#// ignore me just having massive revelations

[minakoaiinos]

Not listening to her album because I can't bear hearing one song about liking a man 🙏

[satoisms]

i'm rereading og given for funsies and the more i read the more i remember why i'm so attached to mafuyu. he's literally just me.

[knife-eared-jan]

Ok, as much as I have been hyping and playing 12 hours a day since it got out (still in Act 1 though, bc I'm a slowass player and completionist), I feel like I have to say something that is getting hard to ignore at this point... and I wanna preface this by saying that I am loving a lot of aspects of the game and I adore the writing when it comes to the companions, who I am obsessed with.

And maybe this will get better yet, as I generally heard the writing picks up once the story progresses beyond picking up all companions..

But I'm starting to get quite upset at the way the writing just does NOT care about the established lore and the politics of Thedas like at all, when to me - and many others - that richness, nuance and depth of the world is what makes the games so special.

(Spoilers below)

I looked past the way the elves in Arlathan just seemed to know that their gods are evil and Solas is "kind of a dick" but was right about that. When, you know, that made him basically the Satan of their pantheon up to now.. It was after all the tutorial stage of the game and I understand that you wanna ease newcomers into the lore. I could also handwave it in-universe with Morrigan being there - she could have filled the Veiljumpers in on the discoveries of the Inquisition or even what the Well told her.

It felt a bit weird that our contacts in every other faction just accepted this huge revelation without a blink, but again it was the early stages and I also get that having a discussion about it 6 times with different faction leaders would have been incredibly tedious. So I ignored that. And yeah, at least the First Warden found it hard to swallow.

The fact that they brushed aside the gods finding elven subjects - many of whom after all still worship them - with one sentence from Solas was disappointing though. Instead they chose to ally them with the Venatori and the Antaam who are the pure evil factions with no nuance or motive to side with them besides a comic book level of hunger for power. They didn't even throw in a sentence about the gods maybe speaking to the Venatori through the Archdemons to get them on their side or how it's very ironic that the Venatori, who want to make Tevinter great again, stoop to working with the pantheon of the people they oppress because they see them as lesser and other. No political exploration of the massive lore implications at all.

It really hit me when I picked up Davrin and he commented how Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain blighting the world would really endear us (elves) to the rest of Thedas - this was the first time anyone actually mentioned the political impact of the elven gods being real, freed, evil and blighted on modern day elves at all, when this should be HUGE. It should be ugly. It should be complex. It should be explored in as many examples as bloodmagic and the oppression of mages was in DA2. It should be a central point of Act 1. (This btw made me love Davrin so much in that moment because this was the first time in the game for me when I actually felt like talking to a Dragon Age elf and even just that one line felt like home.)

And now I just did Taash's first companion quest and it seems Qunari lore is also being ignored (except for the gender aspect of it, which I look forward to). Taash's mum was a scholar and had a baby and the only problem about that was that it could breathe fire and was special but otherwise all would have been dandy? Like she would have just been allowed to keep Taash long enough to find that out about her baby if she was living under the Qun? That directly contradicts everything we know about how the Qunari's culture around reproduction and childcare works.

Sorry to be negative and talking myself into a rage - I know it's not something people want to see rn. But like, I realise you have to brush over some lore intricacies for brevity and to make it digestible for new players. But this is a world initially inspired by Wheel of Time and ASOIAF, both of which are interesting because of the depth of ficitional cultures, lore and politics, and hence it's also what gives Dragon Age its appeal. And now they take us to the most politcally interesting areas on the world map and just get rid of all of political depth?

That's really disappointing. Imagine if Winds of Winter dropped all political themes just because there's several previous books and it's been some a lot of years.

Also, I managed to play DA2 before I ever played Origins and they could introduce me to a vast established background of lore just fine back then.

Sorry. Rant over. But I had to get that out of my system.

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 14 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: Buck’s hands trail down to your hands. He takes his in yours. “Do you love him?” “Buck.” “I know you love me,” Buck continues, playing with your fingers. “You know I love you. But I’m asking if you love him.” The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1��| Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 | Ch 10 | Ch 11 | Ch 12 | Ch 13

Chapter Summary: Your relationship has some growing tension that leads to an explosive revelation.

Word Count: 3.7k Warnings: a whole lotta angst, violence, discussions of religion

The shifting of the relationship was gradual. You brushed it off at first, attributing it to working long shifts or a lack of a good night’s sleep.

It started after Eddie was held hostage by Mitch. He assured you and Buck countless times that he’s okay and just happy Mitch’s son made it out of surgery. His words didn’t match his actions, though. He stopped greeting you both with a kiss in the morning. He started coming to bed later.

Then, you saw the bruises.

They started on his arms and legs, only the occasional purple and green discoloration. You didn’t think much of it; if someone breathed on you wrong, it could leave a mark. One morning, though, you noticed something much more severe.

Eddie had a massive bruise between the tattoo on his arm and his elbow. It was a mix of blue, purple, and red; it looked fresh, raw, and painful .

“Jesus,” you remarked after setting down your coffee. “What happened to you?”

Eddie looked at his elbow as if he didn’t initially know what you were talking about. “Christopher and I were roughhousing.”

“Were you also playing with hammers?”

“I’m fine.”

The tone of his voice left no room for discussion. It felt like all the air was sucked out of the atmosphere around you. The words wouldn’t reach Eddie’s ears no matter what you said. They would simply linger in the space between the two of you.

You can feel him slipping through your fingers; that’s what you would say. You can feel the distance between you grow little bit bigger with each one-word sentence. You don’t know how to fix it, as much as you want to. You wonder if Eddie feels the same growing gap. You wonder if Buck does. You wonder if ignorance really is bliss, or if it’s just delaying the inevitable.

You’re called to a 10-51 outside of a bar — it’s a drunk and disorderly complaint. In all your years of working in paramedicine, they’re some of your least favorite calls. Nine times out of ten, they end up in custody, which means an officer has to ride with them to the hospital, which pisses them off even more. It’s a lose-lose-lose situation more often than not.

You have no clue why this guy is so angry. You hear him spout the usual complaints: work, taxes, the government, blah blah blah. You watch as four patrol officers shift and dance around him like he’s a feral animal they’re trying to cage.

You look between Buck and Eddie. “You boys ready?”

They both nod.

When both your boys are on a drunk and disorderly call, you have a system worked out: they each grab one side while you give IM Versed. Some patients take longer than others to calm down, and some of them require an additional dose, but so far, the Versed always comes out on top.

You hide the capped syringe behind your back. Both the boys push through some of the officers, while you sneak your way to behind the patient. You watch Buck raise one finger, then two, then a third, before they both advance. Buck grabs his right arm while Eddie grabs the left.

You approach them, uncapping the syringe and raising it to the patient’s deltoid, the muscle just below the shoulder. You’re normally pretty quick, but this guy is somehow quicker.

He breaks free from Eddie’s grasp, arm swinging violently. All of a sudden, your vision goes black and an external force knocks you to the ground.

There’s a lot of shouting, but you can barely make it out over the ringing sound in your ears. You can feel the knees of your pants and the fabric over your elbows begin to saturate. Damn, he knocked you all the way to the ground.

“Hey, are you okay?” A voice asks. “Baby, are you hurt?”

You have yet to open your eyes, but you’d know Eddie’s voice anywhere. You nod slightly, then let out a groan when the motion makes your head spin.

“Here, let me see,” Eddie says, gently guiding you to a sitting position.

You feel his fingers perch under your chin, tipping your head upward. You frown at the movement when it makes you feel dizzy again. When the dizziness subsides, you slowly open your eyes.

Your vision is bleary, but Eddie’s face is close to yours. In the foreground, you can make out Buck completely laying on the patient to subdue him while officers swarm around them both.

“You’ve never called me that,” you say as Eddie puts a penlight through your line of vision.

“Looks like your cheekbone took the brunt of it, not your eye,” Eddie observes. He clicks the button on his radio. “This is RA 118 requesting an additional unit, one of our medics was assaulted on our 10-51 call.”

“ 10-4, ” you hear Maddie’s voice respond.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Eddie whispers, setting a gentle hand on your cheek.

You can’t help but smile. “You called me ‘baby’ again. You never do that, but you should keep doing it.”

That at least earns you a grin. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes, though. You can tell he still feels guilty.

“It’s not your fault, Eds,” you whisper.

“I should’ve had a better grasp on him.”

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat, this time a little louder.

“Yes, it is,” he disagrees. “I… my elbow locked up. It’s my fault.”

“I’ll stop by in a few days to get your full statement. For now, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Sergeant Grant.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Athena.”

You smile. “Thanks, Athena.”

Athena smiles back. She looks at you, then at Buck and Eddie, who are on either side of you. Buck is sitting in the rolling stool meant for the ER staff, while Eddie has his back pressed to the counter.

“You boys take care of her,” she directs. “Make sure she gets home okay.”

Buck nods. “Yes ma’am.”

Eddie presses his lips together before eventually nodding.

Athena dismisses herself from the room, wishing you all a good night.

You hate being in the ER as a patient, mostly because you hate waiting. The ER doctor already ruled out an ocular injury, attributing your blurred vision to either a head injury, facial swelling, or both. He did order a head CT to rule out any internal injury, so after some blood work, you’re waiting for the scanner to be available.

The room is tense. Neither of the boys has left your side, but they haven’t said much, either. It’s an awkward combination.

Eddie shifts his arm and winces. He pushes off the counter with his good arm, then grabs his bad elbow. He rubs the bruise.

“The pain’s getting worse,” you observe. He doesn’t have to tell you with words because his body language is screaming.

“It’s nothing,” Eddie mumbles as he continues to rub his skin.

You turn to Buck, who’s holding your hand. “Do you know he got it?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Eddie interrupts.

“He won’t tell me,” you tell Buck, ignoring Eddie’s interjection.

Eddie says your name in a warning tone.

Buck looks at him, then back at you as he squeezes your hand. “He won’t tell me, either.”

Eddie sighs and rolls his eyes a little. “You two are making way too big a deal out of this.”

The ER doctor, Dr. Patel, knocks on the wall before pulling back the curtain and entering. “Hey, thanks for your patience. I wanted to let you know you’re next in line for CT.”

“Sounds great, thank you,” you say, shifting in the bed. “Hey, can you look at my friend’s arm?”

“Would you stop?” Eddie says with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Doc, my friends here are worried over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you press. “Move your hand, let him see the bruise.”

Eddie looks from you to Dr. Patel, who shrugs. “It’d be free of charge.”

Eddie sighs and relents, moving his hand.

With careful hands, Dr. Patel inspects Eddie’s arm. He pokes around the bruise on his elbow, which makes Eddie wince again.

“How did this happen?” Dr Patel asks.

“It happened at work,” Eddie says, “we’re firefighters.”

“You told me it happened when you were roughhousing with Chris,” you counter.

Eddie avoids your eyeline. “It’s probably a mix of both.”

When Dr. Patel pushes back on his hand, Eddie hisses and withdraws. “I’d recommend an X-ray to rule out a fracture, but since this is off the books, I’ll tell you that it seems to be a strain of the common extensor tendon.”

“So, off the books, how does one fix that?” You ask.

“Off the books, you treat a strain with rest, ice, and over-the-counter anti-inflammatories.”

Eddie purses his lips briefly, then extends a hand. “Thanks, doc.”

Dr. Patel smiles as he shakes his hand. “No problem. I’ll have someone show you boys to the waiting room.”

Buck kisses your temple and rubs your hand before letting go. He stands, clearing his throat. “Take care of her, okay?”

Dr. Patel smiles again, setting a hand on Buck’s shoulder as he slips out. “Of course.”

Eddie waves goodbye, and it leaves you alone in the room with Dr. Patel. You shift in your seat awkwardly.

Dr. Patel’s smile fades as he sits where Buck was moments ago. The sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere makes you sick with anxiety.

“Your blood work came back, and one of the results was… abnormal. I thought it would be best if we discuss it alone.”

“What the hell is going on with you?”

Eddie runs a hand down his face. “Buck, I’m-”

“I swear, Eddie, if you say you’re okay one more time, you’re going to need an ER visit.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything; he just sets his elbows on his knees, dipping his head down.

Buck sighs, leaning back in his chair. “You know, when I was… working through things, I shut her out.”

Eddie casts a glance over his shoulder. “How did that work out?”

“It almost ended us.”

Eddie’s lips shift in contemplation.

“Then, I told her everything. And it got me everything I ever wanted.”

At this, Eddie chuckles a little. “Everything you ever wanted? Seriously?”

It sounds like a ploy more than anything, a hyperbole to get Eddie to talk. He’s been around that block once or twice, so it isn’t something he’ll fall for easily.

“Yeah,” Buck confirms, voice unwavering. There isn’t a trace of humor or doubt in his tone. He doesn’t sound cocky, just… confident. “It got me both of you.”

They go back to being quiet. It’s comfortable for Buck and absolutely suffocating for Eddie.

Buck’s hand is resting on the armrest. Eddie can see it shift in his periphery. He feels Buck’s hand on his thigh, slowly inching closer to his hand. Buck’s fingertips reach his wrist before he lets out a breath and sits back. His eyes scan across the waiting room.

“Eddie,” Buck says softly. In that moment, Eddie thinks he may be telepathic, or maybe he just knows Buck too well, because he knows exactly what he’s about to say. “They don’t know about us. They don’t care .”

It shouldn’t be a big deal, mostly because Buck is right: no one knows. They don’t know that Buck is only one of the two people he’s in love with. They don’t know that the other person he’s in love with is in an ER room. They don’t know that she’s there because of him. They look like two men in love, two men who should be able to hold hands in a waiting room.

So… why can’t Eddie bring himself to do it?

“Can you at least look at me?”

Buck’s voice breaks through, and Eddie’s racing thoughts come to a screeching halt. His tone dances on the edge of desperation, and it hurts Eddie’s heart, but it doesn’t hurt enough for him to listen.

“You boys ready to ditch this place?”

They look up. It’s you. You’re out of the hospital gown and back in your uniform. The bruise on your cheekbone is getting darker by the minute, but despite it, there’s a smile on your face.

“Woah, that scan was quick,” Buck remarks.

“Yeah, the longest part is always the waiting.”

