#and it leads to such a different kind of terror—to imagine what humans must become to cope with those things lurking around every corner

[novelconcepts]

It’s such a comparatively small detail, but I keep coming back to the physicality of the infected dude who chases Joel and Sarah—how completely that actor hurled himself into it, how it gives the sense that this man no longer has care or control of his faculties, has nothing but the hunger as he bangs off of objects and skitters back to his feet. It’s so mind-numbingly terrifying to imagine that coming after you in the dark.

[mzoyagon]

Some lore (which can also double as a headcanon) for my SABA AU!

Note for this post: I will be using any pronouns for Vex, due to headcanoning him as genderfluid.

Based off of @dognightmare4 's idea that Vex takes different forms based on what is feared the most at the time, I began imagining what a prehistoric Craftworld would look like for him (ignoring Sackboy's Prehistoric Moves since I know nothing about it + I think it takes place during the age of dinosaurs while this is more about the beginnings of humanity). I pictured a cold and dark time ruled by a creature commonly known as the saber toothed tiger (which is actually just called a saber toothed cat, they’re not related to tigers). This must have been the first thing to be widely feared right? So I doodled up a baby version of Vex, basing him off of that creature…

Meet the greatest predator of early Craftworld. Though yet to be known as the master of the Uproar, Vex already had a reputation from kittenhood to the point of being considered the strongest creature of the Uproar. They would hunt smaller creatures for food and sport, their attacks being considered a natural part of Craftworld's life cycle. These hunts, which would supposedly go on for days and nights on end until Vex was satisfied, instilled terror and wonder in the denizens of Craftworld, compelling them to revere and even worship them. Research by the modern-day Institute of Craftworld Knowledge (ICK) has shown a possibility that when someone was caught by Vex they would bow down and pray to them, not for mercy from death but peace in the afterlife.

"But Mzoya, who were these 'someone's?"

Hang on, I’m getting there.

Vex's favorite snacks were none other than the ancestors of what we now call Sackpeople. Back in the day, they were made from leaves, petals, and stems from various plants, earning them the name Plantlings. Because of Vex's predation, they were always on the move, the slowpokes being the ones that would become its next meal. This made the ones that survived evolve to become agile both on land and in water, but they still had one major weakness: the cold. Each winter, they would huddle up to whatever warmth they could find, but many would still wither and die. Once plentiful all throughout Craftworld, Vex and the cold combined caused their numbers to dwindle until they became endangered. However, they were an intelligent and crafty kind, one day learning the key to their descendants' survival: fabric. They had observed that emerging species made of various fleeces and fabrics could survive the winter much easier, even if many were unable to swim like Plantlings could. With this knowledge in mind, the first Sacklings were stitched. The following winter, the last Plantlings died out, but Sackpeople live on to this day, carrying with them the legacy of their flowery ancestors.

As time went by, Vex's innocence would be whittled away by her peers, who wanted to bring a fate crueler than death to other kinds. They would convince her of things that can only be left up to imagination, with the goal of influencing her to push the balance of dreams and nightmares in favor of nightmares (see my previous post on the subject). The young feline, impressionable and knowing little about her prey, accepted their "guidance", leading the Uproar to become more and more cruel. Eventually Vex took the form of a demon as demons became more feared than the now-extinct creature she was born as, and by that time she was acting the part too. This series of events changed not just the Uproar, but all of Craftworld for the worse. In order to combat Vex, a brave Sackling would wield the energy of dreamer orbs to dispel to Uproar and protect Craftworld. Such began the legacy of the Knitted Knights.

(Side note: My gods I love using she/her pronouns for Vex.)

So yeah, that’s how Nightmares (uproar creatures) and Sackpeople became what they are today lol

[thegeminisage]

john abused both dean AND sam, just differently. in this essay i will

prove that the abuse manifested in different ways for each of them because that’s how abuse works in real life. this is based on the fact that john saw dean as mary’s surrogate but once he found out about the deal and sam having demon blood he blamed sam for her death. ok let’s fucking go

dean as mary’s surrogate

there are loads of parallels made between dean and mary in early season spn and late season spn. in season 12 dean directly calls himself sam’s mother, but even earlier than that we see him doing the cooking and child rearing. compare that to all the parallels made between sam and john (both of them losing their blonde woman significant others in a ceiling fire) and it’s clear that dean was meant to more resemble mary. it’s not a stretch to say that if we can see it as viewers this is how john saw it in his actual life. i do think john loves dean for being dean but he loves him more for being mary.

sam as the reason behind mary’s death

i think once john learned that sam had demon blood, some part of him must have always been waiting for the other shoe to drop with sam, not ever fully believing this kid was human, and maybe not even knowing if this kid was HIS. a popular theory back in the day was that YED fathered sam (something they had to actually address in season 4 to stop the speculation), and if WE speculated that hard, surely john must have too. i’m sure he loves sam as an extension of mary, and keeps and raises and protects him BECAUSE he’s mary’s, but similarly (or maybe inverse) to dean, i don’t know if he ever fully gave himself permission to love sam for being sam. in fact, i imagine john harbors a lot of self-loathing for failing to save mary. if we directly parallel john and sam, that means by some extent he would also hate sam.

john trusted dean with far too much, and sam with far too little

dean knew about monsters; sam didn’t. dean had memories of their mother and the night she died, and shared that trauma of watching her die with john; sam didn’t. dean knew when john was supposed to be home and who to call if he wasn’t; sam didn’t. dean was given the money and the guns and the CAR ITSELF; sam wasn’t. dean was taught to drive; SAM WASN’T. 

dean was expected to do everything john was supposed to have been doing in his absence - he was to be a mother and father to sam, he was supposed to protect sam from evil, he was supposed to see to sam’s meals and homework and getting to school on time. and he was put under an EXTRAORDINARY amount of pressure not to screw this up even a little bit, despite the fact that he was only a kid. sam on the other hand was kept on a strict need-to-know basis for his entire life, right up until season 1 when they reunite at last. john didn’t trust sam with ANYTHING, and sam knew it. this contributed to his lifelong anger issues because he didn’t DO anything to warrant that kind of mistrust and probably got gaslit about it a lot of times either by john himself or dean (unknowingly, by parroting/believing the things john said). even in the pilot sam says very casually of his mother “she’s gone,” because her memory doesn’t hold the same place of reverence for him - best guess is that john didn’t talk about her much to sam because he didn’t trust sam with emotional stuff either. in s14 we learn that dean was the one who told sam stories about mary, including her terrible casserole - and their attempt at recreating it infuriated john to the point of him throwing the entire concoction in the trash.

john relied on dean for everything, and refused to rely on sam for anything

canonically dean was the one who comforted john after a bad hunt, looked after and fed his brother when john wasn’t around. dean knew how to use a shotgun; sam didn’t. dean knew who to call in an emergency; sam didn’t. dean knew about monsters; sam didn’t. this was done under the guise of “protection for sammy” but turn it around and it’s also protection FROM sammy. think of how angry john gets when he learns sam has been having psychic visions. he’s not just angry that dean didn’t report it to him, he’s angry that the demon’s plans for sam are coming to pass, and that sam is becoming less human. again, he can’t TRUST sam if sam’s not human, and it proves to john that he was right all along to keep sam in the dark as much as possible.

john gave dean too much freedom, and sam no freedom at all

“watch out for sammy.” sam was under constant supervision by either dean or john; john made sure of it. again, it’s protection FOR sam but also protection FROM him, in case he did something inhuman or evil. dean on the other hand was left alone without any supervision at all for days or even weeks at a time - he resorts to stealing bread and peanut butter and (according to jackles) turning tricks for money. he had to make it work and got up to whatever the fuck he wanted when john wasn’t looking. sam had to LITERALLY run away from home before he got the simple pleasure of eating pizza and having a dog by himself, independently. dean was given too much independence and freedom but sam was kept on such a short leash he had none at all.

john made dean feel unworthy, and he made sam feel unclean

when dean fails to protect sam from the shtriga in the season 1 flashbacks, he says his dad looked at him differently after. he also implies that john physically beat him when sam ran away in flagstaff. whether he meant to or not, john made it abundantly clear that his love for dean was not unconditional; it depended very much on how well dean performed the multitude of tasks john assigned him. dean grew up believing that his only worth was in what he could do for other people. he demonstrates this an an adult over and over and over, from letting his possessed family members beat him up to refusing to take care of his own needs, emotional and otherwise, and snapping at people who try to talk to him about his own feelings.

on the other hand, sam talks in season 8 about how even at a very young age he felt impure and unclean, even before he knew that he had demon blood, even before he knew that there was any such thing as monsters. kids aren’t stupid, and sam picked up on the vibes john was putting off - that john didn’t trust him, might not have loved him, and might not have considered him human or even his own child. without even knowing why, he spent his entire life feeling unclean and inhuman, not worth of being loved by his own family. even dean, who we all know loves sam unconditionally, admits in season 14 that he often took dad’s side on arguments because he had “his own stuff,” further leading to the alienation that was sam’s constant companion growing up. 

AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY:

JOHN’S ABUSE PITTED SAM AND DEAN AGAINST EACH OTHER

john saved dean after their shared trauma of mary’s death. dean says in season 1 that the reason he stopped talking was that he was scared. iirc john’s journal implies he was mute for over a year, and dean in season 2 says that when he was 6 or 7 his dad took him shooting for the first time. if mary died just before dean’s fifth birthday, the timeline works out to dean talking again because john took him shooting. i believe that dean hero worships his father because after mary’s death, and dealing with the terror that something like that could come in and take his family away by killing them horribly at any time without any warning, john learning to fight back against the darkness - and teaching dean to do the same - is what gave dean his voice again. BOTH of them saw and carried the memory of mary burning on the ceiling for the rest of their lives. “watch out for sammy” and “get the thing that killed mom” were dean’s reasons to get up in the morning, because they were john’s reasons to get up in the morning. these things were LITERALLY his reasons for living. john gave dean a way to fight back against fear and gave him a cause to keep him going. abuse or not, dean never stopped being grateful for that, and he was the only other person in the whole world who understood the unique horror of what john went through that night. even all the way into season 10, he tells other people that john did right by him. it’s borderline brainwashing. part of dean’s self-worth will always be based on how good of a son he was to john.

on the other hand, knowingly or not, john did everything possible to alienate sam. he kept him on a short leash while also keeping him at arm’s distance. he didn’t trust sam with emotional things like the memory of mary, he didn’t trust sam with the truth about monsters and what they did for a living, he didn’t trust sam with his plans, he didn’t trust sam with the truth about demon blood. canon STRONGLY suggests john knew YED bled in sam’s mouth as a baby, but instead of telling sam or even dean about that, sam had to learn about it in a horrible flashback recreated by YED himself. when sam wanted to go to school, john told him no, and when he left anyway, john told him not to come back.

this is an equal but opposite kind of abuse. john totally fucked up BOTH his kids in complete inversions to each other.

which means that, no matter what john did, it caused sam and dean to fight. this isn’t an interpretation. this is straight up canon.

again, dean says in s14 that he frequently took dad’s side in arguments because he had his own stuff to deal with, and he was trying to keep the peace. dean, a victim of emotional (and implied sometimes physical) abuse himself, was not able to shield sam from all of john’s bullshit. he could stop sam from getting hit and having to see john during the worst of his drunken rages, but he couldn’t trick sam into thinking john loved him unconditionally, because john didn’t love either of his kids unconditionally.

when john acted in a way that was not befitting of a parent, sam rightfully took exception, which forced dean (who was ALSO BEING ABUSED, almost brainwashed) to jump to his defense. that led to john getting to do whatever the hell he wanted and sam and dean arguing about the effects. when sam ran away in flagstaff, DEAN was punished, leading dean to resenting sam for that incursion, even though sam was perfectly right to want to get away from an abusive household. when sam did a normal thing wanting to leave for college at age 18, he left, and dean resented him for that because that meant he was alone to bear the brunt of john’s anger. 

sam repeatedly made logical, emotionally healthy choices in attempting to break the family dynamic, but because of JOHN’S BEHAVIOR, not sam’s, those choices wound up causing dean harm. JOHN HIMSELF was the ultimate wedge between sam and dean growing up and beyond.

and let’s not forget the biggest sin - john spent 22 years impressing upon dean that taking care of sammy was EVERYTHING, and then without any explanation at all, he asked dean to kill him, and then he DIED, which meant dean had to carry that weight by himself (because again, he’s been trained not to trust sam with things). like of COURSE sam got angry when he found out - that’s fucking fucked up! once again sam is being treated like a ticking time bomb for absolutely no reason - he didn’t ask to have demon blood or psychic visions or a dead mom or an abusive father. nor did dean ask to be saddled with the upbringing of an entire human at four years old who he then might have to kill. because dean will always feel gratitude towards john, and sam will always feel resentment, and because based on john’s treatment of them BOTH OF THESE FEELINGS ARE JUSTIFIED, john continues to cause fights between sam and dean long after he’s dead and gone, and that will never change.

on a final note: i’d like to bring this around to season 13.

after cas, mary, kelly, and crowley all die (or are presumed dead in mary’s case) in the season 12 finale, season 13 opens with nobody but sam and dean and jack. dean directly blames jack for these deaths. he says so multiple times. he says where jack can hear him that he knows jack is evil and impure and cannot be saved and calls jack a freak. when jack tries repeatedly to kill himself dean says to jack’s face not to bother, because WHEN jack does go bad, dean will be the one to kill him. dean does NOT see jack as castiel’s child - he sees jack as someone who brainwashed cas and kelly both and got them killed. dean does not even see jack as a human person worthy of life. from the get-go, all he wants is to put jack down. jack is born into a world shaped by pain and grief and anger, where people hate him simply for what he is and who died to get him here. 

and again, sam identifies hard with jack. he justifiably protests dean’s treatment of him. jack is a kid and didn’t ask for any of this. jack is terrified of dean. sam reminds dean that john said all these things about sam that dean is saying about jack. john is still causing a rift between his sons over a decade after his death.

eventually, after jack uses his powers and brings back cas from the empty, dean pulls his head out of his ass and admits that he was wrong. he calls jack his kid more than once, and jack refers to dean as one of his dads. but the damage has already been done. jack struggles multiple times with his powers, accidentally hurting people and then wishing himself dead after. he also struggles without them; even when using his powers means using up pieces of his soul, he does it, because dean taught him that he’s only worthy of being loved and trusted if he’s “good.” even when he has NO SOUL, when jack does something bad he panics about it and seeks to undo it at any cost. that’s how deep the damage runs.

i see a lot of people remarking that in the arc of 13.01-13.05, dean became john, and i agree that he did. but dean didn’t do to jack what john did to him. dean did to jack what john did to SAM.

[spn masterpost]

[flowercrown-bard]

I have another prompt for you! Do with it ehat you want. It rested way too long in my "Ideas I never use" box:

"I don't even care about my own life, why would I care about yours? I am a fucking pheonix, my dear, death is just like an insect to me – It stings, but has no lasting effect"

(maybe it's fitted for a Fey!Jaskier? Or Ageless!Jaskier? Or a Villain?)

Ohhh I love that prompt! Thank you!! <3 (shame on me, i left out the word 'fucking' bc it didn't fit the vibe of the fic. Hope it's still ok)

I again have no idea what I'm doing, but where would be the fun in knowing what's going on in my own writing XD

word count: 4884

content warnings: brief mention of blood, brief mention of injury, temporary character death (for about two seconds), burning alive (kind of)

There was something in this forest that didn’t belong here.

Hasty steps disturbed the birds’ songs and heavy panting cut through the illusion of safety that lay over this land like a fog.

The girl running through the woods threw a glance over her shoulder, a haunted expression on her face. Her feet caught on a protruding root and with a cry that pierced the air like an arrow, she fell onto her hands and knees.

Her scream carried on, long after she had closed her lips again. The echo started out as a whisper, then it grew louder and louder, became a symphony of fear and desperation. The sound of one who was truly lost.

Then again, all who found this forest were lost in one way or another.

And though they might not realise it, no one was ever truly alone in these woods.

Inhuman blue eyes watched from the shadows of the underbrush as the girl curled in on herself, lying on the forest floor in a heap of helplessness.

With slow steps that fell onto the earth silently as a sigh, Dandelion took off their cloak of shadow and approached the lost girl in front of them. As they came closer, they lightly hummed a melody, a soft lullaby made of wishes and dreams.

Slowly, the girl’s shuddering breaths evened out and some of that tension that held her in a vice-like grip, eased out of her shoulders.

“Child,” Dandelion spoke softly, in a voice that was bird song and trees swaying in the wind.

The girl looked up. For a moment, she didn’t seem to comprehend what was kneeling before her. Then, within the blink of an eye, she scrambled backwards, terror etched onto her face.

“You don’t need to fear me,” Dandelion said softly, holding their hands up.

“Why should I believe you?” The girl’s hands wandered across the forest floor until the closed around a branch lying next to her. Though fear twisted her face, she held the branch in front of her like a sword.

Dandelion cocked their head to the side, a smile flickering over their face. This girl was brave. Most lost people were, but there was something about her…something other. Something elder.

“You can believe me, because I can’t lie.”

“You’re not human.” The girl’s gaze wandered over Dandelion. They could nearly feel how her eyes raked over his claws that were just a little too sharp to pass as human, over their blonde locks that nearly had the colour of the flower they had named themselves after; the name yet another fruitless attempt to become more than they were. They were so close to being human. Still, despite centuries searching, they hadn’t found the right them yet. Not in this life and not in any that had come before.

“I am not,” they admitted and the words tasted like ash on their tongue. Always ash. Always fire and ambers. And yet, nothing more than a small sting that would pass when the life engulfed them in another embrace. Another chance.

“Then what are you?”

Dandelion lowered themselves to the ground, until they were at eye level with the girl. Carefully, they reached out their hand, an offer, an invitation.

“I am a Home for the Lost. Another Chance.”

“I am not lost!” The girl sprang to her feet without warning, gripping the branch tighter. “I know where I’m going. I’m…I’m looking for someone.”

“And someone’s looking for you, I assume?”

The girl bit her lip while her eyes darted to the side again, scanning the trees as if whoever she was running from could jump out and attack her at any moment.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Dandelion repeated. “You can be lost here for as long as you need to be.”

