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a-lil-perspective · 3 years

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I have been silent for some time now. I have refrained from exhibiting any plaguing thoughts that might warrant me the label of “that person”, but I’m at the point where I’ve had my fill.

Ramble under the cut so as to not... offend or inconvenience anyone. There’s absolutely no obligation to read this. It’s Tumblr. You can block/ignore me. The option to do so is readily accessible.

I’ve been a Bad Batch fan since day one. While I didn’t start creating that very same day, it was relatively close. Point being, I’m a long-time dedicated fan. As the premiere to their series draws closer, I feel like there is going to be a great shift, rift here. That being said, I figured now is as good a time as any to make this post.

I love those boys beyond words. They’ve been the one constant in my life amidst a rapid and debilitating change. I love getting to give them life, even if my interpretations aren’t the most accurate.

Yes, I am a new Writer and yes, I am new to Tumblr, as I am sure both of those things are painfully apparent.

I get that it is impossible to please everyone. It’s something I’m learning more and more with each passing day. It’s something that gets harder to swallow, even more so.

I’d like to say that being here has been a largely positive experience, with all of these great connections and opportunities. But honestly? It’s been more isolating than anything. I’ve actually never felt more isolated than since I joined a year ago.

As a content creator or even just a general blogger, I don’t ask for much. I don’t ask for anything, in fact. I consider myself very low maintenance. I don’t demand/harass/play the martyr for reblogs. I have never mentioned it once, and never will. Some people on here are so damn passive-aggressive about it, and quite frankly, it’s embarrassing. It’s very stigmatizing. While I completely understand the frustration surrounding the like-to-reblog ratio, I think it’s neither tasteful nor reputable to threaten to call people out for not reblogging your fics. I wish I could say I was joking on that one. But I’ve seen it profoundly. Not cool.

And yet, no one says anything or raises any concern there.

Yet I make metas, harmless rambles, and I get shot down? Seriously?

—I need to “chill”, it’s “overkill”, I’m “overthinking”. I and my content are apparently just so damn arduous to interact with.

If you don’t like me, please just move on. There are plenty of other Bad Batch creators for you to enjoy. You know that. My work is absolutely not the final say, and I’ve never claimed it to be.

What is so wrong, with sharing one’s thoughts? Why do people inherently have a problem with other’s creative efforts? I see it time over again. Why do I feel like if I was making a bunch of smutty posts it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, that it in fact would be infinitely more welcome? (Absolutely NO shade to people who create smut, okay? I’ve made my own share. I admire those bold enough to do so regularly. I absolutely love them. Please teach me your ways).

This ramble really has nothing to do with the most recent event regarding my contributions. Rather, it’s a culmination of experiences over the past several months that have brewed and festered to the point where I can no longer keep downplaying it.

Social media, at its core, is one big popularity contest. It always has been, it always will be. But I’m not here to win. That’s never been my objective. That’s not what I’m about. Surprise (or not), I am not a popular blog. Not by a long shot. I’ll never claim otherwise.

I don’t ask people to view/interact with my content, I’m not an activist, I can’t even fathom exuding that kind of confidence. Even though I, admittedly, crave it. I suspect I crave interaction as much as the next creator. It’s a nice feeling. Yet there’s never been any obligation for it, especially with me, so I don’t understand what the problem is. As I’ve said, there are ample ways for you to block/avoid me. It’s the internet. In this day and age, there’s no excuse for viewing anything you don’t want to.

I came here in the hopes of finding like-minded individuals, uplifting and interacting, and exercising some otherwise stunted creativity.

All Tumblr as taught me is that creating and contributing is largely a thankless, empty endeavor. You can give and give and give and be reduced to nothing. There’s a profound imbalance between “giving” and “receiving”, and in regards to both ends of the scale, it’s became apparent to me that if you don’t cater heavily and in unreasonable degrees or get “noticed” by a popular blog, you get nothing, and your efforts are null and void.