It’s subtle, but Eddie catches it. He sees the way your smile faulters, the way the light leaves your eyes for a second. You recover quickly; your smile evens out, and the sparkle returns in less than a second. Eddie saw it, though. He knows that change anywhere. He’s been living in that change for the last few weeks.

You’re caught in a lie.

He just has no clue what you’re lying about.

You clear your throat. “Let’s get out of here.”

Nursing school sucks.

You knew it would suck, but you didn’t know it would suck this bad. Your experience and certifications as a paramedic allow you to skip a year of coursework, and it still sucks really bad.

Whenever you aren’t working, you’re doing something for school. When you aren’t writing a paper, you’re working on a project. When you aren’t working on a project, you’re reviewing skills. When you aren’t reviewing skills, you’re studying. And there’s so much to study between medications and disorders and terminology. You’re barely a month into the term and you’re already looking forward to Thanksgiving break.

There’s a silver lining to it all — you’re too busy with school to think about anything else.

You can’t remember the last night you spent at Eddie’s house. Actually, you can’t remember the last time you kissed him. He’s been distant, and you’ve been busy, and that combination is intimacy’s killer.

It’s fine. Well, it’s probably not fine. But you don’t exactly have the time nor the resources to fix it. Besides, all things considered, it’s actually… comfortable. It's not the type of comfortable it started as, but a different type. It’s no longer the ‘everyone is okay and nothing else matters’ type of comfortable; it’s more of an ‘everything isn’t okay but it’s easier to pretend it is’ sort of comfortable.

It’s like seeing a deer standing in the road miles ahead. You’re going 55 on the highway, and the deer doesn’t see you yet. You know that, in a matter of seconds, everything will either be completely okay or it will end in blood. You know that, no matter what, someone’s gonna end up running.

But you’re not at the end yet. For now, you’re in that sweet spot where you see the deer and the deer doesn’t see you, but it doesn’t matter. You can see the end, but you’re not there yet. You don’t press on the gas, but you don’t move over the brakes yet, either. You know the ending, and you’re in no rush to see it, so for now, you’re just watching everything play out.

“Everything okay?” Hen asks.

You look up. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

You purse your lips as you shut your laptop. “No.”

In the last few months — and especially the last few weeks — you haven’t been a great friend to Hen. You haven’t been a deliberately bad friend, but the relationship has been very one-sided. Lately, your friendship consists of Hen asking questions about your relationship and you subsequently bitching about it.

“It’s Eddie, isn’t it?”

See, you were gonna try to talk about something else, maybe how Karen’s doing or if Denny’s school year started okay. But then she says something like that and she just… knows . She knows something is up, and she probably knows how badly you need to talk about it.

You’ve mentioned it to Buck more than once, but the conversation never seems to have a satisfying ending. You both always agree to let Eddie come to you in his own time. Eddie has yet to do so. He doesn’t have any new injuries, but that’s probably because he’s still healing his strain. He isn’t getting more avoidant, but he isn’t forthcoming like he used to be. Eddie’s in purgatory; all you and Buck can do is watch.

“He’s been acting weird, right?” you settle on saying. “I mean, it started with him keeping secrets, which I was… fine with. I mean, not fine, but I dealt with it, you know? But then the bruises started. He never had a good explanation for them, either.”

Hen shrugs. “He’s a guy.”

“That’s it? That’s your advice? ‘He’s a guy’?”

She chuckles. “I’m just saying that men tend to deal with these things differently than we do. For the most part, when things don’t make sense, women like to talk about it. Guys… they like to hit things.”

It turns out that ‘guys like to hit things’ was exactly the advice you needed. It’s the advice that led you to a boxing studio after hours. You responded to a call involving an injured boxer a while back, and the owner said to call anytime you needed a favor. You’re cashing it in.

“So… what exactly are we doing here?”

You dragged both of your boys with you. Words haven’t worked things out, so you’re hoping a little good old-fashioned sparring will do the trick.

You pick up a pair of boxing pads. You slide your hands into them before clapping them together, the sound muffled by the thick padding. “We’re gonna hit things.”

The boys share a look, then a chuckle.

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Talking isn’t working, so we’re gonna start hitting,” you explain. “And if that doesn’t work, then I’m out of ideas.”

You reach for a pair of boxing mitts. You hold them out. “Who’s going first?”

Buck looks to Eddie, then shrugs. “I’ll try anything once.”

You and Buck spar in the ring. You both get quicker as you get more confident, and his punches get faster. You keep up with ease. You don’t stop until Buck’s forehead is pouring with sweat.

You lean against the ropes. “Feel better?”

Buck wipes a drop of sweat away from his nose as he breathes heavily. He nods wordlessly.

You smirk in satisfaction. “Alright, Diaz, you’re up.”

Eddie’s sitting on a stool in the corner of the ring. You could feel his eyes bounce between you and Buck the whole time you were sparring. When your attention shifts to him, he looks like he wants to argue. He must know he’ll lose the argument because he stands with a sigh.

As Buck walks by to trade places with him, he holds the boxing gloves against his chest. Eddie takes them, and Buck’s hand moves to his shoulder. He squeezes and leaves his hand where it is until Eddie approaches you.

You lift your hands and brace a foot behind you. “You ready?”

Eddie's answer is a fist landing on the pad.

He isn’t hesitant like Buck was — his punches are fast and relentless, like bullets coming out of a gun. You struggle to keep up at first, but the two of you eventually find your rhythm.

“What’s got you so pissed?” you ask.

Eddie’s eyes find yours for a moment. They’re dark by nature, but there’s something different about them now. It’s like there’s no trace of him behind them, just pure anger.

“Doesn’t matter,” he eventually huffs out between blows.

“Is it me? Is it Buck?” you continue.

“Neither,” he answers.

“Is it us?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. He punches a little harder.

“It is, isn’t it?” You prod.

“No,” Eddie says through his teeth. “It’s me.”

You frown. “What about you?”

“Everything. My thoughts, my actions, my relationships.”

“What about your relationships?”

“It’s wrong!”

The room quiets. Eddie stops throwing punches. Your hands fall limply at your sides.

“It’s wrong?” You whisper.

Eddie lets out a sound similar to a growl. He pulls off his gloves, throwing them to the side and running his hands through his hair.

“It’s… wrong,” Eddie repeats, his hands finding their way to his hips. “I was raised in a religion that believes marriage is between a man and a woman. But I was raised in El Paso, which is about as liberal as Texas can get. I have gay family members, and we’ve always loved them the same.”

Buck stands up, carefully approaching the two of you. “So what’s wrong about this?”

“It would be one thing if I was just dating a guy,” Eddie continues. “Dating more than one person, though? Dating a guy and a girl? It’s like… I can’t wrap my head around it. There’s no way my family could, no way that…”

“...That God could,” you finish.

You’re not a stranger to religion, but it isn’t your best friend, either. When your dad got too drunk, your neighbors across the street took you in for a few weeks, and they went to church every Sunday. They were Christian — you’re fuzzy on the exact denomination, but you know they weren’t Catholic. The Richardsons weren’t out in the street fighting for marriage equality, but from the time you spent with them, they seemed more ‘Love thy neighbor’ than ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ type of people.

“I don’t even know if I believe in God,” Eddie says with a bitter laugh. “I don’t know if I believe in Him, but I’m terrified of disappointing him. How does that even work?”

“You wouldn’t be a lapsed Catholic if you didn’t have at least a little guilt,” Buck offers. Eddie smiles a little, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.

There’s a burning question, and you don’t know how else to ask it. “Do you still want to do this?”

Eddie swallows. “I… I don’t know. I just need… some time, I think.”

Buck wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. He’s much nicer than you.

See, you’re tired. You’ve given Eddie time — a lot of time. You’ve given him time to himself, time to work things through, time to come to you. You’re kind of tired of giving him time. Especially because now, you can hear the clock ticking. There’s only so much time left before everything changes.

You rip off the pads, tossing them to the side near Eddie’s gloves.

Buck frowns as he says your name. “What’s wrong?”

You laugh a little, and it brings tears to your eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Niragi Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Heavy BDSM, Edging, Overstimulation, Aftercare, Ownership Kink, Marking, Biting, Petnames, Consensual Dub-Con, Consensual Abuse of Physical Strength, Knife Play, Mentions of Blood, Spit Kink, Cum Play, Rough Sex, Dominant Niragi, Submissive Reader, Profanity, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’, etc.

A/N: If you don't like this kind of content, please don't flag it ! It really hurts us authors and our engagement ! Instead, please consider blocking my account or changing your account viewing preferences so you aren't exposed to unwanted/NSFW content in the future :-). Here is a wonderful post which details how you can do just that <3

You’re his. Simple as.

And he makes sure to remind you - and anyone who crosses your path - on a near-daily basis.

Whenever he sees fit, he’ll just corner you and pin you down, telling you to “Calm down, Angel – you’re makin’ me hard,” – his way of warning you that whatever he has planned for you will only worsen the more you struggle.

And his bulge against your back is a very visceral promise of that.

Loves forcing your hands beside or above your head; it reminds you both of how much stronger than you he is – how weak and dependent you are compared to him.

How he owns you.

Bites your throat and shoulders, sucking marks, crafting you a necklace of bruises fashioned by him – his own branded jewels of love.

He’ll make sure they’re visible, too.

He needs to ward off other people from you by leaving his mark, his signature.

If he thinks you’re being bratty or uncooperative, he’ll go to any lengths to break you down until you submit to him entirely.

“You’re not making this any easier for yourself, Love,” he says. “Just tell me why you’re being so infuriating and I won’t bleed you this time.”

Massively into knife play.

Loves hearing you squeak and moan whenever he holds a knife to your throat or drags the blunted edge up your thighs, pressing it to your throbbing, aching core and cutting your underwear open, ravaging you.

He’s so rough when he’s in this kind of mood.

Will pound you until you bleed. Or give out and admit your feelings to him. Either will suffice; yet Niragi knows which he can draw from you first.

And his stamina and endurance are no joke.

He will outlast you in every faculty.

That’s the territory that comes with being a trained killer.

And he will remind you of that constantly.

“How does it feel–” he rasps, pants, as he pounds you from behind, the bed jutting with each thrust, “–to know you’re being fucked by a killer,”

The question is always rhetorical. He just revels in the feeling of you clenching around him when he recalls just how easily he could end you right here, right now.

But he doesn’t. And he never would.

He loves you far, far too much.

But that doesn’t stop him from being straight-up disrespectful.

Orders you to open your mouth, only for him to spit into it whenever he knows or suspects you’re being untruthful.

Also loves covering you in his cum.

His favourite thing is to cum inside you and watch it ooze from whichever holes he’s chosen to abuse that day, but something about covering you in it makes him feral.

Edges you constantly.

Uses your release as a bartering chip.

“Tell me why you’re being such a brat and I’ll let you cum.”

It’s a trap. Your honesty is punished, too.

Once he tears a satisfactory answer from you, he’ll let you - make you - cum.

And as your orgasm is still rolling through you, he’ll keep going. And going. And going.

At first you could assume it’s his bid to fulfill his own needs, but even after he finishes inside you and he simply doesn’t relent, realisation dawns on you.

Your insides are aching, pleading for a moment’s respite. But Niragi doesn’t stop, battering your hole and keeping it stretched over his bulging cock.

There comes a point where you’re banging your fists against his chest, begging him to stop because you’re so sensitive and it hurts, but he ignores you.

“If I were to let up that easily, I wouldn’t get to have any fun. Quite unfair after I let you cum, isn’t it?”

Looks into your eyes as he does it, too.

Will tie you up if he finds your cries and flails to be too bothersome.

Binds you to the bedposts so there’s nothing you can do but watch and feel as he slams into you at such a harsh, killing rhythm that has you thinking whatever’s leaking out of you right now is blood.

Very much into BDSM.

Will use his strength to bend you into whatever shape your body will allow and bind your limbs together, making it entirely impossible for you to break free as he has his way with you.

“You’re mine,” he’d say, grinding the shape of his cock into your walls; and all the while you’re moaning, crying, tears streaming down your face as euphoria tightens in your centre. “Nobody else can have you - please you - the way I can.”

Big fan of punishment, btw.

There are times where he puts you in a cage and just cums on you, making you stay there until his semen is crusting on your skin, makeshift scales on the creature he has reduced you to.

Also gets a kick out of spanking you, either with a belt or his hand.

When he’s feeling particularly cruel, he makes you count them until you reach the limit he has set for you.

And Heaven forbid you lose count, or you both start all over again.

Niragi likes to make sure that every time you try to sit down, you remember him – what he did to you.

When all is said and done, even when you’re used and stuffed and Niragi is milked dry, he is always up for more.

If you insist you can “go another round,” he’ll push you back down onto the bed.

“Oh, is that so, Sweetheart?” he says, looking down at you with mischief. “I might just break you if we go again.”

He’s joking, ofc.

When you're actually spent for the night, he just collapses next to you and looks upon you as if you are god, eyes dark and round.

Though he'd attribute that longing look in his eye to you being too emotional or clutching at straws - simply projecting that which you wanted to see.

Though, he will admit (only to himself), that it does feel nice to be so seen on occasion, but only by you.

Secretly loves to snuggle. All the time.

And he holds you as you’re drifting off to sleep, keeping you flush against his chest, wondering how he got so lucky to have met you.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously :-) Masterlist

Masterpost

[thegoldencontracts]

Hi

What do you think about Self aware!Housewardens and what are your Headcanons for them HSBSJJAJAJAHA idk I've been into ddlc recently.

FELLOW DDLC + TWST FAN SPOTTED I MUST RAMBLE

I'm going to make more specific fics with this later because who doesn't like self-aware AUs? Probably someone but that someone is not me

Ignorance is Bliss

The housewardens of Night Raven College come to a crippling realization about the truth of their world. They all handle it in different ways.

Riddle, who knows he's in a game, that everyone here is fake. What did he learn all these rules for? What was the point of his suffering? He's just a character to be watched by others for amusement's sake. Was the Queen of Hearts a mere character too? Did any of this have meaning? But then he sees you. You're real, and he's enraptured. What are the rules of your world, the real world where life isn't some story to be played? Though Riddle can't help but envy you, he really does wish to get to know you better.