“What if I don’t want to be lost?”

Dandelion gave her a smile that they knew couldn’t reach their eyes. “Then I can keep you safe until you’re found again.”

“But you’re not him. The one who’s supposed to protect me.” The girl’s breath hitched. “Are you? You’re not Geralt of Rivia.”

Dandelion drew in a deep breath, tasting the name on their tongue as they inhaled. Their eyes fluttered close as the power of the name surged through them.

“I’m not,” Dandelion agreed. It wasn’t a lie. And yet, they felt a part of Geralt of Rivia’s being taking root within him. His name was theirs. His winding path, his doubts, his destiny. His losses. “But he will come here. I promise you that.”

“How can you? Have you seen him in these woods? I didn’t know he was in Brokilon forest.”

“This isn’t Brokilon forest. It stopped being that when I found you. And it doesn’t matter where Geralt of Rivia is. Not yet.” A breeze ruffled through the trees, whispering its secrets to its master. “He will be here. All woods lead here, when you go deep enough. When you get lost enough.”

If there was one certainty that pulsed through the name like a heartbeat, it was that Geralt of Rivia was lost, more than anyone Dandelion knew of. Except, of course, for the one person that Dandelion didn’t have the power to guide back to their right path. The one person who was given chance after chance after chance for a new start and yet never found their way out of the maze they were trapped in.

“He will come.” Their promise tasted like lightning and the soothing melody of a bubbling river. “You will be his second chance. Until then, let me be yours. I will keep you safe.”

The girl hesitated a moment longer. Then, she dropped the branch and flung herself into Dandelion’s arms, desperate not to be lost again.

Dandelion’s held her tightly, rapped his shadowy cloak around her and whispered soothingly into her hair. The embrace was like the feeling of when the fire stopped. At least that was how Dandelion imagined it must feel, when there were no flames coursing through their veins.

But they couldn’t truly know. After all, everyone was in this forest was lost in one way or another.

--

‘The girl in the woods will be with you always’

Renfri’s words echoed in Geralt’s mind as he limped onwards through the trees, ignoring the worried calls of the man who had taken him with him on his cart.

Geralt couldn’t waste a single moment longer by staying with him and his wife. His child surprise was out there somewhere, waiting for him. And Geralt…Geralt didn’t know what to do. He had to find her, had to make sure she was safe.

Yet he had no way of knowing where she even was, or if she was still alive. It was a miracle Geralt himself wasn’t dead yet.

You can be lost here.

Geralt’s head snapped up, his eyes darting across the trees sharply.

“Who’s there?” He called out. A mistake he wouldn’t have done if his mind had been clear and not muddled by ghoul poison.

For a long moment, there was no reply. Ever so slowly, Geralt tore his eyes from the darkness that lurked behind the trees. That’s when a different echo reached him.

Not Geralt of Rivia.

This voice sounded younger. Child-like.

“Ciri.” The name was but a breath on his lips, but he knew it in his heart to be true. Somehow, this voice was Ciri’s.

His staggering steps got faster, until he nearly ran. Geralt didn’t care about how the movement tore at his wound, how twigs whipped into his face, how his breath became shallow as black spots danced before his eyes.

He was urged onwards by the unbending certainty that Ciri was near, that he would finally find her.

People linked by destiny would always find each other.

But there was something else as well. A wildfire in his chest, a strand of shadow tugging him onward.

Geralt of Rivia.

The echo of his name rang through the woods, through the air and the inside of his head. Two voices. Ciri’s – and another one. A voice that sent shivers down Geralt’s spine.

The repeat of his name turned into a melody. A lullaby. A siren’s call.

Every instinct in him screamed to turn back, to get himself to safety. But instincts had been beaten out of him a long time ago.

His instinct had told him that his mother would take care of him.

His instinct had told him that he was loved.

His instinct had told him that there was nothing he could lose by calling upon the law of surprise.

But, oh, how he had lost. His mother, the woman he had thought he had loved, the certainty that he could keep walking the path that had been his only guidance since Vesemir had taken him to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt had lost, again and again, until he had become lost himself.

His chest became tight and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pressure building behind his eyes.

He was lost.

And yet he had no choice but to keep going. A haunting lullaby and his name on the wind forbid him from turning back.

He tried to orient himself on the rays of sun shining through the canopy of too-green leaves. Desperate to reach a path or a person that would make him not-lost again, Geralt ran until his breath turned into pants and his muscles protested. Witchers didn’t tire so easily. If need be, Geralt could fight for hours, stay up for days. Yet, no matter how much his body ached and protested, claiming it had been hours, days, weeks, the sun remained in his spot, never moving, as if no time was passing.

Geralt’s lungs were burning and the pain in his leg flared up with every step, until there were no more steps to take.

His knees gave out from under him and he collapsed, falling to his hands and knees onto the grass, the blades of which looked sharp as a sword but felt soft beneath his hands. Like a pillow to lay down on. Like an embrace. Like a home.

Witchers had no home. They only had the path, and yet, looking at this strange forest with its whispers and stagnant sun, Geralt had not even this.

“I am lost,” He called out, an act of pure desperation that never before had he allowed himself to admit to. His voice was raspy and scratched at his throat like shards of glass. As if he hadn’t uttered a single word for weeks.

Lost.

The haunting reply came in his own voice. A chill raced down Geralt’s spine and his fingers fisted into the grass, desperate to cling to something.

“I don’t know the way.”

Away.

An unshakable fear seized Geralt. He didn’t care how his voice broke, how his body was already broken.

“I need help.”

Witchers didn’t need help. They didn’t beg. And if they ever did, their pleas would go unheard.

Not so Geralt’s.

Something snapped to his right. He winced, his hand instinctively reaching for his silver sword. The medallion on his chest vibrated furiously.

He pushed himself to his feet, trembling with the effort, but unwilling to be on his knees like a condemned man waiting for his executioner.

The snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves stopped for a moment, a quiet laugh that sounded like water tumbling over rocks replaced the sounds.

“I found you.”

Geralt stiffened. It was the same voice as the first whisper he had heard – the voice that had lured him here. Only this time, it wasn’t a whisper on the wind. It was very real and far too close for comfort.

Witchers didn’t receive help. Whatever had answered his call must have darker intentions.

“Show yourself!” Geralt demanded, gripping his sword tighter.

For a moment, everything went still. No more whispers, no lullaby, not even the rustling of leaves in the wind.

Then, the bushes to Geralt’s right parted and someone stepped through. No, not someone. Something.

The creature in front of him looked how someone who had only ever seen a human’s shadow might imagine a human to look like. The being walking towards him was taller than any human could be, towering over Geralt. Their limbs were too long.

When their lips parted for a smile, the rows of teeth in them were sharp as a wolf’s.

“What are you?” The question left Geralt before he could think better of it.

The being cocked their head to the side curiously, too-blue eyes wandering over Geralt’s body, as if they didn’t even notice the sword pointed at them.

“I’m the Second Chance,” the being said, their eyes flashing with something Geralt didn’t dare name. “Yours, if you want me to be.”

“Who else’s second chance are you?” The question didn’t make sense, but Geralt had no control over his tongue. There was something about this creature – person? – that urged him to say things he didn’t understand. It was as if deep down, he already knew the answer, as if a part of him had known this person for a long time.

The being didn’t reply, but they raised their hands to their side and brushed lovingly over something. The air flickered in front of Geralt’s eyes, making him nauseous and dizzy, yet when he tried to look closer, he could only see shadow behind the creature. Until they flicked a hand behind them and the shadows parted, revealing a smaller figure. A girl with blonde hair that stared at Geralt with big green eyes.

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath.

It was Ciri. The one who had been lost to him.

And she was standing behind a creature powerful enough to lure even a witcher in. A creature who now placed a clawed hand on Ciri’s shoulder – the shoulder of the girl Geralt was sworn to protect.

“Let her go.” The demand left Geralt’s lips like a beast’s snarl.

“Go?” The being’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I made a promise to keep her with me. I don’t let any lost soul go.”

Their eyes bore into Geralt’s, searching through his soul, laying bare everything he was.

A boy, lost and abandoned by his mother.

A man who had lost a fight with the woman he thought he had loved – losing the fight, losing her, losing what he had been so sure had been love.

A human, who had lost his humanity.

Geralt, who was nothing but lost.

And there in front of him stood a creature who kept lost souls. The being sucked in a deep breath, closing their eyes as if they could taste all of Geralt’s losses.

They would keep him. Him and Ciri, damned forever to wander this cursed forest in which time stood still and echoes whispered into his heart.

He couldn’t let that come to pass. Not for Ciri.

Geralt knew his life was lost as well, even as he swung his sword. It didn’t matter. He had to save Ciri, had to get her out of this creature’s grasp.

There was a cry when his blade pierced the being’s chest. Was it his own cry or Ciri’s? Was the whole forest screaming as its master fell to their knees? There was only one voice who didn’t join the cry of agony. One, who was deadly silent, as life drained from it.

Blue eyes shot open, staring at the blade buried in the being’s chest with curiosity that quickly turned into resignation. For but a heartbeat, fear flickered in the being’s expression.

Fire blazed in those blue eyes. Fire poured forth from the wound instead of blood. Fire came to life in the being’s hair, searing the dandelion-yellow strands and racing over their body until all that was left of them was dancing flames.

Geralt watched in horror, as the flesh turned to ash before his very eyes. No, not ash. Dandelion seeds.

The wind picked up, tearing at Geralt’s hair, pushing him away, making the dandelion seeds tumble through the air in a wild dance.

Leaves tore from the trees, yellow flower petals, bits and pieces of the forest. All was dancing through the air, forming shapes and breaking apart again. The grass that had been so soft a moment before, shot up, grew faster and higher than any plant could, forming the shape of legs, of a torso, of a head. And still the leaves whirled through the air, obscuring the sight to the body that formed right in front of Geralt’s eyes.

A pit opened in Geralt’s stomach and the realisation of what this meant crashed into him with the force of a cockatrice slamming into its prey.

The being wasn’t dead. But it was only a matter of time before Geralt was, dying at the hand of the creature he couldn’t kill.

Geralt’s sword slipped out of his limp grasp, landing on the ground with a soft thud.

Geralt followed a moment after, his knees hitting the ground once more. This time, his executioner wouldn’t hesitate.

Geralt couldn’t protect his child surprise. Not in the years to come. But there was one thing he could do in this moment, one last act of desperation to save a life that he had always been meant to guard with his own.

“I make you a bargain!” Geralt’s voice got drowned in the howling of the wind, and yet, the ever-changing shape of the being turned towards him. Geralt’s throat went dry, his chest tightening. “My life for hers.” Through the whirlwind of leaves and blossoms, Geralt met Ciri’s gaze. Her eyes were wide and terrified. She was his to save. “Take my life and give the girl back hers. Let her go.”

Geralt bowed his head, awaiting judgement. For failing Ciri. For failing Vesemir and not being able to kill this creature. For failing himself. For losing, just when he had finally found the girl he had been looking for.

The wind didn’t falter, yet it changed course. The petals drew closer together, reaching towards Geralt like a hand.

A soft touch brushed his chin, tilting his head upwards, forcing him to look at the swirling shapes before him.

Though the being had no lips yet, their voice was clear and crushingly loud, coming from all around him. Every tree, every blade of grass, the very air spoke with the being’s voice. “Oh, but I don’t even care about my own life, why would I care about yours?”

Despite the roaring volume, the voice was achingly soft, like sweet nothings whispered in Geralt’s ear. The petals brushed Geralt’s cheek like a lover’s caress.

Geralt’s heart pounded in his chest, like a drum, growing faster each second, it’s rhythm dictated by the song that made this creature be.

“There must be something – how can a life be meaningless to you?” Geralt’s voice broke and his eyes flickered over to Ciri again. The child he hadn’t wanted. The life he had tried to push as far from his path as he could.

A sharp sound pierced the air, reverberating in Geralt’s bones. Only when it cut off abruptly, did Geralt recognise it. A laugh, devoid of life or joy.

“I am a phoenix, my dear.” The endearment cut into Geralt, broke him apart, made him wish that he could be more – that he could be found. “Death is just an insect to me – it stings, but has no lasting effect.”

“Liar.” The rasped out word cut through the symphony of sound.

Within the blink of an eye, everything around him stilled. The wind was still moving the petals and leaves. The being’s shape was still changing, and yet, there was no sound. Nothing, but Geralt’s own heartbeat and his blood rushing in his ears.

Then-

“What did you call me?”

It was only a single voice, within Geralt’s mind. A helpless desperation clung to it. A hunger.

“I called you a liar.”

“I cannot lie.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched and he forced himself to stare up at the swirling shape.

“Then you are a fool, if you truly believe your own words.” His hands trembled and he had to clench them into fists. Each word he spoke, dug his own grave deeper and yet, he couldn’t stop. It was as if there was something tying him to this creature, something telling him that he could know them, just as he was certain the creature knew him. “If death is like the sting of an insect to you, then it is more than just a passing irritation. Adults still remember when they had been stung by a bee as a child. Warriors flinch back from wasps, even knowing the stinging will pass. Gnat’s bites will itch for weeks.”

“Pretty words for a man who had first used his sword before attempting to speak. Yet the cut of your words hurts me as little as your sword did.” The caress of the petals left Geralt and he nearly found himself following their receding touch. “I do not care for my death, nor do I for my life.”

“Then why am I still alive? If life and death doesn’t matter to you, then why did you not just end mine?”

Unless…

I don’t even care about my own life, why would I care about yours?

They had never said they didn’t care about Geralt’s life. It had been a question – unable to either be a lie or a truth.

The only life they didn’t care about was their own.

It didn’t make sense. And yet, as minutes, days, an eternity passed and the being still hadn’t taken on a new shape, a vessel for their new life, no doubt was left in Geralt’s mind.

“Then let me give you something else,” Geralt whispered, his mind racing. In the stories, the creatures entrapping children in their realm and bargaining for their lives only ever wanted one thing. “If you let her go, I will give you my name.”

Something changed in the air. An almost palpable tension pressed down on Geralt, making it hard to notice anything around him but the dancing petals.

“Oh, my White Wolf.” The name the being spoke wasn’t Geralt’s name, and yet Geralt felt a tugging in his chest, a soothing caress, a gentle promise. It felt like his. And it felt like the being’s. “I already have your name.”

“Then what do you want? What…” Geralt trailed off, only now noticing the hint of something heavy in the being’s voice. It had Geralt’s name. Yet, Geralt had no way of referring to the creature. He didn’t know them. Perhaps no one did. “Then I give you permission to tell me your name. You may let me get to know you. You may ask to not be…to not be lost without anyone knowing who you are.”

Yearning. Hope. Helplessness.

How a being without a form could make their emotions so apparent, was beyond Geralt, but there was no denying it. The air felt lighter, the grass brighter and the silence was replaced by a soft humming, not unlike the lullaby Geralt had heard earlier. The forest was pulsating like a heart, was living off of the being’s longing to be found.

“I can’t give you my name,” the being said. “I can’t ask of you to hear it. I don’t want you to know it. I care not for my life, nor any life I’ve lived before.”

Something rose in Geralt’s chest. A fluttering, a certainty.

People linked by destiny would always find each other. This wasn’t destiny. It wasn’t any outside force pushing them together. It was two people being lost, finding each other.

Two creatures, inhuman in their own way, feared by those who didn’t understand with no one to care enough about who they were. Neither of them had had a choice in who they wanted to become. Neither of them had chosen to be lost as they were.

The witcher, who’s name had been replaced by a hated moniker. People didn’t know him as Geralt. He was the Butcher of Blaviken.

And this being before him - this Second Chance? Who had they been? Who could they have been if they had the chance to start a life that wasn’t dictated by what they were meant to be?

“I can be your second chance,” Geralt prayed that he could be what he promised, knowing in his heart that he could. “If you won’t take my name and won’t tell me yours… I can give you a name. A new life that will be more than an itch left by an insect. More than the fear of that short sting that will end it.”

The yellow petals were back on Geralt’s face, cupping his cheeks almost reverently. In that moment, Geralt wasn’t a condemned man on the execution block anymore. He was a man on his knees, asking another being to start a new life, to bind them together in a way that felt utterly right for a reason Geralt couldn’t understand.

There was a plea in the silent touch.

“Tell it to me then.” The voice was quieter than it had been before, yet it felt more urgent than the loudest cry.

Geralt lifted his hand, laying it carefully onto the petals touching his cheeks. Yellow petals. Not tough like a dandelion forcing its way through stone paths, set on coming back to life again and again. No, these petals were different. Softer. Fragile.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice laced with power he hadn’t known it could possess. Louder, he repeated, “Jaskier. I have found you. You are no longer lost.”

A tremble went through the forest. The wind stilled, but the petals didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, they finally settled on a shape.

The petals caressing Geralt’s cheeks were the first to turn, their touch becoming more solid, warmer, human.

Geralt pressed into the touch, holding the hand that formed in his. Dizziness swept over him as the form before him solidified. Green leaves turned brown as they did in autumn and turned into hair. Petals became red and gave shape to a mouth that was stretched into a radiant smile. Grass turned into fabric, dressing the person whose life was just beginning in an embroidered doublet. A tree bent down, its bark peeling off and turning into an instrument, that the person deftly caught in one hand, the other never straying from Geralt’s face.

Then, the human opened their eyes. Blue again but lacking the eerie otherness. And yet, they were brighter than before, so full of life and for once filled with anticipation of what this life would bring.

This life that Geralt had given them.

Before Geralt stood no longer a phoenix, a creature with no name. They were their own second chance. They were Jaskier.

Even as Ciri rushed from behind Jaskier and flung herself into Geralt’s arms, the witcher couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jaskier.

The new human looked at Ciri with a fond expression on their face, and yet there was a strain around their eyes.

When their gazes met, Jaskier’s lips tugged into a small smile.

“I guess I kept my promise then,” they said in a voice that held no power, but made Geralt’s heart skip a beat nonetheless. “I kept he safe until she was found.”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “You intended to let her go? Then why –“

“I didn’t bargain her life,” Jaskier said softly. “She was free to go whenever she pleased. I – I wasn’t. You gave me my life and I give it back to you. If you want it.”

