#the ghost of the deceased au

[liana-puppeteer]

The lunar ghost.

This idea has been in my head for a long time, but I could finish it only now. But the Lunar is already alive so it will be my Au

[multifandomlandfill]

WAIT HOLD ON: Death Note Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) AU.

L dies and is a ghost (as many fics do), but Light isn't the one who killed him. Light is of course, PISSED that it wasn't his plan that felled his arch-nemesis and L is all like, "you have to find my killer, Light," so with the kira case going nowhere he sets out to solve L's murder. And thus, you have Light working as a detective "alone" with L's ghost secretly helping. Steal the ghost lore from Randall & Hopkirk and Light is the only one who can see or hear him because L chose him. The exception of course is other ghosts and some psychics, so I'd let the shinigami and people with shinigami eyes be able to see him. L goes outside in sunlight, so he's stuck there for 100 years and doesn't move on once they've found his killer (and Light kills him). They solve crimes together. Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) AU.

[skeleton-in-a-hoodie]

DDMG Casey is April's camera man. Not at first, because these two don't really become friends until both of them have meet the Turtles, and I'm not 100% sure how Casey became her camerman.

He continues doing it after Donnie joins her show, and even though he's not on screen, the audience can hear Casey commenting on stuff and talking to Donnie and April.

Eventually, they do a special episode where Casey is on camera for the first time. Raph is the temporary camera man there, and part way through they switch back so Raph can show off his ability to attract pigeons. Like there's a full three minutes in that episode midway through where Raph makes bird noises and gets a pigeon to land on his hand and accept pets. This is not commented on at all, and they switch back without explaining anything.

Mikey and Leo sometimes appear on the show. Leo mostly turns up to chat with the ghosts, like make sure they're okay with the filming and sometimes gives them stuff they commissioned Splinter to make. Mikey makes art for April's channel, like thumbnails and little animations for the video essays she does.

Splinter is in exactly one video as a voice off screen. Think he was either there because it was another special episode and the kids wanted everyone on screen for the first time, kinda like a meet the team video, and he offered to hold the camera; or he had to go to that location anyway for head ghost business. There are comments asking who he is and some others that make him flustered when April shows him.

Kirby appears in the videos once a blue moon. He grew up in NYC, so usually if he's in a video, it's because the location is somewhere he remembers from when he was a teenager, and he gives some stories he knows about the place. Some of those stories are relevant to the video, like stuff he's heard about the history, whereas others are just short anecdotes about the stupid stuff he and his friends did there as kids that won't mess with his career. Like he'll talk about that time his friend did a backflip and knocked himself out by landing badly, but Kirby doesn't talk about the places he snuck into to smoke weed as a 16 year old, because he's a university professor and doesn't want his boss to know that.

[bet-on-me-13]

Captive AU

So, the GIW has been around for a while.

Ghosts have been a problem for centuries, the US Government wouldn't have waited until the 21st Century to figure out a way to deal with them, so the GIW has been around for years. And the general Public knows about them, it's a common household name like the FBI or the CIA. They are simply seen as another government organization doing its job, no need to care about the Ghosts they capture, they're Non-Sentient anyways.

Over the years of their existence, they have acquired their own little prison full of Ghosts. And among that collection of Ghosts, 4 stand out.

Because they are somehow Ghost-Human Hybrids.

The first was captured a while before the others. A College Student studying Ectology had been admitted to the Hospital after a Lab Accident, where he had been diagnosed with an, as of yet, unknown and incurable Disease. He had Green Boils popping up all over his Face, and he was in excruciating Pain.

The GIW had sent a team to investigate, and they had found that the College Student was slowly transforming into some type of abomination. He was still partially human, but he was also partially a Ghost. They had him declared Dead and shipped him off to a Blacksite Facility to be experimented on.

...

The Second One came about 10 years later. Coincidentally, it was very similar circumstances. The very same pair of scientists who had been acquainted with their previous subject had just admitted their 5 Yr old son into a local Hospital. He had been in a Lab Accident that had stopped his Heart for a few minutes, and out of curiosity the GIW had sent a Team to investigate.

And what did they find, but a perfect recreation of their favorite Test Subject.

They declared the Child Dead, and sent him off to the same Facility they kept the other one in.

...

The 3rd of the Hybrids was actually created in a GIW Lab, 3 Years Later. In an experiment to see if the Hybrids condition could be recreated, a GIW Scientist had taken the DNA of the 2 existing Hybrids and had cloned them.

Of the Test Batch of 15, only 1 Subject survived. It was deemed only a Partial Success, because while they did manage to create a New Hybrid, it was Unstable and prone to melting if overexerted.

They placed it in the same Containment Unit as the other 2, and left it at that. No more Cloning Experiments had been conducted afterwards since the project was deemed an overall Failure.

...

The 4th and Final Hybrid was found in Gotham City of all places, 2 years later.

A GIW Operative had been visiting Family when their Van's Ecto-Detector had gone off. Soon after that they found the Subject in an Alleyway, seemingly disoriented from its recent awakening.

DNA testing had revealed the Hybrid to be deceased Jason Peter Todd, the adopted Son of Bruce Wayne who had been killed 6 Months Prior while studying in Ethiopia. By the Scientists Best Guess, an Anomoly in Space-Time had caused a Natural Portal to open right on top of the Teenagers Corpse, fusing his Deceased Body and nearly formed Ghost into One.

They shipped the Teen off to the Blacksite, and placed him in the same Containment Unit as the others.

...

So now the GIW have 4 Hybrids, all created from different circumstances, all different ages.

One was formed from the Slow Death of a College Age Student, after a Lab Accident had flooded his system with Pure Ectoplasm.

One was form from the Instant Death of a 5 yr old Boy, after a Lab Accident had flooded his Body with a dimensions worth of Ectoplasm.

One was created in a GIW Lab in a Cloning Experiment. She was created to be 3 Yrs Old upon Birth, and was Unstable as a Result.

One was created from the Fusion of a Long Dead Teenage Corpse and a nearly formed Ghost, in a random Space Time Event that forced both together.

...

All the Halfas are basically a Family together. Vlad is the oldest, at around 35, and takes the Paternal Role.

Danny and Ellie are the Kids, and are 10 and 5 respectively.

Jason is the Oldest Child, and takes his Older Brother role very seriously. He is 15 when he is brought in.

They all take care of eachother, through all the experiments and tests the GIW force them through.

One of the most common experiments is to have them battle the other Ghosts in Captivity. Although that is just a thinly veiled dog fighting ring that the GIW scientists like to Bet on. Sometimes they are put up against eachother, but they refuse to fight until they are electrocuted into submission.

They were also forced to Push all of their Powers to their Limits every day, just so the Scientist can see how they are growing. This had drained them, since they only got the absolute minimum amount of Ecto to survive off of, and they were forced to use it all up every day.

This goes on for 3 more years.

...

Until the day when the GIW messed up.

During one of their Constant Dog Fights, they had made the mistake of putting two Electricity Core Ghosts against eachother. The resulting battle had created an Electromagnetic Wave that fried all systems in the entire Facility.

It was a Disaster. Dozens of Scientists were killed when the Door Locks failed to contain the captive Ghosts, and even more were injured when a few of the Ghosts managed to break into the Armory on Base.

It was only hours after the whole ordeal was Finally quelled that they realized that their most Valuable Test Subjects were missing.

Vlad, Danny, Jason, and Ellie had taken the chance to run away during the commotion. Vlad had unfortunately been injured during the escape, and Ellie had been forced to use her powers causing her to destabilize a little, but all in all they had managed to escape on one piece.

But now they were fugitives on the run from the Government, with an injured adult and a sick child.

Jason had an Idea though. While he didn't have very clear memories of his life, a side effect of his late resurrection, he did remember that he used to live in Gotham. And they all remember researchers grumbling about how their scanners always malfunction when they passed nearby Gotham.

So, Jason led his little Family to the most Familiar place in the city he could think of.

Crime Alley.

[matrixbearer2024]

Cruel

[Mr Bill Pines AU: Bill Cipher-Pines x Clifford(Stanford Reincarnation)]

Bill misses his husband and he can’t decide at the moment if this was Karma or just another mistake he’d walked into. Fate could be very kind, but it could also be a very cruel thing.

Inspired by a comic from @honeqq and I decided why not write something related to it! I need to write more stuff for them PLEASE-

Bill had to steel himself once more at the familiar chime summoning him again. He already knew who it was and had a few theories about the reason behind it. The real problem was that he didn’t know if he could take it anymore; each moment felt like a deep cut, with wounds left to fester as his heart battled his mind, tearing apart any semblance of sanity.

He had to mentally prepare himself for every encounter with the lookalike of his deceased husband, the imitation of a man to whom he had once given everything. Just being there was painful—the same voice, the same face, the similar mutation…

But he wasn’t the same man.

Taking a deep breath, Bill stepped in front of the impatient artist, who regarded him with mild annoyance. The artist was blissfully unaware of the constant struggle the god faced just to maintain a decent appearance. For some reason, Bill didn’t dare to explain this to him; it made it easier… sort of.

“Oh, finally. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

Bill mused that someone must be pulling a sadistic prank, repeatedly putting him in this situation where every waking moment threatened to unleash the flood of emotions and grief once more. This man wasn’t the genius he had once loved. This guy wasn’t Sixer, no matter how similar they looked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d call you ‘lucky’ number seven, but you’ve just been annoying. Of all the cosmic beings to seek guidance from, you’d think you’d pick one that hasn’t faded into obscurity.”

“You were the muse for this journal’s author, so I thought you’d be able to help me in some way, somehow. I think.”

At the mention of the journal, Bill wanted to shrivel up and die. It was the only one he hadn’t had a hand in writing. The others he had co-authored with his husband, but this one… this one had eluded him for so long, only to be found by… this guy.

He wanted to bash his skull in and scream.

Stanford was gone; that pill had been hard enough to swallow a thousand years ago. Fate just had to rub salt into that open wound. This whole situation was cruel.

“What’s the problem this time?”

“I can’t decide what I want to paint.”

