#ghostly-scripts

[ghostly-penumbra]

Rejection

Ao3

Summary: In a world where Danyal al Ghul is resurrected by his mother after his death, the child turns down the idea of going with his biological father, the feared Batman.

In this one, he doesn't.

Most things don't change. Unfortunately, some do.

A what-if scenario from my dannymay entry "Reflection".

-

Look, I don't actually hate Damian, but I stumbled upon far too many "Danny forgives his abuser/murderer because he was just a kid and forgiving us good and siblings must stick together 4evr 🥺 uwu" and fuck that noise, I say as an abused sibling.

in the first part of this series, Danyal wondered what would have happened had he gone to Batman when he arrived to the USA

here we find out 3:)

- - -

Bruce watched his sons go with a smile on his face when Danyal finally reached out and held Jason’s offered hand.

It was a victory, for Danyal to see that his brother wasn’t out to get him, that he didn’t intend to harm him.

That his brother wouldn’t kill him.

The smile slipped from Bruce’s face, and the detective found himself cursing Ra’s al Ghul yet again.

- - -

Danyal had arrived at the Batcave in the middle of the night whilst Batman and Robin were in the middle of patrol, and introduced himself to Alfred as Batman’s son. His words, his face and his eyes quickly had the vigilantes returning home.

Talia’s nose, Bruce’s chin still full of baby fat, Talia’s soft hair, almost like silk… Martha Wayne’s blue eyes.

Bruce had frozen mid-step when he saw him, so small , with clothes that didn’t fit him and only a small backpack on his tired little shoulders. And when the boy’s eyes –Martha’s same blue – landed on him, a myriad of emotions passed through them, almost too fast for the detective to read them: awe, fear, hope, relief… and when he spotted Robin, the fear came back, wariness, unease…

His Jason, in spite of growing quick to anger as of late, was still good with younger kids, and agreed to leave him alone with only some minor grumbling.

Once alone, the boy stood straight again, hands clasped behind his back and chin lifted up proudly even as he swam in his clothes. (So small.) His eyes, though, didn’t meet Bruce’s, and instead settled on his chin.

“Hello, my name is Danyal al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul…” He paused for a second, but then carried on, “and of the Batman.”

“I see.” Bruce barely managed to get out past the lump of emotion clogging his throat.

“I… mother and I have decided that Nanda Parbat and the League of Shadows is no longer safe for me,” his voice wobbled and broke and they both pretended it didn’t, “so she sent me here with you, if—if you will take me.”

Bruce breached the distance between them and knelt in front of his son with measured, projected movements.

“Danyal,” he said at last, “can I hug you?”

With a stunned expression, his son stiffly nodded, and just as slowly, Bruce wrapped his arms around him, tugging him towards his chest and feeling Danyal tentatively wrap his tiny arms as far as he could reach in turn.

“Danyal, what happened? Why now, at last, did your mother send you to me?”

“… I was murdered by Damian al Ghul—son of Talia al Ghul, grandson of Ra’s al Ghul and Heir of the Demon’s Head… my—my twin brother.”

- - -

It was always a challenge to track down the League’s movements and status, but not one Bruce ever cowered from.

Talia’s latest movements weren’t impossible to track, if you knew what you were looking at.

Places she hadn’t gone to in a long time, where he knew she had caches of valuables, money, safe-houses and the necessary means to disappear.

He could almost see her helping Danyal along, guiding him long enough to know he could make it to Gotham, until her father turned his eyes towards her once again, questioning her actions.

He searched further, from everything from the past seven years, to what they were currently doing.

He wished he could leave the country to have a more hands-on approach with the ever elusive League, but with Danyal only really relaxing—feeling safe— when Bruce was present, he had barely even left to go on patrol.

Despite their tense start, Bruce was grateful for Jason, from his acceptance of the paused patrols, his patience with Danyal, his understanding of the smaller boy’s situation, and his genuine desire to connect with him and be a good big brother.

It was a relief to Bruce, as a father, to see the anger that had been growing more and more in him be tampered down, easily put aside by his kindness, his gentleness.

- - -

“Do you like reading?”

Jason asked, smiling from his upside-down position in the couch on Bruce’s studio, where the man was working on police cases while he couldn’t go out and be Batman.

Danyal was glued to Bruce’s side, having been assured that it was okay for him to do so, was welcome, even, and he looked at his father from his periphery, gauging his reaction.

When he got a curious lifting of an eyebrow, Danyal frowned and his focus returned to Jason. “I don’t know.” He seemed pained to admit it.

Jason, though, didn’t let that put a damper in his plan, and beamed at the kid instead. “Wanna find out if you like children’s tales?”

This time, Danyal did turn his head towards Bruce, just a little, and the small frown on his face showed he was having difficulty deciphering Jason’s statement.

With an indulgent smile, Bruce carded his fingers through his youngest’s fluffy hair, feeling the kid relax under the touch.

“Jason is a fan of reading,” he explained, “and he’s trying to see if you two have that in common, and you just don’t know it yet.” Jason smiled and nodded, as much as he could in his position. “But mostly, he wants to share something he loves with you.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Danyal. “Uh, okay.”

Jason’s smile turned radiant, and he jumped from his spot, closing his eyes and gripping the back of the couch as the world straightened, but said with joy anyway, “I’ll be back in a second!”, and ran out of the room, no doubt towards their library.

Once the older boy was gone, Danyal finally turned towards him, glaring at the bookshelf behind them. He clenched and unclenched his chubby fist a few times, clearly thinking hard. Bruce had learned by now that it was best for him to let Danyal take his time—unlike Jason, who typically had to be encouraged into revealing his feelings.

“Father, I have only ever read academic and pedagogic papers, what if I don’t like what Jason loves?”

Bruce cupped Danyal’s cheek with one hand, a victory in his heart when his son leaned into the touch, when two days ago he had startled. “Did you love all the academic papers you read?”

After a second of thought, Danyal confessed, “I don’t know. I enjoyed the ones about astronomy, the other ones… not nearly as much.”

“Hmm. Then maybe you will like this better, or you won’t, and you can try to find something you do, Jason has a big collection, and the library is even bigger, I’m sure he’ll like to help you find out, if you allow him. But tell me, do you want to find out if you like fantasy and fairy tales better than academic texts?”

Danyal did stop to think about it, and then a spark of defiance entered his blue eyes, a small rebellion compared to what he had already done, but a rebellion nonetheless.

Bruce ever-active detective mind could tell his son was thinking of Ra’s, of his sure disapproval for such a frivolous topic, and felt his heart fill with pride when his son replied, rocking his whole body in a nod.

“Yes, I want to find out.”

When Jason returned, it was with his arms full of books, almost toppling over his hold.

“I got some variety here!” He put half of them on Bruce’s desk, closer to their father than to his little brother, and went back to his seat across from the room. “Got two copies of each one so you can have your own! You get to choose what to start with!”

