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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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prompt: Soap being a funny, goofy flirt with his barista whenever he's on leave back home….super cocky and charming, then a couple months go by …. and he comes back sort of rougher around the edges after Las Almas. less trusting. a bit meaner when he talks to her….. [soap/reader] 2.5k; nsfw (on ao3)

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

He’s back again. It’s not a usual occurrence, but when it happens your heart kicks into overdrive. He appears like clockwork every couple of months, and then back to back over a quick succession of days. Like he’s in town one week and then gone the next.

You look up from where you’re organizing the muffins in the display case to find him grinning down at you from the other side. His hair is freshly shorn on both sides, the stripe of hair down the middle likely barely long enough for him to work his thick fingers through it. He’s got a cocksure grin spread across his lips. A fresh cut over his right eyebrow, a butterfly bandage over it.

“Hi John,” you say. It’s almost a struggle to say the words. Your hands shake a bit where they’re extended out amongst the pastries, fingers pressing into a carrot muffin a bit too hard. It dents beneath your fingers. You pull them out, rest the tongs behind you on the countertop.

“Hi kitty cat,” he purrs, folding his arms over the pastry case, leaning as close to you as he can. If it were anyone else, you might be tempted to scold them for smudging the glass. It’s you that’ll have to clean that up later. “Not Johnny anymore? Have I been gone for too long?”

Charm like butter spread thick over freshly toasted sourdough, already melting into the bread, dripping onto the plate between the pockets of air. You know he could ruin you if he wanted to, if you let him in.

You know it won’t be long until you fold. He hasn’t been subtle about it. “Sorry, Johnny, we’re all out of scones.”

“Aw, that’s how you apologize for tossing up my morning?”

You twiddle your thumbs. “Sorry.”

“‘Have to do better than tha’, kitty cat,” Johnny says, lips drawn into a faux pout that has your heart skittering in your chest like it’s been let loose from the stables for once. “I was waiting for those scones for near a month."

“We have cream buns,” you offer. He snorts.

“Not in the mood for anything cream filled just yet.”

There isn’t a shade of red deep enough to describe your face. “Pardon?”

“Ye fancy going for a bevvy tonight?” Johnny asks instead, evading the question.

You probably look as gobsmacked as you feel. It’s not like you haven’t been asked out on dates before, but Johnny is leagues away from any of the men you’ve dated. He’s cockier, back straight and chest out, flaunting the muscles strapped across his chest and arms. You think it’s reasonable that you’ve chalked his flirting up to habit, something he does with everyone; whatever distance you’ve put between yourself and your inevitable nervous breakdown has been built on assuring yourself that Johnny surely didn’t mean for you to take his flirting seriously.

Apparently, you were wrong.

“You want to take me out?” you ask, sounding a bit dumb.

“‘Course I do.” He cocks an eyebrow, leveling you with an obvious look. “Haven’t been shy about it; s’a bit tough when I’m all over the place these days, but I’m in town for the next two weeks, so we’ve got some time. When you getting off today, kitty cat?”

Johnny leans farther over the countertop, towering over you now that you aren’t standing on the raised platform by the pastry case. Palms spread wide over the granite; when your eyes flit down, you can’t help the way they’re drawn to the dark, livid tattoos crawling up his forearms. Dark ink like they’re new trophies on his skin.

His attention is always like the sun; your whole body burns under his gaze. There’s something about being stared at so intensely, blue eyes raking down the front of you, that makes you unsure.

He buys a croissant instead, tenner pressed gently into the palm of your hand. You're tempted to deflect, tell him you aren't interested.

“Seven,” you whisper instead, hands shaking when you hand him his change.

His hand closes around yours, callused fingers rough against your skin. “Got it. Pick you up seven sharp.”

When he leaves, you barely hear the jingle behind him, the blood pounding in your ears. You have a date.

Your chest is tight for hours, thinking about your date later that evening. He picks you up after your shift, just as you’re locking up; you thought you’d have a couple minutes to head back to your apartment and freshen up, but you find him waiting outside the coffee shop for you, clad in a black hoodie and the same jeans as earlier.

He’s as slick and gentlemanly as you might’ve anticipated, walking you to the pub with a hand nestled against your low back. You talk for what seems like hours tucked away in the corner. Johnny makes good conversation, but sometimes it feels a bit like an interrogation. He’s talkative, but there’s a faint edge underlying everything he does; he makes you wait for him at your table while he orders for the two of you at the bar, taking the seat facing you so you’re ensconced in his shadow, hidden from anyone else in the pub.

He insists on walking you back to your place, boots splattering through the puddles accumulating between the cobblestones. He makes sure you walk on the dry side. Every light you pass under sweeps across his face in a golden arc, illuminating the corner edge of his jawline, the plush spread of his lips, the furl of his ear like a nautilus shell. Brows that slope over deep set eyes.

When he leaves you off at the door, Johnny’s hand curls in the hairs at the back of your neck and tugs you up for a kiss that goes scorching hot. Fingers tangled in your hair, other hand coming up to cup your cheek, holding you in place. You feel trapped, helpless against the onslaught of him; a hot tongue flicks into your mouth and he groans, making your head spin. You feel it resonate through you.

“Johnny—” you mumble when he pulls away for a second, cut off when he leans back in to suckle at your bottom lip. His beard is bristly against the soft skin around your mouth.

You feel him smirk against your lips. He nips at the lower one. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, a’right, kitty cat?”

Johnny only looks the slightest bit disheveled when he pulls away. A thumb traces your lower lip. He briefly looks regretful, like he wants to bend down again for another one—you feel the intention when he presses his thumb ever so slightly past your lips—but then he pulls back, walking backwards down the street away from you. A hand raised in goodbye.

Then the next day, he’s gone. Vanished into thin air. You glance up whenever the wind chimes over the door jingle, but it’s never him, always someone with a different hat, a different face.

You thought he promised you two weeks this time. Your chest collapses when the door opens and someone else walks in. Apparently he spoke too soon.

Two days go by; you’re fighting the desperation to know. It oddly never crosses your mind to think that he’s ghosting you. Maybe it should. You hardly know him outside of the brief interactions you have every other month when he’s back from wherever he works (and you know that it’s all top secret, hush hush, you’ve seen the military tattoos and kept your questions to yourself), but it doesn’t feel—and you think this with no small degree of irony—like something he’d do.

On the walk home, you often catch yourself looking for the familiar shape of him. Wandering past the shops closing up for the night, people piling into the bars, raucous voices tumbling up into the smoky sky; you stand on your tiptoes on the other side of the street and peer in, looking for the broad shape of his back.

You never spot him. There is a cold gap in your life that goes unfilled. It smarts at the root of you; you didn’t think you could miss Johnny. You thought you could feel a twinge of regret every now and then for not indulging his flirting a bit more, but you had honestly shelved him higher than you could reach in your desires. Until he took you out and listened to you ramble on, listened deeply with his attention rapt, his cheek pressed into his fist as he leaned against the table towards you. Until he whisked you safely back home and held you in place while he sipped kisses from your mouth until your lips were swollen.

It’s months later when you hear it.

“Hi kitty.”

Your blood goes hot at the sound of his voice. When you whip around, Johnny’s on the other side of the counter like he never left. Black shirt that clings to the curve of his biceps, old jeans with fades around the knees and thighs stretched around his thighs.

When you meet his eyes, they seem charged, steadier than usual. Flat lips turned up just at the corner, one side only. Johnny’s not usually so still, so grounded on his feet; there’s usually a frenetic undercurrent to him, like catching a live wire. You don’t know what he’s like out in the real world, but in your world he looks like he paces and runs to work himself free of all the extra energy. Maybe other forms of cardio.

