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danniburgh · 3 years

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Evergreen Intrusion (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x f!reader

Summary: You never knew what happened or why it did; at nights, when you wrapped yourself around his body and he held you in place so you wouldn’t slip away from him, you talked about it, always coming to the same conclusion right before falling asleep. It was real.

Word count: +8.2k

Warnings: angst, hints of grief, smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), this is my attempt at magical realism, bear with me.

A/N: okay guys, this took me over 2 months to finish, i left it incomplete bc sex with frankie intimidated me but i sat today and said "youre gonna get done bitch" and it did, with major changes, but it did. anyway, thanks <3 and i wanna thank @mouthymandalorian because since the start i ranted everything to her and she read it in april and said “its good bitch” and wow, i love her so much i wanna cry

Masterlist // Read on ao3 // playlist // ko-fi

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓

moodboard by me // gifs: @pajamasecrets and @conveniently-available

Many years later, when Frankie thought of the smell of the thick fog making contact with the grass, petrichor, is called, he would recall the time he spent with you on that place, in that time, and he would remember the eerie aura that you had carried with you during your stay, you glowed. It wasn’t like the feeling the rain gave him when he heard it. It was something else, something he couldn’t name, even decades after it happened.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” you sighed out, looking around you and seeing nothing but thick high pine trees.

Your feet ached because of how long you two had been walking together; Frankie decided the previous day that as you both had your weekend off, maybe some hiking would do you good. He had found a location he liked three and a half hours away from the racket and hustle of the city; he had driven you both in and guided you both inside. The air inside the forest was chilly, the ambient was silent, and at the height you were currently in, a thin layer of fog was roaming and settling right above your heads.

The view was breathtaking, though. The trees made a shelter high above your bodies, the leaves and tweaks and small bushes under your feet were soft, almost mushy, the moss around the tree trunks adorned them in different, formless patterns that you could make out if you were close enough to them, and if you touched them, they whispered the secrets of their host.

It was a weird time in your relationship with Frankie, he had just finished his therapy sessions and he had just recovered his pilot’s license, but he could still get lost into himself at times, he could still sit silent in a room full of people, thinking and thinking and thinking.

He had changed, the Frankie you knew and loved had changed since Santiago had practically dragged him to Colombia for a job. And when they came back, Santiago sent to you pieces of a man, poorly glued together.

Helping Frankie re-build himself was a challenge in itself, first you had to help him find himself among the mess that he was when he came back home. And slowly you had to help cleanse himself from the metaphorical dirt he had carried with him, dirt that was so embedded into his skin; under his nails, behind his ears, entangled in his hair, between his fingers, under his feet, that you had found yourself taking off time from work, and basically life to help him scrub it all off.

All to aid him become himself again. Not lost time. Completely worth it. Because when you had finished helping him, he had looked at you, deep in the eyes, and he had thanked you in the best way he knew how.

But he could still get lost into himself at times.

“No, we are not lost, babe,” Frankie’s voice was low, he was trying to get the map on his hand in some other direction to locate himself.

“Frankie, we are lost,” your hand dropped to his shoulder and he raised his eyes to you, his gaze glistening with the soft light that shone through the pine branches that hovered feet above you, making them look like fine pieces of dried amber, almost hypnotizing.

“Okay yeah, I have no idea where we are,” he sounded resigned to admit it, his shoulders dropped as his head moved so he could take your surroundings in, taking his cap off, brushing his curls back and putting it back on. His eyes for a second got fixated on something far away and you tried to follow the direction his gaze was going, finding nothing but trees, dirt and bushes. His head turned slowly back to you and he left out a sigh when he saw you smile at him.

“What?” Frankie muttered, you bit your lip as you saw his preoccupied quirk, his eyes were trying to find some reassurance in yours, as if he thought you had an answer to a question he had yet to ask.

“We can always walk back from where we came, don’t we?” you suggested, shrugging lightly, trying to get Frankie to loosen up a bit. If he started to freak out, then you knew everything had gone to shit. And you didn’t want that.

Frankie looked at you and he looked behind you at the path you had come from, considering the suggestion.

“I mean, yeah,” his eyes fixated again on something or somewhere and then his brow furrowed, you followed his eyes and yet again, you found nothing but trees, “I jus–what the fuck?” you widened your eyes.

“Frankie?” your voice was as thin and disperse as the fog above you and it seemingly didn’t reach Frankie’s ears, because you had to find your air and put it all in your diaphragm to almost shout at him “Frankie!”

He looked around him slowly, his brown eyes were roaming around trying to locate something, anything and his worried stance and his shocked face made your stomach churn in something closer to fear than expectation.

“I can’t find the way we came from,” he whispered, and you saw the fog slowly turn into a transparent arm and reach to his mouth, eating his voiced words. Delightful, the fog said.

“Don’t play with me,” you pleaded, shivering as you felt as well the fog’s arm feel out the confines of your mouth, tasting your words, not liking them and spitting them on the floor.

Frankie looked at you, his eyes telling you he wasn’t lying, his brows were almost touching each other and his mouth was open in bewilderment, he shook his head slowly a few times and you felt your legs flutter and a heavy weight fall onto your shoulders.

“Look for it,” you mouthed, Frankie saw you breathing heavily and he rushed to you, he dropped his backpack to the floor. His hands on your body felt electrifying. His touch was heavy with preoccupation, his face was quirked in confusion as he guided your breaths in and out, in and out, in and out.

Once the air entered your lungs and exited them as food for the trees around you he tried again to look for the narrowed path you two had walked into the forest.

“C’mon, I think is this way,” he pointed in a random direction and you whined. The fog’s arm rejected it as well, and it fell in front of your feet; you looked at it and found out why the fog didn’t like it, it was stale, incorporeal, bland.

“Are you sure?” your question felt like a prayer and a plea and a beg. Frankie nodded. He wasn’t but he nodded.

Frankie took your hand and turned around to put on his backpack. But the backpack was gone and the ground where it was thrown onto before was ruffling about it.

“Fuck,” he swore and brushed a hand on his forehead to wipe the thin layer of fog that was clinging to his skin, mimicking sweat. “let’s go,” you nodded and gripped his hand as hard as you could, your other hand gripped the shoulder strap of your own backpack and for a second you glanced at the space on the ground that had eaten Frankie’s and it growled softly.

You and Frankie walked for what it felt like hours upon hours upon hours. And you got nowhere.

At that point the forest looked like a carbon copy of itself, the moss was showing the same secrets and you started to be sad, and angry, and scared, and Frankie noticed and the forest noticed.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Frankie muttered to you, you felt an ever so known and unwelcomed sting in your throat, “I’m so sorry,” his arms found you and he held you close to his chest, he kept muttering apologies. For getting you two lost, for choosing that place, for wanting to hike, for not giving you the time you needed, for making you lose a piece of yourself in the works of putting him together. He was sorry. And you felt it. And the forest felt it too.

You cried, as everything felt like you weren’t going home anytime soon.

And Frankie held you, because he was the only piece of home you had left, and you were the only piece of home he had left.

Your tears escaped your eyes and the fog’s arm feasted on them, and you let it. It was the only delicious thing you could offer to it, anyway.

You didn’t know for how long he had been embracing you and letting you damp his shirt with the tears that the fog’s arm didn’t choose to eat when you heard it.

But you didn’t hear it, you felt it entering your head, roaming around your ears and getting itself settled in your mind.

A whisper from the forest. It sounded like a tree’s secret, but sadder, needier, stronger, bigger, heavier, darker and lighter.

“I wanna go home,” you whispered out, to him. To Frankie.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he broke the embrace and his hands slid to cup your face, he brought you to him slowly and took your lips in his.

He kissed you with gentle desperation. His mouth moved at the rhythm of an unheard, newly made up song, chordless, lyricless, soundless; his grasp on your head felt like the silk of the sheets you never lied on, the sound of his tongue sliding into your mouth was lewd and warm and happy and there. You grasped his wrists and held onto him as if he were your home. Not letting you go. Not letting him go. No one was going anywhere.

You kissed for what it felt like hours upon hours upon hours and when he stopped kissing you; you chased his mouth and kissed him again and the songless song began again, and the never owned softness stayed in there, and the ever so present warmness became warmer.

When the air of your lungs faded into the leaves and the pinecones screamed at you and the moss stopped whispering their host’s secrets at the surprise of you kissing for so long, you stopped.

And Frankie’s big, warm, brown eyes felt ever more present, as if they had been there for years and years.

He smiled at you. And you were sure the thin fog that invaded the space faded away because of it.

“You wanna try again?” he asked softly, and you nodded, replying to his smile with one of yours.

So Frankie grabbed your hand again, and you two started walking in whatever direction you two felt like walking.

Soon enough you would be home.

“Oh” Frankie let out, tightening the grip on your hand, you looked at him with anticipation and question in your eyes. His gaze seemed to be fixated on something and you, yet again, followed his eyes, not really expecting to find anything. But you were surprised at what your gaze encountered.

“Wow,” you sighed out. You felt Frankie's eyes on your face and you turned to see him. His eyes bewildered, his smile giddy, contagious, child-like. His. It was him.

“Shall we?” he asked. You nodded enthusiastically, giving him the brightest smile he thought he had ever seen in all his years on the earthly plane.

You had found a house.

A small, old-looking house.

The outside was battered, the pass of the life’s years had darkened its wooden walls, made them look like wrinkles in an old person’s face, the small, squared windows on the front were foggy and covered with white, fine dust and an even thinner layer of mist, it had a small rot-wooden deck, moss and mold and a bright green vine covered the steps. From the spot you were standing at, you could see the way the climbing plants and the secret teller moss adorned the single slope roof.

Tiny droplets of water that had grasped and clung tenaciously onto the roof edge from the fog that had faded into the sky were succumbing to the gravity and fell onto the floor, sounding like some form of a song you were sure you knew but never heard.

As you two walked hand in hand, you noticed the open door. The house felt old; it felt weak; it felt blight, yet so warm, so bright, so inviting, so welcoming.

So you entered.

Frankie let out a soft gasp at the sight.

The inside was even more tainted.

The walls were partially covered with the remains of a rotten, tattered, poorly kept wallpaper, the color had faded and the only noticeable feature of it was the flower print that seemed to adorn it after years and years of exposure to everything around you.

The wooden floors looked long-lived; some of the wood tiles were cracking, some of them looked sturdy, some others were rotten and there were a few places around where there were no tiles and it was just wet, dark dirt.

You looked at Frankie with a smile adorning your face and he was looking at the ceiling; you looked up as well and saw the wooden beams above you, angled and darkened, some weathered and damp, some robust and dry. They looked relaxed, yet hefty. Soft yet firm. Some of the climbing plants you had seen creeping on the roof had crawled and slithered and found themselves at home in the beams.

It was beautiful.

“C’mon,” you tugged at Frankie's hand and pulled him further inside. He followed close. The first room, the biggest, had on one side a worn out, misted loveseat in the middle of the space and a stone fireplace that the time and the weather and the forest and the fog had taken care of turning green. On the other side there was a small table, topped with fallen leaves from the climbing plants, a wood stove right below a window and a legged stained sink with a copper faucet.

You bit your lip and narrowed your eyes, thinking.

“What?” Frankie asked when he saw your face, you smiled and walked towards the sink, with him following you, with your free hand you reached the faucet handle and twisted it. The pipes started moaning in protest after being awakened so rudely and without notice and then, clear water started pouring from it.