Bruce spread the books out on his desk, over his paperwork, to let Danyal see the titles and covers.

“How about this one?” He suggested, pointing at one title in particular.

Jason, though, glared at him. “Danyal gets to choose.”

Bruce winked at him, but Jason’s frown only really abated when his little brother asked him, “What is The Little Prince about?”

And, in spite of the physical distance Jason respected, Bruce got to see his children grow closer.

- - -

Now here he was, down in the Cave, pouring over strategies on how to infiltrate one of the most guarded places on earth to rescue his son, get him out, and not allow the League to ever lay hands on either of the twins again.

“They made him a killer.” He lamented when Alfred approached to hand him another mug of coffee. “They’re only six… if only Talia had told me…” He massages his temples and closes his eyes, the map of Nanda Parbat burnt in his eyelids while he imagined a world where he got to raise both kids since infancy.

“The past is rarely what we want it to be, Master Bruce, we can only hope to influence the present so as to have a better future.” Alfred told him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder before taking his leave.

“If Damian is given the opportunity,” he muttered after a long moment of silence, drumming his fingers on the desk, “what kind of person would he become?”

“You would bring him here? After what he did?”

Bruce felt a stone drop in his stomach and he turned around to be met with Danyal, his sweet and shy youngest son, already clad in his star-themed pyjamas, staring him down even as he had to tilt his chin up to look him in the eye.

Straight in the eyes, instead of his chin or the bridge of his nose, where he felt safe looking in his shyness or nerves. Right now, his gaze was cold, a cold so great it burned you.

His tiny fists, clenched at his sides, were shaking, thumping against his thighs. If it was in rage or in fear, he couldn’t tell; both, possibly.

“Danyal.” He breathed out softly, carefully relaxing his posture and letting his hands fall palms-out by his sides. “Son, I know this isn’t ideal, but please listen to me, what Ra’s did to you is monstrous, to both of you; you are both just children…

“I promise I will keep you safe, and won’t let anyone hurt you, but I have to get your brother out of there, too, he’s not safe there. He’s only a child, Danyal, I can’t just leave him there.”

“Damian is not in danger, he is the danger! He murdered me and you don’t care!”

“Of course I do, if there was anything I could do to change it, to fix it, I would, but all I can do now is try to prevent it from happening again, to either of you; your brother is just a child too, who wasn’t taught any better-”

“ I knew better! I didn’t kill him !” Danyal screamed. His chest was heaving with laboured breaths, and his eyes shone with tears ready to fall. One of his hands went up to fist in his hair, tugging on it, and Bruce internally winced, trying to keep it off his face. “You—why—I can’t—you’ve only had me for a week, but you’ve already decided you love him more!”

Bruce had stood up, at the beginning of this, with measured movements, and now approached his youngest son the same way, with his hands spread out and taking a short step.

The only one he managed to take, before Danyal flinched back from him, eyes wide and afraid, sobs cutting short.

It was as if he had been stabbed in the gut, with the way he suddenly couldn’t breathe and how his knees would no longer hold his body and left him prostrated before his flesh and blood.

“Please, son, listen,” but the boy didn’t, instead bolting for the lift, almost falling into it when it opened, and leaving the cave with tears falling down his face, “Danyal!” Bruce called after him, watching him go.

And as he had sank into the floor, Bruce sank his head in his hands.

When he had regained enough of his composure, Bruce went back up into the manor, resolute in talking to his youngest. He was met, instead, with his second’s glare and anger.

“What did you do to Danyal?” Jason’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, his knuckles white and his blue gaze cold.

Bruce really didn’t like the sense of déjà vu he was getting.

“Not now, Jason, I have to talk with your brother.” He tried to go past him, but his son wasn’t budging. “Jason, move .”

“Why? So that you can go and make him cry more ?” He spat on his face, making Bruce flinch.

“Move aside, Jason, that’s an order.”

Changing his stance, Jason was no longer an unmoving wall, but someone prepared to dodge a blow. It was just as bad as with Danyal flinching back from him, even if this time he didn’t let his body fail him.

“Make me.”

“Jason,” he pleaded, “I have to fix things with your brother.”

“How? Breaking down his door? Barging in through his window? He locked himself in, he won’t even say a thing to me!”

And that obviously hurt Jason, who had adored his little brother the moment he knew about him, and for whom he had worked so hard in earning his trust, step by small step.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

“I need to make things right, son.”

“Then think of how you’re gonna do that first!”

And with that, Jason marched off to Danyal’s door, sitting down to keep watch against their father.

-

Jason didn’t barge in through Danyal’s window, he knocked on the windowpane first, and waited patiently for his baby brother to decide to let him in himself.

“Hey, buddy,” he started, looking at the boy’s red and swelling eyes, knowing he had cried himself to sleep, “you haven’t touched the food Alfie left ya, and you gotta eat if you wanna grow up strong.” He handed Danyal the lunchbox he had brought with him and continued. “I know my cooking isn’t as amazing as Alfie’s, but I think I’m okay.”

Danyal bit down on one of his sandwiches with a thoughtful face.

“It’s good.” He declared after swallowing.

Jason beamed at the praise, and hurried to offer the bottled juice he had brought as well. “It goes better with the sandwich than tap water!”

Danyal took it, and they sat down next to the wall, silent as Danyal ate.

“Thank you, Jason.” His little brother told him, handing him back the lunchbox.

“No problem.” There was another moment of silence, and Jason hated having to break it. “If you don’t wanna talk,” he started slowly, “about what happened with Bruce, you don’t have to; but, if you don’t wanna keep it in, you don’t have to do that either.”

Danyal obviously mulled it over, putting a hand on his nape and rubbing gently, and Jason waited, thinking of what could’ve happened and what he could say to it.

Maybe he should have expected it, knowing Bruce for years already, knowing Batman, but Danyal’s words still left him speechless.

“Father wants to bring Damian here.”

-

“Are you out of your fucking mind?! How could you even think it was a good idea?!”

“Jason, Damian is a kid who needs a better environment, not to be in the belly of the League of Assassins, he needs his family!”

“And Danyal? First Ra’s sacrifices him so that his chosen heir doesn’t grow weak , and now you sacrifice him so daddy’s littlest murderer can come and play house!”

“… Damian is my son.”

“So is Danyal. Doesn’t he matter?”

Alfred cut in with a harsh, worried look, “Sirs. Young Master Danyal is gone.”

The vigilantes turned as one to a worried Alfred, meeting his panic with theirs.

-

Everything fell apart so quickly after that.

They looked for Danyal, of course they did, but it was like his son was a ghost; he had only taken two extra changes of clothes—from the full wardrobe they had just gotten for him days ago—, some money in cash and some food they hadn’t seen him take from the kitchen.

He knew how to travel by himself, that was how he had gotten to Gotham in the first place, and even if he hadn’t wanted to use it, he had had infiltration training, knew how to not be noticed, how to look as if he fit in a place he wasn’t meant to be in.

