#and would have to crawl everywhere for the rest of eternity

[hangsawoman]

one day at a time is fine by me as long as those days are with you. btw. if you even care

[captainfern]

Morning After Dark

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

["Morning After Dark" by Timbaland]

[18+]

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• summary - after a mission gone wrong, gaz is very happy to see you lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 4k • warnings - fem!reader, heavy pining from gaz, sub!gaz? yeah, oral [f!receiving], unprotected piv, begging, praise, fingering, this man is in love with you, strong language, a bit of violence at the start?

decided to break the writers block by writing for GazFest - go check out @glitterypirateduck and read through the other works !!

enjoy the smut lol

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The entire mission was a complete and utter disaster.

You don't even know what really happened. One moment, you had split up from your task force to clear an enemy compound. The next, the building was collapsing around you.

You struggled to get out in time. Insurgents kept you busy, emptying their mags as you sprinted down the dark hallways, alarms blaring, lights flashing. You dodged bullets that flew hot past your head, the ceiling crumbling behind you and blocking the rest of the hallway.

Your legs were burning, lungs straining, heart hammering painfully against your ribcage. You could taste dust in the air, copper coating your tongue. Black particles flew around in the air in flurries, your vision becoming increasingly blurred.

You spluttered, squinting through the flashing lights and long shadows. As you ran down the hallway, you checked each passing doorway in search of your task force. You found nothing.

The compound rocked again, another explosion sending you off your feet. You flew forward, skidding along the dust-covered floor, the air being pushed from your lungs. You took a gasping breath, crawling back to your feet as the ceiling above you fell through. You scrambled out of the way just in time, a slab of concrete slamming into the ground with an ear-splitting thud.

"Oh my god..." You breathed, shuffling backwards. You pressed at your communication collar, trying to get through to anyone.

The only voice that filled your ears was your own as you called out for your comrades. Your comms were cut, buzzing with static.

You cursed, continuing down the hallway as the compound shook and shuddered around you. You could smell smoke now, the narrow hall filling with an acrid grey cloud that made your stomach churn.

You needed to get the hell out of there.

A surge of adrenaline taking hold of you, you kicked down the nearest door. It flew off it's hinges, and you ran inside. You swept the small room, finding it clear, before you rushed towards the window. As you ran towards it, you fired your gun, the bullets shattering the glass. Then, crystal fragments of the windowpane still falling like snowflakes, you leapt out the window just as flames began ripping down the hallway behind you.

You hit the grass and rolled, slicing your arms on the shards of glass. When you stopped rolling, you lay flat on your back and took several deep breaths.

But there was no time to lay down. With adrenaline still coursing hot through your veins, you got up and ran.

•º•

You searched everywhere. For hours, you searched through the debris of nearby compounds, also returning to the one you escaped from, combing through the chunks of concrete and steel. You couldn't find any signs of your captain, lieutenant, or fellow sergeants anywhere, dead or alive. You weren't sure if that gave you hope or not.

After what seemed like an eternity, you decided to fall back from the area. You knew there was a safe house a few miles out, and you just hoped that some of your task force had made it there.

So you ran.

Usually, you would never have willingly ran that far. But your body was drunk on adrenaline, your heart pumping so fast you felt as though it'd explode out of your chest at any second. So, clutching your assault rifle, you sprinted as fast as you could continuously for several kilometres in pure darkness.

Once the adrenaline wore off, your body would be not be happy with you.

You reached the safe house in the early hours of the morning. It was still pitch black in the area surrounding the house– shadowed woodlands to one side, dark farmland to the other.

You could still taste smoke and blood in your mouth as you climbed up the front steps. Coughing, you stumbled inside, and was immediately met with a gun to your forehead.

"What the–?" You stuttered through a cough, the muzzle of a pistol pressed between your eyes.

Behind the gun, Gaz let out a loud, relieved sigh. "Sarge, oh my god." His sentence was full of disbelief and shock. He lowered his gun and took a good look at you, his eyes widening. "Oh my god..." He repeated, more relieved this time.

He wrapped his arms around you, crushing you to his chest. Your face was pushed between his pecs, and you didn't have the heart to tell him he was literally suffocating you.

"I was... oh my god, I was so worried about you," he said, letting you go and closing the front door. "You weren't answering comms, and I was scared–"

"My comms are fried," you grimaced, yanking your collar off. Meanwhile, you kicked off your shoes and put your gun down too. "Where're the others?"

Gaz nodded behind him. "Soap got hit, so he's resting in the back room. Ghost is with him. Price's asleep. I was meant to be on watch–"

Your mouth dropped open. "Is Soap okay? Let me–"

You went to move past Gaz, but he stopped you with a hand to your shoulder. "Hold on, sarge, he'll be asleep. You can see him in the morning."

You released a short breath, nodding. Gaz smiled sympathetically, squeezing your shoulder. He continued to hold your shoulder as his eyes scanned your face.

You turned to him, frowning. "What?"

"You're a bit cut up," he whispered, bringing his other hand to your face. He pressed his thumb to a cut on your cheekbone, and you hissed in pain. He retracted his thumb. "Sorry. Let... let me clean you up."

"I'm fine." You yawned, shuffling away from him and sinking onto the couch. A cloud of dust lifted when you sunk down onto the cushions, making you sneeze.

"Bless you," Gaz said, appearing in front of you with a first aid kit. Where'd he get that? "And you're not fine, sarge. Just let me clean you up, eh?"

He situated himself beside you, opening the kit and producing some antiseptic wipes. You peered at him suspiciously as he tore the packaging open and held the small white cloth towards your face.

You jerked away. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

He smiled. "Not really."

He pressed the wipe to the cut on your cheekbone and you hissed out again, cursing beneath your breath at the sting. The pain was sharp, but his touch was gentle– one hand holding your face while the other wiped the dirt and dried blood away from the wound.

"You're not supposed to use antiseptic wipes on cuts, Gaz." You mumbled as he pulled the wipe away, your skin tingling.

Gaz tossed the wipe aside. "Why didn't you bloody tell me that?"

"Forgot," you told him. "And, hey, don't blame me! You've been in the military longer. Haven't you learnt this already?"

Gaz was now fishing some saline solution from the first aid kit. He uncapped the small bottle, then proceeded to flush the wound. The solution was cold on your cheek, and you shivered when a droplet rolled down your jaw and neck.

"Probably," Gaz said, a small smile cracking across his face. "But I wasn't really paying attention."

With his thumb, he smeared the small streams of saline across your cheek, inspecting the wound. He put the bottle back in the kit, producing a small plaster and tearing off the plastic backing. Carefully, he stuck it over the wound on your cheek, his other hand still cupping the side of your face.

Gaz's eyes fell across the rest of your face, darting between your features. His expression was soft as he held your face, his thumb rubbing along the edge of the sticking plaster. Dark eyes trailed the shape of your face through the semi-darkness, and you could feel the warmth of his hands against your cheeks.

Your heart was pumping, remnants of adrenaline lingering in your veins.

"Is this why you weren't paying attention during your med training?" You joked with a coy smile. "Got distracted?"

His eyes fell to your mouth briefly, before darting back up to your eyes. His brows furrowed slightly, giving him an expression of puppy-like confusion. "What?"

You laughed lightly. "Nevermind."

You could visibly see his heart rate pick up by the way his breathing quickened and the way his pupils began to slowly expand. You couldn't help but feel warm with the way he was looking at you, the way he was cradling your face like you were made of porcelain. You imagined you looked a mess with blood and dust across your face, sweaty and frazzled from your sprint through the forest.

But the way he was looking at you... your stomach was fluttering.

"Gaz..." You whispered, and his mouth dropped open a fraction, a breathy whine escaping. That surprised you, and you couldn't help but smirk at him. "What're you doing?"

He looked you in the eyes, whispering, "Sarge..."

"Yeah?"

"I really want to kiss you right now."

You almost choked on your inhale. That caught you off guard.

"What?" You blinked.

"I really want to–"

"Okay, no, I heard you, I'm just–"

"Gaz, mate, have you–? Oh."

You and Gaz's heads snapped over to the hall leading to the bedrooms, Price strolling into the room and immediately pausing. You and Gaz jumped apart, with you smoothing your hands down your face in an attempt to refocus yourself. Gaz dropped his hands nervously into his lap.

Price raised a brow. "O...kay. Are you two alright?"

"Yep." You and Gaz both answered at the same time.

Price gave you both another skeptical look, before he was picking up his own assault rifle from a nearby table, fishing a cigar out of his trouser pocket.

"Right, I'm going on watch for an hour, so I'll be outside if you need me," he said slowly, inching towards the front door. "And... the side room's free if..." He stopped himself, shaking his head as he opened the door. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Just keep in mind that Soap and Ghost are asleep."

"Bloody hell, captain." Gaz grumbled as Price closed the front door behind him.

You couldn't help but laugh, Gaz's head dropping in embarrassment. You shuffled towards him, placing a hand on his knee, and his body responded immediately, jolting beneath your touch.

"Gaz?" You prompted softly.

He looked up, clearing his throat. "Hmm?"

"You can kiss me. It's okay."

•º•

Gaz kissed you all the way down the shadowy hallway. He kissed you as he backed you into the side bedroom, closed the door and guided you back onto the bed. He kissed you as you whispered his name into his mouth over and over again as he pulled your dirty clothes from your body.

Everything about him was so warm. His lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, warm and solid. The whispered whimpers he released into your mouth as your tongue met his were warm, too, heating your body up.

His hands burned a scorching path down your bare skin, smoothing down your sides, down your waist, circling your hips. His fingers pressed to the curve of your arse, forcing your hips up to grind against him. He was warm against your bare core, the material of his boxers damp with pre-cum.

When did he take his pants off?

You don't know. And you didn't care. You were focused on the way your body sweltered beneath his touch as he pulled and pushed the flesh of your arse and thighs like dough. The way he lifted your hips to press into his made you arch, your tits snagging against the tight compression shirt he had been wearing beneath his outer shirt.

Gaz finally pulled away from your mouth as you mewled, a string of saliva following and snapping as he sat back on his heels. His hands moved, massaging along your thighs and legs as his stare raked over your body. He let out a low moan, before he was ripping his shirt off and rolling down beside you. You gasped when he snatched your hips off the mattress, dragging you with surprising strength to sit you across his upper chest.

"Gaz?" You whispered down at him, and he moaned. You giggled, placing a hand to his mouth.

He could feel your bare cunt against the swell of his pectoral muscles, and he moaned into your hand again. You were throbbing against him, slick pooling against his burning skin.

"Ssmm-uhmmm-mmhmm."

You giggled again as he tried to speak into your palm. You tentatively lifted your hand. "What was that?"

"Sit on my face." He said a bit too loudly, and you were slapping your hand back across his mouth again.

"Gaz!" You scolded in a whisper-shout. "You have to be quiet."

His brow furrowed, before his hands were coming to grasp your arse cheeks again. He began grinding you against his chest, getting a full view of your face and tits directly above him. He moaned against your palm, eyes rolling as he felt your slit drag against him, warm and wet. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, your swollen clit moving against the smooth mound of his muscle. The grip he had on your arse was vice-like, and you wondered whether you'd feel it in the morning.

Well, it was the morning.

Soft, orangey-pink hues filtered through the thin curtains, bathing you in the colours of the sunset. The pigments shimmered against your skin, making you look like an absolute dream. Gaz clearly agreed, because he moaned beneath your palm again, eyelids sinking low.

He continued to grind you against him, listening to the soft pants falling from your lips. You opened your eyes and looked down at him, finally moving your hand. Instead, you placed your fingers around his neck. You didn't squeeze, but the obvious pressure made Gaz whine out your name, hips bucking behind you.

"Sweetheart, please, fuck, please let me–" He grit his teeth as a moan bubbled up your throat, your core throbbing against his chest. "Please sit on my face. Please, baby, please, just let me... ah fuck, just let me taste you, please."

You shushed him gently, removing your hand from his throat. You smiled down at him, beginning to lift your hips so that you could move your hips over his face. But he beat you to it– hands against your arse, he pushed you forward so quickly you lost your balance and had to grab onto the headboard. He pulled your hips down, licking a stripe up your dripping slit before he was shoving his tongue into your hole, burying his face against you.

Now, he could be as loud as he wanted with his voice being lost inside you. He moaned against your folds, the vibrations making you keen. Gaz moaned again, his tongue pressing deeper inside you, in and out, in and out.

You bit your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. You were hyper-aware of Soap and Ghost sleeping across the hall. And your captain somewhere outside.

But Gaz couldn’t care less. He was whimpering and moaning as he tasted you, dragging his tongue through your folds until he found your clit. He circled it, before sucking it into his mouth.

Your thighs clamped around his head, and he felt his cock twitch in his boxers, pearls of pre-cum staining the fabric. Fuck, he was so hard.

One hand still on one of your arse cheeks, he moved one down to grab his cock out of his boxers. He fisted it, tongue stuttering against you. He was so sensitive, so needy for you. His pace resumed, and he dipped his tongue back into your throbbing hole, pairing the movements of his fist with his tongue.

"Gaz," you whispered down at him, waiting for him to look up at you before you continued. His dark eyes were glassy, pupils blown. He whimpered against your cunt when you flexed the muscles of your thighs, tightening around his head. "M'gonna come, Gaz." You whined, rocking your hips against his mouth.

"Please, please, please." He mumbled against you. You had no idea what he said, but he knew. He knew he was begging you to come in his mouth and he wasn't embarrassed to admit it.

You put a hand to your own mouth as you came, a moan falling from your lips and muffled against your palm. Your entire body shuddered as you came around Gaz's tongue, and he was disappointed he didn't get to hear you properly. He licked up your release, the loudest thing in the room being the sound of his lewd slurping.

It made your brain short-circuit as you came down from your high, and you managed to lift yourself away from his mouth. He tried to pull you back onto him, but you resisted, shakily climbing back down his body. He immediately sat up and chased you– slamming his mouth to yours and stuffing his tongue past your lips. You could taste yourself on him as you straddled him.

"Want you so bad, sweetheart," he said against you as he somehow managed to pull his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, tossing them across the room. "Need you. Come on, baby, please."

Gaz had one hand on your hip, the other around the base of his cock as he guided it up and down your slit. He collected your arousal against his sensitive tip, and he breathed out your name. You braced yourself with your hands against his shoulders as he clumsily knocked the weeping head of his cock against your hole.

"You have to be quiet, Gaz," you whispered into his ear, sucking a mark beneath the lobe. He whimpered, hips bucking, tip prodding at your sopping cunt. You smiled against his skin. "Can you be quiet for me?"

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck, yes, please." Gaz babbled quietly, squeezing your hips, circling the head of his cock against your hole.

You sat up, tits pressed flush with his chest.

"Kiss me." You whispered and he did. As he rushed upwards to place his mouth on yours, you sunk down onto his cock. He removed his hand, grabbing both of your hips, moaning your name into your mouth as you kissed him.

You took him all, and he whined the entire time you sunk down onto him. When you stilled, pelvis against his, clit pressed to the dark hair at the base, he whispered your name into your mouth and rubbed circles on your hips.

"You okay?" You asked, lips brushing his.

He had his eyes closed, panting. You lifted a hand to cup the back of his head, and he opened his eyes. When he saw your face, how pretty you looked, his head dropped back and he released a whiny moan. Your other hand was quick to slam over his mouth.

"Gaz," you whispered sternly. "You have to be quiet if you want to fuck me, okay? Can you do that?"

He nodded quickly, trying to rock his hips against you. The sensation made the both of you whimper. Even behind your palm, his sounds of pleasure were still louder than yours.

You slowly lifted your hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be quiet, baby, I promise," he panted, slowly beginning to rock up into you. "Yeah, I'll be quiet, baby. I'll be good... fuck, I'll be good..."

He was muttering beneath his breath as his steady pace began, fucking up into you and nailing that perfect spot over and over again. You trapped a moan between your teeth, clutching at Gaz's shoulders as he fucked you. He watched you the entire time, eyes never leaving your face as his cock filled you. His cock making you feel so good.

The bed creaked lightly, the colours of the sunrise washing over the both of you as your bodies melded together. Gaz panted and whined beneath you, sucking kisses along the swell of your breasts and the curve of your neck and shoulders. You whispered his name, too, over and over again. The days extremities suddenly gone, the cuts on your face and arms suddenly painless.

All you could feel was Gaz.

He was doing so well.

And you wanted him to know it.

You looked down at him. Unsurprisingly, he was already gazing up at you, eyes misty and full of adoration.

"S'that feel good?" You whispered, bringing a hand down to stroke his face as he continued to thrust up into you. "Is this what you wanted? Yeah?"

Gaz nodded, humming his approval behind closed lips. If he opened them, he was scared he'd moan too loud. You were so warm and tight around him, so wet– sucking him in so well. It felt like you were made for him.

"Yeah?" You repeated again, cupping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his lips. It was over quickly, and he whined in the back of his throat.

"You're being so good," you whispered, meeting the thrusts of his hips and fucking yourself back down onto him. "You're such a good boy... being such a good boy for me, Kyle."

The government name.

His eyes rolled, and his mouth dropped open. He moaned your name loudly, before his words stretched out into breathy whimpers. His hips stilled, and you felt his cock twitch once, twice, before he was coming inside you. Your eyes widened as he filled you, string after string painting your insides hot. He whimpered through it, face now buried between your tits, hips rocking desperately as he rode out his premature high.

"Gaz..." You whispered, continuing to rock yourself against him. You were full of him, his cock semi-hard inside you, but you were so, so close.

"Fuck, m'sorry," he uttered into your skin. "M'sorry, baby, I didn't mean–"

"It's okay, Gaz, it's okay," you reassured him. "You did so well, it's okay. Just– ah, fuck, m'so close–"

With a groan, he pulled out of you and sat you back on his lap. He took two of his fingers and eased them back into your cunt. He plugged his cum back inside you, thrusting his fingers deep, curling against your walls.

It was your turn to moan loudly, and Gaz had to stifle the sound with his mouth. He kissed you as he added another finger. Three of his digits moved in and out of you, wet sounds echoing around the room, mixing with your breathless pants as you struggled to maintain a kiss.

"Come on, sweetheart, come on." He whispered against your mouth. Your orgasm built quickly in the base of your tummy, and you felt your thighs begin to shake, your cunt fluttering around his fingers.

"Kyle." You whimpered, and Gaz felt himself beginning to harden again.

"Come for me, baby, please." He whispered, and your body listened straight away.

You came around his fingers, walls clamping around him. You managed to keep your moan lodged in your throat– the only thing escaping being a whisper of his name. Your entire body trembled as you fizzled down from your high, and you slumped against Gaz with a content sigh. He caught you, lowering the both of you back into the mattress, removing his fingers from your cunt.

You stuck them all in his mouth, and you whined, slapping him lightly on the chest as he hummed around them.

"So good." He murmured, and you tapped his chest again.

"You're impossible." You mumbled tiredly.

He grinned. "Thank you."

"Oh my god–"

•º•

An hour or so later, the task force regrouped in the living room, gearing up for the evac. Gaz helped you fasten your tac-vest to your torso, running his fingers along your waist as he did so. You couldn't help but smile at him, and he winked. You could still feel him inside you.

Across the room, Price cleared his throat. "Alright, you lot, let's get moving."

Soap laughed from beside Ghost near the front door. "And don't worry, you two, we'll walk slow. Since, you know, you didn't manage to get much rest."

Gaz's eyes widened. "Well, wait–"

Your mouth dropped open. "Soap, you fucking–"

The Scotsman laughed again.

You and Gaz clearly weren't quiet enough.

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remember to go check out @glitterypirateduck and the other gazfest works !!!!

[daisies-daydreams]

💀 I think I’m a fiend atp. OKAY SO. Miguel O’Hara with..obviously a big girl 😭 so basically she doesn’t know the hold she has over Miguel..like..she doesn’t know what she does to him. Usually he’s so uptight and believes his word is absolute, but around her it’s like he’s a puppy. Follows every (maybe not EVERY but you get it) word and helps out when asked. He doesn’t do this with anyone else. So let’s just say he comes home heavily bruised and very tired and obvi we are concerned about him so we coddle him. He just smooshes his head between her breasts and his hands go everywhere, massaging and gripping to ease his mind. He just melts and we hold him close 🤭 PERSONALLY it can have smut but I really don’t know what the smut would be about BUT if you have an idea feel free to like write that shit down 😭😭🫶 your smut is the best ngl

Spoil You (Miguel O’Hara x F!Plus-Sized!Reader)

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x Plus-Sized!F!Reader Category: Fluff/Smut (18+) Warnings: Swearing, Descriptions of Bruises/Injuries, Marshmallow Hell, Touch Starved Miguel, Oral Sex (69) Word Count: TBA

A/N: Hello hello! Thank you so much for your sweet comment about my writing. 🫶 This is a request after my own heart fr. I wasn't really sure what kind of smut to write…but who doesn’t enjoy a good meal after a hard day’s work? 🥴

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Miguel lumbered through the glowing, hexagonal portal. His whole body ached, each bone and muscle groaning as he collapsed on his couch with a heavy sigh. He winced when he felt the bruises all over his body throb and swell.