“Johnny, you’re—” You catch yourself before the words tumble out, before you make it known that you’ve been tossing and turning late at night wondering where he went. Blue eyes sparkle like they hear it anyway, the faint note of desperation seeping into your voice like a hoarseness.

“Fancy going for a bevvy tonight?” he asks you again. Less of a question this time.

You feel pulled to him on a string. He doesn’t leave you in peace this time. He waits you out, sits at a table in the coffee shop facing you. Customers you’ve known for years seem entranced by him, and how could they not? They don’t make them like him often—tall and blue eyed, roguish; ruggedly handsome when the mood strikes. Pretty boy until he turns the full weight of his stare on you and you’re forced to contend with the fact that he is, in fact, all man.

Your amity turns to enmity when someone stares at him for too long. Placated only because Johnny never so much as turns their way.

Dinner is a long, drawn out affair. His conversation is rougher than usual, punctuated by bouts of silence. His eyes are murky waters. Something’s changed, you think, salad speared on your fork, hovering just in front of your mouth, studying him. Something happened in the months that he was away. Whatever it was, it’s left Johnny a bit more calculating, less trusting. He sits facing the door this time, eyes flicking up whenever it opens on the other side of the restaurant.

“Sorry, angel, don’t have it in me to be sweet and gentle anymore,” Johnny says when he walks you to your doorstep. “‘Fraid it’s gonna be rough for you from now on.”

His words make you tremble.

The kiss at your doorstep doesn’t end there this time. Maybe this is all an extension of that moment months ago, the natural endpoint. You were never going to end up anywhere else but flat on your back under him.

“Pure gaggin' fer it, aren’t ya, kitty?”

Johnny’s voice is rough, barely a rumble over the sound of your own keening. Your whole body slides up the bed every time he ruts into you, thick cock spearing you open. Your hands slip over his shoulders where a layer of sweat has built up; your bodies slide together like you’ve been at it for hours, rather than just the thirty minutes since Johnny bodied his way into your place and made you guide him to the bedroom, shucking his clothes the whole way there.

“No, I would’ve—” You gasp on a particularly rough thrust, teeth clenching together, “—I would’ve w-waited. Oh god, oh god.”

“Haud yer' wheesht, bonnie, quit whining,” he grunts. “Dinnae act like you weren’t asking for a big cock in this cunt. Could hear her purring behind the counter. Needed it for months, didn’t ya?”

You knew this was in him somehow, this penchant for dirty talk. He’s always moved like it was in him. You feel swept away by it, scorching under his hands and tongue and dick. Tightly wound. Only capable of holding on, one hand clenched now in the lowest part of his mohawk while he ducks his head to suck your nipple into his mouth. When he gives it a mean bite, you squirm and cry out.

“Never thought you were s-serious,” you admit, whimpering when he nips again at the tender spot there.

Johnny draws back onto his haunches, still deep in you. There are scars across his chest that you didn’t notice before. New skin frosted over, deep gouges across his arms; what you think looks like a bullet wound. Your eyes go wide. It’s impossible to think what he must have been through.

He looms over you, hand coming up to curl delicately around your throat. Just enough to let you know that he’s there, that he’s got you right where he wants. Johnny smiles wide, wicked, white teeth stark in the darkness of your room.

“Oh, I’m very serious, kitty,” he laughs, deep and throaty. He thrusts languidly into your heat now, drawing it out.

He makes a show of it when he comes, fingers tightening around your neck. Your breath hitches in your throat. It strikes you in the moment that you let him in bare, trusted him despite months of absence and no real excuse for it. When he pulls out, you feel it leak from you. Frustration boils under your skin because you haven’t come yet; you feel almost betrayed, a whiplash reaction that has tears welling up in your ears.

“Don’t worry,” Johnny coos at the sight of your pinched face, “you’ll get yours, bonnie. Gonna treat this kitty real nice.”

You struggle against his hold when he forces your legs wide and slots himself between them, making his way down the bed. He tongues deep into your cunt to lick his own spend out. Your thoughts dribble out of you, head empty; there’s nothing left in you except bone-deep exhaustion and the feel of his bearded cheeks scraping against your inner thighs.

You flinch like you’ve been shocked when he sucks at your clit, hypersensitive. He laughs when you do, doubling his efforts. His hot mouth on the place where he still drips from you might make you lose it completely. The most wounded sound bubbles out of you. Your hand trembles in his hair, torn between pulling his mouth closer and pushing him away.

He doesn’t relent until you’ve come twice, your face flush with blood. When his tongue flicks over your clit again, it’s for the pleasure of seeing your legs spasm.

“Johnny, please—can’t anymore,” you beg, trying to press your foot against his shoulder to push him away.

His chin glistens with your juices. When he runs his tongue across his bottom lip, plump and swollen, you drag in a harsh breath. Maybe you could go again.

“Kitty, I’ve had a rough couple weeks,” he says, voice light but for where it descends into a memory, deep and dark. “Just let me eat your cunt and we’ll talk about everything later, okay?”

Your fingers tingle like they’ve fallen asleep in his hair. When you give in, it feels inevitable.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod soap #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap/reader #soap mw2 #soap cod #cod x reader #soap call of duty #soap mactavish

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maxybabyy · 1 year ago

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It’s barely noon.

Daniel has only been back in Monaco for a handful of hours, burnt out from flying commercial and dressed obnoxiously in bright orange, and still, he’s here.

He pulls up Max’s text one more time and stares sceptically at the building in front of him. But he’s in the right spot, the tiny guy on the map right on top of the address Max had sent.

The lady behind the reception desk looks up when he enters, a polite smile on her lips as she comes forward to greet him, “Bonjour monsieur, comment ca va?”

Daniel’s been here for too long for his French to be as bad as it is, stutters out a, “Ca va bien,” before he switches to English. “Uh, I’m here for my cats?”

“Certainly,” she says, her accent even less pronounced than Charles’. She goes back behind the desk, points out the small bevvy station on her way there. Daniel’s been in formula one for over ten years, has lived in Monaco for most of that, but this fucking cat hotel may still be the fanciest shit he’s been to. “May I ask what cats you are here for?”

Daniel jiggles the handle of the coffeemaker, watches what he hopes is coffee drip into the branded to-go cup. “Uh, Jimmy and Sassy? They’re like, Bengals, with the stripes and shit? If you have two cats that look the same, I reckon it’s probably them,” he says, searches and fails to locate a lid.

The lady coughs, and Daniel decisively doesn’t look at her, cannot – knows she has to be laughing at him. Fucking, disaster step-cat dad that he is; Max would already have them loaded up in the car and be on his way.

“The cats are registered with internal ID numbers, monsieur. I cannot tell you if we have your cats otherwise, my apologies,” she tells him, not unkind.

“Right, yeah. Let me get those for you then,” he says, chuckles. He scrolls back to the cursed message that had started it all, rattles off the IDs for both cats to the lady’s mild surprise.

‘you of course don’t have to, but always the cats like it better when they can be at home.’ He reads back now, wishes he had never ventured into the world of cat sitting and long-term pet boarding.

“I will have someone come out with your cats right away, monsieur Verstappen,” she says, taps away at the computer for a moment before the printer starts to spit out a stack of papers. “If I can just have you sign here, you will be all set.”

Daniel swallows down half of the coffee, scrapes his teeth over his tongue to mask the burn. “’course, I’m not Max, though. Just for filing purposes, I guess.” He says, scribbles his signature on the dotted line. It’s the same fucking signature that he would do on a hat or whatever the fans put in front of him, and it shouldn’t make him feel embarrassed, but it does. “My name’s Daniel. Ricciardo, I should be on the list though.”