He could have already left the continent, for all Bruce knew.

Not long after, Jason left for Ethiopia.

Him, who had a goal in mind other than leave this place , Bruce managed to track, reading his hurried movements and seeing, as well, another plot emerging around him, the jaws of danger closing on his son, who had walked into a trap as he looked for a good parent.

Batman arrived too late.

“Danyal is gone and Jason is dead.” His voice was rough with disuse, after having screamed in sorrow until his throat burned. “What could I even offer Damian if I could bring him here?”

Disappointment? Failure? Death?

Alfred didn’t answer him, but he didn’t expect him to. Whilst looking at Jason’s battered Robin suit inside the glass case, they knew there was no answer.

He allowed himself another short moment of sorrow, and then pulled himself together. He had work to do.

“If Ra’s finds out Danyal was here, he could look for him, he could find him.” He could have him killed again. “Outside the two of us, no one is to know that we even met him, that we knew he existed .”

“I shall dispose of his belongings, then.”

Bruce could hear the well-hidden pain in Alfred’s voice, but this had to be done, it was now the only thing he could do for Danyal.

Had his small son stayed, it would have been unavoidable for the League of Assassins to find out, but Bruce had been ready for that, ready to fight the Demon’s Head for his children, to make sure they were safe.

Now, though, he knew he couldn’t promise that. The safety of a warm home was not something he could provide, as a father.

All he could do was hope, against his paranoia and his instincts, that Danyal would survive out there, that he could live.

And all he had left, all he could do, was to keep on his crusade against crime, hoping a better world would treat his son kindly where he had failed.

- - -

and then Danyal meets an eccentric but loving ghost-obssessed family that adopts him and love him very much and don't dissect him because that tropes fucking bores me too fr

and if he ever meets Damian again and sees for himself he has changed for the better and regrets his actions, he still doesn't forgive him and doesn't reconnect with him, because he doesn't owe him neither his forgiveness nor his love just because they're blood 😊

i have Thoughts about why Danyal was deemed the weak one (it's ableism) by Ra's, and how it connects him and separates him from Bruce as well

please leave a comment with your thoughts! unless you're a scammer, I won't fucking buy a comission if you spam me!

[caramel4chu]

In honor of the TADC Steamily today. Bee Ghostly.

[askthe-iii-shipchildren]

Ghostly/Dead Flame doomed yaoi 😔😔

[wormyland]

so many wannabe “filmmakers” around here who can’t keep a real job are like “i’m gonna get a movie deal! all i have to do is go to parties and do drugs with other wannabe filmmakers!”

[polarfarina]

Internet historian stealing his scripts directly from articles is hardly surprising... god damn though

[nagaruru]

sometimes im like maybe im not autistic maybe it was a mistake and then the spirit of meganebu takes over my body

[ghosttrolls]

Last month I was watching Danny phantom with friends (by request, one of my friends said he wanted to watch it with me) and as episodes played I wasn't even looking at the screen but I said lines along with the characters sometimes and the one friend was like "wow you're like really into this show..." YEAH. You knew this going in, I thought

[on-the-clear-blue]

Dead Man's Diner pt 7

Hearing the chime of rhe bell above the door, Danny mentally prepared himself before poking his head around the corner "Heya! I will be with you in one hot sec!"

Rushing around the kitchen, Danny set the chili to simmer and quickly cleaned himself up before coming back to greet his newest customer.

Stepping upt to the bar, Danny put his best customer service smile on and opened his mouth to speak, but the words that came out were not in English.

"Hey there! Welcome to Big C's diner what can i..." Blinking a bit before frowning, Danny looked closer at his customer, his eyes flickering a bright green as he squinted at the man.

Because either this man was the very strong revenant that had claimed Crime alley as his huant, or there some how was a 4th Halfa in the world.

---

Jason found the little diner comfortable, more up to date than the typical dive that was in the Alley, there wasn't even any blood splatter in the back booths!

He kinda didn't like how there was only a single person working there at night, being so close to the Alley and all, but that was easily fixed if he just happened to come around in his Red Hood outfit.

Sending a smirk like smile to the teen that came out from the kitchen, who had the fakest smile that Jason had ever seen outside of a gala.

But his smirk slowly slipped as the kid spoke, his words both sounding clear and distorted at the same time, he could make out words but it was very clearly not words at the same time.

Then, the kid's eyes flashed, and Jason had seen those eyes before, he had seen them in the mirror more times than he was willing to admit.

(Holy shit this kid is about to have a Pit episode in front of me...how the fuck did this kid get in the pits?) Jason thought as he leaned back into his seat, his hand instantly going to where his guns usually were, but only grasped at air.

(Right...forgot those at home...) He thought, settling instead to set his hands on the counter, Jason narrowed his eyes at the teen

But just like that, the green was gone, and the teen cleared his throat, "Sorry about that, um, welcome to Big C's, what can I get ya?"

---

Danny gave a weak smile, he didn't exactly want to throw down with this potential halfa, sure he liked a good ghostly welcome every now and again, but he just cleaned up and he would like his diner to stay that way thank you!

The man across from him glared for amoment longer before shaking his head, "Shit, ugh...gimme a coffee and...what's your special today?"

Reaching for the coffee pot, Danny felt a rumble in the diner cart, and there was suddenly a chalk board on the wall behind him.

Pouring his customer a mug, his brain paused for a moment, translating the ghost script before he spoke "Cadavers chili hotdogs, made with 100% not person meat...I promise neither are made out of people, definitely didnt seen any bodies when I made it my guy."

---

Staring at the blackboard that Jason was very much sure wasn't there a moment ago, he felt his chest tighten and ache as he read the...sigils? Words? They were definitely something and he totally shouldn't know what they mean.

Biting back a snort at the dry comment, Jason focused on him "I will take two...Danny? That your name or just the name on the aprin you got?"

Jason was totally not digging for information, because he totally wasn't a Bat or a Bird, and he totally didn't have an urge to know everything about the person across from him.

Getting a dry chuckle from the guy on the other side of the counter, who could only shake his head, "Sadly, that's my name, I will be back in a sec with your food, no running off tho' ya hear? Already dealt with dine and dashers once this week."

Letting out a chuff, Jason kept his eyes around the room, he knew logically he should be more freaked out by this whole experience, but he couldn't help but feel his body relax and his mind comfortable slow.

Holding the cup of coffee in both hands, he took a long sip and memories hit him harder than a crowbar.

It was his mother's coffee, not the bitch that sold him out but his mama, Catherine, the woman that struggled to keep him happy and fed.

It was the watered down brew, stretched to make it last longer.

It was milky and sweet with sugar packets pilfered form diners such as this and powdered milk he used to steal from the grocery store just for her.

His mama gave up so much for him, why couldn't he just do one little petty theft for her?

His heart aches again, and the intense feel of the pits roar in his ears, but they weren't calling for blood, the pits crooned in nostalgic heart break.

