#write-the-galaxy

[wishfulsketching]

I have finally finished season 2 of Arcane and can now enjoy your art without fear!!! They should be happy together 🥺

I take it "they" means zaundads because that is what I've been drawing the most BUT, lets be honest, applies to like 98% of the characters in the show.

They should've been a big happy familyyyy

[galaxyspeaking]

Vampire viktor from this fic I wrote

[peach-and-cherryblossom]

[galaxymacbeth]

Gods of War

mm. what if, hear me out, the 141 were gods. and obviously, gods of war. and what if, hear me out, people try to give them a sacrifice?

cw: some gore, violence, kyle might be unhinged

Her pleads were drowned by chanting. Hands grabbed at her body, free from her dress since the morning when she had been dragged from her bed.

Her mother cried, hunched over the strong arm of her father as they watched her fight against the hands of the village elders’ sons. They knew it was coming, had been warned two nights prior that she had been chosen by the gods. The Gods. Her mother wailed but her father only tightened his grip as she plead for her life.

The dirt was wet, almost mud, and caked her legs, feet, and arms. Every time she slipped from one man’s grip, another would tackle her to the ground then hoist her into the air. Her screams echoed through the village, drawing out the folk so they could watch.

She had no idea when her dress had been torn from her, only that it was freezing and anyone within reach was touching any part of her they could. Some whispered words of prayer at her. As if the gods hadn’t spoken for her life.

Rope wound around her wrists and she begged. The man in front of her, the son of Elder Torsten, kept his eyes anywhere but on hers. His hair was caked in mud, having just tackled her to the ground, and his hands were bloody. Had she done that?

As the rope tightened, she pulled at it, causing him to step forward. She pleaded again, but he never lifted his eyes from her wrists.

She remembered him. They had been friends in their youth, exploring the woods around the village with the other children. She recalled the first time he kissed another boy and had hidden in her house for a week after his father found out.

A sharp command came from behind him, Tage she finally remembered, and he was ripped away so she could stare up at the son of Elder Asmo. The oldest elder. The one who’s word was final. Jarmo was his name.

His face was twisted in a sick grin and his hands gripped her biceps.

“Are you ready to die for your village?”

The other elders’ sons stepped away to reveal their fathers. All of them wore a look of pity, shame at having condemned her to death by proxy. All but Asmo. His face was hard and he had no pity for her. He had sacrificed his own daughter ten years ago to the same gods and never flinched as she screamed over the flames. They had survived the battle by the skin of their teeth. And the blood of their sons.

“You have been chosen,” Asmo boomed, “you will save your people, child.”

Her mother screamed again but it was shuddered by a hand over her mouth.

“We,” Asmo turned to face the gathered village, “are at war. Lost many sons, fathers, brothers,” he threw his arms out and spun slowly, “but we have heard the gods’ will.”

A young girl stepped forward, her face pinched and her mouth open. An older woman put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back with a shake of her head.

“The gods need a tribute.” Asmo’s arms dropped to his side as he turned to look at her. Quieter, just to her, he spoke, “you are their tribute.”

“Please,” she whispered, tears leaving clean paths of skin down her cheeks, “please, don’t.”

“It is not my choice, child,” his hand cupped her cheek, rubbing at the tears and smearing dirt across the skin again. His skin was rough, calloused and gross. She could see the glimmer of joy in his eyes. “The gods have decreed it.”

His voice boomed again, spooking her and earning a grunt from the elders and their sons.

Tage and Jarmo stepped forward again. Tage still never looked up at her. They took her arms and forced her to walk. Rocks cut into her feet, blood dripping onto the dirt as she stumbled to keep up with them. Forward motion kept her from digging her heels into the dirt to stop them.

Other elders’ sons were laying kindling delicately on the pyre she would burn on. One who was the youngest of the sons, Svend, glanced up at her. His eyes lingered on her breasts before flicking to her bare cunt. He was too young to have laid with one of the village girls. How lucky for him to get to leer at her as she was led to her death.

Jarmo hissed at him as he lingered too long and Svend scurried back to lay more kindling down.

She recalled that Jarmo had lead his own sister to the pyre ten years ago. Said nothing as she had her forearms cut to the bone and the fire was lit under her. Watched as she burned. Listened while she screamed.

The icy winds shifted. Kindling flew off the pyre and brushed against her legs. It comforted her.

Svend rushed after it, tripping over his own feet as he struggled to catch the bundle.

A sharp gasp came from the gathered villagers. Tage and Jarmo froze and she stumbled forward, out of their grasp. Her bound hands offered her no help as she fell to the ground.

“Wot’s this?”

Her head snapped up and the breath left her lungs.

Standing atop the pyre, one hand resting almost playfully on the hilt of a broadsword and the other leaning a forearm against the stake she was to be tied to, stood a man.

His chest was bare, though covered in scars and intricate tattoos. Low on his hips was a tartan kilt, something like the Northern men would wear. It was bright; orange red and blue mixing together to mimic the fire she was to burn in. At his hip hung a broadsword, hilt covered with a gilded cage.

Her eyes had barely made it to his face when he spoke again.

“Ahm no’ speakin’ another language, aye?”

She shook her head and took in the final pieces of his features. A proud stripe of hair centered his head, though it didn’t appear that he’d maintained it in a long while. His eyes reminded her of the sky right before a storm rolled in; dark but vibrant with the possibility of destruction. On his lips was a lopsided, dark grin and she could recognize her god when she saw him.

“Then wot is this?”

Casting a look around her, every head was bowed but hers. Even Asmo had collapsed to his knees and buried his face in the dirt.

“Looks like a tribute.”

Her head whipped to the left.

Atop a thatched roof stood another man. What little skin she could see was dark and his eyes were trained on Asmo. He wore leather plated armour and a hammer at each hip. From the distance, she couldn’t make out any of the details on the weapons or armour. But she could recognize her god when she saw him.

“Nah,” the Northern man shook his head, “tributes a’ taken on the battlefield. No’ at home.”

“Dunno, Soap,” her eyes snapped back to the rogue, “looks like one to me.”

A quiet hum came from behind her, but she dared not turn away from the two gods in front of her.

“Somethin’ tae say, elder?”

“F—for you, great warriors,” Asmo’s voice shook when he spoke but the intent was clear.

“I remember this place,” the rogue was suddenly beside her despite her never blinking, “more disgusting than last time I was here.”

The rogue crouched down to her, “well, most of it.”

“Oi, focus,” Soap snapped from atop the pyre. The rogue smirked, shooting the look to Soap, before standing back up.

“Tributes are warriors,” a new voice shook the earth as it rumbled, “they die in battle.”

Beside Soap stood a berserker. He was clad in a wolf skin, his shoulders almost too big to be covered by the flattened legs. A set of steel pauldrons capped his shoulders and leather crossed his chest to keep them in place. Some of his chest was bared and scarred as Soap’s was. On his back hung a shield with a greatsword at his side, a red gem resting in the hilt. His face was obscured. Though the wolf pelt hung on top of his head, a human skull was pressed to his face. She could make out the scar that ran from his neck, through his lips, and into the skull.

“And yet, I see no war.”

A hand brushed against her back and she let out a cry.

“I mean you no harm, little one,” he said.

The final man stepped around her and yanked a dagger from his side. One stroke had the ropes falling to shreds and he offered her his free hand.

He looked like a knight. Armour thick and clinking with each shift of his body and the wind. It was silver with delicate gold filigree carved into it. The armour reminded her of the king’s guard, though the current king favoured red and black and no one had seen a silver and gold knight for over three hundred years. For there was only one.

A pelt was draped over her frame as she took his hand and was guided to her feet. The rogue had removed his gloves and was tightening the pelt around her shoulders.

“Did we not make ourselves clear ten years ago?” The knight sheathed his dagger and the scabbard vanished into thin air. “Did the graves filled with the bodies of fresh men not heed you? Are you simply,” the knight stomped to Asmo’s form and pulled him to his feet by his hair, “stupid?” The elder screamed but the noise was cut short.

“Do you think you know better than the gods?”

“N—no! No, great warrior!” Asmo’s hands grabbed at his scalp and the knight’s armoured hand. The knight merely slapped them away and dropped the elder to the ground.

“Are you alright, dove?” The rogue pulled the hood of the pelt, a cat of some kind from the snout that fell over her head, up and smoothed the skin over her shoulders.

She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady in his presence. In any of their presence.

“I remember you,” the knight scoffed, “I remember the cries of your wife. The look on your face. Do you remember what happened after the girl died?”

“Y-yes, sir, yes, great warri—” the berserker backhanded him to the ground again.

“What’d we tell ya?”

Asmo cowered under the skull’s hollow eyes, “it must be—”

“Battle.” The berserker stabbed his sword into the ground. Straight through Asmo’s thigh. “We don’t take innocent souls.”

“She...she fought,” Asmo cried, “she bloodied them!”

“An’ tha’ makes her a warrior?” Soap stabbed his sword through Asmo’s bicep. “Fought a battle, she did, but nae the kind like us.”