“Miguel?” you called from the bedroom. He perked his head up.

“Sí, I’m home,” he said as he rubbed the back of his neck. You rounded the corner, only to giggle.

“Miguel? Why are you still wearing your suit?” you asked with a bubbly voice. His heart nearly stopped when you slipped your hand into his, squeezing it a little. He hissed between gritted teeth and flinched away. Your smile fell.

“Did you get hurt?” you asked. Miguel remained silent for a few moments.

“A little bit,” he muttered. His eyes widened as you brought your hand up to cup his covered cheek.

“Miguel, let me see,” you said with a soft yet stern tone. Miguel swallowed as he shook his head.

“Bebé, it’s late. You need to get some sleep-don’t worry about me,” he tried to reassure you. You slid your thumb along his cheek and shook your head.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said with a firm nod. Miguel smiled a little at your stubbornness, though he felt guilt creep back into the space inside his chest. With a heavy exhale, he slowly let this mask fade away. Your breath audibly hitched when you saw his swollen black eye and bruised jaw. You inspected his face, carefully tilting it side to side before letting your hand fall back into his.

“Did you go get checked out?” you asked. He nodded.

“Yeah, they told me to come home and rest,” Miguel shrugged. You hummed as you gently stroked over his knuckles with your thumb.

“Well…I’m all ready for bed. Why don’t we relax together?” you suggested with a purr. Miguel cracked a wry smile as he snaked his hand around and pinched your asscheek. “Miguel!” you gasped. He chuckled before squeezing your hand and kissing your temple.

“Let’s head to the bedroom, then,” he whispered. Miguel was mesmerized by the way your body bounced as you led him to the room, your hips surely swaying side to side on purpose. You gazed at him with a soft smile before slipping onto the bed and patting your chest.

“Come on, Papi,” you giggled as you smoothed your hands over your breasts. Miguel licked his lips.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he smirked before carefully crawling on top of you. His features softened as he pressed his lips to yours, his muscles relaxing as he felt the soft warmth of your mouth. Miguel sighed as he slotted his hips over yours, smiling as he heard you squeak below him. It felt like an eternity before he pulled back. You parted your lips before he suddenly buried his face into your tits.

“Miguel!” you laughed as he shoved his nose deep into your cleavage. A low rumble rose from his chest as he nuzzled his face against your plush mounds, his greedy hands fondling your love handles. He remained between your breasts before slowly tilting his head to the side.

"I've missed you so much, cariño," he confessed. He heard your heartbeat quicken as you rested your hand over his dark, messy locks.

"I missed you, too, big bear," you smiled before kissing the crown of his head. Miguel grunted, the warmth of your plush tits making him sigh, his muscles relaxing with each breath. “Do you want to take a bath?” you asked as you brushed your hand through his hair. Miguel slowly shook his head, making you giggle when he groaned against your breasts. “Wanna just stay like this?” you inquired. He nodded as his hands remained on your waist.

You gasped when you felt his fingers brush down your upper thighs. Miguel flared his nostrils against your cleavage as his suit began to fade away. He heard your breath stutter as more and more of his skin became exposed, his naked chest resting against your stomach as he nipped at the top of your shirt.

“Mmm, muñeca,” Miguel purred as his cock twitched between his muscular thighs [doll]. You swallowed as he squeezed your waist, his pupils dilating as he swiped his tongue over the crevice between your breasts.

“M-Miguel,” you gasped as your hands found purchase on his shoulders. Miguel hissed when you accidentally squeezed a sore spot, pain instantly shooting through his upper body. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you said before withdrawing your hands. The hulking man simply pouted at your lack of touch.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Miguel smiled softly before tilting your head up. He raised one of his thick brows as he saw a familiar light in your eye.

“What’s on your mind, hermosa?” Miguel whispered as he rubbed slow, small circles on your hips. You shifted your shoulders a little, nearly squishing his lips between your tits.

“I was thinking…maybe you could lie down and let me take care of you tonight,” you murmured before tugging your shirt down. Miguel froze when he felt your breasts spill out from your clothes, your tits jiggling as they sprang free. His cock twitched as he licked his lips.

“Hm, and what did you have in mind?” he smirked. You bit your bottom lip again before shifting beneath him.

“You’re just going to have to trust me,” you whispered before pecking his cheek. Miguel felt warmth spread from head to toe as he slowly pushed himself up.

“Then by all means, lead the way,” he said as he made room for you to switch places. Your features brightened almost instantly as you slipped off the bed. Miguel watched with hungry eyes as you wiggled out of your clothes, revealing your curvaceous form. You glanced at him, chest rising and falling as you slung one of your legs over his sharp waist. A lump formed in his throat as you arched your back, your round, voluptuous ass shaking against his abs.

“Que lindo culo, Mami,” Miguel husked before taking two handfuls of your bum into his palms [Such a cute ass, Mommy]. You mewled as he played with your cheeks, his cock growing harder with each pull, squeeze and tug of your soft ass. He groaned as he felt you slowly rock your hips, spreading your slick against his taut lower stomach.

“Mmm, bebé, por fa-I haven’t tasted you in so long,” Miguel swallows thickly [baby, please]. You released a shaky breath as he slid his thumbs over the globes of your ass, his tongue feeling dry and cracked without the taste of your sweet nectar. “Please, cariño. Tengo sed,” he uttered with a shaky breath [honey; I’m thirsty].

“B-But Miguel, what if I-“ you moaned when he reached an arm around your waist, his hand finding your clit as on instinct. A wave of heat rushed over his body as he circled his finger around your puffy button.

“I don’t care. I’m already bruised and battered…what better way for me to go out than eating my favorite meal, hm?” Miguel hummed as he playfully pinched your clit. Even more blood rushed to his cock when he felt your pussy gush against his stomach, your slick coating his v-lines as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Papi,” you whined as Miguel circled your clit a little faster. He chuckled as your ass slid closer to his face.

“Sí conejita…give me this sweet pussy of yours while you suck my cock,” Miguel growled, his broad chest rising and falling as you ground your drooling sex against his stomach [Yes bunny]. His heart fluttered as he watched you shift on top of him, your thighs slotting around his head as you lowered your lips. He grunted against your drenched slit as you puffed a breath of hot air against his cock. Miguel slid his hands to cup your ass as he flicked his tongue out, drawing a gasp from you. He kneaded the flesh of your bum as he suddenly shoved your hips against his face, his tongue fully submerged within your folds as he moved his head side to side.

“M-Micky!” you cried out as he flattened his tongue over your labia. He smirked against your warm cunt, his wet muscle yearning to dive inside your pulsating walls. Miguel flinched when he felt your soft lips press against the head of his flush dick. He nearly hiccuped as he felt your juices flood his mouth.

Miguel closed his eyes as you wrapped your mouth around his tip, suckling on it gingerly like a lollipop. You squealed when he grabbed your ass and squeezed it harshly. You suddenly sank down on his shaft, the feeling of your wet inner cheeks stretching to accommodate his size causing him to release a loud moan. He just barely bucked his hips forward as you pressed your tongue against the underside of his shaft.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he thought as you ground your hips against his face, smearing your arousal across his chin as he slurped and lapped at your dripping sex. He opened his mouth and enveloped his lips against your pretty folds as you began to bob your head up and down his length, the tip of his heavy cock gently tapping against the back of your throat.

Both of you moaned as the lewd, wet sounds of your mixed pleasures cascaded through the small bedroom.

“So sweet,” Miguel thought as he licked a bold stripe up and down your cunt. He parted for a brief moment before diving back in as if the intoxicating taste of your pussy was more important than air itself. He relished in the way your drool dripped down his shaft with every bob of your head, your spit dribbling down to coat one of your hands at the base of his shaft.

He shivered when you moaned around his dick as he traced a plethora of quick, sloppy “I-L-Y’s” along your slit. He could feel your entrance pucker against his lips before he slowly prodded at it with the tip of his tongue.

“Mph,” you groaned, the vibrations of your little sounds of pleasure making his cock pulse between your cheeks. Miguel grinned before he let his wet muscle sink inside your juicy hole. Your lover squeezed your supple flesh as you rocked his hips against his face, your engorged clit rubbing against his chin as he pumped his tongue along your gummy walls. He couldn’t help the way his hips twitched and thrusted into your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks, the knot in his lower belly growing tighter and tighter.

“Mi corázon-sabes deliciosa,” the thought repeated like a broken record as he curled his tongue inside your delicious cunt [My heart-you taste delicious]. He moaned as he heard you gag a little, his cock now lodged inside your tight throat as he sharply thrusted into your mouth, his balls slapping up and down as you whined. He could only imagine the pretty sight of your lips straining around his girth, but the image was quickly lost when you suddenly squeezed his testicles in your warm hand.

His eyes rolled back as his hips snapped up, pleasure ripping through his exhausted body as he moaned. His cock twitched as he emptied down your throat, coating your esophagus and mouth with thick ropes of his hot, sticky cum. Everything felt so clear and fuzzy at the same time as he gently rocked his hips, his body overwhelmed with pure bliss.

Miguel sighed against your sex as he floated back down from his high. He grunted as you slowly pulled yourself off of his thick, meaty rod, his softening cock slipping past your lips as a bead of cum swelled over his slit. He squeezed your waist when you audibly swallowed his spend, the sound echoing inside his mind. He felt your smile as you kissed his lip, your tongue swiping over his slit with a small, wet kitten lick. He smirked before gently dragging his tongue along your gummy walls, savoring the grip your pussy had on his thick muscle.

“M-Miguel,” you gasped, your voice slightly hoarse as your thighs shook around his head. Miguel chuckle, the sound making your walls flutter around his tongue as he swirled, thrusted and lapped inside your hole. You cried and rolled your hips, your pussy squelching as Miguel quickened his movements.

“Papi, f-fuck!” you sobbed. Miguel groaned as he felt your soft body grind against his, your ass jiggling just above him as he devoured your cunt. He grinned against your slit before suddenly making a loud slurping sound. He patted his lips as you stiffened above him, a wave of your cum flooding his mouth as your walls gripped and convulsed around his tongue.

Miguel rubbed his hands up and down your curvy hips and ass as you rode on his face, your sweet juices coating his tastebuds as you moaned and whined above him. You rocked your hips a few more times before your walls loosened around his muscle, your thighs still shaking as you took a deep, shaky breath. Miguel pulled out with a slick “pop” before kissing your drenched cunt.

“Thank you for the delicious meal, hermosa,” your lover purred as he patted your ass. You whimpered above him before slowly turning around. Miguel felt his cheeks glow with heat when he saw your fucked out face-eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and parted. He smiled as you gently laid yourself on top of him, your breasts flush against his as he kissed the top of your head.

“Why don’t we take that bath you suggested earlier, hm?” he suggested with a whisper. You smiled against his clavicle as you shifted your gaze.

“I’d love that,” you smiled warmly.

————

Thank you for reading! ❤️

Taglist: @maybethatfanfictionwriter @depressesoespressorat @yuhhtricki999 @lavenderbabu @tayleighuh @thedevax @famouscattale @spktrgantenk @zombieblogx @mrswhitethornbelikov @migueloharastruelove @galaxy-dusk

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[the-darklings]

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐈𝐈𝐈.]

summary: “In this vast, terrible universe, you’re the only permanent I have.”

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 2.4k+

warnings: angsty, Dream is still Dream ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: you guys remain superior. thank you so much for your love and comments, that inspo goes straight to the vein. enjoy part 3!!!

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART THREE: YEAR 304

Eternity comes with a bitter aftertaste. 

Or, rather, your particular brand of it does. Over three hundred years would wear on anyone. Being cursed to wander for eternity is another matter altogether. It’s not the first time things have gone wrong, of course. Your life since the curse has been a series of trials and errors, dos and redos. The Dreaming became an escape because it’s the first and only place you’ve found that has given you rest. Provided the slightest reprieve from running, hiding, and being spat on. 

Forever sounds like a wonderful deal until you start breaking it apart. Everyone else dying, bringing misfortune on those you care about, being sick or hurt but never succumbing to these afflictions. Being thrown from one edge of this universe to another with nothing in your pocket. No name, no safe place to sleep, no currency to get by, no friendly face or a helping hand. 

Eternity is a lonely and cold affair. Intercut only with nuggets of happiness that come with flapping butterfly wings found in Fiddler's Green. In the trails, rivers, lakes and mountains dotted across the Dreaming, stretching for the only eternity you care to taste. It's found in Lucienne's rustling books and how light bloats and crawls across the marble floor in Dream's throne room. 

You’ve gotten stuck in the past. Caught on snags and tears in the world—the type that devours humans and never returns them. There’s a reason so many vanish seemingly without a trace, lost forever. There is no escaping time, though. When caught, every day stretches for eternity that was promised to you, that was cursed upon you. On those days, even that hardened hope, the resilience you’ve honed with decades, becomes no more than brittle bones and dust. 

You’ve been stuck in the past, but never for five years. 

And never in Hell. 

.

Lucienne’s face makes you want to cry. She sits with a book in her lap, her head lowered, her glasses slanted on her nose. When she’s focused, like now, she doesn’t notice them slip down the bridge or how her nose curls as she tries to nudge them back up. She hasn’t changed one bit. She’s still the same Lucienne you’ve spent countless nights and days shadowing in the library, helping her catalogue books while chatting about anything and everything. Seeing her here, now, replacing the fire, smoke and torrid ash, stinging sulfur still coating your throat and lungs, is a miracle—a blessing. 

The room you’re in is sprawling, bright, and peaceful. Pale stone and lacquered wood everywhere your gaze travels. A bed that’s a cloud beneath your worn body, big enough for three; a dresser and vanity; a small couch and some chairs. For company, no doubt, though you can’t imagine anyone caring enough to visit. 

“Wanderer.”

Lucienne’s call resonates through the room, stark with relief and all at once, your defences crumble. Your eyes sting, and you reach for her hand blindly, cradling it in your own. Your hands are shaking, comes the distant realisation, but you can’t find it in yourself to care or to let go. The weight from the last five years squeezes you, wriggling free every suppressed pain and laying it bare. 

“What happened?” Lucienne asks, leaning closer, her word hushed and troubled. “What befell you out there?”

When you don’t respond, trembling so badly your jaw sits rigidly beneath your skin, she adds a firm, “You are safe now. Lord Morpheus would never permit anyone under his protection to be harmed.”

She’s soothing in her own way, a presence so dearly missed, but you only grip her hand tighter in yours. All your remaining strength has been funnelled into this singular task. Few stray tears drip from the corner of your eye and down the bridge of your nose, hitting the covers beneath. 

Lucienne hesitates, her mouth parted as if to insist further, but she stops herself. Whatever horrors she glimpses on your face must be severe enough that she understands how fragile you are. How delicate your state is—and how easy it would be to shatter it completely. 

“It’s been five years,” she states, but not in accusation, a mere reflection. “Let me catch you up on all you’ve missed…”

.

“Admit it, you’ve missed me,” Corinthian drawls, smooth and self-assured, nothing in his countenance evincing diffidence. “I’m the only one in this realm you can have fun with.”

“Someone has a high opinion of himself.”

You walk side by side, your arms linked at the elbows. Corinthian enjoys a spectacle and all the uneasy, leery stares that follow you two. It’s the first time you’ve gathered the strength to leave your room in three days. You’ve never had a room in the Dreaming until now. All this time, flower fields and private nooks have been your bedrooms. It’s a significant improvement to most places you’ve frequented over the decades and far safer even with nightmares roaming freely about. 

You didn’t question it initially, but it has since become clear that being granted a room here, in the castle, is a big deal.

Maybe it’s lingering remorse. Dream didn’t notice your absence. What are five years for someone like him? And if he did notice, he certainly didn’t do anything about it, caught up in his duties as he is. Corinthian was all too happy to inform you of this. But you hadn’t expected Dream to go ripping through realms in search of you, certainly not after how you two parted ways last time, but it had…

It stings just a little to be reminded how inconsequential you are to him or his kingdom, but it also serves as a great reminder. 

You have no home. The Dreaming is a pit stop, no more. 

“Somebody has to.”

Corinthian’s words jerk you from your thoughts, your head lifting. “Corinthian—”

“Don’t bother.” He pats your hand with guileful ease, all smiles and teeth and shadows. “I know what you’re going to say. I’m simply not interested in hearing it.”

Sun glows and weaves through his golden hair, which, perhaps, is what makes him such an effective nightmare. He’s nothing like one until he is. 

“Dream is not shunning you,” you defend, ignoring how his stride has become more rigid. “Everyone abides by the same rules.”

Corinthian tuts, turning his head from side to side as if he can physically shake your words off. “Now you sound just like him.” He sounds every bit disappointed, clicking his tongue. “Rules, rules, rules. You wander all you please. No one takes issue with that.”

Hellfire, ash, burning and peeling, screams and muffled moans of the damned—

“It’s not… it’s not that simple.” Words tumble from your mouth in a rush, strained and choked, and it catches him off-guard, however briefly. You can tell by the simple way Corinthian turns entirely in your direction; something he does for sparse few because he simply doesn’t care to hear anyone else. “I don’t go frolicking through flower fields, Corinthian. I’m cursed. It hurts. Every time. I’ve gotten better, but…”

The nightmare leans closer, his voice low against the shell of your ear, “Then you, better than most, should understand.”

The need to escape, to be free, to be more than your preordained purpose. 

Sighing, you slow to a stop, unliking your arms to lean your palm onto the cool stone bridge instead. Jaggy stone cuts into your sensitive skin while you twist your palm, sparking immediate, tingling friction in the motion’s wake. Memories from Hell come crawling back, dark and insidious, unending, and you stop at once, swallowing. 

“I do. I really do,” you stress, clearing your throat. Forcing a smile, you nudge Corinthian’s side with your elbow when you spot the downwards slant his mouth rests in. “And you’re right. I have missed you.”

His blonde head slants backwards, bright sun reflecting in his darkened glasses. A lazy smile curls across his mouth, canines on casual display. “Sweet talking me, huh?” His brows creep upwards, playful. “It might work.”

Turning, you lean into the bridge, halfway between the castle and beyond it, the Dreaming. In all its breathless, beguiling glory. You seek the sun, five years yearning for it sitting heavy in your chest. Warming under its rays, you let a slight, humorous smile creep across your face. 

“Careful. I might start to think the big, bad nightmare actually likes little old me.”

Corinthian follows your example, leaning back against the bridge, his arms crossing over his chest. “You like nightmares too much.” He inclines closer, nudging your side this time, his tone honeyed and arch, “Haven’t you heard? We’re devious.”

It wasn’t a lie. You have missed him. There’s an odd, often biting, yet near amiable dynamic between you. He entertains you because he’s no doubt bored and prickly about the invisible leash he believes Dream is collaring him with. You’re the closest he can come to humanity without outright breaking rules. Such an act would no doubt evoke Dream’s wrath unlike anything else. You hope you never see the day. 

Corinthian indulges in his digs and bites, snide or otherwise, but in the moments in between, like now, it’s nice. A friendship that’s entirely one-sided, no doubt—you’re not as naive as he might believe you to be—but it’s still a bond you can rely on. Others don’t like him and make no secret of hiding it. You’re perhaps the only one who willingly seeks him out. Two misfits. 

Or perhaps, even to someone as dark and twisted as him, it means something to open his eyes for the first time and not have the one gazing back flinch away from him. Perhaps, sometimes, even a monster dreams of being something other than a monster. 

You shrug, dismissive. “Eh, like is a strong word—”

Black catches your eye. You perk up immediately, pushing away from the bridge. 

“Dream!”

The Dream King stands tall and dreary on the opposite side of the bridge, jaw set and features stony. He’s utterly out of place in an otherwise sunlit and syrupy vista. You raise your hand in a cheery wave. 

“Aw, such a friendly greeting for someone who didn’t miss you much.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, elbowing Corinthian again.

But the nightmare keeps his attention focused on the Dream Lord; a faint, sneering smile perfectly in place. 

“Ooh, look at that frown.” He couldn’t sound more quietly pleased if he tried. Corinthian straightens, smoothing invisible creases in his pale clothes. He taps your nose with a charming, cutting grin as he veers to go, “I’ll see you around, Wanderer.”

