#bit of an angst chapter!

[acid-ixx]

〔00〕 — 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 : perfect perception

DIRECTORY: concept, chapter 00, chapter 01

it was always just you, and your family.

just you, your mother, twin brother, and grandfather. the puzzle is complete, there is no need for an extra couple of pieces to add on to your already satiated life. there is no need to work hard, or to endure painful endeavors to attain what you want; not when your family would complete it all for you.

it wasn't like you could, or should, complain, no? you have everything granted to you from when you were born. scarred hands, jagged figure, weary eyes; those aren't necessary for a person like you, who will always be sheltered, in both cozy blankets and loving arms. oblivious to the cruel world and pesting hands that claw on innocent beings like you.

a steady house life, a mother who shielded your innocence from all the bloodshed within the family's ordeals, who read to you fairytales, who had you sleep in her bed when you feared, when you foresaw what you thought were monsters under your bed. instead of inhibiting hatred for an heir who'd flinch at raising hands and the sound of clanging swords, she encouraged your meak demeanor and even spoiled tantrums. she runs her hands across your silky tresses, and kisses your forehead a thousand times if you'd even mention it in a passing moment. she dresses you in jewels, in velvety, silky clothes, and bathes you in toys and gifts you never seem to ask for. your little body sleeps on her chest, and listen the steady beat of her heart, calm and beating, all for you.

you teach her softness, and the joys of being a mother. a concept foreign in her eyes, raised opposite to you. she sees herself in you, and projects what should've been her childhood to her youngest twin child.

you have a twin brother, who, despite being born only a few minutes before you, was significantly older than you, both mentally and spiritually. from the moment he was taken into the world, his duty to take all your pain away and to become your very light was established. and like the warrior he is, he takes that daunting task and transforms it into motivation. he is your knight in shining armor, the prince who catches you when you fall, the one who braves your nightmares, the swordman to your royalty. he trains, all day and night, from such a young age to protect you from unnecessary dangers he understood even his mother fears you'd be subjected to. he does not complain, he does not find reasons to gripe; he takes the scars, the bruises, the punishments and missions all in stride. if it meant seeing you happy and unaware from all the cruelty of living; then so be it. as long as, by the end of the day, he comes back to your shared room to find your tiny form drawing a childish imagery of the little family you love and cherish.

you teach him compassion, vulnerability, and share with him the admiration for arts.

then there is your grandfather. a hardened leader, a monster to all those who serve, but an idol in the eyes of oblivious you. he justifies violence in the wake of achieving his goals, he doesn't tolerate mankind's treatment of nature and its animals, and takes the lives of those who dares oppose. but you are treated differently, like glass that shatters at the softest of hits. his words are sugarcoated and stripped down to the most infantine of comprehension, his eyes are soft every time he kneels to your level to gently request that you return to your room. ra's does not kneel, he does not plead, he does not stoop to those younger than him. but to you, naive and dewy-eyed, akin to a fawn hiding behind a mother's legs, he does. every week, he takes in various experts in the field of teaching to become your mentors in whatever passion you have. he is the foundation of your growth, and he prides himself in that regard.

from him, you learn your love of animals. from you, he learns of weakness, and defeat to such platonic desires.

with your little family, you are happy. you never have to find reasons to complain about food, clothes, or any luxuries their family, akin to royalty, could obtain. you have a family smothering you in affection, attention, to the point where all you have to do is smile at the slightest thing and notice how they melt to your whims.

you were never alone when you didn't want to, you were always guarded, safe, and constantly served.

as you should, as it always should be.

and it was a routine you were used to. you never complained, you never pondered beyond primitive knowledge, you had never desired for more, or wanted less. life was normal despite the strange arrangements with servants always being by your beck and call, or how your brother would always seem to come seeking you after another day of "hard work" your mother doesn't permit you to try, with gashes that litter his tan skin and usually sharp eyes, still fixed with a glare though softened once your arms come to coddle him as a reward.

he finds comfort in your hold. it never once registered within you his ever-growing strength and how his hold on you would always seem to to tighten whenever a potential friend would pass by.

yet you are loved either way, you are cared for. what more is there to ask when you have and always been the singular pearl dripping with grace, poise, and a softness beyond the brutish weapons swung within the training grounds your brother finds himself in.

you are loved by everybody: by your mother, by your brother, by your grandfather, and you're the necessary voice that calls out mercy for whenever a servant would be punished for maintaining a less than satisfactory performance when it comes to serving you. you're the light of reason beyond instictive swings of the sword and the impulsive raise of a voice demanding for battle to settle a deal; biting your lips in disappointment every time your mother attempts to punish a small mistake a servant would do right in front of you.

although certain voices in the hallways find your presence... unsavory, out of place, or they simply pity you; whispers filtering through the kind words everyone else never withdraws from you— nonetheless, they'd have no choice but to obey your childish whims, to smile at you, to be kind and diligent to your emotions.

everything is perfect.

yes, yes it is. an undeniable fact within the factions of your heart. you ignore the subtle strain within your chest, the way the emptiness becomes blatant, and the misunderstood desire for something else... something greater, far beyond the honor of your current family; and replace it with temporary joy.

a joy that softly smiles at the piling gifts, a joy that teaches itself to be good, to be grateful, and to dismiss the ever-changing spotlight you have for your family.

to ignore their hushed whispers whenever your small, eight-year old form with wide eyes, holding a toy between your chest, inquire about what they're discussing with that requires such... strained air and ridged poses.

to ignore their careful words, their gentle hands that pats your hair, that beckons you to come to a different room, and the irritation and bubbling tantrums paired with the heat that wraps your boiling thoughts and clenching hands.

you ignore, and try to neglect that growing ache that insurmountably never passes.

even if you lay in bed every night, unable to sleep, gaining consciousness slowly but surely after another day passes.

you ignore, and dismiss, and it all becomes a cycle that you ought to never break, to never rupture with childish curiosity and the thirst for wisdom.

... because everything is perfect.

everything is perfect. like the candlelight beams of the moon dancing through victorian styled windows, fluttering past the curtains to kiss your resting body every night you lay sleeping on a king-sized mattress, surrounded by soft, cotton plushies and silky, cool blankets as your brother coddles you; your head laying on his chest like routine.

it is perfect like the gardens of flowers all planted with your favorites, an array of colors harmoniously dancing to the sway of traversing winds and bumbling pollinators.

it is perfect like the daily hustle and bustle of your servants, buzzing through wide spans of hallways with their voices mingling through busy air and the wafting scent of a new delicacy your mother ornately chose for you to try.

everything was perfect, until it wasn't.

until the illusion of completeness, of unity and satisfaction were shattered like the bones of your brother's opponents, powderized to mere dust.

until you take notice of the hollow piece in your heart, until your servant mentions a father (a word so foreign, so similar to mother... but different all the same) in mere passing when you two had conversed whilst they were tying your shoes.

at first, you didn't pay a mind, proposing to yourself that you'd ask your mother instead after you've finished your daily assignments.

but then, unlike every other time where you dismissed, ignored and forgot— you began to ponder.

the word, the meaning, its possible etymology and every historical relationship it might've contained; a lesson your brilliant mentor taught you, one that served as a paveway for curious, little you, to investigate.

a trait you're sure nobody really tackled within your family.

if that is so, then where does your stubbornness, your drive to seek answers, come from?

you try to solve the puzzle pieces, ones you thought were never present in your life, your mind wracking through stored memories of a young, prying individual like you; until you came to a conclusion.

does it possibly come from a... father?

father...?

father?

father.

... your brother, too, said the same word.

when he was tired and beat from his training, when all he wanted was a singular hug, whose hands were stained with dripping ichor and knees bruised from hitting upon rocky ground. his emerald eyes were seeking your presence, and you find how his delirious state, itching for calm after another stormy trial of missions, was abnormal; unlike you who flinched at the dizzying scent of blood.

too mature, now you've noticed. a presence that exudes superiority, that takes the lives of those who rebel, that punishes anything less than perfect; that only softens, whose shoulders only sag when he takes in your presence within the same room as him— traits too foreign in the midst of a brother the same age as you.

so when you denied him of oasis, when your young brain was too scared, too worried and all the more wishing for answers on why he always comes back bleeding and injured, rejecting his offer for you to come closer— he all but seethes, and instead sighs; watching your quivering lips and the igniting fight in your eyes, a shaded mixture of your mother's and his.

"you're exactly like what mother told me. stubborn like our father when inconsolable... but i love you too much, akhi/akhti, to care for your lesser."

he muttered under his breath, emerald eyes gleaming under moonlit glow as he looks at you, emotions too miscellaneous beyond the swirling pools of green that always keeps a watch on you.

sometimes, he feels less like a brother and more of a knight. sometimes, you wish to rebel and instead dig deep into what's been happening to your brother these past few years, shaped by experience you never once caught yourself transpiring through. sometimes, you wish he doesn't treat you like a glass ornament.

sometimes, you wish you had a normal family.

as much as his words were sweet, as much as you would've felt warmth at the mere affection and exception he holds you in regard to his heart, even if he takes your body in his arms prior to your previous rejection, all but melting and rocking your body to sleep; a common method he utilizes to make you feel drowsy, and to eventually forget the blood on his sheathed sword and sinful hands once your eyes drift to a close—

you still reflect upon his words even if weeks had already passed by after that incident, even if he must've thought your somnolence was enough to dismiss whatever was the 'grammatical' mistake he'd mumbled that night was a product of fatigue after a long day of work.

... because despite being the perfect family, despite the love and care they foster within your heart; washing off the beating emptiness in your chest was harder than any injuries you've obtained after momentary clumsiness.

at least you knew when those scars were incurred, at least you had people to comfort you through the tears that escaped through your eyes.

but this immaterial emptiness has long since festered within the confines of your caged soul.

it beckons you to choose rebellion, it traps your thumping heart and tightens its hold on it, snaring it in a pit you couldn't crawl yourself out of.

desire drives you further away from delusion, from the foundations of weaved lies and rose-tinted picturesque perfection.

and you began to crave satiation to at least mend the missing puzzle piece in your heart; piece by piece, stitch by stitch.

who is your father? what is a father? why did dami told me i'm like... our father?

as you sit alone in your bed, toys long forgotten, alone with only the cool breeze fluttering by your window to accompany you. the questions begin to grate at your mind, yet all you do is bring your knees closer to your chest, lips dry at the forgone isolation you put yourself through after a cycle of endless thinking.

"momma will be here soon," you mutter to yourself. your voice, meek and highly pitched, young and cradling childish curiosity; it breaks at the seams when your fingers bring itself to touch and wipe away at wet cheeks and tender, aching eyes.

dami was right; you are stubborn like your father.

because even if they try all necessary means to shroud your life in seclusion from reality— you don't easily back out of a losing fight.

even if the tears you shed from the lack of progress were insurmountable, even if you knew you were at a physical disadvantage shall push come to shove where you'd have to fight your dearest brother, even if it means struggling against the invisible shackle your beloved family locked you in.

because your perfect perception of your fucked up family has long since dissipated from the moment your servant and your brother mentioned a foreign word.

a simple word, a small mistake, yet acting as a newer path of life that long since diverged from the only way you knew how to live.

and you still wish to solve the mystery of your forlorn emptiness.

will you give up just so easily? would the tears you shed all become mere depression?

no, not even as you sit in your too-huge bed, with no clue on where or how to start a hopeless journey; too young to plan, too little to fight, too tenderhearted in the views of your family.

even then, your red, rubbed raw eyes seek to look back on your first hint from within the room

a dictionary was sprawled across the opposite end of the bed, thrown haphazardly, opened to a certain page that highlights words closest to 'father'.

you crawl, with sore arms and wobbly legs, to retrieve the heavy, hard-bound and gold-encased dictionary, lounging on your bed with a damaged spine.

your fingers return to traverse multiple pages yet again—

stubborn, impatient and impulsive.

earlier, it came to you in the form of realization that the dictionary your mentor assigned you to read had a missing word cut precisely with a blade and replaced with an unintelligible one.

earlier, you realized just how much your perfect family was only perfect because they've hidden the truth from you.

earlier should've been years ago, earlier should've never been swept off the rug so easily. but what could an eight year old like you do? you've none of damian's talents to quickly learn, you're raised differently. it is only now you wish you weren't so gullible.

and as your fingers strum against pages, near to ripping out expensive paper, tears unceasing, lips bitten 'til bleeding— you learn, and you grow beyond simple comprehension.

motivation, and the drive to uncover all things unsaid, even if the end would result in something negative.

through them, you'll soon learn of spite, of anguish, and bitter contempt.

but for now, you're merely left alone, with only a mantra of words all circling back to dami's words; so many questions left unanswered.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: honestly don't know half of what i wrote + i don't like this as much as i wanted it to come out. this went through multiple revisions with an added fact of me trying to discern why my writing style keeps fluctuating 😭 guys please comment about what you think of this. if this flops, i'm gonna quit writing LMAO. this is a bit more formal than my usual style (re: again & again) because i wanted to capture the regality of the al ghul's family partly told through the perspective of a child.

taglist: @th0rn118, @obsessedwithromance @rogueofbullshit @ch1cky-093, @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd, @confused-they @biiibs01, @ghostdoodlen, @earlqurl, @chericia, @herebyaccident0, @ilovemyhusbandnanami, @mintynilla, @lilyalone, @anonymousdisco, @plsfckmedxddy, @maria-figueiredo, @143637-hrrm, @neerathebrightstar, @jsprien213, @realifezompire, @sammytheotakunerd, @sh4rk-k1d, @confused-they, @peptox, @lillian-morningstar.

[twilightkitkat]

Part 3 of thinking about the reaction another universe's Logan would have to meeting Wade. To Wade and Logan's relationship.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

---

Logan hadn't left Wade's side since he got here. Eventually, Wade managed to convince him to calm down enough that he could briefly explain to the X-men that this was his Logan, the one from his universe, who came looking for him.

His Logan hovered close to him, practically plastered to his side as if he'd disappear the second he took his eyes off him. Other-Logan was nowhere to be seen.

Eventually, they returned to Wade's room for the night. The X-men offered Logan a room of his own, but he point-blank refused.

When Wade crawled into the twin-sized bed (which definitely wasn't big enough to comfortably fit two people), Logan slipped under the covers behind him. Logan pressed his nose to Wade's neck and released a shaky breath of relief.

He could finally relax now that he was alone, away from the probing crowd that reminded him too much of memories he'd rather leave in the past. Now that he could focus on Wade. His scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the sound of his breathing.

The exhaustion hit Logan like a truck. He'd barely gotten any sleep in the past month Wade's been missing, and when he did it was fitful and left him feeling inexplicably more tired when he awoke. He didn't realize how much he depended on the comfort of Wade's presence to sleep until it was gone.

(When he was alone, it reminded him of being back in his universe. Of waking up in the middle of the night, claws unsheathed, breathing wildly. Of realizing he was completely alone, that everyone he cared about was dead. Of popping open a bottle of liquor just to silence the noise of his own thoughts.)

Wade reminded him that he was in a new universe, now. That he wasn't alone. Logan wrapped his arms around him, securely (tight enough to not let him escape) and finally, finally, let himself breathe.

Wade hummed, content at feeling the hot breath of Logan on his neck as he drifted off to sleep. For the first time in a month, he felt warm. He felt safe. He felt comforted, knowing that Logan was here with him. Apparently having a life-sized human heater spoiled him and made it difficult to stomach sleeping alone.