Frankie barked out a laugh. And you smiled at him, your eyes bright and shiny as if the moon was stationed inside them.

You got rid of your backpack and left it on the floor while Frankie washed his hands and cupped them to gather water and drink it, after he finished he left them under the faucet and nodded his chin to them. You leaned down and drank from his hands. The water tasted sweet; it tasted like rain; it tasted like a summer night breeze, and the early days of winter before a snowstorm. It tasted like home.

Frankie’s skin was warm at the touch, despite the outside's brisk temperature. When you finished drinking, your throat happy and satiated, you smiled at him as he twisted the handle to stop the stream of water. You wiped your mouth dry with the sleeve of your shirt and your eyes meandered around the space, taking in the colors of the wood, the small crevices of the teared wallpaper, the way the window adorned herself with tiny specks of dust that formed a thin yet thick white cover all over the glass, and the way Frankie seemed to fit like a puzzle piece in the middle of the room. As if he was part of it. As if he was meant to stand in the middle of the rotten wooden floor, among the fallen leaves of the climbing plants that never seemed to die.

“You’re really pretty,” Frankie muttered, his brown yet amber eyes glistened with the anticipation of what was about to come but you didn’t know yet. The great something-about-to-happen. You smiled at him and his chest fluttered, swollen with the extensive, deep love he had for you.

“Let’s go see the rest,” you suggested, Frankie nodded as he saw your voice eagerly come out of your lips in crescent waves of light, and smiled back at you when you took his hand again, intertwining his fingers with yours, sending his spine a few shocks of loving electricity.

You walked to the center of the big room that functioned as both an impressively functioning kitchen and a rotten living room and at the end, on the wall, there were two doors, both medium tall, dark, mahogany doors, one of them closed, the other halfway open.

Frankie followed you as you tugged gently at his hand, you walked first to the one closed and the doorknob felt like room temperature butter when you twisted it open, it was a plain and simple bathroom, the three essentials, a misty, foggy, dusty mirror on the wall and a misty, foggy, dusty window in front of you, you smiled to yourself when you saw the way the climbing plant was creeping its way inside the room from a little crack on the upper left corner of the window.

Walking back you stepped towards the halfway open door and you pushed it open with two fingers. The hinges howled softly as the door moved to the side and let you enter through it. You scoffed as you saw a double, tubular bed in the middle of the room, the green bedding seemed plush and cozy, it looked like a giant sheet of that secret telling moss that gave you the warm welcome when you were walking towards the house.

Directly next to the bed there was a bigger window, still covered and hidden by the dust and the fog and the white mist that apparently covered every single glass surface around the house, as if it was its job, but it still let the light come through to the room, illuminating it with the smiles of the little sunlight that the trees allowed to enter their space.

In front of the bed there was a dusty mirror, the frame of it was bigger than the glass but fitting, and it reflected the tiny, thin, imperceptible sun rays that the window happily let through.

The room felt colder than the bigger space outside and you didn’t like it.

“Let’s take that outside, it feels like a freezer here,” Frankie said and you nodded. Both of you walked and each one grabbed an edge of the bedding. You looked at Frankie with your eyebrows raised and asked without asking if he was feeling the same thing around your hands.

The sheet felt like velvet and moss and the single petal of a rose that fell on a table when you put its owner on a small vase, it felt soft as the whispers of love you would give Frankie when he slipped inside of you, soft as the whispers of the forest you had heard earlier, but happier, relaxed, lovelier.

Frankie then looked through the window and he narrowed his eyes a bit.

“I think the sun is about to set, baby,” he mumbled, you agreed with him without looking at the window “come on, we have to rest.”

You two walked outside the room with the thick sheet on your hands and let it fall carelessly on the floor of the rotten living room, between the tattered loveseat and the green stone fireplace.

You felt Frankie’s hand leave yours and find its place on your waist, soothing you even when you didn’t need to be soothed. Caressing you, knowing you always wanted to be caressed.

You turned your head to see him and he reached in to grab your lips in his, his mouth tasted sweet and earthy, his lips told you what he was thinking without saying it and you turned around so your bodies could talk to each other.

“I love you,” he inserted in your mouth the words without having to break the kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck, playing with the curls that escaped eagerly from his cap and your skin felt like it was melting and mixing with his, your scents got to know each other again and for a brief, brief moment, it felt like you were floating several inches from the floor.

A soft crack above you interrupted your kiss and you and Frankie turned your heads up to follow the sound, one of the ceiling beams was moving, slowly. Frankie moved you gently, pushing your waist and you stood there, watching how the middle of it cracked itself open from two different points. The soft noises the wood made as it opened itself sounded like an egg hatching, you narrowed your eyes when the cracking stopped and then, a single, almost perfectly squared piece of the ceiling beam fell to the floor, landing next to your feet with a soft thud.

Frankie let go of your waist and leaned down to pick the piece of wood up with curious eyes.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered to himself and to you.

“What?” you questioned, narrowing your eyes in amusement at his soft expression and his small smile.

Frankie then reached inside the beam and slowly pulled out a thin, small purple flower.

“Oh,” you gasped, covering your mouth with one hand, Frankie, ever so delicately finished taking out the flower from the wood with everything and roots and admired it closer, smiled to himself and then gave it to you.

“Una flor para otra flor,” (a flower for another) he whispered and you both chuckled, taking the small flower from his fingers.

“So fucking cheesy,” you teased, reaching to his cheek to cup his face with your other hand, brushing softly over his patchy beard with your thumb, taking in the sight of your boyfriend’s face, the dimmed light that the windows allowed to get through them gave him an aura of safety and his skin seemed like it was sparkling.

You looked down to the small flower, still cupping his face, and you smiled at the way the purple petals danced on the stem, stirring as if the wey stretching after a long while dormant and encapsulated inside the wood of the beam. You brought it to your nose and the petals brushed the tip of it as you inhaled softly the scent of its core.

The flower smelled like the garden of your childhood home, like the perfume that your grandma used. It smelled like the mixed berries Frankie liked to munch standing in front of the open fridge in the middle of the night, it smelled like the dream you had the night Frankie came home after Colombia and that you couldn’t wipe out from your head.

You looked back at Frankie; he was grinning at the way the flower seemed to hug your nose as you smelled it.

“What?” you asked him, reciprocating his smile. He shook his head. Nothing. He inserted in your mind without parting his lips. You slid your hand to his neck and pulled him softly to you, he reached out, knowing what you wanted. Frankie always knew what you wanted.

When his lips brushed yours, you lifted your other hand and pushed the small flower between your mouths.

Frankie let out a chuckle at the action and sighed into your mouth when the flower opened up its petals to kiss you both back.

You let the flower fall to the floor when Frankie’s hands found their home on your waist again and pulled you to him, bringing you flush to his broad chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

Frankie’s lips tasted like the flower’s pollen and a faint hint of the fog that had tasted his words

His lips stole a moan from your throat as he used his tongue to open yours and you both heard the way the flower imitated your moan on her newfound place on the floor, making you both smile at the soft, almost imperceptible sound.

The air became warmer, thicker with all the love that exuded from your bodies. You both heard the secret teller moss yell at the way he was kissing you so the forest found out and it made you incredibly proud to have a man like him devouring your lips ever so softly.

“Make love to me, Frankie,” you whispered on his lips, carefully reaching into his throat and pulling out a soft groan out of it with your words. He just nodded in response and slowly guided your body to kneel on the sheet and kept kissing you.

Your mind reeled at the way Frankie used his lips to make you feel safe, protected, loved, cared for. By the way he, with a few movements of his lips, could make you feel like you had been kissing him and kissing him and kissing him for years and years and years.

Frankie’s hands roamed around your waist and the small of your back, without hurry they got under your shirt and you sighed at the warmness, soft roughness of his touch on your skin, you took his cap off and let it fall on the floor, next to the flower.

The flower crawled towards the cap as you continued praying against Frankie’s lips and snuggled next to the brim.

He broke the kiss, and you felt a gentle, faint breeze cover your body when Frankie took off your shirt, it felt as if it was caressing you softly, and it made the hairs on your skin rise.

Frankie stole your kiss again and hands trailed to cup your tits over the fabric of your bra and you let out a low whimper when he teased your nipples over it. You slid your hands from his neck to his chest and worked slowly to unbutton his plaid shirt. Your feathery touch on his warm, sun kissed skin made him moan softly, and the flower mimicked the sound again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured on your lips when you made him take off the shirt. You smiled on his kiss, with him on you, on any part of you, you always believed him.

His lips traveled down to your chin, where he left a soft bite and ripped another soft moan out of you.

As you helped him to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans, Frankie liked a stripe of skin from your chin to your neck and you smiled, your eyes were closed when his plush lips started nibbling at your tender, fog tasted flesh and once his belt was unbuckled and his pants were unbuttoned, he slid them down.

“Take off yours, baby,” he whispered, you bit your lip and did it; you undressed as he did and once you were completely naked, bared and vulnerable in front of him, he stopped his own movements to admire your body, “gorgeous.” the word slipped from his lips like thick, raw honey and fell onto the blanket, smearing on it, the fabric sensed it and absorbed the word and your eyes, as he reached for your naked waist, saw it disappear inside it.

Frankie brought you to him once again and his kisses fell on your skin like soft, summer rain; warm and light and all over you; your hands found themselves caressing any part of his body they could reach, making him drop little moans and whimpers on your skin, marking it, leaving it tainted with the soft noises that he produced as you enjoyed the softness of his body.

He laid you down on the sheet and it made itself cushioned under you, it was fresh, comfortable, soft and stirred ever so slightly under your body; it made you shiver softly.

Frankie’s lips went down your neck, his warm, soft tongue played with your nipples as his hands roamed up and down your torso, you buried your fingers inside his curls; scratched his scalp gently with your nails, making him grunt against your breast.

“Frankie,” you whispered out, his name floating all the way up like an inflated balloon and crashing onto the wooden beams with an unhearable thud, Frankie hummed in response with his mouth worshipping your other breast, his beard making the most gentle burns onto your skin “eat me.” you begged, closing your eyes when he smirked against the tender, already sensitive flesh of your chest.

Without saying more words his kissed trailed down your body, several of them on your lower abdomen, you chuckled and opened your eyes, lifting your head to look at him; Frankie was already looking at you; his deep, brown and amber looking eyes telling you without hesitance what he wanted, what he had been asking for months and months and months. You threw your head back on the sheet with a smile adorning your face as he took your thighs and gently opened them up for him; his face buried inside you and he inhaled the scent of your deepest corner.

With kitten licks, Frankie started tasting you; making you moan when his tongue went deeper, he opened you further and buried his tongue inside you, prompting a groan out of you; guttural, soft. Frankie smiled against your folds, proud and enamoured of the sounds he was making you produce.

Your hand pushed him further deeper inside you, Frankie eagerly opened his mouth around your core and started sucking and licking and nibbling and tasting. You threw your head to the side and your heavy lids opened just enough for you to look at the small purple flower that was snuggled right next to the seam of Frankie’s cap. It was lying on the floor almost lazily, its roots were stirring and stretching and you smiled at it; it was feeling it too.

