#● ( fate verse; with my own two eyes I want to see that shining moment )

[xxyumeno]

@apostasypromessa​ said:  ROMANI COME OUT AND PLAY!

      ❝Hello, new number. Who this?❞ smartass.

         🗡️ ▸ @apostasypromessa​ + seere &&. unprompted interaction

[merakiui]

Tsaritsa's personal handmaiden that you wrote was so good!! Do you have anymore thoughts on this? And thank you so much for replying this ask, hope that you having a wonderful day/night.

I do have some thoughts! I’ll list my thoughts below.

Having hot tea with the Tsaritsa, which are comfortable moments between the two of you. None are permitted to disturb either of you during this time, as it’s a moment the Tsaritsa cherishes. Though she’ll never admit to it, you can tell that her usually frosty gaze warms just a little when you sit across from her.

No one has ever seen you with your mask off, which means your face remains a grand mystery. The Harbingers have all secretly theorized what might be hiding under there. When thinking of you, their gazes wander to Capitano, whose face is also a mystery waiting to be solved should anyone dare to try. They can’t help but create their own image of you in their heads per their tastes. Childe imagines a face full of battle scars, Colombina imagines a soft face with a certain sharpness to it, Arlecchino likes to think that your eyes are as mysterious as your demeanor—they hold secrets that no Harbinger will ever know because they’ve yet to peer into those spiraling depths.

Despite your role as a handmaiden, you are also well-versed in combat. It started with self-defense because you wished to protect yourself and those close to you, and it has evolved into a rather graceful fighting style that cuts through enemies quicker than they can heave their final breath. You practice and train in secret, but lately there have been eyes on the training grounds.

When cleaning Zapolyarny Palace, scrubbing away grime and bloodshed without a second thought, you often encounter one of the Harbingers. They linger for a moment, observing the way you work so diligently. Depending on who you’ve encountered, they always glean vastly different observations from the brief exchange. Dottore has not seen a Vision on your person; he wonders if you possess one. Pantalone spies the hair accessory he gifted you, its silver shine twinkling in the dimness of the palace hall. Capitano notices how small and fragile you look when he stares down at you from his imposing height. It’s usually Pulcinella and Pierro who express their gratitude despite not needing to do so. It’s just for courtesy’s sake, but you always present them with a practiced smile and a soft utterance of, “Thank you, Lord Harbinger.”

When the holiday season falls upon Snezhnaya and everyone is permitted to visit their families, you bid farewell to Zapolyarny Palace and prepare to meet with your loved ones. It’s been a while since you’ve answered their letters or bothered reminiscing them. Perhaps it’s chance or fate that has you crossing paths with the rogue Sixth. You almost don’t recognize him, for he’s done well to blend in with the common folk, but the minute he opens his mouth and a tirade spills out you realize his true identity. He only sees you as a traveler, for you have donned casual attire and have discarded all of your ties to the Fatui, your mask included. It’s your duty to report back to the Tsaritsa, for this discovery is paramount. But right now you are not a handmaiden and he is not a Harbinger. So you extend your kindest smile and ask if he’d like to travel with you. Scaramouche, who traps himself in a mental debate of whether or not he should allow himself to travel the distance to Fontaine, where you claim a few loved ones reside, soon surrenders to a decision made by his nonexistent heart. There’s an air of familiarity around you; perhaps that’s why he agrees. He travels with you and by the final stretch of the journey a peculiar emotion prickles him. Though it’s foolish, he wants to stay by your side a little longer…

[mrpenguinpants]

Xiao: String of Fate [Soulmate AU] HCs

Hey anon! Okay, I’m just gonna level with you. This request? This request right here? Probably one of my favourites. I went feral over this at 3am and my monkey brain fabricated an entire life story for Xiao when he’s not even out yet.

I sorta combined this request with my feral plot idea (which is honestly a 20k word fic at this point), but ahem, I hope you like and np^^ gotta make so many offerings so Xiao hopefully blesses me. Have a lovely day anon!!

--- Xiao Semi Series

[ Friendship ] [ Falling in Love ] [ Cuddles ] [ Protective ] [ Affection ] [ Jealously ] [ Opposites Attract ] [ Fainting ]

[Masterlist]

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[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz @dai-tsukki-desu @thicmitten @sunnshiii @hanniejji​  @snowy224 @mayumintsu @tigerpriestess @yuu-yuukurotsuki @legionqueensav​ @youaskedfurret​

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Xiao: String of Fate [Soulmate AU] HCs

The red string of fate is a concept that those who are connected by a red string are destined to meet and fall in love. Regardless of place, time, or circumstances. The red string can never be broken unless one connected passes away.

Alatus

For the past few days, Alatus would wake up early and scale the mountains of his small village to pick Qingxin flowers. The morning dew would still be on the petals before the sun came by and evaporated everything. It became a bit of a small joke that the elders used to make, that a earth spirit would appear at the break of dawn to place the flowers for harvest. Not that Alatus minded, he was grateful that whatever celestial spirt was out there made sure to replace the ones he took. Remembering to always offer a prayer of thanks and a small offering, you would scold him if he didn’t.

He quickly scaled and vaulted over the wooden beam and slipped into your room. He winced at the sound of his shoes landing on the wooden floor but you didn’t seem to stir. You were still sleeping peacefully as Alatus took the fresh flowers to add to the ones already in your small vase beside you. They were your favourite flower after all. He reminisces about when you were both children and how you would drag him to mountains and tell him all about how at the very top there was his beautiful white flower. But you were both too young with small limbs to even attempt to climb it, plus if you somehow managed to do it, it would take too long and both your parents would be worried. It never seemed to deter you as you reasoned that a wind spirit would help your journey. Come to think of it, you always put a lot of faith into celestial beings. But he goes along with your plan, never one to contain your desire to explore.

He’s suddenly snapped out of his memories when he hears a soft knock on the door. It quietly opens to reveal your mother. She gives him a small smile as he looked a bit guilty for getting caught breaking in before waving him over to hand him something. You left him with a small bamboo package that you had wanted to give on his birthday. On top of the bamboo, you had wrote a short but warming message that you were worried about him always running off outside and that he might catch a cold. He smiled softly at your words, ingraining the way your ink brush flowed down the bamboo sticks into his mind. He offer’s a small thanks as she gives him a comforting hug. Whether for him or her he doesn’t know and she leaves.

He carefully untied the brown string keeping the package together to unravel a blue, white, and gold sleeve. He silently marveled at how beautiful it was and held it up to the light, it almost seemed to shine with subtle highlights. He has no idea how you managed to create this, he had never even seen the dye of red or gold used in clothing before. Perhaps the celestial beings decided to bless you for your prayers and devotion. He gives one small squeeze of your hand as he ties the sleeve to his arm and he slips out through the same window he came from. He looks up at the mountain’s he’s scaled before setting on the tallest one. One so tall the elders say that it could reach celestia.

As he scales the mountain he can feel a taint tug on his thumb, before it slowly disappears. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, breathes in deeply, and continues upwards.

The Golden-Winged King

One of his first adepti duties was to investigate the place he once knew as his home. There had been a dream eating demon that had been spreading curses onto unsuspecting youths. Putting them into eternal sleep before they bodies finally succumbed and they passed away. It was horrible and Alatus swore he would do everything in his power to make the dream demon suffer. Unfortunely, seeing as this was his first time venturing out back into the moral world and still recovering from his trials, he was assigned to work with a senior anemo adepti. One who was well-versed in using polearms that could “show him the ropes” as mortals would say.

This other adepti was too loud and erratic for his tastes compared to the calm and peaceful friend he once knew. Always getting side-tracked and flying around Alatus like some overgrown pixie. Never taking anything serious even though the both of you were tasked to destroy evil. But he held his tongue since this was his senior, gripping his sleeve when he was especially annoyed. This only seemed to spur the other anemo adepti further and inquire about the sleeve. Naturally, Alatus was hostile and guarded. That was first time he ever raised his voice which instead of becoming offended or angry, the other adepti was impressed.

From then on the other adepti seemed to want to interact with Alatus at any given moment. From checking in with him on his latest mission or if he heard about how the delicious flowers tasted. Who even ate flowers? Either way, every instance of communication was brushed aside, he would always make some weak excuse that he needed to train. Which lead to the other challenging him. The both of you were the same element so it would be a good time to see who was the best at wielding it. Overtime he began to look forward to your weekly spars. Even finding a bit of joy out of them. Ever since he had climbed up the mountain it had been constant training and hardships but when it came to these spars. It was fun. Alatus began to open his heart a tiny bit, let’s himself relax and fall into amusement when he see’s his partner’s face pop over him as they hovered over him.

He even began to feel his locked up heart start to beat a bit faster whenever he saw his partner perk up and wave at him. Whenever you threw your arm around him he never brushed you off like he used to, just basked in your presence as you rambled about how this stuck up bird was running everyone through the ground with her demands. It was amusing for fresh adepti’s to see you both interact. The ever stoic and aloof Alatus that taught them through strict rules loosen up immediately and smile whenever your head popped up to scold him for his training methods.

It was fun. Until the day he became possessed and killed you with your own weapon.

Guardian Yaksha

Guizhong was concerned. Ever since Rex Lapis had saved the poor adepti man from his possession, he had locked himself in. He still fulfilled his duties with alarming accuracy but it seemed that he completely on auto-pilot. He could stand in the pouring rain without realizing it or he always seemed to be in such a rush. Asking to do anything that needed to be done rather than relax. He was going to end up running through his long years at this rate. She brought it up to Rex Lapis and his fellow Yaksha but none of them had the time or want to check in on him. It was a time of war after all. Except one.

You watch him stand in the rain. Any attempts from you or Guizhong to ask if he was better always failed and you didn’t want to push. But this was already past the point of simple concern. So the next time you saw him relapse you walked over and embraced him. He usually carried himself as stiff as possible but you swore you were holding one of Rex Lapis’s pillars. You braced yourself to get thrown off or at the very least be questioned but none of those things happened. He just stood there and to be honest, you weren’t sure if that was even more concerning. You both didn’t say anything even when the rain stopped until Rex Lapis had summoned you both over.

You and him never developed a close friendship but he never seemed to brush you away whenever you sat beside him ever since you hugged him in the rain. A bare acknowledgement on good days but that was alright. Just sitting in each other’s presence when the war wanted to be quiet somedays was nice. On harder days when fighting took too much of a toll on your body you would lean your head on his shoulder. He never shrugged you off or seemed bothered by it, in fact, it almost seemed as if he leaned back against you. You both never spoke during these moments, just a silent understanding looming over you both.

Then when Morax announced that Guizhong had passed away, you felt as if you somewhat understood how Xiao felt. You didn’t even register that you had walked back to the same place Xiao was standing back when he was in the rain. The war was finally over but after everything that had happened to get to this point, it was hard. You knew that a few of your other Yaksha’s were ready to return to Jueyun Karst or return to earth. You blink quickly as you feel two arms wrap around you and you realize how funny fate seems to be. You choke out some unintelligible noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sob as you cling onto him and let your bottled up emotions pour out.

He’s the last person you see in the newly established Liyue, wishing him luck in the rest of his journey, as you return to the earth. You aren’t sure what you’ll turn into but you hope that the peaceful atmosphere you both created will remain.

Xiao

It was completely out of the blue when you asked if he wanted to come on an adventure with you. You were both sitting under the tree that held the Wangshu inn up when you suddenly sat up and pointed in some far off direction across Liyue. Asked if he wanted to come with you after the lantern festival was over. He was a bit taken aback, you were a traveler first and foremost but you never asked if he wanted to come with you. You had always assumed that he wanted to stay as a protector of Liyue but after what Morax, now Zhongli, had said and how it was time to him to step down. You decided to ask him. It didn’t have to be far, you both could go to the stone gate if he wanted, just if he wanted to come with you anywhere.

His first instinct is to decline but you end up cutting him off before he can say anything.

“I know you have your reasons and loyalties to stay as Liyue’s protector. That’s why I’m not asking for you to accompany me across Teyvat. But I don’t know when I’m going to be back and after what happened in Liyue, I thought it would be nice to just, take a break, and go anywhere. You don’t have to accompany me if you don’t want to but I think it’d be nice to wander together,” you say as you continue to look across the land from the balcony. He can’t see where you’re looking at exactly but he ponders your words.

To wander and go anywhere. Just the two of you. He’s never even considered leaving Liyue even after all the demons were replaced with weak hilichurls and slimes. He gazes up at the tree’s leaves, looks further to see celestia, and even further back to his home. Guizhong always said he needed to relax and live in the moment of now rather than running past everything but was he really ready for that? 

“Ah, sorry was that a bit too forward? I really didn’t mean anything ba-”

“Yes. Let’s go,” Xiao cuts you off as his eyes shine in a new light of determination, “Wherever you want to go, I will come with you.”

You blink once, twice, before a bright grin stretch's across your face as you quickly ask if he’s joking. He’s not, and you cheer excitedly as you list off different places you’ve wanted to explore. Perhaps the shoal? Maybe even further into the chasm? Actually wait, the electro archon has closed that area off so maybe not there. Xiao patiently listens to you ramble as he smiles softly. Your excitement is addicting and he can feel his heart flutter just a bit. How long has it been since he felt this way? He can feel a small tug on his thumb, he looks down but he can’t see anything, but there’s a comfortable weight that he’s felt has been missing for a very long time.

---

If this seems interesting and people seem to enjoy it, I can post the actual fic when Xiao banner drops as a bit of a catalyst. It’s basically the same idea.  Though it’s kinda long so I have no idea when that’s going to be finished. It might turn into a thank you gift instead. (or ahem, you know, if you wanna commission me and see it earlier there’s that haha just kidding;;).

Honestly, I took a lot of liberties. I read the lore on adepti and Xiao but most of this is my monkey brain and previous semi xiao fics (which you don’t have to read but it would be helpful to see extended parts). Phew, this took a lot of time. It’s not as cute as my other fics but hopefully you all enjoyed it^^

Actually, nevermind. I hate this. I’ll keep it up since I haven’t posted this week yet but I hate this. 

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

I wish I knew what The Plot-verse Jen and Mish are doing for the wedding day <3 I like to think that Dani is having a small argument w Jen over what he should or should not do regarding the fan (and chad and samantha) wedding.

And just like that ... you have me writing more Cockles in The Plot-verse.

They got in late last night. Dani and the kids are still asleep, but Jensen is just too excited stay in bed. It’s been far too long since they’ve seen each other, and he can hear Misha hobbling around in the kitchen—something he really shouldn’t be doing just two days after a hip replacement.

But when he walks around the corner, seeing the man standing by the stove—skin glowing gold in the morning sun, Jensen waits just a minute longer before going over to bitch at him for being on his feet, because he doesn’t get to see this sight often enough. The man he loves … right here, finally within reach.

“Good morning” he says eventually, walking up behind Misha just as the man is reaching for the coffee pot. “What the fuck are you doing walking around?”

Misha laughs, leaning into Jensen as Jensen’s arms snake around his middle. “Makin’ coffee. I figured everyone in the house needs it after staying up so late.”

“I don’t think the kids do.”

“Not directly, no; but if they want me not to beat them with my crutches—they’ll want me to have my coffee.”

Jensen rolls his eyes and smiles. “They’ve been giving you grief?”

Misha finally rotates in Jensen’s arms, looping his own around the back of his neck before kissing him. “They’re animals.”

“Just like their dad” Jensen snickers, nuzzling Misha’s nose.

Misha scoffs in feigned offense. “I’m an angel … didn’t you know?”

“Yeah, yeah” Jensen muses. “Well, Angel. You need to go sit down. I’ll make the coffee.”

With a frown, Misha groans. “I don’t want to let go of you just yet. You’re quite an attractive crutch, and I need the support.”

Jensen squeezes the man tighter, breathing in the smell of him—a rather pungent smell. He probably hasn’t showered since the surgery; but he’s still his Mish. He’s still his home, his constant, and Jensen will never not want to fill his lungs with the man. “I’ll always let you lean on me, no matter what.”

Misha’s face softens, and his eyes widen as he looks him over. “Aw … what’s gotten into you? You’re so mushy today. I love it.”

Jensen finally tugs the man back, repositioning him so he’s braced against his side and Jensen can help him to one of the kitchen chairs. “Well, it is Valentine’s Day” Jensen chuckles, setting Misha down softly. “Also, I’ve missed you—a lot.” He leans in and kisses those pink, chapped lips, but when he pulls away again, Misha’s eyes are even wider.

“Shit.”

Jensen furrows his brow. “What?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day?”

Jensen chuckles. “Yeah. Why? You forgot?”

Misha swallows thickly and then nods.

Jensen rolls his eyes and then kisses him again. “Don’t worry about it. Just having you within kissing-distance is gift-enough for me.”

Misha half smiles but his gaze turns far-away, like he’s deep in thought.

“You didn’t get anything for Vicki, did you?” Jensen surmises after another moment later.

Misha eventually shakes his head.

Jensen straightens back out before turning towards the kitchen counter, knowing that the man will truly need coffee now if he’s going to start worrying so early in the morning, but maybe Jensen can help with that too. “It’s not a problem, Mish. I actually ordered flowers for both Dani and Vick… they should be getting here any minute. Just pull the card off and give her the other bouquet” he says, taking the coffee pot out of the machine and moving to the sink to fill it up with water. He raises his voice to talk over the noise. “And if you’re really worried about it—I also got two small things for Dee, so you can have one of them for Vick … I don’t know if she’d like it though. Vintage tees and headbands aren’t really her thing.” He shuts off the water and glances towards the man sitting at the table—who is now trying to stand up yet again. “Jeez—Mish!” He sets down the pot and scurries back over to the table to push Misha back into the chair. “Will you stop? I can handle things in the kitchen, alright? Just stay put!”

But Misha only reaches up, taking a fistful of Jensen’s t-shirt in his hand in order to yank him down and kiss him hard.

Jensen stumbles a little, but he catches himself on the edge of the table, quickly melting into the kiss a moment later, losing all comprehension the moment after that.