The lady smiles, licks her finger to flick a page. “Certainly, monsieur Ricciardo.”

A man in his early twenties comes out, a cat carrier in each arm. He puts the cats on the desk and rattles off a report of their stay these past weeks, the meals they had, how they behaved, their moods.

Daniel tries to listen, makes himself remember enough that Max will be satisfied even if they didn’t also send out an update by mail every three days. The guy doesn’t stop talking, so Daniel nods along, pokes his finger through the grid and watches Sassy swat at it; Jimmy who gives him a polite lick.

Even if their names weren’t printed on the carrier, this would give them away. That at least he knows.

“Great, yeah. Thanks mate,” Daniel says and moves them down to rest by his feet. “Do I need to pay something, or will we get an invoice, or like?”

“Monsieur Verstappen has an account with us, so there is no need for that. He will be notified by mail. But I can offer you a receipt?” She says, and even she sounds unsure about the offer.

“Yeah, that would be good, cheers.”

The printer makes another noise, and one of the cats meows in response, the other quick to echo. She hands it over with a smile, and Daniel stuffs it into his pocket with a quick ‘thanks’ and picks up his cats to leave.

He’s lying on the couch later, Jimmy on his chest and Max’s latest voice message playing over the phone when he finally pulls out the receipt.

“You’re such a fucking spoilt cat, Jims.” He says, kisses his head.

Jimmy meows softly, bumps his chin with his head, so Daniel kisses him again, watches his tail flick in the air.

Yeah, alright, he thinks, maybe they do deserve it.

#max said cats were at a cat hotel on the team red line stream #and this was the only thing I could think of ...#maxiel #maxiel fic #my fic #my writing #fic

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italiansteebie · 2 years ago

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i desperately crave non american steve.

gimme italian stephano

french stephen

damn even Australian steve like can you imagine??

them moving to hawkins steve's freshman year and eddie immediately following steve being all like "oi, im gonna head to the servo for a bevvie. can ah get ya somethin?"

and eddie just... blubbering. "uh- i. im, gnarly. dude."

cut to a few years later steve meets the kids and by that time steve's accent has cut away significantly, and they don't notice until eddie wakes up in the hospital bed high off his ass from morphine asking steve to "talk austria" to him and everyone is highly confused and steve only makes it worse.

"right babe. as soon as we shoot through here we can get you right. maybe stop by maccas. good on ya almost dyin' babe."

"what the fuck was that."

"that was worse than when max first showed up from california."

"you can do an australian accent?"

steve scoffs. "gimme a pash and go back to sleep. you must be rooted, love."

their audience is still standing in confusion and steve pays them no mind, waiting for eddie to fall back asleep.

"steve." robin hisses once eddie's eye flutter closed. "explain."

they're all looking at him expectantly.

"i was born in australia. a real true blue. freshman year as youse call it."

he can almost see the moment it clicks for robin.

"oh my god! you're the australian guy everyone was freaking out over in 8th grade? shit. i was wondering what happened to him. that makes so much sense."

there's a grimace on little wheelers face.

"what pissed in your cheerios, mate?"

the grimace worsens.

"my sister talked about you ALL the time. it was gross when i didn't know it was YOU. now it's even worse."

"oh piss off, wheeler."

the rest of the group giggles, quietly launching into questions about australia, like can he surf? is everyone really always drunk? does the toilet actually flush backwards? what's the outback like?

steve sighs. thanks a lot, eddie.

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half-dead-ham · 2 years ago

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With chaos brings Justice

My last entry for the DpxDCshipweek, sad I couldn't get through it in it entirety, but happy I made some for it at all!

links: [Ao3] Wc: 6656 Cw: implied/referenced torture

John Constantine was a man of few pleasures. He liked booze, nights with a full bed and belly, and keeping his head attached to his shoulders.

So when he felt a surge of chaos magic flood the board room of the Justice League Watchtower one long morning into their bi-monthly meeting that for some reason he decided to show up to, he felt any chance of him recovering this day with booze or food leave the solar system entirely.

Before the other Leaguers even felt the pressure change that came with teleporting magics John was on his feet, readying a defence spell just in case who (or what) decided to attack first, talk second. ‘Course the other gits just saw him knock back his chair with a flask of whatever he’d poured himself last night and thought for a second he was trollied.

He always loved it when the other blokes did that. Fuckin’ hell, where was Zatanna when you needed her?

He would’ve cracked a smile when the rest of them finally got the memo that sumthin’ foul was afoot, but John was too focused on the fact that he recognized the magic to try and play this off as anything but deadly serious. Why was he the only one here that was able to deal with this particular brand of chaos? Why couldn’t he have bloody stayed home like all the other bloody times he’d missed a meeting?

The magic was perceptible now, a swirling red cloud hovering over the conference table like it might start raining blood, a static in the air, the smell of lamp oil and chaos magic making John's nose twitch. There wasn’t any use in trying to fool himself as a figure formed in the cloud, and any trace of those lovely effects of his bevvy of choice went straight out the airlock.

A pale-faced child emerged from the mist, curly black hair with two styled points partially obscuring a set of beady black eyes that looked down their nose at the group surrounding the table.

“Klarion,” the teen turned to John, expression unusually flat. The witch boy Hadn’t yet said anything, and his blasted familiar kept its place on his shoulder, hissing but not leaping into action.

Now that John got a good look at the chaos magic user he almost wanted to look surprised. Klarion had changed his style; no longer was he dressed in puritan settler chic, now he wore dark jeans with black converse, a white t-shirt with the runic symbol for creation in red, and a black sleeveless overcoat. It looked grunge, and John could almost appreciate it.

Almost.

“Now what does the infamous Witch Boy need that he’s ‘ported in 'on our lovely gathering?” John asked, seeing as the teen (an’ he looked like a proper teen now, didn’ he?) wasn’t feeling especially chatty. His defensive spell was almost complete, if John could just keep the lil shit distracted for a little longer-

“Stupid heroes, I have come because I have a task for you,” the Witch boy announced, looking like he sucked a lemon while saying it.

John could see a few others in the room looking at each other in confusion, but he kept his eyes firm on the brat in front of him. “Oh? An’ what task would require our services, oh mighty mage?”

The Witch Boy’s eyes narrowed at him, clearly not liking the sarcasm in his tone. Surprisingly, to him at least, Klarion turned to Superman, not falling to the taunt like he would’ve before.

“Someone I respect has been captured by the American government, and while I would have no problem raising the place to the ground myself-” more than a few of the heroes present tense at that, “-this person would only find more trouble in me doing so.”

Now that brought up a nice heap of questions for the surrounding men in tights. Why, or better yet how does Klarion know someone that needs help from the Justice League. Someone who he apparently respects enough to go for help from a group of stuffy adults with sticks shoved so far up their-

"And why should we help you?" The big ol' Bat asks what's on the tip of everyone's tongues.

