#i fucking hate it when my own archive of media is better than the company's who owns it this is also the case with wrestle universe which

[fagcrisis]

i love physical media i wish it didnt cost money

[imitationgame77]

Twice, Mensah melts Murderbot

Murderbot is a very private person, often struggles to keep its emotions under control. Even though Murderbot is often blunt, sometimes even a bit rude to the humans, it is generally keeping its emotional expressions under control.

It can be openly rude to two - Gurathin and ART.

Gurathin was probably the first (augmented) human to whom Murderbot could openly express strong disapproval since it disabled the governor module (I don't like you; Fuck you)

ART is the receiving end of various expletives in Network Effect. (Because it is Murderbot's friend and not its client)

Mensah, on the other hand, is the only person that seems to be able to melt Murderbot's metaphorical heart, and gives it a sense of vulnerability. Because she understands it as a person - as only friends on the same wavelength can.

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

All Systems Red

I muted my feed and the comm, and she said, “I know you’re more comfortable with keeping your helmet opaque, but the situation has changed. We need to see you.”

I didn’t want to do it. Now more than ever. They knew too much about me. But I needed them to trust me so I could keep them alive and keep doing my job. The good version of my job, not the half-assed version of my job that I’d been doing before things started trying to kill my clients. I still didn’t want to do it. “It’s usually better if humans think of me as a robot,” I said.

“Maybe, under normal circumstances.” She was looking a little off to one side, not trying to make eye contact, which I appreciated. “But this situation is different. It would be better if they could think of you as a person who is trying to help. Because that’s how I think of you.”

My insides melted. That’s the only way I could describe it. After a minute, when I had my expression under control, I cleared the face plate and had it and the helmet fold back into my armor.

Wells, Martha. All Systems Red (Kindle Single): The Murderbot Diaries (English Edition) (pp.103-104).

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

Exit Strategy

Huh, why did I like Sanctuary Moon so much? I had to pull the memory from my archive, and what I saw there startled me. “It’s the first one I saw. When I hacked my governor module and picked up the entertainment feed. It made me feel like a person.” Yeah, that last part shouldn’t have come out, but with all the security-feed monitoring I was doing, I was losing control of my output. I closed my archive. I really needed to get around to setting that one-second delay on my mouth.

[...]

She said instead, “Why did it make you feel that way?”

“I don’t know.” That was true. But pulling the archived memory had brought it back, vividly, as if it had all just happened. (Stupid human neural tissue does that.) The words kept wanting to come out. It gave me context for the emotions I was feeling, I managed not to say. “It kept me company without…”

“Without making you interact?” she suggested.

That she understood even that much made me melt. I hate that this happens, it makes me feel vulnerable. Maybe that was why I had been nervous about meeting Mensah again, and not all the other dumb reasons I had come up with. I hadn’t been afraid that she wasn’t my friend, I had been afraid that she was, and what it did to me.

Wells, Martha. Exit Strategy: The Murderbot Diaries (pp.115-116)

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

I don't wish to sound like Anne Shirley, but both Dr. Mensah and ART are kindred spirits (or something like soulmates) to Murderbot, but in different ways.

ART 'gets' Murderbot's thought/action processes and tendencies perfectly, and also comes to understand its emotion reactions since they shared long hours of media viewing where ART learned to process subjective emotions through Murderbot's reactions. ART is more likely to challenge Murderbot when it notes unproductive thought processes, or gets Murderbot to express it to make it understand its own thoughts.

Dr. Mensah, in contrast, is a highly empathetic and intelligent person, and she instintively understands Murderbot. Her high intellectual and emotional intelligence made her the planetary leader, loved and admired by many. She expresses her understanding of Murderbot, which is often accurate and makes it feel vulnerable, but not in a bad way. It feels being understood.

It is very touching the way Murderbot can be vulnerable in her presence and trusts her completely. HelpMe.file reveals that how it has come to unlearn its instinctive response to use violence in order to eliminate threat by trusting her.

Murderbot likes PresAux people, and calls Ratthi its friend, but it is clear to readers that Dr. Mensah is a very special person to it. And Murderbot is also a special person to Dr. Mensah that she can trust with her life.

It melts ME whenever I read them interact.

Amena seems to have inherited some of her second mother's emotinal intelligence. Hope she appears in the future again. I liked the way the relationship between her and Murderbot developed in Network Effect.

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Thoughts on Comfortable Queer Rep

So I've been on a bit of a queer media kick recently, and by that I mean that in the past month I have listened to The Bright Sessions, Greenhouse, The Infinite Noise, and Look Up and I have watched The Owl House and Young Royals and there has been something embedded in these stories that has been really jarring to me personally, but in a really good way. And it's literally just that in each of these stories there is at least one character that is just able to openly, genuinely, and simply state (or express) their sexuality.

I think of this in The Bright Sessions with Caleb being like "I don't care that he's a boy", with Adam and his "depressed gay kid" comment to his mother in The Infinite Noise, with Lincoln's Dad just being happy for him and with Emmet's aunt asking him if he was gay in Look Up. And the same thing for the shows I've been watching too, in Young Royals, Simon looks at his father and says "I'm gay, Papa" and it's not even a coming out, it's just a reminder, and his father just...apologizes for getting it wrong and corrects the language. It's no big deal, Simon is comfortable, Simon knows who he is, and there is no hesitation and no tentativeness behind his statement. In The Owl House Luz shows her bisexuality from the start, she isn't embarrassed that she has a crush on Amity, she's only nervous to ask her out because she thinks Amity might be too cool for the theatrics. And it's just...

Every time I hear a character be completely open about their sexuality with their family, it soothes something that I didn't realize I was carrying. It marks me as strange, that they can simply say it. It makes my heart twinge, and it makes me happy for a literal fictional character, that they are able to just...know who they are and not be worried about what their family will think. In The Bright Sessions, in The Magnus Archives, in The Owl House there hasn't been a coming out, and until this month I never realized how much I needed to see that.

When I came out, I started as many do, with my closest friends, people I knew I could trust, people who I knew would celebrate it. And then, when I found a label I liked, that I felt suited me, I made a post on social media...and I never talked about it again. From time to time I mention to my mother that I have a meeting for LGBTQ+ students, or that I went to a gay bar. But we have never sat down and talked about it. My mother has had exactly one discussion in any level of detail about sexuality and what different labels in the LGBTQ+ community means, and that was before I came out. When she saw my post she literally left a comment "glad I figured out how to check social media or I would have missed the fun!" and then we literally never talked about it again. She never asks questions and honestly that's fine, but there is some twisted and warped part of me that believes that she isn't fully comfortable with the idea of me being gay. And I know she loves me, and that that love is unconditional and I am extremely lucky for that. That said, I don't necessarily feel ashamed of being LGBTQ+ when I'm with her

But with my father that is a whole 'nother story. I never came out to him, I'm not sure if he saw the posts I made when I did come out and we barely talk as it is. But while he has definitely gotten better over the years with his homophobia, I can't say that growing up in his household I ever got the impression that he was comfortable with gay people. If there was ever a queer character in any show we were watching, his reaction to their love, was less than ideal, and while I didn't realize my own sexuality until I was years and years outside his house, I think knowing him and know the company he kept, that it delayed any desire to do a deep dive into my own identities. Even now, as I am questioning my gender identity, the distain he has for my "boyish" haircut really proves to me that he is not someone that I could ever come out to about maybe not being cis.

But, that's all besides the point. The point is, I am coming to terms with whatever internalized homophobia I have been carrying that makes it hard for me to even verbalize my sexuality or gender identity to the people around me. Most of my coming out has been through screens, through social media, or private messages, because I'm too much of a fucking coward to say it to people who aren't already a part of the community. Because there are people in my family, cousins, uncles, etc. that hate people like me, that are disgusted by people like me, that don't know about me and don't know the harm they are causing.

I have no disillusions about their impressions of me, I know most people in my life were not surprised when I came out to them. I think most people knew before I did that I was queer. But still, it took me listening to this newer wave of media, where gay characters are allowed to be comfortable, where their crises are not knowing if their crush likes them back, where their conflicts or emotional turmoil is because they are an avatar for an ancient evil, and not because they were outed to a homophobic relative. (and yes, that part doesn't really apply to Young Royals for Wilhelm, but Simon's openness about his sexuality to his family is a gift imo) Its late, and I'm tired, and I don't really know exactly what I'm saying here, but the point is that every time I see a character that is open, out, and confident in their sexuality, and can just easier than breathing say they are gay, or that they have a crush on someone of the same gender, or just state that they are in a queer relationship, I keep getting stuck on this feeling that that isn't supposed to happen. That the other shoe has to drop. And there is a part of me that is surprised that they say these things with conviction, and that there is no hesitation in saying the words. It just makes me happy and I'm so so glad that so many queer people have these characters now. That they can see a different generation of storytelling that allows queer people to exist, to be open, to not be ashamed, to not have to face homophobia. I wish I had had more examples of that growing up.

TL;DR: It still surprises me when queer characters are allowed to be secure in their sexuality and I didn't realize how much I needed that kind of representation in my life until now.

[banashee]

 Second Time is the charm

 "Oh God, who's dead or dying?"

 Tony turns around, spatula in his hand and a confused look on his face.

 "Huh? No one is dead or in the process of getting there. I'm just cooking."

 "Yes you are. Which is why I'm asking."

 "Rude, Pepper." he gestures with the hand holding the spatula, accidentally flicking sauce in her general direction. "Oops, sorry 'bout that."

 Pepper looks at him, unimpressed. She does that a lot. Then, she dips a finger into the drop of sauce on the counter top, and in an spontaneous boost of bravery, tastes it. To her credit, she manages to keep a mostly straight face, even when her insides shrivel up at the sensation - there is a whole lot of salt and little else. Probably a bit of an burned aftertaste, too.

 Tony, however, is well practiced is reading her micro expressions - they've been friends for too long.

 "That bad?" he asks, and Pepper just looks at him, very very flatly and then nods.

 "Who are you planning to feed this to, and what horrible thing did they do to deserve this?" she asks, getting a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water from the fridge dispenser.

 Tony sighs, waving the spatula around as he talks, splattering sauce around the kitchen once again - Pepper tries to side steps the mess.

 “This was supposed to be a test run. You know the wedding anniversary is coming up and I was gonna surprise Clint with a nice dinner at home. He cooks all the time and I wanted to return the favor, but, well.” he waves at the half burned and over salted mess on the stove. Then, Tony dips a spoon into the pan to taste it - his face scrunches up in disgust and he drops the spoon into the sink and nearly dumps the pan after it, making a gagging noise and glares in the general direction of the ruined dinner.

 “Maybe not. Unless giving your partner food poisoning is considered romantic these days. Even then… Okay so this was a shit idea.” he grumbles, clearly annoyed and more than a little disappointed.

 Pepper has been typing on her phone ever since she learned the reason for the cooking attempt, making thoughtful noises. Now, she quickly walks over to stop Tony from making any harsh decisions right now. Gently, she grabs him by the shoulders, stirring him away from the stove. He lets her, and her next words are firm but reassuring.

 “Stop. Don’t move. Help is on the way.”

 As if on cue, footsteps come closer to the kitchen. A familiar voice says,

 “Please tell me nothing caught on fire.”

 And another sighs, “Oh dear.”

 In the doorway stand Bruce and Steve, clearly expecting the worst and prepared for everything. Tony would be offended but as it is, they’re his best hope right now. Pepper may be a good moral support, but she hates cooking, so he is actually happy to see those two.

 “Not yet but I’m working on it.” he quips back, grinning brightly for a few seconds with one of his million dollar showman fake smiles. Then his face falls.

 “Please help, I’m about to throw this whole thing out the window.”

 Pepper leaves them to it, with a small smile and a kiss to his cheek she turns to the door.

 “You got this. Just don’t attempt doing this alone on the day and you’ll be fine.”