“You …” Misha starts when he finally breaks away, “are an extremely thoughtful man.” He kisses him again, harder still—slipping Jensen just enough tongue to make his body arch.

Jensen bites Misha’s lip as his sweatpants begin to tent; but he forces himself to pull away—knowing there’s nothing either of them can really do right now, and he really doesn’t need blue balls before noon. It’s a shame though, because he could spend all day tangled up with this man and never tire of it.

Misha smiles at him, face lighting up with many things that he could say, but doesn’t have to, because Jensen knows them all. “I love you—and thank you … for the flowers, that is. I’ll give those to Vicki; but you keep the gifts. We don’t normally do too much for Valentine’s day anyway; but I do usually get her flowers and cook her dinner.”

Jensen pulls away a little more and then leans his forehead against Misha’s, looking into those ocean-blues, feeling them calm him with their waves of warmth. “Well, that’s why we’re here, babe. To help you cook … help with the kids. Help you and Vicki manage while you heal. I got you, so just sit back and relax, alright?”

Misha nods against him, giving him one last peck before Jensen slips away to tend to the coffee—but Misha gives his ass a quick slap just before he’s out of reach. “Damn … I wish I could get on that.”

Jensen looks back over his shoulder and gives Misha a wink. “You and me both.”

***

The Coffee brewed and breakfast cooked—a filling array of waffles and eggs and spicy gourmet sausage that Misha had stockpiled in preparation of Jensen and Danneel’s visit. In fact, the man had loaded up on all the Ackles favorites—from beer, to games and toys for the kids, to all their favorite meals and snacks. He took care of just about everything they could possibly want or need; which makes the fact that he’s fretting over forgetting Valentine’s day all the more hilarious to Jensen.

“I can’t believe I didn’t get you anything!” Misha whines for the twentieth time today as he looks over the bracelet Jensen just gave him.

It was hand carved, ash and oak, with lines of black onyx inlayed between the woods, creating almost a braided effect. The craftsman said it was symbolic of two differing souls coming together to become something entirely new. And the onyx represented that new reality—black like the endless universe, reflecting all the light and love that shines within it. It was perfect, and Jensen felt that he was fated to find that bracelet—having accidently stumbled upon the tiny shop after taking a wrong turn when trying to find a gas station near their new cabin in Colorado.

They had decided to buy the place only a few months back—inspired by Misha’s purchase of Faith Ranch. So now, their families have two properties to go to be alone together. Faith Ranch and Serenity Lodge.

Yeah, the names are a little corny, but Jensen feels like they’re pretty fitting whenever they’re all finally together. The serenity he feels seeing all their kids playing … the faith he has in the future when he watches Misha and Danneel and Vicki all laughing with one another – it’s perfect; and he feels so very blessed that they have those places to run away to now. To be together and to be themselves.

In fact, the original plan was to have Misha and Vicki and the kids come up to Serenity to stay with them as Misha recuperated from his surgery, but with the winter storms and all the new frost hitting the area, Misha’s doctor said that Colorado was probably not the best environment for a man with stiff joints and limited mobility. So, Jensen and Danneel changed their plans and headed towards Washington, knowing that ultimately—it didn’t matter where in the world they were, as long as they were all together.

 The kids had all gotten up with the smell of breakfast, and once they shoveled in their food—they were all begging to go out back and play—meaning that the adults’ peaceful morning of gift giving and quiet coffee-drinking came to a speedy end. So, Danneel, Vicki and Jensen spent twenty minutes after breakfast trying to wrestle all the little ones into jackets and long pants and winter boots, which was quite a feat, even with three sets of hands, they were still outnumbered. Arrow and Zepp kept pulling off their jackets because they said they were too hot. JJ and Maison kept torturing West with annoying, made-up songs that all seemed to end with the same line “West smells like poop”; which ultimately made West retaliate with pokes and tickles and name calling—and that of course caused the girls to run away and scream at the top of their lungs, which of course meant that the three adults were chasing them all over the house—just trying to finish dressing them so they could finally kick them outside.

Misha sat back and laughed as he watched all the commotion go down, for once—seeming to enjoy the fact that he was immobile and unable to help.

Eventually however, the kids did get dressed and were set loose in the yard, leaving the grownups to watch them from the sunroom, drinking their second and third cups of coffee in somewhat relative-peace. The glassed-in space was warm and bright, and filled up with the scent of roses and gardenias. The two beautiful bouquets that Jensen had ordered (one of which, Misha did end up commandeering) are sitting on the coffee table between them all, adding just the right amount of color to the room.

Misha leaned against Jensen’s side as he scrolled on his phone; and Danneel and Vicki sat in the chairs across from them, talking about politics and lamenting over the current state of the senate, while Jensen just sat there quietly … smiling to himself because he hasn’t felt this happy in a while. His family is all together. The coffee Misha got was his favorite, and he has a belly full of waffles and sausage. This is quite possibly, the best Valentine’s Day he’s ever had.

“Fuck!” Misha yelps suddenly, bolting upright with a groan. “It’s our wedding today too?”

Jensen crinkles his eyes as he stares at the side of the man’s face, cracking a smile because—surely, the man is losing his mind. “What?”

Misha is still staring at his phone, scrolling furiously through—what Jensen thinks is Twitter; but Misha is moving too fast for him to be sure. “Apparently—it’s Dean and Cas’s wedding day today.”

Vicki and Danneel stop their conversation to gawk over at him too. “What?” They both ask again in unison.

Misha finally looks up from the screen, and then around to all three of them. “It’s our wedding day!”

And Jensen is rolling his eyes now. “We heard you the first time, Mish—but we’re gonna need you to explain it now.”

Misha shifts in his seat, wincing as his sore body twists in his hip-brace. “Remember that whole Chad-thing I was telling you about?”

“Chad? Chad who?” Danneel asks, and Vicki snickers to herself, obviously remembering something about all this, but Jensen is drawing a blank.

“Lindberg—he played Ash on Supernatural. I’ve only ever met him at conventions though. Nice guy.”

“Funny guy” Jensen adds on, starting to recall Misha mentioning the man at some point last week.

“Very funny—so funny in fact, he has written this whole additional arc for the show, set in Heaven, where he and Ellen are running the Roadhouse again, and of course … the fans are eating up.”

Jensen laughs. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Misha nods before continuing. “Yeah, well … it all started on Dean’s birthday … a party at the Roadhouse seemed to be the event. Both Chad and Samantha Ferris made this whole story out of it; but now, I guess the story went on to include Dean and Cas’s wedding … on Valentine’s Day, no less. Looks like Chad is going live in a little bit to talk to fans about it. He and Samantha are making it a whole thing. And now ‘DeanCasWedding’ is trending on Twitter.”

“That’s adorable” Vicki chuckles.

“So adorable! Oh my God! You guys should totally join in!” Danneel squeals.

That makes Jensen’s eyes go wide. “No way! Not gonna happen.”

Danneel’s smile somersaults into a pout. “But why not? You guys would break the internet!”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why not. I’ve been pretty quiet about the finale; so, I don’t think the first time I really break my silence should be about our characters’ supposed marriage. That’s treading a really thin line in our contracts.”

“It’s just a silly story by one of the past actors. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal” Vicki offers, but now Misha is the one shaking his head.

“No, Jensen’s right. The simple act of us participating in something like that might be an invitation for the network to extend our NDA’s. As harmless as it would actually be to them and the canon of the show, our direct participation in it would raise too many eyebrows” Misha finishes, but now both the women are frowning.

“Well, maybe there’s something subtle you could do. Even if it’s just liking some of Chad’s tweets or something.”

“Maybe” Jensen offers, already thinking that that probably won’t happen; but who knows. He’s feeling rather soft today. If applied right, he can probably be pressured into just about anything.

“Mommy!” Arrow screeches, and the sound is immediately followed by Maison’s dubious laugh.

Both Vicki and Danneel look at one another before sighing and setting down their coffee cups.

“I’m sorry. Our daughter loves to torment those around her. She gets it entirely from her father” Vicki says, tossing a pointed look at her husband.

Misha gasps. “Who … me?” he mocks.

Danneel laughs as she looks at him adoringly. “It’s good-hearted torment, I’m sure.”

“Is there such a thing?” Vicki asks before moving around the chairs towards the screen door to the backyard.

Misha fakes a cry and then burrows his face into Jensen’s neck. “She’s so cruel, Jensen. Hold me!”

Jensen busts up laughing, but he does as he’s told, wrapping his arms tightly around the man’s body. “Shh—it’s okay, baby. I got you.”

Vicki smirks at the two of them nestled together on the couch. “You can have him. I’ll just take your wife off your hands.” And with that, she loops her arm with Danneel’s and pulls her out the door.

“Sounds good to me!” Danneel chirps, skipping along beside her as they go to check on the kids.

“Hey! I tend to like my wife!” Jensen yells, but Vicki just flits her hand in the air and waives him off.

“Hmm” Jensen grumbles. “Those two better not forget about us.”

Misha laughs, kissing his neck right after and it shocks goosebumps up all over Jensen’s body. “Don’t worry. They’ll remember we’re here as soon as the kids get too crazy.”

Jensen smiles. “True enough.”

They fall silent a moment, melting into each other’s warmth as the outside chill seeps in through the cracked back door, but the contrast only seems to make their closeness feel more intense.

“So—do you think you’ll do it?”

“Do what?” Jensen asks, mind already wandering towards all the future days that could be like this one. Their families—together, happy and full of love.

“Do you think you’ll actually like one of Chad’s tweets or whatever?” Misha finally pulls back a little so he can look Jensen in the eye.

Jensen sighs and then shrugs again. “I dunno, man. I’m just really hesitant about anything having to do with the show right now, even if it is just a silly makeshift fan-fiction put together by some of the past characters. I just don’t want to start picking at that scab, you know?”

Misha sighs as well, and then nods—leaning his head back onto Jensen’s shoulder as he scratches beneath his leg brace. “I get it. It should be harmless and all in good fun, but these things can snowball pretty quickly.”

“Exactly.”

“It is fun to think about though.”

“What’s that?”

“Dean and Cas—tying the knot.”

Jensen huffs a laugh before gathering Misha’s hand in his own. “Yeah. That would’ve been a fun scene to shoot.”

“Dean—all nervous at the end of the aisle…” Misha says dreamily.

“Cas, picking apart all the wedding traditions—talking about their archaic and barbaric origins” Jensen laughs.

“Charlie, punching him in the arm and telling him to stop killing the romance.”

Jensen nods. “She so would! She’d totally do that. Oh, and you know Bobby would be crying.”

“Oh yeah... and Sam would probably tear up a bit too.”

Now Jensen shakes his head. “Nah, Sam would just be making a smirky little bitch-face as Dean cried.”

Misha grins wide against Jensen’s shoulder. “Oh God … Dean would be bawling his eyes out.”

“He’d be marrying the love of his life … so yeah, of course he’d be bawling his eyes out!”

“You think Cas is the love of Dean’s life?” Misha asks, pulling back again suddenly to wonder at the side of Jensen’s face.

Jensen turns to him, a little surprised by the question. “Sure … don’t you?”

Misha’s face shifts into a cautious smile. “Well … I mean, I know that Dean is the love of Cas’s life. Obviously … the show admitted as much; but we never really talked about what you thought Dean’s take on the whole thing would be. We talked about the confession scene itself, and Dean’s reciprocation and how it was a long time coming for the show; but never what it might’ve actually meant for our two characters … if they ever had the chance to actually do something about it, that is.”

Jensen straightens out on the couch, being careful not to move too quickly and accidentally jostle Misha’s still fragile body. “Well …” he begins, trying to get back into Dean’s mindset, something that used to be as easy as flicking on a light switch for him; but now—with months and months having passed where he hasn’t been Dean Winchester, he’s finding it’s a little harder to get there, “I guess… since Dean is in Heaven now, he’d finally let his guard down. He wouldn’t be so hell bent on keeping his distance, because he’d know he finally doesn’t have to worry about losing everyone he loves; and that includes Cas.”

“But … a wedding?” Misha laughs; however, Jensen doesn’t miss the hopeful uptick to his voice.

“It’d take some doing … but yeah. I think Dean would eventually pop the question. He’d drive Cas around Heaven for a while, listening to some tunes, eating some good ass food. And then they’d find some beautiful lake somewhere, sit on Baby’s hood … and Dean would just know, ya know? So, he’d throw his arm around Cas’s neck and say ‘Cas—what the fuck are we doin’? We should just get hitched already’ and then he’d kiss him like there’s no tomorrow.”

Misha smiles, eyes scrunching up with his grinning cheeks. “I suppose in Heaven, the concept of tomorrow isn’t really a thing.”

“Yeah, time works different in Heaven … isn’t that what the script said?”

“Something like that” Misha mutters, inching himself up to reposition the leg he has propped against the table. “So … we’d be super corny and get married on Valentine’s Day?”

“Why not?” Jensen laughs. “Dean does enjoy a good Rom-Com moment. And we all know he’s about as corny as they come.”

“True” Misha chuckles. “Well, in that case …” He sits up straight and sobers his face, narrowing his eyes a little before he turns a serious gaze in Jensen’s direction. “Happy Wedding Day, Dean” he says—in his deepest, raspiest Cas-voice.

Jensen starts to laugh, but quickly stops himself so he can get into character—half smiling, looking away … bashful, but still intense. “Back at ya, Cas.” He clears his throat as he looks around the room, trying to think of what Dean would say next … but then it hits him. Dean wouldn’t say anything. Without a second thought, Jensen leans forward and reaches out towards one of the bouquets, pulling out a long strand of Baby’s Breath … quickly breaking it in half and twisting the stem around itself, finally tucking the ends between one another to make a small, vined circle. And then, turning slowly in his seat, he grabs Misha’s—Cas’s left hand and holds it between them, slipping the make-shift ring onto his finger.

Misha looks down at it a moment, breaking character as his voice cracks in a sigh; but as he looks back towards Jensen—a slight sheen of tears in his eyes, he falls back into the angel’s grace, eyes seeming to glow blue in the morning sun, shoulders squaring on the wings of the day. “I do” he says raggedly, sounding choked up, but still like a tried-and-true angel of the lord.

“Me too” Jensen rumbles, voice just as deep before finally leaning in to kiss his angel’s lips; but soon enough—their Heaven falls away, as do Dean and Castiel, leaving just the two of them, real and mortal and alone in the sunroom of Misha’s home.

A flowered ring on one hand.

Each other’s hearts in the other.

Two families growing together in the grass and sun.

And a real-life paradise, alive and thriving all around them.

Yes … Jensen thinks, this is indeed the best Valentine’s Day he’s ever had.

[thatsmybreadandbutter]

How I personally interpret "Nightmare," from Galaktikon II, for @bluethepearldiver!

Verse by verse,

I don't think you know who I am

But I have a tale to tell

Born from a wicked spell

Mephistopheles isn't me

But they see what they want to see

Blinded by everything

The narrator is either new to us, or new to us seeing their perspective/truth. He became what he is now through a spell, whether a literal curse or the cruel hand of fate. He is seen as a servant of the Devil, most likely not literally, but still as supernatural, horrible, and of ill intent, even though he does not see himself that way. He's seen as both hero and villain, both sides too caught up in their own agendas to see how much power he holds back, and how his only intervention is to further the prophecy he calls home.

I remember lying in my bed

I remember dirt above my head

Never ever wanted this to be

I am half of what I used to be

Going back to his "birth" from the first verse, through his eyes. I visualize his death, peaceful even, but to be awoken from a sleep, forever feeling out of place and wrong. Brought back to life against his will, perhaps part of him was sold, perhaps the people around him were doing the bidding of a higher power, or religiously fulfilling the prophecy.

The last two lines here I think are the cue for the who, when, and why. "I am half of what I used to be," is my clue-in that this could be sung by The Half Man, aka Mr. Salacia. He could be saying, yes, he WAS once a man, in the past, before his birth, and that he never asked to be whatever he is now.

He connects to his prior humanity, and while long accepted his fate and role, grieves his past self and the unfairness of his demise. In turn, we empathize, and realize he is another gear in the klok, playing his part in all this, and possibly not the highest power involved here.

I do not want to let it go

This has been all but foreseen

Star will shine bright in the sky tonight

Magnetized planets sing

I don't have any strong feelings or visuals on this verse, simply the same as I was saying, with him knowing what comes next and resigning himself to guide it all to fruition. Giving us hints to the climax of the albums action.

As far as "letting it go?" Possibly the last amount of humanity he's held on to, which could mirror what Dethklok themselves may have to give up in the end.

This cold heart keeps on beating

I'm the darkness you're feeling

Okay, first off, this moment musically and vocally... So emotional, so stunning, just overwhelms me. One of my favorites moments out of all of Brendon's work.

Anyway, two meaningful lines here. Salacia confirming he is reanimated, but still here and active, followed by his presence being felt. This could be in an overarching sense of terror, but I like the idea that he's speaking to Murderface. Murderface feeling the possession overtake him, and being flooded with Salacia, his power, his goals and words, but possibly some of his feelings and memories.

I visualize the shot of Murderface at the end of Doomstar; we've seen some of the bizarre and prophetic nightmares of the band, and this may be Murderface's turn. As the possession pulses through his veins, into his heart, mind, eyes, Murderface is awash with visions of the past. He feels a chill and slow beating pulse in tandem with his. The rage of Salacia's body being betrayed, and the internalized resentment of Murderface towards all who have cast him aside, melt together and rise up within him. Salacia and Murderface become one, and the built up anger hiding behind them following the rules and working behind the scenes is too much to bear. There is much less of a plan now, and the rampage ("My Name Is Murder") begins.

I still wait

Time will tell

Falcon flies

Magnetize

Backing up a bit, there is room between this song and "My Name is Murder." Salacia may be in him, and this Nightmare may happen, but he bides his time as always, waiting to strike, following the movements of each chess piece (Falconback, Doomstar, Dethklok, etc.). The prophecy may not be in stone.

