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sinisterexaggerator · 5 months

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Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 16

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, rough sexual elements, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: Contains smut involving two tentacle-like Duros dicks. Blowjobs. PiV sex.

Word count: 4.9+

Notes: Hope you like weird, alien genitalia! Also, I headcanon it is Hondo Ohnaka who helped Bane regain his health and had a physician fit him for his metal plate. I am "borrowing" an OC made by @allsystemsblue, though she remains unnamed in this story and is mentioned only in passing. Mizu will be included in Annals of an Outlaw when the time comes!

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter ||

The bottle would suffice him, no need for a glass, he’d drink straight from the container held within his hand. Top shelf, dark, and biting on his tongue, the liquor went down, down in deep swallows, urged by smooth suprahyoid muscles. His mattress had been just as good a hiding spot as any, the pungent whiskey housed beneath its firm, yet springy shape—it had been stashed there for ease of access, as it often helped him to achieve a good night’s sleep.

Bane was no stranger to vivid dreams and nightmares. His past was colorful enough that he was prone to restless fits, accompanied by cognitive distortions—all those things he bore throughout the day would plague him when he drifted into REM. His mind only allowed for short, spasmodic bursts; he was on guard by default. In this day and age, there was hardly anyone left to trust except himself.

He had left his bed unmade, messy, and unkempt, though it was luxurious and soft, like that girl he had partaken of. He didn’t like it when the droid came in here, unless absolutely necessary. He feared he might misplace something important, or simply try to reorganize his things in a way that did not please him.

After a double shot, it all came flooding back: a deluge of unwelcomed memories. First Jango, and then Boba, never once able to rid himself of his past transgressions, as if they would haunt him until his dying day—whenever that might be.

But Zulara—she had been there, sometime after his ordeal at Jabba’s Palace, yet that was impossible—he had left her back at Slave Quarter’s Row before answering his summons. She was safe and sound, and far from him. It was as it should be, as he would not have her involved.

And Boba, this was all his fault. He could not remember what had happened after he had followed him out into the dunes. He only knew one thing—Todo had somehow rescued him, just like when young Fett had put a bolt into his head.

The Duros sighed; he understood it hurt to breathe, stepping to the single viewport that overlooked his ship’s right wing. He pressed his forehead to it, the transparisteel cool against his scales. He growled as he realized he would need to clean this too, as he had left a gluey imprint on the glass.

It was sundown. Bane lingered to get a good look at what lay beyond his window, no bigger than twice the size of his own face. He had lost more time than he had thought, people roaming to and fro as they prepared to close up shop, bought dinner, or talked amongst themselves.

He had picked this dock for the fact it was open and quite spacious; there was plenty of room to park his ship, and he had a bird’s eye view of the happenings down below. He had rented it from some other Duros, one he had come to trust, as whenever he visited this dry ball of dust, him and Ohwun De Maal did business.

A sharp ache flared just behind his brow ridge, extending up and beyond to where his scar resided; it was reminiscent of a bolt of lightning splintering, though it was pain instead of light that spiked. He grit his fangs until he thought he might crack them into pieces, for some reason the smiling mug of that damned Weequay overtaking his mind’s eye, as if he had a choice.

It had been Hondo who the droid had commed, anxious to help his master, who appeared to be on the verge of death after that ordeal involving Fett. Bane had more enemies than friends, but Ohnaka had been his droid’s first thought—a poor one, but it had saved his life.

Cad reminisced as he took a swig, the infernal pirate playing more than gracious host. He had answered to his every need, and beckoned his own doctor to patch him up. The tiny woman had been professional, her hands steady and her disposition sour—it was no matter, as she had done her job, and then some; it was unfortunate that Hondo had seen him vulnerable.

And yet the rapscallion had never mentioned this to anyone. For that he was quite thankful. Bane hated to think he owed him one, though Ohnaka did not seem to think so. At least that’s what could be concluded from the scoundrel’s lack of boasting, Cad often irked by Hondo’s potential to be a decent man—and for no good reason—what had he ever done for him? Why had he stepped up? The hunter refused to ask, harried every time that they crossed paths, though he was awfully good at hiding things.

Bane might threaten him, but he would never turn Ohnaka in, nor would he kill him, despite the thought having crossed his mind numerous times before.

Bane would set the bottle down; he had been out cold for a full rotation. Still, that was not time enough for him to forget just who the cause of all of this was—that lamebrained governess who had laid her claim to Tatooine, despite the slug-like Hutt’s overwhelming chokehold on its denizens. There was no doubt Cad Bane would call her; he had a mind to change the terms of their arrangement, but first he needed to wash and clothe himself.

Ignoring Todo’s bleating in the hall outside, the Duros was used to his mouthy droid complaining about every little thing. Why he put up with it was for him to know, but he knew better than to disturb Bane once he was in his room.

The aching hunter trailed the wall, finding the door to his refresher. His legs were wobbly; what a pathetic sight he must have been, Cad grateful that no one was around to see it.

---

Water, in abundance, could be heard, like rain falling to splatter on some planet that was unlike hers. It echoed, reaching her ears just beyond the door, Zulara’s mismatched eyes gleaming at the absorbing sight before them.

Bane’s room was homey, yet in a state of disarray. It was cozy, but disheveled. She had not known what to expect, though what she saw was somehow fitting, yet she could not help but think this was perhaps too intimate a place for her to be. Her nerves tingled; Zulara forced herself to move. She hadn’t made it this far just to stand there, though her heart thundered feverishly inside her chest.

There was a closet, holding a sparse amount of clothes. He had a hat collection, lined along the wall on metal hooks. His bed looked soft and comfortable, though the sheets, the blankets, were all tangled. He had a plethora of pillows, but there were things scattered amongst them—credits, coins, and gold medallions. They were on the floor, stuffed inside of drawers, some still stored in cases that were open, jutting out from varied crevices and corners.

Zulara had never seen so many pretty things, shiny jewels encrusted with more gold or silver—rare objects that looked like they belonged in a museum. There were little statuettes, baubles, trinkets—ticket stubs, bounty fobs, and books; they were old and made with flimsi; they had gilded spines and were in a language she had never seen. She desired to touch these things, but there was one thing she wanted more—the man himself.

She spied a mirror, and next to it a table with some personal effects; these items were all in order and arranged just so. She stopped to inspect herself, noting that she looked exhausted. How she was feeling was wrought indelibly into her expression, though she was easily distracted, as a single thing of his had caught her eye.

Before her was a small leather pouch; it had once been of a darker coloration, but now it was tawny and rough from years of use. Her thumb traced where it was worn and faded; etched on it were a few scant words. She could not read them, yet held inside were toothpicks.

The girl was tempted—she heard a noise, like the Duros had coughed or groaned—her heart fluttered. Zulara turned, making her way toward the refresher after setting the pouch back down.

She had softened her footsteps, unsure of when to announce her presence. It was clear that Cad Bane had temporarily lowered his defenses, as he had not yet detected her. She could not decide if this was good, or bad. She did not want to cause him any undue stress, yet her heart and brain were not communicating, as it was in her best interest to follow his droid’s advice.

Zulara’s index finger grazed the button to the sliding door; it was silent when she pressed it. The room was warm and steamy, the transparisteel before her partitioning him off from her. It was opaque, leaning toward obscure. The glass was frosted, the Duros nothing but a vague blue outline to her as she steeled her courage. Her hand lifted to knock, but then everything went wrong.

The bypass door had vanished—slipping backward—and so had her resolve. There was a flurry of sudden movements, Zulara discovering herself pinned flat against the refresher wall. Her throat had closed; there was a large hand obstructing her, Bane’s hulking fingers tightening as he cut off her air supply—he was choking her, she realized.

Zulara whimpered, as she could not speak. She kicked her feet, the hunter having lifted her some few centimeters off the floor. She gasped for air, then Bane loosed his hold; his bold red eyes were full of something. It wasn’t anger so much as remorse, but alongside that was an inkling of horror.

Bane did not speak to her as she inhaled deeply; she stared at him as her chest heaved and she tried to adjust her breathing—she would stiffen once again—the Duros’ fingers traced her windpipe, Zulara’s eyes agog as she dare not move.

For that single moment, he had looked terrified—afraid he’d hurt her—but now his gaze had hardened. His lip pulled back to reveal pink gums; he bared his fangs. “Must nahtta heard when Ah told ye te go home.”

So, she hadn’t been a dream after all, he thought.

Zulara reflected on his words, that thing he’d whispered. Bane retreated back into the shower, the half-Twi rubbing her neck where it was sore, acknowledging that even in his weakened state he had tried to get rid of her.

For most, that would have been enough, but not Zulara, not like before. She knew he liked her. Though closed off to her and the rest of the galaxy at large, Bane was multifaceted, like an Ojomian onion with a myriad of layers, though just how many was unknown.

She appraised his body before he could shut her out; he had bruises over every inch of his lapis-colored scales. They were green like nephrite, just like his blood; it was still present on her top, though long since dried. Her eyes watered, though she would not cry for him—she had already done that. He was alive; he would be all right.