Leona is hit by the revelation after his overblot. Everything he's gone through was all a part of some game. Just a way to keep players entertained. You're real. You'll never have to deal with the crippling realization that everything you say's a part of some script, that whole life's a game you'll never be able to leave. More than anything, Leona hates the fact that he knows your kindness towards him is all fake, but he still can't help but be captivated.

Azul is envious, just like Leona. He's gone through all of this just for entertainment? His overblot, his family, his world- none of it was real? And you're there, watching his suffering like it's some game for you to play, because that's really all it is. A game. He's a character in a game. But, seeing how real you are, even if your words are conveyed through the black sprite of a self-insert protagonist, how genuine your kindness is - it draws him in. He's meant to be a cold, rational individual, but perhaps he can be a bit softer with you. You won't mock him. You won't leave. And besides, if this really is some odd game, can't Azul get more of your gems with gap Moe?

Kalim is rather accepting of his circumstances. Sure, he's heartbroken to see the truth - that his whole life's a part of some gacha game meant to make some massive corporation called Disney more money, but can he really do anything about it? Besides, Kalim has always been someone who believes in making the best of the terrible hand he's been dealt. He's stayed kind in the face on constant poisoning attempts, and he's kept his heart in a world where there was no one he could trust. And in his attempts to make the best of his situation, he can't help but get closer to you. After all, you're a real person, and you don't gain anything from turning on him. You appreciate his kindness, and even if there's a fourth-wall separating the two of you, Kalim's grateful.

Vil is shaken by the revelation. This is all a game? You're just here to be entertained? But in spite of how worldview-shattering the realization that he's just a game character meant to Garner profit is, he can't help but he oddly comforted. Nothing's wrong with him. Neige 's performance was supposed to be worse than his, and the ordeal at VDC was just as unfair as he thought. Though Vil isn't exactly fine and dandy, he's not quite broken either. And, in the actual fanbase of this game he's in, people like him better than Neige? And you're one of those people? If it turns out you write fanfic or draw fanart of him, he'll be very appreciative.

Idia's shocked. His brother's death, his overblot, all the overblots, they were setups for him to be a character in some non-otome gacha game? It's weird. Idia's all too used to not being in control of his life, though. He just tries to cope in any way he can. He's definitely going to try and learn about his fandom, what type of ships and fanfic and fanart and the like are made about him. He's one of the most likely to try and ask you about the fandom. If you make fancontent for him, he's going to be especially interested. Be warned, though, he will nitpick your characterization of him so hard. At least your stats are better now, I guess?

Malleus is already an isolated individual, and now you're telling him what little connection to others he has is fake? In all honesty, he's definitely the most attached to you out of all the dorm heads. You're the only real friend he'll ever be able to have. The only real friend any of them will ever be able to have. He does find comfort in his massive fanbase, though. You're telling him all these people care for him, and because of the difference in the way time passes in game vs in reality, they won't die in a matter of what feels like seconds for him? As shaken as he is by everything, it really is a comfort.

[bearsbeetsbeskar]

Din Djarin cock worship drabble (din djarin x you)

pairing: din djarin x f!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit descriptions of smut, (assumed age gap maybe???), the armour stays on except for when din eats pussy (which is 24/7 in this universe), overstimulation wc: 1.4K a/n: hello lovelies, this is just a part of something that has been cooking in my brain for the last week. I was ignoring my schoolwork and other responsibilities as usual and rewatching mando, and just thinking about how that modulated rasp makes me melt, and how I would give anything to tie Din Djarin up and suck the soul out of him to hear those moans. that man deserves his cock to be worshipped, and I think about that on the daily tbh . this is unfinished but i hope to complete it this weekend!

Impenetrable beskar steel forged under sweltering heat that could rival Tattooine’s binary suns. Stealthy, calculated, choreographed skills of a warrior, so innate to his being, an exoskeleton similar to the armour he wore.  An unshakeable creed that represented devotion, honour, humility, and strength.

Powerful, weathered strength. Strength that shouldered hundreds of bounties, countless days of survival in the harshest planets, and so many physical injuries he’s lost count at this point.   

Din Djarin was a humble man. He never boasted his abilities or displayed a cocky nature. He had no reason to. Growing up in the covert, competing drills and sparring with other Mandalorians, he let his combat skills speak for himself as opposed to his words. Din would never deny his strength however. He knew he was strong, despite his age, and despite the aches and pains that permeated his body after each hunt. It was a quality that he could always pride himself on- at least that’s what he thought up until this point. Until he met you.

It turns out the stoic facade of strength that the hardened warrior so heavily relied on, crumbled the instant you could get your hands on him. Well, your hands and your mouth. 

Nearly 3 months had passed since you joined the mandalorian And the child. Three months since you offered your skills to help him with his bounties and take care of the child when he was off on his hunts. 3 months since your relationship progressed from just ship mates and acquaintances coexisting in solitude and monosyllabic answers, to partners that shared each others bed every night. A cacophony of grunts and deep groans to catch your breathless whimpers and keening whines filling the hull of the razor crest. 

You soon learned how much of a pleasure dom that mando was. Well, Din to you, now that he had entrusted you with his name. Once he learned what made you tick, what made you scream out his name as your eyes rolled into the back of your skull, he was fucking insatiable.

Most nights he wouldn’t fuck you until he made you cum on his tongue or his fingers at least twice. And even then you’d be a mess. Squirming and sobbing as you pushed his head off your dripping sensitive cunt. Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, you could feel the heat rolling off his broad body as he caged you against the bed.

“It’s okay, you can take it cyar’ika,” he would coo at you as he fed his thick cock into your warm wet heat. “Need this tight pussy nice and wet before I stretch you out on my cock.” 

You never lasted long, your orgasm crashing over you as you pulse around his length, writhing into the bed sheets. 

He reveled in being able to take you apart. Pushing you to the limits of your pleasure that it almost became painful. He fed off of it. 

It was rare however, that Din ever let you return the favor. Whenever you attempted to take him into your mouth, to show him your desire and appreciation, he would bat your hands away. Or he would only let you taste him for a minute or two before he’d manhandle you back onto the bed, legs spread by his massive palms, as he beheld you like a deity he wanted to worship over several lifetimes. His ferocity to have you usually outweighed his usual firm patience. 

You doubted that you were bad at giving head or that he didn’t enjoy it. Din was vocal, that much you were surprised to learn. As vocal as that modulator in his helmet would allow. Nothing rivaled the groans and curses you were rewarded with as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, eyes never straining from the T of his visor, taking him deep in your mouth, sucking on the head. You could only bask in the glow of his praise and delicious sounds for so long before Din became impatient and hauled you off his cock, the desire to be deep inside your warm wet heat his sole focus. “Need to have you now meshla,” he groaned, “can’t fucking wait any longer.”

Tonight would be different, you thought to yourself earlier that day as you watched Din stroll down the ramp of the Razorcrest, eager to begin his hunt for the next quarry. You had landed on Trandosha near dawn, and while the lush landscape of the planet appeared inviting Din had made it clear that you and the child couldn’t explore while he was gone.

“The quarry hasn’t exactly been covert about laying low, so it shouldn’t take long to track him down.” He explained as he restocked his munition and triple checked his weapons. 

Something about the methodical, almost choreographed manner in the way he loaded the pulse rifle bullets in his bandolier, reloaded his blaster, secured his vibroblade on the inside of his boot made you ridiculously horny. Watching the weathered faded leather of his gloves, caress the barrel of the rifle, mold around the handle of the blaster, those same gloves that molded to the curves of your body. You felt your throat go dry as he kept talking.

“Are you listening cyar’ika?”

Two leather clad fingers settled underneath your chin, urging it upwards to meet his visor.

“Huh?”

His helmet tilted to the side ever so slightly as he appraised your glossed over gaze, not before letting out one of those deep sighs that you had come to know and love. 

“No leaving the ship while I’m gone, under any circumstances. Got it?” The fingers under your chin shifted as his hand curled around the nape of your neck, thumb rubbing gently over your jaw.

“Trandosha may be a decent planet but Trandoshans are ruthless hunters, and they wouldn’t miss an opportunity to capture a sweet thing like you, or the child.”

The thought didn’t scare you. Having been around Trandoshans before, you knew they were cunning hunters, but the large reptilian species were slow on foot and clumsy with weaponry. They were nothing in comparison to Din’s prowess and perfected combat skills. 

Humming in response, you walk your fingers up the cool beskar of his chest plate, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Good thing I am traveling with one of the most ruthless and equally feared bounty hunters in the galaxy hmm?”

Burying your fingers in the curls peeking out from underneath his helmet and tugging slightly, you reveled in the shaky exhale he let out. 

He leaned down, resting the forehead of his helmet against yours.  A quiet rumble leaving the depths of his broad chest. 

“Ruthless huh?” His strong arms snake around your waist, pulling you flush against his broad body. You basked in the warmth emanating off his armour. While he appeared a mountain of metal, it sent a thrill through you upon feeling the humanity coursing through his body, the life exuding from underneath his beskar shell.

“Yes Din.” You replied with a smirk as you arched your back, smushing your breasts against the cool, hard angles of the chest plate.

“Ruthless in catching your bounties, ruthless in destroying your enemies,” you look up at him from under your lashes, “ruthless when you fuck my pussy and make me cum so many times I lost count.”

He lets out a noise, between a groan and a growl, as his hands slithered down to grip your ass, tightly cupping your ass cheeks, trying to pull you impossibly closer than you already were. It wasn’t enough to be pressed up against you, he needed to be inside you. That much was evident as you felt the hard outline of his cock, nudging against your lower belly. 

“Damn fucking right I am. That tight little pussy is mine.”

It was your turn to shiver as your eyes fell shut and you bit your lip. Stars, the power that this man had over you. How he was able to make you fall apart with just his words, that filthy fucking mouth hidden underneath his unreadable halo of steel.

He leaned down till the helm of his helmet was beside your ear. “No leaving the ship,” he repeated in that delicious rasp. “I’ll be back soon okay?”

Little did Din know the surprise you had in store for him later.

[wildechildwrites]

Bodice Ripper

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: 18+, noncon, kidnapping, violence, oral, masturbation

No use of Y/N

Summary: You, the princess of an unnamed kingdom, are attending a masquerade ball. You get kidnapped by a man in a skull mask with unclear intentions.

A/N: I got too caught up into the nuances of political kidnappings which is crazy because I really just wanted to write some bodice ripping smut but the social implications of being ravished were too detrimental to your fake life that I couldn't commit to it fully

AO3 Link: Bodice Ripper

18+

The gown you’re wearing is decadent, layers of pearlescent pink silk flowing around you, your shoulders bare, your waist tightly cinched. You’re wearing your mother’s best diamonds, glinting prettily in the hollow of your throat. The mask obscuring your face matches your dress, delicately resting on your nose bridge. 

The ballroom around you is lush with wealth, thousands of candles illuminating the space, rich tapestries covering the walls. Couples spin in the center of the room, and laughter fills the space. The masquerade is the event of the season, everyone decked out in finery. The prince is here, somewhere amongst the masked guests, and you’re determined to find him. Your country is small, but powerful, and there have been whispers of an engagement, an advantageous love match between you and the young dauphin. You survey the scene, looking for a familiar figure.

The man who catches your attention is massive, wrapped in a black burial shroud. His face is entirely obscured by a skull mask, the very visage of death. It's a horrible costume, brutal in a way that makes it striking, sticking out from the soft splendor of the rest of the crowd. He’s standing completely still, a harsh juxtaposition from the revelers milling about, and his eyes are unmistakably fixed upon you. A chill runs down your spine, and fear makes you turn away from his cold gaze.

A young man approaches you and asks for a dance, and you quickly recognize him as one of the sons of a duke your father often goes hunting with. He’s a fine enough dancer, despite his clammy hands, and you allow him to twirl you about, temporarily forgetting your unease. Your eyes catch on another man, tall and slender, dressed in velvety royal purple, and smile to yourself. The prince certainly hasn’t made the sport a difficult one. You detach yourself from your partner, politely making your excuses.

When you cross paths with the prince, you let your fan slip out of your hand. He smiles brightly at you, before leaning down to pick it up. His mask does little to hide his handsome face.

“You dropped this, madam.” He says, returning your fan to you with a gallant, slightly pompous, bow. When you reach for it, he captures your gloved hand in his, softly bringing it to his lips. 

“Thank you, your highness,” you say, dropping your eyes and curtseying appropriately.

“I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” he responds, his voice playful. “But if you’ll do me the honor of dancing with me, I will attempt to behave as princely as I am capable.” 

You’d be a fool to think you’ve captured his full attention, and you ignore the way your dance partner's eyes stray hungrily away from yours. You know what’s expected of you, what is expected of him. True fealty from the future king is an unachievable goal, one you have no interest in. This is what you’re meant for, the duty that has been hammered in since you were a child. Resources and connections for your father’s kingdom, the admiration and envy of the court. The prince talks about his own accomplishments, the hunting he’s done recently and his skills with a blade. Your eyes flit almost unconsciously around the room while he speaks, looking for the terrifying specter from earlier, but the man that had frightened you is nowhere to be seen. You let yourself unwind, getting lost in the music and the prince’s eyes.  

You dance a few waltzes before the prince excuses himself. “I promised I’d play cards with the duke,” he says, his eyes following an earl’s daughter across the room. You curtsey sweetly, murmuring the appropriate tittering phrases, and you two part ways. The room is warm, and you head towards the balcony, desperately in need of some fresh air and solitude.

Outside, the terrace is deserted, and you’re grateful for the momentary peace. Music filters through the open doors, the sound of conversation muted to a dull hum. You sigh quietly. The gardens beyond are dark, but the moon is shining brightly. You stare up at the stars, picking out constellations. A branch snaps, just out of sight, and you stiffen, peering into the dark. 

“Is there someone there?” You call. 

The only response is the quiet chirping of crickets. 

You’re uneasy, hairs standing on end. Turning back, you yearn for the crowded safety of the ballroom.

The man in the skull mask stands between you and the french doors, and you let out a gasp. You grapple for your manners, trying to regain control of the situation.

“I–I apologize, sir, you startled me.” You say. The stranger makes no answer, taking a step closer to you. You step back. He takes another step. His eyes are cold, locked on yours as he advances. 

