#check ao3 tags for warnings

[awhoreintheory]

Welcome to the Circus

check tags / here / ch2 / ch3 / ch4 /

ao3 link

Summary:

As Peter lay there, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind, the green haze persisted, swirling around him like a sinister fog. He coughed and sputtered, wiping the remnants of the acrid goop from his mouth and eyes, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement. His head throbbed with a dull ache, and his vision swam as he tried to take stock of his surroundings. This wasn't Queens. This wasn't home.

Good ol' Peter Parker in Gotham trope, for those interested ;)

Drowning. 

Peter was drowning. Why was he drowning? 

He was just with Doctor Strange… Why was he with Doctor Strange? It was important. It was important… 

Why is he drowning? 

Panic surged through him as he thrashed, inhaling mouthfuls of something thick and acrid. It wasn’t water—it was something worse. The green liquid filled his mouth, his lungs. It was inside him, choking him, suffocating him. Peter was drowning in it.

getoutgetoutgetout

His mind screamed as he flailed, desperate for something solid, something that could save him. His hand grazed a surface, something cold and unyielding. He fumbled, but his limbs were heavy, numb, uncooperative. His legs felt like they were made of lead, sinking him deeper into the suffocating green.

Peter’s fingers searched frantically along the surface, but there was nothing—no hatch, no ridges, no sign of an escape. Just a smooth, cold wall that offered no mercy.

Green panic swirled, Peter’s search for an exit becoming desperate. 

The green panic inside him swelled, his thoughts scattering as his need for air became unbearable. Trembling, Peter cracked his eyes open, hoping for a miracle. Instead, he was met with a blinding, searing pain. The green liquid burned his eyes, his throat, his lungs—every breath, every swallow, was agony.

Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt.  

His body convulsed as the burning intensified, the green liquid seeping into every part of him, robbing him of breath, of thought, of hope. The idea of finding an exit, of escaping, slipped away as the pain consumed him. The burning in his lungs was unbearable, and his mind grew hazy from the lack of oxygen, from the relentless assault of the green.

He was going to drown. He was going to die here, suffocated by this toxic green hell.

GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT

Desperation took over, and Peter thrashed wildly, slamming his fists and feet against the smooth walls that confined him. The space was too small, too tight, the green pressing in on him from all sides. His movements were frantic, uncoordinated, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t stop. He had to fight, had to find a way out, even if it meant tearing himself apart.

Cracks spread, spiderwebbing outwards. 

Peter heard every crack of the glass and every vibration. It was overwhelming. 

As his vision spotted and his arms grew sluggish, the glass shattered. Peter was all but thrown out, catching on more than his fair share of jagged glass on the way out. 

He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, but the adrenaline kept him moving. Peter shivered violently, his body reacting to the sudden cold as he felt around in a panic. For what, he wasn’t quite sure—something solid, something familiar, something that wasn’t green. Someone. He was looking for someone, he thought. But the thought slipped away as quickly as it came, drowned out by the all-consuming need to breathe.

He gasped, sputtering, and suddenly he was retching, hacking up mouthful after mouthful of the thick, acrid green goop that had filled his lungs. It clung to his throat, slimy and suffocating, and he damn near passed out before he finally managed to draw in his first breath of air. The taste in his mouth was revolting, a nauseating blend of bile and chemicals that made him gag.

Greedily, Peter gulped down the stale, musty air, his chest heaving as he lay there, too exhausted to move. Jagged pieces of glass dug into his skin, new homes found in the raw flesh exposed by his shredded clothes. The smell of stomach acid mixed with the pungent odor of the green liquid, a stench that made his head swim. But despite it all, despite the pain and the filth and the cold, he was just so tired—

getupgetoutGO

The command sliced through his haze of exhaustion, dragging him back to the present. He’d been operating on pure instinct, his eyes tightly shut against the world. But now, blinking rapidly, Peter tried to force his vision to clear.

Hissing, Peter rubbed his eyes harshly, only seeming to aid in the green water’s goal of burning his poor eyeballs. 

“Son of a—” he choked out, but the words were a mistake. His throat was still coated in that vile sludge, and the effort to speak sent him into another fit of coughing, each spasm more painful than the last.

Tears welled up, slipping down his face and mingling with the green, but they at least helped to wash some of it away. Slowly, painfully, his vision began to clear.

His sight cleared, but the green did not. 

Peter shakily sat up, taking each breath as though it were his last, he tried to clear his mind and make heads or tails of his situation. But the green haze persisted, swirling around him like a sinister fog. He coughed and sputtered, burning his throat as he wiped the remnants of the acrid goop from his mouth and eyes. 

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement. His head throbbed with a sharp pain, and his vision swam. 

badbadleavegonow

It took a moment for the fog of confusion to lift, but when it did, Peter's heart sank like a stone in his chest. 

He was supposed to be in Doctore Strange’s sanctum right now. They were doing something important, Peter thinks. 

Except… He wasn't in Doctor Strange's sanctum anymore. He wasn't anywhere familiar at all. Somewhere badnotgoodleave.

The room around him was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of decay and neglect and green. Crumbling concrete walls surrounded him, and the hum of machinery reverberated through the air. It was some sort of lab, or at least something resembling one, judging by the various bits of scientific equipment scattered around. Peter's stomach churned with unease.

He staggered to his feet, the adrenaline coursing through his veins driving him forward despite the pain and disorientation. With each step, he struggled to shake off the remnants of his ordeal, but the memory of drowning in that thick, green substance lingered like a nightmare he couldn't escape.

Peter stumbled, hands flying out to steady himself, making contact with glass. He stuck himself there as his limbs shook with the effort it took to hold himself up. Letting out a breath once he was stable, Peter looked up. 

Straight into the eyes of a corpse. 

Peter froze, the air catching in his throat. The body in front of him was that of a girl—maybe nineteen or so—floating lifelessly in the same green liquid that had nearly drowned him. Her inhuman green eyes were open, staring unseeingly into the void, her skin pale and tinged with the same sickly green hue that filled the tube. Horror gripped Peter as he forced himself to look away, but everywhere he turned, he was met with the same sight—tube after tube, each containing a body suspended in the green liquid. All of them a teenager of younger, and all of them were silent, unmoving, trapped in this grotesque display.

And then he saw it—the one empty tube. The tube he had broken out of.

Peter panicked, and the more he panicked, the greener everything became. This— this wasn’t the sanctum? Why was he drowning? Where was Doctor Strange? Why were all these people in these tubes? What was happening? Where was he?

notsafebadleave

As Peter's panic threatened to overwhelm him, the green haze seemed to intensify, enveloping him in its sickly embrace. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing loudly in his ears as he struggled to make sense of the horrifying scene before him.

The girl in the tube floated eerily, suspended in the green substance like a macabre display. Her expression was serene, almost peaceful, but Peter couldn't shake the sense of dread that settled like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.

With trembling hands, Peter reached out, his fingers hovering over the glass of another nearby tube. Inside, he could see the outline of another person, their features obscured by the murky liquid that surrounded them. They had a small silhouette— a child, barely seven, by the looks of it. 

A wave of nausea washed over him as he realized the extent of the horror that surrounded him. These people, trapped in these tubes like specimens in some twisted experiment... what had happened to them? 

Peter forced himself to listen, straining his enhanced senses to detect any sign of life within the room. But there was nothing. No shallow breaths, no muffled heartbeats, no sounds of movement. Only the cold, oppressive silence of death, punctuated by the relentless thumping of his own heartbeat, the only one left in this chamber of horrors.

Panic clawed at him, the walls closing in as the green haze began to blur his vision. His breathing grew ragged, his chest tightening as the realization settled over him—he was alone here. Whoever these people had been, whatever had happened to them, they were gone. He was the only one left.

But why? Why was he here? Why had he survived when they hadn’t?

The questions swirled in his mind, but he had no answers. All he knew was that he had to get out. He had to escape this place before whatever nightmare had claimed these lives claimed his as well. The green, the tubes, the dead—it was too much, too overwhelming. He needed to breathe, to think, to live.

Peter stumbled back, looking frantically around. Shards of glass made themselves known as Peter made his way toward a bin filled with— clothes? 

One sniff made it apparent they were dead people’s clothes. Peter glanced at the clothes, then to the bodies suspended in green, then at his own similarly undressed form. Man, that was… that was fucking dark. They— whoever was running this shitshow— kept a bunch of dead kids’ clothes? 

The realization fueled a surge of disgust and rage, a combination that made his skin crawl. His hand clenched around the edge of the counter, the metal creaking ominously before snapping beneath his grip. Peter barely managed to pull himself back from the brink, forcing deep breaths through clenched teeth as he counted backward from ten. But even that brought on a fit of coughing, the green sludge still clinging to his lungs like poison. (Jesus, Peter was going to be coughing up the green stuff for the next week.) 

Peter sighed, resigned in what he was about to do. 

He… He didn’t have any clothes. And there were clothes right in front of him. If Peter hadn’t vomited up everything he had in his stomach already, he’d have thrown up again. 

Gingerly sifting through the pile of clothes— they were clearly taken with no care, haphazardly ripped and thrown onto the table— he grabbed a shirt and a pair of sweats. They were big, way too big, swallowing his frame like he was a child. The shirt enveloped him, and he’d pulled the drawstrings on the sweats as tight as he could. In all honesty, they were hanging onto his frame by a thin piece of string and a prayer. 

Which was odd, because they were only a men’s medium. 

As he dressed, he made a silent vow. He’d give these poor souls a proper burial as soon as he could. Fresh, new clothes. A casket. A headstone. Flowers. Everything they deserved, everything they had been denied in this nightmare.

Peter fumbled with the glass in his feet, ripping them out, uncaring of the blood that came gushing out. That didn’t matter. He needed to get out and find Doctor Strange. And maybe alert the police. And… Something. He was forgetting something. 

Using the wall as support, Peter made his way to the only door in the room. He only stopped because he caught sight of something shiny hidden beneath some of the bloodier clothes. Upon looking closer, it was two red metal bracelets. Specifically, the red bracelets that made up the Iron Spider. The green in his chest reared its ugly head, mixed emotions swirling that left a sour taste in his mouth. 

With trembling hands and hope fluttering in his chest, Peter reached out, picking up the bracelets and clutching them tightly, as though they’d disappear. The bracelets were a reminder of who he was; a symbol of the hero he had become. And more importantly, they were the last thing he had to remember Mr. Stark by. Peter’s lip trembled as he slipped them on. At least he had this— a reminder he was Spider-man. He used that reminder to cool the green. He was Spider-Man.  

“Kar—” Peter delved into another coughing fit, his body convulsing with each hack.

“Karen?” A hoarse whisper was the best Peter could manage, staring hopefully at the bracelets. 

No response. 

Unsurprising, but it hurt nonetheless. 

Peter huffed, placating the green that had settled in his chest for the umpteenth time. He needs a working computer, with an outlet. Something to get Karen online and powered up. It’s unlikely the arc reactor powering the Iron Spider gave out that easily. Karen probably just needs a kickstart. 

Continuing the trek to leave this nightmare building, Peter stopped to listen every so often. No heartbeats. No people. At least, no one alive, anyway. He heard the faint sounds of a bustling city, as well as the hum of electricity in the room with the… tubes, but that was it. It was like this place was abandoned. Not that Peter is complaining! He was barely coordinated enough to walk while leaning on the wall, there was absolutely no chance he could have fought his way out. 

Small mercies, he supposed. 

The building was trashed, but not in a deliberate sense. It was dusty, clearly abandoned, with paper and trash littering the floor, but it was not like there was mold or signs of a struggle. It looked closer to a hasty evacuation than a subsequent abandonment. The paper looked vaguely important, but when Peter tried to read them, it all jumbled up into nonsense in his mind. He huffed in irritation, ditching the papers in favor of his first task: finding an exit. His Peter-tingl— spidey-sense quieted down after he left the green room, for the most part, mainly just a low hum of cautiouscarefulwary.  

After who-knows-how-long of wandering, (Karen would’ve known), and a near endless staircase, Peter finally stumbled upon a door through which he could distinctly hear the aforementioned sounds of the city beyond. He only hesitated for a second before pushing this door open. 

A gust of city-polluted air rushed in, replacing the previously stale air. The light left Peter momentarily blinded, his sensitive eyesight taking the cloud-covered sun as though it were a flash grenade. 

Wincing, Peter covered his eyes until they adjusted. Cracking them open, Peter looked out onto a city.

A city that was not Queens, New York. 

nothomenothomenothome

Granted, the door had opened into an alleyway, which was absolutely disgusting, if all the smells Peter was bombarded with were what he thought they were, and he was pretty sure it was. The nasties. 

Peter promptly slammed it shut. His head swam, ears rang, and green swirled. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? Where was he? Why was he here? Wherever here was, anyway. 

Peter ran a hand down his face, massaging his temples. Fuck, shitballs, ok, this is fine. (Read: not fine) He’d survived being dusted. He died, he actually, legitimately, bit the dust. He could handle this. Until Strange found him, at least. Strange? 

Why was he here in the first place? 

He was forgetting something…

Braving the door, Peter stumbled down the stairs, glancing up at the sky. It was noon? Maybe? The gray clouds made it hard to tell, but that was Peter’s guess. 