Klarion turns to the Caped Crusader with the most serious expression John had ever seen on the Witch Boy. "Because the High King of the Dead needs help escaping the living, and you guys love to make sure this stupid plane of existence doesn't fall to war."

~~~~~

"You seriously aren't helping, Witch Boy!" Danny calls out to the cackling teenager as he evades yet another tentacle from the thing coming out of the side of a large floating island. More of a mountain, really, but Danny's a little too tied up to care.

"Hit 'em again!" The pale-faced teen on the sidelines jeered as the ghost boy shot off another volley of ectoblasts towards what he's starting to dub as a hermit-ectopus. Grimacing, Danny did just that, raining a hail of green towards the writing mass of tentacles, finally pushing the thing back in its cave enough so that he could seal the entrance with ice.

With that out of the way, Danny could finally take a breather. He put his hands on his knees for stability as he panted, annoyed. Ancients curse that stupid Witch Boy, he may not need to breathe in this form, but that was one hell of a workout.

The cackling to his left was finally starting to die down, but not before he heard the idiot making his way closer. One final exhale and he straightened back up, giving the other teen a side glare Mr. Lancer would be proud of.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't soup you right now, cat boy," he demanded with a scowl as he crossed his arms.

"'Cause you still need me to help you get that stupid antidote for your stupid friends!" Klarion quipped back immediately, smug smirk stuck on his face. "Besides, it's not like your weak little can'll be able to do anything to me."

"You're the one who poisoned them in the first place," he sneered back, letting his hatred of the other boy leak out through his aura while trying not to worry himself over Sam and Tucker back home.

Klarion got closer, smirk growing menacingly wider, "Well who was the ghost that kept ignoring me? This is your fault and you know it."

Danny said nothing, just punched Klarion in the face before flying off into the mountain grumbling, leaving the Witch Boy to deal with the blood falling onto his tie by himself.

~~~~~

"Constantine, what do you know about this 'High King of the Dead'?" Batman asked after pulling the mage into the hall. They had left Superman to deal with the details and negotiations. He's always been better at that.

"Not much, Batsy," John sighed, really wishing he could pull out a smoke. If it weren't for those blasted 'no smoking' rules the furry in front of him enforced, he'd be chugging like a train right 'bout now.

Batman simply glared at the man for a moment before John got the unsaid ‘well, get on with it’. “Alright, alright, I do know some things, but I don’t know how useful they’ll be!”

“Explain.”

John sighed, “Not much information about the ruling body of the dead gets through to the realm of the living, that whole ‘dead men tell no tales’ bit. What I know of a King of the dead was that he was a right bastard that wanted his cake and e’ryone else's. Got locked in some coffin or what have you by his ruling court, and hasn’t been heard from for about two millennia ‘til the new one came about.”

“And this new king, is he anything like the last one?”

Before John could confirm or contradict the question a sharp laugh came from the other side of the conference doors. The two detectives looked at each other before heading back in, Klarion watching from his seat on the table as they rejoined the group.

“The new High King of the Dead is nothing like the last one,” the Witch Boy stated with a sneer.

Batman turned to Superman, asking with a silent tilt of the head. He got a head shake and shrug in return. “We were talking about why he would need us specifically when he just started laughing.”

“Oh?” The occult detective spoke up, “And what makes you say that? If you respect him he must be pretty similar, eh? Why do you or him need our help?”

Klarion looked down, a pinched expression taking over his face. “He’s nothing like me. He’s good.”

~~~~~

Wind tore through Danny’s hair as he flew up to the massive Vortex rampaging through mid- America. He could barely see five feet in front of him before a tree or the rare car nearly takes him out of the sky. Klarion’s magic could be seen on his ten o’clock, trying to stop the raging wind before it throws something at him too. Danny dove to grab onto the magic caster, turning him intangible before the broad side of a barn could crash into him.

“What did you even do to make him this angry‽” Danny yells over the wind, pulling the concentrating Witch boy to another spot so they could be harder to hit. It doesn’t help, as half a tree still nearly decapitates them.

“Absolutely nothing!�� Klarion ground back through his teeth, “He just started chasing me through the Realms! I thought I could lose him in this plane but he just followed me!”

Another tree sailed their way, and Danny had to drag the other teen out of its path. He shot a volley of ectoblasts at some clumps of dirt launching themselves at them, breaking them up before they were close enough to hit them.

“How long ‘til your spell finishes‽” Danny asks, throwing more ectoblasts into the swirling vortex of carnage. The tornado consumes them greedily, returning fire with debris from an old storage barn it had picked up.

“Not fast enough!” Klarion shouts back, now flying under his own power as the harder parts of the spell conclude.

They weave through projectiles after that, Danny obliterating the larger objects thrown their way so Klarion could focus more on his spell. They were at least lucky enough that they had lured Vortex out to farm country, where they could easily provoke him out of the way of any towns. That left just the crops and their tools for the weather ghost to throw.

At least, until Danny spotted some larger buildings.

“Better speed that spell up, Witch Boy!” Danny urged, realizing they were heading towards the city, and fast.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Was all the other teen could retort as he ground his teeth further, doubling his efforts anyway. Red light swirled fiercely around the pale boy, encircling him and his familiar before suddenly launching outwards to wrap around the tornado. The wind picked it up easily, quickly turning the angry winds and clouds above a sickening blood red colour. A triumphant grin spreads across Klarion’s face at the turn of events, a giggle bubbling up before being stolen by the wind. Danny would almost be scared at the situation if it were him that smile was going against, but right now he was just a little relieved.

Klarion spoke one final word to his spell, and with it the red smoke pulsed bright, lighting up the whole cloud before the funnel just disappeared, leaving some dark yet still clouds above them. Danny could only stare at the sight in awe.

“What did you do dude?” He asked, noticing the odd change in the air around them. It was strangely still, almost-

“I froze the air in place, of course,” Klarion huffed hotly, and Danny turned his awed gaze to the teen next to him.

“You froze the air?”

“Well,” Klarion’s cheeks started to gain an almost normal complexion as his blush rose at the attention. “It’s not frozen frozen, but I made it so it wouldn’t move. So yes, I froze the air.”

When Danny didn’t move or change his expression Klarion’s blush only grew. Teekl gave a lax “meow” from the Witch Boy’s shoulders, breaking Danny’s trance and allowing Klarion the time to unruffle his proverbial feathers. The witch Boy coughed lightly in his hand as he turned away.

“Teekl’s right, shouldn’t you be doing your job now? I’ve done all the hard work, pick up the slack Ghost Boy.” Only his familiar saw the light green blush spread over the ghosts cheeks before he gave a nod and flew off towards where he could sense the weather spirit.

“Meow,” Teekl commented playfully.

Klarion blushed harder, “Oh shut up you hairball.”

~~~~~

The Javelin was speeding into earth's atmosphere towards the Americas, half of the Leaguers who had been in the meeting previously plus one chaos mage nestled inside. They had decided an impromptu rescue mission was in order, despite some worries of the Witch Boy leading item into a trap.

Batman remedied this by keeping Superman on standby, Shazam on call, and taking Manhunter with them to catch any lies the teen might be telling them.

The plane was dead quiet, and it was honestly making Hal antsy, especially sitting so close to someone they consider an enemy. His solution? Small talk.

“So,” the green lantern drawled as he swiveled his chair to face the teen. “From the way you talk about this King it sounds like you have something a little more than ‘respect’ for the guy. Care to elaborate?”

Klarion gave the Green Lantern a long side eye, making Hal even antsier in his seat. Seriously, how can a kid this dorky be this creepy?

A terse meow from the cat in the boy’s lap and the stare broke, and suddenly Hal felt he could breathe again. Klarion sighed heavily, like the topic exhausted him before he even started, but before Hal could rescind his words the Witch Boy was talking.

“The King of the Dead and I have known each other for a few years now,” he started. “And while at the beginning we were basically at each other's throats, after his coronation we figured out we didn’t really want to be enemies anymore. Looking back we had probably already decided that without saying anything, but it just got awkward to think about after.”

“This king was crowned recently?” Batman asked from his place at the wheel.

