#i tried to understand the lore and it just gives me a headache

[v-arbellanaris]

Your da meta is amazing and very eye opening. All about Justina/magic/chantry really got me. And I had a thought, this belief that mages are devil like figures/are always vunerable to demons stems from the Chantry. I get it. But why the qunari believe the same thing? (The Qunari - Saarebas codex) It bugs me that people of a completely different culture with no previous contact to the Chantry went to same conclusion. They only conquered Par Vollen during 6th age. Part 1/2

2/3 During the Exalted Marched they lost possibly because of lack of magic on their side. Is it possible that they created Saarebas later? Also I always wondered if Tamasarans are not simply lying about many things just so people they raise follow orders. Like -magic must be tightly controled because its a tool of war (they borrow a chantry tale to justify it), Or: metal and swords are precious resource (lets tell soldiers that its their soul they cannot loose) Or sell, to make the thought of

3/3 becoming a Tal Vashoth mercenary so much unthinkable. They also lost the tome of Koslun in 7th age so they have to make up new wisdom instead of following it by the book? Not to mention the cutting out the tounges thing. Because mouth-sewing is even more of a nonsense. I mean, how would they eat? Did Koslun really write all of this? Wasn't he a philosopher and a poet?(qun being based a bit of plato's republic)Sorry this is so chaotic. Qunari-magic lore is giving me a headache. Any thoughts?

hello! thank you so much, i'm glad you're liking my meta!!!

it's not chaotic at all! i definitely get what you mean. this is gonna get a bit long so im going to tuck most of this under a cut!

from an outside perspective, i think the qunari are intended to draw a lot of parallels to the ottoman empire (especially pertinent considering real world templars), except there is - perhaps unsurprising, considering how much of qunari canon is established during da2, and world events that were happening on the time e.g. bush's war on terror etc - a lot of inherently islamophobic tropes built into bioware's conceptualisation of the qunari, which they later tried to backtrack on in DAI to some extent. but islamophobia is endemic to bioware's concept of the qun and qunari, and the reason that's so important to establish and understand is because it sheds light on what they intended the qun to represent. there was (and still is, in many circles) arguments around how things like sharia law and islam-majority countries are "backwards" and "barbaric" on many different issues, which are often used 1) to justify discriminatory laws, invasions, wars, political assassinations etc (by conflating islam with extremism etc) and 2) to detract from how the same problems also still exist in the west and are not "solved" or "over" by any means. homophobia, sexism, ableism, transphobia, anti-migrant sentiments, anti-native sentiments, antisemitic attitudes, antiblackness, colourism, fatphobia, etc are as present in countries like the u.s., the uk, as anywhere else, even if its dressed up differently. so understanding that sort of explains why bioware did what they did with the qunari - the qunari exist as a narrative tool to tell you: it could be worse. sure, the chantry locks up their mages in the circle - but it could be worse! they could sew their mouths shut and lead the mages around on a leash. sure, the templars kill civilians seeming to aid mages - but it could be worse! the ben-hassrath exist. etc etc. the qunari exist as an ideological bogeyman; the islamophobic and orientalist tropes it draws on reflect the time most of this canon was written in, and are therefore essential to the narrative purpose the qun is supposed to embody, as far as bioware is concerned.

i do agree the way bioware written them is just… very aggravating. i think essentially, you can play it a lot of different ways, including the way you've suggested, though i would need to think through the potential implications more considering the tropes & cultures the qunari draw on, to make sure im not feeding into the racist & islamophobic narrative that bioware uses for them since at this point, the parallels can't be avoided unless you're writing the qunari from scratch. for example, in your above suggestion, my immediate thought was abt the tome of koslun. the tome of koslun's contents may be based on plato, but the reverence it's treated with and the general... everything else about it reminds me of the qur'an. the qur'an can be memorised & recited from memory by people (google tahfeez for an explanation, but most muslims know a handful of the shorter chapters) and a lot of care is taken when copying the qur'an; copies of the qur'an are supposed to be identical, and those that are not cannot be used for recitation. so i would hesitate to say that the qunari simply made up a bunch stuff and claimed it was from the tome of koslun, because it's a big religious taboo to do similar things with the qur'an.

and there's actually a fantastic thing here, which i've reblogged before, suggesting a rewrite for the qunari which is written by a muslim, which ive always liked! and it's certainly more thought through than anything i've got atm lol

like ive been tossing up a few ideas myself, to try and... rather than rewrite the qunari, to reframe them. i think da2 offers a lot of opportunities to go "well varric lied" and i admit, im not above taking advantage of the narrative style to suit my own purposes. like of course there's all this weird islamophobic bullshit with the qunari; varric is talking to cassandra, the right hand of the divine. ofc he's going to appeal to stereotypes the chantry has about the qun in his story. i'm still trying to piece together how i would do that, though, and where/why i would make changes.

specifically wrt to the saarebas, i had wondered whether i could make it something they do specifically to thedosian mages - tevinter mages caught in battle with seheron, for example. bull, after all, makes it a point to note that qunari can also be elven or human or even dwarven, but in da2, every saarebas we see is as non-human as the arishok. southern mages (circle mages at least) go their entire lives terrified of who and what they are, which makes them dangerous to themselves and also to others, because they're more susceptible to demonic influences (which! not true! but i think it would be interesting to have the argument from the qunari that the circles & chantry propaganda are breeding grounds for abominations because they're prisons, rather than mages themselves being the issue) (compared to, maybe, a qunari mage - mage being a dedicated position just like ben-hassrath or sten, treated without any stigma). tevinter mages are outright dangerous to them, actively wanting to harm them, and so "typical" saarebas treatment - though, i'd also omit the mouth sewn shut thing for similar reasons - is more like... prisoner of war treatment (which is not MUCH better tbf)? especially considering the qunari use "bas" for people outside the qun but qunari mages are called saarebas, it's always struck me as a bit weird since qunari mages are still... part of the qun? so. dangerous thing, for mages existing outside the qun, like circle mages or apostates or tevinter mages, but not their own mages? idk tho, im not committed to anything yet lol

#asks #i actually dont know if this will be helpful to you but im also working on it still sfljsadfj #vee rewrites da #i suppose ??? dskfjg #EDITED FOR SOME CLARITY ALREADY SORRY

[seventhstrife]

Do you think that Delsin would just think that Des’s eagle vision would be a type of conduit power? (And also his apple powers and isu marks, can’t forget those lol) i also reeeaaally want to see Del’s reaction to that BURN.

not ME taking five hundred years to reply to an ask skjdfalsd

also I loved this prompt so I wrote a tiny little thing for the scenario that played out in my head haha

keep in mind that I've taken a few liberties with the Infamous lore, namely the Conduit Gene in general, in that I'm implying that the Conduit gene has always been around, just dormant until recent years.

The first time Desmond's forced to use the Apple around Delsin, his reaction is not what he expected.

As a general rule, Desmond tries not to use the Apple unless it's one-hundred-thousand-percent absolutely necessary, and even then he'll still hesitate.

For a lot of reasons, the least of them being him having a thousand years or so of memories of what happens to people who abuse Isu artifacts. Besides, nothing puts a target on his back like the kind of spectacle the Apple creates, and he wouldn't put it past the Templars to have some kind of satellite or something up there that can read the energy surges that come from the Apple.

So. Yeah, it's gotta be life-or-death, minimum for him to whip it out, which means his timeline to explain a lot of things to Delsin gets bumped from never to right the fuck now the moment he lowers the Apple, the glowing lines on his body fade, and the DUP goons all collapse at once like puppets cut from their strings.

Delsin stares at him, mouth hanging open, blood still dripping from the corner of his lip from where a chunk of concrete caught him in the face, with an echoing crack that was going to haunt Desmond's nightmares, as well as that long, terrible moment of stillness when Delsin had fallen and hadn't surged right back up, when Desmond had been positive he was fucking dead.

But Delsin's alive, and even though this isn't how he wanted the truth come out, he can't regret it, not when it means Delsin's alive.

Desmond feels like he's lost a few years of his life from fear in the last few seconds, but Delsin's probable concussion seems to be the last thing on his mind when he pushes himself up, even though he sways.

Desmond's already stepping forward, worried, arm outstretched--but Delsin catches himself before Desmond can take more than a single step, rocking back on a heel before he plants himself more firmly and seems to visibly shake off a blow that would have killed most people.

He looks at Desmond and scowls so mightily Desmond draws up short, freezing with dread because fuck, this is why he hadn't wanted his secret to come out, he was a freak and now Delsin knew it--

"You're a Conduit!" Delsin accused, pointing at Desmond with outrage. "And you didn't tell me?! What the fuck, Desmond!"

"Wha--" Desmond was speechless for a moment. "I--I'm not a Conduit, Delsin!"

"What the fuck was that, then?!"

Alien technology, kind of, Desmond doesn't say because just imagining the fallout of that statement is giving him a headache.

Instead, he says, "That's--different," and winces at how woefully inadequate that is.

"Desmond." Delsin marches to him and Desmond barely resists the urge to run away, especially when Delsin drops heavy, firm hands on his shoulders and holds him in place. "You just shot--lasers or some shit. You were glowing."

"Okay, it wasn't lasers, first of all," Desmond interrupted, scowling. "It was more like--mind control, really. With light beams?" Fuck, he's bad at this.

"Conduits can be psychic," Delsin says slowly, like Desmond's the stupidest person he's ever met. "I know you know this." Delsin's frown is a match to Desmond's own, frustrated that the other person isn't understanding what should be obvious. "Why are you being so weird about this?"

Desmond groans and rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't know why he didn't see this coming; of course, to an outsider, Isu bullshit would look a lot like having powers...which, he did have, technically.

But this was different.

"Look, this is like--genetic--"

"Conduit powers are genetic--"

"No, I mean like, it's in my family--"

"Do you not understand what genetic means?"

"No! Listen to me! I can't do this shit without the Apple!"

"Plenty of Conduits use tools to help focus their powers."

"This isn't--"

"So you're telling me if you gave this Apple thing to someone else, they could do what you just did?"

"Well, no, not anyone--"

"Just people with these special genetics, right?" Delsin's staring down at him with an exaggeratedly mild expression. "Like a Conduit?"

"Oh my fucking god, you're so stubborn--"

"Look who's talking!" Delsin shook him. "You're a Conduit, idiot!"

Desmond groans again, louder, and his head falls back. Only Delsin's grip on him keeps him from falling back.

"Just--come back with me, okay? Rebecca and Shaun can explain it better than me."

"Good idea," Delsin says gamely. He sweeps Desmond up in his arms, because he doesn't believe in asking permission or personal space. "I think an intervention sounds perfect."

and then they get to their base and shaun and rebecca explain the isu shit but because they're nerds at heart, having the similarities between conduits and isu genes compared devolves into a circling conversation of exchanging theories and they can't exactly say delsin's totally wrong and desmond finds a corner to bang his head until delsin pulls him away, smugly bragging that he was right and then spirits him away for a more practical demonstration because now that he knows desmond has powers they've GOT to take them out on the town and they make out the end <3

thanks as always for the awesome asks @kingbob2-0 you're the best! and also thank you a million times for your patience lol

#asks #replies #kingbob #desdel #deldes #infamous #asscreed #drabble #crack #crackish right??? lol #another thing i wrote before my life decided to get unbearable

[zylian]

I can’t wrap my head around Vitalasys reasonings

At the end he wanted op right? Like that’s why he let Spoke do what he did?

Than why is he SO upset at Zam? I feel like Zams actions did utterly nothing to Vitalasys plans, it was only talk that could of been easily forgotten.

Why did he throw his entire reasoning onto Zam and than when Zam said “I don’t want to be your rock” Vitalasy proceeded to keep caring about every little thing Zam was doing

Even after all that he says how much he wants to repeatedly kill Zam over and over which just shows his ignorance to not remembering? Not knowing? That Zam was hunted by Mapicc, an old teammate, because he betrayed. Just why would Vitalasy claim to care so much about Zam yet say such things.

I just don’t understand it, cause it makes it look like Zam was being strung along the second he first meets Vitalasy but why would Vitalasy put himself through all that if his main goal was getting op

Why care so much when he knew the damage was done. Also the revenge plans?? He had way too much going on and he did not handle it well at all. How the hell did his fall out with Spoke even happen?? Since they apparently weren’t faking it

I just don’t get why he cared so much that Zam was working with Spoke when Spokes been the very thing he’s been half protecting and telling Zam is under his control. How was anyone supposed to know why he hated Spoke so much when he kept pulling 180s

I feel like him bringing up the “reporting to save all servers” should of never been brought up because it only added to suspicion and didn’t help convince anyone

Like I understand Zams perspective and Subz’s perspective of things and why they think like they did by the end of the season but why did Vitalasy contradict himself so often??

I just don’t get it, it’s like he had this huge thingy he was dealing with so he preplanned lore but didn’t like it when it didn’t go his way and chose to not adapt to the teammate/ppl he made it revolve around.

I can see him adapt in some places, sure, but his ignorance was crazy, he expected Zam to drop his character lore entirely until the next season???

Why doesn’t Vitalasys reasoning exist outside of Zam? That would be Spoke. But no one knows wtf is with them cause it’s behind the scenes! So because he couldn’t really bring it up he pushed his lore more towards Zam??? WHY?!?

Also him banning himself after knowing Zam almost banned himself twice “for his sake” just showed how he didn’t care about anyone. Only banning himself under that false pretence to shift their attention back on the server.

His character makes me so incredibly upset, felt so weird with how important his character was supposed to be yet he wants to stay in the sidelines

I feel like Zam and Subz both have their flaws yet they still tried to adapt in some way that fits themselves. Like knowing the other person well enough to do certain actions that work with it.

Vitalasy was shocked Zam knew that Subz would have died in the end and it felt like Vitalasy truly never saw his team as a whole.

Subz saw it, he saw Vitalasy and Zam struggling to interact and knew things would need to be dealt with but Vitalasy couldn’t see how well Subz and Zam worked together. He didn’t assume, he didn’t even notice how much those two cared for each other. Which also puts the question of his focus on “revenge” while his teammates were still getting hunted. Why did he have a moral crisis too??

Man this gives me a headache trying to think about, even if the videos come out with explanations, his character could of handled everything so much better without leaking ANYTHING than wtf actually happened

Vitalasys story is actually focused on Spoke and I really want to know wtf happened

((Sorry I just need to flesh out Vitalasys character so au’s I think of work better cause right now he’s giving wet cat energy))

#how does his character become so bad that I’m no longer a c!Zam anti #make it make sense #zy is confused #zy rants

[nebuvoid]

Hey I just finished reading devilman and I was wondering if you have any recommendations on what sequels/spin offs/ovas/whatever I should read or watch? You seem pretty knowledgeable about the subject lol

I've tried looking up what the deal is with the, like, 10 other devilman manga out there but it's pretty confusing. If devilman lady is a sequel to the original how is Akira alive? Is it a time loop situation?? And is violence jack canonical??? How does canon even work in this series. Idk

For now I'm reading shin devilman which seems kinda trashy but at least it takes place on the original timeline I think. I just want more Ryo content and shin seems to have a lot of that

Lucky you! There's already a structured Devilman Masterpost available so I don't have to fumble around. This got really long anyway though, whoopsie

Not only did Kea/Waaty give a guide of all Devilman and related content, they also give you warnings for each one. Because og Devilman is by far far FAR the most tame one. Anyone that intends to check out any of Go Nagai's works definitely needs to look at the warnings first.