Without thinking, Geralt shook his head and tightened his arms around Ciri.

“I don’t want your life. It is yours.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier’s lips moved silently, forming the word ‘mine’, as if testing it out for the first time. A smile lit up their face, making their eyes brighter.

“If my life is mine, does that mean, I can choose where I want to go?”

Something twisted in Geralt’s chest at those words. “You are.” Had Jaskier only ever known this forest? If so… “Do you know any place besides this? Will you…if you leave on your own, will you get lost again?”

A gleam entered Jaskier’s eyes and they slung the strap of their lute around their neck, their fingers finding the strings of their new lute.

“I won’t,” they said, their face set in conviction. “Because if I get to choose where I am going, I will be following you, Geralt of Rivia, my White Wolf.”

Unlike before, there was no power to the way Jaskier spoke his name.

“White Wolf?”

Jaskier’s lips twitched and he plucked a couple of chords experimentally. “You have me a new name. If you don’t want my life, the least I can do is return the favour and give you a new one two. A name, people won’t curse. One that will no longer belong to a lost man.”

No longer a Butcher. No longer a mutant, bastard, monster!

Slowly, Geralt nodded. “A life for a life, then.”

“A life for a life.” Jaskier’s expression softened. “A name for a name.”

Two lost people finding each other, silently promising each other to do everything in their power to not let the other get lost again.

[kodavistaa]

F.E.A.R.

Summary: Joygrave encounters a vampire problem after Vampstille gives them a surprise visit.

Notes: This is inspired by this awesome video by The Hoodies (Joywave’s old band) and all the Vampstille lore, of course. I recommended watching it before you read, although this fic does make some changes to the video. Also I originally wrote this as a joke, but honestly I don’t know if it still is anymore, so if this skirts a weird line between comedy and seriousness, that’s why.

Warnings: Vampire murder, cringe, me not knowing how British people speak

“If you guys want anything to drink, we have water, coffee… or tea, whatever you British people drink,” Daniel Armbruster says as the Vampstille and Joygrave guys are casually chatting. To Daniel’s dismay, the Vampstille guys have suddenly shown up at the Joycave, coming back from a vampire hunt, and made themselves at home for the night.

“So how have you lot been?” Diordan asks.

“Things have gotten a bit hectic since Ben left to go into demon hunting, but it’s been good, just the usual ghostbusting,” Joey replies.

“What was that vampire hunt you guys said you were coming back from?” Daniel asks.

“A new clan was causing trouble in Buffalo,” Woody says, “it’s good we nipped the problem right in the bud. Once a clan starts growing it becomes a real pain.”

“Rochester has had more vampire activity recently,” Daniel sighs, “we think they’re just passing by, but I do not want to deal with vampires coming here. Our vacuum isn’t equipped for vampires yet.”

~~~

Crash!

Daniel wakes up groggily and has the nagging feeling that Diordan touched something he wasn’t supposed to mess with.

“I swear if he breaks something,” Daniel mumbles as he puts on his glasses.

He makes his way out of his room and sees Diordan wandering about.

“Hey,” Daniel yells, “I told you not to touch any- ohhhh, you’re not Dan.”

An unfamiliar vampire flashes his fangs at Daniel.

“Noooooo!” Daniel screams, throwing the nearest thing next to him, a cereal bowl, at the vampire, and runs. The vampire pins Daniel against the wall and aims his fangs at his neck, but suddenly drops dead before he can bite Daniel. 

Diordan stands in front of the other, stake in hand, “you okay?”

Daniel exhales, “yeah.”

The window next to them breaks and a few vampires jump in.

“Oh God no,” Daniel whines, “what did you bring with you?”

“Dunno,” Diordan replies, getting his spare stake and tossing it to Daniel, “but unless you want to become someone’s next meal, you gotta fight.”

Woody bursts into the room in his wolf form, taking out one of the vampires. The rest of Vampstille and Joygrave follow, all armed with stakes.

“We’re surrounded, one of them almost got Paul,” Kyle says, “how are we going to get out of this one?”

“How many are there out there?” Diordan asks as he fights off another vampire.

“About 10, but we don’t know if there’s more coming,” Will answers, gracefully dodging a vampire flying at him.

“There’s 7 of us, we can take them.”

“I think you overestimate me!” Daniel screams as he sends his stake into a vampire, “ugh, I really hate doing that.”

Diordan chuckles, “you got it, mate, just do that 9 more times.”

Vampstille and Joygrave work surprisingly well together, taking out vampires like a well-oiled machine. Soon enough, the intruders start retreating.

“How many escaped?” Diordan asks.

“Four,” Woody answers, back in his human form.

“What was that?” Daniel says, exasperated, “were they from the clan you guys dealt with?”

Woody shakes his head, ���no, totally different scent.”

“Those vampires were trying to get you,” Will says, looking at the Joygrave boys, “they totally ignored me sometimes. Strange, because I’m clearly the bigger threat.”

The Joygrave guys gulp.

“Could any vampires be after you?” Diordan asks.

“No! We don’t do vampires, if you haven’t figured it out already,” Daniel says, digging through his drawers to find his cross he definitely put somewhere in the Joycave years ago.

“Yeah, he gets creeped out when I’m in my bat form, tries to vacuum me,” Diordan replies, side-eyeing Daniel, “there has to be something else...”

“I think we should follow them,” Kyle suggests, “get a surprise on them before they can recover. We’ll have the equipment from the van with us this time.”

~~~

“Woody, do you smell anything?” Kyle asks.

Woody takes a moment to sniff the wind, “I’m getting 3 vampires, just here recently.”

“You said there were 4 of them that escaped, right?” Joey says.

Diordan peers at a rock with a few drops of blood not yet dried on it, “you think the other one could’ve split up?”

“They could be getting back up,” Will suggests.

They find themselves following the path of the vampires to a rickety and old, but large, mansion.

“Are you sure it ends here?” Diordan asks Woody, to which the werewolf nods.

Kyle opens the trunk of the van, “let’s get suited up.”

Woody leads the group as they enter the house carefully, hyper-aware of any sounds or changes of wind. He motions to a staircase leading down the basement and as they make their way down the stairs, faint music can barely be heard through the walls.

“Do you hear that?” Joey whispers.

Daniel’s face turns pale, “no, it can’t be.”

“What is it?” Kyle asks.

“It’s… it’s,” Paul stutters, “it’s Rock & Roll Part 2.”

“Guys, the EMF is off the charts,” Joey says, pointing at his EMF meter, “it’s a level 5 apparition.”

“What are you talking about?” Diordan asks, confused.

Daniel pushes the group up the stairs, “we have to get out of here, now!”

A red figure flies past them, bringing a gust of wind that almost knocks them off their feet, and Daniel thinks he sees a flash of sparkly gold sunglasses before they all rush into the van, driving off as fast as the van can handle.

“What was that?” Diordan asks exasperatedly.

“Terry Glitter,” Daniel replies solemnly, “it was one of our first experiences ghost hunting. We weren’t even Joygrave yet, we were The Spookies. We were going to a gig, the first one in a long time. It turned out the promoter was a ghost, vengeful and swore to terrorize all musicians... He got our friend, Brandon.”

Daniel sniffles as Joey pats him on the back, “we thought we contained him.”

“We didn’t know about level 5 apparitions then, and our equipment wasn’t the best,” Joey says, “he must’ve tricked us and escaped.”

“Level 5 apparition? Can you get rid of those?” Woody wonders.

Paul nods, “we have the proper equipment now, back at the Joycave, but it’s a ghost trap and it needs to be set up discreetly, which usually means we have to lure the ghost to our location.”

“So you’re going to lure the ghost to the Joycave?” Will asks.

“No! That would be a disaster,” Daniel exclaims, “if he figures out he can unleash all of the ghosts we’ve ever captured by destroying our storage chamber, it would be chaos. Good thing the chamber is super discreet, looks like a Joygrave travel mug.”

Diordan facepalms, “oh my God, I almost opened that.”

“Didn’t I tell you NOT to touch anything? I said that like 4 or 5 times before-”

