Tag Archive | fanfiction

Perdition

This is a soulmark AU Supernatural fanfiction set in an unknown time period in Supernatural except that it happens after the beginning of Season 4. 

Spoilers for that – the beginning of season 4/end of season three – and nothing else, and sort of handwave on Supernatural theological logistics, which is fine, because this is a soulmark AU. 

Definition soulmark AU: (see here for a longer take) – an alternative universe version of an extant setting (often otherwise very similar to the canonical universe) where soulmates exist and some or all people have them; all soulmates have a mark of some sort on their bodies that indicate who their soulmate will be. 

This one was prompted by Anke long enough ago that she may have forgotten – sometime in August, I think.  Might be July. 

The soulmarks in this were inspired by the way the story here – although more by my memory of the way they worked (symbolism and language important to the other) than the actual mechanism in that fic.

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Dean had heard of people who had soulmarks of the first words their soulmate had said to them.  Continue reading

In the Depths

In the Depths

This story follows Unplumbed Depths, which was written to my Fishy prompt call here

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Bryn should not still be breathing. 

That was not the first thought to percolate up, not even the second – how do I get out how do I get out how do I get out came first and second was what is this thing?

The third thought, though, was that breathing was surprisingly not unpleasant.  Bryn had fallen in the water before, had dove in, had swum.  There always reached a point where air was needed, then where air was painfully needed.  

The thing holding Bryn, pulling Bryn towards the light deep underwater, had been pulling for long enough that Bryn should really be far past the painfully needed stage. And yet – And yet Bryn was just breathing.  

There was definitely water; Bryn swallowed a bit and it was salty and unpleasant; Bryn’s clothes were waterlogged and the boots were probably a lost cause.  

But air? Air did not seem to be a problem. 

The thing – the thing was, it seemed, a very long arm or tail of some sort, a tentacle like the squids that liked to frolic near shore, but gigantic – the thing was pulling inexorably closer to the light underwater.  And as Bryn struggled and pushed and completely failed to get out of the thing’s grip, the light became more and more clearly a building, and the building became more and more clearly a complete structure. 

Bryn and Johnie had gone diving in the ruins near the coast plenty of times.  With enough patience, they could often unearth something missed by previous divers, left behind by whoever had lived there once upon a time. 

This was bigger than all those ruins put together. 

It was more complete than any of the ruins they’d ever seen on land. 

There were doors, wide, giant, double doors, the doors were open, and the tentacle was coming out of them – or returning to that doorway, yanking Bryn inside. 

When the doors slammed shut behind them, the tentacle uncoiled, leaving Bryn standing uncertainly on blue stone floors like nothing ever seen on land.  

The doors wouldn’t open to Bryn’s touch.  There were no buttons or levers or pressure plates or even a knocker. 

Bryn took in a breath, trying not to panic.  The water was still breathable.  The water was clear, far clearer than it should be. 

If the doors in front were not available for an exit, if Bryn didn’t need to leave this moment before the air ran out, then the reasonable answer was to explore. 

For a moment, a stab of guilt attacked: Johnie was waiting. Johnie was probably worrying. 

Then the curiosity overtook Bryn, and the lights along the hallway, and the doors dotting the hall, and the tentacle that had vanished completely, they all seemed to sing you want to know, you need to know., and Bryn started looking. 

If nothing else – it was a sort of logic, even if it was a bit self-serving – at some point Bryn would need to find an exit. At some point this spell would wear off, and Bryn would need to breathe again.  

The thought was a bit chilling, and it meant Bryn moved more methodically than might otherwise have been the case.  Left first door, look inside.  Nothing.  Right first door, repeat. 

On the fourth door on the left, however, Bryn found a motherlode. 

Books. 

More books. 

More books. 

And a hole going deep, deep down, a hole that, when Bryn looked in, seemed to be nothing but blackness. 

Bryn skirted well away from the hole, tempting as it was, and considered the books instead.  How were they still here? How were they still intact

What language were they written in?

Bryn’s language skills were limited to basics – enough numbers and words to buy things at the market, enough to not get cheated, enough to know the prayers – but these, Bryn was pretty sure they were written in something complete different than the market boards or the prayer books.  Even the library in town didn’t have books like this. 

Byrn’s bag was shoved full of the books – picked at random, grabbed from every shelf in the room – by the time the tentacle began snaking back out of the hole. 

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Unplumbed Depths

From now through mid day Thursday, August 6th, I have a Prompt Call running here – anyone can prompt and please do!