As far as what is and isn't canon to og Devilman, Kea didn't mention it in the post but it's actually only og Devilman (obviously), Shin Devilman (yes really lol) (but honestly you can ignore it because it makes zero sense) and Devilman Lady. Go Nagai has stated that Violence Jack is not the same characters as the og Devilman ones, no it's not a different time loop or reincarnations. Same goes for Devilman Saga. (I can't recall right now if VJ was Satan's self-punishment while he froze himself in hell or if that's fanon. btw) You could think of them as terrible AUs, or an old man refusing to write new characters. In his works before Devilman he also uses similar or same characters. He only knows how to draw three people okay. Don't think about it too hard you'll get a headache.

Time Loops ARE relevant to Devilman's story though, as it's stated that God made and destroyed earth and it's souls over and over again. The ones he didn't trap in Hell for daring to be in contact with demons anyway, regardless of no human doing so willingly. Oh and there's also all mythical beings ever in Hell, God hated those too. Needless to say this is probably not a good read for Christians lol.

As for why Akira is even in DML: You have the physical realm, heaven, and hell, the latter two of which are not tied to what's going on in our reality. Which is why you have the same Akira from og Devilman in DML, in his 30s, busting it up in Hell lol. Just been napping and killing eternally regenerating demons for a couple million years while a new earth is made. Or a couple hundred who know's how this God makes it. Meanwhile on said new earth many of the characters from og Devilman are reincarnated.

If this is all a bit much for now, I highly suggest watching the OVAs and CB Chara Go Nagai World. The OVAs show the first, i think two volumes in animation form with cheesy dialogue (eng dub is a MUST watch) and they're really fun and gay. CB is like a little chibi retelling of the story without the serious tone. Go Nagai literally depicts himself as the cruel God lol.

And as much as it pains me to say it, if you want to read about a happy Ryokira conclusion you'll have to read Devilman Lady. It is quite literally the worst thing I've ever read for two dozen reasons, but it adds so so much to Devilman lore and the characters' understanding. And Kea also made a sort of summary of DML post. It also shows uh... how Akira comes back to life so honestly I'd suggest reading the post and if you can stomach it you're strong enough to read the manga itself because the post leaves a lot out. If you do and don't understand something you can come ask me again 👍I have some analyses posts about it.

Happy Deviling. Devil May Happy

#not gonna readmore this in case i change urls i dont want the post to break #devilman #devilman talk #long post #P.S. DML is the ultimate lesson in picking what you want to be canon and how you as a fan can change things as you like if the source is #as bad as DML is lol #no im not taking criticism on that you read DML and tell me what you think then lol

[justme-free]

Hello, Miss @minijenn, So I created this mini kingdom hearts comic sketch/storyboard. It's not done and I'll have a little explanation and +maybe a follow-up sketch? If anyone would like that...

But for the sake of having 20 million KH projects since the "go ahead" and the fear of never posting not even one I thought it would be nice for you to see some of these sketches, especially this comic one I made.

I don't think you understand Ms. Jen how much you inspired and motivated me within the few months.

I have a deep love for your story Keys and in the many years of reading I believe it is not only the best and only best series within the KH fanfiction/archive of our own readings but the best one ever written (Plus art! never forget the awesome art!)

So, I hope you enjoy it!

So... this might be a little confusing... but I can explain!

So for the comic here is a simplified version of it if you don't want to read too much.

Sora becomes the puppet and pawn of Malfeincent and Master X. and gets merged with Vanitas.

He has amnesia and follows their orders.

Kairi and Riku had been looking for his world after world but lost the charms that Kairi made them.

Sora who had been watching them decides to make an appearance by maleficent orders to take them down.

Sora gets a sudden headache at his familiar name as he was renamed The prince of Darkness or 'prince' or 'my prince'

His thrill and craving for violence and fight (on Vanita's part) fight Riku

-o-

And that's it... but if you want a follow-up for this, I'll try and see if I have time. I didn't want to be creepy or anything but ironically enough I had also moved to a new apartment and went on a vacation and now I am bedridden and locked in my room for fear of mosquitos that have literally bitten every inch of my body.

since I can't rant this to many people I'll just say the good and bad news about the move.

The good news is I had moved into a 100+ yr old victorian old apartment.

The bad news is I had moved into a 100+yr old victorian era old apartment...

It's disgusting and I hate it because it needs a lot of heavy repairs and guess who has to clean up a lot of some really disgusting things?

you guessed it! ME!

I am giving a warning to anyone who even thinks of coming to Egypt for a vacation.. this place is a literal hell.

If you want to go to hell come to Egypt.

-o-

Hers's a longer explanation of my thoughts if you would like to read it:

So this has a lot of Keys influence in it as well as other KH lore and my Ideas.

So... what if somewhere along with the plot of keys (and this would be if Maleficent had been still alive) Sora is at his weakest... His darkened heart was just a flick away at completely fragmenting. Vanitas appears in front of the argument about who keeps Sora. Master X. as his vessel or Maleficent as her pet. Vanitas is angry at both choices and more pissed off at Sora for being weak and stabs Sora with his Keyblade.

Now, Vanitas at this moment holds a lot more light than Sora but a great portion of darkness as well and they strangely fit in harmony and they merge. But they don't quite forge the X-Blade... although their bodies had synchronized perfectly their minds definitely were not.

Sora's mind becomes lost, fragmented, and broken. A broken record between now, then, and futurewise.

Vanitas tries to rein in Sora's mind, tries to shake him out of this stupor he was in but to no avail.

Between the screaming, self-pity, anagizing of Soras display Vanitas makes the heavy choice of taking the lead of their bodies.

But because a large majority of control comes from sora Vanitas focuses primarily on suppressing Sora all the way down within their mind and heart, sealing the boy safe and tucked.

Doing so, a large portion of Vanitas's mind gets stuck with that task and hence he has quite a bit of Amnesia but he keeps a lot of his personality but a lot of features of our current sora from keys plus some added features.

Maleficent and Master X. meet at a compromise after finding out that sora/vanitas conveniently has amnesia. Using it to their advantage and other influence Sora/Vanitas become the ultimate Heartless Vessel.

The horns and tail claimed. plus green eyes by maleficent.

The Dark purple skin of darkness and Yellow eyes of Master X.

The small Red part in his eyes represents Vanitas plus a lot of his personality is influenced by Sora's body and actions.

also, Maleficent has so much influence on Sora that he thinks of her as his 'original' mother figure and 'fixes' the cracks of Sora's keyblade with her poisonous vines.

So now, once again... Sora is Maleficent's servant and Master X's puppet... He stands as the face of darkness... A prince if you will... the prince of darkness...and destruction.

#kingdom hearts #sora #art #kh #kairi #my art #riku #digital art #kingdom hearts 20th anniversary #fanfiction #kingdomhearts #fanart #keys to the kingdom #minijen #minijenn

[piiiiinkheart]

Su and Moa when they lose their metal rights

#babymetal #moametal #sumetal #i tried to understand the lore and it just gives me a headache

[dreamsclock]

“no steak,” dream says firmly. sam gives him an odd look. “i’m serious.”

/dream smp roleplay fic based off a theory that is now canon!!

warnings: SPOILERS FOR TODAY’S LORE, torture, abuse, hunger, mental illness, mental deterioration, hurt no comfort, unhealthy relationships, c!dream neg, c!dream hurt, c!sam neg (kind of a little neg for both of them but it’s also centred around them!)

“no steak,” dream says firmly. sam gives him an odd look. “i’m serious.”

“so am i.” sam adjusts his goggles uncomfortably. “look, it’s bad enough we’re going to put someone in there. it’s bad enough as it is. messing with their food—”

“guarantees they won’t have the strength or saturation to try and escape.” halting his pacing, antsy, feverish, dream turns, and pins his friend— ally— worker with a hard look. “it’s a security check. that’s all it is.”

sam doesn’t look convinced. “dream…”

“sam,” dream mimics the sound, “look, okay, it’s fine.”

“i’m not sure it is fine, dream!”

“okay, listen,” he says curtly, not in the mood, “listen, it’s— it’s fine. i’m paying you for this to happen, okay? this is what i want for in there. that’s what has to happen.”

the look sam gives him isn’t unsure anymore. it’s wary, it’s almost mutinous.

good, dream thinks, vitriol coating his thoughts, get mad at me.

(sam will be mad at him soon enough anyway.)

“fine,” the hybrid says, tiredly, “no steak. what would you suggest?”

dream’s lips thin under his mask. it’s almost a smile if he pretends it’s funny. “potatoes,” he tells sam, “raw potatoes work.”

he turns away before sam can argue, and absently pats his stomach.

he’s going to miss nice food.

—

“i don’t understand,” sam groans a week later, “look, we build the courtyard for a reason. it feels cruel to keep the prisoner locked up for days on end without seeing sunlight or seeing the outdoors—”

“security,” dream says, feeling like a broken disk, “security, sam.”

he points to the gaping hole in the roof.

“how can you not see that’s a security flaw?” sam begins to excuse himself, but dream shakes him off. “no, it’s— okay, look, just fill it in, okay? and it’ll be better. we can’t let any prisoner down here.”

“you’re acting shady about this, dream—”

“yeah, because your inescapable prison isn’t going to be inescapable if there’s a hole in the roof, sam.” dream pinches his nose to ward off an incoming headache. “i’ll get more obsidian. i just— we can fix it.”

he can fix it. he can fix everything wrong with this prison.

when he faces sam, the older man is looking at him like he’s never seen him before. dream resists the urge to leave. he doesn’t like being so seen.

“sam?”

“you’ve changed,” sam murmurs, “you’re not…”

my dream. the unfinished sentence hangs like thunder between them.

“you’ve not,” dream says, when the silence is too heavy for him to hear, “can you cover the roof?”

“…yeah,” sam says, but his eyes don’t leave him, “yeah, i can. i can, dream.”

dream’s skin crawls.

he tries not to think about how nice his skin is warm with the sunlight beating down on him.

the lava will keep him plenty warm soon enough.

—

“dream, i noticed you changed the main cell design—”

dream doesn’t even look up from his potion brewing. “sam, hi.”

“hi.” the older sounds frazzled; dream’s hands twitch uncontrolled as he corks up one potion of strength and moves onto the next. “can we talk?”

he hasn’t slept in three days. sam’s words swirl round his head along with prison pictures and plan preparation. dream hums in agreement nonetheless. this is important, after all.

“i saw you took out a lot of the, um, activities for the prisoner of the main cell.”

“i did,” he says, very neutrally, “yeah.”

sam lets out an exasperated, worried sound. “dream…”

“if i say security check one more time, i’ll probably explode,” dream tells him lightly, but it comes out colder than he wants it to, “it’s not safe, sam.”

“what’s not safe?” sam presses, uneasily. “giving them better food? letting them see daylight? making sure they have some sort of brain stimulation? dream, this stuff really messes with people’s minds. it could do them some serious damage.”

behind the mask, behind the potion brewing, dream smiles. he’s so tired.

“i know what i’m doing.”

he does.

“it’ll all be fine. trust me.”

he has to believe that. he has no other choice.

—

sam doesn’t look at dream as he throws potatoes in. dream doesn’t move towards them.

“your dinner, dream.”

“sam—” the name sounds strangled from the prisoner’s lips. “i’m so tired, sam.”

“then sleep.” sam’s voice is final. “simple as that.”

“tired of potatoes.” dream nudges one with his foot, head lolling back tiredly. he looks pale and sickly after months without daylight. “tired of— this room.”

sam wants to smile, but he’s so tired too. “you should have thought of that before you designed it this way.”

“sam—”

“i warned you, dream!” he tells him, voice rising sharply. “i warned you all about the ways this would affect prisoners, i warned you about the food, the lack of stimulation, the room, everything! this is— you made this hell, and it’s only right that you rot in it!”

“i didn’t… realise.”

“realise what?” sam scoffs. “how hard it would be? how painful? how destructive?”

dream says nothing.

“i hope you rot in here,” sam tells him, a quiet, crisp note in his voice, “because you would have let tommy rot in here.”

dream says nothing again. then—

“you’ve changed,” the prisoner murmurs, opening his eyes. the mask stares at sam, who looks away, a hard gleam in his gaze.

“you’ve not.” disgusted, sam turns on his heel, downing a fire res potion and swimming away.

and as sam leaves, dream doesn’t call him back, doesn’t tell him that tommy had never been going to end up in prison. doesn’t tell him that this is exactly where he’s supposed to be, that this is all going according to plan.

…except from the torture. and the horrible nausea. and the stomach cramps and the shakiness and the mining fatigue exhaustion and the lack of energy and the pain, the desperation that comes with getting no visitors, the urge to scream, the urge to cry.

the urge to give up.

he doesn’t call sam back to tell him, even if he wants to. because he’ll get out, he’ll get out like the plan dictates.

dream rests his head back and tries to remember summer, but all he can feel is the blistering heat from the lava.

he’s fine.

he’s going to be fine.

#> techno stream aftermath #> my writing !! #> that one clock guy #> the warden’s burden #tw abuse #tw torture #tw mental illness #tw mental deterioration #c!dream hurt #c!dream neg #c!sam neg #tw unhealthy relationships #tw hunger #tw hurt no comfort

[kob131]

My Thoughts on Certain RWBYtubers

Just gonna post this here to make this stuff known. I could also be completely wrong here. Go ahead and correct me if I’m wrong.

Fatmanfalling: I hate his videos. They are far too long with him just repeating the same fucking points over and over again. I would almost think they are long on purpose to make them hard to debunk as going through an hour and a half and debunking it point by point or analyzing it enough to properly condense it down is really hard.

But to be honest, I have a history with the guy. If you’ve seen that screenshot of his of a guy arguing about quality- that was me. I was not very mature when I began arguing in this fandom. I don’t really regret fighting him (he’s still a dumbass) but that doesn’t make what I did right.

Celtic Phoenix Productions: Maybe Fixing RWBY could be something if he would do something brave for once, remove all elements of RWBY and just go full on original. The lore and history videos could make something. But so long as it’s attached to RWBY as ‘RWBY but better’ it will never be anything but an inferior RWBY. Because to be something but better you have to conform to its niche because that defines what a piece of media is. 

That’s why something like Berserk and TTGL can be so vastly different but still be great- they try to achieve different things. But with Fixing RWBY, it’s like Netflix’s Death Note and the original- doesn’t matter what qualities the first may have, it’s reliant on fulfilling the second and fails because it can’t. And I don’t think Celtic has enough humility to acknowledge that.

Calxyin: Her voice and demeanor give me a headache. Not likee one of frustration or hate but one of ‘your voice is too high and you’re too peppy’. I don’t talk about her much because it’s literally painful for me.

MuffinManDan: No idea if he’s still around but whether he’s positive or negative- I do not like him in the slightest. Unlike the others I mentioned or will mention where I can at least believe that they geniunely mean what they say, MuffinManDan’s actions proved to me he didn’t believe a word he said. He would misrepresent what the show said, what I said and what he said just to look good. And the moment it became more profitable for him to praise RWBY, he did just that.

MMD doesn’t even have what little credit I can give others.

Vexed Viewer: Vexed is what happens when you treat blatantly false crap as the second coming of Christ. His video tend to only work if you already agree with him or have no understanding of how media works. Seriously, his ‘Stupid For The Sake Of The Plot” videos break in half when you remember human error.  

There was also that time where Vexed tried saying that Pietro putting part of his Aura in Penny and then calling her daughter was creepy...despite that being a common trope in man creating self aware creation stories. He also brought up race in that. Which...I have no idea how to interpret that as anything but racist. ... Moving on.

Unicorn of War: Political asshat who started sucking off the show when he felt pandered to (Bumbleby) and then stopped for whatever reason. His videos are also pretty simplistic and ill thought out whether good or bad. Also, he made Ciel Pietro’s daughter in his Volume 8 rewrite because, and I quote, ‘There’s the issue of a black man making a white girl as the default.’