“You’re behaving most uncouthly.” Your tone is demeaning, but it makes no difference, not seeming to register as the man takes another step, closing in on you.

“You can’t– You’re not supposed to–” your composure cracks, adrenaline coursing through your veins. He reaches for you, and you evade his grasp, whirling around to run into the gardens. 

You hike your skirts up, uncaring of modesty, sprinting as fast you can through the darkness. Branches scrape at your skin as you dodge around them, trying to put distance between you and your pursuer. You hear him behind you, loud footfalls drawing closer and closer. Lungs burning, you desperately try to breathe around your tightly laced corset. There’s a hedge maze on the grounds, and if you could just get away from him–

You yelp when he lunges for you, tackling you roughly into the dirt. Your gloves rip, your palms and elbows aching from the impact, but you struggle against the weight on your back. You throw your head back hard, smashing the back of your skull into his nose, and are rewarded by a string of oaths, half of which you've never heard before, falling from the stranger’s mouth. His large, thick fingers wrap around your throat, pinning you in place. 

“Stay still,” the man snarls. He’s breathing heavily, voice raspy. His accent is thick and distinctively english. 

Something hard is pressed into your back, and you fearfully wonder if the man is armed. When he grinds his hips against yours,  a cold trickle of realization hits you. Your parents had kept you largely in the dark about what happens between men and women, but you had heard the whispered stories of the servants, the tittering of married friends. Horror stories about highway men and rapers. Your maidenhead is the only thing of any real value that you have, and you renew your struggles even as he keeps you pinned. 

“Get off of me!” You shriek, and the man freezes, as though caught off guard, before pushing himself off of you. He lets out a string of curses, before grabbing your arms and roughly pulling you up. 

He reaches up and pulls the mask off your face, drinking in your features hungrily. You stare at each other for a heartbeat.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, trembling. Your words seem to reset him, and he straightens up, towering over you. He’s massive, broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, his costume sending a chill down your spine.

“It's not what I want from you, princess. It's what I want from your father. What you’re going to help me get from him.” he replies coldly. “The people are starving. Not that you’d even notice, hm?” He’s hurting you, his grip almost crushing, shaking you as he speaks. “Your father and that bastard of a prince don’t care about the common folk’s struggles.” 

“What exactly do you expect me to do about it?” you hiss, speaking before you have the sense to stop yourself, irritation rising. The man’s expression is impossible to read with the mask, but you think you’ve shocked him. “I have no claim, no real power. I do what I can, I feed the poor and donate to the church, but I do not write laws. I cannot influence my father’s decisions nor the prince’s.”

“You’re standing here, neck dripping with diamonds, telling me you’re powerless?” 

The aggravation in his voice scares you, but you forge on through gritted teeth. “I am merely a bauble and a future broodmare. You’d have better luck kidnapping one of my brothers. My father may not even condescend to pay whatever ransom you’ll demand, but you obviously didn’t plan this out quite well.” Your tone is frosty, haughty despite your terror.

He slaps you, hard, and you gasp in shock, tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me, princess.” He snarls. “Whether it’s money or your pretty little head on a spike, I’ll get what I want.” 

He pulls coarse rope from his cloak, binding your hands tightly, cutting into your delicate wrists. He heads into the darkness, dragging you behind him. You stumble in your heels, and he lets out an irritated sound before wordlessly throwing you over his shoulder. It’s as if you weigh nothing, and your face feels hot when his large hand presses against the back of your thighs, holding you steady. You can feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric. You’re hyper aware of the indecency of it, your skin tingling.

The path isn’t lit, but his footsteps are confident. A horse snorts softly in the dark before the man suddenly puts you down, grabbing your bicep roughly. 

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice ice cold. You nod, too frightened to speak. The horse in front of you is beautiful, stormy gray and massive. He lets go of your arm and reaches into his cloak, procuring an apple. He offers it to the animal, whispering softly as he feeds it, petting its nose gently. You take a step back, trying to be subtle, and his head whips around. 

The man boosts you onto the horse, throwing himself on after you. You’re pressed against his chest, back flush against the hard planes of muscle as he urges the horse on, setting a quick pace. 

The horse is bigger than your own, stretching your legs uncomfortably wide, and you shift, quickly getting sore. Whatever is in his pocket is prodding into your lower back, and you wiggle your hips, trying to make yourself more comfortable with the limited space you have, when the man lets out a low noise in the back of his throat, a firm hand grabbing your waist.

“Quit squirmin’,” He grounds out. His voice sounds oddly strained, and you cease your movements immediately. You ride in silence for a few more moments. 

The path you're taking is unfamiliar, and curiosity wins over your reason.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask.

The man ignores you. Time passes, and you peer into the darkness, trying to spot any landmarks. Hopefully your absence has been noticed by your guards by now, and there are people looking for you. The night is cold, your arms covered in gooseflesh as you begin to shiver. Your captor wordlessly pulls you closer to his chest, wrapping the cloak he wears around your bare arms. You murmur a thank you automatically, and his grip on you tightens slightly.

“What's your name?” You ask softly. 

“It's Ghost,” the man replies after a moment. You feel a spike of irritation. 

“What’s your real name?” you ask, your tone slightly petulant.

“Why do you want it so bad, hm? Going to set your betrothed on me? If he’s not too busy whoremongering, maybe he’ll chop off my head.” His tone is mocking. “You’ll call me what I tell you to call me.” 

 You ride until dawn is breaking over the hill, coming upon a barn in the middle of a field. The surrounding countryside is unfamiliar, and you haven't seen any other houses or buildings for miles. You're exhausted and sore, body aching and stomach rumbling. Ghost stops short of the barn door, dismounting before pulling you into his arms in one fluid motion. You don’t resist as he carries you into the barn and places you with surprising gentleness on a pile of soft hay.

“I need to go feed and water the horse.” His voice is stern, a cruel bite to it that chills you. “There’s no one around us for miles. You've run from me once before and I caught you, if I have to chase you again I will punish you.” 

You stare up at him, trembling uncontrollably. There’s a beat of silence. He sighs, an almost wistful noise, before wordlessly leaving the barn. 

Your body is failing, the long horse ride and constant terror leaving you drained. You fight against unconsciousness, worried about what Ghost may do, but the hay is soft and sweet smelling, the barn warmer than the chill of the night.

Ghost finds you curled up on the hay, head cradled in your arms. He watches the soft movement of your breath pensively. The soft skin of your wrists is rubbed raw, angry beneath the ropes still holding them together. There’s a bruise forming on your cheek, and he’s sure that you’ve got more bruises hidden under your dress.

The concept had seemed so noble when the revolutionaries who hired him planned it. Distribute the ransom money amongst the poor, remind the monarchy of their own vulnerability. Standing in the dim light of the barn, confronted with a frightened girl and his own brutality, Ghost doesn’t feel noble. 

The desire that has been mounting since he had chased you down doesn't feel very noble either. 

Less of a man and more of a monster, he removes his mask and lowers himself on the hay beside you.

When you wake, you're laying on Ghost’s chest, hand curled in the tunic he wears. Your wrists are no longer tied, and he’s no longer wearing that horrible mask. Your face gets hot. He’s handsome but rough looking, light scars scattered across his face. There’s a smudge of dried blood under his crooked nose from when you headbutted him last night. You attempt to untangle yourself from him as gently as you can, scared of waking him. In response, his brow furrows, arms tightening around you unconsciously. You freeze and lie still, watching the shadows on the wall change as the sun rises, his heartbeat steady in your ear.

You can tell when Ghost finally wakes by the way his breathing changes. He pushes you off of him gently, and you feign sleep, listening to him move about. When the door of the barn creeps open and shut, you sit up and look around. It had been too dark before, but now you look around for any exits. There’s a loft, and you wonder if you could reach it before Ghost gets back. 

The mental image of him dragging you down after you’ve climbed up makes you reconsider the idea. 

You wonder if he can be bargained with. You knew how to play the game with men, how to simper and say the things they wanted to hear, and the game was much easier when they were attracted to you. You remember the way Ghost looked at you when he first ripped off your mask and heat rushes to your face as you begin to strategize.

When Ghost comes back inside, you’re standing, hands clasped behind your back and posture straight. You look more like you did when he first saw you, confident and blooming in the low light of the ballroom. The dirt on your face and gown do little to detract from your regal nature, and your eyes meet his without the fear from last night.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, your voice clear and almost musical. 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze trailing down your figure, and you bite your lip, pushing down your trepidation and stepping towards him. The surprise in his expression is poorly masked, and he tilts his head, an unspoken question.

“I’m being paid a large amount of money to bring you to a revolutionists group.” He says frankly. He’s stalking closer to you, soft and slow, like a fox after a hare. You resist the urge to step back.

“Please Ghost,” you respond, eyes wide, letting your bottom lip tremble, “My father can pay more than what they’re offering. Whatever you ask, I will write a letter demanding it, and we can have a courier from the nearest town take it to the palace immediately.”

You close the gap between the two of you, gently reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, tilting your chin to look him in the eye. Your expression is soft and pleading, and you resist a shudder at the odd, predatory look quickly forming in his eyes. One of his hands shoots out, grabbing your wrist, keeping you trapped against him. 

“Are you trying to negotiate with me?” Ghost murmurs. The intense look on his face frightens you, and you take an abrupt step back, trying to pull away from his iron grip, realizing your judgment of him had been erroneous far too late. You’d been desired before, exchanged longing looks across ballrooms, swapped love tokens and letters, but no one had ever looked at you with such fierce hunger. 

“I–I’ll tell the king that you rescued me. That you heard my screams and saved me.” You feel the tables quickly turning against you. “I’ll get you whatever you want.”

He laughs, a dissonant sound against the grim set of his features. “What I want,” Ghost leans in, his voice dropping. “Is something I can’t have.” Your chests are nearly pressed together.

 “I have been fighting my baser nature since the moment I saw you.” The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, his voice like velvet. 

“I don't care that you're a princess. I wish you were a shepherd’s daughter, then I'd have snuck you away to the woods to fuck you on the soft ferns while your father tends his flock.” 

No one has ever spoken to you in such a way. Heat fills you unexpectedly, but you rebel against the foreign sensations and growing need, tugging your wrist out of his grip.

“You can’t have me,” you say weakly. Ghost leans down, fisting his hand in your hair. You expect him to kiss you, but he uses his grip on you to pull your head to the side, exposing the smooth column of your throat. His breath is hot against your neck.

“Come now, princess. You expect me to believe that there have been no trysts with stable boys? I’m sure your beloved little prince has stolen a kiss or two. It’ll be our little secret.” His voice is a purr, and he places a delicate kiss right below your ear lobe. You tremble, gasping at the sensation.

 He huffs, amused, before sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin. You let out an indecent mewl, hands rising up to fist the front of the tunic he wears. Ghost pulls back, his eyes sparking with an avian intensity before capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is fierce, want shooting through you as you gasp against his mouth. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you lose yourself in it until you feel his hands wandering, touching your breasts. You struggle against him, tears welling in your eyes as you try to pull away. He pulls you against him harder, grinding his hips against yours. You turn your head to the side, trying to escape his demanding mouth.

“Please don’t,” you cry. “I’ll be ruined.” 

“We wouldn’t want that.” His voice is full of sarcasm, but he cups your face tenderly, wiping the tears from your eyes. “Don’t cry now, dove, I just want a taste. We’ll keep you nice and pure.” 

He picks you up, laying you back onto the straw. You look at him, a pinched expression on your face, and he captures your mouth in another kiss, devouring you. You can feel the burning heat of his body through the layers of your dress. His hands run down your sides, bunching in the fabric of your skirt. He hikes your skirt up, forcing your legs apart, and you know what's coming, bracing for his touch as he mouths along your neck, but his rough hands are still a shock as he pushes your thighs apart. You freeze with anticipation as he lowers himself down your body.

The only warning you get is the feeling of Ghost’s skin brushing against yours before his warm tongue traces a long, relishing lick up your dripping slit, ripping a gasp from you. He buries his face against you, licking deeper, his tongue exploring previously untouched places as you writhe beneath him. The sensations are all so foreign and overwhelming. You fist your hands into his hair, unsure if you want to push him away or pull him closer. 

Ghost is relentless, his hands pinning you down, trapping you as he licks you open, and you let out a wail. An odd sensation is building in your stomach, and you try to escape his insistent mouth, squirming against his hold. His nose is pressed up against the top of your slit, his tongue circling around inside you. A shudder runs all the way through your body, reaching a pitch that has you crying out, bucking against him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your thighs tremble around his head, and you whine as he continues his ministrations, feeling overstimulated, your head hazy. He finally allows you to push him away when he’s had his fill, leaning backwards. The lower half of his face is soaked, and you blush as he uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.  

Ghost unlaces his breeches, pulling you out of your haze. He’s still got one hand holding you down, and you begin struggling again, fear building.

“No, you can’t—” Ghost leans down and captures your lips with his, interrupting your pleas. He pulls back, gently cupping your face in his hand and shushing you, making soft noises as you struggle against him. 

“I promised princess, I just want to feel you.” You relax slightly, still nervous as he pulls his cock free. It’s huge, the tip leaking and nearly purple. He kisses you again, his mouth rough against yours, and you whimper as he presses himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, gathering your slick. When the tip catches against your entrance, you let out a gasp. 

He pulls back, his eyes dark. You watch, entranced, as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his fist slowly up and down, coating his cock with your slick. It’s obscene, and you feel yourself flush at the indecency. Heat rushes down to your core as you watch him stroke his cock.

Ghost’s gaze is burning, eyes flitting between your face and your wet center, drinking up the sight. 

“See what you do to me?” He snarls, picking up speed. He grabs your hip and pulls you closer, flat on your back with your legs spread around him as he fucks his fist, his knuckles brushing against your center. You whimper, and the hand on your hip digs into your skin, hard enough to bruise. 

When he finishes, he says your name like a litany. It echoes in the empty space of the barn, like the clanging of church bells. 

His cum dries on the soft skin of your navel and mound, sticky and uncomfortable. He helps you pull your dress down, and tucks himself back into his breeches. 

Ghost kisses you again, his mouth is softer against yours now, and you kiss back, your inexperienced tongue rasping against his. He pulls away, and the silence between you is heavy. 