Peter couldn’t explain how he knew this place wasn’t Queens, but he just knew. He had been in nearly every alleyway in New York, every corner and street and rooftop. This just… This wasn’t home. He knew it. He felt it. Peter feels like he’d earned the benefit of the doubt when it came to his feelings. They were generally right, not that Peter listened to them as often as he should’ve, but semantics. 

Peter made his way to the end of the alleyway, towards a not-quite bustling street, but it wasn’t empty either. It still grated on his ears. He was almost tempted to crawl his sorry-ass back into the nightmare-lab. So, definitely noon. Another reason this place wasn’t New York, because the street would’ve been packed to the absolute brim. 

The closer he got to the end of the alleyway, the louder his spidey-sense seemed to get. Which was odd, because weren’t these all just civilians? Why was his spidey-sense going off for civilians? Well, more than average. One does not simply live in New York, they survived New York. 

Stepping out, Peter got several snide looks from passing people. And was it just him, or was everyone… really tall? Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, looking down at himself, then back up to another passerby. That’s… Huh?

He called out to a couple passing people but was oh-so kindly told to fuck off. Three times! One was even in Spanish, although butchered by the local accent. Diversity! 

cautiouswaryunsure

Peter chewed on his lips, tasting the dried remnants of green on his lips. He tried not to think about that. Looking around, Peter played a game of “Will they shank me?” with his spidey-sense, trying to find someone who looked less… stabby than everyone else. And would maybe, actually answer a question or 10 without telling him to get fucked by a three-legged chair. 

This wasn’t Queens, so Peter needed to find somewhere they'd let a grimy, homeless looking adult touch their mediocre computers so he could get Karen online. Peter doubted a computer cafe would even let him get through the doors before he was shooed out— or shot— so public library it was. 

He settled on a young lady— she was around 19 and lifeless, suspended in the green— minding her own business on the blockiest phone Peter’s seen in years. He decided against touching her, instead hesitantly waving in her peripherals to get her attention. 

niceokgood

She leveled him with an unimpressed glare. “What, kid?” 

And wow, was that an accent? Sounded Jersey to him, which, gag. Why was he in Jersey? Also rude, they were basically the same age, no need to call him a kid. Condescending much? Clearing his throat as best he could, Peter asked his question.  

“S—sorry, could you, um, point me in the direction of the public library?” Peter haorsley whispered, ducking his head, all the while giving her his best “I-mean-you-no-harm” eyes. His throat burned as he spoke, and he bet good money his breath smelled like that goop. He could feel his hair drying with the green, leaving it uncomfortably stiff and crunchy. Not to mention he was wearing dead people’s clothes. So, in short terms; he smelled and looked like death. 

She didn’t appear moved by his puppy eyes but answered anyways. “Go down this street as far as you can see, twice, then turn right. It’s the big building that doesn’t look like shit.” She put her earbuds back in, walking away, mumbling something about “Fucking New Yorkers,”.

Peter blinked. Those were certainly… directions, he supposed. Weirdest directions he’s ever received, but who is he to not listen to them? Peter rasped a small “thanks” as he hesitantly made his way in the direction she pointed, decidedly not acknowledging being called a New Yorker with the same amount of emotion Peter would’ve had about wet socks. 

Peter estimated where a normal person’s eyesight would end, and then walked (Read: stumbled) his way there. Halfway there, Peter had to stop to catch his breath, coughing up the equivalent of green phlegm. Wiping his mouth, Peter looked up, eyes catching on a decently reflective window.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck. 

Head wiping around, Peter looked for the half-dead kid in the window, which couldn’t have been him. Because… What? 

The green swirled in his chest. There’s no fucking way. 

Why the fuck did he look like his twelve-year-old self. 

Peter had dried off, for the most part, the green substance leaving his hair crunchy and dry, and a faint, greenish sheen on his skin. He looked sickly and pale, dwarfed in clothes that should’ve fit Peter. His hair was darker— basically black— with a big ol’ chunk of white hair right at Peter’s widow’s peak. 

Which, sure, this weird substance could’ve damaged his hair, and changed its color like the world’s shittiest dye, except Peter’s eyes. They were green. And not a pretty, natural green. Peter looked like he was some sort of Danny Phantom fanboy. 

Peter… Peter didn’t even look like himself. Sure, the facial shape of this body would eventually grow to be familiar, but what the fuck? You don’t just— deage! With noticeable changes to characteristics that are otherwise unchangeable! Because last Peter checked, a spider bite may have changed his DNA, but he didn’t look any different! It was all internal! 

Peter shook his head in disbelief, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation he found himself in. It was like a twisted nightmare came to life, leaving him feeling disoriented and unsettled. As he stared at his distorted reflection, a surge of frustration and anger welled up inside him. How could this be happening? Where the hel was Strange? Was he the cause of this? Was he part of this? 

With renewed vigor to get to the library, find Strange, and then throttle him, Peter pushed away from the window. Except, he must’ve pushed a little too hard, because Peter’s hand went straight through. The sound of glass shattering abused his sensitive ears. 

Peter paused, only momentarily, before very quickly moving on. Thankfully, it appeared this place was just another abandoned building, but Peter didn’t stick around to find out. People gave him odd and warry looks but otherwise did nothing. He hoped it was abandoned. He’d feel bad if he just broke some poor person’s window. 

Speed walking away, Peter shoved his hands in the pockets of his stolen sweats. It was freezing, and it hadn’t helped that he was still kind of damp when he’d stepped out. Hopefully the cold wouldn’t trigger a premature hibernation. That could land Peter in some trouble.  Peter’s walk didn’t have any more disruptions, aside from a couple people trying to pickpocket him, but since Peter literally has nothing, all they got was a handful of empty pockets. 

Coming to a stop, Peter looked up at the library. He could see what the girl meant. It really was the least shitty looking building around. 

Looking down, Peter flushed slightly in embarrassment. He looked and smelt like death, had no shoes on, and was wearing bloodied clothes. Maybe the library would kick him out… 

Worth a shot. Worst-case scenario, Peter… entered in less than legal ways after hours. 

Walking up, Peter got the sense of deja vu looking at everything. The green haze was still present in the back of his mind, and everything looked so big and overwhelming. And he felt off. Really off. Probably because he was, like, seven inches shorter than normal, with changed characteristics, and was in a completely different city. 

awaresharpwatch

Pushing open the door, Peter appreciated the blast of warm air and the relative silence of this building. Hesitantly walking up to the abnormally tall front desk (not tall— Peter was now just short, he reminded himself) Peter hesitantly waved to get the red-haired lady’s attention. She set off his spidey-sense, but she was also the only person upfront, so he took his chances. 

“Um, hi, can— can you point me in the direction of the computers?” Peter mumbled, throat protesting, eyes darting around before looking back up at her. He swallowed a cough that made his eyes water. He did not want to choke up a green loogie on this poor civilian-librarian-lady. 

The librarian turned to Peter with a smile, but it faltered slightly as soon as she saw him. She stared in… disbelief? Shock? Anger? Resentment? The green was not at all helping Peter decipher facial expressions and emotions. Did news of Peter being Spider-man reach Jersey too? Was that why? But wasn’t Strange supposed to… 

Strange was supposed to… 

“Sorry about that! I’m Barabara, the Librarian. Please sign in here, and then the computers are free to use until we close. They’re over there,” Barbara points over to a comfy-looking corner, with a couple of college students typing away like their lives depended on it. Probably did, in this economy. “And can I… help you with anything else?” 

It felt like there was more behind her question, but Peter wasn’t sure. 

Peter cleared his throat. This green phlegm was gonna be the end of him. “Oh, no, um, thank you, Miss Barbara.” Peter ducked his head, offering a small smile that felt more like a grimace. 

She was, quite literally, the first nice person Peter had talked to. Which only accounted for like, maybe seven people, but still. Reaching for a pen to sign himself in with, Peter fumbled for a second, his hand and brain not cooperating. It took him a couple of tries to read the sign-in sheet, and even more to get his hand to cooperate on the writing department, but he (probably) got the gist of it. He thinks. (He signed his name on the phone number line with the legibility of a seven year old.) 

She sent him a kind smile as Peter walked away. Peter wrung his hands together anxiously, glancing at the clunky computer, then back to his sleek bracelets that housed Karen. 

Dear Thor and Loki, and any other gods or demi-gods listening that might hold a smidgen of favor for him, he hoped this worked. 

— 

Barbara was in shock. 

Actually, shock might have been an understatement. Disbelief? Utter disbelief might have been more accurate. Yeah, yeah that sounded accurate. 

She’d felt a stab of sympathy first. This poor kid— Peter, read the sign-in sheet, on the wrong line— looked like he’d been to hell and back. Thrice. He was small, in the malnourished sense. Cheeks caved in, thin wrists and arms, a sickly sort of sheen to him, as well. He was tan in a way that was foreign to Gotham’s consistant cloud covered skies. Dark hair, that was probably wavy, if how it dried was any pointers. Baggy clothes that clearly didn’t fit him, blood dried on them, as well as the various cuts that marred his arms, with a good chance of even more injuries hidden under his weather-innapropriate clothes. She hadn’t seen his face too clearly, Peter’s eyes practically glued to the ground, but she thought they were green. A boyish face with freckles— he fit a certain broody man’s adoption criteria. 

Most notably, though, was the shock of white hair at his widow’s peak. He vaguely resembled Jason when he was that age. What with the matching tufts of white hair, which was a problem if it was what she thought it was. 

Barbara pursed her lips, watching Peter fiddle with the computer. His eyes darted around the room, never staying in one place too long.

Skittish. Unsure. Scared.

It was a conclusion not many would have jumped to. “This skittish kid must have died!” But she was god-damn Oracle, okay? She’d honed her senses over many years—along with dealing with this batshit family. She’d been around the block.

She’d thought Bruce had taken care of all the Lazarus Pits in Gotham. And, hell, he could’ve! Maybe that white streak is natural, but the odds of that were as slim as Harley turning in her hyenas for a pair of poodles. No, there was something about Peter Parker that didn't add up, and she wasn’t one to ignore her instincts.

It was something in the kid's nose, his eye shape, his face—hell! Even the dimples Barbara had caught a glimpse of screamed familiar.

Barbara pulled out her phone, typing furiously before deleting her message.

If she texted Bruce, he’d rush down here from the very important JL meeting he was peer-pressured into going to, and definitely overwhelm the kid. He’d try to immediately interrogate Peter, find out where the Pits were, and figure out how to dispose of them.

It would absolutely demolish any chance of Peter trusting them. And from what Barbara spied, he was a runner if the record of one Peter Benjamin Parker proved correct.

Thankfully, Peter had looked around the library when he walked in, straight into a camera. Face ID brought him up as one of the many missing kids in Gotham.

No one she texted in the manor would keep silent from Bruce, either. The poor kid would be ratted out within twenty-four hours.

(Probably adopted. The man is a genuine addict, and the kid fit the bill to a tee. Black hair? Check. More-than-likely traumatic backstory? Barbara was near certain.)

So Barbara messaged someone who didn’t live in the manor—and, more importantly—wouldn’t immediately run to Bruce with this information. Was it born of stubbornness and a desire to be an ass? Absolutely.

Barbara took a quick photo of Peter sitting at the computer, deep in concentration. His shirt was a little bloody, with a suspiciously knife-shaped hole on the side and random cuts along his forearms.

Hoodlum   [1:12 PM]  

Babs: I need a favor. 

Jason: I’m not interested in doing your dirty work, Barbie. 

Babs: It's about the Lazarus Pits in Gotham. 

Jason: Didn’t B say he wiped those out? The hells happening?

Babs: [Image attached]

Babs: I’m not so sure about that anymore.[read 1:27 PM]

Jason: Is that a kid? The hell happened to him?

Babs: Yeah. I know. 

Jason: If this is some kind of joke, it ain’t funny. Babs, the kid looks like he’s been through hell.

Babs: Trust me, it’s no joke. He came into the library looking like that.

Jason: Shit… Has B see this yet?

Babs: No. And I’d like to keep it that way for now. He’s too skittish. If Bruce charges in, we’ll lose him before we get any answers. [read 1:34 PM]

Jason: Good. 

Jason: You think he’s been in a Lazarus Pit?

Babs: It's possible. Something about him doesn’t add up. I don’t want to risk scaring him off before we know more. 

Jason: I’ll keep an eye out for the kid. Try to see if I can dig anything up on my end. Keep me updated. 

Babs: Thanks, Jay. I appreciate it. (Read at 1:42 PM) 

Barbara sighed as she put her phone away. If anyone could handle this without Bruce finding out too soon, it was Jason. He might be rough around the edges, but he understood what it was like to be young, lost, and scared. More importantly, he knew how to approach someone like Peter without spooking him.

He liked to deny it, push it off on Dick, say he was the emotional one. But Jason is a liar.

Underneath the sarcasm and the tough exterior, Jason had a heart that bled for people like Peter—kids who’d been through the wringer, who wore their trauma like a second skin. Jason could relate to that in a way none of the others could. Maybe it was the Lazarus Pit’s influence, maybe it was just who he was at his core, but Jason had a softness that he kept buried deep under layers of anger and bravado.

