#the mounting headache

[sleepyventcorner]

.

[boos-gh0st]

My feelings buddy (and best friend) and I had hit a rough patch recently, and tonight we finally got to talk things out a bit and have proper communication, as feelings buddies do, and STARS man it was so fucking great getting to just talk with him again. Speaking as we did so many months ago, staying up too late and saying we’ll sleep soon, talking about nonsense and telling stories, doodling and making each other laugh…I really missed it.

I am so glad to have him back

Guys go tell your friends you love them

Also we made so many ISAT references as we spoke. Oddly enough it just slipped into conversation, it was funny. At one point he made an analogy and the only way I understood it was by comparing it to the loops lmao

Edit a few mins later:

Loop really liked that we were chill again too btw

(Guys I’m so happy rn)

[roylustang]

If I had a nickel for every time I got a cold a few weeks before I moved across the Pacific Ocean I would have 2 nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice

[theonpilled]

my dad just got home and ONLY talked about himself. on his son's bday.

[sicadas]

within an hour of me leaving work, things have just been pissing me off, and now im so upset i feel like crying. i planned to make phone calls after work and now i don't even feel up to doing any of that, i just want to wallow on my couch..

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[stevebabey]

pre-steddie, post the events of s4, and some good ol' steve harrington gets some new glasses <3, 2k-ish

There was a time where Steve would've rather died than wear them.

Then he did nearly die—several times over, actually.

But if Steve had to sum up what he actually gained from the horrific annual monster-hunting bullshit—besides the scars and trauma, of course—he would say perspective.

It's a lot easier to see what matters on the other side of the end of the world. Or in Steve's case, it's actually harder to see. And he should've totally been wearing those prescription glasses his parents bought him back in the seventh grade.

Maybe then, instead of an occasionally foggy memory and migraines, he'd be a little better off.

But as things go, he hadn't worn them. No, instead, when he was a foolish 13-year-old, Steve had hidden the glasses. Pretended they got lost. Fibbed while knowing exactly where in the house he'd stashed them.

It had certainly earned him an earful of chastising, as well as an actual sore ear from how his mother had pinched it tightly. But, either way, in the end he'd got what he wanted.

Sure, it definitely made it harder on his grades. More often than not, if Steve didn't cop one of the seats closer to the front of class, he'd earn himself a headache from all his squinting. But it was worth it because at least he wouldn't look uncool. Popular kids never wore glasses.

And then... years later, a couple brushes with his fragile morality, old friends turned enemies and new friends, genuine friends earned... he gets perspective.

This is all to say, Robin finally convinces him to wear his glasses again.

Well, actually, the doctor had been the one to convince he needed to wear them, given all the other problems he'd gathered from his mounting concussions.

Robin had been the one to somewhat bully ("Lovingly!" She'd protest) him into actually wearing them. An uphill battle she had been determined to win, despite all Steve's abject objections.

She won. They'd gotten him new frames, made sure the prescription was up to date and that Steve didn't completely hate the way they looked.

But even though they didn't look anything like the smaller pair still tucked away in a shoebox beneath his bed, collecting dust, there's still a hesitance to wear them.

But... perspective.

It's what Steve keeps trying to hold onto as he scrunches his nose down at the glasses in the case in his hands. The lenses glint in the fluorescents of Family Video.

He huffs and picks them out, unfolding the arms gently. Looking a little stupid was better than getting another migraine at work, he decides.

He stores the case beneath the counter and sits back down at the computer, hands in his laps, the wire-rim glasses in his fingertips.

You put these on and you may as well just declare the 'You Suck' side a forever winner. Some part of him whispers meanly. Not as if you're much of a looker anymore. It's a sliver of that slimy ego lurking within him. Steve's mouth twists as he does his best to shove it away.

It's true, to some extent. That last run-in with the Upside Down had left its mark well and truly. Along his chin, rippling down toward and along his jaw, is a scar where the skin split and had to be patched back together. The discoloration of it makes it impossible to miss.

Robin says chicks dig scars. But even if she's right and not just saying it to banish the sad lilt in his voice, there's still some part of Steve that wants to cling to what once made him important. What made people look at him, pay attention to him.

The point is wearing the glasses isn't just about wearing the glasses.

But Steve also isn't trying to be all about appearances anymore — so if they made him look... worse, then so be it.

He slides them on and tilts his head up, focusing on the screen. The pixels on the computer sharpen and the blurriness of his surroundings saps away, smoothing out his field of vision. Steve blinks.

It's much different to how it was trying them on at the doctor's office. He's in familiar turf now and as he blinks again, looks around, Steve realises how many details he's been missing. Holy shit. Can Robin see this well? All the time?

He can read the things all the way across the room — can parse out the poster titles without having to squint in the slightest. Jesus Christ, should he even have been allowed to drive—

The bell on the door chimes and Steve turns instinctively.

"Oh! Steve, you're wearing them!"

It's Robin, dropped off by none other than Eddie, for the half-shift she shares with Steve on Thursday afternoons. Sure, she could bike from school, but it’s getting icier in the mornings and Steve likes to drop her off before his shift.

Eddie takes the other half. If that means he also meanders into Family Video to hang around for a half hour and talk to Steve? Well, Steve’s got no problem with that at all.

They’re friends. Hard not to be, given the circumstance of their springtime shared together. It's not exactly something Steve ever predicted happening, but considering his newfound perspective, he's taken it in stride as one of the pros of the whole situation.

Except with his newly corrected vision, two things change simultaneously.

Behind Robin, Eddie steps into the Family Video and Steve suddenly sees Eddie Munson with a reverent clarity.

Has Eddie always looked like... that?

With his glasses, Steve can see the true brown in his eyes and the brightness in them as they meet Steve’s own. He can see the sweeping lashes that kiss in the corner, the strong line of his nose.

The curve of Eddie’s bottom lip and the blister in the middle of it, chewed too frequently, pinker than his lips. He sees the faintest of freckles, hidden in his hairline, and—

— he sees the exact moment Eddie clocks the glasses.

Because Eddie stops, midway through the door, full-body stutters and then just halts. The door he'd pulled open swings and hits him in the back.

Right. There's a neon-bright sign from the universe that Steve does, in fact, look as stupid as he feared. Embarrassment wells up inside him, hot and itchy.

Steve whips the glasses off so fast they hit the counter and bounce over, onto the ground.

"Jeez!" Robin jumps, for which Steve can't blame her for considering both he and Eddie made two loud noises in the space of roughly two seconds. She looks over her shoulder to see Eddie's frozen figure and mutters, "Oh, I'm clocking in." Then disappears out the back.

Steve watches her go, already missing the clarity of his glasses but hell if he's putting them back on. Not after that god-awful reaction. They can get trod on by customers for all he cares.

God, okay, so maybe that's an overreaction (those things are expensive) but also, this was the first test in trying them out in public.

Look, Robin's obviously his best-friend but shit, he was hoping she wasn't straight up lying to him telling him they looked good.

How did this turn into 13-year-old Steve's exact nightmare?

Eddie only seems to realise he's still stuck in place when the chime of the door bell sounds once again, alerting Steve of his presence—as if he could ignore that reaction coming in.

Well, at least it was an honest reaction.

How much were contacts again?

Steve pushes back from the counter with a sigh, beginning to head round to retrieve the glasses from the floor. Except, the movement seems to kickstart Eddie and he scrambles forward so that when Steve straightens up, glasses in hand, Eddie's right before him.

Brown eyes wide. Expression... serious?

"You didn't tell me you wore glasses." Eddie says. He sounds almost breathless.

"Yeah, well, not anymore." Steve replies dryly, heading back around the counter.

Eddie tracks him as he goes, looking almost devastated at what he's hearing. He stumbles in closer, palms pressing against the counter, and leans forward as Steve retrieves the case.

"What do you mean? What do you mean not anymore?"

He sounds a little panicked now.

Steve levels him with a flat stare. "C'mon man, I know what a bad reaction looks like when I see one—"

But Eddie's shaking his head furiously, hands flying as he does everything to signal the word no. "Nope, no you do not. That— nuh uh. Will you put them on again? Please?"

"No way!"

"Steve, I promise you that was not a bad reaction. That was- was-" Eddie stammers for the right words before pivoting. "Can you just put them on again? Please put them on again?"

It's the genuineness in Eddie's tone that actually gets Steve to pause. He glances down at the glasses in his hand, hovering midway to the case, and then back up to Eddie.

Is this some elaborate way to make fun of him? No, Eddie wouldn't. But then what?

The pause is long enough for Eddie to spring into action and he slowly reaches out, heading for the glasses in Steve's hands. Eyeing him hesitantly, Steve reluctantly lets him take them from him, unfolding them with his ringed fingers.

Then, he holds them out and up. Through the lenses, he can see the detail of Eddie's face once more and he swallows. His fingertips brush Eddie's as he takes them and slides them back onto his face.

It takes another blink to get used to the change and in this time, Steve notices, Eddie has managed to turn a wonderful shade of pink.

Steve can see it in much better detail than usual as well, can track how it seems to crawl up his neck. He bets the tips of Eddie's ears are red too, hidden amongst his wild curls. He's blushing. He's blushing?

And he's smiling too, this maddening curl to his lips, as he drinks in Steve and his new glasses with a hungry gaze that darts all over his face.

Man, Steve thinks absently, using the moment of quiet to examine all those new details of Eddie's face, how long has Eddie been pretty?

Then Eddie huffs a disbelieving laugh and Steve's stomach drops.

It must show on his face because instantly Eddie's hands are up, waving away the thought in Steve's head. "No, no, no! Not bad! Just... Jesus Christ," He mutters the last part into his shoulder, his face turned away for a moment.

"I just actually didn't think it was, uh," He coughs. "Like, possible for you to get any hotter."

“What?” Steve says.

That's what that reaction was? Something fizzles inside him, suddenly feeling pleased as punch.

“What?” Eddie parrots.

The pink in his face has dipped closer to crimson and if it keeps going that way, Steve reckons he could roast marshmallows over it.

Steve shifts on his feet, reaching up and running a nervous hand through his hair. Sure, he said wanted attention but this is something new, something different. He's not sure if he likes it just yet.

Eddie watches the motion, wide eyes glued to his hand, and when he catches Steve's questioning gaze through his glasses, he does a full 180 turn away from the counter.

"Oh my god, I'm so gay," He mutters, in a breath that Steve probably wasn't supposed to hear.

Steve's eyebrows raise. It sounds like... and he could be wrong here, but it sounds like Eddie likes his new glasses. Very much so.

And that makes Steve feel... good. Really good. Top of his game, one tally in the You Rule side of the board, good.

Eddie turns back and fixes a smile that Steve is sure isn't supposed to look that crazy. Steve reaches up and nudges the glasses further up his nose with his knuckle idly.

"So," Steve says, the uncertainty in his voice not false. "You don't think they look... bad?"

"Nope," Eddie squeaks out.

His smile has gotten a little more deranged. Then, in one big breath he says, "Tell Robin she betrayed me and I'll see you later-bye!" and peels out of the Family Video, the door-chime announcing his departure.

Robin treads out from the back-room, her Family Video vest on now and she surveys the store as she walks. Upon finding only Steve, her brows wrinkle together.

"Where'd Eddie go?"

Steve shrugs. "Dunno. Left in a hurry. Told me to tell you that you betrayed him or somethin'." He makes quotation marks with his fingers.

Robin frowns harder at that, her puzzling face on. A moment later, it melds away into a deviousness that means Steve instantly knows he's missing out on some inside joke. Especially when Robin starts to cackle, laughing so much that she has to hide a snort in her palm.

"What?" Steve all but pouts. "What is it? Tell me."

Robin, still laughing, snags the returns trolley and begins to wander backward. "Trust me, Steve. You'll want to figure this one out on your own. Either way, I think you should wear your glasses around Eddie again. Preferably while I'm there to watch."

She wiggles her brows as she disappears around an aisle, still wandering backward. Steve hears the moment she bumps into a shelf and snickers at her responding ow!

He turns back to the computer and settles in the seat, nudging the glasses up his nose once more. Huh. So Eddie likes the glasses. Maybe they weren't so bad.

And if Steve got to see that blush again, in glorious good-vision detail? Then that wouldn't be so bad either.

[zarnzarn]

Athena shoots upright as soon as her eyes fly open, gasping. She calls on her spear and slashes in a brutal curve, provoking shouts from the enemies who'd been holding her down as they back off. Bares her teeth in a snarl as she grabs the sheets off the bed to whip at the eyes of the assailants and-

Light floods into her eyes as they step away from her attack and she freezes as she remembers a flash of brightness too fast to escape, heat and burning like never before, electricity that seeped into her very bones, thunder that deafened, lightning that hurt-

"Get back!" She hears and turns unsteadily back to- back to where Apollo is pulling Ares back by the cape against the far wall. Apollo. Ares. Aphrodite, Aephestus, Artemis.

"Wh-" She manages, before she's bowled over, coughing. She has never done it before, and she can't stop it from happening- chest rattling as her knees give out, barely holding herself up with her spear in time to reach the bed. It doesn't stop, doesn't stop, plumes of smoke escaping her mouth as she can't stop, can't breathe-

"Athena," Hera whispers, and a rough hand gently touches her on the shoulder, handing her a glass of nectar. She accepts it gratefully, tilting her head back to down it. It's soothing like it's never been before, stoping the coughing at last and it clears her headache long enough to realize that she isn't in her armour- she's in a chiton.

"Where is my armour?" She rasps as soon as she can, wiping her mouth. Looks around- Apollo's chambers.

She'd always known being the favourite wouldn't protect her forever. But repeating the words didn't seem to reduce the hurt.

Nor the shaking fear.

"-not!" Apollo is saying, indignantly setting his hands on his hips. "Do you have any idea how hard you got hit? You're lucky I could even stabilize your aspect enough to reduce some of the damage, otherwise you'd still be having a seizure back at Mount Olympus!"

"Mount Olympus," Athena mutters oddly, without much intent to it. She tries to stand again and her vision suddenly cuts out, provoking a round of screams as she loses her balance.

When the world blurrily comes back into focus- and she doesn't like this, hates this sudden weakness; she's always been able to get back up from any blow, has never visited a medical chamber in her existence, even when they had to fight the Titans- she's in Ares' arms, oddly horizontal.

"Cease this stupidity, sister," Artemis hisses at her as she grabs onto Athena's arms to bring her back to the bed. "Calm yourself. You are alive. You are safe."

"My armour," Athena says, voice cracking, head rolling oddly on her neck, unable to look upright. She catches a glimpse of Aephastus holding onto a sobbing Aphrodite, staring at her with a strange sort of sorrow.

Something twinges in Athena's chest in reply, but she stumbles before she can address it, feeling a fission of panic at the instability before Ares' grip on her tightens enough to keep her upright. They're all staring at her like that, she realizes, with that same horrified heartbreak.

"Didn't Artemis just tell you to cease stupidity?" Ares barks, though it's rather quietly said, for him. He adjusts her on the bed until she can lean back against the pillows. His hands are shaking, and Athena stares at them with curiosity. "Weren't you the one to lecture me half to death about when to remove the armour?"