 Meanwhile, Bruce inspects the concoction on the stove with a mildly curious expression that he’s often wearing in the lab, mainly when something unexpected and slightly concerning happens and he wants to see how it’ll work out. Steve, in good foresight, pulls out more ingredients from the refrigerator.  

 Both of them taste the sauce, despite Tony’s warning protests. They taste it very, very carefully and it’s a testament to their friendship that they do so - neither of them spits it back out but the cringe is enough.

 “Okay, let’s start neutralizing the salt for one.” Bruce decides, and who would have known that heavy cream and honey help with that - so does the stretching of the liquid. In the end, the three of them manage to salvage the meal, and even more so, are able to enjoy it despite the burned bits they need to pick from their plates.

 A little while later, when they clear the table and get to washing up, Steve says,

 “Let us help on the big day, alright? Just to be safe.”

 “Please do.” says Bruce, and Tony huffs a laugh as he stands in between them.

 “I hate you both.” he claims, but the fact that he’s got one arm wrapped around each of them and the happy smile on his face betray him. Pulling his friends close, he adds, “Really tho, thank you. I would totally screw this up otherwise.”

 “We know, that’s why we’re here.”

 “Oh, fuck you!” he scoffs, but they’re all laughing.

 *+~

 On the morning of the second wedding anniversary, Tony wakes up to a text message from Clint.

     ‘On the way back rn, debrief on base after. Might even make it home on time! :) I Love you’  

 It brings a happy smile to his face, even early in the morning before he’s had coffee. This mission had come up last minute as always, and the possibility of them having to spend this day apart had been quite high. As it looks now, they might at least have a nice and quiet evening together, and it’s more than they could have hoped for.

 Tony types a reply,

     ‘Good morning beloved, that’s great news - you better get your ass over here asap, I miss you ;)’  

 Then he opens up another chat, his ongoing conversation with Natasha which for about 60%, consists of memes and links to obscure YouTube videos.

     ‘Hey-o, can you please let me know when you guys are wrapping up at HQ? Possibly distract Clint if you finish early? Gotta prepare a surprise. Should be done around 7-ish.’  

 Her reply comes almost instantly.

     ‘Sure thing. Happy anniversary :)’  

     ‘Thanks, Itsy-bitsy. You’re the best :)’  

     ‘I know.’  

 The day passes surprisingly fast, then. One moment, Tony is relaxing on the couch, drinking coffee while Lucky sprawls happily over his legs as he scratches the good spot behind his ears and then, his phone alarm goes off that tells him he’s got a cooking date with Steve and Bruce. And because these guys are amazing friends, they show up on the door to the penthouse just in time for the three of them to start preparing a nice three course dinner.

 It’s fun, and with the “adult supervision” Tony finds himself perfectly capable of doing this.

 Once upon a time, this would have been impossible.

 “Tony, you’re one of the smartest people alive and you have many talents - but cooking isn’t one of them.” he’s been told on more than one occasion, and it’s been true for most of his life. But things are different now - he wants to learn. He wants this small part of everyday life.

 Those last few years, he finds himself happier than he can remember being, possibly ever, and it feels simply amazing to have this - this life, this love. This      family    .

 Just as he’s put the main course into a low oven to keep warm, the door opens just in time for him to enter the hallway, and then Tony gets pulled into a embrace and lifted off his feet for a moment.  He holds on tight, then he pulls Clint down for a proper kiss to welcome him home.

 “Hey there.”

 “Hey yourself.”

 The two of them take their time in greeting each other, and despite being apart for only about a week, it feels like they haven’t seen each other in forever. And it’s their anniversary, for fuck’s sake. They’re allowed to be as sappy as they damn well please - at least until Lucky interrupts them because he’s tired of waiting and jumps up on Clint until he’s slobbered all over his face and happily demands cuddles right then and there.

 Dropping his duffle bag to the floor, Clint asks Tony what he would like to eat and it causes him to smile knowingly.

 “Can I cook for you?” he asks, and Clint looks at him, blinking.

 “Right now? I mean… Don’t take this the wrong way Babe but is that… Safe? We can just order something in if you want.”

 “Trick question, I already did. Well, I had help. So it won’t send us into the hospital if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

 “Wait, you-” Clint steps closer to him, gently placing his hands on Tony’s upper arms as he smiles at him. There is something soft in his eyes, and Tony falls in love all over again.

 “You made an effort to cook something for today even though you almost never do?”

 “Yeah, I- I wanted to do something nice for today, and I didn’t know when you’d be home so I didn’t book anything. Besides, you cook and bake all the time for us, for      me    , and well. I appreciate that a lot and I just wanted to do this for you. I had help, but yes. Come on!” He pulls him into the dining room, which he’d actually decorated. Nothing big, just a few candles and a bouquet of flowers but it does look nice.

 On the table, there is a large bottle of Asgardian mead, a gift for them that Thor left before he went to spend the weekend with Jane in New Mexico.  It’s strong, and more than even the two of them can finish in one evening. But it’s good, and they know it.

 The dinner is relaxed as always, and they enjoy each others company and the conversations - anything and everything they can talk about, and while Clint fills him in on the latest SHIELD gossip and rumors, some of which leave Tony laughing hard enough that he almost chokes on his mead, he tells him what has been going on back home, including the first dinner mishap and how their friends had saved his ass.

 In the meantime, Lucky has made himself comfortable under the table, chewing on one of his giant treats.

 They’re just starting on the main course - steaks with garlic potato casserole and roasted asparagus, when Clint says,

 “This is really good, Tony. Thank you. For the effort and for doing this.” He smiles, and reaches over with one hand, which he happily takes and squeezes back.

 “I’m glad you like it. And it makes me think that I should do this more often, since, well, you do it all the time. Seems fair to do my part, you know.”

 “You do other things all the time. It’s just… Both of us do different things, and that’s okay with me. I like to cook, you build and fix stuff.” He shrugs. “Love languages and all that.”

 A while ago, they’d talked about that for a bit, and it’s true. They show their love and affection in different ways sometimes, and that’s okay - they know and recognize these things by now, and it only helps them understand each other better.

 “Well, cooking is kinda fun.” Tony says then, and a big smile spreads all over Clint’s face.

 “We could do that together if you like. I could teach you and we could try new recipes!” He’s clearly excited about that, in this familiar and almost childlike way of his, and it’s all Tony can do to agree. God, he loves this man so much.

 By the time dessert is on the table, they share that and a pot of coffee and have moved their seats even closer together, ankles hooked around each other.

 “Oh hey, I’ve got a surprise for you, too.” Clint says then, as if he just remembered but he pulls and envelope from somewhere on his person which makes it clear he’s been waiting. The envelope is thick and slightly off-white - clearly good quality paper. Curiously, Tony opens it up.

 There is a card, and it looks handmade. Sturdy, structured paper, and two birds on the front - parrots on a tropical island.

 On the inside, there are just a few words written, in Clint’s familiar large scrawl, but it makes him smile widely.

     ‘Voucher for two weeks vacation on Bora Bora. All responsibilities back home are covered’     it says, followed by a time frame,       ‘Happy anniversary. I love you’    and a lopsidedly drawn heart.

 “Aw, that’s great! Thank you. How did you manage that all is covered?” Tony asks, beaming at Clint - it’s been too long since they actually had any time off without being interrupted via The End Of The World. And they’re in desperate need of a break and some alone time.

 Clint just grins. “Magic and good friends.” he says ominously, and leans close to Tony, pulling him into a soft kiss as he runs one hand through his dark hair.

 Once they break apart, Tony takes both of Clint’s hands in this, and despite being happy and content he looks a little bit nervous - there is no need to, he knows, but still. Clint seems to catch on to it, looking at him with his head crooked slightly to the side.

 “So, uh, dinner wasn’t the only surprise I had for tonight.” Tony says, and takes a deep breath.

 “This is kinda ridiculous, given for how long we’ve been together already and especially how that happened, but. I was wondering, would you like to marry me agan? Sober and properly this time?”

 The answer comes almost instantly, in the form of another long kiss and an enthusiastic “Yes, of course!”

 It takes them a while to let go of each other again. But they happily continue drinking coffee and eating chocolate mousse, simply enjoying the time together.

 “Same day?” Clint asks, pragmatic as always - neither of them is great at remembering important dates - two different wedding anniversaries would be too much for people like them who were to forget their own birthdays if it wasn’t for JARVIS and teammates who know them too well.

 “Yes, please. Everything else would just call for a disaster.”

 “It would. And hey, we can avoid Fake Elvis this time!”

 Tony laughs out loud. “I’m sure he will be heartbroken.”

 “Oh well.” Clint shrugs, grinning. “He’ll live.”

 *+~

     Prompt No. 54: “Can I cook for you?”  

[kindabraveandlittlestupid]

Why Tumblr Chooses Censorship

It’s a strange day to jump online and suddenly hear about a major policy change on Tumblr from a few people I talk too. Words like “Total Bullshit”, “End of Tumblr”, “Burning Garbage Heap” and so on tossed among them to describe the policy change. Curious enough I logged on began reading over all the purposed changes and I admit I am a bit disheartened. Usually when a digital institution like AOL, Yahoo, Napster, or MySpace falls it because they didn't evolve and became stagnant in what they were providing the internet. I can’t think of a time where a site willfully regressed its own freedom of speech on a broad scale and basically swallowed a poison capsule that destroys their user base (perhaps deservingly so) but here we are.

That point aside, I am trying to have insight and hindsight to understand how/why they were pushed to this reckless conclusion (I will be leaving foresight out because I think Tumblr lacks foresight, the exodus from Tumblr will dramatically change the culture of this site likely for the worse). Tumblr like any social media medium is struggling in the current age of the internet; Bots, Far Right Extremists, Fake News, Illegal Porn, Data Theft, and so on. Many companies are walking this fine line between trying to combat these problems while preserving freedom of speech.

I struggle to find my own footing on this topic because I believe that society with LESS censorship historically does better. You look to countries in the past that repressed sexuality, individual thought, and so on; those countries were often the ones to invite the rise of repressive groups doing atrocious acts in history. While on the other hand because of this open and free social media platform we all see the echoing of those same repressive groups (who are also on Twitter, Facebook, Reddit, and Youtube) and to simply say/do nothing about their posts will inevitably allow them to rise still. This is where I struggle as I believe in that concept of a free society but I do feel that removing fake new stories is essential for the health of democracy.

I imagine the reason why sexual images are the target is that Tumblr makes things so easy to post. It's not hard to imagine pictures of minors getting liked or reposted from one blog or another happening. The problem is many of those pictures will circulate for a long period of time not being flagged as underage and there is good chance that every user has knowingly or unknowingly looked at an image like this on the web. I explore the porn side of Tumblr and have once or twice encountered a Tumblr full of these images at which point I couldn't close that tab fast enough and get the hell out of dodge. So Tumblrs solution of handling this problem instead of playing whack a mole with these underage accounts? Ban all adult content.

I can understand this motivation being a foolproof way of making sure there is no underage porn because there will be no porn. I imagine the result will be very effective, so effective that the various members of the community be they straight, bi, or gay who had their own private collection of legal adult material on Tumblr will stop visiting the site. A slow-moving exodus of users from Tumblr this site to perhaps a new blogging alternative that isn't so restrictive. I don’t suspect Tumblr will be closing its doors the week after the policy kick in (though they will see a HUGE decline in traffic) but even the PG accounts will likely move on because a sizeable user base shifted away and people want to be where the party is at. And much as I love Tumblr, it will not be here (sadly).

PC Culture VS Censorship Culture

One thing I noticed on the various posts is some people attempting to blame this policy change on the PC Culture. I am not sure I believe that as a valid argument. While I don't get along with PC Culture all the time (part of my free society is believing that humor is apart of it and PC Culture doesn't always like humor), I do think PC Culture has a broad/accepting view of orientation and sexuality. Just important is people having the right to explore those thoughts and feelings of their own free will. Tumblr has been one of those sites allowing emerging gay men and women to find others like them but also explore their sexuality with images/gifs/videos. What Tumblr might have not noticed is that the site itself is kind of a cultivation of the best images from the web, sure you can find some pretty hard porn on occasion but of all the adult sites on the web, Tumblr provides an almost artistic lense to the images that come thru the site.