──────────────────

Also self-indulgent addition: I'm working on a crossover between Fear Street Part One and "Galaktikon II." That's a touch of my visual inspiration for the Nightmare itself:

(slight spoilers for Fear Street following)

A character touches an area that she was unaware to be the burial site of a witch. She is knocked back, nose bloodied, and shows a visceral slideshow of images from the past, out of context and in first-person. These images haunt her, both figuratively and literally, but we later see that it wasn't the intention; the body needed it's story to be heard. The unfairness of how it became something horrible against it's will. This would be Murderface being flooded with the eyes of The Half-Man.

Anyway, thank you for showing interest and reading this! This is probably my favorite track on the album; I think it's just so hauntingly beautiful.

[indianamoonshine]

chapter iii | knightly behavior

summary: every summer you work on your father’s strawberry farm with your three sisters. it’s a way to take a break from the big city but summers in the midwest are hot and they linger. this year, your father’s old and mysterious friend shows up to stay on your land for a reason yet to be determined. din djarin seems dangerous, but kind enough, and the two of you quickly become…well, let’s fact it…smitten.

rating: (18+) for future and explicit sexual content.

author’s note: reader is well over eighteen for obvious reasons. i won’t ever go into physical detail about the reader’s appearance because we include everyone. this fic is pretty much a mix between pride & prejudice and call me by your name except without the und*rage crap we do not condone.

You looked upon him in a way that no one had ever looked upon him before.

And it was strange, he thought, because the two of you had been introduced not even twenty-four hours prior. But in your eyes was a subtle enchantment that made Din forget the misfortunes that brought him to the farm in the first place.

You smile politely at him, albeit a bit drunkenly, as he mends your wound. Your foot is propped against his thigh as you sit prettily upon the bathroom counter. Your eyes shine, cheeks rosy with alcohol and adrenaline. The thorn had been removed, but the cut still bled enough to upset Din. When you flinch at the peroxide, he himself grimaces as though he can empathize with your pain.

“I’m surprised I felt it at all,” you say to him as though you’re sheepish from the fall. “With all the vodka and whatnot.”

Din meets your gaze and catches himself staring at your petal-like lips. He forces himself to look away, as much as it burned, but he was far too concerned with your feelings at the gesture.

there was no way you could look at a man such as him the way he looked at you.

Din places a Band-Aid on your foot, sealing it gently, and inspects it once more. “This is a tender part of the body,” he says. He finds himself squeezing you gently in a show of affection he had not expected. He swallows before adding, “-I would be concerned if you didn’t.”

A flash of mischief crosses your face before you tease. “Are you a doctor, Mister Djarin?”

He finds himself chuckling lowly at the question. His answer was quite the opposite, but you needn’t know the true nature of his lot in life. If possible, he’d avoid being transparent in that regard for as long as fate allowed.

“No,” Din finds himself saying. “And you can call me Din.”

A bold choice, but when you embrace with a gentle smile. “My father always told me to refer to my elders with their respective titles.”

You were funny. Witty. Charming to the last. Din found himself growing more fond of you with each passing moment; even in your disheveled state did he think you beautiful.

He mustn’t become attached. You could very easily become ammunition if he weren’t careful. In his pursuit of sound welfare, you had almost become something of a villain; you were making it increasingly difficult to focus on protecting his own interests. In just a few hours, Din felt an unwarranted dedication to you.

He wasn’t comfortable with it.

But he didn’t know how to stop it.

Those of Mandalorian creed did not devote themselves to anyone outside of the order. They hunt and they seek – they survive. And to be senselessly bewitched by someone of such (what he would’ve once considered) little importance was preposterous.

Nonsensical.

Din hadn’t ever been irrational before. Everything was calculated.

Not anymore.

Din tries not to grin, but he can’t bear it. His body is traitorous. “Funny,” he quips. He releases your foot.

You remain silent for a moment, formulating thoughts of whatever it was celestial beings like you did in quietude.

“How did you and my father meet?” you ask after what felt like eons of stillness. “He hasn’t told us very much.”

Din starts to clean up the medical supplies – bits of paper from the Band-Aid and the hydrogen peroxide he had so carefully dabbed upon your skin.

He falters for a moment. While what he was about to say was the truth, it felt dirty. There was more to your father’s past than what you’d have believed and Din knew it wasn’t his place to expose any of it; he would have tread carefully.

“We met when we were teenagers,” he replies.

You let out a messy giggle – like it caught even yourself off guard. You place a hand against your mouth as though to cover the goofy smile. “So when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, then.”

The age-gap hadn’t been lost on Din.

He opens the cabinet very carefully to avoid bumping your head with it. The bathroom was in older shape compared to the rest of the house, so it came as no surprise when the mirror rattled loudly as it opened.

“I was the one who carried you to safety, remember?” Din meets your eyes, hoping you’d find the humor in them.

You do.

“Yes,” you boff. The twitter that escapes your mouth causes his heart to jump to his throat. “And now you’re mending me after a vicious rose bush attack.”

He cracks a grin, though slyly to avoid sharing any bemusement due to your jesting lip. He couldn’t help it; your devilment was far too pleasant to make him scornful.

“Thank you,” you add meekly, but you’re smiling and it’s more than enough gratitude he required.

He wishes to see you smile all the time.

Din’s placed both hands against the counter, consciously ignorant of the space between the two of you. He meant no harm by it – was simply leaning against the sturdiness of the tile. But as you watch him, there was a sense of longing Din hadn’t beheld in quite some time. He tries to avoid it – whatever it may be – by tearing his gaze away from yours and pushing himself off with a casual grunt.

You blink when he separates himself from you, eyes fluttering a bit carelessly, and expression computing back to its neutralness. He does the same, brows raising in panic at the sensation.

“We met while I was camping in Michigan – the UP.” He scratches the back of his head and leans against the wall with arms crossed.

Anything to look complacent.

He finds himself engrossed by the way your ankles cross over one another and how your legs swing. Your dress had threatened to expose the more fragile parts of you, but you were of sound enough mind to eschew that from happening. Had that occurred, Din would’ve punished himself for looking. He wasn’t a religious man by any means, but what was that verse in the Christian bible again? “And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire.”

Faith didn’t belong in his repertoire, but that particular verse was commonsensical enough to recite.

Over and over again, apparently.

“So you’re from around here then?” you inquire.

“You know that people can visit the Midwest, right?” he remarks.

He was certain you’d simper mockingly – and sure enough, you do. “You’re very bratty for an old man.”

Din takes pride in guessing your responses; it must mean something.

Before he returns, he allows himself to laugh. It’s not full-bodied, but it’s some of the most genuine laughter he’s been able to conjure in quite some time.

“I’m from Chile,” he answers, perfectly amused by your bantering. “I moved here when I was a child.”

He watches as your fingers tap against the tile of the counter. They were well manicured, but cut short, and he guessed that was because you worked with your hands. He respected that – admired it. You clearly come from humble background and trialing youth.

Din could relate to that.

And yet you’re still soft, kind – gracious in your endeavors. And he was not. He was clinical, meticulous in the frayed edges of an odyssey he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue anymore. The two of you were snow and flame, and the old wife’s tale certainly wasn’t true. Opposites don’t attract. Opposites – the grunting, savage neanderthal of the two – are attracted. Someone ripened with softness such as yourself would surely never take rapture in a Neolithic man.

He could dream, of course. And he will.

“That’s very impressive,” you hum, chin raised in speculation.

Din furrows his brows, arms linking themselves around his frame tighter than before. It brought himself a semblance of comfort. For almost all his life, Din was the hunter and never the prey. He was large, foreboding enough to exude the kind of energy the average man could only theorize about, and yet here he stood…before you…

Feeling like the bounty he sought.

“Interesting to have been born in Chile?” he taunts.

Your brows crinkle, nose wiggling a bit to avoid showing your doubtful speculation. It wasn’t a look of disgust – Din was convinced you could never find fault in anyone. Maybe not even him. He hoped for this, anyway.

“No,” you reply. “To be able to keep that information from everyone.”

He shrugs, right brow arching in a show of faux derision. “Who said I was keeping it?” he all but drawled.

Something in his tone must’ve engaged your interest. Maybe you could see right through him; Din couldn’t find himself dumbfounded by the idea. You were smart enough to content with in a war of wit.

He notices how you head tilts in measured consideration. “You’re a very interesting man, Mister Djarin,” you whisper.

A heat flushes him from head to boot. He tears his fixation from the way your eyes swallow him whole – like a boa constrictor might do to a mouse. But he feels no fear for his safety – just his survival.

Because you were going to make this very difficult for him.

|||

TAG LIST: @dancingwiththeplanets, @ficthots, @t3a-bag, @dodgerandevans & there was one more person BUT I ACCIDENTALLY ERASED THEIR MESSAGE I’M SO SORRY TO WHOEVER YOU WERE PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Till The Sun Is in the Sky Fanfic

Title: Till The Sun is in the Sky Fanfic

Summary: Roman is a genie who has granted wishes for over a millennia. The only reason he’d be eager to serve his next master is for a chance to briefly escape the lamp’s darkness. Not for a chance at freedom--for that’s just wishful thinking and he knows what that all entails.

Or at least that’s his assumption until he meets Patton, the newest master of his lamp.

Pairing: platonic royality

Word-Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Crying, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

This set in the same ‘verse as When the Blazing Sun Is Gone but you don’t need to read that fic to understand this one. @delimeful requested seeing Roman’s/Logan’s role in the AU as part of my follower milestone celebration and so I went with Roman. Also huge thanks to @stillebesat who beta-read two different drafts of this fic and offered valuable input, I appreciate it! <3

-

He didn't know how long it had been since his last Master had thrown the lamp into the sea. It didn't matter really. Minutes, years, centuries...it didn't. Because he knew his next master would be the same as the last six hundred. Selfish, full of empty promises of freedom that never came to pass. 

No, the only reason why he would ever be eager to come out of the lamp to serve his six hundredth and one master would be for those precious moments to get out of the darkness.

Some of his more inquisitive masters would ask him what it felt like to have one’s soul crammed into a lamp.

He always laughed it off and made a joke about how it made for a great napping place.

But the truth was far from it. He knew it was silly, but he feared the darkness. He feared its loneliness, feared no one would ever find his lamp again and he’d be stuck there forever. 

He never told them how many times he uselessly fought against the magic barriers, hoping beyond hope to find a defect in the spell that bound him there. He didn’t tell them how much he feared them being the last master he ever had—not because they freed him but because his lamp never found another master to serve. Worse yet, his lamp shattering.

His soul was bound to the lamp and if it broke--then his soul would split into a thousand pieces along with it. Suffice to say, it was not a happy fate and not something happy to dwell on.

So he sang instead. His voice filling up the lamp, bouncing all around him. He could pretend someone was with him, that way, singing alongside him. He sang the few songs he knew and then some. He made up songs, even, about anything his mind could dwell on. He was halfway through singing about a gallant knight when a pair of hands made contact with the lamp.

 A new master; both relief and trepidation hit him at once. Relief that he’d be free from the darkness once more. Trepidation in knowing that it was only a fleeting temporary respite from it.

That was quite alright. After all, his new master was probably someone in great need of his assistance—they always were. The lamp magic sought out those who were plagued by horrible life circumstances. He would be the knight in shining armor to them, like he’d been to many others before.

For that was his true purpose in life and not freedom. That was just wishful thinking—and he knew all of what that entailed.

With a shroud of red mist, he rose up in front of his new master. All of which was entirely for the sheer dramatics of it. He enjoyed putting on a good show and the adrenaline that came along with it.

“Greetings!” He boomed, waving his arms around in a grand gesture, “I am a great and powerful genie—and I am here to make all your dreams come true!”

The human gawked at him, slack-jawed. His brown eyes bulged from behind his glasses, much like a cartoon character. There was a crack in one of the glasses’ lenses and upon closer look, the glasses appeared to be practically held together by tape. 

The man’s clothing appeared to be in a similar disheveled state—unraveling hems, holes in his shoes, scuff marks. The cardigan tied around his neck looked hardly wearable. Lying at the man’s feet was a blue backpack that the genie wouldn’t doubt contained all of his worldly belongings.

The lamp sought out the unfortunate and if there was one constant in any century, it was poverty.

“You’re…really a genie?” The human asked, pressing his eyebrows together.

“In the flesh.” The Genie winked.

He was well aware of what a fine specimen he was to behold. Flowing locks of russet hair, eyes that glimmered like emeralds, a voluptuous figure. Clothed in only the finest cloth that the eleventh century had to offer. Centuries of existence in the lamp had not diminished his beauty in the slightest.

If there was one thing he could take pleasure in, it was the awe humans gave him before they decided demanding for wishes. It usually lasted for only about five seconds. But during those five seconds, he could pretend that they were actually ecstatic to see him.

“What’s your name?”

He startled at those words.

“Pardon?” He asked, tilting his head backwards.

The last thing the Genie had been expecting, was those words to come out of his mouth. No one ever bothered to ask for his name. It was as though they assumed their wish-granting cosmic vending machine had no name. Or was indeed a living being with thoughts and feelings for that matter. They always started demanding rules and stipulations for their wishes as fast as they could.

“I’m sorry!” The human cried, wringing his hands together, “that was rude of me to ask without introducing myself first.”

He held out a hand, beaming, “I’m Patton! What’s your name?”

“I…” He stared down at the man’s hand, “My name?”

“Oh,” Patton’s eyes widened, “do you not have a name?”

The Genie looked away. He did once have a name, long ago before he inhabited the lamp. He couldn’t remember it. A strained, lilted laugh broke from his lips, not assuaging Patton’s concerns in the slightest.

How could he forget his own name? Names were important—special. Names had power. Names were a person’s identity. How could he let that damn lamp take something so precious away from him? It’d already taken everything else away—what more could it take? 

“I can’t seem to recall it,” He shook his head, before desperately trying to change the subject, “But enough about my fabulous self! I’m here to grant you not one, not two, but three! Three wishes of immeasurable power! Say the magic word, and I’ll spin your dreams into reality.”

He expected Patton to forget the name nonsense entirely at the mention of wishes. Surely, the man had unfulfilled desires—everyone always possessed those. Instead, the man slowly shook his head.

“I can help you find a new name, if you’d like.” He offered, a smile softly framing his face.

The Genie blinked, “You wish to give me a new name?”

He could not make heads nor tails of this strange human. He scarcely knew Patton for a single minute, but his aura oozed nothing but positivity. Still, it was an odd waste of a wish, if you asked him. He’d hate to see someone so good and in need of his cosmic help squander a wish like that.

“No,” Patton said, laughing, “I want to help you find a new name.”

Patton sat down on the beach, the lamp by his side. The human looked up at him and patted the space next to him. Reluctantly, the Genie joined him.

“How does the name Daniel sound to you?” Patton asked.

Daniel. One of his more unpleasant masters went by that name. The genie made a face before shaking his head.

“That’s okay! What about Philip then?”

“Phiiiilip…” He drew out the consonants, testing how they felt against the roof of his mouth, “What do you think, dear Patton? Do I look like a Philip to you?”

“Well, you’re very princely-looking, and I’d say Philip is a very princely name!” The man giggled, “but as long as you love it—I’ll love it as well!”

The Genie hesitated. As much as he liked the name—it didn’t quite scream him. It didn’t encompass his whole being. Philip felt as tight and constraining as his lamp. The genie could lie and tell Patton he liked it just to move on from this whole naming business. His purpose here was supposed to be focused on the wish-bearer and not him, the wish-granter.

However, as he looked upon Patton’s earnest gaze he found himself unable to lie to him.

“I am afraid that I’m not entirely in love with the idea of Philip.” He admittedly with a great sigh.

“That’s alright! We just gotta keep trying then!” Patton declared, undeterred.

He continued listing off names, but none of them seemed to satisfy the Genie. The latter of whom grew despondent that they’d never find the perfect name. There were millions of names in the world, yet none of them appealed to him. He voiced this to Patton, who refused to give up hope that easily and urged him to keep trying.

“Hmm…oh! What about Roman?” Patton asked, “I knew a guy back in high school named Roman. He did theatre.”

Something sparked within the hollow cavity of the Genie’s chest.

“Theatre? As in acting out a story in front of an audience?” The Genie asked, his eyes lit bright with wonder.

He’d never seen a play before. His masters never bothered taking him to events like that. Instead he’d remain in their household, his lamp sitting on a shelf or hidden in a cabinet. Like a jar of quarters to use on a rainy day. He could only manifest within twenty-five yards around his lamp, leaving him unable to sneak off and enjoy something like a theatre show.

But what little he heard of them reminded him greatly of the bards of his time. They used to travel all over, singing sweetly in poetic verse of great heroes and terrifying monsters. He’d always loved watching a bard perform. He almost ran off and became a bard himself before he ended up stuck inside the lamp.

“Yup! He played Lumiere in our production of Beauty and the Beast.”

The names of the character and story were unfamiliar to him. But the Genie could tell by Patton’s phrasing that it had been an important role.

“Roo-man,” He tried, liking how it sounded on his lips, “Roman, Roman, Romaaaaaaaaaaan!”

Patton giggled as the Genie held out the name for as long as he could.

Roman. It was bold, it was brash, it was perfect. Not too snug, not too loose—it fit him just right.

“Well then,” He said, clearing his throat, “I’d be honored to go by the name of such a great bard!”

“I’m happy to hear that!” Patton beamed, “We should go celebrate!”

The human stood up, stuffing the lamp into his backpack in the process. He offered a hand towards the Genie—or rather Roman.

“Celebrate?” Roman questioned, as he accepted Patton’s hand, “Don’t you want your three wishes—"

“That can wait for later,” Patton said as he pulled Roman onto his feet with ease, “what’s important right now is celebrating your new name—with ice cream! I know just the place!”

“Forgive me for asking, but what is ice cream?”

“You don’t know what ice cream is?” Patton gasped, a determined look settling onto his features, “we’ll definitely have to fix that!”