The rogue bundled the pelt around her tighter, almost as if he was trying to stop himself from leaving her side. Up close, she could see the iridescent filigree in his leather and the shimmering of the onyx hammers at his sides. They twinkled with power and she reached for his hand.

Gaz’s head snapped to look at her. His deep, brown eyes froze her entire body.

“Don’t tell me you feel pity for him,” he whispered, “don’t show him mercy.”

Her hand loosened in his grip and the hammers glitched blue.

A sharp, instant scream tore through the silence and the rogue pressed a wet hand to her cheek. Blood covered his armour, skin, and face. His hammers dripped with it.

Asmo lie, what little was left of him, on the dirt. Blood spilled from his neck into the crater where his head once was. Brain matter splattered over those close enough to watch the savagery and the rogue brushed some away before it fell onto her hand.

“Gaz.” The knight bellowed, but cut himself off before he’d begun.

“A sacrifice has been taken. See to your wounded,” the knight commanded, “we will be taking what is ours.”

She could not even find it in herself to fear the words he said.

next

masterlist

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[cosmica-galaxy]

=Survival and Servitude= Cookie Run x Giant!Human!Reader

Part: 2

Genre: General

Warnings: Little Blood/Injury

Word Count: 3,ooo (3K)

The Cookie Kingdom was a cacophony of worry, confusion, intrigue, and fear as the resident cookies went about their day upon the arrival of a very familiar airship.

The airship parks in the designated landing area of the kingdom, the ship itself radiating with familiar yellow, blue, and waffle pattern accents. On board the said-airship were a few sugar gnomes and the pilot. However, the most important cookie on the airship was dressed in a large waffle-like headpiece, golden robes, a robe with chocolate-like drippings, blonde hair, a closed-eyed warm expression, and a brooch that glittered with the power of his blue souljam. Yet, his expression quickly turns to worry once the Ancient cookie steps off of the airship to see the Cookie Kingdom residents on edge by some unknown cause. What could be causing the residents of the Cookie Kingdom to be so tense…? “Pure Vanilla cookie! You got my letter!” A familiar voice calls out and the ancient changes his expression to a more pleasant one as Gingerbrave and Wizard cookie hurry up to the landing pad to greet their cookie friend. “Gingerbrave! How nice it is to see you!” Pure Vanilla cookie says with a beaming smile. “And yes, I received your letter. You said that your kingdom has a major issue and that you all need my aid as soon as possible…” Vanilla takes a quick look back to the various citizens that look like they are on edge as they hurry from one place to another. “Seeing how your citizens seem to be stressed, I can only imagine what you all may be dealing with to cause such a wide-spread sense of tension…” He tilts his head curiously.

“However, what sort of issue is afflicting the entire kingdom that requires my healing? I figured you would need something more along the line of advice or knowledge…is there a blight or some other form of contagion that is spreading in the populace or…?” “I…well, you see. Yeah! We, uh, do have an issue. A pretty big one, actually.” Gingerbrave slightly admits, rubbing the back of his head. “Oh, definitely. You won’t believe what he has gotten this kingdom involved with, Pure Vanilla Cookie.” Wizard cookie states in an exhausted manner. Pure Vanilla could only look on in growing worry as Gingerbrave flinches slightly at Wizard Cookie’s comment. “What do you mean…?” Pure Vanilla simply mutters in befuddlement. Gingerbrave can only sigh out of exasperation at the unknown cause of his grief.

“It’s probably best just to show you, Pure Vanilla. Follow me!” Gingerbrave exclaims and the cookie begins to make his way off towards a part of the kingdom that wasn’t too far away, Wizard cookie and Pure Vanilla in tow.

Pure Vanilla could only reflect on Gingerbrave’s strange behavior internally. Wondering what has gotten this Kingdom so riled up that a sense of anticipation constantly hung in the air. It was thick and heavy…almost suffocating. Yet, he follows Gingerbrave unhindered as Wizard cookie walks with the two as well, Strawberry Cookie not being around currently to say ‘hello’ to the Ancient sadly. He was expecting to be taken to a hospital or some other place of healing…not a large airship hangar. In fact, this building seemed to be used for the large croissant ships that were primarily used for expeditions…why here? “Uhh…are you sure we are at the right place, Gingerbrave? I doubt my healing can do much here…?” Pure Vanilla questions, obviously confused. “It’s not a machine or anything, Pure Vanilla.” Wizard cookie speaks up, pointing at the building with his staff. “What needs healing is INSIDE this building.” He clarifies. “Oh..?” “Y-Yeah…just…don’t freak out, okay?” Gingerbrave states before opening the cookie-sized door in the front and going inside, and Wizard cookie cautiously follows after him. Now, that made Pure Vanilla pause for a moment in the doorway to the hangar.

It’s inside…this large building…? What could possibly be within this place that Gingerbrave urgently needed Pure Vanilla to come out specifically for his healing prowess? In fact, Pure Vanilla could tell that something was rather amiss about this building the moment he approached it. 

Why were there so many of the kingdom’s guards everywhere around it…? Was it a large cake monster? A group of vagabonds? Maybe it was something that hasn’t been discovered before out here in the wilds? Whatever it was, it may be dangerous…or it may have some serious injuries if Gingerbrave reached out to him personally for his skills. Still, he grew curious.

What could be in there that could possibly break his calm composure…or as Gingerbrave put it–”freak out”?

Without another moment of hesitation, he walks into the hangar, and suddenly stops in place. He finds himself frozen to the spot the moment his eyes make contact with the creature in question and he finally processes what was hidden within such a large building.

A human.

Gingerbrave and Wizard cookie were currently standing near the being, who appeared to be unconscious, and observing it from the safety of the railings and catwalks that line the hangar’s interior. “G-Gingerbrave?!” Pure Vanilla states with a slight tremble in his voice. “Is that what I think it is…?” He says, slowly approaching the railing with caution. The creature rests peacefully. Completely undisturbed as it lays curled up on the hardened sugar floor of the hangar. “Haha…surprise!” Gingerbrave weakly jokes, sticking out his candy cane with false enthusiastic pizazz. Pure Vanilla can barely process what he was witnessing and could only stand on the catwalk in silent awe. For a moment, he was stunned and just...intrigued, in an odd way. Yet, he turns to Gingerbrave and Wizard cookie–wanting to do something or say anything. But the only word that managed to slip by his toothcing was a single question, “how?”. “Gingerbrave–” Wizard Cookie asserts, pointing his staff at the cookie in question. “--Decided that we should take this thing into the kingdom to try and make it better.” “Is that true, Gingerbrave?” “I…well…” Gingerbrave holds one of his arms nervously. “It’s a bit of a long story, Pure Vanilla Cookie.” Gingerbrave begins, “You see…last night, everyone felt this MASSIVE earthquake at around midnight and it really startled all the citizens in the kingdom! During the night, we told everyone that Strawberry, Wizard, and I would go out to investigate the possible cause!” Gingerbrave explains. “So, we found nothing near the Kingdom for the entire morning. Then, we branched out towards Dragon Hill and found large craters in the ground and a messy trail of broken trees! At the end of the trail…we found them.” Gingerbrave continues. “And then this doughbrain decides it would be a good idea to approach it!” Wizard Cookie cuts in. “He could’ve gotten hurt…or worse! Eaten!!” “Hey! They were unconscious!” “Doesn’t mean that they won’t wake up at some point!” “Alright, alright!” Pure Vanilla waves his hand gently, trying to calm the two cookies. “I can understand that you are pretty brave for a cookie Gingerbrave…but I thought even you were terrified of the witches?” Gingerbrave flinches again. “I…well…I am. I still am! But, Pure Vanilla…I don’t think this is a witch. They aren’t dressed like one and they look different!” Gingerbrave confesses. “I just…I can feel that they’re different. Though, I can’t really explain why…”

“Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that this is all off a gut feeling that Gingerbrave has. Yeah. This whole idea? His gut’s doing.” Wizard goads, but he is quietly hushed by Pure Vanilla. “But, why bring it to the kingdom?? You know that there are obvious concerns with their…habits. Are you not worried?” Pure Vanilla questions, his face reading sincere concern. “I know…I know.” Gingerbrave muses. “But…what else am I supposed to do? Leave them there to bleed out in the forest?” This takes Pure Vanilla aback. “Bleeding…?” He says in an aghast tone. “It’s injured…?” “Yes. But…none of our healers are experienced with such…well…creatures. Some even outright refused because they believed that it would awaken and eat them…” Gingerbrave said in a sorrowful tone. “We only managed to buy enough time for your arrival. I don’t know if the wounds have gotten better or worse…but it has been sleeping for a long time. It hasn’t even stirred or woken up at all in two days.” He continues. “A good or a bad thing depending on who you ask.” Wizard Cookie snarkily comments. Pure Vanilla seems to be pondering deeply about something. “That’s why I reached out to you. I couldn’t think of a better healer with a strong sense of empathy than you…” Gingerbrave admits. “So…do you think you would be able to help them…?” Pure Vanilla finally looks away from Gingerbrave to stare at the large slumbering being before him. Yes. He knows the witches species well…but never well enough.  Most of what he knew about humanity was their very powerful magic, their ties into creating the world of Earthbread, and their…horrific habits of eating cookies, and yet they were also the creators of his soul jam.

