewicz, too. Minnelli is regarded as a great director thanks to the slackening of the “politique des auteurs.” For François, Jean-Luc and me, the politique consisted of saying that there were only a few filmmakers who merited consideration as auteurs, in the same sense as Balzac or Molière. One play by Molière might be less good than another, but it is vital and exciting in relation to the entire oeuvre. This is true of Renoir, Hitchcock, Lang, Ford, Dreyer, Mizoguchi, Sirk, Ozu… But it’s not true of all filmmakers. Is it true of Minnelli, Walsh or Cukor? I don’t think so. They shot the scripts that the studio assigned them to, with varying levels of interest. Now, in the case of Preminger, where the direction is everything, the politique works. As for Walsh, whenever he was intensely interested in the story or the actors, he became an auteur – and in many other cases, he didn’t. In Minnelli’s case, he was meticulous with the sets, the spaces, the light…but how much did he work with the actors? I loved Some Came Running (1958) when it came out, just like everybody else, but when I saw it again ten years ago I was taken aback: three great actors and they’re working in a void, with no one watching them or listening to them from behind the camera.

Whereas with Sirk, everything is always filmed. No matter what the script, he’s always a real director. In Written On the Wind (1956), there’s that famous Universal staircase, and it’s a real character, just like the one in Secret Défense. I chose the house where we filmed because of the staircase. I think that’s where all dramatic loose ends come together, and also where they must resolve themselves.

That Obscure Object of Desire (Luis Buñuel, 1977)

More than those of any other filmmaker, Buñuel’s films gain the most on re-viewing. Not only do they not wear thin, they become increasingly mysterious, stronger and more precise. I remember being completely astonished by one Buñuel film: if he hadn’t already stolen it, I would have loved to be able to call my new film The Exterminating Angel! François and I saw El when it came out and we loved it. We were really struck by its Hitchcockian side, although Buñuel’s obsessions and Hitchcock’s obsessions were definitely not the same. But they both had the balls to make films out of the obsessions that they carried around with them every day of their lives. Which is also what Pasolini, Mizoguchi and Fassbinder did.

The Marquise of O… (Eric Rohmer, 1976)

It’s very beautiful. Although I prefer the Rohmer films where he goes deep into emotional destitution, where it becomes the crux of the mise en scène, as in Summer, The Tree, the Mayor and the Mediathèque and in a film that I’d rank even higher, Rendez-vous in Paris (1995). The second episode is even more beautiful than the first, and I consider the third to be a kind of summit of French cinema. It had an added personal meaning for me because I saw it in relation to La Belle noiseuse (1991) – it’s an entirely different way of showing painting, in this case the way a painter looks at canvases. If I had to choose a key Rohmer film that summarized everything in his oeuvre, it would be The Aviator’s Wife (1980). In that film, you get all the science and the eminently ethical perversity of the Moral Tales and the rest of the Comedies and Proverbs, only with moments of infinite grace. It’s a film of absolute grace.

Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (David Lynch, 1992)

I don’t own a television, which is why I couldn’t share Serge Daney’s passion for TV series. And I took a long time to appreciate Lynch. In fact, I didn’t really start until Blue Velvet (1986). With Isabella Rossellini’s apartment, Lynch succeeded in creating the creepiest set in the history of cinema. And Twin Peaks, the Film is the craziest film in the history of cinema. I have no idea what happened, I have no idea what I saw, all I know is that I left the theater floating six feet above the ground. Only the first part of Lost Highway (1996) is as great. After which you get the idea, and by the last section I was one step ahead of the film, although it remained a powerful experience right up to the end.

Nouvelle Vague (Jean-Luc Godard, 1990)

Definitely Jean-Luc’s most beautiful film of the last 15 years, and that raises the bar pretty high, because the other films aren’t anything to scoff at. But I don’t want to talk about it…it would get too personal.

Beauty and the Beast (Jean Cocteau, 1946)

Along with Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne (1945), it was the key French film for our generation – François, Jean-Luc, Jacques Demy, myself. For me, it’s fundamental. I saw Beauty and the Beast in ’46 and then I read Cocteau’s shooting diary – a hair-raising shoot, which hit more snags than you can imagine. And eventually, I knew the diary by heart because I re-read it so many times. That’s how I discovered what I wanted to do with my life. Cocteau was responsible for my vocation as a filmmaker. I love all his films, even the less successful ones. He’s just so important, and he was really an auteur in every sense of the word.