“There’s a barn we can use,” Joey interrupts Daniel before the mustachioed man goes on a rant, “we just have to find a way to get them there.”

~~~

“Okay, I’m at the barn now, I’ll go check,” Daniel says, hanging up the phone. Walking up the barn, Daniel hears some faint shuffling behind him, but shrugs it off. He goes inside and the door slams shut immediately.

“You must be brave going places alone, especially this barn where there’s no one else nearby,” Terry Glitter’s familiar voice taunts as Rock & Roll Part 2 plays in the distance, “I have to say, though, I didn’t expect you boys to make friends with vampire hunters, but that’s just a small hiccup in my plans.”

The ghost materializes in front of Daniel, leaning on his pickaxe with a sinister smile. A few bats fly around the two, turning into their vampire forms behind the ghost. Daniel takes a step back, bringing out his Portable Joygrave Ghost Vacuum™.

Terry laughs, “you think that thing can get me.”

“No, but this can,” Daniel replies.

An awkward silence ensues and Terry looks around in confusion.

“I SAID BUT THIS CAN,” Daniel yells, annoyed.

A green beam appears from the back of the room slowly pulling Terry into the ghost trap.

“Destroy that trap!” Terry yells at the vampires.

The door flies open and Diordan leaps at a vampire trying to get to the trap. The rest follow in, armed to the teeth with vampire and ghost hunting gear.

Daniel dodges a vampire lunging at him as Will expertly throws a stake at the vampire. A bookcase flies at Woody, which he manages to escape.

“Paul! The ghost!” Daniel yells as Paul gets out his Joygrave Ghost Power Dampener™ and blasts it at Terry before he sends another piece of furniture flying.

“This ghost kind of looks like Paul,” Kyle says.

Diordan shrugs, “I don’t see it.”

“Just imagine him without the sunglasses.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.”

“No, he definitely doesn’t look like me,” Paul adds.

“See!”

“Hello? There’s a vampire problem here!” Daniel yells as he tries to throw a stake at a vampire getting too close to the trap. Diordan knocks down the vampire, ending them with a quick blow.

“Was that the last vampire?” Joey asks.

“I think so,” Will replies, wiping off sweat from his forehead.

Terry looks like he’s fuming, getting pulled into the trap, “you all will pay for this! I will escape and I’ll bring every ghost with-”

“Oh no! I can’t hear you. We’re breaking up, bye!” Daniel yells as the trap closes.

“Successful hunt wasn’t it?” Woody says, back in his human form, “not as much goo as I expected.”

The group laughs, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Who wants to burn stuff in the firepit?”

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 77: The Hungarian Horntail

Sirius would swear the ground kept shaking even as he got himself up onto hands and knees, his vision was staying blurry longer than usual rather than letting anything into focus, and at first he thought it smoke in his eyes as he finally distinguished bonfires dancing all around him.

His long dark hair fell in curtains around his eyes, but now that he'd adjusted, it did nothing to obscure the fact he was face to face with a dragon. He screamed. A high pitch, death like noise that hurt his own ears, causing the fire breathing nightmare to roar louder and spray a white hot breath right towards him. He tried to get to his feet, too fast, and lucked himself into falling just below the deadly blast. Then he did get himself upright and took off at a dead run, until he ran face first into an invisible barrier just barely on the shadows of the last cage.

He staggered back, clutching his freshly bleeding nose but gripping his heaving chest instead, took the seconds it was worth to see the other seven weren't actually in the cages with any of them but staggering about in their own fear, and made the split second decision he wished he'd had available to him two summers ago.

"Padfoot, are you okay?" James asked in concern, seeing the blood matting his muzzle, but the dog merely shook his head, and his whole body with it, before pacing anxiously as far from the nearest dragon he could.

"That's a question I don't expect we'll get an answer to until we leave this spot," Remus pointed out. "Even then, I'm sure it'll just be, shut up."

James nodded in silent agreement and decided to get right to that, summoning the book to him. The book came shooting from in between the feet of the largest black one that had spikes all along it, the blue cover was blackened around the edges and still smoking slightly, not a great omen.

Peter came hesitantly over to them, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly but still asking in genuine concern, "is he okay?"

"You try asking him," Remus nearly had to shout over the still roaring beasts, who seemed no more pleased with their presence than them. Remus barely noticed, despite the fact he'd usually salivate at the chance to see live dragons. His eyes were on the nick in his ear once more, barely illuminated in the still bright flames being shot in all directions. His gut clenched once more, he wondered if he was going to be sick again. Why on Earth did Peter come over here to check on them when he had every reason in the world not to?

James Potter read out the very obvious chapter title as the other four stayed huddled in the shadows as well for safety.

"Which one's the horn-tail, do you think?" Alice asked quietly enough she hoped it wouldn't cause the green one to keep direct eye contact with her, glaring in a truly predatory way.

"Ah, the one with horns on its tail?" Frank offered politely, watching Regulus's progress. He was braver than he would have given the kid credit before moments ago, he'd scattered after them upon first finding themselves here, but was now walking back between the four enclosures cautiously to head back towards the Marauders group.

Amazingly, he made it to the other side without a burn, though the blue one had tried her best.

"Why are they here?" Lily demanded faintly. "Hagrid having a baby on the school grounds was insane enough, what the bloody hell is wrong with this Tournament?" She finished by answering her own question.

"I don't want to know," Alice groand, clutching Frank's hand harder. He returned the pressure in kind, all three of them wincing and burying their backs farther into the invisible barrier.

Regulus was chewing painfully on the inside of his cheek as he slowly but openly approached the four like they were more dragons. He had no clear goal in joining them, an oddity itself as he never did anything without a reason. All he was sure of was that he'd never heard his brother scream like that.

James stopped halfway through Skeeter's blithering article, admittedly happy with any reason to stop he was so disgusted, but tracked Regulus coming closer with narrowed eyes. He had three good reasons not to trust whatever he was coming over here to say right now, all involving the three currently around him.

He hadn't said a word about Remus, or to him, but neither had any of the others. He didn't know what would incite Regulus to now, but he'd push the welp into the nearest dragon's cage if that was it.

He had zero clue what that recurring conversation Regulus and Peter had been having was about, but was in no mood to learn of it now when he wanted a chance to try and have Peter back talking to them, he didn't trust any Black to help with that right now.

Padfoot was currently shaking on his strong legs, all fur bristled on end and tail between his legs as he let out heart stuttering growls and soft whimpers intermittently. This bloody area was traumatizing enough to the lot of them they'd be happy to never be so close to a dragon again, he couldn't imagine having to stare at these things for hours with no clear way to escape, again. It was the dog though Regulus had his eyes on as he approached.

Regulus almost couldn't hear his own voice amidst the still painfully loud roaring, so he cleared his throat awkwardly and tried just a touch louder, "is, ah, is he-"

"No, he's not alright!" James Potter was scowling at what he perceived as a stupid question. "You mind if I get around to fixing that?" He waved the book obnoxiously.

Regulus frowned, but shook his head and kept what he'd really been about to ask to himself as Potter continued. Is he going to change back, had been his actual question, as it was hard to put together what his mind was telling him, that this beast was actually somehow his brother. He shot a side glance at Lupin uncomfortably, he couldn't imagine being trapped like that, in a body so, minimal.

The last time he'd seen this massive canine, it had its jaws around a werewolf that would have happily eaten them all. Now it looked like just as much a dangerous animal itself, and a cornered dog was the most vicious kind. The blood just barely visible in the glittering teeth from the injured nose that he'd caused was not helping the image.

His parents would be impressed, he vaguely realized the longer he looked. Despite the fact he had to remind himself every other second that was indeed Sirius, rather than another terror of this Forest, his sixteen-year-old brother was an animagus. Not a fact he'd really taken the time to appreciate back when it had been revealed, considering everything else happening. He shot another anxious look at Lupin, this time out of the corner of his eye, and then glanced through the thick foliage once more to make sure it wasn't a full moon again, but couldn't see through it to be sure.

Orion and Walburga had been wrong about so much, it seemed. The Dark Lord, his screw-up of a brother never managing to accomplish anything, it seemed they were even wrong about werewolves as well. The pale, tall kid that stood half behind James Potter looked more afraid of him than vice-versa as he seemed to be waiting for something just as much as Regulus was. He chanced a glance at Peter, who was still standing just a few feet away more than was casual but standing firmly nonetheless, obviously more weary of keeping his eyes on the massive dragons than any other immediate problem like the two seemingly dangerous animals at his back.

Regulus again had to remind himself of his Animagus lesson he'd had just this year, that the difference was Sirius was in full control of his mind, where a werewolf never was. Just because this terrifying bear-like dog looked like it was going to lunge forward and tear their throats out any second, Sirius wouldn't...right? Surely if he was, he would have done so to Peter and claimed delirium when he changed back, but instead as James Potter kept talking, detailing Harry's reaction to the article, Sirius almost began to relax.

Not by any noticeable means if you weren't looking for it, but Regulus was. Almost one by one, his fur began to smooth out, his tail came out from under him to merely become horizontal, and he was leaning forward on his toes. Careful, calculating, eyes still resting on the danger and teeth bared, but no longer growling quite so loud.

He'd been studying Animagi a bit for his upcoming exams of course, but never with any more intensity than the curricular questions he might perceive. Nothing of the magnitude Sirius must have gone through to be like this. Regulus only knew the very basics, and even those processes were still beyond him. The question that really boggled the mind was, why had he done it?

At the time, the book version of his brother had said it was to help their werewolf friend, but what use could this be except a meal? It had come in handy, certainly, in keeping him at bay, but only for the precious time it took to get away from those deadly jaws. The creature was unreasonable at all senses though, it had nearly torn Sirius and Potter to shreds without a second thought, so clearly no pack mentality had spared him.

It was a conundrum he had no hope of understanding without actually talking to Sirius, and possibly Lupin so long as he was going to stay in his human form while doing it. As Potter had pointed out though, that didn't seem likely to happen until they got away from this place, the Horntail shooting a blast of fire in their direction that all five of them had to duck to avoid proving a valid point.

After that, Potter's reading increased in tempo even more, he almost blurred through Harry's trip to Hogsmeade, and Hagrid's odd invite that nevertheless they all almost immediately understood would somehow lead to this place.

Lily almost wanted to slap the gamekeeper for being so excited about this, even bringing a competitor's Head along like some sort of date. Even Potter could come up with better romance than this!

Alice and Frank winced and pleaded with the ground to swallow them whole on the spot when they heard that the challenge Harry would be facing did indeed include these dragons, nesting mothers to be spacific. The clutch of eggs, now that they knew to look for them, was indeed in the massive shadows well guarded, anybody would have to be insane to get near them! If Harry died trying, what would happen to them?

James' voice wavered uncomfortably as he heard that Karakaroff was sneaking there just as Harry was leaving, his mind going to Cedric and some kernels of pity for the kid who would be the only one of the Champions left out, but the majority of his mind was still on Harry and how he was going to! Hopefully Sirius would be of some help, after he had his own little freak out while talking to Harry in the fire?

He at first uneasily exchanged a small look with Remus as the conversation began, at least Sirius was looking better than the unrecognizable murderer from the Shack had described, but the longer it went on, the more obvious their worried exchanges got. Until finally he flat stopped and his mouth hung open for several beats, and Remus didn't even prod him to keep going.

Sirius had no reaction to the dragons Harry would soon be dealing with. Sirius was more worried talking about the Death Eaters in the castle, like Karkaroff! Sirius...really had changed.

Whether it was Azkaban or just time, they wondered what other little things would he have also prioritized over? He was still reckless, impulsive, this they knew, and he clearly put Harry above his own well-being, at least that was the same... but did he still have sticky fingers when it came to his friends' clothes? Did Sirius still throw his head back and laugh with his whole body? Did Padfoot still remember what it was like to trust anyone besides himself?

The big, glaring obvious difference of what would happen to Peter had shook them to their core, but it wasn't until now they thought back and really felt in their bones how different this world was, almost alien from theirs. It had been almost fun up until that awful moment to think of this as their future, that James and Lily would get together and have this child, that they'd just hear the tales of Harry's insane school years and find out what had killed them so they could keep the good and pretend the bad would never come. The real question though, was how any of this was going to end?

"Would you two quit gaping at each other like fish!" Peter finally snapped as the silence dragged on and Padfoot began whimpering uncomfortably right at their feet. "Dissect his shitty choices later please and get us out of here before we're roasted alive!"

The red one shot a mushroom-shaped fire right over his head to prove his point.

James swallowed uncomfortably, but complied, trying to take what comfort he could that was the first normal thing Peter had said to him in a while, and smothering whose fault that was how long it had been.

Finally as the pages reached their end for this chapter, Regulus did speak up once more, the question coming out of him the least of his concern really, but the only one he expected anyone other than him to come up with an answer to for now. He looked at Remus Lupin, and asked, "does that really help?" His eyes needlessly flickering back to Sirius, err, Padfoot? The dog that had actually almost loosened up, still in a tense weary stance, but of a hunter sighting its prey rather than fending it off. His brother.

Remus Lupin smiled in surprise, but answered cordially, "like you wouldn't believe."

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

70 : Hiccup, Viggo, tiny

YYEEEEE, HERE IT IS! I had so much fun writing this one! And thank you for requesting the son! <3 <3 <3

Prompt: I’ll carry it.

Warning: implied/referenced threats of rape/non-con

---------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'll carry it."

Viggo's words make Hiccup halt in his tracks and Viggo, who is walking beside him, stops as well.

"Excuse me?" Hiccup asks, wearing an offended look.

Viggo either doesn't catch on or doesn't care to catch on to what offends him so. He raises an eyebrow.

"The boy. I imagine you must be tired, so perhaps, I can take over from you." He offers, referring to the baby boy, named Vigi, strapped to Hiccup's chest in a deeply red sling made of a soft cloth.

Maybe he thinks he's being helpful and overwhelmingly generous, but the lead Dragon Rider looks quite angry for someone who has been made such an offer. Brows low, his lips are pressed into a thin line and his jaw is tense.

The Hunters and Flyers around them stare, some attempting to do so subtly while others forego all subtlety and openly stare. The Dragon Riders aren't loved, but Hiccup and Viggo's interactions always spark some interest, even if it's just interesting gossip.

Besides, it's strange that Viggo would even offer to help him out. And with a baby, no less! This man has a bastard or two running around and not even them are given as much attention as Vigi here.

But then, Viggo has some strange affections for Hiccup, who is both the leader of the enemy and the first person he has ever shown such affection for.

"Am I supposed to know what that look is for?" Viggo asks, so he really hasn't figured it out.

"You called him an it." Hiccup tells him, offended on his young son's behalf. The boy turned three-months-old just a day or two ago.

Vigi looks up to Viggo, a curled-up fist in his mouth as he blinks curiously. At his age, he can't sit up yet and that's about as far as his knowledge of babies goes. But he's a lot more aware than last time Viggo saw him and noticeably bigger, too. That voluminous mess of red hair has thinned out significantly, however. Babies can bald, too, apparently, but Hiccup doesn't seem concerned with this.

"Yes, well, my bad." It's strange that Viggo would even admit to something being his fault and Hiccup raises an eyebrow in question this time. The other continues on.

The flat of a sword on his back pushes him forward, a wordless order to follow Viggo. While questioning the kind of audacity it would take to push someone holding a baby, Hiccup listens and follows after the former Hunter leader.

Viggo is taking him to his cell and he doesn't know where they put Toothless as they've been separated ever since their capture. Hiccup can't imagine how worried the Night Fury must be and hopes that he's okay.

With most of the Dragon Riders gone on a mission, Hiccup and Tiny should've still been protected by Toothless and all the other dragons on that island, namely the Night Terrors standing guard on their posts.

Though the Edge's dragons have always counted on the human-dragon duos to keep them safe, they've been returning the favor ever since Tiny's birth three months prior.

Their enemies must know because they waited until Hiccup and Toothless were away from the island to down them. And since the baby was with them at the time, the two hadn't put up much of a fight.

As a matter of fact, there hadn't been a battle at all. Some ballistas and a net flew and Toothless landed on the nearest island, a tiny one that could barely sustain any life.

The Edge was in the far, far distance on the horizon, they hadn't gone far from home on their leisure flight and were still in their own waters.

But considering their recently changed familial situation at the moment, the Dragon Riders are jumpier than usual. Hiccup hopes this means that they're well on their way already.

Hiccup doesn't believe any of these men necessarily capable of hurting an infant, but they've surprised him before and he isn't willing to find out if they'll surprise him again.

He's especially wary of Krogan, the man who seems to have a particularly sadistic side to him and whom Hiccup believes responsible for the state Garff was found in. The poor child was found nearly tortured to death.

Hiccup growls just thinking about it. And part of the bad taste it left them all with? This was a Deathson they've cared for before they found him a home with an adult individual. However brief their time together had been before Garff's adoption, they had all come to love him. Seeing him in that kind of state was horrible, they thought he was going to die.

So on his way, Hiccup holds his own son closer, Vigi laying his head on his collarbone. It's time for his nap anyway.

Garff is doing much, much better now and lives with them again on Dragon's Edge so long as his parent remains missing. But if something that unthinkable were to ever happen to Tiny... No, Hiccup would pretty much rather die than ever let it happen.

The boy has already been through too much as it is.

"We're here." As they reach the dragon cages that make for cells in their base, Hiccup is pulled from his thoughts by Viggo as he speaks. He opens the door and steps aside to let Hiccup in.

"Toothless!" But Hiccup doesn't quite go in yet, spotting his dragon muzzle in a different cage.

The Night Fury has already pressed himself against the metal, having heard his Rider's approaching voice and recognizable footsteps.

He croons, wondering if they're both unharmed.

"We're okay, Bud! We're-" Hiccup comes over, hand outstretched to touch his nose, but Viggo grabs him by the arm. There's a lot of manhandling done to someone very clearly holding an infant to his chest.

"Unless you want to risk harm coming to either one of you, I suggest going inside the cell." He tells Hiccup and Toothless' protest is instant.

"I'm still okay, Bud. We're both okay, don't you worry about us." Rider reassures Dragon and he quietens down, sagging in his cage. Hiccup lets himself be dragged away.

"You better hope that boy ends up smarter than you," Viggo mutters under his breath as he pulls Hiccup inside his cell and closes to then lock the door.

Due to their close proximity, Hiccup hears him.

"Wow, petty insults now, Viggo?" He asks while the door is locked and he can't figure out who Viggo has insulted more.

"It's merely an observation combined with a hope, Hiccup." He tells and Hiccup leans on the door, suddenly realizing the other hasn't referred to him as "my dear" once. And not just today, but ever since he's found out about Hiccup's son.

A peculiar thing...

"An observation?" But Hiccup moves that realization to the back of his mind and focuses on their conversation instead.

"The dragons on your island have become more proactive and without a doubt that has everything to do with the two of you. But instead of staying where it is safe, you took your infant son and ventured from your island." While Viggo elaborates, Hiccup rolls his eyes at that.

Vigi is his son and he's perfectly safe with Hiccup and Toothless in the sky. Besides, this way he's going to grow up used to being in the sky.

And what does Viggo know of childrearing? He has a bastard here and there, of this Hiccup is certain as well, but he cares little for them. Hiccup wonders if he even knows their names. Hiccup does.

"Now you've been captured, together with you infant, and instead of following along nicely, you talk back and try to run." Hiccup is taken aback by both of these "observations" that Viggo claims he has seen. Because how is correcting Viggo that his baby isn't an "it" talking back and when is checking up on Toothless trying to run away?

No, Viggo has been acting strange ever since he's been captured. It almost seems like he's been judging Hiccup on everything he does, says, or seems to be thinking. Even with the Riders, who he couldn't care less for, aren't as judged as Hiccup's been since his most recent capture.

If he were a friend or an ally, Hiccup would've just shrugged it off. Maybe it's because Viggo is an enemy that he has a hard time doing so, or maybe it's because his judging for Hiccup is so out of character of him, or maybe it's because some of these judgments have to do with his son. Because Viggo always has something to say either to him or about him, but nothing about things so trivial.