Usually remembering before his death was a trigger, was something that made him rage, but right now? He could only mourn for the mother and son that used to cuddle up together under a ratty blanket, of the mother that whispered stories to him during long quiet nights, of the woman that he had found dead on one such quiet night.

---

Tossing on the last bit of fresh diced onions, Danny had a cheesy grin on his face as he brought the plate to the front, mouth opening to speak before noticing his customers disposition.

He was hunched over on himself, looking small (which was impressive for a man thst looked twice his size and 4 times more muscular)

Tears were streaming down his face as he stared at the now half full mug, for some reason it felt heart breaking to see.

Setting the plate down carefully in front of the man, Danny placed a hand on his shoulder, "It's okay man...your okay bud." Awkwardly Patting his customers shoulder, Danny felt a bit of panic, he wasn't Jazz he didn't know how to like, console people!

It took a few minutes for the man to calm, and Danny handed him a few paper towels to clean himself up, patting him on the back one last time, Danny let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, "Well...um, hope that the coffee is so bad that it made you cry, I-uhh, could comp it if you want?"

The man just shook his head, "Fuckin' hell, ain't bad, just...God damn it..."

---

Rubbing at his eyes Jason huffed, "Sorry for, um....blubbering on ya like that..

don't usually get teary at coffee, that's more of Timmer's shtick, just tastes...tastes like my mom's coffee when I was a kid..." shaking his head, Jason looked at the chili dogs, they still steamed, the cheese now melted on nicely.

Danny just nodded, "Yeah, some reason i have gotten a few comments on that" shrugging his shoulders, he started to figgle with a cloth, wipping down the counter as he spoke "Meh, Gotham is fucked up and I don't want to even begin to try and figure out."

Croaking out a laugh Jason dragged the plate of food closer, "Fucking right about that...though if you keep making it like that you got yourself a regular customer."

Reaching a hand across the counter, Jason gave Danny a weak smile, "Names Jason, nice to meet ya."

Taking the hand, Danny gave a smirk back, "Got it, one sad cup of coffee for you then-" Snapping his head over as he heard a beeping sound, Danny got a panicked look on his face "Oh shit! My cookies!"

---

Storming to the back, Danny ran to the oven, throwing it open, scrambling for the oven mits, he phased a hand through them instead of tugging them on, and quickly pulls the smoaking batch of sweets from the rack.

Plopping them on the counter, he hears the oven snap shut as he sighs, turning to thank the diner, he pauses to see the sight of a man he was hoping that he would never have to see again.

"Oh little Bager, King of the Realms making food for the common folk? How the great have fallen.." Vald said with a viscous grin, his hand reaching up to flip off the oven, "Did you think I wouldn't find you? Thought you could rum off and not tell dear old Uncle? Don't worry Bager, while old Vlad might not come around to vist much..."

There was a flash of black light and where a man once stood was a ghost, his grin pulled back devilishly "I am sure Plasmius will make up for it very...very well."

---

Laughing a bit as he watched Danny scramble inot the back, Jason stared at the food, he was still hungry but...he held an apprehension of sorts, was this going to bring back memories? Would they be good like the coffee or...

His thoughts were cut off as a body was through through the deviding wall from the front of the house to the kitchen.

Bolting up out of his seat, he watched as Danny stepped out of the hole in the wall, shaking out his fist as he did, "I really don't have the fucking time for you Plasmius, don't you see I have a customer?"

Jason stared as the body that was punched through the wall, that looked mangled, twisted and broken start to twitch and crack back into place, limbs bending back from positions they should never be, and then the man sat up, a feral grin on his lips.

(Really fucking bad day for not having my God damn guns.)

[soapcloth]

Watching some stupid ghost hunting clips and can’t stop thinking about Soap…

Being a cheesy ghost hunting show host and getting great staged footage of a really talkative spirit. It’s all ghostly sexually-repressed flirting and sad backstories that you play into for content. You truly believe it’s just another raunchy-scripted episode cobbled together by your producer until you try to end the session and suddenly you can’t speak. It’s fine though, all of this stuff is nonsense anyway, right?

Days later you still can’t shake the feeling of a large, overbearing weight hanging off your shoulders, split-second glimpses of sapphire eyes behind you in the mirror, and constant wandering phantom touches.

[kefiteria]

A Knight Must Protect... In His Master's Name!!

Epilogue: Returning Sebek's Coat!

Sebek x Reader

tags: fluff, sharing umbrella during the rain ☔🌧️, coat from sebek, ROMANTIC SEBEK BECAUSE WE NEED MORE SEBEK

The first raindrop was a quiet thief, stealing warmth from your cheek.

The second, more brazen, landed upon your open notebook, blurring the careful script into ghostly ink-stained tendrils.

The third? The executioner, heralding the sky’s sudden, merciless deluge.

The wind exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. The rain poured, in thick silver ribbons, upon stone and grass and skin. You exhaled, mimicking the heavens, pressing your bag against your chest. No reprieve.

And yet—

“Hah! Is that all?”

The voice struck through the downpour with all the force of a battle cry.

Sebek Zigvolt stood beside you, unbowed, unshaken, as if carved from the very storm itself. His uniform clung to him, soaked through, a second skin of heavy fabric and purpose. The rainwater traced its way along his jaw, his throat, pooling in his collar.

He folded his arms across his chest, the very image of indomitable resolve. “Such paltry rainfall! A knight does not tremble before the elements!”

You turned to him, slow yet deliberate, your gaze traveling the length of his utterly drenched form.

“Sebek?” you said, voice edged with disbelief. “You’re soaked.”

He scoffed, chin lifting in imperious defiance. “And yet, I remain standing! Do you think the young master would cower before a mere storm?”

You tilted your head confused with his antics. “Malleus isn’t even here.”

A sharp inhale. The sound of scandalized dignity crumbling into affronted despair.

“His greatness transcends distance!” Sebek barked. “Were he to witness this sorry spectacle—” his gesture encompassed the rain, your utterly unprotected state, perhaps even the tragic futility of mortal existence itself “—he would surely shake his head in disappointment!”

“… Because I forgot an umbrella?”

“Yes!”

Silence.

“Well…“ you exhaled. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of your bag, your fingers found salvation: a small, foldable umbrella, its handle cool beneath your touch. With the click of a latch, the canopy unfurled—fragile, human-made, unassuming.

Sebek did not move.

He regarded the umbrella with an expression of profound hesitation, as if its mere existence posed some unspeakable moral dilemma.

“Are you seriously going to just stand there?” You raised an eyebrow with an amused face.

“A knight—” he intoned, voice rich with conviction, “does not falter before the elements.”

“Orrrr” you countered, unimpressed, “a knight could just get under the umbrella and not be miserable.”

A pause. The warring factions of his soul engaged in vicious battle. His mouth parted, a protest forming—but before he could voice it, you stepped forward.