He’d scoff at the idea, roll his eyes and crack a joke to deflect, but Barbara knew better. She’d seen the way he was with the strays—human or otherwise—that crossed his path. He wasn’t as callous as he liked to pretend. And when it came to a kid like Peter, someone who was clearly in over their head, Jason’s protective instincts would kick in whether he admitted it or not.

Barbara knew she could count on him. Jason had a way of making people feel like they weren’t alone in their pain, like they had someone who truly understood. And that was exactly what Peter needed right now—someone who could see through the cracks in his armor without trying to pry them open.

She glanced at Peter again, noticing the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he typed. The kid was barely holding it together, and any wrong move could send him spiraling. Barbara wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on her watch. 

Jason might act like he was all guns and gritted teeth, but he had the ability to reach out to the lost and the broken in a way that even Bruce couldn’t. And that, more than anything, was why Barbara trusted him with this. Peter needed someone who wouldn’t judge him, who wouldn’t push him too hard or too fast.

Jason could be that person, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Barbara just hoped it would be enough to keep Peter from slipping through their fingers before they could figure out what had really happened to him—and what it meant for Gotham.

Bruce would come down like a hammer eventually, but until then, she had to make sure Peter felt safe— at least as safe as anyone could feel in Gotham.

[wordsintimeandspace]

making it better

Next to kidnappings, rituals and avatars, Jon still has to deal with the more mundane horrors: his migraines. Thankfully, Martin is there to take care of him. Jon/Martin, 4.4k words, rated T. Read on AO3! I'm posting this for the prompt "First Kiss" for @jonmartinweek :)

Martin tries hard to keep the grin off his face as he bounces down the stairs towards the Archives. This kind of cheeriness feels utterly inappropriate - not just because it’s a Monday morning, but especially after all the revelations of the last few months. He really shouldn’t be happy to be here in his miserable workplace that he can’t quit. And yet, he can’t help the excitement coursing through his veins.

He barges from the corridor into the office space. “Good morning,” he announces, his voice a pitch higher than usual. Basira looks up from the papers scattered across her desk, giving him an irritated look. Martin pays her no mind. Instead he quickly crosses the space towards Jon’s office and-

Abruptly, Martin comes to a stop. Jon’s office door has a little window set into it. Behind it, the room is dark. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, not after the last few months, but today of all days it was supposed to be different.

“Um. W-where’s Jon?” he asks, his voice faint.

“Not here,” Basira says. When Martin turns to her, she hasn’t even looked up from the papers. A burst of irritation rises in Martin’s throat, but he quickly swallows it down.

“Did- did he call, or…?”

At that, Basira finally looks up. “You know that he hasn’t been here in weeks.”

“Yeah, but-” Martin cuts himself off with a wince. Somehow, saying “but he said ‘see you on Monday’ in that soft voice of his when we last spoke on the phone two days ago” feels too much like baring his soul. He quickly shakes his head. “You know what, forget it.”

With that, he flees to the break room. He switches on the kettle, trying and failing not to fidget. With a grimace, he pulls out his phone and checks the screen. No calls, no messages. Not unusual for him, really, right until he and Jon started talking daily on the phone while Jon was in America. The only break in that pattern happened because Jon had been kidnapped, again.

Before Martin knows what he’s doing, he’s calling Jon’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. Martin’s heart sinks. With shaking hands he looks up Jon’s flight information. Maybe the flight was delayed. Or had to do an emergency stop in… well, Martin isn’t sure where a plane would do an emergency stop while crossing the Atlantic. Iceland, maybe?

But there it is, in small mocking letters on his screen: Jon’s plane landed right on time in Heathrow yesterday evening.

Just like that, Martin’s head swims with panic. He barely registers the roar of the boiling kettle in the background. Without any more hesitation, he rushes out of the breakroom and back towards the stairs.

Basira still doesn’t look at him.

~

Ten minutes later Martin is on the tube, panting for air. His ribs are still stinging after he ran all the way to the station, but it barely matters as long as he’s speeding towards Jon’s flat.

He’s only been there once, not too long ago, to help Jon home after he came back from the Circus. He’d been so scared, back then. Martin’s breath catches in his throat at the thought that the same thing might have happened again. Tears well in his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away.

The twenty minute trip to Jon’s place feels like an eternity. But finally Martin is there, standing in front of a wooden door in a nice but unassuming block of flats. With his heart in his throat, Martin knocks.

Nothing happens. There's only silence on the other side of the door. He knocks again, but gets the same response. And then he’s pounding on the door, shouting Jon’s name in his growing desperation.

Finally, the door swings open.

Jon glares at him. Or he tries to, at any rate. The effect is lost in the grimace of pain that is contorting his features.

Jon looks terrible. His face is ashen, the bags beneath his eyes even more pronounced than usual. His hair is a mess sticking up in all directions.

He’s still the most beautiful thing Martin has ever seen.

“Oh,” Martin breathes out. The wave of relief that Jon is here and not kidnapped by some kind of monster once again nearly knocks him off his feet.

Jon squints at him, and finally his face softens a little. “Martin?” he asks quietly, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Hi, Jon.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I- I came into work this morning and you weren’t there and I just- I panicked, a little.” Martin winces, suddenly feeling very foolish. “Sorry. Are you alright?”

Jon groans, rubbing the space between his eyes with his thumb. “Migraine,” he hisses through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway must be awful for the pain, Martin realises with a pang of guilt.

“God, I’m so sorry Jon. I woke you up, didn’t I? I just- I couldn’t reach your phone and I thought something had happened but I just- I’ll leave and let you get some rest.”

Jon quickly looks up at that. He darts forward, catching Martin’s hand in his. “No, it’s… it’s alright.” His voice softens to barely a whisper. “It’s very good to see you, Martin.”

Martin’s throat suddenly feels tight with emotion. He still isn’t used to Jon sounding so utterly affectionate. He never knows what to do with it. “It’s good to see you too,” he whispers, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. “I missed you.”

Jon’s lips curl into a smile, despite the pain still shining in his eyes. He gently tugs Martin closer.

Martin could never resist his pull. He steps close, reaching out to cup Jon’s face. Gently, he brushes a thumb over his cheek. Jon leans into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, and Martin thinks that maybe this is it. This is the moment they have been orbiting for weeks now, the one where their feelings will finally be spelled out and-

All of a sudden, Jon wrenches his eyes open. The last bit of colour drains from his face. Before Martin can say anything Jon turns on his heels and darts toward the bathroom. He slams the door behind him, but Martin can still hear the unmistakable sound of retching a few moments later.

Martin winces, and silently curses himself for being so utterly foolish. As if this is the right time for his stupid emotions.

For just a moment he hesitates, and then he enters Jon’s flat and closes the door behind him. There’s only silence coming from the other side of the bathroom door now. Gently, Martin knocks on the wood. “Is everything okay?”

“Give me a moment,” Jon calls out, his voice hoarse. Martin lets out a long breath and moves toward the living room to wait.

Five minutes later Jon emerges, looking utterly miserable. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, hovering in the doorway. He sways on his feet.

Martin jumps up from the sofa and rushes to his side. “Don’t apologise. I’m sorry.” He hesitates for just a second, unsure if his touch would be welcome, but Jon looks like he’s two seconds from keeling over. Martin wraps an arm around his waist to steady him, relieved when Jon immediately burrows closer into his side, and gently steers him to where he suspects the bedroom to be. “Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”

Jon nods quietly, and lets Martin steer him down the hallway without any resistance.

In the bedroom heavy curtains are drawn across the windows, letting just a slither of light into the room. It’s enough for Martin to make out the unmade bed, numerous bookshelves, and the bucket conveniently placed next to the bedside table. Martin winces in sympathy.

Jon groans as he collapses back onto the bed. He immediately buries his face in the pillow. Martin hesitates for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. “D-do you need anything?”

Jon shakes his head. “Just sleep,” he mumbles.

“Are you sure? Do you need more medicine or anything?”

“I-I haven’t taken any.”

“Jon.”

Jon opens one eye in an attempt to glare at him. “I ran out a while ago, and with everything going on getting a renewal for my prescription wasn’t high on my priority list,” he snipes. “I got it renewed earlier this month, I just haven’t had time to pick it up at the pharmacy before leaving for America.”

“Oh. I- I’m sorry Jon.” Martin lets out a long breath. Of course Jon wouldn’t go to the doctor while he’s on the run from the police, or chased by other monsters. “It’s awful that you have to deal with all this on top of everything else.”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon says, in a voice that sounds very much not fine. “I really just need to sleep. It usually helps settle my stomach, at the very least. Enough to get some ibuprofen down.”

“Okay. You do that, then.”

Jon nods and closes his eyes, burrowing deeper under the blanket. Before Martin can get up and leave, he opens one eye again. “Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks, soft and quiet and hopeful, and Martin’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest, overflowing with affection.

“D-do you want me to?” he asks, equally quietly, as if a raised voice might burst the bubble around them.

“Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Okay,” Martin says, but he isn’t sure if Jon is still registering his answer. His eyes slip closed, his breathing growing slow and steady. The cease of pain between his brows smoothens, just a little. Martin watches him for a long moment, entranced by how soft Jon looks in sleep, despite the bags beneath his eyes and the scars littering his skin.

He finally pulls himself away and tiptoes out of Jon’s room. He leaves the door ajar and makes his way to the kitchen, suddenly restless. There’s got to be more he can do to help than just making sure he’s there when Jon wakes up.

First he finds Jon’s phone, the battery long dead, and plugs it in to charge. Next he finds Jon’s still unpacked suitcase, and starts a load of laundry. Then he checks the fridge and cupboards for something Jon could eat when he feels better, and quickly comes to the conclusion that Jon apparently also didn’t have time to pick up groceries before his flight.

Martin hesitates, biting his lip, but finally grabs Jon’s keys from the bowl in the hallway and quietly slips out of the flat. He’ll just have to be quick.

~

When Martin makes it back to Jon’s flat, he’s greeted by nothing but silence. He drops his grocery bags on the kitchen table, and sneaks towards Jon’s bedroom.

It doesn’t look like Jon has moved at all in the forty minutes or so it took Martin to scour the shops. Martin can’t help but let out a breath of relief. Jon needs all the rest he can get, and after he’d asked him to be there later, Martin really didn’t want him to wake up to an empty flat.

Satisfied with that, he goes to put away the groceries, takes a long time to poke through Jon’s bookshelves in the living room, and finally settles on the couch with a copy of Emma that looks barely read. He passes about an hour like this until Jon’s thin voice is coming from the bedroom.

“Martin?” he asks, sounding confused and disoriented, and Martin jumps up so quickly he nearly gets dizzy.

“Yeah. I’m here,” he says breathlessly as he barges into the bedroom.

Jon is sitting up in bed, his hair an even worse mess than before. There’s a little bit more colour in his cheeks, at the very least. He visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping in relief, when he spots Martin in the doorway.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I- for a moment I thought I dreamed that you were here.”

“Nope,” Martin says, his throat tight at how vulnerable Jon sounds. “I’m here.” He quickly crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Jon rubs his eyes, considering for a while. “Better,” he finally says, albeit with a grimace. “Except for the pain. I’m not as nauseous, at least.”

“Okay. That’s good. Do you want to try some food?”

“I- I’m afraid I don’t have anything in.”

“I just went shopping.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And picked up your prescription, if you want to take it now. Although the package says it might be hard on the stomach, so I really think you should try to eat something first.”

“How- how did you even…” Jon trails off, gobsmacked. Martin flushes, heat rising in his cheeks.

“I- um, I found the paper slip from your doctor in the kitchen and took it to the pharmacy. Told them a lie that you’re my boyfriend and just forgot to call ahead that I would pick it up. Sorry. I don’t- maybe I should have asked first-”

Jon huffs out a laugh, interrupting Martin’s stream of apologies. He slumps forward, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. “You’re a saint. I’ll take some in a moment, but I’m afraid you’re right about the food first.”

“O-okay,” Martin manages to stammer, dizzy with the sudden closeness. He just barely resists the urge to press a kiss into Jon’s unruly hair. “What would you like? I’ve got some saltines. Or oatmeal. Or toast, maybe?”

Jon hums, considering. “Toast sounds good. With a bit of butter.”

“Sure. Be right back.” Martin carefully extricates himself. Jon blinks his eyes open at the sudden movement, looking thoroughly affronted at being jostled for just a second before he slumps back into the pillows with a pitiful groan.

In the kitchen, Martin quickly prepares tea and toast for both of them before carefully carrying it all back into the bedroom.

Jon’s eyes are closed as he enters, but he rouses again when Martin sets the tray on the nightstand and, in a moment of unprecedented boldness, climbs into bed with Jon. He sits with his back against the headboard, heart pounding. But once again, Jon doesn't seem to mind the closeness. He sits up as well, so close that their shoulders are touching. He rubs his eyes and lets out a huff.

“I'm- not entirely sure if I can keep anything down,” he admits, voice faint.

“That’s okay. Do you still want to try?”

Jon grimaces. “I probably should.”

“Just go slow. And I made ginger tea that hopefully helps a little.”