They both fell asleep, comforted by the familiarity of each other's presence.

(It was the best sleep either of them had in weeks.)

---

The aftermath was just a little bit awkward.

Logan hardly left his side, warily glaring at anyone who came to disturb their peace as they went about their day. He seemed to still be on edge around the other X-men (and anyone who wasn't Wade in general).

Wade was sure it would be difficult for him to interact with them, too, if he'd seen and come to terms with all of their deaths. Of being responsible for the downfall of an alternate version of them. It must be jarring to see them alive and well, to see a distortion of the future he could've had with caricatures of his friends.

(It made Wade a little anxious to think that Logan was remembering it all. Reminiscing on a better time before Wade came and took him away from his world.)

Despite the companionship they'd built, Other-Logan had been making himself scarce. Wade was a little concerned about him, but he was more focused on his own version, who'd been acting as his own personal guard dog. (If a guard dog was 300 pounds and a fully grown man.)

Still, sometimes when they passed by each other, he swore he saw that same look in Other-Logan's eyes. The one he still had difficulty deciphering, but recognized as meaningful.

The one his Logan had in the first few weeks of living together. After they'd saved the world. (Maybe even before it.)

(He tried not to think too hard about it.)

The other X-men were just dancing around them. They seemed to be unsure of how to interact with a Logan so similar and yet so completely different from their own. The only member of the X-men who knew about this Logan's backstory was Wolverine and... let's just say it wasn't getting out anytime soon.

It was almost funny to watch their attempts to start a conversation with Logan only to be met with short, one-word responses. Almost. (It wasn't funny to feel how Logan tensed up next to him, how he smoothed over his expression and put himself on guard. To see the slight trembling of his clenched fists. To see the haunted looks in his eyes.)

And so they ended up accidentally (or purposefully, on Logan's part) avoiding everyone for the first few days.

Wade hadn't gone out on any missions in that time. Logan didn't seem like he was in any mood to go out with the others, and, quite frankly, neither was Wade. He didn't realize how much he missed Logan until he was here.

(And a part of him was relieved that Logan was choosing to stay with him. That he clung to him tightly and didn't seem to be tempted to go rubbing elbows with the other X-men anytime soon.)

He'd managed to fill Logan in after they first crashed from exhaustion together. Logan seemed equal parts concerned and relieved to find out that he'd been stranded because his device was broken. (Because that meant Wade wasn't kidnapped or in danger. Because that meant Wade didn't want to leave him behind.)

They'd been sleeping in the same bed ever since. Anytime the X-men brought up moving Logan to another room, a nicer one with a bigger bed, he just growled and muttered that he didn't need it. One time, they'd offered to move another twin-sized bed into Wade's room so that they could at least have their own place to sleep, but Logan gruffly and very quickly turned that down too.

They hadn't tried to separate them since.

Even when Charles Xavier himself called Logan into his office the morning after he arrived, Logan didn't seem to consider leaving Wade behind as an option. And so they'd both stumbled into the office, suspiciously pressed close together, to report Logan's arrival.

Not that Wade was complaining. He'd offer to be Wolvie's emotional support teddy bear any day. (Even if he got dragged around roughly like a toddler who didn't learn to play nice with or share their toys yet.)

Charles had looked at them oddly, a mix of what could only be described as surprise and then understanding crossing over his face. He didn't comment on Wade's presence, nor Logan's insistence to keep him close by.

(He'd pulled aside the other X-men shortly after and told them to not bother this Logan too much. That he'd been through things their Logan hadn't and that he wouldn't be very receptive to their presence. To not comment on his relationship with Wade and to let them be.)

(It had aroused a mixture of confusion and suspicion among the X-men. Scott and Jean exchanged concerned glances with each other. What could cause Logan to want to avoid them, even in another universe? What did Logan go through to be so wary of them? To rely on Deadpool, of all people, for emotional support?)

(And why was their Logan influenced as well?)

After that, things had gone fairly smoothly. Wade occasionally still annoyed Colossus, who'd begun to reluctantly accept his presence (and who Logan was the least on guard around, out of all of the X-men). It drew skeptical glances from the other X-men, who were surely wondering what reason Wade had to be bothering Colossus, of all people.

But other than that, they mainly kept to themselves.

Until today, that is.

Today, the other X-men had finally managed to find a lead on the man who'd KO'd Wolverine and Deadpool, shattering Wade's pathway back to his own universe. Apparently, he'd set up a new base, this time with better-equipped personnel.

Seemed the asshole wasn't working alone. Of fucking course. When Wade wanted a fight all he could find were pussies, but It couldn't ever be easy when Wade actually wanted to go home. Just his luck.

It was large-scale enough that the majority of the X-men were preparing to go on the raid. Not a good sign.

Of course, Wade had saddled in and prepared to go the second they said they had a lead. And of course, by default, that meant Logan was coming with him.

They'd both rested enough, and while they were slightly on edge, Wade doubted that was going to go away anytime soon until they got back to their own universe. It'd be better to just rip the bandaid off and get this shit over with so that they could curl up on their shitty pull-out couch and eat leftovers and let themselves decompress from whatever the fuck this mission was turning into.

After a quick debrief in which they essentially went over everyone's roles and the layout of the base (or what they knew of it, at least) they set off.

Logan and Wade were paired together, luckily (well, most likely intentionally from the sharp glare Logan shot everyone when they began discussing their roles). They were tasked with clearing out the enemies and working their way to the main base, which was unsurprising given their tank-like abilities and healing factors.

Wade stared out the window for most of the ride there (and Logan stared at Wade) and before he knew it, they'd arrived.

And wow. The villains had really outdone themselves in the cliche base department. If the abandoned nuclear power plant was basic, the shady abandoned military facility was the equivalent of a white girl who liked Starbucks and listened to Taylor Swift. Completely predictable and not at all original.

They all split off into smaller, individual teams and, after a quick confirmation, they went in.

The henchmen this time were vaguely impressive. Well, impressive in the sense the typical office worker was impressive compared to a 10-year-old. It actually took more than 5 seconds for Logan and Wade to clear out the first wave.

But a run-of-the-mill decent group of villains was no match for Wade and Logan's teamwork. If Other-Wolverine and Deadpool worked like a well-oiled machine, this Deadpool and Wolverine worked like they were fucking telepaths. Completely in sync, predicting each other's attack patterns and weaving in and out like they shared a set of strings puppeteering them.

(It caused a few of the X-men to stop and stare to watch. It was brutal and grotesque and... beautiful, in way, to see how quickly they plowed through the villains. The X-men knew teamwork—they were accustomed to it, with the whole superhero team shtick—but not this type of partnership. This type of innate, primal fluidity that allowed them to move as one.)

Before long, with a suprising lack of resistance, given this was supposed to be The Villain Base (although, to be fair, they did have the X-men playing cleanup crew around them and taking care of the rest), they finally made their way into what could only be reffered to as some sort of fucked-up evil lab.

The walls were lined with shady medical equipment and some type of alien technology, and, to no one's surprise, the same fucker as last time was standing in the center.

"Nice to see you again, Deadpool," he nodded. "And... nice to meet you, Wolverine."

OK, hold on a second. He thought it was weird that this guy knew his name the first time considering he was, y'know, new around these parts, but he'd brushed it off. Maybe there was an alternate version of him running around (even if he hadn't heard of one despite interrogating an absurd number of people connected to the underground). But to know that this was an alternate version of Wolverine, just upon seeing him?

It's like the asshole predicted their arrival in this dimension.

Wade tensed slightly, and judging by a glance at Logan next to him, he'd picked up on that discrepancy too.

"Hey, Cable 2.0. Or should I call you Evil Cable? Cable the destroyer? Actually, calling you Cable would be an insult to his brand. How about generic futuristic villain #46," Wade quipped, trying to steel his nerves and school his expression back into a grin.

"I assure you, I'm nothing like this Cable you speak of," the man replied, calmly, "If he were similar to me, you wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Oooooh, scary, I think I almost pissed my pants! Quick, Wolvie, hide me, I'm quivering in my boots!" Wade ducked behind Logan, voice rising high from mock-fear. Logan merely grunted, but allowed him to hide behind him for the bit. (See, even Logan must agree he's funny if he's playing along.)

The man blinks at them, clearly unimpressed, before raising his gun. Okay, so they're getting right into it. Fun.

Logan unsheathed his claws and Wade gripped his guns tightly.

And then the fight behind.

This Logan and Wade had better teamwork compared to the last encounter. Their teamwork was down to a science, or a particularly bloody work of art.

Unfortunately, this time, their opponent knew their attack patterns. He was deflecting their attacks with ease, using minimal effort to dodge even while they ganged up on him.

This went on for a few moments, making barely any progress aside from wasting time. Until, a growl was heard from behind them—

—and another Wolverine joined the mix.

"I can you're struggling a bit, bub, let me help you out," he grunted, slashing at the villain.

"Awww! I'd be swooning right now if not for the fact it'd get me killed!" Wade chirped back, dodging a bullet that shot his way.

His Logan growled slightly and landed next to him, before murmuring, "Focus on the fight. Stop getting distracted."

Wade pouted in response but followed dutifully to attack the villain with Logan.

Their group teamwork was actually fairly impressive, in Wade's opinion. Which wasn't surprising, given that two of the members had near-identical fighting styles and both were used to working with him.

The two Wolverines clashed a bit at first, aiming for the same spots and directing annoyed growls at each other. But after Wade finally made them calm down ("Woah woah woah, ladies, there's enough hits to go around! This isn't Fortnite, you aren't going for the Battle Royale. Let's all work together, yeah?") they fell into a better rhythm.

They were holding up fairly well, even managing to make leeway and push the man back. They were on the winning side of the fight (which they better be on, with Deadpool and two fucking Wolverines trying to kill him). "Were" being the key word.

Because, right as they seemed to be tiring out the asshole, he pulled a move nobody expected. He leaped back, suddenly, creating distance, and grabbed a suspicious-looking metal device from the table.

All three of them exchanged glances and seemed to be on the same page: Do Not Let The Fucker Use It, Whatever It Is.

And so they all leaped at once, claws and guns and knives blazing, until the man sidestepped and with a clink had attached the device to Wolverine's neck. To his Logan's neck.

It folded out into a sickeningly familiar shape.

Fuck.

Logan's claws retracted and a panicked look flashed in his eyes despite his angry posture.

It was an ability-restricting collar.

And Wade had a feeling it wouldn't be as easy as punching in the code "7" to get it off, considering the futuristic, sturdy, and significantly more complicated-looking design.

The man picked Logan up by the back of the neck of his suit with an inhuman strength (had he been holding back, before?) and Wade saw fucking red.

Before he could think, he was unloading a full magazine into the man's chest and head. But the bullet wounds just closed up and the shells fell to the ground uselessly.

He saw the fear in Logan's eyes. At being powerless.

A reflection of how Wade felt, strapped to that table. Tortured. (Francis' voice rang in his ears. "What's my name?")

Wade lunged, trying to dig his katanas into the man's side. He dodged, stepped to the side, and blocked as Wade desperately, frantically tried to injure him. Just enough to let Logan go.

"Get your filthy hands off of him, you son of a bitch, or I swear to God I will tear you limb from limb like a 5 year old's shitty Barbie doll!" Wade snarled, a venom in his voice that made Logan's eyes widen from in his hold.

(A venom that made the Logan behind him look astonished, too. It'd always been him as the protector, the stronger one. He always had to carry the burden of worry, of solving the problem. And yet, here was a version of him with someone to do the same for him. Someone who would go to hell and back for him in the same way he had to, countless times.)

(That familiar ache was back.)

"I don't think I will," the man hummed, side-stepping yet another attack. "As a matter of fact, I'm getting quite bored of this back-and-forth."

Suddenly, the man held up a knife (where did that come from?) to Logan's throat. Logan, who didn't have his healing factor right now. Logan, who was just as vulnerable as any other human right now.

(Logan, who was looking at him with terror in his eyes. Logan, who had wanted death for so long, pressing himself against the barrel of his gun and fucking laughing the first time they'd met. Logan, who, through all the blood and sweat and tears and sacritice, had finally found a reason to live again. Logan, who didn't want to die anymore. Who wanted to live with Wade.)

It was like the world stopped turning. It was the same feeling Wade had felt the night Vanessa died, all noises drowned out and all colors and shapes blurring together and ohgodohgodohgod she's dead she's gone it's all my fault I never should've met her to begin with— but this was worse, somehow. It didn't just feel like the rug had been pulled out from underneath his feet, it felt like the entire fucking ground crumbled apart, collapsing in on itself, leaving him tumbling closer and closer to Earth's core until he's burned alive and swallowed whole. It felt like drowning and suffocating and burning alive all at once. It felt like losing his very foundation, the one thing he allowed himself to cling on to, thinking he'd never have to say goodbye. It felt like all his worst fears and nightmares came true in the worst possible way.

It felt like dying.

"Now," the man started, not giving a damn about Wade's internal panic and the incessant ringing in his ears, "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Why was Other-Logan just standing there? Why wasn't anyone moving? Why was nothing happening? How could the world keep spinning when it felt like his world was in limbo right now, powerless and dangled between the claws of a monster, threatening to drop him into its maw?

"You can let me go with your buddy right here, or I kill him now and you never see him again. Understood?" the man tightened his grip around Logan's throat, who began hacking slightly. The knife nicked his skin slightly, creating a trail of red down his neck. Logan hissed in pain.

Wade wanted nothing more than to tear his fucking throat out in response.

But he clenched his fists instead, feeling his blunt nails dig into his skin even through the suit.

"Wade, just let me go, you can come get me later, yeah?" Logan wheezed, barely able to speak around the constricting grip.

"But—he could—Logan, no, I can fight him, I can, I won't let you sacrifice yourself again," Wade fumbled over his words, unable to focus on anything but Logan Logan Logan.

"I'm not sacrificin' myself, just," his voice was rough and heavy, "let me go. You can't win, Wade. I'm not going to watch you die trying to save me."

"But—"

"You heard him," the Wolverine behind him suddenly spoke, putting a hand on his shoulder. (Wade wanted to rip it off. It was wrong wrong wrong, so similar and yet too different from his Logan. His Logan, who had deeper callouses. His Logan, whose hands were rougher and gripped him firmly.) "He'll kill him if we fail to fight him now."

Why was everybody else okay with this? Why did everyone else seem so calm when it felt like Wade's world was imploding, his vision was narrowing, and his senses were going haywire?

(Logan could get hurt. Seriously. Not just superficially. He could be tortured like he was. Wade didn't like knowing Logan was in pain, even with his healing factor, but without it? He could be killed. Even if the man kept his promise right now, who's to say it holds up in an hour? A day? A week? Wade couldn't even comprehend living that long without knowing if Logan was dead or alive. Logan could die and he wouldn't know, because he'd be outside of his reach.)

Wade caught Logan's eyes.

Fuck.

He was scared too, Wade could tell, but putting on a brave face for him. Trying to calm Wade down, when Logan was the one getting kidnapped. He was fucking pathetic. (It really was God's Greatest Joke that he couldn't die, huh?)

Wolverine tensed beside him, ready to hold him back if needed. Wade bit his lip until it fucking bled and finally managed to mumble, "Fine."

"What was that?" the man gloated.

"Fine," Wade hissed. "But I'll be back to get him, and I swear to fucking God, if a single hair on his head is out of place, I'll eviscerate you. I'll make sure you wish you didn't have a healing factor, because I'll torture you until you're begging to die. And then finally, I'll snap that shitty collar onto your neck and kill you in the most painful way possible.