Censorship can come from various political/social/religious groups but this sort of censorship against the human body, sex, and sexuality, in general, comes from a very conservative mindset. People who don’t wish to see nudity in any form on any medium; people who think a woman's nipple is lewd, that breastfeeding publically is disgusting, and that anything remotely sexual is a sin. And by the nature of Tumblrs policy change their beliefs align themselves alarmingly close to these individuals.

There is a thin veneer of progressive views on the site that remains where they say they are ok with this and that like gender orientation surgery but its just that a veneer. Once a person has transitioned anything that is shared of their new body (nudity or sex wise) beyond the initial transition falls into the realm of ‘smut’ by Tumblrs policies. I imagine the perception they are trying to sell us is “Hey we are still the same progressive safe haven for LGTBQ community! Stay with us!” but secretly thinking “Everything you enjoy in the bedroom is horrible and we fucking hate you.”

Perhaps I am being hyperbolic in that statement but damn if it doesn't feel like a vast policy of censorship on the human body. And whenever this happens (historically) it always comes from hyper-conservatives.

A General Attack On Expression and Orientation

I touched on this topic a little bit above but I feel it's worth stating again that Tumblr might be losing its safe-haven status for gender expression and sexual orientation. When scrolling through Tumblr you will likely see those new expressions of genders that is beyond that of ‘traditional’ male and female definitions. And while I don’t have any attraction to some of these new expressions, I understood why they are there and don’t get upset if/when the cross my feed. Like two men having sex my mind thinks “Not for me but I am sure that will make someones day”. I view sex (in all its forms) as natural, I don’t have to be into it for me to be ok with it (if that makes sense). It’s visual participation if that image you see isn't a turn on for you and does nothing for you, simply move on.

Tumblr’s policy doesn't seem to care about this concept of visual participation and while it is taking away my straight/lesbian porn I enjoy. It is also sweeping up all these new forms of expression and orientation in the process.

I am not sure what else to say... I am a straight male and I try to have a deep empathy for other people when I can. I feel this argument can be better structured but I also come from a position where I don’t know all the details. I add this to the post because Tumblr seemed to go out of their way to suggest that they would protect this community but from a long view that doesn't seem to be the case.

A Lessons To Be Learned

I am not going to say fuck Tumblr. I don’t want to see them fail. I liked what this space was about and what it provided. I prefer they reconsider changing the guidelines and consider a different course of action but I also understand why they want to do this. It’s “The Easy Way” to do things. If they ban all porn then it simplifies managing underage nudity and allows the site to have less criticism drawn to it.

I do, however, think this broad censorship approach will ultimately hurt the site and the community though. People will leave, alternative websites will arise and Tumblr will eventually become no more. I am not going to tell anyone to boycott or delete their accounts. I plan to collect my writing and images, backup my favorite adult gifs (might need to buy a hard drive) and settle into this new reality. I know I will personally be visiting the site less as I used to look at porn here at some of the better cultivated Tumblr archives. That lack of traffic by me and all the other users will hurt the company. I hope they understand eventually I won't show up at all and over time, eventually, no one else will either. Maybe the site will survive and change into something else but right now under these conservative policies of censorship, Tumblr won't last.

Sad Regards, Michael California

Update: Posted this originally with a woman in a shower with large censorship bars over the naughty bits. Flagged despite the fact she was more covered than most Sports Illustrated models. I know I just wrote above I am not advocating leaving the site... but after all this and the fact that Tumblr Support finally responded to a far-right Tumblr blogger photoshopping/doctoring a PM conversation we had before posting it to his blog. I feel as though Tumblr A) hates sex and sexuality B) not only enables but protects racism and harassment on this website. I think it’s time to move on.

[itsclydebitches]

Title: Fighting to Thrive

Fandom: Witcher (video games)

Summary: When Dettlaff doesn't show at the toy shop Geralt takes matters into his own hands, diving deeper into vampiric culture than he ever has before. Might be the worst decision of his life. Might also be the best. (Or: a Geralt/Regis take on B&W)

Pairing: Geralt/Regis

Warnings: Discussed dismemberment, self-burning to seal a wound, various minor injuries

Word Count: 11,439

Author’s notes: Can be read below, but I highly recommend AO3 instead for formatting like italics. Tumblr doesn’t copy them over 🙃

***

Less than an hour in and this was shaping up to be the most awkward party of Geralt's life—and he'd once skewered a rat with a fork during dinner. An itchy doublet and witless small talk he could handle, but not when his one lifeline had taken to ignoring him.

"C'mon, Regis. You could at least look at me."

That earned him a rueful smile, just like Geralt knew it would. Regis did look, passing his eyes appreciatively over Geralt's outfit before turning away again, his shoulders bent.

"I apologize, Geralt," he said, releasing a sigh into the otherwise lively atmosphere. "I fear I am not the best company at present, certainly not up to the standards of one of Orianna's events. Though I would never wish to imply that I find your own company to be lacking in any manner, I would much prefer..." Regis' fingers flexed around the strap of his satchel, his gaze still averted.

"Would rather be back at the toy shop," Geralt finished. "Yeah, I figured."

How many times had Regis reassured him? Therefore I repeat—Dettlaff will show. Sooner or later. Along with a whole bunch of intellectual mumbo-jumbo about how a human—or something close to one, anyway—could never understand the vampiric mind. Geralt might have been insulted had it been anyone other than Regis delivering that proclamation. As it was, guy had a knack for softening even the hardest blows.

Geralt trusted that intuition, even if he could never hope to understand it. Problem was, "sooner or later" had turned into "later" and then "much later." Regis had sat in that toy shop for three days straight, looking more wane and nervous each time Geralt popped in to check on him. Getting more curt in his conversation too. Even word of the stolen Sangreal couldn't lift whatever mood he'd fallen into. Really, Geralt had been surprised he'd shown up at all. A hearty greeting, some quips about how he got to come in his raggedy clothes while Geralt had donned this monstrosity... Regis bore it all with a polite, but distant air. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Dettlaff's continued absence worried him.

"Think it was me?" he asked.

Regis blinked, startled out of his stupor. "Sorry?"

Geralt made a show of sniffing under his armpit. A few women sequestered around the fountain watched with a mixture of humor and disgust. "My scent. Or musk, as Yen used to say. Probably stank up the whole shop while I was rooting around. You said my presence would keep him away, maybe my smell's doing the job."

"As you've already observed, we're easily able to distinguish between a three-day old trace and a live—" Regis suddenly stopped, his eyes narrowing. "You jest."

Geralt's lips twitched. "Only a little."

"Really, I'm not so maudlin that I need your suspect sense of humor to heal me," but the tension Regis had been holding in his frame lessened just a bit, his own smile becoming more genuine. "It was wrong of me to reassure you so confidently, Geralt. I simply cannot explain Dettlaff's absence." His eyes scanned the partygoers.

"Think he might be here?"

"No." Regis shook his head. "I would know if he was."

Yeah, more of that vampiric intuition.

"Then go back to the toy shop." Geralt ignored the gratitude that ran through Regis' expression; quick, but earnest. "Go on, I know you want to. The Duchess and I can handle a bit of investigating on our own and I'll be careful not to become the next 'wine' tasting."

"Ah... noticed that, did you?"

"That more than half the guests here are vampires? Yeah."

Regis smiled at him, soft and impossibly proud. "You must explain how you came to that astounding conclusion. Surely our Duchess would be appalled to hear it."

"Not hard," Geralt said. He found that gaze hard to maintain, favoring watching the partygoers instead. "You move... differently than humans do. More fluid, I guess. Elegant." Nodding, he warmed to the subject. "Long nails are a dead giveaway. Doesn't mean much on its own, but combined with the rest? Your irises tend to be dark, fangs, obviously—I know how you hide them. There are remarkably few shadows about and you've got a scent all your own. You might try to hide it with herbs and Orianna perfume, but it's still there, once you know to look for it. Really, your lot isn't subtle."

"Oh, but my dear witcher, we are." Regis' smile grew sly, showing off that hint of fang. "You underestimate your own observation skills—and the otherwise guarded knowledge you've been granted. I assure you, no one else could so quickly gauge our numbers. Many don't even believe we exist. You are unique, Geralt, and if you must brave these social niceties alone, I would encourage you to take advantage of that position. You could impress many with that knowledge."

Geralt merely snorted, rolling his eyes. The hand placed on his arm was no laughing matter though.

"You'll be fine alone?" Regis questioned.

"C'mon. You know I will. Besides, no sense in us both wasting the night away." Despite the Duchess' hopes, nothing had yet come of their investigation into the mysterious Cintrian. For all the ruckus of a soirée in a land where wine was sacred, the night was fairly quiet. "Go back and say hello to the puppets for me."

Regis grimaced. "I do hate those things."

"I know."

"You'll come find me should anything change?"

"So long as you do the same."

"But of course." His hand squeezed and only then did Geralt realize how long Regis had let it rest there. "Until tomorrow, Geralt. May you have better luck than I."

He disappeared into a cloud of gray mist then, the vampiric partygoers disinterested and the humans already drunk enough that it didn't matter. They'd have forgotten such a display come morning. With a tug at his collar, Geralt wondered how long he'd have to stay. The trail had gone cold and, really, he could do more good out in the wilds of Toussaint, ensuring the lesser beasts didn't destroy the Duchy while their master lay in wait. Or better yet, he could be getting some much needed sleep. It hadn't escaped his notice that the one time he had a real bed was the same time he was in little position to use it. Fucking figured.

However, with another discrete stretch Geralt admitted that his dreams of, well, dreaming were of the pipe variety. Anna Henrietta was like a hound with a bone, determined to pursue the same course of action until it bent to her will. Or consumed her. First it had been her refusal to believe in the immortality of higher vampires—Geralt still wasn't sure she fully understood that—and now it seemed to be this obsession with finding a man who clearly hadn't come. He'd spotted her half an hour earlier, chit-chatting with a trio in some darkened corner, fully immersed in a useless line of questioning. The more cynical side of Geralt, rather strong nowadays, suggested that Anna Henrietta didn't need a lead to keep playing the part of detective. She enjoyed the excitement—and this new type of power, no doubt. Stripping off skirts to race to Peyrac-Peyran's untimely rescue was proof enough of that. They'd be here for a while then.

"Not enjoying yourself?"

Hissing through his teeth, Geralt clamped down on the instinct to draw a sword that wasn't there, turning to find Orianna directly behind him.

Damn vampires.

"Gonna have to put a bell on you," he muttered, taking two steps back. She twittered behind her hand and for all the posturing, Geralt got the sense that she was genuinely amused.

"Well now, that would be entertaining, wouldn't it?" she said, raising her glass in a toast. "Though I'd much prefer that bell go on you, Witcher. The people of Beauclair say many things... and they whisper even more. Why, you've already been into most every nook and cranny of our humble kingdom, if such stories are to be believed. Is that why?"

"Why what?"

"Why you're not enjoying yourself. Perhaps my little party simply can't compare to a life on the Path."

She was angling for something, information no doubt, though about what Geralt didn't know. He'd pegged Orianna for a vampire the moment they'd been introduced, though he couldn't yet say whether she occupied Regis' station, or was merely a very old, very intelligent Alp. Either way, she sent the hairs on the back of his neck riding up in a way Regis never had; every witcher's instinct screaming at him to get silver into the palm of his hand. Interactions like this made Geralt wonder what had differed all those years ago, at Fen Carn. Had he simply been naïve back then, unable to recognize danger when it offered him a bottle of hooch? No doubt. His ability to sniff out vampires had increased greatly over the years, due in no small part to Regis himself... and yet, there was more to it than that. Geralt had faith in his past self. He would have kept his distance from Orianna, no matter whether he could explain that discomfort or not. Yet Regis? Not a single alarm had gone off during their meeting and to this day, not a single alarm ever had.