“Hate you,” you call sweetly after him.

He doesn’t turn, raising his hand to wriggle his fingers in the air, the amused smirk cutting into his cheeks still visible at this angle. 

You approach Dream unhurriedly, basking in the fresh air, unsure how to read him, if one even could. He’s unequivocally closed off, and you hoard those sporadic softenings you do glimpse with greedy delight. 

“You’re back.”

His guarded gaze flicks behind you, towards the castle, where Corinthian must have long since disappeared inside. “You have a strange affinity with my nightmares.”

It’s an anomalous observation coming from him but rather pointed. Jessamy caws from a nearby tree in a vocal agreement. Your lips pursue, humming under your breath as you halt several paces away from him. Crossing your arms at the wrists, you let them hang loosely over the bridge. 

“You taught me they have a purpose. I like seeing beyond it.”

You examine the crystal clear water. Dream’s stare burns into one side of your head. It’s peaceful. Quiet. His presence alone relaxes some clenched nerve still throbbing inside you. 

“Thank you, by the way,” you add quietly. “For the room.”

Not many stay at the castle, and fewer still can say they have a room granted solely for them. It’s a precious privilege, and even if it comes with an expiry date, it’s not one you plan to waste. 

“You are my guest, and you were injured,” Dream replies. Deep, rumbling words, practical words—something in your chest deflates with them. “It would have been bad manners to leave you outside.”

Right, of course. Ever the pragmatist. 

Scrubbing any emotion from your face, you bend over the bridge, letting your chin dig into your folded wrists as you observe the water below. Your distorted reflection splits and bobs, rippling. Fitting, oddly painful. 

“I did not realise it… hurts.”

It takes a long moment to understand his meaning, to stop yourself from deciphering why he sounds so grave about it.

“Hm? Oh, you heard that, huh?” You give him a non-committal shrug, retreating inwards, burying deep. “It’s… uh, it’s nothing. The first few times were pretty terrible, I’ll admit, but after that, well. Practice.”

He doesn’t accept your flimsy attempt at nonchalance. Soft-spoken, but a tendril of power vibrates through his voice, “Where were you, Wanderer?”

Your throat parched, your skin crawling, you whisper a splintering, “Hell.”

For the first time in three hundred years, Dream goes as still as stone beside you. Birds, wind—even fluffy, large clouds floating leisurely through the hazy sky all settle into unnatural, bone-chilling stillness. You attempt to draw a steadying breath and find oxygen thin in your lungs. 

“That cannot be.” Dream Lord’s voice is a silken caress, unshakable in his conviction. “No one leaves the netherworld unless it is through the Gate itself or by Lightbringer’s own will. Even the Endless require permission to enter.”

“I think… that was the point. To suffer. I couldn’t get out. I tried. I really did, Dream.” Your voice cracks. Forcing yourself to straighten, you inhale deeply through your nose, injecting levity in your voice, “Anyway, it took a while, but I managed. Sorry you had to see me like that.”

A beat. “You came here.”

“Not by choice,” you admit. Realising how that might sound, you hastily add, “I figured you’re still angry. But…”

Dream’s hand settles on the bridge, not too far from your own. “But?” he prompts. 

Your smile might be small this time, but it’s genuine and fond. You slant your chin towards him, giving him your first toothy grin in five years. “In this vast, terrible universe, you’re the only permanent I have. I wasn’t strong enough to choose, Dream. The Dreaming is safe. You’re safe.”

And you wonder what it means that the King of Dreams and Nightmare Realms has no response to that. 

an: woweee, that's another wrap. thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts!!!

[britany1997]

I'm so glad your requests are open! You're my favorite when it comes to writing Paul. Would you be able to do a fiction based on Paul by big thief? Smut would be amazing but I'd take anything from you! thank you so much

Starry-Eyed Lovers

Omg your favorite??? I’m crying🥹 Thank you so much, I absolutely love writing for Paul, I think it’s probably no secret that he’s my favorite😍 I hope you like this! No smut in this one, but I’m always down to write part twos!

Paul x GN Reader

Warnings: mild angst but happy ending

(The song ends kinda sad, but after Paul x Angel Reader, I could hurt my baby boy like that again so soon😖 so I went in a little bit of a different direction with the ending)

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

You leaned against the door of your car, cigerette in hand as you waited for the long haired blond to awake from his daytime slumber.

You’d spent many a night in the freight train yard with Paul, drinking and laughing as you forgot your respective troubles together.

Paul was always good for a fun time and you were always looking. You craved a distraction from the monotony of your day to day life, something Paul was happy to provide.

You raised an eyebrow and threw your cigarette to the ground, stomping it out as a mop of blond hair peaked from the entrance to the sunken hotel.

“Ready to go?” You asked.

He waved and held up a bag of weed, “yep! Brought the good stuff,” he laughed.

“Me too,” you told him as you pulled your bag around and flashed him the bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Perfect,” he smiled as he pulled it the rest of the way out of you bag, popped the cap and taking a swig.

“Hey!” His gaze whipped to you at your exclamation, “open container laws idiot, you can’t have that out in my car.” You explained.

He flashed you a fangy smile as he slid into the passenger seat, bottle in hand, “chill babe, any cop that pulls us over for that shit’ll just be givin’ me something else to drink.”

“Not your babe,” you mumbled as you climbed into the driver’s seat and spurred the engine to life.

A grimaced flashed across Paul’s face, but he masked it before you could see, “course, sorry,” he mumbled back.

You clenched the steering wheel while wearing your own grimace. You might not have been his babe, but goddamn did you want to be.

You whipped your car in circles around the abandoned yard. Smiling and laughing as Paul stuck his head out the window and whooped. Dust flew around you everywhere as your tires ground into the dirt.

As you watched Paul extend his entire torso out the window, you found yourself eternally grateful he was immortal.

His hair blew in the breeze as he laughed and yelled, and it became harder and harder to focus on the path of your car.

Eventually you pulled up and parked, flicking off the headlights as you removed the key from the ignition. Paul tumbled out of the passenger seat, bottle under his arm as you exited the car as well.

The two of you crawled into the open compartment of a storage car and leaned against the walls across from each other. Your legs tangled together, and your gazes fixed on each other.

He handed you the bottle as he pulled the weed and some rolling paper from his pocket. You tipped the bottle back and your face twisted as the whisky burned the back of your throat.

You watched Paul lick the paper before rolling it up. He leaned forward to hand it to you as you leaned forward to take it from him.

You were immediately aware of how close your faces were to each other. Paul’s bright blue eyes were trained on your lips, and yours on his.

You had spent many nights alone, wondering what his lips felt like, imagining them on yours. Sometimes you wondered if he stayed up thinking of your lips, if he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

Paul’s gaze met yours and you looked back at him curiously.

“Please?” He asked.

Your face flushed with shock, but your heartbeat quickened with desire. You nodded softly, and that was all Paul needed.

He cupped your face with both hands and sealed his mouth over yours. His lips felt soft and cold, and you could taste the faintest hint of Jack Daniels on his tongue as it slid into your mouth.

You hands reached up to find perchance in his perfect blond locks, he moaned into your mouth as you pulled gently.

Paul slid his hand down to the small of your back. He laid you down on the floor of the storage car and climbed over you. Your hands moved from his hair to his cheek as you began to caress him.

He placed his hands over yours pulling them from his cheeks and pinning them down on either side of your head before moving his mouth down from you lips to suck and tug at the crook of your neck, moaning against the skin.

When you felt Paul suck a hickey into your neck, you snapped to your senses.

“Wait, Paul, stop,” you gasped.

He pulled back immediately as you stood and fell against the wall, as far from him as possible.

Paul hugged himself and refused to meet your eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said to the floor, “I would never want to pressure you, I thought…” he trailed off, “I’m sorry, I can…I can find another way home.”

You pushed off the wall, “no,” you sighed, “Paul no, I’m sorry, you didn’t pressure me,” you assured him, “and you weren’t imagining anything either, I wanted you too,” you whispered.

His head snapped up to look at you, “Then why…”

“Because you deserve better than me,” you told him as tears began to roll down your cheeks, “I’m only going to disappoint you. I’m only going to hurt you.”

Paul’s brow furrowed in concern and confusion.

“You like being around me because I’m great for a good time, but when the fun stops what are you gonna be left with?” You asked him, “you don’t know me, not really,” you laughed humorlessly.

“Once you see past the two dimensional version of me that I pretend to be when I’m with you, you won’t want me,” you told him, “you’ll regret being with me, I’ll pull away and ice you out, and we’ll both be miserable,” you sighed.

You stared deeply into his eyes, “I care about you too much to be with you.”

A long moment passed between the two of you. “That’s bullshit,” Paul broke the silence matter-of-factly.

“What?” You asked, shocked and slightly offended.

“That’s bullshit,” Paul repeated, standing up and walking towards you.

He stood in front of you, stroking his fingers down your arm, “you think I love some idea of you? Not the real you?”

Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat when ‘love’ left his lips, but if he noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “I’m not some self-absorbed asshole…well not all the time,” he chuckled to himself, “I watch you, you know?”

He cringed, “sorry, not in like, a weird stalkery way, in like an ‘I pay attention way,’” he rambled.

His face turned serious, “I can tell when we’re hanging out, and you’re in it, like you don’t have a care in the world,” he explained.

“But I can tell when you’re mad, when your nails dig into the palms of your hands, when your jaw clenches, and you think no one sees but I do. I see you.”

“And i know when you’re sad too,” he continued, “I’ve seen you smile a million times, I love your smile, and I know when it’s fake,” he sighed, “when you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.”

“I don’t want you just for a good time, I mean, I want that too…” you shot him a glare, “right sorry,” he apologized, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I want you, I love you for you, all of you,” he promised, “give me all your pain, all your tears, I’ll hold your hand through it all,” He stroked your cheek and you leaned into his touch.

“I’m not gonna regret choosing you, I promise,” he whispered, “you’re never gonna be too much for me, I want to be everything for you,” he told you, “if you’ll let me of course,” he clarified.

Your face softened and you sighed, “I’ve been burning for you since we met Paul, I want to be everything for you too,” you told him.

He beamed as he slipped an arm around your waist, “let’s seal it with a kiss sugar,” he proposed.

You smiled as your lips met his once again.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Taglist❤️:

@misslavenderlady @6lostgirl6 @pixielostboy @ghoulgeousimmaculate @anna1306 @its-freaking-bats @solobagginses @altierirose @bloodywickedvamp

[ppnuggie]

　　　　　　RODIMUS PRIME x gn reader

　　　　『　rodimus ,, gender neutral reader 』

　　-> avatar au | part 2

　　— fluff ,, sfw ,, first contact au ,, avatar au ,, language barrier

　　— lmk what yall think of this :3 any critism or feedback is welcome <3 pls repost !!

          red flashed throughout the ship ,, alarms blaring in all directions as bots aboard panicked . no one knew what was happening ,, no information shared as they ran and gasped and stood frozen in distraught . rodimus wasnt sure of what was happening either ,, panicked like the rest of them but still staying as calm as he could .

          he transformed ,, determined to get to the control center and figure out what exactly was happening . he swerved around the panicking mechs ,, making sharp turns and excelling his speed . drifting into the control center ,, he transformed quickly and watched as a battle took place between autobot and decepticon . seekers littered the control center ,, locked in a fight with the piloting autobots . the control panel was smashed and burnt ,, lazer fire going in every which direction . rodimus wasted no time ,, quickly joining in the battle and punching a seeker off one of his fellow mechs .

          the ship tilted and turned ,, thrashing about as the battle raged on . rodimus grabbed the back of a seeker by their wings ,, shoving towards another seeker and kicking the one rushing towards him . with every punch and kick the mech gave ,, he was met with one from any lurking seeker ready to take a hit to him . dents and paint chipped ,, energon leaking from his mouth as he grabbed one seeker in a chokehold . energon spilt over the floor from his fellow autobots ,, and some other decepticons . it pooled beneath his pedes ,, covering the floor in bright magenta .

          the front of the ship was set ablaze ,, a sign that they were entering the atmosphere of earth . rodimus struggled in his battle with the decepticons ,, all the other autobots now bleeding out on the floor with their optics offline . it had to have been an ambush ,, decepticons hacking into autobot comm links and steering the pilots right into a trap . they mustve relayed another message ,, the seekers quickly retreating from the ship as the alarms blared .

          rodimus lost his grasp on the seeker in his servos ,, watching as they left and flew through the air . he rushed over to the control panel ,, pressing what buttons he could and grabbing the steers to pull away from any civilization below . he couldnt do much ,, narrowly steering the ship on a crash course through a dense forest where he hoped no humans would be there . rodimus could only wait ,, feeling the ship thrust and throttle about . he could hear bits and pieces flying off the ship and land who knows where .

          he could hear the forestry being broken ,, branches snapping and cackling as theyre massacred by the ship . he could only brace himself for impact ,, feeling the harsh thrust of being thrown to the back of the room as the ship crashed . smoke poured everywhere ,, circling the room as flames crawled in . rodimus could only see black after that ,, stuck in the abyss of eternal darkness until he could be brought back online . left to hope that maybe some autobots made it ,, maybe some autobots were on their way . all he was left to do was hope .

          rodimus didn't remember much ,, optics onlining as his systems yelled at him about his injuries . open wounds and gnashes leaking energon ,, dents and paint chipped in places . the first thing he could see when his optics finally focused was a face . one he hadnt seen before ,, almost like they were cybertronian but not exactly . the only response he could give was to shriek ,, causing the being to also shriek in return ,, running and hiding behind a bush .

          the creature was small ,, organic but not like the 'animals' he was shown pictures of beforehand . they look more like those humans ,, walking on two legs and having cybertronian features . curiosity captured the mech ,, wondering what they were . he couldnt contain his thoughts ,, so many questions about this place and them . he was starting to feel like perceptor in a way .

          they warbled something ,, eyes big and wide in caution yet they held a want in them . slowly ,, they stepped out from behind the flora ,, hand stretched out in front of them as they scooted slowly towards rodimus . he repeated their actions ,, holding his servo out as he moved towards them ,, until they suddenly touched . their hand was small and warm

against his cold servo . he could almost feel this beat under their 'skin'.

          their mouth moved upwards in a smile ,, eyes shining bright as they looked into his optics . rodimus returned the smile ,, curious about what else there was to know about these humans than what he was told . they didnt seem so threatening ,, so violent . they reminded him of those protoform turbofoxes he'd seen on cybertron . all soft plating and barely any teeth to them . humans couldnt be so bad ,, he thought .

[solivagantingrebel]

The Psychology of a Dead Man (Ghost x Soap)

Ghoap angst below the cut! An excerpt from my fic, wanted to post it because I could. MW3 spoilers btw.

Eternal rest was an illusion, a prayer offered to the person that didn’t exist, a hope that was extended to someone who could never enjoy it. 

There was no peace after death. 

But, what of the ones they left behind? 

What of the promises they couldn’t keep, the words they couldn’t speak, the future they didn’t have anymore?

Simon Riley was intimately familiar with Death. 

It had followed his entire life as a silent spectre. Overlooked from his shoulders, watched in anticipation as he took part in its cycles, and finally, in that desolate grave of betrayal, it crawled to his neck and constricted violently, asking him the only question that mattered,

‘What are you willing to sacrifice to escape me?’

Simon Riley became ‘Ghost’ after that day.

He became the one forever marred by the reaper. After all, what can death do to the one who already belonged in its embrace? A dead man cannot die again.

But those surrounding him could, he learned this the hard way.

Again. 

Simon Riley thought he already lost everything he could that year; including himself.

He had closed himself off, nailed the coffin shut from the world. To most that were present in the world, he was dead, buried in the tomestone near his family’s graves — an empty coffin for an empty man. 

That was the end of his story. Whether he died again in a foreign land, far away from everything he had known, protecting the world from dangers it would never see, did not matter much. It would’ve been a fitting end, his presence, and absence, would’ve barely been felt. He would die doing what he knew best. That was the ‘life’ he had cultivated.

John Mactavish was a breath of fresh air.

If Simon had to describe him, it would be simple; ‘like life itself.’ Radiance, in their line of work, hardly persevered and Soap stood as the single most steadfast hope, the strongest one Ghost had ever witnessed. He was bright, warm and every bit of life to his death. Johnny had done the impossible too. He had reached into that grave, dusted off the forgotten ashes and shared his breath with a heart that had frozen over. Overtime, without notice; it had melted. 

Simon Riley didn’t realise that he was starting to feel alive again.

Didn’t realise that he was starting to let his guard down, didn’t realise he was starting to get comfortable with the feeling of having a home again. There was comfort in that certainty, a sense of peace in their close-knit taskforce. Ghost didn’t trust anyone yet he was starting to trust his new life. The one with John ‘Soap’ Mactavish in it.

Simon Riley was starting to fall in love.

Loving someone always came with a cost. Love, implied many things. For him, it implied the presence of a heart that could beat. That could feel. 

A heart that was alive.

John Mactavish had done the impossible.

With his lips alone, he resurrected a man that had died a long time ago. Dug him out of that pitiful grave, forced him to look at the burning sun and kissed him without an inch of care, ignoring the dirt and dust that had settled everywhere on man who wasn’t meant for this world.

Simon Riley finally found someone that he couldn’t bear to lose.

But life had other plans, life was cruel. 

Simon Riley was meant for Death. 

John Mactavish was Life itself.

Simon Riley lost his Life for the last time that day.

It happened when he wasn’t looking, most tragedies in his life did. Johnny, beautiful, vigorous and everything he could have asked for, was dead when he rushed to the scene. He had already bled out on the ground, shot and mangled in the pool of dark crimson. With him, he took the only strand of love that Simon Riley was ever allowed to have after Death. There would never be anyone else again, there would never be Johnny again. 

Simon Riley died for the third, and final, time that day.

In his place, Ghost stood. The grave that overlooked the Scottish cliff, the sea that was silent in his mourning, it was where he laid rest to his heart as well. 

‘Simon Riley’ didn’t exist anymore. 

There was never going to be a ‘Simon Riley’ without a ‘John Mactavish’. One could not rip a soul in half, burn it to ashes and call it whole again.

Ghost finally accepted what he was.

A mirrored spectre awaiting his judgement, a restless soul in purgatory.

John Mactavish was dead.

He took Ghost’s salvation with him, filled that coffin with both of their souls resting together, intertwined forever in death. It went beyond the vows of anything the world could have allowed them to promise.

Death was never peaceful.

His days were barely of note anymore, everything blended together without a distinction, the colour drained from life like Johnny took all of them when he left. He had dipped his eyes in a forever greyscale, one that promised to follow him till the end.

The only memory of any hues were stored in the time he had shared with him. It haunted him every waking moment, the bright blues that followed him just out of reach, flirting at the edge of remembrance, the vivid canopy of feelings that weighed heavily in its absence. It made his chest feel heavy, limbs sluggish from the weight he didn’t want to carry.

Life never felt this burdensome before.

This was his forever.

[Fic link: Beyond Life and Death]

[rhineposting]

“My dear sisters, there’s someone I need to introduce to you!”

Doom was long since on their doorstep by the time those words reached Barbeloth Megistus’ ears : a dishonor of the worst kind to one who’d call herself the greatest astrologist of all who ever lived, a self delivered insult to her own skill and wisdom. How laughable. An all seeing eye that couldn’t see a serpent crawling up it’s leg, how worse could it get from there? Such questions were beyond her still - for whichever her eyes rested upon, it’s truth was known deeply and thoroughly to her. None were excerpt, not even her friend from beyond their sky.

Eternally youthful Alice, the omnipresent sorceress capable of traveling back and forth through the starry eggshell of Teyvat - a wise beast donning the excitement and cheer of a hatchling, approaching all and everything in equal joy and curiosity. Should one be fortunate enough to see her in person, they’d describe her as a hyperactive lagomorph forced to don the body of a somewhat masculine middle aged woman. A feature as annoying as it was endearing - though Heavens knew she’d rather die than admit that out loud. When they first met, a bond was established almost immediately : though Barbeloth thought of it more as Alice grabbing onto her with both arms and legs, refusing to let go.

(Yet it wasn’t as if Barbeloth ever intended on tearing Alice off her back, either.)

Since then, they had met many an intriguing women, much like themselves : Nicole, a Seelie fortunate enough to cling onto her natural form as opposed to deteriorating into a one eyed ghost - her cryptic messages as charming in their contents as they were jarring in the way they were delivered. Not that long after, there was Iovita Ivanonva, a witch specialising in medicine - her expertise granting her the ability to prolong her life for as much as she’d like. Alice simply could not resist the fragrance of roses that followed her everywhere. Then, Mathild Andersdotter - an ordinary writer from the land of winds, yet the first one to introduce the idea of studying stories within the Irminsul.