Frankie’s fingers found your entrance and pushed inside, starting to curl and press and push to the sides and upwards, making you lift your back off the sheet and hatch your hips on his face, you moaned as he pulled his fingers out and in again at a tantalizing rhythm he knew you loved; his lips nibbled at your clit and his tongue teased at it in synchrony with his fingers, you let out a long moan and Frankie groaned against your core. The vibrations of his voice against your tender, swollen pussy made you stiffen and hold your breath, you gasped when he sucked at your clit rather hoarsely and the air that left your lungs through your lips traveled like a feather falling through the air and fell directly on the purple flower.

Frankie sucked and curled his fingers inside you and you rolled your hips against his face, he had built a coil inside you that was getting warmer and warmer with each wet lick on you; your hand fisted his hair and as the coil snapped in half, you pulled it, making Frankie grunt against you. He helped you ride your orgasm and as you came down from one of the highest climaxes he had made you feel in what it felt like years and years and years, he crawled slowly upwards between your legs, covering you with his body.

“Hey,” he whispered above your face, you opened your eyes and smiled when you saw his eyes, those beautiful eyes of his inches from you “you okay?” he asked. You nodded and cupped his slick covered face with both your hands, closing the distance between your mouths and tasting yourself in the process of devouring his lips.

Frankie whimpered at the depth of your kiss and when he broke it, you heard the slightest of sounds; a yelp that sounded both from afar and up close. You turned to the side at the same time and you let out a soft chuckle when you saw the purple flower standing. Its roots well planted into the wood tiles of the floor. An almost imperceptible coat of transparent slick covered its petals.

You turned to Frankie and he smiled at you, falling onto your lips once more.

Your hands wrapped themselves around his neck and your legs opened up for him to brush the underside of his duck against your wet folds; you shivered, feeling the way he was throbbing for you.

“I love you.” he whispered without whispering and you rolled your hips closer to him. He slid inside of you with any other intervention than the sole need you had for each other; he moaned softly against your mouth as his hips started thrusting inside you at a gentle pace you didn’t know he was capable of going at.

You stopped kissing him and pulled his body to rest on yours; one of his hands rested on your hip as the other moved to frame your head and he ground into you slowly; deeply; harder while his rhythm wasn’t strong.

Frankie hid his face in the crook of your neck and you wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle for both, you moaned when his cock started grazing a soft spot inside you that made you close your eyes and see the stars up close.

“More.” you heard a voice that wasn’t yours but sounded like you, and Frankie whined against your skin, licking you. He picked up the rhythm and went faster enough so you gushed around him and the noise of him pumping inside you inundated the room; as he drove into you and your throat made the most sweet and soft noises he swore he had ever heard you make, you heard the fog creeping into the house; it slithered in through the small openings the creeping plants were watching you make love from. You felt the weight of the fog falling on top of you and when it covered you whole, Frankie started pounding into you.

“Oh, god.” you moaned out. Frankie held you in place with a hand on your head and another on your waist and went impossibly faster, the noises that your skins made when they clashed together were being muffled by the fog, whose arm formed once more and caressed you both in places you wouldn’t let anyone else touch.

You heard another yelp from afar and your eyes looked for it in the purple flower, but it had turned its back to you and you noticed how, from the seams of the wood tiles on the floor, little purple nubs and buds started growing.

You gasped when Frankie changed the angle, sliding in and out faster than before, hitting your g-spot with more strength, and your breath hitched when he started grunting inside your neck. You turned your head to the other side and saw more of the purple buds. Some of them were opening already, and you felt your eyes water when you saw several small, slick covered purple flowers stretching their petals to the ceiling.

A deep, particular thrust of Frankie into you made your legs tremble. He started kissing your neck and your jaw and your chin, still driving into you at that murdering pace of his you had never felt before. You felt his beard tickling your skin, and you grew aware of every inch of sweaty, fog covered skin you owned; when he kissed your lips and ate the small moans you didn’t realize you were letting out, you grew aware of everything that rested inside your body, and you felt it move, grow, swell and deflate at the same time.

“Frankie,” you whispered against his lips, his cock driving into you and making you squirm beneath him “Frankie.” you gasped, his mouth trapped yours and you felt him throb inside your cunt.

“You’re here.” he muttered against your lips. The sudden, overwhelming emotion of being wrapped around him made you cum almost immediately with your eyes closed shut and your mouth opened at the fog’s mercy, that ate your moans with fervency.

Frankie slid in and out of you for more time than he had ever done before after your orgasms, he was whispering to you words you didn’t understand; you felt your eyes shed the tears they had held as you came at the sight of all the nubs and buds opening as Frankie thrusted into you. All of them opened as beautiful, small, slick covered purple flowers; carbon copies of the one he had found inside the piece of beam and gifted to you.

“They’re ours,” you gasped, Frankie hummed in affirmation, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth agape, his breath hitting your face, you cupped his face. “let go,” you whispered to him, caressing the flush skin of his face. “it’s enough, let go.”

Frankie moaned out and grunted, locking his hips with his cock fully inside you as he filled you with himself as deep as he could. He opened his eyes once the last drop of his seed was poured into you and gazed at you.

“How are they?” he asked, panting and trying to recover from his orgasm.

“They’re beautiful.” you replied with a teary smile, Frankie kissed you softly and turned his head to the sides, still inside you, looking at all the precious, tiny purple flowers that surrounded you.

“They’re ours.” he said with a smile adorning his face.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” the scream Santiago let out made you flinch, and you fisted and gripped Frankie's dampened clothes. His hold on your body tightened, and you felt another errant tear escape from your eyes.

“Pope.” Frankie could only let out that sole word, his throat was closed shut and the only thing that was keeping him from falling knees first onto the floor was your body and your need to be supported so you didn’t fall to the floor as well.

“Fish, what the fuck, man?” Santiago frowned at the look you two were carrying; your clothes were soaked wet and dirty, your hair was dripping muddy water. Frankie had wet knots on his hair and for Santiago it was odd looking at him without his cap on. You were shaking and almost climbing onto Frankie’s body.

Frankie didn’t answer. Santi looked at your feet and neither of you were wearing shoes.

“C’mon, c’mon in,” he stepped to the side and Frankie whispered in your ear to move, but he ended up almost carrying you inside. “you need a shower,” Santiago muttered when the both of you got inside and the swampy smell that clung to you brushed his nose. Frankie nodded and slowly walked inside Sant’s home towards the bathroom “Fish,” he heard the voice of his best friend behind him and stopped walking, not bothering to turn around “man, it’s been a year, where were you?”

You sobbed into Frankie’s shoulder and lifted your head to look at Santiago, who frowned when he looked into your bloodshot eyes.

“Living.” you whispered out, missing the fog’s arm, that was not there to eat at your words.

After a thirty-minute shower; in which both of you sat on the shower’s floor and Frankie attempted to unknot your hair as gently as he could while you shared furtive glances, feathery touches, kisses of understanding and heavy; painful tears, you were sitting on Santiago’s dining table wrapped in his clothes and a blanket, gripping each other’s hands as hard as you could.

“Where were you?” Santi asked, his voice soft, his eyes on you and the way Frankie didn’t seem to separate an inch from you.

“The forest.” Frankie muttered. Santiago sighed and tried to look away from you.

“For a year?” he let out in an incredulous whisper.

“It didn’t feel like a year.” you murmured, your voice thin as a thread, your eyes on Frankie’s side, you leaned to rest your head on his shoulder.

“What do you mean it didn’t feel like a year?” Santiago raised his voice and immediately caught himself and tried to calm down “we were about to pronounce you dead,” he tightened his jaw and his finger pressed on the wood of the table, you smirked at the parallels; his finger almost looked like Soleil, the first flower that you and Frankie gave birth to “both of you.”

“You wouldn’t get it, Santi.” you whispered, looking at him from Frankie’s shoulder.

“Explain it to me, then.” he said, crossing his arms on his chest, Frankie let out a huff.

“No.” Frankie said.

“We got lost,” you started. Frankie stiffened next to you and turned to the side to face you; he looked at your pleading face and with his eyes asked you if you were sure. You cupped his face, scratched his short beard and nodded ever so slightly; missing the way he would slip his words inside your mind when he didn’t feel like talking, “we got lost in the forest.” you said, still looking at Frankie.

Santiago stirred in his chair. He had never seen you do that, look into each other’s eyes so profoundly it felt like you two were sharing not only the same air, but the same brain; the same heart.

“And we found a house,” you turned to see him, teary-eyed and a soft smile adorning your face. Frankie hid his face inside the crook of your neck and breathed in deeply, your hand caressing his nearly knot-free hair. “and we stayed there.”

“For a year?” Santiago deepened his frown, you huffed and shook your head gently.

“For a week.” you whispered.

Santiago stood up from the chair and closed his eyes, he scratched his beard for a few seconds and turned to you.

“How?” you shrugged.

“We tried to make sense of it as we walked home,” you muttered. Santiago noticed how your eyes got lost in the space between you and him. “we don’t look like a year has passed, right?” you blinked a few times and focused on him. He shook his head “we were supposed to stay there until the sunrise, we just got lost.”

“What made you stay a week?” he asked, hesitantly.

You choked down a sob and felt Frankie’s hand slip out of your entanglement. He wrapped his arms around you.

“The babies.” he let out, his voice deep, his tone hurt. Santiago closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index.

“What babies?” he whispered out. Frankie scoffed at his friend’s reaction.

“Ours.” you let out.

Santiago sat down again and you felt yourself stiffen with the memory of them.

Frankie started talking, but his voice sounded far off and distorted.

Your mind could only focus on the hundred little flowers that were born out of you and Frankie, on how they would make space for you and him to walk around them, on how, if you stopped, they would wrap themselves around your feet, burying them with their soft petals and bathing you in their pollen.

You felt your throat clench at the memory of them waking you up in the mornings as your limbs were wrapped around Frankie’s body, of their smallest voices laughing at his bad jokes or at them bathing in the sheer sunlight that entered through the windows.

They were yours.

They were yours and Frankie’s.

“They died.” Frankie let out with a shaky breath. You felt your face wet with the tears your memories had brought to your eyes and Santiago looked at you; his face quirked in worry, his eyes wet with sympathy.

“How?” Santi dared to ask.

“A storm.” Frankie let out.

You buried your face in his shoulder and cried.

Frankie looked to the seamless ceiling of Santiago’s home and felt his chest turn and burn at the sound of your sobs.

The morning they died, Frankie woke up by the sound of a loud thunder that shook the house; he gripped your body absentmindedly, the memory of the hard rain burning inside his mind made him reach to you, he didn’t like the sound of pounding rain. He loathed it, but you were sleeping next to him and your body was giving him the warmth he didn’t have before.

You were woken up by the second thunder that made the flowers shake their pollen off in fear.

The two of you were naked and the dreadful sound of big drops of water made you sit on the blanket. You turned to look at each other just as the rumbling of another thunder made the misty, foggy, dusty windows shackle on their frames.

At the fourth roar of another thunder several windows broke and the sharp curl of sturdy wind came through the windows, you screamed to him and you dressed quickly and went to look for anything to cover the broken windows.

You tore the blanket apart in several pieces to cover some of the now opened windows, rushing to stop the ferocious wind from coming inside the house, but the storm was strong and gripped at the pieces, snatching them away from your hands every time you tried to use them as a barrier.

Frankie yelled at you to try to use the parts of the loveseat that you had moved to the middle of the kitchen space, and when you tried the deafening, thunderous sound of a sky-tearing thunder made the front door fly open and the rain to flood in.