Regis was...

Well.

Geralt didn't allow himself to think about what Regis was.

Orianna tipped her head to the side and when she smiled she made no effort to hide her teeth. "I can practically hear you thinking, Witcher." She finished her wine in a single gulp, lazily extending her arm to the side. Instantly, a waiter appeared to claim it. "Come. We should speak privately."

"About?"

"Something I doubt you'd like our illustrious Duchess to overhear."

Orianna turned and made her way up the steps to the building's second floor balcony, seemingly confident that he would follow. Perhaps Geralt was still as naïve as he once had been—because he did.

Up to that balcony and then through a small door off to the side, almost imperceptible in the fading light. The room itself was nearly as dark, just a few candles lighting a laden table and a single brazier in the corner. Orianna sat herself down and began to partake in the small feast. Geralt kept his back to the door and the vampire in his sights.

"Oh come now," she said. "Surely you'll at least sit with me?"

"I'm fine standing."

"What a bore you are. I don't know what Regis sees in you." Orianna passed a critical gaze over Geralt, from head to toe. "Though what you lack in social skills I know you make up for in battle. You'll need that skill, Witcher, if you're to survive the coming ordeal."

There was a knife on the table beside her hand, but a small one meant for cheese. A bookcase to Geralt's left could provide a distraction if he toppled it, though against something this fast it wouldn't provide him with much of an advantage. A few hand-held objects might be used in a pinch...

Orianna read his line of thought and grinned. "Oh, perhaps not that boring after all. No, no, I am not your ordeal, Witcher. I'm your friend."

"Really?" he didn't bother hiding his sarcasm.

"Certainly. You want Dettlaff. I have a means of finding him. I take great pleasure in helping my friends." Orianna popped a bit of the cheese into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Geralt pushed off from the door. He'd willingly walked in here and if she wanted, Orianna could summon half the party guests to take him down. Would Regis have left if there was any chance of danger? Never. So he snagged the opposite chair, turning it so he could straddle it backwards. "I'm listening."

"Good. There is another vampire—no, no, not here. He lives apart from us, as is befitting one of his station. The Unseen Elder, he is called, Lord of this domain."

"Hmm. Lord of the Gharasham?"

"My, you are well informed!" Orianna's delight definitely wasn't fake, but it was the sort of delight an owner took in a dog who had unexpectedly learned a new trick. I thought you too stupid to manage it, her expression said. "Quite correct, Witcher. All who remain a part of his clan must obey his biding, whether they reside in Toussaint, or are all the way in Skellige. He can demand that Dettlaff appear before him, even insist that he give up this crusade of his. The Elder's power is absolute. Even I am not exempt." From the depths of her dress Orianna pulled a necklace: a pendant with a droplet in the center and five markings above it in the shape of a hand. Geralt recognized the crude symbol from the walls of Tesham Mutna. Though the design around it was—

"Wait," he said, leaning closer. "I have seen that before. Lots of little shrines around Toussaint. They to him?"

Orianna hummed. "Not quite. Almost none of us remain who were born in our world and thus The Conjunction of the Spheres remains as much a mystery to us as it does to you. However, legend has it that dragons were one of the first beings we encountered here. Intelligent, fearsome... in many ways our equal. We looked to them for insight into how to survive this place." She ran long fingers over the twin, dragon-like carvings and the half circle that connected them.

Geralt sat back. "Fascinating history lesson, but you're lying."

"Am I?"

"Or holding something back. If meeting with this Elder was so easy, Regis wouldn't have cautioned against it."

It was the only thing that fit. Regis had mentioned a shadowy figure at the start of all this, someone capable of forcing Dettlaff to show. A neat little solution, far preferable to the outright torture he'd subjected himself to... and yet Regis had dismissed the option out of hand. If he had been thinking of the Elder—and how many vampires had that kind of power?—then he clearly thought waiting in the toy shop preferable to the risk.

...Geralt wasn't so sure he agreed.

"I would expect nothing else given his strange obsession with you," Orianna said, grinning as he looked away. "Meeting with the Elder is a death sentence... unless you know how to properly present yourself."

"You're telling me Regis doesn't?"

"I'm telling you it wouldn't matter. Regis presenting himself before the Elder is nearly as bad as a human doing so. He's..." she waved a hand, the gesture dismissive. "Enamored with humanity, shall we say. Regis' refusal to drink, his preference for living among their kind—he may be older than many, but he certainly doesn't have their status. There are a number here who were shocked I invited him to this little gathering."

Ah, another reason he'd been eager to leave then.

"But you," Orianna continued. "You are not human. Yet nor are you vampire. A witcher with a reputation for sparing monsters... our Elder just might be interested in you. More importantly, I can teach you how to present yourself properly. Play your cards right, Witcher, tame some luck to your side, and you might just solve this little problem of yours once and for all."

Geralt tapped one finger against the table, then chose a string of grapes for himself. He ate each one slowly, weighing her words. "Sounds like a good way to get killed," he said.

"It may well end in your death."

"Funny, but that doesn't make me eager to take your advice. What's in it for you? One less witcher in the world?"

"Perish the thought." Orianna leaned forward to meet him, snatching the last grape from his hand. "It's far more simple than that. Your problem, Geralt, is my problem too. You think I like one of my own killing these men? Drawing attention to himself? To us?" She bared her fangs, hissing the last word like a snake. "How much have you already told the Duchess in an effort to appease her? Toussaint has been my home for two centuries and I intend for it to be my home for two centuries more. Yet that cannot happen if Dettlaff exposes all of us in his foolishness!" Her hand came down hard on the table, claws extended. Bits of grape juice squeezed out from between her fingers.

Geralt didn't flinch. "Why not go to the Elder yourself then?"

"Because I enjoy my existence," Orianna said, once again calm, aloof. "I'm not willing to risk my neck, not even to end this. The question is, Witcher, are you?"

Blast it all. Geralt had answered that question the moment he'd stepped across the border.

***

Training with Orianna was brief, but intense. Intellectually, that is. Whatever Geralt had thought he'd known about vampires, it paled in comparison to the deluge of information she hurled at him now. Some of it he'd caught glimpses of already, such as the history of Khagmar's drinking and the significance of Toussaint to them all, not just the Gharasham. Orianna told him about the peace the Elder so deeply craved and the likelihood that he too partook of blood, whenever it made itself available. They spent another half an hour together as the sun set and the stars rose, Orianna having him practice a deep bow that she was never entirely pleased with. His head didn't bend far enough, or his feet were not in precisely the right position. Geralt grit his teeth and allowed Orianna to manipulate his body like clay, ignoring the way her touch made his skin crawl. It reminded him of his Kaer Morhen days when Vesemir would turn fighting forms into muscle memory. He had nudged Geralt with a wooden sword the same way.

"It's you," she finally announced, lip curling in displeasure. "You're not... submissive enough."

"Some women like that in a guy."

"The Elder won't—keep your eyes on the floor! Do you want to die? Because that's how you do it. You cannot go in there as Geralt of Rivia, hired knight of the Duchess or whatever other title you might make claim to. You are a nobody. Nothing. Either humble yourself, or give up now."

Geralt's instincts told him to snap back. Instead he took a deep breath and swept into another bow, hunching his shoulders to make himself appear smaller. He tucked his chin down nearly against his chest, eyes on the carpet, and curled the fingers of his extended hand, trying to add a small tremor.

He heard Orianna hum. "Better. And what do we say?"

"Eclthi lautni ama."

"By the Gods your pronunciation is atrocious, but you're understandable. It will have to do."

Geralt tilted his head, deliberately making eye contact. "Enjoying this?"

"A bit."

He straightened, popping some of the kinks in his lower back. Endless bowing and formal clothes didn't mix. "The hell does that even mean? More supplication?"

"Quite the opposite." Orianna swept her arm out, producing a miniature version of the gesture. "I suppose a literal translation would be something akin to, 'I demonstrate that I am family,' though that's a horribly clunky way of phrasing it. You are, in short, announcing your good intentions. For another Gharasham the phrase would be literal. A different clan, a promise to treat the Elder as if he were their own leader. You? I can hardly promise how he will take it, but hopefully it conveys an attitude that will please him. Either way, if you approach him without ceremony be prepared to breathe your last."

Geralt grunted. All of this in an attempt to prepare him for what might lie behind that cave wall, none of it carrying a true promise of safety. "That it then? One bow, one phrase, and he'll hear me out?"

"Oh no. That empty palm of yours isn't symbolic. You'd best have a gift placed in it."

He stared. "A gift?"

Orianna's smiles had grown insulting again. "Mm hmm. There is no altruism in the Elder and you, my dear Witcher, can offer him nothing in the way of favors. He will not help you for free."

"Not even to protect himself? The rest of his clan?"

"Perhaps, though I wouldn't put any coin on it. Certainly not my life. Best approach with an offering."

Geralt threw up his hands. "Well what the hell would he want? Blood?"

"Some measly blood? Something he could gather any night he pleased?" Orianna snorted, the least dignified action she'd taken this night. Outside of spending time with him, of course. "Unless you plan to drain several villages on his behalf, don't bother."

"Then what?"

She shrugged. Considering the small knife, Orianna extended one of her claws instead. She drew it across her arm and filled a vile, previously stuffed with olives, then extended the container towards Geralt. "This is the only blood you'll need," she said. "I've told you were to find him, how to approach him, and have given you more than ample warning. The rest is up to you."

Slowly, Geralt took the bottle. "Aren't you afraid?" he asked.

"Whatever of?"

He looked directly in her eyes. "Of what will happen if I fail."

"Oh no." Orianna grinned, her teeth glinting in the candlelight. "Stopping Dettlaff is a strong preference of mine, certainly, but I'll survive no matter what calamity he rains down on us. If you stop him, if you die... it's really all the same to me."

Geralt left then, confident that this was the first lie she'd told him.

***

Stepping back onto the balcony, the first thing Geralt heard was Anna Henrietta's voice, rising above the general chatter. She called loudly—and demandingly—for the guest with white hair. Where was he? Where had he gone? Geralt grimaced. Not that their disguises had been particularly good to begin with, but if everyone here hadn't already known the Duchess and her favorite witcher were attending, they certainly did now.

Best to bypass that trouble entirely.

Standing on the railway, Geralt could just reach the edge of the building's roof. Swinging himself up he paused for a moment, surveying his options, and out came Orianna, smirking at his getaway. From there it was simple enough to slide down the other side, rolling into public property.

"Great party," Geralt muttered and set off at a jog towards Corvo Bianco.

As he ran the guilt began to eat at him. Not for ditching Anna Henrietta—that was a waste of time anyway—but for Regis, no doubt still sitting in that damn shop, waiting. They'd promised to inform one another if anything changed and... well, this was one hell of a change. Problem was, it was only a change for Geralt. Regis had already considered this option, discarded it, and while Geralt normally trusted his decisions... that trust had grown a little shaky after Tesham Mutna. Regis' debt to Dettlaff had clearly made him self-sacrificial and bringing him to the Elder was likely to put him in even more danger, should things go wrong. Geralt understood that debt though, considering he owed one to them both: Regis for Ciri, Dettlaff for bringing Regis back. He'd died for him. If caring for Regis earned Dettlaff unwavering devotion and a tendency towards torture, what the hell did a literal life debt imply?

"A fuck ton more than I've done for him," he said aloud, causing a drunk to cheer in agreement. Geralt flipped him off, picking up the pace.

None of which even considered his debt to the Duchy. No matter what he might think of Anna Henrietta, Geralt had promised to solve this problem with as little bloodshed as possible. He'd already been given a reward, the vineyard he'd now crossed into. They had no leads on this Rhenawedd and no way to find Dettlaff—except this one. Geralt had never been one to sit on his hands, certainly not when he owed so much, all around.

When put like that it became an easy answer: he'd go alone.