The empty canvas the other man gestured to seemed to beckon him, the stark white void drawing him in and holding him in a vice grip. The triangle stared blankly at the vacant space; an idea flickered to life in his mind, but he hesitated to indulge it. What if he did? It would only unleash another wave of grief, a haunting reminder of what once was and what he had lost to the relentless claws of time and the cold hands of death.

Bill already knew this was going to be idiotic. He felt it in his bones—he was about to make yet another stupidly ridiculous choice. Yet, before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. Regret settled in immediately after he spoke.

“How about this? What if you painted someone for me? A portrait.”

The reincarnation regarded him with curiosity and interest, and Bill felt an overwhelming urge to gouge out his lone eye at the sight. Don’t look at him like that. Don’t give him the same expression that once held so much love and adoration, the kind that had nearly drowned him. Don’t remind him of those memories. Don’t drive the knife in deeper.

“Sure, I don’t see why not.”

That was the amusement that haunted him: the ghost of a man he had once loved to his own detriment. Someone whose smile caused the edges of his eyes to crinkle with unbridled joy, someone whose gaze never wavered in love and adoration. It was a ticking time bomb to have chosen and loved a mortal; inevitable goodbyes lurked around every corner of his finite life. There was no telling how much time they had left together, yet Bill still felt like Stanford was taken from him far too soon.

What he would have given for just a little more time—one last kiss, one final “I love you.”

He was a god, yet he would have surrendered absolutely everything for just another moment with the man he once called a husband. His equal. His muse.

Bill had to turn away from the other man, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. He quickly blinked them back; after a thousand years, the grief was still overwhelming. It felt like just yesterday he had been in the arms of his lover, and now that love and comfort were nowhere to be found. The ache in his heart throbbed and pounded, emotions turning him soft. What a useless god he’d become. What was once a pleasant feeling had morphed into crippling sorrow.

“If you don’t mind me asking, though… who is it that you want me to paint?”

That was a loaded question, burdened by the lament and grief of a thousand years—a love lost to the hands of time and the embrace of death. The one plane of existence where Bill couldn’t follow. Not as he was. Not when he didn’t have the ability to die. The sickness of an immortal, truly.

“Someone important to me. My muse.”

“You have a muse? Wow. They must be someone incredible.”

Bill could only let out an empty laugh. Stanford was incredible—more than he could ever dare to articulate. Words simply wouldn’t do the man justice; to have a god fall to his knees out of love was an immeasurable feat. The triangle always believed his lover was a force to be reckoned with, a powerhouse and then some. Yet, the relentless sands of time eventually wore him down. Even Stanford's brilliant mind, which had endured so much, couldn’t escape the inevitable; the grim reaper came to collect his dues.

No mortal was spared from that fate.

“Yeah. He was .”

The pain that bled through the triangle’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by the artist, despite his attempts to conceal it. However, the artist chose not to mention it, believing it was best not to pry. After all, it wasn’t his place to interfere; why would he?

Bill cleared his throat and floated up to get a better look at the empty canvas. Every instruction was clear and concise, every requested stroke of the brush executed with intention and purpose. The triangle’s close guidance and precise descriptions of each detail left no room for error; there were simply no mistakes.

As the painting began to take shape, colors and pigments blended seamlessly, crafting an image clearer than crystal. Gradually, the likeness of a man emerged—one with silver hair and a gentle gaze, complemented by a smile that reached his eyes, eyes that radiated immense love and adoration. It was evident that the painting captured an intensely intimate moment; such an expression was not meant for just anyone. Only someone so deeply loved and cherished could inspire a face like that. Only someone who felt eternally young could carry the weight of age with the wonder and joy of a child. The painting became a living juxtaposition.

The artist dropped his paintbrush in surprise; the painting looked so… alive. Under Bill’s guidance, this project had transformed into one of his best works. He couldn't help but wonder if its resemblance to a self-portrait was purely coincidental—an unnerving mirror he had created hour after hour, stroke after stroke, with immense specificity from the triangle beside him. However, the longing gaze from Bill toward the smiling subject made things clear. That action alone spoke more truth than any words they had ever exchanged. Yet, despite the painstaking effort poured into this piece, his eyes were inevitably drawn back to the final product.

It felt… familiar somehow, as if he knew this man, perhaps having met him somewhere before, despite the artist's certainty that he never had.

What was this sense of déjà vu?

The painting was beautifully crafted, distinctly unreplicable, particularly within the eyes of this man, which overflowed with mirth and fondness that clearly belonged to a lover. The expression he wore embodied the true essence of being loved, the purest depiction of happiness.

How had Bill even known about this? Not to mention in such explicit detail…

“Bill—”

“You have your painting, I need some time to think.”

The triangle’s voice trembled with overwhelming emotion, cracking under the weight of his grief. He couldn’t bear to look at the painting any longer. He turned away, unable to face either the finished work or the living, breathing human who looked so painfully similar to the man immortalised in the portrait. Every glance at the painting drove the knife in his chest deeper.

He had been right—this was a stupid idea.

“Just summon me again when you need me,” 

Bill muttered, his voice barely holding together. And with that, the god vanished before the artist could even respond.

Back in his original resting place, hot tears spilled from his lone eye as the grief he’d kept buried for so long finally poured out. The triangle broke down into uncontrollable sobs, curling up against a nearby wall, shivering as anguish consumed him. An agonised scream tore from his chest, shaking the very room. It was a miracle he had managed to stay composed for as long as he had.

Maybe he had wanted to see Stanford again—wanted to remember a happier time, to recall a memory frozen in place. The face of his husband, the man he had loved so deeply. But that love was now buried beneath a thousand years of pain and loss, an ache that had festered beyond measure.

Bill Cipher couldn’t move. He stayed there, weeping through the day, letting the weight of eternity crush him.

If he was truly fated to cross paths with that reincarnation, there was only one truth left.

Fate was just so cruel.

Fic is here as well on Ao3!

[cherie-doll]

☽COD Characters + Mythical/Monster/Weirdos AU☾

𓆣 Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

No one's ever dared to venture further past the crossroads. Anyone who goes beyond the rusted metal fence that marks the passage the lumberman takes never comes back. You don't got much of a choice but to take the hike when your car breaks down in the middle of the woods. Surely, the feeling of prying eyes watching as you tremble and make your way past the fence and through the lonely road is only your paranoia. Oh, what a convenience! The lumberman who introduced himself as John invited you into his cabin. You'll ignore the dark stains of old blood on his porch steps for the sake of your body in need of warmth.

He who remained silent and shrouded in the dark. Who only saw the dazzling lights dimming as the calling of the audience faded out into the background. And you, standing in the center of an empty stage, staring into the dark. A shudder overcoming you and you feeling as if someone was watching you. Glancing towards the highest box, you knew he had watched your performance. You knew him as Ghost, he never let on more than this cognomen. He was the shadow that was always looking over your shoulder. The faint silhouette in the background of harsh and vivid stage lights. Here was his hand, resting upon your skin. The hand that would not harm you. The graze of an igniting fire burned under his skin, here his suffering had originated; from attachment, from desire. This craving he dared not to fulfill. He vowed to himself to feel it as deeply and express it as he pleased. Unfortunately for you, this ravenous hunger was long out of hand.

Johnny was dared to venture out and explore his town at midnight to prove the existence of the local folklore shapeshifter; you. Being the daredevil he is, he couldn't pass up on this opportunity. You were said to take form in many different ways; sometimes an animal like a raven, some force of nature like wind or water, and on rare occasions in human form. Your presence was very evident by the change in the air, the piling tension that caused his camera to turn off, his flashlight flicker and goosebumps break out on his skin from the chilling wind. He has no evidence of that night, despite standing before you in your human form. He's now set on proving your existence which causes a cat and mouse dynamic to form between you.

You assumed the man, Kyle, that you saw once on the riverbed had been swimming. Clearly, he's handsome. Only, his appearance is... alluring, drawing you in, luring you right into his hands. You don't even feel the scales as he caresses you, his hands going over the map of your body. He's already memorizing where all your bones are, takes notice of where the most fat is on your body as his hands mold and play with it. He can already imagine how soft your skin is, how easy it would be for his teeth to sink into the flesh. His seductive voice and gaze only serve to invite you to wade in the water. Maybe he'll toy with you, you seem so sweet and willing.

Having a roommate is a hit or miss. But what are the chances that roommate is deceased? Rarely does one get along with a dead roommate, but that certainly is not your case. 'Roach', as you called him, "because what type of name was Gary?" dwelled- er, haunted the college dorm you shared. At first, communication was difficult and arguments broke out often, resulting in broken and damaged furniture. Guess that's what happens when your first time messing around with an ouija board goes wrong. It also gets awkward when you wanna try and bring your girl or boyfriend over and you can't make out without acknowledging the horrified ghost in the corner.

You were a forgotten deity; your followers gone. You thought the portal between your world and the mortals was forever sealed, the entrance never to be opened again. Until, one day you're able to pass through to catch a glimpse of an altar made and dedicated to you by Alejandro. He's the most loyal devotee you've had in a long time; every night and every day he lights a candle to you and kneels to pray. Even if he doesn't have access to the shrine he's made for you, he carries one around in his pocket; a stitched image of you along with a symbol. He swears he can feel as you embrace him in your saving veil of grace and grant him protection.

Rudy's crush has gotten so out of hand the poor, sweet man doesn't know what to do with himself. He blushes and freezes whenever he's blessed to be in your presence. Anticipation building within the walls of his chest, antsy to tell you, to confess. If only that doubt didn't plague his mind. Would you be spooked by his way of life? Certainly, modern witches weren't being put on trials and burned anymore, but the social repercussions could be considered equal. Guess he'll go back to perform another manifestation ritual. Don't be surprised at the sudden fluttery effect you start to magically develop one day when you see him.

Having a vampire boyfriend has its benefits. The cons are few; while you're getting your life sucked right out of you, Phillip only seems to revivify and grow younger. He also has little to no self-control and he always holds his age and 'wisdom' over your head, using his 'better sense' to get you to change your mind. On the bright side, thanks to him you've started to save on using tampons + pads while on your period. He also keeps you in check and healthy by not letting your blood levels imbalance, after all, he feeds off of you. Loves going down on you whilst biting your neck and drawing blood. Something about being so close to biting an artery or vein that could spill too much blood and leading you to death yet he chooses not to.