Then, an idea came to her, a bad one, but one she would entertain, her judgment poor and heart full of something akin to affection for him. Zulara tugged off her boots, followed by her simple garments; her shirt, her skin-tight, light-weight pants, leaving her just as naked as the Duros who kept his silence. His place was once more behind the single sliding door that barred him from having to look at her.

Did he expect her to leave? To exit his ship and not return? The girl was getting gutsier, taking a deep breath before she once more pressed the switch to give her access to where Bane quietly resided; his eyes ballooned into two elliptic ovals—he studied her—drinking in her buxom breasts and her admirable shape.

Zulara would do the same; her gaze traversed the lean muscles of his legs and thighs, taut and thin, with an abdomen that was refined though flat. His hips were streamlined, sleek, and well-nigh graceful; his ribs mildly protruded, Bane’s pectorals well-defined though they lacked mamilla as they were not present—Duros physiology was different in that regard, the girl inferred, not having seen him fully nude before.

The contours of his clavicles might as well have been hewn from marble, Bane all scales and sinews, his cheeks chiseled, and his jawline sculpted like some rugged work of art—she had seen his face already, yet she found him so oddly beautiful.

She knew to stare would be disrespectful—Zulara tried her best not to ogle him as he was injured, though she was highly inquisitive. Her eyes dropped to below his waistline—Bane’s genitals were covertly covered and nestled inside himself, unlike prior—he was bare but for a three-inch slit. She longed to hold him.

“It ain’t just yer eyes dhat don’t werk, it’s yer ears,” the Duros jeered.

Zulara would cursorily recover; she blatantly ignored him, feeling that what came out as bitterness was a mechanism used to defend himself, Bane’s acerbic tone not bothering her one bit—to others it might as well be acid.

Zulara’s face betrayed her, her worry for him, his dark contusions setting her brow to furrow inward in a show of pity with a total absence of tranquility. She felt disquieted to see him entirely disrobed—he had so many scars, so many scrapes and scratches—the claw marks of the rancor had raked him across one shoulder; it extended to the middle of his sternum. Would it scar too, she wondered? The thought displeased her to no end.

He seemed surprised to see her be so brave, not predicting this course of action, but the one thing he did not do was outright protest. Bane’s lack of a rebuke, to her, was an open invitation, Zulara taking one step up to join him. The halfling would tilt her head, letting the water flow down over her in rivulets, raven strands being tossed just over her shoulder’s edge; she had given him a look that thawed his heart, yet he refused to be enamored by her.

Zulara did the unthinkable once again; she touched him without his permission—yet hadn’t he done the same to her many times before?

Mauve digits freely roamed the length of Bane’s cool neck, tracing its long column to find the thrum beneath his pulse point. It was for her own peace of mind, detecting that it was strong and hardy, perhaps the hunter’s heartbeat having minutely accelerated.

Zulara nuzzled him the best she could, just below the atrium of his right hearing organ; he had no auricles, only a small pinna-like protrusion, her warm breath licking cobalt flesh with her increasing closeness. “Let me stay,” she begged, the girl’s earnest marked by the imploring lilt of her sweet voice.

Cad Bane might as well be speechless, the girl’s breasts pressed flush up against him; she had whispered beguilingly, her plea alluring, if only for the way it had been administered. He was trying and failing to be upset; he would not reprimand her, yet she would also not receive his full encouragement.

Zulara did not need it, lithe fingers of the opposing hand rising to cup the back of his bare head. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on his battered lips, the girl unable to help herself; she was inextricably drawn to him.

The man enjoyed this, though he would not return her kiss, instead surveying her with the intensity of a punctilious avian. An Edgehawk would come to mind, native to her home on Lothal, and just as deadly a predator as he could be, preying on small things.

Zulara began to shy away, variable hues of gold and blue skirting past his face down toward his throat and chest. Her hands found their own path, the tips of mammalian fingers warm and tender; he barely felt it as she traced one of his many fresh abrasions—the girl was as gentle as could be.

“I hate it,” she whispered to him—her touch—the stripe she feathered down past his stomach—it caused him to seize her wrist. Zulara gasped as he had startled her, the girl’s meager confidence shattering like Chandrilan glass that had been mishandled. She had no words, fearing what might befall her next.

Cad Bane kept his grip cinched around her arm, rough and weathered fingers tucking a few strands of her hair away behind her ear. Zulara would peer upward, the Duros guiding her to fully look at him by a tilt of her trembling chin.

He kissed her on his terms, soft, slow, and with a method that caused the girl to moan. He had barely touched her, but she was already beginning to come undone, as if he could put the blame on her.

Bane’s tongue joined in, wet and rosy pink; Zulara readily accepted it, hers hot and lush inside his mouth. He was careful of his cuspids—he did not wish to hurt her—the fangs that filled his maw were not entirely for show, as they could rend flesh from bone should he choose to do so. Zulara had learned of that firsthand during the time they had spent together, yet she had only suffered bite marks, the evidence clearly present by welts that blossomed. It was possible the hunter felt a mote compunctious, only due to one or two being a mite too deep.

The girl’s desperation was palpable, Bane feeding into it as it fed his ego. At the same time, his core enlivened; Bane’s body was self-lubricating, yet he did not feel that feeling that demanded he act on it. It was strange; sex was meant for one thing in his book: a way to get his rocks off, a way to clear his head before the next hunt began. And yet, this was different. This girl was different; she did not try to woo him, she simply did. He found this fact disturbing, knowing one day it might ruin him.

Bane could feel the rise and fall of her full bosom against his ribs. The ache was there, but it did not matter; he found himself absorbed by her enticing narrative.

The one where he was not all bad, but worthy of attention; the one where she was concerned for him. He allowed himself to be engrossed by the notion he was not such an awful man; it was too self-indulgent combined with the cocoon of her warm flesh; Zulara was hugging him again even as they kissed—he seized her throat once more, albeit gently.

Zulara would not flinch; Bane retreated from her lips to flash his teeth. The girl’s eyes would lock on his, bewildered, though transfixed. Then, she felt it: the Duros’ cocks had slipped outside himself. He was toying with her, the spongy tip of one tentacular-like appendage having grazed her clit. It had inched its way between her folds; the girl would gasp, pleasure radiating from the place where he had touched her.

Bane’s depthless eyes narrowed; his fingers slightly tightened. Zulara would reach for his mouth again with hers; Bane held her steady, finding she now appeared alarmed.

“Dhis is what ye came fer, innit,” Cad Bane seethed, his cocks not hard but soft and cool, slick, and resembling the limbs of a cephalopod. It was the result of his subdued arousal; He packed prehensile tendrils instead of pricks as hard as bone. They only solidified when he was notably stimulated, and for now he wasn’t.

He would take care to thank her should she give him the right answer.

“I came for you,” the girl breathed out, tears welling in her two-toned eyes. She was distraught; Zulara could not fathom why he would presume to think that, though her mind began to overanalyze and search her feelings. She knew the truth; it was her worst fear coming to fruition: the idea she was just some cheap lay, another slave who would do anything for freedom. A girl who wanted to seduce him. A whore, for lack of a better word—perhaps he did not trust her or her words.

Zulara covered his hand with hers, grasping at his fingers. She plucked them free, like ripping off a necklace in a throe of passion, this set of actions a paroxysm on her part. Bane stared at her, though he relinquished his mindful hold, until he realized she meant to take her leave of him.

One arm scooped her back, extending to curl around her tapered waist. Zulara would set about to struggle, but even so, she was heedful of his wounds, his cuts and bruises—the rancor’s claw marks. Her tepid hands only pushed at his sore arms, but that was nothing compared to everything else that hurt, or the many other near fatal injuries he had endured throughout his lifetime.

“I’m not what you think I am,” Zulara pleaded, her words having a double meaning, though it was lost on him. “I only wished to help,” she would argue quietly, though her body settled, the girl’s head tipping forward so she could rest her nose against the Duros; he felt her balmy flesh make contact with his rostrum.

“Dhen what are ye,” came Cad’s raspy-voiced reply; he let her stay right where she was, though compelled to know her answer. He knew nothing of her, just that they had shared her bed; that she was Kayson’s slave; that Hondo vied for her affections, yet here she was in the refresher with him, naked.

“Just a girl—I’m no one special,” she lamented, “but one who hurts seeing you like this,” she added, one of her kindly hands moving to cradle his strong jaw where it met his chin. “I can’t force you to believe me,” she said, defeated.

Cad Bane was moved, though he would never easily admit it. He soaked her up, her honest sentiments and her unmatched beauty. He returned the gesture, the pad of his long thumb rubbing a small circle into the round of her soft cheek.

“Dhat’ll do,” he stated gruffly, his tone bordering nonchalance, yet it was a front; he would not make her aware of the effect she had on him.

The silence was filled with the sudden onset of Zulara’s disjointed moans, Bane had introduced one of his cock’s inside her. The motion had been smooth and fluid, his member pliant and able to inter itself snugly. It did not need an easy introduction, as Zulara’s plush insides would expand to accept his supple girth, Bane slick with his own secretions; he knew just where to target her.