You were soaked to the bone and you looked down at your feet; the flowers were trying to climb up to your calves but failed each time. The water started streaming into the house from invisible tears on the ceiling and the water level was rising quicker than either of you would’ve liked.

“They’re drowning!” you gasped, covering your mouth with your eyes to prevent from scaring them more than they already were; the tears you knew you were shedding had mixed with the rowdy water that came from each broken window. Frankie acted out of his own fears, he frowned and kneeled on the floor, trying to pick them up, but each time he picked up some, they fainted on his hand. “stop!” you yelled at him. He did it again, not listening to your pleas. You rushed to him and pulled him back “you’re killing them!”

“They’re already dying!” he yelled back at you, his eyes reddened and his jaw tensed in pain. You pulled him back again when he tried to pick up more. “stop!” he yelled, pushing you away from him “let me save them!”

“You can’t!” you screamed at him under another thunder that made the ceiling crack, both of you looked at the beams trying to hold together but they swell with water and were about to give in “Frankie!” you called him, he stood up and took your hand in his.

“Let’s go!” you nodded and let out a sob when you saw the purple petals of the flowers floating on the muddy water, lifeless. Frankie pulled you towards the open door and forced you to run out.

Your feet landed on puddles of swampy water that were ankle deep and you gripped Frankie’s hand as he pulled you away from the house; he tried to regulate his own breathing, the feeling of mud burying his bare feet reminded him too much of another time in his life he didn't want or liked to remember, the rain fell on your bodies like needles and stuck to your clothes, tainting them with a green, dirt color that made you feel disgusting.

You walked together for what felt like hours upon hours upon hours; the secret telling moss was dead as well; the floor that had eaten Frankie’s backpack was flooded with the sharp water that fell from the sky. Corpses of bushes and moss and bugs and birds floating around your legs. It smelled like life. It reminded Frankie of war.

“And then we got out of the forest.” Frankie sniffed out.

Santiago was looking at the both of you with sympathy and pain in his eyes. He stood up from his chair and walked around the table. He stood behind you and wrapped his arms around the both of you.

“I’m so sorry.”

You sobbed out louder.

Many years later, when Frankie thought of the smell of the thick fog making contact with the grass, petrichor, is called, he would recall the time he spent with you on that place, in that time, and he would remember the eerie aura that you had carried with you during your stay; that aura that wrapped your naked body and that followed you wherever you walked to, you glowed.

Whenever you played with the flowers, or their tiny petals wrapped themselves around his fingers and you let out the lightest, freest, most liberating of laughs; you shimmered.

You never knew what happened or why it did; at nights, when you wrapped yourself around his body and he held you in place so you wouldn’t slip away from him, you talked about it, always coming to the same conclusion right before falling asleep. It was real.

And the love you had for each other grew because of it. And the love you felt for your babies existed. And the feeling of peace that it made you feel was still there.

It wasn’t like the feeling the hard rain gave him when he heard it. It was something else, something he couldn’t name, even decades after it happened.

let me know if you wanna be removed :)

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synthshenanigans · 7 months

Text

Round 7 gang!

-Vote for what you think is more underrated but also what you still like a lot-

[RB for more votes if ye'd like]

#this is a painful poll for me #these are some of my favorite CJ songs in *ALL* of his stuff #i have 400+ listens for Greener & 380 for Grew on Me #JUST in spotify #not even counting youtube #you could hold a gun to my dumb lil head & i would still not be able to pick #I'm so normal about these songs #i think grew on me would win because it has less views so therefore is more underrated to me #also that end part is so emotional/gutteral that like #it hits #just know choosing between them is making me explode #okay rant over bye bye #chonny jash #moss' poll #chonnys charming chaos compendium

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nirikeehan · 2 years

Note

re: bad things happen bingo - do overdose for cullen. Fucking do it

Okay, you MONSTER. I did it.

lmao actually this is a double feature of pain, combining this prompt with one from @platoonharmonica who asked for "overdose" for Cullen and Samson. This is part one; part two will be out soon!

For @dadrunkwriting and @badthingshappenbingo

Overdose, Part One: A Little Grace

Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Characters & Pairings: Cullen Rutherford/Thalia Trevelyan, Cassandra Pentaghast, Raleigh Samson, brief mention of Thalia/Blackwall

Word Count: 4562 - enjoy this hefty serving of whump

CW: This is what it says on the tin, fam. Drug addiction, near death experience, PTSD, it's all in here. I actually put some comfort in my hurt/comfort this time though, so there's that.

Now with an AO3 link if you’d rather read it there!

---

Cullen was not in his office.

Thalia froze, her exuberant pace halted by the empty tower. There was his desk, cluttered with papers; there were his bookcases, crammed with tomes and military treatises. His chess set sat on a low shelf, where he left it after their last game. Candles flickered in their candelabras.

She called his name, to silence. She climbed the ladder to his deserted bedchamber, as neat as always. Thalia slid down the ladder and landed soundly, a lump in her throat. There was no reason to panic. He could have stepped out for a breath of fresh air, or an unexpected issue may have arisen at the soldier camp. Still, something about the thick silence unsettled her. Cullen rarely went anywhere without notice.

Thalia poked her head out onto the battlements, spotted an aide.

“Have you seen the Commander?” She kept her tone light.

“He’s not there?” said the aide, surprised.

Thalia thanked him with a smile and implored him not to worry. If this was some misunderstanding, she did not want to be the hysterical girlfriend who raised the alarm against an imagined peril. She shut the wooden door and leaned against it, shoulders slumping. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. She could still smell him here: the faint scent of elderflower, oak moss and other tinctures he took for the pain. He’s been doing well, she reminded herself.

She crossed to his desk, prickled by guilt. It was unfair to look through his belongings without permission. Admonishments ran in her head as she rummaged among reports and manifests and writing implements. Couldn’t she just trust him? Things had finally begun to settle down after Adamant and Halamshiral, not to mention the nightmare with Blackwall — No, Thom Rainier, she thought, every syllable of the unfamiliar name a jagged edge. Cullen had been there for Thalia through it all, and she for him, during the long lyrium withdrawal and the uncertainty that came with it.

She had even helped him track his old colleague, Samson, once a templar like Cullen, now an agent of Corypheus. It had thrilled her to work beside Cullen on that mission, like a secret blooming between them. Fueled at first by her burgeoning affection, solidified by their deepening mutual feelings, they had stalked the man relentlessly, often pouring over clues deep into the night. Perhaps that was the reason she had never shared her unease with anyone when Cullen ranted about destroying Samson, focused to the point of obsession. She had to gently remind him of the signs that pointed to Samson’s enduring humanity.

He used to be Cullen’s friend, she had marveled grimly. It must be difficult to lose a comrade-in-arms to their sworn enemy, but it still smarted to contemplate getting on Cullen’s bad side — and how easy that might have been, back when he was a templar and she a Circle mage.

Like a conjured spirit, there was the letter from Samson, centered on the desk. Thalia stilled. Cullen had never let her see it at the Shrine of Dumat; he had only summarized its contents with a sarcastic flourish before tucking it away. Why would he still have it? And leave it here, as if he’d been studying it? She had assumed he burned it.

She tilted her head at the messy cursive.

Cullen,

Drink enough lyrium and its song reveals the truth. You ought to put your ear to the ground and listen. The Chantry used us, chewed us up and spat us out, left us husks of our former selves. I still see it in your eyes. I could have saved you, but you refused.

You’re fighting the wrong battle. All your Inquisition’s hollow posturing will lead to nothing but ruin. Your Inquisitor is a false prophet, just like Andraste. Corypheus chose me as his general and his vessel of power. You will be defeated, and I will ascend to the right hand of a god. I would show you mercy, if you only knew how to prostrate yourself and beg.

If you truly believe you are superior, why not face me? Alone. You remember the Wounded Coast, I’m sure. You know where to go.

Samson

Thalia could scarcely breathe. The Wounded Coast outside Kirkwall was a fell place, full of treacherous cliffs and abandoned coves, hideouts for all manner of riff raff. Cullen had lived there for the better part of a decade. If that was where he’d gone, she didn’t know how she would ever find him. Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to fall for such an obvious trap?

Something is different with him and Samson. The thought chilled her, but it was true. Cullen was loyal to the Inquisition, but there was a part of him that he kept away from her and everyone else. It stemmed from the horror that had befallen him at Kinloch Hold, but spiraled out beyond that, to Kirkwall and the Templar Order and who knew what else.

I could have saved you, but you refused. Were these truly just the ravings of a madman?

Thalia scanned the letter. One line drew her eye again and again. She read in a whisper, “Drink enough lyrium and its song reveals the truth.”

A tingle of fear ran down her arms and into her fingers. Thalia dropped into a crouch and put her hand on the bottom drawer of Cullen’s desk. Weeks ago, she had watched him lock it and pocket the key, promising he would no longer pull out the small ceremonial box and contemplate its contents.

But there’s still lyrium in there, she had pointed out. She’d wanted to confiscate the bottle and throw it out over Skyhold’s walls, but he hadn’t let her.

I need to know it’s there, he said.

Why?

I need to know it’s there and I don’t need it.

She pulled at the drawer. It slid open. Inside was the box, clasps undone, ajar. “No,” Thalia pleaded. “No, no, no.” She tore at it, nearly snapping off a hinge. She knocked aside the wooden statue of Andraste. At the bottom, the glass lyrium cylinder lay on its side, uncapped and empty.

Thalia jumped to her feet and ran. She went out the door, down the stone steps, across the courtyard, toward Herald’s Rest. “Cassandra,” she screamed as she rounded the tavern. “Cassandra.”

Alarmed, the older woman straightened from hitting a dummy with a practice sword. “What is it?”

Thalia doubled over, gasping for breath. Since their ignominious meeting after the Conclave explosion, she and Cassandra had never seen eye-to-eye — not on the Chantry, nor the Inquisition, nor who should succeed Justinia as Divine. Their only common ground, it seemed, was caring about Cullen. The secret of his lyrium addiction bound them closer than Thalia liked. Once she had chafed under the connection; now she feared Cassandra was the only one who could help.

The words came tumbling from her mouth: Cullen gone, Samson’s letter, the drained lyrium bottle. Cassandra listened with stoic poise until the final detail. Her face darkened with anger, but behind her scowl, fear flashed in her eyes.

“Damn that man and his pride.” Cassandra dropped her sword and grasped Thalia’s shoulders. “Inquisitor, you must calm down if we are to find him.”

Thalia’s eyes filled with tears. “What if it’s too late? What if he’s already gone to confront Samson?”

“That is impossible. Cullen is our commander. There’s no way he could leave Skyhold without anyone seeing.”

Cassandra spoke with such confidence that it did abate Thalia’s panic. She pulled away, pressed her fingers to her forehead, tried to think. “So if he’s still within Skyhold’s walls, but no one’s seen him, where could he be?”

Thalia paced in the grass. Cassandra drew herself up to her full height, and inhaled sharply. “The lyrium stores.”

Panic shot down Thalia’s spine. “You don’t think…?”

“Maker, I hope I’m mistaken.” Cassandra took her by the elbow. “Come. We must be swift.”

The cellar below the armory smelled of must; its damp stone walls muffled the sound of rushing water from the adjacent dungeons. Cassandra led the charge down the stairs, Thalia at her heels. Two Inquisition soldiers stood outside one of many store rooms which housed food, drink, linens, and other bulk supplies for a keep of Skyhold’s size. Only the lyrium stores required an armed guard.