“Within the last three years, if I remember right,” Klarion replied flippantly. The Bat nodded, taking his focus back to flying to their charted destination. Not wanting more stifling silence, Hal picked the conversation back up.

“If you’ve known the King of the Dead for over three years you guys must be pretty close, huh?”

The Witch Boy huffed, “Yes, you could say that.”

“So could you maybe tell us more about him? What’s he like? Does he have a hobby? Don’t leave us hanging man!” Hal was encroaching on a jeer with his tone, though he died down quickly at the flat stare he received from both mage and familiar. If Diana hadn’t spoken up he might've been afraid of turning into a toad.

“I am also curious, Klarion. You haven’t told us much about someone you seem to care greatly over, anything you could tell us about them would help us settle whatever dealings they have with the American government.” At the moment the princess mentioned the government Teekl was on alert, Klarion’s expression soured with the change.

“The ‘dealings’ they have with your stupid higher powers is that they want to hunt his kind for sport and resources,” He spat, to the astonishment of the league members. Bruce and Diana shared a glance from the front seats, dread seeping into Bruce’s gut at the news.

“Could you explain that further? We need to know if we want to fix this,” Diana asked more seriously, motioning for Hal to take her seat as copilot so she could focus more on the conversation at hand.

(Hal was thankful for the distraction.)

“Your government,” the teen hissed, eyes glinting dangerously red before settling back to their eerie black. “Has been trying to catch Phantom since before I met him. They’ve deemed anything that holds ectoplasm in their body as unfeeling and mindless, and deemed them worthy of extermination and experimentation.”

“That can’t be legal, non-humans are protected under the Metahuman rights acts.” Diana comments with a frown.

Klarion rolls his eyes at the princess, “Everyone says that when they hear it, but I assure you, Phantom has talked my ear off about the Anti-ecto acts more times than I care to count. They’re real, and heavily enforced.”

Diana gave a sidelong glance to the front of the ship, noticing Batman already searching for these ‘acts’ while ever so slightly speeding up their flight. It was worrying that even Bruce didn’t know about this, considering his incessant need to keep up with things that could inevitably cause harm to those he wants to protect. She left that for him to deal with, refocusing the conversation back to lighter topics. “You mentioned ‘Phantom’, is this the king’s name?”

The Witch Boy gave a small hum, hand moving to idly stroke Teekl’s fur as they settled with the change of topic. “He told me it was originally the name he chose for himself when he started protecting his little town, and by the time he was crowned the ghosts all knew him by that name and it stuck.”

“Oh? The king is a hero?” Aside from Deadman, she had never heard of any spirits calling themselves heroes. Though it wasn’t entirely a surprise that another spirit wished to help others from beyond the grave.

Another hum from the teen in front of her, face reading more thoughtful as he presumably went back to the first time they had met. “Yes, he was doing something incredibly stupid, though he called it ‘heroic’ at the time. I still don’t see why he needed to destroy that artifact after he rewrote reality, but then again he was still a boy when he did that.”

…

“Pardon?” Diana said, stunned. Klarion either didn't notice the stunned silence he had created or didn’t care as he continued.

“After that I went to play with him every so often, sometimes playing a few pranks so he would stop ignoring me. He absolutely hated me when we first started, but I like to think I grew on him,” the Witch Boy gave a smirk at the memory, still not noticing the silence in the shuttle.

She could feel Hal’s eyes on them, incredulity practically oozing from his seat in front of her. Instead of meeting the Green Lanterns with one that was sure to match, she looked to J’onn, who had quietly been assessing their guest the whole flight. He had his head cocked as he faced the teen, but nodded when Diana turned. The boy told no lies.

They might need to reassess this King of the Dead’s threat level.

~~~~~

A cacophony of cheers resound in the courtyard of Pariah’s Keep, now renamed officially to Phantom’s Fortress with the crowning of the new king. Danny peered out from beyond the curtain to the courtyard, his ascendance ceremony freshly ended and a crown of arora and ice twirling lazily over his snow white hair.

“I still can’t believe this many ghosts want me on the throne… I thought everyone hated me with the way I chase them out of Amity all the time…” He marveled to himself, still not quite believing what just happened. He was a King now. He had people to rule. And they actually liked him.

Though with the reputation of the last king, he supposed that a potato could’ve taken the throne and they would’ve been happy.

“Is it that hard to believe that maybe you aren’t that hard to like?” A voice jokes from behind the new king, and turning from his peeping spot he couldn’t help the grin that spread. Klarion was standing not too far behind him, one arm behind his back in the clothes they picked out together. He looked good, like he belonged in this century now, and even with his posture radiating nervous energy, Danny could tell he was a lot more comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans than that stuffy puritan suit.

“I was thinking those odds were in-phantasmal, but I guess the chance was higher than I thought. I’m glad you could make it.” His smile grew slightly at the pink tint to the Witch Boy’s ears, but he went against the thought of pointing out how cute it was.

Klarion scoffed, as though the notion of not coming was even something that crossed his mind. “As a lord of chaos, it would be remiss of me to not show up for the coronation of a potential fellow lord. Besides, you asked me to come specifically, it would be impolite to refuse.”

Danny gave a snort at the response, he knew very well that if the other teen didn’t want to be here he would’ve refused the invitation outright. It was nice not having to fight the other anymore, after the battle with Vortex they started fighting less and hanging out more, Danny could even take him to the mall now without a struggle. Sure, Klarion was still trapped in the past with his underground village, but slowly he was starting to relax, have some fun that didn’t destroy everything around him.

It was nice to hang out with someone he didn’t have to hold back with.

“So, is there a reason you’re just standing there awkwardly?” Danny asked, letting a chuckle escape at the flat stare he received. A year ago he would’ve gotten a magic blast to the face for that.

Instead Klarion sighed, eyes glancing around the ornate hall before sighing again. “I figured- I mean- I- ugh…” the Witch Boy kept stuttering before petering off into a grumble. Danny accidentally let another chuckle escape at how cute the other teen was being, causing said teen to glare a hole into the carpet, before letting out a growl. He stomped up to Danny, so close he had to back up a step or they would be in each other's personal space, and suddenly his vision was full of orange and purple with a spatter of red.

Another step back put the colours in focus. A bouquet of flowers was being thrust towards him by a furiously blushing Klarion, whose eyes were currently on a rather interesting vase.

“What are these for?” Danny asked as he relieved the bouquet from the others' vice grip.

“For you, to congratulate you on becoming king. The orange ones are lilies, the purple flowers are irises and gerberas, and the little red ones are bloody williams. The lady at the store said they say “I’m happy for your success” in flower language.” Klarion looked like he was ready to say more, he probably had a whole speech about these, but Danny just couldn’t get over the fact that one of the biggest (previous) pains in his ass just started blushing and gave him flowers.

“Thank you,” he said, cutting off whatever Klarion was rambling about with a genuine smile. Klarion stared for a second, before blinking and clearing his throat.

“Of course,” he replied, blush spreading all the way down his neck.

~~~~~

The Javelin touched down a ways off of a squat white building. It was rather nondescript, save for the perimeter fencing circling the compound lined with guards.

“This is the place?” Batman asked tersely as they disembarked the plane. None of the armed men had seen them yet, it would give them the advantage in the infiltration.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about something so important,” the Witch Boy replied, narrowing his eyes at the compound before them. He could feel Danny in there, the strange mix of life and death energies radiating off the half-ghost was an ever present comfort to the Witch boy by now, and he was especially glad for it now.

He wouldn’t have been able to find him so quickly without it.

“I sense something heavy in the compound,” Manhunter noted with a frown.