You moved out to the south seeking for a tranquil pace of life. This town had a strange feeling to it, an underlying horror and emptiness; the effects of a ghost town. Under the silver moon one night, you come upon a field, a stretch of land with pasture stretching for many miles. The cattle guarded under the watchful eye of Keegan. The wind rustled the trees as they made a haunting whistling sound. Shadows seemed to dance along the edges of forest as he motioned you over to his campfire, his horse tethered to the log he rested his head against. His eyes captivated the soft glow of the moon as you listened to him speak of guarding this piece of land for many years. He coaxed you to get comfortable, to not leave right away, in fact, you could stay for as long as you wanted. And unless your senses catch up to you, you'd stay caged in this corner of the world, roaming as a ghost.

König couldn't bear to see you whither away as life was slowly drained out of you. Night and day he listened to your sorrows as you spoke of your fear of dying. You couldn't bear to rest in the cold grave, alone for eternity. The townspeople swore he must've gone mad when you died, he obsessed over you dead more than when you lived. He had installed a burial bell, slipping the rope into your lifeless hands. He refused to pay anyone else to wait the long hours of the day and night. Red rimmed eyes from crying, black circles from the sleepless nights, didn't even register the throbbing headaches. And could it be his delirium or did he hear the bell ring? He was quick to grab a shovel and start digging.

Gumiho Horangi who got close to you only for the sake of stealing your soul. He had been digging through the soil, searching through the foul smell of decomposing corpses to find a human heart to devour. You had been on the graveyard shift when he spotted you and decided he'd much rather prey on a living human rather than be contented with decaying corpses. A method of absorbing your energy resembled the act of kissing as he would open your mouth to inhale your essence. You became to know the true meaning of intertwined love when he planned to embed a 'fox marble' in your abdomen and therefore take all your energy. He, however, fell in love with you over time and vowed to never eat another human so he could become human and live with you.

Nikto always talks to the patients on his table, he thinks it helps them loosen up. They're always so stiff and cold when he takes them out of the freezer. When he pulls back the cloth covering your face he can hardly greet you as he's taken by your beauty. His gloved hands run through your hair as he gazes into your lifeless eyes. You're too pretty by the time he's done dolling you up that he feels sorry you'll only be placed in a box and buried six feet deep underneath the soil. He reckons you'll be much happier in a comfortable home, with someone to care for you rather than the cold cemetery where you're sure to be forgotten about. He swore you told him yourself!

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Modern AU WWX working in the death/burial industry

Maybe as a funeral director, or an embalmer

He is so kind to the deceased's family, and so respectful and kind to the body, talking to it, apologizing for the more unpleasant or gruesome procedures as if the person could still hear him

Little does he know, they do.

And all the people under his care watch over him as spirits and ghosts, protecting him from harm and evil - all the while he's completely unaware and chalks up any supernatural experiences to just his imagination.

[emberdew]

Trans Danny Fic Recs 🏳️‍⚧️

Hi! For Pride Month I wanted to make a list of a bunch of fics that feature trans Danny that I like! Here we go:

One-shots

What are you going to do, fight the sun? by TheBadDragon || 1k One-shot. It's one of the few stories I've read where both Danny and Vlad are trans and I love it.

For Whom the Bell Tolls by @raaorqtpbpdy || 35k One-shot. This features a really interesting AU. I love that it deals with the question "if Danny is trans and he and Dani are siblings, do people think Danny named himself after his sister?"

Original by between || 4k One-shot. This is the only story I can think of where Danny comes out as trans to Dani. It is really sweet.

Pregaming is only distasteful if the deceased is actually dead and/or a good person. by @ficauthor || 14k One-shot. This story is so funny! It has great trans jokes (written by trans author).

Wrong Feeling by @gh0stzonedarchive || 2k One-shot. A nice nonbinary Danny coming out story.

Unpacking ALL of THAT. by @kawaiijohn || 6k One-shot. A nice story about Paulina saving Danny and then having a conversation while trapped in a box. It features trans (and bi) Danny and lesbian Paulina.

making it through by @robotbeowulf || 2k One-shot. A sweet story where Mr. Lancer helps Phantom and also comes out as trans to him.

Closet Space by @ecto-american || 2k One-shot. A sweet story where Danny and Sam are both trans and swap clothes.

oh, simple thing (breathing such harsh air) by Possiblyenjoyable || 3k One-shot. A really good story where Vlad may be a villain, but at least he's not transphobic.

Multichapter and Series

A Lot To Learn by @vampyra142001 || 21k Incomplete series. A nice Vlad redemption story. I really like how Danny being trans is incorporated into the story. Plus Vlad is ace.

Friends in Strange Places by @sunnys567 || 100k Complete multi-chap. This AU is really good and I love that Danny's friends learn about their own identities during Vlad's "coming out" trip.

Lightning by @tourettesdog || 21k Incomplete multi-chap. This is one of my favorite No One Knows AU stories and one of the few fics I can think of from Sam's POV. It features the iconic line: “Phantom’s trans— what an icon.” TourettesDog has several other fics with trans Danny that I like too, including Phantom at Pride.

Cognitive Dissonance by @secretly-an-automaton || 9k Complete multi-chap. A super sweet Gray Ghost revelation story! Danny being trans is a part of the reveal, which I think is a cool concept.

the haunting murders of bristol mansion by @antelabbitsghost || 8k Complete multi-chap. A really funny Buzzfeed Unsolved inspired story. Featuring Danny calling it transphobic when furniture falls on him lol.

Casper High’s New Nurse by @thewiltingdaisy || 55k Complete multi-chap. This story features one of my favorite tropes- an OC adult who helps struggling children with their problems. Danny is trans and the OC nurse character is nonbinary, which is cool!

Food as a Love Language by GooseJacket || 13k Incomplete series. Another fic where Danny and Vlad are both trans (and pan), which I appreciate despite it not coming up in the story much. I really love Danny and Kyle’s relationship in it though; they’re really cute together.

Mundane to Monstrous Ghost by @goliath-de-senfina-sango || 75k Complete multi-chap (part of an incomplete series, but ends in a nice place). This canon rewrite is really cool! Danny uses a wish from Desiree to magically transition, which is amazing.

DPxDC

Unearthed, Reborn by @queenofthequillandink || 62k Incomplete multi-chap. An amazing story featuring soft Eternal Trio with Jason as their teen half ghost son. In addition to Danny being trans, Dick Grayson also transes their gender. Plus there are trans puns!

Rooftop Express by @cheezygoddess || 89k Incomplete multi-chap. A really good Dead on Main story featuring trans Danny and trans Jason.

Wanted: Dead and Alive by @aster-draws || 121k Complete multi-chap. A very angsty vivisection fic with a happy ending. Danny is both trans and intersex. And of course, the GIW are transphobic.

Unlimited Love by @oliveofvanders || 10k Incomplete series. Some nice one-shots featuring trans Danny and the Death Defying (Danny/Dick) ship. I especially like the second fic about the pride parade.

Of All the Things My Hands Have Held by @disillusioneddanny || 17k Complete multi-chap. A cute Dead Serious story where Danny and Damian raise a baby together. I think it's funny that Talia gives them the baby partly because she doesn't know Danny is trans. DisillusionedDanny actually has a bunch of really good fics with trans Danny, including Eat The Acid and Love Like You.

Phantom in Gotham by @artemismoorea03 || 320k Incomplete series. This series is incredible! Poor Danny has to deal with some upsetting situations, but everyone in the Batfam who learns that Danny is trans is supportive which is sweet.

Liminal Familiarity by @isitcowboytimes || 70k Incomplete multi-chap. A nice angsty AU where Danny helps Jason after he becomes half ghost. There's a scene where Danny transforms back to human after being only Phantom for a while and he gets hit with gender dysphoria and being human dysphoria at the same time, oof.

Stalking Astronauts: Gotham's Latest Social Media Craze! by @tachvintlogic || 54k Complete multi-chap. This is a really interesting twist on the usual DPxDC adoption trope where Danny is afraid of being adopted, and he doesn't need to be because he's an adult and a successful astronaut. Unfortunately because of his facial masculinization surgery, everyone thinks he looks a Wayne.

Barely Surviving in a World Antithetical to My Existence by DomesticatedOpossum and Vampirenote13 || 67k Incomplete multi-chap. Danny gets isekaied to Gotham and helped by Constantine and the bats eventually. I like that both Danny and Tim are trans in this.

Better Halves (and other such falsehoods) by @astereaes || 132k Incomplete multi-chap. An amazing fake relationship Danny/Tim story! Tim doesn't know that Danny is trans for a while but he also doesn't know a lot of things about Danny lol.

I'll be updating this list as I read/remember other cool trans Danny fics, so feel free to send recs or promote your own fics! Last updated: 9/16/24.

[dancinglikebutterflywings]

-> Pairing: Ghost!Yoon Jeonghan x Medium-Choi!Reader

-> Featuring: Brother!Seungcheol, Cousin! Vernon, Doctor!Joshua (reader has a minor to severe crush on him to begin with), best friends Hoshi, Woozi, and Mingyu, God!Jun, spiritual advisor!Minghao, Patient's dad!Wonwoo and the rest of SEVENTEEN. There will be a few OC's also. I'll put there names later.

-> Sypnosis: After a strange encounter, Jeonghan wakes up outside of his body. The only person who can see him is Y/N, a woman with a gift (or curse as she would call it) who is able to see and communicate with the deceased that volunteers at the hospital. But Jeonghan isn't dead... not yet anyway.

-> Warnings: Paranormal au. Jeonghan is in a coma. Psychics/Mediums. Mentions of ex-girlfriends. Jeonghan has a history of being a bit of a bit of an f-boy. I've been watching too many k-dramas.

-> Word Count: still counting

-> Status: Started.

-> Taglist: Open. Comment on this post, send an ask or fill out the taglist form.

Jeonghan Masterlist | SEVENTEEN Masterlist | Tag List Form

Chapters:

Part 01

Part 02

Part 03

Part 04

Part 05

Part 06

Part 07

Part 08

©️ 2024 dancinglikebutterflywings - do not copy/modify/repost anywhere. reblog instead

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

DP x DC prompt #4:

(Insomnia struck again with those witching hour thoughts.)