"What," She says weakly, then moans as an aftershock trembles through her, residual sparks humming maliciously as they exit her skin, leaving her trembling. "I- hmmm, what? What were- what were-"

"Athena, calm down, please, you're scaring us," Hera says, bangles jangling as she sits down next to her, taking one of Athena's hands with desperation. Athena tilts her head to squint, noticing the tears for the first time, before she shudders as her skin registers the heat, the unbearable heat.

"Scaring?" She murmurs when it stops, voice coming out smaller than she intended it to.

"Her fever keeps rising and falling," Apollo reenters the room before anyone can answer, carrying a large tub of some odd liquid. "Here, help me rub this on her skin, it should extract any remaining- any remaining lightning."

They all move towards the tub at the same time, dipping the cloths provided and then taking positions in a circle surrounding her. Athena stiffens, fingers twitching for a weapon, but the first touch of Hera's drenched cloth on her forehead makes her moan in relief, the blessed coolness of it making her melt back into the sheets. She has no strength to complain or protest when her fellow gods each take a limb to rub at, a sensation both horrifically terrible and unbearably good. She has never taken her armour off in her life.

"Easy, that's it," Apollo says coaxingly, lips downturned like he's trying not to cry. She whimpers as the cloth on her left leg suddenly burns as a spark escapes, instinctively pulling it away, but Aphrodite grabs it before she can and resumes rubbing, whispering apologies. She turns her head and weakly opens her mouth for the herb Apollo lifts to her lips, desperate for relief from the splitting headache.

She can't think. She can't think.

Athena has no idea how long it goes on, how long the other gods ignore their realms to tend to her. Slowly, they strike up a conversation, something light-hearted that she can't follow- different from their never-ending arguments and insults, as they talk about the past year and humourous stories and varied anecdotes.

Athena can't help but relax into it, the soft bed at her back and gentle hands massaging her sore muscles and warmth all around her. Feels something trembling within her since she first became aware of herself settling down with a sigh.

Until she suddenly smells ozone.

Hera and Apollo both notice her tensing up immediately, and look to where she can hear slow footsteps approaching. Apollo growls and shoots out a hand, bringing up the shields of his realm.

The conversation dies down as they all look to the side, at the distinct shadow at the other side of the curtain.

Rage, Athena realises, thoughts slow and muddied. They're angry with him.

"I will handle this," Hera says coldly, with the steel undertone that Athena strives for. She moves her cloth aside and leans down to kiss Athena on the forehead, like a mother would. "You rest, my daughter."

Athena's breath hitches, eyes burning. Nobody has ever cared for her, apart from Zeu-

Nobody has ever cared for her.

... Nobody has-

Hera turns sharply at the noise that suddenly escapes Athena, half hysterical laugh and half distraught wail.

"Did I win?" Athena asks desperately, pushing herself upright, ignoring the protests of the others as she pulls her limbs from their grasp. Hera stares at her and Athena grabs the side of the bed as she tries to lever herself up like a wild animal, demanding in a broken voice, "Did I win?"

A silence that stretches for a painful moment before- "Yes," Aephastus says, putting his hand on her shoulder to guide her back from the edge. "Yes, Athena, you won."

A strangled gasp of relief leaves her, making her light-headed as she leans back against the pillows. She shivers, then sobs- humiliation running through her before she hears an answering noise of sorrow from Aphrodite next to her, pressure all around as her five younger siblings embrace her carefully, gently, like she would break at any moment.

She's not the one who's been raped by a Titan's daughter for seven years.

The thought has her breath hitching, wiping her tears away with a hand that refuses to co-operate the first few tries. "I need to-"

"No," Artemis snaps, glaring at her. "I know you think of nothing but your work, but Athena, you cannot do it this time." Outside, Hera's and Zeus' voices rise as they begin to shout and scream. "You must rest."

"N-no, that's not- aah," She groans as another aftershock rips through her, leaving her panting and soaked in sweat when it's done. "I need to- I need-"

"Hermes has gone to his grandson," Aephastus says soothingly. "Peace, Athena. Your hero is free."

For a moment, it doesn't comprehend and she stares at him blankly. "Free," She repeats, words still infuriatingly faint and lilting. "He's free? I- I need my helmet, where is-"

"No, Athena!"

"Sister, please, you cannot resume your duties, you are in no state!"

"I need my helmet, please, please- just give me my helmet!"

Her cry echoes off the walls and she hears herself when it bounces back to her, broken and pleading and so unlike her she feels nauseous. Her siblings have gone silent and still at her begging, staring at her with shock and horror and fear and sorrow alike. Even Zeus and Hera have stopped talking.

Athena shakes, wishing she could rip this awful vulnerability out of her veins, wishes she could find a stone footing to stand on once more, wishes she wasn't in this horrible chiton.

"Please," She whispers.

Quietly, Aephastus gets to his feet and walks in the direction of the nearby drawers, where she can now see her belongings stacked up haphazardly, blood-stained.

"Sister, you must calm down," Aphrodite pleads. She takes her hands and Athena dazedly looks down at her, with her wide, scared eyes. Seizure, her mind registers finally from Apollo's earlier talk. Ah. She seems to have frightened them all. "You cannot afford a relapse."

Athena squeezes her fingers in acknowledgement, but reaches for the helmet when it's held out, dented and worn.

She touches the metal and feels the full force of seven years of silenced prayers hit her at once.

She's crying before she knows she's doing it, clutching the helmet to her chest as the warmth of the worship wraps around her like a shawl, and holds it tight against her as Ares tries to pry it away.

"No, no!" Apollo intervenes, shifting forward. He touches a hand to the helmet and suddenly the hymn bursts forth around them, loud even though the prayer itself is quiet and broken. Athena inhales at the feeling of it, soothing over the cracks in her own mind with their never-ending continuity, desolate, unbroken faith even when she never came to help-

He's still singing.

She shifts her hands on the helmet to make sure but- yes. Odysseus is calling her, still, at this very moment.

Her head snaps up, but even the dizziness the motion causes doesn't take away from how much clearer the room looks. "Where is he?"

"Sister-"

"If you do not answer me, I will take to the skies myself," She says firmly. "Where is he?"

Her siblings exchange looks.

"Three days out from Ithaka," Artemis replies with a sigh. "On a raft. But listen, wait but an hour, at least absorb these prayers-"

Athena stumbles off the bed and pulls on the helmet, closing her eyes.

"Wait, the bandages-!"

"Athena, you'll hurt yourself, please!"

"Daughter, be careful!"

Athena opens her eyes and looks out at the waves, rough and choppy, but not enough to sink the raft. She looks down and looks at the way the faded clothes don't fit him, the way he has no water left to drink but he still continues to sing.

"Odysseus," She says, and he freezes.

A wave rises and falls. They stay silent, unmoving.

"Won't you look?" The words break out of her, cracked and desperate.

He inhales and exhales, tears in the sound of it. "I don't want to look if you're... if you're not really here."

She swallows against the lump in her throat, takes a step forward. "Well, I-" Her voice cracks, but the fragile grin on her face is real as it spreads, the frailest thread of laughter entering her voice. "I would hope. That if you were hallucinating of me, that the spectre would at least have wisdom enough to tell you that you were."

Odysseus sobs and her heart cracks, feels his heart cracking in turn; yet it is akin to a misaligned bone that never healed right and has to be reset- she can hear the laughter before it comes, with relief coming from the brink of madness, with joy they'd both forgotten and missed. "It is you."

"I could not reach you on Ogygia," She blurts out, desperate to make him understand. "Could not hear your call. I would have come the second time you prayed, if I had."

"It is you," He whispers, swaying. A wave rises suddenly and they both burst into movement, grabbing ropes and pulling the mast, balancing together to keep it steady.

The wave passes. They are almost touching now.

"Won't you look?" Athena asks again, raw and grieving. "Odysseus. My companion, my friend. Please."

He turns at that, a stunned expression on his face- before it turns into wide-eyed horror as he looks at her. She laughs breathlessly, slightly dizzy, but- her friend. How lovely it is to see him again.

"Athena!" He rushes forward with unexpected vitality, the parts of him that she knew suddenly rising to light in his eyes, in his movements, becoming unhidden from the defeated, beaten figure he'd been moments before. "What in Gaia's name-"

"I'm sorry," She interrupts as she slumps forward into the hands on her arms, off-balance. "I should have tried better to understand, all those years ago. I understand now and I- Odysseus, I am-"

"Athena, shut up," Odysseus snaps, clearly panicking. She laughs again, because isn't it such a novelty, to have a person who will have the audacity to tell her to? "Of course it's forgiven, I'm sorry too, I should have fucking listened back then- but listen, what in Hades happened to you? Why do you look like this- why do you have bandages- Hermes wouldn't answer when I asked if something happened to you, fuck-"

"Peace," Athena rasps, even as her vision blinks in and out, forcing her to kneel. They both grimace as another wave crashes into the raft, but they don't upturn. Odysseus kneels down with her, staring at her with such worry and concern she can feel nothing but fondness. "The disagreements of gods are often violent."

"Gods-" His eyes flicker to the side of her face, and he frowns, reaching out to push back the helmet. She bends her face down to let him, feeling an odd burning on the left side that she has a vague bad feeling about- proved right when Odysseus' expression falls into blank horror. "You got into a fight with-"

"Yes."

"But he's your-"

"I know. He did not take kindly to my petition to release you," She smiles dryly, without mirth.

"To release me?" Odysseus wheezes, face cracking into anguish and disbelief alike. "Athena, what- I- I'm not worth-"

"It was worth it," She snaps. "Consider it my penance for abandoning my own. I certainly don't regret it."

"I never felt abandoned," Odysseus whispers, taking her hands as she shifts, supporting her body with his own as they lean against the mast. She looks at him, and remembers why Penelope is still weaving, why he's still out on the waters, why Ithaka is waiting out the suitors till Telemachus takes the throne. "I always knew you would come back. I just figured it would take ten years more, perhaps."

Athena is silent for a bit, absorbing that. And then, because she can't hold it back any longer- "I am sorry about your men." His breath hitches under her and she turns to take him in her arms, knowing what's coming. "I am sorry about your friends."

He sobs, ugly and loud, and she holds him tighter. "I am sorry that Titan's whelp had you for so long, and what she did to you. I am sorry the Fates were so unkind."

"Athena," He keens, finally falling to pieces. The sobs are mere loud gasps for air at first, before it dissolves into wailing, screaming, grieving for all the men they'd kept alive through a war, only to lose them to this cruel tragedy instead. Even she hadn't known- hadn't anticipated how wrong things would go after she left. Hadn't even thought that he hadn't reached home.

"It's all my fucking fault," He shouts, shaking. "If only I had- if only-"

"It is not. No one could have known," She whispers. "The Fates are unknown to us all."

He sobs louder and she closes her eyes.

But finally, their tears dry up. She holds him still, as the night fades and the sun rises again, trying to take his hurt into herself so he can be happy again.

"I am sorry," She whispers, seaspray around them. "That my enemies became your own. That I pushed you so hard. That I chose you, and brought pain to your life so."

"Hey now," Odysseus says, pulling back to look at her, a broken smile on his face. "Hold your blasphemous tongue, before you insult the wisdom of Pallas Athena." She laughs, even as tears spill over. "Even if I had the chance to choose again right at this moment, my goddess, I would still choose you."

"That means more than you know," Athena murmurs, overcome. She gathers all her strength and reaches out to run a hand over his head, soothing his mind and driving away the last tendrils of madness that were still holding onto him. He sighs and relaxes under her, some visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Still. I will learn from my mistakes. If you would give your old friend a chance-"

"Stop right there. Of course I-" Odysseus scoffs, reaching out to hold her left cheek for emphasis. "Athena, your left eye is half gone."

"Ah. Well, that explains the depth perception," She mutters, then bursts into giggles at the incredulous look on his face.

"Are you drugged?" Odysseus demands, but he's already trying not to laugh himself. They both move on fast. "What am I saying, of course you are- have you been drugged this whole time? Who on Earth drugged you?"

"That would be me," Apollo says, crossing his arms.

Odysseus snarls, grabbing his sword and swinging wildly in an arc, half-animal in his panic, pushing Athena behind him.

"FUCKING- whoa, hey, calm down, it's her brother, it's Apollo!" Apollo half-shrieks inelegantly, jumping back. "Honestly! Athena, call off your hero, please."

"Apollo?" Odysseus tilts his head, lowering his sword and narrowing his eyes.

Apollo stares at him. "Wow, you two- really do act the exact same, huh. Yes, Apollo, god of please let me change your fucking bandages, do you mind?"

Odysseus bows and murmurs apologies, clearly wary of getting into more trouble, but to her mild surprise walks behind Athena instead of to the other side of the raft.

"I don't need assistance," She mutters to him, even as she grimaces at the length of the chiton as she tries to pull herself upright.

"You're still dizzy," Odysseus points out, settling in behind her to hold her steady. He wipes at the tears still on his face and smiles at her. She manages a half-smile back. "Do you need to go back to Olympus?"

"Yes," Artemis crosses her hands and Odysseus' fingers tighten painfully on her shoulders.

"I'm not quite certain there's space for so many on this raft," Athena mutters.

"It's a magical raft, it'll survive- but never mind that, could you not have at least sent a message that you were okay?"

"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before running off without a word!"

"Really, daughter, you should know better!"

Odysseus grip is bruising now, and his sword is in front of Athena protectively; she can already tell what moves he's planning to use if they choose to attack. "Who..?" He asks lowly.

"Pantheon. At ease," She replies back shortly, before looking up at the others. "I thank you, my fellow go- my family, for your worry and concern. But we are only two days out from Ithaka and I would like to see this journey completed."

"You are not going to see yourself completed, if you don't rest," Apollo says, roughly at the exact same time that Athena undermines her own argument by throwing up on the raft.

"Athena, go," Odysseus says urgently when it's over, handing her helmet back to her and adjusting her cape as Hera kneels down beside her to hand her another glass of nectar, looking at him oddly. Odysseus grimaces and changes his tone. "I will be fine, patroness. I'll call for you when I reach the shores."

Movement catches her eye and she sees Ares remove his own helmet, giving her a reproving look. She remembers the speech he was talking about now- the one she'd loudly ranted at him when she was drunk a year ago, thinks about how much more at ease he is now.

"Alright," She acquiesces and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. "Two days."

Mania fills Odysseus' eyes as he smiles back, finally home from a war twenty years ago. "Two days."

Athena grins, even as she feels Hera wrap an arm around her to take her away. "Penelope is waiting."

Odysseus' eyes widen, then fill with tears, like he'd never quite truly let himself believe it; but his smile is wide and true. "Penelope is waiting. Thank you, Pallas Athena."

"You don't thank friends," She murmurs, exhaustion settling in. Odysseus laughs and the last thing she feels is a warm hand on her cheek and their foreheads pressed together, before the world goes black and she knows no more.

[forlix]

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・1.2k / 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・chan x gn!reader / 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, berry being the perfect girl she is. inspired by these bubble messages and @cosmic-railwayxo's treachery. (love u deni)

𝟬𝟲:𝟯𝟲 — “Where’s my baby, hm?”

This is the question on Chan’s lips the moment he lets go of the bedroom door, closed with agonizing caution as to not wake the figure still curled up under the duvet inside.