Jon nods as he takes the steaming mug from Martin. He brings it to his lips and takes a careful sip. For a moment he hesitates, wrinkling his nose, before his features smooth out and he takes a larger gulp.

“Good?”

“I’m not very partial to the taste,” Jon admits, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But otherwise it’s fine.”

“Well, it’s supposed to make you feel better. Doesn’t all medicine taste bad?”

“Probably.” Jon takes another sip and rests the mug on the nightstand. Martin hands him a plate of buttered toast, already cut into small pieces. Although he takes it without protest Jon hesitates, staring down at it for so long that Martin begins to fidget and quickly checks that the bucket is still placed next to the bed, just in case.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t feel like it,” he rushes to say.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s- it’s not that,” he admits quietly. “I just… I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice sounds so small, so fragile. For a moment Martin feels like he can’t breathe, like the swell of emotion rising in his chest doesn’t leave enough space for the air in his lungs. “I- I’m sorry, Jon,” he finally says, a waver in his voice.

Jon lets out a shuddering breath, leaning closer into Martin’s side. “It’s just… well. Growing up my grandmother’s bedside manner left much to be desired, and it’s- it’s been so long since I had someone like Georgie.”

Martin wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulders, holding him close. He finally gives in to the temptation and drops a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m glad I can do this for you now. You deserve this.”

“Thank you, Martin.”

“Of course. Now, you should really try to eat some of it.”

Jon lets out a hoarse laugh. “Yes, yes. I will.” He sits up a little, but doesn’t move out of Martin’s embrace. Martin gulps, and leaves his arm right where it is draped across Jon’s shoulders. Gingerly, Jon picks up a piece of toast and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, and to Martin’s immense relief he immediately reaches for the next one after swallowing.

They eat in comfortable silence for a moment. Jon makes it through half the mug of tea and an entire slice of toast before he starts flagging. When Martin offers him more toast, he quickly shakes his head. “No. I- I think that’s enough for now,” he says with a grimace.

“Okay.” Martin takes the plate from him, and watches with growing concern how Jon sinks back into the pillows, looking exhausted. “Do you want to take some of your medicine now?”

Jon just nods, and Martin quickly fetches him a glass of water and the bottle of pills from the kitchen. Jon immediately pops two pills into his mouth and flushes them down with a gulp of water.

“These usually take me out for a couple more hours,” he mumbles as he lies back down. His face is once again a grimace of pain, and Martin’s heart squeezes in his chest.

“Okay. Just get some rest, Jon.”

Martin starts to stand, but with surprising dexterity Jon reaches out and catches his wrist. He looks up at Martin, eyes wide and pleading. “Will you stay?”

“Of course. I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“No, I mean- will you stay? Here?” Jon tugs at his wrist, making his meaning clear even though every coherent thought scatters from Martin’s brain. He feels breathless, all of a sudden.

“Y-yeah,” he finally manages to get out. “If- if you want me to.”

When Jon tugs at his hand one more time, Martin immediately yields. As if he could ever resist when Jon is looking at him like that. He climbs into bed with him, lying down before taking Jon into his arms. Jon lets out a content sigh and burrows closer, until they’re pressed close from head to toe. He tucks his head beneath Martin’s chin, and after a little more wriggling to get comfortable, goes utterly still.

While Jon is out like a light, it takes Martin a long moment to calm his racing heart. This is all he had wanted for such a long time, and yet he can’t bring himself to fully enjoy it. He shouldn’t enjoy this; not when Jon is doing this just because he’s sick and needs some comfort.

Martin lets out a long sigh. Despite the guilt churning in his stomach, this is simply nice. It’s nice to hold Jon while he sleeps, to feel his warmth in his arms and the tickle of his breath against his neck. To offer that comfort he seeks.

At last, Martin closes his eyes and slowly relaxes. He might as well enjoy this while it lasts.

~

Martin isn’t sure what wakes him. A noise maybe, a movement, or the sudden lack of a warm body in his arms. He only knows that he wakes to an empty bed, confused and disoriented. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and when he does, the spike of concern he feels over Jon’s sudden absence immediately dissipates his remaining grogginess. He sits up with a gasp, reaching out to the space next to him where Jon ought to be.

The sheets are still warm, so at the very least Jon can’t have been gone for long. Martin fumbles for his phone on the nightstand to check the time, but before he can get it into his hands the door clicks open and Jon quietly slips back into the room. He stills when he sees Martin awake, hovering in the doorway, and Martin freezes in return.

He can’t help but stare, taking in every little detail. Jon still looks exhausted, but otherwise much better. There’s some colour in his cheeks. His eyes are soft, without any trace of the previous pain and tension. He even tamed his unruly hair into a messy bun. Martin’s only concern is that Jon looks terribly unsure for a long moment, but even that dissipates as Jon’s lips split into a gentle smile. Whatever it is that he sees on Martin’s face, it spurs him back into motion, and moments later Jon climbs back into bed with him.

“Is- is this okay?” Jon asks, quiet and hopeful and-

Oh.

Maybe all of this wasn’t just because Jon was sick.

“Y-yeah,” Martin chokes, heart dancing in his chest as Jon once again curls close to him. He pulls him back into his arms, delighting at the content sound Jon makes. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Jon murmurs. “Thanks to you.”

“Oh. I’m- I’m really glad, Jon.” Martin lets out a breath of relief, and boldly strokes a hand up and down Jon’s back. “How long were we asleep?”

“A couple of hours, I think? I’m not entirely sure when we fell asleep. I was pretty out of it.”

“Right.” Martin stills for a second, uncertainty creeping back into his thoughts. “You- you’re not still…?”

Jon pulls back a little, frowning at Martin. “What are you- oh.” His expression softens, and he lets out something between a huff and a laugh. “No, Martin. I’m perfectly lucid this time. I- I want this, I promise.”

“Oh.” Martin’s breath catches in his throat. “Okay.”

Jon smiles, and looks at him with such a fondness that Martin isn’t sure if his poor heart can take it. With bated breath he watches as Jon reaches out to cup his cheek and runs his thumb across his cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks softly.

Martin doesn’t have the breath for a reply, or words for how much he wants this. He simply nods, hoping that Jon understands his dumbfounded silence as the enthusiastic consent that it is. If Jon’s grin is anything to go by, he knows exactly how thoroughly he just short-circuited Martin’s brain.

“Breathe, Martin” Jon whispers, voice dancing in amusement, and then his lips are on Martin’s and there’s simply no room for the nervous energy in his chest.

There’s only Jon, the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his touch, and the bright euphoria of being thoroughly kissed.

When Jon pulls away, Martin notices something else in the sweetness of that kiss. Something that tastes a lot like peppermint. He narrows his eyes at Jon, suddenly painfully aware that his mouth tastes terrible after the prolonged nap. “Did you brush your teeth?” Martin blurts out before he can think better of it.

Jon laughs. “I did throw up earlier.”

“Oh, you planned this, then?”

Jon grins, his thumb once again caressing Martin’s cheek. “I had an inkling that you might be amenable if I asked.”

“I am,” Martin bursts out. “Very, very amenable. Sorry that was- that was rude of me, wasn’t it? I should have led with that. It was very nice kissing you, Jon.”

“Good.” Jon’s face softens. “I was hoping you might want to do it again.”

“Y-yeah. Of course.” Martin smiles, unable to keep the sheer joy coursing through him off his face, and leans closer one more time.

Jon’s lips meet him in the middle, and just like that they’re kissing again. Jon lets out a breathy noise of pleasure against Martin’s lips that makes his heart race, and Martin pulls him closer, suddenly unable to stand the remaining distance between them.

By the time they break apart they’re both breathless, but still reluctant to let each other go. Jon stays close, arms wrapped around Martin’s neck while Martin’s hands rest on his waist, and rests his forehead against Martin’s. For a long moment they simply relish the closeness, but finally Jon pipes up again.

“I- I didn’t plan to do this,” he admits quietly, with a hint of a waver in his voice. “Not with the Unknowing coming up soon. But then you were here today and you made it so much better and I just-” He lets out a shuddering breath, eyes firmly pressed close. “I just want to be selfish, I suppose. I want you to make everything else better as well.”

Martin gulps hard, tightening his grip on Jon. “There’s nothing selfish about wanting some comfort,” he says.

“It’s- it’s more than that though, Martin.” Reluctantly Jon pulls away, enough to see Martin’s face. “I need you to know that. If- if all this would suddenly disappear tomorrow, I would still want this. I would still want you.”

“I know,” Martin says quietly, and somehow, despite his earlier insecurity, he does. Jon used to be so reversed, keeping his emotions close to his chest, but by now he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. There’s no mistaking the affection shining bright in his eyes. “I feel the same.”

Jon lets out a long breath. “So what… um, w-what do we do now?” he asks, suddenly unsure.

Martin gulps, his throat tight. There’s a crease of concern between Jon’s brows, and Martin cannot stand it. He leans down one more time, kissing Jon slowly and thoroughly until he goes lax against him. “We do what we have to do,” Martin says quietly when they pull apart. Jon blinks up at him, looking a little dazed. “We deal with the Unknowing and Elias and- and whatever comes next. Together.”

Jon hesitates for a long moment, but finally he nods. “Y-yes,” he manages to get out, smiling a little. I- I’d like that.”

He curls back into Martin’s embrace, tucking his head beneath Martin’s chin, and Martin gladly holds him close.

And he hopes, desperately, that facing it all together will be enough.

[carryoncastiel]

Beautiful Things

Word Count: 3,000

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Gale/Wyll

Tags: POV Wyll, Married Couple, PWP, Fluff and Smut, (check AO3 for full tag list)

Summary:

"So,” Wyll starts as he looks back at Gale again, “how does it feel to be Gale Dekarios-Ravengard?" "Exhausting for one," Gale says, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small grin. "Oh?" Wyll snorts and gives the other man a curious look. "I'm going to feel my legs for days." ~~~

After their grand wedding Wyll and Gale enjoy their first day as newlyweds - by not leaving the bedroom all that much.

So, this fic actually takes place right after the big Dekarios-Ravengard wedding. However, since I still have to finish writing that one (it's already quite a bit longer than this fic) and I can't force my brain to do what I want, you're getting the smut first.

You're welcome.

[truestfeeiing]

chapter 3: the Devil

Chapter 3 of ikiryo for the day 4 prompt, temperance, event at @nearsbday!!!

Upright: Balance, peace, patience, moderation, calm, tranquillity, harmony, serenity

Reversed: Imbalance, excess, extremes, discord, recklessness, hastiness

my first birthday entry for the darling near, my beloved lamb.

[fandom-skellyweirdo-jumper]

Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: Trolls (Movies 2016 2020) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Branch & Poppy (Trolls), Branch & Creek (Trolls), Branch & King Peppy (Trolls), Branch/Poppy (Trolls), But not romantic right now, But the both do care about eachother Characters: Branch (Trolls), Poppy (Trolls), King Peppy (Trolls), Creek (Trolls), The Snack Pack (Trolls), Cooper (Trolls), Satin (Trolls), Chenille (Trolls), Biggie (Trolls), Smidge (Trolls), Guy Diamond, DJ Suki (Trolls) Additional Tags: Oblivious Poppy (Trolls), Creek Being an Asshole (Trolls), The Snack Pack Being Insensitive (Trolls), Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Harm, Description but not detailed Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Depression, Branch has Undiagnosed Mental Illnesses, Coming of Age, Mental Breakdown, Grey Branch (Trolls), no beta we die like Grandma Rosiepuff, Precious Boi Cooper (Trolls), Lack of Communication, Communication difficult because of mental illnesses and outside factors, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal Ideation, Trolls Have Tails (Trolls DreamWorks Movies) Series: Part 1 of Mercenary Branch AU aka Grey Branch Found Family Amongst Genres Summary:

What allowed Branch to leave Pop Village and Troll Forest? What string was cut to cause Branch to leave the only place he had ever known?

So you know the saying, "You'd look better if you'd smile."

Well...Poppy obliviously does something along those lines and not really knowing how much weight her words haves causes a few things to go down hill... and by a few I mean... a few major incidents... that Branch doesn't tell anyone... at least King Peppy never asks any questions. ______

Summary Edit: 5 September 2023

Part 1 of Mercenary Branch AU

Chap 1: Safe Chap 2: Angst Chap 3 & 4: Warnings Chap 5: Angst

[g1rlr0b1n]

Honestly, ever since I read "Best Friends, Strings Attached" by SuperSonsShipper, it's been a secret dream of mine that someone would be so upset by one of my cliffhanger endings that they would write their own part 2

[hopelesshawks]

Nothing like reading a fic on ao3 and suddenly getting heavy sadomasochist and impact play in almost all of the smut scenes even though the smut tags were only “dom/sub”, “soft dom [insert character]”, and “sub [insert character]” to make me appreciate how well tagged/warned shit on tumblr is

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

The Broken Window - Chapter 1 - Dabi x Reader (Explicit)

***

You didn't really think you could outrun a deal with the Devil, did you?

***

You were running.

You were running, and running, and running, but it didn't matter. They were right behind you like hunting dogs after their prey, their hands clawing at your ankles. Were you in the city or the wild? The pure darkness that surrounded you didn't answer. You knew soon, there would be nowhere left to run to. 