Les Enfants terribles (Jean Cocteau, 1950)

A magnificent film. One night, right after I’d arrived in Paris, I was on my way home. And as I was going up rue Amsterdam around Place Clichy, I walked right into the filming of the snowball fight. I stepped onto the court of the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre and there was Cocteau directing the shoot. Melville wasn’t even there. Cocteau is someone who has made such a profound impression on me that there’s no doubt he’s influenced every one of my films. He’s a great poet, a great novelist, maybe not a great playwright – although I really love one of his plays, The Knights of the Round Table, which is not too well known. An astonishing piece, very autobiographical, about homosexuality and opium. Chéreau should stage it. You see Merlin as he puts Arthur’s castle under a bad charm, assisted by an invisible demon named Ginifer who appears in the guise of three different characters: it’s a metaphor for all forms of human dependence. In Secret Défense, the character of Laure Mersac probably has a little of Ginifer in her.

Cocteau is the one who, at the end of the ’40s, demonstrated in his writing exactly what you could do with faux raccords, that working in a 180-degree space could be great and that photographic unity was a joke: he gave these things a form and each of us took what he could from them.

Titanic (James Cameron, 1997)

I agree completely with what Jean-Luc said in this week’s Elle: it’s garbage. Cameron isn’t evil, he’s not an asshole like Spielberg. He wants to be the new De Mille. Unfortunately, he can’t direct his way out of a paper bag. On top of which the actress is awful, unwatchable, the most slovenly girl to appear on the screen in a long, long time. That’s why it’s been such a success with young girls, especially inhibited, slightly plump American girls who see the film over and over as if they were on a pilgrimage: they recognize themselves in her, and dream of falling into the arms of the gorgeous Leonardo.

Deconstructing Harry (Woody Allen, 1997)

Wild Man Blues (1997) by Barbara Kopple helped me to overcome my problem with him, and to like him as a person. In Wild Man Blues, you really see that he’s completely honest, sincere and very open, like a 12-year old. He’s not always as ambitious as he could be, and he’s better on dishonesty than he is with feelings of warmth. But Deconstructing Harry is a breath of fresh air, a politically incorrect American film at long last. Whereas the last one was incredibly bad. He’s a good guy, and he’s definitely an auteur. Which is not to say that every film is an artistic success.

Happy Together (Wong Kar-wai, 1997)

I like it very much. But I still think that the great Asian directors are Japanese, despite the critical inflation of Asia in general and of Chinese directors in particular. I think they’re able and clever, maybe a little too able and a little too clever. For example, Hou Hsiao-hsien really irritates me, even though I liked the first two of his films that appeared in Paris. I find his work completely manufactured and sort of disagreeable, but very politically correct. The last one [Goodbye South, Goodbye, 1996] is so systematic that it somehow becomes interesting again but even so, I think it’s kind of a trick. Hou Hsiao-hsien and James Cameron, same problem. Whereas with Wong Kar-wai, I’ve had my ups and downs, but I found Happy Together incredibly touching. In that film, he’s a great director, and he’s taking risks. Chungking Express (1994) was his biggest success, but that was a film made on a break during shooting [of Ashes of Time, 1994], and pretty minor. But it’s always like that. Take Jane Campion: The Piano (1993) is the least of her four films, whereas The Portrait of a Lady (1996) is magnificent, and everybody spat on it. Same with Kitano: Fireworks (1997) is the least good of the three of his films to get a French release. But those are the rules of the game. After all, Renoir had his biggest success with Grand Illusion (1937).

Face/Off (John Woo, 1997)

I loathe it. But I thought A Better Tomorrow (1986) was awful, too. It’s stupid, shoddy and unpleasant. I saw Broken Arrow (1996) and didn’t think it was so bad, but that was just a studio film, where he was fulfilling the terms of his contract. But I find Face/Off disgusting, physically revolting, and pornographic.

Taste of Cherry (Abbas Kiarostami, 1997)

His work is always very beautiful but the pleasure of discovery is now over. I wish that he would get out of his own universe for a while. I’d like to see something a little more surprising from him, which would really be welcome…God, what a meddler I am!

On Connaît la Chanson (Alain Resnais, 1997)

Resnais is one of the few indisputably great filmmakers, and sometimes that’s a burden for him. But this film is almost perfect, a full experience. Though for me, the great Resnais films remain, on the one hand, Hiroshima, mon amour (1959) and Muriel (1963), and on the other hand, Mélo (1986) and Smoking/No Smoking (1993).