It’s early. Early enough so the walls are colored a rich beige by new rays of sunlight, so his footsteps are the only sound reverberating around the hallways when he commences his search. Early enough to evidence how he was only bestowed a few hours of sleep before waking up with a budding headache and leaden eyelids.

But he doesn’t mind the lack of rest, not this time. Not when there’s a wad of love with a freckled snout and floppy ears under the same roof for the first time in too long.

“Berry?” Chan calls, his voice tattered and low, like sandpaper. He rakes his eyes over the spots he remembers to be her favorite. Maybe they’ve changed since he was last home. Maybe everything has changed since he was last home.

The thought causes a familiar pang to go off within him, poignant and powerful, but the quiet scuffle of paws against hardwood takes the edge off the guilt straightaway.

Chan finds the beginnings of a smile on his lips before she even rounds the corner, and when she does, well. His grin might as well split his face down the middle. He’s on his knees in seconds, outstretched hands rediscovering home in the puppy’s silky fur as she clambers onto him with blown pupils and excited pants.

His adoring coos of her name falter into muted laughter, which then fragments into a sob. His vision narrows to his precious girl and then starts to blur. When Berry climbs up to give his cheek a few happy licks, she’s fascinated by its saltiness.

You emerge from the bedroom a little over an hour later. Sleeping is hard enough when you’re jetlagged, and even harder when there’s only mattress where you remember Chan’s warm solidity to be. The fabric of Chan’s hoodie suppresses your vocalization of his name as you ungracefully pull it over your torso, still struggling to rouse your body from sleep.

Your beckon produces no response. You wrap a hand around the nearest door frame and peek your head into the living room, a little more alert now.

“Chan? Baby?”

You feel silly. How many visits has it been for you to still feel this nervous, wandering around Chan’s family home? Yet you undoubtedly are, whether because of your absentee boyfriend or that his whole family is a few walls away. You pad through the silent abode with mounting trepidation and intense care to not make any more sound than necessary.

Then you reach the family room and instantly come to a standstill, hands drifting to your sides, features deliquescing to a soft smile. 

Lying on the nearest couch is your boyfriend, head propped up on top of his elbow, his fluttering lashes and gently oscillating shoulders indicating that he’s asleep. You can’t see his face below his eyes, as he has his nose nuzzled into the Cavalier spaniel resting securely in his arms, snoring tacitly into his sleeve, slumbering as deeply as her human companion.

You’ve been stumbling upon Chan sleeping in unexpected places for the better part of two years now, but you still liquefy every time as if it’s the first. These are the moments, you’ve come to realize, when you can care for him in ways he would never let you while conscious: a lift of his laptop off his thighs, a brush of your lips against his hairline, a cardigan draped lightly over his back. These are the moments when you understand in full how far you’ve come together, for him to trust you with his exhaustion with such transparency, to be so vulnerable as to leave you with memories of him that he’ll never have.

Despite your prolonged experience, it’s hard to describe what exactly you’re feeling in this moment. The mere mention of Berry has always dissipated the shadows that veil his face, has always chased off the burdens that cling to his spine. How do you put it into words, seeing your happiness at his happiest?

It suddenly occurs to you that the window beside them is cracked open. That, and you spotted extra quilts in the top shelf of Chan’s closet last night.

Chan’s eyelids lift when he feels the gentle weight of a blanket fall upon his body; so do the corners of his lips, when the culprit materializes before him. Sitting on the edge of the couch, a hand hovering over his frame, face creased into a flinch.

“Sorry,” you whisper, closing the distance between your fingers and the curve of his neck. The pad of your thumb moves over his cheekbone like a willow branch skimming water. “I didn’t think that would wake you up.”

Both of you up, you mentally amend, seeing as Berry has noticed your presence and is wagging her tail with enough vigor for it to thump against Chan’s chest. He lets her wriggle out of his arms and into yours; you emit a noise of glee and gather her into you.

If only you had seen the expression he wears then, watching your eyes scrunch closed at the frenzied kisses she presses to your face. His first love and his very last.

“Don’t apologize,” he answers. “I’m the one who should be sorry for leaving you in bed, I just…”

His voice trails off, but he knows by the softness in your irises when they meet his that you already know.

You move like clockwork. Chan presses up into the back of the couch, the quilt’s edge lifted in wordless invitation. It is your chest that Berry burrows into this time, the top of her head sliding into the space between your chin and the sofa’s cushion. It is Chan’s chest that you’re folded into, the arms around your waist like the coziest of cabins in a sun-spattered wood. It is the back of your neck that he nuzzles his nose into, but not before he litters gossamer kisses across the expanse of skin, as if printing the notes to a lullaby he knows well.

Everything is warm, so warm, so right, and jetlag starts to feel like a distant trouble.

You open your mouth while teetering on the cusp of a dream.

“Baby?” 

He hums into you, listening.

“Always be happy, okay?”

You don’t notice the solitary tear that traverses the bridge of his nose, lands in the cotton of your hood, and dyes the bunched-up fabric a few shades darker. You don’t notice how his embrace around you tightens marginally, like how one’s eyes can’t help but find their dearest possession when the building’s on fire.

“Okay,” he whispers, and kisses your nape once more. Your and Chan’s eyes close together. Berry licks your chin again, then follows suit.

(Another hour later, Chan’s parents walk into the family room. They decide to go out to breakfast for fear of making too much noise in the kitchen, Chan’s mother blotting away tears as she ducks into shotgun, Chan’s father laughing at her sentimentality while blinking back his own.

Another few hours later, Hannah takes maybe fifty-some photographs of the triad of unmoving heaps occupying their couch. Then she grumbles at Berry for being dead asleep at eleven in the morning: “Those two arrived here from across the world yesterday. What’s your excuse?”)

🔖 (send an ask or reply to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・ @automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8

© 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘅 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support.

[distantdarlings]

OUT OF IT // t. nott

RATING: R / 4.4K WORDS

Theodore Nott x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested - based on this* Theodore Nott has been your best friend for years, but the closeness that you’ve gained throughout your friendship proves to be a little too intimate for the two of you to handle.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! PIV - no protection, fingering, light nipple play (f!receiving), dirty talk, tension, top!Theo, bottom!Reader, fem reader, language, super NOT proofread (lmk if I missed anything!)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Again (Sped Up) - Noah Cyrus

(Okay! So prep for this was super rushed bc I am about to go on vacation and just got done with a ton of work. I’m very sorry this is so quick and frazzled—hopefully you all can look past it. Thanks for your patience.)

- - -

The dimly-lit corridors always felt so cozy around this time of the evening. The skies outside were pitch black and the only form of light was the flickering, honeyed candles mounted to the stone walls every few paces or so. A rather clever spell had been cast on them to keep them from dripping wax all over the floors.

You combed your fingers through your hair, letting the strands slide across your skin. Keeping your hair pinned up always gave you just a bit of a headache, but being able to take it down after classes was a relief like no other. Your fingernails scratched lightly over your scalp in an attempt to reestablish some blood flow throughout.

After a particularly difficult day, you wanted nothing more than to eat a quick dinner and then crash into your bed. You felt as if you’d been going non-stop since waking up this morning with nothing but a bagel and some tea in your stomach for the whole day. You were sure if you spoke to a muggle physician, they’d have some choice words for you. You could practically feel the dark circle sprouting beneath your eyes.

You turned one final candle-adorned hallway before arriving in front of the Great Hall. You arrived on the later side of the allotted dinner times, but you knew the food would stay on the table until the last student who intended to eat arrived. That was part of Hogwart’s lovely charm.

A wave of warmth from the fireplace in the corner washed over you like a blanket. The sudden temperature change brought on a case of chills across your body. A small shudder flowed through you.

Your eyes scanned the table on the far end of the room—its dark wooden surface topped with deep green runners and dishes of food. Sitting alongside the farthest end of the table were the most familiar faces in the entire school. A gentle smile appeared across your lips at the sight of your friends chatting and laughing together.

You approached the table with the same smile painted on. As you drew closer and caught a few eyes, you raised your hand for a polite wave. All of a sudden, you were a bit more awake than you had been.

A set of bright eyes turned and locked with yours, prompting a jolt of energy through your chest. You settled in next to the owner of those special eyes, allowing him to wrap his arm around you and pull you in close.

“How was your day, tesoro?” Theo asked, pressing a small kiss to the side of your head.

“It was good. What about yours?” you asked. He shrugged and flashed you a smile. He’d never been one to talk much about his day.

You gathered some food onto your plate, Theo never taking his arm from around you even when he went back to eating.

“So, how was everyone’s day?” Enzo asked cheekily, eyeing the two of you. The young man in front of you had always had a deep insistence that you and Theodore Nott would be the perfect couple.

“You’re perfect for each other,” he would say. “You compliment each other so well, plus you’re already so comfortable around each other!” To which, you’d always laugh and shake your head, only mostly ignoring the fantasies that would twirl through your mind after the fact.

You were not going to date Theodore Nott. He was your best friend—had been for years.

“Fine, thanks,” you replied snarkily, popping some kind of berry into your mouth. It crunched between your teeth pleasantly, bleeding dark, sweet juice. It was unlike any other fruits you’d ever tasted, but you never knew what you were going to taste at Hogwarts.

“Mm, you’ve got a bit of—” Theo started. Still chewing on a bit of food, he ran the thumb of his free hand over the corner of your lip and promptly placed it against his tongue. He sucked the flavor off of his skin, then turned back to his dinner.

It didn’t much bother you, just ignited a bit of heat against the wall of your gut. Mattheo and Enzo, however, acted like they’d just seen someone hurl into the dinner bowls.

“Hello, friends!”

The group turned to face Pansy Parkinson. A dainty, but lean girl with striking black hair cut across her cheeks in sharp, even lines. She was truly one of your only female friends, considering how often you hung around a male party.

“Hey, Pans!” The group chorused, offering lazy waves and full-mouthed smiles. She smiled a bit and took a seat next to Enzo. She selected an apple from the bowl just before her and took a large chunk out of it, her pale eyes flicking around the table.

“Why are you all so quiet?” she mumbled around chunks of apple.

Enzo snuck his arm down beneath the table and discreetly bumped Pansy’s ribs with his elbow twice. They were sure you hadn’t seen their little gesture that translated to ‘I’ll fill you in later,’ but you most definitely had.

You struggled not to roll your eyes as you knew they’d gossip for hours about how you and Theo would be the perfect couple. Honestly, it used to bother you a bit, knowing your friends were talking about you behind your back. But with a quick and direct questioning of Enzo, you realized that they weren’t so much gossiping about you as they were rooting for you. Their support didn’t matter, though. You would not be dating Theodore Nott.

***

That night, as you had begun to settle in for bed, you found yourself thinking of Theo. You always thought of him around bed time. There was never really a time when your best friend wasn’t floating around your head, but at night, when you were recapping your day, you thought of him.

Theo had a nasty habit of popping into your head at the worst of times. During tests, holidays with your families, your dreams, and even when you…when you would get into bed and slide the velvet drapes hung around the frame shut, and let your hands slide beneath the covers.

You swallowed thickly at the thought. You would not be dating Theodore Nott. No matter if he did cross your mind when you touched yourself. You inhaled shakily and slid beneath the covers, ignoring the ache in your chest and the pulsing between your legs.

***

The next morning, you found yourself wandering down to the Great Hall just as you had done the night before for dinner.

And just like last night, Pansy, Enzo, Mattheo, and Theo were waiting for you just like they always were.

You slid into the space beside Theo and laid a sleepy head against his shoulder, letting a slightly dramatic huff out.

“Oh dear, looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Theo teased, placing a kiss to the top of your head. The audience members before you each made a different face at the show of affection. It never bothered you and it had seemingly never bothers Theo, but your friends had a habit of turning it into something it didn’t need to be.

“Yes, I did,” you sighed. “I barely slept a wink last night—I was tossing and turning all night.” Which was not a lie, but a bit of an understatement. Your sleep had been plagued with visions of Theo.

Theo looking at you, Theo kissing you, Theo touching you, Theo Theo Theo. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Theo looked down at you. You met his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“You’re clenching my arm really hard,” he chuckled, glancing down at your clutched fist around his arm. Oh. You quickly let go of him and apologized, embarrassed that he was having such a physical effect on you. You’d never been so distracted before. Sure, you’d had these thoughts of Theo before but it had never affected you in your everyday life, and certainly not in front of him.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Enzo interrupted. You turned and the three sitting across from you all seemed to be staring with concern.

“You seem out of it…,” Mattheo said, looking you up and down. Pansy voiced a small agreement.

“I’m fine,” you chuckled nervously. Theo placed a hand on your back and began to rub comforting circles around the center of your spine.

His touch against you was almost too much to bear.

You shied away from him and, forcing a smile, you got to your feet and quickly excused yourself. You knew if you looked back, all of them would still be staring at you but you needed to get away. Theo’s hand on your back was nearly enough to make you come undone.

These altered feelings of him had your mind running haywire.

You scurried off down the halls, twisting and turning, and avoiding any and everyone. The Slytherin dungeons weren’t that far from the Great Hall, but every step you took made the hallway feel as if it was elongating. It felt as though you would never reach it and as if you’d be walking for the rest of eternity, when you came upon the secret entrance.

You mumbled the password then slipped through the doorway.

Other than a few scattered students, there was practically no one in the common room. Hopefully you’d be able to get a bit of privacy upstairs in your bedroom.

Thoughts of Theo swirled around your head, threatening to fall in on you and drown you in your own desire. You had no idea why he was having such an effect on you.

Once you came upon the door to your dorm, you pushed through the door, slammed it quickly behind you, and collapsed onto your bed. A quick survey of the room told you that it was empty, except for your panting body.

You set yourself against your pillows, drawing your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. If you kept having such an issue, you were just going to have to avoid your friends for the next few days.

You refused to let any silly thoughts get in the way of your friendship with Theo. You’d had plenty of intrusive thoughts pertaining to him in the past. That didn’t mean you were in love with him or had any feelings for him other than platonic. People had weird thoughts about their friends all of the time—it didn’t make them true.

A knock on the door drove its way through your train of thought. A small jolt ran through your body at the sudden sound.

Assuming it was just one of your roommates, you invited them in. But one of your roommates did not walk through the door. Theo did.

Upon seeing him, you shot up to a sitting position almost immediately.

“Theo—I didn’t know it was you, I’d really like to be alone right now if—”

“That’s fine. I’ll leave as soon as you tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes were stern with his jaw clenched tightly, the muscle running across the bone rippling with every grind of his teeth. If you didn’t know this boy like the back of your hand, you might’ve mistook his concern for fury.

“Nothing’s wrong. Like I said, I’m just tired.”

“There’s something else,” he spoke. “I can tell. I’ve known you for nearly as long as I’ve been alive. Do you seriously think I can’t tell when something’s bothering you? You brushed away my hand, you—you barely looked at me earlier. You’ve never, ever turned me away like that—and if you decide you’re done with me, w-with us—that’s fine, but I deserve an explanation.” He stepped forward and left nothing but a few inches between the two of you. “I demand one.”

His ramble ended with deep, heaving breaths, his eyes staring down at you with longing and panic, and your saliva nearly getting caught in your throat. If you hadn’t closed your mouth that had been gaping open, you might’ve choked.