Each of them Barbeloth had foreseen arriving weeks, sometimes months in advance. None had escaped her gaze, reaching far into the future.

Except…Her.

“This is Rhine - she’s from Khaenri’ah!” Alice proudly presented the woman to them all - even standing behind her, as to all could witness her fully. “She’s an apprentice in the Royal Court despite being so young, isn’t that incredible?”

If there was anything to be called incredible, it had to be Nicole’s reflexes - the very moment Barbeloth reached under the table to grab her shoe, the Seelie grabbed her by the wrist. Not once breaking eye contact with Alice and the alchemist both, her expression as neutral as it always was. Peace was a river and she was it’s bottomless spring. Nothing close could be said about Barbeloth, who had been five seconds away from reaching for a plate to throw in place of the shoe. Three, after the star-eyed woman smiled and bowed.

“Good day,” she greeted them, her voice low and pleasant to the ear. “I’m honored to finally meet Alice’s friends. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting as I heard many great things about you.”

That greeting could not have been practiced and scripted any more, even if the serpent of a woman would have liked to : and yet Mathilde swallowed her venom. She put down her pen and manuscript to offer Rhine a seat by the table.“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Ms. Rhine,” she smiled. “Take a seat and stay for a while, I’m certain you have many great stories to share.”

So she had - directly to Barbeloth’s left hand and next to Ivanovna.She too swallowed the venom without thinking twice - in turn, she poured the young woman some tea into a spare teacup. Still Barbeloth couldn’t believe what she was bearing witness to. It felt too absurd to be true - yet, here they were.

“How much sugar do you take?” she asked. “Cream, milk or none? Syrups? We have plenty, any flavor you could think of.”

She asked for lemon and ginger with just one small spoon of sugar - and ginger and lemon she received with but a single please. The seer watched as the bottle traveled across the table, it’s contents generously poured into the cup. Ivanovna even stirred the tea for her. The serpent couldn’t be any more pleased, even if she wanted to.

Her fading eyed turned to Nicole - believing that with her age and wisdom surpassing that of the other three, she’d see the woman for what she really was : a courtesan that pretended not to carry a den of snakes under her garments. Nicole however only spared her a glance with the side of her eye - and finally, her hand let go of Barbeloth’s wrist.

Only to cut Rhine and Alice a slice of cake each, passing it to them on decorated plates.

“Eat to your stomach’s delight,” she said. “May your thirst be quenched and your hunger satiated.”

And the serpent accepted each offering with barely held back glee.

“Thank you all so much, words cannot describe how much I appreciate your kindness.” ***

Barbeloth managed to catch Alice by a slim miracle - a second later and she would have been off, hopping and skipping across the continent yet again, the only thing holding her down being a hand : wrinkled and bony, contrasting starkly against her soft, full hands. With a curious eye Alice lifted the brim of her red hat - just enough to meet gazes with Barbeloth, who was gritting her teeth away into a fine dust, thinning eyebrows furrowed in a grimace.

“…Eris, dear, my friend. I know the truths we perceive may not always align in the same direction, I’ve known that would be from the moment I first saw you. I know asking you to look upon the stars from my point of standing is a fool’s errand. I know that better than anyone.”

Though her voice scalding in it’s tone, Barbeloth lifted the hand she held higher as one would lift a newborn babe and joined her long fingers around it. Her touch the furthest thing from firm, tender as a clover patch. Though bearing all the power in the world to pull away, there Alice stood frozen, her red eyes open wide in shock, glimmering like rubies in the faint moonlight from above. Her lips, just as red, ever so slightly agape - uttering not a word.

“Yet, this once and just this once, I need you to see through my eyes as such : " the astrologist frowned, lowering her head and in turn, allowing for the starry embroidered veil to conceal her face in ever so rare humility, “You nor any of us mustn’t speak to this woman ever again, for she’ll bring horrid misfortune.”

Silence hung in the cold, evening air for a while - the onky warm thing being their breaths and Alice’s palm held between Barbeloth’s - slowly pulled away as the sorceress chuckled.

“Do you truly think my judgment of character is that poor, dear friend?” she asked as she readjusted her hat and scarf alike, “If she wasn’t trustworthy, do you think I would bring her to meet all of you?’

“It’s not a matter of faith, Eris,” Barbeloth scoffed - almost exclaimed, her voice sharp against the dull sounds of the night around them. “It’s a matter of reason and common sense and I am pleading of you to use both. I may usually tolerate your lack of imagination, but just this once, I need you actually look at things like the wise woman you are.”

“What’s gotten into you, Barbs?”“I’m asking you the same question!”

Behind them rang out footsteps - faint clicking of heels against solid stone, accompanied by the even fainter sound of fabric swaying as it moved. To surprise of neither Barbeloth and Alice, the source was none other than Rhine - dressed up and ready to leave. One look alone at her face was enough to know that she was well aware of the topic of the conversation.

“Is everything alright?” the serpent asked with the innocence of a lamb, knowing full well the answer to her question, ”You both look rather upset. …Is this a bad time?”

The night lit up for the three of them as Alice smiled -it might have as well been morning right then and there.“No, no, all is well!” She shook her head, long ears ever so slightly swaying as she did. “So, ready to go?”

As she said that, Barbeloth took one look at Alice’s face and just like that, she had her answer of what had gotten into her : those starry, teal eyes with the slightest hint of green and gray, glimmering like the nebulas that hung above them like the most beautiful tapestries of them all.

The obviousness was almost too painful to endure - so much that she couldn’t utter a single word as she watched her best friend and the serpent fly away into nothingness. Only a single bark of humilated laughter left her, long after they were gone.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Earth & Fire

Chapter II - The most unlikely of places

07/14/2023

Pairing: Hades (Hozier) x Anthea (OFC)

Word Count: 2,937

Warnings: angst, heartbreak and Hades, finally Hades!

Summary: Having barely escaped the ravenous greed of Zeus' desire, Hephaestus is determined to do whatever it takes to keep his daughter safe.

A/N: Buckle up, everyone, we're finally entering the Underworld.

Earth & Fire - Masterpost

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

There was nothing but darkness. Darkness and the biting cold that slowly crept into her bones the further they emerged into black nothingness. The only warmth came from her father’s hand that was securely clutching her own ever since they had stepped through the wide cave entrance. She couldn’t tell how long ago that had been. Darkness had wrapped around them soon after and it already seemed like an eternity ago since she had felt the last rays of sunshine on her skin. Her feet agreed, aching as if she had been walking for days on end and growing heavier with each step. 

Still Anthea had no intention of asking for a rest. She knew who they were running from, knew that this was all her fault. If only she hadn’t decided to go swimming that morning and given her father a proper goodbye, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t have been forced to leave their home in a hurry, running blindly through an icy cave to… Where to? Seeing that it was Zeus himself who was after them, hiding seemed pointless. There was no place on earth he wouldn’t be able to find them. This was his realm, and there was nowhere they could go. 

“Father, please. Where are you taking me?”

He kept on walking as he spoke. “To the only place you will be safe.”

“What place?” She just had to know. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her father. There was no one else she would ever trust more than him, but she just couldn’t think of any place Zeus wouldn’t sooner or later come looking for them, and she wasn’t sure Hephaestus could either.

“You will see soon enough,” he grunted, fastening his step as he kept on pulling her along and she knew the conversation was over. There was no use in pushing any further on this matter. He wouldn’t answer her. And what scared her infinitely more than not knowing was his reluctance to even name the place they were headed to.

They walked on in silence. And on, and on, a glimpse of eternity, until she couldn’t tell anymore what was real and what was not. At some point she had thought to feel a whiff of air, carrying a mild breeze. But it was gone as soon as it had come and the more she thought about it, Anthea blamed it on her senses playing tricks on her. Just like the faint light that had appeared ahead of them a long while ago. Her eyes made her believe that the blueish shine was getting brighter by the minute, but that was impossible of course. They must be so far beneath the earth by now, and everyone knew that there was no light to be found down here. 

But then suddenly a few shapes began to manifest. Sharp rocks mostly, they were everywhere, to her left and right, even above her head, black and spiky, telling her unmistakably that she shouldn’t be here. There was a noise now, too. The further they went, the surer she became what it was and when they rounded another corner, she wasn’t surprised to find herself at the bank of a wide river. It was gurgling strangely, while white mist crawled across the surface and blurred the line between water and land. Like everything down here, it held an odd, blueish glow, the source of which was still nowhere to be seen. A good distance away, the mist slowly began to part. Something was moving through it, heading towards them and Anthea could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand in unease. 

A boat, she realised, steered by a cloaked and hooded figure. Its bow turned into the most hideous figurehead she had ever laid eyes upon. Nothing but a long neck, part of it entangled in thorny vines, the rest covered in fish scales, craned upwards, and topped with a human skull. Long, winding horns were rolled up to the sides of it, and between two rows of sharpened teeth, it held a lantern. Within it danced a single blue flame.

Another shiver rolled over her skin as the bark landed, a bloodcurdling, scratching noise echoing from the high stonewalls, and Anthea stopped, forcing Hephaestus to do the same as to not let her hand slip out of his. He looked back, anger flaring behind his light-blue orbs, but when he realised the horror on his daughter’s face, his eyes softened.

“Please, my flower, don’t be alarmed. You have got nothing to fear from the ferryman.”

“Indeed it is not me you should fear.” The ferryman’s voice was raspy and dark. The voice of an old man. But it also held the warmth of a bemused smile. “Lord Hephaestus,” he then greeted her father. “I would say it is good to see you again, but something tells me that the two of you are not on a pleasure trip.”

“You are right, Master Charon. Indeed we are not, yet I, too, have to admit that it is good to see you again after such a long time.”

The ferryman, Master Charon, nodded, making the grey beard that fell down his chest bob slightly.

“Come now. We need not waste anymore time with kind words for he is already awaiting your arrival.”

He helped them both inside the vessel, Anthea first, and even when her father finally sat down beside her and took her hand, it refused to bring the soothing comfort it usually did. They travelled in silence, nobody spoke a word and strangely enough, the boat didn’t make any sound either as it glided across the water. But suddenly, her ears picked up a whisper. It was not very loud at first, making her question whether it was there at all, but soon it grew louder, several voices mixing together, swelling until she could clearly make out the word they were chanting over and over again: Anthea. 

She didn’t think much of it as she reached out her hand towards the source of the whispers, her fingertips already parting the mist to reveal the pitch black water underneath.

“I wouldn’t proceed if you value your life, girl.”

The unexpected warning of the ferryman made her jump, her fingers retreating just in time as a white, fleshless hand broke through the surface and reached for her. In panic she yanked her hand away, holding it close to her chest.

“Anthea!” 

She could hear the same terror in her father’s voice that had befallen her own heart, and still she flinched as she turned and found his scolding stare upon herself. 

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was quiet and once again, Hephaestus face softened in a heartbeat for his daughter. 

“It’s not your fault, my flower. I should have given you a word of warning.” His lips pressed to the crown of her hair, one arm wrapping around her shoulder to pull her closer. “Promise me to be more careful down here, will you?”

“I promise, father.”

It was not long after this incident, the fright still lingering in her bones, when Charon broke the silence again.

“We will arrive soon.”

Beside her, she felt her father sit up straight. His arm fell away from her shoulder in the process and with it the warmth it had brought. Anthea shivered again, her eyes drawn to the riverbank where another hooded figure slowly came into view. He was tall, taller even than her father and Hephaestus was already towering higher than any mortal she knew. In his hand, hidden by wide sleeves, he held a bident, its two sharp prongs reaching even higher than his head. Despite the cloak that added to the width of his shoulders, Anthea noted that they weren’t as wide as her father’s, not even close. And somehow this detail calmed her a little. 

It was impossible to see his face behind the darkness of his hood yet, but even as they got closer and set foot onto the rocky shore, the light that came from behind his back made it impossible to glimpse even the tiniest hint of its features.

“Klytometis,” the stranger greeted her father. His voice was calm and measured. If he felt any emotions upon their arrival, he disguised them well. Still, the term he had chosen to address Hephaestus honoured her father and his skills. Anthea knew that there were others he could have used, plenty of them, that made fun of her father’s leg or diminished his craftsmanship. In her mind she thanked the stranger for showing Hephaestus the respect he deserved but so seldomly received. 

“Khthonios.” Anthea watched in bewilderment as her father dropped to one knee, holding his head low. He had never done that before. A god had no need to humble himself before others. “I need your help. We need your help.”

A strange sensation befell her as she could feel a pair of eyes taking her in from underneath the darkness of his hood, for the first time since their arrival. Later she would remember this moment, remember the violent shiver it sent down her spine, but she would never truly be able to fathom whether it had been caused by his gaze or the way her father had addressed him. Khthonios—of the Underworld.

“Stand up, Hephaestus. There is no need for such formality between us.” Her father did as he was told, thanking the hooded creature with a wordless nod. “So you have come seeking my aid.” A long silence followed his words, stretching uncomfortably between them and when he spoke again, his words felt like a slap to their faces. “Yet I don’t recall owing you any favour.”

Like the cold of a rainy winter day it sank in. He wouldn’t help them. They had come all this way for nothing. It was as clear to Anthea as anything. Now all they could do to preserve their honour was leave before they would overstay their welcome. And so she reached for her father’s hand and gently pulled him towards the ferry, but Hephaestus was unrelenting.

“I am well aware of that. And believe me, my lord, if there were any other way—”

“There is always another way,” her father was cut off politely but firmly, still he refused to accept the rejection.

“Not this time. Not with him—”

Again, Hephaestus was cut short as the other lifted his hand to silence him. Anthea was in shock. She had never seen her father like this, pleading and supplicant, just to be silenced by a single gesture. Nobody had ever dared to turn him down.

“Say no more. I could already sense my brother’s foul stench on your daughter the moment you entered my realm.” 

My brother. My realm. His words washed away the last of her doubts about his identity. It was the ruler of the Underworld himself that stood before them, Hades Khthonios, King of the Dead, and it was only now that she fully understood the despair her father must be in. What it must have cost him to take her to the Underworld and ask the most unpopular of all the gods for help. And to be rejected like this after all that torment. 

No, she wouldn’t tolerate this one second longer. As the God of the Underworld had suggested: there must be another way. Maybe there were others they could ask for help. Her grandmother, she despised her husband enough to surely side with them. And probably other gods would follow. 

She was just about to tug at her father’s hand again, to speak up if necessary, when only three words settled the matter, and decided her fate.

“She can stay.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“I thank you, Lord Hades. I will forever be indebted to you for your most generous offer. Anthea will be safe here with you.”

“You have my word.”

Anthea watched in disbelief as the two gods sealed their agreement. She knew what would follow now, and still she pushed the thought away as far as she could. 

“You will stay with me, won’t you, father?” she pleaded as he turned around to face her. And with a glance over his shoulder she added, “You won’t leave me here.” With him, she had wanted to add, but even in her distraught state she realised it would be horrendously foolish to cross yet another god.

“You will be in safe hands, my flower. And knowing that, I will be able to fulfil my duties as a father and protect you. I need to take care of Zeus, set him on the wrong track. It will distract him, hopefully long enough for the chase to tire his greed.”

“But—”

“No,” her father grabbed her shoulders and looked at her intently, “this is the way it has to be. The only way to keep you unharmed. From the moment you came into my life, I swore to protect you, whatever it takes. Please allow me to be your father now and keep that oath.”

He was right. Her heart had known even before he had spoken that he was. Still, tears blurred her vision, and however much she tried, soon she could feel them run down her cheeks in hot and salty streams.

“I will miss you, father.”

“Sh, no goodbyes. Or have you forgotten how much you hate them?”

Anthea couldn’t help but chuckle and Hephaestus managed a smile as well as he wiped away the tears from her eyes. He then reached into the leather bag he was carrying to bring a small object to light, wrapped in cloth. Carefully he tugged the fabric aside to reveal a tiny golden robin.

“I made this a long time ago, when I was young, foolish and in love. I kept it for sentimental reasons, but I want you to have it now.” One large finger that looked as if it belonged to a giant next to the delicate bird, pushed down on its chest and the bird spread its wings before a hatch opened up its back. “You can write to me if you like and enclose your letters safely within the bird. The robin will know where to find me.”

Hephaestus pressed the button again, the hatch falling shut to be covered by the robin’s shiny wings again. Carefully he placed it in his daughter’s hands, one last token of his love for her before he had to leave.

Desperate arms reached out for him, wrapping around his strong chest while Anthea buried her face against it. His arms closed around her and for a moment, the world fell away. She could hear his strong heartbeat, the air filling his lungs and leaving them in a hurry as he released a deep sigh. His familiar scent filled her nose and she vowed she would forever memorise it, along with the image of his smile, and his eyes when they lit up in joy, his warm voice when he softly spoke her name. It would have to suffice until she could leave this place and be with him again. 

She was reluctant to loosen her hold, although she was well aware of the inevitability of their goodbye. And so it was her father who softly pushed her away to look at her.

“Remember what I told you, my flower. Courageous heart, calm mind.”

“Courageous heart, calm mind,” she repeated like she had done so many times before. With a proud smile on his lips, he leaned in to leave a kiss on her forehead. She could still feel his lips there when he passed her by to join the ferryman on his bark.

They had already discarded, Charon pushing them down the Styx and away from her, when just once, Hephaestus turned to look at his daughter again, his eyes shimmering suspiciously in the gloomy light. Intuitively, she took a step forward. Not to follow him, she knew she couldn’t, but to lessen the distance, just for a moment.

Of course, he didn’t know that, and so she felt a determined hand grabbing her wrist to keep her from doing anything foolish. She hadn’t even realised he was close enough to reach her, but he seemed to take his promise to her father very seriously. His grip wasn’t unpleasantly tight, but tight enough to remind her very effectively of the only alternative to her exile.

For a second her eyes fell down to the spot where his fingers touched her. Anthea wasn’t sure what she had expected. White bones void of flesh wrapping around her wrist? Whatever horror her mind might have imagined, it was far from the slender fingers she found. Stunned, she looked up at his face, yet again she found nothing but darkness. But it made him let go of her, and when she remembered why he had reached for her in the first place, she turned around. The river lay silent now, the mist unmoved. Her father was gone.

“I know how you must feel, but Hephaestus is right. There is no other way.”

His voice was warm, full of compassion, but she hated it just the same.

“You know nothing about me,” she spat, facing him again. “Least of all how I feel.” 

To her great dismay, he didn’t rise to her venomous tone. She would have loved to allow him a taste of the feelings he had just claimed to know. Instead he silently extended his arm, pointing towards the path he must have walked to come here.

Chapter 3

***

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@ashesofblackroses 🖤

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children: Redux | III. Nothing is Bred that is Weaker than Man

A DPxDC crossover // Read on [AO3} or [FFN.net]

← Previous Chapter // MASTERPOST // Next Chapter →

CW: BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF GORE

Three Years Ago…

Danny could not sleep though the chill of the ship invited him to rest his eyes. 

No, he could not.

Though the coolness of his room and the layers of blankets cocooned around him would be tempting enough to knock him out for a couple hours on a regular day it was the cold that kept him wide awake

The freezing, numbing, blessed cold that made the back of his left knee ache and any attempt at sleep fitful.

He tossed and turned in his bed. When was the last time he slept, anyway? Was it in the car ride to the docks? The plane? The hotel they stayed at two—three?— days ago?

Danny couldn’t remember. That was… Jazz would say that was a bad thing if she were here.

It was kind of stupid really but—

He curled in tighter on himself, burying his head beneath the blankets.

When he was younger, his parents bought him a stuffed animal; a brown monkey in a space suit. He named it Albert, after the first monkey to ever go to space. Well, go to space and survive. The first monkey to go to space was Albert II but he died coming back to earth because of a parachute complication. Albert VI (also called Yorick, but Danny preferred Albert) was the first monkey to go to space and survive the landing.  Anyway, that stuffed monkey used to be his favorite thing in the whole world. He used to drag it everywhere until he accidentally left it in a hotel during summer break when he was nine.

God, he was absolutely inconsolable when that happened. Couldn’t sleep for anything more than a few hours and when he woke he was the most snappish nine-year-old to ever walk on the face of the earth. His parents offered to get him a new one but he didn’t want a new one. He wanted Albert. 

But then there was Jazz. Jazz who snuck into his room at night and tucked Bearbert under the blankets next to him. 