“What are you going to do now?” You ask, your voice quiet. His expression is conflicted as he reaches up a large hand to push some stray hair out of your face.

After a long silence, he finally answers you. “I’m taking you home.”

[dreamsinarcadia]

Mistletoe (Part 2)

In which Heung-min and his best friend find themselves under the mistletoe over the years (and he’s pretty much to blame for it)

Pairing: Sonny x bestfriend!reader

Warning: flufffffff

Note: The photo above is how I picture Sonny’s mother looking at her child towards the end of this chapter

⬅️ Part 1

13 years old

Enduring a shiver so strong that it rattled her bones, she had to physically stop herself from launching a frying pan at Heung-min’s head. “Never, in my thirteen years of existence on this planet, have I been this cold before,” she mumbled under breath, teeth still chattering furiously from the unforgiving frost she had been forced to endure just an hour earlier.

Was football practice even worth it? Especially when she wasn’t even a football player to begin with? No. Absolutely not. She liked books and eating biscuits in the warm comfort of her bed, for crying out loud!

But then again, she would rather dig her own grave with a soup spoon than admit that seeing the smile on Heung-min’s face today made the possibility of losing her toes to frostbite worth it. Almost worth it… almost.

He was busy flying around his kitchen, trying his best to balance the massive basin (usually reserved for his mother’s kimchi stock), the kettle and a dish towel. Ambling towards his frozen friend, he bent forward to allow her to carefully collect the kettle and dish towel from his arms.

“I told you to wear extra layers,” he chided gently and sniffed. The tip of his nose could honestly have given Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer a run for his money.

She made a show of sniffing back just as obnoxiously as possible. “Did you? Did you really? Or did you break into my room at the crack of dawn and yell at me to get my ass out of bed?”

“Um, yes. I said ‘layers’ four times, and I know this because I counted.” He pulled out a chair to sit down in front of her, bending over to set the basin down with enough force to have the water slosh around and speckle the floorboards. “But when have you ever in your life listened to a single word of wisdom from me?”

“Start saying wise things and I just might listen.”

"Well, I was nice and warm until someone stole my scarf and gloves," he teased, ignoring her little remark to glance over at her bundled up nice and warm in his woollen scarf - a gift that had been hand knitted by her mother three Christmases ago.

The gloves and scarf gloves thief in question merely grinned as she carefully poured the hot water into the basin. As soon as it was warm enough, Heung-min gestured for her to put her feet in. Soon, the sounds of giggles filled the small kitchen as they knocked ankles and toes to try and find a comfortable spot in the warmth of the basin. She remained silent for a moment, letting her gaze map the features of his face. He was awfully close. “Count yourself lucky that I didn’t take your hat,” she mumbled under her breath.

“I’ll be sure to thank my ancestors.”

It was blissfully warm again. Soon enough, her teeth stopped chattering and the shivers stopped wracking her frame. She closed her eyes to revel in the moment and decided to ignore the sudden slosh of water as Heung-min removed his feet from the basin. Suddenly, it felt a little colder.

Wordlessly, Heung-min began working himself around the kitchen to pour some hot tea from the flask his mother always kept on hand at the dining table. With a quick glance back at his friend (who was either dead or snoozing), he rushed upstairs to his room to grab something.

By the time he arrived back in the kitchen to grab the mugs from the table, she had already opened her eyes to glare balefully at him. “Get your toes in here, the water’s getting cold.”

A smile erupted on his face. She was just so darn cute when pretending to be angry at him.

“Yes boss.” He carried the mugs of tea forward and sat back down, only to hold them well away from her grabby little hands when she attempted to reach for one.

“What—“

“The tea is yours for the low price of one kiss.”

Oh for…

She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes when he set his mug aside to pull out a familiar sprig of basil leaves from his pocket. He wiggled it enticingly between their heads. She really had to start hiding her mother’s pot of beloved plants from this boy.

She weighed her option. Was she still cold? Sort of. Did she like tea? Yes. Did she like Heung-min? That was an answer to debated over another day. Honestly speaking, it really was a small price to pay for the tea. It smelled positively heavenly.

And so, with little consideration for Heung-min’s blood pressure, she clamped her hands on his shoulders to yank him forward and place a quick kiss, that lasted no longer than a second, right on the corner of his lips.

It was only a little while later that his mother discovered his son sitting alone in the kitchen with his feet in her precious kimchi basin and a mug of cold tea on the floor. She merely shook her head at the way he was smiling dopily down at a bunch of leaves in his hands, a dreamy expression on his face and quite possibly the reddest nose and ears she’d seen on a child.

“Heung-min?”

“Yes?”

“Are those Mrs. Jeon’s basil leaves?”

“… please don’t tell her.”

Part 3 ➡️

•

Author’s Note: I started a Christmas fic in December and we are well into July 🥲

[mental-about-you-too]

Crowley + bluffing (+ memory)

Source

A lot of people have written about the indications in S2 that Crowley was once a Very Powerful Angel (specifically, an Archangel). And yeah, some hints are pretty blatant (eg "Thrones, Dominions, or higher"), and there are some sound analyses out there--so it's very possible that he was.

But I don't think that's necessarily the case.

I think that, when it comes to his power (or his bargaining position more generally), there's always a decent chance that Crowley is--at least partially--bluffing.

Source

25 Lazarii

As @halemerry pointed out in this meta about colors, purple is not only the color of massive angelic power--it's also Crowley red + Aziraphale blue (this was a revelation to me).

Source

I think it's made pretty clear that the remarkable power of the 25-Lazarii miracle isn't (in itself) evidence that Crowley was once among "the mightiest of Archangels"--it means that together, Aziraphale and Crowley are as powerful as the mightiest of Archangels.

Source

So when Crowley claims he might have done the "miracle of enormous power":

Source

and Shax doesn't question him, I don't think it necessarily means he's Very Powerful. Maybe he is. Maybe she knows it. But I don't think she does, and I don't think we do either.

Who knows? He could be bluffing.

"I meet a lot of people."

I think something similar could be going on when it comes to Crowley's memory. Yes, memory is a theme in S2, and mention of Crowley's memory (or rather, lack thereof) is a recurring point, so it probably means something. (And the line "looking at where the furniture isn't" does sound like he might be familiar with Jim's experience of amnesia.)

But in the cases of Furfur and Saraqael: sure, maybe he doesn't remember them--or maybe he's just calling them forgettable to be annoying and obstructive.

Source

He doesn't feel like playing along with either of them. He doesn't want to encourage some sort of connection. He's not their friend. Sure--maybe he dismisses Saraqael with "I meet a lot of people" to cover up an actual lapse.

Source

Or maybe he's just being a bit of a bastard (affectionate) and trying to get on their nerves.

In other words: maybe he's bluffing.

And so maybe Crowley was an Archangel. Maybe his memory was erased, and he had to work at recovering it piecemeal. Or maybe he was somebody of respectable power but middling influence (eg a Throne or Seraph, as per this informative meta on angelic rank). Maybe he lost some memory due to trauma, and he puts on a flippant front to hide pain from those who might take it as weakness. Or maybe he remembers everything, and he just enjoys sticking it to power at every opportunity by being infuriating.

Personally, I like to think of Crowley and Aziraphale as institutionally insignificant beings who happen to have enough audacity and imagination (and capacity for Caring About Things) to make themselves everyone's problem.

I don't know, maybe I just like the way book!Crowley and Aziraphale seem to be in similarly-middling positions in their respective organizations, yet still decide to team up and try to avert the apocalypse. Maybe I'm hung up on the underdog narrative, and ignoring evidence. (And/)or, maybe the whole bluffing thing is all very obvious--after all: he's a demon. He lies.

Edit: After writing this, I found this meta by @avelera about the Doylist argument for Crowley being a high-ranking angel, and it's...honestly pretty convincing (I have Pratchettist preferences about Our Heroes' status, it seems). But who knows? Maybe Gaiman will subvert the pattern. Maybe he's bluffing too.

[creatingblackcharacters]

Hi! I'm sorry if you've answered this before but I just had like a memory blasted into my brain of a tumblr post (written by a Black person from memory but I can't remember for the life of me who and I have no idea where the post is) who said that describing Black characters' skins (/eyes/hair) as "chocolate" or "caramel" or "coffee" or anything that's related to things Black people were exploited to produce during slavery times is bad and should be avoided. which I definitely understand (and like you know I definitely see how using the word "cotton" as a descriptor for Black hair would be at best a massive show of ignorance and at worst twisting the knife in the wound), but I'm just wondering what's your opinion on this applying to everything revelant? (not that I think it'd be unreasonable at all, and like. there's a shitton of words it's not like chocolate and coffee are the only brown things ever, this isn't devastating, but one of your lessons does say words like chocolate etc r fine as long as they correspond to the actual shade of brown and weren't just picked because Lol I Don't Know Other Shades Of Brown).

Sorry if this is weird and feel free to ignore but I just integrated this one post into my brain and forgot about it and your lessons reminded me of it and I'm curious now (I hope you're having a good day/night/evening etc! I love your blog, I learn a lot here!)

I am confused lol you asked me how I feel, but you read the lesson that said how I felt about it. Maybe I am misunderstanding your question?

[eldritch-spouse]

THAT LIVIUS X VINNEL ANON IS NOW GETTING ME TO SHIP ICONS WITH YOUR OTHER OCS, JUST FUCKING GREAT/sarcastic /pos (sorry if this one's long I just gotta get these outta my system lmao)

Kalymir x Patches: because let's face it, Patches can absolutely take quite a bit of a beating [and we know he'd beat off to getting a beating anyways], but there's always the threat of Kalymir ACTUALLY just straight up killing him - Admin assures him that they won't let him die, but sometimes, the way that Kalymir grins at him makes him worry... Also I love size difference and I want Kalymir to (figuratively) tear his ass apart with his cock

Vorticia x Morell: obvious reasons. He's one of the greatest monster chefs of all time, she's the Greed icon - she keeps coming back for his food (and occasionally his bobbles) and he keeps getting very flattered that the literal icon of greed loves his food. Also... Madame Pinnie did mention that Morell has had horny thoughts in which HE'S the one being eaten, even if he's also super terrified of that... And... Firstly, Vorticia's a snake-monster, so idk how her body would react to the poison, but if we're being hopeful, she'd be immune to it - or maybe the fact that she's the icon of greed has something to do with it(?); second of all, she'd probably have the equipment and/or magic to get rid of the poison.

Rinxx x Nebul: HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT-- Nebul to me seems like the type to absolutely exploit the fact that Rinxx has a ton of money and would use him to buy all the sex toys and pearls he could ever want (plus stuff for Purpur of course). Also, the idea of Rinxx being a sugar daddy for Nebul is HILARIOUS. I can imagine Nebul knowing this and being frustrated, because he can't just turn around and give the bird to an Icon (his ass is big but his balls aren't). He has to live with the fact that, no matter how he dominates Rinxx in the bed, no matter how much the Icon allows the Wraith to degrade and demean and even hurt him-- Nebul is not the one who's in control of the dynamic. Idk if he would, but would Nebul ever grow to start liking the fact that he's actually the submissive one? (On a sidenote: I can imagine Rinxx groping Nebul a lot cause he's thick as FUCK and also forcing the guy to wear much tighter, more leg revealing clothes that hug his thighs and ass-- also forcibly pounding Nebul into submission when Nebul irritates him, hehah)

[I love how you spell Rinx like he's a pornstar, Rinxxx. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)]

Ah, Kalymir and Patches, we've talked about that. You captured the essence of it well, but the ass tearing is going to be more literal than physical here. Patches, ever the glutton for pain, will find all his cravings brutally satisfied. And Kalymir, ever fond of resilient little things, will adore taking Patches to his undead breaking point over and over and over.

Morell and Vorticia is equally stressful. All of these are. Vorticia will work Morell stupid in her desire to taste all his talent, but Mori is getting a delicious ego stroke as well as watching a massive woman take rabid, almost lustful enjoyment from devouring his cuisine. It'd be hard to ignore an inkling of chemistry here. But, as you know, typically, most people who lay with Vorticia perish. Perhaps it'll be a different story here, she wouldn't want to lose the best chef she's ever met!

Rinx and Nebul is an interesting pair. And indeed, Nebul will keep fighting for his dominating role as hard as he can. Sexually, he'll never accept submission, and outside of intimacy, he'll still try to cling to any minuscule shred of power he can attain, even if all he can do in certain situations is refuse gifts- Which is very frustrating for Rinx. Fact of the matter is that even when he holds control, it is only allowed and never inherent, which will chew at the wraith. But goodness, the benefits of this dynamic are so many... He can at least revel in the power of being so wanted by someone of such status.

[reimeichan]

Yknow what yeah I do wanna talk about that last post I reblogged.

Because I was in survival mode for so long, I didn't even realize it was survival mode even when I got out of it. My brain was so convinced for years afterwards that I was STILL in danger constantly, even though I was no longer being constantly traumatized and re-traumatized by my abusers. I thought by simply escaping I was allowing myself to heal and recover, never once realizing I never actually did the work to do such. Plus, Survival Mode had been my norm for over twenty years of my life. I didn't know anything else.

For four years after leaving that traumatic environment, I continued on as if I was in survival mode. And, well, that was what worked for me. Work was basically an extension of college which was an extension of high school, and I continued to beat myself up internally to do chores and shit the same way I would avoid being yelled at by my parents. I didn't see anything wrong with any of this. After all, I had a stable income and was no longer dealing with a toxic, abusive environment. Why did anything need to change?

Well, turns out, a lot of my old coping skills were only helping me because they were so maladaptive and hurting the people around me. My emotional dissociation made me distant and inattentive to the emotional needs of the people closest to me. My reliance on panic and adrenaline to get myself started on tasks made me unreliable to others who actually treated me like a human being. And as I slowly realized how much my past had shaped my current behavior, I became more and more aware of how different my current life and my old life were.

And that revelation felt like ripping the carpet from under me, only to find a massive whirlpool of chaos where there should have been solid ground.