He stood so closely, you could feel his breaths on your chest. You attempted to avoid his eyes but it was as if he’d locked you to him. You couldn’t pull away.

“Theo, I’m not…done with you,” you exhaled shakily, “I always want you.”

His eyes softened a bit.

“Er, to be here with me as my friend!” you gasped out quickly, trying to ease the landing of the borderline confession you’d just spouted out.

His mouth dropped a bit as he seemed almost disappointed. Surely he didn’t feel the same way.

“What if I want to be here with you…but as more than just a friend,” he whispered. His deep voice rumbled beneath the pressure of his chapped lips. You couldn’t help but glance down at them briefly.

Once you had, his breath hitched in his throat just a bit, and you knew he’d seen you. You knew he’d seen your eyes dart from his deep, crystalline eyes to his barely parted lips. His tongue swiped over his bottom lip, just enough to grant them some hydration from how deeply the two of you had been breathing. A shudder passed through you at the sight.

“What’s…more than a friend?” you breathed, your voice wavering as you found it increasingly harder to pull your eyes away from his lips.

What a stupid thing to ask.

“I want to show you what it is,” he said. “I want you to feel what more than a friend is.”

You almost jumped out of your skin when the tips of his fingers brushed against your forearm. He seemed to be testing the waters and, though your reaction wasn’t exactly calm, must have decided that it was okay to move forward again. The fingers from the opposite hand brushed alongside your other arm.

“Let me show you what it feels like,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to lose anything we have because of one stupid mistake—because we couldn’t control ourselves,” you said, biting your lip nervously. You knew it was a cruel thing to say but it was the truth. Theo was the best thing that had ever happened to you, even before you couldn’t escape the feeling of his eyes on you.

“I won’t let anything change us,” he said. “Let me give you all of me before you decide you need some of me.”

Shakily, you pressed your lips together and nodded slowly. You were all his.

He smiled just a bit, a shaking breath pushing through his lips as if he’d been holding it for a while.

His hands were slow and patient, carefully mapping out every place he intended to touch and ensuring that it was completely okay with you before doing so.

Fingers traced over your hips and across your ribs through your uniform shirt. Even through the material, you felt his simulated touch eliciting chills across your stomach and arms. He smirked a bit at the way the small hairs there stood up.

“Can I touch your skin?” he asked, his eyes finding yours. You nodded in response.

At your immediate consent, he took no time in easing the hem of your shirt out from beneath your skirt. The tucked-in material had created indentations along your flesh from pressing into it all day. His fingers traced along the swirls of marks across your hips.

His hot skin on yours was nearly too much to handle—you swore you felt your knees buckle.

After the initial shyness of skin-on-skin, you could feel Theo’s hands splay wide on either side of your hips and move across your abdomen and all the way to the back. His fingers brushed across the strap of your bra just as a raging heat split your stomach in two.

“Can I?” he asked. Of course, you nodded.

With a second set of permissions, he felt even bolder. He sucked in a strong breath and, with quick and intense movements, brought his hands out from beneath your shirt and began to unfasten the buttons.

With each button he pulled open, he placed a hot kiss to the skin revealed. Your breaths came in deep heaves, your chest lurching towards him pathetically.

His tongue brushed over the cleavage split evenly by the pressure of your bra. With your chest nearly completely revealed to him, Theo’s eyes darkened severely.

His eyes found yours again. The two of you regained consciousness for only a moment to realize where you were and what you were doing, before you clasped your hands around his head and pulled his mouth to yours.

With a fiery desire, he slipped his hands beneath your thighs and, with subtle clumsiness, lifted you off the floor just enough to push you up against the stone wall in the corner.

A shy moan slipped from between your lips at the feeling of your body trapped in between him and the wall.

His lips devoured yours like a man starved. He drank up every drop of saliva granted by each slide of your tongue along his, never wasting a single bit. His hands gripped at you mercilessly—at your hips, your chest, your ass. It wasn’t long before your shirt was completely unbuttoned and slid messily down your shoulders and your shoes slipped off and kicked somewhere into the corner.

As the two of you took a moment to breath, noses pressed to each other and breaths intermingling, Theo contemplated his next moves.

“I want to take care of you,” he heaved, a bead of sweat sliding down his sharply detailed throat.

“Please… have me as you will,” you whined, hardly able to stand being away from him in these few seconds.

The sounds of your begging did nothing but urge him forward, cutting through every strap of restraint he may have still had. He fucking loved it.

“Let me make you feel good,” he whispered.

He slid his finger down across your neck, tightening his grip just barely around your throat, then sliding them down across your breasts. He kneaded the sore tissue there, reveling in the way your lips parted at the feeling.

His fingers slid over the metal clasp that sat squarely between your breasts, shining in the firelight, waiting for him to separate it.

Before touching your chest any further, he wrapped his hands around your thighs once more and wrapped them around his waist, balancing you against the wall behind you.

His fingers then returned to their post at your bra and effortlessly split the clasp. The pressure of your breasts popped the fabric apart, quickly revealing your chest to the boy before you.

He moaned at the sight of your gorgeous chest and could not resist from placing his lips around each nipple, swirling his tongue around them perfectly. Your head fell back against the wall, your hands clutching at this hair, your legs wrapped around his body.

“You’re so perfect—gonna make you feel so good,” he mumbled.

His hands and lips reluctantly separated from your chest and pulled you away from the wall for just a moment. He walked you over to the recession in the wall where the windowsill waited for your body weight.

The drapes were pulled together but you imagined that you wouldn’t be so angry if they weren’t.

Theo set you down against the cool stone and slid your hips against him.

With no regard for what you were going to do for your next day of classes, he roughly split your tights to reveal the bottoms beneath.

He let out a moan at the sight of you—you were better than he’d ever imagined.

Flipping your skirt up, he traced a single, trained finger over the slit of fabric covering the most sensitive part of your body. You let out a wavering moan at the sensation, gripping onto his shoulders tightly.

“Please, Theo, no more teasing,” you groaned, sliding your hips closer to his. The motion pressed your core against his, creating a type of friction that was more than delicious. The both of you paused and shuddered against each other’s mouth.

If Theo had any restraint left in his body, it was this that destroyed it.

He slid a finger beneath the material of your bottoms and slid them to the side, revealing you to the cool air. You shuddered a bit at the feeling, not prepared for the sudden change in temperature.

He traced his fingers along your folds again, collecting slicks of moisture along them. You could barely keep up with his pace, not sure whether to moan or cry or beg for more.

Once soaked enough, he slid a finger into you, allowing you to stretch around it. You cried out to the night air, clutching at his shirt like you might slip away from this world if he kept easing you open just as he was.

There were blinks of time where he’d slip another finger in just beside the other, stretching you farther than you’d ever been before, but you could hardly grasp where you were in time and space. All you could feel, think, smell, hear, taste was Theodore Nott.

When years had passed and he’d built you up to your climax twice already, he decided that he was ready to give you all of him.

The layer of sweat across your body and cloud of exhaustion that plagued your mind seemed to be no obstacle for a still very wired Theo. He was ready to fuck himself into you until you were begging for mercy. He’d been waiting for this for years.

“Turn over for me, sweetheart,” he said lovingly, a stark contrast to the brutality with which he’d worked you apart.

Slow-moving from exhaustion but still eager for more of his touch, you forced yourself onto your stomach. Your hands gripped onto the drapes for some sense of purchase—hopefully they wouldn’t collapse down around the two of you, revealing both of your bodies to the world.

When the rustling of his clothing and the clinking of his belt hit your ears, the entire lower half of your body twinged in anticipation. You gasped lowly as his hands slipped beneath your skirt, slowly smoothing his fingers over the fabric of your bottoms before gripping them and sliding them down your legs.

He allowed you to step out of them before he pushed you back up against the stone and slid himself across your entrance. You sucked in a breath sharply at the sensation, your fingers digging into the canvas drapes so tightly they burned white around the knuckles.

One hand gripped your bare hips while the other slowly guided himself into you all the way to the hilt. The slow stretch he had provided you before was nothing compared to the fire burning below now. Your eyes clenched shut, bursts of tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Breathe, bella,” he groaned softly as he allowed you to adjust while refraining from going as fast and as hard as he could.

It took only a moment before you asked him to move, and begged him to claim you fully. And then he was controlling every inch of what you received, ruthlessly, yet lovingly.

The silence of the room was filled with his breathless groans, your stuttering words, and the force of his hips hitting yours. You’d hardly be able to stand if it weren’t for his strong hands holding your hips up, keeping you just where he wanted you for each force of his hips.

With each passing second, you found your grip on the fabric above you becoming weaker and your ability to hold yourself up diminishing. With the pace he’d set, you’d be finishing any minute and he knew it.

And by the way his speed stuttered every so often and his hands gripped onto the fabric of your skirt, you figured he couldn’t be far behind you.

Your naked breasts lightly scraped against the stone with every push from behind, rubbing the sensitive skin just enough to push you over your edge and crash within yourself. You cried out from the force of the pleasure that hit you.

As soon as you had managed to finish against him, the tightening of your muscles tipped him over the cliff side he stood atop, forcing him to the waves below.

He worked himself through his climax before slowing to a stop and collapsing against you. The sweat on your skin mingled together, creating a hot seal between your bodies. You could hardly catch your breath between the windowsill pressed against you and the strong man behind you.

“Theo,” you whined. “Get off…”

He responded with a huff and a moment’s silence, before pushing off of you. Your skin separated with a sticky pull.

He gently pulled you away from the window, slid your messed skirt down and helped you slide into your bed. He slid in next to you for just a moment.

“I think I’m about to pass out and sleep for the next 48 hours,” you chuckled lazily.

“Would you say I gave enough of myself?” he smirked, brushing a strand away from your forehead.

“I’d say it was more than enough,” you said, rolling your eyes at his confidence.

“Well, I’m yours anytime you want me.” He pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead, before getting to his feet and beginning to redress.

“No,” you fussed. “Why are you leaving?”

“Because it’s the middle of the day and I’m missing my classes,” he laughed, tightening his belt back to its proper place.

“I am too—just skip with me today,” you begged.

“No, darling, I’ve got to get back to class. I’ve got too many assignments due today. I’ll let them know you won’t be making it in today, though.”

“What are you going to tell them if they ask?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Mm, I’ll let them know that you had a rough morning and you’re gonna sleep it off.”

He smirked meanly before slipping through the dorm door and leaving you in silence, bundled up in your bed and nearly too tired to even try and get ready for classes.

One day off wouldn’t be too big of a deal.

- - -

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[jenosbliss]

pairing. agent!reader x agent!haechan | genre. enemies to lovers | wc. 2.2k | warnings. none except mentions of gunshots | requested. here

You always thought Haechan was more of a problem than a solution.

From the moment you were paired together as partners in the agency, you had clashed. Where you were precise and calculated, he was reckless and unpredictable. He had a smirk that could infuriate you within seconds and a habit of throwing out snide comments at the worst possible moments.

He was everything you despised in a partner. Every mission with him felt like a battle—except instead of fighting the enemy, you were fighting the urge to throttle him.

For three years, you’d been stuck with him—on every mission, in every briefing, and in every shared debriefing room. Every single time, he managed to both annoy and outperform you. And you hated it.

No, you hated him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The truth was harder to face. Haechan wasn’t just annoying—he was good. Too good. He was brilliant under pressure, and no matter how much he mocked you or teased you, he always had your back when it counted. That might have been the most infuriating thing about him.

But liking him? Admitting that you admired him, even for a second? That would never happen. Not if you could help it.

He thrived on pushing your buttons, from his arrogant smirks to his snide remarks. It didn’t matter how high-stakes the mission was; Haechan always found a way to get under your skin. And yet, for some reason, your superiors kept pairing you together. You balance each other out, they’d said. Your focus and his resourcefulness make you an excellent team.

You didn’t see it that way. To you, Haechan was a liability. A walking, talking headache.

But tonight? Tonight was going to test every boundary you had.

The mission was supposed to be straightforward: infiltrate a secure facility, retrieve classified intel, and get out undetected. Simple. Clean. A mission you could’ve completed on your own if the agency didn’t insist on sending Haechan with you.

The two of you had argued in the car on the way there, as usual.“You’re not taking point,” you said firmly, checking your weapon.

“Why not?” Haechan leaned back in his seat, his legs spread lazily as if the mission was just another stroll through the park. “Because you’re reckless,” you snapped. “And you’re uptight,” he shot back, grinning. “We’re a perfect match.” Your jaw clenched. “You’ll follow my lead, or I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupted, leaning closer. “Yell at me again? Go ahead. It’s kind of hot when you talk back.” You glared at him, your heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to examine. “Inform Jaemin to be ready with the car at the end of the third alley.” You muttered getting out of the car and Haechan just smirked following your suit. “Already did Princess” 

God! You absolutely hated him.

The facility’s interior was cold and sterile, the hum of machinery filling the silence as the two of you navigated the dimly lit hallways. Your footsteps were soft, your breaths measured as you scanned for signs of movement.

“The server room should be up ahead,” you whispered, glancing at the map on your wrist display.

Haechan nodded, his eyes darting around as he took in the surroundings. Despite his constant teasing, you couldn’t deny that he was good at what he did. His movements were fluid, his reflexes sharp, and his ability to stay calm under pressure was something you begrudgingly admired.

As you approached the server room, you stopped, holding up a hand to signal him to halt. A security camera was mounted on the wall, its lens sweeping back and forth.

“Wait for it,” you murmured, your heart pounding as you timed its movement. The moment the lens turned away, you darted forward, disabling the camera with a quick tap on your wrist display.

“Impressive,” Haechan said as he followed. “Almost like you know what you’re doing.” You ignored him, walking ahead.

“I don’t like this,” Haechan said, his gaze darting down the hallway. “You don’t like anything,” you shot back. “Yeah, well, something’s off,” he said, his voice tighter now.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the sound of boots echoed in the distance. Haechan stiffened yanking you back. You stumbled into him, your back colliding with his chest.

“Get behind me,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

“What—”

“Get. Behind. Me.”

Something in his tone made you obey without question.

A group of guards appeared at the end of the hallway, their weapons raised. Before you could even process what was happening, Haechan stepped forward, his gun already aimed.

The next few seconds were a blur of gunfire and movement. Haechan was quick, his aim precise as he took down each guard with terrifying efficiency. You watched, frozen, as he moved with the kind of confidence and control you rarely saw in the field.

When the last guard fell, he turned to you, his breathing heavy. “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning you for injuries.

You nodded, your throat dry. “I’m fine.”He stepped closer, his gaze intense. “Don’t scare me like that again.” You blinked, taken aback by the raw emotion in his voice. “I—”

“Let’s go,” he said, cutting you off as he grabbed your hand again.

You thought you were safe when you reached the control room, but the moment you stepped inside, you knew something was wrong. It felt quite too easy to retrieve the intel. The server room was small and unassuming, its walls lined with blinking lights and rows of humming machinery. You worked quickly, plugging in your device to extract the intel.

Haechan stood by the door, his weapon drawn, his body tense as he kept watch. The playful smirk he usually wore was gone, replaced by a look of intense focus.

“How much longer?” he asked, his voice low. “Two minutes,” you replied, your eyes glued to the screen. “That’s two minutes too long,” he muttered.