“Sleep is important if you wanna grow taller,” Jazz said. “I know he can’t replace Albert, but maybe Bearbert can keep the monsters away until we get Albert back.”

The memory warmed his chest for a brief moment.

And then the reality of it all came crashing down again.

Jazz was dead. His parents were dead. 

Lost for all eternity like Albert.

And both times were his fault.

If he just looked underneath the blankets or on the side of the hotel bed, he would have realized that Albert wasn’t in his backpack.

If he hadn’t given in to Dan’s taunts, then he would have  been fast enough to everyone.

If he never cheated on that fucking test—

God, he just did everything wrong didn’t he? 

Good ol’ Danny Fenton, fucking everything up as usual.

Fucker can’t even die right.

◆◆◆

It was sunset when Danny found himself wandering onto the deck of the ship. The sun resembled a red giant as it sank into the sea, less so in size and more so in the intensity of its color. Visceral and raw and blinding , dying the ocean a deep violet-red.

His mania had abated, somewhat. It seemed to fluctuate in intensity. Sometimes the cold felt all-consuming; frost would crawl up the walls of his little cabin, his skin tinged frostbitten-blue, and the cold would seep beneath his flesh and war with the fever that made him delirious to the world around him. Sometimes it manifested as nothing more than an occasional shiver. What made each day different, he didn’t know. But those calm days, those good days, he savored like a bittersweet drink.

Today was one of those good days. He wasn’t feverish, wasn’t nauseous, and his head didn’t hurt like Skulker had elbow-driven him from 500 feet in the air. 

Sure, a shiver would occasionally crawl up his spine, and sure there were a couple moments where his powers froze the waves as they crested, but it never lasted long. The shivers would go away and the ice would break as the wave slammed down again.

“Ah, young Danyal.” Dusan stepped up beside him on the railing, the sea breeze catching a few tendrils of his white hair in the wind. “Your mother told me you had been feeling better.”

He gave a noncommittal hum beneath his breath.

There was a wrinkle between Dusan’s brows and instantly, Danny straightened, hands squeezing the railing. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” Dusan pulled a sleek black phone from his jacket pocket, unlocking it with a few taps of his thumb. He passed it to Danny. “You will be pleased to note that our ruse has succeeded, and you are now free from the clutches of the law.”

It was an article from the Amity Park Angle. It was short, only a couple paragraphs long, and had his school picture posted beside it.

Daniel James Fenton, 14, passed away tragically last Wednesday. 

Ah. His jaw tightened, skin tingling though not from the cold. 

This was his obituary.

He returned the phone to Dusan, not wanting to read the rest of it.

How did you do it? He wanted to ask. How did you kill me?

Instead, he gave a strained sort of laugh. “You think I’ve set a record? I’m probably the only one in the world who managed to technically die and remain alive three times.”

The corner of Dusan’s mouth quirked up. “Needs must, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes drawn to the lull of the darkening waves.

“What is it that occupies your thoughts?”

He pursed his lips, shifting his arms so that they laid crossed on the railing. “I don’t— I just…everything happened so fast.” He dropped his head into his arms, fingers raking through his hair. “A few weeks ago I was, well, not normal , but close enough to it. I had my parents, I had my sister, I had my friends, and the most I had to worry about was the next ghost attack and making sure I remembered to do my homework. And then the explosion happened and everyone died and I became an orphan but it turns out I’m not? Because my real mom found me but I can’t— you guys had to fake my death to get me away!”

Frustration coursed through his veins with the same intensity as the waves slamming against the side of the ship. He leaned back, hands holding the railing in a knuckle-white grip, frost creeping from beneath his fingers. Not that he noticed. Not that he cared. 

“I’m dead. I’m dead but I’m not and I’m constantly flipping between being fine and becoming a human popsicle. I’m on a ship in the middle of the ocean and I have no idea where we’re going because people won’t tell me!” The red sun glared hatefully into his eyes. Red red red like Dan’s eyes, like Plasmius’ eyes, and burning so, so bright . He had half a mind to wish that the sun would just extinguish itself so he’d never have to see that color again. 

The sun did not extinguish, but Danny’s anger did. Left as quickly as it arrived, leaving him hollow. 

He slumped against the railing. 

What was he doing unloading all this stuff on Dusan? Dusan didn’t ask for any of that. He didn’t deserve to listen to all of Danny’s baggage. Not when Dusan was already doing so much for him.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said quietly. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Dusan laid a warm hand on his shoulder as they both stared at the sun. “Tell me, my boy, have you had the chance to read the Odyssey?”

Danny shook his head. They were supposed to, though. On the first day of school, he remembered Mr. Lancer’s quiet pleasure as he passed out the class syllabi of how they’d be covering the Odyssey in the spring. Poor Mr. Lancer. He was a hardass, sure, and he had his faults, but he genuinely did try with Danny. 

“And if some god should strike me,” quoted Dusan “out on the wine-dark sea, I will endure it, owning a heart within inured to suffering. For I have suffered much, and labored much.”

He continued: “Like Odysseus, you have found yourself cast adrift into the world, far away from all that you knew. And like him, you will endure this. You must. For the world is a vast and cruel place, Danyal, and you must either bear against its weight or it will see you crushed and broken beneath it.”

“But what if I can’t?”

“You can,” he stated, resolute and firm like his grip on Danny’s shoulder. “You can endure because your family is here to support you.”

◆◆◆

Danny opened his eyes.

The sky was an endless expanse of swirling gray clouds. The ocean rocked the raft to a punishing rhythm, murky green-gray waters slapping against the rotting planks.

Danny was tied to a makeshift mast, the rope crossing over his abdomen and tied tightly behind his throat, digging into his jugular. He could not speak. Could not breathe . 

“Do you remember, Danny?” Sam stood at the head of the raft, her back turned to him. “Do you remember that story I told you about The Raft of the Medusa?”

Eighth grade. A field trip to the Amity Park Museum. Their teacher wanted to show them the new art exhibit since it was only available for a short while. He remembered the painting Sam was talking about; it was hard not to when The Raft of the Medusa seemed to overpower every other painting in the exhibit. 

It depicted the aftermath of a ship wreck. A morbidly beautiful painting of a raft lost at sea, its few surviving passengers desperately trying to call for help, their faces gaunt, eyes manic and wild.

“There were originally 147 passengers on that raft. One hundred and forty-seven people and only fifteen survived at the end of it.”

A large wave smashed against the raft. It filled Danny’s nose with salt-water and his mouth of the taste of asphalt. He gasped, coughing out the smoke in his lungs. 

Sam was still rooted to her spot, back turned to him.

“Do you remember, Danny? Do you remember who they blamed for the entire disaster?”

The ocean carried the raft up and up and up . High into the air that they rose. He could almost touch the clouds if it weren’t for the ropes digging into his skin. 

“They blamed the captain.”

The raft plummeted into the sea. He couldn’t scream, his heart was lodged in his throat.

The raft slammed into the ocean, pieces splintering off upon impact. Thunder roared around them like the clashing of cymbals and the sound of laughter.

Danny strained against his confinement, but the ropes tightened around him, the harsh fibers burning his skin.

He could hear the mast creak. Hear it splinter as it fought against him. 

He was almost there. Almost there .

“Look at me Danny.”

Danny opened his eyes—when did he close them?

Sam was in front of him and— oh god.

Oh god.

Her face.

Her flesh was melted, plastered against her blackened bone. Eyes nothing more than empty sockets in her head. Her skeleton hands held his face, forcing him to look. To look at what he had done to her.

“Why didn’t you save us Danny?” She asked. Asked with the voice of six people he had failed, their voices conjoined in some deranged siren song. “Why did you kill us?”

He could see it now. He could see that they weren’t alone on the raft. There, being slowly dragged into the depths, were the burned and waterlogged corpses of his victims. 

He screamed, and the sky answered with his own manic laughter.

◆◆◆

Danny opened his eyes and his skin was on fire.

He yelped, tearing off the weights that pinned him down and tumbled onto the floor. 

He can’t—

He can’t breathe—

Tucker suffocated to death, chest caved in and choking on air.

Someone was calling his name.

Who was it?

He can’t—

He doesn’t—

Mom?

“Focus on my voice, habibi . I need you to breathe, can you do that for me?” 

There’s something warm enveloping his hand.

“Breathe in, Danny, come on. Inhale through your nose for four.”

One. Two. Three. Four.

“Hold for seven.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

“And exhale through the mouth for eight.”

She counted out loud, and he tried to focus on her voice.

In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

Each second felt like an eternity. Some part of him laughed and said that this was Clockwork’s doing. Retribution for daring to interfere with the timeline. Punishment for whatever future atrocities he committed.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

Talia gave him a closed lip smile, rubbing circular motions across his back. “There is nothing to be sorry for, my son. Now, let’s get you back to bed. Perhaps I’ll get you something warm to drink, would you like that?”

◆◆◆

Talia slipped her son something to ease the pains and make him drowsy. Carding her calloused fingers through his hair, she watched as Danny sank further and further into sleep’s sweet embrace. His breath evened out, the tension loosening from his frame. She continued her soft ministrations on his dark hair, but slowly her fingers moved to stroke the lines of his face, the slope of his nose, and then the curve of  his eyes.

She cataloged his features and compared it to her own. He had her nose. Her mouth. Her skin. He had a more lean figure like her, built more for speed and agility than brute strength— though currently, Danny could be considered more ‘lanky’ than lean, but training and a strict diet will correct that. The rest of Danny was all her beloved’s, from the wide too-bright-too-blue eyes, to the sharp jawline, to the exact shade of black in the hair.

Was this what her beloved looked like in his youth?

Was this what Damian would grow to become?

The ship rocked gently along the waves. She smoothed down Danny’s hair and pressed a soft kiss to his head before rising from her seat at his bedside.

She could not say the same for Bruce at that age, but she was quite certain that Damian would never be as trusting as Danny was. Though she could not blame it entirely on the boy. He was raised in a rather…inferior household, per se. What innate skills he might have inherited from his bloodline were left to rust under the mundanity of civilian life. Had circumstances been more favorable, Talia would have whisked Danny away the moment Dusan had discovered him all those years ago.

Alas, such was not the case.

She left Danny’s room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The League had too many enemies at the time that bringing Danny in would have made him too tempting a target. Though Talia was not naive enough to believe that concern for his first grandson would be Ra’s al Ghul’s only motive for not having recovered sooner, she did see why it would have been more beneficial to keep his existence and any connection to the League wrapped under secrecy.

“It seems that our father’s investments have paid off.” She looked to her left at where Dusan seemed to materialize from the shadows of the ship’s passageway. “Now, we have the makings of a great assassin at our disposal.”

“Do you think that he planned for this to happen?” She asked, matching his stride, the pair of them slowly making their way to the bridge.

“I cannot even begin to fathom the mind of Ra’s al Ghul. How he could have  predicted this , I do not know, but he must have expected some kind of result by keeping your son with the Fentons. No— even that was an accident, wasn’t it? This…this is fate.”

Talia doubted that even the great Ra’s al Gul could predict this outcome for her son. However Ra’s was not one to so carelessly sacrifice a potential asset unless he had a particular gambit in mind. What future did he envision when he made that decision all those years ago?

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “The Rosa disanthus produced mixed results. The worst of the chills and fever abated about half an hour after he imbibed the tea, only to be replaced by nausea and vomiting.” Talia raised her hand, contemplating the lines of her palm for a moment. “There was frost when he had a panic attack. Frost coated his palms and covered his arm all the way to the elbow—I don’t believe he even realized  it—but when he drank the tea, it receded.”

“Hm.” Dusan furrowed his brows. “His condition affected his physiology to a greater extent than we thought. No matter. Hopefully enough exposure would mitigate much of the effects. Neither of us are strangers to mithridatism; we would have inevitably tested for all his potential weaknesses, and starting early would prove fruitful later on.”

 “You have spoken to father, then?”

He inclined his head in affirmation. “He has given me the task of training young Danyal.”

Talia’s fingers curled into a fist, hand dropping to her side. “I would have thought that I, as his mother, would be in charge of his lessons.”

“Take no offense, sister, this is not meant to be a punishment.” He smiled, a cunning gleam in his eyes. While Ra’s al Ghul normally paid more attention to his daughters for their strength, not even he could deny that, above all his other children, it was Dusan who inherited Ra’s ruthless cunning. “Danyal is young and naive, but he is powerful . Simply isolating him in Nanda Parbat will do nothing if he could simply fly away whenever he wanted. We must teach him to love us. To choose to stay.”

Talia thinned her lips, jaw clenched. She nodded, leaving the conversation at that.

Dusan would be a harsh master to learn under. He would strip Danny and of all he used to be and break him down into nothing . It would be cruel and unkind— but it would be efficient.

Well, no matter. Talia would always be there to pick up the pieces; the honey to the vinegar; the carrot to the stick. She would take what remained of the boy known as Danny and rebuild him with loving words and her motherly embrace, fill the cracks with love and loyalty for the League and their family and shape him until he becomes her son and no one else’s.

She had been forced to give up her eldest son once. Never again.

This child was hers.

◆◆◆

A light fever clouded Danny’s mind during the last stretch of their journey. 

Talia said it was the tea that caused it. A little something that they picked up at their last port stop that she and Dusan believed would help with his mania . 

Danny didn’t like that tea. It had a pungent aroma to it that made his nose wrinkle. He couldn’t place the scent, but the strength of it was like walking past a Bath & Body Works at the mall mixed with the smell of cherry-flavored cough syrup. Its taste was about as pleasant as its smell, considering that his stomach fought the tea at every step of the way. 

He didn’t want to drink it, but Talia and Dusan insisted and Danny didn’t really have much right to refuse. They did so much for him already and in return all they really wanted was for him to drink some tea.

Despite his revulsion for it, Danny could admit that the tea did work. Sort of. It kept the worst of his chills away, thawing the bitter cold deep within his core.

It kept the dreams away too.

So maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

He couldn’t remember much of what happened in the interim. Only the rocking of the ship, the quiet lull of his bedroom, Talia’s soothing voice and her hands carding through his hair.

Dusan came at one point with the intention to prepare Danny for his meeting with Ra’s al Ghul, his grandfather and his parents’ benefactor. There was a degree of reverence in Dusan’s eyes as he spoke, his usually impassive face split into a wide grin.

 “He is a remarkable man, your grandfather,” Dusan began. “Powerful and intelligent. A self-made man of means.”

A visionary, Dusan described him. A man with dreams of a better future, of freeing the world from the corruptions of society and the clutches of greedy and vicious people who only want to drain the world of its vitality to feed their voracious gluttony. 

“Too long have the scum of the earth been allowed to exist in the light of day,” Dusan said. “And so it is from the shadows that Ra’s al Ghul means to rectify it.”

Danny squeezed his eyes shut, trying to take it all in. “That sounds…” His foggy brain couldn’t find the right word. “Intense.”

Well, at least it was safe to say that Ra’s al Ghul wouldn’t like Vlad.

Dusan chuckled. “Indeed. But do not make the mistake of assuming he lacks benevolence. Ra’s al Ghul is ruthless because he must be. But to those who are worthy, he is merciful and just. You have already taken the first step in proving your strength to Ra’s al Ghul, but now, you must leave yourself in his hands. Present your case. Tell him what you seek. Trust that he will help you—for you are of his blood—and that he will help you best.”

It’s those words that Danny—through all of the sudden influx of new sights and sounds and scents around him and the anxiety crawling beneath his kin— tried to remember as they traveled through the mountain fortress of Nanda Parbat. 

Exactly where Nanda Parbat existed on the map, Danny had no idea. It was surrounded by snow-capped mountains, built atop a large plateau that dropped off into a deep canyon. The fortress was palatial. Tall towers framed the high walls that encircled the fortress, sunlight bounced off the deep blue tiles of the steeply sloping roofs and gleamed against the golden spires atop the main buildings. 

There were three courtyards from what he could tell, each one hidden behind the other and separated by a thick wall. The training yards, Talia called them. 

“Who are they?” Danny said, gazing down at the hundreds of people below from their helicopter. They appeared to be doing a series of some kind of martial-art exercises, one form smoothly transitioning into the next in an intimidating display of synchronization.

Dusan answered, “They are those who believe in the world Ra’s al Ghul would bring.”

Trepidation settled in his gut. There was a voice at the back of his head that sounded like Jazz that told him that something was wrong. That this was a bad idea.

His core smothered the thoughts with a brief flicker of grimace, happily humming that warm family-here-home-wish.

Talia and Dusan led him up the lengthy staircase leading to the main compound and through a dizzying series of hallways and stairs that led to the office of Ra’s al Ghul. He barely noticed anything as he walked, too busy trying to keep in pace with his guides. The main building was a huge square tower. The hallways were made of polished wood, rows of shoji screens on Danny’s right and a railing looking down into the courtyard in the middle of the tower to his left. 

“What is this place?” he asked. His other question— who are you?— remained unsaid.

Dusan smiled, the overhead lights casting shadows across his face. “This, young Danyal, is home.”

The screen door slid open to reveal a large and spacious office. An antique desk sat in the middle facing the door, piled high with all manner of books, scrolls, ancient tomes, and artifacts. The walls were filled to the brim with even more books and miscellaneous items— some familiar, and some completely unknown to Danny. 

Sat behind the desk, a gold bird-shaped magnifying glass held steady above some ancient manuscript, was Ra’s al Ghul. 

“You are here,” Ra’s al Ghul remarked. He set down the magnifying glass and gently flipped a page of the manuscript spread out on his desk before standing. He clasped his hands behind his back and leisurely made his way around the desk. 

 To Danny’s surprise, Ra’s al Ghul did not look like a grandfather. Not that Danny had any other grandparents to compare Ra’s to, and Dusan’s descriptions certainly didn’t give off the vibes of some friendly and sage man who doted on his grandkids and talked about ‘the good old days.’

Yeah, Danny didn’t really know what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect Ra’s .

Ra’s al Ghul looked, at most , a decade older than his mom and dad. Hell, even Dusan looked older than him. Built tall and broad-shouldered, the indication of whipcord muscles visible beneath his dark green and gold embroidered shalwar kameez. He had the same cool tawny skin as Talia’s, his strange green eyes marked by crows feet. He had dark gray salt-and-pepper hair with a receding hairline and sharp widow’s peak, the back of his hair tied tightly and low against his head. 

At his acknowledgement, Talia and Dusan greeted Ra’s al Ghul with a salute. Right hand curled into a fist and pressed against their heart, head bowed. Startled, Danny was quick to do the same. 

He bit back a cringe when he realized how sweaty his palms were.

Ra’s inclined his head and they were allowed to drop the salute. He approached them at a measured pace, movements so unnervingly silent even as Danny was watching him move right in front of him. 

He stopped in front of Danny, looming over him with narrowed eyes.

Was Danny…was Danny supposed to meet his gaze or lower it? He knew that in some cultures it was rude to look someone directly in the eye. Or was it supposed to be a sign of respect?

Ra’s al Ghul suddenly straightened. Smirked. Danny really hoped that was a good sign.

“So this is him, then,” Ra’s said, walking back further into the room. He turned abruptly on his heel, head cocked to the side. “Come closer, child. Let me get a better look at you.”

His heart jumped into his throat, and he pushed it back down with a painful swallow. A tingling sensation overtook his arm, the urge to try and scratch it away needling his mind. He caught Talia’s gaze as he moved past her and felt a flicker of reassurance as she subtly brushed her knuckles against his, calming his frazzled nerves. 

Dusan tilted his head slightly, features impassive  but assessing. 

Ra’s al Ghul, worryingly enough, reminded him of Vlad. Appearance wise, they looked nothing alike. But there was this… presence , this certain gravitas about them that emanated both great wealth, resources, and the cunningness of which to use them. 

Though while Vlad came off as comically villainous and, well, kind of pathetic at times, Ra’s al Ghul possessed an overwhelmingly intimidating aura that seemed to engulf the room. This was a man who did not demand attention but commanded it. One could not help but obey.

Gut instinct told him to not show any fear.

Gut instinct told him to leave .

Ra’s al Ghul’s flat affect broke into a small, soft smile that peaked from beneath his goatee. Gentle. Kind. Almost what Danny assumed to be grandfatherly .

His core hummed excitedly. The anxiety at the pit of his stomach subsided somewhat. 

Ra’s loomed over Danny—too close—eyes sharp and assessing. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

“You are Ra’s al Ghul,” he answered. 

Family , his core replied.

His smile grew. “That I am, boy, that I am. But I am also your grandfather.”

Grandfather, his core sang.

He straightened his posture, settling a firm hand on Danny’s shoulder.

This time, Danny could not help but flinch.