It was like my eyes suddenly opened to all the trauma and grief and emotional turmoil that I had pretended did not affect me was now rushing out as a stream out into the open. I had opened Pandora's Box and couldn't close it again. My life that I had carefully cultivated quickly fell apart as I was now all too aware of just how much I hadn't actually worked through and processed. I lost my partner of 14 years, and the stable job I held for 4 years. I was a mess as I tried to untangle the mass of cobwebs in my head from decades of pushing things away, the cobwebs that feebly held me together until they no longer could.

And... slowly, I replaced those cobwebs with stronger things. Instead of ignoring my traumas, I faced them. Instead of ignoring my feelings, I let myself feel them. Instead of pretending everything was fine, I let myself fall apart, so that I knew how to better put myself back together again. I replaced the old coping skills and old behaviors that no longer served me with healthier things that allowed me to move forward. I stacked things neatly in my head where I could see them, instead of shoving them away into a corner.

And in time, I learned how to be happy.

It's weird, really. I thought I knew what happiness was. I thought happiness would have been louder and more obvious. I always saw the people cheering on screen and celebrating as what happiness would feel like. But I've found that happiness is gentle and calming, and I realized the "happiness" I had growing up was not truly happiness.

I'm doing better now. It fucking sucked to get here. But... it's worth it.

[dp-marvel94]

Graveyard of Identities- Chapter 8

Summary:

Danny should feel lucky to be alive. After a month held captive by Vlad, barely remembering his life before, and nearly dying in his escape, he is finally safe, with friends in the Far Frozen. And yet, dread gnaws at him- a massive revelation at the edge of his consciousness, forgotten until the dead of night. It was a lie. All a lie. His past, his memories: all false. Amity Park, his friends and family: all real but… not his. The secret locks in his throat, unthinkable. He stays silent while the yetis welcome him as one of their own. But they do not know. And he can not tell them. He is not the Danny they think he is. He is not Danny at all.

Word Count: 6896

Previous Chapter-> Next Chapter

Also on A03

Note: Hello lovely readers. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm really proud of it and excited to share it with you!

The ghost boy jolted awake from mere minutes of sleep. He blinked, soft yellow light, a stand in for the dawning sun, surfacing the room. Not bright enough to normally wake him but…

Outside, horns blared and drums pounded. Voices shouted and cheered.

Danny groaned, the complaint half a cry. He buried his head under the pillow, groggily praying that the noise would stop.

“Great One!” Someone knocked on his door. “It is the equinox!” 

Another voice called. “Join us for morning parade.” 

“And breakfast!” A third excitable yeti.

More begged, warriors whose voices he half-recognized. After about two minutes of trying to ignore them, followed by weak protests…

With a growl, Danny sat up in bed. “Fine! I’m up. I’m up!”

Flashing into ghost form, he stomped across the room and threw the door open with a thud.

The yetis on the other side all beamed at him. He silently stared for about ten seconds. When he’d just about decided to slam the door and go back to bed…

“I told you not to bother the Great One.” Frostbite rounded the corner, reprimanding. 

At the sight of the chief, guilt spiked. He did not want to see or talk to Frostbite anytime soon. He definitely did not want to be cornered in his room. Heart pounding, Danny fled off towards the kitchen. For just a second, he smirked wickedly. The chief would have to choose between chasing him down and chewing out the over enthusiastic warriors. Good luck with that.

The half ghost spent most of the morning doing much of the same, trying to avoid Frostbite. He ate with Sleetsun and a few other roughly teen-age yetis. He picked at his food while the other gushed about the equinox games, that afternoon’s music and dancing. Once the young yetis were just about done eating, Frostbite finally found his eyes across the dining hall. The chief slowly approached.

“If you guys are done,” Danny cut in with forced enthusiasm. “I’d love it if you’d show me how to seal hop.”

“Of course!” Sleetsun beamed. 

The group of youth hurried out, the half ghost pretending he hadn’t noticed Frostbite’s worry.

Once arriving at the practice fields, Danny half-heartedly played the various games. One eye on Frostbite, he pointedly avoided the chief, flittering from one group to another whenever the yeti seemed to notice him. But, as the morning wore on and Frostbite became distracted, pulled away by various responsibilities, that flitting turned into something more like dragging.

“Play with us!” Two of the cubs grabbed his hands, pulling him towards their circle.

Normally, the game would be fun, the familiar rabbit-rabbit-hare. But then one of the little ones tapped his head, fingers ruffling his head. 

“You have horns!” The child squealed. 

“Let me see!” “No way!” 

The game long forgotten, little yetis swarmed him. They oh-ed and awed, poking and prodding at the new features. 

Danny’s eyes widened, heart pounding in sudden fearful reminder. “It’s… it’s nothing.” He stuttered. He’d completely forgotten about last night’s development. 

Other adults arrived, aweing over his horns just as excitedly as the children. Luckily none of them approached to touch. And….

“Give Danny space.” CrystalBreeze arrived, chastising the children. “He does not look like he wants to be touched. Do you?”

Wordlessly, the boy shook his head. The children backed off, listening to their teacher.

But the other adults were not as polite.

“Our honored guest!” One of the warriors bowed to him, beckoning him over. “Join us!”

The half ghost shuffled backward, pointing back towards the caves. “I’m good. I wanna-”

“We insist!” A different warrior pushed him forward and the boy found his protests ignored.

Half-heartedly, Danny tried to play.  His overwhelmed mind swam, barely registering the conversation until…

“You should have seen it, brother!” One warrior – he was pretty sure he was called Icefang – jostled another.

The second eye-rolled. “I am sorry I had guard duty-” 

“The Great One downed the Worm in one blow.” Icefang waved at him enthusiastically. “Tell him about it.”

“I… have to go to the bathroom.” He struggled to walk away calmly and not belay the storm inside him.

Before he’d made it halfway across the field, another yeti tapped on his shoulder, ushering him back. “Is it true you downed the Worm with lightning, just like one of the mighty Thunderbirds?”

“Ummm yes.” Guilt, fear, embarrassment darkened his face. “But it…it wasn’t anything that impressive.” 

He couldn’t make it two steps without being pulled into a different game. Balls, sticks, and ropes for various games were shoved into his hands.

“This looks fun but-” 

Questions bombarded. “How did you defeat Vortex, the ancient of storms?” 

He… he needed to get out of here. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

“Can you tell us about your fight with Undergrowth?” Wide-eyed yetis begged for stories he could only start to guess at. 

“Um. Ice was involved. Maybe. I… I don’t know.” Evasive answers, voice trembling.

“You’ve seen the Master of Time?!” Awed voices asked about people and places he’d never even heard of. “Is Long Now real?”

Dread quivered in his gut. “What’s- I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“We are all in your debt.” A reverent whisper. “We are immensely grateful for you for freeing us from The Mad King.” 

“That’s… that’s great.” His hands held defensively in front him. “But…” Another battle he didn’t remember. 

“Please Great One.” A second yeti pleaded. “Tell us of how you imprisoned him.”

Guilt stabbed. Dread built to trembling fear. A victory he could not claim.

“Please, your Highness.” Yet another begged. “Regal us with the tale of your defeat of the Dark Pariah.”

Overwhelmed, surrounded. Fear crescendoed. He could never claim the triumph, because…

“Tell us of your battle!” An enthusiastic bellow. 

“I…I wasn’t there. That wasn’t me.” The words slipped out, mind screaming for escape.

Instantly, yeti voices quieted. Brows wrinkled in confusion.

And what he had just said finally hit. “I…I don’t…” He stumbled back. “That’s not what I meant… I…” A dozen questioning eyes pinned on him. Was that… realization? Suspicion? Pity? 

Panic ignited. “I…I can’t.” 

Turning invisible, the boy fled.

“Wait!” Questions echoed after. “What do you mean?” 

“-crowd him!” A snatch of Frostbite’s voice caught his ear. “Why?!”

But… but he couldn’t process. He needed to escape. To his room? No, that’s the first place the chief would look. The garden? No. 

His mind raced, barely seeing where he was going. Ice and rock flashed in his vision, confused and startled yeti’s faces. Down a path, around a deserted hallway, passed a crystal ice tree. But… other ghosts at each corner. Unpleasant reminders filled his sight.

Panting and shaking, the ghost boy landed heavily against something hard. It was… it was shadowed here, the sound of the celebration quieted. His back pressed to rock, the sensation surprisingly grounding. He breathed heavily, heart pounding in his throat.

“I’m… I’m okay. I’m…” He looked up and-

Eyes widened, surprised. Then… enraged. “You!” 

In front of him loomed the statue, the icy likeness of the real Danny seeming to stare pointedly. 

The clone boy’s core flared, hot and tingling. “This.. this is your fault.” He hissed, teeth bared. “This is all your fault!” 

His hands raised and power poured from his veins. A flash of deep blue, a boom of thunder. Lightning crackled, striking his target. 

For an excruciatingly satisfying second, the statue creaked, fractures branching from the head down. The clone grinned wickedly. Then-

With a deafening crack, the sculpture shattered.

The boy’s heart plummeted, lowering shaking hands. A stomach churning guilt welled on his tongue. “What… what have I done?”

For long, unknowable minutes, the clone boy stared at the shattered representation of his original’s face. Shame choked, he drew trembling knees to his chest.

Finally, a single set of yeti footsteps approached. The boy flinched, eyes focused down. Surely it was one of the warriors, intent on calling him a fraud or Frostbite, offering pitying looks, or…

A relieved exhale. “There you are.”

The boy looked up, eyes wide with surprise. Periwinkle stood not ten feet from him. Her gaze trailed over him, brow wrinkling in worry. Then her eyes found the shattered statue. For just a moment, her expression flashed surprised. Cheeks darkening with guilt, the clone averted his gaze.

For a long moment, there was silence, the surprisingly quiet sound of the yeti’s woman’s feet shifting, approaching. A shadow loomed over him.

“Little one.” Her voice cut through the trembling of his heart. “What happened to upset you?” 

Breath catching, the boy looked up. He met warm brown eyes, unconcerned for the broken statue but completely fixed on him. His core squeezed, painfully moved. Again, he looked away.

“I saw you avoiding Frostbite this morning.” She said gently. “He told me about your disastrous conversation last night. And we both saw you run off…” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lower herself to kneel. “I thought you might need me.”  

The words cracked something in him, a tear falling loss.

“Please.” The yeti gently pleaded. “Tell me what upset you.”

He… he wanted to tell her. Suddenly he did. He opened his mouth, the words heavy on his tongue. But… nothing come out. He swallowed, thick throat bobbing. He opened and closed his mouth, mind begging him to speak. But nothing would come.

Open and closed. Open and closed. He tried. He tried to talk. He cried, tears spilling. And Periwinkle sat beside him. She opened his arms and he fell into them.

For long minutes, Periwinkle held him as he cried. Like so many times before, the anguish poured out, released in his tears. He’d cried so many times since arriving here, all to so little avail. After each, he still hurt. Everything was still an ugly mess, broken beyond repair. He was still screwed up and torn to pieces.

Finally, the half ghost pulled away. He fixed his eyes down, swallowed, and… found his voice unlocked. “I… I should have died.” The words were almost a surprise. “When I melted. I should have died. I was supposed to die. I…I wish I just had.” The secret wish came out, shamefully whispered. This dark sorrowful depth he hadn’t let himself descend to until now….

But now that it was released, the despair poured out. “I wish I’d just died. I… last night I thought about running away. I wanted to take the Infi-map and go and… and just for a second… I thought about going back to Vlad’s.” Just the thought made him feel sick. “Isn’t that pathetic? Plasmius was… was horrible. But…. at least then, I knew who I was. Or…” A gut wrenching pause. “I thought I knew. And that’s the worst part. I fought so hard to remember.” His eyes closed, fists clenched. A pathetic reflection of the earlier determination. “To figure out who I really was. But… It was all a lie.” His shoulder fell, fists shakily unclenched. “It was all a lie. I’m not… I’m not Danny Phantom. I’m not some brave hero. I’m… I’m not a Fenton.” The words tasted like death. “I’m not someone’s son or brother or friend. I’m…I’m…” 

His voice stumbled and choked. His eyes roamed, despairing fixing at the cracked face. “I’m not even Danny.”

He wasn’t. He had never been.

His eyes welled with tears again, blurring the image of his original. It… it hurt to even look at it. He pinched them closed to block the view.

“And that’s… that’s why I’d be better off dead.” He stumbled. Somehow the thought of death hurt less than acknowledging the truth. “I’m not…” He couldn’t say the name, not again. “I’m… I’m no one. I’m… I’m broken and messed up and….” He whimpered. “Nothing can fix that.”

The half ghost trailed off, out of words. There was… nothing left to say, nothing left to do. Just… tensely, he let his eyes flickered up, assessing Periwinkle’s reaction even as he avoided her gaze. His whole body tightened, core a fearful tremble of static.

Finally, after an excreting pause, the yeti gently reached for his hands. “I know how you feel.” 

The boy blinked, surprise over taking the tension for just a moment. He expected questions, demand for explanation. Not… not that.

“I understand.” Her eyes were round and soft, not a hint of deceit or belittling or misplaced pity. “And I am so, so sorry little one.”

At the words, a familiar defensiveness threatened. “No…. No. You don’t understand.”

“I know it is not the same.” Periwinkle squeezed his hand. “But I do know what it is like to survive something that should have completely destroyed me. When I arrived here… everything I knew was gone. Everything was impossible, strange and I was suddenly, horribly changed. I was something I had not even known existed before them. And I was suddenly overwhelmed with well-meaning strangers. Worst of all, I was mourning my family, my life, all that had been ripped away from me.” She reached up, tenderly cupping one of his cheeks. “I do not know all you’ve suffered. But I know what it was like to dread facing the truth and to wish for an easier escape.”

Despite his anguished core, the boy did not pull away. The certainty in her words, the caring empathy…. He almost wanted to believe her.

Then…. Periwinkle’s expression sharpened, a fierce determination. “And I also know this, oblivion is not better.” Something glistened in her eyes. “Your survival was not a mistake.” Where those…”Your arrival here was not a mistake.” tears? “Your life is precious. You are precious.” She was… she was crying. “Please believe me, child. You are not meant for death.”

Periwinkle was crying, moved to tears over him. And… maybe, just maybe….

The boy’s core trembled, though this time not from fear. “Do you… do you mean it?”