You ignored him, your fingers flying over the keyboard. The progress bar crawled forward agonizingly slowly, each second feeling like an eternity. The moment there was green ‘completed’ pop up on the screen you smiled quickly removing your device as you whispered to Haechan “Done.” He nodded and carefully stepped out of the server room.

Then there was it…

The first shot rang out, shattering the silence and kicking your instincts into overdrive. Haechan moved like he was made for chaos, his body a blur of precision and control. He fired with deadly accuracy, each shot taking down another guard as you covered his back. But there were too many.

“Go left!” he shouted, shoving you toward an open corridor. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, his smirk returning despite the gunfire. “Just don’t slow me down.”

You didn’t have time to argue. You sprinted down the corridor, your heart hammering in your chest. But you didn’t get far.

A guard stepped out of the shadows, grabbing you from behind and slamming you against the wall. Your gun clattered to the ground as his grip tightened around your arm.

“Touch her, and you’re dead,” Haechan’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. The guard hesitated, and in that split second, Haechan took the shot. The man crumpled to the floor, his grip on you loosening as you stumbled forward.

“You okay?” Haechan asked, his hands steadying you. “I’m fine,” you said, your voice shaking. “You don’t look fine,” he said, his gaze scanning you for injuries.

“Can we save the commentary for later?” you snapped, stepping away from him.

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Stay close,” he said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. Haechan’s grip on your wrist was firm as he led you through the labyrinth of hallways, dodging guards and weaving between crates and machinery. Your heart was pounding so loudly you could barely hear the shouts behind you. Suddenly you saw more guards marching in your direction. Haechan shoved you behind a pillar, his body shielding yours as he fired back. The heat of him against you, the sheer intensity in his gaze as he protected you—it made your breath hitch in a way that had nothing to do with fear. “Stay behind me,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos.“No,” you said, your own weapon raised. “I can handle myself.”

“Damn it, Y/N!” he snapped, his eyes blazing. “Why can’t you just let me protect you for once?”

“Because I don’t need you to!” you shouted back. “Yell at me again,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “and I’ll give you a real reason to scream.”

The tension between you was palpable, even in the midst of the fight. But there was no time to dwell on it. As he took the guards down you both moved ahead finding a potential exit. The two of you burst through a set of double doors and onto the roof, the cool night air hitting you like a slap in the face. The city lights stretched out below, a dizzying reminder of how high up you were. “This was your plan?” you asked, your voice tinged with panic as you looked around. “There’s no way down from here!”

“Relax,” Haechan said, pulling a grappling device from his belt. “I’ve got it covered.”

“You’re kidding,” you said, eyeing the device warily. He smirked, his confidence infuriating as always. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” Before you could argue, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you. You spun around, your weapon raised, as more guards spilled onto the roof.

“We’re out of time,” Haechan said, tossing you the grappling hook. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you demanded, your voice rising. “Use it to get out of here,” he said, firing at the advancing guards. “And leave you behind?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promised. You attached the hook to the edge of the roof, your heart pounding as you prepared to rappel down the side of the building. he drop was dizzying, the ground far below illuminated by the glow of streetlights.

The sounds of gunfire faded as you neared the ground, replaced by the rush of blood in your ears. When your feet finally touched solid ground, you looked up, your chest tightening as you saw Haechan still on the roof, firing at the remaining guards.

“Haechan!” you shouted, your voice breaking. Moments later, he secured his own grappling hook and leapt off the roof, the rope unspooling as he descended rapidly.

Your breath caught as he landed beside you, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and dirt.

“Miss me?” he asked, flashing you a tired grin. “Shut Up” you said, your voice trembling with a mix of relief and anger.

The two of you didn’t stop running until you were several blocks away, getting inside the car Jaemin had already parked. Without wasting a second Haechan drove off, getting away from the chasing guards as soon as he could. The car ride was silent, as he drove to the secret headquarters of the security agency. You gave your superior the intel you both somehow managed to retrieve. “I can’t believe this,” you muttered, breaking the silence as you turned around the corner and into an empty hallway after exiting your superior’s office.

“Believe what?” he asked, leaning against a crate. “This,” you said, gesturing around the room. “Every mission with you turns into a disaster. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to work with someone who doesn’t take anything seriously?”

He frowned, his playful demeanor fading. “You think I don’t take this seriously?”

“Obviously not,” you said, turning to face him. “All you ever do is joke around and make everything harder for everyone else.” His jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. “You think this is easy for me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand next to you every day, knowing you hate me?”

You froze, his words catching you off guard. “What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice softer now. He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it,” he said, turning away.

“No,” you said, stepping closer. “What do you mean?” He exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. “Do you hate me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low.

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You hesitated, your heart pounding. “I… I don’t know,” you admitted.

He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours. “All I’ve ever wanted,” he said quietly, “is for you to trust me. To look at me the way you look at anyone else. All I want is for you to see me.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, the vulnerability in his voice breaking through every wall you’d built between you.

“Haechan…”

Before you could finish, he stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was fiery, desperate, filled with all the anger, frustration, and unspoken emotion that had been simmering between you for so long. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as you tangled your fingers in his hair, giving as good as you got.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together.

“This changes everything,” you whispered. “Maybe,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “But at least now, we’re on the same side.”

The mission might have been a disaster, but for the first time, you didn’t mind.

masterlist. nct dream | nct 127 | wayv navigation.

[tinydefector]

Who's portal is that.

DC X DP X Spider-Man

Just a silly little thought I thought of becuase I thought it be fun putting these two together in having to deal with being in gotham city.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: swearing, hints to Constantine being a slut

NEXT

________________

The night sky over Gotham City was shrouded in heavy clouds, casting the city in an eerie glow. A faint green shimmer flickered in the distance as a figure swung gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, keeping pace with a glowing flying one beside him. Behind them, a dark shadow leapt from gargoyle to gargoyle. The faint whoosh of a grappling hook shot past them.  

"Do you mind! not glowing like a freaking neon sign?" Spider-Man hissed, flipping mid-air to avoid a batarang that whizzed past his head.  "Excuse me," Danny shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm, " you're swing around in a bright red-and-blue costume like a walking target!"  

“First off,” Peter replied, landing on a rooftop and immediately launching himself back into the air, “it’s called branding. Second, this is your fault!” Danny stopped mid-flight to glare at him, hands glowing with ectoplasmic energy. "Oh, sure, because I totally wanted to get sucked into a random vortex that dumped me into this hellscape, of all places! This city's like a goth kid's fever dream!"  

"Hey, I’m not judging your aesthetic preferences,” Peter quipped, swinging from building to building, his webbing snapping taut as he narrowly avoided a batarang that embedded itself in the brick beside him. "You know," he called out to the white-haired kid flying beside him, "I feel like you're not appreciating my quick thinking here!"

Danny, glowing faintly with ectoplasmic energy, shot him a glare as he zipped past Spider-Man. "Quick thinking? Are you a complete moron? Who the hell sees a swirling green portal and thinks, ‘Hey, this looks fun! Let’s dive right in!’?" Peter shot a web at a nearby gargoyle and gracefully vaulted over a rooftop. "Okay, in my defense, I thought it was one of Doctor Strange’s portals! You know, the guy with the magic hands? They’re usually pretty safe! Emphasis on usually."

Danny groaned in frustration, narrowly phasing through a fire escape ladder before materializing again. "Well, congratulations, genius. You didn’t just jump into some magic hula hoop!"

“Yeah, because this is so much calmer than my usual Thursdays,” Peter quipped, twisting mid-air. "Besides, if the portals are so dangerous, maybe slap a warning label on them next time, huh? Something like, ‘Danger: Do Not Touch, May Cause Interdimensional Headaches.’ ”

Danny rolled eyes, his frustration mounting as he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, sure, like I planned for some random spider-themed idiot to get sucked into the summoning mess I got dragged into!. This is totally what I wanted today.”

“Hey, watch it, Casper,” Peter shot back, landing on a rooftop before somersaulting off the edge. "I didn’t exactly ask for this either. One second, I’m swinging through Queens, and the next, I’m in Emo New York’s. Seriously, does no one here believe in streetlights?"

“Don’t call me Casper!” Danny snapped, his glow intensifying as he blasted through an old billboard. “Neither of us want to be in a Tim Burton fever dream!” Peter flipped onto a water tower, perching casually for a moment as he fired a web at a pursuing caped hero, snagging his grappling hook mid-swing. “Hey, I don’t know who Tim Burton is, but I’m gonna assume that was an insult.” He glanced at Danny. “Also, can we talk about your powers? Because I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’re breaking every law of physics I know.”

“Yeah, well, so are your webs!” Danny shot back, “How do they even work? What’s the tensile strength? Are they organic or synthetic? Because if they’re organic, that’s really nasty.” Peter gasped in mock offense. “I’ll have you know my webbing is a marvel of scientific engineering! I made it myself, thank you very much. And it’s not gross—unlike your weird glowing hands. What even is that, radioactive ghost goo?”

______________

 

Elsewhere…

John Constantine paced rapidly across the creaky wooden floor of a dimly lit room, the flickering glow of candles casting jagged shadows on the walls. His trench coat swayed as he moved, his muttered curses barely audible over the sound of heavy rain pelting the windows. The smell of burnt herbs and incense filled the air, but none of it calmed the rising panic twisting in his gut.

"This is bad. This is really bad," Constantine muttered, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair. His other hand clutched a half-empty flask of whiskey, which he occasionally sipped from between frantic incantations and muttered expletives. "Bloody cultists. Fuckinn idgits. Why can’t anyone leave well enough alone?!"

The summoning circle etched into the floor before him still glowed faintly with green energy, the remnants of whatever dark ritual had taken place before he had managed to intercept it. but he could feel the unmistakable, oppressive energy lingering in the room. It was heavy, suffocating, and distinctly ectoplasmic. 

The cult in question had been small, disorganized, and apparently suicidal. They’d tried to summon Pariah Dark, the ruler of the Infinite Realms, a being of unfathomable power and danger. Constantine had assumed they’d fail, as most cults do. But no. Somehow, the idiots had pulled it off. Or at least, partially. The problem was, Constantine had no idea if the ritual had worked as intended. He doubted it. If Pariah had been fully unleashed, Gotham would already be a smoking crater, and Constantine would probably be dead, considering the Ghost King owned a significant chunk of his soul. Still, the energy of the summoning lingered, and Constantine could feel it spreading across Gotham like a thick fog. Something had gone wrong, and that was almost worse than it going right.

"You bloody morons," Constantine hissed, kicking over an empty chair. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Summoning the Ghost King? The fuckin Ghost King?" He paused, taking another swig from his flask as he leaned against the table cluttered with occult books and ritual tools. His fingers drummed against the wood as he thought.

Constantine had dealt with many terrifying beings in his time, but Pariah Dark was one He wished to put behind him and never talk about again. It had taken the combined might of the Realms to imprison him along with Constantine having a small part in distracting the ghost in the first place, and there was no way Constantine or anyone else wanted him walking free.

"Right," Constantine muttered, "Time to call in the cavalry."

---

Wayne Manor - The Batcave

Bruce Wayne was at the Batcomputer, sifting through a series of reports about strange energy spikes across Gotham. The spikes had started a few hours ago, coinciding with sightings of two unusual figures who were dodging his team with surprising skill. One seemed to fly—glow, the other swung through the city with an agility that rivaled even Nightwing’s. Whoever they were, they didn’t belong in Gotham. And Bruce wanted answers.

The comm in his cowl buzzed. Before Alfred’s voice came through. “Master Wayne, you have a rather… agitated call coming through. It’s Constantine.”

Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “Constantine?”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred replied dryly. “He sounds, as usual, like he’s moments from catastrophe.”

Bruce frowned. Constantine rarely called unless things were dire. “I'll handle it Alfred” He tapped a button on the console, patching the call through. “Constantine,” Batman grunted. “What is it?”

“Bats! About bloody time” Constantine’s voice came through, frantic and hurried. “ Alright, listen to me very carefully, mate, because we’ve got a massive problem on our hands. And by ‘our hands,’ I mean your city.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. His voice dropping lower “What did you do?.”

Constantine “ i aint done shit!. There was a cult, don’t ask me why, cultists are always bloody morons and they decided to summon the Ghost King.”

“The Ghost King?” Bruce repeated, his voice calm but edged with suspicion. “What is that? Some kind of demon?”

“Worse,” Constantine said. “The Ghost King is the ruler of the Infinite Realms. A proper deity. The kind of being that makes demons piss themselves. His name’s Pariah Dark, and he’s the nastiest ghost you’ll ever meet. World-ending levels of bad. And here’s the kicker: I think the sod’s been unleashed on Gotham.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s true, why isn’t the city in ruins?”

“I said I think,” Constantine snapped. “Something’s wrong. The energy’s all… off. It’s definitely the Ghost King’s signature, but it’s not as destructive as it should be. That’s the only reason we’re still breathing. But trust me, mate: if he’s here, it’s only a matter of time before things go sideways. Its either His powers have been drained which if that's the case we are on limited time”

Bruce leaned back slightly, his mind racing. “What do you need from me?”

Constantine sighed. “First, I need you to avoid pissing him off. If Pariah Dark’s awake, the last thing you want to do is fight him. Second, I need access to every bit of information you’ve got on what’s been happening in Gotham tonight. Weird sightings, strange energy spikes, anything that looks remotely supernatural.” Bruce’s fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, pulling up data. “There have been reports of two unidentified individuals moving through Gotham. One appears to be glowing. The other swings on some kind of webbing. My team’s been tracking them.”

Constantine groaned. “Bloody brilliant. Bats i could kiss you for being the Paranoid fuck you are, The glowing one. That’s the Ghost King. And if someone’s with him, well, they’re probably just as much of a problem.” Bruce’s voice remained steady. “You’re certain?”

“Of course I’m bloody certain!” Constantine snapped. “I can feel it. The energy’s radiating off him like a bloody beacon. I’d bet my soul on it.” There was a beat of silence. “Oh, wait,” Constantine muttered bitterly. “He already owns part of that.”

Bruce’s hands paused, brows pressing together before he spoke again. “Explain.”

Constantine sighed heavily. “Long story short? I owe the Ghost King a bit of my soul. It’s… complicated. But if he’s here, he might decide to call in that debt. And if he does, I’m royally fucked. That’s why I need to trap him.”

Bruce sits back in his chair with a sigh and he tries to relax into his seat. “And how do you plan to trap him?”

“That’s the tricky bit,” Constantine admitted. “It’s not like trapping a regular ghost or demon. Pariah Dark’s power is off the charts. I’ll need a bloody arsenal of spells, relics, a fuck tone of salt, rosemary, dragons blood, blood blossoms and aloe vera and if you’ve got one lying around a miracle.”

“I don’t deal in miracles,” Bruce said flatly. “But I can help.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing,” Constantine muttered. “Just don’t let your bloody sidekicks get too close to him. If they piss him off, we’re all dead.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Understood.”

__________

Peter stopped pacing and crossed his arms, giving Danny a look. "You know, you’ve been pretty chill about the whole ‘I’m the king of ghosts, and I got summoned by some random cult’ thing. Is this, like, a normal Tuesday for you?"