Funny Games (Michael Haneke, 1997)

What a disgrace, just a complete piece of shit! I liked his first film, The Seventh Continent (1989), very much, and then each one after that I liked less and less. This one is vile, not in the same way as John Woo, but those two really deserve each other – they should get married. And I never want to meet their children! It’s worse than Kubrick with A Clockwork Orange (1971), a film that I hate just as much, not for cinematic reasons but for moral ones. I remember when it came out, Jacques Demy was so shocked that it made him cry. Kubrick is a machine, a mutant, a Martian. He has no human feeling whatsoever. But it’s great when the machine films other machines, as in 2001 (1968).

Ossos (Pedro Costa, 1997)

I think it’s magnificent, I think that Costa is genuinely great. It’s beautiful and strong. Even if I had a hard time understanding the characters’ relationships with one another. Like with Casa de lava (1994), new enigmas reveal themselves with each new viewing.

The End of Violence (Wim Wenders, 1997)

Very touching. Even if, about halfway through, it starts to go around in circles and ends up on a sour note. Wenders often has script problems. He needs to commit himself to working with real writers again. Alice in the Cities (1974) and Wrong Move (1975) are great films – so is Paris, Texas (1984). And I’m sure the next one will be, too.

Live Flesh (Pedro Almodóvar, 1997)

Great, one of the most beautiful Almodóvars, and I love all of them. He’s a much more mysterious filmmaker than people realize. He doesn’t cheat or con the audience. He also has his Cocteau side, in the way that he plays with the phantasmagorical and the real.

Alien Resurrection (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 1997)

I didn’t expect it as I was walking into the theater, but I was enraptured throughout the whole thing. Sigourney Weaver is wonderful, and what she does here really places her in the great tradition of expressionist cinema. It’s a purely plastic film, with a story that’s both minimal and incomprehensible. Nevertheless, it managed to scare the entire audience, while it also had some very moving moments. Basically, you’re given a single situation at the beginning, and the film consists of as many plastic and emotional variations of that situation as possible. It’s never stupid, it’s inventive, honest and frank. I have a feeling that the credit should go to Sigourney Weaver as much as it should to Jeunet.

Rien ne va plus (Claude Chabrol, 1997)

Another film that starts off well before falling apart halfway through. There’s a big script problem: Cluzet’s character isn’t really dealt with. It’s important to remember Hitchcock’s adage about making the villain as interesting as possible. But I’m anxious to see the next Chabrol film, especially since Sandrine will be in it.

Starship Troopers (Paul Verhoeven, 1997)

I’ve seen it twice and I like it a lot, but I prefer Showgirls (1995), one of the great American films of the last few years. It’s Verhoeven’s best American film and his most personal. In Starship Troopers, he uses various effects to help everything go down smoothly, but he’s totally exposed in Showgirls. It’s the American film that’s closest to his Dutch work. It has great sincerity, and the script is very honest, guileless. It’s so obvious that it was written by Verhoeven himself rather than Mr. Eszterhas, who is nothing. And that actress is amazing! Like every Verhoeven film, it’s very unpleasant: it’s about surviving in a world populated by assholes, and that’s his philosophy. Of all the recent American films that were set in Las Vegas, Showgirls was the only one that was real – take my word for it.I who have never set foot in the place!

Starship Troopers doesn’t mock the American military or the clichés of war – that’s just something Verhoeven says in interviews to appear politically correct. In fact, he loves clichés, and there’s a comic strip side to Verhoeven, very close to Lichtenstein. And his bugs are wonderful and very funny, so much better than Spielberg’s dinosaurs. I always defend Verhoeven, just as I’ve been defending Altman for the past twenty years. Altman failed with Prêt-à-Porter (1994) but at least he followed through with it, right up to an ending that capped the rock bottom nothingness that preceded it. He should have realized how uninteresting the fashion world was when he started to shoot, and he definitely should have understood it before he started shooting. He’s an uneven filmmaker but a passionate one. In the same way, I’ve defended Clint Eastwood since he started directing. I like all his films, even the jokey “family” films with that ridiculous monkey, the ones that everyone are trying to forget – they’re part of his oeuvre, too. In France, we forgive almost everything, but with Altman, who takes risks each time he makes a film, we forgive nothing. Whereas for Pollack, Frankenheimer, Schatzberg…risk doesn’t even exist for them. The films of Eastwood or Altman belong to them and no one else: you have to like them.