Truthfully? I constantly feel like I walk on eggshells here, and it’s all I can do to not crack under the pressure, even though it’s my blog and my headspace. I should feel comfortable and free to express myself here, and I don’t, and I’m unsure of how to achieve that sense of stability. To be completely honestly I feel like a constant bother and a nuisance. When I post, I literally feel like there is a collective eye-roll that comes with people receiving a notification from my blog. Even though I know, rationally, that can’t be true, that’s an absurd level of thinking. I can’t say I can pinpoint exactly where it stems from.

But regardless: I hardly ever talk about/create the things I actually want. I only recently just got ballsy enough to share some metas, and we all know how well that’s going. I try not to have smut out of respect for my asexual/minor mutuals, even though the tag to blacklist is very much an option. I try not to bring up conflicting topics, Tumblr, political, or otherwise, even though with proper tagging I could. But I try not to even bring that into existence. Even though it’s my right to, I don’t.

I don’t actually feel like I fit into any narrative here, especially in the Bad Batch fandom; even though we are all basically the same steadfast group of bloggers. We all know who we are. We all coexist in the same space. It’s nearly impossible to be unaware of each other, at this point.

And yet, I’m not in a bunch of Discord servers or backed by a team of beta readers and all that jazz. It’s basically just me talking to myself out here. It’s very isolating.

Part of that—most of it—is my own crippling social anxiety, and the genuine belief that I don’t deserve to be in the same space/servers as all of these brilliant creators. Because I’m just me, and there’s not a whole lot of value there. With that mindset, it’s hard to actually feel like I belong anywhere. I know that is a mindset I have to conquer alone.

My excitement over my creations has largely dwindled into nothing. I seldom ever bounce my ideas off of others—another issue that stems from the fear of presenting as a burden—and even though I try to write for myself, even that fire has pretty much died out. I’m not even sure how or if I could even reignite it, at this point. It’s really quite sad. It makes me very sad, actually. All I wanted was to safely ramble, project all my thoughts and creativity that has otherwise been repressed through prolonged detrimental circumstances.

More than anything, I wanted to find and hold onto something that makes me feel useful, meaningful, happy. More and more I wonder if that’s even possible. I don’t think it is, not here. I often wonder if joining and sharing on Tumblr was a horrible mistake. I miss the innocent joy of when I first started creating. It was so simple. I’m trying to find that simplicity again.

But I’m burned out. I’m running on fumes. I have been for some time.

At this point it goes beyond just “taking a break” from Tumblr. It’s the fact that it all feels like this meaningless, monotonous cycle. I wonder every day if I am an isolated case in experiencing these emotions.

And yet, come tomorrow I will still be here, business as usual.

I’m not asking for sympathy or playing the victim or attacking anyone or trying to guilt-trip into more interaction. I am very aware of my shortcomings and incorrect mindsets. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. I feel very disconnected from everyone here and it’s lonely. This took a lot for me to share. I will most likely delete this because anxiety will eat me up, as it does with everything I post. Yes, everything.

#personal #lil rambles

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lesdemonium · 4 years

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I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 6

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 17629 (total) Chapter: 6/16 Summary:

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

read on ao3 - read chapter 1 on ao3

read chapter 1 on tumblr

The first time he woke up, Jaskier was in a tent. Geralt was holding him up and peering into his eyes, and Jaskier recognized surprise in Geralt’s eyes, but only distantly. Geralt turned to the other person in the tent. Jaskier turned, too, to see an elf, also touching Jaskier, but his touch was light, exploring. His fingers felt cool against Jaskier’s burning skin, and Jaskier just barely heard the words they spoke.

“--much I can do, there’s something interfering, a curse of some sort--”

“--didn’t have magic, they were just bandits , could barely find their way out of--”

“--residence in the mayor’s house--”

It went dark again, and Jaskier just barely registered being lifted back into someone’s arms--Geralt’s, he was sure it was Geralt--and taken somewhere.

The next time he woke up, he was in a lush bed. His eyelids were too heavy to open and he felt hot and sweaty all over. He wanted to kick away the blankets beneath him, he was too hot , but his legs wouldn’t cooperate and a moment later a shiver wracked through his entire body.