We’ve seen Revenant!Jason. We’ve seen corpse AU. The rare Halfa!Jazz AU has been gifted to us.

But now, I present a result of a bad timeline-

Revenant!Jazz

According to Monster wiki Revenants are supposedly,

“the spirit of a deceased human being that has returned to the mortal plane as a visible ghost or a vengeful spirit that has possessed a dead body, likely its own body.”

Which if you’re a fan of Revenant!Jason can be aptly put. He does seem the vengeful sort.

However, the next paragraph is as follows,

“Revenants are said to return to the living realm to take revenge on those who wronged them in their previous life. In a typical myth, only wicked or evil people tend to turn into revenants. Rarely, however, there were cases where a particularly strong willed individual had died before fulfilling an important task or a promise and would return as a revenant to complete what was left unfinished.”

‘A particularly strong-willed individual’, you say?

=======

Jazz is killed trying to get Danny out of Amity Park, her little brother a sobbing bleeding mess on her backseat, her tiny car a contaminated mess of glowing green and dark red as Danny tries to keep his innards within. They are about to cross into Gotham, to lose their ghost hunting parents in the liminal city when something slams into the driver’s side of Jazz’s car.

Jazz has enough left in her to tell the blurry figure in black to save Danny before she gives into blood loss.

Official cause of death is a punctured artery in an unfortunate car accident.

Unofficial? Murder.

Jazz doesn’t become a ghost, no, she’s too angry and worried about Danny to let herself be taken to the Realms just yet. She won’t rest until Danny is safe. That’s all that matters-Danny.

It was fortunate that she hadn’t been cremated just yet, awakening in an unattended body bag.

[bluebellowl]

AU with an AU!!

This one is in its baby shoes but it kinda goes like this:

@toriblayde ‘s Aiden finds himself at a train station and meets the ghost of a long deceased Emmet who continues way warding in his old long abandoned work place. Seeing this anxious man, Emmet decides to bind himself to Aiden. Emotions decide how strong Emmet is. Negative emotions fuel his power and positive ones make him disappear almost completely. In any other situation this would mean that Emmet feeds off of Aiden but since it’a Emmet we’re talking about, it’s the exact opposite.

Whenever Aiden is down, feels alone or anxious, or he’s scared and in danger, Emmet can step in. When Aiden feels down, he feels a hand on his shoulder and a friend,y presence, when he’s lost Emmet can steer him into the right direction, and in this case, as bullies surround him, Emmet shows a display of light and echos in manic laughter, scaring and chasing off the offenders.

[songmingisthighs]

Oddeleny

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

<< previous | m.list | next >>

ch. lxxii - deceased

ghost!yeosang × reader

genre : ghost!au

rating, warning : mature; crude jokes and filthy language, mentions of being attacked

buy me coffee ?

a connection once had, broken with the expectation that the ending is final. but life has an odd proclivity of making attachments from detachments. in the end, we don't know what we lost until we look at what we have

network :

@cultofdionysusnet @sandsofire @kflixnet @pirateeznet

taglist :

@luvt0kki @aestheticsluut @stayatinykatsy @miaatiny @yukichan67 @maidens-world @wlv-asteria @bee-the-loser @junstulip @keinskpopcorner @donghyuckanti27 @axo-l0tl @cyber-innie @oddracha @dinossaurz @vcutparis @redzie02 @blackb3ll @mizumigi @jan-l @zoro-nanami-wifey @charreddonuts @itasluv @green-agent @teenyfinds @gxlden-bxbyy @that-irrelevant-ricecakeaddict @tinyelfperson @jenowithjaem @mayonnaisehoeshit @allisonleannn @raspberrysannie @surveilenceysystem @borahae-reads @watanabehan @boo-ven9eance @cosmolight @ateezourstars @potatos-on-clouds @iinsomiac @kirbrary @conwunder @akunoeyebrows @kimhongjoongssmile

[romcomeon]

𝟎𝟎𝟏. 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄

✒ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋: life and fate are scary; and it takes immense sacrifice for one to be legendary.

✒ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓: reader as calypso, solomon as odysseus, barbatos as athena, luke as telemachus, mammon as hermes, + a few special guests!

✒ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: solomon x gn! reader, epic the musical au, odyssey au, greek myths reimagined, unreciprocated love, signs of manipulation, angst, angst, angst, mentions of grief and death, character death [lightning strike], solomon has a breakdown at the end, "penelope" is gender neutral

✒ 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒: wc: 7k+ | read on AO3 .ᐟ

✒ 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒: @mammonsrockstargf ﾉ @satangcrush ﾉ @eraofkalki ﾉ @sadpancakeface ﾉ @torchvic

He whose fate was swallowed by the high seas was no less of a love-driven fool.

For years he never returned, yet for centuries, his legacy strives within legends. Epic poems crafted by the most renowned of writers, curated to accurately depict his outstanding feats whilst making them a tad more magical. All these stories were sung in praise by orators as crowds gathered around—eyes, ears, and minds working wonders. 

They themselves create their own interpretation of fantasized play for their greatest hero. The crowd’s silent roars, begging for a glimpse of a life once treasured. 

A valley without its savior. A court without a martyr. An army without a leader. 

Ballads and tragedies dedicate themselves to the fallen. With scholars utilizing this artistic medium as a bloodless graveyard for the ghosts of those who never returned. Their souls rest in peace among the wrathful flames of the underworld, dancing to the chants of the oracles. When the songs are as beautiful as the late Michael’s melodies reeking to the echoes of a meadow suffering drought to the god’s ear, perhaps, the scholars prophesied, Olympus would be merciful.

Of course, that would be if the world were as harmonious as the plays of the great Mephistopheles, with his cult's undying joy of wine and lust. Gaia was born from the depths of Chaos; Chaos had never been one for mercy.

By Satan’s decree and Barbatos’ valor, ruthlessness prevails in war. War was a testament to humanity’s own morals and beliefs. To relieve the growing surge of bloodlust when conflicts arise, bathing Troy in deep, luminous crimson. Screams of the deceased haunt these barren lands, filling the ruins of a grotesque landscape. Resembling the numb trauma soldiers possess murdering women and children, the hubris of the rulers sought to persuade them to do more.

Ruthlessness was mercy upon themselves.

Amidst hamartia, these idols were worshiped by their men. Allowing their flaws to be redeemed, gifting them with celestial grace to guide them away from danger. The scholars call this peripeteia, the reversal of one’s fate. With bad turning good or divine turning corrupt, the choice was given to Chaos’ more prominent writers: the mortals. 

Peripeteia never guaranteed a positive turn, even as most stories seem to suggest. The loud guttural roar bounced off stone walls, spreading across the vast lands. From the skies to beneath the sea, his name repeats itself.

“Praise him, oh great Solomon of Ithaca.” 

Whispers of that name make the masses perk their heads up and gauge the source. The majority shake their heads in a low huff, mourning the disappearance of Greece’s greatest warrior and his crew of men. Tales depict him as one who matches Achilles in glory, Alexander in rule, and the gods in intellect.

Ask a cowardly soul about their view of the king, and they’d bashfully avert their gaze. Sealing their mouths shut lest they’d be able to speak for another day. The braver minority ridiculed the king’s rule, even as to boast about the castle remnants. With no hero, there was no order. Hundreds of suitors flock to the palace, offering sexuality for power. To them, this legend was no less of a dead man.

A kingdom without a king. A queen without a lover. A prince without a father. 

Being the God of Wisdom, Barbatos made sure his greatest warrior survived the most gruesome of trials that rivaled Hercules’ challenges. Molding the king to fit his ideals; triumph basking in newfound glory with every ferocious beast his hands slay. Well trained to become a warrior of the mind; cunning and wit, quick to produce a plan for his own benefit. 

The making of a warrior comes with many pitfalls. Intelligence carries a heavy burden of excessive knowledge, and with owning knowledge comes humanity’s impuissance—kindness. For knowledge is a gift of victors, but why supply ruthless killers with a force opposing their ideals? That was considered torture. A strong, well-respected legend was merciless. Never was it that there’d be justice, that was part of the reason, yes, though being just was clemency.

That marked the beginning of Solomon’s peripeteia. His virtue to spare one of  Leviathan’s cyclops turned the narrative against him.

It’s what turned his own god against him.

Albeit, those were years ago, and the said old god knew that. Barbatos lets out a sigh, trailing his gloved hands along the cold tread of marble stairs. He took off the old rusted helmet, dark and vibrant green locks swaying along to the warm breeze. The headpiece was set aside, carefully gracing the dark turquoise cloth adorned with embroidery of owl feathers and slippery snakes.

He never pictured that in all these years he’d be reminiscing of those fond moments with that lily-livered soul. Each faint ‘tap’ ticks for every second, recalling a memory as if it only happened yesterday. The time before the great fall, watching the familiar tufts of white hair, black robe with an ombre of white and night-sky blue, and stars; stars that marked a better time. 

He stood tall at the forecastle deck of his ship, raising the sword up high in his hand. Gray eyes fall upon the cyclops’ wounded figure, his face ridden with specks of blood. For he was no man nor mythical, his form casting a large shadow looming over the terrain. No man, but the reigning king of Ithaca. Leading with peace, working to save his comrades while the titan feeds. Hundreds of men’s deaths shan’t go in vain.

Remember him for if the beast chooses not to spare another weary soul, so be it. Perish. Solomon raised his chin up, pointing his sword to whoever sees. “I am your darkest moment,” he says.

“I am the infamous Solomon.” 

Stupid. Foolish. Mortals were always foolish. Barbatos shakes his head in disapproval upon the memory. Perhaps, maybe, things would’ve been much different had he himself…

What could he have done? He was a god, a divine force of nature, either a friend or foe to a benevolent protagonist. Yet perhaps if he had done something. Perhaps if he hadn’t simply lashed out at Solomon’s blatant naivety of showing mercy, then he’d be fine. They’d be fine. Barbatos already knew that mortals were susceptible to demons lurking in their minds, waiting to coerce an unintelligent soul’s light to go dark. Maybe, if he had just been a bit wiser, they’d be fine.