The Fifth Element (Luc Besson, 1997)

I didn’t hate it, but I was more taken with La Femme Nikita (1990) and The Professional (1994). I can’t wait to see his Joan of Arc. Since no version of Joan of Arc has ever made money, including ours, I’m waiting to see if he drains all the cash out of Gaumont that they made with The Fifth Element. Of course it will be a very naive and childish film, but why not? Joan of Arc could easily work as a childish film (at Vaucouleurs, she was only 16 years old), the Orléans murals done by numbers. Personally, I prefer small, “realistic” settings to overblown sets done by numbers, but to each his own. Joan of Arc belongs to everyone (except Jean-Marie Le Pen), which is why I got to make my own version after Dreyer’s and Bresson’s. Besides, Besson is only one letter short of Bresson! He’s got the look, but he doesn’t have the ‘r.’

* * *

[bigskydreaming]

It really, really, really can not be stressed enough, what a disservice fandom has done to the complexity of Dick and Slade’s canon comic book relationship, by simply reducing it to your fairly standard hero/villain trope. As well as making it just a master/apprentice dynamic like in Teen Titans. Their comic book dynamic is just not remotely interchangeable with that one. At all.

Among other things in the comics, in all of their encounters, Slade’s very presence is a constant living, breathing reminder of three of the outright worst moments in Dick’s life, and a walking embodiment of some of his biggest issues, all rolled up in one package.

1) Slade’s entrance to Dick’s life is the accompaniment to one of the greatest betrayals Dick has ever experienced. In order to get revenge for the death of his son, Grant, that he wrongly blamed the Titans for, Slade enlisted Tara Markov as his accomplice BEFORE any of the Titans ever met her. When her ultimate allegiances were revealed in the Judas Contract, and she singlehandedly took down and captured practically every Titan except for Dick, who escaped Slade when the latter saved him for himself....Dick, along with the other Titans, had to reconcile the fact that this woman they’d called their teammate, their friend, that they’d shared so much with, told so much to...had never been one of them. 

Not really. She’d been plotting their betrayal and deaths from the literal first moment they ever met her. With Dick having to shoulder the additional burden that like...he was the team leader. He was the one who ultimately was responsible for approving her addition to the team, who made the decision, who vouched for her and said okay. I am giving you my trust, and by extension, telling everyone of my teammates who puts their trust in me to do right by them, that it is safe for them to trust you as well. Whether or not Dick needed to heft that much responsibility for Terra turning out to be a traitor is really not the point in this specific instance. All that matters is that he did.

Now, as an example....how many fics that touch on Slade and Dick’s relationship in comic book settings in any capacity....how many of them offhandedly reference the fact that Slade is unique among many villains or enemies of the Justice League, Titans and Batfamily, in that he knows Dick’s secret identity...and by extension, has long since figured out those of every other member of the Batfamily?

Now with that in mind.....how many of those fics ever do anything with the fact that....Slade only HAS this knowledge in the first place....because TERRA told him Dick’s secret identity way back when....after Dick trusted HER, his teammate and Slade’s secret plant from day one....with his identity and by extension, Bruce’s as well, and Jason’s, and every other member of their family who was later added in the future?

Like, it isn’t just something where Slade figured it out on his own, or Dick told him....this highly crucial, critical and rare information that Slade has when few others have it, even other heroes....Dick never voluntarily gave to him. Its stolen goods, effectively, with Slade only having gotten it by virtue of Dick’s mislaid trust in someone else entirely.

My point being.....we talk a lot in fandom about how Dick is so trusting, but the reality is....even while Dick does make a point to give people the benefit of the doubt and extend his trust at times to people with not so great reputations....this is a willful, deliberate choice on his part, a conscious effort, and not evidence of Dick having an easy time trusting people or being naive.

The reality is, Dick has massive trust issues, born in large part of the fact that his team once all almost died because he put his trust in the wrong person.....and SLADE IS QUITE LITERALLY THE FACE AT THE ROOT OF MOST OF DICK’S CANON TRUST ISSUES.