“Have you seen Commander Cullen?” Cassandra demanded with stinging authority.

The soldiers exchanged glances. “Y-yes, Seeker,” said one. “He requested entrance not one hour ago.”

“Step aside,” Cassandra commanded. “And let no one pass unless Lady Thalia or I give you leave. Is that understood?”

“But Seeker Pentaghast, the— the Commander—”

“If he tries to leave, detain him,” Thalia spoke up over Cassandra’s shoulder. She understood Cassandra’s logic, as much as it pained her. “By order of the Inquisitor.”

“Yes, your worship.” The soldiers bowed in unison and moved.

The room was dim, with only one sconce lighted by the door. A cerulean glow illuminated the rest, the bottles stacked in neat rows on the shelves that lined the aisles. There was so much lyrium the air itself hummed.

They found him face down in the back, below a bare shelf, surrounded by empty bottles. Thalia stood transfixed, reminded of the stone shrines she’d seen throughout Thedas: dotted with flowers and trinkets in offering, peaceful and still.

Then Cassandra shouted his name, and Thalia startled out of her daze. She threw herself down beside him, the glass cylinders scattering. “Cullen. Cullen, wake up.”

Cassandra knelt on his other side. It took both of them to turn him onto his back. His eyes were closed, face sweaty and pale, mouth slightly parted. Thalia shook him. “Cullen, please.”

“Maker have mercy, how much did he take?” Cassandra’s dark eyes were huge with horror.

Thalia lowered her ear to his face. Her stomach clenched. “He’s not breathing.”

“What?” Something broke loose inside Cassandra. She rose on her haunches, swung back her arm, and slapped Cullen across the face. “Commander. Stop this nonsense at once!”

His head lolled, but he did not stir. Thalia frantically pressed her fingers to his neck, searching for a heartbeat.

“This is my fault,” Cassandra muttered. “I pushed him into this position, put too much pressure on him to—”

“Cassandra,” Thalia cut in, her voice high and thin. “I can’t find a pulse. We need to do something or we’re going to lose him.”

The words shook Cassandra out of her panic. “I’ll get a medic.”

“Wait, no.” Thalia grabbed Cassandra’s arm as she tried to rise. Waiting for a healer would take too long. They had a minute or two, if that. “Help me get his armor off.”

Cassandra looked at her as if she’d gone mad.

“Electrical charge.” Thalia summoned a bit of magic and held up a sparking hand. “I had a professor at the Circle tell me once that electricity in small doses can restart a human heart.”

Cassandra looked from her to Cullen. His lips were turning blue. “How will you know the correct amount?”

I don’t. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Cullen would not consent to the use of magic on his person—”

“He’s dying, Cassandra.” A sob caught in Thalia’s throat. “I can’t lose him too. I can’t.”

She leaned over, yanked at Cullen’s fur-lined overcoat so she could reach the straps to his breastplate. Cassandra stood stricken, but only for a moment. Then she crouched down and assisted with deft hands. They removed his breastplate and bracers, anything that could conduct electricity. He lay limply in a thin tunic, head canted at an unnatural angle. Thalia had seen him without his armor before, but he’d never looked so fragile.

She slid over to his torso, rubbed her palms together to build up a charge. “Stay by his head,” she told Cassandra. “Be ready to catch him. The jolt might—” She blinked against a vision blurring with tears. “Might make him seize.”

Cassandra pressed her lips together, face blanched and full of doubt, but she did as Thalia said.

Please, Thalia prayed. She wasn’t sure to whom. Faith in the Maker had eluded her for years. Ever since her placement in the Ostwick Circle, he had never answered her pleas. Even the title branded upon her — the Herald of Andraste — she had balked against. She resolutely believed the shimmering figure in the Fade was not the bride of the Maker, or even Divine Justinia, but an opportunistic spirit playing tricks on the eye. In her opinion, people made their own luck, usually at the expense of others.

Yet Cullen had maintained his belief in the Andrastian religion, despite having every reason to spurn it: the abuses of the Chantry, the cruelties of the Templar Order, the shackles of lifelong addiction because of a decision he’d made at thirteen years old. None of it was fair, but somehow he was able to see past the petty affairs of men and believe in something purer — something that involved her. Thalia closed her eyes and prayed, not to her god, but his.

She pressed her palms to his chest.

His torso jumped into the air. Cassandra caught his head before his skull slammed into the stone floor. Cradling his temples in her hands, she gasped, “Did it work?”

Thalia leaned down, listened at his ribs for a heartbeat. Nothing. Maybe she hadn’t used enough.

“Get back,” she said. “I’m trying again.”

A second jolt, and the air took on an ionized scent.

“Please, Cullen. Just breathe, please.” Thalia gritted her teeth. With her ear to his chest she heard only silence. She straightened. “Again.”

“Inquisitor.” Cassandra had her fingers entwined in Cullen’s hair, her face awash in pity. “He would not want you to belabor the inevitable.”

“No,” Thalia snarled. “Get back, Cassandra. This isn’t how this ends.”

“How much more can his body take?” Tears shone in Cassandra’s eyes. “With that much lyrium in his system, and now you’re electrocuting him—”

“I’m trying to save him,” Thalia cried.

“You cannot save everyone!”

“Watch me.”

She gave Cassandra a vicious shove. The older woman tumbled backward. Thalia slammed her palms against Cullen’s ribs and sent forth a shock that reverberated in her bones. He seized violently, and lay still.

It was no use. The certainty of it threatened to swallow her whole: she had come this far on this strange, hellish journey, only to lose the one solid rock she’d had to lean on from the start. She hated herself for taking him for granted, for being distant while Blackwall stole her heart and broke it, for all the things she neglected to do to help him fight. Thalia threw her arms around him and held him tightly, buried her face in his collarbone to stifle her weeping.

Above her head, Cullen took a shuddering breath.

Thalia shot upright. Cassandra grabbed her arm. “Was that—?”

The two women paused, holding their own breaths. Below them, Cullen’s chest rose and fell softly. The color began to return to his cheeks.

“He’s alive,” Thalia whispered.

“He’s alive,” Cassandra agreed.

The guards found them a few minutes later, each hugging Cullen’s unconscious form and sobbing.

---

A cold breeze blew on his face, rousing him. Cullen blinked once, twice. He was in his quarters, in bed. He turned his gaze toward the source of the wind — the hole in the ceiling — and regretted it. The light from outside set off a staggering headache deep in his eye sockets.

He stifled a moan and tried to roll over, but his limbs felt sluggish and uncooperative. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again he saw Thalia and Cassandra, each slumped in a chair as if they had been here for some time. Thalia paged through a tome with some High Tevinter title, while Cassandra sat with a hand propped up under her chin, staring at the melting wax on a tallow candle.

Cassandra looked over first. “Inquisitor,” she cried, “he’s awake.”

Thalia fumbled and dropped the book. The thud echoed through Cullen’s skull. He grimaced until the pounding subsided. His mouth felt unwieldy and his tongue as if he’d swallowed sawdust. He tried to find his voice. “Water?”

“Of course.” Thalia uncorked a jug and poured some into a shallow bowl. She pulled her chair closer to his bedside. Cassandra rose and approached, hovering beyond her shoulder.

With great effort, Cullen pushed himself upright. “Easy, don’t overdo it,” Thalia cautioned. He tried take the bowl, but his hand shook so violently she snatched it back before he could spill it. He drank with the bowl held to his lips, and fell back against the pillow in a sweat.

Cullen pressed his palm against his eyes. “What… happened?”

The women exchanged glances. “You don’t remember?” Thalia asked gently.

He shook his head. This seemed to anger Cassandra. Her lips twisted into an indignant sneer. “The medic tells us you drank enough lyrium to kill a druffalo.”

“Cassandra,” Thalia hissed.

Yes, that would do it. Bits and pieces returned — the desperate hunger and the chill, the blue haze lingering at the edges of his vision. And the familiar warmth of the hit, the deep soul embrace, like coming home after so long. The music of it pulsing through him: beautiful, euphoric.

His recollection faltered after that, but the truth was etched on their faces. Shame welled inside him, white hot and ugly.

“I failed you both, and the Inquisition.” Cullen tried to sound poised, but a haggard breath sent him into a coughing fit. When he recovered, he added, “I’ll tender my resignation, effective immediately—”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Cassandra snapped. “You’ve been unconscious for two days, during which everyone thinks you’ve gone to visit an ailing relative. You’ll use your leave of absence to recover and think on your actions, and then you will return to work, Commander. We are too close to Corypheus and his general to hire a replacement now.” She turned to Thalia. “I’ll go tell Leliana and Josephine he’s woken up. Maker knows they’ve been worried sick.”

Cullen said nothing. He watched Thalia, who bit her lip the way she did when holding back a sardonic retort. They remained silent until Cassandra climbed down the ladder and the clomping of her boots faded.

“How many know?” he asked softly.

“Cassandra and I,” Thalia said. “The medic who treated you. And Leliana and Josephine, obviously. We had to tell them, so we could figure out what to do with the… the soldiers who saw you. In the store room.”

Another piece of the puzzle revealed. He had a flash of the glowing bottles on the shelves, singing their siren calls. “‘Do with’?”

“Hefty bonuses and a cushy transfer, far away from Skyhold,” Thalia said. “In exchange for their silence.”

Cullen let out a weary sigh. “Anyone else?”

“Iron Bull,” she admitted. “We had to get you up the ladder somehow.”

Cullen laughed mirthlessly. He scrubbed a hand from his brow to chin, where the razor stubble was threatening to become a full beard. His cheek pulsed with pain, as if he’d touched a bruise. “Why does the side of my face hurt?”

A sad smile crossed Thalia’s lips. “Oh. Cassandra tried to smack you back to life.”

“Back to life?”

He thought she was being hyperbolic, but when she met his gaze tears welled in her eyes. “You almost died, Cullen. I’ve never been so scared. I really thought— I thought that was it.” Her face crumpled. “What on earth were you thinking?”

The accusation in her tone might as well have been another blow. Cullen saw himself as she must: untrustworthy, dangerous, a liability. An addict. He ground his teeth together. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, you know who I don’t understand? People like Thom Rainier. People who keep secrets from me when the situation could be resolved if they just told the truth.” She leaned forward and clasped his hand between hers. The warmth of her touch startled him; his own limbs were like ice. “Please, Cullen, don’t shut me out. I want to help you. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the back of his palm. Cullen fought a strange urge to cry. “I don’t deserve you, my love.”

“It’s not about what we deserve,” Thalia said quietly. “It’s about what we do with the time given to us."

He raised his free hand, trembling, to her cheek. With his thumb he traced the curve of the tattoo forced upon her at the Ostwick Circle. There had been a time when he would have praised the practice and the templar who devised it — a fail-safe plan to identify mages in case their phylacteries were ever compromised. Now he worried if he met those responsible, he might kill them with his bare hands.

“Lie with me,” he whispered. “Please?”

She removed her boots and scrambled up onto the bed. She pressed herself against his body. The heat radiating from her felt like it could purge him, make him clean again. She wrapped her arms around his chest and put her head in the space between his chin and shoulder. His fingers found the plaits of her auburn hair, pinned to her head in intricate patterns. He held her and tried not to hate himself for what he had done.