"But it would appear to me that making foolish decisions is simply something Hiccup Haddock does, isn't it?" Viggo states, his gaze going down to little Vigi and lingering.

Hiccup follows his eyes, looking down at his son, who now has a fistful of his dad's tunic and which he happily salivates. His little fist and the sleeve of his little tunic are both soaked.

Hiccup looks back up at Viggo and their eyes briefly meet before the latter turns and walks away.

Why was Viggo staring at his son like that? Did he just call him a mistake?

And then it all clicks in place, Hiccup makes another sudden realization. He's not really surprised by this one.

"You're jealous, aren't you?" He asks confidently and Viggo stops in his tracks.

Hiccup can't see his eyes widening, a crack appearing in his façade. When Viggo turns to face him, finds him leaning with an elbow on the door of the cage, the look of surprise is gone.

"Excuse me?" He asks.

"Viggo, Viggo Grimborn. I've taken you for many things, but a jealous man? No wait, I did take you for that, too." Hiccup is so confident that he allows himself to sass, which honestly doesn't take much.

The former Hunter chief approaches again, Hiccup's demeanor not changing a bit.

"And what exactly would I be jealous for?" He asks, almost challenging him to tell.

"For not being the one to father my son. You're angry that Vigi isn't yours." So Hiccup does and when Viggo growls lowly instead of denying it, he knows he's right.

"You've always looked down on my Riders and thought of them less than you while almost pretending like our confrontations alone were dates. Treated me like an equal, well, treated me like an equal most of the time. You've challenged me, played with me, tried to seduce me?" Hiccup makes a list.

"And then you found out about Vigi, figured out that only one of the Riders could've put him in me, and you don't like that it wasn't you, do you? As a matter of fact, I think you even hate it." He is so self-assured, so confident, in his belief that he's figured Viggo's strange behavior out. And maybe there's also a false sense of safety, the assumption that his foe wouldn't stoop as low as to harm him, not with Vigi with him.

Toothless has been listening in quietly, watching the two cautiously. He would've preferred Hiccup keep all of this to himself, but it's out now and he can only watch what will unfold before him now.

Because like stormclouds suddenly appearing on a sunny day does Viggo's expression darken. Clearly, he doesn't like being called out like this, especially when Hiccup is right.

Grabbing the bars, he leans closer to Hiccup, invading his personal space even through the cage. He stands so closely the younger man can feel his warm breath.

"Congratulations, you've figured me out once again." Viggo starts and that is only the beginning of what he has to say now. He looms over Hiccup threateningly.

"But, my Dear, do you also realize that, if I had known all along what you have underneath your clothes, that you would indeed be holding my son instead of whoever you let fuck you?" Viggo tells him, Hiccup's self-assurance melting like snow before the sun.

He stares at the larger man wordlessly, wide-eyed and mouth agape. It's been a while since anyone has made him feel this small.

"Let that sink in and think before you speak next time. You may not like what your reckless words can cause you to hear." Viggo warns him and Hiccup can't come up with a suitable response. He can no longer respond at all, too disturbed by what Viggo means to imply with his claim.

Hiccup successfully silenced and Toothless growling in warning through his muzzle, Viggo is satisfied. He turns and leaves again.

Ever since his defeat at the hands of Hiccup, Viggo was fully prepared to just let their war be.

He had enough, his empire was destroyed, his face scarred, and the sight in one of his eyes lost. It was time to admit his defeat and quietly stay out of Hiccup's way, he thought. That is, until Krogan and his Flyers found him.

But, indeed, if he had known Hiccup capable of having his heir, their war would've gone quite differently. Maybe it still would've ended in Hiccup's victory, but at least one minor detail would've been different.

Hiccup's firstborn would've been his. Of that, Viggo would've made sure.

[dragonblobz]

Injuries Pt 4

After another millennium....... here is pt 4 of the fic request made by @lilfriezatyrant of caring for the injured lizard. STILL NO SMUT........ but he's feelin pretty dang feisty sksksksksks. Wrote this to Night of the Wolf by Nox Arcana.

His entire body stiffens. No longer relaxed and languid, it becomes as rigid as stone. All but his face.

Your kiss is chaste. Closed lips pressed to his. But you feel his own lips pull back. Feel the cool moisture of his naked teeth against your soft skin. He’s bared his teeth.

His hand leaves your wrist and you feel these fingers, now icy and brutal, grip your jaw, almost crushing, painful. He wrenches your face from his. His voice is deadly calm.

“Just what do you think you are doing, (Y/N)? Hmmm?”

It hurts to move your jaw, but you are oddly unafraid.

“Satisfying my curiosity.”

His face is the very picture of put upon rage. His mouth is wrenched in a silent snarl. His brows are creased heavily. And a vein pulses just beneath that pale skin at his temple. And his retort is rapid fire, but still that same inhuman calm.

“Fascinating. Not a few moments ago, you reeked of fear at the very idea of touching me. And now, suddenly, you’re brave enough to……… what is this act that you have perpetrated upon me?”

Your eyes go wide.

“It’s…….. a kiss……… surely you know what a kiss is??”

NOW his voice is angry.

“Of COURSE I don’t know what a kiss is, you hateful wretch! And I am not as you! I have no memories other than superficial ones. Why have you done this act upon me?”

You suddenly feel awful. Very guilty. He has amnesia. He is hurt. He is your PATIENT. And here you are kissing him. Even if he HAD insisted that you touch him, he had not asked for this particular action.

“I’m…….. I’m sorry. Really, I am. Just….” The pressure on your jaw becomes unbearable as his grip tightens.

“I gifted you with the honor of touching me……..” His voice has returned to that unnerving calm. “And you invade my personal space in this way?” His other hand now reaches up to trace it’s pointer finger around your lips. His face relaxes and his gaze travels also to your mouth.

“I ought to kill you.”

You feel the first tickles of fear in your stomach as his mouth creases into a smirk. He muses aloud.

“I suppose I WAS forceful.” His grip relaxes slightly, still firm, but no longer painful. And his gaze upon your lips becomes thoughtful.

“How did I come to be here? What happened to me?”

You try to answer as truthfully as you can.

“I’m not…… sure what happened to you. But I found you. And I brought you here.”

“And treated me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why did you bring me here? Why did you treat me?”

You don’t answer. His thumb twitches on the skin of your jaw.

“I’ll warn you once. Only once.” He continues to trace your lips. “I cannot recall my own name. But I know that I’m not the kind to be patient with dawdling or with lies…… you are aware that I’m quite capable of killing you, yes?”

“I’m……. I’m aware, yes.” Your voice wavers as you remember the metallic taste as he’d stared down that bear. SOMETHING had been about to happen. You’re sure of it. He’s not lying to you.

“Good. That’s very good. You’re dangerously impulsive, but not stupid. Now…….. I’m almost certain I’m up to no good being here. So WHY are you helping me, (Y/N)?”

“I must.”

“You must? Explain, simian.”

“Before you guys came here……. I was gonna be a doctor. A healer. I couldn’t…… I couldn’t just LEAVE you. You were hurt.” You’re feeling more and more stupid as you speak. Hearing your own reasoning, spoken in your own words, in your own voice….. it sounds very STUPID. Saving a damn alien whom is part of a group of aliens hell bent on usurping your world is probably the DUMBEST thing you’ve ever done.

His mouth now curls into a wicked toothy smile as he speaks.

“You primates and your idiotic predispositions to doing the right thing…….. still…….. I suppose I’m not being very grateful now, am i?”

He’s almost frighteningly calm now. Downright good natured. And just watching such a rapid play of different emotions on his face in under 2 minutes is…… terrifying.

He’s still gripping your jaw. And focusing an intense stare at your lips as that finger stops tracing to tap your bottom lip. Just feather light touches.

Tap.

Your heart is tripping all over itself.

Tap.

“I should probably look at your leg, now.”

“I imagine you should.” That grin becomes downright predatory. His hands don’t move.

Tap.

“I’m really very sorry. About the kiss, I mean…..”

His grip on your jaw changes angle, his finger tips pressing into your cheeks, making your lips purse. At the same time, that other finger slips between your lips to trace your front teeth.

“You look like a fish.” He looks suddenly playful. Amused.

“What are you doing?” Your words sound odd with the way he’s smooshing your cheeks.

His voice is quite bored compared to the impish grin on his face.

“Your curiosity has had it’s fill of satisfaction, (Y/N). I’m afraid you’re going to sate MINE, now.”

The cold lump of lead filling your belly is in direct war with the electric butterflies around it.

“Oh?? And….. and how am I gonna do that?”

There is no real warning before he squeezes your cheeks hard enough to press the flesh of them between your teeth, forcing your mouth open. At the same time that pointer finger, as well as his middle finger, thrusts back into your throat. The knuckles at the top of his hand are scraped uselessly by your teeth. Your throat spasms around these cool digits.

You instinctively try to pull away. You can’t breathe this way. But your face is effectively bridled by that splayed hand whose fingers dig into your cheeks, not inherently harming, but utterly ruthless.

You reach up, grasping the wrist of the hand at your face. Your nails scrape uselessly along this gauntleted amethyst here. You are unable to make any sound other than wet gagging.

His smile fades, replaced by a look far more terrifying than any he’s previously given you. He tilts his head. He doesn’t look angry. He looks curious….. and starving.

“Now THAT is a pretty blush…..”

He scissors those two fingers. And now your body is physically trying to expel them. Grunting coughs around his fingers. Drool pools out of your mouth and down his wrist. He doesn’t seem to care about this.

“Not trying to bite, then? I’m impressed. But I’d advise you to calm your flailing. This tissue feels very delicate.” His voice is almost clinical now.

You attempt to obey him. And are successful in terms of no longer trying to wrench your body away from him. But your chest and back continue to heave, your gagging continues unabated. You cannot help this natural response.

And your lungs are beginning to burn. To scream for air. Tho you are no longer attempting to get away, your hands still tremble on his wrist.

His crimson pupils center on your own. And he leans forward now. Very close. Till those eyes are all you can see. He’s looking into your eyes as if you are a moderately interesting lab specimen. Your tummy blooms in raw terror. Is he going to suffocate you?

Your airway wheezes as he finally removes his fingers. Your mouth is open and slack as you desperately breathe, gasping. You can feel trails of spit running down your flushed chin.

And you can feel your own saliva being smeared on your neck as that hand now grasps here. It is not crushing, but it’s vice like. And the other hand maintains it’s grip on your face. And he stops moving now. Is just watching you gasp, so close that those alien eyes fill your vision.

“A kiss, hmmm?”

You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle. He’s grinning.

“Why do I feel as if you are not showing me what such an action can truly accomplish?”

Those pupils flick downwards. He’s looking at your lips.

“Inferior frightened primate……… but I think you can give me much better than that paltry performance.”

Those pupils return to yours.

“Can’t you…..”

You can’t nod. Can’t really move your neck at all with the way he’s holding you. So you gasp, your voice a croak bubbling from your tender throat.

“I…… I think so……”

He doesn’t wait for any further excuses. Pulls your lips to his. His eyes do not close as a human’s might. He’s watching you very closely.

You respond immediately, your own eyes fluttering shut. You are frightened of him, yes. But the majority of the terror seething in your belly stems from your own instant animal response to him. There is no hesitation. You kiss him with fire.

His lips remain motionless at first. Then, they begin to mimic the actions of your own. As if he’s learning very quickly.

Your hands leave his wrist to trail your fingertips up his firm chest. Up. To drape over his shoulders, your hands cradling the back of his head. Your body presses into his and you can feel how much cooler he is than you even thru the tin material of your shirt. It’s like you’ve lost your mind and he does absolutely nothing to stop you.

You must certainly be a sight. Sitting next to this alien, kissing the shit out of him. His hands grasping your throat and face while his pupils twinkle and dance at your own willful helplessness to his whim.

That tail, still wrapped around your middle, begins an odd rhythmic pulsing. A slow malingering flex which begins at the base and undulates along its length. Culminating in a tightening and then loosening. It’s a repeated pressure, oddly soothing. As if his body is attempting to comfort you, although this does not translate to the ferocity in his eyes.

He suddenly pulls his face away, your seeking lips leaving his with a tiny pop. Your eyes fluttering open again. He’s only pulled his face away tho. His body remains pressed into yours. That tail continues to pulse.

The hand around your throat leaves this to snake the fingertips down your ribs, between your breasts, around your body. Till it’s splayed on your lower back. And he presses you even more firmly to him.

The other hand continues to grasp your face. And he twitches his wrist, forcing your head to tilt. His own head tilts just the same, matching yours. And his dark lips, sparkling with your saliva, pull back from those perfect teeth in an atavistic snarling grin. His voice is a raspy growl.

“Exemplary.”

[know-the-way]

I know it’s really stupid of me but I was kind of hoping for a redemption arc for Faustus. 😅😢

It’s not stupid, not at all! It’s natural to want to see the best in people, particularly when you believe they can be better than what they are now, so it’s completely understandable.

And, ya know, if the show gets picked up - he may have one yet still, we don’t know!

To me, this season really highlighted what the purpose of Faustus’ character is supposed to be, imo. Thinking of episode 4, we’re shown three different levels of corruption through three different characters.

The first is Harvey. Pure, sweet, golden boy Harvey is revealed to have some deep-seeded hatred of witches. Does he have any reason to hate witches? Well, let’s check - he lost a brother, got manipulated, controlled, and lied to by his first love, and has been in an endless cycle of extreme danger for the past year of his life. I think it’s fair to say we all understand that prejudice is not okay, but is it equally understandable why Harvey has some hang-ups about magic and witches? I personally think it is. (Not to the point of joining a literal witch hunt or angrily accusing your distressed best friend of killing your dad at her 17th birthday party 🙃, but understandable nonetheless.)

I personally think the intention with Harvey’s character being a cadet in Blackwood’s army was to demonstrate how, even when we believe someone to be morally good and just, they can become someone else when they endure pain and that pain is never properly addressed.

Did Sabrina apologize to Harvey for everything that happened between them? Yes. But did she repeat the same troublesome behaviors in different ways after that? Also yes. She didn’t demonstrate change in her actions, and a loootttt more happened with Harvey and the witch world in a negative way beyond his relationship with Sabrina, so the mistrust he feels isn’t entirely unjustified.

Then - “oh wow, oh my God, my second love has also hid being a witch from me, can I catch a fucking break here? Why should I ever trust another witch in my life?”

Answer: because they are humans, none being wholly good or bad, and they love you.

Roz talks to Harvey, tells him she believes he’s good, and demonstrably proves her own “goodness” by sacrificing herself to save others at Dr. C’s. Roz shows Harvey that she means what she says and her feelings for him are real - that she is a scared, broken human like him, just trying to do her best with what life has given her. Hence, when the moment of truth comes - Harvey remembers his humanity and proves his own “goodness” by saving her. But if Roz had never spoken to him, never acknowledged what he’d been through and that his feelings were valid... if no one had ever truly cared about his pain? It seems apparent that Harvey would have continued down a very dark path.

Which brings us to...

Mary. Mary has been literally murdered, had her identity hijacked by a demoness, her fiancé is dead, she doesn’t remember several months of her life, and her previous favorite student is a witch who has seemingly performed magic more than once on her.

Mary has every right to fear witches at this point. She has had zero trustworthy interactions with the witch world and from her perspective - her entire life has been stolen and no one cares. No one checks in on Mary, no one validates her pain, and as a result - no one in the witch world seems to have any compassion, humanity, or kindness in them. Enter the Pilgrims of the Night, who recognize her pain and fear without even knowing her, acknowledge it, and offer her solace in their congregation on the basis that her experience with witches is shared by the Reverend Lovecraft and his flock.

They prove themselves to her when the advice the Reverend/Faustus gives her (“let the dark in”) saves her life. My God, someone finally seems to care if she lives or dies!

People who care about others are good, so the church and the reverend’s mission must be good, too. Therefore, she is absolutely invested in whatever is asked of her and will blindly follow their lead in order to protect others from experiencing what she has. To me, Mary in the perverted universe represented the crossroads of corruption - where you truly believe what you’re doing is the right thing, even if it hurts others because those “others” have hurt you... and they will surely hurt again if you don’t stop them.

However, I think if Mary was finally told the truth - the full truth - and Lilith herself apologized for being the first piece in the puzzle... along with all the other witches... AND they showed that they actually cared about her well-being... Mary could find her way back through forgiveness. Or, at the very least, she could understand and process everything so that she could find a way to heal that doesn’t involve persecuting others.

And now, there’s Faustus. We aren’t entirely clear on Faustus’ history altogether, but we do know he’s had many experiences of being slighted by the churches of darkness (despite following the rules to a T).

He was rebuked by Edward for wanting to marry Zelda after mentoring him for who knows how many years, lost the office of high priest to him, and when he finally gets the title - here comes Edward’s self-righteous brat to fuck him over again. There he is trying to carry out the Dark Lord’s request to get Sabrina to sign her name in the Book of the Beast, even though she insults their doctrines and faith at every turn, and the coven and academy he’s had working like a well-oiled machine for the past 16 years is being slowly ripped apart. Why is the Dark Lord allowing this? Why is he having to endure a meddlesome child’s antics? Why is he not being rewarded for doing exactly as he’s been asked and returning the Church of Night to stability after Edward nearly destroyed it altogether? Like hello Dark Lord, can you throw me a fucking bone here?

Small victories - he finally secures Zelda’s hand in marriage and an audience with the anti-pope. This is what his life should’ve looked like two centuries ago, but no matter. He’s correcting it all now and by Satan, nothing is going to stop him this time.

But then...

Oh cool, Sabrina is here to intervene again and has presented the text of his old rival for consideration along with his (clearly superior) manifesto. What’s that, you say? Oh, she’s also gonna crash my wedding, accuse me of murder, and spread claims about my manifesto without having even read it? Wow, ahaha, sounds hilarious... except why am I not laughing?

He arrives in Rome and gets an inkling that the Dark Lord may finally be taking action about this heretical little monster because he’s offered the title of anti-pope by the unholy high council themselves. Finally, some appreciation! He just needs to hang on a little longer, eliminate these small meddlesome threats, and soon he will reside over a peaceful kingdom far removed from anymore mortal nonsense.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, what do you mean Sabrina convinces the council he’s unfit to be anti-pope? This is bullshit, man! You know what? Fuck this place, I’m gonna make my own damn church and ensure no other headstrong witches like Sabrina Buzzkill Spellman can ruin it. That’ll finally return things to ord- MY WIFE KEPT MY OWN CHILD A SECRET FROM ME?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Alright, that’s it, The Spellmans are clearly here to poison others (ironic foreshadowing) - time to wash my hands of them completely, I am so over thi- what’s that? The Dark Lord’s here? GOOD. About time this asshole showed up to set people straight and remind them that the values of his unholy church, which Faustus has exemplified perfectly, must be respected.

You mean for me to bow down to whom now? The halfbreed brat who has been directly and willfully wreaking havoc on the congregation he’s patiently and painstakingly lead back to greatness? Are you fucking serious, m8? No. Absolutely not. No. I’m getting out of here, and since I won’t have the little twat poison anyone else, I will literally poison them instead. Be free, sheep!

It’s up until this point that I believe Faustus was still mostly at the crossroads stage, same as Mary. He believed everything he was doing was the right thing, based on the teachings from the religion he devoted his entire life to, and that he’d be rewarded for serving the Dark Lord so faithfully - until the Dark Lord proved several times in succession that his religion was all a lie. That three+ centuries worth of groveling and abiding and waiting has meant absolutely nothing.

So now we have the Eldritch terrors. Beings more powerful than the oldest gods. He spends 15 years isolated in a time bubble purifying himself, devoting everything to them, and won’t it be so glorious when they welcome him into his ranks? He’s set them free now, after all, they owe it to him.

But doing the same action over and over and expecting a different result is what? The definition of insanity, friends. Of course the Eldritch terrors reject him, too... of course Sabrina gains their attention and veneration instead... of course he should have tried to seize their power for himself a long time ago... so, fuck it all, he’ll do that now. There is no right and wrong, there is no observed justice - if there was, he would have been rightfully recognized for all the time, effort, and pain he’s endured only to receive nothing in return.* No one ever acknowledged his pain... no one ever even considered it. Over time, that takes its toll.

(*Clearly, I mean this to be from Faustus’ perspective and not my own.)

Of course, he has inflicted more than his fair share of pain himself and I am of the personal belief he needed to pay for that, but... equally imagine being hurt over and over and watching those who did it walk away, not only without reprimand, but with the belief that they were right and just to do it? Could it slowly drain on one’s soul to watch the rules apply to some and not others? Debatable, I suppose, but I personally think yes.