(It also needs to be acknowledged that this was while the team was very much the TEEN Titans, and Slade’s earliest appearances absolutely made not at all veiled inferences that Slade seduced Terra and used a sexual and/or romantic relationship to manipulate her and get her allegiance in the first place. When she was very much a teen herself. She was a victim as well, and Slade predatory in his interactions with her. It was statutory rape every bit as much as Liu with Dick. Like.....it is what it is guys, and you might not want to go with that take for him yourself, but no different from when people choose to focus on instances of Bruce’s abuse, you can’t get upset at people who DO want to acknowledge this aspect of things and be like....fuck any kind of Slade redemption or Slade positivity.)

2) Slade also happens to represent one of the single worst moments of Dick’s life, and what he’s often regarded as one of his greatest personal failures.....and that’s Joey’s death. Joey was possessed by the evil spirits left over from Raven’s home dimension after the team finally banished Trigon for good, with his own possession powers having made him particularly vulnerable to them possessing him en masse, and they over time took more and more control of him until he was effectively just a helpless passenger in his own body for a period of months, maybe even longer than a year. 

While these spirits went about using his body to infiltrate and then hijack control of The Wildebeest Society, a group made up of former Titans foes for the express purpose of defeating the Titans.....and then as leader of the Wildebeest Society....having them systematically hunt down every Titan to ever exist, past or present, murdering many of them and capturing most of their superpowered members for the intended use of their bodies as hosts for the spirits sharing Joey’s body.

Now, not only is this a pretty direct parallel to Dick’s own experience being a brainwashed mole of the Church of Blood for over a year, secretly working to undermine his own teammates without any conscious control or even awareness of his own actions there, and with none of his teammates any the wiser, just as Dick himself hadn’t suspected anything wrong with Joey leading up to this reveal....

But after the Wildebeest Society had successfully either captured or killed every other Titan, Dick infiltrated their headquarters in disguise, in an attempt to free his teammates....only to be be caught and imprisoned by ‘Joey.’ With the latter then revealing the truth of why he was acting like this....and then continuing to keep Dick as his prisoner, chained up right by his side and tortured and helpless for over a week, as he and his minions continued with the rest of their work in preparing the carefully drugged/comatose Titans to be the spirits’ new hosts.

Let me reiterate....for over a week, Dick was the prisoner of evil spirits parading around in the body of one of his closest friends - the literal first person Dick chose to place his trust in again after it was first broken by Terra’s betrayal in the first place - while these spirits, did all of this in front of him with Joey’s face and body....gloating, taunting him, trying in every way imaginable to break him and his spirit. The whole time callously speaking of their intentions for the rest of Dick’s closest friends and their bodies, as they went about the final steps of their plan to basically use Dick and his team as the very tools they used to destroy everything they’d ever worked to protect and save.

Dick was only able to stop this and wake up the rest of his team...with Slade’s help, when the latter came in search of Joey himself. And at the end of it all, Joey was able to retake control of himself long enough to beg his father to kill him, before the spirits were able to overpower him again and use him to fulfill the rest of their plans.

Right in front of Dick.

Dick of course had spent the entire time he was a prisoner, trying his best to get through to Joey, believing with all his heart that Joey was in there still and could be saved, and of course, blaming himself for not seeing that something was wrong with Joey and stopping all of this sooner.

And then and there, Dick saw Joey resurface just as Slade did.....but while Dick saw this as proof that Joey was still there, could still be saved, they shouldn’t give up on him....Slade believed that doing the right thing then and there meant honoring Joey’s wishes for one of the first times ever in his life....even though that ultimately meant....also running Joey through with his sword. Again.....with Dick right there, still powerless to do anything to get up and help Joey, stop Slade, or propose another plan of action. He watched one of his best and dearest friends killed by his own father, because...in Dick’s own eyes....he’d failed to come up with an alternative in all the time he was prisoner....and failed to stop things from getting to that point in all the time before that, while Joey was possessed.

My point being....in the comic books, whether Dick and Slade are currently on good terms, bad terms, or neutral terms....they always exist for each other as a constant reminder of the death of one of the most important people in their lives. With that death being something they each blame themselves for and consider one of their greatest failures...as well as that death also being something they each at times have blamed each other for, for failing to come up with a way to save Joey, or protect him before he got to that point.