“I have a confession to make,” Thalia said after awhile, muffled by his neck.

“Oh?” Cullen angled his head to take in her blue eyes, watching him with trepidation.

“I — when you were… you know. I used magic to, to revive you,” Thalia stammered. “Cassandra said you wouldn’t give permission to have magic performed on you. Is that— that’s because of Uldred, isn’t it?”

He tensed. It had been ten years, and just hearing the man’s name still propelled him close to panic. “Yes,” he said, with some effort. It was true — and Cassandra knew — that spells in the healing arts were difficult for him to tolerate, for the same reason he often couldn’t breathe in small, windowless spaces.

“I’m so sorry. I never thought to ask. But I… I didn’t know what else to do.” She let out a nervous sigh. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I hardly think you should be the one worried about forgiveness,” Cullen said. “What you did saved my life, didn’t it?”

Swallowing hard, Thalia nodded.

“Then don’t apologize. The fault is mine. I shouldn’t have— lost control like that.” The more he thought about it, the worse he felt. It was grossly irresponsible, wholly selfish — and to have her apologize for saving him? “Maker, I should have been stronger.”

She brushed her fingers along his jaw. “What is it like?”

“Hmm?”

Thalia hesitated. “Needing the lyrium. You said I wouldn’t understand, but I want to.”

How could he explain, how the whole world faded to shades of blue, and everything came second to quelling the desire? That it became a beast that gnawed on him the longer he denied it? “I don’t know if I have the words. When I was in the Templar Order, it was just something we inherently understood among ourselves.”

“Like you and Samson,” Thalia whispered.

“What?” Hearing the name on her lips shook him. “What did you say?”

Thalia took a deep breath and met his gaze. “Cullen, I found the letter from Samson. In your office.”

Oh. There it was, the final piece he’d been missing. Sitting hunched over the parchment, reading the words over and over, the fury growing in him. How dare Samson taunt him so, and claim the right of the divine while he was at it?

“Thalia, I… I never meant for you to see that.” The shame coursed through him anew. The commander of an army should not be moved by such petty propaganda, and yet he’d been unable to destroy the letter. For weeks he’d ruminated on it, powerless to dispel it from his mind. Samson had always had that effect on him — he had a way of stating inconvenient truths with crass carelessness. Despite a slip into the delusional, that essence of Samson still shone through in his prose.

“Were you really planning to confront him?” Thalia’s eyes were wide with fear.

Small wisps of hair fell loose to frame her pale face. Cullen wanted to reach out and smooth them, to comfort her, tell her he hadn’t been contemplating a monumentally risky gamble — maybe the riskiest the Inquisition had ever known.

“Not alone,” he said at last.

“Cullen.” Thalia sat up and glared at him. “Are you insane?”

No, he wanted to say. Just an addict. That had been the play: arrive on the Wounded Coast with a well-armed retinue, wait to see if Samson showed. They had the means to weaken his armor, thanks to Dagna. But someone like Samson could not be stopped so easily. For that, one would have to be in peak condition, physically and mentally — and Cullen never was, without the lyrium. It was a glaring tactical flaw, no matter which way he looked at it.

And the perfect excuse.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I thought I could beat him at his own game.”

“How? By taking lyrium?” When he couldn’t deny it, Thalia shook her head angrily. “Has it ever occurred to you that’s exactly what he wanted? To break you, remove you from the board entirely, and leave the Inquisition in chaos?”

Cullen frowned. “No. I don’t think so. He doesn’t know I’ve quit, for a start. Besides…”

Thalia raised an eyebrow. “Besides?”

“I think a part of him means it. Wants me to see things his way… and join him.”

Thalia exhaled slowly. “He’s tried this before, hasn’t he?”

“How did you know?” Cullen asked, surprised.

“He said so in the letter.” She recited it with chilling precision: “‘I could have saved you, but you refused.’”

Cullen cast his gaze to the ceiling. Evening had fallen over Skyhold, the air from outside colder than ever. He wanted to burrow under the blankets and block out everything, especially this line of inquiry. “Yes, he tried. Once. Before I understood what any of it meant.”

Thalia’s horrified expression was difficult to take. “Maker, Cullen, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I made a mistake. A terrible one, and I’m paying for it to this day.” Rage, his old friend, had returned, coiling itself along his ribcage. His tone turned mocking. “The price I paid for mercy.”

She watched him with an expression akin to pity. Slowly, she lowered herself back down at his side. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Cullen sighed, pulling her close. He had spent so much of his life alone that it awed him sometimes, how natural it felt to have her here, in his arms. “It’s a long story.”

She leaned over and kissed his temple. “Then you’re lucky I’ve got all night.”

Images and emotions floated through his psyche as he struggled to find the words. Too often he locked them up, shut them down, swept them under a mental rug that always looked a bit like the carpet in Meredith’s office.

Meredith’s office, he thought. Well, that’s as good a place to start as any.

Cullen opened his mouth and began to speak.

---

Part Two is now up here!

A few random notes:

Inspired by the absolute terror that hits me when a BioWare NPC is not where they’re supposed to be.

I always found it interesting that Samson left Cullen a letter at the Shrine of Dumat and he refuses to let you see it. It seemed to hit him harder than he wanted to let on. I took the few lines of it from Cullen's dialogue and fleshed out the rest to suit my evil purposes.

What good is having electricity magic if you don’t use it to defibrillate your boyfriend?

#cullen rutherford #thalia trevelyan #cassandra pentaghast #raleigh samson #cullen x trevelyan #fics #dragon age inquisition #dragon age drunk writing circle #bad things happen bingo

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iceman-maverick · 2 years

Text

randomized west wing ficlets: donna + leo

leo mcgarry + donna moss, “i’m right here” preview: Josh says she’s pretty bright when you get past the college credits. Not that that matters anyways, Leo’s never been a stickler for a pedigree.

word count: 1k and change pairings: leo & donna (platonic for the love of all that is holy), pre-josh/donna rating: gen, warnings: none

author’s note: literally fucking obsessed with this being the first pair the randomizer spit out at me

It’s not that Leo hates schoolchildren, it’s just the unions that represent their teachers make his life a living nightmare. They’re 72 hours past the biggest victory this campaign’s ever seen, and all positive momentum has been absolutely steamrolled by the Arizona Teachers Union. The rep they typically coordinate with is angry about something with sex ed because of course she would be just as Bartlet for America gets its wings. Toby has been ranting for the better part of the past hour about it, reminding them all that it would be better optics to quite literally shoot a puppy on live cable than comment on condoms in schools to a crowd of moderates. Leo’s pretty sure Toby’s about to resort to throwing things when a knock comes at his door.

“Um, Mr. McGarry?”

It’s the young blonde that’s been running around Josh since New Hampshire, her name’s escaping him at the present moment. She’s a pretty little thing, and Josh says she’s pretty bright when you get past the college credits. Not that that matters anyways, Leo’s never been a stickler for a pedigree.

Leo hasn’t said ten words to this girl but he’s finding himself fond of her. Josh can be a handful and she’s seems to be keeping pace with his neuroses quite well, which can prove to be all the difference in a high stakes campaign like the one Leo’s suddenly found himself running.

“Uh, yeah?” Leo asks as he pulls up his email. The union rep has lit a fire under all their asses, and Leo finds himself, not for the first time, longing for Josh.

Noah Lyman’s death is a tragedy on all accounts. He was a good attorney, an even better friend, and a great father, if the young man Josh has turned out to be is any judge. But Leo hasn’t spoken to Noah in many years, really hasn’t been a friend of his in more than a decade. In spite of the distance, Leo finds himself honestly shocked by how quickly Josh has become invaluable to him.

Josh has been gone less than three nights and absence has made itself known. Fires seem to be popping up at every left corner without Josh to wrangle them down. Leo’s email is exploding, the volunteers have gone completely uncoordinated, and Josh’s little speechwriter has spent more time staring morosely out the window than he has, well, speechwriting. Even Jed himself seems out of sorts without Josh, which is pretty surprising because if Leo’s memory is correct, and it always is - blonde assistants aside, the Governor was still using the names Josh and Toby interchangeably just this Monday.

“I don’t think I can do this,” The girl has her sleeves pulled down over her palms and has been swaying nervously on her feet. He gestures for her to come in and hand over whatever file is causing the confusion. His phone flashes red, and he picks up before the first ring even sounds.

It’s the union rep, again. She’s wondering if he’s seen her email. The one she sent literally 25 seconds ago. Yes, that’s the one. She wanted to flag it as high priority, and also has four additional follow-up demands for the negotiation Leo’s not sure they ever agreed to have in the first place.

He idly leafs through the manilla folder the girl had handed him as the rep drones on. It’s basic donor elbow rubbing, mostly letters and a couple of cold calls. Josh was supposed to divy it up between the volunteers before he... well, before Noah. It’s a simple enough task, clearly within this kid’s wheelhouse.

Leo tells her so and gestures for a sheet of paper, all the while “uh-huh, okay, sounds good, sure thing”-ing the rep that’s somehow still on the phone. He scratches down the names of the gold-tier donors, and then the party line she should be telling them written out in shorthand.

He slides it back to her, devastated to see another email coming in from the Teachers Union. The girl blanches when she reads the paper, biting anxiously at her lip.

“Mr. McGarry, I-”

“It’s just Leo,” He finally is released from the call. He groans, swallowing his coffee that’s gone cold.

“I don’t think I’m qualified to do this sort of thing. You see, Josh-”

“Sure you are! It’s cold-calling, even the Governor could manage it.”

“No but I’m not sure if I can-”

The phone lights up again, this time a leader of a large congregation from South Carolina. He’s furious with Jed for “showing him up on his own pulpit” last week. They’ve really got to get CJ to pin down Jed’s folksy-charm. If they lose the New York primary because of a poorly-timed verse from Leviticus, Leo’s going to walk straight into the Hudson.

He sees his email light up once again - you guessed it! The union rep! And at that point he realizes that the secretary is still hovering over him. He waves her off, he doesn’t have the time to hand hold right now.

She gathers the folders’ contents that have been scattered across his desk, and as she does, Leo notices the claddagh ring sitting nicely on her ring finger. It looks just like the one he’d given Mallory for her sixteenth birthday. He hadn’t realized the girl was Irish.

She’s halfway out of the office, when he calls after her, “What’s your name again?”

“I’m Donna,” She doesn’t look offended, but she does look worried. Almost like she’s not even sure that’s her name.

Leo suddenly finds himself laughing. He covers the phone and says “You’re gonna be fine, Donna. And even if you’re not, I’m right here.”

That earns him one of those world class midwestern smiles Josh had been telling him about the other day. She holds her head up just a fraction higher, and when she walks out, Leo knows in his gut that she’ll secure double the donors Josh ever could.

Yeah, she’s gonna be fine.

the first of what surely will be many utterly bizarre one-shots. check out my tww prompt randomizer for context LOL or write your own!

#tww prompts #tww fanfic #tww fic #donna moss #josh lyman #leo mcgarry #sam seaborn #josh/donna #joshdonna #josh/donna fic #tww

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clarenecessities · 3 years

Photo

As my followers may have picked up from my long, spiraling rants, I’ve undertaken a new research project, courtesy of the death grip She-Ra has on my brain. And guess what? It’s finally at Disseminate Information Stage! So I’m going to lay out all of the gods, demigods, and godbeasts of the Masters of the Universe. With sources!