His mismatched eyes scan over their body and he could already see the pooling of redness that was beginning to spread on the hardened sugar floors. If this kept up…they would surely die. He sits there for a moment longer in silence. Trying to balance his own cookie instincts to turn away and flee and his compassionate nature to give healing to the injured…no matter the being nor the size. 

If he allowed the human to die, what would he think of himself? Healers are supposed to heal. Yet…what if Gingerbrave is wrong and this IS a witch? 

But even he knew, as an ancient cookie who has lived a long life, that even the witches served a purpose for cookiekind. 

Despite their appetites for cookies, some witches hold elements or forces in balance for Earthbread. If a witch were to die and there was no master for those forces anymore…what chaos would that bring unto Earthbread? Better yet…another more important question would be to find out what happened to this human. 

Who on Earthbread would dare commit such heresy as to attack and attempt to kill a witch? He has a very ominous feeling at the thought that some cookie was out there attempting to take down the witches and doom Earthbread itself.

Just like Dark Enchantress Cookie…maybe it was Dark Enchantress Cookie…?

This isn’t good. He needed to act quickly.

“Uh…hello?? Earthbread to Pure Vanilla! Are you there?” Wizard cookie could be heard saying from his side, which startled him out of his deep thoughts.

“Oh! My apologies…I was just contemplating things. But…yes. I will help heal them.” Pure Vanilla nods, to which Gingerbrave’s eyes lit up and Wizard cookie just lets out a defeated sigh.

“Oh! Thank you so much, Pure Vanilla Cookie!! I knew I could count on you! Here! Follow me down there! I’ll show you where they need the most attention!” Gingerbrave says, opening a sugar-metal gate next to him and descending the flight of stairs to get on the ground. “Pure Vanilla…are you sure you know what you are doing?” The Wizard can’t help but ask as he follows the ancient cookie down the stairwell. The holder of the light of truth could only let out a sigh. “It may be hard to believe, but even the witches help to uphold order and to prevent chaos in Earthbread, Wizard Cookie. My fear of the chaos that will erupt in the absence of one of the witches is far greater than the risk of being eaten by one.” Pure Vanilla Cookie admits.  “In truthfulness, my fear of those two things is even lesser than what I truly am concerned about. What I fear more than either of those things…is who decided to attempt to eliminate one of the witches, or humans, that may or may not oversee certain aspects of Earthbread. ” Pure Vanilla Cookie continues.

“Even worse…what if this wasn’t the first one to fall? If this attempt on their life had succeeded and they were killed by their mysterious assailant–then nobody would have any idea that our world is currently unraveling as we speak.” Pure Vanilla Cookie states seriously.

“This is a matter I must bring up to the other ancient heroes in a council as soon as I am able to.”

Wizard cookie doesn’t say anything else, as he and Pure Vanilla approach the spot where Gingerbrave was eagerly jumping up and down to get their attention.

“Here! The worst of the wounds are here!” Gingerbrave points with his candy cane up at the creature, where Vanilla could only guess was the creature’s side, and he could see three long crevices cut into the…dough(?). Though, there were numerous cotton fluff gauze bandages trying to cover the wounds, yet it wasn’t helping much.

Wordlessly, Pure Vanilla begins to examine the wound site.

The more he looked, the more he could see the jam(?) slowly drip out of the wounds in slow moving rivers. He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the strange taste of metal in the air, and he prepares to get to work.

He has never healed a creature of this size before….let alone one with such different anatomy. So, he can only hope that his magic is strong enough to penetrate through the…dough(?) of the human.

His hands begin to glow with a bright golden light and he gets to work.

In a way…it was fascinating to watch his magic flow into the creature when he touched them.

Their soft dough(?) took his magic easily and the irritated wounds slowly began to stitch themselves closed. He watches with awe as the torn dough(?) slowly comes back together, like the sail of a large ship slowly repairing itself and undoing the damage that was done to it.

The larger of the wounds slowly and steadily closed and the smaller wounds nearby seemed to vanish seamlessly into nothing. Leaving behind a perfectly healed layer of dough(?). The rivers of jam(?) stopped flowing out of the human’s body and Pure Vanilla took the opportunity to pull away and gasp for breath.

This…was taking a lot more magic than he anticipated.  Still…it was fascinating to finally touch such a legendary fabled creature that wasn’t intent on devouring you. In fact, their race was more squishier than he expected them to be…it was nice in a strange way.

“Are you okay, Pure Vanilla? You look exhausted…” Gingerbrave worriedly asks, watching as the ancient tries to gain his breath back.

“I am…okay. It’s just taking more…magic than I anticipated.” He pants. “But, I will not falter! I need to stop the wounds from bleeding so they can…ah…start recovering.” He gasps.

“Wow…you’re right! We need to keep going! I’ll show you the other side. There’s some pretty nasty wounds in their dough over there as well.” Gingerbrave says, walking with Pure Vanilla and Wizard Cookie.

However, as they pass the front of the sleeping giant again, something metallic catches the gaze of the passing ancient.

“Gingerbrave…” He suddenly asks. “What is that device on their wrist?” Pure Vanilla questions, looking at the ominous object with a look of concern.

“Oh, that? We…don’t really know. They had it on them when we found them! We had some arcane cookies look at it before you arrived and–”

“It’s in a language we can’t understand!” Wizard Cookie interrupts. “Apparently, it’s some form of magic artifact that is apparently a part of some incantation…but we can’t decipher the runes that were used…” He explains.

“Hmm…allow me” Pure Vanilla offers.

Then, Pure Vanilla Cookie approaches where the shackle remains attached, taking in the silvery glint that was polished to near perfection. The glowing red writing on the cuff glows ominously at his approach and he leans in just enough to slowly make out the writing.

He knows these words…no. He remembers this language.

This new revelation sends a chill down his spine when the familiar writings bring about his old memories of White Lily and his years of being at the blueberry academy…and those forbidden textbooks.

“Do you know what it is…?” Wizard cookie inquires.

“This…is dark moon magic.” 

“WHAT!?” Gingerbrave and Wizard Cookie bellow out simultaneously. “It’s dark moon magic.” Pure Vanilla repeats. “More specifically, a shackling incantation. This is typically used to ‘shackle’ creatures into forced servitude. It is a powerful incantation that can only be broken by the one who imprisons the victim and the victims of the curse are granted very little will of their own…if any at all.” He continues. “I’m starting to think of something much worse than simple attempted murder...” Pure Vanilla admits, touching the shackle and feeling the familiar dark magic swirling within the moonstone. “I have a feeling that these injuries were inflicted upon this human during a struggle. They must have resisted the placement of the second shackle, hence why there is only one…” “Then…that means…?” Gingerbrave mutters out, completely missing how Wizard Cookie’s single eye suddenly gets very wide. “Yes…some cookie may not be out to kill the witches…but to control them. To force them to do their own bidding.” Pure Vanilla says, standing up and facing towards Gingerbrave. “Gingerbrave, this situation is more dire than I could have ever predicted…and I thank you for showing such compassion to such a large creature. This is news I have to give to the other heroes as soon as possible.” “G-G-G-Guys…” “Aww! Thank you so much! But I was only doing the right thing, Pure Vanilla cookie!” “G-G-Gu-Guys…!” “Come. Let's finish healing up their wounds–” “GUYS!!!!” Wizard Cookie practically screams, which gains the other cookie’s attention very quickly. “What is it?! What happened, Wizard Cookie!!?” Gingerbrave shouts while looking towards his friend, who was suddenly standing pretty far back and trembling uncontrollably. “L…Look….L-Look behind…” Wizard Cookie stutters out while he shakes. “Look…? Look–” Pure Vanilla starts. But both Gingerbrave and Pure Vanilla suddenly fall still and silent when the feeling of a strong puff of warm air brushes by the both of them. Both cookies suddenly begin to slowly turn back around to face the source… They both could only stare in horror as the sleeping expression of the giant was now replaced with a large pair of eyes that were staring down at them all. The giant has awakened.

[iamhereinthebg]

I've been wanting to draw Nene dancing with them since a really long time 🥺

[vakarianshepard]

presented without context

[breannasfluff]

“I’m from Amity Park,” Danny says instead. “Small town in Illinois, probably a lot like where you grew up, Taylor. My parents are ectobiologists.”

“Ecto…what?”

He grimaces, because it’s the usual response to that statement. Sure, the world has superheroes and aliens now, but ghosts are still the unbelievable part. “They focus on the study of transdimensional ectenic entities and biochemical engineering.”

Conner turns and paces backward, ignoring that he’s catching his suit pants on thorns. “How about again in plain english?”

“They study ghosts!” Danny throws up his hands with a huff and waits for the laughter.

It doesn’t come.

“Ghosts?” Conner raises an eyebrow. “You met John Constantine yet? I heard he’s a real piece of work, but if anyone is involved with ghosts, it would be him.”

[short-wooloo]

i forgot to post this a week ago...