3) And finally, the third item of importance that I’m gonna gloss over for now as its more directly relevant to a post I wanna make about this later.....Slade’s direct involvement in the destruction of Bludhaven literally can’t be stressed enough. Whether you deem it in character or think he was written largely out of character at the time, with a case to be made for either stance, I think, the point remains that if you’re referencing Bludhaven having been destroyed at all, to any degree....Slade is once again at the heart of that matter, integral to every step of how that ultimately played out....with his position as the Society’s point man on that operation and his own personal grudge with Dick over various things, as well as Dick’s training of his daughter Rose - at Slade’s own insistence, but in ways Slade wasn’t pleased with, since Dick helped cultivate Rose’s actual heroic inclinations and instincts, which Slade did NOT sign off on - like, these things were directly step by step the path towards the Society ultimately following through and dropping Chemo on Bludhaven. With like, that being something that Slade absolutely could have stopped, thanks to his position, and even promised Dick as part of the agreement they made, that he WOULD keep from happening....only to renege on his word there.

In conclusion, Dick and Slade’s relationship and dynamic is SO SO SO SO SO MUCH MORE complex and varied than its basically ever made out to be in fanfics, and stems in large part from this one specific little tidbit that hardly ever seems to make it into fics’ final cuts.....

Slade respects Dick. Even when he doesn’t like him.

And I know, I know that fics pay a lot of lip service to this idea, but for the most part, its not substantiated. Or its clarified as though Slade respects Dick’s potential, or what he could be with Slade’s help or instruction....but that’s literally not the point of their canon.

The point is despite Dick being decades younger, Slade respects Dick as an opponent. As someone who has beaten him, bested him, in various ways and at various points. As well as respecting Dick as being a person who Slade’s son respected, and trusted, and valued a great deal. With a lot of Slade’s own memories of his son transferred onto Dick at times as a proxy, with Dick essentially acting as a stand-in for the son that Slade regrets never taking the time to get to know better...and here’s Dick, who knew and understood Joey better than just about anyone, certainly better than Slade. Which I personally believe Slade resents and even hates Dick for, for being someone that Joey both trusted and loved when Slade knows that likely wasn’t true of Joey’s view of him.....but I believe its also why Slade has never been able to bring himself to actually try and kill Dick and be rid of his threat to his plans for good....because doing so would be like killing the last real link Slade sees to the son he himself killed by his own hand.

Dick Grayson, for Slade....also happens to be the man who had every reason to not want anything to do with anyone associated with Slade, after Terra broke his trust, because of Slade’s own machinations.....while at the same time...Dick Grayson and his willingness to still extend that trust to Slade’s own son not long after that....are the very reasons that Joey ever had the opportunity to be the hero that Joey had always wanted to be....and that people ultimately remembered him as. There’s a reason Slade wanted Dick to be the one to train his daughter, after all - with the reason he was pissed at Dick for it ultimately being that Dick ended up being better at it than Slade had hoped, and Rose ultimately siding with Dick instead of Slade herself.

And even more importantly, IMO, Slade - even at times when he resents Dick for it at the exact same time - respects Dick for the choices Dick makes. For the precise fact that they aren’t the choices that Slade himself would make, that they’re choices Slade often thinks he couldn’t make.

He doesn’t disdain Dick for his choices or priorities or look down on him for them. Dismiss him because of them. They’re the heart and soul of WHY Slade respects Dick....and the fact that even with those extremely different priorities that Slade often doesn’t agree with...Dick STILL manages to come out the winner in a lot of encounters.

So this Slade Wilson who grudgingly admits that Dick Grayson has potential, but that its stunted and wasted without his own training, and because of the ‘weak, ill-advised’ choices that Dick makes and the things Dick prioritizes.....

Like, that has as little to do with actual canon pre-Flashpoint Slade, as the actual canon pre-Flashpoint Dick has to do with the depiction of him in many of these fics. Where Dick feels hopelessly outmatched and inadequate next to Slade or when facing him, like, he desperately starts praying the second Slade enters the fight cuz that’s the only way he’ll survive....or else he feels naive and dumb, or thinks how foolish he must look to Slade, or how raw or untrained or novice.....not to mention the times he’s focused on viewing Slade as a reflection of Bruce in various ways, or his dynamic with Slade as having anything to do with his dynamic with Bruce.

Again...umm, what? No. That’s not how Dick has ever been shown viewing their relationship either. The times he’s in conflict with Slade, he’s not questioning himself or second-guessing his abilities or praying he survives - he’s usually just PISSED, because of whatever thing has brought him into conflict with Slade this time. And not in that fanfic way where he’s unreasonable or irrational because of his anger and it clouds his judgment...in the way where he uses his anger to hone and focus his skills and just keep him going no matter how many hits he takes. Slade is an opponent whose skills Dick absolutely knows better than anyone else, and by extension respects those skills absolutely - but he is at the same time an opponent Dick has faced many times before, AND WALKED AWAY FROM EVERY TIME. 