“No need to be so nervous,” Ra’s chuckled. “We are family, the two of us. My blood runs through your veins as surely as it does your mother’s, no matter that you were once lost to us. And besides that, the doctors Fenton were an invaluable asset to us, both in their research and in caring for you.” He shifted his hold, arm now across Danny’s shoulders as he led Danny in front of the desk. “Dusan and your mother were rather…cryptic with their reports. I have heard that you have a rather unusual situation and would like our help.”

“Yeah— I mean, yes, sir.” Best behavior Danny, best behavior. 

Ra’s detached himself from Danny’s side and sat behind his desk once more, elbows rested on polished wood and hands steepled in front of him. Curiosity gleamed in his strange green eyes. “Do tell.”

Danny rubbed the back of his neck, craning his gaze towards Talia.

Talia gave a reassuring smile.

He swallowed a hard lump in his throat, trying to remember what Dusan said.

Present your case. Tell him what you seek. Trust that he will help you.

It was— he never had to tell this many people before. Hell, he never had to tell anyone this story at all! Personally, Danny would like to keep it that way, but it made sense that Ra’s al Ghul would want the whole story. To know what mess he found at his doorstep.

And wasn’t this the reason he came with Talia, anyway? To look for help?

He raised his head once more, meeting Ra’s with a resolute gaze. “Some months ago, I was caught in an accident in my parents’—um, the Fenton’s—lab. Long story short, it turned me into a meta…or at least meta-adjacent? Sorry, I didn’t really have enough time to get too deep into ghost biology.”

Ras raised an imperious brow. “Ghost biology? Yes…If I recall, that was where your parents’ research lay. So you claim that you are a ghost?”

“Yes. Maybe?” Danny shrugged. “It’s kind of been what everyone’s been telling me and what all the signs have been pointing to.”

“I was under the impression that death was a prerequisite to becoming a ghost.”

“There’s been a running theory that I did die in that lab accident. It just didn’t stick.”

Ra’s blinked, giving Danny another appraising look. Danny fought the urge to squirm. Then Ra’s threw his head back with a loud, raucous laugh. “Fascinating!” He stroked his goatee, amused. “What a brilliant little enigma you are. What a wonder my grandchild has become! Though taking his blood into account, perhaps I should have expected it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So, what request is it that you will make of me?”

Danny bit the inside of his cheek, mind racing for the right words to say. “I want…I was told that you would be able to give me a new life.”

“A new life.”

“I need— I don’t know what I need, really, but for certain reasons I can’t stay in Amity and I certainly can’t trust the law because I know where they’ll put me if I go back and if that happens then—”

Red eyes. A city in ruin. A world on fire.

“Then, what?”

Danny looked away, shoulders hunched as if he was Atlas himself, carrying the weight of the world on his back. “Something really, really bad will happen.”

Ra’s al Ghul beheld him, fingers drumming on his desk in a steady thump-thump-thump . Danny felt stifled under that gaze.

Trust in him , Dusan had said.

Grandfather , his core said. Family-here-trust-together.

After what seemed like an age, Ra’s al Ghul nodded. “Your request is doable, and I will excuse your ambiguity for the present, though I will require a full and detailed explanation at a later date.”

Danny let out a shaky breath. Relief coursed through his veins.

“But,” Ra’s al Ghul said. “I do not give you this new lease on life for free. I require payment.”

“I don’t— I don’t have anything to give.”

Ra’s waved off his concerns. “Worry not, boy, the price I seek is not so steep. What I want is for you to take your proper place in this family.” He stretched out his hand. “Do we have an agreement?”

Danny stared at the hand.

Was it…would it really be this simple? A new name, a  new life, a new family all in one fell swoop? 

It was almost too good to be true.

Take , his core hummed. Chance-take-family-mine-whole-take.

He took  Ra’s al Ghul’s hand and shook it. “We do.”

From that pact, Danyal al Ghul sprang into existence. 

And at that moment, though he did not know it yet, Danny Fenton well and truly died. 

[historianthesecond]

I'm currently loving Who Came In With the Sea. Any idea when part III will be out. No pressure ofc my lovely.

Hi! Thank you 🥺🥺 I'm glad you're liking it 💓 probably between this week and the next (but I really hope it can be this week). I have planned the outline already, I just need to write it down! 🙈

Buuut, I do have a snippet :3

It was a windy morning, with chipped waves against the hull. You always liked the way the early morning tinted the whole sea as if it were made of silver, sometimes with a thick fog hanging like a veil; the perfect disguise so you could return home from a nocturnal swim without the fishermen noticing as they also headed back to the docks. 

However, in the open sea, matters got complicated. As soon as you emerged, you had no cover from corals or other boats blocking the view; and contrary to the sport fishing boats, the hull of the Volkvolny was too tall to try to climb, unless you tried to use the anchor line a makeshift staircase.

You didn’t trust your arms and legs to support your weight, as you’d been swimming around the ship all night until you felt the invigorating pain of the muscles of your tail, skin hydrated and healthy—finally healthy, showing the outline of your blueish-silver scales as your friend the squid fluttering around you like a crimson ghost. 

You had to shoo it away, promising that you’d snuck up tonight to visit, too. More for your sanity than your friend’s, knowing that there was no way you could deny the sea call now that you had tasted the long-lost feeling of the water surrounding you, embracing you as it gurgled in the bubbles of your breath, like the intimate mutter of a mother. 

Welcome home. 

You looked at the grey landscape in front of you, dunes of seafloor starting to come alive as the creatures of the night retreated to the abyss. The sun was getting brighter, with white and golden rays that would let you stand up like the fallen layer of an iceberg if you stayed there for too long. There was no time to lose. 

The wind was cold against the warmer temperature of the water, your hands gripping the chain locked to the giant anchor, half-morphed from your webbed claws to normal human fingers. 

Your ears filled with the sound of metal rattling against the wooden hull, but nobody looked down at the deck. Perhaps it was breakfast time, the guards from the night before resting already. Breath ragged out your chest as you crawled, the clothing hung on your wet body like an uncomfortable layer you preferred not to wear—but then, you wouldn’t be caught naked from the deck down to the bunks. 

It felt like a little eternity until you reached the rail, hands grabbing the worn-out surface, thinking that perhaps your claws would have better a grip. Your vision adjusted to the growing light shining against the pale sails, dancing points of darkness that solidify in a very concrete, very real figure sitting comfortably over a barrel. 

You looked at him, the glass swinging around his wrist shining a rich gold, probably whiskey or brandy. From all the things you could’ve thought, the first one was: isn’t it too early to drink?

“See?” Sturmhond said to no one in particular, or at least, to someone that was blocked from your view. “I told you all things submerged in the sea sooner or later resurface.” He drank the remnants of his drink, and you couldn’t know if the smile he was giving you was ironic, annoyed, or simply drunk. “We were looking for you everywhere, angelfish.”

“Angelfish?” you had to ask back. If he was surprised of hearing your voice, he concealed it well. 

The captain shrugged. “Amuse me.” He gestured for you, as you were still hung into the railing, arms shivering with the effort. Soon, you felt two pairs of arms helping you up as if you were not heavy at all. The Grisha twins looked at you, eyes fixated in every move as you felt a pang of guilt at seeing Tamar. 

“Why don’t we talk about what can you do?” Sturmhond clapped, his elbows leaned over his thighs, leaning closer to the wet pile of skin and clothes that was you. “Besides talking and singing, as someone has kindly informed me.”

[prahacat]

Most Nigh to Tears and Memory

Dooku decides it’s about time he starts living his best life. Songfic, originally written for the march prompt “road trip” for YOTP2023, but it ended up being genfic. 2720 words.

It’s the tenth day and Dooku is still alive. The news doesn’t even report his disappearance; Sidious is most likely pulling all the strings to cover it up as long as possible. Dooku is relieved, but also a bit disappointed. He likes to see himself in the news, preferably in medium shot, three-quarter view. Whoever at HoloNet News specializes in him has a knack for picking pretty shots.

At a remote outer-rim trading outpost, he purchases a fancy blue robe, has his hair dyed dark and his ship painted neon spinach green. He buys an audiochip that promises “two hundred and twenty of the galaxy’s most moving arias, from excruciating to exhilarating.”

“Hey, can I have your autograph?” asks the little boy standing behind him in the checkout line.

Dooku’s heart shoots into his throat, but the boy continues: “My friends will never believe I’ve met Keskala Durne.”

Relieved (but also disappointed), Dooku signs the boy’s hand. He goes for two wild spaghetti squiggles because he has no idea how to spell that name. The boy grins at his hand. “Wizard!”

“Definitely not,” Dooku grumbles.

Back in his ship, he starts the audiochip and searches the HoloNet for Keskala Durne (actually spelled Cesca Ladone) who makes his living writing poetry on socks. Also, he doesn’t look like Dooku at all, not even with the dyed hair. Dooku would never cut hearts into his sideburns, not even for disguise. But for now, it’s better to be mistaken for a sock poet than a murderous Sith.

Dooku opens the bottle of wine he stole from Sidious’ secret stash as his last official act. He already dreams of seeing the Twenty Wonders of the Galaxy. Outside, the stars rush by aimlessly. In my soul, the sleeping flame that you sowed an eternity ago is finally ignited! The small spaceship trembles with dramatic orchestral music bursting from every speaker. That sublime love, the love of freedom—of freedom—of freedom! the baritone cries out with all his soul, and Dooku hums along softly.

On the seventeenth day, Dooku is bitten by a snake. Its black scales shimmer like oil and two red eyes burn on the skin of its neck hood. “Don’t make such a fuss,” Dooku says to the medical droid, who sprays his wrist with ice-cold bacta. He wants to explain that he can use the Force to neutralize just about any extrinsic poison, but the droid might recognize him. Are medical droids in bio-reserve hatcheries up to date on the whereabouts of the Republic’s enemies? As the droid fusses over him, Dooku looks around the room. Incubators everywhere, lots of writhing, swarming and crawling. How long has it been since he last visited a hatchery for endangered species? He knows. Almost five decades. Half a lifetime.

“I’ll administer the antidote immediately,” the droid chirps, pausing only briefly as his data-brain searches for the name Dooku gave him, “Yan Jinn.”

Yan Jinn. Dooku stares at the misbehaving snake curled up in a cage next to him. The snake stares back. Her eyes are blue: deep and old as the sky. “I wish to adopt her,” he says.

Space is cold. The snake prefers to lie in his lap while he reads and sips his wine. Sometimes she bites his wrist. It never changes his blood levels. “I’ll keep you anyway,” Dooku mutters. She coils around his neck, which he takes as a sign of affection. The loud, pompous arias frighten her, so Dooku puts on a cycle of peaceful folk songs he bought on his last planet and sings quietly to her:

Gone is the sweet fragrance of the night flowers

Already the tree loses its crackling golden dress

Wearily my head rests on its cold roots

The autumn in my heart is coming to an end ...

The snake is a good listener.

It takes forty-two days for Dooku to be seriously tempted to play out his identity as Head of State of the Confederacy and powerful Sith Lord. It makes no sense that snakes aren’t allowed in the hot springs, but Thisspiasians are. Dignified, Dooku struts out of the resort and heads to the nearest distillery instead. The supply he has pilfered from Sidious is starting to dwindle anyway.  

Three hours later, he’s in high spirits. Literally. “Four, no, five more bottles of the nut brandy. And three of the spiced bofa liqueur as well.” He fumbles for his credits. The snake has fallen asleep with her head buried under his collar.

“I’ll load them into the transport speeder with the wine,” the small Sullustan says politely. “I hope your ship isn’t too far from here?”

Dooku tries to remember where he parked his ship.

“Might I recommend you take more than five bottles of the claret, Mister Jinn?” the Sullustan says. “It’s also an ideal gift for family gatherings.”

Dooku is laughing. “I have no family.”

Bumbling, his ship rises into the sky. After blindly typing whatever coordinates into the computer, Dooku inserts an audio chip with jazz music. Happy, lilting melodies fill the lonely cabin. Dooku feels strangely light-headed. Probably just the alcohol. He turns up the volume. Lost in space but never alone, he sings along, falling through a wormhole back to the place where something still waits for us. Catch my hand ...

The snake hides somewhere in a ventilation shaft. “Come out,” Dooku beckons her, “I’m opening the wine. We’re having a family gathering.”

But the snake is nowhere to be seen.

“Is this seat taken?”

Dooku, engrossed in his four-dimensional crossword puzzle, startles. “No, it is not.”

The man sits down in the chair next to him, stretches out his feet in the soft sand, unpacks a datapad and loads the HoloNews. The front page shows a holoimage of Dooku (medium shot, three-quarter profile, an air of nobility; his admirer at HoloNet News doesn’t disappoint). Dooku tries to read the headlines. In the glaring midday sun, he can barely make out the words. Count Dooku Rumored to Have Passed Away; General Grievous: Is He Next? Eighty-one days, and he’s finally dead. With his long beard, his sunglasses and colorful linen pants, the guests in the small beachside tapcaf don’t recognize him. Dooku has a firm grip on their minds: they look at him and just as quickly forget him.

So has the man. Like yesterday, he scrolls through the news too quickly for Dooku to read along. Dooku already has him figured out. A datapad as a prop, routinely polite, orders “just give me whatever” (he gets the same Novablaster as Dooku). He drinks way too fast for this time of the day.

“If you want to turn your little con into a lucrative sideline, I suggest you better remember the faces of the people you sit next to,” Dooku says.

The man lowers his datapad. “Have we met?”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh really?”

“You left without paying.”

“I did?” He turns pale, which only makes his dark stubble stand out more.

Dooku takes a sip of his Novablaster and watches him squirm. He should cut this conversation short and make him pay for both of their drinks. It would be less of a risk. His face is all over the morning news.

Instead, he takes off his sunglasses. “Don’t worry,” he says and finds himself smiling, “I paid your bill.”

The man averts his eyes. “I am so sorry—”

“Oh, don’t be,” Dooku reassures him, voice deadly gentle. A simple, childlike joy bubbles in his stomach, the kind he usually feels only after several glasses of wine. “It’s of no consequence.”

At his polite words, the man cowers in his seat. “I’m truly sorry. It wasn’t intentional ... I just wasn’t paying attention to you, uh ...” He gropes his glass, opening and closing his fingers around it. His gaze darts over the chairs and tables and palm trees like he’s looking for an escape, and his shoulders slump. In a single gulp, he drains his cocktail.

“My daughter.” He presses a button on his datapad and slides it across the table. “Her name is Laidi. I’ve been looking for her for two days. She ran away.”

She doesn’t resemble him. Probably adopted. Laidi has strawberry blonde hair and a face full of freckles that she turns away from the camera as if she doesn’t want to be in the picture. Dooku feels a twinge of anger, perhaps towards her father for forcing her, perhaps towards her for being so ungrateful. She’s probably in her mid-twenties, too old to run away; at her age, it’s called something else. Sometimes he wonders if all the father figures in the galaxy share the same blind spot.

“It’s all been so difficult lately.” The man lifts his glass, realizes it’s empty, puts it back down. “Her mother ... We didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. They told us she fought bravely.” Now he looks Dooku in the eye. No fear, no shame; just the hesitant hope that comes with accepting a gift from a stranger. “Why does that even matter? Why do they always think it matters she was brave? She left anyway.”

Above Laidi’s picture, the news ticker is still flickering. BREAKING NEWS ON THE WAR! Count Dooku Surmised Dead. Search for General Grievous Continues. Is the War at Its End? He would like to tell the man that of all the ways to be dead, being dead as a casualty of war might not be the worst. Eighty-one days: Dooku is in a permanent state of dead-but-not-quite, and he’s simultaneously turning deader and aliver every day. All he wants to do is get drunk, listen to old music, and work through his bucket list of the Twenty Wonders of the Galaxy that he hasn’t visited yet (or that haven’t blown up yet). He should have cut the conversation short and just make the man pay for their drinks. “My condolences.” He leans back, shoulders stiff. “We all hope this war will end soon.”

“It wasn’t the war,” the man says. “She was very sick, you know. She was very sick and didn’t tell us.”

The sun is at its zenith, devouring all the shadows without mercy. In Dooku’s glass, the ice cubes slowly shrivel away, their former edges round and dull. Instead, an ice cube forms in Dooku’s throat. He wishes he was drunk. In front, at the bar, a band starts playing. Some silly modern dance song, very loud. Three, two, one—this is your final countdown, a lady in a red dress sings, the electronics pitching her voice to unnatural heights. Three, two, one—last chance for take-off. Yeah-ha-ha! Ah-wah! Ah-ow! Something stirs in Dooku’s mind. It’s not a modern song, but merely a remix that has been around since his youth. He has a few painful memories of how he used to correct his clan members because the wrong lyrics they came up with were even dumber than the real ones. Hold, hold, hold my hand, face the music, speak your words, dance, dance, dance! This is your final chance!

But out of the two dozen guests in the tapcaf, none is in the mood to dance. The man sitting across from Dooku bursts into tears. Understandable. For some songs, there should be a law banning them from being remixed. Trust people to make a bad thing worse.

The song claws its way into his head and gets stuck. Later, when he returns to his ship, he catches himself mumbling the lyrics—the wrong ones, always the wrong ones. They’re more infectious than the original.

Dooku has checked off four of the Twenty Wonders of the Galaxy when the end of the war is declared.

He stands in the middle of the bustling Neeki Spaceport, in a dense crowd of travelers, all of them staring at the holoscreens on the walls where Palpatine is smiling down at them with fatherly affection. They cheer. The woman next to Dooku cries. Two men hug each other. A Wookiee wraps his hairy arms around Dooku and roars before strangling another innocent victim. “Free candy!” someone yells, and Dooku vaguely registers the paper bag with something warm, sweet-smelling that is thrust into his hand. The Force is a blaze of joy, with a bloody wound gaping in the place where Dooku’s former brothers and sisters used to shine. The war is over, people cheer, yet all Dooku feels is Lights dying and fading.

Dazed, he makes his way through the crowd, a bag of holobooks under his arm, a steel cage full of squeaking mice in his hand. His feet are moving, the world around him is slowly consumed by black mist. Cold sweat gathers beneath his tunics. He refuses to be sick, not now, not here. The war is over. He left his blood meter in the ship, buried at the bottom of some drawer, because just like the news, it never tells him anything he doesn’t already know. A dark brown robe jostles him. Brief eye contact: a near-human male, green-blue eyes, searching, alert. Dooku lowers his gaze, hurries on.

“Hey,” the Jedi calls after him.

He bumps into a Noghri family, engaged in an intimate orgy of hugs. Dooku lifts his purchases and the cage and makes his way forward, knocking one of the Noghri over.

“Hey, stop!”

“Drinks for everyone!” hollers a drunken spaceport officer. “Rejoice!”

Dooku flees into a less crowded corridor of a side terminal. Someone grabs his shoulders. He whirls around, sparks flashing under his skin.

The Jedi smiles sadly. “You lost something,” he says, holding up one of the holobooks Dooku bought earlier. Since both of Dooku’s arms are occupied, he places the holobook on top of the cage. “Cute mice. Need a hand with your luggage?”

Dooku stares at him, hoping he’s not one of the younglings he has taught. It can’t be—he would still remember Dooku. He wouldn’t forget so easily. He would recognize him, dyed hair and thin face and silly new name notwithstanding. There’s something familiar about the Jedi, but it might just be the subdued flame burning in the Force.

“I’m on my way to Coruscant,” the Jedi elaborates. “We’ve all been called back to the Temple.” His mouth curves upward without effort, all the heaviness lies in the stare fixed at Dooku. “If you’re taking public transport toward the Core as well, I’d be happy to help you with your luggage.”

Why are you all so damn gullible, Dooku thinks with desperate disgust. In the spaceport hall, the people burst into wordless howling and cheering. Their loud, rhythmic yo-yo-yo-yo echoes from the walls of the massive building. The mice in the cage have huddled in a corner, silent and docile now, surrendering to their inevitable fate that will lead them into the snake’s stomach.

“Thank you.” Dooku tightens his grip on the cage. “I have my own ship.”

The Jedi nods. “Of course. Have a safe journey, then, friend.”

“And you ...” Dooku’s voice falters. Instead, he hands him the still-warm paper bag. The sugary sweet smell makes him nauseous. “Here, my friend. It’s a long way to Coruscant. Snacks are quite costly on these public freighters, I’m afraid.”

The Jedi’s smile turns soft. For a moment, his serene mask drops, and he accepts the bag with all the eagerness of a youngling craving something sweet.

Yo-yo-yo-yo, the masses shout. It’s starting to sound like a marching song.