His length would pulse inside her, like the writhing of a worm, languid, and patient with her. To Zulara it felt like the lapping of a tongue, impossibly large, and buried deep within her. She was a liquid, her legs desiring to fail her. Though Bane was not at his full strength, he kept her standing, taking the brunt of her slack weight.

“Easy,” he muttered low; the girl would search out his mouth again. In doing so, he was fed her gasps, Bane absorbing them like sustenance to fuel himself.

Zulara could not speak as Bane’s second cock licked her clit, its swirling tip fondling her with peculiar purpose. The girl’s brain filled with sporadic images—nothing clicked—she heard Bane rattle out a fricative hiss. She was coaxed by an open palm; Bane drew her toward his throat, reedy fingers entangling themselves in her black locks.

The Duros held her there, his oil sacs emitting an aroma that would only entice her more; they were fine slits beneath his ribs, and she had not noticed them before. They were camouflaged, blending in with the rest of his blue scales; he had nearly inked himself because of that damned rancor, their main function not one of pleasure but of defense.

“Breathe, hm?” he emphasized, his voice taking on a harsher shade. The girl obeyed, though it was difficult. She regained her footing, yet still needed his support.

“Bane,” she uttered his name, but he would not go any faster; he would not let that persuade him. Cad was dutiful in his undulations, having already found that special place that made females forget themselves. He would prod it gently, coiling against the underside of her anterior.

It was too much, the syncopated rhythm of both his cocks. While one felt like it was eating her, the other viciously teased her, Zulara’s piteous moans and whimpers like music to his ears; he pressed her head against himself.

The girl relaxed into an orgasm, her warm heat clenching, Bane letting Zulara ride him until its completion, though he had not been in it for himself; he would withdraw as soon as she came down.

Bane would unhand her, freeing her of a rare embrace, the Twi falling gradually down onto both her shaky knees. Bane watched as she descended, not of her own volition; her legs simply would not allow her to keep standing anymore. Her hands trailed his stomach, his thighs and calves, until they dropped and rested in her lap as she breathed deeply, appearing to be starved of oxygen.

Zulara would cant her head, gazing up from the few square inches of space her body now occupied. Met face to face with Bane’s foreign genitalia, she would extend her tongue to taste the tip of one.

She could smell herself, and discern the flavor, yet not overpowering the Duros’ own brand. The sheen of sticky that coated both his cocks was both sweet and sour, and not by any means unpleasant.

Bane shuddered, finding his place along the wall; the girl did not stop there, his reaction the catalyst for what she would do next.

Zulara guided him inside, her mouth hot and textured like choice velvet. The girl found it easy to intake nearly the whole of him as he was not rigid, yet this introduction to the tight confines of her throat would not come without its consequences, should he not be able to keep himself in check.

She moaned, the hum vibrating against him from within her gullet; his belly quivered, Zulara allowing him deep passage—for a girl who had never done anything quite like this, she was adept, or effortlessly able to adapt.

Her lips would pucker as she sucked, Bane’s cock glossy, all the while thickening though frictionless, like candy made sleek from the constant roiling of one’s tongue across its surface. His other member mobilized itself, caressing Zulara’s cheek with its ability to touch and molest, like the curving of a finger as it followed a path down toward her chin.

In reality, it might seem monstrous, a thing that was hideous or atrocious to those not of his species, but Zulara was not disconcerted, nor was she intimidated. Bane’s anatomy did not so much frighten her as it was intriguing, assuming all males throughout the galaxy had their own way of being that she wasn’t privy to—the women too—enjoying what she could of him.

Zulara picked up the pace deliberately, one hand rising for its underside to palm Bane’s second phallus. She would run her fingers along the length of it—she was unbelievably delicate with him—it might have tickled had it not felt so delicious.

Bane could feel the telltale signs, the ones where his scales bristled, and his cock was on the verge of hardening; he was nearing the point of no return, forcing the girl to stop her suction; it was regrettable, but he knew himself. Though he would recuperate, currently his energy was depleted; he was tired, he desired to do nothing but relax, yet he had a call to make to that damn governess, and the hunter wished to hold onto his anger as it would serve him.

To allow himself release, to cum inside her pretty mouth—Bane knew nothing else would matter after that.

The Duros would withdraw his hips, pushing his buttocks to the wall of the now cold shower. This whole scenario had been a waste of water, but he would quickly forgive himself as Zulara was coerced to give up on her task. His cock had slid from out her throat, retreating back through her open mouth, the other slithering across her fingers joining its companion. The girl was frowning, her eyes two sorrowful, sparkling gemstones of varied chromaticity; she gazed at him like he had hurt her feelings.

“Did I do something wrong?” the halfling asked, her voice soft and peppered with notes of worry. Bane only stared at her as he allowed his breathing to even out; he swiped her bottom lip with the pad of a harsh thumb, dragging it slowly downward, exposing her bottom row of teeth and gums.

“Gotta comm te make,” he offered by way of an explanation. With that, he opened the bypass door, stepping past Zulara to touch down upon the refresher’s floor. Bane would leave her there to take care of herself, knowing that he could find her easily when he was ready— besides, Todo would keep an eye out.

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i-cast-teatus-deletus · 7 months

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I feel almost bad if you came to my blog because seeing a "Masterpost" made you assume I was some well-organized and dedicated blogger who had been working diligently on posts for years and had tons of content.

The blog had finally just barely crossed the threshold of unmanageable without better tags and a navigational post, some of those tags only have a single post right now, and I sunk multiple hours into reorganizing posts as I put the Masterpost together because they were so incredibly inconsistent (the one remaining colon in a post heading instead of a dash is a bugged post that I can't edit and it is haunting me every night) due to the fact that I've sometimes gone months without the energy or inspiration to put a post together.

I've said it before, but I sometimes wonder why I'm doing this as I've come across a lot of people who have done similar things with a lot more dedication and thoughtfulness compared to whatever this is.

#ICTD Miscellaneous

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waltwhitmansbeard · 1 year

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go on, claim my heart: chapter thirty-six

see my masterpost for what came before this.

When Percy returns to his chambers, he is unsurprised to find Vex there waiting for him. Perhaps he should be surprised; there are a great many things for the Captain of the Royal Guard to be attending to at this moment, from the upcoming mourning ceremonies to the following coronation of the new sovereign to a reorganization of the guard following a kidnapping of a member of the royal family. Yet he opens the door, and there she is, sitting on the end of the bed, feet on the footboard, elbows on her knees, exactly where he knew she'd be.

She watches him in silence as he slips out of his shoes, shrugs off his coat, hangs it carefully on the hook by the door. The weapon he keeps at his hip goes onto his desk, and then he sits beside her. Without a word, her arms come to circle his neck, and she pulls him back, so that their shoulders hit the mattress and she's holding him, keeping his face pressed into her chest as he weeps for the second father he's lost now.

They lay there for longer than they should—he also has so many things to attend to, so busy, this time meant for mourning—but Percy can't bring himself to move. At some point, Vex's fingers have drifted up to play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, and he rather feels like a cat being scratched just so, wondering vaguely if he might spontaneously start purring. The thought, sudden and unexpected in the stillness of the moment, is overwhelmingly comical, and a laugh bubbles up out of him.

Vex pulls her head back to quirk an eyebrow at him. "What's so funny?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. I'm...being stupid."

"Yes, well, I'm used to that." She smiles softly at him. "Did you say goodbye?"

"I did. It was...hard." And he finds that he does not want to talk to her about this, not when he has been so blessed to have had two fathers, each kind and generous and imperfect and wonderful, when she was denied even one who was not craven and heartless.

So instead he tackles the other elephant in the room. "I heard you."

Her breath catches in her throat. He watches her eyes dance between both of his, sees in them the strategizing, questioning whether she can get away with pretending she doesn't know what he's talking about.

She knows she can't. "We don't have to talk about this now."

"Vex'ahlia..."

"We don't. Our sovereign is dead. Keyleth will be crowned soon, if she's even awake yet. Vilya was nearly sacrificed in an immortality ritual not twenty-four hours ago. Bigger things are happ—"

He kisses her, slow but insistent. He then rests their foreheads together. "There are no bigger things. Not to me." He presses a hand flat against her stomach. "I will not presume to tell you what you want. I know that you take great pride in your independence, and if it is important to you, it is important to me, too. But I will say..." Oh, he did not expect this, the closed-throat emotion of it, the hiccuping heart in his chest. "I have been, in my life, so very good at convincing myself that I do not want the things that I want. It is easier, I think, not to want, because if you do not want, you cannot be disappointed.

"But this? I want this. I want you. I want our family, messy and strange and so very, very perfect. Seeing my sister, dying, being lured back to life by the sound of your voice—all of it made me realize that I am a man who wants a great deal, and I will not deny myself that want any longer."