... Remember when Monty said there was no Asia? I miss those days...

Hero Hei: Take everything I said about MMD, invert the flip about RWBY and add in clickbait and political bullshit. That’s HH.

Judgemental Critter and Twiins Iink: Grouping these two together-

Twiins Iink made a video about Adam stans not moving on, which is a stance I agree with...then made me play defense for them by how bad the video was. And Critter once said that scene of James in V7 E2 where he strides up to Oscar, thinking he’s Ozpin and clearly desperate for his leader...was ‘Dad energy’.

... And this is their average.

Overall- You should really just look for RWBY channels under 1k subscribers. They’re not likely to be super dumb or selling you what you want to hear.

[helloyeshi]

Here’s why c!Tubbo gives me the most grief in the DreamSMP Lore

I'm not mad, just disappointed.

I’m kind of a lurker blog who reads other posts about stuff like this but never posts my own, but I feel very strongly about this and don’t see many people who agree with me so I thought I’d give my two cents. Hi, nice to meet you.

Firstly, housekeeping. The subheader is a JOKE meant to encompass my feelings about c!Tubbo, not meant to sound condescending. Before anyone skins me alive for that. Second, for the purpose of this post, I’ll refer to c!Tubbo as simply Tubbo to make my life easier; if I want to refer to the content creator at any time, I will specifically type cc!Tubbo. That goes for any other character I mention as well. Finally, please listen openly to what I have to say first before jumping down my throat and calling me names. Some people in this community have become rather toxic and I’m not down for interacting with them. This is a story. Played on a Minecraft server. Let’s have some perspective and context. With that out of the way, down to business.

I don’t hate Tubbo. In fact, when my sister first started talking to me about dsmp lore in fall 2020, I was on his side. She was ranting to me all upset because this one guy Tubbo was president of this big nation (o7) that he got thrown into leading, and some dickhole called Dream was threatening his country because his friend Tommy had been fucking around and then pissed Dream off and now Tubbo was faced with two choices (ONLY two, this is important): exile Tommy or risk the livelihoods and freedoms of his people. Didn’t even know the guy and I was so upset at Tommy and felt so strongly for Tubbo. Then, I started watching the vods for myself, and I watched ALL OF THEM. at the time the playlist was 300 videos long and growing, by the time I finished it was at 600. I got every shred of content I could find. And after watching the whole journey, through exile, doomsday, the imprisonment of Dream, up through Tommy’s death, I was a full-on Tommy apologist, and I was sooooo disappointed in Tubbo. Going back to the moment of exile, what I thought was a kid who grew up too quickly having to mother his misbehaving friend turned out to be a kid who grew up too quickly giving up right from the get-go. If you remember from those vods, Tommy was fighting the injustice that Dream had been forcing on them for a while—rashly and overexcitedly maybe, but without reservation. After he brought up Spirit and fanned Dream’s anger, right up until the moment of exile, Tommy had both acknowledged his role in the grief he gave to Tubbo those last three days and had attempted to form an alternative plan based on the lofty but still sound notion that defeating Dream once and for all would essentially strip any smaller enemies of their motivations and take away the biggest headache on the server; basically that it was Dream, not Tommy, who was threatening L’Manberg right now.

Now, Tommy’s last-minute Technoblade plan would never have worked, I admit that. But the point is that Tommy was fighting hard to protect not just himself but everyone on the server who had been hurt by Dream; he wanted peace and happiness, as evidenced by the building of his hotel after Dream’s imprisonment. From where I was standing, Tubbo, commonly known as the “smarter” rational one of the clingy duo, had every opportunity to maybe make a plan for after the exile had happened to rescue Tommy, at the VERY least tell Tommy that he wasn’t going to abandon him. Basically, he had another option besides the two I mentioned, the two that seemed to create an inescapable ultimatum. I hoped, anyway. But what happened? Tubbo panicked. Perfectly understandable, though unfortunate. But then, he forgot. Tommy was gone, he wasn’t causing trouble, and that was that. He didn’t visit Tommy in exile. When Tommy showed up weeks later with the man Tubbo tried to have executed, he had no idea why. I was excited. This was Tommy’s chance to tell his best and oldest friend what Dream had done to him, how much he missed him, and finally start to heal knowing that Tubbo would be at his side. But Tubbo refused to understand. He refused to understand the discs, even as Tommy realized what he had become in his search for them; there’s a reason they meant so much to him that I felt no one on the server, most notably his best friend, tried to understand. When Tommy apologized and left Technoblade’s side in the ruined community house, I thought Tubbo was going to apologize too. For abandoning his friend, for letting Dream play with him like a ragdoll, for settling for his comfort and peace of mind over the well-being of someone I thought was supposed to be like his brother with how much he cared for him (typing this out makes me realize how similar this is to the City of Omelas story, which you can look up for some context if you want). I was glad the two were back together, and that Tommy had reconciled himself, but Tubbo hadn’t taken his turn.

Once Dream had been put in prison, I thought we would finally see the clingy duo back to how they were; we got a glimpse of it right at the end of that stream listening to Mellohi on the bench. But Tubbo, hurt and traumatized and searching for escape, built Snowchester, got a husband (for tax benefits might I add), adopted a child…and seemed to abandon Tommy even further. I’m not saying that Tubbo isn’t allowed to have those things that make him happy, or that he’s not allowed to dictate how he heals from the pain he went through. But the thing is, Tommy was hurting, too. Tommy had still not told Tubbo about what happened in exile. And you know what? Tubbo never asked. Maybe he was too afraid to, after having found the tower in Logsteadshire, but even months later, even TODAY, he still doesn’t know. He STILL hasn’t asked. That’s supposed to be Tommy’s best friend. It seemed to me like he ran away from Tommy because he couldn’t be bothered to care about him anymore, it was too much effort, too dangerous. Maybe he was right.

But Tommy still cared about him. Tommy still fought for him and did things for him and cussed out Technoblade over him. Despite the fact that Tubbo seemed to replace Tommy with Ranboo who made him happy (remember how sad Tommy sounded when he found that out? owwwwww), Tommy still thought of Tubbo as his best friend. Even though Tubbo had moved far beyond that. He left Tommy behind because Tommy was tied too closely with the chaotic center of the server (Dream). A tie Tommy doesn’t want either. He wants to get away from Dream as much as Tubbo does, and half his reason for that is BECAUSE of what Dream has done to Tubbo.

Now bear with me here because I’m going to explain my view here by getting a little personal. I relate very strongly to Tommy because I was in a very similar situation. My freshman year of college, I made friends with this girl, we’ll call her Olly, and we went through some tough friend group issues, until it was just us two. We moved into a flat together and spent months complaining about the antics of our former friends; sometimes it seemed that’s all she wanted to talk about, but I didn’t mind, I was her best friend. It’s my job to be there for her. Olly had some darkness in her past and some mental health troubles that came from it, and I poured as much as I had into sticking by her and helping, I really did. At one point, she told me she was going to start hanging out with some of the people involved in our friend drama from before, who had essentially heard about how much the main people involved had hurt me (the person who started all the drama was my ex who tried to split up the friend group bc he didn’t want Olly or the others to be around me) but had continued hanging out with them despite noting themselves how fucked up their behavior was. When I spoke to Olly about it, she said they “hadn’t done anything to her, so she was just giving them the benefit of the doubt.” I didn’t know it, but first red flag.

There were a number of other red flags during the rest of our time together; she never apologized for anything, purposefully made me feel stupid in arguments using tone and eye movements (I sound nitpicky but body language says a lot), responded to my addressing of my feelings by talking about herself, etc. I more and more often found myself questioning whether she really wanted to be around me. She used to hook up with this guy and would often come home complaining about him and telling me that she had decided that hooking up was all that she deserved, to which I of course responded by bonking her on the head and telling her she deserved so much more than that, even if she didn’t realize it, and all I wanted for her was that she was happy, but I didn’t stop her from going with that guy because it was her life, not mine. I just reminded her that I loved her and I’d be here for her when she came back, I’m her best friend. It’s my job. A day after I said all this to her, she told me she had told the guy that they were done hooking up, and I was so happy; she had listened to me, I had helped her, she saw a little bit of how much I loved her….only for her to say that my words had very little to do with it. Kinda hurt but okay fine, whatever, she’s finally looking for someone worthy of her. Didn’t know that that also meant she wasn’t listening to me about a lot of other things.

I helped this girl through so many nervous breakdowns and anxiety attacks with serious joy. We spent so much time together. She helped me through a period of about three weeks when I was being stupid about a guy, spending all day and night hanging out with him only to realize he was using me. Then, she got a boyfriend, and he was in a tight spot and needed a place to stay, so I suggested he move in with us. Big mistake lol. After about 5 months, it was like I wasn’t even there. In September of 2020, I noticed a change and brought it to her, asking if I had done anything to make her not want to be my friend anymore. She talked about herself. Didn’t apologize. Made me feel stupid. The usual. I fell into a depression for about 3 months and would spend days on end in bed without eating or showering or going outside. My grades fell, my room was always dark, I’m very introverted so it’s very hard for me to make friends, so basically I only had myself. And it was then that I noticed that she never once checked on me. She would walk past my door with her boyfriend like another person didn’t live there. I was her best friend. Wasn’t this her job? Didn’t she remember how much time we had spent surviving life together? She walked into my room in December and asked how I was, then promptly asked for a ride to work because her boyfriend couldn’t take her. That’s when I got angry.

Basically she only needed me around for convenience. I took her side during our friend squabbles, I was an anchor during her panic attacks, I was someone to have around that gave her things and didn’t get on her nerves. I realized that she only noticed I was spending more time with that boy that one time than with her because she didn’t have ready access to me during those weeks. I also found out that the only reason she had come into my room in December was because my sister, who hadn’t heard from me in weeks and was concerned, asked her to check on me. And she used that opportunity to ask for a ride.

I moved out in May of 2021 and cut her off completely, without an explanation or a discussion, because I learned 2 things from being her friend for 2+ years. Firstly, my feelings didn’t matter. I didn’t want to initiate talking to her about what I had felt because she would just talk about herself, she wouldn’t try to understand, since she had done this same thing so many times before. She talked about our former friends to me even when we were still friends, telling me all the shit they were doing and what she wanted to say to them…but when it came time to confront them, she would act fake to their faces, like nothing was bothering her, and they were silly for thinking so. The confrontations happened because I had had enough of these people treating me and her like shit. Me the awkward one who sucks at arguing my point. I literally did it for her. This time, I was the one she was ranting about and making assumptions about, without telling me straight out what I had done wrong. Even when I had asked her. Secondly, even if I sat her down and began a civil conversation with her, and kindly pointed out where she went wrong like I asked her to point out to me in September, she wouldn’t listen. She never listened to what I had to say, especially if it involved things that she herself could improve. She took it as an accusation, even when I just wanted help. She never told me what was actually going through her mind because it was easier to just tell a third party (the boyfriend) who didn’t have both sides and would therefore agree with her. It was easier to abandon me.

That’s why it pissed me off so much to see Tubbo seeming to forget about Tommy; he was abandoning him, running off with Ranboo and away from dealing with the Dream problem. He didn’t want to address exile because it was too painful, but Tommy was feeling the pain, too. Tommy was feeling pain Tubbo doesn’t know about because he never asked. He never cared to. It was easier that way. He has a kid and a country and a husband and nukes to worry about now. He has no time for Tommy’s antics; the antics being trying to right the wrongs Dream has caused (generally speaking). If Olly had asked me sincerely what was wrong, I probably would have spilled it all to her, like she was giving me permission to be cared about. But she didn’t and talked behind my back to her boyfriend instead. It was easier that way. Probably made her feel righteous. Olly didn’t make the time for her best friend, and that’s way too similar to how Tubbo doesn’t make time for his.

The difference between me and Tommy is that Tommy forgave and continues to forgive Tubbo, which frankly makes me even angrier at Tubbo bc despite everything, Tommy still gives his relationship with Tubbo all he has. When he could be like me and just leave, no explanation no discussion.

I’m not trying to demonize Olly. She was a damaged individual who didn’t want help, no matter who tried to give it to her, and if they don’t want it, you can’t force it on them. But the hurt I see in Tommy resonates with me. Maybe Tubbo doesn’t owe Tommy anything, that may be perfectly true; maybe Olly didn’t owe me anything either, she didn’t ask me to help her. But the unfairness of how Tubbo treats him, like an annoying little kid when they used to be the Clingy Duo, really breaks my heart, because I know exactly how it feels to be abandoned by someone who you thought had chosen you.

Basically I have a single shred of hope for Tubbo, and less than a shred of patience. He frustrates me because his potential for redemption is so high, if only he would stop putting his head in the sand and address what happened between him and Tommy when he was president. I definitely commend cc!Tubbo for such a complex character though, especially for one that gets me genuinely frustrated. Hopefully the one good thing that will come from Dream being out is that Tommy and Tubbo might be forced to reconcile about exile. As horrible as that is to say.

#not making a sap story for myself #just showing how I relate why I vie for the characters that I do #I should've said I have so much hope for Tubbo but shred of faith in him #dsmp #dream smp #mcyt #minecraft youtubers #minecraft #tubbo #tommy #technoblade #dream #dreamwastaken #wilbursoot #awesamdude #c!Tubbo #c!Tommy #tommyinnit #c!tommy #c!tubbo #ranboo #c!ranboo

[rowan-underthehouse]

Shot Glasses and Shadows

Pairing: Castiel/ Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 2,011

Warnings: slight self-harm, mention of blood

Additional Tags: hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, Abandon All Hope Coda, Mentioned Jo Harvelle, grief/ mourning

Summary: Dean struggles with the aftermath of Abandon All Hope. Castiel is there to help.

Read it on Ao3 here

It’s the moments between hunts where Dean starts to lose his balance. When there’s no monster to fight, and the adrenaline pounding through his limbs fades away.

There are things he can do to stop it. He can make dinner runs while he tries to list the name of every song he’s ever put on a mixtape, or blast the radio until the speakers crackle, or sprint until his lungs burn. As long as he keeps moving he can fight it off. But as flames lick the glossy edges of the closest thing to a send-off they can give Jo and Ellen, all Dean can do is root his feet to the ground and watch.

He doesn't walk away from the fire until the photograph is reduced to ash. The crumbling of Jo’s gentle features is almost beautiful here. He wonders if Jo could feel the flames in her last moments. If she still believed her death meant something. If it felt beautiful.

“I’m going to clean up.”

“Dean you don’t-” Sam follows his gaze to the cluster of shot glasses still spread across the table, not finding the right words until his brother is already gone. Sam knows better than to follow.

It shouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes to finish the kitchen, but Dean’s limbs are heavy with guilt and the half bottle of whiskey he’s already downed. He’d expected it to feel different to be back here. Everything warm and homey and right should have burned up with Ellen and Jo, but Bobby’s kitchen somehow missed the memo. This is still the same place they’d laughed and drank and squeezed out smiles around the dread no amount of alcohol could quite wash away just the night before. It’s Dean who’s out of place. He shouldn’t be here, surrounded by a past already so long gone it aches. It’s going to collapse in on him at any second.

The first shot glass that shatters against the hardwood floor is an honest-to-god accident. Dean lets the second roll out of the crook of his elbow, watching with the closest thing to satisfaction he can muster as broken glass dusts his boots. The third, he smashes into the worn countertop. He feels the blood pooling under his palm before he registers the glass wedged there. It brings a sick, bubbling laugh to the back of his throat.

He’s watching the blood run along the edge of a fourth glass, rolling it over in his palm when a hand appears on his shoulder.