Three months and six days and Dooku is still alive. The snake has curled up on his bed and angrily spreads her neck hood when Dooku sits down next to her, the cage with the mice in his lap. He rests and stares ahead, waiting for the black veil to disappear. It never does these days. Absently, Dooku fishes a mouse out of the cage by its tail. Where should he go next? Which wonder of the galaxy should he visit, out of the ones that haven’t blown up yet? The snake slithers closer, flicking her tongue; her eyes are old and frozen. She moves toward him and the gentle rustle of the covers is the only sound in the eerie peace. Everything has gone quiet. Dooku watches her devour the mouse, humming softly to himself.

[evolutionsvoid]

There is a tale that is shared in hushed whispers and shivering voices, of a town lost in a sea of insidious fog. It is not a well known one, but those who have heard it once never forget it for the rest of their lives. A story of a Great Hart, and a greedy lumber Baron who sought to slay a legend. When him and his cruel hunting party violated the sacred beast, its death cursed the entire town. It bore a noxious fog that swallowed the village and trapped all sinners in its foul clutches. Those who ravaged the Great Heart in such a way were doomed to never know peace or rest, as the horrid mist prevented all. For many, the story stops there, as the Baron and the families who worked for him remain eternally trapped in a never ending nightmare. But there are those who say that the story is not yet done, that the torment of these sinners is not quite over. There are many questions on whether what they say is true, as many ponder the hows and whys. It doesn't matter in the end, as when the storyteller speaks, all lean in and listen to hear of what lurks within that endless fog.

For how long the Baron remained tormented by the ceaseless shroud of fog, no one can truly know. The pungent mist blotted out the sun and stars, the churning clouds of gray even dispelling the dark blanket of night. To him, it had been centuries, or perhaps only minutes, he couldn't tell anymore. There truly wasn't much he could tell from this horrid fog, as it had long since leaked into his manor and filled every room. For a while he fought it in vain, trying to seal doors and plug up holes in hopes of creating a single sanctuary safe from the mist's terrible presence. But no matter how hard he tried, it followed him everywhere, always at his heels like loyal hound. There was no reprieve from it, or the things that walked within it. There were times he swore he saw figures lurking within the fog, caught only by the corner of his eye. But when he spoke there was no answer and when he charged after them in a desperate rage his fists found nothing. He knew his manor to be empty, as his servants had long since fled into the gray nothingness, never to be seen again. The only souls he knew to be around hid within homes around town, trapped in the same hell as he. He hadn't seen his fellow hunters or their families for what seemed like ages, and he had no intention of changing that. From the haunting howls and screams that occasionally rose from the swallowed homes, he knew nothing could be found out there but madness and hate. He was alone in this castle of his, yet he never felt the peace of solitude.

Time crawled on as exhaustion ate away at his body and mind, creating shadows of madness that lurked behind every corner and door. At a point he no longer knew fear from these ethereal visitors, as he simply didn't have the strength to be afraid. There was now a hope that perhaps one of these shadowy figures would come forth and end his misery, as the fog had long robbed him of the authority over his own life. Perhaps their claws would finally let him die, maybe their vengeance would at last mean peace. But the figures never pounced, they only stared. At times when he could muster his feeble voice, he begged them for mercy or even death, but they gave nothing in return. All he could do was lay listlessly in his favorite chair, staring uselessly at the mounted hart horns in his study. In a time before, he may have had the mind to tear them from the wall and destroy them; flinging them into the fireplace or smashing them to dust, but that time has long passed. This cursed trophy had now become the last hope, perhaps the only way to communicate with whatever cruel spirit held him and his men in this nightmare. Some days he would scream at them, others would find him a sobbing mess, blubbering for any kind of answer or mercy. Sometimes when he looked at them, looming in the choking fog, he would swear they were wings of an angel, but of salvation or punishment, he didn't know. All he could do was sit and wait, hoping that one day this torment would end.

The smashing of wood and holler of voices snapped him from his mindless routine one day, and he thought that at last help had arrived. Perhaps a rescue team had successfully navigated the impossible shroud, determined to save those trapped within. He mustered his strength and hurried to the door, but he only found familiar haunted faces. It was the men who aided him in his killing of the Great Hart, having ripped through his front door in a savage state. Them and their families had been afflicted with this curse too, unable to escape from the mist that severed their ghostly village from reality. The crowd that poured through his door was all those trapped in this hell, and their gaunt bodies and crazed eyes told of their misery. It only took one look at their maddened state to know their intent, but the Baron had long lost the will to fight them.

They set upon him like a mindless horde, seizing him in their groping arms and wrapping a noose around his neck. They dragged him from his manor and to the center of town, where their desperate ritual would take place. They strung him up on a lamppost, dangling him as a sacrifice to whatever monstrosity was responsible. Though the rope bit his neck and stole his breath, he didn't die. He didn't even pass out, as the fog once again fought off the sweet darkness. Though he kicked and squirmed on the end of the rope, the townsfolk simply stared, waiting for death or another horrid spirit to bring this ritual to an end. But for hours he hung from that noose and no phantom came to claim him. The townsfolk raged and despaired at this outcome, furious that they were not free from this horror. So instead they set upon his manor once again, leaving him to dangle and choke. They tore through his home and took everything they could use as supplies. Food, clothes, blankets and every useful scrap was plundered and prepared. If the cruel gods would not release them, then they would find a way out themselves. They had failed before, as the mist always spat them back out into the cursed town, but their maddened minds would not be swayed. With all the supplies they could muster, they vanished into the endless fog, leaving the Baron to hang from this crude gallows.

His cursed fellows never reappeared as he swung from that rope, as if this savage offering truly bought them freedom. He dangled uselessly from the lamppost, choking but never dying. He waited for either his men to return or for the reaper to finally come for him, but no one came. There were times he saw figures, with twisted antlers and impossible limbs, but all they did was stare and vanish into the nothingness. There was a wonder if he would spend eternity up here, struggling for worthless breath, but an odd thing happened. After who knows how long, the rope snapped and he plummeted to the cobblestone below. Though free from the rope, he had no desire to rise to his feet. He just lay there in a useless heap and wept. His sorrow and misery was endless, until he felt a presence before him. Though his eyes were to the ground, he knew something was watching him.

He weakly raised his head to behold a bestial figure in the fog. It brought to mind the Great Hart, but this silhouette was too warped and mangled to be such earthly creature. But yet this beast did not fade or vanish, it continued to stand and stare at him. With the hope that this would at last be his moment of salvation, he shakily rose to his feet. Once up, the shadowy hart turned and strolled back into the mist. Desperate not to lose his chance at answers, he gave chase. He scrambled after it, but found nothing there. Instead, his flight brought him back to his manor. Once again lost, he stumbled back into his ransacked home, unfeeling to the destruction and emptiness around him. Before all this, he would be furious at the robbed goods and his violated castle, but now such material things were worthless. He walked aimlessly in his home, until he reached his study, where he planned to continue his endless rot. But when he glimpsed within this room, a sudden jolt raised him from this stupor.

The shadowy hart stood there, for just a moment, before it dissolved back into the fog. When it vanished, all that remained was his trophy, but it was no longer on the wall. The antler mount had fallen off and broken upon the floor, perhaps done during the looting. The antlers had not snapped, but further inspection showed that one was missing. Had the crazed villagers taken one with them? For what reason? He didn't know, but he felt that this lone antler was beckoning to him. The last fragment of the Great Hart, calling to the man who slew it. He took the once prized antler into his arms, and then felt that presence once more. He turned to find the mangled silhouette standing in the doorway, before walking out of view. Before all this, he had thought he had gone mad, purely imagining just another phantom, but now it seemed real. This was no illusion of a rotting mind, this was the spirit speaking to him, leading him to somewhere or something. For the first time in what felt like centuries, there was a hope, or at least something to follow. He took the antler with him and pursued the bestial phantom. All he caught were glimpses and flickers of movement, but it was enough to lead him to the backdoor of the manor. There he watched the ethereal hart pause at the edge of the swirling gray then walk into its maw. His body screamed at him to follow, but he paused in this action. The billowing fog had a bitter cold to it, and his emaciated body shivered at its touch. For the first time in a while, he felt that chill down to his bones, and he wondered if he could even survive such a journey. The villagers had taken blankets and furs with them to ward off the fog's cruel bite, so perhaps he should do the same. He didn't expect to find anything of use in his ransacked home, but luck smiled upon him with furs that the thieves had missed. So he bundled himself up the best he could and set off into the all consuming gray. At first he walked with new found vigor, given hope from this spirit. The world around him vanished into ceaseless fog, as if everything melted away and he was left alone in this miserable cloud. All he had to guide him was the faint shadow of the hart, always just out of reach. It beckoned him and he followed.     

What started with hope was eventually turned back to desperation and misery, as his journey seemed to be one without end. Even though he kept following, the hart kept moving. His confident stride was turning to exhausted stumbling, but he dare not stop. Pausing for a breath or quick rest was not allowed, as the hart wouldn't stop and wait. It would just keep trotting away, disappearing into the fog. Though he was exhausted, a new fear forced him to keep going. What if he were to wait too long and lose the trail? What if the hart abandoned him in this cold, miserable void? Though he welcomed death at this point, the idea of being trapped in this senseless freezing realm terrified him, so he followed. The journey just kept going and going, only being broken up by the occasional fallen log to climb over or gnarled trees to weave past. The Baron barely cleared these pathetic obstacles, as his momentary strength had long faded, but he still desired to keep going. There had to be an end to this madness, a purpose to this torture.

Even when his knees grew too weak to carry him, he crawled after the hart with antler in tow. At last, the shadowy hart came to a stop, and he collapsed to the earth. When he gained his breath, he finally looked up to see where the phantom had led him. To his horror, he found himself upon a familiar sight: a hefty spear, with its bloodied tip buried in the earth. Though this weapon had been taken back to his home after the successful hunt, he knew what its presence here signified. This was the spot where the Great Hart perished, this was the site of his greatest sin. The blood upon it now was surely the hart's, piercing a heart that once lay here in its final moments. He looked to the horrid shadow that brought him on this grueling journey, but it still did not speak. Instead it looked only to the antler in his hand.

His eyes followed the phantom's, wondering if this last piece of the beast was the key to solving this. Perhaps offering it to the spirit would appease the hart and let it move on from this world. Frantic, he held the antler to the shadow, holding it high with head bowed, hoping this bit of humility would earn him mercy. He felt the antler quiver in his hand, as if it was becoming alive. Then it was plucked free from his grip, springing upwards into the fog. Surprised, he dared himself to look up, to see if this was indeed his final test. When he turned his face to the heavens, he found only pain. Like an ivory bolt, the antler shot down and embedded itself into his head. The sawed stump burrowed in like a parasite, fusing to skin and bone. The agony blinded him, and it was only the insidious influence of the choking fog that kept him from passing out. When he regained his senses, the antler was now a part of him, erupting from his skull like a horrid growth. He whimpered before the uncaring hart, that still only stared. He quivered in pain and confusion, wondering what was the point of all this. Why torture him like this? Hadn't he suffered enough? Why did it bring him here? To mock him? To teach him a lesson? He didn't know and it drove his crumbling mind to madness. With what little strength he had, he got to his knees and screamed out to the terrible hart.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO!?" He shrieked at the top of his lungs, shredding his vocal cords in this one desperate plea. The guttural cry echoed through the mist, but the spirit of the Great Hart did not flinch. It seemed the Baron's cries fell on deaf ears, or at least the hart's. Though the phantom didn't react in the slightest, something responded from deep in the fog. A terrible sound, one you would hear from the darkness of your nightmare. It was like the growl of a tortured beast, a cry that can only come from a ravaged throat. It was the first sound he had heard in the entire eternity of this pointless journey, and it chilled him to the core. Then more came from the void, more horrible rumbles and barks, like the baying of rabid dogs. The hart stood still as a statue, as the first figure emerged from the fog. It took the Baron a moment to realize what he was looking at had once been human, as this beast was truly grotesque. The clothes and furs they had worn were shredded to ribbons, hanging off their skeletal frame like flaps of flayed skin. Beneath these torn garments was skin ravaged by scars and time, where old wounds had been healed and torn open again and again. The reason for this was seen in their gnarled hands, whose nails had grown to sickening lengths. Their face was barely visible from the tangled curtains of hair that spilled from their head. The only thing that could be seen was a pair of crazed eyes set above a gnashing maw of crooked, shattered teeth.

The Baron fell back in fear, disgusted and terrified by the wretched creature before him. The hair of its head and hide made it look like some terrible animal, which was almost true when one looked into those bloodshot eyes. Humanity was long gone from this vile creature, replaced with the mania of a wounded starving beast. As he gaped in horror at the grunting, slavering abomination, more emerged from the fog. Each was coated in overgrown hair, erupting in clumps from head, chin, limbs and back. It nearly masked the torn clothing on their emaciated forms, but enough remained for the Baron to recognize pieces of it. These furs and coats had once been in his very own closet, until one violent raid. As the crowd of rabid man beasts grew, the Baron realized he was now faced with the hunters and their families, those who had strung him up and dared journey into the fog. Whatever they had found in that desperate journey had changed them, driving them to some bestial madness. They looked as if they had been lost for centuries, kept alive by this terrible noxious mist.

The Baron was horrified by the maddened beasts, and wondered of his own fate. When he met their mindless gaze, he knew exactly what was in their shattered minds. A rumble of sickening growls rose from these beasts, and vile quivering jaws dripped with saliva and rot. Their long nails clacked against each other, eager to taste flesh and blood. The Baron stumbled back, his feeble limbs failing him once more. He looked to the terrible form of the Great Hart, hoping that what was about to happen was merely an illusion. What he saw in those eyes was not mercy. For the first time throughout this entire horror show, the spirit spoke to him.

"Run."

The crowd of mindless man beasts let out a terrible shriek, and he ran. Though his legs were too weak to carry him, he still ran, galloping and stumbling on all fours to escape the horde of ravenous animals. They clawed after him, letting out guttural howls and obscene barks as they tore through the fog. He ran, even though his body screamed and burned. He ran because he could feel those nails rake against his furs and haunches whenever he slowed in the slightest. Though the coat suffocated his sweating, exhausted frame and the antler hung heavy like a leaden crown, he ran. There were times he screamed and begged for his former men to stop or for the hart to grant him mercy, but words could not escape from his lips. His vocal chords were damaged beyond repair, releasing only frightened bleats and shrieks of a tortured animal. His voice found no ears or reason, so he ran. He ran because that was all he could do...

This is where the storytellers grow silent, claiming this is the end of the tale. If this is the true end of the Baron and his fellow men, there is no way to tell. The town continues to be nameless and lost, forever swallowed by the noxious mist. The tortured souls of this tale are nowhere to be found, so one cannot ask them. The only way one can ever know the truth is to somehow discover that ghostly village and see for yourself. But none hope for such a thing, because once you enter, you can never leave. Entering the fog is entering a realm of unending gray, where rest and death cannot find you. Where the choking mist violates your very essence, and unyielding clouds steal away your senses. It is a fate that makes everyone shudder when they see the morning mist, or the eerie fog of a darkened forest. It makes one wonder if they have stumbled upon this cursed place and have set foot into a terrible reeking hell. Most who hear this tale are quick to flee from these simple clouds, convinced that they will whisk them away to this horrible fate. It sounds like a silly thing, but these folk swear to it. They claim to catch a whiff of that pungent odor, of that chilling bite of the fog. And as they flee they swear they hear those terrible sounds, ones that will haunt them for the rest of their lives. Those guttural barks and howls of hunting dogs, and the tortured cry of desperate fleeing hart....  

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

A long time ago I posted the Spirit of Hartshorn, which spoke of a town shrouded in foul mist, brought on by a greedy Baron. There was a continuation planned for it, but obviously I have taken my sweet time posting it.

[astrangertomykin]

A Soul to Guide You

Read here on A03

Once when they were younger, camped out in some hidden corner, Will had mapped out the night sky above them. Orym had clung to his every word as Will described how the stories of Exandria were written in the constellations, how the moons watch over them altogether. He knew nothing of the world above them but the way Will spoke about it all it almost felt like he did. Will had shone so bright, he encapsulated Orym’s entire world, his own moon brightening his night sky and side by side they would create their own stories worthy of the stars; then suddenly, all too soon, Orym’s world had been thrust in darkness.

These last several years Orym felt like he was just fumbling in the dark. A massive void swallowed him each night, suffocating him under the weight of his grief. Zephara has been too much in the end, with pity around each corner he turned. Orym couldn’t even bear to be near Nel, the guilt pulsing in his ear each time - it should have been him. The rest of Tal’dorei was not much better, everywhere he went the night sky felt cold. They were meant to explore Exandria together and now everything just felt like it existed to mock him. Catha was his only solace through those first few months, a mere imitation of the real thing.

Then the Crown Keepers dragged him into their world and the Tempest sent him on a breeze across the shore and it slowly became easier to carry on. There were people who depended on him, a purpose driving him forward (at last), a new chapter he was carving for himself. He didn’t have Will by his side to reassure him but he could be there for the others around him as they ploughed their way forward. Orym finally felt like he was beginning to belong just when Otohan plunged his world into darkness again.

Orym stumbled through the next few days as if on autopilot, the darkness wrapped around his torso. All that mattered was getting Laudna back. Orym ignored his muscles stretching too far, fought sleep until it dragged him under. Walking around the others, around Imogen, the guilt threatened to pull him under - it should have been him. There was a small reprieve where he hoped maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to breathe. The laps easing up just enough for him to raise his end above the waters and free his lungs, the moon seemed slightly brighter. The toxic crawled him back, mixed with the coppery tang of blood, and Orym felt lost all over again.

It felt like an eternity had passed before he found himself on the edge of the Silver Sun, clutching the sending stone in his hand, praying for some kind of response. Dorian hadn’t always understood but he always offered a small boost when things felt bleak. Everything was overwhelming. Trying to be strong for everyone was exhausting but how could he burden them with everything? The darkness was stronger than he ever was, buried in his chest like vines wrapped around his heart. Even the soft glow of the moon on his skin was lost on him now. The overwhelming sense of failure pounding in his ear, the void curling around his vision. So loud and suffocating and dark, swallowing and ripping an-

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The shadows ebbed and faded to the corners of Orym’s periphery as Ashton spoke, slowly pulling him back to the surface. It was always something they were able to do when everybody else seemed stuck in their own chaos in a beautiful ironic kind of way. Ashton always managed to surprise themself in that regard but Orym knew better. When you’re used to losing everything around you it just somehow became easier to be there for others. Probably the only other one who understood the weight of carrying your pain with you.

Glancing up it was hard to ignore the opalescent structure in Ashton’s head, the way it reflected off the gold that fractured their skin; it was breathtaking. Orym gingerly placed his hand on Ashton’s arm, their hands brushing one another as Ashton solidified the touch. It was nice having moments like this between it all, a shoulder to fall on and joking about pranking Chetney. Like a weight was being lifted off his shoulder, shared with someone else. He had that with the others, sure, especially Fearne who had stuck by him for so long but something about Ashton just made everything easier.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Be in in a minute.”

“Alright.”

Orym let himself sit in the silence for a few moments more, the sending message from Dorian coming through at last causing a slight smile. As he looked up at the sky it seemed so much brighter than before, the moons’ light dancing on his skin. After being trapped in the vastness of it all over the recent weeks he felt at peace pulled out from the depths. Any weight he once had vanished into the night for the evening, allowing him a chance to breathe. Not gone, never gone, but eased for a time.

Flexing his hand Orym stared up at the moon, something tugging at his heart. Only moments ago he had nearly lost himself in the grief of it all and now, somehow, he found himself on the other side. It was almost as if Will had known, had known his light this time was not enough and reached out to the next available source, a star to guide him back home. No one else had managed it quite that well before in such a short amount of time. Orym didn’t know if he was ready to unpack what any of that meant just yet. There was still so much ahead of them.

“I miss you too,” he spoke out to Will, staring back at Catha as it beamed down on him. “I miss you too.”

Standing up Orym took one last look at the night sky, memories of Will and him all those years ago dancing in his head, before making his way back into the belly of the Silver Sun. Exhaustion washed over him as he finally laid his head to rest and, for the first time in years, Orym dreamt of the stars.

[darkmatter-nebula]

Get ready for the promised "Lost But Now Found" AU One-Shot for Watching And Dreaming, my dear fellas! Colli and his family's final confrontation with Belos! Let's get ready to rumble!

One-Shot: Belos' Demise And A New Era Of Peace

It was a quiet day on the Boiling Isles. Colli had a very bad feeling! The small starboy with otherworldly fluffy lavender hair and a heart of gold sensed that something terrible was going to happen. Something involving Belos.