So... I say all of this only to point out that there is still potential to acknowledge his pain. And thus, there is imo still potential to understand, communicate properly (I am very interested in any conversations he and Sabrina may have had during their training - I know he said she took a vow of silence, but clearly some talking occurred for Sabrina to learn so much about the void from him), grow, and finally - for him to be given the chance to repair everything he had a hand in breaking. It wouldn’t be an easy or painless task to get to that point, and no one would be faulted for not trusting him to do so, but I think there is potential for it. If they get picked up and they want to finally allow the characters some time to reflect and process shit, they could include Faustus in that.

[foxofthedesert]

So I just finished my 3rd watch thru of Merlin, and yet again am brokenhearted. Not only by Arthur's death and Merlin's grief, but by Morgana's tragic descent into madness. Though I loathed the choice, I always understood why the writers went the direction they did with Morgana. What I did not understand was the way they handled her relationship with Gwen. It just never made any sense to me that Morgana could be so cruel to someone she clearly loved very deeply - even if only in the platonic sense. To me, it seemed like the Morgana that existed at the end of season 2 was replaced by a totally different, inexplicably cruel and insufferably smirky one by the start of season 3.

Still, prophecies need fulfilled and such, and after all it is a fantasy series based on a complicated mythology where Morgana sometimes is portrayed as evil. I just wish it was handled better.

Be that as it may, as a writer I tend to gravitate toward the untold stories within canon. That being the case, Gwen and Morgana's relationship is a natural attraction. I adore their chemistry, which makes them so easy to pair up. Since I am also not necessarily beholden to canon, that means I can imagine whatever the hell I want for them. Such an AU where their potential is realized before Morgause enters the picture to warp Morgana into her father's daughter.

This little piece is part of that. I may or may not add more entries in the future.

As a side note, this was initially supposed to be much shorter, but my fingers wouldn't stop typing words. Silly digits.

Ficlet below the line!

Morgana awoke giggling in an entirely unrefined manner. Her uncharacteristic bubbly mirth, she discovered, was due to a gentle tickling sensation all across her face. Once the wispy haze of sleep was blinked out of her blurry eyes, a familiar shape resolved into an entirely too handsome face wearing such a love-sick expression that her chest reflexively suffused with an affectionate warmth that quickly seeped into her very bones.

“What time is it?” she asked to the person hovering above her, voice still gravelly and slightly slurred from having been roused out of such a deep, blessedly dreamless repose. The pleasant tickling sensation began anew immediately after her half-slurred inquiry, and when she lifted her gaze she was greeted by rich brown eyes she would swear on her life she could live and die in.

“Just after dawn.” The utterly enchanting creature paying her such lovely attention continued to delicately and reverently brush calloused fingertips across the expanse of her jaw. “Sorry I woke you. I meant to let you sleep in a bit longer, I just really couldn’t help myself.”

A pause allowed a full, dusky lip to be pulled rather invitingly between pearly white teeth before her beloved added, “It seems I never can where you are concerned.”

Morgana smiled. A genuine smile, too. Nothing like the false ones she graced her guardian with, full of barely suppressed loathing and rage. Lately she had been consumed by disgust for the man who so many times proclaimed to cherish her, a man who would see her burnt at the stake if he knew who she truly was. Uther Pendragon claimed to be a fair and just king, yet he waged unlawful wars against territories that dared stand up against his brutish rule and relentlessly persecuted innocents whose only crime was to be born different. People like her. People with magic.

Coming to terms with her gifts had cost Morgana both countless nights spent in wakeful torment over horrific visions that plagued her dreams and untold days spent wrestling with throat-clogging anxiety over the possibility of discovery. There were many occasions during that frightening period in which she felt as though tottering precariously over a dark, abyssal chasm at the bottom of which lie only inescapable madness. Every second spent at court was an exhausting exercise in choking down a nauseating terror of the tyrant who held the power of life and death over her and would surely decide upon the latter should he learn the truth about her magic. Meals were a unique form of torture due to the perpetual knot residing in her stomach and every event she would normally revel in was transformed into a dreaded affair during which she could scarcely breathe for the crushing weight resting upon her chest.

Frankly, if it hadn’t been for Guinevere and Merlin she is sure she would have already plummeted headlong into those foreboding depths, right into the waiting arms of a hatred no human heart could withstand without incurring irreparable damage.

If Merlin hadn’t told her the truth about his magic as he lead her to Aglain’s druid camp, the pervasive sense of isolation and desperation worming insidiously through her mind would have inevitably forced her into drastic choices. Even before her magic manifested she had silently nursed treasonous thoughts toward Camelot’s cruel monarch. What might she have done if the walls closed in so tightly on her she felt there was no avenue of escape outside of acting upon those unsavory impulses? It hardly bears thinking about for risk of inviting such evil desires back in to her heart when of all her attributes, it is her heart which makes her most special – or at least that is what Guinevere insists to be the case.

Thankfully, finding a steadfast friend and ally in Merlin had done much to ameliorate the suffocating feeling of helplessness she felt as a member of the court harboring so deadly a secret. With much diligence and patience he was teaching her to control her powers, to harness them for good, and to have faith that better days were ahead for their kind. It was also mostly due to the Merlin’s deceptive wisdom and boundless optimism – and to be fair what reasonable person could resist that impish, dimpled smile? – that she began to view Arthur through a fresh lens.

If she bothered to look deeply, as Merlin insisted, to ignore the chauvinistic bravado and infuriating superiority complex, it was not difficult to recognize Arthur’s innate nobility and compassion that existed despite his monstrous father. And seeing as Merlin was as stubborn as he was convincing, it did not take long for Morgana to accept with a cautiously hopeful heart that with the aid of loyal friends, Arthur had it in him to become to the greatest sovereign Camelot had ever seen, a king who might actually prove himself worthy of the people both common and magical to whom he would be sworn to serve. Of course, she and Arthur still had their mundane squabbles and butted heads frequently over political and legal matters, but in the months since Merlin began her training, Morgana had acquired a new appreciation for the young man who was to her as good as a sibling.

As much as Merlin had done for her, however, it paled in comparison to Gwen’s contributions to her health and happiness.

For as long as Morgana had known Gwen she had held the blacksmith’s daughter in esteem far higher than any Lady should their maidservant. What started out as mutual respect born from shared grief over the loss of a parent soon flowered into genuine friendship. For many years they were the best of friends, each providing for the other a refuge from the storms of life and a confidante more reliable and wise and loyal than could be hired with all of Midas’ gold.

By the time Morgana entered womanhood, her fondness for Gwen had only swelled to become boundless as it was profound. In her eyes, Gwen was the most wonderful person in all the world; none could hope to be her equal in breathtaking beauty, charitable kindness, seemingly endless stores of patience, altogether praiseworthy meekness, a silent strength surpassing steel, or in nearly saintly levels of graciousness. Gwen was the unfailing light to Morgana’s rapidly encroaching darkness, the quickening sun to her deathly pale moon, the Aurora to her Luna. She neither trusted any more deeply as she did Gwen, nor did she desire the company of another so keenly. As a result, they were rarely parted until retiring for bed, and then only by necessity of station. So inextricably attached were they Gwen’s friends often jested that she must have accidentally stitched herself to her lady’s garments at the hip. The noblewomen were not nearly so kind. Some of the more prominent Ladies in the castle questioned the innocence of their arrangement, going so far as to exchange idle speculation which painted them as clandestine devotees of Sappho.

If Morgana could be bothered to care about the rumors, she would have confronted the useless busybodies long ago. But quite frankly, their opinions on her relationship with Gwen mattered for naught seeing as Arthur dismissed them as absurd upon reaching his ears and, beyond even that, Morgana would rather die than provide the snide gossipers ammunition that might serve as tacit confirmation that their unwelcome conjecture was not without merit – which was in fact the case.

All the same, though, she took great pains to prevent them from reaching the ears of the king. Uther already disapproved of their unusual bond and reminded her of such every time she treated Gwen with an ounce of basic human dignity while in his presence. Rather than censure the prejudice as she might have no long ago, Morgana now bore the chastisement with pride. Were it required, she would gladly wear forty stripes upon her skin if that be the price of Gwen’s love. The haughty bigotry of her guardian could never dissuade her from the path her heart had chosen to travel. Gwen was far too precious to ever surrender without a fight, to death if she must.

For what felt like ages, Morgana had believed her feelings would never be reciprocated. And that was perfectly acceptable to her, so long as Gwen remained an integral part of her life. The constant yearning that caused her chest to ache, sometimes almost painfully, was something she could endure so long as Gwen was happy.

That perspective radically transformed the night Gwen’s father died.

The midnight bells sounded in the citadel as Morgana slipped out into the upper town. Her intentions were pure at the time. She had only meant to visit her friend and offer what support she could, no matter the reckless impropriety of her visiting the her maidservant’s home so late at night. Instead, one glimpse of Gwen’s devastation over the pointless tragedy reignited her rage. All too quickly it boiled over, allowing those old, bitter feelings to spill out as impetuous threats of vengeance, and not only on Gwen’s behalf but for all those wronged by the merciless hand of Uther Pendragon. For what felt like hours she railed, heedless of the effect her malicious speech was having on the distraught girl she was supposed to be comforting.

It was only when Gwen – sweet Gwen, kind and thoughtful and selfless to a fault – had been pushed to her limits that Morgana’s perilous vitriol was interrupted.

Casting aside station, Gwen grasped her by the face and made her swear to never utter such dangerous words again.

“My brother has already abandoned me and now both my parents are dead,” Gwen had said, lips quivering and cheeks stained by tears. “I can’t lose you, too. I can’t. I won’t survive it.”

“Of course you would, Gwen. You’re the strongest person I know,” Morgana had replied, grasping reflexively at lean wrists, Gwen’s hands having migrated to the back of Morgana’s neck, thumbs cupped round the front of her ears. It was the first time she had been embraced so intimately, and if it weren’t for her anger she most certainly would have shivered with excitement at the surprisingly welcome contact.

“I’m not,” Gwen had half-sobbed, voice hoarse from hours surrendered to grief. “I’m only standing at all right now because the person I love most in all the world is here with me.”

Morgana hadn’t understood the nature of that declaration at first. Not until Gwen tucked her lip between her teeth, her nostrils flared with what could not be misinterpreted as anything but raw want, and her eyes went impossibly dark. A sharp gasp of realization was all Morgana could manage as a response, so stunned was she that her most secretive and treasured wish was being fulfilled.

But when Gwen nodded, chest heaving with emotion, despair and fear warring with adoration in her eyes, Morgana could no longer contain herself. Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fused together, revealing the explanation as to why a simple smile from Gwen was able to chase away the storm clouds gathering above her head, or why Gwen’s chiming laughter kicked up butterflies in her stomach and a captivating warmth in her chest, or why even the most airy of touches from Gwen left a wake of goose-flesh in her skin. It wasn’t just love. It was destiny.

In retrospect, Morgana probably should have been as if not more terrified of crossing that final, socially forbidden line between mistress and servant, friend and lover, than she was of being magical. The thing of it was, the only relevant factors in that moment was Gwen willingly offering of herself more than she probably should and Morgana being selfish enough to accept.

They made love that night beneath Gwen’s threadbare sheets, and it was glorious, just as Morgana had imagined it would be.

All of their sorrows and anxieties and animosities drifted away like dandelion seeds upon a crisp summer breeze. Cliches regarding such unions suddenly made sense. Somewhere along the journey that began by laving the stiffened peak of a pert breast then languidly progressed into nestling her face into the delicate, aromatic flower situated between smooth bronze legs, she lost all sense of self. It was as if with each bruising kiss, playful nibble, and greedy draw with open mouth, she and Gwen were merging into one being. Gwen’s throaty noises and keening pleas reverberated through her every muscle fiber, down even into the very marrow of her bones. Gwen’s intoxicating flavor permeated her senses until it was all she could taste or smell. And Gwen’s gratification became hers as her hand slipped beneath her ridiculously extravagant undergarments to relieve the desperate pressure upon a mound so slick with arousal that the sound of her feverish rubbing was positively obscene.

Mere heartbeats after Gwen went taut with a silent scream, stars exploded behind Morgana’s eyes as the most exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain engulfed her mind and set her nether regions aflame. Spent and unable to control her trembling limbs, she collapsed across Gwen’s heaving chest. Strong arms immediately wrapped around underneath her arms to pull her in tight, and as she buried her nose in the damp curls at Gwen’s neck, all she could do was weep, utterly overcome by an unspeakable joy she understood without needing to ask was fully mutual. They fell asleep like that, Morgana stretched across Gwen, encased in an embrace that felt like a subconscious announcement of a claim upon her, heart and soul and body, something she not only welcomed but reveled in.

Wonderful thoughts about publicly belonging to Gwen lulled Morgana into a peaceful sleep that went markedly undisturbed.

In the pale light of morning she was still so drunken upon pure, heady, all consuming bliss to realize she would be missed if she did make an appearance in the castle. Had Gwen not pointed that out, she would have been more than glad to spend the entire day wrapped around her new lover, discovering every last spot that made Gwen’s toes curl ‘til the girl was too exhausted to move the tiniest muscle.

Alas, the constraints of reality marshaled both of them to action, and so once they had dressed, they sneaked carefully into the castle by auxiliary corridors during the changing of the guard. By only the slimmest of margins, they slipped into her chambers just as the fresh patrol rounded the corner in their direction. Once inside, the thrill of the close call and euphoria over their consummated love invigorated Morgana into a passion she could not ignore. Overcome by a need – more like an almost maddening hunger really – to touch, smell, and taste every delicious inch of the skin she had feasted upon last night, she unceremoniously dragged a breathless, ruddy cheeked Gwen straight over to her bed.

After that thorough christening, they lingered together in a tangle of limbs, both sated and happy. At least until the sound of Camelot’s awakening resounded through the chambers from the courtyard below and with it the first doubts crept in. Morgana could recall the subsequent conversation as though it had just happened.

***************

“I should see to my duties directly,” Gwen had said, immediately rustling to exit the bed upon hearing Arthur’s booming voice rattle down the hallway, clearly a response to the latest in an endless string of mistakes by his loyal yet tragically clumsy manservant.

Morgana hadn’t wanted to turn loose quite yet, so she tightened hold around Gwen’s waist, halting the undesired escape.

“They can wait,” she replied between leisurely kisses trailed up a shapely arm. “The laundry isn’t going anywhere, nor is the evening gown that needs mending. Stay with me a while longer.” She paused to nuzzle into Gwen’s shoulder. “Stay with me forever.”

Rather than struggle, Gwen melted the embrace. “You know that is all I wish for. I love you, Morgana. More than anything. But…”

“But what?”

“What if someone catches us?”

Morgana scoffed, having missed the long term nature of the question in addition to the concern pouring off of Gwen in waves she should not have missed. It was not her finest moment. She hadn’t meant to be insensitive, though. The idea had just seemed so preposterous at the time because she had thought Gwen was only speaking about the present.

“Who would be so bold as to enter my chambers without permission?” she had said. “Not even Uther at his most disrespectful would dare venture such a trespass. We are entirely safe here. No need to worry your pretty head.”

Gwen shifted in Morgana’s arms then so that they were face to face. “I do, though. Worry that is. And I have to ask: why aren’t you?”

“Why should I be? For that matter why should you be?” Morgana replied. And then she met Gwen’s eyes. Large, and impossibly dark, and unmistakably upset.

All of the sudden it was impossible for Morgana to ignore how frightened Gwen really was. In response, her stomach twisted almost painfully and her heart fell as the happy bubble she had been floating in abruptly burst.

What in all the world, she wondered in a moment of regrettable obliviousness, had Gwen afraid of them being caught? Her brow furrowed as deeply as it ever had as she mulled around potential causes.

Certainly they were going to have to be careful in the future to avoid exposure, she reckoned, but Gwen was as fully cognizant that there were more perilous secrets both were currently keeping. Morgana’s ability to pull the wool over Uther’s eyes was well established, and no one else besides the two of them had unfettered access to her chambers. Besides all that, Morgana knew every nook and cranny of the citadel and was able to slip out and into the upper town undetected at will, of which Gwen was also very well aware. So there had to be more to it. But what?

Only one other possibility occurred to her, and it was the one she least wanted to entertain. And yet...

“Unless you regret what has transpired between us?” she asked at length, unable to disguise her own fear, which manifested through a faint trembling in her voice. “No!” Shaking her head fervently, Gwen grasped Morgana’s face much as she did the night before. “Not even for a second. I’ve lost so much, and I have much to regret, but not this. This is the best thing to ever happen to me. I just…”

Again Gwen trailed off, her hands retreating to clasp together against her mouth. And although Morgana’s anxiety had quieted with Gwen’s reassurance, there was clearly something still bothering her.

“Just what?” Morgana prompted, then reached out to stroke Gwen’s hair. “I hate seeing you so twisted up. Tell me. Please.”

A single, contrite nibble of a kiss-stung lip later, Gwen averted her eyes and gave her answer, “Don’t you wonder, even just for a second in the back of your mind, if what we did was wrong?”

Morgana very nearly sighed in relief. This was a problem she could easily remedy, as it was a one she had wrestled with for years only for Merlin’s simple yet profound worldview to unexpectedly resolve.

During the incident where Gwen was accused of using sorcery to heal her father, he had stumbled upon Morgana beside herself after a visit to Gwen’s cell. In her anxiety and grief she had confessed to having feelings for her handmaiden that although unseemly nonetheless had taken hold of her. Where she had expected disgust, she was instead given only understanding and compassion. In that endearingly provincial way of his, Merlin ensured her that love – if true and pure and unselfish, which he insisted hers for Gwen surely was – could never be wrong.

Morgana had felt something turn loose inside her at Merlin’s easy acceptance, as if her heart had been tied into a knot being slowly and perpetually tightened. Breathing became a relief once again. And as she learned to accept herself the way Merlin did, she began to hope that perhaps one day in the future a door would open for her to act upon her feelings without destroying what she and Gwen already shared. She could not have anticipated Tom’s death being the impetus for her to do so. Yet as awful as his tragic death was, it birthed something so infinitely precious that Morgana would never cease being grateful. And if only for the memory of that kind, thoughtful, patient man, she would never stop fighting for the love she shared with her beloved Guinevere.

“Gwen,” she had said, unsuccessfully vying for her conflicted love’s attention. Twice more she called Gwen’s name, and after receiving no response pushed up slightly on her elbow. “Look at me, Guinevere.” When large, uncertain eyes, brimming with tears, met hers, she leaned over so that she could press her forehead against Gwen’s. “We have done nothing wrong. Do you hear me? If you trust me, if you love me as you assert to, believe me when I say this. Something so wonderful and beautiful and perfect could never be anything less than rightly divine.”

***************

That phrase that swiftly became Morgana’s favorite answer to Gwen’s occasional concerns. The world at large, and most definitely those housed within the vaunted halls of Camelot’s citadel, would most certainly view their relationship as wicked and immoral and perverse. If that was indeed the case, Morgana did not believe she ever wanted to be either innocent or righteous. Their love was wonderful, and beautiful, and perfectly divine; an immutable fact which Morgana was determined to never allow either of them to forget.

No doubt lurked within Gwen’s eyes this morning, however, only unadulterated affection. And that made Morgana exceedingly joyful indeed.

“I understand what you mean,” Morgana at last said after escaping that precious memory. She sighed contentedly and shuttered her eyelids as yet another reverent brush of fingers smoothed along the crest of her chin. And while the diligent attention felt incredible, she grew increasingly curious why Gwen’s focus appeared to have narrowly fixated on that one specific region of her face.

“What’s the matter?” Gwen said after a bit of easy silence.

“What makes you think something’s the matter?” Morgana replied, still basking in the glow of Gwen’s magical touch.

“You have that telltale crease between your brow which means something is bothering you.”

This time Morgana opened her eyes. “I’m not bothered, merely at a loss as to why you suddenly find my chin so hypnotizing.”

Gwen sucked at her lip momentarily as if weighing whether to answer before a crooked smile bloomed across her handsome features.

“Well, not just your chin, but if you must know it’s all these little hairs…” And then she stroked Morgana’s chin again, this time allowing her fingers to feather over said hairs all the way down her jawline.

“Are you saying my face is hairy, Gwen?” Morgana asked, frowning as a thread of hurt pulled taut.