Closer.

Close enough that the damp chill of his presence became something tangible, something warm. Close enough that his breath, sharp and shallow, hitched at the proximity. The umbrella shifted, adjusting, sheltering him in its arc.

Sebek went utterly, devastatingly still.

“… W-what are you doing?” he rasped.

“Keeping us dry?” you murmured, voice edged with quiet amusement. “Perhaps would you rather catch a cold to prove a point?”

Something in him coiled tight, a drawn bowstring, a tension bordering on unbearable. He stared, as if at some unfathomable equation, as if the answer to his torment lay somewhere in the shadowed space between you.

Then—abrupt, decisive—he tore off his coat.

The weight of it settled over your shoulders, heavy with rain, thick with the scent of leather and steel and the electric bite of magic.

“… Huh?” you blinked, fingers curling into the lapels.

Sebek turned away sharply, ears betraying him with the barest flush of pink. “It would be inappropriate for a lady to be drenched in such conditions!”

“… I’m not that—”

“You are a human! And humans are fragile!” His voice lifted, as if the mere suggestion of your resilience were an unthinkable crime. “If the young master were to witness such disgrace—no, I cannot permit it!”

The coat was too large, swallowing you whole, draped like a shield about your form. It was warm, impossibly so, carrying the ghost of his body heat.

Sebek, meanwhile, stood beside you, conspicuously quiet with almost reckless determination, he plucked the umbrella from your grasp.

You arched a brow. “Taking over, huh?”

“A knight does not let their charge bear the burden alone.”

At first, he held it with military precision. But as you walked, something curious—something imperceptibly telling—began to happen.

The umbrella shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

Tilting. Just so.

You believed it an accident so to speak. The wind, perhaps. But no—the pattern remained, unwavering. The coverage leaned toward you, shielding you entirely—while his shoulder, his back, bore the brunt of the storm.

“…Sebek.” You turned your gaze upward, studying him. He did not seem to realize.

“Hm?”

“You’re getting wet.”

A fractional pause. “What? No, I am holding the umbrella in the optimal position!”

“Your entire shoulder is out in the rain.” You pointed.

Sebek blinked, at last looking at himself.

Oh.

A strangled sound, half cough, half choked-back denial. “That is—irrelevant! So long as you remain dry, my duty is fulfilled!”

A slow, knowing smile curled at your lips.

“Sebek.” you murmured, voice soft, dangerous, “are you sure this is about duty and not just because you want to keep me close?”

Sebek inhaled sharply.

His fingers twitched. A hesitation, poised between restraint and instinct. Tentative, barely there, as if the mere notion of touch might undo him—

His arm slid around your waist.

It was stiff, at first. A mere breath of contact. But you did not pull away.

And so, slowly, his grip firmed.

For practicality, of course. Yes. Practicality. Because closer was better—closer meant the umbrella’s coverage was more effective—closer meant he could shield you from the rain—closer meant—

Your breath, warm against his rain-chilled skin.

Sebek swallowed, his face a riot of color.

You tilted your head. “Better?”

Sebek stiffened. “I—I—”

A flicker of something in your gaze. Amusement? Understanding? Fondness?

His breath hitched.

“… I must escort you home,” he blurted, voice cracking, “IN THE NAME OF THE YOUNG MASTER!”

By the time you reached Ramshackle, the rain had quieted to a whisper.

As you stepped inside, shrugging off his coat, only to turn and—

Sebek stormed past you.

Not walked. Stormed.

Straight to the fireplace, where he immediately crouched, stacking logs with all the unchained restrained violence of a man at war with his own heart.

“…Sebek?”

“A knight!” he barked, ears red, “does not leave their charge in the cold!”

You tilted your head, there's so much confusion for today. “I wasn’t even that cold.”

“That is IRRELEVANT!”

The fire roared to life. Sebek glared at it, as if daring the flames to soothe whatever turmoil lay beneath his armor.

So with abrupt, frantic—he bolted upright.

“I—I MUST GO!” he blurted. “TRAINING! YES! TRAINING.”

“Wait, your coa—!”

Too late.

Sebek had already vanished into the night.

You stood there, his coat still in your hands.

A slow, creeping grin.

“… He’s going to come back for this later,” you mused, fingers curling into the fabric, “and die of embarrassment, isn’t he?”

You could hardly wait.

a/u🍨: epilogue is up now!!!! Thank you for reading 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[micky-44-blog]

Alastor proposing

His own little mischievous ways of doing things

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

The dim glow of the underworld’s eternal twilight cast eerie shadows as Alastor led you to a secluded clearing, the air tingling with an almost electric anticipation. The usual static hum that followed him seemed quieter tonight, as if even his ever-present radio signals held their breath.

"Ah, my dearest, most delightful companion!" he declared, twirling dramatically before turning to you with a wide grin. "You know, I've been alive—well, undead—for quite some time, and in all those years, I've met many souls, danced many dances, and orchestrated my fair share of delightful chaos. But you..." His red eyes gleamed as he leaned in, voice dropping to a near whisper. "You are the most fascinating melody in my otherwise monotonous broadcast!"

With a flick of his wrist, the world around you transformed. Shadows slithered into elegant shapes, forming a grand stage, while phantom jazz musicians appeared, instruments floating in the air as they began to play a slow, haunting tune. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, Alastor pulled something from his coat pocket—a ring, dark as obsidian but shimmering with an unnatural glow.

He knelt, his grin never faltering but his voice carrying an unusual softness. "Now, my dear, I've never been one for tradition, but for you? Why, I'd rewrite the whole script! So tell me, would you do me the absolute honor of being my eternal partner in crime, my most cherished duet, my fiancée?"

For a moment, the air was silent, waiting, watching. Even the ever-present background static seemed to hush, as if the entire underworld held its breath for your answer.

As soon as the word "Yes!" left your lips, the world around you seemed to burst into life. The phantom musicians erupted into a triumphant swing melody, the shadows swirled like a dancing audience, and the ever-present radio static crackled with excitement.

Alastor’s grin stretched impossibly wide, but for once, there was something else beneath it—something real. A flicker of raw emotion, deep and unfiltered, flashed in his crimson eyes. His usually manic energy softened just slightly as he took your hand, his touch surprisingly warm despite the spectral nature of his being.

"You have no idea how happy you've just made me, my darling~!" His voice quivered with something rare—genuine feeling. "Oh, what fun we shall have! A lifetime—no, an eternity—of mischief, madness, and you by my side!"

With a dramatic twirl, he lifted you into his arms, spinning you around as laughter—both his and yours—filled the air. The shadows twinkled like stars, and for a moment, Hell itself felt bright.

Then, as if sealing the deal, he slipped the dark, shimmering ring onto your finger. The moment it settled in place, a strange warmth pulsed from it, intertwining with your very soul. His grip tightened ever so slightly as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.

"Mine," he murmured, but there was no possessiveness in it—only devotion, unyielding and eternal.