"Your friend?”

"Hm?" Barbatos lifts his gaze up, hearing the curious sound of a bright young boy, There he stood balancing on the stone balustrade. The boy, well, man, fixed his balance before walking towards the god. He swept the fabric beneath him before sitting beside the other, slowly inching closer.

"I do not know who your friend is, or the mistakes, and..." he trailed off, averting his golden blue eyes to the side whilst his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his chiton. He cleared his throat, possibly to not be any more awkward. "Well, my time with you has been splendid!"

Barbatos glanced at him, cocking his head. "How come?"

Stars glint within the boy’s eyes. Clenching one of his fists as if to grab an imaginary sword, before eventually exclaiming filled with excitement. "'Cause I got in a fight and I didn't die!"

He catches himself for a moment, blushing bashfully before scratching the back of his neck. "I've never felt strong before,” he admitted. Sure it was surprising, but the young prince wasn’t necessarily like his father. Though it’d made sense, had the young lad last seen the king when he was an infant. 

Barbatos could remember earlier events. Antinous and the other suitors, flocking the palace and picking fights with an unarmed little wolf. Barbatos knew that he can be stronger with the right guidance, so he did what he could; go into the warrior’s mind to quicken his thoughts, and make him effortlessly lunge attacks towards the bullies.

The prince had the motivation, the dream, and the intellect. Much like when Solomon was younger, he too had a good heart.

Then again, Barbatos knew this was different. This was no longer the same man who he grew apart with all those years prior. Rather of a hair as white as the brightest clouds, he was greeted with a soft, gentle blonde. And his eyes, not a harsh, stone cold gray, but a bright blue with golden ombre. That detail made Barbatos perk a smile, as in his thoughts, both of them looked like parts and recombinations of a certain godly messenger.

Those similarities turn to not be as glaring when he sees the fresh sparks of pure adoration on the prince’s face. Barbatos watches as the other composes himself, careful to choose his words but not holding back from ever portraying the swell of giddiness of his demeanor.

What shocked the god was instead was the words that escaped him. He spoke gently, invitingly even, but still nervous. He seems to not be so sure if these were acceptable to say, but he did.  “You're my friend, I couldn't ask for more," he said. “Maybe if life wasn't spent as planned. Though, I think it's time that you lend a hand— and I don't think he'll mind.”

He reaches out, raising his hand. “If not his friend, then mine.”

Barbatos stared at the boy’s palm, confused. For as many long years as he had lived, he had never seen this generous act of… celebration? Nevertheless, understand the traditions and gestures mortals made with other mortals. Although, he understood that the divine weren’t necessarily mingling with these mortals in the first place. 

Nevertheless, it was a new start. And the bridge between gods and mortals have slowly become invisible in the time of war.

So Barbatos also raised his hand, slapping his palm against the boy’s—if that’s how you do it. He thinks he did it correctly, seeing the prince’s smile widen. "You're a good kid, Luke," Barbatos sighs, smiling more in ten minutes than he ever had in ten years.

Luke only nodded his head. "Thanks!" 

A billow of clouds seize themselves over the mortal realm. Hidden within the trenches of the sea of indefinite wonder lies the peak of mount Olympus. At the foot of the temple, a black owl swiftly glides through the air. Once it reaches the foot of the temple, it shapeshifts back into Barbatos’ figure, dusting off any dirt that got on his clothes.

“So… Barbi,” a voice lurks within these halls. It didn’t take long for Barbatos to recognize that diction: zany and all reminds me of tricksters. “Still missing yer mortal?”

“Not now, Mammon.” the god of Wisdom sighed. “I’m busy.”

Mammon, the messenger of the gods, groaned. “This ‘bout the ‘moni guy again?” he complains, crossing his arms as his winged sandals lift him up in the air, allowing him to lie down on almost nothing. “C’mon, it’s been years.”

The god almost circles around Barbatos, with how his gold and silvers clang with his every movement. “Haven’t moved on, hm?” Mammon flipped himself over, resting his face on his palms while kicking his feet in the air. “Say it, Barbatos, you miss the guy as much as the last one.”

Barbatos only walked away. “Keep yourself out of this. This is simply urgent,” he said.

Mammon scowled, standing upright while clearing his throat. “Well I supposed the time he went hookin’ up with Thirteen wasn’t as urgent—”

“Thirteen?”

Barbatos stopped in his tracks, turning back to look at the messenger. “What about Thirteen?”

“Ah,” golden boy realized his mistake. He gave a faint whistle, tugging a few strands of dusty beige behind winged ears, averting his gaze so as to not directly anger the literal god of wisdom and war. Thirteen, daughter of Helios. Protector of nymphs, and known for turning men into swine. 

Mammon cleared his throat. “So ya didn’t know.”

Barbatos’ eyes narrowed, the shadows in the temple deepening around him. Suddenly his spear was pointed at Mammon, inches away from scarring the other’s throat. “What happened?” he pressed, his voice a low growl.

Mammon shrieked, hands in the air. “‘was that for!?”

“Say something,” Barbatos smiled, patience growing thinner.

Mammon groaned, shrugging. He leaned casually against a column, twirling a golden coin between his fingers. “It’s best if ya see it for y’self,” he said, sapphire eyes subtly hinting at mischief. “Sol’ gone be damned to do a billion more fuck ups than fraternalizing the old man.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he paced restlessly.

Barbatos raised an eyebrow, retreating back his spear. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge of concern in his tone.

“‘s speakin’ the truth ‘ere.” Mammon stopped, casting a piercing gaze back at Barbatos. It was rare to see the troublesome messenger of the gods be so serious. Though moments like this don’t last long, before a smirk breaks itself on his face. “Don’t thank me,” Mammon waves off, fanning his hand. 

“He might as well may die.”  

The sirens’ songs scream through ocean waves—no longer in an alluring tone that stops seafarers in their way, but an eerie melody whom irks many sailors to change their trajectory. “Spare us, oh spare us please.” 

Wailing cries die out with the thunderous waves reaching alarming heights, a yard longer with every second the sea god’s fury boils. The storms guard Sparta from any unwanted pests, for a simple step was met with a bolstering beam of light as the gods’ roar echoes through the mortal’s ears. Although  what tickled his ears, or the contrary, was how quiet it got. Immensely calm;  the sounds of despair long gone with every wave hitting the shore. In a matter of life and death, it was odd that it suddenly got so peaceful.

Specks of sand reach his eyelids. Solomon begrudgingly opens his eyes, greeted by the harsh golden rays of the sun. Lifting himself up off the shore, he lets out a low groan as his hand dusts off the rest of the sand. Long strands of hair fall on his face, his fingers scratching the bit of fuzz on his chin. The last time he recalled, he only had bits of stubble that he planned to shave off with the remaining beeswax they still had on the great ship.

The ship. Curse godblessed cattle.

He stays sitting there, eyes cautiously observing the surroundings. Unlike in the past years of his voyage where it was filled with dull, brooding shades of life and the underworld, this place almost hurts the eyes. Instead it is filled with light, soft yet vibrant hues of lush trees and serene waters: even the sand, finer than Spartan shores, colored in a beautiful light peach brown. Cupping a handful, the sand only smoothly glides through his fingertips; not a particle on his palm.

The sea greets him with little seafoam meeting the outline of his body, but not once wetting the worn out fabrics of his clothes. And at that moment, he realized, this was no ordinary island. 

“Where am I?” Solomon whispers out, feeling the well of dread picking up from the deepest swells of his stomach. This place looked lively; and by his induction, too lively. No land on Gaia would be this swell when there was that god’s ongoing rampage.

As Solomon was about to go and try to scavenge the shore for more clues on this mystery island, a loud, sing-song voice booms in the air. Your voice, waving your dominant hand while the other holds the woven basket filled with sweet fruits. You had a feeling he’d wake up sometime soon, though you underestimated the speed of time. “Good morning sleepyhead!” you cheered, walking towards him in rhythmic skips and hops on the sand.

You slowed down as you got closer, seeing the other flinch and take a step back, with his arm at his front and his brows furrowing. On the contrary, you softly smiled, humming. You extend your hands toward him, though not touching his skin quite yet. “You’ve been resting for a while,” you said, almost with a small bit of laughter. “I swore you were dead.”

Solomon clicked his tongue. “Who are—”

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” you asked, your hand now resting on his scarred check. Carefully running your finger to the trace of his jaw while you gush about how adorable it was, hearing his gentle murmurs even when most of his words were incoherent. Pristine snow-colored hair, marvelous earthy gray eyes, delicate and commanding diction. 

Though you do wonder of a word that you could understand. Or well, not a word to, but a name. A name you heard through every gasp while his body twitched on the sand. They seem to grow more desperate with each repetition, a poor soul calling for someone in an endless void. Naturally, this had you curious, questioning him while your hand began to trail down his neck. “You keep mentioning their name quite lot. Who’re they?”

You didn’t expect him to grab your wrist, clenching his fists around it. You winced at the pain, though you observe how his actions may be harsh, yet his eyes, expression, looked happier. He wasn’t looking at you, no, far from it; he looked zoned out, catching imaginary glimpses, a loving smirk ghosts his face.

Solomon spoke gently, fondly even. Similar to his restless whispers of the night. “They’re my spouse.”

Suddenly that smile you had faltered, replaced by a confused expression. Your lips formed a small “oh,” your hand retreating back to the basket’s handle.  

You weren’t exactly terrified. Very much on the relative opposite; disappointed. It’s common in the legends for great to be utterly devoted to their lovers. A waste, your eyes falling back and inspecting his figure head to toe. The man looked ragged. Hurt. Malnourished. Dirty. Your thumb wipes itself on your index finger, remembering the rough, but smooth sensation of his imperfect flesh.

“Well they aren’t here now, no?” you tilt your head.

Solomon looked appalled, his eyes widening in offense. Was it something that you said? You weren’t lying— his spouse wasn’t here. You’re far from his homeland; whisked away to the safest, luxurious cove that you kept hidden away. That’s what there was with you, you’re rather secretive. You keep what’s yours hidden from peering eyes, where no mortal won’t get the privilege of seeing.