He took hold of Roman’s hand—and marched towards the direction of the ice cream stand. Roman, bemused by the human, laughed as he allowed himself to be tugged along by Patton. He didn’t know why Patton was so concerned about his wellbeing but he found it a nice change from the norm.

Patton chattered along the way, mainly about ice cream and puns relating to the icy dessert and to other things.

“What did the popsicle say to his sonsicle in a crowd?” Patton asked, already snickering at his own joke.

“What?”

“He said, stick with me kid!” Patton burst into a fit of giggles, and Roman followed suit. Admittedly a lot of the contextual humor of Patton’s puns were lost on him but there was something contagious about Patton’s cheery disposition. You couldn’t help but want to laugh along and feel about a bit of that happiness glow in your lungs. 

For those brief seconds of laughter, Roman felt human again. He’d have to treasure this feeling--coveting it once he inevitably ended up in the darkness of the lamp once more.

The sun set in the horizon as they reached their destination; a brilliant splash of crimson red with streaks of golden orange and lilac purple. There were a few customers already in line at the ice cream stand. Cheery music blared. Where, Roman had no clue. He could not see a band nearby. Perhaps it was magic?

“Hey um,” Patton said, ducking his head a bit, “mind if we split a bowl? I’ll let you pick out the flavor. You should go with vanilla—it’s a classic! But, uh you can get whatever you’d like!”

“Patton…” Roman frowned, “I could wish into existence a whole ice cream shop of your own if you truly wanted it. You don’t have to waste money on me.”

“No, I don’t have to,” Patton said with a determined glint in his eyes, “But I want to.”

Roman gawked at him, stunned. What was this human? People normally expected genies to do things for them, not the other way around! When it came time to order, Roman merely pointed to the vanilla as Patton had suggested.

There were tables set up next to the ice cream stand where customers could consume their ice cream. But Patton shook his head, telling Roman he knew a much better place.

“It’s a place my friend Virgil and I like to visit,” Patton said, “It’s nice and quiet, unlike most of the city. The noise can be too much sometimes, y’know?”

This peaceful location happened to be a bench in the middle of a park. Trees gracefully arched over it, dressed in the beginnings of autumn colors. Orange, yellow, red. A warm glowing yellow light emanated from the lamppost beside the bench. 

“You can have the first taste of the ice cream,” Patton told him as they settled onto the bench. Roman obliged him, dipping his spoon a little in the white substance and bringing it to his mouth. He blinked. It was colder than he expected. But not unpleasantly so. It was a smooth, sweet texture.

“What do you think?” Patton asked, practically bouncing in his seat.

“It’s--it’s absolutely divine!” Roman exclaimed, his eyes flickered down to the ice cream, “May I…?”

“Of course!” Patton grinned. Roman took another spoonful, savoring the taste longer this time. They took turns finishing it off as they continued to converse.

Roman wasn’t used to talking. Sure, he talked plenty over the centuries, but his conversations with his masters revolved strictly around wish-granting. Mundane conversations about the weather were anything but mundane to the genie. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” Patton asked, swinging his legs back and forth in a careless manner.

“Dogs—they are lovable, loyal creatures and mankind is undeserving of their affections.” Roman declared.

“Dogs are my favorite too!” Patton giggled, “Oh! And so are cats, horses, lizards, lions and tigers and bears—oh my! Elephants, giraffes, hippos—”

“So all of them are your favorite, I take it?”

“I guess you could say that,” Patton sheepishly grinned, “I wanted to be a veterinarian be—before—”

The human inhaled shakily, the smile slipping off his face. Instead of continuing, he stared down into the mostly empty plastic ice cream bowl. Something obviously happened in Patton’s past that upset him. It wasn’t Roman’s place to pry—but it didn’t mean he couldn’t help in the only way he knew best; magic. In all his centuries as a genie, he’s never met anyone deserving of it than Patton.

The man had been the first in a long while to treat Roman like his thoughts and feelings actually mattered. Like the genie was actually...human. 

“You could still be a veterinarian, if you so badly wished,” Roman spoke softly, “Your every wish is my command.”

Patton flinched, looking more distressed than comforted by Roman’s words.

“Roman please, I can’t do that—”

“Why not?” Roman said, “you are my master—you can make any wish you’ve ever desired.”

“Roman, I’m not your master.” Patton choked.

“Of course you are,” Roman tilted his head, “you are the keeper of my lamp. What else would you be?”

“A friend?” Patton suggested, “Roman, please I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“This is different,” Roman said fervently, grasping hold of Patton’s hands, “this I offer to you freely for you are the most worthy keeper of my lamp. You must have unfulfilled desires, something, anything I can grant.”

Patton stared at Roman, his face void of expression. Several times he opened his mouth before abruptly closing it. As if thinking better of what he was about to say. 

“Please.” Roman pressed further.

His heart rattled against his chest, wanting badly to escape its cage as he did with his lamp. Like the latter, it was a pointless venture. As long as his lamp remained intact so would his soul. Unless of course it shattered, and with it his soul into a thousand pieces. His psyche splintered and fractured, too broken to put back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty except worse for it was a living death, one inescapable. Yet it was a fate that was inevitable and also something he shouldn’t be dwelling on at the moment.

“There is…” Patton hesitated, “one desire I have.” 

“Say it,” Roman said as he bowed his head, not daring to look at the human, “Speak it into existence and it shall be yours.”

It was going to hurt, he knew this. The genie wasn’t the true wish-granter, all the magic they possessed came from the lamp itself. The magic only used his form as a mere conduit. Because that was all a genie was—a damn puppet to his masters’ wills.

Roman brought this curse upon himself—he wanted immeasurable power and he attained it. Except, it was never his will to wield such power. Nay, only his masters possessed it. Only their wishes and not his would be granted. It’d be this way forever and ever, because everyone always cared about their happy endings and not his own.

Even Patton, once he saw the immeasurable power that surged forth from even the simplest of wishes. Roman wouldn’t blame him for it. The human has already given him more than what he’s ever deserved. 

Patton squeezed Roman’s hands. It took every ounce of Roman’s willpower not to sneak a glance up at him. He had to remain strong for whatever wish Patton threw at him. In the short time he’d spent with Patton, he didn’t get off the vibe of a frivolous wisher. He dealt with plenty of those over the years. Ones who used the wishes in willy-nilly ways, without any forethought behind them. 

No, he’d probably be practical. He’d wish for money, or perhaps a mistake in the past to be reversed. Those were always tricky ones. They didn’t always end in the way humans believed they would.

“Roman,” Patton began, “I wish to free you, the genie, from your lamp.”

The genie leapt off the bench as if electrocuted, hands clumsily detangling themselves from Patton’s own. The lamp’s magic roared in his ears, swelling inside him like a great storm. He gaped at the human, his heart bursting out of his chest and into his throat.

“P-patton, mind repeating that?” He gasped.

“I wish to free you the genie from your lamp.” Patton said once more, his voice firm and unbreaking.

This time he couldn’t hold off the wish. A bright red light enveloped him like a supernova explosion. Magic consumed him, rippling through every fiber of his being. A warmth fell across him, one that he hadn’t felt in a long, long while. A great shattering noise occurred. The light died down as he looked to see the lamp had spilled out of Patton’s pack, glittering underneath the lamppost, in pieces. 

Breath heaving, he fell to his knees, touching the pieces. The lamp had broken and he was still here, whole and complete and free.

“Why?” He stared down at the broken lamp, quivering, “I--I don’t understand. You had three wishes. You could’ve had so much—all the wealth and fame you could ever desire!”

“But I didn’t want that,” Patton protested, resting a hand on Roman’s shoulder, “not if it came from a wish you were involuntarily bound to serve no matter what. That isn’t fair. Everyone deserves the freedom of choice. Including you.”

Roman laughed. Except it wasn’t quite a laugh. More of a strangled, gargled croak than anything else. He pressed his hands into his face, shutting his eyes as he tried to block out the dizzying nausea sweeping through him.

After six-hundred masters and a millennia inside the lamp, Roman knew a lot about the freedom of choice. His masters employed it with how they chose to use his wishes. Flaunting it so arrogantly in his face. The wishes were self-serving for most. Sometimes they used it to better others’ situations. But never his own, despite many promising to free him. Because at the end of that third wish, they’d walk away while he’d once more get trapped inside the lamp.

Over and over again, they chose to not free him. Except Patton. He chose to free Roman on his very first wish. For as long as he’d dreamt of this moment, of being free from the lamp, he never expected it to actually happen. It was just a foolish fantasy, too abstract to become reality. Not to mention in this manner. He had imagined a master would free him after he’d proven himself worthy with a great feat of magic. How could Patton think he was deserving of this gift?

He laughed weirdly again. This time it hurt his vocal chords.

“Roman?” Patton asked.

He responded with a noise, halfway resembling a hiccup and a shriek. A gentle set of arms enveloped him, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against a warm chest. A hug? Was Patton hugging him? 

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Patton murmured, ruffling a hand through his hair, “let it all out.”

Kiddo. Roman wanted to snort. He was a millennia older than Patton, he wasn’t exactly a child. Except at those words, he bawled like one as he realized that those were sobs from before. Not laughter. Roman couldn’t remember the last time he cried. Just like he couldn’t remember a time before being a genie.

Who was he, without the lamp? For as much as he hated it, it’d been a part of him. It defined him and the purpose of his existence. Now he was free of it, free to be his own person, with his own wishes and desires. But he didn’t know the first step of what that looked like.

 It was like he was thrown into a raging ocean of confusion and turmoil. Treading aimlessly, desperately hoping for a piece of driftwood to grab a hold on. Something that could anchor him, keep him afloat. 

“P-patton--” He whispers, voice hoarse from crying, “can I--can I choose to be your friend?”

The human had suggested it earlier. Surely, he meant it still? It was quiet for a few seconds. Enough to cause Roman to doubt himself. But then the man who unbelievably granted him his freedom hugged him tighter.

“Of course, Roman,” Patton told him, “I’d be honored.”

With a sniffle, Roman’s hands fell from his face as he threw his arms around Patton to fiercely return the embrace. A few more ugly sobs wracked his throat. How was it that Patton was the one honored to be his friend when it was the opposite? 

Roman hardly knew what being free looked like. But he did know he’d do anything to protect Patton, to preserve this kind, selfless spark that rested in the human’s soul.

As he dwelt encircled by Patton’s loving arms, the last slivers of the sun’s glow faded at last, dousing them in darkness. But for once, he didn’t find himself afraid of it.

[goldenvoicedminstrel]

realised after posting it’s actually @feanorianweek and even day 2, so have some Maglor

The sun was hidden from the sea that day, the rough waves turned murky grey in a perfect mirror image of the dull clouds overhead, both divided only by an endless pale horizon. All around, the colours had disappeared from the earth and Maglor wondered, if perhaps this was what the void looked like. An endless space devoid of colour, sound and feel. 

An endless nothingness to isolate one from one’s own existence and drive one mad. 

It was a far more frightening thought than any darkness or torture. 

Is that what my brothers feel? he asked the only person still listening. 

Does it matter? he answered his own question. He would never join them now, it had been much too long since he had failed to follow his brother’s example and throw the Silmaril into the waves with his body still attached to it. Too many years of wandering and suffering had passed, that had made his next step and the next note of his lament as unescapable as the passing of the hours and years. He had woven the mourning resonance of the Noldolantë into the music of Arda itself and himself with it. 

Even if he did not care if he lived, he had been surviving for so long he thought he might not know how to die anymore.

The coarse sand and stones were biting into the soles of his bare feet as he walked, having long since discarded his worn through boots. Now the quiet crunch of his steps in the sand formed an imperfect metronome for his song. 

“I fixed it.”

Curufinwë stands before him, hands outstretched and in them a little box, ticking away with the steadiness of his own heart beat.

“It was easy, Atar did not even have to show me how. Now you must not be cross with me anymore.”

 Again his feet lost their rhythm, one sinking a little deeper into a puddle of water that had been hidden under the wet sand. Around his foot he could feel the pull of the waves towards the sea, dragging the sand with them and hollowing out the ground he stood upon. He stepped aside instinctively, onto a sharp shell that cut through his skin.

“Careful, Laurë!” Maitimo calls and the white towers of Alqualondë glitter behind him, shining with the colours of the Mother of Pearl fragments inlaid in their walls. 

“Let me see that. Where was that head of yours again?”

He picked up the shell. Its hard, curved form was broken and the white edges ragged, now tinted pink with his blood.

“Káno, look what I found!” A smudge of silver races towards him, so fast, that his light hair whipping behind him in the wind blends into the pale morning light around him. When Tyelkormo opens his small hands they reveal a cone shell and, emerging from it, the scarlet claws of a hermit crab. “Can we please take him home with us?”

He thought his hair might be turning pale too. Grey, like that of the Edain, when their spirits and bodies started to wane after long years of sorrow and grief. His skin seemed grey as well, and sometimes he thought it was because he could see the grey sky through it. Perhaps he was just becoming a part of that greyness around him, fading into a lament on the waves, his song lost under the cry of the gulls and raging of the sea. Another gull flew over his head, so close this time that he could feel the gust of wind from its wings in his hair. 

A shrill scream comes from the other side of the beach, followed by a bought of laughter.

“You sound like the gulls, Moryo!”

A dark haired elfling’s face is turning an impressive shade of red as he scowls at his brother.      

“I do not!” he cries and crosses his thin arms, but when his indignation shows no effect, he quickly ducks down and picks up a handful of wet sand, hurling it towards his still laughing brother. 

“Stop laughing at me, Tyelko!” he insists and the blonde’s face immediately turns grave, as he bends down in an exaggeratedly somber manner to pick up his own lump of sand. 

“If this is how you want to play…” he says, and the scene quickly dissolves into childish screams of laughter.

Little wet droplets were running down Maglor’s cheeks. Ah, he thought, it must be raining.

There was an opening in the high basalt cliffs, nothing more than a crack in the dark structure looming over him, a comfortable shelter for a child perhaps, but not enough to hide a grown adult. He walked past and let his scarred hand trace the stone. It was as rough and blackened as his own scorched skin and its sharp edges seemed detached from under his unfeeling finger. 

The wind blew sharper now and the dark strands of his dirty hair tangled before his eyes, obscuring his sight. He listened instead to the desperate howling of the wind trapped in the small cracks and hollows of unmoving stone.

Two red-haired children cling to him, the vibrant colour of their hair burning with the curb’s fire behind them and their identical faces are flushed with excitement and the only recently abandoned heat of the flames.

“Tell us a story Káno! About why the wind howls so. Does it sing like you do? What does it sing about?”

His hair was whipped away from his eyes again by another violent gust of wind, but the darkness stubbornly remained. Was it night already? There were no stars he could distinguish, not even in the West was his father’s creation visible to the hopeful eye. He clenched his hand and walked on, the howl of the wind lost beneath his own.

He walked until the path before him rose away from the soft sand and up on uneven stone, crumbling away under his feet as he climbed, the small pebbles falling endlessly into the abyss beside him. He would not sleep, only make one step after the other until he would drop from exertion, too exhausted for even dreams to find him, may they be horrible- or worse- good.

He stumbled.

There was a bird at his feet, the white feathers making it visible to him even in the night- no, that was the dawn breaking over the horizon.

One of the creature’s wings was twisted and its neck broken, overstretched into an unnatural position on the ground, his honey coloured beak turned away from its body as if pointing out the way ahead.

Did the storm do this to you? he asked, but the dark eyes gave no answer.

He touches the impossibly soft feathers with a trembling hand and suddenly, for the first time since he has been born into these immortal lands of Aman, he understands that even here nothing lasts forever. He thinks of his grandmother, lying as beautiful and lifeless as this little bird while his father strokes her soft hair. The bird must have a mother too, or little nestlings screaming for it, and if it doesn’t, how lonely it must have been.  Perhaps it is a silly thing to anguish about, but he has a vivid imagination and a soft heart and has never seen death before.

Through his tears he sees his father hurrying from his forge, alarmed by his young son’s despairing wails.

“What is it, Makalaurë? What has happened? Are you hurt?” his father’s face is tight and pale and his hands are running over his child’s small form, trying to find the cause of his hurt, to fix it as he always does. “Please, tell me why you are weeping,” he asks again and spots the lifeless bird in the same moment. His shoulders drop in relief and his features relax into a sad smile as he pulls his sobbing son into a tight embrace. “It is alright ‘Laurë,” he whispers to him. “Everything has its time.”

He turned away from the bird and walked on as the sun rose higher into the clear, blue sky.

His father, who then had been so much younger than he must be by now, and so anxious about any sadness befalling his newly formed family. 

Maitimo had been an easy child in that regard, and really in any other regard as well. Happy and content, with the sure confidence of someone who had grown up with all of his parent’s praise and attention and who, deep down, believed he deserved it. Kind and courteous to everyone and widely loved- and later admired- in return. When he had been quiet, it had been with thoughtful consideration or the comfort that needed no words. Maitimo had never been despairing.

He himself however, befitting the poet he would become, had been much more volatile. His joy had been delightfully loud but his sorrow even louder. How unsettling these first fits of despair must have been for his father, who had always lived under the shadow of his mother’s fate.

His brothers had shed tears too, of course, but they were easily quietened. Tyelko had cried in pain after falling out of a tree and Moryo often in anger. Curvo had sometimes teared up in frustration and the Ambarussa had sobbed in fear the first time they had heard the tale of their father’s mother and discovered that there might be a force in this world that could separate them after all. But Maitimo…

The hard stone under his feet had softened into dry earth and the narrow path was being overtaken by yellow and green patches of grass and finally a thick carpet of heather, the sea of small green leaves parted by spots of rose and purple flowers. A twig snapped underneath his weary feet.

The air is filled with the fragrance of blooming petals as he wanders through the labyrinth of thick green hedges and thorny bushes heavy with blossoms of every colour. Even now, thirsty and irritated as he is, he marvels at the beauty of it all, his parched throat aching to burst into a verse of song in celebration. Yet first he needs to find his brother, as his father had sent him out to do hours ago. But today Maitimo seems to have disappeared from the face of Arda entirely and his grandfather’s rose garden is his last hope. There is a spot there his brother had shown him when he had been but a little boy- his secret hiding place he had called it. 