Tears slip quickly and silently along the curve of Vex's nose. "I've been so scared," she breathes, "so, so scared. I didn't know—what if you didn't—what if I didn't—"

He shushes her, pulling her in this time to cry into his shirt. "I'm sorry you've been holding this alone," he whispers into the crown of her head. "I'm scared, too. I think it's safe to say my own relationship to parenthood is...complicated. But Vex..." He gently pulls back to take her face in his hands. "I love you." Her face crumples. "I love you more than I think I know how to say. And loving you is one of the only things in this world that does not scare me."

She kisses him then, wet and hard, and whispers against his lips, "I love you, too."

He holds her close, this miracle woman carrying their miracle child, and focuses on not letting his heart burst right out through his chest. After a few minutes, a thought strikes him. "Wait, did you know about this before you left on the quest for Vilya?"

A prolonged pause. "Um. Yes?"

"The quest so dangerous it got me killed?"

"Mhm?"

"Oh, I am going to be so very, very angry with you later."

"Of course, darling."

Vax rests back against the headboard, Keyleth curled into a tight ball in his lap. He's tucked her head under his chin, and now that she's cried herself out, she breathes slowly, in and out, clearly still exhausted even though her eyes remain stubbornly open.

And he can imagine why; what nightmares must await her in her sleep, what horrors, what sorrow, what fear? To travel the continent in pursuit of their stolen child, only to come home, battered but triumphant, and be told that her father, now, is lost forever—what has Keyleth done to earn such acute agony as this?

(Because it is forever, this loss. Vax sank deep into the pool of blood, let it fill his lungs to bursting until he was in front of her, seething, seeing red, demanding the return of his wife's father. His relationship with the Raven Queen has always been tenuous, nebulous, unsure; he will serve her until his dying day, and likely long after, a fitting payment for the gift of his wife's life, but then, what is the point of being her so-called champion if he cannot do even this small thing, restoring a good man to world?)

Keyleth has one hand gripped tightly into the fabric of his tunic, as if she fears she will blow away in the wind if she lets go. He strokes her hair, tangled and soiled from all their time on the road, and presses soft kisses about her temple. From just beyond their bedroom wall, he hears the familiar babbling sounds that he once feared he would never hear again. He is so endlessly grateful for Nel, who has installed herself in this cottage as Keyleth begins the agonizing process of putting her pieces back together again.

Keyleth must hear Vilya's small coos as well, because she murmurs, "I need her."

Vax doesn't need to ask for clarification. He carefully shuffles Keyleth to the side and slips off of the bed, and for a brief moment, the hand twisted into his tunic tightens. Then she lets go, and he quickly leaves the room, where he finds Nel tidying up, the baby snuggled in a woven sling across her chest. Nel looks just as tired as Vax feels—she'd been summoned as soon as they'd arrived back through the cherry tree, and once she'd confirmed that Vilya would suffer no long-lasting effects of her kidnapping, she'd remained to watch her while Keyleth recovered and Vax stalked off to futilely feud with a goddess. As Vax relieves Nel of her burden, he conveys his thanks for her steadfast dedication to his family. She merely pats his cheek with a sad smile and tells him that she will return as soon as she can take a brief nap of her own.

Vax takes Vilya back into the bedroom, where she curls easily into her mother's arms. He sits beside them, an arm around Keyleth, and when he feels some of the tension in her shoulders ebb away, he says, "I hope you know that I begged. I promised her everything I could to get your father back. I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

Keyleth runs a fingertip along Vilya's nose, across her rounded cheek, up to the point of one ear. "It's not your fault."

He hears what goes unsaid in the monotone of her voice. "It isn't yours either, Keyleth. Tell me that you understand that." She doesn't answer, and Vax wants to take her by the face, force her to meet his eyes and believe it, truly believe that she is not responsible for her father's demise.

"What did she say?" she asks instead, still looking only at their daughter. "When you asked for him back?"

Vax runs a stressed hand through his hair. What did she say, indeed? "She said that this was part of her warning, though I cannot possibly figure out how. She claims that the threads of fate are still being pulled. Kiki, I don't know what it all means. I don't know how to make this better, I don't know how to fix what's been broken."

"I need to see him."

The words are so quiet Vax almost doesn't catch them. He reaches a hand up to curl over his little girl's soft, wispy hair. There is so much suffering in this world; how is a man meant to keep such pain from his daughter? It is like stemming the tides with his bare hands.

He kisses the shell of Keyleth's ear. "We will go together. As a family."

Keyleth nods, her head coming to rest on his shoulder once more. It scares him, her quiet, her stillness. She may have cried herself to exhaustion now, but he knows that the eye of the hurricane has not yet passed over this house, that winds of grief strong enough to pull the cottage apart stone by stone are still howling in the distance. And somewhere, in the midst of such a maelstrom, she is supposed to become a queen, to lead her people into the next chapter of their story. What terrible things we demand of each other, he thinks as he watches tiny eyelids grow heavier and heavier in Keyleth's arms. What terrible, terrible things.

#critcal role #critical role fic #cr fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #vaxleth au #vox machina #vox machina fic #vox machina au #tlovm #tlovm fic #my fair lady #go on claim my heart #my fic #ps if you're reading this #today is my birthday

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mimssides · 11 months

Text

"I Wish I Could Believe You"

Prompt from @lost-in-thought-20: one of the Sides has overworked themselves. The other goes to check up on them and tries to get the overworked Side to swear not to do it again.

Link to the story on AO3 | Masterpost | Taglist

___

It takes a liar to know a liar.

It takes someone who likes working hard and well to recognise when someone forgot why they liked their work in the first place.

It takes a perfectionist to recognise when someone’s critiquing only becomes a stalling technique.

So, this turn of events doesn’t surprise him. Maybe he should have picked up on it a little quicker but he has needed time after the wedding to compress and figure out what to do next. Everything until that point has been so rushed . Everybody has been on edge and tried to not piss anyone else off, which in did piss everybody off even more.

He has decided to hold his cards close to the chest for once and just didn’t say too much. He started to think. And he found a few things in his thoughts. One was that he shouldn’t have rushed into that debate after the wedding. That he shouldn’t have jumped the gun and let things escalate the way they did.

That the insults between him and the other most dramatic side should never have been taken as seriously as the were. He shouldn’t have said his half and he shouldn’t have gotten so upset about the words that were thrown at him.

But he also realised one more thing: that it was over now. Now all things are said and done and for once in his life he stands with both feet right on the ground. Yes, it is a setback, yes, it hurts, yes, it is hard. But it is also the clearest he’s felt in years. Finally, he knows what the doesn’t want and what Thomas might need.

He’s at the bottom and he’s working his way back up. He doesn’t show it to the others yet. He doesn’t interact much with Patton, gets along with others better and lets them believe he was still upset with Patton for everything that has happened.

Is it fair, one asks? No, it is not, he’d answer if someone would ask. But it is also not fair how Patton got away with a lot of shit only because no one dared to talk back to him. Himself included. He should have spoken up sooner but alas. The past can’t be changed and finally he feels ready to move on forward.

And in that task he starts to watch everyone a bit closer. Observe a little better, listen a tiny bit harder. And my, it makes all the difference. He’s starting to understand where everything went bad, to see how they made each other and in addition Thomas miserable. He sees how the original “light” sides played each other in a corner, three edges of a triangle, all opposed, all too extreme for each other, eradicating nuance and moderation between them over decades and decades of living together. He sees how the original “dark” sides fall out more and more with each other. He sees that their bond, forged by exclusion and otherness, was breaking bit by bit, as they all are pulled into more and more different directions.

And then of course he notices him. He sees the subtleness of his suave comments. The way he forces himself to make it seem like nothing of it affects him all. He sees the lingering looks he believes to be hidden. He sees the longing of connection, of something true and stable.

He isn’t sure how he should approach him. There are a few opportunities as of late; after the first meeting with Nico, the little song he shared with Patton. He takes none of them.

In the end, it is a normal afternoon when it happens. He goes down to the living room in the search for a snack when he sees him sitting at the table. His hair is messy, face close to a paper, which was laying on the table. Virgil is holed up in his room, Patton and Logan stuck in the Library of Thomas’ Memory reorganizing the latest short time experiences, Remus creating chaos and anarchy in the Imagination. And he himself is supposed to work on the next script. So, no one should be here. He should be alone and free to worry about his work and be allowed to not focus on the mask he has put up around all of them.

But well, things don’t always go as planned, he thinks with a smirk and saunters over to the table and pulls out the chair in front of the other side.

Gold glints in his eyes as he looks up in shock. He has not expected him and tries to recover the mask but he doesn’t let him. He reaches for he paper in front of him and takes it. Lazily he looks over the words, sees that it is a schedule he must be review for Logan and raises his eyebrow.

“So Logan wants your help with scheduling?” he asks.

The other hisses and grabs the schedule back from him. Then the mask slowly slips back on, the face turning into the slight annoyed and bored expression it always carried and he looks at his gloved fingers.

“And naturally that is any of your business because...?” he says with lazy snarl.

He laughes. The others eyes dart over his face. He knows that he cannot read him. He knows his mask has been better than his.

“Deceit, honey,” Roman hums and leans his head on his had as he sets his elbow on the table, “I thought you were smarter than this.”