A hand grabbed you by the foot, and you fell face-first into the nothingness. They were all over your body now, suffocating you, burying you deeper into the void, the sound of your own heart maddening inside your head. You tried to breathe, but you couldn't, you couldn't, and a hand wormed its way inside your chest as it tore through your muscles and bones to toy with your insides. You could feel it, deep inside you, ready to grab onto your lungs and squeeze every inch of air out of them like they promised you they would, and then-

And then, you woke up.

It took you a few seconds to realize you were in your room, safe, whole. You felt your arm shake as you put your hand against your chest, feeling the smooth skin and the presence of the trashing heart under it. It was still there.

You absentmindedly wiped your eyes, unshed tears and overwhelming fatigue making your sight blurry. The bed creaked as you got up, the cold tiles on the floor grounding as you made your way to the bathroom. Were you ever going to sleep peacefully again?

The old faucet hesitated before spewing out some freezing water, and you promptly splashed it over your face, hoping to no avail it would make you feel alive again. You glanced in the mirror, and like every day since you'd started living here, you wondered who the person looking back could be.

She looked nothing like you. Her hair was dyed and cut, her clothes baggy to keep her frame hidden, the eyes you used to carefully apply makeup to every morning dark and reddened by the contacts you even wore in bed out of fear. Where you had been joyful and witty, she was nothing more than a shadow people would pass by without noticing. And that's what you needed her to be.

The men after you were much more than the tormentors in your dreams. Even a child could tell you the yakuza was not to be trifled with, that all those who betrayed them would be found floating in the river with weights attached to their limbs, if they had any limbs left at all. But what most people didn't understand was that, sometimes, there was no one else to turn to than the Devil himself. You needed money, desperately, and they had provided what the state had refused to.

You poured some cereal into a bowl, counting the individual flakes as they fell from the box. They were a luxury you couldn't afford to overuse. There was no milk to let them soften in, and so you ate them dry, the texture impossibly tough against your teeth. You hadn't brought your phone or your computer when you ran; you weren't stupid enough to believe they wouldn't use them to track you down in seconds. Yet, as you stared at the wall facing you, the old flowery wallpaper ripped in a few corners, you wondered if your friends had sent you any messages this morning, like they used to do every day. Maybe, after four months of disappearance, they had given up on you.

Work took up most of your day. To the other tenants of the apartment building, you were the faceless caretaker who cleaned the floors and did the laundry, a young girl who had fallen on her luck and for whom the owner had kindly lent the unfinished flat on the fifth floor. You didn't mind cleaning; it kept your mind occupied, a roof over your head, and a disposable face mask over any of your recognizable features.

Sometimes, an older woman on the third floor would leave a pastry or two for you on her kitchen counter, as if you were a stray cat she was trying to domesticate. She had kind eyes, those who, once upon a time, you would have seen yourself trust with all your secret during an afternoon tea in her macrame-covered living room. But, for your sake and hers, you couldn't afford to get any closer to her. If, somehow, they connected her to you, you would both go through a living hell for a crime she had nothing to do with.

When you came back to your apartment, midnight on the dot, there was always a light wind going through the rooms, consequence of a broken window you were too scared to ask the owner to fix. You'd drink some water, eat if you could, brush your teeth, and find refuge from the cold under the thin blanket of your bed, hoping you might finally rest without being chased by invisible shadows. Yet every night was the same, the ghosts of men sent by the League to get you always running through your mind. It was an uncomfortable, but manageable routine, where every part of every day was identical to what it had been the day before.

Which was why when you stepped in tonight, at the same time, in the same way you had done for the last four months, you immediately knew something was wrong.

You took a hesitant step forward, feeling the lack of the familiar frigid draft against your skin. The room had never been so pleasantly mild and toasty, yet to you, it felt as though it clung onto your skin like fire to cloth. 

From the looks of it, the intruder hadn't turned any lights on, or moved anything in the main living area. You listened to it, trying to hear any abnormal sounds from the rest of your home, but you were met with nothing but silence. Were they already gone?

Swallowing thickly, you tiptoed your way to the kitchen, grabbing the largest knife you could get to without opening the old wooden drawers. It wasn't much to look at, barely bigger than the palm of your hand, but maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to deter them from lunging at you first.

That left the bathroom and your bedroom. Weapon in hand, you made your way to the first, breath shakily coming out in reassurance when you found no one behind the ajar door. You made your way to the last room with a beating heart, mind playing a thousand scenarios in less than a second as you grabbed the handle with a sweaty palm. But inside, there was no one.

You let out a sigh of pure relief, feeling the tension in your body ease at the sight. The sweat had made your clothes cling to your damp skin, and you let your grip loosen on the knife, wiping your clammy hands against the fabric. Perhaps the owner had wanted to surprise you and repaired the window himself? You couldn't help but laugh out loud at how paranoid you had become, letting something as small as the wind put you into a frenzy.

"What's so funny?"

You turned around so fast the knife almost slipped out of your hands, and you almost fell as you fumbled to get it back.

Where there had been no one sat a man, legs crossed and resting comfortably on your makeshift sofa. Even sitting down, you could tell he was tall, much taller than you, a muscular chest visible under his dirtied white shirt.

"I don't know what you think you're doing here," you started, much less intimidating than you would have liked, "but you need to get out."

The man took a puff out of the cigarette in his free hand, eyes crinkled in amusement. His irises were blue, an unnatural, glowing azure that seemed to shine in the dark. It felt as though they looked right through you, into you, cutting open your flesh with their fiery stare like in the worst of your nightmares.

"Actually, I think you know exactly why I'm here, Mari Honda. Oh wait, that was your last one, wasn't it? It's Haruka Inugawa now. Or is it Betty Kaito? You'll have to forgive me, I got kind of lost in your list of fake names."

You swallowed with difficulty, the taste of bile coming up your throat. 

"I don't know any of these people. Get out of here."

He took another puff of his cigarette, his unnaturally large smile never fading from his lips.

"C'mon, you really wanna play hard to get? What are you gonna do ?" he asked, amusedly throwing a look at the knife trembling in your hands, "Stab me ?"

"I will," you replied firmly, joining your second hand to hold the knife in an attempt to straighten it, "so don't get closer to me."

He hummed, licking his bottom lip. "You know, I really love doing exactly the opposite of what people tell me to do."

Slowly, casually, he raised himself up from the couch, stretching his limbs in mock boredom.

"Stay back !" you screamed.

"Not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you?" he mused, taking a step towards you. He was close enough for you to see his face now, although you wish you hadn't. What you had first thought to be shadows playing tricks on your eyes were scars, enormous, dark scars, wrapping themselves all around his skin like he had been burnt alive and brought back. Silver piercings covered the only parts of his body with clear skin, making him look like a makeshift, assembled doll of a man from a Frankenstein tale. "I told ya, I like doing what people tell me not to do."

He took another step forward, and you could smell the nicotine coming off his clothes, the odor nauseatingly filling your nostrils.

"Please," you begged, "I swear, I only left to get you guys the money, I really did, I have a couple thousand in the bedroom and I can get your more by the end of the week-!"

"Not good enough," he replied drily, dropping his cigarette to the floor and crushing it against the heels of his sole, the sound sickening. "I'm coming back with your entire debt paid, or with your body in my trunk. Your choice, princess."

Another foot forward, and he was within reaching distance of your knife, his patchwork chest of dark tattoos and scars barely a few inches away. The look he gave you was challenging, daring you to try and stab him, and knowing perfectly well you wouldn't. He was toying with you the same way a cat would play with the trembling body of a mouse, letting it believe it had a chance at escaping before ripping it to shreds.

Your grip on the knife was rock hard, your nails digging painfully into your palms in a desperate attempt to keep it steady in front of the intruder. He reached his hand up, so close to you you forgot how to breathe, and grabbed the blade of the knife with a sick smile. He tugged, once, with such strength you instinctively let go, yelping as you fell ass first onto to cold hardwood floor.

"Little girls shouldn't be playing with sharp objects," he touted reprehensively, observing the small knife, your last and only line of defense, now in his possession. "Aren't you already in enough trouble ?"

He seemed so much taller now, a gigantic dark mass looming over your huddled frame, two blue orbs in its center watching you squirm away until your back hit a wall.

"Give me a month, I beg you," you cried miserably, trying to appeal to the man's sense of pity. "I know I can get half of it by next month. I'm not- I won't run away this time, I promise, just a month !"

"And what's the word of a liar worth to me?" he replied, raising his foot to the height of your face. You shut your eyes close, feeling tears of fear desperately escape them as you braced for the pain of his boot crushing the side of your head.

It never came.

You hesitantly opened them back up, and he laughed, honest to God laughed, a twisted, raspy sound from the depths of his throat.

"Hey now, what kind of guy do you think I am ?" he snickered, visibly amused by your tear-strained face. He brought his hand to your cheek and you recoiled in panic, but he simply wiped a few droplets with his finger in faux tenderness, the grin of enjoyment never leaving his face. "I don't go around hitting beautiful women. Unless they ask me to."

He bent down to be at your level, his breath impossibly warm against yours: "And you're pretty beautiful, aren't you?"

His fingers kept trailing the beads of water on your cheeks, petting you like one would a frightened animal, as no sound dared to come out of your mouth.

"Hey, I have an idea," he whispered like he was about to tell you a secret. "Why don't we make a deal, you and me ?"

Part of you knew that he was most likely playing with your emotions, trying to get one last rise out of you before he broke you for good. But you couldn't help the hope in your voice when you asked him: "A deal ?"

"A deal," he repeated, the abused skin around his mouth awkwardly distorted by his smile. "See, the big boss isn't gonna be too happy if I come back and I tell him I just offered you an extra month for nothin'. And then it's my ass on the line. We wouldn't want that, would we ?"

You hesitantly shook your head negatively, hoping it was what he wanted out of you.

"Right," he hummed, pleased. "But if I come back and I tell him you already moved somewhere else before I got to pick you up, then neither of us is gonna be in trouble. And then, all you gotta do is get the money together before I pay you another visit in a month. How does that sound?"

Too good to be true. There was no compassion, no empathy in those eyes of his. There had to be a catch.

"What do I have to do ?" you finally asked, trying to look into his piercing stare without flinching.

"You don't have to do anything, baby. It's a deal, remember? You're free to choose what you want," he smirked.

But the reality was clear to both of you: between only dealing with him, and dealing with the entirety of the fearsome League, who had built their reputation leaving no opponent or traitor alive, there wasn't much of a choice to be made.

"I'll do it. I'll make a deal with you."

He didn't reply immediately; he didn't need to. The look on his face was one of pure delight, his eyes crinkled smugly. For the first time, you took a moment to observe him closer, noticing the faded trace of badly placed stitches that had never healed quite right along his jaw. He had to have been very handsome, once upon a time, his chiseled features still visible through the scar tissue. Had the League done this to him?

"Good girl. Smarter than you look, huh?" 

In other circumstances, you would have frowned before promptly telling him to go fuck himself. But you had a feeling it wouldn't go over so well now, and that he likely had little interest in hearing about your degree.

"C'mon now," he smirked, tossing the knife he still held further away in the kitchen, the blade disappearing into the shadows. A weight you had almost forgotten fell off your shoulders, the knowledge that he didn't intend on using it instantly making you relax. "Gimme a show."

That caught you by surprise, and you looked at him hesitantly, unsure of what he wanted you to do.

"God, do I have to spit out everything for you?" he mumbled, a trace of genuine annoyance on his features. This wasn't good. You couldn't afford to get on the bad side of your only lifeline, but what could he mean by-

Oh.

You felt your cheeks redden, and his smile came back, pearly white teeth shining in the dark. You nervously tugged at the edge of the oversized sweater, the cheap fabric catching in your nails. If you were wrong about this, you'd humiliate yourself in your last moments alive on Earth. But if you were right...

As if you were ripping off a bandaid, you tugged off your top in one rigid swoop, bundling the fabric in your lap and looking away in a last-ditch attempt to preserve your modesty.

"There we go," he whistled appreciably, his eyes so carnivorously going up and down your chest, you could feel their heat through your skin. "The pictures on your file didn't do you justice."

Pictures? you thought worriedly. What kind of pictures? How much information did they have on you?

His fingers ghosted over the delicate skin, tracing but not quite touching, and he looked at you expectantly.

"Y-you can touch..." you mumbled under your breath.

"See? You're getting it now," he smirked.

You didn't expect the intense warmth of his hands, the skin there untouched by the havoc that had been wrecked on the rest of his body. The way he kneaded your breasts like dough was impossibly pleasant, the first human contact you had had in months, and if you leaned into his touch, well, you'd just ignore it. The man, however, was not so kind as to do the same, a shit-eating grin dancing on his lips as he kept toying with your chest.

"Must have felt alone for a while, right sweetheart? It's practically criminal to have tits like yours and keep them hidden away like that."

He punctuated the last sentence with a rough tug on one of your nipples, and you covered your mouth in surprise when a small moan escaped your lips.

"Fuck, yeah..." the man said under his breath, his eyes never leaving the way your breasts bounced gently against his hands. "You're lucky the big boss didn't decide to pick you up himself."