Its 2025 now, which means this year these all turn 15!!

[evilminji]

Okay Ya'll... Genuine Question...

Would a Jedi... make a good Cultivator?

Like?

Let us assume? It's not your average, middling, Jedi. It's a pretty GOOD at Jedi-ing Jedi. One USED to being humanoid, so there isn't any body dismorphia. Let's go with Obi-Wan, cause honestly? He's perfect for this. And life DOES like to kick him in the nuts like that.

It would FUCKIN TRACK. Might as WELL happen, he would think, reincarnated.

Probably not even mad, honestly. Just mildly upset with the Force, as a nebulous concept. Cause he fuckin DID his time. He was enjoying not being organic anymore. Rude™

Cause like? Let's look at what a Jedi is?

Spiritual

Knows how to use a (lazer) sword

VERY non-judgmental of Sentient Beings that do not look like them

Practiced in being kind and emotionally balanced (Anikin. Remember those classes? WE REMEMBER THOSE CLASSES)

Great at meditation and feeling "The Force"

Etc etc! It's damn near a one to one! Except? For the DETAILS. Both? Would fundamentally view the OTHER as "doing it wrong". Jedi? Use violence as a LAST resort. Cultivators? Often the FIRST. Jedi do not KEEP the Force inside them selves. They are PART of it. Cultivators? Build Qi, taken in and built "from themselves", to form a golden core. The base of their IMMORTALITY.

You know... the very thing SITH have been attempting for eons.

And what is this Becoming Gods business? Ascension???! EXCUSE ME?

Talking down to the "mortal world"? Removing yourself from it? It is... it is UNNATURAL. Un-jedi. Yes, they KNOW their are other Force Sects out there. And they are not necessarily DARK... but... this feels? Wrong?

And to Cultivators? What is the Jedi? If not some bizarrely powerful Hippie? All humble robes and sitting in the dirt, laughing with villager children. Getting shown their straw dolls. Passed a baby to hold, by grateful parents they helped.

What is Dignity to a Jedi? What is Face? Reputation and Honor?

They are servants of a higher calling. A humble calling.

One with the Force, which is One With Them.

@legitimatesatanspawn @spidori @mayfay

[tennessoui]

You feed us so well, you spoil us rotten!

I’ve loved every single one of the little creations. My absolute favorite is kenobi’s trial. I’ve been thinking about it the whole evening after reading. If you ever think that it needs a continuation, I am so here for it.

Also, reverse vaderwan had me frothing at the mouth. Which is not surprising since I love throat fic so much.

If you have more, then #29 or 30 for the ask game? 🥺

i am a simple woman, you tell me you like reverse vaderwan i give you more reverse vaderwan (though a slightly different flavor this time)

[from this list of prompts]

[5. 'are you jealous' - 14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.' - 18. 'this is the stupidest plan you've ever had. of course i'm in.' - 24. 'you're the only one i trust to do this' (LATEST) - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 28. 'marry me?' 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' - 37. 'wanna dance?' - 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

29. 'i thought you were dead.'

Darth Tyranus puts his teacup down onto his saucer with a small clink. "Ah," he says, turning his head to examine something in the Force that Solence is unable to feel. His eyes stare unseeingly out at the storm currently battering against the castle's walls. "Yes, I wondered when it would be time."

"Master?" Solence says, placing his own untouched piece of toast down onto the plate in front of him. "What is wrong?"

Tyranus blinks at him, mouth tightening for a moment as he seems to weigh his words and his options carefully. Darth Solence has only been apprenticed under Tyranus for six months, but he understands the importance of such care in choosing one's plan of action. His first master never was able to teach him such things.

His first master, when he was called Obi-Wan--when he was a Jedi padawan, when Anakin Skywalker was his master--

"It seems my former master has sent his new apprentice to kill me," Tyranus tells him. "Retire to your quarters for the morning."

Solence blinks. Automatically, his hand clenches and unclenches in his lap, jerking towards the hilt of his lightsaber. "What? No."

Tyranus sneers as he stands from the table. "You are no match for Vader, boy. He would kill you in a heartbeat."

"You said I'm powerful in the Force," Solence argues, standing as well and rushing after Tyranus' form. "That you were impressed by my control of the Dark side--and you saw me neutralize the whole legion of Imperial troops we encountered on Fielen!"

"No, Solence," Tyranus' voice leaves no room for any further argument. He stops short of the door to the grand hall, turning to look down at Solence with a severe expression. "Though your control of the Force is impressive for someone your age--" Solence is twenty-two, not exactly a youngling-- "and though your control over the Dark side is commendable for someone as Light as you once were--" Obi-Wan, padawan, little star, focus on me, alright? Your katas were sloppy today, let's work on them... "--your power is that of a vibroblade compared to Vader's ion cannon. Now go."

"Tyranus, two Sith are--"

The back of Tyranus' ringed hand connects with a smack across Solence's upturned face. He can feel the instant split of his bottom lip as Tyranus' ring cuts it open.

"No," Tyranus' voice is final, the hit a punctuation mark and a warning all in one. As he turns away from him, Solence lifts his hand to press it to the stinging skin. He has had worse. Endured worse at the hands of this master. The Dark side cannot be taught to an apprentice as delicately as Master Skywalker had once taught Obi-Wan Kenobi the powers of the Light.

And yet...he frowns as he watches Tyranus stroll through the open doors, out of the safety of the fortress, presumably to meet Sidious' apprentice--Vader--at his ship. To catch him off guard? To negotiate? To die?

Perhaps if Tyranus had not told him the truth, the reason behind his sudden dismissal, Solence would have gone to his quarters none the wiser. But he can't leave now, can't stand to watch another one of his masters die, even though the respect he holds for this one is a tiny spark compared to the love Obi-Wan Kenobi once nurtured for Anakin Skywalker.

Darth Solence grabs his dark cloak from the side room and pulls the hood up over his face before following Tyranus out into the storm.

It does not matter if he cannot win a duel against Darth Vader. He must try. He must try, not even because of his respect for Tyranus. Not even because he does not want to lose another master.

He must try because Tyranus said that Vader is Sidious' apprentice, and there is nothing in the galaxy that Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Solence, hates more than he hates Darth Sidious, emperor of the galaxy.

It had been this hate that had led him to the Dark side. Hatred and grief at the death of his master in the final days of the war. Sidious had burned the Jedi Order to ash and from its corpse built the empire, and Obi-Wan will die with hatred in his heart for the monster who killed the Jedi. For the monster who killed his master.

He'd been on his first solo mission of the entire war, the day the Order fell. Anakin had been so stubbornly against it, so wary of having his padawan out of his sight during those last few months. Obi-Wan thinks of it now, though it's always painful, and he wonders if perhaps Anakin knew that something terrible was going to happen. His master was always so in tune with the Force.

Perhaps if Obi-Wan hadn't been so insistent, so eager to prove himself as a man, as his master's equal--perhaps if he'd been just a little less obsessed, just a little less in love--

It matters not. In the final days of the war, Obi-Wan had gone behind his master's back and requested a mission from the Council themselves. Stretched thin as they were, they'd agreed in a heartbeat, and Obi-Wan had been sent to Mandalore.

Then the clone troopers on his ship had turned their weapons onto him. Then the Jedi Order had fallen. Then the training bond between his master and him had broken, snapped in two by the weight of the man's demise.

And Obi-Wan, broken and bleeding and grieving and full of poisonous hatred, had found himself on Serrenno, at Darth Tyranus' feet. Tyranus had explained it to him. All of it. How Sidious had manipulated the Order, the galaxy. How he'd consolidated power during the sham of the war effort. How Tyranus had helped him until the moment that Sidious had another younger and more powerful apprentice in his claws. The day Darth Vader had risen, Tyranus had fled. "There can only be two," Tyranus had told Obi-Wan. "One sith master and one apprentice."

It had been so simple, so easy to look back at Tyranus and ask him to take him as his apprentice. A new Sith lineage with only one goal in mind: revenge. Freedom in revenge, power in it.

As the empire rose from the ashes of the Order, so did Solence rise out of the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi--out of the ashes of his hatred.

He'd sworn the day his eyes turned gold that he would dedicate the rest of his life to Sidious' demise. It would not bring his master back to life, but it would feel good to kill the monster who had taken him in the first place. It would feel right.

Tyranus should have known better. He should have known that the moment he'd mentioned Sidious, Solence would throw aside every shred of logic, every bare thread of a plan.

Vader is Sidious' apprentice, not Sidious himself. But Solence thinks it would be so sweet to kill Vader. It would be like practice for the day he faces the emperor.

The rain beats down on him as he follows Tyranus to the shipyard, rocks turning slippery beneath his feet. Tyranus' saber is already lit, a dull red in the darkness of the storm.

As they close the distance from the castle to the yard, Solence can make out another beam of red light, standing still--waiting. Vader.

Tyranus does not attempt to negotiate. The moment he is within striking distance, the old man has his saber above his head, bringing the blade down upon Vader's with all the force he can muster.