Panic sets in. Roman knows Janus cannot flee but he sees that he sure as hell wants to flee.

“Don’t you think about it.”

With a gulp the other replies: “I wouldn’t know what you mean.”

Roman sighs. He looks at Janus’ hands and then back up to the snake. Something changes. Roman can see that suddenly something changes in Janus’ perception of him and he knows he has a chance to finally make a change.

“It’s time for a break.”

He says it and scenes of Janus standing with Patton in the kitchen as the cook and clean the dishes, Janus picking up Virgil’s shoes and putting them away, Janus laying out Logan’s notpad and favourite pen on the kitchen table before the latter gets to his brainstorm session, Janus catching one of Remus’ knives from another Rube-Goldberg-Machine he’s building, play in front of his eye.

Janus hesitates.

“I took one only thirty minutes ago,” he says.

“I wish I could believe you.”

“Pardon me?”

“What time is it now?”

Janus hesitates again. Roman’s features soften. He can wait. He’s become quite good at waiting lately and he doesn’t mind to prove that to Janus now.

It is enough. Janus answers.

“It is 11.”

Roman knows his expression gets even softer. Janus blinks. He realises his mistake and his thoughts shuffle. Roman stops them as he stretches his hand out.

“It’s 2.30,” Roman says very, very gently.

He looks at him and closes his eyes with a smile when he finally puts his hand in his.

“There we go,” he whispers and lets his warmth seep into Janus body. “Let’s go to my room. I’ve got a nice relaxing bath ready for you, your snakiness.”

“Do you now?”

There is mirth in Janus voice.

“I do indeed,” Roman laughs and pulls the pliant snake up to his feet.

Something in his chest hammers hard and he catches Janus’ snake eye. It is dilated and curious on him. He thinks about the mistakes he made. About the pile he’s amassed over the years and years, the insults and jabs he would never be able to take back.

He thinks about the way he has pained him for years and years without thinking twice about it.

“We’re both familiar with failure,” it comes suddenly from Janus.

Roman glimpses over his shoulder to him. He stares at the floor. Maybe a tinge of regret on the blush of his human cheek.

“We both haven’t learnt from our mistakes. We certainly can’t move on.”

And at once Roman’s chest feels light. He inhales. And for once it reaches his lungs, his belly, his veins, his feet. And he smiles.

He genuinely smiles.

“We can. I think we can-” he pulls him closer and begins to sink them both into his room - “Janus.”

___

Taglist:

@vexelore

@exhaustedfander

@alexisrealgay

@wolfs-feder

@just-a-neoclassical-painting

@winter-jay-official

@a-ghostlight-for-roman

@mychemically-imbalanced-romance

@whattheremus

@regalredrose

@spellingwillbethedeathofme

@sarenicide

#eir writes #platonic roceit #roman sanders #janus sanders #ts roman #ts Janus #sanders sides #tss #tss fanfic #please reblog

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secret-fiction · 10 months

Text

Spyro, Wrath of the Wraith

CH 2 - Sunny Flight

General Audiences, contains Cartoon Violence and Depictions of Explosions.

Aiming to rescue the Professor and recover his Guidebook, Spyro gives chase after the wizard Blowhard in the skies of Sunny Flight. Soon he is led to a patch of sea blanketed with fog where the reorganized forces of Gnasty Gnorc attempt to ambush and destroy him. Bianca and Hunter follow close behind to help Spyro, but none of them are prepared for the new tricks and weapons Gnasty can deploy.

Story MASTERPOST

Wind trailing off of his orange wings, Spyro the Dragon flew after a rickety Gnorc plane and a flimsy wizard. Both the Gnorc pilot and Blowhard watched Spyro in fear as he thwarted their attempted flight. Under the bright teal skyline over the island of Sunny Flight there was nowhere for them to hide. The only real issue for Spyro now was choosing which one to chase first.

“Whaddya think Sparx?” said Spyro as he drifted from side to side.

Sparx hovered over Spyro and pointed his antenna at Blowhard while buzzing.

“Yeah he might have some tricks left,” said Spyro, “and maybe we oughta let that Plane carry on for a moment…”

While Sparx’s gesticulation and language should be indiscernible from a distance, Blowhard seemed to already know their next move. His chant hastened and he spun his arms rhythmically as the tornado he rode skirted across the blue waves. The water sucked up into the funnel of wind, becoming some sort of opaque waterspout.

“W-wizard!” shouted the Gnorc pilot as he gawked at Spyro, “whatta we do?!”

“Fly! Fly! Fly!” said Blowhard.

Folding his wings in, Spyro let himself fall into a dive toward Blowhard. As he closed in he watched the wizard's hands closely for any sort of magic lightning. Instead of lightning from above however, a wave from below pounced and nearly engulfed him. With a gasp Spyro hit the water with a blast of fire, boiling a small hole through it. Yet the force of the now boiling water still struck his sides, nearly dunking him into the ocean.

“Ack!” Spyro fluttered his wings rapidly, throwing off the water and stabilizing his flight just above the waves. “Do… Do you think water beats Dragons because we breathe fire???”

Blowhard only looked at Spyro with wider eyes as he changed the tune of his chant.

“...Is that why you use storm clouds??”

Wide eyes turning to a glare, Blowhard thrust himself and the waterspout into the sky. Both Spyro and the Gnorc pilot above nearly crashed into the spinning mass of waves.

Spyro quickly looped up to dodge the waterspout but found himself facing the now diving Gnorc pilot head on. They made surprise eye contact for a split second. Then with a stinging smack Spyro crashed into the propeller, shattering its blades.

Losing his orientation Spyro spiraled into something hard but covered in fabric. His claws instinctively dug into what turned out to be a wing of the Gnorc plane. Beside him the screaming Gnorc pilot yanked on the controls making this situation worse. Ahead of him the sea was spinning and closing in.

If he bailed out now Spyro knew he could reorient himself. But in this intense moment he felt pure thrill. He let his claws dig deeper into the fabric wing. Then he unfurled his own wings. Feeling the air in a way the Gnorc couldn't, he took control of the spin and lifted the plane into a stable glide, nearly ripping the wing off in the process.

“Aaah… Hah…phew,” uttered the Gnorc pilot.

“Hey!” said Spyro, assuming a casual posture mid flight, “First time flying pal?”

“Wah?!” said the Gnorc, “W-Wah!! Get off!!”

“Are you sure?” said Spyro, “Does he sound sure Sparx?”

Sparx, now assuming a blue but still sparkly form, pulled up between them and shrugged with his legs.

“I’m sure! Let me go!!”

“Well alright!” said Spyro. He then released his grip from the fabric wing, which immediately collapsed from the structural damage and sent the Gnorc plummeting into the sea.

After watching the splash, Spyro looped around and searched the sea. “Now where’s that…”

Whirling away just over the surface of the water, Blowhard had already put a lot of distance between himself and Spyro. After only a moment in view, he flew around the corner of the island and out of sight.

Seeing this, Spyro looked over the island for a shortcut but found none. He’d just have to gain speed somehow, which is where having Sparx as a co-pilot came in handy.

Focusing his senses, Sparx the Dragonfly found spots ahead where funnels of sharp wind could speed them up. He then projected these spots to Spyro with guiding magic. With few distractions around, Spyro wove between funnels and gusts of wind, sending him spinning through the air with increasing speed. Soon they rounded to the other side of Sunny Flight where Spyro had to slow himself to regain his bearings.

Ahead and below him Spyro saw Blowhard ducking into a cloud of fog. Eyes dilating, he curved his wings and swooped down in pursuit. But the fog quickly thickened, so he pulled himself just above it to get a better vantage point. Several spots of fog spun and disturbed ahead of him. Clearly the wizard was zig-zagging around. Yet the fog remained too opaque for a good sighting.

In Spyro’s effort to get a good look at Blowhard’s path, someone else got a clear sight of him.

As the chopping sound of a propeller blade faded it was overtaken by an astonished praise. Abandoning their tasks, the Gnorc crew assembled at the edge of the ship.

Hoisted up from the sea, the only plane of Gnorc Squadron Four to return was plopped between the crowd. Its pilot slumped out of the cockpit and rolled onto the deck with a groan. Landing beside it with a thud was the Professor, Guidebook clasped tightly in his small arms. Then landing upon the pilot and standing tall, if yet jittery, was Toasty the Sheep.

From atop the bridge tower Gnasty Gnorc watched this procession for only a moment. Only one plane returned. Just one. That meant they had found trouble. Trouble that might find him. He stepped to a spyglass mounted to the ceiling and swiveled it around toward the direction of Sunny Flight.

The fog was thin enough at this height for Gnasty to spot anything flying above it. Things that’d stand out against the teal skyline. Such things as a flying purple object accented with orange wings. He choked on his breath. Double checking confirmed his sighting. At this he frowned. He snarled. He gritted his teeth. He focused his eyes. He chuckled. He smiled. “That’s it, Dragon.”