It took you a second to note your slip of the tongue. Noting that honesty may come off as rude. “Ah, forgive me,” you said. You bashfully averted your gaze, small hues of pink flushed on your cheeks. Being lonely on this land has made you too excited to see someone who even survived getting here. You worried that once his pulse came to a halt, you had to send his corpse away from the creatures to wholeheartedly devour. “It’s been a while since I’ve met someone.”

You were honestly starting to love this change of pace. It’s no fun if he leaves so soon. Perhaps the fates could care less if you allow yourself to adore him—even with his conflicting feelings

So you shake your head, giving him the basket as you take his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Anyways, come my love!” You chime, small stars sparkling in your irises. ”The island awaits us!”

His face grimaces, pulling back his hand yet your grip was just too strong. Solomon spouted bitterly, raising a brow in offense. “Your love?”

You paid no attention to his words, instead touring him of this wonderful landscape. Open arms, twirling around taking in the bright greens and luscious blues of wild flowers and old trees. So giddy, even come to admire this lonesome place even more. “We have everything we could ever ask for!” you jolly along, taking a brief glance at Solomon.

The other still looked to be so perplexed. His hands gripping the basket’s handles, his feet dragging themselves as if they were leashed to your arms. His eyes seem to wander, but not once purposely in your direction.

Still, he must still be processing being in such a wonderful place, isn’t he? You giggle. You stroll around, slowing down as to not yet lose your now forever lover. A small crab scuttles near your feet, pinching at the air with its tiny claws.

It’s a vivid shade of red, almost glowing in the sunlight. You crouched down, opening your hand as you waited for the little one to climb on it. Sadly, it didn’t seem to reciprocate your friendly actions. Instead it waddled away, strutting as quickly as it could with its little crab feet. You pouted as you watched, inching closer to instead grab it by the shell, before placing it on your shoulder. 

“Much better,” you laugh. Now that it’s there you twirled around, eager to prove to Solomon how wonderful heaven feels. How wonderful it’d be if he sees the joy soon. “Oh, we thank Queen Rose,” you giggled again. Ogygia was just as bountiful as the maiden you used to serve’s magical prowess.

You noticed that Solomon had  placed the basket on top of a moss-covered rock, feeling his hand along the bark in a calculated expression, mumbling something.

You spoke aloud in a melodic symphony. “The place is beautiful,” you coaxed, stepping closer with your hands behind your back. Closer and closer, you watch him stiffen up and he faces you, right hand quick to grab the handle of his sword.

“It is.”

There was no denying that he was supporting your sentiment. For the first time. 

You thought about how to get more from him, with each slow footstep you took forward. It couldn’t be helped that you felt cheeky, seeing the brave, powerful warrior back up against the tree; defensive, but oh so helpless. Tattered robes with rusted pieces of armor, worn out sandals and puffed up bruises. Stunning, you thought.

“Perhaps,” you cheekily say, the back of your hand running along his chest. “Soon into bed we’ll climb and spend our time.” 

Solomon swats your wrist away. “I’m not your man.” 

‘Not yet,’ you thought. Again, you ignore all possible signs of rejection, clinging towards him. 

“I’m what you want. What you need, dear,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the outline of his armor. “It’s just you and me, my love in paradise.” You step closer, your breath warm against his skin.

“Now until the end of time, from here and out, you’re mine.” You smile, leaning in just enough to brush your lips against his. “All mine.”

Solomon pushes you away, causing you you tumble back. As you were about to recompose yourself, you see a dull, rusted blade pointed at your neck

“I could kill you where you stand,” Solomon spouted bitterly, lifting your chin with the tip of his sword. “I’m no pet. I’m a married man.” 

Oh. He’s feisty, and can wield a weapon well. You left out a soft chuckle, holding the blade with two fingers as you moved it aside. “Oh handsome, you may try, ” you tease, even as you trace the sharper end of the sword, “pricking” your finger at its tip.

“But last I check, gods can’t die.” You kiss your own fingertip, one eye open to gauge at his reaction.

Solomon furrowed his brows, lowering his sword. “God…?”

You smile, resting on one of the larger rocks. You spoke not a word, but your cheeky smile and prominent glow at the ends of yours hair settled your case. You weren’t just some creepy owner of a secluded island that doesn't seem to appear in any of the olden maps. No. Of course you had to be a god.

This was bad. Very very bad. Solomon wished not to mingle with the gods. 

Solomon wished that you weren't a god. 

��But fear not, I bring no pain!”  you reassure. “We’re stuck in paradise. Where no one can come and go, as my island stays unknown—”

“This is no paradise.”

You raised a brow. Had you heard it correctly? It was a plethora of beautiful flora and fauna. “What are you talking about?”

Solomon only shook his head, giving a coy, but per say partly polite smile. “I won’t be drawn to ‘love in paradise’. Get me out this instant.”

“Oh! You really are such a fool.” You pout. Your eyes scan over him, lifting your hand to your chin. Humming, you spot a small, beautiful hyacinth blooming beneath the rock. You crouched to pick it, examining the wondrous petals.

“We could fix that starting with this bit of hair,” you said. As Solomon was about to interject, you had placed the flower up at his ear, making sure to lightly touch his skin. “Aww, poor you. I’m here now.” 

“Not ‘till the end of time.” Solomon takes a step back. “There is NO way—”

“But you’re mine,” you take a step closer once more. The man felt trapped, as every step he moved away only got you to inch closer. For gods, he expected a bit of decency. As far as he was concerned, mortals were more like puppets, only keen to serve every whim. Gods weren’t particularly opposed to mortal relationships, so why not?

Had he a choice? 

You give him a sudden, tight hug. “All mine.” 

“They’ve kept you out of your control,” Barbatos muttered, watching Solomon all the way from Olympus. 

The god pinches his temples, processing what he just saw.

Not only was Solomon truly making a barrage of avoidable mistakes, but now he's stranded in an island with a homewrecker and no crew.

"Time can take a heavy toll," the god sighed once more. He's quickly to splash along the waters, hopeful to catch small glimpses of progress. What kind? anything that can safely get him back.

'Seven years...'

It was the break of night, calm bright festive colors all reduced to the dark, lonesome blues and grays. You woke up to the cold gust of wind hitting your skin, feeling the warmth retreat back. You flutter your eyes open, only to be met with emptiness; the only indication that he was there was the subtle dent on the white silk.

You sighed, running your hand along your hair as you set up, blanket on your lap, staring at the cold bedside. You loathe the routine of getting up and fetching your lover, muttering silent prayers that he hadn’t whisked himself away and droned in hellscape. The only sign of warmth was only the moonlight peeking through the window of the wooden hut, and even that sent a chilling sensation down your spine. It was a matter of time before his thoughts would begin to unravel, and for his nightly cries to spiral.

You turned to your side, legs on the ground as you stood up from the kline.

“Solomon?” you yawned out, stretching your arms in the air before grabbing another silken sheet to cover yourself. It was during night where there were the harshest of colds, after all. Deafening silence, only exposed to the loud dining of crickets and other critters that lurk in these darkness. 

At day time, you would catch Solomon often sulking along the shoreline. His head hung low as he sat on the sand, arms crossed over his knees, pulling them closer to his body. In rare instances, he’d trace his fingers along the grains of sand, marking it with countless words, names, and symbols. 

One that stood out to you one time was his repeated scribbling of a certain phrase. You swore to have heard of it before, but watching as the perfect bed of sand and seashells instead was carved with constant repetition, seeing him grip whatever his hand got a hold on tightly as he goes to recall memories of a past he once lost.

Of how it was to be kind. “Greet the world with open arms. Relax, my friend.” 

It felt psychotic. You had to lull him out of his wicked trance before he went to hurt himself physically. Wiping off the dirt that stuck to his face, trimming his long hair to a more manageable length, and having to watch so he doesn't starve to death. He was a lot, going for hours without uttering a word or making eye-contact. Every time you nudge his arms and join you, whether it be in an act of passion or whimsy, the sparks in his eyes only continue to fade. Void of any speck of hope. 

“Solomon?” 

You call out once more. Walking out the safe confines of the hut, you went into the now quieter, eerier, more maniacal-driven call of the night. Every night, you’d wake up to sniffling whispers and faint sobs coming from the other side. You’d attempt a soft hum, hopefully soothing him to a calmer state of mind, caressing his sides and watch him twitch his body away from your touch. On more restless nights, he’d swat your wrist away before you’re able to touch him, huddled in a fecal position and shivering with the hour growing colder. 

It’s at night where you feel helpless. Every attempt proven futile, every act of service ignored or unsupported. Every word working to console him only worsens his cries. Long periods of solitude have rendered Solomon uncomfortable in the company of others. Within your shared hut he laments, and there was nothing you could do.

You find yourself at the foot of a steep cliff, all from following smudged footprints on the grass. You squint your eyes, making out a figure on top of the cliff, only illuminated by the bright moonlight as this figure stares down into the mellow waters. Slowly, as to not hopefully startle the figure, you inch closer, carefully tracing your eyes along his form.

Subtle white glow basking in the moonlight, the freshly woven chiton you made for him reflecting the rays through golden crewels of birds, waves and stars. When you made that, the symbols were supposed to represent hope and longing, a fortunate outcome if he gave you more time. Though when he adorns the garment, signs of hope turn into withering longing. Only engraved memories of the past that forever haunts him.

He stood as still as an oakwood tree, mildly resisting the harsh waft of air. As you inch closer you reach out to him once more. So that please, he’d turn around and see you eye-to-eye.

You desperately called out for him, worrying exuding through syllables when you took a momentary pause to utter his name. It was familiar, but foreign. “Solomon?” you pleaded, fingers clenching your palm when you still see him stand there. Still. A man who can’t be moved or accept the present; always stranded in the labyrinth of the past.

“I hear them,” he uttered. Catching his breath with every word, stifling a sob with every annunciation. “All I hear are screams.” 

Solomon takes a step forward. Tiny pebbles drop themselves towards the water. Ripples that marked tiny specks of heaven sunken beneath the surface. You flinch, rushing towards him yet still shy of a few steps. Small comets that guide the sky fall down and crash as a meteor, falling into seas where ripples turn into tides when they reach the shore.

“‘Moni, get away from the ledge.”

