#absorbed its life into himself and let it warp him

[deliciousobservationbird]

I love the way Minecraft PvPers move. I like to imagine Manepear's crouching on walls and slow pacing as being with a catlike grace. He wears the pelt of the lion he killed and skinned and, just like in Lifesteal, sometimes when you kill things you absorb them. He prowls with a catlike grace, his teeth are a touch too long and too sharp, and (if you could see them) his pupils look almost slitted when he's gazing out on the hunt. He's strong and, despite his height and despite his broad frame, he can move deceptively quickly. From 0-180mph in a second, patiently lying in waiting until the right second to strike, batting his prey around without a second thought towards mercy.

FlameFrags is taller and leaner but no-less deadly. He dances around like sparks in the air, jumping backwards to avoid axe and sword hits and his feet barely touch the ground before he's off again in a different direction. He moves with the wind, never buffeted by it, and his enemies fear the blur of his outline out of the corner of their eyes. He burns steady, creeping up at a constant pace patiently consuming everything in front of him before they are stuck - suddenly feeling their surroundings set alight and seeing the golden glow of his eyes even through his blindfold. The sun's glare obscures their vision and appears to mock them and the sensation of his diamond sword radiating heat and light as it plunges into them is a sensation that lasts long after respawn.

[versipellis21]

⚠️⚠️SPOILERS⚠️⚠️

down in the valley - versipellis21

It’s over, he thinks, and his mind brightens up like fireworks. The war is over and everyone can go back to living life normally, the way they did a year ago, as if nothing had happened and Regulus had never showed up.

He smiles and thinks for the first time he can understand the warmth James feels whenever he glows.

James, Sirius, Remus, the rest of them. It’s all for them, and he’s happy it’s done now.

His eyes close and it’s harder to think his own thoughts, but just as his body with the ocean, he lets himself be carried away by the imagines his mind conjures in his last moments.

James is silent for once, and Regulus gazes openly, for the first time not caring what James might think, as he looks at the way James turns golden in the sunlight, as if he absorbs every particle and ray. It’s not quite correct, he thinks. That’s the James everyone knows, the one he lets everyone see. Regulus has the feeling there’s a lot more to him than the happy boy he plays every day. He tells James that he thinks he’s more like the ocean, rather than the sun.

The wind blows through his hair, forcefully, and it’s getting in his eyes. The rope ladder swings and he’s afraid he’ll fall down into the ocean, he really can’t swim well enough to stay afloat in those rough waves. James says he’ll catch him and with full trust Regulus lets go, feeling James’ arms close around him. As he’s flying through the air, James compares Regulus to Icarus.

It’s funny, he thinks. Because in the end, it never mattered at all, whether James was the sun or the ocean. The sun and the ocean had never had any active part in the story, it was Icarus who made every decision leading up to the end.

The sun couldn’t help it was too warm and light. Nothing could be done when Icarus was attracted to its beauty and flew too close, melting the wax of his wings and sending him plummeting through the sky. Had the ocean meant to swallow him? To catch him like a hug as Icarus fell against the waves and keep him there, safely in the arms of the water?

No matter how he twists or turns it, Regulus realizes that James always would’ve been the end of him.

He always would have given his life just so James could have his, and he was okay with that. He’d been aware of the consequences of his actions. Since the very beginning he’d known that the warmth and brightness of the sun might melt him, and that the ocean would keep him in its grip and never release him.

James’ love devoured him until he was nothing but loose feathers drifting atop the glistening waves.

All of this he was okay with, because before he fell, he flew.

Throughout his life he’s never been much of a smiler, but when he met James, his world got a little brighter, and Regulus smiled right now at the memory of James standing on a hill. The sun shining from behind, making him look like an angel. He can picture it very clearly. He smiles as he’s dying because he knows that in doing this he’s keeping the brightness in the world, to shine a kind and loving light on everyone who needs it.

He knows he hasn’t got long left now and tries to think of his friends. The images warp and change, he can’t feel the swaying of the waves any longer and suddenly he’s standing in Lily’s living room, again, or for the first time, he’s not sure. Every moment after follows as he lives this bright part of his life a second time before everything goes dark

[morphean42]

Day #1 of Falsettober put on by @lycheelsea

We’ll see how many I do but here’s the first prompt— Dinner

Also available under the cut

A wooden table upon which a casserole is perched, very likely warping the wood. A wooden table with three wooden chairs, only two filled. It’s not the first time the seat next to Jason has been empty, but the silence tonight is loud.

Tonight, the silence sounds like a hundred white lies that have been spit with varying amounts of anger for months. Lies, like “I have to finish a project at work” or “I’m getting a drink with an old college friend.”

The chair to the left is filled by silence that sounds like clothes being packed into a suitcase, a whole life stowed away as a man walks across the threshold of a house now wiped of his presence.

The chair to the right is quiet too, but in an altogether different way. This is the sort of quiet Jason has dealt with all his life— a parent too absorbed in their own life to care about his. The chair is inhabited by a mother still shocked by the events that unfolded the previous night.

He picks at his food and glares with every ounce of hatred he can muster. If he can’t let this hatred out on the man himself, Jason supposes the poor casserole will do as a replacement. At least it won’t glare back.

The silence is broken by a heavy sigh. “Please, Jason, eat your dinner,” The Mother says as if the world hasn’t ended. The Son stabs a piece of broccoli and pretends it’s The Father.

Perhaps it hasn’t, the world has a nasty habit of continuing on even when its inhabitants are sick and tired. Jason is determined to feel as if it has, though, because if he tries hard enough maybe he’ll stop feeling so numb.

“It’s not very good,” is what he says, even though it’s a lie. He feels like him in moments like these, moments where he snaps and his face burns with borrowed anger. He stares more at the food, willing it to give him the answers— to what, he’s not quite sure. The broccoli that’s stood in for his dad remains at the end of his fork, uneaten. Suddenly, the task of bringing food to his mouth feels monstrous and impossible.

Another sigh comes from the woman to his right. The chair at his left remains silent. “Jason. I can’t do this tonight.” She sounds tired. Good. Maybe if she’d tried a little harder none of this would have happened at all.

Is that an awful thing to think? Jason doesn’t know anymore. Often, he’s wrong about what he can say, but his father never seemed to care. His father never cared about anything but winning at chess and leaving his family for a man.

Jason speaks then, because his hair is curling more every day and his room isn’t very clean yet but chromosomes have to count for something good eventually. He speaks because the chair on the left is too quiet, and dinner is never complete without a biting remark, sharp words flung without care, and Jason used as a shield for both sides. His skin is raw from the venom his parents like to spit at each other.

“Why couldn’t you be a better wife,” comes out of his mouth, and he recognizes the words. Jason has never been good at being anything other than his dad.

Thick silence returns. The broccoli finally makes it into his mouth, but even the act of chewing is a chore. He’s not hungry, and he wants to crawl into bed and never look at his mother again. He’s afraid of how his words have dug in, how he’s destined to ruin her just as his father before.

“Eat your dinner,” comes out roughly from his right. The voice is sharp. The face is stony. There is a single, unshed tear. Jason pushes his plate away and stands.

“M’ not hungry.” He goes upstairs without an argument. The house is quiet. There is no yelling, no fights, no lies. No father that read to him when he had nightmares, until he was deemed too old for that comfort.

The dinner table is quiet. Two chairs stand empty. One woman sits with her head in her hands. Her chair is just as empty as the others, and her greatest fear is that her son will figure that out.

A family. Mother sits by herself at a table too big for one person, and she cries. Father is across town in a new apartment, he sits at a table and yells. Child lays in his bed and tries very very hard not to do either.

[touyubesposts]

How do you think Markiplier's egos and Sanders Sides would interact with one another?

I am so glad you asked! (This is gonna be long)

For context, I imagine the reason they all met was some time-warp space fuckery, and right now the sides only chance at survival is kinda hanging out with the egos until something can get sorted.

As a whole, everything is relatively peaceful. Is there Drama? Of course. But nothing too terrible. Maybe a physical altercation on a bad day, but nothing that would get the sides thrown out.

Let's get the obvious out of the way: Remus and Wilford would hang out. Remus would be fascinated by how off the walls Wilford could get and Wilford wouldn’t think twice about Remus’s insane sentinces. He’s like that Marge meme of ‘I just think he’s neat!’ Remus doesn’t really care about the others, but he loves asking Google fucked-up questions because he’ll just answer. No hesitation. And Remus thinks that's hilarious. Also him and Heehoo have to be kept in separate rooms after the incident.

Patton and Stan would be IMMEDIATE FRIENDS. I’m talking first day of knowing each other, Patton has already made friendship bracelets, Stan makes sure Patton is taking care of himself, and they have a ‘dad club’ that consists of only them two. And they match! They have basically adopted the others as their own, even Patton sometimes able to help Dark. The only person he hasn’t ‘officially’ adopted is Yancy. Patton found out Yancy was a self-made orphan and decided ‘he’s just, like, a friend’ because Patton values his life. (But if we're getting into uncanon egos, Patton basically adopted Erek Derekson and Hates Derek Derekson. Like I fully believe if you put this two face-to-face, they would fight. Patton deserves to go ape-shit as a treat :) )

Logan doesn’t necessarily like Google, but out of all the others, he tolerates Google the most. They pretty much work together to try and get things figured out for everyone, and their relationship is strictly work colleagues. Until Logan found out Google also really likes space. Now he’s intrigued. Another ego that intrigues him are The Jims. Its because he’s heard of a side splitting, but not infinitely splitting. Now he’s begun keeping a tiny notebook on everything he’s learned about the others.

Roman is the most active when it comes to hanging out with the other egos. Him and Yancy definitely bond over their love of musicals and their (chosen) family. For Illinois, however, I feel like they’re either partners or rivals, no in-between. If they’re partners, total bond over their love of adventure and constant compliments. If rivals, very catty behavior from both of them about how self-absorbed the other is. Roman and Dark have a mutual hatred for each other. Roman thinks Dark is the Villain while Dark hates any idea of a hero after Actor. Also Roman found out Dark was twins that re-merged and gained a new fear. And finally, Actor manipulates the shit out of Roman, constantly planting ideas of how similar they are and talking about how everyone else abandoned them so he should stay vigilant.

Janus probably talks to the others the least, keeping his distance and watching from afar. However, he does enjoy learning about the others through the sides that talk to him. Whether it's frustrations or compliments, he takes a mental note of it all. The only person he doesn’t know about at all is Actor, and Roman would love to keep it that way. Janus also loves knocking the more egotistical egos down a peg with off-handed comments. Luckily, that hasn't wound up in anything bad. And while he does do this, he would protect them if it came down to it. While he doesn’t like them, others do. And they all have a use.

Virgil, surprisingly enough, found his way near Dark. I think Dark realizes Virgil’s ‘potential’ and keeps him nearby because if anyone were to stop Virgil, it would be Dark. And if anyone were to help Dark, it would be Virgil. (You know Virgil’s voice thing when he gets anxious? Yeah, I’m gonna be the first to assume it doesn’t stop there.) Virgil over time realizes Dark is a lot like Logan and Janus, meaning he's keeps to himself a lot and attempts to hide his emotions a lot. But because Virgil is near Dark, he’s gotten to know all the others (as well as Dark) very well. Virgil nearly sprinted towards Logan once he found out Heehoo had a scientific name. Also Virgil was the first Side to find out about Dark and Wilford’s Past, which was shocking for him because some of the other egos don’t know his past.

So that's my head canons, feel free to tell me your own, and I hope you have a good day!

[marlonbrandto]

THE MAYNOS GAMBIT | 6

D’tano’s coughs jolt him awake. Blinking away the dancing lights in his eyes, he feels the three fingered hand of a fellow Tau help him into a seat. Taking a breath, and steadying himself against the rocking caused by nearby explosions, he looks around the devilfish he had hastily boarded before the earthquake. The hold of the vehicle was packed with black armored fire warriors, the one who helped him gives D’tano a firm nod before returning to the others gathered around a bonding knife. He had entered Death Company’s devilfish, and the full significance of the situation he was in was beginning to sink in. He needed Death Company to find Aun’Shar, but there was only one way to take command of such a unit, joining them in their fatal Ta’liserra.

Protecting this ethereal has already killed me 3 times over this week, what’s one more death?

D’tano rises to his feet and pushes to the center of the throng, grabbing the ritual blade from the Shas’ui. The leader says nothing, solemnly watching the Fireblade test his palm on the tip.

“Tau’va or death!” he shouts as he presses his palm through the blade. D’tano grunts as another hand impacts with his, hitting it further down. One by one each member stacks their hand upon the bloody stack, saying the same words. The devilfish lights turn green, and D’tano pulls the blade free. Raising it high as he moves to the opening hatch.

“Find the Ethereal Aun’Shar, our life for his!”

The cadre lets out a single HAH as the hatch slams open, and rushes out into the raging battlefield.

1. The May’nar sept remnants clash with the reinforced Grey Knights once again, Commander Novastorm leads the charge in a Ghostkeel, engaging the closest dreadknight.

2. his bodyguards decimated in the initial clash, the leader of the Grey Knights, Kaldor Drago, takes to the field. Sending psychic blasts into a pair of crisis suits, he rushes them with his legendary Titansword.

3. Fireblade D’tano leads Death Company out of their transport. the fearless breacher team unloads their pulse blasters into the grey knights, who conjure a barrier of warp energy, absorbing the assault.

4. The scattered Tau forces attempt to rally in the chaos. Firewarriors gather around Aun’Shar as a crisis suit fired suppressive fire at the advancing Kaldor Drago. The ethereal grabs a fire warriors comm suite to send out a transmission to nearby forces. “All units, the statue is what they’re guarding here! Someone scan it, it may be the key to the Calamity Equation!”

5. D’tano receives the transmission too late, as he stands alone among the melted corpses of death company. The nearby dreadknight slices cleanly through the devilfish with its nemesis greatsword, considers the lone tau for a moment, then vanishes in a ripple of warp energy. D’tano draws his ritual blade, still dripping with the blood of Death Company, and shouts a battle cry as he tackles the nearest soldier.

6. Two tetras hurtle towards the statue, the copilots beam a high powered marker light at the monument and begin a scan. “This is Fogbreaker, the statue is part of of a larger mechanism spanning the rest of the planet. According to the readings a control panel at the base is connected to energy signatures spanning the surface and interior of the planet!”

Aun’Shar wastes no time, “activate it!”

7. The tetra pilot jumps out of his vehicle as the air starts to shimmer nearby and a dreadknight rips through reality. The ancient war machine fires warp energy into the tetras, melting them into transfigured heaps. A railgun slug from the nearby hammer head pierces the stainless metal, causing the dreadknight to rush the gunship. The disembarked tetra pilot reaches the a panel at the base of the statue, and without thinking, slams his hand down on it. The ground begins to vibrate.

8. Drago and Aun’Shar exchange blows as dust kicks up and chokes the air around them.

“Impetuous child!” Kaldor spits as he swipes his sword horizontally, the roar of the warp following in its wake “do you even understand the gravity of your actions?”

Aun’Shar ducks under the rippling blade, “I don’t need to” he thrusts his spear towards the knights abdomen “but I know it’s waking something that scares even you” the tip of his spear makes a skkkkkrrrrt as it scrapes across the surface of Kaldors shield instead of finding its mark.