This table is more of a cheat sheet. We’re gonna tackle this god by god, with a section on Actual Lore & a meta section to help you decide how valid you think they are, because frankly some canons are more canon than others.

Asklepia, Benevolent Snake Goddess

Lore: Asklepia is one of two snake goddesses, the benevolent twin sister of Serpentia. We know very little about her abilities, but the Snake Clan (a clan of human warriors) were said to worship her, and they were famed for their architecture and healing. She had the ability to curse and deform people--to what extent is uncertain, but she’s known to have condemned a fallen priest named Ka, whose disfigured likeness now adorns Snake Mountain.

Behind the Scenes: First appearing in the 1987 comic “Il Nero Cristallo Del Potere“, Asklepia remained nameless for over 30 years, until Masters of the Universe Classics (MOTUC) released a few choice bios. For the unfamiliar, MOTUC seeks to reconcile the often contradictory canons into one overarching narrative, which is great in theory, but in practice is kind of like putting ice cream on a hot dog. And calling it a Chilly Dog ® as if that makes it taste better. But I digress. In 2019 they released a bio for the Staff of Ka which finally put a name to the less-evil Snake Goddess, in an obvious nod to Asclepius and the asklepian (that staff+snake icon people put on medical stuff).

Sharella, the Green Goddess and/or “Avatar” of Asklepia

Lore: Contradictory

Long Version: Okay I’ve put avatar in quotes because it is... contentious. Basically, and you’ll see here why I felt the need to make this post instead of relying blindly on the wikis, Sharella was introduced (in the ‘87 licensing guide) as a tribal leader who had joint custody of Gray, the original name of He-Ro’s alter ego, while he was growing up. This was further developed by Emiliano Santalucia’s concept work, wherein she was the leader of the Green Tiger Tribe (GTT) specifically. While the comic concept was not run through licensing & is thus not “canon”, the idea of her leading the GTT persisted. This teeny tiny image of her from Tytus and Megator’s 1987 Italian box art was all we had until 2008, when one of He-Man’s accessories described her as the “warrior woman ally” of Queen Veena, “who had been changed into the immortal green-skinned avatar of the Goddess Asklepia”. In 2009, MOTUC released a figure for The Goddess, apparently forgetting they’d done that shit the year before because the packaging did say “K’yrulla” was her real name. They had to cover it up with a sticker.

So who’s The Goddess? Way back in the days before Mattel solidified any of the lore around MOTU, there were mini-comics released with the toys. Initially, the Goddess served a similar function to the Sorceress in the cartoon, and was in fact sometimes called the Sorceress. She facilitated He-Man’s transformations, gave him missions, was generally magical and mysterious, etc. If you know who the Sorceress is, and you can picture Teela, but green? That’s about it.

Back to Sharella, though. The Third Ultimate Battleground rolled around in 2015, and for the first time since some packaging in the 80s, we saw Sharella in action! She was shot through the heart with a poison arrow. Yeah. But don’t worry, she received a blood transfusion from Moss Man (who we’ll get to later), and was transformed into the Green Goddess! She’s immortal now. How Asklepia figures in here is sort of unclear, which is weird since this is still part of the MOTUC line, but whatever. Whatever! Queen Grayskull (the aforementioned Veena) received a bio in 2015 as well, which described Sharella as her apprentice who became “The Goddess”.

Horokoth, Aspect of the Mother Goddess

Lore: DC went a little batshit (pun intended) with the lore for the Eternity War. Here the Goddess is three combined aspects, “Serpos” (Serpentia) for the Snake Men, Zoar for the human “Eternians”, and a third, invented deity called Horokoth, who represents the Horde. Horokoth is “the coming destroyer. The darkness at the end of days.” and is represented by a bat.

Behind the Scenes: That last link has a clearer picture of her, it just didn’t crop well. Also, I confess I couldn’t bring myself to read Eternity War. As thrilling as the prospect of a cohesive narrative is, if I wanted to see Adora slit her brother’s throat there’s the edgier side of deviantArt to peruse. Therefore I know little of Horokoth outside of a few still images of Hordak. The bat was almost certainly selected for the Horde’s vespertilian emblem.

Hordeous, God-Beast of Horokoth

Lore: A “primordial”, bat-like godbeast of Horokoth, created in response to the god Saz’s feline races. Their face was “forever infused“ on the surface of Horde World by Horde Lord (Hordak and Horde Prime’s father in the MOTUC canon) to grant their family power and immortality.

Behind the Scenes: Yes they’ve used some words wrong, but they’ve got the spirit, right? Hordeous was (allegedly, this is secondhand) an invention of the MOTUC crew in answer to Horokoth. Now, the Horde Supreme bio predates Horokoth’s introduction by about 3 years, but obviously the comics were in production already. There’s an undated sketch of Horokoth Hordak from an undated interview (thanks for nothing you useless website) but in that same gallery there’s an orko sketch labeled 2012 so. We’re good right? That makes sense, timeline-wise. Anyway the comics slam dunked Horde Prime out of existence and combined him with Horde Lord so it’s contradictory anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Serpentia, Malevolent Snake Goddess

Lore: The evil counterpart of Asklepia, Serpentia is the goddess of the Snake Men. The priest Ka of the Snake Clan forsook Asklepia in her favor, destroying Asklepia’s sacred orb and stealing the Serpent Ring (an artefact capable of transforming humans into Snake Men) from the Ophidian Spire with King Hsss. In DC’s triune interpretation of the Goddess, Serpentia (here ‘Serpos’) is blood, passion, and desire. A primal and primordial force appearing to the Snake Men in their own image.

Behind the Scenes: Okay yes I’ve reused the Asklepia pic but in my defense they are twins and this is the easiest one to crop. So here’s the thing about Serpentia: we only got a name for her in 2019. We knew there was a snake goddess, and she was pretty evil, or at least hostile towards mammalian life (see: the source of the pic I chose for her). Where Asklepia references the asklepian, ‘Serpentia’ is a much more heavy-handed snake reference, even though Anguis was right there. Those Masters Mondays came through for us, though, with the shield and staff of Ka, Ssssylph, and of course MOTUC’s Dark Despot Skeletor, which is. something. Though only recently named, Serpentia has been a shadow over Eternia since the Snake Men’s introduction in 1985 (or, depending on how much of the presented backstory you accept, even sooner in the form of Skeletor’s lair, Snake Mountain).

Serpos/Sarcedon, God-Beast of Snake Mountain

Lore: Contradictory, but the gist of it is he’s a very large snake with elemental magic and a grudge, that was turned to stone and became Snake Mountain.

Long Version: Snake Mountain was conceived of towards the end of 1982, but wasn’t revealed to the public until September of 1983, with the debut of the Filmation cartoon. For another year, the snake coiled around its summit was simply a carving, its mouth hollowed out for Skeletor to stand in and loom. But in 1984 the Snake Mountain toy was released, completely discarding the Filmation design in favor of the hewn face of the figure we now call Ka. Instead of a snake carving winding its way up the peak, the Mattel toy featured a ‘striking serpent’, alive and attached to the mountain itself. From there, it was an easy leap to make to ‘this carving comes alive’. So easy, in fact, that they did it twice!

First attempted in 1985 in the newspaper storyline “Vengeance of the Viper King”, the snake was here called Sarcedon, the World Destroyer. At the dawn of time, he was said to crush Eternia within his deadly coils. He burrowed deep into the ground, causing fearsome storms that nearly destroyed the planet. Only a fearless hero (implied to be He-Ro) could defeat and imprison Sarcedon. Using a macguffin called a Mirror of History, He-Man forced Sarcedon to behold his own reflection in a reference to the Medusa myth that kind of missed the point of it being reflective. Sarcedon was sent back in time, Snake Mountain was restored, the good guys win, blah blah blah.

That was the last of it until the MYP cartoon in 2004. Serpos as a name was actually first invoked by Mer-Man in a 1982 minicomic, but like it probably wasn’t about the snake. Anyway in the MYP cartoon the Snake Men get this thing called the Medallion of Serpos that lets them un-petrify the snake around Snake Mountain, grow two more heads, and unleash his godly wrath. He breathes fire, trashes Eternos, beats up He-Man, then turns his attention on Castle Grayskull to consume the Orb of Power (containing the strength and wisdom of the Elders, who had first trapped him in stone). He-Man cuts off Serpos’s extra heads with a sword upgrade, the Elders are somehow magically restored to life, and they re-petrify him. Snake Mountain is restored, the good guys win, blah blah blah.

Zoar, the Fighting Falcon

Lore: Contradictory, but it sure is a bird!

Long Version: While Sharella’s backstory is fraught because of the comics couldn’t decide what they wanted her to be, Zoar was similarly tangled up by the toyline. Initially male, he went through several color schemes, some prettier than others. Though there was a vague association with the Sorceress before the cartoon (recall that pre-Filmation, the Sorceress was just the Goddess), Filmation made them literally inseperable by designating Zoar as the Sorceress’s falcon form, to which she was confined when leaving Castle Grayskull.

Some of the comics and Golden books showed Zoar as being flipping enormous & ridden into battle as a steed by Teela and Man-at-Arms. Pre-Filmation, Zoar was always referred to as male, but post-Filmation, always female, as an incarnation of the Sorceress.

The Eternity Wars comics describe Zoar as the third aspect of the Goddess, the ‘Great Preserver’ whose light would shine through the universe for eternity. They pull off a sort of tripartite priestess thing where it’s Serpos/Zoar/Horokoth represented by Teela-Na (the Sorceress)/Teela/Evil-Lyn.

MOTUC, of course, had to reconcile all of these contradictory canons. How’d they do it? “In the folklore of Eternia, the golden falcon symbolized the godhead Zoar, a powerful deity of Preternia. As a god, Zoar could appear in both male and female guises and while the blue-tipped female falcon was associated with the Sorceress of Grayskull, the golden falcon represented Zoar's masculine nature.” So Zoar is genderfluid now, and the Sorceress is merely borrowing their form when transforming into a falcon. This bio also established that Zoar had anointed the first Sorceress, Veena (Queen Grayskull), which explains why she has wings for no apparent reason.

Also it’s not offically MOTUC but the scultors of the line, Four Horsemen, made a single anthro Zoar for Power-Con 2013. In case you need that for some reason.

Glorybird, Emissary of Zoar

Lore: Many millennia ago, there were three siblings, who were very poor and mistreated by their stepmother, but had hearts filled with kindness and love. Zoar, recognizing their resilience and desire to help people, sent an emissary named Glorybird. Glorybird bestowed upon each sibling a divine gift, but as they used their new powers to fight for good, their stepmother revealed herself to be a Celestial Witch & attempted to sacrifice them to Zoar’s “greatest enemy”, Horokoth.

Backstory: Okay, so the Star Sisters (and Glorybird) were in exactly one episode of She-Ra, primarily to set them up as new toy designs. While prototypes were made for these, the figures weren’t actually produced until MOTUC released figures for them in 2012. Though they were referenced in Princess Prom, and we saw a brief cameo in a background, Glorybird was absent until the introduction of the Star Siblings in Season Five.

That’s right! This bird is a god, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Saz, God of All Felines

Lore: One of the “Gods of the Multiverse” (he is the only member named explicitly), Saz was a blue-furred, feline deity responsible for the creation of all cats, humanoid or otherwise. He transformed himself into an enormous cat-beast to defeat Serpos and Hordeous, whose progenitors created them in envy of his children. Though Serpos was defeated, Hordeous escaped into the cosmos, and Saz himself vanished mysteriously.