“Do you doubt my capabilities?”

“No, just your intentions.”

Jaskier let sleep take him again. Anything to stop feeling so damn hot .

The third time he awoke, Jaskier felt hazy, as if he was still in a dream, but no longer hot. His body didn’t hurt, not anywhere, though he was certain he should be feeling something on his side. He groped the skin there, trying to find the knife he had last felt jutting out of his skin, but there was nothing. Not even a slight pucker of skin or a tenderness that would imply he was healing. That was curious.

He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. The bed beneath him was still just as lush as he remembered, and now he saw it had the most gorgeous canopy. He pushed himself up to his forearms--which was surprisingly easy, so easy Jaskier almost wondered if he had simply dreamed his injury--and looked around the room. It was grand and ornate and fit for someone very, very important. To his right was a woman.

“Ah, hello,” Jaskier greeted, his voice raspy from misuse and quiet from confusion. “Have we--I mean, I don't want to presume anything, but did we--”

“I healed you from your wounds,” the woman said, rising and gliding across the room toward her. She was beautiful, with piercing violet eyes. Still, something about her told Jaskier Do not touch . “It was trickier than it should have been.”

She was upon him, suddenly, hovering over him in a way that made Jaskier want to crawl away. He didn’t, he was a bit manlier than that, and while he felt fine, he had an idea he wouldn’t win in a fight against this particular woman. Her eyes were narrowed as she considered him.

“Ah, yes, well. I’ve always been a bit of a tricky creature.” Jaskier did not like the way she was looking at him, like she was trying to peer into his soul or something. He avoided her gaze and scooted his way to the edge of the bed, on the far side of where she was at. He stood up, and edged his way toward the door. “I predict you want to talk payment, though I admit I don’t have much in the way of that. Don’t suppose you healed me out of the goodness of your heart? And I can be on my way?”

“Your witcher already paid.” That made Jaskier stop short for a moment, which was a foolish decision, because he heard the woman come up behind him. She turned Jaskier roughly and pressed him against the wall, and now he couldn’t escape from her eyes. She was peering into his soul, Jaskier was sure of it. Sorceress, then.

“Ah, well, then I thank you for your time my good lady. Why don’t I just take my witcher and we can get out of here?”

She wasn’t listening to him. Her eyebrows crept up her face at whatever she saw when she peered into Jaskier’s fucking soul and Jaskier, despite being fully clothed--and very much reminded of that fact from his bloodied and crusted clothes--felt completely naked under her gaze.

“You’ve been gifted by a fae.”

Jaskier scowled and shoved the woman off. He was a little surprised when she did stumble back a bit. Maybe he had caught her off guard.

“I don’t much care for the word gifted ,” Jaskier snapped, brushing off his clothes. “Now, if you don’t mind--”

“Geralt doesn’t know, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t, and I’d rather we keep things that way and--”

“Jaskier, you must--”

“I don’t much appreciate being on a first name basis at a disadvantage ,” Jaskier cut her off, and felt almost a little embarrassed at how much his voice shook. This was a lot, and it was slowly dawning on him that he had nearly died, all because of this curse. Only to then have someone else call it a gift . It was a rude awakening, to be sure.

“Yennefer.” She held up her hands as if in surrender, but Jaskier only narrowed his eyes at her. “I want to know about your gift.”

“I told you it’s not a gift--”

“Curse, then.” She stepped closer, and normally Jaskier would love to be in a position like this, with a gorgeous sorceress, interested in hearing about him. More than anything, though, he wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to know where Geralt was.

“Why?” He crossed his arms and tried to make himself as tall as possible. Surprisingly, staring down at Yennefer wasn’t making him feel any more in control here. There was something disarming about her violet eyes.

“I’m curious. I’ve never seen a curse like this. I want to know how it works.”

“I’m not an experiment or a curiosity to gawk at. Find your entertainment elsewhere.”