"Why?" you managed to mumble, biting your lip to prevent any more embarrassing sounds as his fingers insistently twisted your nipples.

"'Cause you look exactly like those girls he likes in the porn games he plays all day. Nice, fat tits," he trailed on, digits moving to your stomach "and a pretty little waist to hold on to."

You tried to imagine the leader of the biggest gang in Japan as some sort of shut-in gamer; in any other circumstances, the idea would have made you laugh.

"I'd tell you to get up, but I think you look real good on your knees," the man interrupted your reverie as he rose smoothly, a firm hand guiding you closer to his lower body. You felt a tinge of panic as he held your head clutched to his jeans, the dark fabric visibly stretched around his crotch; were you actually doing this? An impatient tug at your hair confirmed it for you:

"C'mon, open this up for me. I don't have all night."

You hesitantly tugged at the zipper, guiding his member out of its confines before swallowing with difficulty.

He was big.

Not so much thick as he was long, very long, a row of metal loops piercings adorning the veiny underside almost all the way to a pulsating, bright red head. You couldn't help a small 'oh my god' as it slipped through your lips, cursing yourself internally as the man laughed at your bashful words.

"Yeah, you're not the first one to call me that. In my off time though, I go by Dabi, princess."

Dabi, you thought, glancing away from the thick cock to look into his flaming eyes. What a strange name. For someone who had ridiculed your bank of fake names, Dabi sure sounded like the alias of someone who didn't want to be found.

He nudged it against your cheek insistently, the tip almost rubbing your bottom lip.

"Open up," he simply said, and against all sense of better judgment, you obeyed.

If it had felt already warm through the fabric, his cock was hot inside your mouth. The member pulsated in your mouth like lava, the feeling of the metal piercings refreshingly cool in comparison. You took more of him in, looking up to gauge his reaction, and he grunted in approval, pupils fluttering. For as much as he mocked you, he clearly hadn't gotten any physical touch in a while, too: his grip was so firm in your hair it hurt, and the low sounds he let out through grinding teeth as you started moving up and down his shaft told you everything you needed to know.

"Fuck yeah, baby... you do this to every guy who comes here for cash? That how you're so good at it ?"

As an answer, you gave him a peculiarly indignant suck along a large vein and he almost stammered before catching himself, biting his own already damaged lip to the blood. 

"Let me- fuck, let me try something, ok?"

You mumbled an inaudible 'ok', your mouth still impossibly full of him, the vibrations noticeably making the muscle of his tights tighten. In an instant, the few inches of him you hadn't taken inside to give yourself space to breathe were shoved roughly inside your throat. You choked in surprise as he used your face with abandon, pointedly ignoring your weak attempts at protesting. Whatever pretense of fair play he went on earlier was gone, the sight of tears of exertion in your eyes seemingly only making him carve himself deeper into you.

"Yeah, that's the shit, that's it baby girl!"

You couldn't breath, the strength of his trusts knocking any air straight out of your lungs. You were starting to feel dizzy; if it wasn't for the possessive hold in your hair, you might have simply fallen down. Soon, your vision got wobbly, and only the feeling of the metal ring on his cock scraping your throat and of heat pooling between your legs seemed to remain. You couldn't help but let out a muffled, broken cry around him when his pace suddenly sped.

"M'gonna cum," he groaned, the words barely registering in the fuzziness of your mind. "Better be ready, I ain't doing it anywhere else but in you. Gonna make you swallow all of it, little fucking slut-!"

Warmth filled your throat, the taste salty and acidic, but you swallowed it all, his pistoning cock still overfilling your mouth. When he finally pulled out, you gasped in relief, the air painfully filling your lungs.

Dabi let out a small sigh; of contentment or dissatisfaction, you were too busy remembering how to breathe to care. One of his hands left your hair and pried your mouth wide open, a digit scoping around your tongue purposely. It occurred to you he was trying to see if you had swallowed all of him, and you felt strangely embarrassed at the thought.

"I'm n'ot a sl'ut," you managed to say in between the fingers inspecting your mouth.

He pulled them out, seemingly satisfied with his inspection, before popping them into his own mouth, licking the saliva off with mock gusto.

"Might wanna look up that word in the dictionary again, princess. Pretty sure your name is next to it, now."

He nonchalantly tugged himself back in his pants before he pushed your abandoned sweater closer to you with his foot. That's it? A little voice in your head asked before you quickly shut it down. Of course that was it. It was a business transaction, nothing more, one that had just saved your life.

"As promised, you get a month to find us the cash. Not a day more. I'll be back for you the second your timer runs out.."

His warm hand tugged at your chin, forcing you to look right into his burning stare.

"So you better not try to escape again, baby."

You straightened your back with as much pride as you could, maintaining the eye contact.

"I won't."

He let go before heading to your window, pushing its previously broken hinges open. He climbed on the windowsill with the grace of a cat, dark hair melting back into the shadows he had first emerged from.

"Dabi ?"

He looked back, seemingly surprised to hear you call him by his name. Against the night sky, his eyes blazed a shimmering blue, and for a second you let yourself be transfixed by their unnatural glow.

"Thank you. For the deal."

He smiled without a word, that cocksure, daunting grin you knew would now fill your night terrors, the shiver of an unknown emotion running through your veins at the thought.

And with that, he was gone, no sign of the intruder left in the apartment except for your half-naked form, on your knees on the kitchen floor, and one perfectly fixed glass window.

[winteratdusk]

Homecoming

My Steve/Bucky hurt/comfort series, Homecoming, is now complete! And I realized I’ve never really posted much about it here, so I figured now was as good a time as any to share the links :)

Midnight Hour (7.7k) picks up just after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Steve finds Bucky on the streets of DC sick, confused, and suffering from withdrawal.

Daybreak (10.5k) is a continuation of Midnight Hour in the days immediately after Steve finds Bucky. Bucky’s still extremely ill, so Steve calls in Sam for help.

Longing (57.7k) follows Steve and Bucky as they go on the run to avoid the remnants of SHIELD and HYDRA. They work to heal and learn the ways they’ve changed, and the ways they’ve stayed the same :)

The series contains some graphic depictions of illness and other topics that might be triggering, so please be sure to check the AO3 tags before reading!

[mika080]

Summary:

Sakura Haruno had a big problem. A problem that involved fancy invitation cards, white doves, and wedding bells. And it was all her little sister's fault. How could Hinata be marrying before her? And worse. What could possibly be worse? A mother that would never let her live her single or common life down. And the groom, Sakura's Ex-Fiancé.

[reptile-ruler]

Long Way Down to the Bottom of the River

Read on AO3

The PAK knew the host was dying. WARNING: foreign substance poisoning lower right appendage. It knew the rapids were carrying the host quickly away from the goal. Away from Safety. No visuals available. Error: Host not responding.

Suggested course of action: Intervene. 

Its legs exploded out into the frothing water, scrambling for any sort of purchase. The river pulled the host along and away, and the PAK did not have the energy reserves to battle the currents.

The host slammed into a rock, and for a second, it was still, pushed by water into the solid rock instead of moving downstream. That was enough. The PAK found a wall and stabbed, hard. It dug the leg up to the first joint, sacrificing crucial battery power, but breaking its descent for good.

Climb.

It fought the currents, stabbing into solid rock with each new step. WARNING: Blood-loss at dangerous levels. It broke the surface of the water, flung itself upwards when the current suddenly let go of it. No longer fighting a torrent of water, it could quickly haul itself onto the edge of the cliff. There, it withdrew its legs. The host remained unresponsive on the ground. The body temperature dropped further, as the water evaporated into the cold air and stole with it any remaining heat the body might have.

Assessing situation…

… foreign substance poisoning lower right appendage …

… power: low …

… proximity to Safety: far …

The PAK flashed for no one to see, but the distress signal would be sensed by any Irken technology nearby. It got one, two pulses of signal out, before the task became too much for its energy reserves. The host was dying, but without the host there would be no PAK. So, with the last of its energy aimed inwards, it went into power-reserve mode, focusing only on keeping the host alive. 

 Error: Host not responding.

WARNING: Foreign substance poisoning lower right appendage.

WARNING: Blood-loss at dangerous levels. 

Error: Host not responding …

The host had undergone too much stress with no recuperation. Too many days of wandering, with venom creeping up its leg, carrying a burden too heavy and overworking the PAK without refueling or recharging. On top of the exertion, the river had fractured bones and torn open flesh, along with dealing bruises over every body part.

Safe from the rapids but not at all in safety, the host's body finally gave up.

The PAK flashed a bright red, illuminating the rocks around the body. 

“Reactivating.”

The robotic voice echoed in the cavern, breaking the constant roar of the rapids. The body jolted with renewed energy.

Zim coughed, and for a few precious seconds, he was conscious. The rock beneath him seemed to have sapped all his body heat away. He was wet and shivering and couldn’t make out at all where he was or what had happened. Confused, vision blurring, he tried to grasp onto any thoughts at all. 

He thought he saw the blurry silhouette of Red’s Speeder landing before him, Red’s boots touching the ground and getting closer, but Zim was already fading again. 

The PAK kept Zim’s eyes open. It used the visual to confirm that Red had come to rescue him. Arms surrounded the host and lifted him off the unforgiving ground. Red’s body heat soaked into the host as he was held close to his chest. 

It concluded that the host’s survival chances just increased manifold. Still, it was too low on power, fighting fever, blood loss and hypothermia. One of the PAK’s panels slid open and a wire snaked itself around Red’s body, requesting access to Red’s own PAK ports. Meeting no resistance, it connected itself and began feeding on Red’s PAK battery.

Red allowed the intrusion. He held Zim’s limp body close as he booted up the Speeder once again, anxious to get them all out of there. 

[itscappyj]

A loud bang broke her from her reverie. Beatrice startled and blinked, her eyes screaming in protest as she stared at the computer screen. She squeezed them shut and shook her head lightly. When she glanced back at the screen she saw that it was already midnight.

Usually she would have long been in bed by now, but on the not so infrequent occasion, she would get lost in her work and the outside world would vanish. Certainly it was not a healthy habit, especially when she had lectures in the morning.

She shut the screen off and rubbed at her eyes before hearing another crash from outside her room; reminding her of what had got her attention in the first place. She was fairly certain what the noise was, an unwelcome but well ingrained familiarity. However, it would be remiss of her not to check.

Exiting and crossing the hall to the kitchen, she finds the common sighting of her roommate, drunk, stumbling to get a glass of water. A task that is apparently beyond their capabilities at this juncture, and so Beatrice steps in, taking the glass and moving it under the tap.

“Sit down, Ava.” Gently pushing the other girl towards the sofa, she waits for her to settle before handing over the glass.

Beatrice regards her, the cap she’s wearing almost sideways, make-up smudged, her clothes messed, a wet patch across her shoulder with the distinct smell of alcohol. Beatrice often wonders how a person can get into such a state and still call it ‘fun’. Somehow though, and this is the part that truly vexes Beatrice, she remains the most beautiful person she has ever laid eyes upon.

“Thanks, Bea.” Ava smiles at her and it is, as always, too bright. Too hard to take in without her chest tightening and she has to avert her eyes from its brilliance.

Beatrice moves to lean against the counter, a sensible distance between them. “Don’t you have a 9am lecture tomorrow?”

Ava slumps back, the water from the glass coming dangerously close to spilling all over her lap. “I swear, you know my timetable better than me.”

Someone has to, she thinks but doesn’t say. Beatrice is well aware of her mother hen tendencies. However, this girl is possibly the most irresponsible person she has ever known and it is infuriating in more ways than she cares to admit. She sometimes resents being put into this role, burdened with more responsibility than one person should carry.

If it were not for her, Ava may never attend a single class, never finish an assignment on time. Perhaps that is what needs to happen. Perhaps Beatrice is simply providing a crutch that will ultimately lead to her downfall. Perhaps she needs to fail.

Beatrice knows full well she could never bring herself to watch that happen without interference.

“You didn’t find anyone to go home with this time then?” Beatrice almost has no idea why she asked, why she would want to know.

Ava waves a hand dismissively. “I made out with this girl for a while but, meh, wasn’t feeling it.”

In truth, Beatrice knows exactly why she asked and the sharp intake and flare of her nostrils only gives her away. It’s because she hates herself, because she is a masochist. Ava though, eyes fixed on the floor and drooping, is none the wiser to Beatrice’s reaction. She never is.

“Did I wake you?” Ava’s eyes suddenly darted up, filled with apprehension.

Beatrice shook her head softly. “I was still up. It’s time for bed now though.”

“Right,” Ava says, gaze drifting away to some place distant. “Sleep.”

She says it with resignation, the word carrying a weight that will inevitably drag her down against her will.

Beatrice has no idea how to respond. What to make of the look in her eye. So she doesn’t. “Goodnight, Ava.”

//

It has been a remarkably long day. Beatrice rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck from one side to the other, feeling her muscles ache and hearing something crack. She breathes in and lets out a deep sigh, craving the warm embrace of her sheets.

When she approaches the door and reaches for her keys, she hears the muffled sounds of music playing on the other side. Bracing herself, she moves inside.