Danny snorted. "Look, when you’ve spent the past two years fighting evil ghosts, rogue hunters, and the occasional interdimensional tyrant, this kind of thing doesn’t even crack the top ten weirdest days I’ve had." Peter raised an eyebrow. "Top ten weirdest, huh? That’s impressive. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or concerned."

"Little bit of both," Danny muttered. Peter leaned against a metal pole, watching as Danny’s glow flickered for a moment before dimming again. Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, so, if we’re gonna figure this out, we probably shouldn’t be walking around looking like, well…" He gestured to their costumes. "This."

Danny glanced down at himself, still in his black-and-white ghost suit. "Yeah, you’ve got a point. As much as I hate to admit it, looking like a glow stick might attract the wrong kind of attention." Peter smirked. "Yeah, you’re a little conspicuous. And I’m not exactly subtle in red and blue spandex. But i can get away with saying its a cosplay"

Danny rolled his eyes and stood up, brushing himself off. "Fine. Hang on." He took a deep breath, and in a flash of light, his ghostly suit disappeared, replaced by a simple black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His white hair and glowing green eyes shifted back to his human appearance black hair and bright blue eyes. He looked younger, smaller, and far less intimidating.

Peter froze, staring at him. "Wait. WHAT?" Danny blinked at him, confused. "What? What’s the big deal?" Peter gestures wildly. "You—you just changed! Like, full-on transformation! You looked older, taller, and now—" He pointed at Danny, his voice higher in disbelief. "Now you look like a teenager."

Danny crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "I am a teenager. I’m sixteen."

Peter’s jaw dropped. "Sixteen?! You’re SIXTEEN?"

"Yeah, what about it?" Danny asked, clearly unimpressed with Peter’s reaction.

Peter ran a hand through his hair. "You’re telling me you’re sixteen, and you’re the king of ghosts. At sixteen, I was just trying to survive high school, and here you are ruling entire dimensions?"

Danny smirked, rather amused at Peter's panic over the situation. "Life comes at you fast, huh?"

Peter groaned, shaking his head and leaning back as he remembered what he had recently been through. "Man, I thought I was stressed out at your age."

Danny shrugged. “You’re not that much older than me"

Peter hesitated, scratching the back of his head. "Well, technically, I’m twenty-two. But thanks to a little thing called the Blip, I kind of skipped five years of my life. So I guess I’m still seventeen in a way? It’s… complicated."

Danny stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Wow. Okay. So we’re both freaks of time. Good to know." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled $50 bill. "Anyway, I’ve got about fifty bucks on me. Not exactly enough to solve this mess, but it’s something. Wanna get burgers?"

---

Constantine was cursing his luck as he stepped out of a cab in Gotham's East End, his trench coat already soaked from the rain. He could feel the Ghost King’s energy growing fainter, which meant either the being was hiding or his powers were finally stabilizing. Either way, Constantine knew he didn’t have much time. He lit a cigarette and pulled out his phone, dialing Batman again.

"Any updates, Bats?" Constantine asked, taking a long drag. "Because if the Ghost King’s energy gets any more stable, it’ll be nearly impossible to trap him."

Batman’s voice came through, calm and level. "We’ve located an individual matching the energy signals." Constantine let out a sigh of relief. "Good. don’t engage. If you make the wrong move, you could end up pissing him off. And trust me, you don’t want to see this guy pissed."

"I don’t plan on engaging unless it’s necessary," Batman replied. "But if this Ghost King is as dangerous as you say, we need to act quickly." Constantine exhaled a plume of smoke. "Right. Just keep your distance, and I’ll be there soon. We’re gonna need a bloody miracle to pull this off."

When Constantine had finally found Batman they stepped into the abandoned warehouse, the bats cape billowing slightly as he moved through the shadows. Behind him, Constantine followed, cigarette in hand and a look of barely concealed panic on his face. The remnants of ectoplasmic energy still lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable.

“This is it,” Constantine muttered, glancing around the room. “He was here. I can feel it.”

Batman’s sharp eyes swept the area, noting the disturbed dust on the floor and the faint. “They’ve moved on.” Constantine cursed under his breath, flicking ash onto the floor. “Bloody hell. I was hoping we’d catch them before they bolted.”

“They’ll be back,” Batman said, his voice calm and measured as he moves around looking at the slight setup in the corner. “This isn’t a random hideout. They’ll return.”

Constantine raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you so sure, mate?”

Batman glanced at him, his expression unreadable under the cowl. “The boy He’ll need to rest soon, and this place is familiar, they have already scooped it out. They’ll come back.” Constantine sighed. “Alright, fine. But we can’t just sit around twiddling our thumbs. If the Ghost King realizes I’m here, he’s going to come after me. And I don’t fancy another round with him.”

Batman ignored the comment, his mind already working. “We’ll set the trap,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Constantine gave him a skeptical look. “You’re planning on trapping the bloody Ghost King with what, a net? This isn’t some garden-variety ghost, mate. He’s a deity. You’re gonna need more than a fancy grappling hook to take him down. Like i said a fuck tone of Salt” Constantine said grabbing the bag of it he had brought. 

“I’m aware,” Batman replied, moving to examine the scorch marks on the floor. “That’s why you’re here. You said you had a plan.” Constantine muttered something under his breath, then reluctantly pulled a small, ornate box from his coat pocket. It was covered in intricate runes, glowing faintly in the dim light. “This,” he said, holding it up, “is a containment box designed to trap spiritual entities. It won’t hold him forever, but it’ll buy us time. If we can get him near it, plus the other stuff I've bought too. It might, just might be enough to contain him long enough so i can make a deal with him or maybe banish him back to the realms”

Batman studied the box for a moment, then nodded. “Set it up. I’ll handle the rest.”

Constantine smirked. “You’re awfully confident for a bloke with no magical experience. Alright, Bats. Let’s hope your preparation is enough to stop an interdimensional ghost king. Because if it’s not, we’re both screwed.”

------

Danny and Peter had bolted from the diner, the stolen burgers clutched tightly in their hands as they tore down the wet streets. The cashier’s shouts faded into the background, drowned out by the sound of their pounding footsteps and the rain slicking the pavement. Peter had been mid-bite when Danny grabbed him by the arm.

“Whoa—hey! I was eating that!” Peter protested, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel and half stuffed with the burger. “Yeah, and you can finish it while we’re not being chased!” Danny snapped, his free hand glowing faintly green as he phased the two of them through a chain-link fence. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Peter huffed, clinging to his burger like it was a lifeline. “I could’ve handled it, you know. escape artist here!” “Right,” Danny muttered, dragging him through an alley. “Because nothing says ‘stealth’ like a guy in red and blue spandex with mustard on his face.”

“Hey—!”

Before Peter could argue further, Danny pulled him into his ghostly form, phasing them through a solid brick wall and into the backstreets. They were invisible and untouchable now, slipping through Gotham’s shadows like ghosts—because, well, one of them was a literal ghost.

“Just get us back to the warehouse,” Peter grumbled, licking ketchup off his hand. “I’m starving, and this burger is the only good thing that’s happened to me all day.”

When Danny phased them back into the warehouse, the first thing Peter noticed was the eerie silence. The second thing he noticed was the faint hum of energy vibrating in the air. His Spider-Sense screamed at him, but before he could say a word, Danny froze mid-step.

The glowing green of Danny’s ghost aura intensified, and in a flash of light, his human form flickered away. In its place stood… something else. Peter’s jaw dropped as he stumbled back, clinging to his half eaten burger. Danny or whoever this was didn’t look like the snarky teenager he’d been running around with. This was something entirely otherworldly. 

Danny’s form was taller now, his presence almost overwhelming. His white hair glimmered like freshly fallen snow, cascading down to his shoulders, and his eyes burned an unearthly, glowing green, deeper and more intense than before. An ice-like crown floated just above his head along with the floating aurora shimmering, while a cape of flickering starlight billowed behind him, even though there was no wind. His pale skin seemed to glow softly, and across his cheeks and arms were faint freckles that looked like constellations.

He didn’t look evil. If anything, he looked eternal. Ancient. Like something out of a fantasy novel, the kind of being that could step off the cover of a book as a god or a king. But Danny didn’t seem to notice or care. His glowing form flickered slightly as his eyes dropped to the burger that had been in his hands, landing unceremoniously on the floor inside the glowing summoning circle that now caged him.

“No…” Danny whispered, his voice reverberating unnaturally, as if layered with echoes from another world. His gaze locked onto the destroyed burger, his expression a mix of disbelief and betrayal. “No, not the burger.” He dropped to his knees, staring mournfully at the fallen burger. “I was so hungry,” he moaned, his voice still layered with that eternal echo. “It was right there. I could taste it.”

The Dark Knight’s imposing figure emerged from the darkness, his cape sweeping behind him as he approached the summoning circle. Constantine followed close behind, looking both impressed and deeply concerned by the glowing, ethereal figure trapped in the sigils. “Bloody hell,” Constantine muttered, staring at Danny. “That’s him. That’s the Ghost King.”

“Excuse me?” Peter growled, his voice rising with agitation. His Spider-Sense was still buzzing like mad, and the fact that Danny was trapped in some kind of magical cage was making his blood boil. “You did this? You trapped him?” Batman’s piercing gaze shifted to Peter, who was still clutching his burger like a feral dog protecting its last meal. Peter stepped in front of the glowing circle as if to shield Danny. “He’s not dangerous! He’s just a kid!”

Constantine snorted. “A kid? That thing in there’s no kid, mate. That’s the Ghost King. Ruler of the Infinite Realms. A being with enough power to wipe this city off the map if he wanted to.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, Before Constantine or Batman could react, Peter crouched low, his body tensing like a spring. His mask was still off, and his expression was fierce, like a wild animal protecting its territory. He lunged forward, aiming a web at Constantine.

“Oi, what the hell—” Constantine yelped as he rolls to get away from the web. Peter didn’t stop there. He fired another web at the edge of the summoning circle, trying to disrupt the sigils. The glowing lines sparked as his webbing hit them, but they held firm.

“Stop,” Batman growled, stepping forward. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”

“Neither do you,” Peter snapped, flipping backward to avoid Batman’s outstretched hand. Constantine groaned, rubbing his temples. “Bloody hell, kid’s gone feral.”

The warehouse was a mess. Peter had put up a valiant fight, but, as he quickly learned, going toe-to-toe with Batman wasn’t exactly a winning strategy. He was now webbed and tied to a metal support beam, arms crossed and glaring at the Dark Knight, who stood nearby with the stoic calm of someone who had done this a thousand times before. Constantine was in front of Danny, cigarette in hand. "Hello, Pariah," Constantine said lightly, exhaling smoke. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, like a man trying to act calm in front of a tiger. "Nice skin. Little young for you, though, innit?"

Danny froze, his glowing eyes snapping up to fix on Constantine. For a moment, he just stared, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted over Constantine, taking in the trench coat, the cigarette, the smug smirk. And then Danny's face twisted into an expression of pure, genuine offense.

"Wait a minute," Danny said, his voice echoing slightly with that otherworldly tone. He pointed a glowing hand at Constantine, his eyes narrowing like he was trying to place a face to a name. "Are you... the Soul Whore guy?"

The room went silent. Even Batman raised an eyebrow.

Constantine blinked, his cigarette frozen halfway to his lips.  "You know, the guy who goes around selling bits of his soul to anyone with a checkbook and a half-decent sales pitch? You’re kind of infamous in the Infinite Realms. Everyone’s heard of you." He tilted his head, his expression growing even more incredulous. "I mean, we all knew you were a mess, but I didn’t think you were is much of a mess."

Constantine stared at him, his mouth working like he was trying to come up with a response but couldn’t quite form the words. Peter, still tied up, looked between them with wide, confused eyes.

"Wait, wait, wait," Peter said, his voice cutting into the silence. "What do you mean, 'Soul Whore'? He looks like if Mr Strange ended up homeless!" Danny ignored him, his glowing eyes narrowing further as he seemed to piece something together. His jaw dropped suddenly, and he took a step closer to the edge of the circle. "No way. You’re that dumbass, the one who slept with Pariah Dark. Aren’t you?"

Constantine froze. His cigarette fell from his lips, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint crackle of the summoning circle’s magic. Peter’s jaw dropped. "WHAT?!" Danny threw his hands up, his glowing aura flaring slightly. "Holy crap, it is you! You’re the guy who hooked up with Pariah Dark and put him in the Sarcophagus! I thought that was just a rumor."

Constantine’s face paled, his usual cocky demeanor evaporating as he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright, now hold on a second—"

"He slept with the ghost king you fought and won against?!" Peter shouted, his voice rising with disbelief. "Are you serious?! He’s serious, isn’t he?!" He turned to Batman, who, to his credit, looked as stoic as ever. 

Danny, meanwhile, looked like he was having the time of his life. He crossed his arms, grinning like a cat who had just caught a particularly juicy mouse. "You know, I heard the stories, but I didn’t actually think it was true!"

"It was—look, it’s complicated, alright? It wasn’t my bloody fault!" Constantine tries to defend himself forgetting for a moment that this was the Ghost King he had trapped. Danny snorted. "Sure it wasn’t. That explains why half the ghosts in the Realms call you 'the Soul Whore.' You’ve got a reputation, dude. And not a good one."

Constantine groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Christ, I need a drink." This wasn’t Pariah Dark. This was something else. And whatever it was, it wasn’t bound by the same rules. 

And that terrified Constantine.

[sarahsghosts]

the death and resurrection of jonathan price

john price x female, wife!reader

angst with an eventual happy ending

word count: 1,510

cw: none

chapter 2

songs: hurts like hell - fleurie, jackie and wilson - hozier,  angela - mötley crüe, haunted - taylor swift (acoustic version)

“john's alive.”

he’s alive.

that’s what laswell had told you.

ever since you received the news, you couldn’t sit still. you didn’t sleep, you barely ate.

“how?” you had asked. “where is he?”

laswell paused. “i can’t tell you any of that.” your blood started to boil. if this woman used the word ‘classified,’ you were going to scream. “this is is an unsecure line,” she explained, “but i’ll send someone to explain everything.”

you grabbed the phone from where it was cradled on your shoulder. “where. is. my. husband?” you snarled into the receiver.

despite your aggressive protests, kate didn’t tell you anything more. you shouted at her for a good minute and she listened patiently, which didn’t make you feel any better.

that was five days ago.

two days ago, you had tried redialing the number kate called you from, but you got no answer.

now you were pacing your flat, having survived the last five days on granola bars and coffee. your eyes fell onto the framed photo of john that hung on your wall.

you halted, your feet rooted to the floor as you looked at the memorial shadowbox that your brother-in-law had put together for you. it featured john's service photo next to the printed out program from his funeral service.

you stared at the photo of him in his formal uniform with a few bright medals pinned to his chest. you knew he had more commendations than that, but they were from classified, or otherwise off-the-books missions, so he couldn't wear those medals.

you always liked him in that uniform.

there was a gentle knocking from outside and your heart lurched. you sprinted to the door and fumbled with the lock before swinging the door wide open.

gaz stood in the hallway in a pair of jeans and a black long sleeve tee. he had his sleeves shoved up to his elbows and his hands were in his pockets.

he opened his mouth, probably to say hello, but you flung your arms him and choked out a sob. “he's alive,” you cried into his shoulder. “kyle, he's alive.”