And yet, Vader deflects the blow as if batting away a fly. Solence inhales sharply as he ducks beneath the engine of a ship and peers out at the two sith lords. Vader is--Tyranus was right. His presence in the Force is like an ion cannon. It is like a miniature sun, though without any of the warmth.

Tyranus stands no chance.

Obi-Wan wouldn't either, not if he fought with honor and integrity as the Jedi taught him. But Solence is a sith in his own right, and Vader is not expecting two sith. He has the upperhand of surprise. If he can ambush Vader--stab him in the back while he is focused on Tyranus--

Vader's voice is mechanical through the black mask that covers the expanse of his face. "Pathetic," he tells Tyranus as he extends a black glove through the air. The Force bends to his will, and Tyranus is thrown back into a different ship. "Surrender, and your death will be quick and merciful."

Tyranus spits onto the ground before him. It is perhaps the most uncouth thing Solence has ever seen the Count do. "I do not want your mercy."

"Then you shall feel my wrath," Vader intones and he tightens his fist. For a moment, Solence isn't sure what the sith is doing, until Tyranus' hands come up to scrabble uselessly at his throat. He's choking him, Solence realizes, legs tensing beneath him. He's choking him with the Force.

"Goodbye, Grandmaster," Vader says, and Solence isn't quick enough to mask the gasp that the word draws from his lips.

Grandmaster. It--there is something there, something that doesn't make sense because Tyranus was once in the Jedi Order, once had a padawan who had once had a padawan of his own, but how could he be Vader's---

Vader's mask is staring straight at him.

Before he can fight back, the Force is wrapped around his arms and legs, pulling him out from beneath the star jumper. He lands on his hands and knees at Vader's feet, head pushed down so that the edge of Vader's boots is all that he can see.

The Force eases around Tyranus, though the bonds around Solence's wrists hold so strong that Solence is unable to even twitch. "You have an apprentice?" Vader asks, derision dripping from each word, and Solence wishes he were able to speak. Wishes he could spit at the sith the same way Tyranus had.

"Not a very wise one," Tyranus gets out, voice thin and gasping from the strangulation.

"Then I will end this lineage before it has a chance to grow into a problem," Vader decides, and the Force flexes around Solence, screams as it tightens along his throat. Solence makes a noise, small and automatic. Even as he tries to push against Vader's control, he cannot move. He feels like a piece of prey caught between a predator's locked jaw.

This is how he dies. He sees it now, understands. He'd survived everything else, but this--Vader is what kills him. Anakin, I'm sorry, Anakin, Obi-Wan thinks as his eyes darken from the lack of oxygen. I couldn't do it, I couldn't avenge your death, I'm sorry

"Don't," Tyranus yells, and the sound is so distant it feels as if it has come from a past life. "Look at him, look at his face, Vader!"

The Force loosens its grip marginally, and Obi-Wan gasps for what little air he can get. Around him, the Force--Vader--sways. Curious. Vader is curious as he looks at the top of Obi-Wan's hooded head.

But what reprieve Tyranus thinks this will grant them, Obi-Wan doesn't know. After all, Sidious killed the entirety of the Jedi Order. Why would Vader, his apprentice, refrain from killing one former Jedi padawan? His hands are probably darkened with the blood of many.

It is useless to fight the press of the Force as it yanks his head back, forcing his hood to fall and his face to be exposed to the pouring rain. Instead, Obi-Wan musters the power to glare at the downturned, monstrous slopes of Vader's black mask as it stares back at him.

"E chu ta," he spits, because his master, Anakin, used to curse the same way, and it makes Obi-Wan feel warmer in the face of his certain demise to take something of Anakin's and make it his own.

Vader stares down at him, wordless. Even the Force has frozen in the air around them, binds still tight against Obi-Wan's body but loose enough around his throat that he can breathe.

He can't look away, though he wants desperately to look at Tyranus, to see if Tyranus has managed to free himself in the face of Vader's distraction. Perhaps that had been his plan all along.

"What is the meaning of this?" Vader finally says. His voice is flat through the vocodor. Mechanical, but loud. The Force unfreezes and begins to whirl around them. "What is this trickery? Who are you?"

The mask swings around to look at Tyranus, and the Force grows darker with Vader's fury. Obi-Wan glances at his master as well, but Tyranus has done nothing but struggle to his feet. His saber is still several paces away.

If he is to survive and mount a counterattack, Obi-Wan needs to distract Vader again.

He doesn't understand the sith's reaction, but that doesn't mean he can't use it against him.

"I am Darth Solence," he declares, pushing up and against Vader's control of his body. "Tyranus is my master--"

"Is it a clone?" Vader roars, striding through the mud of the shipyard until he has reached Tyranus' side. His physical hand wraps around Tyranus' throat and lifts him into the air, even though Tyranus is not a slight man. "Tell me!"

Obi-Wan pushes himself to his knees, though he is powerless to do more than watch. "Master!" he hears himself say, even though he never calls Tyranus that. Even though the word is reserved for one man alone, one man who will never hear him say it again.

It feels right in the moment, and it must mean something because both Tyranus and Vader's heads snap to him.

"He is dead," Vader growls, and the leather of his glove creaks with the force of his fist clenching around Tyranus' neck. "What--"

"He survived," Tyranus grunts, hand scrabbling at Vader's arm as he tries to take in oxygen. "Sidious lied to you--he came to me, I have been training him, for you, to give to you, to--"

The words cut out as Vader's lightsaber ignites and cuts through Tyranus' throat. Obi-Wan yells out before he can stop himself as he watches the body of his master, his second master, fall to the ground.

And he can do nothing but kneel there, frozen, as Vader turns around to look at him.

The sith is breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling with the Force of it. In his hand, the still-lit saber trembles. "You are dead," Vader tells him.

Obi-Wan can't disagree. He is dead. Vader will see to that in a moment. He has been dead since the moment Vader's attention caught on him beneath the star jumper. He will be dead shortly. He will--at least he will rejoin Anakin. He has missed him so terribly.

He does not even realize that he's begun to cry until he feels the fingertip of a rough glove touch his cheek, catch one of his tears and lift it away from his face.

"I don't understand," Vader says. The Force is whipping itself into a hurricane around them, but if Vader doesn't understand then Obi-Wan doesn't understand either. "I thought you dead."

Vader must have known him then, Obi-Wan realizes. When he was a Jedi padawan. He must have been an older Knight or Master, the way Tyranus was once Yan Dooku before he Fell. But in the face of Vader's confusion, the pain that lances through his Force signature at those words, Obi-Wan shakes his head, unable to bring himself to agree. He is dead. Obi-Wan died the day his master did.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead," he says. "I am what remains."

Vader takes a step away from him, hand tightening around his saber. Obi-Wan closes his eyes braces for the blow, prays that it will be quick and painless and that when he opens his eyes once more, he will see his master again.

And--and he does, though he feels no lightsaber connect with his body.

Yet when he blinks open his eyes, Anakin Skywalker's face is staring down at him, Darth Vader's mask held in his hands.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, but no words come out in the face of the impossible. It is impossible.

This is impossible.

And yet--

And yet, Anakin Skywalker is there before him, red saber tossed to the side and mask dropped at his feet so that his hands are free to grab at Obi-Wan and pull him closer, pull him into his lap.

"I thought you were dead," Anakin is muttering as his nose runs along the planes of Obi-Wan's face, as his hands grab at his hair and then his cheeks, then further down, along his shoulders and chest. "Sidious said you were killed, I thought the worst--"

"No," Obi-Wan whispers, nonsensical. Nothing makes sense. This does not make sense. Obi-Wan's master is dead. Obi-Wan's master is here, holding him. But he can't be because he is dead. He died when the Temple fell. He died. His master is gone.

His master pulls his face away from his neck so that he can stare at him fully, hand stroking along his cheek, thumb rubbing at Obi-Wan's split lip. "Little star," his master murmurs. "You've come back to me, my pretty little star."

His master's eyes are golden, dark and crazed, and his Force signature is dangerous, possessive and heady. A firestorm, a hurricane. A black hole. Something that seems intent upon swallowing Obi-Wan and never letting him go again.

But he calls him little star.

And Obi-Wan throws his arms around his master and begins to sob.

[galaxyspeaking]

“Would you show me a friendly face, once more?” (more writing below)

It was with the familiar smell of ashes burning her nostrils that Lady Galadriel came to the realisation that there was no fight left in her.