“Yes. Every word.” More tears came and the yeti gently wiped them away. “You are not who you, or any of us thought.” Just a hint of confusion lingered in the statement, questions she wanted to ask behind her eyes but… “Still, you are a blessing.” She kept her peace, eyes only of him and his comfort. “You are loved and cared for, by me and Frostbite and many others. And this will not change, no matter what the past or future holds.” 

So much meaning and determination in the words…. The boy wanted to believe but still, his heart resisted. “But… I lied to you. I… I still haven’t told you everything.”

“And you do not have to until you are ready to speak.” The yeti lowered her hand, gently squeezing his arm. “But I promise, nothing you say will change my mind. Nor will it change reality.” She met his eyes with a fierce intensity. “You are not meant for death. Do not wish for it.”

The strength in that gaze. The love and care…. The despair inside him could not weather it. It shriveled, a tiny speck. In its place, a new fragile hope bloomed. 

The boy’s shoulders fell, tension releasing. “I… I believe you.” A small, distant part of him did. Or wanted to. But at the same time… “You… you know what this is like. The pain, losing everything.” The grief lingered. “Does it ever get better?” 

“Eventually, with time.” Periwinkle nodded, wrapping an arm around him.

The half ghost gave a sad nod, leaning into her side. “How?” With one hand he rubbed his face. “How can this ever… ever get better?”

The yeti gave a thoughtful hum. She paused for a moment, brow furrowed. “My grandfather used to say no pain we suffer is wasted. The fire we endure refines us even as it burns. And after, we rise again.” The corner of her mouth twitched up, a strange hope in her eyes. “Like the phoenix from its ashes.” Her expression became downcast again. “Even so, the scars remain, reminders of the pain in our soul.” And yet, the hope endured, a light in her eyes like nothing he’d ever seen before. “But the Divine has a way of making even our deepest scars beautiful.”

As the yeti trailed off, the boy’s wide-eyed gaze shifted. The broken statue fell into his gaze again and for a long moment, he stared. His brow furrowed, mind turning over the words. Skepticism and awe clashed, muddied by a desire to believe someone he trusted so much. 

Finally, he looked back to Periwinkle. “I’m sorry but… that sounds crazy.”

“Yes, it does.” The yeti nodded seriously. “And I told my grandfather just the same when we first had a conversation very much like this. Pain is just pain. No potential future good justifies our suffering. And it does not.” Gently, she ran fingers through his hair. They paused slightly, finding his horns but Periwinkle did not comment on them. Instead she continued, gently rubbing their base. “I wish things had played out differently for you. I wish you’d never had to face this pain, your questions, your grief.”

The comforting touch sent pleasant buzzes through the boy’s core, even as it still ached.

The yeti continued. “But as impossible as it is, I have seen pain become beauty in my own life. Did I tell you how Laura and I became friends?” 

“No?” He looked up, brow wrinkling. What did this have to do with anything?

“She was reborn here about six decades after I was. And oh, how she struggled. She’d left a family behind as well. She mourned a life cut short. Others tried to comfort her, many of the older Zone born who would help new souls adjust at that time.” She frowned, pain behind her eyes at the just the memory of her friend’s hurt.

The half ghost winced, not even needing to imagine what the other yeti must have felt. “What happened?”

Periwinkle smiled softly. “I thank the Divine everyday that He brought us together. Grandfather suggested I talk to her. It would never have occurred to me on my own. My death was something I never spoke over. But Laura and I talked. We cried together. We wondered about our families in the living world. We became friends. I watched her smile a little more everyday. And I understood what Grandfather meant by no pain being wasted. I could help my friend in a way no Zone-born ghost could.”

The boy frowned as her story finished. “I get what you’re getting at. You’re happy you could help your friend. But…” He sighed. “That doesn’t really help me right now.”

“I suppose it does not.” Periwinkle said softly. “But believe me in this.” The arm wrapped around him squeezed gently in a hug. “Healing will come, little one. I have seen it in my own story and in Laura’s and many others. It requires acknowledging the truth. It takes time and the care and support of those who love you. But it does come. You will heal.”

That sounded impossible right now. The truth of the past, of what and who he really was weighed heavy. His world was shattered, his very identity broken. How could that ever be fixed? But at the same time…

“You will heal.” She emphasized again. “There are so many here who will gladly walk through the fire with you. Frostbite, Snowflake, Crys, Laura. The little ones love you. As do all the warriors, even if they are often oblivious and tone deaf. And as for me?” 

She was right. So many moments flashed in his head. Frostbite holding him as he cried, offering a place in his home. Snowflake helping him into his wheelchair, gentle paws on his arm. CrystalBreeze coming to his rescue when he was overwhelmed. Laura smiling proudly, congratulating him on his skill with the ice drake. The children hugging his legs, shouting wide-eyed questions. Even the warriors, holding him over their heads, celebrating a real victory that he could freely claim. Some many yetis here did care about him.

“If my story allows me to bring you comfort, even for a moment, then I will never regret the pain, not one second of it.” Her voice rang with a familiar conviction. “I will be there with you, every step you will have me.” She met his eyes, face as soft as it was determined.

And somehow, the eye contact was easy now. She did love him. The thought, the idea bloomed as easy and obvious as sitting here, beside someone he loved like a mother. And wasn’t that an incredible realization? 

But he couldn’t dwell on it, not as her eager smile as she answered all of his excited questions flashed in his mind, the look of pride as he helped in the garden. She did love him. Him, the boy she spent getting to know during every excited ramble, every lesson about how to tell when vegetables were ripe, every quiet break under the shade. She loved him, not the “Great One” she once thought he was.

Maybe the realization showed on his face as relief slowly dawned on hers. “Do you hear me, young one?”

And just like that, the dawning euphoria of realization dwindled. “Yes. Things will get better… eventually.” He frowned at the word. “You care about me. I’m… I’m not alone. And that means a lot. Really it does but…” He bit his lip. “That doesn’t change that I’m not…” Still, the name, that was no longer his, would not come. “I’m not the Great One everyone thinks I am. I… still don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

“You are supposed to,” The air quotes were audible. “be yourself. And if you fear the rest of the tribe’s reaction…” The look of fear on his face betrayed the correctness of the statement. She squeezed his arm comfortingly. “Do not. If you do not meet expectations, then those placing those false expectations are at fault, not you. But I do not think anyone here wishes you to be someone you are not. There is… confusion and uncertainty about much. But those who really care will love you as you are.”

That was… that was true of Periwinkle at least. She cared about him as he was.

“Talk to Frostbite.” She continued. “He will want to know how you feel. And he can help with any explanations to the tribe.” Her brow furrowed, thoughtfully confused. “And perhaps explain more of what you mean to me when you feel able?” 

“Oh um… I mean… I guess…” He stuttered, face turning green with embarrassment. He had just sprung all this on her with no background. It was incredible she hadn’t asked him a thousand questions already. “Vlad kinda… it started at his house.” He tried to explain but the words failed him. “And I maybe sorta kinda found out I’m not…. You know. I’m… I wasn’t born like a normal person. I’m…”

“You do not have to explain.” Periwinkle comforted. “I gathered you are different from the Danny Phantom who had visited the Far Frozen in the past. A very different person. You are…. mirror born? I think that is the word.”

“I… don’t know what that means.” The clone frowned.

“Created to be a reflection of another.” She explained. “I honestly do not know much.” The yeti shook her head. “All that matters to me is, you are the boy I have grown to care about very much since you arrived. The rest is trivial.”

Her words felt like a thump to the head. The half ghost’s mouth dropped open. “You really don’t care?”

“I care that this upsets you. And I care that you worry over my tribemate’s reactions. But no, I do not care that you are mirror born. Your past has no bearing on your worth. You surviving what should have killed you and coming here was still not a mistake. You are still precious. And I still care about you, just as much as I did this morning.”

The words felt impossible, and yet, there they were as certain as when she promised to stand by his side. She meant every word. She did not care he was a clone and somehow this, more than anything else, kindled the hope in his heart.

“Wow. That’s… a lot to think about.” His mind swam, so many words and feelings in quick succession. “I… don’t even know what to say.”

Just then, the sound of horns and drums swung through the air. The boy tensed, pulling out of the yeti’s hold. His eyes flickered over the rocks. Eyes and ears searched for the source of the sound… and any over enthusiastic instrumentalists that might invade the private moment.

“The dance must be starting.” Periwinkle said soothingly, having noticed his unease.

The clone frowned. “That was supposed to be after lunch.” His shoulders fell. “I made you miss it. Sorry.”

“Assuring you were alright was more important.” The yeti woman shook her head. “There is no need to be sorry.”

“Still…” The half ghost bit his lip. “You should go. I don’t want to miss all the fun.”

Periwinkle raised one brow pointedly. “You are missing the fun as well.” Then her eyes crinkled with renewed worry. “I assure you, I am perfectly content staying here with you.”

“No. I insist. I’m fine. I…” At his excuses, the yeti’s eyes narrowed seriously. The boy sighed, conceding. “Okay. I’m… I’m not alright but I’m better. And…” His shoulder rose, a flicker of anxiety. “I need to think by myself for a bit, about everything you said, what I’m going to do next.”

“Are you sure?” Periwinkle’s worried expression just deepened. Something like fear lingered behind her eyes. “I was very worried when you ran off during the games…”

“Yes. I’m sure. I…” He understood that look, the unspoken plea. “I promise I won’t run off again. I’ll come find you later.” He poured all the conviction he could muster into the words. “I won’t disappear. I… I just need a little time to think.”

For a long moment, Periwinkle studied him, seeming to measure his words. Finally, she nodded, exhaling a sigh. “Very well then.” She drew the boy to her chest again, offering one more hug. “Remember what I said. You are not meant for death. Your life is a precious gift.” She pulled back looking him in the face. “I love you very much, my child.”

“I…I love you too.” His eyes couldn’t help but water at the words. Still, a small smile dawned, even as he wiped his eyes.

With another comforting smile, Periwinkle stood. She walked away, giving one last lovingly worried look back. Then the walls of rock surrounding him blocked her view.

Once the clone boy was alone, he let out a shaky sigh. His mind swam, his heart pounded, both a cacophonous mix of emotions. The anger which had spurred him to destroy the statue lingered, even as a tiny near-extinguished spark. Grief, worry, fear, guilt. All were a present weight. But Periwinkle’s words…

Part of him wanted to hope. He wanted to believe what she had said. She loved him, she said. And… somehow impossibility, that was the truth. She believed his survival was not a mistake, that his life had worth and value. And a small part of him believed. He’d never wanted to die, not really. He’d wanted to avoid… everything. Maybe he had not been meant to die. He was better off here, still living but…

That did not mean that he wasn’t broken. His life was still a mess, his heart still whispering that nothing could make it better. 

And Periwinkle wanted him to talk to Frostbite and tell him the truth. Not just the chief, but the entire village. Tell everyone that he was a clone… 

The thought sent a spike of fear through him. Despite her words of acceptance, her faith in Frostbite, doubts still stung. The warriors still praised the Great One, as did many others. Imagined blame, accusations rang in his head, rejection because of his lies. Was that how the rest of the tribe would react? Would they reject him?

He was being irrational, the clone boy tried to tell himself. Did he really care about what the warriors thought? They didn’t have the power to kick him out, not if Frostbite was on his side. And the chief most certainly would be. Periwinkle was right anyway. Any of the tribe’s people disappointment in him, pressuring him to be someone he was not… their reaction was on them, not him. It was not his responsibility.

And yet, his heart trembled, fearfully rejecting the idea. He couldn’t tell Frostbite. He couldn’t tell the truth because… 

If he did, he could never be Danny again.

At the thought, tension released like a rubber band. He slumped forward, head again collapsed against his knees.

He was a liar, even to himself. The tribe’s, the warriors' reactions were never the real obstacle. It was just a ruse, a cover for the real problem eating him alive. The thing holding him back? If he told Frostbite the truth… he could never be Danny again. 

Everything had been stripped away from him, one thing at a time. His memories were out of reach at Vlad’s, his friends and family in some far away, unknown home. But the lost memories and his loved ones had been real, a goal for him to work towards. 

But his half-remembered past was false. He had no friends, no family. Amity Park never was his home. He had never been the Fentons’ son. He had never been Amity Park’s hero. He had no ice powers, no interest in space. No memory of the Far Frozen. He didn’t even remember defeating the Ghost King, the deed that won the yetis’ praise and allegiance. All of that was never him at all. 

He was not Phantom or Fenton. And though he was no longer either, though he had never really been either… 

At least, he could still be Danny. He’d clung to the name, the one surviving link to his false past. The last anchor to his ravaged identity. He was still Danny. He had to be.

Now, if he told the truth, if even that name was stripped from him…. Who would he be? Who was he if he wasn’t Danny?

But he was not Danny, was he? He had never been. The name, that identity was false. Clinging to it… was just a bandage over a bullet hole. He was at the edge of a cliff, and it was one last thread dangling him over the precipice.

Periwinkle said healing took time and people who loved him. He had loved ones, new friends here. He had time, as long as he needed in the Far Frozen. But… it also required acknowledging the truth.

This one last step. One final barrier. One last dirty rag over the gaping wound. 

His heart pounded, dread and fear. He did not want to die. Really, he never had. Oblivion sounded momentarily sweet, an escape from the pain and suffering, but he feared it too much to give in. But this, cutting the string and taking the plunge…. This was its own kind of death.

So consumed in his own thoughts, the boy nearly missed the whistling of birds wings. Startled, he looked up. 

The ice phoenix. She perched on the shattered remains of the statue. Beady black eyes stared at him with an eerie intensity, the look sending a spike of anxiety though him. What was…

Then she cooed, blinking slowly. The clone boy blinked, again taken by surprise. His head tilted in question. 

The bird jumped a few steps, from shattered piece to shattered piece. She looked back, intently focused on him. Each coo seemed beckon.

The half ghost did not know why. His trembling heart slowed. A strange calm overcame. He rose to his feet and followed.

The phoenix looked almost pleased at his compliance. She hopped onward, flapping her wings in small bursts. 

The ghost boy pursued, eyes only for the phoenix and the path she traced. They left the shrine of carvings and the broken statue behind. The phoenix took wing, flying over the bare icy ground in a… familiar direction.