It was now time to make the whelps pursuit everyone's problem. Through a hatch on the bridge Gnasty let himself drop to the deck. The resulting thud echoed through his knees and the air, all eyes were on him. “That same purple whelp gives chase!”

The announcement pulled a collective gasp from the Gnorc crew and they looked to Gnasty for guidance. This many of them could scare off most threats, but experience had shown that the Dragon was too smug to know fear. This infuriating attitude must be answered with tricks. He looked down to Toasty. Eye contact revealed great apprehension in the sheep’s eyes, yet with a hint of malicious ambition.

“Your hideout is trapped, correct?” said Gnasty.

Toasty shuddered, but nodded.

“I have a weapon, use it successfully now or your vengeance will be lost!” said Gnasty.

“Heh heh heh,” chuckled Dr Shemp, “Old Metalhead would love this.”

“Excuse me,” said a terribly small but infuriatingly un-humbled voice, “By purple ‘whelp’ did you mean Spyro? From my observations, and I’m sure a quick calculation would confirm if I had my pencil, that boy will raze the lot of you in only two to four minutes.”

Dr Shemp scoffed and pointed at the professor, his mit of a hand nearly matching the mole in size. “My own remarkable di-vi-nation found a different outcome.”

“Ah, what method of deduction did you apply?” said the Professor, “so as I may cross reference it.”

“Stop, “ said Gnasty. “...From what grime was this thing plucked, and why?”

“He ha-a-as the book,” said Toasty.

“Then take it from him!” said Gnasty.

One of the larger green Gnorcs reached down and plucked the book from the Professor’s arms. After passing it between several other minions, for some reason, it finally reached Gnasty’s grasp. Indeed the red crystal embedded within the cover was brilliant. While mostly opaque, he could make out the obscure reflection of his head. What a horrible thing, this crystal. Though it was unlike the treasure he wished to withhold from the Dragon hoards.

“Shemp, deliver the Sheep and our secret weapon to his hideout.”

“I predicted you’d order that,” said Dr Shemp.

Gnasty faced the rest of the crew. “And to all of you, don’t reveal anything about us to this little brown creature!”

Skimming through the fog with his claws as he flew overhead, Spyro noted its warmth. Not a particularly impressive warmth, but definitely not as cool to the touch as the ocean air. There was also a subtle but unusual scent of smoke, from some kind of wood? “Is this even fog? It’s not smoke, but it stinks.”

Sparx gave a curious buzz and flew under Spyro. His golden glow remained visible through the fog, but too dim to reveal anything. It didn’t take long for Sparx to pop up again, buzzing in mild disgust as he wiped off his antennae.

“Don’t like the wizard’s wind?” said Spyro.

Sparx responded with some dramatic mimicry of a nasty cough.

“Okay okay let’s get up higher. I can’t see that wizard anyway, so let’s find out where this sea gas is coming from.”

It took some effort and many wing flaps but Spyro pulled himself far above the sea. Below him the air seemed calm, but soon he caught sight of a closing gap in the fog. It was hard to follow, but he managed to find more spots of disturbance further ahead. This trail led towards the thickest area in the middle of the cloud. While his eyes could not pierce the veil ahead, some aspects of the scene were becoming clear.

“This is some kind of on purpose… hiding fog,” said Spyro, “they’re hiding.”

Squinting his eyes and focusing on finding any shape, Spyro drifted closer to the heart of the shroud. Holding his wings still helped reduce excess noise. Only Sparx’s constant flutter and the sea itself reverberated through the air. Then he heard a strange sound in the distance, something hissing directly ahead. Like a muffled fire, or boiling water?

The fog grew higher and Spyro drifted lower. As he entered the shroud a large dark shape appeared ahead. Some kind of tower. Evidently unhappy with being seen, the tower ambushed Spyro with a blinding light. It didn’t sting, but made his vision refocus long enough to distract from the following sound of rapidly approaching harsh winds.

Spyro swung his body into a roll, but the force of a tornado engulfed him. No amount of struggling helped him escape the vortex, so he fell back on instinct. After feeling Sparx land in his claws he curled up and wrapped his wings on his sides. He soon felt his body drop. The ensuing impact against a hard surface rolled off of his back like water.

With a kick he popped onto his feet and checked his surroundings. There was now a clearing in the fog around him. The wind died down and the fog that had been sucked up formed itself into a spiraling cloud above. Under his feet was a small island of rock and crystal. Nearby was the structure he’d seen, now clearly a stone tower with a bright light focused into a beam.

“Oh, like an old light-tower,” said Spyro.

Sparx flew up from Spyro and stared at the light.

“You’re a bit dimmer and bluer than usual pal, no need to be envious.”

This coaxed an annoyed buzz from Sparx and Spyro felt himself smirk. “Y’know, what business does that tower have being so bright anyway?”

Sparx nodded.

“And in the middle of the day!”

Sparx turned and gestured rudely at the light.

“Yeah yeah, this guy’s asking for it!”

Riled up and rearing to start trouble with an inanimate light, Spyro and Sparx took flight again. As they lapped around the top of the tower they found that despite its age all the glass seemed to be secure and reinforced by iron bars. This didn’t dissuade Spyro from ramming himself into every side of the beacon. Yet despite his barrage they were unable to force their way in. This clearly wasn’t going to work, but seeing Sparx fly in frenzied loops was pretty fun.

It was about time to take this more seriously though, especially with the fog rolling back in. Having seen a wooden door at the base of the tower, Spyro flew around to gain momentum before smashing through it in a dive. The stone inside was soft under his claws as he skidded across the floor. Behind him he immediately heard a metallic slam, an iron bar portcullis had locked him inside. Ahead of him a tall brown cloaked figure blocked the base of a stairway.

“Oh! Hello!” said Spyro.

“Go Ba-a-ack!” said a voice from under the cloak. It pointed an arm at Spyro and creaked with every movement. Something uncanny about this foe was fascinating, but familiar.

“No-o-o!” said Spyro, stepping closer to the figure.

The figure responded with some sort of trilling snarl and mechanical click came from its arm. Spyro reared up at this sound. With another click a wooden bolt fired from under its sleeve at him. He easily leapt over this and landed at the figure’s feet, spitting a blast of fire. Much of the fabric incinerated and fell away, revealing a now smoldering box labeled ‘TNT.’

“Oh!” said Spyro.

The top half of the cloaked figure flew into the air and through a trapdoor in the ceiling with a winding sound. How clever! And annoying! Spyro jumped up but too late to grab hold of it. Instead he unfurled his wings in time to catch the force of the exploding TNT. A bright flash followed by a cloud of smoke disoriented him as his body flung up through the trapdoor before it could slam shut.

After hitting a wall and then flopping to the ground Spyro felt a predictable amount of pain. He coughed and caught his breath, then hopped to his feet with a smile. The figure hung from the ceiling but seemed similarly disoriented as it swung back and forth. Chuckling, Spyro waved some smoke off of himself with his wings and approached again. Little concern clouded his mind, even if Sparx was now a cautionary green colour.

“Cool trick!” said Spyro, “do it again!”

Despite Spyro’s genuine smile, the figure ba-ah’d in irritation. From out its other sleeve projected a blade, some kind of compact scythe. Watching it unfold and spin aggressively was pretty neat. But the idea of what else might be hanging from the ceiling distracted him from this distraction.

Sure as sunset the rafters held several oddly shaped wooden objects laden with metal spikes. Spyro let his vision onfocus and glanced back at the figure as it brandished its scythe some more. It wasn’t going to strike first, despite its effort to imply otheriwse. So it was time to play into its hand.

Light on his claws Spyro jogged, but didn’t charge, toward the figure. Right where he expected a click came from the figure and one of the shapes fell from the ceiling. Swinging by a rope, a crudely carved savage dog covered in rusty spikes lunged for Spyro. He took a second to appreciate its features before hopping out of the way.

Aiming for every ideal point on the ground to get struck by these swinging traps, Spyro baited one after another into going off. Soon the room was swarming with flying dogs. Things soon became complicated as some ropes began to tangle and their paths went awry. While this felt exciting, Sparx was giving increasingly nervous buzzes and pointing out his green colour. Admittedly he ought to find a point to cut this silliness off.

“Y’know, I’m glad to see you again,” said Spyro, “the lack of any good tricks up your sleeve always bothered me.”

Through the fabric of what remained of the cloak, two horizontal eyes glared back at Spyro. This made him wonder if perhaps his wide smile might be being mis-interpereted somehow. A bleat from the figure cut this thought off. “You'll bea-a-ar a ba-a-ad fate for pursuing us!”

“Promise?”

“DIE!”

Spyro leapt closer to the figure, Toasty, and was surprised to find him actually attacking with the scythe. Yet with each missed swipe he swayed back-and-forth. There was definitely a cool way to knock this thing down now. Running circles around the frantically swinging Toasty Spyro kept his eyes on the dog traps, letting Sparx worry about the scythe for him.

Soon he saw his opportunity and charged under Toasty and right at a swinging spiked dog. He leapt over the dog and caught the rope it swung from in his teeth. With a small bout of flame it was set loose. The momentum sent it hurtling right into Toasty’s cloaked torso. Several snaps echoed through the room as the cloak and several shattered wooden mechanisms fell to the floor.