“I could command you to,” she said, her head tilting to the side. She reminded him so much of Geralt in that moment, and Jaskier didn’t care much for the comparison. He didn’t think he cared for this witch at all.

“You could.” Jaskier’s jaw clenched. It was futile, of course. Once she said the words, he’d have no choice but to obey. It made him feel, if only for a moment, as if he had control.

Instead, though, she just looked at him. Her gaze never softened, but it was almost as if Jaskier saw an understanding cross her eyes. She stepped away from him, giving him just a bit of space, and Jaskier took a deep breath as if she had somehow been taking his air.

“I won’t command you. But if you tell me, I won’t tell your witcher.”

Jaskier glared at her. It wasn’t a command, but he had little choice but to agree. There was a distinction, there. Even if it was at great cost to him, Yennefer had given him some sort of choice. It was better than nothing. He still didn’t like her for it, but he had a feeling Yennefer didn’t much care for being liked.

“I was cursed by a fae as a baby. I cried too much, he made me obedient. Happy?”

Her face remained neutral, but her lips turned downward just the slightest tick. She pitied him. Somehow, that was worse than her finding him something interesting to sate her curiosity. He didn’t want her pity.

“Now, it seems far past time for me to leave. If you could point me in the direction of Geralt, I would love to--”

“He isn’t here,” Yennefer interrupted, striding away. She seemed to have a habit of interrupting. It was rude. “He’s running an errand for me.”

“What sort of errand? Delivering the souls you stole to a devil?”

“I never would have guessed you talk so much, with the company you keep. Did you steal all your witcher’s words?” Yennefer asked, though she seemed disinterested in the answer. “Geralt will return soon. You may wait here, and I will go about other work. And Jaskier?” She paused in the doorway, looking at him seriously. “I’m endeavoring not to command you, but take my invitation to stay in this room as one. Or the command I give you instead will be far more restrictive.”

Jaskier huffed as she left the room, and sat himself heavily upon the bed. He believed the sorceress, and really had no intention of getting himself commanded into anything today, so he obeyed. He passed the time by exploring the room--nothing interesting in it, as he expected, aside from a few fine pieces of jewelry he pocketed and a doublet that fit him so perfectly it would just be a shame to leave it behind. He had a feeling these trinkets did not belong to Yennefer, either, and so he did not feel guilty in taking them. Not that he would have felt guilty for stealing from the sorceress otherwise, but he would be a tad concerned that she would mind-read him again.

It took hours for Geralt to return, but there was no question that he had. Despite Yennefer’s thinly veiled threat that implored him to stay in the room, Jaskier stole into the hallway and followed the direction of Geralt’s booming voice. He found them in a large room, with tables and chairs everywhere, maybe a banquet hall?

“I almost didn’t get out Yennefer !” Geralt yelled.

He looked livid, all tense lines and furrowed brows. Yennefer looked unaffected, bored, even. Her arms were crossed and she was examining her nails, likely because she knew it was only making Geralt more upset. She seemed like a needler.

“But you did. And here you are. So, all’s well that ends well,” Yennefer replied, her tone even and her volume low.

“Barely! I was jailed . I almost had a trial and a damn noose around my neck. It was sheer luck that I managed to get out!”

“You did say that you would pay whatever it cost. I asked for a favor.”

“You spelled me --” Geralt accused, jabbing a finger at Yennefer.

“You did my favor as payment, your bard is healed, you’re out of jail. I’m not sure what it is you’re complaining about.”

Geralt stopped and took a step back. “Is Jaskier awake?”

Yennefer lifted a bored finger to point at Jaskier, and Geralt’s eyes followed. Jaskier’s heart suddenly felt too big for his chest as Geralt’s look softened and he made a beeline for Jaskier. He had scarcely made it to Jaskier before he was tugging at Jaskier’s shirt, lifting it to examine Jaskier’s hip as Jaskier squawked indignantly and batted his hands away.

“Excuse me! You can’t just go about undressing a man in public, especially not without warning him!” Jaskier complained. Geralt didn’t seem to hear him, or was simply pointedly not listening. His hand flattened over where Jaskier’s wound had been and he let out a breath of relief.