“To covet the Calamity Equation is to invite heresy!” Kaldors blade narrowly misses Aun’Shar’s leg “to use its power is to question the Emperors will!” With a shove from Kaldor’s shield, the ethereal is sent scrambling into the gravel.

“Sounds useful!” Aun’Shar shouts as he glances up and sees the flash of a blue search light

Authors note: I recommend listening to To the Stars by Max Richter while reading the following section

A recovery drone!

Kaldor’s eyes begin to glow as he charges warp energies

Pranng!

He stumbles back from the impact of a pulse blast. Aun’Shar whips around to see D’tano crawling forward, pulse pistol glowing hot in his hand. Aun’Shar leaps to his feet,

“My friend! You’ve survived!”

D’tano reloads his pulse pistol and takes aim, “Together, ethereal. Together we dove in to hell and together we will fight our way back.” The ethereal manages a wry smile:

Only the drone will prioritize my survival over yours…

Aun’Shar considered his opponent, then his dying comrade who would sacrifice all for him. There was what the greater good demanded, then there was what his friend needed.

Dropping his spear he turns towards Drago “not this time, my friend” dashing towards the towering foe.

Thnk!

Drago’s sword finds purchase deep in the ethereal’s chest as he’s lifted off the ground, impaled on a blade crackling with energy. Aun’Shar smiles as he begins to cough up blood

Live D’tano! Live in my place!

“NOOOOO” screams D’tano, firing his pulse pistol as the recovery drone picks him off the ground, dragging him into the air.

D’tano can do nothing but watch the ethereal begins to fall limp, as a chaotic swirl of energy swallows both combatants, which then shrinks into nothing, leaving naught but a few scorch marks in the gravel. In mere moments, it’s as if the ethereal Aun’Shar of May’nar sept never existed.

TO BE CONCLUDED

Authors note: sorry this is such a long read, I really was getting invested in the narrative. I didn’t want Aun’Shar to die, but it’s how the dice were rolled and fit the narrative pretty well!

How do you treat your characters that have died in your narrative? I want to keep using the ethereal model but I want to canonize this story somehow.

[valorxdrive]

MIIIIGHT as well do it now! I got some ideas in fresh in my mind! Granted, this will be decently sized list of what I envision!

The Sora experience you could say.

SHOW YER STUFF SORA.

I'll keep it under a read more due to length length

Ragnarok/Union Ragnorok: This remains entirely unchanged. It's been he's carried within him since 1 as a Limit ability originally. Only thing I'd change is that instead of one prismatic sphere of light, it'd total up to 13 at max before releasing a hellstorm of fiery light.

King of Hearts: Instead of being a projectile attack at all. What this does is allow Sora to tap deeper into his affinity of connections. Whether it's with spellwork, his surroundings, or with others. This would naturally amplify the potency of all of his abilities.

This needs caution however as this ability and his Rage Form promotes a very dangerous line of being out of control.

Drain Shock: Primarily unchanged from its concept. When activated however, all electricity based functions (beings bio electricity included) can be fashioned into healing energy for him to absorb. It's an a particular alternative to his regen spells.

Atomic Deluge: Keeps the same in terms of it's presence. However the way Sora utilizes is based on the principles of nuclear energy. Primarily will be used in the form of blast, rays, so on and so forth instead of letting it spray out in a wild shower.

Ghost Horde/Phantom Rush: These will be a two for one package. Taking the practice from his usage of Light Avatars in the Mirage Drop formchange, Sora instead allows for his clones to be spiritual apparitions fashioned from the excess energy of his soul. They're a lot more malleable in comparison as he has an easier time manipulating these than pure light clones.

Primarily used for long ranged attacking, surrounding foes, and also wrestling away forces that attempt to possess a body. Noted, this doesn't work for beings who outright take over the Heart like Xehanort does in his brand of higher scaled possession. This was inspired during his constant run in with Possessor Heartless from KH2.

Drill Dive/Warp Trick/Zone Connector: These three are also unchanged from their concept. Being inspired and learned from his encounters of Xigbar, he's created his alteration of this ability through Shotlocking. He primarily loves to fling himself through multiple portals, yet, this can go for elemental abilities, Strike raids, and even other allies too if they work on such a combo idea.

Shimmering Drops: This is an ability that directly steal a user's life force. Long as they remain in Sora's line of sight, this ability can be executed seamlessly. It's an ability that forcefully rips away that vitality in order to fuel his own.

However this ability can be used to make incredibly potent healing elixirs when aimed at the world itself. Through taking the excess of nature energy, it's refined and forged into the enriched waters of life. Similar to the Healing Light, this scale of healing magic can allow vitality and limb to be restored to either himself or another of his choosing.

This was inspired from Rapunzel's hair blessed by the Sundrop. However, it can by no means be as that potential as to give eternal youth and other benefits.

Spectral Rays: Unchanged! This works perfectly as it is.

Snakebite: Also remains largely unchanged. Compared to other spells however, this can be used in conjunction with Drain Shock and also linger longer as a homing type of attack. True to their name, these manifested magical snakes will not hesitate to cleave you with their jaw strength.

Diamond Dust: This pays homage to Shiva's OG use of the spell instead. Here can be a good example of such!

The Blizzard tree of spells is instead focused into a more crystalline light focus of energy. It can be expanded as either chilling airs or in a focused beam, that allows for pure frost to gradually sweep over and eclipse it's target entirely if caught within the brunt of it. With how mana it is, this also holds the capacity to explode via Sora's signal.

Frozen Crescents: Unchanged. It can just be used within any form changed (or not) weapon as it's just a volley of ice charged slashes. It either cuts through them with the elemental, or sweeps in a way to encase them entirely. This can be used in conjunction with Diamond Dust.

Honey Burst/Drizzle, Sweet Surprise - Literally Sora flinging magically enhanced Honey at you. lol. While this doesn't do damage outside of the momentum it's flung at you. It's property as an advanced adhesive would get you into quite the sticky situation!

Meteor Shower: Remains unchanged! This is just Sora condensing his mana into the whimsical shape of stars to launch at his opponents.

Cluster Cannonade: Within his Magic Launcher Formchange, this has two variances. He either allows the gargantuan mana blast to be transformed into a miniature volley of blast that proceeds to carpet bomb a certain area.

In another vein, he'd proceed to focus the potency of that energy if there's a particularly durable foe and proceed to use it as a massive nuke instead, going for raw damage output. Such an attack would normally be made by airborne means, as he's not trying to bring destruction that large scale to the surroundings.

This can be casted/dual casted with elements as well.

Cubic Stream: While the attack itself remains a normal volley blast. The specialty comes in it's properties, being forged from his bond with Hiro from San Fransokyo. These microbots hold the ability to potentially hack and dismantle machine based opponents. It'll serve as a viral threat to androids who can't withstand it either.

This can also be used to hack technological systems even if Sora doesn't hold the knowledge. (It'll mainly be used as a means to either lock or unlock functions, keeping true to the Keyblade.)

Blade Storm: Remains unchanged from it's original as a volley of Aero based blades. However, natural empowerment allows for each blade to explode into a miniature tornado that either remains sky high or at ground level. If blades are able to converge on the other hand, it allows for a massive tornado to spawn and rip any opponent before him asunder..

Flag Rampage: Remains unchanged! It's an attack that cleaves with more focus force, using the Aero elemental tree in order to violently increase the cutting potency.

Blades of the Round: This ability in itself gets an overhaul. As it's an ability used with Ancient Light, Sora allows himself to conjure facsimile Keyblades from the ancient past of KHUX. They will be at the maximum refinement and be used levitating blades that attack in conjunction with his attacks. They're dedicated to the Light element and used for their lethal attack potency. (At that scale that are able to cleave through concentrations of Demon Waves stacked together.)

Infinity Circle: Remains entirely unchanged. As one of the strongest attacks of Sora's arsenal, it's a culmination of primal light focused, refined and set to utterly decimate his foes once the actual attack is fashioned through spellcircles and crystals. For an attack of this spell, he'd normally make an entirely separate dimensional space or get his opponent teleported to the deep depth of spaces before letting it off.

And this is while it's within his state of freshly acquiring it. It's nowhere near mastered.

Sunray Blast: This would be of the higher branches of the Fire elemental tree. By treating himself like a solar panel, he'd come to concentrate a high volume of sunlight into a concentrated blast. (Think of it akin to solar beam from the Pokemon series), weaving it together with mana, this is either to burn away foes with high regenerative properties, or to tackle especially enchanted ice.

Or! Simply just being in a place that as a high wealth that can be made used of. (Agrabah's deserts come to mind.)

Bladefury Eclipse: This falls into the inverse of the Blades of the Round. Darkness enchanted blades fashioned of his own making, still going by the same idea of telekinetic swordplay. It's another way he comes to channel his Dark Form/Rage Forms into a potent attack instead. In turn, this holds the potential to enrage his foes via Rage Form's Heartless physiology, momentarily infecting his foes and throwing their emotional state into disarray.

Stellar Inception: This is another one of those abilities that have the same caveats as Infinity Circle. Under no circumstances would Sora ever proceed to use this ability on a planet. Only in specialized realms or in space, whether made by his hand, another or the Darkness itself. (Kingdom Hearts included in the count of realms) By ripping open a portal to the depths of space itself, he'll proceed gather underneath his will and command, then proceed to launch literal dying stars towards his opponent, just as they're being condensed into the nova phase.

This is an ability that's again reserved for opponents of the highest caliber

_____

What u doin at the bottom of this!! Congrats, you have an idea on how I perceive his abilities.

Keyblade Wielders holding the means to hold their ground against the Grand Creative of Kingdom Hearts itself, have the means to be a cataclysmic force upon multiple universes if carelessly wielding this strength. It's by working with a universe's natural protections via the Light that a lot of their battles can be safely performed.

It also demands a particular brand of mastery to responsible use such strength as well. As their natural enemy; The Heartless, have the same means to utterly devour universes into their very realm by going for World Heart that rests within each one.

[ramble-bloo]

Loligo has been asleep for decades, so when he wakes up, everything he knew has changed and he has to adapt.

But he’s also stubborn and still coming down from his high of being one of the most notorious pirates of myth and legend. It’s a rank that he refuses to let go of even after having his own crew throw a mutiny and steal his eye, thus nerfing his godly abilities by quite a lot. 

So when he finally learns about the where abouts of his late crew, he of course is ready to rub it in their faces that he’s up and kickin, even if they might be nothing but bones. 

And when they find the ship, it’s contorted inside of a near flooded cave. Its former glory gone and splintered. The shape is warped into a mere mockery of its original glam. But that was something Loligo expected. He’d seen and caused his fair share of ship wrecks so he doesn’t hesitate to climb into the wreckage with Avis in tow. 

But when he and Avis find the remains of his old crew. He finds that hunger for revenge is ruined. Completely gone upon truly seeing the state of their bodies. 

They’re nothing but bones as expected but seeing their bodies frozen in their final moments. Their skulls gaping open as they took their final breaths. Their clothes are tattered, their swords are rusty, and their bones are dirty from exposure to the stuffy salty air and whatever critters happened to find them. 

Avis is wandering about, absorbing all she can of her captain’s original ship that, even as a wreck, overshadows their mere winged sloop. 

Loligo’s cocky stride has slowed to a snail’s pace as he is hit with the cruel law of mortality. That no matter how grand one thing seemed, time will humble it into a memory. 

The dried corpses of his crew mates, men that he used to share rum with and sing off key and slurry shanties with, were nothing but piles of the past now. Squeezing into the captain’s quarters, he saw whatever treasure remained was corroded. It was more accurate to refer to them as artifacts instead of riches. 

Loligo hated having to confront the voice in the back of his head that told him his reign of terror was over. That he was no longer the legendary Kraken Captain that could sink fleets in under a minute. He hated having to accept that he was back at square 1 and would probably be stuck there for awhile.

Potentially forever. 

Sure, mortality had a very loose grip on him, but it was still a determined hold. He might not age but the world around him did. And it was outgrowing him. 

As he pulled himself out of the ruins of the quarters, he was met with the sight of Avis hovering down, her colorful wings out and open bringing some life to the decaying ship. 

As she spun around on her heel to take in the full sight of all the ruins around her, Loligo was hit with the hard fact that Avis was the only thing left for him in this endless life he lived. The last remaining crewmate and the only person who saw him as the legend he is and not was.

The avian had grown on him much more than he would like to admit. And he recently found this growth to be expanding at a far more aggressive pace than he would have expected. 

Loligo had his fair share of fine companions on the sea back during his reign of terror but none truly came close to how Avis made him felt. It was corny of course, but the lively nature and overall optimism was a welcome element in his life. And the times she’d intimately help him relax and calm down certainly made her a mortal worth keeping around in his book. 

He found himself thinking about just how much his impression of the avian had changed since he first met her. How he expected to just use her impressive map and direction skills to find his eye and then rid himself of her the first chance he got. Originally, the thought would have made him chuckle but now, he felt a pit in his stomach at the concept. 

The pit only grew as he realized not only did the idea bring him guilt now, but also loneliness. It was a mutual punishment for them both to be separated now. Something he wouldn’t openly admit to the macaw of course. 

Avis had seemed to finish her scouting and turned to face Loligo, who was deep in thought. She tilted her head and stepped a bit closer, the glint of the moonlight peaking through the cave hitting her at just the right angle so her features were luminated, further emphasizing her colors. 

Loligo’s eyes widen at the sight and he realized not every treasure on the ship was corroded. 

Avis went to call for her captain, only for him to make a slow approach to her by himself, causing her to squawk in surprised as she straightened up, bracing for orders. 

Instead of hearing a firm voice, she felt Loligo’s cold and weathered hands on her cheeks. She fought to keep any tweets inside but the contact made the feathers on her wings poof out. She stood strong however, knowing Loligo was merely checking to make sure she was fine before they departed to their next destination. 

That's what she was expecting, at least.

That changed when he slumped down, now nearly at eye level as he pressed their foreheads together. A drained expression came to his face, his crimson eye a dull red as he finally let himself rest the stern captain act. The thoughts were too heavy and the memories of his high were making him lightheaded. The only thing keeping him grounded was the macaw who was quick to catch him, expecting him to fall. 

“Cap’n! Are you okay!?” 

Loligo’s voice came out, low and drained. 

“I’m so tired...tired of losing things.” 

Avis squinted in confusion, her nose scrunching up. The expression was too much for Loligo’s chest to take as his thumb caressed her cheek. She froze, her already blushing skin now turning a deep red. 

“All my treasure is gone, My old crew is just dust and memories. My old ship is wreckage and splinters. And my reputation is a mere fading legend.” 

Avis’s expression softened as she listened. One of her hands found their way to the back of one of Loligo’s which remained on her cheek. She squeezed and for a second, she could have sworn his cheeks got more color to them. 

With a deep inhale and a heavy exhale, Loligo relaxed and collected himself before forcing his own pride aside for his next sentence. This time a request. 

“All I have to ask of you...” The kraken looked Avis deep in her eyes, his expression now gentle. “My last remaining jewel...”

Avis let a squawk slip out at the statement and she ushered out a quick “I am so sorry”

The slip up only brought a rare genuine smile to her captain’s face as he held her face gently in his hands. The warmth radiating from her skin was a well needed boost to his cold aching heart. 