If she closed her eyes, she could feel them— the last flickers of a fire long burning finally leaving her body. As she stood there alone, amid the smoke blackening her sight and a tapestry of bodies she could no longer distinguish at her foot, the yearning for the pale waters of the Sea made itself known at last. She welcomed it with great bitterness.  So this was her end. The daughter of Finarfin was to set sail home to Valinor. She felt him approach like she always did: a large shadow engulfing soil, corpses and hopes alike, the blade of betrayal still fresh against her skin. She could continue to fight him— she’d done so over and over again, with different faces, different blades, each trying at eroding figments of a once shared kinship to no avail. He would remain Sauron. She would forever be Galadriel. He could not slay her just as she could never rid herself of him in full, and the acceptance of this truth once made her chest cave with grief, right between the puncture points of the crown he’d once pushed against her. “Galadriel,” he greeted her. He considered her curiously. Beneath his helmet, his eyes were glowing embers, nothing like his—witnessing the change in Galadriel, no doubt. She had never given up on an opportunity to deal a blow before, and there he stood before her, tendrils of his armour reaching to her like a black flame, yet she was not moving. He took a cautious step forward. “Are you not going to fight me, today?” She stared blankly at him—through him, through what once was, what could be, what would be. “Would you show me a friendly face, once more?” She asked instead. Tired. She was so tired. As she let her head fall against his shoulder, he stood very still. “I would,” he simply said, southern vowels scraping against his throat, low, barely loud enough for her elf ears to hear. Against all odds, he had granted her her request. Stubble scratched the side of her head as a hand gingerly held the back of her neck, and she allowed herself to feel the solace of his embrace, just this once.

She had started to diminish the day they had met, after all.

[bluerosefox]

Red Hooded Phantoms

Hmm

Another deaged or reborn Danny idea

But also Danny is Jason plotline. I've seen a few Danny is/reborn Dick, Tim, and a few rare Damian ones but I feel like we don't see a lot of Danny as Jason.

After being deaged by Vlad in another failed attempt to make Danny his son, he decided to try raising a deaged Danny instead because the boy would have no memories of his past, however during the struggle between Vlad and Team Phantom, Danny is sent into Vlad's lab portal and into the Zone, only for another random portal to open up and drop him into the DCverse and into a Gotham alleyway.

He is found by Shelia Haywood and well, we all know the life of Jason Todd after that.

Or he dies due to like the GIW, or bad Vlad, or bad Fenton Parents (Not picky on which) and is later reborn due to the damage done to his core.

It isn't until he dies and returns that Jason Danny feels like its something familiar, something is itching in the back of mind as he mindlessly wonders around Gotham after digging himself out of his grave.

And it only becomes more and more familiar when he is later found by the LOA/Talia and tossed into the Pits. Even the rage he gains feels familiar.

Later he becomes Red Hood, and that timeline happens.

Jason Danny doesn't find out the actual truth until one day the sky is ripped open by a glowing Lazarus green portal and a large armor covered being steps out, declaring he is there to fight for his crown/throne against the one that bested him last time and to bring forth Phantom for their battle.

And he had less than a few hours to come forward or else he will rip this world apart. (Pariah Dark may be a Tyrant King but he wanted his throne/crown back along with revenge against the one that stole it in the first place legitimately so it couldn't be denied)

A huge JL and JLD meeting is held and no one can find this 'Phantom'

So someone in JLD has a suggestion to summon someone from the Infinite Realms who might be able to help them locate Phantom (or maybe summon Phantom himself since he's technically the Ghost King.)

If we go with summoning someone other than Phantom, they manage to summon Jazz (whose acting as Queen Regent at the moment since Danny went missing)

And the moment he see's Jazz, Jason Danny feels his head and soul start to hurt. And memories he's sometimes see's in his dreams start bubbling into the surface.

[galaxymacbeth]

Advent

the homecoming

cw: soap is a little shit

She did not expect the fortress to be quiet.

There were no grunting soldiers. No screams of war. Not even the smashing of steel and flesh. Nothing.

The fire in her room was dim but warm as if not to remind her of her almost fate. The pelts on the bed were soft as if they had seen years of use before her. The dresses in the wardrobe were calming as if lavender was woven into the fabric.

And she was not bothered. No one knocked on her door. Only the clink of silver alerted her to breakfast, lunch, or dinner being set outside the door.

The fortress was quiet, calm, and unlike anything she’d ever learned of her gods.

In truth, she didn’t know if they had ever really been her gods. Her village was one of the many that had chosen the war gods as their patrons. It was what spurred them to battle more often than peace. She merely adopted the worship as her parents before her and their parents before them. Left offerings of meat and steel at the altar in town, hoping never to experience the wrath of the gods personally.

Only once, in her childhood, had she questioned the worship of war gods. Once, when she was still naïve enough to think peace was an option.

“Mama, why do we pray to them?”

Her mother looked down at her, eyes soft with frown lines creasing the corners, “we pray that they do not turn their wrath on us.”

“We pray that our enemies will die.”

Her head snapped to look at Elder Asmo. His face was hard, eyes trained on the bundle of meat in her hands. He stood in front of the altar, lighting the fat candles that covered it.

“Do you wish to be cut down? Raped and pillaged?”

“Elder, she’s only a child,” her mother whispered.

“Children must learn,” Elder Asmo stepped up to her. He towered over her head, never leaning or crouching to meet her eyes, “do you?”

“No,” she mumbled. Her hands clutched the offering to her chest. Blood seeped from it, through the cloth, and into the fabric of her dress.

“Then you pray to the war gods to be spared.” His eyes flicked to the red dripping from the bundle, “best save the blood for Gaz. He does like it, so.”

She nodded vigorously, releasing her tight hold on the meat and stumbled up to the stone altar. She set it in front of the idol of Gaz. Without her permission, her hand reached towards the idol.

Then she stared at the ground. A gasp came from behind her. The child lifted her head at the seething Elder Asmo. A sharp pain bloomed in her ear, though she dare not reach up to touch it. Dared not invoke the wrath again.

“You dare touch the gods? Go, get out of my sight.”

Her mother scooped her into her arms, rushing out an apology to the gods and began towards their house.

It did not seem that the war gods would spare her.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, a clink of silver sounded outside her door. She waited for a moment before opening it.

In place of the tray of lunch she’d eaten was dinner. Picking it up, she popped her head out of the door. The corridor was as quiet as her room. No footsteps retreated and no person was leaving.

She closed the door, set the food on her desk and resolved to leave her room the next morning. She was unsure of what she would find, but the silence was deafening.

When the sun rose the next morning, she was awake. Usually, she would sit at her desk, staring at books she could not read, until breakfast was set outside her room.

Today, she brushed her fingers over the dresses in the wardrobe. Most were simple, plain, like something she would have worn while working alongside her mother in their small plot of land. Four were different. Unlike anything she would have ever been allowed to wear—even on her wedding day.

Each was a weave of vibrant colours and she hesitated to touch them the first time she saw them. Her mind wondered how they’d arrived. Were they loot? Stolen during a raid on a village? A castle? Were they for princesses and queens? Ladies of the court? Were they washed of bloodshed from the day they were obtained?

Were they made for her?

Her fingers snagged on the laces threaded through the bodice of the blue dress. She couldn’t put her finger on why it felt so familiar. It was a deep, stormy blue that beckoned her to put it on. As she pulled it from the hanger, a breath left her at the realization that it would be easy to put on herself. Not that she had seen a single maid to help if she couldn’t. The skirt was a matching blue, though the underskirt that just peaked through the front was tartan. And still, she could not quite put her finger on why it was so familiar.

Freshly dressed and hair brushed behind her shoulders, her fingers trembled to open the door. Would they want her looking around? Or was her presence in the fortress merely because she was given to them?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to stumble into any of them. Gaz had been kind and gentle, even the Knight was soft and spoke lowly to her. But they were war gods.

Having found no shoes, her feet sounded gently as she walked.

The walls of the fortress were near bare stone. Sconces lined the hallways she traversed. An intricate tapestry hung around a corner; depicting hounds hunting a unicorn. Ornamental swords and daggers hung between sconces every so often. She wondered if they were truly ornamental.

Her hands tangled in the soft linen of the dress when she found a set of stairs. It spiraled up to a turret.

The tower looked over the land of the fortress. It was surrounded on all sides by a dense forest, the trees so close together that it was almost pitch black inside. The path to the front gate was almost impossible to see, as the trees butt against the high walls of the fortress.

A courtyard sat inside the walls, set up as if soldiers would spend days training on the field. But it was silent.

She wanted to laugh at the idea that the silence was even worse outside of her room. At least she had the fire to fill the space.

She gathered her skirts and began back down the stairs. The second her foot hit the bottom, though, she froze.

Soap watched her, leaning against the wall across from the stairs. Her head ducked to her chest, dropping her gaze from his. She could feel her knees give way but a hand caught her arm before she sank to the ground.

“None a’that,” Soap whispered.

“I—I’m so sorry, great—”

Soap sucked his teeth, “don’ call me tha’, bon, look at me.”

To her surprise, she shook her head at him. She couldn’t look at him, not his face, not in his eyes, not even at his boots that had stepped into her line of sight. Her eyes squeezed shut.

His fingers curled around her chin, lifting her head, and he laughed.

“’M not gonna hurt ye,” he cooed, “yer wearin’ my dress.”

At that, her eyes shot open. The blue of his eyes was lighter than the first time she’d seen him. Like looking at the clear sky.

“Y-your?”

“Aye, picked it out an’ all, looks lovel’ on ye,” he nodded, a smile growing on his lips as her eyes scanned his face.

Scars dotted the skin of it, one cutting through his chin and continuing into his left brow. His teeth, which had started to appear as his smile widened, were perfectly straight and his lips thin. Her eyes finally stopped at his.