And as he pulled you into a dance beneath the ghostly glow of the underworld, you realized—there was no turning back. But then again, why would you ever want to?

[hybriddhthepoet]

Marionette by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the darkened room, a stage unfolds,

where velvet curtains shield tales untold.

There in the dim light’s soft, faint sway,

a marionette waits, bound to obey.

Threads stretch high, veiled and taut,

puppet and shadow caught in thought.

With porcelain skin and painted smile,

she waits, unmoving, docile, beguiled.

An unseen hand pulls; she shudders awake,

a dance begins, each step to partake

in muted hums, a silent sway,

as joints align in ghostly ballet.

Her glassy gaze is fixed and wide,

unblinking, drawn from side to side,

eyes unfeeling, blank, and cold,

secrets too deep, in silence told.

The stage, her world of fabric walls,

a prison fashioned for lifeless dolls;

each step marked by the strings’ command,

a measured move, a forced demand.

She spins, she twirls with delicate grace,

her movements bound to an endless place,

and though she glides with a quiet charm,

her dance is bound, and free of calm.

There’s a murmur low, a command unclear,

whispers cold as winter’s cheer,

echoes scripted in her ear,

words that she feels, yet never hears.

Buttons for eyes, stitched mouth set wide,

she’s hollow within, though painted with pride;

the smile sewn on, the laugh confined,

a mask that cracks yet holds the line.

Around her, dolls on taut-held threads,

pinned to their parts, lifeless and led.

In faded lace, they watch and wait,

bound to their roles, resigned to fate.

One doll stands cracked, with splintered seams,

a rosewood figure, worn of dreams—

she’s cast aside, her purpose done,

no longer danced, no longer spun.

For every twirl and every bow,

she’s merely part of another’s vow;

the stage grows larger, yet so small,

a muted echo, a silent call.

And as she bends in practiced arc,

she wonders if this role left a mark—

a phantom tale, a puppet’s jest,

a marionette swayed at fate’s behest.

The strings grow taut; she cannot stray,

locked in this strange, perpetual play,

her movements guided, whispers hushed,

in satin gloves, her spirit crushed.

But under the mask, beneath the paint,

a flicker stirs, though ever faint—

a silent plea, a wordless cry,

for freedom’s hand, to sever and untie.

At last, the dance draws to a close,

she’s set back down in static repose.

And as the hands drift out of sight,

a tear escapes, frail in the light.

A single drop, a trace of grace,

a glint of life on her painted face.

[r4fe-cam3ron]

Could you write something fluffy with Emperor Geta? Perhaps the reader is a concubine but she falls for Geta and wants to have something more with him?

thank you love for the request! <3 still nervous writing for geta because i want to make the characters real as possible! i hope you enjoy! w; no spoilers here! slight(?) ooc geta, angsty - very sorry this is way more angsty with a tad bit of fluff please forgive me i went off script, slightly bittersweet ending! - also used the planet venus for love! (i’m not for sure i like this :( ) photo creds; @kassy-munson ! listened to this!

it was nothing more than a meetings. an arrangement.

yet, there’s a pulling at your heart whenever you see the boy with ginger hair and wide brown eyes.

it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that has your eyes slipping closed as your fingers press to your chest, hoping the pressing of your fingertip over your heart would stop the hurt.

geta is a man of one of many emotions - indignation, numbness, and a jealous man. or, that’s how some would describe him.

anyone but you.

you’d describe him as someone who’s foreboding, anguished, and fragile. you would also never tell him how you truly see him.

he’s yet to touch you - maybe that’s a good thing. the only thing you do is lie on his expensive silks next to him, staring at the perfect curve of his nose, his plush lips that was always a pretty pink color, and the line of his jaw.

he had a couple of freckles across his cheek and his eyelashes made you jealous from how long they truly were.

your fingers bend slightly as you grip at the sheets, itching, wanting, yearning to reach out and drag the tips of your fingers across the planes of his face, as if you were drawing him, when you only wanted to commit warmth of his skin to your memory as well.

“i am sorry.” he finally speaks up after a long while, startling you slightly, making you blink quickly.

“what are you sorry for, emperor?” you whisper softly.

it’s quiet again, all except for his soft breathing. the moon casts a glow inside the golden and rouge room, candles burning near his desk. it creates a angelic, warm glow over his face.

he was so beautiful, it almost takes your breath away.

“that i can not give you what you want,” he starts. he turns his head towards you, his own eyes dragging across your face as if he’s committing you to his own memory. “what you truly need.”

your lips pull into a frown and you stare at him quietly. you then shake your head. “i will not allow you to speak about yourself in such a negative way—”

“i don’t deserve you.”

your lips stay parted and your eyes remain on him. he shy’s away from your stare, looking up at his ceiling once again as he swallows. your eyes drop down to his neck, watching.

“i know you have grown to love me - as i have you,” you’re quick to look at him once more. “but this is not the life for you. you deserve something better - bigger - than i. the moon and the stars, really,”

he takes a shuddering breath. “venus. you deserve venus.”

you lip quivers slightly and you look down at his arm. “geta…”

“i don’t want you to come back.”

“you can’t do this to me,” you shake your head. “please, don’t.”

the bed shifts as he turns. and finally, you realize his palm is calloused, warm. his fingers press into the back of your neck as he pulls you close, leaning his forehead against yours. “do not waste your tears for me.” he whispers.

“you’re worth every single one.” your voice breaks as you nod your head against his.

he smiles softly. “maybe…maybe i will find you again,” his nose brushes against yours, warm breath falling over your cheek as he presses his lips against it. your eyes shut, leaning more into his kiss as your hand wraps around his wrist.

“then i won’t be callous. or mad as they say,” he lets out an airy laugh, pulling himself back to lean against your forehead once more. “we could marry,” he nods. his lips press a ghostly kiss to yours.

“you and i. husband and wife,” your face crumbles and you nod. his thumb wipes at the tears that fall, kissing them away on your other cheek. “i’ll find you again.”

his lips finally connect with yours - his own tears dropping onto his pillow. your hand lands on his cheek, pulling him closer.

pulling away an inch, your eyes remained closed. “do you promise me? that you’ll find me again?” they open slowly and look at him again. his cheek lifts under your palm as he nods.

“on venus.” he whispers.

you smile sadly, eyes dropping to his lips. “on venus.” you echo his words quietly, pressing your lips to his once again.

[moonselune]

hello again!!! can we have tav and gang playing keep away with gale and throwing a book around so gale dont get it? Lol just for funsiessss

ahaha i love tormenting the rizzard for funsiesssss. I did do it x gale but only slightly and right at the end x

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale x reader | Team Effort

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It all starts with an innocent flicker of irritation. Gale's nose has been buried in his book for hours now, his eyes skimming line after line of ancient script while the campfire crackles and pops nearby. You’ve tried everything to get his attention—conversation, light touches on his arm, even sitting directly beside him with your head leaning against his shoulder—but the man remains steadfast in his studies, mumbling to himself about this theory or that enchantment.