“Please stay by my side...'least 'til the end of this voyage.”

Avis’s eyes widened and for a second, Loligo wondered if he had just killed her by making her already rapidly pounding heart beat too fast. 

The macaw opened her mouth to give a quick “Aye aye” before giving him the brightest smile he had ever seen. 

Giving in to the urge that had been plaguing him since he saw her standing in the moonlight, Loligo leaned in with full expectations of sealing the deal...only for his lips to meet nothing but empty space as Avis had fainted into his chest. 

He sighed, figuring he was correct about having made her heart beat too fast for her little birdie body. However, instead of annoyance as he usually would have felt, he let out a chuckle as he scooped his only crew mate up into his arms and made his way out of the wreckage. 

Refusing to look behind him, he continued forward toward the awaiting ship outside of the cave with his arms filled with his feathered treasure. 

[to-star-lake]

An early scene from the let you go verse ✿☾

--

Geto had never seen anyone move that fast.

Sure, Gojo’s fast, and so is he, but you-

You were a veritable storm of movement, a blur of speed and precision.

He fanned his hand in front of his face, coughing as the billowing clouds of dust and rubble settled and the smoke cleared.

And there you were, crouched on one knee, your hands holding down the pair of curses the two of you were assigned to exorcise, a first mission for you. And there he was, standing awkwardly, wide-eyed, while the colossal tiger curse he summoned purred beside him, rolling on its back.

He cleared his throat, shaking thoughts away, dismissing the curse, and made his way towards you. The curses under your grasp groaned in unholy voices, and he watched, unable to tear his eyes away as your fingers closed even more tightly around their necks, your expression stone cold, unchanged.

“I could’ve helped,” he managed, quietly thankful that his voice didn’t crack at that moment.

You shrugged carelessly. “You didn’t need to.”

“Aren’t you going to exorcise them?” he tilted his head, failing to hide the intrigue in his voice.

“Yaga told me to let you exorcise them whenever possible.” He watched your face lift and your eyes met his. “He said you can control them.”

He paused for a moment, considering your words and nodded. He held out his right hand, palm open, enabling his technique and he watched your expression intently as one of the curses in your grasp warped into a dark, rumbling swirl in his palm, forming a crystal black orb.

Your eyes were focused on him, on the warbling sphere on his palm, and a twinge of self-consciousness hit him as he raised the orb to his lips, consuming it. Your eyes held no expression, he could not read what you were thinking, as much as he wished he could in that moment. But your eyes were so focused on him, so present, like you saw him so clearly and he almost wished you didn’t.

The other curse was churning into his palm and it had almost completely absorbed into an orb when you asked, “Can I hold it?”

He looked at you, wide-eyed, almost in disbelief as the question reached his ears.

Why? He wanted to ask. But didn’t. It can’t hurt you. And you can’t hurt him..right?

He took a step toward you, slow, cautious, the gently revolving curse in his palm out, a cursed offering to you.

“You should concentrate cursed en-” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. You held your hands out, cupped next to each other, cursed energy coursing to your palms.

Carefully, gently, he tilted his hand over yours, passing the orb onto your hands and one might mistake this care for the object like it was something precious, but it isn’t. He'd never handed over an absorbed curse to anyone else (no one else had ever wanted it). He didn’t know what would happen.

He’d only noticed he’d been holding his breath, and let out a purposeful exhale when he saw the orb floating in your palms and in your hands, this wretched thing almost looked precious, like a gleaming black pearl between iridescent ivory shells.

He watched you looking down at it, a glittering reflection of the cursed orb in your eyes.

“And then you eat it?” your voice was much quieter than before.

“I consume it, yes.” he answered, the tenor of his voice matching yours.

His breath hitched as he watched you lift the orb to your lips, the tip of your tongue peeking from between your teeth, and you-

You tasted it.

He let out a ragged breath, hoping you couldn’t hear it.

Say something. He clenched his fists at his sides, desperately grasping for words in his mind. Do something. But he was frozen, the bottoms of his shoes cemented to the ground where he stood. He dug and dug, his efforts in vain, to find something behind your stoic expression.

It’s grotesque, isn’t it? This hideous thing I do. And now you’ve seen it. I shouldn’t have shown you. I shouldn’t have let you..

Finally you looked up, your eyes meeting his and you handed the curse back to him just as carefully as he passed it to you.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Ha..” the relief was audible in his voice at the way you said that. Your expression still hadn’t changed, but dare he say it, he definitely heard it, there was an almost playful edge to the way you said it.

-

“Hey, can we stop in that convenience store real quick?”

Geto turned to look at you, your small hand tugging at the sleeve of his uniform, the other pointing to a brightly lit building surrounded by vending machines past an empty parking lot.

He took out his phone to check the time.

“Yeah, are you hungry?” There was still time before the train back to Tokyo leaves.

“Yes,” you replied simply and bounded through the entrance to the little store. He took a seat on one of the benches outside by a vending machine, and a couple of minutes passed before he saw you poke your head out from the doors.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“I’m not hungry,” he smiled. He never had any appetite and wouldn't for a long time after consuming a curse.

“Ok, I’ll just be a minute.”

He sat, looking out at nothing, replaying that moment over and over in his mind. The image of you, holding the small, black orb to your lips, the tip of your tongue grazing its surface-

“Here.”

He blinked, time finally catching up to him. He watched you take a seat beside him, holding a lollipop out for him. For me? And you nodded, nudging it closer to him, like you could hear the question in his mind.

He took it from you, and watched you drop a full bag of food down onto your lap. You unwrapped and took a bite out of the onigiri that you held in the other hand.

You must’ve noticed the way he was staring, because you turned and answered the question he didn't ask, “My cursed technique churns through my physical energy stores, so I’m always hungry,” you explained flatly. “I got you some cup ramen and onigiri too. For the train, in case you get hungry later.”

He laughed softly, he couldn’t help himself - the way you muttered through a mouth full of food, a little smudge of nori on your cheek, so different from the way you were when you defeated those curses, so human, so honest, so young..

“And this is what, an appetizer?” he chuckled, unwrapping the lollipop after reading the label. Sour apple.

“No, that’s a palate cleanser,” you replied simply. But your words caused him to freeze mid-movement. He felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach at the implication.

He took a careful inhale, forcing himself to move after a moment, and brought the lollipop to his lips. “I know it’s unpleasant. I can go buy some chewing gum-” He stood, turning away, his eyes dark beneath the fallen strands of his hair.

“Shit-”

A gentle tug at his shirtsleeve.

“Geto, I’m sorry..”

He turned, a practiced smile on his face. “You don’t have to apologize. I normally go on missions alone, so there’s no one to converse with..no one to care..and I’m so used to it that I hardly notice it anymore.” This last was a lie; he couldn’t not notice it.

“No, I mean-”

He watched your expression twist into something he hadn’t seen before. An emotion was manifesting in your eyes. What is it?

He watched you inhale deeply, your chest rising. He hung on the edge of every millisecond that passed.

“It’s not that. It’s not what you’re thinking,” you began, your voice softer than usual. He watched you scoff lightly, shaking your head a little before meeting his gaze.

“This isn’t normal, what you and I do, what we are, you know that right?” You glanced over at a boy and girl across the street, hand in hand, in their high school uniforms, skipping along, laughing, so immersed in their own world it was palpable.

“You don’t seem like the kinda guy that ever complains,” you continued, your eyes meeting him again. “I might be out of line for saying this, but I want to make sure you know- what you do, this is not something you should ever have to get used to. This isn’t normal. I know you probably have some belief system, some cause you’ve dedicated yourself to. To help people who can’t help themselves, because you can, so you think you should, right? Because you have this ability. But I hope you know that it doesn’t have to be at the expense of your own happiness. It’s not selfish to look inward once in a while. If you’re suffering, if you’re in pain- you should know that it’s valid. And that lollipop, it’s just a reminder, an entry back into the real world after you’ve consumed a curse.”

You turned, moving back to take a seat on the bench, resuming bites out of the onigiri in your hand while he was stunned, frozen where he stood.

“I apologize for my candor,” you muttered, your cheek puffed with food. “It’s an unattractive quality. But I hate it when people get so caught up in themselves that they lose sight of what makes them great.”

It doesn’t have to be at the expense of your own happiness…

It’s not selfish to look inward once in a while…

If you’re in pain, you should know that it’s valid…

This is a reminder…

…

What is this feeling?

A slow simmer in his gut, it was warm, fluttering gentle caresses up his spine, it rose up and brought warm heat to his cheeks, a flush of pink under his skin.

He looked at you from where he stood, and from your feet, he watched the rest of the world suddenly emerge in vibrant color- the way the summer air smelled, the soft chirping of crickets from the trees in the distance, the low rumbling of a faraway storm..

Everything that had faded into the background, that he’d pushed to the far back of his consciousness because for as long as he can recall, he was actually the one being consumed by the curses in his possession. And he’d gotten so good at hiding what plagued him, that he was even starting to believe it himself, believing that everything was fine. But by the sweet, clear succession of your words, everything was brought to life, screaming and vivid.

In that moment, he stood on this Earth, just a boy, and you, just a girl; someone from that moment on, he knew he wanted to protect with his life.

[alittlebitmaybe]

comme un écho

AKA whoops i talked to @yoursummerfrost about orpheus and eurydice and then tripped and fell on this very weird ficlet that is only sort of what i meant it to be. uh oh. (title lifted from “it’s never over (oh orpheus)” by arcade fire because i’m incredibly literal sometimes)

warnings: off-screen major character death

*

The mage had told him to perform the ritual in a field of wildflowers.

“Plenty of life,” she said.

Jaskier had asked, “For what?”

“To feed it,” she said, and did not elaborate.

And as he follows her instructions, surrounded by blooming weeds and swaying grasses, he sees that she was right. As the herbs and other unmentionables in the bowl burn, scorching the wooden sides, the green around him darkens to black. He feels the magic tugging at his energy and resists it. The ruin spreads from his epicenter, cursing the very dirt on which he kneels. A slow but inexorable exchange, and Jaskier thinks it fair. Geralt had watered the earth with his blood and now the earth must give back.

“You’re out of your depth, bard,” the mage had said as he turned to leave, her lips pursed. Was she amused or disapproving? Jaskier didn’t care, nor, he suspected, did she. Her pockets were full, and his own empty.

He hefted the lute higher on his back, clutched at the strap across his chest.

“And yet,” he said.

“He will not come easily,” she said.

“He never did,” Jaskier replied.

The flame in the bowl burns out with a flare of noxious smoke that stings Jaskier’s eyes, makes him cough. The world hums. It’s a tune of his own, as of yet unsung, plucked from his consciousness. It reaches out to him and burrows under his skin. Pulling. He follows it.

Between two gnarled, ancient trees, in the arch of their overlapping branches (Which belongs to which? Where does one stop and the other begin? If one was broken, would the other suffer for it?) the air shimmers.

The tune fades and in its place is a whisper saying, Come.

*

The stairs spiral downward for hours, days. Jaskier’s legs do not ache and he does not hunger, but it is ever so quiet. He takes the lute from his back and plays every song he’s ever composed in Geralt’s honor. Maybe Geralt can hear them. Maybe he will know Jaskier is on his way.

“Get ready, Witcher,” Jaskier says to the darkness. “Gather your underworldly things. You won’t be coming back any time soon. I can promise you that.”

And he says, “I’m sorry that you were alone. I’m sorry that I was too late.”

And he says, when the darkness presses upon him, when it seems the stairs will never end, “I don’t know when I began to love you, but it has been long enough that I don’t know how not to.”

And he says, “I’ve done this for you. You deserve to have a better life. You deserve to live.”

And he takes one more step and trips, for there is no stair where he expected there to be one. He taps the toe of his boot against the ground. It’s solid. He lifts his hand in front of his own face and it is invisible. There is no breeze, no sound, no smells, no light. There’s nothing down here.

In the face of such vastness, Jaskier is insignificant. He is nothing. You are nothing. You are less than a flea clinging to the fur of a great beast. You will be mine. You will become a part of me. You will cease. You will be forgotten.

“Hold on now,” Jaskier says, head whipping around. “Who’s there?”

I am everything that has been. I await everything that is. I anticipate what will be. I am.

“You’re Death,” Jaskier realizes, perhaps belatedly.

There is no such thing. I have no name. I have no need of it.

“That’s okay,” Jaskier says. “I don’t give a rat’s arse who or what you are.” His heart thumps arrhythmically, and sweat drips from his brow. He swipes it off on his sleeve. He is far under water. His lungs fill. He ignores it, swallows. Throws back his shoulders. “I’m here for Geralt of Rivia.”

There is no Geralt of Rivia.

“Bullshit.”

You are insolent.

“I’ve been told.”

You will be mine.

“Perhaps.” Jaskier licks his lips, an unbreakable habit. “But I will live on.”

You will not.

He laughs a little, despite himself, a nervous little giggle that he stifles as quickly as he can, clearing his throat. “On the contrary, I am an artist. I shan’t die as long as my art lives. And art does not die.”

Art? Art is not living. I have no use of it.

“Exactly,” he says. “Yes, precisely. It does not live or die. It simply is. Whatever you—whatever you are, being of, ah, all-ness…or what have you—whatever you are, whatever comprises you, you have none of art. You have no music, no stories, none at all. You will always lack it.”

There is a thoughtful pause.

I desire it.

“I can give it to you. Did you hear? I played my whole way down.”

I heard.

“Did you enjoy it? Three words or less.”

It was pleasing.

Jaskier exhales. “That’s actually a decent review, as these things go. I’m glad. I mean, would you like more? I could write you a song. Got a decent hand at improv, me. Won’t take a moment.”

A song. For me?

“Yes,” Jaskier promises, feeling the weight of it as it passes over his tongue, “a song, only for you. I shall never play it again. Well, um, on one condition.”

You want Geralt of Rivia.

“Oh, you were paying attention. Smart one, you are, Your…um, Majesty.”

I can retrieve him. If I am careful. He is me. I am him.

“Truly, I understand. His loss, for me, was…” Jaskier struggles for adequate words. “Irreconcilable. But you will always have the memory of your song to take his place.”

You sang of him.

“I do. Rather habitually. Every day of my life, in fact.”

Hmm.

“You sound like him already. So, whaddaya say?”

Play for me.

*

He plays, and every note that vibrates out from his lute, every note that leaves his mouth disappears from his mind. It is absorbed from him upon conception. He doesn’t know what the last measure was, nor what the next will be. He does not know what key or time signature his song is in, but he knows it’s a song. And that is all he promised.

It ends, and Jaskier does not notice. Possibly his jaw hangs open stupidly for minutes after it is over. He closes it.

“Was, um, was that…”

Yes. I will give you your reward.

“You will?” Jaskier asks, surprised despite himself.

I will release Geralt of Rivia, for you have given me something in return. And I will regain him, as I will gain you. We will meet again, bard.

“I—How do—”

You will walk forward. You will ascend, and he will follow. Until he emerges above, he is still a part of me. You may not look upon him, as you may not look upon me. You must not look back.

“How will I know he is there?”

He will follow.

“How will I know it is him?”

You must have faith.