He ducks under the low branches of a young tree and carefully pushes away some of the dense shrubbery before he stills.

He hears their laughter before he sees them, sitting in the grass, a bottle of what must be grandfather’s good wine lying forgotten next to them.  They are leaning against each other and speaking in hushed, excited tones, and suddenly his brother is throwing his head back and is laughing, laughing until there are tears running down his cheeks and he has to gasp for breath. He is still holding onto Findekáno’s arm as his giggling cousin wipes away his tears of mirth. 

Quietly he turns away and leaves, reporting to their father that Maitimo is nowhere to be found.

 The sun was high in the deep blue sky and the sea glittered faintly beneath it. 

Maglor’s path lead him down again, away from the heather, towards the waves where the smell of salt perpetuated the air he still breathed. He did not hear the gulls anymore and the light breeze that seemed to caress his cheek was too weak to drown out his lament.

When his feet sank into soft sand again, the sun was already setting and suddenly the sky was set aflame in the same shade of red he had loved and hated and grieved more than anything else.

And again he walked on. Was it raining again?

And when Maglor walks the shore alone, his brothers walk with him, and on the wind his father’s voice whispers: “Why are you weeping, Makalaurë?”

[doomedandstoned]

Cassius King Drums Up Hard Driving New LP, ‘Field Trip’

~By Tom Hanno~

In the doom/stoner metal circles, the name Dan Lorenzo has become synonymous with his Vessel of Light project, but there is more to this prolific guitarist than just that band. From his days in Hades to Non- Fiction to Vessel of Light, Dan has laid his trademark work to many albums, and now he presents us with an album of original music from his latest project, CASSIUS KING. 'Field Trip' (2021) will be out next week and is, in my opinion, a must-have album.

For a bit of historical context, I want to add that Dan has been using the Cassius King name for years, from his debut solo album to his endless cover song CDs with various lead vocalists; but it wasn't until 2021 when Lorenzo decided to make an all-original album with vocalist Jason McMaster (Watchtower, Dangerous Toys, Broken Teeth, Howling Sycamore, Ignitor). This decision stemmed from the Covid-19 pandemic keeping Vessel of Light from touring in support of their Last Ride album, with Dan also feeling that fans weren’t ready for a fifth VoL album without touring the last one.

Ironically enough, the song “Join the Exodus”, which we’ll talk about later in this review, was originally written during the recording/writing sessions for the second Vessel of Light album, Woodshed. Dan tells me that, “I actually recorded the music to the song Join the exodus for the Vessel of Light album Woodshed. I wrote so many songs that Nathan forgot about it. So then Ron ended up playing on it, and it just sat there for two years until Jason sang on it. It’s probably one of my favorite songs on the album.”

Despite the connection to Vessel of Light, I don't recommend jumping in thinking you're getting music that is just like them; there's obviously going to be a comparison because of Dan, but it's not an overly large one. Cassius King is less doom, even though there’s a definite Black Sabbath sound, and Jason McMaster has more in common with singers like Bobby "Blitz" Ellsworth and Dio, than he does with Nathan Opposition; who, as you know, provides his own awesome vocal style to the Vessel of Light albums.

Jason McMaster explains further, by saying that "It was the kind of material I had been wanting to do for a long time. It feels a bit like Ozzy and Dio playing poker over some leftover Sabbath material. The melodies came to me quickly, as well as some of the lyrics. Things I already had fit the visions I had upon first listen and it all flowed immediately. I would not call it a full "doom" application of terms, but its heavy, it reminds me of what I love about Sabbath and Dio songs."

Now that we have an idea on what we’re getting into, let’s begin talking about the best tracks on the album. We'll start with the aforementioned song, “Join the Exodus.” This is the one track where I will draw that direct line to Vessel of Light, and I had thought so even before Dan shared its origins with me.

Beginning with a heavy intro, with the guitars playing a stripped down version of the main verse riff, and Jason singing:

TEARS ON THE TRACKS IN A RACE, EMOTION GLEAM AROUND THE BEND I TASTE THE RAIN DROPS AS THEY TRICKLE DOWN MY FACE AGAIN REMINDS ME OF THE SAND FALLING FROM THE HOURGLASS TIME DISAPPEARS WITHOUT A TRACE.

Jason’s vocals are performed with such conviction, such power, that you can get the idea that he’s really really feeling what he’s saying, which helps make the song seem more honest than it would if he was just “phoning it in.” This goes without even mentioning the Dio influences in the lyrics themselves, and in certain areas of his performance here.

Musically speaking, this track is heavy, with a strong groove, which really makes sense because of the era of its beginnings. Woodshed had that heavy groove throughout the album. As always, Dan has a phenomenal guitar sound, and even if you didn’t know it was him on this, you’d still know that it was him within moments after hitting play.

Towards the end of the album, we find a song that is titled, "Six," which had a working title that Dan told me came from the way the intro guitar part had sounded to him.

"And I didn’t tell anybody else this," he confided, "but the working title for the song 'Six' was 'Randy,' because I thought that opening riff sounded more like Randy Rhoads than me! Not sure if you agree, but just a little bit of knowledge on the track."

I can definitely hear that Randy sound in the intro riff, but, in my opinion, it doesn't really sound like that iconic guitarist as we get much further into the track. In all honesty, I hear more of a Kiss meets Black Sabbath vibe once the riff opens up for the verse.

Jason really brings in that Dio vibe with his vocal performance, and it shows exactly why Dan partnered up with him for this album. Between Jason, Jimmy Schulman, and Ron Lipnicki, Dan put together an immensely talented band for this album, and they all absolutely crushed it on this track.

One of my favorite tracks is titled, "Apocalyptic Nations," which just so happens to be my favorite song on the record. This tune opens up with some tribal influenced drumming, and is a perfect way to bring in the album. I think of Judas Priest's Painkiller when an album opens this way. Lyrically, this song could be about many things, but I catch a Stephen King influence in there, with his book The Stand.

TRASH MY NAME ACROSS YOUR SEAS YOU CONTROL MY DESTINY BRINGING FATES UNKNOWN TO ME LEGENDARY, WHEN PEOPLE USED TO DREAM ANCIENT STORIES OF THE TRAVELIN' MAN YOU WILL BELIEVE

If you've ever read The Stand, you'll know that the villain, Randall Flagg, is known as "The Walking Dude" and that he is hell bent on destroying civilization through terror, violence, and death. The lyrics really could be about this "Man in Black," as he's also called, but it could just as easily be about a government that is just as hell bent on the same things as Randall.

As per his usual modus operandi, Dan pours his all into the riffs contained within "Apocalyptic Nations." They create the power needed to propel Jason’s vocals into the stratosphere, while also leaving the perfect amount of room for the other instruments to shine through.

The last track that I'd like to bring up is "Below the Stone," and is one of my two top picks from this album; with the other being "Apocalyptic." The riffs have a sweet little groove to them, and are, once again, the perfect vehicle for the vocal work. I'm unsure of what the lyrical content is about, but the execution, and the arrangement, makes this song shine, really standing out from the others. This chorus section really exemplifies what I mean:

OH, OH, OH, WE PRAY FOR THE LIGHT WE MAGNIFY ALL HOPE AND THE SEARCH WILL BEGIN BELOW THE STONES THE SECRETS LIVE AND BREATH OH, OH, OH, WE PRAY FOR THE LIGHT

Field Trip will be out in digital format July 23rd, with compact disc and vinyl due out this October. The CD will include two bonus tracks, a cover of Led Zeppelin's "Out on the Tiles" (Dan actually plays the bass and guitar on this cover). and Cheap Trick's "Big Eyes." The other ten tracks are all original tunes. I have an earlier Cassius King CD that Dan sent me, which is full of cover songs, and hearing them attack these originals is really great for me.

To sum it up in one short sentence: you need this album. Pre-orders will be announced soon via Nomad Eel Records, so get ready for that and I'll see you in the next review really soon. Enjoy!

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[webgeekist]

I woke last night, and the beast had been there before me.  She placed my hand over your throat.  I’m not sure if she’s graced me with a warning, or if I stopped her before she could take you, but I can’t allow her to try again.  I can’t let her take you, too.

—

Jamie wasn’t surprised when she received the invitation.  The children may not remember her well, perhaps a passing memory as their uncle’s old friend, but he would have been sure to grant an opportunity in Flora’s wedding for a reassurance that they were thriving and happy, for a chance to see them again, even if they could hardly remember her.  And, perhaps most, for the opportunity to see what her wife’s sacrifice had provided his family, and that it, maybe, it was worth something.

The pain wasn’t in the invitation.  It was in the knowledge that Miles and Flora wouldn’t remember the very reason the invitation had been so important.  The children didn’t remember Dani at all.

Owen called her to ask if she would make it out.  He more than Henry was aware of what the past seven years had done, the significance of Flora’s chosen wedding date, entirely coincidental, and what attending any wedding at all might stir.  It had been but days after Vermont had granted the two of them some pseudo-legal way of putting their five year marriage to paper when Viola finally took Dani, when Dani had finally lost the battle to bear even her own weight, and the loss of that life had left Jamie sunk into the dirt, tending only to her plants.  For a while, Owen tried to keep tabs on her, knowing himself what it was like to grieve so deeply, but Jamie had shut him out after a while with the rest of the world.  Their calls were short, more of a welfare check than a conversation.

She didn’t want to go, if she were being honest, but she didn’t tell Owen that.  She suspected he didn’t have to hear it.  Hiding in grief was something they had both been good at, in their times.  So it again came as no surprise when, arriving late to the rehearsal dinner as she did, mid-toast to a girl at the head of the table who remembered him far better than the silver-haired new arrival at the very end, Owen stopped speaking.  What went through his mind as she took her seat was anyone’s guess, but Jamie thought in that moment that fear might have passed over his face.  She was aware of how time had changed her.  She paid it little care.  Time spent looking in reflections was time spent looking for something other than her own.

Reflections were things that traveled with her, but Jamie had searched for seven long years.  She was terrified of the idea that Dani would come home, find the apartment they shared empty, and never come back again.  She filled every basin with water as she went, begging the Lady of the Lake to follow her across a vast and wide country, an ocean and more removed from her home in the inky waters at Bly.

It was nice to see Flora so happy.  Jamie might not have stayed for the whole affair at all if the girl’s face didn’t seem so familiar in her love, and it allowed her to remember what that felt like.  It’s not that the memories faded.  It’s not that she didn’t keep them close.  It’s that in her grief and her emptiness, she imagined she knew what Dani felt like as the last of her days approached — there, but not.  Going through the motions of life without ever really feeling any of it.

She was so sure Dani had never meant to leave her so broken, understood why she had let Viola finally have control.  In the last weeks, she was so, so tired.  Jamie had tried so hard to bear both their weights, but the last of it— the heaviest of it— was beyond her, though she had tried with her whole heart.

Dani would never let her.

Into the night, she was surprised that she lingered.  Seated by a warm fireplace, listening to the stories she had missed in Flora’s life, smiling at stories about the adventures she and her soon-to-be-husband had already been on, blissfully unaware of the harrowing tale she had already participated in.

And then, they spoke of ghosts, and that was a subject that Jamie for all her quiet during the evening was particularly well versed in.

Owen and Henry looked briefly horrified, but...maybe this was why she came.  Maybe the opportunity to tell Flora the story of how she had been granted the opportunity to fall so in love was exactly why she was there.

They were surely afraid she would tell this story, and Flora would remember, but Jamie would never disturb her hard-won happiness.  She would tell the story, change some names around, but leave the indelible message of the tragic tale intact.

And as she told it, she found the remembering pleasant.  Not that she relished telling the story of Hannah Grose’s tragic end, of Owen’s sorrow, or of Henry’s near-death.  She wished as she told the tale that she could change any detail of Dani’s fate at all, but her memory had not been granted the gift of the weathering of time.  She remembered it all as print on the pages of her mind, solid as stone for the rest of her days.

The hour when she finished was late, but she could not regret the telling.  Something inside her felt lighter, as if the story itself had been her own personal beast in the jungle, and telling it had somehow exorcised it.

Owen was the one to usher away her gathered audience, wishing perhaps to stave off too many questions.  She’d been careful to obscure so many details, but the possibility always remained — and Jamie had risked — that one of the children would remember the name she finally gave to the au pair at the end of her story.

Dani.  It was a name they once knew, and had long forgotten.  But Jamie could never, and if they had nothing of the woman who gave them a chance at the happy ending their elders would never have, the children would have this story and Dani’s name.

Jamie hadn’t known what to expect of the gathered crowd’s reactions, but Flora’s simple statement later had been right in a way she had never considered.

Love stories and ghost stories were the same things.  

Their story — their wedding gift to Flora, in a way — was the only way she could keep Dani alive past her own memory, living in more than the moments that were silly or dumb, or made her cry, and that she kept close and dear in her waking mind and in her dreams.

She stayed past when she expected to be able to bear, through the ceremony and into the reception, lighter and happier than she had been in years, and felt a warmth she couldn’t explain.  Something was easier, comfortable, present.  Maybe, Jamie reasoned, she was simply gratified that the little girl she and Dani had once known had grown up into a magnificent young woman, in love and loving, and at peace.

Something of that peace was her own now, a part of whatever the rest of Jamie’s story would be.

The water in the tub was warm and fresh, and in the basin, it stood clean and clear.  Jamie searched those reflections for her lover one last time.  This was her routine.  She would prepare, dress in silk and make herself as pretty as someone sleeping might care to be, and she would sleep by the door opened just a crack.  Sometimes in waking, the remnants of her dream would linger, and she would be fooled into thinking someone was in the room with her.

She smiled softly as she settled into her chair, wishing it were so, and drifted into sleep.

—

“Here’s the thing.  You’re my best friend, and the love of my life.”  Dani’s face was so open in that moment, shining in soft light, the glint of gold held aloft in Jamie’s hand, surrounded by their tiny kitchen and every fledgling plant they cared for.  This was her favorite memory, her best part.  She would live in this moment forever, if she could.

“And I don’t know how much time we have left.  But whatever it is, I want to spend it with you.”

So precious little.  So very much.  What ended up being so many years at the time would have felt like an eternity, but Jamie had lived past the ends of infinity, and been left alone in the dark.

She was so reluctant to break the script of this precious memory, having clung so tightly to it in its exact form for years to preserve it.  She’d always been afraid that saying something else, anything else, would begin an inevitable end.  

All memory fades, eventually.  She had tried so, so hard to make sure Dani’s never would.

“I want this.  So, so much.  All I want with you, Dani, is more time.  We deserved so much more time.”

The woman in her dream paused, and smiled so wide Jamie was left confused for a moment.  Their proposal had been so emotional, so filled with watery gazes and happy tears.  This smile was different, but Dani’s eyes were no less watery.

And blue.  Both of them, the blue she remembered from when they first met.

“I’ve been waiting so long for you to finally say that.”

For a long moment, Jamie simply stared, but she couldn’t bear it any longer.  They crashed forward, embracing each other desperately as they had at the lake so many years ago, and the woman in her arms was so warm, so real that Jamie had difficulty believing that she was dreaming anymore.

“I’ve always been here, Jamie,” the lilt of her voice fluttered across the gardener’s heart, just as her fingers and her warm touch did the same.  “Because you have loved me, I will always be here.  And because I loved you, you’re always with me.”

—-

When she woke, the sun had just begun to make its way across the sky.  She was groggy, still a little tired but….happy.  And warm.

Warm that radiated from a single point on her shoulder.

She turned, as she so often did after waking, as she so often hoped in the space between sleep and full consciousness to catch a glimpse of something she longed for, and when the hand lifting from her shoulder, its ring finger bearing a band that matched her own, came into view her breath caught.

“Dani…”

The morning light was so soft, and Dani looked somehow more ethereal than any Bly ghost had.  Faded, but her face was bright and clear, her blue eyes shone with unshed tears, as beautiful as the day they had met.

“I’m here, Jamie.”  The sound of her name carried on Dani’s trembling voice nearly sent her to tears, but she refused.  She wanted — needed — to see clearly.

“You’ve come back to me.”

She smiled.  “I never left.”

“But I’ve missed you.  So, so much.”

“You held to our memories so tightly, Jamie.  You clung to them like letting them go meant letting me go.  I’ve been here, waiting in your dreams.  But you needed to remember.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?  Why did you let me cling to them?”

Dani toted her head.  “You carried so much of my burden in life, Jamie.  This was the last.  We were so lucky to have each other for so many days, but we always knew why our time in life together would be short.  That was always our gift for Flora, and in telling our story, you’ve finally delivered it.”

She could feel the truth of those words in the telling.  She’d somehow known all along.  It was why she was all the way out there to begin with.

But with the lightness, a sudden emptiness.  As if she’d forgotten the hole in her heart, she was suddenly reminded by the clenching of it.

Jamie’s tears finally broke.  “How long must I continue without you?”

A watery, ghostly gaze might have broken, as well.  It was hard to tell between tears.

“Would you like company?”

“What?”

“Would you like company?  While you wait?”

Jamie hesitated only a moment before she asked her final question, her whole heart in it.  “Can you stay with me?”

Dani smiled sweetly, but continued to fade in the rising light.  “One night at a time, Love.  We’ll take it one night at a time.  But after that, I promise Jamie, we’ll have forever.  And in the between, remember my note.  Remember what I said.”

Dani faded finally, the daylight taking her, and Jamie was left immediately longing for the next night to come.

But the words in Dani’s final note, suddenly, meant so much more than it had before, and she knew she could make it between the dreams alone, just a little longer.

—

I woke last night, and the beast had been there before me.  She placed my hand over your throat.  I’m not sure if she’s graced me with a warning, or if I stopped her before she could take you, but I can’t allow her to try again.  I can’t let her take you, too.