Toasty, his shaggy wooled body now exposed, sat in what was left of a puppeteering frame hanging from a rope in a ceiling. Seemingly automatically the rope pulled him up toward yet another trap door. Luckily several other potential rides were left behind here. Spyro eagerly hopped aboard a swinging dog trap, narrowly avoiding stabbing his own paws. It launched him with enough force for him to glide through to the next floor.

“What'd you think of my trick?” said Spyro as he searched for Toasty, “are you still alive?”

It appeared they were on the top floor of the tower now. A large oil fueled flame sat in the middle of the room and the iron reinforced windows surrounded it on all sides. It took a bit to find Toasty, but soon Sparx gave a worried buzz and pointed his antenna.

Bleating out a shaky chuckle, Toasty hung in the air over a large out of place metal gun. His hoofs clasped onto levers on the back of this strangely familiar device and his eyes locked on Spyro. Thunder echoed from outside, and Spyro noticed sparks spit from a metal cord running into the gun.

“Ah, I was wondering where the windy wizard went,” said Spyro, “guess you make good bait.”

“Ba-ait?!” said Toasty. He gave a trilling snarl and pulled on the levers, aiming the gun at Spyro. “I’m a Ba–a-oss!!”

“Who has many tricks up his sleeve,” said Spyro. “But are these your tricks, or is Gnasty back too?”

Something about the way he said Gnasty’s name seemed to scare Toasty. It was hard to tell if this confirmed or denied Spyro’s guess. Unfortunately there wasn’t much time to dwell on that as the barrel of the gun lit up.

A line of electric bolts fired toward Spyro and he dashed out of the way. The shots trailed him sloppily as he made his way around the room toward a winch near Toasty. As the gun lost its charge he charged for the winch. Then he hesitated and ducked behind it instead of burning the rope outright.

“Wait, is that Metalhead’s arm gun thing? It is, isn't it!”

Unfortunately Toasty was too worried about saving what was left of his wool to answer Spyro's question.

From his spyglass Gnasty saw several flashes of lightning above the light of the tower. His face contorted into a smile, unconcerned with hiding his teeth at this opportunity. When he’d scouted Toasty’s hideout he found respect in how secure it was. Though Gnasty understood one tactical detail his formerly wooly minion did not. There ought to be an escape route. A fortress too well secured would become a prison or tomb. This was the folly he let the Dragons think he’d fallen to in the junkyard years ago.

“SHEMP!” shouted Gnasty through a hatch on the bridge, “is it sighted?”

“You’ve got the best quartermaster on the job,” said Dr. Shemp, “I’ve divined our arc of fire!”

“...being a quartermaster is irrelevant,” said Gnasty.

“Actually, uhm,” the Professor waddled over to Dr. Shemp, “I’ve been watching your, eh, range sighting. I believe there may be errors.”

“Cease sowing doubt, enemy agent!” Dr. Shemp turned away and looked at Gnasty, “I sense the time is now.”

“Yes! Unveil the guns!” said Gnasty.

Dr Shemp turned and repeated the order to the Gnorc crew who scrambled to their posts around the large tarps all over the deck. In short order each tarp was pulled up, revealing large metal guns. Four double-barreled artillery cannons were already aimed toward the bright light in the fog. As the crew stumbled over the last step of folding up the tarps, they neglected to man the several smaller cannons lining the edges of the deck. Those shouldn’t be needed though.

“Heh heh heh, dodge this you little bruise coloured whelp!” Shouted Gnasty as he beat his chest and bellowed an increasingly viscous laugh.

Wind deafening her ears, Bianca gripped the edges of the cockpit and tried to have faith in Hunter’s piloting skill. For a ‘toy’, this large plane flew incredibly fast. As he sat packed in front of her, Hunter continued rambling as if they weren’t constantly making sudden sharp turns and rolls like an out of control paper plane.

“Yeah this baby is great at outrunning UFO’s. I can't believe the Professor didn’t want to keep it.”

“Are you sure this wobbling is normal?!” said Bianca.

“Yeah this is just how it-” Hunter was cut off by the wind nearly throwing them into the ocean, “-how it handles when I keep it at full throttle.”

Below them Bianca could make out a crystal laden island. Past that was a thick cloud of fog. A bright light near the middle of this cloud stood out. At this altitude it was hard to make out details but it looked to be from a lighthouse.

“Spyro might be down there,” said Bianca, “but we probably shouldn’t fly into the fog at this speed!”

“Fly into the fog at this speed?” said Hunter.

“DON’T do that!”

As they passed overhead the lighthouse, Bianca saw several bright yellow flashes in quick succession. They came from deeper in the fog. The last few she caught lit up the silhouette of a large ship.

“You see that?” said Hunter.

The echoes of the cannonfire reached them as the shells reached the lighthouse. Smoke and rubble flew into the air like that of a sandcastle being kicked down.

“Oh no,” said Bianca.

“You don’t think-”

Hunter was cut off as Bianca recited a magic chant as fast as she could. The spell enveloped her into a ribbon of rainbow light that warped toward the lighthouse, even as the deadly battery continued.

While Toasty had swung the gun to face him, Spyro noticed a lack of electrical charging going on. Maybe he wouldn’t get to have Toasty shoot his own winch loose.

Sighing, Spyro prowled slowly toward Toasty. “Was that it then?”

“Get Ba-ack!”

“The wizard should’ve recharged that by now.”

“GET BA-A-ACK!!!”

“...You think he got scared?”

“Ba-a-ury you! Ah’ll BURY YOU!”

Spyro stopped, his snout inches from the firing end of the gun. “Wanna tell me where the Professor is? He’s not here…” He glanced around the room to double check, seeing no other exits. Through the windows he noticed what seemed to be a floating shape in the fog, Blowhard perhaps, staying a good distance away.

A loud snap redirected Spyro’s attention. Toasty had ripped one of the levers out of the gun and brandished it in his hooves. This brought back a memory of how hard this sheep could swing a stick. Spyro tensed up and took a breath.

Suddenly a crash of incredible thunder shook the tower. Had Blowhard somehow charged up a more powerful lightning bolt?! Spyro dodged away from the gun, but noticed a distinct lack of electricity as two more deafening explosions rocked the tower. Outside he saw the fog parting for bright yellow flashes and waves of flying rock shrapnel.

“Where-?!” another crash cut him off and the floor suddenly shifted to one side, “Sparx?!”

As a whistling sound flew overhead, Sparx gestured frantically at the trap door. Spyro wasted no time charging for it. But the remaining shells wasted no time in shattering this lighttower beacon.

A bright flash in his eyes and a shockwave rippling through his body left Spyro stunned. All of his breath had been forced out. Though he could still see, it took a second for him to realize he was tumbling through the air alongside a barrage of rubble. Instincts quickly took over and he curled up again. The screaming bleat of Toasty and following explosions became muffle as he fell.

Soon Spyro had been falling long enough to worry about what he’d be hitting upon landing. Upon opening his eyes, he saw rapidly approaching waves scattering off of sharps rock. Sparx was nowhere in sight and his heart jumped.

Standing between two naval artillery guns as smoke spilled from their barrels, Dr. Shemp visibly evaluated his decisions. “My ears have only narrowly survived the percussive onslaught of our awesome new cannons!”

“Did you not cover them??” said the Professor who had his hands on his ears.

“I’ll never miss out on the music of war!” said Dr. Shemp.

The Professor hummed to himself and readjusted his glasses. “Say, these weapons are reminiscent of the outlawed high-caliber cannons the Land Lubbers in Avalar were supposed to have scuttled.”

“Funny you keep talking but I only hear bits of what you say,” said Dr. Shemp

“I’m only making observations of what is surely… coinciding technological evolution,” said the Professor.

Gnasty squinted down at this talkative mole. Luckily none of his crew foolishly entertained the Professor's dialogue. Now wasn’t the time he wanted to worry about that anyway.

Ahead of him where once stood the old bright lighthouse floated a descending cloud of smoke and dust. Their aim could’ve been better, but the sheer power of the cannons managed to fell and shatter the tower in one barrage. Despite his reservations of claiming victory now, a wicked chuckle rose from his chest. “Serves you right.”

Glancing down he saw the Guidebook still clasped in his hand. He dare not look for too long lest the power crystal sour his mood in this moment of triumph and urgency. He leaned toward the open hatch of the bridge and shouted down at his minions. “Ready the sails and engine!”

“Ready the what?” said Dr. Shemp, “shall we fire another victorious volley?”

“No, we must make for the badlands!” said Gnasty.

“...What?”

“Ugh,” Gnasty looked directly at his scattered crew. “Ignore Shemp until his hearing has returned. Ready the sails and engine!”

Overhead a loud whooshing sound passed through the air. Gnasty jolted and searched the sky, the last thing he needed now was a full sized Dragon finding them. “Abandon the big guns! Man the point cannons!”