Batman, ever the detective, wanted to know more, “Elaborate.”

The martian’s face twisted as he focused, reaching out with his mind to better read the heavy -no, oppressive- cloud that covered the compound, before gasping, recognition and anguish passing over as he physically recoiled. Green Lantern was there to steady him by the shoulders before he could so much as stumble.

“What did you feel?” The Dark Knight compelled once it was clear there were no lasting effects of his reaching out.

“Pain,” he replied shakily. “So much pain and suffering, hanging over the building like a fog. It is unnaturally powerful, if I hadn’t known beforehand, I would assume an entire city was under attack and not a single building.”

The Dark Knight said nothing, simply taking what was said to heart. He moved forward with purpose, but before he could get too far a hand held him back. “Wait.”

Batman looked down at the chaos mage, a single hand splayed out over his chest. “You need to know some things before I take you in there.”

The miniscule tilt of the taller man’s cowl was all Klarion needed to continue. “The facility is phase proof, the martian won’t be able to density shift through the walls, and the nature of their weapons are similar to Green Lantern’s constructs. You won’t get hurt badly if they hit you, but I’ve been told they burn.” All vital things to know. Batman's strategy would have to account for this, but he could still sense something from the teen, and so kept quiet.

“And when we find Phantom? Get every agent you can out of there. He doesn’t like senseless killing, but I will not leave that building standing.”

Batman gave a single nod, and with that Klarion enveloped the five in the red mist of his magic.

∆•∆•∆•∆

The plan was rather simple, Wonder Woman and Green Lantern were to be dropped off at the entrance to the building as a distraction and to round up the agents while Klarion, Manhunter and Batman were to use Klarion’s magic to infiltrate and locate the King. Klarion’s mist acted as a memetic, letting the gaze of the agents fall past them on their way through the building as they ran deeper to where he could feel Danny. They had to be careful to not touch anyone though, as the moment they did they would be able to see them.

“Why can’t you teleport us in?” Baman asked as they rounded another stark white corner into another stark white hall.

“Death energies, do strange things to magic,” Klarion panted his reply. He was not used to actually running, and he couldn’t figure out why some humans actually liked doing the activity. “With so much, charged death and ectoplasm in the air, better to not cause an explosion. So soon.”

Another swerve and he could feel Danny more, could almost taste that distinct flavour of citrus and menthol, the strange combination of ectoplasm and life that surrounded his ghost. The smell of citrus was strong though, and Klarion was desperately hoping he wasn’t too late with this rescue. The first real good thing he tries to do and he ends up a moment too late.

“The source of the pain is drawing nearer,” Manhunter informs them as they pass a windowed room. Batman breaks off to take a look inside, calling to the other two to keep going. Klarion never stopped.

One more corner and the acidic sour smell of citrus was assaulting their noses, and they started passing doors more resembling operating room entrances than offices. Lights were still on over a few as they passed, and Klarion made sure to snake a coil of mist into those that did, leaving screams and indistinct, cut off pleas in their wake. Those ones especially could rot in hell for all he cared, the smell of everdeath roiled off those rooms, alluding to whatever horrors might have been performed in them. He knew only a fraction of the ectoplasm spilt in there was from the one he cherished, but that made them no less guilty.

The final turn led them to a hall lined with a different type of door, these ones steel grey tinted green. Klarion loathed to see the colours he associated with his spirit used in a mockery against him, keeping Danny away from him. He stalked down, using his magic to blow every door off its hinges as he passed until he hit the one his beloved was in. Turning to face it, he held up his hand, willing his magic to grasp it and tear it from the wall, throwing it down the hall and uncaring what was in the way.

Emotion charged ectoplasm rolled out of the small cell, settling around their feet like fog and weakly intermingling with klarion’s magic.

The sight made the mage want to puke. And weep. And decimate this measly world that would dare touch his soul like this.

Were it not for the Martian's presence he just might have.

Danny was there, shackled to the wall with chains at his wrists and ankles, head weighed heavy by the collar around his neck and the fucking muzzle on his face. The ghost made no move to the light that now filtered into the space, he hung limply from his chains, lifelessly. Only the faint glow around Danny’s frame gave away that he was not yet truly ended.

But the green.

A shaky breath from behind the mage reminded him where he was, and he urgently entered the room. He went to work on the manacles, seemingly seamless, but with one whispered word they were releasing Danny into his arms.

“Is he?..” The martian started, too afraid to finish the sentence lest it become a reality.

“No,” Klarion breathed out shakily. “No he’s still… He’ll recover.” He has to.

“He’s so young,” Manhunter observed with a pained face as Klarion lowered to the floor of the cell, turning the ghost so he could hold him by the shoulders while he worked on getting his ankles freed.

“He was even younger when he started,” with Danny's ankles freed, all that was left was the inhibitor collar and that damned muzzle. He did away with the muzzle first, desperate to see his cherished spirit's face. No magic was needed for it, thankfully, just a simple lock keeping it around the halfa’s face. Klarion gingerly removed the offending device, tossing it at a wall and making a note of obliterating it before he left. There were already chafe marks around Danny’s cheeks and on his nose, green and nearly raw from it pressing his jaw shut.

How long has he been here for them to look so raw?

Klarion had only been away for two months at the most, off on some insignificant errand after finding the piece of an artifact drifting in the Realms. Insignificant because apparently while he was away, his cherished one had gotten captured trying to save one of his people from this moronic group. When he had finally returned, he had to be informed about his capture. The rage he felt then… He hopes Danny wouldn’t be too mad at him for the damage he caused to the Fortress.

A breathy groan followed by a sharp intake of breath and subsequent coughing brought Klarion out of his what if spiral. Danny was waking up, bleary eyed and confused at first -no doubt concerning his orientation- but a few seconds after the couches settled green eyes focused on black.

“Hey, Rion,” the ghost king gave a small watery smile. “Glad you could finally make it. How was your adventure?”

“Stupid ghost-” Klarion has to reel back the power he was putting behind his voice with a breath that came out more like a sob. “Do you know how worried I was when you weren’t in Amity? In the Fortress? I was away for two damn months and you almost got yourself ended Danny!”

Danny gave a chuckle that teetered into more of a cough as he weakly wiggled in Klarions lap. “They tried to grab Lunch Lady and Boxed Lunch, what was I supposed to do? It's my job as king to keep them safe-”

“NOT AT YOUR OWN EXPENSE YOU MORON!”

The outburst silenced the ghost with a small snap of his jaw, followed by a cut off groan at the soreness from its disuse. A light cough broke the tense silence, and Danny sat up slightly to see what made it, eyes immediately sharp with alertness for any possible danger. His eyes landed on Martian Manhunter and that sharpness melted away to confusion.

“Is that- why- Am I dreaming?” He stuttered, looking between the Justice leaguer and his lover. “Did I pass out so hard I’m actually dreaming my boyfriend came to save me with Martian Manhunter right now? Someone pinch me.” Klarion obliged the request and Danny yelped in pain. “Yep, okay, not a dream. Cool,” He whimpered, eyes now glued to the martian.

Klarion went back to the task of freeing the ghost from his restraints, but hesitated before taking the collar off. “Do you have enough power to stay in this form if I take this off you?” He asked cautiously.

Danny looked down, trying to see the band of metal around his neck, but quickly gave up with a sigh. “Probably not, it's taking most of my energy just to stay awake and talk right now.” He looked ashamed to say it, but Klarion was relieved to get a straight answer about his condition for once.