“How—” Jaskier chokes now, tears welling up. He is glad no one can see. “Will he be—himself?”

Entirely. Once he emerges.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers.

It is time. Walk forward. In three paces, you shall begin to ascend. Be well, bard.

*

Jaskier climbs. The stairs remember his tread, the shape of his feet. It’s easy.

There are footsteps behind him. Are they Geralt’s? Do they match the way he shifts his weight, the deliberate heel-toe steps that Jaskier has been hearing for decades? He’s not sure.

Jaskier is afraid. More afraid than ever before. There could be anything back there. Anything at all. He must not look.

But he is not forbidden to talk.

“Geralt?” he says, tentatively. “Geralt, is that you?”

A grunt. “It’s me, Jaskier.”

And it is, thank the gods, it is. “Sounds like you,” he says, voice carefully measured, lest he sob in relief.

Silence. Four, five more stairs. They will not end. When will they end?

“How’ve you been, Witcher? It’s good to hear you again, my friend.”

“Where are we?”

“Well, who’s to say,” Jaskier says lightly. “Tell me, what do you last remember?”

“Bleeding out in a forest. I couldn’t get up. I waited to die. I…died. I died, didn’t I, Jaskier?”

Jaskier chooses to take that as rhetorical, and does not answer.

“Anything else?”

“Not until now. Is this a dream?”

“To my knowledge, no, Geralt, it is not. I pray that this is not a dream.”

“Then where—?”

Jaskier picks up his foot, sets it down. One stair at a time. There have been hundreds, there will be more. Is that light above? No, a trick of his eyes. He is still blind.

“Not to worry. We’ll soon be outside. It’s a beautiful day, you know. Big blue sky. Everything in bloom. Your favorite time of the year. We’ll have to do some foraging, stock up for potions. I have your things, of course, but I don’t know the shelf life of your concoctions.”

“A quarter year.”

“Ah, might have to make fresh, then.”

But no, it is growing brighter. Jaskier can see the faint silhouettes of his hands, the edges of the stairs to come. If he were to turn back he might be able to see the gleam of Geralt’s eyes, but he mustn’t.

Why mustn’t he? Oh, yes, the warning. He—can’t look back. He must not—

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. “I’m dead.”

“You are, Geralt, yes, is that what you would like to hear?” Jaskier says, a little hysterically. “But you won’t be for much longer, if we just keep going.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where? Where?” His pitch climbs with the staircase. Around and around. Dizzying. So many circles. “Above, Geralt. Back home, of course.”

“Why?”

Jaskier has to stop himself from whirling around. “Good gods, you ask me why? I follow you for decades, I immortalize you in song, and the witcher asks me why.” He draws in a great lungful of air, releases it. “I love you, you great idiot. I have loved you.”

The response comes, so softly, a mere rumble, “I know. That’s why I asked.”

The stairs are made of warped stone. He can see that now. They are well worn, dipping in the centers. It can’t be far. “Please, Geralt, we’re almost there.”

“You haven’t answered me. Why you would do this.”

“I was supposed to let you rot, huh? I was meant to live on as if it was fine? As if nothing was missing?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come back.”

“Of course you did. Of course you do.”

“I don’t,” says Geralt.

Jaskier stops, and behind him the second set of footsteps also halts.

“It was peaceful. It was my time.”

“It wasn’t,” Jaskier whispers. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

There is a touch to the small of his back, a gust of air across the nape of his neck. So familiar. He aches.

“Jaskier.” A strong hand closes around his wrist. He doesn’t look down at it, not even a glance. “The world doesn’t need me anymore.”

“What about the monsters? The wars?”

“There is Yennefer, and Ciri, and Eskel and the rest. There will always be someone.”

With dread creeping through his limbs, Jaskier says, “You’re telling me you don’t want to come back. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He can almost hear the creaking of the intertwined, ancient trees above. It is just a few more steps.

“You can’t tell me that, not when I—”

Arms come around him, and he shuts his eyes. “Jaskier, I would rather have done what I have done and no more, than continue on and overstay my welcome. I would rather have my peace.”

“What if I need you?” Jaskier breathes.

“I am with you.”

“You weren’t.”

Geralt’s hand comes to rest over his heart. It is not cold nor hot through Jaskier’s doublet. It simply isn’t much of anything at all. There, but insubstantial. It trails its way up his jaw, traces over his bottom lip. “You forget,” Geralt says, “that I am in your words. That I will live on. Isn’t that what you said? Art does not die.”

“You heard.”

“I must have.”

“That’s not fair.” Jaskier sniffles, knowing full well he sounds like a child. “I came all this way. I have always followed you. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“I will sing of you until I can’t any longer, to anyone who will listen, and to many who will not.”

A smile, pressed to his ear. “I can think of no better way to be loved.”

Something nags at Jaskier, and he can’t say what. He is surrounded by a body he knows as well as his own, yet it’s not right. Why?

The body releases him. It says, “Look at me, Jaskier. That’s all you have to do.”

“You’re not Geralt, are you,” he says with trepidation, eyes still squeezed tight. “Are you? Don’t lie.”

“Jaskier.”

He breathes in. Opens his eyes. Grips the lute strap in both hands. Turns.

Silvered hair, sad golden eyes, a sharp nose, wispy around the edges.

“Geralt,” he whispers, reaching out even as the form dissipates. Called back to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” it says, and then it is gone.

[fanfiction-artist-prototype]

So Who made me a prince is like an reincarnation au? (uuh isekai what was the term?)

Wait who is Izuku older brother?

And why does Izuku look so mean as a teen? (Court is vicious its ride or die?)

I love how your drawings look

(Because I'm self absorbed I'm going to respond to the last sentence first) Thank you for saying that! I'm trying out a new art style at the moment, I'm glad it looks nice.

(Now that that is out of the way lets begin-)

'Who Made Me A Prince' is a reincarnation/Isekai au! It's based off of my favourite isekai manhwa - 'Who Made Me A Princess!?' hence the name.

Izuku's isekaied into a story his mother used to read him as a bed time story for years, and which he continued to read constantly well into early adulthood because of her passing. He's reborn as the son of the Emperor in the book, a child destined to die alone and unloved.

Obviously, in order to survive he has to try and change things, and change things he shall!

--

In the original novel in this AU (which I'm naming 'The Heir') Izuku's character (which I'm calling Imperial Prince Izuku (REDACTED) Shigaraki of the empire of Ofala) lives an isolated life until his Father's older illegitimate child is presented to the court and basically strong armed into the Imperial Palace.

Having lived with nobody but his maids and seeing the chance for somebody to FINALLY care about him, sixteen year old Izuku lunges at the chance to help his brother; one Tomura Hisashi Shigaraki.

of course things don't go according to plan and somebody tries to assassinate Tomura and, as the known 'thrown away' child people don't hesitate to believe it's Izuku who's jealously has warped him into trying to kill the King's favourite out of the two of them.

--

Adding onto the above, the reason why Izuku looks so mean as a teenager is, as you said, because of how vicious court is. In the original novel he finds himself at the mercy of what little court interactions he actually finds himself involved in. Because of this, and the raging inferiority complex he gained from literally never being good enough to even be LOOKED at or allowed near his Father, he grew up to be spiteful, and lashed out at the few court goers that tried to get close to him; believing them to have gotten involved with him for the sole purpose of humiliating him.

In the Isekai version of events though, he's growing up with an actual relationship with his Father, a man known among the nobility as a vicious warrior who won't hesitate to leave a trail of red behind him if someone stands in his way. It rubs off on Izuku, to say the least.

--

Thanks for asking about the AU!! Hope this cleared a few things up!!

[azurevi]

3 halloween tales (cater, jade & vil)

This is really random, but the ssr cards for the halloween show have given me many au ideas, so here are my self-indulgent stories inspired by them. The Cater one is especially long because I got a lot of ideas about it. For the Vil one.. it's pretty disappointing how it turned out, but I hope it's not too bad. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!

WARNINGS : death (all), mild mention of gore (cater), war + mild possessiveness + violence (jade) [let me know if there're more!]

the heart and its eternal weight

Cater is a cemetery caretaker. It isn't that he really loves it, but his father was one. He feels like it is only right to take after his steps.

He isn't into superstitions. Some people find distaste in his job, but it's something crucial for Cater. People, even after they're dead, should still be honored, and so deserve a hospitable place to rest. 

Everyday is a routine for him. Sometimes, though, the families of the passed talk to him about their stories and their emptiness once their loved ones are gone. Cater finds the beauty and softness in humans by hearing these stories, and it makes him even more dedicated to his job. 

It's natural to him, dying. His father was killed in an unintended accident, and sometimes it seems like his death could have been avoidable just as much as it was inevitable. He just wishes that he had had more time with him.

One of the lessons his father taught him about graveyard caretaking is to beware of ghosts. Those who recently died are more visible and intimate with the world of the living, and so they might appear before humans. Some are inhostile, of course, but there are malevolent ones.

Lore has it that some ghosts prey on hearts. It is said that the heart is the most important part of a human, as it is accountable for life, death and emotions. People believe that ghosts can be revived with a fresh, still-beating heart, and as a result the human giving up their heart will die in place of the ghost. Basically, the heart can also create ripples in the fabric of space-time.

Because of his job, he isn't all that popular among others, and he only has a few life-long close friends, his mother and sisters by him. So even if he has a crush on the most admirable person he's ever seen, he still won't make it known in fear of rejection. He figures that he still has time to figure it out.

And he's wrong. News about your tragic death spread around quickly like wildfire, and he's devastated. It feels wrong to even feel so, because he has never been acquainted with you in the first place.

Your body is buried in his cemetery, and a lot of people come to your funeral that day. Some of your family members are so heartbroken and pitiable, and so Cater offered to be their listener.

All he can hear is about the great work you've done, the care you put into everyone you met, the warmth that radiated off you while you were still alive. It breaks Cater how he's never had the privilege to know you, to experience all your graces with his own perspective.

One night, the moon is lit and hung up high in the sky, so close that it seems to be prying on Earth and the people roaming on it. Cater is patrolling with his lawnmower when he hears quiet and uncertain sobs.

He is creeped out, yes, but he's also curious. He's never seen a ghost before, and it could be a human for all he knows.

He's proved wrong once again, as he discovers your opaque body behind a giant tree. You are hugging their legs close to your chest, and a rotting hole's visible where your heart should be.

There's no way you can be hostile, and you certainly won't kill him for his heart, so Cater decides to approach you gently, tentatively, like you're smoke that will disperse the moment he intrudes.

To his surprise, you can hear him clearly, and even invite him to sit down with him. It's so bizarre -- a ghost asking for a conversation! But Cater doesn't mind as he pops down beside you. He notices how although you were no longer solid, it still feels like tense when his hand passes through you. Certainly it's because you've been dead not for long.

And so the two of you indulge in heartful conversations, and Cater finds himself regretting even more about how he never gathered the courage to go up to you. Mid-conversation you tell him about all the things that you wish you could've done and all the ideas you wished to spread.

Cater probably shouldn't have, but he is so absorbed in your ambitions and kindness that he offers to carry out all these great things for you. After numerous confirmations, you agree too to let him carry out your thoughts.

And so Cater works in his neighbourhood, sharing campaigns and donating, taking care of lost pets and cats and partaking in environment improvement. He's never felt so fulfilled before, and it's the first time he feels like he's genuinely making a difference in the world.

In times he's not representing you, he brings you up on the little hill behind the cemetery where the moon and stars are so close and vibrant, where they all dance in the dark ballroom and pulse in excitement of being seen. He wishes he could show you more hidden gems, but your spectral spirit cannot be too far away from your body. 

But it's enough.

A month passes and Cater notices subtle change in your behaviour as well as appearance, like how you're responding with less enthusiasm and how the hole in your chest is growing bigger. When he finally asks about it, he's told that ghosts generally only stay in the world of the living for 49 days, and their heart will rot away in this period. After that, they will have to go to the underworld, never be back again.

Cater is certainly shocked that the lore is more than a children's makeup story. He is well aware of the significance of the heart in relation to the soul and life. 

He asks if you'd like to have his heart instead, so bluntly and casually. You seem to return to their original intimate self when you refuse. 

"I'm already gone. It's you, the living, who should be making changes,"

So he pretends that you're not getting more and more unresponsive and less and less generous. He turns a blind eye against your wavering figure and how you can't be seen at all in the sun. He plays dumb when in reality, you're slipping away before his very own eyes, heart rotting away like nothing more than a fruit.

It hurts finally knowing and understanding someone and having to lose them. 

On the 48th day, you are already but a still, soulless shadow, leaning beside your gravestone and fresh, white flowers. Cater can still see you. Sometimes he thinks that you chose to be seen.

And he can't bear to see you go. To see your dreams go into flames, to watch such a pretty soul just - vanish.

So he gives you his heart. Alive and beating and sentimental. It doesn't even hurt a bit. 

You wake up immediately, your eyes glowing and body solidifying. 

"What have you done?" 

"What I can do to make a change,"

Time is starting to rewrite itself. Cater is going to die in your place. The space around you was warping and folding into itself, softly and rightly like a lullaby.

Just before you slip into darkness, you gather up a whole bunch of rose petals and desperately stuff them into the hole in Cater's chest, as if they can give him life in lieu of a heart, and you are sobbing and clinging onto his still warm arm, never wanting to let go.

It's all Cater wants, to save a wasted soul and to make a difference. 

And so he cradles your face, and leans in the moment everything goes black. When he wakes up again, he's weightless in the cemetery, where a bunch of well arranged roses lie on his buried body.

a melancholy specimen

To Jade, beauty needs to be preserved to be constant. It's just like flowers. They die away without proper care.

Just when he thinks he's seen all the beauties of the world and is getting bored of it, he meets you. A blooming flower sparkling in the bland, old boring world around it. He's immediately captivated - how a person can still manage to flourish in such a rotten world where everything is depressing and all man is for themselves!

You're the most elegant piece of art he's seen, and that's something considering that he owns a museum. Innocence lies in your eyes and bravery sings itself between your lips.

You find him just equally amusing -- gentlemanly, insightful and just a touch of flirtation. The two of you fall in love like Alice down the rabbit hole - amused and unstoppable, fascinated by the wonders evolving about.

But the world doesn't give a damn about love, nor do they understand your dreams of a bright future where everything is close to hearts. They call you both madness and nonsense.

"Their souls are tainted with war and sorrow. They are beyond the point of rescue. Victory and glory are all that can feed their ego,"

Jade is disappointed. War has gouged people's eyes out and filled them with wails and ash.

The two of you are the only stars in the night sky, still fighting for salvation, yearning for a better future where trees grow and flowers yearn for the sun. You promote and do your best to lift the veil of darkness off the world. 

But the sun doesn't understand either. War keeps going on and on, and people never have the time for aesthetic relaxations. It refuses to shed light on its pitiable humans.

"We should evacuate, Jade. They say a bomb is dropping tomorrow,"

Jade doesn't care and can't care. The most paramount thing is to open his eyes to the beauty of this world. He doesn't want to become one of those barbarous men, tasting dirt and blood on their tongue while they glorify violence and brutalness.

He stays behind while his neighbourhood dies away. You are the only ones yet to leave. 