“Dean,” The unmistakable crunching of dress shoes on glass pulls Dean back to reality. “You’re injured.”

Dean tosses the shot glass in his hands into the sink, almost disappointed when it doesn’t shatter. He shrugs Castiel’s hand off his shoulder, doing his damn best to ignore how cold he feels at the tiny loss of contact. Cas has that effect on people. That warm sort of feeling that starts deep in your chest and spreads to your fingertips until it feels like everything might be alright. Sam feels it too, Dean’s sure, but it doesn’t seem to be burning him up from the inside the way it does Dean. The relief he feels when Cas grabs his shoulder again is humiliating. He wipes it clean off his face before Cas can turn him around.

“You’re bleeding, Dean,” there’s more force to it this time. Dean stares expectantly, waiting for the feeling of grace stitching the fibres of his hand together, but nothing comes. Cas’s eyes fall to the floor. “I’m...going to get the first-aid kit.”

“So, what? Not going to mojo me back together? Cas, is there something you want to tell me?” He squares his shoulders, taking a step toward Cas. Of course something’s wrong. Not even an angel of the lord could get that close to Lucifer and come out unscathed.

“Because if something happened, something that we should know about, you better spit it out before it gets someone killed,” Dean closes the distance between him and Cas, staring down with what he hopes reads as more malice than concern and waits. Cas should be snapping back at him or threatening to throw him back to hell or something but he’s just standing there, gaze cast at the floor.

“It’s not important. It won’t affect my ability to help in your fight against the devil,” Dean turns away with a scoff just loud enough for Cas to hear. Somewhere deep beneath two hours worth of whiskey he knows he’s trying to start a fight, but he doesn’t care.

Even turned away, Dean can feel Cas’ gaze burning into his back. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something useful?” He nods in the direction of the library where every piece of lore they could find is still strewn out on the desk. The words taste bitter on Dean’s tongue, but if it gets Cas to do something, anything, other than stand there and stare straight into Dean’s soul (Maybe literally. Dean hopes not) it will be worth it.

Dean doesn’t turn around until the footsteps have faded from the kitchen. He drops the remaining shot glasses into the sink and kicks Jo’s chair in as an afterthought on his way out the door.

Sam and Bobby are nowhere to be seen, no doubt already tucked away in their respective rooms trying to figure out how to get through the night. Dean doesn't bother asking how they got Bobby up to his old room now that the sofa has been temporarily dragged back to its place in the library. He suspects Cas had something to do with it.

The fire is little more than embers when Cas comes back around the corner, battered first-aid kit in hand. Dean’s stomach churns. He should apologize.

“Throw another log on.”

Again, Castiel fixes him with that stupid, sympathetic, stare and does as he’s asked.

“You’re grieving.”

Dean almost laughs. “Really, Cas? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You shouldn’t try to stop it. It won’t help,” Cas settles on the sofa and unpacks the kit, examining the contents carefully while he lays them out on the end table.

That old rage bubbles up in Dean's chest again. “So what am I supposed to do, huh? Just sit here and moan about it in the middle of the friggin’ apocalypse? We have work to do, Cas. Stow the Vincent Grey crap.”

“Give me your hand.”

He thinks about arguing. About trying again to stir up some kind of fight just to feel something other than hollow for a few seconds. Angry is easier. Safer. But then, this is Cas. He knows every atom of Dean’s body and can recite his earliest memories like the goddamn pledge of allegiance. There’s no point hiding. He lets some of the tension holding up his body seep back into the floor.

Cas is more gentle than Dean can handle. All calloused hands and careful touches that are anything but clinical. Letting him in is frighteningly easy. It’ll be letting him go when he finally realizes the Winchesters and all their problems aren't worth the effort that will be like pulling stitches.

“They trusted me,” It’s barely a whisper, but Dean’s throat closes around the words. “They trusted me, and I led them to their deaths.”

“You did the best you could. They knew the risks,” There’s a strain in Cas’ voice Dean has never heard before.

Dean’s eyes are burning. He can’t bring himself to meet Cas’ gaze until a thumb swipes across his cheek, brushing away the tears there. For once he finds himself thanking god in all his infinite absence that Cas doesn’t realize the intimacy of the gesture “You did the right thing, Dean. You tried.”

There’s a weight to his words that Dean can’t quite pin down, the teary smile plastered on his face making Dean want to either wrap his arms around Cas or make a break for it. He shoots for somewhere near a more reasonable middle.

“Are you uh…” Dean is struck very suddenly by just how bad he is at this, But he has to try. It’s Cas. “Are you holding out okay?”

“Human grief is different. It’s...heavier”

If tearing down heaven brick by brick could pull that weight off Cas, Dean would do it in a second. It terrifies him how far he’s willing to go.

“Yeah.”

The mess of bandages Cas eventually manages to secure around Dean’s hand isn’t pretty, but it’s a relief. He tosses the bloody glass in a trash bin and dries his now clean hands on an embroidered dish towel that may have been colourful twenty years ago. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

He’s halfway to the door by the time Dean swallows his pride enough to say something. “Cas, wait. Have you - eaten anything? It’s been a long day.”

“I don’t eat.”

Dean spends the longest ten seconds of silence in his life wondering if he could bore a hole through the floor with his eyes to crawl into. This may be the dumbest excuse he’s ever come up with, which is not an easy title to win.

“Are you asking me to stay?”

Maybe it’s the whiskey clouding his mind or the idea of spending the rest of the night drinking his way through whatever’s left of his liver alone that finally snaps a cord in Dean. He sinks back into the couch, exhaustion taking over.

“Please.”

With a creak of old springs and cushions creasing just enough for Dean to slide, Cas is back on the couch, a good few inches closer than the last time. Of course, it doesn't mean anything. Cas is an angel. He can’t understand the way the closeness makes Dean’s heart leap out of his chest. But the way he presses his shoulder against Dean’s is distinctly and undeniably human. He doesn’t want to be alone either.

The next few hours drift by in near silence, broken only by offers of whiskey and the occasional non-committal remark. When Dean’s eyes slip closed, his head lolling against Cas’ shoulder, Cas doesn’t try to wake him.

Once Dean does finally open his eyes, it’s with a pounding headache, and his face pressed against the rough fabric of Cas’ shirt. Through the fog of sleep Dean slowly becomes aware of his limbs tangled with Cas’ where they’ve sprawled across the sofa. He’s a split second away from launching himself onto the floor when he registers Cas’ hand resting loosely against Dean’s back. The slow tide of his breathing. He can’t be asleep but Dean’s never seen him this relaxed. His hair is a disaster where it’s rubbed against the arm of the sofa and his coat is more on the floor than his body. He must be meditating or praying or whatever the hell angels do to recharge their heavenly batteries. It would be rude to interrupt him, Dean reasons, and he’ll be awake again within a few hours. There’s still plenty of time before sunrise. A few hours can’t hurt. In the moment before he’s pulled back to a dreamless sleep, Dean swears he catches the shadow of wings cast against the wall, curled around his body.

…

It’s not unusual for Sam to be awake before his brother. He rolls out of bed some time after sunrise, stumbling toward the kitchen before he’s even finished rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He very nearly walks past the tangle of limbs on the couch before Bobby rolls into the room, gesturing for him to stay quiet.

“They haven’t moved since Cas brought me back down here. Let them rest. They need it.”

And they do.

When Dean finally stumbles into the kitchen, Cas having disappeared mere seconds before he woke up, Sam doesn’t say a word about it, just smiles into his coffee mug. It’s good to see someone keeping Dean steady for once, and if Dean isn't ready to admit it yet, that’s a problem for another day.

#supernatural #deancas #destiel #my writing #supernatural fic #destiel fic #deancas fic #spn #spn fic

[karlyfr13s]

Helping Destiny Along

A fluffy CS one-shot for the lovely @teamhook

Thank you @veryverynotgoodwrites for being one heck of a beta, and @the-darkdragonfly for your brainstorming powers!

Summary: Henry Mills has a theory: for each Captain Hook, there must be an Emma Swan. Well, he found Princess Emma Nolan at long last and is determined to bring her together with Killian Jones now that he's back in the Wishverse version of the Enchanted Forest.

Read it on AO3

At nineteen, Princess Emma Nolan believed in True Love. After all, her parents had found each other, and everyone knew theirs was a legendary love worthy of poetry and song. She watched for a prince from the high windows of her tower bedroom, waiting for someone tall, dark, and handsome to sweep her off her feet. He would be bold, romantic, dashing, and kind-hearted—she just knew it.

At twenty-two, she concluded that such a love was rare and that her parents may be the only two people with a Capital-T, Capital-L True Love, so she started looking for the more run-of-the-mill variety. Instead of waiting for someone to ride up to the castle gate and court her, she took a more active approach and sought her love by traveling and meeting new people. When that didn’t work either, Princess Emma tried for mutual attraction, which was fun at twenty-four, but grew stale by twenty-five. So she resigned herself to loving her kingdom and her people.

At twenty-eight, a man knocked on the door and utterly transformed her life. To be clear, she did not love that particular man. Henry came from a faraway land and told her fantastic tales that seemed beyond the reach of even her magic, and while she did not love him, he told her somewhere out there in a world beyond her grasp there was an Emma Swan who was his mother, and who loved him ferociously. For days, she and her parents welcomed Henry to stay in their home and share meals at their table, and for days he regaled them with stories of his world and of other versions of each member of the Nolan family. They were spellbound by his narratives. He was a gifted storyteller, and as if he’d known this was too fantastic to be believed, he came with something called photographs that showed a still window into his world. She saw a version of her mother, Queen Snow, but much younger and with close-cropped dark hair instead of the silvery tresses she was accustomed to. Her father was another surprise--he looked barely older than Emma herself, sandy hair where now there was gray, and while she knew her father was still a strong and capable swordsman, this version of King David seemed able to challenge even the mightiest ogre.

Princess Emma Nolan even saw herself, but not herself. They looked identical, she and Henry’s mother, and while her style was different from this unknown twin’s, she couldn’t help but notice some similarities. Emma Swan was often pictured in a short red leather coat, while Princess Emma Nolan’s favorite doublet was a rich blue leather. When she commented, Henry told her they both wore them like armor, gesturing to the bruise on his shoulder from their earlier sparring session in the yard. Emma Swan liked to pull her hair back, wearing it high on her head much like Princess Emma Nolan when she wasn’t expected at court or in her regal finest. Henry even had a picture of his mother with a sword--is she trained as well? She’d asked, and Henry grinned at the question, answering with another tale of his mother besting a pirate in single combat!

“I’m pretty sure that fight was rigged though,” he admitted as they walked the castle gardens one afternoon. “And that’s part of why I’m here.” He stopped and faced her, saying he hoped she could believe one more outlandish story before he had to return to his world.

“You seem to come well-armed with evidence, Henry. I don’t see why I should doubt you at this point.”

“My mother, Emma Swan, is an incredible woman. It took her a long time, but she found her True Love, and I think you can find yours. When I learned there was a version of her--of you--here, I had to find out if you were with him too, and when you weren’t…” Henry trailed off, frowning at the ground. He was quiet for a long while, and Emma ran through his words over and over. Henry thought he knew who her True Love was? How? How could he know that his mother and whoever she was with were one another’s True Love?

“I know he’s here now--I’ve met him before, and back in my world--”

“What? Then how can he be my True Love if he’s from your world?” None of this was making sense, and for the first time she doubted Henry. It seemed he could see the uncertainty within her, and he steered them to a bench to sit and talk as he clarified this man was not from his world, but had been brought there by a curse. The same curse that separated Henry from his own family.

“I know you understand curses and magic,” he began and she nodded at his words. “So when I tell you he was swept up in a curse and brought back in time to my world, that should make sense, right?” She nodded again, wondering who could have cursed two men from different worlds at the same time. Someone powerful and dangerous. Henry sighed and continued. “His name is Killian Jones, and he’s the best man I know. He’s my father in every sense of the word, and while there’s a version of him who is my mother’s True Love, I know there is one who is also yours. He has to be.”

Henry told her a lengthy story about a witch who ensnared a group of people from this kingdom, trapping them in a place called Hyperion Heights. He spoke of a coven leader who cursed Killian Jones so he could never be in contact with his daughter—a child she had abandoned him with after tricking him into spending a night with her. “But you see, Emma, you can break that curse. Your love--yours and Killian’s will break that curse. You will have each other and Alice--hell, and Robin! I haven’t even told you about Robin,” he was lost in thought again after that. Emma waited and tried to make sense of all she had learned.

Is it possible? In some way, his tale made sense. If what he said about the curse was true, it would explain The Gap. Emma had never mentioned The Gap to Henry, though he may have learnt of it through other means. It was rarely spoken of, but everyone in the Enchanted Forest shared one simple truth: there was a block of time no one could account for. Whenever Emma or her parents tried to focus on that space, thinking back to her twenty-sixth birthday, there was a strange void where there should be at least some memory of the year. She could remember the celebratory ball and the night of her birthday, but every time she tried to focus on what came next it only earned her a persistent headache.

“Please don’t hate me, Emma,” Henry put a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. “I told him to meet me here three days after I arrived. That’s tonight. He’ll be here, and he knows what I believe about you two because he also knows my mother and her Killian. He’s, uh...not entirely convinced. He’s been through a lot, but…” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile.

“It’s his story to tell, so I won’t go into detail, just...go easy on the guy. He might be a little gun shy—uh, guarded,” he quickly clarified when he saw her blink in confusion. “I don’t think he’s seen anyone since that witch who duped him, led the coven, and tried to destroy Hyperion Heights. Think that might do a number on a guy.” He looked so sincere, so much like he did when telling all his other tales that Emma chose to believe. Henry hadn’t lied to her before, so what would the motivation be to do so now?

She chewed at her lip, fretting over what to do and how to greet someone who might be a part of her very soul--someone who had been through tricks and curses, and had suffered real loss. She couldn’t simply turn him out in the night, that was unthinkable, but what do you say to the other half of your heart? If that is what he is. This had to have been simpler for her mother. At least she’d simply caught her father in a net after robbing him. That seemed easier than calmly welcoming fate to dinner and introducing the man to your parents on day one.

“Well,” she got up and dusted off her breeches, “I suppose we’d best let my parents know we’re expecting another guest. And I may need to change as well. I think I’d rather not smell worse than the stables when I meet him.” Emma faltered on the last word, not knowing how to address Killian Jones. Henry smiled and followed her lead.

-----

One thorough and contemplative bath later, Emma emerged in a blush pink gown that shimmered softly in the waning sunlight. It had taken her three other dresses before she settled on this one. It was simpler than what she wore to galas and State events: tea length and embroidered in sheer flowers. She knew it would glow softly under the lights of the candles and torches at dinner, and Princess Emma Nolan found herself hoping he would like it.

When he arrived, it was Henry who greeted Killian Jones first, clasping the man’s hand and giving Emma a moment to simply observe. His smile was warm, a bright white flash of teeth and Emma noticed the slight creases at his eyes as well. An authentic smile, she noted, enjoying the genuine moment between the two men. He was dashing there was no other word for it--dressed in black and rich crimson, rings and charms gleaming in the firelight, their glimmer echoed in the silver strands that threaded here and there through his otherwise coal-black hair. Where his left hand ought to be, Emma found instead a polished silver hook and she remembered whispered gossip of a pirate captain referred to only by the moniker Hook. Once a fearsome leader of a brutal band of thieves, he had all but vanished into lore years ago. She realized too late that she’d been staring, and cleared her throat softly before curtseying to cover the awkwardness. Henry took the moment to introduce them, “Captain Killian Jones, may I present Emma Nolan, Princess of Misthaven.”