"Are you ok, Sunshine?" Hunter asked softly. "Something is going to happen, big brother! Something horrible!" Colli's small body was trembling. The young Grimwalker wrapped his arms around his beloved little brother.

Later, Colli decided to tell the rest of his family about his concern. "That doesn't sound good, Little Star. We should stay on guard." The Owl Lady turned into her Harpy form and took a flight through the Isles.

"Mom, be careful." Colli whispered. "She'll be fine, Little Cherub." Camila said softly. Darius and Raine agreed with her. "I hope you're right, Mami." The immortal and eternal child's big siblings pulled him into a hug to calm his nerves.

What no one suspected was, that Belos already was inside of The Owl House. The former Emporer managed to possess Raine. As soon as the Bard Coven Head noticed it, they immediately left the house to keep everyone safe.

Especially, their precious Little Songbird. Raine could feel Belos' sheer hatred for Colli. Belos took full control over Raine's body and was on his way to his old Castle. The goopy puritan gave up his plans for possessing Colli.

Belos wanted to control The Titan instead! His beating heart was still in the throne room. Belos left Raine's body and crawled into the direction of The Titan's Heart! Soon, Belos and The Titan became one! "Oh, no!" Raine whispered and ran back to the Owl House.

Meanwhile, Eda didn't fail to notice the familiar eyes of a certain puritan everywhere! "Little Star was right!" "Eda, what is this?!" King asked, clearly shocked. "Belos is possessing The Titan!" Raine called as soon they arrived home.

Colli, who heard everything, knew that he had to fight Belos. The kindhearted celestial boy was a pacifist through and through, but he was determined to protect everyone! Colli started to float. Hunter knew what Colli was about to do.

"Colli, we're not going to let you go alone! We will stay by your side, no matter what!" Luz spoke up what Hunter was thinking. "Ok. But promise me that you will not endanger yourselves! Unlike me, you aren't immortal." Colli chimed in.

Colli, his parents, his siblings and his Aunt Lilith with Hooty, were on their way to their final confrontation with Belos! The celestial boy's family made a silent agreement to protect Colli at any cost! Colli was blissfully unaware.

"Hello, my Little Battery!" Belos' booming voice spoke to Colli. "Don't you dare referring to him as your 'Little Battery', Belos!" Hunter was angry. Very, very, VERY angry! Belos was clearly amused and laughed manically.

Then, he targeted Colli with an attack! "NO!" Luz pushed her beloved little brother out of the way and took the hit for Colli. "I'm so glad that you are alright, Colli." Luz smiled. The small starboy had to watch his beloved big sister fade away. The whole family was devastated!

"No... please no... NOOOOO!" Colli was wailing. Luz, his savior, his amazing big sister, sacrificed herself to keep him safe. "How dare you... HOW DARE YOU TAKING MY BIG SISTER'S LIFE, BELOS?!" Colli was crying.

"Luz..." Camila was sobbing. "You are next!" Belos said as he looked at Colli. The eternal child was immortal, but he had no idea what would happen to him should he get hit by this powerful beam. Then, a miracle happened!

Luz was back and she had Titan powers. "LUZ!" Her whole family pulled her into a group hug. Colli was crying tears of joy as he cuddled close to her. "Awwww, I love you too, Colli! But we have to defeat Jerklos!"

Colli used his magic to tie up Belos with pretty pink bindings. "Luz, NOW!" The lavender haired starboy didn't know how long he could bind Belos. Hunter, Vee, Eda, Lilith, Hooty, Camila, Darius and Raine charged at Belos to weaken him.

Luz managed to make the finishing blow. "NOW EAT THIS, SUCKER!" Luz ripped Belos out the The Titan's heart. Belos slowly died. He asked for help and mercy, but it was useless. The former Emporer finally was gone for good! Luz, who lost her Titan powers again, couldn't believe that Philip Wittebane finally met his demise!

"You died for me, big sister..." Colli whispered as he floated up to press with infinite tenderness his forehead against Luz'. "Colli, you would've done the same for me! For everyone of us!" Luz kissed softly Colli's freckled cheek.

The sweethearted starboy with otherworldly fluffy lavender hair and his family knew that this was the beginning of a new era. An era of peace. On the Boiling Isles and in the Human Realm. Colli, who was expected by everyone from the Boiling Isles to become the new Emporer, still needed time to think about it.

The End

[cowboys-of-tombstone]

☆ Next >

      Tombstone, Arizona, the silver crowned jewel of the rugged West. This was in a time when mechanical innovation and high fashion clashed with moral decay and what some would describe as tenacious grit. A place where saints and sinners alike could plant their roots in their eternal struggle for survival.    Some of the most thriving sinners in this untamed land were from the criminal gang, The Cowboys, and their leader, Curly Bill Brocius.    When the late sun was warm and the breeze was gentle, Curly Bill and his posse of equally lethargic outlaws sat on the outside of one of the local establishments. The townsfolk marched everywhere and nowhere, much like ants scuttling across a carcass. As he wiped the sweat that lightly misted his brow, Billy and Ike Clanton arrived with a bunch of beers in their arms. “Just in time.” sighed Frank Stilwell, the first to nab a glass from the brothers. Drinks were passed all around to the half dozen cowboys.    “Here’s to some relief in this hellhole.” Tom McLaury cheered while clinking glasses with those close by.    “Ain’t that the truth.” Curly Bill agreed, wiping beer from his stauche. The day had gone by much like any other. A few shootouts up and down the main street and a few bar fights blowing up into murders, the usual. There was never a dull moment in Tombstone, except for those who have already seen it all.    Billowing smoke pulsed from Frank McLaury’s cigar with his face buried in the Tombstone Epitaph. “Huh. Some poor bastard in Tucson got his train robbed the other night. They think it was a solo job, ‘cause only a couple of gold bars were stolen. But they still don’t know how the slippery son of a bitch even got in.”    “Maybe we should take a trip to Tucson and help ourselves to the rest of the train, it's gotta beat what we're doing here." Curly Bill stretched in his chair.    “Don’t think so, boss.” Frank shook his head, "Place is crawling with police now that the train’s been compromised."    “Well, shit. There goes that, I guess.” Curly Bill figured as such, but damn, was he craving for some fun. Even if it was just a wild goose chase.    “Hey! Professor Gillman’s gonna be at The Birdcage in a bit. Why don’t we go see him catch stuff?” Barnes suggested, having already guzzled down his beverage.    The group turned to Curly Bill who shrugged and simply said, “Eh, why the hell not?”    Truly, they all knew that the cheap entertainment would not cure them of their depressive boredom, but it was better than sitting around and moping about it. The Cowboys rose from their chairs, some gracing the ground with a hearty spit, and began their march. Townsfolk stepped aside in the presence of the pack of jackals. Unblinking stares showered them even if they had no intent for trouble. Some of The Cowboys, such as Billy and Ike, returned the sneers in kind and watched as some averted their gaze. Curly Bill, on the other hand, relished the attention and threw winks and waves lazily.    That is until he noticed someone in the crowd facing away from them. Normally, the thought wouldn’t even occur to him, but that person, a woman, caught his sight from her long strawberry blonde hair. A slight breeze blew through the curls, emphasizing their wild wavy nature. She wore a denim blue jumpsuit with bell bottoms that hugged comfortably around her frame. The woman faced their direction, appearing to be lost from the constant turning of her head. Her front revealed that her jumpsuit was unbuttoned halfway to her midsection. Underneath, a blood red blouse complemented her large cherry amber eyes. The wind picked up and she held her cream colored hat with her matching leather gloves as she pulled along a platinum blonde stallion to her next destination.    Curly Bill shifted his mustache to one side, curious about the peculiar woman. He wasn’t the only one, as Billy then hollered, “Hey there, gingersnap! You lost or something?” The crowd of onlookers shifted their attention to the lone woman, and she sequentially turned towards the gang. The rest of the boys fell in the trend, and began to whistle and howl. Although the woman was looking in their direction, it seemed rather that she was looking past them before silently pulling her horse away and continuing on.    Billy bared his teeth in a snarled smile, readying to catch up with the woman. Suddenly, Curly Bill wrapped his arm around Billy’s chest, “Aw, let her go, son. There'll be plenty of birds at the theater who’d love to sing for ya.”    Content with their boss’s optimism, The Cowboys pushed on their way without much further fuss. All the while Curly Bill looked back one more time, only to find the woman and her horse had escaped his view.    As expected, Professor Gillman and his performance was less than stellar and was quickly made to dance out of terror of his feet being shot. Disappointingly, The Cowboys left the theater, soon after, out of disgust.    “Way to go Barnes!” snipped Tom McLaury, shoving Barnes harshly into the others. Soon the rest joined in and pushed Barnes into a circle and batted him with their hats.    “Hey, c’mon fellas! It was just a suggestion!” Barnes pleaded, trying to regain his balance.    “Well, if I’m gonna waste some money, it’s gonna be from gambling. You comin’, Ike?” Billy asked, taking a few steps towards one of the many bars surrounding them.    “Maybe in a bit, Bill and Ringo wanna stretch their legs and I reckon I’ll join ‘em.”    “Suit yourself, what about you, Stilwell?”    “Nah, me and the McLaury’s are fixin’ to smoke for a bit with that geezer from Shanghai.”    Curly Bill stepped forward and suggested, “Why don’t you just take Barnes and see if you two can win us all a refund? We’ll all catch up with you in a little bit.”    With that, the boys went their separate ways while Curly Bill, Johnny Ringo, and Ike set off to see what kind of trouble they could get into. It didn’t take long, however, when a loud pop erupted from one of the establishments.    A man floundered out of the building’s batwing doors, gulping for air as he clenched his crimson stained shirt. Another younger man followed, scrambling to the injured one’s side. Last to emerge was the same strawberry blonde woman from earlier, with two pistols drawn. The folks who had been meandering in front of the bar scattered for cover.    Curly Bill crossed his arms, waiting for the drama to unfold. He tilted his head to Johnny and whispered, “Who do ya got money on, Juanito?”    Johnny rolled his eyes and replied, “The winner, I’d guess.”    Curly Bill tsked and nudged Johnny’s elbow, all the while Ike watched somewhat crouched, eyes widened, and mouth slightly agape.    The woman carefully kept her sights on both men as the younger of them hissed, “You filthy, cheating bitch!” Suddenly, he reached for his holster, but before he could even draw his gun, the woman blasted both of her pistols; sending him to his knees, then the ground.    Hanging on by a single thread of life, the older man feebly reached for his own weapon, and was swiftly met with the same fate as his companion.    “What a woman!” gasped Ike, running his fingers through his beard.    No sooner after the shoot out ended that ol’ Marshall Fred White waddled onto the scene, pistol at the ready. A crowd began to form around them, obscuring the view for the three cowboys.    “I suppose that’s that, then.” Johnny Ringo shrugged.    “Yeah, she seems like a good time though.” Curly Bill noted, leading the three away from the scene.    “Yeah she does! Did ya see that head shot?!” Ike asked, imitating the woman’s duel wielding posture.    “I wonder what’s a woman like her doing around here. You don’t see someone like her all too often.” Johnny Ringo contemplated.    “Probably for the same reason as everyone else, to get a piece of this town, that is. But I agree with you, Juanito,” Curly Bill scratched his scalp, “Ya can’t help but wonder what someone like her is all about.”    Further intrigue crept into Curly Bill’s mind. This mystery woman was already easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. But to know that she could handle herself the way she did, had his mind ticking away like a swiss watch.    “And she was mighty purdy too, I wonder if she smells like good perfume?” Ike mumbled to himself, splashing some water from his canteen onto his face.    Johnny’s composure was only lost by the quick dart of his eyes to Ike and then back to what was in front of him.    Curly on the other hand, sufficed with a simple, “Shut up, Ike.”    Their walk had only just begun, and yet, the shock of the shootout had jump started some liveliness into their spirits.    “I’m feeling all red-blooded now, boys,” Curly Bill concluded as he patted his sides, “What say we go and find us some action.”    Ike and Ringo nodded in agreement as the trio began to bar hop throughout the main street, having enough bravado between them to fuel a rampaging elephant. Yet, no one was willing to return in kind. Each bar they went to left them with the same disappointing outcome. Normally, the respect and compliance from the rest of the town would have been precisely how they like it, and yet, even a single ounce of push back would’ve been just what the doctor ordered.    Before they knew it, the sun had already made its last call. Begrudgingly, their journey eventually landed them back to where Billy and Barnes were currently gambling away their funds.    “I don’t know why Bill likes to go to The Oriental.” Johnny Ringo grumbled as the group stalked near the entrance. “That knuckle dragger, Johnny Tyler, makes the joint deader than a funeral home.”    “Maybe that’s how Bill likes it.” Ike shrugged, stepping towards the establishment, “I like all the extra space it gives. I don’t need someone breathing down my neck while I’m playing cards.”    Inside The Oriental was just as barren as Johnny predicted, to no surprise. The marble statues, brass finish and floral décor was wasted on the presence of the low end, sloppy, sweaty, foul-mouthed dealer and the menagerie that orbited around him. Even Billy and Barnes, dusted as they were from the desert sands, were out of place next to the slobbish boars that sat around them.    “Howdy, Milt!” Curly Bill called to The Oriental’s owner and operator.    “Evening, Mr. Brocius.” Milt Joyce nodded with a welcoming smile, “What can I get ya?”    “I’m just gonna be at the faro table with my boys, we’ll see in a bit.”    Curly Bill walked up behind Billy and Barnes and gave them both pats on the shoulder. A sense of stillness and unease washed over the other patrons, despite the supposed friendly demeanor of The Cowboys.    “Say, you guys finally made it!” Billy remarked, peeking over his shoulder.    “Yeah, a shootout cut our walk short, and none of the bars were quenching our thirst. So we thought we’d drop in and see how you two were doing to help Barnes pay us all back.”    Barnes slightly shook his head, “We’ve been breaking about even so far. Not been all that lucky.”    “Well, keep at it!” Curly Bill chuckled as he slapped them both on the back.    “Hey, Johnny Tyler, set me up for the next round. At this rate they ain’t ever gonna get my money's back!” Ike said as he shoved another patron out of a chair.    “Y-yes, sir.” Johnny Tyler stuttered, his usual bravado shot, “Would anybody else wanna join?”    Always the hot shot, Johnny Tyler had the appearance and temperament of a bulldog. Rumor had it, he ran a lesser gang in Tombstone. But even he was wise to the fact that his pack was outclassed by The Cowboys in every sense of the word. In their presence, Johnny Tyler made sure that his barks and other overbearing acts were mummed.    Johnny Ringo and Curly Bill looked to each other with knowing grins. “Why, Johnny, thank you kindly for the invitation!” Curly Bill answered, pulling up a chair.    Things turned around and slowly they began winning their money back. Cigar smoke crept through the room, like the spirit of a serpent, billowing and coiling around the faro table. Despite this, Johnny Tyler showed saintly restraint with his throat scorched and his eyes on the verge of tears.    “Hey, Mr. Tyler, are you feelin’ alright?” Barnes asked with heavy smoked breath seeping between the cracks of his bobcat grin.    “I-I might have to head home soon, fellas. You'll wanna grab another table in a minute.” Johnny Tyler swallowed the heave back down his mouth. The group laughed and continued to blow noxious rings in his face.    Just when Johnny Tyler might’ve been ready to pass out, the front doors swung open. Rhythmic clicking of boots echoed on the hard wooden floor, turning all eyes towards the source.    “Good evening, Miss. What can I get for ya?” Milt waved.    “Just get me a beer, I’m parched.”        It was none other than the strawberry blonde woman, much to the surprise of The Cowboys.    Johnny Ringo leaned over to Curly Bill and whispered, “Guess she got off, huh?”    Barnes interjected, “From what?”    “Ya shoulda seen it, Barnes.” Ike butted in, “She gunned down a couple of fellas down the street for callin’ her a cheater. It was something else!”    The woman sauntered over to the bar, leaning on it while Milt served her a beer. Billy contemplated talking to her again, Curly Bill stood in preparation to approach her, as Ike floored it over to her side.    “Excuse me!” Ike called out. The woman turned her attention and found Ike unblinkingly staring inches from her face, “I saw what’cha did earlier to those fellas you banged up. I was just wonderin’, ma’am, are you married?”    Curly Bill grabbed the back of Ike’s shirt collar and hauled him off, shouting, “Get the hell out of here, Ike!” before sending him off with a kick in the rear. Ike waddled over to the faro table while Barnes and Billy barely contained their laughter.    “Oh, shut the hell up, the both of ya!” Ike sneered as he flopped down on an empty chair.    “Don’t mind him, we all thought you handled yourself pretty well out there. So what happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” Curly Bill probed as he leaned onto the counter.    “After you win ten hands in a row at poker, you start to seem a little suspicious to others. Those two men were no different, one swung at me and I shot him. He fell outside and, well, I’m sure you saw the rest.” the woman explained with a warm smile as she gingerly sipped her beer.    “And what about Ol’ Fred? What kinda trouble did he put you through?”    “You mean the marshal? He didn’t give me no trouble at all. There were more than a few folks who backed up my story. So he let me go without any skin off my back.” The woman continued as she turned to face Curly Bill with one hand holding her chin.    “I figured as such, but the real question is, did you actually cheat?” Curly Bill smugly asked as he raised his brows.    The woman laughed then tightly smiled, “That’s not part of the story, stranger.”    “Then how about we start with your name then, Miss?” Curly Bill leaned in a little closer.    “Suzette McCreed, it’s a pleasure, Mr…?”    “Curly Bill Brocius. It is a pleasure indeed.” Curly Bill agreed, taking her hand and pecking it.    “The leader of The Cowboys graces my presence? If I had known, I would’ve gotten all dolled up just for the occasion.” Suzette said coyly with half lidded eyes.    “No need, Ms. McCreed. You look lovely as is.” Curly Bill retorted, earning a cheeky smile with a half cocked brow. “But I must ask, what’s a lady like you doing here?”    “Ah, straight to the point, Mr. Brocius?”    “Please, call me Curly Bill.”    “Of course, Curly Bill. Well, I just got finished with a job back in Tucson. I’m only here to recuperate for a couple of days before I head out.”        “And what is your profession?”        Suzette briefly scanned the bar before leaning in, “If I may be honest, it wasn’t a wholly professional one.”    “Oh?”    “Yes, I… take things that people tend to miss, and when they do, I'll be long gone by then.”    “I understand now, we come from similar business backgrounds.”    “That's a good way to put it.”    “So who do you run with, then?”    “No one at all. Except for me.” Suzette admitted, downing the last of her glass.    Curly Bill titled his head and his smile dropped, “Is that so? How have you been handling yourself?”    Suzette leaned into her shoulder with a sly gleam in her eye, “I haven't stolen from The Queen of Britain, but a girl can handle herself well enough.”    Curly Bill began to rub his hands together. The Cowboys were always looking for new members and one who was easy on the eyes and an accomplished criminal was always a net bonus. He shifted his gaze towards Suzette and flicked his tongue through his smile, “We could use someone like you. In The Cowboys, we work together to bring in the big haul and we wouldn't mind sharing with ya.”    “Do you always offer memberships this quickly?” Suzette softly asked.    Curly Bill responded, all the while catching glances of her figure, “Your… attributes aren't something I want to pass up on.”    “Ahh, I see.” Suzette couldn’t help but chuckle, knowing full well what the brazen scoundrel was looking for, “Thank you for the offer. But I think I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t know what I'd do if I’m surrounded by handsome men, like yourself, all the time.” She tossed a wink and a smile his way, and rose from her seat. A few crumpled dollars fell onto the bar counter before Suzette made her way out the door.    Dang nabbit! It was as if a one-of-a-kind treasure slipped through Curly Bill's fingers. However, he recalled that Suzette had mentioned staying in town for a few days. That might just give him enough time to find a way to convince her to stay. And just maybe, he could also convince her to be a Cowboy… amongst other things.    Curly Bill clapped his hands together and felt the blood rush through them. His mind was hard at work scheming a way to meet his ends. Shooting himself off of the bar, he waved to the boys, hollering, “I’m gonna head out, boys. Gonna drop by and see if I can pay the ol’ Chinese geezer a visit for a smoke. I’ll catch up with you all tomorrow!”    Out into the moonlight, Curly Bill swayed to a beat in anticipation. It had been a while since he had his mind on a single woman in particular, but he couldn’t help but feel it was with good reason.

 Speedpaint Video:

I wanted to do something with ol’ Curly Bill, since there was no material out there for him. xP I hope you guys enjoy the story as much as I did writing and making the art for it.