No, Dick doesn’t take his victory or even his survival against Slade for granted, but he’s not remotely fear-stricken or rendered inadequate by the possibility of failure....he knows that there are no guarantees of success, but by the same token, he’s equally aware that Slade’s reputation is no guarantee of his own failure....with his own track record with the man being proof of that.

And at the same time....when they’re not directly in conflict....Dick does not feel invalidated or naive or dumb when around Slade, because of their age difference. He isn’t suddenly rendered like he feels like he’s a little kid sitting with a grown up. He’s usually just tired. He has as little illusions about Slade as Slade has about him. Dick KNOWS better than ANYONE, just how much Slade doubts and second-guesses his OWN choices, regrets his OWN priorities and decisions at times. So by extension...Dick doesn’t take their encounters OR Slade’s opinion as reason to feel inadequate or second-guess himself? He knows damn well that Slade has a higher opinion of choices that Dick himself even regrets making, than Slade does some of his own decisions. 

There’s not this.....gap between them experience wise, not in the sense that Dick can remotely compare to Slade’s much vaster library of life experiences, but rather in the sense that like.....Dick doesn’t care, you know? That’s not the point. Dick’s never comparing himself or his decisions to Slade’s with a measuring stick any time they encounter each other, because each encounter they have is so vastly more weighted by what they both represent to each other, their shared tragedies and personal failures and regrets, and their mutual awareness of these things and what they embody for each other. Dick - just like Slade himself is - is usually too preoccupied being focused on every thing that being around the other brings up for him....to have any mental energy left over for all this other stuff.

Comic book Dick and Slade, for each other, just carry too much knowledge of the life experiences they both have in common, because of their past interactions and shared connections.

Anyway, I will do another post soon about the comic book Renegade arc in particular, because its SO much more interesting than just the ‘Dick was Slade’s student or apprentice’ facsimile that I think people assume it to be. Like, Dick didn’t go to him as a supplicant, and Slade didn’t for a second think he was actually turning traitor. Slade asked him to train Rose in exchange for Slade’s help with his own plans, in part because Slade RESPECTS Dick’s skills as a trainer of heroes, not seeks him as a student for himself....but ALSO as a kind of manipulation - personally, I think he was hoping to use Dick’s inevitable concern and compassion for Rose as a buffer to keep Dick from betraying Slade or tripping him up when he tried.....and of course Dick actually ended up getting ROSE to turn on Slade instead? 

But at the same time, its not one sided at all, because there was a particularly clever bit about how Dick faced off against Superman as Renegade, and tried to use his heartbeat to send Clark the message that he wasn’t actually betraying the heroes and not to listen to the words he was saying, but the fact that his heartbeat showed that he was lying....except Slade had ANTICIPATED this, and had rigged the glove of Dick’s Renegade costume ahead of time to be like, wirelessly linked to a remote he had as he watched Dick and Clark’s interactions through the video feed on Dick’s mask.....and Slade used this remote to send wireless signals through Dick’s glove that matched the sound of Dick’s heartbeat and in essence let Slade alter the rhythm of what Clark thought was Dick’s heartbeat....but was actually just Slade literally clicking buttons. 

So Dick was getting more and more confused about why even though he was saying all this stuff about being too jaded by the League’s failures and done with heroism, like, why was Clark actually BELIEVING him instead of realizing he was clearly lying from the sound of his heart....and Clark was actively getting more and more upset as he talked and actually trying to FIGHT him and Dick eventually had to flee with Clark actually like.....furious with him, and Dick had no idea why. With this, I think, being one of the things Dick actually full on HATES Slade for the most (and I think what directly motivated Dick getting Rose to turn on her father) - like, Clark has been Dick’s number one support and fan from day one, even when Bruce wasn’t at times. He’s the one person who has pretty much ALWAYS believed in Dick no matter what. 

And Slade managed to take that away. To get Clark to literally look at Dick as the enemy. To not believe him, believe in him. Like. That’s something I don’t think Dick has ever forgiven Slade for or ever will.

So yeah. There’s so much more to Dick and Slade’s dynamic than fics represent, and I wish people delved more into this other stuff, because its so much more INTERESTING in my opinion than just like, your usual ‘older supervillain toys with younger outmatched superhero’ or master and apprentice stuff, etc.