She offered her hand and Killian took it up, placing a chaste kiss across her knuckles. His eyes met hers, their brilliant lapis blue making her breath catch in her throat. Regardless of the formality of their meeting and the fact Henry, her parents, and several serving staff looked on, she felt the pull immediately. From the moment her hand was in his, it felt right. She wanted to keep hold of him more than she’d wanted anything in her life, wanted to memorize the rough calluses formed by his years at sea, but she forced herself to maintain propriety and brought her hand back to her side. Emma reminded herself they did not know one another, to not get swept up in Henry’s notions without evaluating the truth of the situation. Though she saw in his gaze a strange flicker of recognition, a brief knitting of his brow that asked a silent question she could not interpret, she let the moment pass and returned to her expected duties.

Emma introduced him to her parents, watching her father’s scrutinizing gaze contrast with her mother’s brilliant smile. No doubt her father was riddling out Henry’s purpose in inviting this man to dinner, though she couldn’t fathom him guessing the truth. All through dinner, Emma could barely take her eyes off Killian. He shared a few stories from his days at sea, talking of far-off kingdoms and uninhabited islands, and Emma felt a longing take hold of her as he spun a tale of a snow-covered northern kingdom where they carved elaborate ice sculptures, held firelight festivals, and celebrated the beauty of winter rather than fearing its chill. His voice was low, its velvet warmth wrapping around her and pulling her from all sense of time. The evening passed quickly, and long before she was ready, Emma’s parents stood to signal the end of the affair.

“It’s far too late for you to make a return journey, Captain Jones,” Queen Snow spoke. “We welcome you to stay as a guest in our home. We will have a room made up for you at once and hope you will accompany us for breakfast in the morning.” At his thanks, the Queen turned to Emma, “Oh, and Emma, darling?”

“Yes, Mother?”

Emma approached and her mother drew her in for a close hug, whispering softly, “See to it that Captain Jones can find his way. Most of the staff have already retired and I’d hate for him to get lost in search of rest.” With that, the Queen turned and gently tugged her husband toward their own chambers, leaving Emma to escort their two guests.

She could hear her father grumbling about leaving Emma unchaperoned, but Snow’s voice echoed back, “David, she’s twenty-eight, not sixteen, she’ll be fine. Our daughter is perfectly capable--” Their voices were lost as they rounded a corner, and Emma suppressed a smile. It didn’t matter that she was a full grown woman, her father would always be protective of her.

When she turned around, Emma realized Henry had vanished. Someone seems to think himself a matchmaker, she mused and as her eyes fell upon the man who waited by the fireplace she could understand why Henry had made himself scarce. Deep breath, Emma. He’s simply a man like any other. If she tried very hard, she just might convince herself of that. Well, unless she stopped to listen to the way her heart raced when the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile.

“Did you want--that is,” she faltered and tripped over her tongue, coming to stand near him where he leaned against the back of a chair by the hearth. “I don’t know how long a trip you made today, and so…” Why was this so hard?

“I’m quite alright, Princess. Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to ask you to keep me company and perhaps share a drink?” She smiled in response, slipping a large book from a shelf over the mantle after pointing out where her father kept a set of glasses on a shelf nearby.

“He thinks I don’t know about this,” she opened the volume to reveal a bottle. “Rum he had imported from the south--is that acceptable, Captain?”

“Aye, that will do nicely. Bit of a pirate in you isn’t there, Princess? Pinching a man’s rum while he’s fast asleep.” They shared a conspiratorial grin as she poured and each took up a chair near the fire. “To what shall we toast, love?”

She hummed in thought, considering the man before her. The pull was still there like some invisible thread entwining the two of them and she hoped it wasn’t only she who felt it. “To new beginnings,” she offered, holding her glass aloft. He echoed the sentiment and crystal clinked as their eyes met over the rims of their glasses before both looked away shyly and took a sip. The warmth and spice slid down her throat, settling in her stomach and making her shiver. They were quiet for a time, simply sharing the space while they glanced at one another, eyes never quite meeting, nor acknowledging they were both performing the same dance.

“I take it dear Henry shared his theory with you?” Killian broke the silence, addressing the weight that had settled in the room. She confirmed he had shared that along with several other stories, asking if it were true he’d been swept away to a land without magic. “Aye, and for some time I had no memory of myself or this place. When the truth finally came back to me it was...difficult to deal with. Did he...mention Alice?” He swirled the rum in his glass, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Yes, he also mentioned a curse is keeping you apart,” she reached across the small distance that separated them, hand resting on the brace that held his hook. “Killian—if I may call you Killian,” she felt herself flush at the informality and he nodded encouragingly. She said it once more, feeling the musical quality of it as she continued. “What kind of monster keeps a father from his daughter like that?”

His shoulders sagged as he said the story of Gothel was one for another day, that it was a story filled with dark shadows he dare not conjure without the sunlight to dispel them. “I only mention Alice because...well, given what Henry has told both of us I have been...” his brow furrowed as he searched for a word, and she leaned forward, absently running her hand over his sleeve and feeling where the firm leather of his brace ended and the warmth of his arm began. His gaze dropped to where her hand rested and she looked up, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Concerned,” he finished at last. “That is, I’d thought perhaps because I have a child with someone else, and because I am obviously older than you are, that you might feel...or not feel a certain…not that I think Henry is necessarily right…”

His words tapered off and she became very aware they were both leaning in now, the distance between them nearly closed. She could see the silver in his hair glinting in the firelight, the strands at his temples more greyed than the rest. Greedily, she took in all she could in this moment. The heat that radiated from where her hand still rested atop his arm, the scents of leather and petrichor that clung to him were so close she could nearly roll them on her tongue. When she searched his eyes she saw a lingering hurt, but behind that was what appeared to be cautious hope. Setting her glass aside, Emma brought her hand up, allowing herself to do what she’d been wanting to all evening and running her fingers through his hair. He held her gaze, eyes wide and uncertain and she realized his past hurts ran deep enough that he wouldn’t act on that hopeful glint she’d seen moments ago. She would have to be brave for both of them.

With a whisper of his name she closed what little distance remained between them. She’d intended a light brush of her lips, had simply wanted to know what may lie between them, but the moment their lips met Emma knew she would never be satisfied with so little. She poured herself into the moment, moving to grip the front of his shirt and pull him tightly to her. He followed her lead, their kiss deepening as he tilted his head, the two of them moving as though they had done this a hundred times before. She heard her pulse pounding away in her head, felt his breath ghosting over her lips as they breathed into one another for a moment before he captured her lips again. Something shifted then, like the single beat of a massive heart, a shockwave rippled outward, though neither could be bothered to break this moment. Finally, the two pulled back, eyes searching one another.

“Was that?” Emma asked, not knowing how to complete the thought. Her parents had told her their story several times: the kiss that broke the curse. The kiss that radiated out from them in a burst of force and light. The kiss that sounded an awful lot like what she had just shared with Captain Killian Jones.

Killian rested his forehead against hers, breathing out slowly before replying in a soft voice, “Aye love, I think it may have been.” She asked how that was possible, neither naming it yet and both quaffing their rum before leaning back in their chairs. “Years ago,” he began, “I ran into a fortune teller on the docks. He told me I would find my happiness though it was presently locked away in a tall tower. So, when the time came and I found myself facing a witch and finding a woman locked away in a tower I had thought my moment had come. Instead, I found Gothel and her tricks. I brought a daughter into this world only to have her freedom snatched away by the cold-hearted woman who bore her.”

Emma watched him closely, he seemed far away and lost in another time. “Tonight,” he continued after several beats, “when I saw the westward tower of this castle I had to stifle my hope that perhaps after so long--what is that tower to you?” He leaned toward her suddenly, his sapphire eyes searching hers as though he could read the truth within them.

“My bedroom,” she admitted. “My parents thought it would keep me safe. With only one known entrance and exit, it was easy to post guards and easy to know who sought my attention. Of course, there is another exit, but no one other than me knows of it. I devised it when I was sixteen and desperately wanted a way out without the entourage of guards.”

He fell silent, his forehead creased in thought as he tapped a finger against the bow of his lips. The mantle clock’s rhythmic ticking was nearly deafening as Emma waited through each drawn out second. Mesmerized by the path he now traced along his bottom lip, her mind drifted back to the soft press of his mouth against hers and she wished fervently to undo whatever had him so lost in his own thoughts. Come back to me, Killian, she sighed aloud and he snapped to attention. “My apologies, love. I believe I may be in need of rest.” His explanation rang hollow and she leveled a gaze at him, knowing this wasn’t the full truth.

“I swear to you, Princess, I will make my theories known. I do not intend to hide anything from you.” He stood then, stretching languidly before offering his arm and waiting for her to rise. She acquiesced if only for the chance to feel the warmth of him once more before she retired for the night. She tried to stifle her yawn behind her hand and heard him chuckle low in response. “It seems I may not be the only one in need of sleep. Lead the way, love.”

She led him to one of the guest rooms not far from Henry’s. As she bid him goodnight, Killian leaned down to brush a featherlight kiss across her lips, wishing her sweet dreams. Emma felt as though she floated on air the whole way up to her room, content to leave him to his musings tonight and trusting he would speak his mind soon enough.

----- The morning saw Emma waking earlier than usual, calling a chipper “Good morning” to her sleep-rumpled lady’s maid before dismissing her and attending to her own routine. Still abed at this hour? It seems dear Tink has been keeping late hours herself. She let herself ponder whose affections might be persuading the spunky blonde to be less than punctual, smiling at her reflection as she brushed out her golden tresses.

Once ready, Emma hummed to herself, making her way down the innumerable stairs in search of breakfast, her parents, and Killian--the thought made her grin. His sudden shift into contemplativeness notwithstanding, he had been the perfect gentleman last night. Thoughtful in their discussion at dinner, genuine and curious without overstepping, and then there was the kiss. She flushed, pausing before the dining room doors to gather her thoughts and put on what she hoped was a soft smile rather than the doe-eyed look she’d undoubtedly been wearing since she woke.

Her parents, Henry, and Killian were already seated when she entered--the latter both rising and inclining their heads in deference. “Good morning, Princess,” they intoned in unison. She laughed, insisting they sit and continue the conversation she had interrupted, taking her place at her father’s right hand and quietly thanking the servingman who filled her cup with coffee and cream.

“Killian, you were asking about the tower, yes?” Queen Snow offered an encouraging half-smile before sipping demurely at her tea. At this, Emma heard her father mutter under his breath about the Captain inquiring about his daughter’s bedroom.

“Yes. You see, Your Majesty, I can’t help but notice it is nearly identical--from the outside,” he clarified at her father’s rapidly reddening face, “to one I encountered years ago. That particular structure was the residence of a rather powerful witch.”

“Gothel,” her father spat, and all eyes shifted to him. Emma saw Killian’s jaw clench at the name and he gave a single, curt nod in affirmation.

With her mother’s hand resting on his shoulder, her father began the story she’d heard many times over the course of her life. The story of how Gothel heard the regents were expecting and deduced there would be a child born of the most powerful magic in all realms: True Love. That she knew as well that child would have light magic, and that even if it never manifested there would be power in their blood. It was the story of why Emma’s parent’s fortified their home so heavily once word of Gothel’s covetous wish reached them, and why they insisted she train with sword and bow.

“It’s why my little girl was taught to ride like a soldier and not a courtier. Hell, it’s why I gave into her frankly dangerous wishes and allowed her to learn to sail--in case she needed to escape quickly.”

“Does it help to know Gothel can’t harm anyone anymore?” Henry offered helpfully, trying to lighten the weight that had settled on the group. There was general agreement at the table that, yes, it did help. Quite a lot, in fact, and it felt as though the sun broke out from beneath the clouds as they returned to their breakfast.

“Is that what you were concerned about, Captain?” Emma caught herself in time and used his title, not yet ready to have that discussion with her parents.

“The thought had crossed my mind, Princess, but it seems your own construction must have inspired hers for some reason.” He dismissed the thought, though she could practically hear the gears of his mind grinding away. The conversation returned to banal pleasantries about the weather and what game was in season. Her father consulted Killian on the conditions at sea, and in general the rest of the meal was like any other. Like any other meal you share with your family, a new friend, and the man you just shared True Love’s Kiss with less than eight hours after meeting him. Perfectly normal. Emma put on her court smile and commented politely, waiting for her moment to pounce.

“Join me for a walk in the gardens, Captain?” The moment arrived after a lengthy debate about the benefits of traveling by horse in comparison to ship. Thank the gods for the momentary lull as her father’s cup was refilled yet again - Emma didn’t think there was enough coffee in the whole of Misthaven to keep her alert on this topic.

“Of course, Princess.” He smiled bashfully, running his hand through his hair and standing as she rose. “May I?” He offered his arm and she accepted, the two making a long overdue exit.

The grass was still damp as they walked the grounds, the morning sun hinting at a warm day to come despite the slight chill that had Emma leaning in close, basking in the warm line of contact with Killian. “So, what was it you held back up there?” She broke the silence and watched the arch of his brow as he glanced at her. “I’ve always known when people are dishonest, or not fully honest in this case,” she explained. “It’s a feeling, sort of like a rock settling into my stomach. I don’t know if it’s part of my magic or something else,” she shrugged at this and watched his expression shift from curiosity to contemplation. No doubt he was thinking up a way to explain whatever was plaguing his mind.

He remained in that state as they passed her mother’s bed of crimson roses and all the way through the lilies that always made her nose twitch, their heady scent overpowering. Spotting the bench she and Henry had sat on—was that only yesterday?—she took the lead, turning to face him as they sat.

“There are some strange coincidences,” he began. Their knees brushed and she leaned into the contact, hoping her touch might ground him in the present. His past included darkness, and here in the bright morning sun amongst the flowers she hoped to keep those grim memories at bay.

“The tower is the first of them, and I’ve no idea which came first. Given Gothel’s numerous deceits, I’m not inclined to believe any of her tales nor any of Belfry’s—the woman who claimed to be the missing princess, Rapunzel,” he clarified when he saw her puzzled look. “Did you know the witch?”

She shook her head, “Only what my parents told me: that she was interested in my magic and had a reputation for taking what she desired by force.” He expressed clear agreement, and when his focus became distant Emma took hold of both hand and hook. “Whatever it is, that doesn’t change who we are to one another, Killian.”

That must have heartened him, for it earned her a gentle smile. “Aye, love, I suppose you’re right. You see, the other strangeness was Gothel’s impersonation. I’ve never given it much thought, but why should she play at being a princess? I’d no notion who the woman was, yet she changed her appearance, her voice, her name. Why?” He hypothesized then that either Gothel bribed the fortune-teller, planting the man in Killian’s path with a bogus story about happiness in a tower, or that she somehow knew Emma would be important and hedged her bets by occupying her own tower and putting herself in Killian’s path.

“You see, I’ve considered the strangeness of these overlaps and in part I wonder if one of the gifts she or a fellow witch of her coven acquired was prophecy. She seemed to know far more than anyone ought to, and perhaps thought to entrap me and use me to get to you.

“If she knew we were, uh,” he gulped, and flushed a charming shade of pink all the way to his ears. “Destined for one another, then it would be well within her character to exploit that. To make me think she could lead me to my happiness, then snatch you away for her own nefarious purposes. As well, I’m starting to suspect the unaccounted year the townsfolk allude to may well have been a longer span of time than any of you realize.”

It made sense in a way, and while they couldn’t be certain of Gothel’s intentions, Emma was definitely grateful the woman was gone and could do them no further harm. As far as The Gap was concerned, she supposed there was no real way of knowing how much time had passed, only that it seemed like a year. Had she slept as Aurora once had? Every answer seemed to lead to more questions, but Emma resolved herself to focusing on what mattered most first: reuniting Killian with his Alice.