Though still early, the vineyard was quiet, everyone who lived on the property tucked away as the night cooled. Geralt slipped into the house and immediately began to assemble his armor, headless of the mess he made with his new, fine clothes. If things went well he'd be back before dawn and, regardless of what shape he was in, he'd clean up his mess before BB and Marlene awoke. If it didn't...

Well, a few messy habits would be the least of his worries.

Damn fancy boots were laced too tight and the silver pendant on his chest was caught in his shirt's threads. Growling, Geralt was just about to rip it off when he paused, considering the jewelry.

Surely it couldn't be that simple?

But then, simple was often what people craved the most.

Proving his own theory, Geralt finished dressing, donned his swords, and—while casting a longing look towards his bedroom— whistled for Roach.

***

"So we've come to the fun part."

Between Orianna's directions and his medallion, finding the cave was easy enough. There was only the faintest line of a door embedded in the rock and, small as a keyhole, another one of those symbols, nearly hidden beneath some ivy. Geralt had watched Regis at Tesham Mutna, curious about this world he so rarely got to see. All it had taken was him placing his palm over the door for it to open...

With a grimace Geralt poured Orianna's blood over his hand, coating it thoroughly. One handprint later the stone began to rise. He observed the mark as it disappeared, thinking that, in the darkness, it looked a great deal like the symbol of the Gharasham. Ironic that.

"Terrible security," Geralt said and poked his head inside.

A long tunnel stretched out before him and the sound of running water was surprisingly strong. Taking his first step, Geralt reached for his silver sword... only to then pull back. No. If he wanted this to work, he couldn't go in as a threat.

He considered leaving his swords behind, safely tucking them into the brush, but there were some things a witcher could never do. Walking into a higher vampire's lair unarmed, it turned out, was one of them.

Slow but sturdy steps, Geralt made his way deeper into the cave system. Smaller pathways branched off, but he stuck to the main stretch, the one that carried the scent of a living being. Geralt hadn't lied when he told Regis that he and his brethren had a particular smell and this vampire had done nothing to try and mask his. The blood in the tunnel was also a dead giveaway. Dried, but still visible to a witcher's eyes. Geralt followed both tracks with his palms open and his head bent low.

In time he emerged into a large cavern, a waterfall proving to be the source of the noise. For a moment it nearly distracted him. For one awful, stupid moment Geralt's mind was drawn to the allure of cool water... and not what hung above his head. It was only a lifetime of training that saved him. In truth, Geralt never saw the Elder move, he just felt it. He reached for his sword, pure instinct, only for Orianna's words to permeate at the last possible second. Geralt dipped low instead, his hand extended, the offering already glinting in his palm.

"Eclthi lautn—hnnk!"

He didn't get the rest out. It was rather hard to speak with teeth sunk into one's neck.

The pain was white hot and all-consuming, causing Geralt to clench his fists reflexively. He stumbled, held up only by the Elder's fangs and a single, clawed hand gripping his wrist. He drank steadily, almost indifferently, and within seconds the cave had doubled before Geralt's eyes.

"No—please—" He keened as his knees buckled. The Elder let him go, wiping at his mouth and licking the last traces from his lips. The room was still spinning, but Geralt could see those claws rising above, ready to strike—a predator finished with its prey. Kneeling before him, laid low instantaneously, Geralt didn't need to play at a submissive anymore. He also had nothing left to lose. Raising his own arm to mirror the Elder's, Geralt opened his hand right under his nose.

A ring shone between them.

What would a Lord of higher vampires want? He'd only found one answer in Orianna's teachings: for the gate between worlds to open once more. Geralt didn't have that kind of power and he wasn't fool enough to promise it. But if he couldn't send the Elder home, he could at least give him a piece of home to cherish.

"For you," he said. Gurgled, really, blood pouring from his mouth. "A gift."

Had he been in a better frame of mind, Geralt would have taken pride in the reaction he caused, the Elder's eyes widening in shock, then softening with something like desperation. The ring disappeared in a flash, held up to the meager light for inspection. The Elder cradled the jewelry between both hands, bringing it to his nose like a flower. The rumble of satisfaction he let out was akin to a purr.

With nothing holding him now Geralt toppled, head hitting the stone with a sickening crunch. Witchers couldn't afford to be confused though. Poison, blood loss, excruciating pain... they weren't allowed to panic, or to give in to their body's needs. So Geralt forced his arm to move while the Elder was distracted, fumbling for a bottle of Swallow. He downed it while curled in a fetal position, at the feet of a monster, coughing most of it onto his clothes.

So, all in all, not the worst scenario he'd imagined.

"Where..." The Elder paused for breath, like he hadn't spoken in several years. He probably hadn't. "Where did you get this?"

Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery, but that likely wasn't the answer the Elder wanted. Stealing from a vampire had been easier than Geralt might have imagined, simply by virtue of said vampire being out and the ring occupying an unlocked box on his bookshelf. He'd put it there prior to their trip to Tesham Mutna, saying that jewelry clashed rather obscenely with shackles.

Stealing from Regis though? That had been harder.

Geralt's voice was no better off and though ever word was fire, he forced them out, head still bent in what he hoped was a humble posture, not just a painful one. "A friend," he said. "Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, a member of your clan. For his sake and others' I humbly ask your favor. I need—"

"I already know what you need," the Elder said and to Geralt's horror he was picked up again, limp as a rag doll. He didn't know where the Elder was dragging him until he was already falling over the ledge.

It was a long fall, yet it might as well have been just a foot. Geralt didn't have time to process anything other than pain and a distinct yearning that somehow hurt more.

Regis? he thought—

-—and then everything went black.

***

In truth, Geralt wasn't sure he could give an accurate account of what happened next. He woke up, which was always the most he could ask for in these situations. The rest though?

"Fucking sucks," he rasped, pulling himself to his knees. He'd landed in a shallow pool off from the falls and when Geralt looked down, he found the water still stained with his blood. Great, the Swallow hadn't done enough then and the fall... yeah. The fall had shattered his other potions. Putting his hand down on some of the broken glass confirmed that. With a hiss Geralt managed to pull himself clear before collapsing again. He brought one arm up to bite deep into the leather of his armor. His other hand summoned igni.

A scar is better than death, he recited and closed the flame over the punctures in his neck.

It was too much though, even for his stamina, his extra mutations. Geralt passed out again and when he awoke he thought he heard Dettlaff's cries of rage somewhere above, followed by the screams of a woman. They went on for a long time, inconsolable, the sort of scream that only came from unimaginable pain. Geralt could only lie there, flinching from the noise, all too capable of empathizing with it. A dream? Reality? He couldn't say.

In time he was able to sit up again, then crawl, then stumble. Geralt moved because he had to, with nothing waiting for him in this cave except a slower death. It might have taken him an hour to climb back to where he'd been. It might have taken a day. All he cared was that he made it out.

The Elder was waiting for him.

"You live."

Geralt briefly closed his eyes. "Yeah. Would kinda like to keep it that way."

He no longer hung from the ceiling, but rather stalked the corners of the room, eyeing Geralt with an expression that was... impressed? Surely not. But he wasn't attacking again and that was really all that mattered.

That, and perhaps the hand that had appeared on the Elder's chest, hung by a fraying string. Geralt stared at it, wondering if he was hallucinating.

"It's done," the Elder said, surprisingly gentle.

"Done?" Geralt echoed.

"I see what you saw. I know what you knew and so much more," the Elder nodded, seemingly to himself. "Dettlaff came. His traitorous mate came. I forced both from my territory. I punished her." He gestured to the hand.

Geralt could see now that it was a woman's.

"You—you punished her? Why?" his fury was a dull thing, unable to rise above the weakness of his body.

"Yeess," the Elder hissed. "Traitorous! The human lied to my child. Manipulated him. Had him kill on her behalf. I saw," he said again, tapping his head. "I drank from you and I saw. My child cutting his hand in anguish. So I cut hers."

Geralt shook his head, regretting the movement the second he did. "I don't... I don't understand."

"The human Syanna will not return. Dettlaff will not return. All my children now know this."

"Syanna?" Dettlaff's mate... "Rhenawedd?"

"Correct. Your gift is repaid. Leave."

"I—"

"Leave!"

What else could he do? Geralt stumbled towards the entrance, refraining from turning his back on the Elder—for whatever good that would do him. He didn't move though, still as death, and the last thing Geralt saw was the hand with Regis' ring petting Rhenawedd's severed appendage.

He would have run if he'd been able.

As it was, Geralt only just managed to make it out of the system without collapsing again, his breath coming in sharp, painful heaves. Roach—good old Roach—was still waiting for him, comfortably partaking of the grass and the nearby stream. She didn't shy from the smell of blood and she already knew her way home. It was with immense relief that Geralt collapsed onto her back and let her lead him to the safety of Corvo Bianco.

His head was still down then, watching the fields pass underneath. Geralt had humbled himself and come out the victor.

So why didn't it feel that way?

***

Geralt managed to stay conscious for the ride back, occasionally hauling himself into a near seated position so he didn't scare the farmers. There was little reason to hide from his own staff though and he'd half expected to send one of them screaming for BB. As it was, they were already waiting for him.

BB... and Regis.

"Oh," Geralt managed, slipping from the saddle. He didn't hit the ground though, strong arms there to catch him as Regis moved from the door to his side with a speed no human could duplicate. However, if BB noticed he wasn't inclined to comment, both hands pressed hard against his mouth in a rather heartwarming display of concern. Geralt tried to reassure him and only managed to dribble more blood down into his armor.

That was going to be a bitch to clean.

"Don't talk," Regis snapped, carting him bridal style into the house. Geralt had a hundred quips he wanted to let loose, from a joke about whether he was being wooed to the incredulous question of whether Regis was really telling him not to talk. Nothing emerged though. His body could no longer keep up with his thoughts, muddled though they were, so Geralt simply sank into the arms holding him, grateful that someone else was taking control.

And yet...

"Sorry," he managed and Regis shot him a look so furiously anguished that Geralt shied from it.

"If you continue speaking," he said, each word clipped, straining. "Then I will not be responsible for my actions."

Sedate him or murder him? Could be either, really. Best not find out.

So Geralt, quiet as a mouse, allowed himself to be carried to his room where he was finally, gloriously, laid out on his bed. Too bad there was pain ruining the moment. Regis wasted no time, calling for hot water with the confidence of a man who'd spent a couple hundred years studying medicine. He'd already gotten Geralt halfway out of his armor by the time BB returned.

"Well be fine," Regis told him, laying one hand kindly over his. He whispered something more and BB nodded, perking up at the routine of another task. Still, he cast Geralt his hundredth worried look and though this time he just tried to smile reassuringly back, he feared it came out more like a grimace. It must have been enough though because BB bowed and promised that they would remain undisturbed, closing the door behind him.

That lock was possibly the loudest sound Geralt had ever heard.

Regis stood at the door for a moment, holding the basin. Geralt only knew he was shaking because of the small ripples in the water.

"I must examine you," he told the wood, voice thick. "Stitch, salve, sterilize. Take stock of the damage. Determine a long-term treatment. I have already called for a bath. You must be craving one after two days."

Two days? Geralt opened his mouth only for Regis to whirl on him, lips curled back in a snarl.

"Then and only then will you be permitted to speak. Understood?"

Stunned, he nodded. Stupid move though, what with a burned neck and all.

His wince softened Regis. He slumped to match Geralt's posture, letting out a shuddering breath, and put the water aside before he could spill it all. His hands, when they returned to Geralt's armor, were as gentle as an artist handling a masterpiece. "Come," he murmured. "Let me see."

He'd never needed to ask twice.

Geralt was stripped to his smalls and they both got to see precisely what this contract had done to him. Bruises littered his body, congregating on his right side and spreading all the way down to his foot. It was like seeing them suddenly made them real because only then did Geralt suck in a sharp breath, feeling their presence. His right shoulder had been dislocated in the fall, yet had somehow returned to its socket—no doubt another precaution he'd taken on instinct, the memory now lost to him. There was still glass embedded in his palms, a number of cuts from rocks that had wormed their way past his armor, and more than one ache that spoke of a damaged muscle. Still, none of it touched the pain that was his neck and when Regis tilted his head to get a better look, Geralt couldn't help but flinch.