"Please don't leave me, Y/N. You're the only light in my life,"

You can't bear to leave him, and so you stay. The bomb is dropped, and it's too close. Too hot. Too cruel, too inhumane. It ravages everything in its way, burning all the darkened things to the ash and bringing the only beauty left in this world with it.

Jade wails. Broken cries are engulfed by nearby explosions and the cackling of flames. Your soulless body lies amidst the destruction, just another wilted flower in the slit of a rock, deprived of water and sunlight.

He finally understands. Nothing can save the world anymore. It's gone way too far, and it will never recover from malevolence. All he can feel is pity for his world as his heart ache with spite.

Bandages around his hands, he wraps your corpse up completely, preserved underneath the layers. You will be his reminder that there was once a flower in this drought, an anchor keeping him from becoming one of those barbarians.

lifeless silhouette in the dark night

You can never recognize directions. You find yourself stumbling upon a seemingly inhabited mansion in the middle of the woods. Cold and bruised, you knock on its door.

Welcoming you is a tall man with blonde and lilac hair called Vil. His skin is unnaturally white, and his eyes seem to glow like orbs that eat your souls. But you are too tired to make notice of all these details, and he's kind enough to let you stay for the night.

He treats you with ravishing cuisine and a grand bedroom that was as grotesque as the rest of the house. Afterwards, he leaves you to rest, but not before warning you not to get out of the room post midnight.

You oblige- for the first half hour. Then you start to hear wails and footsteps that amplify and disappear. It's impossible to sleep.

The next morning, you confront Vil about it. He refuses to face the questions as he ushers you to get going, and so off you go.

You spend another day lost in the woods, then somehow come face to face with the mansion again. Vil is beyond shocked to see you, but then he breaks into a deep smile.

"It's almost as if you belong here,"

Weirdly enough, you could agree, There seemed to be an invisible force pulling you towards Vil. After dinner, he orders you not to leave the room again before making his leave.

Broken wails. Recurring footsteps. You can't bear it any longer, and you also wonder if Vil is aware of this. He properly is, and thus tells you to stay safe inside the room.

But dumb curiosity gets the best of you, and you open the door and step into the endless corridors.

The wails come from the host's room, where Vil is supposed to be. You're closing in when its door is suddenly flung open, and out runs a panting Vil.

"Vil? What are-"

His eyes are bloodshot and there's red stain in the corner of his mouth. Sweat dots his forehead. He looks disheveled and the complete opposite of how he was during dinner.

"You shouldn't be here. Get back - get back in!"

His voice booms in your skull, and you're running back to your room before you notice. 

It's another sleepless night.

To your luck, Vil doesn't wait for you to bring the incident up.

"Don't be creeped ou by it, please."

He seems very uneasy about it, but he's obstinate to give you an explanation.

Turns out that he is a vampire. One that has lived for 500 years and is waiting for his eventual death. He's seen everything in this world and lived through the best and worst of humanity. He understands people's fear about vampires, and so he resides in the remote part of the wood. He only ever drinks the blood of small animals that he hunt, and never has he once killed a man.

He knew nothing about what'd happen to him when he became a vampire. If he'd known about the repercussions, he'd never have become one in exchange of eternal beauty. Now he has to turn someone else into a vampire to end his immortality. It is only a cycle.

 Every night the moon rises and spills into his room, and he has to fight his urge to go out and taste the sweet blood of humans. 

There are times when he slips and loses control, but he always manages to get back to his senses. But it seems that your presence here in the mansion is awaking his desire to suck you dry.

You're bewildered to say the least, and frankly horrified. But at the same time you feel pity for him, for he is just a man who can't ever do anything as atrocious as hurting people.

And so you offer to end his suffering. Of course Vil disagrees. He just talked about how he never wanted to take a life, and now you're offering yourself to him? He'd never allow it.

But you're even more persistent. You keep staying in his mansion, and his sanity slips a little more every night. And you know that he's contemplating too, for he never tries to kick you out of his mansion.

"You deserve a rest, Vil. For your love and selflessness. For all the unspoken kindness you bestow on others. It is only fair that you get to rest,"

Vil has lived a life. He's but a mere walking corpse now, and a rest -- a sleep -- sounds just like what he needs.

And so he rests. Vil falls into a deep, serene sleep while you endure each and every dark night.

[hen-of-letters]

Series 15 gives all of the characters you could ever care about their worst possible endings, but presents these endings as somehow good or satisfying or acceptable.  Here's a list.

The short version: they're Chuck's endings, and Chuck is a bad writer.  

None of the characters can escape the fate set out for them or break the cycle of trauma begun by Chuck.  The show itself doesn't even realise how truly awful these endings are - it dresses up a tragedy in pie gags and pretty colours and calls it a happy ending.  And in order to inflict these worst possible endings on its characters, the narrative has to be twisted and contorted in the most absurd of ways.

So, onto the list:

Adam: Forgotten and left to languish in the pit, he's finally freed, only to suffer an anticlimactic offscreen death and be forgotten again.  Michael, his only companion for so long, is also killed off.  In the finale, blood family seems to be all that matters - and yet he isn't mentioned.

Alternate Kaia: She helps rescue Kaia from the Bad Place, but chooses to remain there to face certain destruction rather than return to earth with Kaia, Dean and Sam.  This world is so hostile to her that death is preferable.  Her horrible, pointless death stands as a powerful statement about the real harm caused by exclusion, but the text doesn't seem to acknowledge the full horror of this.  Her death isn't remarked upon; it seems to suggest that both Kaia and her double are returned to their rightful places.  It's just one example of the show creating awful endings without seeming to understand how awful they truly are.  (I rant a lot more about Alternate Kaia here.)

Amara: After being betrayed and locked away for millennia, we see Amara's initial impulse for revenge and destruction transform into an admiration for creation.  She becomes an advocate for humanity and the world.  And yet she ends up being betrayed (by both the Winchesters and Chuck) and locked away again.  She's absorbed by Chuck in a way that doesn't fit within the logic of the show.  Chuck and Amara are equals - it doesn't make any sense that Chuck could overpower her.  Wouldn't they become a blend of the two of them?  And, since their separation caused the Big Bang, wouldn't their unity end the world?  Anyway, having the cosmic feminine be voiceless and invisible is the worst way for Amara's story to end.  Having Jack speak for her, saying that they are 'in harmony' tries to make this an acceptable fate for her, but only makes it worse.

Benny:  Another offscreen death, and this one feels particularly spiteful.  It really seems like he was killed just to be a conversation-starter for Cas and Dean.  However, if his fate can be sealed by a line of dialogue, then it only proves that confirmation of the fates of Eileen, AU Charlie and the other hunters could have been given in the same way.  Just one line could have done it - "I just spoke to Eileen, everyone's back."  Instead, at the end of 15.19 we're in the absurd position of having Sam and Dean toast the people they've lost without them even bothering to check who that may or not be.

Billie: The bizarre thing about Billie being revealed as a villain at the end of Season 15 was that she was supposed to be acting in self-interest - that she wanted to be the new God.  It made no sense.  What would make sense to me, though, would be if Chuck was controlling her (as Lucifer bound Death in Season 5).  Season 15 has strong echoes of Season 4 - and Billie took on both the role of Ruby (feeding Jack hearts rather than demon blood, but nevertheless making him into a weapon, with the price being the loss of his sense of self and ultimately his life) and Heaven (persuading Dean that it had to be this way, and telling him to go along with the plan).  We only have the Shadow's word for Billie's motivation, and we know she wasn't responsible for the deaths of the AU hunters, so in the end her status is ambiguous - she really seems to be a victim of Chuck's bad writing.  She's erased from the narrative along with Castiel, when really she should have been freed from Chuck's control and fighting on the side of nature and free will alongside the Winchesters.  Supernatural also concludes with nobody in the role of Death, which is a crazy loose thread left dangling.

Castiel: His confession was a thing of beauty, perfectly summing up the truth of both his and Dean's characters.  Both of them are made of and motivated by love.  And yet after speaking his truth, he is silenced.  He never gets to hear that he is loved in return (when the previous twelve seasons have made it abundantly clear to the audience that Dean loves Cas just as much as Cas loves Dean).  His capacity for love made him the only thing that Chuck could not control; as an agent of free will, he should have had a central role in Chuck's defeat.  

In 15x13, when Cas is in the Empty to see Ruby, the Shadow says: "funny thing about [Death's] plan, though... she didn't say anything about needing you. Baby, you can't just traipse in and out of here. It upsets the order of things."  To me, this sounded so much like 4x22's "you're not in this story" that I saw it as a pretty clear indication that Cas would play an important part in Chuck's defeat.  Because Team Free Will wouldn't follow the plan, would they?  They would find another way, wouldn't they?  Wouldn't they?

However, after the confession, he's never seen on screen again.  He's barely mentioned.  Eventually we're told he "helped" Jack, so he ends up where he started: as a servant of heaven.  He deserved to complete his fall, to become human, to live as well as speak his truth.  Making him a silent, unseen instrument of heaven undoes his entire arc.  Erasing him from the narrative requires the extraordinary warping of that narrative: nothing about his death suggests that it should be accepted as a permanent 'sacrifice', when we know that there is a spell that can return angels from the Empty (and, thanks to the handprint, we have his blood for it) and that Lucifer was brought back by Chuck in 15x19.  And the idea that Sam, Jack and Dean wouldn't try everything in their power to bring him back is utterly ludicrous.

Cas' confession scene to so closely mirrors 4x01's barn scene that the narrative is crying out for the parallel to be completed by Dean rescuing Cas from the Empty just as Cas rescued Dean from hell.  However, we're never given that narrative closure - just like we are never given the reunions demanded by the scenes of Sam losing Eileen and Charlie losing Stevie.

Chuck:  Okay, so he might not make your list of characters you could ever care about, but my point about his ending is that while it's fitting, for it to really work we also needed Cas to become human, too.  For Chuck, being human is a punishment, but for Cas it would be a reward.  We really needed this balance, otherwise all we have is humanity as the worst thing that could happen to you, which is not exactly a great parting message for the show.  (Also, how precisely is it possible to make him human?)  Not only is being human the worst fate possible, but, specifically, so is growing old and being forgotten.  Again, this is a punishment for Chuck, but it would have been a reward for Dean: growing old when the story (and his own self-loathing) constantly told him that he would die young; and being forgotten, not in a negative sense, but in terms of not being a character in a story any more: remembered fondly by his friends but no longer a legend, just a man living an insignificant little life exactly the way he chooses.  

Dean: Where do I even start.  Let's be clear: ending the story with his death (by any means and in any scenario) was always going to be the absolute worst possible ending for him and for the show.

In 15x19 we have the glorious moment when Chuck calls him the ultimate killer, and Dean (heeding Cas' words from 15x18) says "that's not who I am".  Now, I mean no disrespect to Dean here (because he is, canonically, a genius) but I don't think that he was in any way necessary to the Michael double-cross plot that eventually saw the defeat of Chuck.  Honestly, if he had died in 15x18, then 15x19 could still have played out in exactly the same way.  It's as if he wasn't saved so that he could save the world - he was saved so that he could have this moment of self-realisation.  He was saved so that he could stand up to Chuck (God, and the author, and parallelled with John) and tell him that he's not the person that he tried to force him to be.  

And yet by the next episode, this revelation is entirely forgotten.  He doesn't get to continue his self-actualisation by speaking his truth to Cas.  Instead, 15x20 presents Dean as almost a caricature of himself.  Dean loves pie.  Dean loves his brother.  Dean loves his car.  All of his complexity (present right from Season 1) is stripped away.

Finally free to write his own story, he ends up giving Chuck the ending he always wanted: one dead Winchester - killed, you could argue, by his brother (Sam fails to call for help and instead tells Dean to "go".)  Told by Cas that he's not "Daddy's blunt instrument" and accepting that he's not "the ultimate killer", Dean goes right back to killing (even threatening torture) and following his father's words (in the form of the journal).  

For Dean to die exactly as the story has always told him, and as he's always told himself in his worst moments of self loathing, is brutal and tragic.  What makes it truly appalling is the way in which both Dean and Sam accept his death and say it's "okay".  For Dean to say "always keep fighting" at the very moment when he gives up and when Sam gives up on him is bitterly ironic.  (Interestingly, when Cas said "you have to keep fighting" in his 12x12 death speech, exhorting Sam and Dean to save themselves and leave him behind, Sam replied with "we are fighting.  We're fighting for you, Cas" and Dean followed with "and like you said, you're family.  And we don't leave family behind".)   

Dean has always been the symbol of humanity in Supernatural: he stood for earth against the forces of heaven and hell.  He'd rather live with pain and guilt than exist as a "Stepford bitch in paradise", and yet that's exactly what he becomes, driving mindlessly through Jack's new heaven where everyone is "happy".  Dean previously dismissed heaven's happiness as "Memorex", and after Mary's death he was the only one not consoled by the confirmation that she was in heaven and happy.  Having Dean being content in heaven is utterly out of character.  He's always fought for free will, and in heaven - where there's no agency, where he's cut off from the world - this is the one thing that he does not have.

Eileen: An interesting, complex, kickass character, Eileen deserved so much better than being erased from the storyline.  A Men of Letters legacy, I imagine her working with Sam to share the knowledge contained within the bunker whilst also dismantling the patriarchy, elitism and colonialism of its past.  Her disappearance from the narrative makes absolutely no sense - 15x09, 15x17 and 15x18 confirm just how significant she is to Sam, and yet we never see them reunited or see Sam mourning her death.  The audience's love for Eileen is totally disregarded, too - she's ripped away from us with no further explanation.

Emma: Okay, so she wasn't actually in season 15, but that's sort of my point.  I have a lot to say about Emma, but here I'll just say that her significance has grown massively since Season 7.  The narrative has shifted from Team Free Will being sons to being fathers.  Even if she wasn't brought back, just a mention of her would have been significant.  (I can't stop thinking about the massive potential of a conversation about Emma between Dean and Jack.)  She didn't deserve to be forgotten.  

Season 15 was Supernatural's last opportunity to bring back characters from the past - such as Meg, original Charlie, Crowley, and Bela Talbot - and give them better endings.  Sadly this opportunity was wasted.

Garth: He actually seems to get his happy ending, on several levels.  He finds a family; he finds happiness; he's acknowledged as a hero by the Winchesters, who had previously mocked him.  Dean's words to him about embracing happiness are powerful.  Garth lives as his full, authentic self - monstrosity now included.  It's that monstrosity that's the issue here, though - as werewolves, Garth, Bess and little Sam and Castiel are doomed to go to purgatory when they die.  Mia Vallens said to Jack that "it doesn't matter what you are - it matters what you do", but in this case the opposite is true.  It's hideously unfair, but again the show never acknowledges this.  It would have been simple to change in a line or two - just a quick mention about how purgatory has been fixed, so that only truly monstrous beasts like the leviathan are kept trapped there - but the injustice remains.