After watching his smaller minions salute and attempt to follow his order, Gnasty turned to watch the sky again. Though he found his view blocked by the wide eyes of Blowhard, who hovered in the air outside the bridge.

“AH!” Gnasty stopped himself from punching the wizard, “You’re back.”

“I am, though I have not one,” said Blowhard.

“...Well, report!”

“The Dragon scattered with the rubble into the sea! One violet pebble in a rain of stone!”

“Did you see him dead?”

“...It would take longer than I have wind to find a sunken body.”

“What kind of excuse is that?!” Gnasty glared as hard as he could, but Blowhard seemed unbothered.

“A true sentiment!” said Blowhard.

“Ugh, then we must leave now before we can find out.”

It took a little while to find which direction the surface was, but the sinking rubble helped Spyro figure this out. He oriented himself upward and faced the descending cloud of dust. Then it occurred to him that Sparx was nowhere to be seen. That’s okay, that’s fine. Maybe now was a good time to take a breather though.

Soon the taste of mud mixing with the usual salty flavor of the seawater became distracting. More than distracting, as Spyro started coughing on the dust. This was unpleasant and it didn’t sound as though the explosions were continuing. Might as well take his chances at the surface.

Spyro lifted his head high enough through the waves to spit out the seawater and take a breath of air. He still didn’t hear any more explosions. But soon there was a softer cracking sound. This accompanied small bursts of gravel and dust flinging off the rocky island and onto his spot of sea.

“Spyro?! Are you here?!” said a voice that sounded like… Bianca?

With a leap Spyro latched onto the side of the rocky island and climbed up to the surface. Indeed it was Bianca, who frantically blasted chunks of rubble with magic, sending it flying to the sea. Spyro took a second to wipe some mud out of his eyes before speaking up. “So what brings you out here?”

“Spyro!” A look of relief washed over her face before she straightened up and dusted off her hands. “You’re alright?”

“Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because the- Hunter and I saw-”

“Right, the cannonfire. It was very loud.” Spyro patted his head. “But I’ve gotta go.”

“Hold on, do you need anything?”

“Oh yeah,” Spyro was surprised to see Bianca get a determined look on her face, “...you can make butterflies, right?”

“Uh...yeah, that takes very little magic,” said Bianca. She raised her arms then slapped her hands together. In a flash a small pink and yellow butterfly appeared and fluttered toward Spyro. Then appearing out of thin air came Sparx who consumed the butterfly in one bite.

Still green and throwing off no sparks, Sparx started flying laps around Spyro. This wasn’t unusual behavior after anytime he's disappeared. So Spyro stretched all his limbs to show that he was intact. Now they could focus on the matter ahead.

Spyro hopped atop a taller rock and looked out to the source of the barrage. There a pillar of smoke was now rising above the fog. Did one of the elders show up? Probably not, as he couldn’t hear any billowing flames of death. Instead the air shook subtly with the sound of hissing and familiar machinery. He wasn’t left wondering about the source for long.

A massive wing rose into the air and cast a shadow over the sea. Then it forcefully beat down, rolling the fog up into a visible gust of wind. Seeing this, Spyro braced himself against the powerful wind as the fog blew past him.

As soon as the fog cleared away he saw the whole form of a large metal ship. Large cannons adorned its deck which was topped with a tall bridge tower. The ship was already accelerating on the water as the wings sped up their flapping. These assailants were clearly fleeing after their cheap shot. A wise choice but too late.

Before giving chase, Spyro squinted at the hull of the ship. There was a symbol of an anchor next to some text printed near the front. “What does that say?”

“Creeping Gale,” said Bianca as she shielded her face against the gusts, her cape flapping loudly behind her.

“Okay, those birds came up with a cool name,” said Spyro. “I’m gonna torch their ammunition now.”

“Wait, Hunter was-” Bianca started.

Spyro didn’t hear the rest of what she said as he unfurled his wings and let the wind carry him into the air. Once sufficiently high he turned toward the ship and began his attack run.

The sky was clear, they might actually be home free. Perhaps the single factor that ruined Gnasty's last scheme was truly gone. If so, he was sure to defeat the Dragon Kingdom in due time. To think this was a bonus outcome of this raid.

“Gnorc,” said Blowhard, who was holding onto the bridge as he floated, “I’m now capable of confirming the Dragon child’s fate.”

Gnasty’s smile instantly disappeared. “...How?”

Blowhard pointed, and as Gnasty turned to look out that direction he indeed saw something purple and orange flying after him. What an appallingly stubborn little creature.

“Man the cannons on the…!” Gnasty glanced at a nearby operators manual, “the stern cannons! And more power to the engines!”

Gnasty watched as his orders incited a traffic jam among his minions. They scrambled across the deck, stumbling over each other and creating a ruckus. Still the Creeping Gale gained speed forward and lifted further from the waves with each swing of the sails. Maybe they could outrun the whelp after all. If they couldn’t, they still had leverage.

“SHEMP!” shouted Gnasty.

After a moment, Dr Shemp appeared from behind one of the cannons. “You called?”

“Now that you can hear, take that mole to the stern and-” Gnasty stopped as he realized Dr Shemp was standing alone, “...where’s the mole?!”

“That short statured skeptic is right over…” Dr Shemp looked around for a moment, then froze as he stared at the edge of the deck.

With one leg swung over the railing, Hunter the Cheetah stared with wide eyes as he had the Professor under his arm. He stayed still for a moment, giving Gnasty enough time to process what he was looking at.

“Uh… I’m just testing the floaters?” said Hunter.

“KILL THAT CAT!!!” shouted Gnasty Gnorc.

Dr. Shemp yelled and lunged for Hunter. It was too late though as Hunter leapt with a yelp over the edge of the ship. As Shemp reached the railing and looked over the whole ship lurched. It seemed they were finally airborne.

“Dang, they ain’t drownin’,” said Dr. Shemp.

Gnasty yelled and hit the frame of the bridge, the metal stung his knuckles in retaliation. “Forget them! Get on the cannons!!”

They could get by without the leverage of a hostage anyway, right? Gnasty slowly turned to look past the stern of the Creeping Gale. The purple dragon was closing in, a look of terrible excitement in his eyes. Gnasty clenched his teeth, better than shaking. All he needed to do was get to the badlands below Dream Weavers, his crew could accomplish this, surely.

“Was that Hunter?” said Spyro as he watched an orangish yellow shape fall from the Creeping Gale and into the sea.

Sparx buzzed in an ambiguous tone.

Soon they passed over where Hunter had landed. He was treading water and had the Professor on his head. They both looked miserably soaked.

“Hey Spyro!” shouted Hunter while waving, “we could use a bit of help!”

Spyro drifted past Hunter as he evaluated their chances with the sea. One glance at the ship he pursued showed it wasn’t getting any slower. Meanwhile Hunter was a pretty good swimmer. Well when he had some gear. Still Spyro had made up his mind. “Two minutes!”

“I’d prefer two seconds!” said Hunter.

Looking back up Spyro saw a whole gauntlet of weapons aimed at him. First was four cannons trained on his path. Blowhard, who was tied to the Creeping Gale as he flew, was preparing another storm spell. Then several other Gnorcs brandished random scrap to throw. At the back of this procession stood whom Spyro recognized as Dr. Shemp.

“You too?” said Spyro.

“FIRE!” shouted Dr Shemp.

As the cannons fired, sending hot projectiles his way, Spyro put his claws to his face dramatically. He played as if resigning himself to fate, then rolled out of the way. All four projectiles missed and sped toward the sea. Right toward the area Hunter and the Professor were floating. Spyro’s eyes widened seeing this.

“Oh smoldering he-WATCH OUT!”

Hunter seemed to notice Spyro’s warning as he dived under the water. Soon several large splashes kicked up in that area. Spyro drifted slower in the air as he watched and waited. Luckily Hunter popped back out from the water and gave a thumbs up. Spyro unclenched his jaw, he hadn’t realized he was doing that.

Hearing a warning buzz from Sparx, Spyro rolled in the air before looking up. A small cloud of lightning flew past him and sent a bolt into the sea. He then shot a glare at Blowhard who immediately backed away.

While Spyro wanted to remove Blowhard from the equation, the wizard and the deck of the Creeping Gale started rising out of his reach. Flapping his wings wasn’t giving him anymore altitude now. In fact he was falling. The air seemed to become more fluid as the wisps of wind off of his wings dwindled.

“Augh! No!”

Random scrap and trash started falling at him now as the Gnorcs threw anything they could get their hands on. Spyro could only look up and glare, finding the lot of them laughing at him. But his focus moved to the trail of thick black smoke above them. What a silly oversight.

“Well okay then, Bye! See you all soon!” said Spyro with a wink.

For some reason the Gnorcs didn’t look very enthusiastic about his farewell.

#Spyro the Dragon #Spyro Fanfiction #Spyro #Fanfiction #Spyro Fanfic #Spyro writing #Fanfic #Gnasty Gnorc #Spyro Reignited Trilogy #Spyro Story #Spyro Wrath of the Wraith #My Writing #Chapter 2

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