“Despite her purposes, Killian, whatever they may have been,” she reached up and cupped his cheek. His eyes were blue as the sea and she let herself fall into their depths as she brought him back to the present. “Last night, Killian, True Love’s Kiss is potent magic and I think—I’m almost certain, actually—that we broke your curse. We can find Alice, and you can finally hold your daughter in your arms again.”

“We?” He grinned at her, nuzzling against her hand before turning to kiss her palm. “Then you’ll accompany me, love?”

“Of course! I know we’ve only just met, but I think it’s more than obvious how I feel about you given the fact we broke a witch’s curse with our first kiss.” They shared a laugh, shifting so she could rest her head against his shoulder as he draped his arm around her.

“She’s a bit different, my Alice,” he cautioned.

“And we aren’t?” she challenged. “Tonight at dinner, let me handle my parents. We’ll tell them what happened and make plans to seek out Alice. Henry said she’s with someone called Robin—does that name mean anything to you?”

“Aye, that’s Alice’s love. I know where to find them.”

“Then that’s our next course. Reuniting you with your daughter is the first step toward, well, I guess…” she paused, pulling back to meet his gaze again. “I guess toward becoming a family, right? I mean, my parents will have questions and all things considered, I guess we have other planning we’ll need to do in the future, but—“ he cut off her monologue with a kiss. It was sweet and slow, like he was trying to memorize the feel of her lips on his. His tongue flirted with her bottom lip and she twined her fingers in his hair.

Pulling back to meet her eyes, Killian smiled. “I love you, Princess Emma Nolan,” he whispered.

She felt warm all the way to her toes, grinning as she replied, “I love you, Captain Killian Jones.” The two shared a lingering kiss, the spell suddenly broken by a loud whoop of excitement.

“I told you both!” Henry hollered, emerging from his hiding place behind a large oak tree and performing some bizarre dance Emma had never seen. The three laughed, Henry congratulating them on their newly blossoming relationship while Emma and Killian thanked him for the unlooked-for but welcome help.

“What can I say except: you’re welcome.” His smile was bright at the sun and he slung an arm over both their shoulders, walking between them as the three returned to the house and, for Emma and Killian, toward the start of a new life together.

Tagging the usual suspects: @kmomof4, @teamhook, @veryverynotgood, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @laschatzi, @donteattheappleshook, @lonelyspectator12, @the-darkdragonfly, @zaharadessert, @winterbaby89, @jrob64, @wefoundloveunderthelight, @ultraluckycatnd, @stahlop, @alexa-fangirl-forever, @superchocovian, @monosalvatore16, @snowbellewells, @batana54

#love4teamhook #cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fan fic #cs fluff #emma swan #killian jones #henry mills

[jadethest0ne]

In need of Refueling, Chapter 10 - Extinguished

Summary:  “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the  White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red  Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 2060

Ratings/Warnings:  Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents, panic attacks, abuse

Notes: Start of Act 2 of this fic ;3

Credits: Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo  for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep  some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!  

Read on AO3

———-

<START OF ACT 2>

The world is hazy and hot, as if the heat is distorting the world around him. And yet Red Son feels ice in his heart, reaching out from his center like slowly forming cracks on a frozen lake. He looks up to see his father, looking at him with disappointment. He shakes his head and turns his back to him. Red Son reaches out his hand and calls to his father. He made a mistake, messed everything up, but that doesn’t mean that his father would leave him. Would he? A desperate ache takes hold of his chest and squeezes the words forming in his throat as he tries to call out. The distorted world blurs into something unrecognizable and covers Red Son in darkness.

Red Son slowly becomes aware of things little by little at first - the scent of something herbal, something soft and fuzzy brushing against his cheek. But a sting of pain or shiver running up his spine wipes the sensations away like smudged marker on a whiteboard.

Eventually he gets frustrated at the lack of coherency that his surroundings are giving him. There’s an itch tickling the area where his ear meets his neck, so he focuses on that and tries to pull himself into consciousness. A pounding headache greets him, and a feeling of being weighed down makes the process slow. He might’ve fallen asleep and woken up again in his attempts. It’s hard to tell. He tries to move his head, and both the headache and the tickling sensation becomes stronger. He focuses on the latter sensation, its annoyance being the fuel he needs to wake him up further. He tries to move to scratch the itch, but something stops his left arm. It feels tied down and won’t move from its position on his chest. A throb stabs at him in both his arm and his sides when he tries to force it to move.

He lets out a pained groan and finally opens his eyes. Though the room he is in is not particularly lit, the light that shines through some windows causes him to squint at the glint of sun. A shiver trembles through his body and despite the light hurting his eyes, he wishes the sun would cast its rays on him more directly because he realizes he is freezing. That is despite the heavy blankets that are pulled over him, which he now understands to be the cause of the weighed down sensation he was feeling. He is laying down in a bed in an unknown location. He blinks and looks around the room he is in. It’s bathed in blues, with some green plants dotted around the place giving it an almost sea-garden feel. And it is filled with cats. A couple bold ones that were laying on the edge of the bed he is in get up and inch towards him.

The feeling of being observed by the cats and the dawning that he does not know where he is jolts him awake suddenly and he shifts to sit up. A vicegrip squeezes around his arm and chest in this motion. He’s hurt. He groans loudly and hunches over slightly holding his middle with his free hand. He notices that his right hand is bandaged, and the left arm is wrapped in something stiff with a secondary cloth strapping it to his body, making his left arm and shoulder practically immobile. Most of his exposed skin seems to have bandages as well. What happened? Flashes of the confrontation he had with The Monkey King and then his father sweep across his vision. His father attacked him. Hurt him. No, it wasn’t his father’s fault, it was his own fault. His father had been overcome by the very fire he wielded. He tugs at his shirt with his free hand, anxiously. The fabric feels wrong and he further notices that he is not in his usual clothes and is instead in what looks like a loose pinkish-red robe. He was put in different clothes?

A curious meow snaps Red Son’s attention away from his thoughts. One of the cats, a blueish one with a red tuft of fur on its head, had gotten very close to him. He pulls away and yelps, partially in surprise, and partially in pain. The cat, likewise does a little jump, and walks back a few steps before yowling much more loudly behind its shoulder.

Its call seemingly summons someone, as a booming voice yells from another room, “Coming, Mo! Is he awake?!”

Red Son sucks a breath in as a very large, blue-skinned man with a bright orange mohawk steps into view. He recognizes him as one of the Noodle Boy’s companions. It’s the giant blue one, who is very muscular, with hands that look like they could easily wrap around his head and crush him. He’d never come up against this man in a close fight and didn’t know what he was capable of, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. Instinct pushes him to bolt.

He scrambles the best he can with one free arm and a stiff and injured body to the side of the bed farthest away from the man. He can hear him saying something about ‘Don’t move or you’ll make your injuries worse,’ but he paid them no attention. He hears the large footsteps come closer and he desperately tries to get out of bed. His bare feet touch a too cold floor and another shiver wracks through his body, hitting every sore spot on the way. When he tries to put weight on his legs, they jiggle, and between that and what feels like a knife stabbing at his right ankle it causes his knees to buckle and he falls to the floor in a painful heap.

“Oh dear,” comes the voice of the Blue One as Red Son hears him shift around the bed.

He has to get up! Red Son ignores the pounding in his head and grits his teeth, as he uses the leverage of the bed to right himself. But his feet do not listen to him, and all he can do is push himself farther into the small space between the bed and the wall. The only escape on the end of the bed has been filled in by the hulking form of his enemy. “Let me help.” The large blue skinned man reaches out to Red Son, who shrinks back.

He’s hurt and can’t stand, can barely move, and being backed up between the bed and the wall, he has the distinct feeling of being cornered. His whole body is trembling in a way that he can’t stop as the world seems to box him in. He pushes his back against the wall, wishing he could just disappear into it, and squints his eyes shut.  With as much strength he can muster he yells, trying to keep the fear and desperation out of his voice, “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

A moment passes. When no presence is felt, he cautiously opens his eyes and looks up. He is surprised to see that his shout was heeded and that the large man has pulled his hands away. The man has a look of almost hurt, and a bit of pity on his face. Red Son appreciates neither.

“I’m sorry,” says the Blue One. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not hurt.”

Red Son breathes for a moment, looking the large man up and down. He has knelt down in the gap between the bed and the wall, still blocking Red Son’s exit, but leaving him ample space so that the room feels less oppressive.

“H-hurt…?” Red Son says around a tremble. “O-of course I’m hurt! Don’t you see the bandages, you buffoon!” He tugs absently at the blanket that is hanging part-way off the bed.

“Well, yes I suppose that is a given. I-uh I’m the one who bandaged you. Your other shirt was kinda ripped up so I gave you a spare robe. I hope that’s okay…?” the Blue One says, almost sheepishly.

Red Son manages to tug the blanket off of the bed and pulls it around himself as best he can in the somewhat cramped space. “Well, you could’ve given me something warmer, do you always keep your little shack so freezing cold?!” he says with a sneer, while trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

The man looks almost surprised and looks like he’s about to contradict, but instead says, “Are you cold? I could get you some warm tea to drink!”

Before Red Son can respond, the man sweeps out of the room leaving him to sit there, with his mouth partially hanging open.

Red Son wonders what his plan is. What was the big guy up to? He supposes he could just leave if he wanted. If he could actually stand that is. He looks around and some other curious cats have started crowding around him.

“Go away!” he yells at them angrily. At his yell, he notices something is off. Normally during his outbursts, his hair would flair up. That reminded him of the tickling sensation from earlier. He moves his hand to the itchy spot and finds that his hair is there. Lying flat against his head and draped over his shoulders and down his back. No longer in its usual pony-tail and flickering with his emotions. Before he can dwell on that, the Blue One has entered the room again.

“Now now, kitties, he doesn’t like it when you get too close, so give him space,” the Blue One admonishes the cats. They weave in between his legs, and the man gracefully balances his form around them while carrying a teapot and mug. He places the mug on a tray, and scoots the tray across the floor to Red Son, careful to not get close.

Red Son eyes the green liquid and the blue man, and cautiously picks up the mug. But instead of taking a sip, he holds it close to him, greedily trying to embrace the warmth.

And that’s when he notices something strange again.

 Red Son can’t feel it.

Yes, he can physically feel the cup and the heat on his skin with his hands wrapped around it. But he can’t feel the warmth. Not really. Not with his powers. Not with his whole self. He can’t feel the ebb and flow of the steam that wafts out of the tea. Nor the pulsing of the energy from the warm liquid.

He tries to reach out with his powers and interact with the heat. Pull it in, make it stronger, do something, but he realizes that he can’t. Nothing happens. Shakily taking in a breath, he tries to activate his flames. He commands sparks to dance on his fingers. They do not. He squints his eyes and tries to make his hair flare up like it usually does with his abilities. But instead it continues to lay limply on his shoulders. He attempts to conjure heat from his center in hopes of warming himself up. But it doesn’t work.

He is cold. He feels empty. And it is as if a part of him is cut off from a section of the world that he used to participate in.

He can’t do anything.

He swallows thickly and grinds his teeth. His breaths pick up and his shoulders shudder. He holds the cup in a white-knuckled grip, before angrily throwing it across the floor. Even that motion has no real power behind it, and the mug thunks anticlimactically on the ground, chipping the edge slightly and causing the still warm liquid inside to dribble out lazily across the floor. He sees the steam and is reminded that that is all he can do. Only watch. Not control.

The blue stranger fusses about the spilt liquid and goes about cleaning it up, but Red Son pays him no mind. Instead, he pulls at the blankets around him and buries his face in the covers. It’s too much. The cold. The pain. The deep loss suddenly consuming him. His head feels fuzzy, and his chest is stabbed with pain with each shuddering, fast-paced breath. These sensations buzz together until they take over his entire being and everything becomes void.

start || <– previous // next –>

#inor #in need of refueling #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk fanfic #fanfiction #red son #sandy #injury #recovery #panic attacks #my writing #jadethest0ne

[katieskarlette]

A stupid, pointless skit in which my mage gets off her butt and tries to “fix” recent lore (especially the Arthas thing) through the power of sheer frustration, a prop from a different IP, crappier image edits than usual, and a blatant disregard of logic that even eclipses Blizzard’s

Somewhere in Dalaran, my mage, Skarlette, has been quietly minding her own business since shortly after 9.1 launched.  Catching up on her reading, letting Murky play in the fountains, failing to organize her bank, and just generally ignoring anything going on in the Shadowlands.

Now I’m imagining her giving a weary sigh, setting aside a yellowed tome of magic, and heading off to Zereth Mortis.  She marches into the Sepulcher during the newest cinematic, looking thoroughly fed up.

“Champion, where have you been?” Uther asks.  “We could have used your help in the Sanctum of Domination.”

"Never mind that.  What the hell is going on here?  I can’t leave you guys alone for a single patch without everything falling to pieces.”

Skarlette stomps up with one of those spirit-catching vacuum things from Ghost Busters and sucks up what’s left of Arthas into a box.  

She turns to Sylvanas and tries to point at her, but the author only has access to WoWhead model viewer at the moment and can’t figure out how to unequip her weapon, so pointing makes her also whack herself in the face with her fiery staff.  It is just as uncomfortable as you imagine. 

Recovering quickly, she says, “You.  Go find Nathanos and then make yourself scarce for awhile until the discourse quiets down.”

She next turns to Uther and Jaina.  “You two, come with me.  There’s a pod in my conservatory in Ardenweald with Arthas’ name on it, but the three of us will have to grind out a few million anima to grow his soul back.”  

As you can see, they are not looking forward to that.  That’s a lot of daily quests.

Skarlette then stomps further into the raid and screams in the general direction of Zovaal, “And you, Mister ‘I Show More Nipples Than Characterization’, can just go away and not come back until you’ve developed a personality and a master plan that doesn’t involve a degree in quantum physics to understand.  You are a bad villain and you should feel bad.”  

Zovaal cries a little bit, but nobody can tell under the helmet.

Skarlette then makes a portal to Oribos and physically shoves a confused Jaina and Uther through it.  

They plant the wisp of Arthas’ soul in Skarlette’s night fae garden and feed it anima until he’s whole again, then drag him before Pelagos to be properly judged.  

He ends up in Revendreth, naturally, and after a few centuries of grueling atonement and hilarious shenanigans with Kael’thas he can join Uther in Bastion, where they train new Kyrian together.  When Jaina dies they can find a lovely little cottage somewhere in a part of the Shadowlands that doesn’t completely suck and (un)live happily ever after.  

The End

...

I don’t know wtf this turned into but I have a headache and I wanted to make a comic but WoW Model Viewer isn’t working for me and rather than troubleshoot it I decided to crank out this stupid skit with WowHead, Google images and stuff I had already made instead and I’m sorry but not really because damn it if Blizz can write dumb plots that make no sense then so can I nyah

#9.2 spoilers #katieskarlette makes images #katieskarlette's fanfics #sorta #I don't even know

[altagraye]

Faith  miniseries (part 1)

**T. W.!!: self harm, suicidal thoughts, self doubt, sad reader.

*this is my first xreader ever so i hope it aint sloppy. 💋

There were very few things that scared the Winchesters but tonight their fear was palpable. Most of the time they were passive and observant. Even Dean didn't want to open that can of worms. Ever since that hunt a few weeks ago, the one no one talked about on the 2 day drive home, something with you has been wrong. Like you got your wires crossed and you haven't been the same since. It has been gradual, like watching someone sinking in quicksand or dying of cancer.  