Jack:  From his birth, his destiny was either to be the monstrous destroyer or the divine saviour of the world, which is precisely why he should have side-stepped it and found another way.  He deserved to live without the weight of the world on his shoulders.  Instead, he was forced to take on the power of God - and since when has someone suddenly taking on a huge amount of power ever ended well for Team Free Will?  Then, he repeats the exact same pattern set up by Chuck.  First, he abandons his creation by walking away and disappearing off to, in the words of Bobby, "wherever he went".  Like Chuck, he ignores earthly suffering: if he's now omniscient and omnipotent, is he in fact complicit in Dean's death?  Secondly, he's controlling: he remodels Heaven as he sees fit, making it a place where everyone's together and everyone's happy, with its inhabitants given absolutely no choice in the matter.  There's also no reason why Jack had to vanish from the story - Chuck was capable of spending time on Earth.

The mechanics of the bomb plot also irks me no end.  We're told by Death that the bomb will kill Jack.  However, their plan fails, and Jack survives the blast.  In 15x19, Dean tells Chuck that all the work done to turn Jack into a "cosmic bomb" has turned him instead into a "power vacuum."  It makes it seem like a side-effect, and also that "sucking up bits of power" has been charging him up to the point where he's "unstoppable".  He's able to both absorb and appropriate Chuck's power.  However, in 15x17 Adam and Serafina explain that the bomb will create a "metaphysical supernova" that will make Jack into "a living black hole for divine energy" - which suggests that, actually, the bomb worked as intended.  

But if the plan worked, why is Jack still alive?  Billie made it clear that Jack wouldn't survive.  And "nothing can escape" a black hole - so how is Jack able to use Chuck's powers to bring back Earth's population? Besides which, didn't 15x17 reveal that Chuck himself had "orchestrated" the entire thing?  Which makes the theory that Chuck possessed Jack really the only outcome that makes sense.  (Particularly as Serafina talks about Jack making his "vessel" strong.  Jack is a nephil, not an angel - he has a body, not a vessel.  Also, the bomb is made by fusing his soul with his grace - so, the two things that make up Jack, his humanity and his divinity, are annihilated.)  Deliberately making Chuck win, however (with no tease at the end that this might be the case), makes no sense either.  My head hurts.

Kevin: As if he hadn't been treated badly enough by the story already, we find that Kevin hasn't been in Heaven since we last saw him, but rather hell.  He ends up as an untethered ghost, presumably just wandering about for all eternity.  His fate comes courtesy of a bizarre new rule that souls from hell can't go to heaven - when previously both Bobby and John have done exactly that.  Again, just one line telling us that he's now in heaven could have changed his ending.

Michael: Bringing back Adam and Michael was a brilliant move, and this version of Michael was utterly compelling - struggling with his faith in his father after being abandoned, torn between his loyalty to Heaven and his relationship with Adam.  I thought that his handing over of the spell was very similar to Cas' "just so you understand … why I can't help" moment, and it seemed the precursor to Michael becoming an advocate for humanity, even a member of Team Free Will.  However, instead Michael was doomed to play out his father's narrative: killing his brother and repeating the cycle of sibling conflict and trauma that Chuck began when he betrayed Amara.  (And we'll credit Chuck's bad writing with the fact that the battle between Michael and Lucifer that was once predicted to wipe out millions and scorch the globe can now happen in the bunker without so much as a chair being knocked over - and without wires as well.)

Rowena: She seems to be relishing her reign as Queen of Hell, but the way she's so casually condemned is jarring.  Surely her previous good deeds and her final act of self sacrifice would be enough to tip the scales in a heavenly direction?  (It worked for Lily Sunder - another woman who vowed never to be powerless again.)  They could easily have said it was Chuck's fault that she had to remain in hell - but instead it just seems like a foregone conclusion.  She deserved better.

Sam: If we're supposed to believe that having a "normal" life is Sam's idea of writing his own story, why doesn't he do it as soon as Chuck is defeated?   Instead, his suburban "apple pie" life only happens after Dean dies, which makes it seem more of a grief arc than a happy ending.  (Just as he escaped into a self-professed "fantasy" life with Amelia after Dean's death, or when he succumbed to the comfort of a fake married life in Charming Acres after the trauma of losing all the AU hunters).  

The idea that he'd keep hunting for Dean doesn't ring true - Dean had been the one openly craving retirement and domesticity for several seasons.  After all, the idea of Dean as a hunter and Sam as the brother who wants to be normal is Chuck's story.  Dean wasn't the "ultimate killer" that Chuck wanted him to be, and Sam too had been forging his own identity as a leader, a Man of Letters, and a powerful witch.  He'd also found love - and with Eileen, he could be his full, authentic self.  The idea that he would leave her is absurd, as is the idea that he would abandon his entire extended found family, who seem to have no part in his new life.  When Dean returned from purgatory, he was furious that Sam had failed to help Kevin.  Would Sam really do the exact same thing again - walk away from Jody and the girls when they are mourning both Cas and Dean and need his support?  Would he just abandon Rowena's entire witchy collection and leave the huge store of knowledge in the Bunker locked up in the dark?

The Shadow: again, dubious on a list of characters you care about, but hey - all they ever really wanted was to go back to sleep, and can't we all relate to that?  Anyway, they made the list for being one of the most frustrating open endings of the show.  What did it mean for the Empty to be "loud"?  Who is the Shadow, anyway?  Just how did this cosmic entity fit in with the mythology of Chuck and Amara?  It's maddening that the Shadow and the Empty were made central to several seasons only to be suddenly dropped.

The Wayward Sisters: my beloveds. Such a brilliant cast of characters and such wasted potential.  They're an important part of the Winchesters' family and Team Free Will, but, in the end, they're forgotten.  Claire may have gotten her happy ending with the return of Kaia, but this happens off screen.  We never see her reaction to the deaths of Castiel or Dean.

The final few episodes seem to be about stripping away all of the characters except Sam and Dean, so they are completely alone by 15x20. Phrases such as "just us" and "just you and me" and "it's always been you and me" seem to suggest that this is a good thing, but previously the idea of them being isolated and alone has seemed like the worst case scenario (for example in Season 8, when Sam and Dean are forced to give up Amelia and Benny, respectively, or in Chuck's vision of a future in which the brothers lose Eileen and Cas along with Jody and the girls, give up hope, and end up as vampires, killed by their remaining friends). 

Anyway, the whole idea of just Sam and Dean going wherever the road takes them is Chuck's story.  It's on the cover of his books.  By making Chuck the villain, Season 15 itself makes it impossible for a return to this idea to be a satisfying conclusion to the story.

In fact, Supernatural was never about just Sam and Dean.  It was always about family.  Season 1 was about Sam, Dean and John.  Bobby introduced the phrase "family don't end with blood" in Season 3 and Dean coined the phrase "Team Free Will" in Season 4.  It's an ethos that has spread into the fandom, too.  Didn't the SPN Family deserve a finale that celebrated that idea, of banding together, of caring about the whole world, of love being the ultimate expression of free will?

You can't help but pick up on a theme: characters that were forgotten are forgotten again.  Characters who were locked away are locked away again.  The same narratives and the same traumas play out again and again.  No-one escapes their miserable, predestined fate.  It's Chuck's ending.  And it's Chuck's spiteful ending.

It's the ending that kills off its beloved characters, and also destroys their whole world.  The bunker is left in darkness.  Time has moved forward by so much in order to accommodate Sam's natural death that we can't even imagine the ongoing stories of other characters like Garth or the Sioux Falls family (ironic, given the episode's title).

It's the kind of ending you get when a show is cancelled and the writer decides to kill off their characters and wreck their world so that there's no possibility of another network or another writer taking over their story.  (And yet outside of the show, there's no evidence to suggest this - you would think that the ending had been designed to make a reboot impossible, but it has already been talked about.)

If we were not going to get a sense of the world continuing, then we could have been given a more radical and satisfying ending.  We could have had Death collect on their promise to one day reap God.  We could have had a world freed from the supernatural entirely: heaven, hell and purgatory obliterated, and Team Free Will finding peace in life on earth.

Because Chuck has been the author and the narrator the entire time, it makes no sense for the story to continue past the point of his defeat.  (It makes even less sense for that story to revert back to Chuck's ideal narrative.)  So, really we should have been given a more open ending: Team Free Will triumphant over Chuck and their future left open, the author dead and the characters' stories entrusted to the audience.

Instead, in the end, it's a bizarre mix of needlessly closed-down endings (killing off Cas, Sam and Dean, and vanishing Jack) and frustrating open ones (the loud Empty, there being no Death, Kevin wandering, the ambiguous fate of Eileen, Adam, Donna and the AU hunters).  

And the final two episodes are also objectively bad.  The double-cross plot in 15x19 is lame when the resolution of the Chuck storyline should have been profound. (It invites comparisons with the Season 11 finale, which was excellent.) 15x20 feels weirdly empty and flat.  Dean's death is unrealistic; it echoes Sam's death in Season 2 and Dean's in Season 9 (which, if you think about it, would only be possible if Chuck was still writing it), but lacks the emotional punch of either.  Dean's "I'm proud of us," in his Season 9 death scene is so much more powerful than his "I'm proud of you" in the finale.  And let's not even mention that wig.

In conclusion: every single character deserved better.  The actors deserved better.  The audience deserved better.  Because the ending we were given was not the ending that the season, or the entire series, had been building towards.

The ending tries to destroy every good thing that Supernatural has ever given us - vibrant characters, the fight for free will, the value of found family, the power of love - but it fails. Ultimately the characters and themes are too powerful to be contained by that terrible, flimsy ending. So now I've gotten all of that off my chest, I'm going right back to finale denialism.

[that-random-chaos-entity]

How does your OC display love? What are some habits your OC has picked up?

Forgive me as this is a LONG post, but I felt it would be better to show, rather than tell, this one:

Words could not describe how awkward Perturabo felt being back in the Emperor's palace. It would have been bad enough if it were just his deadbeat father, a half-rotten corpse sitting in an overglorified golden life-support casket, ignoring him as per usual. But it wasn't just his father; so many of his brothers had come for this... ...this Sanguinala... ...in many ways it almost felt like the Heresy had never happened.

Vulcan, Corvus, Fulgrim, ROGAL FUCKING DORN, Magnus.... ...hell, even SANGUINIUS had come back from the dead. Raised by the same mysterious chaos entity that had turned Perturabo's world and soul inside out. Made him live his own life over and over again, through the eyes of the people around him, until he got the point. The people he impacted. The people he used, abused, and destroyed without a second thought. The people he...

...Perturabo shook his head, the physical action somehow dislodging the poisonous psychic tumor from his soul. Even though that parasite was long gone and the Eye of Terror no longer loomed over him, it had been feeding on his twisted spirit for so long that its blasted and withered hide still bled for it. Casting his self-destructive thoughts into the warp. This was a good thing (or so the Lanky Llama said). Though sometimes, when he started to brood and sulk, things would get... ...gummed up. He could shake any errant clots loose himself, but nobody helped the darkness bleed out of him like Nehetari.

And holy shit did he wish she were here right now. When she and her robotic people were around... ...the Lord of Iron actually felt like... ...himself. Or the version of himself that he wanted to be, anyway.

But no, "No xenos allowed at a family gathering," the Emperor had said. Not that it even would have mattered if they were; it was one of those weird weeks where the lanky llama disappeared on him and holed up in her room by herself. Something about a "Necrontyr biological cycle," that would, "likely make her act inappropriately," or "embarrass herself and him," but she would say no more on the matter.

Of course it would happen over the day when he needed--erm could have used her presence the most.

"Aren't you going to open your gifts, brother?"

Perturabo snapped out of his brooding to see Magnus looming beside him. It took him a second to process what he said, but when he did he scowled.

"Gifts Magnus? Really? Do think anyone here would ever give me a gift?"

"Excuse me! What am I, grox manure!?" there was no real irritation in Magnus's voice. He gestured to table in front of Perturabo, where three gifts sat that he could have SWORN were not there before. "And if you must know, you're the only brother here I saw fit to even GET a gift for."

"Aside from Sanguinius."

"Well... ...yeah..." the Crimson King shuffled his wings awkwardly. Both primarchs stole a glance at the MOUNTAIN of gifts that their brother had received. "...b-but he doesn't count."

Perturabo sighed. He didn't feel like feeling jealous of Sanguinius right now. Instead he grabbed the first package; it was obviously Magnus's gift. Whatever was in it was so warp-touched that it levitated a solid three feet off the table and changed size randomly. It turned out to be a small inter-dimensional rift that contained a book of arcane engineering, one that Perturabo had surprisingly not seen before. He thanked his brother; something that drew a surprised look from Magnus and a complimentary hug that Turbo awkwardly returned. The second gift was from Sanguinius, as it turned out, and when he opened the box he saw his own face, reflected in a simple yet elegant mirror. After a moment of wondering if this gift was actually meant for Fulgrim (clone fulgrim), he saw the inscription on the box lid which read, "to my big brother: it brings me joy to see happiness in your eyes now. I hope with this you can see it too."

Perturabo swore under his breath and slammed the box shut, furiously hoping that Magnus hadn't heard him sniffle just a tiny little bit. It was a moving gift to be sure, but after everything that had happened... ...somehow it just made the Lord of Iron feel like garbage. Well... ...more so than usual.

Thankfully, quick-thinking Magnus directed his brother's attention to the third gift. In fact, if he didn't know better, Perturabo would have sworn Magnus seemed even MORE excited for him to open this gift than his own.

"What is... ...is this from...?"

"MHMMM!" Magnus's enthusiasm was all-consuming, his grin audible in his tone. "She asked me come and pick it up from outside her door earlier this morning."

Perturabo's melancholy dissipated into a wave of curiosity. What sat before him was a perfect cube of blackstone, though if he knew anything about Nehetari, he knew that wasn't all there was to it.

Sure enough, when he picked it up, glyphs flashed along its side.

"Is... ...that..."

"Necrontyr," Perturabo murmured in deep concentration. "...and not just any form of Necrontyr; this is Ksakhemet Script."

"What?"

"Think of it as our high gothic. Except it's as if we had a high, HIGH gothic. Only the three Necrontyr kings and their families even knew how to speak this script, let alone how to read and write it. It is ancient, according to Nehetari... ...it's from a time even before the Necrontyr first started their galactic expansion."

Those statements alone were like a different language to Magnus, but his lust for ancient knowledge ignited like a blazing inferno. He would absolutely have to grill both Perturabo AND his xenos companion for more information once she was.... ...*ahem* no longer indesposed.

Perturabo turned the cube over and over in his hands, reading the ornate lettering as best he could. He'd only just started learning how to read Ksakhemet; he couldn't speak it properly because he lacked the extensive Necrontyr vocal range, but the lettering started to make sense the more he plied his fantastic mind.

"It is... ...a puzzle cube. I believe."

"D'AAWWW... How sweet...!"

Perturabo punched his brother in the shoulder, but it phased through his immaterial form.

"Shut your mouth!" He could already feel the heat creeping up his neck and he HATED it. Although he had to admit he was a little touched, if amused, that Nehetari had put together such a... ...thought-out gift.

And well-thought-out it was indeed! It became clear to the Lord of Iron that this wasn't just some slide and lock, physics based puzzle toy for mortal children. It was a custom-made testing tool designed to challenge his understanding of spacial compression, sub-atomic energy transfer, and even Necrontyr cultural theory. Each segment was challenging, unique, and soon he found himself absorbed. Magnus tagged along for the ride of course, and his respect for Nehetari grew each time he heard his brother growl in frustration, or give a small "...Ha! So that's it..."

"She has... ...quite the impressive mind. Especially for a xenos."