The man seemed unphased. But it was a promise. A promise Wade would keep even if his life depended on it. Even if he had to drag himself out of his own grave, regenerate his limbs from scratch, claw his way out of hell, he would make him suffer if he did anything to Logan.

Logan's eyes widened from in the man's grasp. Wade looked at him, a dark expression on his face. Letting him know how serious he was. (That Wade would do anything for him, to keep him safe. To keep him by his side. That if he got hurt, he'd murder every fucking person involved.)

Logan's eyes shone with realization, a vague spark of hope. It made Wade all the more desperate to save him, to live up to those expectations.

"Well, I hate to interrupt the moment, but I really must be going," the man commented.

It took all of Wade's willpower not to lunge at him. Not to attack him as he picked up a suitcase and walked away, yanking Logan alongside him by the back of his neck.

Logan's haunted yet trusting (despite it all, he had faith in Wade, even when he let him get hurt in the first place) eyes were the last thing Wade saw before they dissapeared.

Wade wanted to go after them, to chase them, but he knew better. The other X-men weren't here right now. If all three of them barely managed to hold up against this man, how would the remaining two beat him? And who knew whatever other tricks were up his sleeves.

He was unpredictable. He was dangerous.

Wade knew this, but—

He should've been faster. He should've taken the hit instead of Logan (even if it seemed the man was targeting him to begin with). He should've been better, should've been stronger. Should've prevented Logan from being taken in the first place.

His knees buckled underneath him and he collapsed to the floor. The Other Wolverine startled behind him, dropping to the floor with him and wrapping his arm around Wade for support.

Wade felt the same, desolate, useless feeling wash over him that he had when he'd cradled Vanessa's dead body. He'd failed. Again. He had so much time to learn and do better and yet he still failed. It was all his fault. Everything was his fault.

He should've just brought Logan with him to begin with. Should've swallowed his fears and sucked it up, even if Logan did want to leave him. Logan was a grown man, he could make his own choices. He could realize that his current life, his life with Wade, wasn't worth it if he wanted. He could abandon him and Wade would have no fucking ground to stand on to stop him.

And yet Wade couldn't just fucking swallow his pride and had to behave like a jealous teenager.

(Would it be any different, if they came here together? If they were on the same page from the start, had time to plan and learn together? The man was so fucking strong that even if they had time, Wade was unsure if they'd beat him alone. Maybe they were predestined to fail. All because of Wade's incompetence.)

"Hey," Other-Logan started to speak in a low, worried tone, "We'll get him back. I promise."

He had a concerned and vaguely unsure look on his face, clearly unused to trying to comfort someone. Here's another Logan, comforting Wade when his feelings shouldn't even be a priority to begin with.

"It's my fault," Wade muttered.

"What?"

"It's my fucking fault. Everything is my fault. I should've gotten kidnapped instead. At least if he took me, I could take it."

"Wade—"

"I mean, it's no big deal if I get tortured. I'm used to it. At least I'd fucking deserve it for the stupidity of getting my communication device broken. At least then I'd be the only one hurt, and it's not like I matter anyway."

"Wade, what are you—"

Wade continued to ramble on, frantically, tears collecting in his eyes and threatening to fall down his face, "It should've been me. Logan is a fucking hero, he has a place in the world. He shouldn't be hurt just because of my mistake. I dragged him into this shit, into my universe, and how do I repay him? By letting him get fucking kidnapped and tortured on my behalf!" Wade had to physically force himself to not devolve into full-body sobs at this point, trembling underneath Logan's hand on his shoulde. Rocking back and forth like a lunatic.

"Wade, just listen for one fucking sec—"

"I should've just killed myself. I should've sacrified myself to destroy the Time Ripper, should've been strong enough to grab both the matter anti-matter channels and dissapeared from existence. At least it'd only be me who's gone, and Logan would still be safe. I never should've dragged him into my shit, I should've been long dead before I even met him. I should've had the balls to snap that collar on my neck and explode myself for real—"

—Slap.

Logan had honest to god slapped him. Hard.

Wade snapped out of his rant, holding his cheek as a deep purple bruise formed. He started hollowly back at Logan.

"Shut the fuck up," Other-Logan growled. "Don't speak about yourself like that. You don't deserve to die. It wasn't your fault, you fucking know that. We all were there, so it's as much on us as it was you. None of us could've seen it coming."

"Rich, coming from you, Mr. Blame Himself in the flesh," Wade retorted, scrambling for any kind of purchase in the conversation.

"I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to make me pissed off enough to let it go. But I won't." Logan took a deep breath, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He finally seemed to collect himself and looked at Wade, his gaze piercing and sharp. "Look, you... you're not worthless. Hell, you're the furthest thing from it. When I'm around you, it feels like I'm actually a person for the first time I can remember. It's like I can finally fucking breathe. And if that's how I feel, when I've known you for just a month, I imagine it's even stronger in your Logan."

Wade started to protest, but Logan cut him off. "None of that, bub. You know I'm right. You can't honestly be that fucking blind to not see the impact you have on him. On me. ...Look, when you've been alive as long as I have, it's inevtiable that you feel lonely. Of fucking course it is, when everyone around you dies and you're the only one left standing." Wade stares at him wordlessly, a hint of understanding in his eyes.

"...But you make it better," Logan settles on. "Do you see the way he looks at you? Like if you're gone, nothing matters? That isn't the look of someone who hates you. I don't, and he sure as hell doesn't. So stop putting yourself down when you fucking know he wouldn't want you blaming youself. You wouldn't blame him if you got captured, would you?"

"...No, but that's—"

"—The exact same scenario. But you're too stuck in your head to realize it." Logan groaned, seemingly lost for words to say. "Look, I'm not the best at this. At saying what I'm feeling. You know this. But what I do say, I mean. And I mean it when I say that it isn't your fault and he'd never blame you. I wouldn't. You shouldn't either."

Wade looked at him, at his sincerity, and for some reason he felt more like sobbing than he did before.

"So let's get him back, yeah?" Other-Logan asked, gruff and hesitant. It felt like a peace offering. An olive branch.

"...Yeah," Wade murmured, and let his body weight fall against Logan, who was beside him now. Logan wrapped an arm around him, hesitantly at first, and then more securely when Wade leaned into it.

Wade curled into him, thoughts running a million miles a minute.

(Where was Logan right now? How far had they gotten? What if he was hurt? What if he was writhing in pain, calling out for Wade, and he wasn't ther? What if he was tortured? What if he was dead?)

(...No, Wade wouldn't let himself imagine the worst-case scenario. Of never seeing Logan again. He wouldn't accept that reality. He couldn't. Didn't know to live, anymore, in a world without him. He'd once tore through different universes and escaped the void, all to save his family. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.)

(He'd get Logan back no matter what.)

[tanoroe]

hey lottienat truthers, here’s a lil sketchy sketch of what the comic (may) look like (i’m shit at colours i’m gonna get better at all that before anything else lols) but I have exams till 3rd of next month so will be a while before I even finish writing the plot :(((

[kamaluhkhan]

COMPLICATED

LUST — part iv of we'll write sins not tragedies

pairing: luke castellan x nemesis! reader (afab) word count: 8.9k summary: the lives of demigods are never simple. why would your relationship with luke be any different? or: four moments of tension + one moment of release. featuring a trip to montauk with percy, grover, and annabeth warnings: a decent amount of reader backstory (mention of dad having cancer); multiple POVs (percy, grover, annabeth, luke, reader - obv nothing suggestive/smutty until luke and reader POV); luke + reader get into arguments and are v stressed so their relationship is a bit strained; reader has tattoos; reader is on birth control; rough smut (protected + unprotected p in v, oral f+m receiving, biting, scratching, slight choking, slight breeding kink, etc...); also slight dark + possessive luke! (18 + MDNI); major angst — we all know how this story ends ;( author's note: this was meant to be a blurb but...here we are! this is basically another chapter of my spill ur guts series lol. i've been gone for much longer than i planned to, but hope u enjoy possibly the angstiest, smuttiest thing i've written so far ♡

♪ "complicated" by avril lavigne

i. 

in the span of a few minutes, percy went from pure joy — being greeted with cheers from all the campers was great, sure, but truthfully the hug from annabeth alone sent him to elysium — to feeling like his heart dropped all the way to tartarus.

which is definitely not a place percy ever wants to visit again. he was happy to be back at camp with his friends, knowing that his quest was completed, his mom was safe in new york, and a war between the gods was prevented.

it should be over….but there’s something in the back of percy’s mind that’s telling him it isn’t. seeing a certain someone in the crowd earlier didn’t do anything to ease that feeling.

"can someone explain to me why clarisse is still here?" 

you raise an eyebrow at luke, and he shrugs in response.  it seems neither of you had decided who should break the news, and neither of you seem particularly excited to do so, even after dragging percy, along with annabeth and grover, into the empty hermes cabin for some privacy.

after another beat of silence, you take the lead.

“look, kid, i know you and clarisse got off to a rocky start —”

“she tried to drown me, and then basically kill me during capture the flag,” percy points out. he hears an ocean roaring at the memory, but that could have also been from his duel with clarisse’s dad, the god of war, more recently.

a duel that percy had won, for the record. luke trained him well.

“and i’m not defending that,” you clarify. “i’m just saying that we’ve known clarisse for much longer. she’s not perfect, maybe a bit aggressive sometimes — trust me, she and i have had some major disagreements, too — but i can’t see her doing something like this.”

“why would anyone at camp want to steal the bolt? to join kronos’ army against the gods?” annabeth wonders. to herself or to the group, percy isn’t sure, but he has a feeling that the wheels in her mind are turning.

“revenge, maybe?” grover suggests. 

almost instinctively, grover glances at you, and so does annabeth. percy wants to kick himself for doing the same. 

with you being the daughter of nemesis, he imagines that it's not the first time you’d been blamed for something just because of who you are. it’s a feeling percy knows all too well. and, for better or for worse, like percy, it seems like you’re not one to accept these things without a fight.

you straighten your shoulders, ready to snap back, but before you can, luke declares:

“it’s not her.”

he then knocks the toe of his shoe against your combat boot. you smile and return the gesture. the tension eases out of the room.

for a second, percy wonders if he’ll ever have someone like that: someone to defend like it’s second nature, to share that sort of secret language with, to smile at him like nothing else in the world matters. 

according to annabeth, the two of you weren’t technically dating — but percy is pretty sure that aphrodite is swooning over you. 

“see, grove? if camp half-blood’s golden boy can vouch for me, then i’m in the clear.” your tone is playful enough — no hard feelings — but the tips of grover’s ears still turn red. “i didn’t steal the bolt. sure, the gods and titans can tear each other apart for all i care — " 

annabeth stiffens at your bold statement, and grover starts to nervously chew on an empty diet coke can he had stashed in his pocket. luke watches you with the hint of a smile on his face, and percy —

well, percy can’t help but admire you even more. 

"— but it's everything else that i have an issue with.”

“everything else?”

you look at percy like the answer is obvious. 

“when have the gods ever fought their battles without us as collateral damage? doesn’t seem worth it to me, to betray my friends.” 

that itch in the back of percy’s brain gets harder to ignore.

“the oracle warned me, betrayed by a friend.” 

“prophecies don't always come true,” annabeth reminds him. “at least not in the way we expect them to.” 

“annie is right,” luke adds, nodding at his sister. “mine didn't. the oracle said i would die a hero.” 

you turn to luke then, your eyebrows furrowed. 

“what? you never told me that.” 

“it doesn’t matter,” luke insists. “my point is that i came back from my joke of a quest, alive and a definitely not a hero —”

“fuck what the oracle said.” you roll your eyes. “dead or alive, you are a hero, tiger.”

you move to place a hand on luke’s arm. to percy’s surprise, though, luke brushes you off.

“i’m not a hero. at least not the one my dad expects me to be.”

again, percy is taken aback by how luke snapped, at you of all people. you huff, and percy can tell that you’re a bit agitated now, too. 

“okay, but that doesn’t mean —”

“my point is.” luke turns to percy, effectively blocking your presence for the time being. “you completed your quest, fought a god, and stalled kronos’ plan. you’ve been through it — all three of you have — but now you’re back. let’s just enjoy the rest of our summer, yeah? whatever happened out there, whatever the oracle said, it’s in the past.”

percy wants to believe luke, he really does. one glance in your direction, and it seems like you do, too.

deep down, though, percy isn’t entirely convinced. there’s that dread in the pit of his stomach, that voice in the back of his head. something in him, warning that this isn’t quite over. the worst has yet to come.

he wonders if — or maybe just hopes — you feel the same.

—

ii.

if you of all people can’t get luke’s attention, grover is pretty sure that the world is ending.

“luke,” you try again, foregoing your usual nickname for him. your arms are crossed and you tap your foot against the floor. it makes grover slightly anxious, feeling your frustration threaten to boil over.

“i’m busy,” he grunts, and flips over another page, scribbling something on the other side. 

“grover wanted to talk to us about something.”

“i-it’s fine, we don’t have to —”

“no, it’s a good idea, grove,” you insist. you smile at grover then. he remembers that, despite the deadly glares you can deliver, like the one you were just giving luke, you have a gentle core. you just guard it behind sharp edges. 

“tell him that i’ll talk to him later.”

“or, you could tell him yourself,” you huff. grover waves awkwardly, even though luke doesn’t realize what’s happening. “he’s right next to me.”

luke looks up briefly, and then back down at the pages in front of him just as quick. he looks tired, exhausted even. 

“sorry, man. didn’t see you there. i gotta finish these reports.”

“no worries. i tend to be quiet on my hooves.”

in the moment of silence that follows, and with luke still not giving you the attention you’re asking for, you walk over to the desk where luke is working. what you see seems to make you even more annoyed than before.

“these reports are for september. why in the name of nemesis are you filling them out now?”

“i just want to be prepared.”

“prepared for what?”

luke hesitates. “just….the future.”

“oh!” you laugh, sharp and sarcastic. “i didn’t realize that the future required you to neglect your friends.”

“i’m trying to help my friends,” luke huffs. he taps his pen impatiently against the desk. “if you didn’t keep interrupting me —”

“oh my fucking gods — ”

grover watches the two of you argue. it had been easier to step in whenever something bubbled up between annabeth and percy, because they were just kids. but you and luke — you were adults. 

when grover met luke for the first time, he was already taking on way too much responsibility for a kid — keeping thalia and annabeth alive, protecting them from monsters, taking care of them. in a lot of ways, those responsibilities didn’t go away: as a senior counselor and resident older brother, a hero for the older campers to admire and the younger kids to aspire to be. camp half-blood’s golden boy, as you liked to call him. 

and, like you, luke is good at hiding. for him, its heavy burdens behind easy-going smiles. 

lately, though, those smiles seem to be strained, his shoulders slowly bending under the weight of it all. the other day, grover asked you if everything was okay with luke. you had looked back at him sadly, shrugged, and said you didn’t know.

that’s when grover decided that everyone just needs a break — an escape. he had been sensing that things weren’t quite right with the others, too. percy seems a little on edge, and so does annabeth.

then, of course, there was you and luke. finding out that the two of you had actually started dating was huge news for someone like grover who had painstakingly watched the two of you dance around your feelings for years. so, it was more than a little weird that you’d barely been speaking this past week. the rare occasion you did was tense at best, and explosive at worst. 

like now, when you pick up one of the reports luke was working on, and threaten to burn it. luke dares you to do so, even suggests, albeit sarcastically, that you use it as your next offering to the gods. 