“Gaz didnae think ye’d leave yer room,” he let go of her chin to step back. Her head remained where he’d left it.

“How long?”

“Week’s past,” Soap shrugged, “ye’d be happy tae know yer village won.”

Her head shook, “I don’t…I don’t care.”

His smile grew wicked, eyes shifting dark, “aye, atta girl. Didnae deserve somethin’ so sweet.” He took a menacing step towards her. Her foot caught on the stair behind her while her hands dropped her skirts to catch on the arched doorway.

“Soap.”

A growl left Soap’s throat as he turned his head to the hallway. At the far end stood the berserker, wolf hand hanging at his back. Without it, she could see the skull with red splats of blood decorating it. He began towards them and she tripped back into the stairs, hitting the stone with a groan.

Soap’s head snapped back to her but the berserker’s hand snatched his chin, “told ya to leave her be.”

“Ah did!”

The darkness in his voice dissipated as he cried out at Ghost. It lingered in his eyes, though, and Ghost leaned into his face.

“Then what’re ya doin’?”

“She’s wearin’ my dress, no’ yers,” Soap bit out, slapping at Ghost’s hand but achieving nothing. She could see his fingers dig into Soap’s cheeks.

“’S cause no one told ‘er what they mean. Go.” Ghost yanked Soap away and shoved him towards the hall. “Now, Soap.”

Her breath stuttered in her lungs as she watched Soap growl again but turn away from her. The sword at his side rattled as he stormed away. She released her breath only to suck it back when Ghost turned to her.

His head listed to the side as he took in her cowering form. The lower half of his face was covered and all she could see was the deep brown of his eyes. Hands reaching for purchase behind her, he chuckled and shook his head.

“Nowhere t’ run up there,” his voice reverberated on the stone, “nowhere t’ run here.”

“My room,” she gasped out, “I-I want to—”

Ghost chuckled again but turned away from her to follow after Soap. She watched, eyes wide, as he disappeared around a corner.

Then she shoved herself to her feet and took off towards her room. The door swung open and slammed shut against her back, breaths panting out while she struggled to undo the bodice of her dress in her panic.

They were war gods, after all.

“Do you even have tact,” Gaz hissed.

Soap laughed meanly, throwing his head back while the Knight rubbed at his forehead. Ghost stood by the window, watching the trees sway in the wind.

“The first time she leaves her room in a week and you corner her,” Gaz stepped into Soap’s chest, “she’ll never come back out.”

“Good,” Ghost announced, “doesn’t need ta be anywhere near us.”

The Knight let out a long sigh, then slams his armoured fist to his desk, “she’s our charge. She doesn’t have a choice.”

“Give her to Laswell, she can take care of the girl,” Ghost demanded.

“She’s ours,” Gaz spit, shoving Soap away to charge towards Ghost. A sick grin filled Ghost’s face as the rogue stood chest to chest with him. “We aren’t giving her away.”

“An’ you think ya can stop me? With your pretty hammers?”

“That’s quite enough,” Price shoved his hand between the two and shoved Gaz back, “she isn’t going anywhere.” He turned to face Ghost. “She is ours.”

“Soap nearly—”

“Ah wasnae doin’ anythin’ tae her!” Soap threw his hands out and cried out. Gaz snickered at him but leaned back against a table to watch.

“She was backed to the wall, mutt.”

“An’ she’s not likely to leave her room again,” Price whipped his head to look at Soap, “all over a dress.”

“Could feel it,” Soap mumbled, “like bonnie was callin’ me. Yer all jealous it wasnae yers.”

Price let out a breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before sitting in his chair. His hand rubbed at his beard while his eyes scanned each of them.

They could all feel it when she touched them, ghosted her fingers over the fine fabrics and pulled at the skirts. An unfortunate result of asking the favour of a fellow goddess. Farah had a sick sense of humour.

“Everyone will leave her be. No one,” he pointed a finger at each of the gods standing around him, “is to approach her first.”

“Isnae fair, sir,” Soap whined.

“Find fault in yourself, MacTavish. Our girl was hurt. I will not have you furthering that,” Price extended his finger towards the Northman.

Ghost smirked at Soap behind the Knight.

“Captain.”

They all turned to Gaz.

“With all due respect, why should we three be punished for Soap’s deeds?” Price nodded him on. “Why don’t we all see her. Together. If Soap can’t be trusted to behave alone, we all keep him in check.”

Soap’s mouth opened, but Ghost slapped a hand over it, dragging him into his chest. He struggled against the hold, but gave up after a sharp look from Price.

“Alright. We’ll invite her to dinner,” Soap’s eyes lit up, “I’ll invite her to dinner. And you,” Price raked a hand as far down Soap’s hair as he could before gripping it, “will apologize to our girl.”

Gaz snickered behind him.

“Need I remind you who butchered the cunt we had to thank for her?” Price didn’t have to turn to see the smirk on Gaz’s face dip.

Both Price and Ghost released Soap and Price dismissed them from his quarters. He sank into his chair, head dropping into his hands. Never would he had thought a single mortal could tear into the fabric of the gods’ world. Yet she sat in a room, inside his fortress, unaware of the chaos she could reign over them.

The knock startled her from her book. She’d spent most of her morning and early afternoon reading; isolated.

Padding softly towards it, she opened the door an inch, then fully.

“Sir—”

“Please, pet,” Price cooed at her, “you can call me John or Price.”

Her mouth shut but she nodded. They stood in silence a moment before Price shook his head. He’d been staring too long.

“I’ve come to ask you to dinner.” Her mouth fell open. “The boys and I would like to apologize for how you’ve been treated since you arrived. Soap especially.”

Lips smacked together while she studied him. His face was gentle, calm and almost wary of standing in front of her at all. Blue eyes—different than the chaos of Soap’s—bore into her soul. Instead of destruction, they held hope and confidence.

“Please don’t feel pressured,” he continued, “we’d love your company but understand if you’d like to be left alone.”

“I—” her voice caught in her throat but Price thought it was the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. “I’ll consider it.” It quieted, barely audible had it not been for the dead silent fortress.

But Price just smiled and bowed his head, “that’s all we ask.” He stepped back and she took in the leisure of his clothes. A simple linen tunic, yet framed with gold trim, and a paid of brown trousers. Whatever belt cinched them at his waist was hidden beneath the fold of his tunic. His boots were like those her father wore while working in their field—simple and old and browned leather. No weapons to be seen.

She barely recognized her own god.

“Thank you, pet. If you do decide to come, simply say it and the torches will light your way to the banquet hall.”

Price bowed low, as if he bowed to royalty but caught himself as he stood.

“Don’t feel that you need to wear one of our dresses—we don’t hold court here.”

“Thank you, Sir—John.”

His heart had never beat faster.

“Of course, little one. Until tonight.”

Price stepped back. Confident, sure she would accept if only to see more of the fortress and how they lived. Their prize was a curious one if nothing else.

Behind the closed door, she panted. Like John’s, her heart raced. Unlike John’s, it was not from joy. Pet—the name had wedged itself into the crevices of her brain. Little one had been rattling around, the thing he’d called her on the very day he saved her life. So her heart raced with apprehension and a healthy hint of fear.

He’d told her not to feel pressured but how could she say no? To not only one god but four?

As if sensing her distress, the sound of water trickled in from her personal bath. The steam wafted at her feet. Pet stepped towards the room, hands and legs shaking but never stopping until she was bare and sunk into the scalding water.

She spent the afternoon sifting through clothes. One dress not quiet enough, the next too courtly and loud. This one too simple. That too fine. She audibly reminded herself to stay far away from the four opulent dresses. Fingers reached for them before she froze in place. How cruel to wear just one dress.

Though she did consider the darkest one. It had to be Ghost’s. Would Soap feel shame at her wearing the gown of the god who’d saved her from him?

Pet wondered if Soap ever felt shame.

Washed and dressed in a simple red kirtle, she stood in her doorway.

“I...” she eyed the dim sconce across from her, “I’d like to join them.”

In an instant, it flared and the hallway was bathed in bright flame. It trailed down the hall, the left corridor brighter than the right.

Her path.

It’s only about two minutes before she’s stood in front of two thick wooden doors. Plain but holding her entire world now. Sealing her off from the men gods she was handed to.

Her hand barely lifts before they inch open, creaking on old hinges. By the time they sit fully ajar, her hand had reached the height of the handles but is frozen in place. Silence fills the pregnant air. John stands from the small table, a wide smile on his face.

“Pet.”

John is at her side before she realizes it. One hand hovering over the small of her back so close she can feel the warmth of it.

“Come sit,” he leads her to the table where she avoids all three pairs of eyes that study her.

The banquet hall is large, the ceiling towers over her with a single ring chandelier hanging in the center. There are other tables, lined so neatly in rows that point towards a stained glass window. She doesn’t get to spend any time looking at it.

John pulls out a chair at the head of the table.

“Shouldn’t you...” she glowers down at it.

“No. There is no leader.”

Pet tries to remember every, any, thing her mother taught her about propriety. Class. It was a thin, shallow education.