One might think, at the amount of practice that she has had, that she might be better prepared for the sight that she is faced with. As it is, she feels her eyes go wide, her cheeks flush and her brain stops. Ava is seated at one of the bar stools, leaning over the counter in front of a little mirror to do her make-up. Her body sways slightly with the beat, completely counterintuitive to her current task.

She is wearing a low-cut dress which leads Beatrice floundering to settle her gaze on literally anything else in the vicinity. Beatrice schools her expression, turning away as much as possible and pretending to busy herself with contemplating dinner as she opens the fridge and stares inside.

“Going out?” Beatrice isn’t hungry. She already ate at the library.

“Yep! Just some drinks and a dance. You should come, Bea.” She decides to show mercy on the fridge which hums to life as it tries to recoup the cool air it has lost and turns back to Ava.

That was a mistake as she is faced with that wide smile and big, hopeful eyes. It is not the first time Ava has asked her. She is well acquainted with the internal battle that arises from the question. Because resisting that face is one of the most difficult challenges Beatrice has ever encountered, and yet she always declines.

They both know that she will decline again now, despite the long pause. She will decline for a myriad of reasons; she does not like to drink, she does not like to dance, and the thought of watching Ava flirt with and kiss another person cuts at her chest with a fiery blade. Something that she knows, from the countless times of watching Ava return from these outings, is inevitable.

And so she declines with a simple, “Thank you, but I’m going to have an early night.” and tries not to dwell too deeply on the deflated look in her roommate's posture, of the disappointment in her eyes.

Because what does she have to offer to this girl that she cannot find elsewhere? This girl who blazes like the sun, sweeping everyone up in her light, beckoning them to follow like lambs to the slaughter.

//

It was a crisp spring morning and Beatrice was feeling refreshed. She had the best night's sleep she had experienced in a long while; the flat had been silent.

Her only obligation today was a mid-morning seminar, which left her with ample time to have a proper cooked breakfast and a light workout. Things have been tense lately. Nothing had happened, it was just there simmering under the surface, waiting for her to encounter some minor frustration and break.

She was just finishing washing up her plate when she heard keys in the front door and turned, feeling her brows furrow beyond her control as Ava walked in. She had thought she was in her room, she had not seen her leave.

“Have you been out all night?” Even she can’t deny that the words are dripping with judgement.

“Yes, Beatrice.” Ava responded curtly. “I have.”

There is a long pause as Beatrice takes in the bloodshot eyes that are steadfastly avoiding her gaze.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t remember.” Ava pushed past her to get a drink, clearly defensive.

“You don’t - you need to be more careful.” It wasn’t unusual. In fact it had become ever increasingly more common but Beatrice still felt her stomach turn whenever the topic arose. A topic that she for some god forsaken reason, kept raising herself.

“Or what? You’re not my mother, Beatrice.” Ava had her arms crossed over her chest now, staring defiantly.

It was rare for Ava to be so antagonistic. It was rare for her to use Beatrice’s full name. “I’m just concerned.” she said, although it came out with a much rougher edge than she had intended.

“Well you don’t need to be. I can take care of myself!”

“Fine,” Beatrice snapped, gathering her bag and moving away.

“Fine!” Ava called out as the door slammed shut.

//

The next time Ava stumbled into the kitchen to invade Beatrice’s peace, she was not alone. She had her arm hooked around the shoulder of some boy who Beatrice was not familiar with.

Her pupils were blown and she was unsteady on her feet, leaning heavily against her companion. He, on the other hand, looked remarkably sober and was looking at Ava in a way which sent Beatrice’s mind reeling in feral rage.

She cleared her throat and they both turned sharply to look at her as if they had thought they were alone. The look in their eyes shares an equal amount of shock at her presence. However, they are coupled with distinctly different perspectives. Ava’s eyes are tinged with something akin to shame. The boys are laced with indignation.

Beatrice takes a step forward and Ava seems to reach for her. “I can take care of her from here.”

The boy looks between them with uncertainty. “No need. We thought the place would be empty anyway.”

I bet you did, she thinks, noting the way he has shifted slightly. He is standing taller, still supporting Ava’s weight, the grip around her waist visibly tightening.

Ava seems incapable of speaking. She is watching Beatrice, her hand still reflexively moving in her direction.

“Don’t worry, I’ll just get her to bed.”

“No.” Beatrice takes another step. “You won’t.”

She moves in to extricate Ava from his hold and sets her down on the sofa before turning back to the stranger.

“Hey! This is none of your business.” He leans in towards her, jaw set tight, a glint of anger in his eyes.

“If you do not leave immediately, I will not be responsible for what happens next.” She stands with her feet planted firmly, blocking his path to Ava and jerking her chin towards the front door.

He takes a step towards her. “What the fuck is th-”

He reaches out a hand and she grabs it, twisting until he cries out.

“I told you to leave.” She stares up at his much taller frame.

“You can’t - How dare -” She twists again until he screams and drops to one knee.

She holds his gaze for a long moment, watching as tears start to form at the edges of his eyes. Eventually he concedes and hurries out into the night, cradling his arm.

Beatrice takes a steadying breath and forces her features to relax before turning back towards Ava. Her gaze is fixed on the scene that had just occurred but her eyes are glassy. Beatrice is not certain she will remember this.

//

Beatrice had once again lost track of time and the only reason she had left the library when she did was because it had closed. It was at least preferable to it happening at home, she supposes, a kind of built in alarm that prevents her fixating through the night.

Still, it is late when she arrives home, and so she does her utmost to keep her entrance quiet. Most likely for no one’s benefit. Ava had barely slept in her own bed this entire week.

However, when she enters the kitchen and turns the light on, Ava is sitting on the sofa. Her eyes squint and blink against the sudden illumination.

“God, you scared me. What are you doing sitting in the dark?” Beatrice sets her bag on the counter and sits on one of the bar stools.

Ava does not respond, does not even look at her. Simply continues staring blankly across the room.

“Ava?” She speaks softly but Ava still jumps at the sound of her own name.

There is a bottle of wine placed next to her, emptied of more than half its contents.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Why do you care?” Ava finally speaks, finally looks directly at her. The words are quiet but carry easily across the silent, empty room.

“Was the bottle full when you started?”

“Why do you care?” This time Ava shouts and the force of it is overwhelming in the still night of their small flat.

“I - because I’m your friend.” Beatrice strives to keep her volume down, her tone gentle. She tries to keep the situation from escalating.

“All you ever do is study and look at me with those judgemental eyes. I’ve tried not to bother you. I don’t bring people here. I stay out so you don’t have to deal with the noise.”

“I’m not judging you, I’m just worried about you.” Beatrice wants that to be true. She wishes it was with all her heart. Despite herself, she feels defensive at the accusation. “You can’t keep going like this.”

“I’m just having fun.” Ava crosses her arms, curling in on herself.

“Are you?” Now Beatrice is the one shouting. “Because it looks to me like you blew past fun about two months ago!”

Ava looks at her, eyes filled with anger, and Beatrice readies herself for another fight. She braces herself for the retort.

It does not come.

Instead, Ava begins to cry, tears rolling silently down her face. The change is so sudden that Beatrice freezes, completely unprepared for the emotional shift.

“I’ve done my best not to bother you. I’ve tried to make it go away. I’ve looked for every distraction I can.” Ava’s words are choked, spoken through sobs.

Now Beatrice has truly lost the thread. She has no idea how they got here. She isn’t even sure where here is. “Make what go away?”

“My feelings! I just want it to stop. No matter how much I drink or how many people I fuck, I can’t stop it. But you’re perfect and I’m just a mess.”

“I’m not…” This can’t be right. She must be misunderstanding. Ava is drunk. “Ava, I think we should talk about this in the morning.”

Ava looks up at her, dejected and pleading, “Why don’t you want me?”

“I do.” The words spill from Beatrice’s mouth before she can even think. Because it does not require thought. It is a truth written on her soul.

Ava inhales sharply and seems to stop breathing. Beatrice opens and closes her mouth but no sound escapes. The moment stretches between them like a piece of string, waiting for one of them to pull it or cut it to pieces.

Beatrice is the first to move. She kneels down and wipes gently at Ava’s tear-stained cheeks. Ava is staring at her.

“Bea?” Ava grabs her wrist, stilling the movement.

Beatrice looks into her wide eyes, still glistening with tears but there is a world of hope behind them. “The morning, Ava. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

[achangeinpriorities]

I’ve been tagged by frequent partner in headcanons @sophiainspace for the Last Huzzah To This Hyperfixation fic meme, which is appropriate as I am also likely giving a last huzzah to the Arrowverse! (Incredibly reluctantly, kicking and screaming against my brain all the way, but what can you do)

My first fic for this fandom was Your Move, on 30 November 2019, an incredibly creepy prelude-to-Eowells/Hartley that set the stage for many of my later works

My favorite fic I’ve written is…oh so many choices. The one I go back and reread most often is If You Wanna Fight (We Can Go All Night), which is playful smutty Coldwave—with an honorable mention to With Benefits, in which aro Len and ace Mick end up doing affection at cross purposes

My fluffiest fic is probably Day In, which is a Flashpiper domestic fluff interlude in the middle of a fairly angsty series—I can throw in rest-point fluff sometimes!

My funniest fic is, hands down, Floordrobe Malfunction, which is exactly what it sounds like: Lisa/Cisco/Hartley get caught in the middle of V-polyam shenanigans and end up switching clothes

My saddest fic is Worse When It’s Late, one of only two fics I went into the knowing they couldn’t have a happy ending. (The other is At All Costs, which is just about as bad)

A fic I almost didn’t post was Worse When It’s Late, just because it was so much darker than my usual fare. I’m proud of how it turned out but I was terrified of how people might react to it

The fic I most enjoyed writing is probably still Tam Len, because I loved the worldbuilding and the characters ended up taking on a life of their own, to the point that several plotty things just…resolved themselves in the end, entirely driven by the characters!

My favorite ship is…oh boy. I have loved so many ships in my time in this fandom. Coldwave maybe? What’s not to love about Coldwave—they’re queerplatonic partners in crime who would rather die than admit a Feeling. I adore them

My favorite femslash ship is probably something with Nora West-Allen? Nora/Spencer maybe…or Nora/Spencer/Joss—all of whom I wish I’d written more of (and had more plans for, before the muse forsook me!)

My favorite OT3 is Coldwestallen, because no matter which way you slice it somebody is getting ganged up on by two people who are too similar for anyone’s good, and the resulting dynamics are impeccable

My favorite non-romantic pairing is…well. If I wanted to rules-lawyer this, I’d say Coldwave, because the aro Len headcanon remains strong. However in the spirit of the question I’m gonna say Barry and his dads, both as they interact with each other and as they interact with Barry’s partners about him. There were a lot of meaty, messy dynamics there that I wish I had explored more (and that I had plans to, before the muse evaporated)

My favorite character to write is Leonard Snart, by a long shot. I vibe with his strange strange brain. He taught me so much in my time writing him. I still want to study him under a microscope. I’m going to hold onto him for a long time even if the hyperfixation is fading

My favorite neurodiversity fic (I love that this is a category, Soph) is Pride In The Little Things, with post-diagnosis feels. It’s rueful, because I think there’s often an element of that following a diagnosis, but it’s hopeful too

The fic I most clearly remember writing is Complication, a Coldflash-to-Coldwestallen fic that was meant to have more to it and got cut down for the sake of making a deadline. I’m pleased with how it turned out, but there’s another universe where it was a much messier slow burn

My favorite written-out-of-spite fic is Unplanned, in which I took out my frustrations with the ‘Mick’s head pregnancy’ plotline of Legends s6 (feat. supportive Gideon who understands what dysphoria is)

My most read fic is No Hero (No Less Loved), one of my older Coldflash fics—one I’m not overly attached to, in truth, but benefitted from being a popular pairing and having a lot of chapters to add to the hit count

My least read fic is Pride In The Little Things, my newest fic with a very rare pair indeed (Lita/Jerrie Rathaway, my and @blueelvewithwings lil ship). I didn’t expect it to get many hits at all, so seeing it with even this much interaction is surprising

The WIP I most regret not finishing is an unpublished sequel to Complication that would have built off the ideas I cut from the original fic, including appearances by Joe and Henry, and also explained why Len was so weird all throughout Complication. I hope to force myself through finishing it eventually!

My favorite gen fic is Found, a Rogues-as-family fic that was meant to set the stage for more in-depth stories that never happened. It still stands on its own pretty well though

My crackiest fic is Critical Fail, a ‘Team Flash plays D&D’ fic written at the behest of an IRL friend (who, to my knowledge, never ended up reading it—ah well, it was still fun!)

And a bonus holiday fic is By Candlelight, with Coldwestallen celebrating both a contemplative Hanukkah and a rowdy West family Christmas

I believe my co-conspirator @blueelvewithwings has already been tagged, but I’m also going to tag @a-redharlequin who has been my instigator, cheerleader, and also partner, who I wouldn’t have found without this fandom. I love y’all and I’m so happy to have spent three years plotting together!

[carryoncastiel]

WYLLWEEK DAY 6: Favorite Ship

I adore Wyll x Gale aka Bladeweave. So for this Wyllweek day (it's the 6th where I'm at) I'm humbly offering you some smut.