“oh, a handwritten document from luke castellan himself? they would love that,” you snort. “admit it: you’re doing all of mr. d’s work just to suck up to some gods who don’t even give a shit about any of this. you’re practically olympus’ lapdog.”

luke, blushing a furious shade of red, gets up and yanks the paper from your hand.

“at least my parent is important enough to actually have a seat on olympus and an actual cabin for his kids to stay in.”

you look like you could just about throw luke into a fire, and vice versa. grover had never seen the two of you like this, but it made sense: each of you knowing just where, and how, to hurt the other.

and, he thinks it’s about time to step in before the damage is irreversible. so, grover starts slowly clapping. the clapping gets faster, and he manages to get through the first few lines of the consensus song before you stop him.

“alright, alright,” you sigh. you push past luke, steal his chair, and put your feet up on the desk. luke scowls at you, but you put your hands up in surrender and jut your chin out towards grover. “just listen to what grover has to say and then we’ll let you get back to your precious reports.”

grover tells luke his idea. luke actually agrees, and grover can’t help but feel a little bit of a victory. 

he’s a protector, after all. it’s his job to make sure you’re all alive and happy and thriving. and not burnt to a crisp over some petty argument.

—

iii. 

annabeth had missed home when she was away on their quest, but being back and seeing everyone being taught to worship the gods without question, to believe that the only things that matter are power and glory….well, after everything that happened, after percy, annabeth can’t just go back to doing the same. at least not entirely. 

all this to say, she was totally on board with grover’s idea: the five of you, renting a cabin in montauk to get away from camp for a bit.

unfortunately, the trip starts off less than ideally. you and luke bicker the entire way here — and not the playful jabs you usually throw at each other. 

annabeth remembers the first time she saw you together. it was during breakfast, their first morning at camp half-blood. annabeth had spent the night trying not to cry over thalia, and already missing luke even though he was only a few cabins away. she was still a kid, surrounded by strangers, told that she was safe now, but didn’t quite believe it yet. one look to luke at the hermes table, and annabeth could tell he felt the same way, too — not quite settled in this new place that was supposed to be home, and with these people who were supposed to be family.

she watched as the hermes table went to burn offerings to the gods. when they sat down again, luke looked even more unsettled than before.

but then, you leaned in and whispered something in luke’s ear, and he actually laughed, just a bit, which was a nice change of pace. luke was always the one making annabeth and thalia laugh when they were running from monsters, always the one trying to keep everything together with a smile or a joke.

as she devoured her breakfast, annabeth couldn’t help but keep glancing at the two of you. she heard warnings from her half-siblings, about your mother being the goddess of revenge, and you living up to that name. 

luke either didn't know, or didn't care about whatever reputation you had. sitting there, next to you, annabeth didn’t think she’d ever seen luke so, genuinely happy, so at ease.

all these years later, neither you nor luke seemed particularly happy. you’re obviously avoiding each other, and annabeth doesn’t understand why.

you and luke are a new puzzle that she can’t wait to solve. 

annabeth had finished constructing the most elaborate sandcastle in history, just for percy to accidentally splash it when he was trying to surf a wave; so she decides that playtime is over. it’s time to figure out what exactly is going on between you and luke.

luke is in the cabin doing gods know what. you're on the deck painting your nails, so annabeth decides to start gathering information from you, first. 

“hey." you finish painting your pinky a dark purple, and set the bottle down next to you. "having fun?”

annabeth nods once and sits next to you. she asks if you could paint her nails, and you pull out a bottle of silver polish you said you thought she might like. 

as you work, careful with each stroke of polish, annabeth surveys the tattoos on your skin. you’re wearing a bikini top, so there are some that she’s seeing for the first time. there's one of a knife on your sternum, and annabeth distinctly remembers seeing a similar one peeking from underneath the collar of luke’s shirt. she wonders when you got it, if you had to travel to a tattoo parlour in the city, how many other adventures you'd gone on without having to consult the oracle beforehand. 

maybe that’s a good place to start. 

“have you ever thought about leaving camp? like, long term?" 

"sometimes," you admit. "it would be nice to have some normal early-twenties experiences."

"would you go to school?"

you smile as you keep painting annabeth’s nails. “maybe. i might have seen legally blonde too many times, but i think about law school sometimes.” 

“what about luke?”

your smile fades at the question. “i...i don’t know." your once precise nail-painting falters, and you mumble a curse when a drop of silver lands on annabeth's skin. you swipe it away before continuing. "luke's one of those people i can't really see away from camp half-blood for too long; pretty sure it would burn down without him. there's a reason he feels responsible for everyone there...in a way i respect, obviously, but, it's not the same for me. nobody needs me."

"luke needs you."

you sigh, and annabeth wonders if you even realize how you shake your head slightly. she thinks you're about to disagree with her, but instead you ask: 

“what's this about, annie? are you thinking about your dad’s offer?”

and annabeth’s completely thrown off her line of inquiry. 

“how did you —”

“perce told me that you’ve been talking about staying with him for the year,” you explain. you gesture at annabeth to give you her other hand, and she complies. the silver polish on the hand you just finished glitters in the sun. 

“well, nothing’s confirmed.”

you look up at annabeth, one eyebrow raised. “it's okay, you know — if you just wanna….be a kid for a bit.”

annabeth is silent, prompting you to ask another question.

"what's holding you back?"

“well….at first, i thought it would be a definite no,” annabeth admits. “obviously, it didn’t work out last time. i don’t know if i want to risk it again — if i can trust him, you know? how do i know he actually cares —  that he’ll be there for me when i need him?”

“you don’t.” you pause for a second. “but i’m gonna tell you a story that i think might help.”

you're done painting her nails, so you put everything away. you sit cross-legged next to annabeth, looking out at the ocean.

“my dad never wanted me to go to camp. he wanted to raise me in the city, just like he’d grown up. he’d take me to rock concerts all the time. i was so young, he’d make me wear earmuffs and carry me on his shoulders so that i could still see the band.” you smile softly at the memory. “and then….my dad got sick, he couldn’t take care of me, and monsters started to show up, so he brought me to camp for safe keeping." 

"you've told me all this," annabeth remarks. 

you start fiddling with your camp necklace. annabeth isn't used to seeing you so unsure, so nervous; it throws her off even more. 

"what i haven't told you is that even when my dad got better, he….he didn’t give me a choice of where to stay.”

"oh," is all annabeth can say. 

“yeah, oh," you scoff, but there’s not really any malice behind it. you seem…sad. defeated, almost. your fingers move to play with the hem of your shorts, which causes the fresh nail polish to smudge. you don’t seem too concerned about that at the moment, though. "i told everyone that i chose to stay. the truth is that i stayed because my dad didn't want me anymore. he said that the universe gave him a second chance, so he wanted to live his life without having to worry about monster attacks or taking care of his teenage daughter."

annabeth wonders if luke knows the truth about this; though, considering how difficult it seems for you to admit, she doubts it. 

before, annabeth had a theory that you decided to stay at camp because of luke.

luke was away when you got the news that your dad was in remission. annabeth remembers how happy you were, how excited you were to be back in the city and living with your dad again. you started packing right away.

when luke came back from his failed quest, you had just gone into the city the day before, having promised to visit in the summer and stay in touch. someone – chris maybe, or beckendorf — must have called you, told you what happened, because you came back to camp right away, your bag still fully packed. you never left again. 

"that sucks."

“yeah.” you let out a hollow, breathy laugh. “and, i was angry at first. of course i was. but now, i don’t know. i think that maybe my dad does care about me. like, he still sends me mixtapes with old punk rock songs he thinks i’d like. he actually calls me on my birthday, and we have a 3 minute conversation about nothing important." 

"right…" annabeth furrows her brows. this conversation had definitely not gone as planned. "no offense, but what's —"

"i'm getting to the point," you tell her, bumping your shoulder against hers.  "i realized that sometimes people can only love us in a way that works for them — and it sucks. it really, really sucks. but then sometimes…. sometimes people do actually try. and, i don’t know, it seems like maybe your dad is willing to try.”

“so you think i should take him up on his offer.”

the sun starts to set. you get up, brush sand off your legs. 

“i think it's time for a swim. i also think that you’re smart enough to know what’s best for you, and who deserves a second chance. just know that whatever you decide — we’ll be there for you.”

you leave without another word, but with the return of your usual confident smile, off to the shore to take advantage of the last bits of daylight. 

"she's right, annabeth." luke appears a few seconds later, takes the spot next to annabeth you had just occupied.

annabeth hums.

"how much of that did you hear?" 

luke doesn't answer. he just stares at your form, disappearing in the distance and diving under the waves.

—

iv.

you clear your throat and luke turns around to see you freshly showered. you’re wearing a pair of shorts and one of the oversized band tees the two of you constantly exchange. you've lost track of whose is whose at this point.

luke resists the urge to shamelessly check out your legs, and turns his back towards you once again. that bikini top you were wearing earlier was bad enough. thankfully, the heat from the stove was enough to cover up his blushing cheeks at the sight of your exposed skin. 

“i thought we were ordering pizza,” you say, moving to peer over his shoulder, chin hovering just above. luke had the sense that you were avoiding physical contact, and as much as it drives him crazy, he knows that he’s the one who’d dug his own grave. pushing you away and whatnot. 

“didn’t know that you knew how to cook.”

“not much,” luke shrugs. he keeps stirring the vegetables — broccoli and carrots and baby corn. he’ll add the red peppers once the broccoli turns green so that they don’t become too soft. he’s pretty sure that’s how he remembers it going.

“i could have helped you.” you reach over and hand him the peppers right on time. you shift to lean your back against the counter next to the stove, arms crossed over your chest and eyes following luke. 

luke throws in the chicken he cooked earlier, and then the sauce he had also mixed. he waits a few seconds, lets the sound of everything sizzling fill the space between you. 

“it’s an easy recipe.” luke turns off the stove to punctuate his point. 

and it had to be. something quick he’d make with his mom after she had one of her episodes, before waking up and realizing that she had a son to feed. the sounds, the colors, the smells — it all, overwhelmingly, reminds him of a childhood he once had. one that was never as simple as the food he just made.

none of the bitterness in his throat is caused by his mom, of course. just his father who calls himself a god, and left them both alone to fend for themselves. 

you start getting out plates from the cupboards as you ask: “where are the kids?”

luke checks the pot on the stove to see if the rice is cooked. “told them to go rent something from the video store.” 

“they went alone?”

“they’ve literally been to hell and back,” he replies and sits down at the table. “i think they can handle a blockbuster.”

“i don’t care if they get attacked by monsters,” you state, setting down the last plate in front of him. “i know they can handle themselves. they just better choose a good movie.” 

luke doesn’t mean to snort, but he can’t help but remember all the arguments you’d gotten in with chris over your tastes in movies. 

 “don’t laugh, castellan. i’ve saved movie night on more than one occasion and i’ve never gotten so much as a thank you.” you roll your eyes, but luke notices the ghost of a smile.

it fades just as quickly as it appeared, and luke already misses the small moment of levity that’s passed. 

“what’s been going on with you, tiger?”

you hold his gaze, and luke knows that you’re hoping for a real answer, for the truth he can’t give you. 

“nothing,” he answers instinctively. 

“don’t give me that,” you sigh and turn away from him, returning to your position against the counter. 

“i said it’s nothing,” luke insists, a bit more assertively. “why can’t you just believe me?”

“because you’ve been distant, moody.” your tone is sharper now, too. “you’ve been avoiding me. you’ve barely been eating. the side of your bunk has been empty, which means you haven’t been sleeping, either. gods, i can’t even remember the last time you kissed me —”

“you’re really mad at me because we haven’t fucked?” 

it’s a low blow, and he delivers it as if he hadn’t missed seeing you underneath him. or on top, or beside. luke isn’t picky. 

“you’re impossible!” you groan, and cover your face with your hands. you take a deep breath  before returning to glare at luke. “do….do you not want to be together, anymore? because if that’s what’s happening, i’ll survive. we can go back to being friends.” you clench your jaw to make up for the tremble behind your question. always a tough face, even in the face of potential heartbreak.

of course, luke knows you’ll be fine without him. he’s the one who might have difficulty surviving when you part ways.

“that’s not —” luke sighs and runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze. “that’s not it.”

“then what is it?”

“noth—”

“i will send you to elysium if you tell me it’s nothing one more time, because i know it’s not!” you’re shouting now. “i might not know what it is, but i know you well enough to tell that something is bothering you. so i’m asking you, one more time, what is going on?”

the thing is, luke can’t tell you — about what he’s done, about who he’s aligned himself with. he can’t lie to you, either, at least not to save his life.

so, he’s basically stuck in whatever the greek mythology version of limbo is. 

for now, he’s saved by percy, annabeth, and grover, who walk in with a stack of DVDs and armfuls of movie snacks. 

dinner is fine, especially with the kids providing a good enough buffer. luke even catches you smiling and laughing along with them a few times. you approve of their choice in movies, starting with mulan. it’s one of luke’s favorites, too, but he can’t help but let his attention wander. 

the two of you have known each other for a long time. luke has felt your anger. he’s felt your frustration. you’ve been on opposing sides of explosive arguments, of brutal sparring matches. 

but, despite everything, luke’s never been hated by you. it’s unavoidable, given what he’s done and the path he’s on; it's just not something he's particularly eager to feel.

working for kronos….luke won't pretend he regrets it. something had to be done, to take back the poisonous world the gods created. 

he did it for you, even if you won't understand.

he'd do anything for you.

so, for now, he’s willing to endure the daggers you stare at him from the other side of the couch. 

—

v. 

in another life, you might have taken advantage of the queen bed and private room. both hard to come by at camp half-blood, if you’re not willing to risk zeus’ wrath for the latter.

gods, it feels like forever since you and luke snuck into cabin one because couldn’t keep your hands off each other, curses and lighting strikes be damned. 

you almost wish lightning would strike — at least then the bed would be warm. 

“i can feel you being mad at me,” luke whispers. 

“sorry, thought you’d already be gone by now,” you respond, sarcasm dripping through your words. “off to see whoever else you’d rather sleep with.”

“so, you are mad because we haven’t fucked in a while.”

a stupid slip of the tongue. you can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and your entire body feels on fire for giving him any leverage on you. that was definitely not the warmth you were hoping for. 

“whatever,” you mumble, shuffling closer to the edge of the bed, your back still towards luke. 

for the record, you’re mad because of whatever distance luke was forcing between you, or whatever wall he was putting up, for a reason you don’t understand. you’d always known luke well, but lately you haven’t been able to read him. 

and, sure. maybe you are…. frustrated. the two of you hadn’t been intimate in a while, yes, and your fingers are nothing compared to luke’s, but more than that: you just miss actually feeling him close to you. in any sense. 

you’re not sure how much time passes, and there’s nothing but silence. then, you hear his voice again, gentler than before, no cocky attitude laced through. 

“you never told me about your dad.”

ugh. of course, luke had overheard your conversation with annabeth earlier. damn those sly hermes’ genes.

you stay silent to give off the illusion that you’d fallen asleep, but luke doesn't fall for it. 

“we’ve shared a bunk for years, karma. i can tell when you’re not sleeping.” 

you pause for a few more seconds, but you know that luke is persistent.