“I’ll leave it on until we get you somewhere safe then,” Klarion whispered before readjusting his hands and standing up with the ghost boy bridal-style. The energy must have been draining from his cherished, as he only jolted at the movement. He could see Danny's eyes getting heavy, his head pitching forward before righting itself a few more times.

“You’ll be there when I wake up… Right?” The Ghost boy asked, voice slurring with the effort to remain conscious. Klarion nodded once as he kissed the ghost's forehead -warmer than it should be- and walked back out of the cell. “Of course, my spirit. Rest.”

One more wobbly nod and the ghost’s eyes closed. Klarion straightened, reigniting his magic with the help of Teekl and pushing it to blow the rest of the cell doors off their hinges. A few other ghosts floated out, and Manhunter helped a few more into the hall. They left slowly, with magical fire crackling in the prison that once held his spirit, catching the ectoplasm alight as the Witch Boy’s face contorted.

∆•∆•∆•∆

The trip back to the Javelin was shorter than the trip into the facility, without the need to be covert they were able to retrace their steps through the building at a much faster pace. Batman regrouped with them just before the exit, and out in the grounds Green Lantern and Wonder Woman had done a great job of distracting and subduing most of the agents. One of them must have gone in and rounded up the scientists too, because they were tied up in a neat little pile a ways off.

Good, he could burn this place to the ground without worry then.

Klarion didn’t stop his stride out the compound as his magic spread to lick the walls, fire sparking to life where it touched. He didn’t stop to watch as the fire spread up the walls unnaturally fast, as it spread into the building through the holes it was melting in the reinforced glass. He didn’t pause when an explosion hit the air, the fire most likely finding the medical wing or the weapons vault.