As should be obvious, she didn’t appreciate it pointed out that her alabaster skin failed to conceal what otherwise would have been a nearly invisible coat of fine hairs that covered all humans male and female alike. Arthur teased her about it relentlessly when she was a blossoming teenager, and even now some of the noble ladies who envied her would snidely comment upon how it clearly indicated that she was a witch destined for a life of barren unhappiness.

Up til now, Gwen had made no mention of that peculiar feature and Morgana would be lying if she claimed she wasn’t wounded that it would be brought up only now that they were in an intimate situation.

“No!” Gwen’s eyes went wide as the full moon. “No, not at all! I mean...well, yes, it sort of is.” A huffed breath of remorse followed Morgana’s gasp of offense. “Not that it’s a bad thing! I swear I meant no insult. I have some too, after all. It’s just less visible because of my skin tone probably. And don’t worry! It’s nothing like Lady Johanna’s fledgling beard. Not even close. On the contrary, they’re so tiny and delicate and wispy and soft, and I really am utterly obsessed with them because they are part of you and you are perfect, so they are also perfect by extension, and I just can’t get over how adorable they are, and I am currently babbling like a lunatic with zero manners. I am so sorry, milady.”

At the end of that adorable ramble, Gwen’s shoulders hunched in as her cheeks darkened and she yet again sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Any insult Morgana felt evaporated as quickly as it formed. How could she be upset with such an enchanting creature?

Reaching across Gwen’s waist, she pulled her abashed lover down until they were flush, skin to skin from shoulders to hips.

“Oh, Gwen, there is nothing to be sorry for,” she said, legs instinctively parting as Gwen’s familiar weight settled against her. “My reaction is habit, I’m afraid, due to Arthur’s derisive mocking. It’s actually quite nice to hear a compliment for a change.”

“Are you sure you’re not cross with me? I’d understand if you were…”

No one with a functioning soul could be cross with those doe eyes staring at them, Morgana decided. She danced her fingers with lighthearted mirth across Gwen’s cheeks and over the ridge of her nose.

“Nonsense, sweetling. It’s no different than me admiring your freckles.”

Gwen’s features relaxed into a flattered smile. “You like my freckles?”

“Like them? I love them! How could I not? It’s like you said, they are a part of you, and you are perfect, therefore they are perfect by extension.”

In response, Gwen gave her an appreciative little smile before arresting her hand to place a kiss upon the inside of her wrist.

“So you won’t mind to be awakened like that again should I fail to curb my weird fascination?”

“Only if you won’t should I wake you by mapping the stars written across your cheeks,” Morgana said, then returned Gwen’s tactile affection with some of her own by again acting out her words with her own fingers. She was pleased when Gwen leaned in to the touch.

“I promise I won’t. I think I’d quite fancy that, actually.”

“Then I promise, too. And if you’re a good girl today, perhaps I will indulge your fancy tomorrow morning.”

“Well, then, I’d better get to work, hadn’t I?”

Eyes flashing with eager anticipation, Gwen threw the covers aside and made to get out of bed – a development Morgana was not prepared to authorize. Not only was she of a mind to lounge abed and cuddle away another hour or two, all of Camelot was blanketed in snow and she was loathe to be deprived of Gwen’s heavenly body...heat.

“Now, now,” Morgana tugged at Gwen, almost desperate with a need to curl right back into Gwen’s warmth and never move again while hoping she sounded at least somewhat the dignified noblewoman she was supposed to be. “Don’t be so hasty. Have you forgotten yourself and your duties to your lady? I haven’t yet had my good morning kiss.”

Gwen tumbled back into bed giggling merrily. “For shame! I have failed my lady most unforgivably. I shall rectify the trespass immediately.”

“See that you do, Guinevere, and promptly,” Morgana said, her eyes twinkling as her own merriment curved her lips into a smile. “As you know, your lady does not appreciate being made to wait.”

After a deliberately silly half-curtsy, Gwen draped herself across Morgana’s body, and once settled whispered her reply against Morgana’s already tingling lips.

“My lady’s wish is my command.”

The brief peck that followed was not enough for Morgana. Fingers winding into dark curls, she pulled Gwen into a much more passionate kiss, which lead to another, and another, until the embrace quickly evolved into tangling tongues and undulating hips. Soon enough, Gwen’s head was disappearing beneath the sheets and Morgana was having to recall how to breathe due to the magnificently excruciating pleasure coursing through her loins.

And that was how she came to be late for her first appointment of the morning, where she was relentlessly lectured about the importance of punctuality over manchet, eggs, sausage, and apples sprinkled with cinnamon. It was worth it, though. Her giddy grin throughout breakfast only made Arthur more bewildered and Uther more angry.

[wendydarling1400]

JANE EYRE: INFP

Fi:

Jane Eyre, throughout the novel is completely devoted to her principles and beliefs. Although quiet and isolated Jane is not afraid to express her true opinion and judgments. When she observes Mr Rochester alienating Adele she gently teaches him that Adele should be treated with respect; Jane shows that she has strong empathy and will not accept people talking down to children “Adele is not answerable for either her Mother’s faults or yours (...) forsaken by her Mother and disowned by you, I shall cling closer to her than before”; Jane is stubborn and unmoving in her moral judgments in which she pulls from her internal beliefs (this is evident in the fact that these views are deeply against the social norms of the time). As Jane moves from place to place the things she clings to is her sense of self and her determination to be happy with her moral actions, this brings her great comfort in her circumstances  “I can live alone if self-respect and circumstances require me to do so”; Jane leaves Thornfield on the pretence that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she were to stay and be tempted into living a bigamous marriage. Mr Rochester recognises that Jane is innocent and “untainted” leading him to ask Jane continuously if the actions he has taken are morally right to which Jane happily and honestly gives advice “you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve”.Although Jane expresses to the reader that she loves Mr Rochester “while I breathe and think, I must love him” and is completely loyal to him, she will not act immorally for him “I like to serve you in all that is right” again proving that her principles are the most important thing to her and that she constantly evaluates things from an Fi perspective. Jane longs for love and affection which is what makes following her principles even harder as they often cost her the gateway to that in which she is seeking “to the crib I took my doll. Human beings must love something.”  

Ne:

After establishing her principles and gaining all she feels she can from Lowood, Jane decides to move on. Although Jane is in search of a place or someone she belongs to, she easily becomes bored with the mundane and longs for deeper conversations and interactions finding  Miss Fairfax, though kind, does not satisfy Jane in this way. Jane is intrigued and drawn in by Helen Burns and Miss Temples conversions as they discuss the bigger picture, she sees this as meaningful and interesting. Jane attaches herself quickly to Helen who is at first not particularly welcoming to Jane “you ask too many questions, I want to get back to my book” although this interaction could have put Jane off, she enjoys Helen’s insights and wisdom “Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs”; Helen is wise and unlike other people around her, she talks about deeper matters of life in which Jane asks many questions about and seemingly absorbs the answers to (her Ne feeds her Fi); it is clear that many of Helen’s teachings are absorbed by Jane and brought into later life. Jane’s Ne lives for the excitement of deeper conversation and a thirst for diving into multiple hobbies including, painting, writing and playing the piano. It is this saviour function that ironically actually works as a saviour for Jane in her life, as a child she is told that she has ‘bad blood’ due to her emotional responses but her Ne and openness to new information (Helen and her teachings) transforms Jane into a principled and responsible young woman. In Mr Rochester Jane finds another person who enjoys deeper topics of conversation, he is also out of the box and strange, before Mr Rochester returned to Thornfield (before they met) she begins to find as months move pass by that she is becoming restless and again thinks of finding herself a new situation. However it is Mr Rochester and his company who keeps her at Thornfield. Jane also possesses a vivid imagination as she constantly invisions ghostly experiences in Gateshead, down the path whilst posting a letter (Gytrash), and most obviously at Thornfield hall; she expresses that as a child she only enjoyed reading stories about “fairies” and “genii”, and in later life is constantly told by Mr Rochester that she is like numerous different fairytale creatures and that she is“Unearthly.”

Si:

Sentimental and comfort seeking, Jane moves from place to place in search for a home and love. Jane consistently looks back over the past romanticising elements and also feeling upset over others. Though the book has to recollect her past, Jane has very strong feelings and statements to make regarding it. Jane reviews her past deeply and, remembers in great detail how she categorised each person and event she encountered. Jane has a Fi-Si loop which pulls her back in her personal journey; she has at times an unhealthy look on the past as she jumpes from one extreme view on the past to the other (pain and romanticism). After meeting the aristocratic group in which Mr Rochester brings to Thornfield one of the women automatically reminds Jane of Mrs Reed, Jane begins to sink into some of her past experiences of Mrs Reed and then forms somewhat of a disliking for the woman because she looks like her. When Jane returns to Gateshead to see Mrs Reed, memories flood back hitting her hard showing the power that Jane’s Si holds over her hitting her Fi at times very harshly. Obviously, we can all have bad memories but Jane is strongly guided by them and refers back to them many a time throughout her life, sometimes strongly living in the past “Old times crowded fast back on me”; “the inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition” Jane clearly remembers Gateshead vividly as she travels back there in her mind frequently. It is clear that Jane’s Fi is strongly attached to her Si and is sometimes fed negative thoughts “I did not need directions to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement in former days”; “the recollection of childhood terrors and sorrows revived”.  Even the physical places in which Jane lives mean a lot to her as she categorises each place as a new stepping stone in her life. 

Te:

Jane has a quiet and gentle nature however at moments during the novel her Te shows in a direct and passionate way; when Mr Rochester first talks about sending Jane off to a new place/situation, Jane quietly digests it trying not to show her grief, but over time Jane feels she cannot hold in her emotions anymore and speaks directly to Mr Rochester in an effort to get her views across which she had previously kept to herself “Do you think because I am poor, obscure, plain and little that I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you - and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you." Mr Rochester is shocked by this side of Jane as it is rarely shown. Jane also speaks to the ‘gypsy lady’ directly as the interview she conducts feels uncomfortable, making Jane feel on edge and as a result she has a sharper tongue than usual “ ‘Why do you not consult my art?’ ‘because I am not silly.’ (...) “‘You are cold and you are silly’ ‘prove it’; Jane is more blunt and short when put on the spot by someone who is trying to read her deep emotions; making her defensive. 

Hufflepuff:

One of Jane’s main traits is loyalty, she is loyal in many ways; Jane is loyal to her principles sticking to them strictly, she is loyal to Helen and her guidance, and she is most obviously loyal to Mr Rochester. Jane has no idea what Mr Rochester’s big secret is and doesn’t try to force it out of him or investigate herself (by perhaps going up to the tower), instead she trusts him and does whatever she can to serve him as a friend; “Can I help you, sir? - I’d give anything to serve you”, Jane earns the trust of Mr Rochester very quickly despite the fact that he is deeply secretive, as he sees that Jane is loyal and honest and would keep his secrets not wishing to harm him “ ‘my little friend!’ Said he, ‘I wish I were on a quiet island with only you” Mr Rochester knows that Jane does not easily judge or cast aside people and that if everyone else around him were to hate him, she would not. Jane is forgiving, even though she feels great sorrow in regard to Mrs Reed she forgives her “a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled and clasp hands with amity” this shows that Jane is caring and not prideful or bitter, she has true Hufflepuff traits (wanting peace and harmony). As Well as this Jane is also hugely modest and uncompetitive in nature “I will do my best; it is a pity that doing one’s best does not always answer”; “If he expects me to talk for the sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed himself to the wrong person”, Jane is disinterested in gossip and being boastful and competitive, when Jane and Mr Rochester plan to get married Jane refuses to have anything big and over the top wanting only the simple things in life, the simple things strongly include love for Jane; “There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort”. When she learns that her uncle died and left her a huge sum of money, Jane’s initial reaction was sadness as she had never met her uncle, and not excitement towards the money that would mean a different life for her. Jane holds love above everything else. Jane is a Hufflepuff because she values, loyalty, kindness, modesty, fair-play and hard-work.

-WendyDarling1400

[tebowgatorworld]

'The nation I know': George W. Bush's powerful address commemorating the 20th anniversary of 9/11

For those too young that clear September day, it is hard to describe the mix of feelings we experienced. There was horror at the scale of destruction and awe at the bravery and kindness that rose to meet it. There was shock at the audacity of evil and gratitude for the heroism and decency that opposed it.

In the sacrifice of the first responders, in the mutual aid of strangers, in the solidarity of grief and grace, the actions of an enemy revealed the spirit of a people. And we were proud of our wounded nation.

In these memories, the passengers and crew of Flight 93 must always have an honored place. Here, the intended targets became the instruments of rescue. And many who are now alive owe a vast, unconscious debt to the defiance displayed in the skies above this field.

It would be a mistake to idealize the experience of those terrible events. All that many people could initially see was the brute randomness of death. All that many could feel was unearned suffering. All that many could hear was God’s terrible silence. There are many who still struggle with a lonely pain that cuts deep within.

In those fateful hours, we learned other lessons as well. We saw that Americans were vulnerable, but not fragile — that they possessed a core of strength that survives the worst that life can bring. We learned that bravery was more common than we imagined, emerging with sudden splendor in the face of death. We vividly felt how every hour with our loved ones was a temporary and holy gift. And we found that even the longest days end.

Many of us have tried to make spiritual sense of these events. There is no simple explanation for the mix of providence and human will that sets the direction of our lives. But comfort can come from a different store of knowledge. After wandering long and lost in the dark, many have found they were actually watching step by step toward grace.

As a nation, our adjustments have been profound. Many Americans struggled why an enemy would hate us with such zeal. The security measures incorporated into our lives are both sources of comfort and reminders of our vulnerability. And we have seen growing evidence that the dangers to our country can come not only across borders, but from violence that gathers within.

There is little cultural overlap between violent extremists abroad and violent extremists at home. But in their disdain for pluralism, in their disregard for human life, in their determination to defile national symbols, they are children of the same foul spirit. And it is our continuing duty to confront them.

After 9/11, millions of brave Americans stepped forward and volunteered to serve in the armed forces. The military measures taken over the past 20 years to pursue dangers at their source have led to debate. But one thing is certain: We owe an assurance to all who have fought our nation’s most recent battles.

Let me speak directly to veterans and people in uniform. The cause you pursued at the call of duty is the noblest that America has to offer. You have shielded your fellow citizens from danger. You have defended the beliefs of your country and advanced the rights of the downtrodden. You have been the face of hope and mercy in dark places. You have been a force for good in the world. Nothing that has followed — nothing — can tarnish your honor or diminish your accomplishments. To you, and our honorable dead, our country is forever grateful.

In the weeks and months following the 9/11 attacks, I was proud to lead an amazing, resilient, united people. When it comes to the unity of America, those days seem distant from our own. Malign force seems at work in our common life that turns every disagreement into an argument, and every argument into a clash of cultures. So much of our politics has become a naked appeal to anger, fear and resentment. That leaves us worried about our nation and our future together.

I come without explanations or solutions. I can only tell you what I’ve seen.

On America’s day of trial and grief, I saw millions of people instinctively grab for a neighbor’s hand and rally to the cause of one another. That is the America I know.

At a time when religious bigotry might have flowed freely, I saw Americans reject prejudice and embrace people of Muslim faith. That is the nation I know.

At a time when nativism could have stirred hatred and violence against people perceived as outsiders, I saw Americans reaffirm their welcome to immigrants and refugees. That is the nation I know.

At a time when some viewed the rising generation as individualistic and decadent, I saw young people embrace an ethic of service and rise to selfless action. That is the nation I know.

This is not mere nostalgia. It is the truest version of ourselves. It is what we have been and can be again.

Twenty years ago, terrorists chose a random group of Americans on a routine flight to be collateral damage in a spectacular act of terror. The 33 passengers and seven crew of Flight 93 could have been any group of citizens selected by face. In a sense, they stood in for us all.

The terrorists soon discovered that a random group of Americans is an exceptional group of people. Facing an impossible circumstance, they comforted their loved ones by phone, braced each other for action, and defeated the designs of evil. These Americans were brave, strong and united in ways that shocked the terrorists but should not surprise any of us.

This is the nation we know.

And whenever we need hope and inspiration, we can look to the skies and remember. God bless.”

[de-cryptid]

So now that Simon’s archive is usable, I decided to take a stroll through and just absorb the scenery. Take in the surroundings, encompass myself in his glory and wisdom...

Alright, that was unnecessarily dry, let’s just dive into this.

I had seen him post links regarding his series chronicling “Monstrous Myths” and, of course, relating them to his species and himself.

The article I finally decided to check out was the one on ghouls, hosted on his creaturescookbook blog (not on tumblr, the wordpress one). And... I don’t know what I was expecting but... 

Well, let’s just look together, shall we?

The behavioral comparison to my species seems evident. What is less so are the physical descriptions of such creatures. They can apparently change shape, but as I have upon many previous occasions, I will argue that this is simply a human way of explaining some other catastrophic event, for which the ghoul is not to blame. If you are stupid enough to leave your infant unattended, and it is snatched away by a large and fearless hyena, of course you will not wish to blame yourself. Instead the hyena is not a normal hyena – the sort you have outsmarted a dozen times before, the sort your infant has cooed at and giggled over. That hyena must be a demon in disguise. You rage against heaven or chaos, instead of taking responsibility, instead of killing hyenas, one of nature’s most hideous and malevolent creatures, you instead target me and mine.

My problem begins with “If you are stupid enough to leave your infant unattended”. Sorry to delve into nitpick-y territory here, but something about the utter lack of nuance possible in his imagined scenario, which amounts to “dumb parent leaves baby for hyena to eat” just feels cruel. Maybe this is his attempt at humour, I can’t be sure, but it comes across as insensitive and mean-spirited.

But past that, he talks of how the resulting calamity leads to a shift in belief, reimagining the events with a demon instead of a lowly hyena. He says “you instead target me and mine”.

What kind of a leap is that?

The ghoul, as he said, does not physically resemble his species very much. It looks more like a human corpse. If a distraught parent misremembers losing their child as a terrifying half-dead human consuming them, why would you assume it must pertain to your species? Especially considering there was no sighting of your kind in this hypothetical?

The logic is strange, to say the least.

But this part also bothered me: “one of nature’s most hideous and malevolent creatures”. That’s just... is it silly of me to say ‘dumb’? Does he have some sort of hyena vendetta I’m simply unaware of?

For someone who claims to be very in tune with nature and the world around him, knowing and sensing things we never could, it seems peculiar to reduce a predator species that’s far tamer than his own to an ugly villain. 

Ah well. Nitpicking.

Moving on...

Perhaps the human mind must find reasons to blame us, if only to muster the courage to destroy their only natural predator. Perhaps your desire to blame us for all your misfortunes is simply an adaptation. Perhaps you need it. I will not argue that it is vestigial, like the appendix. Instead, I will absolve you of guilt, and say that while I find this annoying, I do not take offense. You cannot help it.

It’s irritating that this becomes all about him and his kind, but that’s what his whole “Monstrous Myths” series is anyway. I shouldn’t have expected any difference, any nuance or actual understanding of why humans tend to have myths revolving around humanoid terrors (psychologically, anthropologically, etc.) He’s running an “experiment” about fiction yet isn’t approaching this from any other angle? Interesting. It’s almost like he’s gone into all of this with a conclusion to prove and refuses to think outside of that.

Another nitpick, I am rather fond of those, the appendix isn’t vestigial. It does have a job in our bodies that we have known about for over a decade. This function is part of the reason it’s so volatile; it holds a lot of bacteria to help replenish our gut’s natural flora when necessary. This bacteria makes it susceptible to infection and inflammation, hence why appendicitis isn’t uncommon. 

Alright, onto the last (and most egregious) part I’d like to highlight:

In all other ways, the ghoul is a perfect analogue to the obour, the classic wendigo, even the more exotic sounding gorgon. They are all one monster, fast, strong, in love with shiny things, sharpening their intellect by hunting the sentient. Most importantly – they are ravenous.

Now, research into obours was bizarre, as his blog was actually one of the only hits. But from what I could find, his description of it is simply... incorrect. I won’t get too much into that because there isn’t really a reputable source to rely on here.

But what I do want to focus on is his examples (which I will not repeat) and how they share traits such as “in love with shiny things” (something that his examples do not actually share). He tries to relate them to his species by saying they sharpen their intellect by hunting the sentient, but that also is not something that actually originated in those myths; he made it up. 

It’s just a strange and altogether loosely-related series of posts, his supposed monstrous myths. They are poorly researched to the point of cultural disrespect and misrepresentation (hence the terms he used) and simply don’t fit in his canon, as much as he wants them to.

[merci-bitch]

Obsession

Miss G x Fem!Reader 

Request: Hi, sun! Any chance you could write something about Miss G falling for another teacher (let the poor students alone) and being kind of obsessed with her? - @ghostsunderstoodmysoul​

Genre: angst

Words: 1,5k

Warning (s): angst

A/N: I’ve never been more angry in my life. As I posted it, tumblr deleted the whole fucking thing. As if that wasn’t enough, some of you out there. You ungrateful bastards with your dirty little mouths. I am a human being, not some plastic toy that you can speak to however you want. I have feelings to you know? Sorry it took so long. I’m willing to do a part 2.

You could call me new here. I arrived here at  St Mathilda's, The British boarding school for girls a few weeks ago but today was my first day of teaching. I was the new French teacher. The old, lovely woman who was the teacher before me had decided to retire. She was a lovely lady. So I applied for the job and got it.

I spent the few weeks I had before teaching to get to know the school. The hallways, the woods and everywhere else. It was a lovely place to be honest. I spent most of my time in the woods, spending time by the lake that was a few minutes from the school. I had always been an early bird, it means that I would get up early. Pretty much every morning. I was used to wake up early ever since my childhood. My dear father was always up before sunrise. My father used to wake me up and we would watch the sun rise to its highest together. Those were good memories, but you know what they say. Good memories are just memories. And they are. My father was pulled to war and didn't make it home. I was much closer to my father then my mother. I always spent time with him. He would teach me so many different things. Teach me about the stars we see on the night sky. He was the one who I talked to. My father went to war when I was eight. Then, I never saw him again. When he didn't come home, we moved from Paris to London. Me, my mother and my big brother. To start a new life. To make new happy memories.

My father taught me many things. He taught me how to write proper poems. Like this one,

'It was the end of the week, in the middle of the spring and the night, was about to begin. I stepped outside and the door clipped itself closed. A gentle breeze met my face, like a friend who had been waiting for me to come outside. The air was cool and crisp, soft and still. I paused on the steps and breathed, delighting in the first hint of that movement, when day becomes night. I could feel it all around me, a growing stirring movement. Like the soft rumble in a theater, before the curtain rises and the show begins. The stars and the moon were soon to come, and the night, was about to fall.'

I had been quite proud of that one. My father would always say that I had a bright future ahead of me. That I would become a bright and intelligent woman. A brilliant writer. Before my decision to become a French teacher, I wrote a poem book. Or what do you call it? It was a book full of poems. It got published and I guess you can say it went viral. I don't know really, I didn't really bother to take a bunch of matter to it. I just followed my fathers advice. But now I'm here. And I'm excited to teach.

***

It was after my first few classes. It had gone quite well. The students were nice and complemented me, helped me when I didn't know what to do. Despite that being my work, helping them when they didn't know what to do. They were such sweethearts. I was packing up my stuff from the last lesson I had when I heard a knock on the door, making me jump lightly. I heard a voice speak up. Thinking it was one the students, thinking they had forgotten something but when I turned around I saw a woman. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders and her crystal blue eyes shined their way throughout the room. She was quite beautiful. Her facial reconstructions were beautiful and her body was as if it was sculptures by the gods themselves.

"So, you must be the new French teacher. I'm Miss G, the swimming teacher" She held out her hand. From her posture, I could see how much of a confidant woman she was. How proud and selfish she was. Not that was a bad thing to be. I took her hand in mine, the warmth her hand gave sent shivers down my spine. "I am Miss. I'm Y/N" I gave her a smile and withdrew my hand. Feeling her crystal blue eyes run over my body, as if they were analyzing me. In a way I felt uncomfortable under her eyes. I don't know why, I couldn't put my tongue on it.

"Want me to show you around?" She spoke up after a while. I was hesitant, I had already seen the school but I didn't want to let her down. "Oh, of course" Her lips formed a grin as she lead me out the door. Placing her hand on my lower back, just above my arse. As we were walking past some students, even other teachers I felt her pull me closer to her. Until her arm was fully wrapped around my waist. I couldn't say anything. I guess this was just how she was. I had learned some stuff about her. Her name was Virginia. She was in her early thirties. She had been a teacher her for some time. She told me about her adventures. It impressed me, and I started to get more comfortable around her. Thinking it was just who she was.

"I have to say Virginia, you impress me. With all those adventures and the passion you share?" I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Virginia let out a laugh herself. "Well, you flatter me Y/N. You're quite impressive yourself my dear" I felt my cheeks grow hot. And I felt her eyes on me. I had always been sensitive to pet names, I know. Very childish almost. I was a shy person. "Thank you Miss. I've been taught well by my father" I smiled at the memory at him. Seeing his smiling face in my head. "You speak highly of your father. You must love him dearly" I nodded my head. "I did, well. I still do" Virginia titled her head to the side. "What ever is the matter darling?" I felt my smile drop and how my hand was Inlaced with hers. Her touch was warm and some what caring. "My father went to war when I was eight and he never came home" Tears stinging behind my eyes, begging to come lose.

Virginia sat closer to me and pulled me to her, petting my hair and she tried to calm me down. "It's alright my sweet. He will always be with you. I tell you that" I couldn't say anything. I just nodded my head slowly. It felt weird, being in her arms. How her arms were wrapped around me. Almost as if they were holding me still, forcing me down. "Miss G, you can let go now" I could feel her hesitate, but she let go. I gave her a small smile and stood up. I looked at my clock that I had on my wrist. "Oh, look at the time! I have a class in fifteen minutes! I have to go, good to meet you!" I said as I started running towards the school again. I didn't have a class and I was sure she already knew that. I felt as if she already knew everything about me, maybe a bit too much.

As I got to the school I went towards my room. Closing the door behind me and leaning against it and letting out a sigh of relief. Feeling this terror towards Virginia. She scared me. I know that it was probably just my imagination but still. The look in her eyes? It made my whole body shook with disgust.

***

It's a few weeks later and I had started to realize that this wasn't just my imagination. Miss G was always looking my way, waiting for me. As if she was watching me at all costs. Why was she doing this? She would always find an excuse to be near me. It scared me. I know it sounds 'childish' to say that it scared me, that she scared me but I couldn't help it.

It was late at night, raining and thunder and how the sky was lightning up was shown. It was peace for me and made it easy for me to fall asleep. But something felt odd. It felt as if someone was watching me. I shrugged it off, but it still felt uncomfortable. I turned to my side again and opened my eyes. Seeing nothing for a second but then I saw it. I was right. I was being watched. And I was being watched by Miss G.

"Good evening, darling"

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Could I request yandere Trish with a stand user bodygaurd making them share a bed with her for "" protection""

It’s been a long day.

A change of clothes later, and you’re still finding blood in odd and random places--soaked in the lining of your shoes, staining your arms at the elbow, droplets caked in the roots of your hair—really, you’ll need a shower to completely purge the memory of the bloodbath you enacted.  Your Stand was powerful, but it was messy in a way that laid bare your savagery and made it impossible to get anyone else to work with you.  Every time the Don sent you and his precious daughter on a mission, you were required to act as protector and attack dog both, with Trish as your civilizing force.  When you called upon the brutal power of your Stand, it terrorized everyone who survived seeing it in action…and impressed them just as greatly, when they saw the ease with which Trish reigned you in.

At first, you didn’t understand why someone with power as vulgar as yours had been assigned to protect her, but now you could appreciate the twisted logic of it all—each mission hardened the little princess’ stomach that much more, made her more willing to put you to work as her own personal executioner.  She had a throne waiting for her, after all, and the steps leading to it were drenched in blood.

Blood…yes, blood.  The stench of it doesn’t dominate the air anymore, now that you were in the cushy hotel suite and the only red in your surroundings was the velvet trim and flowers in the wallpaper, but there are lingering traces of it all the same, and for the life of you you can’t figure out where they’re coming from.

The door next to you opens, interrupting your thoughts.  Trish walks out in a haze of steam as she towels her hair dry, the lack of makeup and expensive suits making her seem strange in a way you can’t put your finger on.

It’s not until she finishes changing into her nightwear—with you pointedly looking away, of course, you’re not that much of a beast—that you realize what it is: she actually looks her age.  It’s an occurrence that’s becoming rarer and rarer the longer you’re with her.

Trish turns to look up at you and immediately wrinkles her nose.

“I thought that might be you.  You stink,” she says.  You smile indulgently in return.

“All in a day’s work, Miss Una.  Was there anything else you needed me for?”  You can already feel it.  The hot blast of water soothing the ache from your muscles, the strong soap you’ll use to scrub every inch of you clean, and when you slide between your sheets you’ll be as clean and blameless as anyone else in this city.  You’ve become a crane-wife in reverse, threading feathers through your skin to become a beast only to tear them out again at the end of the day.  You can’t wait to be a person again, your humanity tucked out of sight before it can be mistaken for weakness.  

Except that Trish is still looking at you, head cocked in that way you’ve learned to recognize from watching her stare at little trays full of treats.  Want, naked and hungry, but it would break decorum to simply reach out and grab, and she needs a moment to work out the way to phrase her request.

“Leaving me here?”  She asks, “by myself?  You’re an awful bodyguard.  What about protection?  How am I supposed to have that if you’re gone?”

You raise an eyebrow at her.  The lie is barely worth humoring—there are no Stand users in this city, not anymore, the two of you had made sure of that this very afternoon.  Who would dare try to touch her, after all that?  Who would dare try to touch her at all?

Your master has spoken.  You ignore the ache deep in the bones of your feet, renewing their protests as your body realizes it won’t be resting anytime soon, and you move to sit in the plush armchair near the door.

A hand yanks around your arm, pulling you back.  You’re not taken off balance—you’re too disciplined—but you do hesitate, looking down at her in obvious confusion.  

“I didn’t say you weren’t resting,” she says slowly, as if it was patently obvious and you were missing the point to be obstinate, “you just have to stay with me.  For protection.”

“For…protection,” you repeat dully, trying not to imagine what would happen to you if anyone found out about this, “but of course.  Then I’ll—“

“Undress?  Yes, I’d hope so.  You’re not coming to bed wearing all that.” she finishes for you.

You stare, and then you try very hard not to imagine what would happen to you if anyone found out about this.  If a blush is heating your cheeks, Trish is polite enough not to point it out.

It was okay, right?  If she was the one who told you to do it, and you were just following orders…it wasn’t wrong to obey her, right?  You weren’t allowed to do anything else.

Your hands fumble at the buttons of your suit, shrugging the jacket off and then undoing each button one by one.  Trish rolls her eyes again and pointedly turns her head away, a courtesy you can’t help but thank her for, even though she could easily choose to not make you do this at all.  You hesitate again at the waistband of your pants, and look helplessly to her as if to ask: is this enough?  

No such answer is forthcoming: she simply huffs, clearly impatient to go to bed.  You shed your slacks, step out of your shoes and socks, and hesitate yet again at the edge of the bed.  If you weren’t terrified, you’d laugh at the absurdity of the situation—only months ago did you rankle at being beckoned to and fro like a dog, and now someone’s bed felt too much like forbidden territory to intrude upon.  You’d almost rather sleep on the floor.

She sighs, yet again, but there’s a strange emotion to it this time, one that’s difficult to place.  Trish runs her hands up your forearms, brushing against your skin, and then finally takes both your upper arms in her grip, pulling you over embroidered sheets and fluffy pillows until you’re nestled next to her.  

If you’re going to die of a heart attack, you’d better do it now.  Her skin is warm and smooth and very, very bare, and she’s entangled your legs in hers, and her head is resting against your breast, where she can hear the frantic thrum of your heart.  You’ve held her closer than this before, but that was with both of you fully clothed and in the heat of battle, so.  Totally different.  The difference of course being that nobody would argue that you weren’t doing your job then; nobody would argue that you were doing your job now.  

You needed to stop thinking about this.  Fortunately, Trish picked this moment to be a supremely unhelpful distraction, tracing patterns around the dip of her clavicle with one hand.  You focused on the motion, if only so you would stop focusing on the softness of something else pressed against your ribs.

“Say a bunch of men with guns kick down that door, right now, and attacked you,” she murmurs suddenly, almost lightly, “what would you do?”

The scenario is absolutely ridiculous.  Nobody would make it this close to her with guns alone—simply fighting their way up to you would give you more than enough time to get dressed and get out.  You humor her, though, because that’s what you do.

“I’d shield you with my body and move you to cover, where I would then escort you to the exit point.”  The answer is mechanical and practiced.  You could give it in your sleep, and you’re pretty sure you have.

She giggles.  “Liar.  You’d tear them apart where they stood.  And then you’d go back and kill the rest of my detail, for letting them up.”

A laugh huffs out of you, lightening the moment.  “Alright.  Yes.  But that’s not really the right answer.”

“Everyone knows it’s what you’d do.”  She grins, still tracing circles along the light blue webbing of your veins.  “But okay.  What if…what if I attacked you?  What would you do then?”

That one took a little more thought.  “It would depend on whether it was a reprimand, or if you were actually trying to kill me” you say at last.  “I think I can safely assume that you wouldn’t try to kill me unless you were being controlled by something.”

She pulls a little closer into you, pressing a little harder on the skin over your heart.  “You’re right,” she says at last, “I’d never do that to you.”

Her finger dips lower still, tracing circles around the pocked scars of bullet wounds across your chest and the spot where your heart beats strongest.  At last, she speaks.

“What if I told you to kill Daddy for me?”  This isn’t a hypothetical.  There’s a tremor in her voice, as if she’s almost dreading your answer, as if something very real is riding on what you say next.  “What would you do, then?”  

Your heart jumps into your throat.  Your breath, traitorously, stutters as you consider the question.  Is this some kind of test?  You try to anticipate the kind of answer she must be looking for—the earnest truth?  The calculated, political answer?  The passionate defense?  The helpless trust?—but eventually, what comes out of your mouth is:

“Are you afraid of your father, Trish?”

Her nails dig into the skin of your chest, painfully now, and belatedly you realize that the hammering of a frantic heartbeat you’d been hearing wasn’t yours—it was hers.  You stutter out a follow-up, perhaps trying to recant, to reassure her that you’re on her side without explicitly speaking against your employer.  

“M—Trish.  I know he can be brutal and cruel to everyone else, but he’s leaving his legacy to you.  There’s no reason for you to think—he wouldn’t want you to—“

Trish’s body twists and shifts, and suddenly there’s weight on top of you, making you sink into the plush bedsheets.  She’s on top of you, straddling your waist, hands over your shoulders as her eyes glare into yours, looking for something but not finding it.  Her jaw works, chewing up the words she was about to say.

“I—“ you begin, but she cuts you off.

“I don’t care what he wants,” she whispers, and you have to strain to catch every word, “Not about you.  He doesn’t care about you.  Don’t you get it?  He just wants to use you to keep me safe, and he’ll take you away from me if he thinks he needs to—once he decides you’re too broken to be with me anymore, or just a bad influence, and then he’ll give me another bodyguard and say they’re just as good.”

Her grip on you tightens, painful now, as if you’ll disappear if she doesn’t cling to you hard enough.

“It doesn’t matter what I want!”  her voice is choked now, horrible and raw in a way that makes you instinctively want to soothe her, but you can’t—not when you’re the source of her pain.  “Not when it’s you!  You’re supposed to be mine!”

She’s going to hurt herself if she clutches at you any harder.  You gently rest your hands on her white knuckles, shaking her grip loose and pulling her hands away from the crescent shaped cuts she’s left on your skin.

“I am yours, Trish,” you murmur, even though it’s clearly not really your decision to make, “Remember? Until you’re ready to let me go.”

Her burst of manic energy has run its course, because she’s slumping now, not only out of relief but also because of renewed fatigue.    

“I won’t ever do that,” she promises you, drowsily, as she nestles back in beside you.  “Not ever.”  And she means it—she’d tear down everything her father built with her own hands, if it meant she could hold onto you.

You can still feel where her fingernails cut into you.  

[robbyrobinson]

Villain Review: It/Pennywise the Dancing Clown Origin: It Portrayed by: Tim Curry (1990 miniseries)/Bill Skarsgard (It duology films)

Biography

Talk about a backstory. What you see as Pennywise the Dancing Clown is only just a small branch: It itself is a ancient, primordial evil predating the universe. An extraterrestrial creature, It hailed from the Macroverse where the only other being in existence was the wise old Turtle, Maturin. One day, Maturin came out of his shell when it became sick and vomited out the universe before retreating back into his shell.

It somehow knew that mankind would be created and crash landed in the area that would become Derry, Maine. Every 27 years, It awakens from its slumber during an act of great violence to feed on the children of Derry (though it is implied it doesn't even need to eat their flesh) largely because their fear was akin to salting the meat to make it sweeter. As many know, It kills Bill Denbrough's brother Georgie thus leading to its first encounter with the Losers Club. They then make an oath to return if It wasn't truly dead. Cue 27 years later and more children are going missing.

A very vivid and imaginative origin story for sure, but I feel personally that it kind of takes away most of the terror because I believe the less you know about something the better. The whole backstory of It and the Turtle is so out there that it still comes across as too mind-boggling and "over-explained."  

Personality

It isn't just a predator of a cosmological scale; It is an utter sadist. It loves plunging the knife deeper into Bill as a means of making him feel guilty for what happened to Georgie. It deliberately tries to make its victims as terrified as it could because terrified flesh tasted better. In addition, It is a narcissist of the highest caliber who looks down on mankind as insignificant cattle. Even in regards to Maturin, It begrudgingly accepts him as an equal...but that he was truly an old fool who gave meaningless advice. It prides itself on its shapeshifting abilities and other supernatural powers to the point that it clouds its judgment. When first beaten at the hands of the Losers Club, It does come to the realization that it may not be the most powerful being in existence after all but scoffs that off becoming convinced that there was some "Other" that was working through the children.

It can best be referred to as a bully on a cosmological scale. It insults the Losers Club using different stereotypes or insecurities. Like any bully, once the tables have been turned, It is reduced to a sobbing wreck of Its former self and feebly tries to beg for its life to be spared offering different rewards for Bill and Richie if they allowed It to leave. In the 2017 film, It offers to leave the rest of the Losers Club be if they allowed it to take Bill to feed on.

Abilities/Skills

It's primary defining trait is its shapeshifting. It has the ability to read people's minds to exploit their fears and then takes the form of whatever they were afraid of. It takes the form of many different creatures from horror films in the book for instance. Unfortunately for it, It has to obey the laws of physics meaning any form it takes must abide by the shape of its form. When It is envisioned in the same form, it can be trapped within it. So if you were to see him as a werewolf, then he could be "killed" by a silver bullet.

It has partial invisibility at its disposal, such as when It can make parts of its body visible, or when It caused Beverly's bathroom to become drenched in blood. It can warp reality and create physical illusions like when it puts its face on the Moon in the 1990 miniseries. It can enter dreams and incite madness in its victims. While the Spider is the closest representation of its true form on Earth, that is only because that is limited to what the human mind can comprehend. Its true form lies within the Macroverse as a writhing, hairy, orange mass that can either drive someone insane or kill them outright.

There are a plethora of other powers up its puffy clown sleeves such as the ability to kill plants, but that's a minor thing.

Verdict

7/10