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“Have you ever wondered where all this stuff comes from?” Bryn spent a moment untangling a fishhook from a book.  The book, dripping and draped in seaweed, still glowed faintly with letters in a language neither Bryn nor Johnie could read.

“Not really.”  Johnie, of little imagination but a great deal of persistence, cast again.  In the hour they had been fishing, they had both caught enough boots to shoe a particularly left-leaning army, but actual fish, the sort of things one could eat for dinner, were still in short supply.  “Figure they come from some sort of shipwreck, back before the upheaval, you know?  Same way sometimes you go to dig up your garden and instead you find old bones and pieces of pottery.”

“Pottery doesn’t glow.”  Bryn dropped the book, already nearly dry, in a box dedicated to such things and cast again.  “Okay, most pottery doesn’t glow.  That pot your parents found – that was pretty impressive.”

“‘Till my uncle started going mad, yeah.  Then it was a little less fun.”  Johnie reeled in a bowl, carved from, for all appearances, a single large chunk of wood. “Oh, good, we can make leather-hide-and-no-fish soup.  Except we don’t even have any no-fish yet.”

“I’ve got a bit.”  Bryn braced against the pier’s biggest piling.  “Oh, this one is nuts.  What did I catch, one of the shipfish?  Oh, blasted barrens-”  Bryn leaned back hard and reeled in.  “I think I’ve got it, I think I’ve got it-”

“Maybe -”  Johnie had taken a step backwards and then another.  “Maybe you should let it go.  I know it’s a really good pole – but maybe it’s, uh.  Maybe it’s a little too good?  I’m just saying…”

Bryn followed Johnie’s shaking finger to the water, where something was frothing the surface badly.  A tentacle waved out of the splashing, looking nothing at all like the peaceful squidlings that inhabited the nearby rivers.  This thing was nearly as thick around as Bryn’s waist, twice as long as Bryn was tall, and it was clearly connected to something underwater.  And now it was being joined by another, and another…

“Maybe I ought to let go.”  It was a really good pole, one that had come from a stash of the before things.  Bryn tried to make reluctant fingers release from the handle, but the hours of work spent getting this pole, cleaning it up, fixing its two small breaks…

“Bryn!  It’s now or never!”

Bryn’s fingers almost released, but the jerking of the poll made both hands tighten in reflex.  Bryn screamed as the pole flew into the water, taking Bryn with it, landing in the middle of the splashing mess of angry tentacles.

Through the inky blackness, Bryn could see lights deep underwater.  Something about the lights said temple, but something brighter seemed to say library. 

Then a tentacle wrapped around Bryn’s waist, and the only thing Bryn was thinking about was get me out of here.

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Been to Middle Earth; Do you speak my language?

Okay, this is entirely because DaHob sent me the link to Talk Nerdy to Me

Woman Elf: Medium Skin Tone on Twitter Twemoji 12.0

When Nat first saw the ads shouting  “win a trip to Middle Earth,” she assumed it was just another studio amusement park, like “spend a weekend in the Wizarding World” or “Cruise on the Black Pearl.”

It wasn’t until she was lured by a clickbait article that she caught a clue as to what was really going on.

“Portal trips to other universes: are they as safe as they seem?”

It turned out that the answer was a firm no, something hammered home as Nat’s native guide physically moved her out of the way of a swinging mace and dropped her onto the back of a sturdy pony.  “Tourist gold, they said,” he muttered.  “Bringing fresh eyes and fresh treasure to Middle Earth!  Nobody said they’d be idiots without the sense to come in out of the rain!”

“Hey!”  She shifted on the pony and let it carry her away from the orcs.  “Let’s see you come to my world and see how you do in a strange place with strange dangers, hunh, Gladrin son of Gladuil?”

“Maybe I will, maybe I will,” he retorted.

“Good!  I look forward to it!”

Then, because she didn’t want to be the reason that the Ugly American trope was carried to another universe, she added, much more politely, “thank you for saving me.  Do you think, for the rest of this trip, you could perhaps show me the things that you like the best about your land?”

She thought from the expression – the beard made it hard to tell – that she’d surprised Gladrin.

“That I will, little human,” he consented.  “That I will.  And perhaps we can return you to your land intact, mmm?”

Prince of Hell?

I’ve been watching Lucifer on Netflix, and it occurred to me that he fits pretty well into Fae Apoc, powers and all, and ah, here’s an AU of his early days “on Earth,” that is, free of his previous employment…

The blonde women is Mike VanderLinden.

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“Hello, Luci. I heard you got out.”

Lucifer didn’t know the gorgeous blond woman approaching him, but that she was gorgeous, called him Luci, and heard you got out told him that he didn’t want to know her, either.