Behind the Scenes: “By the whiskers of Saz!” is a fun pseudo-swear made by various cat races throughout MOTU, first in He-Man’s “The Cat and the Spider” and later in She-Ra’s “Magicats”. That was the only real mention of him until... okay, so MOTUC bios aren’t always attached to the product. Starting in 2018, they did this thing called Masters Mondays where they put unposted bios on the org forums. So while we’ve had the sword since 2010, we didn’t get the background on it until March of 2020. And then a couple weeks later, the Cat Mask of Catra bio referred to him as a “mystical being” instead of a god, but the mask was from 2011 so. He may not have been a god yet. It really depends on when the bios were actually written.

Saz wielded a blade probably best described as a falchion, whose quillon & langet formed a vaguely triangular shape around a deep red gem. I want to be clear that while it looks totally rad, this sword would be very impractical and have poor structural integrity were it not made by a literal god. Do not make swords like this. Also it’s almost certainly riffing on the Sword of Omens from Thundercats (affectionate).

Sabe-Or, Son of Saz

Lore: A green-furred, orange-striped paladin, Sabe-Or is one of the only named Ancients. He inherited his father’s blade upon Saz’s mysterious disappearance, and lived for centuries more. Upon his death, he transferred his “heroic essence” into a group of Eternian tigers, forever transforming them into the Green Tiger Tribe, whence both Granger (steed of King Grayskull), and Cringer, steed of Prince Adam.

Behind the Scenes: So “Battle Cat Man” is a concept that’s existed since they decided to make their hero ride a wicked tiger into battle. If you show a kid a superhero, and a supertiger, apparently the natural inclination of most children in the 80s was to combine the two. There are so many custom action figures. So, so many. Sabe-Or is visually a clear reference to this concept, and canonically seems to be the closest we’re going to get outside of the Thundercats crossover, unless you count Cowarros from 4H’s Mythic Legions line (I do, because it means Purrrplor is also canon and I fucking love calling him that).

Moss Man, Ancient Eternian Nature God

Lore: An ally of King Grayskull, Moss Man was something of an Eternian cryptid in the centuries leading up to He-Man Times. He has control over all plant life, the ability to meld with plants, and apparently can imbue sentience to said plants.

Behind the Scenes: Moss Man wasn’t featured in many episodes, because he’s a little... incredibly over-powered. He’s literally Bigfoot from 5000 years ago with magic powers. And like, since I don’t think the writers appreciate how long 5000 years is, you know what happened 5000 years ago? Stonehenge. This bitch is Stonehenge-old. But sure, you can trace a direct line of descent from his contemporary. smh. Anyway according to MOTUC his real name is Kreann’Ot N’Norosh so make of that what you will. Also his toys were pine-scented. I just love that.

Evil Seed, Rebellious Creation of Moss Man

Lore: Created by Moss Man to help fight in the Great Wars, Evil Seed betrayed his master and turned to evil (who could have foreseen this...), finding joy in corrupting all forms of plant life for his own amusement. Moss Man imprisoned him in enchanted chains, keeping him restrained for many millennia.

Behind the Scenes: According to MOTUC, his real name is Sero Malustro, clumsy New Latin for “(to) plant evil-burnt“. Why his name is New Latin and Moss Man’s is... whatever that is, I have no idea. As you can see from the image I included, he originally had an artichoke head, which was upgraded for the Mike Young Productions (MYP) cartoon. Personally I think the artichoke rules.

Volcana, the Fire Goddess

Lore: Canonically, she’s a fire goddess, and the mother of the Volcano Magus. Together, they are a rising force that seeks to conquer Etheria in the wake of Hordak’s defeat.

Backstory: Volcana has taken a long a twisted journey, but was first revealed to fans at Power-Con 2016 in a panel revealing previously unseen concepts and characters. After the first wave of She-Ra toys, a second wave was planned with a snow focus, to bring more attention the Filmation-neglected Frosta. This began with the introduction of a fire villain, an “evil lady that glows with heat” who would attempt to melt Castle Chill. That concept actually refers to a character named Amber (not Ember, as one might assume) who was reworked into a benevolent counterpart, Volcana’s twin sister.

Volcana was later fleshed out to be a Fire Goddess with flame-red hair, x-ray vision, and arms sculpted with flames. Her cape flew up with flame detail that rose up to control the volcano (of Volcanica, a proposed toyset that seems to have been reworked into the Crystal Falls). She was emphasized by Mattel to not start fires, which, honestly, is probably why they scrapped the character. He-Man couldn’t use his sword as a sword; a woman made of fire was basically doomed.

Now, though, we’re several decades in and lines made for collecters that are largely in their 30s and 40s can say whatever they want! So she’s canon, even if Amber isn’t. Yes there’s only one mention of her. Amber technically was mentioned in an unproduced episode titled “Amber Waves of Flame”, but as it was unproduced, it’s noncanonical.

Volcano Magus, Sinister Son of Volcana

Lore: Living within a dormant volcano, the Volcano Magus of the German audio plays was the source of most of Catra’s power and all of her evil intent. He supplied her with magic for spells and schemes with which to assail the Crystal Castle, but neither she nor Clawdeen were aware of the dark influence he held over them.

In the MOTUC canon, he’s specified as the son of Volcana, a demigod from the “Region of Volcanoes” who craved the nature magic of the Whispering Woods. When he learned the Twiggets were inextricably linked to that magic, he used his powers to petrify the former Rebels (this was after the Horde's defeat) and kidnap three Twiggets to drain the magic from their souls. Twiggets, for the uninitiated, are like purple tree-elf things. According to MOTUC, Razz is a Twigget, though the ‘real’ name they assigned her doesn’t fit their naming convention. She is purple, I guess.

Kowl, who avoided petrification, read Razz's spellbooks to find a way to save his friends, and learned of an Entrapment Gem that she hid in a shoe, for some reason. He confronted the Volcano Magus, spoke in the ancient tongue of the First Ones, and sucked him into the Gem.

Backstory: Admittedly this stuff is second hand, as I don’t speak German & they only have transcriptions/translations for the He-Man tapes anyway, but if anybody can find me an audio file I will do my best to verify. The MOTUC stuff at least I can confirm 100% because it’s from 2019 & I do speak English, for better or worse.

Oak, the Jackal God

Lore: Oak was the terrible Jackal God worshiped by the denizens of Zhar, an ancient civilization that once existed in a remote, forested region of Eternia. Long ago, Oak was imprisoned within a statue which could be found within the Temple of the Jackal. When Skeletor removed the statue from the temple, Oak broke free of the enchantment which imprisoned him and wreaked havoc on Eternia. Although the Jackal God was immensely powerful, he could be weakened by the elements of nature and was ultimately foiled by a rainstorm conjured by the combined powers of He-Man's sword and the magic of the temple's guardian priest.

Backstory: I have lifted this from a He-Man guide word for word as I cannot for the life of me find a copy of the Brazilian Editora Abril comic he came from, O Templo Do Chacal (1986). The description is like, suspiciously similar to the plot of the He-Man episode The Cat and the Spider, except the Grimalkin was never described as a god. The rest of it--statue, Skeletor, storm defeat--plays out almost the same. True pity I can’t find the original source, but I do trust this guidebook. You may be interested in Ceres from the UK comics--another dog-slash-statue who frankly might as well be a god himself, but as he’s not called one in canon he’s not going on the list.

The Bitter Rose Goddess

Lore: As Man-at-Arms told the legend, “Every day, a woman climbed Rose Mountain to look for her husband to return from the war. Alas, he never came back. Her tears poured from her cheek and entered the ground. One day she disappeared, but where she stood was a single, solitary rose. It’s the only thing that grows on Rose Mountain.”

The Insect People, who lived at the base of Rose Mountain, believed that the Bitter Rose is all that held the mountain together (and when it was picked, they were proved right). After the flower was restored, it transformed into the Bitter Rose Goddess herself, who explained that she had been a prisoner of her love's sorrow, so bitter that she refused to allow anything else to grow on Rose Mountain. She blessed the surrounding area, blanketing the jagged peaks with roses, and disappeared.

Backstory: She’s kind of... barely a god. She showed up in one episode and no other media & has objectively less power than like, every single demon they ever brought in. I almost didn’t put her on this list.

Mask-Ra, Goddess of Masks

Lore: A goddess who created the magical Masks of Power.

Backstory: Mask-Ra was first mentioned in 2019 and like, look, I’m gonna be real. I don’t respect her. She’s an invention of MOTUC (unless they were drawing on this concept art of Maska-Ra, which I doubt bc he was a Man-E-Faces precursor) and they retconned her into having created Catra’s mask, which is kind of redundant given the entire episode Magicats. This mask did not need two bios. There are no other mentions of her in any canon.

Potential other Masks of Power: The Deemos and Tyrella masks from the He-Man episode “Masks of Power”, lizard and canine masks from the mini-comic “Masks of Power”, Lord Masque’s Demon Mask from the He-Man episode “House of Shokoti, Part 1″, and whatever the hell Red Shadow has going on.

Procrustus, Giant Guardian of Magic

Lore: During the creation of the various dimensions (5 in MOTUC canon but demonstratably higher everywhere else), the gods installed the four-armed, immortal giant Procrustus to guard their secrets at the heart of Eternia. There lay the Starseed, from which the entire dimension was created. It still held immeasurable power, and could be used to conquer entire universes. Hordak, in an attempt to access the Starseed, cracked Eternia in two with the Spell of Separation. Though he was (mostly) thwarted, from then on Procrustus was forced to hold the two halves of Eternia together from within, lest the planet break apart and the Starseed be exposed.

Backstory: First appearing in the mini-comic “The Magic Stealer!”, Procrustus is a lot more tangible than most gods. We know where he is, at all times, and he seems confined to one size. His powers appear to be largely physical, as he had to burrow out of the ground to investigate in the mini-comic instead of teleporting or like, magicking the dirt away. This was his only appearance until MOTUC released a figure for him in 2012. He also showed up in the Subternia map the next year, holding Eternia together.

Standor, Cosmic Creator of Power

Lore: “Before time began, the great Gods of the multiverse convened in the Hall of Power to create all that was and all that will ever be. Head architect of this great task was Standor. A cosmic being of unlimited imagination, Standor helped lead his fellow deities by fueling their energies with raw creative force.”

Backstory: Released for Comikaze 2013 to celebrate the partnership of Mattel and Pow! Entertainment, Standor is literally just Stan Lee But a God. The prototype was called Standar--idk why they changed it, but I think it’s because it’s too easy to confuse with “Standard”. They made a bio for his sunglasses. I don’t want to talk about it.

Bash-Or, Slain Mystic God-Beast

Lore: Very little is known of Bash-Or, the Ram. His last remnant was sealed within the Ram Stone by the ancient sorceror kings of Zalesia, imbuing it with his divine power to overcome any barrier, magical or otherwise.

Backstory: Bash-Or was revealed in the bio for the Ram Stone, September of 2020, but his spirit (previously referred to as ‘the Spirit of the Ram Stone’) was twice utilized by Skeletor in the MYP cartoon, to great effect, before the stone was destroyed.

#she-ra #spop #motu #he-man #clare shares notes #edited to actually include the gd graph

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