She sits slowly, lifting only to let John push her chair in. There’s a single plate in front of her. One spoon, one fork, one over sharpened knife. A goblet.

Were they not gods? Did they not live in opulence?

Was the table they ate at really only six chairs big?

“O'right, lamb?”

Her head snaps up. It’s then that she takes them in. John is very much the same as he’d been that afternoon. Soap wore almost the same thing he always did, though a blue tunic covered his chest and dipped into his achingly familiar kilt. She could only assume they didn’t appreciate a lack of clothes at dinner. Gaz had an apprehensive look on his face. His usual leather jack was gone, instead he wore a deep purple gambeson. The top buttons were undone, allowing her to see faint scratches along his neck and chest.

The final man god was one she’d never seen the face of. Ghost. His features were handsome, royal almost. Rather than any level of decorum, he wore only his undershirt and linen hosen. Around his neck was a loose scarf that he’d begun to pull over his lower face.

“Wait!” She hopped to her feet, chair scraping against the wooden floor. Ghost froze his movement.

His lips were split unevenly by a cut, the skin pulled into a cleft over his left canine. To her surprise, his nose was unbroken and perfectly straight with only a slight bump to it. A gentle face for a berserker.

“Come now, pet,” John sucked her attention from Ghost, “let’s eat.”

She lowered herself back into her chair and glanced at John. He now wore an expression similar to Gaz but was trying to hide it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. Ghost cocked his head at her. “The fortress. It’s...very beautiful.”

“’S not how most would describe it,” his voice rumbled in her head. John set things in the middle of the table, slapping at the hands of Soap and Gaz.

“Pet eats first.” John boomed at them. He motioned for her to pick from the plates he’d set down.

“I can wait,” her voice shook but John’s head shook faster.

“Nonsense. Eat,” John pushed the platter of meat towards her, “they can wait a little longer.”

“Ah dinnae think ye eat as much as us,” Soap whispered. She turned to face him, fear coursing through her veins. “Ahm sorry, bonnie.”

She swallowed hard but said nothing as she picked through the meat. Attention drawn, she missed the narrowing of John’s eyes as she only took the smallest pieces of pork. Ghost pushed a basket of bread towards her, of which she took a small roll.

After filling her plate, her eyes flicked to John’s. He nodded for the rest to dig in. Each god set some piece of their meal on her plate. Ghost set two more rolls down, Soap another large piece of pork. Gaz portioned out a serving of potatoes and John filled her goblet near to the brim with red wine.

“Now,” John brought a bite to his mouth, “we should start by apologizing for your less than hospitable welcome to your home.”

“We just wanted you to settle in,” Gaz continued while John ate, “didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long.”

“’N ahm sorry fer wha’ ah did,” Soap cut in, “wasnae good of me.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“’S not,” Ghost said, wiping his face on the back of his hand. John sighed but said nothing. “Soap’s a dog. Not well behaved around pretty lambs.”

“L—lambs?”

“He means you,” John supplied, “eat, pet.”

She speared a piece of pork and shoved it in her mouth. The meat was tender, juicy and the best thing she’d ever had. Made her barely able to contain the groan deep in her throat. Gaz chuckled at her face.

“Regardless, you should know that you are allowed anywhere you’d like to go in the fortress. Nowhere is off limits to you.”

“What else is here?”

The four deflated. They’d truly left her with no idea about her new home.

“Jus’ aboot anythin’ ye can think of,” Soap finally admitted, “an’ anythin’ else ye’d like.”

“I’d like?” Her head tilted, goblet freezing in front of her lips.

“Yes,” John swallowed and set his fork down, “we’re Gods, little one. Anything we want will readily appear to us.”

“I’m not.”

They quieted. Thought for a moment.

“We’ve never had a...mortal here,” Gaz admitted, “but, by virtue of your village’s...offering, you should also be granted whatever you want.”

“I want my moth—” Ghost stood, slapping a hand over her mouth. He towered over her chair causing her entire form to still.

“Don’ do that.” His voice was hollow and ugly. “Don’ ever ask for a living being.”

Her blood chilled. Soap had recovered from his wince and Gaz’s shoulders sank with a loosed breath.

“You don’t want to know what happens should you ask for a living being, pet. Nasty business.” John shook his head, eyes lost in thought. A memory?

Ghost lowered his hand and himself back into his seat, “try somethin’ less fleshy.”

Soap groaned, “och, dinnae say it like tha’.”

“W—what about a sweetroll?”

A moment later, a weight filled her empty hands. She lifted the pastry to the table. It was warm and some of the icing oozed down the browned roll.

“Good,” John beamed, “anything you ask for is yours.”

They slipped into silence. Eating and drinking with little murmurs between Soap and Gaz. Pet tore small pieces of sweetroll away, setting them on each of their plates as she ate it.

“What am I to do?”

“Hmm?” John hummed around the sweet.

“All day. For...ever? What will I do?”

“Ye dinnae have any chores, if that’s what ye mean,” Soap spoke around his meal. John hissed at him but Pet spoke before he could get the chastisement out of his mouth.

“I can’t do nothing for the rest of my life.” She pointedly ignored Gaz’s wince. “Please.”

John hummed again. Ghost shifted in his seat across from him.

“I could be a priestess.”

“We’ve enough of those to last an eternity. And that would involve you leaving for the mortal world.” John shook his head. Her face soured but his stared right back at her.

“I—I could keep the fortress!”

“’S magic, lamb. Don’ need upkeep.”

She tossed her fork onto the table with a cry, “something!”

“Pet,” John slid from his chair to kneel at her feet, “we can find you something. Just enjoy dinner. Please.” He took her hands in his. Pressing a kiss to the back of both of them, she stared down at the God with wild eyes. A cleared throat jerked both from their stupor and John rose to his feet.

“Now. How about more sweetroll, hm?”

By the time dinner was finished, she was exhausted. Soap and Gaz spent most of the meal’s remainder fighting for her attention while Ghost sat quietly beside Soap—listening but never interjecting. Only when Soap pushed too far, made their Lamb—their Prize—flinch back, did he correct the mutt. John joined in their laughter sometimes, but like Ghost, spent most of the time watching Pet.

When she announced she was too tired to continue, the younger Gods argued over who would walk her back to her room. They were silenced by the banquet doors slamming shut. John smirked at them over his goblet.

Ghost walked silent behind her, watching her body sway with her four goblets of wine. She babbled on as she walked; detailing a rare moment of peace in her home when she was a child. Ghost growled out a question about her father, but she just turned to him with a smile to rival Johnny’s and said:

“No. My father was a good man. Never hurt me or my mother.”

His scowl melted as she leaned against the wall, unaware she was standing beside his bedroom door.

“Do you have a name?”

“Course I do,” Ghost gently pulled her arm along, towards her own room, “we all do.”

“C—,” she leaned into his hold, “can I know?”

“’S Simon.”

“Simon...lovely.” She hummed. Simon smiled at her but never stopped leading her to her door. It danced through his mind, the sweet sound of his name on her tongue. What would it sound like if she cried it out, pressed between his chest and his bed?

At her door, he pushed it open but did not enter. His lamb slipped in, kicking her shoes off and collapsing onto her bed.

“I miss my home.” Her voice dropped along with her head.

Simon had promised himself that he would never enter her room without her explicit permission. Yet broke it to kneel at her feet.

“I know, lamb,” he held her cheeks in his palms, “but you’ll be safe here.”

Her watery eyes met his, “where do the warriors go?”

“Don’ worry yourself with that. Sleep now.” He hesitated for a moment before unlacing her kirtle for her. Once it was loose enough for her to pull off herself, he stood to his full height. She watched him with those watery eyes. “Sleep, lamb.”

He stepped back, never turning away from her, and pulled the door with him. As it clicked shut, she shed her clothes and clambered under her furs. The fire breathed warmth into the room as she slipped under.

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masterlist

ye girl did a lot of (way too much) research on medieval clothes for this so please applaud. also i proofed this like 8 times so if you find an error no you didn't.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[dayasusays]

— jason todd 18+

— headcanons

fem!reader, first time, virgin!jason todd, experienced!jason todd, maledom

⌗ — virgin!jason todd, who is really awkward. i mean really awkward, because he asks dumb question. something like “is it okay if i touch you there?” when you were the one who put his hand on your crotch.

⌗ — you’re awkward too, it’s your first time too, but why is he so adorable when he worries? he doesn’t even look away, looking straight at your face. and it’s making the whole situation even more worse.

⌗ — but it’s jason. he worries, he afraid of hurting you accidentally, because he loves you; he loves you so much and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you.

⌗ — and experienced!jason todd, who knows how to please you. after a years of relationships, he became too experienced, you know?

⌗ — he knows what your limit is. he knows all your dirty thoughts. he knows how make you squirm and moan, he knows how make you cum more than three times.

⌗ — he looks down at you, squeezing your thighs and biting his lower lip; he’s fucking smirking when he’s looking at you.

⌗ — “this feels too good for you, princess?” he leans closer to your ear, whispering, “let’s make you cum, hun, you need it,” he kisses your earlobe when his pace speeds up. ᥫ᭡

specifically for @millyhelp <3