You weren't stupid, you could tell that they have been distantly observing you as if you had a ticking time bomb strapped to your torso at all times. You noticed the change of mood in the kitchen when you'd finally gotten yourself out of bed to grab a cup of coffee. It's like your presence sucked the life out of a room, much like a Dementor from Harry Potter. You didn't know which hurt more, the deafening silence, the obvious coaxed smiles from Sam, or the steady stares from Dean when your back was turned. Sometimes when you were awake enough, you heard the brothers arguing about something, you'd tricked yourself to overhear certain words in their heated arguments, and convinced yourself they hadn't been arguing about you. But they clearly were.  

Cas, the usual flat faced stoic of the Bunker had twinges of concern in his oceanic orbs. Were you that messed up? That a fuckin' angel was concerned about you? What the hell happened? It started with that hunt. That much you know, right? Maybe it started before that? When it did sink in, you started to spend much more time cooped up in your room. You liked the softness of your bed and the warmth of your bed-covers. Suddenly you didn't want to go...anywhere. You spent your days sleeping and struggling to keep your eyes open enough to hear what Sam had conjured up about a potential case. The nights, those were the worst though. In the night you couldn't get to sleep if you tried. And that was when you felt most alone. You hated being awake, if you were awake you were thinking. And thinking means remembering just how much of a screw up you knew you were.

Team Free Will just came back from a hunt which you had to pull teeth just to get to stay in the confines of the Bunker. It had been a few days. You don't remember the last time you ate. Was it when you ate the second to last slice of apple pie in the middle of the night when your insomnia was at its peak? Or was that this evening when you woke up to a grumbling stomach that you couldn't ignore, so you quelled it with warm chicken broth. You didn't feel deserving enough to eat solid food today. Your lips were cracked and severely chapped even though you knew you kept your lip balm in the bedside table, within reach. Your long hair is disheveled in its bun and you can't stop sneezing because you forgot to take your medicine today, again. What a failure. You can't take care of yourself. It would be so much better if you could just lay down in your bed and sleep. Sleep and dream, forever.  

Face it, the Winchesters are so much better without you. Dean doesn't need you burdening him. He would only have to carry your dead weight around on cases. You can't even muster up the courage to walk up to houses and round up info on the local legends, doing door-to-door sweeps. What in all Hell makes you think Dean could be attracted to someone, some frail little girl trapped in the past? You weren't his type anyhow, a plus-sized book worm didn't turn him on. How could it? You saw his porno-mags. Those girls were, perfection. Miles away from what you were. They were tall, sculpted shades of golden skin. They were the definition of success, confidence, beauty. Qualities you'd convinced yourself you weren't. You saw their type in multiple bartenders that you painfully watched Dean flirt with. From your table at the bar, it stung to see Dean's pearly whites brighten in the lights of the illuminated bar. His expression full of child-like glee, effortless and innocent. Sam was next to you for protection, his face buried in his tablet searching diligently through lore and articles of missing peoples.  

You shuffle your feet audibly into the kitchen. Even though you don't feel like eating, you need to eat at least a sandwich in Dean's presence. The brothers were sipping beer at the table in the kitchen while you fixed yourself a wimpy pb & j. Sitting down at the very edge of the metal table you stared for a long moment at your sandwich. I hate this, it's making me sick to even look at food, you think to yourself. You take a bite and chew slowly, wanting so hard to spit it out. You're too fat already. Why do you eat in the first place? Those thoughts stew in your head as you notice the Winchester brothers are staring at you. You notice someone is talking to you but it doesn't register. You swallow the bite unwillingly, closing your eyes like you had just done something terrible.  

"Y/N? Earth to Y/N?" You recognize the husk in the voice to be Dean's. You flinch and look at him, wishing immediately you hadn't stared into those perfect green orbs. The expression on his face let you know that he knew there was definitely something wrong with you. God you're such a freak. You drag your tongue on your left canine, the one that has always been particularly sharp. Feeling a cold sweat begin to drip down your neck, you start to panic. You drop your sandwich on its plate and rise from your seat. You need the sanctuary of your messy bedroom, the softness of the mattress. You need the coolness of the sheets. Your small feet tap the tile of the floor beneath you but you notice sound behind you that will your body to go faster. They were following after you.  

You'd never been more afraid that they'd find out what was in your head. That Dean would find out how you felt about him and about yourself. That can't be an option. You knew what would be next, what was inevitable. The dreaded talk. You finally reach the knob of your bedroom door, your palm slipping as you fumble with it from sweating. Just as they are about to reach you, you open the door and slam it shut behind you, locking it. You heart is racing against your chest. Locking the door isn't enough. So you barricade the door with your dresser. As you do so, you feel yourself breaking and hot tears flow down your face soaking into your hoodie.  

"Y/N?! C'mon, open the door." Sam says.

"Whatever it is we can talk about it. Y/N. Please?" Dean's tone is almost unlike him. You'd only ever heard him use this kind of tone with children who were in the midst of trauma from an awry hunt. Is that what he thought of you as? A wounded child in need of coddling? Or maybe even worse, a wounded animal.

You don't answer and there is a long pause. You need relief and release in the only way you know how. You rummage through your bedside table drawer and find a thin hunting knife, the one Dean gave you a few years ago. Your first gift from him. You pull down the fleece-like fabric of your sweatpants to reveal scars, left over from self-inflicted pain, years gone by. They were raised and pink lines. They wouldn't understand. You hear thudding from the other side of your door, that can only mean the brothers are getting more desperate, using their bodyweight to try and get inside.  

"Y/N!!" Dean yells for you in between the thudding.  

"GO AWAY!" You yell as you drag the sharpness across your skin. Red bubbles up from the cut and for a few seconds you feel relief. But it doesn't stop the pain. You cry more, sobbing uncontrollably. The salty tears blurring your vision until they spill over staining your cheeks. You need more, so you add more cuts, one by one. Oddly you chuckled at your macabre artwork, thinking you just made your thigh look like a piece of lined paper. You start your work on the opposite thigh, digging in a little deeper with each line.  

You hear someone suck in a breath sharply. Someone was in the room with you. During your release, you never noticed the dresser move or the door opening. Looking up from your bloodied thighs you see Dean staring back at you. His blade still in your hand, red dripping down your skin and slipping into the pure white sheets.  

"Y/N? Hey, that's okay. Put the knife down, alright?" He said to you smiling at you flashing his bright white impeccable teeth, Sam in the background of your bedroom doorway with his hand clasped over his mouth in a blank stare. More tears sear themselves into your eyes and flood over. Your lips are quivering. You drop your knife released from your trembling hand, it thunks itself into the wooden floor below. You don't dare look back at Dean. You curl yourself up as best as possible granted the size of your stomach won't let you pull your knees to your chest.

You collapse onto your bed facing your pillows, you sob into them and hold one tight to your face in a feeble attempt to hide yourself. You feel Dean sit next to you on the bed, and he begins to stroke your back in soothing motions. His effortless acts of kindness make you break more. You feel the onset of a nasty headache forming, from the intensity of your sobbing. You can barely make out Dean telling Sam to bring a first aid kit and water. Dean shushes you and continues to stroke your back and your arm.

"You don't have to tell me anything. Just take deep breaths, 'kay? Here, I'll do it too." He breathes deep in and out, hard enough to be audible. Why was he so nice to me all of a sudden?? You begin to feel numb, and you weren't sure if this was from the emotional break down or the blood loss. Had you cut too deep this time? Sam returns with the first aid kit. You note its metal clink on the bedside table. You unbury your face from your pillow only to get a breath of fresh air. You don't look at Dean or Sam. You couldn't. Dean thanks his younger brother for the glass of water and the kit.  

"Can you give us a minute Sammy?" Dean asks.

"Sure. As long as you need." Sam confirms and you hear the heavy footed thuds of his boots exit your room. Dean does something that you don't expect. He lays down on his side, with you. Spooning up against your form. You mentally whack yourself in the head, he's getting his jeans all bloody, that you're sure of. He continues to stroke your arm softly. He hooks his chin into the nook of your shoulder.

"Whenever you're ready. I'm all ears." He tells you, the gentleness in his tone brings you to tears again. You weep silently. Was this really happening? You don't budge or say a word as sleep takes you over and you feel so amazingly content. You melt into the rhythmic breaths that Dean takes. The act soothes you into dreamland. For the first time in a while you think, I want to wake up to him next to me. And you swear you smile in your slumber.

End part 1.

*criticism is taken constructively.

*comments are golden.

#dean x reader #self doubt #mental health issues #plus sized reader #depression #suicidal thoughts #sad reader #fluff

[cameoamalthea]

So About the Traveler: Critical Role C2E103

“How can I be cruel? That is for mortals.” But then she did raise her eyes, and they were great with sorrow, and with something very near to mockery. She said, “So is kindness.” - Peter S Beagle “The Last Unicorn”.

In lore and media, including Dungeons and Dragons, immortal beings whether called “immortals” or “fey” are not bound by the same sense of morality as mortals. Indeed, some interpretations posit they lack the same capacity to feel the same emotions as mortals do. These beings are by their very nature different and alien. 

The Archfey is an immortal. They are ancient and yet, ever young. A contradiction. They cannot lie and are bound by any promise they make, but are very good at wording things carefully or withholding what they’d rather not say. They are not to be trusted. They are not safe. They can be good, and Artagan falls squarely on the good side for a fey.

The key words being “for a fey”. 

Fey generally lack empathy, which makes sense for the short lives of mortals are nothing compared to their eternal existence. They can be killed, but they do not simply end and pass away the way mortal things do. So there is a question as to how much a fey can value mortal lives at all. 

Still, Artagan makes it clear he does not want to hurt his followers. He rejects killing them when Jester brings it up. He sees leaving them to join the Island cult where they will be happy as a viable solution for the ones he dislikes. Which is actually fairly merciful considering fey do not value mortals in general and can easily destroy the lives of any who offend them. That does not make it ok by normal ethical standards, but it is important to realize that it is his nature not to have normal ethical standards. 

Artagan seems to be primarily motivated by doing whatever amuses him. Trick a bunch elves into worshiping a dead whale because it’s funny? Sure. Respond to someone claiming they can’t die by requesting to kill them just to see what happens and see what it’s like, just for the heck of it. It is likely he has never cared about anything other than his own self-interest and personal enjoyment. He has certainly never cared for a mortal.

Yet, he cares for Jester but cannot understand what she cares about.

He sees she is crying and does not like that, but doesn’t understand why she’s scared.  

He does not understand why asking her to lead a lot of people to a place that is home to a dangerous monster that will erase their memories and turn them into willing slaves would upset her. 

He understands when she expresses fear for herself; because he understands that. And he is quick to assure her that he wasn’t going to give her to the monster. And again, fey cannot lie. Artagan does value Jester but does not value mortals in general.

For Jester the question is ‘how do I know you wouldn’t do that to me’

Whereas to Artagan it’s as obvious as how can someone keep animals as pets and still eat meat.

One is cute 

One is food

It’s not a question that you could truly love your pet chicken and also love some BBQ wings. The same animal, but one is valued.

Jester is valued, and there is a question as to whether a fey can value a mortal as more than a human might value a pet or what if any capacity fey have to love anyone. That said, he is genuine in his affection for her. He did not intend to hurt her (he still did - he absolutely did) and honestly did not mean to put her through any heartache. 

Some would describe this behavior as “creepy” or even as “gaslighting”. (And if this narrative is triggering because the character’s actions remind you of an abuser that is 100% valid. This essay is exploring only the actions of this character in the context of analyzing the fictional portrayal of an imaginary magical being).

While creepy is subjective I do not believe he is malicious so much as heartless (another quality of fey). He does not understand caring about other people so he honestly could not foresee that the fact he would do this would feel like a betrayal to Jester. He does not have the empathy to understand why he has hurt her and instead tries to explain his perspective honestly and assure her that she is safe (which she is safe with him, at least insofar as he will not intentionally hurt her - the problem is this dumbass doesn’t understand how he’s hurting her).

So while I understand the impulse to say “He made Jester cry KILL HIM”. 

He is not lying when he never intended to leave her on the island or when he assured her that she is his favorite person. He also freely makes a promise to her, which is binding and not something a fey would give lightly. 

So now- Now he cannot ever leave her. He will keep her safe and her friends safe. That’s a big deal. And there’s nothing in it for him aside from her happiness. He paints the moon itself to make her smile.

He is a powerful, alien, chaotic neutral fey and he adores Jester.

The question is then will Jester love him after this. Will she be able to have a close relationship with him now that she understands his lack of empathy. Even when he is sorry all he can say is he’s sorry she feels hurt (because he doesn’t want her hurt) but he cannot truly apologize and take responsibility for hurting her. (I’m sorry you feel hurt vs I’m sorry I hurt you). 

He can’t take responsibility for anything. He is carefree and free from the ability to care. Mortals care, mortals can love and regret. They can understand hurting someone else and take responsibility for that rather than focusing on the consequences that relate to their own feelings (I don’t like that you feel hurt because I care, so I am sorry for that).

Note: In real life, in humans, we call this behavior toxic. To focus on yourself and not emphasize with others and your impact on them is harmful.

And Jester grew up with Artagan. He is not a “child groomer” as some have accused. He was a child with her. However, once she became an adult he dropped the polymorph and became a fey again. Jester grew up. Artagan can’t grow up, because he’s a fey. He is still and will forever be as selfish and unthinking as a child. 

Jester isn’t anymore and she may outgrow Artagan unless his affection for her can make him grow as a person. However, Jester is not at the point where she is able to call him out or push him to change. She is understanding ‘I know you wanted to get rid of followers’ she doesn’t want to judge. When he complains about the headache of dealing with ships she joked about some of them dying.

However, the Traveler does not join on that joke. He doesn’t want them to die. He has learned to enjoy doing good and to care somewhat for people in general - which is notable given that he is a fey and caring isn’t in his nature. 

Jester has made him a better person. He did grow up with her for a time. He was mortal with her then and grew and, I think, learned to feel love for her. To be her best friend. 

But he has a long way to go to be a good friend; if he can even get there. Either way, it will be an interesting story to watch play out. An interesting dynamic. An interesting take on a fey that Matt has done a wonderful job writing as truly inhuman. 

Footnote:

1) For further reading on the nature of fey/magical creatures, please see this post on “The Last Unicorn”

2) Why are these chickens so cute you guys???

#Artagan #jester lavorre #critical role #Critical role spoilers #essays #fey #fairies

[5lazarus]

Hi Lazarus! from the hurt/comfort prompts: “Hey, just look at me. Breathe.” Thank you!!

this story got completely out of control, but I vomited up 2.5k words from this prompt! thank you for sending it! I had a lot of fun with this little story, and while I don’t think I managed to bring it to a successful resolution, it taught me a lot about pacing!

to recap, you inspired a whole story idea with the first hug prompt you sent me. I was thinking about what Hawke & friends must have gone through, escaping Kirkwall, and how utterly miserable and emotionally shattered every single one of them must have been. what would that emotional catharsis have looked like? then ellie-elfie sent me a few prompts, which I looped into the story you inspired here, and then ended with this. I posted it on AO3 as Catabasis, though I realize I stopped the story before they go back underground. Thanks again for inspiring this. This was a lot of fun! 