But I swear to you, Jamie, I will remember.  I will remember your face and your warmth and your heart for as long as you live, and longer.  I will not let time weather what we were to just the shape of it.  What we had is made of stronger stuff than that.

I loved you completely, Jamie.  And you loved me the same.

Live, for the both of us.

[xxyumeno]

@lybian-glass​ said: Marian had this sudden urge to head pat the man - she swears he reminds her of a dog - but she might have difficulty because she isn't that tall. Nonetheless, she's going to try to reach out and do the pets even if she has to tiptoe to do it!

      The moment he felt a hand on his head patting his head the humanoid wolf blinked. Confusion had passed across his features for all of two seconds before it disappeared. What was his Midgardian doing giving him a head pat? The audacity of it all, but despite this he had reluctantly accepted it.

   ❝ ... ❞ seeing as the woman had to stand on her tiptoe to just reach his head he crouched down just a little to make it easier for her. ❝ Better? ❞ it came out as a mumble, just keep patting his head and they’ll be good.

           🗡️ ▸  @lybian-glass​ + Marian &&. unprompted interaction // always accepting

[eirian-houpe]

The Pawn Shop On Main Street - Chapter 1

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Grace | Paige, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Widow Lucas | Granny, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper, Grumpy | Leroy, Blue Fairy | Mother Superior, Emma Swan, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard, Henry Mills (Once Upon a Time), Sneezy | Tom Clark, Merida (Once Upon a Time), Cloe, Mother Trude, Dove (Once Upon a Time)

Additional Tags: Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Romance, Eventual Smut, Will add more as apropriate

Summary: Gold is suddenly awakened from the curse, not by the fail-safe that he programmed into his mind, but by the unexpected presence of his long lost maid, with whom he fell in love well before Regina cast his Dark Curse, Rumplestiltskin must now find a way past Belle's disbelief and fear. She is still under the influence of the curse. With the help of his dear - his oldest - friend, Gold seeks a way past obstacles so that he can rekindle the love which he rejected back in the Dark Castle. 

The story is set in the same 'verse as The Library Beneath the Clock Tower, and could be considered a sequel of sorts.

Chapter 1 - Old Friends

He felt drawn to her. He could not look away, his gaze transfixed as her eyes took in the fireworks bursting overhead. They paled by comparison. Nothing could compare.

…a brief flicker of light in an ocean of darkness.

The thought caught him off guard, as if he were standing on the edge of a fall, with a gust of wind buffeting him toward the edge. He felt suddenly thirsty - the earth waiting for the cloud above his head to burst like the sparkles and fizzles overhead.

All this time she had been right there, within reach, the meaning that had been missing for as long as he could remember - as long as he had been in Storybrooke. It made sense of everything he’d done, but at the same time made no sense at all.

Suddenly afraid, for no reason he could understand, he took a step closer, right behind her, caressing her fingers softly, before taking her hands, slowly, into his own. Their fingers entwined.

It flashed through him in a pulse; bright, vibrant, burning away the fog of years and realms.

She mocked him.  Regina mocked him - how dare she, and yet, he had no energy, and even less will to react to her impudence.

“Is this about that girl I met on the road?” She laughed and stalked the room, her hips swaying in exaggerated sensuality. It reminded him of Cora, and that did little to change his mood… the reminder of other betrayals, other… abandonments. Regina glanced his way. “What was her name? Margie? Verna?

Rumplestiltskin barely breathed her name. “Belle.”

Suddenly business-like, this evil queen he had created, said matter-of-fact as she fixed herself some tea - uninvited, “Right. Well... you can rest assured I had nothing to do with that tragedy.”

He stopped idly spinning the wheel and turned to walk toward her, all but willing pox into the cup she was stirring, “What… tragedy?”

“You don't know?” Regina asked as though scandalized, then chuckled as she cleaned the spoon with her mouth and set it down.  “Well, After she got home… her fiancé had gone missing.” He feigned innocence, but Regina knew. Her expression told him so. She took only a few steps away before turning around. “And after her stay here, her… association… with you, no one would want her, of course. Her father shunned her, cut her off, shut her out.”

Hope flared in his heart, and in an unguarded moment, he let the words slip from deep within that hope. “So she needs… a home?”

Regina laughed cruelly, though whether at what had happened, or at him for his weakness he was uncertain, then went on, “He was cruel to her. He locked her in a tower and sent in clerics to cleanse her soul with scourges and flaying. After a while, she threw herself off the tower. She died.”

She spoke the last two words with such careless triumph that the urge to throttle the life from the conniving bitch almost choked him… murdered his hope.

“You're lying,” he growled.

“Am I?” she countered, leaving him cold and dead inside.

He wanted to be angry now, to rail against the lies Regina had told him, blatant fabrications, right to his face, and yet… Here was his light.  Hale, whole and…

“You’re real,” he breathed. “You’re alive!”

He moved closer yet, moving his fingers again in a soft, quiet caress.  The curse was lifted, he remembered. Everything, and oh, how beastly he had been when they had last seen one another. When he had sent her away.

”I’m not a coward, dearie. It’s quite simple really… my power… means more to me than you.”  

She pulled herself up to her full, diminutive height, and looked him full in the face. “No. No, it doesn't. You just don't think I can love you. Now, you've made your choice. And you're going to regret it.”

His heart broke as her voice quivered - a roar of pain that almost drowned out her following word, “Forever.”

He curled his hands into fists. His hard, pointed talons left wheal marks in his palms, but he couldn’t allow her to see how much her words affected him.

“And all you'll have... is an empty heart,” her voice broke, and she forced herself to go on, “and a chipped cup.”

Her eyes were filled with tears, but she held his gaze, and he had to push his own rising tears deep inside lest he belie his words.  Not until she had turned, and walked away, out of the cell, and out of his life… forever… and he could no longer see or hear her, did he move - and then only to close his eyes.

Was she feeling this too? Did she remember?  A part of him hoped not; hoped that fate had delivered him a way to right the wrongs of his past; to woo her, to love her as she deserved to be loved, and yet, the Dark One knew that ‘loopholes’ was another word for lies. Gold wanted no more lies.

For a moment, one sweet, sharp moment she leaned against him, tightened her fingers around his, and he knew… he knew without any doubt that she remembered. At least in that moment, she remembered.

“Belle,” he whispered.

Then, like the icy fall of rain that dampened even the hottest fire, she snatched her hands from his, and he was suddenly frozen, bereft. Helpless to do anything other that watch with mounting fear as she turned to face him; tried with all his heart to let her see that she had been right all along - that she had the measure of him, and not only that - but now, in the face of seeing her again, though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw her into his arms, hold her forever - protected, loved - he was still a coward.

“Belle,” he whispered again, reaching too late to catch her as she picked up her skirts and fled.  He cried out for her, as he should have done then, in the Dark Castle - called her back, “Belle!”

His cry was echoed a moment later and he registered a familiar voice behind the calling. His friend, Jefferson. A Storybrooke friend, yes, but the Dark One’s only friend through all the ages. How could he not have known?

He stared. He stared after Belle, who stopped at neither of their calling, and he stared toward Jefferson, meeting the horrified expression that mirrored his own.

The Hatter seemed torn, glanced away as if to find Belle in the crowd, but ultimately turned his steps and hurried to Gold’s side.

"You knew!" Gold almost sobbed, and reaching out, grabbed Jefferson by the lapels of his flamboyant, silk tailcoat and pulled him closer, almost shaking the man. "How could you know… know me and yet say nothing?"

Jefferson’s long fingers closed around his wrists, not to prevent, but to anchor, as if the Portal Jumper feared to let go and needed to hold him close as he spoke.

"The man you are here and I said that?" Jefferson said, pained, and only then Gold saw the tears that were gathered in the other man’s blue eyes. "How could I, and not have you cast me away?"

For all that he saw, for all that he felt, still Gold gave vent to his own pain. "But you were my… we were friends!"

Instead of words, Jefferson answered with cry, almost of anguish, and suddenly releasing his wrists, clutched Gold close.

"We are friends," he sobbed, clinging tightly. "We are!"

At first, startled, Gold struggled, tried to push Jefferson away, but as the present melted away leaving just the two of them alone on the rise above where the other revelers were lost in their drunken celebrations of the night, Gold… Rumplestiltskin missed his friend, and already held tightly in Jefferson’s embrace, pulled the man closer still, and held him through the maelstrom of all that he was - pawnbroker, landlord, deal maker, sorcerer, master, Dark One, killer, father, husband, lover… coward - all of it, every little piece of him returning in a rush, he clung to Jefferson like a man drowning.

Eventually, both spent, they each slumped, exhausted to the ground, mute and panting for breath, though as he looked across at Jefferson, Rumplestiltskin saw that silent tears still ran down Jefferson’s face. Intuitively he knew the cause.

“I didn’t know,” he said, and Jefferson raised his face to look at him, incomprehension in his wet and shining eyes. “Grace,” Gold offered. “I didn’t know what Regina planned.”

“I know,” Jefferson whispered, before finding his voice. “I have always known it was her doing, and hers alone.” He reached out for Gold’s hand, and he took it without hesitation, listening as Jefferson continued. “For all that we didn’t see things the same way much of the time; for all that we fought, I knew and never once doubted that you’d ever do something like that to another man, another father. I saw what you did for Baelfire and—”

“Bae,” Gold interrupted. His voice hoarse and rasping. He felt Jefferson’s fingers tighten around his own, and he took a breath. “If I had the power,” he said, “to undo what she did.”

“No!” Jefferson sounded alarmed, almost terrified, then went on more calmly, “No. Not until we can be together. Not until I can be sure she won’t hate me for abandoning her. She can’t know.” His voice cracked as he went on. “Cloe’s her mother here. She knows nothing about a foolish man who made a promise and then broke it; who abandoned her to ignominy and hardship.”

“Jefferson…”

The other man blanched, and releasing his grip on Gold held up both hands in surrender, as if he thought he’d just delivered some kind of terrible insult.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Gold murmured quietly.

“Then whose?” Jefferson shook his head; argued. “I can recite a whole litany of ‘if I hadn’ts’ going all the way back to before we first met. Who else’s fault can it be?”

Gold fixed him with a level, uncompromising look.

“No,” Jefferson said firmly. “You are not responsible for all the ills of every realm.”

Gold was silent for a long time. He knew Jefferson well enough to understand that when he had his mind fixed on something - especially something self-deprecating - there could be no moving him; not until he saw the truth of it for himself.

Both men sighed, almost at the same time, and that made Gold chuckle just a little, with a good deal of his own self-deprecation, before he said, “And that… that, my good man, is why you are the Dark One’s only true friend.”

Jefferson let out another sigh, then offered Gold a smile through half-pursed lips, and then started to push himself up off the ground where they had both fallen.

“I’ll find her,” he promised softly. “Make sure she’s safe and gets home all right. We can fix this. We’ll find a way.”

“Ever the optimist, Jefferson.”

“Hardly,” the Hatter said dryly, before turning, ready to begin his descent from the hill. He stopped after just a few steps, and turned back. “Rumplestiltskin?”

Gold looked up, his head tipped to one side. “Hmm?”

“How long?”

Gold looked skyward, as if the position of the stars could give him the answer to Jefferson’s question, and they might well have - had time not been motionless in Storybrooke these past…  He shook his head. He knew the answer. It was written into the fabric of the Dark Curse, into the single drop of ‘True Love’ he had dripped onto the parchment; The single drop that would herald the arrival of The Savior.

“Twenty-eight years,” he answered quietly. “Twenty-eight years.”

[junhaoshua]

my ode to fandom

2020, the start of a new decade, is ending. 2021, the start of my adulthood, is beginning. I’ve always wanted to do a post about my fandom journey, and I’ve also decided to change my url starting next year: from the old faithful @moonlightmasquerade to a url for my new fandom, @junhaoshua. So before taking such a huge step, this felt like a perfect time to thank all the media that has shaped me as a person throughout my journey of youth.

This is half-chronological, half-remembered. This isn't comprehensive, because it doesn't have to be to be meaningful. It can't list every single fandom that has made its mark on me, because there are too many to count. 

This is about many people’s stories, including my own. This is about love and power and growing up and changing. This is about how transformative work can transform lives. 

To fandom: this is my ode to you.

To Frozen, the fandom that was my first love: thank you for being the place I discovered fanfic. Thank you for teaching me that it was okay to be myself. For teaching me that my parents could make mistakes when raising me even though they love me. For showing me that villains can be redeemed. 

To MLP, the fandom of my early teens and beyond: thank you for being such a big part of my life. Fallout Equestria, making me realise the impact of war and giving me hope that people can heal from the worst, that we can make a difference in the darkness. The Immortal Game, telling me that trauma can be overcome and my fate is in my hands. Hard Reset, teaching me to persevere despite the odds. Turnabout Storm, introducing me to the franchise that would inspire my future career. Freeport Venture, guiding me as I grew into my own person. These are lessons that kept me going throughout the rough years. Thank you for teaching me to write magic systems and epic fight scenes. Thank you for giving me hope that one day, even a shy bookworm like me would find my friends. 

To Wicked, the fandom of my tumultuous years: thank you for teaching me that I could be beautiful and loved no matter how I look. For opening my eyes to the cowardice of people. For helping me to understand why injustice can thrive. For telling me that sometimes you lose your best friend but you don't stop loving them. Thank you for preparing me to face all this in real life. 

To Star Wars, the fandom I was “born” into: thank you for creating a world that inspires writers. For the trilogies and the beautiful fics that were born from them. For the flaws in canon that made fans want to fix them, and write wonderful stories. Double Agent Vader and the questions of agency and power and justice and the need for righteous indignation. Reylo fics and redemption and atonement and forgiveness. The sequel trilogy stories, too many to count, about finding your family and being your own person and healing from trauma.

To Marvel, the fandom that has brought me comfort for years: thank you for starting a franchise that lasted me throughout my childhood. For the stories of X-Men and being ostracised for being born different. For the ideas of Avengers Tower and the Defenders and Spider-verses and other teams, which may not have been well handled in canon, but which inspired so many stories about dangerous people coming together and being accepted for who they are. For Daredevil and making me decide that yes I’m going to be a lawyer and no my disability will not stop me. 

To DC, the fandom I grew up in: thank you for the DCAU that I spent hours watching as a child. Thank you for inspiring so many amazing, creative people to write. Batfamily fics and the stories of well-meaning Dad Bruce who screws up despite his best efforts. Babs Gordon and being a total badass from her wheelchair. bricklaying and its discussion of power and class issues and trauma and identity, a story that I go back to time and time again. 

To Hamilton, the fandom that inspired me: thank you for introducing me to the wonderful genre of rap and hip-hop. For helping me to realise that there are villains, there are people who make mistakes, and there are people who exploit others’ mistakes. For awakening a fire and ambition in me that I had long tried to douse to try to fit in and be more likable, and telling me it was okay to be young scrappy and hungry. And for reminding me that the people I love are important, too.

And now, to the grand prizes, to the fandoms that have been the biggest part of my life.

To Harry Potter, the fandom I first participated in: thank you for opening my mind and broadening my horizons. For helping me to move past my conservative upbringing and my prejudices (the thanks is all to the fandom, not to canon). For helping me to find my first fandom family, my best friends @reapersbarge and @a-symphony-in-vellichor. For being full of stories about healing just when I needed it. For Dramione, a ship that would lead to me publishing my very first fanfiction, inspired by the wonderful @colubrina. For Drarry and my second fic that gave me the chance to tell a story with my best friend and the other half of my brain. Without HP, without these friends, I would never have found the courage or inspiration to finally finish and publish my stories.

To Six of Crows, the fandom I grew in: thank you for being my first experience with representation in stories. For opening my eyes to the world of YA novels and so many wonderful, amazing stories. (SoC was literally one of the first YA novels I ever read and I wouldn’t have gotten into bookblr without it). For helping me learn how to work with an ensemble cast of characters that all got a chance to shine. For inspiring me to come back from my long writing hiatus and rediscover the joy of being an author. 

To Taylor Swift and Marina, my two favourite solo artists: thank you for music that perfectly fits whatever I’m going through. Thank you for reputation and Electra Heart when I was hurt and angry and trying to build a shield to hide my scars. Thank you for Lover and Froot when I was trying to learn to be happy again, to conceal my hurt with a smile. Thank you for folklore and evermore and Love + Fear when I was finally ready to unbandage my scars and confront everything that I had faced and declare that it did not break me.

To Seventeen, my biggest current fandom: thank you for bringing me joy during this tough year. For always giving me something to look forward to every Monday when the days passed in a blur. For the new friends I’ve met here who welcomed me to caratblr, especially @soonhoonsol, @thekidultlife, @haosvteen, @myunqho, @xuseokgyu and @haoranghae. For reminding me what it feels like to fall deeply into a new fandom for the first time. For the amazing fics and gifs that always bless my dash (there may be another, separate post on that). For awakening my desire to write fic again after a long drought where I couldn’t think of a single thing, and giving me more plot bunnies than I know what to do with. Thank you for being a safe space that helped me to grow and heal and smile again.

To conclude this story:

Throughout my journey, I’ve seen the same threads and themes over and over again. To be my own person and not the person that others moulded me into. To be ambitious and hungry and the hero of my own story. To find my own family, to choose the people I claim as my own. To see injustice and apathy and evil and hopelessness, and to be angry and stand up against it. To believe that people can change, can atone for what they’ve done, can be redeemed. To believe in the power of hope and light against the darkness. 

Fandom is a part of my life that I truly can’t imagine being without. It has been the lifebuoy when I was stuck in trauma and unable to escape. The bandage when I was broken and bleeding and despondent. The glue to put me back together when I shattered into a million sharp-edged pieces. The armor when all I wanted to do was rip out my feelings and put up stone walls around myself. The candle that guided me through the night until I was ready to step into the daylight. 

For the fandoms of my past: I may have become less active, less involved, but I still return to the songs and stories that have been an integral part of my youth. I see them now with older, wiser eyes, and recognise bits and pieces of my personality that I absorbed from them. I’ve never truly left a fandom; how can you leave something when it’s part of you?