"I'm sorry," Regis breathed, the fingers on his chin lightly stroking there, a comfort. "I could never recommend burning yourself, Geralt, but you did successfully stop the bleeding. However, I fear the venom will take some time to leave your system."

Geralt simply raised an eyebrow, the question obvious.

"We are capable of making the feeding... painful, should we wish it."

Lovely.

Blood loss alone should have had him begging for sleep, but Geralt found that he was wide awake by the time Regis had finished his inspection. His neck was the only thing that needed bandaging—the smaller cuts would heal on their own, courtesy of his mutations— so it was with no small enjoyment that Geralt was able to sink fully into the bath BB had drawn for him. Steaming hot and scented with lavender, it nearly made all of this worth it.

After soaking for what felt like an obscenely long time, Geralt cracked an eye open. Regis was seated on the edge of his bed, watching him with the intensity of a hawk.

Or perhaps just a vampire.

"Am I allowed to speak now?" he croaked.

"I would much prefer that you let your throat rest."

"Fat chance of that."

For the first time since arriving home, Regis smiled. Small, sad, but undoubtedly there. Geralt found himself relieved to see it.

"You could talk instead," he continued, gentle as he was capable of being. It wasn't much. "Never known you to resist talking and it sounds like you've got a story on the tip of your tongue. Care to share?"

The eyes that met his were sharp, almost unforgiving. "I am not the one who owes the other an explanation, Geralt."

Ouch.

"Yeah... fair enough... but humor the injured? Would help if I knew what you've already pieced together. Wasn't expectin' you here, y'know?"

Geralt deliberately slurred his words a little at the end, angling for an agreement. Not that he needed to fake his exhaustion. Sliding further into the still steaming water, he rested his head on the lip of the tub. Regis also slid to the floor and leaned against the bed's side, putting himself where Geralt could easily see him.

He blew out a breath. "You are aware," he began, "that my kind possess limited telepathic capabilities?"

"Yeah. How you talk to your ravens, right?"

"Indeed. The Elder's ability in this regard is... a fair bit more advanced, let us say. He is able to call upon all the vampires in his territory, if he so chooses, and until two nights ago I thought that such a message would only come in the form of a call to battle." Regis ran a hand through his hair, chuckling, though there was no humor in the sound. Given the time to appreciate his appearance now, Geralt took note of how disheveled he was: all wrinkled layers and drawn features.

"You likewise know that my heart does not beat in the conventional human sense, but I wager that it very well stopped at that moment. Luckily, I was not called upon to wage war on his behalf." Another rueful chuckle. "I doubt my ability in many things, Geralt, but in being a soldier most of all."

Regis was quite for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. His hands, bereft of the satchel now sitting by the door, clenched rhythmically against the edge of his shirt, like a cat kneading for comfort.

"What'd he say?" Geralt prompted.

"Hmm. He did not precisely say anything at all. What little was put forth in our tongue is rather difficult to translate—"

"Eclthi lautni ama."

Regis' head snapped up, fast enough that in a human Geralt would have heard the crack of his spine. He appeared to have been rendered speechless and whatever else might be going on, Geralt couldn't help but take pride in that small accomplishment.

He let out a chuckle of his own, this one genuine. "Sorry. Been told my pronunciation is awful. Only three vampiric words I know though."

Regis' mouth continued to work a moment, not unlike some poor fish pulled from its pond, until he finally rallied. "Considering that, to my admittedly limited knowledge, you are the only non-vampire to ever attempt speaking our language, I think your efforts are to be commended. However did you... no. Do not answer that. Not yet. I fear I'll never share this story if I don't get it out now." Tipping his head back against the bed, Regis shut his eyes. "The Elder communicates through feelings more than words, but the gist of the message was this: Dettlaff is now barred from re-entering Toussaint, as is his former mate, she on pain of death and him at risk of imprisonment."

Geralt swallowed. Harsh punishments both, though given what he'd seen of Tesham Mutna, he thought death the preferable option.

"Of course, I knew you must be involved somehow." Regis cracked one eye open, letting out an annoyed little huff. "My Elder speaking for the first time in centuries, on the very subject we were so eager to resolve, after I myself had made vague references to his existence? Why, how could you not be involved? With your penchant for getting into trouble, particularly of the deadly variety, it was nearly inevitable."

"...you done?"

"Never," Regis quipped and Geralt flicked a bit of the bath water at him.

The jovial mood dissipated quickly though.

"Needless to say I was... quite beside myself with worry. I went immediately to the last place we'd seen one another, the estate, obviously, though Orianna was less than forthcoming about your whereabouts. By the time I had resolved to approach the Elder himself, Dettlaff had found me."

"He—?" Geralt let out a low growl at the news. "He chose then to show up?"

"Out of necessity only. He'd been ordered to leave and turned to me in his grief." Regis shook his head, staring off into the distance. "In truth, Dettlaff was... difficult to follow. I have already explained how rich his emotions are. You yourself experienced a taste of that via Resonance. I realized quickly that his agony stemmed not from leaving our homeland behind, but rather the means by which this punishment had come about. Apparently, his meeting with the Elder revealed that dear Rhenawedd had never been in any danger. She had, for reasons of her own, orchestrated this entire nightmare. Her name isn't even Rhenawedd."

"Syanna," Geralt supplied, earning him another sharp look.

"It seems you've been well informed on the matter."

Not really, but Geralt knew better than to derail one of Regis' explanations.

"What is most curious is the etymology here. 'Syanna' is a shortened version of 'Sylvia Anna' and, the similarities between that name and our dear Duchess aside, I had already had the good fortune of procuring a pamphlet that has been distributed about the city."

From the depths of his many pockets Regis pulled a much creased bit of paper, handing it over. Geralt wet the abused thing in the act of unfolding it, but the writing was still quite legible.

"Dear Beauclairois," he read aloud. "Wake up! You are being diddled in the derriere by a ruling elite which plays you like fiddles. In broad daylight they have conspired to deprive you of the rightful heir to your throne ... the hell is all this rubbish?"

"Not rubbish at all, I'd wager," Regis said. "Though you should be forgiven for thinking so, given that I had the same line of thought upon first discovering this missive in an otherwise reputable establishment. Some anonymous citizen crying foul at the local government? Hardly what I would call an uncommon event. Yet this particular author appears to be better informed than I initially gave them credit for." Taking the paper back, Regis tapped a line near the bottom—The rightful heiress to the throne might return at any moment. "Were I not so well-acquainted with your own strange and colorful history, Geralt, I might have scoffed at these claims of a curse and a lost, forgotten royal. But you are intimately familiar—and I through dear Dandelion's songs—with the very real, worrying nature of such things. Through Dettlaff's tearful cries I formed what I consider a plausible explanation, one made more likely by the excellent history your Barnabas-Basil provided."

Too tired to parse through all that, Geralt merely ran a hand over his face. "Care to share with the class?"

"Certainly. It's a far simpler explanation than this otherwise complex investigation would imply. There was indeed a second daughter of the Duke, older than Anna Henrietta and thus the rightful heir to the throne, yet she was said to be cursed. She was exiled and then returned, intent on using Dettlaff as her means of revenge." Regis shook his head, claws beginning to extend. "I cannot possibly divine the entirety of her motivations, but the general picture of her intent is clear. She was using my blood brother for her own means and likely has been since they met. Whatever he saw in her... well, I cannot claim to see it too. Dettlaff's grief over losing her is great, his horror at a maiming to mirror his own indescribable, and his rage at her betrayal deadly. But even all of that cannot stand up against the Elder's orders. Dettlaff will bother Toussaint no longer and if Syanna wishes to see old age, she would be wise to keep her distance too."

They sat in silence together for a time, lost in thought. Soon though his mental discomfort was outweighed by the now quickly cooling water. Regis picked up on the minute shivers, hauling himself to his feet.

"I haven't spent time tending your wounds simply to let you catch cold, Geralt. Up. You can explain yourself once you've dressed."

Geralt moved slowly, tenderly, like a man twice his age and lacking in mutations. After some time to relax he was feeling all his injuries in full, but after everything, dressing in a warm nightshirt was the easiest thing this contract had asked of him. Regis gave him his privacy, spending some time scrounging up food from Marlene while he changed.

"Never said how you wound up here." Geralt said as he observed the spread before him. A broth with bits of shredded chicken, plenty of bread, and Toussaint's cure for all ails: a goblet of wine. Lunch in bed, he thought, testing his stomach on a bit of the bread. Lucky me.

Regis shook his head at Geralt's offer to share. "That's no great tale. By the time I had wrung this information from Dettlaff and seen him past our borders, a full day and most of the night had passed. Either you would return in time to this estate, or..."

"Or I was already dead," Geralt finished, ignoring Regis' flinch.

"Indeed. I came here in the vain hope that you might already be in the tender care of your staff. Barnabas-Basil was also eager to hear any word of your whereabouts and, as said, we had a rather productive conversation concerning what may be going on—though I was, of course, rather guarded about the exact nature of our woes. By the time I had begun to doubt my decision to wait..." Regis spread his hands.

"I came riding up, giving the whole vineyard a scare."

"Quite."

Regis pushed the bowl closer and all but shoved the spoon into Geralt's hand. "But I've indulged you long enough. You will eat and you will speak."

"Thought you didn't want me to speak?"

"Geralt."

"Right. Sorry." He spun the spoon in the soup a moment and then dove in. Between bites of the much needed meal, Geralt told Regis everything: Orianna's offer, her teachings, his encounter with the Elder, and the strange things he'd heard in his half-delirious state, now sounding far more sensible. Dettlaff had indeed been there then, as had Syanna, though based on Regis' expression he'd had no more idea that the Elder could force humans to appear before him than Geralt did. He must have overheard the sentencing above him, though he hadn't known what it was at the time.

Gerald didn't have Dandelion's flare for the dramatic, nor did he possess Regis' tendency towards verbosity. He kept to the facts, straight and simple, finishing by the time he'd gotten halfway through his meal.

Regis watched his covers the whole time, perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair.

"Well," he finally said. "That was remarkably brilliant on your part."

Geralt paused with the spoon halfway to his lips. "Huh?"

"The ring," Regis explained. "Oh, the rest makes any fool look like a genius, but the ring? Utterly inspired. To give our Elder a piece of our homeland to cultivate favor... I'm sure that's the only reason you made it out of there alive, whatever his initial intentions might have been." Again his hands spasmed, curling into fists. "There is only one thing I fail to understand."

"What's that?"

"Why?"

He'd turned from Regis' compliments, never sure how to face those, and thus missed the first moment when his expression crumpled, grief rising back up to the surface. When Geralt spotted it he froze and didn't dare pretend that he didn't know what Regis was asking.

Why hadn't he done this with him? Together?

Geralt blew out a breath, pushing his meal aside. He'd suddenly lost what little appetite he'd had. "You have to know it wasn't about trust, Regis."

"Do I?"

"Do I?"

Regis blinked at the question turned on him, rearing back a bit. Geralt cursed his idiot mouth—he wasn't out to accuse—but the words came pouring forth regardless.

"You just said I was brilliant, so do you really think I wouldn't notice?" he asked, gesturing in resignation. "You come back from the dead and hole up in some tiny village, not a word for years on end. Could have sought me out, Regis. Sent a note a least. C'mon," Geralt waved off the attempted excuse. "I might be on the Path, but we've got plenty of shared acquaintances, any one of which could have gotten word to me when I next passed through. Your lot might be untrackable, but I'm not. You think I wouldn't realize you didn't want to find me?"

Regis flinched horribly, but Geralt had warmed to the subject, talking over him.