“I did.” He was going to have to work on sounding more certain when he said that. Continue reading

The Fading, the Forgetting – the Remembering

This is a story of Changeling: the Dreaming, although there is very little of that setting that you need to know to read this. 

In short, at least in older versions of the setting, when changelings reach a certain point – age often helps – of banality in their lives, they fall into a stage where they forget their fae souls.  But their human bodies live on…

The temperatures were over 100F.  There was a drought on that had been going for more than a month.  The city had been in and out of water restrictions since late May, and the sun was searing down as if it was trying to bake everyone who dared to go outside.

And on a street in a neighborhood where the police always went in twos and preferably in threes, a hydrant was spraying water all over the sidewalk and the road.

Seven children from toddler age to teens were dancing in the water.  Normally, the police would chase them off, close the hydrant, and maybe make stern noises at the oldest of them.  But this time, they were dancing with two grey-haired people who were definitely old enough to arrest.

Hell, their retirements might be old enough to arrest.  Continue reading

For The Best

Dark Hermione, complicit Harry, post-books and ignoring the Epilogue.

This is mad magiscience, with most of the actual results being offscreen, but it still involves attempting to reproduce the effects of the Imperius Curse without using an Unforgivable, and it does involve human (wizard) experimentation.

And I kind of want to expand it.

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The Isle of Time, a piece of Pratchett Fanfic

I was re-reading Thief of Time, and there is a line in there about “just dump the extra time in the ocean.” It was always wet and watery:

Oh, maybe fishermen would start to dredge up strange whiskery fish that they’d only ever seen before as fossils, but who cared what happened to a bunch of codfish.

So here is a bit about someone who might care.


There was an island in the middle of the ocean that the Monks of Time did not know of.

They didn’t know about it because it wasn’t supposed to exist for another five hundred thousand years, but it existed in a place that a particular set of Procrastinator-drivers in the halls of time particularly enjoyed, and as such, it had gotten more than its share of time manipulation.

Geography and geology are always a bit of a question when you live on a disc on the back of four elephants riding on the back of a turtle, but as far as anyone could tel, this was also a place where certain sea creatures had been going for millennia to die, and thus, between that and some activity it was best to call volcanic,  although Vulcan went by a different name here, had pointy ears, and had only once even looked at this place1, well, anyway, there was an island here.

And because shipwrecks happen everywhere and possibly more than everywhere when your ship is suddenly beset by a pre-historical2 creature or, worse yet, suddenly becomes a grove of trees and two confused elephants or a pile of mold and driftwood, this island had people, and had had people for quite some time (Probably.  Maybe.  Likely.)

Even evolution works strangely on the Disc, and so, after a while (or several whiles, depending), someone needed to do something about this aging a thousand years before one could manage to breed, or coming back before one’s grandparents had gotten around to it, and so on.

There were not a lot of people on this island, but it wasn’t on any charts, which only increased the shipwrecks (it’s a bit off putting when first your First Mate loses fifteen years of life and then there’s an island right in front of you while you’re still talking her out of a fight with the cook and the ship’s boy over Music With Rocks In It), and things continued strange around there.  Which meant that, in due (let’s be honest and say un-due) time, the people who survived there ended up being, ah, immune to time.

They could step through it, and sometimes did.  They could create elaborate looping paradoxes – and, indeed, it became an art form there: what is the most beautiful paradox that you can create?  None of this I’m-my-own-Grandpa sort of thing; on this island that was considered to go without saying, after all.  And if you wished to go and replay last Tuesday, well, go ahead.  Maybe alone, maybe with your previous self or several of them.

And while the Monks of Time did not know about this island, neither did those on the island know about the monks of time.

If they did, it is thought by those who pay attention (Mostly Sark’ck) that there were at least three consecrated mounds of dust and ash that might have some very strong words for those Monks.


1 Nobody was saying that Vulcan, or, as he was known here, Sark’ck, had anything to do with a particular green-blooded bastard in a another part of the multiverse, but he did have a habit of adopting stray myths and making them his own…

2 And in the Discworld, where someone or other had been writing down history since the time the fifth elephant landed in the Uberwald, that is saying something.

Cats Have Nine Lives

This is not fanfic for the anime Mahou Tsukai no Yome/the Ancient Magus‘ Bride, per se, but it is inspired by something in an episode, a reference to the nine lives of cats in a different angle than I’m used to seeing it. 

It’s also sort of Real People Fic.

It also involves pet death, be forewarnedAlso, I made myself cry.

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