“it didn’t matter,” is all you offer before he asks again.

“it did,” luke insists. “why didn’t you tell me?”

“it’s not like we tell each other everything,” you scoff. “like, why didn’t you tell me about that prophecy? and why won’t you tell me whatever’s going on with you now?”

“that’s….that’s different.” 

“not really. i bet that it’s all for the same reason.”

“which is?”

 you debate telling luke the truth. 

it was no surprise that you had a certain reputation around camp: cunning, hot-tempered, brash. you were fine being the angry girl whose mother wasn’t enough of a god to warrant a cabin, but enough of a threat to be wary of. you didn’t want to be the one who was also dropped by her father, unwanted and too much of a burden. so, you swallowed the reality of the situation; pretended that nothing broke your heart, and that nothing ever would.

“i didn’t want you to look at me differently,” you admit. 

another pause, this time from the other side of the bed. 

“if it makes you feel better, i was glad that you stayed.”

you can’t help it; you let out a sardonic laugh.

“that’s not much of a comfort, since you haven’t seemed very thrilled with me lately.”

“that’s not….” luke falters. “i just mean that i don't know who i’d be if you left.”

in spite of the situation, the ongoing tension between you, you find yourself smiling. 

“always so dramatic,” you tease.

deep down, you know you’re not much better.

luke was part of the reason you might have stayed at camp, anyways. he was the reason why you didn’t fight harder to get back to your old life, and you always did like a good fight.

it was scary though, that one person had so much power over you and didn’t even know it. you tried to convince yourself that you stayed because luke had needed you, after his quest and everything. but, once you’d known how it felt to have luke in your life, you didn’t want to go back to a time you didn’t. 

truthfully, it still scares you.

“i don’t like fighting with you,” you admit softly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “especially when i don’t even know why we’re fighting in the first place.”

you wonder if you’d just thought that instead of saying it out loud because luke doesn’t respond, until you hear the sheets behind you shuffle, and feel luke position himself behind you.

"i'm sorry that we're fighting. it's my fault."

he settles a tentative hand on your exposed hip, where your shirt had ridden up. luke starts to trace circles onto your skin with his thumb, the way he sometimes does when he's nervous or having a bad dream.

"i’ve just been so….in my head. i don't want you to worry about what's going on with me, okay?

"luke —"

"i have to sort it out on my own.”

"you don’t, though,” you insist. “if you just tell me what’s going on, instead of pushing me away.”

another pause. you can feel him breathing down your neck, and in turn you inhale the spicy citrus of his body wash. it’s all so excruciatingly familiar as you wait for him to say something, anything. 

eventually, luke sighs, deeply, and confesses:

"it's just….we've known each other for so long, but this — us? so much of it is new. i don't want to fuck it up." 

"well, congratulations," you quip. "you're one step closer to getting there."

you meant it as a joke, something to lighten the mood, but you feel luke stiffen at your words, his grip on your hip becoming almost painfully tight as if he's worried you'll slip away.

"i'm kidding, tiger." you weave your fingers through his to loosen his hold on you, and reassure him even more that you're not going anywhere, any time soon. "for better or for worse: you’re mine, and i'm yours. no matter how much either of us might fuck it up."

luke shuffles closer, and you melt into him even more. 

"do you really mean that?"

his voice is soft, surprisingly timid. you crane your neck back to look at him; luke stares at you, his gaze heavy enough to take your breath away. 

“of course.” 

you're so close, and you hadn't been in so long. luke's leg is somehow lodged in between your thighs, and you bite back a whimper as he brushes against you. you feel him behind you, already half-hard, and you rub your ass against him slightly, causing a groan to vibrate through his body. 

neither of you have to do much to crash your lips together.

you can sense how luke’s been unraveling, from the kiss alone. his lips are chapped, rough against yours and already bleeding from the pressure; his stubble scrapes against your cheek, and you’re dizzy with anticipation, imagining how it will leave a stinging sensation on other areas of your skin when luke has his way with you later. 

for now, you focus on your mouth on his: teeth clacking together, your tongue laving over the cut on luke’s bottom lip and tasting copper. luke brings a hand up to your jaw, pushing you into his mouth even more. 

it’s like the first time you kissed. all consuming. messy. urgent — like you've already run out of time. 

eventually, you have to pull yourself away from his grasp, your neck straining at the uncomfortable angle. luke takes the opportunity to suck bruises onto your neck while he presses his thigh harder against your cunt. he slips his other hand further underneath your shirt, cupping your breast and pinching your nipple between his fingers.  instinctively, you start rutting against him. 

“f-fuck,” you groan, relishing in the muscles of his naked thigh underneath you, defined and strong. 

luke chuckles, and you feel his breath warm against your skin. 

“you missed me that much, hm?” he taunts, encouraging you to go faster, harder. “you’re gonna cum before i even have a chance to undress you. doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“who —” your breath catches when luke’s hand settles around your throat, pulling you impossibly closer to him. you feel the outline of his abs against your lower back, and his length, hard and waiting. it’s difficult to finish your thought, but you try your best. “who says i only have to cum once?”

“that sounds like a challenge,” luke decides. “what’s our record — three? think we can beat that tonight?”

you laugh, already out of breath. “i think we can do it.”

“good girl.”

your thighs clench at the nickname, and it's one down, a few more to go. 

you maneuver luke so that he lays flat on the bed, your legs on either side of his hips. your hands fumble with the edge of his shirt, and he lets you remove it without any more hassle.

it's a little ironic, really, how much you and luke hate the gods — because looking at him underneath you, you're sure that something divine must have created him, and you have to thank them for it. sharp jaw, deep scar, flushed cheeks; curls slightly askew, and skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat; that cocky smile — you'd worship luke castellan over any of the olympians. 

secretly, of course, you pretty much already do.

"like what you see?" luke smirks up at you, hands firmly on your ass.

you roll your eyes to save face. "come on, tiger, like you're not seconds away from tearing through your boxers." 

luke clicks his tongue, locks his calf around yours to switch your positions. you grunt as your back hits the mattress, but you very much appreciate the force and weight of luke above you. he practically rips off your shirt, then starts to nip and suck down your body. he kisses the fabric still covering your cunt, and you can feel his chuckle vibrate through your body when he encounters the wetness there. 

"i'm not the one who already ruined their underwear," luke teases as he finishes undressing you. he pauses at the sight of you, bottom half completely exposed. you're about to tell him to hurry the fuck up, but then luke spits onto your already soaked cunt and says: 

“i need to clean you up, baby.” he gives you another cheeky grin, teeth glowing like the cheshire cat, before diving in.

luke is skilled at everything he does, so of course he's quick to unravel you once more, this time with a persistent combination of tongue and teeth, lapping at your cunt like it's his last meal. 

as soon as you're done riding out your high, you yank luke by the leather cord around his neck to collide your lips with his again. 

you reach down to return the favor, snake your hand underneath the fabric of his underwear, and you're deeply satisfied to find him already sticky with his release.

“you already finished,” you tease, stroking his v-line. "and ruined your underwear without me even touching you." 

in the dim light of the moon, you can barely make out luke blushing. he hides his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. 

“guess we’re both desperate, huh.” luke’s teeth graze your skin, his curls tickling your neck. “i need to be inside you, now, so how about you get on your hands and knees for me? i’ll get the condom.”

sometimes, luke tries to be gentle — but not this time. 

this time, he fucks you, hard and fast and deep. 

you love it, even if you might not be able to walk properly tomorrow.

with so much power behind each thrust, and the overwhelming pleasure, your arms threaten to give out, but luke catches you before you fall. he wraps a hand around your neck, bringing you flush against his chest as he continues to plunge his length into you. 

"listen to me," luke growls. he snakes a hand down to rub harsh circles on your clit. "the one thing the gods did right is make this perfect, tight little pussy of yours. you were fucking made for me, weren't you?" 

all you can do is whimper, closing your eyes at his filthy, sinful words. 

you aren't used to luke being so possessive, and certainly not in these past few weeks. it's making your head spin in the best way. you can feel your orgasm build in the pit of your abdomen.

"were you made for me?" luke asks again. he squeezes your neck slightly, and you gasp at the pressure. "answer me, or i'll stop." 

you don’t think it’s likely he’ll stop; you’re sure he’s just as lost in the sound of your cunt squelching and the feeling of you sucking him in. but, he does slow down, only a little bit, and it's enough for you to start whining.

"y-yes, luke."

"are you mine?"

you don't answer fast enough. luke stills his hips completely and you almost burst into tears.

you moan, trying to move against him in vain. luke keeps a firm grip on you, making it hard to cause any sort of friction between your bodies.

"i'm yours," you promise.

luke plants a firm kiss behind your ear. “that’s my girl,” he whispers darkly.

satisfied, luke resumes his pace. he moves the hand around your neck to your chin, angling you accordingly so he can crash his lips onto yours. 

it doesn't take long to feel the tension in your abdomen snap, wetness gushing out of you. exhausted, you collapse onto the mattress. luke slips out of you.

the next few seconds consist of you trying to bring yourself back down to reality after such a high. 

luke turns you around just to face him as he hovers over you. he lodges his hand behind your ear and taps your cheek to get your attention. your eyes flutter open.

“did you just —” 

the dampness between your legs, and on the sheets underneath you, is enough evidence: you just squirted.

"i….” you gulp, feeling yourself flush. “i’ve never done that before."

luke stares at your glistening cunt. you wonder if you should be embarrassed, but then he locks eyes with you. you've never seen them so dark, pupils almost fully blown, just a sliver of brown showing through.

"you’re so fucking hot."

your heart flutters. 

“you’re not too bad yourself, tiger, or i wouldn’t be in this mess.” you wink at him, still trying to catch your breath. your eyes wander lower. you note luke in the current state he’s in; you realize that the scales are nowhere near balanced. “that’s three for me, and only one for you. let me taste you.” 

he doesn't need to be told twice. you get on your knees once more, this time facing him as he kneels in front of you. luke rips off the condom, something to deal with later, and you take him in your mouth, cheeks hollowed and tears brimming your eyes feeling him fuck your throat. when he finishes, you swallow him whole, savoring every drop. he pulls you up for a kiss; you can still taste yourself on him, and it mixes with his new release, a combination that is more than a little intoxicating. 

“fuck,” luke mumbles as he pulls away. he swipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth where some of his cum dribbled out. “i know that was intense, but would you be up for another round? "

"yeah," you reply without a second thought, reaching up to thread your fingers through his curls to ground yourself. 

maybe you should thank artemis for the full moon tonight, giving you just the right amount of silver light to illuminate the sculpted curves and edges of luke's body. his skin is also littered with bruises and bites of your design, chaotic and beautiful. luke looks like a mess, just as you're sure you do. 

you want more. you need more.

"we gotta go for four, remember? but...maybe we, uh…"

"....slow it down this time?" luke finishes your thought. 

you nod, grateful that you and luke are on the same page. he scrambles off the bed to get another condom.

"shit. i don't have another one.”

"check my bag, too," you tell him. luke complies, but comes up short once more.  

you’re sitting up against the headboard now, and luke returns to kneel in front of you. 

"i can use my fingers,” luke offers. “or eat you out again —"

“or we could just do without a condom this time?” you suggest. luke raises an eyebrow at you, so you think through the possibilities out loud. "we both got tested before our first time together and haven’t been with anyone since.” you find yourself pausing for confirmation on that, and luke nods once. “i’m on birth control. obviously there’s still a risk that something happens, but maybe just this one time? you can just pull out whenever you’re ready….if you're okay with that."

luke waits, almost like he thinks you might change your mind, before finally answering:

“yeah, i’m okay with it if you are. i’ve always wanted to fuck you raw. i just didn’t think you’d be into it — and didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

you have to kiss him then. because how is it that the boy who just gave you three jaw clenching, toe curling, heart pounding orgasms be so sweet and considerate?

before you know it, you’re flat on your back, sheets slightly scratchy with stray sand. you don't care much because luke hovers above you; he presses his forehead to yours, curls falling in front of his face. 

"just so you know," luke starts, just as you feel him enter you once more. "i must have been made for you, too. i'm just as much yours as you are mine."

you smirk, bite your lip to keep from moaning so that you can keep up the arrogance, just a bit longer. 

"always so dramatic," you mock, as if your cunt isn’t squeezing around him at his sweet nothings. 

luke grins at you sheepishly, his cheeks flushed. 

"guess that means the gods did two things right," you joke, exhaling when you feel luke brush against that gummy spot deep within you. "maybe we've taken them for granted. maybe we should - " he hits that spot again, and your breath hitches. you dig your nails into his shoulders as he rocks back and forth. “maybe we should thank them.”

luke clicks his tongue, grips your hip firmly. "not a chance, sweetheart. the gods’ll get what they deserve."

you don’t care enough to ask luke what he means. you care more about him going faster. you’re about to tell him to do so, and to throw your legs over his shoulders, but he does it himself before you get the chance. you feel him slipping deeper within you, the force and passion behind each movement, his body molding to every curve and crevice of yours. 

made for each other.

you’re so sensitive that your orgasm approaches quickly. as he helps you ride it out, his thrusts get sloppier, and you know he’s almost reached his peak, too. 

“fuck,” he grunts. “i’m close.” luke starts to pull out, but then you lock your ankles behind his neck. 

“don’t,” you command. 

“a-are you sure?” he looks at you, wide-eyed.

“i just want to feel you this once.”

he nods and brings you in for one more bruising kiss. he finishes inside you, warm and wet. 

luke leaves once he catches his breath, and comes back with a damp towel to clean you up. he knows your body, recognizes how sensitive you are, and presses kisses on the inside of your thighs, where the same lips had made bruises before. 

even completely fucked out, your mind starts to unpack everything that’s wrong in your life. like how luke has always been a little too good at pretending, with everyone else at least, and something serious must be going on if he's trying to fool you, too.  

this luke with you now, the one who gently wipes his cum from between your legs after fucking you so relentlessly, is your luke. it feels like your luke is slipping right through your fingers, and you’re wracking your brain trying to figure out how this can stop before losing him completely.

wait….did luke say something about getting revenge on the gods? your mind is still a bit cloudy, but you could’ve sworn —

 “are you okay?” 

his question puts pause on your spiraling. he’s done cleaning you up, throws the towel on the floor and settles back on the bed, next to you. you’re close enough for the softest whisper, your limbs intertwined beneath tangled sheets.

you watch luke carefully as he waits for an answer and surveys your body, tracing his fingers over the marks he'd left underneath your jaw, across your shoulders, over your collarbones and down your stomach. 

"i didn't hurt you, did i?"

“i’m okay,” you assure him. luke’s hand stops to gently rest on your cheek. your other worries are pushed to the side for the time being: for now, it's just you and luke. “do you think we could pick up a plan b pill tomorrow though, just in case? i love you, but i’m not ready to have your babies.”

luke widens his eyes like a minotaur in headlights. he drops his hand.

 “you’ve never said that before.”

“that i want to have your babies?” you jest, slightly amused at how panicked luke seems.

luke blushes and clears his throat. “well, that too. i meant the whole ‘i love you’ thing, though.” 

your amusement evaporates. you swear your heart stops beating momentarily.

“oh, shit.…” 

you’re not quite sure what to say; you’ve felt this way for a while, truthfully. 

of course you love luke. you can't remember exactly when you realized it, but you just….know.

because if what you felt for luke wasn’t love, then you were foolish to have secretly bought into what silena beauregard had been on about for years, and aphrodite herself might just be out of a job. 