“i know,” he murmured, his words muffled by your hair. he took in a breath like he's going to say something else but opts not to. instead, he gives you a reassuring squeeze.

you pull away from him after a moment. “i’m sorry. please, come in,” you say, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater as you move back into the apartment.

gaz follows behind you. “no need to apologize,” he mumbles out quietly.

you turn your head back to look at him over your shoulder, his tone taking you by surprise. he sounds ... hesitant. uncomfortable.

your brows draw together. you thought he would be as happy as you were.

for the first time in years, you had felt hope. but gaz looked like he just watch someone drown a bag of puppies.

you turn around to face him fully. “gaz?” you whispered.

the sympathy you see on his face takes you back to john's funeral. he motions to your small dining table with its mismatched chairs. “let's sit down.”

you don’t. “what's going on? john...?” you’re unable to form a coherent question.

“is alive,” gaz finishes. “but he...” he breaks off, looking troubled.

your heart was pounding in your ears as you tried to piece together what he could be so afraid to tell you. “what is it?” you pushed, your voice rising a little.

gaz takes in a short breath before he forces out, “he doesn't want to see you.”

—-

nine years earlier

—-

loud music pulsed from the large speaker that was mounted in the corner of the dingy pub. the doors were propped open to let in the cool night air. the usually quiet bar was filled with soldiers, boisterous, loud, and drunk.

you pressed a hand to your temple fighting off the headache that threatened to set it. this pub was usually a quiet one, but the owner saw the crowd of soldiers coming in and knew that meant a good night for business. he had turned the main lights down and turned on the large edison bulb string lights that were tangled in the rafters.

you'd been coming there for years and, until now, didn't even realize those lights worked.

you fought off your irritation. you’d had a long day and just wanted a quiet drink at your usual spot. you hadn’t realized half the british army was going to show up.

suddenly, the stool next to you was occupied by a man with close cropped brown hair and a large smile on his face. he’s already facing you as he flags down the bartender and orders a beer. “hi,” he says brightly.

okay, so he may be one of the only other people in the establishment that wasn’t shit faced yet.

you raise an eyebrow. “hi,” you parrot back with a polite enough tone, but little to no enthusiasm.

the soldier seemed unperturbed by your apparent lack of interest and leaned a little closer so he didn’t have to yell over the music. “you don't seem like the type to hang out at a place like this. you must be lost.”

despite your irritation, you let out a small laugh, amused at his opening line. you shake your head. “not lost.” you look away from him and take a sip of your beer.

“oh, so you're a local, then?” he presses, a smirk tugging on his lips. he takes a look at the rowdy crowd around him. “this doesn't seem like the kind of place a beautiful woman, such as yourself, should—”

you huff and roll your eyes. “listen, guy,” you interrupt.

“john,” he supplies.

you give him a tight smile, suppressing your annoyance. “john. i get it. you boys are in town for probably three days—”

“five.”

“—five days,” you continued. “you want to blow off some steam, show off for your buddies, whatever. that's fine. but i have had a really long day and i’m just looking to have a drink, maybe two, and go home. alone.” you put emphasis on the last word. “so go back to your buddies and tell them i'm not into men. that way, you didn't technically strike out, yeah?”

his eyebrows shoot up and his smirk widens. he leans in a little further. “are you rejecting me?”

you tip your bottle towards him. “bingo.”

he leans back on the stool and, to your surprise, his smile widens. he sizes you up, his gaze looking you up and down, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable. finally, he stands from the barstool. but instead of moseying off to find his friends, he extends his hand out to you. “come on.”

you blanch. you were pretty blatant with your rejection. was this guy really that thick? “what?”

“you've had a shit day, needed a nice quiet drink, and then my lot comes and takes over your pub? doesn't quite seem fair, does it?” his flirty bravado is gone and in its place is a genuine, even kind, smile. “let me take you somewhere for a quiet drink, on me, and then you can go home.” he adds, “alone.”

you eye him, skeptical at first, but the sincerity that he radiates is too convincing. he’s watching you, his raised brows daring you to say yes. for some reason, you find a smile tugging at the corner of your lip, but you bite it back. “one drink,” you say, trying to sound stern. you take his hand.

“maybe two,” he counters, helping you off the stool.

“don't push your luck, john.”

he laughs and shakes his head. “one drink, then.”

and that one drink turned into nine years of beers on fridays and wine on sundays. weddings and vacations and, eventually, you becoming mrs. john price.

part of you thinks you knew, the moment you took his hand, that you would have followed him anywhere.

you sway a little, suddenly unsteady on your feet. “what do you mean he doesn’t want to see me?” you croak.

poor gaz just looks at you with such pity. he shakes his head. “said that part of his life is over now.”

“kyle, i...” my head is spinning and i squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to find a coherent thought. …over now? is he serious?

“you should know,” gaz starts again, his tone low and quiet. “we found him in a russian prison.”

your eyes snap open to meet his. horrible images started to flash through your mind. “was he there the entire time?” you breathed out the question in a shaky whisper.

gaz pressed his lips together and nodded once.

you shake your head, panic clawing at your chest. “gaz, i have to see him—”

“i know,” he says, taking a step closer to you and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “i know… i can give you the address of where he's staying now, but you should know…”

your hands were trembling. “what?”

“he’s not exactly the john price that any of us remember.”

part 3

masterlist

—-

TAGLIST: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @evergreenfields

[fairsweetlonging]

Okay but Mocking bird demon SY (has shapeshifting powers) pretending to be SQQ to help LBH. No system, SJ lives, just SY will not let his protagonist be miserable. He optionally also wife beams LQG who is extremely confused and horny as to why SQQ is playing hot and cold with him

i LOVE that idea oh my goodneeees!!! all the shen yuan bird aus are a GIFT that keeps on GIVING!!

as a bird he can easily live on mount cang qiong and get around unnoticed, because what peak lord or disciple is going to look twice at a small, grey silver bird? it allows him to stay close to luo binghe and help him in every way he can, from giving him food he carries in his little talons or beak, singing to him when he's down, keeping him company in the forest, to making silly mimic sounds to make him laugh.

i looked up a little about mockingbirds and apparently they're extremely territorial when raising hatchlings and their nest (attacking even cats, hawks and humans), which is perfect because luo binghe is (definitely!) a helpless hatchling in need of protecting, i mean, technically his wings haven't even properly grown in yet, he can't fly! so cue ming fang and other bullies getting relentlessly attacked when they try to come near binghe.

and then the shapeshifting: from what i've gathered, mockingbirds sing regularely at night, so i can imagine shen yuan waiting until nightfall and shen jiu goes to bed when he makes his move. he dons the master's form, goes to the woodshed, and takes binghe out to train in the forest with a real manual. of course, binghe is immediately enamoured with the man shen qingqiu becomes when night falls, maybe he even starts to think it's a "werewolf" thing where he changes when the moon comes up, because there isn't really any explanation to why the soft words, gentle touches and kind eyes turn into sneers, violence and glares as soon as the sun is up!

bc he does have the protagonist halo, and even in canon binghe knew something was up, i think he figures it out eventually when he starts alluding to certain events that never happened but that his "shizun" plays along with. also the bird has the exact same way of petting his head/ruffling his hair as his night-shizun does. one and one equals two, after all.

and liu qingge yeeeessss!! if in this au shen yuan saved him in the caves as well, he's probably getting such a headache from the complete 180s shen qingqiu keeps making!! one moment everything is great, shen qingqiu is tending to his wounds with such gentleness and a kind smile, and when liu qingge runs into him at night (when shen qingqiu always looks kind of... hurried, for some reason, almost a little nervous), they share a smile and a laugh and one time shen qingqiu even hugged him; but then when liu qingge tries to sit next to him at the meetings suddenly he's getting snarled at, called a dumb dirty beast and to sit elsewhere?? hello??? never mind getting invited into the bamboo house, or shen qingqiu accepting his (dead animal) gifts.

i also think it'd be so really funny if shen yuan ended up not caring about continuation errors or consistent character behavior, and just goes all out on the OCC by being kind to everyone in shen qingqiu's form; flirting with liu qingge, cuddling with yue qingyuan, spoiling luo binghe rotten, gifting mu qingfang all kinds of rare herbs that he can find easily in his demon bird form, and generally being a moon-saint that everyone comes to realize isn't actually shen qingqiu, but since he's doing good for the community and not harming anyone, they kind of just..... leave it. the peak lords have a meeting about it (sans shen jiu of course), and they decide the night-qingqiu can stay.

tho i do think yue qingyuan would ask shen yuan to don a different form.

also also, shen yuan getting up to all kinds of mischief by mimicking other peak lords' voices: calling to disciples with their shizun's voice, watching them get all confused because no one's there?? or making shang qinghua go around in circles because he keeps saying "this way, shang qinghua, hurry up!" in an angry liu qingge voice. and also making shen jiu open the door to no one when he mimics yue qingyuan's voice. there's a LOT he can do with it🤭

[singswan-springswan]

ficlet under the cut

The crate tipped with a sudden lurch and broke open on the ground. Zuko spilled unceremoniously with the motion. Inelegant. Graceless. Normally his movements held much more regality, but he'd been kidnapped and stuffed in a scratchy box and out of the water for some indeterminable length of days, so cutting himself some slack here felt appropriate.

It wasn't much brighter outside the stupid box. His scales were dry, his head was killing him, and the floor held a pleasant cool against his mounting fever. He really needed water soon. Every part of his body felt... scratchy. Discomfort would escalate into pain, and then asphyxiation. He would suffocate if he dried out. Idly, he wondered how long it would take. The humans seemed to know. They hadn't acted worried yet.

"Our latest bounty." The voice looming over Zuko was muffled in weird places. "I thought it might spark an interest. You collect fire fish, isn't that right?"

Zuko bit down a hazy groan and fumbled to prop himself up. The loss of the tile's cool against his cheek was one he mourned, but there would be time for relaxing when he found a way out of this mess. He could barely think straight. The humans—the pirates who'd ransomed him from the girl in blue—were standing guard around him now. He could see their boots. They were facing all the same direction, same way the voice was talking towards, and Zuko turned to observe.

The surrounding space was large, a room, and very dimly lit. This wouldn't normally be an issue, being that he was a mer, but his headache made his eyes lazy and bad at adjusting to the dark. If he squinted, he could see the ripple of light along the walls. Blue. Weird. In the direction of the pirates' attention, something like the outline of a table was visible—as large and imposing as the room itself. A single shadowy figure occupied a seat on the far side. He looked weird with the backlight. Zuko's vision was getting spotty.

He didn't get much chance to scan the rest of the surrounding space, because the pirate captain decided to be a jerk and grab his hair. It'd long since escaped its neat topknot, now bunching and sliding strangely in dry heat. The pain and the change in angle made Zuko rapidly lose sight of the shadow man.

"This one's quite a specimen." The pirate tilted Zuko's head back, baring his throat—maybe as a joke; it was always hard to tell if humans knew the significance of such a display—and lifted him enough to catch the light. So their potential buyer could get a better view.

Zuko would like to rip the pirate's skin off and feed it to him, but he was weak with dehydration, and his previous struggles against the man's crew had left him exhausted. All he managed was a low hiss. If humans could understand mer speech, he’d be cursing them as soundly as possible. Someone was standing on his tail. Not that it made much difference. He doubted he could have swung it if it wasn't pinned.

"I've seen a lot of the fire mer in my day, but this one's real pretty. Don't feel bad turning the offer down. We'll keep 'im if you won't." His crew laughed. Bastards. Zuko could hear the leer in the pirate's voice. It made him dizzy with anger.

Then a low grind echoed softly, and the humans cut their chatter short. Zuko distantly registered the shadow at the table moving. What made that noise? Was it his chair? He stood, rounded the massive table, and drew closer. All Zuko could see was a dark, unfocused blob. Vaguely humanoid.

"Yeah, don't be shy! Come get a closer look!"

The fist in his hair tightened. His scalp burned. The fins all down his back shuttered, and a stinging ache began to form in his gills. He needed water. He needed to get out of here. He shouldn't have wandered so close to the shore, even if that pretty girl in blue seemed so friendly at first glance. She did sell him out to these pirate scum. He should have known way better.

Even standing an arm's length away, the lighting continued to cast shadow on the pirate's potential client. It could be reasoned, then, that Zuko and the humans around him were washed in the room's best luminance. Certainly his scar could be seen clear as day. Maybe his tail was pretty, but there were parts of him imperfect. Maybe the stranger wouldn't want to buy him for that. Maybe Zuko would be stuck with these idiot pirates forever.

A smooth voice came from the stranger. "Release him."

"Sure, sure."

The pressure on Zuko's scalp vanished. He collapsed to the cool tile with no more grace than before, even further disoriented, and with a worse headache. He grit his teeth in frustration. That bastard was still on his tail.

Cool fingers tilted his chin up before he could lift his head on his own again; he hadn't seen the shadow man crouch down. Startled, Zuko yanked back and hissed a second time. He made sure to reveal far more fang and fan far wider with his fins; he just wanted these stupid humans to stop poking and grabbing him however often they pleased. Was that too much to ask? He wasn't an ornament. And he sure as heck had no intention of being a pet.

The stranger's face was close, and shadowy, and out of focus. Zuko's head was killing him. The room spun.

"The shape of the fins—” The stranger’s voice began.

“Really something, isn’t it? Never seen a mer so fancy before.”

There was a beat of silence, then the cool fingers returned to Zuko’s jaw and held him firmly in place. He growled. It didn’t make a difference. He was exhausted and hot and vulnerable, and everyone could tell. There was no way to stop them from doing as they pleased. 

“There’s a scar.”

“Wasn’t us, mate. Looks like the beast’s had it for a while. I think it adds to the aesthetic, don’t you agree?”

Zuko glared. It was the sort of one-sided remark he’d only accept from Uncle Iroh, though Azula had made attempts to express similar sentiments in that weird way of hers. He’d always hated the scar. At least the monster who put it there was dead now.

The stranger gave no comment. He reached another hand out and pushed Zuko’s hair aside, away from his eyes. Zuko did his best to meet the unfamiliar gaze as steadily as possible, despite the awkward backlight. He was being stared at. He refused to show how unnerved it made him. His trembling and fever didn’t help much in that regard.

Finally, after a dreadful length of scrutiny, the shadow man spoke. “How much do you want for him?”

Zuko could hear teeth in the pirate’s smile. “How much are you willing to pay?”

“Ten-thousand.”

Zuko didn’t know how humans calculated their currency. He’d assumed mer in general to be expensive, but they called him a stupid something fire fish, and it sounded like exotic. Even so, the pirate captain seemed shocked. He let out a high chuckle.

“Well! Show me the gold and you’ve got yourself a deal!”

The stranger waved an uninterested hand over his shoulder, and another grinding sound reverberated through the floor. Zuko couldn’t see the source of the sound with multiple different shadows clouding his vision. Judging by the pirates’ hushed tithering, their payment had been offered.

“Excellent! Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

“Zaheera will see you out.”

The group broke formation around Zuko and floated away, whispering excitedly. Though they’d been awful to him, he couldn’t help a flicker of fear at their absence. At least with the pirates, he knew they’d avoid causing permanent damage. He knew they’d want to sell him for the highest price possible. Now, he had no idea what to expect. This stranger could have any number of sinister plans in mind; Zuko had certainly heard the horror stories. All young mer were warned about the brutality of humans, and now he was at the mercy of someone who really wanted him. This was bad.