"Takes Dettlaff nearly skewering me for you to step in, though you must have known I was in Toussaint the moment I arrived. Duchy's done nothing but talk up my arrival and there were probably rumors long before that. A quick reunion where every third sentence is a lesson on how different I am from a vampire—" an exaggeration, though the reminders had stung at the time. "—and the rest is Dettlaff this, Dettlaff that... didn't take me long to realize I was the bad guy here. A threat to your beloved blood brother. The interloper. Goddammit, Regis, I watched you torture yourself for that guy, breaking years of sobriety to do it. So when I had the chance to maybe fix all this for you both, without putting you in any more danger, I..." Geralt shrugged, exhausted. "You're damn right I took it. No regret. You died for me, Regis, helped me get Ciri back, and Dettlaff all but resurrected you. Yet I've been nothing but unwanted company since. It was the least, the fucking least I could do."

Regis was still as a statue beside him and Geralt's mind spun with the stupidity of saying all that. Would he agree with the assessment? Just walk out? Geralt wouldn't blame him if he did. He'd tried to fix things, yes, but it had still all gone so horribly wrong.

It took him an awful long time to realize that Regis wasn't still. He was shaking again.

He was crying.

Geralt could only gape, mouth hanging wide enough to catch flies. It wasn't just a few tears, but full-on sobs kept quiet through pure force of will, Regis pressing both palms desperately against his eyes, shoulders hunched. Geralt reached out, but stopped just short of touching him, unsure if it would be welcome.

"Shit," he whispered. "Shit, shit, shit. I—Regis—c'mon. Please don't..."

All at once he wrenched his hands away and there was a smile underneath, though the most self-deprecating one Geralt had ever had the misfortune to witness.

"Oh, Geralt," Regis breathed, breath hiccupping slightly. There was no anger in his voice, not a drop. "If that is truly what you believe than I have failed you most utterly."

Geralt's mouth worked for a moment, his brain clueless about what would come out. "I'm the one making you cry," he said, voice witless.

"Yes," Regis said, like it was some kind of revelation. "Yes. And that is precisely why I kept my distance. I have explained time and again how emotional my brethren are. Whyever would you think I was any different?"

Mirroring him, Regis reached out only to draw back, his shaking hand coming to rest against his chest. He shook his head wildly. "My dear Geralt. A vampire's love is everything to them, everything, you know that well thanks to Dettlaff, and my love for you—" He cut off, rocking with the force of those words. Regis took in a shuddering breath and still, still, attempted to smile. "My love for you is all-consuming. It is all that I am now and all that I can imagine being for the rest of my existence. It is me."

...Oh.

Oh.

"Of course I knew your whereabouts," Regis said, speaking more quickly with every word. "I begged Dettlaff for any news of you, sought out songs, every finished contract and ridiculous rumor. But they were just placeholders and for all that desire I had no intention of seeking out the real thing. You were free of me." It came out a plea. "A clean break, Geralt, and a healthy distance when this awful work brought us back together, the occasional reminder that I am not and cannot ever be human. It was best for the both of us. Because I knew I would slip, inevitably, as I have now, and I couldn't bear your rejection, or worse, your disgust tempered with pity. I am a coward, Geralt, and so incredibly sorry that my cowardice has caused you such pain, but I would rather love you from afar than risk—"

Geralt never found out what Regis would be risking because he wrenched him forward across the bed and into a kiss. He went willingly, if a little slack-jawed with shock, but the moment Geralt threaded a hand into Regis' hair he melted, keening against him like something wild, vulnerable. The kiss was short-lived, but a balm to them both, and when Geralt gently pulled back he found devoted black eyes staring into his. Regis gently brushed his knuckles against Geralt's cheek, disbelieving.

"You're exhausted," he murmured. "Poisoned. Traumatized. You don't know—"

"If you say I don't know what I'm doing I'll kick your ass, Regis, injuries or no." Geralt gave him a lopsided grin, warmth bubbling all through his chest. "Wanted to do that for years."

"Years?" It came out no more than a whisper.

"Uh huh. Just couldn't imagine what a brilliant vampire might see in a jaded witcher."

"How strange," Regis said, sounding almost drugged. "Because I too have yet to see what an accomplished witcher could see in an old, terribly flawed vampire."

"Funny, but I don't think either of us are particularly good at this."

"Perhaps not. But, Geralt..." Regis suddenly surged forward to press their foreheads together, hanging on like a man who clung to his capsized boat. "You must know, you must understand that if you give yourself to me I will never let you go. Ever. This is no short-lived dalliance. Like Dettlaff, I won't be able to part. I am an addict, in more than just blood."

Geralt could have easily reminded him of his decades long abstinence, broken only for family, and the control he showed now despite an intentional slip. He also might have spoken for hours about the differences, clear as day, between him and Dettlaff.

But Geralt didn't say those things. Instead he just tucked Regis' head beneath his chin, stroking a hand down his spine. "I promise I understand," he said, solemn as he'd ever been, and he was relieved at the tension bleeding out of Regis' frame. "Provided you understand that I'm not giving you up either. Might not be a vampire, but I can be mighty stubborn when I choose."

Breath puffed out against his neck and Geralt didn't mind the pain for a moment. "I am well aware."

"Then you're sure?"

"Since nearly the moment we met."

Ah... yeah. That he understood.

They stayed like that until the soup was cold Geralt's left leg had gone numb under Regis' weight. He didn't mind though. This... this felt like a victory, the sort that would take some time to truly sink in. Geralt only wished that they all got to share in it.

"I'm sorry," he said. Regis lifted himself up, eyes red from crying, but otherwise bursting with joy.

"Whatever for?" His hand seemed attached to Geralt's cheek and he willingly leaned into the warm, steady weight. It helped ground him and with Regis' touch he hardly noticed anything else.

Geralt sighed. "For... all of this. Misunderstanding. Wasted years. Worrying you. Me. I stole your fucking ring." Regis huffed out a dismissive laugh. "But Dettlaff most of all, I guess. I know how important he is to you. Me too, if I'm honest, if only for what I owe him. I thought the Elder would just summon him, not..."

"Not banish him and maim a young woman?" Regis grimaced. "I apologize. I didn't intend that as an accusation, but that is precisely the sort of capriciousness that made me wary to approach him. In truth though... it likely turned out for the best."

"How the hell do you figure that?"

"Simple: banishment is not death. For either of them." Regis snuck his fingers up into Geralt's hair, petting him tenderly. "It is what I feared the most. That this case would lead to Dettlaff's demise and, by the Gods, I was prepared for that. Because to choose him over you..." Regis shook his head. "That's no choice at all. No matter how much I may owe him—and I do owe him everything, Geralt—I could never put him above your safety. And yet, that sacrifice was never asked of me. Dettlaff lives and, I have no doubt, will heal in time. A woman who dared cross my people lived to tell about it. I live, Vilgefortz be damned, and, to my continuing shock, I have started something with you that I still dare not name." Regis searched Geralt's face, his smile widening at whatever he saw there. "Put your guilt to rest. We live, we may well even thrive someday, and that is entirely thanks to you."

Geralt didn't know how to respond to that, so he just grunted, weakly pulling Regis closer. It was the middle of the day, but their little room may well have been timeless. Regis kicked off his shoes and joined Geralt beneath the covers, limbs intertwining with exhaustion, with intimacy. They settled down into a witcher-vampire union as if they'd been doing so for years.

"Thrive, huh?" Geralt asked, his voice already slurring.

"If we should be so lucky, my love."

Two words to send him off into blissful, rejuvenating sleep.

***

The city of Beauclair celebrated Geralt of Rivia, renowned witcher and slayer of the Beast.

Appeasing the Duchess was easy, especially when she was already determined to believe only what made sense to her. Under Regis' watchful eye Geralt returned to the palace as soon as he could walk without dizziness, the both of them knowing that his remaining injuries would go a long way towards selling their tale. Not that he had to lie, precisely. While kneeling before the court—that, it seemed, was the way to survive in Toussaint: cultivating the right courtesies—Geralt apologized for his abandonment at the party, citing a new and dangerous lead as his excuse. True enough. He had then battled a most fearsome vampire, nearly resulting in loss of life. Also true, though Anna Henrietta didn't need to know that the Elder differed from the Beast, or that "battled" was being rather too kind to Geralt's side of the fight. He ended his story by pulling out Dettlaff's severed hand to his gasping audience, announcing that this was all that was left of their monster problem. The final truth, in a manner of speaking. Dettlaff would never haunt Toussaint again and Anna Henrietta, who had refused to believe in the immortality of higher vampires from the start, observed the graying appendage with a vicious satisfaction.

"We are most pleased!" she called, her voice bouncing off the high walls. "All hail Geralt, slayer of the Beast!"

He'd hear that damn line for months to come, on the lips of every citizen in the kingdom.

Figuring out what to do about Syanna was far trickier. Beginning at the again closed entrance to the Elder's lair, Regis had managed to follow her blood trail to a nearby castle, then East until the scents of the forest obscured the trace. It was clear that she'd been in the process of leaving though and given that Regis had sent Dettlaff North to one of his old hideaways, they should be keeping well clear of one another.

"She gonna survive that?" Geralt had asked, gesturing with one hand to the other.

"She made it this far," Regis had murmured, standing from his observations of the ground. "And if I were to wager anything on the woman who survived two exiles, Dettlaff, my Elder, and who knows what other horrors in her life... yes, I'd imagine she'll survive this too."

They banked on that survival and hoped that the next risk they took would come to mean something. An anonymous letter was sent to Anna Henrietta—penned by a most trustworthy bootblack—detailing her sister's involvement in the crimes, as well as the likelihood that she would have made an attempt on the throne. Yet alongside the horror was hope: vague directions about where she'd gone and a new, terrible feature to identify her by. The letter was curt in its honesty. You needn't believe us. Search for her only if you wish.

Just don't bring her into Toussaint.

Geralt and Regis were sure that, if Anna Henrietta did ever find her, Syanna's will to live would trump any pressure to return. Any relationship past that was up to them to forge; any tragedy that came of it was theirs to bear.

Regis and Geralt washed their hands of it.

As for them? Their lives looked something like thriving. For three months straight gifts poured in from the surrounding countryside, grateful citizens sending him everything from a humble cutting of grapes, to their oldest bottles of wine. There was a ceremony in his honor—stupid formalities all around—a couple thousand in coin, and a whole wagon-full of the Ducal's prized drink, Sangreal. When Geralt took one barrel for himself and dispersed the rest among his staff, gratitude rose to unheard of heights.

Things appeared perfect in Corvo Bianco, almost like a fairy tale.

Yet every time Geralt was sent another roll of exotic fabric, or a wheel of aged cheese, or he even just heard some well-wishes shouted across the cobblestones, he'd smile and mentally set the gift aside.

"Don't need 'em," he told Regis when he asked, eagerly accepting the newly delivered chocolates for himself.

"Oh?" he was already popping one into his mouth. "Something about witcher frugality, I presume?"

"Nah. Just got everything I need right here."

Hands around Regis' waist confirmed that Geralt didn't mean the house. Or the vineyard. Not even the beauty of the world around them. They could live in a sty for all he cared. Regis' company, the hitch of breath as Geralt pulled him closer... that was worth more than the entire Dutchy laid out on his doorstep.

And after everything they'd been through, Geralt was determined to ensure Regis understood that. He wasn't a vampire, but he had witcher ways of showing devotion.

"Everything I need," he repeated, "is here."

"Right here," Regis echoed.

Geralt kissed him, tasting chocolate and the promise of a future.

[rizzizzsins-blog]

From the Ashes, Ch. 4

Wanna read this on Archive? Click here.

 “Right. Th-thank you. We’ll be on our way.” *click*

 “Who was that, Fi?”

 The King of Underfell hid his irritation at being woken at 3 AM. It was part and parcel of being an active king, but it was also endlessly frustrating, considering its frequency.

 “Fi?” He asked. “Where are we going at this hour? Those vulture bureaucrats can wait till tomorrow.”