For the fandoms of my present: I want to live in the moment and enjoy my experiences for as long as I can, even if I’ll outgrow them one day. I know that even if I move on from them one day, I’ll always treasure the lessons learnt and the memories made, and they’ll have a special place in my heart no matter what.

I believe in the power of stories, of movies, of music, of fandom. I would not be who I am today without it. Every fandom I’ve been in has left an impression on who I am, made its mark on me, a golden tattoo. I can look at them and trace the way each and every one has shaped me into the person I am today. 

And as I hover in the in-between of childhood and adulthood, as I stand now a kidult, I’ll embark on this new phase of life with all the lessons that fandom has taught me, and will continue to teach me for many years to come.

[restmyheadatnightcontent]

you are the sunshine of my life

enjoy the disaster family having some fun in the snow! another scene set in the same verse as love and life are the same and can also be found on AO3 here!

___

She’s awoken by a muffled conversation from the other side of the door and before she can wonder what is going on the door is being opened and she squints to see Jaskier opening the door and Ciri standing next to him holding a tray holding plates of, judging by the smell, freshly made pancakes.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, pushing herself up so she’s resting against the headboard “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You’ve been working hard this week and thought you deserved a treat.” Jaskier says as he takes the tray from Ciri’s hands and settles in on Yens lap.

Ciri climbs in next to her and snuggles into her side and begins to tell Yen all about the dream she had last night whilst tucking into her own pancakes. Yen glances at Jaskier sitting on the bed across from them, gasping and laughing at all the right moments during the story, no doubt already having heard it in the kitchen beforehand. He’s got some syrup on his cheek already because he seems incapable of eating anything like a normal adult. She stops herself from reaching out and wiping it away.

Ciri finishes her story and then demands to know if either she or Jaskier had an interesting dream, and before she can reply, he is off describing his incredibly weird dream involving him performing at a concert but the band was just made up of sea creatures.

(“We were underwater but, like we weren’t? I was the lead singer, obviously,and the octopus on the drums had a really good voice and- do you think I could teach a crab to play bass? Because she was really talented and I really don’t think it would be that hard.”)

Once he’s finished, Ciri is leaping out of bed and insisting they get up too as “We need to go and get ready!”

“Ready for what exactly?” Yen asks.

“Your mum hasn’t seen it yet, Ciri. She was being too lazy,” Jaskier says before yelping as Yen pokes his stomach with his foot.

“The snow!” Ciri says excitedly as she pulls the curtain open to reveal the world outside, which overnight seems to have been transformed into a white wonderland. It’s not the most snow they’ve ever had, but there is a lot. Looking at the street below, it is a few inches deep and has even settled onto the road which is rare.

“I don’t suppose the pancakes had anything to do with the snow? Perhaps a bribe so that I’d let you forget about your homework so you could go and play outside?”

Ciri just smiles sheepishly up her before asking “Can we go outside and play in the snow please?”

“I suppose so,” Yen smiles as small arms wrap around her middle “Go and get dressed then. Layers please, I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

---

“Come on,” Ciri tugs at the sleeve of her jumper, “We need to go before all the good snow goes!”

“I’m not the one holding us up,” Yen argues, gesturing with her coffee to the real reason they are not yet outside, as Jaskier runs down the stairs tying his scarf around his neck. He’d spent at least 20 minutes trying to decide which scarf and hat combination to wear.

“I preferred the first one,” she says drily and he sticks his tongue out at her as he picks up the bag and then they’re out of the house.

They walk to the local park and she sits herself down on a bench so that she can finish her coffee. Ciri is about to run off, having just spotted her friend Dara on the other side of the park, but Yen holds her back, pulling her hat down snugly over her ears before letting her go.

Jaskier stands next to her, shuffling on his feet, glancing between Yen and the children playing and it’s painfully obvious he wants to go and join them. He’s like an excitable puppy and she pushes at him gentlty, “Go on. You’re just as bad as Ciri, honestly.” He presses a quick kiss to her cheek, before he’s running over to join them.

She never had this. She never was the child running happy and carefree, instead spending her younger years trapped inside, the girl with the wonky fringe and crooked spine who no-one wanted to play with. That was until she went to live with Tissaia, and her spine was no longer crooked but she paid the price with scars, some from surgery and some not, and with a choice taken away from ger. After that, people weren’t playing anymore, they wanted something else from her. She’s spent her whole life fighting to get what she wants.

She’s distracted from her thoughts by a particularly loud laugh from Ciri who seems to have tackled Jaskier with Daras help down into the snow and shoved a handful of snow down the back of his coat, causing him to shriek in an octave that she wasn’t sure he could reach. He retaliates by wrapping his arms around them and dragging them down until they are both covered in snow too.

He looks up and catches Yennefer’s eye and his smile widens. He whispers something to Ciri and then gets up and begins making his way over to her. He looks good like this, she has to admit. Snowflakes clinging to his hair, messy and ruffled from his hat, which has disappeared during the ambush; his blue eyes bright and shining; and his cheeks rosy with the cold.

“Alright?” he asks, his breath billowing out forming a cloud as he sits down next to her on the bench.

She hums and takes a sip from her coffee, before raising her eyebrow and saying “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I’m not the one that just lost a snowball fight to twos 10 year olds.”

“I’d like to see you try and beat them! Ciri is absolutely is ruthless with deadly aim” before smirking and adding “Wonder where she gets that from.”

Yennefer just slaps his arm and then holds out her mug to him. She hates drinking the dregs of her coffee and feeling the grounds in her mouth, but Jaskier will happily drink them and proclaims that they are the best bit, because he is a menace to society. He slurps them down quickly, before placing her cup in the bag and wrapping his arms around her and then suddenly she’s being lifted up.

She definitely does not let out an undignified squawk as he heaves her up over his shoulder.

“Idiot, what are you doing? Put me down right now!” she barks, smacking her hands against his back.

“No can do, I’m afraid dear. I’m under strict instructions from your daughter that you have to come and join the fun,” he answers, bending slightly to pick up the bag and then walking over towards Ciri.

She struggles for a while longer before accepting her fate, and then she is being gently placed down next to Ciri. He knows better than to drop her into the snow, as then she would not have been responsible for her actions.

“Come on Mum, we have to make snow angels! Look at how perfect the snow is!” Ciri says excitedly before throwing herself backwards into the snow and moving her arms and legs.

And when faced with her daughters pleading eyes and wide smile, she really has no choice but to fall backwards and join her. She closes her eyes and lets the childlike joy take over her as she begins to move her own arms.

Her mind wanders back to her life and how hard she fought to get to where she is now and the price she paid and decides, with Ciri’s laughter ringing in her ears, that it was all worth it.

[generouscoffeelove]

THE UNASSEMBLED WORDS

Things not always go your way they never even stay the same but you can make your mind to go with the flow u can make yourself to work within the things but sometimes it's hard to face the reality sometimes you are not ready to accept the situation, we all are never mature enough that we cant cry crying makes your mind healthy but overthinking only leads to depression and stress. People will say whatever will come in their mind but it's not always necessary to carefully listen to their opinions. 

When you are determined to achieve something and deep down you know that the path you chose is right for you then no one can divert our mind from those guts. People will depress you, they will tell you that u r wrong and their opinions are right bcz they can't see a person becoming more successful than they themselves. Nowadays no one is more sincere to you than your parents, not even your relatives.

Sometimes I think about the day when I will achieve my dreams but then what if I have no more plans to move on ? what if i get the person i love but what after that ? as i will be near to it i will forget the hurdles and all the things i lost on the path towards my goal. Man is greedy, his requirements can never be completed bcz he wants more & more. If u want to get to ur dreams u have to listen to yourself only u dont care about the people and even if u hurt them u have no problem but then comes the deceiving part where u think that following your dreams might separate your family from u this fear of losing someone really special in ur life makes ur way turn back. I think it's the law of life u cant live happily if the people around u r sad. A person like me sometimes thinks that leave everything and go get whatever u want but in the end u have to come back. U will never forget where u belong and thats how u feel the existence of love.

 The first love relations with you are of the same blood. But how can u fall for someone so badly ? How can you love someone out there in this world more than those people who raised you ? This love can be of two types. The love relation with Allah and secondly the other with one of his people. How weird it is to think that we pray to get someone else in our lives instead of praying to get Allah’s affection. To be honest, pray for it and you will get the things you love automatically even if you love someone so badly. First put this in your mind that excess of everything is bad. It's only Allah who will give u everything and will never upset u but the people around u can love u the most but can also give u the pain that u cant bear. 

Everything happens for good. Maybe someone in your past who deceived you was there by Allah’s choice to make you strong and to make you prepared that nobody is there with you forever. People will always stay in search to get ur weak points but staying close to Allah will hide all of those mistakes on ur side which u made unexpectedly or even if u knew u should pray to be forgave and he will forgive u try to pray from the core of your heart. Nothing is more peaceful than crying in sujood bcz that is the moment when u feel hopeless and u dont have words to describe the society around u that how u feel. I faced a lot of times when i was compared and i was insulted but all i used to do was to stay silent and secretly in the heart say “ Ya Allah u should answer them”. Sometimes its good to stay quiet bcz the silence makes the people go crazy. The silence is breaked automatically by Allah. He himself shows the people that u were wrong.

 Not always u have to stay silent but when u r being doubted for a wrong reason or the person saying is crossing the limits listen 3 times but the 4th time smack his face. Bcz they deserve it. From my perspective rules should be for everyone, and the strictness u faced should also be embossed on the coming kids. It's not right to scold or insult someone in the middle where everyone is sitting bcz it makes you stressed and this is the fact where suicidal thoughts start to enclave even a young mind. I dont why im even writing this but the point is that i really don't want anyone to interfere in our lives and not even to scold us bcz they dont live with us they don't face the things we are facing right now, they cant live a week with us but after all they are right and they will never like to meet a person with empty pockets. To every individual on this planet earth, money is everything and money can buy happiness even. People will embrace you till the day u have money but the day u fall a little they will not even ask that are u ok or do u need any help. 

Life will change so will the people but the real face of people can only be seen when you stand in a tough time and they turn their backs away from you. We lived a great past life, we went to restaurants, we ate mcdonalds and shopped etc. so what everybody does when they have money. People should really look into themselves and then say a word to other people. At the end i would like to share a small verse with huge meaning from Quran that:

 In surah alam nashra

            “Beshak har mushkil ke baad asani hai”

            “Indeed after every hard time there’s good time”

People will stay with you till you are useful to them. the day u fall in need of help, some will help u only those who were sincere to u maybe it can be those people whom u never even noticed or they were not even in priority but they stand with u, they come into your life as angels. Because you wanted them and they were to be in your life by the grace of Allah. 

As you grow up u learn through experiences u learn to stand after crawling but not at once u fall u cry and then u get up, u stand at ur own. As a kid, u are learning actually u are learning throughout your life; from people and mistakes. U are not living until u fail.

 U learn to live through love and failures. Love is the road which can give u the best memories to laugh and cry on, but the bumps can give u those bruises and wounds which will heal but the pain will last forever. The time is cruel after u lose someone u love, and even more when the loved one becomes part of your routine. U cannot live without food as well as love. It's easy to console the broken person but it's not possible to feel the pain as that person is feeling. During this time the emotions are at level best of depression and stress if u cant be nice to them then better stay away bcz they can even harm themselves.

Love is very important in life. If u love someone but can’t tell bcz of some fear.

The fear can be of being rejected or it can be the matter of pride. The matter of our reputation is very sensitive, especially for a girl. A small mistake can break the entire reputation which was made from long and hard work. But people will only bring up the flaws bcz they need a topic to talk on. More importantly,the thing that matters is peace with the reputation u hold, if u have reputation and money but u still feel alone u are not fine. 

The hardest part in life is to live without the person whom you cry for days and nights but you can't tell bcz u are afraid of losing the reputation u hold. It's not wrong but it's killing u deep inside. U keep smiling but its only breaking you. It's funny cuz u are ruining yourself. Less to be worried bcz u are being destroyed by love. The part that hits hard and it's all about fate. Being compared to a less experienced person is bad bcz u know that the person hasn't faced any of the circumstances as u did.

“A dream is a wish that your heart makes”

For loving someone you don't have to be perfect. U dont have to change yourself bcz u know that person will accept u no matter what. This is the belief that love brings into our soul. Love happens; it never asks you who I should be with. It's the beauty and the magic of eyes which makes u staring. A fact says that if a person misses you they appear in your dream and if you think about someone alot it means that person was thinking about you first. I believe a lot in these facts bcz they happen a lot. The real fun and peace in love is by burning in the fire of awareness. U keep waiting for the other person to make a move but what to do if the other person is waiting for u. 

Okay, I know I'm talking rubbish right now. It's currently 3:14 a.m. and I'm unable to sleep. I'm not in the mood to write in my diary so it's better to keep on writing to keep yourself busy. Life is not in the mood to study all i want to do is to explode up and cry i know why but tears seem to be dried and i no longer have emotions my mind just wants to fall into midnight in a deep conversation with myself or with a trustworthy my heart seems to beat for some reasons that keep giving me the same tensions which i want to remove. It feels like my soul is whirling like a storm. I don't know what to do to scream or to cry or to stay awake or sleep. Sometimes i just want to stay up and think about my future and the choices I'm making but i don't have leisure time. 

Hard times will not stay with you forever but at every point of ur life they will make u realize that don't forget where u belong and what u survived in ur past. U can never forget your past bcz ur weakness makes u strong. It's better not to expect alot from people. They can bring u disappointment only or a bit of what u were expecting. U cant eat when ur hands are tied u have to make a move to eat and feed your hunger nobody else is going to do this for you.

 Be independent. It's an easy sentence with two words to say but it requires all of your life to be courageous enough to face the coming hurdles. U are going to face many challenges .

“if ur life got harder congratulations !! u just leveled up”.

 Smile even if there are 1000 reasons not too but this time during these days it seems to me as if I'm the shining star alone in the sky where clouds are trying to dull my spark but i keep shining the clouds hide me but then i come back. The mechanism of nature also teaches you many lessons of life. If you think deeply, the sun teaches you that after every dusk there is dawn. The sky can't show the glitter of stars without night. The moon tells you it's good to go through phases. The black clouds teach u that when u are loaded after going through many stages its ok to let everything pour out through tears. The average rain can bring happiness to the beings on earth they will feel calm but if it rains more than normal it destroys the belongings of human.Similarly, if we cry normally it freshens our mind but the excess of it leads to depression and damage of internal conditions and peace.

“Excess of everything is bad”

I don't know when girls felt peaceful in their lives, enjoyed and cherished the most beautiful moments of their lives. All the time they have to worry about something even if it's health,dressing,family,friends or some sort of harassment. She cant feel free to live. Talking to a male about life and studies is a crime and is considered something related to flirting and to be feel ashamed on. Something for which the parents can't speak on if they want to. The people thinking in this way for someone's daughter should think that in future they will also have daughters and what if this will happen to them. If today you consider someone else your daughter or sister honestly u have a peaceful and beautiful future.

But if u see girls as some material to be used and thrown u were born to be wrong then even if u say urself muslim or human look at ur habits and inner person it is more worse than animal. You have to change yourself first to change the people around you.

[justfandomwritings]

United In Fear (Part Two - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU 

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: literally just chit chat fluff and character building

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: sooo... I like Tywin Lannister. This is kinda fun I think. Let me know.

Previously On... Part One

“A Rose of Gold?” (Y/n) scoffed. “Do we look like Tyrell’s to you?”

“I-I,” The bard stuttered over his words, “I could play the Lion and the Lady for you, Lady Lannister.”

A guffaw went up around the group of Lannister soldiers. There was no worse Westerlands song he could have chosen to play for (Y/n) Lannister than the one effectively about how she should not exist.

“Best choose something else,” An older soldier, named Tygett after Tywin’s younger brother, advised.

None of the group who’d come up with (Y/n) from Casterly Rock felt particularly welcome in Winterfell. Every morning since she’d sent word for her father to ride north, (Y/n) had left the keep in the early hours of the morning to join her men in the barracks to break fast; and every night since her father replied that he was on his way with all haste, she had dropped all pretense of social interaction with the Starks or the King’s party and taken all of her meals with her men.

The twenty or so soldiers were camped around a large bonfire behind the stables of Winterfell, as they were every night. The meal was soup, one of the large pots Winterfell’s kitchen had delivered to the barracks for any men not invited to the feast. A few well-placed coins by (Y/n) had managed to get all of the rolls baked for that night’s supper delivered, instead, to the fireside, and some of the North’s musicians who had been displaced by those brought with the King had thought to join the Lannister to earn some gold from them.

“It’s a bit late for lively music. Can we trust you to know the Song of the Seven?” (Y/n) asked the Northmen.

The bard hesitated, “We know to play it, but we keep faith with the old gods so we…”

“Cannot sing it. Yes, I understand.” (Y/n) pushed off the barrel she’d made use of as a chair and walked around the fire to toss a copper to the harpist. “Play it. We will do the singing.”

As the men prepared their instruments, (Y/n) approached one of the squires sitting in the dirt behind the circle of soldiers. “You were the one singing on the journey to the Kingsroad?”

“Yes, my lady?” The young squire looked on confused.

“Well,” She ushered him to get up, “On with you then. I can’t very well sing alone.”

The boy scrambled to his feet and followed the Lady of the Rock into the center of the circle as the notes began to play.

“The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong. He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children,” The squire took the first verse.

(Y/n) smiled; she was right. The boy could sing. She’d remember that for the journey home. “The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife. Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children.”

The squire traded verses with his Lady, singing the deeper masculine verses to contrast her beautiful harmonies. “The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go. With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children.”

“The Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold. She lifts her lamp of shining gold to lead the little children.” Tyrion used to tease her that it was the mention of gold, but (Y/n)’s favorite verse to the common lullaby had always been the verse of the Crone. As a child, she’d loved joining in for the one verse as her brother sang her to sleep.