“i know we’re kind of in a weird place, but, yeah, i mean it. you don’t have to say it back —”

luke leans forward to kiss you. gentler this time, but just as firm. “i love you."

"you do?" your heart resumes its beating. 

"of course i do. i have ever since my first morning at camp.”

“yeah right,” you chuckle in disbelief, feeling your cheeks heat up. “it’s not a competition, you know, over who loved who first.”

“karma, i’m serious,” he insists. “someone taught me to burn offerings, and with everything that happened with thalia, i obviously wasn't in the worshiping mood, but then you leaned over and whispered —"

"they like the smell of begging." 

luke grins at you, and you reach up to brush your thumb against the dimple in his cheek. 

"exactly. somehow, that was what i needed to hear. it was nice to know that i wasn't the only one who didn’t want to just accept things the way they were….” he loses his train of thought. luke grabs your hand in his. “i wish i had told you earlier. after all this, i don’t want to lose you.”

“you won’t —”

“whatever happens,” luke continues, somewhat ominously. “i love you, y/n.”

you hadn't heard luke use your real name in a while. you fall asleep, heart full with the memory of him weaving it together with those three magic words. 

the next morning, you wake up — you actually sleep in, for the first time in years — and decide that if you could stay here forever, you would. 

the morning sun stings your eyes through the sheer curtains. the sticky heat of summer sits heavy in the room, and stray grains of sand tickle your skin underneath the sheets. waves wash gently on the shore outside, and an ocean breeze mixes with the smell of burnt cinnamon. you can hear annabeth, grover, and percy crashing dishes and bickering and causing chaos in the kitchen as, you imagine, they scramble to surprise you with breakfast. 

luke is next to you, on his stomach. his curls are a mess, covering most of his face. 

evidence from last night: scratches from your nails prominent on his back, his neck decorated with purple bruises in the shape of your lips. you shift slightly and feel a dull ache between your legs, so you'd call it even.

outside, something clatters on the floor, and you hear percy swear.

luke's eyes flutter open, ever so slightly, and he starts to move. "we should get up before they burn down the place." 

you press your hand to luke's shoulder blade, barely, but in his half-asleep state, it's enough to keep him in bed. luke moves to his side, facing you. you bring your hand up to brush curls away from luke's eyes, even if they're still closed.

"they've literally been to hell and back," you recall his sarcastic words from last night. "i think they can handle pancakes." 

the corners of luke's mouth curl upwards. 

"you're such a smart ass," he mumbles.

you lean forward, plant a kiss underneath luke's chin. his stubble scratches against your lips. 

"don't pretend you don't love it, tiger."

luke breathes steadily. you think he might've fallen asleep once more until he presses his lips to your forehead, pulls you towards him, and quips:

"i love you."

your heart quickens as you echo his words. something churns in your stomach, too.

because this peace isn't something that feels permanent.

you're the children of gods, and there's always a catch. some inevitable plot twist where lovers end up separated, where heroes end up dead or cursed. 

it's nauseating — dangerous, even — that you want a happy ending, a desire buried in you deeply like a knife to the gut. it's cruel that the fates keep twisting, taunting you with what can never be.

no monsters; no gods or titans; no prophecies.

just this.

[myokk]

[litt1e-prince]

"Who's your friend, MK?"

INSPIRED BY THE FIC: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46162438/chapters/116212117

Which, if you 'haven't read yet- why not?? go read it now!! It's literally so good, its so good- had me crying- LIKE. I WANNA FIGHT WUKONG FROM THIS FIC SOOOO BAD but at the same time,,, i wanna hug him and bring him nice things and make sure he's safe and happy! The author writes so amazingly and aaaah! the pain!!!!

[honey-bird10]

**TSCTIR CHAPTER 754 SPOILERS!!!**

“I once liked Han Yoojin-ssi in a special way.

[...] So I buried it.”

“…Buried it? What do you mean?”

“I’m worn out and old.”

Sung Hyunjae spoke like he was reciting an old poem.

“Life was long and tedious, and the death I deserved flowed away along with lost memories. Though I continued to live, I came to wish for its end, to complete myself.”

His golden eyes narrowed slightly, carrying a faint smile.

“But Han Yoojin-ssi, you made me feel alive again. I was genuinely excited, like a child. For a child with endless fun, death is far from their mind. They only look forward to the flow of time and the tomorrow that awaits.”

“…Then, that means…”

[...]

His eyes, holding a silent smile, turned toward me.

“By burying my feelings for Han Yoojin-ssi, I was able to regain my unreachable longing for death.”

CHAT IT GENUINELY KEEPS GETTING WORSE I'M GOING INSANE?????

I DON'T EVEN NEED TO EXPLAIN IT FURTHER IT'SWRITTEN IN PLAIN TEXT ARE Y'ALL SEEING THIS?????

[varpusvaras]

Breha wanted to have a soulmate.

Her parents were soulmates. They both had a mark of the Hand of Skies, the constellation visible during the winters of Aldera, on their left shoulders. Her mother had originally had the right hand of the constellation, while her father had had the left hand, and the mark had completed itself for both of them after they had met each other for the first time. It had been an early match, and her parents had grown up together since they had been ten years old. For as long as Breha remembered, she had looked at their love and connection, and indulged herself in the warmth and familiarity they shared with each other, dreaming of having the same for herself.

Her parents hoped for her to have a soulmate, too.

"Being a Queen is an important task", her mother always said. "Sometimes, it can be very lonely, too. I have gotten over so many moments of doubt with your father on my side."

She didn't talk about the other reason to her, but Breha knew about it anyway. She knew enough other Royals, other Nobles, of people born into influental families all across the Galaxy.

She knew what happened to those who didn't have a soulmate.

A soulmate was a part of you. A soulmate was someone who no one would ever take away from you. A soulmate was someone who would stay at your side.

A soulmate meant protection.

Breha didn't fully believe that her parents would make her marry someone she did not truly want to, but the fear was still there, and it gnawed on her, stronger and stronger, with every passing year. Alderaan was an affluent world, after all. Old, rich, and located in the Core. Many would be vying for the hand of the future Queen, if it was free for the taking.

Her parents had both gotten their marks at nine years old. Most people on Alderaan got their marks before their tenth birthday.

Breha's twelfth birthday had come and gone, and her thirteenth was fastly approaching, and there was nothing.

She didn't dare to speak about her growing nervousness to her parents. It felt like she would be insulting them, by insinuating that she thought that they would force her into something she did not want. She couldn't just keep it all inside, either, as it continued to bother her more and more.

In the end, she went to her grandmother.

"Sometimes it just takes time", her grandmother said, stroking Breha's back as Breha sniffled against her collar. "Sometimes the Galaxy and the Force has to look at things a little deeper, and to take a lot of things to consideration, things that you and me, or no one else, for that matter, has no idea about. It has to look at so many options before making the decision, so that the decision is the right one."

It did make Breha feel a little better. Maybe she had hope. Maybe she or whoever it was, at the other side, was just a little difficult to match with. Breha didn't think of herself as particularly difficult or complex, but maybe the Force knew something tha she didn't.

So she kept her hopes up, and she waited.

--- ---

She got her mark a week before her birthday.

She had noticed it immediately after waking up, and she had jumped out of her bed and ran to her parents to show it, without even bothering to change out of her nightgown before going.

Not that they cared, as they were just as happy as Breha herself.

The mark was a small flower, on the inside of her left wrist, with seven rounded petals that turned to sharp points at the last second. Breha thought it looked a lot like a star, if one had been turned into a flower.

Her grandmother agreed when Breha showed the mark to her.

"It's a forest star", she told her, "they grow in very deep forests, where sunlight comes through the trees only in small dots, and all the colors are dark and the ground is always glistening with water."

She turned Breha's hand a little to see the mark better, as it was sitting off center, on the right side of Breha's forearm. She was quiet for a moment as she looked at it, clearly contemplating her next words.

"What is most notable of them", she said, finally, "is that they always grow in group of threes."

She ran her fingers over the mark once more, and then gave Breha's hand a little pat.

"It's a beautiful mark", she told Breha, smiling. "With a mark like that, you're going to have a wonderful soulmate, I already know it."

Breha believed her. She had been right about the mark. She would be right about her soulmate as well.

--- ---

Breha met Bail Prestor when she was just shy of seventeen, after she had finally gotten her feet properly back under herself. She noticed him immediately, and joined him and his father to a debate between few other noblemen of Alderaan, that had been invited to the Palace.

She took his side against one of them, and when Bail turned to look at her and smiled, a little unsure but genuine still, Breha felt like something had bloomed underneath her skin.

When she looked down, there was another flower on her arm, on the opposite side of her original one.

She lifted her eyes back to Bail, to see him looking at her now with surprise in his eyes and equal amount of surprise in the smile he still had on his face.

Breha smiled back at him, brightly, with joy and relief.

--- ---

"I will do my best", Bail promised her that night, "no matter what, I will be the soulmate you deserve."

Breha believed him.

"Thank you", she said. "I will do so as well, for you."

She was there for Bail just as much as Bail was for her, after all.

--- ---

"I must admit", Bail said one day, when they were walking through the gardens on a late afternoon. "I am still a little surprised about the mark."

"How so?" Breha asked. She had the feeling that Bail wasn't talking about being the soulmate of the Princess.

"My mother looked up the flower when I got my mark", he said. "She told me that they grow in threes. I expected you two have two flowers, or something similar, I think."

That was right. Breha glanced at their hands. They had both received each other's mark, so they had fullfilled the mark for each other, but the flowers sat apart from each other on their skins, leaving a gap between them.

A gap, just wide enough, that a third flower could fit in between, linking their flowers to each other.

"That would've made sense", Breha admitted. "My grandmother told me the same. We have fullfilled each other's marks, though. I think that is the most important thing."

"It is", Bail said. "It just makes me think..."

He looked down on their hands, and then up at the sky, right past the mountaintops.

"If there is someone out there, with a single flower on their hand", he murmured, reaching for Breha's hand as he spoke.

Breha laced their fingers together, and thought.

All marks had a meaning. A point of connection. Like her parents, with each one side of a whole constellation, two hands made of stars, always meant to be holding each other.

Wouldn't it mean something, too, for her and Bail to have flowers that always grew in threes?

Breha looked up at the sky as well, and she wondered.

--- ---

Years went by. Breha married Bail. She became the Queen.

There were two flowers on each of their arms, apart from each other, with just enough space for a third one in between them.

--- ---

Being a Queen was sometimes lonely work.

What her father had not told her, was that being a Senator was sometimes just as lonely.

During the longest days, Breha would look down on her hand, to the two flowers on her skin, her own and Bail's, and she would draw strength from seeing the proof of the connection she and Bail had, even when the void of space was in between them.

She knew Bail did the same, and Breha was happy that she had been able to give him that connection, that lasted over time and distance.

She looked at her mark for a long time, when the word of the war starting reached Alderaan.

--- ---

Bail was calling her in the middle of her Court.

Usually, when he had something to tell her during their work hours, Bail would send her a message and ask her to call him, or call Visaiya, if it was something more urgent. It wasn't like him to call her like this, without sending a word out first.

She looked up at her Ministers, and gave a signal.

"My deepest apologies", she said, standing up. "I am afraid that I have to take an incoming call right away from the Viceroy."

There were no objections. The war had forced them to raise their means of security on both Alderaan and Coruscant, especially since Bail had not confined himself to only inside the Senate and the House. Anything sudden regarding him was treated with utmost gravity.

She stepped outside the Courtroom into the foyer to answer.

"Are you alright?" She asked, instantly, when the call connected and Bail's image appeared. "What's going on?"

Bail didn't look injured or even angry or crestfallen or anything of the sort that she had kind of expected.

Instead, he looked almost flustered when he looked at her, his eyes wide open, like something entirely unexpected had happened.

"I am alright", Bail answered, and then drew in a deep breath. "Something has happened, and I needed to tell you about it right away."

Before Breha could ask more, Bail pulled up his sleeve, and turned his hand around to show her.

There, on the inside of his arm, right at his left wrist, were three flowers.

It was just like Breha had imagined it. The third flower, right in the middle of the other two, interlocked its petals precisely with the flowers on both sides of it, and so linked them all together, with no space left between them anymore.

Breha lifted her eyes to Bail, who was looking at her, like he was just waiting for her to say something.

Breha had just one thing to say to him.

"Who?" She asked.

"I don't know", Bail answered.

It was not what she had expected him to say at all.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"I was just returning to my office", Bail said. "I had to wait a little since there had been some sort of incident, and the troopers needed a little more time to clear things up, and then I just felt it. And there it is, now."

Breha looked at the mark again.

Three flowers, right next to each other, interlocked.

There was a rule in giving and receiving another part of the mark, and fullfilling it.

There needed to be a point of connection in order for it to happen. It wouldn't happen simply for being in the same space with the other. There needed to be a moment of true attention, intentionally given and received, for the connection to happen.

That meant that Breha had more to ask.

"Who did you talk to?" She asked. "When it happened?"

She hadn't even needed to ask. Bail had already arrived back to the point himself.

"Oh", he said, then thought for a moment. "I think I need to have a word with the Commander of the Guard."

Breha knew from the moment Bail said those words, that many things were about to change irrevocably.

She looked Bail in the eyes, and she knew that he knew it too.

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #58 Part 3

Gotham Academy High School was the sort of school where almost everyone was elite in some way or another. Some of them were from old money like Damian who held himself up to a very high standard in his academics and was the top of the class. Others from new money like Dash and the rest of his cohorts became very hateful of somebody like Danny who was given a scholarship by Bruce Wayne, in their eyes Danny was taking advantage of Damian not even knowing that Damian approached Danny for companionship two years ago.

This also meant that everyone including the teachers would compare Danny and Damian to each other even though they weren’t brothers. That didn’t matter though as Danny was associated with them so that was all the reason they needed.

Danny groaned as he sunk into the seat next to Damian. The lunchroom was filled with chatting students and Danny was glad he shared the next class with Damian, which happened to be English. Dash never bothered Danny when Damian was around, probably because Damian had threatened the jock. How he was threatened Danny didn’t know, Damian never told him what happened and he was a little scared to ask. 

The guy hadn’t stopped harassing Danny since he and Jazz transferred a couple years ago. The school year had barely begun and Dash had made Danny his primary target like he was making up for lost time over the summer. Danny sighed as he dropped his paper bagged lunch on the table with a little plop. Jazz had packed for him this morning hopefully before his parents arrived and contaminated the entire kitchen.

“Dash again?” his sister asked across the table, she was seated next to Tim.

“I was paired against him in dodgeball again,” Danny lamented, his head resting on his arms that were crossed on the table.

“Danny, could you just talk to Mr. Lancer or something?” Jazz asked before she took a bite from her sandwich.

Danny sighed again and unpacked his lunch, “I have but no one will listen! They all act like I’m lying or something.” The teachers at this school probably wouldn’t listen to a charity case like him. Dash was a football player and had plans to become captain of the team. Everyone at the school loved Dash and it was precisely why everyone except maybe the four students at the table they were seated looked down and sometimes even bullied Danny.

Danny ignored it all eventually, it was better just to let the jock tire himself out. 

Once Danny and Damian finished eating they made their way to English. Luckily it was easy to carry the material for a class that only required a small binder and whatever book they were reading, in this case it was ‘gone with the wind’. Danny didn’t really care about reading old literature like this but he did what he had to maintain the grades he had. He’d endure anything, even Dash’s bullying, to become an astronaut.