“Quiet,” Solomon snarked. “You don’t know what I’ve gone through. You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed.” 

The scholars would call this anagnorisis. How a tragic hero discovers the cruel reality of his circumstance. How despite any attempt for kindness—for mercy—all is worthless in his peripeteia. Loss was something you couldn’t understand. Being alien for a majority of your life had you numb to the thought of loss just yet.

Yet.

Perhaps you were instead afraid of experiencing that loss.

“Every comrade I long knew,” you hear Solomon say. Drowning in anagnorisis. Panting. He lifts his hand up to grab tuffs of snow locks, tugging on the strands. “ Every friend. I saw them die, and… all I hear are—”

“It will be fine, dear.”

Solomon turns his to the side, as if catching even a small glimpse. You held your ground, staying firm. Comforting him with gentle melodies, singing a small ballad to soothe his nerves once more.

“ Come back inside, dear,” you said. You hesitate, inching closer but make sure to keep your pace quiet. Your voice cracks, feeling the burning drops of tears trailing down your cheek. “Love of my life, please.”

“Come back to paradise.” “Just let me close my eyes.” 

You hear him resisting the melody, dueting your ballad with hoarse dissonance. Still, you continued, all until you were able to palace your hand on his shoulder. Squeezing it to give a blink of reassurance, pulling yourself closer to coddle him in your embrace. Though you don’t plan to hurt him. Never did, and never shall. You lean near his ears, whispering, “I know your life’s been hard. I’ll stay inside your heart.”

“If you could just see…” “All I hear are screams.” 

“I love our time here,” you pause, gulping. “I love your company, It’s just..” 

“Life would be so much worse if you had died.” “JUST LET ME CLOSE MY EYES!” 

Solomon snaps, pushing your hand away as he strides forwards, turning around and finally facing you. Finally seeing you. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? There you were, gray eyes with bits and the tiniest stars dying out in lonesome nebulae. Tears stream down the corners of his eyes as he takes erratic, shaky breaths. His hand still grabbing tufts of his own hair, running itself along it and pulling at the string begging for an ounce of control.

He noticed you, and you can vividly see the absolute madness swirling in his eyes.

“‘Moni,” you call out, grabbing both his wrists and gently grabbing him off the end of the cliff. He follows you, eyes now trailing downward, brows furrowed. His lips quivering, his lungs gasping, his hands warm from cold sweat; from all the stress of these memories.

“Please stay away from harm,” you lull him further, wrapping his arms around your waist. They’re dead, but you’re here. He wasn’t alone, you had a splendid time together. Flowers, petals, birds and bees—this was all you thought a man could ever want. There he stood, the only time ever acknowledging you since his first arrival was one of terror. One urging you to leave him. You run your thumb gently on his cheek, wiping those streams of regret.

“Stay in my open arms,” you cooed. You carefully caress his hair, your hand gliding through each silken strand. You were here, and you welcomed him to a palace where he’d otherwise may die.

You hear Solomon’s breath hitch, staring at you in shock. Irises turn into pinpricks, flinching as he grows appalled by your words. Suddenly, all in his view twisted off into blurs and blobs of a series of different hues and arrays of various colors. Shades of blue, yellow, browns and pinks littered his vision, and your form melted away into nothing but just a color of shapes.

“Moni?” Solomon could hear a voice. A voice not like yours: it wasn’t melodic, in a sing-song tone that’s as soft as the flutter of butterflies. This was more kind, more earthy, more human. And lastly, more familiar. Your voices swallowed by the whispers of a distant past, silken velvety words in a calming diction. It wasn’t yours. It was no longer you who clouded his mind.

The image of your gentle smile was gone; turned to instead to be more genuine. One of excitement. Suddenly, Solomon saw  the day at night. Sun kissed skin and curly, dark brown hair, with the figure’s bright cerulean eyes becoming clearer with the second. The hand was no longer on his cheek and the base of his neck, but tightly grabbing both his shoulders while lightly shaking him in glee.

“This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms!” the figure cheered, taking a step back and he did just as he said: he opened his arms wide open. As if welcoming Solomon in a tight embrace.

Solomon gasped, reaching his hands out. A small, hopeful smile ghosts his face. “Simeon?”

Simeon chuckled, moving his hands around before slowly, blobs and blues start to resurface along the base of his arms. Colors of light, periwinkle blue contrasted with specks of black and wave strands. 

The king’s smile fades, squinting his eyes to focus more on the mysterious figure that his friend was holding. 

These blobs and sharp shapes of diamonds and triangles instead morphed into the innocent figure of a young baby boy peacefully asleep in his blanket. Solomon’s eyes widened, even shaking his head while closing his eyes. To do a double take as to make sure the child he saw wasn’t who he thought he was.

The child from the wooden crib back at Troy. The child whom the gods had ordered him to… to…

Simeon hummed, rocking the baby in his arms. Solomon’s ears perked up from the soft, childish giggles exuding from the blanket. Simeon chuckled, letting the young prince play with his finger. “He’s wonderful,” the lad crooned, chuckling before slowly going back to a playful tune. “To think a man like Hector was able to have a child. Tell me, Moni, why didn’t we get to keep him?”

He raises a brow as he pouts to confront Solomon. Though it doesn’t last long, a simple sneer quickly puts him back in his playful act. Simeon gave Solomon one final look, nodding his head. He said: “Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart.”

After that, Simeon’s figure soon faded away, carrying the down sleeping child. ‘Right,’ Solomon thought. He’s dead. He’s forever damned in the underworld; taking care of that Trojan. Although the man couldn’t help it. The image of a boy who once resembled his son before he left for war was too much for the king to bear.

And Simeon was too kind to be a father that he couldn’t be, unlike someone who would match Solomon’s lack of mercy.

“Captain?” 

There it was another voice. From Simeon’s warmth it shifted to coldness. Bitter. Solomon took a brief glance—not that you were able to perceive any coherent shape—and was only met with blurred circles and squares of gray and muted browns. And unlike Simeon, he didn’t need clarity to focus on who it was, nor was he really willing to face the obscured face. Hair and body perfectly matching a memory, yet face scribbled away as to not recall his mate’s dismay.

Solomon held his stance, tilting his head up whilst staring back at the figure. “Raphael,” he said.

Akin to the lack of facial features, Raphael never focused on his captain. Instead, as a mouth starts to clearly come into view, he seems to be talking to someone far in the distance. He’s quick to grab the handle of his sword, his grip tightening. And Raphael repeats it once more, “Captain?” 

“I have to see them.”

Solomon turned around again, as he heard a more uncanny resemblance. Instead of the ghost of the past haunting him, it was instead a clear image of himself. The only difference would be how ragged and scarred he used to look before being under Ogygia’s care. This wasn’t a blurry spectacle spawning itself to hurt it, this was just torture.

Not bearing to look at himself, he goes back to staring at Raphael. His mate’s eyes came into a clear view, and he wasn't mad. No. Instead he looked to be that he respects Solomon’s decision, but that wasn’t enough to ignore the stifling of his nose watching. “But we’ll die,” Raphael tried to reason out.

Raphael tried even as he knew that what Solomon said was final. Even with the regret lingering on right after, he was a man of his word. Even with his back facing his double, he could imagine himself hesitantly raising his hand, pointing towards his crew. Hearing the phrase he told the thunder bringer. 

“I know.” “I can’t.” 

Solomon watches Raphael’s shoulders relax. He sighs, clicking his tongue before bowing his head, only giving a cold, bitter gaze in dark, lapis irises. “How much longer till your luck runs out?” Raphael shots his gaze to the real Solomon. The flashing lights of lightning reflect at the of his shoulders and hair, illuminating a bright white light from behind. 

The roaring sounds of thunder fill the air, as the flashing grew more erratic. “Wait, no! Raphael!” Solomon exclaimed. He tries to take a step forward, but knees betray him, instead falling down to the ground. “You can’t do this to me!”

The lightning’s flickering worsens, and with ragged deep breaths, he looks up. Raphael looks down at him, shaking his head in disappointment. “How much longer till we all fall down?” he asked one last time, before closing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath.

“RAPHAEL!” 

The sky rips open. A jagged bolt of lightning arcs down, striking Raphael with a blinding flash. Time seems to stretch as Solomon watches. Horrified. The air crackles with energy, and the sound is deafening, a roar that drowns out everything else. The light envelops his mate’s body, and for a heartbeat, he was only a mere silhouette against the storm. All suspended in the surging flames of chaos. 

And all Solomon can see is the silhouette of Raphael collapsing. “No…” Solomon cries, scrambling to his feet, adrenaline surging through him as he races toward the fallen figure. “No. No. No. No..”

Each step feels heavy, every step conspires to hold him back. “Raphael!” he shouts again, desperation clawing at his throat. Once he reached where the lightning struck, it was over. Raphael’s body was no more. 

Solomon falls to his knees, grasping at coarse sand. His other hand reaches out to scramble along finely combed locks, ruffling it up in a tangled mess. “Please don’t make me do this,” Solomon wept. “Don’t make me do this.”

The voices of sirens fill the air, trapping him in an endless echo of screams, terror and revenge. Melodies of “waiting..” bounces through imaginary walls, each note striking his ears to bleed. He covers them lowers, lowering his head down to deafen the silence.

“Waiting…” Make it stop. 

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Make it stop. 

“And it’s no longer you.” Make it all stop. 

The loudest of the voices resemble yours. A loud, brash symphony that’s louder than any of his other demons. Your figure walks towards him, pulling his hands away from his and placing them on your cheek, whispering to him to open his eyes.

Your figure meshed with the colors of someone else from a distant past. As if your forms blended into one, where one can no longer be separated from the other. Washed out imagery of the bed made of trees that lies in their shared bedroom could be seen behind you, as leaves carefully drift down in a steady pace.

You smile, making him open his eyes. In a sing-song voice, you cooed. “Let me take the suffering from you.” 

Solomon was quick to hug you back, sobbing into the fabric. You playfully scoffed, caressing your hands along his hair, murmuring sweet nothings. For judgment was blurry in watery eyes. 

You also weren’t real. Not this mashed, stitched together doll that only took to keep half of your figure.