The City Can Wait

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2,402

Tags: Fluff and Smut, PWP, Post-Canon, Married Couple, Grand Duke Wyll

Summary: The work of a Grand Duke can be very stressful, so it's a good thing Wyll has a loving husband who knows exactly what he needs to relieve that stress.

[aerialworms]

Hiya! Thank you for responding to my poll about DDDNE! You are the first person to explicitly call out that you see “so don’t complain” as judgy, and I expected that to happen MUCH earlier in this poll’s circulation. May I ask what fandom(s) you tend to read in? Again, thank you for your contribution to Science!!!

Huh, that's wild! I assumed others would have put that before I did, too. I currently tend to read Supernatural fic, but I used to read Good Omens, Jeeves and Wooster, BBC Sherlock, and Original/Granada Sherlock Holmes. I rarely see it actually used, but I tend to read older fics - most of the fics I've read that used it have been fairly recent, like the last 5 or so years if I had to estimate?

For your data: I learned about DDDNE on Tumblr about 8 years ago, where the post I read explained that it usually goes hand in hand with Don't Like; Don't Read as a reminder that the reader is responsible for curating their experience, and after you've read the tags, it's your choice whether to continue or not. I've never seen it as a moral judgement on the reader or the author, just an acknowledgement that the subject matter of the fic is not for everyone and readers are responsible for curating their own reading experience.

The reason I took issue with the phrasing of "so don't complain" is that if I were ever to use it, I would mean it like "this fic contains some heavy stuff, so double-check the tags and make sure you know what you're getting into" and that's how I interpret it when I see fics tagged with it. It's not really "so don't complain," more like "so if you read the tags, see that this fic contains something you find upsetting, and still choose to read it, that's on you, I warned you, and it's not fair to be angry at me for it." No shade on either party, just a reminder that you're in charge of your media experience, and that the writer has done their best to warn you of what's inside. Completely neutral in my mind.

It's handy to me because sometimes I forget to/just skim-read the tags before clicking on a fic, and that tag being there reminds me to double-check for potential triggers. Of course, it's only useful when combined with appropriate tagging. A fic just tagged with "Dead Dove Do Not Eat" with no additional tags is like a sign just saying "Danger!" - I'm just gonna back away and find somewhere else to go.

(although I'll admit I have sometimes, out of curiosity, clicked through to a dead dove fic where I've seen it's completely untagged or tagged for something that squicks me, and then when it inevitably does squick me I'm just like welp. Shouldn't have done that! and click back out. Not judging the author, just knowing my limits!)

[missladymusings]

No Way But Forward

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Character: Azula

Word Count: 2k

Publish Date: 9/3/22

Warnings: Mentions of previous self-harm, suicidal attempt, abuse

Major Tags: Modern AU, Redemption, Angst with a Happy Ending, PTSD, Loving Family, Iroh and Zuko are Good Family, Azula was 14 Years Old

Summary:

9 things about Modern AU Azula, a 19 year old living with her uncle above his tea shop.

Azula has survived a lot of terrible things- her father's abuse, her mother's emotional distance, a psychotic break- but she's determined to fight the demons and find herself.

Read "No Way But Forward" on AO3 or keep reading

A/N: This character study was a fun little exercise that, as I mass upload my old works without editing, I can look fondly back upon. Please be kind, and enjoy.

1.) Her favorite color is red

It’s a swelteringly hot night in August when she realizes that she likes seeing herself in the red lighting of a restaurant sign. Her hands shoving a debit card back into her clutch purse, swimming in red. Her body, nails, clothes, hair, soul: all illuminated, painted in red. Not scarlet, not burgundy, not crimson. Just the red of Fire Nation’s Best- just like her.

The thought surprises her, curling in her chest. There’s so much of her life that was handed forced down onto her by her father that she often doesn’t know where he has bled into her. Is her favorite food really Beijing Kaoya, or did she like the way Ozai made Zuko eat it every first Sunday of the month, tears streaming down his face from eating his favorite animal? Does she really like to play the piano, or did something deep inside her collapse in on itself after the 10,001st hour of practice? When she had tried to end everything, did she really want to die or did his voice drown out every reason why she wanted to live?

But this- the color that adorned every room in her childhood- this she knows she likes, so she buys a cheap color changing light and decides to bathe her room in the color. It goes on every night at sunset and stays on even as she sleeps. When she goes to the bathroom, it spills from the small crack under her door and trickles down the hallway. Iroh doesn’t say anything, but he starts working on brewing a new tea that steeps into a pure red. A little figure of a red dragon appears on her desk a few weeks later. He writes the notes he leaves her in red ink. Shuffled into her growing collection is a new paint palette of different shades of red.

Azula kisses his cheek one day before he opens the store and the red stain of her lips is still there when he’s falling asleep on the couch to some Asian drama show.

Zuko, she can tell, is a bit more concerned. His scar is more immediately noticeable, but her marks run like silver slits of a knife down her face. Once they were red, the same red that stayed under her fingernails for a whole day until the nurses sedated her enough to scrub them clean. She’s sure there was more red soaked into her bed sheets and carpet.

Apparently wounds on the face bleed more than anywhere else. She doubts that Zuko will ever forget that fun little fact- nor her chopped hair, bloody-clawed-raw face or screams she let out.He eyes the red of her lipstick and nails and shirts and comforter like he’s approaching a wild animal.

He relaxes once she paints a red bird flying free from broken chains: heavy handed to make sure it gets through his thick skull, but at least he gets the message.

2.) Just because there are mostly good nights, doesn’t mean the bad nights are magically cured

Her hands shake as she wedges herself between the couch and the wall. It’s a tight squeeze. Not the tightest she’s ever managed to escape Ozai, though. She’s done crazier things to dodge his fists and his temper.

“This is fine,” she tells herself. “The tighter I ball up, the less he can hit.”

Aang’s taking it decently well, considering how little they know each other, but his eyes are wild as they search for Iroh or Zuko or honestly anyone more qualified to handle her.

She presses her back against the wall and feels the solidness on three sides.

Good, good.

Now if he comes to attack her, she only has to defend one side. It’s somewhat disadvantageous to be cornered like this, but since her front is the only side open, he’ll have to come into her field of vision before he attacks and if she can see Ozai she can-

Aang’s hands wrap gently around her own and pull them to his own chest. He breathes slowly and she pretends to listen to whatever bullshit he’s spewing about focusing on her surroundings. Still, she can’t help but match her admittedly feral breathing down to his annoyingly calm pace. Her mind races as she presses herself back further into the corner, though.

The room is deathly silent for a few moments.

“I feel like I’m spinning out of control. I’m not even doing anything, but it still feels I’m still losing my grip again.”

Aang continues breathing in his nose and out through his mouth. He takes a beat.

“I don’t understand, but if you want to keep talking I want to keep listening,” he says.

She snorts lightly. Ever the diplomat, just like Zuko described him.

When Zuko and Iroh come back from the pizza place 20 minutes later, she’s telling him about the way her Mom used to laugh on the rare occasion that it happened.

3.) Azula rescues the dumpster cat from behind the Jasmine Dragon, not Iroh.

It used to be so dangerous to like things when Ozai was around. It was only a guarantee that one day he would turn around and snuff it out before eyes or throw it back in her face. Hobbies, people and pets included.

So the first time she sees his curious little brown face with the huge blown pupils peeking at her from behind the corner, she ignores him. Every day after her shift for the next two weeks, though, she sees the same damn cat. No matter how much she stomps her foot in his direction or hisses at him in order to scare him off, he doesn’t leave. On the eighth day, she decides if he’s going to be such a stubborn pain in the ass, she might as well leave him the can of cat food she happened to pick up while grocery shopping with Iroh.

Not because she likes him. It’s only because she doesn’t want rats out by the garbage and the little shit is keeping them away. It’s not like he’s cute or anything.

A month later, the bell on his collar is a familiar sound around the shop and he’s been poked by so many needles that he might even be immune to Death itself.

Azula lets him curl up by her feet at night, breathing softly and slowly. It reminds her of when she was little and would crawl into Zuko’s bed after a nightmare.

She names the cat Zuzu just to fuck with him.

4.) She likes having her head shaved

The first time she did it was purely out of practicality. After her lost battle with the infamous pair of scissors, her long hair was too unevenly chunky to be salvaged. The nurse gave her a pixie cut to “help”, but was worse because it looked closer to a catholic monk’s bowl-cut than anything else. It had to come off. She went into the bathroom with hair one night and walked out with only the shortest of stubble.

At first, it’s shameful.

Of course, she has a great head shape and her face is more than beautiful enough to carry it, scars or not. Azula could wear her hair however she wants and she’ll make it look pretty.

That’s not the issue. It’s just- her hair was like a crown. Always perfect and in place. Naturally pin straight and the perfect black-brown. It’s actually that thought that frees her, though. She likes letting go of that perfection, of that pressurized tank.

Azula lets it grow out a few inches until she confirms what she already knows: the shaved head is staying.

She lets her the rest of her hair grow long (because okay, sue her, it’s not the most flattering haircut she’s ever had) and ropes in Zuko’s talkative roommate Sokka to teach her how to shave the right side of her head.

It’s an odd scene. Azula and Sokka sit on the floor on a trash bag while Zuko holds one of those cheap full-length mirrors up so she can see how to part the hair properly and cut it cleanly.

Toph, with the sharp wit and no-nonsense attitude she respects, is sprawled at the end of the couch with her one leg thrown over the side. She throws little sarcastic comments at Sokka’s instructions and Azula can’t help but crack and small smile.

Next to her sits Aang and his Watertribe girlfriend (Sokka's sister, she's 85% sure?) who are chatting loudly with Sokka’s jujitsu girlfriend and Iroh about how the different languages of the nations overlap and differentiate.

Azula feels like she’s inserted herself into a puzzle that’s long been put together, but she still fits. And she doesn’t mind fitting in, either. Also, her hair looks sick as fuck and is only going to look cooler as the rest grows longer.

5.) She still needs her big brother sometimes

Zuko lays gently down on the floor next to her.  On their sides, they face each other. Scarred and older in the face than they should be.

“I’m always going to love you, Zula. You know that, right? I’m always going to be your big brother.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

And that’s enough.

6.) She’s OBSESSED with True Crime Podcasts

It’s nice to see how peaceful she looks with her headphones in at lunchtime or washing dishes after the café closes, until Zuko realizes what she’s listening to. Apparently, listening to horrific retellings of 40-year-old bald white men murder their entire families and random women is the perfect thing to eat turkey sandwiches and clean teacups to.

7.) Azula still has the pictures of Ty Lee and Mai hanging on her wall

They haven’t talked in years, but she still has their pictures hanging on the corkboard above her desk. In one, they’re frozen in time as high school sophomores before the Homecoming dance, genuinely smiling for once. In another, Ty Lee is in her stage makeup with her arms flung around Mai and Azula. A third has Mai and Zuko blushing on the front porch before their first date, long before they decided they needed a break to find themselves.

She knows she fucked up, but she still loves them. She’s learning that it’s okay to love someone and want the world for them and still recognize that they don’t have to forgive you and let you back in. Sometimes you just have to let people go and love them like the moon loves the ocean. Always distant, but always constant. She hopes they’re doing well.

8.) Azula absolutely has a record collection.

On rainy days, which happen so much more here in the Earth Kingdom, she turns them on and lays on the floor. She lets them wash over her, lets herself think about everything.

She plays Billie Eilish, Halsey, Miley Cyrus for herself.

Fall Out Boy and Hozier on the days she wants to remember Mai. One Direction and 5SOS on the days that Ty Lee swims in her head.

Arctic Monkeys for Zuko- replays “Arabella” three times. Old musicals like “Singin’ in the Rain” and folk music of the different nations for Iroh. Beethoven, Xian Xinghai, Mozart, Chou Wen-Chung and the like for the days she wants to remember her mother. Her favorite composition is still Fur Elise, likes to glide her fingers through the air like they’re sliding over an invisible piano.

She starts throwing in Bob Marley for Aang and 80’s rock bands with a splash of Tame Impala for Sokka. Toph, the DAMN. album from Kendrick. And on the extremely infrequent occasion she wants to think about her father- the rarest of rare good times on Ember Island- she plays Elvis.

9.) She’s thinking about moving to Omashu.

Ba Sing Se is fine, lightyears ahead of Caldera or anywhere else in the Fire Nation. And sure, she likes living with Iroh. Likes hearing his snoring down the hall and his laugh, smelling his teas around the clock and feeling the warmth of his bear hugs.

Still, there’s something tugging in her chest. Here in Ba Sing Se, she’s That Girl. Iroh’s niece, Zuko’s sister, the one that showed up with gashes running down her face one afternoon and never left. The Crazy One. The One That Occasionally Loses Her Temper. The Scary One.

She’s never felt more like herself before, but she knows deep within that her growth is limited here. She needs to find “Azula” out there, and what better place to do it than Omashu University while getting a degree?

She thinks that she’ll pitch it to Iroh when summer rolls around, work on her application in the meantime. She has the money from the inheritance Ozai left her. What better way to spend blood money?

But until the summer, she’ll just enjoy her life as it is. Working in the tea shop during the week, watching TV on the couch with Iroh at night and filling her weekends with visiting Zuko’s (her?) friends.