 She slowly shook her head, hands trembling as she turned around.

 The expression on his wife’s face was one he hadn’t seen since their children had died. As soon as she put the house phone down, she tossed her cell and wallet into her purse.

 “Fi, it’s 3 in the morning. What happened?”

 Nope. His wife was in a state of shock. She wasn’t going to tell him anything like that. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. Don’t get worked up. Don’t scare her off again.

 “Fafriel. What happened.”

 Nothing.

 Before, he would have raised his voice until she answered him, but he knew better. A hundred years or so of separation had taught him that.

 “I’ll call the babysitter.”

  Beep…. Beep…. Beep……

 What was that annoying beeping sound? Asher reached to turn his alarm clock off, but his arm wouldn’t move.

 He wasn’t in his house.

 What had happened?

 All at once, the memories hit him. The excruciating pain in his body started at his arm and spread like wildfire. He involuntarily screamed and a clearly inexperienced and shaken nurse dashed in, yelling into a walkie-talkie.

 “He’s alive! Oh, gods, it’s a miracle, he’s alive!”

 Something was blocking his view of her face… something reflective.

 The mask and the glass surrounding him told him that he’d been tanked in liquid  magic to keep him stable. It really had been as horrible as his mind told him.

 “Hello? Ms. Samara? Can you speak?”

 He managed to croak his name.

 “Asher. I’m really sorry! Can you tell me what day it is?”

 “__/__/____.”

 “That’s a g-good sign. I’ll be taking care of you for now… Dr. Dreemurr is in a meeting with the other Royal Families.”

 Wait, Dr. Dreemurr was a queen? Jeez, being a glen monster really left him out of the loop on stuff. Considering he always saw them on the news, he really should have made the connection earlier.

 His stomach flipped.

 “G-gonna puke,” he managed.

 “G-go ahead, Mr. Asher. The tube attached to your mask will drain it away then self clean.”

 The feeling of vomit sitting against his mouth made him want to die, but the nurse hadn’t lied. It was gone in seconds.

 “It’s q-quite a handy machine. If the sensors find more fluid buildup in your lungs, th-the tube will get rid of that, as well as any sap you might cough up.”

 Now that Asher’s eyes were a little more in focus, he took a look at the nurse. She was a lizard monster, hunched over and anxious. He would be too, but he was too numb. Too drugged out on whatever the hospital put him on.

 He felt the steady pressure of liquid painkiller osmosing through another tube suctioned to his arm. It certainly beat needles.

 “How’s y-your pain level?”

 “Z.”

 “Th-that’s not a number.”

 “I know…. Just messing with you,” Asher attempted to smile, but his muscles weren’t doing it right. He could feel it.

 “I’m g-glad you’re feeling okay enough to joke. That’s always a g-good sign in a patient. Your vitals are gobbledygook, but steady, in their own off-kilter way. Dr. Dreemurr will be in soon. In the meantime, Dr. Clemm will be in to keep you company.”

 Clemm? His professor? Was he tripping, or did she just say his teacher was coming into his room?          “Why?”

 “Oh, you didn’t know? Dr. Clemm teaches classes at your school, but he’s also a trained emergency response trauma psychiatrist and counselor. I h-hope it’s not too awkward talking to your instructor, but he’s the best guy in t-town, I promise.”

 “I’ll take your word for it.” Every word out of Asher’s mouth hurt his throat. His voice was deeper, phlegmy.

 Knock knock. Speak of the devil.

 “You can come in, Dr. Clemm.”

 “Right. Would you mind opening the door for me, Alphys dear? I have my notepad and phone in my hands.”

 “Oh, of course!”

 She rushed to the door and pulled it open. Another skeleton? Weren’t they supposed to be rare? Why was Asher meeting one every five minutes?

 “.... heh. Fancy meeting you here, Professor.”

 Clemm’s already gentle features softened further at seeing Asher. He must be a right mess.

 “Alphys, if you wouldn’t mind? If something goes wrong, I’ll press the button.”

 “R-right. Confidentiality and all th-that.” the nurse stepped out.

 “So… how’s this for more personal?” Asher chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

 “You match my younger son to a tee. Always making light of the painful to spare others, I’m sure… but I shouldn’t make assumptions. Yes, Asher, this is certainly more personal than I expected. Now then, you understand your rights as a patient, yes? I cannot, and will not divulge your personal information without your consent, unless I feel that you are going to hurt yourself or someone else.”

 “Thanks, yeah. I briefly went to therapy before.”

 “Excellent. So… let’s talk. It can be about anything you want. It doesn’t even have to relate to what’s happening right now, but you can talk about that if you want to.”

 Asher stiffened.

 “...... Do you have a mirror? I want to see what’s left of me.”

 “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 “I’m used to not liking what I see. Just show me. No one else will do it and you know it.”

 “...”

 Clemm hadn’t expected to get woken at 3 in the morning, but as soon as he’d gotten the reason why, he’d packed his tools and set off in his car. He hated to admit it, but he could no longer teleport that far.

 He hadn’t been given much information as to the nature of the accident, to prevent it from leaking to human media. All he knew was that it happened in the science building after hours, to a student janitor. There was a pit in his stomach that told him what had occurred; it would explain the surge in his own magic not much earlier.

 There was a stirring in the VOID. And he hoped to the gods that he wouldn’t pull in to pronounce a death.

 Now that student was staring him in the eye with his? Her? Dark grey eyes, their foggy white eyelights piercing into him.

 He couldn’t say no. It wouldn’t be fair.

 “I’ll… go get you a mirror.”

 “Just take a picture and show it to me.” There was an age-old heaviness in the student’s face, as if he had lived for a hundred years. Hesitantly, Clemm took a picture with his phone. He had to retake it a couple of times, no thanks to his trembling hands. The student’s hands trembled in their restraints as well. A bad sign.

 Each step towards the youth felt like a hundred miles. He really, really didn’t want to be the one to do this, but they would be more at risk if they saw themselves with no one to help them process.

 It took Asher’s eyes a couple of seconds to focus onto the picture of him, and when he did, he wished he had never asked.

 He was horrible.

 The moss in his hair was black like broom bristles. His once vibrant yellow eyelights were a muted white, like steam, and his body looked like it’d been left in a forest fire and dipped in an oil spill at the same time. His soul was a marble of black and purple in his chest, and each beat of it hurt him to his core. He looked dead. He should be.

 He wished he was.

 He didn’t realize he was crying, but he felt the water dripping from his eyelids onto his face.

 “I’m... horrible.”

 “Nonsense… you’re----”

 “I look like a fucking corpse, Professor. This is what my people look like when we’re buried in the ground. You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings…. I know the truth.”

 Bingo, Clemm thought.

 “Alright, I’ll have to stop you right there.”

 “What?” Asher asked, confused.

 “Let’s analyze that statement. You say that I don’t have to lie to spare your feelings, because you look like a corpse. But I have never seen a dryad corpse in my life, so I cannot lie to you about something I don’t have any concept of in the first place.”

 “Oh… shit, you’re right.”

 “Now, you know what the corpse of your kind looks like. But the truth is based on fact, and as much as your brain says your opinions are the truth, your perspective is warped by the fact that you just went through one of the most horrible events of your life.”

 “That kind of helps… not much, but a little.”

 Clemm beamed. “That’s what a therapist does. We’re lawyers against the angry voices in your head.”

 That got a chuckle out of Asher.

 “Look, Clemm, I appreciate it a lot, but I’m starting to get really sleepy.”

 “You’ll be out for a couple of days. The tank is putting you to sleep so that all your magic can focus on stabilizing you. I’m glad I got to talk to you a bit before you went out,” the professor smiled. “Don’t worry too much about my class, alright? We can work something out when you’re capable of working again.”

 Asher yawned, nodding. “I appreciate it, Prof. Nighty night.”

 “Goodnight, Asher.”

 Asher gasped himself awake.

 There was some dust on his tank, but not too much. Someone put a sticky note on the front.

 “When you wake up, press the call button.

 -Alphys”

 Would he even be able to? Remembering how much it hurt just to move his hand terrified him.

 Before he knew it, his arm shakily pressed the button.

 P̶̦͕̪͛̏͊r̷̬͓̯͝e̶̺̮̅̀͊s̸͖̯̈͌̄͝s̴̜͌͆̕è̴͚̪̜̱̅̒d̷͚̺̦͗̿̎̉ ̷̡̝̟̥̃̿ṱ̵̯̥̈́͌͛ḥ̵̺͔͍͂͛e̵̢̛͓͙ ̴͉̈́͊̚b̴̗̻̓̂͂͝u̶͙̣̱̬̿̒t̵͕̳̦̯͌̏͊͠t̶͕͓̞͗̕o̸̖̅͒̽ņ̷̣̠͋͝

 ̷͙͕͑̅̚P̵͐̔͜r̷̻͗ë̴̛͕̟́̅̾s̸͓̤͇̮͛̍̒s̶̳̹̮͙̕ę̸̛͇̲̊͑d̸̦̼̒ ̷̫̜̑͜t̸̘̿̽h̵̰͓́̈́̒͝e̶̮͊ ̶̥̥̈̐͆̅ͅb̵̲̮̀̋̎̓ṵ̵͖͂t̶͇̼́̇̀̐t̶̜̎͊o̸̰͉̖̍n̶͓͕͓͗

 ̶̞̼̈́̈́B̷͚̖͚̈́͗͊͗ũ̶̡̳͊t̶̼̤͙̋̊͋ ̴̯̠̗̍n̶͍̼̪͋͌ǒ̴̘b̵̯̍̓́ọ̸̅̕͝ḑ̸̲̲͋͌̎y̴̛̝̦̜̟͑́̕ ̵̯̹̂͊c̵͚͇̰̐̓ä̵̠̥́̈́̌͝m̴̹̮̺͔̈́̓͘ě̵̩̣̣͐

 ̵̤͈̞̲̆B̴̗̱͙͐̽̈́̽ü̶̲̝͇̇͑͘t̷͎̍̆̚ ̴̛̗̤͈͛͌n̸͕̺̱͈̔̀o̷͙̅̕b̴̛̖̒ȯ̶̙̥d̷̦͑̂͝y̸̰͐ ̸̬̓̎͠͠c̸̖̄̇͛a̵͖͇͖͚̒m̴͇̪̟̩̌͛ȅ̴̩͛͝

 ̴͉͓͓̀͘B̷͚̤̞́̐ṷ̶̈̈t̶̨̯̙̓̈́̌ ̷̦͚̪̓͗̃n̵̻̔̏ǒ̶̼͔̉̇b̶͓̲̕o̶̹͖͓͋͊̎d̵̗̓͌̈́́y̴̞͓̝̓̕ ̷̧͔͎̈ͅc̵̳̋̽͛͘a̴͙̥̋̎͆m̸̹̳̌̈́e̶̘̤̽͂

 “A-are you alright, Asher? You’re awake a full day early. Asher? Asher? C-can you see the hand I’m waving in front of you?”

 “Huh? What? Oh… hey, Alphys.”

 “H-hello! I’m glad you were able to press---- move your hand! That’s a g-great sign already. I’m gonna d-drain the tank, and open the hatch. Will you t-try to sit up for me then?”

 Asher managed to nod.

 With a hiss, the liquid magic drained out of the tank, and the hatches opened. With some effort, he sat about halfway up before collapsing.

 “Hey, that’s okay. A-anyone would have trouble after all your body’s been through.”

 Alphys took hold of his shoulders.

 “Let’s try it again, t-together. Ready?”

 “Yeah.”

 With her extra muscle, Asher managed to sit up and stay that way. The tank bent forward like a lawn chair to prop him in place.

 “Your vitals are still making their own kind of sense, but you are alive, you’ve displayed 0% risks of immortality, and your body composition is…. Mostly solid. I’m gonna call in Dr. D-Dreemurr, and she’s gonna talk to you about your opt-options.”

 Options? What the hell did that mean?