Klarion only stopped once Danny was securely in the small medbay of the Javelin, held securely in place for takeoff.

~~~~~

Danny came to slowly, letting the ectoplasm of the Ghost Zone fill his lungs as he breathed deeply�� Wait. Ectoplasm? Ghost Zone?? Lungs???

Screw waking up slowly, Danny bolted up from wherever he was sleeping… and immediately regretted it. A massive headache assaulted his senses, along with about a dozen other aches and pains from his capture, most notably his jaw and starving stomach. Still, assessing the situation came before anything else, so he tried to make himself vertical despite his body's protests. Until a hand on his chest stopped him.

Klarion met his bleary eyed confusion with a stern stare. He pushed down once more and this time Danny didn’t protest the movement. “It wasn’t a dream?” Danny croaked out, only a little bit surprised at how dry his voice sounded.

“No it wasn’t a dream,” Klarion replied softly as he pressed a straw to Danny's lips. He was grateful for the first full drink of water he’d gotten in… he doesn't remember how long.

“And Martian Manhinter? Was he real too then?” Danny asked when his throat no longer felt like sandpaper. Klarion hummed an affirmative as he put the cup back on the nightstand, idly stroking Teelke with his offhand. He takes a second to process that before he nearly bolts up again, startling the familiar and mage alike.

“Is the Justice League here‽‽”

A pregnant pause followed the exclamation before the Witch Boy gave a snort, snickering to avoid outright laughing at the bedridden ghost. “No, I left the little humans to fly back to their clubhouse while I took you back to the Realms with a portal.”

Deflating with the explanation, Danny’s eyes travelled the embroidered constellations on the canopy of his bed, finally relaxing enough to appreciate where he was. Home. He took another deep breath, feeling his ectoplasm replenish itself more than it had in the last month in the GIW facility. The ectoplasm combined with the pine and fire smell of the mage sitting beside him only enforced the fact that he wasn’t there anymore. Tears threatened to fall with that thought.

His boyfriend came for him. He didn’t doubt he would, but the days passed along and he was starting to lose hope. But not only did Rion come for him, he brought the Justice League, a group he knows Rion has beef with. Traitorously, a tear managed to escape and roll down into his hair.

“You know, I’ll have to go talk to the League now that you’ve told them about me,” Danny commented, desperate to get out of those thoughts and ignoring the way his voice wobbled.

“I’m sure you will,” Rion replied, no doubt with a roll of his eyes. “But you need to heal first. You’re in no shape to go talk to a bunch of stupid humans right now.”

Danny gave a snort, “Those ‘stupid humans’ helped you get me back, right? Maybe drop the stupid when we see them next.”

Rion only grunted in reply, and so they lapsed into silence again. Danny felt sleep pulling at his mind again, now that he knew he was truly safe with his beloved mage beside him. He didn't fight it for long, but he needed to say one more thing before he truly allowed himself to start healing.

“Rion,” he mumbled out, getting the attention of the mage with a hum. “Thanks for coming to get me, love you.”

A rare kind of smile passed the pale teen’s lips then, soft and kind. “I love you too, Danny.”

#dpxdcshipweek2023 #day 6 #enemies to lovers #klarion dc #klarion the witch boy #danny fenton #danny phantom #ghost king danny #The GiW are assholes #Thats basically the fic #The GiW are asses and Klarion takes Danny back #Angry klarion #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc #dp x dc fanfic #dpxdc

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the-oasiris · 3 months ago

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Alpha and Omega Earth Sova Dynamic + Sova Lore Yap Session B)

Saw a post floating around talking about the dynamic between Alpha and Omega agents and how omega agents being labelled automatically evil is kinda stupid. Because no, they're NOT evil. They're Omega's Earth's last hope of survival. They're the heroes, much like how our Alpha agents are the heroes of Alpha Earth for standing up to this bizarre threat. It leads to a fun grey area that is not explored at all. I hope it gets some love in the future, but for now, character development is more important for the game.

That post got me thinking about my own HCs and interpretations of A and O Sova. I rly got into exploring elements of the Alpha and Omega aspects of the game's story due to me shipping Owling (Sova/Sova) but it suddenly became a really fun thing to dive into. It's going to be a long post, so for those who kinda want the TLDR, the img below has a summarized ver of my HCs for A and O Sova's dynamic. Also, these are just my personal thoughts on the character and it's definitely not me trying to sell these HCs as canon or the closest truth we can get to on Sova's lore. Riot please write more shit for this guy I'm begging you. At least explain his stupid eye or his old alias I'm on my hands and knees bros.

Grab some snacks and bevvies for the big wall of unedited hyperfixation fueled yap under the cut. I'll also include my thoughts on ASova/OSova, but I will mostly be discussing their dynamics and stuff outside of the topic of shipping.

Initially, Owling started as a fun indulgent cloneship that had no rhyme or reason, but the literal next thought I had was treating the ship like some kind of character study based off my HCs of him. The then evolved to become a journey of Sova learning to love himself, literally and metaphorically, however incomplete he may be.

As mentioned in my chart, the Sovas are true clones of each other, mirrors. Their major life events are similar but the outcomes are different as well as the way they choose to interact with the people in their lives and the world. This therefore creates small differences in their 'perfect mirror-like' likenesses.

Sova Lore + HCs in General

My ASova headcanons are as described in my little chart. I feel like the Sova we get presented is very work-oriented whose past was shaped by his time in the military. It may very well be all he had had when he was younger. Perhaps it was what he turned to for direction in his life. I don't really have a solid headcanon for his upbringing, I'm mostly tossing several ideas around because they all seem very possible depending on how I want to picture Sova. Currently I lean more towards his parents being too busy to raise their son and therefore handed him over to his babushka to be cared for and raised. They still exist in his life, but their absences had made a significant impact on his psyche. He believes if he becomes someone useful, someone whose work was meaningful and worthy of praise, perhaps his parents would regard him more tenderly, their visits would be more purposeful, there would be reason to see their son other than obligation. He wishes to be useful not just for the sake of his parents, but for his babushka who is old and frail but has taken great pains and burdens to raise him to the best of her ability. Sova turned to the military for it was a respectable line of work. You serve the country and therefore its people, it seems a perfect fit for him who had much affinity for physical skills (hunting and general fitness). Not only that, the military would be good for him, for he need not think about his pains and troubles. The strict drills and constant orders would give him little time to dwell on his sorrows or whatever ails him. Even if his heart is lost, at the very least he has orders to follow, his path would straighten out for him as long as someone was telling him what he should be doing. In regards to his old callsign 'Filin', I'm sticking to the generally accepted HC that it's his old callsign from whatever military company he was in before Valo. As for his experiences then, my thoughts aren't too lengthy. It was a normal job experience, but he was very much just a machine there. A good obedient soldier. However, a mishap in one of his missions cost him his right eye. He continued to serve despite the injury and forced himself to remain useful to the company.

As a result of such life experiences, the Sova we see today can easily be described as a straight-laced man with strict morals who works to live. From what little trivia we have of him, he definitely has hobbies and interests outside of work. He likes hunting, photography that leans towards nature as it's focus. From his voicelines, we can gather that Sova is actually a really friendly and loving guy. He is vocal about his love for his babushka, he praises his teammates often, and he always seems ready to jump in the line of fire for his teammates if it means saving them (and by proxy, the mission). This kindness extends even to those he shouldn't extend it to, namely OSova, who is the enemy. Can you imagine sparing the guy who is invading your earth? Giving them a second chance? I feel like it's more than just some good samaritan thing/altruism, but there is unfortunately no reason given from Riot so far.

With all that knowledge of him, I interpret Sova as a person who is kind, friendly and full of desire to do good. But he has a lot of personal struggles under the hood that he pushes away in order to service others, in order to continue to be seen as a 'good soldier', to be seen as useful. His life outside of work is lackluster, his personality centered around being an asset. He struggles to properly care for himself mentally and emotionally, but is very good at sweeping everything under the rug and calling on his 'work mode' to 'solve' these issues. They don't exist now that a gun's in his hands and his boots on the field. His personal troubles will leave him, like the arrows that fly from his bow, like the bullets that race towards his target's head. The only grounding things in his life are: - His babushka loves him - He's a damn good shot with the gun and the bow - He's an excellent soldier, amazing at his job

Sova, you are miserable in your excellence.

For all his amicable nature and good intentions for others, he hardly shows the same courtesy to himself.

And finally, I yap about OSova.

Omega Sova

OSova is almost everything ASova isn't. - He is less of a workaholic (he very much works to live, but not as intensely as ASova). - He is more open to others and therefore his relationships with the Valo protocol and others in general are much more intimate and closer. As a result, his dynamic with his Cypher is also a lot less charged and they actually get along. - He is more in touch with his emotions and is tackling his fears and problems. Very unlike ASova who is avoidant.

I like to think of OSova as a representation of what a slightly healthier Sova would be. A version of Sova who is trying to improve his mental health and his relationships. He's not the 'Perfect' version of Sova, he too, is still very flawed. But he is happier, is mentally healthier and lives a generally more fulfilling life because he is actually putting effort into himself, trying to be whole.

Personal HCs on their first encounter

When ASova meets OSova for the first time, obviously nothing meaningful goes down because they gotta kill each other. But personally, I think on one occasion, ASova gets curious about his mirror self. He wonders if their lives are truly mirror-perfect reflections of each other. And he steals OSova's eye. He cuts along the familiar eye scar but cuts an additional line for he dislikes that they look exactly alike and the scar mysteriously remains permanent (this is just for my enjoyment and definitely has no real supporting rhyme or reason lol). He doesn't give the eye to KJ despite her expressing interest in it, for this is a personal selfish matter. What he finds shocks him, for OSova lives a very different life from him. And he grows angry for he is... jealous. His mirror self seemed to be living a beautiful life as compared to him and he wants to know why. He needs to learn more, needs to collect more intel. There has to be a reason his mirror self is enjoying things he doesn't seem to have himself despite being a good and useful person on his earth. Therefore, in addition to being his enemy at work, he cannot spare OSova ever again. He needs his eye. He needs to know.

AOSova Interactions HCs

It is natural that the Sovas are hostile to each other, for they are enemies. But OSova is surprised at how vicious and almost predator-fierce his mirror is with hunting him down and killing him. Sometimes it feels like ASova kills him with more brutality than necessary for whatever reason. When OSova is cornered and most definitely dead, it seems like ASova seems to go out on a limb to kill him in a more vicious way or uses excess effort to take his mirror out. OSova, being Sova, who has a soft heart and an inherent sense of kindness, tries to speak to ASova before he is killed again. But of course, ASova, who is blinded by his envy and hard driven by his soldier's duty to kill his enemy, doesn't let him talk. But eventually, one day, he does. And OSova questions their likenesses. Are they truly clones? He didn't know he was quite so fearsome, quite so merciless and cold. ASova finally allows OSova to speak, and suddenly, he realizes that they are so much more different than what he has seen. ASova also comes to realize that perhaps, in this big wide world and beyond, maybe his enemy, his 'evil' self, is the only one who can truly help him understand his pain.

It is not a pleasant thought, but that thought will soon disappear when his hunting knife goes through OSova's heart.

Sova Learns To Love Himself + Owling (Sova/Sova) Elements (Cont. from AOSova Interactions)

Teehee my fav part... If you so desire, this can be read as platonic as I've removed romantic elements.

The sauce for Owling in this sense comes from the fact that ASova believes that OSova is the only one in the world, this universe, that will understand his pain and accept him no matter what. Because they're Sova. They're supposed to be one and the same, right? Also because OSova has extended an extremely kind hand towards him over and over despite ASova mercilessly killing him time and time again without allowing him to even get a word or so in. OSova forgives this, for they both know they're 'both good soldiers who carry out orders no matter what'. And the orders are obviously to eliminate their enemies, their mirrors. ASova was just doing as he was told, and OSova holds no grudge. Hell, he probably even respects him for staying so loyal.

After OSova finally gets a word in, the pair often try to meet up secretly whenever they encounter each other on a mission to talk. It's mostly ASova talking, sharing his burdens with his copy, hoping to learn what the hell is he not doing right that OSova is. He too, wishes to live happily, much like how OSova seems to be living. OSova comforts his mirror. It is awkward initially, for what does one do when you enemy and mirror self comes at you, killing you viciously one day and then crying into your shoulder the next? But as they chat, OSova feels much pity for his copy. He wishes he could be happy, too. As much happiness their current situation allows. I'll skip over a lot of the story I've thought of for the both of them because this textpost is an ungodly length already. But, the most important interaction they will have, is that, one day, OSova reassures ASova that no matter what happens, no matter what becomes of them both, that he accepts him as he is. For they both deserve it. And if no one else will, it's ok. OSova will love ASova instead. Unfortunately, for it is still a time of war between Alpha and Omega earth, they can't both leave the field alive. And so, for now, one of them will have to go. Until their next encounter, then. But at least this time, ASova leaves with the reassurance that he can be loved. Even if it's only love from himself, he has it.

Ok I'm Done Now

And that's the end of the yap sesh phew LOL. I've left out a billion things but it's like 3am and I can't be here forever... I hope my point came across clearly enough and that any weird inconsistencies or holes in my thinking aren't too nasty because my ass aint gonna beta/edit this shit. If you read this all the way thru, thanks for braving through this behemoth of a post U_U)9 Also I hope this creates more Owling fans or at least some interest in the ship somewhat HAHA

#valorant #sova #valorant sova #text

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