“The Smith, he labors day and night, to put the world of men to right. With hammer, plow, and fire bright, he builds for little children.”

The squire finished his final solo, and (Y/n) picked up, “The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover's sigh. Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and gives dreams to little children.”

Together, the pair sang to the men the final verse, “The Seven Gods who made us all, are listening if we should call. So close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children. Just close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children.”

Applause went once around the men, more for (Y/n) than the squire. It was applause nonetheles, and from the way the boy was beaming, (Y/n) thought his talents were not often appreciated.

The boy scampered back to his place behind the men, and (Y/n) took up the barrell as her seat once again, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees in a rather unladylike fashion.

The men began discussing another song the pair could sing, mostly calling out for the typical Rains of Castermere. (Y/n) laughed when someone suggested that perhaps the squire could play a bear and let her sing the Bear and the Maiden Fair. The men poked fun at each other, and it wasn’t until their laughter died down that they heard a new voice.

“You are in the North,” All heads around the fire turned except (Y/n)’s. “Our songs aren’t as famous in the South, but given the setting one of them might be appropriate.”

Silence prevailed after his words, and (Y/n) stared straight ahead as she spoke in a low, commanding voice. “Leave us.”

None questioned it. As one, the soldiers rose to their feet and began collecting their things.

“Your name, squire?” (Y/n) called after her singing partner without averting her gaze.

“Podrick Payne, my lady.” The boy bowed in her peripheral vision.

(Y/n) nodded. Ilyn Payne’s kin, she wouldn’t have guessed from his temperament. “Thank you, Podrick. Go with the others.”

Robb Stark didn’t approach until the last of the musicians had blundered away towards the barracks. “You have a beautiful voice.” He said as he picked out the nearest barrell one of her men had been using and rolled it over to her side.

“Thank you, my lord. Many years of lessons would hope I did.”

“I hadn’t thought that part of lessons to become a lady.” Robb noted curiously. “Though in truth, I never paid much attention to what my sisters’ were being taught by their Septa.”

(Y/n) shrugged, not having an answer. “I can’t say, truthfully. I wasn’t educated by a Septa.”

“I thought all future ladies were?”

(Y/n) chuckled to herself and finally looked over to Robb. “And since when did rules start applying to Lannisters?”

Robb smirked and waved a hand to the empty seats around him. “They seemed to follow rules well enough. My father’s men don’t scatter so quickly at my word, let alone my sisters.”

“I’m a Lannister.” (Y/n) sat up off her knees and looked on Robb with all the majesty her entrance to Winterfell had possessed. “We don’t tolerate insubordination in our soldiers or weakness in our leaders.”

Robb diverted his gaze quickly, “I would never dare call a woman who stood up to the King as you did weak.” He knew the bruise was still there, but he was sitting on the wrong side of her to see it. In a way Robb was grateful for that. His first sight of her skin discolored by the hands of his King had been at the noon meal after she returned from sending a raven for her father, and it had infuriated him beyond reason. When the King ordered her brother to escort her to the seat at Robb’s right hand side the damage to her face was in full view. Robb had done the only thing he could to keep himself from leaping for Robert Baratheon; he’d pushed himself from the table and stormed out of the hall to find Jon. No one, not even his mother, tried to stop him.

In truth, Robb had been looking for Jon again when he’d found her by the fire with the soldiers. He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but as far as he knew, (Y/n) hadn’t spoken to anyone but her soldiers and her two brothers since Robert laid hands on her. Robb wanted to know for himself that she was fine.

“It takes very little to stand up to a man like Robert Baratheon,” (Y/n) mused. “All one needs is sufficient anger, sufficient bravery, or sufficient stupidity.”

“And which one are you?” Robb chuckled, “Angry, brave, or stupid?”

“None of those, I suppose. I like to think that I stand up to him because I see him for what he truly is.”

After the encounter, Robb saw Robert Baratheon as many things. “I presume you see him as a tyrant?”

(Y/n) shook her head and sighed, “No, Robert Baratheon isn’t smart enough to be a tyrant. He isn’t smart enough to be a king, yet people believe he is for some ridiculous reason.”

“What is he if not a king?”

“He’s a sheep.” (Y/n) and Robb both turned, and their eyes met for a long moment before (Y/n) looked away. “As Father always says, a lioness doesn’t concern herself with the opinions of sheep, even the King of sheep.”

Robb watched her carefully as her gaze lazed away from his. “I hardly think anyone else would describe that oaf as something so innocent as a sheep.”

“He’s not a sheep because he’s innocent.” (Y/n) corrected. “He’s a sheep because he’s simple and foolish. He thought a title would protect him from laying hands on me, but I am the last person in Westeros any man should want to cross.”

“Because of your father?” Robb looked as though he wanted to laugh. Her father was a man to be noted, but he wasn’t the King. “You think the King respects Tywin Lannister so much?”

(Y/n) had heard that tone once before. Long ago, at the docks in Lannisport, a sailor from the Iron Islands had spoken to her in such a way, long before the Greyjoy Rebellion. He’d laughed when she told him about how smart and powerful her father was and jeered her story of his bravery and honor. (Y/n) had told her father about the sailor, and years later when the Iron Islanders burned the Lannister fleet at Lannisport, her father still remembered. He made her look at every coat of arms from the Iron Islands before they left. House Botley, the flag the sailor’s ship had flown, was burned to the ground.

“It’s not a matter of respect. You’ve met the King.” (Y/n) turned her head around and tilted it up in the dying light of the embers to show him the bruise still coloring her cheek. Her hand pulled aside the collar of her dress to show him her bandaged shoulder, “The King did this, and that is the man your father respects more than any other man in the Seven Kingdoms. So tell me,” (Y/n) waited till Robb met her gaze, “do you? Do you respect the King?”

“No.” Robb kept his eyes on hers, not daring to flash them to her injuries. His fists were already clenching his pants; he didn’t know what more he could do to hold back his anger. “No, I don’t.”

(Y/n) dropped her dress back into place, contemplating whether to continue. Robb was her mate, but Robb was a Stark. She didn’t trust many people, and none of the ones she did trust were Starks. How much could she actually divulge to him without risking her head? Not much, but then again, she doubted anyone would believe she said whatever he repeated, assuming he repeated it. Even if they did, Robert Baratheon had already struck her once. The look in his eyes when he did told her Robert knew better than to do so twice.

“Your father doesn’t respect my father. The King doesn’t respect my father, and for all the gold to my name, to have the disrespect of a man like Robert Baratheon is the greatest honor in the Seven Kingdoms. I pray one day men like him talk about me the way they talk about my father. Not with respect, but with fear. Because men like that deserve to be afraid of someone, and I hope it’s me.”

Robb said nothing because what was there to say.

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He joined her again the next night. Later this time, after the fires had died down and the singing had stopped and her soldiers had left to fall asleep.

“Tell me about him.”

“About who?”

“Your father,” Robb explained. “You don’t speak about him as though you love him, but you certainly admire him. He is important to you. I’d like to understand why.”

(Y/n) chuckled to herself. “I must be the only lady in the Seven Kingdoms who ever has to explain why she cares about her father.”

“I apologize,” Robb immediately began to backtrack. “I meant no offense.”

“None was given.” (Y/n) waved him away, slipping off her usual barrell so she could sit in the dirt and lean back on the wood. “I genuinely find it amusing that you all think my father some heartless beast of a man that no one could ever love and who can love nothing in return when his very life proves that not to be true.”

“You mean Joanna?” Robb wasn’t sure if mentioning Tywin’s first wife was a good idea, but he was curious how it affected her.

(Y/n) hedged at the name, though not in the way Robb thought she would. “Yes and no. She was certainly Tywin’s greatest act of love, but people think he feels nothing with her gone. In truth, he cares deeply about a great many things.”

“Like what?”

“Gold for one,” Robb and (Y/n) laughed together for a moment before a look crossed (Y/n)’s eye again and she felt the need to say, “He does love us all, in his own way.”

“What was his way with you?”

His question was met with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the huffing of horses in the stable behind him. The night air filled with sounds of the North that kept them from complete silence, but that didn’t calm the tension that suddenly gripped Robb’s chest. He wasn’t sure if he’d asked the wrong question or simply a hard one to answer, but given what he knew of his mate so far, he doubted very strongly any question was too hard for (Y/n) to answer.

Robb’s eyes darted down every few moments to where (Y/n) sat on the cold earth. Her eyes twinkled reflections of flames as she stared into the fire, but there was not even a twitch to her gaze when a spark danced out of the flames and died only a step from her feet. She was looking, but she wasn’t seeing. Wherever (Y/n)’s mind had gone, it wasn’t Winterfell.

“If I’ve caused you any discomfort…”

“I never knew my mother.” (Y/n) spoke over him as if she hadn’t realized he was speaking. Robb wondered if she ever registered that he was still there. “I barely knew the twins growing up. The only people I had at the Rock were Tyrion and Tywin, and Tyrion, while a wonderful brother, was still a child himself and had his own difficulties plaguing him. The moment I was out of the nursery, all of the maids and septas and nurses were gone. My every waking hour was spent at my father’s feet.”

The idea of Tywin Lannister caring so intimately for a child was disturbing with every notion Robb had of the man, and he found himself shifting uncomfortable on his makeshift stool as he tried to grapple with the idea.

“In meetings with his council, I would be sat in a chair playing with dolls. He taught me to ride a horse while heading out to deal with bandits on the Gold Road. I learned to read by peering over his shoulder at the ledgers of the Rock.” A fond smile pulled the corner of (Y/n)’s lips. “He was as strict and harsh as you imagine, but he was always fair.”

(Y/n) turned then, turned her whole body around to face Robb, as if she needed to be sure he heard her every word perfectly clearly. “He did not raise me to be just anyone. He raised me to be him. You see, my father did not raise me to be some poor beggar’s wife, because I was not supposed to beg. He did not raise me to fall for the first knight in shining armor who rode to my rescue, because I did not need anyone to rescue me. I was never going to work as handmaiden to another lady like any unmarried second daughter would, because I was not going to bow in service to any house. I wasn’t even raised to be the wife of a lord, especially a Lord Paramount and Warden as you.”

Therein lied their problem. Robb could have guessed from her earlier rejections that Tywin did not raise (Y/n) to marry him, not that he would have guessed Tywin raised her. The Lannisters’ influence was evident in her every word, but from the tales, Tywin didn’t seem the fatherly type. Robb just assumed the similarities were a familial trait.

“You can ask.”

“What?” Robb looked on with a heavy crease in his brow that reminded (Y/n) of the constantly heavy appearance of his father. It didn’t suit Robb’s lighter feature the way it suited Ned Stark’s. Robb shared too much of his mother.

“Why. You can ask why. I know you’ve wanted to since I stepped in that room with your parents and the King.”

She was right. It had been the one thing eating at him. Robb liked to think he was good looking enough, kind enough, strong enough. He would be one of the four Wardens one day. Her father already controlled the West.  Jon Arryn’s son in the East was far too young. It only left Robb or Doran Martell’s son. The Martell’s were certainly richer, but their lands and armies were much smaller. More than that, they despised the Lannisters even more than his father. The only hope (Y/n) could have for a better match than Robb Stark was Crown Prince Joffrey himself. Still, he was her nephew, and Robert already intended him for Sansa. Being her soulmate, baring her name on his arm, should have been an afterthought.

“Why?” Robb didn’t hesitate to pose the question.

“Because my father raised me to be him in all things.”

Robb took a second longer than he probably should have before his eyes widened. “You can’t honestly mean…”

“Jaime is sworn to hold no lands, and Cersei is the queen. In a perfect kingdom, I would have been born a son, but even as a daughter, he still prefers me to Tyrion.”

“You’re the heir to the Rock.” Robb said in disbelief. “The Warden of the West.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not possible.” He murmured, more to himself than her, as he lowered his head to staring at the ground in complete shock.

(Y/n) couldn’t hold back as her eyes rolled in her head. “I assure you it is.”

“How?”

“Cerelle Lannister already set the precedent. She was an only child at the age of three when Tybolt died, and the Rock fell to her by way of a regent. She did not live to maturity to rule for herself, but she allowed for female inheritance.”

“Even if you discount your twin siblings, Tyrion is a male and your elder.” Robb insisted on pointing out.

(Y/n) nodded, “Yes, but he does not want the damned thing, thinks I’m better suited to it anyhow. Once I marry, he’ll recuse himself from the line of succession, and I will be left as the last alternative.”

“Won’t your uncle object?” Robb motioned up towards the keep. “He has sons; does he not? Robert Baratheon’s squire. Surely he would expect to be the next heir.”

“Kevan knows of all of this, and he does not object. That is rather the point.” (Y/n) referred back to her earlier ramblings, “I was raised for this, made for this, born for this. In the Westerlands, they already know not to question me. They know I am my father’s daughter in every way. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of Westeros falls in line, and it begins with Robert Baratheon.”

“When he struck you?” Robb bit out.

(Y/n) ground her teeth, “Yes, not how I intended to acquaint myself with our king, but since it has happened, it will have to serve a purpose.” A smirk pulled at the corner of her lips, pulling away the noise of her teeth rubbing together, “I am a Lannister after all, and I now owe the King a debt.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” In honesty, it probably should have occurred to Robb to ask sooner. His mate or not, she was a Lannister, as she loved to remind him.

(Y/n) pondered the question for a moment. “I don’t really know,” she confessed. “Under normal circumstances, there would be no reason to reject a match to you, but these aren’t normal circumstances. Maybe it’s that you deserve to know what the circumstances are. I suppose you have a right to know these things. They aren’t just things about me, after all. They are about us.”

“I suppose there’s no hope for a change of circumstances?” Robb smiled to try to lighten the mood. The expression on both of their faces had quickly turned sullen, and he didn’t want what little time he had with his soulmate to be wasted dwelling on dark memories. He would never know her the way he wanted to, but he could at least know her as a friend.

“Only if you’re willing to forsake your inheritance, remove your sigil, leave your family, and follow me to Casterly Rock where you and your children will be known as Lannisters and never be allowed to bear the name Stark?” It was a rather blunt answer, but she said it in such a teasingly optimistic tone that it only lightened the mood further with amusement.

“No,” Robb smirked. “I don’t suppose I would. Perhaps you would turn your back on your father, give up becoming the most powerful woman in Westeros, force Tyrion to become heir to the Rock, leave your gold and all your other lavish Southern possessions and join me in the cold, barren North for the boring life of an incredibly traditional lady?”

Part of him hoped she would say yes, but he wasn’t surprised when she responded with a tinkling laugh of, “No. I don’t suppose I would.”

“Shame,” he smiled to himself. “Perhaps I shall pray to the old gods that my father and the King manage to steal you out from under the lion’s paw by distracting him with something shiny.”

(Y/n) playfully rolled her eyes at him. Her tone was one of fake exasperation, “Perhaps I shall pray to the new gods that Ned Stark doesn’t wet himself when my father arrives or all hope of convincing Tywin to rob Winterfell of its heir will be ruined by his impression of your family.”

The image of his father being scared by anyone’s arrival in their home was amusing enough, but the image of Lord Tywin Lannister dressed head to toe in gold, wiping another man’s piss of his boots was almost too much for Robb. Within a few moments, Robb’s loud guffaw sent both of them into a fit of laughter that was far too loud given the time of night. It ceased rather suddenly only one a loud whinny went up from the stables behind them to sign the horses’ discontent.

“He can’t truly have enough power to work such a thing, even with the help of gods.” Robb’s tone was still light, but there was an underlying question to it that (Y/n) immediately picked up on. He’d never been to the South. He’d never been to royal court, so he didn’t really know the answer to his unspoken question outside of tall tales. How much power did Tywin Lannister truly wield?

“For decades, a Targaryen wore the crown and wielded all the power in Westeros, while my father sat on the Iron Throne and kept the Kingdoms running as their Hand. Now the roles have reversed. Robert Baratheon and his man of choice might sit on the Iron Throne. They might run the Seven Kingdoms, but they know where the crown, where the power, truly lies.”  

“Seven Kingdoms united in fear of Tywin Lannister.” Robb repeated the famous saying. “I don’t think you’ll find the North afraid.”

“Only because you haven’t met him yet,” (Y/n) smiled to herself. “If they don’t fear him when he arrives, they will by the time he leaves, just as they do everywhere else.”

(Y/n) pushed herself to her feet. She took a moment to brush her skirts back down into position and rid them of any obvious dirt. Then, Robb watched her turn and walk away, calling back over her shoulder, “When you see Lannister banners on the horizon of Winterfell tomorrow, watch the King.”

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The banners of House Lannister broke the horizon, signifying the approach of the Warden of the West.

The only thought in Robert’s mind was that this would surely be the day he died. Robert might be a fool, but he wasn’t so mad as Aerys to think that Tywin Lannister ever truly came in peace.

Tywin had taken the lives of every man, woman, and child from two of the Westerlands’ richest and oldest houses, and he had done so with a smile. All over some gold that was a drop in the bucket to House Lannister’s riches. Tywin had sacked King’s Landing and slaughtered the royal family, including his oldest friend, because Aerys forced him to remarry a beautiful young woman. Slights by comparison to Robert’s offense.

Robert Baratheon had struck the Lady of Casterly Rock, Tywin’s daughter and youngest child, in front of her mate, the Heir to Winterfell no less. She still bore the bruise.

At the least, Tywin would have his offending hand. At the worst, he would end Robert’s dynasty. Robert feared both were within the Lannister’s grasp.

As (Y/n) had told him to do, Robb watched his namesake. Robert Baratheon was a large man and a warrior at heart. He had long grown fat and let himself go with the pressures of the crown and the grief of his loss, but that hadn’t made him any less the man who killed Rhaegar Targaryen.

Robb thought Robert was not one to be easily intimidated, but as he watched, he saw the Baratheon’s stern face begin to crack. He saw what (Y/n) had sent him searching for. Fear. The King of the Seven Kingdoms was afraid of Tywin Lannister.

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