And Solomon realized that too soon, when you come tumbling down as nothing but sand along the shore. Grains clinging on to his clothes, specks reaching his eyes as they grow even more red. He can’t bear to understand. He fought to save lives, but not killing ended up leading all his men to perish. 

Had he avoided it all if he hadn’t shown mercy.

And how foolish he looked begging for it. The gods were right; he was a Greek who reeked of false righteousness. The worst kind of good for he cannot be great.

The cauldron had overflowed, as the voices grew louder once again. Taunting him as their endless comedy, in his peripeteia, suffering in anagnorisis. In a final, desperate moment, Solomon went back to the safe confines of closing his eyes. To shut himself off from the truth. To move on, and hopefully get back on track to returning to Ithaca.

His queen. His child. That was who he fought for.

Hands clenching his chest, Solomon screamed.

“BARBATOS!” 

.

.

.

Call him a fool. He’ll never allow himself to indulge in hubris once more.

a/n: this was honestly too much for the heart. so uhh, i hope you enjoy! also if anyone is able to spot all of the references then you'll be getting a small little bonus

thank you all for your support for this event, and for your patience as this was published a day late. Never fret, we still have more stories to come! and i hope you're there to follow me along through this journey.

and also, don't forget to greet the world with open arms! <3

event materlist | main masterlist | divider by cafekitsune

[icarusignite]

For Whom the Bell Tolls Masterlist

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Strong! Reader

Tropes: World War 2 HOTD AU, nurse x soldier, trauma bonding, childhood sweethearts, star-crossed lovers

Wattpad / AO3

Summary:

"The tragic hero is complete. You can call him unhappy (miserable, utterly broken) even before he is dead. For an instant, he is something divine, and then he dies, because there's nothing else left to do. The center of every tragedy is the image of a human being who has already died but keeps talking, someone whose face is a mask."

In the years preceding the inferno of the Second World War, the world dances precariously on the edge of destruction, teetering between disintegrating old empires and the looming dawn of new ones. In the heart of this volatile era, the Targaryen family rises to power through the might of their ironclad empire, the Targaryen Ammunitions Conglomerate. The story is set against a backdrop of a world torn between tradition and modernity, where the echoes of old wars linger in the corridors of power, and the spectre of new conflicts casts long shadows across the lives of those entangled in its web.

Viserys Targaryen, the Chief Executive Officer of Targaryen Ammunitions, is a man haunted by the ghosts of his past. Decades before the world would be set ablaze, he cements his legacy, but at the cost of his own soul. The death of his first wife leaves him shattered, clinging to the last vestiges of humanity through the love he bears for his only daughter, Rhaenyra, his chosen heir. 

But even Viserys cannot escape the machinations of those around him. Drawn into a marriage with Alicent Hightower, his daughter's former college classmate, he finds himself ensnared in a web of deceit spun by her father. Otto Hightower's ambitions reach far beyond the bounds of mere familial ties; he seeks to control the empire itself, and the Targaryen family, once bound by blood and loyalty, begins to fracture as ambition and betrayal take root.

Rhaenyra, a woman of fierce independence and unyielding spirit, is forced into a life she never wanted. Pressured by her father and the demands of his legacy, she is coerced into a marriage of convenience with Laenor Velaryon, a man whose own struggles mirror her own. Their union is one of necessity, where neither partner truly belongs to the other, yet, in their shared discomfort and understanding, they find solace, forging a partnership that defies the world's expectations. Laenor, hiding his true nature in a society that would cast him out, finds safety in the match, while she, in turn, secures the power and stability she needs to maintain her position as her father's heir.

Years pass, and the couple's inability to have children leads them down a different path—a path that brings them to the doors of Harrenhall, where the recently deceased Harwin Strong leaves behind four orphaned children who have been disowned by his brother Larys in his greed for their fortune. Rhaenyra, with a heart as relentless as it is kind, cannot bring herself to separate the siblings, despite the dangers it may pose to her own ambitions. She adopts them all, bringing the Strong children into the fold of the Targaryen family.

As the eldest of these children, you are burdened by the weight of the world. At just ten years old, you have been forced to grow up far too quickly, stepping into the role of mother and protector to your younger siblings in the absence of your own. Your heart is a fortress, built stone by stone, your mistrust of the world as deep as the abyss. When you and your brothers are taken in by the Targaryens, your siblings find joy in the luxuries and love showered upon them by their new family, but you cannot let yourself believe in the comfort being offered, waiting for the moment when it will all be torn away.

Your fears are only compounded by the cold reception you receive from Rhaenyra's half-siblings, the children of Alicent Hightower. The second of these, Aemond Targaryen, is a boy who has grown up in the long shadow cast by his half-sister. Neglected by his father, who lavishes affection upon his new adoptive grandchildren, he harbours a deep resentment toward the Strong siblings. In his eyes, you are all usurpers, interlopers who have stolen all that should have been his and his alone. 

Nevertheless, the two of you find an unlikely ally in each other. Aemond, who despises the hollow privilege of his lineage, finds in you a kindred spirit, someone who understands the bitterness that festers in his heart. You, in turn, see in him a mirror of your own disillusionment, a boy lost in a world that seems intent on breaking him.

As the world outside your gilded cage hurtles toward cataclysm, your connection blossoms into something deeper, something tender, but just as your hearts begin to entwine, calamity, as it always does, intervenes.

Tragedy strikes the family, one blow after another, as the winds of war begin to howl across the continent. The fragile alliances that Rhaenyra has built start to crumble, and as Viserys struggles to hold his empire together, the rifts within his own family threaten to destroy everything he has worked for.

It is all made worse when a terrible accident steals away two precious loved ones, and in the aftermath, guilt weaves its thorny tendrils around Aemond's heart. At the tender age of eighteen, burdened by the weight of his own self-reproach, he severs all ties with his family, abandoning the name that has become a symbol of his anguish. He takes up his mother's maiden name, hoping to cast off the shackles of his past and live free from the burdens that have haunted him.

But in his flight from the wraiths of his former life, he leaves behind the only person who has ever understood him, to pick up the fractured remnants of their family. You are left all alone, as you have been for so much of your life, to mourn in silence, and the grief that once bound the two of you together now festers into a simmering resentment. Aemond does not write, nor does he respond to the countless letters you send, each one a plea for reconciliation, a desperate attempt to reach him across the chasm that has opened between you. 

Eventually, you receive word that he has been drafted into the conflict. The news shatters the fragile remnants of your dreams, the ambitions you once held of becoming a historian now buried beneath the rubble of a world on fire. You abandon everything and follow him into the inferno, earning the nursing certifications that place you at the very heart of the battlefield, where life and death are decided with every breath.

In this vast and chaotic landscape, the young lovers keep missing each other, like ships passing in the night, always just out of reach. Time and again, they come within moments of reunion, but never actually do. Until, at last, they are thrown together once more when a severely wounded and half-blind Aemond Hightower is brought into the makeshift clinic where you have been stationed.

The reunion is a storm of tears and apologies, a raw and unfiltered outpouring of the pain that has been carried for so long. For a few precious months, you have each other once more, as you tend to his injuries, nursing him back to some semblance of health. In those fleeting moments, the two of you cling to each other like drowning souls.

But fate is a fickle mistress, and there is nothing she loves more than to slit the throats of young lovers, and you are not spared the annihilation that has been written for you in the very stars, centuries before you were even born, a destiny that neither of you can escape, no matter how hard you try.

"You're going to die in your best friend's arms. And you play along because it's funny, because it's written down, you've memorized it, it's all you know."

CHAPTERS: (coming soon)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter3

Chapter 4

A/N: This isn't going to be a full-length fic. It's going to be a collection of one-shots almost, or snippets jumping around the timeline to tell the most important parts of the story, so maybe 10-12 chapters at most. This way I won't bore yall with unnecessary filler chapters and still get to tell the story I want. The summary is about as much as you'll on the background tbh, this is meant to be an AemondxReader centric story. It's inspired by Atonement and every other WW2 movie I've ever watched.

Comment to lemme know if this is something you would be interested in and if you'd like to be added to the taglist.

Alternatively, add yourself to the taglist!

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

Dandadan AU ideas???

Momo is the embodiment of a real goddess, the deceased granddaughter of Seiko who somehow was chosen by the gods and protects her grandma

Okarun is a little alien researcher who came to Earth to learn what a ¨human¨ is and somehow ended up finding Momo

or in reverse?

Okarun is the King of Curses. A child who was abandoned by everyone, no one wanted him so he went to the forest trying to find one soul that would love him. And someone did find him... now curses, demons, yokais, and anything supernatural run through Japan freely, stronger, and angrier!

Momo never knew her parents, she just knew that she had a grandma who took care of her since she was a baby. She always believed in ghosts and even saw them, and tho she tried to keep her distance, her curiosity was bigger. One night, she got too close and too far away from home. Just one deep bite on her arm awakened something inside her that made her realize she was nor human, nor dead!!!

[thesleepyfable]

@saintalondre has an amazing Afterlife AU, so I drew Ghost!Caz for ~ spooky season ~ in the Mystery Skulls Animated art-style. Click for better quality.

Lore Notes below, including what is canon from the series, speculated and how it would link to Caz:

The ghosts don't have a lower jaw or neck. It's a design choice. Because of this, Caz won't have his facial hair.

The skulls is held in place by a magnetic force.

The rest of the body is nearly black with a basic skeletal outline. Caz is a physical being that can be touched.

The ghost always returns wearing funeral attire. It's unknown if the ribs are real or part of the outfit, but I think it's the latter. Caz is wearing gloves.

Caz might have worn blue, but since he had brown hair, he has an orange colour palette.

The heart is a locket that has a picture of the deceased's most treasured memory. For Caz, it's a family photo at Maidie's Christening. Roy took the photo, bringing the memory full circle.

Caz can still speak.

He can willingly be visible or invisible.

Powers include: Possession and levitation of themselves, people and items.

The hair can turn into fire. It only happens during moments of extreme anger, but Caz can create and manipulate fire at will. Yes, this does mean he can, and does, have knuckle-dusters.

The small ghosts are called Deadbeats. They're basically assistants for Caz. Haunting is a full-time job, after all.

Happy Hauntings!