That’s when an idea strikes you. It’s childish, maybe a bit petty, but you can’t resist. You lean forward, snatching the book right out of Gale’s hands before he has a chance to react.

“Enough with the reading,” you declare with a triumphant grin. “It’s my turn now.”

Gale blinks, taken aback. “What on earth—hey!” He reaches out, but you’ve already tossed the book over to Astarion, who catches it with a gleeful smile, holding it just out of Gale’s reach.

“Aww, is the little wizard upset?” Astarion taunts, his tone dripping with mock sympathy as he lifts the book high above his head. Gale lunges for it, but Astarion swiftly tosses it to Shadowheart.

Shadowheart catches it effortlessly, raising an eyebrow as she smirks. “You know, Gale, I always thought there were more interesting ways to spend an evening than staring at musty old pages.”

Gale lets out a huff, clearly torn between amusement and exasperation. “Very funny. Now, if you’d be so kind, that’s a delicate and irreplaceable—”

“Catch!” Shadowheart interrupts, throwing the book to Karlach, who fumbles it slightly before securing it against her chest with a loud laugh.

“Damn, this thing’s heavier than I thought!” Karlach grins, looking at Gale’s increasingly frustrated face. “You know, wizard, I’ve seen you move faster in battle. What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”

Gale glares at her but can’t suppress the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re all insufferable,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat behind his words. He makes a half-hearted attempt to grab the book from Karlach, who merely twirls away from him with surprising grace and flings it back to you.

You catch it with a flourish, sticking your tongue out at Gale. “Oh, come on, don’t look so serious! It’s just a little game.”

Gale’s eyes narrow playfully, and he takes a step toward you, his fingers twitching as if to prepare a spell. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You laugh, tossing the book over his head to Astarion once more. “Try me!”

The game continues, the four of you taking turns tossing Gale’s book just out of his reach, laughing each time he comes so close only to have it snatched away again. He’s trying to remain calm, but you can see the growing frustration mixed with amusement etched into his features. He darts from one of you to the next, his hair becoming more tousled, his shirt slipping from his shoulders, and his eyes flashing with a determination that’s far too intense for something so trivial.

Finally, Gale has had enough. As the book soars from Astarion to Shadowheart again, you see a shimmer in the air. A ghostly hand, glowing faintly with arcane energy, appears out of nowhere and intercepts the book mid-flight, catching it gently and cradling it in its palm before drawing it back to Gale.

The camp goes silent for a moment as he holds up the book triumphantly, a smug smile plastered across his face. “Mage Hand, my dear,” he announces grandly, as if he’s just solved the most complex puzzle in Faerûn. “Sometimes, a little magic goes a long way.”

There’s a collective groan from the group as you all boo him, playful jeers and shouts filling the air. “Oh, come on, that’s cheating!” Karlach protests, throwing her hands up in mock indignation.

“You really had to bring magic into this?” Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically. “Honestly, Gale, I thought you were above such cheap tricks.”

Shadowheart shakes her head, sighing theatrically. “And here I thought we were having a fair game.”

You, however, step up to Gale, arms crossed but a smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t believe you just used a spell to win a game of keep-away,” you tease, unable to hide your amusement. “What, couldn’t stand losing to me?”

Gale looks down at you, a playful light dancing in his eyes as he steps closer. “It’s not that,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “I simply needed an excuse to finally catch you.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips. You melt into it, momentarily forgetting about the game, the others, everything but the warmth of him.

Behind you, there’s an exaggerated gagging sound from Astarion. “Ugh, I’m going to be sick,” he complains, though you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Get a room, you two!” Karlach chimes in, laughing loudly.

Gale pulls away with a smirk, still holding his book, his gaze never leaving yours. “Next time,” he says softly, “perhaps you’ll think twice before trying to steal from a wizard.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that breaks across your face. “No promises,” you reply, and though he groans, you can see the warmth in his eyes, the way they soften just for you. And that’s worth more than any game.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

poor rizzard. Hope you guys enjoyed it!! - Seluney xox

Keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[reveriedraffs]

۶ৎ MOVIES IDEAS TO SCRIPT IN YOUR ACTRESS DR ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢2 ⠀ᰋ

1. Symphony of Shadows

Genres: Musical | Horror | Thriller | Mystery | Gothic

Themes: The price of genius, obsession, the supernatural nature of music, artistic legacy

Plot:

You are a world-renowned violinist, invited to play at an exclusive concert hall that hasn't opened in a century. The moment you set foot inside, something feels off—there are no stagehands, no visible patrons, yet the air crackles with applause. The sheet music on your stand is not one you recognize, yet your hands move as if guided by an unseen force.

As you play, shadows around the hall begin to move, whispering in an ancient language. The music takes hold of you, playing through your fingers even when you try to stop. The more you resist, the more the room warps—the audience is no longer empty seats but ghostly figures, dressed in fashions from different centuries.

You uncover the secret: The concert hall was built over a cursed foundation. Every musician who plays here must complete the unfinished symphony—a piece of music that has trapped souls within its notes for generations. The only way to escape is to find the missing note, but the longer you play, the harder it becomes to remember who you are.

Major Twists:

🎻 The symphony is a ritual. It traps souls inside the music. 🕯 Every musician before you has become part of the piece. 💀 If you finish playing, you will be next.

Ending:

You change the ending of the composition, breaking the curse. But as you leave, a single note plays… by itself. The symphony isn’t done with you yet.

2. Exit Interview

Genres: Psychological Thriller | Horror | Corporate Satire | Sci-Fi

Themes: Identity erasure, corporate control, free will, existential horror

Plot:

You’ve just been fired from your job at a high-profile but mysterious company. Before leaving, you are asked to participate in an exit interview. It starts out normal—questions about your experience, your satisfaction with management—but the further the interview goes, the stranger the questions become.

“Do you recall signing a contract upon your arrival?”

“Have you ever questioned the nature of your work?”

“Do you believe in alternate realities?”

The interviewer never blinks. The office outside the glass-walled room is empty now. Your reflection in the mirror behind them doesn’t match your movements.

When you try to leave, you realize: There is no door. The room is shifting. You are not an ex-employee—you are a test subject. And you have been through this interview before.

Major Twists:

🧠 The company has erased parts of you before. 📂 Your memories are files—and they’re being rewritten in real time. ⏳ Other versions of you exist. Some have already been deleted.

Ending:

You escape… but days later, you see someone identical to you entering the office for their exit interview. The cycle begins again.

3. The Last Joke

Genres: Dark Comedy | Noir | Psychological Thriller | Horror

Themes: The cost of laughter, artistic obsession, performance as a trap, reality distortion

Plot:

You are a stand-up comedian at the peak of your career. Your jokes are brutal, cutting, and always leave the audience roaring. But after your latest show, a stranger in the audience doesn’t laugh. He just watches.