Perturabo grunted his affirmation. "...you don't know the half of it. She makes the Hrud look like a bunch of children." With a click the puzzle changed shape in his hands again, "...I would even say she has a mind similar to ours."

"...you don't say..."

"Hmph, she's DEFINITELY smarter than Dorn. I know that for sure."

Magnus chuckled. Of course she was.

The Lord of Iron didn't realize it immediately, but the puzzle cube was meant to serve another function, not just being an intriguing mental exercise. The more he fidgeted with it, the more time passed. Not by some technomantic power or magical means; he was just so absorbed in Nehetari's gift that he didn't notice his brothers packing up their gifts and starting to drift around and away from the throne room. Magnus, realizing he wouldn't be much help with this exercise, had taken notice of the custodes' Captain General (the one they call "kitten") and had begun to chat with him. Sanguinius was now at the Emperor's side, trying to pacify an impatient and belligerent Angron who just wanted to go celebrate Khornnuka with Lotara and Kharn. Corvus had dissapeared to... ...somewhere, and Vulkan was... ....had he somehow jackknifed himself into the psychic fireplace that the Emperor created!? Russ was laughing at him and drinking himself stupid (not that he had many IQ points to lose in the first place), but thankfully nobody was paying any attention to Turbo. Huh, who'd have thought; Perturabo was actually HAPPY that he was being ignored right now.

With a satisfying ding the cube shifted again, and to his surprise, glyphs flashed indicating that this was, in fact, the final challenge.

"Let's have it then. I'm ready..." the Lord of Iron grinned. He flicked the raised pad below the text and the final task scrolled across blackstone. Surprisingly, this time it was in High Gothic.

"...who is... ...my... ...favorite... ...human?"

He stared at the screen, dumbfounded. "Really? After all that, the last puzzle, is 'who's my favorite human?' Really?"

But wait... ...was the answer actually as easy as it appeared? Perturabo wanted to put his own name, but what if he was wrong? What if he wasn't her favorite human? He was hardly even "human" in the first place. Maybe she meant a true, normal human? But if this was supposed to be a present for him, why would she blatantly make him answer that her favorite human WASN'T him. What if...

"Hey nerd, the answer's obviously you."

Perturabo jumped to see Leman Russ passing him.

"What the-! Whe-how did you... ...you can't read!" Perturabo stammered. There was no way Leman just waltzed over here...

The Wolf Lord grinned, "Hey, ye nerds aren't the only ones who know how teh learn things. If I taught meself teh read Fenrisian runes, I can teach meself teh read some wolfin' High Gothic!"

"..."

"...that and I may or may not have used some of meh own psychic powers to read yer mind. You know, teh fill in teh blanks."

Considerably less impressed, Perturabo grumbled as he keyed the letters of his name into the cube. With another ding and a flash of green light, previously invisible cracks along the cube's surface began to glow and the cube began to shift one last time. When it finished, a tiny black tray was left in its place, revealing... ...a letter? And a pict?

"What's all this now?" Leman reached towards the tray.

Perturabo snatched it away, "Fuck off Russ! This is MY gift!"

"Oooh, is this from yer GIRLFRIEND!?"

"SHE'S NOT MY GIRLFRIEND!!"

"Hey fuck you Leman!" Oh boy, here comes Magnus, "Like you could ever understand the subtlety and genius that went into that puzzle box! Let him enjoy his gift in peace!"

"LeT HiM eNjOy HiS gIfT iN pEaCe!" Leman crooned. "Shut her trap and go back teh yer boyfriend, yeh big red canary."

Magnus puffed up in outrage and looked about ready to turn Leman inside out. When Perturabo noticed Sanguinius inbound, no doubt to dissolve the impending battle, he took his chance to dip out. And by "dip out" I mean grab the tray and its contents, and duck under the table. It would hide him for all of a second, but that would be as long as it would take him to read the letter.

Or it would have, if Leman hadn't, SOMEHOW, been able to reach the tray before him. He snatched up the letter, practically from between Perturabo's fingers, and with utter horror the Lord of Iron watched as his brother brandished the page, cleared his throat, and began to read:

"Perturabo..."

"FUCK YOU LEMAN THAT'S NOT YOURS!!" Magnus howled. Perturabo roared in fury. Both brothers made a mad lunge at the Wolf Lord but he dodged, shit-eating grin on his face as he continued reading.

"...Perturabo,

I'm sorry, but I...."

"....failed you?"

At the mention of the word "failed", Perturabo's onslaught faltered, as did Magnus's. Leman's grin died on his lips as he read the next line, his eyes widening for a moment before they squeezed shut. He then passed the letter back to Perturabo, mumbled a barely audible apology, turned, and without a word walked off.

"That's not what I... ...uh... ...expected?" Magnus muttered. "He looked like a kicked pup. What did that letter..."

Perturabo clutched the paper looking the most feral Magnus had ever seen him.

"...you know what, never mind. That letter's meant for you anyway." He added quickly. "I'll be in the library if you need me, brother."

And just like that, Perturabo was alone. Well, mostly; the Emperor was still there, but he was oddly quiet. Sanguinius was watching him too, but from a discreet distance.

The Lord of Iron backed up into the corner of the room, still riled up but looking a little less crazy. Once he was satisfied that NOBODY ELSE would attempt to confiscate his stuff, he finally began to read what Nehetari wrote for him.

"Perturabo,

I am sorry, but I failed you. You said you wanted your brothers' appreciation for a Sanguinala gift, but of all the ones I interviewed asking for an appreciative memory they have of you, the only ones who gave me a response were your brothers Magnus and Sanguinius. So instead I instigated a situation to make one (please reference the included image). If your brother's expressions are to be believed, then I believe they all enjoyed attacking your snow bunker. I certainly enjoyed helping you defend it.

May you have a somber and pleasant celebration,

The Mehlrose,

Nehetari of the Szarekhan Dynasty.

Heir to the Silent Throne."

...Perturabo couldn't believe it.

He's asked for that as a JOKE. He hadn't actually been serious. When she's approached him, asking what he wanted as a "Sanguinala gift," he'd been in the middle of a complicated programming script and had said that just to get the point across that he didn't want to be bothered.

Slowly, and with a shaking hand, he lifted the pict from the tray and turned it over.

And she was right. This shot must have been taken by one of her tunneling scarabs. Or maybe one of her guard as they were circling the perimeter, hurling snow and distracting Russ. But however it was taken, somehow it was able to get a perfect shot of every primarch, including himself and Nehetari, hurling fucking snow or getting completely dunked on, but every single one of them had varying degrees of stupid fucking grin on their faces. Even Corvus was smiling!

It struck him: had that been her plan all along?

Minutes passed, and finally the Emperor himself spoke up. "My son, you're shaking like a Dark Elder nightclub on a Tuesday."

Perturabo didn't hear him. It took everything he had just to hold the pict in his trembling hands.

Why? Why. Why would she bother. How did she... ...why, why, why WHY? HOW!? When did she even have the TIME to plan this out!? There was no way. And not for him. Why? Why for him? And ALL OF THEM. How could she have known they would ALL come?

"Brother, are you ok?"

Perturabo snapped out of the loop to see the Angel standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder. He hadn't realized just how loudly his two hearts had been thundering, how BADLY his whole body had been shaking, until he felt that steadying touch. Instinctively he tried to regain control over his mind and body, and stowed the pict away in his belt.

Sanguinius asked no questions; he simply nodded.

"I'm going to find her..." Perturabo's voice sounded like sandpaper. He could feel the tears rolling down his neck, but he ignored them. "...I don't care if she FUCKING KILLS me; I am going to find her. She has no right.... ...she had no right to... ...to..."

"...go ahead brother." Sanguinius's smile was warm with understanding.

Salvaging what little dignity he felt he had left, Perturabo straightened up, turned on his heel, and walked shakily out of the throne room. He disappeared into the darkness, leaving his father and his brothers to stare after him in wonder.

(Sorry this is such a long post, but I started writing it and just went to town. I wanted to SHOW, rather than just tell, the kinds of things Nehetari does for the individuals that are important to her)

@gracia-regina @ask-a-scheming-sorcerer @luwupercal

[renaissanceduroi-archive]

drabble ; deserving

Hi I accidentally wrote a 5 page drabble(?) where Elysia meets Lysandre for the first time after seeking him out when he doesn’t attend Sycamore’s funeral. It’s relatively sparse and unedited because I am tired and did not intend for this to happen, but I am excited by it nonetheless so here it is: 

---

“You’re weak.” What a way to introduce herself. She should be shocked, or afraid, or heartbroken, but Elysia is angry. It doesn’t matter that a dead man is breathing before her; it only matters what he has done. 

Despite her rancid tone, Elysia gently lets the honchkrow out of its ball, as the poor thing is not responsible for the deeds of its master. It looks so frail. Old. Like Sycamore, but without that undying glint of hope in his eye. What would Lysandre do, without the bird? Would he care enough to check in on her? Or would it have been a relief to him, to not be able to know about her or Sycamore anymore?

“I have always wanted to see what you look like,” is all that Lysandre has to say for himself. He looks rather comfortable, sitting on the ground, himself looking quite frail, but not a day over forty, despite how many years it has been. 

“Shut UP!” Her voice is a screech. They are so isolated, it hardly matters -- and if they are overheard, being found out is what this pathetic excuse for a man deserves. “You have no idea how much you hurt the professor. He hurt, for you. Every. Single. Day. Every single day. You get to run away and disappear, he is left to wonder. Worry himself sick. It’s selfish. It’s disgusting of you.” 

“I knew our royal genes were strong, but you are nearly the spitting image of your grandfather. Though much prettier, of course.”

“We have both known what you’ve been doing. Sending your poor honchkrow all the way out to Lumiose City to watch him. What, did you want to make sure he was still alive? Because clearly you care so much!” 

“I did not intend for it to be secret.”

“Professor Sycamore thought of you every day of his life, and in his final moments. But you did not care enough to show up to his funeral. Not a care in the world. Why? Not worth the potential of being seen? Too much of a hassle? Didn’t want to have to witness how you left the world? How you left him to DIE?! He is-- was… is, the cornerstone of my life. I have loving family and friends, but he was, in a way, a soulmate. Not romantically of course, but beyond that. He taught me everything I know. He taught me how to pour love into something and create something beautiful. He taught me the virtues of balance, patience, forgiveness. He forgave you, Lysandre. And that’s a true testament to his character, because I don’t think I ever will. Not for the destruction and devastation you caused, but for how you betrayed the only person left alive who still loved you.” 

“We can bring him back.” 

“Don’t. Don’t say that to me.” 

“We can.” 

“Don’t SAY THAT TO ME! That is the last thing he would have wanted. Did he teach you nothing? Do you even now move through your life so self-absorbed that you cannot understand that someone may have different desires than you?” 

“I acknowledge peoples desires.” 

“You just do not care.” 

“I dismiss ones that are unproductive, yes.” 

“How could he have spoken so highly of you.” 

“Are you seeing that he perhaps was not always of sound judgement?” 

She freezes for a moment, but only a flash. “Stop. You’re trying to sow seeds of doubt into my mind.” 

“I am merely attempting to show you that all is not as perfect as you want to believe.”

“What do you know of perfection? You are a flawed man who caused ugly destruction, nothing more.” 

“I know more of perfection than any person. I have witnessed it, embodied it, believed in it, created it.” 

“You’re insane.” 

“If I were insane, would your pure Augustine have loved me so?”

She wants to spit on him. To vomit. To scream. She had imagined meeting Lysandre many times, asking him all sorts of questions, wondering what bond they would form. But today was the day she pushed herself to truly discover him, fueled by the sole desire of yelling at him for continuing to be so weak as to betray his only friend in his final moments. 

“Would he?” Lysandre presses. 

“Clearly, he did.” 

She expected Lysandre to smirk at that, to be haughty, but he remains emotionless. “Clearly.” … “Is this all you wanted from me? You came all the way out here to scorn me?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

“Such a distance, fueled by the fire in your heart.” 

“Everything you say is nonsense!” 

“Even when I try to show my appreciation for you? What a shame.” 

“The last thing I want is your appreciation.” 

“Ah, but you are doing so marvelously.” 

She wants to bite back with I haven’t done anything, but her curiosity overrides her. “...How so?” she asks, suspicious. 

“Your beliefs are strong. Your passion consumes you. Your values dominate your every decision. And of course, you have taken wonderful care of the professor for me.” 

“There was nothing stopping you from taking care of him yourself! It’s all he wanted!” 

“But if I had, I would have interfered with the balance of things. Don’t you see? He imparted his value of balance upon you, correct?” He waits for an answer.

“Correct.” 

“I could not have forced myself back into his life. It would have broken the delicate ground upon which he rebuilt his world. I tried to raze and rebuild the world, but the force of destruction was too strong that the force of balance overcame me, and then he, and his force of life, was meant to override that. Life must go on, Elysia.” Hearing her name in his voice sends an indescribable shudder through her body. It’s like, a snake, or an eel, something shocking and wet and cold and wrong. “And now you are the life that must go on. You see it now, don’t you? You have his teachings, but my temperament. His values, but my blood.”

“I wish I had your blood on my hands.” 

“I wish you would stop threatening me, but I suppose neither of us will get what we want.” 

“Speak for yourself.” Elysia slyly pulls her hand out from her pocket and tosses a pokeball in the air. The professor’s charizard -- her charizard, now -- lands on the ground with a hard stomp, shaking the earth. It wears a mega stone around its neck, matching one of the rings she wears on her right hand. The pokemon recognizes Lysandre instantly, and is visibly confused, wary, unsure of how to act. How much does the charizard understand of what Lysandre has done? It surely witnessed its trainer, its original trainer that is, cry from the anguish caused by the man below him. But Lysandre also cared for this pokemon once, too. He gave it pets and treats, looked after it while the professor was away, and looked after the professor itself. Why is it being used to threaten him, now? But the charizard can sense Elysia’s anger. And he must trust the person that Sycamore entrusted him with, rather than the man who has been absent for years.

So as Elysia fumes at him, the charizard growls at a man who once was a friend.

“Do not allow yourself to be overcome by wrath, Elysia. Anger is not becoming on you.” 

“I will not be calm only when you stop inciting my rage. And I will get what I want.” She gestures forward and charizard leans in, snarling in Lysandre’s face, small embers inadvertently flurrying out of its nose as it begins to carry the same wrath as its trainer. “You have caused so much suffering to a wonderful man. And you 

“I admire your determination.” 

“I do not want to be someone you admire.”

“Then stop acting admirably.” 

“...”

“If Augustine saw you right now, what would he say?” 

This makes charizard simmer down, as well. 

“Is this your way of begging for mercy?” 

“I do not need your mercy.” 

“How immortal is immortal, hm? Surely being decapatated by a dragon would be enough to strip the gift of life away from you.” 

“I thought you said Augustine taught you about forgiveness.” 

“You do not DESERVE forgiveness!” 

“Ah, so people are only given what they deserve?” 

“You are hardly people.” 

“Yes, I am a god.” 

“You are a MONSTER!” 

“Do not lose track of your emotions, Elysia. You are angry about nothing.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Then tell me, what are you angry about? My not attending the ceremony of our friend’s death?” 