Danny could hardly concentrate today through his afternoon classes. For some reason he had a bad feeling that something was going to happen. He tried his best to ignore it, he was probably just tired or something. Soon the school day was out and Danny packed up whatever homework he had for the day and headed outside to wait with Jazz. Damian and Tim were probably wrapping up their classes. Tim had an AP class that ran an extra 30 minutes and Damian’s last class was art, they were doing a painting and it wasn’t unusual for Damian to finish up what he was working on as he found out over the last few years that he enjoyed painting.

“… Do you think it’ll work?” Jazz asked a hint of hesitation in her voice. Danny knew she was talking about the portal, the both of them had talked about it before. Danny glanced over at his sister, he could tell she was having trouble sleeping lately, her face looked tired and her posture was stiff with her arms crossed in front of her. Both of them had anxiety about the possibilities the portal possessed, and they were especially worried that their parents wouldn’t take it well if the portal didn’t work. 

He was equally concerned that it would work. “I hope not…” he said eventually. It was something that brought the siblings closer as the whole of their family fell apart. How their parents managed to pull off getting the funding in the first place seemed to be a miracle. Everyone called their parents crazy and dismissed all of their science as ludicrous garbage.

Danny wondered how they even managed to stay under Batman's radar, he thought that something like this would be cause for the vigilante to look into it but maybe the thought of ghosts was just that outlandish that even the dark knight himself thought it to be crazy too. Danny himself didn’t believe in anything his parents published, some of the papers even seemed to be biased somehow, even though his parents hadn’t ever actually encountered a ghost. That last part was probably the reason no one bothered to actually investigate his parents, there wasn’t really much to investigate.

The siblings waited in silence and eventually Tim and Damian showed up after their classes and the four headed to Alfred waiting by the car. 

If anyone tried to start a conversation with Danny he wasn’t paying attention. If he was being honest, his parents' portal scared him a lot. He wasn’t sure why he felt so nervous about it, both him and Jazz renounced the thought that ghosts could exist. Something deep down in his guts told him that he should turn and run, that what his parents were attempting was taboo and that his parents were tampering with forces unimaginable. 

No one was going to listen to a fourteen year old though so Danny kept his feelings to himself and ignored them. 

Soon they were pulled in front of their apartment and true to their word, Damian and Tim asked Alfred to park nearby. Danny and Jazz took a hesitant glance at each other as they walked into the house. 

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 2)

—

Tw: canon-typical violence (Batman), emetophobia at one point

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

Danny sat in the back of one of the transport trucks currently on the way to Arkham, his hands in his lap.

So far, everything was going to plan.

About a quarter of the team had gotten themselves admitted into Arkham in the days leading up to the raid, carefully sneaking in supplies and weapons for both themselves and the rogues they were going to free.

Half of the team was on trucks, ready to storm the building with their fancy new tech. A couple others were keeping an eye out for the Bats, and the last one was holed up in a recently condemned building, ecto-modified sniper rifle in hand, ready to fire.

Danny’s hands were cold.

He hadn’t always run cold, from what he remembered. Even after he died—hell, even after he started developing his ice powers—he had always been warm.

Now, though, his body was freezing.

Maybe it was because of the ecto siphoning he and Derringer had done the day before.

He couldn’t make the ecto guns work without fueling them, after all, and the only ectoplasm he had access to was the stuff inside his body. So, he had Derringer hook him up to a GiW machine and filter the ecto out of his blood.

The process was excruciating.

Not only did he get light-headed from the loss of fluids, the machine also chilled his blood considerably during the filtering process, and when it was pumped back into his body, it was freezing. Derringer had to cover him with heating pads and thick blankets to get him to stop shaking.

Still, that had been a little over eighteen hours ago, so that probably wasn’t it.

Maybe it was just another side affect of his time with the GiW.

Overuse of his ghostly wail, he had realized earlier, was the reason that he had lost his voice permanently. Maybe he had accidentally used his ice too many times the same way, and now his body was irrevocably changed. Maybe warmth was just another tiny privilege he had taken for granted, that had now been lost forever.

Danny stared down at his hands.

Maybe his body had just given up entirely on keeping him warm, on pretending to be human.

“Kid, you alright? We’re almost there.”

Derringer’s voice snapped Danny out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Danny signed, “just tired. And cold.”

“We’ve got to get you a jacket, kid,” Derringer said, “it’s not even winter and I already have to worry about you freezing to death.”

“I died a long time ago, it’s fine.”

“No,” one of the other men in the truck drawled, “it means you’ve got to be extra careful. You’ve got a second chance at living, so you better not screw it up.”

“What did he say?”

“Danny thinks that because he’s died before, he doesn’t need to worry about freezing to death.”

The truck went quiet for a few moments. Most of the guys in there didn’t know he had died before. He didn’t exactly like to advertise the fact.

“I have a cousin who had a heart attack, and it only made his heart worse,” one of the guys near the front of the truck offered.

“See, kid?” Derringer said, “I’m right. As soon as this is over, you’re getting a jacket.”

Danny crossed his arms, slumping over in his seat with a huff.

A few moments later, a loud clang echoed through the truck. Danny jolted, almost falling out of his seat.

The door opened, the driver looking at them with boredom written all over his face.

“Alright, up and at em. It’s go time,” he mumbled, smacking the door loudly for emphasis. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.”

They all stood, hopping out of the truck and making their way to the fence line.

Danny moved his hand to the bandolier on his chest, fingers brushing against the small ecto-bombs he had attached to it.

There were five of them, their bodies made of tempered glass and black steel, and they glowed a sickly green in the night. They were designed mainly for combat; he had a few larger ones meant to blow a hole in a wall in his backpack, which was securely zipped shut.

His hand then drifted to the holster on his left side, and the ecto-gun nestled securely within it.

Most of his parents’ inventions were far too big and bulky to be practical in any real combat setting, so he had downsized them considerably. The weapon he had was modeled after a standard glock pistol, matte black paint covering the GiW white of the gun’s body.

The gun should be able to fire around fifty shots a minute without overheating, which was more than enough for Danny. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to fire a single round tonight. However, for whatever reason, the words should and hopefully didn’t inspire much confidence in him.

Danny followed the group as they snuck up to the facility, Derringer by his side.

Originally, neither of them were going to go on the raid, but someone on the patient list had caught Danny’s eye, so he decided he would investigate in person. Derringer was just along for the ride because Mr. Cobblepot wasn’t willing to lose an asset as valuable as Danny.

Danny would make it up to the bodyguard later, he decided.

Entering Arkham was, all things considered, pretty easy. Mr. Cobblepot had connections to a few of the orderlies, and it was all too easy to convince them to “forget” a few steps in setting up the security system for the night.

However, since nothing can ever just be simple, they ran into an unexpected patrol of nightshift guards just a few minutes after all splitting up to find the rogues.

Danny and Derringer were able to take them down pretty quickly, but not before they sounded the alarms. And, according to a few guys on the comms, they weren’t the only ones to run into guards where they shouldn’t be.

“They must have changed their patrols,” Derringer huffed, spinning the pistol in his hands, “c’mon, let’s go see about freeing our good friend Victor Fries.”

Danny nodded, scampering after the man as he sprinted through the halls.

The inmates, who had woken up from the loud alarm’s continuous blaring, shouted at them from their cells. Danny’s pulse was loud in his ears, drowning everything out.

Distantly, he wondered if those guards were going to die. Maybe they were dead already.

He supposed that it didn’t really change much if they were.

Soon, they were at the cell. It was custom-built to hold Mr. Freeze, constantly kept at subzero temperatures to avoid killing him.

Derringer hefted his bag off of his back, pulling out the suit and freeze gun that Mr. Cobblepot had procured. As he did so, Danny took a few of the larger ecto-bombs and placed them on the joints of the door.

They carefully moved away, putting some distance between themselves and the door, and Danny detonated it.

The explosion was loud. It shook the entire building, the shockwave knocking Danny to the floor.

Danny brought his hand up to his safety goggles, yanking a small piece of metal shrapnel out of them and dropping it on the floor. He was dimly aware of more pieces sticking out of his kevlar suit. Derringer was similarly peppered with metal, luckily uninjured as well.

They had come from the body and mechanism of the bomb, he realized. He’d have to fix that later.

Mr. Freeze emerged from the cell a few moments later, a scowl on his face. Derringer quickly shoved the suit and freeze gun into his hands and he retreated back into the cell for a few moments, getting dressed.

“I could have died from that, you know,” he hissed. “Killed by some amateurs with shoddy explosives.”

“The Penguin sent us,” Derringer said, ignoring the man’s clear annoyance, “our getaway car is outside. If you’d come with us…”

Mr. Freeze nodded sternly.

“Hurry up, then.”

Derringer and Danny hurried out, Mr. Freeze right behind them. Then, at a certain hallway, Danny paused.

He had to check.

“Kid,” Derringer barked, “we have to go.”

Danny shook his head.

“You go,” he signed, hands trembling, “I have to check.”

“Oh, what’s the problem now?” Mr. Freeze asked, his frown more pronounced by the minute.

“Danny…” Derringer sighed, “Danny thinks his sister might be in here. He hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the whole reason he was a part of the Arkham raid, actually.”

Mr. Freeze paused for a moment.

“Well, lead the way, then,” he said, clearly regretting his words as soon as he said them. Danny just nodded, scurrying forward, the other two men close behind him.

They came to the right cell quickly. Danny looked in through the glass, and he felt a piece of himself shatter.

That was Jazz, his sister, sitting in a padded wall wearing a straightjacket and a muzzle.

She didn’t bother looking up at them as they arrived, not stirring even when Danny slammed his hands on the door to get her attention.

Shakily, he attached an ecto-bomb to the door, hoping with all his might that she wouldn’t get hurt.

The door blew open, and Danny rushed in.

Jazz’s head swiveled to look up at him, her eyes narrowed.

He slipped the goggles up and his bandanna down, exposing his face as he came to kneel beside her.

Slowly, her expression shifted to shock.

“Jazz,” he creaked, his broken vocal chords cracking painfully as he spoke, “it’s me.”

She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Danny?”

He nodded, pulling her into a hug, careful not to let the shrapnel dig into her skin.

“I thought you were…”

“Very heartwarming,” Mr. Freeze snapped, “but now isn’t the time. We’ve got to go, now.”

Jazz nodded, leaping to her feet. Danny stood as well, slipping his mask and bandanna back on, and grabbing onto one of her arms for support.

They left the cell, Danny doing a double-take as he saw the frozen-over pathway that they had just come from. He looked to Mr. Freeze, tilting his head questioningly.

“There were guards,” he said flatly. “Now hurry up, we need to get out of here.”

Derringer grabbed the two of them, dragging them along as he sprinted through the hallways. They had to take a bit of a detour, coming out of the main entrance instead of the side one they had entered.

Unfortunately, there was an active gunfight going down.

Danny was roughly pulled behind a desk, just barely dodging a few rounds.

His hands shook as he pulled a small ecto-bomb from his bandolier, priming it and throwing it at a small grouping of night guards. They cried out as the pure ectoplasm collided with them, covering their bodies in burns.

The smell, while familiar to Danny, was still horrific.

They took a few shots off at the night guards, trying to take them down. Their group was efficient, but with the rate they were going at, it wasn’t going to be enough. Only adding to that, the gun Mr. Cobblepot had prepared for Mr. Freeze had broken after just a few uses, leaving them unable to create an ice wall.

Then, Danny heard the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off behind them, and his vision went white.

He grabbed onto Jazz and Derringer, making them intangible right as the night guard opened fire.

Waves of nausea hit him all at once and he doubled over, his vision swimming. Danny was only dimly aware of Jazz taking the guard down with a high kick right to the head, and Derringer pulling him into a protective hold.

Ignoring everything, he pulled the last of the large bombs from his bag, throwing it into the air, pulling everyone behind the desk.

The entire room went white.

Danny’s ears rung as he scrambled out from behind the reception desk, dragging Jazz with him.

Luckily, none of the hired hands on his team had gotten injured, but the guards…

Danny looked away, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything would be okay.

The next few minutes were a blur. He knew that he had puked only a few seconds after they had left the building, and that Derringer had picked him up afterwards, carrying him to the truck with Mr. Freeze and Jazz in tow.

Danny’s entire body was wracked with tremors, an unbearable phantom pain passing through the still-healing surgical wounds in his head and torso like lightning. He dry-heaved, shivering uncontrollably.

They drove off soon after. Luckily, no one had been left behind. Someone, probably Derringer, helped Danny rinse out his mouth and got him a bottle of water to drink, wrapping him in his jacket.

As soon as the truck doors were opened within one of Mr. Cobblepot’s safehouses, Danny became aware of the sound of wailing.

Hopping out of the truck, most of his mind still far away, he saw a man being rolled out of the room on a stretcher. He was one of the people who had been on the other truck, Danny realized.

Beside him was a teenager, probably only a few years younger than Danny, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. They wailed at Mr. Cobblepot, who only stood there with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Oh shit,” Derringer breathed. Danny pulled on his sleeve, tilting his head at him questioningly.

“The guy on the stretcher, that’s his sibling.”

Danny just stared, a hollow feeling deep in his chest.

Jazz, her arms now freed from the straightjacket, pulled him away from the scene. Danny let her.

—

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again - Part Six

Summary: Azriel had been avoiding her all day after their last encounter, she was willing to let him brood all he wanted. Y/n may have just found her way home, but it comes with a warning.

Series Masterlist

-Part Six-

Y/n was finally back to her research, she’d eaten lunch with the Valkyries, all of them starving after training much longer than the two hours they’d expected. They had ended up talking about books, recommending many of their favorites for Y/n to read, Nesta had promised to drop some off by her room later in the evening. She’d told them of the books she read back home, of Dorian’s personal library that he’d share with her whenever either of them visited, of the libraries of Orynth, filled with stories from every corner of the world. Books scholars had saved from Adarlan’s path of destruction, books her family had found on their journeys around the world, books written of their battles, of hero’s and villains, love and loss.

Once they’d gone their separate ways, Y/n had found her stacks of papers and the Walking Dead in the exact place she’d left them the night before. The scratched out notes making less sense now that she looked them over with a clear mind. She’d been trying to make sense of her rambling for hours, her mind going numb, almost ready to give up when she’d felt his presence.

He’d been avoiding her all day, just like she had avoided him this morning. If it was because she’d lain him flat on his back, or from the dark look in his eyes as he’d look down at her when she’d been pinned to his chest, she wasn’t sure, and she wasn’t going to spend the time wondering. If he had a problem with her showing him up, then he and his ego could deal with that on their own, it wasn’t her problem. And if it was the other reason, she had much more important things to worry about than the gorgeous male staring at the back of her neck. At least that’s what she told herself.

“How many times must you be told?” She doesn’t lift her gaze from her notes, “It’s impolite to stare.”

A cool touch caresses the skin of her ankle, a tendril of shadows gently wrapping around her. Usually she’d snap at the little creature, but instead she just looks over her shoulder at the source, at the male leaning against the doorway. That dark and heavy look in his eye was gone, replaced by that mask of stoic beauty. He doesn’t say anything, only stares into her eyes, and she fights the urge to fidget beneath his gaze. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of it, she refused, no matter how her skin seemed to burn everywhere his eyes touched.

“You’re so upset I beat you that you’d give me the silent treatment,” she clicks her tongue, turning her back to him, “You males have such fragile egos.”