Another stand of towering rocks. The clone followed, rounding the pillar. For just a moment, his brow furrowed. His eyes drifted to the ground, to the stab of stone Frostbite had shown him just the night before.

Then, the whistle of wings drew him away. The bird folded her wings, landing in a crevice between two rocks, not five feet from the would-be memorial. 

“What’s this?” The boy muttered, eyes widening. 

Tufts of grass and flowers stuffed in the space. Earthy brow stick and rusty orange pine needles intertwined forming a rough circular shape. It was… his breath caught in realization. Earlier in the garden, he’d seen the bird gather pine needles and grass, watching her fly over the wall. He had not understood then, but…

“This is your nest.” His face softened, voice quiet. Tiny eggs and fluffy baby birds flashed in his mind. The corner of his lip turned up. “You wanted me to see?” There were no eggs or chicks yet. But soon, there would be and-

The phoenix chitted, wings spread. She ignited.

Cold flickered and swelled. His breath puffed, visible in front of him. His eyes widened, amazement growing. The flames rippled, a living coat over the bird's feathers. Blue radiance shone on his face, his nose tingling from the cold. It was beautiful-

The light flared, blinding. The cold exploded out, a frigid shockwave that blew him back. The boy fell backwards, landing on his back. His heart raced, suddenly out of breath. He pushed himself up, eyes popping wide. 

His gaze fixed, stared despite the light. It burned so bright. The bird’s body blurred, almost imperceptible. She was still burning. A surge of panic, face paling. She was burning up.

Shaking hands reached forward, as if he could reach into the fire and save the bird. The flames raged, so cold they should have burned but…

The icy fire danced through his fingers, a soft caress. It did not burn.

Wonder swelled, breathlessly overwhelming the fear. The phoenix was indistinguishable now, just a ball of fire. The light flared, filling the boy’s vision. He pinched his eyes closed and…

Something smooth and round fell into his hands. Brow furrowed, he blinked spots from his vision. The object in his hand took shape. It was… an egg.

A tiny white egg, easily fitting into his palm. His mind spun, not comprehending. It was an egg. How…

Understanding bloomed. The hand cradling the egg brought to his chest, his eyes filled with wonder. The phoenix. The phoenix. She had burst into flame, right in front of him. And… here she was in his hand, reborn as an egg. 

The tiny orb seemed to pulse, the chill of ghostly energy. The glow flickered, the outline of a body visible through the shell. A large head, unformed wings, featherless body. She was tiny, almost ugly in her un-developedness. But… she would grow and form. She would strengthen, ready to be born again.

He stared, breathless and eyes incredibly wide. His heart swirled with awe. It was amazing enough seeing this, a phoenix reborn. But…

The phoenix had drawn him here, led him to her nest. She… wanted him to be here. He was supposed to be here.

Pieces fell into place, incredible, unfathomable. Somehow, someway, impossibly, he was supposed to be here. 

Periwinkle’s words burned in his mind. 'The fire we endure refines us even as it burns. After, we rise again. Like a phoenix from its ashes.' He tasted them. He breathed them.

It was… impossible. The yeti could not have known this. She couldn’t have planned it. This could not happen. But it did. It had.

Carefully, gently, the boy lowered his hands, gently placing the egg into her nest. He trembled, not from fear but… reverent awe.

Awestruck. There were no other words, no other thoughts. Just… amazement, a reverence he did not understand. The moment felt sacred. 

The wind picked up, a breeze ruffling his hair, an unseen embrace. On his arms, his hair raised, a full body chill. Like an unheard song, more beautiful than he could imagine. His heart tingled, impossibly light and full.

He… he felt seen. He felt known. The eyes, the fingerprints of something above, beyond his understanding. The knowing, attentive gaze of something far away but… as close as the air he breathed.

Maybe…. this was the Divine Periwinkle talked about.

The Divine…thoughts of any supreme being were too much for him now, just the awe of the moment overwhelming. It would be enough to bring him to his knees if he was not already kneeling. What he could grasp…

He stared at his shaking, brand new hands. Made twice, first in Vlad’s lab and then remade in the nebula. He’d… he’d already been through the fire and raised again, like the phoenix. 

He had died. He should have died, but he survived. The thought rang with an almost euphoric victory now, not defeat. He had lived, and he continued to live, despite the despair threatening to drown.

He’d found new friends and family. He’d started to discover what food and games he liked, how he enjoyed spending his day, what passions stirred his heart. He’d…. started to grow, grow into his own person. The thought was as thrilling as it was terrifying. As terrifying as the realization that… 

He was tired of being ‘Danny.’ The name no longer fit, constricting like too tight shoes he’d outgrown. It hurt as much as it scared, as much as it excited him. He’d grown past that name, passed that identity, into… someone he did not know yet.

A strange tranquility, a trembling conviction filled him. He was still scared, terrified. He needed to shed the name that was never his. To cut that last tie to the old life, the old lie. To die that last death. All so that he could raise again.

He would raise again, into the person he was growing to be.

With a new determination, the clone boy rose to his feet and higher. He followed the sound of the music and singing, shoulders back and chin up.

He flew to the practice grounds, back to the party. Lingering for just a moment, he paused, watching the dance. Yetis of all ages stomped and kicked, elbows swinging. The very ground shook with their joy, their merriment.

The music slowed, the song ending. Then, Frostbite spotted him.

“Danny!” The yeti chief immediately dropped his instrument, relief overwhelming his face as he ran to the boy. “You’ve returned.”

Despite his determination, the name in Frostbite’s mouth stung. This would be the last time he was called Danny. 

“Yeah.” The clone boy sighed, the exhale the smallest bit shaky. “I’m back. Frostbite, I…” He floated forward, shoulders back and steeling himself. It was the breath before the plunge, the first spark of a consuming flame. “Frostbite… I need to tell you something important.”

Notes:

And that's the chapter! Feel free to yell at me in the comments. I really can't understate how proud I am of this chapter, especially the part with the phoenix. Part of that was inspired by Someone by Disciple . I really wanted to convey the feeling that that song gives me. Also, sorry this chapter was more than a week late. As proud as I am of it right after writing, the enemy was trying very hard this week to convince me that it was horrible, everyone was going to hate it, and I had nothing valuable to say. Which probably means that someone really needs to read this chapter. And if that is you, please hear me. Your life has meaning and value. You are loved and so much more precious than you know. That fact that you woke up today is not an accident. You survived, you're still here for a reason. Keep fighting.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Dominant! Ghost Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Heavy BDSM, Edging, Overstimulation, Aftercare, Ownership Kink, Marking, Biting, Petnames, Consensual Dub-Con, Consensual Abuse of Physical Strength, Knife Play, Mentions of Blood, Spit Kink, Cum Play, Rough Sex, Dominant Ghost, Submissive Reader, Profanity, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’, etc.

You’re his. Simple as.

And he makes sure to remind you - and anyone who crosses your path - on a near-daily basis.

Whenever he sees fit, he’ll just corner you and pin you down, telling you to “Calm down, Pipsqueak – you’re makin’ me hard,” – his way of warning you that whatever he has planned for you will only worsen the more you struggle.

And his bulge against your back is a very visceral promise of that.

Loves forcing your hands beside or above your head; it reminds you both of how much stronger than you he is – how weak and dependent you are compared to him.

How he owns you.

Bites your throat and shoulders, sucking marks, crafting you a necklace of bruises fashioned by him – his own branded jewels of love.

He’ll make sure they’re visible, too.

He needs to ward off other people from you by leaving his mark, his signature.

If he thinks you’re being bratty or uncooperative, he’ll go to any lengths to break you down until you submit to him entirely.

“You’re not making this any easier for yourself, Love,” he says. “Just tell me why you’re being so infuriating and I won’t bleed you this time.”

Massively into knife play.

Loves hearing you squeak and moan whenever he holds a knife to your throat or drags the blunted edge up your thighs, pressing it to your throbbing, aching core and cutting your underwear open, ravaging you.

He’s so rough when he’s in this kind of mood.

Will pound you until you bleed. Or give out and admit your feelings to him. Either will suffice; Ghost is a patient man.

And his stamina and endurance are no joke.

He will outlast you in every faculty.

That’s the territory that comes with being a trained murderer.

And he will remind you of that constantly.

“How does it feel–” he rasps, pants, as he pounds you from behind, the bed jutting with each thrust, “–to know you’re being fucked by a killer,”

The question is always rhetorical. He just revels in the feeling of you clenching around him when he recalls just how easily he could end you right here, right now.

But he doesn’t. And he never would.

He loves you far, far too much.

But that doesn’t stop him from being straight-up disrespectful.

Orders you to open your mouth, only for him to spit into it whenever he knows or suspects you’re being untruthful.

Also loves covering you in his cum.

His favourite thing is to cum inside you and watch it ooze from whichever holes he’s chosen to abuse that day, but something about covering you in it makes him feral.

Edges you constantly.

Uses your release as a bartering chip.

“Tell me why you’re being such a brat and I’ll let you cum.”

It’s a trap. Your honesty is punished, too.

Once he tears a satisfactory answer from you, he’ll let you - make you - cum.

And as your orgasm is still rolling through you, he’ll keep going. And going. And going.

At first you could assume it’s his bid to fulfil his own needs, but even after he finishes inside you and he simply doesn’t relent, realisation dawns on you.

Your insides are aching, pleading for a moment’s respite. But Ghost doesn’t stop, battering your hole and keeping it stretched over his bulging cock.

There comes a point where you’re banging your fists against his chest, begging him to stop because you’re so sensitive and it hurts, but he ignores you.

“If I were to let up that easily, I wouldn’t get to have any fun. Quite unfair after I let you cum, isn’t it?”

Looks into your eyes as he does it, too.

Will tie you up if he finds your cries and flails to be too bothersome.

Binds you to the bedposts so there’s nothing you can do but watch and feel as he slams into you at such a harsh, killing rhythm that has you thinking whatever’s leaking out of you right now is blood.

Very much into BDSM.

Will use his strength to bend you into whatever shape your body will allow and bind your limbs together, making it entirely impossible for you to break free as he has his way with you.

“You’re mine,” he’d say, grinding the shape of his cock into your walls; and all the while you’re moaning, crying, tears streaming down your face as euphoria tightens in your centre. “Nobody else can have you - please you - the way I can.”

Big fan of punishment, btw.

There are times where he puts you in a cage and just cums on you, making you stay there until his semen is crusting on your skin, makeshift scales on the creature Simon has reduced you to.

Also gets a kick out of spanking you, either with a belt or his hand.

When he’s feeling particularly cruel, he makes you count them until you reach the limit he has set for you.

And Heaven forbid you lose count, or you both start all over again.

Ghost likes to make sure that every time you try to sit down, you remember him – what he did to you.

When all is said and done, however, when you’re used and stuffed and Ghost is milked dry, he is the king of aftercare.

Will make sure all your needs are seen to, regardless of how oddly specific they are.

Simon will not let you move a muscle, even if you insist you can “go another round,” he’ll push you back down onto the bed.

“Oh no, you’re staying put, Sweetheart.” he says, looking down at you with all the fondness of one who has discovered love for the first time. “I’m scared you’ll break if we go again.”

He’s joking, ofc.

Secretly loves to snuggle. All the time.

And he holds you as you’re drifting off to sleep, keeping you flush against his chest, wondering how he got so lucky to have met you.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[makethatelevenrings]

“I trust you, it’s ok” is soooo Assassin verse 👁️👁️

Sooo true bestie hope u enjoy this :)

He stood in the doorway and watched as you carefully stepped into the room. The walls were littered with posters and pictures of bands to circus performances to photos of the numerous people that came and went from this place. The covers on the bed were rumpled, the bed unmade, and your fingers ghosted over the rich blue plaid detailing on the comforter. Medals and trophies filled a shelf next to books that had pages sticking out, scrawled handwriting detailing calculus equations and English essays.

You swallowed past the sudden dryness in your throat as you took in this perfectly domestic life. A heavy breath escaped you and you pushed aside the sudden clawing ache of loneliness that bubbled up in your chest. Was this the life you could have had?

“Why are you showing me this?” You settled on asking. “You don’t…I tried to kill you. Repeatedly. This is your life. This is personal.”

Your voice was bordering on hysterical by the end of your words. After being shot a week ago, your life had descended into chaos. Bruce Wayne, Batman, was Dick’s father. Dick, who was Nightwing, your target for the past few months. He had known about your hit on him, but he also had intel that the organization that trained you would continue if he didn’t stop them. He figured he could get information from you, but you suspected that he hadn’t factored in taking you in full time.

And now you stood in his childhood bedroom in this massive manor where a kind butler insisted on helping you do everything and Bruce Wayne drank his coffee black with one sugar in the morning and Dick Grayson kept assuring you that you were safe.

But how could you be safe? Everything you knew, everything you had been told, and everything you had done in life was being slowly chipped away to reveal the horrific truth. You were a victim of kidnapping, trafficking, and unspeakable crimes. You were a child soldier turned assassin. The ground under your feet shook with every revelation, every new strand that was revealed in this tangled spider’s web of hell.

“I trust you,” Dick said simply as if he were just talking about the weather and not an emotionally charged statement that made your chest tighten. “It’s okay.”

You wanted to protest and tell him that he shouldn’t. You weren’t someone to be trusted. You were someone that followed orders and that was it. You had tried to kill him for fuck’s sake.

He must have seen the distress on your face because he called your name softly because you had a name, not just that stupid fucking number. Bruce had correlated your identity with missing persons reports and matched your DNA with the case. Your family was gone. There was no one out there looking for you any longer. But there was this one man standing before you, saying your name and giving you a chance to reclaim your agency.

He spoke your name with a softness that you didn’t deserve and it made the wound under your bandages burn with the lingering reminder of who you were. Were. Past tense. You didn’t have to be that person anymore if you didn’t want to be. Dick had told you that. Alfred had told you that. Even Dinah, a therapist who apparently specialized with people like you, told you that.

Looking around the childhood room of a man that trusted you, you began to realize that maybe they were right.

Dick grinned when he saw the fiery spark return to your eyes. He tilted his head and motioned towards the hall.

“C’mon, there’s someone I want you to meet. I think you might find a lot in common with him. I warn you though, he really likes making zombie jokes. Ignore those.”