“Your remorseless betrayal of a man who would have done anything for you.”

“Would he have? Elysia. He never came looking for me.” 

“...What do you mean.” 

“He never came looking for me. He never contacted me. You perceive my honchkrow as me being too weak to approach, but it was an invitation, open to being responded to. You found me so easily, and that was by design. He didn’t do anything for me.” 

“You’re lying. The professor was passionate, and driven, and--” 

“Weak. He was too weak to confront the fear of what he would find when he looked deep enough. He was like this before I fired the Weapon, and remained as such to his dying day.” 

She’s still angry. She’s still so, so angry at him, a lava still sitting in her stomach and wrists and wanting to explode again. But for the first time so far, the tides change, and water strikes her now. Tears begin to prick in her eyes and warp her vision, and she falls backward, sitting on the ground. She is no longer standing over him, now. 

“Call off your pokemon.” 

“No.” 

Lysandre looks the charizard in the eye and commands, “Dracaufeu. Retourne.” 

The dragon hesitates, unsure of what to do. It continues its locked gaze with Lysandre until it decides… to not listen to him. The charizard snuffs a small ember at him and retains its stance. 

“Don’t speak to the professor’s pokemon like that.” 

“Its allegiance to you is admirable. And isn’t it your pokemon, now?” 

“...Yes. It’s just taking some getting used to.” 

“Adjusting always takes time.” 

“It does.” Elysia wants to rest her head on her knees, give her body a moment’s rest, but for some reason she is afraid of letting her guard down around this man. Rationally, yes he is a threat, but she also does not feel as though he will be violent toward her. And yet, she is still on high guard. The two of them exist in a brief silence, together but separate. The air around Elysia is filled with solid utter grief and warping distorting rage; the air around Lysandre is stagnant nothingness save for the threatening dragon’s head looming above his own. Finally, though, now the calmest she has been this entire time, Elysia asks flatly, “Why didn’t you come to the funeral.” 

Lysandre answers simply. “I have not seen him since before I fired the Weapon. To see him decaying, ravaged by age would have corrupted my memory of him.” 

“You disregarded dignity and respect for a loved one because you did not want to perceive him as something other than perfect.” 

“Yes.” 

“You disgust me.” 

“I know. … What are people to one another if not projections of stylized impressions?” 

“Love is raw, intimate, messy, difficult. Love is not pristine, nor is any person. Relationships are more than distant idealization.”

“Then why did you yell and threaten me when I suggested Augustine was flawed?” 

For the first time, she has no answer to this. 

“Now. Do you have anything else to say, or will you leave me be? This was quite a lot of interaction for someone who has been isolated for as long as I have.” 

“You cannot make me take pity on you.” 

“I do not want your pity. I just want to be alone.” 

In a huff, Elysia plants her feet firmly on the ground and stands up, fists clenched by her sides. “It’s what you deserve.” She begins to mount her charizard, only catching a quick glimpse of Lysandre’s face as she turns. He’s smirking. 

“Exactly.” 

Without another word, she and charizard fly off the mountainside, back toward town. 

[chorusnihili]

Plot Ideas

This post will grow, but for now I’m just making it to give myself a kick in the rear. 

If you want to plot one of these, just let me know!

OR--feel free to just leave the spiel in my inbox and I’ll just jump straight to writing a starter for you!

Original Form

For muses that can explore space-time, encountering him before his accident.  Or if you want to go further back, before Chara and Asriel die.

Or if you want to go really far back, while he’s still on the surface.

Through some experiment/glitch in space, he ends up in a different timeline.  

Muses that visit other timelines also have the ability to visit timelines where things...... progressed differently.  For better or for worse.  

Muses that are old enough can interact with him while he was on the surface.  He’d be a teenager or child.

Muses that are old enough could interact with him before Chara and Asriel died.  You’d get to see the one time in his life he was genuinely happy.

Canonically speaking, no one ever knew that Gaster killed Asgore.  But, I’m more than happy ( >:) ) to explore a potential timeline of someone finding out or him telling someone.  

I’m also happy to explore timelines where the “accident” was different, or where the accident didn’t happen.  

Unbound Form

For human muses, accepting his “offer” to absorb his soul.  Usually this results in the muse getting most of his powers, as well as a vaguely naggy dad-Gaster voice in the back of their head.

If you’re into horror plots, Gaster can fit the role sometimes.  It varies strongly by muse so we’d have to discuss what it is he wants from your muse.

Your muse somehow getting lost in the Void and encountering him.

I’m open to other muses helping him become Refused Form.  It depends on the muse, but Alphys, or other science-heavy or magic muses, or maybe Frisk / Chara / Flowey / Asriel can do something.

Deltarune muses can encounter him as the God of their universe, if that’s something you’re into.  

Or if you want to explore some other ‘constructed reality’ plot.  

Refused Form

Exploring / experiencing his Determination / Void issues.

Your muse following the ‘conspiracy theory’ of Gaster and eventually following the rumors to his lab...and actually encountering him.

He needs friends.  Be his friend.

He can visit your muse’s timeline.  He does that a lot.  

Your muse ends up in an alternate timeline and Gaster goes to retrieve them...but doesn’t have the power to pull them back so they need to figure out how to do so.

This can also involve Original Gaster.  I’m willing to write them both at once.  

Gaster is experimenting with Determination even though it’s illegal to do so, feel free to confront him.

Gaster intends to try to fix the Amalgamates as well as revert Flowey back to Asriel.  Will he succeed ... ?  Remains to be seen.  

He’s level 9, despite not fighting in the war.  Maybe someone should confront him about that.

Gaster accidentally launches both himself and your muse into an alternate timeline, likely in response to a threat.  Where are they?  Will they figure out how to get home?

Gaster is dusted after he jumps in front of an attack meant for your muse.  Of course, he’ll come back after a few days...but does your muse know that?  Just what kind of monstrosity is Gaster?

Humans have captured Gaster for study and your muse has found and freed him.  But why hasn’t he freed himself?

He accidentally teleports himself through your muse’s table / roof / whatever.  One hell of a way (but a fun one) to start an interaction.  

Pokémon Verse

Scientific / curious muses studying Gaster / the Gamumu line.  

Plots where Gaster is reverting between pokemon and human form and needs help figuring out what’s going on.  

The Gamumu showing up somewhere they shouldn’t, like the thieves they are.  

Mermaid Verse

He’s a friendly sea monster, it’s OK.

AU where he’s existed in the Underground since before the monsters arrived and the activity is drawing him to the shallower waters of Waterfall.  

Little Mer G has escaped evil biologists that are trying to study him and encounters your muse.  The scientists are not far behind, though.

Your muse finds Little Mer G in their bathtub.  Or bed.  Or car.  Or anywhere he logically shouldn’t be but somehow is.  

Scifi Verse

He’s also capable of accidentally skipping across timelines.

He crash lands on your muse’s planet.

The more important question here is... what does YOUR MUSE want from him?

Other Verses

A Fell!Gaster, Swap!Gaster, Human!Gaster and AmalGaster all have tentative backstories and are available for plotting.

Lord Gaster AU -- Timeline where he has killed all humans on the surface, but only really gave the monsters something else to fear.

King Gaster AU -- Timeline (usually a Fell verse) where Gaster has murdered Asgore and took the throne.

Professor Gaster AU -- Timeline post-pacifist where Gaster (regrettably) finds himself teaching humans Science because god their education system is fucking awful. 

Other Plots / Misc

These were originally intended to be Dungeon Master style Plots where I don’t necessarily tell you everything that’s going on, but I’m more than happy to actually plot them out with you, as well!

Another Skeleton in Town:  Gaster claims he has always lived here, in this quaint little house in this strange corridor in Waterfall.  The problem is, he’s not lying.  So why is he here, how did he get here and why doesn’t he remember anything?

Indepth Reversion:  Your muse wakes up one day to realize that the world is nothing like they remember.  And yet, no one seems to realize anything is wrong.  What could have possibly happened, and what does a soft-spoken Professor named Gaster have to do with it?

Null Terminator:  It started simple--with sections of the Underground simply...disappearing.  With nothing but an empty blackness to take its place.  Then strange wolf-like creatures, incoherent and staticy began to emerge, the darkness grew, and the entire timeline is in danger.  Can your muse and Gaster fix it, or are they doomed to be the only survivors?

Civil War:  Life on the surface is far from peaceful, but things have gotten even worse after a series of attacks on monsters.  Analysis show traces of magic at the scene, implying that the culprits were other monsters.  But why are monsters attacking other monsters...or is something much more sinister at play?

Cooperation:  Under growing pressures by humanity to release the technologies he’s invented, Gaster is growing more and more aggressive towards the surface world.  Maybe your muse can talk him down...or provoke him into starting another war.

Ascension:  Growing more dissatisfied with Asgore’s submission to humanity, Toriel’s reclaiming of the throne, and monster-human relations, Gaster begins a secession from the monster kingdom, using space-warping abilities to make a surface, monster-only sanctuary for any monster that doesn’t wish to be in touch with humanity.  Will Gaster’s erratic behaviors doom the possibility of peace?  Can your muse get through to him?

Egregious Hatred:  On the surface, several high-profile anti-monster activists have suddenly gone missing.  Given the odd nature of the crimes, Gaster is the prime suspect.  But did he do it?

[outbythehighwind]

The Misconceptions of FF7: A Cloud, Aerith & Tifa Analysis Part 1/5

As a side to - for all my efforts - an objective analysis of the one of the greatest masterpieces in fiction, this post has been on the back of my mind for a while. I did not initially want to do this post. But with all the enmity and spitefulness accumulated in the FF7 fanbase that has warped perceptions of its heroines into ludicrous caricatures over the years, it saddens me to feel that it is now a must. I am, of course, talking about the misconceptions of Cloud’s character, and the false notions & unwarranted hate surrounding Aerith and Tifa.

First, it cannot be denied in any faithfulness to the game, that both women are substantially, substantially important to Cloud.

Tifa is the driving force in Cloud’s backstory and, in both past and present, his primary reason for fighting. This pertains to both the ‘real’ Cloud and “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud: Cloud joined SOLDIER for Tifa; “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud is fighting to keep his promise to Tifa; long after FF7, Cloud still fights for Tifa.

A friendship sparks when Cloud and Aerith meet, and his feelings toward her grow a great deal as the story progresses. (Note that until stated otherwise, I will be using the term ‘feelings’ in its general sense – not necessarily in pertinence to romance in the case of either girl.) “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud goes well out of his way to help Aerith personally in addition to saving the Planet – a fight that ‘real’ Cloud continues to his best efforts after her death.

I will get into the details on both relationships, but let us first clear up the misconceptions around our protagonist.

Firstly, Cloud’s feelings are ‘Cloud’s’. What “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud says and does (and will say and do) in his own capacity – that is, not under the manipulations of Sephiroth – is what Cloud the being says and does, even if his true self (‘real’ Cloud) would not act in such a manner. The player is playing as Cloud. Otherwise we would be either dealing with split personalities, or playing as a separate being – that such being, I have seen it argued (and will refute below), being Jenova.

Cloud’s entire internal conflict is in recovering his true self. After that true self is recovered – ie. as his true self – he says:

“The combination of Jenova cells, Sephiroth’s strong will, and my own weakness are what created me. Everyone knew that. I’m… Cloud… the master of my own illusionary world. But I can’t remain trapped in an illusion anymore…  I’m going to live my life without pretending.”

“The master of my own illusionary world.” Cloud did not ‘gain’ Zack’s memories; he could not recall how Zack joined SOLDIER or any of Zack’s memories outside of the Nibelheim memories they shared. He did not ‘gain’ Zack’s feelings and attributes; the cells injected into his body were not Zack’s, and the Jenova cells – while they can manipulate him against his will – cannot ‘give’ him the feelings that his will stems from. The absorption of Jenova cells, the trauma of Zack’s death, and his negative self-image of weakness & failure together pushed Cloud’s psyche to breaking point. His coping mechanism was to assume the life he had seen and admired in Zack, and he tricked his own psyche into a self-illusion.

“The self is a relation that relates itself to itself or is the relation’s relating itself to itself in the relation; the self is not the relation but is the relation’s relating itself to itself.” – Soren Kierkegaard

From misrelating the self’s relation to itself we have “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud, while the ‘real’ Cloud – Cloud’s true self – is trapped within his subconscious. This is why, in my belief, we hear Cloud’s inner voice during moments that trigger important memories he has forgotten, and ‘little’ Cloud appears when Cloud is forced by Sephiroth to act contrary to himself (the voice and ‘little’ Cloud being this true self within his subconscious). The player assumes control of ‘little Cloud’ when “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud acts contrary to Cloud. The ‘two Clouds’ – “Ex-SOLDIER” and ‘real’ (the voice, ‘little’ Cloud, the true self) – therefore cannot be separated from the being that is ‘Cloud’.

I elaborate on this for three reasons.

The first is to confute the ridiculous argument that the player is not playing as Cloud, but Jenova. We need simply look at two scenes to know that this isn’t true: first, when Jenova (through Sephiroth) manipulates Cloud in the Temple of the Ancients, the player loses control over Cloud and assumes control of ‘little’ Cloud (ie. the player is internally fighting against Jenova); and second, when Sephiroth tries to have Cloud kill Aerith, the player – as Cloud – fights to regain control of Cloud’s actions.

The second reason is to debunk the notion that Cloud’s feelings toward Aerith are Zack’s. As already noted, Cloud did not absorb Zack’s memories or cells. If Cloud’s feelings toward Aerith are fake, then the feelings behind all his actions for all the time that he roams under the “Ex-SOLDIER” persona are fake (for Jenova can only trigger the feelings that stem from the core of Cloud’s own being – just like Sephiroth can trigger Tifa’s doubts through external circumstances). If "Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud’s feelings are not Cloud’s, then Cloud wanting to keep his promise to Tifa is fake. Cloud’s budding friendship with Barret is fake. Cloud’s acceptance and trust toward every party member, even when the others suspect a spy amidst them, is fake. Up until the point where Tifa helps him put his mind back together in the Lifestream, Cloud has no thoughts, feelings or motivations that are his own. This is nonsense.

The third reason I elaborate on not separating Cloud’s selves from ‘Cloud’ is to debunk the equally nonsensical notion that arises simultaneous to the above argument. And that is that, if “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud’s feelings are Zack’s, then the only feelings of Cloud that are valid to Tifa are those of the real Cloud – who himself only becomes valid and ‘real’ after he is recovered in the Lifestream. Cloud’s entire conflict of finding himself is therefore invalid, and Cloud contradicts Cloud.

Here is a quote by “Ex-SOLDIER” Cloud:

“It’s true that sometimes I can’t figure out who I am. There’s a lot of things muddled up in my memories. But, Tifa… You said, “Long time no see, Cloud” right? Those words will always support me. I am the one you grew up with. I’m Cloud of Nibelheim. No matter how much I lose faith in myself, that is the truth. That’s why you shouldn’t be so scared. No matter what anyone else says to me, it’s your opinion that counts…”

Let us forget this nonsense of taking Cloud’s feelings and attributing them to a separate being.

Parts 2-5 here: https://outbythehighwind.tumblr.com/post/640347336477966336/the-misconceptions-of-ff7-a-cloud-aerith-tifa