Again, no response, and it digs under her skin in a way she’s sure her cheeky little smiles do to him. Fine, if he wanted to play this game, she could to.

“You’d think after this long someone would’ve house trained you.” She throws that exact irritating saccharine smile over her shoulder, “Teach you some manners.”

Something she’d always known about herself is that she’d inherited her mother’s temper, to her father’s eternal delight. Prone to freezing a room or lighting it on fire during temper tantrums. When he didn’t respond again, she could feel her magic stirring beneath her skin, wanting to lash out, but again, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He could sit there and play brooding, tall, dark, and handsome warrior all he liked.

That little wisp of shadow gently tugs on her ankle, just enough pressure for her to look down at it, to follow it back to the male who’d taken several silent steps towards her.

She suddenly felt to small, to exposed, sitting there before him, her back on display. She’d been here for only two days and somehow she had already let her guard down. These fae weren’t her own, they weren’t friends she’d known her whole life, they were strangers who could just a easily kill her as she could them. Deadly warriors, skilled magic users, dangerous. She stands from her chair, turning to face him, hand in easy reach of her multiple daggers strapped across her body.

“Are you going to just stare me down, like some feral beast,” she snaps, letting that anger slip its leash, a warning to stay back, “or do you have something to say?”

Those eyes are suddenly not so blank, that mask ripped away to show the male beneath. And she saw that look, that darkness, that desire. It’d been the later that had kept him away, that had him coming back now. A predator stalking his prey, those whiskey eyes dipping down and slowly dragging back up, mapping every dip and curve.

That soft touch at her ankle turns into more than a simple caress, harder. Roughly locking her in place, keeping her from flying away even if she wanted to. He steps closer, and closer, and her heart is pounding in her chest in anger, in fear, in anticipation, she’s not quite sure which.

She has to crane her neck back to keep their eyes locked as he steps right in front of her. Gods he was tall, and gorgeous, and so close she could feel the heat of him.

“Where’d you go, Princess?”

Y/n jerks awake and Azriel pulls his hand away from her shoulder quickly. She’d been laying halfway on the table when he found her, her head resting on one of her arms, a pen loosely dangling between her fingers as if sleep had claimed her without warning. If he was being completely honest, he’d for the briefest moment thought it was cute, the way her cheek was smushed up against her arm, the soft snores that left her mouth. It’d taken him longer than probably necessary to lift his scarred hand to her shoulder and gently shake her a few times, whispering her name. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, and he’d hesitated to move when her lips had twitched up at the corners.

Her eyes frantically search the space around her, a pretty flush on her cheeks. When her eyes finally land on him she jolts, hand flying to her chest as if to cage her galloping heart.

“Gods, someone needs to put a bell on you,” she groans, falling back against her chair, hiding her face between her hands, “What time is it?”

“Well past your bedtime apparently.” He smirks at the glare she sends him from behind her fingers. “I just got back to find you like this.”

She gives him a curious glance, “Where have you been all day? Did your lord and lady give you the day off of babysitting duty?”

“Something like that,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “Why were you drooling all over your notes?”

She glares even deeper, the look in her eyes ice cold like the first night they’d met, “First of all, I was not drooling.”

He pointedly looks at the page she’d been hunched over, “Sure, okay.”

“Second of all,” she growls, shoving that paper across the table like it would hide the smudged ink, “answer my question, where have you been hiding all day? Ego a little bruised?”

She didn’t know the half of it, “I was sent out to check on something. I do have a job you know, and before you say it, no, my job isn’t just babysitting you, Princess.”

“I was going to say it was brooding, but close enough.” She gives him that exasperating smile, and it takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to not stare directly at those lips.

“It’s nearly midnight,” he says instead, glancing at the sky beyond the window.

“Is it really?”

She raises from her chair, putting the thing directly between them, a casual move, to casual. He notices there’s a tension in her shoulders, similar to the way she’d been in the garden that first night, like fight had switched to flight and she was seconds away from running straight through the balcony doors and flying away.

He cocks his head, shadows whispering in his ears, her heart is to fast, something’s wrong. Azriel could tell that himself, her heart hadn’t settled since she’d startled awake, and now she almost refused to meet his eyes. Something was definitely wrong, and he couldn’t keep his thoughts from spiraling.

Did she know that he’d spent the day flying just to cool off, that his blood had roared for hours and hours, that his mind had played the image of her below him, looking up through her lashes, over and over and over. Was she disturbed, disgusted, did the tentative bond they’d formed in the early hours of the morning snap and crumble to dust.

“I should go,” Y/n says, her eyes shift to the doorway beyond his shoulder. “Like you said it’s well past my bedtime. A female needs her beauty rest.”

She doesn’t move though, doesn’t take that first step that would bring her closer to him and Azriel doesn’t like the way it stings.

So he nods, takes a step back and waves a hand towards the door, “Goodnight then, Princess.”

She nods once, “Goodnight, Shadowsinger.”

And then she’s gone, rushing from the room. Azriel keeps his shadows firmly at his side, even as they struggle and beg to follow her, to catch her and keep her there with him. He’d already done enough, already scared her off. Mother above he was pathetic, his heart clenching painfully in his chest, absolutely pathetic.

There were more of those revealing clothes laid out on the dresser when she woke the next morning. Y/n noted that they were in the Terrasen green and silver that she had asked the house for. It eased her heart to wear those colors, made her feel like home wasn’t somewhere far across the stars.

Also laid out on the table by her seating area was a tray full of breakfast, it seemed the house knew she was avoiding a certain male. It may make her a coward, but she needed to put a little bit of space between them, that dream had shaken her, and she needed the time to pull herself together.

She wasn’t a stranger to attraction, to dreaming of males and females alike, to waking up in a bed that wasn’t her own. But this was different, Azriel was different. He wasn’t just some male who’d caught her eye, he was the guard who watched over her to keep her in line, he was the one who’d found her, bleeding and vulnerable on the garden floor, he was a stupidly handsome male from a foreign world who she knew next to nothing about. She had no business feeling anything for him, even if it was just lust.

It took her longer than she’d like to admit to put on a brave face and walk out her door. Azriel had left hours ago, she’d heard him walk into the hall, wait for several minutes as if expecting her to walk out, and then leave when she didn’t.

Y/n took the now familiar path to the dining room, where she found Feyre and Amren sitting at the clear spaces away from Y/n’s sprawling notes.

“Finally,” Amren sneers, “how long does it take you to get ready, girl.”

“Amren,” Feyre warns softly, “Good morning, Y/n, how’d you sleep.”

“Morning, Feyre. I slept fine, thank you.” She’d slept like shit actually, but she wasn’t going to say that and have to explain that a certain shadowsinger wouldn’t leave her mind. “Was there something you needed?”

“It took some convincing Amren.” Feyre gestures to the small scowling female, “But we’d like you to take a look at the Book of Breathings. It’s full of those marks and I wonder if you’d have an easier time looking for what you need.”

Y/n glances at the table between them, searching for the mysterious book. When she doesn’t find it Feyre’s hand comes up, snapping once, and all of a sudden a terrible presence fills the room. It’s heavy and old and whatever it is has Y/n’s defenses rising.

It’s not a book in the traditional sense, no paper, no leather, but metal plates bound by metal rings. It thumps onto the table, and the sound seems to echo around the room, through Y/n’s head.

“I’ll warn you,” Amren says, “the thing has a nasty habit of speaking out of turn. Don’t let it get to you.”

Feyre looks visibly uncomfortable in its presence, leaning back in her chair away from it. Y/n was half tempted to turn and fly out of the room, instead she sits before the ancient book.

Hello little stranger, it whispers, and she recoils away from it, teller of many stories, none of her own.

“Hello, creepy book,” she answers, “Do you have any stories to share?”

“Don’t humor it,” Amren snaps, glaring when Feyre shushes her.

I have many stories, it answers, many stories that may intrigue you, storyteller.

“Any on how I may get home?”

Look and see, it says, the answer you seek is already there, though I wonder if you truly want to see it.

Her brow furrows in confusion, “All I want is to go home.”

Ah, home, it sighs, what is home to you, storyteller? A castle, family, books, whiskey, shadows, a lover?

She forces away the image that comes to mind, “Terrasen, thats my home.”

Land of pine and snow, the book seems to take a deep breath, godless, the gods killer queen, the kings flame blooming year round. Why did it throw you out? Why did the stag turn his back on you.

Anger flares through her, “Enough.”

The Wyrd has plans for you, hesitate to turn your back on the gifts she gives you, it says, she will not take the slight kindly.

“I didn’t ask for a gift,” she snarls, “I didn’t ask to be ripped away from my home, from my family. I didn’t ask to have everything taken from me.”

And yet you have so much to gain.

Just like that it goes quiet, presence fading till it was nothing but a book. Y/n wants to scream, to force it to come back and tell her exactly how to get home.

“It hasn’t been that active since the halves were joined,” Feyre breathes, face pale.

Amren watches Y/n with curious eyes, “It’s interested in her, the same way it was with you. I don’t think we want to find out why.”

Y/n lifts her hand to the first plate, cold metal stinger her flesh. That ancient power floods through her, though the book stays quiet. It feels like the presence is weighing her down, holding her in her seat. She grits her teeth and forces the book open, eyes flowing over the words that she could not read, over the marks she could. It was a mixture of them, spells and marks, most she knew, some she didn’t. Those were the ones she focused on, the world seeming to hold its breath.

It took her several moments to figure out what exactly she was looking at, a mark she’d seen before, so similar to the one for unlock that she’d overlooked it the first time, open. It was so simple she almost laughs. Open, to open the rifts between worlds, to open a gate. That ancient presence seems to sigh in her mind, the only confirmation she needed before slamming the book shut and shoving it away from her.

“What is it?” Feyre asks, “Are you alright?”

Y/n nods, “Get that thing out of here.”

Amren snaps her fingers and it’s gone, “What did you find, girl? Did it give you what you needed?”

She nods her head again, “I need some paint.”

Tag List-

@inloveallthetime , @microwaveallthedemons , @nayaniasworld , @thecraziestcrayon , @fightmedraco , @blackgirlmagicforever , @nikt-wazny-y , @fangirlloza010 , @thisiskaylin , @wolfgirl624 , @khaleesihavilliard , @fluffy-bnny , @mariahoedt , @durgenyx , @glitterypirateduck , @byyalady , @amberlynn98 , @ferrarisbitch

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 6

Part 5

Last Time: Nancy starts filling in the gaps of everything Eddie's missed

~~~

Max, Lucas, and Erica were the first to quit calling. Hell, they’d always been more Steve’s than Eddie’s, since he’d adopted Max with the last of his parents’ trust money when he turned nineteen. After the kids graduated, Steve had set himself, Max, and Robin up in a cheap two bedroom apartment in Chicago where they all started school. Then Lucas moved in only a few months later– Max and Lucas in one room, Robin and Steve in the other. Only for Eddie to then uproot Steve to LA just before he could finish his degree, selfishly isolating him from his family.

Dustin was the next to disappear. They were close, and Eddie considered the kid one of his best friends. It apparently didn’t matter, which–just like with the other three–he should’ve seen coming. Steve was practically a brother to Dustin, same as Max. Eddie just always thought the split was more fifty-fifty with Dustin. It was a thick pill to swallow, but he managed.

He reached his final breaking point when Nancy and Mike started ignoring him. Eddie could make excuses for the rest of them, they were Steve’s adopted, puzzle-piece family. The Wheeler’s were Eddie’s family by blood. 

His parents kicked him out for kissing the neighbor boy– well, his adopted parents. Turns out Karen Wheeler had put him up for adoption three years before she met Ted, but was too scared to reach out, hoping he was happy with his new family. When little twelve year old Eddie showed up with a social worker at her door the next day, however, Karen welcomed him with open arms. He figures he’d be dead if it wasn’t for them, caught up running petty crimes just like his dad.

But that all meant Mike and Nancy were supposed to love him, not Steve. He called non-stop once he’d finally understood what was happening, but they never answered. Eddie remembers lying in bed for days, ruminating on how they’d picked golden boy Steve Harrington over their own family. Old feelings of neglect and rejection curdled up in Eddie’s stomach. A reminder that he was just a burden. Some lost, broken, queer kid they never asked for, forced onto them when Karen and Ted already had three mouths to feed.

Eddie's resentment towards everyone carried the band through their first national tour. He wanted to kick-off on a festival tour in Europe once they finished, but the band was exhausted. They were desperate to take a break while Metal Munson was still riding on top of the world, a full-fledged rockstar getting invites to behind-the-scenes parties, walking the red carpet, and casually dating celebrities. 

But he still loved his Corroded boys, so he agreed, thinking the break would allow them time to recover and give him more time to reap the benefits of a rockstar lifestyle. 

Except staying out every night started to lose its shine. The parties were duller than he remembered, the lights less bright. Mindless flirting with boys only interested in Metal Munson strained his smile. Strange, strong hands started to feel like sandpaper across his bare skin, the tangled sheets between them constricting Eddie until he couldn’t breathe. 

It all came crashing down when he woke up in an unfamiliar bed next to a man with fluffy brown hair, moles scattered across his back. Brilliant, sky blue eyes staring back at him.

Eddie quit going out. Stopped answering phone calls– not that the calls came from anyone who actually mattered. 

Because Steve never called. Not once, still hasn’t. And Eddie doesn't think he ever will.

~~~

Part 7

Tag List!!!

@sadisticaltarts @5ammi90 @blacklegsanji21 @jaytriesstrangerthings

@thewickedkat you didn't actually asked to be added to the tags, but I included you bc of your comment on the last part. If you'd like to not be included next time just lmk <3

[grac3enocturne]

TBHK 123 spoilers

Mad at people shitting on Yashiro for crying this chapter, Nene a 15yo kid, who just lost all their friends, who just experienced again a traumatizing event, who just had a big resposability put on their shoulder. LET HER CRY. LET HER REST A LITTLE.

Some people also complained nothing big happen, which again is wrong. A lot happened, and what happened is imporant for the futur chapters and arc. Not our fault you reading with your ass but also your shipper brain. YES because i also saw people complaining there's no ship again. Not everything have to resault around (romantic ship)

[pinkytoothlesso11]

Awaken chapter 5

It's been a long time lol but finally have an update!

Summary: Strickler’s training with Blinky and Aaarrrgghh in Trollmarket turns out to be exhausting to deal with, on top of managing his human life and Bular, so Strickler proposes to Jim the idea of getting Douxie involved for some much-needed added support, despite Jim’s reservations.

An encounter with goblins forces Strickler and Jim to seek out Douxie anyway, although Strickler’s concerns about Jim’s safety stir emotions between the changeling and future-past Trollhunter.

[triglycercule]

horror is so BLESSED he's the only one out of the murder time trio that has actual good people trying to influence his story 💔💔 dust and killer were both driven to INSANITY because of the choices of their respective humans but horror??? every time without FAIL the polls for horrortale's plotline have always ended in a good place for aliza (either by bettering her relationships/reputation or for her to just. not DIE)

horrortale's potential alternate timelines my beLOVEd🙏🙏 they're SO lucky that we're being kind and benevolent hehe (≧ω≦) now where are the aus based off the possible different outcomes that could've happened in horrortale HUH???? (like how aliza couldve killed toriel or chosen horror's puzzle or gone with undyne to the core........)

[moopermoment]

the closed wound and bleeding heart

agent and penguinronpa is created by @tofudemaru