The warm wet of the woods washes away the ash of the last of Kirkwall. Merrill winds them through the muddy woods. She makes them take their shoes off to confuse their tracks, despite Anders muttering about hookworm and Varric’s hatred of dirt, and routinely casts a spell to shift the leaf litter back over their prints. “It’s going to look like elves were travelling, if they’re looking at all,” she says. “Not four humans, a dwarf, and Dog.” Dog barks merrily at the mention of him and Fenris shushes him. “In Seheron, we had caligo lagoenae,” Fenris says. “Can you do something similar?” “Fenris, I don’t speak Tevene,” Merril says shortly. Hawke puts their hand on her shoulder. She is still irritated over the grammar argument in the cave, and Hawke knows she has refused to learn Tevene as a point of principle. Bethany’s said that the best way to learn old magic is to read the magisterium’s journals. Merrill has said the only elves who know Tevene are slaves and slavers, and she would rather not. She continues, “Do you know it in Common? Or is it a spellword?” Fenris snaps, “Don’t patronize me,” and now it is Anders’ turn to step in and diffuse the situation. “I can work up a fog,” he says. “But you’re better at nature magic than I am, Merrill.” They don’t bother asking Bethany, because Bethany is best at curses and massively destructive rift spells. Hawke smirks to themself. Their family always makes a splash, wherever they go--good thing Merrill knows how to cover it up. Merrill weaves and thickens the humidity of the already cloying woods into a thick fog. Bethany summons a small flame and leads them forward, Fenris at her side, checking for signs that his underground left. Aveline sighs. “Creeping through the forest with a thick fog, as if that’s not suspicious.” She shakes her head. Fenris made her change into a light leather armor and leave her guard’s uniform behind. She looks close to the worn woman that Hawke met, all those long years ago, with the security of Kirkwall of her back. She still clutches her sword. Hawke is sorry they made her throw away the Amell family shield. They cannot help but suspect Fenris took some pleasure out of ordering Aveline out of her uniform. They’ve wanted to do the same for so long too, but they know the only way to balance their friends is to step out of the way. Aveline is an idealist, perhaps even more than Anders is; she finds her disillusionment in her own way. Hawke mutters a curse as they step into a particularly noxious puddle of mud. They’ve pushed her further down it, certainly. “Dunno how you stand this,” Hawke says. “The mud. The bugs. Fungus. Do you ever think you’re going to get infected with, like, mushroom people?” “Mushroom people,” Varric mutters. “That’s a good one. Better than lizards.” “No, really,” Hawke protests, scraping the mud of their feet on a tree. Merrill, irritated, waves a hand and the mud hardens and falls off. Hawke blushes: right, that’s a very clear mark a person was there. “Sorry. But, we’ve all seen some strange things in our time in Kirkwall. Amulets that turn into strange witches who can turn into dragons and eat darkspawn. Trees that turn into angry men-spirit-elf things that guard tombs. An actual ancient elvhen god, living in the sewer.” “You know, it’s not so clear Xebenkeck was one of my people’s gods,” Merrill says testily. “She is referred to as both a Forbidden One in our lore and a Forgotten One in the Chantry’s interpolation of the Tevinter text, and--” “Pedant,” Hawke says fondly. “But given all the weird shit we’ve had to fight, I feel like we’re due for some mushroom people springing up on us.” Merrill says, “That’s not how the Fade works. This is land still roved by the People. Think about it like a garden. A good Keeper prunes back the rot and the overgrowth, and leaves space for growth. And burns it out, when necessary. Kirkwall hasn’t had a good Keeper in a long time.” “Or First,” Fenris says nastily. Merrill says, “That demon took Marethari, Fenris. Not me. And if you’re not able to understand that, I don’t understand how you’re able to tolerate Justice and Anders and not what I did with Audacity.” “Because Justice isn’t a demon,” Anders says angrily. Merrill sighs. “I haven’t the time to argue Chantry propaganda with you. You can lead a halla to the water, but you can’t make him drink. I don’t understand how you can hate the Circles and still impose the way they shape the Fade--” “Oh, come off it, you’re worse than Velanna,” Anders says. “Even you have to admit, that time Hawke dragged us into the Fade, that demons mirror Andraste’s teachings on the seven deadliest sins.” “Only because Andrastians outnumber us now,” Merrill argues. “Because when I dream with my clan, we see spirits inherently different--which implies that there is no set form, as you say. What’s the line between Justice and Vengeance, anyway? Between Pride and Fortitude, Audacity and Courage? Fenris, you must have seen how Seheron feels differently than, say, Minrathous, or Kirkwall, or even Wycombe and the Friendly Homes. Where the Fade touches the Waking World--” “They’re going to go on like this for hours,” Varric says. “And I don’t understand shit. Sunshine, why don’t you ever join in?” “Both of them are far too proud to be fun to argue with,” Bethany shrugs. She pushes the lick of flame over her head and nudges it onward. It warms her tired face. Hawke thinks that she looks like their mother, as beautiful as her too, and Leandra would be furious to see the mess their children had made of their lives, on the run again. But she would be happy that they were alive. They troop through the forest, wet and muddy and irritable, and eventually even Anders runs out of things to argue about. Hawke grows comfortable in the smell of Merrill’s petrichor spells. Though the mud is admittedly unpleasant, they like the feel of wet grass sticking to their feet and legs. The woods are loud, Merrill’s magic feels like a hug from her herself, and they feel like they may just get through this. The ground grows rocky as they climb into the Vimmarks. Varric, though he hates inclined surfaces, argues that it is safer to stay in the mountains and follow a winding path past Ostwick rather than risk crossing them and skirting so close to Starkaven. “Prince Charming won’t think we’ll go up,” he says. “Trust me. One thing Sebastian knows about me, is how much I hate hiking.” They set up camp in rock shelters Merrill picks out. She knows this part of the route better than Fenris. Rain sets back in at night. Hawke wonders if Merrill inadvertently summoned it, with her fog spells. It is hard to gauge what a mage can do, because their friends regularly do the impossible. Varric has plucked arrows out of the air, Fenris can pass through walls like a lyrium-infused ghost, and Aveline took down the eldritch horror of a rock wraith in the Deep Roads. The feel of the caves is fantastic. The air tastes good, somehow, fresh and hungry, and the walls are inscribed with runes, layered through the ages. Some of them Merril can read, and she and Fenris sit down with a notebook and they go over them together, Merrill saying the words aloud and Fenris trying to write them down. Anders sits next to Hawke as they watch them. They are all tired, but the tension has been easing the further they get away from the city. They are not sure any of this can be resolved, but right now, they are too tired to fight. “Has Fenris been teaching  you his dialect?” Hawke asks. “Merrill tries with me, she’s very particular about it. Says my accent is adorably shit.” Anders says, “Justice knows Elvhen. I--sometimes I know it when he says it, sometimes I don’t. It’s easier when the Veil is thinner, but gives me a headache.” “Huh. So spirits speak Elvhen.” Hawke turns to Bethany. “How does that work?” She is the Fade expert, out of the trio, though Bethany disengages with grace whenever Merrill disagrees with her. Bethany shrugs. “Dunno. Maker’s first children? Anecdotally I’ve heard that elvhen mages are more susceptible to the Harrowing--” “That’s not true,” Anders interrupts, “that’s because of templar bias and the way they’re discriminated against--” “Let me finish, Anders,” Bethany says, irritated. “As I was saying. There seems to be a stronger pull between elves and spirits, and Merrill thinks is has to do with Dalish cosmology, though that wouldn’t make sense because Orsino--well, no one has actually studied it. And now no one will, not with what’s happening with the Circles. If they don’t just kill us all.” “Fiona won’t let that happen,” Anders says, face hard. “The Liberati have enough of a majority to push for a vote.” Bethany snorts. “Didn’t know you were that engaged in Circle politics.” “I voted,” Anders protests. “Until it was no longer useful for me.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hawke says. “I’m gonna go talk to Varric instead.” The days proceed much like the rest. People talk. Hawke listens. They learn that Isabela, Anders, and Merrill have all met the hero-wardens of Ferelden before. Merrill comes from the same clan as Warden Mahariel, though Sabrae split before the Blight. Anders still corresponds with Surana, who lives in Amaranthine to avoid the stress of warden politics and to support Warden Tabris, who Isabela hooked up with in Denerim. Isabela also slept with the Left Hand of the Divine, they discover, and the King of Ferelden’s lover. “Though we couldn’t talk him into bed with us,” she sighs. “Though Zevran and Tabris and I really tried. He just--I think he got overwhelmed by all the anatomy. Poor boy.” Hawke snickers. The days go on like this, aching their way through the Vimmarks. These are the paths the Dalish take, and escaped slaves, and occasionally mages. They find marks of all three groups overlapping, though Bethany casts enough obfuscation hexes to keep them from intersecting that she collapses in her bedroll at the end of each day, shaking. Likewise cleaning their tracks begins to take a toll on Merrill. She withdraws into herself, focusing on relentlessly hiding their trail, and not even Varric can get her to laugh. “I’m tired,” she says. “And I need to focus. Please stop.” Hawke decides they need a rest day at the border of Hercinia and Wycombe. Fenris knows a cave system that will take them directly to his friends from Clan Lavellan, who promised him refuge the last time they saw him. He claims it will only take two days, but it will be two days without sunlight, and Hawke remembers how depressed Varric got without the sky. They camp in a treehouse built into a grove right below the mouth of the cave. Everyone is quiet, for the most part, curled around the fire. Aveline hums as she patches a shirt for Isabela, and Anders goes through his medicine bag to reassure himself they have enough to heal them through to Wycombe. Varric stares into the fire. “When I write about this,” he says, “I think I’ll keep this for myself.” “Why?” Bethany asks. He purses his lips, thinking. Hawke wraps their arms around Merrill, who is already half-asleep, and enjoys their friends. It is always fun to watch Varric think, he’s the cleverest out of all them, except maybe Merrill. Merrill buries her face in their arms, and they look down, concerned. She is upset, and there is nowhere private to ask why. The fire casts shadows over his face. Varric looks old. They all do. It has been a hard month. He says finally, “Because there’s no romance in it. No one wants to read about the Champion and their friends all fighting, and not really coming to any consensus besides that they want to stop fighting and be safe. There’s no moral in it, nothing uplifting. Just that people fight, viciously. That we make mistakes we can’t fix. And we just have to live with it. It’s not compelling. Not like our story in Kirkwall, which is more about Kirkwall. Who are we without the city in the background? I don’t know. I think I’ll end it in the docks. Or maybe with us watching the city burn. So people can assign us closure. Choose their own happy ending, because I don’t know what ours will be yet.” Isabela says, “Nothing special, just pieces.” She stretches again. “Keep talking like that and you’ll end up a Qunari. Our story doesn’t need a moral, Varric. That’s not how life works.” “I know that,” he says. “But that’s not the point. The story isn’t life. So I can make it work however I want.” Merrill pushes herself up in Hawke’s lap and whispers in their ear, “If they all start arguing again I will either scream or cry, I haven’t decided yet.” The journey has taken its toll on her. Hawkes examines her closely and sees the shadows like smudges under her eyes. She’s paler than usual, and she starts shaking. Hawke inclines to the edge of the treehouse with their head and quickly they move as far as they can from the others. Bethany looks at them questioningly, but they shake their head sharply. Mercifully they are left alone. Bethany is a good sister. She knows exactly when to look the other way and cause a distraction--and that she does, wheedling Varric to read a piece from his book. As the others laugh at the mess Varric has made of them, Hawke turns to Merrill. They ask, “Are you alright?” The fire casts light into Merrill’s eyes like a cat’s. When she looks at them, her eyes shine and Hawke cannot help but remember how otherworldly she is. She bridges both worlds, the Dalish and the human, but sometimes the old magic wills out. Merrill says, “Clan Lavellan doesn’t like me much. Because of Marethari. I don’t get along with their First. And I’m not sure how their Keeper will respond to me.” “Then they’re idiots,” Hawke says, “and we’ll keep moving. Send Aveline to resupply in town, and move onto Rivain. Dairsmuid or Llomerryn, or that Dalish town Isabela talked about.” Merrill is shaking harder now. “No.” Hawke takes her hands, but she pulls away. “I wish it were that easy, vhenan. But there won’t be anywhere to go. Not with the Dalish. Because of me.” “Hey,” Hawke says. “Just look at me. Breathe. That’s not true. Look at me.” Merrill’s eyes flash back to blue. “We got this far, okay? And I’m okay with--I didn’t grow up as nomadic as you, but I can do it. It could be fun. I liked moving, as a kid. Bethany and I are used to it. And if we can get another ship, well, that’ll make things easier. And you know Isabela’s going to get us on a ship at some point. I know everything is changing. If the Divine calls that Exalted March...well, you remember what that dragon lady said.” “Asha’bellanar,” Merrill corrects, lips twitching. “And it was a prayer to Mythal that revived her, there’s something in that.” Hawke sighs. “Well, you remember what she said.” They close their eyes and focus on the words, which has haunted them since--partly because the delivery had been so terrifying. They quote, “‘We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment...and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.’ And, well, we’re lying up in the sky right now, so I think we’re doing alright.” Merrill smiles despite herself. “How do you remember that?” she asks. “I don’t even remember it like that.” “Varric wrote it down,” Hawke confesses. “And it sounded so cool I memorized it. It’s good advice.” Merrill turns to the fire, where Aveline is holding a book with a luridly pink cover over the fire while Anders and Isabela cackle and Varric jumps, protesting. She says, “I know I shouldn’t have let Keeper find out about Audacity. She thought I was weak, but I knew her pride, I knew her arrogance. And her fear, since Tamlen died. I should’ve written to Mahariel, who could’ve convinced her. Or gone to the Applewood--but I didn’t. And though I lost my clan, I still have you. My aravel.” She gestures to their friends. “Walkers of the lonely path, who never submit.” She smiles sadly. “I think I fell into that abyss, Hawke. And now I’m starting to float up.” Hawke takes her hand and kisses it. Her nails are bitten to the quick. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” they say. “Can you teach Anders that spell?” “No, vhenan,” Merrill shakes her head. “It’s--it was part of my duties as First, to clear the tracks of the aravel. I can’t teach a human that. I love you all, but that is for myself.” They accept that, and all the ways Merrill pushes herself too hard, and hand-in-hand they get up and rejoin their friends at the fire. There is a touch of mania to the conversation. Everyone is utterly shattered, but they do not want to go to sleep. No one knows what the next day will bring, and they are clinging to the routine they have set up. Hawke blinks and pretends that they are at the Hanged Man for a moment, but the bar has run dry, so they are all stuck being sober and chummy with each other. It doesn’t work. It feels dishonest, and the woods smell too good. Finally, Aveline takes charge. “We need to rest. Especially you, Merrill. Those spells couldn’t have been easy. We’ll get up before dawn and head out then.” Fenris speaks up. “And Clan Lavellan will hide us, for however long we need.” He looks at Merrill steadily. “First Lavellan promised me that. They will not abandon their vhenallin. And she owes me a favor, anyway.” Varric says idly, “There’s a story in there.” Bethany groans. “Not more stories, please,” she says. “Aveline’s right, we do need to rest. This part’s nearly over.” She banks the fire to keep it burning low through the night and they set up their last camp before the descent. Hawke is struck by the faith they have in them, going through their nightly routine. They have been two weeks on the road, camping through the woods, and though they have spent it mostly at each other’s throats, they have made it through. So little has been resolved, and there is still so much unknown. As Flemeth predicted, they stand balanced on the precipice of change, and they know they are about to launch themselves off that cliff. But they have their friends to slow that crash, and by this point, who knows? Maybe the witch will turn them into a dragon. Settling into their sleeping roll, Hawke cannot help but grin. They faced down the Blight, the long march to Kirkwall, the Deep Roads, their mother’s death, and the start of a revolution. What could possibly happen next? They whisper to Merrill, “I feel like this world is dying. It’s monstrous.” They smirk. “Monstrously exciting. Can’t you feel it? A new world is trying to be born.”

#catabasis #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #fanfic #hawke #merrill #anders #fenris #aveline #dog #varric #bethany #hawke/merrill #anders/fenris #musetta3