The stranger let him go, and the world tilted as Zuko crumpled. He was very dizzy. And angry. And he really wanted to sink his fangs into human flesh.

But when he turned (against his better judgment) to snap at his new captor, a firm hand was already pushing down the back of his neck. The same way one might handle an unruly pup. Zuko was too tired to be insulted by the gesture. He wasn’t a pup anymore, but a move like that with the human’s advantage was enough to subdue even a full-grown mer.

“Watch out with that one!” The pirate’s faint voice called back. “Quite a monster at full strength. He killed two of my men when we—”

“Get out.”

The heavy thud of the door confirmed their absence, though the human didn’t seem to pay any attention to it. He ducked another snap of Zuko’s teeth, and ignored his crackly snarl, and slid his arms beneath scratchy scales. The world tilted again. Zuko would consider puking if he wasn’t so close to blacking out. The human was carrying him. Impressive. Zuko was heavy outside the water. His fins trailed the floor as they moved, but he was very much in the air, solidly in the man’s grip. Almost cradled, even if he was too big for the pup-hold to have effect a second time. The use of such familiar techniques should have rung a bell in his mind. Zuko’s headache and exhaustion wouldn’t let him dwell on it.

After a dizzying stretch, something wonderful happened. Zuko heard water. The noise was still muffled, and it faltered clarity with every stray tilt of his head, but Zuko knew what water sounded like. He’d been fantasizing about it for the past few days.

There was a splash, and with distant elation, he felt his fins trail. He wasn’t lucid enough to hold back the happy trill.

“I know.” The man huffed, and it rumbled through his chest. “I know—those bastards.”

The water rushed up around him, deliciously cool, salty, clean. It took Zuko up to his gills to realize he’d been lowered into a pool of some kind. It was shallow, but not cramped. He drew a deep breath. That felt very nice. The hands were gone. 

He didn’t bother confirming he was alone before passing out soundly.

<~><><~>

Zuko was alone when he came to, and his headache had finally retreated to the realm of faint discomfort. Incredible what a good long sleep in water could do for one’s health. The pirates hadn’t put him in a tank. They were mad about what a fuss he caused the first time they brought him aboard, and they’d rightly concluded he’d be easier to handle if he was dehydrated and exhausted and dizzy. They’d doused him with lukewarm buckets every few hours, just to keep him from dying. Zuko was relieved to be back in water now. Even if trepidation about the uncertainty of his new circumstances wouldn’t let him relax.

The pool he’d been placed in was shallow; he couldn’t move without some part of his tail skimming the surface. It was still comfortable in spite of that. The edges spanned a decent length, so he could turn with ease, and the basin interior was cut from smooth, white stone. His fins shone stark against it. The pool itself seemed to be laid into the ground, flush.

Zuko scanned his surroundings while he waited for something to happen. He still seemed to be indoors. The walls here weren’t as high as the one from before—from the sale pitch—and most of them were made of a clear material. It shone with sunlight from outside. The rest of the space was occupied by greenery. The taller ones reaching the ceiling had been planted in beds in the ground, surrounded at the base with bushy, leafy shrubs, and brilliant flowers, and crawling vines. The faint sound of water also trickled through the maze, but Zuko couldn’t see the source of it from where he was. It was peaceful. Uncle would love this place.

But Zuko hadn’t forgotten how he ended up here, and he had no illusions about being treated fairly, even if he’d been left undisturbed in such a pleasant area. He had to keep his guard up. He was being held against his will. He was trapped on land with no way to escape or get home. He didn’t have much experience with humans, but so far they’d only beaten him, used him, or treated him like a pretty ornamental object, and he had no reason to believe this behavior would change soon. He had to be prepared for the worst.

In truth, he really wanted to murder someone. The urge had become so intense during his captivity with the pirates, and he hadn’t had a real outlet, being close to dying of dehydration. Now that he was rested, his jaw nearly ached to bite through bone.

He spent the time waiting for an opportunity by pacing around the pool. The space didn’t allow for much more than tight circles. Still, it was better than sitting around stewing in all his problems. 

Mother was probably worried by now. Him being an adult with a life of his own didn’t stop her from worrying that he wasn’t home every day. Azula didn’t feel the same. Azula would kill for him though; she’d done it before.

Eventually, after what seemed like an hour of thinking to himself and going crazy for it, the faintest vibrations thrummed through the water, and Zuko froze. Footsteps. Someone was approaching. 

He lifted his head above the surface. The sound drew closer, brushing through the plants with a practiced gait. Zuko coiled his body. There was deliberation in the person’s movement. They knew he was here. They were coming to see him. The likelihood that he’d be attacking an innocent servant or something alike was low, and that brought him a hint of reassurance.

When the human came into view, bathed in green filtered sunlight, stepping out to the pool’s edge, Zuko took an entire second to appraise the figure. Tall. Male. Dark hair, luxurious silk robes in green and pale yellow. When he spoke, it was the same smooth voice from the shadowy stranger that paid for him.

“Hello.”

Zuko didn’t wait any longer. He launched himself at the human with a vicious snarl. His vision was red. His heart was pounding. How dare they treat him with such contempt? He wasn’t some prized bounty. He wasn’t an ornament for some rich knave’s garden. He wouldn’t take this insult and abuse lying down, and if these humans continued to assume so, they were in for a shock.

To some degree of satisfaction, the man did seem shocked to be bowled over. The air left his lungs in a massive wheeze, and his eyes went very wide. He was also—however—quick. He reflexively shoved Zuko’s head away when Zuko tried to bite, and he managed to lurch free enough to dodge an elbow to the face. 

“Wait!” The man yelped.

But Zuko had a size advantage, and the man was on his back, and Zuko really wanted him dead. He slammed his shoulders into the grass, pinned his legs with his tail, made another attempt to remove the throat with his teeth. This time, the man brought his arm up in a hasty block. Zuko was too busy biting down to be upset he’d missed his target. Blood and the creak of bone filled his mouth.

There was a shout of pain. “Wait wait—Zuko, stop!”

The words pierced his hazy red anger like ice through fresh snow. Zuko froze. Even being slightly feral at the taste of blood and festered indignation, he rapidly came to his senses and dropped the arm. His mind spun. 

How did this man know his name? The pirates didn’t know. The pretty girl in blue didn’t know. And he wouldn’t be able to tell them if he wanted to (which he very much had not). It wasn’t a lucky guess. No one shared his name that he’d ever met. So why—how could a random human—

“Get off!” The human fumbled to shove Zuko’s face away. His sleeve was ruined, and rapidly turning red.

Zuko slowly obliged. The man didn’t seem angry. He only seemed annoyed, even as he bled profusely from an arm that might be broken. There was something unnervingly familiar about the twist of his scowl. He shuffled sideways and sat up.

“Spirits, kid, you’ve got a strong jaw.”

“I’m not—” Zuko cut himself off before he could complete the retort. The human wouldn’t understand him. The human knew he wasn’t a kid. Zuko was very obviously a full grown mer. 

“You could have let me explain myself before trying to kill me.” Why did his scowl look so familiar? The man untied a sash of his fancy outfit and wrapped his arm with clinical efficiency. Then he looked up to meet Zuko’s eye, and his scowl faltered. “Are you okay?”

What.

Zuko stared. Was he seriously… asking if Zuko was okay? There was blood in the grass and in his robes and he might have a concussion and his ribs might be bruised and Zuko would at worst have a sore jaw. He shifted back warily. In his experience, crazy men often did cruel things. 

When he made no move to respond, the man sighed roughly and looked away. “Guess I should have waited on that tea. Zaheera will be by with some shortly.”

“What?”

What on earth was he talking about? Tea? Of all things? How did he know Zuko’s name and why was he so relaxed about the bite on his arm and why did the slope of his nose look so familiar and why was he talking about tea in the blood and the grass?

“You were always more civil with it around.”

Okay, now Zuko was thoroughly weirded out. He wished he had an exit. An escape route. He was stuck on land in an unfamiliar house and the closest thing he had to sanctuary was a fake pool of water barely deep enough to sleep in. This was freaking him out just the slightest.

“You’re nuts.” He said. Just to say it. The man wouldn’t understand the words or the insult in them, but Zuko was sick of just sitting around not saying anything, waiting for stupid humans to come to the right conclusions.

For his effort, he was rewarded with the faintest thaw of the man’s grumpy expression. It looked amused somehow. “And why is that?” He asked.

What.

A trace of alarm made Zuko flinch. “...Because you’re… talking to me.” He probed. Just to see. Humans weren’t supposed to understand.

“Why would that make me crazy? You’re real, aren’t you?” He glanced at his sleeve, now mostly red. “I’m pretty sure you are.”

Zuko blanched. He considered backing away, back into the pool. The safety it offered was purely psychological, but it would be something at least. It’d be better than lying vulnerable on the ground next to a crazy person. His fins twitched.

“What—but—you understand me?”

“Of course.”

“But humans aren’t supposed to understand.” From what he’d heard, humans interpreted mer speech as primitive and animalistic: nothing more than a series of harsh vocalizations strung together. Zuko had demanded an explanation for the phenomenon when he was younger. After all, mer understood human speech just fine. No one was able to give him a satisfactory answer.

“Well, I’m not human.” The human said. “Technically.”

“Then what are you?” Possibly a witch? Zuko had heard of their strange abilities. Or maybe he was a spirit. In which case Zuko was screwed. He probably couldn’t get away with attempted murder on a spirit; he’d totally be cursed or something. It could also be a shapeshifter of sorts, from the myths.

But the man quickly dispelled any outlandish theories. For the first time that Zuko had seen, a flicker of hurt crossed his features. It made him look older than he likely was. Haunted.

“Wow Zuzu, you don’t remember your favorite cousin?”

No.

No, he definitely didn’t mean that. Zuko didn’t have any cousins. Not for eleven years. And there’d only been—one. Just one. Now there weren’t any.

But looking closer, Zuko could see why the scowl looked so familiar. He saw the same face in the mirror. And this man wasn’t human, clearly, even if he had legs in place of a red streaming tail. In place of the gold ribbon fins their family shared—that he must have recognized when he first saw Zuko. 

He knew Zuko’s name. Zuzu. Azula tried to call him that—maybe out of nostalgia—but it belonged to them both, and Zuko hated to hear her say it because there was only one person who tried to bring them together like that, and hearing her say it reminded him of… of… a dead man.

Except he couldn’t be dead. He was right here. His blood tasted very real.

“Lu Ten?”

He looked so much like his father when he smiled. “Yeah.”

Zuko gaped. That felt like the only appropriate thing to do. Maybe the dehydration actually got to him, and this whole series of events was an elaborate hallucination. Maybe Azula spiked his tea with a psychedelic for her weird sense of humor, and he was hallucinating. It was too strange. This didn’t make any sense. Zuko’s cousin was dead, and if he wasn’t, wouldn’t Uncle know? Would Uncle have cried so hard so many private times if this was real? It felt so real.

“How did you get that scar?”

“How are you not dead?” Zuko’s head was spinning, though thankfully not from dehydration. He wasn’t sure if this was worse, actually. “Uncle thinks you’re dead.”

The comment earned him a flinch. “There’s actually a good explanation for that.”

“Which is?”

“I’m cursed.�� Lu Ten squinted into the middle distance, looking uncomfortably close to being emotional. “To live as a human. And I can’t… go near the sea. I tried. It almost turned me into sea foam.”

Zuko dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

[r3starttt]

okay okay!! how about reader gets back late from patrol (so tlou au) and ellie was all worried and it’s super cute and fluffy?? (change it to your preferences if you like :)

THESE WALLS

PAIRING: Jackson! Ellie x reader

CW: fluff. outbreak|tlou universe. brief-non detailed mention of overwhelming thoughts such as fear of loosing loved ones and stress.

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST

The night lay thick with a stillness so profound that even the faintest sound seemed to echo with unsettling clarity. Ellie, trapped in the small sanctuary she had carefully curated, paced restlessly. Her gaze was perpetually drawn to the door, its unyielding silence a stark contrast to the usual rhythm of your return. Each passing moment stretched infinitely, laden with a tension that seemed to deepen with every tick of the clock.

The dim glow of a solitary lamp cast a soft, golden haze over the room. Walls adorned with wooden murals and comic book covers. Delicate strands of Christmas lights wove their way across the space, their faint twinkle casting a gentle, warm light. Yet, despite the serene ambiance, Ellie’s heart was a storm of unease.

She attempted to distract herself, but the mundane details of her surroundings blurred into an indistinguishable haze. Every action seemed to drift by in slow motion, her frustration mounting with each fruitless effort to quell her growing anxiety. She knew in her rational mind that the patrol was fraught with danger, but her deep-seated fear of losing those she loved clung stubbornly to her thoughts.

The creak of the door shattered the quiet, sending Ellie’s heart leaping to her throat. She dashed to the entrance, the door swinging open to reveal you, looking slightly disheveled but otherwise unharmed. Relief surged through her, though it was quickly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotions.

As you stepped into the room, the scene before you was both touching and a little comical. Ellie’s usual dorky charm had been replaced by a palpable anxiety. The carefully decorated room, filled with her beloved nerdy trinkets, faded into the background as your focus honed in on her distressed face.

“Hey, sorry,” you said, offering a weary smile. The concern in her eyes was evident, and you could tell she had been struggling.

“We ran into a few more infected than we expected. It took longer to clear them out,” you explained, trying to reassure her.

Ellie’s response was sharp, but it was laced with an undertone of deep-seated worry. “I was starting to think… I don’t know, shit had happened.” Her eyes, usually so full of mischief and laughter, were now wide and brimming with concern.

You stepped closer, the old floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. Her fingers drummed impatiently against her thighs, her gaze darting over you in a frantic search for any signs of injury.

Ellie let out a deep sigh, rubbing her temples as though trying to ward off a headache. “It’s not just about being late. It’s about you being safe.” Her voice faltered, and she turned away momentarily, struggling to regain her composure.

You reached for her hand, gently enveloping it in your own. “I’m here, Ellie. Safe and sound. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

Her eyes met yours once more, shimmering with a blend of relief and lingering anxiety. “I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier—never mind,” she murmured, her words softening as the harsh edge gave way to a tender vulnerability. Her usual playful demeanor was momentarily eclipsed by her raw, heartfelt fear.

Drawing her into a tight embrace, you felt her tense muscles slowly unwind against you. “I’m here,” you whispered into her ear, your voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You gently cupped her face in your hands, pressing a soft, loving kiss to her lips. When you finally pulled away, a small, contented smile graced her face, her eyes reflecting the warmth of your affection.

“Hey…” you murmured, leaning in closer. “How bad do I smell?” You playfully nuzzled against her, inhaling her comforting scent, the familiar fragrance and the fabric of her hoodie enveloping you in warmth.

Ellie chuckled, a soft hum escaping her as she considered your question. “Baby diapers," your quiet laughs mingling.

Your lips beushed over hers, one last tender kiss on her lips, savoring the moment. “I love you."

“I love you too,” you replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “And I’ll always come back to you.”