Later, you find an old VHS tape in your dressing room. It plays a black-and-white recording of someone telling your exact routine—jokes you just wrote this year—yet the timestamp says it was filmed decades ago.

The next night, you hear laughter when there’s no one around. Shadows stretch unnaturally in your dressing room mirror. The stranger is in the audience again. You start forgetting your own punchlines, but somehow, the audience still laughs—word for word, as if they already know what you’ll say.

Major Twists:

🎭 The club is purgatory for comedians who went too far. 🃏 The audience members are people who have been erased by jokes. 💀 The “perfect joke” will rewrite reality

Ending:

You finally tell it. The audience erupts in laughter. The world dissolves.

You wake up, but when you try to speak… the only thing that comes out is laugher. laughter.

4. The Mirror Court

Genres: Dark Fantasy | Thriller | Mystery | Gothic Drama

Themes: Duality, guilt and justice, reflections as prisons, the price of truth

Plot:

You are summoned to an ancient, hidden court where cases are judged not by laws, but by mirrors. Every crime is reflected in glass, showing the accused not as they appear, but as they truly are. Lies dissolve, illusions break—only the deepest truth remains.

You are not here by choice. You are the defendant.

The charges? Unknown. The accuser? A shadowy reflection of yourself. The jury? A collection of faceless figures who shift between people you once knew.

To prove your innocence, you must pass the Mirror Trials:

The First Mirror reveals your worst memory, but twisted into something even you can’t recognize.

The Second Mirror forces you to confess a secret you’ve never admitted—not even to yourself.

The Final Mirror shows you… as something unrecognizable.

Major Twists:

⚖ The court has been replacing people with their reflections. 🪞 Those who lose their cases are trapped in mirrors forever. 👁 Your own reflection is plotting to replace you.

Ending:

You shatter the Mirror Court, freeing everyone. But later, you see your reflection… smirking at you.

[evilminji]

:T Hello there, Thought(tm) of the day...

I? Just remembered that Constantine's "Laughing Magician"(?) title is... f*ckin HEREDITARY?

Like?? As in The Constantine Meances have been out here, harrasing divinity and demons alike for GENERATIONS on behalf of a Good Time, the Lols, and probably Humanity if they can be arsed and you make a good case.

W... What chance would there even BE of at least like? HALF those f*ckers(conflicted but affectionate) NOT becoming Realms Ghosts? With the sh*t they're exposed too? With THEIR luck??

You think DEATH can trick them? Take them away for good? Take away the local Rat B@stard, Tricks Gods Just To See If He Can, Fate Is My Second Mistress and I Cuckold Glory On Your Mother's Bed, Constantine?

They run down main street, *ss in the breeze, wearing someone else's shirt and two shoes that don't match, not a stitch else, like run away lovers. Let Death TRY and catch them. Sorry, Luv, it's not them, it's definitely you.

..........I bet they're the wooooorst~~✨️

No joke, I bet they set up a whole *ss TOWN of Constantine.

Where the odds are in THEIR favor, gods fear to tread, and reality straight out stops working right. Like Diagonal Ally for B*stards, extended to a whole floating island. Everyone's related. It's Chaos. They can barely stand each other. Would sell each other for a toothpick.

Mess with ANY off them... and you can kiss your afterlife good bye.

They have NO neighbors because both no ones dumb enough to get NEAR them AND no one can stand to be around that many Constantines at once. The physical Manifestation of Fate wants to take the whole LOT of the handsy F*CKS to court for child support and a restraining order.

Somehow... they keep getting Earth Booze.

They SHOULDN'T have access. It's been anywhere from decade to centuries since they died. Millennium for a few. Howms't The F*CK, do they keep getting cheap gin and vodka? Bourbon and beer? Even the odd fruity cocktail for funnies.

Please... PLEASE! Tell the Zone at large, that their innate birthright powers STOPPED at Death. They... they are just REALLY good at smuggling right? Excellent con men?

Tell us they can't f*ckin PREDICT AND INFLUENCE Natural Portals!!!

*smug sipping noises from a large room full of Dead @ssholes*

Okay... They Won't Tell You~ 🍺🍺🍺🍺🍺 *siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip*

Now! I hear you ask? Why are John's Terrible, Terrible, God Awful Ghostly Relatives relevant? Absurdly powerful as they are... they seem to take the afterlife as an extended "Ha! GET F*CKED, DEMONS WHO WANTED MY SOUL!" Vacation/Family get together.

Minded their business and expected everyone to mind THEIRS, or ELSE.

Didn't give two solitary SH*TS that Pariah woke from his little nappy-poo to cause a tantrum. After all, in their family? When DOESN'T some "great and terrible Power That Be" get itself in a snit? Meh... it's baby Johnny's turn to clean sh*t up. Best of luck to 'im~!

But THEN!

They must've been drinking... making out with their equally terrible and bamf trainwreck significant others... sitting around playing "who can cheat best at cards"... when? Huh.

Never seen the Fate and The Odds... STRANGLE like that.

Billions of billions of What-Ifs, Maybes, Could-bes, and more... suddenly YANKED towards a single spot. The allowance of Only One Outcome. Almost like what they can do, but... not, WRONG, per say...

Just... impossible.

There's NEVER.. JUST one way this plays out. You can control the big notes. The script. But the details and set dressing will always decide themselves.

NO ONE can just... Decide What Will Happen. And yet?

...............was....... was that Little Johnny? Has to be. Right? Where's his old man? Oi! Was that your Kid??! John's closest relatives are baffled. Nope. They can still feel him laying a beat down on some demon in Norway. So then? Who?

How?

Well mark them CURIOUS(tm).

They decide to actually get up. Put their various drinks and cards down. Put pants on. Somebody's done something... INTERESTING(TM) and they want to know what's up. So? Off they trot.

It's traumatizing for everyone who sees them. The Constantines have breached f*ckin B*stard Containment and are spilling into the Zone. On this! The DAY Pariah Waged A War! THEY JUST GOT RID OF HIM!

And Danny? His everything hurts. The Eyeballs are starting to come out of the woodwork and ARGUE about him like he's not even there. He's DANGEROUS blah blah blah. Give them the crown. Right now! Etc etc.

Somethings telling him not too.

It's... it's HIS isn't it? Has been for centuries and seconds. And... and... everyone one of him is King. There is only one of him. The Zone covers all the multiverse and all of the Hims that were and aren't here and helped and... and...! His head is starting to hurt.

But the more they try to push him to hand it over, the less he feels like unhanding the dang gaudy thing. No. His now. He'll use it as a DOOR stopper if he dang well feels like it! Stop yelling.

Then all these blonde ghosts saunter in... and all he can think is "F*ck. I think they noticed."

Huh?

@stealingyourbones @cyrwrites @bjurnberg @the-witchhunter @hdgnj