“You’re okay,” Geralt said, and Jaskier could almost call the look he gave Jaskier a smile.

“I am.” Jaskier smiled back at him, though he did finally succeed in pushing Geralt’s hand away from him.

“As touching as this is,” Yennefer interrupted. Rude. Geralt turned to face her again. Even ruder. “I’m not one for heartfelt reunions. You’re welcome to stay. Have dinner with me, stay the night. As an apology for facilitating your near execution.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to decline, to spin some tale about how they really had far more pressing things to attend to, and who knew how much time they had already wasted on this whole mess. Geralt, however, headed him off.

“We’ll stay.”

Jaskier huffed his frustration, but Geralt was using that tone . The one that said he had made a decision and nothing would change it. Jaskier hated that tone.

So they stayed. Apparently, Jaskier had missed quite a bit of time. There wasn’t anything easy about the way Yennefer and Geralt conversed with each other, but there was something there. Something powerful. A passion Jaskier had hardly seen from his witcher. The two of them argued like they had been born to argue, and Jaskier lost count of the amount of times Geralt gave Yennefer one of his amused half-smiles. Every time, Jaskier felt something inside him shrivel just a bit more. He found, through the course of the evening, that he had lost his words. They were caught in the empty space between those heavy looks Geralt and Yennefer gave each other.

The end of the meal could not come fast enough. Jaskier jumped out of his chair so quickly that had it been any lighter, it probably would have toppled over. Yennefer left first, though, with a weighty look Geralt’s way.

“How do you feel?” Geralt finally asked once the sorceress left.

Jaskier snorted. “Just superb, Geralt. I’ll give the witch one thing; she knows how to heal a stab wound. Now, shall we--”

“You should rest,” Geralt said with a nod. “Do you know how to get back to your room?”

Jaskier hesitated a moment, shifting on his feet with uncertainty. Geralt thought he was agreeing with Jaskier, but Jaskier hadn’t expected to be dismissed. Alone. He wondered, absently, where Geralt would find himself. Whose bed he’d find himself in.

“Yes, I do,” Jaskier finally answered.

Geralt nodded and, his duty performed, left the room. Jaskier stayed a while longer, though. He stared at the floor, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. What had he missed while he was unconscious? Could he expect to have a travel companion tomorrow, or had Jaskier just lost him to the witch?

Jaskier finally left the room with the uncomfortable knowledge that, even if Geralt did leave with him in the morning, he had just lost him.

Finding his room was harder than Jaskier thought. He had made a wrong turn… somewhere. Really, all the hallways in these grand homes looked exactly the same. He came upon a door that he was certain had been his, but the din behind it gave him pause.

If Jaskier was smart, he would have walked away. If Jaskier had any self preservation skills, he would have recognized what was happening without needing to look upon it and confirm for himself. He knew what sex sounded like. He knew what Geralt having sex sounded like. He could assume, based upon the fact that he had seen nobody else in this grand house aside from the odd man that had served them dinner, that he now knew what Geralt having sex with the sorceress sounded like.

He still pushed open the door. It moved quickly, so quickly the hinges didn’t have a chance to catch and creak. It was about simple victories.

Jaskier didn’t need the confirmation. And yet, he had it. There was the muscled back of Geralt of Rivia, hiding the likely equally naked form of the sorceress. Jaskier shut the door just as quickly as he had opened it. He had seen quite enough. There was no need for him to witness what Geralt looked like mid-passion with someone else.

Jaskier found his room. It was nowhere near the room Geralt and Yennefer had been in. With shaking hands, he packed up his belongings and tried to get the image out of his mind. He had no one to blame but himself. Closed doors were usually bids for privacy. He had heard the sounds. Still, he could not move on from this fidgety energy.

He fell into a fitful sleep. One full of entirely too many dreams involving amber and violet eyes.

read chapter 7

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #gerlion #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #my writing #i don't think these are going in the tags but #whatever #hellsite

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